#clean titled properties

[jmlistings]

173 Northdale Alviera Lot SALE

Own a piece of Pampanga! This 226 sqm vacant lot in Floridablanca is perfect for building your dream home. The property is affordable, with flexible payment terms and complete possession with a bank title. Contact JM Listings to schedule a viewing!

📍 Lot 810-B-2-J, Brgy San Antonio, Floridablanca, Pampanga FEATURES TYPE: Residential Vacant Lot📐 Lot: 226 square meters✅ AS-IS-WHERE-IS Basis✅ With Possession / Title in Bank’s Name Terms: 🏷️ 700,000 20% Min Down Payment80% Balance up to 5 yrs at 10% Annual interest rateTaxes: The bank will shoulder Creditable Withholding Tax or CWT upon full payment; the buyer will shoulder all other taxes…

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 26: July 2024 - Part 1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

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

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

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

Warnings and Notes: 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was made of preparation.

 Monique spoke first.

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

Max nodded. “Let’s do that.”

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

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

Belle’s fingers tensed slightly on her notebook.

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

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

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

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

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

High-risk. Belle hated that word.

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

He didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

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

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

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

Not out of fear.

But out of love.

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

Belle straightened.

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

Belle didn’t hesitate.

“Victoria and Tom.”

Max glanced at her, surprised.

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

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

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

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

Belle signed.

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

Belle hesitated. “Is there… anything else?”

Monique raised an eyebrow gently. “Such as?”

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

Silence.

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

Belle nodded once.

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

Belle looked at Max, who met her eyes steadily.

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

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

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

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

The room emptied, polite and efficient.

Belle stayed seated.

Max didn’t move either.

She finally turned to him. “That felt…”

“Big?” he offered.

She nodded.

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

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

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

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

He looked down at their names on the signed pages.

“It already does,” he said.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: Hey You got a minute?

Victoria: For you? Always What’s up?

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

Victoria: Okay… Everything alright?

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

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

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

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

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

Max: Belle said it without blinking She trusts you too

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

Max: Sorry (But not really)

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

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

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

Max: Thanks, Vic. Really.

***

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

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

Max was beside her.

He hadn’t spoken.

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

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

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

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

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

She paused.

No one spoke.

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

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

Max didn’t move.

Belle’s grip on his hand tightened.

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

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

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

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

“Charles—” Camille began.

But he was already unraveling.

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

Belle flinched.

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

“You don’t get to talk—”

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

The sound echoed louder than shouting.

Everyone went still.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The entire room froze.

“This isn’t good for the baby.”

Everything. Stopped.

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

Charles froze.

Pascale’s hand flew to her mouth.

Arthur blinked, mouth slightly open.

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

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

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

“You—” Charles started.

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

Real, stunned silence.

Belle covered her face with both hands, chest heaving.

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

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

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

Max didn’t let go of her.

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

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

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

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

Then, after a long, still moment—

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

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

More silence.

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

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

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

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

Belle finally looked up.

Still hurt. Still guarded.

But in her eyes — something softened.

She didn’t say I forgive you.

She said something truer.

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

***

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

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

She didn’t even take off her shoes.

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

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

But she didn’t sit.

She crumpled.

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

Then the sobs came.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She cried for a long time.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just steady.

Heartbroken.

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

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

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

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

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

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

He didn’t text. Didn’t scroll.

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

Tomorrow. Urgent if possible.

She hadn’t eaten all day.

She hadn’t slept properly in nearly a week.

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

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

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

He couldn’t make her family change.

But he could protect this.

Her.

Their baby.

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

The phone buzzed with a confirmation.

Appointment: Tomorrow. 9:30 AM.

Max looked back toward the bedroom.

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

And Max made himself a promise.

They would never make her cry like that again.

Not while he was breathing.

***

The four of them sat in stunned silence.

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

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

And Arthur — the youngest— was pacing.

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

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

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

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

Pascale looked up. “Arthur—”

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

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

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

That landed.

Charles looked up, startled.

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

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

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

Charles didn’t answer.

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

“I didn’t mean to forget—”

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

That silenced the room.

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

He looked at Charles.

“You shouted at her husband.”

He looked at Lorenzo.

“You stayed quiet until she was crying.”

Then he looked at Pascale.

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

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

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

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

Charles looked like he’d been hollowed out.

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

Arthur nodded. “Exactly.”

Silence again.

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

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

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

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

No one argued.

No one could.

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

And they’d nearly broken her again.

But maybe not completely.

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

To be better.

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

***

Belle woke to sunlight and silence.

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

Max wasn’t in bed.

That was the first thing she noticed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Belle blinked. “Appointment?”

“With your OB.”

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

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

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

“I’m fine,” she said, quietly.

Max didn’t argue.

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

They left ten minutes later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And they did.

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

Then— The soft, rhythmic sound of a heartbeat.

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

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

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

Max pressed a kiss to her temple.

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

Belle closed her eyes.

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

“Thank you.”

Because it was more than an appointment.

It was a promise.

***

Text Messages:   Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: how’d it go yesterday?

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

Belle: you waited like a saint you get a medal

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

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

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

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

Emilie: WHAT

Emilie: WHAT

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

Belle: yep :)

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

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

it was a mess but they listened eventually i think

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emilie: is it terrible that i find this deeply satisfying

Belle: no it’s why i love you

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

Belle: i’m trying for the baby for me

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

Belle: perfect i love you

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

***

Team Redline Stream Transcript

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gianni: THE WAY YOU LOOKED AT HER.

Chris: THE HAND ON HER WAIST.

Gianni: THE KISS, MAX.

Max:  (muttering) You guys are insufferable.

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

Max: She wasn’t secret.

All at once: YES SHE WAS.

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

Max: She’s not going to—

Gianni: MAX. YOU OWE US.

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

Max: You people are insane.

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

Chat:

BELLE! BELLE! BELLE!

WHERE IS SHE MAX

DROP THE WIFE

MRS VERSTAPPEN SUPREMACY

WE SAW THE RING SIR

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

 Max:  (sighing, amused) Belle?

[muffled in the background] Belle: Yes?

Max: They want to say hi.

Belle:  (closer) They want to do what?

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

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

Belle: Hi.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Max:  (soft, proud) Yeah. I did.

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

[Belle exits frame. Max looks extremely smug.]

Max: You happy now?

Luke Crane: Beyond.

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

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ignored birthday

Secret wedding

Parc Fermé kiss

Instagram name change

Twitch hoodie wife drop This is art.

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

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

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

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

Charles is somewhere short-circuiting in real time

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Belle.”

“Okay, fine, just the baby goat.”

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

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

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

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

“Correct.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Belle smiled. “Exactly like the wedding.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then that’s exactly what we’ll do.”

***

Text Messages:  Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: Thinking of announcing the pregnancy before Silverstone.

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

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

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

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

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

Belle: Of course. Also— You should come.

Emilie: To Silverstone??

Belle: Yes.

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

Belle: And you like Lando.

Emilie: I do not like what this insinuation implies.

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

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

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

Emilie: …you are dangerously persuasive.

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

Emilie: You really think the baby will upstage Max?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

Instagram Post: @/belleverstappen

Comments: 

@/maxverstappen1: 🍼❤️ 

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

@/landonorris: AAAAAHHHHHHHHH 🍼😭❤️

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

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

@/charles_leclerc: Congratulations. Truly.

@/georgerussell63: Huge congrats!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

@/verstappensupremacy:

I KNEW THE RED BULL HOODIE WAS FORESHADOWING

MAX IS GOING TO BE A DAD I’M CRYING

@/f1babygossip:

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

@/charlespls:

someone go check on charles

she posted this BEFORE A RACE WEEKEND

we need an ambulance at Ferrari

[hibiscus-whore]

…please?

SUMMARY: A certain Irishman visits you during the late hours of the night, as he always does. He has his way of getting you to let him in because in the end, y’know you love him.

Warnings:

This is SINNERS, baby, there’s blood and vampires. No actual gore. Remmick is on the submissive of their relationship/dynamic cause he’s a needy bastard for connection (get better idfk). “Established” relationship. Lots of begging…as the title shows. No use of Y/N, pet names like “darlin” and “baby.” No true smut…unless y’all want a part 2. But there is not true plot, imo.

This isn’t proofread and is indeed my first fic on here. Be gentle with me ;p. I can take constructive criticism.

A knock on your door hit when the sky got dark. Dreading who it could be since it was your day off. Checking the window, you couldn’t see a thing. Which could only mean a certain person was at the door. You swung it open and leaned against it. He was bloody with a stupid grin on his face.

“What do you want.”

“You took off your welcome mat,” he pouted, “can’t just walk in willy nilly no more.”

You nodded, “good, now goodbye. Go bother some other bitch you got.”

Remmick scoffed, “let me in, darlin’. Please.”

You shook your head. Remmick’s head tilted upwards, his body began to start leaning against the doorway. You knew what he was trying to do to you. Seduction. That smile on his face, same one you saw when you first met. But then you saw his fangs which changed your entire mood once again. He noticed your body language changed and immediately shifted back.

“C’mon, let me in. Clean myself up a bit, maybe we could eat…or I could eat you.”

“You’re not gonna turn me—“

The man cut you off, “y’know what I mean. Where’s that husband of yours?”

Uncomfortable shifting your body as you stared at him, the puppy dog eyes never failed to leave, “workin’, as always. I don’t need you here tonight. I got things to do in the morning.”

“He hasn’t been home in a good minute, hasn’t he? Say you don’t need me yet you always let me in. Don’t even care if you get caught because you don’t even know where he is.”

“My husband is a busy man,” you said sternly.

“Busy enough to let a white man fuck his wife. Sure is the husband. Think he’s with other women—“

You cut him off with a door slammed in his face. Locking the door before going into the kitchen. Searching for the things one of your dear friends told you about to ward off vampires. Ignoring the door which was in the back of your house. Oddly enough, the kitchen was near the back too. Ignoring the knocks on the back door until you found a jar of garlic juice. Opening the door up with it in hand.

“Keep fucking around.”

Remmick got on his knees slowly with need, “is this what I have to do or do I have to jig along with it?”

“Or you can leave my damn property ‘n go find another bitch to bother.”

“You’re the only woman I would even care to bother. Please? Lemme inside. I’ll do anything you want and I promise I won’t bite— baby! Please, let me in. I’ll take care of you. Love making or not.”

Looking down at him, he seemed so weak compared to his usual sadistic state. A hand reached for his cold cheek, gently caressing it. He leaned into the touch with a soft smile. Your hand moved up into his hair, some what petting the dangerous vampire.

“You can come in, go wash up immediately.”

He sprung up like a dog who was just let back into the house, “yes, ma’am.” Remmick gave you a kiss, it was quick but bloody. So, you swapped hands, dipped your fingers in the jar and splashed him with the little bit of garlic juice on your fingers. He hissed, rushing off into the bathroom. Slamming the door shut behind you, locking it up, then you put the garlic juice up. Washing your hands and face shortly after before going to your room. Changing out your everyday wear into your pajamas, looking around your home as you waited for the vampire to finish.

Remmick had a towel wrapped around his waist, he looked more human. Lying down on the bed, waiting for you to come into the room. You took too long so you heard him shout out in his Irish accent instead of his mock southern one,

“don’t keep me waiting.”

Such a whiny bitch.

Making your way to the room, plopping down next to him. Petting his hair again. His head moved onto your lap as he relaxed. It was an odd concept. Having a practically ancient vampire be your mistress— a paramour— while your incredibly human and probably cheating ass husband was away. He brought you warmth despite him being cold. Love despite him not truly have a heart. Even though he could easily kill or turn you, he decided not to. Mutual agreement between the two of you in a way.

“Put the welcome mat back, I miss just walkin’ into your house,” he mumbled, his voice vibrated against your thighs. It tickled and made you flinch slightly.

Sighing as you pushed his head to the side, “and what if you meet my husband? Or what if some other vampire’s tryna kill.”

“The husband that I told you was cheating multiple times because he loves his spouse, hm? Okay,” Remmick grabbed your wrists, sitting up so you two were eye level now, then he placed your hand on his head before speaking, “baby, there is no other vampires down here.”

“Don’t lie,” swiping your hand from his head.

He smiled, “you’re cute.”

This lying ass bitch. You began to glare at the pasty bastard. His face seemed sweet and innocent but there was a mischievous look in his eyes. Remmick stared at you for a minute before speaking,

“darling, we have a connection like no other. I sensed you, saw your spiritual willpower, and got drawn to you. Even though I’m not here as often as I like, I am building a community. For us. Us. The one we deserve.”

You pushed him away by his head. Moving from your spot and sliding down towards your pillow to lay on so you could sleep.

“Build a community with that bastard bitch then leave me alone.”

Remmick laid next to you, using his elbow to prop himself up, “don’t push me away.”

“I’ll push away a man who ain’t even breathing away any day—,” you gasped. Remmick went under your night clothes to lay his head on your stomach. Arms wrapping around you once again, his cold skin cooled you off since it was oddly hot for a summer’s night.

“Please…?”

All you could do was place a hand on his side, not saying a word to him. Letting him stay besides the fact that he is a threat to your entire being. Your life as a whole. Community around you that he is slowly turning into his.

Annie would kill you if she found out about this.

[gothcsz]

First Sight | Frankie Morales x F!Reader | ~3.5k wc | Explicit. Minors DNI.

Summary: Two strangers discover they’ve been swapping movies through a communal space, each leaving a note in return until curiosity forces a meeting.

Tags: meet cute kinda i think, drug use (smoking weed), the movie swap box is definitely inspired by little free library, pwp, smut, lust at first sight vibes, thigh fucking!, spanking, unprotected p in v, face riding, lil bit of dirty talk, pull out method strikes again, no use of y/n, reader is afab and able-bodied, no physical descriptions, any typos/grammar mistakes are of my own doing and i apologize in advance, if i missed any other tags pls let me know okay, thanks!

A/N: helloooo this is my submission for @jolapeno's dear-uary challenge (i know i'm late pls...) so thank you jo for hosting! such a fun idea! 🖤 okay so i'm not usually a meet cute person but i wanted to challenge myself by writing it, which is why this took me forever to finish! i'm still a little iffy about the results and frankie's characterization—but fuck it, we ball! gotta start somewhere! shoutout to @mandaloriankait for reading over this as well when it was still in its early stages lmfao ummm i hope you guys enjoy and let me know what you think! 🖤

Francisco stands at the edge of his uncle’s property, staring at the house he now owns. The old man had lived like a ghost in his final years—ex-military (like himself), a recluse, barely seen except for maybe an occasional grocery run.

Now that he’s passed, the place is Frankie’s problem.

He planned to sell it, take the cash, and move on. But after really assessing it, taking in the sturdy bones of its structure, covered in grime and dust but still holding strong, he changed his mind. Maybe fixing it up would be good for him. 

Lord fuckin’ knows he needs something to get his mind right after all the shit he’s been through.

So that’s what he devotes his time to. He takes many trips to the local hardware store, flips through home improvement magazines to find tricks to make the process easier. On occasion, one of the guys will drop by to lend a hand, but for the most part it’s just been him. 

It also helps that the neighborhood is quiet, houses spaced out just enough to offer privacy but close enough that it isn’t completely isolated. A large pond stretches out, shared by the community, and it’s the kind of place that could feel like home, if he lets it.

Needing a break from the endless cleaning and repairs, he decides to go for a walk. The nicotine-laced weed dulls the edge of old cravings, a quiet battle he fights every day, choosing this over the harsher habits he’s trying to kick.

He wanders without aim, hands tucked in his pockets, the low hum of insects filling the gaps in silence. Something catches his eye as he approaches the end of the street—a small structure, half-concealed beneath the spill of a streetlamp.

Curious, he ambles closer. The old newspaper stand has been given new life, converted into a makeshift movie and book swap. Inside, a careful arrangement of DVDs and dog-eared paperbacks wait to be discovered. His fingers trace over the spines, skimming titles until he stops on one—Blade Runner.

As he pulls it out, a green post-it note, scrawled in neat, looping handwriting, flutters to the ground.

Always a bittersweet watch (I cried this last time) but it’s a comfort movie of mine. Also helps that Harrison Ford is a hunk!

His brows raise in amusement, as if weighing the personality behind the words. He pockets the note and takes the movie home.

Later that night, he’s sprawled on his couch, half-buried in old blankets, takeout on the coffee table as the film plays. He watches as Deckard moves through the neon-drenched streets, the melancholic score settling into his bones.

He doesn’t cry, obviously, but he does walk away from this viewing with something different than when he had watched it back on base years ago with the rest of the other lost twenty something year olds in his cohort.

By morning, he’s still thinking about the movie and the note along with it. On impulse, he plucks one of the carpenter pencils from his toolbelt, tapping it against the counter before messily scrawling his reply on the corner of a random sheet of his notepad.

The movie/book trade idea had been something you created back in high school—before the cynicism of adulthood had shattered your rose colored glasses.

Now, after financial setbacks had dragged you back to your childhood home, bringing it back felt like the kind of mindless distraction you needed. Something to keep your hands busy (even if temporarily) when your brain wouldn’t shut up about how shitty things have been lately.

Most people just stream whatever they want now, so this is pretty useless, but you don’t get hung up on that.

There is something nice about the physicality of it. Of leaving something you enjoy behind for a stranger to find and potentially be into as well. So, you revamped the idea and set it up in a spot where it wouldn’t be totally ignored, hoping maybe someone out there would get as much out of it as you used to.

You check in on it one afternoon, expecting to see everything exactly where you left it. Instead, you find empty spaces where movies had been. A book was gone too.

Your heart skips, just a little. For the first time in a while, something doesn’t feel like a total waste of time.

You spot a note haphazardly taped to the cover of the Blade Runner DVD case.

Didn’t cry, but I respect the existential crisis. Also think I agree with the Harrison Ford statement.

A grin pulls at your lips, eyeing the messy handwriting. Someone was actually playing along.

Over the next few days, the exchanges continue. Each time the stranger returns a movie, they leave a note and a film of their own. It is exhilarating for no reason, getting to know someone in this way.

Disagree with your take, bad movie all around, but I see where you’re coming from.

At least you aren’t an asshole about it like everyone else…

…Didn’t expect to be into period dramas, but this hit different. You have decent taste.

I do have decent taste, thanks for noticing!

It became an obsession—checking the box first thing in the morning, wondering what he’d taken next, what he’d written.

Who was he? What did he look like? Most of the neighborhood was made up of older residents, so the idea of someone more your age participating in this felt strangely intimate, almost like a secret conversation no one else knew about.

You never ask for a name or anything, neither does he. It’s more fun this way. The animosity of it, but still, you can’t help but wonder what he is really like. Was it possible to crush on someone like this? Were you actually down this bad?

You finally meet him one night.

Movie in hand, he stands beneath the golden hue of the streetlight. Strong jaw, high cheekbones, full lips that look almost too pretty for someone as rugged as him, framed by a patchy beard. His worn t-shirt clings to his broad chest and toned arms, the fabric stretched just right, hinting at the solid muscle beneath.

His cap sits low, his dark curls peeking out along the edges.

Your gaze drags over him, drinking him in. His eyes meet yours and the lust you feel in that moment threatens to disorient you.

“Hello,” his raspy voice breaks the silence first, also shameless in the way he checks you out.

“Hey.”

For a moment, neither of you move as the tension simmers, absentmindedly taking a step towards each other.

He shifts, rubbing a hand along his jaw. “You the one leaving those notes?”

“Depends,” you tease, tilting your head. “You the one writing back?”

His grin widens just slightly, a lopsided thing that sends the butterflies in your stomach into a frenzy. “Guilty.”

You cross your arms, attempting to play it cool. “I was starting to think I was talking to old man Paul or something.”

He lets out a quiet chuckle at the fact that you’ve named his now dead uncle. “Close enough. I’m his nephew, Francisco—call me Frankie.” He extends his hand to shake yours and you feel yourself getting hot all over from the simple, normal fucking interaction, giving him your name in return.

His hands are so big.

“Nephew? I didn’t know he had family.”

“Not really a family man. He passed away a few weeks ago and I was the lucky one he left his house to.”

You’re about to express your condolences, but it’s like he can feel it coming before the words even form on your lips. “Don’t—it’s fine. I hate that pity shit.”

You laugh, a little nervously, though his brown eyes seem to settle your nerves. 

“Well, Frankie,” you say his name, as if testing it out, familiarizing your mouth with it. “Thanks for playing along with this,” you motion vaguely to the swap box.

“I like it. Keeps me entertained while I fix up the place...” He exhales, glancing at the smaller structure before looking back at you. “It’s weird, though. Feels like I already know you.”

You nod, feeling the same. It should be strange, standing here at night flirting with a man you really don’t know… but it isn’t. 

He lifts the DVD in his hand. Heat—classic crime thriller. “I was gonna watch this tonight.”

The invitation hovers, your tongue flicking over your lips in anticipation.

“You in?”

A smarter version of you might have hesitated. Might have thought about the risks, the potential awkwardness. But standing here with Frankie watching you like he already knows what your answer is, hesitation isn’t an option.

You grin. “Sure, why not.”

Things escalate fast.

You’re sitting on the couch, the low hum of the movie playing in the background, the two of you exchanging quiet comments between drags of the joint he so effortlessly rolled.

The space between you shrinks. His fingers graze your thigh, intentional but unhurried.

You don’t remember who moves first. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it’s him. But your bodies are pressed together, mouths hungry, hands wandering. His cap gets flicked off, curls spilling into your fingers as you tug him closer, inhaling the scent of smoke and tasting the candy he’d been snacking on.

The movie is forgotten. The joint smolders in the ashtray. You straddle his lap, rolling your hips down, and he groans against your mouth, gripping your waist.

Somewhere between deep drags of each other’s kisses and the slow, filthy grind of your pussy against bulge, he requests, “Let me taste you...” Biting at your lower lip, kneading your ass.

You’re not about to object to a man willingly wanting to go down on you. Nodding, you both quickly undress each other, your want for him only increasing with each layer that gets shed.

Now you’re here. Your thighs bracket his jaw, the arm of the couch supporting you as you sink down into the urgent heat of his mouth. The first slow, wet drag of his tongue at your slit makes you moan pathetically. 

His fingers dig into your hips, pulling you down like he wants this—like he needs this.

The scratch of his scruff against your sensitive skin makes it all the better. He’s not gentle—he’s messy, hungry, eating you out like it’s all he’s been thinking about since laying his eyes on you. His tongue flicks, circles, then flattens as he drags it up through your slick folds, his lips wrapping around your clit, sucking just right.

Your head tips back, a broken cry slipping out.

“God, you’re so good at this,” you gasp, rolling your hips against his talented mouth.

Frankie groans in response, the vibration of it sending sparks up your spine. His nose presses right where you need it, and you swear you see stars when he starts moving his head with you, matching your rhythm, letting you ride his face.

Your fingers tighten in his curls, tugging hard. He grunts as one of his hands slides lower, wrapping around his leaking cock. He strokes himself in time with his tongue working you over, his other hand gripping your ass, spreading you wider to get a better taste of all of you.

You don’t even realize how desperate you sound, whimpering… pleading. Your grinding then shifts as his tongue goes taut and you start bouncing softly against his jaw, your hips swiveling in ways you didn’t even know you could move, your body instinctively chasing after his mouth.

He doesn’t let up. If anything, he gets more into it as you do, his tongue fucking into you before moving back to your clit, his swollen lips working magic, sucking, teasing, wrecking you.

“Fuck, I’m gonna—”

Your words melt into a strangled whine as your orgasm crashes into you, your whole body shaking while you come apart on his tongue. Frankie doesn’t stop—he eats you through it, his grip on your hips tightening as you ride out every last wave of your orgasm.

Then—smack.

Your eyes fly open as his palm connects with your ass, the sting mixing with the aftershocks in the best way possible. He does it again, harder this time, a smirk tugging at his lips when you jolt.

The sting of each spank feels so fucking good that you start sobbing, damn near pulling the hair out of his scalp when he harshly sucks on your clit.

He’s been holding himself back from finishing in his fist, but suffocating between your thighs while hearing your pretty noises nearly undoes him.

Continuing to stave off his own release, he grips the girthy base of cock tightly. He needs more. Needs to feel the walls of your pussy squelching around him, pulling him in deeper.

And from the way you’re looking down at him, mouth parted, eyes shining with satisfaction, he knows you need the same damn thing.

He maneuvers out from under you quickly and efficiently, his dexterous training being put to use, pushing your upper half flat into the old couch while your hips remain in the air, thighs pressed together.

Francisco slides the fat tip of his cock through the swollen lips of your pussy, getting himself wet, groaning deep in his chest before pressing his heated dick at your silky thighs, the lubrication of your juices making it easy for him to slip between them, the pressure against his cock having him curse beneath his breath.

“So fuckin’ soft.”

His left hand crosses at your lower back to grab at your right hip while the other lands a harsh smack to your ass. You whimper, but the sound is muffled from how your face is buried into the cushions.

He soothes over the sting with his palm before gripping tight again, using the leverage to thrust between your thighs, the thick weight of his cock teasing you with every stroke, your clit puffy and dripping, needing to feel him inside you.

“Put in, Frankie, please,” you whimper, the squeeze at your thighs causing your cunt to clench around nothing, pushing more of your slick out, pussy drooling for him.

He grunts, pressing a firm hand to your lower back, arching you deeper, adjusting the angle. He spreads you enough to give himself room to line himself up.

“So eager for this dick,” he taunts, swirling the head of his cock at your clit before tapping it repeatedly, the evidence of your horniness clinging to him in a sticky web with every smack.

Frankie teases you by running it up the seam of your pussy, notching it at your fluttering and needy hole before pulling out and repeating the action, driving you crazy. “You always put out this fast?”

You grind back against him, pushing onto your elbows, voice breathy but flirty. “Could ask you the same thing.”

He doesn’t reply, a smug smile on his lips as he finally gives it to you, sinking into the wet cavern of your cunt, groaning out a Fuuuuuck as your pussy stretches around the intrusion of his cock.

You try to moan, to say something, but no sound comes out—just a desperate gasp, eyes falling shut, fingers clawing at the rough couch fabric as he fills you completely.

He doesn’t rush. He takes his time, savoring every squeeze, every tremble. His thrusts start slow, deep, rolling his hips just right, pulling out almost entirely before pressing back in, making you feel every thick inch.

“Fuck, you feel so goddamn good.”

The heat of his body blankets yours as he lowers himself, his weight pressing you deeper into the couch. His mouth is everywhere—kissing up your spine, nipping at your shoulder, his mustache scraping against your oversensitive skin. When he bites down you whine, your cunt clenching tight around him.

His thrusts speed up a notch, somehow getting deeper and harder—grinding into you just right, making your breath stutter.

“Yes—yes—right there,” you sob, turning your head to look at him… or well, try to look at him. Your eyes are glazed over with thick tears of euphoria, barely able to make anything out but you can feel him everywhere. His breath fanning against your face, a small amount of spit stuttering out as he grunts, burying himself over and over inside your tight, wet pussy.

Your nails dig into the old, tacky couch, trying to keep yourself somewhat grounded as he screws the thoughts right out of your brain.

It’s everything you’ve needed. Life has been fucking you over relentlessly as of late, it’s about damn time you finally get a pounding that’s actually worth it. 

Frankie groans against your ear as he keeps up the brutal pace. “Pretty movie girl likes it deep, huh?” You could honestly get off by just the sound of his raspy voice. “Shit, never had it like this before, have you?”

You shake your head—not out of denial, but because fuck, he’s right. Nothing has ever felt this good.

His lips brush over your cheek and then he’s kissing you sloppily, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. You moan into his mouth as the pleasure at your pussy blooms again, your second orgasm creeping up fast under the weight of his praise, his cock hitting all the right spots, stretching you wide.

Frankie growls into the kiss, pulling back just enough to watch your face as he ruins you.

“Gonna make you come on my dick,” he mutters, gripping your chin, making sure you’re looking at him while he fucks into that one spot that devistates you. “And you’re gonna take every fuckin’ bit of it.”

And God—you will. You want to.

Because you already know this is the type of sex you’ll be feeling for days.

A few more relentless thrusts, and you’re done for. Your body shakes beneath him, muscles seizing, wails and sobs absorbed by the cushion your cheek is pressed into.

“Shhh just like that, doin’ so good—shit this pussy is amazing.”

Frankie holds you down, his weight keeping you exactly where he wants you. His grip shifts to the armrest, fingers curling tight, using the leverage to piston into you rougher. The couch jerks across the hardwood floor with each thrust, the force of it sending shockwaves up your spine.

The end credits song plays somewhere in the background, barely audible over the obscene sounds of your fucking.

His breathing gets ragged, his rhythm faltering as he chases his own high. He pulls out abruptly, chest heaving, and licks the tips of his fingers before spreading your pussy open, angling his cock right at your slick, swollen cunt.

Hot ropes of cum spill from his slit, milky and thick, painting your used flesh, dripping down onto the couch beneath you. The sight is filthy, so fucking erotic it makes his cock throb in his fist.

He groans at the mess, at the way his release pools against the cleft of your clit. He pushes inside again before either of you can think, his cum and yours mixing as he fucks into you, more fervently this time, dragging out the pleasure until his cock begins to soften.

You’re too spent to do anything but take it, too blissed out to care. All you know is that you want this again. Over and over and over...

“Damn,” Frankie chuckles, still breathless, his curls damp with sweat. His hands move lazily over your body, tracing the curve of your spine, your waist, your thighs, before he leans over to grab his discarded gray tee.

He doesn’t think twice before using it to clean you up, wiping between your legs with a casual ease.

You hum in response, floating somewhere between the high of the weed and the sex. You could crash right here, stretched out on his couch, and be perfectly content.

“You good?” The hot edge of lust has barely cooled when he’s touching you again, stroking his big, warm hand up and down your back.

You don’t nod, just manage a lazy, “Mhm… just need a second.”

He smirks and a wink is thrown in your direction before he stands, sliding his sweatpants on and fixing the couch to its original position before disappearing into the halfway renovated kitchen.

You stretch your limbs, pulling your clothes back on with no real rush. Your body is warm, loose. When Frankie returns, he hands you a glass of water, and you thank him softly, realizing how parched you are when you down the whole thing in one go.

“We didn’t finish the movie,” he muses, lounging back on the couch like he hadn’t just given you the best sex of your life.

“Bummer,” you tease, looking at him over your shoulder.

His gaze flickers from the screen to you, a glint in his dark eyes catching in the glow of the TV.

“You could stay the night,” he offers smoothly. “We could watch somethin’ else… maybe fuck some more too.”

His head tilts slightly, curls messy and inviting. The broad expanse of his naked chest gleams, rising and falling with steady, easy breaths. And then there’s the soft bulge in his sweats, evidence that he’s not nearly as spent as he looks.

Your mouth damn near waters.

You narrow your gaze at him, playful, challenging. Frankie mirrors the expression, watching, waiting…

You both move at the same time.

[astroeleanor]

💸₊˚⊹Your 2H Ruler = How to Become a Money Magnet 💵₊˚⊹

If you’re not making the kind of money you want, you need to start using your 2H ruler. This placement shows how you can earn more money & the people/situations that will bring huge financial opportunities in your life.

If you ignore your 2nd House ruler, you risk chasing the wrong goals and wasting time. This planet shows your natural path to wealth: not the path others tell you to take. The more you align with it, the easier money flows.

So, let's figure out together how to use your birth chart to become a money magnet.

HOW TO FIND THE 2H RULER:

1) Locate the sign in your 2H. Calculate your chart HERE!

2) The planet that rules that sign is your 2H ruler (see table below for planetary rulerships.)

3) Locate the house the 2H ruler occupies in the birth chart. The house it's in, shows HOW you can make more money.

Example: Sagittarius 2H=Sagittarius is ruled by JUPITER=8H Gemini Jupiter is the 2H Ruler

2H RULER IN THE 1H: Build skills and image. Start a personal brand or business. Be seen, heard, and remembered. Who gives you money: Clients who like your energy. Followers, fans, loyal buyers.

2H RULER IN THE 2H: Invest in goods, land, or things that grow. Focus on slow, steady gains. Sell tangible services. Who gives you money: Bankers, traders, investors. People who deal in tangible assets (like gold, land, supplies). Buyers who want lasting value.

2H RULER IN THE 3H: Write, sell, teach, speak. Trade goods locally. Use phones, emails, short trips to build cash. Who gives you money: Siblings, neighbors, close friends. Writers, messengers, teachers. Local businesses or delivery services.

2H RULER IN THE 4H: Buy or sell real estate. Work in land, farming, food, or tradition. Build home-based businesses. Inherit wisely and protect it. Who gives you money: Parents, grandparents, elders. Real estate agents or property managers. Family businesses or ancestral wealth.

2H RULER IN THE 5H: Create art, games, entertainment. Start passion businesses. Teach kids, coach sports, organize events. Take smart risks. Who gives you money: Artists, athletes, performers. Gamblers, investors, venture capitalists. Lovers or romantic partners.

2H RULER IN THE 6H: Offer daily services people need. Heal, repair, clean, or fix. Focus on health, pets, or crafts. Build strong work habits. Who gives you money: Nurses, vets, cleaners, tech workers. Bosses who value hard workers. Clients who need regular help.

2H RULER IN THE 7H: Negotiate smart contracts. Form joint ventures. Sell directly to clients one-on-one. Who gives you money: Business partners, spouses, clients. Lawyers, agents, deal-makers. People who invest in long-term relationships.

2H RULER IN THE 8H: Manage inheritances, investments, loans. Work with taxes, banking, insurance. Handle mergers, estates, or debts. Trade trust for power. Who gives you money: Investors, lenders, financiers. Heirs, trustees, executors. Partners who share assets.

2H RULER IN THE 9H: Teach, publish, preach, or coach. Sell services across borders. Work with law, spirituality, philosophy, or higher education. Follow faith or big missions. Who gives you money: Professors, clergy, travelers, publishers. Foreigners. Legal workers or academic institutions.

2H RULER IN THE 10H: Build a public name. Climb career ladders. Start visible businesses. Become an expert people recognize. Who gives you money: Bosses, governments, CEOs. Industry leaders and high-status clients. Customers who respect titles and results.

2H RULER IN THE 11H: Launch group projects. Build big communities. Fund dreams through social support. Join causes that matter. Who gives you money: Friends, followers, donors. Clubs, political groups, online communities. Social movements and public funds.

2H RULER IN THE 12H: Work behind the scenes. Heal, help, or create art quietly. Invest in royalties, patents, hidden streams. Protect secrets and serve faithfully. Who gives you money: Monasteries, charities, hospitals, hidden patrons. Spiritual teachers, artists, healers. Quiet supporters or secret allies.

Thank you for taking the time to read my post! Your curiosity & engagement mean the world to me. I hope you not only found it enjoyable but also enriching for your astrological knowledge. Your support & interest inspire me to continue sharing insights & information with you. I appreciate you immensely.

• 🕸️ JOIN MY PATREON for exquisite & in-depth astrology content. You'll also receive a free mini reading upon joining. :)

• 🗡️ BOOK A READING with me to navigate your life with more clarity & awareness.

[kabuki-writes]

Aeternitas Nunc Est

chapter: 7 chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

pairing: emperor geta/emperor caracalla x acacius' daughter!reader

summary: Your wedding night with Emperor Geta.

warning(s): heavy smut warning | partially non consent | Geta being Geta | semi-edited | english is not my first language, faults may occur | please let me know if i missed anything

Note: Yes, i kinda back after it took me nearly an eternity before i was able to present this smut-heavy chapter. I am not super-experienced with writing smut, but i tried my best and hope you'll like it! :) Also big thanks to all the sweet beans, who sent me well-wishes over the last weeks!

word count: 2.8

You watched the lights of Rome in the dark veil of the night, which had layed itself upon the hills of the eternal city. The royal palace sat upon one of those sacred hills, watching over the gigantic capital of the growing Empire, just like the Greek believed that the Olymp watched over their lands. This palace here was not only the residence of the Emperors Geta and Caracalla anymore, it was your home now too. You'll never get back to your families home, to your parents. With this marriage now, you were no longer in the hands of your father, but became the property of Geta. He was able to do with you as he pleased, which included an order to kill you or your family in an instant. A sword that was over your head from the day that your father betrayed the Emperors - and somehow you needed to find a way for yourself in this dangerous situation now. No privilege would save you now, your mind and your wits were your only weapons left.

Empress. It still felt surreal that this was the way you were called now. The title felt heavy on your shoulders just as the golden tiara crown of Empress Poppea on your head, while you listened to the footsteps of your husband behind you, echoing on the clean marble floor of his personal chambers as he approached you. Just as it was tradition, he'd taken you away from the celebration at one point, so that you to were able to seal this bond off with the mandatory wedding night.

Geta's hand reached out to you, taking one of the strains of your hair between his fingers, while his eyes lingered on your form, your curves hugged by the fabric of your beautiful wedding dress. Even though the thought of simply ripping your gown off your body and taking you right here right now, was an urge in his mind, he knew quite well that he had to treat you different like he did with his concubines. He needed you to surrender yourself to him, so that he could shake off the feeling of desperation he had, when he thought of you. Geta wanted you as a whole, not just your body, but your mind as well - an Empress that served him and loved him like no one else did.

„You can hate me as much as you want now. It doesn't matter", he whispered, standing close to you so that you were able to feel his hot breath against your skin. "I could kill you and your family, everything is in my hands, depending on how you play your part." Your eyes went silently to him, but you were not backing off in any way. "Then why don't you do it right now, my Emperor? Kill me and we're done with it. This wedding celebration becomes nothing more than dust and ashes then."

It were those words in this very moment, when Geta understood that he wasn't able to get you through fear. It surprised him, his irritation clearly written on his face. No one ever dared to speak with him like this, no one ever defied him in any way and yet you did - without hesitation. And while it would usually anger him, somehow in your case, he found it intruiging. Yet it also reminded him about the fact that he didn't just married you because he was able to bind General Acacius to his and his brother's rule.

His hand reached out and he traced the details of your jawline, before he placed his thumb and index finger at your chin, the tall young man basically towering you as he stood right in front of your form.

"That would be too easy, don't you think? I just presented Rome its new Empress. But let me remind you of the fact that you're nothing without me now. When my brother and i fall, so do you, which is why your father should follow our hand instead of chasing a dream that is long forgotten."

His thumb slowly ran over your lips, touching them softly as if he couldn't wait to simply kiss them. You stood still, eyes locked with him, as if you waited for him to make the first move. Maybe he thought you were a sheep, something to easily pray on like all the other women he usually got with one snap of his fingers, but despite your situation, there was still pride in you - hope even. "My father serves no one but Rome", you answered, but suddenly Geta tightened the grip on your chin. "Then you should hope that his definition of Rome is right this time. But let us stop talking about him, shall we? This is our wedding night and we both waited enough."

With those words his hands went to the brooches that held your dress together. Even though your body tensed, you knew you couldn't do anything about him being the first man to lay hands on you as he was now your husband. His dark eyes lingered on you like a wolf ready to consume his prey, especially once your dress fell from your shoulders to the ground, revealing the beautiful curves of your body.

"From the very first day i saw you, i was sure that you were the incarnation of Venus...", he mumbled, while his pale fingers traced your collarbones, the curves of your now exposed breasts, down to your hip. He took his time with it, as if he was looking at a marble statue in front of him. "Perfection."

His words rang in your ears and although it was an honor to hear those words from the mouth of an Emperor, it felt different. Otherwise, you instantly thought about the fact that his attention, his desire for you could be something useful. And you should at least try to keep him pleased if you didn't want him to think back to your father's betrayal. So out of a sudden, your hands went up to cup his cheeks, while your eyes met his. For a second he even froze in place, surprised by your sudden action. From the day you knew that a marriage with Geta was inevitable, you had to befriend the thought of induldging into something you couldn't change in any way. It was better to adapt in order to survive, better do play your part in order to gain peace - and through this, you might find a way to change the course of history?

Maybe this idea in your mind fired your bravery as you swallowed your pride and placed your lips on his. It was almost a provocation, rather than a romantic form of showing your devotion. "I might not change so quickly into the woman you expect from me", you whispered against them, his lips curving up into a wide smirk, amused by your tone shift. "Why should i want this? I enjoy our little game way too much..."

His hands suddenly grabbed your neck at the sides as he hold you in place, forcing you into another kiss, a more intense one this time. He quickly broke your hesitation with a straight entry of his tongue into your mouth, invading it like a conquerer and pushing you into a dance. You couldn't step back, you couldn't turn your head away, his fingers, the cold metal of his rings, drilled themselves into the skin on your throat and neck, imprison you in this position. It felt like an eternity until he released his lips from yours, before he brought them to your ear. "If i'd wish to fuck a submissive servant, i simply fuck one of my concubines, or a slave. You however,...", he whispered with a devilish grin on his face, which sent shivers down your spine. "It brings me much more joy, when you fight me... although i know you'll come to the point of loving me soon enough. And i will wait for it".

He didn't waste any time as he grabbed your arms and pushed you down on the the four poster bed, which was prepared for you two. A sea of pillows and blankets under the sky of heavy velvet drapes. Geta pinned you down onto the mattress as he placed kisses all over your neck, marking you as his own by leaving dark bruises on your skin. His words weren't a lie, because every time you tried to push him away with the way your body moved, he only took it as a motivation to continue in an even more craving and demanding way. There was no reason for you to keep this up for long, as it was not changing anything. Slowly his one hand creeped between your legs before he touched your sancturary, which was never been owned by any man before. With a grin, he coated his fingers with the wetness on your entrance, as he felt how your body shivered under his touch. "So you are not devoted to me yet? Then why are you wet like the ocean down there?", Geta whispered teasingly into your ear, while he pushed two fingers into you, causing you to gasp.

In fact, Geta was no brute. He could come off as a cruel man, but he knew that you were untouched, so he took his time to enjoy your body, while also preparing you for what's to come. In a way, he didn't want to hurt you, even though it was hard for him to hold back. His lips found their way from your neck to your breasts, while he stimulated your clitoris slowly with his fingers. There was no doubt that Geta was experienced, no surprisingly given the horde of concubines he called his own. But none of those women ever gave him the same satisfaction as you did in this moment. The feeling of your soft, skin under his lips was electrifying for him, while he went down to place kisses on your chest and lick over one of your nipples before he teasingly bit it with his teeth.

You couldn't clench your teeth together forever, while you tried so desperately to resist. There was still a form of resistance in you, as you didn't want to surrender your body so easily to the touch of a man that had threatened your family and force you into marriage. But it got harder, when the first sounds of pleasure escaped your lips, which incited Geta to keep going. The way your nipples grew hard under the touch of his tongue and the sucking of his lips was a divine example for him how you would soon tear down your wall freely. Out of a sudden, he reached for your wrist and forced your hand to the hem of his robes. "Go on, take them off", his demanding whisper catched your ear and you couldn't explain why your body simply followed his orders. Maybe a twisted 'excitement' guided your hands as you shoved his toga off his shoulders, following his belt and his tunica, the heavy brocade fabrics falling down to the white marble grounds, before you were able to see his body for the very first time.

Geta was the embodiment of the dissolute Emperor, whose main role from his early childhood was to become the most powerful man in all of Rome. The days his father had forced him onto the battlefield where long over, he hated the mere thought of dirt, hard work and the smell of a camp of legionaries. His body was pale as if he'd never seen the sunlight, a reminder how priviledged the Emperor's truly were in difference to the rest of Rome. Even though he wasn't seen as a strong man, who could fight against a gladiator, his slender body was still decorated by light and defined muscles. All those parties, the drinking and whoring aside, Geta did care for his body out of the fear to end up ill like his damned father, who died pathetically in his bed. But the most present part for you now was Geta's hardened erection, ready to have his moment, pre-cum already glistening in the dim light of the oil lamps that surrounded you. Your heart pounded against your chest, almost as if it would rip out of your skin at any given moment - like a prey in front of a predator and yet you stared into his eyes in defiance.

Oh how he was turned on by this beautiful defiance in your eyes, the thinking that you will never surrender yourself to a God. It motivated him to turn those tables, to make you scream his name as he would fuck you to elysium. And with that in his mind, he grabbed your wrists and pinned you down, bringing his body between your legs as he spreaded them. His hips blocking your possibility to push your legs together again. His face went down to your face, as he forced a hungry and predatory kiss onto your lips, your tongue fighting against his, before your suddenly bit his lip during the battle of dominance. Geta's head shot back, his dark eyes staring at you before a laugh escaped his lips again. "I have a pretty bold wife, so hesitant!"

"Call me your wife, but i will never love you!", you quickly hissed back, showing him the hate that had built up in your stomach with every second passing, but he didn't care at all. His grin spoke more than a thousand words. Without a warning, he slowly pushed himself into you. He could've simply thrust in you, not caring for your pain in any way which was hard to avoid when a woman lost her virginity. But it was softer than he inicially intended to be. You wanted to curse him, but all you were able to get out of your mouth, when you felt how the stinging pain got replaced with a different feeling, something more carnal, was a moan through your clenched teeth. Geta didn't need to hold himself back, the dark moan that came from his lips only mirrowed the pleasure he felt, when a tight cunt held his hardened cock. "I don't need your love, it'll come sooner or later. What i want now is your body, surrendered to me... and trust me, you will stop fighting me". With those words, the young Emperor began to thrust into you, starting with slow movements, while his one hand was still holding his position beside your head, the other was holding your wrists above your head to avoid any form of resistance.

Not that you could resist anyways, there was never a way out from the day your wedding got announced. Seeing his lust shimmering in his dark eyes, which were focused on your face, watching how you tried so desperately to not show him any form of pleasure, it felt like a torture. Geta knew what he did, he knew how to treat your body to get his desired reaction. And once he felt your resistance cracking down under the deep thrusts, while your bodies were starting to move in unison, he loosened the grip around your wrists. "I might've made a mistake... you're not so bold as you think you are", he groaned, before your eyes shut open and you grabbed his shoulders. Not bold enough... His voice haunted your head. You didn't surrender, maybe it was time to set new rules. With a devilish grin, he wrapped his arm around your hip and switched the positions with one movement. You found yourself on his lap, but one of your hand already found its way in his short gingerblonde hair, which you grabbed and pulled, before your hip moved against his. In this position, you were the one to look down on him, while he was able to easily hit your deepest core with his dick. "Now you got claws?", he whispered, but you didn't fall for his provocation and continued to ride him with a newly fired self-esteem, that even surprised him. But it wasn't as if he was able to think more about it in this very moment, when his fingers pressed into the skin of your ass, while he hold you down, the moment he shot his load in you. The semen that may carry an heir into your womb, a legacy Geta wished for himself - and not for his brother. A lineage that started from him and him alone. It was a good timing as your body 'surrendered' as well, your moan filling this room with your shared high, the only true implementation of a marriage.

Now you were truly his wife. Married to an Emperor. An Empress.

____________________________

Tags:

quuinyoung koshkahhh mmkkzz analves pandora-journey ange-olras tellynojelly targwh0re h3k3t onelemonoat whitenoise808 spooky-cupid dev1lbella onelemonoat hawraa-alzubaidi omg-hellgirl the-holy-pigeon justnobodynothingmore fandomblogs-stuff justnobodynothingmore superblyspeedydragon deliciousfestsalad moon-390 lv9su harmfulb1tch apollonshootafar zalera8310 sweetffcts lvspedri soltik capitanostella weepingfashionwritingplaid labellapeaky @qardasngan @fallout-girl219 @chaand-sitara @eighttens @riddlerloveb0t @nicksolemnlyswears @myotakureprieve @lovely--lover @idiotsatan @mqrrstarr @eclypsosworld @happythingtiger @a-lovers-car @misspendragonsworld @kpoppunk18-blog @possiblyafangirl @katarzynaviktoria

To get on the taglist, please write a comment under this chapter :)

[buryustogether]

yandere alastor x fem!reader hcs

sfw + nsfw below

i have this idea that, when you were both still human, alastor married you for a marriage of convenience (probably tax purposes). he's not one for love, but he does quite like to make things easier for himself, as well as a bit of reliable companionship from someone he can trust. he found it rather cute that you were head over heels in love with him.

he insists upon keeping you at his side almost 24/7. you accompany him everywhere; to his station while he's broadcasting, about town as he runs his errands, even to his overlord meetings, though you are forced to wait outside. he knows you won't up and disappear; even if you weren't such a good little pet, there isn't anywhere you could run that he couldn't find you.

the other overlords tease alastor about his little 'pet' he keeps on such a tight leash. he doesn't ever object to this title.

gives you dancing lessons and doesn't allow you to rest until you can copy his movements exactly. if you collapse from exhaustion before that, he'll coo and brush your hair out of the way, then haul you to your feet and start again from the beginning.

he won't have you doing much other than keeping your shared home clean and occasionally cooking a meal or two. you're his darling, he can't have you wearing yourself out taking care of him. he'll do most everything - he just wants you to sit there and look pretty for him.

won't allow you to leave the table until you finish the meals he makes for you.

loves to have you hanging on his arm. you're like a precious little trophy for him to show off - only his, and no one else's.

being alastor's beloved companion makes you a prime target for blackmail and kidnappers, but he doesn't want you to fret, dear - he has it covered. his shadows are on your trail in the extremely rare occasion he's not with you, and he's killed demons for less than even looking your way.

doesn't allow any kind of modern technology inside his home or upon your person, even if you died long after him. he considers cellphones to be the property of his enemies, and you wouldn't want him to catch you wearing the symbol of the v's, now, would you?

he picks out your outfits for each day, even has them custom made at the tailor's just for you. he knows best, darling, so don't fight him on this. he doesn't want you going out looking like some common harlot, not when you belong to the radio demon.

often takes out his frustrations of the day on you at night when you're alone in his bedroom. he bites and scratches and thrashes like a beast trapped in a snare, and he relishes in having you wear the marks when he's done.

his favorite position to have you in is plain old missionary; not only is it traditional, but he enjoys having complete control over you while he bucks up into your heat.

like most animal-based demons in hell, he enters a rut once a month and rarely emerges from his quarters; which means you don't, either. at least three times a day, and he only stops to give you rest and to whisper the filthiest things you've ever heard in your ear.

enjoys bondage to an extent, but only on you. he's not opposed to pretty little collars wrapped around your neck, either.

now, when you're in the mood and he's not, he's not totally cruel. while he won't fuck you when and wherever, he'll allow you to straddle his thigh and hump his leg like an animal while he continues whatever work he was doing before.

he may often be brutal, he knows aftercare is extremely important. he can't leave his darling bruised and broken for next time, can he? licks up any blood he may have drawn and ensures you drink when you're done, even if he has to hold your back against his chest and tip your chin up to force the water down your throat. he'll usually run you a bath and, surprisingly, will gently bathe you before dressing you in the finest bedroom silks in hell and putting you to bed.

he doesn't sleep much, but since meeting you, he's replaced many of his nighttime activities with sitting at the side of your bed and watching you sleep.

alastor doesn't love; but he knows he would tear hell apart at the seams if you were ever taken from him.

[seresinhangmanjake]

Becoming His

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x concubine!reader

Summary: Feyd chooses you as his concubine

Notes/Warnings: Smut (but not an overwhelming amount), so 18+. Possessiveness (ownership of other human beings and whatnot). It changes from third person perspective to second person, so i’m sorry if that irritates some people, but I just thought that it expressed the feelings of the story better, considering the tonal switch. This is based on a request. Sorry if there are typos.

It can be read as stand-alone, but it goes along with the following fics: His, Don't Touch What's His, and Only His. This fic takes place before any of those.

Words: 2400

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist / Main Masterlist / Tag list

Feyd was sent for peace. The Baron sees use in House Wallach and very specifically instructed his favorite nephew to arrange a deal. With House Wallach’s planet producing items of value, the Baron would not attempt domination over their world in exchange for those items. That seemed fair—as fair as the Harkonnens get—but if one party fails to deliver, consequences follow. Sometimes, that means the taking of other items of value.

They aren’t prisoners of war—they can’t be considered such when war did not actually occur—but they’re close enough: women taken from their home planet after their leaders failed to protect them, leaving them weak and vulnerable and unprepared for what their new lives will thrust upon them. For the first time in their blip of existence, they are a foreigner's property; the most humiliating of circumstances for women of their status: three high-ranking handmaids, the live-in bene gesserit, and the daughter of their Lord and Lady. And Feyd has to choose one. 

“It’s within your right,” the Baron tells him. “And expected. To turn them away without taking one for yourself would be a showing of weakness.”

Feyd scans each one. He supposes they’re all appealing in their own ways. The handmaids were raised to obey, an ability Feyd would have them exercise often. The bene gesserit has knowledge beyond her years. And the benefits of owning an heir of a Great House can be summed up by title alone. 

However, they have their faults as well. The handmaids aren’t particularly beautiful, and as they stand there, shaking, huddled together, with their eyes down and chins tucked into their chests, Feyd finds them grossly undesirable. If he wanted a mouse, he would take one of his own servants. 

The bene gesserit, regardless of appearance, is a witch whose most vital loyalty will belong to the Reverend Mother and her followers before House Harkonnen—a traitorous snake in the making. He cannot have a woman in his bed that he will be unable to trust.  

The one remaining, the Lady, she’s fearless. He can see it already in the set pout of her pretty lips. He doesn’t like fearlessness; it’s disrespectful, potentially disobedient, but at the same time, she encapsulates everything else he could want: a face he doesn’t hate to look upon, to say the very least; nobility, a reminder that he claimed something invaluable to an entire planet; and perhaps most intriguing: she’ll be a challenge—not easily torn down—and the more he looks at her, the more the others fade into nonexistence. 

Feyd steps closer to her, drawn in by delicate features, and waves of hair, and luscious curves. 

“This one,” he says. 

With those two words, a spark shoots across her irises. Her knitted brow soothes. Her mouth, now unburdened by the weight of the pout, twitches up in the corners. There’s a hint of a dimple in her right cheek that is there and then gone, taken from him before he can fully understand why his heart thumped at the sight of it. 

“Fine,” the Baron replies. 

Commanding his guards, he says, “Rid of the others,” prompting gasps and tears of fear, and even Feyd is unsure what will become of them. Slaves? Entertainment in the arena? Perhaps his uncle will let him feed them to his pets.

To his servants, the Baron says, “Clean her up.”

And to his nephew, he says, “She’ll be brought to you later,” just before two small Harkonnen women take her by the arms and lead her away.

—

He thought all afternoon of the noises he would soon be forcing from you. The yelps, the squeals, the cracking from your grinding teeth. Everyone’s flesh makes a unique sound when sliced open, and he imagined what sound your flesh would make. The masterpiece your face would be after your tears melt your makeup he’d be proud to claim as his work. 

But then his servants bring you to him. They push you through the door and position you in front of him before skittering away, and in the silence they leave behind, Feyd can only detect his own heartbeat. 

He liked you in the pinkish-toned clothing traditional of your house—it made you stick out amongst the darkness surrounding you, like uncorrupted sweetness in its last moments—but in Harkonnen black, you’re something else entirely. 

He’s read of goddesses and angels, deities and divine spirits lost with those who once worshipped them, and he always wondered how such beings cultivated mass devotion without the consistent doling out of immense pain. But he gets it now. He understands the draw of the ethereal. 

After minutes of staring, his eyes feel dry, scratchy; he needs to blink, he needs to close his parted mouth, but he can’t, nor can he form a coherent thought separated from the way your hair frames your face and how the silk cascading down your body doesn’t do a perfect job of hiding everything underneath. Touch. He wants to touch. Run hands over soft skin. Press his lips to–

He stops himself. That’s wrong. He is meant to sink his teeth into you. He should be digging his nails into flesh, draining blood, staining sheets, licking tears from cheeks like the men before him have done to their concubines. 

She’s yours, so train her well—that’s what his uncle said, and Feyd knows for a fact that the Harkonnen method of training a woman is devoid of anything but pure torture. Harkonnen training is rough, crude, brutal on the body and mind to break someone down. Only the strong build themselves back up into warriors—like he did—and concubines are not meant to attempt that feat.

“Am I going to stand here all night?”

Your voice sends a chill down his spine, yanking him out of his head. He finally blinks. As his eyes meet yours, he swallows and says, “Do you want to stand there all night?”

“Not particularly,” you tell him. “And I don’t think your servants spent hours fixing me up just so I can take post like a statue at the foot of your bed.”

He wouldn’t mind a statue in your likeness, actually. He’d feel a lot less conflicted if he had two of you at his disposal; one for what a concubine is meant for, and one unaltered from the way you are right now—no pain in your eyes, no quiver to your lip, no marks marring your skin. 

“They did not,” he confirms. 

He pushes off the desk he had been leaning against and uncrosses his arms as he steps toward you, stopping just before colliding with your body. Your head tilts back, and he knows he is supposed to smirk at your powerlessness; his eyes should be pouring with the promises of a painful future, but he can’t access that otherwise always-accessible emotion. The hatred is not quite there. The vile pool of black sludge that has resided within him from the moment he pierced his mother’s throat with a blade has started to drain because of the doe eyes that stare up at him. 

“I’m not scared of you,” he hears, and for a second, he cannot tell if the words came from your mouth or from his. But you don’t reply, so that must be his role.

“It's stupid not to be scared of me.”

“Maybe,” you say, your head cocking, “but you don't look at me like you want me to be scared of you.”

That right there—he should kill you for that. You see too much. He wonders if you see his thoughts as well. He doesn’t need a woman with eyes that see more than what is tangibly in front of her. 

Instead of his body operating on its own, he has to force his hand to wrap around the neck of the threat before him. But five seconds of the delicate column in his grasp goes by, and then ten, and then fifteen, and his fingers have yet to squeeze any tighter. Surprise is etched onto your face, but it’s different. It’s not the look of a woman suddenly in a vulnerable position. By the way your eyes trail from his face to bicep to forearm, it’s more like you’re shocked that his touch is as warm as it is, as if you expected the paleness of his skin to mean hot blood does not course through his veins. 

Tentatively, your hands reach up until your palms are cupping his cheeks. He can’t bring himself to jerk away as your tongue slides out to wet your lips and you rise on your toes. You gently tilt his head down to yours, and then you brush your mouth over his. 

Feyd’s lungs tighten in his chest as you do it again. The hand around your neck slides into your hair, holding your head in place so he can take more, kiss harder. But it’s not long that he’s devouring your taste before he comes to his senses and shoves you away. 

“Stop that,” he spits, his brow drawn. “I did not tell you to do that.” 

Your teeth trap your bottom lip. “Then what do you want me to do?”

“Lay on the bed,” he says, then quickly adds, “On your stomach.” It’s better that way. If he isn’t focusing on you, your eyes, your lips, then he won’t be distracted from his own pleasure.

You don’t hesitate to do as he says, and you walk past him to the mattress. He doesn’t turn to watch you shed your thin gown, fearing what the combined vision of face and bare body will do to him, so he works on removing his own clothes, facing you only once he hears the shifting of the coverings on his bed. 

Your arms are bent, hands overlapped under your head as you wait for him to join, and after taking in the curvature of spine and the dip in lower back before the swell of bottom, he does, settling behind you. 

He doesn’t know where to start. There’s so much to take in and he does his best to memorize it all until, eventually, he lets his palm slide up the center of your back. When it causes you to shiver, he rips his hand away.

“It wasn’t bad,” you tell him. “I’m fine.”

Feyd hums in a manner intended to come off much more displeased than it does. He didn’t ask if you were fine, and a scolding is on the tip of his tongue for even suggesting the idea, but the piece of him that knows he would’ve stopped if you had said the opposite keeps the words from reaching past his throat.

Feyd tries once more, this time placing his hand at your hip for purchase as he guides himself inside of you with the other. With great effort, he swallows his gasp before he falls forward on clenched fists that press into the mattress on either side of your breasts. 

You’re warmer than he expected. Tight and slick and warm, and amidst the sensations that take over his entire being, he somehow manages to find enough clarity to question the normalcy of your body. 

Harkonnen women aren’t warm like this. Warm, yes, but your warmth is more comforting, more engulfing. He’ll feel an unpleasant chill when he removes himself from you and so decides it might be best to stay right there inside of you for as long as he can. But after he hears the little sound you make through the ringing in his ears, he doesn’t know how much longer that will be.

He pulls out slightly and then pushes in, and he receives another of your sounds, louder this time. Your hips lift an inch off the mattress, pushing back into his. He thrusts again and his brain fuzzes. When he shoves in deeper, you yelp at the spot he hits and he loses his mind entirely, left with the sole desire to see how many notes he can get you to sing for him. He finds there are many more, and as you continue to belt out a chorus along with each of his movements, he suddenly thinks: fuck everything else. Fuck the things he is supposed to be doing to you. Fuck the lessons he is supposed to be teaching you. Fuck the training that is supposed to be putting you in your place. He needs to see you. 

Your head lifts and you look back at him as best you can when he leaves your body. “Why did you st–”

“Turn over,” he demands with heavy breaths.

“What?”

You’re not fast enough. His hands firmly grip your hips and he flips you onto your back, spreading your legs and stuffing himself back inside of you. You moan. Your eyelashes flutter. Your mouth stays perfectly parted as you reach over your head to tighten your fingers into the pillow. 

That’s exactly what he wanted, and that’s all it takes to shun his cares for anything other than the way you look beneath him. His chest meets yours and he darts his tongue out to lick the bottom of your upper lip before capturing your mouth with his. You kiss him just as much as he is kissing you. You touch him as much as he is touching you. Your legs wrap around him, taking everything he has until his hips stutter and he’s coating the walls that are milking him with each pulsating squeeze. 

He pulls out with ragged breaths, body falling beside yours, and as you both stare at the ceiling, his mind finally clears with the sudden realization that what he just did might’ve stolen some of his power and handed it to you. You know of the Harkonnens’ cruelty—everyone does—but what he gave you was not that, and he cannot allow you to get the wrong impression.

“You're mine,” he reminds you. “I own you. You follow my orders. Don’t irritate me. Don’t speak unless I am the one speaking to you. You go where I tell you to go. You do what I want you to do. And don’t get any ideas that you’re not disposable to me.”

Minutes pass in silence, but then you say, “What happens if you end up liking me?”

That question hits him right in the gut. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what the fuck happens if he likes you more than he already does. It won’t do him any good; he knows that. 

His back teeth clench. “I won't,” he says. “So don’t ever ask me that again.”

[catiuskaa]

reggaeton & champagne.

PAIRING! lee minho x reader x bang chan

SUMMARY: you knew better than to go down to the club alone. and that guy should’ve known better than to mess with minho and chan’s property.

REQUESTED! by my pookie @sharonxdevi who requested this here! and it’s such a good idea, tysm for trusting me with it<3

CW: the boys may come off as a little possesive, there’s a touchy douche in the club, mentions of alcohol, it ain’t spicy but surely it’s nsfw.

WC: 2.3k

A/N: so i’ve never even thought of writing poly!skz relationships until now, but i think it came out nicely! (and if you kinda recognize the title— i just spend an unhealthy amount of time watching skz edits on instagram lololol)

[🔹☆💠☆🔹]

The sign of the club glowed with bluish neon lights at the entrance. There was also a man, notebook in hand, receiving IDs prior to welcoming the long queue of people. Although it was not the most expensive nightclub in the city, you could see the difference between it and the rest of the clubs in town, in the sense that the establishment was very tidy and clean, with security personnel scattered around the corners, watching that everything was going out smoothly.

It was unusual for you to want to go out clubbing, but considering the boys’ schedule, any chance to make plans together was welcomed with open arms.

Especially by Minho and Chan, who would never force you to go out, but their lingering stares and their arms that would sneakily clung to your waist or your shoulders —and in some cases, to lovingly slap your ass or thighs—, were meant as a way of encouragement when you dressed up and went for it.

And a way to say that, as always, you looked fine as hell.

You had chosen a short silver-coloured dress that reached your mid-thighs, accompanied by a pair of matching mesh thigh-highs with cute little clips that allowed them to stay in place, only because you knew how to entertain your public, and loved every single second their eyes stayed glued to you as you danced your heart out.

The music pounded against the walls and reverberated through the floor, but not as much as how the booze traveled through your veins, only giddy enough to celebrate how well their last tour had gone, and merely to have some well-deserved fun.

Minho’s hands grasped you by your waist, pulling you off Chan’s arms and smirking as he pushed your back flush against his body.

One of his hands remained in place, but the other one moved slowly, tempting fingers heading down to your thighs, as if walking, the motion almost ticklish. You could feel his cat-like grin from behind you as you looked at Chan, who wasn’t mad at all, rather cheekily enjoying the other man’s antics as you kept dancing against him, following the rhythm of the music.

Chris got closer to the both of you, taking your arms and settling them on his shoulders as he approached even further, now the two gentlemen dressed in fine clothes towering over you.

“Our princess is feeling good today, huh?” His hand cradled your face, holding your chin in a tender grasp, unlike Minho, who started to play with one of the clips on your high mesh stockings.

You were about to say something, but Minho tugged at one of the straps and chuckled next to your ear, slapping it back. Your breath hitched, and you bit your lip, feeling the blush rising to your cheeks, the light foundation you had applied not being able to cover it.

Chris snickered, and Minho lightly bit the shell of your ear, and they both laughed as you squirmed in between their arms.

“Ok, ok—!” You giggled, out of breath due to the tickling and else. You didn’t want to leave just yet, but didn’t want to stop teasing your boys either.

Tugging on Chan’s collar, you propelled him forward, his hands ending on Minho’s shoulders by reflex. You moved your body in between both of them, swaying your hips, playing with Chris’ hair as you turned your head to face the man behind you, and chuckled, biting his lip.

They both felt a rush of blood heading to their face—and downwards—, but you stopped Chan for pushing you against Minho even more, one of your soft hands nonchalantly moving from the back of his neck to his chest, cheekily stroking his toned upper body.

“I think we can use some more drinks, gentlemen.” Your tone was filled with an enticing mockery only powered by their presence, and you licked your lips, feeling Minho’s slender fingers playing with the rim of your dress, tapping your thigh gently.

“I think we should head to the VIP lounge.” He grunted against your ear, his breath tickling your there, but the gentle yet lust-filled kisses he left right below started driving you a bit crazy. “Whaddya think, Chan?” Minho smirked, swiftly lifting his head from your neck to stare at the older man.

With all the mix of bright coloured lights, you could notice slightly how Chris’ eyes grew darker. Almost so dark that they could fuck you themselves, and you squeezed your thighs at the thought.

“I think our little brat needs to learn that teasing won’t get her anywhere, hyung.” Minho’s slender fingers playfully traced mindless shapes on your thigh.

The older man swallowed hard, his breath deepening.

“Guess you’re on thin ice, princess.” He leaned in, and pecked Minho’s lips from above your shoulder. He then turned slightly, and spoke in your ear. “You have ten minutes to go get those drinks. Go up the VIP platform right after, like the good girl you are, mmh?”

His hum almost echoed through your body, falling into an endless pit of arousal that those two gorgeous men had created, now able to make you feel hot and bothered in just a cheeky wink or a deep look.

Making you oh so weak for them. Only them.

“Heard that, kitten?” Minho smirked, lovingly kissing your cheek, as close as he could to the corner of your lips. “Ten minutes. Tick-tock.”

You tried heading towards the bar without your knees giving out as they both moved away, and instantly missed their warmth and strong hold on your body. But before you could even try, Chris tsked, pulling you back to him and almost fiercely planting a deep kiss that lit fire on your body, and almost made you whine when he pulled away, biting your lip.

“Fuck.” He gasped, feeling breathless. “Make that five minutes for daddy, yeah?”

And with a tap on your hips and a teasing wink, he left, following where Minho had gone.

You were unable to wipe the giddy smile off your face, feeling your cheeks get hot, and you patted them, hoping that your slightly cooler hands would do something to low it down.

Shaking your head lightly, you waved at the bartender, a tall, blond and handsome young man, and he gave you a kind smile. You sat on the stool closest, and he approached you, leaning on the counter.

“Nice seeing you here for a change.” He said with a snicker.

“Wish I could say the same, Hyunjin.” You wiggled your eyebrows almost dramatically, making him laugh.

“Your three usuals, beautiful?” He asked with a grin, and you nodded. “Comin’ right up.”

You watched as he gracefully started to show off his abilities, passing drinks and metal cups and bottles in flashes and zooms, controlling every move so swiftly.

But then, you felt a hand on your waist.

“Sorry, scooching up real quick…” said a low voice from behind you.

His hands brushed your back, making you shiver. But it was a bad shiver. One that swiped away the giddiness your boys had left, but not as quickly as your smile took off.

The bold man dizzily sat on a stool that could’ve easily been a foot or two away, and your body relaxed easily at the new-formed distance.

You stared at him in a mix of slight disgust and raw astonishment. Used to your boys and the rest of the group, or people like Hyunjin, one could easily forget that people weren’t always respectful, nice and kind.

He noticed your blank stare, and misinterpreted it as interest. With a wide smile, he bent down, grabbing one of the legs of the stool you were sitting on, and smoothly moved it closer to his.

Another shiver ran through your back, goosebumps showing on your skin.

He smiled, and you held back a frown.

“Besides looking that sexy, what else do you do for a living?”

…

yikes.

That line didn’t only give you the ick, but you also noticed Hyunjin physically flinched, which made you snort, quickly covering your mouth.

The man was so drunk. You could smell it on his breath, and the guy looked rather pathetic. You didn’t feel too sorry for him, but wanted him as far as possible, and you moved to the edge of your stool.

The man looked proud of your giggles, but grew restless when you didn’t reply, so he took a sip from the glass of whiskey in front of him, kind of as if he hadn’t had anything to drink in a while.

You sat up straight, glaring at Hyunjin so he’d call security if things turned complicated, and he winked at you as a form of reassurance.

“Do you, eh, come here often?” He blurbed out.

You looked at your hands, staring at your nails, and waited for a second before giving him a side-eye from above your shoulder, slender eyes looking uninterested.

Quickly going back to your nails, you shrugged. “Enough to know that you don’t.” You brushed off coldly.

If you did, you’d know that I’m happily taken.

He stammered, his breath hitched, and you could almost feel him start getting even more nervous, as well as slightly angry.

“Huh? Why’s that?” He scoffed, eyebrows raised at you, who again, didn’t bother to look at him, a bit wary of his moody attitude.

Hyunjin smiled at you, coldly glaring at the clueless man next to you as he swiftly left the three drinks in place, pressing the red button underneath the counter to call for help.

The man smirked, going back to a confidence you didn’t want to know where he had gotten.

Placing his arm sneakily on your waist.

Huh?

“All those for you?”

Before you could react and slap him for his unrequested bold actions, you heard a grunt behind you.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

At that moment, Chan wasn’t so sure if he was the pacific one in your relationship.

He trusted you and your ability to set your own boundaries, by any means necessary, even if it meant slapping someone across the face.

And he knew them by heart. He had watched how you grimaced, trying to take this drunkard’s hands away from you.

So he helped you by slapping them off your body.

As ‘gently’ as he could.

“Move aside.” He said in a low growl, failing to relax until you moved your hand and took his, squeezing it as a way of thanking him.

Instead of getting the hint, the man frowned.

“Hey, if you can’t tell, I was trying to—”

Minho scoffed, appearing behind the man.

“Keep babbling around our girl and I’ll give you a story to tell.” He said in a dark, low tone of voice, eyes and tongue so sharp that they could almost pierce right through the man. “Now shoo.”

Security came by a minute after and apologized for not taking care of him before, then fined him, following the nightclub’s rules and finally kicked the man out.

One of the security guys approached the three of you, and bowed swiftly, apologizing.

“I’m really sorry. This guy has already annoyed some other customers before. I’ll speak to the owner of the place and see if there is something we can do regarding his situation. As for you, miss…” He gave you his card, and you smiled at him, bowing your head gently.

“My name is Seo Changbin. If you ever need anything…” he sighed, a hand to his nape, the buff man slightly flustered. “Don’t hesitate to call me. I can’t think of another way to compensate you…”

Chan smiled, and shook hands with the security guard.

“No need to worry, mate. It’s fine now.” He stated calmly, his other hand still engulfing yours.

Minho bowed at him, his arm around your waist, as if trying to erase any marks or traces of the drunkard’s touch.

“Home, love?” He said in a gentle whisper, kissing your temple after you nodded. “S’okay.”

Minho opened the door to the car for you, and Chan’s hand never left your thigh the whole way back home.

As soon as you got back, you let out a tired sigh.

Chris hugged you from behind, and you melted under his touch. With a soft grin, Minho ushered Chan’s arms away from you, and swiftly took you in his arms.

“Sleepy?” The older one asked, but you shook your head. You didn’t want the night to end on this note. “Then I’ll go get something. You guys get going.” He smiled at you, eyes soft as he lovingly stroke your cheek, your face resting on Minho’s shoulder.

With a slight smirk, he patted Minho’s butt, and headed to his studio.

“Bang Chan!” He whisper-yelled, ears red, and you chuckled lowly.

“Cheeky little baby.” Minho cooed at you, heading to your shared room, and you giggled softly, hiding your head on the crook of his neck. “Let us take care of you, yeah?”

You moved your head from his neck and pecked his lips. Minho took you to bed, and tenderly took your heels off.

“Shower?” He asked softly, but you shook your head no, so he nodded, taking off your dress. With a cat-like grin, his fingers went back to your thighs.

“You have to wear these more often, you little tease.” He snickered, and you smiled, blushing softly. “You look so good in everything.” He said, stroking your cheek.

Chan quickly came back, fluffy blankets and laptop with him.

“Movie night!” He smiled, almost childishly, and both your and Minho’s heart tugged on your chests.

They took their fancy clothes off and put on sleeveless shirts and the matching pyjama pants you had gifted them for Christmas, who were at first meant as a joke, but remained being used just because how comfy they were.

There, snuggled between Chan and Minho, you smiled, taking both of their hands.

“I’m hungry.” You said, pouting unconciously.

“We can make popcorn if you want.” Christ suggested, pausing the movie.

You sat in your knees, looking at them with a smirk.

Minho smirked back, starting to guess where this was headed.

“What do you want to eat, kitten?”

You snickered.

“I want to have ramen.”

~kats, who hopes everyone understood that kdrama reference just now ;););););)

[hrrtshape]

HII EMMA, I just wanted to tell you that you’re one of my favorite users on tumblr if not my favorite. Anyway I’ve seen you did the Ancient Rome script and I LOVED it. So can you do an Ancient Egypt script too if you can? I’m shifting to the prince of Egypt 🫶🏻 THANK YOUU

the ultimate guide to surviving ancient egypt.

time traveller, welcome !!!! you stand at the threshold of one of history’s most opulent and mysterious civilisations.....ancient egypt. a land of towering pyramids, sacred temples, and a society so deeply entwined with its gods that the line between mortal and divine blurs. my name is emma, and if you want to not only survive but thrive in this world of pharaohs, priests, and scribes, you’re going to need more than just blind luck.

forget everything you know about modern convenience. no running water, no wifi, no google maps. you’re stepping into a civilisation that has perfected the art of both grandeur and survival for over three millennia.

　　　　　　　　　　  ⊹　 ︶︶　 ୨୧　 ︶︶　 ⊹

◞ social structure & blending in.

ancient egypt is a hierarchical society where social class dictates everything from your clothing to your access to temples. the nobility, scribes, and priests hold power, while farmers and labourers form the backbone of the economy. if you’re aiming for survival, either blend into the upper class or adopt the disguise of a scribe. education is a key social elevator. if you want the easy route, have a compelling backstory as a foreign noble, or forge a connection with the priesthood.

◞ titles && status to guide yourself by.

pharaoh :  literally a god on earth. don’t offend them. nobles and officials :  control administration and land. dress richly, act poised. scribes :  literate and valuable. learning hieroglyphs can get you into many doors. priests : have spiritual and often political power. great connections. artisans and merchants : middle-class but respected for their work. farmers and labourers :  the vast majority. hard lives, heavy taxes. slaves and servants : often war captives. zero autonomy.

◞ hygiene & beauty (aka, avoiding disease and smelling like a deity).

ancient egyptians take hygiene seriously, and you should too. disease is rampant, and being clean is not just about vanity. it’s survival. essentials included. . .

bathing :  daily cleansing is a MUST. use natron (a natural salt) as soap. perfumes and oils :  frankincense, myrrh, and lotus oil are status symbols AND practical (they mask body odour and deter lice). shaving :  egyptians detest body hair. use bronze razors or depilatory creams. makeup :  kohl-lined eyes prevent glare from the sun and have antibacterial properties. linen clothing : light and breathable, keeps you cool. wigs (yes !) : essential for elites, they are perfumed and keep bugs away.

◞ food & drink.

avoid starving by sticking to a staple egyptian diet. if you’re noble, enjoy lavish banquets. If not, stick to the essentials. do not drink nile water unless you like parasitic infections. beer and wine are safe bets.

bread and beer :  the foundation of all meals. fruits and vegetables : dates, figs, onions, leeks, and cucumbers. meat and fish : nobles get beef and poultry; commoners rely on fish. dairy : milk, cheese, and butter are common. honey and spices : used for sweets and preserving food.

◞ shelter & lodging.

if you’re noble, you’ll have a house made of mudbrick with courtyards and pools. If not, simple mudbrick homes with few rooms. temples often provide lodging for scribes and priests. good for you, i have some travel hacks.

temples and inns :  often have food and shelter for travellers. avoid the desert at night :  sandstorms, bandits, and jackals. use the nile : boats are the best mode of transport.

◞ safety & warfare (aka, don’t get killed).

egypt is relatively stable, but internal power struggles and invasions happen. your best bet is to keep a low profile and don’t offend priests or the pharaoh. if caught in a legal dispute, bribe a scribe to doctor the records. justice favours the literate and well-connected. albeit, try to avoid these dangers. . .

crime :  thieves lurk in busy markets. military drafts : if war happens, you might get recruited. wild animals :  crocodiles, hippos, and scorpions. avoid them. the afterlife obsession :  mummies and tomb curses.....real concerns.

◞ money & shopping.

egyptians use a barter system, but weights of silver and gold serve as currency. markets are your go-to for essentials. sadly there weren't any designers. alas, here's where to shop . . .

the marketplace : everything from linen to cosmetics. the temple storehouses :  goods from taxes and offerings. workshops : best for tailored clothing and crafted goods.

◞ entertainment & leisure.

nobles feast, play senet (a board game), and attend religious festivals. music, dance, and poetry are popular.

things to try . . . attend a festival :  great for networking. visit a temple library :  read and gain knowledge. watch a hunt :  nobles hunt hippos and lions for sport.

things to avoid. . . speaking ill of the gods :  instant execution. the wrong political alliances :  power shifts quickly. tomb robbery :  even thinking about it gets you cursed.

anyways. ancient egypt is luxurious yet dangerous. stay smart, stay clean, and stay in the good graces of the gods (or at least the priests). now go forth, time traveller, and may ma’at (balance and order) guide your journey.

[imsryyimlate]

trafalgar law x reader that matches his intellectual freak. he gets giddy bc she listens to his ramblings and vice versa🥹specifically an anthropologist or like archeologist nerd reader! thank u🫶🏻

yes! law needs someone to match his inner, smart, depressed soul ❤️ btw it was years since i took anthropology so i had to do some internet digging to refresh my memory and write this 😂

— pairing: law x anthropologist!reader

one day on the polar tang, you settled into a corner of the mess hall, a hot cup of tea next to you accompanied by a messy stack of books and folders. law wasn’t normally one to seek out conversation, but when he saw a title on the spine of one of your books, he couldn’t help but approach you and ask.

“interested in medicine?” he asked nonchalantly.

not looking up from the textbook you replied, “not medicine itself, but medical procedures.”

“enlighten me.” law challenged, standing in front of the table.

looking up from your texts, you rested your elbow on the table and rested the side of your head on your open palm. “well, this text says,” you replied, flipping the book in front of you, “that way back when, humans would sharpen rocks to create scalpels from the grand line waters because they’re ‘blessed’. a surgical knife with these ‘blessed properties’ supposedly caused successful procedures, not the skill of the doctor or surgeon alone.”

“so you’re saying that the environment was the cause of a person not dying?”

you nodded enthusiastically. “yes.”

“what about now?” he asked. “as in, with current medical technology?”

“well, you’re the doctor. you tell me.” you smiled. “do you think your scalpels and medical tools are blessed?”

law scoffed, pulled the chair back in front of the table, and turned it around so he could sit on it backward, resting his forearms on the backrest.

“i wouldn’t say blessed,” he started, “but i do so happen to be blessed with the skills of being an actual doctor.”

“well then, dr. trafalgar,” you smirked, “enlighten me.”

law raised an eyebrow. “on what?”

“how you can successfully manage surgeries without a blessed scalpel.”

and that invitation was all he needed.

“first of all, how well a scalpel works has nothing to do with superstition but instead with what it’s made of. dull scalpels can cause more damage than good. surgical steel is ideal because it stays sharp.” he started.

“so you’re saying the guys who sharpened the rocks were lucky?” you smirked.

“yes…in a way.” he admitted. “but, were their tools sanitized? that alone can cause infection.”

“of course they did their best to clean them,” you defended. “but these humans had limited resources so mistakes are bound to happen—unintentionally, doctor.” you quickly added.

law blinked and slowly nodded his head. the way you countered his points were seamless. he was finding himself dangerously close to liking this conversation.

“yes, but advancements in what tools are made of make surgery easier and safer. without technique, any tool is useless.” he scooted closer to the table. “may i?” he asked, motioning to the books.

“proceed.” you chuckled.

“if you really want to look into this seriously, i’ll find you a book that doesn’t revolve around superstitions…”

and just like that, hours slipped away and law found himself not only grateful, but enjoying a conversation without someone other than himself.

[jmlistings]

Farm Lot SALE in Magalang, Pampanga

📍Talimundok Magalang, Pampanga PROPERTY FEATURES TYPE: Agricultural Lot📐 Lot: 10,000 square meters���� Facing Northwest✅ Irregular Shape✅ Flat Terrain✅ Wide Frontage of approximately 100 meters✅ Ideal for Farm Resort, Agri Eco Resort, Camping Site NEARBY POINTS OF INTEREST Angeles City Flying Club • Talimundok Chapel • Farms • McDonald’s Magalang • Plaza Magalang • Sta Ines NLEX Exit •  PAYMENT…

[nightingale2004]

Severus Snape headcanon ideas

He has a journal that was gifted to him by his mother before he went to Hogwarts.

He writes everything in that journal. His thoughts, his feelings, ideas for potions, and spells, along with poetry. He even does little sketches in the journal (they're not half bad)

Ever since the marauders entered his life and his own house doesn't like him all that much, halfway through his first year at hogwarts, he casted a bunch of spells and runes on his journal so that way no one other than himself can open or see what is written inside the journal

The first page is titled "Property of the half-blood prince."

Severus never goes anywhere without it. He also casted a charm on it so that way whenever it's stolen or missing from his person, it will appear right next to him, in his bag, or in his hand

His journal also had dried plants and flowers from his journeys through the forbidden forest

The journal is very old and is held together by magic, pure determination, spite, and a dream (😂). Plus, he cherishes that journal

No one (I do mean NO ONE) has ever seen the inside of Severus's journal, including the marauders, his parents (his mother one time was granted access), his house mates, and even Lily

He once had an old walkman that he found in the streets and managed to fix it up from remembering, seeing how his father used to fix up machinery before the abuse

When he has a train compartment to himself, he immediately falls asleep (it's his only moment of peace!!!!!)

He secretly found the room of requirements that turns into a potions lab for him. He uses it for potion experiments

His experiments with potions have both literally and figuratively blown up in his face.

Would talk with the paintings of Hogwarts

Would find jewelry in the most random places and often wear some of them after he resizes them and cleans them

He loves dark and milk chocolate, along with raisins, and vanilla

Learned occlumency and legilimens very early in his Hogwarts years and has used it on more than one occasion

When he was a child, he couldn't dance to save his life, but McGonagall taught him everything she knew

He and McGonagall play wizards chess together

Before the bullying started, he secretly wanted to be James and Sirius's friend, but after they insulted his mother's house, that thought immediately vanished

Despite being very skinny, he throws an incredibly strong punch

If he did have an animagus form, it would either be a raven, crow, cat, or bat

He would brew health potions for the sick people in Cokeworth or those who couldn't afford decent medicine or medical attention. He became their young doctor and gets paid a bit on the side

Has done a lot of odd jobs in Cokeworth to help keep his home afloat

Whenever Tobias would kick him out, he would originally crash at the Evans home, but ever since the 'Mudblood' incident, he started crashing at some of the people he helped at Cokeworth's homes

He would wish he was born into the Evans family instead of the Snape family

Loves art and poetry

Has read chemistry books at the Muggle Library

He learned how to cook and bake when he was a kid

After the 'Prank' incident, he and Remus talked and have kinda sorta made amends, but there is still a wall (and rightfully so)

He loves science fiction, dark romance, romance, adventure, tragedy, poetry, fiction, horror, Gothic literature, action, and mystery, both films and books (mostly books)

Secretly loves the story of Hades and Persephone.

Will make Blancmange every Christmas at Hogwarts (hphm made this canon)

He has tried to deny rumors about him being in love with Lily and him being a vampire or a bat, but it came to a point where he was done and didn't care

His scent would be herbs, flowers, old books, and rain

[unholyhelbig]

I just want to say I'm already hooked on the beast you made me. I can't wait for the next chapter!

Center picture Cred: Jadiakallisti

Title: The Beast You've Made of Me [Part 2/7]

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff x Wanda Maximoff

Wordcount: 5151

Summary: When reader wakes up in her own grave, she's suddenly aware of a past that spans lifetimes, but she's not the only one. Two Avengers are tasked with keeping readers past a secret, or at the very least, controlled.

Warnings: Blood, fatal injuries, animal bones, mentions of death, containment, and horrible grammar because I don't proofread

[a/n: Thank you all for the overwelming support on the first chapter! I truly didn't expect that much reception. I'm going to be traveling for the next week so the next chapter might be delayed a bit]

[ Part one | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven ]

Main Masterlist | Read my stuff on AO3 | Leave Requests

1917, Rural Pennsylvania

A sweeping river cut through the patch of sweetgrass on the south side of the farm. It emitted a gurgling sound that often soothed your nerves. There was a rocky clearing sandwiched between the tree line and the plain of grass that had become a perfect spot for you to settle in and read the hard-covered books you’d gotten from the corner store.

Your father would bring back any book you requested from the city during his travels. You devoured them faster than he could provide them and had read ‘Eight Cousins’ ,Lousia May Alcott’s foray into the adventures thirteen-year-old Rose, enough to nearly tear the pages from the binding.

The book itself held the clean honeyed scent of the earth, of the secluded spot that you called your own. Your muscles would thrum from loading the bales of hay into your fathers ford. Your fingers were calloused, and dirt caked around your ankle in a dark ring. All of that vanished when you cracked open the book about a girl that was so much like yourself.

It was easy to lose yourself in the paragraphs, the hum of the river sometimes lulling you to sleep. Your mother would pack you a sandwich on warm, hand-kneaded bread, usually some salted meat and mayonnaise. She’d pack sweet tea and send you on your way, knowing that you wouldn’t return to the house until you saw a flicker of a firefly.

Today, you’d fallen asleep under the sun. The book was discarded, and your forearm draped across your eyes. It was easy to drift, and easier still to dream about leaving the small dairy farm for something bigger- the very city that your father would return from with new literature and arts, and spices that made your mouth buzz with flavor.

You were in a haze when the ear-piercing scream cut through the air as if it were a natural solid. Your ears pinched at the sound, heels digging into the coarse sandy shore. Maybe it was a dream. It could have been an animal that had sunk its pointed teeth into the artery of another.

So, you waited, panting with your heart in your chest and the corner of the book barely lapped by the muddied water. And there was this sound. It was no fox caught in a trap or bovine tangled up in the barbed wire fence around the property- no, this was familiar. This was your sister.

Helena was quiet, often described as demure and borderline submissive. Despite being younger than yourself she carried a certain poise about her. Mother would often boast about how she would have no trouble finding a husband, how the boys already fawned over the child of hers that was not feral and unkempt.

Her cry was the loudest you had ever heard her and it had you on your feet, scrambling up the bank. Once past your small world of wonder, you were greeted with an endless sea of sweetgrass that was waist high in some areas.

A warm breeze created waves against the landscape, the farmhouse a small speck among the expanse of land. Your head was spinning, it was hard to track exactly where it had come from. It took another cracking screech to set you North.

Your legs pumped until you were consumed in a blind speed. You’d been renowned for your quickness, for your dedication to get from point A to point B. The kids in your town often joked that you were steadier than a steed. Not only were you the fastest in the class, but the fastest in the county according to some. Still- only a child of fifteen, and no man would want to wed someone with speed. It wasn’t a practical skill.

There was a pit deep in your stomach whirled, instinct knowing precisely where Helena was yowling from.

Jorge had gotten there at the same time you did; his brow was leaking with sweat and he panted against the hot air that surrounded you both. Your older brother was tall and lanky, serpent-like with beady black eyes and pitch hair to match your father’s. His shirt hung low against his midsection, his skin pale despite his hours in the sun working the fields.

“Stay back, y/n.” He demanded sharply.

The old well was a mere foot in front of you both but neither made the effort to move forward. The aged wooden plank that covered the stone shaft had been splintered through the middle, worn from age and weather.

Helena’s soft cries echoed up. When your father had first acquired the property, the previous owners explained that it had been boarded up after of the bulls had fallen down and snapped it’s neck. It was too large to pull out and they left it to starve and then rot.

Your father never let any of his children peer down into the well. You wondered if something had pulled Helena here, or if she had simply forgotten of it’s existence. Jorge dropped down to his knees and did a cautious crawl as if his own two feet couldn’t’ hold him anymore.

You saw the exact moment his skin became waxier, almost a gray porcelain paleness that had a green tint. He was swallowing too much, his white shirt coated in the red clay dirt.

“What?” You asked, voice breaking “What is it?”

“Go get Mama.”

It would have been easy to listen to your brother. He was the man of the house when your father wasn’t there but with him pleading for your mother, for an adult, you got a rancid taste in your mouth.

Against your better judgement you edged close enough to the abandoned well. The sun was setting in a fire-filled orange haze with enough color and angle to get a good view of the bottom; a slosh of fallen grass and rainwater, and muck, and yes; the bones of a beast once left to decay and rot in its own silence.

Your sister was wedged within the ribcage of the befallen bull, almost as if she replaced the beating heart that stopped pulsing long ago. Her hands gripped at the sun-bleached bone, knuckles nearly the same color.

It took you a moment to make out the slick, and the red that stemmed from the center of her stomach. The head of the bull had shattered under her weight, all expect the stretching length of it’s curved horn. That was wedged through her abdomen, surrounded in a vibrant rose red that puddled and had already coated her hands.

Prints from her struggle were against the limestone edges of the well. Her eyes pleaded up at you; your kind and caring, and animal-loving sister was trapped inside the remains of one. You fought back the urge to vomit, the rash thought that if the bone ripping through her flesh didn’t kill her, then infection would.

“Y/n get mama!” Jorge hissed again, and this time you didn’t hesitate. You nearly tripped over your own boots with the fever it took to back away from the scene, the metallic scent of blood mixing deliciously with the turn of rotted soil.

You had never run so fast in your life.

Wanda Maximoff had never felt the cold that wormed its way to her bones before. It was the type of cold that almost wasn’t, a stinging, horrible feeling that had her startled from the folded metal chair. It collapsed within itself as the blinked the wine-dark color from her eyes.

She stumbled backward, only to be brought back to the starkness of the room by a soft grip on her elbow. Wanda allowed herself to be held, if not for stability but for comfort. Steve Rodgers had a welcoming hand on the small of her back, the other steadying her.

He was a solid force, and her reaction stirred him.

“Fuck,” the expletive fell from her lips, “Jesus Christ.”

There was quietness to the room in the aftershock of the fallen chair. It was nicer than a standard holding cell. The walls were cream colored, triple enforced to keep people like you inside. There was a bed bolted to the wall, a bunk that was almost like a summer camp endeavor.

A charged glass wall was blocking you from the rest of the world. It was seemingly unbreakable, and in this moment, so were you. Wanda didn’t want to test the glass, nor did she know how to make sense of the memories- your memories- that had flooded every inch of her body.

You were asleep, chest rising and falling at a normal pace, as if none of what Wanda had just seen was flitting around your mind. Soft snores pushed past your lips, one arm hanging over the side of the bed while the other followed the flow of your breathing as it rested on your chest.

Wanda didn’t understand the secrecy and the precaution that surrounded you. The Avengers compound was a constant ebb and flow of different heroes, Inhumans and mutants. What made you so different? What made you an 0-8-4?

It was a term that Natasha had used only once that was usually attached to objects, not a person. It was an object of unknown origin and in that case, it was a power-filled object from space. Space. She’d been through different dimensions, but that, for some reason, struck her as terrifying.

0-8-4’s were never brought here, but then again, they’d never been alive either. Steve had told her that your energy signal was off the charts, and that they wanted her to dig around your head. Something that she denied doing at first. It was an invasion of privacy.

But, there was a certain pleading within Captain America’s eyes that scared Wanda more than the personal rules she set for herself when it came to her power. What she had seen, what she had felt was barely scraping the surface of what your mind contained. She wasn’t keen on pushing past that barrier for the conclusion of that story. Was it even yours?

“What? Wanda, what is it?”

“I… I don’t” She shook her head, eyes hardening as she stared into Steve’s “Where did you find her?”

He hesitated to answer, his eyebrows furrowing before he looked away from the witches’ prying eyes. She’d been part of this team for years now and they were still reluctant with what they were willing to share. Wanda clenched her jaw, then unclenched it before her stare flashed back to your resting form.

There was a small frown that creased your features. You looked so… harmless. You had shifted, folded into yourself as if you were scratching the surface of what flashed before her. Your arm was folded under your head, knees flush to your chest. A small, beautiful whimper escaped you.

“She’s in distress, Steve.”

“Discomfort, more like. It’s better for all of us that she stays in there for right now. The last thing we want to do is harm anyone but if that requires some temporary-“

“Imprisonment?”

“Containment.” He said firmly, eyes hard. Wanda crossed her arms over her chest but stayed silent, letting him continue. She was sure she wouldn’t have been asked if not for her ability to worm her way into minds, to rearrange things. “What did you see?”

“A memory, one that can’t possibly be hers. The timeline doesn’t fit, this is a woman in her mid-twenties and who I saw was barely a teenager on a farmstead. To experience that much tragedy, that much fear and heartache.”

She started to pace, trying to not only work through her own thoughts, but yours as well. It could have been a story, and she was convinced of the fact save for the vividness. There was the feeling of grass tickling her arms and the sharp, undeniable stench of blood.

“Her younger sister died, fell through some rotted wood and fell to her death.” Wanda’s fingers pressed against the edge of her hairline. “She could have lived, but I have my doubts.”

He lifted a perfectly sculpted brow at her. His expression betrayed his compassion towards you, his stance uncomfortable with the topic. While the revelation was heartbreaking it hardly made you extraordinary. They’d all lost people, none had stirred Wanda as you did.

Wanda’s stare found his after darting to you once more, “Steve, I have the sinking feeling that what I saw was only scratching the surface. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of memories that were pressing in on all sides.”

The sensation of being observed is what pulled you from your fitful sleep. Exhaustion had washed over you like a tidal wave, all at once and leaving your mouth dry like a spoonful of salt. There was a stiffness that rivaled that of the grave you’d crawled out of, and you hoped that it was all a dream.

You were in your bed, in your apartment, after having one too many drinks. It was a horrible stretching nightmare that had plunged you into one sea of darkness from another. But even you weren’t that naïve.

Just as you felt a stranger’s eyes on you now, you had felt the dirt under your nails, the cold sodium-filled takeout as you attempted to chew it. More than anything, you remembered the burning feeling of the Black Widow pressed fully against your back, bending you over Jenn’s kitchen counter.  

“I would prefer if you kept the feeling of my wife’s body against yours out of your mind.”

You shot up with a dizzying amount of quickness, heart suddenly in your chest. There was an imbalance to the bed that you were laying on. It was smaller than your own and unfamiliar. The room was stark white. It hurt your eyes and you had to blink the color away. You pressed the heels of your palms close to your eyes.

It felt as if you were locked in a glass shower with an audience and stage lights. The more you looked, the more you realized it was a room, something with no personal effects but a bed and a dimmer switch that you itched to utilize.

A pitcher of water was on an end table. It wasn’t color exactly, but it was more than the rest of your surroundings. Possibly with the worst manners you’d ever exhibited, you drank straight from the pitcher, not remembering the last time you had a drink. Suddenly, you were parched enough to soak your collar.

Despite your audience, you continued until you felt your stomach protest. You used the back of your hand to wipe away the moisture, black dirt was smeared across your skin. It was then, and only then, that you forced yourself to look past the walls of your prison, your enclosure.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” The woman said, walking close to the glass. You could see her clearly now, there was an heir of recognition about her, in the same way that there had been with the Black Widow.

“You were in my head.”

“For a while. It’s my job. But your thoughts are also deafening.”

“Sorry,”

This woman was intoxicating. Alluring and beautiful in her presence. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, a pair of sweatpants and t-shirt hugging her form. You weren’t positive what time it was- what day it was- but it could be late into the night. She looked like she was roused from sleep, and a part of you felt guilty for the fact.

“Don’t apologize, sweetie.” Her voice was much more tender than it had been a few moments ago. “You can’t control being brought back from the dead. A lot of trauma comes with that.”

You stood shakily and walked closer to the glass. They’d taken your shoes and the tile under your feet was frigid. You crossed your arms over your chest and shivered into yourself. You didn’t want to think about the fact that they had undressed you, probably taken your clothes for testing. Instead they left you in a blue set of scrubs.

You averted your stare from your own reflection, not willing or ready to look too hard. You’d much rather look at this stranger, your heart not slowing, your head pounding. Nothing but a simple pane of glass separated you.

“And I was brought back from the dead, wasn’t I? That wasn’t a fucked-up dream where I got hit by a car and then poof God, if there is one, decided that me of all people was worth bringing back.”

She lilted her head, quirked an amusing brow at you. A chill flushed down your spine and seemed to fizzle out at your toes. This woman was gorgeous and terrifying and made you want to squirm. But if this was prison, you had to assert dominance. Right? That’s what Wentworth taught you.

This cell didn’t look or feel like Wentworth, and this Warden had an amused smile tacked to her lips like she had heard your every thought. And she had. At least you assumed that she did. She’d mentioned her wife earlier, and the woman’s body against your own was plaguing you like a runaway freight train.

When she didn’t say anything, you clawed to fill the silence “I want to talk to Bruce.”

“Bruce? Honey, he’s off world.”

“Off… world.” You laughed, softly at first but then almost manically, tears forming in your eyes that you wiped away with your cold fingers. “No, no, that’s really cool. I worked a 9-5 and now I can’t talk to Bruce because he’s in Outer Space.”

“Maybe not outer space, maybe another dimension.”

You leveled her with a humorless glare. She had both of her hands up as if she wanted to comfort you, or the caged animal you had become. You had to give her credit, she seemed just as horrified as you were. She offered up a dim, faltering smile.

There wasn’t a way for you to process this in a gentle manner, there was no one to guide you through it other than Jenn. She’d done this before, lived a whole life that was flipped upside-down and she’d come out on the other side. It was the uncertainty that scared the hell out of you.

“You were in my head earlier,” You stopped suddenly, pressing your fingers against the glass. The woman didn’t flinch. Your frantic breath fogged with each exhalation. “Do you know why I came back?”

She shook her head, “No. Do you remember what you were dreaming about?”

“No.” A weak chuckle, you let your hands drop. “At least we’re on the same page.”

The nurse they allowed to enter through the side of the containment unit took cautious steps towards you that made your chest ache. All your life, people had said how welcoming and kind you were; how they were never afraid to come to you with their worries. It had bothered you before the incident, before your death, but now you missed seeing the stare of those who didn’t harbor any fear.

She was small, a mouse of a thing that had pale blonde hair and startling blue eyes. Her name tag read Julia. Your mind rushed with the paths she’d taken to this place. She must be interning here, much too young to hold a classification herself.

Your finger twitched on your knee, palm sweaty. It’s heat radiated through the thin blue fabric of the pants they’d provided you with. You hated needles, always had. But, you struggled to stay still and the effect that had on poor nurse Julia was making you fidget more.

There was a scent about her. It was under the layers of hairspray, nail polish, and shea butter. It was a sweet metal that made your stomach swirl. Was it her sweat? You’d never smelt anything past walking by the bomb that was the boys locker room, and it certainly had never been this tantalizing before.

Your eyes met hers, crystal blue and uncertain. “You’ll just feel a little pinch”

This is when you pulled your gaze back and instead focused on the cream colored walls. There was no problem with needles, you’d dutifully sit for your flu shots, but something about the sharp edge pushing through a layer of skin and fat before hitting your vein made you nauseous.

“We just need enough to run a few tests.” Julia soothed.

She was a normal nurse in that one, small way. Your mind was itching, blood seeming to congeal. It refused to cooperate and her burning touch was all but dominant against your skin. You both waited for the small tube to fill with black liquid. 

Finally, you felt her press the gauze against the crook of your arm and withdraw the needle. Another small pinch and then a massive relief. Her smell hung around you and filled the room. There was an undeniable urge to sink your teeth into her. To taste her.

You’d stopped the elevator just hours before to assess your penchant for brain consumption, but this wasn’t that. This was an intoxicating pull. This was animalistic, the same rush of emotion that had flooded you without prompting during your earlier conversation.

Julia squeezed your shoulder calmly, not entirely over her own reservations, but on the penance that she was a nurse and this was her job. You kept yourself rooted to the bed, fingers digging into the wood. She left the room and you could hear the compressed lock reseal you inside, breathing a sigh of relief.

That sweet odor lingered, and your reaction to it scared you more than anything. The wood beneath your fingertips splintered, and suddenly that anger, that fear, rolled away to shock. That wasn’t… normal. None of this was normal, but you weren’t exactly picked first in sports either.

You were a middle kid, a I guess I wouldn’t mind having you on my team kid. Suddenly your fingers were cutting through wood like it was butter. You let out an indignant squeak and shifted the blanket until the slashes were covered.

“Is everything alright?”

Wanda, you had learned that her name was Wanda, occupied her usual spot in front of the window. A slick sweat covered your forehead. She was holding a small tray that had a steaming bowl of soup and a delicious hunk of French bread.

“I figured you were hungry,” She lifted her chin towards the panel next to your door. “May I?”

“I’m at your mercy.”

And you were, truly. You hadn’t seen anyone but her since you’d woken up. There were shadows of others, people that made the pit in the center of your stomach grow three sizes. You knew exactly what they were doing, you watched enough true crime with Jennifer to know.

Here was this beautiful and powerful woman offering you food and words of comfort, and you allowed yourself to fall for all of it. Listlessly. Because what did you have to lose? You’d already died, and the thought of putting your family through the heartache of resurrection and then possibly enough committal to the ground was too much.

So, let her Stockholm syndrome you. The food smelled divine.

Wanda didn’t hold the same fear that Julia had. In fact, once the compression of air signified that it was okay for her to enter, she did so without hesitation. She set the food down on the equally dull side table and lowered herself onto the corner of the bed, making herself at home.

She’d changed into a pair of jeans, a simple t-shirt that had the outline of SHIELD on its sleeve. You frowned, for a company that does everything in its power to keep itself hidden, they sure loved that stupid bird so much.

“Go on, sweetie. You can eat.”

Wanda had a command about her that made you fold and listen despite any reservations. You took up a spot on the far end of the bed and shoveled the first spoonful into your mouth. An explosion of heady flavors coated your tongue, coaxing a low moan from your lips.

Blush rushed to your cheeks at the spark in the set of stormy eyes that watched you like a hawk. You rushed to break the tension. “So, what’s the plan here? Run a bunch of tests and keep me locked up?”

“Somewhat.” She paused, carefully thinking of her next words. “Y/n, I have the ability to get inside the psyche. Not only can I read every thought, every action, but I can control them too. It’s not something I like to do, nor something I want to. Not without permission.”

You frowned again. You certainly hadn’t given her permission to enter your mind before, and she tensed at the realization. But, you took another bite of soup and swallowed down the spiced broth. What’s done was done. You didn’t expect her to ask, much less admit to her wrongdoing.

“I prefer to ask. Can you tell me what you do for work?”

“Paralegal, the bar seemed like too much stress. But I’m good at my job. I was good at my job before a car turned me into sidewalk art.”

“Right, and your family, what about them?”

There was no desire to think of them and their perfect lives that you’d shattered with your death. Your mother used to sit in the tepid air on the porch swing, downing a glass of wine before she turned to you with tears in her eyes. She’d urge you to be careful working in the city. She’d plead for you to come home. More than anything, she’d utter the phrase a mother should never outlive her daughter.

“My mother is a seventh grade biology teacher and my father runs a painting business that’s been operating my whole life. They’re not very exciting people. They must be worried sick about me.”

Wanda nodded, “Any siblings?”

“Not anymore.”

She stilled at your words and didn’t pry. You were well aware of the fact that she could push through your deflections and learn the information that she wanted to know. But, you respected that she didn’t. Instead, she stared at you, and you stared right back, suddenly not hungry.

Wanda was someone that you felt the need to open-up to. Unlike the brief encounter you had had with her wife. Not that you let that word stick with you, not in the same way that her touch did. Again, you had to push the thoughts to the back of your mind, even if Wanda wasn’t prying.

Instead, she placed a warm hand on your thigh, sending a wave of shivers through your body. You suppressed a whimper at the sudden contact.

“I had a brother named Pietro. He was fast, unnaturally so. Neither of us ever wanted to be heroes, we didn’t think about the future like that. So, when the Avengers, these so-called saviors of the world, recruited us, we knew about the dangers. But it still shocked me when he died. He was my brother. He wasn’t supposed to be fragile like that.”

You stared at her with an amount of tenderness in your eyes that she wasn’t used to from the others. They cared, sure, but in the way that a co-worker would care enough to purchase cut flowers and a ‘sorry for your loss’ card. You were different.

“They’re our protectors.” You swallowed hard, mouth dry “when something drastic happens, it doesn’t seem real.”

“It still doesn’t.”

There was a lapse of silence that pushed memories in your direction. The burning cold weather on the day your own brother had died. You remember the scream that died in your throat and the way you’d knelt in the cracked snow until you couldn’t’ feel your legs or your fingers. It took an EMT with a heated blanket and a horror story about hypothermia to pull you to your feet.

“Jonathan.” You whispered.

She let out a questioning hum, pulling her feet from the floor and making herself more comfortable on the less-than-comfortable bed. “Your brother?”

“My older brother. I followed him around like a lost puppy, but he never complained. He was a hockey player and a damn good one too. He’d use the lake behind our house in Jersey to practice and one winter the ice broke underneath him. He drowned, and I was too weak to save him.”

Wanda let out a shuddered breath. You couldn’t read her facial expression. It was a mix of confusion, or sadness, but not pity and that was something you appreciated. You’d had enough pity, just as your family had enough grief without you adding to it.

She opened her mouth to reply, but both of you were startled when three quick knocks shattered the silence. The Black Widow, Natasha Romanoff, stood on the other side. She showed no interest in breeching the containment unit. Instead, she leveled her wife with a dark stare and held up a folded piece of paper.

“Excuse me,” Wanda whispered, giving your leg a settling squeeze.

She left the plate and exited the holding cell. Her words were muffled, but those unripe green eyes that Natasha possessed kept flicking to you nervously. She too, didn’t’ show pity. It was interest and if you were being honest, you thought you saw the smallest spark of fear.

Wanda took the paper from her wife, squinted at something you couldn’t’ see. You felt like you were at a parent teacher conference, just out of bounds of hearing but you could see their body language; the way that Natasha itched to move closer to Wanda, the fingers that the taller woman pressed to her lips, thumb creasing the paper.

Finally, Wanda turned back towards the glass. Natasha met your stare without issue, hitting the intercom on the other side of the cell. It was her who spoke, her raspy voice falling from the speaker.

“In the spirit of transparency, we want to be honest with you about your blood results.”

You stood from the bed, moving to one side of the barrier. They were intimidating like that, standing shoulder to shoulder with a natural beauty. It made you want to shrink. If not for the paper in their hands you would have curled into yourself at the sight.

“Don’t tell me I’m dying.”

“No, honey.” Wanda shook her head, “Quite the opposite, you’re getting stronger.”

“I don’t understand.”

Natasha lifted an eyebrow and pressed the paper against the glass so you could read it. None of it made sense, it was lines of DNA that looked like musical notes. You shook your head, giving her a confused look.

Natasha scoffed, peeling the paper from the surface of glass. Wanda bit her thumbnail nervously. “According to these…You’re Asgardian, Kitten.”

[Taglist💕: @dannipotatoo, @non-binary-frogking, @mysticalmoonlight7, @metanoiablxxm, @coxlong, @b3nzzzzz, @simpforlizzie, @delulu-bayolet-era, @dorabledewdroop, @crescentcrush, @roselockwood, @ellieromanov, @leenasayeed, @theowlappears, @pitifulbinx, @pepemyfantasy, @tekanparadiae, @skittlebum, @mariabeloskivismyoc, @natsbiggestfan1, @marvelwomen-simp, @cinffy23, @kyky-maximoff, @natalierushmansstuff, @bstvst, @lezzylover, @404-almostdone, @mishimrno, @maxidentbby, @shayarshucky, @merlinsouls, @neothepotato]

[sjsmith56]

A Better Man - Complete

Summary: Bucky Barnes, a shy general contractor who also provides services for criminals, falls in love with the single mother of a baby girl. The father works for one of his rivals, and wants nothing to do with the woman or the baby. Can he be the better man for her?

Length: 10 parts

Characters: Bucky Barnes, named OFC, named OCC, Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Winnifred Barnes, May Parker, Natasha Romanoff, Brock Rumlow, various Avengers in minor roles.

Warnings: Childhood trauma, angst, cursing, conflicting emotions, criminal behaviour, violence, no smut.

Author notes: This AU started out as a one shot but I got carried away and it just grew. A bit of a slow burn between Bucky (who is a softie) and OFC. There is some humour in this, as the guys of Barnes Contracting are sometimes dumbasses, but with hearts of gold.

All MCU character names are the property of Marvel / Disney. Original characters and the plot are the property of the author and all rights to those aspects are claimed by her. I DO NOT give permission to copying and pasting of any portion of this story into any other app or platform.

Listing of parts titles after the break. 🛠️ 👷‍♂️ 👩‍🍼

Part 1. Preparation

Part 2. Foundation

Part 3. Structure

Part 4. Connections

Part 5. Warmth

Part 6. Transformation

Part 7. Appearances

Part 8. Attachments

Part 9. Clean Up

Part 10. Walkthrough

Short Fiction Masterlist

Please support the author by reblogging.

[alittlegiraffe]

craving a juicy chapter of angst/possessiveness

Title: “Still Mine”

You used to think the scariest moment in your marriage was the night you almost lost him. The overdose. The cold, sterile hospital room. The machines breathing for him while you sat frozen beside him, your hand gripping his like a lifeline.

But this—this quiet space between you now—hurts worse in its own way.

Three months into a six-month trial separation.

Three months of sleeping alone.

Three months of eating in silence.

Three months of watching your girls split time between their two homes—the main house and the damn guest house at the edge of the property where he stayed now, per the counselor’s suggestion.

She called it “space to rebuild individual identities.”

You called it bullshit.

But you’d agreed because he’d almost died, and if something was broken between you—something deep and hidden and co-dependent—then maybe you had to tear it all down before you could build it back stronger.

Still… you missed him. Not just his touch, not just the way he’d murmur “my girl” against your neck at night. You missed his breath in your ear when you laughed too hard. You missed how he always reached for your hand under the table, like he couldn’t not touch you.

So maybe this date tonight was partly about proving to yourself that you could be your own person. And partly about hoping he’d stop you.

You stood in front of your vanity in a soft, black wrap dress that clung to your waist just right. Classy. A little sexy. It felt strange to care how you looked again. Like you weren’t dressing for comfort or routine. Like you were wanted.

And yet… even as you added a final swipe of gloss, your stomach twisted with guilt. Or longing. You couldn’t tell which anymore.

There was a knock on the bedroom door—three short taps. You glanced at your phone. Right on time.

“Yeah, come in,” you called.

The door creaked open, and Marshall stepped inside, jeans slung low on his hips, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms. His eyes immediately found you in the mirror.

And stopped.

Dead.

Your heart jumped.

He blinked once. “You’re going somewhere.”

You turned slowly. “Yeah. Um. I asked if you could watch the girls. You said you didn’t mind.”

“I didn’t,” he said, voice quieter now, more careful. “Didn’t know you had plans.”

You smoothed your skirt, not meeting his eyes. “Just dinner.”

“With who?” His voice didn’t rise, but you heard the edge in it—just beneath the calm. Just beneath the control.

You hesitated, then forced yourself to meet his gaze. “His name’s Caleb. He works with Jenna.”

Marshall stared at you, his jaw ticking. His hands flexed at his sides, like he didn’t trust them. “You’re going on a date?”

You nodded slowly. “It’s part of what the counselor suggested. Trying things outside of… this.”

His eyes narrowed, and you saw it—the switch flip. That familiar, dangerous glint that always came out when he thought someone might take what was his.

“You don’t want him,” he said, not like a question, but a fact. A low, dark promise.

Your breath caught.

“Marshall—”

“Nah,” he said, stepping closer, head shaking, voice tight. “You don’t want him. You’re just pissed at me. You’re just trying to forget what we are. But you can’t.”

Your back hit the dresser as he stopped inches away. The scent of him—clean soap, warm skin, and something darker—wrapped around you.

“You could wear that for me,” he murmured, eyes dragging over your dress. “You have. That’s the dress you wore when we went to that benefit in L.A. You remember?”

You nodded, helplessly.

“I couldn’t keep my hands off you that night.”

You swallowed thickly. “You weren’t supposed to come here and make this harder.”

His jaw clenched. “You think this is easy for me?” His voice broke a little, and his hand rose before dropping again. “Every day in that fucking guest house, trying not to look back at this house. At you.”

Your eyes blurred.

“I didn’t agree to this separation because I wanted space,” he went on, lower now. “I did it because I thought maybe it’d help you breathe. Because I love you enough to let you go if that’s what you need. But this? Going out with some guy in my city, while I’m in the same fucking backyard—”

He broke off, breathing hard.

You closed the distance. “Then stop me.”

His eyes flashed.

You tilted your chin. “Tell me to stay. Tell me you still want this.”

He stepped forward, his hands finally landing on your hips like they belonged there. Like they’d never left.

“You’re mine,” he said, voice like gravel, low and broken and real. “You’ll always be mine.”

You exhaled, sinking into him like gravity.

“I didn’t want to go,” you whispered.

“Then don’t.” His forehead pressed to yours. “Don’t go.”

You nodded, barely. “Okay.”

He kissed you like he was starving. Like he was drowning and you were the only air left.

And for the first time in three months, you felt like home again.

“Cancel it.”

Marshall’s voice was a low, gravelled command against your lips. He barely pulled back—just enough to look you in the eyes, his grip tightening at your waist like he expected you to try and run.

You weren’t going anywhere.

You nodded, dizzy with the nearness of him, the heat rising off his skin, the sheer claiming in his eyes. Reaching for your phone with trembling fingers, you unlocked it and pulled up Caleb’s number.

He watched your screen like a predator, like if you hesitated for even a second, he’d take matters into his own hands.

You hovered your thumb over the “call” button.

And then his hands were back—rough and sure—sliding up your thighs beneath the wrap of your dress. His mouth caught your neck just as you hit dial, hot and possessive, dragging a sound from your lips that made your stomach flutter.

“M-Marshall—” you breathed, phone pressed to your ear.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t pause.

One hand slipped behind your neck, pulling you closer, lips claiming yours again—demanding, bruising, his.

“Call him,” he rasped against your lips. “Let him hear who you really belong to.”

Your whole body flushed.

You barely had time to draw a breath before Caleb’s voice answered on the line. “Hey! You on your way?”

“I—I’m not coming,” you managed, voice tight, breathless.

Marshall’s mouth was at your jaw now, moving lower, teeth grazing skin like a warning. His hand splayed across your lower back, pulling you tight against the hard line of his body.

“Everything okay?” Caleb’s voice on the other end was confused. Too chipper. Too bold.

You nodded instinctively before remembering he couldn’t see you. “Y-Yeah, I just… something came up.”

Marshall bit down lightly at the base of your neck, and you gasped, barely muffling the sound. He pulled back just enough to growl in your ear, “Say it.”

Your eyes fluttered. “I can’t make it. I’m sorry.”

A pause.

“Alright, uh… no problem. Rain check?”

Before you could answer, Marshall snatched the phone from your hand and pressed end. The screen went dark. The room did not.

He tossed it to the bed like it offended him, then grabbed your face in both hands, holding you like something fragile and sacred and his.

“There ain’t no fucking rain check,” he said, eyes blazing. “Ain’t no next time. He doesn’t get to try again. No one does.”

You could only stare, chest heaving, lips parted. “Marshall…”

“I’m not letting you go.” His voice cracked, but he didn’t flinch. “You hear me? I don’t care what the counselor says. I don’t care what phase we’re in. You are my wife. My girl. Mine.”

Your heart thundered against your ribs, and when you nodded—slow, aching, sure—his entire body seemed to shudder with it.

“I never wanted anyone else,” you whispered. “Even when I tried to… to move on, all I could think about was you.”

His forehead dropped to yours, breathing ragged. “Then I’ll fix this. I’ll fix us. Just… don’t ever make me watch you walk out that door like that again.”

You reached up and touched his jaw, brushing your thumb beneath his eye. “I won’t.”

The kiss that followed wasn’t rushed—it was slow and deep, reverent and wild. Like he needed to relearn you. Like he would.

Title: “Still Mine” – Part 3

Pairing: Marshall Mathers x Wife!Reader

Summary: Now that you’ve canceled the date, Marshall isn’t letting you out of his sight—or his hands. The months of space, of silence, of missing each other, all boil over as he reminds you exactly who you belong to.

Warnings: Heavy romantic and sexual tension, possessiveness, makeout scene, suggestive content (soft smut, no full NSFW).

His mouth was everywhere.

Your neck, your collarbone, the line of your jaw—like he needed to relearn every inch of you with his lips. Months of separation meant nothing now, burned away by the fire curling low in your stomach, stoked by the way he touched you like no time had passed.

One arm hooked under your thighs, lifting you onto the dresser with ease. A framed photo of the girls wobbled and clattered to the floor, but neither of you looked. His hands slid up your bare thighs under the wrap of your dress like he’d never stopped touching you, like he’d memorized the way your skin responded to him.

“You wore this for him?” Marshall rasped, dark and low, as he pulled the tie at your waist loose with one hard tug. “Nah, baby. This dress remembers me.”

You gasped when the fabric loosened and his hand splayed over your stomach, inching higher.

“You think he could’ve handled you?” His lips ghosted over your ear, and you shivered. “You think he would’ve known what to do when you make those pretty little sounds? When you fall apart in my hands?”

“Marshall—” His name was half warning, half plea.

His mouth crashed to yours again, bruising and hungry, tongue sliding deep like he wanted to own the taste of you again. His hand fisted in your hair, holding you there, keeping you still while his other hand traced slow, torturous patterns along the inside of your thigh.

“I was losing my fucking mind every night in that guest house,” he growled. “Hearing you laugh with the girls. Smelling you on my clothes. Waking up hard and alone, thinking about how soft you sleep against me.”

You whimpered against his mouth, nails digging into his shoulders.

“You want to go slow?” he asked, nipping your bottom lip hard enough to make you gasp. “You want space?” He dragged his mouth down your throat, biting just above your pulse. “Then tell me now. Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t. You couldn’t.

Your fingers trembled as they tugged at the hem of his hoodie. “Take it off,” you whispered, breathless.

He smirked—that smirk, the one that always meant trouble—and pulled the hoodie over his head in one clean motion, revealing his lean, tattooed frame. Every line of him was familiar. Home. Yours.

“I need to feel you,” you murmured, voice shaking. “Please.”

And that was it.

Whatever leash he’d been holding himself on snapped.

He shoved the dress off your shoulders, kissing down your chest, hands working over every inch of bare skin like he had to make up for every second you’d spent apart. There was nothing soft in the way he touched you now—only desperation, possession, hunger.

His voice was ragged in your ear. “You don’t go on dates. You don’t dress up for anyone else. You don’t even look at another man. You understand me?”

“Yes,” you whispered, lost in him.

He cupped your face again, gentler now but no less intense. “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

His thumb brushed your cheek, eyes searching, wild and aching all at once. “Forever?”

You nodded. “Forever.”

And when he kissed you this time, it was everything—dark and possessive, but reverent, too. Like he needed you just as much as he needed air. Like nothing in the world would ever come between you again.

He didn’t take you to the bed.

He didn’t want to give you time to change your mind. Didn’t want space or soft distance.

He wanted you now.

Right there on the dresser where you’d stood smoothing your dress and wondering if he still cared. Now you knew. He never stopped.

Marshall’s hands were rough and reverent all at once, palms skimming down your arms, your sides, spreading your thighs wider with a force that made you gasp. His voice was a breath against your mouth.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he murmured, fingers tracing up the inside of your thigh. “Can’t believe I let anyone even think they had a chance.”

“You didn’t,” you whispered, breath hitching as he slipped your panties down your legs. “They never did.”

His eyes burned as he knelt in front of you, dragging his mouth up your inner thigh, beard scraping gently, a contrast to the softness of his lips.

“You still taste like mine,” he muttered as he licked a slow, deliberate stripe through your folds, making you arch against the wall behind you.

One arm hooked under your leg, locking it over his shoulder. The other hand gripped your hip like an anchor, holding you still while his tongue circled your clit with maddening precision. You whined, one hand tangling in his hair, and his growl vibrated against you.

“That’s it, baby. Let him hear you. Let everyone hear who you come for.”

Your head hit the mirror as he sucked you into his mouth, tongue relentless, skilled, hungry. Your thighs trembled around his head, pleasure building too fast after months of nothing but wanting and missing and aching.

“I—I can’t,” you gasped.

“Yes, you can.” His voice was hoarse. “Give it to me. Come on my fuckin’ tongue. Right now.”

It hit like lightning. Your whole body seized, shuddering, as you cried out his name and came hard, soaking his mouth as he held you through every wave. He didn’t stop until you were twitching, breathless, pulling at his shoulders.

When he finally stood, his mouth was slick, his pupils blown wide with want. He grabbed your face and kissed you again—deep, filthy, tasting yourself on his tongue.

Then he turned you around, bending you over the dresser with both hands flat on the wood. Your dress hung open around you like an afterthought. He unbuckled his belt with one hand, the other dragging along the curve of your ass, squeezing, marking, owning.

“You ready?” he rasped, lining himself up.

“Please,” you begged. “I need you, Marshall. I need you.”

He pushed into you in one hard, perfect stroke, burying himself to the hilt.

You gasped—stretching, stinging, full—and he groaned, low and guttural.

“Fuck—so tight. Like you were made for me.”

He pulled out halfway, then slammed back in, both hands gripping your hips as he started a rhythm that was brutal, deep, and completely unrelenting.

Your palms slipped on the dresser, body jolting with every thrust, and he leaned over you, his chest against your back, voice filthy and sweet against your ear.

“This what you wanted?” he growled. “While you were gettin’ ready for that little date, did you think about this? About how no one fucks you like I do?”

“Yes—yes—only you—” You were babbling, crying out with each thrust as he pounded into you, breath ragged, hand sneaking between your legs to rub your clit again.

“You’re mine,” he bit out, voice shaking. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours, Marshall,” you sobbed. “Only yours.”

You came again with a broken cry, body clenching around him so tight he cursed and buried himself one last time with a groan, spilling into you with a final, aching thrust.

Silence fell, broken only by the sound of your breathing—harsh and uneven.

Marshall leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the back of your shoulder, soft and trembling. His arms wrapped around you from behind, holding you upright as your knees buckled.

“I’m never leaving that guest house again,” he murmured against your skin. “Fuck what the counselor says.”

You turned in his arms, still breathless, lips swollen, mascara smudged—but smiling.

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I want my husband back.”

He kissed you again, slow this time, and pulled you into his chest like he was never letting go again.

And he wouldn’t.

He never would.

---

The next two weeks felt like a dream.

You never put the dress back on. You didn’t leave the house unless it was with him. The guest house sat dark and empty now—its temporary inhabitant back in your bed, in your shower, in your arms like he’d never left.

Mornings started with sleepy kisses and your daughters giggling between you, Marshall wrapped around all three of you like he could keep time from moving just by holding you tight enough.

Evenings were filled with long talks, quiet laughter, the warmth of family dinners. He made pancakes too thick, told stupid jokes that made the girls howl, and kissed you like he hadn’t tasted you just hours before.

He was gentler now, more present. You saw the change in him every time his hand found yours without thinking, every time he helped with the girls’ homework or looked at you like you were the only thing he saw.

It felt like a second honeymoon.

Until the counseling session.

You were curled together on the loveseat in Dr. Hale’s office, legs tangled, his thumb rubbing slow circles into your wrist. You didn’t want to be here. Neither of you did.

But you’d promised you would try.

“So,” Dr. Hale said, clipboard on her knee, eyes calm and kind but sharp as ever. “I heard you two have been... reconnecting.”

Marshall let out a low huff that was halfway to a laugh. “You could say that.”

You smiled, cheeks warm. “It’s been… really good.”

“I can see that,” she said gently. “But I want to remind you what we talked about before. Physical intimacy is important—but it doesn’t fix the foundation.”

You felt Marshall tense just slightly beside you.

“You mean it doesn’t solve the co-dependency,” you said, trying to keep your voice even.

Dr. Hale nodded. “Exactly. When a relationship gets tangled in trauma—like what you both went through after his overdose—it’s easy to mistake intensity for healing. But what happens when the high wears off?”

You swallowed hard, eyes drifting to the window. The sunlight looked different in here. Colder.

Marshall’s thumb paused on your wrist. You could feel him holding his breath.

And that was when it cracked.

The part you hadn’t let yourself say.

The thing you’d buried under all the sessions, all the rules, all the “healthy boundaries” you’d forced yourselves to build.

Your voice was barely a whisper. “What if I don’t care that it’s co-dependent?”

Dr. Hale blinked. “What do you mean?”

You looked up, eyes glassy, throat tight. “What if I just want my husband? What if I don’t want six feet of space and separate calendars and date nights with strangers just to prove we’re ‘healed’? What if I don’t care if it’s messy? Or unhealthy by someone else’s definition? What if I just want us, however that looks?”

Marshall’s hand wrapped around yours tight.

You didn’t look at him.

“I don’t need perfect,” you whispered. “I need him. I need my husband. And I’m tired of feeling like wanting him every day, needing him that much, is something I should be ashamed of.”

Silence blanketed the room.

Dr. Hale set her clipboard down.

“That’s honest,” she said softly. “And that’s a start.”

Marshall finally spoke—his voice rough and thick. “She’s right. I—I know I fucked up. I know we fell into bad habits. But loving her the way I do? I don’t know how to do that halfway. I don’t want to.”

You finally looked at him. His eyes were red-rimmed.

“I’d rather be wrong with her,” he said, “than right without her.”

And for once, Dr. Hale didn’t interrupt. She let the silence settle. Let the truth of it hang between you.

It wasn’t a cure.

But it was real.

And maybe that was enough—for now.