#I know you can’t improve perfection

[animanytotsllyinsany]

mods are asleep drop the patb redesigns

[daddyricsdoll]

[leftoversludge]

anybody else recreate entire shows in the sims 4, or like…. do you have a life?

[fingertipsmp3]

Today has been a productive day :)

[nighttimealone]

Cw: Nsfw (gym owner+ your personal trainer Simon)

Simon notices you the moment you step into the gym. nervous, pretty, looked entirely out of place. He greets you with a nod and a gruff “Hello” when you saunter to the counter and look up at him timidly. Gleaming doe eyes meeting his and a bit intimidated by his presence.

“I want…want to sign up for the course…” your voice comes out soft and quiet, still a bit scared by the wall of man in front of you. His lips curl upward slightly, though his schedule is pretty tight already, but he doesn’t mind squeezing time out just for a cute and beautiful girl like you.

“The only time I’m free now is 21:00.” Simon said, asking if you’re okay with it, and you agree without a doubt. This is the gym closest to your place, and has the highest rating among others, you don’t mind if the session will start a bit later in the night.

He’s a great personal trainer, like the what the comments say on the internet. He’s meticulous, knows how to effectively improve your stance. You’re not sure if it’s normal for personal trainers to stand this close when you’re squatting, so close that you can feel the heat radiating off him, his breath fanning on the nape of your neck. maybe he just wants to make sure you won’t accidentally hurt yourself, you think to yourself after few sessions with him.

Simon can’t forget the first session, you step into the gym with the sports bra and gym shorts, hair tied into a high bun that shows off your flawless neck, he wonders how smooth it will feel when he runs his fingers along it. His chest touches your rear when you’re lifting weights, “In case your grip slips.” He tells you when he sees the confusion in your eyes. His eyes glued on your hips when you just finished few reps of lying leg curls, ass cheeks so nice and supple, you breathe a bit fast as you keep lying on the training machine, unaware of him try not to form a boner from ogling at your moist lips and the contours of your body.

You’re a bit frustrated with the progress you made so far, asking him if you’re not working hard enough. Your slight pout is too adorable, and he resists the urge not to swipe his thumb over your bottom lip. “You’re doing alright, give your body some time to build muscles.” Simon reassures you, but he can still see the chagrin on your face. You’re stressed out, he can tell, and as your personal trainer, it’s his job to help his student unwind, yeah?

The disappointment and anxiety are thrown to the back of your mind when he sits on the bench in front of the mirror, two fingers deep inside you, twirling and pressing the gooey spots with you moaning on his lap.

“Look at the mirror, sweetheart, look how beautiful you look when your little pussy’s swallowing my fingers.” His other hand move to your chin, turn your head towards the mirror. You can see his smug smile even with that disposable mask on, his fingers shoved deep into your cunt, bring out your profuse juices when he drags his fingers out. The scene is too embarrassing, your cheeks flush with arousal and shyness when you shift your gaze away from the mirror.

“Look at the mirror, love.” His tongue clicks twice, tone firm without any space for you to reject, so you obediently look back, let out a high-pitched sweet whine as you watch how his cock sinks into your tight cunt, pussy lips pushed aside to fit his fat cock. “Fucking pussy so tight, so perfect…fuck…” He inhales deeply, landing a soft swat on your bum and makes you yelp at the comfortable sting.

He definitely didn’t choose to schedule your session this late, that no one will be in gym except you two, so he can bend you over every surfaces here and fuck you till you squirt all over the nearest wall. His hips never cease, shows you how much stamina and strength he has as the best personal trainer. Pinning you over the machine you did lying leg curls, the angle of the it allows your ass to arch up and let him drive his pierced cock deeper, each piercings knead and glide through your spots one by one every time he slams his hips back.

When your thighs’ twitching even harder than they were after your leg days, you looking up at him with dazed eyes, entirely blissed out from how many mind blowing orgasms he gave you, Simon lifts you up again, easily maneuver you to hook your knees over his elbows, he pushes his cum-drenched dick inside again, still rock hard and ready to wrench yet another release from your heavenly cunny. He walks you to the mirror again, every steps makes his hips bucks and cock thrust up in the force, and all you can do is moan and whimper. “too much, too much Simon…”

But He only huffs out a laughter at your words while he stops in front of the mirror, giving you the full view to the reflection—your fucked dumb expression, thighs spread widely and supported by his strong arms, pussy swollen and clit peaks out from the folds, yet your tight walls still massaging his cock nicely as if you’re trying to please him.

“So perfect, princess. look just right when you’re in my arms.” Simon presses a kiss to your shoulder, adjust his grip and let your weight help him to reach the deepest, the tip of his shaft rest against your cervix. “Let’s have the next round on the leg press machine, yeah? I know you hate doing leg press the most, maybe you’ll be more pliant the next time, because you know how I’ll make you soak that seat after the session ends, hmm?”

[byoldervine]

Types Of Writer’s Block (And How To Fix Them)

1. High inspiration, low motivation. You have so many ideas to write, but you just don’t have the motivation to actually get them down, and even if you can make yourself start writing it you’ll often find yourself getting distracted or disengaged in favour of imagining everything playing out

Try just bullet pointing the ideas you have instead of writing them properly, especially if you won’t remember it afterwards if you don’t. At least you’ll have the ideas ready to use when you have the motivation later on

2. Low inspiration, high motivation. You’re all prepared, you’re so pumped to write, you open your document aaaaand… three hours later, that cursor is still blinking at the top of a blank page

RIP pantsers but this is where plotting wins out; refer back to your plans and figure out where to go from here. You can also use your bullet points from the last point if this is applicable

3. No inspiration, no motivation. You don’t have any ideas, you don’t feel like writing, all in all everything is just sucky when you think about it

Make a deal with yourself; usually when I’m feeling this way I can tell myself “Okay, just write anyway for ten minutes and after that, if you really want to stop, you can stop” and then once my ten minutes is up I’ve often found my flow. Just remember that, if you still don’t want to keep writing after your ten minutes is up, don’t keep writing anyway and break your deal - it’ll be harder to make deals with yourself in future if your brain knows you don’t honour them

4. Can’t bridge the gap. When you’re stuck on this one sentence/paragraph that you just don’t know how to progress through. Until you figure it out, productivity has slowed to a halt

Mark it up, bullet point what you want to happen here, then move on. A lot of people don’t know how to keep writing after skipping a part because they don’t know exactly what happened to lead up to this moment - but you have a general idea just like you do for everything else you’re writing, and that’s enough. Just keep it generic and know you can go back to edit later, at the same time as when you’re filling in the blank. It’ll give editing you a clear purpose, if nothing else

5. Perfectionism and self-doubt. You don’t think your writing is perfect first time, so you struggle to accept that it’s anything better than a total failure. Whether or not you’re aware of the fact that this is an unrealistic standard makes no difference

Perfection is stagnant. If you write the perfect story, which would require you to turn a good story into something objective rather than subjective, then after that you’d never write again, because nothing will ever meet that standard again. That or you would only ever write the same kind of stories over and over, never growing or developing as a writer. If you’re looking back on your writing and saying “This is so bad, I hate it”, that’s generally a good thing; it means you’ve grown and improved. Maybe your current writing isn’t bad, if just matched your skill level at the time, and since then you’re able to maintain a higher standard since you’ve learned more about your craft as time went on

[wickjump]

ok i rambled a lot in the tags and there’s a STUPID TAG LIMIT so my thoughts are CONDENSED and LAMEand not smart. but i could be. i could be if i wanted to. also the second half of this is literally me just talking about krepicolor im So sorry i got so off topic and distracted. the first half is good tho and makes sense i think

Why am I chill with most color ships but eh or 😡 and 🙄 or 🫤 on most killer ships

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

the pro

part ii: what we're willing to accept

Pairing: Art Donaldson x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ only. minors, please get off my lawn.

Notes: My brain chose violence this morning. Not beta-read because when is it ever.

Length: 4.8K

Warnings: Slow burn; unhappily married reader; divorced Art Donaldson; infidelity; oral sex (female receiving); vaginal sex; unsafe sex

Summary: Every lesson becomes an exercise in self-control. You force yourself to try, really try, and not make silly mistakes for the sake of Art coming closer, grasping your arm or elbow, pressing close and redirecting your swing. You don’t know what you crave more these days: his praise or his touch.

He's the biggest men's tennis star since Andy Roddick.

That’s what your husband says, as if it’ll entice you. As if you know anything about tennis, about the pro that your husband says will be coming to the house to teach you to play.

It’ll be good for you. You need a hobby. 

You don’t gripe or argue. You don’t tell him that five months into your marriage shouldn’t have you looking for a new hobby. You should still be in the honeymoon stage, spending all of your time with him, hanging off of his arm, off of his every word. But he works so much and he’s away so often—

I don’t want you to get bored. 

It’s a sweet gesture. The maid handles the housework; you have a chef that handles most of the grocery shopping and cooking, unless you insist on making something yourself; you have a housekeeper that arranges for anything you need—dry cleaning, maintenance. And it’s no wonder that with all of his money, his power, he can just order a retired pro tennis player up to your house, like you’d order a pizza. There’s a tennis court in the back of the mansion, a few feet from the pool. You’ll get some new outfits, the best sneakers, the nicest rackets. You’ll finally have something to do to fill your days. 

Art Donaldson. 

You know his name before the lean, fair-skinned patrician man turns up at your front door. He trails you through the house, politely declines your offer of a beverage. 

“You ever played tennis before?” He asks. 

You haven’t. Before your husband arranged this for you, you hadn’t so much as given the sport more than a passing thought. You don’t have the heart or confidence to tell that to a man that’s made tennis his whole life, so you just give him a small, guilty smile and say no, you haven’t. He nods, waves you off, insists that it’s fine. 

“We’ll start with the basics.” 

-- 

Two months of lessons on the basics make your arms tired, and your hands sore. But where your swings are clumsy and your grip is weak at first, you can see improvement in the way that you move. Your steps are less clumsy when you go after a ball; you’re more aware of the service line and the base line; your forehand stroke from contact to your left shoulder is smoother; your rotation and follow-through on your backhand is coming along, but has a long way to go. 

Art’s instruction is calm and steady. He explains technique as much as he demonstrates it. When you get something wrong, he doesn’t scold, just lightly corrects. When you do something well, his encouragement is constant and free-flowing. Every accurate move and motion is met with, “Nice,” or, “Perfect,” or, “That’s it.” 

On the days when you don’t have a lesson with Art, you practice. You order a tennis ball machine to work on your forehand and backhand. You attempt (and fail) to learn how to slice on your own. You try anyway—you can only imagine the way his eyes might light up if you manage to surprise him. 

You’ve tried to ignore the rising interest that you have in Art, but you can’t help the little…Crush that’s developed. He’s just so attentive, and kind. When you find yourself smiling these days, it’s often because of something that he said, or did. You can’t remember the last time your husband made you feel giddy this way. It was probably when you started dating—before you’d made the decision to marry for comfort, rather than love. Your husband is practical, rarely physically affectionate, more heavily involved in his job and social circles than with you. 

But you’ll have to find a way to thank him. He’s given you a hobby, and a man that grins at you like you just painted the goddamn Mona Lisa when you serve your first ace. 

-- 

“So, tell me about the Mark Rebellato Academy.” 

Art smiles, dipping his head as he reaches for his coffee. It’s taken a few months, but you finally convince him to have something to drink with you after practice. Your chef is blessedly out shopping for ingredients for dinner, so you have the kitchen all to yourself. Art has watched you putter around, seeming surprised that you know where everything is. You can’t blame him; the kitchen is chef-grade, and you don’t cook much these days. 

“Did your husband tell you that’s where I went?” 

“No.” 

“Then how do you know?” 

You’re too embarrassed to admit that you’ve done some googling, and watched a couple of clips of him interviewing before and after his matches. 

“I’ve just heard,” You fib. “Tell me about it?” 

He leans back in his seat, eyes skating across your face as he seems to consider something. 

“What do you wanna know?” 

“Did you enjoy it? I mean—” It feels like a dumb question once it’s out, and you hurry to redirect, “With what you know now, if you had the choice, would you have learned how to play tennis somewhere else?” 

He considers for a moment, trailing his finger over the side of his cup. Your gaze flits to his fingers, and your own flex around your mug handle. You’ve spent far too much time looking at and thinking about Art’s fingers—their length and quickness; the slight roughness of his calloused hands; the lingering tan line from where his wedding band used to sit. 

“Yeah,” He admits, drawing your full attention back to his face. “I would. It was foundational, you know. I’ve been thinking of sending Lily there.” 

“Lily?” 

A bittersweet smile twists his lips. “My daughter.” 

“Oh!” It catches you off-guard.  

“Tashi, uh—” He clears his throat, “Lily’s mother, my ex-wife. She and I are thinking about schools.” 

“I’m sure they’d be glad to have her. Does she play tennis?” 

“Little bit. She didn’t start until last year, but she's a natural.” He clears his throat again, presses, “Are you and your husband planning on having kids?” 

“Oh god no.” You blurt it out, and realize as he raises his brows that you’ve spoken too quickly. You lean back in your seat, stirring your coffee quickly to distract yourself from your growing embarrassment. “He actually has kids already. Two girls, seven and ten. They’re at boarding school and they stay with their mother when they're on vacation. I haven’t gotten to spend much time with them.” 

“...He seems to be pretty busy.” 

“He is.” 

“So it’s just you in this big house?” He tips his head to the side, brows knitting with curiosity. “What do you do all day?” 

“Play tennis.”

He grins, chuckling, and your stomach flips at the sound. 

“It shows, you know,” He says. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I can tell you’re practicing without me. And,” He leans across the table, running his fingers lightly over the exposed skin of your bicep, “You’re getting stronger.” 

You wonder if he can see or feel the goosebumps that break out across your skin at the gentle sweep, his gaze heavy on yours.

“I have a good teacher,” You murmur. Art’s lips twitch with a soft smile, his hand gently cupping your arm. 

“Just good?” He plies. 

“The best. A real pro.” 

His smile widens, and the flash of his tongue sweeping across his lower lip makes your face go hot. You know that you’re caught when Art’s touch becomes firmer, pulling your arm toward him just a little. 

The sound of approaching footsteps startles you, and you hurriedly tug your arm away. The sight of your husband makes your heart leap into your throat. 

“There you are,” He smiles. “Art, how’s she doin’?” 

“She’s killing it.” 

You don’t dare look at him, but you can feel the weight of his attention lingering on you still. You just give your husband a smile, tipping your cheek up obligingly as he leans down to kiss it. 

“Actually, Art,” Your husband straightens up, hands resting on your shoulders. “I’m glad I caught you. There’s a charity event for a local club this month. It’s for uh…What is it?” He squeezes your shoulders for answers, and you have to keep from rolling your eyes. 

“It’s a charity tennis match to raise funds to fix up the local courts. They need resurfacing and they’re raising funding to keep the fees down.” 

“We could use a sponsorship from the foundation,” Your husband adds. 

“Honey,” You glance back, wary of insulting Art. But—

“I’ll do it,” Art agrees. “Send me the details.” 

“Excellent,” Your husband grins. “Maybe we could coax you into a match or two.” 

You don’t chastise him this time—not when you see something light up in Art.

“Maybe.” 

--  

You haven’t seen Art play before. You’ve specifically avoided it. You’ve known that when you saw it, you would be too intimidated to do a damn thing on the court with him. But now, you can’t stop watching him. You don’t even care that you probably look so out of place—where everyone else is watching the ball, you’re just watching him. 

His movements are so neat, so precise. It’s like watching a dance. He’s running the poor guy on the other side of the net up and down the court. And the sounds that he’s making—god. Every little grunt and groan is weaving increasingly filthy thoughts in your mind. You already know that you’ll seek out the memory of those sounds, as you reach between your legs later. His shirt clings to his chest, showcasing the muscles that you’ve always suspected he has. Strands of hair plaster to his forehead as sweat drips over his cheekbones, down the bridge of his nose, over his jaw. 

When he scores a match point and he looks toward the cheering crowd—when his eyes land on you instantly, without having to search—it’s like you’ve been hit by a bolt of lightning. You can’t think, or move. You barely have the focus to applaud, but you manage to raise your hands and clap. 

-- 

Every lesson becomes an exercise in self-control. You force yourself to try, really try, and not make silly mistakes for the sake of Art coming closer, grasping your arm or elbow, pressing close and redirecting your swing. You don’t know what you crave more these days: his praise or his touch. 

Coffee becomes a post-lesson ritual. He starts to stick closer and closer to you as he follows you into the house until he begins to rest his hand on your lower back, guiding you to your door. He keeps nearby when you’re making it, brushes droplets of sweat off of your forehead or neck. Every touch is electrifying; you have to make a concentrated effort to keep your hands steady, your face neutral as your heart pounds and your stomach floods with butterflies. 

He pushes you harder on the court, and you force yourself to meet the level that he sets for you, even when you don’t feel confident in it. But you want to make him proud. 

It spurs you to lunge a little too far. 

The sharp stabbing pain in your left ankle makes you shriek, and you tumble to the ground, dropping the racket with a clatter. You hear the pounding of his feet, glance up just in time to see him clear the net before he’s on the ground at your side. 

“What hurts?” 

“My ankle,” You grit out, hissing softly as he helps you straighten your leg out. He smooths his hands over your calf, leaning over you and gently guiding your foot in a few different directions. You whimper as he starts to guide your foot to the left. 

“Okay, okay,” He soothes, “Let’s get you inside.” 

For as much as you damn the throbbing in your ankle, you thank it a little, too. You lean heavily against Art, making the slow, arduous journey back to the house with his arm wrapped tightly around your middle. 

When your husband comes home, he finds you with on the couch with Art coming back in from the kitchen, an ice pack in your hand. 

You’d hope for concern, but your husband frowns, glances at the swelling knob of your ankle, and simply asks: “What did you do?” 

“She lost her balance.” Art sits down on the other end of the couch, soothing you as the chill of the ice pack makes you shift with discomfort. 

“Are you going to be able to walk tomorrow?” Your husband presses. “We have dinner at the Fineman’s.”

“I'm still going, don't worry about that."

“...Tomorrow might be a bit soon,” Art warns. 

“I’ll be okay. It’s just a sprain, right?” You tip your brows up, hoping, praying that he’ll agree for your sake. His fingers flex around the ice pack, jaw ticking as he clenches it. He doesn’t say a word as your husband sighs heavily, grumbles, “I hope so. Still, we should put a pause on the lessons until she’s fighting fit again.” 

Art finally tears his eyes from yours, a tight smile on his lips. 

“Of course.” 

-- 

“How’s the ankle?” 

It takes you a moment to scrounge up an answer. You can’t believe that he called. You knew that Art had gotten your number when you started taking lessons with him, but he’s never used it beyond texting to confirm a lesson time now and again. 

You look down at the still-swollen flesh as it strains against the thin strap of your slingbacks. 

“Fine,” You lie, “It’s um—” You glance over your shoulder, listening for your husband. “It’s not that bad.” 

“Good enough to walk on?” 

Hardly. 

“Yes.” You think you’ve gotten away with it, but when you hear Art sigh and chastise, “You should rest,” You know that you haven’t.

“I have,” You insist, “All day.” 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” 

“Yes.” 

“You can tell him no, you know.”

Your mouth works wordlessly, body going hot with indignation. You can’t think of a thing to say. You can’t tell him that he’s wrong, that your husband’s connections are the lifeblood of his business. You can’t tell him that if your husband’s business falls apart, you won't be able to afford those tennis lessons, and then how the hell are you supposed to see Art again? 

You just yank your phone away from your ear and hang up. 

-- 

I invited Art. 

It shouldn’t be a surprise, but your husband’s statement makes you feel like you’ve swallowed your tongue. You haven’t seen or spoken to Art in nearly two weeks. Your doctor recommended putting off any physical activity, which your husband surely relayed to him. He was the one whose name was on Art’s checks, after all. 

Your husband has always thrown a massive party to kick off the summer. Every year, 150 of your husband’s closest family, friends, and business associates flooded into the house. It shouldn’t be such a surprise that your husband invited Art after the performance he had given at the fundraiser—$25,000 from the foundation, and ticket sales went through the roof when it had been announced that the Art Donaldson would be making an appearance. Your husband owed Art a lot, and probably saw this as an opportunity for him to network, to take on more clients. He had been evangelizing Art’s training to any of your friends that would listen—how good you are on the court, how engaged and energetic you seem to be these days. 

It’s one thing to know that you’ll have to put on a happy face for the crowd, but to know that Art will be among them makes your insides twist with nerves. You can’t stop thinking about the way that he had spoken to you when you were hurt; his calm, steadying demeanor as he’d gotten you inside; the careful coaxing and gentle touch that he’d used as he’d taken your shoe off and examined your ankle more closely. 

You think about it now, as you strap on another pair of heels. Your ankle really is doing well, though you have a little lingering pain in shoes like these. You’ll likely be on your feet for the length of the party; it’s going to be a long night. You look over yourself in the mirror, self consciously tipping your ankle from side to side for anything that he may spot or catch out. But there’s nothing, you reassure yourself. You slide your hands over the skirt, plastering on a smile as your husband pokes his head into your dressing room. 

“Almost ready in here?” He asks. 

“All set!” 

-- 

He doesn’t come over to you. On the crowded patio, you can feel him watching you—you’ve gotten so used to seeking out the sensation that you can’t ignore it now. The first true look at him is agony. He watches you from just a few feet away, a glass of champagne in hand as he speaks with your husband and the Finemans. He openly looks you over, eyes drifting over your body to the flash of ankle revealed by the slit in your dress. He tips his head to the side just a little, squinting before his eyes flit back up to your face, lips twitching with a small smile. 

You want to hate how good it feels; you want to be angry with him for his smug knowing, his insistence of You can tell him no, you know. But it feels so goddamn good to have his attention again that you can’t bring yourself to be annoyed. You know that you’re staring—that you both are—and you force yourself to turn away and excuse yourself from the conversation you’re in. You go inside, murmuring your thanks for the waitstaff that pass you along the way.

The house isn’t nearly as busy as the patio, and you're able to slip into your darkened study unnoticed. You leave the lights off, certain that if you turn them on, people will be drawn in to bug you, like moths to a flame. The party’s lights and music filter in through the partially-closed blinds. 

You lean against the desk, circling your ankle and wincing a little. You’ll hide for a few minutes, let it rest—

Your breath catches in your throat as the door opens. You expect your husband, ready to scold and usher you back to the guests. 

You only have a second to get a look at Art before he shuts the door behind himself, plunging the room back into darkness. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the desk as you use it to ground yourself. 

“...Do you need something?” You ask, voice wobbling with nerves. 

“Wanted to come say hi.” 

“Well. Hi.” 

You hear him chuckle, his footsteps muted by the carpet. 

“Thanks for the invite.” 

“It wasn’t my idea.” It’s not polite to admit, but you want it to sting him, just a little. Maybe it does; in the dim of the room, you can’t see Art’s expression as he comes to a stop just a couple of feet from you. 

“Do you want me to go?” He asks. You know what you should say, but you can’t bring yourself to say it. 

“No,” You whisper. You feel the heat of him as he comes closer, his hands resting on the desk and caging you in. You bite your lip as gently brushes his nose against yours. 

“He isn’t taking care of you.” 

“My ankle is fine.” 

“I’m not talking about your ankle.” He lifts a hand, smoothing it over your hip as your breath mingles. Art’s fingers drift from your hip to stroke over the apex of your dress’s slit. His fingers slip further down, and you nod as he palms your thigh. Before you can say or do a thing, Art sinks to his knees. He curls his hand around your left calf, lifting it. You shiver as his lips press a gentle kiss to your ankle. His hand and lips travel up, easing the fabric of your dress higher with each second. The first brush of his knuckles against your panty-covered clit makes you jolt. Your hands dig into the wood of the desk as his fingers hook between the fabric and your skin. You lift your hips without a word, allowing him to draw them down. 

Art presses a kiss to your mound before he lowers his head, giving your lips a sweet, sucking kiss. You gasp softly as his tongue swipes across your clit. You look down despite the fact that you can’t see him well. You can just make out his blissful expression, his eyes closed as his laps broadly across your aching cunt. You lower your hand to his neat hair, winding your fingers through it, unable to help grasping it. His heady moan vibrates against you and you nearly cry out at the sensation. You manage to just catch it, the sound dying in your throat as Art buries his tongue inside you. He sweeps his thumb over your clit in rush, harried circles, panting against your heated flesh. You rock your hips down against his lips, tightening your grip on his hair as you guide him. He lets you do as you please, whining against your skin as your movements become less controlled.

“Art,” You warn, “I—Oh, oh god—” 

He hums in encouragement, sucking your clit back between his lips and lashing it with his tongue. Your jaw drops open, your hand shoving Art even more tightly against your skin as you cum suddenly. A stunned, breathy moan slips from your lips as Art leans back, smearing his lips against the inside of your thigh. 

You use your grasp on Art’s hair to draw him back up off of his knees, giving him a crushing kiss as he catches his balance. You swipe your tongue across his lips, whining against his lips as you taste yourself on him. He presses close, his hard cock straining against the fabric of his pants. You reach down, palming and squeezing his length as you trade slick, messy kisses. He steers you back onto the desk as you fumble to undo his belt, button, and zip. 

“Condom?” He asks. 

“Pill,” You reassure, shoving his pants down. You lap broadly across your palm, grasping Art’s length and guiding him closer. He brushes the tip of his cock against your still-throbbing clit, smiling as you whine. You’re going to ache tomorrow, but you’ve never been so happy to be sore.

“Art.” 

“Sssh.” 

“Please—” It’s hardly out of your mouth before he shoves his hips forward, seating himself fully with a single thrust. You bite down on your lip to quiet your moan, curling your arms around your shoulders. He rocks into you with firm, quick strokes, his mouth covering yours. You can hear things on the desk rattling with each thrust, kisses growing less controlled as he hoists your thigh up around his hip. 

“Oh, god,” You breathe, “We have to be quick—He’ll come looking—” 

“Not until you cum for me again,” He urges. “I need to feel it, sweetheart.” 

“Art—” 

“When’s the last time he did this? Hmm?” He presses, “When’s the last time he made you cum? When’s the last time he tasted you?” 

“Never,” You admit with a shiver. It seems to renew Art’s passion, his thrusts and hold growing more intense. You squeeze your eyes shut, hands hooking tightly in the fabric of his jacket. He yanks the front of your dress down, bowing over you and drawing one of your nipples between his lips. You whimper as he toys with the bud, tugging it gently with his teeth before swiping across it. You arch into the slick heat, using your leg to tug him even closer as you chased the swelling curl of your orgasm. 

“Just like that,” You urge, “Ffffuck—yes, yesyesyesyes—”

Your eyes squeeze shut as your hips buck down against his, pussy pulsing as he spills into you. Your heart pounds in your chest as the two of you slow and still. Art rests his forehead heavily against your neck, peppering gentle kisses across the exposed skin. You have to move—now. You don’t know if anyone heard you, but if someone did, you’re screwed. If no one did, your husband will probably be looking for you anyway, ready with a scold for neglecting your hostess duties. 

“...I have to go,” You warn softly. It takes Art a moment to move, but he does, gently drawing himself back from your still-throbbing cunt. You hear the clanking of his belt buckle as he tucks himself away, and you reach down, righting your dress where it’s been pulled away. You take up your panties from where they’d been discarded on the floor, tugging them on before you straighten your skirt and hurry out of the room. 

--  

“Can I see you?” 

It’s only been an hour since the last guest has left, and you are so, so fucking tired. You glance toward the bathroom door. You know that you locked it, and you’re certain that your husband can’t hear you over the shower running, but you can’t help but be paranoid.

“You just saw me,” You remind him. 

“Tomorrow,” Art clarifies. 

“Where?” 

“I’ll send an address.” 

You bite your lip, toying with your earring. Your pussy is still aching from the stretch of him, your ass sore from getting fucked on the desk. 

“...You regret it?” He asks. 

“No,” You don't give your answer a second thought.

“I’ll send an address. Whether or not you see me is up to you. Just…think about it. Okay?” 

“Okay.” 

You lower your phone, hanging it up and watching his contact information blink away. It’s only a moment before a text with an address lights up your phone. You don’t have to think about it. You already know what you’re going to do. 

--  

You know that you’re staring, but you can’t bring yourself to stop. Art has spent so much time in your home, so you feel entitled to look around a little bit. You eye the row of trophies on his mantle, photos of him playing when he was young. You come to a stop at a picture of him with a young girl, a racket in her hand and a medal around her neck. 

“Is this Lily?” You ask. 

“Yeah,” He nods. “First competition.” 

“Already getting gold,” You smile. “The Mark Rebellato Academy isn’t ready for her.” 

Art chuckles, nodding as he steps around you.

“You, uh…You want something to eat, or drink, or…?” He trails off, tucking his hands into his pockets as he takes a couple of steps back toward his kitchen. You turn to face him, taking him in more fully. 

“Art?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Why am I here?” 

He doesn’t answer for a few moments. You can see him weighing his options before he comes closer. 

“I…I’ve been thinking about last night.” 

Fear shoots through you, but you force yourself to stand tall. “Okay.”

“I could lie and tell you that it should be a one-time thing, but I can’t remember the last time I got through a day without thinking about you. And I think you’ve been thinking about me, too.” Art stops as the tip of his shoes brush against yours, and you let your eyes slip closed as he rests his forehead against yours. 

“Tell me I’m wrong,” He pleads. “Tell me to fuck off right now and I will never say another non-tennis related thing to you again.” 

-- 

When he fucks you, he curls close, chest pressing against yours as he catches your lips in a kiss. You sink back against his pillows, your head cradled by his broad palm as he rolls his hips achingly slowly. You don’t bother to hide your whines and moans, and you revel in his. Every grunt and whimper and groan that Art lets out lights you up. 

And when you cum, you don't have to quiet yourself. His name tumbles out of your mouth, cushioned between expletives as your nails dig into his shoulders.

--

"What time is he home tonight?"

You don't want to think about it. You want to stay in this cozy little bubble, trailing your fingers over his muscled chest as he massages your nape and kisses your forehead.

But you know that you'll have to let the world back in sometime.

"I don't know," You admit. "Late."

"...Could stay."

"He'll be suspicious if I'm not home when he gets there."

Art sighs softly, running his hand down to rub between your shoulder blades.

"This isn't going to be easy, is it."

"What?"

"Letting you go every day."

"Every day?" You tease, pushing yourself up to get a better look at him. "Don't get greedy, Mr. Donaldson."

He smiles, raising his hand and cupping your cheek. "Is it greedy to know what I want?"

You shake your head a little, lowering your lips to brush against his.

"Not when I want it, too."

part ii: what we're willing to accept

Tag list: @missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight ; @amneris21

@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage​​​ ;  @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity

@millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ;

@buckybarneshairpullingkink ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; @winchestershiresauce ; @lorecraft ; @kmc1989

[eevees-hobbies]

How the Hashira sleep with you and your 9-month-old between you

Author's Note: I was up at 2 AM last night writing in my notes app because this idea struck me. This is my first time writing headcanons, but as always, I’m inspired by some of the fantastic ideas of other content creators!

Content Warning: You have a child with your partner, and they sleep in bed with you. There is also a brief mention of breastfeeding. This will not be for you if you’re sensitive to those things. This is pure fluff.

How the Hashira sleep with you and your 9-month-old between you

Contains: Rengoku, Uzui, Iguro, Shinazugawa & Tomioka 

Kyojuro Rengoku 

Kyo was meant for this. There’s no reality in which Kyojuro doesn’t want to be a father to as many kids as you’re willing to give him. His arm is always wrapped around you both—having you and the baby in the same room as you all sleep, being able to provide comfort, body heat, and a sense of protection, brings him so much joy. 

Kyojuro wakes up periodically during the night to look at you both as you sleep. He will also pay extra attention to checking on your child, placing a large hand on their small frame and feeling the rise and fall of their chest; he’ll smile to himself—his child is happy, healthy, and safe. 

Rengoku is also great at soothing the baby when they wake up: “Shhh, little one. Let’s let mommy sleep.” 

Nine times out of ten, he’ll be able to put your baby back down to sleep. The one time he can’t, the child will need to be fed, and Rengoku swells with pride as he watches you nurse them.

Once you’re done nursing, he’ll quickly run to get you some water and a small snack because he knows it takes a lot of energy to breastfeed. 

“You’re a good mother,” he says as he strokes your hair, looking over your shoulder at your milk-drunk child. “I can’t wait to do this again and again.”

Tengen Uzui

Tengen is annoyed when you place the child next to you—you didn’t even ask him! You explain that it’s easier for night feedings, and the baby sleeps better between you both. He admits it’s true, and the change drastically improved his own sleep. 

But Tengen HATES giving up the level of intimacy he had with you and many times ponders if kicking the baby out would be the obvious solution. With venom in your tone, you assure him there’s no need to bother his pretty little head with such ridiculous thoughts. He is aghast, but admittedly, he likes that you’re protective of their child, even against him.

Eventually, the child moves to their room, and Tengen has you all back to himself during the night! And, oh, has he missed it.

Obanai Iguro

Obanai really wishes he could get his bed back and is grumpy at first as despite his small stature, he takes up a LOT of space when sleeping. 

But his heart melts as your child always curls up against him, seeking his father’s warmth and comfort. He’ll stare down at them, still unable to believe he contributed to something so beautiful and perfect. 

He’ll plant a kiss on his child’s small tuft of black hair and then on the crown of your head, his arm snaking around his child, and holding your hand while you sleep quietly. So yeah, he’ll start off annoyed, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

When you suggest moving the child out of your shared room, Obanai is taken aback.

“Let’s not be too hasty! They sleep so well with us.”

Sanemi Shinazugawa

Sanemi grew up sleeping in the same room as his family, so he isn’t surprised or put out that the baby sleeps between you both. 

He’d never admit it, but he feels a lot less anxiety at the thought of something happening to you and your child when you’re all sleeping together. 

Sure, sometimes he’ll wake up with a baby foot in his mouth or get woken up by a sleepy yet firm baby smack to his face, but he’ll grumble lovingly and drift back off to sleep, finding comfort in the fact that his family is safe and sound. 

Sometimes, Sanemi has to pull the baby off you at night when it spreads its limbs over your face. 

“Hey, get back here!”

Giyu Tomioka

Giyu is not a fan of a baby sleeping in his bed and will likely never be. He misses cuddling with you, holding your hand as you sleep, and waking up as the little or big spoon to your duo.

It’s hard to be a spoon in a trio—he feels more like a fork.

He’s an amazing father, though, and leads the nighttime routine of bath time, bedtime stories, and gently rocking the small baby in his arms. 

Eventually, he’ll rearrange the futons so that you’re between the baby and himself, which is his way of getting to spoon you again. Clever!

[issysh3ll]

Eye Contact 𓁺 Matt Sturniolo

Warnings: smut, sex (p in v), eye contact, riding, creampie Summary: Matt loves eye contact while you're riding him and you love to watch him struggle to keep it Word count: 456

Matt’s eyes stare up at yours as you bounce on his cock, his brows furrowing in pleasure and his jaw slack as he pants with pleasure at each movement. He’s always so determined to maintain eye contact while you fuck him, not wanting to miss the way your face contorts with pleasure as his cock rubs against your wet walls, but the way you move your hips, the way your pussy pulls him in further each time you move has him losing control of himself far quicker than he would like.

Small whimpers escape his mouth as he feels your walls tighten around him, your wetness squeezing around his cock buried so deeply inside of you. His hands shift from your thighs to grip desperately at your hips, “nngh f-fuck, I can’t ─” he pants, his words shaky as he just barely manages to keep his gaze connected to yours.

His desperate whimpers and pants continue as you pick up your pace, watching as Matt’s eyelids begin to flutter, still refusing to lose sight of you as the pleasure begins to overtake him. His teeth biting down against his bottom lip in an attempt to not lose control.

Matt’s hands on your hips claw desperately at you and his face contorts into an expression of pleading as his eyes start to lose their focus. “m’close, fuck-k” he breathes, and you feel his cock twitch inside of you, flicking forward against that sweet spot that makes you release a breathy moan.

Seeing Matt’s pleasure begin to overwhelm him you bring a hand forward to grip his jaw, holding his face towards you as his eyes start slowly fluttering and rolling back into his head. “mm cum for me baby, wanna see your face while you fill me up,” you moan out with one last bounce on Matt’s cock before a loud, broken moan pulls from his mouth.

His eyes welling up with tears as he tries to force his gaze to stay on you as his orgasm washes over him. The sight of his face, so desperate to please you as you feel hot spurts of his release paint your insides, brings you to the peak of your pleasure. Your hips grinding against his and your jaw going slack, your eyes dropping closed and trying to hold the image of Matt’s perfect, desperate face in your sight forever.

Your body flops forwards as the waves of pleasure washing over you begin to slow, your panting breath hot against Matt’s neck. His arms wrap around your back, pulling you closer to him as he turns his head to place a kiss against your temple and mutters gently in your ear, “felt so good, thank you baby.”

✧˖° a/n:: this is my first piece of writing i've ever posted! i haven't written anything in about 5 years so sorry if this isn't good. Let me know your thoughts in the comments or send me an ask if you have constructive criticism, I'd love to improve my writing♡ I also wrote this at 3am very tired so..

My other works → here

Chris version → here

© issysh3ll

[mywritersmind]

Can you write some fake dating with lando pretty please🥹

HATE ME - LN4

listen up : no warnings!! hope you enjoy bc i got stuck on this so bad😘 lando x popstar!reader

word count : 1886

⋆｡‧˚⋆

“Y/n!” A reporter yells at me as I walk up the paddock, “Y/n! What are you doing?”

I slow down and laugh a bit, “Looking for my boyfriend!”

“What’s your thoughts with him coming off a win, think he can swing it?” I roll my eyes playfully.

“I certainly think he can! America has been great to him before.” They laugh, knowing I'm not just talking about his win but also myself.

“How about your upcoming album!?” A woman asks, my mood already improving, “Any details you can share?”

I’m about to respond when I feel arms wrap around my waist, “Hi pretty.” He says in my ear but just loud enough to be heard.

I smile and brush my hand against his arm, “Lan!”

He looks up at the reporters, pointing to them, “You lot back off! She’s my good luck charm this weekend!”

We walk away, I glance up to Lando’s face to see him smiling. I can’t help but be surprised for the millionth time, he’s a damn good actor.

The second we get inside, doors shut and nobody around, Lando drops his hands off me. “Hi Pretty.” I mock his accent as he rolls his eyes.

My fake boyfriend strides across the room, grabbing his water bottle. He's in a Mclaren shirt and jeans, his curls perfect and defined.

“You really need to stop swerving my lips when we’re in public.” I plop down on the couch and try to tune him out, it doesn’t work. “People are starting to notice.”

I text my manager back as he complains, “I’ve never shown any PDA with my ex’s. You’re not special, Norris.”

I ignore the way his bicep moves when he pushes off the couch, “Well I have.”

“You don’t think regular couples settle on my side for this? I didn’t think you were thirsting for me that much.”

He scoffs and I know I got him there, “I’m just saying! It’s not normal.”

“Of course you’d think that, all you and your ex’s did was make out in public!” His manager walks in just then before he can respond.

Point, Y/n.

“Will you two keep it down?” He groans, “Just because you argue like an old married couple, doesn’t mean it fits your roles! Lando, it’s media time.”

“Talk about me.” I mumble as he walks out.

“Can I announce our breakup?” He eyes me before shutting the door. I breathe out, just trying to get through this weekend.

⋆｡‧˚⋆

P1 in qualifying, great. I act all happy and actually kiss him this time. I don’t agree with the majority of what he says but even my manager told me I need to do a tiny bit more.

Lando and I’s… agreement, is complicated and completely necessary for our careers. I’m rising to fame and he’s falling in the dumps with all his media scares.

After a mini scandal broke about me, Lando and I met. We were drunk and totally out of depth. He told the paparazzi outside the bar that we were dating and I had kissed him like I believed it.

Everything went up in flames but through the fire our teams decided to come up with this whole fake dating thing. I make him look good, the unproblematic, pretty, popstar. He added an edge to me and brought quite a few new fans.

But most of all, after his lie to the public was splashed over every media surface, the picture of my lips against his, I couldn’t just back out. He would have looked like a player (because he was one) and I would have been labeled a slut.

So now i’m at the paddock every weekend, planning my own shows and sporting him in the crowd. My fans eat it up though, he’s hot, rich and british.

Lando doesn’t listen to his brain before his mouth opens and once when someone asked what he thought about my performance he replied with, “She’s insane and beautiful and way too talented to be my girlfriend.” That sealed it for everyone.

He kisses my cheek, winking. He’s not all bad, even though I can’t really stand him it’s not like he’s disrespectful or rude to me.

Lando gets pulled away for media and I find myself watching his interview with Alexandra, Charles’ girlfriend. We’re not watching our ‘boyfriends’ at all, gossiping about the celebrities that are coming this weekend.

⋆｡˚⋆

LANDOS POV

The reporter is saying things but I’m distracted. My eyes keep wandering past the man in front of me and going to my ‘girlfriend’.

She’s talking to Alex, flipping his hair over her shoulder and grinning. She never smiles like that with me.

I answer another question but it’s half assed and I don’t really care. I watch her jaw move as she talks, how she jumps up and down when she’s talking about something she loves, she crosses her ankles and pinches the bridge of her nose.

I’m suddenly feeling very left out of the conversation and don’t realize the reporter is repeating my name, “Lando?” I rip my eyes away from her a he looks to what I was looking at.

He’s smiling when he turns back to me, “Distracted… Sorry.” I scratch the back of my back, looking down and smiling as the man laughs.

⋆｡‧˚⋆

Y/NS POV

What is he playing at? I’ve been tagged in a million clips of Lando’s interview. The way he looked at me- fuck! He’s so confusing I hate him.

This weekend has felt forever long and it’s not even over. Lando and I go to a little house party, weird for the day before a race but none of the guys seem bothered by it.

In fact, everyone’s having fun. It’s like watching impending doom, knowing they’re all about to mess with each other on the track.

Lando obviously isn’t drinking and since he’s driving, I down a glass with Alex and Lily as soon as I step in the door.

Someone has rented an airbnb and it’s gorgeous. Not too big, but a nice fire in the back and a huge living room.

“I’m gonna go talk to Carlos.” Lando’s hand drifts off me as he walks away. I barely even realized his touch, I'm getting too comfortable with it.

“Girl!” Rebecca, Carlos’ girlfriend, says to me, “I’ve never seen Lando this in love!” The only people who know Lando and I aren’t actually together is Alex, Lily, Alexandra, possibly Charles, Oscar, and Carlos.

Lily and Alex sip their drinks beside me as I blink, pausing for too long. I laugh and smile, “You’re sweet.”

“I’m serious!” She continues, “Those eyes, it’s unmistakable!” Something about it makes me sad. Because Lando doesn’t actually like me at all? Or because whenever I get a glimpse of that look, it’s always in public?

Lily changes the subject with remarkable speed, Alex hands me another drink and I sigh a thank you.

The night goes on, it’s slow and nice to have a simple sort of get together instead of how Lando likes to party.

Speaking of, my fake boyfriend dances up to me as I laugh out of embarrassment, he takes my hand and pulls me outside. I look back to Alexandra who just shrugs and watches me leave.

I smile at Lily who’s sitting on Alex’s lap. I sit next to Lando around the fire, I'm getting tired and a bit tipsy. I rest my head on his shoulder as everyone talks.

I can’t think about why he brought me over here. It’s not like I’m contributing to the conversation in a big way.

“What!? Lily was my idol before I got into F1!” I agree with her, she claims I didn’t like her but I was following her for months!

“You were so intimidating!” She shakes her head.

“You are intimidating.” Lando speaks up as I eye him. Lily’s eyes flicks down to my hand then my face then back to my hand.

I give her a confused look before glancing at my hand, Lando’s fingers are stretched over it, spinning my own ring around my middle finger.

I avoid Lily’s eyes as I look up at Lando, “Excuse me?”

“You are!” he argues, “The first time we met I was scared shitless.” I shake my head and finish my drink, my body warm and buzzing.

Charles and Carlos both laugh as Carlos speaks, “Fuck I remember that! At that club? He had like five shots to hype himself up.”

The firelight shines on Lando’s face as his cheeks go pink, “Worked a bit too well.” I find a small smile on my face. I never knew that.

People slowly start leaving, Alex and Lily leave us outside to help cleanup. His hand leaves mine, I rest my arms under my head, leaning on his chair as he looks down at me.

“Saw you talking to Franco…” He slyly mentions.

“What now, Norris, you jealous?” His jaw ticks.

“Just saying it’s not a good look for my girlfriend to be flirting with someone on the grid. Or anyone at all.”

“Sounds pretty jealous to me!” I hum as he shakes his head, “Gonna win tomorrow?” I ask.

“Maybe.” He shrugs.

“For me?” I am definitely not in my head correctly.

He bites back a smirk, keeping eye contact, “What do I get if I win?”

He's teasing me and I like it far too much, “What do you want?”

I almost miss it. I would have if I didn’t keep eye contact. But something appears on Lando’s face… something familiar and that I thought was fake.

That fucking look.

Except now we’re away from everybody else, I’m the only one who can see his face and it makes me feel sick. He’s got a soft smile on, brushing my hair out of my face, his touch burning me.

I sit up straight, “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.” He smirks, clearly amused.

“You hate me!” I’m confused and angry and that damn smile isn’t helping.

He gives an airy laugh before his smile dims, his tongue running over his teeth before his eyes flick back up to mine, “No I don’t.”

I frown, “You’re supposed to!”

He shakes his head, “Why would I hate you?”

I groan, putting my face in my hands, “Because you’re in this mess because of me! I wrote a song about you.” I see his blink, the pause in his emotion as if he’s trying to figure me out. “And i’m angry! Because I didn’t want this and I didn’t want you!” I vent, “So you can’t like me now because I’ll feel bad!”

He blinks, once, twice, “Okay. I hate you.” He says it with zero emotion.

“For as good an actor as you are… that didn’t sound very convincing.” I pout and he laughs.

“I’m not a good actor, love.” I suddenly feel sobered.

“Hate me, Lando. That would make this a lot easier.” I’m mad at him. I can’t do this with him looking at me like that.

He tilts his head a bit, his jaw moving, a curl perfectly in his face. He says it with ease and a newfound softness in his voice, “How could I ever hate you?”

[hellobykittys]

𝐀 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄 ✦ 𝐋𝐇⁴⁴

SUMMARY: Upon discovering you’re pregnant with your boyfriend’s child, you find yourself spiraling into a wave of insecurities, fearing his potential negative reaction and the impact it could have on your relationship. NOTES: English is not my first language, so there might be some writing mistakes. I apologize for that, and feel free to point out any improvements. PAIRING: Lewis Hamilton x Reader! Girlfriend. WARNING: Established relationship; mild angst; unplanned pregnancy. WC: 2.8k

MASTERLIST | THE (IM)PERFECT PLAN SERIE

It was the second time that day you found yourself leaning over the toilet, your stomach churning relentlessly. Breakfast and the light snack you’d had earlier—both meant to be simple—had already made their way there, and with each passing moment, your suspicions grew harder to ignore. Yet, you stubbornly refused to acknowledge what was right in front of you.

Two weeks had passed since your period was supposed to start, something completely out of the ordinary for you. Your cycle was always regular. In its place came the nausea and constant vomiting.

You didn’t know what to do. The thought of taking a test was too terrifying. It felt easier to pretend this was just a passing illness. After all, how could you possibly be pregnant? You and Lewis were always careful, taking every precaution.

“You need to take a test,” your friend Anne said as she held your hair back, preventing the mess from worsening.

“Anne, I don’t know if I want to know the answer.” You spoke between breaths, rising to rinse your mouth at the sink.

“Eventually, you’ll have to face it,” she said gently, her hand brushing over your back in a gesture of comfort. “If it’s true, you’re going to have to tell him.”

“I don’t even know if he wants to be with me, let alone a child. He’s going to hate this news.” Your tired, worried eyes stared back at you in the mirror. “I don’t know what to do.”

“He won’t hate it. He loves you, and I’m sure he’ll love having a child with you,” Anne said, trying to ease your anxiety. “Y/N, don’t believe what people say online. They just want to bring you down.”

“You don’t understand.” You turned to her, your eyes full of doubt. “We’ve never talked about it—about starting a family. Whenever the subject comes up, he changes it. At first, I thought it was because we’d only been together a short while, but now… I think he genuinely doesn’t want anything more serious.”

“But you’ve been together for two years! How could he not want something more serious?”

“He was with Nicole for seven years, and that wasn’t enough for him to marry her.” You lowered your head, your chest tightening. “Deep down, I think the media’s right. He probably just wants to stay free until the last day of his life. His whole world revolves around Formula 1. Family isn’t part of his plans. Only the eighth title matters.”

You took a deep breath, trying to keep the tears at bay. The weight of your words felt unbearable, but you couldn’t stop thinking them. The fear that this was all a mistake, that Lewis simply wasn’t ready for more, consumed you.

Anne noticed your distress and stepped closer, her hand resting on your shoulder in a comforting gesture. “I know it seems hard right now, but you can’t make these decisions on your own. You have to talk to him. He deserves to know, and you deserve to hear what he has to say.”

You turned to face her, your expression reflecting the emotional storm you were caught in. “And if he doesn’t want it? If he tells me he’s not ready, that what we have isn’t enough? What am I supposed to do with this baby? With this… life?”

“Then you’ll deal with it in your own way. This isn’t about what he wants—it’s about what you want, what you need. He may be the person you love, but don’t forget who you are and what you deserve.”

Anne’s words echoed in your mind, but the truth still felt distant, shrouded in uncertainty. It felt like you were standing at a crossroads with your life taking a direction you’d never planned for. Lewis, with his fast-paced existence of racing, titles, and adrenaline, seemed worlds apart from your quiet longing for stability—perhaps even a family. Something you weren’t even sure he shared.

In the end, you knew you couldn’t avoid reality any longer. The test needed to be done. Procrastination wasn’t an option anymore. The fear was overwhelming, but the uncertainty hurt worse. And, above all, the result would only be the beginning. The real challenge would be telling Lewis.

“Will you do this with me?” Your voice came out softer than expected, almost a whisper filled with vulnerability. You looked at Anne, searching her expression for a strength you felt you’d lost. “I mean, will you buy the test and wait for the result with me?”

Anne smiled reassuringly, taking your hand in hers with a firm grip. “Of course. And if you prefer, we can do this at my apartment. No rush, no pressure.”

You shook your head in refusal. “I think it’s better to do it here. He’s not coming back today… probably not until tomorrow night. Maybe even later.” The emptiness of the house felt less oppressive when you spoke aloud, but the apprehension was still palpable. “I just need the courage to go to the pharmacy.”

Anne squeezed your hand, her eyes full of understanding. “You don’t have to do this alone. Let’s go together. Let’s get this over with.”

The trip to the pharmacy was quick, but each step felt like a monumental challenge. The way back home seemed even longer, with the weight of the small package in your bag growing heavier by the second. Back at the apartment, you locked yourself in the bathroom while Anne waited outside, offering encouraging words that barely penetrated the storm in your mind.

You held the test in trembling hands, your eyes scanning the instructions like they were an impossible puzzle. Time seemed to freeze as you waited for the result, the silence broken only by the relentless pounding of your heart.

When you finally looked at the small display, reality crashed over you like a tidal wave. Positive.

Your breath caught in your throat, tears welling up in your eyes as you stared at the lines that confirmed what you already suspected. Silent tears began to stream down your face as a flood of emotions—fear, anguish, and an inexplicable love for the new life now connected to you—washed over you.

“Well?” Anne’s soft, hesitant voice called from the other side.

You opened the door, holding the test in your trembling hand. Anne’s expression softened at the sight of your tears. She said nothing, simply pulling you into a tight embrace.

“What now?” you asked quietly, your voice laden with uncertainty.

Anne pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, her expression calm but firm. “Now you take a deep breath, Y/N. Then, you tell him. No matter the fear, no matter the doubts. He deserves to know, and you deserve to be heard.”

You nodded slowly, but the lump in your throat remained. Her words were logical, exactly what you needed to hear, but the fear still loomed, beating loudly in your chest. How would you tell Lewis? How would you find the words that would change both your lives forever?

“Anne…” Your voice came out shaky, barely a whisper, as you wrapped your arms around her tightly, searching for any fragment of comfort. “I’m so scared. What if he… what if he doesn’t want this baby?”

Anne sighed, her hand gently rubbing your back with patience. “Y/N, even if he doesn’t, which I honestly find hard to believe, you’ll move forward. You’re stronger than you think.” She pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, her gaze full of conviction. “If you want to have this baby, that’s all that matters. We’ll take care of it. I won’t leave you alone, ever.”

You closed your eyes, trying to absorb her words, but the weight of the situation still felt unbearable. “But what if he leaves me, Anne? What if he thinks this was a mistake? That I was careless?”

Anne cupped your face with both hands, forcing you to look at her. “He loves you. And even if the idea scares him at first, he’s a good man, Y/N. But more than anything, you need to remember that his love isn’t the only thing that matters here. What do you feel? What do you want? That matters, too.”

Her question hung in the air, echoing in your mind as you tried to find an answer. Deep down, you knew what you wanted. You loved Lewis with all your heart, and despite the fear consuming you, you already felt an inexplicable love for the life growing inside you. But bridging those two feelings felt impossible.

As you stared at the positive test sitting on the bedside table, your heart pounded relentlessly, racing with uncertainty. That tiny object seemed to carry the weight of all your doubts and fears. You knew you couldn’t put off talking to Lewis forever, but the thought of confronting him was paralyzing. Each passing second only tightened the knot in your throat.

He was supposed to return the following morning, giving you one night to organize your thoughts, find the right words, and somehow gather the courage that felt so far away. But now, as the reality began to settle in, you decided to push it aside for a while. You needed to distract yourself, to focus on taking care of yourself—and the baby you now carried.

In the kitchen, you started preparing something simple to eat. The thought of being responsible for another life made every small action feel significant. You couldn’t ignore your health or choices anymore. Everything you did was for two now. And though the anxiety still throbbed in your mind, there was a small, strange comfort in that realization.

You were slicing fruit when the sound of the front door opening suddenly broke the silence of the house. Your heart nearly stopped for a moment. He wasn’t supposed to be back until the next morning.

“Y/N?” Lewis’s voice echoed from the living room, heavy with exhaustion and surprise.

You turned to see him standing in the hallway, still holding his travel bag. He was dressed casually in a black jacket and his signature travel cap. His eyes locked on you, then shifted to the plate of fruit on the counter before softening into a smile.

“I decided to come back early. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” He approached, leaving the bag by the wall to pull you into a warm hug. The heat of his body against yours brought immediate comfort—but also a new weight.

You weren’t ready. Not yet. But the moment seemed to have chosen him—or fate had.

“Are you okay?” Lewis asked, pulling back just enough to study your face. His expression was laced with concern.

“I’m… I’m fine. Just tired.” Your voice came out low, but you knew he would sense something was off. Lewis always did.

His brows furrowed slightly as he tilted his head, his gaze probing. “You sure? You seem a little distant.”

With him standing there, just a few steps away, the idea of telling him felt even more daunting. Fear wrapped itself around your chest, squeezing tighter and tighter. Fear that the news could change everything between you, fear that the love you shared wouldn’t be enough to face what was coming. So, for at least one more night, you decided to delay. Tomorrow would be the right time. Tonight, you just wanted to savor your last moment of peace with him—if everything changed afterward.

But the memory of the test sitting on the bedside table sent a fresh wave of panic through you. If Lewis went into the bedroom now, he’d see it. There was no way to hide it in time.

“Nothing’s wrong, love.” You forced a smile, leaning up to kiss him, his lips still warm from the chill outside. “Why don’t you sit down? I’ll take your bag and be right back, okay?”

Before you could grab his bag, Lewis held onto it firmly, shaking his head.

“You don’t need to do that. I can carry my own bag.” He smiled, the kind of smile that always made your heart flutter, and slung the strap back over his shoulder. “I’ll shower and then we can pick a movie, yeah?”

“No, seriously, let me.” You insisted, your voice slightly too quick. “You must be exhausted. Just relax, I’ll handle it.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly noticing your unease, but didn’t argue further. “Y/N, I’m not made of glass. I can carry my own luggage.”

Without another word, you followed him to the bedroom, your heart racing with every step. Lewis placed his bag by the wardrobe but lingered, his gaze drifting back to you.

“You’re acting weird,” he commented with a small smile, though he didn’t press further. “I’ll take a quick shower and be back. Pick us a good movie.”

As soon as he entered the bathroom and the door closed, you let out the breath you had been holding and quickly made your way to the bedside table. With swift movements, you grabbed the test and hid it in the deepest drawer, pushing it down beneath a few papers. When you finished, the relief was immediate, but brief.

You left the room and returned to the kitchen, trying to distract yourself with anything else. You prepared a bowl of fruit and placed it on the counter, but your mind couldn’t help but drift back to the inevitable moment that was coming.

Minutes later, sensing something was off with Lewis’s delay, you decided to return to the bedroom. When you opened the door, your heart nearly stopped at the sight before you. Lewis was sitting on the bed, his eyes fixed on the pregnancy test he was holding in his hand.

“Lewis…” your voice came out weak, barely a whisper.

He looked up, and for a moment, you couldn’t read his expression. It wasn’t anger, but it wasn’t relief either. It was something in between—confusion, perhaps.

“How long have you known?” he asked, his voice low but firm.

The question hit you like a punch. “What? Lewis, I—”

“Were you hiding this from me?” He stood up, his brow furrowed in a mix of frustration and hurt. “Did you think you could handle this alone?”

“I didn’t… I just found out!” you retorted, feeling your eyes well up. “I didn’t even have time to think, to process. I was going to tell you, Lewis!”

But he didn’t seem to hear you. He ran his hands through his hair, clearly trying to organize his thoughts.

“I thought we were a couple, Y/N. That we trusted each other.”

Those words hit you cruelly, a blow to your vulnerability. “Lewis, I wasn’t hiding anything! I just… I didn’t have the courage to take the test until today. I needed a moment. A second to process what was happening to me.”

He paused, studying your face, his dark eyes softening as his anger dissolved into understanding. Finally, he shook his head, the weight of the tension lifting from his shoulders.

“When were you planning on telling me?” he asked, his voice quieter, but still firm.

“I was going to tell you tomorrow,” you rushed to explain, almost pleading for him to believe you. “I just… I didn’t know how to do it. Lewis, please, believe me.”

His expression changed completely. Without saying another word, he walked over and pulled you into a tight hug. The warmth of his body was comforting, but what struck you the most was the soft sound of a sob. He was crying.

“You should’ve told me as soon as you suspected,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I wanted to be here with you when you took the test.”

“Are… are you happy?” you asked hesitantly, the words coming out in a whisper full of doubt.

He pulled back slightly, cradling your face in his big, warm hands. A smile broke through the tears streaming down his face.

“Of course I’m happy, my love.” His voice was low, but full of conviction. “This baby is a piece of our love. How could I not be happy?”

You collapsed into his arms, your head resting on his strong chest as tears flowed freely down your face. The relief and love you felt in that moment were overwhelming.

“You have no idea how scared I was,” you confessed through sobs. “I was so afraid you wouldn’t want this baby… that you wouldn’t want me anymore.”

He held you even tighter, impossibly so, and kissed the top of your head, lingering in the gesture.

“I would never do that, Y/N. Never.” He sighed, his voice thick with emotion. “You mean everything to me. And now, we’re going to be a family. I just wish I’d been there with you from the start.”

His words were a balm, soothing the storms that had built in your heart over the past few weeks.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, still hidden against his chest.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he replied, gently stroking your hair. “We’re both learning. But now that I know… I promise you’ll never face any of this alone again.”

You stayed like that for long minutes, not needing any more words. The moment was just for the two of you, and nothing seemed more important than the future you were beginning to build together.

[uzurakis]

after you reveal the meanings behind his names, michael kaiser’s cocky attitude seems to never not get in the way.

“do you know the meaning of your name?” you ask, glancing up at him. both of you are lounging on the couch, enjoying a rare moment of quiet as kaiser takes a book in his right hand and stroking your hair with his left from behind.

kaiser looks at you, his expression indifferent. “as if i give a damn about it,” he replies, shrugging, back to his pages. “it was given to me by that one hell of a father, and at times, i don’t even like it.”

“hmm,” you smile, knowing you can get a reaction out of him. “well then, 'kaiser' means emperor or a ruler higher than a king.”

a spark of interest lights up his eyes. he leans back, a smirk forming on his lips. “i know i’m the best striker out there, mein liebling. no need to tell me,” he brags, mood visibly improving. “emperor, king, whatever. i own the field.”

enjoying his reaction, you chuckle at his boast. “of course, you do, baby.”

“but do you know what 'michael' means?”

he raises an eyebrow, genuinely curious this time. “no, what does it mean?”

“it means 'gift from god,'” looking at him fondly as your hand touches his cheeks, rubbing them softly. “you're my gift from god.”

his eyes widen slightly, and for a moment, you see a glint of genuine emotion. then, true to his nature, he grins and leans in. “well, that makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? that’s why i am pretty amazing,” he boasts again with a playful wink. “in fact, you should probably start addressing me as 'your highness.'”

you roll your eyes at his flamboyant response but can’t help smiling. “you get cocky too easily, michael.”

“i thought you love me as i am, mein liebling,” he says, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you closer. “i mean, who wouldn’t love having the greatest striker in the world as their boyfriend? you’re one lucky person.”

“c’mon, mein liebling, say it, 'i am more than grateful to have the world’s greatest striker as my boyfriend,'”

“yeah, yeah,” you say, trying to sound annoyed but failing as a smile breaks through. “you’re full of it, know that?”

“full of greatness, you mean,” he corrects, puffing out his chest. “c’mon, admit it. you’re blessed to have me, for i’m a gift from god itself.”

you tease, leaning into him. “sure, whatever helps you sleep at night, 'boyfriend,'”

“you forgot the ‘world’s greatest striker’ part,”

“i sorta regret having this conversation with you.”

@uzurakis

[atlabeth]

take my breath away

pairing: spencer reid x reader

summary: you help spencer train for his fitness exam. he kind of just wants to kiss you.

a/n: some fluff (and something short) after i broke my own heart (and my brain) in my last hotch fic! i’m truly in my criminal minds era. enjoy

wc: 1.3k

warning(s): reader is a runner so im sorry to my unathletic friends. but this is all fluff

“Spence,” you said, unable to bite back your smile, “how are you this bad at running?” 

“I’m—” he held up a finger as he caught his breath and shook his head. “I’m not bad at running. My form… is perfect.” 

“We barely made it a mile in,” you said, and you chuckled as he keeled over, his hands on his knees. “It can’t be that perfect.” 

“It is,” he insisted, on the edge of wheezing. “I’m just unathletic.” 

“You never did sports as a kid?” 

“I graduated high school at twelve,” Spencer breathed. “I was too busy studying. Reading. Doing anything other than sports.” He looked at you and shook his head. “And I’m not crazy like you.” 

Your smile only grew. “You should put your hands over your head. It helps get more air in.” 

“That’s actually a rumor.” He shook his head again. “When you raise your arms, muscles that contribute… to the bucket handle movement of your ribs—” He heaved a sigh, his brows furrowing, and again, you held back a smile. You were sure this was one of his only weaknesses. “—they’re not able to function properly.” 

“Alright, genius,” you said, mockingly but with love. “Recover however you like. You clearly need it.” 

Spencer pouted as he straightened up, his whole face contorted in discomfort. When your boyfriend asked you to help him train for his upcoming fitness test, you didn’t think much of it—you got a full ride through college because of track, and you keep healthy with morning runs, so you were happy to help. 

You’d thought about straight up offering a myriad of times—mostly after bearing witness to his attempts at running in the field. One time, the two of you were paired up to do some interviews, and it ended in a chase. By the time Spencer caught up, nearly dying on the sidewalk, you already had the unsub subdued and cuffed. 

(It took him a while to live that down with Morgan.)

Spencer was gifted at other things, sure—not just everyone is a classified genius with an eidetic memory, and he’s the youngest recruit in history—and you loved him more than anything. But you couldn’t not make fun of him, just a little bit. 

His face was still red, his glasses fogging up a bit from the humidity, and his hair was a mess, so you moved closer in order to brush the stray strands out of his face. 

“Running isn’t my thing,” he said. “Well— fitness isn’t my thing. I’ve got everything else covered.” 

“Oh yeah?” You started smoothing back the strands of his hair, and you offered a crooked smile. “Then why are we out here trying to improve your mile time?” 

“Because it would be nice if Gideon doesn’t have to get all my fitness stuff waived again, and if I want that, I need the help.” His eyes didn’t leave yours, and once you finished, your hands lingered on his cheeks. You nudged his glasses back up to their spot. “And I think I’d run a marathon and die trying if it meant I got to spend more time with you.” 

Your eyebrows rose. “If you want to run a marathon, I could probably get you there. It would take a lot of time together, though.” 

“Please, no,” Spencer breathed. “Just the time together part.” 

You grinned, and you patted him on the cheek before you pulled away. “Running is good for the soul. Why do you think I’m so happy all the time?” 

“Well, this morning you said you were happy because of me,” he said. “Yesterday, it was because we had our first case-free weekend in two months. The other day—” 

“That coffee I had?” you interrupted. 

He nodded. “How’d you know?” 

“Because you made it for me,” you said, “and I love it when you do that.” 

Spencer shrugged. “You do it all the time for me. It’s only fair.” 

“But that’s proof,” you said. “Running does make you happy.” 

“Running does release endorphins, but anyone who likes it is crazy,” he repeated. 

“That doesn’t sound scientifically backed.” 

“The way I feel right now beats science,” Spencer huffed. “And you’re not happy all the time. You frowned 23 times while writing up your last report.” 

You raised your eyebrows. “You were watching me? And counting?” 

He shrugged. “You’re nice to watch.” 

“Very smooth, Dr. Reid,” you said cloyingly. “But flattery won’t get you out of this.” 

“I’m not trying to get out of anything!” he defended. You stared at him, and he held up his hands. “Okay— only halfway. But you are nice to watch. That’s why I’m still here.”

“If you’re watching me while we run, that might be why you’re doing so badly,” you said, amused. 

“No—I think it’s the only thing keeping me going.”

“You don’t really look like you’re still going,” you said wryly. “You should be good at this. You’ve got long legs.” 

Spencer shook his head as he screwed his eyes shut. He let out one last breathy sigh, and you hoped he’d finally recovered. “Also largely a rumor. It’s more about leg strength compared to bodyweight—long legs help with lengthy strides, but you need to generate enough torque to move faster than with shorter legs.” 

You smiled. “You’ve still got facts? Even while you’re dying?” 

“Mostly because Elle’s said it before too. She says I look like a baby giraffe learning how to walk when I run.” Spencer shook his head again. “I think the only thing my height is good for is getting things off of shelves.” 

For once, you tried to reign in your joking. “Is there anything I can do to help? I don’t want this whole thing to be miserable for you. Running should be fun.” 

“We can stop doing this?” he suggested. “I can let go of what’s left of my pride, get all my fitness stuff waived again, and go back to figuring out cases in an air conditioned conference room?” 

You smiled, and you moved closer. “How about this?” 

Spencer opened his mouth to say something, but you pulled him in for a kiss by the front of his shirt, effectively cutting him off. He hesitated for less than a split second, but his hands fell to your waist as he brought you in closer. 

When you let go and moved away, he still had them there, and he was smiling like an idiot. 

“Does that help?” you asked innocently, tilting your head. 

“Yeah,” Spencer said, nodding rapidly. “Uh— yeah. I actually think I could go for another mile now.” 

You couldn’t help but laugh as you ruffled his hair, messing up your earlier work. “I’d love to test that, pretty boy, but I don’t think you can make it another mile.” 

Spencer shook his head. “If you keep kissing me like that, I think I can make it through that marathon you mentioned.”  

“Sure I don’t take your breath away too badly?” you teased. 

“I have some facts for that, but I don’t think they apply.” His lips curved up, and the redness from exertion mixed with his steadily rising blush. “Because you, uh— you did take my breath away the first time I saw you.” 

“I should start calling you loverboy with material like that,” you mused. “Morgan’s annoyed that I took pretty boy from him.” 

Spencer grimaced. “Just thinking of Morgan seeing me like this makes me want to get back at it. I can’t deal with any more of his teasing.” 

“But my teasing’s okay?” 

He frowned. “Of course. It— it’s kind of why I fell for you.” 

“Ah,” you nodded. “That’s why you’re still at this. You don’t like things being handed to you.” 

His cheeks darkened again, and you laughed as you leaned in to peck him on the lips one more time. 

“Alright, loverboy,” you said. “Ready to get back at it?” 

“No,” he said affirmatively. “But I don’t really have a choice, do I?” 

“Not if you want to pass,” you said wryly, and you gestured back at the trail with your head. “But you know what they say—one step at a time.” 

Spencer grumbled, and he shook his arms out again. “Fine. As long as those steps are with you.” 

You smiled. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.” 

[defmaybe]

Cherry

NMIXX’s Oh Haewon x Male Reader

2.5k words

A/N: Dawg. Another BFH fic, I promise I’ll reduce the output rate lol. Also, thanks to @djnayeon for inspiring this with a fucking Shrek gif lol. Thanks for reading!!!

—

Haewon tosses a torn piece of paper with a scribble on it.

My dorm, 602

—

You stand in front of a dormitory, exuding malice with its structure–black, trapezoid, dystopian. A buzzer then signals you to enter. The glassy doors slide open, giving the sight of its stark interior. 

You trail through the rotating stairs, seeing your destination up high. Each step grows heavier, as her room comes closer and closer. Fatigue sets in. Fuck.

But just as you’re about to give up, the number appears on the door right in front of you—602.

Thank fuck.

You knock on the door, as the customs—three times, knock, knock, knock. You wait. You wait. You wait. It’s an eternity of ten seconds. Before the door swings open, giving you the sight of an olive-haired woman, dressed in a tight, cream top, with the pants that leaves little to your imagination.

“Get in,” Haewon orders, annoyance spreads on her expression. “Don’t fucking ogle me right now, keep it to when I fuck your brains out.”

You settle yourself inside her room immediately. It’s tidy, perfect for a lone living space–bed over here, bathroom over there, table by the bed. It’s everything you’d expect from this type of room. Then, you catch the Imaginal Disk vinyl sitting above a player, with other ones: Alvvays, Emotion, Keepsake.

“Come,” Haewon orders, snapping you out of the trance. “Eat my cunt.”

—

“Fucking pervert,” she huffs, as the wet squelches of your tongue lapping up her tangy nectar carry through the room. Her tempting lush folds only heighten your lust further. And despite the nonchalant verbal expressions, her quivering nails gripping on your scalp seem to have their objections. Oh, the woman that you are, Haewon.

Long gone, her lower garments, leaving her in a cream top. Every blow of wind would give the view of her erect nubs from time to time, What a sight. Not to add, her luscious, creamy thighs only sate your unquenchable thirst.

Right now, your world is only her—her glistening cunt, to be exact. You need to take all of her for yourself—every square millimeter of her velvety flesh, every strand of her silk, every drop of her salty liquid gushing out in arousal. You alternate between her juicy folds and the swollen nub, sweeping her sensitive area for all you can. “Ah! Fuck!” And you earn a wailing from her.

You’re sure that the crescent marks are going to be visible until at least the next week, eliciting some laughs and giggles from your prudish peers. But they will never know what an ecstasy it is to be eating Haewon’s pussy like this, with the mixture of your fluids running down your chin.

“F-Fuck, yeah, just like that, boy toy,” Haewon moans. “Keep eating my pussy like this and I’ll fuck your ass until you can’t walk.”

The promise of her plastic phallus pushes you up among the clouds. God, her artificial cock plowing your ass, making you her bitch. Every thrust ramming your prostate to your own brim, as you moan like a fucking cockslut you are–hungry for her domination.

You part her wet folds at an even quicker speed. “F-Fuck, boy toy, you’ve improved, haven’t you?”

“Life is a learning, mommy,” you answer through the act. Haewon lets go of your sore head, instead using her palms, softly pressing your head onto her instead.

“Witty, I like that.” And you just whimper out in response.

Her stream of lubricant won’t seem to stop, and it’s like you’d complain about her taste–tangy, intense, robust. While the scent, far from the flowers of the springs, only shackles you by the throat to keep eating her cunt like there’s no tomorrow. It’s intoxicating, she’s intoxicating, fuck.

Queued, her legs shake, signaling the pending orgasm on your face. “M-Mommy’s gonna cum soon, boy toy. Keep eating my cunt just like that,” Haewon commands.

With her words, your touches become more intense, eager to please your mommy to her climax. You wait for her torrent on your pretty face.

And just like that, her legs shake, a fountain of her squirt paints your features. You let your tongue out to taste her liquid–clear, yet intense like her aggression.

“Fuck, yes, drink it up, you dirty cuntslut,” she grunts, body still convulsing from the pleasure. God, quite a thesaurus she has.

Her squirt flows for a few more heartbeats into your welcoming mouth until she comes down from her climax. Her juice comes out just as slow as her subsiding breathing.

“F-Fuck, that was good, boy toy,” Haewon huffs, smiling, before her voice would become low again. “Now get on the bed, get that asshole ready.”

On a whim, you jump back first onto her bed, with her plushies jumping a bit upon your landing. You quickly push your pants off, and your cock springs out. Not to mention your eager puckered hole, so ready for her rough pounding.

Haewon picks up a harness with a dildo on it–daunting in its length, outrageous in its girth. You aren’t walking normally to your dorm today.

“I-It’s so big, m-mommy,” you whimper.

Standing, latching her strap, she bends forward to speak, “A slut like you deserves to be stretched out, don’t you?”

“Y-Yes, mommy.”

“I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk.” She finishes the last lock of her strap-on, before discarding her creamy top, displaying her tits in glory.

“Give me the lube, it’s above your head,” she orders, and you toss her the red bottle from the cabinet above you.

“Ready?” Haewon asks, stroking her plastic cock with a strawberry-scented lubricant.

“Yes, mommy.”

Boldly, she pounces on your thighs for a grip–so tightly. Her glistening length is merely an inch away from you. She grins–so malevolent.

Boldly, her length pierces your tightness, inch by inch. Fuck, it’s stretching you out. You’re fighting the urge to moan, like you haven’t been under her assertion all this time.

“Hmm~, so ready for mommy.”

Boldly, she buries her plastic cock up to the hilt, hitting the little spot called the prostate. It sends shocks through you, and she seems to be satisfied with your contorted expression.

Boldly, you moan, so loud, too loud. And she giggles at the sight.

“Can’t handle my cock, baby?” she says, as she slowly slides the length out.

“Ngh,” you cry out. The filling inside you agonizingly disappears. But as you thought she’d pull out all the way, she rams herself back into you. “Ahhh. Fuck.”

Haewon chuckles at you, pulling out again. And it begins, the rhythm of her dominance.

You become pliant for her–to touch, to play with, to fuck. She gains her tempo in messaging your inner walls. “Keep moaning like that, boy toy, It’s a song to me.”

Your mind is lost in the stars, only moans and whimpers to follow her orders. “Ngh, ahhh, mmmh.” Her pounding is so rough, yet it only fuels your fire further.

“Y-Your cock is so good, mommy.”

“I know, boy toy, I know you’d love my cock like a slut you are,” Haewon responds with a chuckle. Her hips strike your ass faster, hitting your prostate at the bullseye with each jerk. “Say it, who’s my little slut.”

You take a deep breath, before responding, “I-I’m your slut, mommy.”

“Louder.”

You take another deep breath, before shouting this time, “I’M YOUR SLUT, MOMMY.”

“Good boy, good fucking boy,” Haewon says, before dragging out her pace as she pants.

“Wha-What are you doing, mommy?” you ask, voice shaking with worry.

“I-I need your cum inside me, c’mere,” Haewon huffs, as she pulls in your thighs until they press against hers. The plastic cock points up along with yours.

“Can’t have your cock go soft before I, ugh,” she grunts, forcefully attempting to unbuckle the strap from herself. “Why the fuck is it so hard?”

“Nghhhh, mommyyy, please just fuck me already,” you groan out, being pulled away from the precipice second by second.

A forceful slap lands on your ass, “Ah! Fuck!”, the red mark of Haewon’s hand is probably imprinted on a canvas called you.

“You’re in no position to exert your needs here, alright? Shut the fuck up!” Haewon shouts, voice raspy, and you can do nothing but comply. “You’re so fucking lucky that I let you get a taste of my cunt. If you’re pulling some shit like this again, I’ll fucking hang you on the edge, alright?”

“Y-Y-Yes, mommy,” you whimper, voice shaking.

“Now, let me get this ugh- fucking strap off.” She struggles with it a bit more, until she finally tears it off, revealing her aroused sex for you once again. “Fucking finally.”

And it’s quick—the way she quickly envelops your cock within her drenched folds. And it plays out by the cowgirl’s book—her supple ass sliding up and down your cock, your moans, her moans (even if hers are in a much lower register–more like a groan per se).

“Nghhhh.”

“Fuckkkk.”

“M-Mommy!”

“Ah!”

The cacophony fills Haewon’s room, combined with the mess of fleshes clapping into each other. The allegro tempo makes it easier for you to make your eyes flutter in raw, unscathed ecstasy. The storm is still far away, but you can see it. You can see it. Lightning. The sound of it. The small drops of water on your arms, signaling the whirlwind of a release in the distance.

With her movement, your eyes keep alternating between her bouncing, luscious mounds and the sight of your cock disappearing into her. This shit is fucking hypnotizing.

“Don’t you dare go fucking other slut, understand? I-I only have you.”

Her first tinge of genuine affection. Your heartbeat quickens even more at her words.

“Y-Yes, ah, mommy,” you respond.

And somehow, boldly, Haewon captures you with her cherry-flavored lips–ardent, confident, ass still grinding on your filthy cock. She keeps gasping for air, but her tongue sweeps every square millimeter of your dirty, lustful mouth. She cups your face tight.

But before you can revel in the act, Haewon pulls back from the kiss. Her face is now flushed, eyes elsewhere with hands wiping the saliva away. And you smile.

“The fuck you’re smiling at, huh? Just fucking cum inside me, boy toy, fill me up.”

Your voice isn’t shaky anymore, reinvigorated by the kiss. “Okay, mommy.”

Haewon rides you faster, upping the tempo of yourselves clashing together. Her tight, velvety walls are calls of the storm. It’s raining now, and flashes and flashes of lightning can be seen from afar.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, I-I’m gonna cum,” she moans, as her body atop of you shakes–violent, unyielding. She keeps the pace for her sex to be impaled by your length. Her juicy thighs lose their controls. Her breaths grow shorter. And her wanton cunt is quivering.

And she cums, “Fuck, shit!” Streams of clear juice leaks out in a torrent, legs trembling once again. Her whole body convulses, mouth open, you’d do anything just to see this again.

But she won’t stop just here.

“Now, your turn.” Haewon recollects herself up to a languid pace, opposite to the frantic tempo earlier. She’s definitely fucking with you now.

“Oh, my toy is frustrated because I’m not riding him fast enough?” Haewon pouts, and of course it is a sarcastic one. She doesn’t seem to let you have your pleasure yet.

“What if I–” Haewon swipes her lips with a finger, gathering a hue of coral on it. “–do this?”

Slowly, she docks the digit on your needy lips, pasting the tinge along them.

Slowly, she pushes her finger into your mouth, giving you the taste of cherry.

“Like that, you slut?”

“Yes, mommy.”

Slowly, you envelop her slender digit with a warm welcome–eyes closed, humming through the act.

Slowly, she sweeps your cavern, spreading the fruity paste everywhere, and you surely forget about how slow her tight cunt is pressing onto you right now.

“Mmmmmm,” you moan, sucking her digit. The taste only entices you more.

“Yeah, suck mommy’s finger like a bitch you are,” she says, and you just can’t deny that–her finger and the title.

Here you are, surrendered to her conquest, sucking her finger with an incomparable hunger. The submission just becomes innate now; you are so ready to give her the full control.

Without a warning, she finally ramps up her pace, slamming her wet, dainty cunt down your cock with more frenzy.

“Ah, ah, nghh, fuck, mommy~” you cry out, so lost in the haze.

“Breed me, fucking breed me.” Haewon looks up onto the ceiling as her groan fills the room. “I want to feel your seed hitting my womb, only yours.”

Thunders start to strike the ground with each thrust–bang, bang, bang. Each one has the determination to set the fire inside you alight.

“I-I think I’m cumming, mommy, a-are you sure about this?” You can feel it, the spark of it.

She huffs, “F-Fuck yeah, I want a creampie this time, boy toy.”

You start to grow greedy, despite the fear of her punishment. Still, it’s like you’d care right now, with any of her so-called disciplinary actions only pushing you towards the edge. You pump your cock upwards to match her slams.

“Hmm~, putting in some work too?” Haewon bends down to ruffle your hair, pouting. “So adorable for mommy~.”

Again, she captures you with her lips, every moan, every whimper, every cry is contained within the connection. You can feel it, the little fires everywhere. It’s only a matter of time until it merges into a raging inferno.

“M-Mommy~.”

And it burns, deep into her womb. Your cock paints ropes and ropes of essence within her needy cunt, as you scream deep into her lungs. The blaze consumes both of you, still fighting with your tongues. Your hips jerk with each shot, “Ngh, ngh, ngh,” and your back becomes an arch.

Eventually, the fire is gone, only the remnants of the burns left. Haewon pants against you as you do so, foreheads touching, smiling.

“You’re just fucking fun to use, you know that?” she says, before latching onto your quivering lips.

Long gone, the ardor buried within you two, replaced by something else, something you can’t quite pinpoint. Haewon kisses you, and you kiss her back with the remaining passion for her that’s left inside you.

Finally, she pulls back from you, a string of saliva connects you two in the separation. She’s smiling.

“I love being your little boy toy too, Haewon,” you say, she laughs. Before she gets down from the ride, lying next to you. Your cum leaks out of her cunt onto the bedsheets.

“Wanna do this again?” Haewon asks.

“Definitely, maybe.”

“Maybe?” Haewon furrows her brows, getting up to look you in the eye. “I fucking dicked you down until you moaned like that and you say ‘maybe’?”

You chuckle with the statement, before turning your back to her, “Cuddle me please, mommy.”

“Sure.” Haewon says, smiling, as she lies down again, hugging your frame from behind, ready to go through this nocturne together.

—

[miwsolovely]

something something bruce wayne obsessing over spouse!reader

he wants to believe that fate brought the two of you together. strings looping through your feeble fingers dripping blood, connecting the two of you together for eternity.

but in reality it was him who brought the two of you together.

setting up meetings, coincidences, every now and then, getting closer to you, blinding you with that oh so perfect smile and strategic placement of his heavy— but gentle and firm— hand.

making sure you feel safe. because he knows, he knows that no one has ever loved you, the way hes planning on loving you, the way he already is loving you.

you dont realize it. he thanks whatever god covered by the curtains of the sky that the clouds of ignorance fog your brain and turns it into mush. pliable and feeble for him to mold you into what is perfect.

because he wants whats best for you, he does. that habit you have of picking away at your nails till your fingers dye red? gone with carefully voiced concerns dripping in sticky honey.

“now, you know i don’t like it when you’re hurt. why’re you doing this to yourself my love? its picking away at my heart.”

and you believe him. because isn’t he right? he only wants whats best for you, why shouldn’t you heed his advice?

signs like being wanted and loved to you, are the gentle concerns and loving advice that push and pull at your brain. he loves playing into that.

and unbeknownst to you, you’re second guessing your every move. ‘i should probably do x. . . but what about y?’

or, ‘how would bruce feel if i did this?’

and the rest of the family play into this which is what is scary.

at first there might’ve been a bit of animosity between you all (namely damian, as he doesn’t want this random to replace his mother), but it all dies down when they realize that ‘oh, bruce is sleeping more, eating more, his mood has improved. . .because of you.’

they notice, process, and act on the fact that you’re weak minded because of bruce.

and in by doing this for bruce, they start to feel their hearts warm for you. they start seeing you as just a parental figure trying to win their hearts, not to win bruce’s money and fame, but to really get to know them.

when they act disappointed in you, your heart shrivels in on itself and it feels like you can’t breathe because you failed them. that gives them the opportunity to have you crawling back for forgiveness because, they’re your children and husband, don’t you love them?

they just want you to do better, right?

you, unknowingly conditioned, in the middle of your unknown torment, to identify concern, disappointment and guilt as signs of being wanted and loved.

©miwsolovely do not plagiarize, copy, or repost my works to other platforms . likes, comments, and reblogs are very appreciated <3