#this is fictionalized and NOT YOUR BUSINESS

[osterby]

Let me go a step further. ALL ace and aro identities belong under the queer umbrella and Pride is for you. Some ace/aro people choose not to identify as queer and that's fine, but they're the only ones who get to make that descision.

It doesn't matter what your sexual or romantic history is, what genders you do or don't feel some kind of attraction to, your taste in fiction, or your masturbation habits. It doesn't matter if your feelings sort neatly into split attraction boxes or not. If you do use split attraction, it doesn't matter which labels go in which box. It doesn't matter if you have kinks or not. It doesn't matter if you are grossed out/upset by, excited about, or neutral on things like kissing or cuddling or going on dinner dates. It doesn't matter what sublabels you use or if you use any labels at all. It doesn't even matter if ace or aro are you r prefered or primary terms!

None of these things are what make you queer or not, and none of these things are anyone else's damn business.

If you're ace or aro you're queer. People who tell you otherwise are assholes.

Happy pride month specifically to folks on the asexual and aromantic spectrum who oftentimes feel isolated and left out of the conversation. You belong here as much as the rest of us and I hope that you are all loved in a way that is comforting to you.

[elllisaaa]

hi!! I looove your BF!VERNON post! have you ever read those ABC-type of posts where they describe how the person would be in their sex life using each word of the alphabet to tell a part of it? If not, do you think you can do a broad post on how you think Vernon would be in his sex life pls?

NSFW ALPHABET - C. HANSOL

-> pairing : vernon x fem!reader

-> words count : 2k words

-> genre : pure smut

-> warnings : dom!vernon & simp!vernon, unprotected sex, hair pulling, body description, masturbation (f. & m.), voyeurism, doggystyle, reverse cowgirl, phone sex, sexting, dirty talk, orgasm control (edging & overstimulation), mention of choking, oral (m. & f.), toys

+ the way i'm depicting vernon does not represents him, it's only a work of fiction

-> 18+ content below, minors DNI

-> author's note : thank you so much for reading my work and for you request, i really enjoyed doing it <3 !

-> sorry for any mistakes, english is not my first language.

-> reblogs and feedbacks are appreciated !

-> masterlist | svt masterlist

A - AFTERCARE

He’ll definitely ask if you’re good, and whisper praises and sweet nothings to you. Silently goes to the bathroom to grab something to clean you up with and gently helps you put on some clothes before going to sleep. After sex, he loves to cuddle with you and to have some skin to skin contact, so he will slip his hands underneath your shirt just to rest them against your back or your tummy and feel your body heat. It’s mostly calm but so comforting. 

B - BODY PARTS (favourite body parts of theirs and their partners) 

Vernon is lowkey a simp, he’s even actually surprised that he pulled a girl like you, so out of his league it looks like you’re doing charity. But he’s even more of a simp for your back. There’s a reason why he loves to bend you over and rest his hand on your back, and there’s a reason why he goes feral anytime you wear something backless. He will definitely rest his hand on the small of your back to casually guide you and kiss your back over and over again because he can’t get enough of it. And if you get a back tattoo, it’s the end for him. 

He doesn’t really have a favourite body part of himself, but because of you and of how much you like his arms, he does. It boosts his ego so much when you gush over how muscular he has become, and it motivates him to keep going to the gym. Plus, being able to just manhandle you to his liking and hear you moaning his name because of it definitely makes him like his arms too. 

C - CUM

He’s not really big on making a mess, so he definitely won’t cum inside most of the times, because it’s easier to clean when he just cums on your back, and for obvious reasons, it’s his favourite place too. But if you want him to cum inside, he’ll gladly do it - he’s just a guy after all. 

D - DIRTY SECRET

One time he came home a bit earlier from work to surprise you, but you were busy doing self-care. You had left the door to your bedroom open since you were home alone, and Vernon could see you touching yourself and hear you moaning freely. He knew he should have stopped watching and told you he was there, but he couldn’t help but watch until you made yourself come. He slammed the door really loud after that, pretending he just got home and he tried to hide the tent in his pants. He still hasn't talked to you about it. 

E - EXPERIENCE

He’s the type to have been in one or two serious relationships before you. He stayed with his exes for long periods of time, and between these relationships, he didn’t really try to meet someone else until you came into his life. Though, he knows what he does, and he’s especially good at learning to read your body and what you like. He’s dedicated to you and he loves to learn new things about you or when you teach him what to do too. 

F - FAVOURITE POSITION

Considering his adoration for your back, doggystyle definitely is his favourite. Being able to see the beautiful curve of your back as he’s pounding into you makes his brain short circuit. Also reverse cowgirl drives him insane for the exact same reason : you on top of him, your back in all its glory and your ass ? Perfect. Heaven.

G - GOOFY (are they more serious or not in the moment ?)

He’s mainly serious and focused solely on you and your pleasure but it doesn’t mean he never cracks a joke, of course. One time, you even stopped everything because you couldn’t stop laughing at how his hair was going in all directions from how much you had ruffled them. 

H - HAIR

He’s lazy, and most of the time, he doesn’t really think about doing it. He trims it when it becomes annoying, but if you don’t make any remarks about it bothering you, it will stay this way. If you ask him though, he’ll definitely put more care into this because he only wants you to be comfortable.

I - INTIMACY (are they romantic ?)

Romantic feelings and mostly saying things are not really Vernon’s strength. Most of the time, he doesn’t even need to say it because the physical and emotional closeness is enough for the both of you. But on some special occasions, he gets all sweet and romantic - saying I love you between each kiss, soft touches and adoration written all over his face. 

J - JACK OFF

He doesn’t do it often, because most of the time he has you to take care of his needs. When he’s away on tour or for work are the only times it really happens, but it’s always on a call with you. It’s like his body can’t let him cum without at least hearing your voice. 

K - KINKS

Vernon is mainly a dom, he loves to have his bit of control over you. He’s not really talkative usually, but he does talk when you’re having sex. Dirty words are spilling past his lips non-stop, mumbling about how naughty and wet you are, how good you feel and how much he needs you. He’s big on hair pulling too, especially in doggy because it gives a beautiful curve to your back. I can see him liking orgasm control and a bit of choking as well. 

L - LOCATION (favorite places to do it)

He’s a classic, casual guy so his favourite is the bedroom. It’s practical and comfortable, and he can cuddle with you for as long as he wants to when you two are done. Plus, he’s more of a staying-at-home guy rather than going out so it is perfect. The car is also a pretty regular place, because sometimes, he just cannot resist how beautiful and tempting you look. 

M - MOTIVATION (what turns them on)

Frankly, he doesn’t need a lot to get turned on, just your existence is enough to make him hard. But as stated before, whenever you’re wearing backless dresses or shirts he’s going feral. Consequently, he also really likes to see you with a bun or a high ponytail, and seeing you put your hair up turns him on as well. Seeing you do your makeup and especially apply lip products. When you’re wearing his clothes. 

N - NO

He will never want you to call him daddy, that is so awkward to him and makes him feel really weird. 

O - ORAL

Vernon will rarely ask you to do it, because even if he likes it a lot, he wants you to want it first. But when you do take him in your mouth, he gets a taste of heaven. It’s definitely when he is the most vocal. Most of the time, he’s got a hand holding your head but not guiding you to move, letting you do your thing and work your magic on him. If you wake him up with head, he’s basically proposing to you. 

He’s a giver, so spending hours in between your thighs feels like a dream to him. He loves to taste you and hear you moan his name, feel your hands tugging at his hair when it’s too much. Because Vernon doesn’t want you to cum just once on his face, he needs at least two to be satisfied. 

P - PACE

Rather slow and deep most of the time, he loves to make you feel all of him and hitting all the right spots he knows will make you scream. If it has been a while or that he’s particularly pent up, he’s way faster and less focused on his rhythm. 

Q - QUICKIE

Even if he’s not that much of a loverboy, he really prefers to take his time, and to be in the comfort of your bedroom, or at least somewhere where no one can interrupt you. He’s not above having a quickie here and there, when you really teased him, or if neither of you cannot wait, because anyway, fucking with you is a blessing. But he’d rather have you laid out on his bed, and all the time in the world to take you apart. 

R - RISK (do they like to experiment ?)

Vernon is a chill guy, so if you want to try something new, you just have to ask him. He’s always saying that you must try everything at least once to know if you will like it or not. He makes sure that you’re comfortable too, and that you know you can trust him to talk about anything you’d want to try (he’s a sweetheart).

S - STAMINA

He has that dancer stamina of course, so he can last multiple rounds while giving you his whole - and you won’t be the one complaining about it. Vernon purposely edges himself to last longer. And if he happens to cum even though you want more, he’ll gladly go down on you or finger you while he recovers. It’s a win-win for you. But when he does allow himself to cum, he won’t get up after that. 

T - TOYS

He’s not a big fan of them when it comes to playing together, he prefers to get you off with his mouth, hands or cock. But when he’s away for work and you send him video or photos of you playing with that dildo almost the same size as his dick, oh, he definitely loves it. He would also love to watch you fuck yourself on your toy while he’s just sitting there, and hearing you whine about how much you need him would definitely stroke his ego. 

U - UNFAIR (how much they like to tease)

Vernon is more of a dirty talker than a teaser actually, his words are more teasing than his actions. But sometimes, he does like to edge you a bit, or to push you past your limits even if he already made you cum three times. The main thing he searches in sex is your satisfaction, your pleasure. So truly, he just wants to give you what you need, even if he can be a little shit from time to time if you pissed him off. 

V - VOLUME (how loud they are)

He’s mostly quiet, except for deep grunts and some panting. He’s the most vocal when you’re giving him head - then he moans and whispers your name in devotion. When he gets close to cumming, he gets almost silent, except for some choked moans. 

W - WILD CARD

When Vernon gets drunk, he gets so touchy and so possessive. He doesn’t drink often to the point that he’s really drunk, but when he does, you love it. He cannot take his hands off of you even in public, will get on your knees if you ask him to, and definitely lets you willingly take advantage of him because how did he bag such a goddess ?

X - X-RAY

He’s a bit below average in terms of length - around 10cm - but he compensates in girth. He’s pretty thick and he needs to prep you well for you to not feel the sting of the stretch. 

Y - YEARNING (how high is their sex drive)

He’s not necessarily always in the mood, but he needs very, very little to get horny. You could be doing the most mundane task and he’ll be half hard in his pants because you’re just existing in the same world as him. That being said, it really depends on you. If you want to fuck every day, he’s down. If you have a lower libido, he’s okay with that too. It’s not that he never initiates anything, on the contrary, but he’s content with whatever he gets. 

Z - ZZZ (how fast they fall asleep)

Vernon can last multiple rounds without any problems, but once you’re done, he’s crashing out. Once you’re both comfortably settled and cuddled up to each other, he’s the first to fall asleep.

-> i don't allow any copies, reposts or translations of my work.

svt taglist (fill in this to be added) :

@lil-kpopstan @hann1bee @bewoyewo @foxinnie8 @jaderabbit-98 @lala-----------lala @codeinebelle @miyx-amour @seomisaho @sashaaahh @straytiny127 @ltfirecracker @jaja-salute

[queen-of-deans-booty]

He Can Do It Better

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.1k

Warnings: smut without plot (much)

Request by anon: Hi, I love your stories! I was wondering if you could do a story where the reader is a bookworm and is reading a spicy book and Dean gets jealous? It can be however you want, it's just a thought in my head. You don't have to do this if you don't want to or if you're busy. Take your time, love your stuff! ❤️

Summary: Dean catches you giggling over a book, and his curiosity takes over. He has to know what you’re reading. When he gets a glimpse, he doesn’t expect to be jealous of a fictional man. Guess he just has to show you that he can do what they do, but better.

Square Filled: begging (2021) for @spnkinkbb

Author’s Note: any and all comments are greatly appreciated! <3

x

Dean flips the pancakes one by one onto the plate until there is a short stack standing tall. He puts the plate onto a tray alongside a glass of orange juice and French toast. He puts three pieces of bacon on top of the pancakes and leaves the kitchen with the full breakfast tray. He knows you’re not in bed, so he searches around the Bunker for you.

You’re nestled in his man cave with a blanket draped over you and a book in hand. Dean pops his head in to see you concentrated on whatever you’re reading. When you moved into the Bunker, you demanded to have a piece of the library bookshelves for your own books. What can you say? You’re a booktok girlie, and you need a place to keep all your books.

You briefly look up when you feel eyes on you, and you quickly snap your book shut and shove it under the covers. It’s too late. Dean already saw you.

“What’s got you so flustered?” he smirks and walks inside the room.

“Nothing,” you say too quickly.

Dean grins. “What are you reading?”

Heat creeps up your neck. “Nothing. What do you want?”

“Well, I wanted to know if you were hungry for some breakfast, but now I want to know what’s got you blushing.”

“Back off, Winchester. Give me my food.”

Dean laughs and hands over the tray without question. He leans down and kisses you before leaving. When you think he’s gone, you take out your book and return to the page you left off on. He watches you with a careful eye. He has never cared what you read, but he’s definitely intrigued, especially when you start giggling to yourself.

Dean leaves you alone to finish your breakfast in peace, and he cleans the kitchen in the meantime. When he’s done, he walks past the man cave and pauses when he hears you talking.

“Yeah, I can't believe it either.” He walks closer to the room. “I mean, when he slaughtered those men for her, I was weak.”

Slaughtered? What the hell is she talking about? Dean peeks his head inside to see the breakfast tray on the ground, finished, and you’re on the phone with your book wide open.

“I bet he fucks like a God. Like sending my soul to Heaven fuck.” Dean narrows his eyes in suspicion. Who are you talking about? “He’s definitely one of my top five favorite book boyfriends. Maybe the top three. Very few can top Xero.”

Something your friend says makes you giggle, but Dean is seething with jealousy. Should he be jealous of a fictional man? Maybe. Why read about fucking when you can have it done to you by him? Calm down, Winchester. It’s just a book. Look at him, jealous of a fictional man. Well, he’ll show you just who can make you giggle and kick your feet.

Hours later, you’re out running with Sam, giving Dean the perfect opportunity to sneak a peek at the book you were reading. You left it in the man cave, and he walks into it without fear of you catching him. You just left, so you’ll be back an hour later. He picks up your discarded book and sees a bunch of different colored tabs on the side of the book. Probably put there because they’re your favorite scenes or quotes.

He opens to a random page and his eyes widen when he sees the word ‘pussy’. What the fuck are you reading? Primal kink. Choking. Spanking. Consenual non-consent. What the fuck is my girlfriend into? He’s not judging. In fact, some of these scenes are really hot, but he bets he can do them better. Dean, for the better part of the hour, reads almost every scene you tabbed.

He hears the metal door open in the war room, and he puts your book back where he found it. A smirk dons his face as he leaves, ideas already swirling in his head. If you love to read about them, then who is he to deny you the pleasure of experiencing it in real life?

A few weeks go by, giving Dean ample time to come up with this plan. He called Eileen and made sure Sam would be out of the Bunker. He’d be horrified if his brother saw what you two were about to do. Not so much Dean, but he doesn’t want to scar his baby brother.

You’re lounging on your bed when all the lights in the Bunker turn off. The red emergency light shines menacingly, and you disregard your new book.

“Dean?” you ask as you step into the hallway. “Is everything okay?” No answer, so you go searching for your boyfriend. “Dean?” You walk into the library and frown at not seeing him. What the hell is going on? Suddenly, a hard body is pressed against your back, and hands wrap around your neck gently. “Dean? What is going on?”

He normally doesn’t act like this, so he’s channeling his inner Xero, Killian Carson, and Zade Meadows. All men from books you like to read. He puts his lips to your ear and drops his voice to a deep growl.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re going to run and I’m going to chase. If I catch you, I fuck you.” You take in a sharp breath, and he smirks. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

“There’s a good girl.” If your panties weren't wet before, they certainly are now. “You have a ten-second head start. Ten.”

You don’t waste time and immediately sprint away from him as he slowly counts down. There aren’t a lot of places to hide in the Bunker, but it’s a maze, so there is plenty of space to run. As soon as Dean counts to one, you can hear his heavy footfalls behind you, and you run faster. The thought of what he’ll do to you is greater than your fear of being caught.

“I can smell your fear, sweetheart,” Dean calls out. “It smells almost as delicious as you.”

What the fuck? Is this really happening? What has gotten into him? You’re certainly not complaining, but what brought this on? Maybe you should stop overthinking and just enjoy the moment. You turn the corner and try to keep your steps light as you jog down the long hallway. The red lights don’t help your anxiety, but they add to the thrill of being caught.

The Bunker is silent. Dean is very good at making his footsteps inaudible, so you have no clue where he is. You look behind you, but don’t see anything. You turn back and scream when you see Dean standing five feet from you. He tries to grab you, but you quickly dodge his attempt and run away from him. This time, Dean doesn’t hold back. He races after you and catches you easily in the library.

“You think you’re strong enough to get away from me, sweetheart?” he grins.

You squirm. “I can try.”

“It’s cute if you think so.” Dean reaches around your body and slides his hand between your legs. “What I think is that you’re about to get fucked very, very hard.”

Your pussy squeezes at the thought of him taking you raw like an animal, so you don’t complain much. However, you’re not going to make this easy for him.

“In your dreams, Winchester,” you grin.

Dean quickly picks you up and slings you over his shoulder. He storms into the bedroom and tosses you onto the bed. Before you can get away, he lowers his body against yours, and all the fight leaves you. His weight feels so good against your body, it’s almost too much to bear. He grabs your waist and flips you so that you rest on your stomach. He slides down your panties and leggings in one go, leaving you exposed to him. Your pussy lips glisten under his gaze, and he resists the urge to clean you up with his tongue.

“You and that fucking moouth of yours. It’s gonna get you in trouble one day.”

He slides his big hand against your ass before bringing it down harshly. You yelp at the sudden sting, but you moan when the sting turns into fire-burning pleasure.

“More, please,” you whimper.

“You want more? You’re a glutton for punishment.”

He smacks your ass two more times, once on each cheek, before massasging the hot skin. He doesn’t need to ask if this is okay. You’re body’s reaction to this is enough to tell him to keep going. He spreads your ass cheeks and admires the way your pussy cries for him. He leans down and bites your cheek, and you gasp at the feeling. He licks over his mark before moving to the other cheek. He treats it the same way before running his tongue up and down your pussy.

“Fuck, Dean, please don’t stop,” you beg.

“Wasn’t planning on it, sweetheart.” He swirls his tongue around your clit and sucks it between his lips, sucking lazily on it. His fingers run up and down your split, gathering the wetness, before pushing inside of you. “You taste like Heaven.”

“Fuck,” you whisper.

He thrusts his fingers in and out, gently nipping at your clit with his teeth. You bury your head in the sheets and spread your legs wider to allow more of him in deeper. He’s the musician and your body is the instrument.

“Oh, God, Dean!”

“God isn’t here, sweetheart. Beg me to let you come.”

“Fuck! Yes. Please, Dean. Let me come. I need it badly.”

You must be babbling at this point but you don’t care. All you care about is coming around his fingers and then his cock. You lift your hips and push back against his fingers, and he smirks.

“Look at you fucking yourself on my fingers.” He licks at your clit once more before pulling his face away. “Does my sweetheart not know she’s supposed to take what I want to give her?”

It’s a rhetorical question, which is good because you’re too much of a mess to answer anyway. Dean remembers a quote from a book he read of yours, and he smirks as he fuck you faster with his fingers.

With his most dominant voice, he says, “In this bed, I give. You take. You’ll take and you’ll take until you break, then you’ll beg me to break you all over again.”

He presses against the spongy side of your pussy, and you tighten against his fingers. Before you can come, he pulls his fingers from you, making you sob in grief. He grabs your hips and flips you so you’re facing him. He pulls his cock free from his jeans before giving it two swift pumps.

You’re wet enough with the very little foreplay, so he slides in easily. This is only a character he’s playing, so he still wants to make sure he doesn’t hurt you. Once he sees the pleasure on your face, he picks up his pace. Like he promised, he fucks you hard and fast, and you open your mouth in a silence scream. The cold bite of metal stings your skin because he didn’t pull his jeans all the way down.

He bends over and sucks your pert nipple into his mouth as he fucks you, and you fist the sheets tightly. Your moans are so loud that you’re glad that Sam is gone for the night. Your pussy clenches around his cock, making it even tighter for him.

“Don’t come yet, sweetheart,” he growls.

Those four words only bring you closer to the edge. You lift your hips in time to meet his thrusts, causing him to go an inch or so deeper. He moves his mouth to your other breast as his right hand slips down to your swollen clit. He rubs it in fast circles, and that’s what undoes you.

“Please let me come, Dean!” you beg.

He doesn’t even have to give you permission. He knew this would tip you over the edge. Your orgasm lights your entire body on fire, sending waves of pleasure stemming from your pussy. You clench his cock so hard that he falls over the edge right after you.

“Fuck! Yes! Come for me,” he moans as he empties himself in you.

He thrusts lazily before falling on you completely, crushing you with his weight.

“Fuck, we gotta do that again,” you laugh.

“I read your dirty books, by the way,” he snickers.

He pulls out of you and admires the way his cum leaks out of you.

“If this is what I get for reading dirty books, I’ll gladly do it all day.”

“I’ll keep buying you books as long as you tell me what scene we’re recreating next.”

“I have a few more in mind,” you giggle.

x

Want to be tagged? Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[luckyroll3]

Thank You, Daddy Chapter 7

Masterlist and Summary

Previous Chapter

Warnings: This work of fiction is intended for 18+ audiences only. Includes explicit sexual content, graphic language, sex work, power dynamics, daddy kink, possessive behavior, etc. Author chooses to not extensively tag in order to preserve some elements of storytelling.

Word Count: 8,421

The upscale restaurant is all understated luxury, a canopy of soft lights and hushed elegance. You and Christopher arrive at the private dining room, where a table set for four awaits beneath a glittering chandelier. He places his hand on the small of your back, guiding you inside with a familiar ease that speaks to the intimacy you’ve both grown into. You’re wearing a backless black dress that clings to your curves, and his eyes linger on you with a mix of pride and desire as you settle into the velvet-lined seat beside him.

“It’s a shame we have company,” he murmurs low enough for only you to hear as the waiter fills your glasses with water. His hand traces a line up your spine before he kisses your shoulder.

You smirk up at him, catching the flash of his dimples. “Good thing we have the rest of the night.” You lean closer, your voice playful. “Hope I’m not wearing you out.”

His chuckle is rich and full of promise. “Never.” His lips press gently to the side of your mouth. 

The door opens, and Allan and Helen Thompson enter with the kind of presence that commands a room. Allan is still robust in his sixties, his silver hair lending him an air of distinguished authority. Helen is striking and elegant in a cream-colored sheath, her demeanor warm despite the cool perfection of her appearance.

“Christopher!” Allan’s voice booms with genuine pleasure. “And this must be the lovely Noelle.”

Christopher stands to greet them, his handshake with Allan turning into a brief, affectionate back-slap. “It’s been a while,” he admits, a rare hint of sheepishness in his tone.

Helen pulls him in for a kiss on the cheek. “Much too long, Christopher,” she scolds gently, before turning to you. “We were beginning to think he’d forgotten all about us.” She takes your hands in hers, and you’re struck by the sincerity in her gaze. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Noelle. I’ve heard so much.”

“Really?” You’re surprised to hear that he’s been talking about you with people other than Hyunjin. You smile, feeling strangely at ease. “All good things, I hope.”

Christopher returns to your side as the four of you sit, his hand finding your knee under the table. “Mostly good,” he teases, earning a playful swat from Helen.

The conversation starts predictably with market trends, new ventures, Christopher’s latest acquisitions. Allan peppers him with questions, clearly impressed by how much his protégé has accomplished since the last time they talked months ago. Christopher's thumb strokes your knee absently, a constant reminder of the connection that pulses between you even amid talk of mergers and portfolios. You listen, chiming in occasionally with comments that surprise Allan with their insight.

Allan turns his attention to you, intrigued. “Are you also in finance?” he asks, his eyes lighting up with genuine curiosity and respect for how you hold your own in the conversation. You pause, a little surprised at the question, unsure how to frame your answer without breaking the elegant tone of the evening. But before you can respond, Christopher steps in smoothly.

“Not exactly,” he says, a hint of amusement in his voice as he gives your knee an affectionate squeeze under the table. “Noelle has a business degree from USC Marshall. Top of her class.” His words are flattering, filled with pride. “She’s got an instinct for this kind of stuff.”

It’s both infuriating and thrilling how he manages to say so much with so little. He winks, and you know it’s his way of saying he’s impressed by you, that he likes showing you off like this, for your brain, as much as for your looks.

Allan laughs, clearly charmed. “I can see why you’re keeping her around.”

Beside him, Helen leans forward with a conspiratorial smile. “We’ve always said you needed a smart woman in your life,” she tells Christopher, but her eyes are playful and knowing as they flick back to you. He chuckles but doesn’t deny it.

As the first course is cleared, the topics shift. Helen gives you a conspiratorial look, her eyes sparkling. “I must say, it’s nice to see young love,” she observes, her tone both lighthearted and sincere. You raise your eyebrows at her use of the word love and turn to look at Christopher, but his eyes are on Helen. It doesn't seem like he's fully processed her comment. “Christopher’s always been a softy despite his attempts to convince the world otherwise.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Christopher interjects, though there’s a warmth to his protest. “She’s been saying that since I was nineteen.”

“And I was right, wasn’t I?” Helen winks at you. “Look at him now, all grown up.”

You laugh lightly, and the sound draws Christopher’s attention back to you again, his expression softening despite himself, his gaze filled with a mix of affection and desire. You adore how natural this has become, how right.

“Very grown up,” Allan agrees, his eyes sharp as they take in the way Christopher looks at you.

“Maybe a bit,” you admit with a chuckle, covering Christopher’s hand with yours and giving it a gentle squeeze before leaning over to kiss his cheek. He blushes slightly.

Allan chuckles, a knowing look passing between him and Helen. “We’re glad to see you happy, son.” Allan refills everyone’s wine glass. “I have to say, it’s nice to see him finally following some of my advice.”

Christopher raises an eyebrow. “And what advice was that?”

“To let someone in,” Allan replies, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve always said it’s the best advice I can give, in business and in life.”

Helen nods, her gaze moving between you and Christopher. “And it looks like you’ve finally taken it.”

The words prompt a smile from Christopher, but there’s also a flicker of discomfort at the public acknowledgment of his affections. He’s not used to anyone commenting on his feelings, least of all someone he respects as much as Allan.

You feel Christopher’s hand tighten slightly on your knee, tension passing through him. You squeeze his hand again, a small reassurance, though you wonder if you’re trying to reassure yourself as well. You can see how Allan and Helen's words affect him, the way they hit too close to truths he’s still figuring out.

“Remember when we first got married?” Allan says, turning to Helen with a look that’s both amused and affectionate. “We had no idea what we were doing.”

Helen laughs, the sound warm and unabashed. “We still don’t,” she admits. “But we’ve gotten better at pretending, sweetheart.”

Helen catches the shift in mood and smoothly redirects the conversation. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask, Noelle, since this one is always so tight lipped.” She takes a sip of wine, her eyes bright with curiosity. “How did you two meet?”

Your answer is practiced. “Through a mutual friend,” you say, glancing at Christopher. “He was kind enough to introduce us.”

“Hyunjin?” Allan guesses, and you nod, amused by how well he knows Christopher.

“He’s got quite an eye for matchmaking,” you reply with a smirk, and Christopher’s grip on your knee tightens, though his expression remains composed. It’s not exactly a lie. You’ve always known that Christopher reached out to you based on a former client’s recommendation. What you’ve learned recently is that that client made the recommendation to Hyunjin and after investigating you by contacting a few other clients, Hyunjin thought you’d work well to accommodate Christopher’s… peculiarities.

Allan laughs heartily. “Hyunjin always did have a knack for finding the perfect fit for you.” He pauses, his tone turning more contemplative. “You know, when Helen and I first got together, everyone thought it was a terrible idea.”

Helen rolls her eyes, but there’s a softness in her smile. “Not everyone.”

“Everyone,” Allan insists, turning his attention to you and Christopher. “They said we were too different. That it would never last. But love is about risk,” Allan continues, his voice growing serious. “It’s about being open, letting go of control. We’ve faced many challenges, but we’ve always worked through them together.”

Helen reaches for Allan’s hand, her touch a silent testament to their shared history. “He’s right,” she says softly. “It hasn’t always been easy, but it’s been worth it.”

“That’s the secret,” Allan says, focusing back on you and Christopher. “It’s never easy, but it’s always worth it. The trick is being willing to take that risk.”

Christopher listens intently, but you can see the tension in his posture, the way he’s trying to keep his expression neutral. His eyes flick to yours and there’s an uncertainty there, a question there that neither of you knows how to answer.

The idea of vulnerability, of exposing oneself emotionally, strikes a nerve with Christopher. He remembers Julia, how her departure was a consequence of his inability to show true emotional depth. How she wanted something more than he knew how to give. How she left him because of it.

You smile at him softly, wanting him to know you’re here, that you want this to work just as much as he does.

“What do you think, Noelle?” Helen asks, her eyes knowing as they settle on you. “Is he worth the risk?”

You feel Christopher go very still beside you, the air between you both charged with everything that’s gone unspoken. You hesitate, the words caught somewhere between your heart and your mouth. You haven’t talked about a relationship beyond your contract, not yet. But the way you interact with each other, the things you’ve shared with each other, all point towards there being something more here. “I think...” you start tentatively, “I’m hoping we’re worth the risk to each other?”

Christopher’s eyes are on you, intense and searching. You look at him, your gaze steady as you wait for his answer to your implied question, and he gives you a small, almost imperceptible nod. There’s a vulnerability in it that makes your chest tighten, because you know how hard this is for him. For both of you.

“Well,” Allan says, lifting his glass. “Here’s to taking the leap.”

You all raise your glasses. “To taking the leap,” Christopher echoes, though you can hear the uncertainty still present beneath his confident tone.

You know this isn’t over, that the questions Allan and Helen have raised are ones you’ll both need to face, even if you’re not quite ready to admit it yet.

The second course arrives, an elegant arrangement of seared duck and heirloom vegetables. You take a bite, savoring the flavors but more aware of Christopher’s proximity, the way his knee presses against yours beneath the table.

The conversation turns to lighter topics, but Christopher isn’t saying much. You sense the shift in him, the way he withdraws slightly, and excuse yourself before the tension becomes too palpable. “If you’ll all excuse me,” you say lightly, “I need to powder my nose.”

As you leave the table, Helen’s gaze shifts to Christopher, her expression both curious and concerned. “So,” she says, her voice gentle but probing. “She’s absolutely lovely. Is this serious?”

Christopher hesitates, Allan's words about risk and vulnerability echoing in his mind. Helen's question sits heavy in the air. Christopher opens his mouth as if to respond, but nothing comes out. He doesn’t know how to answer, doesn’t know if he can. He looks down at his hands, tension in every line of his body.

“I’m not sure how to answer that,” he finally says.

“You’re not sure?” Helen tilts her head, her tone a blend of exasperation and affection. "She’s an extraordinary woman," Helen continues, her voice kind but insistent. "I know how hard it is for you to let anyone in, Christopher. But it’s worth it." She pauses, and when he still doesn’t answer, she presses on. "I really like her. I think she's a good fit for you."

Christopher’s jaw tightens, and Allan watches him with a knowing glance, clocking his discomfort. Christopher meets Helen’s gaze, but it’s full of uncertainty, a rare vulnerability that doesn't often surface. He struggles to find words, to articulate something he’s not sure he understands himself.

“She is extraordinary,” he finally admits, his voice low. “But…”

“But what?”

Allan leans forward, his expression shifting to one of deep sincerity. “You’re afraid, aren’t you?”

Christopher doesn’t answer, but the silence speaks for him.

Allan notices his discomfort and nods, as if this is exactly what he expected. He speaks with the kind of wisdom that comes from years of experience. “Let me tell you something, son," he starts, leaning back in his chair with the ease of someone who’s been through this before, "the biggest regrets in life often come from not taking risks in love. From letting fear dictate your choices.”

Christopher’s eyes flicker, a crack in his controlled facade.

“Especially when it comes to love,” Allan continues. “You can’t control it like you do everything else. You have to be willing to let go, to be open and vulnerable. It’s the only way to find something real.”

Christopher looks sharply at Allan, the words hitting close. Allan continues, undeterred. 

"Letting go of control isn’t easy, especially for men like us. But unless you open yourself up, you’ll never know what you’re missing."

Christopher shifts in his seat, uncomfortable with the truth in Allan’s words.

“Don’t let your need for control keep you from something that could be amazing,” Helen chimes in.

“You have to be willing to leap,” Allan says again, his voice gentle but firm. A beat passes, heavy with unspoken truths. "I see you building a life with her," he adds, his tone more serious now.

"Don’t be afraid to let it happen, Christopher," Helen says as she pats his hand. “You’re such a sweetheart; you deserve to find someone incredible who complements you. And you clearly have a winner in Noelle.”

Christopher’s jaw tightens, a muscle working beneath his skin. His need for control wars with the need for something more, something real. He glances up, his gaze following the path you took to the restroom. His eyes linger on the door.

Helen squeezes his hand. “She’s worth it, Christopher. And so are you.”

He looks at her, the conflict evident on his face. “I’ve never been good at this,” he admits quietly.

Allan watches him, knowing the battle Christopher is fighting within himself. "She’s the best thing that’s happened to you," Allan says quietly. "But you’ll figure it out kid,” Allan assures him. “You’ve got a good instinct. And we’re here for whatever you need.”

Christopher nods, a small gesture that barely acknowledges the weight of what Allan has said. He tries to smile, but it’s strained, the weight of the conversation pressing down on him. He looks back to the door just as you step out. You’re moving with that graceful confidence he adores so much. Your expression is soft when you see him watching, causing you to smile.

That smile causes something inside him to shift, reminding him of the nights you’ve spent unraveling each other’s secrets, the mornings you’ve woken in each other’s arms, the ways you’ve held him when he was at his most vulnerable, the times you’ve let him in and shared your pain, and all the moments between the two of you that felt so genuine, so real.

But he also remembers how exposed he felt when he let his guard down, how raw and terrifying those moments were. And the way his chest tightened when you said you hoped he was worth the risk…

Is he worth the risk? Are you really willing to risk it all for him? Can he do the same for you?

He wants to believe it’s possible, to have this, to have you, but the risks loom large in his mind. His expression is conflicted as you reach the table, even as your bright smile is reassuring.

"I hope you were saying nice things about me," you say lightly, resuming your seat. "I’d hate to think I’m missing all the fun."

"All good, I promise," Helen replies to you with a warm smile. Her eyes flick to Christopher, and there’s a note of encouragement in them that you can’t quite decipher. "We were just saying how glad we are to see Christopher with someone so wonderful."

You slip your hand into his, feeling the tension there. He squeezes it, a little too tightly, and you wonder what you’ve interrupted. "I’m the lucky one," you say, your gaze on Christopher, willing him to respond in kind.

He doesn’t.

Christopher can’t help but want you even as doubt gnaws at him. He knows he has to decide.

To leap or to lose you.

****

The drive home is quiet, the city lights flashing by in a blur. You can feel the tension radiating off of Christopher, the way he grips the steering wheel a little too tightly. You want to ask him what’s on his mind, but you’re afraid of the answer.

“Did you have a good time?” you ask instead, trying to sound casual, trying to ignore the tightness in your chest.

He glances at you, his expression unreadable. “Yeah. Did you?”

You nod, forcing a smile. “Allan and Helen are great.”

“They really like you.”

“It seems like you’ve known them forever.”

"Since I was eighteen, when Allan hired me for a summer internship,” he replies, his right hand moving to the gearshift unconsciously. You notice how his usual confidence seems to waver; his words are clipped and his voice distant, distracted, not like the warmth you’ve grown used to.

You reach for his hand, placing yours lightly over it on the gearshift. He doesn’t pull away, but there's a tension in his grip that wasn’t there before. You can feel the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him, a silence heavy with unspoken words.

"Chris?" you venture softly, but he doesn’t respond. You take a breath and try again. “Are you okay?” you ask, watching for a reaction.

“Yeah,” he says too quickly without looking at you, his voice flat. “Just tired.”

You don’t believe him, but you don’t press. Not yet.

You swallow hard, looking out the window as the city rushes past. He’s been distant since you returned from the bathroom at dinner, a shell closing in around the man who held you so tightly the other night, who let you see the depth of his feelings and his fears. You wonder if the conversation with Allan and Helen has made him rethink everything and if he’s already pulling away to protect himself.

The mansion is dark when you arrive, the vastness of it echoing your own uncertainty. You slip off your heels at the door, the click of them on the marble too loud in the quiet. You pick them up in your hands and make your way up the stairs. Christopher watches you, his expression unreadable, his eyes tracking you without moving from the entryway.

He follows behind you, up to his room, his movements stiff and mechanical. You start to undress, changing into one of the silky lingerie sleep sets he bought you in Paris. The fabric slides over your skin like a second layer. You hum softly as you move, trying to fill the silence with something other than the questions buzzing in your mind, while trying to pretend not to notice how he’s watching you from the doorway. There’s something in his eyes, a mix of affection, conflict, and brooding.

He’s watching you as if he’s seeing you for the first time. He’s experiencing an overwhelming sense of conflict. Memories of Allan and Helen’s words linger in his mind, the emphasis on vulnerability and connection digging into him like barbs. He doesn’t know how to give that to you, to anyone. He thought he was doing it differently this time, thought he was trying, but the fear is right there, ready to swallow him whole.

"Nightcap?" you ask, breaking the quiet. He nods. You leave the room, casting a glance back at him before you disappear down the hall. You need a moment to gather your own thoughts, to let him gather his.

He quickly changes into sweatpants and sits on the bed shirtless. He feels restless, the space around him suffocating as he waits for you to return. He’s torn between wanting to tell you everything, that he cares for you more than he’s ever cared for anyone, and the instinct to pull back before the ground falls out from beneath him again. The contrast between the lightheartedness of dinner and the weight of his internal conflict becomes too much to bear.

You’re back with two glasses of scotch before he’s able to sort through the mess of his emotions. His expression is unreadable. You hand him a glass, your fingers brushing his, but he doesn’t say anything. The silence is deafening, amplifying every unspoken doubt.

You climb into bed beside him, pretending the tension isn’t there. You scroll through your phone while Christopher picks up a book, his eyes scanning the pages without taking anything in. You can both feel the distance growing, each moment amplifying the emotional space developing between you.

The tension is palpable, and you can’t take the uncertainty any longer.

"Are you sure you’re okay?" you finally ask again, your voice gentle, probing.

He looks at you, his jaw tight, and lies. "Yes," he replies hoping he sounds more convincing, but from the look you’re giving him, he knows you don’t buy it. For a moment, he thinks you’ll push for a real answer, but instead, you set aside your drink and phone.

You know he’s not telling the truth, can see the conflict written all over him. You straddle him, needing to feel the connection that’s been missing since dinner. You gently close his book and place it on the bedside table, before leaning in to capture his lips in a soft kiss.

For a moment, you think he might pull away, but then you feel him relax, letting go of whatever has kept him at a distance tonight. His arms wrap around you, and the kiss deepens, turning desperate and consuming. You feel the relief in the way he holds you, as if you’re the only thing keeping him from unraveling.

He flips you onto your back, his body covering yours. You can feel the urgency in his touch, the way he’s trying to communicate everything he can’t put into words. His mouth moves to your jaw, your neck, trailing heat and want as he goes.

“Chris,” you breathe as you feel his lips move across your skin, arching into him, wanting to break the tension that’s lingered between you all night. “What’s going on?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he kisses you again, desperate and consuming, like he’s trying to commit the feel of your lips to memory. His hands move to your hair, tangling in it as he deepens the kiss, a need so urgent in his touch that it almost hurts. You’re not sure if he’s trying to lose himself in you or find something he’s afraid he never had.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, wanting this as much as he does, wanting to reassure him that you’re still here. You can feel all his fear and longing in the way he holds you, and you let it sweep you away. His breath mingles with yours, and the kiss turns almost frantic, each movement of his lips more urgent than the last. It’s raw, unfiltered, leaving you breathless and dizzy, but you don’t care.

His hands travel down, touching everywhere, like he needs to convince himself you’re real, that he hasn’t already lost you. You feel the full weight of his body as he presses against you, and the tension that’s been tightening around you all night finally breaks. It’s all you can do to hold on as he pours everything into this moment, everything he’s too scared to say.

He doesn’t stop kissing you, doesn’t give you a chance to question him again. You don’t need to, not anymore. You feel his urgency in the way he moves, the way he touches, and it’s intoxicating. You’re both breathless, hearts pounding, feeling as if the world might explode if you let go of each other.

****

You trace your finger along the edge of the wine glass, watching Christopher across the dining table as he scrolls through his phone, his expression unreadable. He's been like this for days now; present but absent, his body in the room while his mind seems locked behind walls you thought you'd broken through months ago. The Christopher who shared whispered secrets in the dark, who laughed with his whole body at your jokes, who held you like you were something precious rather than purchased… that man has vanished, replaced by this cold facsimile who barely meets your eyes anymore.

"Is work okay?" you ask, more to break the silence than anything else. Your voice sounds too loud in the cavernous dining room of his mansion, a space that had begun to feel like home over the past few months.

"Fine." One syllable, clipped and final. He doesn't look up.

The pasta on your plate has gone cold, the sauce congealing into an unappetizing film. You've barely touched it. A month left on your contract, just thirty days until the arrangement that's consumed your life for half a year will either end or renew. But something has shifted, and the uncertainty gnaws at you like a physical presence.

You remember the night five weeks ago when Christopher told you about his mother's garden, how she'd painstakingly cultivated roses in the tiny patch of soil behind their cramped apartment, a splash of beauty amid concrete. He'd never told anyone else that story. Or the morning he laughed so hard at your impression of Hyunjin that coffee came out his nose, his usually perfect composure shattered. The way he started leaving books on your nightstand that he thought you'd enjoy, complete with his own notes in the margins.

These weren't the actions of a man paying for companionship. They were the gestures of someone who cared.

But now, as your sixth month together starts, that Christopher is gone. In his place sits this remote stranger who speaks to you in monosyllables and looks through you rather than at you. His touch, when it comes, is still possessive, still skilled, but mechanical somehow, like he's following a script rather than responding to your body. He’s been this way ever since the dinner with Allan and Helen two weeks ago.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" You set down your fork with more force than necessary, the metal clanging against fine china.

Christopher finally glances up, his dark eyes unreadable. "Nothing's going on." He returns to his phone, dismissing you without words.

Something inside you snaps. A month of contract left or not, you deserve better than this silent treatment. You push your chair back and stand, gathering your wine glass and what remains of your dignity. "When you're ready to actually talk to me, I'll be in the bedroom."

You don't wait for his response, striding from the dining room with your head high. The plush carpet of his bedroom muffles your footsteps as you enter, setting your wine on the nightstand, your nightstand, as you've come to think of it. The left side of the bed has become yours too, the pillows shaped to your head, a small collection of your things accumulated in the drawer Christopher cleared for you months ago.

Evidence of your presence in his life, of something more than transaction.

You kick off your heels and curl up on the bed, trying to still the trembling in your hands as you bring the wine glass to your lips and sip slowly. Thirty minutes pass before you hear his footsteps, steady and measured. He pauses in the doorway, his silhouette outlined by the hallway light.

"You're upset," he says, not a question but an observation.

"Give the man a prize," you mutter, taking another sip of wine to delay looking at him.

He moves into the room, loosening his tie with practiced fingers. "Is this about last night?"

Last night, when he'd come home late without calling and fucked you with mechanical precision, never once making eye contact?

"No, Chris. It's about the last two weeks. It's about you shutting down completely." You set the wine glass down with care, even as anger bubbles beneath your skin. You watch as he walks to the closet. "It's about feeling like I'm suddenly just fulfilling a contract again, when we both know it's been more than that for months."

He stills, his back to you as he hangs his tie on the rack in his closet. "The arrangement has always been clear."

"Bullshit." The word hangs between you, sharp and unexpected. "Our arrangement might have started with clear lines, but you crossed them all, Chris. You let me in. You showed me parts of yourself nobody else sees. You can't just… just lock that all away again and pretend it never happened."

He unbuttons his shirt and places it in the hamper. Then he turns to face you, his expression guarded but something vulnerable flashing in his eyes for just a second before it's gone. "You're a remarkable woman. I enjoy your company. That doesn't change the nature of our relationship."

"Our relationship." You let out a bitter laugh. "What is our relationship, Chris? Because from where I'm sitting, it stopped being purely transactional around the time you started telling me about your childhood, or when you held me all night after I told you about my mom's cancer scare, or maybe when you took me to meet your sister at that happy hour last month and introduced me as your girlfriend, not your escort."

His jaw tightens. "I pay you to be with me. Whatever... embellishments have developed are part of the fantasy. That's what you're so good at creating, isn't it? The illusion of intimacy?"

The words hit you like a physical blow. You stand, needing to be on equal footing for this fight. 

"Is that what you think this is? An illusion? When you whispered that you'd never felt this way about anyone before, was that just foreplay? When you started asking me to stay with you all week instead of going back to my penthouse, was that just convenience?"

You're close enough now to see the pulse jumping in his throat, to catch the scent of his cologne. A scent that's become synonymous with safety and desire and, yes, affection.

When he doesn’t answer, you continue. "Shit! I like you, more than I should. I care about you," you say, the admission torn from somewhere raw and honest inside you. "I care about you, Chris, and I think you care about me too. Not as a possession, not as a fantasy, but as a person. As me. As…" After a soft sigh, you say your name.

His face remains impassive, but his eyes, God, his eyes give him away, wide and almost frightened. "You're confusing sex with emotion. It happens in these arrangements. That's why I usually keep them to a few months."

"Then why did you originally propose a year? Why did you agree to the six months? Why am I still here?"

"Because you're exceptionally good at what you do." His voice is controlled, almost cruel. "You adapt perfectly to what I need. You're intelligent, cultured, beautiful, funny. A rare combination. It would be foolish to let that go."

"Look me in the eyes," you demand, stepping closer until you're toe to toe, nose to nose, "and tell me you don't have feelings for me. Real feelings, Chris. Not ownership, not possession. Tell me you don't wake up happy when I'm next to you. Tell me you don't think about me when we're apart. Tell me I'm just providing a service to you, nothing more." You drop your voice to a whisper. “Tell me this hasn’t become something more, something… real.” You touch your forehead to his gently and stare into his eyes. “Please.” You’re hoping he can hear the plea in your demand. You’re hoping he can give you confirmation that you’re not the only one who has had these crazy, stupid feelings.

For one breathless moment, you think he might break. Something flickers across his face –  longing, maybe, or fear? His hand twitches at his side like he wants to reach for you.

Then the mask slams back into place and he takes a step back. "You're projecting what you think I should feel. What would make this more comfortable for you. But I've never misrepresented what this is. Yes, we've become... companionable. Yes, we’ve shared personal  things with each other. Yes, I enjoy your company beyond the physical. But don't confuse those things with something they’re not."

Each word is another brick in the wall between you, mortared with cold precision. Now, you step back, suddenly exhausted.

"Fine." The fight drains from you, leaving only a hollow ache. "If that's what you need to tell yourself, fine. But don't expect me to keep going along with this fiction of playing house. I deserve better than that, even if you are paying me."

You move past him, heading for the door, but his hand shoots out to grasp your hand, intertwining his fingers in yours. His touch sends an electric current through you, as it always has, but you cock your head at his fucking audacity at attempting intimacy when he’s just shut you down completely.

"Where are you going?" His voice holds a note of alarm, the first crack in his composure.

"To my room. The one in the east wing that I haven't used in over three months because I've been sleeping here, with you, in your arms, every night, in what I stupidly thought was our bed." You pull free of his grip. "I think we both need some space tonight, Christopher." The switch to his full name is intentional and petty and you feel gratification when you catch him flinch at hearing it.

He doesn't try to stop you again as you walk out, your bare feet silent on the wood floors. The east wing feels foreign after so long, the guest suite he'd initially set up for you when the arrangement began, before you gradually migrated to his space. The bed is made with military precision, the surfaces dust-free thanks to his meticulous staff, but the air has a stale, unlived-in quality.

You slip between cold sheets, your body aching for the familiar warmth of Christopher beside you. But pride keeps you there, staring at the ceiling as tears threaten at the corners of your eyes. You refuse to let them fall.

In the morning, you'll be what he wants… the perfect escort, fulfilling her contract with professionalism and detachment. No more vulnerability, no more honesty. No more illusions that this could ever be something real.

As sleep finally claims you, your last thought is of the invisible lines Christopher has redrawn between you. Lines you won't cross again, no matter how much your heart protests.

****

Your alarm slices through dreams at precisely 7:00 AM. You stare at the unfamiliar ceiling of your designated room, the one Christopher so generously provided at the beginning of your arrangement, the one you haven't slept in for over two months until last night. Your body feels wrong, like you've put on clothes that don't quite fit anymore. The sheets are too cold, the pillows too firm, the silence too complete without Christopher's steady breathing beside you. This isn't your bed anymore. You're not even sure it ever was.

You shower and dress with mechanical precision, selecting a simple sundress that skims your curves without being overtly sexual. The morning routine feels like slipping into an old skin, one you'd nearly forgotten: the careful application of makeup that enhances without revealing, the strategic arrangement of your silk-pressed hair into a casual ponytail that looks effortless but took calculated minutes to perfect. The armor of the professional.

The east wing hallway stretches before you, a reminder of the distance you've placed between yourself and Christopher, both physically and emotionally. Your bare feet make no sound on the plush carpet as you make your way toward the kitchen, mentally preparing for another day of pretending that your heart isn't cracking with every breath.

When you push open the kitchen door at exactly 7:30, the sight that greets you stops you short. Christopher sits at the kitchen island on one of the bar stools, still in his robe, a cup of coffee steaming in front of him as he reads something on his tablet. He's never here at this hour. By now, he’s usually dressed in one of his immaculate suits, already at his office and in his first meeting.

He looks up when you enter, his dark eyes unreadable. "Good morning."

You recalibrate, keeping your expression neutral. "Morning." The word comes out clipped, your voice betraying none of the confusion swirling inside you.

The kitchen feels smaller with him in it, the air charged with unspoken words. You move to the coffee machine, the absurdly expensive Italian model that took you a week to master when you first arrived, and go through the motions of preparing your morning cup. Your movements are precise, controlled, revealing nothing of the tremor you feel in your fingertips.

You place two pans on the stove and turn on the heat.

"Did you sleep well?" Christopher asks, watching you over the rim of his mug.

"Fine." You don't elaborate, don't return the question. The petty satisfaction of giving him a taste of his own monosyllabic medicine isn't as sweet as you'd hoped.

You open the refrigerator, gathering eggs, butter, chives, bacon, the ingredients for your usual breakfast. The routine gives you something to focus on besides the weight of Christopher's gaze on your back.

"About last night," he begins, his voice careful, measured.

"I'm making eggs. Do you want some?" You interrupt him, turning with the carton in your hands, your expression pleasantly blank.

A flicker of frustration crosses his face before he masters it. "Yes. Thank you. But I'd like to talk about…"

"Great. Scrambled okay?" You're already cracking eggs into a bowl, whisking them with more force than necessary.

Christopher sets down his tablet, giving you his full attention, something that would have thrilled you yesterday but now feels like an interrogation. "Are we going to have a conversation about what happened, or are you going to keep pretending everything's fine?"

You look up from the eggs, meeting his eyes directly for the first time that morning. "Who’s pretending? You made your feelings quite clear last night, Christopher. What's left to discuss?" Your voice is steady, almost pleasant. Only the slight emphasis on ‘feelings’ betrays the barb hidden in your words.

He leans forward, elbows on the counter. "I don't think I did make myself clear. You were upset, and…"

The kitchen door swings open, cutting him off as Hyunjin strides in, immaculate in a charcoal suit that looks like it was poured onto his lean frame. He stops short, eyes darting between you and Christopher, instantly reading the tension crackling in the air.

You turn back to the stove, pouring the whisked eggs into the hot pan closest to you.

"Well, good morning," he drawls, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Why does it feel like I just walked into a freezer in here? Did someone turn the AC to 'Arctic'?"

You layer bacon carefully into the second pan at the back of the stove. "Morning, Hyunjin. Eggs?"

"From your hands? Always." He moves to the counter, deliberately positioning himself between you and Christopher at the island, leaning his hip against the marble surface. "So, who's going to tell me what's happening? Chris piss you off again?" He says it lightly, but his eyes are sharp, assessing.

"Nothing's happening," you respond, keeping your focus on the eggs as you fold them gently with a spatula. "And I'm not interested in talking about it. These need chives. Can you pass them?"

Hyunjin hands you the small bowl of freshly chopped herbs, his fingers brushing yours deliberately. "You know you can't lie to me, right? I can smell trouble like a shark smells blood. It's a gift. It’s why I’m good at my job."

Despite yourself, your lips twitch toward a smile. Hyunjin has that effect, diffusing tension even while acknowledging it. "Your modesty is inspiring, Jin." You use a pair of tongs to flip the bacon.

"One of my many virtues," he agrees, stealing a piece of toast from the plate you've prepared. "Seriously, though, everything okay?"

You glance past him to where Christopher sits, his face a mask of controlled irritation. "Everything's fine. Christopher and I just had a minor disagreement about... expectations." The last word hangs in the air, loaded with meaning.

Hyunjin's eyes narrow slightly, catching the undercurrent. He knows the nature of your arrangement with Christopher, he was there when it was negotiated, after all, but you’re not sure how much he's been privy to the emotional evolution of your relationship. You wouldn’t be shocked if he knows everything, given that he’s Christopher’s best friend and confidant. Still, he's perceptive enough to recognize that something significant has shifted.

"Expectations," he repeats thoughtfully. "Always tricky things, those." He looks between you and Christopher. “And when did we officially shift back to using the full name? Was that also part of the expectations?”

You ignore his question as you plate the eggs and bacon, one for Christopher, one for Hyunjin, one for yourself, and slide them across the counter with a practiced smile. "These are getting cold. Eat."

The next twenty minutes unfold in a strange pantomime of normalcy. You chat with Hyunjin about the art exhibit he visited last weekend, laughing at his scathing critique of a particularly pretentious installation piece. Christopher contributes occasionally, his comments directed more at Hyunjin than at you. You respond to Hyunjin with animation and warmth, while offering Christopher nothing more than polite nods and tight smiles.

It's childish, perhaps, but the petty satisfaction of excluding him from your attention feels like the only power you have left.

"So then the artist has the audacity to tell me that I 'clearly don't understand the intersection of capitalist critique and post-modern aesthetics,'" Hyunjin is saying, gesturing with his fork. "As if I haven't been collecting contemporary art since before this kid could color inside the fucking lines."

You laugh, the sound almost natural. "What did you say?"

"I told him I'd buy the piece for double his asking price if he could explain its meaning without using the words 'juxtaposition,' 'paradigm,' or 'neo-anything.'" Hyunjin's smirk is wicked. "He couldn't do it. I walked out with a different piece by an artist who actually knows what she's trying to say."

"Ruthless," you say approvingly.

Hyunjin glances at his watch and sighs. "Speaking of ruthless, we should get going if we're going to make that board meeting on time, Chris. The Williams acquisition won't wait for your domestic drama."

Christopher's jaw tightens at "domestic drama," but he nods, standing and gathering his plate. You take it from him before he can move to the sink, your fingers careful not to brush against his.

"I'll clean up," you say, turning away. "You should get ready."

Hyunjin gives you a considering look, then claps Christopher on the shoulder. "I need to make a call. Fifteen minutes, then I'm leaving without you, and you can explain to the board why you're late." He squeezes your arm gently as he passes. "Whatever he did, make him grovel for at least a week before you forgive him."

A small, genuine smile touches your lips. "Noted. Bye Jinnie."

When the door swings shut behind Hyunjin, you expect Christopher to leave too, to head upstairs and transform into the impeccable businessman the world knows. Instead, he moves toward you as you stand at the sink, rinsing plates. His arms slip around your waist from behind, his chest pressing against your back, warm and solid. His lips find the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder.

"I missed you last night," he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin.

You don't lean into his touch, but you don't pull away either, your body caught in a limbo of wanting and resenting. His hands span your waist, possessive and familiar in a way that makes your heart ache. You can tell he’s waiting for you to say something.

"See you tonight," he says after a moment when you remain quiet, pressing one last kiss to your neck before stepping back.

You don't turn to watch him go, focusing instead on the suds swirling down the drain, the gentle clink of silverware as you place it in the drying rack. Only when the kitchen door closes behind him do you allow yourself to exhale, your shoulders slumping as the performance of indifference takes its toll.

"See you tonight," you whisper to the empty room before finishing cleaning up the kitchen.

You make your way to your room in the eastern wing, the spacious silence of the house wrapping you in solitude. As you pass Christopher's room, muffled voices reach you through the cracked door. You slow, recognizing Hyunjin's teasing lilt.

"What happened last night? What did you do? It seemed like things were going really well the past three to four months. You two looked cozy enough after Paris," Hyunjin is saying. There's a pause, and you can almost see Christopher's jaw clenching in that maddeningly stubborn way.

"Nothing happened." Christopher’s voice is tense, low. He sighs. "I don't know. Maybe everything."

"Vague and broody. Classic Chris."

"I'm serious, Hyunjin." The sound of the bed creaking as Christopher shifts his weight. "It's complicated. I didn't expect to feel this... attached."

You freeze outside the door, your heart hammering in your chest.

"Attached," Hyunjin repeats slowly. "Attached is what happens when people spend lots of time together, especially when they’re intimate. I’m failing to see the problem here. And you're pulling back because?"

A pause, laden with unspoken fears. "Because I'll lose her," Christopher finally admits, the words rough-edged and raw. “I’ll lose her if I can’t take the leap,” he adds, referencing his conversation with Allan and Helen.

“The leap? What the fuck are you talking about Chris?”

"Nevermind,” Christopher mumbles, shaking his head. “I’m just saying that I can't go through that again. Not after Julia."

Hyunjin snorts softly. "So you're protecting yourself by pushing her away? Smart."

"You don't understand."

"I do," Hyunjin insists, an edge of frustration creeping into his voice. "Better than you think. You're so afraid of losing her that you're making it happen on your own damn terms. It’s the damn control freak in you."

Christopher sighs, the sound weary and conflicted. "She knows what this is, what we agreed on," he insists stubbornly. “She’s been fine with it all until now. Now she’s asking if it’s real.”

Hyunjin lets out an exasperated sigh. "Maybe she's been fine because she thought the two of you were connecting, that you actually liked her."

"I do," Christopher admits quietly, almost begrudgingly.

"Then act like it, you fucking dummy." Hyunjin says with a hint of irritation. He’s the only one Christopher would ever allow to speak to him like this. "She's not like the others," he adds sharply. "And you know it. That’s why you came up with this cockamamy arrangement in the first damn place instead of just asking her out like a normal fucking person."

There's silence again, heavy with Christopher's hesitation.

When Christopher doesn’t say anything, Hyunjin continues. “She’s not even like Julia, who, if we’re being honest, was a stuck up, elitist bitch. You’ve shared things with her that you never even told the woman you were engaged to, like how your mom died or the shit with your dad. Think about that.”

“I know,” Christopher says softly.

"She’s your person, as much as anyone besides me can be your person. I don’t understand how you can be the most brilliant person I know, yet still so damn clueless. For someone who prides himself on control," Hyunjin says more quietly, "you're sure fucking this up."

You shift slightly to get closer to the door, needing to hear more.

"You really think she’ll…"

"I'm certain she will leave if you keep this shit up. Keep in mind that she doesn’t need you, your money, or your connections; and most importantly, she doesn’t give a damn about those things," Hyunjin interrupts. "She likes you. Stop being so fucking stubborn, Christopher. Tell her that you have feelings for her, that there is something growing between the two of you, that you want her in every way that counts outside of the arrangement. Take some inspiration from those romance books you're always reading that you think I don’t know about. Fix it before it's too late." He sighs then adds under his breath, “Fucking pabo.”

Before Christopher can respond, footsteps approach the door. You scramble down the hall and turn the corner just as Hyunjin emerges.

The day drags on under a restless haze. You sink onto the bed, eyes fixed on nothing in particular as your thoughts swirl chaotically and keep drifting back to what you overheard outside Christopher's room.

Attached.

The word loops through your mind like a broken record, stirring hope and confusion in equal measure. Is it true? Is that why he's been so distant when things had started feeling... real?

He doesn't realize that by closing himself off, by treating this exactly like every other arrangement he's had with every other woman who's walked out on him, he's pushing you away faster instead of just letting himself feel something.

Hyunjin said you're not like the others, that he's afraid of losing you, but why couldn't Christopher just say it himself instead of treating you like just another escort?

The questions circle each other endlessly until you push away from your desk in frustration and decide to get a workout in to clear your head.

A/N: How are y'all holding up after this chapter?

[retireddaddyric]

OnlyFans girl.

Synopsis: REQUESTED! (y/n) is in an arranged marriage with Daniel Ricciardo but she is falling for him.

Warnings: 18+, minors do not interact please. Arranged marriage, oral sex, age gap, smut, fluff.

Note: this is all fiction. English is not my first language. Not normally my cup of tea but I enjoyed writing it! Hope you do too!

Your heels click quickly on the floor as you follow your husband to the car. He’s in a dark suit, you’re still putting your earrings on.

Your tight white dress makes it hard to keep his pace.

“Shit, I forgot my purse!” You mutter.

He turns towards you rolling his eyes sighing loudly . “You’ll forget your head one day.”

But still he hands you the car keys and walks back into the house to grab your purse.

You sit in the passenger seat of his sport McLaren and look at him walk towards it with your purse in his hand.

He’s gorgeous. And he is fake.

He’s your husband but you didn’t choose each other, or better, you had no say in it.

“Your father will stress me out about us being late to the ceremony.” He says after handing you the purse and starting the car.

“It’s already enough you convinced me to come and see that asshole.”

“(Y/n).”

“Daniel.”

Yes, your dad is the reason you married Daniel.

Your father is an entrepreneur, and between all the things he owns, he owns half F1.

Daniel retired and wanted to expand his business.

Dad knows you’d throw it all away to travel the world and buy books to read if anything happened to him since you are just 20 years old. So he wanted you to be linked to a person he knows will keep his property and double it. And your dad had always loved Daniel like his own son, he was one of his drivers for years.

Daniel, on the other side, has reached his 35 years old and he believes love is just a phase that goes away after a couple of years so he agreed with expanding his business.

You are basically his business.

You obviously told your dad you didn’t want to get married yet but being rich has perks and he told you you could always get divorced at some point. The man himself has had four different weddings. You didn’t really understood what would happen to the F1 property at that point but he knows what he’s doing. You don’t.

They settled the whole prenup, you only signed it.

At the beginning it was so damn hard for you to pretend you were in love with him in front of cameras. Paparazzis were everywhere, he hugged you, you ended up scarlet red in the face on every gossip page.

But he is hot and it wasn’t hard at all to like him or get used to him.

Because above all he is fun and genuine. And kind.

“Your father is not an asshole, we already established this. He just cares about all the sweat and tears and blood he threw away during his life so he had to put you into this.”

“He cares about his property but not about his daughter.”

“I care about his daughter.” He laughs.

“You don’t.” You laugh too.

“Oh I do, she’s a pain in the ass and she can really piss me off but she is my wife and she’s sexy as hell in her white dress today.”

You roll your eyes but you’re having fun. Because that’s what you two always do, tease each other, even when you’re chilling on the couch watching Netflix, you always find a way to bother the other.

The gala is held in this big ass English mansion with large gardens and white painted columns. All the famous and rich people your father knows are drinking champagne and chatting under the sun in their best dresses and suits.

You walk with Daniel towards the crowd.

Your father sees you and immediately leaves his guests to come towards you.

“That dress is too tight you look like an OnlyFans girl instead of the heir of F1.” He says narrowing his eyes.

You cross your arms at your chest and whisper “I’m 20 not 40, I won’t dress like a prude for your guests.”

“Daniel tell her something, is she even wearing panties underneath it?”

Daniel nods looking at your ass for a moment then looks at your father.

“She is.”

You almost laugh.

“But yes you’re right about the OnlyFans because it’s one of the sponsors coming to F1 and we’re kinda starting a partnership..” he explains.

“Oh I didn’t know..” your father says surprised.

“Yeah, that’s why I told her to wear this dress.” He admits.

What? He didn’t even know what you would wear. His request was one and one only but let’s go ahead.

Your father nods and pats daniel on the shoulder a couple of times.

“Keep her in line.”

“Yes sir.”

When your dad leaves you look up at him and he winks.

After saying hi to people you both know you leave him talking to some blonde hot journalist and you go fill your glass of champagne. While you’re in line you see her getting closer to him and you get it: she’s flirting. He smiles at her, puts his arm at the wall near him and answers to her smirking.

You look at the scene: no matter how many times you have him between your legs in your bed, this is what you wish you had. Something real.

The spark, the flame.. the love.

The waiter gives you the glass and you see Daniel typing on her phone: did he give her his number? Is he.. fucking around?

You sip your wine and shake your head. Despite the little turmoil you feel inside your guts you know you two never settled boundaries. You had decided to have sex together because you’re both freaks and find each other good looking but you never draw a line that said ‘us only’.

You were fake.

A familiar face says hi approaching, an old friend of your step sister, you force a smile and walk away drinking. You hate all this, you would have never come if it wasn’t for Daniel. He insists on respecting your father, you just feel disappointment.

You walk inside the old mansion and look around: there are old paintings, beautiful large windows, tables fulls of porcelains, old arms hanging on walls.

The rooms are big, they smell of vintage and couch velvet.

You lean against a door frame and look at the great library that holds thousands of books.

“In your natural environment.” Daniel’s whispers behind you making you jump for a moment.

“You scared me!” You tell him taking a step back. “Are you done flirting?”

He smirks “You want a divorce?”

“Do you?”

His arms circle your waist and his hand squeezes your ass. “Not yet.” He says hotly in your ear brushing his lips to your skin.

He kisses your neck and you breathe a little harder.

“She was hot tho.” You tell him

“Yeah..”

“You like blondes?”

“Mh..” he kisses your shoulder blade.

“Is that a yes?”

“Mh.” He bites your shoulder lightly.

“I wanna devour you.”

You roll your eyes. “Daniel I am asking you questions.” He shakes his head and picks you up sitting you up on a table.

His hands lift your dress up your thighs and he smirks.

“My OnlyFans wife knows I don’t like blondes or brunettes I just love her sweet tight pussy.” He smirks and kisses you while he cups your bare pussy.

He smirks “your father was right you’re not wearing panties.”

He kneels while you laugh and say “Because my husband asked me not to.”

“You’re too good for your husband.”

And he hides his face between your legs, the soft mop of his curls peeking from under your silk white dress. You moan softly feeling his tongue swirling all around your folds and lapping inside. “In fact he just gave his number to a hot journalist.” You say breathlessly.

He looks up at you smiling with his eyes while he sucks your clit.

“Is my wife jealous?” He whispers against your sensitive skin.

“No she has no right to be.” You say rolling your eyes.

“She has every right if the thinks I gave her my number.” He licks your clit.

“You didn’t?” You ask hopeful, your legs shaking.

“You think I did?”

“I think you did!”

He grabs your thighs and puts them over his shoulders opening you up to him wide. He sinks his whole face in your wet pussy, you moan. His nose stimulates your clit while his tongue strokes you inside. He looks up at you and when you are about to come he pulls away.

“Daniel!” You scold him squeezing your legs together, your orgasm hitting just when nothing’s inside to help you calm your spasms. You put a hand on your mouth and throw your head back bending your shaking knees and rising them to your chest.

He looks down at you and rests his hands at the sides of the table.

“Next time think twice before saying bullshit.” He says serious.

You furrow your eyebrows propping yourself on your elbows and look at him still panting.

“Are you angry?”

“I am disappointed.”

“I should be the one disappointed, my fake husband is flirting around the gala.”

He sighs and pulls away from the table. He takes his phone out of his jacket and when the screen lights up you see his face still wet. You blush and sit up.

He taps something and then shows you his phone.

It’s a booked travel.

“Mr and Mrs Ricciardo: Grand tour of Malaysia for 2 from February 14th to March 1st.”

You gasp and look at him.

“I was showing her I have something going on on Valentine’s day already.” He says pulling his phone back into his jacket. “You said you wanted to go somewhere with a beach for a couple of days and I wanted to go with you.”

He adjusts your dress then cups your face and kisses you softly. “And I am not your fake husband. You’re tied to me for real.”

He looks into your eyes, his brown ones big. “Are you planning on divorcing?” He asks.

You hug him at his neck and whisper on his lips “Not yet.”

He smiles and picks you up in his arms.

Not yet. And, you don’t know it yet, but not ever.

Because on the 1st of March, after dropping on one knee on a beach in the Indian Ocean, Daniel will ask you to marry him again.

And you will happily say yes.

[pro-patria-mori-if]

Play the Demo! (Updated 5/3/2025) (Prologue)

Kortapolis. The jewel of the Kingdom of Edria. The busiest port in Eastern Lysseta. Your home. At least, it was your home. You were born with the sound of the ocean in your ears and the smell of its salt in your nose. Your life revolved around the busy commotion of the port, the fruit stalls that lined the streets downtown, the cafes where people swapped stories and secrets. This was your whole world—until it came crashing down. When Wastoria invaded, everything changed. Soldiers marched in the streets and reduced neighborhoods to rubble. Civilians were forced out of the city, and close friends, allies, and confidants disappeared under the waves of an invasion so powerful that even now, it visits you in your dreams. Years later, Edria is in two. The upland region, the mountains, are still part of Edria. But Kortapolis District is occupied by Wastoria, a humiliation so bracing that sometimes it still leaves your heart pounding with rage. The rest of the world calls Kortapolis District a “disputed zone”. You know what it is: yours. But you won’t let your home vanish behind the pointed guns of the Wastorian military. No: you rise through the ranks in Edria, and soon, you are elected president. A fledgling new democracy, Edria has a litany of problems. But the biggest of all is drawn in careful dashed lines on every world map.  Fixing this may take careful statecraft, a strategic balancing of alliances. It may take cyberwarfare, harnessed by cultivating an ally. It may take economic retaliation, or sanctions. It may take subterfuge, weakening Wastoria from the inside out. It may take war. But one thing is certain. You will make Kortapolis yours again.  You will make Edria whole. Maybe that will heal you, too.

Pro Patria Mori is a sci-fi/fantasy interactive fiction novel where you play as the president of the Republic of Edria, a fledgling democracy emerging from diplomatic isolation.

Content Warnings: depictions of war, discrimination, and torture. Route-specific warnings include past physical, emotional, or sexual abuse (labelled and avoidable)

*Customize President Rezanii. Choose your appearance, gender, background, species, personality, and political outlook.

*Choose your relationship with your missing parents, the nature of your imprisonment by Wastorian forces, and your attitude towards Edria's future.

*Explore a world where magic and technology blend.

*Discover Edria, a Caribbean-inspired country on the brink of democracy or dictatorship.

*Receive diplomatic and personal messages in your in-game inbox and receive news updates on the consequences of your decisions

*Define your term in office. Will you wage war or build peace? Will you push Edria towards democracy or revive the old monarchy?

Vice President Faustino Marellii: your best friend

Romanceable? Yes

Faustino grew up alongside you; it was only natural he’d be your vice president. Before joining your campaign, Faustino was the popular mayor of Alzome, Edria’s capital. He has a reputation for being surprisingly gentle despite the cutthroat nature of Edrian politics. At least, for all issues except Edria’s relationship with Wastoria. He took care of you after you were freed from Wastorian prison and he still worries over your wellbeing. 

Appearance: tall and toned with bronze skin and soft freckles. He has bright violet eyes and wavy, vibrant blue hair, indicative of him being an innate magic user (yadukari) that specializes in controlling ice and water.

Advisor Michi Dandleton: your chief strategist

Romanceable? Yes

Michi is well known in political circles for their workaholic behavior and their remarkable ability to uncover the secrets of their candidate’s opponents. They immigrated to Edria from Adranga shortly after the end of the Edrian civil war, and have never told you why they chose to leave home. They masterminded the campaign that secured you the presidency, and remain a vital part of your staff.

Appearance: average height, lithe build with rosy skin. They have electric blue eyes and short pink hair, indicative of them being a yadukari that specializes in controlling and reading emotions.

Officer Nura Alonar: your bodyguard

Romanceable? Yes, slow-burn romance

Nura was identified as a particularly powerful magic user when she was young, and the Edrian royal guard offered her parents a stipend in exchange for her being sent away and trained. Her parents accepted and Nura left her home for the capital, where she was raised to one day serve the royal family. But when the civil war reached the palace, she and a few other trainees defected to assist the pro-democracy forces. Now she serves as the last line of defense between you and the people who want to kill you.

Appearance: short and very muscular with dark brown skin with significant scarring. She has red eyes and hair, which she keeps in long braids with decorative beads she uses as magic amplifiers. While she’s a yadukari, her training means she can control fire as well as use telekinesis.

Ambassador Junius Felice: ambassador from the Empire of Langostia

Romanceable? Yes, either as a fling or a romance

Rich, arrogant, and almost always jovial, Junius is known in diplomatic circles for his lavish parties and condescending attitude towards democracies and countries poorer than his own. He was born and raised in Langostia, the wealthy and powerful monarchy to Edria’s north. He’s been tasked with rebuilding Langostia’s relationship with their former ally Edria through whatever means necessary—and, ideally, steering Edria away from democracy. 

Appearance: tall with an average build and tawny skin. He has dark brown eyes and long brown, almost black hair. He has no innate magic, but that’s no reason to underestimate him.

Consul Priyanshi Areshka: consul from the Republic of Kalendra

Romanceable? Yes

Priyanshi represents Kalendra, a country Edria has yet to recognize. She was born in Langostia as a vatilti–a class of genetically engineered and cybernetically enhanced people used as spies and soldiers by the Langostian royal family and classified as property under Langostian law. Kalendra was founded by escaped vatilti, and its continued existence and growing prosperity is a long-standing annoyance to Langostia. Priyanshi is still adjusting to life with recognized personhood and is utterly fascinated by the ability to sleep in, eat interesting foods, and insult people without getting shocked by an implant.

Appearance: very tall and toned with warm brown skin and significant cybernetic modifications. She has golden, pupil-less eyes and golden, coily hair. Priyanshi is a sankara, a species of being with innate magic and the ability to easily shapeshift.

Admiral Garzi: the former president of Edria

Romanceable? No

The father of the Edrian Republic and, depending on your choices, a father figure or mentor to you as well. Garzi was an admiral dating back to the Kingdom of Edria and he helped start the civil war after refusing an order to fire on unarmed pro-democracy protestors. He was elected the first president of Edria, largely because he was the only figure voters could rally around. He’s always had a soft spot for you, which you can choose to reciprocate or not.

Appearance: late 50s, stocky build with dark tan skin and deep brown hair that is now going gray after years serving a hostile royal family and then trying to guide Edria into being a new democracy. His eyes are kind, but tired. His appearance makes it clear he has no innate magic, though that hasn’t stopped him from being one of the most popular—and divisive—figures in Edria.

Ambassador Arlo Iltik: the Wastorian ambassador to Edria

Romanceable? No

A patriotic Wastorian and yadukari nationalist, Arlo has been sent to Edria to try and convince the Edrian government to recognize Kortapolis as Wastorian territory through negotiation, coercion, violence, or all of the above. He doesn’t particularly respect you or your country.

Appearance: soft lilac hair indicating mental powers and fair skin. Arlo is average height, but the way he carries himself makes him seem to loom over other people. Deep purple eyes that almost seem to glow. Very fashionable and favors Wastorian styles, which tend to be flowing and dramatic, with bold colors.

@interact-if

[kyoshithewriter]

Love in Every Form.

Wc: 8.1k

Warnings: Angst, mature themes (18+)

A/n: And remember how I said I was rewatching Love and Basketball and got an idea? Well, it kinda went off track but it’s something. Also, this is fiction! It’s all made up! Since you have to be reminding people of that nowadays apparently lol. I almost made this is a series but I don’t think I want to do series on here anymore tbh. And we all know I love good cliche! So enjoy?

2005.

“I got an offer from a small club in France, I’m going to take it.”

The loud clatter of cutlery hitting ceramic forces a small huff from her father’s mouth. Aya watches with bated breath, as her mother rubs at her temples with two fingers. Her nails are painted a cherry red that looks great against her brown skin. Her mother is everything Aya wants to be. Feminine, strong and beautiful. Celeste- her mother- keeps her relaxed hair that falls past her shoulders in various updos that shows off her high cheekbones, straight nose and full lips. Her eyes are a shade that reminds Aya of honey. Her body is slim but her frame curvy below and she always keeps up with the fashion trends like Aya sees on tv. Halter tops that show off her belly, low rise jeans or stunning backless dresses. She believes her mom could blend in easily with the pussycat dolls— the group she watches religiously on tv.

“Alexandre, what?”

Aya slowly swallows the bite of chicken she just took. She recognizes that tone; it’s the tone her mother has been using more frequently lately. It means a storm is brewing.

“Celeste, look. You know how I feel about just… sitting around. I thought running businesses would help but I miss being on a pitch, baby. I have years left in the tank, I can feel it.”

Alexandre. Her father. Her hero. Once a football star who was forced into early retirement from an injury. The man is just a shade lighter than her mother’s cocoa brown skin. He stands at around 6 '1 with a cleanly shaven head and a moustache that he likes to tickle Aya with. He was born and raised in France where he got his breakthrough as a star midfielder. Football took him all over the world, including here in America where he met her mother. They had her pretty young— her father was 23 and her mother 21. It was good though, at least the moments she could remember. Their home was filled with smiles, laughter and warm hugs; and even though her father was away from home a lot (her mother refused to move), every time he came home it would be like he was never away. Until he got injured two and a half years ago. Everything went downhill then. While they were very comfortable financially, her father became a shell of himself for months. The man loves football; he often tells the story of how the sport saved his life. He grew up in the shadier parts of France where it was easy to get sucked into a life of crime. Football was his form of art. Expression, distraction, passion. Every pass, every dribble, every interception, every tackle— he loved entertaining thousands with a ball at his feet. And it was all taken from him by one reckless tackle that destroyed his knee. He opened businesses: restaurants, garages and even apartments. They want for nothing. But her dad still feels like he lost everything. His knee improved enough to kick about with some of his friends in the park on Sundays. That soon grew unsatisfactory as his health improved. He started a little community league with the promise of prize money for participants. That scratched the itch for four months. Now they’re realizing that it’s still not enough.

“Why can’t you just accept it? It’s over, Alex. You lived your glory days and they were beautiful. But they’re over.”

Aya pushes the roasted potatoes around on her plate, swinging her legs that still haven’t touched the ground from her seated position on the chair.

“I love football, Celeste. I want to play. I tried some local clubs but… a small league side in Bordeaux appreciates a national legend. They’d love to have me and I want to compete again. I’m going.” He says with a kind of finality that makes even Aya, young as she is, anxious.

“You’re a 31 year old man who wants to run off from his family to play some low league football.” The words are almost hissed from between her mother’s clenched teeth like a snake

“I’m not running off. I want you guys to come with me. We can move to France. Bordeaux is a nice cit-”

Celeste scoffs across the table. “I didn’t want to move away from home when you were in your prime, you think playing on some tiny court surrounded by a chain link fence is what will get me to?!”

Aya eyes the food on her plate intently, stomach feeling queasy as they start going at it. She’s 8. A big girl. She shouldn’t cry because her parents yell at each other; but the tears blur her vision anyway.

“Aya, let’s get you to bed, baby.”

Her father suddenly says to her right. Aya looks up at him, eyes sad but a small smile on his face. Her mother avoids looking in their direction altogether. Aya nods up at him and takes his offered hand. Her dad leads her upstairs and into her bedroom. That night, he read her five bedtime stories instead of two, and stretched his long legs over the length of her double bed where he cuddled her to sleep.

It’s one week after that argument over the dinner table that they drop the bomb on her. The house was tense all week and Aya noticed her parents tried not to linger in the same room for too long. So when she came home from school earlier and they said they wanted to talk to her, she prepared her little heart for the worst.

“Daddy is moving to France, but mommy decided it’s best for her to stay here. We… Mommy and daddy are going to get divorced.”

Aya hates the way they’re both staring at her with something akin to pity. Why are they showing her pity? They’re the ones who are losing each other. And why do they keep referring to themselves as ‘mommy’ and ‘daddy?’ It makes her angry for reasons her brain can’t comprehend.

“Okay.” She whispers.

“Do you understand what that means?” Her mother eyes her in concern.

“It means you don’t love each other anymore, like Jayson’s parents.”

Her parents eye each other skeptically. Her father opens his mouth to say something but Celeste gives a gentle shake of her head and he snaps it shut.

“Something like that… we both love you, Aya. We love you very very much and we wish we could stay together so you could have us both but we can’t. So you’ll have to choose; do you want to stay in America with all your friends, your school and your mommy? Or do you want to move to France with daddy?”

Aya’s eyes bounce between her parents who eye her nervously.

“If I choose… does that mean I’ll never get to see-”

“Oh no! No honey, absolutely not. You’ll spend the holidays with mommy or daddy depending on who you choose to live with.” Her father hurries to reassure.

Aya’s body relaxes onto the couch. That makes it a lot easier. She doesn’t know much about France except that her father is from there and they were weird little hats they call berets according to the shows on tv. But France is where her father will be and she has always been a daddy’s girl.

“I want to go with daddy.”

*******

France is gloomy. The overcast skies throw her brain for a loop; they have been here for three days and she hasn’t seen the sun once. Nothing like California where they left her mother behind. Dad calls their new home an apartment and it’s a lot smaller than the mansion they left behind. It’s okay though, there’s enough space for them both, she still has her own room and she’s with her father. That’s all that matters. Beside their building is another apartment complex. They all look identical: same cool, grey brick walls with an almost gothic architecture. Her father had just told her to go wash up for dinner when there’s a knock on their front door. Aya pauses in the living room to spy instead. There stands a man, brown skin and a few inches shorter than her father and a little boy who looks to be close to her age by his side. They both stare at Alexandre as if awe struck. Aya stands helplessly as both men dissolve into a conversation in full blown French.

“I can’t believe it! A few of the guys told me Alexandre Augustin moved here a few days ago and I called them liars!”

Alexandre chuckles. “It’s me in the flesh.”

“What are you doing back on French soil?”

“I’m here to play for Bordeaux Soccer. I still have some juice in the tank. I miss being on the pitch.”

“No way! My son, Jules.” He gestures toward the little boy by his side. “He plays for their academy.”

Jules looks up at the man shyly. Aya watches as her father reaches a hand in the little boy’s direction and he eagerly grasps at it to shake with all his might. The action causes the men to laugh wholeheartedly.

“Oh, my daughter is also here. Pumpkin!”

Aya almost startles at her father’s yell. The man looks over his shoulder and is surprised to see her.

“Oh, you were in the living room the entire time? Come say hi.”

She tentatively saddles up to her father’s side. There, she stands eye to eye with the boy named Jules. His hair is out in a mini afro; he’s skinny, even skinnier than she is and that says a lot; with big, wide eyes and a small button nose. His mouth is small too but his ears are a little too big for his face. They’re both wearing matching jeans overalls but her long sleeve shirt beneath is pink while his is white.

“Say hi.” Her father softly encourages.

“Hi.” She waves shyly at them both.

Jules’ father responds with a soft ‘hello’ lilted heavily with his accent. Jules returns her shy wave though he doesn’t stop staring at her. Aya instinctively reaches up to toy with the beads on her braids her mother did a few days ago. Her father and the man start talking again, leaving the two to stand awkwardly and stare at each other.

“Comment tu t’appelles?”

It takes Aya a minute to realize the tentative whisper is from Jules. She stares at him and feels embarrassment burn her cheeks.

“I… I don’t understand.”

“What… name?” The words fall unsurely from his lips.

“Oh. I’m Aya. Sorry I don’t speak French.” She drops her eyes to her feet bashfully.

“It’s okay… I teach you.”

Aya looks up at him and returns his small smile.

“Okay.”

“Aya, Charles says there’s a playground nearby where the other children in the community play in the evenings. You could use the summer to make some friends before school reopens in September.”

They thought it best for her to move during the summer to have a few months to adjust to the new country before starting school.

“Okay, dad.”

“Jules will come for you in the evenings and take you there.”

The other man says and even though she doesn’t understand, she smiles up at him because it feels polite.

“I’ll need to start her on some French lessons. This move was not properly planned.” Her father sighs deeply.

“Don’t worry. Start her on the basics and let her socialize with the other kids. She’ll get it in no time. Plus most of the children here are competent in English since it’s a part of the curriculum. She’ll be fine. Oh, by the way-” Charles stretches the little bag he has been holding the entire conversation in her father’s direction. Alexandre accepts, and pulls what appears to be a bottle of red wine from the bag.

“You’re in the wine capital now, expect a lot more gifts like this from neighbours over the next couple of days. Welcome to the neighbourhood. My family and I live in the building across from this one. Apartment number 16. You come to me for anything at all, Alexandre.”

**********

Aya swings her feet impatiently as she eyes the front door. She waits with her heart in her throat, listening intently for the knock to come. After a boring day filled with learning French letters and watching tv programs in a language she doesn’t understand, the clock on the wall now says 4 and that’s the time Charles said Jules would come for her to take her to the park. The timid knock finally comes fifteen minutes after four. Aya is sprinting to the door before her father is able to properly round the wall that separates the kitchen and living room.

“Aya, let me get the door.” He softly chastises.

“But it’s just Jules!”

“You don’t know that. You shouldn’t just open the door before knowing who’s outside.”

Aya pouts but steps away from the door.

“Qui est-ce?” Her father asks sternly.

“Uh… Jules.” His muffled voice calls back weakly.

“See dad?”

Alexandre laughs softly at his daughter’s eye roll. She has her mother’s attitude and it makes his heart ache just a bit. Aya lights up like a Christmas tree when they make eye contact. Jules smiles shyly, scuffing one of his sneakers into the ground.

“Hi Mr. Augustin.”

“Hello, Jules. Take good care of her and bring her back before it’s dark out.”

The boy nods eagerly.

“Later dad!”

Aya hugs one of his legs quickly before dashing out the door. They walk side by side in silence for a few seconds, both exchanging shy glances.

“Quoi- erm— what your name again? Yaya?”

Aya giggles airily.

“It’s Aya, silly! But I like Yaya. You can call me Yaya.”

“Okay.” He says with a small smile.

Jules startles briefly feeling her tiny hand slip in his but he doesn’t question it. He just interlocks their fingers as they skip together down the hallway, leaving a trail of laughter behind them.

********

2010.

It’s been almost five years since moving to France and it only took two of those years for the country to start feeling like home. It was a struggle at first, especially with the language and attending school. But true to his word, Jules helped. Aya was so happy when she learned they would be attending the same school, same as most of the other kids he had introduced her to on the playground that day years ago. It took her months to nail the basics of the language, and even now, while being conversationally competent, she still struggles with pronunciation. Her father or Jules is always there to softly correct or fill in vocabulary blanks when she comes up short though. She’s so grateful for Jules and his family. She spends a lot of her time by their apartment since Jules’ mother, a nice Caucasian woman, offered to babysit her when her father has games. She would find herself by his house almost every evening after school where his parents would feed her, help her with homework then allow them to play outside for hours. Aya returns to France two weeks before school reopens after the summer break. Jules is at her front door an hour after she messaged him on Facebook that she was back. Jules is a sweaty mess, still in jersey and shorts she has to come to be familiar with after years of seeing him wearing it for training.

“Your hair.”

Are the first words that he greets her with. Aya reaches to finger at it self consciously. During her stay in America, she mentioned her dilemma with her hair to her mother. As hard as he tried, her father was unable to style her thick, dark curls properly. She would always go to school with pigtails that stood in the air or ponytails that were too puffy. She tried to ignore the subtle teasing giggles, but it was really hard to. So her mother decided it was time for relaxer. Her black hair is now straight and hangs just a bit past her shoulders.

“You don’t like it? My mom said it was best because my dad can’t get my hair right and she said it would be easier to handle this way.”

He frowns. “I don’t hate it. I just… I prefer it in braids.”

Hanging around each other not only helped her learn French, but it also improved Jules’ English as well.

“My dad doesn’t always have the time to take me by Ms. Gumede and he’s too prideful to ask your mom to comb my hair.” She says with a shrug. Jules’ mom learned how to do cornrows because the little boy refused to get his haircut.

“Oh. I see. Well you’re still pretty. It’s just… different.”

Aya smiles at him bashfully.

“Thank you.”

“Want to come over and listen to music? Plus my dad is making yovo doko.” He says with a sly smirk. He knows how much Aya loves the Beninois dessert.

“Dad! I’m going over to Jules!”

She doesn’t wait for his reply before she’s out the door.

“What are you in the mood for today?”

“Hmm, can we do Lauryn Hill and Erykah? I miss my mom a little.” She admits. This has become something that they started bonding over for the past two years— music. Her mother is a music lover through and through and Aya can’t recall a quiet day in their house while she was growing up. Even during her holiday visits the woman would be blasting some music. Her grandfather was Jamaican so Celeste is a lover of reggae, r&b, soul and jazz. So much so, that at only 12 years old, Aya has grown to be a lover of the same genres. Recently, she has found herself analyzing the lyrics as best as she’s able to, overly fascinated by their ability to manipulate words to tell stories over soothing tracks. As with everything, she and Jules shared their worlds. He introduced her to French rap and she shared the music she grew up loving. He quickly became a fan of her music as well.

“Okay. But then I get to play a few new songs that came out over the summer while you were away.”

“Deal.” They both share a small smile, walking side by side in comfortable silence as the sun begins to dip over the horizon.

*********

That semester, Aya started high school and her world was flipped upside down. She doesn’t get to hang out with her father as much she would like, but when they do, they bond over what he knows best: football. He’d take her to the playground and play a few rounds of football with her and sometimes Jules. Aya doesn’t care for the sport truthfully, but she pretends to love it because it’s an easy way to bond with her father and Jules. So when her father told her a few days ago that he would be enrolling her in an academy, she wanted to fall to her knees and beg him not to; instead, she swallowed around the lump in her throat and pumped her voice full of faux excitement to shout in agreement. And sometimes, Aya wonders if maybe her father wanted a son instead of her. It’s in the way he dresses her; tomboyish with baggy jeans and unflattering long sleeve shirts. Or in the way he never attempts to find out about her other interests— he just assumed she loves football. Whatever the case, she was okay with pretending to be happy. But then she started high school and the curriculum features literature. Aya is introduced to not only poetry, but to Maya Angelou and she instantly falls in love. She knows immediately this is what she wants to do. Poetry reminds her of music. There’s rhythm, there’s rhyme, there’s freedom. Aya thinks back to how her father describes what football is to him: expression, distraction, passion. This is what poetry feels like to her. Her obsession grows tenfold when she discovers dub poetry. Originating from her mother’s ethnic background, it calls to her; not a gentle whisper she can ignore, a firm beckoning that burns her skin. So she begins writing. Every thought, every emotion, every wish, no matter how big or small— gets written down into free flowing words. Words that make music even without a beat.

“You’re improving, if you keep playing like this then you’ll play professional football like me.”

Jules’ voice brings her back to the playground. Aya focuses on the ball that she somehow managed to put in the past the posts they call the goal.

“You think so?”

“Uh-huh. I hope so.”

The boy moves to retrieve the ball from the makeshift goal before ambling toward her again.

“Why?”

Aya wipes at the sweat gathering around her hairline. Her roots are overgrown and she’s overdue for another round of relaxer soon.

“Because it will make you travel a lot like me. I don’t want to leave you behind in Bordeaux, you’re my girlfriend.” He says without stuttering. They’re alone on the playground and the sky burns a light orange.

“I’m your girlfriend?” She eyes the lanky boy. His cornrows make his forehead more prominent and his eyes even bigger.

“Yes, I think? You’re a girl who’s my friend, no?”

“Oh.. but so is Yasmine. Is she your girlfriend too?” She asks curiously.

“No. You’re different from Yasmine. Yasmine doesn’t share my music, or knows that I’m scared of clowns or stays at my house and holds my hand. Yasmine is a friend but you… you’re my best friend who’s a girl. So girlfriend. Is that not what it means?”

Aya doesn’t understand why her cheeks feel warm but she likes it.

“I guess so.” She shrugs shyly.

“Okay. You said you wanted to show me something before we go home.”

Aya eyes her backpack, thinking of her notebook full of sloppily written poetry inside. She contemplates. ’Jules wants you to play football so she can travel with him.’

“Uh… never mind. Let’s go before it gets dark.”

“Okay.”

And on instinct, they drift into each other’s space to join hands as they leave the playground.

*********

2014

Aya doesn’t know how it happened. She left France for the summer like she usually does. She left Jules behind, a bit more lithe than he was at 12 but still a little lanky and just maybe an inch taller than her 5’5 frame. When she returns to France; Jules shows up at her door and she almost gasps out loud. His shoulders are broad and his muscles very defined. He seems to have grown another two inches taller as well. He’s still Jules but different. So so different it makes something in her belly flutter.

“Did you.,, are you on steroids?” Her tone is accusatory as she eyes him.

He cocks his head innocently. “Steroids? What’s steroids?”

“You know… drugs to make your muscles bigger.”

Jules laughs from the pit of his belly before pulling her into a hug. It throws her brain for a loop.

“My mom said I hit a growth spurt.”

And it’s not lost on Aya how his voice rumbles against her chest. Deeper.

Her father clears his throat loudly behind them. Jules releases her like her body burns.

“Hi Mr. Augustin.”

“Hi Jules. Make sure you’re ready for training tomorrow.”

Her father has finally accepted that his body cannot handle the intensity of football. However, for the few years he got to return, he helped the football club get promoted to a higher division; still nothing too fancy but they’re in a better place than he found them. To honour him, they had given him a place on their coaching staff. Jules has been playing for the senior team since he turned 15 last November.

“Of course.” He says with a smile while eyeing Aya.

“Go home, Jules. Rest up for tomorrow.” Her father says in a tone that leaves little room for argument.

“Oh, but I was hoping we could hang o-”

“Go to your room, Aya. You have school in a few days. Your math grades could use some improvement.”

Aya’s brows furrow in confusion. Her father has never been the strict type so this comes as a surprise.

“He’s right, Aya. I’ll see you on Monday.” Jules bids them a quiet farewell before leaving.

“Dad… what’s going on? You never cared that I hung out with Jules before.”

“Yes, but…” the man scratches at the back of his neck awkwardly. “You’re both older now and… teens with… uh…”

It takes a while for it to click. Aya’s mother has given her the talk the summer she visited and got her first period. Her nose scrunches in distress.

“Dad… ew. No! We’re just friends.”

Sure when they were younger Jules had called her his girlfriend. Back then, they didn’t understand the full weight of the word and they even laughed at the memory just recently. Besides, she’s sure that Jules has an actual girlfriend now… and that’s fine. Yes, it’s fine. She totally doesn’t get tight in the throat when Yasmine comes around to plant a kiss on his cheek.

“I understand that, but this period of your life is unpredictable. It’s best if you two give each other some distance.”

Aya just rolls her eyes and stomps to her room. There, she eyes herself in the mirror. A lot more intently than she did before. She’s starting to look more and more like her mother as the years go by. The same shade of brown skin, just a little riddled with pimples, the same shade of honey- brown eyes, nose straight and limps plump. She also notes the way her body has changed. Her hips are curvier, her chest not so flat as it once was. Just like Jules, she’s changing and she wonders if he notices too.

*****

She finally gets the courage to share her poems with Jules a few months later on his 16th birthday. She almost shared them two weeks prior on her own birthday, but her father was hovering a lot after the little surprise party they threw for her. Jules chose to celebrate at a small arcade in town.

“Want to hang out at my house a bit before I walk you home?”

She gives a quick nod of her head. Jules has become somewhat a bit popular among the student population at their local high school. He’s playing well and word is going around of multiple scouts from different clubs coming to see him in action. So what was supposed to be a small gathering at the arcade, turned out to be more than thirty people. She didn’t have a chance to get him to herself after she gave him his gift— vinyls of his favourite albums.

“I don’t think Yasmine appreciates how close we are.” She says, eyeing him cautiously. Yasmine has been not so subtle in the way she has been glaring at her recently and hugging Jules closer whenever she’s around.

He shrugs nonchalantly. “You’re my best friend, she knows this. I spoke to her the other day and if she continues being hostile then I’m breaking up with her.”

Her heart flutters in her chest at the way he defends her.

“Thanks for the gifts by the way. You get me in a way no one else does, don’t you?”

He throws an arm around her shoulders and pulls her closer to his side.

“I’m your best friend, of course I do.”

Jules’ parents are not home when they get to the apartment. He flicks the lights on and leads her to his room. His bed is unmade but the rest of his room is clean and organized. Jules throws his coat on a rack by his door and she follows suit.

“I’ve been meaning to show you something.”

She reaches into her bag to pull her notebook out before sitting gingerly on his bed.

“Yeah?”

He moves to join her on his bed, barely a few feet between them. She brandishes the notebook like a sword and playfully swipes at him. They both share a little laugh; then the nerves set in.

“Jules I… I don’t want to play football. I don’t care much about it but I— I’ve been pretending to because I want to be closer to you and my dad.”

Jules eyes her like she offended him.

“Yaya, why would you think that would matter to me?”

“I know, I know.” She sighs and reluctantly stretches the book in his direction.

“I love writing, Jules. Poetry. It speaks to me. It has been something I’ve been doing for yea- don’t read the earlier ones!”

She launches herself at him before he gets the chance to open the book. Jules laughs as he reaches down to tickle her sides.

“Jules, stop! The first ones are really bad.” She manages to say through her giggles.

“Hm, you decided I get the privilege to see your work so I want to see them all.”

Aya throws herself face-first on his bed, cheeks burning from embarrassment. But he takes his time to read without judgment. It feels like forever before he finally speaks.

“I think this one is already my favourite.” He whispers to her. Aya sits up to eye the poem he’s reading over his shoulder. She gulps when she notices.

First Love:

Just the thought of you makes my heart race,

When you’re around

I don’t know which way is up or down

A permanent smile etched onto my face

But you’re not mine,

How unfair,

So close all the time

I have no right to be possessive, but I don’t want to share

But I’ll stay by your side

Waiting for you to notice

Or maybe I’ll someday swallow my pride

Just to finally tell you.

“Oh. That little thing.” She tries to sound nonchalant, but her heart beat turns erratic in her chest.

“It’s beautiful. How… when did you write this one?”

He tries to make eye contact but she keeps her eyes on the bracelet of beads that decorate his wrist. The same one she made for him three years ago. She has a matching one on as well.

“Last year. Just after your fifteenth birthday.” She whispers.

“Oh.”

She looks up at him from beneath her lashes shyly. The room suddenly feels warmer. His big, dark brown eyes hold her captive. The distance between their faces begins to lessen and her breathing picks up. Aya is almost hyperventilating by the time he tentatively touches his lips to hers. Soft, warm. Her skin feels it suddenly comes in contact with thousands of bolts of electricity. Jules hums softly and presses his lips against hers harder. The sound of the front door opening makes Aya pull away from him like his lips burn.

“Jules?! I’m home!” His mother’s voice drifts down the hall.

The pair stare at each other in wide-eyed surprise. What have they just done?

Jules clears his throat loudly.

“We shouldn’t have done that… we shouldn’t do that again. I have a girlfriend.”

“You’re right. We’re friends; just friends.” He doesn’t have to know how far in her stomach her heart plummets.

“Yea… um… but you should talk to your father. I’m sure you’re about to get offered a contract soon. Tell him you don’t like playing football.” Jules says solemnly.

“You think I should?”

“You definitely should, Yaya. You’re so talented, and you deserve to be happy.”

Aya tells her father two weeks later. She shows him her awards she has been receiving from winning poetry competitions at her school.

“This is what I love to do, dad. I don’t like playing football. I only pretended to because I know you wanted me to.” She rubs along the length of her arms waiting for his reaction. Instead of disappointment or even anger like she expected, her father smiles at her softly.

“Okay, Aya. I’m glad you found something you’re passionate about and I’m happy you decided to speak up. I’m proud of you.”

Aya falls into her father’s open arms easily with tears falling down her cheeks.

“Thank you, papa.”

**********

2017.

Aya eyes herself in the mirror. It’s officially the last summer of her being a high schooler and tonight is their school dance. Her mother had gotten her this dress from her visit in December when she told her about her school dance in July. The floor length dress hugs her frame well before flowing off at her knees. It’s dark red- almost burgundy and dips at the front just to show off the tiniest bit of cleavage. Her hair is an intricate pinup look with a few jet black bundles. Dainty gold earrings dangle from her ears and they match her necklace and her purse as well as the sandals on her feet. Aya only started experimenting with makeup in January after her mother gifted her some as a late eighteenth birthday present in December. She was too afraid to go overboard, so she just stuck with some power, mascara and tinted lip gloss. She’s going with Jules but not as a date— they’re just showing up together because they have no one else to go with since he broke up with Yasmine almost two years ago.

“Aya? Are you ready?” Her father calls from outside her room.

“Coming!”

She sucks in a deep breath and swings her door open.

“Dad, look at you!” Her father is going on a date for the first time since her parents’ divorce and he looks good. He got rid of that horrid moustache and he’s dressed in a brown dress shirt with black slacks.

“I clean up alright?” He asks timidly, eyeing his shoes.

“Better than alright!” She reassures him.

“And you look beautiful, Aya. How are you almost nineteen already? It feels like just yesterday we moved here and you were eight.”

“Ugh, dad, please don’t cry.” She tries to sound exasperated even though she feels like tearing up herself.

“M not.” He hastily wipes at his eyes.

“It’s okay, papa.”

She envelops him into a hug. They stay just like that for a few minutes.

“Let’s go, you shouldn’t keep your date waiting and you’re dropping me off first.” She reminds him.

“Okay, let’s go.”

*********

Jules is waiting for her outside the school yard when her dad drops her off.

“Damn, Yaya. You look beautiful.”

Aya’s skin tingles from her head to her feet. If she thought he had hit his final growth spurt before his 16th birthday, the last few years have proved her wrong. He’s now taller, 5’10 to be exact. His shoulders are even broader, his muscles more prominent from intensive training. Gosh she loves watching him play, the way he easily shoulders attackers off the ball. So strong. Aya has been going through it secretly since that night they kissed in his room. True to their words, they never did it again and kept their relationship strictly platonic. Friends. Nothing more. Even if their touches linger a little sometimes. Even though he sometimes eyes her like he wants to devour her, like he’s doing now. Even though most of the time when they’re left alone there’s this weird, thick tension between them.

“You clean up nicely, yourself.” She mutters shyly. Aya notices that he started experimenting a lot with fashion recently. Tonight he’s wearing a black, long sleeved dress shirt made from the softest satin fabric. It’s tucked into black slacks with a few scattered pieces of gold jewelry on his fingers, his wrists and hanging around his neck. His hair is in medium sized twists that frame his face nicely.

“I still prefer you with braids though.” He says cheekily. Aya rolls her eyes but she smiles at him.

“Shall we?” He offers her the crook of his elbow with an exaggerated wiggle of his eyebrows just to make her laugh.

“Let’s have all the fun right now because I’ll need you to read that email I received from the University of Bordeaux when we get home later. I was too anxious to open it.”

He laughs airily as they near the noisy auditorium.

“No problem, Yaya.”

********

The night passes by in a blur of laughter, dancing to upbeat music and stuffing their faces with finger foods. There was not an air of awkwardness amongst the friend group even with Yasmine present; she seems to have already moved on with a caramel skinned boy from her physics class named Antoine. It’s going well, until the music changes from upbeat pop and hip hop to slow r&b. It’s almost immediate how everyone else around them breaks off into couples to start dancing together. Aya clears her throat in an exaggerated manner as she stands off by the table of drinks. Jules stands just to her left, staring at her in a way that makes her skin tight. She sees him open his mouth in her peripheral vision and her heart races in anticipation. ‘Please ask for a dance, please ask for a danc-’

“Hey, Aya.”

Both of them turn to stare at Théo. Aya with a flustered, wide- eyed look and Jules with a glare. She recognizes him from math class.

“Oh, hey Théo.”

“Would you um… would you like to dance?”

For some strange reason, she turns to face Jules. Almost as if she’s seeking his permission. He gives her a subtle nod and her heart breaks a little.

“Sure, Théo.” She smiles weakly, taking his offered hand and follows him to the middle of the room.

All throughout their dance, her eyes stay on Jules over his shoulder longingly. He doesn’t stop staring at her either. He stands with his fists clenched for three songs before he barges through the crowd and stops beside them.

“Hey, it’s my turn.” Jules says harshly.

Théo eyes him warily before stepping away from her. Aya’s heart races in excitement as they stand face to face.

“Dance with me, Yaya.”

She immediately walks into his embrace— her face falls into the crook of his neck and she relaxes at his familiar scent of sandalwood and Jules. She hugs around his shoulders as his hands fall to her waist as Keyshia Cole’s ‘Heaven Sent’ floats through the room.

**********

“Wait! Not yet.” Aya says with an edge of panic as she paces a hole in her carpet.

Jules rolls his eyes and clicks the email anyway. Aya shrieks and launches herself on her bed, covering her ears as anxiety takes a hold of her entire body.

“Yaya, you got in.”

She bolts upright in her bed. “I did?!”

“I don’t even know what you were worried about. Your grades were excellent.”

He chuckles as she leaps from her bed and into his arms.

“I just… I was really hoping to go to school nearby so I wouldn’t have to leave home.” Her eyes glitter as she stares up at him.

“Hm, didn’t want to leave your dad behind, huh? Daddy’s girl.” He teases softly.

“Yea but not just him…” she mutters shyly.

“Who else?”

She shrugs, looking away from him. But he brings his thumb under her chin to tilt her face in his direction.

“Who else, Yaya?”

“You, Jules.” She breathes timidly. Jules dips his head to peck at her lips softly; he pulls back, gauging her reaction. He must find what he’s looking for in her gaze because he dives right in for another. This time his movements are a lot more sure. He bites at her bottom lip softly to slip his tongue into her mouth. Aya whimpers softly. She has never kissed anyone else and she had no idea it could feel like this. He backs her up until her legs come in contact with her soft mattress. He pulls away but keeps their faces close. Aya breathes in his every exhale almost greedily.

“Have you ever…?” He trails off. She knows immediately what he’s asking.

“You know I haven’t… have you?”

“Yea. Once with Yasmine.”

He immediately dips his head again to kiss away the small pout on her lips.

“It’s me and you now, Aya. I promise. I don’t know why I was being so stubborn before; I’ve always loved you. More than a friend, I just thought it would ruin our friendship.”

“Me too, Jules. That poem you read that day. It was about you.” She admits meekly.

“Do you want to?”

Aya bites her lip and nods immediately. Countless nights of imagining what it would be like with him; it’s now a reality— it’s daunting but she buzzes with anticipation. He kisses her again like he wants to consume her. She’s so warm she fears she might actually combust. Her dress is left in a heap— his clothes follow. They’re both a fumbling mess; full of nerves and doubt. It hurts a lot. But he kisses away the tears on her cheeks and always gives her the option of backing out. But she always says no. She likes the way their bodies are joined. She likes the way he moves above her—inside her, with something so beautiful shining from his eyes that are the most open windows to his soul. She likes the way he gasps her name helplessly as he shakes above her, crushing her body to his as he quivers and moans softly in her ear. Then he kisses her like he’ll never get the chance to ever again. And that night, Aya learns why people call it ‘making love,’ because that’s exactly what they did.

**********

2021.

Aya is a nervous wreck. She shouldn’t feel like this. They have been together for almost four years now and she doesn’t doubt his love for her one bit. Even after he moved to Spain two years ago after finally agreeing to an offer he received from a Spanish club—Sevilla. He keeps in touch, always. And visits his hometown as often as he can. She was distraught when he first broke the news but he reassured her in many ways that the distance wouldn’t mean anything. She’s in her final year of school and he has been subtly hinting at her moving to Spain with him; but Aya can’t, at least not right now. She hasn’t told him, but her father’s mental health has been in the gutter lately. Aya stumbled upon a note he had written and confronted him with sobs wracking her frame. That’s when he also broke down and admitted he has been on the ropes. He’s embarrassed by it, he has always been a prideful man. But he agreed to secretly see a professional and he has kept his promise. However, she’s still afraid to leave him behind. She hasn’t even gone to visit her mother in almost two years because of it. She plans to speak to Jules about it when he lands in a few hours as well as another pressing matter that came about after his last visit three months ago. But when she picked him up from the airport and his hug wasn’t as enthusiastic as they always were, she knew something was wrong. The car ride was also silent after her many attempts to start a conversation fell flat. Aya wrings her hands together as she watches him greet his parents. She waits patiently as they chatter for a while and almost leaps off the couch when he finally moves toward his room.

“Jules, I need to ta-”

“We should break up.”

She feels like she has been doused with a bucket of ice cold water.

“What?”

“Look, another club in Spain approached me. Barcelona? You know football, you know why this is a big deal. They want to sign me in the summer, so I’ll be in Spain for a while. You don’t want to move, and that’s okay, Yaya. I’ll never force you, but we know that years of this won’t be sustainable.”

“But Jules…” she chokes up. She so desperately wishes the words she wants to say would come pouring out of her mouth instead of being a jumbled mess in her scattered brain.

“It’s for the best, Yaya.” He says with a soft kind of finality. He keeps his eyes away from her, not wanting to bear witness to her tears.

Aya almost heaves on the spot. She’s not sure what hurts more; his words or him not even having the balls to look her in the face. She spins on her heels and storms out his home, uncaring of his parents’ concerned calls of her name.

************

2025.

Jules’ favourite parts of the city are the quiet, barely explored streets and shops where people go to share their art. He discovered this black owned café nestled in the middle of an alleyway where people come to share their creations. Whether it be in the form of music, paintings or his favourite, poetry. It reminds him of her. It reminds him of what he lost. It’s been four years and he still beats himself up for it everyday. He hasn’t returned to Bordeaux since then because he’s a fucking coward. He flies his parents to Spain when he’s missing them. He tried to subtly ask his father about how she was doing but the man informed him that her and her father had packed up a few months after their breakup and left the small town. She blocked him on everything too. He was really a fool to think she’d still allow him to have access to her anyway. In his mind, he was doing what was best for them both. She clearly didn’t want to move to Spain and it felt like they would just waste years of each other’s lives dancing around the inevitable. But he regrets it. He now knows that he would’ve rather spent years with only some of her than without her at all. The owner of the café urges the patrons to sit quickly and get settled.

“This afternoon, we have a special guest. She’s on tour promoting her poetry collection and I was lucky enough to get her here while she’s in Spain.”

The small crowd gathered in the café cheers. Seems like everyone is in the loop except him.

“That’s right. If you’re a fan of modern poetry then you’re no doubt a fan of Ms. Aya Augustin.”

Jules almost chokes on his sip of coffee. He feels like time moves in slow motion as the woman walks up on the little makeshift stage. Fuck. She’s everything he imagined her to be. Her hair is in long, jumbo twists that fall to her waist. She wears a long, brown skirt with gold and beaded chains layered over it at her waist. A black flowy sleeveless top that shows a sliver of her belly. She’s a lot more curvy, her chest more ample. A woman. Earthy. So beautiful. And just how he’d picture her when he plays Erykah Badu on repeat when he especially misses her. She’s found her style and he feels like he’s going feral. She smiles at the crowd sofly, a beam of light from the setting sun illuminating her well moisturized face and honey brown eyes. Jules’ heart squeezes in his chest with longing. With love. He’s hypnotized as she recites a few poems from her apparent collection. And when she’s done, she bows gracefully to the roaring audience; but through all the commotion he hears a tiny voice.

“Go mommy!”

Jules stands as if in a trance watching as a little girl, who looks to be about three years old, runs up to the stage and Aya immediately picks her up. Second nature. Routine.

“And this is my little morning star, Danica. Who has been an inspiration for a few of the poems in my collection.”

Jules’ heart stops, then skips several beats as the little girl looks out into the crowd and he sees her face. It’s an odd thing, seeing your exact features on the face of someone else. Those eyes on her little face, they’re exactly his. Jules watches as Aya slowly looks away from the beautiful girl in her arms and into the crowd. It’s no surprise her eyes immediately find him. He’s the only one standing in the café. Her smile slowly melts off her face and her pleasant expression transforms to something akin to horror. The world melts away as Jules comes face to face with the love of his life again. And she’s holding their child. A child he had no idea existed.

[kirathehyrulian]

Possibly my most controversial opinion for the wincest fandom (probably fandom period) is at this point in my fandom tenure I wish that people would just foster and encourage creative fandom spheres where people can make fictional fan content that they're interested in without having to worry about someone breathing down their neck for allegedly "making/enjoying something wrong," instead of spending time being upset about what other people did in their own sandbox with their versions of the fictional blorbos they also like playing with.

I also think fandom's focus on who has the most accurate meta take on the show and their perceived ownership of fictional blorbos is what feeds most of the discourse we have that fosters the salt, anger, bitterness and, at times, toxicity in fandom.

If people like focusing and exploring one note of the source material rather than the full piece and they keep making content for themselves and like-minded people, awesome for them. If it's a cup of tea that I can enjoy, awesome. If not, I'm not gonna join their sandbox playtime. The show's over and nothing anyone does in fandom can change the original source material that finished originally airing five years ago.

I am sorry that people are upset that they're seeing fandom content that they don't vibe with. But, I want to note that most fan creators aren't specifically out there making spite works to upset you. They mostly happen to enjoy and interact with the source material in ways that, unfortunately, you don't and upset you for various reason.

Adding to that, I don't think making knee-jerk assumptions with your full chest about why someone would create a fan fictional work you don't vibe with is accurate or helpful; I.e. they're degenerates, one-dimensional Sam hater, one-dimensional Dean hater, ignorant, phobic, uncultured, uneducated, etc. It's just needlessly dehumanizing and alienating fan creators.

I just feel like there's more nuance to why people explore our fictional show the way they do that's not about us and isn't super our business to know why people id what they id. If creating a fan-fictional work helps a fan creator through the time they lived in real life more power to them. I think that's meaningful, possibly more than blorbo rights wars.

That being said, I'm sure discussions and criticisms about genres, and/or tropes can be and is productive. But I've seen some comments and posts that assign assumptions onto fan creators and devalue fans for being interested in a specific troupe while simultaneously boosting themselves as somehow the better fan. I'm not completely sure how these actions foster fans to feel free to create works that mean something to them and share it with others and encourage the longevity of our fandom sphere.

okay what are you guyses most #controversial opinions/takes within wincest fandom. aside from top/bottom stuff unless you have something seriously outlandish to say about it. mine are i do not want either of them to be fucking pregnarnt and i don't like ethel cain

[amphibious-thing]

Historical queer language is so interesting to me and one word that has caught my attention is inclination. So here is a non-exhaustive list of the word inclination being used to describe same-sex love or same-sex sexual attraction from the late-16th century to the early-19th century. I intentionally wanted to get some variation, some of these examples are from love letters, some are from fiction of the period, one a trial record and one a petition to decriminalise sodomy.

Then Rigby kist Minton several times, putting his Tongue in his Mouth, and taking Minton in his Arms, wisht he might lye with him all night, and that his Lust was provoked to that degree, he had — in his Breeches, but notwithstanding he could F[uck] him; Minton thereupon said, "sure you cannot do it here," "yes," answered Rigby, "I can," and took Minton to a corner of the Room, and put his Hands into Mintons Breeches, desiring him to pull them down, who answered "he would not, but he (Rigby) might do what he pleased"; thereupon Rigby pulled down Mintons Breeches, turn'd away his shirt, put his Finger to Mintons Fundament, and applyed his Body close to Mintons, who feeling something warm touch his Skin, put his hand behind him, and took hold of Rigbys Privy Member, and said to Rigby "I have now discovered your base Inclinations, I will expose you to the World, to put a stop to these Crimes";

~ The Trial of Capt. Edward Rigby 1698

One of these girls tied Monsieur [a dildo] to her middle, To try if she the Secret could unriddle: She acted Man, being in a merry Mood, Striving to please her Partner as she cou’d; And thus they took it in their turns to please Their lustful inclinations to appease.

~ Monsieur Thing's Origin (1722)

I am this moment come from Richmond, but late as it is, your absence allows me too few pleasures for me to neglect any opportunity of taking so sensible a one as that of writing to you. You are by this time at Redlynch, and finding your park wall advanced, the foundations of your new building laid, your slopes improving, your puddles filling, and your plantations thriving. 'Tis possible your joy for these changes without doors may banish all the pain I flattered myself you would feel for one you will find within. If I should guess right, at least have the charitable dissimulation to swear I do not, and sacrifice your sincerity to my vanity; rather than give me the mortification of thinking you did not sacrifice your inclination to your business, when you left the place where I was, for any other. Walk often through "Hervey Grove", and now and then visit the ash by the pas-glissant....

~ Lord Hervey to Stephen Fox, 18 June 1728

Nay, I have been told, that there is another motive perhaps more powerful than all these, that induces people to cultivate this inclination; namely, the exquisite pleasure attending its success.

~ Earl Strutwell's defense of sodomy in The Adventures of Roderick Random by Tobias Smollett (1748)

Ternant will relate to you how many violent struggles I have had between duty and inclination—how much my heart was with you, while I appeared to be most actively employed here—

~ John Laurens to Alexander Hamilton, July 14, 1779

Alas! why am I not with you; Why can I not pass at least one or two nights of the week in your company_ It is necessary to hope that a time will come when I will be more able to follow my inclination_ and if this time comes I will be certainly more often with you my loveable friend.

~ Baron von Steuben to General William North, 11 November 1789 (translated from french)

Anne sat by my bedside till 2. I talked about the feeling to which she gave rise. Lamented my fate. Said I should never marry. Could not like men. Ought not to like women. At the same time apologizing for my inclination that way. By diverse arguments made out a pitiful story altogether & roused poor Anne's sympathy to tears.

~ Diary of Miss Anne Lister, 15 August 1816

That all whether Male or Female have certain inclinations or propensities which must be and are gratified, & for aught I see should be so – they are implanted in us by some unknown power, and that the penalty of Death ought not to be inflicted for the exercise of those inclinations which have been implanted in us by some Superior Agency, and over which we have so little controul.

~ Anonymous Petition to Decriminalise Sex Between Men, 1828

[stuckygeekevents]

📣 STUCKY PRIDE MONTH 2025 ANNOUNCEMENT 🌈

Hello, Stucky Lovers!

June is here, and that means it’s time to celebrate love, identity, resistance, and all the beautifully queer ways Steve and Bucky find their way back to each other. 🏳️‍🌈💙❤️

This year, we’re keeping things low-stress with a Stucky Pride Month Prompt List designed to fit around your busy schedules—including those of you working on the Historical Fiction Mini Bang!

💫 What is it? A flexible, low-pressure event where you can create fics, art, playlists, moodboards, headcanons, or anything else inspired by the prompts.

🖊️ How does it work? Each prompt set includes three abstract words/phrases to inspire creativity, exploration, and queerness in all its forms. Use one prompt, all three, remix them—whatever works for you. There are no deadlines, no word limits, and no pressure.

📅 When? All throughout June! Post when you’re ready and feel free to revisit the prompts later, too.

🪩 Where do I share? • On Discord: Use the #stucky-pride channel • On Tumblr: Tag your posts with #stuckypride2025 and/or #stucky pride month • AO3 users: You're welcome to use Stucky Pride 2025 in your notes or tags • AO3 users: You're welcome to use Stucky Pride 2025 in your notes or tags and add your works to our official collection.

🧠 Prompt Tracks:

We’ve organized the prompts into “tracks” (like songs on an album or chapters in a story)—each with a set of three themed ideas. You can use one, two, or all three prompts from any track. Mix and match, interpret them however you want, and most of all—have fun with it!

❤️ Track 1 • Hidden in Plain Sight • The First Time • Color in the Dark

🧡 Track 2 • Freedom • What We Carry • One Step at a Time

💛 Track 3 • Smoke and Glitter • After Midnight • The Feeling of Being Seen

💚 Track 4 • Two Pints and a Protest • Loud and Proud • Something Borrowed

💙 Track 5 • Unwritten Letters • Chosen Family • We Made It

💜 Track 6 • Back Then • Right Now • Someday Soon

🩷 Track 7 • Soft Hands • Bruised Hearts • Bold Love

🤎 Track 8 • Don’t Ask • Don’t Tell • Don’t Stop

🖤 Track 9 • Lips Like a Secret • Eyes Like Home • Hearts Like Fireworks

🤍 Track 10 • Coming Home • Coming Out • Coming Alive

This is about joy, love, softness, history, protest, and pride—all the things that make Steve and Bucky such an iconic queer ship. Whether you're creating something big or small, we can't wait to see what you come up with 💖

🏳️‍🌈✨ Happy Pride Month, Stucky fam! ✨🏳️‍🌈

*Also, just to clarify—while this is a Stucky Pride event, Steve and Bucky (and any other characters you want to include) can be portrayed with any sexuality or gender identity. It’s not limited to just Stucky being gay! Everyone’s welcome to explore diverse identities and relationships in their stories.

[dairogo]

THERE'S A WHOLE ISHVAL CONVERSATION I FORGOT ABOUT WHEN WRITING MY ISHVAL FIC.

You remember this haha very funny moment?

Delightful. Great. Time to catch up on all sorts of things and bring Mustang's crew into the loop on the Devil's Nest stuff that just went down.

??

First: Ed's turning 16 soon. Convo turns to him being used in war. I'm trying to figure out how that limit is there. Maybe 16 is when Amestrians can enlist, therefore that's the youngest they can be sent to war? Ed bypassed that by being a State Alchemist but maybe they kept the age limit for being able to deploy him.

Then

Oh that's right.

I. Forgot. About this iconic scene. When writing a whole fic about Ishval.

Did I? Maybe I accounted for it with a side-story, but I didn't go back and look at this section to make sure I covered it well.

(Sorry, I just passed the four year anniversary since I finished writing it and it's been on my mind a bit.)

There's a flashback convo (four speech bubbles) between Roy and Maes regarding Armstrong being sent home. I feel like I had that conversation in a different way. And just some general talk about the traumatic environment of war. A pre-empting of Riza's comment about how guns don't leave blood on your hands the way knives do (heh).

And then Roy and Armstrong get the measure of each other, Roy testing to see if Armstrong wants to make a change, Armstrong asserting his loyalty to the military state ... but not its agenda. And then, despite his professed loyalty to the military, Armstrong indicates that change should come from someone who has experienced the horrors of Ishval, with a weighty pause before Roy's name. (Is it in vocative or a sideways nominative? The pause indicates a plausible deniability.)

I think this is my first proper reread in five years. That's the only way that I haven't noticed this earlier, after diving on in to Ishval so strongly in 2020-2021.

FICTIONAL POLITICS MAKE MY MIND GO BRRRR.

I just love how Armstrong is throwing his support behind Roy here. Central might be keeping Roy busy, but it's also opened up so many opportunities.

[jeonxyiee]

𝘾𝙪𝙙𝙙𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙘𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙮 𝙗𝙤𝙮𝙛𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙| 𝙟𝙟𝙠 𝙛𝙡𝙪𝙛𝙛

୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆⋆. 𐙚˚

It was a quite night, the sound of the busy city fades into the background, letting his steady breathing be the highlight.

Y/N was on her laptop doing some work until Jungkook, her clingy boyfriend had dragged her into bed for some cuddles. She couldn't resist his charm so she had to.

So now here they were, tangled in the sheets in eachother's embrace. She rested her head on his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat, lying half top on him. His arms were wrapped around her waist like steel bands like if he left go, she will disappear.

Her one leg was thrown over his two possesively. Her hand played with his dark locks making him let out small contended sounds occasionally. His hand will instinctively rub her back gently, showing her deep affection.

Y/N lifted her head slightly to look at his face. The moonlight filtering through the window casted a silver glow on his face, making him look serene and innocent. His eyes were half hooded, already drooping with the heaviness of sleep.

Her face broke into a loving smile, her voice soft and sweet, "are you sleepy, koo?" His eyes fluttered slightly before he let out a tired hum. Y/N leaned up, placing a gentle kiss to his cheek, "go ahead and sleep, love. I'll be right here." His lips turned up into a sleepy smile, his voice husky with tiredness, "Mmm, goodnight, baby." She smiled and whispered back softly, "goodnight, koo."

She watched as his eyes finally closed fully, letting sleep carry him into his dreamland. She went back to resting her head on his chest, closing her eyes as well but not before murmuring, "I love you."

୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆⋆. 𐙚˚

[🧸] do not copy !! All rights reserved to jeonxyiee on Tumblr.

[🧸] grammatical mistakes ahead !!

[🧸] thanks for reading my work, hope you enjoyed it !!

[🧸] disclaimer —

Everything written is fictional. There is no relation to the characters in real life. Please don't take it seriously and comment down your thoughts.

[🧸] tags ;

[winterinhimring]

Rookie tactics. Who needs to blow up every other bookstore? Park the tank in front of your store, stock it with some good military fiction, add some comfortable seating, and you'll drive them all out of business within the year.

you can't declare that decommissioned tank you bought as a business expense you run a second hand book store

[retireddaddyric]

Baby

Synopsis: After Daniel gets dropped from F1 his relationship with you changes.

Warnings: 18+, minors do not interact please. Age gap. Swearing, sad, names calling, fights, unprotected sex, pain.

Note: this is all fiction. English is not my first language, so I apologize in advance if there are any errors. Thanks for the comments, keep them coming!

He came he went and you were always there.

He was always away. Perth, Monaco, La, Austin. You were never with him, he was always busy somewhere else.

You texted him, he texted back a day or two after. Like you were nothing. Like you were not his “baby”.

Since September when he was forced to retire you had accepted to be at the side of his life. You didn’t know what he did when he wasn’t with you, you didn’t ask. You read online he was with his family, then on the other side of the world with some friends, then again with Max in Monaco a couple of days later.

He didn’t want to be bothered, you accepted it. You were 20 and you knew he was a man, he had demons, he had had a whole life before you. He never asked you who you were with, if uni was going well.

You met other people, you went on with your life as if he didn’t exist. You casually had sex around from time to time, men loved a needy black girl. Only you always pictured him when you came on their dicks.

You were yours.

But when he texted you once every month you were always there for him.

He called you “baby”, you melted.

Your best friend told you you were desperate, you knew it, but it hurt. She told you he was mean, you knew it, still it hurt.

He had paid for your flight from Montreal to Monaco, you knew those were going to be days full of sex, your friend’s words resonated in your head.

You knew what she thought of you two.

You knew what you were.

Whore.

But you weren’t able to say it out loud and tell him to go play somewhere else. Because you’d take anything he would offer, every crumble, every tear. You hoped he would heal.

Because he hadn’t been like that before September.

You two had started dating in March. You followed him to his races, he was funny, romantic, caring. He didn’t mind getting caught with you at a restaurant or in the paddock. He was a real boyfriend despite not being one yet.

Then Vcarb dropped him and you lost him. Almost.

Anytime you would meet you hoped to see him back to himself, to his jokester behavior.

You knock at the door of his Montecarlo apartment. When he opens it he sighs and smiles a bit.

He hooks his finger in your jeans belt loop and pulls you to him, closing the door. He kisses you, hard, against the wall.

He picks you up and take you upstairs to his bedroom.

“You don’t ask how was the flight?” You whisper breathlessly while he lays you on the bed and gets between your thighs.

“How was the flight?” He says unbuttoning your shirt.

You narrow your eyes.

“Don’t start the bullshit, you know why you’re here.” He says coldly.

Your heart drops and you look into his eyes. He looks away and sinks his face between your tits. He pulls down your bra and whispers “fuck..” before licking your nipple. He groans and inhales your perfume.

His hands caress your cheeks.

You moan and squeeze your eyes shut.

He sucks your other nipple while he unzips your jeans. He sits on his heels taking them off then flips you over and spanks your ass twice.

“What did you tell your mom?” He whispers aroused watching your fim ass bounce.

You still lived with her since you were still in uni.

“..that my friend Laura needed me after a breakup.” You say a little breathy.

He smirks and pulls your hips up. He pulls down your panties so they stay mid thigh. He caresses your clit with his digits.

“Did you have sex with anyone?” He whispers.

You nod, your face on the mattress. He stops. Then he smirks.

“Did you come?”

You nod. He spanks your ass hard. But then says “Good girl.” He starts touching your pussy softly, slowly.

You feel his face sink in, his hands keeping your folds open. You moan, you move your hips.

Whore.

Then he takes his dick out and thrusts it inside you hard. You flinch and moan, he stops.

You feel him caress your spine lightly. You’re still shaking. He kisses your shoulder so softly, you think you hear him mutter “sorry.” but you’re not sure.

Then he grabs your hips and starts moving. You squeeze your eyes shut, he’s big and you’re still stretching. He kisses your nape so softly you don’t know if it’s him or if you’re imagining it.

He hugs you from behind so you’re kneeling before him, his dick moving inside you while he keeps you in his arms, his nose between your afro braids.

You shiver and moan, your pussy getting wet.

“Just like that baby, take me.” He whispers in your hear.

“Daniel I-“

“I know, you’re squeezing me, I know.” And he thrusts deeper until you tremble and moan out loud.

He puts a hand on your head so your face is down in the pillow while he fucks you with abandon. And then he pulls out and comes all over your shaking ass, white on black. A work of art.

When he stands he throws you jeans next to you. “Go back home.” He says breathlessly, agitated.

Your heart breaks. You sit up and watch him shocked.

“You heard me.” He says cold pulling his shorts back on, not looking at you.

Whore.

“What do you mean, my house is-“

“In Canada. Go back to your country, to your mother, to your studies.”

You have no air left. You’re disgusted, you’re in pain. You have no words to express all the things you are feeling, all the thoughts that are crossing your mind.

“This was the last time.” He says walking out the bedroom. You follow him, still naked. “What the fuck is happening in that shit you call brain? Are you fucking insane?”

“Shut up, you knew I didn’t call you to drop on one knee and propose.”

“I just hoped you were coming back to your senses!”

“My senses? Girl I’ve been using you for months now.”

Whore.

“So this is what I am to you?”

“This is what you are to me.”

“What?”

“A whore.”

A WHORE.

You see red. You grab the Singapore helmet from the library and smash it on the little table, the crystal pieces flying everywhere. “Fuck you!” You shout crying, breathless.

He doesn’t react, he just watches the helmet roll on the floor, his face low, his beard longer.

And ten ninutes later you’re out his door, walking with your hand up towards an uber.

You don’t hear from him again.

You don’t reach out.

You delete him from all your social media.

You throw away all the gifts he gave you before Singapore.

For six months you don’t know if he’s alive or dead.

Then one day you’re in uni scrolling mindlessly on your phone before a lesson and Instagram suggests a post you might like.

Daniel Ricciardo’s new tattoo inside his elbow: the Singapore helmet between shattered glass and the writing “baby” underneath it.

[transvampireboyfriend]

part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5 - part 6 - part 7 - part 8

"I'm just saying, if the heat bothers you so much, you could cut your hair" Nancy points out, after declining Eddie's pleas for her spare scrunchie.

Robin sits on Nancy's lap, clutching the back of Steve's seat and she looks at Steve through the side mirror like she's afraid that he's about to go on a mission to defend Eddie's honor or something but Steve rolls his eyes at her. He's not that gone.

Or at least he knows how to hide it well.

Eddie's lost several of Nancy's favorite hair accessories and two weeks ago she bowed to never lend him any ever again.

Which, does not stop Eddie from asking her anyway at least once a day.

But the point is, even if Steve wanted to, Eddie's honor cannot be defended in this situation.

Nancy's leaning behind Argyle's back now to glare at the metalhead. Steve can see them in the rearview mirror.

Eddie gasps "I would never" he says, clutching his chest dramatically.

Steve secretly breathes a sigh of relief.

Johnathan chuckles at the wheel. "But you could" he comments, eyes on the road.

Steve can see Argyle subtly laughing and shaking his head out of the corner of his eye.

Today is a rare occasion, Jonathan is driving them in Steve's car.

The goal of Steve's rant earlier about having to drive them everywhere was to get Eddie to drive them, so Steve could sit shotgun and watch Eddie drive.

Instead, Jonathan had offered first and then Steve couldn't go in the backseat because he's in charge of their map.

But whatever, this is fine too. He trusts Jonathan and it is nice to get a break and to be able to fully turn around when he's talking to someone in the backseat.

"Jon, I would lose all my sex appeal, you don't get it" Eddie answers, getting a box of Twinkies from one of the many bags they packed and placed on the floor of Steve's car.

"I get it" Argyle chimes in, watching Eddie pull out a Twinkie and shaking his head no when Eddie offers him one.

"You'd still be sexy with short hair" Robin comments from her seat on Nancy's lap.

Everyone turns to look at her.

"What?" she shrugs "I can say that"

Nancy chuckles into her shoulder.

Steve opens their map again to stop thinking about Eddie's 'sex appeal', even as the guy is excitedly munching on a Twinkie in the backseat of Steve's car.

He's got cream in the corner of his mouth and he clearly put more in his mouth than he can comfortably chew. He's leaning one elbow on Argyle's shoulder, his hand holding half a Twinkie, his other hand holds his mop of hair up in a high bun, causing his cut off tank to sit barely covering his nipples, his tattoos on display and his armpit hair fully visible.

Steve's fairly certain nobody else in this car would get it, but to him the sight is mouth watering. The guy is practically irresistible.

"I don't think i would've gone on even half the dates I've gone on if i didn't have my hair" Steve muses, for something to say and to add to Eddie's point, even though he agrees with Robin.

Almost everyone answers with agreeable noises, except Eddie and Robin.

Robin snorts and says "You are relentless"

While Eddie says "You don't get dates for your hair" at the same time. In a tone that suggests he thinks this is an obvious thing.

"I mean- it doesn't hurt" provides Nancy, she sends Steve an apologetic look but Steve waves her off. It's a compliment as far as he's concerned, he loves his hair.

Eddie finishes his treat and opens a new one while everyone else gives their opinions.

"For a lot of people, hair is a big part of attraction" Jonathan is saying, trying to seem like he's not speaking from experience.

"Especially hair as luscious as Steve's" Argyle agrees, leaning forward to lightly comb the side of Steve's hair, making him laugh.

"Thanks, man" Steve says overlapping Eddie's response.

"And I agree!" he exclaims "I'm saying he doesn't get dates because of his hair." Eddie goes on, waving his new Twinkie around for emphasis. "People throw themselves at Steve, and always will, but it's not because of his hair" he repeats.

Steve feels his cheeks heat up but still asks "Then why?"

"Well, because you're very pretty!" Eddie answers easily, like everyone should already know this.

Steve keeps his eyes carefully trained on the map, like he needs to study it meticulously, right this moment, while they're in the middle of a highway.

His cheeks are burning up and he can feel it spreading to his ears.

"And that's if they don't know you!" Eddie continues "If they do know you they know you're kind and brave and strong ...and generous and funny. Who wouldn't want all that in a date?" Eddie finshes.

Oh I don't know, you? Maybe? Do you? Steve thinks.

"Even bald, people would still go crazy for you" Eddie adds, his words slightly muffled towards the end as he shoves almost all of the new Twinkie in his mouth but apparently thinks better of it, biting all but a small piece.

"Here. You want the rest of this?" Eddie offers Steve, talking through his mouthful, and presenting the small piece with his ringed fingers, right in front of Steve's face.

Without thinking, Steve leans forward and takes it with his mouth, his lips burning where they touched Eddie's fingers.

As Eddie retrieves his hand Steve realizes what he just did and how quiet the car got.

He sends Robin a panicked look through the side mirror as Jonathan awkwardly clears his throat.

"Argyle's got nice hair" Robin tries.

The car immediately fills up with enthusiastic agreement and Steve slowly breathes out.

He can't bring himself to look at Eddie as he chews on his bite. He practically licked Eddie's fingers. Unprompted! The guy probably meant for Steve to grab the treat and then eat it. If he even accepted it at all!

Steve feels like an idiot and he frowns at the map again, willing himself to ignore the goosebumps in his arms and the tickling on his lips.

He doesn't see Eddie worriedly staring at him for the remaining of their conversation, until Nancy takes pity on him and offers up her spare scrunchie to distract him.

part 2

[rumble-bee-art]

Kisses of fire (the carpet is burning, burning!)