#Romantic or not is up to you as always but they are SO important. So love

[abbyfmc]

Yandere story idea #66:

I said before that i love the yandere emperor character, and i Will say it again.

Everyone knows that emperors can't trust just anyone freely, as there's always the risk of betrayal or assassination attempt. Such was the case of the Chinese emperor "Jiajing" of the Ming Dynasty, who suffered an assassination attempt by his consorts or concubines (albeit with good reason).

So, what if (Reader) tried to kill the Yandere emperor?

The Yandere Emperor's personality can vary depending on what you want to write. Emperors are often seen as strict, extremely authoritarian, tyrannical, and even cruel figures toward their inferiors and even other nations.

He was a strict and cruel yandere emperor who had the misfortune of him noticing and falling madly in love with you, the daughter of a high-ranking war general.

You loved martial arts and were skilled with weapons, having lived in a family filled with generals and soldiers for generations. Despite the strict gender roles of the time, your father took it upon himself to train you personally. You also enjoyed hunting and horseback riding in the countryside, and the latter made you feel free.

The yandere emperor would sometimes go on short tours outside his palace or on hunts. On one of these hunts, the yandere emperor saw you for the first time while you were leisurely riding a horse. Your passionate and strong aura, along with your beauty, was what caught his attention.

You noticed the yandere emperor, so you stopped riding and greeted him with courtesy.

It was here that he learned you were the daughter of a prestigious family whose military had worked for the empire for generations. Because of this, he became curious and began to investigate you further.

The yandere emperor started sending guards and servants disguised as civilians to follow you around, thus learning more about your likes, dislikes, and hobbies.

What attracted him most to you was your passionate, defiant, and free spirit, followed by your passion for martial arts, hunting, swimming, and horseback riding.

So...yes, he became obsessed with you.

The Yandere emperor began to make his interest in you known by the courtship, gifts and letters that arrived day after day with punctuality. He also called your father and some uncles (who were important generals or sergeants in the army), and let them (especially your father) know of his interest in you.

The Yandere emperor even started sending flowers along with the letters.

The Yandere emperor began to invite you to the palace indirectly, as a kind of "suggestion" whenever he talked to your father. He knew how much you loved your father, so he started trying to convince him (cofcofmanipulate himcofcof) to give you to the palace.

If your father decides to hand you over to the palace (as was common in ancient times), then the Yandere emperor will be very happy.

If not, then the yandere emperor will take the slightest opportunity to ruin your family (or kill them) as long as you agree to be his empress. This will make you start hating him.

While the yandere emperor is domineering (and even somewhat sadistic), he likes your rebelliousness.

The yandere emperor also has a romantic side, which he only shows to you.

But that doesn't mean he stops being a dominant Yandere with you, who enjoys both your rebelliousness and having you under his control.

The Yandere emperor would behead or imprison anyone who dares to harm you.

The Yandere emperor at first tolerated your refusals, but then he got tired of it, so he started imposing punishments that became increasingly intense to the point that they began to affect your loved ones.

Everything escalated to the point of your father's death at the hands of the Yandere emperor's guards. There you came up with the idea of killing him out of revenge.

The yandere emperor began to see how you slowly became more obedient, docile and at some point affectionate towards him.

At first, the Yandere emperor did not believe you and tested your new and strange behavior, but little by little you were able to convince him. You were rebellious and naughty occasionally, yes, but without taking away the loving facade you had with him and the responsibility for your new duties as empress.

However, emperors are not fools. They KNOW that they can suffer betrayal by anyone close to them; be it family, friends, political allies, subjects and even by their empresses, consorts and concubines (if they have them) or by their servants.

This meant that he was always one step ahead of you. Don't forget that the Yandere Emperor is a calculating man.

The moment came when the Yandere emperor was ready to spend the night with you. You waited until he was "distracted" and tried to stab him with a pitchfork in the neck. But you didn't count on him being faster than you and stopping you.

The Yandere emperor reduced you in bed, angered by your treachery. He immediately told you that he knew you were planning something and that he would immediately punish you to teach you a lesson.

For the first time, his anger terrified you.

[snowseasonmademe]

Ain’t no feeling like being free

word count: 10,455

warning ‼️: smut

pairing: aurelien tchouameni x black female reader

summary: after the divorce you’re ready to start fresh and what better what to get over someone than to get under another.

tag list: @sucredreamer @irishmanwhore @dexastres @coffeevacation @goldenngt

@btslover117 @kennaskorner

@leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro

@jessnotwiththemess @thepointlessideas

@amirawrah @simplementemeencantafutbol

@kjlovesbigwilo @rougereds

note: i think this is my favorite fic i’ve ever written. it’s long so grab a snack. as for the song, i only added it in last minute. the fic is loosely based on the song. just the outro of beyonce singing her heart out, it’s my favorite part of the song! next fics are wilo, alejandro, levi and then noni. as always, enjoy and tell me what you think🤍!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

47 days.

It had been 47 days since the ink dried on the divorce papers. You hadn’t cried that day—just breathed. A deep, full, trembling breath that scraped the lining of your lungs on the way out. That was the only sign your body gave that it was registering the end of something that had lasted nearly a decade. Eight years in a relationship. Six of them spent as someone’s wife. And now, it was all done. Not with a bang or a romantic reconciliation like you sometimes imagined in your weaker moments. Just a signature. And a silence you hadn’t known how much you craved until it echoed in every room of your house.

You were thirty. And free. Technically. But the freedom didn’t feel warm yet. Not like spring air or a glass of champagne clinking against your bottom lip. It felt sterile and raw. Like your skin was still shedding what it meant to be attached to someone who never really saw you.

You weren’t even sure when things started going wrong. But when you looked back now, the signs were littered through your memories like red flags someone had thrown at your feet and you kept walking anyway. He had little interest in your career. He never asked about your deadlines or meetings or how your new project was going. He gave shallow compliments at best, and even those dried up in year three. He told you—stone cold in the kitchen one night—that he didn’t really believe in monogamy. But somehow, in a strange twist, he’d never cheated. Not once. Not physically, anyway.

Emotionally, though?

He’d left you starving.

He never helped around the house unless you begged, and even then, it was half-hearted and full of sighs. You’d watch him bungle basic tasks and then claim you were “too controlling” when you corrected him. His friends? He trusted them over you every single time—even the ones who’d been caught in lie after lie. And the sex? Pitiful. Thirty orgasms. Maybe. In eight years. And none of them truly memorable. He didn’t look at you during it. Didn’t hold you. Didn’t worship your skin or touch you like he understood how much attention it needed. He used your body like a convenience store. Get what you came for, walk out, lights off.

You’d nearly cheated once, three years ago. There was a beautiful man at a conference—soft smile, smart, the kind who listened—but you didn’t follow through. Not because you didn’t want to. But because you knew it would be ammunition in court. And the last thing you needed was to give your husband a real reason to call you a villain.

So instead, you played it smart. Cold.

You served him papers exactly one year ago—on the same day as one of his most important business meetings. A little petty, sure. But it felt good. Better than sex ever had with him.

You thought he’d make the process clean. Civil. But no. He fought you. Claimed you only married him for his money—never mind the fact that your business pulled in more than his did. Claimed you’d lied about wanting kids—though you both had been undecided and never discussed it seriously. And the worst part? He told the lawyers, under oath, that he had been a “great husband” and loved you “every day and night.”

As if great husbands accused their wives of faking their grandmother’s death just to get out of a vacation in Idaho.

Idaho. Of all places.

No disrespect, but who vacations in Idaho?

Your last straw came when he told you—without blinking—to “get in the gym” and try looking “a little more like Lori Harvey.”

You had stared at him across the marble kitchen island and blinked once.

This man. With a four-year-old patchy beard that made him look like he was fighting PCOS.

This man.

Had the audacity.

And now here you were, 47 days post-divorce, sitting at your vanity table bathed in golden morning light, slowly blending concealer under your eyes with your ring finger. You were quiet. Not numb—just reflective. You let yourself study your face in the mirror. The soft roundness of your cheeks, the tiredness still tucked in your eyes, the curve of your mouth that hadn’t really smiled without effort in a long time. You looked like someone who was trying. And for today, that was enough.

Thirty. Newly divorced. And on the brink of your post-breakup glow-up. You could feel it humming under your skin like a coming storm. Your body hadn’t caught up yet, but the energy was there. The momentum. You weren’t going to crumble. One thing about you—you were always going to move through your feelings. Maybe not quickly. Maybe not gracefully. But they would be processed. Whether that meant crying into a cashmere robe with a goblet of red wine in hand or getting lost in a playlist on a six-hour flight to somewhere that made your skin feel brand new—you would deal.

Tonight, you decided, would be peaceful. A warm bath. A little wine. Soft jazz floating from the speakers and something lavender-scented burning in the corner. You weren’t gonna think about him. Or the years you’d lost. Or the fact that he never really saw you. Tonight wasn’t about mourning. It was about reclaiming.

But before all of that… you had things to do.

You stood up from the vanity with a soft sigh, stretching your arms overhead and letting your robe slip open slightly. The sunlight touched your collarbones. The hardwood was cool beneath your feet. The day was already demanding your presence. And you had a checklist to run through before you could melt into the water later.

First, your suitcase. You were finally taking a real vacation—Okinawa. White sand, blue water, quiet mornings. Somewhere you’d always wanted to go, and now you didn’t have to ask permission or explain why.

Then, your matcha. Always iced. Always extra oat milk.

Next, your new ID photo. The old one had him in the corner—his shoulder, blurry and uninvited.

Target came after that. You needed absolutely nothing and still planned to spend $200.

And finally, your cousin. He left his damn sneakers at your house again, and you’d offered to swing by and drop them off since you were already running around. You didn’t know who he was with exactly, just that it was a group of his friends and they lived near the city center.

You glanced at the shoes by the door and smiled to yourself.

Time to start over. One errand at a time.

You stood in the doorway of your walk-in closet like it was a sacred space—hands on your hips, head tilted slightly to one side. A slow smile pulled across your lips as your eyes roamed the racks, colors and textures humming like a symphony waiting to be composed. You were building a wardrobe for your liberation arc. And it needed to reflect exactly who you were becoming: soft, dangerous, unbothered. Beautiful without apology.

Each piece you pulled off the hanger was a statement. A whisper of skin here, a flash of thigh there. Silk sets that clung to your hips just right. Maxi dresses with backs so low they nearly reached your tailbone. Swimsuits that couldn’t exactly be called modest—more like strategically engineered illusions of fabric. And you weren’t even pretending to pack like a sensible person. This wasn’t about weather or comfort or what some random auntie might think. You were packing for fantasy. For indulgence. For walking along the Okinawan coast with your ass out and your head high, the salt air tousling your hair like you were starring in a perfume commercial.

You folded each piece with care, pressing them into your suitcase like secrets. Like spells.

“Let them arrest me,” you muttered under your breath with a wicked grin. “Just make sure they get my good side.”

Because truly—he would have hated every single outfit.

“Why is your whole ass and chest out?” he used to say, standing in the doorway with a look like he wanted to shield you from the entire world.

You married a bad bitch, not a nun, you always thought.

You didn’t wear those things for attention. You wore them because you felt good in them. And he couldn’t handle it. Couldn’t handle the fact that you turned heads just by walking into a room. That you had a presence that didn’t ask permission.

You threw in your disposable camera next, tucking it between a pair of sandals and a silk dress. Your inhaler—because asthma didn’t care about hot girl aesthetics. A handful of Zyrtec tablets for your allergies. Thirty-five pairs of underwear because you were dramatic and proud of it.

And, of course… condoms.

Just in case.

You weren’t planning on doing anything. But who knew? New country, new energy. You might meet someone who smiled at you like they meant it, who touched your arm in a way that felt like a question instead of a demand. It was too soon to want that, maybe. But you didn’t owe your ex a timeline. You owed him nothing.

Suitcase zipped. To-do list resumed.

The DMV was next.

You’d made the appointment weeks ago because you already knew how they did. If you showed up without an appointment, they’d have you sitting there for three hours only to tell you that you were missing some ancient piece of documentation—like the receipt from your first communion or your kindergarten cap and gown.

You were getting the last of your hyphenated last name removed. That alone made your heart do a little dance. One final thread cut. One final step back into yourself.

You grabbed your bag and headed out the front door. The moment you stepped outside, sunlight hit your skin like a gentle slap. Warm and golden, sliding over your shoulders as you walked barefoot across the tile to your all-black drop-top Mercedes. A little divorce gift to yourself. Just because. Just to remind yourself that you could still do whatever the hell you wanted.

You smiled to yourself as you stepped in.

No tension waiting behind the door. No clipped tones or judgmental sighs.

Just air.

Your air.

Your house. Your silence. Your name.

The leather seats were warm from the sun—just this side of too hot—and they sizzled a little kiss onto the backs of your thighs as you slid in. You laughed out loud at the sting and kicked off your kitten heels, tossing them onto the passenger seat. Backing out of your driveway, down the long stretch of road to your front gate—15 feet of iron and peace—you felt the wind whip through your hair with frantic joy.

The town looked brighter. You weren’t sure if it was the light or if you were finally able to see again. The trees had a new color to them. The people on the sidewalks seemed softer, friendlier. Like maybe they had just finalized their divorces too. The sky stretched wide and blue above you as you sped toward your favorite coffee spot, music humming low in the background, your fingertips drumming the steering wheel with something close to rhythm.

At the café, you pulled into your usual spot. Clicked across the pavement with the tiny, sexy chaos of your little heels. You didn’t linger inside—not since the incident.

That barista had been way too bold a few years back. Called you “baby” and told you your smile looked “too expensive to waste on just one man.” You didn’t like scenes. You left with your matcha and a tight smile. Ever since then, you were a grab-and-go girl.

Back in the car, you cranked the volume and hit play on the playlist you’d made the night your divorce went through. First up? “Free” by Destiny’s Child.

The lyrics poured from the speakers like a church choir.

“Youuuuuuuu been doing you, I’m gon’ do me. I’m free, yeeeaaaaahhhh.”

You threw your head back and laughed. Not because it was funny—because it was true. Beyoncé sounded like she was singing straight from your chest.

You sang along like it was your national anthem, and twenty minutes later you were pulling into the DMV lot, music still bumping. You didn’t even have to go through the front door—your guy, the one who worked security, had already texted you the back entrance code. A wink and a smile, and he was waving you past the line to take your new photo. It didn’t even feel like a government building when you moved like this. Like a little royalty. A little VIP.

And then finally—last stop—your cousin’s house.

You loved that little French boy like he was your own. Born in Bordeaux, raised half here, half there. You’d watched him grow up. Watched him dream about being a sports journalist while everyone else was focused on playing the game. He tried football once.

Once.

The athletic gene had skipped him entirely, poor baby. But his pen was golden. His camera work, sharp. He’d made a name for himself in the world he loved from the sidelines, and you were so proud of him you could cry.

But as you pulled into the long, sloping driveway, your stomach dropped.

There were cars. Too many cars.

Eight in total.

Three G-Wagons—black, grey, white.

Two Mercedes AMGs, gleaming like obsidian under the sun.

One black Ferrari and another red one that looked too rich for its own good.

And then, the final dagger:

A grey Lamborghini Urus.

You sighed so hard your whole soul sagged.

You were finally free.

You were finally getting your peace.

And now, you had to walk into a house full of men. Big, athletic, loud, testosterone-soaked men.

“Fuck,” you muttered, shutting off the engine.

You grabbed the sneakers from the passenger seat, tossed your hair over your shoulder, and tried to summon the patience of the ancestors.

You were just here to drop something off.

In. Out. Done.

You told yourself you wouldn’t stay long.

But something about the house—about the air around it—felt like the kind of place where plans had a habit of changing.

Your heels clicked in rhythm against the stone path, a sharp little melody of confidence and heat as you made your way to the front door. You rang the doorbell once—just once—and the sound echoed through the house like a ripple. You waited there, the sun glinting off your hoops, catching your name etched in gold as you glanced at your reflection in the glass.

You looked… dangerous.

Mini skirt hugging your hips like it had a crush on you. Tight tank top showing off the soft slopes of your chest and the outline of your favorite bra—the one that always made you feel like you were keeping a secret. Custom gold hoops, your name curved in script, catching the light just right. And those kitten heels, barely-there but enough to add a kiss of height and that click-click that always made men look twice.

You waited with your hip cocked and your gum snapping between your teeth, one hand holding your cousin’s sneakers, the other resting lightly on your thigh. Patient. Untouchable. Unbothered.

And then the door opened.

Not your cousin.

Not one of the childhood friends you expected.

But him.

Tall.

Dark.

Fine. As fuck.

A rich, earthy brown skin tone that caught the sun and turned it into something holy. Strong jaw. Full lips. Eyes that didn’t just look at you—they read you. He held the door with one hand, the muscles in his forearm flexing slightly, just enough to make your breath catch for a half second. He was wearing something casual—sweats, a tee that clung just right—but there was nothing casual about how he stood. Like he was carved. Like he’d been waiting.

“Oh… hey,” you said slowly, drawing the word out with surprise and something just a little sweeter than amusement. “You’re that football guy, right?”

You knew exactly who he was. Of course you did.

But that didn’t mean you were going to make it easy.

He stood there, shamelessly letting his gaze drift from your hoops to your heels and back up again. His nostrils flared a little. That sweet, soft scent of you—vanilla and cocoa butter and a little jasmine—hit him all at once, and you saw it happen. Saw the exact moment you got under his skin.

“Aurélien,” he said, voice like velvet wrapped around gravel, thick with his French accent. “Yes. That’s me.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes still on yours. “You looking for your boyfriend or something?”

You had to bite back a grin.

He was slick. He wanted to know. Needed clarity.

You held up the sneakers like a prize and laughed. “My cousin. His shoes.”

From inside the house, you heard your cousin’s voice echo through the halls, teasing and loud like always.

“Bro, let her in! Why you making her stand out there like a package? She’ll melt before I get my shoes back!”

Aurélien’s mouth twitched at the corners. He stepped back, holding the door wider. “Come in,” he said.

And you did.

You stepped past him with a slow sway in your hips that wasn’t even for him—but you knew he’d notice. You could feel his gaze follow you like a shadow, lingering at your legs, your waist, the line of your spine as you walked deeper into the house and out toward the backyard. You didn’t look back, but you felt the heat of him behind you. Far enough to be respectful. Close enough to watch.

He’s watching me like he already knows he wants me, you thought. And he’s being careful.

Smart. Respectful. Sexy.

He knew about the divorce. They all did.

“Je la traiterais vraiment bien,” he thought to himself, eyes dragging over the way your skirt danced just above the back of your thighs. Real good. But he kept his distance. For now.

The sliding glass door opened onto the backyard, where the pool glistened in the afternoon sun and the ping-pong table was already surrounded by noise and testosterone. Laughter bounced off the water. Voices rose and fell, speaking in a blur of French and English.

You scanned the crowd and spotted familiar faces.

Jules Koundé—forever fashion-forward, always petty, probably about to roast somebody’s outfit.

Kylian Mbappé—still boyish and excitable, Mr. Gets-Too-Excited-When-He-Scores.

And a few others—your cousin’s childhood friends, the ones who hung around for food and drinks and messy table tennis.

You weren’t looking for attention. But you had it.

“Cousiiiiiin!” your cousin yelled, grinning from ear to ear as he ran up to you like you hadn’t just seen him last week.

You laughed as he pulled you into a hug.

“Hi,” you said, grinning as he wrapped his arms around you.

You held up the shoes. “Here. If you leave them again, I’m letting my cats use them as nail sharpeners.”

“Fair,” he laughed, grabbing them from you. “Totally fair.”

You two chatted for a bit—just the usual catch-up. Nothing heavy. But across the yard, you could feel three sets of eyes on you. Watching. Calculating. Wanting.

Aurélien.

Jules.

Kylian.

They were across the ping-pong table, all of them too casually interested in the conversation to be subtle. You pretended not to notice. Sipped your water. Twirled your hair. But you felt it. That slithering awareness crawling up your spine. Like prey being clocked by a pack of wolves.

What you didn’t know was that the three of them had already been plotting.

“She just got divorced,” Aurélien murmured under his breath. “I don’t wanna be pushy.”

“Just be cool, bro,” Jules replied, sipping his drink like he was handing out commandments. “You’re not proposing. Just ask for the number. She can’t say no to that.”

“You better get your girl before I do,” Kylian said, licking his lips with a smirk.

Jules and Aurélien gave him the kind of side-eye that said you can die about it.

And then they laughed.

Eventually, you made your exit. You and your cousin hugged again, quick and warm, and you made your way back through the house. Your heels clicked a little softer this time, more thoughtful than before.

And though you faintly heard footsteps behind you, you didn’t turn around.

You were already picturing your bath.

The heat of the water.

The scent of your favorite oils.

A glass of wine in one hand, dark chocolate in the other. Jazz melting through the air like honey.

Peace. Finally.

But then you reached your car.

And saw him.

Aurélien.

Walking to his.

And suddenly, that image of your bath faded, soft around the edges.

The grey Lamborghini Urus.

Of course it was his.

You smiled to yourself. “Good taste,” you thought. “Very good taste.”

“Nice car,” you called across the space between you, turning just slightly, the light catching your dimples as you smiled.

“Nice smile,” he said, without missing a beat.

He shut his door. And started walking toward you.

You didn’t move.

You stood there, still and soft and ready, one hand on your door handle, the other brushing a curl behind your ear.

Your heart thudded once, low in your chest.

Damn, you thought, watching him come closer.

“Do you always look this good,” he asked, voice low and rich like a good espresso, “or did you know you’d be seeing me today?”

You felt his gaze rest on you like heat, slow and thorough, drinking in every curve and edge. He was close now—close enough that his cologne wrapped itself around you, all spice and woods and something deeper underneath, something that smelled like trouble. Like temptation.

You raised your brows, lips tugging into a half-smile. “Post-divorce glow,” you said, brushing invisible lint off your tank top. “I think you’re enjoying it more than I am.”

He chuckled, a soft sound that rumbled in his chest and curled around your spine. “Sorry about that,” he said, his tone shifting—still playful, but dipped in something silkier, something heavier. “I could take you somewhere. Help you get your mind off it.”

The way he said it—so steady, so smooth, like it wasn’t a line but a promise—made your knees twitch. Not buckle. But twitch. You ignored the way your breath caught for a split second and reached behind you for your car door handle, fingers fumbling for the cool metal.

“Mmm… sorry,” you said, chin tilted high, trying not to look flustered. “I’ve got wine and chocolate to tend to.”

His eyes didn’t budge from yours. “What kind of chocolate?” he asked, like he was asking for a password. A confession.

“Dark,” you said, slowly, your voice a shade lower than before. Your eyes dropped to his chest, then climbed lazily back up to his face. “Of course.”

He smirked. “You got me right here.”

That made your heart trip.

Just a little.

You laughed, soft and breathy, turning your face away to hide the heat behind your eyes. “I just broke free of a man,” you said, pushing your car door open with your hip. “And now here you are, already trying to lock me down again? How old are you anyway?”

He didn’t blink. “Twenty-five,” he said. “Old enough for you.”

You blinked. “Oh no,” you said with a laugh that was both light and dead serious. “You’re a baby. I’m not in the mood to babysit.”

He leaned forward slightly, his voice smooth as sin. “You can sit anywhere when you’re with me.”

You knew what he meant by that.

Your heart stopped.

Just for a second.

Then kicked back up like it owed you something.

You laughed again, louder this time, half-exasperated, half-thrilled. “You’re too much,” you said, slipping into the driver’s seat. “I’m leaving.”

But he stepped forward again, hand catching the edge of your open door.

“Wait,” he said. “Can I have your number?”

You glanced up at him, smirking. “For what? You wanna play iMessage games?”

“If you want,” he said, smile deepening, “we can play iMessage games.”

He didn’t say anything else right away. Just stood there, eyes locked on yours like he had all the time in the world, like this was the only moment that mattered. His silence wasn’t awkward. It was… intentional. He was waiting—for you.

You sighed, dramatic but amused, and held out your hand. “Gimme your phone.”

He didn’t hesitate.

Pulled it from his pocket, the screen already open to the new contact page, and placed it in your palm.

You looked down at the glowing screen and chuckled, shaking your head. “Boy, you bold.”

Your thumbs moved quickly as you filled in your name—your real name, not some nickname. But next to it, you dropped in the perfect emoji: “👩🏾‍🦳” Your favorite little inside joke. Let him figure it out.

You handed the phone back with a flick of your wrist, pulled the door closed, and started the engine.

He took a slow step back as you backed out of the driveway, and the whole time—the whole damn time—you watched him. Watched the way he stood there like a man who knew he’d just started something. Watched the slow smile crawl across his face like he could already see the rest of the story unfolding.

You didn’t wave.

You didn’t need to.

He knew.

And as you turned onto the main road, the smile that broke across your face was so wide, so giddy, you had to bite your lip to keep from laughing out loud.

Your fingers tapped against the steering wheel, thighs warm from the sun through your windshield, your hoops still catching bits of sunlight like tiny beacons. You were grinning like a teenager who just got asked to prom by the finest boy in school.

It had been a day. A long one. Full of errands and matcha runs, mini skirts and stares, dissolving ties and fresh flirtations.

You were home twenty minutes later, matching the soft light of golden hour as it spilled over the walls of your bedroom. The city quieted outside your windows as you slipped off your heels, poured your wine, broke off a piece of that decadent dark chocolate and sank into the tub, jazz humming low through the speakers. The warm water curled around your skin, your body sinking into it like a secret.

You exhaled. Let your head fall back.

You needed this.

Your body was still humming from the day, still tingling with the attention, the freedom, the subtle thrill of being wanted again—but this time, on your terms. You had your wine, your chocolate, and just in case—if the feeling didn’t fade—you had your rose toy within reach on the windowsill.

But you weren’t in a rush.

Because the real fun?

It hadn’t even started yet.

~~~~~~

The next morning, the airport pulsed with the usual chaos—rushed footsteps, rolling luggage, the scratchy voice of the intercom calling out final boarding groups. But you glided through it all with the calm of a woman who had planned ahead and refused to suffer. Your TSA PreCheck status was your golden ticket, and it earned you a smooth, line-free journey straight to the luxury lounge, where floor-to-ceiling windows spilled daylight across velvet seats and the scent of fresh espresso drifted through the air like perfume.

You exhaled as you walked in, pulling off your sunglasses and greeting the concierge with the kind of subtle smile that said, I belong here. Because you did.

You’d be here for about two hours before your flight, and you intended to make every minute of it as luxurious as possible.

Your phone buzzed just as you were settling into a plush suede armchair, legs crossed, travel blanket folded neatly beside you. Aurelien’s name lit up your screen.

You stared at the text for a moment, lip twitching. Bold. Consistent. Sweet in that charming, boyish way that was starting to grow on you.

You typed back something playful, teasing—but lowkey affirming that yes, you were thinking about him too.

A gentle chime overhead announced the boarding of an earlier flight, but you had time. First class wasn’t for quick trips or business—it was for you time. For long flights and new beginnings.

Eventually, you boarded, sauntering through the jet bridge with your carry-on trailing behind you. First class welcomed you like an old friend: wide leather seats, endless legroom, a warm towel and champagne waiting at your place like someone had been missing you.

You got your luggage tucked away, ordered food, and cued up Desperate Housewives on your screen. Your fingers worked quickly, wrapping your hair in a silk scarf, tying it with a practiced knot as your burger arrived—loaded, messy, perfect. A little vacation indulgence never hurt anybody.

You’d barely taken your third bite when your phone buzzed again.

Aurelien.

Game Pigeon: 8 Ball.

You blinked at the screen and burst out laughing. “Did this fool really just send me 8 Ball?”

You shook your head, smirking, and hit him back with a trick shot. A few rounds went by. The messages stayed light, playful, flirty, silly. He was good—but you were better. At least, until the fatigue started to hit. Hours of errands, packing, and anticipation caught up to you all at once.

You sunk deeper into your seat, cradling your travel pillow and tugging the blanket over your legs. The hum of the plane lulled you into stillness. Your eyes fluttered closed, your phone still in hand.

~~~~~~

Two layovers. Too many hours in airports. Too many neck cramps from sleeping upright.

But when you finally stepped into Naha Airport—Japan’s warm, bright air pressing through the terminal like a soft welcome—you exhaled deeply.

This was it.

No man beside you sucking the joy out of the room. No one whining about the hotel bed or wanting to stay in and watch college football all day like it was 1999. No one criticizing your itinerary or sulking because they couldn’t be the center of attention.

You rolled your suitcase behind you like a woman stepping into her next. And your smile? Real. Quiet. Present.

This was your first real vacation in forever. A vacation where you didn’t have to minimize yourself, shrink your joy, or waste time babysitting a grown man’s ego.

You were free. And you were about to live.

~~~~~~

The days in Japan moved like a dream: soft, slow, golden-edged.

You wore whatever you wanted, every outfit bolder than the last. You ate spicy tuna hand rolls on rooftops, soaked your feet in hot springs, got lost in ancient temples, and wandered tiny side streets lit by hanging lanterns. You took pictures of everything. The beaches. The architecture. Yourself.

Your Instagram story became a highlight reel of your softest, happiest self. And like clockwork, every time you posted, Aurelien responded.

Every. Time.

Sometimes it was a flame emoji. Sometimes a question about the food or the view. Sometimes just, “you look happy.”

And he didn’t stop there. You were texting daily, trading summaries of your days like letters from a long-distance crush. You sent him food recs, he sent voice notes with that deep, syrupy accent that made your toes curl.

There were late-night FaceTimes where your scarf was already on, your voice sleepy but smiling.

You didn’t even like FaceTime like that.

And yet.

He made you want to keep picking up.

~~~~~~

Now, you were home.

The house was quiet.

The suitcase sat unpacked by the front door, your passport tossed onto the console table beside your keys. A half-glass of wine curled red against the side of your favorite stemless glass, and your TV droned on in the background, playing your comfort show—again. But your focus wasn’t really on it.

You were curled up on the couch in your robe, one leg tucked under you, remote loose in your hand, but your mind was… elsewhere.

Your phone buzzed.

Aurelien.

Of course it was.

You didn’t open it right away.

Instead, you let your head fall back against the couch cushion, a small smile playing on your lips. A warm flutter touched your chest.

He always knew when to check in.

And maybe… just maybe…

You were starting to really like that.

You waited on the couch, trying to play it cool, but the butterflies in your stomach were doing somersaults like they had front-row tickets to a concert. Every sound outside made your ears perk up, and every flash of headlights through the window had your heart racing. Not because you were desperate—but because something about him made you feel seventeen again. Giddy. A little nervous. A little too seen.

You weren’t used to being this excited to see someone.

You sipped your wine and glanced around the room. It looked clean enough. But just in case, you jumped up, scooped up your throw blanket, fluffed the pillows, and lit another candle. You were halfway to your bedroom before spinning on your heel. “Shit, the cats.”

You trotted to their room and gently shooed them in. “Mommy needs a little privacy tonight, okay? Don’t be mad.” They blinked at you like they understood more than they should. Door shut. Hand on hip. You nodded once to yourself.

Then you booked it to the bathroom. Quick breath check.

The remnants of chicken tikka masala told you to not play yourself. So you brushed your teeth, water flossed, gargled mouthwash until your gums tingled. You fixed your edges, misted your face with rosewater spray, and gave yourself a once-over in the mirror.

And just as you were wiping the corners of your mouth?

Ding-dong.

You froze.

The nerves hit like a wave. You literally had to shake your arms out like you were about to walk on stage. Why were you nervous? You’d had men in your house before. But this one? This one had presence. This one had game. This one had intent.

And he saw you.

Really saw you.

It wasn’t just that he flirted. It was how he looked at you like you were the only thing in the room worth noticing. And despite your years, your wisdom, your hard-earned calm—you weren’t used to that.

He rattled you. And you kind of liked it.

So you didn’t rush to the door. You made him wait.

On purpose.

When you finally opened it, you did it slowly, with intention, letting the frame reveal him like a scene from a movie. And there he stood—tall, dark, and fine as all hell. A white tank top stretched over his chest just right, black straight-leg sweats hanging low on his hips, Jordan 4s on his feet, and that look in his eyes.

Like he already knew what he came for.

But then your eyes narrowed.

“You showed up empty-handed?” you asked, one brow arching. “Boy. Where is my chocolate?”

Without missing a beat, he stepped forward just enough for his scent to hit you—clean, woodsy, masculine—and said with the calmest confidence, “It’s me. I’m your chocolate bébé.”

The corner of your mouth twitched, but you didn’t give in. Not fully.

You stepped aside and let him in, muttering under your breath, “Okay, let’s not start with the nicknames, baby boy. I really wanted some real chocolate. Now you owe me some.”

He chuckled, kicking off his sneakers by the door and following you into the living room. “I’ll get you good chocolate. The french kind,” he said, like it was a promise. Like you were already owed.

He plopped down on your couch like he’d been there before, legs spread wide, arms relaxed.

You squinted at him. “Bro, that’s my spot. Scoot over.”

He didn’t argue—just shuffled to the left with a smirk while you claimed your seat. You picked up the remote and flipped to something lighthearted. Jersey Shore. You needed chaos you didn’t have to solve.

And then he said it.

“I noticed… you haven’t said my name.”

You didn’t even turn to look at him. Just smirked at the TV and replied, “I don’t wanna say it wrong. French people are mean about American accents.”

He laughed under his breath. “We’re not mean. We’re just passionate.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, leaning back.

“You’ll have plenty of time to practice,” he murmured. “Just try.”

You glanced over at him. He was watching you with that same look—half-patient, half-predator.

You sighed and turned toward him slightly, putting on your best attempt. “Aura-lee-en?”

He tilted his head, smile teasing but warm. “Not bad. That wasn’t bad for your first time.”

You rolled your eyes and nudged his leg with your foot. “You sound like a French Duolingo owl.”

“Come on,” he said, his voice dropping as he leaned closer. “Try again. Au -re -li -en.”

You gave him your best shot. “Aurel-ian. How was that?”

He smiled, slow and satisfied. “Better. You’re getting there. That was close.”

He moved in closer—hips brushing, his arm draped across the back of the couch until his fingertips lightly grazed your shoulder.

“One more time, chérie,” he said, voice nearly a whisper.

You turned your whole body to face him. Looked him right in the eyes, your voice softer now.

“Aurélien.”

He exhaled like you’d just lit a fuse in his chest.

Then he leaned in. Slowly. His hand slid up your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“Is this okay?” he asked, already so close his breath touched your lips.

“Yes,” you whispered.

And then he kissed you.

And everything slowed down.

Like your body had been waiting for this moment longer than your mind could admit. Like his lips were a key that fit exactly where they were supposed to. Warm. Full. Certain.

And you?

You kissed him back like you were finally home.

The kiss was tender at first—slow and measured, like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth, the rhythm of your breath, the taste of your wanting. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t greedy. It was intentional. Every soft press of his lips told you I see you. I want you. I want you to feel good.

And God, did you.

Your head spun like the wine had hit all at once, like you’d taken something illicit and lovely, because no one had made you feel this high in so long. Your body hummed beneath his touch like it had been waiting to come alive again—dormant, paused, until this very moment.

He guided you gently down to the couch, his large hands cushioning your descent like you were precious cargo. His lips never left yours for long, breaking only to brush along your cheek, your jaw, your neck, then back again to your mouth like he couldn’t bear the distance.

And everywhere he touched, new nerve endings bloomed. He didn’t know your old spots yet—the places that used to drive you wild—but it didn’t matter. He was creating new ones. Behind your knee, the curve of your waist, the underside of your jaw. All those places sparked, pulsed, lit up under his hands and mouth.

He pulled back, panting softly, his chest rising and falling as his eyes searched yours.

“Do you want to, Y/N?” he asked, his voice low, gravelly. Serious. Like he needed to be absolutely certain.

You paused—not because you weren’t sure, but because the moment asked for reverence. It asked you to be honest with yourself.

Was it too soon?

Were you ready to be this close to someone again?

To open your body, your space, your energy?

Maybe. Maybe not.

But this didn’t feel rushed. It didn’t feel like a rebound or a mistake. This felt like timing folding in on itself just right. Like something you hadn’t planned but needed.

You didn’t say a word.

Instead, you curled your fingers into the soft cotton of his shirt and pulled him down to you, kissing him harder this time—sweeter, but laced with intent. You wanted him to know that you wanted him. That he wasn’t the only one aching.

He moaned against your lips and slid lower, mouth finding the delicate line of your throat. He kissed you there like he was worshiping—soft, warm, open-mouthed kisses that had your eyes fluttering shut.

You felt your thighs tense as he palmed them gently, his hands big and warm and sure. Your legs wrapped around his waist almost instinctively, your hips arching into him as his breath came heavier against your skin.

You could feel him getting hard—his arousal pressing against you, thick and slow. And when he grazed your earlobe with his lips and whispered, “I’m gonna take care of you, bébé,” a tremble ran through your entire body.

You let out a soft, needy groan in response. You were already grinding into him, slow and deliberate, seeking friction and release. You weren’t in the mood for patience. You didn’t want teasing. You wanted him. Now.

He felt it too.

He liked that you knew what you wanted. That you could take charge without apology. And it turned him on even more that his only desire was to please you. To serve your pleasure like it was a prayer.

“Take off my clothes,” you whispered, your voice hoarse, heavy with need. “And yours too. I want to see you.”

He nodded once, lips still brushing yours.

And he did.

He undressed you slowly, reverently. Starting with your shirt, lifting it over your head and tossing it somewhere behind him. When your bare breasts came into view, his breath caught. His gaze darkened, and he bit his bottom lip like he needed a second to steady himself.

Next were your pants. He tapped your hip and you lifted without thinking. He peeled your pants and panties down together, slow, like he was savoring the unveiling. His knuckles grazed your legs as he pulled the fabric off, dragging goosebumps in their wake.

Now you were sitting there—naked on your own couch. But not hiding. Not shrinking. You felt completely, strangely, at ease. You weren’t worried about angles or lighting or what your stomach looked like. You were just… there.

Comfortable.

He stood and stripped next.

Shirt first—revealing his chest, sculpted and golden and unfairly fine. Then his sweatpants and boxers, both in one motion, his thick length already halfway hard.

You bit your bottom lip and tilted your head, eyes locked on him like he was a decadent meal you didn’t know you’d been craving until now.

“Damn,” you murmured, a little breathless. “I really shouldn’t be calling you baby boy.”

He chuckled, deep and smug. “Told you. I’m grown.”

He walked back to you—slow, confident, so in control—and slid back between your legs like he belonged there.

His mouth found yours again, only this time the kiss was deeper. Hungrier. More purposeful. His fingers slid between your legs and found your clit, rubbing slow, teasing circles that had your hips jerking against his hand.

You gasped into his mouth and he swallowed the sound like a man starved.

“I know it’s been a while,” he murmured against your lips. “I’m gonna make you feel so good, bébé.”

And already, you could feel it. The heat, the wetness, the way your body had missed this kind of attention. Not just sex. Not just touch.

Presence.

Care.

And you knew, as his fingers moved with gentle precision and your body arched into him with abandon, that you were about to remember exactly what good loving felt like.

His hand moved with unhurried purpose, sliding down from your clit, past the velvet of your folds, until he reached your entrance. There, he paused—just for a moment—as if to feel the heat and slickness radiating from you, the evidence of your craving. Then he gently swirled his finger around, coating it in your wetness, before easing it inside you with slow, steady pressure.

You gasped, your breath catching in your throat as your arms shot up around his neck, clinging to him like your body instinctively knew: this is the kind of touch you’ve been missing.

“Oh—” you moaned, voice thin and trembling, hips beginning to rock into his hand like you couldn’t help it. Like your body had taken over entirely.

“Tu es tellement mouillée pour moi, bébé. Tu l’aimes?” he murmured, the words pressing against your mouth like velvet.

You didn’t know exactly what he’d said—but the way he said it, that low gravel in his voice wrapped around all those syllables like smoke, made your stomach flutter and your walls clench around his finger. It sounded hot, and hungry, and reverent. It sounded like sex and praise all at once.

He curled his finger upward, angling just right—and suddenly your spine arched, your mouth falling open in a strangled cry.

He’d found it.

Your elusive g-spot. The one that had been collecting dust, untouched and forgotten through years of lackluster sex, of partners who couldn’t be bothered to learn your body. It was like discovering a part of yourself again—some hidden switch flipped back on.

Your toes curled and cracked on instinct, your knees trembling on either side of him.

“Ughhh—oh my God. Fuck,” you cried, eyes squeezed shut, forehead pressed to his collarbone as your body tried to both run from and collapse into the pleasure at once.

He kept stroking, slow at first, building a rhythm—his finger sliding in and out, curling each time, brushing against that magic spot again and again with maddening precision. Then, without warning, he slipped a second finger inside you.

You choked on a gasp—your whole body seized, breath hitched like you’d been winded.

Your eyes flew open, wide with pleasure-shock, your hips twitching as your thighs pressed around his hand. You could barely move under the delicious weight of him, caged beneath his broad chest and strong arms, your body pinned and shaking.

“I—oh, I think I’m gonna cum. Oh fuck—” you moaned, voice cracking like lightning through a storm.

He rested his forehead against yours, eyes burning into you, dark and wild and sweet. “You can do it, Y/N,” he whispered. “Cum on my fingers. I know you want to.”

He pushed deeper, stroked harder—more power behind each motion now, but still smooth, still controlled. His knuckles brushed your lips with each thrust, his thumb grazing over your clit occasionally like he was playing your body from memory.

And then—your whole body locked up.

Your walls fluttered and clenched, wetness gushing around his fingers as you cried out, loud and unfiltered, your back arching, thighs trembling. You came undone in his hands, falling apart against his chest like you’d been held together too tightly for too long.

He didn’t stop right away—just slowed down, letting you ride it out without tipping into overstimulation. His touch stayed gentle, almost reverent. Like he wanted to honor the way you broke for him.

Your breath was jagged. Your hands clung to his shoulders. And you were still pulsing around his fingers.

He pulled them out slowly and looked at you with something close to awe. You felt beautiful in that gaze. Worshipped.

“Ugh—fuck me,” you panted, face hot and lips parted. “Make me cum again. Please.”

That made him smile—broad and knowing and just the right amount of cocky.

“You’re insatiable,” he teased, laughter warm against your cheek as he leaned in to kiss you again.

He licked his fingers clean one by one, slowly, deliberately, eyes locked on yours the entire time like he was tasting something sacred.

“You taste as good as you look, bébé,” he said, low and thick with desire.

You were still trying to catch your breath when he leaned back against the couch, spreading his legs slightly. He held your hips with ease, guiding you onto his lap like you weighed nothing. You settled against him, his length pressed hot and heavy between your bodies, thick and long enough that it rested well past his stomach, the flushed tip glistening.

Your breath caught again.

Your hand drifted down, brushing the length of him.

“What if I wanted backshots instead?” you asked with a slow smirk, arching an eyebrow as you palmed him lazily.

His eyes darkened. He let out a low chuckle, like he could already picture it. “We can do that later,” he murmured, brushing hair gently behind your ears. “I know what you need right now, chérie.”

You repeated the word, trying it on for size. “Later,” you echoed, voice silky.

Then you reached down and wrapped your hand around him, guiding him to your entrance. You aligned him carefully, the tip barely nudging your folds before you paused—just for a moment—to look at him.

And then you sank down, inch by inch, your breath shaking, mouth parting in something close to disbelief as you stretched around him.

It was thick. Deep. Full.

And this wasn’t just the start of sex.

This was the start of something else.

You eased yourself down on him, inch by inch, every muscle in your body tensing to take the stretch. He filled you slowly—deliberately—so thick and hard that your breath caught halfway up your throat.

By the time you were fully seated, the base of him pressed flush against your warmth, you couldn’t hold it in. A moan slipped out of you so needy and raw it didn’t sound like your own voice. You gripped his shoulders, nails sinking into his skin as your head fell forward.

His hands were on your waist, warm and steady, grounding you. He hissed through clenched teeth, his brows drawn in tight. “Go slow, bébé…” he murmured, his voice a velvet rasp, all breath and tension. “Let me feel you.”

Then came the curse, low and reverent. “Putain…”

And God, you understood the sentiment. Because this? This was sacred.

You were already trembling, your thighs trembling beneath you as you tried to adjust to the fullness. Your body had never known anything like this. Not with your ex. Not with anyone. Not just the way Aurélien stretched you—but the way he worshipped you while doing it. The way he kept eye contact, watched every shift in your face. Like the entire world could wait. Like this was the only moment that mattered.

And it was.

Your ex-husband had made you feel like a burden. An afterthought. A body for him to take, to use, to ignore once he was done.

But this—this was the first time in years you felt truly touched. Claimed, not just fucked. Aurélien’s hands slid slowly up your waist, over your ribcage, grazing the undersides of your breasts as you began to rock your hips against him.

“It’s so big…” you moaned, your voice breathy and soft as you threw your head back. A flush spread across your chest, prickling your skin.

He didn’t respond with a cocky grin or a joke. He didn’t gloat. He just leaned in and kissed your chest like it was something precious. He sucked softly at the skin over your heart, then moved lower, his mouth tugging your nipple between his lips while his thumbs brushed circles over your hips.

You let yourself move faster—small bounces at first, shallow but urgent, a tremor in your thighs as you started chasing that pressure building deep inside you. Your head dropped forward again and you watched his face as you rode him, watched the awe in his eyes as he looked up at you like you were something out of a dream.

But soon it wasn’t enough. Soft wasn’t what you needed anymore. You needed real. You needed the kind of passion that made you lose track of who you were. The kind that erased memories of all the nights you’d cried in the shower just to feel anything.

You rose up and dropped down harder, building a pace. You bounced with more power now, using your whole body. Every clap of your hips against his echoed around the room. You added a little rhythm to your grind—twerking on him, giving him a show you knew he wouldn’t forget.

He licked his lips and watched you bounce like he was memorizing every movement. “You like that, baby boy?” you asked, voice dripping with heat, your eyes locked with his.

He groaned loud, unable to keep it in. “Yes. Just like that,” he growled, then leaned forward and smacked your ass with an open palm. Hard.

The sting made you clench around him, and you gasped, biting your lip. You rolled your hips again, then leaned down and bit gently at his neck, dragging your teeth across his pulse point as he gripped your ass with both hands.

You’d never heard a man groan like this before. He sounded like he was losing control. Like he was unraveling from the inside out.

And you loved it.

You giggled breathlessly into his ear, then whispered filth just for him to hear.

“You hear how wet I am?”

“You fuck me so good, Aurélien.”

“Fuck me harder, baby…”

Your voice was soaked in desire, sticky with need. The filth tasted sweet on your tongue.

He was gripping your hips now and thrusting up into you in rhythm, matching your pace and amplifying it. The sound of your bodies colliding was obscene—wet, slick, loud enough to drown out any thought. Your thighs were sticky with your own slick, his skin glossy with it.

And still, you wanted more.

He saw it in your face, in the twitch of your muscles, the hunger in your eyes.

Without warning, he shifted beneath you and stood—his hands never letting go of you—and in one smooth motion, pulled out of you and whispered, “Bend over the couch.”

You scrambled off him fast, bracing yourself over the armrest with anticipation coiled tight in your belly. You arched your back, hips high, and looked over your shoulder, biting your lip as you wiggled your ass at him.

He growled low and slapped your ass three times, the strikes echoing like applause.

“Tu es un problème,” he muttered, and then he was inside you again—deep, hard, perfect.

He started slow. Not lazy—controlled. Like he wanted you to feel every single stroke.

You moaned long and loud, your back arching more as he filled you completely.

His hand fisted your hair, pulling it into a messy ponytail, and tugged just enough to lift your chin. He used it to anchor you, the other hand gripping your hip as he pounded into you. Every thrust made your ass bounce. Every clap of his hips against you was a sweet sting.

He was watching it all—the way your ass rippled with every thrust, the way your slick painted his skin.

The soundscape was symphonic. Skin slapping. Wetness squelching. Moans tangled together. His name on your tongue like a chant.

He let go of your hair and pushed between your shoulders, guiding you lower—forcing a deeper arch, one that tilted your hips just right.

And oh God, that angle.

It was direct contact with your g-spot. Every single stroke hit home. You came undone.

You screamed his name. Reached back to ease the force of it—but he caught your wrist and used it to fuck you harder.

“Ohhh! Fuck, Aurélien! That feels so fucking good! Yes!” you wailed, voice cracked and desperate.

You weren’t acting. You couldn’t even pretend if you tried.

You were making noises you’d never made in your life.

The fabric of the couch rubbed perfectly against your clit with every thrust and it sent sparks through you. You were shaking. Overstimulated. Hungry. Right on the edge of something massive.

“Aurel—ien—you’re gonna make me—cum—ugh—please don’t stop—fuuuck,” you gasped between ragged breaths.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Just said, “Cum all over this dick, bébé,” like it was his command. Like he owned your pleasure.

And you did.

You came with a scream, the sound torn from your throat like it was the only way to survive it. Your orgasm was feral. Full-body. Your thighs shook. Your legs buckled. Your pussy clenched around him with a force you couldn’t control.

Your mind blanked. You couldn’t remember where you were. Couldn’t remember your name.

All you knew was the feeling of being so completely fucked, you weren’t sure you’d ever come back from it.

“UGHHHH—ohhh FUCK!” you cried, body twitching beneath him.

“Let it out, chérie,” he panted behind you, his thrusts stuttering. “I’m right here.”

You collapsed forward, barely able to hold yourself up. He gave a few more rough strokes, then pulled out fast and wrapped his fist around himself. Seconds later, he came with a deep groan, hot and heavy ropes landing across your ass, your lower back, your thighs.

You felt the heat of it, the stickiness as it dripped down. Your legs shook again, your body too sensitive to even process the touch.

He was panting, chest heaving. You were limp. Boneless. Sprawled out across the armrest, still twitching.

He stepped away, disappeared into the kitchen, and came back with paper towels. He didn’t speak—he just cleaned you up gently, thoroughly, like you were something soft and sacred.

Then he lifted you, arms under your thighs and back, and carried you to bed like you weighed nothing. You curled into his chest instinctively as he laid you down, his body spooned behind yours, one leg tangled over yours, his arm tight around your waist.

He kissed your shoulder, your neck, your cheek. Just breathed with you.

“Thank you…” you whispered, the words barely audible as sleep tugged you down.

“Sleep, chérie,” he murmured, his voice tender against your skin. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

And with his heartbeat steady against your back, his warmth pressed to yours, you drifted off into the deepest sleep you’d had in years.

~~~~~~

You woke up slow, like your body wasn’t quite ready to rejoin the world. The first thing you noticed was the birdsong—light and melodic, slipping in through the cracked window. Then the quiet warmth of morning light spilling across your sheets. The scent of skin and sex still clung faintly to the air, woven into the linen, steeped into your thighs. Every inch of you ached—in the best, most indulgent way. The kind of soreness that made you stretch before you moved, that made you smile before you opened your eyes.

You reached back instinctively, your hand groping behind you for him—his chest, his thigh, his arm—but the bed was empty. Still warm, but empty.

Then you heard the sound of footsteps heading toward the front door, soft but purposeful. A moment later, the click of it closing.

Your heart dipped slightly, until you turned your head and saw what he’d left behind.

On the nightstand sat a small square box wrapped in textured brown paper, folded perfectly at the corners. On top of it, a handwritten note—his handwriting was careful and blocky, like he took his time making it look neat.

Sorry I couldn’t stay for breakfast.

Your baby boy has training.

I’ll call you later.

Thank you for last night.

I didn’t forget your “real” chocolate.

xx Aurélien.

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

Next to the note was a thick bar of dark chocolate, deep brown with golden lettering in French that you didn’t recognize. Not the kind of thing you could pick up from the corner store. The packaging looked expensive. Intentional. Chosen.

Your throat tightened as the emotion rolled in slow and heavy, like the tide.

No one had done something like this for you in years. No one had thought about the way you liked your chocolate, or bothered to make a note of the things you said between laughs and teasing. No one had gotten up quietly so you could keep sleeping, then left a gift like this—gentle, sweet, full of meaning.

And it hit you, then.

This was what it felt like to be wanted. To be cared for. To be treated like something—someone—worthy of thought, softness, joy.

Not tolerated.

Not endured.

Cherished.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes before you could talk yourself out of it. Because for too long you’d been with a man who made you feel like nothing. Like you were impossible to love. Like you were too much or not enough, depending on the hour. And now, after all that… here you were, naked in bed, aching in all the best ways, clutching a note from a man who didn’t just see you—he chose you.

You rolled onto your back and clutched the note to your chest with a soft, ridiculous grin on your face.

Then you reached for your phone.

you: Thanks for the “real” chocolate but i want you. Come back later. You can meet my cats.

You hit send, still smiling, and sighed into the pillows.

You had no idea how you were going to explain this to them. Well, you thought, they’ve survived worse introductions.

~~~~~~

Meanwhile, outside, Aurélien closed the front door gently behind him and stepped onto the porch, the morning sun warming his neck through his hoodie. He pulled his keys from his pocket and glanced toward his car.

That’s when he saw him.

A man in his mid-forties, standing a few feet from the steps, keys in hand and a half-raised arm like he’d been about to ring the doorbell. The look on his face froze the second he saw Aurélien.

There was a full second of silence—just the two of them staring at each other like some awkward Western standoff. The man’s mouth twitched. His eyebrows pulled in slightly, and Aurélien watched the realization settle over his face in real time.

He was shorter. Less fit. Pale in the way people get when their lives stop being exciting. His clothes didn’t fit well—slacks from some outlet, shirt tucked too tight at the waist. His hair was doing something halfway between a comb-over and defeat.

Aurélien didn’t even have to ask. He knew who he was.

The man looked him up and down with barely concealed confusion. “You the… handyman or something?” he asked.

Aurélien smirked. Not rudely—just enough to show teeth. Just enough to keep the morning light in his favor.

“Yeah,” he said smoothly. “Something like that.”

He tossed him a little wave as he walked past, headed toward his car with an easy swagger.

“Have a good day, bro.”

And with that, he slipped into the driver’s seat and shut the door. As the engine turned over, he grinned to himself, already picturing how you were going to laugh when he told you.

Your ex was shorter than he expected. Didn’t even look like he owned a passport.

He couldn’t wait to see your face when he walked back through that door.

And meet your cats.

[licncourt]

I love your blog! Just curious, why do you consider Louis to be gay? Didn’t Anne Rice say that all vampires are bisexual?

Thank you!! I have a lot to say about this because I feel pretty strongly about it.

The first thing I would say is that the vampire compulsory bisexuality is not actually stated in the books (as far as I recall), it was something Anne yapped about on Facebook. If we took all her Facebook commentary as canon, we'd have to accept some darksided bullshit as well. The other part of this is that even the vampires not having human sex is a retcon from Anne's 90s brainworm, or at least not mentioned at all until QotD and then only briefly/ambiguously. I think TotBT is the first time it's explicitly stated, so I feel like saying vampires have real sexual orientations is reasonable. In IWTV, Louis tells Claudia that human sex is a shadow of feeding, but even though it may be secondary to blood, I always got the impression that he said it to make her feel better, knowing that sex isn't something she'd ever experience.

With all that in mind, I think there's very strong evidence in canon to support reading Louis as a gay man, the first one being that he's the only main male vampire besides Nicki (who also reads as gay to me, though less concretely) who doesn't have relationships with both men and women. The only people he pursues in any way are Lestat and Armand, as well as expressing attraction to Daniel. I would argue that the painter in IWTV and Armand's human blood bag even count here.

He says multiple times in IWTV that he didn't have any romantic feelings for Babette in spite of what Lestat believed, and it always felt like a very sad situation to me. His care for Babette was related to his yearning for human life, but I think it was also a yearning for the human life he specifically could have had. She was the personification of the future he wanted to want. Maybe in another life he could have loved her and she could have been his wife, or he could have at least been content with her company, if not in love with/attracted to her if, in his mind, he was a stronger, better man.

Of course there's Merrick but that was just. Assault. The whole situation was gross and sad and it was clearly a violation of his wishes in terms of making another vampire but also his very real human consent considering the romantic element. It would have been violating regardless of sexuality, but it's interesting that his only relationship with the opposite gender was markedly nonconsensual in comparison to the other male vampires with women (barring Lestat with Akasha).

I also think it just makes a lot of sense with the choices he makes and how he perceives himself. I fully believe that if he'd had any attraction to women, he would have been married or pursuing marriage as a human given his religion, sense of duty, and position as the head of his household. It's also strong subtext in Lestat's pitch to him for becoming a vampire regarding freedom and the alleviation of his suffering and burdens of his human life. He felt Louis' attraction to him in the blood and I think they both understood what Lestat was implying beyond just escaping his grief over Paul. Lestat was offering an out in maybe a more important way, as well as being a perfect object of desire, and that’s why Louis was SO susceptible to him.

It also shows up in just how at odds Louis is with his desires in general and how deeply his self-loathing and fear of inadequacy impact him. Louis wants nothing more than to be a good little Catholic, and I think if he had the option to just focus on his attraction to women and shove down any feelings for men, he would be a little less wigged out about his own innate and immutable evil given how good he is at denial. He might have even said no to Lestat. It's clear that these desires he can't ignore are a huge preoccupation for him, and if there was a way he COULD kind of ignore it, I think he absolutely would. Instead, it seems like he has no choice but to acknowledge it because there's no alternative and no options except Lestat's offer if he wants to freely act on these feelings. If there was a path for the romance and sex he obviously wants without the guilt, he would have chosen that.

A huge thing I enjoyed about the show was actually that they seemed to observe and agree with this assessment, so I feel extra vindicated. I was clapping and cheering at that scene. I think this subtext is an important part of the Loustat dynamic in the books too and something that feeds into Louis' insecurity and resentment of Lestat. In his mind, Lestat has options he doesn't, the ability to "be good" and find a female partner, and yet he chooses what Louis sees as evil. This is just a thought on my part, but I've always imagined Louis having a harder time seeing Lestat's relationships with women because it's confirmation that he himself is inherently lesser/at a disadvantage because of his exclusive homosexual attraction, and it reinforces his belief that heterosexual relationships are inherently superior and more real. What if the man he loves eventually chooses to be "normal" permanently, because in Louis' mind, why wouldn't he?

[sombrashe]

NSFW alphabet tlou tv show jesse

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Attentive, he makes sure his partner is completely cleaned up if you two got messy but beyond that isn't too in tune with aftercare as a whole

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Biceps, he loooooves his biceps since he spends so much time training and increasing their mass

Thighs, he absolutely adores a good chubby thigh and wide hip combo

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Pull-out game king, doesn't actually cum inside of his partners (at least he tries mot to) and prefers to paint their skin with pretty little white droplets

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Wants to be taken care of, not really a dirty secret per-say but it is a private one because while on the surface he knows he's "captain wyoming" that doesn't mean he doesn't want to be held and told everything will be okay

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

As experienced as a man with one partner can be, has only ever really been with Dina before you and knows the basics and some freaky positions but that's all

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Missionary, from what he knows missionary is the go to position and he sticks to it without much thought

Reverse cowgirl, something he's always wanted to try (ever since his talk with eugene) and thinks you'd look so good with your ass in his face

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Serious to a fault, sex is something important to him and he believes that it should be taken with the upmost seriousness

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Naturally trimmed, unlike you whose bush is a fun little exploration his pubes are naturally short pretty black curls close to his skin

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Worships his partners, in the heat of the moment his mouth moves faster than his brain and he ends up spouting out romantic (and dirty) praises

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Not often, when he does jack off it's either because you're both too pre-occupied with Jackson to have a moment or he's in between relationships

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

giving praise, making his partner cry (from how good it is), titty fucking, brat taming, hear his partner begging, lactation, choking, period sex, giving/receiving face fucking, sleepy sex, giving/receiving nipple play, edging

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Bedroom, he prefers his room or yours over any other place conceivable since there's less of a chance being caught

Patrol, whenever he's feeling a little reckless he'll take the time to whisk you away during patrol to get a round or two in before setting down

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Surviving, since he's always in fight or flight mode he's unfortunately (for him) horny a lot of the time and can end up back up quite easily

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Basics, bathroom stuff, anything that involves physically hurting you, or guns/weapons are a big NO for him

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

A giver, loves loves loves giving oral and will go out of his way to make sure you're completely satisfied before moving onto penetrative sex

Quite good at it too

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Slow and steady wins the race, at least that's what he likes to believe but he's more of a heat of the moment kind of guy and will end up jack hammering into you if the session calls for it

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Not a fan, with the state of the world he knows a full blown session isn't always in the cards but by god he will get that looooong session if it kills him

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Not a risk taker, he's a stickler for the rules and that extends to his sex life

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

My god man, this man can go for hours and horse and hours he seems to know exactly what to do to make himself last longer with each private moment spent with you

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

No, even if there were an abundance of toys or in a modern au he much prefers to use his hands and mouth to get his partner off and expects the same from them

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

The teaserrrrr, he spends most of his time getting ready for sex by withholding and dangling release over your head until you're begging

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Scarily quiet, soft moans and grunts are all he really gives with the occasional whine whenever you feel particularly tight as you cum

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Not nsfw, Korean and can speak a little kit of korean that he learned from his grandparents before their inevitable end which lead him to living in Jackson

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

6" soft, 8" hard

slight curve to the right, has two moles one on his tip and one right on the seam above his balls

his tip is thicker than his shaft, uncircumcised and takes very good care of himself

surprisingly fat balls but blessed without all the hair on them

the thickest bit of hair on his body beyond his head is his happy trail

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Medium sex drive, he's horny but he's not at the same time he can keep up with you if yours is high but can easily hold off if you end up in a drought without a complaint

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Can and will stay up, if you end up falling asleep before he does (which is super easy to do) he will stay up for a few more hours just lost in thought while absentmindedly tracing shapes into your skin

[wonderful-rp-resources]

Sacred romantic moments

Please specify the muse for multimuse blogs.

“ don’t go. stay. “

“ but you’re here, so stay. “

“ i don’t want to be alone tonight. “

“ just come over. “

“ let’s be alone together. “

“ i didn’t know where else to go. “

“ i don’t want us to be apart anymore. ever. “

“ i wouldn’t have called you if it wasn’t important. “

“ you can talk to me about anything. you know that, right? “

“ just… be honest with me, do you hate me? “

“ i could never hate you. not really. “

“ you’re my friend, but… sometimes i wish you were more than that. “

“ we’re not just friends. you know that. “

“ i think i’m falling in love with you. “

“ can i hold your hand? “

“ yeah, you’re in love with me. “

“ just hold me. “

“ things would be so much easier if we were honest with each other. “

“ why can’t you be honest with me? with yourself? “

“ maybe you could stay? just for tonight? “

“ it’s dark outside, and it’s raining. my arms are much safer. “

“ you can’t keep doing this. you can’t keep lying to yourself. “

“ i can’t keep lying to myself, or to you. it’s not fair on either of us. “

“ i think you should kiss me. “

“ kiss me like you mean it. “

“ just kiss me. “

“ you shouldn’t kiss me right now. “

“ look me in the eyes and tell me you love me. “

“ you can’t lie to me, you know. “

“ you know me better than anyone. you always have. “

“ you’re pretty amazing. you know that, right? “

“ you’re just… you’re extraordinary. “

“ you’re good to me, you know. really good. “

“ you’ve made me the happiest i’ve ever been. “

“ i don’t know what i would have done if you weren’t here. “

“ our love can conquer anything. “

“ and for many generations to come, our love story will live on. “

“ i want you to marry me. “

“ if you asked me to marry you tomorrow, i’d say yes. “ “ what about today? “

“ marry me, name. marry me and make me the luckiest [x] in the world. “

“ your kiss could mend a broken heart. “

“ are you going to kiss me again, or do i have to do it myself? “

“ i could cry, that’s how much i love you. “

“ you’re worthy of my love. “

“ truth is that i’m so damn in love with you that i don’t know what to do with myself. “

“ maybe tonight, it’s you and me. “

“ i don’t know what the future holds. all i know is that i hope you’re in it. “

“ could you promise me one thing? “

“ promise me that we’ll be together, no matter what. “

“ it’s you and me, forever. no matter what. “

“ i didn’t want to tell you until i was sure, but… i’m pregnant. “

“ we’re going to be family! “

“ this baby, it’s the best thing that could ever have happened to us. “

“ i can’t believe this, we’re going to be parents! “

“ dance with me? “

“ may i have this dance? “

“ you’re my whole world, you know. “

“ don’t speak, just… kiss me. “

“ you have no idea how long i’ve been wanting to that. “

“ i’ve been wanting to tell you for so long… “

“ so… is this like, a thing now? “

“ i always miss you, even when you’re next to me. “

” i miss you. i miss you so much it hurts. ”

” i don’t want you to miss me. it’s tearing me apart. ”

“ you make me happier. “

“ i love waking up next to you. “

“ my favorite thing is falling asleep next to you. “

“ come cuddle with me. “

“ this is torture, isn’t it? “ “ not in the slightest. “

“ do you love me? “

“ could this be something more? “

“ move in with me. “

“ do you think we should move in together? you spend all your time here anyway. “

“ are you serious? i’ve had a crush on you for as long as i can remember. “

“ i know you’re in love with me. “

“ you’re really cute, you know. “

“ you’re so damn attractive. you know that right? “

“ if anybody were to kiss me, i would want that person to be you. “

“ and right now, i think you should kiss me. “

[shirefantasies]

Women of Middle Earth + Self Care (F!Reader)

Warnings: a bit suggestive at times 🤭

Eowyn

✧ Self care is a luxury Eowyn has rarely if ever granted herself, so you get the chance to introduce her to relaxation…even if you have to make her! If it is for you, though, that convincing will be much easier.

✧ Little things you can do for her ease her into the pampering. The way you wash her hair, your gentle caresses as you clean her face and join your foreheads before she returns the favor.

✧ Active is Eowyn’s middle name, though— not long after you’re out of the tub she’s getting her own self care in with a little motion, namely a playful chase after you that has you laughing hard enough it almost brings a pleasant burn.

✧ Her romantic side emerges during such times; her idea for the evening is that you two might pen love letters to each other, making known words you don't always speak aloud.

✧ Of course your final healing for the night is to do just that, you and Eowyn falling asleep to the sound of each other's sweet voices and the glow in your hearts at their meaning.

Galadriel

✧ Galadriel knows the importance of a great sleep, the effects of dreams and their layering upon reality.

✧ Your sheets are cleaned, your pillows daubed with soothing oils of mint and lavender, all waiting for you…but first! You are to lie down for an entirely different purpose.

✧ Capable as her hands are, you never imagined Galadriel would be such a skilled masseuse. Her touch and its strategic pressure relieve and relax areas you had no idea needed it, sending shivers down your spine that you anticipate reciprocating. She allows you, of course, giving you that smile that somehow teased and encouraged you all at once. The one you always loved.

✧ You both stretch and take time to breathe beneath the setting sun, the sky painted in colors no mortal or even one of elvenkind could ever truly replicate. Galadriel’s massage opened up your body, helping it move with a new ease as you took in your reborn muscles.

✧ Upon arrival at home, she also insists upon undressing and redressing you in the finest of silk robes before she carries you to bed, finally allowing your every fiber to puddle against your divinely scented cloud of a bed. The warmest part of it all for you, though, is the fact that she is there, arms open for you to curl into.

Arwen

✧ Rivendell is known for its baths for a reason!

✧ Arwen’s eyes remain upon you the entire time she disrobes and as you do, too.

✧ Once you enter the water, her low voice utters sweet words as you wash each other’s hair, taking all the time you want to run your fingers through it and upon your scalps.

✧ Servants of her father’s warm towels for you, pulling them from the steam so you can recline in each other’s company wrapped in warm bliss.

✧ Your beloved even invested in the luxury of little jars of paint for your nails, a lovely excuse to end the night upon your bed holding hands and beautifying each other even more…if that is even possible, Arwen teases you.

Rosie

✧ You two will be giggling like two girls in a tree house with a sign that says ‘no boys allowed’.

✧ And none are allowed, in fact, not on your picnic! She spoils you, of course, insisting on feeding you good. You two get a place in a field of flowers and giggles as she insists on feeding you a strawberry by hand. Flower crowns are lain upon your hair and petals dust your shoulders.

✧ “My girl,” she says with a grin as she leads you by the hands back to her home beneath the earth, to her warm hearth and strong tea and sweet lips.

✧ Can you even count the number of pillows you have? Nay verily, and you don’t mind keeping it that way when you and Rosie settle there and beneath blankets.

✧ Book in hand, Rosie ends your special day with her soft, lovely voice reading a story to you, confessions of love between hobbits on the page the last gentle sounds you hear before you drift off in her arms.

Dis

✧ Knowledge of the earth lends itself to understanding of what materials have properties for the skin. Mud may not sound like the first thing you’d like to smear upon your face, but mixed with scented oils and other gifts of nature? Divine, to your surprise!

✧ And say what you want, Dis reminds you, of all that elf talk, but dwarves? Dwarves know how to bathe! How else are their beards so well-kept? Tis only the warriors who get so filthy… alright, maybe a few others too, she concedes with a saucy wink.

✧ Dis has no fear of swimming up right behind you, tucking you between her legs as she massages your shoulders, warm water rippling around your bodies.

✧ Dwarves also know a thing or two about candles; far beyond shaped tallow is what your queen produces for you two. Rather this is a geometrically sculpted tower of what appears to be wax that marvels not only in Dis’s people’s skills of architecture but its control of temperature. The substance it is fashioned out of is actually safe and healthy for the skin and such a light warmth that Dis can pour it right upon you and spread it as she pleases…

✧ Before you go to sleep, bodies draped over one another, Dis ensures your hair is taken care of, whether that's let down, unbraided, tucked safely in its bonnet, or simply short locks moved aside for a kiss on the forehead and playfully tousled.

Taglist: @lokilover476 @fuckyoumakeart @kilibaggins @filiswingman @ibabblealot @stormchaser819 @pirate-lord-of-narnia @datglutengoblin @letmelickyoureyeballs @mossyskinn @wordbunch @tiny-and-witchy @th3-st4r-gur1 @fleurdemiel-145 @mistresskayla-blog1 @misabelle717 @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @evattude @kpopgirlbtssvt @rivendell-poet @rainyobservationblizzard | Reply/Message/Ask to join 🖤

[dollypopup]

controversial take?

Penelope did not always love Colin.

Penelope always found Colin attractive. Penelope idealized Colin. Penelope dreamed of being together romantically with Colin. But she was not in love with Colin because the Colin she knew wasn't real. The Colin she made up in her mind was a sanitized, perfectly polished version of him that has never existed save in a society that required him to be as such. Penelope ONLY came to actually love Colin when he revealed to her his actual self: the self that hurt, the self that cried, the self that yelled, the self with insecurities. The self that can sharpen on her like a knife. The self that curls in fetal. Until she cracked his chest open to see the gaping wound of him, she did not love him.

The Colin Penelope thought she loved was a man who was always kind, always sure of himself in society, always sweet and understanding. A Colin who wrote her letters from across the sea to include her in his adventures and always made time for her and was always there with a joke or a question about how she was feeling.

And the thing is: Colin IS kind and he IS sweet and understanding, but there is no always about that. There is no always about anyone. Colin sulks. Colin sobs. Colin feels deeply and loves deeply and hurts deeply. Colin is curious. Colin is lonely. Colin is needy and hungry and conflicted. Colin is tender and emotional. Colin is sarcastic and sharp. Colin is quiet and withdrawn and holds his hurts so tightly, can't ask for help. Colin wants to be useful. Most people do. But when he isn't, he feels aimless. Colin succumbs to the pressures of his society. Colin is rejected and abandoned and blames himself. Colin is warm and empathetic and studious and selfless but he is also angry and jealous and avoidant and human.

The Colin Penelope claimed she always loved was not a person. He was a prince on a horse. And let's be very clear here: in many ways, the real Colin absolutely still is a princely character. That's why very minor things like him saying he wouldn't court her got blown up SO big in the fandom. Compared to 'wed bed and bred' from Season 2? Hell, even compared to some of what Penelope herself has said? Colin absolutely is a sweetheart through and through.

But honestly, the moment where I did feel like Penelope loved and accepted him? Was after the entrapment line. Yes yes, I know. Booooo tomatoes tomatoes tomatoes from the majority of the fandom who INSISTS on demonizing him for it, but. . .truly? That was exactly how someone who actually accepts him would react.

He lashed out, he was hurt, he was upset at her (and let's be clear here: for very, VERY good reason. Most if not ALL people would be upset to find out their fiance was hiding a double life from them), and she absorbed it. She took that blow and assured him, because she knew what he meant was Do you even love me? and her response to it was Yes, I do. I do love you. That was the right way to go about it. That scene, for me, was a moment in which she really saw him. And she really cared for him. No bells, no whistles, no galloping in on a horse with an open hand for her to take. Colin showed her the side of him that could be ugly and mean and she said Yes, this too. All of it. All of you.

That was the only way she should have reacted. Because if she didn't absorb that blow? If she DIDN'T accept him for who he was? That's the death of their love story. If Colin said 'Yes, but you're my mess' and Penelope said 'Too much mess, chuck it out'? What kind of romance would that be? Not a romance at all, really, but a breakup. When Colin said something previously that hurt her, she threw their whole relationship away. Her hearing him say something that hurt her but still choosing him is important character growth.

There truly were not enough moments like that for me in the show. Bridgerton, and Polin more specifically, tends to lean on the whole 'Oh, she's always had feelings for him' thing to justify us getting less genuine affection and acceptance from her in the season, but the truth is that those feelings weren't based on anything real. Their push back, their back and forth, their fights- that's real. It's easy saying you love someone through the good times. Far less so to truly love them through the tough ones. It is only love, actually love, if you love them through the tough ones. Otherwise, it's artifice. Otherwise, it's a bubble waiting to pop with nothing of substance beneath the shiny, iridescent skin.

So, no, Penelope did not always love Colin Bridgerton. There is no always have.

There is, however, an always will.

[tillichan]

‧₊˚✧ Your life in Wind Breaker for @hidden-oracle ✧˚₊‧

Your family moved to Makochi when you were a kid. They got an offer of work as an elementary school teachers. Knowing the reputation of this town, your parents at first refused. But when they asked you if you'd like to move to Makochi, you agreed without hesitation. You liked a big new house your parents showed you, not to mention that you sincerely loved your family, the idea of going to the school with your parents sounded amazing. And so, despite all doubts, the choice was made, you with your family moved into a big beautiful house in Makochi.

Your parents were worried about you, what if you'll never be able to make friends in this town filled with delinquents but as it turned out there was nothing to worry about. So called delinquents were actually the sweethearts, you got along with your neighbor, Hiragi Toma, really well, he became someone you can call an older brother, he protected you from bullies and introduced you to his friends. Unfortunately some of them had painful past, some of them were bullied, some of them had a family drama, but to your kind parents they all were like their own children. They sincerely took care of your friends and weren't afraid to stand up for them, earning respect from others.

And you... You were a ray of shine to your friends, their hope, their precious family and friend, some of them were in love with you since childhood. And their feelings continues to this day.

Nowadays you are a high school student. It's sad that you can't go to the same school with your friends anymore, but you meet with them often after classes or on weekends. They love you and your parents very much, so your home turned into a secret base for Furin students. You always there to heal their wounds, both emotional and physical, treat them with delicious food and drinks and help them with anything. Ah, how lucky they are to have you by their side!

Skills

▣ Comforting: as mention before, you are a very special girl to Furin High students. They comes to you whenever they feel down, and you always listen to them, give them a good advice, take care of their wounds and surprise them with some delicious snacks and homemade drinks like smoothies, latte or milkshakes. The way you memorize everything about them, even if they only briefly mentioned it, and give them a second chance if they did something wrong made them feel so appreciated, so loved. This is what they lack, and that's why they treasure you so much.

▣ Good Intuition: whenever Furin students need to make an important decision, you are the first person they seek advice from. Your intuition is something else, sometimes they think that you can predict the future, because you are rarely wrong. Especially when it comes to the fights, with Noroshi for example.

Romantic Matchup: Kaji Ren

♡ Your acquaintance with Ren happened because of Hiragi. One day Toma brought him to your home, right after their first meeting. Even though Ren was only a stranger to you, you welcomed him with open arms and treated all his wounds. Fortunately he was only slightly wounded, and that just because Toma knocked him out to calm down. The way you were so kind with him surprised Ren. To be honest, he was just like a stray cat who doesn't let anyone close at first, he tried to run away and told that he doesn't need your help. However, your patience and a few words from Toma did their job, so Ren ended up eating peaches in your living room. He felt a little uncomfortable, an unfamiliar warmth spread through his heart. This was a first time someone accepted him, nobody has ever treated him with such kindness. But he also was sure that it won't be long, if he shows you his ugly side, you'd turn against him. And Ren, he wouldn't blame you, because he was just a beast. Oh, how wrong he was!

♡ Toma, you and your family were very warm to Ren. And he couldn't help but grew addicted to the warmth of your presence. He started spending time at your home, hanging out with you and your friends all day long. Not to mention, that you two attended the same school. The way you were so honest and kind, the way you accepted him even when you found out about his beast side, the way you always put his needs in front of yours, your genuine concern for him, all this led to Ren started developing feelings for you.

♡ His thoughts were messed up, Ren was so denial, so afraid of loosing you. He knew that you deserve someone better than him. Someone who is not a monster, someone who isn't as troublesome as he is, someone... who is not Ren. He was determined to be your friend and pine after you from afar until his dying day. But sometimes, just sometimes, Ren allowed himself to dream of the future that never comes. The future where he holds your hand while he walks you home. Maybe in this future Ren is just an ordinary high school student, who doesn't spend all day, every day beating people up. Maybe in this future you like him back. Oh, thinking about it only made Ren crazy.

♡ But time passed and Ren gained confidence. He's got a great bunch of friends that encouraged him everyday. Lollipops and headphones have made him a human, even if just half-assed, but still human. And there was a little hope, that maybe, just maybe, one day the future that Ren could only dream of will come.

♡ Ren confessed you unexpectedly even for himself. This did not happen without the help of Kusumi and Enomoto who were well aware of Ren's feelings for you and even that you liked him back. So they asked you two to hang out together at your home and, making sure that Ren was already there, texted that unfortunately they can't come. Even though you and Ren were a good friends, the two of you never really hang out alone. Hiragi and his friends, Enomoto and Kusumi, your parents, Furin students, there was always someone. And Ren couldn't help but started getting nervous, left alone with you.

"Do you want to listen to music?" Ren asked awkwardly and put on his headphones to your ears after a nod from you. The music began to play and your eyes widened because it was it was one of your favorite song, not one of the songs Hiragi recommended Ren. This was followed by another. And more importantly, all these songs were about love.

You turned to Ren who fidgeted with candy wrapper. Despite his calm expression, the tips of his ears turned red.

"Your taste in music has changed a bit", you noticed and pulled the headphones off.

"It's because of you", Ren faintly whispered under his breath. His eye was fixed on a candy wrapper. Ren paused and began to color up with nerves. "Because... I like you. More than a friend".

Ren turned to face you and looked at you, he wanted to tell you that it's ok if you don't like him back, that he just wanted to let you know, that he won't bother you anymore, but the words were stuck in his throat. Why?

Why, why... it's clear why. Because you interrupted him, saying "I like you too".

♡ You and Ren are so adorable. All your friends ship you two so much! Ren swore himself to protect you and make you happy. He would do anything for you. Ren doesn't like studying, but he asks his friends to help him, because he wants to secure a stable future for you. Ren used to not memorize the songs titles, he just listened to the songs Hiragi likes, but now all the songs, all the titles are associated with you. This song is the one he listened to when you two went on a first date, this one when he confessed, and this one describes his feelings for you so well. And of course Ren is more than happy to listen to any song you like even if it's something silly. Ren is hopeless simp when it comes to you.

♡ Ren likes spending time with you in a comfortable silence. The way you always ask him for a cuddles, so cute and politely, never failed to make Ren turn into a blushing mess. He doesn't need the lollipops and headphones when you're around. Your presence alone is enough to calm Ren down. He is awkward, he doesn't know how to express his love properly, but he does his best. Ren is not good with words, but the way he protects you, the way he holds your hand so gently as if you're the most important treasure, all this leaves no doubt that Kaji Ren is hopelessly in love with you.

♡ Staying home in a comfortable silence is not only way you and Ren spend time together. Amusement parks, arcades, cat cafes, you name it. Ren is more than happy to accompany you. He also supports all your hobbies and comes to all your performances. Since the both of you dye the hair, you two can help each other with it.

Ship Tropes

♡ considers himself a monster (him) x here to comfort (you) ♡ cutie (you) x protector (him) ♡ calm (you) x short tempered (him)

Relationships

Hiragi Toma is your older brother figure. The two of you met for the first time when you just moved to Makochi, because his family lived right next door. And from then on, you and Toma were inseparable. He loved your calm and mature personality, he found the comfort in your presence. Especially the days when he suffers from stomach ache due to stress that is caused by Umemiya's antics. Toma protected you from the all bullies and delinquents, introduced you to his friends, together you and Toma helped many people. The two of you spend time together hanging out at your or his home. He teaches you to play guitar and likes to watch you dance, just like a proud father. When Toma found out that you and Ren started dating, he wasn't surprised, he knew that the two of you spent forever pining for each other. So Toma was just happy for you two. He thinks that you and Ren can bring out the best in each other and supports your relationship more than anyone else.

Sako Kota has a crush on you, this tiny puppy crush on a pretty girl who always took care of him. You were so kind, but strong and determined. Kota has always admired you and this admiration developed into love. But he was so weak and miserable, he was sure that he had no chance. So Kota decided to become strong and cool and then confess you one day. The two of you were introduced to each other by Toma and became a good friends. It took some time though, because you and Kota were not very talkative, not to mention that he was too shy to even talk to you. But Toma helped you two to get closer. However Kota disappeared after middle school graduation and joined Shishitoren. You met him months later, at the party of Furin. Kota was very upset when he found out that you and Ren got together, because it meant that he lost the chance to win you over. But Kota can't help but also feels happiness that his friends are so in love with each other. He wishes that one day his crush on you will pass.

Suo Hayato is a good friend of yours. You are so different form his classmates, your empathetic nature attracts him. The two of you met when Hayato patrolled the streets with Hiragi and his classmates and you helped your mother with the groceries. Of course, Furin students walked you two home and helped to carry your bags. In gratitude, your mother invited them to stay and eat. So you met Furin first years and made friends with Suo. The both of you are calm and empathetic, Hayato is always there if you need some help and comfort. Knowing that you have some anxiety problems, Hayato makes sure that you always feel safe and happy. He likes that you are so honest with others and with yourself too, that you take care of people around you. You and Hayato share some likes and hobbies, like myths and books reading. He is more than happy to discuss a new book or fantastic creatures with you and teases you if you find non-cute creature cute. But only in a loving way, because he likes you very much.

Kusumi Yuto and Enomoto Takeshi are your friends and wingman. They did their best to get you and Ren together and they have succeeded. You met them because of Ren, because they were his new friends. Ren introduced you to them because he wanted his precious friends and the girl he likes to get along well. Yuto and Takeshi were hoked by you, much to the delight of Ren. The four of you, you, Ren, Kusumi and Enomoto, spend a lot of time together. Knowing that you like cute and fluffy things, Yuto introduced you to his beloved dog. And Takeshi finds a lot of comfort in your presence because sometimes he needs it. The both of them support your relationship with Ren and you two very much. They are always there if you need their help or someone to talk to.

[samazing0831]

Take Me Back to the Night We Met - Bucky Barnes x Reader

Bucky Barnes x Reader // Song Lyric Challenge

It's been five years since Bucky vanished. Five years since he turned to dust in the middle of an argument and took your heart with him. Left behind with only memories and grief that refuses to fade, you've clung to anything that makes him real - his hoodie, his side of the bed, the sound of his laugh echoing in your dreams. But grief doesn't play by rules. And neither does fate.

When the dust begins to settle - literally - Bucky returns, just as the world begins to put itself back together. But what happens after the happy ending?

1.2k words

I still wake up on his side of the bed.

Every morning, I roll toward the ghost of him, hand searching in the quiet. And every morning, I only find the cold.

I used to think grief came in stages. That once you made peace with one step, the next would come easier.

But that was five years ago.

And I still haven’t moved past that moment.

I am not the only traveler Who has not repaid his debt I’ve been searching for a trail to follow again Take me back to the night we met

I felt so lost when he left.

And it’s selfish to say I was heartbroken - everyone lost someone that day.

Technically, I didn’t even have a reason to be - we broke up two weeks before the blip.

But how else could I explain the gaping hole in my chest?

Knowing he was gone, and there was nothing I could do to bring him back?

We were fighting.

Not about anything important. Something stupid.

Like who left the coffee pot on - again.

He laughed when I snapped at him.

He always laughed when I was irritated.

Then he pulled me into his arms anyway. Whispered, “You’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

I rolled my eyes.

And then he was gone.

Just like that.

People vanished mid-sentence.

Screams split the sky.

Dust danced through the air like ash from a war I didn’t understand.

And Bucky - my Bucky - just disintegrated.

I didn’t even get to hold him.

I tried everything to repent.

Like I could trade my soul for his.

I walked the streets feeling like the only one left breathing

Sometimes I’d catch my reflection and swear it wasn’t me anymore.

He died fighting for us. Again.

And I stayed.

Sometimes I dream of him.

Not as he was at the end, but as he was when we met.

It was a rainy night in Bucharest.

He was quiet. Guarded.

Eyes like storm clouds.

He asked me if I wanted to get a drink.

I said yes, even though I hated the bar.

That was the first time he touched my hand. Not romantic. Just a brush of fingers.

By accident.

And it was like something clicked into place.

And then I can tell myself What the hell I’m supposed to do And then I can tell myself Not to ride along with you

I wish I could go back there.

Before he let me in.

Before I let him fill my lungs and take root in every part of me.

I had all and then most of you Some and now none of you Take me back to the night we met I don’t know what I’m supposed to do Haunted by the ghost of you Take me back to the night we met

Because maybe if I could return to that moment, I could stop myself.

Maybe I could be smarter. Safer.

Maybe I could survive this.

But then what?

Live without him, and never know what it felt like to be loved by him?

No.

I couldn’t.

Wouldn’t.

I talk to him sometimes. Out loud.

Like he’s just in the other room.

I lie to myself a lot.

Pretend I’ve moved on.

Pretend I don’t stare at the door every time it opens.

Pretend my heart doesn’t ache when I see couples holding hands.

The truth is, I’m still here. Still waiting.

Because that was the last time I remember who I was.

Who we were.

Before the terror.

Before the fight.

Before his eyes filled with tears he wouldn’t let fall.

Before he turned to dust in front of me.

When the night was full of terrors And your eyes were filled with tears When you had not touched me yet Oh, take me back to the night we met

Maybe one day he’ll come back.

Maybe one day, the dust will settle in reverse.

And his body will reform from the pieces.

Maybe I’ll get to hear his laugh again.

Until then, I’ll keep waking up on his side of the bed.

He came back in the spring.

I heard it before I saw it - rumors, headlines, whispers of people appearing out of thin air.

Then Sam called. His voice cracked when he said, “He’s asking for you.”

It was raining the day I saw him again.

Fitting.

It had rained the day he left, too.

He looked the same.

Maybe a little thinner. A little tired.

But those eyes - they found me instantly.

Like they’d never stopped searching.

He stepped forward.

I didn’t.

Couldn’t.

I’d imagined this moment a thousand times.

But none of my fantasies prepared me for how it would actually feel.

Not joy.

Not closure.

Just the overwhelming weight of everything we lost in between.

His voice was hoarse when he said my name.

Like he had to fight through the dust of five silence years.

I had all and then most of you Some and now none of you Take me back to the night we met I don’t know what I’m supposed to do Haunted by the ghost of you Take me back to the night we met

That’s what he had been.

All of him. Then most. Then some.

Then dust.

Then silence.

Then nothing.

And now?

Now he stood in front of me like time hadn’t chewed me up and spit me out.

Like the last five years hadn’t been a slow unraveling of every piece of my soul.

He reached out, like I could just fall back into step with him.

Like I hadn’t tried to bury the memory of tracing the lines of his metal hand in the dark.

Like I hadn’t sobbed on my bathroom floor, whispering into the silence, Take me back to the night we met.

The moment passed slowly - thick, heavy, full of everything unsaid.

His eyes glassed over.

I knew he was crying before I saw the tears.

God, I remembered that night too well.

I remember how terrified he was that he wouldn’t come back from that fight.

I remember holding his face and telling him we’d have time.

That time was the one thing we’d always have.

I lied.

Now he was here. And time felt like a cruel joke.

I wanted to run to him. Wrap myself around him and never let go.

But I also wanted to scream.

To punch him.

To ask him how it felt to leave me behind with an apartment full of memories and a heart full of ash.

Instead, I said, “You left.”

His head bowed. “I know.”

“You didn’t say goodbye.”

He swallowed hard. “I didn’t get to.”

Silence.

The wind blew. The rain softened. Somewhere in the background, the world kept turning.

But we stayed still.

“Do you still love me?” I asked.

He blinked. A single tear slipped down his cheek.

“I never stopped.”

And suddenly, I remembered the first time he kissed me.

How careful he was.

How his hands trembled like he was afraid he’d break me.

How I had whispered, “You’re safe with me,” and meant it with every atom in my body.

I took one step forward.

Then another.

And when I reached him, I pressed my forehead against his chest.

Just to make sure he was real.

Just to feel the thump of his heart beneath my fingertips.

He wrapped his arms around me like he was afraid I’d vanish next.

I whispered into his jacket, voice cracking:

��Please, don’t leave me again.”

[universefcb]

Day 1 of asking for Jan Virgili fics

Hes soooo underrated 😭😭😭😭

Here are some fic ideas you can use

-cutting his hair a buzz cut and surprising reader

-surprising long distance reader in college when she’s having a hard semester

-reader getting his jersey number and name on her nails

-reader taking care of him after a hard game cooking his fav food and stuff like that

DETAILS ON THE NAIL, JAN VIRGILI.

→ Summary: You surprise your boyfriend by putting his name and number on your nail.

→ Warning: Mention of Reader. Fluff/Comfort. Romance.

→ Author's note: I really don't know what to write here.

And sorry if there are mistakes, English is not my language.I hope this is what you asked for!

It was a quiet Saturday afternoon, with the light blue sky tinged with soft clouds and the smell of freshly cut grass filling the neighborhood. You were in your room, with the windows open, and the calm sound of a romantic playlist filled the air. Your heart was beating fast – not only because of the nervousness you had been feeling since the morning, but also because of the anticipation. Jan had texted you to say he would stop by to see you before he went to training, and you still didn’t know how to show him the surprise you had prepared.

It was a small thing, but to you, it had enormous meaning.

Deep down, you had always been a more reserved person when it came to showing affection. But dating Jan Virgili—sweet, kind, caring Jan—made you want to take a risk, even if your heart felt like a drum with every step.

You walked down the stairs slowly, still undecided whether you should show him right away or wait for him to notice. Your father was in the kitchen, your mother was watching TV in the living room. It was a quiet home, a little noisy at times, but full of warmth.

And then the doorbell rang.

The sound echoed straight through your chest, and you pressed your nails against your palm, as if you wanted to hide your little secret for a few more seconds. You walked to the door and, when you opened it, found Jan standing there with that easy smile that always made your legs feel a little weak.

“Hi, princess.” He spoke softly, with that delicious accent you loved to hear.

“Hey… come in,” you replied, stepping back to make room.

Jan came in and greeted your mother with a kiss on the cheek, shook your father's hand and exchanged a few words with them, as he always did politely and kindly. He was adored there – the kind of boyfriend everyone liked, which only made you more in love and, at the same time, more nervous.

You went up to your room together, and you closed the door slowly, turning your back for a few seconds. You felt your cheeks burning, your stomach churning, and your whole body begging you to take courage.

Jan threw himself onto his bed, face up, his eyes following your steps as you walked towards him with your hands hidden behind your body.

“Is everything okay?” he asked, chuckling lightly. “You’re acting kind of… suspicious.”

“I am,” you replied softly, biting your lip. “It’s just… I did something.”

“One thing?” he arched an eyebrow, propping himself up on his elbows.

You approached and finally extended your hand. Your nails were freshly manicured, painted with a delicate nude polish, but the important detail was there: on the ring finger nail of your left hand, in white with a black outline, the number "45"; on the middle finger, his last name: "Virgili".

“I… thought it was cute. And…” you shrugged, eyes lowering “I wanted you to know how much I like you.”

Jan stared blankly for a few seconds. Surprise softened his expression, and then a goofy smile spread across his face. He sat up and held her hand so carefully that it looked like her nails were made of glass.

“You painted my name… and my number…” he whispered, lightly touching his finger with the number 45.

You nodded with a shy smile, your cheeks already too red.

“It’s beautiful. Like, really. I never thought seeing it would make me feel like this…” he laughed, his eyes shining.

“With my heart jumping.”

“I thought you were going to laugh at me,” you muttered, chuckling softly, still unable to look at him for too long.

“Laugh at you?” Jan pulled her hand away, kissing her fingers. “I want to frame your hand, I’m so in love. Can I take a picture?”

You nodded, laughing, and he pulled out his phone, taking a picture of your nails, then another with your hand resting on his chest, right where his heart was beating fast.

“Now I have proof that the most beautiful girl in the world is my number one fan.” He spoke with that sweet tone that always made you melt.

You stayed there, holding hands, with him playing with kissing each finger as if it were the most precious thing in the world. Then, Jan threw himself back on the bed, pulling you with him.

“Do you have any idea how much this felt good today?” he asked quietly, his fingers slowly running over her cheek. “I was kind of anxious about training, and now I’m… at peace.”

You smiled and rested your face against his neck, letting Jan's soft scent envelop you. The feeling was so comfortable that it felt like time had stopped there, just for the two of you.

“If you want, next time I’ll put the club’s crest on it,” you joked, and he laughed out loud.

“Only if you paint a heart on the side, to remind people that it’s your girlfriend.”

You laughed, pressing your fingers against his chest.

It was silly. It was intimate. It was simple.

Taglist: @paucubarsisimp @nngkay @meganesanchez @htpssgavi @merinottt @luvvpedri @moonvr @joaosnovia @httpsdana @ilovebarcaaaa @p4uul0vr @pedricando @barcapix @owala6789

[loving-jack-kelly]

jack race and crutchie have the kind of co-dependent friendship/brotherly relationship/love that only comes out of being each others' sole support systems during the worst times of their lives. they can read each others' minds. they know immediately when something is wrong. they will be so so mean to each other but the instant anybody else is mean to one of them all bets are off. they communicate in sentence fragments incomprehensible to anybody else. they each know and guard the others' secrets with the type of intensity usually only seen in secret societies. ride or die to the most literal degree possible.

[yuripira4e]

if I see one more person saying they shipped Edwin and the cat king I’m just going to assume media literacy has died

[pocketramblr]

I always found it slightly awkward how media makes siblings or people who see each other as siblings call each other brother/sister all the time as in real life you almost never see people do that with their own siblings (maybe someone out there like that)

In the case of Arkham Shadows I see why they did though because Bruce quite literally tells Harvey he loves him and Harvey says it back. Can't have the audience think Batman is in love with the DA.

They had Bruce pay for his college, pay for his campaign, pay for his surgery, pay for his therapy and had Harvey have him as his best man at his wedding. Wow..... Sugar baby Harvey is real.....

The calling sibling title thing is less common in English than in some other languages for sure- me and a couple of my siblings do it on occasion, but it's for a bit then. More common is when I call one of my close family friends "my sister" or "my nephew" when talking about them to someone else because it's faster and easier to say that than to say "my friend who I've known since she was born and lived with for a few years and consider a little sister" or "child of a close family friend who considers me an aunt" to someone who doesn't know them. Which is a lot of words to say that if they wanted to fully sell me on the brothers thing they should have either had a different bit or should have referred to the other as "my brother" when talking to an unrelated character instead.

But "oh no we have to make Bruce not look gay" has been a problem DC has struggled with more than once for many decades and it basically never works so I guess at least they didn't try to solve it this time by having Bruce pick a lady love over Harvey or cutting the holding hands thing

Because I saw that scrapbook! I know Harvey has been Bruce's sugar baby since he was ten years old! But we can't have Bruce take Harvey's hand and call him the love of his life because ok technically that's Gotham but also because gay. And we can't have Bruce take Harvey's hand and call him his best friend because they're not ten anymore and somehow that seems gay also. So brothers it is, I guess. Even if I think my brothers would bite my finger if I ever tried to pay for everything for them on that scale, guess it's different at billionaire levels

[shhhhimwatchingthis]

ok yeah, I'm willing to put Young Royals up as one of, if not the best teen drama ever written

and not just writing! cinematography, costumes, music, performances! this show truly is a masterpiece

[n4rval]

ough. toriel my beloved

[cakemoney]

finding out that kaito and shinichi have been revealed to be cousins is like finding out there was a huge earthquake in the country you used to live in