Okay, so here’s the thing, I don’t know if I have ADHD or some sort of executive function dysfunction or whatever, but I struggle just....doing stuff  like A Lot™.

But, I had a REALLY good weekend this week and I did things, things I should be doing and things I like to do. I was really, really proud of myself by the end of it because I managed to overcome whatever impulsivity my brain came up with. 

However, this isn’t a bragging post! I wanted to point something out that I noticed and that I think people who struggle mentally often forget: I felt more relaxed and energetic after three days of working really hard, than I feel after a day where I struggle to do anything at all. 

The thing is struggle is exhausting. Fighting with your brain is exhausting. You can do NOTHING in the entire day and feel like you’ve been run over by a truck because you know you should be doing Important Things™ and you’re Not Doing The Things™ and you’re then guilt tripping yourself over it and just exhausting yourself with every thought. 

And I think that really drove home the point that this isn’t about laziness. This isn’t because you’re not trying. The very definition of struggling is trying. Like literally. One of the definitions of struggle (verb) on Merriam Webster is to proceed with difficulty or with great effort.  

Struggling means trying, it means putting in great effort to push against something that does not want to move, be it a really huge rock (that you for some reason want to move in this story) or your own stupid brain. 

So like! Give yourself some love on those shitty days too! Be proud of yourself for trying!

Try Not to Use the “F-Word,” Okay?

[Ao3]

was reading about @doodledrawsthings​ ‘coffee shop au’ and thought it was interesting that from the jump Luka uses “peck” as a swear. told myself not to overthink it... so naturally here’s nearly three thousand words about the idea that Luka used to swear a LOT. not sure how in keeping it is w his character, but it certainly is in keeping w MY experiences of unthinkingly swearing around a toddler ahahah.... fuck 8)

Summary: three snapshots of luka that are definitely only about swearing (coffee shop au) Characters: Luka, Vanessa, baby Hattie, Luka’s parents. Rating: T (features swearing, implied unhealthy relationship, post-birth scene, minor bleeding) Length: 2878 words

One evening during dinner, Luka loses his grip on his fork and drops it under the table with a clatter. “Fuck,” he says mildly.

Dad gasps, which is a poor choice since he was mid-sip of water. He sputters and coughs, face turning alarmingly red, while Mom throws her head back and laughs. It’s even louder and longer than usual; even by the time Luka crawls back up from under the table, errant fork clutched in one hand and brow wrinkled in confusion over his weird parents, his mom is still laughing. His dad, though, has managed to get his breath back.

“Luka T. Princeton!” he says hoarsely, looking both absolutely scandalized and absolutely soaked from the water that escaped his mouth and cup. “We do not say that word at the dinner table!”

“What word?” Luka asks, before a metaphorical lightbulb goes off. “Oh, ‘fuck’?”

“Don’t—!” his dad says, then goes “hrng” and looks to his wife for help. 

Luka’s mom, now face-down at the dinner table in stark contrast to her usually flawless manners, just smacks the table with a fist and laughs harder. The water in Luka’s cup ripples with it, which in itself is pretty funny, but his dad still looks so uncharacteristically thunderstruck that Luka is unsure whether to join in. Plus he pulled out the full name, so… 

Luka bites his lower lip, suddenly worried. Did he do something bad…?

“Where did you even hear that word?” Dad is massaging the bridge of his nose now in the way he only does when dealing with a tough client or a call that he doesn’t want Luka to overhear, and Luka finds he has to bite his lip even harder because it wants to wobble and he’s a big kid, he’s not going to cry.

“M-Mom said it the other day, when she cut her finger,” he admits, fiddling with his fork. Dad turns to her with such a look of betrayal, even as Mom tries to stifle her continuing giggles. “Um… is it bad?”

“Yes,” Dad says, just as Mom catches her breath and says, “Well, sort of.”

Luka’s parents glance at each other in surprised confusion, but Luka barely notices. He said a bad word… Does that mean he’s bad? Despite his best efforts, his vision starts to go blurry with tears as he stares down at the fork in his hands. He doesn’t want to be bad.

“I don’t think it’s that big a deal,” his mom says.

“I do,” replies his dad, sounding baffled. “I just assumed we were on the same page with this.”

Luka sniffs, trying desperately to hold it together, but he said a bad word — but he didn’t know — but does it matter if he didn’t know? He’s still bad, right? Hot tears start to trail down his cheeks and he sniffs again, harder and louder.

“Oh, Lu,” his dad says softly and crosses around the table to kneel by Luka’s seat. Luka wipes at his eyes fruitlessly as his mom reaches across and takes his smaller hand in hers. “I’m sorry, kiddo, I didn’t mean to get upset. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“It’s okay,” his mom tells him, giving his hand a squeeze. “It’s alright, Luka. We’re not angry — it is a, ah, a ‘bad word,’ but you didn’t know. It’s alright, sweetheart.”

Once Luka starts crying, though, it always takes him an embarrassingly long time to stop. He can’t help it. His frustration about unwillingly acting like such a dumb little kid makes his tears come faster and harder; he has to scrub at his face for a while, his dad handing him tissues, and so he doesn’t pick up on the silent conversation happening over his head between his parents.

They are a matched set in so many ways. To Luka they seem to move in perfect tandem, one picking up the tasks of the other with seamless grace. It seems so natural, so unpracticed and easy, and indeed some of it is — but as Luka cries, they communicate in a series of small expressions each has long-studied in the other: We will talk about this when Luka goes to bed. And, Well I thought it was funny. And, Alright maybe it was but I still don’t want him swearing. And, We’ll discuss it. We’ll figure it out together. I love you.

Luka never realizes. He just assumes that perfect couples are never out of sync with each other — and if they are out of sync, then they must not be perfect.

***

“Fuck, Ven, she’s perfect,” Luka breathes.

He couldn't get close enough sitting in one of the chairs, so he had been leaning against his wife's hospital bed when Vanessa passed him their child — their child, their baby, theirs — and his knees went weak. Now he’s kneeling on the tile floor, barely aware of his surroundings because in his arms he holds a truly, beautifully perfect little baby girl.

She has… a nose. He couldn’t say whether it’s more like his or Vanessa’s because this perfect bundle of joy is a scrunched up little pink newborn so mostly she looks like a lot of wrinkles that a sleepy face got on, but fuck, he loves that little nose and everything attached to it. Honestly through the tears he can barely see her right now but she’s perfect, perfect, perfect… even if she is, objectively speaking, not actually that appealing to look at. “Shit, Ven. Ven. Look at her goddamn little face, fuck.”

Vanessa makes a sound and reaches for him, touching his hand. “You don’t like her face?”

“I fucking love her face,” he says hoarsely. “I love her so goddamn much, Ven, I don’t even know how to say it. Fuck. Fuck.”

“Good,” Vanessa says tiredly. Luka doesn’t want to put their daughter down for a second so he does his best to wipe his eyes on the shoulder of his shirt sleeve. He gets to his feet only to sink right onto the bed beside his wife. His perfect, wonderful wife who has given them the tiny creature he never wants to look away from. “You wanted to name her Harriet, didn’t you?”

It’s like there’s a thread pulling his gaze directly to their daughter but he resists it for long enough to look up at the radiant woman he loves. She’s watching him, eyes glittering. “Do you mean…?”

She gives him one of her luminous smiles, even exhausted as she clearly is. “If it’s what you want, my love.”

Luka’s heart leaps as he looks down at their daughter — at Harriet. “Harriet,” he whispers in wonder. “Little Harry.”

Vanessa’s grip on his arm briefly tightens. “No,” she says.

Luka can’t help the wet laugh that comes out of him, though he tries to keep it down for the sake of his exhausted wife. “No,” he agrees. “How about… Hattie? Little Hattie?”

Hattie sleeps on, a teeny tiny person wrapped up safe in Luka’s trembling arms. He’s probably going to get dehydrated from all this crying and his face already hurts from how hard he’s smiling but, fuck, he doesn’t care about that at all when their perfect daughter is right here. “Hm? Hattie? How’s that sound, princess?” And he presses a gentle, wet kiss to Harriet’s brow.

Luka doesn’t notice Vanessa’s stung shock. He doesn’t notice the shadow of fear, anger, and confusion that darkens her face as she looks between her husband and the daughter she’s given him. It will take him a long time to realize his assumptions about their mutual goals as a unit are different.

For now, he loves Vanessa with all his heart — and loves their little Hattie just as much, if not more.

***

“Fuck,” Luka hisses, jerking his hand out of the hot, soapy water to check his fingertip. Blood wells up from its soft pad, mixing and diluting in the dirty dishwater. “Fuck,” he sighs again, and turns the squeaky nozzle of his shitty sink to run clean water over it. What kind of a fucking fool leaves a sharp knife in the sink like that, anyway.

Obviously, he does. This god awful apartment is just his, after all — he’d run here as soon as he could manage to pull together both the separate funds and distance necessary to prevent Vanessa locating it. This place is safe: Vanessa has never been here, and as of today she never will. So it’s safe, that is, from her — not from Luka’s own inability to keep track of where the goddamn sharp objects are.

“Stupid,” he mutters to himself as the water rushing over his cut starts to run clean. “Shithead.”

It’s been a weird day — a weird week — shit, a weird few years, if Luka thinks about it. When Vanessa came into his life, she seemed to him so bright that nothing else was worth looking at. It took until their daughter — his daughter, now — for Luka to start looking into the darkness she brought as well. Then the divorce proceedings, custody battles, the restraining order — for so long it had seemed that the legal system would fail Luka and Harriet, that Vanessa’s long shadow would follow them wherever they went.

Until earlier this week, that is, when Vanessa used magic in the courtroom.

Things had happened quickly from there. The paperwork barring Vanessa in his and Hattie’s life was just signed and made official today; his copies are still set neatly on the junky, second-hand kitchen table until he figures out exactly where to put them. After so long, it’s finally over. He and Hattie are free.

The old pipes complain as he turns the water off. The cut isn’t too bad, but he probably ought to bandage it anyway. He wipes away the spilled water with a ratty towel, turning to —

“Ffffpffpffpfpfpflllffff,” says Hattie from right by Luka’s feet, which is also outside of her playpen.

“Fuck!” Luka yelps, leaping about a foot in the air. Hattie stops blowing air through her lips to smile up at him, totally angelic. Luka presses a hand to his chest, staring at his little girl. “Kiddo! You scared me! How did you—?”

He looks across the small, open floorplan into the den, where he’s set up several different brands and varieties of baby gates to keep Hattie out of the kitchen when he’s occupied with cooking or cleaning. Her many toys are left behind, the gates apparently untouched, but somehow she’s escaped them — again — to hug Luka’s leg and smile up at him.

He smiles back, of course — he couldn’t deny her anything. And even if it is a problem that his little girl can’t be contained anywhere, he feels a swell of pride at her continued and baffling ingenuity — as well as a slight prickling in his eyes because even with all her toys she always just seems to want to be close to him. “No one’s gonna keep you trapped anywhere, huh, sweetheart?” he asks, squatting down to ruffle her light brown waves.

“Fffpllfpllfff,” Hattie replies importantly, graciously accepting the affection.

“Ah, I see. Your jumping abilities are unmatched, are they?” Luka says in return. His daughter started moving early, her curiosity about the world apparently unable to be sated with just looking even when she was just a few months old. She has always wanted to touch, to crawl, to walk — just the other day Luka could swear he caught her trying to climb the couch. His little princess is unstoppable, and his pride in her every step has gotten him teary-eyed more than once (more than once this week, even).

“Fffflpllplflffff,” Hattie tells him, eyes bright. She smiles hugely in between blowing air through her lips. What she lacks in the ability to form words (she’s a little late, and Luka’s not worried, exactly, but he is watching that with hawk-like eyes) she makes up for in expression. She turns her big blue eyes to the hand Luka isn’t using to brush back her wavy locks, curious. “Fffllllllllflflplf?”

“Oh, your dad cut himself,” Luka explains, showing her the slim red line of blood beading up on the pad of his finger. “Pretty stupid, if you ask — oh, sweetie, don’t—!” She’s grabbed his finger in a little fist before he can stop her, smearing blood all over it. He quickly scoops her into his lap, frowning down at her messy hand. “Fuck. Alright, we’ll just—”

“Fffffffuck,” Hattie says clearly.

Luka blinks once. Twice. He looks down at his daughter, who is beaming up at him with clear pride.

“...what,” Luka says.

“Flffflpplf.”

“A-alright, okay, that’s — sorry, princess, your dad thought for a second there you said—”

“Pllllfffflllplflflfff. Fffuck!” Hattie says again. Then she claps her little hands together in delight, further spreading the blood between them.

“Ha,” says Luka, voice unusually high. “Hahaha I? You??? …Alright! Alright! This, ah, this is fine, kiddo, we’ll just—”

“Fuck! Ffplplffuck fuck fuck?”

Luka takes a deep breath. Then he takes another one.

When Harriet was first born, he’d made an effort to cut back on the swearing. He had the ability to turn it off, after all, in the courthouse and with clients, so presumably it should have been easy to transfer that back home, too. But changing the way he’s spoken for years in his own space turned out to be quite difficult; with the stress of the past few months, that effort had been one of the many things to fall by the wayside in favor of more immediate concerns.

So Luka has been swearing a lot lately. And his sweet Hattie has been quietly soaking it all up, patiently biding her time until she could attempt to communicate with her dad in his own language.

“Ffffuck?” Hattie asks, eyes concerned. She presses one dirty hand to Luka’s face, as though attempting to stem the flow of tears. “Fffpllppff?”

“Oh, princess, I’m sorry,” he tells her, rubbing his wet face on his shoulder to clear his eyes. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have — I—” He sniffs, then exhales hard. “Alright. Daddy’s been saying some bad words lately, but he’s gonna stop now, okay?”

“Fuck!”

A part of Luka really, really wants to laugh, actually, because damn is Hattie cute with her big, sparkling eyes, her chubby cheeks uplifted with a smile, the absolute adoration on her face as she looks up at him for approval. The contrast between how sweet she looks in her bird-patterned onesie and the foul language coming out of her mouth is almost —

“Fuck?”

“Nope!” he says brightly. “We’re gonna try something different! Okay, kiddo?” Hattie tilts her head adorably and Luka’s chest squeezes — fuck he loves her. “Hmmm…”

She watches him silently as he thinks. In the dozens of parenting books he’s read there was never anything explicitly about what to do if a toddler started cursing (because no one else has this problem because only he is this bad a dad, holy shit), but he can recall a number of chapters about encouraging them in pronunciation…

He’ll need something that sounds like “fuck,” but definitely isn’t. He laces his fingers together, tilting his head at Hattie. She pats his hands, looking solemnly back. He sticks his tongue out at her; delighted, she does the same. What word to use?

He notices that her orange onesie has penguins on it. 

“Alright, kiddo, this is going to be a little silly,” he says, and goes, “fllpppplffffpeck.”

It might be easier to just let this go, to let Hattie say and do whatever she wants, and part of Luka is tempted. But he knows now how important it is to talk in a family, to put in the work to understand one another. This situation might be a minor instance of it, but he wants to make sure he and Hattie never have a problem talking to each other. He’s willing to put in the work, as much as it takes.

It takes an hour or so to convince her that “peck” is superior to “fuck.” The process is complicated by the continued desire to laugh every time she swears, but eventually they manage, and Hattie goes toddling off merrily chanting, “peck peck peck peck.”

Luka painfully hauls himself up (shit, his tailbone hurts) to finally finish doing the dishes in water that has long gone cold. This is a good start, he thinks, but he’ll need to watch his own language as well. Maybe he can encourage Hattie’s positive association with the word with a bird toy or something? He considers this as he reaches into the water to unplug the drain —

And jerks his hand back as the same finger grazes probably the same goddamn knife. “Fff—!”

“Peck!”

He glances over his shoulder. Hattie is painstakingly tugging at the baby gates, trying to get back into the playpen he knows she knows he prefers her to be in. Her eyes are solemn, watching him for what he’ll do.

“...peck,” he agrees weakly. She smiles brilliantly and goes back to her toddler work.

God, he fu— he pecking loves her.

Back-Seat Bliss

Warnings: SMUT. Language. 18+

Summary: Newly married, but still sitting on the secret, Chris warns you he’s going to slip the announcement into an interview on the carpet. You're of course, eager to shout to the world you’ve been crowned his wife, but you know the night will turn to an even bigger circus. Chris, the dutiful, dedicated man he is, takes it upon himself to settle your nerves...

These carpet premiere primps never got any less chaotic, and over-the-top. You’d walked the orange, the purple, the gold, the black, most often the red carpet, and yet the pit in your stomach was still wound like a sailors knot. There had been accidentally sheer skirts, overly teased up-dos, the occasional horrendous streak of botched spray tan, but one accessory remained the same. The classic, timeless, rustically tailored and put together man to your left. His ‘good side’, he’d say.

For the last 3 years, you had trailed yourself in front of the paparazzi at premieres, awards ceremonies, charity events all of such, dangling securely on the arm of Chris, your deemed A-list boyfriend who still burped at the kitchen table, and drank beer like a frat boy. You had learned all the poses, the half-smiles, the gazing into each other’s eyes to display the intimate look of a couple in love like the pair of you. Through the years, you’d become quite the regular on the carpets thanks to Chris and his continual rise up the latter of success. But, tonight, there’d be one difference. Your hair color the same, his driver the same. The chilling champagne in the sterling silver ice pale by the front door where you would toast before he helped you settle in the back of the stealthy, blacked out SUV, the same. Your last name?

Different.

The subtly of your intricate, delicate, thin wedding band had aided in disguising the whim decision the pair of you had concluded last weekend when you hired a minister to marry you on the balcony of your rented villa in Costa Rica. Your gorgeous engagment stone was no longer breaking news, and the public eye had, in its own little way, left you alone as of late.

But tonight, Chris had warned you he was planning to “let it slip” during an interview “whenever he felt like it.”

You were a touch fearful of the announcement breaking the surface, knowing the tailspin it would unleash for the rest of the evening. Every news outlet would beg and fawn for a photo, every journalist and TV personality requesting every detail of the nuptials. Maybe you’d sneak two glasses of that golden bubbly before the tornado set in.

“Fuck. You’d think I’d be used to you by now. But, damn it, Y/N.”

Chris was tying his shoe at the foot of the stairs, eyes to the floor on the black laces when the clack of your stiletto captured him. Your dress was a custom silk number that crawled to rest perfectly in every crevice of your warm skin. It’s girlish shade of rosy blush cut high up the line of your thigh, then gathered with intricate beads around your round, “child-bearing hips”, as Chris called them. Your bosom was accentuated by the lifting seams of the bodice, and you held no shame in making the request to the designer with your lovers’ lust-blown pupils in mind.

He pulled you in by the hand not securing your clutch, throwing it over his neck right where he wanted it, and palmed the luscious cheek of your silken covered bum. The pucker of his plush lips barely pecked the line of your jaw, mindful not to smear anything on your glorious face. Your tropical island induced tan was fresh on your skin, the bronze glittering with coconut scented body butter. Chris sniffed and inhaled into your hair as he tongue-kissed your exposed shoulder. His presence instantaneously soothed over your chattering reserve, but there was no doubt your observant husband would scope out the slight trembling.

“Hey, gorgeous. Talk to me, hm?” He searched your face, fiddling a moment with your earring.

“This is going to be a big night, Chris. You know I don’t necessarily like the unforgiving spotlight.”

He gathered your hand, palm down, in his, and kissed your knuckles. As he was about to dissipate your qualms with one of his very “Captain” like pep-talks, his assistant barreled in from the front steps.

“We need to be getting you guys on the road if that’s alright.” She meekly instructed.

You swigged a hearty gulp of the lavish liquor before you took your man’s arm to tiptoe down the cobblestone steps. His warm hand, so brazen yet unbelievably tender and considerate resting where the skin of your back blended into the cheeks of your bum was a cocktail of all things contented and zen, but your worried mind held on, ready to put up a fight.

Once you buckled yourself in with Chris’ assistance so you wouldn’t cause any creases in the expensive fabric, he leaned over the console to whisper something to the driver that you couldn’t make out over the thrums of the radio. When he settled back, silently a black partition slid up, separating the two of you from distraction.

“Where’s that gorgeous smile, baby? You shouldn’t be so tense about all this. It’s supposed to be a happy occasion, you know.”

He began peculiarly fretting with the clasp of your simple, strappy shoes, finally loosening their fasten and pulling your freed toes toward him. He rubbed over your already extremely sore ankle and heels, drawing little hearts and smiley-faces on the most ticklish bend of your arch.

“I know, I know. And I am happy. I’m thrilled to finally get to shout from the rooftops that I snagged such a catch as yourself. You just know how I get, Chris.”

He had somewhere between your words, slid off his jacket and hug it just-so over the headrest, and was know working his massaging fingers into the trim, but filled out flesh of your thigh.

“I do know how you get, angel. And I also know exactly how to make everything all better, as well, don’t I?”

He hummed as you spread the span of your thighs and bit, shifting a smidge to face him, and your belly began to heat with a white-hot simmer. With so much as a look, Chris could absolutely shatter your world with the most pleasurable, tantric high unlike any substance known to the world around you.

“I don’t think we have the space to exactly attempt that now, do we, Mr. Evans?” The zipper of your dress began to click and widen with the stress of your heavy breast heaving with short, reckless pants.

“I think I can definitely make do, Mrs. Evans. You know there isn’t a thing that can stop me when I get the urge to taste you.”

He was a man crazed when it came to you. His favorite flavor, he’d say. More times that you can count, you’ve had to nearly choke and stifle the life out of him by shoving his loud mouth between your globed chest because he insisted on taking you in the corner at a party, or in the restroom at a fitting, but couldn’t keep his howls under control. You’d nearly lost all your nerve for the taste of exhibitionism when his mother nearly stumbled in on the two of you in her kitchen last Christmas. You heard sweet Lisa telling everyone in the next room that she could almost swear she heard something like a bear growling in the back yard.

“Be a doll and hike this fantastic dress up those sweet fuckin’ thighs, will you?”

Oh, but he wasn’t asking. The shift in his voice now laced with a delicious heat, and the glorious bulge that you inadvertently gawked at making your belly growl with hunger, told you so.

Fiending for the calmness you knew would follow his gifted release, you raised just enough to settle the dress out from under you, revealing with pleasure the evidence of your bare core.

“Uh-oh! Seems I may have left something at home…” Your mock gasp, and squeaky dash of faux innocence make him smile. That satisfied, lustful sneer that made you want to punch him in the face, then sit in the same spot thereafter. It was vile, and cocky, and so incredibly your favorite smile in the entire world.

“Trust me, sweetheart. I knew there couldn’t possibly be a shred of anything under that dress the way it’s glued to this perfect ass.” You could already feel the half-mooned marks of his claws bruising into you as he used said ass to yank you into him.

The slick you had already worked up caught the waft of his hot breath as he nuzzled his face into you, and your legs shuddered. His defined nose, his pert lips, and his bristly chin daubed into the oversensitive slit. You knew all evening he’d have the tiniest remnants of your scent stained around his face as he greeted friends, and smiled for the photos, and it made you nearly come.

“Chris.” It was all you could conclude, and the only word that mattered in the English language to you in the very moment.

He pulled your blooming bulb in to his mouth by the teeth, then soothed the tiny sting with a flat swipe of his relaxed tongue. Thankfully, the tussled waves of ‘sex-hair’ was the ‘in’ look when it came to the latest beauty trends because the way you burrowed and rucked around trying to catch a view of him staring and sucking in the entrance of your cunt was definitely electrifying the static of your auburn curls. You loved the sensation of his wet licks, but watching him did so many throbbing things to your insides. His airy lashes would flutter forth & back between your face, and the bloom of your clit, and for added measure he would pull his own lip between his teeth.

“So fucking sweet, as always. I wish I could bottle you up, sweetheart. Have a little taste of you wherever I go.” You hissed and nearly took a bite out of your own tongue at his dirty words.

Amongst the nibbles and peppering of kisses to your clenching sex, he maneuvered a long finger inside to probe your leaking walls. His come-hither motions pulling and kneading at your deepest cavity had your legs twitching like something inside you was short circuiting, and crashing into his dutiful hands. Another finger. Then another…

You were stretched and prepped for the most satisfying and sensual fill that no one had ever given you the way your insatiable husband did. He was blessed, and quite equipped for all the perfect trappings to please the female race, and luckily, you just so happened to pin him down as your own.

“Give me one, love. Like this, please. Fill my mouth. Then, we’ll get to the good stuff, okay?”

“I’m so close, Chris. I can feel it so, so close.”

He interpreted your information as a challenge, and began working swift clicks with his mouth. He slurped and ravished like no sustenance on the planet could fulfil his cravings like your juices, rolling along the circle of your puckering peak. And before too long, he elicited the inevitable and blurred your vision with the fruits of his labor.    

Thankful for smudge-proof lip stain, you stifled your own monstrous moans with the hot cover of your palm, coming down from orgasmic Mars as Chris popped the button of his pants.

“I’m not sure how we’re gonna swing this one, babe. There’s not exactly a lot of wiggle room with this dress.” You managed, voice barely the trace of a whisper.

“Don’t you worry, baby. Just sit back, and let your man do the rest. Got it?”

Giddy, you smiled and had to pull back the dopey drool of your mouth.

Chris let the waist of his pants fall slack, barely revealing the thickness of his standing shaft. His choice of attire for the evening was of course, in the family of classic black, and you couldn’t imagine him escaping this exchange without some lasting traces somewhere on his suit.

He situated a white-knuckle grab around the door handle just to the right of your head, and let the other fist wrap around your leg just above the knee. He was buckling in for what would be a predicted wild ride.

Just as you felt the seeping tip of his head toy with you, he dove in without reservation. This wouldn’t be the time, or place for a slow burn, and Chris knew just how much you could appreciate a ruthless, dirty quickie. You felt the car come to a halt slowly, and peered with side eyes just out the window to see a stoplight turned red. There was traffic as far as the eye could see, and in fact, a similar model vehicle right beside you in the next lane. You knew the shade of tint on your window was specifically designed for desertion, but still the titillating thrill egged you on.

Thrusting with his rhythm, matching every move, Chris began to undo between your legs. A sheen of dolloping sweat was now rolling between the crease of his brows, and a loose tassel of his perfectly combed hair had flattened to his forehead. From the waist up, he was poised with his perfectly knotted tie, and crisply steamed white oxford. Gentlemanly, posh for the cameras. But, below the tail of his shirt, he was rucking and pounding inside of you like an ill-mannered fiend.

“My pretty girl. You seem awfully relaxed now, hm?”

“More. I need more, baby. Let me feel you lose yourself inside me.”

When his blue-flamed eyes screwed closed, you knew his own ending was in sight. You yanked him in by the tie, longing to work his mouth with yours. Then suddenly, a stop. You heard voices chattering, a random erupt or claps here and there, and you gathered the two of you had arrived.

You imagined the frame of the car had to be rocking a bit when it parked near the rear curb of the entrance, but it wouldn’t stop Chris from finishing what he started, and ensuring his girl was free of worries for the evening.

With his tongue rolling with yours, mouths roaming each other, Chris jolted once more, and his cock twitched inside you. There’d be nothing to catch his seed from surfacing to trail down your legs once you stepped into the sea of cameras, but it gave you salacious pleasure regardless.

As if Tucker, his longtime driver and bodyguard, had known exactly what was unfolding in the back seat, he stood post just outside your rear door, assuring no one opened it and caught a glimpse of an R-rated body part. Using the compact inside your clutch, you reapplied a layer of gloss, and Chris dabbed away the simple beads of perspiration on the tip of your nose after securing his pants. Giving each other a cautious, engaged once over for smears, or wrinkles and stains, you clasped his cheek before letting him open the door to the world.

“I feel much, much better. Thank you, handsome.”

His head leaned into your tender touch, nuzzling. “No need for thanks, angel. Now, can I please get out of this fucking car and tell someone besides my Ma that this amazing, flawless, astounding human is my wife?!”

  TAGS: @miidailyinspiration @eap1935 @mollybegger-blog @littleluna98

B L O O M  —  P R O L O G U E

He’s got her body supported by both arms under her back, hands holding the back of her head where he could get his fingers all lost in her soft hair as she rested against his touch and he leaned his chest to lie down on hers. His face milimiters apart from hers so he can look deep in her brown eyes, getting darker and darker with the pleasure of his thrusts going deeper, hitting all of her sweet and most sensitive spots. She’s got her nails scratching all the expansion of his back, leaving stripes wherever she could reach and the red lines started crossing their ways, embellishing his skin in that burning — yet delicious — sensation that she can always provide him with perfection. 

The way her smooth thighs were surrounding his waist; the way she starts panting everytime he finds her vulnerable points and buries his member boldly to earn that priceless view of her rolling her eyes to the back of her head and arching her back closer to him; the way she kisses him with so much desire, locking and unlocking their lips with lust, only letting go to ask for more... All of these things seemed to get Shawn on his knees for Angel. He wants her, he craves her, he needs to have her all the time at the point she could barely have a free time without receiving calls and messages from him. He knows he should keep it to himself, but she gets the best of him. She gets him crawling like a baby towards her, doing whatever she wants him to do because there is no other way. It shows. He can’t hide how fucked he is for her. 

A single curl falls from its place, bringing some other short strands to tickle his forehead and, consequently, hers too. His hazel eyes are practically turning her eyes into flames by the way he kept on staring at her fixedly. Her parted red lips letting out what he thinks that are the prettiest sounds he’d ever heard in his entire life. He’s sliding into her with passion and he feels like he’s never been inside of her so delightfully pleasant before, a thrust more delicious than the other as he gradually picks up the intensity of his movements, her body shifting up and making him move every inch she moved instantly, desperate just to the thought of having her silhouette leaving his touch for a single moment.  He wants to make every second worth. Wants to seize these hours like they were the last moments of his entire life. He never gave all of himself to anyone like he gives to her. His entire body, mind and soul are consumed by her: her beautiful face — so near their noses are nudging gently, lips brushing together; her pretty moans sounding like music to his ears and making goosebumps show up all over his limbs; her heavenly body underneath his, clinging to each other and feeling the softness of their frames rubbing together like a tender caress; her intoxicating scent, always getting stuck on his sheets and clothes and pushing him over the edge even when she wasn’t there; her sex — the way they make sex — mostly unpredictable & surprisingly good in every single time. It’s all about her. No matter the rhythm they pick, it seems like everything happens in a slow motion. His hips thrusting back and forth, slapping against her core and skin so forcefully that the sound of the two of them together echoes throughout the room shamelessly, only incentivating Shawn to pound harder inside her dripping heat.  “Come to me, love. Just like that,” He whispers against her mouth and she travels her hands from his back to the nape of his neck, tugging his dark curls eagerly. A cry flies out her throat and gets muffled by a sudden kiss. He shoves his cock hungrily, craving all the reactions from her shaking body and moves his tattooed hand to cup her cheek shyly, his calloused thumb resting carefully on top of her cheekbone and maping the flushy skin delicately, definitely nothing compared to the way he pushed strongly against her. She breaks the kiss with a smack to look him deep in the eyes and gives him one of the things he wishes he could watch in looping everyday: her innocent expression — half intentional, half filled with a insuppressible desire to reach her so-wanted release. She feels her entrance aching deliciously, that knot on her lower stomach about to collapse and her legs failing around his waist. “Oh, fuck.” He reacts, barely sound to mutter anything else. His face contorts in pleasure and she can’t help but take a handful of his face, holding and pinning him down on hers by the jaw.  And, simultaneously, they give each other the sign that they’re currently being washed over with their highs. She whimpers and Shawn feels like he’s choking on what’s left of his air, unable to let out anything stronger than a groan coming from under his breath, almost like a deep guttural sigh. Both their most sensible spots pulsating, throbbing from probably the most intense orgasm they’ve ever provided each other and it’s hard to come back to reality, bodies squirming and pressed together since he’s now weighing down on her in the kindest way he can right now. 

He knows the script from now on. That’s what always snaps him back to Earth. 

She’ll dress up, stealing his white dress shirt to style with her black jeans perhaps, give him a flat goodbye and leave. It became so authomatic that he wonders why the hell does it still hurts him so much if he knows how things are? 

“Didn’t know you could fuck like that, honestly.” Her hands drops to his shoulders for a moment before trying to pull him away.  “Saved this new little thing for you, darling,” Shawn mumbles in a deep and low tone, arching one eyebrow in everything but humbleness. “How was it? Was it good for you?” A grin appears tiredly.  “You’re the worst, Mendes,” She shakes her head from side to side in denial. “The worst.”  She pecks his lips quickly and he knows it’s a silent sign for ‘get up and let me leave, please’. So, he removes himself out of her with caution and promptly sits on his knees, fixing his hair back in its place. Taking a deep breath, she sits and feels her entrance a litle bit sore, having difficulty to stand up on her feet. He lies back and watches her perfect shape tiptoe across his room, stretching her back and passing her hands through her hair as well — something that he likes to see as a manner she’s got from him.  “I wouldn’t call myself the worst after fuckin’ you so good seconds ago,” Shawn bends both arms to rest under his head, eyes never leaving her naked body searching for her clothes.  “You didn’t fuck me. Shawn Mendes doesn’t fuck.” She spits out and he frowns immediately, seeing her bringing the lace to up her legs to cover herself partly.  “Excuse me? You were shaking for dear life under me in this bed, hun,” He’s so offended he’s raised his voice a little and spoke pointing to his own mattress, like she had even forgotten. “Don’t be such a bad kitten now, Angel. Unless you have time for me to prove you otherwise.” He rolls slightly and makes those puppy eyes she learned to avoid the best way she could.  “M-Mm, smarty pants,” She clasps her bra and clicks her tongue towards him. “I see what you’re doing, I know where you’re going.”  He gets up in a heartbeat and rushes his steps, holding her middle gracefully like they’re a 50′s couple immersed in love.  “Did I really fuck you that bad, Angel?” Shawn’s worried, he can’t even lie. It means the world to him when he makes her feel good enough to see stars beneath her eyelids.  “No,” She giggles and he holds her face with both hands, never breaking eye contact. “I just said Shawn Mendes doesn’t fuck.”  “What does that even mean?”  “You can’t fuck, Shawn,” She holds his wrist and stretches her finger to rub random patterns against his tattoo. “You never fuck. You only make love.”  “What’s the difference?” He’s in the merge of getting squeaky, playing the fool because he knows that there’s a huge difference.  He’s got himself in a trap. He knows well what he should do to get rid of it, but he’s not even trying that hard to leave it so soon. He loves her more than just when she’s screaming his name like it’s the only word she knows; he loves to make her laugh with stupid cheesy lines and awful jokes. He loves seeing her getting dressed, undressed, in a cloth of his and covered by his sheets only. He loves every freckle, every mark and every curve. He loves the littlelest things he thought he kept locked somewhere safe in his heart, but it’s obvious to say that she sees right through him and is totally aware of his real intentions. Needless to say he’s now assuming these emotions coming to their surface and blooming unstoppably.  “You know the difference.” She says seriously, ready to leave his embrace.  “Stay the night.” He holds her tighter.  “No.”  “I’ll pay for the extra hours.”  “I said no.”  “Please, Angel.”  “You sound like a toddler.”  “Whatever you say.” A boyish smile plays on his features, pissing her off even more.  “Get off me!”  “Fuckin’ make me.”  She’s ready to say something in return but he’s faster, catching her by the back of her thighs and going back to bed. As soon as she gets sprawled in his messy bed, he kisses her with hunger. He presses his lips furiously against hers and she lets him, reciprocating with the same amount of passion. It’s a replay of heads tilting, tongues dancing and caressing each other in a way she can feel her lungs screaming for air.  He trails his fast kisses to her jaw, peppering them along her neck and she closes her eyes, floating in her own paradise.  Her phone rings in the nightstand and Shawn stops gradually, attentive on what’s about to happen.  “Be there in 10.” She says before shutting her screen. Gently, she places her hands on his chest and pushes him away.  He lets her out to get in her jeans and shirt, loving the way she takes her hair out of the fabric to let it swing and cascade over her back and shoulders.  “Can’t really stay, eh?” He's aware of her answer but still wants to confirm. Who knows?  “Told you you’re not my only client.”  “But I’m your best.”  “Don’t flatter yourself, love-maker.” She rolls her eyes and can’t hold back a wide smile.  “You know I am,” He insists. “Admit it.”  She stays quiet, grabbing her leather jacket after shoving her feet in her shoes fastly.  “C’mon, Angel,” He approaches her once again, letting himself get compelled by her before she goes. “Hm?” He grips her chin and pecks her lips.  “Yes, Mendes,” She gets interrupted by one more peck. “You’re the best-hottest-love-maker,” Another peck. “Biggest cock and greatest six pack,” Last long peck. “Happy?”  “Doesn’t hurt to say it once in a while.” He smirks and lets her go. Just when she’s about to hold the doorknob, she listens his voice calling her again.  “I wonder if you’re ever gonna let me know your real name someday.” But he thinks more to himself than speaks to her.  “Get to find it by yourself and I promise I’m yours forever.”  “Forever?”  “Just like you want us to be.”  She winks and steps out, knowing her way out and that she might have placed a huge and dangerous bet in here.