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twobluejeans · 3 months ago

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Vogue Engagement Interview

charles leclerc x fiancé!reader

summary: In which y/n and charles invite vogue into their monaco home

ally’s radio 📻: hello my lovelies, its been a while… this is eventually gonna be apart a series I’m working on but for now its a standalone. if you guys enjoy it, send in request for other blurbs🤍

EXCLUSIVE: Y/n L/n & Charles Leclerc’s Love Story—A Home, A Forever, A Dream.

A Drive into Luxury

Monaco’s streets glisten in the early afternoon light, the air thick with the scent of sea salt and citrus. The road leading up to Y/N L/N and Charles Leclerc’s home is lined with palm trees, their shadows swaying gently over the sleek pavement. As I pull into their driveway, I take a moment to absorb the scene before me—an array of luxury cars neatly parked in front of the house, each a testament to Charles’ love for speed and precision. A cherry-red Ferrari, unmistakably his, sits beside a blacked-out Mercedes G-Wagon, which I suspect belongs to Y/N. Beside them, a vintage Porsche—cream-colored, classic, and timeless, much like the couple themselves.

The house before me is nothing short of breathtaking. White stone, modern yet inviting, with floor-to-ceiling windows that reflect the sapphire hues of the Mediterranean behind it. It’s grand, certainly, but not in a way that feels cold or impersonal. Even from the outside, the home exudes warmth—just like the woman who greets me at the door.

A Warm Welcome

Y/N L/N stands in the doorway, barefoot, wearing a soft cashmere sweater in the perfect shade of off-white and a pair of delicate gold hoop earrings that catch the sunlight. Her hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail, a few strands framing her face. She’s effortlessly beautiful, yet it’s not just her appearance that captivates—it’s the way she carries herself, the way her smile reaches her eyes, the way she radiates an easy, natural warmth.

"Hi! You must be Ally, it’s so nice to meet you," she says, her voice smooth and welcoming. She extends her hand, and as we shake, I can’t help but notice the sparkling engagement ring on her finger—the ring that has sent the world into a frenzy.

She gestures for me to step inside, the scent of fresh peonies and something warm—vanilla, perhaps—filling the air. The entryway is spacious but cozy, with soft lighting, neutral tones, and delicate personal touches. A candle flickers on a marble side table, and a framed photo of her and Charles, mid-laughter, sits beside it.

"Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea, wine—it's never too early for wine in Monaco," she jokes, leading me further inside.

I opt for a coffee, and she nods, already making her way toward the open kitchen, which is a stunning combination of modern design and lived-in comfort. Copper pans hang above the marble island, and a basket of freshly baked croissants sits on the counter. She moves effortlessly, making me feel less like an interviewer and more like an old friend.

A Glimpse Into Their Home

Before we settle in, Y/N insists on giving me a small tour. We move through the house at a leisurely pace, and she speaks about their home with genuine affection.

"Charles and I wanted something that felt like us—elegant but not over-the-top. A place where we could truly unwind. Where we could have friends over, but also where we could just… be."

The living room is a perfect reflection of that sentiment. A grand yet inviting space, with a massive cream-colored sectional adorned with soft blankets and an array of books scattered across the coffee table. The glass doors open onto a terrace overlooking the sea, the gentle sound of waves lapping in the distance.

The warmth of their home isn’t just in the décor—it’s in the small, intimate details. A racing helmet casually placed on a shelf, a half-finished painting leaning against the wall, a dog bed tucked in the corner.

And speaking of their dog—Leo, a mini golden dachshund, comes trotting into the room, tail wagging furiously. He greets me as if we’ve known each other forever, before curling up at Y/N’s feet.

"He’s a menace,"she laughs, scratching behind his ears. "But we adore him."

She leads me back to the living room, where we settle onto the plush sofa. There’s still no sign of Charles, but Y/N doesn’t seem concerned. Instead, she leans back, taking a slow sip of her coffee, and I take the opportunity to shift the conversation toward her latest project.

Heartache & Healing: The Story Behind the Album

"Your new album has been described as a journey through heartbreak and finding love again," I begin. "Can you tell us what inspired it?"

Y/N exhales softly, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup.

"It was… personal," she admits. "My last relationship was—well, it wasn’t healthy. It was a cycle of highs and lows, of leaving and coming back when I knew I shouldn’t. I think a lot of people have been in relationships like that, where you convince yourself things will change. But eventually, I realized I had to leave, and that’s when everything started to shift for me."

"There’s a track on the album—number 16—simply titled ‘Charles Leclerc.’

She smiles, a different kind of light in her eyes now. "It wasn’t planned," she says. "We were finishing up the album, and I was in the studio one night, just reflecting. I started humming this melody, and the words just… came out. It was a love note, really. Just a simple way of capturing what he means to me."

Before I can ask more, the front door swings open, and in walks Charles Leclerc, his presence filling the space effortlessly. Dressed in a fitted navy sweater and tailored trousers, he carries two grocery bags in one hand and, in the other, a bouquet so large it nearly obscures his face.

"Mon amour, I got your favorite pastries," he announces, setting the bags down before walking over to Y/N and pressing a lingering kiss to her temple.

She takes the flowers with a soft laugh. "You didn’t have to do that."

"I always have to do that," he counters, before turning to me with an easy grin. "Welcome to our home. I hope Y/N hasn’t told you too many embarrassing stories about me yet."

The Proposal: A Moment Meant to Last Forever

As Charles settles in beside Y/N, I ask him about the proposal—one of the most talked-about moments of the year.

"You chose Monaco, a rooftop, and—surprise—Lando Norris as the secret photographer?" I tease.

Charles chuckles, shaking his head. "I needed someone to capture the moment, and Lando has a good eye for that kind of thing. But really, I wanted it to be perfect. Y/N deserves nothing less."

"What made you choose that moment to propose?"

His gaze softens as he turns toward Y/N.

"A few months ago, we did a perfume campaign together. The concept was this idealized life—a home, a family, this perfect love story. And I remember looking at her during the shoot, holding this little boy’s hand, and I thought… I don’t want this to be pretend. I want it to be real. I want to come home to her, to have Sunday mornings and family dinners and late-night talks about absolutely nothing. I wanted it all—with her. And once I knew that, there was no reason to wait."

Y/N squeezes his hand, her eyes glistening.

"And now you have it," I say, smiling.

Charles nods. "Now I have everything."

An Outpouring of Love—And Flowers

As soon as the engagement was announced, Y/N and Charles were flooded with well-wishes, not just from fans, but from some of the most iconic names in Hollywood, music, and sports. Their Monaco home was quickly transformed into something of a botanical wonderland.

Beyoncé sent an extravagant arrangement of white orchids and gardenias, with a handwritten note that read, "Wishing you both a love as timeless as your artistry. Love always, B."

Pedro Pascal had red and yellow tulips delivered with a note that simply said, "Love wins. Cheers to you both."

Chris Evans sent a classic bouquet of red roses, playfully signing off, "Now, don’t let him drive too fast, okay?"

Theo James and Aubrey Plaza, her White Lotus co-stars, gifted wildflowers and eucalyptus, with a note from Aubrey that read, "If he ever pisses you off, just remember… we know where to find him."

Jacob Elordi, her Priscilla co-star, sent Australian natives—banksias and proteas, writing, "A queen deserves flowers fit for a queen."

Zendaya and Tom Holland surprised her with an entire indoor citrus tree, symbolizing growth and prosperity.

Harry Styles had peonies and hydrangeas delivered, with a simple yet heartfelt, "Love to you both."

And, of course, Max Verstappen, Charles’ friend and fellow F1 driver, sent sunflowers with a note that read, "Because Charles is going to need something bright to look at when he gets overtaken."

Fast Laps & Slow Mornings

"Charles, how do you balance racing at such an intense level while also making time for your personal life?"

"It’s not easy," he admits. "F1 is demanding, and there are weeks where I barely see home. But Y/N understands that. She’s been there for me through it all—whether it’s waking up at 4 AM to watch a race or flying across the world just to spend a day together. And when I do get time off, I make sure it’s meaningful. Like today—I picked up her favorite pastries, and we’re going to spend the rest of the afternoon doing absolutely nothing together. Watching Abbot Elementary, her favorite show."

Y/N smiles. "The perfect day."

An Unexpected Delivery

As the conversation flows effortlessly between Y/N and Charles, our interview is briefly interrupted by the sound of the doorbell echoing through their Monaco home.

Y/N furrows her brows, exchanging a glance with Charles before getting up.

"I wasn’t expecting anything today," she murmurs, padding barefoot toward the door.

A few moments later, she returns, holding an unmistakably elegant black velvet box with gold detailing—and a letter.

She places it on the coffee table, her fingers hovering over the envelope before she lets out a small laugh. "This is… unexpected."

Charles, sipping his espresso, raises an eyebrow. "Who’s it from?"

Y/N flips the envelope over, and for the first time during our interview, she looks genuinely stunned.

"It’s from Zayn."

There’s a pause. A noticeable one. Zayn Malik—her first public boyfriend, her first real love. Not the other relationship she references in her album, but the one that introduced her to the world of high-profile romance. They had dated years ago, young and in love, their breakup amicable, though heavily scrutinized by the media.

"Open it," Charles encourages, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. There’s no jealousy, only curiosity.

She carefully unfolds the letter, her eyes scanning the words before she reads them aloud.

“Y/N,

Love changes, but real love never fades. It evolves, it grows, it finds its way into different forms. You taught me that.

I’m so damn happy for you. Seeing you glow the way you do now—it’s exactly what you deserve. You’ve always deserved a love like this.

No matter where life takes us, I’ll always be rooting for you.

Wishing you and Charles a lifetime of happiness.

-Z”

Silence lingers for a moment before Y/N exhales softly, a small, touched smile on her lips.

"That was really sweet," she says, setting the letter down carefully.

Charles reaches for her hand, pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist. "You really do have the whole world rooting for you, don’t you?"

Y/N chuckles, shaking her head. "I guess so."

She finally lifts the lid of the black velvet box, revealing a delicate gold charm bracelet—elegant, understated, and timeless. Each charm tells a story: a music note for her career, a tiny Monaco Grand Prix trophy for Charles, a small vintage microphone, and a crescent moon, a nod to the nickname Zayn used to call her in their younger years.

"Wow," she murmurs, gently running her fingers over the charms.

"You going to keep it?" I ask.

Y/N glances at Charles, who simply shrugs. "It’s a memory," he says easily. "And memories deserve their place."

She smiles at him, then fastens the bracelet around her wrist.

"Yeah," she says, her voice soft but certain. "I think I will."

Looking Ahead

As the sun dips lower in the sky, casting golden light through their home, I ask them both the final question.

"What’s next?"

Y/N glances at Charles. "Marriage. Love. Life."

Charles nods. "And maybe a few more interludes."

Y/N laughs, squeezing his hand. "Maybe."

And with that, it’s clear—their love story is only just beginning.

#charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x you #f1 imagine #f1 wags #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 fic #formula 1 #cl16 #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc x female reader

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hero-israel · 5 months ago

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This is pseudoscience where it isn’t actively anti-science.

The pines planted in Israel are Aleppo pines, which are indigenous and have been recorded by observers for literally millennia. Far from “devastating” native oaks and carobs and whatever, Israel planted tons of those varieties too. And there can be no discussion of the well-being of Israeli forests without noting that Palestinian militants are highly proficient at arson and have practically made mountainous tire-fires their trademark.

As for the idea that the Zionists were “trying to create European-style forests” - the implication that the local environment was “normal” before they “changed” it is entirely a social construct reeking of unexamined privilege. The Roman Empire massively deforested Israel along with the rest of the Mediterranean. Our popular concept of the Middle East as a land of desert and scrubland is artificial, but comes naturally to people who think the world began in like 1700.

The Palestinian mountain gazelle is indeed endangered in Israel, and some of their populations are jeopardized by habitat and genetic fragmentation caused by the West Bank barriers. However, the largest and most stable population of the species is found in the Golan Heights, where they roam freely without such barriers and have enjoyed a significant rebound in numbers now that they are no longer subject to hunting from Syria. More importantly, the Palestinian mountain gazelle has already been wiped out in Egypt, and also in Syria and Jordan - perhaps some invisible Mossad agents went on safari? The species was on the brink of extinction in Turkey, until it was quite accidentally saved when the Turkish military set up a no-man’s-land on the border with Syria in response to its civil war.

It’s also worth noting that the first post in that Twitter thread (not screencapped onto the Tumblr post, hmm...) was Heron calling for BDS. When Israel really is the only country in that region where forest cover is growing and where the mountain gazelles have any chance at survival, uh, why should we overthrow the government, again? That would help the environment how, precisely? The Kai Herons of the world would call that “greenwashing,” because they don’t actually give a shit about the environment, they just misappropriate journal-jargon to mask how ridiculous and unprincipled their accusations are.

Last and least, the concept that “Palestinian liberation is a climate issue” is just a perfect crystallization, French waiter palm-kiss, of how lefty activists try to run in every direction at once and get nowhere. Climate protection has failed because it requires the entire world to unfuck foundational problems in our economic, technological, and political lives - but Palestinian liberation is still a matter of a signature and a handshake, two parties looking at made-up lines on a very small map. For white European activists to insist that Palestinians may only make progress if we first make progress on climate change just shows how they only see Palestinians as tools and symbols and not as people.

CODA:

This is a case of me being ABSOLUTELY fucking petty enough to reconstruct and restart a post after someone blocked me and prevented reblogs of the original.

For more on the pseudoscience and anti-environmentalism of Palestine activists see lots of links here. For more on the actual environmental history and diversity of the region, see the tags.

#israeli wildlife #wildlife of israel

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theballadofharkness · 2 months ago

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Whisky and Wine: Part 6

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Claire Debella x fem!reader

Summary: The last thing you expected when you came home from your publishers to your older partner Claire’s home was an invitation to her friend’s, Billionaire Miles Bron, private luxury yacht for the weekend. The problem? Claire had been very careful to keep her fellow disrupters away from you, terrified they would ruin yet another aspect of her life. But nobody says no to Miles, so you find yourself surrounded by Claire’s ‘inner circle’.

Word Count: 10.4K

Warnings: Non explicit smut, and sexual harassment (non explicit: it is a hand on the thigh but it does warrant a warning I think). So as always minors DNI xo

A/N: apologises this took so long! Work and life has been hectic but I should be back to updating more regularly and for those who enjoy my Agatha works, I have quite a few things to publish soon xo 💜🪻

The morning air is already thick with heat, the Mediterranean sun beating down mercilessly on the yacht's upper deck. The brunch plates have been cleared, fresh drinks poured, and now the group is settling, finding their places in the slow, indulgent rhythm of the day.

Duke, unsurprisingly, has stripped down to his swim trunks and is doing laps in the pool, his massive frame cutting through the water with precise, practiced strokes. Every time he reaches the edge, he stops for just a second to glance over at the side of the deck where his gun sits, gleaming in the sun, like he can’t stand the idea of being too far away from it. Like it’s an extension of himself, something he needs within reach to feel whole.

Peg is hunched over her laptop, her bucket hat pulled low, shielding her face from the sun as she furiously types away, looking like a stark contrast to the scene around her. Her legs are pulled up onto the sunbed, bare knees pressed together, her fingers flying across the keyboard with stressed efficiency.

Birdie, on the other hand, is a fucking spectacle.

Living up to her namesake, she is absolutely peacocking, standing near a sun lounger, posing like she’s waiting for someone to paint her rather than just exist in the space. She’s draped in a swimsuit so needlessly complicated that it looks more like an avant-garde fashion piece than something meant for swimming. Her hair is perfectly styled, makeup flawless despite the heat, and she’s decked out in more jewelry than necessary- chunky gold bangles stacked up her arms, oversized hoops catching the light, rings weighing down her fingers. And, of course, she’s in heels.

High heels by a pool? You try not to think too hard about it.

Lionel is sprawled out on a lounger, sunglasses perched on his face, his arms crossed over his chest. His posture is relaxed, but the stress radiates off of him, his fingers twitching slightly, like he needs something to do, something to focus on. You can practically hear his brain working overtime, even though he’s technically supposed to be relaxing.

And then there’s Whisky.

She’s walking across the deck with slow, deliberate movements, every step purposeful, every inch of her oozing that lazy, confident sex appeal that makes it clear she knows exactly how she looks.

She makes her way over to Miles, who has picked up an acoustic guitar of all things, strumming lazily, looking insufferably pleased with himself. The image of it is enough to make your skin crawl: Miles Bron, billionaire, tech “genius,” barefoot on the deck of his fucking yacht, playing guitar like he’s some soulful artist just waiting to be discovered.

Whisky drapes herself over the back of the couch he’s perched on, her fingers trailing over his shoulders as he plays, and you tear your eyes away before you have to see him eat up the attention.

Instead, you focus on Claire.

You find her sitting stiffly beside you, eyes locked onto something across the deck, a very specific look settling over her features, the slight furrow of her brows, the way her lips press together, the subtle way her fingers twitch against her knee.

You follow her gaze and… oh, of course, she’s staring at Peg’s laptop.

You frown. “Oh, no. No way,” you say immediately, turning to face her fully, voice firm.

Claire blinks, like she wasn’t aware she’d been caught, turning her attention back to you. “What?” she asks, feigning innocence.

You narrow your eyes. “Baby.”

She huffs, shifting slightly, but doesn’t deny it. “I was just thinking I could-”

“No.”

“Just a few-”

“No, baby. No.” You shift onto your knees, leaning in closer, placing both hands on her cheeks dramatically. “You promised. No work this weekend.”

She sighs, her hands coming to rest on your thighs as she looks up at you, something playful tugging at her lips.

“I know, but-”

You pout.

Claire pauses.

You know what you’re doing, you know she hates when you pout, that it wrecks her every time.

“I never get this much time with you away from your laptop at home,” you continue, voice soft, a little wounded, pushing just enough to make her feel it.

She exhales sharply, her grip tightening on your thighs, like she wants to argue, wants to say just one email, just one quick check-in, but she can’t. Because she knows you’re right. And you know she hates disappointing you.

So she groans, tilting her head back dramatically. “Fine,” she relents. “No work.”

You beam, kissing her quickly. “That’s my girl.”

She exhales through her nose, shaking her head as she pulls you back into her lap, her arms wrapping around you completely, like she’s trying to prove she’s really, fully present with you.

And for the first time all morning, you feel like you can actually relax.

The sun glints off Birdie’s oversized sunglasses as she pushes them down her nose, appraising you and Claire with a slow, deliberate sweep of her eyes. The expression on her face shifts almost instantly, first with mild intrigue, then thinly veiled irritation as her gaze lands on you.

It’s subtle, but you see it, that tiny, involuntary twitch of her lips, the way her brows tighten ever so slightly.

It’s your youth, your freshness. It bothers her. You’re effortlessly radiant, still glowing from the morning’s laziness, from Claire’s kisses, from the unbothered softness of being utterly wanted without having to ask for it.

And Birdie knows it.

But, of course, she doesn’t comment on you. No, you’re not the target here. She turns to Claire instead, sliding her sunglasses off completely, flashing a too-wide, saccharine smile.

“Oh, Claire,” she coos, voice dripping with manufactured sweetness, “you look so cute.”

You arch an eyebrow, shifting slightly in Claire’s lap to look at Birdie properly, but Claire doesn’t even hesitate, she just deadpans right back at her and gives her the finger.

Birdie gasps, clutching her chest dramatically. “God, rude.”

You smirk, a little proud, but then a better idea hits you.

Birdie thinks she can just throw little jabs and keep moving, that her beauty, her legendary status, means she never has to sit in that discomfort herself. Maybe it’s time she gets a taste of her own medicine. You shift, tilting your head just so, letting your lips curl into something sweet, saccharine, but pointed.

“Oh, doesn’t she?” you say, voice light, airing on thoughtful, as you turn to Claire instead.

You drag your fingers along Claire’s shoulder, watching her eyes slightly darken at the touch, and then smile as you continue:

“Always so elegant and sexy,” you say, voice slipping into something deliberate, something knowing, “she doesn’t even have to try.”

You feel Claire react, the subtle shift of her muscles, the way her hands tighten just slightly around your waist.

Birdie’s expression hardens. It’s quick, the way her lips purse, the way her perfectly arched brows pull just a little, but you catch it. Not that she has time to say anything, because you keep going.

“Not that trying really hard is a bad thing, Birdie,” you add, still smiling, still so fucking sweet, “I mean, you’ve obviously spent hours on this, uh…” you gesture vaguely, taking in the chaotic swimsuit, the towering heels, the excessive accessories. “…ensemble.”

Claire chokes on a laugh.

Birdie’s jaw tightens.

Your smile widens, eyes glinting as you deliver the final blow. “You look cute, though,” you say easily. Then, after a beat, “Adorable, even.”

Birdie glares.

Claire loses it.

She actually snorts, a rare, genuine sound of amusement, before she hooks her arms around you, pulling you straight into her lap on the sun lounger.

You laugh as she presses a quick, gratified kiss against your temple, murmuring “Fucking love you” into your hair as you hand her the glass of white wine you had been holding.

You settle against her, draping yourself in her warmth, and let yourself relax.

Because here’s the thing, you never put other women down, you don’t believe in it. But Birdie Jay? Birdie needs to learn that messing with Claire means messing with you, and that’s a mistake she will always regret.

You sigh, fully melting into Claire’s arms, letting her warmth wrap around you as you rest against her chest. The midday sun is relentless, the heat seeping into your skin, making everything feel hazy, lazy, but Claire’s fingers, tracing soft, idle patterns up and down your bare back, keep you grounded. She smells like suntan lotion and white wine, and when you glance up at her, she’s already looking elsewhere, her sharp eyes locked onto Whisky.

Whisky, who is currently draped over Miles, her toned, bronzed legs curled over his lap, her manicured fingers trailing up and down his chest as she giggles at something he’s said.

It’s the fakest laugh you’ve ever heard.

Claire huffs softly.

You grin. “Oh, come on,” you murmur, just loud enough for her to hear. You tilt your head, resting your chin against her collarbone, eyes gleaming as you press closer. “It’s so obvious, right?”

Claire hums, still watching them, her fingers slowing as she absently traces the line of your spine. “I know,” she mutters, voice low with disbelief. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice before.”

You giggle. “You’ve been a little preoccupied, baby.”

She smirks at that, but her eyes stay on Whisky, her brows furrowing just slightly. “I just…” she exhales, shifting, adjusting you in her lap, her free hand reaching for her wine glass. “I wonder what she’s really getting out of this. I mean, what could possibly be worth having to act like Miles is desirable?”

You snort. “Not his billions?”

Claire scoffs, taking a sip of wine. “You couldn’t pay me enough.”

You bite your lip to stifle a laugh. “I think the second he pulled out his acoustic guitar, I’d lose it.”

Claire actually groans. “Jesus, don’t remind me of that. He thinks he’s fucking John Lennon.”

That sends you giggling, tucking your face into her shoulder as she shakes her head, lifting her glass again.

“God,” she mutters, “she must have the patience of a saint.”

You pull back, still grinning, and glance over at Duke, who is sitting at the edge of the pool, watching Whisky with open pride. His gun, because of course he brought it, rests beside him within arms reach, like being too far away from it would kill him.

Claire follows your gaze and sighs. “And Duke,” she murmurs, shaking her head. “I mean, I know he’s a meathead, but I’m still… God, I’m so disappointed in him.”

She tightens her hold on you slightly, shifting as she moves her wine glass to the table beside her. “I’d never pimp my partner out to get something. I don’t care what it is.”

You smirk, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Oh, you sure?” you tease, tilting your head, your lips brushing against her jaw as you murmur, “You don’t wanna rent me out for Senate?”

Claire stills.

And then… she growls. It’s low, deep in her throat, as she immediately turns, shifting so quickly that you let out a surprised squeak. Her hands move fast, one gripping your waist, the other sliding down, fingers digging into your ass as she pulls you into her.

“Don’t even joke about that,” she mutters, voice dangerously low.

Then she kisses you. It’s not soft, it’s claiming. Possessive. Her fingers dig in, pressing you down hard against her, and you gasp, lips parting as she deepens the kiss.

“You’re mine,” she murmurs against your mouth, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Your head spins. You can’t help the breathy little moan you let out, or the way your fingers tangle in her hair, or how you immediately tilt your head to chase her lips when she pulls back, just slightly.

“I know, Mommy,” you whisper.

And fuck, her eyes go dark. She groans, kissing you again, slower this time, her hands smoothing up your back, her grip still firm but gentle, grounding herself in you, needing you close.

And honestly?

You love it.

The sun was relentless, pressing down on your skin in thick, golden waves. The day had barely begun, yet the air was already heavy, swollen with heat and tension that had nothing to do with the weather. You’d curled yourself into Claire’s side, letting her fingers trace lazy patterns along your spine, her touch grounding you, anchoring you to this moment.

“Claire.”

Lionel’s voice was quiet, almost careful.

You didn’t move immediately, still curled against Claire’s side, your lips brushing against the warm slope of her shoulder. But you felt the way her entire body tensed beneath you, the way the soft circling of her fingers stilled against your back, as if bracing herself.

You turned your head just enough to look at Lionel, sunglasses shielding his eyes, but his mouth was set in a firm line. His fingers tapped against the condensation on his glass.

“How are you feeling?”

The words might have seemed harmless to anyone else, a polite check-in after a night of drinking, a casual question between friends. But you weren’t just anyone else. You knew exactly what he meant. It had nothing to do with Claire’s hangover.

It had everything to do with Andi.

With the court case.

With the weight of what they’d agreed to do for Miles.

Even if you hadn’t been privy to all of the discussions, hadn’t been included in all the hushed, conspiratorial conversations that happened behind closed doors, you still knew. Because it was written all over Claire’s face. And Lionel’s.

They were the two most moral people in the group. The ones who should have been the first to walk away. The ones who, in any other scenario, wouldn’t have let themselves be backed into a corner like this. But instead, they were here. They were staying. They were testifying.

And you knew it was eating them alive.

The moment stretched between them, thick and suffocating. So you leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to Claire’s lips, trying to ease some of the tension gripping her body. You pulled back just slightly, brushing your thumb over her cheekbone.

She blinked, brows drawing together, concern creeping into her expression. You already knew what she was thinking. That maybe you felt pushed out. That maybe she wasn’t being a good enough partner to you, too caught up in her own shit to be fully present with you.

But you just gave her a small smile. “You and Lionel talk, baby.”

Claire’s frown deepened, searching your face, as if trying to make sure you really meant it.

You did.

You knew she needed to talk to someone about this. And Lionel was the only one who truly understood what she was going through.

She exhaled softly, her lips parting just slightly as she mouthed thank you before turning to Lionel.

You stood, stretching slightly, feeling the heat of the sun immediately settle against your skin.

You needed a drink. Something cold. Something that might help quiet the buzzing in your head, the unease curling in your stomach. As you walked toward the bar, you caught a glimpse of Claire and Lionel slipping into the infinity pool, the two of them drifting toward the far edge, the part where the water met the sky, where they could talk without worrying about being overheard.

You swallowed, jaw tightening. You hated this for her. Hated that she was carrying this. That she even had to make this choice. But you also knew she wouldn’t let you carry any of it for her. She was protecting you. Even if it hurt.

You reached the bar, stepping under the large umbrella and relishing the brief relief from the heat. The bartender glanced at you, wiping his hands on a towel before leaning forward slightly.

“What can I get you?”

You hesitated, considering. Something light. Something that wouldn’t add to the already growing nausea in your gut. “Just a pineapple juice, please.”

The bartender gave a short nod, turning to grab a glass when you felt it. A presence behind you. Too close. A hand on your waist that wasn’t Claire’s. Wrong.

Before your brain could fully register what was happening, you heard his voice, low, casual, friendly.

“Oh no, no, no,” Miles chuckled, his fingers pressing just slightly against the soft skin of your hip, too close to the knot of your bikini bottoms. “You have to try the Cuban Breeze. It’s so good. That was the drink that got us on the no-fly list at St. Barts.”

Your whole body locked up.

The heat of the sun suddenly felt suffocating.

Too hot. Too much.

You weren’t a stranger to touch. You liked being touched by Claire. By people you were comfortable with. People who had earned the right to put their hands on you.

But this?

Miles’ touch felt wrong.

It wasn’t overtly inappropriate, but it was just enough to set off every single alarm bell in your body.

Your heart started hammering, your stomach twisting as a sharp wave of unease rolled through you.

The urge to yank his hand off of you, to push him away, was immediate. But you hesitated, your mind racing. You knew exactly how dangerous Miles Bron was. You knew exactly what he was capable of. He could ruin Claire. Could ruin her campaign. Could ruin everything she had spent her entire career working toward.

And after last night, after the veiled threats and the barely concealed gloating, you knew better than to put a target on your back.

So you forced yourself to stay still.

You forced yourself to swallow the nausea rising in your throat, to keep your voice steady as you reached for the drink he was offering.

You barely looked at him.

Didn’t meet his eyes, didn’t give him anything.

Just took the glass, gripped it tight, and stepped away from his orbit, you from him. Your entire body felt cold, even as the sun blazed down on you. You needed to get back to Claire.

Now.

The ice in the glass clinked softly as you walked back to your sun lounger, the condensation slipping between your fingers as you lightly sipped at the ridiculously gaudy drink Miles had pushed into your hands.

It was absurdly overdone, chunks of pineapple bobbing at the surface, a skewer of bright red maraschino cherries resting precariously on the rim, and, as if that weren’t enough, a cheap plastic straw adorned with a fake parrot, its tiny beady eyes staring blankly at you.

You barely tasted the drink itself, the lingering unease from your interaction at the bar curling like smoke in your stomach. You needed to breathe, needed to sit down. Needed Claire.

Because Miles had touched you. And now, even as you walked, the phantom weight of his hand on your waist still lingered like an oil stain, seeping under your skin, impossible to scrub away.

Your sun lounger was waiting, shaded slightly from the relentless midday sun. You settled down, adjusting your wrap skirt, crossing your legs as you tried to will the tension from your shoulders. You weren’t going to let this ruin your day.

You’d just sit here, sip your ridiculous drink, and wait for Claire to finish her conversation with Lionel and come back to you.

But then you heard him. Again.

Miles’ voice, still that same casual, easy-going tone, as if he hadn’t just made your entire body lock up at the bar.

“So,” he started, walking up behind you, the sound of his bare feet padding against the deck making your stomach tighten. “Been getting any writing done on this trip?”

You took another slow sip of the Cuban Breeze, barely reacting before you calmly responded, “No. Claire and I agreed not to do any work while we’re here.”

It wasn’t a lie. It also wasn’t the whole truth. Because even if you wanted to write, there was no way you’d be able to focus, not with this group. Not with the stress and the constant, looming reminder of what Claire had agreed to do for Miles.

Miles hummed as if considering your words. “I like that,” he mused, stepping further into your space, his shadow briefly passing over you. “I respect that. Work-life balance, that’s important. But listen…”

He sat down across from you, too close, the movement making your body tense involuntarily.

“I’ve been on the phone with some high-profile publishing houses,” he said, flashing that Miles Bron™ smile, the one that was meant to be charming but just felt like a sales pitch. “They’re very interested.”

You blinked at him, fingers tightening slightly around your glass.

There it was. Again. That same offer. That same temptation. And for a split second, you thought about it.

Not because you wanted Miles’ help, but because you knew how easy it would be to say yes. To let someone like him open doors that were otherwise bolted shut. To skip the years of clawing your way through an industry designed to keep people like you on the outside. But you’d already made your decision.

So you exhaled softly, offering a polite, measured smile. “Thank you, but no thank you.”

Miles laughed like you’d just told him something hilarious. “Why not take the help?” he grinned, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you. “This could be so good for you.”

And before you could even think, even process, his hand was suddenly on your thigh. Just resting there. Casual. Like it belonged there. Your entire body went rigid.

Your breath hitched. You knew what he was doing. It wasn’t an accident. Wasn’t innocent. It was a test. He was seeing how far he could push you.

Your skin crawled, the urge to shove him off of you overwhelming, but you hesitated. Because what if? What if you pushed back and he made things worse? What if he decided Claire wasn’t worth the effort anymore? What if he destroyed her campaign just because he could?

Panic started creeping in. Your throat tightened. And without thinking, your eyes darted to Claire. She was in the infinity pool with Lionel, their backs to you, she had no idea what was happening. She had no idea that you were sitting here, frozen, with Miles’ hand on you, with his voice in your ear, pressing you, pushing you, trying to see how much he could get away with.

And for the first time since this entire trip began, you felt unsafe. Miles’ hand was still on your thigh. Heavy and possessive like it belonged there.

Your breath caught in your throat, body locked up so tight you thought you might snap. The more he talked, smooth and friendly, the more you shrank, wanting to disappear, to fold in on yourself until there was nothing left. You barely even heard his words, too busy trying to keep yourself still, too afraid that pulling away too sharply would be seen as rude, that it would set him off, that he’d take it as an invitation instead of a rejection.

Say something.

Move.

Do anything.

But you felt frozen, caught between the weight of his palm and the horrible sinking feeling in your stomach, the knowledge that one wrong move could make everything so much worse.

And suddenly a voice cut through your inner turmoil. “Miles,” Birdie drawled, lazily pushing down her sunglasses to peer at the two of you. “Is that my Cuban Breeze?!”

Your heart lurched.

Miles’ head turned at the sound of his name, his hand still firm on your thigh as he smirked at Birdie.

“The very same,” he said, tipping the glass toward her.

Birdie gasped dramatically, placing a hand over her chest like she was shocked, but you could see it now. The carefulness. The practice. The way she made her voice all light and excitable, playing into the only role she knew how to play, the fun and brainless Birdie J she’d curated so perfectly over the years.

If you weren’t still reeling, still trying not to shudder at the feel of Miles’ touch, you might’ve been impressed.

Instead, you just sat very still, barely breathing, barely blinking, as Birdie tossed her hair and insisted, “Miles! That was mine! Okay, that’s it, come on, we’re getting another one! We are ending up in the pool tonight.”

Miles chuckled, finally pulling his hand away as he stood, letting Birdie loop her arm through his. “We’re starting in the pool,” he teased.

And just like that, he was gone. Dragged away in a flurry of heels and jewelry and gleaming white teeth.

The second he was out of reach, your breath left you in a sharp, uneven rush. It was like you could breathe again. Like you were finally allowed to.

Tears pricked at your eyes, burning hot and humiliating, and you hated it. Hated that your body had betrayed you. Hated that your hands were shaking, that you felt gross, that even now, with him gone, you could still feel his palm on your skin.

You sucked in a sharp breath, blinking rapidly, fingers curling into the fabric of your wrap skirt, trying to keep yourself together.

“Hey.” The sound of Peg’s voice made you stiffen.

When you turned, she was already watching you, her lips pressed into a thin line. Laptop snapped shut. She’d seen the whole thing. And even though Peg was a lot of things, tired, overworked, probably one bad day away from quitting, she wasn’t heartless.

“…You okay?” It was a simple question, one that you should’ve answered easily. But the words stuck.

You swallowed hard, nodding too fast, forcing out a shaky, “I… I’m fine.”

Peg didn’t believe you. Didn’t even pretend to. She sighed, fingers drumming against her knee before she suggested, “You wanna go to the bathroom? When Birdie frustrates me, I splash some cold water on my face. Helps.”

You hesitated, swallowing down the lump in your throat. “…Yeah,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah, okay.”

She stood up, waiting for you, and you went to move, only to stop short. Because the second you stood, you felt exposed, like everyone was watching you.

Your bikini suddenly felt too small. Your wrap skirt felt too sheer. You wrapped your arms around yourself, willing the rising panic to settle, but the words still came out wobbly when you stammered, “I—I think I need to grab a cover-up or something.”

You felt stupid the second you said it, but thankfully Peg was patient. Like she understood. Like she’d been in your position before, like she knew how it felt to be powerless, to be just unimportant enough that speaking up against the wrong man could destroy your entire life.

She just nodded. “Okay.”

And you were about to move when a familiar voice called out: “Baby?”

You froze. Oh, God. Claire. She was still in the infinity pool with Lionel, but now she was frowning at you from where she leaned against the edge, arms draped over the stone, her body half-submerged in the water.

She’d been distracted before, caught up in the kind of tense, anxious conversation that made the heat feel more oppressive than it already was. But now? Now she was looking at you. And seeing.

Your stomach twisted violently. The last thing you needed was Claire’s attention on you. The last thing you needed was for her to notice. To ask questions. To put things together. Because if Claire figured out what had happened, she would kill him. You knew that. And nothing good could come from that.

So before you could even try to answer, Peg, calm, steady and carefully measured, gave her a practiced smile and called back, “We’re fine! Just going to get something.”

You could still feel Claire’s eyes on you, heavy with suspicion.

You forced yourself to nod like that was true, like that was all it was, and then quickly turned, following Peg inside while trying not to let the horrible weight in your stomach sink you.

Peg followed you into your room, letting out a low whistle as she took in the space. “Damn,” she muttered, hands on her hips. “You got this? I have a glorified closet next to Birdie.”

You barely heard her. Your heart was still hammering, your skin still crawling, the weight of everything still pressing down on your chest like a slab of stone.

You beelined straight for the bathroom, fingers gripping the door frame as you mumbled, “Um- thanks for, uh…getting me here. But I’m fine now. You can go.”

Peg frowned. You couldn’t see it, you were already pushing the door closed between you, but you could hear it in her voice when she asked, “Are you sure? I can wait, if you want. Saves me from getting splashed by Duke’s cannonballs.”

She was offering kindness, a way out. But you couldn’t take it. Because even though she’d helped, even though she’d seen what happened and quietly stepped in, it didn’t change the fact that you felt like your skin had been stripped raw, like you’d been ripped open and had nowhere to hide. The only thing you wanted, the only thing you needed, was to be alone.

You nodded, even though she couldn’t see you, and murmured, “No, it’s okay. I might take a nap. Barely slept last night.”

Peg was quiet for a second, then she sighed. “…Alright.”

You heard her step away. The door clicked shut behind her. And then… nothing. Silence. For the first time since Miles had put his hands on you, you were alone.

You turned the lock with shaking fingers, turning the tap on full blast.

And then, you collapsed. Your knees hit the tile floor as you folded in on yourself, arms wrapping tight around your legs, forehead pressing against them as the first sob wrenched out of your chest, sharp and violent. You couldn’t stop it. Didn’t even try.

The sound of the rushing water drowned out your cries, but it didn’t drown out the feeling, the raw, suffocating sensation that filled every part of you, like your own body was a cage you were desperate to escape.

You could still feel him. His hand on your thigh. His arm around your waist. His voice, smooth and friendly, like he hadn’t been doing anything wrong. Like you were supposed to just accept it.

You pressed your hands against your face, trying to breathe, trying to make it stop, but nothing was working.

Because this wasn’t just Miles. This wasn’t just one moment. This was every time you’d felt small. Every time you’d felt powerless. Every time a man had looked at you and seen something that was his to conquer before you even got the chance to say hello.

And the worst part, the very worst part, was that you hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t pushed him away. Hadn’t made a scene. You just sat there frozen.

Another sob tore through you.

You clutched your knees tighter, nails digging into your own skin, trying to ground yourself, trying to remind yourself that he wasn’t here, that you were safe, that Claire would never let anything happen to you… oh god, Claire.

A new wave of panic crashed into you. Because Claire had seen you, she’d known something was wrong.

And if she found out, if she figured out what really happened, she would kill him. And Miles knew that. He counted on that. That was why he did it. Because he knew you wouldn’t dare tell her. Wouldn’t dare start anything that could ruin Claire’s chances, that could put her in a position where she had to choose between her career and you. You couldn’t let her find out. You couldn’t. Because if she did, this trip would turn into a bloodbath.

You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking, trying to shove that thought down, trying to shove everything down, until it was buried deep enough that it wouldn’t come back up.

But for now, you could do nothing but sit there hugging yourself, rocking slightly, crying so hard it hurt. You didn’t know how long you sat there, curled up on the cold tile floor, knees hugged to your chest, arms wrapped around yourself like you could somehow hold yourself together if you just squeezed tight enough.

At some point, the sobs slowed, your chest stopped heaving, and your breath came in shallow, uneven gasps instead of frantic, desperate gulps of air.

But the weight, the awful, sinking weight, still pressed down on you. You felt raw and stripped open. Exposed. Like if you looked in the mirror, you’d see something hollow staring back at you.

You couldn’t stay here, not on the floor. Not in this stupid fucking bikini that suddenly felt far too small, far too revealing, far too much like the exact thing Miles had been looking at, had been touching.

Your stomach turned as you forced yourself to your feet. Your legs were weak, shaking, like you’d been drained of everything that kept you upright, but you forced yourself to stumble out of the bathroom anyway.

Your vision blurred with the remnants of tears as you moved on autopilot, crossing the room to Claire’s suitcase, flipping it open, digging through neatly folded clothes and expensive fabrics until you found something soft and worn, something familiar.

An old Harvard alumni t-shirt.

The fabric was faded. The letters were cracking. The material was stretched from years of being yanked on, pulled over her head in half-asleep movements, tossed into the wash again and again.

She’d had it since college and she still brought it with her. You clutched it tight in your fingers, holding it to your chest for a moment before tearing the bikini off, ripping off the sheer skirt, pulling on a pair of Claire’s boxers, and yanking the t-shirt over your head.

The second it was on, you curled up on the bed, knees tucked to your chest, hands clenched in the fabric like a lifeline. It smelled like her like home, like safety.

You inhaled deep, trying to pull yourself together, trying to to fix yourself before she got back. Because if she saw you like this, if she even suspected something was wrong…

The door handle rattled.

You froze.

“Baby, why the fuck is the door bolted?” Claire’s voice called out, sounded worried and frustrated.

You scrambled off the bed, nearly tripping over yourself in your rush to reach the door, unlocking it with trembling fingers before pulling it open.

Claire was standing there, brow furrowed, eyes scanning over you the second she saw you.

“I-I’m sorry,” you rushed out, voice still hoarse from crying. “I just… I don’t know, I wasn’t thinking.”

Claire crossed her arms, still looking at you like she was trying to figure something out. “Why are you in here?” she asked, tone shifting from frustration to confusion.

You swallowed, heart hammering. “I-I wasn’t feeling great,” you lied. “Thought I might nap.”

Claire tilted her head, studying you closer. Her gaze drifted down, taking in the clothes you were wearing, her boxers, her t-shirt, and her frown deepened. “…Why are you in my clothes?” she asked. “Not that I mind, but…you look like you’re ready for bed.”

You clenched your fingers tighter in the fabric, struggling to keep your voice even. “I just- I just wanted to be comfortable.”

Claire’s eyes narrowed like she sensed something wasn’t right. And fuck, you weren’t sure how much longer you could keep it together.

Claire didn’t let it go, of course she didn’t. She was a politician. She was sharp, too sharp to let something like this slip past her. And you knew that. Knew that the second she’d seen you, standing in the doorway in her old t-shirt, looking pale and shaken, something in her had clicked.

So you weren’t surprised when her eyes softened, not with relief, but with something much worse, with worry and with concern. With that keen, assessing gaze that meant she was already putting together the pieces of something you weren’t ready to say out loud.

“Baby,” she murmured, voice gentler now. “Are you sure?”

You nodded too fast, too eager. Too desperate.

“I-I’m fine, Claire,” you said, voice tight. “I just… I wasn’t feeling great, Peg walked me up, that’s all.”

Claire’s frown didn’t lift. Her hand came up, her soft, steady fingers reaching for you, instinctively seeking out the warmth of your skin… and you flinched.

It was a small movement, barely even noticeable, but Claire had felt it. She felt it and she froze. The space between you, already so small, suddenly felt like a canyon.

Her hand, still suspended midair, twitched before curling slowly back into a fist, falling back to her side. And the look on her face… that fucking look. You’d seen her angry, seen her livid. But this? This was something else entirely. This was something fragile.

“Baby,” she said carefully, like she was afraid you might shatter if she wasn’t careful. “What’s happening?”

You forced yourself to smile. Your face felt stiff, unnatural, like it knew you were lying before your mouth even formed the words. “It’s nothing,” you said, voice falsely light. “I’m fine.”

Claire’s expression darkened. It was clear she didn’t believe you, but before she could push further, something else flickered across her face.

Something pained, something hesitant. She swallowed thickly, shifting on her feet, suddenly unable to meet your eyes as she murmured, “Is this about…? About the trial?”

Your stomach dropped. “I-…”

“I know how you feel about this,” she said quickly, voice just shy of desperate. “And I know I should’ve said no, I know it’s fucked, I know it’s Andi, and I—”

She exhaled sharply, raking a hand through her hair. “But I didn’t know what else to do,” she admitted, shaking her head, and you could see it, the spiraling thoughts, the gnawing guilt. “I couldn’t say no, I-”

She broke off, biting her lip. “Baby, please don’t be upset with me.”

The pain in her voice made your chest ache.

“Oh, Claire,” you whispered, stepping forward, practically scrambling into her arms. “I’m not, baby. I promise. I’m not.”

Her arms hesitated for half a second before they locked around you, pulling you tight against her like she’d been starving for you, like she had thought you were slipping through her fingers and she needed to hold on.

“I swear,” you whispered against her neck. “I swear, baby, I’m not upset with you.”

She still looked unsure, still looked unconvinced.

So you tilted your chin up, kissing her. Soft. Sweet. Like a vow. “Claire,” you whispered against her lips. “Kiss me.”

She exhaled shakily, brushing her lips against yours again, slow, hesitant, like she was still bracing herself. “Baby,” she murmured, voice barely there.

“Please,” you whispered. “Kiss me.”

And that was all it took. Her hands gripped your hips, fingers pressing firm against the cotton of her boxers as she pulled you flush against her. Her mouth was soft, desperate against yours, kissing you with all the words she wasn’t saying, all the emotions tangled in her throat, all the tension coiling in her shoulders.

It wasn’t enough.

You kissed her harder, clutching at her like she was the only thing keeping you from falling apart. Because maybe… maybe she was.

Claire pulled away just slightly, enough to put space between your lips but not enough to let you go. Her hands still held you tight, her breath warm against your cheek as she searched your face.

Her fingers traced over the fabric of her old Harvard t-shirt on your body, her thumbs just grazing the bare skin of your thighs where the hem of the shirt rode up. The concern in her eyes was clear, cutting through the heat of the moment like a cold breeze.

“Baby,” she murmured, voice husky but still gentle. “What’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t want to answer. Didn’t want to think about Miles. Didn’t want to think about the weight in your chest, the sick feeling in your stomach, the way your hands still trembled from earlier. So instead, you kissed her again. Only it wasn’t soft this time, it wasn’t careful, it was desperate. A need. A distraction.

Claire inhaled sharply through her nose, surprised, but didn’t hesitate to return it.

Her fingers tightened against your hips as you parted your lips, letting her deepen the kiss, her tongue sliding against yours. The room felt smaller, hotter, the air between you thick with tension.

She kissed you slowly, like she had all the time in the world to explore you, like she could feel something was off but wasn’t willing to pull away again just yet.

You weren’t going to let her. Your hands slid up her back, tugging her even closer, feeling the warmth of her skin through the lightweight linen of her shirt. You sighed against her lips, tilting your head to let her kiss deeper, harder, her teeth just grazing your bottom lip before she sucked it into her mouth.

And it worked for a while.

She let herself get lost in you, let you pull her down onto the bed, her hands exploring, moving under the oversized t-shirt to squeeze your waist, your hips, her fingertips grazing the sensitive skin at your sides. But then, again, she pulled back. Not much, just enough to make you chase after her, lips parted, eyes hazy, wanting more.

She smiled softly at how eager you were, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “Baby,” she murmured again. “Talk to me.”

No. Not now. Not when you could still feel his hands. Not when you could still hear the low rasp of his voice, the forced friendliness of it, the way his fingers had lingered.

So you did the only thing you could do. You took her hands, her strong, capable, safe hands, and guided them up your body. Up, under your shirt. Up, over the bare curve of your breasts.

The second she realized what you were doing, her breath hitched.

“Touch me,” you whispered, voice barely above a breath.

Claire groaned. A deep, low sound in her throat, her fingers instinctively flexing over your soft skin.

Her thumbs brushed over your nipples, making you shiver, and you gasped softly as she squeezed, kneading the weight of your breasts in her hands, her eyes darkening as she watched you react beneath her.

“You’re not playing fair,” she rasped, her voice deeper, rougher.

You didn’t care. Didn’t care if you were playing fair, if you were playing dirty, if you were making it impossible for her to think straight. All you wanted was to forget. To lose yourself in her. To make this, her, the only thing in your head.

Claire groaned again, leaning down to kiss you, slower this time, deeper, her hands still warm, still perfect as she touched you exactly the way you needed.

And for the first time that day, you let yourself breathe.

Claire groaned against your lips, her fingers flexing, kneading the soft weight of your breasts. She squeezed, just enough to make you gasp, her thumbs brushing over your already sensitive nipples. You whimpered, arching into her touch, your body desperate for it, for her.

“Shit, baby,” she murmured, voice low and rough, breath hot against your cheek. “Love playing with your tits.”

A whimper caught in your throat as she rolled your nipples between her fingers, tugging just enough to make your back arch. Your head spun, pleasure drowning out everything else, every thought, every memory, every trace of him.

There was only her.

Only Claire. Only the warmth of her hands, the teasing pull of her fingers, the way she cupped and squeezed and played with you like she had all the time in the world.

Your hips shifted restlessly against her, desperate for more, but Claire was focused, obsessed even, her eyes locked onto you, watching every little reaction, every soft whimper and sharp intake of breath.

“Look at you,” she muttered, voice thick with want. “So fucking pretty, baby. You like this?”

You could only nod, lips parted, a tiny, desperate sound slipping from your throat.

Claire smirked, then tugged at your nipples again, harder this time.

You whined, thighs squeezing together, body writhing under her.

She groaned at the sight, shifting to press a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your neck, nipping lightly at your skin. “Sensitive little thing,” she mused, rolling her hips just slightly against yours. “Love having my hands on you. Could touch you all fucking day.”

You gasped, your body a live wire under her touch, your mind too fuzzy to hold onto anything else, no worries, no fears, no past. Just Claire. Just her hands. Just the perfect way she owned you, made you forget everything except how good she made you feel.

Claire groaned, her fingers still teasing, still tugging, still making you squirm. Her thumbs brushed over your stiff nipples, and you gasped, your whole body trembling under her touch.

“Touch me all day,” you whimpered, desperate, pressing your chest further into her hands. “Please, baby. Don’t stop. I don’t wanna leave this room, I don’t wanna go anywhere, I just wanna stay here with you. Till this trip is over, till we’re home even, just stay with me, please.”

Her hands squeezed, tugged, making you gasp again, back arching. “Not until you tell me what’s going on in that pretty head of yours,” she murmured, voice husky but firm, her thumbs rolling over your sensitive peaks.

A whimper left your lips as you scrambled for something, anything to keep her from pressing, to keep her hands on you, to keep you here, safe.

“Nothing,” you gasped, shaking your head. “Can’t think of anything but you, please, mommy.”

Claire froze.

For the first time since she had laid her hands on you, she paused, fingers still resting against your flushed, sensitive skin, her dark eyes searching yours. Because she knew. She knew you. She knew how you sounded when you were desperate, when you wanted her. She knew how you sounded when you were trying to run. And right now, she could tell the difference.

She frowned, torn, her fingers twitching against your skin. Because fuck, here you were, your tits out, gasping, offering yourself to her like the sweetest fucking thing she’d ever seen, like all you wanted was for her to take care of you, to make you forget. But she hated that you needed to forget something. She hated the way you had flinched before. She hated the way you were running from something you weren’t telling her about.

Her jaw tensed, eyes flicking between yours, searching, debating, trying to decide whether to push or to give in, to give you what you wanted, what you needed, or to pull back, to demand the truth. Her hands were still on you, warm, steady, but her gaze was something different now, something deeper, something filled with something close to fear. And she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do with it.

Claire’s hands dropped from your body completely as she stepped back, putting space between you for the first time since she’d walked into the room. The shift in her presence was instant. Where there had been heat, hunger, devotion, there was now something sharp, something concerned, something demanding.

“No,” she said firmly, shaking her head. “Baby, no. I love you, but no. You’re talking to me about this.”

Your stomach twisted uncomfortably, and you sighed, tugging your top back down to cover yourself, suddenly feeling too exposed, too vulnerable. You folded your arms over yourself, hugging your own body, trying to push down the sting of tears in your throat.

“It’s nothing,” you murmured. “It’s stupid. A total overreaction, honestly, don’t worry.”

Claire’s eyes darkened in an instant. “Overreaction to what?”

You exhaled heavily, your gaze flicking anywhere but her, trying to will the tension in the room to evaporate, to let this moment pass. But Claire wouldn’t let it pass. Not when she was looking at you like that, standing there so still, so steady but ready, like a storm just before it broke.

You clenched your jaw, fingers gripping your own arms. You could still feel it, the weight of his arm slung around your waist, the press of his palm against your hip, the casual, entitled way he had touched you, like you were just another thing in his collection.

You swallowed, forcing the words out. “Miles touched me.”

The room went silent. Claire went rigid. “What the fuck did you just say?”

You sighed, shaking your head quickly, already seeing the way her expression was shifting, darkening into something terrifying, something lethal.

“See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you,” you said quickly, voice tight with nerves. “It was nothing, really.”

But Claire was already moving before you could stop her, spinning toward the door like she was about to hunt him down, like she was going to tear him apart.

“Claire- no,” you gasped, grabbing her wrist, holding on tight. “Please. It’s not- it’s not that serious.”

She turned back to you, her entire body vibrating with fury, her jaw clenched so tightly you could hear her teeth grind. “Not that serious?” she repeated, voice low, dangerous. “He touched you. You flinched when I tried to touch you, baby. And you want me to pretend that’s not that serious?”

You swallowed, shifting closer to her, your grip on her wrist tightening as panic built in your chest. “Claire, please,” you whispered. “You know him. You know what he’s like. If you make this a thing, he’s gonna- he’s gonna lash out, he’s gonna make things worse. I can’t- I can’t let you do this. It’s not important enough to make waves, okay?”

Claire’s nostrils flared, her entire body tense, her fists clenched so hard they shook. “Baby,” she said, voice low, raw, pained, “you are the most important thing.”

You let out a shaky breath, moving in closer, pressing yourself against her as if you could just melt into her body, as if you could disappear into her arms and make all of this go away.

“Then don’t say anything,” you whispered, voice pleading. “For me, okay? Just- just don’t say anything. Just stay with me. It’s not long now, till this is over. Just stay with me.”

She let out a slow, heavy breath, and for a moment, you thought she might argue, might tell you she couldn’t stay silent, that she wouldn’t. But then she sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly, her hands finally coming up to grip your arms, sliding up, squeezing gently.

She leaned in, pressing her forehead against yours, her breath warm on your lips. “Fine,” she murmured. “I won’t say anything.”

You exhaled in relief, letting yourself fall into her, wrapping yourself around her, inhaling the scent of her, the scent of something grounding, something safe.

“But I promise you this,” she said, voice firm, unwavering. “I won’t leave your side for a second.”

Claire held you close, arms locked around you like she was anchoring you to the world, keeping you safe. And for a second, just a second, you let yourself believe that maybe she could, that maybe if she just held you tight enough, she could erase it, make the sick feeling in your stomach disappear, make the memory of his hand on your thigh vanish.

But your chest tightened, and you let out a shaky breath, pressing your face into the crook of her neck as the tears finally spilled over.

Claire’s grip immediately tightened, her hand stroking up and down your back, her lips pressing against your hair. “Baby,” she whispered, pained, helpless. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

And that only made you cry harder.

“It wasn’t even explicit,” you choked out, voice thick with tears. “It’s not like he- he said anything outright, or, or forced anything, or even made me feel threatened exactly, it was just…” You swallowed hard, hands fisting in the fabric of her shirt. “It was just the way he made me feel.”

Claire exhaled slowly, her jaw clenched against your temple, silent but listening.

You sniffled, trying to collect yourself, but it was so hard when she was holding you like this, when the warmth of her body was so safe but the memory of his touch was still lingering.

You took a shuddering breath. “And the book deals… God, Claire, the way he talks about them, it’s like a business proposition. Like- like, look at Whisky, she played the game, she made herself useful, so why wouldn’t I?” Your throat tightened. “And the worst part is, it didn’t even feel calculated. He wasn’t, like, deliberately pressuring me. It’s just…”

You shook your head, letting out a bitter, wet laugh.

“It’s just that he assumed,” you whispered, voice raw. “He assumed that if he made a move, if he offered himself up, I wouldn’t be able to resist.”

Claire’s hold on you turned almost crushing, her breath shaking as she nuzzled into your hair. “He really thinks he’s that fucking irresistible,” she muttered, voice dark, dangerous.

You huffed out a small, mirthless laugh, tears still slipping down your cheeks. “I mean,” you said weakly, “I’m a lesbian. Surely he must know this won’t work on me.”

Claire let out an incredulous breath, shaking her head against yours, and then she pulled back slightly, cupping your face in her hands, wiping your tears away with her thumbs.

“Oh, baby,” she murmured, voice thick with a painful sort of fondness, something utterly devoted but also furious on your behalf.

You sniffled, pressing into her touch, her warmth, her safety.

“I hate him,” Claire said simply, fingers stroking your cheeks, voice soft but lethal. “I hate him so much, baby.”

You closed your eyes, exhaling slowly. “I know.”

“And I can’t do anything about it?”

You swallowed, looking at her desperately. “Please, Claire.”

Her jaw clenched, and she took a slow, grounding breath. “Okay,” she murmured, voice rough, uneven. “Okay. But I’m not letting him near you again.”

You nodded, finally, fully collapsing into her arms.

And she held you like she never intended to let you go.

Claire had been holding you for what felt like forever, her hands gentle but firm, her touch grounding you, keeping you here, keeping you safe. Her thumbs kept stroking small, soothing circles into your back, and every few moments, she’d kiss the top of your head like she needed to remind you she was there, like she needed to remind herself that you were safe in her arms.

Eventually, you sniffled, pulling back just enough to look at her. “Okay,” you whispered, voice still thick from crying. “We should go back out.”

Claire searched your face, her hands coming up to cup your cheeks, her thumbs brushing over your damp skin. She hesitated, like she was looking for any reason to keep you in here, away from them, but eventually, she nodded.

“Yeah, baby,” she murmured. “Wanna swim together?”

The corner of your lips quirked, a small, shy smile as you nodded.

She beamed, her whole face lighting up like she was so proud of you for being brave enough to step outside again, and she pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips before pulling back. “Okay,” she said gently, giving your arms a little squeeze. “Let’s get changed.”

Your heart fluttered as you moved to grab your bikini, but the moment you held it in your hands, you hesitated, suddenly feeling too exposed, too seen.

Claire noticed immediately, stepping behind you, her hands resting lightly on your shoulders. “Hey, baby,” she murmured, voice soft. “It’s okay. Why don’t we bring a cover-up for when we get out of the pool, yeah?”

You nodded, letting out a small breath of relief, and Claire kissed your temple before helping you change. She took her time adjusting the strings of your bikini, making sure you were comfortable before slipping a light, soft cover-up over your shoulders. Her fingers smoothed down the fabric, and then she pulled you into her chest, wrapping her arms around you.

“Perfect,” she murmured, lips pressing softly against the shell of your ear. “So, so perfect, baby.”

You melted into her, letting her kiss you slow and sweet before she finally took your hand and led you back outside.

The sun was bright, almost too bright after the dimmed comfort of the bedroom, and for a moment, you hesitated. But Claire squeezed your hand, glancing over at you with a warm, reassuring smile, and just like that, the tension in your shoulders eased.

She guided you to a sun lounger, settling you down before straddling the lounger behind you, reaching for the sunscreen.

“Can’t have my baby getting burned,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck before squeezing a generous amount of sunscreen into her hands.

You shivered as her fingers smoothed over your back, rubbing the lotion into your skin with slow, thorough movements. She took her time, her hands massaging over your shoulders, your arms, your spine, her thumbs pressing gently into the muscles of your back.

“You’re so tense, baby,” she murmured, kissing the top of your shoulder as her hands kneaded softly. “Just relax, I’ve got you.”

You let out a small, content sigh, leaning into her touch as she continued working the sunscreen over your skin, her hands trailing down your sides, over your stomach, your thighs. By the time she was done, you were practically boneless, melted into her lap.

She chuckled, kissing the side of your neck again. “All good?”

You turned to her with a soft, sleepy smile, reaching for the sunscreen bottle. “Your turn.”

Claire smirked but let you maneuver yourself onto your knees, facing her as you squeezed some sunscreen onto your palms. You started at her shoulders, your hands gliding over her skin, taking your time to rub in the lotion with the same slow, methodical care she’d given you.

When you reached her chest, you frowned, tsking lightly. “Baby, you’re burning up,” you murmured, pouting.

Claire laughed, shaking her head as you ran your hands over her collarbones, her sternum, rubbing in more sunscreen than necessary, but she wasn’t about to complain when you were touching her so sweetly.

“Is that so?” she teased, raising an eyebrow.

You nodded firmly, smoothing more lotion over her shoulders, pressing a lingering kiss to her clavicle before finally pulling back. “There. Now you’re safe.”

Claire grinned, stealing a quick kiss before taking your hand and guiding you toward the pool.

The water was cool against your overheated skin, and the second you both stepped in, you melted, your muscles relaxing under the gentle sway of the water.

Claire waded in deeper, and the moment she was deep enough, you launched yourself into her arms, wrapping your legs around her waist, your arms around her shoulders, clinging to her like a little koala.

She let out a soft, delighted laugh, immediately wrapping her arms around you, one hand splayed over your back, the other cupping the back of your head. “There’s my baby,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple.

You hummed, burying your face in her neck, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of her sunscreen, her shampoo, her everything.

She swayed the two of you gently in the water, one hand rubbing slow, soothing circles into your back.

“Better?” she murmured.

You nodded, nuzzling into her.

She kissed the top of your head, her arms tightening around you. “Good,” she whispered. “I’ve got you, baby. I’m not letting go.”

And you believed her.

You were so warm, so content, pressed against Claire’s chest in the pool, her arms wrapped around you as the water gently rocked you both. The sun was high in the sky, making everything hazy and golden, and you felt yourself slowly slipping into that perfect in-between space, not quite asleep, not quite awake, just floating.

Claire must’ve noticed, because she pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, murmuring, “Getting sleepy, baby?”

You hummed, barely able to keep your eyes open, completely at ease in her arms. “Mhm.”

But before you could drift off, a loud, roaring noise shattered the peace, making you jump in shock. You instinctively clung tighter to Claire, heart thudding as the sound grew closer, and then…

VROOOOM.

Your head snapped around just in time to see three luxury jet skis zooming through the water at high speed, the engines slicing through the otherwise still bay. They were sleek, brand new, painted in obnoxious metallic colors, gold, deep red, electric blue.

From the deck, Miles clapped his hands together, grinning wildly. “Gang! The speedboats are here!!”

Lionel, who had been sitting with his sunglasses on, letting his stress radiate into the atmosphere, slowly turned to look at Miles and sighed heavily. “Miles… these are jet skis. Very different.”

Miles rolled his eyes. “Same thing.” Then he grinned again, rubbing his hands together like some cartoon villain. “Now, c’mon! Let’s see who can beat Duke!”

Duke, already puffing up with pride, flexed his arms, the ridiculous tattoo of a gun on his bicep bulging. “Hell yeah, bro!” He turned to Whisky, all amped up now. “Babe! We need to take some videos for the channel, c’mon!”

Whisky, who had been lounging under the sun with an expression of mild boredom, suddenly perked up. She flipped her hair back, flashing a camera-ready smile. “Yes, Duke-y! Sounds good!”

You could tell immediately that she was excited to be featured more on the channel. A chance to get more views, to build a bigger following. She was already pulling out her phone, checking the angles, making sure she was camera-ready.

You sighed and turned your attention to Claire, who was watching the scene unfold with the most unimpressed expression you had ever seen. “…Baby,” you murmured, voice amused, “you don’t look very excited.”

Claire scoffed, glancing back at the jet skis with an expression like they had personally offended her. “That’s because I’m not.”

You grinned, already knowing full well that high-speed water sports were not her thing. “Aw, come on. You don’t wanna go race Duke?”

She shot you a look. “Absolutely not.”

And honestly? You were kinda with her on that one.

Taglist: @harknessshi @agathascoven1 @notorious-vick @jessica-mcd @sapphicfleur @lisqueen @starryjeongyeon @brekker157 @maximilfism @meghina18 @onlybynightandonlybysea @buttercandy16 @milflovers4 @rigglemethat @mistyshane30 @certified-sleep-deprived @agathaallalongg @yun4-st4rx @psychickryptonitebouquet @athnastasia @eletricheart @her0in-addicttt @writerspirit @sarahhh-plz @imlike-so-gaydude @morallygreymilfs @worstendingever @trasheddoll2 @womankissersworld @rizzlesregal13 @lowlyjelly @nightlyconfusion @morgananyx @agathaspett

#claire debella x reader #claire debella #kathryn hahn #kathryn hahn x reader #agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha all along #agatha harkness #agatha x reader

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p0orbaby · 2 months ago

Note

Oh so exciting about the currently working on!! Is there any chance you could do another like seperate universe where ale is a provider of some sort like that I love the way you write that dynamic - like she’s sort of mean but also whipped af

context: so they’re together romantically but ale gives reader like a monthly allowance

also @wosospacegirl wrote a similar trope here so go check it out!

You don’t ask for the money this time.

That’s what makes it worse, apparently.

“You’re getting clever,” she says, not looking up. She’s reapplying lip balm with the precision of a sniper. Her eyes are flat and reflective, like polished stone, like there’s something buried behind them—something untraceable, long dead and vacuum-sealed. “Which is dangerous. For you.”

She transfers it anyway.

You hear the low, satisfied thrum of the Monzo notification against the marble kitchen counter. Your phone doesn’t unlock—Face ID can’t identify you under the sulphur clay mask you put on half an hour ago, the one that smells faintly of wet pennies and promises a brighter complexion in twelve uses. You got it free in a PR package you never posted. The other items still sealed under your bed, probably expired. You liked the name of the brand—RUIN, all caps—and their slogan: deconstruct your skin. Thought it was funny.

You pick up the phone with a slow sort of reverence, like you’re checking exam results you already know are excellent. “Three days early,” you say, not bothering to keep the smile out of your voice. “You feeling generous, or just reckless?”

Alexia doesn’t reply. She lifts her glass of Verdejo—chilled exactly to ten degrees, the way she insists, the way you now recognise by tongue alone—and takes a measured sip, like it owes her rent. Her expression is dry and remote. Old-money disdain tempered by post-sex warmth. She’s wearing a floor-length robe in ivory silk, Valentino, vintage. The hem nearly touches the floor but never quite does—like even the fabric’s been trained not to presume.

The neckline is low enough that you catch the edge of a missed tan line, a delicate crescent just under her collarbone. A soft curve of pale skin that makes her look human, briefly. Unfinished.

You wonder, not for the first time, who left the mark. Herself, or someone else.

She sits. She always sits like it’s a statement. Like the air parts for her. The robe falls open just slightly at the thigh, enough to derail your thoughts mid-sentence. It’s not a mistake. Alexia doesn’t do those.

“You think this is a game,” she says, calmly. “It’s not Monopoly, guapa. You don’t get to collect two hundred euros for passing go.”

You tilt your head. “No, but I do get to stay in the hotel suite and wear the jewellery and get absolutely railed against floor-to-ceiling windows. That’s kind of the same thing.”

She sighs. It’s not exasperated. It’s theatrical. Composed. Like an aria just before someone is stabbed. Her toenails are painted a lurid, almost hostile shade of coral. New. You stare at them. You know her taste well enough to know she’s trying something different. A softness she hasn’t earned, or maybe a protest in disguise.

She once told you—after two negronis and a very slow orgasm—that she didn’t wear warm tones because they made her look “Mediterranean in a vulgar way.”

You’d blinked at that. “You are Mediterranean.”

“I’m Catalan,” she’d corrected. “There’s a difference.”

You’d let it slide. You’re used to her taxonomy of the self.

“You’re intolerable,” she murmurs now, almost affectionately. She’s swirling the wine with idle menace, not drinking it. “A charming parasite. Like toxoplasmosis. Very bad for pregnant women.”

You grin at her, wide and deliberate. She hates when you do that. It makes her want to ruin you. “Still keeping me around, though.”

“I don’t keep you,” she says, sharper now. Like a shard of glass wedged under skin. “You’re not a pet.”

You stand. Take the wine glass from her hand like it’s legally yours. She doesn’t stop you. Never does. She watches as you drink, watches the lipstick smear on the rim—Hermès, shade Rose Boisé, which she bought you last month in a silence that felt like penance.

“I’m not a pet,” you say, easing yourself onto her lap like you’re made of something softer than you are. She’s all tension and cheekbones and proprietary rage, but she smells like cedarwood and powdered sugar and some French brand that doesn’t even have a website. “But you do pay me. And feed me. And fuck me. So, if it quacks…”

She kisses you before you can finish. It’s brutal. Less affection, more obedience training. It makes your teeth knock a little. You like that. She doesn’t.

After, she touches your cheekbone with her mouth. It’s almost tender. Almost.

“You’re very lucky I like you,” she says, like it hurts her.

You hum into her collarbone. “Like me? Or love me?”

She doesn’t respond. But you feel her reach for her phone. She scrolls with surgical detachment, then taps something. The coat arrives two days later. The one you sent her a screenshot of at 2am, with the caption I want this like I want God to apologise.

You told her you’d forgotten about it.

She didn’t.

You don’t say thank you. You just press your mouth to her jaw, just where it starts to go sharp. You whisper, “You’re such a melt.”

Alexia exhales like she’s surrendering. “I really am.”

#alexia putellas #alexia putellas x reader #woso #woso x reader

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sicutpuella · 8 months ago

Text

Sweet Like Honey | Simon Riley x Reader

A honey trap—such a sterile phrase his superiors used, as if it could sanitize the rot festering in his conscience. Unethical? Yes; but that single syllable barely scratched the surface of his transgression. They needed information, they said, and Simon—God help him—had orchestrated every tender moment, every breathless laugh, every trembling touch with surgical precision. His superiors, those faceless men in their stark offices, had pushed the proposal forward; they wanted him closer to her father, that suspected architect of labyrinthine offshore accounts.

He remembers that exact moment. Her eyes had sparkled with tears of joy when he dropped to one knee—tears that now haunted his dreams, crystalline drops of his betrayal. In quiet moments, when she lay sleeping beside him, her trust radiating like warmth against his skin, the question would claw at his throat: When she discovers the truth—not if, but when—will those same tears fall in rivers of rage? Will her love calcify into hatred, sharp enough to pierce the armor he'd built around his guilt?

"Three years of marriage." Her words floated like seafoam in the Mykonos twilight; wine-hazed eyes drinking in the pastel sky as if it were a gift he'd arranged specially for their anniversary.

Simon's jaw tightened—a muscle working beneath the skin—as waves lapped at their bare feet with metronome precision. The word 'marriage' sat like bile in his throat; every anniversary a fresh reminder of his calculated lies. He fixed his gaze on the bleeding horizon—anywhere but at her—letting the salt wind strip away the taste of guilt that had become his constant companion.

"Yeah... three bloody years." The words scraped past his lips, his British accent thick and coarse as Mediterranean sand. A bitter laugh threatened to escape—three years of this charade, three years of her soft touches that felt like brands against his skin. "Can't believe it's been that long."

She reached for his hand; he let her take it.

"I'm so happy you married me..." Her words hung in the salt air—fragile as soap bubbles, painful in their innocence. Those eyes, sparkling with a love he could never return, cut deeper than any interrogation he'd endured in the field.

Simon's muscles coiled beneath his skin; her declaration struck like a precisely aimed blade. His jaw worked silently—grinding truth to dust—as guilt wrapped its familiar fingers around his throat. The sensation lasted only moments before training kicked in; sentiment was a luxury he couldn't afford. He had a job to do—always the job.

"Yeah..." The word emerged like gravel. His expression hardened into the mask he'd worn for three years. "Me too."

A heartbeat of hesitation—then, striving for conviction: "It was the right thing to do..."

She wound herself around his arm like morning glory seeking sunlight. "Do you love me?" The question dripped with need for reassurance; every syllable another weight added to the anchor of his deception.

A muscle betrayed him—twitching in his jaw like Morse code airing out his lies.

"Course I do..." The words tasted of ashes as he forced himself to meet her gaze. Her eyes—God, those trusting eyes—gleamed up at him like searchlights through his carefully constructed shadows, sending fresh waves of guilt crashing against his ribs.

Mission parameters flashed through his mind like a lifeline: just a mission, a means to an end—nothing more. Clinical words that did nothing to dull the edge of her next question.

"Have I made you happy?"

The question hung between them like a loaded gun; he wondered which of them it would wound more deeply.

Simon's jaw ticked—a mechanical tell he couldn't control—as her voice spilled sweetness and light into the darkening air. His fists clenched; knuckles white with the effort of containing truths that would shatter her world.

"Yeah... you have." The words scraped past gritted teeth; his tone harsh enough to wound—though whether himself or her, he wasn't certain.

He forced himself to look at her—God help him—and found trust swimming in those eyes; love so pure it sent guilt cascading through his veins like ice water. Training kicked in like muscle memory: compartmentalize, distance, remember the mission parameters. This was all theater—a carefully orchestrated performance where he played the doting husband.

"If I make you uncomfortable or unhappy—" her voice trembled with an eagerness that flayed him alive—"tell me what to do and I'll change whatever it is you don't like about me."

Simon's shoulders sagged beneath the weight of her devotion; each word of self-doubt another stone added to the cairn of his shame. Her willingness to reshape herself for a man who didn't exist—it was obscene in its innocence.

"You don't need to change anything." His voice emerged gruff, carefully modulated to hide the storm beneath. "You're perfect the way you are." Perfect—and that made it infinitely worse.

As they walked further along the shore, his boss's voice slithered through his memory like an oil slick: "Give her a baby, Riley. Solidify that you're a family man to her and her family... that'll make them trust you more..."

The waves crashed against the shore; Simon wondered if they could wash away the taste of bile rising in his throat. A baby—the ultimate collateral damage in this game of shadows and lies. His handler's words echoed like bullets in an empty chamber; each one designed to kill whatever conscience he had left.

Simon's gut twisted into knots as his handler's words burrowed deeper—parasitic thoughts breeding shame. Using her love, her body, their marriage had been one thing; but this—creating life as a prop in their charade—made bile rise bitter in his throat.

He swallowed against the acid guilt. "Baby..." The endearment scraped past his lips like broken glass; his voice rough with self-loathing. "I need to talk to you about something."

"Yeah, baby?" Her response came wrapped in a smile—always that damned smile on her gorgeous face; each curve of her lips another twist of the knife he'd planted in his own conscience.

Simon guided her toward a secluded stretch of beach—away from witnesses to his latest betrayal. His muscles coiled tight as she called him 'baby'; the war in his mind reached fever pitch—duty and disgust grappling in the shadows of his skull. Professional distance crumbled beneath the weight of what he was about to propose.

He drew in a breath that tasted of salt and lies; tried to fortify himself against the magnitude of this new deception. Speaking had never been his strong suit—now words felt like weapons turned inward.

"...I've been thinking about something." His voice dropped low; serious—as if gravity itself could lend legitimacy to this fresh hell.

"I've been thinking..." Another breath—sharp enough to cut—"that maybe we should start trying for a baby..."

The words fell like stones into the space between them; he couldn't bear to meet her eyes. Instead, his gaze fixed on the sand—watching darkness creep across it like the stain he felt spreading through his soul. This was more than a mission parameter now; this was crossing a line he hadn't known existed until he stood at its edge—about to take a step that could never be untaken.

Her eyes widened—galaxies of hope expanding in those innocent depths.

The squeal that erupted from her lips pierced the evening air: "Yes! Yes!"

Simon's face contracted like a wound being stitched; her unbridled joy a fresh kind of torture. The guilt gnawed at his bones—a familiar parasite he'd learned to live with—but he buried it beneath layers of practiced indifference. Just the job, just the bloody job.

"Yeah... yeah..." The words tasted of ash in his mouth as he attempted enthusiasm—a poor actor playing at happiness. "I thought it was time." Time for what? Another layer of betrayal; another innocent drawn into his lies?

Her face glowed with such pure delight—Christ, if she only knew the truth behind his proposal, would that radiance transform into something that could burn him alive?

"I'm so happy... I'm so happy..." She bounced on her toes like an excited child; her eyes swimming with naked affection as she gazed up at him. "Can we try tonight?"

The question hit him like a body blow—air evacuating his lungs in a silent gasp. His jaw clenched; muscle memory of contained revulsion. "Tonight?" His voice emerged rough as sandpaper. "Uhh... tonight?"

The speed of her agreement caught him off-guard; reality crashed over him like a cold wave. The physical act loomed before him—another performance in his repertoire of deception. But sex is sex—a mantra he'd repeated through three years of marriage; a thin comfort that grew thinner with each repetition.

"Sure baby... sure." The agreement slipped past his defenses before he could stop it.

Sex is still sex—the lie tasted bitter this time.

"Yeah... alright... tonight." Each word dragged like shrapnel from a wound.

Simon forced the syllables past the knot of self-loathing in his gut. Conflict churned inside him—desire warring with disgust, duty grappling with decency. But there was no extraction plan for this mission; no way to abort without destroying everything.

He drew in a breath that felt sharp as glass. "We'll head back to the room then, yeah?"

His extended hand seemed to belong to someone else—a stranger playing at being a loving husband. His mind raced through a labyrinth of regrets; each thought a new dead end. The fraud of it all pressed against his chest—this performance of love, this pantomime of family planning.

"Come on." The words scraped past his lips, gruff with barely contained turmoil. "Let's go."

Each step toward their room felt like moving through quicksand—every movement drawing him deeper into a lie he might never escape.

That evening, as she lay beneath him—trusting, eager, loving—his guilt manifested in the most primal betrayal of all. The little blue pill dissolved on his tongue earlier was his shameful secret; another lie to add to his collection. His body rebelled against his deception—even chemistry couldn't fully overcome the weight of his conscience.

It should have been paradise, shouldn't it? Being buried in the warm sanctuary of her body—her beauty undeniable, her desire genuine. But paradise, he'd learned, couldn't be built on foundations of sand and shadows. Each tender touch felt like judgment; each passionate kiss a sentence passed. His pleasure came tainted with self-loathing—mechanical responses to artificial stimulation.

The truth burned in his throat like acid: he couldn't maintain arousal—not with guilt wrapped around his throat like a garrote; not with his handler's voice echoing in his mind. This secret he'd take to his grave—another shard of shame embedded too deep to ever extract. The warmth of her body only emphasized the cold calculation of it all; heaven transformed into a special kind of hell, designed just for him.

She lay beneath him—all warmth and trust and love—while his heart turned to ice in his chest. The dim light caught the gold of her wedding ring; it flickered like an accusation with every movement. His own ring felt like a brand against his skin, burning with each tender touch she offered.

The chemistry coursed through his veins—artificial desire fighting against the tide of his guilt. Her fingers traced patterns of affection across his shoulders; each caress felt like judgment carved into his flesh. Paradise turned to purgatory; pleasure transformed into punishment.

"I love you," she whispered against his neck—words that should have been salvation became damnation instead.

His body responded while his mind recoiled; training and tablets working in tandem to maintain this cruelest deception. She arched beneath him—so trusting, so eager to create life with a man who was more shadow than substance. Her skin flushed with genuine desire; his grew cold with calculated performance.

The sounds she made—soft sighs of pleasure, whispered endearments—echoed in his skull like accusations. Each thrust felt mechanical; each kiss a fresh betrayal. His handler's voice mingled with her moans: "family man... make them trust you more..." Until he couldn't tell where the mission ended and the madness began.

Her hands cupped his face—so gentle, so loving—and he wanted to weep at the cruel irony. Here she was, trying to create life with a man who died a little more with each tender touch. The heat of her body only emphasized the cold calculation of it all; intimacy perverted into intelligence gathering.

He buried his face in her neck—not from passion, but to hide the war raging behind his eyes. She mistook his shuddering for pleasure; it was revulsion at himself. Even as his body chased its chemical conclusion, his mind splintered into fragments of guilt and duty and shame—pieces too sharp to ever fit back together.

Mediterranean sunlight crept through the curtains like liquid gold.

"Did you have fun?" Her question floated up from the tangled sheets; innocent as morning dew.

Guilt lanced through him—sharp and familiar now. Her eagerness to please him felt like needles under his skin; every effort she made to earn love he couldn't give was another weight added to his conscience.

He forced out a grunt—another performance in his endless repertoire. "Yeah... yeah I did. You've gotten better." The words tasted of copper and shame.

"Why do you ask?" He aimed for casual; missed by miles—tension threading through his voice like steel wire.

"I just want to make sure I'm making you happy," she murmured against his chest, fingers tracing abstract patterns on his skin. "I read some articles about... you know... trying for a baby. Making it more likely to happen." A soft laugh escaped her—pure, unguarded. "I want to do everything right."

Her head rested on his shoulder—soft hair brushing his skin like whispered accusations. Any other man would thank whatever god they believed in for a woman like her; Simon could only hate himself more with each gentle breath she took.

He wrapped an arm around her—another act in this elaborate charade—pulling her closer even as his soul recoiled. The weight of her trust pressed against him harder than her body ever could. She felt like silk against his skin; he felt like sandpaper against hers—rough with deception, coarse with lies.

The urge to push her away clawed at his chest—to end this facade, to confess every sin he'd committed in the name of duty. But the mission bound him like chains forged from his own choices. His mind waged its endless war: duty versus decency, mission versus morality. An innocent woman lay in the crossfire, and he'd loaded every bullet himself.

Her warmth seeped into his side; he wondered if it would ever wash away the cold calculation that had become his core.

Simon slouched in the corner, half-hidden by a wall of pastel balloons and garlands, the sound of laughter and soft coos grating against him like nails on glass. She was radiant, glowing in that way all the books and articles had promised, a woman basking in the warmth of her impending motherhood. Friends and family surrounded her, hands touching her belly as though it held some sacred truth he could never understand. She laughed—a sweet, unguarded sound that should have brought him joy. Instead, it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He couldn’t bring himself to join the celebration; every time he looked at her, every time she glanced over and smiled at him, something twisted deep in his gut—a sharp, relentless reminder that he was a fraud. She deserved a man who’d be a father in more than name alone, someone who’d be wrapped up in this new life with her, but all he could feel was the weight of his shame and pathetic self pressing down on him.

That evening, Simon spun a quick excuse for her—something about a problem at the office, a sudden emergency requiring his immediate attention. She barely questioned him, simply nodded with that gentle trust he’d come to dread. But his destination wasn’t the office; it was a dimly lit bar, a familiar back corner where his superior waited, nursing a drink and an expression Simon could only describe as smug satisfaction.

“So… successfully knocked an heiress up, eh?” The words rolled off his boss’s tongue as if they were discussing the weather.

Simon ground his teeth, feeling a spike of anger flare in his chest. “Yeah.” The response was clipped, his jaw clenched so tight he could barely force the words out. “I did what you asked.”

“Head over heels for you, is she?” His boss laughed, a low, contemptuous sound. “God, the poor thing.”

Each word felt like a blade twisting deeper. Yes, she loved him; she loved him with a sincerity he’d never known he could inspire. But the way his boss spoke of it—as if her affection was some cheap victory, as if her trust was a trophy to be tossed aside—made his blood run cold.

He balled his fists beneath the table, his knuckles turning white. “I know,” he said through gritted teeth, barely able to keep his voice steady.

“We didn’t think you’d pull it off this well.” The amusement in his boss’s voice was unmistakable. “We knew you could manipulate—use people; that’s what you do best, after all. But to get her so… blindly devoted? Impressive, even for you.”

Simon bit down hard, jaw aching as he fought to keep the bile from rising. He didn’t want to hear it; he didn’t want to hear about how flawlessly he’d betrayed her, how thoroughly he’d convinced her of a love that was nothing but smoke and mirrors.

“She trusts me,” he muttered, voice rough as gravel, hoping to deflect, to shut down this sickening praise.

His boss let out a chuckle, cold and mocking. “Just trust, is it? Sure, if that’s what you want to call it. But come on—no credit for yourself? I think you deserve a bonus for this one, Riley. You’ve put in the work, pulled all the strings. Hell, even I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Simon felt himself go still, every muscle in his body wound tight, like a coiled spring about to snap. The monster his boss saw in him—was that all he’d ever be? He forced himself to nod, his voice barely a murmur. “Yeah… sure. Send some extra cash my way if it makes you feel better.”

“Good,” his boss replied, that smug satisfaction radiating from him like poison. “I’m proud of you, Riley. You’ve secured an influential family, locked down the daughter. And soon enough, there’ll be a little Riley running around, further cementing our foothold.”

A wave of nausea rolled through him at that. His boss spoke as though this were just another operation, another mission ticked off the list. Not a woman’s life, not a child’s future—just another step in their endless game of leverage and control.

Simon gave a curt nod, jaw so tight it felt like it might shatter. He kept his silence, swallowing the urge to spit some scathing retort, to lash out and tear down every vile word his boss had spoken.

“Good,” his boss said again, with a finality that felt like chains tightening around Simon’s throat. “Keep it up… and, of course, gather all the intel you can on her father.”

Simon didn’t respond. He simply sat there, silent and still, the weight of his choices pressing down like iron shackles. The mission bound him—bound him tighter than any oath he’d ever sworn—and he couldn’t escape the feeling that, somewhere along the line, he’d traded his soul for it.

All photos sourced through Pinterest

Headers made by @rookthornesartistry

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jzprncess · 5 months ago

Text

threads of the past ౨ৎ

pairing : charles leclerc x reader

faceclaim : various people

main summary : Y/N and Charles grew up together in Monaco, sharing a close bond until her mother took her away after a family conflict. Many years later, after a loss she had to endure, Y/N returns to Monaco to fulfill a promise. There, she unexpectedly reunites with Charles, now a successful Formula 1 driver.

part 1

word count : 3,989

warnings : some designers do not exist in this au since i might take their fashion pieces!

note: this series will start off as a regular story and than gradually become a smau i think. i dont know tbh.

────୨ৎ────

The early afternoon sun bathed the narrow streets of Monaco in a golden glow, the faint hum of the Mediterranean breeze carrying the scent of jasmine and saltwater. In a quiet corner of the city, two children raced barefoot along the cobblestone path, their laughter echoing off the pastel walls of the buildings.

“Faster, Charles! You’re going to lose!” Y/N called over her shoulder, her grin wide as she darted ahead, her sundress billowing behind her.

“I don’t lose!” Charles shouted back, his face red from effort, his untamed brown hair sticking to his forehead. His determination was as fiery as the midday heat, and it wasn’t long before he closed the gap between them.

With one final burst of energy, Charles lunged forward, tagging Y/N’s shoulder just as she reached the large oak tree at the end of their street. They both collapsed in a heap beneath the tree, panting and giggling.

“You cheated,” Y/N accused, pointing a chalky finger at him.

Charles sat up straight, his chest puffed out proudly. “Did not. I’m just faster than you.”

She scoffed, blowing a strand of hair out of her face. “Only because I let you win.”

“Sure, you did,” he replied with a smirk, grabbing a fallen leaf and sticking it in her hair.

“Charles!” Y/N squealed, swatting at him as he burst out laughing. She shoved him lightly, but her smile betrayed her lack of seriousness.

Their days were often like this—filled with playful arguments, endless games, and the kind of joy that could only come from being young and carefree.

The bond between Y/N and Charles had formed long before either of them could remember. Their mothers often joked that they were inseparable from the moment they learned to walk. Born just two months apart, they’d spent nearly every day of their childhood together, whether it was exploring the rocky beaches or building forts in the small park near their street.

In the summer, they would race handmade sailboats in the fountain at the Place d’Armes. Y/N’s boats were always more colorful, with bright scraps of fabric for sails, while Charles’ were sturdy and precise, made with the help of his father.

“Yours is going to sink,” Charles teased one afternoon, nudging her shoulder as they crouched by the fountain’s edge.

“Is not! Look, it’s already ahead of yours,” Y/N shot back, pointing to where her pink-sailed boat bobbed confidently on the water.

“That’s because I let you go first,” Charles argued, though his grin gave him away.

When her boat finally won, Y/N jumped to her feet, hands in the air. “I win! Told you mine was better!”

Charles groaned dramatically, flopping onto the grass beside the fountain. “Fine, you win. But only because mine hit a leaf.”

“Excuses, excuses,” Y/N said, lying down next to him.

They stared up at the clear blue sky, the sound of birds chirping and distant waves lapping at the shore filling the silence.

“Do you think we’ll always stay here?” Y/N asked, her voice soft.

“Of course,” Charles replied without hesitation. “Where else would we go?”

Y/N didn’t answer. She didn’t want to think about what life would be like if things ever changed.

Their friendship was the kind that felt unshakable. They knew everything about each other—what foods they hated, which hiding spots were the best during hide-and-seek, and even their secret fears.

One evening, as the sun dipped low over the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, they sat cross-legged on the floor of Y/N’s bedroom. The soft hum of cicadas drifted through the open window.

“What are you scared of, Charles?” Y/N asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, puffing out his chest.

“Liar,” Y/N teased, poking his arm. “Everyone’s scared of something.”

Charles hesitated, his cheeks turning slightly pink. “Fine. I don’t like the dark.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “Really? But you always act so brave!”

He shrugged, avoiding her gaze. “It’s just... sometimes it feels like there’s something there, even when I know there isn’t.”

Y/N reached over and squeezed his hand. “If you’re ever scared, you can call me. Even if it’s the middle of the night.”

Charles looked at her, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks. What about you? What are you scared of?”

She hesitated, glancing down at her lap. “That someday... we won’t be friends anymore.”

Charles’s brow furrowed. “Why would you think that?”

Y/N shrugged. “I don’t know. Sometimes my parents fight a lot, and my mom says things about leaving Monaco.”

Charles’s grip on her hand tightened. “You’re not going anywhere. I won’t let you.”

The conviction in his voice made her smile, even as tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. “Promise?”

“Promise,” he said firmly.

But life had other plans.

A few weeks later, Charles started karting. At first, Y/N thought it was just another one of his hobbies, like soccer or building model airplanes. But it quickly became clear that this was different. Charles was obsessed, spending every spare moment practicing or talking about races.

Y/N tried to be supportive, but she couldn’t help feeling a little left out. Their afternoons of racing bikes and playing by the fountain were replaced with stories about karting championships and lap times.

One Saturday, she stood by the edge of the track, watching as Charles zipped around in his tiny kart, his face set in fierce concentration. Pascale stood beside her, cheering loudly every time Charles passed by.

“He’s really good,” Y/N admitted, though her voice was tinged with sadness.

“He is,” Pascale agreed, glancing down at her. “But he misses you, you know.”

Y/N looked up at her in surprise. “Really?”

Pascale nodded. “You’re his best friend. That doesn’t change just because he’s racing now.”

Her words comforted Y/N, but only for a little while.

A few weeks later, everything changed.

The fights between Y/N’s parents, once muffled whispers behind closed doors, had escalated into full-blown shouting matches. The walls of their home, which once echoed with laughter, now felt cold and thin, trembling under the weight of angry words. Plates clattered. Doors slammed. Y/N learned to tread lightly, her small frame slipping quietly through the spaces of their house as if trying to become invisible.

Late one night, she was jolted awake by the familiar sound of raised voices. The clock on her bedside table read 12:47 a.m. in glowing red numbers, but it could have been any time—this had become routine. Still clutching her stuffed rabbit, she hesitated before slipping out of bed, her bare feet making no sound on the floorboards.

At the top of the stairs, she crouched low, gripping the wooden railing as though it might steady her trembling hands. Below, the living room light flickered, casting long, restless shadows across the walls. Her father stood by the door, his face drawn and tired, while her mother paced back and forth, her voice sharp and brittle.

“I can’t do this anymore, David,” her mother said, her words breaking like glass.

“So, you’re running away? That’s your solution?” her father countered, his voice quieter but no less strained.

“I’m protecting her!” Y/N’s mother shouted, her hands shaking as she gestured toward the staircase. “She deserves stability, not this—this endless cycle of fighting.”

Y/N froze, her heart pounding in her chest. They were talking about her.

Her mother turned away from her father, her shoulders sagging as she began yanking open drawers and rummaging through cabinets. Moments later, a suitcase appeared on the couch, and Y/N watched as her mother began throwing clothes into it—shirts, dresses, anything within reach. Her movements were frantic, as if staying still might shatter her resolve.

Tears pricked at the corners of Y/N’s eyes as she tightened her grip on the stuffed rabbit, pressing it to her chest. Her father said something else—something quieter that she couldn’t hear—but her mother ignored him, zipping the suitcase with a finality that made Y/N’s stomach churn.

She wanted to run downstairs, to demand an explanation, but her feet felt glued to the spot.

The next morning, the house was eerily quiet. Y/N sat at the kitchen table, poking at a bowl of cereal that had long since gone soggy. The air felt heavy, thick with unspoken words.

Her mother entered the room, her expression tired but determined. She sat down across from Y/N, reaching for her hand.

“Sweetheart, we need to talk,” her mother began, her voice gentler now.

Y/N looked up, her heart sinking as she saw the suitcase by the door. “What’s going on?”

Her mother sighed, brushing a stray hair from Y/N’s face. “We’re leaving. It’s... it’s for the best.”

“Leaving?” Y/N’s voice cracked, her hands gripping the edge of the table. “Where are we going?”

“To America,” her mother replied, her tone clipped but firm.

“America?” Y/N repeated, the word foreign and strange on her tongue. “Why? What about Dad? What about—” Her voice caught in her throat. “What about Charles?”

Her mother hesitated, the faintest flicker of guilt crossing her face. “This isn’t about them, Y/N. Sometimes we have to make hard choices to protect the people we love. You’ll understand one day.”

Y/N shook her head, her chest tightening. “I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave—”

“Honey.” Her mother’s voice softened, her hand reaching out to cup Y/N’s cheek. “I know this is hard. But we’ll be better off there. I promise.”

The promise felt hollow, but Y/N didn’t have the words to fight back.

The following day came too quickly, the hours slipping through Y/N’s fingers like grains of sand. The taxi idled outside their home, its engine humming softly as her mother double-checked the bags.

Y/N stood by the door, her small suitcase clutched in one hand, her other hand gripping the stuffed rabbit that had been her silent companion through all of this. Her father wasn’t there—he had left for work early, unable or unwilling to say goodbye.

As she climbed into the back seat of the taxi, Y/N pressed her face to the window, her breath fogging up the glass. Her heart ached with a heaviness she didn’t yet have the words to describe.

As the taxi pulled away, she caught sight of Charles standing outside his house, his arms crossed over his chest, his brow furrowed in confusion. He wore his favorite red T-shirt, the one he always wore on race days, and his hair was messy, as if he had just woken up.

“Charles,” Y/N whispered, her voice too quiet to reach him.

His expression shifted from confusion to something else—heartbreak. He took a step forward as if to chase after the taxi but stopped, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

Y/N wanted to wave, to shout out the window and tell him she’d come back. But the lump in her throat was too heavy, and her hands refused to move. She could only watch as the familiar streets of Monaco blurred into the distance, Charles’s figure growing smaller and smaller until he disappeared entirely.

The weight of the moment pressed down on her chest, and for the first time, she truly understood what it meant to lose something precious.

And just like that, Y/N’s life in Monaco—and her friendship with Charles—was gone.

The streets of New York City were a symphony of noise and movement—taxis honked their horns in frustration, pedestrians hurried across streets, and the occasional siren blared in the distance. For twelve-year-old Y/N, the city's frantic energy was completely foreign. She had spent her entire life in the quiet beauty of Monaco, where everything moved a little slower, and the streets smelled of saltwater and sunshine. Here, the air was thick with the scent of exhaust fumes and hot dogs. The constant rush of people and cars felt like a constant reminder of how different her life had become.

Her mother had tried her best to make the transition as smooth as possible. They had found a modest apartment above a deli in the Upper West Side. The apartment was cramped, with peeling paint on the walls and creaky floors, but Y/N’s mother always tried to make it feel like home. She hung up brightly colored paintings, filled the shelves with books, and made sure the small kitchen was always stocked with ingredients to make Y/N’s favorite meals. Yet, no matter how many times Y/N tried to settle into her new life, there was a constant ache in her chest—the kind that came from a home she’d left behind.

At first, the culture shock was overwhelming. The city was alive with people from all over the world, but Y/N felt like a stranger in her own skin. School was different too. The other kids were loud and confident, their lives full of stories of places Y/N had never been. They spoke with an ease she envied, while she struggled to find the right words. The accent she had brought from Monaco stood out, and for the first time, she felt different, isolated.

But time, as it always does, began to heal the raw edges of her heart. The first time Y/N walked down the streets of Manhattan without feeling lost in the crowd, she realized she was slowly learning how to belong. She found solace in the quiet of the city's parks and in the rhythm of sketching designs in her notebook. Fashion had always been an escape for her. Whether she was creating something new from scraps or drawing intricate gowns on blank pages, it gave her a sense of purpose. And when the sewing machine hummed late into the night, it made the world outside her window fade away.

By the time she was sixteen, Y/N had started to make a name for herself. She took the subway to school every morning, sketchbook always in hand, where she studied the diverse styles around her—city folk in their sharp suits, the tourists who wore bold colors, and the older women who seemed to have perfected the art of elegant, understated chic. Each person was a new inspiration, a living canvas for her ideas.

It was then that Y/N’s designs started to catch the eye of local boutiques and independent designers. She worked part-time at a small fashion studio, sewing for local designers and creating custom pieces for clients. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was a start. The more she worked, the more connections she made. She began hosting small fashion shows, her pieces catching the attention of semi-famous figures who loved her work. It wasn’t the kind of fame she had always dreamed of—being a designer whose name appeared in glossy magazines alongside Vera Wang or Marc Jacobs—but it was something.

Still, something was missing.

As much as she tried to bury the past, it kept resurfacing. Monaco lingered in the corners of her mind, a quiet presence that never truly left. On quieter evenings, when the city outside felt still and distant, Y/N would sit by the window, her thoughts drifting to Charles. She would trace the lines of the buildings with her eyes, remembering the way the sun would shine on the harbor in Monaco, casting golden reflections on the water. She could still see Charles’s smile, hear his laughter as they raced down the streets on their bikes. Sometimes, she would pull out the old pictures of the two of them, taken on the beach in Monaco, their faces covered with sand as they giggled at their own silliness.

She had written to him once, the year after they left, but the letter was returned. Her mother had torn it up without saying a word. “Some things are better left in the past,” she had said with a sadness Y/N didn’t understand at the time.

Her father had been another ghost in her life. He had passed away when Y/N was just twelve. Her mother kept the news from her for as long as she could, protecting Y/N from the heartbreak that followed. It wasn’t until a year later, when Y/N found the letter tucked into the back of a drawer, that the truth came to light. The letter had been from her father, a note he had written before he died. He had left Y/N some money and a few possessions, things he had meant to pass down to her. But it was more than just material things—it was a piece of the past Y/N hadn’t been ready to face.

For years, Y/N pushed the letter away. She had no desire to open it, no desire to look back at a life she had left behind. But when she turned twenty-two, everything began to change.

Her mother had grown ill—first it was a cough, then it was difficult breathing. The diagnosis came swiftly, and the doctors were blunt: cancer. Fatal. The world around Y/N seemed to collapse, her foundation shaken to its core. She watched as the woman who had once been full of life became frail and weak.

The last few months with her mother were a blur of hospital visits and whispered goodbyes. The woman who had been her protector, the one who had shielded her from the pain of their broken family, was now the one who needed saving. And Y/N couldn’t fix it.

A week before her mother’s death, in a quiet hospital room with the smell of antiseptic heavy in the air, her mother had handed her an envelope. “This letter is for you,” she said weakly, her hands trembling. “When I’m gone... open it. And make the promise you made to me.”

Y/N didn’t understand at the time. But she took the envelope, her fingers brushing against the paper as she wondered why it felt so heavy.

When her mother passed, Y/N felt as though the world had stopped turning. The days bled together, a monotonous blur of work, sadness, and restless nights. She poured herself into her designs, hoping to find some semblance of peace. But peace didn’t come. She wandered through her apartment, the quiet weighing on her, the memories of Monaco creeping into every corner of her mind.

It was a rainy afternoon in the fall, the kind of weather that made everything feel like it was shrouded in a veil of sadness, when she finally opened the letter.

the letter

My Dearest Y/N,

I don’t know how to begin this letter. There are so many things I should have said to you over the years, and I wonder if I ever really had the words to explain them. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that life has a way of moving so quickly that you often miss the most important moments. This is one of those moments. So, I’ll say the things I’ve been meaning to say for so long, even if it’s too late now.

When we left Monaco, it wasn’t just because of the fighting, though that was certainly part of it. But I made a choice that day, a choice I thought was best for us both. I wanted to protect you from the pain, from the complexities of the life we had, from the things I couldn’t explain. I thought that if I took you away, if I removed you from the pressures of that world, you’d have a chance to grow up without the baggage of the past weighing you down. I was wrong.

You always did have a light in you, Y/N. A light that shone so brightly, I knew it would carry you far. When we arrived in New York, I thought you’d grow into someone different, someone independent and strong, someone who could build a life on her own. And you did. You are everything I ever hoped for you to be. But I realize now that there’s something missing. Something I didn’t give you, something I didn’t allow you to have because I was too afraid to face the truth.

Your father… he loved you, Y/N. So much more than I ever let you know. I know I kept you from him, from the life we built together in Monaco, and for that, I am truly sorry. But the truth is, I wasn’t protecting you. I was protecting myself. From the things that I couldn’t fix, from the dreams that slipped through my fingers, and from a relationship I knew was falling apart. I thought that by taking you away, I could spare you from the heartache that I was too afraid to face.

But, my love, I was wrong. And the one thing I regret most is that I never let you fully understand who you were—who you could be. You are so much more than what I let you see. Your father’s legacy, your heritage, they are a part of you that I denied, and I can’t take that back. I see now that you need to return to where it all began.

There are things in Monaco, things in your father’s world, that you need to find for yourself. Pieces of you that will make you whole again. I made a promise to him before we left, and it’s a promise I failed to keep. But now, it’s your turn to fulfill it.

Go back to Monaco, Y/N. Go back to your roots, to the home you left behind. I know it won’t be easy, and I know you’ve built a life here, but there is something waiting for you there, something that will make all of this make sense. I don’t know how to explain it, but you’ll understand when you’re there. The city, the harbor, the streets where you and Charles used to ride your bikes together—they all hold a piece of the puzzle.

Charles... I’m sorry, my darling. I know that you must think I kept him from you out of spite, but that wasn’t it. I just didn’t want you to get hurt. He was never a part of our plan, and I didn’t want you to feel torn between two worlds. But the truth is, he’s always been a part of you, Y/N. He always will be. You were both so young, so full of dreams, and I could see the bond between you two even back then. It was something beautiful, something pure. I know it’s been years, and I don’t know what the future holds for the two of you, but I know that you need to find your way back to him.

I don’t know if that means rekindling the friendship you once had or something else, but don’t let fear keep you from it. Don’t let fear keep you from facing what you’ve always known deep down. That part of you, that light, has always been tied to Monaco and to Charles.

I won’t be there to see you take this step, Y/N. But I’m asking you to do it for me, for both of us. I want you to finally understand what I couldn’t give you, to understand the reasons behind the choices I made. I want you to see that you are not just the girl who left Monaco— you are part of something bigger than what we’ve built here.

Please, take this step, Y/N. Go back to Monaco. Find what’s waiting for you. And if nothing else, find peace.

I love you more than words can express, and I always will.

With all my heart, Mom

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

taglist : @heluvsjappie @awritingtree @steamy-smokey @alex-wotton

#f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #formula 1 x reader #f1 x y/n #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fic #formula 1 x y/n #formula 1 x you #formula 1 imagine #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x you #cl16 x reader #cl16 imagine #jzprncess

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rhynestonez · 27 days ago

Text

BLURRED LINES

Bucky X Reader

Oneshot

Summary: You and Bucky go undercover as a couple in a high-end casino. You’re dressed to kill, but he can’t stop looking at you. Tension builds as you have to pretend to flirt, touch, kiss—all for the sake of the mission. The lines blur.

The air in the hotel suite is thick with steam and tension. You’re standing in front of the long mirror, smoothing the fabric of your dress down your sides as you take in the transformation. The black silk clings just right—elegant but dangerous, cut low enough to be distracting but tailored for ease of movement. Strategic slits, hidden loops for gear, enough flexibility to throw a punch if it came to that. You’d argued with Nat once about fashion in the field, but tonight? Tonight, the dress was the weapon.

From behind you, the sound of the door opens with a soft click. You don’t turn at first—you already know who it is.

“Didn’t think you were the type to be late, Barnes.”

His low voice answers after a beat. “Didn’t think you were the type to wear that.”

You glance at him through the mirror.

He’s standing just inside the doorway, frozen. Black tux. Crisp white shirt. His hair is tied back neatly, a few strands already slipping loose at the nape of his neck. His metal hand flexes once at his side before stilling.

“You clean up nice.” he says finally. Quiet. Flat. But his eyes betray him—dark and unmoving, fixed squarely on you.

You smirk and twist your earring into place. “That sounded dangerously close to a compliment, Barnes.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

His tone is gruff, but his ears betray him too—turning a little pink where they peek out from his hair. You catch it. You don’t comment.

You turn to face him fully, hands settling on your hips.

“Ready?”

He scans you once more. Not just the dress. The hidden knife at your thigh. The transmitter woven into your earring. The cool steel tucked just under the side of your bodice. His gaze lifts back to yours, unreadable now.

“Yeah-“ he says. “Let’s go get this over with.”

You walk toward him slowly, your heels clicking softly against the marble floor. When you reach him, he holds out an arm, his gloved hand curled slightly in invitation.

You slide your hand into the crook of his elbow.

“Don’t pretend like you don’t secretly love this.” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer, just puts his gaze elsewhere until you make it to the car.

The car ride to the casino is quiet.

Not uncomfortable—but thick. Dense, like something unspoken is taking up space in the backseat with you.

Outside the tinted windows, Monte Carlo is draped in golden light. The sun’s last stretch glints off the Mediterranean as high-end cars blur past. Palms sway lazily along the hills. Everything looks expensive. Dangerous. Perfect for a Hydra front operation.

You glance sideways.

Bucky sits beside you, legs slightly apart, one hand on his knee, the other resting—casually but precisely—near the side holster hidden beneath his jacket. His face is set in stone, but you can tell. He’s already in mission mode. Watching everything. Reading the layout of the city. The perimeter. The exit points.

Still, his eyes flicker toward you more than once.

But you pretend not to notice.

You check your lipstick in the compact mirror instead, not because you need to—but because it gives you something to do with your hands. Your fingers are steady, but your pulse is annoyingly loud in your ears.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” he asks finally, voice low.

You glance over. He’s looking at you—really looking, not just in that tactical, calculating way.

You close the compact with a soft click and tilt your head. “I’ve danced with worse.”

“Yeah, but not with me.”

His voice is barely above a whisper, and it’s almost playful—almost. But beneath it, something else simmers. Not quite nerves. Not quite jealousy. Something that feels like… warning.

You match his look. “I can handle you.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. A shadow of a smile.

“We’ll see.”

The casino is lit like it’s trying to seduce every soul inside it.

Crystal chandeliers, gilded marble floors, a glass dome high above that reflects the shimmer of every polished shoe and glittering necklace below. The noise is muffled elegance—clinking glasses, low jazz, a hum of conversation like distant thunder. Cameras are disguised as art. Guards in suits line the shadows.

The car pulls up to the front and the valet opens the door.

Your heels touch pavement first. The dress catches the evening breeze like smoke. You rise slowly, extending a hand—and Bucky is already there, taking it. He’s smooth, practiced, but his grip lingers just a second longer than necessary.

His metal hand rests against your back as you walk in, a gentle but unmistakable pressure.

It’s all part of the act. The intimacy. The easy affection. The illusion of being lovers.

So why does your skin burn where he touches you?

“Eyes on the room Barnes.” you whisper, not looking at him.

“I am-“ he murmurs, and you feel his mouth so close to your ear that your breath catches.

“You’re in it.”

You glance up sharply, and he’s already scanning the crowd again, stoic as ever. Like he didn’t just say something that made your stomach do a slow, traitorous flip.

You walk past velvet ropes, nodding to the security detail with a practiced smile.

Bucky plays the role well—silent and dangerous, a little possessive, perfectly tailored. Anyone watching would believe he was your bodyguard or your billionaire boyfriend. Or both.

You weave through the sea of perfume and tension toward the poker tables, trailing intel, eyes locking on your target.

“Act natural.” you say softly, looping your arm tighter around his.

“This is me being natural.”

You roll your eyes. “Try smiling once. For show.”

“I don’t smile for free.”

You lean in close, lips just grazing the shell of his ear.

“Fine. I’ll owe you one.”

This time, his grip on your waist tightens. Just slightly.

The private floor is buzzing—low voices, high stakes. You and Bucky glide through it like smoke, a polished couple whose wealth gives them the right to be everywhere and the power to be unnoticed. That’s what makes this place so dangerous. Everyone is playing a game behind the game.

Bucky’s hand never leaves your back.

He hasn’t spoken much since you entered the upper floor of the casino, but his body stays close—too close to be just part of the act. When you stop to grab a drink, his front brushes lightly against your shoulder, his breath catching on your skin for a second too long.

Your target is exactly where intel said he’d be: Armand Duclaire. Mid-50s, French arms dealer with a taste for rare weapons and younger women. He’s surrounded by bodyguards and a few glamorous hangers-on, drinking whiskey that costs more than your monthly gear budget.

Duclaire is leaning back at the main poker table, cigarette balanced between two fingers, laughing too loudly.

You squeeze Bucky’s wrist once in signal.

“I need to be close to him,” you murmur. “He’s got the auction guest list on him.”

“You’re not getting close to him alone.”

You smirk. “Jealous?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he sets his jaw, his hand tightening on your waist.

“Just stay close.”

You approach the table with casual grace, Bucky just behind you.

There’s only one open seat. You don’t hesitate—you slide into Bucky’s lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

His body tenses beneath you.

For half a second, his hands hover—unsure where to go—but then one lands on your bare thigh, slow and deliberate. His thumb rests there, warm and unmoving. A possessive gesture. Territorial.

Your breath stutters, just once, before you plaster on your flirtiest smile and turn your attention to the dealer.

“Mind if we join?” you purr to the table.

Duclaire’s eyes drift over you lazily. He nods. “Of course. Though I must warn you, beautiful distractions tend to lose big.”

You laugh lightly and reach across the table for your chips, the movement intentionally slow. Bucky shifts slightly beneath you—barely noticeable, but you feel the tension in his chest, his breath against your shoulder.

“Careful,” you say sweetly to Duclaire. “I don’t play to lose.”

You play for three rounds.

You flirt just enough. Laugh at Duclaire’s jokes. Brush your fingers along Bucky’s knee when you lean forward. Whisper against his jaw when you need to pass him intel—close enough that your lips graze his stubble. Close enough to hear his breath hitch.

“You okay?” you whisper during a lull.

“Fine.”

It’s a lie. He’s too still. Too quiet. His grip hasn’t moved from your thigh, but his thumb is making slow, deliberate strokes now. Just enough to make it hard to focus. Maybe it’s accidental. Maybe it’s not.

Then comes the perfect moment.

Duclaire pulls out a slim card from his jacket—gold trim, the auction list encoded in the barcode on the back. He places it on the table near his drink as he reaches for another smoke.

You shift again—slightly, just enough to lean into Bucky’s neck and whisper, “He has it. On the card. I can swap it. I just need a distraction.”

Bucky hums under his breath. You feel it deep in his chest.

He leans in—sharp, fast, efficient—and presses a kiss to your neck.

Your body goes rigid.

Not a fake kiss. Not just lips near skin for cover. No—he kisses you. Slow. Just below your ear. Hot breath against your throat, mouth open enough that you feel it burn. It lasts exactly three seconds.

Long enough for his fingers to grab the card and for you to swap it.

Long enough for your heartbeat to go completely haywire.

When you straighten again, your eyes lock.

You don’t speak.

You don’t have to.

You make the clean exit five minutes later.

The card is in your purse. The real one. Duclaire never notices—it was flawless. But you feel Bucky’s tension rising the second you’re out of that chair. His body close behind yours, quiet as a ghost but charged like a storm.

Down the hallway, the sounds of the casino fade—replaced by low jazz from the lobby and the rhythmic tap of your heels against marble.

He hasn’t said a word.

You glance over your shoulder.

“You gonna say something?”

He doesn’t.

You stop walking. So does he.

The corridor is dim, elegant. A long stretch of mirrors and gold trim that feels too grand, too intimate.

Your pulse stutters.

“It was just a play..” you say—too fast, too practiced.

Bucky steps forward. One step. Just close enough that you have to tilt your chin to keep eye contact.

“Felt real.”

He says it so low you almost miss it. And then his eyes—those sharp, storm-colored eyes—flicker down to your mouth. Just once. Just enough.

You swallow.

“It was the mission.”

“Then why are you shaking?”

You blink.

Your fingers are trembling. Just barely. But he’s close enough to notice everything. He always is.

“Adrenaline-“ you say, but it comes out breathless.

“Bullshit.”

You open your mouth—but the door at the end of the hallway opens suddenly. A hotel staff member pushing a cart. You both step aside, tension snapping taut, but it doesn’t dissipate.

The suite is silent when you get back.

You toss your clutch on the table, but your hand lingers near the strap. You don’t turn around.

“We got what we came for-“ you say flatly. “That’s what matters.”

Bucky closes the door with a click. The quiet stretches.

“It’s not just that.” he says behind you.

You let out a soft breath and finally turn. “Then what is it?”

He’s watching you with that unreadable expression again—tight shoulders, clenched jaw, eyes that look like they’re holding back something sharp and vulnerable at once.

“You sat on my lap.” he says slowly, like the words taste strange coming out. “You leaned into me like you meant it. You let me touch you. Kiss you.”

“Because we had to-“ you say, but your voice wavers. “You know that.”

“Then why didn’t you pull away?”

You feel it hit you in the ribs—hot and honest.

You stare at him.

His eyes are dark, locked on yours like he’s daring you to lie.

“Because I didn’t want to-“ you whisper. “Okay?”

Silence.

Then—he steps forward, and you don’t move.

“Say it again.”

“I didn’t want to stop.”

“yeah?” he breathes, voice rasped and quiet, like something broken just healed in his chest.

And then his hand lifts. Not rushed. Not aggressive. He touches your face like he’s still unsure you’re real—like the risk of wanting you might be too much.

But you lean into it.

Finally.

His hand lingers at your jaw. You’re so close. His breath is on your lips. That beat of stillness feels suspended in time—your body leaning into his, your mouth parted just slightly, like you’re waiting.

And you are.

Waiting for him to make the move. Waiting for yourself to let it happen.

But before either of you can—

Your comm crackles.

“Status check. You two clear?”

The voice is muffled, but unmistakable—your handler.

You flinch. Bucky’s head picks back up, a slight frustration in his clenched jaw.

He groans under his breath. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

You blink, heart still thudding in your throat. Slowly, you pull back—just enough to breathe. “It’s HQ. We have to answer.”

He goes to comply-but you’re already reaching for the tiny comm device tucked near your bra strap. You press the mic. Try to sound neutral.

“We’re clear. Package secured.”

“Copy that. Confirmed the switch went unnoticed. Hotel cams are being scrubbed. Extraction window in 40 minutes. You’ll have to sit tight till then. Keep the cover clean.”

You don’t respond at first. You glance at Bucky—he’s already pulled back, pacing a slow half-circle around the room, hands on his hips, head tilted back like he’s trying to will the tension out of his body.

“Acknowledged.” you say finally, and shut the comm off.

The silence that follows feels loud.

You smooth your dress. Try not to look at him. Your body is still vibrating from how close he was. How close you still are to losing the thread entirely.

“Well-“ you say, your voice quieter than you meant. “That was…”

“Bad timing.” Bucky finishes for you, eyes still on the wall.

You nod. Try to exhale some of the heat still buzzing through your veins.

He walks over slowly. Pauses in front of you, not quite as close as before. The moment—the one that almost happened—hangs between you, unspoken but undeniable.

“You okay?” he asks finally, softer now. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you interrupt gently. “We just… we got caught in it.”

He nods. “Yeah. Still.”

“Still..” you echo.

You both fall silent. Not awkward. Just careful. Like something has shifted—but neither of you are quite ready to step over the line again.

Not yet.

He scrubs a hand through his hair, then gestures to the couch. “We’ve got forty minutes. We should lay low.”

You nod. “Yeah. Good idea.”

You sit down. Not touching. But the air between you is thick with everything unspoken.

Not gone.

Just waiting.

You settle onto the edge of the plush hotel couch, your heels off, legs curled slightly under you. Bucky stays standing a moment longer, as if trying to work off the restlessness coiled in his limbs, then finally sits too—with a deliberate bit of space between you.

But not too much.

You glance over.

“You always pace like that?”

He freezes mid-movement, head turning slowly toward you.

“I wasn’t—”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Okay, maybe I was.” he mutters.

You smile, slow and a little smug. But you don’t press it.

Instead, you shift your body to face him more and reach down to adjust the strap of your heel. It’s a little thing, but it draws his eyes for just a second longer than it should. You catch him.

“Were you always this bad at pretending?” you ask.

He exhales a short laugh through his nose. “I was better when I didn’t care.”

“Ouch.”

“Not about you.” he says quickly. “About… the role. The cover. I used to just turn it off. The part that felt anything.”

The room quiets again.

You look at him—really look. His profile is sharper in the low lamplight. Tired. Beautiful in that worn-down, ex-soldier kind of way. You’ve known him long enough to recognize the cracks behind his calm.

“That sounds exhausting.” you say gently.

“It was.”

He leans back, one arm resting on the back of the couch. It brushes behind your shoulder, not quite touching you.

“I hated being touched, for a long time,” he admits. “Still do, sometimes. But you…” He glances at you, eyes sharp but quiet. “I feel fine when it’s you.”

The words hit you square in the chest. And you don’t say anything at first because what do you even say to that?

So instead, you nudge him with your shoulder—just enough to break the mood, not the meaning.

“Bucky, are you flirting with me again?”

“That wasn’t flirting.”

“Sure felt like flirting.”

He exhales a laugh. Low. Real.

You shift slightly, and your knee brushes his. This time, neither of you move away.

There’s a beat of silence. Then—

“Y’know, you snore.” he says suddenly.

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“When we were in Prague. That shitty safehouse above the butcher shop. You fell asleep for two hours, dead to the world. Snored like a chainsaw.”

You slap his shoulder lightly, feigning offense. “You’re full of it.”

“Swear on my life.”

“That’s rich coming from the guy who talks in his sleep.”

He looks at you sharply. “I do not.”

“You yelled ‘get down’ in your sleep that night.”

A beat.

He blinks, deadpan. “…I stand corrected.”

You laugh—and it’s a real laugh. Bucky watches it bloom on your face like it’s a rare thing, something he wasn’t expecting to see but can’t look away from now that it’s there.

When your laughter fades, the room softens again.

You both shift, unconsciously, leaning closer—knees brushing fully now, his arm still half-draped along the couch behind you. The quiet is no longer heavy. Just there. Warm. Unspoken.

You sigh.

“This isn’t weird, right?” you say. “Us. Here. Everything.”

“No.”

“Good.”

“Good.” he echoes.

And again—there it is.

That charged, fragile pause. The space where a kiss could fit. He leans in slightly. You meet him halfway. Not kissing. Not yet.

Just close enough that if either of you breathed a little harder, it might tip over.

But neither of you do.

Not yet.

The extraction goes smoothly.

Too smoothly.

You and Bucky slip out of the hotel in clean streetwear and low profiles. Sunglasses, quiet strides, no handholding this time. No laughter. The tension from the night before has cooled to something taut and unreadable, like the final stretch of a wire before it snaps.

The jet ride is brief. Nondescript. You sleep for half of it with your head leaned against the wall, heart stubbornly ignoring how much it wants to lean the other way—toward him.

Bucky doesn’t say much. Just sits across from you, arms crossed, looking out the window like he’s trying to stay out of his own head.

Neither of you talk about what almost happened.

The mission is technically a success. Everyone’s pleased. No injuries. The asset’s safe. Surveillance wiped. You even get a quiet “good work” from the director before you’re dismissed.

But it doesn’t feel like an ending. Not yet.

You’re both dropped off at the safehouse. Just for the night. Debrief’s in the morning. The usual. The space is quiet, sterile, like every other post-op resting point—two bedrooms, a kitchen, plain walls, no warmth.

You go to your room first, dropping your bag. You want to shower. Wash off the night. The weight of pretending. Of not saying what you should’ve.

You make it ten minutes before there’s a knock at your door.

You open it. He’s there.

In his dark jeans and long-sleeve henley. Still carrying the echo of last night on his face—drawn, unreadable. But this time, he’s not looking away.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

You step aside wordlessly.

He doesn’t cross the room. Just stops a few feet in. Like he knows if he gets any closer, something’s going to break.

“I didn’t want to touch you anymore than I had last night and ruin it.” he says, voice quiet. “I didn’t want to kiss you just because the mission made it easy.”

You watch him. Say nothing.

“But it didn’t stop. The mission’s over and I still—”He cuts himself off. Runs a hand through his hair. His jaw clenches.

“I don’t know how to do this. I never learned how to want something this way.”

Your breath catches.

“You think I did?” you say, just as quietly. “I’ve been pretending to want the wrong people for years. Then you show up and ruin it.”

He looks at you now. Eyes dark, but open.

“I ruined it?”

“Yeah-you did.” you breathe. “In the best possible way though.”

That’s all it takes.

The last domino tips.

In two strides, he’s in front of you. One hand on your waist. The other coming up to your face, giving you a second—just a second—to pull away.

You don’t.

So he kisses you.

Finally.

And it’s nothing like the mission. Not practiced. Not calculated. It’s unsteady and deep and real.

You make a soft sound—half relief, half ache—as you melt into it. His mouth parts yours slowly, like he’s still afraid to break you. Like he’s still learning what safe feels like.

Your fingers grip the hem of his shirt. His hands span your lower back, then your hips, then up—every touch pulling you closer. More.

There’s no mission now.

No role to play. No cameras. No handler’s voice in your ear.

Just the two of you, pressed together, wanting and unsure and entirely here.

When he pulls back, it’s only an inch. You’re both breathing hard.

“If this is a mistake.” he says, voice low. “Tell me now.”

Instead of answering him, you kiss him again.

Slower.

Willingly.

Because there’s nowhere left to run.

Notes: this might have a part 2 :3

#fanfics #bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky x reader #marvel #thunderbolts #congressman bucky #james bucky buchanan barnes #fanfiction #marvel fanfic #undercover #read more #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x female reader

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airybcby · 5 months ago

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જ⁀♡⊹｡° mind on the road, your dilated eyes

( rin itoshi x fem! reader )

♡ a/n — i decided i didn't have enough series running and knew i needed to write an F1 AU :)

♡ word count — 1k

♡ content — rin itoshi x fem! reader, fem! reader, Formula 1 racing mentioned, F1 AU, F1 racer! rin, F1 engineer! reader, unrequited love, rin is still chasing after sae in this, mentions of a car crash, my very few years of watching F1 gave me a few ideas on the vocab to use, not proofread :)

♡ synopsis — A life where Rin Itoshi wasn’t consumed by rivalry, where you weren’t just his race engineer. But this life wasn’t that. And you knew, deep down, it never would be.

The roar of engines filled the air, bouncing off the grandstands of the Monaco circuit. The harbor shimmered under the Mediterranean sun, luxury yachts bobbing lazily in the distance. The race-day chaos was a familiar buzz, but it did nothing to calm Rin Itoshi’s restlessness.

He sat in his driver’s room, dressed in his fireproofs, staring blankly at his helmet on the table in front of him. For years, this time—these last few minutes before the grid—had been sacred to him. No one was allowed to interrupt. Not his PR team, not the pit crew. It was a rule everyone on the team knew better than to break.

Until you showed up.

You knocked lightly on the door and stepped inside without waiting for a response. “You ready, Itoshi?”

He looked up, his sharp green eyes narrowing slightly. “I was, until you came in.”

You smirked, unbothered. “We both know that’s not true. You’d already overthought everything twice by now.”

Rin didn’t respond, but the faintest twitch of his lips gave him away. This strange routine had become a tradition over the past season. Somehow, you were the only person who could step into his space without ruining his rhythm. In fact, since you’d joined the team, he’d gone out of his way to see you before every race.

At first, you thought it was a coincidence—a simple matter of logistics or convenience. But as time went on, you started to realize it wasn’t. Rin sought you out, even if he’d never admit it.

You adjusted the fit of his earpiece and handed him his gloves, your fingers brushing his as you did. “You’ve got this, Rin. Don’t let Sae get in your head today.”

The mention of his brother made his jaw tighten, his eyes flashing with something darker. “Easier said than done,” he muttered, pulling his gloves on.

You sighed. It was always like this. No matter how much effort you put into preparing him for the race, Sae was always there—a ghost Rin couldn’t outrun. It didn’t matter that you were the one who reminded him to drink water, who stayed up late analyzing telemetry, who knew how he liked his corner entries fine-tuned to the millimeter. You’d never be first in his eyes.

That spot belonged to Sae, and Sae alone.

The grid was chaos. Journalists swarmed the drivers as they took their places, cameras flashing and microphones thrust forward in search of soundbites. Rin ignored them all, climbing into his car with mechanical precision.

“Comms check,” you said over the radio as he settled into his seat.

“Loud and clear.”

“Good. Remember, you’re starting third. Don’t push too early—this is Monaco, not a track you can afford to gamble on.”

“I know.” His tone was clipped, but you could hear the undercurrent of tension.

You bit your lip, resisting the urge to say more. He was already on edge, his focus narrowing to a dangerous point. Sae sat on pole position, cool and untouchable as always. And Rin... Rin was chasing him, as he always had.

The lights went out, and the race began.

For the first 40 laps, Rin held steady. He kept a calculated distance from Karasu Tabito in second place, biding his time. You fed him updates through the radio, your voice calm and measured despite the growing knot in your stomach.

“You’re doing good, Rin. Karasu’s tires are degrading. Wait for your window.”

But you could feel his frustration building. Sae was still in the lead, his car slicing through the track of Monaco like it was made for him. Rin didn’t care about second place or podiums. He cared about beating Sae.

By Lap 60, the pressure cracked.

“Karasu’s slowing,” you warned as Rin closed the gap. “Wait until the straight to overtake—”

“I’m not waiting,” Rin snapped.

“Rin—”

He went for it.

In the tightest corner on the circuit, Rin dove to the inside line, attempting an impossible overtake. You watched, helpless, as his front wing clipped Karasu’s rear tire. The collision sent his car spinning out, slamming into the barriers with a sickening crunch.

Your breath caught in your throat. “Rin, respond! Are you okay?”

A pause, then static. Finally, his voice, low and rough: “I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t.

The garage was quiet after the race, the energy sucked out of the room. The rest of the team gave Rin a wide berth as he sat on a crate in the corner, staring at the floor. His helmet sat discarded at his feet, his fireproofs smeared with dirt and grease.

You approached cautiously, knowing he wouldn’t appreciate the intrusion. “Rin,” you said softly.

“What do you want?”

“I wanted to check on you.”

He looked up, his eyes dark and tired. “I don’t need you to baby me.”

“I’m not trying to baby you. I just... I care, okay?”

He snorted, the sound bitter. “Care about what? The points we lost? The standings?”

“No,” you said, your voice steady. “I care about you, Rin. But you’re too busy chasing Sae to see that.”

His expression hardened. “Don’t talk like you know me.”

“I do know you,” you shot back. “I know you’re your own worst enemy. I know you’d rather destroy yourself trying to beat Sae than accept that you’re enough as you are.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and unforgiving. For a moment, you thought he might argue, but he didn’t. He just looked at you, his expression unreadable.

“Maybe,” he said finally, his voice quiet. “But it doesn’t matter.”

“What do you mean?”

“In another life, maybe.” His gaze softened, and for a fleeting second, he wasn’t Rin Itoshi, the prodigy, the rival, the shadow.

He was just Rin.

But the moment passed, and he stood, walking away without another word.

That night, as the paddock emptied and the last of the team packed up, you sat alone in the garage, staring at the remnants of his car. The metallic hum of the lights above was the only sound, a harsh reminder of the silence he’d left behind.

You thought about his words—about another life. A life where he wasn’t consumed by rivalry, where you weren’t just his race engineer, where the lines between you weren’t drawn so starkly.

But this life wasn’t that. And you knew, deep down, it never would be.

You'd do anything for Rin, in another life.

But this one isn’t yours to share.

And you had to learn how to live with that.

when the brain worms get me, i must do what they want :)

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

#★ · airybcbyy #airy posts #rin itoshi x reader #rin itoshi #blue lock #bllk #bllk x reader #rin bllk #rin itoshi bluelock #blue lock x reader #rin x reader #rin itoshi blue lock #bllk rin #bllk rin itoshi #blue lock rin itoshi #blue lock rin

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erikawrites13 · 26 days ago

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Just for Show-“After the Lights Fade”

Part 3

So you know- "English is not my first language. I have dyslexia. Let me know what you think about it, please."

Charles Leclerc x Reader (longtime friend) Time line- Monaco—Charles’ hometown, where luxury meets intimacy. Warning! Context- Slow burn, flirty, emotional tension, with angst bubbling beneath the surface.

The gala’s glittering lights faded behind you as you and Charles stepped out onto the moonlit streets of Monaco. The warm night breeze brushed against your skin, carrying the salty tang of the Mediterranean and the faint, sweet aroma of blooming orange trees from nearby gardens. The city felt quiet now, the distant hum of the party replaced by the soft rustle of leaves and the gentle lapping of water against the docks.

Charles slid his jacket off with practiced ease and draped it over your shoulders, the fabric cool against your skin. His fingers lingered just a moment longer than necessary, tracing a subtle path across your collarbone, igniting a flutter deep in your chest.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the night. “For tonight… and for trusting me.”

He turned to you then, eyes softer than you’d seen all evening—almost vulnerable in their honesty. “You mean more to me than anyone knows,” he said quietly, the weight of his words hanging between you like a secret.

For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to just the two of you—two silhouettes framed by the silvery moonlight, the distant sounds of the city fading away. Charles reached out, his hand brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that stole your breath. His touch was gentle, deliberate, grounding you in a moment that felt suspended outside of time.

His voice dropped to a near whisper, heavy with unspoken longing. “I wish this didn’t have to be fake.”

You leaned in, drawn by a pull you hadn’t expected, ready to close the distance between you when suddenly his phone buzzed sharply, breaking the spell.

He pulled away, eyes flicking to the screen with a shadow crossing his face. The softness vanished, replaced by the steely professionalism you’d come to know. “I have to go,” he said, voice clipped, tense.

Before you could ask why, the warmth and charm you’d just shared evaporated like mist under the morning sun. Charles stepped back, smoothing his jacket with practiced precision, becoming the man the world expected him to be.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice distant now. “This… this isn’t the time.”

And just like that, the night you thought might be unfolding into something real slipped away, swallowed by the cold, unyielding reality of the roles you both played.

You stood there for a moment longer, the jacket still warm on your shoulders, feeling the sting of what could have been—and what wasn’t.

#f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 fic #f1 smau #f1 imagine #f1 smut #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc fluff

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blueiscoool · 2 months ago

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1,100-Year-Old Sealed Amphora Found in Shipwreck off Turkey

An extraordinary discovery has been made in the crystal-clear waters off the Kas district in Antalya, Türkiye. Archaeologists conducting underwater excavations with the help of robotic technology have recovered a 1,100-year-old sealed amphora, igniting excitement in the world of archaeology.

Led by Associate Professor Hakan Oniz, Chair of the Department of Conservation and Restoration of Cultural Heritage at Akdeniz University’s Faculty of Fine Arts, a 20-person dive team has been working meticulously on this groundbreaking project.

The excavation is carried out under the “Heritage for the Future Project” by the Ministry of Culture and Tourism, on behalf of the Antalya Museum.

Excavating the depths with robotic precision

Focusing their efforts near Besmi Island off the coast of Kas, the team utilized advanced underwater robots to conduct excavations several meters below the surface. At depths of approximately 45-50 meters, the divers successfully retrieved a sealed amphora from the wreckage of an ancient ship, a moment described as thrilling by the team.

Rather than being brought directly ashore, the amphora underwent an initial conservation process before being transported to the Akdeniz University Underwater Archaeology Laboratory in Kemer. Using microscopes and specialized magnifying tools, experts carefully examined the artifact. Then, specialists from the Antalya Regional Conservation Council and laboratory restorers meticulously opened the sealed amphora for an hour, employing chisels, hammers, and delicate instruments.

A glimpse into the past, locked away for over a millennium

As the ancient seal was broken, archaeologists eagerly examined the texture, content, and even scent of the material inside the amphora to determine its nature. Samples have been collected, and detailed scientific analyses are now underway to identify the contents with certainty.

The opening of the amphora and the preliminary examination of its contents were exclusively documented by Anadolu Agency.

Ancient trade routes revealed

Speaking to Anadolu Agency, excavation leader Associate Professor Hakan Oniz shared that the merchant vessel likely originated from the Gaza coast in Palestine and sank during a violent storm in the Mediterranean around 1100 years ago.

At that time, Gaza was a major exporter of olive oil, and it is believed that wine was shipped from the region of Sarkoy-Gazikoy in Tekirdag as well.

“This was a trading ship that visited multiple ports during the ninth and 10th centuries, a period dominated by Abbasid rule. Although amphoras thought to have carried wine were found onboard, it is unlikely that the local Palestinian population consumed wine at that time. Instead, it may have been intended as gifts for Christian pilgrims or travelers visiting Jerusalem,” Oniz elaborated.

‘A unique find that defies time’

Oniz emphasized the rarity of the find, stating, “It is incredibly rare to discover an amphora whose seal remained intact for more than a millennium. It could contain olive pits, olive oil, wine, or even fish sauce—but it might also be something entirely unexpected. Opening the amphora was thrilling, but awaiting the final analysis is even more exciting.”

Long road ahead for scientific analysis

Professor Meltem Asilturk Ersoy from Akdeniz University’s Department of Materials Science and Engineering noted that this was her first time studying the preserved contents of a sealed amphora.

Describing the interior contents as “muddy samples,” Ersoy added, “We aim to understand what has happened inside over 1,100 years of exposure to underwater pressure and temperature variations.”

“A single test is not sufficient. We need multiple analyses to corroborate our findings, so this process will be lengthy. By combining the analysis results with historical knowledge from the era, we aim to offer significant insights to the world of science and archaeology,” Ersoy said.

Meanwhile, Rabia Nur Akyuz, the restorer-conservator who handled the desalination and opening of the amphora, highlighted the delicate nature of the process. “We had to ensure that the artifact remained wet at all times to prevent the external deposits from drying out,” she explained.

#1100-Year-Old Sealed Amphora Found in Shipwreck off Turkey #Antalya Turkey #amphora #shipwreck #ancient artifacts #archeology #history #history news #ancient history #ancient culture #ancient civilizations

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communicationthroughlyrics · 10 months ago

Text

She Had Other Plans

You were a successful leader of a criminal empire. Your girlfriend was a successful tease, especially when you are halfway around the globe.

PT. 2

AN: I hate my mind sometimes. I just stew and stew and can't get an idea outta my head. So here is one of them. And this is my first time using one of those text message thingies, so yeah. And before yall ask, yes. there will be a part 2. 😂

TW: smut, daddy kink, strap-on sex, teasing, mentions of murder, mob!boss reader, uhhh yeah. Think that's it.

Word Count: 3.6K

In your line of work, you were away from home constantly. You traveled the world, helping to fuel people's darkest and most deceitful habits, for profit. Exploitation, power, and retribution were your specialties. Your heart had grown cold, at least to those on the outside, which was a necessary trait for your survival. You maintained your polished, playgirl public image well, a successful young business magnate, and you dabbled in philanthropy and charity to keep your reputation to the public clean.

Meanwhile, in the underbelly of society, you were ruthless, ensuring your legacy was cemented even if you departed this godforsaken world. You had climbed the ladder of power with precision, leaving a trail of the broken and betrayed beneath you. It was a world where trust was as fleeting as the morning dew, and everyone had a price. Those who worked for you closely would say you were calculating and charismatic, while those on the wrong side of the line knew you as being one step ahead, making your power felt through silence, vengeance, and detachment.

You had single-handedly become the largest mob boss in the United States, and that quickly spread into other countries, building relationships across the globe. Some were built on trust and loyalty, others on fear and mutual benefit.

Business had called you away to Malta, where you had to bury an up-and-coming threat to your growing kingdom and quell any unrest in your distant ranks. It had been a stressful week, albeit a successful one. When the phone call came across that ushered you away to the Mediterranean, you had been in the middle of…other business. Personal business. Having been teasing your girlfriend all day long, you had finally pushed the sexual tension to a head. The brunette had been panting and begging for you, dressed in lingerie that cost more than most people's cars.

When the call came through, you had left her with explicit expectations as to how she would need to handle her sexual fever in your absence. No touching. No teasing. Most importantly, no whining. That was your number one rule. Begging? Yes. Whining. No.

She had tried her damndest to get you to finish what you had started, but you knew this had to be taken care of expeditiously. So, you left a lace-clad goddess in your shared room while you literally left to murder someone. The following night, she began to push your buttons. She knew your limits, and experience taught her just how far she could push you to get a reaction, one that would benefit you both.

Wanda was 'conveniently' caught outside of your NYC penthouse, leaving in a barely-there skirt with a leather jacket and the pair of black Louboutins you had just bought her. The stocking-clad legs that were strutting out of your building, you knew should be wrapped around your waist, while you had her favorite strap buried to the hilt in her drenched pussy, or wrapped around your head as you mercilessly took out your workday frustrations on her.

However, you were 4,000 miles away, watching photos roll across your social media of the 'mystery woman' who had been able to bag you. You knew she was doing this on purpose, trying to flaunt what you walked out on 12 hours ago, leaving her a babbling, flustered, drenched mess.

Your hand tightened around the phone, your jaw clenched so hard it hurt. Your blood boiled with a mix of anger and desire. You had given her an order, but she had chosen to ignore it. The thought of her walking around like that, looking like that, for anyone else to see made you want to rip out the throat of every man on the street. You had been looking forward to coming home to her, to teaching her a lesson she'd never forget. But now, it looked like she had decided to bring the lesson to you.

She flew under the radar for the next two days, and you were thankful. You missed her greatly, and you wanted to show her just how much when you got home. You were willing to let the wardrobe choice from the other night slide, just to have a night of wanton passion in the penthouse, no punishment, no edging, no teasing.

She had other plans.

You were in the middle of a meeting when your phone started to buzz incessantly in your slacks. This was a meeting you had to focus on, but the constant vibration indication yet another text had been sent was slowly chipping away at your resolve to stay sharp for this meeting. You had told her not to contact you during work hours unless it was an emergency. Looking at some of the texts, you knew this was no emergency. No matter how desperate she made herself sound.

You growled at the phone, knowing she wouldn't respond to any more texts from you. She was playing a game of cat and mouse, and you had a boardroom full of sharks waiting for your undivided attention. You slammed the device down, your eyes narrowing as you turned back to the table. Shutting the phone off, you knew that when it turned back on, you would be greeted with a disaster.

The meeting couldn't end fast enough, you wanted to call her and put her in her place, but the meeting ran long, as you and your new alliance couldn't quite come to an agreement for goods and services rendered.

Finally, after what felt like hours, you had come to an agreement, so you quickly and curtly nodded in everyone's direction, gathering your suit jacket and flinging it over your shoulder as you swiftly made your way down the hall to your waiting car, turning your phone back on as you approached the outside doors.

You climbed into the back of the black Town Car, opening your messages to see some pictures from your girlfriend, taken at obscure angles- her clad in a new lingerie set. You knew it was new, they were a color she hadn't worn before, a navy blue number that stood out against her tanned skin. The photos had been sent with no accompanying text, which was unlike her. Usually, she'd write something teasing, begging for your attention. But these were just…there. They were like silent pleas for your dominance, your authority. You groaned at the images before you, each more provocative than the next.

What made your pulse spike was the Snapchat notification from her. She had just sent you a video. Then there was another. She continued to send you videos until she had reached a total of 11. Knowing these would not just be an ordinary snap, you slipped a headphone into your ear while you opened each video, in the order you received them. The first was her dancing on the pole you installed in the corner of your room, the familiar sound of 'Skin' playing in the background as she worked her hips and taunted you through the phone.

The last video was the final straw. Your most fundamental rule.

She sent you a video of her, sprawled out on the bed, her features were flush, and her chest was heaving. She was still clad in her racy new lingerie, and it was then you noticed it was crotchless. Your mouth went dry at the thought, as her hands made their way up and down her body. Your knuckles turned white as you gripped your phone, the scene before you becoming too much. She buried her fingers knuckle deep in her wet heat, pornographic moans coming through your earbud as you watched her pleasure herself.

You had told her explicitly, no touching herself. You had promised her that when you returned, you would take care of her needs. You had been looking forward to it, to watching her come apart in your arms. But here she was, in your own bed, disobeying you. The betrayal stung, but the sight of her was like a siren's call. You felt a storm of emotions, anger, desire, and something…more. It was a feeling that hadn't surfaced in a long time, something you weren't quite familiar with.

You boarded your jet and tried to calm the storm that was brewing deep within you for the 13-hour flight home. The images of her playing with herself, the thought of her ignoring your command, it was all you could think about. You felt a mix of anger, arousal, and a hint of something else that you hadn't felt in years. She was a challenge, and you hadn't had one a challenge in a very long time.

You tried to distract yourself, completing some work on your phone, trying to read articles about New York politics, but nothing could distract you from the inferno that was building up inside you. Each passing moment brought with it a new wave of desire, the images of her writhing in pleasure burned into your retina. You had to admit, she knew exactly how to push your buttons, and she had just pushed the biggest one of all. You slammed your phone down in frustration, crossing your arms as you peered out the window to the clouds below. After three hours of 'distraction', you finally fell into a restless, lustful slumber.

The flight seemed to drag on forever, but when you landed at JFK, you were more than ready to deal with her. You texted her, telling her to be home, naked, and waiting for you. You didn't care if she had plans or not, she'd learn to prioritize your commands. You had a feeling she was going to be a handful, but that was what you liked about her.

You stalked over towards the waiting convoy of blacked-out vehicles that were waiting to take you home. The sound of your dress shoes echoed through the private lobby to your elevator, as you impatiently waited for the cabled car to come down from the top floor, watching the numbers descend from floor 98 to you, on the third garage floor.

As you stepped into the elevator, you could feel the anticipation building. You were going to show her exactly who was in charge, and what happens when she breaks the cardinal rule. The doors closed with a satisfying 'ping', and you ascended to your penthouse, your mind racing with scenarios of what you would do when you saw her. The elevator doors parted, revealing the sleek, marble floors in your home, the baby grand piano tucked in the corner, and the twinkling New York skyline a backdrop to what carnal acts were about to take place. You turned on your heel, making your way to the furthest room in the house, your bedroom. As you made your way down the corridor to the bedroom, you noticed the doors shut, but a glow came from underneath them.

Your heart rate quickened, your hand hovered over the doorknob, and you took a deep breath before pushing the door open. She lay on the bed, huddled to one side, peacefully sleeping with a book in her hands. She looked innocent, but you knew better. You strode over to the bed, the floorboards giving a slight creak under your weight, but she didn't stir. Carefully, you plucked the book away from her, running your thumb over her nose to wake her up.

"Ragazza monella," you spoke softly, your pent-up frustration leeching into your normally collected voice.

Her eyes snapped open, revealing the deep pools of green that had captivated you from day one. She looked up at you with a lazy smile, not a hint of guilt in her gaze. "You're home," she purred, stretching her limbs like a cat in the sun.

"I see you couldn't wait for me," you said, your voice thick with unspoken accusation as you threw your phone to the side.

Her smile didn't waver. "I've missed you," she replied, her voice a low, seductive purr that sent a shiver down your spine. She sat up, letting the blanket pool around her waist, the hoodie she was wearing you instantly recognized as one of yours.

"I gave you an order, Wanda," you said, your voice low and menacing.

"And I chose to ignore it," she replied, her eyes never leaving yours.

Her audacity was like a drug, and you felt yourself growing more and more crazed at the sight of her. She knew the consequences of her actions, yet she reveled in them. "You know what happens when you don't follow orders," you growled, your hand sliding under the soft fabric of the hoodie to cup her cheek.

Her smile grew wider, and she leaned into your touch. "Do I?" she challenged, her voice a breathy whisper.

With a swift move, you had her pinned down on the bed, the fabric of the hoodie riding up to expose her lingerie-clad body. "You're going to regret this," you warned, your voice dark with desire.

"Am I?" she questioned, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Your hand trailed down her body, tracing the curve of her waist to the apex of her thighs. "You're already wet for me," you murmured, feeling the dampness between her muscular, toned thighs.

"I'm always wet for you, Papi," she emphasized your pet name, knowing how much you adored her calling you that.

Your eyes narrowed at her insolence, and you felt your ego swell with a mix of anger and desire. "You know the rules," you reminded her, your voice a mix of steel and seduction.

"And you know I love to break them," she whispered, her voice a seductive dance in the quiet room.

You grabbed her wrists, pinning them above her head, your grip firm but not painful. "This is your last warning," you murmured, your eyes dark with lust and promise of punishment.

Her eyes searched yours, looking for any signs of relenting, but she found none. Instead, she felt a thrill run through her body. This was what she had been craving, what she had missed in your absence. The power play, the delicious tension between your dominance and her submission.

"What's it going to be?" she asked, her voice a challenge wrapped in velvet.

Without a word, you yanked the hoodie over her head, leaving her in just the new lingerie set. The room was filled with the sound of fabric tearing as you ripped away the crotchless part of her underwear, exposing her glistening folds to the cool air. She gasped at the sudden exposure, her body arching into yours.

"You're going to learn your place," you said, your voice a low rumble. You leaned down, your mouth capturing hers in a bruising kiss that claimed ownership over her. She moaned into your mouth, her body responding instinctively to your touch, her legs wrapping around your waist as she pulled you closer.

The kiss grew more intense, your tongue invading her mouth, demanding submission. She met your dominance with her own passion, her teeth grazing your bottom lip, drawing a bead of blood. The taste of it made you growl, and you deepened the kiss, your hand sliding down to squeeze her ass.

Finally, you pulled away, breathing heavily. "You're going to get what you asked for," you warned, your eyes dark with lust.

Without another word, you flipped her over onto her stomach, her ass in the air, begging for your attention. You smacked her once, watching as the skin turned pink. She moaned into the pillow, her hips moving back, silently asking for more. You didn't disappoint, your hand coming down again and again, leaving a pattern of red across her skin. Each slap echoed through the room, punctuating the sound of your heavy breaths and her whimpers of pleasure.

You felt your own need growing, and you were glad that you had opted to change into her favorite suit with a strap-on surprise. You knew she was close, her body shaking with each smack, and you couldn't wait to watch her greedy pussy swallow your new toy whole. You slid your hand between her legs, finding her wet and ready. You whispered, "You're going to come for me now," and thrust two fingers inside her, curling them in a way that made her scream into the pillow.

Her orgasm hit her like a tidal wave, her body convulsing around your hand. You didn't stop, though, continuing to fuck her with your fingers until she was begging for mercy. Only when she was trembling did you pull away, standing up to remove your clothes.

When you were naked, you climbed onto the bed, the new dildo standing at attention. "You've had your fun," you said, your voice a low growl. "Now it's my turn." Her eyes widened at the sheer girth of your chosen method of punishment.

"I…I don't think that will fit," she whined, her lust-blown eyes boring straight into yours.

"Oh, it will. You remember your safeword, correct?" you nibbled down her neck as you settled between her legs.

"Yes," she moaned, her back arching against you.

"What is it?"

"Cl…clementine," she stuttered, her body wiggling and writhing beneath you.

You nodded as you slammed into her without preamble, her body accepting you with ease. She screamed your name, her legs tightening around your waist as you began to move. Each thrust was punctuated with a smack to her ass, leaving her skin stinging and her pussy clenching around you. You knew she liked it rough, she was addicted to the pain, but you were going to give her more than she had bargained for tonight.

This was your domain, and she had forgotten her place. You were going to remind her, over and over again, until she was nothing but a quivering mess beneath you. Until she understood that no matter how much she tested you, she would always be yours to command, to punish, to pleasure.

You slammed into her, the sound of your hips slapping against her filling the room. The dildo stretched her to her limits, each inch driving deeper until she was crying out for you to stop. But you didn't. You knew she could take it, knew she craved the pain that came with your passion. The bulge from the tip of the toy poked out her abdomen with every thrust, you pressed down on her stomach where it was appearing, causing her to arch further into your touch.

Her moans grew louder, more desperate, as you picked up the pace. You watched the way her body moved underneath you, the way her breasts bounced with each thrust, and the way her ass cheeks clapped together. You felt yourself getting closer, your strokes becoming more erratic. You reached around, grabbing her chin and forcing her to look at you. "Who do you belong to?" you demanded, your voice a low growl.

"You," she whispered, her eyes glazed over with pleasure.

"Say it louder," you ordered, giving her another smack on the ass.

"I belong to you!" she screamed, her voice hoarse from the moans that had escaped her mouth.

"Beg to cum, amore," you growled in her ear, nibbling down the shell.

"Fuck," she moaned out, her eyes briefly fluttering open before screwing shut again.

"Not until you beg," you reminded her, your voice like a whip crack in the quiet of the room. You could feel your orgasm building, the muscles in your thighs tightening with each powerful thrust. Her cries grew more desperate, her hips moving back to meet yours, pushing herself onto the dildo with a fervor that was almost painful to watch.

"Please," she finally begged, her voice breaking. "I need to come."

You smirked, feeling the power surge through you. "That's all you got, baby?" You taunted, increasing the speed and force of your thrusts. "After all that, the teasing, the videos, this is how you show me you miss me? This is how you show me that you need Papi to make you feel good?" She whined and squirmed beneath you, her body shaking with the effort of holding back her climax. "Beg harder," you whispered, leaning down to bite her earlobe.

Her voice grew more frantic. "Ple…please, Papi," she gasped. "I need to come, I need you to make me come."

"You can do better than that," you grabbed ahold of one of her legs, pulling it over your shoulder as you continued the relentless assault on her swollen, leaking pussy. You leaned down, resting your other hand on her throat, gently applying pressure as you picked up your pace. "I said to beg for it, so fucking beg for it," you whispered, your breath hot against her skin.

Her eyes snapped open, the green orbs locking onto yours, filled with a mix of anger and desperation. "Fuck me harder," she pleaded, her voice strained. "Make me cum, Papi."

The sound of her demanding sent you over the edge, and you slammed into her, the erratic thrusts as you came only spurring her pleasure further. You felt her pussy tighten around the dildo, her walls pulsing as she climaxed hard, her body shaking beneath you. You didn't stop until she was limp, her cries of pleasure turning into breathless gasps.

You continued to work the toy into her, slowly building her back up.

"I didn't give you permission, amore mio," you looked down at her, panting as her chest heaved.

"I know," she panted back, "but I had to make sure you knew how much I missed you."

You couldn't help but smirk at her audacity. She knew how much power she held over you, how much she could push you. "You're going to pay for that," you whispered, your voice a dark promise.

Her eyes lit up, and she bit her bottom lip, egging you on. "Is that a threat or a promise?"

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