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kezzanza · 3 months ago

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EARNED IT.

Pairing: Jude x Girlfriend ! Reader Tags: Celebratory Sex, Established Relationship Word Count: 3.6k Content Warning: Smut, 18+ Jude celebrates winning his fifth trophy, the Super Cup, by fucking you.

Sex with Jude is amazing.

His strong body moves in harmony with yours, knowing exactly how to touch you to make you shiver with pleasure. His possessive gaze leaves no room for doubt or inhibition, piercing into yours, as if he could read your every desire and need. Each touch, each caress, each time he enters you, it’s as if he is claiming you all over again.

But after Jude wins a trophy, the sex is heavenly.

Jude strides to the edge of the pitch, a victorious beast of a man, his muscles rippling and damp with the sweat of triumph. He pulls you into an embrace, whispering sweet nothings into your ear as he holds your body.

His eyes lock onto yours, you know what’s coming, you can see it in his gait, the way he moves like a predator—the rough post-win sex is as much a part of the win as the trophy itself.

You wouldn’t want it any other way—submitting to Jude after watching him dominating the game.

The ride home crackles with electric tension as Jude drives you back to his place. Every glance and fleeting touch hint at something known but unspoken between you. The air is thick with charged silence, each second drawing you closer to the inevitable passion you will share.

You step through the door of Jude’s luxurious penthouse, feeling as if the energy from the stadium still pulses through your veins. Jude, your boyfriend, the star of the game, is behind you, his presence a palpable force.

The door slams shut, and without a word, he spins you around in the entryway. The yellow light from the pendant above casts sharp shadows across his face. The warm glow highlights the contours of his cheekbones and the square jaw that had been clenched in determination just moments ago.

His strong arms, wrapping around your waist, feel grounding. Your heart races as his gaze roams over you. His eyes burn with a fiery intensity that surpasses the passion that you saw in him on the pitch.

“You've been my lucky charm tonight,” he says, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver down your spine.

You had been there through every moment—caring for him after training and encouraging him before the game. Your heart had raced in rhythm with the roaring crowd as he helped his team to victory. Pride surged through you when he was named ‘Man of the Match,’ especially as you wore his jersey—one he had personally given you—with his name written on your back.

Now, here you were, alone with him as the city lights twinkle below like a sea of stars. You step closer, your hands reaching up to cup his face, feeling the rough stubble against your palms.

“You were amazing.” you say, your voice soft yet filled with emotion.

Jude’s gaze turns intense, his eyes locked on yours with a dominant, smoldering heat.

“I dedicated that performance to you,” he whispers, his voice low and deep. “You deserve a prize for all your support.”

His hands pull you flush against him, his body warm and solid against yours. His gaze is like a predator's stare, and you feel yourself being pulled into his world—a world of raw, unfiltered desire. He leans in, capturing your lips in a short, hungry kiss that leaves you breathless and wanting more.

“When the whistle blew, all I could think about was you,” he confesses. “How I wanted to celebrate with you.”

Your heart races, overwhelmed by his words and the intensity in his eyes.

“I need you, Jude,” you breathe out. “I need to feel you.”

His hand is warm and firm as it wraps around yours, leading you through the entryway. You follow closely behind him, trying to keep up with his brisk pace, anticipation building with every step.

The kitchen is a stark contrast to the bright entryway you've just left behind. It’s bathed in only the dim glow of under-cabinet lighting.

Upon reaching, he presses you against the hard surface of the island, his body looming over you. The coolness of the marble island seeps through your jeans, a stark contrast to the heat emanating from his body.

Jude's hand rests gently on the small of your back, drawing you closer as he leans in for another kiss. You wrap your arms around his shoulders. His other hand lingers at your hips, tracing the curve of it before sliding up under your jersey.

His warm fingers brush against your skin, making you gasp softly. The kiss deepens, and you can't help but melt into him, his heat seeping into your very soul. The sound of your breaths mingling fills the space between you, the only noise in the otherwise quiet kitchen.

His hands roam further, exploring the contours of your body, as if he's trying to memorize every inch of you. You're lost in the moment, in the feeling of his fingertips all over you.

Jude's hands trail down your torso. His fingers undo the button of your jeans. He lowers the zipper, the sound echoing in the room.

With surprising gentleness, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your jeans and begins to tug them down. You feel the roughness of the denim give way as gravity takes over, pulling the fabric down to your ankles.

You lift one leg and then the other, helping him as he guides your jeans over your ankles, clinging to him as he drops the garment on the floor behind him.

Now, you are left in just your soft pink underwear and the jersey with his name on the back. His eyes darken as he took in the sight of you, his hands gently caressing your bare thighs. You look up into his eyes and feel yourself melting under his gaze.

“Kneel for me baby,” he commands, his voice a low sound that sends shivers down your spine.

Slowly, you obey, lowering yourself to your knees, hitting the cold black tiles with a soft thud. Looking up at him, you see the mix of triumph and hunger in his eyes, a look that both terrifies and excites you.

His hands reach into his shorts. The air is thick with tension, the kind that makes it hard to breathe. He pulls out his long and thick erection with practiced motions. His eyes never leave yours as he strokes himself, watching the play of emotions across your face—lust and need.

His cock, thick and hard, is a testament to his desire for you. You reach out to touch the warm length of him, feeling his pulse throb against your fingertips. You lick your lips, the hunger in his gaze making your heart race and your breath catch in your throat.

“Open your mouth,” he orders, his tone offering no refusal.

His hand slides into your hair, gripping gently but firmly, guiding your head forward. Jude groans, his head falling back as you stroke him, your fingers feeling the texture and the shape of him. You lean in, your lips brushing the tip, tasting him—the salty flavor ignites a fire within you.

His grip on your hair tightens just a fraction, a silent demand that sends a thrill of excitement down your spine.

Finally, you do as he says, letting your mouth fall open. He presses the head of his erection on your tongue. You close your mouth around him, your tongue exploring the familiar contours of his length. His hands guide your movements as his breath comes out in rough groans.

The taste of him fills your mouth and you find yourself lost in the sensation of sucking him. Your own need rises with each passing second, the fabric of your panties becoming damp with desire.

“Fuck, yes,” he growls, one of his hands gripping the counter as you take him into your mouth.

He’s huge, filling your mouth, stretching you, but you revel in it. His hips moved with a slow, steady rhythm that built with each passing moment. Your tongue swirls around him. Your lips are tight as you move up and down his length.

His hips thrust forward quicker, pushing deeper into your throat. You suck harder, taking him deeper, eager to submit to all of him, to be the source of his pleasure and release. Jude’s groans fill the room, and you know he's close, his body taut with the tension of release.

Suddenly, he pulls out, his eyes dark with lust. “Not yet baby,” he says, when he sees your confusion. “I need you cumming on my fingers first.”

The intensity of his gaze is overwhelming, igniting a fire that burns through you. You stand up, your lips finding his lips in a deep kiss. His tongue slides against yours. It’s a gentle yet demanding exploration that makes your knees weak.

Your hands reach for the hem of his jersey, slowly lifting it over his head. His skin was taut with muscle, evidence of the hours he spent on the field. You traced the lines of his chest, your fingers trailing the waistband of his briefs. You push them down and let them pool on the floor, leaving his muscular body bare.

His abs ripple with every breath he takes. The contours of his muscles tell tales of countless practices and games won. The light dusting of hair on his body travels from his chest to the V that points to his hips.

As the heat between you escalates, Jude's hand slides down your body, tracing the contour of your waist before dropping lower. His fingertips graze the waistband of your pink panties.

His eyes never leave yours as he says, "I love how you look in these," His voice is low and gruff with desire, sending shivers down your spine. “So innocent, yet so fucking tempting.”

You can feel your wetness seeping through the fabric, a silent declaration of your arousal. His fingers cup you through your underwear, his possessiveness making you ache for more, leaving you moaning breathlessly.

"Do you know how long I've been waiting to touch you?" he whispers, the question hanging in the air like a promise.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he hooks his thumb under the waistband, sliding it down and letting the fabric pool at your feet. Your gasp softly, unable to form words as his fingers finally make contact with your slick folds.

He groans at the wetness he finds. You can see his cock straining against his stomach, eager to join the intimate dance his fingers have started.

With the lightest of strokes, Jude's thumb grazes over your clit, sending a bolt of pleasure shooting through you. You moan, your knees buckling slightly, and he steadies you with his other hand on your waist, holding you in place as his thumb starts to circle with increasing pressure.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, his voice hoarse with desire. “So wet just for me.”

Each pass over your clit sends waves of desire crashing through your core. You can't help but arch into his touch. He watches your reaction with hungry eyes and you know he's just getting started.

“I love seeing my name on you.” Jude admits, removing his fingers from your wet core. “But right now, I need to see you naked.”

Jude gently tugs at the hem of your jersey. You lift your arms as the fabric glides over your head, revealing the contours of your body.

Then, his lips are on you, making you gasp as he finds that sensitive spot on your neck. His hands move to your back, his fingers deftly finding the clasp of your bra, which yields to his touch with a soft click.

The cool air hits your bare skin. It is quickly replaced by the heat of his mouth as he bends down and his tongue flicks over your nipple, making you arch into him. His hands cup your other breast, thumbs teasing your sensitive nipples into peaks. You arch into him, a soft moan escaping your lips as he continues his exploration.

“Jude,” you gasp, your hands threading through his hair, holding him closer.

He moves his mouth to your other breast, his actions deliberate, each kiss, each nibble building the tension inside you. You could feel the ache low in your belly, a throbbing need that demanded release.

Jude seemed to sense it, his hand sliding down your body, his fingers finding where you are already wet and ready. He doesn't ask for permission; he simply knows. You moan, your head falling back as two of his fingers worked into you.

He moves slowly, deliberately. His fingers slide in deeper, filling you in a way that makes you feel vulnerable. Your breathing quickens, your pulse races, and you know that tonight will be one of those nights you never want to end.

His hands move expertly, finding your g-spot, his fingers building the pressure inside you. He seems to know exactly how to touch you, how much pressure to apply, and when to slow down or speed up. You gasp, your body arching towards his touch, your mind consumed by the pleasure he's giving.

"You like that?" he whispers, his voice a seductive growl in your ear.

You can only moan, your words lost in the whirlwind of sensation. His fingers delve deeper, hitting that sweet spot, and you feel the orgasm building, a wave threatening to crash over you.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice thick with desire.

You obey, your eyes locking with him. He watches you, his expression a mix of tenderness and raw passion. The sight of him, so focused, so intent on your pleasure, pushes you over the edge.

You cry out, your body trembling as your orgasm sweeps through you, leaving you breathless and weak. Your mouth forming a perfect 'O' of pleasure. Your breasts heaving with each panting breath you take.

But Jude isn't done.

He spins you around you, bending you over the counter, his body pressing against yours. You feel his hot breath on the back of your neck, his hands firmly gripping your hips as he pulls you closer.

He whispers in your ear, "You're mine," his voice a seductive growl that sends a thrill through your body.

Your heart races with anticipation, the room filled with the sweet scent of desire. He whispers your name, the sound sending shivers down your spine. You lean into his touch, as his mouth trails kisses along your neck, sending waves of pleasure that mingle with the lingering tremors of your climax.

You can feel his arousal pressing against your backside, insistent and demanding. His hands roam over your body, caressing every inch of your exposed skin, leaving a trail of fire wherever he touches. You arch your back, pushing yourself closer to him, silently begging for more.

The head of his cock nudges against your wetness, seeking entry, and you gasp as he slides into you with one smooth, powerful thrust.

The sensation is overwhelming, and you bite your lip to keep from screaming out his name. Your hands clutch the counter for support as he begins to move, his rhythm slow and deliberate, savoring every moment.

Each stroke fills you completely, stretching you to the brink of pleasure and pain. You know that he's holding back, keeping you poised on the edge, and the thought of what's to come makes your stomach flutter with excitement.

His grip tightens, and he pulls you back into him, increasing his pace, driving you towards another peak. You're lost in the sensation, the world around you fading away until there's only the two of you and the passion that fuels your every move.

Your breath hitches, and you moan, unable to hold back the sounds of pleasure that spill from your lips. Jude's breathing is ragged in your ear, his own passion evident in every pant and groan. You feel him swell inside of you, and you know that he's close.

You want to feel him let go, to be the one to push him over the edge. So, you push back into him, matching his rhythm, your bodies moving in perfect harmony. The tension builds, coiling tighter and tighter, until you hear him groan, filling you with his release.

You feel the intense, almost painful pleasure of your second orgasm wash over you, as if the first one wasn't enough to satisfy the ravenous beast that Jude has awoken within you.

Your muscles clench around him, milking every drop, leaving you both panting and trembling. You rest against the countertop, your body feeling like a deliciously stretched canvas of sensation, pulses of pleasure still rippling through you from your last two orgasms.

Your eyes are heavy, and the room is a warm, soft blur. You're about to drift into a peaceful post-coital slumber when Jude's voice, thick with desire, brings you back to reality.

“Come on baby,” he whispers, his voice edged with a hunger that hasn't yet been satiated. “Just one more round.”

The way he says it, the promise in his voice, makes you want to give in. He kisses you then, a kiss that starts out as a gentle request and quickly escalates into a passionate demand, his tongue coaxing yours into a dance that leaves you breathless.

His hand finds your waist, his touch rekindling the embers of desire that you thought had faded. You feel yourself respond, your body arching into him despite your earlier exhaustion. He notices, his grin growing as he kisses you harder, deeper.

“You're still with me, aren't you?” he murmurs, his voice a seductive purr.

You nod, your breath still ragged, your body humming with the remnants of pleasure. He smiles, a genuine smile, and you feel a surge of love for this man— passionate and who wears his heart on his sleeve, especially after a win.

And with that, he lifts you up, placing you on the counter, his body fitting between your open legs.

“Wrap your legs around me,” he commands, his voice back to its rough, dominant tone.

You do as he says, your legs locking around his waist. Your hands reach for his shoulders, guiding him to you as he positioned himself at your entrance.

He pushes inside you again, filling you inch by inch until you are stretched around him, full and tight, his hands firmly gripping your thighs.

“You feel so good,” he whispered, his forehead resting against yours as he paused, letting you adjust to him.

You moan in pleasure, wincing at the soreness. “Fuck me,” you urge, your voice a husky command.

He does, his hips pulling back before thrusting forward, a steady rhythm that builds with each passing moment. Your body arches into each thrust, your hands gripping his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

Your muscles quiver with each of his powerful thrusts, a delicious reminder of the two orgasms that have already claimed you. He's relentless, his eyes dark with need, as he drives into you, his rhythm unyielding despite your protests of exhaustion.

Each stroke feels like a battle between pain and pleasure, your body a canvas for his hunger.

He whispers, “Come on, baby, just one last time,” his voice thick with lust, and you know he won't be satisfied until he feels you come apart beneath him again.

Your heart races, your breath hitches, and you clutch his shoulders, bracing for the inevitable. The third orgasm begins to build, a crescendo of sensation that fills every inch of you, threatening to shatter you into a million pieces.

His movements grow more forceful, each thrust hitting deeper, harder, sending shockwaves of pleasure through you. You could feel the coil inside you tightening, the pressure building, the need for release overwhelming.

“Jude,” you cried out, your body trembling.

“Come for me,” he whispers. “Show me how much you love this.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as the intensity becomes too much, evidence to the depth of pleasure he's coaxing from your weary body.

You feel the familiar rush of an impending climax, and you know this time, it'll be even more intense, a fitting end to tonight's victories.

Your eyes roll back in your head as your nails dig into his shoulders, desperately seeking purchase amidst the tumultuous sea of sensation. You orgasm as your body convulses uncontrollably, muscles tightening and releasing in rapid succession. Each stroke feels like a bolt of lightning, sending electric shocks through your core, making it impossible to distinguish where one climax ends and the next begins.

The room is a blur of sensation, the only thing in focus is the feeling of him inside you, the sound of your moans, and the wet slapping of skin on skin. The wave of euphoria is so intense that you can't help but scream out his name, the sound echoing off the walls.

Jude's grip on your hips tightens, his movements becoming more urgent, his breath hot and ragged in your ear as he whispers sweet nothings and dirty promises. He follows you soon after, his own release coming swiftly. His body tensing, his hips stuttering as he spilled inside you, his breath coming in harsh gasps.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of your mingled breaths, the pounding of your hearts, the sense of completion, of fulfillment. As the waves of pleasure subside, he kisses away your tears, his eyes filled with awe and adoration.

“I love you,” he says, his voice soft, tender.

“I love you too, Jude.” you say, smiling.

Your body is spent yet satisfied. And you know that in this moment, in this intense, intimate moment, you are exactly where you're meant to be.

#jude bellingham #jude bellingham smut #jude bellingham x reader #kesswrites

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upkeeptolters · 8 months ago

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RAIN, RAIN AND MORE RAIN...

Been raining all day but with no indoor arena we had to make do with the outside! Our Icelandics has nothing against the rain, but the two Pasos doesn't like it apparently xD

Nikolette and I (Soffía Hagen in this small story) took turns switching horses and teaching each other today. These two are Gråravn's Turning Table (Peruvian Paso Chestnut Roan boy) and Gråravn's Epando (Grey Paso Fino boy) btw., by @Rune Aksnes.

#Gråravn's Epando #Gråravn's Turning Tables #Peruvian Paso #Paso Fino #Soffía Hagen #Nikolette Anderson #Upkeep Tölters #tölt #outdoor training #rainy weather #equality sims #sims 3 horses #the sims 3 #bridlepath #icelandic horse #TS3 simblr #simblr #gaited horses

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thewritetofreespeech · 1 month ago

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In the Dark

pairing: Aemond x Targaryen!reader [Rhaenyra & Daemon's daughter]

summary: one night, while coming back from the Street of Silk, Aemond runs into an all too familiar figure in the dark. request from @brideofcthulhu10

tags: married reader, targaryen incest, tw: knives, tw: mentions of potential SA

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The Street of Silk was never quiet, but they were usually a bit more subdued this time of night. Aemond had planned for it this way.

Leaving the comfort of the palace to find comfort somewhere else, the prince always snuck out under the cover of darkness and returned just the same. No one the wiser. No one able to catch him and mock that he would be out here with whores instead of in bed with his wife. No one able to know what he was really doing here….

The prince adjusted his cloak to pull around him to make his way back to the secret tunnels of the castle. He rounded the corner and paused as he caught a glimpse of another figure in the streets. Not unusual, but not the usual sort either. Aemond’s good eye scanned the potential witness and noticed that their cloak was made of much finer material than any other in Flea Bottom. Too nice for peasants, though it clearly made efforts to seem plain.

Aemond growled through his teeth as he realized who it was. Even with the cloak, those whisps of silver hair that snuck out of the hood are a dead giveaway. Although Aemond had already memorized the gait. “What are you doing out here?” He hissed at his wife as he appeared behind her like a shadow.

You spun around fast. Wide eyed in startled fear, which quickly faded when you realized it was him. An odd feeling for Aemond, as it was usually the other way round when people realized it was him. “Don’t scare me like that!”

“What are you doing out here?” He repeated, still hissing, but more from the whispering now. “What are you doing outside the castle, alone, at night, without an escort?!” His blood boiled with each new remark to his list. Aemond thought his wife clever for a time, but he would have to rethink that in this lunacy.

You glared at him. “I do not need an escort.” You insisted. “And what are you doing out here? Last you told me; you would be with Ser Cristion for the night.”

The apple of his throat bobbed, but Aemond refused to admit he gulped at the accusations of his wife. True, they were both at fault here. Sneaking out unbeknownst to their people and partner. The only difference was that Aemond’s transgression did not come with the inherited danger a young lady, alone, in the middle of the night had. Your life was not your own now, and Aemond was angry that you were being so careless with it.

“That is immaterial. You do need an escort. What if I had been a stranger in the dark?”

“I can handle myself, Aemond.” You continued to insist. Why did the Gods have to give him such an infuriating woman as a wife? “I’m not the soft petal that other women in the palace are. I’m a Targaryen.”

True, you were not as soft as the other ladies. Rhaenyra may bare bastards left & right, and Daemon may be an opportunistic lech, but they had done right by their daughter. Teaching you to not only be an adequate lady of court, but also a skilled rider, both of dragon & horse, and how to defend yourself. Targaryens were never short of enemies. It was best to be prepared. But their Targaryen jewel had not been trained in the same way Aemond had. More how to hold a knife and properly thrust when the moment came, but not actually overcome a group of attackers if swarmed.

“Targaryen’s bleed just as much as anyone, ābrazȳrys.” Aemond told her. Stepping close. You predictably take a step back away from his ire. “We are not immortal like our beasts. What would you have done if I had been another man? Two men? Twenty?”

Your back eventually hit a walk. Locked on with Aemond’s eye as you felt a swell of fear in your belly at his words. “I…I would run away.”

Aemond cruelly laughed at your answer. “You would outrun twenty men? You’re fast, byka ābrazȳrys,” he remembers the races they had when they were children, before he sprouted to his current height, “but not fast enough to outrun twenty.” He then used that impressive height of his to quell around you. His arm coming up to place his hand against the wall. Blocking one exit. “What would you do if I had been a stranger in the dark?”

There was a tense moment between you. You felt trapped. You have to force your body to stay still and not tremble. “Stop it Aemond.” You hiss as you try to push him away. He’d made his point. Perhaps this was a bad idea. But you would never admit it.

“Who's Aemond?" Your eyes flickered up to him as Aemond’s voice sounded different. Void of the subtle hints of affection he had for you, and stone cold. A blade was suddenly out from by his pocket and by your throat. “I'm just a faceless, masked man in the dark.”

Your back went straight against the wall as you tried to create as much space as possible between you, Aemond, and the knife. “S-Stop it…”

“Make me.” Was his reply. “You’re a strong, capable Targareyn, aren’t you? Make me stop.”

You realize you can’t. You’re too afraid. This was indeed Aemond, your husband who loved you, but your mind kept thinking on what if this wasn’t Aemond. What if this had been a strange man in the dark? What is this wasn’t a test but truly real? An enemy of your mother? An enemy of Aemond? Or just a man like so many in the city who pulled women into dark alleys and forced them to their needs? What if this had been real?

Aemond saw the fear welling up inside you as tears came to your eyes in panic. He put the knife away and leaned in to give you a kiss. His build softening around you as the point had been made and the ‘game’ was over. You cling to Aemond in relief. Like a life raft out to sea. Overcome with emotions you kiss your husband desperately in a manner unbecoming of commoners in an alley, much less royalty.

Aemond kissed you back with equal fervor. Never missing an opportunity to kiss you. Relief also washed over him as well, thinking on the what-ifs if he had not run into you and another man did. What could have happened to you. The prince growled possessively at the thought and ran his hands over your body to claim it from these imaginary brigands. You moaned against his lips. Breasts heaving as you pant against him while his knee slid up between your legs as he bucked against you. “Let us go home issa jorrāelagon.”

You nodded fervently. You just wanted to go home now. Be with your husband. Be in the palace walls. Be safe.

The prince released you and the two of you walked back through the cobblestone streets for the tunnels. “Why are you out here anyway, issa jorrāelagon?” He realized you had never answered him.

“Father told me once of a spot past the Iron Gate that, if you look out at it at sunrise, you can see Valyria.” Aemond resisted the urge to roll his eye. What a ridiculous story. Valryia was leagues away. He’d barely come close to it on Vhagar; though in truth he would never fly near the place after what happened to Princess Aerea. “I know it’s silly, but I wanted to see it.”

“Why now?” He asked. You had lived in King’s Landing on & off for most of your life. Had you wish to see ‘The Valyrian Sun’ (yes, he knew what she was talking about) you could have done so at any time before. Why now, alone, when such danger was about for them?

“In times of trouble, I look to the Old Gods more, like your mother looks to the Seven.” Daemon’s influence, no doubt. Or perhaps it was just her own. Aemond parroted the phrases and did the prayers when asked by his mother, but he would not truly say he was bound to one set or the other. “I thought it might bring me some clarity on things. Some answers.”

“Answers on what?” You don’t answer, which made Aemond suspicious, but he doesn’t pry further. “Why didn’t you just ask me to come with you?”

“I thought you wouldn’t go if I told you it was something my father taught me.”

He frowned. Did you really think him that petty of the man that he wouldn’t go just because Daemon Targaryen taught of it first. “Come. This way.”

You do not have time to react as Aemond took your hand and pulled you down a different alley. “Where are we going?”

“The proper way.” He told you. “You were headed for the Dragon’s Gate. Yet another reason why you need an escort.” You frown at Aemond’s slight but follow after him.

The two of you meet the ‘Valyrian Sun’ together. There is no cast of Old Valyrian in the sun beams, nor any of the answers you seek. But when you turn to look at Aemond amongst the sunrise, you feel some kind of peace. Some kind of answers. “Let’s go home.”

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maddiethedog2 · 1 month ago

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The Marathon

Your caregiver decides they want to train for a marathon to get in better shape. They invite you to train with them. You happily accept, excited they want to do something so big with you for once.

The next day, you get dressed in your best fitness gear, including the thinest pull-up you have, so it won't interfere with your gait.

When you step outside, your caregiver, who is standing next to a large running stroller, laughs.

"Oh, sweetie? Did you think you were running with me? No! I just figured you'd love the long stroller rides. Plus, the extra weight will make the running even better for me!"

They then walk over and pull back the waistband of your athletic shorts.

"Oh, baby! These won't due! It's a long ride, and I don't want to stop for changies!"

Fifteen minutes later, rather than running next to your partner in your tight fitting active wear, your strapped into a stroller next to your favorite stuffie dressed in your thickest diaper with a childish onesie. Your grumpily sucking a huge bottle of milk as the gentle rocking of the stroller lulls you to sleep.

In just three short months, your caregiver finishes the marathon in the best shape they've ever been. Countless miles of running while pushing you in a stroller paying off.

In contrast, you feel softer and weaker than you ever have. Despite traversing the same miles on the road as your caregiver, you've spent them fully restrained, napping in a soggy and often messy diaper.

Despite that, you couldn't help feel a sense of pride as, after your caregiver hoisted you out of your stroller and onto their hip at the end of the race, a woman places a finisher's medal around your neck as well for, "Being such a good little baby for the whole race."

#ab/dl kink #ab/dl stories #ab/dl story time #ab/dl diaper #cg/l #cg/l fantasies #maddie rambles

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tojisun · 10 months ago

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!! hurt and comfort; simon’s pov (re: bimbo!reader); mentioned johnny; dark simon but only if u squint very hard // work is a continuation of this one ^v^ // bimbo!reader mlist

divider by @/plutism <33

simon noticed how quiet you’ve gotten, demure smiles and puffed out laughs never breaching past the first trickles of giggles. you seemed distracted, eyes glazing over and your fingers pausing from where they were playing with the loose threading of your sweater.

well, technically it was his, but you’ve long stolen it from his bunk and simon truly would rather cut off his arms than ask it back from you.

simon waits, mulling over how to approach you, how to talk to you when you're obviously worried about something, but then you take the first step.

“simmy, why’re you with me…?”

the hesitation in your voice makes him ache, his heart wrenching itself from the cages of his ribs, threatening to smother him with his grief. he parts his lips open, a question on the tip of his tongue — "who made you doubt my love?" — but he holds himself back, choosing instead to take your hand in his.

you look up at the first touch of his fingers along the back of your palm, the pads of his fingers gliding softly, tentatively, before reaching to tangle them with yours. simon's breath hitches at the weak smile that tugs up at your lips, a wet sheen lining the corners of your eyes.

"oh, petal," simon murmurs, pulling your hand up to his lips so he can press a kiss along the ridges of your knuckles. he earns a wet giggle as you shoot him a shy look, surreptitiously holding back your tears, and simon briefly wonders if you can feel your nose twitching because of your aborted sniffles.

"i'm with you 'cause i love you."

he shifts when he says this, giving himself more room to use his other hand — greedily reaching forward to cup your cheek, thumbing the skin just underneath your eye.

"you understand?"

it is a gentle prodding, one that he hopes was able to hide his own hesitance because if you are doubting his love, if you are questioning why he is with you, then-

then.

does that mean he isn't showing it enough?

simon breathes in sharply, his own world caving in, and it is only the hold he has on you that keeps him tethered. his mind runs on overdrive, the what-if's a catalyst to his unstoppable spiral: what does he need to change? how else can he show you his affections? how else can he reassure you? what can chase away your doubts?

simon's fear grows, threatening to creep up from the base of his throat and to spill into the space between you two, but even so, he forces himself to stay steady. to hold onto you just as gently.

he can process this later on his own — confide in mactavish if he needs to — but right now, in this moment, simon needs to comfort you.

to show you that his promises — "yeah, sweetheart. you and me, together forever." — are true. that he will fulfill them.

that-

"yeah," you reply, voice less wobbly but not any less unsure. "i understand and trust you, simmy, i do! it's just that they..."

simon's gait changes, his trained ears picking apart your mumbled words.

'they.'

someone did this. someone had tainted simon's love for you; made you doubt his intentions. worse, someone made you doubt yourself.

"shh," simon coos, pulling away just a bit before finally picking you up from your spot beside him and dropping you gently on his lap.

your arms loosely curl over his shoulders, hips swaying as you make yourself comfortable on top of him. simon's hands find purchase on your ass, not really doing anything salacious, especially not with this atmosphere, but only holding on to ensure that you don't wiggle yourself to the floor on accident.

you're watching him with big doe eyes, looking all parts his princess even when sadness continues to reverberate from you. simon presses forward to rub his nose against your own, startling a squeak from you — a distraction before his careful questioning.

"tell me everythin' from the start, petal," simon whispers. "let me help you, yeah?"

"okay," you sniffle, nodding softly.

and you do: you tell him about noah thompson, the frat boy who couldn't take "no" for an answer and insisted on bothering you even when you told him that you were taken. that you were spoken for. you told him about noah who insisted that the perfect match for you was someone you could be with everyday — "he taunted me, simmy. asked why you're never around." — and, especially, someone younger. you told him about noah who, in his frustration at your continuous rejection, began to steer hatred your way; calling you "dumb" and "stupid" and "easy."

the last one was said in a hiccupped cry and simon was quick to wrap you up in his embrace, tucking you underneath his chin and murmuring promises and reassurances because you are not dumb nor stupid nor fucking easy.

gods. you are such a perfect girl, the sweetest of them all. the kindest. the loveliest.

and noah knows. that is why, shrouded in his jealousy after seeing the token of his affection be so protective of her lover, he said those things to you. but simon doesn't say that. he doesn't craft anything that could make it look like he's making an excuse for noah's disgusting attitude. so instead, he remains quiet as you pick up your words again.

because, finally, simon is presented with the root of your sadness: noah telling you that simon could only ever be with you for your body.

"i told him you couldn't be because if you're only with me for my body then, simmy, you would've left a long time ago! you wouldn't spoil me and mitty," simon almost coos at the new nickname you gave mittens, "and you wouldn't introduce me to your friends! you wouldn't take me out to see the penguins or go to the butterfly gardens with me. and that's just some of the stuff i remember because you do so much for me but he won't listen!"

simon isn't shocked by the sob that ripples from your lungs as you press your face on the crook of his neck, crying out in your frustration. simon's own lips wobble, his previous self-doubt now crushed at having heard you protect him with such ferocity. at having believed in him with such confidence.

he rubs your back with his palms, unwavering in the flow of his praises and comfort. he presses a kiss on the top of your head, then your temple, before planting multiple along your damp face. you try dancing away from his lips with another wet huff before finally collapsing in his arms in your exhaustion.

"i'm sorry for askin', simmy," you mumble. "i know you love me but-"

"s'all right, petal. y've got nothin' to say sorry for," simon replies, tightening his arms around you. "i'm glad that you came to me and asked. i promised you, didn't i? that we'll take things together, as a team?"

"mhmm," you say with a soft nod. "as a team."

"that's right. you and me: a team."

you crash on his lap and simon basks in the quiet seconds before carrying you to the bedroom. he tucks you underneath the sheets, making a mental note that he has to come back and at least wipe your makeup off and, if he takes a while, then wake you up just enough that you can wash your face.

but for now, he has things to do.

fishing his phone out, simon shoots a message to johnny: "find me something on noah thompson."

"how much?" johnny writes back.

"enough that he won't bother petal anymore," simon replies.

a minute rolls by when johnny messages him again, "we've got something." then, "will she know?"

simon hums to himself. "no," he writes back.

johnny doesn't send in any more replies, but simon understands. no more needs to be said, anyway. not when it's about you.

tagging: @ghostsbimbo @kenz-ee @yannauauau @yaebaal @ivymarquis @liwooa @loonalockley @kariiiel @hawsx3 @durkakakayata @littlecellist

#suns.f #bimbo!reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #female reader #suns

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transmutationisms · 6 months ago

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can u elaborate on posture being a lie

As Beth Linker explains in her book “Slouch: Posture Panic in Modern America” (Princeton), a long history of anxiety about the proximity between human and bestial nature has played out in this area of social science. Linker, a historian of medicine at the University of Pennsylvania, argues that at the onset of the twentieth century the United States became gripped by what she characterizes as a poor-posture epidemic: a widespread social contagion of slumping that could, it was feared, have deleterious effects not just upon individual health but also upon the body politic. Sitting up straight would help remedy all kinds of failings, physical and moral [...] she sees the “past and present worries concerning posture as part of an enduring concern about so-called ‘diseases of civilization’ ”—grounded in a mythology of human ancestry that posits the hunter-gatherer as an ideal from which we have fallen.

[...]

In America at the turn of the twentieth century, anxieties about posture inevitably collided with anxieties not just about class but also about race. Stooping was associated with poverty and with manual, industrialized labor—the conditions of working-class immigrants from European countries who, in their physical debasement, were positioned well below the white Anglo-Saxon Protestant establishment. Linker argues that, in this environment, “posture served as a marker of social status similar to skin color.” At the same time, populations that had been colonized and enslaved were held up as posture paradigms for the élite to emulate: the American Posture League rewarded successful students with congratulatory pins that featured an image of an extremely upright Lenape man. The head-carrying customs associated with African women were also adopted as training exercises for white girls of privilege, although Linker notes that Bancroft and her peers recommended that young ladies learn to balance not baskets and basins, which signified functionality, but piles of flat, slippery books, markers of their own access to leisure and education. For Black Americans, posture was even more fraught: despite the admiration granted to the posture of African women bearing loads atop their heads, community leaders like Dr. Algernon Jackson, who helped establish the National Negro Health Movement, criticized those Black youth who “too often slump along, stoop-shouldered and walk with a careless, lazy sort of dragging gait.” If slouching among privileged white Americans could indicate an enviable carelessness, it was seen as proof of indolence when adopted by the disadvantaged.

This being America, posture panic was swiftly commercialized, with a range of products marketed to appeal to the eighty per cent of the population whose carriage had been deemed inadequate by posture surveys. The footwear industry drafted orthopedic surgeons to consult on the design of shoes that would lessen foot and back pain without the stigma of corrective footwear: one brand, Trupedic, advertised itself as “a real anatomical shoe without the freak-show look.” The indefatigable Jessie Bancroft trained her sights on children’s clothing, endorsing a company that created a “Right-Posture” jacket, whose trim cut across the upper shoulders gave its schoolboy wearer little choice but to throw his shoulders back like Jordan Baker. Bancroft’s American Posture League endorsed girdles and corsets for women; similar garments were also adopted by men, who, by the early nineteen-fifties, were purchasing abdominal “bracers�� by the millions.

It was in this era that what eventually proved to be the most contentious form of posture policing reached its height, when students entering college were required to submit to mandatory posture examinations, including the taking of nude or semi-nude photographs. For decades, incoming students had been evaluated for conditions such as scoliosis by means of a medical exam, which came to incorporate photography to create a visual record. Linker writes that for many male students, particularly those who had military training, undressing for the camera was no biggie. For female students, it was often a more disquieting undertaking. Sylvia Plath, who endured it in 1950, drew upon the experience in “The Bell Jar,” whose protagonist, Esther Greenwood, discovers that undressing for her boyfriend is as uncomfortably exposing as “knowing . . . that a picture of you stark naked, both full view and side view, is going into the college gym files.” The practice of taking posture photographs was gradually abandoned by colleges, thanks in part to the rise of the women’s movement, which gave coeds a new language with which to express their discomfort. It might have been largely forgotten were it not for a 1995 article in the Times Magazine, which raised the alarming possibility that there still existed stashes of nude photographs of famous former students of the Ivy League and the Seven Sisters, such as George H. W. Bush, Bob Woodward, Meryl Streep, and Hillary Clinton. Many of the photographs in question were taken and held not by the institutions themselves but by the mid-century psychologist William Herbert Sheldon. Sheldon was best known for his later discredited theories of somatotypes, whereby he attributed personality characteristics to individuals based on whether their build was ectomorphic, endomorphic, or mesomorphic.

[...]

Today, the descendants of Jessie Bancroft are figures like Esther Gokhale, a Bay Area acupuncturist and the creator of the Gokhale Method, who teaches “primal posture” courses to tech executives and whose recommendations are consonant with other fitness trends, such as barefoot running and “paleo” eating, that romanticize an ancestral past as a remedy for the ills of the present. The compulsory mass surveillance that ended when universities ceased the practice of posture photography has been replaced by voluntary individual surveillance, with the likes of Rafi the giraffe and the Nekoze cat monitoring a user’s vulnerability to “tech neck,” a newly named complaint brought on by excessive use of the kind of devices profitably developed by those paleo-eating, barefoot-running, yoga-practicing executives. Meanwhile, Linker reports, paleoanthropologists quietly working in places other than TikTok have begun to revise the popular idea that our ancient ancestors did not get aches and pains in their backs. Analysis of fossilized spines has revealed degenerative changes suggesting that “the first upright hominids to roam the earth likely experienced back pain, or would have been predisposed to such a condition if they had lived long enough.” Slouching, far from being a disease of civilization, then, seems to be something we’ve been prone to for as long as we have stood on our own two feet.

#hps

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