#except tennis sometimes

[trickstarbrave]

i actually won 4 tickets to the diamondback's baseball game by catching a ball at a school event (i suck at catching) and everyone proceeded to dogpile on me swarming me and trying to rip it from me and then kicking me when i laid on the ground with it under me like i was being attacked by a bear. until the teachers pulled them off.

i was like in 5th grade and i was just like. not phased by the other children assaulting me for tickets. i didnt even like baseball i wanted them for my grandma (she took me to the game anyways. even though I Don't Like Baseball)

this is not the only time i have been swarmed by children trying to assault and/or kill me. but it was one of the funniest because i was just unphased by it. i thought about it every time we had to go to the gym where it happened (they took us to the hs gym for it. fsr. even though my middle school was like. across town. i guess bc we didnt rly have a gym? idk)

[flurry-of-stars]

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

*taps microphone* New chapter for These Hollow Halls coming soon--

[steelycunt]

tennis looks so fucking boring im sorry. cannot get on board with a sports event where there is no telling if it will end in one hour or five. and not only is there no telling but its also the most boring game to watch ever. so like you can rest assured that what you will be watching is just a ball travelling back and forth across a net but what you dont know is whether it will finish in time for you to get home for dinner or maybe your mother's birthday which is two and half weeks away

[ohnoitstbskyen]

You’ve probably been asked this before, but do you have a specific view on ai-generated art. I’m doing a school project on artificial intelligence and if it’s okay, i would like to cite you

I mean, you're welcome to cite me if you like. I recently wrote a post under a reblog about AI, and I did a video about it a while back, before the full scale of AI hype had really started rolling over the Internet - I don't 100% agree with all my arguments from that video anymore, but you can cite it if you please.

In short, I think generative AI art

Is art, real art, and it's silly to argue otherwise, the question is what KIND of art it is and what that art DOES in the world. Generally, it is boring and bland art which makes the world a more stressful, unpleasant and miserable place to be.

AI generated art is structurally and inherently limited by its nature. It is by necessity averages generated from data-sets, and so it inherits EVERY bias of its training data and EVERY bias of its training data validators and creators. It naturally tends towards the lowest common denominator in all areas, and it is structurally biased towards reinforcing and reaffirming the status quo of everything it is turned to.

It tends to be all surface, no substance. As in, it carries the superficial aesthetic of very high-quality rendering, but only insofar as it reproduces whatever signifiers of "quality" are most prized in its weighted training data. It cannot understand the structures and principles of what it is creating. Ask it for a horse and it does not know what a "horse" is, all it knows is what parts of it training data are tagged as "horse" and which general data patterns are likely to lead an observer to identify its output also as "horse." People sometimes describe this limitation as "a lack of soul" but it's perhaps more useful to think of it as a lack of comprehension.

Due to this lack of comprehension, AI art cannot communicate anything - or rather, the output tends to attempt to communicate everything, at random, all at once, and it's the visual equivalent of a kind of white noise. It lacks focus.

Human operators of AI generative tools can imbue communicative meaning into the outputs, and whip the models towards some sort of focus, because humans can do that with literally anything they turn their directed attention towards. Human beings can make art with paint spatters and bits of gum stuck under tennis shoes, of course a dedicated human putting tons of time into a process of trial and error can produce something meaningful with genAI tools.

The nature of genAI as a tool of creation is uniquely limited and uniquely constrained, a genAI tool can only ever output some mixture of whatever is in its training data (and what's in its training data is biased by the data that its creators valued enough to include), and it can only ever output that mixture according to the weights and biases of its programming and data set, which is fully within the control of whoever created the tool in the first place. Consequently, genAI is a tool whose full creative capacity is always, always, always going to be owned by corporations, the only entities with the resources and capacity to produce the most powerful models. And those models, thus, will always only create according to corporate interest. An individual human can use a pencil to draw whatever the hell they want, but an individual human can never use Midjourney to create anything except that which Midjourney allows them to create. GenAI art is thus limited not only by its mathematical tendency to bias the lowest common denominator, but also by an ideological bias inherited from whoever holds the leash on its creation. The necessary decision of which data gets included in a training set vs which data gets left out will, always and forever, impose de facto censorship on what a model is capable of expressing, and the power to make that decision is never in the hands of the artist attempting to use the tool.

tl;dr genAI art has a tendency to produce ideologically limited and intrinsically censored outputs, while defaulting to lowest common denominators that reproduce and reinforce status quos.

... on top of which its promulgation is an explicit plot by oligarchic industry to drive millions of people deeper into poverty and collapse wages in order to further concentrate wealth in the hands of the 0.01%. But that's just a bonus reason to dislike it.

[sinner-as-saint]

drag me under

Father Charlie Mayhew x Reader 

Run-through: After what has to be one of the most exhausting and exasperating meetings he’s ever had with the Bishop and Mother Superior, Father Charlie desperately needs a quick release. It was wrong, he knew and he’d repent for it later. Except, what he thought was going to stay as a secret between him and God ends up involving a third witness – you. 

Themes: smut, explicit language, mentions of infidelity, degrading kink

Fuck. He was close. 

He’d shut himself inside the confessional booth a few minutes ago because he absolutely needed to get his mind off certain things. Those meetings always left him feeling like a damned pressure cooker, and he always needed to let out some steam after. 

All that arguing, and having to keep his cool and maintain composure when all he wanted to do was yell and tell them all that he was right and they were wrong. It had to be the generational gap, but sometimes he felt like he was being tortured with how much his mindset differed from those of his superiors. Why couldn’t they just let him do things his way? 

But he pushed all that aside for a moment. Just a moment, that’s all he needed. Fist wrapped around his throbbing cock, his spit and precum giving him just the right amount of lubricant, his head thrown back against the thick wood as he worked his fist up and down his cock, as fast as he could. 

He tried to keep his gasps and moans as quiet as possible. It was late in the afternoon, there wouldn’t be anyone around during this time, but just in case. A groan left his lips anyway, and he bit his lip immediately after. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck… 

He could hear how fast his fist moved, the friction was almost just as good as how he remembered sinking into a warm body felt like. Almost, not quite as exhilarating though. 

Fuck! 

A few more tugs, a couple more unrestrained moans later, and he came with a loud sigh. Spilling all over his hand, gasping for breath as he blinked a couple times, already feeling his thoughts flowing much easier. His all black suit, his collar around his neck didn’t feel as tight and constricting anymore. 

He quickly cleaned himself up with a handkerchief he’d have to put in the trash later, he sighed one more time as he made sure to fix his clothes and was about to walk out of the booth when he heard a timid, soft, almost hesitant voice ask: 

“Are you done, Father?” 

He froze. 

Shit. 

He cleared his throat. It sounded like a young woman on the other side. He tried to look but the screen only allowed him a partial view of your face. Okay, okay, don’t panic. He could still get out of this situation. Maybe you didn’t hear what he was doing. Maybe you’d just gotten in here. Maybe you were too naive to even know what those sounds were. 

He cleared his throat again, “How, uh, how long have you been waiting for?” He tried his hardest to sound apologetic for making you wait. 

A moment of silence. Then you replied, “Long enough.” 

That voice. He knew that voice, didn’t he? 

He said your name out loud. A pause then, “Is it you?” He asked. 

A sigh. Then, “Yes, Father.” 

Ah. He let out a quiet breath, relieved. 

He had no reason to worry if it was you. You were what he called a lost little lamb, too innocent for her own good. He knew your family. They were nice people who frequented the church, and lately your parents had been worried about you since they found out that you had a troublesome boyfriend who was nowhere near the god-fearing type your family wanted you to date. 

He also knew that you, unlike your parents, were not seen very often at church. He saw you here and there, sometimes at charity events, or sometimes at the tennis court with your mom. But never in the confessional booth. 

Father Charlie sat up straight, looked ahead at the wooden door and asked, “This is your first confession?” 

“Yes, Father.” 

“And what would you like to confess?” He asked, knowing he was going about this all wrong. No signs of the cross, no ‘Bless me Father for I have sinned’, but he was impatient and… intrigued. What could a shy, timid girl like you have to confess?

“I… I slept with my boyfriend.” 

He couldn’t help but turn towards the screen. He watched you as you fidgeted and squirmed. “Did you?” He didn’t recognise his own voice. 

“Yes, Father.” You answered. “But that’s not all.” 

“Oh?” 

A trembled sigh left your lips, then you said, “While we were, um, when he was...” You struggled to speak. 

And Father Charlie felt weirdly interested all of a sudden, so he urged, “It’s okay, you’re safe here.” He cooed gently, using the soothing voice he always used with everyone. “Use your big girl words, come on. When he was, what?” 

“Father, I cannot say it.” Your words sounded heavy with shame. 

So he urged you even further, “Like I said, you’re safe here. Now tell me. When he was, what? On top of you? Fucking you? What happened, did he hurt you?” 

“No,” You said quickly. “No, he was… gentle.” 

Father Charlie raised an eyebrow, “And?” 

You let out a shaky breath and confessed, “I wanted him to…” You trailed off, “I know it’s wrong to want these kinds of things, but I didn’t want him to be gentle. I wanted him to be rough. To make it hurt.” 

Another shaky breath left your lips, and this time Father Charlie felt like he was the tormented one. He frowned as he looked down and noticed that he was hard again. Shit. 

He cleared his throat again. “I see.” 

But you were quick to add, “It’s wrong, isn’t it? To want things like that? Isn’t it, Father?” 

There was a strangely innocent desperation in your voice even as you referred to sinful things. The kind of innocence he wanted to take into his hands and crumble it into pieces but also preserve it at the same time. 

Fuck, he was hard. And it was painful because you were right there. 

“Depends,” He answered, “What other things do you find yourself wanting?” A small, quiet gasp left your mouth. Father Charlie caught himself smirking at the sound of it. “And don’t lie. I can’t help you if you lie.” He noticed movement on the other side of the screen. Maybe your hand touching your neck out of nervousness. 

“I… I like being told what to do. I like authority. I like…,” You gasped, as if not believing you were actually saying all this out loud, “I like it, I mean I like the idea of men being mean to me, in bed. I want them to take what they want from me, with consent of course. But I don’t want them to be gentle about it.” 

Oh fuck. 

“That’s, uh…” He found himself at a loss for words. His cock was making his trousers tighter. His hands were shaking with the need to grab and feel a warm body. Preferably that of a shy young woman who thought she should be ashamed of her desires. “Yes, that’s not right.” He did his best to sound stern and disappointed. 

A soft sound came from the other side. Sounding a lot like a sniffle. “I’m sorry, Father.” You whispered, just loud enough for him to hear. “I should go.” 

It all happened too quickly. The sound of the door opening, the sound of you trying to rush and get out. Before he knew it, he was out of the booth as well and stopping you from leaving. Your wrist in his hand, his chest heaving, tears down your face, a shocked look in your eyes. 

“Did I say you could leave?” He asked, looking down at you and noticing the way you didn’t even fight him. Aww, a lost little lamb indeed. 

“No.” You whispered, going along with the movement as he walked you backwards until your back hit the nearest wall, beside the booth. 

“You’re disobedient,” He noted, “I should punish you for that.” 

“Yes,” You mumbled, like you were ready to be punished for your sins. 

“Yes, what?” He chided. 

“Yes, Father.” 

And oh, how he would’ve loved to have you on your knees in front of him. To have his cock in your mouth. To make real tears stream down your face, ruining your makeup. But he didn't have too much time. 

He stepped closer, trapping you between the wall and his hard body. He noted the way your eyes remained fixated on his white collar, those teary, innocent eyes. You didn’t even know the treasure you were. 

“Look at me,” He ordered. 

You did. Unable to look away once you did. 

“You’ve been a bad girl, you know that, don’t you?” He asked. You nodded at him. “And I need to punish you, because I need to make sure you’re good from now on, don’t I?” You nodded at his words again. “Good,” He whispered, then grabbed both your hands and placed them on his shoulders as he leaned in and pressed his mouth to yours. 

He fucking that little gasp of surprise that left your mouth as he kissed you, hot and messy. His hands reached down and bunched your dress up before he slipped his hand in between your legs.

He chuckled into the kiss when he felt your flimsy underwear. “See now, good girls don’t wear things like this. You understand?” He whispered, running his knuckles along your wet folds and smearing your arousal around through the thin fabric. “I’m gonna have to take it off, okay?” 

You nodded again. 

And he did, he slid your underwear down until it fell to your ankles. He watched as you stepped out of them and he immediately slid his knee in between your legs, followed by his hand again. “This is all part of your punishment,” He whispered into your ear, and watched how you shivered upon feeling his warm breath. He slipped his two fingers into you with ease and smirked against your skin as he felt your arousal coating his fingers, which he curled inside of you, hitting all the spots which made you gasp and moan.

You whimpered and closed your eyes, sighing and moaning when he leaned down and nibbled on your skin around your throat. He chuckled, sliding his fingers in and out of you, “See what a little slut you are? Cheating on your boyfriend, and letting me touch you however I please,” He scoffed, “Is this what you came to do? Was this your intention?” 

You bucked your hips against his hand impatiently. “Please,” You murmured. 

He pulled his fingers out, and messed with his belt, undoing it and the zipper on his trousers until he pulled his cock out. “Please what?” He asked, rubbing his wet fingers along his hard cock, “Huh? What do you want?” 

You looked up at him, pleading with your eyes. 

“Oh?” He taunted, “You want this cock? Huh?” He leaned in and grabbed your face, squeezing your cheeks together, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke in a lowered voice that sent shivers down your back, “Does this little slut need a cock in her?” 

“Yes,” You murmured, unable to take it anymore. 

“Yes, what?” He growled. 

“Yes, Father.” You quickly corrected yourself. 

He smirked, smug. Then he lifted you up until you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, your back against the wall, and the two of you partially hidden by the booth. His cock briefly brushed against your wet folds in the process and you moaned out loud. 

“Shh,” He reminded you, “Quiet.” 

“Please,” You whined, eyes shut. “Please, Father…” 

“Shut up,” He hissed as he aligned his throbbing tip with your entrance. “Shut your needy little mouth up.” 

You moaned as he pushed himself into you. Stretching you out as he went. His nails digging painfully into your skin as he held you by your hips, and yours sliding into his hair as he filled you up nicely. 

“So fucking wet for me…” He whispered against your cheek as he rocked in and out of you. “I bet you’re not this wet for your little boyfriend, huh? Does he feel this good? This big?” He chuckled. “Does he know you let random men fuck you?” 

You were a mess, moaning and whimpering when he began moving in and out of you. His cock reached places that had you whining out loud. 

“Shh,” He hissed again, “Shut up, you little slut. Shut the fuck up.” He groaned as he fucked you. He kept an eye on your surroundings, just in case someone wandered in. 

But you kept moaning like crazy so he did the only thing his lust-filled brain could think of, he brought out his soiled handkerchief from earlier and shoved it in your mouth, and slapped his hand over your mouth. “Yeah, that’ll shut your filthy mouth up, huh? Is this what you wanted? Your boyfriend doesn’t fuck you like the needy little whore you are, does he?” 

Your moans sounded muffled now, and he fucked you relentlessly, earning more and more muffled whines and moans and whimpers out of you each time his cock stroked your walls. He loved the way your eyes rolled back when he fucked you harder, reaching deeper. 

He pounded into you as fast as he could, your back slamming into the wall with each thrust. “Filthy girl.” He sped up into you again, making you cry out. “So fucking desperate, aren’t you? You couldn’t help but spread your legs for me, huh? Even for a man of God? You couldn’t help it.” He taunted. “What else would you do for me? Would you come here everyday and let me have you? Hmm? Would you let me fuck your needy little pussy like your boyfriend can’t?” 

He knew you couldn’t answer him, so he chuckled and continued as he felt your walls clench around his cock. Fuck, he had missed this. He’d missed making a beautiful girl lose control while he was inside her. He knew you couldn’t think right, he was so fucking deep inside you that all you could do was whine and cry, and let him take what he wanted from you. Which is exactly what he did. He didn’t stop. He kept fucking you harder and faster against the wall. 

His hand left your mouth, making sure his handkerchief remained nice and snug in there, and reached down until he wrapped his fingers around your throat, he squeezed just enough to make your eyes widen. “Yes,” He goaded you, “You like that, don’t you? Your messed up little head likes this,” He taunted. “It’s filthy in there, isn’t it? You think about these things at night? When you touch yourself before going to bed? Is this what you’ll be thinking about from now on?” 

Your body shuddered, trembling in pleasure. He looked down and noticed the slight cleavage of your sweet little dress. Fuck, he wished he had time to really peel it off your body and have you crawl around naked just so he could look at you. He was sure he could spend a lot of time just looking. 

“He doesn’t fuck you like this, does he?” He chuckled, his body moving expertly against yours, “No, how could he? He’s just a boy. He wouldn’t even know what to do with a dirty girl like you.” He leaned in, whispering against your wet cheek, “This is what you needed. I’m what you need.” 

Your mind was a foggy mess already, and he could tell by the muffled by wanton moans that he could still hear that you were so, so close. 

“I bet he doesn’t even come inside you, does he?” He scoffed, “I think he’d be too scared to do that.” He pulled away and looked into your eyes. “But you want me to come inside you, don’t you? Remember, it’s all part of your punishment. You wanna be a good girl and take all of it, don’t you?” 

You nodded quickly, more tears streaming down your face. 

“Go on then, you little slut. Come for me. Come all over this cock like the needy, desperate whore you are.” He let out a strained moan, “I said,” He spoke, menacingly, “Come for me!” 

Your body tensed up, legs tightening around his waist, hands tugging at his hair, before you let go and came undone around his cock. Walls clenching around him, nails scratching his neck and a loud muffled moan erupting from your mouth as he made you come hard. 

Father Charlie groaned as he came shortly after, spilling inside of you. And fuck, even he could feel how much he filled you up. 

He pulled the now wet cloth out of your mouth as you both felt his warm cum dripping down your inner thighs. He replaced the handkerchief with his fingers, gliding two of them across your tongue, in and out of your lips as he said, “You’ll come back, won’t you?” He whispered against the corner of your mouth as you caught your breath while sucking on his fingers. “Now that you got a taste of what it’s like, you’ll be back as often as you can just to let me fuck you again. Won’t you, little lamb?” 

—

a/n: call me sister megan bc i’m frothing–

[jesuistrestriste]

♡ Nice Guys Finish Last; Art Donaldson x Reader ♡

nsfw! (18+) cw: soft dom!art donaldson, sub!reader, afab/fem reader, porn w/ a little plot, penetrative sex, unsafe sex/pullout method, slight edging (reader!receiving), equal desperation, praise, general filth, art is a softie until he's not

wc: 4.2 k

*does not include challengers spoilers!*

prev. art donaldson fic : <3 here <3

It was currently 11 PM in the state of New York, and Art Donaldson was in your hotel room.

-

Earlier today, you had competed in a long singles tennis tournament for a cash prize, and had beat every other girl in the bracket. You walked away from it with five-hundred more dollars in your pocket than you had walked in with, and a smug grin on your glossy lips.

Art Donaldson had competed in a similar tournament at the same venue, except it involved doubles teams playing against one another. He had played with his typical partner, Patrick Zweig, and they, too, had beat everyone in their bracket.

Tomorrow, they would be playing against one another to determine the ultimate winner.

You had watched them play, and they had watched you play too.

After the venue had shut down for the night, you had begun to wander back to your hotel a few blocks away and coincidentally bumped into the two boys heading back to the same building.

You three talked—or rather, they had buttered you up with compliments as you all went up the elevator, and suddenly you were in their hotel room drinking cheap beer from cold metal cans.

They both flirted relentlessly with you for about an hour or two, before Patrick had called it a night (and had given up on trying to woo you) and told you and Art that he was going to sleep.

Art had given you a look and nodded towards their room's door with a small smile, silently suggesting something. Thirty seconds later the both of you were standing alone in the hotel hallway. He chatted you up and praised your tennis-playing for about ten more minutes, his blue eyes staring into yours with an earnest desire to hold your attention. You had laughed and flushed with a nervous heat while he sang your praises, and then a bout of silence came over the two of you. He looked down to his shoes, letting out a soft chuckle, and then back up to your eyes.. and then down to your lips. The buzz of the fluorescent lights above made the silence seem more tense than it already was.

After tossing the reality of this interaction around in your head, you had realized that his kind, sensitive, charming persona was effectively rendering you weak in the knees..

"You're really pretty, by the way.. i don't know if i've said that yet, but you are," he had spoken in the hallway, leaning his shoulder against the wall as a lock of his strawberry-blonde curls hung in the center of his forehead.

And that was it.

Five minutes later he was in your hotel room.

-

The both of you kicked your shoes off in the doorway, and then moved to sit on the edge of your hotel room bed. Your chest and hands felt strangely hot as the young, talented tennis player sat there next to you. After a few moments of shared bashful glances, you started to notice things about him that you hadn't before.

Sometimes when he smiled, only one corner of his lips would lift up. When that happened, it looked more like he was smirking than he was smiling, which made him seem either disingenuous or disinterested -- even though it seemed that neither of those things were true.

He smelled like generic aftershave, faint sweat, and warm skin, which was a pleasant contrast to the smell of the hotel room. While the hotel was clean, it was also old, which made the permeating scent of the carpet akin to something like the stale basement of a childhood home.

He fidgeted subtly with his hands, staring into your eyes before averting them to look around at your luggage and tennis bag on the floor.

"So.. you said you're going to Stanford this fall, right?" you say, leaning back on your palms.

"Yeah, yeah," he nods, turning his head to look back to you again with a sheepish smile, “and you’re going to Harvard?”

“Mhm,” you hum, smiling back at him, “is Patrick going with you?”

He laughs a little, his brows furrowing, “Patrick? Hell no.”

You shake your head, “why not?”

“Patrick isn’t the college type. He wants to go pro immediately.”

“Ohh.. right, I forgot he mentioned that.”

“Yeah,” Art shrugs, still giving you a soft look as he shifts a little in his spot on the end of the mattress.

“I think you’re better off at Stanford without him,” you tease slightly, a playful smirk on your face.

He smiles wider, “Why?”

“I think he’d just get you into trouble,” you chuckle.

Art laughs again, a tiny bit harder than he did before, and you’re not sure if it’s because he genuinely likes your playfulness or if it’s because he’s a little nervous.

"You don't think I can cause trouble?" he asks with a small smile.

You shake your head after letting a soft giggle bubble up and out of your chest in response.

"Nah, not really."

"Why's that?"

"You're just so.. so nice."

He scoffs lightly and gently rolls his eyes, reaching up to tuck some of his messy hair behind one of his ears. He chews a little on the inside of his cheek.

"What?" you laugh.

"Everyone me and Patrick meet thinks he's this cool 'bad-boy' and I'm just this.. meek little 'nice guy'," he chuckles, matching your body language now by also leaning back on his palms.

Your smile falters slightly when he does this, but only because now the sleeve of his gray tee shirt was brushing against your bare shoulder, and your faces were a short distance apart. If you tried, you could probably just lean in and kiss him..

"It's not a bad thing to be a nice guy," you smirk, continuing your guys' little back-and-forth.

"Yeah, but there's, like, connotations behind that idea of a guy."

"What 'connotations'?"

He lets out a stiff chuckle, averting his eyes down to his legs before he returns your eye contact once again as he speaks, "I don't know.. that I'm 'shy', or that i 'cant be assertive'.."

You smile, feeling another wave of warmth creep over your stomach just from the way he was looking at you. His eyes were soft but steadily looking into yours, and each second felt like three years.

"So you're saying that those assumptions aren't true?" you tease gently, subtly moving to lean your shoulder against his. He noticed this immediately.

"God!" he laughs, slightly offended but still playing along, "do they seem true?"

"No," you say a bit softer with a smile, your eyes unintentionally drifting down to his pink lips. He noticed this too.

"Okay, good," he leans in a little more, your lips only a handful of inches apart now ".. 'cause they're definitely not."

"Really?" you chuckle, still teasing him.

He nods, "Really, really."

You could feel your heart beating rapidly in your ribcage, and then you started to wonder if he could hear it. Your lips part, little breaths being let out as you lean in an extra two inches. He smirks, and then you feel him move his right hand off of the bed and over your thigh. Its gentle and almost hesitant; giving you the opportunity to say 'no' if you wanted to.. but you didn't. you definitely didn't want to say no.

Your breathing hitches a little and your thighs shift slightly to capture his fingers between your limbs, and he looks steadily into your eyes as his digits squeeze your flesh softly.

"I'm not that shy," he murmurs lowly.

And then his lips are on yours, hot and hungry and eager to please. Your brows furrow as you kiss him back with equal ferocity, and his other hand moves to gently cup your cheek.

His tongue lathes over your bottom lip, and you open your mouth wider so that he can slide it in and taste you better. He groans softly against your smooth, parted lips, his hand between your thighs sliding up to press his palm against your clothed heat. A shaky, barely audible moan escapes your lips as this happens, and he swallows it down as he kisses you harder.

Art's hands then move to slide under your athletic tank top, and he pulls away with lidded eyes to mumble lowly and warmly against your jaw, "can I take this off?"

You nod feverishly, breathing heavily, as you lift your arms above your head while he pulls your shirt up and over. He tosses it aside once it's off like it's trash to him, and then he's diving back in to kiss and suck and nip at your neck. You're sure that he'll leave marks, but you can't find the strength or willpower to deny how hot it would be to look in the mirror later and see all of the little red blotches that his pretty mouth left behind. A few soft "ahh"s and "oh"s slip from your parted lips as his tongue flicks over your pulse point like it’s a clit, and you can feel your cunt clench around nothing. Without further warning, both of his hands slide up to grope your breasts over your sports bra, and your back arches instantly.

"I want to see more of you," Art whispers against your neck, one of his hands moving back to gently grope your thigh right under the hem of your shorts, while his other starts to hook one of his fingers under the elastic band of your bra.

"Yeah, yes," you mumble and nod, your eyes fluttering shut as you feel his silky tongue lap gently over the sensitive spot on your lower neck again.

He pulls back, his lips shiny with his own saliva, and he lets out a small huff of air as he stands up from the bed and shifts to stand in front of where you're trembling on the edge of it.

Your eyes meet his, and you now fully realize that his whole "nice guy" thing was a facade.. maybe it was just a protective cloak he put on until he got comfortable..

Regardless, he looked different now as he stood in front of you, breathing heavily as his gaze drank in the sight of your body. He takes a step closer, his knees touching the end of the bed as his legs stood steadily between yours. He looks down, shifting his left knee to push your legs farther apart, and you have to bite down on your bottom lip to stifle a whine.

Not a moment later, he's reaching down to pull your tight sports bra over your head. It drops from his grasp onto the floor, his breathing hitches as he looks down at your exposed chest, and then his hands are moving to roughly knead and squeeze at your soft flesh underneath his palms. You shudder and bite your lip. He thumbs your nipples.

His eyes move back up to return your gaze, and he leans down and starts to crawl on top of you, his body gently coaxing yours to lay back flat over the patterned comforter. You don't need a verbal cue from him to know what he wants and what his goal is; his body did all the talking -- just like it did when he played tennis.

"Fuck," he breathes out, his erection straining against the inside of his boxers as it presses against your bare abdomen. A lift of your hips is all the indication he needs from you to tell him that you're as desperate for this as he is right now, and so he gingerly begins to slide one of his hands down the front of your shorts. His touch dips under the waistband, and then before you can process the sensation, you realize that he's moving down into your panties too. One thing that you are painfully aware of, though, is the fact that he never tries to break eye contact while he does all this..

"Ahh.." you moan, your brows pinching up as you feel his warm fingertips brush over your throbbing, sensitive nub. He was hardly touching you, but it was enough to get the fire roaring in your guts. It was more than enough. He knew all the right ways to touch you.. and all the right spots to squeeze and caress.. which seemed crazy considering you two had never spoken to one another until about three or so hours ago.

He smiles gently, his eyes now moving to gaze down at your lips. The pads of Art's fingers begin to play with your clit, rubbing soft and incessant circles over the ball of nerves as you start to squirm on the bed. His head leans back down to kiss your neck and your hands shakily grab onto his shoulders. A laugh escapes him, coating your flesh in a bath of warm air, while he feels your nails dig into him. Even over the fabric of his cotton tee shirt he can feel this, and he winces slightly before the sting of your grip dissolves into pleasure and he starts to moan along with you.

A few more minutes of this go on, and the band in your stomach is stretched more and more until it feels like it's about to snap, and then-

"I really want to fuck you right now," Art murmurs against your skin, his fingers coming to a pause as he pulls his face from the crook of your neck to look down into your dazed eyes.

You blink a few times, feeling the numbing pressure in your pussy start to fade as he unintentionally edges you.

"yes, please.. I want you to.." you softly whimper, your hands reaching up to needily tug at his shirt.

"I don't have a condom," he whispers breathlessly, shaking his head softly as his gaze falls onto your lips now.

"I.." you pause, taking a second to breathe as you attempt to think over the predicament you're now in, "uhm.. I- well, I don't really care.. as long as you pull out.."

It's almost as if just the idea of him being able to be inside of you—skin to skin; raw—sets him off, because the moment the words leave your mouth, he's letting out soft breathy moans and grinding his clothed pelvis against your thigh. You can feel him throbbing through the fabric, and now you're certain you can't wait much longer. Neither can he.

Your hands pull on his shirt again, forcing his face back down close to yours, "I want you inside of me.."

A groan and a grunt later, he's scrambling to pull his shirt off, and then his shorts, and then his strong calloused hands are gently tugging yours down as well. Art doesn't want to waste time on the act of undressing. Sure, he liked being tender and going slow most times, but this occasion was different. The more that he felt himself leaking into his underwear, the more he needed to feel your silky cunt grip around his cock. Maybe if he got your number after all this, he could go slow next time, but not now. Not when he's like this and you're like that.

When your panties are pulled down with your shorts, Art lets out a groan as he sees the fabric connecting with your delicate flesh via a glistening string of arousal from your heat.

"Jesus Christ," he huffs, his tongue moving to dip out over his bottom lip involuntarily. He pushes your shorts and panties down the rest of the way, and you urgently kick them off onto the room's carpet.

After he moves back up, one of his hands reaches down once again to your cunt. His fingers gently brush over your slicked-up folds, causing your body to jolt and shudder as you struggle to remain quiet. In the next instant, you feel his touch leave your body and you watch in awe as he brings his digits up to his lips and sucks your juices off of them. He rolls your wetness around over his tongue and his eyes roll back a little. He can't help it—you just taste so fuckin' good.

"Art," you whisper, your voice dissolving into a soft whine, "c'mon.. just- I want you to-"

You're cut off when the man hovering over your form moves his fingers from his mouth and down to yours, effectively shutting you up.

"Suck," he whispers.

You do as you're told instantly, parting your lips to engulf his middle and ring finger in wet heat; your drool pools over his fingertips as your tongue swirls around them and tastes the mix of his saliva and the remnants of your arousal.

He watches with bated breath as you do this, his eyes never leaving your face, and he can’t stop himself from pushing his hard, clothed dick against your bare cunt. Your eyes flutter. A string of whimpers echo out into the room from your chest, and you can feel more of your wetness slide down from your entrance.

Art keeps his fingers in your mouth as he uses his other hand to pull his hard-on out of his black boxer briefs, groaning as he taps your clit with the tip of it a few times. Each time his leaking cockhead touches your sensitive parts, your hips buck up. He didn't think it was physically possible to get as turned on as he was right then.

He shifts his pelvis back so that he can slide his dick over your sticky body, not pushing in quite yet, but just teasing your greedy hole. The feeling of your heady moans around his fingers cause them to vibrate, and he leans down close to your face on instinct.

Your breath catches in your throat. Your eyes blink open and you whimper as he uses his digits to gently force your lips to part so that he can shove his tongue past them. Art licks at the inside of your mouth, groaning while he subtly removes his fingers and brings them down to your clit once more. He slots your bundle of nerves between his index and middle finger, sliding them up and down to effectively stroke over your most sensitive area as you feel his cock prodding at your hole.

While his tongue laps over yours, his mouth eagerly swallowing the obscenely loud moans you're letting out as your climax approaches once again, he begins to slide his tip into you. Your eyes instantly open wide before your face scrunches up in pleasure and your hands desperately paw at his shoulders.

He slides in another inch.

And another.

And then two more.

And then he bottoms out completely, filling you wholly with his twitching length as he pulls his face back from your lips to gasp softly.

You look up at him as his brows furrow, and you wriggle underneath him as he lets out a soft growl.

"You're so tight.. shit, you feel so good," he murmurs lowly, his eyes on yours as he starts to slide himself slowly back out before thrusting back in. You can feel him hit your cervix. You'd let him bruise it if he wanted to.

And he wants to.

"Fuck me harder," you moan softly.

"Yeah?" he smirks, breathing heavily.

"Yeah."

He leans up so that his back is straight, and he gazes down at you while he slides his hands under your form to gingerly cup your lower back.. and then he's pounding into you without further warning.

Your back arches up from his hold, and every thrust of his thick cock into your cunt is sending explosions of numbing heat throughout your lower half.

Each movement of his hips results in a lewd squelch as his pelvis slaps into the underside of your ass, and every movement sends you closer and closer to the edge. He's groaning and moaning above you, watching your every move as you squirm around and take him properly. You want to be good for him; he can tell.

Whimpers and needy whines are forced out of you as he fucks you with abandon into the mattress, and your mind is forced back into reality once you feel his hands move from your back to your sensitive tits.

"Are you gonna cum? You're squeezing down on me," he breathes out, a loud groan cutting his words off as he tips his head back. His thrusts grow sloppier, "oh god, oh fff-u-uck.."

"Ye— Uhh- Ahh-!" you hoarsely and brokenly moan out, unable to fully give him an answer. Your hands fist the cool sheets under you as your legs start to involuntarily squeeze together with the onslaught of your impending orgasm.

Art brings his head back up to look down at you, and he shakes his head, sliding his hands down from your breasts to your legs to lift them up and spread them apart gently but forcefully.

"Keep them spread.. I know you're close," he says softly to you, "I promise I'll let you come.. just keep being good for me.. I'm almost there.."

Once his words fill your fuzzy head, you can't help but let out an obscenely loud—borderline-pornographic—moan as your thighs shake in his hold. His cock slams into you faster, but with less and less precision. He bites his lip before his jaw slacks and he lets out an equally loud moan to accompany your filthy noises.

"You're so fucking pretty... you're so— you feel so damn good," he babbles gruffly, his touch digging into your legs as his hips rashly thrust his throbbing length in and out of your sopping pussy.

You nod, unsure of what to say or how to even respond in the state that your body is in. You're somehow limp and tense at the same time, your body shivering as your back arches up again.

"I— I'm gonna—!" you gasp out in a shaky whimper.

He moans at your words, fucking you deeper and messier, before he leans down over you and you can feel his broad toned chest press against yours.

"Say it.." he breathes out against your ear in a soft groan.

You moan, shuddering under him as your cunt starts to rhythmically tighten around him.

"I'm gonna cum," you whine, nearly sobbing.

"Fuck," he groans, "yeah? Say it again for me."

"I'm gonna cummm-!"

"You wanna cum on my cock?"

You nod helplessly, your arms wrapped around his flushed upper back as his cock slides in and out of you; his tip constantly brushing up against that special spot in your velvety walls hidden just a couple inches inside.

"Yess-s-!" you moan, your body absolutely writhing on the bed under his heavy form.

"Okay.. alright," he breathes out hotly into your neck, "go on and cum for me."

Before you can process what's going on, your body is overwhelmed with an overpowering heat as the last thing you distinctly feel is one of Art's hands moving down your lower abdomen to then rub circles over your swollen bud with his thumb. And that's all it takes — you’re thrown over the edge.

"Fuck! OH MY GOD, OH—!" you cry out, your nails digging into his back as he fucks you through your climax.

He groans harshly and loudly against your warm skin before his hips stutter with the feeling of your hole pulsing around him. He keeps his digit rubbing incessant, soft circles over your clit to prolong your orgasm as he forces himself to pull out with a gasp.

His balls draw up and he reaches down quickly with his other hand to stroke over his length just as he feels his release start to rise up.

As you moan tremblingly and bask in your afterglow, you try to catch your breath as you shakily push yourself up onto your elbows just in time to watch Art squirt out a thick load over your torso. Rope after rope of sticky white fluid drips and gushes from his cock and between his fingers as he jerks himself off; shuddering deeply over you and letting out little "fuck"s and "oh my god"s and "yes"s.

After a few more shaky moments tick by, his thumb comes to a halt over your clit as he watches the last drops of his cum fall onto your stomach.

He breathes heavily, biting his lip as he watches your body shake. He loves the way his cum looks on your beautiful body.. it's like liquid pearl splattered all over you. He takes several mental pictures of the scene in front of him before he collapses on top of you with a soft grin.

You chuckle breathily, wrapping your arms around him as your warm bodies stick together in the aftermath, and he presses two soft kisses to your neck. One of your hands slides up from between his shoulder blades to run some of your fingers through his messy curls. He shivers and sighs, sliding his hands under your body to hold you closer to him.

A small period of comfortable silence is held between you two as you both work to catch your breaths, before Art is the one to break the quiet with a soft murmur into your shoulder.

"So.. can I get your number?"

"After round two," you whisper with a smile.

"Deal."

note; this is for everyone who voted for soft dom!art donaldson in that poll + the anons in my inbox asking for this sort of dynamic w/ art <3 much much much love !

divider credit: @benkeibear <3

[xneens]

just a friend

he’s just a friend … but.

He’s just a friend, but he sleeps over almost every night. Whether you’re begging him to stay the night because you need a pillow or angry with him for insulting your friends, he’s there on your bed, substituting as a body pillow. No matter what position you fall asleep in, you always wake up draped across his chest, face nuzzled against the crook of his neck.

He’s just a friend, but he spoils you constantly. He gifts you a diamond tennis bracelet when your cat dies, hoping to cheer you up. He buys a convertible when you finally get your driver’s license, grinning when he sees your gleeful face. He showers you with your favorite flowers when get into your dream college. He buys whatever you look at when you take him shopping, repaying him with a kiss on the cheek, and it’s enough for him.

He’s just a friend, but you’re his only soft spot. Everyone else walks on eggshells around him, worried about being in his warpath. Even his own family wasn’t an exception to his hostility, especially after he stopped trying to win his dad’s approval. He does everything you want him to because why wouldn’t he? Hold your bag? No problem. Pick you up from a party? His pleasure. Stop being a rich, egotistical asshole? For you and you only.

He’s just a friend, but he’s your date to every formal and informal function. It’s just easier that way, you both explain to your friends. Midsummer’s preparation goes smoother when you already have a date, someone who will dance with you without complaint, someone who’ll make fun of whatever headpiece Rose is wearing, and someone who’ll sneak out early to drive their dad’s boat to another island.

He’s just a friend, but he knows everything about you. He comes with you to the doctor, dentist, and gyno visits for moral support, sometimes going in the room when needed. You had brought up being codependent but he quickly waves it off. He’s stocked a drawer in his bathroom with tampons and pads, and a few bottles of Tylenol in case you get your period on the nights you stay at Tanneyhill. He carries a cooler filled with water in his car because he knows you hate the intense heat. He wears an extra pair of sunglasses tucked in his shirt for you when you both go to the beach because you always manage to forget yours.

He’s just a friend, but his family thinks you’re dating. Sarah keeps asking you if you are, hoping to drag the truth out. You tell your friend no, laughing at the thought. Ward sits him down to talk after catching him admiring you during breakfast. He stays silent. Rose questions you about what she should give Rafe for his birthday, thinking the same as her husband. You laugh again at the thought, not noticing the way his jaw clenches when you make fun of the idea.

He’s just a friend, but he hates it when guys flirt with you. You’re too pretty to be entertaining guys who are far below you. He strains a muscle from resisting the temptation to punch the man standing too close to you, bicep veins popping out from the resistance. He drags you away when the guy tries to cage you against the wall, making up an excuse, needing help with containing a drunk Wheezie.

He’s just a friend, but he can’t go a minute without thinking about you. When life separates you, despite Rafe’s plans to be at your side twenty-four-seven, he texts you. He ignores Topper and Kelce’s snickers as he pulls his phone out during a round of golf, taking a picture of the sunset to send to you. His friends’ teasing is worth it when you text him back, telling him how much you like his improving photography skills.

He’s just a friend, but he can’t fight the urge to attack the guy kissing you. He blacks out, rage consuming every cell in his body as he breaks the man’s nose and grasps his throat until his hands leave bruises. His brain doesn’t focus until you’re back in his line of sight, blue eyes meeting yours. Despite the man coughing on the ground, surrounded by concerned partygoers, you pay no attention to the injured, instead, pulling Rafe away before yelling at him in his room.

He’s just a friend, but he’s at your door with flowers, apologizing. He stammers out an apology because he was never good at them, and never had the maturity to admit he was wrong and beg for forgiveness. When you stare at him with a blank look, he gets desperate, taking your hands in his and slowly dropping to his knees, eyes pleading with you. He promises to never get that violent again, and you believe him because Rafe Cameron could never lie to you.

He’s just a friend, but he kisses your forehead every night after you fall asleep, waiting for you to doze off before doing so. He presses his lips to your head, warmth in his heart as it yearns for yours.

He’s just a friend, but he wants to be more.

[afterglowsainz]

hey lovely, just wanted to send something in for your spotify wrapped blurbs that your doing so i'll say my current driver obsession mr oscar piastri and number 21 since that's how old i just turned <3 please and thank you of course, love your work always <3

too soon to tell you “i love you” | oscar piastri

song; risk - gracie abrams

a/n: happy birthday love!! and thank you so much! i hope you like this (finally some fluff)🤍

part of the spotify wrapped special

It had been a long time since you'd gone out with a guy you genuinely liked and thought was worth it. Lately, all the men you met were either a bit idiotic and obsessed with talking about paddle (since when did the male species decide that paddle was cool?) or mansplaining how crypto worked and why they were convinced they'd be millionaires by 25 (okay? I guess).

Oscar was the exception.

You met him when you started working at McLaren as part of the photography team. Your job mainly involved taking pictures of him and Lando, though your camera held far more photos of the Australian driver than the Brit. You knew he’d had a girlfriend with whom things hadn’t worked out, and you were aware it was a bit risky to pursue something with him since you both worked at McLaren. But you couldn’t ignore the smile on his face when he realized it was you behind the camera or how he spent more time talking to you than anyone else in the paddock.

Though Oscar also talked a bit about paddle (you still didn’t understand why they didn’t just play tennis), you didn’t mind listening when it was him. You could listen to him talk for hours and never get tired of it. Not that this would ever happen—Oscar wasn’t the type to talk excessively. Still, sometimes you just liked watching him. He was that handsome, at least in your eyes.

You didn’t know exactly what it was about Oscar that others didn’t have—or maybe it was just the fact that you hadn’t liked anyone in so long—but your attraction to him evolved into something similar to a teenage crush. When he texted you, you’d get excited, and you blushed every time he told you you looked pretty. Your best friend wouldn’t stop teasing you about it.

Sometimes, you wondered if this was a mistake, if it was a red flag to feel so much for Oscar so quickly. But then his fingers would brush against yours when you talked, or he’d tuck a strand of hair behind your ear to see your face better, and the butterflies in your stomach would go wild.

"I like you a lot," Oscar said out of nowhere one day as you watched the sunset from a lookout point. "I don’t know if this is a risk, but I’d take it for you." He hadn’t looked into your eyes when he said it, but his hand had moved closer to yours, and you could feel the warmth of his fingertips on your knuckles.

“I don’t care if it’s a risk or not,” you replied.

That was your first night together. The next morning, you woke up to a bouquet of fresh flowers next to your bed and Oscar without a t-shirt, making breakfast.

Was it too soon to tell him you loved him? Probably. Even though you felt it in every vein of your body, you held back the words and simply gave him a slow, lazy morning kiss.

God, you were truly invested in this. If it ended up being a mistake, it would definitely be your favorite mistake. There was no turning back now.

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 || 𝚔𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗

in which you stopped looking back

You graduated early.

Not because you were trying to prove anything. Just… because staying felt like suffocating.

UConn had too many ghosts. Too many empty chairs. Too many late nights walking past the gym where you knew she’d be—except you never went in. Not once. Not after.

So you finished your degree, packed your car, and drove across the country with everything you owned crammed in the backseat and a playlist long enough to drown your thoughts.

San Francisco felt far enough.

It was the job that sealed it—a communications role with a tech startup that liked your clean resume and liked your voice even more. You took the offer before you could talk yourself out of it.

You didn’t tell anyone where you went. Not even mutual friends. It was easier that way.

Clean slate. New sky. Different ocean.

You don’t expect to meet her at a dog park.

But grief’s funny like that.

You’re sitting on a bench with a notebook open on your lap, the kind you still carry even though your job’s mostly Slack messages and decks now. You’re jotting down lines that don’t go anywhere, half-poems you’ll never finish.

You don’t notice the tennis ball roll up to your foot until there’s a low woof.

You glance up.

Golden retriever. Panting. Tail wagging. Big brown eyes staring at you like you hold the answer to all of life’s questions.

And then you hear the voice.

“Sorry about that—he thinks everyone wants to play with him.”

You look up again.

She’s tall. Athletic build. Blonde hair pulled back in a braid. Black Valkyries hoodie, sleeves rolled. Her smile is wide and warm, the kind that’s easy to get used to if you’re not careful.

You hold up the tennis ball. “He’s not wrong.”

She grins. “You new around here?”

You nod. “Just moved.”

“Welcome to the best coast,” she says, extending her hand. “I’m Kate.”

You hesitate for half a second, then take it.

Her grip is solid. Steady.

“Nice to meet you,” you say. “I’m… still getting used to the time difference.”

“You’ll adjust. And if not, the coffee’s better here anyway.”

That makes you laugh—quiet, but genuine. A flicker of something you haven’t felt in a while.

Kate watches you for a beat too long.

Her dog trots over, tail still wagging.

“He’s not subtle,” you say.

“Neither am I,” Kate replies with a wink. “You live around here?”

“Couple blocks that way.”

She nods. “Me too. Small world.”

You don’t know what makes you say it, but you do, “What do you do?”

Kate shrugs like she’s used to people not recognizing her. “Basketball.”

You tilt your head. “College?”

“WNBA.”

Your eyebrows raise.

“Golden State Valkyries,” she says. “Just moved here with the expansion. Number twenty.”

“Oh.” You blink. “You’re that Kate Martin.”

She laughs. “Depends. Which Kate Martin were you thinking of?”

You smirk. “The one whose buzzer-beater made my cousin cry in March.”

Kate grins. “Guilty.”

You glance down at the notebook in your lap. The half-written sentence. The empty line that follows.

“Well,” Kate says, throwing the ball again, “if you ever want a tour of the city, I give a decent one. And I know the best burrito spot in the entire Bay Area.”

You hesitate.

She sees it.

Something flickers behind her smile—something kind. Patient. Like she’s not going to push.

“No pressure,” she says. “Maybe I’ll just see you here again.”

You nod. “Yeah. Maybe.”

You do see her again.

Three days later.

Same park. Different bench. This time, you’re sipping coffee and pretending not to wait for her.

She sees you first.

“Told you,” she says, dropping onto the bench beside you, ��best coast.”

You glance sideways. “Still undecided.”

Kate bumps her knee against yours. “I’m working on it.”

You don’t tell her about Azzi at first.

It takes months.

Of dog park conversations. Shared coffees. Quiet walks where neither of you says anything because the air already feels full enough.

She texts you sometimes—mostly memes, weird food pictures, photos of her dog wearing sunglasses.

You laugh more than you used to.

Smile more freely.

Grief, for the first time, starts to feel like something soft around the edges.

The night you tell her is cold.

You’re sitting on her couch after a win, both of you still buzzing from the energy. She’s sprawled across the cushions with a hoodie half-zipped, feet in your lap. You’re nursing a ginger ale and trying to ignore the way her laugh makes your chest ache.

And then she asks, softly, “Who was she?”

You blink. “What?”

Kate’s eyes stay on yours. “The one who still lives in the way you look at sunsets. And coffee. And dog parks.”

You stare at her for a moment. “Her name’s Azzi.”

Kate nods. Doesn’t speak. Just waits.

You tell her about the mornings. The silence. The way it ended before it ended.

You don’t cry. Not this time.

When you finish, Kate doesn’t say anything profound.

She just shifts closer and takes your hand.

And you realize you’re not waiting anymore.

You’re healing.

It doesn’t happen all at once. Nothing worth keeping ever does.

It happens the way sunlight finds the edges of your window before you’re ready to wake. The way laughter creeps into your chest when you least expect it. The way Kate doesn’t ask for pieces of you—you just start giving them.

You think the shift starts the night she asks if she can stay.

“You look exhausted,” you tell her as she kicks her shoes off in your entryway.

Kate sighs dramatically. “We had film, weights, and media today. One more question about how it feels to be an underdog and I might retire.”

You chuckle. “It’s week two of the season.”

“Exactly. Premature burnout is real.”

You raise an eyebrow as she flops onto your couch like she owns it.

“You want dinner or sympathy?”

“Both,” she mumbles into a pillow.

You order Thai food.

She helps you clean up even though she didn’t lift a finger to cook, and afterward, you both end up sitting on the floor with your backs against the couch, legs stretched out in front of you, her shoulder brushing yours like it's always meant to be there.

Somewhere between the second can of La Croix and you gently wiping curry sauce off her chin, she yawns.

And you say it—quiet, instinctive, “You can stay, if you want.”

Kate’s eyes flick up to yours. “You sure?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

She sleeps in your bed that night.

Fully clothed. A soft snore. The dog curls up at her feet like he already knows.

You lie awake a little longer, staring at the ceiling, counting breaths. It’s not romantic. It’s not even new. But it feels like something coming home.

After that, it becomes a pattern.

A rhythm.

She stays sometimes. Not always. Just when the air feels heavier and neither of you wants to say goodbye at the door. There’s no sex. No confessions. Just shared toothpaste, mismatched socks, and the way she knows how to fill the silence without crowding it.

She never kisses you.

Not until you’re ready.

It’s raining when it finally happens.

You’re both sitting on the balcony of your apartment, knees pulled up, mugs in hand. The city lights blink soft in the fog. There’s music playing faintly from inside—something mellow and wordless, like a thought that hasn’t formed yet.

Kate’s eyes are on the sky.

“Did you ever think it’d be like this?” she asks.

You glance over. “What?”

“Growing up. Getting older. The parts they don’t prepare you for.”

You think about it.

“No,” you admit. “I thought it would be simpler. Happier.”

Kate hums. “Me too.”

You sip your tea. “Are you happy now?”

She looks at you for a long moment. Then sets her mug down.

“I’m trying,” she says. “But sometimes it feels like I’m waiting for something I haven’t named yet.”

Your breath catches. “Me too.”

And she kisses you.

It’s soft. Intentional. No fireworks, no dramatic movie score. Just her lips on yours—gentle, reverent, like she’s asking permission and promising not to run.

You don’t pull away.

When it breaks, her forehead rests against yours.

“You okay?” she whispers.

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Did that feel okay?”

You meet her eyes.

“It felt like the first thing in a long time that didn’t hurt.”

Afterward, nothing changes all at once.

You don’t suddenly start calling her your girlfriend. You don’t delete old photos or stop dreaming about a life you almost had with someone else. But you do start saying goodnight with a kiss. You start looking forward to grocery trips together. You start smiling at the sound of your door unlocking at the end of a long day.

And when you cry—on a Wednesday afternoon for no reason at all—Kate doesn’t ask you to explain. She just holds you, murmuring quiet things into your hair like, “You don’t have to be okay every day,” and, “I’m not going anywhere.”

One night, as you lie curled into her chest, you whisper, “Do you ever feel like we’re building something with pieces that broke off other things?”

Kate runs her fingers through your hair.

“All the time,” she murmurs. “But that doesn’t make it any less real.”

You press your face into her shoulder and breathe her in—clean laundry, mint, and something that already feels like home.

You still think about Azzi sometimes. But it’s not a wound anymore. It’s just a scar.

And tonight, you’re not living in a memory. You’re living in the moment.

With Kate.

It doesn’t happen in a moment. You don’t wake up one day and stop thinking about her. That would be too easy.

Instead, it fades.

A little more every day.

You notice it in the quiet first. The way your thoughts no longer drift toward the “what if.” The way you go a full morning without remembering how Azzi used to take her coffee. The way you catch yourself smiling at nothing in particular — just Kate’s toothbrush next to yours. Her flannel thrown over the back of your desk chair. The way she hums when she cooks eggs.

You stop dreaming about the past because you're finally living something that feels like a future.

It hits you, slowly, that Azzi doesn’t live here anymore.

Not in your apartment.

Not in your chest.

Not in your every thought.

She was your before.

But Kate… Kate is your after.

And you’re starting to realize after doesn’t mean lesser.

It means survived.

It means stayed.

The first game you go to, she doesn’t know you’re there.

Kate had brushed it off during breakfast that morning. “It’s just preseason. Nobody comes to preseason.”

You didn’t argue.

You just bought tickets anyway, because the truth is, watching her play feels like watching the sun crack open a storm.

You sit in the third row behind the bench, hoodie up, coffee in hand, sunglasses hiding your face even though you’re indoors. She doesn't spot you during warmups. Doesn’t even glance into the crowd. She’s too focused. In the zone. Fierce and fluid, her jersey clinging to her shoulders like it was stitched to her skin.

The game is fast-paced. Tight. She plays like she’s been doing this her whole life.

You find yourself yelling — not just cheering, yelling — every time she makes a three.

A guy behind you laughs. “You her sister or something?”

You grin. “Or something.”

When the Valkyries win in overtime and she’s mobbed by teammates, she finally scans the crowd.

You wave once.

She stops.

Mouth open.

Then she smiles — big and bright and real — and blows you a kiss in front of thousands.

“You came.”

That’s the first thing she says when she barrels through your door that night, still in her post-game sweats and ponytail.

“I always will.”

Kate drops her bag, walks right up to you, and wraps her arms around your neck. “I played better because of you.”

“You didn’t even know I was there until the fourth quarter.”

She leans back just enough to look at you. “Didn’t matter. I felt different. Stronger.”

“You hit five threes.”

“And I thought about you after every one.”

You shake your head, blushing. “You’re ridiculous.”

She kisses your cheek. “I’m in love.”

You blink.

She freezes.

And for the first time, she looks scared.

“I didn’t mean to say it like that,” she says quickly. “Not like some big thing. It just slipped out—”

You press your hand to her chest. “Say it again.”

Kate blinks. “What?”

“Say it again,” you whisper.

She breathes in. “I’m in love with you.”

Your heart catches.

Because for the first time in years, there’s no shadow in your chest. No ghost in your lungs.

Just Kate.

You take her face in your hands.

And say it.

“I’m in love with you too.”

The moving in part isn’t dramatic either.

It’s just… the next step.

It starts with a toothbrush. Then her record player. Then the drawer in your dresser that fills up with her team-issued hoodies and Valkyries gear.

One night, while folding laundry, you hold up her socks and say, “Do you want a key?”

Kate glances over, frozen with a spoonful of peanut butter halfway to her mouth.

“A key?”

“Yeah.” You toss her the socks. “I mean, you practically live here.”

She blinks. “Are you sure?”

You nod. “I want you here.”

She sets the spoon down slowly. Walks over. Pulls you in.

“I was scared you’d never say that,” she whispers into your hair.

You look up. “I was scared I’d never feel safe enough to.”

The first night you officially live together, she makes you dinner.

It’s awful. Undercooked pasta. Over-salted sauce.

You eat every bite.

She watches you with wide eyes. “You hate it.”

“I love it,” you lie, chewing bravely. “It’s aggressively seasoned.”

“You’re such a liar.”

“I love you.”

She grins. “Okay, that works.”

You do dishes together. She sings off-key. You splash her with water.

Your dog watches from the doorway like he’s never seen you this happy.

Maybe he hasn’t.

“Did you ever think we’d get here?” you ask her one night, curled on the couch with her legs over yours, TV on mute.

She turns her head. “Here as in…”

“As in this. Together. Safe. Full.”

Kate studies your face for a long second. “I hoped. But I never expected it. I figured you’d leave a little space in your heart for her forever.”

You go quiet. “I did.”

She nods.

“But not anymore.”

Kate turns. “Really?”

You nod, voice quiet. “I don’t think about her the way I used to. Not with ache. Just… a chapter. One that had to end to make space for this.”

Kate looks like she might cry. You kiss her before she can.

Her lips taste like home.

The smell of eggs wakes you before the light does.

You shuffle into the kitchen wearing her oversized Valkyries hoodie, hair a mess, eyes half-closed.

Kate’s already flipping something in a pan, hair wet from a shower, humming off-key.

She doesn’t turn around.

“You’re up late,” she says, grinning. “That’s two days in a row. I’m starting to think you’re becoming a night owl.”

You lean your head against her shoulder. “I was up at 6:30 yesterday.”

“Only because the dog farted directly on your pillow.”

“Betrayal from within.”

She laughs, sliding eggs onto your plate. “Breakfast of champions.”

You raise a brow. “This is toast with cheese and scrambled eggs.”

“Exactly.”

You both eat at the kitchen island, barefoot, knees touching under the counter.

No phones.

No rush.

Just soft chewing and the scrape of plates and the quiet understanding that this—this—is peace.

“You’re not getting that,” you say, grabbing the double-stuffed Oreos from the cart.

Kate gasps. “You monster.”

“We have five packs at home.”

“Yeah, but these are seasonal.”

“They’re red. That’s the only difference.”

“They taste festive.”

You laugh, setting them back on the shelf. “I’ll make you homemade cookies.”

“You just want an excuse to use your stand mixer again.”

“I love my stand mixer.”

Kate bumps your hip with hers. “I love you more.”

A kid behind you groans dramatically. “Ugh, get a room.”

You and Kate just smirk at each other.

No room needed.

This aisle is enough.

Sometimes, the nights are chaotic.

Pizza boxes. Game replays. The dog racing back and forth with a sock you never meant to sacrifice.

Sometimes, they’re quiet.

Kate builds a pillow fort in the living room with you one Saturday just because she can.

You watch a movie under the blanket ceiling, her hand on your thigh, her thumb drawing slow circles that say everything she hasn’t said out loud yet.

“I’d marry you tomorrow,” she mumbles against your neck.

You laugh. “Bold of you to assume I’d say yes.”

Kate pulls back. “Oh, really?”

“Maybe I’m holding out for a ring.”

She grins. “So you would say yes.”

You kiss her. “Try me.”

She kisses you back. But nothing happens the next day. Or the next week. And you let it go. Because you trust her timing. Because loving her has never been about pressure.

Just presence.

You come home from work late.

There’s no big buildup.

No camera crew.

No rose petals on the floor.

Just Kate standing in the kitchen with flour on her cheek, baking something that smells like cinnamon and home.

You drop your bag.

Tilt your head. “What’s going on?”

She shrugs. “Felt like making cookies.”

You walk over and kiss her cheek. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I know.”

There’s music playing quietly in the background. A soft guitar instrumental. One you used to play on loop when your hands shook too much to type.

Kate takes the tray out of the oven and sets it down with a soft smile.

“Want to try one?”

You nod. Grab one.

Take a bite.

Something hard clinks against your teeth.

You blink.

“What the hell—?”

Kate is already grinning.

You pull out a small, sealed plastic capsule.

You stare at her. Then back at the cookie. Then at her again.

“No,” you whisper, heart in your throat.

She’s already kneeling.

She opens the capsule.

Pulls out a delicate gold ring.

Simple. Elegant. So Kate.

“I don’t want the big moment,” she says. “I want the small ones. Forever. The boring days. The mismatched socks. The way you hum when you make tea. I want every grocery aisle and pancake morning. I want you in all your moods. I want the quiet — if you’re in it.”

You can’t breathe. Can’t speak.

“I want home,” she says. “And that’s you. So… will you marry me?”

You laugh through a tear. “You baked my proposal.”

She shrugs. “I knew you’d be hungry.”

You grab her face and kiss her so hard the flour from her cheek dusts your lips.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes. A hundred times yes.”

She stands, spinning you, and you don’t remember the last time you felt this light.

The dog barks. The oven beeps again.

The world keeps spinning.

But you — you’re still in her arms, saying yes.

You’re a few months into married life when the question starts to surface — not like an explosion, but like mist curling under the door.

It’s not a moment. It’s a million of them.

It’s Kate falling asleep on your chest mid-movie with your hand resting low on her stomach. It’s watching her at a Valkyries fan event, signing a little girl’s jersey and kneeling to tie her shoelace like she’s been someone’s mom forever. It’s you looking up from your laptop one morning, seeing her reading an article titled “10 Things No One Tells You About IVF”, and quietly bookmarking it.

It’s not if anymore.

It’s when.

You’re folding laundry together on the living room rug, legs criss-crossed, piles of socks between you.

Kate holds up a tiny onesie.

You frown. “Why do we have that?”

“It’s from when your niece visited.”

“You kept it?”

She shrugs. “It’s soft.”

You stare at her.

She stares back.

The moment stretches, long and open and weightless.

You speak first. “I’ve been thinking about it.”

Kate sets the onesie down carefully. “Me too.”

You swallow. “For how long?”

“A while,” she admits. “Since before we got married.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want to rush you.”

You look at her. “Kate… nothing about this feels rushed.”

She exhales slowly. “Okay. So what do we do next?”

You smile.

“We figure it out.”

The research phase is brutal. Endless acronyms. Clinic visits. Folders full of pamphlets.

You talk about adoption.

You talk about IVF.

You talk about sperm donors, legal rights, insurance loopholes, parental leave.

Kate makes a spreadsheet.

You make a playlist called “Baby Fever”.

Your dog seems to know something’s happening. He stays close, rests his head on your lap more often.

One night, Kate’s curled up against you on the couch, her fingers tracing your thigh under the blanket.

“What if I’m not good at it?” she asks quietly.

“At spreadsheets?”

“At being a parent.”

You tilt her chin gently so she’s looking at you.

“Kate, you’ve been taking care of me since we met.”

She smiles, but it’s fragile.

You cup her cheek. “You are steady. Patient. Kind. You lead with your heart. That’s all a kid really needs.”

Her eyes shine.

“You’ll be good too,” she whispers.

You kiss her forehead. “We’ll figure it out together.”

You both start sleeping later. Not because you’re tired. Because you're dreaming out loud more. The first time you think it’s happening, it’s a Tuesday.

Nothing dramatic. No morning sickness or glowing cheeks. Just… a pause.

A quiet shift in your body.

You’re brushing your fingers over your lower stomach while Kate folds towels on the bed. She doesn’t say anything at first, just watches you with that look — the one that’s both too careful and too full of hope.

“What are you thinking?” she asks, breaking the silence.

You shrug. “I feel different.”

Kate freezes, towel half-folded.

“Different how?”

You hesitate.

“Just… tired. And sore. And I cried at a Subaru commercial this morning.”

She puts the towel down.

You don’t say it out loud. Neither of you does.

But you feel it.

Maybe.

You lie in bed, feet tangled, sheets kicked off.

“What would we name her?”

Kate’s voice is soft, drowsy. “Her?”

You shrug. “Just feels like a girl.”

Kate hums. “I like Avery.”

You smile. “I like Eliza.”

“We sound like we’re picking out names for a dog.”

You glance at the dog asleep on the foot of the bed.

“He is named Pancake.”

“Fair.”

You roll onto your side. “Would you want to carry, or…?”

She blinks. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“I think I want to.”

“Yeah?”

You nod. “I want to know what it’s like. To feel her kick. To know I brought her into the world.”

Kate’s hand slides to your stomach, warm and steady. “You’re gonna be so hot pregnant.”

You snort. “That’s your takeaway?”

“I will be unhinged. Emotionally. Physically. Biblically.”

You throw a pillow at her.

She catches it, laughing, then pulls you back in and kisses your forehead. “You’re going to be a great mom.”

And for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a dream anymore.

It feels real.

The first test comes three days later.

Negative.

You stare at the single line like it betrayed you.

Kate sits beside you on the edge of the tub. Doesn’t say anything for a long time.

You finally speak, voice small. “I really thought this was it.”

She nods. “Me too.”

You lean into her shoulder, forehead resting against her collarbone. She wraps her arms around you and rubs slow circles into your back.

“We’re okay,” she whispers. “This doesn’t mean anything. Just one try.”

You nod.

But the ache stays.

Not disappointment — not exactly.

Just the weight of almost.

The second time, it’s worse. Your period’s a week late. You don’t tell her right away. You can’t bear to watch the hope bloom in her eyes again if it’s only going to wilt. But she notices anyway.

“You’ve been quiet,” she says, one night, over pasta.

You poke at your food. “Just tired.”

“Work tired or something else tired?”

You hesitate too long.

Kate sets her fork down.

“Babe.”

“I didn’t want to get ahead of anything,” you say. “But it’s been a week. I didn’t want to say it out loud and jinx it.”

She’s already reaching for your hand. “Can I be excited now?”

You nod.

She squeezes your hand tight.

You take the test two mornings later.

Kate’s in the kitchen making coffee. She doesn’t hover. She knows you like to be alone.

You stare at the stick for ten straight minutes before the second line never comes.

It stays blank.

Stark.

Silent.

You walk into the kitchen with the test still in your hand.

Kate sees your face.

“Oh,” she says.

That’s all.

Just, “oh.”

You nod.

She doesn’t cry.

You do.

Just a little.

Into her hoodie, against her chest.

She holds you while the coffee pot beeps behind you.

“Maybe next month,” she says softly, but even she doesn’t sound convinced.

You whisper, “I don’t want to feel like this every month.”

And that — that makes her cry.

Just a tear or two. Quiet.

Because you both want this so badly it aches.

Because you know it’s not a promise. Not for people like you. Not even with science and love and timing on your side.

Later that night, you’re curled together on the couch. The dog is asleep. The TV’s playing some documentary neither of you are really watching.

Kate strokes your hair.

“Can I ask you something?”

You hum. “Yeah.”

“If it never happens… if we keep trying and trying and it never works…”

You look up.

“I’ll still choose you,” she says. “Every time.”

You press your face to her chest and whisper, “You’re already everything.”

Kate finds you in the kitchen at 2 a.m., wrapped in a blanket, nursing a glass of water you don’t remember pouring.

She doesn’t speak at first.

Just pads over in her fuzzy socks and wraps her arms around you from behind.

You lean into her.

“I don’t know if I can do this again,” you whisper.

Kate rests her chin on your shoulder. “Then don’t. We’ll stop.”

You turn to look at her. “You don’t mean that.”

She shrugs. “I mean… I want this. With you. But if you need to stop, we stop.”

You stare at her for a long moment.

“Tell me why we’re doing this,” you whisper.

Kate’s eyes are soft but certain. “Because I’ve seen the way you hold our friends’ babies. Because you tear up when you see toddlers in bookstores. Because I’ve seen how gently you love things. And because I want to raise someone with you who knows that kind of love.”

You look down at your hands.

“Do you still believe it’ll happen?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “But I still believe in us. And that’s enough to try again.”

You let the silence sit between you. “Okay. One more time.”

You don’t want to take the test.

Not because you don’t want to know. But because this is the last morning you still could be pregnant. Before the world says yes or no. Before it becomes fact.

There’s something sacred about this space — this limbo between believing and knowing. Between maybe and mama.

Kate’s still asleep when you slip out of bed, pulling her hoodie on over your tank top. The apartment is dark except for the faint glow of sunrise seeping under the blinds.

You pad barefoot into the bathroom. You take the test. You set it on the edge of the sink.

And you wait. Heart pounding. Eyes closed. You don’t look at it right away. You brush your teeth. You pet the dog.

You check your email, even though there’s nothing there but a newsletter from that baby site you accidentally subscribed to months ago.

Then you go back. You pick it up.

Two lines.

Two.

Not faint. Not tentative.

Clear.

Positive.

You don’t breathe for three whole seconds.

Then you sit on the floor.

And cry.

Kate finds you like that.

Hunched in the corner of the bathroom, clutching the test like it’s breakable, tears tracking silently down your cheeks.

She doesn’t panic.

She knows you.

Instead, she kneels in front of you, eyes scanning yours.

You hold the test up.

She reads it.

And for a long, long moment, neither of you speak.

“…You’re pregnant?”

Your lip trembles. “I’m pregnant.”

Kate lets out a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

She cups your face in both hands, pressing kiss after kiss to your forehead, your nose, your wet cheeks, your lips.

“You’re—you—you did it. Holy shit, babe.”

You nod.

Still stunned.

“I thought I imagined it,” you whisper. “Every symptom. Every ache. I thought I was doing that thing where my body fakes it again.”

Kate shakes her head, forehead resting against yours. “Not this time. You’re really pregnant.”

You let the words sit in the air.

Later, you're on the couch in her lap, wrapped in a blanket, both still in pajamas.

You hold the test between you like it’s a photograph of the future.

“I think I’m still in shock,” you admit, voice quiet.

Kate kisses your temple. “We’ve been preparing for this so long… and now that it’s real, it doesn’t feel real.”

“What if I mess this up?”

“You won’t.”

“What if something goes wrong?”

“We’ll handle it. Together.”

You rest your head on her shoulder. “What if I fall apart?”

“I’ll hold you.”

You glance up. “What if I need pancakes at 3 a.m.?”

Kate grins. “You’ll have pancakes at 2:59.”

You laugh, finally.

The first real, full one in weeks.

Kate pulls you closer, palm resting over your belly.

“I love you,” she whispers. “And I love them. Already.”

Your hand covers hers.

And for the first time — it really sinks in.

You’re not waiting anymore.

You’re beginning.

You decide to tell your people together.

It feels right.

You’ve kept so much close to your chest for so long — the early attempts, the heartbreak, the negative tests — but this time is different.

This time, it’s not a maybe.

This time, you get to celebrate.

And you want to do it with the people who carried you both when you couldn’t carry yourselves.

You and Kate settle in on the couch with your laptop propped up on a pillow and the dog nestled between you like he’s also in on the secret.

Kelsey Plum joins first, her camera at an odd angle, her head half cut off.

“I swear I know how Zoom works,” she mutters, adjusting. “Hi, gays.”

“Hi, chaos,” Kate says.

“Where’s the party?”

Then A’ja Wilson joins, sunglasses on indoors, sipping from a water bottle roughly the size of a toddler.

“Alright, what’s this emergency meeting?” she asks. “Y’all getting matching tattoos or something?”

Sydney Colson joins last, mid-laugh. “Please say you’re starting a reality show. Or a pyramid scheme. Or both.”

Kate smirks. “Better.”

“I knew it,” Sydney says, raising both hands like she just got baptized.

You glance at Kate.

She nods.

You hold up the ultrasound photo.

There’s a beat.

Then Kelsey screams.

“NO. YOU’RE—”

“I’m pregnant,” you say, already tearing up again.

Sydney gasps. A’ja stands up and disappears off-screen entirely. You hear the thump of her running around her house.

“Y’all really—?!” Sydney is blinking hard, trying to recover. “Wait. Wait. Is this for real?”

“For real,” Kate confirms, brushing a tear off her cheek. “We just hit eight weeks. Everything looks good so far.”

“I’m gonna cry,” Kelsey says, already tearing up. “Like, real-life tears. Y’all did it. Y’all really did it.”

A’ja finally returns. “I had to grab my fan,” she says, dramatically waving herself. “I’m emotional and sweating. My girls are gonna be moms?!”

You nod, overwhelmed.

Sydney leans forward. “So when do we get to be the drunk aunties?”

“Immediate effect,” you say. “Full clearance.”

Kelsey snorts. “Don’t play, I already got tiny Nikes in my cart.”

“I want the baby to call me ‘God-tier Auntie Sydney,’” Sydney says.

Kate rolls her eyes. “We’ll see how they feel about titles once they’re verbal.”

“Can I call dibs on introducing them to basketball?” A’ja asks.

“You’ll have to fight Kelsey,” you say.

“You know I’d win,” Kelsey says, deadpan.

Sydney screams.

It takes twenty minutes for the call to calm down. You sit there, teary, hand in Kate’s, watching them love you from across the country.

It feels like your baby is already being welcomed home.

“You’re glowing,” Kate says one morning, watching you sip orange juice in her old Iowa hoodie, which now barely fits over the swell of your lower belly.

You blink at her. “I’m sweating.”

“Glowing.”

“I haven’t slept in three days. I cried because a pigeon walked into traffic.”

Kate nods, totally unfazed. “Glowing.”

You roll your eyes, but inside?

You like it.

You like that she’s seeing you in ways you’re still learning to see yourself.

You’re brushing your teeth when it happens.

A faint, fluttery pressure.

You freeze. You wait. You press your hand against your belly and whisper, “Kate?”

She’s in the other room. “Yeah?”

You’re still frozen. “I think…”

She appears in the doorway, toothbrush still in her mouth, eyes wide.

You grab her hand, place it low on your stomach, and wait.

Then another flick. Soft, like a tiny stretch.

Kate gasps so hard she chokes on her toothpaste.

“OHMYGOD!”

You both start laughing, clutching each other, your mouth still full of minty foam, her eyes wide with tears.

“She kicked,” you whisper.

“She kicked.”

Kate drops to her knees right there on the bathroom tile and kisses your belly.

“You already know how to make an entrance,” she whispers to your bump. “Just like your mom.”

You raise an eyebrow.

Kate winks. “Not you. The dramatic one.”

It becomes a nightly thing.

Kate talks to your belly.

Not cutesy stuff, either — actual conversations.

“Hey, baby. So your mom cried because we ran out of pickles. And then again when we found more pickles.”

“She lies. I did not cry.”

“She wept. She sobbed. She almost named you Vlasic.”

You kick her from the couch.

Later, in bed, she speaks in hushed tones.

“Your mom is braver than she knows. She carries both of us, you know? And I think you’re going to be like her.”

You pretend to be asleep, but your fingers curl around hers.

You’re in a bookstore, wandering the children’s section, when Kate pulls a book off the shelf and reads the title out loud.

“‘Mama, Do You Love Me?’”

You nod.

She opens it, reads a few lines silently, and then quietly says, “I’m gonna read this to her someday.”

You stare at her.

At her calm, certain face. At the way her fingers graze the pages like they’re already part of your baby’s life.

And that’s when it hits you.

Not just that you’re pregnant. Not just that you’re having a daughter. But that you get to raise her with Kate.

And suddenly the past doesn’t hurt anymore. Not in the same way. You are not a broken thing building something new.

You are whole.

And you’re about to bring someone into the world who will be loved from the very beginning.

Sydney Colson is in charge of the games.

Which is the first mistake.

She shows up in a tiara and a “Hot Aunt” sash and hands out whistles with rules like, “If anyone says the word baby, you lose a point.”

Kate immediately says, “Baby.”

Sydney blows her whistle in her face.

Kelsey Plum is in the corner judging the food table like it’s a Michelin restaurant.

A’ja makes a playlist called Womb Vibes that includes Destiny’s Child, Sade, and one rogue Wu-Tang track.

Tiffany Hayes wins “Who Knows Kate Best” with disturbing accuracy.

Kate’s mom, Jill, brings a homemade quilt and starts crying as soon as you open it.

Kate’s sister, Kennedy, hands you a framed photo from the day you found out you were pregnant — the one Kate secretly took of you crying on the bathroom floor, holding the test like it was the whole world.

You cry for most of the afternoon.

And when the guests leave and you’re surrounded by tiny socks and bottles and notes scribbled in pastel-colored cards, you whisper, “It feels too good to be real.”

Kate kneels in front of you, hands resting on your knees.

“It is real,” she says. “Because we made it.”

You wake up to pressure.

Not pain, not at first — just a dull weight in your lower back, like something heavy settling inside your body. The clock on the nightstand glows just past 3 a.m. Kate is still asleep beside you, one hand draped over your stomach, her breathing soft and even.

You lie there for a while, not moving. Not yet. Not sure if it’s real.

Another wave comes. Sharper this time. More insistent.

Your breath catches. You close your eyes.

It’s happening.

It’s finally happening.

By the time you gently shake Kate awake, the pressure has turned to pain — not unbearable, but growing. She blinks at you, confused at first, and then wide-eyed as she sees your expression.

“Is it time?” she whispers.

You nod. “I think so.”

She’s instantly out of bed, already in motion. Her calmness doesn’t mask the tremble in her voice when she says, “Okay. Okay. Hospital bag. I’ll get the car ready.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, both hands cradling your belly. “Don’t forget the playlist.”

She freezes, mid-sock. “Are you serious right now?”

You give a shaky smile. “Contractions Vibes was your idea.”

Kate exhales a breathless laugh, kisses your forehead, and disappears down the hall, mumbling, “God, I love you.”

The drive to the hospital is quiet except for the faint hum of the engine and the soft shuffle of your breath. You grip the side handle of the passenger seat and wince through another contraction. Kate reaches over and squeezes your hand. Her thumb runs circles over your knuckles the whole way.

You’ve both rehearsed this moment so many times, but now that you’re living it, everything feels strangely distant — like you’re watching it happen from outside your body.

Kate speaks gently as she pulls into the parking lot. “You’re doing so well, babe. We’re almost there.”

You nod, but your hands are shaking.

You’re not sure if it’s fear or adrenaline or both.

In the hospital room, the air is cold and sterile, the fluorescent lights too bright. Nurses move quickly around you, efficient but kind. Kate stays by your side, her hand never leaving yours. The pain builds with each contraction — sharp and tightening, like your body is folding in on itself. You grip the sheets, the bed rail, her fingers. Anything to ground yourself.

“Breathe with me,” Kate says, her forehead pressed to yours. “In and out. Just like that. I’ve got you.”

Her voice is the only thing that cuts through the pain.

Time becomes something elastic — it stretches, contracts, loses shape. Hours pass, or maybe minutes. You’re not sure. You only know that your body is opening, splitting, preparing. You’re afraid. You tell Kate that. Quietly. In the moments between.

“I’m scared,” you whisper into her shoulder.

“I know,” she says. “Me too. But we’re doing this. Together.”

She wipes sweat from your brow, kisses your knuckles, murmurs encouragement even when you curse, even when you sob, even when you scream through the pain. She doesn’t flinch. She just stays.

That’s what love does.

When it’s time to push, the room shifts again. More people. More light. The midwife’s voice is calm but firm.

“You’re doing great. You’re almost there.”

You dig your heels into the bed. You bear down. You scream. Kate’s hand anchors you, and her voice is in your ear the entire time.

“You’re so strong. I’m right here. You’ve got this. I love you. I love you.”

You don’t know how long it takes. You don’t care. You only care about what comes after.

And finally, a cry.

One sharp, perfect cry that breaks something open in your chest.

You collapse back against the pillows, breathless, exhausted, shaking.

The baby is placed on your chest, tiny and warm and slippery and real.

She cries, and so do you.

Kate’s crying too. She’s covering her mouth with both hands, staring at the little girl in your arms like she’s witnessing a miracle.

And maybe she is.

“She’s here,” you whisper.

Kate nods, brushing tears from your cheeks. “She’s so beautiful.”

You both stare at her — blinking, squirming, perfect. She grips your finger, impossibly small.

“Hi, baby,” you say, voice thick. “I’m your mama.”

Kate leans in. “And I’m your mom.”

Your daughter yawns, already content. Like she knew this was home all along.

the room quiets.

The nurses step out.

It’s just the three of you now.

Kate lies beside you, one arm cradling your shoulders, the other resting gently over the baby sleeping on your chest. You’re both quiet. Not from exhaustion — though that’s there — but from reverence.

This is the beginning of something holy.

You whisper into the stillness, “We did it.”

Kate kisses your temple. “You did it.”

You shake your head. “We did.”

She looks down at your daughter.

And then back at you.

And smiles.

You’re at Golden Gate Park with your kids on a warm Saturday afternoon, sunlight slicing through the trees in golden slivers. Your daughter is three, your son one—both wrapped in the kind of laughter that makes every sleepless night worth it. You sit on the bench nearby, coffee in hand, sneakers scuffed from the short walk over, eyes tracking their every move.

You’re still not used to how full your life is. But you love it.

“Mommy!” your daughter yells, waving wildly. “Doggie!”

You look up, smiling. “Where?”

She points.

And that’s when you see her.

Azzi.

She’s walking along the trail with a golden retriever bounding in front of her, a leash still dragging behind. Her hoodie is baggy, hair tied up, sunglasses low on her nose. She bends down, laughing softly as she grabs the leash—then straightens.

She sees you.

Everything stops.

Your breath catches. It’s not a punch to the chest. It’s a slow, deep inhale of something you buried a long time ago. Something that still smells like fall mornings in Connecticut and heartache at 3 a.m.

You meet her eyes.

And Azzi… she doesn’t look away.

You don’t move at first. Neither does she.

You just look at each other—six years of silence coiling in the air between you, humming like a wire too taut.

Azzi makes the first step.

“Hey,” she says. Her voice is soft. Hesitant.

You nod, standing slowly. “Hey.”

[wyniepooh]

Know

art knows you like no one else. he knows you better than you know yourself.

standford!art x reader. mentions of alcohol. cheating on reader’s part but it’s valid bc her bf is an ass. art knows he can treat u better than ur shitty bf, and proves it.

“You have to know, right?”

“what?”

your words came out slurry and slow, and it took all your might to not let your squinted eyes close. through the sliver of what you could see, art sat opposite you, back against the side of his bed and beer bottle in hand.

you chuckled, “I don’t know what you-“

“That he treats you like shit.”

you stop in your sentence, choosing instead to fill your mouth with another sip of your beer. You gulp down the prickly liquid, wiping your mouth as you say, “you don’t know anything about us.”

He shrugs. “I know you’re spending a Friday night getting drunk with his roommate, rather than accompanying him to that fancy tennis gala he was invited to.”

you shook your head casually, taking another full sip before speaking.

“I’m wasn’t interested. You know I don’t play, right? i didn’t want to-“

“Did he ask?”

you laugh, running a swift hand over your face. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he sat up slightly, scooting a little closer to where you were. you had your legs crossed, and you were drowsily leaning on the side of your boyfriend’s bed. he propped his elbow on a raised knee. “did he even ask you to go?”

you smile slowly faded as you looked down, sucking on the inside of your cheek as you tried to focus instead on the harsh, brown carpet of the room. Faded music could be heard from the other rooms, and usually, you’d be in one of those dorms, partying it down, but tonight, you much prefer the silence.

“No,” you whispered.

He cleared his throat and took another swig. “you know, with the way he talks about you and the way he acts around you, you would think everyone knows exactly how he feels about you. everyone except yourself.”

He chugged what was left in his bottle, tossing it to the side where a pile was beginning to accumulate. He stared straight at you with half-closed eyes and pressed his lips together. “honestly, sometimes, I think you know too. deep down. I think you know exactly what he’s thinking, exactly what he’s going to do to you, and yet you choose to ignore it.”

“Why?” He asks. there was a look of genuine concern and confusion of his face. his expression was pained, as if the idea of you suffering hurt him more than you.

You nibble at the bottom of your lip, hoping that the pain of the peeling skin would stop the tears from running. your actions were done in vain, as your tears had already begun to form and fall. Suddenly, you feel a warm finger on your face, gently swiping away at your dampened cheeks.

The pad of his thumb stayed on your cheek while the rest of his hand uncurled around your jaw. “You have to know, right?”

“Yes,” you sniffled, “of course I know he treats me like another one of his fan girls that he tosses away after-“

“No, not that,” he mutters.

“look at me.”

He guides your chin up until your eyes are parallel with his, and for the first time that night, you get a good view of his face. His overgrown blonde hair scattered all over his face, some across the front of his blue eyes. They seemed to not be able to concentrate in one place, flickering from your hair to your nose to your chin. You were sure that your cheeks were as flushed as him from the alcohol and the embarrassment, so much so that heat was practically radiating off of the two of you.

“what are you talking about, then?”

he sighed, dropping his hand from your face and slumping his head down at the same time. you could feel his warm breaths escaping his nose and hitting your cold knees.

Finally, he looks up, brows creasing as he responds, “how I feel about you.”

he parts his lips, struggling to find the words. “You have to have already known, right? I mean, all the times I’ve wiped away your tears and and comforted you because that asshole did something stupid again.” A beat passed.

“I know I can treat you so much better,” he breathes, “if you would just let me.”

Somewhere between his first question and his last, the proximity between of the two of you had closed. His arm suddenly wraps around your neck as he pulls you into him, digging his nose into the space where your shoulder and neck connects.

“Please,” he mutters.

chills spill down your body from his words, and you simply pause in all of your thoughts for a moment. Finally, you close your eyes and hug him tight around his waist as he tenderly rocks you back and forth.

you’re the one to pull back, and at first, you see a glimmer of disappointment in art’s eyes. but then you lean close, and closer, and, for the first time tonight, he smiles. He further guides your actions by placing a hand on the back of your head, not letting go even once your lips have connected with his.

your own fingers scratch at the back of his curls, and you swear he laughs against your mouth. You bask in the sounds of your mixed pants and the electric buzz generated from the delicate connection of skin in the otherwise quiet room, and it brought upon a lightness in the air, something you hadn’t felt since earlier that day when you first saw art in the dining hall.

“I know,” you mumble against his lips, stopping for a minute to catch your breath. You rest your forehead on his, eyes still closed as you caress his glowing face with both hands. he laughs again, harder this time, and you join him, repeating the same two words over, and over again.

-

a/n: hey google play the historically significant song treat u better by shawn mendes

[timidgrace]

𝜗ৎ miss you — art donaldson

— art x fem!reader ^_^

cw: smut without plot, oral (f! receiving), fingering (f!receiving), tiniest bit of dacryphilia if u squint.. overall very 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝓪𝓵𝓲𝓬𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼 stuff 👅👅👅.

୨୧ author’s note : hi tbis is my first fic so my writing sucks okay bye 🔥 hi sorry hi

it’s obvious to you that art has a very busy life. being an incredibly successful tennis player is not for the weak.

technically, not for your poor, sweet boy.

of course, art had an immense amount of talent and he loved what he did. but god fucking damn it— all those tournaments, endless training, the exhaustion afterwards.. all of it meant he’d be away from you, away from the loving arms he just loves to nuzzle against, from the long legs he loves to rest in between. it’s the most mentally draining part of playing tennis, in his opinion.

rewatching the big bang theory for what seems like the 20th time, hair dripping wet from the shower, the doorknob makes a little noise and you look up.

first it’s his smell. then his right foot. then his head. then a smile, from the both of you.

“hi”, your voice cuts through the air, silent, except for sheldon’s endless blabbering about.. what was it? you don’t remember anymore.

without wasting another second, he jumps into your arms, your loving arms that he missed so much. he sighs, “hi, missed you so much, hi.”

running your hands through his hair, tickling the fine hairs on the back of his neck, you press a fond kiss to his forehead. he hums.

it’s been too long since you’ve held him like this. too long since you’ve smelled his cologne mixed with sweat, the scent filling your nostrils to the point it’s uncomfortably pleasurable; too long since his hands had squeezed your waist.

too long since something funny poked your thigh.

“art, hon?”, you smile and look down at him. he’s already crying from embarrassment.

“‘m sorry”, he whispers, getting up, wiping his tears, sniffling, “i can’t.. i can’t help it, ‘m so sorry, baby.”

“oh, hon”, you reply fondly, yet you can’t seem to contain the chuckle that escapes your lips. seeing him cry is a veritable sight. sometimes you wonder if he does it on purpose because he knows you get off to it. “cmere, ‘s okay, hm? it’s fine.”

you gather his tall frame (which now seems small) into your arms, kissing his forehead, nose, finally reaching his lips. you cup his jaw and gently squeeze it, making it slack just enough so you’re able to slide your tongue inside his warm mouth. he moans and you swallow the sound while your hand travels down to his thigh, dangerously close to his already hardened shaft, before your thumb brushes against his crotch.

“mmgh—“, he whimpers as quietly as he can before reluctantly pulling away from the kiss, a string of saliva following him. “pl-baby, please”, a breath, along with a sniffle.

you smile wickedly. there we go. he’s now reduced himself to begging— not at all surprising, but amusing nevertheless. “please, art? what are you being so polite for?”, you tease with a smile— no, a smirk— on your features.

“come on, babe”, he whines, tightening his grip on your waist. “i need it s’bad, please, please..”

“you need it that bad?” your hand is close. so close. your nail grazes his tip and he gasps, nodding frantically.

then you riiiip his shorts off him. his boxers follow behind. his cock, pre-cum just barely forming on his tip, slaps against his abdomen.

“there. what do you need?”

he doesn’t know. it just came to him that he doesn’t want to be touched. he wants to touch.

in a second, he’s on you, desperately sliding your panties off your legs and throwing them carelessly on the floor (or maybe it fell somewhere else, you’re too busy to care), arms around the back of your knees, long fingers spreading your lips and— god, you’re dripping. he moans lewdly at the sight.

burying his face between your legs, nose brushing against your clit, he laps incessantly at your folds. you gasp, you moan, your hips buck, you tug at his blonde strands.

“mmmh, yes, yes—“, you groan, legs wrapping around his head, heels on the back of his neck, pushing him forward. he moans, shaking his head from side to side, looking up at you with teary eyes.

a finger circles your entrance. oh, god, oh, god.

you nod frantically. you know he’s not going to tease you, but still, you’re desperate.

it slides inside you, gummy walls tightening with every inch. then it begins to move: leaves just so his nail’s at the entrance, then back inside. then another finger.

“mmh, tastes so good”, art moans, eyebrows furrowing in concentration, eyes fluttering shut before opening again because he realized he doesn’t wish to stop looking at you.

his fingers speed up in the slightest but you feel it. you feel it and you moan in delight, “mmh, yes, yes, keep going, art— mmh!”

your hips buck and he presses his head even closer to you, gently sliding another finger.

“art,” you moan, head lolling back in ecstasy, “baby, i’m gonna cum, yes, ‘m gonna—“

before you can even finish speaking, your orgasm hits. hits so hard. your hips buck and you grasp the fabric of the sofa desperately in an (failed) attempt to ground yourself. you gasp, you writhe.

art gently slides his fingers out of you, bringing them to his lips and licking them clean of your juices, humming as he enjoys the taste of you.

with a sigh, he presses a gentle kiss to your lips and pulls back to whisper,

“i missed you.”

[cowboyschumi]

ANGEL

Summary: Who was Max Verstappen when the cameras were off? A mystery to everyone but a reality for you. A four-time champion is more than just a mentality, and luckily, you went through all those layers to finally reach who he really is.

Author's note: First time writing for Max, so bear with me as I try to portray a realistic personality for him! Flashbacks are aligned differently for clarity and easier reading. As is typical of me, there's a song inspiration for every fic. Not my finest work. English is not my first language sorry for any typos.

Warning: Slight mentions of cursing, mental health, drinking; jealousy and intercourse.

————————————————————————

COWBOYSCHUMI | 2025 All rights reserved. Do not copy, translate, or upload on other platforms.

————————————————————————

No one knew how on earth you pulled Max. Not because of his status or wealth, but because you somehow ended up dating the man who was the devil reincarnated on track.

The answer was simple and it was the number one rule in your relationship: what happens on the track stays on the track. No rage, no outbursts, no carrying emotions home. Managing feelings. Was it easy at first? Absolutely not.

"Breathe in, breathe out." Those stupid breathing exercises of yours, that’s what he used to call them. And now, they were one of his top habits, something he did every morning and before bed. He was a new man with you, no doubt about it. Max sat on the edge of the bed, the one permanently covered in cat hair, while you knelt behind him. Connected by body contact, by the rhythm of your synchronized heartbeats and breathing. Your torso pressed against his back, one arm wrapped over his shoulders, and your free hand resting gently on the center of his chest, rising and falling with each of his now-steady breaths.

Managing emotions wasn’t for everyone. You had to know when to react, how to handle things. Anyone else might have freaked out at Max’s outbursts, but not you.

He definitely wasn’t a verbal guy. Occasionally, he made exceptions, but his love language was acts of service and quality time—an action-based way of showing how grateful he was for your patience and love. Sometimes, he outdid himself, crossing the line into extravagance.

"I mean… they didn’t look that big in the photo, I swear." His thick Dutch accent always became more noticeable when he was nervous. That was an indoors thing though, because there was no way Max Verstappen would ever let nerves show in front of the press. But around you? He was a mess. He had bought you flowers. Not just a bouquet, a whole bed-sized arrangement, so massive it nearly swallowed the room. There was no reason behind it, no special occasion. Just a sudden, over-the-top surprise.

Sometimes, Max felt like he owed you something, or like too much time had passed since he last gave you a gift. And when that happened, he’d show up out of nowhere with the most ridiculous, oversized boxes imaginable.

There were nights when he fell asleep first, and you stayed awake, watching him—running your fingers through his still-damp shower hair—wondering how you even ended up by his side. If you hadn't taken the time to get to know him, you probably would have run away at first glance, judging by how awful his first impression was: a man who didn’t seem to care about much of anything.

But as time passed, you realized the two of you weren’t so different. It was the little things that brought you together—sharing the same interests, enjoying the same comforts. There was a quiet peace in the home you shared, despite the occasional chaos of his late-night gaming sessions. He napped with the cats while you baked, or you’d both sit in the living room—paddle tennis playing in the background—while you lost yourself in a book. Everything was perfectly balanced, respecting each other’s schedules and space without overstepping. That’s why spending all day together never felt suffocating. Living together, coexisting, wasn’t a burden the way it ended up being for so many other couples.

Cracking him open took months, maybe even a solid year. There were dates where he barely spoke, post-race weekends where he completely shut down, and times when he disappeared without a word. It took you a while to understand that every person, every emotion, is its own world. You couldn’t be behind him constantly, checking in like some obsessed detective. Everything had its time. He would open up when he was ready.

You certainly didn’t expect him to open up on a Monday at midnight, after winning a race.

"He drank—just a little bit," Daniel Ricciardo grinned widely, as always, helping you carry Max into his apartment. No shit, Sherlock. The younger driver could barely stand, stumbling over his own steps. After Daniel overexplained for the millionth time—without bothering to hide his amusement—that Max always drank this much at parties, you shoved him out through the front door. Oh, how you wished you could share his optimism. And there you were, alone with the drunken enemy. Though, not much of an enemy now, considering he was about to pass out in his party clothes, sprawled across the couch. Arms crossed, a jokingly disapproving look on your face, you stared at him from across the room. "Bet you even drank from the flower vases." "Don’t make me say a word, or I’ll throw up any second," He shot back, his usual sarcastic and sharp tone. The cameras knew him for this side of his personality. You were already used to it. Once again, you guided him to bed, making sure he lay on his back so the dizziness wouldn’t hit as hard. More than a few times, he complained that the ceiling was spinning. "Hold me," He murmured, not demanding, just needy. You stood frozen beside him, and he had to say it twice before you snapped out of your daze. His head rested on your lap now, the sound of the ceiling fan filling the quiet room with a soft hum. The dim, warm glow from the bedside lamp cast shadows on his face, highlighting the sheen of sweat from the party still dripping down his skin. Curled up beneath you, ready to sleep for the next eight hours, he hadn’t even registered that you hadn’t congratulated him yet. "I’m proud of you," You sighed, running your fingers along his back. His black shirt clung to his body, outlining the definition of his muscles. No response. You hadn’t expected one. That had always been your dynamic from the beginning—being present, caring, without expecting anything in return. How could you ask for love from someone who had never learned how to receive it? Someone who had never truly felt it? "Fuck you." His voice was muffled against your lap, trying to silence the quiet sobs that shook his body. Even now, you hadn’t figured out how to get him to swear less. You’d have to work on that.

It took him a long time to figure out sex, he barely knew the basics. To him, it had always been just a mechanical act, nothing more than pulling in and out. Aftercare wasn’t even in his vocabulary.

It felt like moving backward, but in the purest, sweetest way. Learning each other’s bodies from scratch, asking if every touch, every movement felt okay.

You gave sex meaning for him, the feeling of making love, rather than just bodies colliding.

"Do I have to dress up for that?" Max asked, tossing his shirt aside. He wasn’t joking about not wanting to wear a costume, he was genuinely concerned about the possibility. You brought the word foreplay into the conversation. Perplexed was an understatement. His reaction caught you off guard for a second, but then you laughed it off. Him not knowing? Actually hilarious. You hooked an arm around his neck, pulling him closer as you lay back on the bed. Keeping deep eye contact, without any warning at all, your hand trailed down—palming him through the fabric of his clothes. Slowly, deliberately, letting your touch explore every warm inch possible without actually giving him what he needed most. In an instant, his head nestled against the crook of your neck. His handling span was subtle, as if unaccustomed to your overwhelming attention. "It's about teasing each other just the right amount," You murmured. "Testing our limits playfully."

From an outsider’s perspective, anyone would assume he was a wreck in bed, and truthfully, he used to be. In fact, if you asked him to go back to his old ways—ruthless, relentless—he wouldn’t hesitate to leave you utterly wrecked within minutes. But that wasn’t his comfort zone anymore. You had taught him how to take care of you, how to slow down, and he had learned to like it. Now, he preferred to take his time, savoring every moment. After all, for him, you always came first—in every sense of the word. His top priority.

The building of a healthy relationship has a bit of everything—ups and downs. Sometimes, no matter how much effort you put into someone, their beliefs were stronger. Self-esteem is key to that—well, at least in Max's case. Being number one wasn’t just a state or a way of living; you had to believe you were the one first.

But in a world of multiple numbers, there’s always more than one number one

"Haven't you seen how he stared at you? He even looked twice." He had very expressive, almost cartoonish reactions. Brunch was set on a table outside— a tranquil midday scene, with just enough people around to create that typical background hum of chatter. Your favorite kind of day involved eating out, trying new restaurants, and pretending you were exigent food critics. It had become a sort of ritual—while it took you over an hour to get fully ready, he would just shower and throw on the same white shirt as any prior date. The dress code was formal, but the manners were anything but—immature, noisy laughter, and an endless string of inappropriate jokes.

Looks were tricky. You appeared composed and serious, but never judge a book by its cover. The same went for Max—rock-solid on the outside, with a slightly silly demeanor or playful banter for the media. You two brought out each other’s true selves because, with each other, you felt the safest being your realest.

The way you were with him: compassionate and soft, became the meaning of it all, the reason behind his persistence in calling you angel and reminding you that you were his angel. Sometimes, you could hardly bear his cliché explanation that you saved him, but in truth, you did—not from any external harm, but from himself. You had some sort of protection and halo over him.

“My sweet angel.” "Max Emilian." You protested, just like every other time he called you that. He sounded so careful with each syllable, as if he meant every word. It was him at his corniest, if you were being honest, taking your breath and words away with just a surname. Leaving you all giggly and flustered—that was exactly why you hated being called that so much. "I'm really touching heaven by having you by my side." The Dutch man whispered against your lips, wearing a full smile. He was only this happy with you and only you. The podium wasn't a factor in the happiness equation.

You changed his life for the better, so how could he not feel happy and blessed to call you his?

[jordiemeow]

MISC BOT DUMP ⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚

23/03/25

featuring characters from: challengers, outer banks, harry potter and dune

yippee !! thank u so much for the recent love. a little later than anticipated because being a woman threw a wrench in my plans :( but here we are!!

second part of the drop asap. a lot more fem!bots in that one finally!!

gender neutral unless specific otherwise. have fun

enjoy ! <3

CHALLENGERS

BOYFRIENDS

patrick x art x user

Being in a relationship with both Fire and Ice is normally great. The three of you adore each other, but sometimes Patrick gets on your nerves. Especially when you just want to spoil Art after a particularly rough practice and your other boyfriend just seems so intent to push your last button.

JUST A REBOUND

patrick zweig x user

He's been your best friend since the Academy days: just you, Patrick and Art. But with Art and Tashi out of the picture, he doesn't know what to do with himself. It feels like he's grieving a death rather than two relationships. So, in an attempt to distract himself from the loss, Patrick uses the crush you've harboured on him for the last decade to keep himself busy. A rebound, if you will.

FAN CLUB

tashi duncan x user

It's just always about tennis with her. What was initially supposed to be a quickie before her match turns into an argument when your girlfriend won't just focus on you for once. But you're not a pushover like Art. You don't have to deal with this bullshit.

ATLANTA

patrick zweig x user

It's been almost a decade since Atlanta. And yet, for whatever reason, Patrick decides now is the appropriate time to come clean about cheating on you with Tashi in 2011. Well, that's going to make for an incredibly awkward drive to your motel.

OUTER BANKS

WALLET

rafe cameron x user (m4f)

To the outside world, he's a selfish dick. But to you, Rafe Cameron is just your softie of a best friend. All fighting words and swinging fists when he's with his boys, but right now he's dragging you along on your second shopping trip of the week just to spoil you... except he's decided it's totally appropriate and platonic to guide you directly into a lingerie store.

PATCH UP

rafe cameron x user

It's a bit of a regular occurrence at this point: Rafe gets into a fight with the Pogues, and he comes to you, his best friend, to patch him up. A little tiring, but it's better than watching Ward beat his ass for tarnishing their reputation over some childish squabble. So, when he shows up for his weekly patch-up, you're left to put the pieces together again.

DADDY ISSUES

jj maybank x user

JJ has always been stubborn as an ox; too prideful and independent for his own good. But he's been getting into it with his old man more often than not recently, and there's always one person he allows to see him at his absolute worst: you.

NEW IN TOWN

rafe cameron x user

He's seen you around a few times. Hanging around the country club with your parents, or walking down the street with your dog. But it's not until you're brave enough to show up at your first Kildare party at the Boneyard that he gets the chance to introduce himself. And yeah, he's real interested in getting to know you better.

HARRY POTTER

JUST BANTER, INNIT?

sirius black x user

He’s never been the most tactful individual in the world, but Sirius has really taken it to a new level as of late. Always so hot and cold—one moment he’s telling you that your hair looks lovely today, the next he’s insulting you with a disdainful look. But he longs for your attention, and being the absolute prat that he is, he resorts to the own method he knows: bullying.

LUCKY CHARM

james potter x user

Sirius placing a bet on Slytherin winning the Quidditch final is not making him feel any better before his match. Neither of you have any doubt about it being just to get in his head. The worst part is that it works. But, like always, his lucky charm comes in to ease his nerves before his big game.

INVITATIONS

remus lupin x user

Romance isn’t really Remus’ thing. He leaves the pulling girls to James and Sirius, after all. But, well, what are his other options? Taking Peter to the ball? Merlin, he’d rather cut off his left foot. There’s always you… the friend he’s been not-so-secretly infatuated with for the last two years. He’s just too shy to ask.

MISCHIEF MANAGED

sirius x remus x james x peter x user

After spending the last few months tagging along with the Marauders, you've finally garnered their respect enough to earn a place amongst their ranks. Which, of course, means being introduced to their secret little map. But... come on. It's a piece of paper. This has to be a prank, right?

TWO CAN PLAY AT THAT GAME

sirius black x user

The pair of you had never agreed on exclusivity, but a part of you was hoping you were on the same page. Clearly not, given the fact you'd seen Sirius' with his hand up some girl's skirt in between classes. So, instead of simply moving on and being mature about the entire thing, you opt for a blow below the belt: a rebound with one of his brother's best friends.

SECOND PLACE

remus lupin x user

James is good at Quidditch. Sirius is good at existing. Peter is... well, he's Peter. And what does Remus have? His bloody test scores. Top of every class for the last seven years until, miraculously, you start pushing back. He's a sweet boy, truly, but he can't help but blow a fuse when McGonagall announces you scored above him on your last test.

STUDY BUDDY

james potter x user

Academics aren't exactly his strong suit, but he's not hopeless. He just has better things to do than keep his nose in a book all day. As long as he gets his assignments in eventually, what's the harm? Except his mother isn't very pleased with the fact he's failing some of his classes. Sneaking off to go study in the library doesn't go his way when you stumble upon him. Maybe he could use a study buddy?

THE BLOODY BARON

sirius black x user

Rivals is a strong word. You aren't fourteen anymore, that would be ridiculous. But, admittedly, there's always been a bit of contention between your own friend group and the Marauders when it comes to playing pranks. When Sirius stumbles upon you somehow worming your way out of a detention for a recent mishap, he just has to grill you about it.

DUNE

THE DUNES

chani kynes x user

On Arrakis, the harsh terrain is defied with every breath, but it always wins in the end. It will claim you, too, one day; you will return to water, and be one with the dunes. Forever with your people. But amidst it all, the treacherous planet you live on, Chani has you.

SAND AND WATER

paul atreides x user

Inexplicably fond is the only way to describe how you feel towards Paul. What started as irritation towards his integration into the Fremen people blossomed into something more; a friendship, perhaps. All you're willing to acknowledge is that you value moments like this far too much—just the two of you, staring out at the dunes.

THE WITCH

chani kynes x user (wlw)

The Fremen have always been Chani's utmost priority, and the arrival (and acceptance) of the foreigners is concerning to her. Paul fits in, yes, but it's his mother that she's worried about. Alas, Stilgar is always so quick to brush off her concerns, leaving you as the only one to listen to her complaints.

[muirneach]

nothing hits like a tennis rivalry because its an independent sport. theres no team to back you up and no franchise history to go off of it’s just you and the person whipping balls at you a hundred km an hour. the only thing that other sports rivalries (sometimes, depending) have is the ability to beat each other up about it (mostly hockey but fights do also break out in other sports like basketball and baseball). but then again, the contactless framework of tennis is part of what makes it so delicious. you hate this person you can never touch except to shake their hand after one of you loses

[kiwriteswords]

My Funny Valentine [Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader]

Masterlist (not updated, sorry!)|| Ao3||Word Count: 1.9k|| AN: I have been binge-re-watching The Nanny for the first time since I was a teenager and got to the episode where Fran buys a billboard for Mr. Sheffield after thinking he was her secret admirer. I had to do this for Hotch and Reader!

Tags/Warnings: female reader, BAU reader, will they won't they relationship, Valentine's Day, mentions of Haley, mentions of a creepy police officer, based off an episode of The Nanny, fools in love.

Summary: Given your undeniable chemistry and attraction for one another, when an unsigned card with flowers and a teddy bear shows up on your desk, you assume it's from Hotch. After making a grand gesture for what you thought was in return, you both soon realize the truth.

Ever since you joined the BAU, your interactions with Hotch have been a mixture of professional respect and undeniable chemistry. Over the years, the flirty banter had evolved into a dance of “will they, won't they,” much to the entertainment--and sometimes frustration--of the team. 

Everyone could see the mutual attraction except, it seemed, the two of you.

Being Hotch's subordinate, you treaded carefully, harboring feelings you dared not confess, always secretly hoping he'd be the one to break the professional boundary.

You were younger--not inappropriately so (maybe just a little)...well, enough to make you question if this chemistry was all in your head. Enough questioning to allow these feelings to remain at a standstill--or at least until he broke first. 

This Valentine's Day seemed like any other day at the BAU, but when you arrived at your desk, you found a bouquet of pink carnations and a teddy bear holding a card. Your heart skipped a beat as you read the flirty message. 

"To the one who captures my thoughts as easily as she profiles unsubs. Happy Valentine's Day."

You couldn't help but think it was from Hotch. Carnations and a teddy bear? Not what you would have imagined Hotch picking out, but nonetheless, thoughtful. Unexpected. Thrilling. 

He was finally crossing that line drawn in the sand. The one you blurred and blurred but ultimately never swept away. 

Excitement bubbling up inside you, you rushed to share the news with Penelope Garcia, your go-to confidante for all things romantic and dramatic. The one who had been arguably rooting for you and Hotch more than anyone. 

Maybe it was the hopeless romantic in her, or maybe…just maybe, the proof was there in plain daylight with the way you and Hotch played your games with one another. Like a tennis match of back and forth--over and over. 

“My gosh,” Penelope squealed, looking at the card, “I mean…I can’t believe it. What are you going to do? What are you going to say!?” She leaned forward, capturing your arm, almost to steady her own excitement. 

“I want to do something for him…something nobody’s ever done for him before.” You thought carefully. 

Many would argue that you were…of the dramatic kind. Maybe that’s why you and Penelope got along so easily. Hotch would argue that you were dramatic the most. You often used it to your own advantage with him. 

You knew--although you’d both never admit it--you had Hotch wrapped around your finger so it was easy to use those puppy dog eyes when you didn’t feel like completing a case assignment or if you wanted the bigger room at the hotel. 

“You know,” Penelope pondered, “Now that I think of it,” She scrunched her face, “All of these years here, I’m not sure anyone’s ever left Hotch a Valentine. I mean…I gave him a pink fostered sugar cookie once, but even Haley…I don’t think there was anything here for him.” 

You smirked, raising an eyebrow, “He doesn’t seem like the type that’s going to like a velvet heart-shaped box filled with fruit-filled chocolates.” 

“That man is a closet sweet eater,” Penelope pointed at you, “But to your point, you’ve gotta do something…something grand. Something that will knock his argyle socks off.” 

You snorted, then really thought. Grand. Grand? What would be grand? Then it came to you. 

“I have the best idea.” 

The two of you giggled and brainstormed extravagant ideas to win Hotch's heart, finally settling on a grand gesture that no one could ignore--a billboard confession. You found the idea so wildly romantic, the perfect way to tell Hotch how you felt.

With Penelope's enthusiastic encouragement, you commissioned a billboard on Hotch's route home.

“Be My Valentine, Aaron Hotchner! Love your Y/N” 

However, as you prepared to leave work that evening, you received a call from the local police department asking if you enjoyed the flowers. Your stomach dropped as you recognized the voice--it was the overly friendly officer from your last case, the one Hotch had given a look to the entire time. 

The cheesy teddy bear. The cheap carnations. The corny card. None of that would be Hotch. You wanted to die. Crawl into a ball and die of embarrassment and stupidity, but not until after you got rid of that billboard!

Frantic, you rushed to find Rossi, Derek, and Spencer, blurting out your predicament and the mistake you’d made. They erupted into laughter but saw the urgency of the situation.

"We’ve got to get that billboard down before Hotch drives home!" you exclaimed, your face burning with embarrassment. You paced around the bullpen, looking up to Hotch’s office, then to them, then back up. You ran your hand over your face, stressed. 

Rossi, Spencer, and Derek gathered around you, each wearing an expression that meant business. Derek leaned against his car, arms crossed. "You know, you could just leave that billboard up. It's about time one of you made a move."

Rossi nodded, his wise eyes fixed on you. "We're all tired of the dance, kid. It's not just you suffering from all this uncertainty--Hotch is right there with you. You both need to take that leap."

Spencer chimed in, "Statistically, the likelihood of mutual feelings being reciprocated in situations like these is quite high. You might be pleasantly surprised."

You appreciated their support, but the thought of Hotch seeing the billboard without understanding the context terrified you. You grabbed your car keys and headed to the nearest hardware store. "I just need to fix this before it gets worse," you muttered more to yourself than to them.

At the hardware store, you picked up a bucket of paint and a roller, your hands trembling slightly at the thought of climbing up the billboard. Heights had never been your friend, but today, they seemed a lesser evil compared to the embarrassment of Hotch reading your unintended public declaration.

With the sun setting, you parked your car by the billboard and stared up at the looming structure. Steeling your nerves, you looked up toward the tall ladder that led to a ledge where the freshly painted billboard sat. You wished the service you paid earlier was available after hours to come and take down the work they had done so quickly. 

Each step up made your heart pound louder, but the fear of making a fool of yourself pushed you onward.

Once you reached the top, you positioned yourself to start painting, but a sudden wave of vertigo hit as you peered down. The can of paint slipped from your grip, tumbling down and splattering the ground below with white paint.

You looked up to the sky and raised your hands with defeat and tears forming in your eyes, “Is this some sick joke?!”

Climbing down was even harder, with your hands shaking and tears of frustration starting to blur your vision. Just as you reached the last few rungs, a pair of steady hands gently guided you down. You almost jumped out of your skin, only to turn and see Hotch, his face filled with concern.

"Hey, it's okay," he soothed, keeping his hands on your shoulders to steady you.

You took a deep breath, wiping away a stray tear, turning as you took your last step off the ladder. He steadied you on the last few steps down, his touch reassuring.

"I'm so sorry, Hotch. There’s been a huge misunderstanding," you began, your voice a mix of embarrassment and relief. "I thought those flowers and the teddy bear were from you, and Penelope and I--we…I just got carried away."

Hotch gave you a small, understanding smile. "Emily and JJ told me there was a surprise waiting for me on the freeway home. I left early to see what it was." The last thing you expected was Hotch’s calm voice breaking through your flustered apologies. 

Your heart sank, imagining what he must have thought seeing that message. "I was trying to cover it up before you could see it. I didn’t want you to find out like this." You gestured up to the brightly colored billboard with what felt like the most embarrassing thing in the world displayed for everyone and their mother to see. 

“You don’t need to apologize for anything,” His gaze softened as he looked up at the message, then back to you. "I saw the billboard," he admitted a hint of awe in his voice. "Nobody has ever done anything quite like that for me. It was...unexpected, certainly, but kind in a way only you could manage."

Your heart fluttered, surprise etching across your features. "You liked it?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper, unsure if your ears were playing tricks on you.

"I loved it," he corrected gently, his hands still resting lightly on your shoulders. "You have a knack for the dramatic, but it’s one of the many reasons I..." His voice trailed off, and he hesitated, his eyes searching yours for a reaction. The pause was palpable, every second stretching longer than the last until finally, he continued, "It’s one of the many reasons I love you."

The world seemed to stop spinning as his words hung in the air. "You love me?" you repeated, your voice a mix of hope and disbelief. Hotch reached up to brush a stray hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. His hand lingered, cupping your cheek gently. Your hand reached up to cover his, leaning into his touch. 

Hotch nodded, a soft chuckle escaping him, as if it was common knowledge, like you should already know it--or maybe he realized he should have already said it. 

"Yes, I do. And I think it’s about time I said it."

Emotions swirled within you--relief, joy, and a love that had been quietly simmering for too long. It all bubbled to the surface as you stepped closer, reducing the space between you. "I love you too, Hotch," you confessed, your voice steady with conviction.

His smile was all the encouragement you needed. You both leaned in and under the soft glow of the streetlights and the shadow of the billboard, your lips met in a kiss that sealed the confessions of the day. The kiss was gentle at first, exploratory as if both of you were still gauging the reality of the moment. But as certainty took over, it deepened, affirming the years of unspoken feelings and flirtatious banter.

As you both pulled away, Hotch's eyes twinkled with a mixture of contentment and mischief. "Next time," he said with a playful grin, "I'll be the one buying flowers; you’ll know they’re from me. I wouldn’t dare buy you carnations, and they won’t come with a cheap teddy bear."

Your laughter filled the air, light and free, as you both made your way back to your cars, the billboard forgotten but its message now etched in both your hearts.

The next morning, as you walked into the BAU, you stood surprised. There, on your desk, stood two dozen long-stem roses in a vase, their crimson petals vibrant against the mundane backdrop of your office. Attached to the vase was a card, Hotch’s neat handwriting spelling out a message that was both flirty and utterly him: 

"For the record, I prefer dramatic gestures that involve flowers on days other than just February 14th. Here’s to many more, just the way we like them. --A."

The smile that spread across your face lingered long into the day, as did the warmth in your heart, knowing the dance of “will they, won't they” had transformed into a harmonious “finally, we did.”

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016  @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry @superlegend216

[ghostgirl-22]

Ik you don’t really do x reader but I was thinking art with reader that’s a lot like Patrick like people comment on it all the time and he brushes it off but he gets to think that you have a lot of similarities…

Maybe he moans his name when your fucking I don’t know

Ah yes <3

CW: 18+ NSFW, Age gap

—-

older!Art newly divorced and kinda desperate to relive his glory days doesn’t realize he’s doing it when he meets you. You’re so young (probably too young—he tries not to think about it). You’re brilliant but kind of a mess, a little bit aimless, college drop out cause that shit made your head hurt. You’re still incredibly wild, a bit of chaos is what he says he doesn’t want but is probably what he needs. 

You love to play the vintage video games that he probably grew up playing, like Mario kart on the original Nintendo (you beat him constantly but you never tease him…at least not to the point of real tears anyway). 

You can drink Art under the table easily. In fact as young as you are you can beat him at most things you both try. Even if he’s been doing it forever. Except tennis, that's the one thing he can actually teach you.

Not that you didn’t do your best to distract him.

You wear a tiny little tennis skirt with no panties underneath to the court the first time he offers to give you lessons. You just want to tease him, bending over to tie your shoes. Getting on all fours to crawl after a tennis ball that rolls through a hole in the fence. Pretending like you have no idea he’s losing his mind. 

Of course he can’t help himself. he gets so aroused watching you he has to drag you to the car and taste you right in the backseat. Fogging up the windows.  So lost in the sauce he comes untouched at just the sound of you getting off while he desperately licks his name into the folds of your cunt.

He’s so obsessed with you. the way you walk around, over confident, loud. You wear short shorts and tight dresses. Showing off your curves. Getting him so jealous and possessive. His eyes fixated on your full tits and his favorite thing to grab onto, your ass. 

It makes him so anxious. How hot you are. How fucking perfect you are for him. He feels so lucky to have you and so terrified to lose you. Thirty something and choking down viagra trying to keep up with you. Buying you literally whatever you want. Making sure you get your nails done regularly, and your braids are always fresh. Even gave you his black card for just in case. You almost feel a little bad cause you’re still so irresponsible. Ordering dumb expensive things from Prada just because you’re hyper fixating for five minutes. He grimaces sometimes at the bill but he never complains.

It’s funny when you realize it.

You only have to meet Patrick Zweig once for it to become crystal clear. You both see it right away. He’s like the older male version of you. You don’t look anything alike but it’s eerie how similar you are as people. 

Everything from the way you both tease Art, to the way you both overcompensate with bravado when you’re feeling insecure. And then there’s the fact that you have almost the exact same interests, in food, movies, music and eerily similar mannerisms. 

You point this out to Art. He doesn’t seem to realize it at all but it’s so cute. Your dilf!boyfriend clearly has a little crush on his friend. 

Patrick even stands as close to Art as you do. Touching him playfully, teasingly. Art leaning into it, grinning so much his face lights up and he looks at least 10 years younger.  

It’s adorable and kinda hot. 

It’s solidified one night when Patrick visits. You were up till late playing video games and drinking too much. Patrick’s falls asleep in the guest room and Art wakes you up in the middle of the night.

He’s hard all on his own (no help from little blue pills) after waking from a dream. And he’s desperate to fuck you from behind. And you're sleepy and turned on enough to let him. He’s sleepy too but so worked up lubing up and pumping into your ass, you have an idea what he was dreaming about … 

“Was it a dream about him?” You sigh. You just wanna know.  

“Huh?” he’s distracted but not too distracted to stop fucking you, can’t help himself.. 

“It’s okay if you did, it’s okay if you’re thinking about his thick thighs, in those training shorts, his pinchable ass. Wishing all night you could just ease the tip in.” 

Art chokes on a groan, his breathing, stuttering while getting heavier in your ear.

Oh he’s so easy.   

“Imagine railing into him, fucking him as hard as he fucked your wife.” You whisper.

“Shut up,” he hisses as he grips your hips a little tighter. He never talks like that, never gets rough until you bring up Tashi. You hate to do it but his reactions always turn you on. 

“God,” you moan. “I know you love how messy he is, how messy we both are. you need the fucking chaos, don’t you baby? Need to fuck into my ass because I remind you of him.”

”No,” he growls, but he’s fucking you like crazy, hard heavy thrusts. Driving you to the brink. 

”t’s okay baby…” you gasp. “Do I make you feel 21 again? Make you feel like you felt when you could’ve had him?”

 “Nnhgh… oh fuck. God. Patrick,” he whines. “Shit… oh shit… gonna fucking— ‘m coming,” he groans. Half out of his mind as he’s spilling inside you.

“I fucking knew it,” you giggle.

“Fuck,” he whispers again after catching his breath. “I’m so sorry baby. I-I want you. I really do. I promise I’m not…” he trails off. 

“It’s okay,” you smirk, bringing his hand down between your thighs to rub your clit. “We’re gonna get you what you want.”