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youvebeenlivingfictional · 7 months ago

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the pro

part ii: what we're willing to accept

Pairing: Art Donaldson x Reader

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

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

Length: 4.8K

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don’t want you to get bored.

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

Art Donaldson.

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

“You ever played tennis before?” He asks.

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

“We’ll start with the basics.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

“Then how do you know?”

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

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

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

“What do you wanna know?”

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

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

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

“Lily?”

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

“Oh!” It catches you off-guard.

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

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

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

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

“...He seems to be pretty busy.”

“He is.”

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

“Play tennis.”

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

“It shows, you know,” He says.

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

“Just good?” He plies.

“The best. A real pro.”

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

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

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

“She’s killing it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

It spurs you to lunge a little too far.

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

“What hurts?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course.”

“How’s the ankle?”

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

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

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

“Good enough to walk on?”

Hardly.

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

“I have,” You insist, “All day.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes.”

“You can tell him no, you know.”

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

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

I invited Art.

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

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

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

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

“Almost ready in here?” He asks.

“All set!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wanted to come say hi.”

“Well. Hi.”

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

“Thanks for the invite.”

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

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

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

“He isn’t taking care of you.”

“My ankle is fine.”

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

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

“Art,” You warn, “I—Oh, oh god—”

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

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

“Condom?” He asks.

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

“Art.”

“Sssh.”

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

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

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

“Art—”

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I see you?”

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

“You just saw me,” You remind him.

“Tomorrow,” Art clarifies.

“Where?”

“I’ll send an address.”

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

“...You regret it?” He asks.

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

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

“Okay.”

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

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

“Is this Lily?” You ask.

“Yeah,” He nods. “First competition.”

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

Art chuckles, nodding as he steps around you.

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

“Art?”

“Yeah?”

“Why am I here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What time is he home tonight?"

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

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

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

"...Could stay."

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

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

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

"What?"

"Letting you go every day."

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

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

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

"Not when I want it, too."

part ii: what we're willing to accept

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

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

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

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

#Art Donaldson x Reader #Art Donaldson x You #Art Donaldson/Reader #Art Donaldson/You #Art Donaldson fic #Art Donaldson imagine #the pro

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jesuistrestriste · 10 months ago

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♡ Cooking & Cleaning; Art Donaldson x Reader ♡

nsfw! (18+) cw: service sub!art donaldson, dom!reader, afab/fem reader, use of ma'am as an honorific, brief food play, oral sex (reader receiving), begging, handjob, brief edging, praise, degradation, multiple orgasms (character receiving), dry orgasm

wc: 6.3 k (whoops)

note: this was pulled from the most depraved parts of my brain. i refuse to be held accountable for the absolute filth this contains ! :)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆. ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆. ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆.

The very second that your key is in the apartment door and you're finally home, you find your legs nearly collapsing underneath you as you step inside and kick off your black kitten heels.

"God," you groan, shutting the door behind you before you move to peel your chic new blazer off of your shoulders. You toss it onto the coatrack nearby and bring a handful of your fingers up to your forehead to rub at it tensely, sighing deeply.

It had been a long day at the USTA (United States Tennis Association) office, and all you wanted to do was come home and see your husband.

After Art had lost several important and consecutive tennis matches, as well as his confidence on the court (despite his actual tennis skills still being phenomenal -- he just psyched himself out too much), he had decided to give up his life as a professional athlete.

At first, this devastated you. Not only did you love your partner and believe in him throughout his career, as well as believing in his very real ability to eventually win the US Open, but this decision of his also meant that your position as his coach would become obsolete..

You actually became quite anxious about you and Art's future at the time.. you had needed a purpose, and so did he. You both were just those kinds of people; you and him both wanted to feel that you were contributing to something bigger than just yourselves, and that you were being useful to someone or something.

Luckily, his many previous years of successful tennis playing had scored you and him a shit ton of wealth. Like, genuinely a lot. You were beyond grateful, but you still wanted a life of your own. You didn't dare to think about the idea of becoming a stay-at-home wife while he went out and did whatever he wanted. Yuck. It just wasn't for you.

Your fears and inner turmoil about this change in your lives were quickly eased once Art had sat you down about two weeks after he had left his tennis career behind. He had taken your hands in his, smiled softly like he always did, and told you that he wanted to stay at home and take care of everything in it while you went out and continued your career in the field of professional athletics.

Of course, you immediately and excitedly agreed with the idea of this new plan, and then that was that!

You two developed new lives and new roles as people over a short period of time, but it didn't take away from the love you two shared. That always stayed consistent and at the center of everything.

Eventually, after a month or so of coming home from your new job to Art doing things like vacuuming the wooden floors of your guys' expensive New York apartment, or making elaborate protein-packed smoothies for the gym sessions that you two still did together, you came to realize that the whole "house husband" persona was actually kinda hot.

He had realized it too. Quicker than you had, actually. In fact, he can distinctly remember the overwhelming feeling of heat that had pooled deep in his gut the first time he had ever served you a home-cooked meal after you came home from a long day at your new job. He had gently rubbed your sore feet that night while you ate, and then suddenly couldn't find a way to deny how this new practice of.. servicing you.. made him feel.

I mean, God, he loved doing that stuff for you.. cooking.. tidying.. pampering.. washing.. he would do it all. You knew that he worshipped the ground that you walked on—reminding yourself constantly of the time he had admitted to you during sex that he believed he would be "nowhere without you"—and you devoured the increased sense of power that came with it every. single. time. It eventually became very easy and comfortable for you to let him take care of you. You grew hungry for it.

And then this persona of his, over time, dissolved into something much more intimate..

After tossing your blazer on the rack and rubbing at your temples, you drag your pantyhose-covered feet across the floor and into the kitchen.

Your nose is instantly filled with the aroma of fluffy, vanilla sweetness and a bit of nutmeg. you sigh happily as you turn the corner and see Art standing over a mess of what appears to be flour and sugar in a large bowl on the kitchen counter. He looks over his shoulder briefly with a smile as he mixes the dry ingredients together with a whisk.

“Hey, hon,” he grins, before turning back to look down at his current baking project.

you shuffle up behind him and hug him, your cheek pressing against his warm upper back as your arms reach to wrap gently around his abdomen. You sigh deeply.

“Hey, babe.. ‘m so tired. It was such a long day.”

He laughs softly, which shakes you a bit as you hold him.

“What’d your colleagues do now?”

You shake your head against him, groaning dramatically.

“I don’t want to talk about it.. what are you baking? It smells good in here.”

“Nothing crazy, it’s just some holiday cookies. I found the recipe online this morning after you left.”

“How many are you planning to make? There’s already some in the oven.” you ask, peeking around his frame from behind to see him set the bowl aside and wipe his hands on the apron he’s wearing. (It was white with small pink hearts by the pockets. You got it for him when he started cooking for you everyday, and he used to feel weird about it. He said it made him feel “slightly emasculated”, but he quickly grew to absolutely adore it. It was just another way for you to claim him as your personal chef. One night before you got home, he jerked off while wearing it, but he would never tell you that.)

“I don’t really know,” he shrugs and chuckles sheepishly, “there are twelve baking right now, but I thought that maybe I could make some for our neighbors.”

You chuckle softly, your hands disconnecting from their place on his stomach to reach down and give his ass a small squeeze. He jumps a little at the feeling, embarrassed laughter bubbling up in his chest.

“Where’d all this holiday cheer come from?” you smirk, pulling back from your position against his back to lean your hip against the counter. You just wanted to look at his pretty face. Your eyes quickly fixate on the fact that he’s got a bit of flour on his flushed cheek.. It’s only a small puff and smear of the white substance near his jaw, but for some reason it starts a flame in your lower stomach. There was just something about the way he got a little messy when he cooked or baked for you.

His cheeks plump up in shape ever-so-slightly as he grins at you.

“I don’t know.. I had time before you got home- I mean, well, before i thought you’d get home, and so i thought I’d just-”

You take a step forward, nodding at his words while your body is now only inches from his. You look up into his glassy blue eyes.

“You thought you’d just.. what?” you purr, your hand coming up to caress his lower back.

He swallows thickly, briefly looking down at the mess on the counter before he looks back to you. His body temperature is steadily rising as he feels your fingertips caress him over his loose t-shirt.

“I just thought I’d make some more,” he whispers.

You lean in, reaching your other hand up to gingerly hold the side of his neck while you press a kiss to it.

“You’re such a sweetheart, aren’t you?”

He nods, slowly, his eyelids fluttering slightly at the feeling of your mouth on him.

“I..I mean, yeah, I guess.”

You lean in a bit more, sucking softly at his neck. His head lolls a bit forward, and you nip at him when the sound of his shaky breathing reaches your ears.

You pull back, a small smirk covering your face as you look up at him.

His focus darts from your eyes to your lips as he reaches both of his hands out for your waist, but he’s rudely interrupted when the timer for the oven goes off— cookies are done.

You both nearly jump out of your skin at the sound; the incessant beeping pulling you both out of the thick fog of tension between your bodies and minds.

“Shit,” he mumbles, flushing pink from his cheeks to the tips of his ears as he turns off the timer at the top of the oven and moves to hastily grab an oven mitt from the lower drawer.

He pulls open the oven door, and you step back to watch him pull the tray out and set it on top of the stove area.

He sighs, pulling off the mitt and setting it aside as he leans over the cookies. His eyes are inspecting each one, and he has a very focused expression plastered on his face. He was as much of a perfectionist in the kitchen as he used to be on the court, that was for sure.

Your body moves in to stand beside him, also peering down at the tray of gorgeous golden-brown cookies. You place a hand on his upper back, rubbing it encouragingly.

“These look incredible,” you say, smiling at him.

He nods, still inspecting them, “They look better than I thought they would.. I actually messed up earlier and accidentally added three-fourths of a cup of sugar instead of two-thirds..”

“They look perfect, don’t stress.”

He looks to you, his gaze meeting yours and then suddenly everything was back to how it was before the timer went off. His hands reach for your waist, squeezing at your hips as he looks lovingly down at you.

“Be proud of yourself, Art.. you did a good job,” you laugh softly, your hands reaching up to cup his face. He pulls you closer.

“I am.”

“Are you?”

“Mhm.”

“Good.”

You suddenly get a very filthy idea.

“Can.. can you tell me what the recipe called for?”

His brows furrow slightly as he seems taken aback by your request, his cock already starting to stir to life in his sweatpants just from holding your body. He didn’t want to talk about the damn cookies anymore.

“What?”

You roll your eyes, one of your hands dropping from his face to reach around the fabric of the front of his apron and grope him over his sweats. Your other hand moves down too, but just to gently hold the side of his torso. His whole body jolts forward and his lips part instantly.

“You’ll like where this is headed, trust me. Just talk to me.. tell me what you did to make the cookies look so perfect..”

He breathes unsteadily, his fingers digging into your waist as he feels your hand start to work his cock up to a full-blown, hot, twitchy erection.

“I.. uhm.. I just..” he breathes out, his eyes growing lidded as he absentmindedly bucks up against your touch, still trying to maintain eye contact as pleasure starts to flood his senses, “one cup of b-butter.. ngh-!.. two cups.. two cups of flour… and then- ugh!- two.. two-thir-r-ds.. of..”

His voice trails off, shaky and low and broken as he hangs his head a bit, leaking incessantly into his boxers. It was that easy for you to work him up.

You frown, “Uh oh.. come on, baby, don’t go nonverbal on me that quick.. we’ve just barely gotten started…”

A small whimper leaves his chest as he tries to finish his words, “Two-thirds, I m-mean- three-f-fourths of a c-cup of.. s-su.. sugar… one teasp’of vanilla.. and.. o-one.. teaspoon of nutm-eg.”

You smile, stroking his cock over the fabric of his pants, “Good boy.. God, you’re so pretty when you’re slurring for me..”

He moans obscenely, melting at the praise while he feels his length grow suddenly intensely hot. A certain kind of numbness starts to creep over his crotch before his hands are flying from your hips to your wrist.

“Wait! W-Wait!” he gasps, his eyes squeezing shut as he blows a concentrated shaky breath from his lips, his fingertips digging into your arm.

Your eyebrow lifts and you smile as you take in the way his body shakes and shudders as he holds it in for you. He knows how to behave.. what would make you happy.. what would make you disappointed.. After all, he’s been trained by you in more than just tennis.

“Close?” you whisper.

His body starts to slowly relax again as he regains some of his composure. He blinks his eyes back open slowly, looking into yours.

“Very,” he groans.

You pull your hands from his body, and he whines softly.

“Take off the apron. Put it on the floor.”

You’re sure you’ve never seen him move so fast— his hands reaching behind his back and undoing the tied string. Then, he pulls the apron off over his head, tossing it off to the side. He watches you study him with parted lips, and he bites onto his own.

“Now take your sweats off for me.”

He does as he’s told; his shaky fingers reaching down to slip his pants down to his lower thighs, and then down to his knees and ankles, and then he steps out of them. He kicks them gently next to where the apron was thrown, now making a mess of grey and white fabric where both items pooled on the kitchen floor.

You step close to his body, cupping his face before running a hand through his messy strawberry-blonde locks. But it doesn’t take long for your eyes to travel solely down to the bulge prominently pressing against the inside of his navy boxer briefs. You run a fingertip up and over the outline of his dick, relishing in the way it makes him shake. He was now just in his tee shirt, boxers, and white socks, while you stayed fully clothed. But not for too much longer.

"My pretty husband.." you coo to him, making his lips part to let out a few uneven breaths. You glance around his frame and notice a bowl off to the side that had remnants of the soft cookie dough from the first batch of the cookies. You smirk.

You lean forward and swipe your thumb along the inside of the bowl, gathering some of the sugary, buttery mixture on your digit. His gaze remains lidded and locked onto your face, not finding any importance in your hand's movements at the kitchen counter. You bring your thumb back in, showing him what you did.

He spares your thumb a quick glance, but then his eyes are back on yours, and then your lips, and then the way that your breasts are peeking out from the low-cut collar of your work top. You bring your thumb up to his mouth.

"Open," you whisper.

He does as he's told, parting his lips further and leaning in to encourage your finger to slip past them.

You push your cookie dough-covered thumb into his mouth, feeling him immediately begin to suckle on it; his tongue swirled over it, and his eyes fluttered shut right after they began to roll back. His brows furrow, and a couple of faint whines bubble up out of him as the taste of his homemade sweetness melts seamlessly on his palate.

While your thumb is in his mouth, you push it down softly on his tongue.

"Knees, baby," you say breathlessly.

Art knew this command like the back of his hand.

Effortlessly and steadily, he dropped down to his knees one after the other, keeping your digit in his mouth the entire time. He didn't dare let it go. He moved to sit on his calves.

"Good job.. good boy..."

He whimpered, the vibrations of his pathetic sounds causing your hand to buzz slightly.

"I want your mouth on my cunt.. can you do that for me, darling?" you purr, running your hand through his hair for a moment. He nods around you.

"Y'sh, m'm.." he mumbled, trying his best to speak while still relishing your touch with enough attention.

You pull your thumb from the heat of his wet mouth, and smirk as you watch his lips chase after it.

"What was that?"

You already had a good idea about what he had murmured, but it was just.. best to be sure.

"Yes, ma'am," he gasps out softly, his eyes glazed over.

He reaches up and pulls at your skirt, shimmying it down and over your ass and thighs, letting it fall to your ankles. You kick it aside, and lean your back against the countertop. Art positions himself on his knees so that he's on the floor in front of you, looking up at you. His hands shakily reach up to the sides of your pantyhose, his tongue licking out over his bottom lip. He digs his fingers into the taut fabric and looks up at you once more, beginning to pull them down.

Immediately you grab his wrists, halting his movements. His eyes look up into yours, worried that he had made a wrong move, but you shake your head with a soft smile.

"You can rip them."

He doesn't even mean to, but he moans when you give him permission to be a little desperate right now.

In an instant, his strong hands are pulling needily at your tights, causing them to rip from your crotch to your lower thighs. He hooks one of his index fingers into the inside of your panties, his thighs tensing up at the feeling of your wetness, and then he's pushing them to the side. His tongue rests out over his bottom lip as he leans in, holding the back of your leg with his free hand as his eyes flutter shut and he engulfs your heat with his mouth.

"Oh, fuck-!" you yelp, reaching down to tangle your hands in his soft curls, "fuck, fuck, that feels good, Art, don't stop.."

He moans, his eyes squeezed shut as he lathes his tongue up and down and over your wet hole. He lewdly sucks and swallows your slick that's quickly spilling over his tongue, trying to focus harder on your pleasure (and less on the feeling of his cock throbbing rapidly in his boxers.. he can feel himself leaking).

You remove your hands from his hair and move to unsteadily grip the countertop, your back pressing hard against it. Art hums around you in his mouth, moving his tongue up to lick sloppily at your clit. He opens his eyes, his brows furrowed, and looks up at you.

"God, you're so good at this.. you're doing so well.. i'm getting.. close.." you breathe out, studying the upper half of his face while the lower half remains buried in your pussy.

He doubles his efforts, smushing his face deeper against you, his lips pursing to suckle against your sensitive nub as his grip on your leg tightens. Art has half a mind at that moment to just scoot forward a bit and slot your ankle between his thighs, but he won't. You came first, in his mind. Literally, and figuratively.

You sling the leg that he's holding over his shoulder, giving him more access, and then you begin to feel an overwhelming, hot numbness creep over your lower half..

"ANGH!" you moan loudly, squeezing your eyes shut as your body begins to shake. Your fingers grip the kitchen counter so hard that you're afraid you'll break a nail.

"I'm going to cum, Art..!"

"Mm! Mm-mm!"

"I'm.. oh my god.... I'm... I'm-! Cumming-!" you whine, feeling your orgasm crash over you.

"MM-!" he laps at your pulsing cunt, squeezing his eyes shut before forcing them open so that he can watch the way your beautiful face moves to contort in ecstasy.

You groan and whine as your orgasm's aftershocks are uncomfortably prolonged by Art's relentless tongue, and your hands release the marble countertop to reach down and grab two soft fistfuls of his hair. You try to tug his head back from your cunt, but he just closes his eyes and presses his nose and mouth further against your core. The repetitive movements of his tongue over your folds cause lewd, wet noises to fill the kitchen.

"Art... A-Art..! Enough!" you slur out as the pleasure from before starts to melt into a prickly sting of oversensitivity.

His eyes flutter open and you shoot him a warning glance as he peers up at you.

"I said enough, yeah?" you snap, "stand up."

He immediately pulls his mouth away from your sticky body and stands up on shaky legs. His eyes look downward, guiltily avoiding your gaze, as he wipes at the clear slick covering his chin with the back of his hand.

You try to catch your breath for a moment, studying his chest as it heaves up and down -- him trying to catch his breath all the same. You reach out and take his lower jaw softly in one hand, forcing him to look at you properly.

"You got a little fucking greedy there for a minute.. didn't you?"

He bites his bottom lip for a second, nervously chewing on the inside of it as he debates what answer he could give that would result in the least amount of punishment from you.

"Did you hear what I said?" you whisper coldly, taking a step closer to him as your hand grazes against the erection standing proudly in his underwear.

His body automatically jolts forward, and he lets out a shaky breath as his brow twitches. "Yeah.. I did.." he huffs out.

You smirk, wrapping your hand around him over the dark blue fabric, "And what do you think, hm? Were you being greedy?"

He looks deep into your eyes, his lips parting as he feels you start to stroke him. He tries to stop it, but his hips start to shallowly buck against your grasp, and now he can't get any words out. He wants to, but he just.. he really can't.

You roll your eyes.

"You know what I want you to say, honey. Use that big brain of yours."

He moans softly, his hands coming up to hold the sides of your upper arms as his eyes grow lidded.

"I'm.. I was being greedy.. I'm greedy," he moans lowly, thrusting into your hand a bit quicker and with a tad bit more abandon.

"Yeah, yeah you are. You're a greedy little whore for this, aren't you?"

He nods slowly but repeatedly as his brows pinch together and his breathing picks up.

"Yesss," he says brokenly, his voice straining a little as his moans start to become whimpers and whines, "I'm.. s' greedy for you.. jus' for you.. mm..!"

You nod and smirk up at him as his face becomes pinker and pinker, "That's it, pretty boy.. good job. You like when I stroke your pretty cock?"

He lets out an obscenely loud moan as his abdomen curls in over itself a bit, his hands gripping the sleeves of your work top and pulling helplessly at the fabric as he feels a spurt of precome burst into the inside of his boxers.

You chuckle a little as you watch him visibly get closer to his climax, but then he suddenly releases the hold on one of your sleeves and urgently grabs the hand that's moving over his clothed length.

You look down to where his hand holds yours, and he lets out a filthy whimper as he pulls your touch off of him and then urgently pushes your hand past his waistband and down into the front of his boxers. You gasp at his seemingly impulsive actions, feeling your fingers finally come into contact with his slicked-up cockhead. Your fingertips just barely brush over his hot, leaking slit.. sliding over a thick glob of pre.. and then he's being sent over the edge. To the average person, the touch would be essentially imperceptible, but not to him.. not to Art. He was just far too sensitive.

Your husband lets out a startled cry as he doubles over your frame in front of him and frantically moans, his whole body trembling and tensing as his balls draw up, "I'm cumming!"

You don't even have time to really process what's happening until you feel your hand being covered in warm fluid, the substance dripping down your fingertips as Art basically comes untouched. You look up at him, dumbfounded, before you feel your abdomen grow warm and tingly. That was kinda.. hot?

"Jesus, baby," you whisper breathlessly as his hips jolt a few more times before stilling as he gulps air down into his lungs, "didn't realize you were that worked up.. that was a little quick, no?"

He moans softly, still feeling your fingers graze him inside of his boxers.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to.." he says, his breathing hitching in his throat as he tries to get the words out in spite of the pleasure still thrumming through his veins. He was still rock hard.

You smile, quickly using your clean, opposite hand to pull his boxers down to his lower thighs. His length slaps up lightly against his stomach before bobbing out in front of him, a tiny pearl-like bead of cum still leaking from his tip. He sighs shakily as he looks down at himself, and then up at you. You wrap your cum-covered hand around the base of his shaft, causing Art to jerk forward from sensitivity. He pulls a sharp breath in, his face scrunching up a little as he tries to control his body.

"I'll let you cum again," you start, watching his eyes light up, "but! you need to give me a warning this next time, okay? I want a clear warning, love."

He nods at your words, a more serious expression plastering over his face, "I will, I promise.. I.. I can give you a proper warning, ma'am.." he whispers.

And with that, you slide your hand from his base to his tip in one smooth motion, your thumb gliding over the head.

"GAH-!" he shudders forward, hissing in pain for a moment before he starts to moan again.

"You okay? Can you handle this?" you ask, your tone soft but seductive as you try to tease him but also legitimately check in. You two were always good at looking out for the other's wellbeing during your sessions together; the exchange of love and tender-care came easily to you both-- it was never something either of you had to question.

He nods, "Yeah, yes-ss, I can t-take it.." he slurs a little, watching your hand move up and down over his throbbing length.

"Look up into my eyes, darling," you purr, your hand starting to pick up speed, "does it feel good?"

He meets your eyes, his blue ones swimming with lust and desperation as he felt the beginnings of his second orgasm start to creep in, "Yes, fuck-! Yes! It feels so fucking good--!" he whines.

"Remember what we just talked about?"

He nods fervently, sucking his plump bottom lip in between his teeth as his focus darts from one of your eyes to the other. You speed up your hand, squeezing his shaft a little more to give him some pressure that you assume he needs.

He keens instantly, a loud moan rumbling from his chest as his thighs start to shake and his eyes squeeze shut.

"Art," you murmur in a seductive but warning tone.

He shakes all over, nodding his head, before his back stiffens up and he becomes incredibly tense. You keep your hand moving at the same fast pace, hoping his memory today is as good as his stamina.

"I'm going to cum," he whispers quickly, bringing his hands up to hold onto your shoulders as he pulls you closer.

You smile in approval, leaning in close to his ear and breathing warmly against his skin as you speak softly, "thank you for telling me, angel. do you want to cum for me?"

He nods, whining out a hasty "mhm". He lets out a breathy moan as he feels your hot words against his upper neck.

You press a chaste kiss there, and then you slide your hand up to gently grip his shaft while your thumb moves to rapidly swipe over his frenulum.

"Come."

And he does just that.

Art's back arches as soon as your one commanding word reaches his ears, cumming uncontrollably with an abrupt cry of pleasure. At first, his body is incredibly rigid as he lets go, his brows pinched up together as he feels the first, pulsing waves of his orgasm hit him, but then the full sensation of his release hits him and his whole body shudders deeply. He lets out little breathy moans and gasps as he relishes in the bursts of pleasure rolling over his cock. You slow your thumb down a bit as you watch him spurt rope after rope over your hand and onto the kitchen floor as he comes undone for you a second time.

"Fucking hell," you moan, now going back to stroking him fully instead of just rubbing a digit against his tip.

He grits his teeth in an instant, being pulled from his afterglow by the feeling of your hand forcing him back into a feeling of overstimulation. "Ah-! Ah!.. T-Too much, too much," he whimpers, his hands instinctively reaching down from your shoulders to push at your hand that's currently working him towards a third, uncomfortable orgasm that he's not even sure he wants anymore.

You use the hand that's not stroking him to move his hands away from your occupied one, giving him a small shake of your head.

"Hands behind your back, please. We're not done yet, okay?" you coo.

He quickly follows orders, moving both of his hands behind his back and away from his aching length, although not without letting out a sniffly whine of protest first.

"Please, ma'am.. I'm.. I can't do it I can't do it-- I'm-- AH!"

You cut off his soft moans of agony with a brief squeeze to the base of his dick, looking intently up into his eyes through your lashes.

"If you really want to stop, baby," you tilt your head teasingly, "you can always use the safeword, yeah?"

He bites his lip before he lets out a warped cry, his head lolling backwards in the same instant. You stop moving your hand.

"Art, darling," you whisper to him comfortingly.

He brings his head back upright to look down into your eyes, his face blank with pleasure; he almost looked drunk. His eyes were glazed over, his cheeks were pink, his hair was a mess, and his lips were parted to let out harsh little breaths of air as he tried to regain some semblance of being grounded in his own, ruined body.

You reach your free hand up to cup his jaw, brushing your thumb over the side of his face.

"Does it really hurt that bad? You know that you can be honest," you whisper, now a little concerned that maybe you pushed him too far.

He thinks for a moment before shaking his head slowly and swallowing a bit of drool that he realized has been collecting in his mouth for the past minute or so, "N-Just a little.." he breathes out.

You nod, giving him one soft stroke of his come-covered cock. He gasps and his torso jolts at the sensation, faint tears springing to his eyes.

"Sorry, sorry," you hum, "should we stop here then? I think maybe that would be best for you.. you've already done so well for me.."

The latter half of your sentence, that subtle bit of praise, gives him all the motivation he needs to want to unravel again.

He looks down at his still-hard cock, and then back up at you, and shakes his head. His tongue pokes out over his bottom lip and wets it as he tries to collect his thoughts.

"No.. no, I can do- I can go again, ma'am.. I pro-promise.." he slurs out, thrusting up into your hand.

You raise a skeptical brow at him and his movements, keeping your hand still.

"Are you sure? You know that I won't be upset with you if you want to stop, Art."

He shakes his head again, his lip trembling, "Please."

You smile softly and start to move your hand up and down over his cock again. Despite his previous indications that it was painful, the feeling has now seemed to morph back into unfiltered pleasure as he lets out a high-pitched moan of your name. He babbles endlessly, a mixture of pleas for more, letting out repetitive mumblings of "feels good", and "yes", and an assortment of stuttered expletives.

It doesn't take long for Art to get close again.

"I think 'm gonna come again," he mumbles, letting his eyes fall shut as his head slumps forward against your shoulder. You stroke him quicker, focusing on his hypersensitive tip as you feel a drip of precome come out.

"Oh? You want to come again?" you tease coyly.

You could be cruel sometimes. He had known that this part was coming eventually.

He shakes his head against the crook of your neck with a whine, "don't do this, please.."

You stop your hand at the base of his cock, halting his orgasm just as his load started to rise up his length. Art bites back an obscenely loud moan of protest that is dying to be let out..

"No, no no noo," he squirms against you, repetitively shaking his head as his face remains buried in your neck.

"You know what you need to do, darling."

"Please," he moans, "let me come.."

"You want to come?"

"Yes."

"You do?"

"YES..!"

"How should I make you come?"

"Can y- keep stroking my- I want my cock to be- I-" he mumbles incoherently.

You place your free hand on the back of his head, pushing your fingers pleasurably into his hair as he trembles against you.

"You want me to keep jerking you off? Hm?"

"Y-Yes-ss!" he moans out brokenly, using every bit of restraint within himself to resist the urge to move his hands from behind his back and relieve his aching parts.

He would never do that, though.. no matter how much he wanted to. He would always follow your wants and needs first. Those were most important to him.

"Ask me for what you need again. Nicely; just the way I like it."

"Please, can I come?"

"Again."

He whines, his hips involuntarily bucking up against your stilled hand wrapped around him.

"Please," he sobs, "can I please come for you?"

"Yes, honey, you can come."

You start to stroke his cock once again, and within just a few pumps Art is releasing again. Even though you can't see them because his face is still in your shoulder, his eyes roll all the way to the back of his head as he lets out a couple pitiful squirts of white, sticky liquid over your hand. "Ooh, that's it.. good boy.. are you my pretty little slut?"

When Art hears this, he isn't exactly sure what happens, but it's like the orgasm that's already halfway finished just completely starts over.

"Ohh my fucking- oh my god-dd-! Ugh! HNGH-!"

It's like every single nerve ending in his body is lighting up at once, and he can't do a damn thing about it.. he can't stop it...

His legs nearly go limp underneath him, and he has to lean further into you to prevent himself from collapsing.

Art then releases the most pornographic moans you've ever heard and tenses up in your hold all over again. You're not really sure what's happening until he--

"I'm cumming again! I'm cumm-m-ing-! Again! Ohmyfucking--! GOD!"

He whines and sobs against your body, his arms still held behind his back as you feel his cock jump and pulse in your hand again. This time, nothing comes out. It's odd because it's clear that he's cumming for a fourth time, but there's nothing to show for it.

You slow your hand but continue to stroke his length which is now covered in the creamy-white filth of his previous loads. His cock softens a little, but you're unsure when his orgasm ends because, again, nothing is coming out.

Art's frame suddenly begins to jerk around every time your hand brushes over his tip, and he lets out a hiss of discomfort through his gritted teeth and a sniffle afterwards. As soon as you hear that, you know he's done and you quickly remove your hand. Any extra stimulation and he'd genuinely start to cry. You could save that for another time.. if he wanted you to.

You move your other hand from his hair to his clothed upper back and rub small, comforting circles over it.

"I've got you," you whisper, "you did such a good job, baby. You just came dry for me."

He nods, sniffling wetly and exhaustedly.

You continue to rub his back for a minute or so in silence as he comes back down to earth; the pleasurable waves of his release's aftershocks allowing him to bask in the ebb and flow of it all as he tries to calm his ragged breathing.

"I feel weak," he groans softly.

You nod, "I'm right here, you're okay.. take some deep breaths for me, honey."

He nuzzles deeper against your neck and sighs contentedly, the fuzziness in his head starting to dissipate with your caring words and gentle touch.

"You're my good boy," you whisper, pressing your cheek against the side of his head.

"Mhmm," he hums, "always for you."

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆. ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆. ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆.

notes; WOAH. ok. so this has been like months in the making by now i think..? but i finally finished it :D thank u so much to everyone who has been patiently/loyally waiting for this one after i teased it for over a month on this blog 😭 + thank u to anyone who gave me some kind words of encouragement when i had to put this aside for a while. i luv u guys !! <3

reblogs are always allowed + appreciated!

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mywitchyblog · 4 months ago

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Reality Shifting and Age Changing Explained: A Deep Dive into the "Controversial" Practice

Introduction: Reality Shifting, the mind-bending practice of moving your consciousness/awareness to another reality (known as a Desired Reality or DR), has sparked intense debates within the community. One of the hottest topics? Age changing – the act of shifting to a different age in your DR. This shit has caused so many arguments, especially about ethics and what's "allowed". Let's break down why age changing isn't as fucked up as some people make it out to be, and why those who say otherwise might need to reconsider their stance. I will Mostly talk about agin yourself down since that is what is making the biggest noise

Taglist of various people who i think would be interested in this post (i will update it progresively) :

@shiftersroom You wanted my opinion ? Here is it /pos

@norumis I saw that post of yours

@evangelineshifts and @reiashiftsrealities Talked my project on your discord lol.

@jolynesmom Loved your post about it btw

Warning : READ IT FULLY BEFORE JUMPING TO CONCLUSIONS THANK YEW

My Race Chaging Post

Masterlist

Part I: Why Age Changing Isn't Bad

a. The Maturity Conundrum: When you look at the source of this controversy, you'll realize it revolves around the maturity gap between the shifter and their DR . Critics argue that age changing either doesn't alter your maturity (meaning if you're a teen in your DR, you still have the maturity of your Original Reality (OR), essentially making you an adult in a minor's body) or that it's inherently problematic. But here's the thing: when you shift, you fully take on the age and mindset of your DR self. You're not just playing pretend; you actually become that age. If you can get your DR self's memories, abilities, skills, and personality, why the fuck is it so far-fetched to think you can have their maturity as well?

Let's break this down scientifically. Maturity is dependent on brain development, more precisely, the coordinated functioning of four distinct zones:

Prefrontal Cortex (PFC): The "CEO" responsible for planning, decision-making, impulse control, and emotional regulation.

Limbic System: The "Marketing & Sales" team that influences emotions, motivation, and memory, shaping how we perceive situations and respond.

Basal Ganglia: The "Operations" department that controls habits and translates plans into action.

Temporal Lobes: "Customer Service & Public Relations" that processes social cues and guides our interactions with others.

This neurological ensemble shows that maturity is something physical, related to the brain development of an individual. It's been established in the shifting community that you cannot bring physical things across realities, so what makes you think you can bring your CR brain with you?

If that were the case, scripting a different personality, skills, and knowledge would be impossible. This means your DR self has its own cognitive and emotional frameworks developed in that reality. Your experiences and maturity are context-specific (in that case reality specific), so when you shift back to your OR, you regain your OR maturity. Shifting isn't like a permanent personality change; it's more like fully immersing yourself in a different role or life. Which is exactly what happens.

b. Debunking Anti-Aging Arguments:

"If you age yourself down, that means you're attracted to minors/you're a pedophile": This argument is complete bullshit. If there are gay people shifting to be heterosexual, lesbian shifters shifting for men, aro/ace people shifting to experience romantic/sexual attraction they never do in this reality, then aging yourself down and potentially having romantic and/or sexual relationships as a minor with another minor doesn't mean you're attracted to minors as an adult in another reality. This take is a "Hasty Generalization" fallacy – making a broad generalization based on a small or unrepresentative sample.

"Why in this reality are you thinking about dating minors??": This type of take is not what you think it is, baby girl. It's called a fallacy, more specifically the Straw Man fallacy. It occurs when someone misrepresents or oversimplifies an opponent's argument to make it easier to attack or refute. In our case, they're trying to oversimplify something as complex and nuanced as reality shifting, not taking into account valid instances where one would age themselves down.

"Even if you are the same age, you still have the awareness of being an adult, which means you're a predator": And again, another fallacious argument. Seriously, aren't y'all sick and tired of bouncing on my wood all day long? That's not how shifting works, and you know it. We aren't even sure awareness works like this. It's just a theory, plus I can tell that a lot of people with this stupid-ass take haven't shifted at all.When you shift – and let me tell you because I did shift, so I know how awareness works – when you shift to a reality, you don't even realize you've shifted at first because for you, existing, waking up, just living in this reality is something normal, not extraordinary at all. Then something will trigger the fact that you know you've shifted, and from the perspective of you in your DR, you don't feel as if you "originate" from a specific reality. For you, your DR becomes your CR, and subsequently,so does your awareness. You just know there's another reality, another version of you that exists and that you're an adult there. Your existence/consciousness/awareness is like a circle: no beginning, no end, no origin.Plus, according to the concept of infinite realities and possibilities, you can change via scripting how your awareness works. I haven't done that; that's how I and thousand of shifters WHO DID ACTUALLY SHIFT personally experienced/perceived our awareness while in our DR.

"Using shifting to age yourself down to date a minor while being an adult hereand saying 'oh well according to multiverse I AM this age, it doesn't matter ifI'm an adult in a different reality' is similar to trying to pursue someone thesecond they are of legal age when that shit varies in other countries/states": Nah, seriously, do some of y'all have actual arguments to defend your point of view except fallacious ones that have as much value as my nonexistent heterosexuality? The statement equates aging down in a Desired Reality to the practice of pursuing someone as soon as they reach the legal age in this reality, which is a "false equivalence" fallacy. These scenarios are fundamentally different in nature and intent. In reality shifting, the individual adopts the full cognitive and emotional framework of their DR self, becoming that version of them entirely. This is not comparable to someone in this reality deliberately targeting individuals based on legal age thresholds. The intent and context are distinct. Do some of you people realise that an actual predator/creep/pedophile would not age themselves down once they realized they could strike a chord as an adult in their DR without any consequences?

c. Valid Reasons for Age Changing:

Exploration and Nostalgia: Some people age down to relive experiences or explore stages of life they missed in their OR. It's like getting a second chance at living life. Maybe you want to experience high school without the anxiety, or have a childhood free from trauma. This shit can be healing as fuck and the best therapy there is in the multiverse.

Healing and Fulfillment: Shifting to a younger age can help heal from missed opportunities or trauma, like experiencing a fulfilling teenage romance or a carefree childhood. It's a way to rewrite parts of your life that were painful or unfulfilled.Imagine being able to have loving parents if you didn't in your OR,or getting to pursue that dream you gave up on as a kid.

Non-Sexual Intentions: Many shifters change their age without any sexual motives, focusing more on friendships, adventures, or just being in a different stage of life. It's about experiencing life from a different perspective, not about fetishizing youth. You might want to join a high school club, go to prom, or just enjoy the simpler responsibilities of being younger.

Tried to shift since being a minor: A lot of shifters discovered shifting when they were still minors and made DRs whose age corresponded to the one they had in their OR at the time and tried to shift again and again despite the years. Are you telling me that you're going to tell those people to discard those realities the moment they turn 18? Bitch, make it make sense and you cant.

Part II: Examining the Discourse Within the Reality Shifting Community

a. Teenage Shifters : Double standards and hypocrisy. Teenage Shifters need to acknowledge the hypocrisy of them shifting to a DR where they are a married adult with kids one day and then deciding to shift to a reality where they are 15 and dating another 15-year-old the next. This inconsistency becomes even more problematic when they complain about their "maturity" being affected upon returning to their original reality. Furthermore, these same shifters often label adult shifters as "predatory" for shifting to realities where they interact with high schoolers, failing to recognize the double standard in their own behavior.

This hypocrisy extends to their attitudes towards sexual content and relationships. Teenage shifters often defend scripting mature content in their desired realities, arguing that teens naturally have such desires. However, they become outraged when adult shifters express a desire to experience young love again through shifting. This inconsistency is further highlighted by their willingness to engage in adult behaviors with older partners in one reality while simultaneously pursuing teenage relationships in another.

This hypocrisy extends to their attitudes towards sexual content and relationships. Teenage shifters often defend scripting mature content in their desired realities, arguing that teens naturally have such desires. However, they become outraged when adult shifters express a desire to experience young love again (or expereince young love they never did) through shifting. This inconsistency is further highlighted by their willingness to engage in adult behaviors with older partners in one reality while simultaneously pursuing teenage relationships in another.

Moreover, the logic applied to adult shifters - that having a teenage love interest in a desired reality implies attraction to minors in the original reality - is not consistently applied to teenage shifters who frequently shift between adult and teenage experiences. This disparity in reasoning further underscores the bias within the community.

Lastly, the pressure to shift before reaching adulthood in the original reality is a concerning trend. The community's belief that minor-aged shifters can shift to any age creates an implicit urgency to experience various realities before becoming an adult, after which such experiences might be viewed as pedophilic fantasies by the wider community.

Many Shifters who are minors (I do not say that all shifters that are minors are like this, just a huge amount) have a very odd understanding of what shifting is. They often treat it like cosplay, which is not what true shifting is about. They accuse adults who age down of being predatory, yet they:

Age themselves up to be with adults.

Age down adults to be with them.

Have pornstar or stripper DRs, which is ironic considering their criticisms.

This double standard reveals a lack of understanding about the true nature of shifting and the subjective experience of each shifter. It's like they're playing by different rules depending on what suits them at the moment.

Consider this mind-fuck: A 17-year-old shifts to another reality, lives there for 40 years, then comes back and dates someone who's 17 in their CR. By their logic, this makes them predatory because they've lived for 57 years. Conversely, if they return to their CR as a 17-year-old and date a 57-year-old because they're "57 in shifting age," it's still seen as wrong. This highlights the inconsistency in their arguments and the subjective nature of age and experience across realities.

It's like trying to apply the rules of chess to a game of poker – it just doesn't work. Each reality has its own context, and trying to apply blanket rules across all of them is an exercise in futility.

b. The Hypocrisy of shiftok : Oppresive and unfounded dogma, lack of empathy and Cultish Tendencies

The TikTok reality shifting community, colloquially known as "Shiftok," often displays a concerning lack of empathy and nuanced understanding when discussing complex issues surrounding shifting experiences. This is exemplified by the interaction shown in the image below :

In the first comment, an individual expresses feeling emotionally and mentally stunted due to missing formative experiences while growing up(which is true a lack of expereince can stunt someone s well being and developement). They view shifting as a potential way to have those experiences and achieve personal growth. This perspective highlights the therapeutic potential some see in reality shifting. However, the response to this vulnerable admission is harsh and dismissive: "Just bc your childhood got fcked up does not give you the right to fck up another child's." This reply demonstrates the judgmental attitude prevalent in the Shiftok community, where complex motivations are often reduced to simplistic, moralistic condemnations.

This interaction illustrates several problematic aspects of the Shiftok discourse:

Lack of empathy: The responder shows no compassion for the original commenter's expressed trauma and stunted development.

Misinterpretation of intentions: The reply assumes malicious intent, ignoring the therapeutic or self-exploratory motivations expressed.

Imposing rigid moral standards: The response applies a single moral framework without considering the subjective nature of ethics across different realities.

Oversimplification of complex issues: The nuanced topic of personal growth through shifting is reduced to a binary "right" or "wrong" judgment.

Hypocrisy: While condemning certain shifting practices, the community often overlooks similar ethical concerns in other contexts, such as minors scripting adult relationships.

This example shows perfectly the need for more thoughtful, empathetic discourse within the shifting community. Rather than rush to judgment, shiftokers should strive to understand diverse perspectives and the complex reasons one would shift to a specific DR of theirs.Otherwise people will keep thinking that we are nothing more than a cult that seeks to exploit the mental health of broken teenagers and prey on their desperationf for fame and money.

c.The "holier than thou" attitude: The "holier than thou" attitude, also known as moral superiority or self-righteousness, is a mindset where individuals or groups believe their moral standards, beliefs, or practices are superior to those of others. This attitude often manifests as judgmental behavior, condescension, and a lack of empathy towards differing viewpoints or experiences.

In the context of Shiftok, the TikTok reality shifting community, this "holier than thou" attitude is particularly evident and problematic. It applies to Shiftok in several ways:

Moral Absolutism: Shiftokers often apply rigid moral standards derived from their original reality (OR) to all desired realities (DRs), ignoring the concept of subjective morality across infinite realities.

Selective Condemnation: The community tends to harshly judge certain practices (like adults shifting to younger ages) while overlooking potentially problematic behaviors by minors (such as scripting adult relationships in their DRs) or people scripting in trauma abuse or that people get SA ed or are in relationship with problematoc people such as murderers and villains.

Lack of Empathy: As demonstrated in the image, there's often a dismissive attitude towards individuals expressing personal struggles or complex motivations for their shifting practices.

Oversimplification of Complex Issues: Nuanced topics are frequently reduced to simplistic "right" or "wrong" judgments, disregarding the multifaceted nature of personal experiences and ethical considerations in shifting. Shiting at its core is complex, nuanced and multifaceted, no black and white its gray.

Assumption of Expertise: Despite many members potentially lacking deep understanding or personal experience with shifting, there's a tendency to speak authoritatively on what is or isn't acceptable in shifting practices. It's always those who either have never shifted or minishifted who yap the most about shifting like they know it all . Honey you don't , you know nothing you have nothing to talk about shut up and try to shift before opening your mouth on a subject you do not have an expertise about.

Gatekeeping: Some members of the community may attempt to dictate who can or cannot engage in certain shifting practices based on arbitrary criteria or personal biases.

Dismissal of Therapeutic Potential: The community often overlooks or dismisses the potential therapeutic or personal growth aspects of shifting, focusing instead on enforcing their perceived moral standards.

This "holier than thou" attitude in Shiftok creates an environment that suppresses open dialogue, discourages the sharing of diverse experiences, and potentially alienates individuals seeking support or understanding within the community. It contradicts the very essence of reality shifting, which is about exploring different perspectives and experiences across infinite realities.

And also the most concerning consequence of this effect, this hypocrisy, this lack of empathy makes shiftok look like a cult in the eyes of other spiritual communities. I do know and disagree when antishifters make the statement that shifting is a cult but I understand and come to agree with them when they say that shiftok is a cult.

This community that is supposed to help one another is just oppressing bullying and suppressing people when they have an opinion that differs from the dogma big shiftokers imposed on the rest of the community thinking that their word is law and they get to write the rules of a practice that is the antithesis of that .Shifting is the epitome of breaking the chains the constraints of this world and its rules. Plus do some of you lot realise that those people that you worship do not give a flying fuck about you ? These people pray on your desperation to keep you on their page.

Shiftok is nothing more than a living sack of horse shit. All the knowledge and tips are just poorly regurgitated from amino and other shifting spaces that existed far before 2020. They immediately closed themselves to outsiders when they saw the damage shiftok did to the community as a whole. When a cultist, shiftoker claims to have this groundbreaking solution /information about shifting keep in mind that 100% of the time it was already known elsewhere.Just not on shiftok and now they are the new shifting Messiah lmao.

Shiftokers sometimes (more like always tbh) ignore the fact that shifting involves complete immersion in the new reality. If it's possible to gain your DR self's memories and personality, then obviously, you'll also become their age mentally as well. You're not just dropped into that life with no context; you fully integrate into that age and lifestyle. When you shift to your DR, that's your new CR. This reality becomes a DR. This reality is not the baseline for anything.

Some people say their memories of their OR feel far away while their DR memories are front and center, making their DR life feel like their primary existence. This means you won't feel like an imposter, no matter how different your DR is from your OR.

In ancient times, gaining spiritual knowledge like shifting required understanding that you are a soul or consciousness having a human experience. Modern cultists shiftokers often skip this step, leading to judgment and misunderstanding. Shifting should be a tool for self-discovery and growth, not just entertainment. This lack of spiritual foundation often leads to a superficial understanding of shifting. It's not just about living out fantasies; it's about expanding consciousness and understanding the nature of reality itself. By focusing solely on the surface-level aspects of shifting, many miss out on the profound insights and personal growth that can come from this practice. Because of the damage shiftok did on the reputation of the practise it is nearly or impossible to break free of the stereotype of shifter being a bunch of mentally ill schoolgirls shifting to be with the wizard version of Nazis (looking at you girlies that shift for Draco Malfoy or Tom Riddle).

Honestly that is the thing that makes me cackle. The most about shiftok i keep hearing and seeing videos from these cultists shiftokers asking and wondering themselves why is the platform dying and why theres no active discussions like sharing tips story times etc...

Bombastic Side Eye-Do you fuckers realised it is all your fault ? You try and silence people when their opinion differs than the one you have.They experienced something you did not you shame and burn them at the stake for it no wonder why people leave that ghetto ass platform and im scared just like a lot of us here of the massive exodus of shiftokers that will happen once tiktok is banned in the US.

Conclusion:

Age changing in shifting isn't inherently bad. It lets people explore different life stages, fulfill desires, and grow personally. The real issue comes when age changing is done for fetishizing purposes, turning ages into objects for sexual gratification. As long as shifters are respectful, consensual, and not exploitative, age changing can be a valid and enriching part of the shifting experience.

Remember, shifting is about expanding your consciousness and experiencing the infinite possibilities of existence. Don't let narrow-minded judgments hold you back from exploring the full potential of this practice. Stay open, stay curious, and most importantly, stay true to your own journey of self-discovery through shifting.

#reality shifting #shiftblr #shifting #desired reality #shifting community #shifting realities #shifters #shifttok #shifting blog #shifting antis dni #reality shift

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blackmoonoracle · 2 months ago

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PICK A CARD - MASCULINE WOUNDS

You can find my brief breakdown of masculine energy in the natal chart here. Tip Jar

PILE 1

tw: sexual trauma

Anger and sex drive, the people in this particular collective may have experienced sexual trauma at any point in time that has developed into an issue with emotional security. In order to heal you need to learn how to develop trust in your perception, self expression, decision making, and any chronic pain or issues need to be given more thought and care. Not accepting the bare minimum, not pushing yourself for the sake of others, not letting others take your power.

Taking your power back for the sake of yourself.

This is an energy of being conscious of chronic issues, extreme trauma, healing from extreme abuse and allowing yourself to let go of the cycle of releasing your power in order to survive. You are not helpless, you are not incapable, you are not weak, you are not bad, you are not a waste of space, energy, words, time, effort, or love. You are a worthy being, you have earned your place, your reputation, your successes, and your desired future. You have suffered a lot, in some way shape or form.

This could've been mental or sexual anguish in pre teen years.

Feeling almost disgusting or gross for existing as a sexual being. Disdain for sex, astonishment I heard as well? I feel like there is potential religious trauma regarding sex in this pile.

There may also be a sense of pain or confusion about life in general, perhaps you are someone who struggles with feeling destined for failure. Like part of you still doesn't believe that you're not destined to suffer, you've learned so much and I feel like a lot of you are like older gen z or late teens.

It feels like you've always felt very judged, and very misinterpreted. Like others could've been offended by your mere presence. Something about the way you thought, or spoke, or expressed yourself was or is very upsetting for people. You're not afraid to talk about the truth? Is the exact way I'm hearing it be described.

You have very powerful voice, and your words pack a punch in more than one way.

Your words project veryyy quickly into your reality, and I heard "reaffirming reality" as well, treating your brain like a science project I heard? LMAO it's giving aquarius 😭

So do mirror affirmations, some of you could have an affinity towards mirror magick. That being said handle that carefully, and know to be careful in approaching that. Make sure you're researching and covering your bases. I heard Aphrodite, so Aphrodite could be trying to work with someone. I also heard keep your peace, so chill out, don't engage with anyone. You're in the process of taking back your power so sometimes people act up. LITERALLY not a you problem, and if they make it a you problem stand your goddamn ground and show that person, no matter who they are, what role they play in your life, that you are under no circumstances going to continue to take their shit. The universe is testing you, lock tf in and don't worry about anyone else. Worry about YOU and YOUR DREAMS, and YOUR DESIRES. Plant the seeds that truly matter to YOU, you won't know if it works until you try it. Don't be afraid to do what you're passionate about. Don't be afraid to be yourself, your authenticity really resonates with others in some way shape or form. It's how you connect with people, you show them that being yourself is a lot less painful that you'd think.

This could be black Moon Lilith in cancer and Scorpio or 4th and 8th house Chiron energy. you could be a cancer rising, some of you could have a leo descendant? I heard polish and German as well for some others, someone could be polish another person could be German. If this pile resonated and you'd like to purchase a personal reading on this topic you can purchase one for just 55$ or send over a tip on Venmo or Kofi if the message resonated and helped in some way! https://ko-fi.com/blackmoonoracle @blackmoonoracle is my Venmo!

PILE 2

Self Worth, and Value/Honorary Systems This collective has very powerful values. This could be Taurean, or Aquarian energy, possibly also Aries. You could be mars dominant or have a prominent mars in your natal chart. Your mars may also be in the 11th, or 2nd house! Or you could have Uranus in the 2nd house or Venus in the 11th house. Suffice to say this could also be mars in Taurus, or Aquarius as well. 2nd house Venus, or 11th house aquarius. There's something with individualism in this pile as well. A lot of deeply practical energy, possibly very venusian as well. Could have Venus in pisces, or Venus-neptune interactions in the natal chart. You could have Venus in Taurus, or you could have Venus in aries I'm hearing. You are going on a deep journey of transforming your masculine will. Understanding you are worthy of making your creations, that what you create is valuable and is of quality. You are worthy of abundance, you are worthy of success. I feel like there could've been a sense of detachment since a very young age for this pile. It feels like affection could've always been a touchy subject. I'm also seeing a connection to religion here, especially with Venus being in Virgo. Virgo Venus has always reminded me of catholicism due to the very intricate and detail oriented nature of Catholic symbolism. As well as the emphasis on purity, which is an aspect of Virgo. Seeing as it is the virgin. This can also look like your love always coming with deep criticism. Perhaps you could've felt like the ways in which you expressed love were not respected. Or you could've felt like there was a feminine presence that seemed to bring you a great sense of regret. It feels like a self criticism wound. It feels like a disconnection from the mind in order to attain purity. Like, this pile could feel that they need to fully embody some aspect of a pure, or virginesque energy in order to be worthy of recognition?

Soooo specific, but hey! if it resonates it resonates. There's a deep wound here in regard to knowing how to accept help. It's like accepting help in your mind makes you feel like you're worthless, or as if you are not contributing enough. It's like you feel the need to contribute the most, so that others know you are serious and worth taking serious. Being undermined, minimized, having your values be overlooked, or being seen as unremarkable could've been something you struggled deeply with. I see a lot of pain dealing with women here. Significant Mother wounds that could've led to these wounds in your masculinity. Perhaps experiencing silencing, being forced to not do, say, act, or be in some way shape or form because it is "unsightly" or "shameful" Being disregarded, possibly some bullying here, feeling like an outsider. Like no one could grasp your values, your morals, who you TRULY are.

Almost feeling like you lack an identity.

finding balance in yourself, learning how to accept that you are worthy of being helped. That being helped does not make you unworthy, that being helped is something that is okay, that accepting care, and nurturing, and love is a good thing. starving yourself of intimacy in hopes that by taking the lashings of yourself, and others, while remaining in this "pure" state of being will finally make you worthy of being seen. vision is a general thing here. You may feel like your vision doesn't come to light, or that others don't understand your vision. It's unique, it's you, it's not what everyone else might expect of you. You're groundbreaking, no one could ever be you, learning how to be in love with your individuality. Accepting what makes you weird, and accepting yourself in spite of the way others feel. Knowing that accepting yourself is the deepest form of self connection and that you deserve to feel loved and supported.

Accepting that the embodiment of authenticity may cause issues in connections with people who cannot accept themselves or live in their own truth.

Understanding that you can find purity in your search for your authentic self, authentic truth, and your life purpose. Through embodying yourself in your truth.

If this pile resonated and you'd like to purchase a personal reading on this topic you can purchase one for just 55$ or send over a tip on Venmo or Kofi if the message resonated and helped in some way! https://ko-fi.com/blackmoonoracle @blackmoonoracle is my Venmo!

PILE 3

You may feel stuck in what you were once defined as, as if other people's perceptions of you cut extremely deeply. Your honor is important to you, you like for things to run smoothly. It's important to you to feel secure in who you are and how you express yourself.

I think that, it would be significantly healthy for this pile to learn what makes them feel passionate.

Maybe you feel that you are judged harshly, or in response to a harsh judgmental world you disconnect from yourself. Extreme self consciousness, fear of being "naked" or "vulnerable". Fear of connecting with yourself and others. Fear of relying on or connecting with your community. Feeling like an outcast, impostor syndrome. Lack of self awareness, TOO much self awareness. Untraceable, or difficult to uncover pain. Not understanding the root of things. Beauty that feels skin deep, unrealized depth, and unfulfilled potential. Learning who you are, finding the drive to connect with yourself. Understanding what it means to be you, and that you have to choose yourself at some point in order to lessen suffering. Fear of risk, and Fear of reward, a very loud self critic.

Accepting and acknowledging the mother wound in order to integrate and heal it. Connecting with earth, trusting nature, allowing yourself to think about the things you fear most. Understanding that you cannot hide from certain truths, and that looking the other way doesn't make it go away. There's a song that went viral on TikTok by MGMT called Little Dark Age. I specifically channeled the part that's like "Forgiving who you are, for what you stand to gain, just know that if you hide- it doesn't go away."

Having to understand that you are not responsible for other people, you are not Jesus, why do you bare the cross. Why do you punish yourself for not meeting the "standards" that others are projecting onto you. Are they standards, or are they control tactics, is it manipulation? Are you in alignment with YOUR thoughts, feelings, and desires? Or are you taking on the thoughts, feelings, desires, and expectations of others who want to strip you of your individuality?

Transforming your self concept, looking at what traits, qualities, and authentic self expressions are ACTUALLY in alignment with your highest good & will call in passion, success, happiness, and stability into your life?

Being proud of your intelligence, your ability to perceive, to be know how to think outside of the box.

Having a lot of eccentric natured personality traits and understanding that those are attractive to others. That what makes you different is what makes you likeable, because it's what's uniquely you. Embodying your truest self form, writing affirmations. Creating lists and notes of the hard to integrate topics and realizations in order to make them more tangible.

Excessive mental energy, very deeply tapped into divine creative expressions. Having blessed thoughts, words, and ways. Knowing that you deserve your blessings, and that you are a generator of luck and karma. That you have to ability to move mountains.

Taking it less personal when people throw rocks from glass homes, knowing that you are worthy of better, worthy of more, worthy of success. Feeding your hunger to succeed, knowing that you have the skill, knowledge, creative drive, and capability to connect with others through your art and creativity.

Uncovering what beauty means to you?

I heard Capricorn, Taurus, Virgo, PIsces, cancer, Gemini, mercury, Sagittarius, 9th house, 6th and 5th house.

Sun in aquarius, Moon in Taurus/Capricorn, Moon in gemini, Moon in Aries, Moon-mars aspects.

Mother Gaia

Disconnected from ancestors and spirit team, but willing to learn and receive.

Looking for a new outlook, looking for a way out, remaining steadfast and faithful in what you believe.

Not allowing others to dictate your thoughts, feelings, or reality.

Co-Creating with divine consciousness.

#pac #pick a card #pick a pile #tarot community #tarot online #tarot reading #japan

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hairmetal666 · 6 months ago

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NSFW; Modern AU

Eddie feels like the luckiest man alive, that he gets to count Steve Harrington and Robin Buckley as his best friends, but he wasn't sure about it at first. No matter how often his new little sheepies praised Steve, Eddie remembered high school. He remembered the Steve that was a grade-A, top-choice asshole. But then--Robin comes out to him. And Steve knows. Steve knows and he's cool about it. So, Eddie comes out to them and Steve is cool about that too.

It fucks Eddie up a little, if he's being honest. Like, Steve, objectively, is hot, but Eddie's only ever been superficially attracted to him. He thinks the whole jock archetype just doesn't do a lot for him. Too much negativity attached to their whole thing. But he'd be lying if he said part of him isn't intrigued.

He doesn't develop a crush on Steve, though. Somehow, through all the charm and bitchiness and not-so-secret kindness, his heart remains unmoved. It must be the jock thing.

And then he's scrolling on Twitter. He's scrolling on Twitter and he's not looking for porn, not even in a "Oh no, I never look at porn on the internet" way, and there's this video.

The first thing he sees is the lowered waist band of a pair of 90's-style basketball shorts, Pacers logo just visible. Then it's the long fingers, the broad hands. They're skimming down a tanned, toned torso, not a six-pack but it's somehow sexier this way. Their path draws Eddie's eyes to the dot of moles, the spread of freckles. They're so kissable, Eddie's mouth waters. Those fingers, they linger against the trimmed thatch of dark hair just peaking out over the elastic, before pulling that waistband lower.

Eddie's hard. Rock hard. Fuck, he's so hard a wind gust could make him come.

The guy on screen, he's got his gorgeous dick in hand, giving himself slow strokes and thumbing at the tip to collect the obvious slickness beading there.

It's not really a decision when Eddie unzips and shoves his jeans just low enough to take himself in hand. On screen, the hand speeds up, the stomach shivering, breath coming in soft bursts, somehow almost more intoxicating than the jerking off.

Eddie times his strokes with the video, coming apart faster than he ever has watching porn. He can tell the guy is close, his grip goes tighter, his breath shorter. Eddie's about to go off like a fucking rocket.

The hand stills, the guy's cock fucking quivers, and he's ready for the money shot, will totally come at the same time, except--it doesn't happen.

The screen goes black.

Eddie comes all over himself.

"Fuck, shit, goddamnit," he hisses. He flails around trying to find something to clean himself up with and pause the video so he can read the fucking text.

As wiped up as he can be without showering, Eddie runs the video back a few seconds to see the words, "want the full experience? Subscribe to my OnlyFans."

He's never clicked a link so fast in his life. He's never really explored OnlyFans before, but he signs up for the free trial without a second thought.

The guy's username is KingJock016 and under usual circumstances, Eddie would be disgusted, but it's too late for that. He's already scrolling through thumbnails of hands and dicks and asses and butt plugs and dildos, pausing briefly at a preview of one where KingJock is bent at the waist, perfect ass--dotted with freckles-- framed by the bands of a jock strap. He's deliciously hairy, deliciously ripe, and Eddie is firming up again.

Without fully meaning to, he hits play, and the video starts with KingJock already rocking his cock into his fist. He's moaning in this one, full throated, almost desperate. And there's something about it, something that catches in Eddie's brain, but he can't focus on that when he's watching KingJock trace a finger around his own asshole.

It's insane that Eddie is this far gone without seeing the guy's face, that his toes are curling at the mere sight of KingJock fucking himself. The sounds are obscene, the slick and snap of skin on skin, the throaty moans, the creak of the bed as KingJock rocks into his fist and back onto his fingers.

Eddie's not even touching himself, and he's already standing at complete attention, a heady ache already starting in his balls.

And then KingJock flips his head back, revealing a shock of chestnut hair, the taut lines of a mole-kissed throat, the hard line of a jaw. One eye flashes open, looks directly at the camera, at Eddie.

It's fucking Steve Harrington.

Eddie comes all over himself again.

It's Steve. His best friend, Steve. His straight best friend. Making content clearly targeted for queer men? I mean, Eddie can't fault him. Like, nice work if you can get it, but Steve???

He hasn't done anything to clean up because his thoughts are spiraling too hard. How long has this been going on? Does Robin know? Should Eddie subscribe ? Leave a comment about how this video made him come untouched? Join a live? No, no, of course not. Steve was his real life friend. He couldn't hang out with him and then watch him fuck himself on a wall-mounted dildo.

He hits subscribe though. He'll hate himself for it later. It's only for the trial period, anyway.

He wipes himself off, but the come is already drying, sticky, against his skin and in his body hair. He needs a shower. He needs to practice being normal around Steve now that he--

Shit, Steve. They're going to the movies tonight. Steve's supposed to pick him up in, shit, fuck twenty minutes.

Eddie hurls himself into the shower, moves so quickly he doesn't really have time to think about Steve having an OnlyFans, about how hard he got off to his friend, about how he keeps having flashes of Steve's perfect body play through his head.

It's hard to ignore it when Steve is standing at his door in his form hugging jeans and little t-shirt and Eddie's done for, a dead man; here lies Eddie Munson. He's just standing in the doorway, smiling at Steve and he knows it's manic, but he can't slip it.

"Are you okay?" Steve asks. Eddie hears the words but all it does is remind him of KingJock's breathy moans.

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" He keeps smiling.

Steve's eyes narrow. He leans into Eddie's space. "Did you drop acid again? We told you not to do it alo--"

"I didn't! Nothing's wrong."

"Your face is all flushed. You feeling okay? You could have a fever."

Before Eddie can react, Steve's resting the back of his hand on his forehead. Eddie flinches, swatting Steve away, which devolves into a brief slap fight.

"I don't have a fever, man. I'm fine. Hot shower, is all."

"If you say so. Ready to get going?"

Eddie nods. He can totally do this. He can pretend he doesn't know about the OnlyFans and the face Steve makes when he's about to come.

The drive is quiet. Too quiet. He thinks his bones are trying to rip through his skin.

He starts talking, isn't even tracking what he's saying. Dnd and then suddenly it's hobbits and then Star Trek for reasons even he doesn't comprehend. He glances over at Steve, and he's burnished golden from the light of the setting sun. He's so beautiful. How did Eddie miss it all this time? Why did he--

"Get any new subscribers lately?" He hears come out of his mouth.

Steve slams on the breaks, sending Eddie careening into he dashboard.

"Jesus Christ, what the fuck," Eddie shrieks. The car behind them lays on the horn, then speeds past when it's clear they aren't moving.

"Why are you saying what the fuck at me?" Steve hisses back. He hits the gas, pulling the car to the side of the road. "Eddie--what the fuck?"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he chants. He hides his head in his hands. "I didn't mean to--I'm so fucking sorry."

"How'd you find it?"

Eddie snorts. "One of your videos showed up on my TL. That's the algorithm for you."

"Jesus christ," Steve mutters. "You weren't supposed to--it's--"

"What are you even doing, man?"

"My Family Video salary won't cut it, if we're moving to Indy."

"You're not even gay."

Steve mumbles something, but he's looking out the window and not at Eddie at all.

"What was that?"

"Maybe I am!" Steve doesn't shout, but it's forceful.

Eddie's mouth drops. "Does Robin know?"

Steve stares forward, hands tightening on the wheel.

"And you didn't tell me?" It hurts, he's surprised how much, so much it takes his breath.

"It wasn't like that, Ed."

"Oh, no? Then what was it like?"

"It doesn't matter."

"The fuck it doesn't! I'm the first person you should've come to! I know exactly what it's like."

"No, you don't." Steve explodes. "You don't because you made me realize. And I couldn't talk to you about it because I like you. And, yeah, maybe starting an OnlyFans as part of my gay awakening is weird to you, but it's done a lot for me, okay?"

Steve said a lot of stuff just there, a lot of important things, but Eddie's glitched out on one part. "You like...me?"

"Yeah, like. Have you met you?" Steve slumps in his seat, like he's defeated. "You're fucking beautiful, dude. And smart and funny and passionate. Nerdy as hell. I didn't stand a chance."

"But I'm--" Eddie shakes his head. "I mean, look at me."

"I have." Steve nods. "A lot. I really like what I see."

"When I realized it was you in those videos, I came all over myself. Untouched," Eddie blurts. He flushes deep crimson immediately. "Oh my god, I can't believe I just--"

Steve is laughing, hands pressed over his mouth.

"Shut up, shut up," Eddie swipes at him. "It's not funny, oh my god."

When Steve gets it together, he finally looks at Eddie, and there's pink in his cheeks and a shine to his eyes. "That might be the most gratifying thing anyone has ever said to me."

"Yeah, well. It was humiliating."

"It's hot, Eddie."

His blush hasn't cooled even a bit. "Yeah?" His voice comes out deep, husky.

"I wouldn't mind, uh--that is, if it's cool with you--seeing it for myself?"

Eddie giggles. "You wanna make me come untouched, sweetheart?"

Steve shifts in his seat. "I'd really like that. Will you let me?"

"Uh-huh, absolutely, definitely. If you don't put this car in drive and get us back to my place, I'm going to literally die."

Steve laughs again, a bright, free thing, and he swings back onto the road. "Not yet, you aren't."

That sends a shock of pleasant shivers down Eddie's spine, right to his dick.

"Maybe we can even make a video together sometime."

Eddie, much to his deep embarrassment, whines, hips shifting with the sudden need for relief. "Oh, you didn't want me to die before because this is how you're planning on killing me."

Steve turns to him, a smirk on his lips and a devilish glint in his eye. "You have no idea what I'm going to do to you."

#steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #ficlet #modern au #smut #onlyfans au #steve is an onlyfans creator #fluff #oblivious eddie munson #steve falls first #eddie accidentally finds steve's onlyfans #feelings realization #feelings confession #eddie is steve's gay awakening #onlyfans helps steve explore his sexuality #i decided steve's jersey number was 16 #there's a little wedding singer reference in here

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bookwormbynight · 2 months ago

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Do you guys ever think about the canon maturity difference between L and Light?

We don't need to speculate. L's brain, 25 years, is near done cooking, if not finished. But for the entirety of death note before the time skip, Light's naivety is on full-display. He's fucking brilliant, but he makes sloppy mistakes because he acted on impulse, thought with his amygdala instead of his still-developing pre-frontal cortex. They're both childish and immature, sure, but on L's part, that is a conscious decision, it's an impulse he chooses to indulge because he has no reason not to, whereas Light killed Lind L Tailor without considering the numerous possible consequences to that decision simply because the man insulted him to his face while Light was in the middle of a power trip. Light slips up with Namikawa, while acting as L, and L winces because it was an obvious mistake.

Even a few years difference when the brain is so rapidly developing can be put on sharp display easily. As a personal anecdote, I, 18, was hanging out with a friend of my friend's (17) for a minute during a transition period. She was 16, and she wasn't hard to get along with, but boy, did I notice sometimes. Two year age gap. L's got seven on Light, all of them counting, plus experience in the field.

I'm considering all the times L might've treated Light like it. Not talking to him like a toddler, not downplaying his intelligence, not telling a single lie (for once) which makes it so much worse. L turns to Light and tells him to sit this conference out, do not try to give input, because this one is not for you. If you can't keep your nose out of this decision that you genuinely do not have the ability to consider in its entirety, we will put noise-cancelling headphones on you and take away the privilege to listen. It's so much harder for Light to protest when there's enough fact behind this, in his eyes, humiliation and dismissal that all of the other adults are nodding their heads along to it. Especially Light's dad.

#death note #lawlight #death note headcanons #light yagami #l lawliet

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woso-dreamzzz · 10 months ago

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Pregnant II

Hardersson x Baby!Reader

Part of The Big Adventures Universe

Summary: Pernille's pregnancy

During the first month, you're about the size of a poppy seed.

Pernille's fine on her own during this period. She has a little bit of spotting and feels a bit more tired than usual but she's mainly okay. Since the announcement, her teammates have been more careful on the pitch with her.

Everyone knows that the risk of miscarrying is higher before the third month so they all take care not to knock into her as much or, at least, to not hit her head on.

Magda, it seems, is the only one completely stressed out of her mind. She sends regular texts to check in with Pernille. She calls every day (once in the morning and once in the evening).

If she didn't have commitments in England then Pernille's sure that Magda would have flown over daily.

By the second month, you're the size of a kidney bean.

The symptoms have gotten a little worse by now. The tiredness has been replaced by sore breasts and the spotting by morning sickness. It's still manageable and Pernille doesn't even think to tell Magda until she misses a morning call in favour of hunching over the toilet and spewing out her guts.

"Her heart's developing now," Magda's voice comes through the phone, echoing around the tiled walls of Pernille's bathroom," And her brain too. Do you think she'll be smart? I think she'll be smart."

"We don't know if it's a girl yet, Magda," Pernille says. She's still leaning against the toilet but Magda's voice is safe and soothing.

"I know it's a girl," Magda replies, an air of finality in her tone," A little Pernille."

"She's your egg. She'll be a little Magda."

Pernille can hear the smile in Magda's voice as she replies," I made you admit she's a girl."

At the end of month three, you're the same size as a lime.

The morning sickness is extremely bad now and Magda even flies out when she hears from Nilla that Pernille had thrown up on the side of the pitch one morning.

"This brings back memories," Magda quips as she holds Pernille's hair back.

"Of what?"

"Crazy parties in our youth."

"We're still young, Magda. Becoming parents doesn't automatically make us old," Pernille sits up and takes the washcloth from her partner.

"Yeah, but we're more mature now. No more crazy parties and throwing up."

"None recently," Pernille corrects. She smiles for a moment before hunching over the toilet bowl again.

Magda rubs her back. "I've taken a few weeks off," She says," You keep getting sick."

"Magda-"

"No, I've already made my decision. International break is soon anyway. Our next match isn't too difficult. They don't really need me."

Pernille can't find it in herself to argue about it much, with the way that she sags against the wall and stays within arm's length of the toilet.

Magda kisses her stomach. "You're making your Momma sick," She says," You've got to leave her alone. You're still growing in there."

At month four, you're around the size of an avocado.

The morning sickness has stopped completely now but the soreness in her breasts doesn't subside at all.

It's completely coincidental when, one evening as she's changing her shirt, Pernille catches the sight of herself in the mirror.

She's got a baby bump now.

Instantly, her hand goes to touch it, as if she could feel exactly where you are.

She takes a picture and sends it to Magda.

She can see that it's been read but Magda doesn't reply for hours until finally...

MAGDA ❤️ you look so beautiful that's my new lockscreen

It's month five. You're the same length as a banana.

She could have found out earlier but Pernille waits until Magda can make the trip to find out your gender.

"A girl." Magda is still convinced as they sit in the waiting room, her hand stroking over Pernille's knuckles. "I know she's a girl."

"We'll see."

Pernille feels a bit vindictive so has the doctor write your gender on a scrap of paper, folds it up and hands it to Frido (who has come to visit).

"Huh?" Frido says as she looks down at the scunched-up ball of paper.

"You're in charge of that," Pernille says," Magda doesn't see it, she doesn't take it before the gender reveal."

"You guys are planning a gender reveal?"

Pernille shakes her head. "No. You are."

By month six, you're as big as an ear of corn.

You move around a lot now and Pernille never forgets the look on Magda's face when, one evening, Pernille grasps her hand and places it over her swollen stomach.

You kick almost every day and Pernille rubs her stomach softly as Frido hands her and Magda a knife.

"I bought cake," Frido proclaims," Because this is a celebration and you can't go wrong with cake."

Someone (Pernille's not sure who) on the Wolfsburg team rolls it out.

"If it's blue, it's a boy. If it's pink, it's a girl," Frido explains even though it really didn't need explaining. She's taking her role as future moster very seriously and it's slightly amusing.

"It'll be pink," Magda says," I know it will."

Frido rolls her eyes. "Then cut it. But...just wait until the camera's on. Okay! Ready? Ready!"

Magda's hand is warm around Pernille's, who is holding the knife in her own. They make two cuts into the cake, one after the other, and then pull out the slice.

"A girl," Pernille says softly, smiling as her team celebrates around her. She looks up at Magda, whose eyes are glistening with unshed tears.

"A girl."

Month seven and the only thing different is now you're the size of a large aubergine.

Her doctor has said that you can hear now so she spends countless nights with a pair of headphones on her stomach, playing voice notes Magda has sent throughout the day for you.

It's amusing. They're mostly nonsense, Magda just talking about her day and all the things she looks forward to doing with you but it's incredibly sweet and Pernille ends up crying every time.

Month eight comes around and now you're the same size as a cabbage.

Pernille's back aches more than ever and you enjoy sitting on her bladder so she has to take a bathroom break more often.

The highlight of the month comes when Magda comes over and lifts her bump, allowing Pernille to sag against her and feel slightly weightless for a little bit.

At month nine, you're the same as a head of lettuce.

She and Magda have been arguing over names for months now. There's a list pinned to the fridge and each of them takes a lot of pride in crossing out the other's suggestions in healthy competition.

Your last name is still up for debate too, as is your middle (but, somehow, Frido's gotten in on that action and has been texting Pernille suggestions for weeks now).

Pernille's having trouble getting to sleep too and you get more active than before. Rather than kicking though, it's your little fists thumping against her stomach (something that, many years in the future, she will tell Zećira was you foreshadowing).

Her doctor told her it was normal but it's still a bit disconcerting to see the tiny imprints of your even tinier fingers poking from the inside out.

By month ten (and Pernille hates that she's been lied to and pregnancy does not, in fact, end in the ninth month), you're the same size as a pumpkin.

She feels ready to pop but restless at the same time.

Magda's meant to be flying out later today but Pernille is in desperate need of some fresh air so she pulls on some clothes and gets herself ready to head to the Wolfsburg grounds.

#woso x reader #hardersson x reader #pernille harder x reader #pernille harder #magdalena eriksson x reader #magdalena eriksson #woso community #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso #The Big Adventures Universe

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rinneverse · 6 months ago

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࿐ ♡ ˚ . 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨: 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞. — 𝒔𝒂𝒎𝒑𝒐 𝒌𝒐𝒔𝒌𝒊 ˒ ⊹

series synopsis. your friend, your pal, your fuck buddy—sampo koski seems to be getting closer and closer with every heated exchange. you wonder, briefly, if there’s something more lurking under the surface of it all. you have a strict rule set in place, though: don’t catch feelings.

[ prev chapter. | don't you trust me masterlist | next chapter. ]

syn. you wake up and are left to ponder the repercussions of staying over at sampo’s. bad decisions are made. (5.6k)

cw. fem reader / alcohol + drinking / food mentions (he makes u breakfast!) / petname usage (doll/dollface, darling, pretty girl, baby, my girl) / oral (f!receiving) / v!fingering / allusions to piv intercourse / reader has bad coping mechanisms i fear / reader goes to the cluurbbb / we also get angsty up in the clurb :3

love, oak! ༉‧₊˚. i... did not mean for this chapter to take so long to come out. and to think i hard part of it written when chapter one dropped. i fear chapter three may take three to five business years. regardless; lots of plot development in this one. i hope this lives up to everynyan's expectations :p

MINORS + AGELESS BLOGS DNI. NSFW UNDER THE CUT.

You wake to the pale light of dawn filtering in through the curtained window.

With a yawn, you clumsily push down your blanket, fingers curling over soft fabric. You begin to twist onto your other side when you realize that something is very wrong.

Very, very wrong, like the you are not in the safety of your home kind of wrong.

Your breath catches in your throat. You don’t dare open your eyes.

There’s a heavy weight slung across your waist and a warmth you’re curled up against that isn’t usually there. It takes you a few seconds of wracking your brain to remember that you never actually made it home last night—that it was Sampo’s bed that you had fallen asleep in, and that was Sampo himself you were currently entangled with. The tension that had seized you quickly dissipates—then it slams back into you with a ferocity as you realize that you and Sampo had fallen asleep curled up together.

That’s not normal. That is so very not normal, and it takes everything in you to not start freaking the fuck out.

Blinking the sleep from your eyes, the only movement you risk is tilting your head up a fraction. You find that Sampo is still sound asleep, chest rising and falling slowly against you with every breath he takes. The urge to run your fingers along the smooth skin of his cheek makes your fingers twitch once, twice. You hesitate.

Because for once, Sampo looked… at peace. No scheming, no stress, just… him. His face looked so gentle, so soft, that perhaps waking him up would be a heinous crime. Yet you hold your breath, inching a hand up, up, up, tracing the column of his neck, his strong jaw, the apple of his cheek—

Whatever was running through your head is swiftly cut off when Sampo starts to stir. You feel panic grip and squeeze your heart with clawed fingertips. Shutting your eyes and forcing yourself slow your breathing, you lower your hand to its original position. You didn’t want to be caught staring at him, let alone caught stroking your fingers along his face—the mere thought of that occurring alone was mortifying enough.

A heartbeat passes. Then two. You feel the blanket shifting around, hear how he sleepily mumbles and yawns, followed by the warmth of his body slowly slipping away. You suppress the shiver that wants to run down your spine at the cold that creeps in, resist the urge to pull the duvet tighter around yourself; instead continuing to pretend-sleep as you listen to Sampo move about.

You’re about to shed your façade when you feel the bed dip. There’s a warm breath that caresses your forehead—a forewarning before you feel his lips gently press against your forehead.

The world freezes entirely.

It takes a willpower of steel (and perhaps then some) to remain in place, to not even stir, to not snatch his wrist and ask him what the hell he’s doing when he slowly lifts his head. You wait for him to fully pull away but he lingers, his thumb coming up to sweep over the apple of your cheek, then lower to brush against your mouth, swiping gently at your lower lip before he’s truly moving out of your reach.

You’re nearly bursting with impatience when you finally hear the door creak open and click shut.

Shoving yourself up into a sitting position, your mouth drops open in shock as you touch where his lips had pressed against your skin. The feeling lingers, burning like a brand, a mark you felt you would carry with you until the end of time. The thought is enough to have you shaking your head violently.

Suddenly feeling very, very warm, you push the duvet to the side. You clutch your shirt in your hands, balling them into fists—or rather, it’s his shirt that you grasp tightly in fisted hands. His scent still curls around you, utterly maddening, only adding fuel to the fire that consumes you.

If you didn’t confirm it last night, you definitely confirm it then—you were perhaps in the deepest pit of shit known to mankind: having feelings for Sampo. Maybe the revelation of having feelings for the one person you’re not supposed to have feelings for has you imagining things. Maybe you were still asleep and this was just a dream.

You hiss quietly as you pinch yourself.

Nope. This was very much reality.

You sigh.

It takes you several minutes to really process what had just happened—and that you didn’t just make it up in your head. You needed to get the fuck home so you could process it some fucking more. It feels like your entire perception of reality has been shattered with one simple moment of secretive intimacy.

In the distance, a faucet creaks on and begins running, followed by the faint clink of silverware clattering against plates. Whistling. Your crisis is momentarily forgotten as you realize Sampo is whistling your favorite song—it snaps you back into the moment, makes you remember just exactly where you are. This revelation could wait. Just a little bit more, and then you can go home and freak out in peace.

It’s only a matter of moments to gather yourself together and change back into your own clothing thanks to the earlier interaction waking you up entirely. You silently slip out of the bedroom and into the main living area, greeted by a sight that warms your heart.

There Sampo is, in all of his shirtless glory, swaying his hips to the little tune he’s humming as he whisks something together. Food sizzles on the stovetop, adding a quiet backtrack to his song. You lean against the archway that leads into the kitchen area, silent as you take a second to admire him, the portrait of domesticity. Your lips pull into a small, serene smile.

An image flashes before your eyes—a glimpse into the future, maybe—where you could have this sight every day. Sleepy good mornings and quiet embraces, shared laughter and lips pressing together—

The squeak you let out finally alerts Sampo to your presence. He’s quick to turn, whisk in hand and bits of what you assume is flour dusted on his hands, his face—“Doll! How long have you been standing there?”

You stammer dumbly, trying to reel in your head from the outrageous daydream that had barged its way into your thoughts. The outrageous daydream that you know you will never attain. “Um, ah…”

Sampo sighs dramatically, pressing a hand to his forehead as he continues, “And here I was, hoping I could surprise you with a little breakfast—I didn’t think you’d wake up so soon!”

He’s quick to set down the bowl and utensils he held as he approaches you. You tilt your head questioningly at him but he doesn’t give you any indication of what he’s up to until he’s a step away from you.

The devious glint in his eyes being your only warning, he’s suddenly twirling you into his arms and dipping you, a firm hand on your lower back as he grips your wrist with a gentle hand. His eyes crinkle with the smile he gives you.

“Sampo!” You gasp out. You’re so startled by the suddenness of his movements that your free hand grips his shoulder for dear life as you inhale sharply with alarm. Sampo laughs, so unlike his other laughs—the ones where he’s charming his way into scamming a stranger, or when it takes on that darker tinge as his schemes unfold just the way he likes—that you’re blinking in confusion, mouth parting with a question you don’t quite know how to ask on your lips.

“I had to surprise you somehow,” he says by way of explanation. He twirls you again, pulling you flush to his body, and sways you to the cheery tune he hums.

The pair of you dance around the kitchen, laughing and giggling together like there’s nothing else in the world—like it’s just you and him in this pretty little bubble.

Sampo dips you again, forcing your gaze to his. When you meet his eyes, there’s something glimmering there—something that you’d perhaps call… adoration, as delusional as it makes you feel. You pause there, chests heaving in sync as you stare at each other.

You see his eyes flick down briefly to your lips. There’s a question that lies in his gaze—something you can’t possibly answer.

It’s enough to have you scrambling out of his grip.

“Don’t forget the uhm,”—you clear your throat hastily—”the food on the stove. It’ll burn if you’re not careful.”

Sampo blinks, looking at you as if he were snapped out of a trance. “Right.” He pauses—abruptly laughing nervously, clasping his hands together. “I need to be careful.”

He nods his head. After a few moments of tense silence, he glides over to the stove, quietly returning to his task of making breakfast.

Flustered, you take a seat on one of the stools nestled by the island countertop and fold your hands in your lap. You bite your lip as you watch Sampo work. His broad back is turned to you, faint red lines streaking down the hard muscles that ripple as he moves around the kitchen. Your face heats up as you remember just exactly how he received those marks.

The silence lingers in the air, heavy and oppressive, a tension that pulls all of your nerves taut. You’ve never been the type to stay after a one night stand, let alone stay after a night with Sampo. This was entirely uncharted territory you were currently in.

If you’re honest? You’re terrified. You’re not equipped to navigate the unfamiliar feeling that burns bright in your chest. Actually, to take your own mental confession just a little bit further, you want to flee. Really bad. But something—you’re not quite sure what—keeps you tethered here, perhaps like a string wrapped around your pinkie finger that tugs and tugs and pleads with you to stay, just this once. It wants you to see where this goes. It wants you to take a risk, blindly jump into the unknown with nothing to shield your heart but the precarious walls you’ve painstakingly built up over the years. Walls that are swiftly crumbling with every moment spent with Sampo Koski.

Your train of thought is interrupted by the clinking sound of porcelain making contact with the countertop before you register the plate sliding towards you. The sight is mouthwatering—eggs cooked exactly how you prefer (how did he know that?), accompanied by a stack of pancakes that feature a smiling face made with blueberries.

You stifle a giggle, earning you a funny look from Sampo.

“What’s so funny, doll? You’re not laughin’ at Sampo’s hard work, are ya?” He pouts dramatically.

You press your lips together, but there’s no hiding the laughter that glimmers in your eyes. “N-No, I would never! It’s just… it’s so…” Your voice wobbles with the effort it takes to stamp down your giggles.

“It’s so what?” He squints.

“The pancakes are just so…” You shrug one shoulder, searching for the right word. “Adorable? I never would’ve expected that from you, that’s all.”

“I’m full of surprises darling, don’t you worry,” Sampo says with a wink. He sits down next to you with a plate of his own and the two of you dig in. The silence between you evolves into something more.. comfortable. Something normal.

You’d beg to differ (eating breakfast after a night with Sampo felt anything but normal), but you can’t deny that you’re enjoying yourself next to him. And you can admit he’s not the worst cook in the world.

The moment passes in what feels like merely a blink and perhaps too soon you’re already scooping up your empty plate, walking over to the sink to take care of the dishes. The moment Sampo realizes what you intend on doing he rushes over to your side and places a hand on your shoulder. “Don’t worry about it doll, let me take care of it.”

You look up at him and shake your head. “No, no, let me do it. It’s the polite thing to do.”

Sampo’s eyebrows furrow. “I insist—you shouldn’t have to even lift a finger.”

He moves to take the plate from your hands but you pull it out of reach. His eyes narrow as they meet yours—a challenge gleaming there that you refuse to back down from.

He takes a step towards you. You step back. A step forward. A step back. You continue this little dance until there’s a countertop behind you and nowhere else for you to go. He cages you into the corner with one broad arm.

Sampo’s lips curl up in a wolfish grin as you both realize that you’re trapped. “The plate, sweetheart.”

“You’re a real prick, you know that?”

Sampo’s grin widens. “Only for you, dollface.”

Head hanging in defeat, you hold the dish out to him. He takes it, none too smugly, and sets it to the side. His attention immediately returns to you.

You look up at him and tilt your head.

“You going to let me go now, or..?”

Sampo shrugs. “Why should I? I like you right where you are here.”

He’s so big. He crowds your space, enveloping your senses, mingling with the lingering scent of breakfast. It’s something deep and musky. Mouthwatering, if you dare to admit it.

There’s a smug lilt to his voice as he continues speaking, “In fact, I’m still a little famished. Think you can help me out, sweetheart?”

Your lips part slightly, but the question you were about to ask dies on the tip of your tongue as Sampo’s large hands grasp your hips, fingers digging into the supple fat as he lifts you onto the countertop. His eyes are heavily lidded as he sinks to his knees, looking up at you with hunger glimmering in his gaze.

“May I?” Sampo’s voice is darkened with lust, a sort of purr that sends a shiver racing down your spine. A flash of pink between his lips—his tongue darting out to wet them, leaving a thin sheen of saliva in its wake. The grin he shoots you has heat quickly pooling in your core.

You weakly nod your head, too breathless to speak. Sampo’s smile widens.

He makes quick work of your jeans, unbuttoning them and sliding them off of you in one smooth motion. Lithe fingers dip under the elastic of your panties, pulling it taut and snapping the band against your skin. You yelp softly as he snickers.

“So reactive,” Sampo murmurs, fingers dipping once again to slowly pull the fabric off of you. You lift your hips dutifully—you know where this is going. You feel your core tighten with desire.

He tucks your panties into the pocket of his sweats, shoulders rippling as he pulls you to the edge of the counter and slings your legs over them. He looks up at you through thick, dark lashes.

“Doin’ okay up there, pretty girl?” He asks, the deep baritone of his voice making your stomach flutter.

“Mhm,” you respond, biting your lip. You ball your hands up into fists, thighs twitching with the urge to press them together. Sampo seems to notice, because broad hands come up to grip your inner thighs, kneading at the supple flesh. He watches your expression for a moment longer before his eyes dip down to the prize in front of him.

“Thanks for dessert, dollface.”

Sampo’s words linger in the air, a promise of what was to come as he leans forward. His breath is hot as it fans across the apex of your thighs. He presses a kiss to your navel, then dips lower, tongue darting out to drag hotly along your weeping slit.

“Fuck,” you hiss at the contact. Your spine curves slightly, a silent plea for more. His chest rumbles with a dark chuckle as he makes another pass, letting his tongue linger at your clit, lazily lapping at it while your hips tremble.

God. He’s criminally good at this.

“Atta girl. Feeling good?” Sampo murmurs as he slips a finger into your tight heat. It draws a low moan from your lips, one that pulls his mouth into a smug smile before he wraps his lips around your clit. One of your hands grips the edge of the counter for dear life while the other entangles itself in Sampo’s hair as you tremble with just how good he’s making you feel. One tug has him groaning into you, a pleasant vibration that makes you throw your head back as you continue to card your fingers through soft blue locks.

“Feels great,” you murmur, exhaling shakily. Each drag of his finger is tortuously slow, the calloused pad crooking and prodding against your sensitive walls. You tug at his hair again, earning a pleasant moan from him.

You swallow thickly as he adds another finger. He takes it nice and slow with you, a teasing pace that makes you want to beg. You buck your hips slightly to urge him along, to give him the hint, but he’s relentless in his pursuit to drag this out as long as he possibly can.

“You want more, pretty girl?” Sampo purrs softly, pressing a chaste kiss to the apex of your thighs.

“Mhm,” you sigh. He makes a contemplative noise, and then…

He stops.

You let out a cry of outrage as he sits back on his haunches with a smug grin.

“Hey—!”

“You can use your words, can’t you?”

Your mouth drops open, and Sampo can’t help the chuckle that escapes him at your look of shock. He tilts his head as you lean back, chest heaving as you catch your breath.

Fuck, you were getting so close—for him to pull back like this…

“Please…” A quiet, desperate plea. He stares at you expectantly.

You gnaw on your lower lip as he watches you with sharp eyes, glimmering pools of emerald that track your every movement; the way your chest rises and falls with each labored breath, the way your hands press against the cool marble countertop beneath you, the way your eyes glimmer with wanton desire for him.

His grin widens.

“Sampo…” you start, your voice coming out in a shaky warble. You’re none too proud of it, but there’s no room for pride when he dangles your orgasm out in front of you so teasingly, so close and yet so far all at once.

Bait.

And you take it, because you know that Sampo can give you what you need with ease.

“Fuck—” your chin dips slightly as you look down at him, face heating with shame. “I need you, Sampo. Please.”

“Need me to what, baby?”

His voice has lowered an octave—and he crooks his fingers inside of you, giving you a preview of what you could have should you comply with his request.

That subtle nudge is enough to make your hips jump slightly. Your breath hitches in your throat.

You wanted it. You wanted him.

“Need you to fuck me,” you finally breathe. “Sampo, baby, fuck me.”

His resulting grin is feral, eyes glimmering with a wild desire that makes your core clench.

“Whatever my girl wants—”

He withdraws his fingers and stands to his full height. Your eyes rove over his figure, the various love bites littered across his fair skin. Marks you’ve left on him. It sends a sick sense of possession zipping through your veins, and paired with the way he says “my girl”, you wonder what it would be like if he truly was yours in that way. A dangerous train of thought.

You’re distracted, long enough for him to pull his leaking cock out from the confines of his sweats; you’re brought back to reality by his tip pressing to your slit, catching against your clit teasingly.

“—my girl gets, yeah?”

You find yourself in the bathroom again.

This time, you are in your own home.

The rush of water pouring from the faucet is near deafening as you stare at yourself in the mirror. The porcelain is cool against the tight grip you hold on your sink. You glance at the hickeys that litter the expanse of your neck, your shoulder, while you retrace your steps throughout the past week.

You had returned home a couple of hours ago. Only now have you brought yourself to start processing things. You’ve been dreading it, really: coming to terms with something you know will end. As things always do.

You can’t have him. It would never work out.

Sampo is sweet. Kind, even, despite the false benevolent demeanor he displays in order to con poor souls into giving him money. But he’s also as fleeting as a sweet nostalgic memory. The kind of person who comes and goes in your life as they please. You’ve quickly become accustomed to the way that Sampo will sometimes disappear for days, even weeks at a time, and then waltz right back into your life as if nothing happened.

And he does this without any qualms, because this is a casual thing to him. You constantly have to remind yourself that you had told him, “No strings attached. I don’t want feelings involved. This is purely physical.” And he had agreed without further thought, because you’re friends. Friends don’t fall in love with each other.

Friends also don’t eat you out until you’re seeing stars, or fuck you on the countertops so good that you’re babbling and crying, but that’s beside the point.

You think back to how easily the words “my girl” fell from his lips. It’s almost malicious, what that does to your psyche. The way it makes your head spin. The way your heart pounds against your ribs at the mere thought of it.

You frown deeply and shove your hands into the sink. The cold water shocks you momentarily, and the thought fades away, to be shoved in a box and locked away in the deepest recesses of your brain.

Then you scrub your face with the freezing water that pours from the tap. It’s refreshing against your balmy skin, not to mention it doubles as a wake up call for your lovestruck head. Whatever feelings you harbored for Sampo were doomed to die. You may as well just get over it now before it can do any real damage.

And the easiest way to get over things?

You give yourself an uneasy smile in the mirror after drying your face with a towel and shut off the faucet.

The bass thrums through your body as you enter the packed club.

You’ve decided on a rather obscenely short black dress for today—something flattering, something that makes you feel good. You would need some confidence with the goal you have in mind for today.

A goal that feels a little stupid, now that you’re physically here and you’ve sat with it for a little bit. It’s not like Sampo is aware of your inner turmoil; nor would he care that you’re planning on going home with someone that isn’t him. You never agreed on being exclusive when your little arrangement first started.

(Maybe there’s just some sick part of you that hopes that he would care—that it would make him jealous.)

You shake the thought from your head as you weave through sweaty bodies. Whatever kind of goal you set for yourself, it doesn’t matter. There’s truly only one thing that you absolutely need to make happen tonight:

You need to get over Sampo Koski.

And if that involves sleeping with some stranger, so be it. Or perhaps just getting so drunk you forget for a little while. Whatever works.

You steal a seat at the bar and order your usual. Your mind wanders as you wait patiently for your drink—gravitating towards how you felt almost… dramatic, childish even, for feeling so strongly about this.

You can’t help it. You’ve never truly let yourself indulge in romance before; you’re not even sure if this is what it was supposed to look like. If it was supposed to be this aggravating. If you’re supposed to feel as miserable as you do right now.

The clink of ice jostling around as a glass is set in front of you pulls you from your brooding. You swipe up the drink with a quiet “thank you”, turning in your seat to survey the room—and more importantly, the people—around you.

Your frequent spot is busy tonight—bodies upon bodies on the club floor, grinding and dancing salaciously to the bass heavy song that pounds through the speakers. The low lights that glimmer along the ceiling cast deep shadows across everything, making everything look much more dramatic than it really is.

You raise your glass to take a sip when suddenly there’s a hand clasping your shoulder.

“Wha—!” you jump, nearly spilling the liquid all over yourself. You turn to glare at whoever had the balls to just come up to you like that when you’re met with a none too pleasant surprise:

Sampo. Fucking. Koski.

“What are you doin’ here, doll? Especially without even inviting your dear old friend?”

His voice is a smug croon, hard to hear above the club music that envelops you in its embrace. You can hear the hint of surprise, though—and you spot the way his eyebrows are raised, eyes wide and shimmering with curiosity.

So much for escaping him tonight. You resign to your fate with a sigh, settling back into your seat and sipping on your drink properly. Sampo immediately takes to your side, invading your personal space with no regards for your feelings on the matter.

(Usually, you don’t mind. Tonight, it grates on your nerves.)

“I wanted to get out of the house n’ I didn’t wanna bother you. Simple as that.”

Your words are clipped, even if you know you don’t have any right to be upset with him. He hasn’t done anything wrong; you just happen to be in a sour mood.

That he caused.

Indirectly.

“You wound me, doll! I’d never say no to your pretty face, you know that.”

(You want to call him a liar.

You don’t. You smile, and you nod, and you clench your drink so tightly your hand starts to tremble.)

You shrug your shoulders, forcing your gaze back out to the dance floor. Your stomach feels heavy with a feeling you can’t quite put a name to.

All you know is that it does not feel good.

“Sorry, Sampo. I’ll invite you next time, ‘kay?”

Maybe he senses how off your energy is tonight, because typically he’d press the issue further. He doesn’t. Instead, he says, “Sounds good, pretty girl. Save me a seat, ‘kay? I’ll be right back.”

He pushes off the bar counter, making a direct beeline towards the restrooms. You let out a deep sigh, a breath you didn’t even know you were holding in the first place.

You turn towards the bartender and move to flag him down, but—

You only get a few moments of peace until a presence returns to your side. You can’t help but scoff, turning to say, “Sampo, what the hell do you—huh?”

You pause as you turn to a person that is very much not Sampo Koski.

Your face blanches.

The stranger offers you a nervy smile, the portrait of bashfulness.

How fucking horrifying—you can feel your face heat up with shame as you stare dumbly at him.

“Sorry if I’m bothering you. I just thought you were really pretty, so I was hoping you’d maybe let me buy you a drink?” he asks, rubbing the back of his neck. His cheeks are stained a pretty red and his big brown eyes are wide with an eagerness that makes you shake off your mortification and force yourself to smile gently.

“Oh! Uhm—yeah, that would be nice,” you gesture to the open seat next to you. “Sit?”

He tells you his name, something you’re sure you’ll forget later, as you paste a pretty smile on your face and lean forward in your seat. You can see the way his flush deepens, hear the way he stumbles over his words—it’s endearing. He’s like a puppy.

You exchange small talk over drinks, and he’s true to his word: he puts your drink on his tab, and even offers to put the next few on him, too. He’s a little bit odd, but he makes good conversation, so you entertain him, idly stirring the straw that came with your drink.

You’re about to answer his next question (a question that was rather.. strange, you note to yourself), but your reply dies on your lips as Sampo returns.

And he looks none too happy.

“Doll!” Sampo exclaims loudly, pressing into your side. He slings an arm around your waist as he casts his glare upon the stranger you were just chatting up. “Who’s this, baby?”

This might be the worst possible outcome. Mortified, your shoulders hunch slightly as you try to grow smaller, cringing at the venom that coats Sampo’s usually honeyed tone.

“Sorry, you are..?” The stranger asks, bewildered.

“Her boyfriend. Who are you?”

You cringe even further, turning your gaze. The words falling from Sampo’s lips feels like a lead ball dropping in your stomach. You think you might be sick. So sick, in fact, that you tune out their ensuing conversation as your head spins.

Abruptly you stand, chair clattering loudly with the motion. Both men stop and turn to look at you.

“I—” you pause, inhaling sharply through your nose, “am going to go now. Bye.”

You turn on your heel and all but scramble out of the situation, heels clacking against tile flooring. Your heart is about to burst from beneath your ribs. Your face is hot—you feel like you might melt and never recover.

You burst through the door and the cold air immediately hits you. It’s refreshing and miserable all at once, cooling down your heated veins and making your skin prickle with goosebumps.

You’re about a couple feet down the sidewalk when hurried footsteps sound behind you. Your head whips over your shoulder, eyes wide as you stare down who approaches you.

What a joke. You know fully well Sampo can mask the sound of his footsteps—he’s letting them ring out for you.

The weight in your stomach increases exponentially. You turn forward and pick up your pace. You think your vision is swimming.

“Doll!” Sampo pleads, reaching out to grab your shoulder. You jerk away and swivel on your heel to face him.

“What? What is it now?” Your voice is downright venomous. It comes out much harsher than you intend, but the words are out now and it’s too late to take them back.

“Pretty girl…” He starts, and then shakes his head. There’s a moment of hesitation, and then:

Your name. Said so softly, falling like a prayer from his lips, and yet it’s an explosion of color in your world. Your eyes widen.

“Sampo,” you respond with equal softness, your voice trembling as you ball your hands into fists. Chest heaving, you stare at him, meeting deep pools of emerald green that look at you with such desperation it makes you want to crumble into pieces.

“I’m sorry if that was too much,” Sampo frowns, a dusty pink blush settling high on his cheeks. There’s genuine remorse in his eyes, so you listen, inclining your head as you wait for him to continue. “You just.. you looked uncomfortable, and you’re my friend. I was just tryin’ to give you an out.”

You’re my friend.

Friend.

Nausea claims you again, hitting you with the force of a freight train. But you force yourself to smile, and nod, and again your hands tremble with the effort of keeping them at your side.

No matter how much you wanted to reach out to him.

To touch him, to hold him.

You can’t.

“It’s okay.” You can’t help the way your voice strains, so you keep as quiet as possible, voice coming out in a mere whisper. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It doesn’t seem okay—”

“It’s fine.” You cut him off, shaking your head.

Sampo’s eyes search your face as you stare at him. You need to steel your resolve. So you say:

“I think we should take a break from seeing each other.”

It’s like you’ve dropped a bomb.

The way his face falls makes your stomach twist itself into knots. But this is for the better. Until you can get your shit together.

But fuck, he looks so sad, it makes your heart ache.

“Oh,” is all he says.

You gnaw on your lower lip. You taste a hint of metal on your tongue—you’ve broken skin. You nod your head slowly. You need to steel your fucking resolve. The decision is out there, and you cannot take it back.

“Mhm. Just for a little bit.”

He inhales slowly, and on the exhale he manages to mask the desperation he let you get a flash of. It’s too late, though: the feelings are out there, and he cannot hide it.

“For a little bit,” he echoes. His eyes have lost their spark. Your heart withers in your chest.

The pair of you cannot hide your true feelings from the other. Not for long. Not like you hoped you could. You pray to some long-forgotten Aeon that the space can give you the willpower you need to maintain your walls, at least for a little bit longer.

“For a little bit.” You confirm. “I’ll… see you later, okay?”

He’s silent. Then, he dips his chin. A silent farewell.

This time, his footsteps don’t make a single sound as he walks away.

please don't repost on other platforms. rbs and comments are super appreciated ♡ !!

#sampo koski x reader #sampo x reader #sampo smut #sampo koski smut #hsr smut #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail smut #sampo x you #sampo koski x you #☆ oakie writes #☆ series: don't you trust me?#dividers via cafekitsune :p #nereids' realm

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homelanderbutbig · 2 months ago

Text

There's Still A Part Of Me Here (G/T Homelander x Reader)

1912 words. Hurt/comfort, and a bit of angst. Homelander is 8 feet tall. Reader is non-descriptive. Established relationship.

Homelander is forced to be alone for one night and it's a struggle. Inspired by this ask.

When Homelander developed feelings for you, he made a promise to himself that he would never be alone again. He would never allow himself to drown in the crushing waves of solitude that plagued him from birth. As long as he had you by his side, you would be his anchor that helped him sail across the stormy oceans of his fractured mind.

That was why he couldn't believe when you informed him you'd be leaving for a family funeral… and he couldn't come too. You insisted that you would keep it as brief as possible, and while you would be gone overnight you'd return first thing in the morning. However, your attempts to quell his unease did nothing but further fuel the fire burning in the pit of his stomach.

He tried his damndest to persuade you to stay, that your family wouldn't miss your presence for a measly day, but he found himself helpless to change your decision. Although you were worried about how he could handle this, he did his best to put on a brave face for you, trying to switch from his fretful disposition just a moment ago to something 'cool and collected'. It wasn't much to fool you as you've gotten to know him well enough to see right through his façade, but he continued to reassure you that he would be fine, practically pushing you out to the elevator. He's gone through his entire life alone, and one night without you wasn't going to kill him.

And now, here he stands alone in his penthouse. It's late at night and he can't sleep, not with the soul crushing silence surrounding him. Something about the atmosphere is different than normal… empty. He finds that this feeling isn't something he can placate by turning on meaningless background noise from the television or radio. Before, he preferred the peace and quiet of his penthouse. It protected him from the irritating chatter from the rest of society and gave him the time to ruminate on his thoughts, for better or worse. But over the last few months he's been with you, he's grown accustomed to the way you've brought light into his life. It's every little thing about you… your scent, your voice, your laugh, your heartbeat. Your humanity.

It's all gone, and Homelander doesn't know how to handle it.

He's in front of the window in his living room, staring blankly into the dark sky. If he could, he'd be launching into the air to fly off and locate you. Instead he's fighting an internal battle in his brain, planted firmly in place and unable to walk over to his balcony. Before you left, the two of you agreed that he was not to come find you while you attended the funeral, lest you both be spotted together and your secret relationship be discovered. He would never risk that, and so he's left alone to dissociate.

Increasingly, the pressure builds in his chest as he is forced to grapple with his unrelenting anxieties. He tends to not experience the sensation of powerlessness, but presently he is lost in what to do. There has always been a hole in his heart, the need for unconditional love that's been purposefully kept from him. You so effortlessly fit that puzzle piece, making him feel… complete. And now that piece of him has been bloodily ripped out of his ribcage. It doesn't even matter you haven't really left him. Right now, all he comprehends is you're not here. His eyes twitch as the ringing in his ears builds in volume, until it feels like he's at the brink.

Until something has to give.

"John," a voice suddenly calls out from his bedroom, breaking him from his detached thoughts. He recognizes that voice in an instant, it's the friend who helped him through his traumas of the lab. The only companion he's ever had. His reflection.

"John, come here," the voice calls again. Like a dog with its tail tucked in between its legs Homelander cannot help but obey, and slowly saunters over to face the mirror at his bedside. He nervously rubs his hands along his wrists, knowing full well his 'friend' is not going to be a source of empathy for him.

"Look at you tiger," his counterpart berates him, shaking his head at the sorry sight. "This worked up over what, a human? This is a pathetic thing to see, pal. I thought you were better than this."

"N-no…" he mumbles faintly, tears beginning to build up in his eyes. He struggles to even look into the mirror, feeling the intense stare his 'friend' is burning straight through him.

"You're weak," his reflection scoffs. "You're a god to these mudpeople, and yet you're letting one control you so easily? Tsk tsk. You need to man up, and remove this sickness already."

"…H-how?" he asks.

"Kill them," his replica states bluntly, showing no emotion. "Fly over to their worthless little funeral, and remove the hold they have over you."

Homelander clenches his hands into fists, apprehension choking him. Hearing those words… kill them. Since you first came into his life, his 'friend' has always hated you. He'd put years of work in dragging this pitiful little boy out of the ashes to mold him into a perfect being. One that could no longer be vulnerable. But you've undone everything, whittling away his armour to break through to that… longing for affection he could never fully destroy. The way you baby him, like you actually care. Humans are incapable of concern for him; all they ever want is to hurt him, always leaving him begging for their approval.

And one way or another, he's going to make sure it's only the two of them left alive.

"This ant isn't eye-level with you, they don't even reach your fucking chest. They are not your equal. No human is," he keeps pushing, the venom saturating each word. "Was I not the one who protected you from the Bad Room? Don't things always work out when you listen to me?" he questions, waiting momentarily for Homelander to give a timid nod in response. "Then do it. Kill them. DO. IT."

His reflection continues aggressively repeating this phrase, his shouting getting louder and louder.

DO IT. DO IT. DO IT.

Shutting his eyes tight, he futilely attempts to block out the outside world. But he's already totally overwhelmed; his breathing is staggered and his face is drenched with his tears. He tries to push his 'friend' out of his mind but he can't do it. All he hears is his own voice demanding your death. Coupled with the returning ringing in his ears, it's getting to be too much for him to handle.

"John," a voice once again calls out to him, cutting through the discordant racket. However, this time it sounds unusual. It's not his voice.

It's yours.

However, he refuses to peek at the mirror, terrified of what he's going to see in front of him. He just knows his brain is playing a trick on him. He has to be, it can't really be you. He-

"It's okay baby boy. You can open your eyes," your voice says, so soothingly.

With a trembling lower lip, Homelander swallows his nerves and obeys your request. To his surprise, his 'friend' is nowhere to be seen in the mirror; your form has taken his counterpart's place, and is gazing directly at him. And not even at your regular vantage point, he doesn't have to bend down to look at you. Instead, you're magically floating up at his eye-level… like you truly are his equal.

He knows he must look absolutely pathetic to you right now, a giant of a man crying to himself in the mirror. But you don't show any contempt for him, you never do. It doesn't take much for you to prove his 'friend' wrong, the way you display nothing but pure compassion to his mental suffering.

"Having a bit of a rough time, huh?" you sympathize.

"I-I need h-help," he sniffles, nodding his head roughly. His weepy eyes are so bloodshot, so desperate for relief from his burdens. "P-please, I can't do this a-alone…"

"You aren't alone sweetie," you remind him, your voice so smooth that every word sounds like music to his ears. "There's still a part of me here. You keep it safe just for times like this. And I think it wants to help."

At first your reply confuses him, but the memories begin flooding back once you point over to the dresser on the other side of his bedroom. On your one-month anniversary, you gifted him the most precious thing he's ever received from anyone, your childhood teddy bear. When Homelander first told you about his past, he was so nervous you would use it against him, like so many have before. But of course you're nothing like those vermin. You kept his secrets close to your heart, and in turn decided to allow him to share your childhood. Something nobody has ever done for him before, just letting him be, well… human.

Rushing over to the dresser, he lifts up the top to reveal the keepsakes he's stashed away from those he's been close to over the years. And smack dab in the middle of his collection, is your brown teddy bear. He rips off his leather gloves and drops them unceremoniously to the floor as he takes the bear out of the dresser. It's so miniscule in his large hands, but his hypersensitive skin makes him feel like the small one engulfed by the plush toy. Amazingly, his stress dissipates the longer his fingers dance along the bear's well-loved fur, completely hushing the city noise around him.

He raises it up to his nose, inhaling the faint scent of you that lingers on its pelt. It's enough to wrap him in the warmth he's been urgently wishing for all night. You might not be currently with him in person, but he feels your aura surrounding him, embracing him. Protecting him.

Finally, Homelander is calm.

Stripping off his suit, he lies down in his bed, keeping the bear held against his chest. It's funny how when all else fails something so childish, a toy, can bring him down to reality so fast. How much it reminds him of you. He moves the bear to his face, resting it on his cheek as he nuzzles deeper into its fuzzy coat. Not to deprive his arms of their own comfort, he reaches for your pillow and hugs it snuggly to his chest, lightly petting it with his thumbs, like he does with your hair when he's hugging you. He lets out a deep sigh and flutters his eyes closed, letting the remaining tension drain from his body. He's lulled into sleep from a combination of his exhaustion and of the solace you've brought to his overworked senses.

By the time the morning comes and you return to the penthouse, he's got you buried in his arms, refusing to let you go for even a second. You laugh to yourself, happy to see he's at least survived the night alone, unaware of the evening's turmoil. Giving Ashley a call, you inform her that you and Homelander will both be unavailable for the rest of the day so you can catch up on some cuddle time. You know he deserves it.

#the boys #the boys tv #homelander #homelander x reader #g/t #size difference #my writing

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gasolinerainbowpuddles · 3 months ago

Text

I'm here to share another brave yet controversial take.

(This is strictly about smut in fics - not plot points, characterizations, etc.)

I think there is a fundamental difference in how different ages interact with smut in fics. In my personal experience and preference, the hottest smut I've read has come from writers whose bios say 30+ or from writers who are close to that age. I think there are factors that contribute to this:

LIFE EXPERIENCE — This doesn't strictly mean number of partners (although I do believe that helps). The older you are, the more people you've come across, and this builds a bigger worldview that allows for nuance and a more understanding of how things move and interplay. It exposes you to more interpersonal dynamics, which are a huge part of sexuality imo.

SCIENCE — Our brains aren't done cooking until around 25. This means logic, decision making, patience, thinking things through, not letting emotions be the driving force behind our actions, etc. don't really solidify until we're well into our formative adult years. This ties into my first point in regards to how a person navigates their world, and there is a different level of understanding that comes with a fully developed brain.

SEXUAL PRIME — Late 20s to mid 40s is considered to be the sexual peak for women (I'm focusing on women because fic writing is mostly women). Heightened sexual fantasies and experiences align with women in that age range, and I think that is an essential factor in creating fantasies that are more erotic and visceral through writing. There is also a confidence that comes with knowing what you want, what you like, how to get those things, comfortability in expressing your sexuality and actively utilizing it, etc.

CRAFT EXPERTISE — Many of the 30ish year old writers I have seen have written for numerous other fandoms over the span of at least a decade, sometimes more. When you've been doing something for that long, it makes sense that their works would be more finely tuned in content and prose.

INTEREST — Writing fic takes a lot of time and effort - emotional and mental. If someone is around the age of 30, chances are they've got more on their plate than someone younger. Maybe they've got more job responsibilities because they've moved up to a managerial position. Maybe they've had a kid or two. Maybe they have dogs and a partner they live with and have to tend to those things in addition to whatever else going on. My point is, somebody who has a lot going on in their life and still makes the effort to write and share fic HAS TO have a strong desire to do it because it is very time consuming.

I'm sure there are more points that I've left out, but this is just what came to mind immediately. I've seen a lot of weird ageist takes on who "should be" writing smut, as if you suddenly stop being horny when you hit 24 or something.

In all honesty, maybe readers who don't enjoy smut written by 30ish year old writers just aren't ready for it? Maybe if you're 19, you're not going to resonate with someone who is in a later point in their life because you haven't come to that maturity yet? And, no, that's not me saying you can't enjoy it because you're "immature." I'm saying you're not there in your life yet, so it's perfectly fine to prefer works from someone who is more of a peer to you.

So perhaps if you find yourself age shaming, applying morality to sexuality, and denigrating fic writers who are 30ish+, maybe just stick with reading fic and smut by people who are where you're currently at in life?

#a word from puddles #fic writers

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madridfangirl · 11 days ago

Text

Star crossed lovers (Jude Bellingham fic)

Chapter 14

(Series Link)

Jude * female reader. Mature Language in parts.

Synopsis: A chance encounter in a tiny Madrid cafe with the newest superstar of her fav club. The two couldn't be more different, yet both feel the pull toward the other. Would this girl be the one he finally falls for? Or would life come in the way of these star-crossed lovers?

....................................................

‘The things I do for lov…��

Ananya froze. Suddenly very alert. While Jude was still lost in her scent.

She shut her eyes, firmly. Burying her head in the sand like as ostrich. As if that would make the last few seconds not real. As if she could go back in time & change what she nearly said.

It couldn’t be, could it?

Surely it was a slip. Surely she couldn’t have meant to say THAT word. How could she, when they hadn’t even been together for two months yet? Last time it had taken her six months to come NEAR this feeling. It was too soon. WAY TOO SOON.

From the way Jude was happily sighing behind her, babbling something incoherent as his lips traced the back of her neck, she could tell he hadn’t heard any of it. Some respite, at least.

But the numbness refused to leave her body. She was still, like a statue. Only moving due to Jude’s movements behind her.

After a few moments, he noticed it too, and tried to turn her around. But she resisted.

‘Dove?’

The fondness and care in his voice was too much to bear. His proximity was too much to bear. The warmth of his touch, his breath on the back of her neck were all too much to bear. She suddenly wanted to bolt out of the room but that would alarm Jude in a thousand different ways. So she took the easy way out.

‘Feeling a bit uneasy. Be back in a bit.’

She removed his arm from around her and headed straight to the washroom, keeping her back to him throughout. Not letting him see her face.

He sensed something was off but attributed it to exhaustion, and let her have a few moments in peace.

Jude picked up his phone, and saw a few messages from his teammates checking in on him. Of course the word would have spread, since he left in a rush and said it was an emergency. He’ll have to come up with a story on the way back, something that doesn’t invite too many questions.

Ananya sat down on the covered toilet seat and buried her head in her hands. Her heart was going at a million miles per second, practically threatening to burst out of her chest.

She knew what it was like to be in love. She had been in love before. But last time, it was gradual. She could tell the signs, the milestones along the way. They had met in college, were classmates, then friends, then more than friends and then ultimately fell in love. Everyone around them saw where it was going from very early on, but the two of them had taken their time. Not rushing into anything. Letting feelings develop & grow over time. Letting destiny take its course. And when the confession happened, it felt like it was a long time coming. Like it was always meant to be this way.

Was this, with Jude……….like that in any way?

Ananya started pacing around the small space, trying to analyse her feelings. Trying to logically break it down.

Her brain was leaning towards a no.

They had known each other for only two months. Too short a time to develop such strong feelings. They hadn’t spoken about many crucial things which would be a core part of life if they actually do decide to…..be together like that. To think of a future like that. At the end of the day, falling in love was also a conscious decision, right? Some part of your brain allows you to take that step at some point along the way. The head over heels stuff was only for the movies. Real life didn’t work that way. Actions have consequences in real life, with real people involved, who can get hurt in unimaginable ways due to this torturous feeling. So yes, it was a conscious decision. Had to be, right?

And she didn’t remember making that decision in this case. Her brain hadn’t given her that signal that now the waters have been tested enough, and it was okay to take this massive leap of faith where she could either fly or fall face first in a deep, treacherous valley. So how could this be love? How could she possibly feel that way for him?

Her heart had a mind of its own though.

No logic stood a chance when it came to matters of the heart. Unfortunately, she knew that all too well. Had first hand experience of it.

If it wasn’t love, why did she yearn to comfort him always? Why did his pain physically affect her senses? Why did his smile uplift her spirits? Why did she feel this gravitational pull towards him? Wanting to be in his arms - his safe, warm, steady embrace? Why did a single message / call from him completely change the way her day was going otherwise? Why was she always looking for ways (even cutting corners sometimes) to be able to spend more time with him? Why did she secretly beam with pride every time he was on the pitch? Why was his individual performance starting to become as big a thing she stressed over as the overall result for her favourite club?

Her brain had no answer to all this. Like she knew it wouldn’t.

But she also remembered what happened the last time her heart had overruled her brain so decisively. When she was falling for her ex. At that time, they seemed poles apart. But now, in comparison to her & Jude, they were the perfect match.

Her heart had won. And it led to PAIN. Sheer, absolute, heartbreaking pain. The naiveté of first love, of assuming this would be it, the joy of finding the boy of your dreams, the realisation that you never wanted to be close to any other like this. Because how could anyone else make you feel this way? It seemed impossible.

All for that boy to promise the moon and then walk away at the first sign of trouble. Saying it’s too hard. That they were too different. That they wanted different things from life. No relationship could ever survive when only one person was fighting for it. Hers didn’t either.

And here she was, on the precipice of that free-fall again.

With a boy who had absolutely no idea what all she was thinking right now. Who’d probably freak the fuck out if he heard what she nearly said. Who had NEVER BEEN IN LOVE BEFORE. Who didn’t even know what that feeling entailed, and what came after it. Because falling in love was still easier, but staying in love was the harder part. Shit gets real then.

Jude had often said that they were young and this was their time to have fun. She knew he didn’t believe in thinking 5 steps ahead in his personal life, like she did. He was more a ‘go with the flow’ kinda guy, not an over thinker.

And they were having fun, a lot of fun, she couldn’t deny. But what if that’s all he wanted? What if this was the definition of dating for him? What if this was it?

His life revolved around football right now. His family knew it, his friends knew it, and they supported him in their own ways. And hers should revolve around her career too - that’s the reason she had moved half way across the world to not miss this amazing job opportunity.

Being in love would mean taking important life decisions together. At least that was her definition of it. No, they weren’t ready for that. Far from it. And she couldn’t dump the complex twisted inner workings of her mind on him right now. They needed time, a lot of time, before they could get there. If they even wanted to get there. Yes, this was the right way. To wait, and not rush into anything. To not let her idiotic heart ruin this with such slips. She had to be more careful. She will be more careful. She won’t falter like this again, she couldn’t.

With a fresh resolve, she washed her face, finally looked at her own self in the mirror (she was avoiding that so far for some reason, as if she would herself call her own bluff), cleaned up a bit, took a deep breath before unlocking the door.

Jude was sitting up against the headboard, waiting for her to come out. It had been a while. He wanted to give her space but was starting to wonder if something was up.

His eyes followed her closely as she picked up her phone from her desk and came back to bed. Keeping her back to him throughout.

He checked the time; precisely 30 mins before he absolutely had to leave.

But a weird feeling engulfed him, an unpleasant feeling. A sinking feeling. Why hadn’t she said anything? Why hadn’t she looked at him?

‘Ananya?’

His voice was low, soft. Almost tentative. Jude laid on his side, watching her back. He wanted to reach out, to hug her from behind, but something stopped him.

‘Hmmm.’

‘All ok?’

‘Yeah.’

Her voice gave him zero confidence. He didn’t want to leave like this. And for the life of him he couldn’t figure what had suddenly happened to her. They were absolutely fine just a while back. Happily engaging in pillow-talk. And then poof!

Was she PMSing? He had heard mood swings were a part of it. Would she be pissed if he asked her that? Probably. Best to stay away from this topic.

But he hated this distance and silence between them. He reached for her upper arm, stroking it tentatively.

‘Is it me? Have I done something?’

Had he gone overboard today by pushing that guy’s topic? Did his immaturity / impulsiveness become too much for her?

The little tremor in his voice made her turn around immediately. Guilt hit her in loads, again. First the Arjun thing and now this. He shouldn’t be dealing with this stuff right before a crucial match, definitely not because of her.

Instinct took over, and she forgot all else, pulling his face close and placing a soothing kiss to his lips.

‘I’m just a little tired, yeah? Been a long day. Tough day.’

He nodded earnestly, lapping up every word.

‘I get it. I do.’

‘I know. Come here, baby.’

He laid half on top of her. Face tucked into her neck and chest. One arm over her waist. One leg over her legs. As she stroked his shoulder, arm and back gently.

‘Just forget everything and focus on the match, yeah? Score for me tomorrow.’

‘Will you watch me?’

‘Obviously.’

They stayed hugging like that for 5 mins. Quiet. Drawing comfort from each others’ touch.

Suddenly, a thought hit Jude.

‘Jobe’s gonna be here in a few days.’

‘Oh nice.’

‘Yeah, his Christmas break has started.’

‘Am sure you’d love having him with you.’

‘Yeah, really looking forward to it.’

Silence again. Then Jude decided it was stupid to beat around the bush. He leaned up on his elbow, looking down at her.

‘Wanna meet him?’

‘I…uhh….are you sure?’

‘Yeah. He knows about us. You’d like him. He’d like you. I know it already.’

Her head started to spin. Was it too soon to meet his family?

But Jobe was more like Jude’s best friend.

Rubbish. He was still family. Probably the closest bond of Jude’s. What if he doesn’t like her? She hardly knew anything about him, other than the titbits Jude had told her. What would she even talk to him about? Did he know much about her? Had Jude spoken to him about her?

Why was it bothering her like this? It’s shouldn’t matter so much, right? Didn’t she just decide to consciously take things slow?

‘Earth to Ananya. Come back.’

‘I….have you asked him? Does he want to meet me?’

‘Not yet. Why wouldn’t he?’

Ananya could think of a zillion reasons.

The simplicity of Jude’s thoughts were both his strength and also a blind spot sometimes. But this was Jude - who always believed life would find a way. It wouldn’t hurt to borrow that child-like optimism maybe, at least in this one case.

‘Ok.’

‘Ok?’

‘Yeah let’s do it. I mean, if he wants to, of course. Don’t wanna impose on your time together.’

‘You know the amount of mind space you’d unlock if you stop overworking that pretty brain of yours?’

‘Brains can’t be pretty.’

‘So we are ignoring the point?’

‘It’s easier said than done, Jude.’

What did he know about chronic overthinking? Only those who were plagued by it knew what it felt like. Others should just zip it and keep their suggestions to themselves.

Jude felt her mood shift again. Almost fully convinced she was PMSing. Otherwise he couldn’t make sense of the last 30 mins.

His alarm buzzed then, and Ananya put her fingers in her ears to protect them from the obnoxiously horrid & loud sound.

It was time to leave. No more dilly-dallying.

‘I’ll check with him & then let’s plan something?’

‘Cool.’

‘We’re good, yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So I’d get my agreed upon special reward if I score tomorrow?’

‘If you don’t manage to piss me off somehow, then yeah.’

He left soon after, after a quick kiss, and Ananya just shut her eyes, shut out the world (her brain included) and allowed sleep to numb her restless thoughts.

Jude didn’t score the next day, but his assist was spectacular, and the team won. One more league match was left before the Christmas break; everyone wanted to leave on a high.

They spoke briefly after the match, and Jude told her the plan was a go.

It was happening. She was going to meet his brother on Friday. The person who knew Jude the best. In two days.

But god showed some mercy and she was so caught up in work the next few days that this somehow went on a back burner.

Until Friday night, when she was in the car with Agnes, on the way to Jude’s place.

She was supposed to reach by 7 pm but the conference had run over. It was already 8:30. So much for first impressions. Universe never stopped conspiring against her after all.

When Jude answered the door, it was 8:45. She started blurting out her apologies, without even greeting him.

He didn’t hear a word, eyes too focused on the navy blue dress once she took off her coat. The fitted knee length dress, black stockings, black heels, hair partly tied back, glossy lips.

The look was blowing his mind. And he suddenly wished Jobe was not in the house with them right now.

Because now he won’t be able to do what that attire actually deserved. But no force in the world would stop him from getting a quick taste. Not even her explicit exhaustive warnings of keeping his hands to himself in front of Jobe.

Jude cut her off mid-sentence when he dove in for a kiss, grabbing the side of her face. His other hand slid down to cup her butt, their usual make-out routine. Ananya froze, trying to look around with her peripheral vision.

Before she could push him away, Jude broke the kiss and shrugged at her. As if to say it was her fault somehow. But now was not the time to put him in line, she’ll have to do that later. With one final stern look, which he pointedly avoided, they walked into the living room, hand in hand.

His brother was lounging on the couch, and stood up to greet her.

Neither Ananya nor Jobe knew what an ideal greeting would be in this setting - a casual side hug or a nod or a handshake? So they ended up doing a silly little wave to each other while muttering a quick ‘hey.’

Jude of course was oblivious to the awkwardness, as he went to fetch the dinner tray-table. His chef had truly gone over-board today when Jude said it’s gonna be a special intimate dinner, preparing a proper 3 course meal.

Both Ananya and Jobe helped set the dining table as Jude went to fetch the wine. Neither had much faith in Jude’s abilities to manage single-handedly.

‘Sorry you had to wait. I know you guys have your dinner early. You should have started, really.’

It was something she was still getting used to with Jude. He preferred to have dinner done by 8 usually, a healthy habit for athletes.

‘No it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.’

‘Thanks. How was the amusement park yesterday?’

The brothers had visited a famous Disney park in Madrid, which had caused quite a stir, and the authorities nearly had to shut the place down.

Jobe chuckled, shaking his head in amusement.

‘Started out fun, but then got a bit mad. Like I knew Jude was popular here but man, this much?’

‘And this soon.’

‘Yeah, exactly. They had to call bouncers to escort us. Bit nuts, that.’

‘I’d say get used to it. Fans have really taken to him. Never seen so much love for any player here in 5-6 months, not since Ronaldo of course. We are a tough fanbase but he has truly won us over at rocket speed.’

‘Oh, you’re a Madrid fan?’

Jude chose that moment to emerge with her favourite bottle of wine, and answered for her.

‘Lifelong. Diehard. Like us for Birmingham.’

‘Really? That’s interesting.’

Ananya wondered what would be running through Jobe’s mind with this piece of information. Would he take her for a fan stalker? She couldn’t blame him for that line of thought - it would be a fair question to ask. Something that Jude had never bothered to ask.

But no question came, and she didn’t want to venture a clarification on her own.

Instead, a different question came.

‘So, when he fucks up on the pitch, do you give him stick as a fan or his girlfriend?’

‘I don’t fuck up.’

Both Jobe and Ananya ignored that, not even bothering to look at him.

‘Who says I give him stick?’

‘He does.’

As if the words weren’t enough, Jobe also pointed his fork at Jude.

Ananya turned sharply towards her uncomfortable boyfriend, cocking her head to the side.

‘Honesty. That’s what I meant.’

‘Did not.’

Jobe murmured while mock-coughing, bursting into a giggle and Ananya eventually joined him, chuckling at Jude’s misery.

It broke the ice between the two, but the cost was Jude’s annoyance. After a few moments, Ananya reached out to gently stroke his arm.

‘It’s fine. I do actually give him a hard time when he isn’t himself on the pitch.’

‘Good on you.’

Jobe nodded, and the conversation started flowing easily from thereon.

Ananya asked about how his season was going, and the boy’s eyes lit up. Passion for football was common between the brothers. As was their gratitude to be able to play professionally at big clubs. He opened up even more, telling her about the team and standings so far. Jude added titbits in the middle, as to how Jobe was more a striker like their dad, his pride for his baby brother all too visible in his eyes.

Theirs was a special special bond - she could gather that in 20 mins with them. Denise & Mark should write parenting books. She’d tell them that when she……..no, let’s not go there.

Jobe was curious about her work, having heard a few details from Jude. He listened with rapt attention when she described (at a very surface level, in simple terms) some of the recent investment banking mandates she was working on.

‘So you’re smart smart then.’

‘Told ya.’

Jude chimed in again, as she looked between the two sheepishly.

‘Went to a fancy university I’m guessing?’

‘Yup - the best in India, right?’

Both sets of eyes turned on her, the praise making her a tad uncomfortable.

‘Yeah, I mean, it’s supposed to be…yeah. Not a big deal really.’

She muttered under her breath, but it didn’t seem to register with them.

‘Also working on her Stanford MBA application.’

‘Cool.’

A few moments of silence then, and she thought they had moved on from the subject, thankfully.

‘So what do you two talk about then?’

Jobe blurted out, smirking. The implication all too obvious. Ananya’s instinct was to laugh at the joke (the timing really made it funny) but she also wanted to come to Jude’s defence.

Meanwhile, Jude threw a napkin at Jobe, completely unaffected by the banter, returning his brother’s playfulness.

Ananya reached out for Jude’s hand, squeezing it lightly.

‘Football. We started with football, and moving to Madrid.’

‘And bad Spanish.’

‘Yeah, that too.’

They smiled at each other fondly, reminiscing their first meeting in that sweet little cafe, and Jude leaned in to place an affectionate kiss on her cheek. Jobe leaned back in his chair, observing the two, but mostly his brother.

‘And then he blackmailed me with my love for RM.’

‘Guilty as charged.’

Jude raised his hand all too dramatically, as he proceeded to narrate the Clasico & Zidane story.

It was less than 2 months ago, but somehow felt like they had known each other for a lot longer.

The evening went by pleasantly, with good food, good company and good conversation.

When they were having dessert (Jobe & Ananya, coz Jude still had a match left before the break so he had like 2 bites of the pudding), Ananya asked what she thought was a harmless question.

‘So, anyone special in your life?’

Jobe stilled, unsure how to answer that, and Jude looked down, smiling to himself.

She again looked between the two brothers, trying to decipher this unspoken language, and wondering why it was such a complicated question.

Then, an unpleasant thought hit her. What if the brothers had more aspects in common, like their approach to women? What if Jobe was how Jude used to be (before he met her)?

But the boy was 18, EIGHTEEN, for crying out loud.

Though Jude was like that at 18 too. She had never gone into the specifics of his earlier life but had gathered enough to know it had been like that from 16-17, since his meteoric rise to fame.

She secretly hoped it wasn’t true for Jobe, who she saw more as a kid, as Jude’s baby brother. Jude would know of course, she could ask him later but she really didn’t want this piece of information.

Damnit, why did she have to bring up this topic and make things uncomfortable? The boy would think she’s nosy, like many others who must ask him such invasive personal questions. She shouldn’t have assumed it was a simple question; nothing was simple with these boys.

‘I’m sorry…..’

‘It’s complicated…..’

Both spoke at the same time.

Ananya quickly took control of the situation, desperate to put this behind them.

‘Conversation for another time, yeah?’

‘Yup.’

Then she gave an irritated side-eye to Jude, who was still smiling to himself and hadn’t offered to help her or break the awkwardness in any way. Far too amused for her liking.

It was already 10:15 - 90 mins had flown by.

Wine, exhaustion and lack of sleep started to take its toll on her. She yawned, but quickly covered her mouth to not let it show, and started to walk around the living room to regain some energy.

‘Hey you guys were playing FIFA?’

‘Yup - we started when you texted you were gonna be late.’

‘Who won?’

‘Half-time. I’m up 2-0.’

Jude beamed, while sticking out his tongue to Jobe.

‘Please. He cheated, like always.’

‘I know right. He cheated with me too - no way I would have lost like that otherwise.’

‘Don’t wanna say sore losers but…..’

Jude shrugged. And the other two stared at him, thoroughly unamused.

‘Oh shut it. I’ve beaten you way too many times for you to be so smug.’

‘Ummm no you haven’t.’

‘You even checked the console once when you lost 4-0.’

‘Hit yourself in the head or something? Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Oh you don’t wanna admit in front of her, is it?’

‘There’s nothing to admit.’

‘You and me - now. Let’s finish the game.’

‘You’re on. That ok with you, dove?’

‘DOVE?’

‘Just zip it.’

Ananya was seated on the couch, going between the two like a tennis ball, realising she had accidentally opened a pandora’s box. Clearly another thing in common between the brothers - tough competitors, hated losing, especially when it came to any football related stuff.

‘I mean, yeah, fine with me.’

‘Cool.’

They moved in sync and sat on either side of her on the couch. Determined to make the other eat his words. Their large frame making her feel like a minion.

She noticed how they hid their hands from the other, to not let any hint slip by. This was going to be a hard fought war.

‘Gimme a good luck kiss.’

Without waiting for a response, Jude dove in for a quick peck on her lips.

‘That’s not fair.’

‘Yeah? Go get a girlfriend then.’

‘Isn’t it funny how you’ve NEVER said that to me or ANYONE before?’

Jude knew what Jobe was implying, and that he was right. His previous thoughts on relationships was definitely not something he was keen to discuss right now.

‘Just shut it & play, you donut.’

‘How’s donut even an insult? Seriously how do people call you smart & mature & ahead of your age?’

‘Because I AM THAT.’

‘Yeah, so mature yet doesn’t even know how to drive? You’re embarrassing, bro.’

‘BOYS, let’s go back to the game, yeah?’

Ananya was on the verge of bursting into a fit of giggles, multiple times during their (sometimes childish) banter. But somehow managed to keep a straight face.

‘And Jobe, good luck to you too.’

‘Thank you for being fair. Unlike him.’

Jude scoffed at his brother, then looked at Ananya questioningly. She shrugged, mouthing ‘it was the right thing.’

Jude scoffed again, and physically pulled Ananya close to his side. Jobe just shook his head at his childish antics.

An evil thought hit Jude then.

‘Jobe - why don’t you tell her what your fav team was growing up?’

‘Birmingham. Duhh.’

‘I mean, outside of Birmingham, you jerk.’

Jobe went quiet.

‘Ananya - can you guess?’

Jude had no intention of letting this go.

But how was she supposed to guess this?

‘Ummm United? Liverpool?’

‘Nope.’

Jude just looked victorious, while Jobe was avoiding her gaze.

Then it hit her why Jude would be asking her that.

‘NO.’

She turned towards Jobe, feeling betrayed.

Surely not that god-forsaken team. Not Madrid’s most bitter rivals. Not the club Ananya detested with a vengeance.

‘OH YES.’

Jude giggled next to her.

‘It was just for a year or so, like when I was 10 or something.’

Jobe muttered sheepishly, somehow sad about losing her favour.

‘He even had a jersey. Wanna guess which one?’

‘OH GOD NO.’

‘Hey, that was a gift from my friend.’

‘Coz you loved him so much.’

Ananya just slid even closer to Jude on the couch, as if physically repulsed by the revelation. Jude gave himself a thunderous pat on his back. While Jobe looked at his brother with disgust, which Jude paid no attention to.

‘Like I said, it was just for a year.’

Jobe just left it out there.

‘It’s fine.’

Ananya recovered from her initial shock, realising it was childish to hold that against him. Or anyone. She was still sticking to Jude though, subconsciously, which he liked very very much.

15 mins into the second half, the score was 2-1. A very tense, intense battle.

But she was struggling to keep her eyes open. It had been a long day, and a super long week. Her head leaned against Jude’s arm and Jude slid down into the couch so she could put her head on his shoulder. Which she gladly did.

Jobe smiled to himself, not laced with sarcasm this time. He had just never seen his brother so attentive with a girl before. It was a different look on him, a good look, suited him somehow.

Ananya fought hard to keep her eyes open, but 5 mins later she was fully gone. Out like a light on Jude’s shoulder. Both her hands loosely wrapped around his elbow.

Jude paused the game, and Jobe yelled ‘what the fuck’ but shut up immediately when Jude shushed him, looking at Ananya’s sleeping form.

‘I’ll be back.’

Jude whispered softly, and moved carefully to pick her up. She stirred a little with the movement, her head finding its place in the crook of his neck. But his arms were familiar and comfortable.

‘What’s happening?’

She mumbled, half asleep.

‘Taking you to bed.’

‘Mmmm but the game?’

‘It’s over.’

‘Who won?’

‘Who do you think?’

‘I knew it.’

Jude smiled and placed a kiss on her forehead, while carefully navigating the stairs. Her open hair were blocking his vision but he’d never tie them up willingly.

He gently placed her on the bed, and she cocooned into her usual sleeping position. Jude tucked her in, but when he started to move away she felt around for his hand.

‘What happened, babe?’

‘You’re not coming in?’

‘Jobe needs a few things. Be back in a bit yeah?’

‘Ok, come soon.’

Jude kissed her forehead and she smiled in contentment, falling back to sleep in next 15 seconds. He turned down the lights and quietly made his way down.

The game somehow didn’t seem as important anymore.

They finished it off soon. Jude won 3-2. A hard fought win. But he didn’t rub it in Jobe’s face much, given the way he was sulking already. In fact, Jude reached over, grabbed his face and gave him a sweet peck on his cheek. Jobe didn’t pull away from the warmth and comfort that was his brother. A steady presence by his side, always.

‘Hope I didn’t put you in trouble.’

Jobe said as they were wrapping up to go to bed.

‘Nah, its fine. And I got you back for that.’

‘Yeah that was evil.

‘Evil genius you mean.’

‘Just evil.’

‘Meh.’

Jude picked up her bag, her phone and some of his stuff as the brothers went up the stairs.

‘She’s nice.’

Jude turned back and smiled. Jobe smiled even more looking at his silly face.

‘She is, isn’t she?’

‘Who are you and what did you do to my commitment phobic brother?’

‘I honestly don’t know.’

‘It’s crazy though. Like look at you, bro. No one else knows?’

‘Nope.’

‘Didn’t think you had it in you to keep a secret for so long. Especially from mum.’

‘I think she kinda senses though, but just letting me be.’

‘She always lets you be when it comes to girls.’

‘Don’t start complaining now. She lets you be too.’

‘Rubbish. She refuses to acknowledge I’m a grown adult.’

‘Coz you don’t act like one.’

‘Please, like you had to talk to her when I wanted to take that trip this summer.’

‘Coz you are her baby.’

Jude shifted the stuff in his hands to put his arm around Jobe’s neck, pulling his brother into his side.

‘And mine too. You’re everyone’s baby.’

‘Stop calling me a baby.’

‘Then stop having that face.’

They mock wrestled for 30 seconds, before falling into a hug.

As they were about to enter their adjoining rooms, Jobe grabbed Jude’s arm.

‘You look happy, bro.’

‘I am happy.’

‘Then I’m happy for you.’

Jude gave him another kiss to his cheek, and Jobe just smiled affectionately at his overly touchy brother. Jobe was convinced Jude would die if someone tied his hands for a few hours. He couldn’t function without grabbing / hugging / touching the people he was close to.

‘Tell me what she says about me.’

‘Even if it’s bad?’

‘Yeah. But we both know she liked me, despite the fiasco you tried to cause.’

‘We’ll find out.’

‘Have you told her yet?’

‘Told her what?’

‘What you feel about her.’

‘Yeah I always tell her how pretty she is. How I love being around her. How happy she makes me.’

‘What else?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Is that all you’ve told her?’

‘I mean - I tell her a lot of things. Good things. Seriously what do you mean?’

Jobe just shook his head in amusement. Sometimes he couldn’t understand how he was the younger one and Jobe was supposed to be the older one. His brother could be so thick sometimes, not seeing the obvious, not seeing what Jobe could see in a few hours. It was written all over his lovesick face.

But it was not his place to intervene. Not unless Jude fucks up somehow and needs Jobe to spell it out to him. Hopefully they won’t come to that.

‘Nothing. Was just saying generally. Night, bro.’

‘Night, BABY.’

‘Such a prick.’

Jobe muttered under his breath as he shut the door in Jude’s face.

Jude retuned to his room, hearing Ananya softly snoring under the covers. He really should record that sometime, because she flatly refused to acknowledge her snoring. It was cute though, so he let the sham continue.

He removed the covers to see if she managed to get up & change. But she hadn’t. Still out like a light. It was a torture not being able to do what he wanted with that dress, and with her.

But he’ll have to wait till morning.

The stockings looked super uncomfortable to sleep in so he decided to take those off. He had wondered all night how high they went up her legs. Turned out they went super high, till her upper thighs. He reached for the ends, and slowly pulled them down, one by one, letting his fingers graze her legs in the process. Then he lifted her fitted dress up to her waist, letting her have some flexibility to move her legs while asleep. The whole thing he didn’t wanna take off, not wanting to test his restraint that much.

Morning couldn’t come fast enough.

When she felt the bed dip next to her, she automatically moved towards the source of that movement, into his waiting arms. He pulled her into his side, letting her find a comfortable spot to snuggle into. The sound of her soft snores and the feel of her soft body lulling him to sleep, despite a certain part of his anatomy demanding his attention. He willed that part to calm down, promising it enough attention in the morning. Right now, what he had in his arms was more important.

Jobe’s words rang in his mind.

Yes, Jude was happy. He was very happy being with her.

...................................................................

There you go.

Honestly, after the events of last few days, I didn't think I'd come back to writing this soon. But your messages brought me back. I love love love reading those. Thank you so much for all the love you shower on Jude & Ananya.

And yes - Ch 15 is clear in my head too :)

#jude bellingham #real madrid #bellingham #jude #jb5 #jb #jude bellingham smut #jude fanfic #bellingham x reader #star crossed lovers #jude bellingham fic #jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham one shot #jude bellingham blurb #desi girl #jude bellingham angst #jude fic #jobe bellingham

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dramaticviolincrescendo · 3 months ago

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For me, the award for character growth has to go to Jin Xiaobao. 🥇

I know Huai’en has developed so much with regard to emotions—it’s like night and day going back to the first episodes—but overall he’s still mostly the same person. He was always smart, and his moral code was always questionable at best because of his upbringing. The biggest difference there now is that he cares about Xiaobao and makes decisions based on what will hurt him. He’s still okay with watching things burn or sacrificing himself if it will help Xiaobao, though. Not a criticism, just an observation. It’s not entirely fundamentally different from the early Huai’en who said that the world beyond his father’s plans wasn’t his concern and fought like he had a death wish.

Xiaobao, on the other hand, is fundamentally different. He has changed at all levels of development. Hear me out.

At the start, he would throw his affections at anybody who caught his eye in the moment and was extremely fickle. Now, he has been told people will set him up with lovely ladies so he can start a family at least twice, but he doesn’t entertain the notion because he knows there are bigger priorities, like his illness and taking care of his family and friends. Given that one of those offers came at the height of his disdain for Huai’en, it’s unlikely that it boils down to simply being lovesick, though that’s surely part of it. He’s been burned badly by that fickle attraction of his this time, so he’s far more discerning about his priorities. He doesn’t leap back into a relationship with Huai’en; even finding out about him giving up his title and getting the emperor to pardon them sent Xiaobao running to warn him about the trap, not running into his arms. His forgiveness isn’t so easily won anymore because instead of acting on a whim, he’s setting aside emotions and willfulness to emphasize prior experience. He knows his emotions and how he acts on them don’t just impact him anymore, so now his willfulness is tempered by his sense of responsibility.

On the subject of emotions, they were also far less stable and more manipulative before. If he didn’t get the responses he wanted, he’d toss a small fit, and his emotions could be like a rollercoaster at times. (“Pour me some water,” anyone?) He even planned to use that tendency to convince his mother their relationship was all right by turning on the waterworks. Now, he’s far more stable even with everything happening to him. By all accounts, this guy should be an absolute mess. He should have flipped his lid when Que Siming insinuated that he wanted to take Jinbao away—permanently. Instead, he doesn’t fly off the handle at things and takes a moment to think rather than base his responses on assumptions, especially self-centered ones.

Speaking of, he’s not at all self-centered anymore. He has repeatedly made mention of the fact that he can’t be a spoiled young master forever and that there is no going back for him. When confronting his feelings about Huai’en, he mentions his parents now being impoverished and homeless before his own struggles; he even talks about Xiaoyu being taken away and glosses over any sense of betrayal in their relationship in favor of focusing on the general betrayal of taking the account book. Even in moments when he could be justifiably angry with Su Yin for trying to keep him from doing whatever he wants with regard to Huai’en, he takes a step back and seems to consider why Su Yin is doing all this. He doesn’t expect Su Yin’s approach to change with his emotions or whims, given how unreliable he knows those have been before, and tailors his arguments to make it about logic and reason instead.

Another segue! Intellectually, Xiaobao has grown so much. On two occasions, he’s had to ask people to basically use smaller words; he passed the brain cell around with Jinbao and Zhaocai and was quite happy to take custody of it as seldom as possible. He still has moments where he doesn’t pick up on things, like not knowing his idioms or Su Yin’s sarcasm about selling Jinbao going right over his head, but he thinks now. He’s so insulated and protected that sometimes he needs a hint to spark his suspicions, but he thinks. All Que Siming had to say was “dahlia” and “Yuxia,” and Xiaobao was able to put together that something in Su Yin’s story didn’t add up. For someone who was teased about not understanding when he asked what Prince Li wanted Su Yin to return to Annan for, he’s repeatedly put together the intricacies of court politics in light of Huai’en’s identity and Su Yin’s plan with Shaoyu. His reaction is a culmination of all the aforementioned changes: not self-centered enough to make it about him even when he knows it really is, not overly emotional enough to be angry about it when he has plenty of reason, and smart enough to know how to address it in conversation. (Does it stop Su Yin from knocking him the hell out because he didn’t come this far for his little brother to hop back into what he perceives to be an abusive relationship? Nope, but you can see that it still means something to Su Yin to hear him speak that way all the same.)

I’m excited to read the book because a story like this really can’t be fully told in twelve episodes, but as far as his portrayal in the series goes, Xiaobao gets the gold medal in development for me. All of the characters have grown immensely from the start, but for me, Xiaobao is the one who has become the most well-rounded as a person through his experiences—including those unrelated to his relationship with Huai’en. He’s still the sunshine boy, but he knows when to rise and set now rather than burning himself and everyone around him out.

#meet you at the blossom #myatb #myatb spoilers #jin xiaobao #sorry had to get those thoughts down somewhere #myatb meta

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goldsbitch · 9 months ago

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Here I go again

part 4 to I gave so many signs

summary: Afternoon talks are harder than late night fucks.

warning: present + flashbacks, mentions of cheating and typos

song fic (disclaimer: rights belong to the respectable owners)

The Louvre - Lorde Mamma Mia - ABBA (shoot me, I heard an amazing slow piano version of it and got obsessed)

"We heard some noises on the stairway, were you alone?" her mom asked first thing in the morning. The irony that her mom would actually approve of Charles maybe a little too enthusiastically was not lost on Y/N. "Yeah, alone. Bit tipsy, so sorry about that."

Our days and nights are perfumed with obsession

He stared silently. Monitoring actions of his girlfriend and having absolutely clear on the mind what to say to her. Part of him wanted to leave the premise immediately. Part of him wanted to scream out his confession. Part of him was astonished that she absolutely did not acknowledge his absence - did she not notice anything? He must have had Y/N scent all over him, punching through the quiet living room. He wanted her to say something. But she just grabbed her workout bag and casually got to the gym. Left him there, bewildered. He wanted to feel guilty, but the lack of emotion from her part was making a really hard thing to follow through. Was he just an asshole? Or someone who forgot to get out of a relationship at the right time and lived in a stale water?

His now fully developed brain decided to jump on the train to the past and he spent his entire morning checking his phone for a text - and not from his girlfriend. For a man who slept about an hour last night, he was surprisingly fresh and energized. Must have been the three orgasms. A lighting of excitement ran through him whenever he came back to those. And there it finally was, his catalysis for a guilt trip.

I am your sweetheart psychopathic crush Drink up your movements, still I can't get enough

Mood swings were the one to rule Y/N's day. She felt like dancing around. Woke up to an empty bed, which was a shame, but it saved from potentially an awkward conversation, so maybe she actually appreciated the gesture. With a lazy day ahead of her, she could replay yesterday's night over and over all day. Rarely would the sun shine so brightly through her window. But - mood does swing. Even though he was the one to cheat, she was the one cursing herself over and over again. Not because she felt any sympathy for his girlfriend, on the contrary, the thought that this girl got to have, what Y/N only experienced for one night, anytime, was infuriating. Fuck any girl power bullshit, she was jealous and angry at herself for crumbling so easily. She had been happy, content, on the lookout for someone available to date for fun and maybe love. Not fucking with her old best friend only to develop a crush so massive her apartment felt small. Y/N was content yesterday morning. This morning, she was satisfied, and anything but content. And yet, she couldn't help but smile into her morning coffee, while trying to remain casual and normal in front of her family.

Blow all my friendships To sit in hell with you

"We need to break up," he found himself saying in the early afternoon. There was no plan from his side, no agenda about getting with Y/N or anything like that. He just had to get out of a relationship where he managed to be the cheater. The decision was suddenly so simple, just hard to execute. There were tears. Not his. Mutual understanding is the hardest thing to fake.

Y/N really tried to go about with her day, having lunch with the family, catching up and just generally free Sunday vibes. Only problem was that she was all over the place mentally - short attention span, distracted and having trouble keeping up with longer conversations. Head over in the clouds, fingers tapping nervously. In some ways, she couldn't wait to get back to he daily life in London filled with work and array of distractions. There was no hope for her in this town. Guilt and desire punching through her own integrity. It was in the late afternoon when disturbing messages appeared under Charles Leclerc tag on socials, which she monitored in every available moment. When she saw her own front door on one of the headline photos, that's when she lost it completely. Panic set in when she finally came to a photo that the two of them talking in front of the bar, with speculative headlines.

But we're the greatest, they'll hang us in the Louvre Down the back, but who cares? Still the Louvre

She sat in her room, tired, confused and lonely. Social media doomscroll it was then, trying to desperately ignore any photos of them. Her brain got stuck in a loop when she stumbled upon a slow piano cover of Mamma Mia. Not particularly her favorite song. But it spoke of everything she couldn't put a name on. Their joined history, the change of course, the inevitable return and the sudden urge to get it right this time. It was like being possessed. She had to act this time. At least let him know that she got it wrong the first time. She had loved him. The feeling was just so common in her life that she didn't recognize it only after it was gone.

Look at me now, will I ever learn I don't know how, but I suddenly lose control There's a fire within my soul

She had to see him and it had to be NOW. Powered by the lyrics praising delusion, she was not going to let it slip through her fingers this time. Not even sure his old number was still active, she called him, only to end up in a voicemail without any message. His private socials were deleted or replaced and she could't just walk over to his flat. His girlfriend would be there and the thought of it broke her heart. Was her current state of mind only make things explosive and worse for everyone?

There had been many times she'd let her chances pass her by.

So I made up my mind, it must come to an end

Only once she was standing before Charles's childhood home, ringing the bell, she realized that zero thought went to what she actually wanted to say to him. Fear hit her hard. Seconds turned into minutes and she realized that nobody was probably home. Heart sank low. What was there to do now? She had no idea where he to find him.

They'd walked together for hours. It felt so intoxicatingly refreshing after all those months of no contact. If one got lucky in life, they'd understand the type of connection that does not go away with time. But there was something different in the air that evening, as if their usual hang out spot, just above the town had a different vibe that day. She looked him in the eye and saw a look she's seen countless of times on his face. There was a shift in her mind and out of nowhere - what if the line got crossed? Would it be such an issue? She knew Charles would never make the first move. What if? Just to know how it feels. Curiosity got the better of her. This was not the first time she glanced at his lips, wondering what they tasted like. But she knew the feelings he might still have for her was something she could not respond to properly. The thought of hurting her best friend was stopping her from ever actually exploring this idea. But, what if? Just this one time.

Thousand of quick thoughts passed through her mind in that one moment - the last few seconds before they kissed for the first time. She was nervous, but it didn't show. Confidently put her hands on his chest, stepped on her toes and put her lips on his. If she was scared, he was borderline terrified. Never expected her to actually do it. Her warm lips touched his own, but he was still trying to process that her hands rested on his chest tenderly. Stiff and shocked seventeen year old boy stood like a rock, trying to catch up with what was just happening. Both of them have had their fair share of kisses and make outs with other people in their life, but this was one different. Somehow, it was harder to kiss someone who actually knew personal things about you. It was no romantic kiss, once Charles finally started to respond, both of them picked up quite a quick tempo and all of that was more close to a drunken teenage make out rather than an honest vulnerable kiss. And still, his soft lips felt really good, her tongue exploring his mouth was sending him to highs unexperienced before. Just as he started to relax and stopped fathoming what was happening, she pulled away. It was all too much, too real and scary for her unsure self. Afraid of loosing her fake confident mask, she had to stop before she lost herself in this. What even was this? She'd be leaving for university soon, so what was the point.

"Sorry," she said immediately and looked anywhere else but his eyes. Stepped back away from him in order to gain more socially acceptable distance. "I dunno, guess I hadn't kissed anyone in a while, so yeah... But this is wrong, sorry for that." There is heartbreak and then there is heartbreak. Charles felt betrayed, she didn't even give him a chance to kiss her properly. He wasn't ready, didn't expect it and now it felt like his one chance got slipped away from him. Once again, he stood there, frozen and processing. She couldn't stand silence. Scary thing to experience in a difficult situation. "I should not have crossed the line, we're really good friends and-" "No," he cut her off, not letting her play this game again. "That's not true and you know that. I never told you in person, which is a really coward move, but that's on me. But you know how I feel. That hasn't changed and I can't imagine it ever will." His words burned like hot sand. "You're right, yes," she replied quickly and wished she could just make herself invisible for a moment. This was all too much to handle. "And that's why I'm saying I'm sorry. I thought ignoring the subject would help you..." "Help me? Help in what, getting over you?" he had to laugh. Where did her delusion end? Was it truly endless? "I don't want that. Definitely not from you. I want you to open your eyes and give us a chance." One thing she couldn't stand was to be pressured to something and this was strongly resembling that. How could someone else try to say what she wanted when she herself wasn't sure?

"Charles, I can't. I need to leave this place and figure out who I am." "Why can't I be a part of that journey?" he said, broken once again. "We would only end up hurting each other and lose our friendship, can't you see that? I want you in my life permanently, so we can't date." "How does any of this make sense in you head," he replied bitterly. While she waved around these big concepts, the one intrusive thought he had was that she was just trying to avoid telling him, that he was just a bad kisser. Her gut was telling her to run away from this. How is one suppose to resist that? "Charles. This whole thing is a mistake. You don't love me and as much as I'd like to, I don't think I love you." The word think punched through Charles like a knife. She wasn't even sure of that... "Well that's it then," he said, knowing the last thing he wanted was to talk her into being with him and have her run to someone else at the first opportunity. He was trying to control the emotional cocktail mixing within him. Trying get his anger, disappointment and wonder lust in check. He tried to read her facial expressions, but the only thing he finally saw was a little girl running away from mature feelings. Suddenly, he understood. She wasn't ready and there was nothing for him to do with that. His job now was to work on his attachment to her, because relying on her was only blocking his own development.

"I think I should get going, big day tomorrow," he lied and waved awkwardly instead of their usual hug. "Yeah, you're right. I'm gonna stay here for a while, if you don't mind," she said and turned her attention to the stunning view on the mountains, sea and the city below them. To Charles, their favorite hang out spot was ruined. Forever the place where his worst kiss happened. His stomach turned at the thought of that and he knew he needed to get out of there and far away from her immediately. "See you when I see you," he said, walking away. She watched him, hoping the weight on her shoulders would disappear quickly. They didn't speak to each other for more than two years after that.

It was hard to believe, she only came to their favorite spot to reminisce about one of her greatest misjudgement and dwell in her sorrow. But, to her luck, he was already there, looking over at the sea as they had countless times together. Walking towards him felt like walking on a tightrope with the chance of falling down getting bigger with every step.

Mamma mia, here I go again My, my, how can I resist you? Mamma mia, does it show again My, my, just how much I've missed you?

Charles didn't come there to meet up with her. His intention was to run away, to clear his thoughts, come to terms with the fact he had just cheated on someone. Take in the feeling Y/N made him burn with last night. Like some sort of breakthrough - this was they were all singing about. This is why people were able to drop their while life and follow love. It was an old and new love at the same. And that created a complete mess in his head. But when saw a figure coming his way, he knew immediately that she chose this place as well. Charles hadn't been at their spot since the time they first kissed here. Unlike Y/N, who came here anytime she was back in Monaco. She truly didn't expect him to be here - but took it as a sign that there was no way but forward for her. She walked towards him and sat on next to him, joining the view he was getting lost in. No words were shared for the first minute.

Y/N found out only after her university years that physical communication was her way of expressing feelings. Words were a little too messy and hard to put together. So she reached over to gently put her hand over his. She felt him shake a little, but he kept his hand below hers. Which she took as a good sign. Charles was the one to break the silence. "I hope you won't have much trouble online. There are pictures of us circling around," he said bluntly. "I have a very average face, I think I'm good." Charles laughed at her response. "As if." She really wanted not to ask. But the words just slipped out of her tongue. "Will your girlfriend mind?" And immediately after that, she wanted to shoot herself.

Charles took a deep breath. Then smiled bitterly, because what else was there to do. "Do you think so low of me that I could stay with someone once I'd cheated on them?" "Every couple goes through a crisis..." Charles chuckled again. "Have you ever been cheated on?" "Yes," she did not have to think twice about that. "But strangely enough, it was a relief when it finally happened." "See, so you understand." They sat in silence again. There was a feeling in the air like rain was coming. Neither of them moved. "Are you sad about it? Do you regret it?" She took Charles of guard. "Look at you, asking the big questions. What happened to you?" "Grew up, you know. You're not the only one. But don't get me wrong...it's still very hard. Talking." "I can see that," he replied, somewhat amused by her red cheeks. "To answer your important question," he highlighted, making her feel like a school girl passing a test, "I guess I regret the fact I wasn't honest enough to myself before something like that has happened." Y/N got a sudden influx of insecurity. Could it be that he was just unhappy in his relationship and it wasn't about the two of them? She pulled away a bit. Charles picked up on that. But this time, he couldn't put himself on the line first again. Not after what she said all those years ago. "Regret is the worst feeling. I think." "Why would you think?" "It's really hard to get rid of it. It lingers. Stays on." "Is there something you regret?" Somehow, he knew the answer before she did. "Of course. Everyone does." "You're avoiding again." "I know. I am perfectly aware of that." "At least something has changed."

The mood shifted and there was no way back. Charles was about to push like he had never done before. "Y/N. Why did you come here tonight. And be clear, blunt and honest or just leave now. It's been confusing enough even without you." She did not expect him to talk to openly. But she came searching for him, to do the leap, so it was actually appreciated. She started speaking, very slowly. "Um. I was looking for you. Wanted to say...not sure what exactly, but...I guess to let you know that I'd changed my mind. And I understand, you're somewhere else in your life now. But I need you to know." One very impatient Charles spoke when she took a break to breathe. "Know what?" "Charles, you keep interrupting me! Let me just...you know." He nodded in understanding, amused by her giddiness. "I just need to say...When were young, I never realized that the connection we have is special and rare. Stupid as I was, I thought it was just normal and common. And I don't regret not dating you back then. I had to take some time to grow up and understand more about the world. But now I do - and even if you've moved on, I feel like I'm just about to get on this train." He took in everything she said carefully. Tried not to get to ahead of himself.

"Did you ever think of me? Or it this just because last night." This time, it was she who smiled with a sad undertone. Did she ever think of him? Her? Had she spent nights and more nights wishing he'd call? Had she walked aimlessly around Monaco just to run into him? Did she compare every guy she shared a bed with to the times Charles made her feel like she was the only one on this planet that he could see? "One would say it's alarming how often I come back to the days we spent together. How hard it is to be so raw with someone in the same way as I was with you." Charles was slightly overwhelmed by her words. "Look, Charlie, I don't want to put any pressure on you. I had many chances and blew them all. I get it. Just want you to know that this was not a random encounter with an old friend for me." She'd been so focused on the right words coming out, that she missed the moment when Charles got close to her, so his kiss that followed was a surprise to her. Soft and sweet lips touched hers and it was like a release from prison. This time, it felt so right and safe. She didn't want him to end this. But once he inevitably did, fear came in like an unexpected summer storm. Would he be as cruel as she had been back then? Sharing a kiss with her while knowing that he was going to break her heart?

He took a breath in order to speak again. She stopped him with her finger. For just a minute, she wanted to keep this moment intact. To have this possibility of him still having a trace of the love he once had and she now bared as well. "Charles, I know what you're going to say. I can taste the words in your mouth. Please, don't." "So tell me, what am I going to say?" She sighed, slightly annoyed with him pushing her. "You're going to say that you'd moved on and this was just to have some fun. And you know what? Maybe it really is for the better, it was never-" "And this time, I am really going to stop you," he said, staring deeply into her eyes. "It's even harder now that we're adults. I understand that, understand the hardship my lifestyle can bring to the ones closest to me...My love for you never left. Yes, it's way less destructive and I've come to peace with it. But I am also not a scared boy anymore. Y/N, I would like to see you again and not as a friend. I don't think you ever were my friend. But you need to brave and honest too this time. Are you ready for that?" "I want to have all the hardest conversations with you, even if that's all we'd be doing," she laughed, taking in the fact he did not reject her. "I sincerely hope we'll be doing more than that," he said and joined her in easing the tension. "Is this really happening?" she whispered, as if it was a dream. "Yes, I believe it really is."

Mamma mia, here I go again My, my, how can I resist you?

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@linnmee @itsjustkhaos @rhythmstars @blueflorals @janeholt3

#charles leclerc #charles leclerc x you #song fic #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc fic #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc x female reader #ferrari f1 #f1 fic #f1 imagine #f1 smut #best friends to lovers #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc fluff #f1 fluff #charles leclerc x y/n #f1 fanfic #formula one x reader #friends to lovers

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kurov1864 · 5 months ago

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Alice courting/dating hcs!!

- I'm going to be honest here, Asmodeus would never fully devote his soul to you. You're going to have to share it with your brother, Iruma. That's just something you're going to have to accept, no matter how much you want him to love you with his whole being. Speaking from a story standpoint, Iruma has pushed him so much, it wouldn't be fair to just erase Iruma from his heart just for love.

- Whew, now that the hard part's out of the way.

- He honestly seems like a very attentive and devoted type of lover. He would want to please you to the best of his abilities, and with his mother being the head of lust you better bet your ass that he can fulfil any material need you require. (Not that you would have any - your grandpa and Opera would take care of it before Alice can even offer)

- He's also traditional, so while he's a bit hesitant to do things more casually, that's just because he isn't used to it. He's been raised in a noble household after all, with strict manners and social protocols and whatnot.

- But let's talk about the past first. And by that I mean when he didn't know he had developed feelings for you.

- When he got close to you, his heart pounds. Blood rushes through his ears and he can physically feel his face heating up. His conclusion? He subconsciously hates you.

- Like, you might yell at me for this, saying "omg Alice is intelligent! He's not that oblivious!" and yeah well true, it's been shown and proven multiple times that he's smart asf, I do feel like he has his brain dead moments, especially when it comes to things like girls and feelings in general.

- So of course, he feels immense guilt. You guys have gone through so much as classmates and friends, and yet his body and mind chose to betray him like this. Conflicted, he'll probably confess to Iruma first, apologising on his hands and knees. Iruma, being a good friend and even better brother, would most definitely try his best to guide him through his emotions, trying to make sense of them with him. Pretty sure once he hears the symptoms, he would recognize it as love because of the time he spent working on that manga.

- Once Alice realizes his feelings, he'll stay on the fence for a bit longer, wondering if it was really okay to like you like this, or if you even wanted a relationship. You wouldn't need to wait for a very long time though, he's quite a decisive person.

- By the way, in case you didn't know, I am in fact, not royalty, nor am I from a noble family. Because of this, I have no clue what courting actually entails and it's 1:34 in the morning and I am way too tired to do actual research. Thus, I'll just be making shit up as I go.

- First step to courting: asking for your family's permission. It's very important that he receives approval BEFORE asking you, just to avoid any political messes that could happen in the future. Sitting at the dining table with Suvillian and Opera continuously grilling him for details and reassurance that he would treat you right was quite stressful, to say the least. (Opera wanted to reject since he was still young and inexperienced, but Suvillian said that was the charm of young love)

- Second step to courting: asking for YOUR permission. Alice would most definitely try to go all out on this one, while still keeping your boundaries in mind. Probably somewhere on school grounds, away the prying eyes of the general school population and your classmates. A garden perhaps? He may ask a few teachers for help, and would even suck up his pride/fear of his mom to ask for advice.

- Once preparations are completed, he would personally escort you there, saying that he needed to talk. Then, he would get down on one knee, and pour out his entire heart to you. (From the way he was speaking you would've thought he was proposing a marriage, but no. This is just the first stage of asking permission to court. Makes you wonder how much effort he would put in when celebrating stuff like your birthday or actually asking for your hand in marriage)

- You accept? Perfect! Next comes gifts. It'll start off simple first. Small things like pens when you need them, a hairclip, notes from a class you slept through, very minuscule but thoughtful gifts, just to see how comfortable you are with receiving it.

- When you get used to those? Oh boy. Then the gifts would *really* start to rain. Earrings, necklaces, brooches, sometimes even whole outfits for your dates (I am very convinced that Alice is the type that would want to take care of everything if you allow him to, and that he's also very fixated on the type of clothes you wear). But also more sweet things, like bouquets, handwritten love letters, homemade sweet treats, those sorts of things.

- In fact, sometimes it gets so bad that Opera has to scold Alice to slow down, at this rate the entire mansion is going to run out of storage space for all the stuff you keep buying her (That isn't true, but it is annoying to have to keep reorganizing a new pile of gifts that's the size of a mountain every morning. If he keeps buying so much stuff, he'll just end up creating more waste because you couldn't possibly need to replace your entire closet every damn day)

- I like to think that his love language is acts of service and physical touch though. Stuff like helping you with subjects, planning thoughtful surprises, those kinds of things.

- Hand kisses!! Did I mention hand kisses? It's a great way of expressing his affection in a way that's totally within his comfort zone, plus it's not too flashy or over the top, which means that you two can't get scolded by Kalego!! (Huzzah) He'll probably be more touchy in private though, especially because of his bloodline.

- How comfortable he is asking for your touch is entirely dependent on how long this relationship has been going on for and how well you two know each other. I honestly can't see Alice trying to initiate contact with you before asking for your consent like 10 times if you two are fresh into the relationship, but once he gets to know you and your signs better, he'll become more confident just touching you whenever he likes.

- After a long tiring day, would plop his head onto your lap and just stay there. He needs time to recharge, after all, being a perfect student takes its toll. When this happens, make sure to be ready with his favourite tea and probably a book or two, since he's gonna be there for a while. Alice would love it even more if you run your fingers through his hair, messaging his scalp to prevent an oncoming headache. Honestly, your techniques should be illegal with how much it makes him melt.

- If he doesn't have enough time to enjoy that, he'll settle for a quick backhug, burying his nose into the crook of your neck and just enjoying your natural scent, before reluctantly pulling away to go do whatever he has to do.

- When he gets jealous, it'll depend on how far into the relationship you guys are. If you're both fresh, he'll be totally possessive and all up into that demon's face, before doing a 180 and apologizing to you for interrupting your conversation and not being able to control his emotions. But, if you both have been together for a while, he would definitely trust you more and have a better reign on his feelings, so while he may still get jealous, he'll show it in a more elegant manner, like casually sliding his arm around your waist, or kissing your lips when greeting you. If the demon still tries to strike conversation the next day, well, you might wanna stock up on some bandages for your neck.

#kurovwrites #headcanons #dating headcanons #welcome to demon school iruma kun #wtdsik #wtdsik x reader #asmodeus alice #asmodeus alice x reader

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