#not as beautiful as Axy but you know what i mean... | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

harmoonix · 2 months

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🍄 Retro - Astro 🍄

(Astrology Observations)

ྉ☯ྉ☯ྉ☯ྉ☯ྉ☯ྉ☯ྉ☯ྉ☯ྉ☯ྉ☯ྉ☯ྉ☯ྉ☯ྉ☯ྉ☯

🍄 - I love to stare in the eyes of the natives with Neptune - Asc aspects, most of my friends have such aspects and they truly have beautiful eyes

🍄 - Pluto in Sagittarius Generation is really meant to give and normalize things back to normal, and for example bringing things that were used in the past and to normalize them again

🍄 - Wanna know why so many Aquarius Suns may act so different and unique? Sun is ruled by Leo and Aquarius is its opposite sign so sun acts different in Aquarius

🍄 - Neptune and Mercury aspects can indicate love for music and most times for old music or old music style, you know liking those songs from the 90's

🍄 - One fast way to learn your sign houses in your birth chart is to know the order of the zodiac signs, this method worked with me for example you have Gemini Rising and Leo Sun > Your sun will be in the 3rd house because Leo is 1 sign (Cancer) apart from Gemini

🍄 - 8°, 20° degrees on the Midheaven attract jealousy really fast, envy too and sometimes can even get hate without a reason, on the other hand people can become obsessed with them

🍄 - Sagittarius in your 4th/12th house axis can come from more nationalities/ethnicity/race like having more than 1 background country ancestry (or your ancestors/family members)

🍄 - Lilith in your 9th/12th or 4th house can indicate ancestors or family members working with the occult/witchcraft/magic/tarot etc...

🍄 - Sun in the 12th house natives have an ongoing karma, basically they are working on their karma constantly

🍄 - Virgo Moon's beauty is underatted, they are so beautiful and they can actually look younger because of the Mercury's youth effect

🍄 - I remember once checking on google about Jupiter in Virgo husband (my sidereal Jupiter placement) and I got this:

I can't tell if this is real or not tbh 😭😭

🍄 - Neptune aspecting Chiron will literally empower your subconscious with a lot of intuition, spirituality like you really have the chance to heal your subconscious in case is hurt with those placements

🍄 - Everyone I know with Cancer Placements gets so DEPRESSED based on the weather, and omg I'm not joking or something if the weather outside is bad they're gonna be depressed or in a bad mood

🍄 - Every time I see someones chart with 10th house placements especially Sun and Venus there I know they got the cash bag 💰💰

🍄 - Not gonna lie knowing how organized Virgo placements are, I think natives with Virgo in the 4th house have the most most most most most most organized house-castle ever just like in Cinderella and everything looking perfect

🍄 - You can spot health problems in a chart by looking at their 6th house sign (both in tropcial and sidereal) looking at the ruler/lord of the 6th house and of course the planets (if there are) in the 6H house

🍄 - Stelliums play a very big role in a chart (A stellium is when you have 3 or more than 3 planets in a house) and indicates a big focus in that area

🍄 - Empty houses play a very big role as well, and an empty house is not a bad thing or something but spirituality talking it indicates an area you already completed in your past life

🍄 - Let me tell you how tricky Venus in Capricorn can be to make you fall in love with matured enough people and sometimes the karma comes and strikes and says "They're not the one for you"

🍄 - Moon in the 9th house is another tricky placement to have because in harsh aspects it can indicate a religious trauma and sometimes it can indicate love for religion/beliefs you understand what I mean...😭😭

🍄 - A lot of people who happens to get betrayed have Pluto/Saturn Lilith and sometimes Neptune in the 11th house, (I know all the people can get betrayed but these are just some indicators

🍄 - Sagittarius/Jupiter in the 11th house can be blessed with friends or in general having luck with their friendships and social networks, sometimes their friends can come from a different background than them

🍄 - Mercury at 10°, 22° degrees really can have a deeper voice than others (depends on aspects) but their voice is so damn attractive

🍄 - Uranus and Lilith in the 5th house can get confused if they will want or not to have kids like is difficult and in the same time draining for them (Lilith in general in that house natives don't want kids but is just my thoughts on it)

🍄 - Sagittarius Midheaven/Midheaven in the 9th house or in Sagittarius Degrees 9°, 21° really need to chose something the job/career they're passionate about because it grants them luck

🍄 - Midheaven at Aries Degrees 1°, 13°, 25° or MC in Aries have a big chance to get a leader position at their job or having the main character energy

🍄 - I tell you Gemini Moons and Moon in the 3rd house natives have the best tea ("Tea" as a gen z slang means gossip) like gossips stories i honestly wonder from where or who they know so many things im so invested y'all 😭😍

🍄 - 2nd house and the Moon Sign represent food in the birth chart, and I know water/earth ones love sweets so much

🍄 - If you want to know more about your true self check your Ascendant ruler persona chart, AND if you have 2 planets rulers check both persona charts for ex if you are Scorpio Risings check your Mars and Pluto persona charts, sadly for Leo Risings their natal chart is pretty much their true self (There is no Sun persona chart😭)

🍄 - Leo in the 7th house can have the same problem like your natal chart pretty much tells you about your future spouse because there is no Sun persona chart to look for in case you wanna look for your 7th house ruler persona chart 😭

🍄 - Cancer Risings in your D9 (vedic) chart can indicate a nurturing spouse or in general your partner has a very nurturing and kind energy

🍄 - I admire 6th house Placements for how much they want to keep themselves healthy like is a top priority and i respect that so much, because your health matters so much in life ♥️♥️♥️🙌🏼

🍄 - Aries Placements especially Aries Juno I love their energy. They just give that leader and confident/powerful vibe (boss vibe) in the chart also someone very bold and funny I love them

🍄 - Draconic Chart is the chart of your soul before reincarnation/coming to earth and the placements are indicating how your soul expected to be on earth (like their life), and im gonna cry I have Saturn in the 7th house in this chart as well. my soul knew I will have to wait for that specific person to come 😭 I'm done...

🍄 - Mercury in the 11th house makes socially open natives they get along so good with most people because of their social skills, they're also smart, creative and very open minded too

🍄 - Pluto in the 12th house has a chance to become very powerful in this life because this placement usually indicates an painful karma, you will certainly experience a lot of good and bad things in your current life

💝 This post was more like at a spiritual level 💝

Be blessed you all who read my observations 💝

ྉ☯ྉ☯ྉ☯ྉ☯ྉ☯ྉ☯ྉ☯ྉ☯ྉ☯ྉ☯ྉ☯ྉ☯ྉ☯ྉ☯ྉ☯

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undercoverpena · 2 months

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a debt to pay

frankie morales x f!reader | masterlist

summary: you surprise frankie by coming home earlier than planned, answering the door a-la-fake-porn like, making him drag you to your bedroom.

warnings: smut. established relationship. praise kink. minor (and I mean brief) hand necklace. dirty talk. okay, frankie likes to talk kink. cowgirl riding for iwd. and the pizza goes cold (felt it needed a warning) wordcount: 4.8k an: to the wonderful, amazing @morallyinept - happy international women's day! i hope frankie treating you right is what you had on your bucket list for the day. but if not, just know you inspire me, and i'm grateful for your friendship every day. and ily.

Nothing should surprise him.

He’s seen a lot. A thing some could argue is far too much. In some ways, they’re right.

Frankie isn’t sure people who weren’t doctors should know the exact hue of red that blood is—shouldn’t know the pain from a bullet grazing his shoulder, catching flesh and ruining cloth.

Still, he found himself continually surprised—especially the night he met you.

Falling into him, into his life. Disrupting his days from bleeding into the next, knocking things off their axis. Change should be scary, but it was all welcomed, just not in a way he’d ever thought he’d earned.

Somehow, amidst the chaos you brought with you, you also handed him harmony. You made the corners of his world slot together. Slowly, he even found himself anchoring down to brick and mortar, and calling it ‘home’ for the first time since he’d originally left his for battles and fighting.

In time, even as months became a year, your things found their way to be with his, Frankie had assumed he’d seen everything. Happy to accept it, the routine, the complacency. He looked forward to lazy Sunday mornings with his fingers inside yours, toes curling; Thursday nights in a bar, watching a line appear on your brow as you scoured your brain for an answer to the trivia question.

He liked it, adored it.

And then you opened the front door for him.

Flooding him in golden light that makes him squint, before he finds himself reminded, quickly, he hasn’t seen it all. Not even by a margin.

Because you're not supposed to be here, due back tomorrow.

Your voice on the phone earlier muted, low, "I miss you, Morales," as he stares at your untouched, clean mug on the kitchen counter.

Yet, here you stand. All veiled in barely anything except bits of lace and sheer, a sight his eyes aren't able to tear away from even if he tries. Not even the dryness in his throat or the warmth emanating from the pizza box he's holding (attempting to sear his skin to his palm) is bothering him.

"Bab—"

His words are cut short, ended.

"Oh," you gasp. “Let me take that; and how much do I owe you?”

On registering your words, his eyes narrow, staring.

Doing so from one eye to the next. It taking a while, brain firing, ticking over, taking precious seconds as he remains out in the cold and you stand in the warmth in barely fucking anything, before it dawns on him. Crawls up over him as realises what it is you’re pretending to do, what you're reenacting.

Lips lifting, curling into one of his cheeks he steps in through the doorway. Almost over the threshold, easily able to take another step and close the door behind him.

But he waits.

Fingers twitch at his side, Frankie swallows, eyes dropping, tracing up the bare backs of your thighs as you bend over. Because fuck, you're something beautiful. A thing he always thinks, but finds himself reminded in waves as they crash into him.

Raising his hand, he itches across his chin, scratching along the wiry hair there as his gaze drops to the thin fabric protecting the last bit of your modesty as you and the bits of lace spread across your ass—

“I only have card—unless, I can pay you in another way?”

This shouldn’t be real.

You, like this. Him, standing like this. Not even as he steps inside, eyes trained on you—forgetting what words even mean—as you bend over.

A low exhale escapes, lips remaining parted as he fights to place his palm on the back of your thigh—stops himself from hooking a finger in the band of your underwear and dragging it down your thighs, bending you over the sofa, and burying his—

“I would really like to pay you in some way.”

Your words are almost lost due to the way his pulse has quickened in his ears, thundering, pounding. Feeling nothing but discomfort as his cock hardens against the zip of his pants as you bite down on your lip.

Brain quiet, no thoughts, all rendered silent by your appearance. Only able to shift enough to discard his cap, his jacket—folding it over the back of the sofa, eyes drawing out over you as he takes a step closer. Fingers finding his wrist, pinching, making sure this isn't some dream he hasn't woken up from.

But he can smell the present. The glorious cheese and several toppings, even if devouring the pizza are long forgotten. Because his eyes are raking over you, because how could he not—especially now as you straighten up, softly wiggling your hips.

"Is that so?” his voice rough, words catching. Letters clagging at the back of his teeth as though they attempted to glue to his mouth.

He's aware the three words are stained with want—a small, knowing smile tugging at your lips as you turn to face him, knowing it too.

But then, you always do know. Having long figured him out.

Like always, your eyes meet his in a way he can never explain, no words to articulate, to explain—just shared understanding dancing between the two of you.

“It’s only right,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, your fingers reaching out to trace his wire-stubbled jawline. “It’s bad of me to order food and not have the money to pay.”

He catches your wrist, gently but firmly. Pulling you close, steadying you with the other at your waist. Hearing it, the gasp, the briefest of indications you'd been caught by surprise, as he brushes his fingers against the fabric, all unable to stop themself. Half-needing to know what it feels like, as his thumb smooths out, taking his time—forcing the tension to buzz in the air as he leans closer. The distance you small, minimal—almost non-existent—as his breath hitches in his throat.

“You know what you’re getting into?” his voice a low growl, strained.

His gaze locked on you, watching you bite on your lower lip. “I really don’t like being in debt.”

It’s low, the way he replies. Short, two words: okay baby, before he’s leading, guiding, pecking kisses on your lips that likely leave you disorientated. It thrumming in his veins, the fact he gets to undo you, peel off the thin fabric you’ve likely had stuffed at the back of the closet—or even purchased with him in mind on your trip, thighs pressed together, wondering, finger and thumb stroking it as you imagine if he'd rip it off or slowly slide it from you.

He's not sure himself.

A part of him wishes to snap it from your frame in front of open blinds and undrawn curtains. To place his palm on your ass and taste your gasp on his tongue.

But another, the part which has missed you, wishes to wait. Make you wait. Wants to drag it out as long as humanly possible, have you soaked, wet, needy and desperate.

Because Frankie wonders if you've imagined this. Or, if you plotted it or it came to you randomly.

He gets an answer to it when the two of you are behind another door—one more private, intimate.

And it feels different in the bedroom than it did out in the living room.

The lighting being one of the reasons.

In here, you had opted for a darker shade when you’d both redecorated. Told him you preferred it, and had given him a shrug and a smile as you did. It had been a while later when he’d learned it was for him. For his eyes, for the sleep he struggled to grasp. It’ll help, I think? Saying it to him as though it wasn’t the kindest fucking thing someone had done for him.

But then, you are a waking dream.

A thing which has shaped itself and made itself real right before his eyes. Sculpted yourself from wishes and wants, shaping until you’re nothing but tangible and real.

He’s not afraid to tell you that either. Spends hours whispering it into your skin, pressing it close to your ear, repeating it over and over what perfection you are as you look at him with lust-blown eyes and lips parted around his name.

Frankie doubts it’s enough.

Least of all now, when you’re painted in soft white light, all gentle in how it rolls over you, as it becomes clear you’ve been home for a while.

You've drawn the blackout curtains—keeping out the evening—and you'd flicked the little bedside lamp on, doing its best to illuminate the room.

Swallowing, he traces his teeth over his tongue, wondering if you watched him reverse off the drive as you waited to make your move. Wondering if you're snuck in, trying not to disturb—dress yourself up, even if you never need to.

Because you’re a vision always.

The most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Even angry because he's left his tools out or with disappointment etched into your eyes because he’s forgotten something, you’re radiant, a goddess on earth.

A thing he finds himself reminded of as he steps closer to you. Fingers fiddling at his side as begins to close the small gap.

If not for the way he’s looking at you, he might have missed the shiver running through you from anticipation—and he knows it because of his action, due to the hungry look he's sure he's sporting as he raises his hands to remove his outer shirt. Balling it up, throwing it, a thing already unremembered before it even leaves his fingers.

"Frankie..."

"I know, just keep your eyes on me."

And you do, ever obedient. A thing no one would believe him off outside of these four walls. Not when you hold yourself strong and are quick to bite back, all wit and quick-thinking in addition to your brains and beauty.

He hooks a finger under the edge of his t-shirt, dragging it up over his head as he hears it—that little hiss, that slight gasp you do as though you’ve not seen him topless a thousand times.

It feels good. Makes heat rise up his neck and flood his ears. For a moment, he forgets he’s not all that. Because he’s soft, a little thicker around the middle, it feels like a lifetime ago he was trained in combat. But the way you look at him makes him feel like that is the furthest thing from the truth.

Fuck, you make him hard. Make him want. Have done since the moment you’d given him half a chance.

It’s why he's quick to pull you close, desperate to slant his mouth over yours. All fiery, hungry. Aiming to claim and write out all the ways he’s thought of you in the days since you’d been away. How the hours of you being gone and the amount he’s missed you have all balled up into a thing that is now fuelling him—sketching his wishes and desires across your lips, against your tongue, burying them past your teeth so they sit in your throat.

He grasps. Likely leaves marks of it on the perfect skin that covers your waist—because his palm is calloused and worn. Reminders of holding things not half as soft as you. A flicker of guilt almost bubbles in his, as he moves to rest it on your cheek, cradling your jaw and ear in one hand, as he slides the other up your back.

You whimper against his teeth before fingers find the clasp—finger and thumb, pinging it open before he feels fabric scrape against him—then you moan.

His chest being greeted with nothing but warm, smooth bare skin—nipples pebbling in the cooler air before being pressed against him, before he cups the swell of one, thumb stroking, playing a pattern.

“Do this for all the deliveries you get?”

You snort, it blowing out in a breath. “Only the ones with packages I like.”

In the time you’ve been together, you’ve said worse, but this time makes cock harden more than it already is. It's almost uncomfortable, in how it presses against his zipper, wishing to be released, as his index and thumb stroke over your skin. Taking it on how warm you are, how impossibly soft—distantly feeling the tremors from your heart hammering into your ribs.

"Too good for me, you are." You hum, as he seals his mouth back over yours. “But, I don’t take card.”

Purposefully, he drops his hand, fingers dipping, tracing across the lace that covers your slit—finding damp fabric as his ears take in the note of a quiet escape leaving your lips. It trying to bury itself between your two mouths open, breathing it in.

“Guess you’ll have to swipe something else.”

He snorts, and buries it into your neck, teeth grazing your skin—nose catching the scent of your perfume. And the scent almost makes him dizzy from how his blood rushes south. How the moment he’d dropped you off for your flight, it had lingered in the cabin of his truck. Remaining there for the first few days you were gone, before slowly fading. Leaving.

Just there on the coat you'd hung near the door and the pillows he slept beside.

The ones he rested his head against when he’d heard your voice down the phone, tell me to touch myself, Frankie, I need you. His own hand wrapped around his cock, stroking it as you moaned his name, all those miles away, dripping instructions into your ear.

“You're such a dirty girl.”

You grin in response, fingers tugging at his curls—urging his mouth back to yours.

But, he instead traces his tongue over your pulse, circling it, all defiant in bowing to you as his teeth trace over his path. Instead, his finger dips, traces the crease of your thigh with his gaze never leaving yours.

“Missed you,” you whisper.

His hand slides between your thighs, cupping you—feeling the discernible wetness soaked through.

“Can feel it.”

You scoff, but he kisses it away.

Doing so in a similar way to how he makes you forget, how he pulls you from your mind and brings you to the present. It’s also swallowed by another gasp, one made because of his fingers finding the edge of the lace, hooking a finger underneath, sliding the pad of his thumb against your swollen nerves and slick entrance.

"So wet for me," he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the whine you emit. “Feelin’ needy, querida?”

And he can’t take his eyes off you.

Practically locked in, watching as your lips part, and your hips try to shift for more friction. He’s too fearful he’ll miss it, all of it—a slight curve of a brow or a shimmer on your eyes. All things he thinks over when he dreams, when he wishes for replays of moments until the next day when he makes another that easily replaces a good one.

He likes how you say his name when he slips another finger inside you—how it falls all soft, breathless. So much intention in such a low sound. Even as you squirm, mouth pausing over his; little mewls and moans falling as he drags them in and out, all languorous, teasing.

“Want you.”

His thumb brushes over your swollen clit, a hiss escaping. “I know.”

You gasp his name, stifle a moan, teeth biting down on the underside of your lower lip as your lashes flutter. It’s your nails digging into his scalp that keeps him rooted, that keeps him focused—precise touches and strokes that have you rocking against him and keep him tuned in to you.

“Missed how you sound, baby. You're doing so well.”

You’re close. His words make your perfect pussy clench around him. A chorus of moans escaping as he curls them inside of you, finds that spot, the one which makes you babble and turns your muscles into liquid.

He likes that he can do this.

That he can read you and undo you. That it’s a thing he’s mastered when he’d thought he was far from learning. But then, he’d taken great pride in spending hours studying—in alternating between being on his back and on his knees.

And because of that, he knows when he halt you over the edge. Let you linger, not tipping.

Normally, he’d never tease, never make you want—but, today is a different kind of day as he stops. As he retracts his fingers and allows the fabric to lightly snap back into place.

It’s a different whine that cuts into the room then. It pours out from your lips as your eyes dig daggers into him—but, he knows you.

Knows it’s momentary and nothing he can’t fix. Able to hold his ground against it, digging heels into the floor—all refusing to be swayed by the storm rising inside of you, creeping across the formerly tranquil sea. Instead, his hands move to his belt—undoing it, metal clanging and zip sliding down as your eyes break from glaring to stare hungrily at the outline of his cock.

Watching as you walk backwards, the back of your knees hitting the bed before you’re perching—eyes holding his, tip of your tongue sweeping, tracing, as you move further up the bed. The one you’d picked—chosen.

He’s in a trance.

Under a spell when you hook a thumb on either side of your underwear.

It’s not smooth, it doesn’t glide or remove with ease—there’s even a slight kick out of your legs before it flings from your ankle. But, it makes him tighten the hold on his cock. Because it may not be a thing people ever see on TV or in movies, but then they never feel like this.

They don’t feel real, no rawness, no tangling of his trousers he has to step out of as he strokes himself, eyes flicking down to where you’re bare—where you’re glistening—

“Wanna ride you, Frank.”

He sucks in a shuddering breath, hands gripping the base of his cock.

It’s slow, the way he grazes his teeth over his lower lip. “S’that how you wanna pay me, yeah?”

“All I’ve thought about,” you reply, a soft smile greeting him. “Lemme ride you—wanna look at you, wanna watch you come, baby.”

Fuck. He doesn’t fight it.

Instead, letting you guide him, allowing you to press a kiss to the underside of his jaw when he kneels on the bed and groans—because it’s been a long day, querida; he’s not as young as he once was.

“Still know how to be good, though. Don’t you?” you smirk, open mouth leaving a trail down his neck, eyes flicking up when you leave one in the space above his heart.

Hands behind his head, admiring, doing nothing but watching you place your thighs on either side of his as your fingers wrap around his wrists. You pin him, pressing down—aching cock ignored, left to leak against his hip as your lips press to his, over and over, and over until he’s chasing for the feel of them when you pull back.

You only offer a gentle, "I missed you," against the air before you're lining him up, bearing down, sinking, taking him in as he paints a groan against your collarbone.

There’s a beat, maybe two.

Stillness, enveloped entirely by your walls as his mouth wraps itself around your breast, leaving it wet, coated in spit as he groans when you begin to move. Setting a rhythm, slow.

“Not rushing this, Frankie.”

He never wishes you to.

His hands gripping your hips, guiding you. Head falling back onto the sheets as his breath hitches, the sight of you atop him, breasts bouncing—owning him—is a sight he could never grow tired of. One he also never feels worthy of—but he won’t squander, won’t ruin.

Because you’re perfect, head to toe—pussy made for him as it strokes up and down and breaths leave your mouth in short pants.

“Y’so good to me, Frankie. So handsome.”

And he wants to tell you that it's you who is so good—who is nothing but colour in an otherwise grey world. That you’re sunshine and stars, moon and so much more goodness than he can list buried inside of you.

“Go on, querida,” he grunts through clenched teeth, hands squeezing your hips a little tighter as you move a little faster.

As you take a little more. It makes your eyes flutter, parts your lips—watching in nothing short of awe as you use him, as you lose yourself in the moment.

"That's it, just let go. Make yourself feel good.”

It’s something majestic when he sees you nearing release—when he feels you clench and flutter.

“Feels good, y’feel good inside me baby.”

“You need more?”

And you nod.

The green light—the sign—and he doesn’t wait a moment.

Just canting his hips up, making a rush of pleasure spread up his spine. He’s lightheaded, hot—practically dizzy with how good you feel enveloped around him.

The noises filling the air, your slick walls taking him and the sound of skin slapping against skin. It’s drowned by the noises he pulls from you, making a mess of you as your lust-blown eyes land on him.

It almost steals his breath. Thieves it.

Because you’re so pretty, wild—a fucking dream on top of him. All soft and shimmering with perspiration from how good you ride him as he’s bathed in whines, moans and cries of his name.

“You're perfect,” he says, hand clamping on your hip as he shifts, and angles himself before thrusting up into you—watching your eyes squeeze shut. “From your smile to your tight pussy. You know that?”

Studying you as you try to keep the same rhythm. But, you’re nearing your climax—nails digging into his shoulder and neck, half-moons etched there, and he hopes they take hours to disappear.

“Thought about you all week—”

You moan, eyes meeting his. “Thought about you too—missed you. Missed how good you make me feel.”

“Fucked my fist to the thought of you like this. Never thought—fuck—I’d come home to this, baby. Y’fuckin’ perfect.”

Your chin lifts, neck elongating as he spreads his palm across your side, fingers pressing, grasping.

“Love hearing how much you missed me,” he smirks, watching you—thinking nothing but revolving thoughts as to how pretty you look, what a picture you are on top of him—

Then he hears a slam. Heavy boots. A voice he'd rather not hear at all:

“Fish? You home?”

He stops, realisation slamming into him.

A hand drops to the bedsheets, grasping them so hard his knuckles pale, and throb—the bones in his hand aching as he fights shouting and blowing his load right there and then.

The plans he’d made—the ones he’d put into place because you weren’t supposed to be home—all coming back to bite him. How he hadn’t wanted to spend another night alone, another evening in front of the television until you could call and tell him about your day—when he should have. He really fucking should have.

And you’re frozen, hips halted in place—his other hand remaining on your waist, fingers digging in as you both tense, keeping movements paused.

He considers it, the two choices he has and decides.

Leaning more against you—half-grinning, whispering shh as you look at him full of alarm—suddenly aware of the impending actuality that you could be caught like this.

And, then you clench around him. He feels it. Head tilting and eyes narrowing as he takes you in.

"Dirty girl," he mouths, and you look bashful, shy—a look he rarely sees when you’re split open on his cock and the base of him is covered in your slick.

“Fish, where the fuck are you?”

“Getting changed Ben, be a min.”

Your pussy flutters around him at your shout, as he moves to not shout the words towards your ear—feeling you clamp down, muffling a whimper. Another falls as he lifts up further onto his palm, dragging his nose down the valley between your breasts.

He knows you’re close—teetering, a few more thrusts and you’d have unravelled.

Dropping his voice, low—barely above a whisper, “Shh, baby. Or, I won’t let you finish.”

“Fuck,” you hiss. “Can‘t, Frankie—I can’t.”

He nods, finger and thumb holding your chin because he knows you can. Seen you do so much, and been witness to what you’re capable of—before his hand guides your hips to begin moving, thumb drawing soothing circles on your hips.

“Touch yourself for me, querida. Be good for me.”

And you whimper, something akin to his name.

But he’s guiding his mouth away, shouting, “Beers in the fridge, Ben.”

His mouth presses to your chest, hearing the shout from his friend back, but it’s the sound of your fingers on your slick and swollen clit that he tunes into. That he wants to flood his ears. Watching you shiver, shake, tremble from it as you tighten around him, choking his cock as he begins to thrust in and out.

He could keep you here. Should do too.

One week has already been too long. A need to make up for it—to have you pay for all the times you ask him those questions you wait until the lights are usually out for and he’s about to tip over to sleep; have you press yourself against him, nudging your ass into him as you cuddle, but really you want his mouth between your thighs. He should edge you, hang you over the edge of pleasure and watch your eyes dig into him until your lips whisper the word beginning with P.

But he won’t.

Couldn’t.

He likes knowing he pleases you too much.

Your moan bringing him back to it. Seeing how your eyes are clenched shut, trying to keep it behind your teeth. Failing, expletives dropping in breaths before he raises his hand, pressing it to your mouth, muffling it, the moans you have to release before you shake your head and fold into him.

Suddenly, he wants to move the dresser and lock the two of you in here. Wants to let them watch whatever fucking sports they want out there, and him just watch you in here.

You’re his favourite sight, after all. Especially like this. Free, not overthinking or worrying, just present, feeling as good as you should—as good as he always wants you to feel.

And you deserve this.

Hearing the low please fall before he plants his feet down, angling his cock up into you as you let out a muffled gasp. His palm flat to your shoulder, steadying you, as he feels your fingers slide it to your collarbone, resting it, fingers an inch away from the base of your neck.

You flick your eyes open—smothering him in permission, in radiant sunshine and lust, before the softest fucking smirk graces your lips—as his own mouth chokes out your name.

“Not tonight.”

It’s less words, and more a noise.

Because he’s close too—it having risen close to the top. Toes clenched around the sheets, digging in.

But he wants to feel you come first. And it’s there—that familiar sign. Lashes fluttering, gorgeous mouth going tight, slack as you tighten around him, locking up, clamping down as your hips move sloppily and out of rhythm.

You’re so fucking close.

“Shh, be good for me.”

Fingers, trembling and weak, slide around the base of his neck, tugging on his curls that are likely slick with sweat.

“N‘gonna last—let go for me baby.”

“Please.”

“Come for me.”

Spearing up into you with more vigour as you rasp, groan, and hiss—spit coating his fingers as he slides them out, dropping his hand from you as his knuckles press to the mattress as he fucks up into you.

Your body bucks, a cry you bury into his neck—a drag of nails against his scalp—as you come undone around him. Convulsing. Muffled cries vibrating against his pulse.

Frankie is barely able to contain the low growl as his hips stutter—heat raging through him, joined by rabid electricity. It sparking, ripping through, making him both ache and feel alive.

The sight of you and the feel of you drives him to the edge—and then over. A grip on your hip all tight as he thrusts into you one final time, unable to contain the growl. His chest heaves as he spills inside of you, and you tremble against him—panting, all messy and boneless as he pulls you with him as he rolls onto his back.

"You're incredible," he breathes into your ear, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of your neck.

You let out a small laugh, a soft, content sigh escaping your lips. "So are you."

He smiles against your skin, his heart swelling with affection. He may have assumed he'd seen everything, but you—you continue to surprise him, to captivate him in ways he never thought possible. And he wouldn't have it any other way.

Pulling his mouth from yours, feeling you ease him out of you, his hand lightly slaps you on the back of your bare ass.

"I missed you, querida," he murmurs, heart still racing in his chest.

Meeting his gaze, your lips purse. "I know," you whisper, leaning in to capture his lips in a tender kiss. "I'm here now."

“Shame you’ll have to sneak out the back and come in through the front door. Otherwise, you’ll be in here all night—”

His words trail off, a sly grin tugging at his lips as it dawns, rises up over your face and makes your mouth fall open. “Francisco….”

“Shoulda' told me you were coming home. It's boys night.”

Narrowing your eyes, you tick your jaw—spine straightening. “Well, I could stay in here—like this…”

Smirking, he kisses your nose. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, baby.”

Your mouth opens, a smirk gracing his lips in response as he raises a finger to his mouth, moving and pressing a kiss to your knee. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

#frankie morales x reader #francisco morales x reader #frankie morales x f!reader #francisco morales smut #frankie morales smut #frankie morales x you #frankie morales #francisco morales fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction #triple frontier x reader #pedro pascal characters #francisco catfish morales x reader #catfish morales x reader #pedrostories #frankie morales x reader smut

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withleeknow · 2 months

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wishful thinking. (04)

chapter four: spring daffodils

summary: the instruction was plain and simple: no strings attached. but you should’ve known from the beginning that it could never apply to you and him.

pairing: minho x f!reader rating: 18+ (minors dni) genres/warnings: friends to lovers, friends with benefits au, college au; fluff, angst, smut; a creepy dude but nothing happens, err this chapter is pretty mild? idk, not very edited (i apologize, i just live like this lol) word count: 3.5k

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

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It was bittersweet You were like a dream And I was your girl on the passenger seat Right next to you We were unstoppable We thought we had it all

I’d Do It Again - Violette Wautier

The first thing you feel when you wake up is Minho’s arms, wrapped tightly around you. Your face in the crook of his neck, your legs tangled up together. It’s as though this is your millionth morning waking up with him.

He’s still fast asleep, soft puffs of air escaping his lips. So peaceful, so ethereal with the light from outside your window shining on his side profile.

He looks like an angel, absolutely unreal, that you can’t help but admire him. How the playful sunshine kisses his sculpted nose, caresses his cheeks, its particles of light lingering on his pink and pouty lips. Every feature, every single detail of his face, beautiful. Sharp, stunning, flawless. The universe really took its time with him.

You'd say that this is a pretty objective opinion. Ask anyone and they would concur. You don’t think you could ever get tired of looking at Minho.

There’s a sudden urge that grows in you - the selfish need to be the sun itself. You want to be the sun, to be the reason why there’s warmth and light in his life, to give him nothing but good things, nothing less than what he deserves.

Your axis shifts. It’s overwhelming just how much you want to be good for him.

Minho is supposed to be your friend.

You don’t think you’re supposed to feel this way about your friend.

The beautiful boy next to you stirs, and you instantly shut your eyes. You wait as he stretches a bit, then he holds you tighter, closer, the proximity making tears well up behind your closed eyelids. It’s so nice just being in his arms like this. So wonderful and so right.

You feel loved, even if it may not be the kind of love that you’ve been searching for.

A gentle hand strokes your hair, and just that simple action is enough to make you melt, a tightness tugging at your heartstrings all of a sudden.

If Minho was a season, he would be spring. Beautiful and heavenly spring. Some may argue that it can’t possibly be the case because people often view him as callous and mean, and you hate it every time anyone speaks about him that way. They don’t know him like you do, and he’s been nothing but warm and kind to you for as long as you’ve known him.

To be more precise, Minho would be the onset of spring, when the brutal and lonely winter eventually has to make way for the beginning of a new season. It’s a subtle transition, a gentle inauguration of warmth where the earth welcomes life into its open arms again. When daylight starts to last longer and snow begins to melt in between cobblestone cracks. When buds on trees start growing into their luscious green coat and flowers slowly burst through their roof of soil to bring forth colors for spring. Everything is soft and delicate, easy to overlook if you don’t pay close attention.

That’s what Minho is to you - a new beginning. Calming, welcoming, steady.

You want to snuggle further into the heat of his body but you’re afraid it might blow your cover, so you keep on staying still. He’s close, closer than you two have ever been when you aren't having sex, but it’s not enough. If it was possible, you would wrap you and him up in your own little bubble where the concept of time is foreign and you could stay here forever. You wouldn’t have to go back to your boring routine and deal with the stresses that you’ve been carrying all your life.

It’s like a switch has been flipped. You want more. It’s a fleeting thought, but the imprint it leaves behind isn’t ephemeral at all.

A simple life with Minho and the spring. That doesn’t sound too bad.

Min: wyd tomorrow afternoon? You: i have to go buy paint after class. Why? Min: can i come with :( You: u wanna go look at paint with me for 2 hrs? Min: no lol Min: i cleared my whole afternoon because kim seungmin asked me to go suit shopping with him for his sister’s wedding but he’s ditching me, so i have no idea what to do Min: you’re my last option You: thanks. i’m v flattered You: hyunjin refused to entertain you? Min: don’t like him You: 🙄 You: chan? changbin? jisung? jeongin? lix? there’s no way they’re ALL busy Min: i didn’t ask. don’t like them either You: so i’m not your LAST option then Min: no. but you’re the only one i’d rather hang out with You: you’re weird Min: so tomorrow? You: the store is a bit far away though Min: i can take you. i’ll borrow chan’s car

You assume that Minho would pick you up right after your class finishes since he told you that he was free all day, but you still end up having to wait for him while wandering aimlessly around campus, the messages that you sent him sitting in your phone delivered but not read.

He appears about twenty minutes later than you thought he would, rolling up in Chan’s new car that he just got a couple months ago. You get into the vehicle with an unimpressed look on your face, clicking the seatbelt into place before you turn to him in the driver's seat.

“Punctual,” you comment pointedly.

“Sorry. I went to that cafe you like but there was a line.”

“Oh,” you say, your earlier annoyance waning quickly when you notice the cup holders between the two of you. “Why did you go all the way there just for shitty matcha lattes? We could’ve just gone to the campus cafe for that.”

Minho grabs a paper bag from the backseat before he places it neatly in your lap like a little present. "But the campus cafe doesn’t have those overpriced croissants that you’re always raving about."

You stare at the baked good in your lap - an almond croissant filled with cream cheese and strawberries. “Oh, you didn’t have to do that,” you say. “But thank you.”

Minho looks at you. “You forgot to eat lunch again, didn’t you?”

“How’d you know?”

“Because you’re looking at that thing like you’re deeply in love with it.”

You roll your eyes before plucking a cream cheese-covered strawberry from the bag and taking a bite, dramatically throwing your head back as you sigh in exasperation, “I might be deeply in love with you right now.”

When you finish the strawberry, you turn to look at Minho, only to find him already staring at you with his sharp eyes. He holds your gaze for a few seconds, then brings a hand up to brush away a dot of cream cheese off the corner of your mouth. You half expect him to put the finger in his mouth like hot fictional characters tend to do, and yet, your cheeks still catch fire when Minho meets your expectation.

He catches sight of your flush but doesn’t throw you a teasing comment or anything of the likes. Instead, he just chuckles - a bit endeared if you can say so yourself - and starts the car.

Minho is gracious enough to let you choose the music for the drive and in turn, you offer him the last piece of your cherished croissant (everyone knows the last bite is the best bite), plopping the pastry into his mouth while he keeps his hands on the wheel, only for him to complain that it has too much cream.

When you get to the art supply store, Minho picks up a basket by the door. The store isn’t that big, but they have the best selection out of all the other places you’ve been. Hyunjin keeps telling you to come to the store that he frequents - the one that sells those fancy watercolors that you don’t really need - but you’ve been going here for ages. You used to live nearby so it was more convenient, but this is still your go-to spot even after you moved closer to campus. The sense of familiarity associated with this quaint store isn’t something you’re quite ready to let go of yet.

You peruse the aisles alongside Minho, who dutifully carries the basket for all of your things without you even asking. He doesn’t really try to make conversation while you study the colors, which is a little uncharacteristic but you don’t think much about it. He just quietly watches you, and you like how even the silence is comfortable between the two of you.

After a while, he asks, “Do you have a theme in mind?”

You do, but you think it’s a little silly to say out loud so you don’t. Although you know Minho would never make you feel small or diminish your ideas, it’s not something that you’re really keen on sharing at the moment.

“Kind of,” you say. “It’s not fully fleshed out yet. I know what colors I want to go for though.”

You meticulously pick out the acrylics you want for your painting, mostly dark and dull tones. You have a vision of what you want to achieve on the canvas, and you spend a decent chunk of time deciding on your blues, grays and russets.

A somber scene, anyone can tell.

For the finishing touch, you pick up two tubes of yellow paint, trying to decide between Golden Poppy or Spring Daffodil. Either one is a stark contrast to the melancholic feel you were going for before.

Turning to face Minho, you raise your hands. “Which one?”

He stares at the acrylics for a minute in silence. “They’re yellow,” he concludes.

“Duh. But which shade do you like better?”

“They look exactly the same.”

You purse your lips, then hold your hands closer to his face as if it’ll help. "No, look. This one is slightly lighter but muted. This one is more vibrant but the shade is deeper."

Minho hums as if in thought. You wonder if he actually sees the differences, but he probably doesn’t. Hyunjin is usually the only person in your friend group whom you can talk to about these things since he’s the only other art major of the bunch.

“Is yellow supposed to be happy?”

Hope, is what you want to say. You want it to end on a lighter, brighter note. Happy feels too unattainable even if it’s only ideals and colors on canvas.

But maybe sometimes being hopeful is the same as being happy. Maybe for some, that’s all you can really ask for.

In spite of it all, isn’t hope the only thing that persists?

“Sure,” you say, “yellow is happy.”

After a brief moment, Minho plucks the tube in your left hand and puts it in the basket. Spring Daffodil it is.

It’s kind of a nice thought, isn’t it? That Minho had a helping hand in your work. That there’s a little bit of him in your art.

You go to the cash register with a basket full of goodies, only to realize that you don’t actually have anything on you.

“Ah, crap,” you mutter, turning to Minho. “My wallet is in my bag. In the car.”

“I’ll get it,” Minho says, handing you the basket. “Be right back.”

“Okay, thanks. I’ll just check something out over there.”

And then he’s off, the bell by the door ringing to announce his temporary departure. You wander over to a shelf in the corner where they store their brushes. There’s a filbert brush that you’ve been eyeing for a while.

You go over the selection, debating whether or not you should replace some of the brushes you have at home. Most of them are worn out; they’ve been with you for ages now.

You don’t notice the second chime of the bell, too immersed in studying the bristles, envisioning the strokes they would create on canvas.

You don’t pay attention to a voice talking to you either. That is, until a shoulder nudges yours and you find yourself looking up at an unfamiliar face.

Taking a step away from the stranger, you say, “Can I help you?”

The man doesn’t look like he’s your age, but he doesn’t look that much older either. Probably just by a few years. “I was just saying that filbert’s a good choice,” he chuckles.

“Oh, yeah.” You give him a small smile. “It’s a good brush.”

“Great for blending. It really makes the strokes stand out, y’know.”

“Mhmm. So I’ve heard.”

Glancing at the contents of your basket, he asks, “Are you working on a project?”

“Just something for a class.”

He hums in acknowledgment, to which you give him a nod in return. The conversation is short and awkward, as one can probably expect when they try to make small talk with a stranger over something as random as a paintbrush.

And especially when the recipient of said small talk is you, who’s been described on multiple occasions as “unapproachable” and “intimidating”.

That, and the fact that you suffer from a major case of resting bitch face and you’re not really keen on talking to strangers when you it’s not absolutely necessary.

You move to the next aisle, going back to look at the selection of colors from which you’ve already taken your pick earlier with Minho. You don’t need a second look, but it just feels a little weird to still be standing in the same corner with the man.

You think that it would be the end of your interaction, but then he moves along with you. He follows you as you walk, before soon obliterating any space between your body as he strides next to you, your arms brushing one another.

“I’ve actually noticed you in here a few times,” he says.

“Sorry?”

“I’ve seen you before.” This time, he tells you with a smile. “I just never worked up the courage to talk to you until today.”

It’s not a bad smile, nothing Joker-esque but the way he says it with practically no space at all between the two of you makes you a little squeamish.

You wonder what’s taking Minho so long.

“Oh,” you say, not really sure how else to respond, trying to shuffle away from him but there’s not much room to accommodate the both of you. “That’s... uhm, actually, could you-”

He gets the hint, but it’s not like you were trying to hide the discomfort on your face. He takes a couple of small steps back, which doesn’t really count as stepping out of your personal space but it’s a little better than before.

“Sorry, I hope I’m not coming on too strongly. You’re just... I think you’re really pretty,” he says with a small laugh, the kind that would be charming if real life was a romcom and you two were the main characters. “Are you here by yourself?”

“Thank you... uhm, I’m... flattered but I’m here with my boyfriend today.”

You can tell that the mention of a significant other throws him off, because he doesn’t exactly do a very good job at concealing his surprise.

“You usually go alone, though.”

Oh...?

Right. Definitely not a romcom.

You can’t help the slight frown that tugs on your brows upon hearing those words. If you were somewhat irritated before by a random stranger who can’t really take a hint, then that feeling is rapidly melting away to make space for a sense of unease that crawls up the back of your neck like a rogue spider.

You can normally handle mildly persistent guys who keep insisting on chatting you up, but you’ve never actually had someone drop a creepy line on you before.

In a place that you’ve frequented for years now.

You’re suddenly wildly grateful that Minho demanded to tag along today.

“My boyfriend is just getting some stuff from the car,” you settle on telling the man. “He’ll be right back.”

“Maybe I can keep you company while you wait.”

“Thank you but that’s not necessary.”

“Not even for a few minutes?”

“You really don’t have to do that. My boyfriend will be back any-”

Then you’re being pulled to the side, the abruptness of the moment briefly disorienting you that you almost lose your balance if not for the arm around your shoulder keeping you steady.

You glance up with widened eyes, though they soften after a couple seconds as relief washes over you. Minho leans down to kiss you before you can say anything; the only sound that escapes you is a surprised Oh! which he muffles with his lips.

“Sorry I took so long, baby,” he says once he pulls away. “My mom called to ask if we’re still coming over this weekend. You’re still up for Sunday, right?”

“Hmm?” You try to ignore the tingle in your lips and the spike in your heart rate, but you quickly blame it on the suddenness of his actions. “Yeah... yeah, Sunday’s good.”

Minho smiles softly, his hand squeezing your shoulder comfortingly pressing another kiss to your cheek - for further emphasis, you suppose - before he turns his attention elsewhere.

His expression changes completely. Instead of a cute smile, his mouth is pressed into a hard line, his gaze a cold glare. “Can we help you?”

The man doesn’t instantly back off like you thought he would - Minho can be quite scary when he wants to be - but glances between you and Minho like he’s assessing the situation.

The kiss, the arm around your shoulder, the deadly look in Minho’s eyes, plus your friend has been working out more often lately and it shows.

The unwanted stranger eventually raises a conceding hand. “Nope, all good. Sorry for bothering you,” he says, plastering that smile on his face again. “Have a good day.”

Minho takes the basket from your hand and steers you away. He keeps a hand on your back while you pay and collect your supplies at the counter. Basket duty turns into carrying the bag of acrylics for you even after you insist on doing it yourself.

Once you’re in the car, you turn to him with a grateful smile. “Thanks for the save.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says. “I’m sorry though. I was getting your bag and Hyunjin called screaming about something. I didn’t know you were stuck with a weirdo. What did he say?”

“I’ve never seen him before but he said he’s seen me around. He kept trying to talk me even after I said I had a boyfriend. And get this, he knows that I usually come here alone. I don’t know, I’m a little grossed out.”

Minho frowns. When he says your name, it’s full of concern. “He knows that you usually go alone? That’s creepy.”

“I know!” Leaning against the headrest, you sigh, “Ugh, this is where I always go to get my supplies.”

“Why don’t you just go to the place that Hyunjin goes? It’s close to campus.”

“But everything’s so overpriced there. Besides, they have the best selection here. It’s my go-to.’

He goes quiet then, and speaks up after a moment of contemplation. “Tell me whenever you need to go. I’ll come with you.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.” There must be incredulousness written all over your face, but his expression returns to neutral, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. You know all of your friends are quite protective, but still.

“You’re not asking me. I’m offering.”

“It’s not like you’re free all the time.”

Minho hums, acknowledging your point because it’s true. He has a life of his own and shit that he has to deal with; he can’t be around to babysit you 24/7. Not that you even need him to anyway. “If I can’t go then I’ll make sure Hyunjin goes with you. Or Jisung. Any one of the guys.”

“It’s not that big a deal.” You look at Minho, to which he just stares back. “I know I said today was weird but I’m not that helpless.”

“I know you’re not helpless.” He holds your gaze, briefly wondering if he has offended you somehow. “If you won’t do it for your sake, will you at least do it for mine? I don’t want you to be in a bad situation when I can help make it better for you.”

The tone he uses to deliver his words doesn’t really leave you any room to argue. You would probably just kinda look like an asshole to brush him off when all he genuinely wants is to ensure that you’re safe.

Eventually, you only purse your lips and nod, which seems to appease Minho for now. Of course you’re thankful that you have good people by your side. If the roles were reversed and this happened to any of your friends, you would be all up in arms for them too.

But way beyond that appreciation is something that you can’t quite put your finger on. It’s similar to the feeling you got the first morning you woke up next to him. A fluttering sensation in your chest, warmly touched by how much he cares, how much he’s willing to do for you.

It’s simply absurd to you that anyone would think Minho is cold.

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yourstardarling · 1 month

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Beauty Is Intimidating

I was thinking about this earlier, that beauty creates a lot of mixed reactions in people. There is no one way to define beauty and what is deemed beautiful is personal interpretation. What I have noticed though is that oftentimes people who look good can easily intimidate other people. Their beauty creates a barrier that makes it hard sometimes for them to be approached. Like in popular Highschool movies for example, beautiful people are often seen as untouchable. They hold a lot more power than others and only other beautiful people can easily be around them.

The reason I brought this up is because it made me wonder about the nature of beauty. What better planet to look at than beauty herself, Venus. Venus the planet of love, femininity and beauty rules over the way we view attraction in our lives. However, the nature of Venus is to face scrutiny and conflict for her beauty. Her signs are opposing forces that don’t like Venuses beauty.

Taurus & Scorpio: This first axis shows the point that beauty will often cause intimidation. People who are beautiful have a way of bringing up the shadows of other people. They are ideally secure within themselves and their appearance. This in turn creates an effect where they’ll face scrutiny for others insecurities. “I wish I had hair like hers” “Why aren’t my arms as muscular as his” This demonstrates how beauty, will bring about underlying feelings of others to light. It can garner jealousy and envy for your appearance. So the intimidation itself does not come from the attractive person, but from the insecurities others may have inside. It’s a feeling of unworthiness to even talk to someone they believe looks better than them. Oftentimes people make the assumption that a beautiful person won’t like to talk to them. Sometimes if these feelings are not evaluated, it can cause deep emotional resentment towards good looking people.

Libra & Aries: This next axis shows us how beauty can often cause conflictions within other people. Beautiful people are susceptible to face hatred for their appearance. A lot of aggression can be thrown towards them just for the fact they look good. With the Aries influence on Libra, people will want to physically fight them. Some have faced bullying and harassment growing up which motivated them to improve their appearance. At the same time beautiful people can easily get other people to fight for them. Like Helen of Troy, a whole war was waged in her name because she was considered the most beautiful women in her time. So beauty here becomes a form of protection, which intimidates others from messing with you. However, the air sign nature of Libra shows how conflict will instead arise in the form of gossip. A lot of rumors can be made about them, which are usually lower Aries quality traits, such as being a b*tch, explosive, mean and narcissistic. For example, my friend has been told multiple times that other people thought she looked mean so they did not approach her. When in reality, she's a goofball and is far from being mean. Beauty here creates intimidation, by people either wanting to fight you or stay away in fear of being attacked by you.

Pisces & Virgo: This axis is between Venus’s exaltation and fall placements. In Pisces, Venus love knows no bounds, they are able to find beauty in everything and everyone. Virgo though reminds us of what beauty means in our society. It signifies facing constant scrutiny. Instead of being loved for their whole being, beautiful people will often face a lot criticism on their looks. They will get shamed for any slight changes in their appearance such as their weight, face and complexion. Criticism on why they are wearing this outfit, why does their hair look like this and a need to bring them down for not being perfect. Pisces reminds us that this is a reflection of what you find imperfect within yourself. The beautiful person is just mirroring the insecurities in other people. That is why you can find something within them to always critique because it’s the criticism you have about yourself. The exaltation of Pisces teaches us to let go of trying to pay attention to every little detail about other’s appearance. Instead it's about appreciating the whole, which includes the fact that they are a regular person. There is so much more to them than just their physical looks. A reminder that before making all these assumptions about them, it is important to get to know who they are behind the mask.

______

This is just my theory and observation on beauty. So next time people think you’re unapproachable and scary, just know it’s probably because you’re so sexy 😏. Lmfao, hope yall enjoyed.

- Your Star Darling

#astro thoughts #astro notes #astro community #Taurus #Libra #Pisces #Venusians

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xo-cod · 7 months

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You know what I think would be cute? If one of the 141 were watching Beauty and the Beast with his child and during the scenes where they're bonding and dancing, the child gasps and says, "That's you and Mommy!" And they're all excited because it shows that their parents are truly in love and they just find it adorable 🥰

141 men being all soft and cute dads makes my heart melt omg <33 this is so cute babe :(( 🤍

price: "is that right, honey?" he chuckles softly, an eyebrow raised in amusement. he actually hadn't given much thought to it, he didn't really think children were even for him. but then there you came, tilting his world on its axis. how you managed to fall in love with him, he hadn't the faintest clue. he couldn't ever fathom why you'd choose him but he's so incredibly grateful nonetheless. he didn't know what good thing he had done to receive either one but he counted his blessings every day for it. he holds his little girl in the crook of his arm as they both cuddle close on the sofa, his deep chuckle echoing in the room everytime his little kiddo eagerly pointed out the scene on the tv. his heart was practically swimming in his chest as he cuddles her close pressing gentle kisses all over her cheeks to make her giggle <3

simon: "me an' mama, huh?" he chuckles fondly, his heart fluttering inside his chest. he didn't much care for disney movies but since having his daughter, he'd been forced to watch them all back to back with her. not that he minded so much, he would've done anything to keep that grin on her little face. it makes his heart ache with so much joy when his little girl had said that, after all he grew up in a world of pain. some days, he was so scared of ever accidentally inflicting the same scars his father had left behind on his baby and you. and so it almost makes him teary eyed when his child points out the tenderness between belle and beast to you and him. he was the best dad anyone could ever ask for, it was just taking him a little longer in believing that <3

gaz: "shall we dance then, my love?" he humours them, raising his hand out for them to take. his heart was practically bursting at the seams when his baby pointed it out, he didn't think he could ever have this privilege in his life. and he cherished every single moment with you and his bundle of joy, both of you meaning more to him than life itself. and as the dancing scene takes place with belle and the beast, gaz and his baby also dance along to the music, with the exaggerated hum from gaz just to hear his little one giggle madly. his small girl dancing happily in his arms and gaz wrapping a strong arm around her, keeping her safe and close was a sight he could never tire from <3

soap: "and you're our little teacup, aren't you sunshine?" the scot laughs heartily as he scoops his baby in his warm arm, blowing soft raspberries on their stomach. johnny really didn't think he would ever be in this beautiful position of finally being a dad to his baby, a baby that you had gifted him. everyday he makes sure to let you know how thankful he is to have you and his child in his life, he would never be able to find the words to express it. so he chooses actions instead. as he tickles his little baby their shrieks of delight and giggles makes him all warm inside, he truly was the luckiest person ever. <3

#asks #it's so short my bad 😭😭#simon riley #call of duty modern warfare #simon ghost riley #cod mwii #john soap mactavish #john price #kyle gaz garrick #dad!simon #dad!price #dad!soap #dad!gaz #dad!141 x reader

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beyondthesefourwalls · 1 year

Text

The Art of Subtlety

Summary: You were quiet, almost shy, but Bradley suspected there was more to you than meets the eye. When Jake claims that it’s impossible for a woman to successfully fake an orgasm, you prove him wrong (while proving Bradley absolutely right) right there in the middle of the Hard Deck. With his world tilted on its axis at your little display, he’s left wondering: why are you so good at faking it, and how would you really sound if he’s the one bringing you pleasure?

Word Count: 2.7K

Pairing: Bradley Bradshaw x Reader (no use of y/n, so can be read as unnamed OC)

Warnings: Language, allusions to smut, I guess public acts even though it’s faking?

Notes: I found this buried in my WIP list and decided to finish it. Hope y’all like it!

---------------

“She has an Oscar. Of course she can fake it.”

“What exactly is it that you’re implying, Hangman?”

Bradley wasn’t sure what he was walking up to, but it was surely something interesting, because Jake was only Hangman to Phoenix when he was doing something irritating, Bagman being her name of choice. The way it fell out of her mouth laced with venom wasn’t to be overlooked, either.

He settled into an open seat at one of the high tops in the corner they tended to take over in the Hard Deck. You met his eyes and sent him a small smile from your seat across the table, twirling the small black straw in your drink. You looked pretty tonight, in tight denim jeans and an off the shoulder black shirt. But you always looked beautiful; it was one of the first things he had noticed about you.

“I’m saying it would be noticeable to a man if a woman fakes it!” Jake exclaimed, before a slow smirk made its way onto his lips. “Not that I would know. I never leave a woman unsatisfied.”

There’s a mixture of groans and laughter at his cocky response, Coyote even going as far as fist bumping his best friend for his comment. Bradley doesn’t do either, simply shaking his head and taking a sip of his beer. The same can’t be said for his table partner.

You snorted into your drink, which immediately drew all eyes your way. You had been quiet up until now, which wasn’t unusual for you; sometimes you rivaled Bob with how much of a wallflower you could be. But Bradley had a hunch it was just because you were still adjusting to the group, not so much because shy was your default setting; he had been fortunate enough to witness a quick wit and a snarky sarcasm that kept him on his toes a handful of times since you transferred to Top Gun three months ago.

“Something to add, sweetheart?” the blonde aviator asked, an eyebrow raised in a clear challenge. To his surprise, you scoffed lightly and rolled your eyes.

“Nothing that you would probably like to hear,” you responded easily. Bradley hid his smirk by taking another drink. There was the snark that intrigued him so much.

“Well now you need to tell us,” Phoenix said, waving at you to continue, clearly wanting whatever advantage she could get at Hangman’s expense. The rest of the group agreed and jeered at you to continue. You sighed with a roll of your eyes.

“I fake it all the time, and you would never know,” you shrugged, and Bradley almost spat out his draft at the words. “But then again, it’s not surprising for a man to overlook the art of being subtle.”

Jake furrowed his eyebrows, clearly still recovering from your blunt statement. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that it’s not all loud moans and screaming of a guy’s name when a woman orgasms,” you explained, bringing your straw to your lips and finishing off the rest of your drink. After you set the empty glass on the table, you cleared your throat and rolled your shoulders. It was only a moment later, right there in the crowded bar, that Bradley noticed the shifting in your breathing. It came out slightly heavy, shaky in a breathless kind of way. You drew your bottom lip between your teeth and your eyes fluttered shut before they opened again, hooded and dark.

Bradley was entranced, feeling a flush creep up his neck as a barely audible gasp escaped from the back of your throat.

You rolled your neck to the side as you panted almost silently, like you were experiencing an ardent kind of pleasure you were trying to keep hushed. When you arched your back, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would look like if you were doing that while perched in his lap. It wouldn’t be the first time he had thought of you that way since meeting you, and after this little display you were putting on, it certainly wouldn’t be the last, either.

“Oh,” you let out quietly, touching a hand lightly to your heaving chest, “yes.”

It was subtle, like you had said, but oh, was it convincing. Bradley thought he could watch you like this all day, but it was over far too soon.

With one more soft moan, you returned your breathing to normal and a smirk appeared on your face as you opened your eyes fully. You sat back in your seat like you hadn’t just titled his world on its axis and tightened his jeans with your little display.

“So,” you drawled nonchalantly, “would you have known?”

A loud laugh broke the silence that had overtaken the group. There were tears in Phoenix’s eyes at the gobsmacked looks on everyone's faces, and you started giggling right alongside her, though much softer and tinged with embarrassment. Bradley found himself still unable to look away even now that the facade was over.

When he was finally able to pick his jaw off the floor, Jake cleared his throat almost awkwardly. The smirk on his face was half hearted and a blush covered his cheeks; it’s not hard to see that maybe he’s questioning his satisfaction rate, afterall. Or maybe he, like all the guys are looking to be, was just as flustered by you as Bradley was. Still though, that cocky persona of his shown through. He lets out a long whistle as his eyes raked up and down your body, almost like he was seeing you for the first time. Bradley’s grip tightened around his glass as jealousy crept up in him.

“Okay,” the blonde started, “you’re right. Subtlety is not my strong suit. Maybe I need some more lessons. Private ones, perhaps?”

The confidence you had been showing faded just the slightest bit, embarrassment heating your cheeks, but Bradley didn’t let you stutter out a response for long before he was interrupting on your behalf.

“The Navy doesn’t pay her enough to teach you how to find the clit, Hangman. Sounds like it might be a lost cause anyway.”

“He’s right, Bagman. Some men just don’t have that special touch,” Nat snickered, and Bradley thought she looked downright gleeful at the turn of events and the absolutely affronted look she got in return.

Laughter rang out throughout the corner again, but it had the desired effect of taking everyone’s attention off of you for the moment. Bradley turned back only to see your gaze fall to your empty glass.

“Thank you,” you murmured without looking at him, twirling your straw again. He knocked his foot gently against yours under the table. He waited until you raised your pretty eyes to his before he spoke for your ears only.

“Buy you another drink?”

You looked relieved at his offer of escaping, hopping down from the chair you had been sitting in with no hesitation.

“Yes. Please.”

The Hard Deck was crowded tonight, as it typically was on the weekends, and it allowed him the excuse to guide you to the bar with a hand at the small of your back. He let it remain there when he placed your order. You raised your eyebrows when he didn’t have to ask you for your drink of choice, to which he shot you a wink.

“Maybe you aren’t so subtle afterall,” he joked with a playful smirk.

You huffed out a laugh that broke into a groan. “I can’t believe I did that.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you,” he suggested.

“Why not?”

He thanked Jimmy when he handed him two fresh glasses, passing you your vodka and Sprite. You immediately brought the small black straw to your lips. It distracted him for a moment before he shook himself out of it and took a drink of his IPA. He spotted a couple leaving a table behind you and instead of heading back to the rest of the group, he led you there. “You just gained all of their respect.”

You gave him a clearly skeptical look. “How do you figure?”

“They appreciate it when people bite back. Challenging each other is kind of what we all do, you know? You've been here for three months, but you haven’t really let anyone get to know you. Showing that you can take what they dish out and return it back like that was bold.”

You hummed in response, moving the straw between your fingers. He wondered if it was a nervous tick of yours, a way to keep you centered. He could tell you were mulling over his words but weren’t entirely convinced. He leaned a little closer.

“Plus, anyone who can make Hangman turn that shade of red and stutter like you did gets instant bonus points.”

He got a smile for that one, accompanied by a soft giggle that had his heart racing. You looked at him from under your lashes and when you drew your bottom lip between your teeth, he felt that same flush from earlier starting under his collar. Damn, you were something.

“Can I ask you something?” he asked.

“You just did.”

Bradley chuckled with a shake of his head. You laughed again but motioned for him to continue with his question.

“Why do you…” Bradley cleared his throat, suddenly realizing just how personal his question was in nature. You arched an eyebrow, clearly wondering why he paused.

“Why do I…?”

“Why do you bother with guys you have to fake it with?”

You choked a little on the drink you just taken a sip of, slamming the glass back on the table a little harshly as you coughed. Bradley scooted closer and extended an arm to pat your back in sympathy, wincing at the consequences of his words. You sputtered for a moment and when you caught your breath, he kept his hand on your back, rubbing soothing circles.

“Sorry,” he murmured. You met his eyes again and he could see specks of colors he hadn’t noticed before; they were even more enchanting this close.

“Why do you care?” you rebutted, your voice adopting that same shy tone from before. Bradley shrugged, trailing his fingertips up and down your spine. He was so close he could smell the scent of your perfume and see the goosebumps raise on your arms.

“A woman like you…she shouldn’t have to ever fake her pleasure.”

“A woman like me?” you asked in surprise.

He let his fingers twirl the strands of your hair for a moment. It’s silky soft and he wanted to know what it would feel like to be able to really thread his fingers through it and tug.

“Mmm. A woman like you. Beautiful. Smart. Witty. Kind. Beautiful.”

Bradley saw the shiver go through your body and heard the little gasp that you let out. “You said that one already.”

A smirk tugged at his lips and he nodded. “I know.”

You stared at each other for a long moment. Your pupils were slightly dilated and your breathing just a little uneven, and the look taking over your face made his jeans feel a little snugger. He risked getting even closer, rising from his stool and standing so his front was nearly flush against your side. He noticed how your eyes flickered down to his mouth.

“So?”

“What?” you asked, clearly distracted. Bradley’s smirk grew.

“Why bother? With them?”

“I…don’t really know,” you answered honestly, “It’s not like I seek out the disappointment intentionally. it just…happens that way, I guess.”

“And no one has ever caught on?”

“Once or twice,” you murmured, gaze lingering on his lips for another few seconds before looking back up into his eyes that he’s sure are even darker than normal. “I give it away if they actually eventually make me come.”

He raised an eyebrow, two fingers rubbing circles into the small of your back. He can’t help but wonder what they’d feel like curled inside of you instead. “What do you mean?”

“I’m…um…”

With the hand not touching your back, he tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, tracing the shell of it until you shiver under his touch again. Your breath hitched and this time it was you that shifted closer, almost like you were learning into his touch.

“You’re what?” he asked. His voice dropped, coming out raspier than he intended. You were making him feel hot all over, only made worse with your next words.

“I’m pretty loud,” you revealed quietly, a perfect juxtaposition.

Bradley froze, processing this new information. A hundred different scenarios played through his head but all of them came back to you, screaming his name in pleasure as he devoured you. His cock hardened in his jeans and he swallowed thickly.

“And I know it’s not me,” you continued, and if he wasn’t so turned on, he would think that your nervous babble was one of the most endearing things about you, though the list has grown exponentially tonight, “I can get myself off just fine. So it must be them. Right?”

Your voice trailed off at the end, like you were realizing what you were sharing for the first time. But it was too late, and now there was brand new imagery in his head.

Bradley groaned and let both of his hands fall to your hips. He moved your body until you were teetering on the edge of your seat, your legs falling open so he could stand between them. He raised one hand to your face, cupping your jaw and tilting your head back in a way that ensured you couldn’t look away from his gaze.

"It's definitely not you. Some guys try to rush to the finish line instead of enjoying the scenery along the way."

“And is that what you would do?” you asked, setting your hands gently on his stomach. The muscles flexed under your touch. He wanted to feel it without his clothing working as an unwanted barrier. “Enjoy the scenery?”

“Let’s just say I like to take the long way. And despite what our friends may say, sweetheart, sometimes going slow is best. I’d take my time with you, baby.”

A tiny whimper escaped you before you clamped down on your bottom lip with your teeth, but Bradley shook his head and tugged it free with the fingers still cupping your jaw. He traced it with his thumb, marveling at how soft and full it was. He wanted to feel your lips against his to see if they would be just as soft. You watched him with wide eyes, your hands clenched in his white undershirt.

“You’d have no choice but to be loud with me, because I’d make sure you felt so good.”

“Do you promise?” Your voice was breathy and tinged with what he thought might be desperation - he desperately wanted to hear more of it from you.

“I do,” he swore, and your eyes fluttered shut for a moment before focusing back on him. He was almost certain he was reading the situation and your reactions correctly, but still, he swallowed down the urge to throw you over his shoulder and take you home with him, or even to the bathroom right down the hall. He let his knuckles caress your cheek as he pulled on his self-restraint.

“Is that something you would want?” he rasped. Instead of answering, you run your hands up his body to wrap around his neck. He went willingly when you pulled his mouth to yours. He groaned against your lips; they were even softer than he thought it would be. He doesn’t hesitate to pull you closer, but before he could deepen the kiss, you pull back. When you slide off the stool you had been sitting in the whole time, your entire body is flush against his. Peering up at him through your lashes, you give him your answer. Your voice is as confident as he’d heard it in the last three months of knowing you.

“Take me home, Bradley. I want to see if you keep your promises.”

Without a second thought for any of your friends or the open tab he had, Bradley grabbed your hand and pulled you behind him to the exit.

He was a man of his word, and he’d prove it to you.

-------- Notes: Hope you like this one!! As always, any feedback is so greatly appreciated💚

Thanks Mak and Em for your help as always!

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violetrainbow412-blog · 7 months

Text

Day 5: dancing together

Masterlist flufftober 🎀

Reblog if you liked it!

After the horrible case you guys had just solved, JJ and Will's wedding was a relief for the entire unit. You thought that after what happened with the hostage situation that Will was involved in, the two of them reflected on the time together that their risky jobs could threaten and then the kind and gossiping Rossi made their work a little easier, which led you to that moment.

After the entire ceremony and when the newlyweds opened the dance floor, the first to go towards it were Beth and Aaron, still going through the honeymoon phase in their relationship, until little by little the others joined them. Morgan and Garcia were another obvious couple, Rossi asked Strauss to dance as a favor to an old friend, and many other agents were looking for a partner to enjoy the waltz. You hesitated for a moment whether it would be appropriate to look for a candidate to take you to the track or whether it would be better to sit and talk with your godson Jack or Henry, until you decided on the second option. You were only playing with them for a few minutes until there was a clearing of the throat behind you that forced the three of you to turn around.

"Hello"

“Hi, Uncle Spencer!” Henry greeted him happily. The agent looked gorgeous that night, with his black tuxedo and his bow tie messy as were his ties, and the shy posture he adopted made him even cuter.

“Hello, guys, can you allow me to steal a moment from Aunt Y/N to dance with me?” He asked both boys and Jack, whom you had confided that you liked your coworker, looked at you with a knowing smile and encouraged you to accept the hand he offered. “I thought you would come with the others”

“I'm not very good at dancing”

“That's lucky, because neither do I,” Spencer laughed. His hand felt warm and soft during the short walk to the dance floor, where the rest of your companions smiled at you when they saw that the doctor had found a partner.

His free arm wrapped around your waist to close the distance and both of you began to sway back and forth to the music, looking at each other with a smile.

“I think you look very handsome today,” you admitted, with some fear of making him uncomfortable, but to see the blush that invaded his cheeks and the pleased smile that he put on, that fear dissipated.

“You look beautiful too. And I like that color on you, it highlights your eyes”

"You think?" you asked flirtatiously, raising the hand that you had resting on his shoulder until you gently pinched the tip of his nose. “You are very kind.”

“Have you thought about how quickly time flies?” he murmured, looking you directly in the eyes “I mean, I still remember when Jack was born, I remember when JJ introduced us to Will, then when Henry was born and… look at us now. In the blink of an eye our godchildren are so grown up and now they're getting married and the rest of us are just getting older and older” you laughed and he did the same, the corners of his eyes crinkling until they were almost gone "I'm sorry. Weddings always make me sentimental”

“Me too,” you admitted. “And you're right, each year feels shorter than the last and time seems to be just a breath”

“Turn,” he warned you quickly, turning you on your own axis with one hand and hearing you laugh again. When you hugged him face to face again, he continued “Sometimes it scares me to think about it, but I guess that's what life is about, right? Of being terrified of the future”

“Or to love the present” you argued. A new song, even slower, resonated in the background and you dared to place both arms on his neck and guide his towards your waist, where he placed them without grumbling, “I'm glad you asked me to dance”

“I was debating whether to ask JJ's mom, but I was afraid she would do it better than me. At least you and I made mistakes together” he joked and you gave him a weak punch to the chest.

The whole time you were looking at him and although you thought that at one point his position would become uncomfortable, that moment never came. Everyone around you could notice the loving glances that the two of you gave each other and when JJ threw the bouquet and it fell into your arms, the rest of the guests could imagine who would be the ideal candidate to fulfill the tradition.

taglist: @navs-bhat @reidwritings @tricia-shifting14 @spencerslove @vivian-555 @r-3dlips @rhiannonhippiegirl

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #dr spencer reid #matthew gray gubler #spencer reid x you #flufftober 2023 #prompt list #writing challenge #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid drabble

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svndaysaweek · 1 year

Text

e^(iπ)+1=0 — {Feat. Minnie}

1.3k words

A/N: I've been studying math so hard that I came up with this... I don't know if all readers can understand this, so I recommend googling the inclined terms(which are mathematical ones). Also know that e^(iπ)+1=0 is the most beautiful formula in mathematics,,

p.s: Why is eˣ okay but e^(iπ)+1=0 not? Tumblr mysteries..

Tags: Math(?), Choking, Creampie, Loving Sex

******

Minnie is like the eˣ function to you. The way her consistency fills up your heart—eˣ differentiated is still eˣ—, her always positive character—its domain is always positive number—, her out-of-this-world beauty—e^(iπ)+1=0—, and–

The way her back forms an exponential arc in front of you.

"F-fuck,"

On her knees Minnie is taking your pounding, with her entire body. Her back arcs upward to meet you face to face, as she turns her head back to you and into a blissful kiss.

You draw the sin x graph with your tongue inside her mouth. Up and down, up and down, corresponding to her tongue that draws a cos x graph, intertwined with yours completely—but following the exact same period of 2π.

You push her down to the mattress, and now you can see the hyperbolic curve of her waist. You grab on the narrow valley of it and continue pounding.

What you are doing to Minnie is distorting the perfectness of her body, although it's your way of worshiping it. The circular dark orbs in her elliptical eyes disappear into her head.

You choke her from behind. The amount of air getting in her lungs converges to zero, while the pleasure diverges to infinity.

Her fingers dig into the mattress as you pace up. You feel her walls pulse like sin x. Instant grips and loosenings of her pussy indicate that she is now close. You contribute the last drop of your patience for her orgasm—the maximum, when the derivative of her pleasure hits the X axis.

"I'm cummi–"

Minnie cums with a scream silenced by your grip around her neck. You for a moment regret restraining her voice, but no. You can just make her cum again, again, and again.

You flip her around to face you and resume the race. The race of which finish line you all are aware of obviously.

You kiss her again, this time drawing infinity with your tongue. It of course doesn't mean that it'll last forever, but you feel like it lasts as long as eternity itself. Rather, it would mean the neverending high you two are sharing right now.

Integral. Integrity. You and Minnie in bed together can't be counted as two. Undivided pleasure travels your connected, shared body. No boundaries are found between you and Minnie as you are pulled into a tight hug by her. You can feel how smooth her skin is, how soft her breasts are like it's your body—forget about the breasts, maybe.

Actually, it sounds quite right because it is your body—it's been so long since you lost count how many times you two told each other "You're mine,". Minnie moaning beneath you is yours. Yours to savor, yours to please, yours only to love.

Yes, yours only, and vice versa. You two are bijective functions. Each of your factors matches each of hers, without duplicity.

Again, you're hers only. Minnie is here, taking your cock to define you, to differentiate you, to integrate you. Minnie is moaning underneath your body, to be your proof, to be your solution, to be your answer.

"Are you close, babe?"

You were just about to say that you were, but you are so predictable a problem—Minnie knows the exact formulae to use when dealing with you.

"I am,"

Go ahead, she eyes you. You crook your neck to nibble on her ear and whisper,

"I fucking love you, Minnie,"

The moment you cum inside her, you are sent out of this world. The real world means nothing to you. Imaginary sensations feel more real than the real ones. Like you're feeling the i itself—the imaginary number.

1×1=1. You and Minnie just can't get separated. When it comes to you two, it's not the concept of addition or subtraction. You two love each other so it's 1×1=1. When you two are away from each other, you're still one, because 1÷1=1. Being 2 means you and Minnie are two 1s, which makes you two different individuals—right now, and of course always, you'd disprove that proudly.

You already came about half a minute ago, but you don't pull out. You see Minnie's heaving back and it's perfectly symmetrical—her erector muscles being the perfect axis for it.

It's an even function —f(x)=f(-x)— that you get visual, psychological satisfaction from. That way you could split her perfectly into two halves.

Your hands softly rub on her back. She still is in the middle of recovery, as you can feel her bumping heartbeats on your palm.

"Y-you feel so warm, baby,"

Minnie slightly lifts her limp head from the bed and murmurs with such a low tone. You then pull out and lie down next to her. Turning your body to her side you brush her hair behind her ears. She looks at you and gives you a satisfied, satisfying smile that could literally melt anything, everything.

Minnie's hand comes up to touch your face and–

It hits your still hard dick and she looks at it.

"Wanna go for another round?"

Minnie asks you, sitting up and getting on your thighs. It's a question with only one answer, it's another function that defines you two—a constant function, no matter what she says your answer is yes, undeniably.

Minnie grabs it, strokes it softly, and you feel your lust being recharged. Seems like she doesn't even look for your answer, anyway.

"Holy–"

You're inside her. Right after insertion Minnie starts to ride you out fast. You can only gasp at the feeling of her already-fucked inside, which is what you do every fucking time. Minnie kneeling, each of her knees are next to your both sides as she waves her hip and waist on you.

"Ah, fuck… You can last longer, right?"

She again asks you a question, locking fingers with you. Just like before, your answer is undoubtedly yes. Minnie then brings your hands to her lower waist and leans down forward, completely relying her weight on you. She lets your head into her embrace and whispers into your ear.

"Warm me up again, baby."

Your hands go down to grab on her hips and you begin fucking her upward with pace. As soon as your thrusts start to fuck your previous cum deeper into her womanhood, she moans beautifully into your ear.

Her arms tighten around your head, but the only tightness you can recognize is that of what's around your cock. She nibbles on your ear. Hot breaths tickle your ear, and her teeth on it motivates you to go even faster, rougher, and harsher. That's what loving sex is to her, and of course, to you too.

Your right hand detaches from her ass and gets on the back of her head. Minnie then lifts her head slightly up to fall into a dirty kiss. This time, you review the whole session beforehand.

You are drawing sin x, cos x, and infinity randomly with your tongue. Her back begins to arc exponentially, so you strengthen your hand on her head to keep her body tangent to yours. Your fingers on her ass rubs on her another hole, to make her pleasure diverge to infinity.

And everything you're doing earns her uncontrolled scream of ecstasy, as if she's trying to make an auditory definition of orgasm.

She again closes in to lock lips with you, and soon she cums. On your still-moving cock she cums hard, and in your mouth she lets the orgasmic sound out. It travels through your body fast, reverberates in your skull, sending you over the edge in no time.

You push deep into her for the last time before violently cumming inside her again.

It's explosive, you would term it. Minnie's entire body reacts to every spurt you shoot inside her.

"Holy fuck…"

You let out a sigh of words.

"Baby, that was…"

On top of her lungs she says, only to pause for breathing.

That was awesome, yeah. You know that, because you feel just like her too.

You look into her eyes, and find the excellence itself, the perfect, absolute beauty—e^(iπ)+1=0 .

#kpop male reader #kpop x male reader #kpop smut #minnie smut #gidle smut

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soracities · 1 year

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Hey! It has been on my mind lately and i just wanna ask..idk if it would make sense but i just noticed that nowadays ppl cant separate the authors and their books (ex. when author wrote a story about cheating and ppl starts bashing the author for romanticizing cheating and even to a point of cancelling the author for not setting a good/healthy example of a relationship) any thoughts about it?

I have many, many thoughts on this, so this may get a little unwieldy but I'll try to corall it together as best I can.

But honestly, I think sometimes being unable to separate the author from the work (which is interesting to me to see because some people are definitely not "separating" anything even though they think they are; they just erase the author entirely as an active agent, isolate the work, and call it "objectivity") has a lot to do with some people being unable to separate the things they read from themselves.

I'm absolutely not saying it's right, but it's an impulse I do understand. If you read a book and love it, if it transforms your life, or defines a particular period of your life, and then you find out that the author has said or done something awful--where does that leave you? Someone awful made something beautiful, something you loved: and now that this point of communion exists between you and someone whose views you'd never agree with, what does that mean for who you are? That this came from the mind of a person capable of something awful and spoke to your mind--does that mean you're like them? Could be like them?

Those are very uncomfortable questions and I think if you have a tendency to look at art or literature this way, you will inevitable fall into the mindset where only "Good" stories can be accepted because there's no distinction between where the story ends and you begin. As I said, I can see where it comes from but I also find it profoundly troubling because i think one of the worst things you can do to literature is approach it with the expectation of moral validation--this idea that everything you consume, everything you like and engage with is some fundamental insight into your very character as opposed to just a means of looking at or questioning something for its own sake is not just narrow-minded but dangerous.

Art isn't obliged to be anything--not moral, not even beautiful. And while I expend very little (and I mean very little) energy engaging with or even looking at internet / twitter discourse for obvious reasons, I do find it interesting that people (online anyway) will make the entire axis of their critique on something hinge on the fact that its bad representation or justifying / romanticizing something less than ideal, proceeding to treat art as some sort of conduit for moral guidance when it absolutely isn't. And they will also hold that this critique comes from a necessarily good and just place (positive representation, and I don't know, maybe in their minds it does) while at the same time setting themselves apart from radical conservatives who do the exact same thing, only they're doing it from the other side.

To make it abundantly clear, I'm absolutely not saying you should tolerate bigots decrying that books about the Holocaust, race, homophobia, or lgbt experiences should be banned--what I am saying, is that people who protest that a book like Maus or Persepolis is going to "corrupt children", and people who think a book exploring the emotional landscape of a deeply flawed character, who just happens to be from a traditionally marginalised group or is written by someone who is, is bad representation and therefore damaging to that community as a whole are arguments that stem from the exact same place: it's a fundamental inability, or outright refusal, to accept the interiority and alterity of other people, and the inherent validity of the experiences that follow. It's the same maniacal, consumptive, belief that there can be one view and one view only: the correct view, which is your view--your thoughts, your feelings.

There is also dangerous element of control in this. Someone with racist views does not want their child to hear anti-racist views because as far as they are concerned, this child is not a being with agency, but a direct extension of them and their legacy. That this child may disagree is a profound rupture and a threat to the cohesion of this person's entire worldview. Nothing exists in and of and for itself here: rather the multiplicity of the world and people's experiences within it are reduced to shadowy agents that are either for us or against us. It's not about protecting children's "innocence" ("think of the children", in these contexts, often just means "think of the status quo"), as much as it is about protecting yourself and the threat to your perceived place in the world.

And in all honestt I think the same holds true for the other side--if you cannot trust yourself to engage with works of art that come from a different standpoint to yours, or whose subject matter you dislike, without believing the mere fact of these works' existence will threaten something within you or society in general (which is hysterical because believe me, society is NOT that flimsy), then that is not an issue with the work itself--it's a personal issue and you need to ask yourself if it would actually be so unthinkable if your belief about something isn't as solid as you think it is, and, crucially, why you have such little faith in your own critical capacity that the only response these works ilicit from you is that no one should be able to engage with them. That's not awareness to me--it's veering very close to sticking your head in the sand, while insisting you actually aren't.

Arbitrarily adding a moral element to something that does not exist as an agent of moral rectitude but rather as an exploration of deeply human impulses, and doing so simply to justify your stance or your discomfort is not only a profoundly inadequate, but also a deeply insidious, way of papering over your insecurities and your own ignorance (i mean this in the literal sense of the word), of creating a false and dishonest certainty where certainty does not exist and then presenting this as a fact that cannot and should not be challenged and those who do are somehow perverse or should have their characters called into question for it. It's reductive and infantilising in so many ways and it also actively absolves you of any responsibility as a reader--it absolves you of taking responsibility for your own interpretation of the work in question, it absolves you of responsibility for your own feelings (and, potentially, your own biases or preconceptions), it absolves you of actual, proper, thought and engagement by laying the blame entirely on a rogue piece of literature (as if prose is something sentient) instead of acknowledging that any instance of reading is a two-way street: instead of asking why do I feel this way? what has this text rubbed up against? the assumption is that the book has imposed these feelings on you, rather than potentially illuminated what was already there.

Which brings me to something else which is that it is also, and I think this is equally dangerous, lending books and stories a mythical, almost supernatural, power that they absolutely do not have. Is story-telling one of the most human, most enduring, most important and life-altering traditions we have? Yes. But a story is also just a story. And to convince yourself that books have a dangerous transformative power above and beyond what they are actually capable of is, again, to completely erase people's agency as readers, writers' agency as writers and makers (the same as any other craft), and subsequently your own. And erasing agency is the very point of censors banning books en masse. It's not an act of stupidity or blind ignorance, but a conscious awareness of the fact that people will disagree with you, and for whatever reason you've decided that you are not going to let them.

Writers and poets are not separate entities to the rest of us: they aren't shamans or prophets, gifted and chosen beings who have some inner, profound, knowledge the rest of us aren't privy to (and should therefore know better or be better in some regard) because moral absolutism just does not exist. Every writer, no matter how affecting their work may be, is still Just Some Guy Who Made a Thing. Writing can be an incredibly intimate act, but it can also just be writing, in the same way that plumbing is plumbing and weeding is just weeding and not necessarily some transcendant cosmic endeavour in and of itself. Authors are no different, when you get down to it, from bakers or electricians; Nobel laureates are just as capable of coming out with distasteful comments about women as your annoying cousin is and the fact that they wrote a genre-defying work does not change that, or vice-versa. We imbue books with so much power and as conduits of the very best and most human traits we can imagine and hope for, but they aren't representations of the best of humanity--they're simply expressions of humanity, which includes the things we don't like.

There are some authors I love who have said and done things I completely disagree with or whose views I find abhorrent--but I'm not expecting that, just because they created something that changed my world, they are above and beyond the ordinarly, the petty, the spiteful, or cruel. That's not condoning what they have said and done in the least: but I trust myself to be able to read these works with awareness and attention, to pick out and examine and attempt to understand the things that I find questionable, to hold on to what has moved me, and to disregard what I just don't vibe with or disagree with. There are writers I've chosen not to engage with, for my own personal reasons: but I'm not going to enforce this onto someone else because I can see what others would love in them, even if what I love is not strong enough to make up for what I can't. Terrance Hayes put perfectly in my view, when he talks about this and being capable of "love without forgiveness". Writing is a profoundly human heritage and those who engage with it aren't separate from that heritage as human because they live in, and are made by, the exact same world as anyone else.

The measure of good writing for me has hardly anything to do with whatever "virtue" it's perceived to have and everything to do with sincerity. As far as I'm concerned, "positive representation" is not about 100% likeable characters who never do anything problematic or who are easily understood. Positive representation is about being afforded the full scope of human feelings, the good, the bad, and the ugly, and not having your humanity, your dignity, your right to exist in the world questioned because all of these can only be seen through the filter of race, or gender, religion, or ethicity and interpreted according to our (profoundly warped) perceptions of those categories and what they should or shouldn't represent. True recognition of someone's humanity does not lie in finding only what is held in common between you (and is therefore "acceptable", with whatever you put into that category), but in accepting everything that is radically different about them and not letting this colour the consideration you give.

Also, and it may sound harsh, but I think people forget that fictional characters are fictional. If I find a particularly fucked up relationship dynamic compelling (as I often do), or if I decide to write and explore that dynamic, that's not me saying two people who threaten to kill each other and constantly hurt each other is my ideal of romance and that this is exactly how I want to be treated: it's me trying to find out what is really happening below the surface when two people behave like this. It's me exploring something that would be traumatizing and deeply damaging in real life, in a safe and fictional setting so I can gain some kind of understanding about our darker and more destructive impulses without being literally destroyed by them, as would happen if all of this were real. But it isn't real. And this isn't a radical or complex thing to comprehend, but it becomes incomprehensible if your sole understanding of literature is that it exists to validate you or entertain you or cater to you, and if all of your interpretations of other people's intentions are laced with a persistent sense of bad faith. Just because you have not forged any identity outside of this fictional narrative doesn't mean it's the same for others.

Ursula K. le Guin made an extremely salient point about children and stories in that children know the stories you tell them--dragons, witches, ghouls, whatever--are not real, but they are true. And that sums it all up. There's a reason children learning to lie is an incredibly important developmental milestone, because it shows that they have achieved an incredibly complex, but vitally important, ability to hold two contradictory statements in their minds and still know which is true and which isn't. If you cannot delve into a work, on the terms it sets, as a fictional piece of literature, recognize its good points and note its bad points, assess what can have a real world impact or reflects a real world impact and what is just creative license, how do you possible expect to recognize when authority and propaganda lies to you? Because one thing propaganda has always utilised is a simplistic, black and white depiction of The Good (Us) and The Bad (Them). This moralistic stance regarding fiction does not make you more progressive or considerate; it simply makes it easier to manipulate your ideas and your feelings about those ideas because your assessments are entirely emotional and surface level and are fuelled by a refusal to engage with something beyond the knee-jerk reaction it causes you to have.

Books are profoundly, and I do mean profoundly, important to me-- and so much of who I am and the way I see things is probably down to the fact that stories have preoccupied me wherever I go. But I also don't see them as vital building blocks for some core facet or a pronouncement of Who I Am. They're not badges of honour or a cover letter I put out into the world for other people to judge and assess me by, and approve of me (and by extension, the things I say or feel). They're vehicles through which I explore and experience whatever it is that I'm most caught by: not a prophylactic, not a mode of virtue signalling, and certainly not a means of signalling a moral stance.

I think at the end of the day so much of this tendency to view books as an extension of yourself (and therefore of an author) is down to the whole notion of "art as a mirror", and I always come back to Fran Lebowitz saying that it "isn't a mirror, it's a door". And while I do think it's important to have that mirror (especially if you're part of a community that never sees itself represented, or represented poorly and offensively) I think some people have moved into the mindset of thinking that, in order for art to be good, it needs to be a mirror, it needs to cater to them and their experiences precisely--either that or that it can only exist as a mirror full stop, a reflection of and for the reader and the writer (which is just incredibly reductive and dismissive of both)--and if art can only exist as a mirror then anything negative that is reflected back at you must be a condemnation, not a call for exploration or an attempt at understanding.

As I said, a mirror is important but to insist on it above all else isn't always a positive thing: there are books I related to deeply because they allowed me to feel so seen (some by authors who looked nothing like me), but I have no interest in surrounding myself with those books all the time either--I know what goes on in my head which is precisely why I don't always want to live there. Being validated by a character who's "just like me" is amazing but I also want--I also need-- to know that lives and minds and events exist outside of the echo-chamber of my own mind. The mirror is comforting, yes, but if you spend too long with it, it also becomes isolating: you need doors because they lead you to ideas and views and characters you could never come up with on your own. A world made up of various Mes reflected back to me is not a world I want to be immersed in because it's a world with very little texture or discovery or room for growth and change. Your sense of self and your sense of other people cannot grow here; it just becomes mangled.

Art has always been about dialogue, always about a me and a you, a speaker and a listener, even when it is happening in the most internal of spaces: to insist that art only ever tells you what you want to hear, that it should only reflect what you know and accept is to undermine the very core of what it seeks to do in the first place, which is establish connection. Art is a lifeline, I'm not saying it isn't. But it's also not an instruction manual for how to behave in the world--it's an exploration of what being in the world looks like at all, and this is different for everyone. And you are treading into some very, very dangerous waters the moment you insist it must be otherwise.

Whatever it means to be in the world, it is anything but straightforward. In this world people cheat, people kill, they manipulate, they lie, they torture and steal--why? Sometimes we know why, but more often we don't--but we take all these questions and write (or read) our way through them hoping that, if we don't find an answer, we can at least find our way to a place where not knowing isn't as unbearable anymore (and sometimes it's not even about that; it's just about telling a story and wanting to make people laugh). It's an endless heritage of seeking with countless variations on the same statements which say over and over again I don't know what to make of this story, even as I tell it to you. So why am I telling it? Do I want to change it? Can I change it? Yes. No. Maybe. I have no certainty in any of this except that I can say it. All I can do is say it.

Writing, and art in general, are one of the very, very, few ways we can try and make sense of the apparently arbitrary chaos and absurdity of our lives--it's one of the only ways left to us by which we can impose some sense of structure or meaning, even if those things exists in the midst of forces that will constantly overwhelm those structures, and us. I write a poem to try and make sense of something (grief, love, a question about octopuses) or to just set down that I've experienced something (grief, love, an answer about octpuses). You write a poem to make sense of, resolve, register, or celebrate something else. They don't have to align. They don't have to agree. We don't even need to like each other much. But in both of these instances something is being said, some fragment of the world as its been perceived or experienced is being shared. They're separate truths that can exist at the same time. Acknowledging this is the only means we have of momentarily bridging the gaps that will always exist between ourselves and others, and it requires a profound amount of grace, consideration and forbearance. Otherwise, why are we bothering at all?

#this is so much longer than i intended but yeah. those are my very long 2 cents #tbh i also think social media makes it worse in a way especially bc “transparency” has become a form of public vetting which is insane to m #me* transparency and honesty are not the same thing ans its ludicrous that this is where we're at and while we all have to live with this #demand for transparency i do think it affects writers differently bc the whole art as mirror thing comes to the fore in this argument #why would you sit with your feelings about a book when its easier and more accessible for you to @ the authors twitter handle #but anyway #ask #anonymous #book talks

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dwindlinghaze · 1 year

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I need peter fluff. like i need reader to be having a bad day and lashing out at peter and him not getting mad and just comforting her<3

best

(peter parker x reader)

contents: fluff, unintentionally mean reader, peter just being really kind and hearted.

a/n: oh how i miss writing for him :( hope u enjoyed this anon!! tysm for requesting 🫧🫧🤍

　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

everyone has bad days. awful, exhausting, horrible days. sometimes they have a way to cope with it too. you tried though. tried to keep the boiling emotions under your ribcage, trying so hard not to let your bad mood ruins your boyfriend's beautiful day.

peter was the best. he was the best to you. but right now, just the mere shuffles of his legs sends distress through your veins.

trying to keep your calm, you drank you water. gulping it loudly with a sour face in hopes of him understanding what you're trying to imply.

he didn't look up from his magazines. the pages turned along with an ear scratching sound.

"ow, i just gave myself a paper cut!" peter shrieked, holding his index finger in front of his face and yours.

"you're not five, it'll heal," you huffed. in usual days, you would help him even with the smallest things.

"what's wrong?"

"nothing's wrong! you just got a paper cut wow big deal. the world has fallen off its axis and we're spinning in the opposite direction!"

"love-"

"no stop! that co-worker at my workplace took a day off this week so i had to replace her for seven days, meaning that i have to work double while still having the same paycheque as the others. eloise kept asking me about the presentation that we're going to have on monday even though i've said it more than a million times that i will finish it before friday. and the thing is, she is not helping me with it! my professor just assigned two more additional assignments for me this week. my shoes got dirt on the mud. i dropped our matching bracelets on the gutter because some kids were running around. wendy asked me to order pizza for the both of us while i was catching up on my work. i ordered it and when i finished, i came outside to only see that she left nothing for me. absolutely nothing, not even a crumb! a paper cut is the least harmful thing right now. i'd trade all of this for a paper cut, stop whining about your microscopic problem."

you were now crying, the weight of this crushing your spine and shoulders. peter was there. of course he is.

he caressed your arms, massaging them slowly as he let you cry, gently bringing your head to his shoulder.

"hey," he whispered, "i'll help you with everything okay. only if you let me."

"i can't. all of that is my responsibility. i'm not going to pass on a weight to you."

"we're together for a reason. whatever you're feeling, i feel them too. whatever's weighing you down, i'll come and help lighten them up."

"sorry for lashing on you," you sniffed, looking at him wistfully.

"no no. you really needed that right? i know," he spoke as he kissed your nose softly. "i can't really help you with your job but i'm going to help you make the presentation, and i'll do the assignment for you, i can get you new shoes or clean them up, i'll get us new matching bracelets, i'll order us both pizzas and i won't eat them all."

"pete, no you can't-"

"remember what i said? if something's weighing you down, i'm here to lighten them up," he gave you the loveliest smile the world has ever known.

"thank you, love. i'm so sorry, let me put a bandaid on your finger, come!" you stood up.

"it'll heal," he laughed.

"i just want to help you back as a way to thank you," you smiled.

#peter parker fluff #peter parker x reader #peter parker angst #peter parker fic #peter parker and reader #peter parker blurb #peter parker x you #peter parker imagine #peter parker fanfiction #anon request #thanks anon!

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cloud-somersault · 3 months

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Well...here we are again, friends. Another journey, another adventure, another...third thing. And, since I'm not posting the completed epilogue as one, big, long, giant THING, you get to see me in the tags FIFTEEN MORE TIMES! Isn't that exciting?

As such, I don't know what to say here! Hm! I'm excited about everyone reading Macaque's perspective and getting to know his beautiful mind. He'll grow on you, for sure.

This one's a short chapter (I mean, short for me) so you're gonna get some bite-sized chunks instead of a big long feast. But overall, it'll be long and beautiful.

But yeah, let's sit and talk about things! What do you think is gonna happen??? What will Macaque and Wukong discuss? Will we meet Little Star??? (No, LMFAO)

But yeah, first of sixteen, let's fucking GOOOOOO

#constellations fic #shadowpeach #lmk shadowpeach #cloud's fics #and yeah #i am gonna post in the dead of night when no one's on #that's what i DO. that's my BRAND.#I DON'T CARE ABOUT METRICS AND OPPORTUNE TIMES #it's finished! I WANT IT OUT OF MY FACE!!!!

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bordysbae · 1 year

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hey!!! it's me again :) i was just wondering if you could do a fic where the reader is trevor's sister, and she's with luke, but the fic is based on a combination on mine, stay stay stay, and that's the way i loved you by ms. taylor herself

ps. i actually love your writing sm 🫶

“my michigan boy”

luke hughes x zegras!sister

do you remember we were sitting there by the water, you put your arm around me for the first time.

as you and luke watch the sunset lower by the second, he wraps an arm around you as both of your guys’ toes dangle off of the dock. you rest your head on luke’s shoulder, embracing the final days of summer. the final days until you both head off to college, and before your guys’ brothers head back to california, new jersey, and vancouver.

“i’m gonna miss this, i mean i miss every summer spent at the lake house, but especially this one,” you state softly.

“and whys that?” luke mumbles, nearly lost in the orange and pink sky.

“because of us. it’s been too long of us just being awkward around each other, i’m glad we finally made it to where we are now. but it sucks, you’re staying in michigan for college and i’m going all the way to wisconsin”

“i know, but we’ll keep in touch, i promise. plus we’re both gonna see each other on winter break, and spring break too.”

“luke, it’s just that-“ you begin to say, but you’re cut off by trevor calling you both over to the fire pit to make s’mores with everyone. luke stands up and hurries over to make sure he gets a s’more, but you walk slow behind him. your older brother walks over closer, and grabs your attention by standing directly in front of you. “you okay?” he asks.

“yeah, just thinkin’”

“what about?”

“me and luke. we aren’t dating, but we’re definitely more than friends. anyone can see that, but we’re going away to college next week. there’s no point in dating, but i don’t want us to be left as nothing, y’know?”

“don’t date him, that’s a dumb idea. you’re going away to college, and you don’t want to be held back by a long distance relationship. plus luke is gonna be focusing on hockey. if you guys are really meant to be it’ll happen when it needs to,” trevor tells you.

“since when are you such a romantic,” you playfully elbow him, earning yourself a smack on the back of the head, “yeah yeah, shut up.”

and he says, “you look beautiful tonight.” but i miss screaming and fighting and kissing in the rain.

you and luke left things quiet in michigan. you never addressed the elephant in the room—the elephant being that you were both going away to college— so now you’re on a date with a guy you met at a bar last month.

“you look beautiful tonight,” he smiles, making you blush.

“oh thank you, aaron! you don’t look too bad yourself,” you smile, as you both head into the restaurant. aaron is sweet, but he’s just not luke. this is the second date, and he’s just careless in a way. he loves to talk about himself, and sure, he listens to what you have to say, but he doesn’t listen to the way luke did.

“what are your plans for winter break next week? you staying here?” aaron asks you, catching you off gaurd. he never really asks much about you, so you’re happy to be able to get some words in about yourself.

“oh! i’m going to michigan, my parents live there! i’m staying with my family friends at their lake house, which technically doesn’t serve the same purpose it does during the summer, but it’s always fun to go ice skating on the lake!”

“oh cool! i was hoping maybe we could hang out, but i guess i’ll just have to text you!” aaron chuckles, making you blush slightly.

it’s not that you don’t like aaron, you very much do, it’s just that he isn’t the same as luke. you and luke could talk about any and everything for hours, but with aaron it’s all just a little too unfamiliar for you. you even missed the fights you and luke would have. i mean sure, they sucked in the moment, but as soon as they were over, they were immediately forgotten. and then luke was your world’s axis again. he made your world spin.

you took the time to memorize me, my fears my hope and dreams. i just like hanging out with you, all the time

back in michigan, all is going well. you and luke are slightly awkward, since the tension from summer was never resolved, but you guys are still close as always. but what you didn’t expect to happen was for your brother to accidentally spill the beans about aaron, in front of everyone.

“ew, you still talk to aaron?” trevor exclaims, as he tosses your vibrating phone at you from from across the living room.

“who’s aaron?” quinn asks, pestering like the annoying boy he is.

“yeah y/n, who’s aaron?” luke questions, turning his head towards you. your heart begins to race.

“we went on a couple dates, that’s all,” you begin to explain, but before you can finish your explanation luke leaves the room. everyone’s eyes follow him as he exits, then they all turn back towards you with sheepish smiles. you sigh, and chase after luke. you hear him close the back door, so you go outside onto the deck. he’s sat under the awning, with his head resting upon his hands.

“luke, let me explain,” you sigh, as you sit next him.

“no don’t, it’s not like we were dating anyways. i mean we’ve both hooked up with other people while away at college, i don’t know why i’m upset. you don’t have to explain yourself, you did nothing wrong,”

“oh luke, yes i did. i knew all along that all i wanted was you, but i saw you going to these parties and shit, so i felt like i needed to move on too. i toyed with aaron’s feelings, just for it not to work,” you say, making luke look up from his lap at you.

“what are you saying?”

“that i love you, luke hughes,” you smile, making him blush.

“i love you too, y/n zegras,” he says, leaning in to kiss you. he cuffs your cheeks, as your hands make their way through his curly hair. suddenly luke pulls away and gasps, startling you.

“remember when you said you’ve always wanted to kiss someone in the rain? cmon!” he exclaims, immediately pulling you up from the small step, and into the pouring rain. your guys’ laughter could be heard from a mile away, until it’s silenced by luke’s lips crashing against yours.

“i like hanging out with you luke, we should do this more,” you giggle, making luke smile.

“do what, kiss more? or hang out more?”

“both. you’re my michigan boy.”

#luke hughes #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes imagine #luke hughes blurb #hockey blurb #hockey imagine #umich hockey #michigan hockey #trevor zegras #quinn hughes #zegras reader

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