#【 summer fair ❖ thread 】

[aquamanandfriends]

Cozy Questions [Summer/Thom]

@thestoriesincoffeestains

"I don't mind the questions," Summer shrugged. "Believe it or not I actually like talking to you." She'd even bought a game system and started playing some calm cozy games so she could keep in touch with Thom when she had late nights. They were currently playing a cute indie black and white game, around two in the morning, while chatting through discord. "Ask away, Thom."

[austerulous]

Okay, so I had been alternating between the beta and legacy editors, but now I think I’m ready to commit to the bit with the former.

[aquamanandfriends]

"Not that I know of," Summer teased lifting a brow and sipping her wine. "Hm," she licked the wine from her lip. "But please, expand on that." She realized she'd been taking up all the conversation about Thom when Maisie was holding all this in. "You're talking about the hot Hispanic guy?"

Maisie scoffed. She had too much experience going out of her way to make other people comfortable around her, as if she had to compensate for her weight with a soothing demeanor or wit. What Summer was doing for Thom was something else entirely. "At least you're not attracted to an ex-convict," she said, taking a deep sip from her glass. She still didn't know what to do about that, and Arturo kept popping up like a damn wack-a-mole.

[jackhues]

it's not hate... | oscar piastri

note: okay so i was bored and i got a random inspiration i hope y'all like this <3 i think this will have 3/4 parts, but they might be split up if i reach the picture limit.

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader, logan x best friend!reader, one sided!enemies to lovers

next

faceclaim: various, from pinterest

youruser & logansargeant

liked by y/bffsuser, oscarpiastri, yourmomsig & others

youruser: gang's back together 🤘

pinned youruser: welcome back to america @/logansargeant glad you could join us! -> user: i love how she seems sarcastic but i know babes is so happy he's back

user: logan living out his frat dreams

user: this would be logan daily if he didn't go into racing

user: wait i'm confused... who's this? -> user: y/n y/ln! from what we know, her and logan are best friends since they were born or something. she finished her undergrad, but i think she's doing law school now (?)

user: i ship -> user: ew

y/bffsuser: not pictured is the entire drink falling out -> logansargeant: it wasn't my fault! she moved her head -> youruser: yeah okay, blame the woman -> logansargeant: i blame when she's wrong. and you are. -> user: stop they're so sibling

yourmomsig: aw no one posted the pic of y/n falling off the bed during the fight -> youruser: MOM! -> logansargeant: i tried but she stole my phone -> user: well we know who the favorite child is now

y/bffsuser: @/yourprivuser no photo creds -> user: IS THAT Y/N'S PRIVATE USER???!!! I NEED TO BE ACCEPTER NOWWW this comment thread has been deleted

oscarpiastri has requested yourprivuser!

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y/bffspodcast

liked by user, user, oscarpiastri & others

y/bffspodcast: surprise episode out now! take a listen for exclusive deets on logan's love life, his best friends, and the time he almost became a dad to a baby crocodile

tagged: logansargeant

user: i'm sorry, logan did WHAT NOW?

user: A CROCODILE?? -> user: well he does live in florida

user: it's a crime that y/n and oscar haven't met before. i need the irl best and the f1 bestie to get together and spill tea on logan -> oscarpiastri: well we might have to change that this weekend -> user: OSCAR??!! PLEASE DO IT! I BEG!

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Y/BFFS PODCAST - TRANSMISSION timestamp: 4:40-8:23

y/bff: i mean, you've known y/n your whole life, right?

logan: my whole life, yup. like, i was maybe only a few hours old when i saw her for the first time. you already know this, but like we have the same birthday, december 31st 2000. and we're also born at the same time, in the same hospital, literally right across the hall from each other.

YB: same time? like seriously? how did i not know that?

LS: *laughs* i mean, same time. down to the minute, at least. it's why we call each other 'twin', we're born at the same time. and like our parent knew each other and joked that we might be born on the same day... little did they know

YB: *laughing* that's insane. oh my gosh, and you guys have just been best friends since then. i love that. i assume you're the one who's got all the younger high school stories about her. i got some college ones, but you have the real gold mine, don't you?

LS: i've got my fair share of our insane stories, yeah

YB: mind sharing one?

LS: i'm trying to think of one that's not absolutely insane... oh okay! so one time, we were in the pool, it was summer, and then y/n just stops trying to murder me with the pool noodle and goes still. i'm confused as hell, so i'm trying to see what she's doing but she tells me to shut up. she's watching the bushes around the pool, so i swim to the edge of the pool next to her, and the two of us are just watching the bushes. i have no idea what's going on, but y/n's waiting for something. and then, a baby croc starts walking out of it, and it's so small, but like it's mom was nowhere. we didn't know what to do. and y/n *laughs* y/n goes, "oh we have to adopt it". i'm like what? but she just start spiraling "oh we're his parents now. he just saw us. what if the mom died? i don't know how to feed a baby croc? but i have to learn, it's my baby croc now." finally she calms down, and we get everything sorted out, but she cried when we had to leave the baby crocodile. adopted it and all within three seconds of seeing it

YB: *laughing* i'm dead, oh my god that sounds like her though. that's so fucking funny, she made you a crocodile dad!

--

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Y/N ADJUSTED HER SUNGLASSES, the Miami sun nearly blinding her as she walked towards the paddock. Next to her, her racer best friend, Logan Sargeant, nearly skipped along next to her. She could feel his excitement at being able to race so close to home again, and it honestly helped lift her own spirits.

Logan smiled and waved at some cameras and fans nearby, grinning brightly and taking the time to stop and sign some stuff. Once the fans had trickled away, Logan made his way back to his best friend, throwing his arm over her shoulder.

"You okay?" he asked, turning his head away from the cameras so they couldn't read his lips.

"I'm great," she promised.

"It's not too late to change your mind," he reminded her. "We can say you were sick, or you weren't feeling well, or you just forgot, or-"

"-That I have diarrhea?" Y/N grinned a little. "You know, all of your solutions to this thing seem to involve me just running away or ignoring it."

"I mean, it's how you take on most of life," he shrugged.

"I've never felt more called out in life," she rolled her eyes. "Look, we've got a plan. I head over to the garage first, take a few pics, then say 'oh I have to go. I haven't even been to Williams' garage yet'. I've got this Logie, I promise. Besides, I don't even hate him. If I did, there would be a lot more violence threatened and swearing involved. I also would've blocked him."

Logan didn't look necessarily convinced, but he didn't argue either. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, "If you need anything, send me a 911 text. I'll be on standby the entire time, I swear."

Y/N smiled at the boy, waving goodbye as she dropped him off to the Williams garage.

"I know you'll be there," she smiled. "It's what we do. Be there for each other."

MEANWHILE, IN THE MCLAREN GARAGE, the Aussie driver was pacing back and forth, turning back to the entrance every few seconds.

"Yeah, great job at being subtle, Osc," Lando Norris, his teammate, commented sarcastically. "Who're you even waiting for?"

"Y/N," Oscar answered simply.

Normally, he'd engage in banter with his Brit teammate, but he was too nervous to give answers longer than a few words. He was finally going to see Y/N, in person. Not on the other side of a screen, not a flash of hair that ran away too quickly, not a caller ID he'd see on Logan's phone all too often. After all these years, he was finally going to be able to see her, face to face.

He had to admit, he did seem a little pathetic trying to contact her. But the DM he'd sent years ago on her public account had never gone through. And he'd left it, thinking maybe they weren't meant to know each other, simply to know of each other.

But then he'd seen her private instagram, with so few followers, he knew that she wouldn't be able to miss it. But maybe she didn't use it, or maybe it was an old account, but he had no luck on that account either.

He finally mustered the courage to ask Logan for her number and just reach out. He was surprised and a little shocked she said yeah, but he was in too deep now to change his mind.

"Oooh, who's Y/N?" Lando teased. "Is she a girlfriend?"

Oscar whipped his head towards his teammate, narrowing his eyes at him.

"Why are you a literal child?" he asked. "Y/N's a friend. Well, she's a friend of Logan's. His best friend. And everyone found out the two of us never met each other, and they went crazy saying we have to meet and whatnot. So I invited her here to take a few pictures."

Lando tilted his head, almost as if he was dissecting the truth behind Oscar's words.

"Logan? Logan Sargeant's best friend? Her name's Y/N?"

"Yes, Lando. And everyone says I'm his best friend in racing, so we have to meet or something."

"Alright, I believe you," Lando decided. "Call me when she gets here, I want to take pictures with her too."

"Sure," Oscar answered nonchalantly.

Turns out, there was no need to call him over, because a second after he'd said that, she walked in.

Oscar stared at her as she looked around the garage, her eyes drinking in just how different it was from the Williams' garage that she was used to.

Lando made a noise between a snort and a laugh, causing Oscar to glare at him.

"No, nothing," Lando nodded to himself, ignoring Oscar's silent question. He cupped his hands over his mouth, shouting across the garage, "Y/N!"

Her head whipped over to the sound of her name, her posture relaxing the slightest bit as she realized it was only Lando and Oscar and not some random person. She didn't exactly know them, never even met them, but she knew enough of them to be a little comfortable.

She smiled slightly as she reached them, "Hey. How are you guys?"

Lando looked to Oscar, who simply stared at Y/N, before decided to take the reigns. "We're good, thanks for asking. I'm Lando, my friend here is Oscar, and I assume you already know that."

"Yeah, I watch enough F1 to know that," she smiled, falling into easy conversation with the Brit.

"Well it's nice to know you didn't take an invitation from a man who's name you didn't know," Lando joked. "That's what I call important information."

"I went a step further and made sure he was known by a friend of mine," Y/N continued the banter. "My best friend." She turned to acknowledge Oscar, "Logan spoke highly of you for a long time now. It's nice to finally be able to meet you."

"Yeah, same," he nodded. "I mean, Logan's spoke a lot about you too. All the time. He still does. It's nice to meet you too."

Oscar resisted the urge to close his eyes and curse himself out.

Y/N didn't seem to mind his stuttering and stumbling. In fact, her posture seemed to straighten out a bit, and her smile turned a little bit more warm.

She was beginning to realize that no matter how bad Logan had gotten it, Oscar was human too. He was new to this, and he probably had someone defending him the way she defended Logan. Maybe she was a little harsh on him. She just didn't like how it wasn't fair.

It was why she wanted to be a lawyer. She wanted to try and make things fair for people.

But in defending Logan with her entire heart and soul... she was being unfair to Oscar. She could try and be nice. It's only for a few minutes. After that, she could go back to avoiding him.

"So, how do you wanna do the pictures?" Y/N asked. "We should get them done now, I might have to leave early if my laptop doesn't work. I have a few assignments due."

"Right, yeah," Oscar nodded. "We can- uh-"

"The lighting's nice over there," Lando pointed out. "I'll take the picture of you guys."

"You don't wanna be in it?" Y/N asked.

"No, I'm alright," Lando smiled. "Unfortunately, I'm not best friends with Logan, unlike you two. Besides, I'm pretty good with a camera."

Y/N frowned at the reminder that Lando was one of the drivers who wasn't friends with Logan. She quickly fixed her expression, but Oscar noticed (only because he'd has his eyes on her ever since she entered). He was tempted to ask her about it, but she smiled and his brain froze up.

"Alright then, let's take the picture."

--

youruser

liked by oscarpiastri, logansargeant, y/bffsuser & others

youruser: miami, you were fun 🤍

tagged: logansargeant, landonorris, oscarpiastri

pinned youruser: to my haters: fuck you, i'm always proud of logan. no matter what. i chose him as my best friend and i'll choose him again every time. i'm just sad y'all have never loved someone so much to understand what it means to always be proud of them, no matter any outcome. he's my best friend, my brother, and the outcome of race isn't going to change that

pinned youruser: i heard there was a logan's besties meet up @/oscarpiastri -> oscarpiastri: oh yeah, did you end up making it? -> youruser: swipe to find out!

landonorris: same time next race 👀👀 -> youruser: wanna do my class for me?? -> landonorris: i will understand nothing. -> oscarpiastri: as if you understand anything ever -> landonorris: all grown up now, are you? -> oscarpiastri: shut up

mclaren: it was a pleasure having you stop by! next time, you should stay for longer! -> williamsracing: stop stealing her from us

williamsracing: loved having you around for the weekend!

alex_albon: wowwww, i didn't even make the cut this weekend -> youruser: all the pics i took of you were 0.5s -> alex_albon: thanks for showing some mercy

user: stop she looks so pretty

user: logan bestie meet up... but where's logan? -> user: getting attacked by a haas in his home race -> user: oof

user: TELL EM GIRL!

user: i want what she and logan have. like they'd DIE for each other

oscarpiastri: it was great to finally meet you! hopefully it's not the last time either -> user: boy please TRY to be subtle

--

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PART TWO

notes: i hope y'all liked this, don't forget to like + reblog! alsoo... comment on this part (not any others) if you want to be tagged, i might not respond but i'll add you to the taglist if you comment.

but my tags don't always work, so you might want to follow my writing tag 'naqia writes!' or the tag for this short series 'the bsf of my bsf! series' so they show up on your dash at some point :)

[leonsgfpost]

note: sorry if this isn't very good, and sorry too if there are any mistakes. Just make sure to enjoy, you know haha 💞

tags: smut, oral (m!receiving), exhibitionism (?), Leon RE2 x f!reader.

The dates with Leon are always the best. Like now, when he smiles at you in the sweetest way and you walk hand in hand through the crowd that also gathered to enjoy the annual amusement park in Raccoon City.

And he's so attentive, buying you cotton candy, winning the stuffed animals on display at the little fairground rides and buying everything you look at for more than two seconds. Because he thinks you're the prettiest girl and deserve to be spoiled.

And so, that's how Leon completely empties his wallet on you. But he doesn't care, because he works hard to always spoil you, even if you complain that it's too much. It's never too much for him.

After clinging to his arm in the gentlest way, saying your legs hurt and you wanted to go home you both walked to his truck. You with your arms full of silly stuffed animals and shiny treats, and him with the thing he loves most in the whole world, you.

But quickly, you can't help but put your hands on him, putting aside all his gifts because Leon was cuter anyway. And you just wanted to thank him, so.... What better than to suck your boyfriend's dick in his truck parked behind the fair?

"Baby, wait..." Leon murmured, his face red and his head bobbing from side to side from the pleasure of feeling your pretty little mouth stretching around his cock. Wet sounds beginning to fill the space.

His fingers moved through your hair, gripping it gently to help you. Your eyes lifted to him, as you choked on every inch of his length. Your saliva dripping down to his balls, it was a sight worthy of those porn cassettes at the end of stores.

"S-Slow down." Leon groaned, struggling to keep his eyes open so he could watch you suck his cock like one of those ice cream sundaes you loved to eat so much. His hands wouldn't stay still, struggling not to sink his head deeper and fuck your throat. But he fails pathetically when he starts lifting his hips to chase your movements.

And when you pull away so you can breathe, he lets out a pained moan lamenting the loss. You wrap your hand around him as you take a break, maintaining eye contact. Your eyelashes wet from exertion swinging in his direction, the cute summer dress you put on was crumpled and the straps falling down your shoulders, your pretty little face inches from his raging cock and Leon can't keep his feet on the ground.

His hand rests behind your head, trying to persuade you and draw you closer once again.

And how could you say no to that cute expression on his face? Eyes heavy with pleasure, lips half-open and his blonde hair misaligned from swiping so many times. Your tongue cleans the pre cum from his tip and you let out a soft hum, sinking deeper to the base relaxing your throat around it. Leon's hips can no longer stay still, desperately trying to fuck your throat because he loved the disgusting sounds coming out of your mouth. His fingers run through your now tousled hair and his moans start to get louder, feeling the sensation forming in his belly.

"God, baby... Don't stop, D-Don't stop-" He begged desperately, losing the thread of his words. His delicate grip became strong, forcing you down and up on him.

"I'd marry you and your pretty little mouth..." And you know he's close by the way he starts to ramble, his words coming out clumsily and slurred. His brain short-circuited, feeling his cock begin to throb and writhe in your wet mouth.

"L-Let's get married, I'll put a nice ring on your finger." He stated, and you couldn't help but let out a chuckle around him rolling your eyes. He would definitely go silly if you sucked his cock as well as you knew how to do.

"Do you like the idea? Y-Yeah? Baby, please." He asked, turning his head back in the seat. And you could answer, if you weren't gagging on every inch of his cock and drooling around it shamelessly. His hips buck hard and you dig your fingers into his thighs hard trying to support him, breathing through your nose as small tears begin to fall down your cheeks.

Leon opens his eyes for a few seconds, to appreciate the view in front of him. And he curses a few counts, plunging your head all the way down to the base and lifting his hips to completely empty his balls down your throat. He lets out a loud groan, arching his back and finally lets go of your head, listening to you cough.

He looks up at you with tears in his eyes, admiring how little strands of his fluids leak from your shiny lips and his thumb lifts up to wipe it away with an idiotic grin on his face.

"My pretty girl, look at you." He mumbled, still dazed. His hand rested on his cheek and he pulls you close to kiss you messily, pushing his tongue into your mouth even though you were choking around him seconds ago.

Yes, you two were disgusting. But you were disgusting in love.

hey, thank u so much for reading! Let me know if you liked it! 🎀

(💌) bye, bye !

[trans-elrond]

fantastic rebuttal to "writers don't deserve better pay because the stuff they write is terrible/unoriginal", full thread here

(to explain, the "Unknown" under his name is from a add-on bot detector; it usually can assign a percentage likelihood that a user is a human being and not a bot, but I think the blue check system disrupted the add-on so it says "Unknown" underneath his name now.)

[image id under the read more:

May 7, 2023 tweet thread from Tom Vaughan @/storyandplot

With #WGAStrong rightfully in the spotlight this week, I've seen some less-than-sympathetic comments focusing on the lack of originality in our projects. This is a fair criticism of the system, but not the writers. A quick history of how we got here (thread emoji)

The first thing to understand is that Hollywood has NOT run out of new ideas. The studio’s preference for I.P. has nothing to do with regurgitating ideas and everything to do with MARKETING.

The late 60s-70s is generally considered the artistic high of the studio system. Ironically, many contribute this to corporations buying up the studios! The corporations knew they had no idea how to run a movie studio, so... they put creative people in charge.

This is how you got the run of so many great films the studios would never make today. They also took bigger chances on young, promising talent (the first "film school generation" of filmmakers.)

But with the success of JAWS and STAR WARS, the corporations demanded more of those kinds of hits. The creative folks insisted such things were unpredictable, and the business folks said let's make them less so.

(Sidenote: This was also the same time a completely different phenomenon was happening. A/C was becoming the norm for theatres, making summer movie-going much more attractive.)

Over the next decade, more and more MBAs and marketing people gained influence in the studio system. Being business folks, huge hits were not a creative problem as much as a product/marketing problem.

The 80s is when the “high concept” became pre-eminent because it narrowed a sales pitch to one sentence, a trailer, and a poster. This made everyone a marketing agent for a movie because everyone could explain what it was about!

In the 90s, marketing became just as important as the film itself (reflected in their respective budgets) when Hollywood discovered they could profit from fifty years of pre-existing awareness for old TV shows and movies.

This allowed the marketing department to move away from pitching a movie and convincing you to go see it (lower success rate), to simple “audience awareness” and building anticipation. (higher success rate.)

The audience knew what THE FLINSTONES the movie was. They just needed to know the casting and when it opened. No one needed to have the remake of GODZILLA explained to them. They just needed to know when it opened.

The marketing department prefers AWARNESS over SELLING because awareness is something you can throw money at. Selling is harder, and it’s less predictable. This is why franchises are so valuable.

Whenever someone says, “That’s something I can sell!” It’s usually something that can sell itself. What they mean is, "I just have to let people know about this!"

Hollywoods's reliance on property the audience is already familiar with is 100% because... the audience is already familiar with it. It is easier to market the product and this increases its chances of success.

This focus on I.P. has become so pervasive, many, including executives themselves, have forgotten WHY it's valuable. They'll option an unknown comic BECAUSE it's I.P., forgetting that it's unknown and lacks the main asset of I.P.

Writers do love writing on an I.P. that means something to them. Every Star Wars fan who became a filmmaker would love to work in that universe. But we do not love it more than our own original work. We would always rather work on that.

So when you see another remake, or reboot, or adaptation, and think, "Can't they come up with something new?"

Remember, the answer is yes. Yes, we can. And we want to. You can blame the market or the marketing, but either way, the widespread production of truly original content is just not the studio business model we're in right now. #WGAStrong

end ID.]

[amorisxx]

Snickerdoodle pt. iv

pairing: Art Donaldson x reader, Patrick Zweig x reader, Tashi Duncan x reader summary: Art comes out of retirement to test out his coaching skills. Your relationship with him continues to spiral. warnings: smut 18+, cheating, divorce, rough sex, piv, marijuana use, slight angst, hastily proofread word count: 7.7K divider by @cafekitsune <3 prev part | next part

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

Kaleb decides he wants to play tennis. Or that he wants to “get serious” about it. He’d done tennis camp every summer along with soccer camp, and he’d enjoyed it enough. But for some reason, he’s determined to be a tennis player now. You blame it on how much time he’s been spending around the Donaldson’s. Between the various play dates and carpooling, he and Lily have been attached at the hip.

The two of you are enjoying a quiet evening  on a weeknight when he brings it up. 

“Lily doesn’t really like tennis,” he tells you in between bites of mashed potatoes. 

“Well that’s okay. Sometimes our friends end up having different hobbies,” you say.

“Hm,” he puts his finger to his chin, “kinda like you and Mr. Art?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well he’s like the greatest tennis player ever,” he says, spreading his arms out wide. “But you’re terrible at tennis. And you guys are friends right?”

His assertion has you placing your fork down. “Okay, first of all, I’m not terrible at tennis. Secondly, it’s really not fair to compare me to a professional tennis player, K, he’s had years of practice.” Then, you reluctantly think of the last thing he said. About the two of you being friends. 

Images of Art kneeling above you in bed dance through your mind. You think of the last time you were with him. How he’d laid his cheek on your thigh while you threaded your fingers through his tufts of blonde hair. His gaze searing as he watched you in all your post-orgasmic bliss. Your chest was still heaving as you tried to recover.  

You clear your throat. 

“Yeah, um, I guess we are friends.” You avoid eye contact with Kaleb and pray he changes the subject. You don’t want to think about Art. 

Unfortunately, your son is too young to properly read the room. If he was, he’d see the way you’re clenching your fork in your fist. Or he would’ve realized by now that his mom is a harlot. Instead of calling you out on your immorality, he turns to you with express earnestness. “I wanna play tennis like Mr. Art,” he says definitively.

He then furrows his little eyebrows and asks you, “you think I can be as good as him one day?”

You smile, reach over to smooth your palm over his curls, and tug his ear. You say what every parent would. “I think you can do whatever you put your mind to, my little monkey.” 

He grins at you, dimple poking out.

After all, you’re almost certain this is just an eager phase prompted by Lily bringing Tashi to school for career day. Tashi mentioned to you that Kaleb was very eager to ask questions about her job. Apparently, he thought it was super cool that she “got to coach the best tennis players in the world.” You’re worried that before dinner is over he might ask you to put in a word with her about coaching him. 

Once you’ve finished eating, tucked Kaleb in, and tidied up the kitchen, you finally get to relax with a cup of lavender chamomile tea.

Before you settle into the refuge of your bed, you make a note to sign Kaleb up for club tennis. 

ᯓ

You’re at a gas station near Kaleb’s school when you realize your dumb credit card has a faulty chip. You grab your purse and lock the doors to your car, having been forced to go inside the store and pay for your gas the old fashioned way. 

The door shuts behind you with a ring of a bell. The unmistakable smell of fuel fills your nostrils as it mixes with stale coffee and the emblematic stench of small convenience stores. You grumble when you see there’s a short line. 

With a sigh, you take a detour down one of the narrow aisles to grab a pack of gum. You pick out a random pack of spearmint, but your inner child lingers on the yellow packaging of juicy fruit bubble gum sitting beside it. When you were little, your mom would’ve made you pick one or the other. Without a second thought, you pluck the yellow pack out from the shelf and head back towards the front. 

On your walk back, you glance out the windows, checking to make sure the pump you’re parked at is still number 5. 

The line is shorter now. There’s only two people. You think you recognize the dark head of the person standing at the counter. They’re digging through the back pocket of their jeans and pulling out a leather wallet when your cellphone dings. It’s an email notification from your boss. You read the subject header before dropping the phone back into your purse, hoping to avoid whatever stressor awaits you there for a couple more hours or so. When you look back up, you’re met with the face of the dark haired stranger. 

His eyes meet yours. Patrick Zweig sends you a mischievous smile of recognition as he saunters toward you. He snaps his fingers. “I know you.”

“Hi, Patrick,” you say through your tight smile. The last time you’d seen him, he tried to blackmail you into going out with him. If he wasn’t so attractive, you’d probably be repulsed by him. 

“Long time no see.” He pockets his package of Marlboros. “How you been?”

“Um just busy you know,” you hum. “You?” 

He nods. “Same, same.” He looks you over, smile growing wider when he meets your eyes after lingering on your cleavage. He doesn’t even attempt to be discreet. 

You scoff, rolling your eyes to the side.

Thankfully, the bald guy in front of you finishes up his transaction so you have an excuse to say “excuse me” to Patrick as you approach the register. You glance back when you hand your money to the bored cashier, catching one last glimpse of Patrick as he exits through the door. You nibble on the inside of your cheek, feeling the tiniest hint of disappointment. 

You accept your change and two packs of gum and make your way back to your car. Not wanting to waste any more time at this point, you toss the plastic bag into the passenger seat and hurry to pump your gas.  

You’re leaning against the trunk while the fuel fills your tank when you hear a small “hey.” 

You’re startled as Patrick approaches you again. You look around suspiciously. “Um are you stalking me?” 

“No.” He huffs out a laugh. “I was standing over there taking a smoke.” He points towards his beat up suv. You wonder why he doesn’t have a better car. You thought tennis players made money. “And I saw you. Didn’t get to say goodbye earlier.” 

You click your tongue. “Well, bye.” 

“Wait—I hope I didn’t rub you the wrong way last time.” He rubs his palm over the back of his neck. “I kind of have a fucked up sense of humor.” 

“It wasn’t the joke,” you supply. “It was more so you trying to blackmail me into going on a date with you.” 

He laughs. “Yeah, I don’t know why that didn’t work.” The grin he gives you sends a shiver down your spine. 

This time, you smirk, your gaze tracing the length of his body, from his Nikes to the curly wisps of hair flying in the wind. The gas pump clicks, signifying that your tank is full. You don’t remove it right away because you’re busy letting Patrick type his number into your phone. You wish you could say you played hard to get, but that would be a lie of monumental magnitude. 

You don’t actually intend to call him, content to let his number go forgotten in your phone. After all, what type of woman would get involved with the best friend of the man she’s having an affair with? 

Later on, when you’re having a glass of wine, mommy duties complete for the night, you pause on his number as you tap through your phone. You inhale, take a sip from your glass, and quickly save his contact before swiping out of the app. You can blame it on your being slightly tipsy when you notice that he’s saved as “for a rainy day.” 

ᯓ

It turns out that the tennis thing isn’t just a phase. You don’t mind of course. You’d always support your kid in whatever he pursued. The only issue is that Art fucking Donaldson thought it would be a good idea to train little Kaleb. As if you needed more reasons to be around the man. 

You’d told him that you didn’t think it was necessary because your son was only eight years old. Surely, he wouldn’t need a retired professional tennis player to train him. His tennis lessons at the local club would certainly suffice. Plus, you imagined he had more important things to attend to than give private lessons to a third grader. 

On a random weeknight, you’d gone to pick Kaleb up from a play date with Lily, hoping to grab him and get back home before the rain got any worse. Art had greeted you at the door, placing a hand on the small of your back. 

He decided to bring up the topic again. Even Tashi, who was usually busy with training of her own, chimed in, claiming it would be a good opportunity for Art to find real meaning in tennis again. Whatever that meant. Patrick, who you had been avoiding thinking about, once again inserted himself into a conversation, pointing out how young he and Art were when they first started playing tennis. According to him, it was never too early to learn how to properly hit a ball with a racket. 

ᯓ

The thought of Art spending time with Kaleb through tennis is an endearing one if you’re being honest with yourself. But you know you would have an intense fight on your hands should Chris find out. 

Ever since Art had stepped in with your ex at the fall festival, he’d harbored an attitude toward him. He’d gone as far as complaining about all the time Kaleb spent at his house, accusing you of trying to turn your son against him. If it weren’t for the court mandated visits, you’d have simply told Chris to go to hell. But in an attempt to maintain peace for your son’s sake, you reassured him that Kaleb only spent so much time around Art because Lily was his best friend. 

You asked him if it was worth destroying his son’s friendship. He conceded for the time being, but you’re sure if he found out about any extra tennis lessons, he’d blow a gasket. 

Ironically, you had never been offered the freedom to express such possessiveness. You had to be content each and every time your son stayed at his father’s new house with his new fiancée that you barely knew anything about. You handle some occasions better than others. 

This time, though, when you watch Kaleb go through the front door of their luxurious home, Spider-Man backpack affixed on his back, your stomach churns. Chris’ fiancée smiles and waves to you with her left hand. Bitterly, you think it’s a miracle she can even lift it with the large diamond wrapped around her finger. She places her hand on your son’s shoulder, pulling him into their home, as if she wasn’t the one that helped wreck yours. 

Maybe it’s the fact that this past week would’ve been your anniversary, but your shoulders shake with sobs throughout the entire drive home. You sniffle as you think about Kaleb building a life with his soon to be step-mom. You hope she treats him right, but, ultimately, you wish he didn’t have to know her at all. 

It doesn’t help that you aren’t able to bury your sorrows in Art’s chest or on his dick. He’d already told you about the gala he’d be attending that weekend for the Donaldson Foundation. You haven’t seen him since last weekend, and you ache to call him, but the thought makes you feel nauseous when you think about the wretched irony of seeking comfort in a married man. In a decision that’s almost homogeneously pathetic, you sit in your lonely driveway and send a “hey” to ‘for a rainy day.’

ᯓ

It doesn’t take long for Patrick to offer to come over. You send him your location as you pop open a bottle of wine. 

You reach for a glass, your eagerness causing you to apply too much force as you slam the glass down. It breaks under the pressure of your haste, immediately cracking at the stem. The inconvenience is too much for you. You curse before bringing the entire bottle up to your mouth. You take a swig, red liquid spilling out of the corner of your mouth. With a gasp, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. Pitifully, your vision starts to blur again as your eyes swell up with hot tears. You resort to sitting on the kitchen floor, taking the occasional drink, and wallowing in your despair. 

You’re propped against the cabinet, knees to your chest as you cradle the green tinted bottle of red wine like a toddler holding a stuffed animal, when you hear your doorbell ring. You stumble to your feet, dragging them as you move toward the door. When you swing the door open, Patrick is standing there with his hands in his pockets. He looks you over once, mumbling that you “look like shit” before stepping into your home as if he’d been there a thousand times. 

He lifts his eyebrows when he sees the neglected pieces of glass on your counter. He looks back at the bottle in your fist before groaning. “Please don’t tell me you’re an alcoholic.” 

You roll your eyes. “No, I’m just having a pretty shitty day.” 

“No shit,” he snorts. 

You send him a glare. “I don’t even know why I called you,” you say and rub your temples. 

“Because I’m obviously easy and you know it.” He smirks. 

It makes you laugh, your red, puffy eyes squinting back at him. 

Patrick eventually convinces you to smoke the joint he’d brought with him. You haven’t gotten high in years, and you find yourself mindlessly rambling about your life as you pass the joint back and forth to him. You’d stopped crying a while ago, your eyes now red because of the weed. 

You and Patrick are lounging on the floor of your living room. You’re dragging your fingers through the shag rug underneath you and leaning your head back on the sofa when you hear him laugh. He sounds like he’s far away, down through a tunnel, but when you turn your head, his face is right beside you. 

“What’s funny?” You grunt. 

He shakes his head. “S’nothing.” 

You frown and shove his bicep. “Tell me,” you say, scooting closer to him. “I hate feeling left out.” 

His smile falters for a second like he’s remembering something, but when you blink he’s sporting a melancholic grin. “It’s just—you kind of remind me a lot of Art.” His head falls to the side to really look at you. “I mean not like completely, and not really how he is now, but when you’re upset—it reminds me of when we were teenagers.” 

“I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not,” you say. It comes out as a whisper. Your faces are so close that you don’t want to startle him. 

“Hm.” His eyes flicker to your lips. “Not a good or bad thing. Just a thing.” 

“That’s why you like me?” You mumble teasingly. “Because I remind you of your boyfriend?” 

He smirks, lips so close to yours you feel his breath fan them. “Who said I liked you?” 

“You don’t have to.” You’re just the slightest movement away from kissing him. If you tilt your head just the tiniest bit—

He lets out an almost imperceptible moan when he finally presses his lips to yours. It’s so quiet, you think you might’ve imagined it. It all happens incredibly fast, but feels like slow motion. Your head is fuzzy and your body is tingling as Patrick grabs your waist, hoisting you onto his lap. It takes you a moment to build momentum, your sensory overload working against you.

When you’re finally able to match his energy, the kiss is searing. He’s sucking your lip into his mouth like you’re already his, hands roaming everywhere he can get them. When he bites your bottom lip, you suck in a breath, giving him room to thrust his tongue into your mouth. You mewl at the way your mouths seem to fit together like velcro. Your toes curl and you tighten your fists into his dark locks when you feel his hot tongue traveling down your throat, leaving white hot bites that feel like being branded. His teeth sting and your cunt throbs as you impulsively rut against his length. 

Patrick rubs his large palm over your ass before abruptly smacking it, making you release an embarrassingly airy moan. His teeth tug on your earlobe. “You like that?” 

You only nod, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. 

“Hmm?” He mumbles, continuing to lave over the skin behind your ear. His hand comes down on your ass again, harder this time. 

You let out a pathetic squeal and slam your hips down against him in search of some kind of friction to relieve the ache between your legs. “Oh god—please fuck me—“

His mouth meets yours again. You can barely kiss him properly, panting about needing him to fuck you right now. 

He really is easy, you think, but it’s not like you have room to talk.

ᯓ

The first time Patrick Zweig sinks his cock into you, you’re on your knees, face pressed against your rug. The slam of his hips threaten to take your breath away as tears cling to your eyelashes. He’s rough, possessively grabbing your flesh with no regard for potential damage. When he experimentally grips your hair in his hand, tugging your head back gently, you see stars behind your clamped eyelids.

Patrick nearly whimpers at the way it makes you arch your back into his thrusts with increasing intensity. He groans something about you being a slut and fists your hair with less restraint. Your walls clench around him when he wraps his hand around your throat, pulling you to his chest. 

He grunts into your ear. “I knew you liked it rough, could tell from the first time I saw you.” 

The tears have started to spill now. Whether it’s from the humiliation or the utter ecstasy, you aren’t sure. All you know is that you almost sob when Patrick drags his tongue alongside your face, collecting the salty tears.

ᯓ

He buries himself inside you for a second time no more than twenty minutes after you’ve both cum. You gasp and claw at his back as his body presses you into your couch cushions.

You have to admit that Patrick knows how to fuck. Knows how to read your body, tapping into just the right frequency to get you off. 

It’s obvious that you’ve been craving this type of treatment from the way you’re responding to him. But you’re sure that he must have a sexual sixth sense because in the midst of fucking you wildly, he grabs your ankle that’s dangling by his ear, turns his head, and plants a sweet kiss to the bone. It makes you melt into the sofa. 

He leans down to shove his tongue into your open mouth. Softly pats your cheek, relishing in your cock drunk state. 

“Does he fuck you like this?” He murmurs into your neck.

You don’t have to ask who he’s talking about. 

“Huh?” He prods. 

You choke down a moan. “Better. He—“ You cry out when you feel him start rubbing harsh circles into your clit. “He fucks me better.” 

He huffs out a laugh through his smile, but his hips slam down harder as if he’s determined to change your answer. In less than a minute, you’re biting down on his shoulder when you feel another orgasm rack through your body. 

ᯓ

You take a longer break this time. Stopping to pour yourself a real glass of wine. One with its stem intact. Patrick lazily inhales from a cigarette as he watches you, with hooded eyes, attempt to hold a throw blanket over your bare torso. In contrast, he nonchalantly spreads his thighs over your couch, body on full display. 

His eyes leisurely meet yours. They shine prettily in the dim lighting of your home. His dark lashes flutter on each drag of his cig and it makes the corner of your mouth curve up when you take a sip. The lamps have cast a cozy shade of amber over the room. It blankets Patrick’s skin in a golden aura reminiscent of something being baked in an oven. 

Patrick reminds you of the gingerbread man, you think. It makes you press the tips of your fingers to your lips to stifle a giggle. 

He tilts his head at your odd behavior, but he assumes the weed must still be affecting you. 

Once you’ve placed your glass on the coffee table, and he’s put out his cigarette, Patrick is pulling you by the ankle, tossing your blanket to the side and kissing his way down your abdomen. 

You yelp when he captures one of your hard nipples in his mouth but let him press his hot kisses into your skin nonetheless. 

You end up cumming for the third time that night with his head buried between your legs. 

ᯓ

Patrick leaves while you’re asleep. 

When you wake up around 3am to an empty house, you think it’s for the best. You check your phone. You have a missed call from “a.d.” and a text from Patrick that says “had fun” with a winking emoji. You don’t respond to either, instead, opting to pad your bare feet to the bathroom. You desperately need a shower.

In the morning, you tidy up your home from the events of the night before, cringing at what took place on the terracotta colored sofa.

When the buzzing in your head doesn’t stop after cleaning your entire living room from top to bottom, you find yourself in the kitchen, pulling out ingredients to make chocolate chip cookies. 

You’re frantically kneading dough when the doorbell rings. You frown, not expecting company, but clean your hands as best you can as you make your way to open the door. Sometimes, your talkative neighbor, Mrs. Taylor, likes to come knocking on your door early in the mornings. 

You’re surprised to find that Art is standing on the other side with a latte and a bag containing a chocolate croissant. You assume it’s for you. He places his things down on the table by the door, the one that holds your catch all tray, and scoops you up into a hug. 

He groans into it, making you smile. “Hi,” you mumble into his chest. 

“Hi, pretty girl,” his voice comes out equally mumbled. “Missed you.” You can hear the grin in his tone. It makes your heart clench. 

You allow yourself to hold onto him, despite the ever present worry that you should be reining yourself in when it comes to him. He moves to let you go, grabbing your face in his palm and kissing the side of your head. You whine and lock your arms around his waist in protest. You inhale his scent, all warm and familiar. You’ve missed him. 

“Baby,” he laughs into your hair. You grunt, squeezing him tighter. “Okay, c’mere.” He pulls you into him, securely engulfing you in his arms. “I got you, I got you.” 

You eventually release him long enough to walk into your home. 

You’re relieved that you’d been overtaken by a cleaning spell this morning because you fear that Art might take one glance at your couch and figure out who had been here. That he’d smell him in the air. 

You’re afraid he might’ve detected it anyway when he freezes in the walkway separating your kitchen from the living room. You nibble on your lip as you try to search his body for any signs that he’s onto you. 

To your relief, Art is actually focused on the copious amounts of cookie dough you have on the counter of your kitchen island. He turns to you with the all knowing look of a father, his eyes creased with concern. “Oh no, what happened?” 

ᯓ

After a therapy session in which you decide to stop letting your ex influence your decisions from afar, you finally relent, allowing Art to begin practicing with Kaleb on their private tennis court. It seems like since you got involved with their family, that’s all you ever do, give in to everyone’s requests. In any other context, it would be disturbing, but the sight of Kaleb racing to the court with an oversized tennis bag fills you with joy. The bag threatens to pull him down, but his excitement keeps him upright as he makes a beeline for Art. 

You don’t know who’s more excited to see Art between the two of you. Your son’s tennis instructor waves at you from across the court. And you have to fight the rush that flows through you, threatening to cut off your oxygen, and give a simple wave in return. It makes you feel like a kid with a fervent crush. You could gag.

You remind yourself that you’re here for Kaleb. Not you.

You think that as long as you get to see him happy like that, you’d agree to anything. It’s a scary notion, but becoming a mom has made you aware of a lot of terrifying realities. 

ᯓ

It’s this maternal need to preserve your son’s happiness that leads you to another prolonged encounter with Tashi Duncan. She’d caught you when you were dropping him off for tennis lessons one day. Apparently, she had a free day. Lily was spending the day with her grandparents, and Patrick is, thankfully, nowhere to be found. You try to hide your relief when she tells you that. You don’t think you can face him right now. 

She insists you join her in their sunroom while the boys practice. You try to think of an excuse to turn her down, but you decide your karma from sleeping with her husband has built up too much to take the chance of tacking on more. So, when she offers to make you a cup of tea, you oblige and sink down into the fabric of a warm sofa.

When Tashi reappears, she sits down with a cup of steaming hot tea for the both of you. You thank her with a smile, letting your eyes trail over her figure. She looks ethereal. The sunlight pouring through the glass forms a halo of light around her, illuminating her like a Madonna painting. She has her hair pulled back into a low ponytail that causes her to have to tuck the loose strands behind her ear every now and then. The motion makes you take notice of her slim neck and the way her collarbones dip into her loose-fitted button down. Even dressed casually, she looks like a goddess. 

You feel your heart start to beat a little faster and reach to take a sip of your tea. You wonder how she knew that lavender chamomile was one of your favorites.

It’s only awkward for a moment because the two of you quickly fall into a conversation about what she’s missed now that Art has taken over attending the PTA meetings. That’s how you’d initially met her. She had actually been the one who you exchanged communication with about carpool and play dates. Art’s retirement allowed her to focus on tennis and other aspects of raising Lily that she preferred. You giggle when she admits that she never really liked those meetings anyway. You don’t tell her that you always had that inkling. 

When you mention that Cynthia is still advertising her knitting business at every single meeting, she sucks in a laugh before leaning toward you. She presses her lips together, holding in her giggle. “Guess what?”

You squint at her, your expression already anticipating a joke. “What?” You all but sputter out. 

“I’m probably responsible for like half the sales on her Etsy shop.” She says like she’s admitting to something top secret. It’s a lot like the expression Lily takes on when her and Kaleb are playing “secret agent.”

“Girl, what?” You didn’t think she’d be a fan of crocheted animal figures. 

“I ordered one for my mom for Mother’s Day,” she explains. “She fell in love with the thing I swear, thought it looked just like her little Yorkie, next thing you know she’s asking for the link to share with all her friends.” 

You’re snickering into your mug imagining Tashi unintentionally being Cynthia’s best saleswoman.

She smiles at you. “I’m serious. Apparently, amigurumi is the new thing. It’s gonna be flying off the shelves. That’s why I had to go ahead and put in my order.”

“Of course you know the official term.” You toss your head back. “What’s yours look like?” 

“It’s a little tabby cat,” she smiles wistfully. “Like the one I had growing up. Her name was Aphrodite.” 

It’s a fitting name.

You’re biting back a grin as you take a sip from your tea. You sigh at the taste. “How’d you know what type of tea I liked?” You ask absentmindedly. 

“Art mentioned it to me.” 

You freeze. “Art?” 

“Yeah he says you like to make it before bed. Now, he’s hooked on it.” 

All the blood in your body rushes to your head. You feel that unwelcome yet proverbial sinking in your gut. You think you might start projectile vomiting.

“Are you okay?”

You don’t respond. It’s hard to speak when you feel like you’re dangling upside down on a roller coaster.

“Wait… you didn’t think I knew did you?”

For some unintelligent reason, you decide to play stupid. Usually, in times of danger, humans resort to fight, flight, or freeze. You choose fucking idiot. “Knew what?”

“That you’re fucking my husband.” Tashi says quite unceremoniously.

“What—what do you mean?” You squeak out.

“Don’t.” She laughs. “I’ve known the whole time.” 

“How?” Your voice is shrinking smaller and smaller to your ears. The sound of Tashi’s voice, her pert laughter, drowning it out.

“Art tells me everything.”

“And you’re okay with it?” You attempt to ask though you can barely hear it.

You know your question reaches her ears because she shakes her head and tells you, “I suggested it.” 

Your eyes go wide. Her divulgence seems to propel you forward on your metaphorical roller coaster. In a snap, it brings you out of your stupor.

“I told Art that he should fuck you.” She says it like it’s nothing. Like it’s as simple as telling him to pick up some carry out on the way home. 

You’re confused, and your head is starting to hurt from the whiplash, and you wish this ride would end already. “I’m—I’m not sure I understand what’s going on here.”

“Okay, well, Art’s been attracted to you since the day he met you,” she says plainly. “But he’d never actually do anything about it because that’s just who he is. He needed that push—“

“That push?”

She nods. “He needed to know he could do it and everything would be fine. He’s still figuring out how to be open to stuff like this.” She explains, gestures vaguely in the air. “He’d never break up what seemed like a happy marriage, but when it was clear that your marriage was far from happy…well he started to warm up to the idea.”

“What do you mean far from happy?” The shock has you feeling unreasonably defensive.

“Clearly something was off. You never seemed happy with him. You’ve said it yourself that he was a dick.”

“Um—okay, well, I’d say something has to be off if you’re coaching your husband into sleeping with unsuspecting women.” You shoot back. Your gaze is sharp and accusatory.

She lets her eyes fall down to her lap, picking at little buds of lint being exposed by the sun’s glow. “You’re right, something was off between us,” she says like it’s something in the past. Like maybe they’re good now, but at one time they weren’t. “But Art knows how I feel about him.” Then, her gaze returns to you. “Something tells me your husband either didn’t know or didn’t care.”

Her comment strikes a nerve. Chris did know something was off, and she was right, he didn’t care. He made you feel like needing more from him made you selfish. As if the reminder of the vows he made to you was an affront to him. He knew you were unhappy. That you felt ignored. But he didn’t care. When you’d served him the divorce papers, you naively thought that he’d realize what he might lose, that he might beg for your forgiveness, promise to be better. Instead, you watched him sign the document in the same way he’d signed receipts for dinner before closing the tab and tucking the pen inside. 

You think you envy her. Because she has a husband that actually doesn’t want to leave her. 

“Hey.” She grabs your attention. Her voice softens when she sees your glassy eyes peering back at her. “I’m not judging you. I’m just trying to offer an explanation.” 

You work to swallow down the onslaught of emotions threatening to rise up like bile. You release a fractured noise from your throat, letting the revelation fully soak in. “So you really knew this whole time then? Or rather you orchestrated it?” 

“Okay, that’s a little extreme,” she says. “When we found out you were getting divorced, I mentioned to Art that he should pursue you. That’s all.” She shrugs. “I never knew if he’d actually do it or when he’d do it. All I know is that the first night he came home smelling like you, he fucked me like he did when I first agreed to be his tennis coach.” 

“Then, he was constantly meeting up with you or staying to talk after PTA meetings,” her fingers curl to form quotations around the word, talk. “But I knew what was up.” She bites her lip. “It was honestly kind of hot.” 

You frown. The thought of him sleeping with her immediately after being with you has your stomach in knots. The worst part is that you can’t stop wondering if he’d showered first. If he’d cleaned himself up or if he’d went straight to her, buried himself inside her, cock still sticky with your fluids. In a way, it’s like you had also been inside her. If you think about it long enough, you can imagine what it must feel like. So, you don’t think about it. Instead, you fix your gaze on the golden pothos plant sitting on top a table to your right. The tapping of your nail against the ceramic mug fills the silence. 

She gives you a questioning look. 

Ignoring the implications of what she just told you, you settle for the anger you’re feeling instead of dwelling on any confusing arousal. “Do you not realize how fucked up this is, Tashi?”

“Excuse me?” 

“Yeah! It’s fucked!” You throw your hands up. “I mean I’ve been running around feeling guilty, thinking I was a fucking homewrecker while the two of you get off on a cheating kink!”

She can tell you have more to say, so she leans back and lets you go on.

“I mean how could you do that? I was fucking depressed.”

She snorts. “Not so depressed that it ruined your libido. You two have been going at it like rabbits.” Her smirk makes your cheeks burn. 

You place your mug down onto the table. “Wow. You know what?” You’re on the edge of the couch now, body rigid. “You and Art can go fuck yourselves! This is seriously messed up.”

She raises her eyebrows. “As messed up as you fucking another woman’s husband?” 

Her words drip with mirth, and it pisses you off that the fiery look in her eyes is poking at a budding desire in your belly. “This is ridiculous,” you mumble to yourself. You’d rather focus all your energy on being outraged than interrogate why this is kind of turning you on. You’re about to stand up to leave when she places a hand on your arm.

“Are you seriously mad right now?” She asks you. 

An incredulous look takes over your face. “What do you think?” You spit out.

“Well, would you have preferred I not know?” She asks as if you’re the crazy one here.

“I—“ you squeeze your eyes shut, and try to gather your thoughts. “Obviously not, Tashi.” You glance up to the glass paned ceiling. “I just—it would’ve been nice to know what was really going on. I mean he never even told me that you knew.”

“Well, did you ask?” She asks simply. 

Did you? You think back to the past couple of months. The more you and Art hooked up, the more you avoided directly mentioning Tashi. He didn’t bring her up more than what was necessary, so you suspected he was actively trying to keep it from her. 

To be fair, he did mention a couple of times that he’d told Tashi you two were going to meet up for lunch, but you thought he must’ve been leaving out the activities that followed. And if she happened to call him while the two of you were together, he would casually tell her he was with you. You obviously assumed he was downplaying your friendship because there was no way Art would be so nonchalant about a mistress. But, apparently, the word mistress didn’t even apply to you. 

“I mean, I guess I didn’t.” You stammer. “But I feel like that was on him to bring it up to me.”

“Well that’s where you went wrong. Art can get in his own way sometimes.” A pensive expression works it’s way onto her face. “Or maybe part of him did kind of get off on feeling like he was sneaking around.” The thought seems to bring a small smile to her face. 

It still doesn’t make sense to you. You try to tamper down the sinking feeling that you’ve been nothing more than a pawn. “I just don’t understand why you two couldn’t proposition me like a normal couple looking for a third,” you say.

“Who said you were our third?” 

“Oh, so there’s other women you’ve sent Art to fuck?”

“No. I—I don’t just pimp out my husband, okay?”

You back down.

“We already have a…third I guess.”

You look at her with furrowed brows. 

“Patrick.” She answers.

“Patrick? Like Patrick Patrick?”

She nods.

You laugh cynically. You didn’t think this situation could get any worse.

“I know.” She sighs. “I know how it seems—”

“Was that part of the plan too?” You’re out of breath, chest heaving. 

She looks genuinely confused. “What are you talking about?” 

“Me and Patrick,” you blurt. 

“Wait a minute, you’re sleeping with Patrick?” She’s scooting closer to you. 

You shake your head. “It just happened once.” You think of how he’d shoved your face into the rug, fucking into you as he grunted out various obscenities. “I was high. I haven’t spoken to him since.”

She looks away for a moment, brows drawn together tightly. She’s piecing together what you’ve told her. 

“I—I didn’t know he was with you guys,” you try. 

She waves you off. “No, it’s not that.” She sits back. “I’m just not surprised that he wormed his way into your pants. He just couldn’t take that Art had something to himself.” She’s speaking to you, but her eyes are trained ahead. 

“So, you really didn’t set that up too?” You ask meekly. 

“God, no!” She says. “I had no idea.” 

You believe her. 

“Look I don’t care what type of weird shit you tennis players are into, if you guys have wild orgies or whatever. I just would’ve liked to have known that I wasn’t a hypocrite.”

“A hypocrite?”

You nod. “I mean I sit here and give my ex shit for cheating on me with that skinny ass whore from Modesto. Hell! That’s why I got so much fucking alimony.” You’re rambling now. “And, then, I go and let Art fucking Donaldson screw me and then send him back home to play loving father and husband like it’s nothing. God! And on top of it all, I also sleep with his best friend! I became the whore from Modesto.” 

Tashi’s watching you like you’re a kid experiencing big feelings.

“I felt like a home wrecker.” You sniff. “But apparently I’m actually not…because it was your idea, well only Art, not Patrick, and I—it’s all just fucking with my head.”

Tashi swallows. “I honestly thought you’d be relieved to find out.”

She looks at the frown on your face, takes in the way your plump bottom lip is jutting out. She reaches for your hand. “We’ve never really been the best at communicating. Me and Art. For the past year or so, we’ve gotten better at talking to each other, being honest about what we want, but we’re still working on doing that with other people I guess.” You let her thumb rub the back of your hand before you gently pull away. 

You grab your mug again. The handle is cold to the touch. 

“I promise we didn’t mean to fuck with you. Honestly, I think Art really likes you.” She offers you a small smile.

You look into your mug trying to still your reaction. You don’t care. 

Tashi’s gaze feels heavy on the side of your face as you feel her watching your expression. You start to fiddle with your watch. Checking for the time. Except your watch is too busy displaying your increased heart rate to offer the time. 

You sigh. 

She reaches out to you again, but this time she brings her hand up to your face, moving the curls falling down over your eyes. You let her nimble fingers caress your cheekbone before trailing down to your chin, guiding you to look at her. 

She gives you a steady, knowing smile. “You fell for him didn’t you?” 

Your cheeks go ablaze, and you try to look away from her. 

“Hey.” She grasps your chin in a firm, but gentle hold. “It’s okay.” She nods as if it’ll telepathically make you agree. 

You clear your throat. “I know you say that, but this is all new to me.” Your voice is slightly wobbly and you think you might cry. “I—I didn’t think it’d happen but it did. I thought I could get him out of my system but now,” you inhale and press two fingers against your neck, subconsciously trying to self-soothe. “Now, it’s like—it’s like I can’t stop.” Your voice comes out almost like a whisper. Like you’re afraid to admit the truth. 

And, really, you are afraid. You’re fucking terrified. 

You’re scared to fall in love with a man who already has one—two people in his life that he’s in love with. The last time you entrusted a man with your love, he was only meant to love you, and he couldn’t even give you that. 

What if you realize you’re absolutely enamored by Art Donaldson and he realizes the same thing Chris did? That there’s something about you that makes you unworthy of love. That the depth of you is as deep as your cunt goes and that’s it. 

What if he realizes that he already has what he needs in Tashi, even Patrick? What if they realize they actually aren’t willing to share?

You apparently voice the last bit aloud.

Tashi tilts her head, some of her strands have fallen loose again and she wears the prettiest pout on her lips. “Do you want me to prove it to you?” 

You gulp when her hand presses into your thigh, and she brings her face impossibly close to yours, forcing you to hold her gaze. “You want me to prove that I’m okay with it?” Her eyes flit between each one of yours with a level of seriousness you’d expect from someone like her. 

Her expression demands an answer, and so, you give a faint nod, transfixed on the woman in front of you. 

You gasp when you feel her mouth on yours. 

You learn that Tashi tastes sweet when she has her tongue in your mouth. You think you can taste the tartness of the lemon she’d sucked on earlier. It’s good, and you realize you’re fucked because you really like kissing her. 

Her tongue twirling around yours has you panting quietly, and you keen when you feel her manicured nails press into the nape of your neck. You haven’t kissed a woman since your last girlfriend in college, and you find you miss it. Something about it feels like drinking sweet tea on a hot summer day. Climbing into cool sheets at night when you’re bone tired. Or the feeling you get when you discover the song that you’re going to replay for the next week. 

It also makes you feel absurdly wet. 

The two of you work up a rhythm of pulling away for a breath before coming back together like magnets, letting your foreheads gently press together as you breathe deeply, thumbs caressing skin, eyelids fluttering. 

Your tongue is sweeping across Tashi’s lip, on a path to enter her mouth again, when you hear someone clear their throat. 

There’s an audible smack as you yank yourself from Tashi, eyes flying to the doorway of their sunroom. 

Art is standing there staring at you, gaze shifting from your face to the hand you still have placed on his wife’s neck. His jaw is clenched, and his bulge is painfully evident in his pants. 

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

a/n: I've been waiting for this since the first post. Let me know how you feel about the reveal <3 as always, my asks are open!

[captain-hawks]

Happy Spicy Saturday Dee!!!

Methinks a certain winged hero, the man himself, one Takami Keigo, enjoys the occasional Sexy Phone Call when away on a long mission hehehe 🪽🪽(pretend those are red LMAO and thank you in advance!! 💙💙)

keigo takami x f!reader

c: masturbation, implied p in v

-> spicy sleepover

“So…I liked that dress you were wearing today.”

Keigo Takami may be hundreds of miles away right now, but you can hear the pout in his voice all the same as his feathers rustle noisily on the other end of the phone.

Thumbing at the hem of the soft material sitting gathered along the tops of your thighs as you lie in bed atop the rumpled sheets, you smirk, “I thought you would.”

Admittedly, you did buy the flowy little red dress with every intention of wearing it as a surprise when Keigo arrived home from his mission—he’s a sucker for seeing you in his favorite color, after all. But he’s been away for over a month now, much to your chagrin, so your impatience led you to post a casual photo wearing it instead (knowing just what kind of a response it would pull out of him).

“Did you…take any more pictures?”

“Maybe.”

“Yeah?” he asks, voice entering that familiar, husky territory you know all too well. 

“Check your messages.”

You know the exact moment that he clicks the notification, an audible groan punching out of him when he sees the images—

—the fabric of the dress soaked through with water and clinging tightly to your breasts, your hard nipples showing through—

—the straps of the dress lying loose down the sides of your arms, tits spilling out, bottom lip tucked between your teeth—

“Oh fuck, baby,” he exhales, making no effort to hide the distinct sound of his zipper sliding down as he undoubtedly frees his cock from the confines of his pants.

Arousal simmers hot in your gut as you imagine him spread atop his hotel bed, the pupils of his golden eyes blown wide with lust as he tips his head back against the pillow and begins to stroke his erection.

“There’s more.”

The next sound that escapes his lips is a little more feral, caught somewhere between a growl and a whimper when he sees them, and you smile with satisfaction. 

—your ass on full display as you bend over—

—the skirt of the dress rucked up, your legs spread to reveal the slick leaking from your cunt—

“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs, and you hear him spit into his palm, each heavy stroke of his palm against his cock punctuated with a wet, slippery squelch.

“One more.”

—

Honestly, Keigo’s not sure he can handle any more. 

His cock is painfully hard, flushed red and throbbing, and if the heavy ache of his rapidly tightening balls is anything to go by, he’s worried his cum might end up on the ceiling if he doesn’t snatch the box of tissues on the nightstand in time.

But his finger automatically hits the play button on the video nonetheless, and he fucking chokes as he’s treated to the sight of you teasing your folds with one of his stray feathers, the fluffy red barbs stained dark with your sticky arousal. 

He’s going to fuck you in that dress every night for a week when he gets home.

“This isn’t fair,” he whines, pumping his cock harder in earnest, hips canting upward off of the mattress as he desperately fucks his fist.

Your responding laugh is breathy and innocent, but then you let out a little moan, and he knows you’re touching yourself to the sound of him jerking off.

With each rapid stroke up and down his shaft, he imagines all the ways he’s going to fuck you in that goddamn dress—

—atop the kitchen counter, your hands threaded in his mussed blonde locks, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, his hands shoving up the skirt of the dress and digging into your hips as he buries his cock inside of you—

—his hand clasped over your mouth to muffle your moans as you writhe in his lap on the couch out on your apartment’s balcony, dress fluttering in the warm summer breeze—

—up against the door inside of a restaurant bathroom, his patience drawn thin by the tantalizing swell of your tits across the table all night—

—you on all fours atop the mattress, whining and begging him for more as he pushes up the dress and palms the globes of your ass before burying his face in your cunt—

Keigo comes with a shout, hips stuttering as the pleasure of his climax rolls through his body in a wave of liquid heat, barely grasping a tissue in time to partially catch the flood of cum that sprays from his cock, half of it painting his chest. 

When you’re both sated, breathing heavily in tandem on either side of the phone, he looks at the mess he made and murmurs tiredly, “Send me the link for the dress so I can order you more...can’t promise I’m not going to ruin that one.”

[petalsthefish]

He’s shirtless.

He’s fucking standing there, shirtless.

Lily did not know what to do with her hands, or eyes, or legs, or hair. She’s frozen in the middle of the field where she’d been meeting Marley for a post practice walk back to the castle for the Slug Club meeting. Marley was busy blabbering on about Anna Spinnet getting on her nerves, going on and on about some rule book thing.

Maybe.

To be honest, the words didn’t even register in Lily’s brain. There was nothing going on up there, not a single brain cell firing, not once she caught sight of him. Instead she stood there, mute, wondering if she could die from attraction.

Next to “Fatal Attraction” in the dictionary, was James Potter.

Now don’t get her wrong, she crushed on him everyday. He had many qualities that made him worthy of a swoon.

His hair, for one, was windswept to one side with curls sticking out in places he’d not managed to tap down. She’d once gotten to run her fingers through the strands and they’d felt like sugar candy from the fair, waves spun like thread that might melt from her touch.

His eyes, if she were standing close enough, would be a deep shade of brown with gold and green flecks. Not emerald green like hers, a softer green, like the color of the sea in photos from southern islands. She’d seen it in postcards, almost like diamonds reflecting a green light.

More impressively, he was shirtless.

Rippled arm muscles demanded her gaze as he drank from a water bottle, the water dripping out of his mouth he was so careless with it. It was May, warming up, and the early summer sun had slightly tanned his chest. Curly black hair ran across his chest, and normally she hated chest hair, but this was James Potter. 

He broke all her rules but that only made sense where he was concerned. Lily often wondered if the man had ever followed a rule in his life. He was known for detentions and late night parties with friends. He had no idea how to stay out of trouble, but maybe that’s why she liked him so much.

She couldn’t stay out of trouble either.

Lily imagined if he ever showed up to class like that, she would grab him by the waistband of his quidditch joggers and pull him into her lap. Merlin, he’d tower over her, consume her, on top. His hand was big enough to hold a quaffle so he could handle her breasts with ease. One of those hands ran across his beautiful body, preparing to stretch and—

She swallowed a sigh just as someone side smacked her, making her call out and capturing the attention of everyone nearby.

“What was that for!” Lily demanded with a cry, rubbing the side of her head and glaring at Sirius Black who had his arms crossed and was looking at her like he could read her mind.

“Dunno,” Sirius tilted his head, his grey eyes slightly narrowed, “I couldn’t tell if you were having a stroke or not, your eye kept twitching.”

“So you hit me?” Lily stepped away from the tall Gryffindor, still rubbing her cheek pathetically, her eyes darting back to James who (still shirtless) was now watching them with one eyebrow quirked.

“My house elf taught me to smack my uncle Boris when he was having a stroke,” Sirius shrugged as he waltzed past, cool as could be, in James’ direction. “Hasn’t failed me yet.”

“I wasn’t having a stroke!” She called after him, “I was—“

Sirius grinned wickedly as he turned on a heel to watch her expression momentarily falter as she stopped herself from speaking. “I know what you were doing, but until you’re willing to pay up, gawking counts.”

She shot him a nasty hand gesture at which he laughed before finishing a complete turn to face James who mumbled something to Sirius quietly. Sirius kept in a bit of laughter as he passed James a shirt, not answering.

Lily cursed Sirius within an inch of his life when James took the shirt and covered back up. Sure, she might’ve made a bet with Sirius that she’d never date James Potter, or else she’d owe him twenty galleons, but that hardly meant she couldn’t stare politely when James offered himself up for it.

She just had to figure out how to get him shirtless again.

[amorchai]

𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐔𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐏𝐒 𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒.

old post was 408 notes.

pairing(s): young!remus lupin x reader

words: 506

warnings/tags: established relationship, one (small) sexual innuendo but completely a sfw work!

“how about a high five every time you finish a topic?” remus had used his umpteenth suggestion, causing you to pull yet another disapproving expression while replying, “i think i’ll pass, that’s not even remotely motivating for a full topic’s worth.” 

remus sighs, moving from resting on his knees to sit down as you rest your head against the tree trunk, notes sprawled over the grass and hiding from the bright sky as you regret your decision in going outside of hogwarts in hope that a summers day might help cure your procrastination. 

it only made it worse. and now your boyfriend, remus, tried his best to motivate you into studying, knowing you would be annoyed with yourself later on if you didn’t. 

“fine, how about… i remove an article of clothing every topic you study?” you snort at his suggestion, “and you class that as a motivation?” you tease with a grin as he gazes at you with faux annoyance, “i don’t want to look over the entirety of the cruiciatus curse for one of your socks, that’s just offending my ability to learn.”

“fair enough,” replies remus as he looks down from the hill they were atop of, gazing at the water from afar and the hills of scotland covering the castle for miles before shrugging. “have you got any brilliant ideas?” he asks and you shake your head.

he lets out a humph as he moves forward to rest on top of you, head against your stomach as he lies in-between your legs. his palms slithering under you to rest flat against your back as the warm heat of the sun and each other could dangerously send you both to sleep. 

“what about a kiss every-time?” he murmurs against your shirt, head facing the side as he watches the landscape, his fingers slightly scratching the material by your back in an attempt to soothe you. “per topic?” you ask. 

he hums, “well, maybe once every ten minutes of studying?” he offers, “this reasoning you’re willing to negotiate? i wonder why.” you giggle against him as you reach over to grab a textbook, trying to not move too much with the boy resting against you. 

“yes, you’re right. ten minutes isn’t enough, maybe a kiss per sentence you write,” remus continues with a small yawn afterwards, head moving to look up to you. “remus—” you cut yourself off with a laugh.

“what?”, “we’d be here all night if it was every sentence,” you reply, one hand instinctively moving to his heavy locks of hair to thread your fingers through. he leans up to peck your lips before closing his eyes and resting against your middle. 

“fine, one kiss per word will suffice,” he murmurs, causing you to continue laughing as you nudge his shoulder. he chuckles, moving his face to press lazy kisses against your shirt as you begin to read your textbook, “as much as it would motivate me, no work would be getting done.” 

“i’m willing to take the chance, lovey.”

amorchai masterlist . taglist form

amorchai © ─ all rights reserved. no reposting/translating/copying will be tolerated.

[aquamanandfriends]

"we could get this done faster if you'd just let me help." Andrea to Summer

"Maybe, I'm just really particular when it comes to house cleaning," Summer admitted with a small sigh, "No offense, I just would rather do it all myself. I just need to wipe down the kitchen and vacuum. It'll be fast, I swear, then I'm all yours." It was true, if Summer just let Andrea help it would have been done already, but she had trouble letting people help her.

[iznsfw]

Here, Kitty, Kitty!

IZ Days of Christmas 2023: Day 2 - Miyawaki Sakura

LE SSERAFIM's Miyawaki Sakura x Male Reader Smut

6,381 words

Categories | catgirl!Sakura, petplay, KITTY CORNER

Queued this on the wrong time, sorry for the late post

The smell of freshly sautéed food fills your nostrils. The seasoning prickles the air and your stomach rumbles even before you rise. You’d drool over the food if you didn’t open your eyes and find someone else more worthy of your adoration.

Do you need to say more? No, but you’ll go on anyway when it’s about Sakura.

Her back is turned yet your focus remains attached to her. Long brown hair sways with her movements from the restraints of a band. You wonder if she knows how many times you’ve threaded your fingers through her locks as she sleeps, or notice how your hand always goes to her hair whenever she needs comforting. Your attention’s brought to her white skin exposed by the short sleeves of her short shirt. Each lot it takes—her pretty arms, bare neck, or tiny waist—is perfect. There’s beauty even without catching sight of her face.

Of course, there’s also beauty when you see it.

Sakura turns her head. She smiles, her fine cheekbones highlighted. And it’s like falling in love with her all over again. “I knew that would wake you up.”

The food’s just the alarm clock. Sakura’s the sunshine that blinds you.

You lean forward with a playful lilt in your voice. “Are you implying that I’m greedy?”

She draws the big wooden spoon to her mouth and licks a peppered green off it. “I’m implying that I’m a great chef,” she says. She turns the stove off satisfiedly. 

Your legs feel shaky from the long commute, in which you spent a painful amount of time rushing and reaping, but they still choose the way to your girlfriend. When you wrap your arms around her, she jerks in surprise. She settles into them anyway; you’re a familiar comfort. You like how small she looks in your embrace, how you’re always entertained by the idea that you could easily pick her up and give her the biggest hug ever. 

(And other things.)

You kiss the side of her head. “Thanks for the dinner, pet.”

Sakura looks up at you with those spell-binding large eyes, reminding you again of why you chose that nickname. Pet name is a more accurate term.. She’s the tiniest thing ever that you’re pretty sure you could pick her up with just one hand, like she’s a kitten. Her small whines whenever she’s frustrated during a game or tired from work don’t help diminish the urge to call her your pet.

“It’s nothing,” she giggles. “I want you to eat well.”

“I eat enough already. Watch.” 

Seal your lips around her earlobe jokingly. Sakura shrieks. Your laughs vibrate on her skin as the feeling tickles her. Once you release her, she begins to hit you painlessly with the utensil. 

“Perv!” 

“Whoa, that wasn’t even foreplay or anything.”

Sakura’s smile reaches her ears. “Jerk,” she says. “How do I even deal with a horndog like you?”

Okay, now that’s not fair. You’re not even horny twenty-four seven. You just tend to let the memories of Sakura in a summer top and skimpy shorts linger. So her bold accusations are totally false. Nope. You’re not letting them tarnish your image. 

“You’re the one thinking dirty about it, pet,” you say, snatching the spoon from her and lifting it high. 

Her attempt to steal it draws laughs from you. She’s too small to achieve the spoon. She extends her arm up yet ends up empty-handed. Sakura huffs and crosses her arms, finally giving up.

“I know.”

Now you’re the one smiling. It surprises you how quickly she said it, almost like she’s trying to lead things somewhere. The tilt of your mouth reaches places when your cute girlfriend blushes.

“Oh?” 

“Y-you know what I meant.” 

“I actually do not.”

“Well, I won’t tell you anyway. I like it when you do the talking.”

Sakura always prioritizes you, and it often makes you feel guilty. She’s never put herself first. It’s always her taking the last turn, having the smallest half of the cake, giving what she has though it’s only enough for her. Sometimes you want to give back to her, too, and not just in the act of being her boyfriend.

“And I like it when you let me take care of you.” Open your mouth anyway when she raises the spoon to your lips. As always, her cooking is everything. 

You’d say thank you verbally, but you think you prefer grabbing her small waist and lifting her on the countertop. You prefer that squeal, too. Sakura has a funny smirk on her face. You sweep back her disheveled hair and kiss that smile you love so much.

“So let me do the listening this time. What’s going on in that pretty little head, pet?”

“Just… you.” Her legs surround your hips. “I can’t think, I can’t work. All I think about is how you’re doing.”

Sakura massages the sides of your head. You swear you can feel her love trickle from her long, thin fingers and into your mind. She’s so learned in the ways of love that you get a free lesson from her everyday. You’re still studying, but you think you’ve got the hang of it.

“I can handle myself, Sakura,” you tell her. “You’re always taking care of me, so now, I gotta be the one doing it with you.”

“There’s one way for you to take care of me…”

Sakura’s hand grasps yours, and soon she’s leading it between her legs. In turn, it leads you to notice how tiny her shorts are. The hem’s literally hugging below the centers of her cheeks, giving attention to its supple shape. It leaves no room for the imagination. Neither does her crop top. Why is she wearing such a tight shirt in the house anyway? It’s just the two of you.

Then you see the lust in her face, and the dots all connect. 

“Naughty pet.” Squeeze the cheek of her ass to feel her body tense. “What exactly are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking,” says Sakura, as she lifts her legs so you could pull her shorts off, “that you ruin me with those fingers.”

Familiar scent and a familiar sight: her drenched cunt. But you never get tired of seeing her naked or running your digits along her pink slit.

Sakura’s voice whittles into a soft breath, the kind you only hear when she sings quietly. That must be why her moans are like music to you.

Her wetness is unbelievable. In little time, your fingers are already soaked, and you haven’t even put them inside her yet. There’s no need to rush anyway. You’ll take your time playing with her.

Miyawaki Sakura is named after cherry blossoms. It only makes sense that her blush is as pink as the seasonal flowers. Her core drips as if it holds excessive dew drops. Something about the color, too. Something about her center having the same blooming beauty her face has. You stroke this southern flower. Sakura grips your forearm tightly.

Immediately, your fingertips are dripping with her juices. Each flick of your hand, like that of a magician, makes her legs shudder. That’s only one more reason to do it. Play with her clit so she responds with an expected gasp. 

“Mmh, please.” 

“Yeah?”

“M-make me cum…” Sakura’s practically salivating. The drool from her mouth is a parallel to the juices trickling from her cunt. “I need it.”

You kiss her. “I know you do.”

Your touch pierces her core. Sakura’s gasp extends, and her large cat eyes grow rounder. Your fingers move as if to beckon—as if to beckon the strongest climax from her. Of course, you can’t keep doing the same thing if you want that. Recognize this, spread her thigh apart from your forearm and pin it to the counter so you could ram your fingers in her harsher. You make sure to touch her sensitive parts in order to keep those beautiful moans floating to your ears.

You had your suspicions, but it seems now that Sakura was not wearing a bra beneath that tight excuse of a crop top. Her nipples make a print upon the fabric. It’s an invitation, really. Softness fills your palms as you squeeze and squeeze and squeeze, keeping your girlfriend on the road to her orgasm.

“Feels so good!” she says—(no, screams.) Her feet kick and the entirety of her small body tenses up. “Feels so… oh god, don’t stop!”

Your thumb toys with her nipple as your lips latch on her neck. You wouldn’t think of it. You’re here to give Sakura what she needs and wants. In fact, you’re borderline spoiling her—you don’t actually have to thrust that hard or kiss her this passionately. But when it comes to giving back to her, you admit you go a little overboard.

It’s not like anyone else wouldn’t have done the same thing when Sakura’s so vocal about everything. Her cute voice becomes even cuter as it twists with every plunge and squeeze of your hand. She stutters over her words, a habit that becomes more adorable despite the circumstances, and looks at you with this unhinged wildness you only ever see when you’re taking her. If she’s your pet, she’d be a feral cat in heat, always in need for blissful salvation.

Well, you’ll grant it to her.

In the privacy of your own home, this is what you could do to Sakura: leave hickeys all over her skin, finger her with the strings of wetness connecting and disconnecting from your digits, have her for your own. You grow harsher by the minute, and she loves every second of it.

“Please. More, please, I want—” 

“What do you want, Sakura?” 

She needs to speak yet your swift strokes prevent her from saying a comprehensible syllable. Sakura’s hold on your arm—on you—truly is fascinating. She can control you while staying on the receiving side with her pouty slim lips and trembling body. She can make you do anything for her without having to convince you. Her hand over the center of your pants just adds to the heat.

She palms your stiff erection while you thrust your fingers inside her little pussy relentlessly. It’s all so much for a tiny girl to give and take, so it shouldn’t be a surprise when she says it—

“Need you to fuck your kitten’s pussy, make me squirt, I want it so bad!”

—but it is.

You’re well aware of why your fingerfucking grows borderline cruel, why Sakura is screaming the way she is. You’re lost in the moment. The heat in your pants is becoming unbearable. Your fingers are ruining her. 

And you can feel sharp teeth sinking into your neck. The pain is pleasure, and you’re struggling to think of what her bite reminds you of: fangs? Needles? Pins?

A kitten?

Sakura wets the counter and your sleeves. She whimpers against your skin, but you keep on going. You know it’s what she wants. In the corner of your eye, you can see her ears turn red. The volume of her moans next to your ear reaches heights.

“N-no… ah, stop.”

Stop?

Stop.

“Sakura?” you ask warily, afraid you did something wrong. Were things going too far? Are you hurting her? Maybe you already did.

Relief courses through your chest when she kisses you. “I’m alright,” she says sweetly. “It’s just… hmm—”

She never gets to continue what she’s saying until later on. She finds your concerned face too adorable. You’re pretty sure she saw the vulnerability in it. There’s something raw about someone seeing beauty in you the way you see in her. 

Sakura kisses you, hands containing your face. You smile into the heated session. When you drag your fingers slowly out of her cunt, she moans again, rekindling your carnal wants. 

She pulls away. “I like how your fingers are totally soaked,” she says lightly, “and it’s all me.”

She opens her mouth meekly, and you already know what to do.

Earlier, her pussy wrapped your fingers. Now, her lips do, stroking your digits of the liquid that pours down them. It’s like she’s having a second dinner with the way she’s devouring her own juices. You aren’t taking a bite of anything, but watching Sakura do what she does best is a whole meal already.

“God, Sakura, you’re so fucking sexy.”

She giggles. “Thank you. I try to be for you.”

The twirl of your wrist guides her tongue in cleaning your hand up. She truly is a kitten. Her tiny tongue licks you up, and her distinct moans almost sound like meows.

So it’s only right that you pet her. Ruffle her hair and lead it back into place. “You’re always hot, pet.” 

Think back to the moments she sits in her room gaming, with nothing but your shirt and panties on. Of course she always is. It’s second nature to her.

“I’d tell you to continue,” says Sakura slyly, kissing your fingertips, “but that would ruin the bigger surprise, won’t it?”

“What surprise?”

She hops off the counter and pushes you to the island. Since when did her workouts involve that? But she’s Sakura—your girlfriend whose face shows the mischief of a pet who’s too aware of what she’s doing. That’s why you’re breathless.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Well, fuck.

Sakura hooks her finger underneath the button of your shirt. Just a skim of her touch makes you shake. You’re wondering what’s happening—more importantly, what will be happening. But the answer’s clear. She knows your secrets, and now, she’s about to show you something she’s been hiding herself. 

She starts leading you to the bedroom. If looks could kill, you’d be dead by now, on the floor, drool rolling down from the corner of your mouth. And it would be all because of your girlfriend’s sultry expression that’s locked and loaded on you, ready to maim.

Her back rests on your bedroom door. You’re so close to each other that not one breath goes unheld by your skin. She’s truly evil for this. She knows you’re down bad for her, down at rock bottom. And she still chooses to work you up like this: pressing herself against the wooden door, with nothing but that short crop top on and a smile that’s too alluring.

You laugh. Grasp her waist. You can span its width using a single hand. “What’s this, pet?” you say. She’s getting you all hot and bothered.

“Just come inside and close your eyes.” 

Sakura winks. That’s how you know it’s as serious as it gets; Miyawaki Sakura doesn’t know how to wink. If it’s worth her practice and time, you’re in for the real thing.

You shut your eyes as she asked, and let her lead you to the bed. Your excitement chains your throat that you can’t even ask her if she’s done. Rely on your sense of hearing to figure out what’s going on. 

It feels like hours waiting for her surprise. The bed is soft beneath you, but you’d rather have Sakura’s tight body under you instead. Your pants are tight already. Reminding yourself that she’d be ready in a few does nothing to satiate your restlessness.

“Sakura,” you say with a kidding husk that intimidates her nevertheless, “don’t keep me waiting.”

“I-I’m not!”

The thumps and gasps of struggle become less frequent. Your hands frisk impatiently at your sides. What exactly is she planning?

“Open your eyes now!” 

Finally.

Once you see her, you’re met with the thought that confirms you that, like Sakura said, you’ll come inside, just in another way.

Your nickname for Sakura is sweet, but you can’t deny the lewdness it takes now that it represents itself in front of you. 

Her white crop top was replaced with a sleeveless brown one. It ought to be impossible for a crop top to be any more revealing, but that’s proved wrong when this one barely hides the underside of her chest, even giving the top of it a wide peek. Worst of all (but you can’t deny that it’s the best thing you’ve ever seen): there’s a cartoon cat-shaped hole in the middle of it that exposes even more skin. It’s more of a bra rather than a shirt at this rate. But you’d argue that actual bras aren’t this provocative. And you’d argue that you don’t mind—not even a little bit, not even at all.

All of her is on display: her midriff, her arms and pits, her legs, everything. Then you have her skirt that’s the definition of short. It’s a pathetic attempt at modesty and a great exercise of lewdness. Its length allows you a view of her inviting pussy.

It isn’t a secret that you love her hair, and now you’re in a position in which your adoration for it grows. You’re blameless, especially when it’s banded into two twintails joined behind a headband of black cat ears.

But the highlight of it all is that black collar rounding her neck. It awaits a connected leash, a driven purpose.

Tonight, Miyawaki Sakura isn’t just your girlfriend. She’s your pet—your gorgeous, little kitten in heat.

You knew it. Sakura’s been scheming and planning this, and now the surprise is all ready. She’s all ready for your using and taking.

“What a naughty girl you are, Sakura,” you murmur, getting up. 

She cowers. “Just wanted to give you a reward for working hard.” Her paws float to her cheeks. “And… I really want to be your pet. Your pretty little pet.”

“You knew what I wanted all along, huh?”

Sakura hums helplessly while she peeks from the spaces between her fingers. Her palms do a poor job of hiding her red skin. She’s both excited and shy about this, and she’s not sure where to settle. But she’s sure of the heat that sparks between her legs when you trace your touch from her jawline to her chin, where you gently lift. Your gaze is so intense that she flinches. 

“Well,” you say, bringing her eyes back to you, “what should I do about it?”

“Do what you want to me, master.”

From day one, a cat is what she reminds you of. Although she’s the eldest in her friend group with Chaewon and Yunjin, she’s still a kitten inside needing appreciation from her master. Maybe she saw in you too a master that would fit her needs well, who’d see her cute self as someone who’s also tantalizingly beautiful.

Today, you’re letting that come to life.

“Give me the leash. I know you prepared one.”

She blushes. “Of course, master.” She rises from her kneeled position to retrieve it.

Strike her ass that peeks roundly from beneath the hem of her skirt. Her cheeks bounce at the impact. As an effect, her legs shake, too. Her yelp is cute yet it sends a rush of happiness to the wrong place. 

“Bad kitten. Kittens like you don’t walk on two legs.”

“Sorry, master.”

Sakura’s now red ass is presented to you as she crawls on all fours to the corner of the room while you step out of your slacks. You could tell she gets off to the humiliation—her slit’s been dripping all over her thighs. 

The black device is dark compared to her gold collar. She picks it up with her mouth and crawls back to you. That’s right. Even if her knees burn and her hands turn red, a kitten will always crawl on command for her master.

She looks adorable with her face all sweaty from the effort. Doesn’t matter; she’ll be rewarded for it eventually.

You click the leash on. She meows appreciatively. How is it possible that an odd sound unfit for a woman like her gets you hard? You tap your lap, and she crawls up onto it. She never loses her act as a kitten.

“Fast learner.” With her stomach down, you’re able to touch her ass and cunt freely. Most cats like being petted on their backs, but yours would much rather have your hand on her cunt. Actually, you could touch her anywhere and still be met with a gush of arousal between her slim thighs. “What treat do you want for that?”

Sakura’s legs squirm together. You’d never grow tired of hearing her whimpering, but you strike her ass again. You’re a kind master, not a lenient one.

“I said: what treat do you want?”

“Want my master to eat my slutty catgirl pussy out…” she murmurs. 

Why not? 

You lift Sakura’s weightless body from your lap and drag her up the bed. In spite of her slight choking, you tug harder. At least this time she has the soft mattress under her knees rather than the cold floor. But good pets need training to become what they are.

Tie the leash in a harsh knot on one of the poles. Sakura’s still whimpering. You know she wants this treat so badly. Consequently: push her down. Spread her legs. There’s no gentleness here. Her skirt isn’t a problem when it’s length is miniscule. You’re free to eat her out as harshly as possible.

“Oh, oh, master!” Sakura’s gasps are loud despite the earliness of it all. She rolls the silky bedclothes in balls, trying to cope with your licking. It’s like you’ve reversed roles and you became the kitten that licked at her for supplement, just without the submissiveness. Either way, her senses immediately live for it and strive to get more.

Stick your tongue inside that addicting little hole. Your lips brush Sakura’s pussy lips, leaving open kisses on it. She’s so sensitive that a long, hard swipe of your tongue along her slit would have her nearly cumming. You were sure about that even before you tested it out. 

Your saliva and her juices connect. Hard to tell one from the other when you’re tonguefucking her and dragging all those delicious nectar out. It spills on her thighs, which you don’t see as a problem if you could lick it all up. You’re glad to have it stain your mouth as you kiss away at her inner thighs, then return to eating her out.

You plunge your tongue deep. Its tip flicks at her walls and sets a fire inside her. No amount of natural lubrication could keep it from burning. The magic of your mouth can be cruel and blissful at the same time.

“Fuck! Keep eating me, your tongue, holy shit—” 

Sakura gags after her attempt in lifting her head is restricted by the leash. The length you tied it at is too short for her to watch you or even react with a movement. It’s exactly what you want; exactly what she wants, too. The pain is mutually desired but so is the pleasure.

You spit on her cunt. “Did I say you get to order me around?” you ask.

Sakura shakes her head, yet another action the leash prevents her from performing properly.

“That’s what I thought. All I want to hear is your moans. Is that understood, kitten?”

“Yes! Ah, fffuck!”

Dive back in. If you weren’t full from Sakura’s amazing cooking earlier on, then you’re fed well with her pussy. You’re no pretentious dieter—you eat her pussy without shame. Perhaps you lick more than you can swallow with how she’s so sensitive and keeps leaking everywhere. Your tongue pushes and pulls from inside her orifice while your upper lip attends to her clit. Despite not having it in your mouth, you feel it pulsing.

You watch Sakura’s flat tummy rise and rest while you have your way with her. Measure its tempo. You’ve determined she’s close, if her thighs shivering around your head weren’t enough indicators. Jerk them to you and listen (if the hold of her thighs allows you) to the wonderful sounds of her strangled moaning.

“Hahk, oh god, please!”

Much to her disappointment, your fingers are only used to part her pussy lips rather than fuck her. But she’s happier with you licking wild lines on her velvety walls. It seems like your mouth could reach everything. Sakura starts to tremble more. It’s a warning, a not-safe-for-work sticker placed on an explicit track.

“Kitten’s c-cumming, I can’t hold it!” sobs your pet, unable to take any more. Her upper body joins in on the quivering, and you can see the delightful view of her tiny boobs bouncing from behind her top.

What’s next is the suction on her clit. You’ve saved suckling on it for now when she’s at her high. It’s a tested and proven method to amplify her orgasm. Once your lips seal at her clitoris, she lets out screams that almost sound like yowls. Her clawed fingernails start to scratch at your head. You’ll punish her for that later. Currently, you’ll focus on making her cream.

“Master, d-do me harder… master, master!”

The last of her orgasm subsides. That’s your cue to unfasten the leash from the headboard and pull the collar up. Sakura makes a weak, fragile sound that stirs a mixture of heat in your loins.

“No. Kittens don’t make the rules for their owners, do they, pet?”

Her beautiful face shows guilt, but no regrets. You expected that. “Sorry,” she says quietly. 

One would think she must have watched and taken notes from a lot of “tutorial” videos for her nuances—folding her hands, looking up at you with flinching eye contact, squirming—to be this pet-like (you know you have). But she’s just a natural catgirl, and she likes being used like this. The glint in her eyes can’t be mistaken for the lighting in the room.

Grip her collar tighter. “Do you expect me to reward bad behavior?”

“No.”

“Then get on all fours on the bed. I’m not letting up on you.”

Sakura is a little too happy to do as you say. However, you’re certain she isn’t prepared for the onslaught of lust about to be taken out on her.

You observe Sakura’s beautiful back. The line running down the center shows the hours she spent in the gym to work hard on it. It looks prettier with the thin crossing straps of the top running over it. Now your fingers are, too. You can trace Sakura’s shudders, right from her collared neck to her skirted ass.

Raise your hand high in the air, then slap her supple butt. While you’d tell her it’s to punish her, you think it’s just to hear her moan. It's a carnal instinct. Maybe you’re the animal here with your acts of nature. Doesn’t sound right; whether you slap or caress or pinch her, she’s the ever-loving pet. You notice it in the buckle of her knees and the hot breath that leaves her mouth. 

Sakura is a cat through and through, but you still like to fuck her doggy style.

“Ma-master,” she says upon the first few thrusts. She winces, then cries out a pathetic mewl, then repeats herself. This time, it’s tinier, needier: “Master, please.”

The innocently designed mirror in her room reflects back anything but innocent doings. You watch her face twist and whine in its glass. Sakura’s eyes meet yours and she’s turning red again. You didn’t take her for a red foreign cat. You see her more as a black cat.

She’s not so unlucky when she’s providing you this much tightness.

“Please what?” you chuckle. Your rhythm’s already cruel. “Gonna ask for more? Less? No, pet. You’re getting fucking punished.”

She’d definitely ask for more. Her sex drive is more of that of a rabbit than a kitten. Her wet pussy is so drenched that it makes squelching sounds in response to your hips. And, because you’re weak for her—a sucker for anything she wants—you give it to her harder.

Instead of grabbing her hips to pump, you’re using the leash. Sakura has to keep herself steady to stop her head from throwing back. It’s inevitable when your member pulls her apart and makes her take what she used to think she couldn’t. The collar’s already making fine lines on her neck. 

“Punish me, I’ll be a good kitten and obey you, I promise,” she says. Your thrusts get sloppier; her words do as well. “A-ahh, will take your cock any time of the day, on my knees, on the bed, however you like, master.”

God, the thoughts Sakura puts in your head. They’ll seriously put you at risk one day. Picturing her in those positions—on her knees sucking away at your length; on the bed like this with her cat ears frisking to and fro; and however you like, which means everything—impels you to stuff your rock hard dick in her with a might that shocks even you. See, you can do surprises, too.

“Really now?” Yank. In response, she gasps. Her headband almost falls off. Make the uncharacteristic move as a dominant master to slide it back on.

Sakura nods mindlessly. You know she’s wordlessly telling the truth. She deserves a good squeeze on her perfect tits for the dedication.

But you raise the stakes. How far can she go as your pet? How far can you go as her master?

“Even if you don’t get to cum when you want?”

It’s laughable how Sakura immediately whines. Looks like her love for your cock is conditional. To make it harder for her, you start to couple your swift pumps with a finger on her clit. One rub, two rubs, and three—you might as well be counting sheep with how her eyes close.

That sets her off. Your pet begins to shout. She’s never been a girl to talk excessively. Now, it’s the opposite; she babbles and cries and sobs like her life depends on it. For the record, her bliss does, but it’s nowhere as close to her life.

It’s starting to look like it though. Sakura’s frenzied actions consist of pushing her core back to you, filling herself up with your cock even if the leash is there to pull her to you, and repeating your title. She fills the pretty, well-furnished bedroom with the dirtiest sounds unapologetically. If your abandoned clothes on the floor had ears, they’d be deaf by now. Hell, you’re surprised you aren’t.

Her pussy gets messier with each pump. Your tip kissing her deepest parts grants you several gushes of need. They fall onto the mattress, their stains becoming a task for later. Your only wish at this moment is to fuck Sakura to her wits’ end. 

“I need to cum, master,” she says. The alarm in her voice could be mistaken as a warning for a fire or an emergency. 

Does she really? You’re not quite sure of that. Continue to give out your punishment. Fuck her like she’s a catgirl who’d die if you didn’t. Redden her unblemished skin with bruises and marks of your hand. Her hole’s splashing with wetness, and you’re starting to get really close yourself. 

She’s starting to slump. Tears from her eyes blot the white sheets underneath your bodies. “Cum, please, I need to…”

One of the final tugs of her leash for the night. With her back to your chest and your mouth next to her ear, you ask her a question that won’t determine her climax. Knowing you, even if she answers wrong, you’re still letting her cream deliciously all over your girth.

“Are you my good kitten?” you rasp in her ear.

“Yes!” she instantly replies.

Scoff. “No, you aren’t.”

You firmly rub her clit while bottoming out in her. Sakura’s throat is sore from screaming although it’s far from the last time she’ll do it. 

“You’re not a good kitten when all you want to do is fuck your master instead of obeying him. You just want me to fuck you in every part of the house, fill you over and over. You’re the bad thing who wanted to be my pet. So what are you, Sakura?”

Sakura’s hole squeezes you as hard as her collar chokes her neck. Sizable tits bouncing, mouth agape, hands curled on her collar, she replies in the form of another scream.

“A, a bad little kitten, master! His property and plaything, the one he makes cum over and over! So please, master, let me!”

Good answer. “Cum.”

“Ohhhh!” 

Sakura would have collapsed on the bed if it weren’t for your hold on her. Her body weakens and fails. The bed is flooded with her climax. Hearing her normally quiet voice reach this level of highness and whininess is an otherworldly experience. Eke more out of her; you’re pumping slowly but surely. Let it possess great impact but measured pace.

“You okay, pet?” you ask gently.

Sakura’s delicious, tight body trembles in its lingerie. Her breaths are short and sporadic. Through it all, there’s a satisfied smile on her face as she nods. It relieves you of the thought that you unknowingly might have gone too far.

“Why didn’t you cum inside me?”

“Good pets get bred, Sakura.”

“Since when did you legit care about me being a good pet?” she laughs.

“Ever since I thought you’d like to drink your ‘milk’ instead.”

Sakura bites her lip. It’s deadlier when she’s wearing that sultry cat lingerie. Your cock remains stiff seeing it.

“Oh, master.” She smiles. “I have the perfect place.”

-

The Kitty Corner. Not Kitty Korner, for alliteration’s sake, but the Kitty Corner. Cats have favorite places: a shoe, a fluffy tower, the sofa. Sakura is no different. This place, which is the corner of this room, is where she likes it best. It’s no different from any other room corner save for the plushies that line up on the wall. She likes it pressed against it, on the floor, whatever. But she loves it when she has her head pressed against the corner while you fuck away at her mouth.

This is the first time it’s been given a name, and the first time you’re fucking her to it as her master. You tried to be slow in taking her there, as if you weren’t all that excited. But your drag on her leash betrayed your real emotions.

Once Sakura is in position, her tongue sticks out. She must have forgotten that she’s a kitten, not a puppy. That won’t stop you from sliding yourself inside her warm mouth.

It begins. You rub your cock on her tongue before welcoming it in the hollow of her mouth. Like her pussy, her inviting mouth is wet and ready. Sakura tastes herself on your dick. She licks away at everything: the remnants of her orgasm from under it, your cockhead, your base. It’s not even her milk yet, but her eyes light up. 

“Be good,” you warn. “No biting.”

Her lips lift into a smirk. Then, you feel her teeth graze ever so lightly on you.

At first, you were content to get yourself off in her mouth. You could have chosen to rub your tip on the flat of her tongue or the inside of her cheek. But now, you give out another punishment. You ram your length down her throat. Training doesn’t help her avoid gagging for she does it anyway. Now her eyes light up in surprise, too.

“M-mmm!”

“Warned you, kitten,” you say with a laugh.

With only your hand on the back of her head to protect it, you start to fuck Sakura’s throat. Her gagging only gives more tightness that seals around you. Her airway is shut and it’ll be that way for a long time unless she behaves.

Sakura can’t even cough or say anything. It’s painful pleasure with her thighs squirming to give her a little bliss, and your cock not allowing her even a moment to breathe. You’re not even tugging her anymore—you’re putting all the force in shoving yourself inside her, as if you had little time to spare.

Her tongue wiggles about in an attempt for air, but as if you couldn’t be more cruel with your training, you close her mouth shut. You warned her, and she still decided to disobey. 

Her lost breaths warm your cock. Push them back to her throat. This kitten needs to learn her lesson, even if it requires another. 

As if she couldn’t get any lewder, Sakura’s last resort is to mount the leg of her favorite puppy plushie, the one you gifted her. You bet that the manufacturers didn’t know that its use was for her own little pleasure, to serve as a place to grind until the blissful torture ends. She grinds forward and you’re welcomed further in her throat. There’s no escape. Does she even want an escape?

You can feel spurts of air from her nostrils. She’s getting close. This punishment isn’t even a punishment if presented with how her nipples stick out that hard from beneath the fabric, how she’s riding the toy’s leg, how she licks still and all. Her only signs of resistance are her palms on your thighs.

“Thirsty, pet?” 

Sakura squeezes her eyes shut, grinds harder, and nods. Her sigh is the closest thing to a verbal response.

“Then have your milk.”

It’s only then that you loosen your grip on her head. You release inside of her mouth and give her the milk she deserves. There’s plenty of it to go around, but it’s all for her. Only for her.

But letting go of her causes her to collapse. Her knees trip over nothing and send her falling onto her plush. The cum spills down Sakura’s chest and midriff like an explicit rainfall. She gasps for air, torn between trying to swallow the cum and catching her breath.

At least there’s the puppy plushie to embrace her.

A kitten and a puppy.

How ironic.

You kneel down to her level and raise her chin. You’d say she wasted her milk, but she’s Sakura. Nothing is gone to waste if it’s her, especially if it makes her look so beautiful. Dazed eyes, tired parted lips, and panting painted tummy.

Beautiful.

Yep, she’s beautiful. 

“Are you a good kitten?”

“Yes?” she asks hopefully, exhaustedly. 

“Of course not.” You pat her head. Still your little pet. “You’re the best.”

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

"Pandora, Worrying About What She Is Doing, Finds a Way into the Valley through the Scrub Oak," from Always Coming Home by Ursula K. Le Guin

Look how messy this wilderness is. Look at this scrub oak, chaparro, the chaparral was named for it and consists of it mixed up with a lot of other things, but look at this shrub of it right here now. The tallest limb or stem is about four feet tall, but most of the stems are only a foot or two. One of them looks as if it had been cut off with a tool, a clean slice across, but who? what for? This shrub isn’t good for anything and this ridge isn’t on the way to anywhere. A lot of smaller branch-ends look broken or bitten off. Maybe deer browse the leafbuds. The little grey branches and twigs grow every which way, many dead and lichened, crossing each other, choking each other out. Digger-pine needles, spiders’ threads, dead bay leaves are stuck in the branches. It’s a mess. It’s littered. It has no overall shape. Most of the stems come up from one area, but not all; there’s no center and no symmetry. A lot of sticks sticking up out of the ground a little ways with leaves on some of them—that describes it fairly well. The leaves themselves show some order, they seem to obey some laws, poorly. They are all different sizes from about a quarter of an inch to an inch long, but each is enough like the others that one could generalise an ideal scrub-oak leaf: a dusty, medium dark-green color, with a slight convex curve to the leaf, which pillows up a bit between the veins that run slanting outward from the central vein; and the edge is irregularly serrated, with a little spine at each apex. These leaves grow irregularly spaced on alternate sides of their twig up to the top, where they crowd into a bunch, a sloppy rosette. Under the litter of dead leaves, its own and others’, and moss and rocks and mold and junk, the shrub must have a more or less shrub-shaped complex of roots, going fairly deep, probably deeper than it stands aboveground, because wet as it is here now in February, it will be bone dry on this ridge in summer.

There are no acorns left from last fall, if this shrub is old enough to have borne them. It probably is. It could be two years old or twenty or who knows? It is an oak, but a scrub oak, a low oak, a no-account oak, and there are at least a hundred very much like it in sight from this rock I am sitting on, and there are hundreds and thousands and hundreds of thousands more on this ridge and the next ridge, but numbers are wrong. They are in error. You don’t count scrub oaks. When you can count them, something has gone wrong. You can count how many in a hundred square yards and multiply, if you’re a botanist, and so make a good estimate, a fair guess, but you cannot count the scrub oaks on this ridge, let alone the ceanothus, buckbrush, or wild lilac, which I have not mentioned, and the other variously messy and humble components of the chaparral. The chaparral is like atoms and the components of atoms: it evades. It is innumerable. It is not accidentally but essentially messy. This shrub is not beautiful, nor even if I were ten feet high on hashish would it be mystical, nor is it nauseating; if a philosopher found it so, that would be his problem, but nothing to do with the scrub oak. This thing is nothing to do with us. This thing is wilderness. The civilized human mind’s relation to it is imprecise, fortuitous, and full of risk. There are no shortcuts. All the analogies run one direction, our direction. There is a hideous little tumor in one branch. The new leaves, this year’s growth, are so large and symmetrical compared with the older leaves that I took them at first for part of another plant, a toyon growing in with the dwarf oak, but a summer’s dry heat no doubt will shrink them down and warp them. Analogies are easy; the live oak, the humble evergreen, can certainly be made into a sermon, just as it can be made into firewood. Read or burnt. Sermo, I read; I read scrub oak. But I don’t, and it isn’t here to be read, or burnt. It is casting a shadow across the page of this notebook in the weak sunshine of three-thirty of a February afternoon in Northern California. When I close the book and go, the shadow will not be on the page, though I have drawn a line around it; only the pencil line will be on the page. The shadow will be then on the dead-leaf-thick messy ground or on the mossy rock my ass is on now, and the shadow will move lawfully and with great majesty as the earth turns.

The mind can imagine that shadow of a few leaves falling in the wilderness; the mind is a wonderful thing. But what about all the shadows of all the other leaves on all the other branches on all the other scrub oaks on all the other ridges of all the wilderness? If you could imagine those for even a moment, what good would it do? Infinite good.

-- Ursula K. Le Guin, Always Coming Home (273-5)

[yuquinzel]

SIX WAYS TO SAY I LOVE YOU — itoshi sae.

ಣ₊˚. contents — (4.2k) wc, f!reader, pure fluff, reluctant friends to lovers??, mutual pinning, roommates!au

ಣ₊˚. synopsis — itoshi sae has known you for six summers, and he's told you he's loved you in six different ways.

i. ( like the fleeting warmth of sunsets in winter. )

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ❝ i don't hate you. ❞

the first time you meet itoshi sae, you're fifteen and he's sixteen and you're almost certain no one in his life has ever told him to shut up. you can't stand him, he's rude and all too full of himself, and he rebuffs all your attempts at being friends. you take it as your hint to not be involved with him at all.

which would've worked if you weren't classmates and neighbors. sometimes you end up at his house more often than you'd like —courtesy of your mothers being old college roommates— and you try offering your fair shares of polite greetings of “oh, hello” and good morning or good night texts.

he either leaves you on delivered —seen 6hrs ago if you're lucky— or he prefers to stare at you like you've said the dumbest thing known to man, a curt nod is his way of acknowledging your presence but not bothering to reply back.

it's a sappy cliché. parents beings friends so naturally you and sae must spend a lot of time together except it's anything but that and you're sure he hates you. you're not a big fan of his casual glares either. you come to accept that the two of you are nothing but strangers with threads of chance meetings tangled unfavorably in your lives.

sae sits three desks away from you in the next row and yet he feels a world away from your reach. sometimes your eyes meet in the hallway and you've long since given up on smiling or waving, so that's where it ends.

you eventually become friends with rin, he's a year younger but much more tolerable than his older brother. sure, he's stoic and awkward but at least he doesn't look like he wants to kill you every second. rin walks you home every day, because you're friends. sae tags along, because his mother insists on being nice to you.

six months pass in the blink of an eye, the chilly wisps of winter beginning to gnaw away at your skin. you're sixteen now, and your relationship with sae is as rocky as always. rin's not walking with you today, so it's just you and him. there's not much talking between you and sae. you don't acknowledge his presence, maybe he prefers it that way. you call a friend instead— because as sae has come to notice, you're not a fan of long (awkward) silences— chatting away about adjusting to a new life and a seatmate that's been bothering you who just won't take the hint.

sae scoffs, and you pause.

it's been a long, tiring day and the absolute look of disdain on his face hits the last nerve, “is there a problem?”

“no,” he says flatly.

sae walks ahead without so much as sparing you a glance. he's about ten paces ahead when he turns back, “you coming or what?”

“i'm sorry if me talking is such a bother. but i'm not talking to you. why're you even here? you and i both know you'd rather be anywhere else. i know you hate me and all, but you don't have to act like you're doing me a favor. because you're not.” you spit, it's harsh and biting like the cold gusts of wind caressing your hair. heat begins to settle in your cheeks— in anger or in response to the cold against your skin, sae isn't sure.

silence creeps up in the heavy atmosphere, you think he'll disregard you as always. then, “is he bothering you too much? what, does he stalk you or something?” straightforward as always, you're not sure if sae's mocking you or feigning concern.

“why do you care? because your mom asked you to?” you cross your arms.

sae clicks his tongue, “that's not what i asked.”

he knows you're stubborn. he knows you don't have the kind of relationship with each other where you come to talk about your problems and offer solutions, so he's not surprised when you brush him off, “it's none of your business.”

you walk past him, the distance between you two feeling larger and heavier than ever. “i don't hate you.” but not enough that you don't hear him.

the next day your seatmate is bowing his head in hastened apologies and stumbling over his own words, frantically avoiding your gaze, “i'm sorry, y/n! i swear i didn't mean to make you uncomfortable! i didn't stalk you or anything, i should've taken the hint! please forgive me, I'm sorry!”

you're taken aback by his trembling hands and staggered voice, the sudden modesty of apologizing.

sae doesn't walk with you that day. rin does and you ask him if he said something to your seatmate. “what seatmate?” he'd replied. you remember you didn't tell him anything about anyone bothering you.

you didn't tell anyone besides your friend who lives all the way back in Hokkaido—

— and sae.

ii. ( like the first spark of festival firecrackers. )

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ❝ call me by my first name.❞

the festival spirit is exuberant per usual. the night-time adorned with food stalls coupled with fumes of spices and sizzling meet, children running through tents, and the blossoms of juvenile love confessions filling the air with the laughter and cheering of people attempting at festival games— it's enchanting, catching you in a trance.

you'd somehow convinced sae to join you, “we'll just go and watch the fireworks show. you'll have fun, i can guarantee that much.”

sae turns seventeen before you, his life falling into a rhythm of soccer practice (as much as he can), classes (mandatory, unfortunately), back home and exercise (lots of it), then watching the clips of the matches of every opposing team (he loses track of time). 

the stone of walking home with you everyday is thrown somewhere in there, with the ripples in its wake stretching comfortably in his life. it's no longer at the instance of his mother. out of habit or choice, you wait for him everyday until his practice is over and sae doesn't mind it too much. he never really did, it might just be something he looks forward to. (you don't need to know that.) he'll say a lot has changed— he's not sure if you can be called a friend but somewhere along the way, awkward silences turned into comfortable breaths of matching paces as you walk, eyes meeting by chance outside of class and sae doesn't mind being the one to wave first, he turns on his notifications just so he can reply to you in time albeit dryly, you've learned to not take it personally.

it did take efforts from both of you— sae being just a little more careful with his words around you, a little more patient. his responses are quick and sharp as ever, but not dismissive anymore. when you talk to him, it doesn't feel like a one-way conversation. he's figured he likes listening to you talk more than initiating any conversation. and you've learned that while sae will rarely be the one to break the silence, he most definitely hates it as much as you do.

one step at a time— matching paces to walk together, waiting for the other one to catch up, that's how you and sae work.

so when he'd initially refused to your suggestion, he's quickly learned that you're a lot more persistent and criminally good at convincing him than he'd like. this is how he now finds himself with you, laid out on a hill in the north of tokyo prefecture, empty boxes of food lying beside and the wistful blues of post-sunset before the two of you.

“see, sometimes its not bad to enjoy the good things in life, itoshi.” you hum, lightly pulling at the grass beneath you.

“i do enjoy the good things in life. soccer is good.”

“yeah, yeah. but taking a break like this is pretty fun, isn't it? don't be shy, admit it already.” you joke, and sae doesn't reply. when you turn to look at him, he's already staring at you.

“what is it?” you ask, reeling back a little. it's a little unnerving, being the centre of sae's attention. it makes you feel small— for reasons you can't name. but it also makes you feel a little special, that's just one of the many things about sae you dont think you'll ever understand.

he draws just a little closer, the air shifting with him, “you still call me itoshi.”

“what?”

sae doesn't inch back, if anything, he's looking at you like he can't tear his eyes away, “nothing. you just don't call rin by our last name."

oh. that.

“uhm, so do you want me to?” you ask, a little hesitantly.

“i don't mind if you call me by my first name, y/n.” there's a certain lilt to the way he says your name, as if he's emphasizing on first name basis. he's always used your first name, and you've always noticed it sounds different wiith him.

he says it like it always rests there at the tip of his tongue, like an unspoken word finally leaving his lips. he says it like it's the answer to everything, like it's so natural that it's you— there's yes and there's no, and then there's your name.

you feel the heaviness of his gaze as if in anticipation, waiting to hear you say it. so after a moment of reticence, “okay, sae, first name basis it is.”

if you didn't know better, you'd say he looks... satisfied. something wavers in his eyes and he looks away, you find yourself missing the way his gaze lingers on yours.

later that night you'd lay in your bed, events of earlier playing in your mind in a loop.

sae.

his name rolls off your tongue as you bring a finger to trace your lips. you repeat it to yourself over and over and over again until it leaves a sweet, luscious aftertaste. it simmers in your voice and sounds like a lullaby. a melody of his name sung like secret whispers, one that calms you and eventually puts you to sleep. you think you like how it sounds, much like how your own does in his voice.

iii. ( like a lovedrunk gaze finding yours at 2 am. )

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ❝ i don't mind if it's you.❞

you. sae. roommates.

the idea is laughable. downright idiotic. fifteen year old you would've bet a snowball's chance in hell that you and sae could ever be roommates. plenty of reasons for this to be impossible. one, for example— sae and you attend different universities. two— sure, you've gotten closer as friends but sae isn't exactly roommate material. well, he did mention he'd never even shared a room with rin so you can guess he's never had much experience either.

you'd suggested it as a joke, thrown it among the laughs and snarky comments in the games of uno you'd been winning for the past hour, “if i let you win the next match, will you let me move in with you?”

he'd scoffed at you, throwing a draw 4 card with a smirk because you're down to one card, “you lose.”

“you can't end the game with a wild card, smartass."

“sure can. players make the rules, and i just won." he says flatly.

“that is not what we agreed—”

“i win.”

“you're just making that up, sae, take it back this is gonna be my tenth win.”

“but i don't have any other card, what did you say about moving in?”

you pause at that, you didn't think he'd pay attention, “i was joking, you know I'm looking for a place near college.” you say as you pick up the deck of cards, shuffling them again to deal because arguing with sae is like arguing with a wall that sends death glares your way, you don't entertain that idea very much.

sae ponders your words, wonders if you mean it or not. he briefly imagines it, being roommates with you. then the words leave his mouth before he can think about it, “it's not a bad idea.”

you halt in your movements, letting silence take form. he almost regrets saying anything because what if you were just joking? what if you'd wanted him to brush it off as a joke too? did he overstep?— until he sees you gaping at him like an idiot. then he relaxes, and you think you hear him snicker, prompting you to come back to your senses. had you heard him right?

“it's not?”

sae shrugs, a little more confident in his words this time, “it's not. you know my place is near your college. you're tolerable, i don't mind having a roommate if it's you.”

he doesn't mind having a roommate if it's you. he doesn't mind spending a significant amount of his time in the same house, under the same roof with someone even though it goes exactly against the very reason he got a place for himself— if, and only if, that someone is you.

you'd be lying if you said that didn't just boost your ego and swelled your heart a little.

you try to bite back a smile, but fail anyway, “you're serious? when'd you get so generous?”

he doesn't say anything, offers you his signature scoff instead. well, if he knew what to say, he probably would. sae doesn't know why he suggested it. he's sure he would've said no before anyone else could throw the question. but then again— you're giggling and making fun of him and doing a little victory dance in your spot every time you win. it's 2 am, he remembers. and he's sitting in the living room of his apartment playing uno with you when he's not even sure he understood the rules.

he doesn't mind this too much. he thinks he can handle losing every match every night— if it's with you.

“you don't expect me to clean and cook for you right?” you joke, and sae takes a look at his card, and you catch the way his eyes flash with disappointment —he knows he's gonna lose this time for sure— “again, not a bad idea.”

“i mean if you pay me enough, i might—”

“that's not how that works.” he sets down a blue 5.

“that's exactly how it works.”

“i'm not the one looking for a place to live.” he says dryly, but you hear the amusement in his voice.

“hey sae,” your voice is close to a whisper, and sae hums. he waits for you to put down your card, or say something witty like you usually would. when you don't, he looks up at you, a pretty smile on your lips, “thank you, really.” you say before putting down a blue draw 2 card, but suddenly sae can't really focus on the game.

iv. ( like a breath of relief at the sight of home. )

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ❝ because i wanted to. ❞

“sae, what the fuck?” you groan, rubbing your temples to ease the damn headache you woke up with.

“i thought i told you—” he begins, stirring something in the pan before grabbing a bowl, “—to stay in your room. everything's fine here.” he says, but nothing is fine, actually.

to put it simply— it's a fucking disaster.

you're not surprised, truly you're not. sae in the kitchen is always a disaster waiting to happen in the name of accidents and “i was just trying to warm the leftovers.” the sink is filled piles upon piles of dishes and something is burning in the pan to which sae isn't really paying attention to.

“have breakfast if you're here, you look like shit.” he says casually, as if there's not smoke slowly filling the air.

“i feel like shit too, but what are you trying to do?”

“making breakfast, obviously. well, yours is ready, you can take the scrambled eggs over there.” he beckons to the plate set on the table, and it's the only thing anywhere close to normal and edible.

“but it's my turn, you're on dishwasher duty.”

sae spares you glance— more like he shoots you a look of are you stupid? and did you seriously just say that, then clicks his tongue as he goes back to making whatever it is you don't dare question.

“didn't you have a headache?” he says at last.

“that was last night sae, i mean it still hurts like a bitch but not as bad as before. and anyway you didn't know that, so why?”

“because i wanted to. now pipe down, you talk too much.” he brushes off your words.

and you realise he's not gonna say it out loud. he's not gonna actually verbalise it like “you had a headache last night and i was worried you'd still be feeling like crap so i just thought I'd make you breakfast— even though i might burn down the kitchen in the process”, he'll instead say, “well? I'm not gonna hand feed you.”

and thats okay, you've long since learned to read between the lines and connect the slip-ups of his words. sae isn't one to swallow his own words, he says it like it is, for what it means. but there are times some meanings lie in his actions, not his unspoken words.

so you say nothing more, having heard him loud and clear. you sit down, eyeing your breakfast carefully. then, very calmly, “sae, this has eggshells in it.”

his head whips faster than an owl turning to you, “the fuck? shit—”, he takes the plate from your hands, “wait just a minute, this'll be done in seconds.” he beckons to the fried rice in the pan, the one you're sure was burning minutes ago.

“that's your breakfast sae—”

“’m fine, I'll have cereals.”

“you... hate cereals though?”

“do me a favor and shut up.”

you laugh at that, a sweet and warm laugh, “seriously, what are you doing sae? the kitchen's a disaster and I'm sure whatever you're making is not edible. you don't have to do this, i can have cereal too.”

he pauses at that, turns to you instead. he finds you smiling at him, and his shoulders relax ever so slightly. “you stayed up late last night with all those damn projects, i just thought breakfast would be nice.”

“thank you, that's really sweet of you. but you know what would be really nice? we have cereals, then we watch reruns of friends, and after that we can just laze around the whole day, get nothing done. you and me, it's the weekend.”

sae looks at you— really looks at you. the worry lines blurred on your forehead, the spilled darkening highlighting below your eyes, the tired haze in your voice, the warm but exhausted smile you wear.

he thinks you're beautiful, with your morning hair and still a bit of sleep in your eyes— you're beautiful and he cant find it in him to look away.

“okay,” he breathes— a sigh of relief and warmth and gratitude.

“okay,” you repeat.

v. ( like the union of heavens and the earth. )

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎❝ you don't know what you do to me.❞

sae's not sure how he ended up like this.

the first semester of second year in university has started, the wind carries the smell of wet earth after the first showers of spring, a touch of the scent of lemongrass lingers in the air— and you're stumbling on your feet with your already slurred words and bubbling laughter sputtering through the air.

he's amused really, because you're sober enough to at least remember who he is but tipsy enough to push forward with your insistence on reminding him how pretty he looks.

“saeee, i missed youuuu,” you whine, head falling back against his arm as it goes around to rest on your shoulder.

“you saw me 4 hours ago, and we live together.” he says, watching the way you frown at his words.

“but i still missed you, you should've been with me.” you purse your lips, the way you do when you try to hide your smiles.

“yeah, i think i should've, you're a mess.”

“and you're so pretty,” you slur, bringing your fingers to brush over the smooth skin of his cheeks, “your eyelashes are prettier than mine.”

sae holds you by your arm, a firm and protective grip. he walks patiently, making sure you don't trip on air, “is that so?” he chuckles, betting on the possibility that you'll likely not remember this.

“were you always this pretty, sae or am i too drunk?” you giggle, stumbling forward into his arms.

sae holds you still, “you're drunk, idiot.” they say people are honest when drunk, so surely you mean what you said? god, he's glad you can barely keep your eyes open because he can feel his ears burning.

“but you're pretty, so pretty, i could kiss you right now.”

sae thinks he feels the ground shift beneath his feet— or was it him that tripped a little? heat begins to settle in his cheeks, you've very successfully knocked the air out of his lungs with just a few words, “shut up, I'm taking you home.”

“why, you don't want to?” you tilt your head, cheeks round and wholesome and sweetly puffed.

fuck— a drunk you is very dangerous. sae makes a mental note of never underestimating your flirting skills when you're tipsy.

“you'll hate me for it later, just quiet down.”

“i won't. never, i promise.” the playful way you're grinning at him right now with warm hues favouring the color of your skin, sae frowns at that.

it's unfair, he thinks. you can't just get drunk and then call him pretty with amused eyes and playful grins, you can't just compliment him on his eyelashes and tell him how much you missed him. it's not fair you get to say you want to kiss him even though you might not remember it when he most definitely will think about it forever. he's not even sure if you mean it as a joke because he sure doesn't. and god it's really not fair how you're just standing there, breathing and smiling and holding onto him for support— and still look so goddamn beautiful. you're looking at him with glimmering eyes, waiting for him to take a step forward.

he wants to take a chance. he wants to run his fingers through your hair and guide your arms to loop around his shoulders. he wants to taste the alcohol faint on your lips and breathe your name like you belong to him.

he wants to kiss you. and to have you kiss him back.

he thinks maybe— just maybe, if he takes a step forward, you'll take one too.

so he does, “god, you don't know what you do to me.”

his lips crash with yours first, you'd hoped him to. it's warm and soft, slow and delicate, like only you know sae can be. it's long-awaited, you can feel the desperation building up under the hastened patterns sae's hands begin to trail down your arms, slithering round your waist as he pulls you close and closer. when you bring your hand to cradle the side of his jaw, sae melts into your touch. he feels his own heart ricochet like comets inside his ribcage— reducing all his thoughts to white noise. he pulls back once —to breathe, to accept, to admire— and then draws you back in. when your lips part for a final time and breaths tangle as one, you feel time freeze in that moment.

vi. ( like the first ray of sunshine through the window. )

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ❝ i love you. ❞

“don't you fucking dare,” sae sneers, his hold on you tightening to keep you in place.

“sae come on, i have to make breakfast. do you want me to starve?” you protest, struggling to wrestle yourself out of his hold.

but sae's strong, and he's stubborn.

“breakfast can wait, i don't wanna get up yet.”

“how is it about you? i'm hungry sae.”

“and I'm tired, we don't even have breakfast this early on weekends. just lie back down, you know you want to.” sae tugs on your arm, and he's right— his arms held out look big and warm and welcoming.

“i really don't know what to do with you,” you let his arm snake around your waist once again, and pull you back under the sheets, “you're impossible.”

“and you can't resist me,” you think he looks pretty this way— the sunlight highlighting his smile as he pulls you closer, determined to not allow even an inch of space between you both.

“no, i can't resist running away from responsibilities.”

“i love you,” the words roll off his tongue before he can stop himself, it's not really intentional— it's just you and the scent of your shampoo and the flutter of your eyelashes against his cheeks, the curve of your lips on his and the warmth of your skin. it's certain and precise and so full of love— to sae, the idea of loving you comes as naturally as breathing. so it's natural the words are pulled from his throat like it's all just a part of him and spilled between morning mellows and fond chuckles.

“i love me too,” you joke, nuzzling closer into his chest.

“say it back—”

you shut him up with a kiss, “and i think i love you too.”

© yuquinzel2023 [ plagiarism is a violation of moral rights ! ]

i wrote this last night and then cried myself to sleep why isn't he real i want him 🥹

[deadsetobsessions]

Bestie sent me a tiktok by @craycrayglitterbug. Thanks for driving all this way to visit me~

——

It was the beginning of Gotham’s Summer seasonal aggression week, which was the city’s own version of seasonal depression limited to one week where instead of getting depressed, Gothamites got pissed off.

They had one for each season. Spring’s seasonal aggression week coincided with the first release of pollen from the surrounding plants, aggravated by Ivy’s proclivity towards increasing plant growth in her forest. Since most people weren’t actually pissed off enough to bring smoke to a Rogue (Ivy got strongly worded mail though), they took it out on each other. The Bats broke off more street brawls and knife fights during this season, all the while handing out tissues and anti-allergy medicine to red-nosed, puffy eyed people.

Fall… well, that week was Halloween. Enough said. Scarecrow, committed to his bit, was the most active this season. In the same vein, Spoiler and Red Robin were on the scene more often than not during this season. Gas masks and a bat were popular accessories during this season.

Winter meant Penguin and Mr. Freeze became more active, having a natural advantage in Winter. Like Pokémon, but instead of being cute, they’re busy being menaces to society and Gotham’s already fraying threads of sanity.

The Joker is terrible all year round. Fish fear him, insurance policies want him, and Red Hood tries to go for his throat every time he makes an appearance. Such were the unchangeable facts of Gotham’s hellish landscape.

Summer, though. Summer was the worst of the four seasons for seasonal aggression. The other three could generally be avoided with a modicum of luck, but Summer’s heat was unavoidable. Normally, stone architecture such as those that Gotham sported would aid in the ventilation of the city. It was not so for the normally clouded over metropolis. Instead, the curse that Gotham was built upon had adapted to modernity. Now, for exactly one week, the city had sweltering heat at night and day, inside or outside. The pavement could cook eggs, and the marble inside banks sometimes were so hot that people had to flood it with water to avoid burning their fingertips. Some of the buildings had cutting edge AC, thank you Wayne Enterprises, that the curse had yet to adapt to. They were popular spots and silently agreed upon to be protected from the usual shenanigans and robberies.

At night, the heat cools enough to be a natural irritant instead of miserably bringing people to heat exhaustion.

This is where we find two of the more active members of the vigilante scenes during this season:

The Red Hood, and the Batman.

To be fair, Batman is active all season, but summer called for more reinforcements than normal.

Red Hood made sure his Alley had access to clean water, shade, and handed out relief to the less fortunate inhabitants. He also cracked down on the fools that tried his rules, not killing them because the Seasonal Aggression led to seasonal stupidity more often than not and he couldn’t exactly blame criminals for doing crime. He can, however, blame them for breaking his rules while doing said crimes.

Batman covered the city, helping irritated children find their way back to equally irritated but worried mothers walking him at night, taking down rogues, and disarming the numerous pipe bombs people built out of aggravation.

Though the vigilantes had thermoregulated suits, they were not immune to seasonal aggression.

“What the fuck, old man?!” Jason shouted through his helmet as Bruce took down the goon Jason was gunning for.

“Hm,” Bruce grunted back, ducking low to kick another goon in the chest.

Jason shot the last one in the foot and slammed his fist into their face as they dropped in pain.

“What the hell are you doing in my territory?!”

Bruce, unable to say he missed Jason and unwilling to get shot should he even hint at telling his son that he swung by to check on him, simply grunted.

“Oh, well fuck you too, you overgrown rat!” Jason scowled, holstering his guns. He knew how riled up he could get on a regular patrol. A patrol on hell week stood no chance of ever ending peacefully. He’d better stow away his guns so Bruce doesn’t walk home with a couple of noticeable dents in his Kevlar. Alfred would be upset if that happened. “You want to start shit? Fuck you, I’ll start shit first!”

Batman opened his mouth- whether to reprimand him or deny the accusations, the world will never know- but Jason cut him off.

“Okay, your suit? Whack. Your parenting skills? Whack,” Jason quickly spat out, the built in voice changer changing it to sound even more growly. “Your taste in literature? Abysmal. Don’t even get me started on your hypocrisy!”

“Hood-”

“You know what? I will get started on your hypocrisy! The Joker straight up murdered one of your kids! I was your kid! You said- you said that you loved me!”

Jason, who had thought he had moved past this despite not putting in the work to do so and refused to work through his emotions in anyway that wasn’t murdering someone or crying on Jane Austen novels, had in fact not moved past this. Unsurprisingly, Bruce wasn’t the best model for self care and healthy coping mechanisms. And despite Jason’s vehement objections to being compared to Bruce in anyway, being like Bruce in anyway, the fact of the matter is that eventually, all of Bruce’s kids will inevitably have a facet of themselves turn out like him.

“I do!” Bruce objected, the heat getting to his head and making it easier to actually express any form of emotion that was not mildly related to Justice.

A goon groaned, but Jason knocked him out again with a swift blow to the head before turning and pointing an accusing finger at Batman.

“If you loved me, why didn’t you kill the Joker?!” Jason screamed, punting the unconscious body of a goon against the HVAC. He took off his helmet and hurled it at Batman. Jason jabbed a thumb at his masked face, pointing out the myriad of raised scars on his face. “Look at me! I’m- I have scars! And they never stop hurting! I had to fucking dig myself out of my grave because he killed me and I was unfortunate enough to be dragged back!”

“Jaylad-”

Jason snarled, stalking closer and shoving Bruce back. Bruce allowed it, his head pounding with the heat.

“You couldn’t save me, fine! But fuck, you let Gotham pay the price for letting him live! This is the third Joker group we’ve downed this week! People died, B! Good, innocent people and scumbags! You could have killed him! You could have stopped him! All of this,” Jason gestured angrily at the downed goons and the blood splattered on top of the roof, jaw clenched and eyes more fiery than the summer day Gotham had been subjected you. “Just because of your no-kill rule!”

Bruce drew his shoulders back like he was about o admit something shameful. “That’s not why I didn’t kill the Joker. I tried to kill him, but Superman stopped me.”

Jason’s next shout died in his throat, the anti-hero looking floored as he stared at his father figure, frozen in place with his mouth agape. Bruce continued, now that he could speak, the words rushing out of him like a dam that could not be stopped from breaking. “What?” Jason breathed out. Bruce barreled on.

“I know. I know I’m a hypocrite. But if I tried to kill him, I wouldn’t stop at just him.”

“No, wait, Superman what?”

“He stopped me.”

Three beats of silence.

“Then, why… why didn’t you try again?” Jason asked, voice strangled and thrown helmet all but forgotten in this new piece of information.

“Because… it was an attempt to kill myself too. After that, I didn’t have the will to do anything but to cling onto the Mission,” Bruce said, voice softening to that which he used for children because despite everything, Jason’s was still his son. “And… I didn’t think I deserved to take the easy way out, not when you had the opportunity to live taken away from you like that.”

Jason swallowed. “Why the fuck couldn’t you have told me this earlier?”

“You were angry at me. I deserved it.”

“Fuck you and your stupid martyr bullshit,” Jason rebuked. He went to collect his helmet. Jason paused when he passed Bruce, a split second of understanding running between them that wasn’t there before. Jason picked up his helmet roughly as Batman stood stock still- akin to someone standing still when their cat purrs on them, afraid to move and provoke an unfavorable connection- and huffed.

“I’m gonna beat up the Boy Scout.”

“No.” Bruce paused. “I can’t condone that… but I can tell you that there might be security lapse in the kryptonite safe tonight.”

“I still don’t like you.”

“But you know you’re my son… right?”

“I’ll think about it,” Jason muttered. He pulled out his gun and shoots a guy in the foot. The unconscious goon twitches.

“Hood!” Bruce’s tone changed to scolding.

“There we go. And we’re back.”

“That’s great,” Oracle said in their ears. “Next time, remember to shut off your comms.”

Jason’s face burned. “Oh fuck.”

“Little wing… I didn’t know you felt that way.” Dick said, voice watery as he audibly beat thugs over the head with his baton.

“Hey, Harley’s scheduled to break out of Arkham like tomorrow if you wanted to beat up Superman with her.”

“Sure, Red. Now fuck off!”

Jason shut off his comms, zipped down to the street and stomped angrily to his motorcycle.

Batman turned to gather up the goons, pettily deciding not to warn Superman. Hey, hell week affected him too.

[themotherofhorses]

pairing: aemond targaryen x handmaid!reader

summary: ...aemond realizes he’s fallen in love with his handmaid five months later as he stands outside his bedchamber.

warnings: explicit language. aemond's kinda horny but mainly a lovesick dude. steamy makeout session towards the end??

notes: welcome back to another short episode of "aemond targaryen being a total fucking simp for his handmaid bc vic is too damn obsessed with this pairing."

his handmaid's tales | main masterlist

Aemond realizes he’s fallen in love with his handmaid five months later as he stands outside his bedchamber.

Through the doors comes your soft voice from the inside, feminine and melodious, absolutely beautiful to him. It’s muffled by the thick walls, but he can hear the verse you sing to yourself. I loved a maid as fair as summer, he chants along in his head, with sunlight in her hair...

He sneaks a peek inside the room. You sit on the settee, crossed at the knee like a highborn lady, with an eyepatch in one hand and a thread and needle in the other. Aemond recognizes that one eyepatch at first glance. The sight tugs at his heartstrings. It was a favorite of his, a rare gift from his father on his thirteenth nameday. Viserys had his name embroidered along the inside in pretty cursive.

Aemond One-Eye.

Viserys’s smile was as brilliant and big as the blue summer sea. My boy…three-and-ten. How you’ve grown so fast before my very eyes.  

But the eyepatch grew too small for him as the years passed, and he hid it away, never wishing to see it again. His father now was nothing more than a half-decaying corpse still sitting the throne in pure mulishness, who hadn’t muttered his second son’s name in two long years. He doesn’t know how you found it, nor does he feel any slight bit of bother.

“I loved a maid as red as autumn, with sunset in her hair,” you hum next, turning the eyepatch around to thread the loop. Your feet are bare, pretty hair tousled, and the servant’s robe does little to veil your blinding beauty. His gaze focuses on your face. Your lips look pink and plump- ripe for him to kiss and bite and swallow in all the endless kisses he yearns to give you, and your eyes twinkle as bright as the midday sunlight.

I love a maiden as beautiful as all the seasons.

“I love a maiden as white as winter, with moonglow in her hair-”

He strolls into his bedchamber, striking you off guard, your singing breaking off abruptly. “My prince!” you exclaim, bolting up to slip your feet back into your shoes. “Oh, my sincerest apologies, my prince. I was told you would be gone for the better part of the day.” Amid your babbling, you drop the needle and thread onto the floor, “is there anything you need from me?”

He wanted to laugh.

“I had no notion that you had such a…lovely voice,” Aemond instead tells you, lacing his hands together behind his back. The compliment widens your eyes, and he hears how your breath hitches in your throat. You resemble a fairytale maiden, doe-eyed and flustered at the sight of her wooer. “I’m very sorry, my prince….”

“Do you sing a lot?”

You bite your lip, and it causes his cock to stir within his pants. No, no, stop that at once, he wishes to say aloud. Only I should be allowed to bite your luscious lips like that. All mine. “My mother sang to me as a little girl,” you admit, braving a faint smile up at him. “Sometimes, when I’m missing her, I sing. Perhaps it sounds a bit silly…but it makes me feel as if she is in the room with me.”

Aemond hums, nodding his head. He then looks down at the eyepatch within your hands, raising an eyebrow. “Pray tell where you found my old eyepatch. I swore I hid it well all those years ago…” and he hopes you catch the thin amusement in his tone.

“Oh…” you fall silent, unsure what to say next. “I was tidying up your desk and bookcase, my prince…I opened a drawer, I believe it was the second to last one to the left of the desk, and I found it there….” you glance at the eyepatch, running a finger over the black cloth patch, “-I thought, perhaps, it would be a nice surprise if I extended the straps so that you could wear it once again. It is very pretty!”

You hold it out for him to take. “Would you like to try it on? Just for me to check if I need to loosen it up some more.”

Aemond stiffens. “Perhaps later,” he says, a bit sullenly. “I do not like to take off my patch when others are still around. I’ve found that my missing eye is quite the…dreadful sight to many.” He clenches his jaw so tight he wonders if his teeth might shatter. But you just shake your head.

“My prince, believe me when I say that no such thing would ever terrify me.” Aemond could hear his brother snigger in the back of his mind, and he shifted uneasily. “I’m your handmaid. Please trust every word I tell you.” He remembers the cool night under the stars when he claimed Vhagar for himself, gazing out into the darkened sand dunes where she slept. Your smile is the warmth he needed.

He tilts his head, searching for any sign of deceit amongst your features. Gods, but you’re too damn beautiful for your own good, he thinks as he sighs and slides the patch from off his face.

Do not dare mock me…flinch…or run away…

But you just stare up at him, studying the dark sapphire he’s stuffed inside his missing socket. The skin stretched around it is rather uneven and tender and pinkish, and his healed scar cuts through his eyebrow. “May I, my prince?” you ask. He nods, and you gently trace the scar with your fingertip, up and down. Your touch is soft, and delicate, sending a shiver up his spine.

“You did not deserve this, believe me when I say that,” you whisper, and he feels your hot breath, “—you were just a boy….”

Gods be good, no one has ever told Aemond those words before. He does not know what to say, remaining silent and still.

Then, without warning, you stand on your tippy toes to kiss his cheek, your eyes shutting as your soft lips press against his skin.  

I love a maiden as beautiful as all the seasons.

“You are still handsome and strong and worthy, my prince,” you mumble, stroking his cheek, a smile flickering across your pink…plump…luscious lips and Aemond…

…Aemond pulls you flush against his chest, swathing an arm tight around your waist as the other tangles his fingers through your hair, his mouth slamming down on yours in a heavy and wet kiss that leaves your knees buckling beneath you. Kiss her. Take her. Make her yours. Your arms fly up to his neck as you sink into his grasp.

“She is yours. Your handmaid. Everything she does next is at your own will and mercy…but do treat her well, Aemond…it is through kindheartedness that you receive devotion.”

And he lays a kiss on your lips, and another, and another…and with them all, Aemond swears himself a man obsessed and blinded by love. He knows he will not survive this miserable, torturous life without you by his side. You, his precious handmaid- his maiden as beautiful as all the seasons.

By the time he lets you go, you’re breathless and dizzy and as giddy as a young girl. He gives you only a few more seconds before he kisses you again, flinging you onto his bed. “My prince…!” you cry out, bouncing as he begins to chuckle, swallowing the rest of your words in his mouth. “Oh, this is improper,” you gasp, toes curling as he pulls at your bottom lip, “it’s so….gods, it’s so wrong…I need to…I need…”

“Shhh,” he answers, kissing your nose and chin, and temple before your lips again. “You don’t leave this room unless I dismiss you, remember?”

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