#andi is tryiNG HIS BEST...!!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

monicaalexandraaa · 2 months ago

Text

These two are so fun I love them😍😍

Buttercup - Extra II

Read Buttercup here and Extra I here ~3.3k words

From me: centered around this ask entirely. Thank you SO much for the idea. I'm a little too obsessed with the idea 😍🤭

Warnings: SEXTRA, oral (she (me) is a little obsessed with his dick, sorry not sorry), smut smut smut

Summary: Harry's so good to her. For her. She just wants to give him as much pleasure as she gives him and as much he deserves.

Harry was the best boyfriend. If she had been told how good of a boyfriend he would be when she moved in and was subject to his pranks and his constant, irritating presence, she never would have believed it. But instead, he was truly the best. He was so thoughtful, so gentle, and every time he saw her, the smile on his face grew and it was truly heart stopping.

He took care of her and worried about her. He cooked her food and helped her with whatever task she had around her house. Never did he complain or care about what she asked. Everything he did was done with kindness and seriousness. Nothing was too small or too large for him to do for her.

It was so sweet and so different than what she was used to. It was overwhelming at times for him to love her so much in the best kind of way.

But one of the nicest and best bonuses about her new relationship was sex with Harry. The first time she saw him naked in her bedroom, she practically drooled like a cartoon character. How could she not? He was all lean muscles and green eyes. It was impossible to focus on anything for too long. Her primal instincts took over and she wanted him all over her.

“Do y’want me to take y’clothes off, Buttercup?” he hummed, his body radiated with heat. He was so close to her, his dick pressing against her leg as he leaned in and kissed her lips so gently but eagerly. It was hot and made her body vibrate. He slowly moved his lips down, nipping at her skin, pressing kisses along her neck and across her collarbone. His fingers fiddled with the hem of her dress just above her knees, but he waited ever-so-patiently for her consent. Because he always waited for it.

Jus’ because y’give me permission once, doesn’t mean I always have it. But she couldn’t fully explain to him that by saying that specific phrase, he did always have her permission. It made her weak in the knees to hear something so sexy and safe come from his mouth. She nodded. “Please.”

He slid her dress over her head quickly and he pushed her toward her bed. “So pretty, Buttercup,” he murmured and kissed over the swell of her breasts. He reached beneath her as he laid her down unhooking her bra and ridding her of the fabric that kept him from her nipples aching for his mouth.

“May I?”

“Please,” she whispered again.

He lapped his tongue against her left nipple and then kissed across her chest to the right one. He moaned softly nipping and sucking it expertly. For half a second, she thought of all the practice she witnessed as he flaunted the women leaving his house to make her jealous. But experiencing it firsthand, she couldn’t blame the women before her or Harry because he was really good at what he did, and it would have been cruel if he didn’t please them this way. Fortunately, now, she was very happy to know she was the only one receiving this kind of attention—his attention.

His dick was still pressed against her leg, and she was overcome with wanting it in her mouth so badly. She wanted to give Harry a fraction of the pleasure he gave her on a regular basis. “Kneel,” she pressed on his chest, gently pushing him away from her. He smirked so cutely—devilishly, even. She guided him back to kneeling on her mattress, sitting on his heels. The tattoos on his thighs flexed along with his muscles ever so slightly. The movement made her throb between her legs, and she could feel her mouth ready to fall open in preparation for what he wanted.

“What d’you want, baby?” He mumbled. She repositioned herself; the front of her body pressed to the mattress. She arched her upper back slightly, falling onto her elbows so that she was eye-level with his hard dick. It was downright pretty; thick and veiny and she all but licked her lips in anticipation. She gripped the base of it causing Harry to hiss quietly. “Y’want t’suck it?” She nodded, glancing up at him. He was already gazing at her, his eyes hooded, as he watched her with lust-filled eyes. “Go on,” he whispered. “Suck it up, Buttercup,” he encouraged.

She smiled, her cheeks burning at the nickname and the way he sounded already completely gone for her. It was reassuring; in that, she didn’t need to be embarrassed by how bad she wanted him in his mouth. She licked her lips then, a little too aggressively perhaps, but if she did, Harry didn’t say anything. He was watching her every movement very closely. It made her a little self-conscious, but he gently cupped the side of her head. “Y’look so pretty, Buttercup,” he sounded a little spaced-out already.

She wrapped around her lips along the side of his dick, dragging her mouth down the length of the side from tip to base. Licking every inch as she went along. “Holy,” he murmured, and she glanced up to see his head tilt backwards. “That feels so good, baby,” he whispered breathlessly. She followed the same path on the other side getting him thoroughly, completely, and soaking wet with her mouth. As she returned to the tip, she took no time to swallow him down in one movement. It made him gasp and moan. The hand on the side of her head tightened ever so slightly and his other hand went to the back of her head. “Fuck, Buttercup,” he groaned.

She felt immense pleasure from making him moan like that. It was good for her psyche and all the noises he made further encouraged her sucking. She closed her eyes and breathed through her nose as she relaxed her jaw as much as possible. Harry was big and felt heavy on her tongue as she strained slightly to get her all the way in her mouth and what felt like half-way down her throat.

As able as she was, she moved her tongue around his length, doing her best not to gag. He grunted quietly. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whispered. It was like music to her ears. She moved her mouth up and down him, alternating between shallow and deep bobs creating an insane amount of pleasure that was indescribable to his blissed-out mind. She sighed dreamily from the feeling which made Harry all but whimper. “Baby, baby, baby,” he croaked. “Oh my God, please,” she moaned quietly hearing how pleased he sounded. But the vibration, the wetness of her mouth, the hollowing of her cheeks and lips wrapped so tightly around him was nearly too much.

“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck,” he pulled her off him quickly. She gasped, a string of drool clinging to the end of his dick and her mouth as he did.

He gently pulled her toward him, turning her in the process so she was no longer laying on her stomach. Instead, he cradled her. Cupped the side of her face again, this time without his dick halfway down her throat. He examined her face quickly for any sign of discomfort or overwhelming emotions. Satisfied he hadn’t hurt her, he kissed her deeply, his tongue tracing her lips one at a time. He rested his forehead against hers pressing the most chaste little kiss to the tip of her nose, before he bent lower and peppered several kisses along her jawline.

He blinked slowly, a smile stretching across his lips. “Do you like doing that, kitten?” He asked.

She nodded. “I like making you feel good,” she whispered.

“Well fuck Buttercup, y’do a hell of a job,” he mumbled rubbing his thumb along her lower lip. His eyes were so wide and green as he gazed at her, leaving only the smallest amount of space between their faces just so she could see him without his face being altered from being too close. “I love you,” he kissed her sweetly.

“You’re just saying that because I didn’t gag on your dick,” she giggled.

“S’absolutely false, kitten,” he chuckled and kissed her again. Harry enjoyed the way her body relaxed into the kiss. “Let me return the favor,” he suggested.

Harry pushed her backwards this time, gently moving her so she was seated with her back propped against the pillows and headboard. He slank down her body, placing kisses along her skin and warming her from the outside in. His fingers deftly hooked around the waistband of her thong, and he slipped it off in seconds.

“Y’want me t’lick you the way y’licked me?” He asked his mouth right at her belly button. He slowly kissed across her stomach.

As much as she loved the way Harry’s tongue felt on the most sensitive parts of her body, she wanted his dick inside her again and now that her mouth had been quenched of it’s thirst for him, there was only one other place she wanted him. “Not now.”

“No?” He frowned. “Not good enough?” He asked, his question muffled into her skin.

“No,” she laughed and cupped the side of his jaw as he peered up at her through while he kissed down her ribcage. “It’s by far one of my favorite things you do to me,” she admitted. “But I’d really like to come on your dick.”

He groaned, dropping his head down to place a kiss lower. “Y’sure, Buttercup? S’hardly fair... nearly made me finish in your pretty mouth, y’know...”

“No,” she whispered shaking her head. It wasn’t going to be a fair fight if his tongue dipped much lower. He spread her knees apart, settling between them.

“A real no?” He asked, pausing his kisses right as his breath fanned over her clit. She felt like she couldn’t breathe. “Or is this a shy no, baby?” She knew if she actually said no, he would stop instantly.

He was too good. Too hot. Too sexy.

“No thank you,” she whispered feeling a little unsure only because she was so conflicted by what she wanted but Harry watched her intently and made her feel like she could decide with just her eyes.

“Another time,” he winked and worked his way back up kissing the path he started on his way down. “Y’jus’ want m’cock, hmm?” He asked instead. Undeterred and still way too pretty for words.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Please.”

He groaned. “So polite, Buttercup... But y’don’t need t’beg, baby,” he whispered. “You’re gonna torture me,” she smiled sheepishly. “Condom?” He asked, reaching for her nightstand drawer.

“Um...” she noted that they were out while she was cleaning the other day. She also realized they had been together for a little over six months. Harry had himself tested, for ease of mind and full transparency. She’d done the same. Granted, she figured Harry was clean, but she was little worried still of all other factors from her past relationship. She preferred to be safer than fully necessary, and Harry was extremely supportive and kind about it.

“Um what?” He asked, immediately alert to her hesitation. His eyebrows pinching together. “Are we out?” He frowned. “If we are, you’re gonna have t’let me go down on you, Buttercup. S’no way m’letting y’out of this room without coming.” His selflessness was almost enough to make her come without him even touching her.

She smiled, blushed, and shook her head. “Um... no, but it’s...it’s just it’s... it’s been a while, yeah? And I feel like it’s... well, we... we don’t need a condom if you’re okay with it because we got all the tests and if you would like to do it witho—”

He shook his head quickly. “Don’t even finish that sentence, kitten. M’gonna come all over you, embarrassingly.”

“Well, that could be kind of fun too,” she admitted, looking away from him.

“Jesus,” he moaned softly and took a moment to breathe. Gently he turned her chin to face him again. “Are you sure, Buttercup?” He asked. His eyes held a look of seriousness, but they were soft and comforting too. There was no lust in his look, but one of pure adoration. “M’more than comfortable with—”

“I’m sure,” she nodded confidently. “I can beg if you want,” she shrugged.

He chuckled and the wicked glint in his eye reappeared as he dipped forward and kissed her sweetly. “Another time,” he offered. “I love you. Very much, Buttercup,” he whispered.

“Because I’m letting you do it without a condom?”

“It’s so much more than that, Buttercup baby, and you know it,” he shook his head at her joke. “I don’t want t’be mushy right now because m’only going t’last long enough t’make y’come all over me and I don’t like making y’emotional because s’harder t’make y’come... but you know. You know why I love you and you know it has nothing to do with your pretty pussy about to be wrapped around me with nothing in the way.” She swallowed believing every word he said wondering how he could be so sinful and sweet in the same breath. That should be studied. By whom, she wasn’t sure because she wasn’t going to allow anyone close to Harry like this ever again to witness it firsthand. “You’re sure, you’re sure?” He repeated lightly rubbing the tip of his dick against her clit and making her moan. He responded with a gasp and groan of his own.

“Yes,” she nodded confidently.

Harry sank into her. She made a noise she never heard herself make before. She wanted to feel embarrassed but God it felt too good for her to really care. “Oh fuck, yes,” he held one hand on the outside of her hip and the other onto the headboard for leverage. “That’s so good,” he groaned. She felt herself clawing at the sheets beneath her, trying to find purchase to cling to her sanity but it was long gone. Harry slowly slid in and out at a tantalizing pace. His eyes closed and his brows pinched together in concentration.

“Harry,” she whimpered.

“Oh God, don’t say m’name like that, kitten,” he begged.

“But—”

“No, no, baby, please jus’ a minute. Jus’ one minute t’get m’bearings,” he pleaded. “Please, please, please,” he groaned. “Y’feel so good, so, so good, I’m not gonna make it if y’say m’name like that,” he admitted. Harry made it feel like sex with him lasted for only twenty seconds and also thirty hours in the best possible way. It was some weird time dilation that she only witnessed in movies about space.

And apparently when Harry had his dick in her so deep, she thought she would seriously split in two. He tilted his head back and gazed at the ceiling for an answer to a question he didn’t know he was asking. “Can I talk yet?” She asked quietly.

“Yes, baby, of course,” he turned his attention back to her and his eyes found hers instantly. “M’sorry, s’it to much? Do y’want t’stop?” He slowly slid backwards his gaze unmoving from hers, and he was so ready to just stop it made her heart flip over in her chest.

“No, never, ever,” she shook her head and grabbed at his hip to pull him back toward her. “I just, want to say your name,” she said sheepishly. “That’s all I really meant.”

He smiled, a breath of laughter escaping him. “God you’re perfect,” he moaned and slowly pumped himself back into her.

“Back at you, Harry Styles.”

He groaned and his fingertips dug into her hip and he dropped his head lower as he leaned against the headboard on the wall for support. “Go easy on me, Buttercup baby. M’seconds from coming, I promise,” he warned. “Y’feel so good. M’starting from scratch on m’stamina and y’heavenly mouth didn’t do me any favors today in savoring this,” his hips continued a delicious push and pull of stretching her without anything between their skin. He alternated between small pumps where he barely exited her body and just pressed the same perfect spot inside her over and over again making her head spin. Then he followed it with long torturous strokes, snapping his hips so all but the tip of him was inside her followed by a deliriously hard and fast pressure built in the pit of her stomach.

“So good, kitten. So, so good,” he mumbled as he thrusted and pumped into her like it was his job. God she wished it could have been.

“Harry,” she whimpered and began meeting his thrusts with her own, her feet digging into the comforter for more stability while she clawed at his hip and the bedsheet. “Baby,” she croaked. “I’m so close,” she pressed hard against him.

“I know, Buttercup, I know. Can,” he choked off speaking as her walls fluttered around him in warning that she was about to tip over the edge. “Can feel you so good,” he mumbled doing everything in his weakened, pleasured state to maintain the pressure and everything she needed to come. “Can I touch you, baby?” he asked.

“Anything, please, anything you want,” she whimpered and Harry moved the hand on her hip to settle between them so his thumb pressed small circles onto her clit gently but perfectly. “Oh yes, yes, yes,” she cried and felt the euphoria snap through her in waves she was certain she briefly went blind and deaf. Harry groaned, thrusting in and out of her faster than he had before while she clamped around him.

“Baby, I’m gonna—” he moaned and pulled from her afraid to come inside her while she wasn’t full coherent and they hadn’t discussed it. She sat forward and wrapped her lips around the tip of him without much warning and he groaned again as his own orgasm wracked his body. She swirled her tongue around the tip of his dick licking every last drop of him from his skin. He twitched for what felt like hours while she sucked him again, her lips wrapping perfectly around him. She slowly pulled away swallowing and looking up at him with the sweetest smile that contradicted everything they just did. “Y’didn’t have to do that,” he cupped her face and pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead.

She shrugged. “Well... You said suck it up buttercup.”

He chuckled. “Naughty,” he murmured and kissed her softly on the lips. “That was really lovely, baby.”

She nodded eagerly in agreement. “I thought so too,” she blushed as she looked at him.

“I’ve never done that with a girlfriend before,” his voice was gentle as he looked over her face with so much... adoration. It made her stomach flip.

Her heart sparked with hope that there was something she encountered with him first. Something good and would always be theirs. “No?” She questioned quietly.

“Nope,” he brushed his thumb on her cheek. “I’ve never trusted someone this much.”

She felt her chest swell. Like her heart was going to burst. He was too sweet. Just like her favorite candy. “That’s very sweet, Harry,” she grabbed the hand holding her face and brushed a kiss into his palm.

“I know,” he shrugged with an impish smile. She shoved his hand away with an eye roll but couldn’t help but smile at him all the same. “I love you, Buttercup.”

“Thank you,” she giggled. He snorted and rolled his eyes.

“Say it,” he ordered dropping his face to her neck and kissing her what felt like a hundred times over in a matter of seconds.

“I love you,” she responded.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely.

He dropped to her side, pulling her close to his chest and she traced the outline of his face. “Hey Harry,” she mumbled.

“Yes, baby?” He answered instantly sensing the slightest amount of insecurity in her tone. He frowned as she refused to make eye contact with her.

“I think maybe now it’s your turn to ‘suck it up buttercup,’” she glanced at his eyes quickly and then darted her gaze to across the room. Harry groaned and began his path of kisses south along her body.

“Anything for you, Buttercup.”

general taglist: @justlemmeadoreyou @daydreamingofmatilda @sunshinemoonsposts @loving-hazz @likeapplejuicenpeach

@straightontilmornin @freedomfireflies @littlenatilda @kathb59 @babegoals

@angel-upon @lilfreakjez @mleestiles @ameliaalvarez06 @canyonmoondreams

@summertime-pills @daphnesutton @l4rrysh0use @perfectywrong @foreverxholland

@lovrave @st-ev-ie @pandeebearstyles @toosarcastic03 @luvonstyles

@tenaciousperfectionunknown @classychalamet @love-letters-to-uranus @emmaawbr @crossyourpeter

@kissitnhekitchen @boopookie @indierockgirrl @stylesfever @michellekstyles

@just-another-reader1098 @hermionelove @tiredinwinter @whimsy-willows @hannah9921

@fangirl7060 @triski73 @vikiii07 @prettygurl-2009 @mads3502

@angeldavis777 @tchlamqtsgf @lizsogolden @me-undiscovered @you-sunshine

@rose-girls-world @claimingharrystigertattoo @inlikea-coolway @theseaview @lunaharrygurl @emmie2308 @fruity-harry @somebunnybaby @avas-queen-black @mema10 @tulips4harry @sturnrc @sassamanda77 @ell0ra-br3kk3r @mp-269 @jmp1494 @fangirl509east @sideboobrry11 @drewrry @dutchtheatrelore @copiastricycle @mypolicemanharryyy @harry2121 @inharryshelter @fandomxo

I'm sorry if I missed anyone in the taglist. Please let me know if you'd like to join, if it didn't work, if you no longer want to be included, etc. :)

If you like this, check out my masterlist here

#sextra sextra read all about it #(she (me) is a little obsessed with his dick sorry not sorry)#he’s a sweetheart #the best bonus #another consent king #so sexy and safe #It would have been cruel oh she’s too sweet I fear I am not 👹I hope it was MID #Kneelllllllll helloooooooo why did I blush #Andy would love suck it up buttercup #the reassurance <3333 #omg this little moment after is the best part #shy no is cute #wayyyy too sexy #he’s soft dom coded #buttercup babyyyyyy #you knowwwwwww #a headboard grab will do it for me every time #he’s trying so hard I love it eating it up #eeeeeee the trust the love the adoration #the sweetest #OH ITS HIS TURN🤭#she’s so flirty love her #love love love #so good so good #harry styles fic rec #fic rec #harry styles smut #harry styles writing #harry styles fluff #harry styles fanfiction

373 notes · View notes

teefsintheweb · 2 years ago

Text

Robots can't physically cry. Unless that's a built in feature.

#andy is what i named my phone #he really doesnt like me but at the same time he is trying his very best #maladaptive teefs #my art

1 note · View note

youvebeenlivingfictional · 1 year ago

Text

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

4K notes · View notes

sleepy-little-stars · 4 months ago

Text

andy speaks: caleb and the what r we thing cuz i wholeheartedly believe he's so down bad that he forgets to ask u out n just start planning ur wedding .. happy new years post in march 🫶

“get out of there. now.”

after being apart for a long time, caleb was looking forward to finally spending new years with you again. it’ll be just like before! except, the two of you are well past the friends stage. long story short: upon reunion, he kissed you like it’s his last day on the planet and days and weeks after that, he doted on you every minute of every hour. he was always there tailing you like a puppy. you’re hungry? he’s already cooked your favorite meal and it’s waiting there on the table, still warm. bad day? he’s already at the door with his arms wide open for you to step into. need a distraction? no worries, caleb will never pass up on a chance to devour your lips (and soul) just so you can forget all your stress and worries.

all of those actions are really sweet of him. but there’s just one tiny problem.

caleb has never officially asked you out.

but here’s another problem. caleb already thinks the two of you are dating. you already do what lovers do, exclusively doesn’t that make you two.. well, lovers? while he’s out here thinking up your marriage and honeymoon place, you’re out here on the verge of crashing out because just what the hell are you two? you can’t just ask him outright, “caleb, what are we?” no, no. you don’t have enough backbone for that. is everything just casual? no, you can’t let chappell roan get into your head. but.. what if he’s just being friendly? a little too friendly. you’re confused, you're going insane, and you just wanna cry.

so what’s the best solution to your lovelife problems without confrontation and just the perfect timing of new years?

eat grapes under the table at exactly midnight in hopes that the romance aspect of your life flourish and prosper. in other words, finally have a boyfriend this year. or to be more specific, finally have caleb as your boyfriend this year.

which leads us to now. you shoving grapes into your mouth under the table, choking and cursing whoever started this tradition because who thought it was a good idea to make someone finish 12 whole grapes in one minute or else your wish ticket is void.

“you’re going to choke to death.” caleb kneels down, tall frame bent and trying to fit under the table with you. when you retched on your eighth grape, caleb took away your cup and made you spit out on his hand.

“why are you even eating grapes— choking on grapes? are you trying to start the year off with a bang?” he chuckles, his hand rubbing your back in circles.

“i'm trying to get a boyfriend this year.” you replied between breaths. you take the cup of water from him (when did he get that? you don’t know) and gulped it down.

caleb's brows furrowed, “a boyfriend? don’t you have me already?”

you look at him and sighed. “i'm trying to get you as my boyfriend this year.”

his brows furrowed even more, “.. are we not dating? i thought i was already your boyfriend?” he tucks hair behind your ear, hand lingering on the side of your neck.

“you haven’t asked me out yet.”

“do i have to ask you out?” he hums. “i could've sworn i was already too obvious.”

caleb leans in, lips grazing your cheek and a grin painted on his. “so, can i?”

“can you what?”

“be your boyfriend, of course.” and there it is, that handsome boyish smile of his that never fails to make your heart skip a beat. instead of a verbal answer, you closed the gap between you two.

guess that grapes already worked. despite you only being able to finish seven. oops.

bonus:

“see, pip. grapes are more delicious if you eat them one by one.” he places a piece on your mouth. you chew with a grumble. “shut up."

“yeah? shut me up, then." he smiles, already bending down to nip at your shoulder.

"caleb!"

903 notes · View notes

sunshine-jesse · 2 months ago

Text

The Painful Realities of Andy and Leyley

Decay gave me a lot to chew on. While there was very little that caught me by surprise, per se (insofar as there’s a difference between shock and surprise), I didn't expect Nemlei to Go There with regards to some of the themes she covered in the newest update. I had a hunch, sure, but it was so (seemingly) out of place compared to the tone of the rest of the game that I didn't explore it as well as I could've. Most writers who cover the things Decay did don't play it dreadfully straight or treat it with so much respect. And even when they do, it often comes off as fetishized, which isn't bad per se, but so little of the rest of the game came off as The Author's Poorly Disguised Fetish that it was hard to take the prospect as seriously as I could've.

Effectively, Nemlei outplayed my media analysis skills by being an even better writer than I anticipated.

And so, I will respond in turn.

...or at least, I can try to.

I don't think I can type an analysis that is purely analytical anymore. Episode 3 hit me so much harder than anything that came before it that it's very difficult to write what I do with any sense of detachment. I can't pretend it didn't get personal. I love these characters. I love this story. I love the themes it covers. And I relate to many of them.

That's why seeing TCAL playing everything so dreadfully straight hurt so much.

(This essay is going to be somewhat narrativized to reflect my playing experience of Decay. This is a writing exercise as much as it is character analysis. But I also didn't have the patience to proofread this, so please be gentle.)

Part 1: The Games We Play With Ourselves

My first route was the Cliffhanger route. I want to pretend that I picked it because I knew it’d be the best outcome due to my unparalleled (insert ashley smug face here) understanding of the characters but I actually wasn’t expecting that one moment to be the big decision that caused the paths to diverge. It was just the only save file I had for Decay because it was the most hopeful outcome to me at the time. Because of that, when playing through Decay, everything felt so… business as usual. Things didn’t even feel as tense as they did in episode 2 when the paths diverged. This is, as a matter of fact, how I reacted for most of my first playthrough of the game. I didn’t see it as weird. It made sense. Nobody was really wrong here or making particularly bad decisions.

The only thing that caught me by surprise for the first half of it was when Andrew slapped Ashley, but I didn’t even feel like it was that shocking of a moment. Ashley has a chronic problem with taking things seriously, so I don’t think Andrew showing her what it means to take a threat of violence seriously is a particularly out of pocket response. However, it’s also not the only way to assert his identity as Andrew, because Burial showed us a better way for him to do the same: quiet dismissal with a confident assertion that ‘Andy’ is dead. Slapping her wasn’t the only way to get the point across, but it was -a- way, and I think it was important for Ashley to internalize it even though the slap was a simultaneous sign of strength AND weakness on Andrew’s end.

He didn’t need to play her game, but he did, and he managed to make it mean something.

The episode in general went through great lengths to show how unseriously Ashley takes her own actions. Which is a mood (she’s literally me, chat), for sure, but we’ve already seen that offhanded remarks by Ashley are enough to deeply sting Andrew.

This whole scene was an example of her not taking her own words seriously, by highlighting a dynamic we took for granted in prior episodes. Their endless back and forth is perceived as a harmless game by her. A lot of people perceived this dynamic as toxic back in prior chapters but it’s fairly common in long-term relationships. As someone who has a tendency of doing that myself- at least with friends- it makes social situations easier to navigate when I know that both of us are aware that the other person isn’t actually trying to hurt the other in a way that sticks.

(I’m obviously not saying that their dynamic isn’t toxic, just that this one aspect of it is fairly normal and often taken uncharitably)

There are dozens upon dozens more examples than this but I assume that if I need to list them off to you then you haven’t actually played the game. I’m just listing this one because it’s useful for highlighting the way she views their dynamic.

Either way, Andrew isn’t having it this time, because he’s focusing harder on something he wanted from Ashley all along:

Respect.

Respect is a huge running theme in this episode, and the decision to accept being called Andrew or Andy is the make or break point for the route, and by proxy, their relationship. If Andrew decides to demand self-respect by asserting his identity as Andrew, then Ashley takes his request to not roast the camper seriously. But if he doesn’t demand to be called Andrew, then she does roast the camper. The implications of this decision are huge, but if you choose to be called Andy, he’s too much of a doormat at this point to show why it’s so important.

Accepting being called Andy gives Ashley permission to double down on all the worst aspects of their dynamic. There’s a lot to say about how Andrew reacts to this, but most of it is retreading old ground, because he’s made his issues with this and what it means to him abundantly clear already. What’s more interesting- to me- is how Ashley reacts. When Andrew reacts to “Why do you think it’s okay to hurt me?”, Ashley responds with… confusion.

"(It's) fine to stomp over every boundary I've ever set, isn't it?"

"I- uh...... wouldn't know."

She doesn’t get it. She genuinely doesn’t get it. She does not understand boundaries, flat-out. She has very few of her own, and therefore doesn’t see them in other people. Even when Andrew expressed boundaries to her in his past- the few times it actually happened- he quickly lowered them, never teaching her what they actually mean. While we don’t know for absolute certain because of how few flashbacks we’ve seen from her perspective, it seems like she’s never been held to account for transgressing a boundary.

Even when she’s slapped in the face, she doesn’t quite understand that it’s Andrew setting a boundary and showing self-respect. We see this later on with the argument she has with Andrew later in the episode:

"...............I stopped calling you Andy."

"Ooooh! Hallelujah! She hasn't called me by the wrong name for a few days! Mercy me, do I stand corrected! This must be love! And not just any love, but true love of the highest caliber!"

She thinks it’s just doing him a favor. She’s not respecting his boundaries at all. It’s something she’s GIVING to him.

With Ashley’s general inability to take things seriously in mind, and her lack of understanding of boundaries, I think there’s one more piece of the puzzle I need to explore before I can explain why I think things I really went to shit:

HOT

SIBLING

BREEDING!!!

Coffin is, still, even with Decay in mind, not making a statement on whether or not incest is good or bad. I can say that with full confidence. It's going further than that: it's using their incestuous relationship to highlight the ways in which the siblings interface with sexuality. Their more romantic, intimate moments are still portrayed as cute, and something that makes both of them happy. Physical affection stabilizes their relationship, and is something the two of them need to feel like things are okay. It doesn't hurt them.

...to a point.

Because she sure as fuck isn’t showing that it’s good, either.

In the Shoot/Dead End route (I'll be referring to this route as 3B from here on, and the cliffhanger route as 3A), their incestuous tendencies are unambiguously portrayed as a negative thing. Everything they do together makes one or both of them uncomfortable, unlike almost every other instance we see in every other route. But why? What's the difference between 3A and 3B?

Let's compare the scenes of intimacy between 3A and 3B:

In 3A, Andrew was slow, patient, and gentle, resulting in something that both Ashley and him enjoyed. They cracked a laugh, hugged each other, very cute, wholesome, and not at all weird if you don't look at the shared genetics behind the curtain.

But in 3B, he was sudden and forceful, resulting in something Ashley didn't enjoy. She tries to reciprocate but he pulls away shortly after, supposedly because she's not good at kissing, and also because he still feels gross about actually enjoying a sexual encounter with his little sister. Her reaction to this was visible confusion.

I want to establish my takes on these scenes now because I’m going to draw attention to them later on.

So, let’s recap:

Ashley doesn’t take things seriously enough. She doesn’t understand personal boundaries. She attempts to reciprocate affections and act with visible confusion when it’s rejected. What does this mean? I want everyone to hear me out on this before they respond with ‘well, no fucking shit Sherlock’, because this little fact about Ashley’s character goes far deeper and is more wide-reaching than many might think, at least given the kinds of analysis I see on this game:

Ashley treats life like a game.

And I don’t mean that as a heavy-handed metaphor for her thinking everyone needs to be played and manipulated and that she has very little personal investment in anything that goes on. I mean she actually, literally, treats life like a game. Let me highlight something from the Q&A so I can explain just how important this really is:

“She doesn’t want to grow up”

“her fantasy of Andy and Leyley.”

When she calls Andrew Andy as a teenager:

"It's supposed to be endearing!! It's our secret game! I thought you liked that kind of thing."

You see where I’m going with this? Her whole dynamic with Andrew is part of that ‘secret game’ to her. It’s something she takes seriously, unlike everything else in life. Every deviation from it is merely doing him a favor. She’s allowing him to break the rules, if only temporarily. She doesn’t take many things seriously because she can’t emotionally grasp the significance of it. In her mind, she’s still a child. And for much of the story, no matter the route, she’s still playing that game with Andrew, no matter what’s at stake.

Ribbing at each other? Part of the game.

Their mutual displays of affection? Part of the game.

But boundaries? Those weren’t part of the rules.

This is why Ashley is so confused and distressed when none of ‘her’ games work on Andrew anymore.

The rules have changed. And she doesn’t understand them anymore.

Here lies the core differences between the routes in Decay. In 3A, Andrew is still willing to play that game with her.

Just like in real life,

Just like with his peers, with his mom, with Julia,

Andrew knows how to pretend to play Ashley’s game.

He’s not quite aware it’s a game in the same ways as her, but he does know the sets of behaviors he can use to calm Ashley down. And as shown with the Entity, he’s extremely good at negotiating rules even when he’s not aware there’s a game at play. But he still doesn’t understand it as a game, and that’s where many of his frustrations come from (not to say Ashley is fully aware it’s a game either, but he’s even less aware than she is). Ashley doesn’t listen to him as often as he’d like because he’s not fully aware of the rules she expects them to operate under. Or perhaps, more accurately, not aware of what he has to do to change the rules rather than just create exceptions.

I don’t exactly know either, but I think it has something to do with how much gifts mean to Ashley. Keep in mind that all it takes is a wedding ring to avert the double suicide ending.

I think this proclivity for engaging with life as if it was a game might be why Ashley is said to be in-tune with the Demon Realm and enjoy their puzzles so much: everything has clear rules and conditions for winning or losing. Agreements are ironclad, and a deal is a deal. It’s a series of easy and somewhat predictable input->output mechanisms, as long as she’s precise with her desires. While the Entity is clearly manipulating her in some way, it’s yet to do so through lies, and she has been shown no reason to believe that it ever lies, outside of when it tells her highly emotionally inconvenient information.

(If your eyebrow rose when reading that, mine rose while typing it too, but I’m not here to diagnose anyone because that makes analysis less interesting and I literally wrote the essay on why people shouldn’t do that)

One detail I want to point out before tying this all back together is that games are something Ashley has appreciated from the absolute youngest we’ve ever seen her, before either of them did anything wrong: The flashback where they visited the grandparents. Andrew turning his pursuit of Ashley into a game was shown to instantly get her to behave better, as it’s given her clear and obvious rules to adhere to, and conditions to get something she wants, no strings attached. I wanted to point this out so I could establish that this is how she’s always been and not a pattern she fell into, because I need to emphasize just how pervasive games are to how Ashley interfaces with the world.

With Andrew, her ‘secret game’ becomes something different.

Tying back into my first essay, the ‘games’ she plays are the framework with which she uses to feel in control of Andrew. They’re what her entire sense of safety is predicated on, and without the rules and reciprocal ‘play’ that comes with games, she loses any sense of emotional stability and becomes extremely volatile, confrontational, and sometimes violent. She’s not one who can function without an understanding of what’s going on, which is precisely why she lacks foresight and operates on intuition.

It’s not like she’s not trying, right? I’d like to present the scene where Andrew calls Julia with Ashley on the line.

At first, Ashley loses her shit and just barely manages to keep herself together. It really seems like an act of wanton cruelty on Andrew’s part, but it’s important to note that you get a star for this scene. You don’t get stars for scenes where their relationship deteriorates. So why do you get a star? She initially appeared upset, but the moment Andrew reframed it, her expression flipped, and she immediately became happy.

"So she can behave. Somewhat."

"Hmph! You dared to doubt me? Shame on you! Despite your underhanded bullshit, I emerge victorious!"

Andrew had to stop Ashley from yelling, and from hanging up, but Ashley managed to quiet down and stabilize herself enough to not loudly explode and get violent and uncontrollable.

And outside of where they were forced to be separated either to solve a puzzle or at the whims of the Entity, Andrew led her through every challenge they faced and she didn’t spend the whole time questioning his ability.

Why do you think we play as Andrew for the vast majority of the episode, even when they’re together?

She trusts his judgement more, even if she can’t quite understand (or at least vocalize) why. There’s a reason she roasts the camper in every route where this one interaction isn’t possible: Her desire to gain strength from eating people supersedes her trust in Andrew’s ability to handle difficult situations. She has to gain enough power for the both of them, or they’re fucked. But if Andrew has the strength to assert his identity as Andrew, maybe she doesn’t need to do all the heavy lifting.

(This is why I believe the star scenes are what they are. They’re not required to improve their relationship, but they ARE required for the necessary context to show why “the future” (as stated by the Entity in the Vision Room when he mentions them) is what it is.)

For a large part of the rest of the episode, we see a lot of smaller moments like this, where Ashley is at least trying to reach some kind of mutual understanding with Andrew and Andrew is trying to convey his actual feelings to Ashley, but the two of them keep speaking past each other because they simply do not understand the language that the other speaks. But what’s important is that their relationship manages to not deteriorate, and despite the vicious fighting, they still express a desire to understand the other when left to their own devices. By this point, I was feeling vindicated, as a lot of my initial analyses that were incredibly charitable to both siblings seemed to be at least somewhat correct and that I was right to give them the benefit of the d-....

Part 2: The Lies We Tell Ourselves

...-id Andrew just kill a fucking child in cold blood?!

I want to draw attention to the wording I used to describe how Ashley treats life as a game. I said she treats it as a game, not necessarily inexorably understands it as such. This is not a tendency she had no choice but to manifest; outside of being part of the way she manifests the Andy and Leyley fantasy, it’s also an emotional regulation tool that simplifies her interactions with the world. I want to specify this because I feel like, if I don’t, it might paint a picture of her being a helpless victim in a world that treats her poorly. Nor that growing up would solve her problems, and that she has no agency because she had no choice but to be this way. While I would never deny her nor Andrew victimhood of each other and the world around them, I also don’t want to confuse people into thinking that I don’t think they could’ve done better, and that I shouldn’t expect them to. Because the more I played through the game- and after finishing it, the more I thought about it- it became clearer and clearer that they could, because Andrew…

Holy shit, Andrew. Talk about dropping the pretense.

When the parents were sacrificed, Andrew- and his life- could never be normal again. The man realized that too, because nothing Ashley suggested registered as objectionable anymore. He offered so little resistance to killing the campers that it didn’t even sink in what kind of action that was. He was never much of a moral conscience to begin with, but from that point on, he stopped trying.

"Aaah, you know I can't say no to a family value pack."

Oh, Andrew, you wretched little shit. I get it now.

The thing about Andrew that I didn’t quite get last time is just how loose his grasp on the idea of normalcy actually was. It seemed like a central facet of his character and something he desperately wanted to hold on to at all costs, but now it looks much, much different. It wasn’t something he wanted to convince himself was true much past his teenage years, but the moment hormones started setting in, he made almost no effort to come to terms with his sexual desires. He made no attempt to distance himself from Ashley, to not project his fantasy on to Julia, or even to not peep at his sister in the shower.

‘Normal’ wasn’t something he wanted to be. It was a role he wanted to play.

At every chance he got, he fed into his darkest desires like an addict, and projected those fantasies on to Julia. He didn’t even bother trying to make space between him and Ashley; no, she had to do it for him, because she was mad at him. And the best part is, it wasn’t even good for him.

As much as he tried to lie to himself, what he really wanted is to lie to others. Not once did he try to change himself in accordance with the person he wanted to be, and especially what others wanted him to be. Not once did he self-reflect about what he really wanted, or what would be best for him, or even Ashley, for that matter. He just wanted other people to shut up. Andrew was not a victim of his own impulses and desires. I really feel the need to emphasize just how messed up this man is; Without Ashley taking an active role in his life, he didn’t get better. He filled in the gaps in his heart by choosing to be worse.

Nemlei took subtext, turned it into text, and then turned that text into a baseball bat that she used to crack our skulls over and over again. He was never the ‘good person’ in their relationship, and never once tried to be.

And the worst part is that I fully understand and empathize with why.

There’s a funny thing that sometimes happens when you have impossible standards piled on to you and enforced through abuse and you’re denied a chance to ever be your own person: You fail to develop a coherent sense of identity. You latch on to anything that ‘seems’ right and predicate your whole sense of self on it. You need this sense of identity to navigate the world, so anything that threatens it is a threat to everything you know, and you respond to it in turn. Everything you do outside of that one core idea (or several ideas) becomes an act, a puppet show you play to placate others and serve your own ends. You can’t afford empathy or understanding to ‘threats’, because you’re too busy trying to protect what you ‘know’ you are. A threat to your world is a threat to your life, and so you respond by desperately doing whatever it takes to remove that threat. Sometimes lies, sometimes violence, of varying degrees of intensity depending on the threat.

Sometimes you learn to shut your feelings off.

Sometimes you learn to react too strongly.

Sometimes you learn that nobody else matters, because everyone else will just hurt you anyway.

You devalue people. You overvalue people.

Anything to feel safe, anything to feel like the outside world is less of a threat. Anything to remove that threat, manage that threat, or protect the only thing in the world that matters to you, whether that thing is yourself, or someone else.

And for Andrew? It’s said to us in the beginning of episode 3:

Andy’s Leyley

Leyley’s Andy

Yeah, Nemlei. I get it. You understand.

There’s another side to this coin, but I’ll get to that.

Not that this happens to everyone, but it absolutely happened to Andrew. The ‘role’ he was had forced upon him was that of Leyley’s _____. Her protector, teacher, parent, general caretaker. Her emotional regulator. Her brother.

Her everything.

It was all he could be. All he was allowed to be. Because the moment he diverged, he was punished greatly by Renee, and at some point, Ashley herself. He predicated his entire value system on being her ‘Andy’, to the point where every action he took that wasn’t part of the act he put on to attempt to interface with the world normally became for her.

It was all for her, because he was her _____. Anything to keep her under control, anything to keep her safe.

One of the most notable examples of this is shown when Lord Unknown was attempting to give him therapy. When he started hearing how people spread rumors about how he slept with Ashley, and Douchebag told him that the people in Ashley’s class said that she spread them, he just glossed over this fact. So little attention is drawn to it that I actually missed it on my first playthrough. Instead, the first thing Andrew expressed internally was concern over whether or not she was being bullied; it didn’t even register in his mind that she was responsible for smearing his reputation.

To him, she was never responsible for anything. She was his responsibility above all else. The incestuous rumors hardly mattered to him, and he kept finding holes in the story and pointing them out, such as how she didn’t have time to spread them early (since we saw them enter school together) in the day because she stood Douchebag up on a Friday, and how there was no way to catch them behind the auditorium ‘yesterday’ given it was a Monday. The presence of those holes is why I’m skeptical of whether or not she actually spread them, but it’s not like it’s something she wouldn’t do. More on that later.

Above all else, Andrew wasn’t concerned about how people saw him; he hardly even cared. He was upset mostly about people thinking that he’d take advantage of Ashley in that way. There was nothing weird to him about how clingy they were to each other, how affectionate they were, how protective he was.

Of course he was all that. Andrew was her brother. It was his job to be all that. It was his job to be her _____.

I’d like to present an alternate theory to the idea that Andrew dated Julia to appear normal. The theory isn’t mutually compatible with that, but it feels woefully incomplete. Given the focus on bullying, the anger had over the idea that he’d ever hurt her, and the fact that sexual feelings started creeping in his mind thanks to the magical curse of teenage hormones, I believe the primary reason he dated Julia was so that he could prove to others- and himself- that he would never hurt his precious Ashley. Not in that way, not at all. It was everything he predicated his sense of identity on. It was what he had to be, above all else.

So in order to protect his ‘role’, his identity, he chose something he, deep down, knew would hurt her, because nobody could ever be led to believe that he’d take advantage of her like that.

Especially himself.

Appearing normal to others was a pleasant side-effect of this, and if he could convince himself he loved Julia, he’d never have to add ‘boyfriend’ to the list of things he had to be for Ashley.

Hahahaha, whoops.

Surprise! It was the thing he actually wanted to be for her the most!

Teenage hormones are an awful thing, aren’t they? In realizing that he had sexual feelings for Ashley, he finally found something he’d actually enjoy being for her!

And it was something he could never be, lest it risk everything else he thought of himself as being for her!

Oh, the wretched irony of sexual desire. I could never.

Which way, western man? Everything you think you should be, or the one thing you actually want to be?

Andrew tries to have it both ways, but, y’know how that went. No attempt to rein in these desires, projecting his sister on his girlfriend, etc etc. Already been over that. But now I can highlight why I believe he got worse and kept feeding into his desires; the closest thing to a moral conscience he had- his identity as Leyley’s _____- takes a step out of his life for reasons I’ll cover when I cover how much of a fuck up she actually is.

What, you thought I’d skip over her just because I was- and still am- her number one defender? Oh no no. Now that I know better than to give these losers (that I love very dearly and desire nothing but happiness for) so much charitability, I have a lot to say about her too. But back to Andrew.

Without that sense of personal identity- without his proximity to Ashley- he sees no reason not to give into his desires, watch her while she dresses, and project all of his most sexual fantasies on to Julia. His interactions with Ashley were, as fucked up as it is, grounding to him. They stabilize him, give him a reason to act right that isn’t just a facade. With that, he has nothing. Nothing except his facade of normalcy.

I think the year-long gap between his interactions with Ashley are precisely the reason why ‘normalcy’ became so important to him. It became a second sense of identity that conflicted with what he predicated his identity on before. He could finally emulate being a somewhat normal person, with a somewhat normal attachment to a somewhat normal person. Horray! But the prior identity still existed. It never went away. Ashley was where his heart was, and trying to give it to someone else only hollowed out what was there before.

This one CG speaks louder than any words the man has ever spoken, up to this point.

These are not the eyes of someone who is merely depressed. These are the eyes of someone who is confronting the idea of living a life without the only thing that ever gave him meaning.

He can’t even make eye contact with himself, because there’s nothing there.

Andrew, without Ashley, is a hollow husk of a man who starts to crumble the more he tries to convince himself he could be anything other than her everything.

She is the light of his life. The nightmarish, toxic, corrosive light of his life.

(cont. in next post)

#the coffin of andy and leyley #andrew graves #ashley graves #tcoaal #gaming #gravecest #tcoaal essay

446 notes · View notes

dangerousstrawberryshark · 3 months ago

Text

Special Assistance

⚖Pairing(s)⚖→ Andy Barber x male reader ⚠CW⚠→ gay-sex, gay, bottom male reader, top Andy Barber, cockwarming, daddy kink, age difference (the reader is 25 and Andy is 43), breeding, creampie, anal play, anal fingering, bondage (he uses his tie.), anal sex, sort of friends to lovers, and marking (biting and kissing.). ⚖Rating⚖→ Explicit ⚖Request⚖→ Yes

⚖Word Count⚖→ 3.2k

⚖Summary⚖→ Life was spiraling out of control for Andy. His son got accused of murder and is trying to clear his name while fighting with his wife, which escalated to a divorce. The only thing he can look forward to is seeing his legal assistant. He found solace in your presence, but these feelings transformed into a deeper meaning.

Read before continuing: IF YOU ARE YOUNGER THAN 18 OR ANY OF THE WARNINGS MAKE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE, DO NOT CONTINUE READING!

This fic does not follow the Defending Jacob series and stands on its own! I haven’t watched the show yet, so there might be some mistakes.

“You’re doing good, baby. Warming my cock like a good boy.” Andy purrs as he gives small thrusts into your tight heat. His hands roam your naked body as he licks and bites your nape area. His teeth grazing your skin, grip tightening as he starts thrusting faster into your ass. His heavy breathing brushes against your ear.

“I’m the luckiest man to have an assistant like you. Taking my cock and finding everything I need. I love you so fucking much,” Andy said as he pulled your head back, smashing his lips against yours. You would return the gesture, but you weren’t listening to the older man's words. Your mind turned into mush from Andy’s cock hitting all the right places, his large and warm hands making contact with your skin, and the bites and kisses he marks on your skin.

You gasped as Andy’s rough hand wrapped around your weeping cock. His thumb swirls around your cockhead, gathering the translucent precum and lathering your cock with it. The older man grins as he licks your neck, thrusting faster and encouraging you to hump his hand.

It was euphoric to be in the hands of someone older and more experienced. His gentle touches, mixed with his roughness, were everything you wanted. Andy was loving and had some dominance in him. He was a lawyer, and the stress of the profession and having to find a way to clear his name was stressful. Thankfully, he had you, his young, loving, and submissive boyfriend. Sometimes, you remember the memories and moments that led to the scene you are in now.

It’s been almost a year since it happened.

One year ago

You had been friends with Andy for a long time. You first met him when you got your bachelor’s in paralegal studies and ended up as his assistant. The two of you became friends after a while. Something clicked when you met him. Andy didn’t notice, but you certainly did. However, you never engaged because the older man was married and had a kid. It was also unprofessional for an assistant to pin after their boss.

Everything was going great for the most part, although you couldn’t get your feelings to change. If anything, they only worsened as Andy always praised you or gave you a slight touch. His affirmations and physical touch made your cock ache– maybe touch starved - and being lonely best described you. You always craved his touch and the words of affirmation from Andy, who was dominant but loving towards you. He saw you as a son, mainly due to the age difference.

Then it happened. You heard the news that Andy’s son, Jacob, was accused of murder and was swiftly arrested, awaiting trial. You watched the older man going into overdrive as he tried to clear his son’s name of the accusation. He had you conduct research, draft the documents, collect the evidence, etc. He was stressed, but it only got worse.

You didn’t know the full details, but Andy and his wife were getting divorced. You assumed it was because Jacob was accused and the older man worked so much that he neglected his wife. Andy now has to deal with Jacob, and a divorce is the final nail in the coffin.

The divorce proceeding went swiftly and dividing the assets was quick, but the trial for Jacob’s innocence was still going. Andy turned to you for relief and comfort. You would sometimes wake up at odd hours of the night to loud banging outside. Opening the door, you were often met with a disheveled Andy, his hair and clothing messed up as he wobbled into your living room. He would blabber and cry as he laid on the couch, and being the good friend you were, you comforted and soothed the older man.

Andy was grateful for your presence and comfort during the hardest time in his life. You even reprimanded him for overworking and drinking too much. You were a rock for him, a foundation on which he could stand. It was during a time like this that the older man began reevaluating his feelings for you. He knew he was bisexual but never had any attraction to you. He only saw it as a platonic relationship.

As time passed, the older man began to notice things he never did about you; little quirks and some physical attributes. He found it cute, sometimes catching himself checking you out. Andy would glance whenever you tripped, getting a good view of your ass. The way your tight dress pants would hug your ass was boner-popping.

Whenever you would leave for lunch, Andy would sit back and unzip his pants, pulling his aching cock and stroking it, letting his imagination run wild. The older man would imagine you laid out on his desk, naked and heaving, your body covered with his marks and cum, and your eyes filled with want and lust as you beg for him.

“Fucking hell.” Andy moans as he fucks his hand, imagining it's you beneath him and his hand is your ass. The older man’s groans bounced off the wall, precum oozed from his cockslit; spreading the liquidy substance all over his cock, making it easier to thrust into his hand. He imagines you moaning for him, crying for him to go faster.

“Of course, baby, anything for you.” Andy groans as he fucks his hand faster. His heavy balls slapping against his hands… plap, plap, plap, plap. He imagines you crying from his large cock hitting your bundle of nerves deep inside your ass. The older man licks his lips as he feels his balls tightening, cum rushing to erupt out of the cockslit.

The older man’s imagination then flashed to him and you kissing as he gave one thrust and bred you. In the real world, Andy gave one thrust into his hand, ropes of pearly cum squirted out, painting his suit and beard with the thick white liquid. He was breathing hard from his most intense orgasm yet.

Post-nut clarity set in: he had jerked off to his friend, whom he considered to be his son, and nothing else. Andy didn’t feel bad though, something in him was telling him that it was alright. The age difference was notable, he was eighteen years your senior. He should feel ashamed, but he didn’t– he felt thrilled.

The next few days left Andy confused about his feelings. Everything you did for him, he liked it —no, he loves you! He enjoyed being around you and being in your presence. He loved you and lusted for you! Andy kept telling himself he wouldn’t jerk off to thoughts of you in compromised positions, but that was a lie.

For every day, for the next few weeks, the older man would jerk his cock to you. He would have multiple orgasms a day, but no more how many times, his cock was still hard. It was like he was a teenager again, discovering the world of gay porn. Nothing worked, he needed the real thing, he needed you.

A week later

It was another hang-out, like always, with Andy coming over for dinner and chilling while watching movies or doing random stuff in your room. You didn’t know what led to this moment, but you were pinned down on your bed by the older man, his calloused hands holding yours down. You could feel Andy’s scruffy beard grinding against yours as his lips pressed against yours.

Andy’s body was grinding against yours. You could feel his large cock straining in his pants. “You taste delicious,” the older man says as he lets out a breathy groan before diving back into your mouth. His tongue pushes past your teeth and invades your oral cavity. It was easy for Andy to establish his dominance over you.

It was hot. The sensation of Andy’s cock grinding against yours, the heated kiss, and the heavy breathing was making your cock painfully erect and throbbing. The older man pulled back and looked at you– it was everything he imagined. Your body is disheveled: your hair is messed up and tangled, your lips are swollen with drool coating around them, and your soft pants as you try to calm down. The sight served to make Andy’s cock harder.

Without wasting any time, Andy began stripping. He hastily took off his clothes, fumbling with his zipper before his glorious body was fully exposed to you. Without fear of receiving backlash, you admired and gazed upon the older man’s body. Your delusional dreams before Andy’s divorce weren’t so delusional after all.

Andy’s body was huge. The older man grinds as you admire his body. He started to flex his muscles, showing his large biceps. He had chiseled abs that looked sculpted by God himself, you just wanted to trace your tongue against them. His pectorals looked big too, most likely hard but soft to touch and grope. He’s also very hairy, especially around his pecs and abdomen area– a happy trail leading down to his crotch and pubic region.

Speaking of the crotch region, Andy’s cock was perfect: size, thickness, and eavy hanging balls, swollen with so much cum. You could tell that he likes keeping his groin groomed and not too hairy– just how you like it.

“Come on, darling. Don’t leave me hanging.” Andy says as he pulls you closer to him. His hands roam your body as he removes your clothing until your naked divine body is revealed to him. The older man drinks in your appearance– magnificent and perfect. He doesn’t know why he was blind to you before, but it's better that he realized now than never.

He held you closer to him, worshipping your body with his mouth and hands. One of his legs pushed between your legs as he laid you down on the bed. You gasp softly as Andy’s hands squeeze your hips and knead the flesh of your ass. His mouth sucks and bites around your neck, making sure he leaves his mark on your body. You start humping his thick thigh, grinding your throbbing cock and smearing precum all over Andy’s thigh.

“Can I do this?” Andy says, pulling himself off of you and gesturing to his tie. You knew what the older man was thinking and agreed on the spot. Andy uses the tie and wraps it around your wrists, putting you in bondage. He tightens it but makes sure it wasn’t tight enough to hurt you. The fantasies the older man had about you were coming true.

“There’s lube on the nightstand,” you said, moving your head in the direction. Andy nods and reaches out for it. He grabs the bottle and pops it open, squirting a generous amount of the substance on his fingers. One hand gripping your tied wrists while the other one went down to your ass.

You start breathing heavily as you feel Andy’s thick fingers circling the rim of your hole. Biting your lips as this was the first time you’ve had sex. “I need you to calm down, baby boy. Breathe.” Andy says as he kisses your knee. Your body started to relax, allowing Andy to slowly push his thick fingers in.

Air was kicked out of your lungs as you felt the older man’s thick digits push deeper into your tight heat. Your moans got louder with each time Andy thrust his fingers deeper. Arching your back as you felt yourself riding his thick digits. Following what you were doing, Andy began thrusting them faster– each time you pushed down, Andy pushed up.

Suddenly, one particular thrust caused you to ascend to a higher plane. You scream in pleasure and Andy correctly assumes that that must be your prostate. The older man began making sure to hit that same spot, memorizing it. You feel your cock was about to erupt, Andy was gonna give you an anal orgasm. However, the older man didn’t want that. He wanted you to cum from and on his dick.

Andy pulled his fingers out and replaced them with his large cock. He slowly sinks in, groaning and biting his lips as his cock is swallowed by your tight and warm hole. The older man pushed until he was completely inside, his heavy balls pressing against your ass. This was better than any pussy Andy had had. It was tight but not tight enough to where it felt like his dick was being suffocated. He always wanted to try anal but his wife declined. He never pushed the topic and just buried the thought of anal sex.

Whatever level of ascension Andy set with his fingers paled in comparison to his cock. You were higher than ever before; on a different plane of existence. Your ass was filled to the brim with the older man’s cock. You could feel every vein and crevice of Andy’s cock. It felt like the puzzle piece you’ve been looking for all your life was found and connected with yours. Your moans could be heard throughout the apartment building, you are most likely gonna receive noise complaints tomorrow.

Andy gave you time to adjust to his size. It felt like he was going to burst instantly. Your ass tightened around him with a vice grip. His breathing got heavier as he didn’t want to cum just yet and leave you unsatisfied. After a few minutes, you permit Andy to move.

“J-Jesus Christ… fucking hell… you feel so good baby.” Andy moans as his hands grip your hips. He began giving slow thrusts, sliding his cock in and out your tight ass softly, his thickness stretching you perfectly and his cockhead teasing your prostate. Your cock was weeping, oozing precum over your abdomen as it twitched back to life.

His thrust got faster as Andy felt himself being consumed by the pleasure. “My God… Oh fuck yes.” Andy’s eyes roll back as he slows down, giving slow but powerful thrusts. His grip tightens as he feels your hole becoming tighter around him and it feels like his cock is melting. Your hands grip the sheets during a short pause before your bundle of nerves are hit again but Andy’s cockhead.

“Daddy!” you scream before covering your mouth and realizing what you said. You thought Andy would be turned off as he stopped midway. Your face was flustered as you tried to explain that it was mistaken, but the air was punched out as Andy started thrusting fast. “Call me daddy again, baby boy. Call me daddy.” Andy moans as he lost himself and fucks you like a wild beast. Ramming his cock deeper into your depths and abusing your prostate. You could feel your body becoming overstimulated.

“D-daddy! F-feels so good~ making me feel so good~” You cry as your back arches. You start to push back, meeting Andy’s thrusts. The older man’s groans grow louder, “I know, baby. You love daddy how is fucking this tight ass? This?” Andy said before slapping your thigh, grinning as he watches the flesh jiggle from the impact. “This ass belongs to me.”

You could hear the sounds of Andy’s heavy balls slapping against your ass, your groans and moans mixing with his to become a symphony of gay sex. Your cock was bobbing and slapping against your abdomen. “Yeah, you like that? You love daddy’s cock don’t you?” the older man growls as he leans down and starts sucking your neck, leaving marks to show that you belonged to him.

“I love your cock, daddy~ So perfect! It fills me perfectly~” you cry as you wrap your arms around Andy, pulling the older man closer to you. Andy became deaf to everything, only hearing your moans and cries for him– calling him daddy as he fucks your ass, but more soppily. His cock was throbbing inside and balls were tightening as he was ready to bust his load.

“I’m gonna cum, baby. Want me to cum inside this ass? Breed you till my cum oozes out this hole.” Andy growls as he bites and nimbles your neck softly. “Y-yes! Yes, p-please… oh god… inside! B-breed me, breed me, breed me!” You cried desperately, your hole tightening to milk Andy’s large cock of its cum, your fingers digging into the older man’s back. You move one of your hands from your side to jerk your weeping cock, wanting to cum with the older man.

“Almost there baby… cum!” Andy growls as he sinks his teeth into your skin, digging them as he wants to leave a permanent mark. He gave one last thrust before a wave of cum floods your hole. Your velvet walls were painted white as the older man kept filling you with his thick cum. Your cock spurts its load after the feeling of being bred and marked was the breaking point. Your chest was painted with your thick pearly substance.

You could feel Andy’s larger body collapsing on top of yours. It was quiet besides the heavy panting and breathing. You both bask in each other's presence. Andy slowly pulls out, a loud plop sound echoing with cum gushing out your gaping hole. You whimper at the feeling of being empty and hug the older man tighter. A moment of silence falls over the room before you speak.

“I love you, Andy– daddy~” you say, saying daddy in a teasing tone. Andy laughs before returning the same gesture. “I love you too, baby.”

Ever since that day, you and Andy have been in a relationship. About 7 months into the relationship, the older man asked if you wanted to move in with him, and you gleefully accepted. He did have rules for you; you were to be naked at all times, only dressed whenever guests arrived. Andy wanted to have full access to you. He also wanted you to cockwarm him while he worked and did your research. For a man his age, Andy was certainly horny, fucking in every corner of his house.

You didn’t mind at all, as long as you got to be with him.

THE END

A/n: hello, my strawberries! I hope you enjoy this fic! Took me a while due to procrastination. Also had to watch a porn video of a guy humping a pillow and moaning… the things fanfiction writers look up and watch. TAGLIST: @hiddens-eden @spnfanboy777 @buckyshusband0 @zamfam4272 @raspberryyuuki @maxxioislost @furiousflowercreation @ghostking4m @sluttyhusband @wolf-knights @your-cow-boy @mack-thedork @starboye @boypied @geminiflanagan69 Very special thanks to my proofreader; @sagethegaywitch Join my taglist!

630 notes · View notes