#;; ME STANDING HERE WITH MY HANDS ON MY KNEES WEEPING

[leftoverghosts]

'til death

art donaldson x cheating wife reader. mentioned you x pat.

"I don’t think I could survive seeing you with someone else."

warnings: nsfw!!! some curse words. use of she/her for reader. no use of y/n. dom art. smut. art is a munch. finger in butt. cheating reader. more gross than i usually write. not beta read.

nori says: please!! please!! read my warnings! xoxo. i have a few more asks to get through for my xmas game! but besides those (and ones pending from sof) i am closing it!! thank you so much for playing!!! here is a little gift of what i would have selected!

word count: 1,400~

"Tennis Legend Art Donaldson’s Wife Seen Kissing Mysterious Man."

The title elicits a scoff from you, while Art's teary eyes gaze at you as if you've castrated him.

Yes, you kissed Patrick. Yes, things went further than just a kiss. But for some asinine, no-name fucking blogger on Instagram to refer to you as "Art Donaldson's wife" is the real travesty here. That's libel, that's slander.

Your knee throbs with pain.

"Why didn’t you tell me Patrick was in town?" Art weeps, and you drag your eyes back to his face before cringing.

Martyr, martyr, martyr. It’s his favorite role. You want him to be angry, to be calculating like he used to be. You want him to manipulate his way back into your good graces.

"Art," you sigh, "ask me what you really want to know."

“Did you fuck him?” He asks it almost as soon as you finish speaking.

"Twice." You shrug, wanting to wound, longing for the real him to shred through the flesh of the docile facade he's hiding behind and fight with you.

He sucks in a breath, fingers drumming against the table before he...smirks?

"I don’t think I could survive seeing you with someone else. Especially not him.”

“You’re barely surviving as is, Art. Sometimes I feel like if it weren't for your blinking, I wouldn't be able to tell the difference between you and a doll. I have to sit you here, change your expression there. Fuck. Who are you?"

He blinks at you. "I am who you made me."

"I want you to be who you used to be."

"If I change, will that make you stop seeing Patrick?"

You pause, confused. "Patrick doesn’t matter to me. He's not the man I chose to marry. But when I'm with him, I can pretend it's the real you again. I like the familiarity of it, like we're back in that hotel room and he fucking listens. Having to explain this is beneath me.”

"Mhmm," Art takes a moment to process your words before getting up and walking around the table to stand beside you. He hovers over you, waiting for you to face him, and when you do, his hand is in your hair, yanking.

Art pulls you out of the chair with little effort. It crashes to the ground with a loud clatter before he kicks it aside. He steps behind you, needing even less effort to press the side of your face against the table's wood grain. His hand grips the back of your neck, firmly holding you in place.

"You don't just want me to listen, you want me to fucking snap, don't you baby? It's not like you to work backwards.” he sneers. “And if anything is beneath you, it’s still sneaking off with Patrick Zweig in your thirties. He’s ranked two hundred,” your skirt is pushed up to your hips, “and seventy fucking fifth.”

Art rarely curses, but you've pushed him over the edge and caused him to reveal that he's been keeping track of Patrick's rank.

This was what you wanted all along.

You start to complain when he rips your expensive pantyhose, but Art silences you with two quick slaps on your ass and rips enough of your underwear to have access to you.

“Shut the fuck up. You’ll use my Amex to buy new ones anyway.” He lets go of your neck and swipes his pointer and middle finger across your wet center like a credit card, squeezing your labia and working at your clit. You can't see his smirk but you can feel it. “Don’t you have any self worth? Or are you that bored with the life I bankroll for you?”

When you don’t answer, he pauses, peering down at you as he restrains himself. His expression is tinged with fear when your eyes meet, as if questioning whether he’s gone too far. Consent has always been important to him; even after five years of marriage, he never touches you without asking for permission.

“I’m okay, Art. You’re doing well.” You reassure him, not lifting up from the table, but turned on by how quickly the apprehension in his eyes transforms into lust.

"Okay." He nods and drops to his knees, "open your legs for me, baby." You oblige eagerly, yearning for his touch. His strong hands grip your soft flesh, spreading you open before him. Your heart races with anticipation as you feel his hot breath against your most intimate area. He teases you with a long, slow lick, his tongue warm and wet as it glides from your clit to your asshole.

A moan escapes your lips as he begins to work you over with his mouth. Art points his tongue and probes at your ass, prodding and swirling around the rim. He alternates between flicking his tongue rapidly across your hole and pressing it inside you, wiggling it deeper.

You're drunk on the vulgar slurping sounds as he laps at you, greedy and insatiable. He sucks and nibbles at your rim, taking you apart piece by piece.

He pulls back to spit thick gobs of saliva over your fluttering hole, the crude act making you clench and shiver. Rivulets run down your crack and over your thighs. He dives back in, sealing his mouth over your entrance and sucking hard, his tongue writhing against your walls.

You cry out and push your ass back into his face, desperate for more. Art’s hands grip your hips as he tongue-fucks your hole with abandon, plunging in and out, swirling around your rim. He devours your ass like a man who has been starved for days, moaning with pure bliss at the taste of you.

Your thighs begin to tremble, overwhelmed by the unrelenting pleasure and his grip is hard enough to bruise as he feasts on you, giving both your holes the attention they crave. He knows just how to please you, taking care of your every need before indulging in his own desires.

You would laugh at how even in his dominant role, he still prioritizes your pleasure first, but the sensations are too exquisite to do anything but feel.

Art works you over with his tongue, bringing you to a shuddering climax before standing and shifting his sweatpants down to free his throbbing erection. He fucks into you and one hand grips your ass cheek while his thumb circles and probes your puckered entrance, slipping inside to the first knuckle.

"Does Patrick fuck you like this?" Art pants heavily as he thrusts into your slick heat. "You think he could afford a woman like you? The jewelry you're wearing right now costs more than that piece of shit's entire car. And he thinks he can put his hands on what belongs to me? Fucking tell me."

"No, never!" You babble incoherently, grasping at the table for purchase as the dual stimulation threatens to overwhelm you. The sensations aren’t new, but this tension is. "I only keep him around because I miss you so much, Art. It's always been you."

“Lying. Fucking. Whore.” he grits out, each word punctuated by a sharp snap of his hips and a twist of his thumb buried in your ass. "You miss someone you were trying to get rid of? But you'll never be rid of me. 'Til death do us part, say it!"

“Til’ death, baby.” You eagerly agree, tears flowing from your eyes pool on the table under your cheek. It feels like a baptism, like you’re coming back to your religion.

“Cum for me. Slut.” He dribbles a little more spit down onto his thumb and quickens the pace of thrusting it in and out of your asshole, matching the rhythm of his cock inside your pussy. “Show me what you did for him in that cheap hotel room.”

He's always vocal during sex, but the degrading words are hitting you in all the right places. Your legs start to tremble and you tighten around him, signs that you're close to orgasm. Just as you think you're about to come, he pulls away, stroking himself until he finishes and ejaculates all over your backside and legs.

“What the hell, Art?” You whine, turning to glare at him. But he shoves the same thumb into your mouth and when you recoil, he laughs. His expression is deadly serious.

"If I catch you with Patrick again, I'll divorce you. Don't test me."

[drabbles-mc]

don't mind me getting to this ages after i said i would. merry chrysler to all of us we are catching UP on fics today!!!!! johnny davis first and foremost!!!!!!

OHmg you're just gonna kick it right off with Benny Cross Tension Hours???? absolutely devouring

And you really would never say it to his face, or anyone else’s for that matter, but you’ve even been considering the possibility that Benny might be part of the reason things with him and Betty didn’t work out. <- OHHHHOHOHO READER!!!!!!! YOU JUST MIGHT BE ONTO SOMETHING HERE!!!!!!

Stuff, and other things and what not. <- idk if I've said it out loud before but i definitely say it in my head all the time: i fucking LOOOOOOVE the way you create such unique voices for all of your reader characters. you have so so many talents as a writer and this is DEFINITELY one of them!!!! each of your readers is so unique and fit so well to their respective stories i could weep

The way even you might’a liked him, had you never seen Johnny, of course. <- reader is so real for this. i, too, might have been bewitched by benny if i hadn't rolled up to that film in love with johnny davis six ways to sunday before the opening credits even came on-screen

Sure, you can share as long as everyone’s playing nice, you’re not spoiled or nothing. <- mmmmm this feels like a Famous Last Words typa moment but I've been wrong before so i will 👀 continue to watch closely 👀

Or if he does, he’s still two hundred miles back from dealing with the meaning of it, and you know he’s not planning on running nowhere on those knees of his, so it’s whatever, right? <- the way i spit my fucking drink out over this description of it all. mj you have THEE most way with words I'm kissing you on the mouth right now

“and I never come off no more, so don’t worry about it.” <- first of all, i love the whole leadup to this, of him showing them around like he's giving them a museum tour of Vandals History. on his tour guide shit forreal in the cutest way. but this little add-on had me cackling and kicking my feet. benny's the one flying over the handlebars now etcetc

“Hm, think I have maybe three ‘just under six foot jokes’ left in me,” you promise, “but I’ll spare you today.” <- I'm obsessed with them. if benny gets in the way of reader and johnny, EYEEEE will gladly date reader instead

Yeah, Vandal stuff and you stuff. Two hands at once. No more juggling. But, obviously, there are some Benny shaped parts of that, that don’t seem to be mixing too well at all. <- i am gnawing my way through this paragraph in my mind in the most satisfying way possible. i love the turmoil of it all.

Like Benny was some sort of mystical kind of guy, like he wasn’t really all the way real, or something. <- let's be real, benny is an ethereal thing right out of johnny's dreams that he doesn't remember having

You know which ones you prefer just by looking. And you really know which ones you wouldn’t be caught dead riding on. <- oh they are SOOOO real for this actually 😂 only one type of bike is passenger-friendly and they figured that out right quick lmaooo

So you stand, and it’s quiet, and he looks at the guys getting onto their bikes, engines growling and barking all at once, and you think, my God, you have never survived a silence like this. <- YODELING at the mental image of this. just. reader and benny. ��🏻🧍🏻. real shit lmao I'm weak i love them

or maybe he’s from Europe <- MJ YOU CANT DO ME LIKE THIS 😂😂😂😂 I'm fucking weak bro i cannot. i love this so much. i love that reader went from "horrible tragic accident that damaged him forever" to "European". bikeriders was a comedy before it was a tragedy, after all

“I know,” he says back. “Johnny talks about you.” <- OHHH LETS FUCKING GOOOOOOO!!!!!! benny speaks!!! benny spills the beans!!!!!!

To your surprise, Benny laughs at that, and shit, he’s as movie star pretty as you’d expect with a smile on his face. It just gets worse with this dude. <- oh i love this. i love this adventure of reader trying to figure out benny and just having the "oh no he's hot" moment 😂😂 plot twist: johnny and reader have to fight (fists or knives style) for benny 😂😂

“You been with the club long?” / “Feels like it,” he says. <- obsessed with this Old Man Trapped In A Young Man's Body type of answer. benny. a man of multitudes

“You never figure they don’t give names to people that might not stick around?” he says. <- the way that reader and i both went from cackling to real pensive over this

his thigh’s resting against your shoulder and your neck’s half breaking just to look at him <- the way that if i was ever put in this position with him i would instantly be copping a public indecency charge for the things i would do next

🚨DANNY LYON SPOTTED IN THE NARRATIVE!!! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!!!!🚨

but now you’re learning that this whole time they’ve had a walking talking wire tap rolling with them? Asking Q’s and getting A’s? <- crazy that you just come sweeping through here and decide that no one else will ever be able to match your prose. left none for the rest of us!!!!

“Nah. Spends a lot of time over at Kathy’s place.” <- the way I'm well and truly :smugpablo: rn despite the fact that also just....canonically....that's exactly what fucking happened 😂 but kay's dannykathy is in my head giving me brainworms so we are just going to have to run with that!

“I don’t want you talking to him,” he says, “about us. Can I ask that? Am I allowed to ask that of you?” <- i simply cannot piece apart all of the feelings that this little set of statements gave me. much to think about!!!!

“Well, usually,” he says, “when a guy’s going steady with someone—not to assume or presume, Johnny, every journey is a beautiful one—but, well, usually they bring ‘em along to these things.” <- mj the laugh i let out at this was so loud and genuine justin poked his head out from the next room over to ask me what was so funny 😂😂 i can HEAAAAR cal's voice in my head I'm fucking screaming. i love this so so much. kissing him and kissing you.

OHHHHH MJ WE ARE SO BACK, BABY!!!!!!!!!! this was so fucking phenomenal, not that i expected anything less. I'm taking the bikeriders away from jeff and giving it to you, actually. merry Christmas. 😌

white room - pt. 5

johnny davis x gn!reader, 18+, canon typical themes and language, 5.8k words, 5 of ? ao3 link | previous part a/n: hellow :3 we are back after an unexpected hiatus and lips finally gets to meet benny ! very exciting all round <3 i hope you like it and forgive me for falling off planet earth for a bit

Might sound kind of stupid, but recently, you been thinking that you’ve finally got it all worked out—about Benny, that is. Somewhere between the last time you saw him, and the Saturday of the picnic, Johnny’s weird kinda way of talking around him started making a whole load of sense. And it wasn’t just some little joke when he said he didn’t want you knowing Benny, it was pretty much sort of the truth, you think, hidden under all the hums and grumbles of him. He actually was cut up about it a little. Nervous, though someone like Johnny never aught’a be nervous about nothing. And you really would never say it to his face, or anyone else’s for that matter, but you’ve even been considering the possibility that Benny might be part of the reason things with him and Betty didn’t work out. 

Fuckin’ rat up the drain pipe sort of shit, right? Never saw it coming ’til it started scratching at your head one night. You were lying there staring at the ceiling and thinking, huh, Johnny talks about Benny the way you’d be talking about Johnny, should anyone ever ask you about him when you didn’t really wanna say nothing. Eh, he’s just some guy, you’d say, yeah, we hang around with each other, you know, doing stuff. Stuff, and other things and what not. 

Like, he’s got a hold on him, alright, the same one Johnny’s got on you. A real, steel grip, hold. You started off thinking well maybe it’s a jealous type of thing, you know, old guy wanting to step into the young buck’s riding boots, but it ain’t just that. Can’t be. Half of Johnny’s crew are ten years younger than him, but well, they aren’t Benny, right? And there’s something about the way he looks at him—the few times you’ve been around to catch it—something ‘bout the way Johnny watches him. And talks about him. And makes excuses for him, and the way he is. Sure, he may like him like he wants to be him, you know, foot taller, blonde, pretty as anything, but by the time Saturday rolls around and you’ve really sat on it for a while, you’re starting to think: well, what if he likes him the way every girl that ever meets Benny likes him? The way even you might’a liked him, had you never seen Johnny, of course.

Seems obvious once you’ve really put some time into the idea. Nothing about Johnny says he couldn’t be liking men the same way you do and, jeez, maybe you’re dumb for it, but even with all of that, you can’t find a single part of yourself that seems to mind. Johnny still treats you good, still makes the nights feel longer than the days—and he invited you to this picnic of theirs, which he says is only ever for wives and girlfriends and serious things like, so you figure you’re someone real important to him now, cause even if you aren’t one of those things, you’re something, right? And he did all of that with Benny around, so what difference does it make to you? Sure, you can share as long as everyone’s playing nice, you’re not spoiled or nothing.

Well, alright, maybe not share, you aren’t an angel—who is?—but right now, if Johnny likes Benny like he likes you, he sure don’t even know it yet. Or if he does, he’s still two hundred miles back from dealing with the meaning of it, and you know he’s not planning on running nowhere on those knees of his, so it’s whatever, right? Can’t fix nothing if it ain’t broke yet.

“You like dirt bikes?” he asks, while he’s dragging you across this damn field that you spent all morning riding for, grass wet from yesterday’s rain still. No place for any sort of picnic you’ve been to, but for Vandals, sure, it’s like a natural haven to them or something. 

“I never liked any sort of bike ’til I met you, Johnny.”

“Yeah,” he winds, like he knew as much but didn’t really care in the first place, “few of us are gonna race ‘em. See that track there?”

You see nothing but a whole load’a mud on top of another bunch of it. “Mhmm.”

“That’s where this whole thing started.” 

“And when you go spinning over the handlebars, that’s where it’ll end it up,” you say.

He laughs, but he goes on, “I’m serious,” through the smirk of it. “That’s where me and Brucey got the idea for the club in the first place. Well, that and, yeah.” He nods. “Here, when we was racing.” He waves toward the tracks in the dirt, and the bikes in the dirt, and the men that are fifty-percent fuckin’ dirt, like the whole lot is some sort of sacred ground to him, like he’s just a humble guide blessing you by bringing you here, then he says, “and I never come off no more, so don’t worry about it.”

And you like him enough to go along with it, cheesy Colby Jack that you are. “It’s something special,” you tell him, mostly meaning it. Well, all the way meaning it, but only in the way people look at scraps of metal in a museum cabinet, and think that it’s really something just cause the guys in tweed say that it is. 

“Benny race with you?” you ask him.

“No,” he shakes his head a little, “not his kind of…”

“What, you gotta be short like jockeys to race or something?” 

“No—“ he shoots a confused look at you, then realises that you’re joking, at his expense, and forgives you for it too, all in the same sort of moment, “—would you give it up with that?”

“Hm, think I have maybe three ‘just under six foot jokes’ left in me,” you promise, “but I’ll spare you today.”

“Yeah, you will.” And it’s as much a threat, as it is an invite, cause he’s smiling like a little something or other, and your lips find his in a real awkward, bumpy, kind of way, noses knocking as you walk, you know. Giggling and stuff. Real cutesy lovebird shit that you wouldn’t be repeating to no-one, if you wasn’t, well, you know.

“So where’d he come from then?” you ask, wrapping your free hand around the arm that you’re already attached to. Half-way close to crawling under his leathers, under the shirt and undershirt too, right under the curl of hair beneath that chain that he wears, if you could. “If it wasn’t the racing, I mean.” 

“Benny?”

“Yeah, Benny.” 

You should probably not be asking so much, now you know what you think you know—even if you don’t know it, and have just convinced yourself that you do—but it’s bothering you, well not bothering, but toying with you. He’s never wanted to say much about him and you figure you should take advantage of that sentimental look in his eye, for research purposes, of course.

“He just. He’s just always been around,” he says. “Came through one time needing something, yeah, and he stuck around when he found it. Like any of us would.” 

“You mean Kathy?” 

His face screws up, sort of like a wince almost. “No—me, the club. He needed someplace to be. Something to belong to, you know?”

“Yeah.” You know. 

“All just gotta have somewhere to belong.”

“And you ain’t let go of him since,” you think, not meaning to say it aloud, but saying it anyway, cause Hell, it’s the truth, whichever way you wanna look at it. 

He don’t like it of course. Tightens up right to the sides of his neck, and wrings his hand around the strap of the bag on his other shoulder. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shrug. “Nothin. It’s good he’s got you guys. And Kathy.”

Johnny nods. That, he can agree to, though he don’t look happy about it. You caught him and let him right back out again, cause you’re not looking to pick fights, and that bothers him as much as if you were, apparently. Keeps him all quiet and rigid as you finish up the trek to where you oughta be. 

The closer you get, the less barbaric it seems. Picnic benches, coolers, brave sorts on tartan blankets right on the rain-wet floor, but still, that sticky, dirt bike track in the middle, winding all over the place.

Not bad, all in all, suppose it is somewhere you don’t mind spending your Saturday so much. 

“Sorry,” you tell him, “for always poking my nose in.”

He squeezes your hand. “S’nothin. We’re mixing it up, right?”

Yeah, Vandal stuff and you stuff. Two hands at once. No more juggling. But, obviously, there are some Benny shaped parts of that, that don’t seem to be mixing too well at all.

You know, you and him haven’t talked once, or so much as breathed the same air at the same time, right, which isn’t too crazy, but would be if it goes on much longer than it has. Cause one time, when Johnny came by, he had Cal with him. And you said hi and stuff, before he went on again—well, it was real heavy on the stuff cause Cal talks exactly as much as you do—and another time, Wahoo and Corky were with him, yeah? And sorta, somehow, you met a few of them; not all, not properly, but a few, and never having more than a bit of small talk, you know, but it was something. 

But you never even got introduced to Benny, so you asked him once, and Johnny said that’s cause Benny is either with his lady, Kathy, or with the guys at the club, or on his own, doing something he shouldn’t. That’s it, supposedly. Course, you said, wait, what? You ain’t never gone nowhere alone with him, just you two? And he just shrugged and made a noise like you should quit talking about it, like you were asking something of him that he couldn’t explain. Like Benny was some sort of mystical kind of guy, like he wasn’t really all the way real, or something. Just a guy you only see when the light’s hitting the right place, or the stars are in a line, or some shit.

Well, today, you decided it’s gonna be different, and you’re gonna talk to him. Properly. You don’t got a choice, right? Cause you figure, you don’t know Johnny ’til you know Benny, and you’re getting real hungry for the full picture of him, if he’s gonna be around so much, that is.

“You mind sitting here while I…?” He points to the bikes, angling you toward the bench he’s apparently picked out for you. Front row, not even a splinter. High prize for the VIP. 

“Yeah,” you throw him a good smile, an easy one, “you go ahead. I’ll watch.”

He looks back at you, all sweet, lips curling, then pulls a helmet from that bag of his—cause apparently, these ones need ‘em, but the other kind don’t—and then he’s off, going like a kid. Half jogging, half walking, and heading right over there to the rest of them. 

They’re skinny bikes, these ones, kinda looking like street dogs. All wiry and bite-y, and a whole world different from the big, hulking, spoiled dogs of his usual sort. No shiny curves and nice painted metal here, just rahh, and grrr, and all that sort of shit. You know which ones you prefer just by looking. And you really know which ones you wouldn’t be caught dead riding on. 

You put your hands in your pockets and wait, looking all sorts of all over the place, cause the racers are chatting still, and no-ones going yet, and that bench actually looks as wet as it is rotten, so you got nothing much else to do other than stand there, looking about you some. 

This can’t be all of them, you don’t think, cause you see some faces you know, and a whole load that you don’t, but no where near enough to be their chapter and the new one combined. But then, is it really all that surprising that Vandals, wherever they’re from, aren’t used to turning up on time? It’ll be nearly evening before it’s a full turn out, no doubt, and, God, standing in a field that long? You had no idea what was coming when you agreed to this.

You look down at your boots, splattered with mud, and try to remember the last time you wore them for longer than a few hours. Which was a long while ago, or maybe never—though you do remember how bad the blisters were, whenever it was, so it must’ve happened once—and you suppose Johnny’s worth living through that again, just about, so you decide to stick with what you were doing. Accepting your fate and that, in with a bunch of people you barely know, looking round ’til one of them knows you too—and then you spot Benny.  

And he must’a saw you before you saw him, cause he’s coming right on over. 

He doesn’t say nothing, so you stay standing with your hands in your pockets, wondering if he was looking at you at all, or if he thinks you’re just some tagalong from Milwaukee, waiting for a bike to polish. But then he stops right next to you, and turns back facing the way he came, and puts his hands in his jacket like he’s copying you or something. 

So you stand, and it’s quiet, and he looks at the guys getting onto their bikes, engines growling and barking all at once, and you think, my God, you have never survived a silence like this. You wanna wait him out, but he could be a mute for all you know. You never even thought of that. He could’a taken a hit to the head coming off his bike and lost his nerve for speaking, or maybe he’s from Europe. Maybe he don’t know a lick of English, especially not the kind you’re gonna be talking, you never even thought to ask Johnny about that—what if it’s that? 

And the longer it goes without him saying nothing, the more certain you are that whatever you end up spitting out is gonna be the most insane thing a person could say to someone they never spoke to before. Like how’s your relationship with my maybe sort of boyfriend going? Anything I should know?

“Think the green’s got this one.”

“What?” Not mute. Not mute, and not European. Talking and pointing and waiting for you to say something back, even though he’s not looking at you, up there, under the flop of his dirty blonde hair, but waiting all the same. Like he’s fly fishing and you’re ignoring the lure no matter how much he flicks it. “Green who?”

“The bike,” he says, “don’t know his name.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Green fucking bike, what do you know? You can’t even tell the colour of the one Johnny’s on, you can’t even see him no more really, not when they go up there by that corner there. 

“Sorry, wasn’t paying attention,” you tell him, and you know you don’t sound sorry, but him talking like he knows you has thrown you all the way off. Your big scheme to get in and get cosy now seems real dumb and real pointless. “You’re Benny, right?”

He nods. Then he pulls his arms tighter, denim pockets bunching above his waist, like he’s freezing—which he might be, cause his jacket don’t have sleeves like Johnny’s does. 

“Feels like you’re the last one of them that I ought to be meeting,” you say, and cause you’re still good mannered and things, you throw your name out for him afterwards. 

“I know,” he says back. “Johnny talks about you.”

“He does?” 

He nods again, which is real great, cause it means he talks just as little as Johnny does, but instead of humming and making noises, he just nods and looks at you. Jeez, he really does look at you. Not too long, nothing creepy, you know, but long enough like he might’ve flicked through the file-o-fax in your head and plucked out exactly what he wanted. 

“Johnny doesn’t talk about anything,” you tell him, hoping that whatever he thinks he saw, is the opposite of what you actually said. “What’s he say, ‘I’m seeing somebody’?”

To your surprise, Benny laughs at that, and shit, he’s as movie star pretty as you’d expect with a smile on his face. It just gets worse with this dude. “Yeah,” he says, “thats, er, that’s pretty much it.”

“Figures. I gotta get him in a headlock before he says shit about you—or anyone else that means something to him.”

He’s looking ahead again, but you can see he’s smiling still, even if it’s small. He really is a quiet type, two minutes in and you’re realising as much already. Even when he’s talking, or doing anything, there’s a real quiet to it, which is probably the last thing you expected to learn about him. None of these biker guys are ever like that, not even Johnny, somehow, he’s loud even when he’s saying nothing. It’s in the face, in the way he carries himself. But Benny? You could switch his colours for a church suit and believe that he was a good kid Sunday through Friday, never speaking back to no-one.

Which makes no damn sense, and can’t be the fucking case, and makes you realise all at once that he’s the sort of person you keep around just to try and solve the puzzle of him. Shy smiles and listening ears in a guy like him, riding bikes like that? Yeah, sure. The club might not be doing much as far as you know, but it sure is doing more than that, and yeah, you remember, he said it once, Johnny said Benny got all wrapped up with some cops a few times, so who the hell is this?

“You like the picnic?” he asks, flicking his head that way.

“Depends on whether there’s any actual picnicking, or if it’s just standing around watching stuff.”

“Yeah, there will be. Kathy, she uh,” he rubs his face on his shoulder, like he’s getting an itch and the itch is small talk, “she brought some stuff,” he says. 

“Then I guess I like it,” you say back. “Skipped breakfast.” And real surely suffering for it, stomach aching like you’ve not even sniffed food in years. 

He puffs a short breath through his nose, like he’s laughing without trying to. “Don’t think I’ve had breakfast since the fourth grade.”

You can’t help it, you answer like you’d answer anyone else, Benny or no Benny. “That’s sad. You know that’s sad, right? No breakfasts, not even as a kid?”

He shrugs, and he don’t seem offended, but he don’t seem amused so much anymore either. He certainly ain’t knocking back with a joke like Johnny would have. 

“I think waffles are a fundamental necessity,” you say, just to say something again. Then you put your focus on the track, cause the wheels are back now, spinning and spitting up wet dirt, and the looped route they took might’ve gone around a couple times without you noticing, cause it seems like they’re done. Like someone’s kicked a stand and thrown his helmet and started shouting like he’s a winner.

“Green,” Benny says, like you might’ve been betting against him. 

“And Johnny—?”

“Third place.”

You find him in the group, grinning like he’d won, helmet on, goggles pushed up over the curve of it. “Used to be faster, right?”

Benny shrugs. “I wouldn’t know.”

“You been with the club long?” you ask.

He chances the air, pulling his hands free and a pack of cigarettes along with them. “Feels like it,” he says.

You laugh, though it’s mostly sort of a scoff, and probably sort of rude, but, come on, what’ve you gotta do to get a real answer round here? “Jeez, between your riddles, and Johnny’s half sentences, I don’t know how you guys even found yourself to be friends.”

He cracks a light and takes a drag and you’ve pretty much given up on getting anything more out of him, when he says, “Johnny’s only like that when he’s talking to someone with more to say.”

“Yeah, yeah,” your eyes roll, “Lips, I get it. Course he’s been spreading that around already.” 

“Lips?” He tweaks an eyebrow, looking at you through the smoke.

Great. So you really are just like that. “Dumb name he’s come up with,” you say, though you’d rather not, considering he didn’t know about it until you brought it up. You and your lips. “Why don’t you have one? Don’t seem fair to me. I mean, you got Cockroach, walking round with a name like that, and you get to be just Benny?”

“Things like that aren’t planned.”

“Feels like they are.”

He smirks like you’re real crazy. “And you think I’m a special case?”

“I think you’re the favourite,” you tell him. May as well come out with it.

He snorts. The cigarette smoke goes like an ink spill around his head. “You never figure they don’t give names to people that might not stick around?” he says.

Well, that gets you, because no, you never did think of that. And now that you are thinking bout it, the truth feels like a jackhammer against you and him both. Him, who hasn’t got a name and you, who has one already, willing or not. Johnny wouldn’t stumble into a thing like that by accident, would he? 

“You move around a lot?” you ask, with all interest and no attitude. Cause if he’s right, and that is the reason, he must’a done something to make them think as much.

“Used to,” he says.

“Me too.”

“You miss it?”

“Fuck no,” you laugh, “no, I’m planning to spend a real long time in one place from now on.”

He nods, but he doesn’t comment any more on it, and you take his quiet to mean that he thinks the opposite—well, that and the way he’s looking off now, smoking like he never asked in the first place. All of that seems to you like someone who’s planning on moving around some more, some time, whenever it is, and, if you’re real honest, for a second it reminds you of Mom, and that way she’d be when she started itching for it again. Something new, something unattached. You near enough shiver at the thought. Last thing you want is to be drawing a line between Benny and your mom, at your first big meet-the-family picnic of all places.

“I better check on Kathy,” he says, pointing that way with the red end of his smoke. 

“Yeah,” thank God, “yeah sure, nice meeting you.” You smile, waving as he goes, and he takes all that weird, creeping feeling along with him. 

Half successful, half fucking weird. Benny ain’t the sort you thought he was, but you don’t like him and you don’t dislike him neither, which is probably music to Johnny’s ears, should you ever tell him that. But as he walks away you find yourself watching the back of him, and as dead-ended as the conversation was, you feel like you’re wanting to make some more sometime. Just to work him out, you know? Just to see what Johnny sees. 

* 

“You could’a gone again, if you liked.”

“What? No, nah, one’s alright by me.”

“Got it out your system?”

“Yeah, yeah, couldn’t spend all day away from you, could I? Leave you standing up there all alone.”

Couldn’t, but would’ve, if you hadn’t caught his eye over the way there and given him a look like you were real thirsty for him. Took some fighting inside, you know, to take his helmet off and leave the racing to the rest of them, but he did, sweet as he is, and came and swept you up with all the other guys that are more keen on picnicking like you are. 

And he’s sitting beside you now—well, you sat down on one of them benches there, expecting him to come right up next to you, but he went and sat on the table part, still clearly with you but above you, you see, so that his thigh’s resting against your shoulder and your neck’s half breaking just to look at him. But you kind of like it. Having the head dog sitting over you like that, hand resting on the little bit of skin between your hair and the collar of your shirt. Sure, maybe it’s possessive, and maybe he really is worrying about you seeing something in one of these other guys that you’re never gonna see. 

But the more he does that, running a couple fingers over your neck like that, the more you’re thinking he’s worked out that it gets your stomach doing all sorts of summersaults, and that’s why he likes sitting up there like that. Hell, he can sure enough feel how hot your skin’s getting, so it wouldn’t take a scientist to figure out what it’s doing to you, and at the end of the day, a man’s a man, you know? 

“You not finishing your…what was it again?”

He’s pointing over your shoulder now, at the napkin-rolled parcel of good fucking food waiting there on your lap. You had only put it down for a second to get yourself situated. Would’ve eaten it in two bites if you didn’t have Johnny to think about. “Some kind of sandwich,” you answer. “Though it’s more like a burger in a home that don’t fit it—and yeah, I’m finishing it. It’s good. It’s alright.” 

You can hear him smiling, feel it without even looking back at him to check. “Just alright?” he asks. Then his head’s down by your head, ear by your ear, eyes across the way to where Kathy and Benny are snuggling on the opposite bench. “Now don’t let Kathy hear you saying that.”

Which he says altogether too loud, exactly as he planned to do. 

“Hey, no!” And you hate to admit it, but you’re talking louder like she might’ve heard, just to cover your back that don’t really need covering in the first place. “I mean it’s good. It’s real good! They ran out of regular buns is all.”

Kathy smiles, you think, and Johnny laughs at you relaxing at it—and you would’a liked a kiss or something as an apology for getting you to fret like that, but he just leans back again and runs a thumb down your cheek at the same time, like that’s near enough the same thing. Real charmer. So comfortable already, you know, so sick that he thinks that’s enough, and so perfect and fine and sweet, that it has you smiling while you un-peel the damn napkin. You seem to be taking turns these days, over who has who wrapped round their little pinky, and today it’s your go around that bent little finger of his. Broke it coming off his bike, he says, but you know a fighting injury when you see one, and he’s certainly no type of guy to be avoiding a bust up when it’s put in front of him.

“John, who’s that skinny, mousey looking dude over by Wahoo?” you ask, before taking a mean bite of your sandwich-burger. Then you chew and chew and and God, if Kathy weren’t married, you’d be asking her yourself, before licking your lips and clarifying who you mean, “The one with the camera and the tape recorder?”

“Oh.” He clears his throat, fidgeting enough to make his leathers creak. “That’s Danny. He’s a… I dunno, a sort of journalist, I guess. Yeah. Scouting out stories and things. Been riding with us for a while.”

“Yeah?” Your brows go up, ‘cause that’s the last sort of answer you thought you’d be getting. “He’s out here interviewing you guys?”

“Putting together a book, he says.”

“Hmm.” S’all you can manage to say to that, Hmm. 

On that second or first date of yours, Johnny was real antsy about the idea of you going home and typing out his secrets, and you had to be seeing each other for weeks and weeks before he wanted you to really meet everybody here, but now you’re learning that this whole time they’ve had a walking talking wire tap rolling with them? Asking Q’s and getting A’s? Yeah, feels like something that makes no sense to you, coming from the big boss himself. 

“He’s from New York,” Johnny adds, like he don’t like your silence. Like he thinks you’re weighing this Danny guy up, or something. “S’a good kid.”

“You speak to him much?”

“Nah. Spends a lot of time over at Kathy’s place.” 

Figures. He probably wants to work Benny out the way you and everyone else does—and what better way to work him out, than to get talking with his lady like that?

“Maybe he’ll want to talk to me,” you say.

“Why’d he wanna do that?”

And you don’t like the joke in his voice, so you turn right round to face him, elbows sitting on his thighs. “Why wouldn’t he? I got stories to tell.”

He’s not looking at you, but looking over your head at Danny and Wahoo still. “You’re new to the Vandals,” he says, “you don’t know nothing about it. What’ve you got to say to him about all this?”

You agree as much as you don’t. And you’re itching at the principle of it anyway, so you were planning to keep on going, agreeing or not. 

“I know you, don’t I?” you tell him. “Plus new people got as much to bring to the picture as old people, you know, and when you’re writing something up you gotta have the whole entire picture from as many people as you can get, right—and I know, I like to write too, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“So why wouldn’t he wanna talk to me? I could tell him a whole load about all sorts of things—how someone like me got all wound up with someone like you, for starters—“

“Alright.”

“And how it feels to be fitting in with a bunch of people that are as much like you as they aren’t like you, you know?”

He’s looking at you now, and in the break you take to get some air and another point lined up, he asks, “You done?” Like you’d been talking forever or something.

And you’re surprised enough that you can’t say whether you are or not. 

“I don’t want you talking to him,” he says, “about us. Can I ask that? Am I allowed to ask that of you?”

“Sure you are, Johnny.” That was beside the point. You was just giving an example, you know, of why Danny might wanna point that microphone of his in your direction. 

Johnny’s looking down at you in one of those sorta ways that reminds you he’s a father still—and a father of two girls at that. The kind of look a guy might give a lion after kindly asking him to put his teeth away. “Feels like maybe you got a problem with it,” he says.

“You don’t want me talking to him about you? Fine.” You shrug. “I don’t mind.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I mean, come on, I just don’t like the implication that I got nothing interesting to say to someone like that.” Which is the truth, and you aren’t anyway shy of admitting it to him. 

He hums in response, and you don’t know if it’s a ‘you’re so funny’ kind of hum, or a ‘you’re getting on my nerves but we’re in public and I can’t say nothin’ kind of hum. And you don’t get to work it out neither, cause Cal shouts from the next table over like you’d been listening to his conversation, and not your own, this whole time.

“You coming, Lips?” he says.

“To what?”

“Car show, couple weeks from now.”

Right, cause that clears it up. “Why’d I do a thing like that?”

He looks down a little, like you caught him feeling nervous about the thing. Like it was prom and you were waiting for him to ask you, or something, lone earring swinging while he doubts himself. “Well, usually,” he says, “when a guy’s going steady with someone—not to assume or presume, Johnny, every journey is a beautiful one—but, well, usually they bring ‘em along to these things.”

You’re laughing. Well, trying real hard not to, cause he’s trying so hard to be… whatever that was, and you don’t mean to come off as rude so early on, y’know? “No, I mean, you bike guys go to car shows? Where’s the sense in that?” 

“S’more of a wheel show,” Cal says.

“S’more of a something to get drunk and start fightin’ each other for no reason,” Kathy adds from across the way, conversation travelling like a bunch of fish going upstream, “you don’t wanna be there, trust me. They just like lookin’ tough to all those nice boys in the 4-wheelers there.”

And you believe her, having said no more that a few words to her in your life, cause if anyone knows about these things, you kinda figure Kathy does. 

“You wanna go?” Johnny asks, before you can say anything about the drinking and fighting part. 

You look up, and he’s frowning like he might’ve asked you something real troubling, or like he’s trying to suss you out, even though he’s already done that and more, you reckon, sussed you out down to the parts even you don’t like thinking about. 

“D’you want me to go?” you ask.

“Well, yeah,” he says, easy but hesitant, “I do, yeah.”

“Then sure.” You turn back to Cal, who’s smoked up like a teenager in the brief moment you looked away from him. “S’pose I’ll be there, then.”

“S’pose we’ll be glad to have you,” he says back, and it’s probably only the weed, but he’s smiling like he means it. Like you’ve spent a whole lifetime with these guys, and not just one muddy afternoon in a fucking field in the middle of nowhere. 

Funny how it works sometimes, ain’t it? Johnny spent so long trying to balance things between you and the Vandals, when all he really had to do was stop worrying so much, and let everything fall together. One big pile of imperfection is a Hell of a lot easier to deal with, and you don’t mind being a part of that. Dirty boots and Benny included. 

~~~~~~~~

taglist: @drabbles-mc @hausofmamadas @garbinge @raven-black102 @lyralu91 @hoodeddreams13 @businesscalamity (pls let me know if i forgot you or you no longer want to be tagged!)

[kaerinio]

@messanique sent a super sweet thing and i'm crying: You always make my day brighter Luxx !! I love having you on my dash and interacting with you; you nourish my Dany love and keep reminding me why she's so special to me (while also developing her more completely and interestingly than the main books do). Also you are just !! The sweetest, kindest person ! You are always positive and passionate, and it is infectious. I hope 2024 treats you well and gently 💕💕💕

don't mind me, i'm just sitting here with tears in my eyes because this is honestly one of the sweetest things in the entire world! emily, i am so incredibly HONORED!!! 🥺🥺 and also, YOU NOURISH MY DANY LOVE, TOO??? she's our babygirl! 😭 and the fact that we can get so in-depth about her, the targaryens, their dynamics, and their would-be dynamics if rhaella and rhaegar survived is so special to me. everything involving you IS SO SPECIAL TO ME, OKAY! you bring such vibrance to every single muse you write that absolutely draws me in. i could go on and on for all eternity about just how much i admire how reflective you are when it comes to every single facet of your muses. you have this immense talent and spectacular ability to place us all in every single thing you write! and i am being so for real because !!!! THE WAY I CAN *SEE* EVERYTHING YOU DESCRIBE!! THE WAY I CAN *FEEL* EVERYTHING! ALL THE SENSATIONS ARE IN THE ROOM. but also, YOU, EMILY, ARE JUST ABSOLUTELY WONDERFUL!! i need you to know that every single time i see you on the dash, i smile! 🥺 and every single time we chat, my heart warms!! your presence is a gift, and it is one that i am going to cherish forever and ever!!💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

AND ALSO, I HOPE THAT 2K24 IS FILLED WITH ALL THE MOST AMAZING THINGS!! ALL THE JOY, ALL THE OPPORTUNITY, ALL THE PROSPERITY!! you deserve all the good!!💖💖

[sturnioz]

꒰ STURNIOZ KINKMAS '24 ꒱ !

fan!reader finally gets her one on one time with pornstar!chris.

"are you ready?" chris asks you softly, his hand rubbing comforting massages on your shoulder as you nod your head nervously, a giddy smile spreading across your lips which chris chuckles at. "hey, don't be nervous.. pretend like the camera isn't even there."

"i don't know if i can do that." you admit as your eyes glance towards the camera that's set up beside the bed, ready to film you both.

you're not sure what made you agree to film with him for his next post—you were texting back and forth for a few weeks, sending lewd messages and photos of yourself in your prettiest underwear before he popped the question, asking if you wanted to be in his next video.

you think maybe it was the post-orgasm bliss that made you feel so confident enough to agree, but now, being faced to face with him, seeing his set up, the reality started to sink in on what you're doing, and despite you being a little excited... you were also shitting your pants.

"we don't have to do this y'know?" chris breaks it to you, giving you a reassuring smile that already has you swooning. "m'not gonna be pissed if you decide to back out now—you can even sit behind the camera 'n watch me if you want."

even though his offer of watching him sounds really tempting, you want this. you want this so badly that you've been non-stop thinking and dreaming about it — what it would feel like to have his body pressed against yours and his cock that you've seen so many times on your phone screen making you cum.

"i want to do this."

"yeah?" he presses once more, and you nod your head to assure him that you're all for this even if you are a little bit nervous. chris nods his head along with you, giving you another smile before leading you toward his bed. "get undressed f'me. all off."

one moment you're standing at the edge of the bed taking your clothes off, the next you're on it with chris' body over yours, his lips greedily attached to your own as he kisses you, his tongue exploring your mouth as his hands slide down to your ass to squeeze the plump flesh, grinding his cock against your wet folds.

you're moaning and it's a little pathetic considering all he's doing at the moment is kissing and groping you. but it feels so good — too good to the point you're thinking you're dreaming, that this is all in your mind and you aren't truly here.

but the nibble chris gives your bottom lip, and tugging at it before pushing his tongue back into your mouth brings you back to reality, lacing your fingers through his messy hair as he tilts his head to the side to deepen the kiss.

"need... need you inside me," you whisper against his lips as you briefly pull back, blinking up at him so prettily and needy. "need to feel it. want you to.. to fill me up, like you said on those texts."

"want me to fill this pretty pussy up?" chris murmurs as he leans up on his knees, making a show for the camera as his fingers move between your thighs, spreading your folds apart to show your weeping hole. "look at you.. so fuckin' gorgeous."

you make eye contact with the camera as chris slowly pushes himself inside, and you let out a sharp gasp, trying to adjust to the sheer size of him as your inner walls clench.

"shit—shit. oh my god—" you babble, panicking a little. "you—mmph—you're so big. i-i don't know if i can ta-take it."

"shh, s'okay, s'alright... you're good," chris whispers softly as he leans down, capturing your lips in a tender kiss as he pauses his movements, allowing you a moment to adjust as he murmurs against your lips. "just relax.. we'll go slow, yeah? let your sweet lil' pussy get used to my cock."

you whimper softly, your hips twitching as your gummy walls flutter around him, a burning ache between your thighs and inside your cunt causing you to wiggle to get comfortably, and chris gently strokes your cheeks.

"you're doin' so well." chris praises you, pressing his lips to your warm cheeks as he carefully begins to move, rocking his hips in shallow thrusts as he continues to mutter sweet words and leave gentle kisses across your jawline and neck. "takin' my cock like such a good girl."

your breathing grows heavier, starting to respond to the slow pace as you meet his thrusts, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him deeper with a mewl of his name, vision slightly blurry as you stare at the camera that's recording you both, making you tense up a little.

"don't look at it," chris says quietly, gently coaxing your face away with his hand. "s'not there, remember? just me 'n you."

you nod your head quickly, your moans muffled by his lips when he kisses you again, rocking harder against you as he picks up the pace, panting against your mouth as he feels your cunt squeeze around him.

you weakly roll your hips up in circular motions, grinding against him to provide extra stimulation for your clit, all sounds consumed by his lips that continue to move greedily on yours.

however, you pull away from him to catch your breath when he moves faster, plunging into your pussy, his balls smacking against your skin with his hand gripping your jaw, gently pushing your head back to bite and suckle at your neck.

you inner walls ripple and quiver around his cock, getting lost in the feeling of his cock gliding in and out of your walls, and the sounds of his grunts and groans in your neck.

his mouth finds yours once again when his hips work harder, rutting you against the bed, your heart pounding wildly in your ears as you feel the knot in your tummy tighten.

"can feel it, sweetheart," his murmurs between kisses, his lips curling into a grin. "you gonna cum?"

the unusual sound that leaves you as you unexpectedly cum is something primal—a mix between a throaty moan and a whine that only gets noisier as chris works you through your orgasm, his mouth relentless against yours before he suddenly stills, his cock throbbing inside of you as he coats your insides with his own cum.

you cling to him tightly, lungs begging for oxygen as you pull away from his lips, panting desperately while chris rolls his hips, milking out the remains of his orgasm before letting out a deep exhale once he's finished.

he gently pulls away from you to lean up on his knees, looking down as he watches himself pull out of your opening, his cum dripping onto his sheets. you peer up at him with curiosity as he reaches over to grab his camera, his eyes flitting to yours for permission and you nod your head.

chris brings the camera to the mess between your legs, carefully parting your folds for a closer look at the mess before grinning, moving the camera up to his face—but he pauses, humming as he looks at you.

"kiss the camera," he murmurs to you, tapping against the lens as he brings it to your lips. "right here, sweetheart."

© STURNIOZ

[sweetshuga]

𝑴.𝑺 ✰ 𝑩𝒊𝒓𝒕𝒉𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝑺𝒆𝒙 ✧ 𝑪.𝑺

───~𓆩♡𓆪~───

"𝒐𝒉 𝒇𝒖—𝒄𝒌, 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒑𝒖𝒔𝒔𝒚’𝒔 𝒔𝒐 𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒅—𝒔’𝒈𝒓𝒆𝒆𝒅𝒚, 𝒔𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒊��’ 𝒖𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕."

𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔⚠ strong language, obscene descriptions, established polyamory, threesome, raw doggin’, creampie, breeding kink, bondage, oral (f! receiving), dp♡, toys, size kink, squirting, pet names, overstimulation (f!), degradation kink, praise kink, pain kink, domxsubxdom, daddy kink, spanking, blindfold, gag & every kinky thing in the book. [No incest, don’t play those games]

𝒘𝒄. 𝟤.𝟩 𝒌

𝒑𝒔𝒂. English is not my first language! 𝑴𝑫𝑵𝑰 [Smut]

𝒂𝒏. I’m finally 18! Which means I can finally write filthy deranged smut without anons after my ass about it in my asks and what better way to celebrate it than a low-key hardcore kinky Chratt smut ×-×

You sat at the edge of your bed as Chris and Matt stood in front of you, both wearing little party hats and holding a medium sized cheesecake. You did celebrate your birthday with the triplets already, but they insisted on celebrating it again at your place. Your initial reaction was of confusion, but all you did now was giggle as they helped you wear a party hat of your own.

Just after they made you blow out the candles, all hell was let loose. One moment you were cutting the cake and the next they were eating it off of you. Your breathy sighs were cut short when the toys came into play. The toys, handcuffs, s&m ropes... where and when did they get them? Even you were surprised at the variety thrown on the bed beside you. They did have quite a few kinks, but was it ever this... much?

You looked up at them – now standing in front of you half naked, already fumbling with their belts. A chuckle rumbled out of you. "Wow," you breathed out, "should’ve warned me beforehand, quite a collection you got here." Their hands halted as they looked at each other and back at you, eyebrows raised. "Should’ve warned you?" Chris chuckled, and Matt chimed in with a smirk. "Sweetheart," he cooed, "there’s no need for warnings, we know what you want."

A noticeable shiver went down your spine, making the brothers chuckle in unison. They quickly shed the rest of their clothes, their erection bobbing obscenely as they walked back to your sprawled out form on the bed, still somewhat covered in the cheesecake. Their hands roamed over your body, heating the skin under their touch and making your body work overtime to produce slickness – your cotton undies soaked with it.

They couldn’t help but swallow thickly at the sight of you so vulnerable under their gaze, their touch sending more shivers down your spine hence the goosebumps appearing on your arms. Matt slowly licked his lips absentmindedly, feeling a bead of precum slowly rolling out of his slit and down the head of his cock. He hastily took off your underwear and Chris helped him by hoisting your hips up slightly—not letting you do any work.

You hissed in a breath when the cool air hit your throbbing clit, aching with need and slick with arousal. The sight of your pussy weeping just for them made their cock’s twitch. "So, birthday girl, whaddya want first? Toys or us?" Chris smirked, inching closer to you. You chuckled, "seriously Chris? You’re seriously gonna ask that? Toys over you two?" Chris chuckled at the obvious sarcasm in your tone, shrugging slightly as he spoke, "gotta ask ya ma, it’s crucial."

Matt rolled his eyes, playfully, before grabbing your knees and opening you up fully. Your breath hitched at the sudden exposure, looking at Matt with a look that screamed 'fuck me' which definitely didn’t go unnoticed by the brothers. They exchanged one knowing glance and immediately got to work. Chris gently cuffed your hands with the fuzzy black handcuffs while Matt tied your body up in pretty knots.

Your gaze fell down and over the bondage before going back to Matt, then Chris and back to Matt, a soft confused grin on your face. "Didn’t know you knew bondage stuff," Matt grinned bashfully at your words, a small hint of blush creeping up his neck. "Well, you don’t want me to get into detail." He simply said, his hand trailing down your torso adorned with the rope.

Your muscles tensed under his fingertips, a sharp intake of breath when the pad of his thumb made contact with your puffy clit, your whole body twitching. "Look who’s sensitive," Chris chuckled, "ain’t ya so fuckin’ ready for us ma?" Matt smirked as he ran a long finger up your slit, "oh she’s soaked alright, sooo soaked, all this for us huh?" you nodded despite the pink adorning the tips of your ears.

"Tsk—tsk," Matt clicked his tongue, "words, baby, use your words," he purred, "all this for us?" his tone wasn’t so playful anymore, more intense—more seductive. "Yeah, all of it... for you two," you said, averting your gaze for a moment as a sudden pang of embarrassment settled in you. "Ah-ah, no lookin’ away, look at us." Chris turned your head gently so you were facing them again.

"There, more like it," he chuckled, "oh and a piece of advice ma? You’re gonna be so fuckin’ embarrassed from all the beggin’ you’re gonna do later if you’re already embarrassed now so don’t think ’nd just feel— actually..." Chris trailed off, and he and Matt exchanged another glance before he scurried off to his discarded jeans and retrieved something from it.

A black silk blindfold... Oh? Now you know what they’re planning with that shit-eating smirks on their faces. Your mouth went dry, feeling your arousal run down your slit. "Y’kay with this, yeah?" You nodded, "yeah," you mumbled and let them blindfold you. Every slight graze felt more electric than before with your sight gone.

Your body jolted subtly when you heard the sudden sound of buzzing—undeniably from a vibrator. You didn’t even know whose hands were on you, so many sensations were given just from their hands roaming aimlessly over your bound body. Your thighs twitched when the tip of what seemed to be a wand vibe touched your inner thigh, buzzing gently against it – barely grazing it.

You squirmed ever so slightly, the throbbing in your core too much to bear. "Chris—Matt, please... I—I need it," you begged pathetically, feeling your cheeks flush in shyness. "Oh, don’t be shy now sweets, focus alright?" Matt tapped your inner thigh with the vibe repeatedly causing you to jolt each time. Chris chuckled lowly, "oh fuck, think I might get addicted to this... the whole bondage thing."

Your lips parted slightly to let out a breathy moan when the vibe finally connected with your aching nub. Your back arched but only for a split second before Chris pressed it back onto the bed. You frowned, confused, but the feeling of the vibe slowly getting stronger with each press on its button by Matt made your thoughts disperse into a puff of smoke. "A—hhn," you moaned, feeling a familiar knot forming rapidly.

Suddenly the vibe stopped, making you let out a whine of despair. "Wha– why, please—ohh fu—ck," your eyes rolled back behind the blindfold, wrists tensing against the bounds and breaths coming out in short gasps and moans. Matt had purposely pressed the setting to max and without a warning put the tip back on your puffy clit hence your euphoric reaction.

"Too much!" you mewled, your hips rolling to try and escape the vibrations, but the combination of Chris holding your hips down on the bed and Matt moving the vibe wherever you moved to was enough to drive you insane. Your moans grew louder as you rapidly approached an earth-shattering orgasm. "Oh fu—ck," you cried out when you felt a thick intrusion and no, it wasn’t warm indicating the... dildo vibrator? The moment you felt the vibrations deep in you—you knew you were done for.

Your whole body tensed and shook when the vibrating toy moved in and out of you, effectively hitting all your sweet spots all while the wand worked your clit. You let out a series of gasping moans, "w-wait, I’m gonna—cum, gonna, gonna cum oh- fu—ck," you wailed when the sensations became too much. The band snapped in your lower abdomen, your eyes widening behind the blindfold as you came hard.

Matt groaned aloud, "yeah, give it to us sweetheart, c’mon one more," he turned both the vibes off, tossed them somewhere on the bed and immediately dove down to get a taste of you. Moaning at the taste as he ate your sensitive cunt out, eliciting pornographic moans from you. Chris quickly secured the gag over your mouth, muffling your sounds of pleasure as you writhed against their touch.

Chris needed you in his mouth too, so when he saw your hardened nipples looking so invitingly, he just couldn’t resist himself. Your mind blanked when you felt another big one just out of reach, but when Chris suckled hard on your nipple while tweaking the other one between his fingers? You were already painting Matt's face with your cum. The clear liquid sprayed out while you sobbed in pure ecstasy. Your eyes screwed shut and body tense.

Matt pulled away after licking one lingering stripe up your slit, savoring your taste before rising up, his face glistening in your juices. Their cocks were painfully hard, all swollen at the tip and precum dripping down it. Chris gave himself a few pumps, moaning in pleasure at the relief. Just the sounds were enough to make you clench around nothing, your quivering pussy ready for more.

"Oh, you ready for us ma?" Chris chuckled when he got no answer, "c’mon answer me," he gently slapped your pussy, making you jolt from sensitivity. "Wha–?" you mumbled lazily, the gag preventing you from talking and your mind hazy from pleasure. "I said, you ready for us?" You nodded slowly, your expression nothing short of desire, "please—" as if to say 'say less' they quickly adjusted your position so you were laying on top of Chris, facing him, with Matt behind you.

"Look at that soaked pussy, so needy for us ain’t you?" A surprised yelp came from you when Matt spanked you, leaving a faint red mark, oh was he loving this. He gave your ass a few more slaps, watching intently as your body reacted to the sting and to no surprise—you were enjoying it. "What a filthy whore," he muttered under his breath, but it was loud enough for you to hear and that did it for you. The way he said those degrading words, directed only to you, seemed to make you roll your hips to try and get any type of friction.

Chris exchanged a smirk with Matt, clearly amused by your antics. They loved when you got so desperate like now, letting out soft whines and begging them for more all while being completely tied up and helpless, gagged and blindfolded. They enjoyed tormenting you as much as you enjoyed it yourself.

"Alright, here is me," Chris aligned himself with your wetness and slowly pushed inside, groaning as he did so, "fuckin’ tight as always... but don’t worry mama, we’re gonna stretch you out just fine." You moaned at the intrusion, the feeling of his cock stretching you out – on its own – was enough, but Matt wanted some of that too. Your eyebrows knitted together under the blindfold when you felt Matt’s thick head nudge at your already full pussy.

Your body shivered when you felt the cold slickness. Lube... Oh, he was serious about this, wasn’t he? You bit down on the gag as he slowly pushed until his tip popped through, Matt’s hand ran up and down your back soothingly. "You okay sweetheart? hurts?" You nodded, and Matt sighed before pushing until all of him was inside alongside Chris, both of them groaning at the tight fit. "Fuck, sorry," he mumbled shakily, his large hands grasping your hips.

Your eyes nearly rolled back when Matt drew out before slamming back inside, a loud muffled whimper escaping through the gag. Your hands gripped onto the handcuffs behind your back for dear life when they both started to move after feeling you relax around them. "Oh, fu—ck, your pussy’s so good—s’greedy, suckin’ us in like that," Chris groaned, taking off your gag to pull you into a searing kiss.

Chris swallowed your moans of pleasure-pain, a messy sloppy kiss that turned your brain to mush and the feeling of their hefty lengths moving in and out of you mercilessly was enough to bring you closer. Chris soon broke the kiss, gasping softly for air as he kissed down your neck. Matt gripped a handful of your hair and yanked your head up, arching your back, hitting spots that made your thighs quiver.

"You’re doing sooo good for us... such a good girl for daddy huh?" Matt emphasized his words by going balls deep, "see? Taking both of our cocks without a complaint, fucking addictive ain’t ya?" he rasped. Chris suddenly slammed up, burying himself to the hilt—stretching you out completely. Your tears of pleasure soaked the blindfold, your words turning into incoherent babbles about how good it was with the occasional pet name daddy thrown in.

Matt loved hearing you call him daddy, and Chris? Well, despite his otherwise annoyed expression whenever you call him it, he secretly enjoyed it a whole lot. Especially when you were so cock-drunk and calling them daddy like now. "P-please, daddy—harder." You mewled, the words spilling out of you without a second thought.

If you weren’t so drunk on pleasure then you would’ve been so fucking embarrassed, but all you could think about at the moment were their hard cocks nestled deep in you. And they gave you exactly what you wanted, how could they not? You were begging so needily, so desperately and they would be lying if it wasn’t the most erotic thing they’ve seen before. Their hips picked up pace, hands roaming all over your body and grazing the ropes.

"So fuckin’ beautiful," Chris murmured breathlessly as he leaned up slightly to capture one of your nipples in his mouth, biting and suckling on it. Your body trembled with pure unadulterated pleasure as they continued ravaging your body. "S’good, so big o—h," you babbled, your words dissolving into moans as they hit every spot that made sparks light up behind your eyes.

You could feel the pressure slowly building, the knot tightened with each of their thrusts until you couldn’t hold back anymore. With a loud withdrawn moan, you finally let go, your body wracked with aftershocks as they fucked you through it and immediately to a new high. Your body reacted so strongly to them and their words that you were already cumming again.

Their paces faltered before abruptly fastening, now laced with pure desperation for release. You could hear the profanities leaving their lips as well as ragged moans and groans. "Fuck, gonna fill you up s’good ma, fuckin’ knock you up, make you our baby mama." Matt chimed in, "yeah—fuck, you gonna be our breeding slut? Our good girl?" he groaned, their breaths hitching as they got closer and closer.

You could only respond with a series of 'yes' and 'fill me up', too fucked with pleasure to make full sentences. And they did, one after the other, filling you up to the brim with their seed until it was leaking out the sides of your stuffed full cunt. "Oh fu—ck," they moaned in unison, feeling your eager pussy milking them for all they’re worth. They slowly pulled out, seeing your pussy stuffed full with their cum sent a thrill down both their spines.

After catching their breaths, Chris took off your blindfold and you squinted at the sudden exposure to the light despite it being a dim bedside lamp. You blinked, your voice hoarse from all that moaning. Matt’s hands deftly worked to untie the knots, and after a few minutes, you were finally free from all the restraints. Your body was covered in light pink marks of where the ropes were, the handcuffs didn’t leave any marks, but your wrists were still sore nonetheless.

Matt and Chris never failed to give you the best aftercare and attention after your intimacy. They knew they could get a bit too passionate in bed and plus what’s the harm in pampering their girl? They loved pampering you, whether it was with money, attention or... well, sex.

"Happy birthday," they murmured in unison as their hands roamed over your body once again, already getting hard. They wanted to bring you so much pleasure to the point of you begging them for mercy, it was as if they could read your mind, see through your day dreams. After all, it is your birthday and birthday girls get their wishes – their deepest desires and fantasies – fulfilled, don’t they?

𓆩♡𓆪

𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕: @emely9274 @chrisfavoritewhore @lilyyliloo @larallott @thebigbadwolfahoooo @strnlslut @knowingnothingnoel @slvtf0rchr1s @sturnioloszn @sofiaaguilaxx @sophand4n4 @mattsfavoritestar @strnilolover @diasturnsth @brookheartsmatt @tpwktahlz @crazychick21 @slut4angstt @pvssychicken @poolover123 @loud-sturniolos @inlovewchrissturniolo @sagesturns @chrisstopherfilmed @splashhsworld @billiesbabya @h3arts4nat @moosegirl96 @urfavallyyy @mattsninja @bilssturns @shadowthesim @ivysturnss @peiivnao @sturniolokaulitz @megluvrr @marrykisskilled @sturniolo-fann @goingtojohnkramershouseee @sturniolosluttt @chrislilcumslvt @s1ut4chris @starstrucktyrantinfluencer @m00nl1ghts1vt @ribread03 @hearts4werka @whore4mattsturniolo @stvrnzwrld @mattslovergirlie @lovergirl4gracieabrams

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒔𝒉𝒖𝒈𝒂

[sinofwriting]

Claiming - Charles Leclerc (Dark Fic)

Words: 1,310 Summary: In a world where F1 drivers can claim someone as a wife while at a race, here is Charles' version. Note(s): DARK FIC, this is dark. Dubious Consent/Touching (not sexual), Reader was essentially kidnapped. I will be making other fics like this for a few other drivers where they claim a wife. And thank you 🦢 anon for this idea and all your thoughts! Edit: Takes place during/after Imola 2024

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She doesn’t want to sit on the bed. She doesn’t want to be in this room. She doesn’t want him touching her. But she doesn’t want to make him angry, fears what his reaction could be, what he could do to her. So she sits at the edge of the luxurious hotel bed. Her shoulders hunching, her hands gathered in her lap, her legs pressed painfully tight together.

She’s taking up as little space as she can, but he still sits right next to her, his thigh pressing against her and she has to resist flinching.

“You are so tense.” He murmurs, his voice practically caressing her ear. The sound of it makes her release a breath she didn’t even know she was holding. And in doing so she takes in a breath, nearly becoming dizzy at the perfect smell of his cologne.

“I’m sorry.” She manages to say.

He clicks his tongue, running a hand up and down her back. It’s supposed to be a soothing touch and she has to force herself not to tense further. “Don’t apologize, mon ange. Would a bath help?”

She eagerly nods at the suggestion, wants to weep at the idea of it.

She needs a moment alone. Ever since she was taken to Ferrari’s garage, she’s had him right there by her, never more than an arms length away. She wants to sink into scalding water and let the pain of it distract her from what has happened.

“Please.” She whispers.

He smiles, pleased, and she hates that she likes the look on him. “I’ll go get it started.”

She wants to protest, but he’s pressing his lips to her forehead and then standing, striding over to the bathroom. And she remains frozen on the bed, even when she hears the sound of water rushing out and hitting the tub.

When Charles comes back, he’s shirtless and she makes a noise at the sight. He gives her another pleased smile. “I prefer my baths to be very hot, so if you’d like it to be cooler, you will have to wait a few minutes.” He tells her, gesturing for her to join him and she does, letting him guide her with a hand on the back into the bathroom.

Stepping inside, she lets out a shaky breath. The entire mirror is steamed up and she can see how hot the water is in the large tub. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

She waits for a moment for him to leave, but he just continues to look at her, eyes half lidded, lips ever so slightly parted as he leans against the bathroom counter.

She turns away from him, tears threatening to prick her eyes, and she forces herself to breath as she reaches for the hem of her polo. As soon as it’s pulled over her head, she nearly shakes. She wants to ask him to look away, to stop watching her undress, she can feel his eyes on her. She wants to drop to her knees and beg for him to come back when she’s fully naked. She’s never gotten undressed in front of anyone. It feels intimate to do so, it feels worse somehow for him to be watching her do this.

Her bra comes off next and she can hear the sound of his breathing pick up as it drops onto the floor, the skin of her back exposed to him. She takes her underwear and pants off at the same time, thankful when her socks come off as well.

She thinks she’s supposed to turn to him, to let him get a full look at her, but the bath is right there, calling her name, the water clear, no bath bomb or bubbles to hide anything. He could get a full look at her like that.

Stepping into the bath, she shudders at the feeling of near burning hot water. It laps around her and while she normally sinks into her baths, this time she eases herself down and into the water. Her eyes closing when she is fully in and laying down, the top of her neck even a little wet.

She almost forgets that he is there, but then a hand is caressing her shoulder and this time she can’t help her flinch.

“I’m sorry.” He apologizes and she hates that it sounds sincere. “Scoot up for me?”

Grabbing at the sill of the tub, she carefully pulls herself forward, stopping when he makes a noise.

“Good girl.” He murmurs and suddenly the water rises against her and her eyes fly open when she feels the sensation of skin grazing her back and as she looks down, she sees legs on either side of her body just barely not touching her. Then hands are on her hips, gently guiding her back until her back is pressed against a naked chest and she can feel him against her. His hands move from her hips so he can wrap his arms around her.

He lets out a happy sound at contact. “Comfortable?”

She forces herself to nod.

“Good. Now just relax, mon ange. You’ll feel much better.”

—

She wakes up and Charles is still holding on to her, his grip tight but not bruising, so clearly keeping her there and she can’t help but cry.

She was his forever, he had claimed her, the paperwork probably already has been registered. She didn’t even get to say goodbye to her family. The thought hadn’t crossed her mind until now, but it does and she has to slap a hand over her mouth.

She was never going to see her mom, have her fuss over her. Her dad was never going to call her champ, she was never going to get to eat his food again. Her grandmother and her heart aches even more. She was never going to see her grandma again, feel her hand against her cheek as she looked in her eyes, making sure that when she said of course I’m happy that she actually was. She was never going to get the family dinners with so many things being passed around it made her dizzy. The shots that everyone took if they were old enough.

She doesn’t realize it, but her whole body is shaking and it wakes the man holding her.

“Mon ange,” his voice is thick with sleep and confusion and she holds her breath. “What’s the matter?”

She doesn’t say anything, her body still shaking, but she hopes her lack of response will make him think that she’s asleep. It doesn’t, his hands move around her body until he easily can turn her so she’s facing him.

“Oh,” his eyes are wide, voice mournful as he sees her tears. “What happened?”

She doesn’t say anything, just stares at him with tears in her eyes, hand still clamped over her mouth.

His brows furrow and he moves her hand away from her mouth. “What is wrong? What has you crying?”

“I’m never gonna see them.” The words come out and she’s gasping for breath and his brows furrow more.

“Who, mon ange?”

“My family. I’m never going to see my mom or my dad. My grandma, my cousins, my aunts and uncles. I’m never going to see any of them again.” She’s sobbing and she hates that when he runs a hand over her back, trying to calm her before urging her to press her face into his chest, she does.

“Of course you will.” He finally says when she’s calmed a little.

The words have her pulling back, silent as she stares at him with wide eyes.

He chuckles, running a finger beneath her eye to get rid of the tears still clinging there. “Of course you will see them again. They make you happy and I want to know my in-laws, after all.”

[lady-ashfade]

A Son For A Son

´*: ･ﾟ⋆˒ Deamons Bastard!Reader x Yan!Team black. Pt.2

╰･ﾟ✧☽ first fic here.

╰･ﾟ✧☽ summary: the queen has given a order, and craving revenge you expect.

╰･ﾟ✧☽ words: 1k

╰･ﾟ✧☽ warnings: blood & gore, murder and death, reader killing, reader being her father, uncanon events, poison, I just needed to make this.

╰･ﾟ✧☽ DONT READ IF YOU WANNA BE SPOILED: reader does in fact kill aemond in this and idk if you are happy about it, I want his head to take to my queen.

“I want Aemond Targaryen.” she stood before the council covered in dirt and who knows what.

It had been two weeks since the letter about the death of Lucaerys had arrived and you all had been the worst for it. and ever since she searched and searched for a sign of truth, desperate to be wrong. that her sweet boy was alive. you knew he was dead and you wanted everyone to pay for taking luke. you wanted aemond targaryen to pay. you took anger out on the ones you could, or roamed the sky’s to get your mind off of things. you would not act without her orders.

The resemblance you shared to daemon was close and terrifying for your foes. just as you had the idea to fulfill her wishes, your father did too.

“I don’t know what you’re planning,” the sound of your voice made his shoulders fall and a smirk appear on his face, one you couldn’t see. a dark cloak draped over his shoulders and matched the same one across your frame. “but I have a better one.”

“No.” you glare at the back of his head. again denied something worth your talents.

“You can’t tell me what do to this time father.” standing your ground as his eyes turn around, a look he uses when he’s serious. and for him it was like looking into a mirror, you carved blood just like he did and loved getting to spill it. even for no reason at all.

“I have waited around for a task, and she has said she wants Aemond. I mourn the loss of my brother too, and you can not keep me from whatever it is that you think you’re protecting me from.”

Hundreds of men died at the end of your blade at night as you slip throughout the shadows. you were a slayer, a assassin who followed your own roles but loved coin and the game. a story to tell children to make them weep and fear the dark. so how could he still think you are not ready.

“I have let you do what you needed, patrol the blockade against my wishes. or fly alone when our enemies wait to make us weaker” he lectures, “and I will not let them take you.” for a moment you saw a regular father begging for his daughter to stay safe. you aren’t just a daughter now but a soldier in war.

“I would never let them take me,” you step closer and give him a smug look, “I am your daughter after all.”

Instead of going himself, daemon sends you, for the head of the copycat prince.

the castle gates are easy to slip passed with the help of a guard who shares your hatred for the hightowers. and many times, you slip into the keep without getting caught.

“Something told me you’d be here,” his eye glanced at you amused from the cough as his fingertips spin a coin. “It’s as if the gods made me stay here.” aemond unfolded his legs and leaned forward on his knees. many years you hated the way he spoke to you like a interest of his to be claimed like his bitch dragon.

“Then the gods agree you’ll die tonight.”

aemond waited for this moment to finally fight you. he wanted to win and keep you forever as a trophy, a wife who was like him and everyone feared without a doubt. he wasn’t a fool, you are a skilled killer and he needed to bring his all. and some skills stayed in the dark.

a slice in his chest, in his leg and cheek aren’t as bad as he thought when he had you pinned down onto the table. the cold feeling of metal as his hands wrapped around your throat was refreshing. you didn’t try and fight back as he took your breath because the fight was won as soon as it started.

And he should have known you couldn’t be this sloppy.

curling lips up into a devil’s smirk, looking into his eye he feels himself weakened and his grip loosen. the power of letting a man win and wiping all power from beneath their feet was riveting and a hobby. Aemond leaned back and placed his weight onto the couch while trying to keep composure. “You honestly think i wouldn’t have a plan? Make my own rules?” you raise a brow and rub the sore skin of your neck, inching closer while standing up yourself.

“Silent reaper is the name they whisper about me, come in quickly without notice. I always kill my enemies without them awake, but you,” you point and lean down as his eyes become bloodshot, “I want to feel the most pain. And I will enjoy it.” within a few minutes his body starts to leak its own blood. he was quickly taken to death of course, you couldn’t hear his pleads but you’ll satisfy with his death.

guards fall silent when they watch you walk through the halls they don’t even announce your name. white locks lace your fingers and the weight of his head was little and you look like your father with the proud eyes of what you did. the sounds of your footsteps cause the council to glance over but stay with shock. non of them expected to see that and much less out of no where. though, your father seemed pleased and chuckled at the sight.

“The head of Prince Aemond Targaryen, your Grace.” Walking past Jace you set the bloody head on the table as people gawk and flinch. “the poison was my idea, hope you don’t mind.” a second later you yawn of exhaustion and boredom. you look at rhaenrya as her eyes glossed with the revenge you took for her.

“If you’ll excuse me, the ride back was tiring and I wish to get back to my book.” bowing down you flash a “polite” smile and walk away to your chambers with pride and a hand rested on your blade. with everyone wondering what else you would do for the queen,

Your mother.

[prettyboykatsuki]

on deaths door | s. gojo

✮ tags ; dark content ahead, afab + gender neutral reader, dark comedy / black comedy, attempts of suicide, the use of the word rapist in text, mentions of self-harm scars, penetration, intense but not rough, gojo is doting, no curses au, ceo!gojo 18+

note: this fic is mostly intended to be a dark comedy and have an unserious nature. it is very absurdist and it makes light of both suicide and assault. please proceed carefully if you find this might be triggering to you.

PLEASE READ THE TAGS BEFORE YOU PROCEED.

✮ wc ; 2.6k

✮ a/n ; i actually really really enjoyed writing this and would love to expand on it potentially. KJSDFJSKD.

reader has been through a lot so they are super nonchalant about everything just as a precaution

"Uwah," A voice startles you from your place on the roof. You gasp, amidst tears and sobs from shock. "Are you about to kill yourself?"

You whip your head around to see who could be beside you at this hour. It's a deliberately obscure location, too so it's extra weird. You were hoping to die in peace in a place where it'd be hard to find you, after all.

But there's a strange man interrupting your plans. Very strange. He's speaking Japanese rather clearly but his hair is a shock of white and his eyes are blues as saphhires. Despite the situation, his voice is light and cheerful - almost amused.

You can't tell if he's just a figment of your imagination. He's so unusual it stuns you out of your tears. You can't find your voice to respond for a moment.

"Yes," You reply, unsure of what else to say. He smiles at you.

"Hm." He looks contemplative. "Well... if you don't want it, can I have it?"

You stare on, confused.

He grins. "Your life, I mean. Can I buy it off you?"

Starting to wonder if you've already died, you stretch your hands up to wipe the tears off of your face just to see if any of it is real. The touch makes it gasp. You're definitely still alive. So, that means this strange man is also real and asking to buy your life.

"What?"

"Oh, don't worry. I'm not a cheapskate or anything, the price will be fair." He walks closer to you from where you've been standing all this time. He grabs you by the collar of your shirt, picking you up and setting you down further away from the ledge with a harsh yank.

Like a kitten whose mother is dragging it by the nape, you fumble onto the rooftop concrete. As soon as you're moved, you drop down to your knees - unable to find anymore strength.

"Are you... trying to traffick me?" Your voice is coarse in your reply as you stare up. It's a genuine question. You aren't sure what else to call this. The strange, unusual man just laughs in your face.

"Mm, well - not really. Though, if you say yes I'll make good use of you in all ways." The last part makes your skin crawl a little. "You were weeping so pitifully when I came up here... super pathetic. I just thought it'd be a waste if you died since I got to see something interesting."

There's something really wrong with this guy, you think. But this is such a common thing in your life, you aren't sure how shocked you should be.

There's also something equally wrong with you, because you're so fucked up - you're considering it. If he paid you enough to cover all of your debts, you could cut ties with all the bullshit your fathers debt has put you through. You could run away. Not there's anywhere for you, even after that. But at least you'd be unshackled from what makes you most miserable.

You don't want your life, but if this guy wants it so bad then...

"...How much will you pay me?"

His eyes light up when you ask this and it unsettles you further. "As much as you want. And you'd have to live with me at my beck and call."

"Like a pet." You reply easily.

Instead of denying it, he snaps his fingers and grins. "Exactly! Or maybe more like a plush toy that I take every where?"

Either way, you're not any kind of human. You're barely human now though with how much you work, so you aren't sure it makes a difference. You stare at him. And he looks back at you with a smile - all pearly white pristine teeth.

Who cares anymore, anyway? Even if he were to mistreat you, you're not sure you'd even feel it. It's all numb. He can have your life if it means you can escape what you're running from.

He looks rich, so maybe.

"Don't worry," He hums, and he reaches over to pat your head while your face is covered in tears. You don't flinch for some reason. "I don't like breaking things I've bought unnecessarily."

Something is wrong with you. Your self preservation is in total fucking tatters. But still, you want to say so you do. Maybe it's the absurdity, or the fact you truly don't have anything to lose. Nothing could make your misfortune any worse.

You sniffle and shake your head. He's dangerous and weird, but at least you could pay off your debts.

"Okay," You say weakly.

His smile gets impossibly wide.

You're wonder if you'll regret your decision.

__

He's filthy rich.

You should've expected that. You did, kinda. Because only rich people would think to do or ask something so absurd like ask to buy another persons life. Still, he had a driver waiting for him downstairs and his car is definitely a sports care. A McLaren, you think. One of the places you catered for ages ago was full of rich people with flashy cars and you remembered some of them.

He sits with you uncomfortably close in the back seat but doesn't speak to you at all during the ride. Not until you arrive at the destination, which is a giant building where the strange man certainly lives.

The driver (named Ichiji) calls the strange man Gojo-sama, which makes you feel extremely on edge. They whisper about something when you're out of ear shot, and Ichiji gives you a sorrowful look that you can't place.

The name Gojo is familiar to you, but you aren't sure where you've heard it.

After taking a long elevator ride to one of the upper floors, you end up in the strange mans condo. When you get there, he tells you take off your shoes and gives you nice slippers.

"Welcome to my humble abode," He says, still frivolous and speaking to you in what feels like a foreign tongue. "And also yours. I'll set you up in the guest room later, but you'll be keeping my bed warm mostly so keep that in mind."

The size of the place is absurd and so is the decor. What have you gotten yourself into? You must've gone insane. You're too afraid to touch anything.

"Am I like... a sex slave?" You ask curiously.

He frowns at you. "You make me sound like some kind of rapist. I guess now that I own you....it might make me one... but you agreed to come here so don't be like that!!" He huffs, childishly.

His response is somewhat incomprehensible to you. He's stranger by the minute and completely tactless - but for some reason, it's hard to distrust him. He doesn't raise any immediate red flags aside from being unusual.

You almost want to say it wouldn't matter if he was, as long as he pays you but decide not too.

"Okay. Do you want me to take my clothes off?" You reply, nonchalant. He stares at you.

"...I know your heads pretty fucked up, but don't you think you're being too blase about all this?"

Your brow furrows. A weird response for a guy who willingly understands this is a less than ethical situation "Would... you prefer I struggle and refuse you? Is that your fetish?"

"No! Well..." You look at him flatly as he thinks on it, almost blushing at the thought. You make a face of disgust "Not in this case, alright! It's just too pitiful and I'm not that type really.... Be more cautious."

"But you were planning to fuck me from the start, right? Or something."

He nods. "Well, yes. As a way to earn your living and for me get my urges out whenever. Finding people to have sex with is a hassle."

You shrug.

"Right. I can cook and clean too. I've done pretty much every job you can think of it,"

He waves a hand at you. "We can discuss it later." He puts a hand in his necktie and pulls on with a small smile. "Right now, I want to test out my new toy so..."

You should feel more disgusted by how he refers to you, but you don't have it in yourself.

"Can I shower first?"

He looks surprised but nods. "Uh-huh. Just wear one of my shirts when you come out. Everything else is in the bathroom. It's upstairs, first door on your left."

You stand to your feet, nodding.

__

It takes you ten minutes to figure out how the shower works.

His shower is nice. The whole place is nice. Nicer than any shithole you've ever lived in. He has a lot of nice bath products, though you aren't sure how you feel about smelling like him since you're borrowing his.

You examine your body a bit in the shower, looking at old scars as you wash and rub yourself clean. Thankfully, you gave yourself a trim downstairs not long ago.

It's embarrassing in retrospect but you've not had much of a choice in the first place. You're sensitive, unsure of the last time you've touched yourself given how much you work. You think of your job and feel guilty for how you're going to miss it. But you recall that you were preparing to die not even two hours ago and feel less bad.

You whimper a little as you finger yourself open under the water - getting wet easier than you thought. You have to lean against the wall, but with enough coaxing you get three fingers in. You're still horny when you shut the water off and step out.

You dry yourself and put on lotion - staring in the mirror. As told you borrow one of his shirts, but it's too big on you and you can see your nipples too clearly which makes you embarrassed.

You reason you're about to go fuck a stranger anyway, and decide to step out right after.

__

You decide against wearing underwear since his shirt fits on you like a dress, but regret when you come back down stairs feeling aware of the breeze on your went cunt.

He's sitting on the couch with his legs spread, dress shirt unbuttoned but still in his clothes. He hears you before he sees you, eyes widening. You suddenly get self-conscious under the weight of his stare.

"Better than I thought," Is his only assessment. Your skin grows hot.

He beckons you over to him and you go, unsure of what to do until he pulls you into his lap. Forcing you to straddle him, he wastes no time in feeling you up. His hands at your waist and chest. His face lights up in pure amusement when he sees you bare underneath.

He stares at your pussy for a long time.

"It's good," He hums, his hands brushing against it. Your nipples pebble in response to the arousal, a pathetic moan leaving your lips that makes him laugh. "Pretty."

You don't have anything to say to that so you keep quiet. Gojo slides his fingers along the seam of your cunt to asses your wetness, surprised surely by how wet it is. Without warning, he plunges a finger in. He looks up at your face, your hand covering your mouth so you don't moan.

"So wet," His voice can't contain his amusement. "What's this?"

"I was," You shiver half-way through as he plunges in another finger and it goes in smoothly. "I p-prepared in the shower and masturbated. I thought you'd just want to stick it in and I didn't want it to hurt.

"Haah," His voice is sharp, suddenly breathy. Something hard and big presses up against your leg. "You're talented in seducing me. I'm not so ungentlemanly, but I'll let it go this time, alright?"

You nod. He uses a sticky hand to unbutton his slacks and push his boxers away. You gasp at the size of his cock. You're not a virgin exactly, but you haven't had sex with anyone this big ever. He chuckles a little, pressing the head of his cock against your stomach and cunt as if measuring it up to you.

More wetness pulses, shame filling you - because you're almost excited to be fucking this strange man you've only met today. Weirdly, you don't feel unsafe around him. Your eyes glass over from lust.

He sticks his fingers in your mouth and you suck automatically, instinctively. His smile is predatory all of a sudden, teeth glimmering.

"So obedient," He says, sharply. "Ah, I have a good eye. It really would've been such a waste."

You're content to throw yourself at him, chasing the pleasure. His fingers taste of salt and skin, making you want something else entirely. It's not long before he pulls away though, wrapping his hand around his shaft and making it shiny. You blink down at where he fists his cock - your spine tingling at the sight.

"Look at you," He mutters, amused. "Do you always get this excited? Is it normal for you to fuck strange men or am I special?"

You shake your head. "It's only been two people."

"Then I am special," He replies. Your breath hitches at the feeling of his cock pressing against your hole - fluttering. "We have good compatibility."

Before you can say a word, you feel his length push inside of you in one swift motion and gasp. It's so big, so impossibly big - and even with how much you stretched, there's a touch of resistance that's making your entire lower half feel like it's jelly. Almost numb from the sensation. Buzzing from adrenaline and want.

You feel full. In your stomach, in your chest - your whole body feel complete. When you manage to open your eyes, you look at Gojo and find yourself taken aback. His hair is pushed back from his hand and he looks... different. He's handsome now that you realize. His face looks...pleased.

You talk before you can think about it.

"Do I feel good?"

He laughs sweetly, before pressing a kiss to your temple that feels to affectionate for people who barely know each other.

"Uh-huh," He says. His hands are strong, tight on your ass as he bucks up into you - causing you to collapse forward. The pleasure makes you shake, sensitivity through the roof. "Feel so good. Hahaha, how lucky."

You cling onto Gojo's shoulder and bury your face into his neck. He doesn't stop you. A large hand comes around the back of your head - the other one at your hips as he thrusts up into you with alarming force and precision. He feels so good it's a little scary, and you can't keep the noises from slipping out. You moan and whine each time the tip rubs against you inside, soft walls barely able to accommodate the size.

Your body feels hot everywhere he touches. It's been so long and Gojo is so careful but so intense. His expensive dress shirt rubs up against your nipples each time he moves. It's so good, so good - makes you want to cry.

"You're so sensitive." He laughs against your shoulder. "Gripping so tight every time I move. Do you want to cum so bad?"

"Yes," The words are a sob. Just a little more.

"Uh-huh. Tell me where to touch you. How should I make you cum."

You're too shamelessly pent up to feel shy anymore. "Touch my c-clit, please, please."

"Got it, got it - don't cry."

Gojo listens to you well. Thick fingers and an angled hand find your clit with ease as he bounces you on his cock with no regard. Your eyes roll back instantly, immediately - as an orgasm washes over your entire body. Back arching, you cum hard around the base of his cock - but Gojo just keeps fucking you through it. He doesn't stop even when you come down, only moves you both so you're laying on the couch on your back.

He kisses you then, and you meet his mouth with sloppy tears running down your face from the pleasure.

"Let's see what your stamina is like, yeah? See if you can keep up with me."

__

He fucks you unconscious.

Essentially. Though you take with enthusiasm even during your exhaustion because the sex is phenomenal - you have no idea when you stop.

You wake up in a bed, and you wake up completely clean. You don't know whose bed, but there's a large figure besides you. Half-asleep and fully exhausted, you feel shy thinking about the fact he probably bathed and dressed you while you were out.

What a strange man, you think - to do that.

He's talking to someone on the phone. You don't really make out much of the words, though you do hear your name in bits and pieces.

"...A college student.......- young then -...... open a bank account for.... - debt...- pay it all off before it becomes annoying.... look into -."

You shift under your blankets half asleep. A hand comes up on top of your head on the pillow, pushing hair from your face.

"Did I wake you?" His expression is hard to read in the dark with your eyes barely open. "Sorry. Almost done. Go back to sleep."

So you do, because you can't find strength to do much else.

The bed is warm, but your sure the heat you feel is from the strong, gentle head petting your head as you rest.

[dxckgrxsonx]

"you can pretend all you want, i can see the fucking mess you're making of yourself." + jason please my love??? i love e2l <3

Pairing - Jason Todd x (F) Reader

Words - 900ish

Warnings - 18+ SMUT - Graphic Sexual Content - Unprotected Sex - Cocky!Jason (he's good and he knows it) - Swearing

Notes - Hi my darlings!! It's been far too long since I've written something smutty so here you are!! Hope you enjoy!! <3

**

He pisses you off like nothing else on this Earth.

Broad shoulders, incredible skill, smart fucking mouth. He calls you in the middle of the night knowing you’d answer; knowing without a shadow of a doubt that even with you seething and furious and goddamn exhausted, you would still pick up the phone.

He’s smug about it and sometimes, just sometimes, you consider blocking his stupid number.

“I absolutely fucking hate you.” You greet, halfway into a snarl. Vaguely, you acknowledge that it’s not an ideal greeting, but it’s three in the morning and the thread of patience between your fists frays horribly when Jason steps out of the dark, already grinning at the look on your face. “I was sleeping.”

“And yet…” Jason says, watching you far too intently. “Here you are anyway.” He presses forwards, crowds you right up against the nearest flat surface, and tips your head up so you have no choice but to watch him pick you apart. “It’s almost like you can’t say no to me, sweetheart. In fact, I don't think you’ve ever said no to me…”

“Don’t.” You whisper, knowing where he’s heading. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

He presses on you hard enough to bruise; hard enough to scatter hairline fractures through your whole nervous system. It feels like static. It feels like an ache Jason carved into you with his own two hands–and his beautifully thick cock–to mark you as his own.

“You want this.” He breathes, mouth still pitched up in that wicked smirk and your entire world starts bending in the middle, moulding around Jason and warping under his capable hands. You can’t stand it: you hate yourself for it. “You get wet just thinking about it…thinking about me.”

It was a chance meeting and back then you were so goddamn stupid.

You could hardly walk after the first time, cunt stretched open and sore from how many times he opened you up with his fingers–with his cock. He was big and thick and he had no choice but to take his time to get your pretty pussy to yield to him–to let him in. He praised you the whole time, and then fucked you until you were trembling and whimpering and squeezing at his cock.

It was weeks before you heard from him again and nothing you did with your own two hands was enough.

You needed him and he knew it.

You need him now and he knows it.

There’s a wet spot soaking through your underwear and the second Jason see’s it he’s groaning something feral against your throat. Shoving you backwards onto the bed he chases and wedges his broad shoulders between your thighs before you have a chance to flinch them closed.

Grabbing at your knees he spreads you open and pushes your legs back until they’re almost by your ears. Your muscles burn at the stretch, and you try to wiggle out of his grip but Jason leans forward and drags his tongue over the slick fabric covering your weeping slit.

“Fuck you.” You gasp. Unable to think of anything but how much you hate him for what he’s turned you into and how good he makes you feel. “Fuck you so much.”

He laughs and it’s almost mean with how arrogant he is.

Jason releases his hold on your knees to unbuckle his belt and then he’s back, smacking the thick, heavy length of him against your covered pussy. He rubs the fat head through the growing damp patch on your underwear and your puffy clit twitches hard enough that he can see it throb.

Wedging the tip of his cock underneath the fabric he teases your soaked hole until you thrash a little and whine. Pressing in just enough to get you to stretch open around him he pulls back so he can do it again and you snap your jaw closed around the pleas building in your mouth.

“Say it.” Jason demands.

Sinking the first few inches into your soft, slick pussy Jason holds and waits, Lazarus eyes awake and interested in each trembling twitch of your body.

“I hate this.” You lie, unable to stop yourself from throbbing around the tip of his cock, arousal leaking and squelching out around the edges of him. “I hate you.”

“Oh sweetheart.” Jason hums, using one hand to pull your underwear to the side so he can see just how embarrassingly wet you are. Your slick sticks to the fabric and it stays attached to your pussy in thin strings “You can pretend all you want, I can see the fucking mess you’re making of yourself.”

Thrusting forwards he stuffs his full length inside you with one, rough stroke and you moan loud enough to shake the windows.

“Oh–ah fuck!–Jason.” You try, voice trembling.

“There you go.” He says. “I knew you wanted this. I knew your aching little pussy wouldn’t be able to say no to me. No one can fuck you like I can, sweetheart.” Shoving your knees apart he holds you so tightly you can barely move and watches his cock split you open. “Every time I call you, there you are, all mad and pretty and wet. And the second I get inside you, you go all soft and cockdrunk for me.”

“Uh–plea–please.”

“Yeah.” Jason grins. “Just like that. Now, let’s see how much you can come for me this time, huh? You managed three last time before you started crying. But I think you can do better for me, right sweetheart?”

**

[annwrites]

⸻ one in the same. part one. ⸻

· pairing: otto hightower x bastardtargfem!reader · type: part of a series · summary: after aemma's funeral, you wish to go to the sept to grieve alone, but otto offers to come with you. &, for once, you actually wish for his company—or, rather, just the simple company of another. · word count: 2,322

"I wish to offer you my condolences, My Lady."

You tighten the clasp of your hands around one another, digging your nails into your tender skin. You stare over his shoulder, refusing to meet his eyes. "Thank you, Ser Otto. For your kind words."

You make to turn, to go somewhere else—anywhere else—until he, too, turns to begin walking alongside you. You roll your eyes upward, merely glancing at the large expanse of clear blue sky above you momentarily, before looking forward once more.

He gently takes your elbow in his grip, then, and you clench your jaw at him touching you so forwardly.

He looks down at you, while you look to the side. "My Lady, if there is something I can do—anything—so as to...ease your pain, as she was your mother, too—"

You swallow down the lump in your throat, shocked to hear him say such things—even more-so that he's speaking properly to you in general. "Forgive me, Ser Otto, but I wish to go to the Sept," you glance up to him, ready to tack on 'alone', but your chin suddenly wobbles, eyes growing glassy, and a small sob escapes your lips.

You quickly reach up, cupping your hand over your mouth, trying to swallow it down—telling yourself: not here, not in front of him—but it's too late. The waves take you under as the tears continue to fall—slipping down your cheeks—your shallow breaths causing your chest to heave as your sorrow escapes you.

"Oh, My Lady," he says softly, not even hesitating as he takes you in his arms, pulling you against his chest.

You have half-a-mind to shove him away, ask him how dare he touch you without permission, but you instead remain quiet, unable to do naught else but cry and grieve and drown in your tears.

You bury your face in his chest, which smells of mint and parchment and rain, fisting the material of his cloak in your small fists—trying desperately to quiet yourself—but when you feel his gloved hand cup the back of your head, the comforting gesture only serves to make you weep harder.

Eventually, you begin to quiet, feeling so tired now. Not that you hadn't already felt weary—you'd not slept the night before; had hardly slept since her passing in general, especially with knowing the gruesome circumstances of it.

Whenever you imagined her lying there at the maester's mercy—your father's mercy—being cut open as she cried and bled out...it always brought you to tears. Made you feel sick.

You pull away from him, quickly wiping your cheeks, trying to gather yourself—even if you feel wholly unraveled now—as you stand straight, smoothing your skirts before clasping your hands in front of you once more. "Forgive me," you start again, but he interrupts you.

"May I accompany you, My Lady?"

You look up to him. He wants to come with you? In what lifetime would he ever willingly ask to spend time with you—be near you by his own want; accord?

"Unless, of course," he continues. "You wish to be alone."

You shake your head, too tired to keep up this game of pushing him away at every turn out of spite. For today, you can allow his company at your side. Not because it is his company that you desire, specifically. Rather, that it is someone's. Anyone's. Even if he sits silently beside you, it will be enough.

"No. I do not wish for that."

He nods once, then gestures toward your waiting litter.

While you kneel before rows of burning candles that cast a soft orange glow upon your face, Otto seats himself upon the surface where it is clear of wax and flames, knowing kneeling would be a foolish thing to even attempt with his old knees.

He looks down to you and you merely stare at the dripping wax before you, not bothering to fold your hands, or close your eyes, or speak to Gods that do not listen. Not that you believe them to exist in the first place.

You then glance up to him, wondering if he does.

"Would you like for me to step away, to give you a moment of privacy as you pray, My Lady?"

You consider him for a moment, then shake your head. "I did not come here to pray."

He turns more toward you.

"I came here to grieve in silence. Away from watchful eyes. I..."

You consider telling him the truth, then. One you've kept hidden—locked away inside of you, out of fear of punishment or judgement—for years, since the death of your birth mother. For him to be the one person you tell it to...

At one time, sharing such a hard-to-speak truth with him, of all people, would've been unimaginable. Today, you find you care very little for what he may think. What anyone may. About anything.

Your faith, or lack thereof, is not what matters. Not right now.

"Go on," he encourages gently, wondering what truths lay hidden inside of you.

Ever an enigma to him as you've grown older. Into a woman, that is.

It would be a falsehood for him to claim that he's never had you followed—watched—or spied on.

He'd done it, at first, primarily as a safety measure. Not for you, but, rather, for the King—House Targaryen, which you had become a legitimate part of at such a young age, despite his protests otherwise, which had fallen upon deaf ears.

He'd been most-certain, for such a long while, that you would grow into a duplicate of your mother: a wanton whore after gold, even if Viserys had claimed she had been good to him; kind.

Otto knew the ways of such women, however. Knew the follies of men when it came to falling into their arms—their beds.

And, in time, she had given him a daughter—her birthplace being that of a brothel upon the Street of Silk. The King, fearing he would never have another child, as Aemma had repeatedly miscarried heir after heir, had legitimized you at the age of five. Not quite a year later, however, Aemma had become pregnant with the young Princess Rhaenyra, but the title could then not be rescinded. Not that Viserys would've had it any other way.

Viserys had doted on you, and then Aemma as well, after your mother's passing.

He'd not understood it himself: the affections they held toward you, but it was not his place to question it. It was his place, however, to keep a watchful eye over you, ensuring that you kept yourself in-line. Exhibited appropriate behavior, befitting that of a young, titled lady of a great house.

And, much to his surprise, you had and did. You were dutiful in your lessons: reading, writing, and historical studies. Singing, dancing, playing the bells and the harp. Painting, drawing, sewing, dress and jewelry-making. The list went on and on.

Your septa had shaped you well, and you had grown into an excellent example of what a young lady should be. Often-times, even more well-behaved than that of the Princess herself.

He'd always anticipated a slip-up, though; some dangerous or careless decision made by you, which would bring shame upon your house. Instead, however, you were rather the introvert. No late-night escapades into the city, or untoward interactions with young knights or lords for you.

You merely kept company with yourself, and occasionally your half-sister, your step-mother, and your father. He had made clear, very early-on with Alicent, though, that she was to stay away from you. And she had, thankfully—for the most part, at least—honored such demands.

Now, he wonders, if you would not have been a better companion to his daughter than the rebellious Rhaenyra.

You sigh. "I do not...believe in them. After my mother died..." You grow quiet, taking calming breaths, not wishing to cry yet again. "I was angry with them. For a very long while. And then I began to tell myself that I did not believe at all. It was only out of resentment initially. But, somewhere along the way, it became true: my loss of faith. I do not believe that, even if I tried, I could ever get it back. I don't think I would want to."

You look up to him, fearful that he will tell your father. That you will be punished for this most unspeakable truth. You are meant to worship the same Gods as your king. At the very least, a God. Whether Old or New, the Drowned, or the Merling King. Something. Anything.

He considers what you've said for a moment, his eyes trailing along the statues of the Seven, which surround the both of you, before meeting your gaze once again. "You and I, it seems, are one in the same, in more than just loyalty to your house."

Your brows furrow.

He leans down toward you, forearms resting atop his thighs. "My late Lady wife, and my daughter, were and are devout believers. I, myself, however, cannot say the same, I'm afraid."

You blink up at him. "You...you do not believe in the Gods?"

His eyes stare into your own. "No. Not for some time now."

You rise then, seating yourself beside him, looking upon the statue of the Mother. "I don't even remember what she looked like anymore."

He knows it is your birth mother that you refer to.

You decide to change the subject—not wishing to hear him speak ill of her—knowing his feelings toward the woman you came from.

"Why join me?"

He turns his head to look at you. "My Lady?"

You shake your head slightly. "You've always held me in contempt. Even as a little girl; an innocent child. Even then I earned your ire." Your eyes meet his own. "I used to fear you, you know."

His jaw feathers.

"I could never understand what it was that I had done wrong. To deserve such treatment. Leering glares and being chastised for...for just...having fun."

You look away, tears stinging your eyes. "I tried once to mend between us whatever I had broken at the tender age of eight-years-old. Do you remember?" You look to him again.

He remains silent, waiting for explanation.

"I made you a doll. It looked like you. I thought..." You look down to your hands in your lap, remembering its small tunic that you'd perfectly embroidered the Hightower heraldry upon in emerald green thread, hoping it would please him.

"I later found it discarded in the hall. That was the same day I grew to hate you in return. The day I decided that I did not need your approval any longer." You swallow. "I had sought it for so long, for whatever God's-forsaken reason. Someone who never deserved it in the first place."

He clears his throat. "My Lady—"

"Why? Explain it to me." You state, tone demanding.

He sighs. "I had...disagreed with your father—the King's—decision to legitimize you. I disapproved of the circumstances of your birth, most certainly. I'd always anticipated less than comely behavior from you. I'm afraid I resented you simply on principle."

He rests his hand atop yours. "I see now...that it was a mistake. Of all days, this is the one where you most deserve an apology. And I do apologize, My Lady. Truly."

He removes his hand then, leaving your own cold.

You blink back tears. "Thank you."

He was one man in all the realm who seemed least like to ever admit fault—to you of all people. An apology uttered from his lips for only your ears to hear in private...it leaves you without words, unsure of how to further reply.

"What came of it?" He asks.

You look to him, brows knitted together. "Hm?"

"The doll," he says, lip twitching.

You grin, smoothing the skirt of your dress. "I threw it into the hearth in my room. I had hoped you would feel it, perhaps." Your cheeks warm.

"Ah, so that was where the burning had come from all that time ago. Quite an uncomfortable night, as I recall. My chambers far too warm to find sleep."

You laugh quietly, as does he. You're surprised he knows how to do such things: jest and smile. He always seem so incredibly serious at all times. Like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. Though, you suppose, in some ways, he does. At the very least, the Realm.

He speaks again. "Do you forgive me?"

"Do you truly care whether I do?"

He shrugs. "I suppose it is little late now for me to ask for such things. So, let me instead make you a proposal."

He stands and you lean your neck back, staring up at him.

He holds out his bare hand to you, his gloves now tucked away into his pockets. "Let us start anew. You are a lady now grown. We may, if you are agreeable, begin again. As a repentant man, and, if I am fortunate: a clement woman."

You take a moment to look at his large hand, his outstretched palm, and you consider.

He has shown you a different side of himself today, for reasons you are unsure of. Perhaps it is out of kindness—sympathy—for your loss. Perhaps it is to get in your good graces, now that you truly are a lady, and at times have your father's ear. Perhaps it originates from something else entirely.

Perhaps...you will have to accept his offer to find out his motives, if he indeed has any. As Hand of the King, you imagine he must. Even if he does seem sincere.

You slide your delicate hand into his own, standing before him. "To starting anew," you say softly.

[zablife]

Tommy's Obsession

A/N: I had a thought about Tommy's pref for long hair and the kink that develops from it after revisiting this blurb. I hope you enjoy my filthy musings. 🔞

Sitting at Tommy’s side you place your cheek to his knee, feeling his tweed trousers scratch against your soft cheek. His hand caresses the top of your head gently as he sips his whisky, the light from the fire illuminating you both in the darkness of his office. The day has been long and the tasks endless, but here in this room he can relax with you. He knows you're loyal and devoted, his completely.

Knowing how much he needed this, you readied yourself the moment you heard his car approach. You removed the numerous pins from your hair, allowing your glossy locks to cascade over your shoulders in subtle welcome. When Tommy saw you standing before him like a vision he breathed a sigh of relief, crossing the room to capture you in his arms and breathe in the scent of your perfume. The intoxicating aroma enveloped him as the curtain of your hair drew around him, inviting a peaceful solitude. It didn’t take long to unwind from the day after that, moving to the sofa wordlessly with crystal tumbler in hand.

Brushing against him lovingly was where you felt most safe and Tommy well served, but not yet satisfied. A groan released from his throat told you all you needed to know of his slight discomfort and you moved from his knee to free him from the confines of his tightening trousers. The clink of his belt was mirrored by the ice cubes in his glass as he gazed down at you adoringly. 

He gulped suddenly at the rush of cool air against his thighs as you slid the thick material of his trousers from his waist and shimmied them down his legs, placing open mouthed kisses to every inch of skin you could find. “Tommy, tell me what you need,” you whispered against his bulge as you returned to him, laying your hair across one broad thigh.

Hand returning to the crown of your head, his fingers massaged your scalp lightly. You heard a moan as he began to tug at your roots and you inhaled sharply at the wet patch that appeared in his pants by your open mouth. Tongue darting out to swipe over his weeping tip, you sucked gently through the thin fabric, desperate for a taste of him. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he exhaled on a shaky breath, hand lowering to cup your chin. He swiped his thumb across your lower lip to smear the saliva that had gathered, a chuckle escaping his lips at your eagerness. Quickly ridding himself of his shorts, he captured your small hand in his, guiding you to stroke him languidly. Your teeth caught your plump lower lip as you watched him instruct you, silken hair falling forward onto his fist.

A primal grunt issued forth as Tommy felt your locks caress his calloused hand. In one deft movement, he captured a swath of your hair and wrapped it around his hardness, feeling the satiny luxury slide against him, he seemed to melt. “Not hurting you am I?” he asked breathlessly.

Though he tugged on your roots, it was no different from your usual lovemaking and you sought to reassure him, intrigued to see what he might do next. “No, it’s alright,” you whispered, stroking over his hand gently. You watched intently as Tommy took control of the movements, shifting your hand to cup his balls as he tightened the hold your tresses had on his throbbing cock. Taking himself in hand, he pumped harder, curses falling from his lips with every touch of his fingertips against your silken threads.

“Oh, fuck, Y/n. M close,” Tommy panted, the tip of his tongue wetting his parched lips. 

“Cum for me, Tommy,” you begged, tilting your head to look up at him with doe eyes, tongue outstretched in wanting desire. That was all it took for Tommy to unravel before you, desperately clutching your face in his hand as he spilled inside your warm, waiting mouth. You closed your eyes, humming in satisfaction as you swallowed every drop, feeling his fingertips slowly unwind your locks from his softening cock. 

You giggled as you pulled back from him, wiping the back of your mouth with a proud smile. Tommy pulled you up to sit beside him, running his hands through your hair as he kissed you full. He wouldn’t be finished with you until he’d bathed you, washing your hair and helping you comb it out later at your dressing table, then plaiting it in a long braid down your back. It was a ritual you’d come to enjoy for the comfort and safety, but also for the promise of tomorrow. He’d wake you in the morning with a harsh tug, pulling you down onto his cock as he asked who you belonged to. 

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

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[lovebugism]

congrats on one year of your blog!!

for your one year celebration, could you write something with the prompt

“you showed up at my door of all place?”

“trust me it wasn’t my first choice either.”

with steve perhaps? maybe he’s injured (because when isn’t he) and has no one else to turn to but the reader??

tysm lovie! hope you like it :D — steve seeks comfort in you, his rival since high school, a week after fighting vecna (enemies in love, hurt/comfort, post st4, 1.7k)

bug's one year celebration ♡

Steve’s stitches start weeping a week after the brawl with Vecna — the ones you’d sewn along his ribcage when a gang of demobats made a feast of him. 

He’s gotten so numb to the pain (the constant, never-ending, three years of nonstop pain) that he doesn’t realize his wound has torn open again. Not until his shirt starts sticking abnormally wet to his skin. He looks down, notices the dark red patch blooming on the gray fabric, and then feels the distant stinging of the week-old bite.

Most of them have healed or are starting to. They’ve turned pink and marred over, unlikely to fade. But there’s one gash that refuses to mend, and he’s starting to think it might be some kind of bad omen. Like the constantly knicked sutures are some kind of prophetic telling of an undone fight and not just a consequence of his restlessness.

He thinks of you first, anyhow. Before a solution or a way to dull the pain. He thinks of you and your gentle hands and how you were the only person he’d let touch him after coming back from the Upside Down. 

Steve drives to Forest Hills and ascends the rickety porch of your trailer even though he knows it’s 2 a.m. He knocks at the paint-chipped entrance even though he knows Eddie only lives four doors down. Max lives across the way from Eddie, and he knows that, too. He could go just about anywhere, he figures, but he’s here — on the steps of the girl who couldn’t stand him in high school.

You answer the door much quicker than he anticipated. Ten seconds after he knocks, you stand before him with wet hair and no pants. The damp strands drip onto the oversized shirt you wear. The sleeves of the old thing hang low off your arms, the hem of it falling just above your knees.

You don’t look sleepy despite the early hours of the morning. Tired, maybe, but not sleepy. “Steve?” you say, so suddenly alert at the sight of him. Your eyes, lined with a sleep you haven’t gotten in days, go wide with distant horror. “What happened? Are you okay? Did someone die?”

You ask him all this before he’s said a single word. Good questions when you live in a town like this one, when you’ve seen the things you’ve seen.

“Nothing. Everyone’s fine,” Steve answers in a monotone, still gripping his side with his opposite hand. “My stitches just ripped.”

You blink rapidly at him, trying to clear the daze of exhaustion and the subtle shock of seeing him. “Stitches— What?”

He pulls back his hand, the palm of it now blotched pink. There’s one large circle of deep brown blood staining his shirt and two more tiny patches just below it. “I’m bleeding,” he tells you, as if it isn’t obvious now. “My stitches pulled.”

Your gaping gaze flits from his freshly opened wound to the annoyed look on his chiseled face. His pale features glow amber beneath the buzzing porch light. “And you showed up to my door, of all places?”

“Trust me. It wasn’t my first choice either.” He clutches his side again and slides past you in the doorway, walking into your trailer, mostly uninvited. 

He knows your parents aren’t around. It’s the only thing you’ve ever been able to bond over. You grew up mostly alone and learned to raise yourselves accordingly. So it’s not totally surprising to find your trailer dripping with girlhood — tiny trinkets, movie posters, half-alive plants, and vibrant colors. More of a home than his empty mansion ever was.

“Why don’t you just go to the E.R.?” you ask and shut the door behind you. You have to lean your body weight against it and press really hard — or else it won’t close fully, and the wind kicks it open while you’re sleeping, and you wake up to a family of raccoons ravaging the candy bowl on your coffee table.

Steve huffs and sits on your grass-green couch, face scrunching at the distant stinging along his ribcage. “Because I don’t know how to tell people that potentially rabid demobats took a pound of flesh outta me,” he sasses.

You shake your head. “If you get blood on my sofa, Harrington, I swear to god…” you mumble and sit down beside him. 

You lift the hem of his shirt to assess the damage, knuckles skimming warm along his golden side.

Most of the bites scattered along his ribs are healing now. They’re small and shallow and turning slowly pink instead of scarlet red. But there’s one still pulsing crimson, the only one deep enough to need stitches. The only one refusing to heal. 

The sight of the raw, throbbing wound makes your stomach writhe. You remember pulling the stubborn demobat off of him by its tail. You feel the sting of his pain even now, like it’s your own.

Steve watches your face the whole time. He decides to base his pain on how you look at him, whether you shrug it off or grimace in disgust. You do neither. Your eyes dart over his skin, glimmering with concentration, as your fingers brush his aching side with a gentleness he didn’t think was possible.

His brows pinch at your lack of response. He tilts his chin to his chest and ducks his gaze to look at you, honey eyes eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Is it bad?”

“Well… It’s not good,” you conclude after a few moments.

“That’s such a non-answer,” he scoffs, dropping his head to the back of the couch to watch you walk into the kitchen. 

You disappear behind a wall for a few moments. The distant clattering of something, muffled as you dig inside cabinets, fills the empty trailer. 

You’re back in thirty seconds, tops, with the first aid kit you’ve been a stickler about keeping restocked. ‘Cause Steve isn’t your first patient since coming back home. He’s not your second, either. 

It was Eddie first, for his own demobat bites, and then Lucas when the cut along his swollen cheek split open again.

You’re not cut out for any of it. Not professionally, anyway. You only know how to do sutures because of Mr. Mundy’s ninth-grade health class.

You return to Steve’s side and begin to clean up the bite, lest an infection spread and Vecna take him out from beyond the grave. 

The burn of the alcohol makes him wince. “Ow,” Steve whispers under his breath, a subtle pout scrunching his features.

“Don’t be such a baby,” you laugh.

“I’m injured— You’re supposed to be nice to me.”

“You’ve been through three separate concussions and a thousand demobat bites. I think you can handle a little sting, Harrington.”

Steve tilts his cheek to his shoulder, squinting his twinkling eyes and flashing you a lopsided smile. “Has anyone ever told you how amazing your bedside manner is— ow!”

You start stitching him up without warning. You make it look easy despite having no real idea what you’re doing. Steve figures it’s because you’re a natural at taking care of people. Sometimes he thinks that’s the only reason all of you managed to make it out of the Upside Down in the first place.

“All done,” you murmur after you’ve knotted the last stitch.

“Thanks…” He tries to sit up again. The sting hasn’t yet left him. It’s less of a pain now, and more of a  warning — the thin sutures screaming as they threaten to snap.

“If you don’t move around so much, they won’t pull. Again.”

“Is that the rule?” he teases.

“Yeah. That’s the rule— the don’t be stupid rule.”

Steve takes a sharp breath in and rises. He’s prepared for the ache, so it burns less this time. He sees you reach for him in the corner of his eye, hands darting out to help him and then shooting down again when you decide against it. 

He wouldn’t have minded if you had. He would’ve made fun of you for it, obviously, but he wouldn’t have minded.

He’s been missing the warmth of your touch more and more since the Upside Down — back when he laid mostly limp on the arid ground of a desolate land, when you cradled his body to shield him from the bats flying overhead. 

He stopped feeling scared when you held him. He thought it was because he was dying, but now he knows it was because of you. The healing in your touch. It’s like the amber glow of streetlamps in the dead of night, or sunsets that paint the whole world pink. Being touched by you is like dancing in summer rain and running through a field of wildflowers.

“Sorry, for uh— for keeping you up,” Steve apologizes and inches towards the door.

You follow close behind him, with an urgency that borders between letting him out and keeping him in. “It’s— It’s fine,” you stammer, then laugh at yourself. “It’s not like I was sleeping anyway.”

“Really?” Steve asks, an inquisitive swirl to his scruffy features.

He turns around to face you more, his sneakers melting into the plush of your rug. Your hand gets clammy and tightens around the rusted doorknob when he looks down at you — with his eyes made of velvet and his mouth made of flower petals. His face is so hardened, but he looks at you so softly anyway.

“No,” you confess with a soft shrug. “I mean— after everything, I don’t know how anyone is. I was with Eddie earlier, and the fucker was passed out before ten.”

Steve breathes a sharp laugh through his nose. His plush lips curl into a crooked smile. “He deserves the sleep, though.”

“Yeah,” you sigh.

“And so do you.”

“I know,” you grin, equal parts bitter and genuine. “But I’m not getting any.”

“Me neither,” Steve confesses, exhaling so deep it makes his chest deflate.

The two of you linger in place for a long, long time. Both of your mouths curl to say the same things — let’s grieve together, let’s wait for the sun to rise so the nightmares will pass — but neither of you is brave enough to say them out loud.

“I’ll see you around,” Steve nods, finally.

You wrench open the door for him, pulling extra hard when it jams. “The next time you pull your stitches?” you joke, smiling like you’re not grieved to watch him walk into the empty night alone.

Steve grins like he’s not mourning, too. “Probably,” he scoffs.

Maybe before that, he hopes, healed again as he walks to his car. Maybe I’ll be brave enough soon.

[chixkencxrry]

crazy, crazy for loving you

Summary: Loss can make people go insane. (Yandere! Miguel O’hara x Yandere! Fem! Reader)

MINORS DNI

Warning: They’re both insane and a bit immoral. They are both very, very unstable people. This is a dark story of mutual obsession. (Mutual Non-Con Voyuerism, Mutual Masturbation, P in V, Swearwords, Mutual Stalking, Mutual Non-Con Spying, Oral (F receiving), Dark themes, Cockwarming) YOUR CONSUMPTION OF MEDIA IS ON YOU AND YOU ALONE!

When you see him, it's hard to keep your hands at your side and not run to him. It’s hard not to look at the man that wears your dead husband’s face and not weep like a baby. But you know it isn’t him. No, this man with the war in his eyes and fangs of a beast is not your Miguel.

But, God – God, did you wish it was. 

So, yes, you were quick to agree to be apart of his little operation. Quick clipping the gizmo onto your wrist. The Spiderman logo spread along your torso like some awful red target. He knew your name, but it was obvious that you didn’t exist in his world. If you had, you were sure they would have been together. No. The you of his world was dead, like the him of your world. It was darkly poetic. 

Lyla had taken a liking to you – his AI. She unintentionally helped you keep track of him; you didn’t stalk just keep track. 

Then it happened. The fine click that had truly sent your observing of Miguel corrupt into something else, something darker. 

Something had caused the collapse of your world. It was a war, much like the great Titan on EARTH-199999. Your world crumbled before you; you already didn’t have much left after the death of your Miguel but now you had nothing left. 

When the collapse of it came, you were not on the battlefield with the other Avengers. You had been in the cemetery, fingers clawing into Miguel’s grave – determined to bury yourself in there with him. The cold mud coated your hands and body, knee digging in. You were about two feet deep, mad with intent. 

“Y/N?”

The word stilled you. It was Miguel, you turned your head in a horrible hopefulness. Disappointment settled on your shoulders, in some half-mad frenzy, you’d thought it was your Miguel. But it wasn’t it was Miguel.

“Leave me alone.” you growled. “My world is dying.”

“You don’t have to.”

I died when you did.

“I’m right here, Y/N.”

“No.” you muttered, fingers in the dirt. “You’re below. I’m getting you out.”

A warm body dropped down, covering your back and pushing you forward. You wiggled and fought but felt a pinch at the side of your neck. Your mania subsided, a false peace overwhelming you. Before you knew it, you collapsed in the mud. 

It had taken weeks of manic behaviour. They had to sedate you to get you to calm down – barricade and and chain you to stop you from attacking. You’d gone mad. 

When Miguel came to visit you, you’d taken a turn for the better. 

“I heard you broke Spiderman 8077’s jaw.” Miguel doesn’t seem amused. He stands over you – through the fizzing cage that electrocutes you everytime you touch it. You can’t bring yourself to snarl or fight. You look at him – flesh, bone, hope. 

“He tried to make me forget.”

Miguel flinched. “He suggested something to help you sleep.”

“If I sleep, I forget him.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” Miguel’s tone was soft and low. You closed your eyes and imagined being home in your apartment, the record player on and rain falling. Miguel dancing with you, dipping you low and laughing on your skin. 

The daydream dissolves when you hear the click of your cell open. His voice of stone ordered; “Lay down.”

Instinct, really ��� the way you move to the cot and wiggle until your back hits the wall. The bed shakes as Miguel’s massive frame sets itself on the bed. He held you, pulling you close. He smelt like your Miguel. Felt like him too. But were all rugged edges compared to the softness of the man you were married to. Your fingers threaded in his hair, snagging a few by accident to bring them to your nose. You tucked some strands into your suit. For later.

For the first time in years, sleep came to you with ease. With that ease came the confirmation of what a gift reuniting with this different Miguel was. You had a second chance. Now, it was time to make use of it. Properly.

***

Miguel had started watching you when your world collapsed and you’d transition to his universe. Now, it wasn’t that he hadn’t been stalking – following – shit – observing you before. He’d just wanted you to get used to the Universe first. Ensuring you had a good identity, a day job and income. 

You’d been grateful. So, very grateful.

He imagined that gratitude as something baser, raw and trembling. But he knew not to test the hand of fate. Yet he hungered for you. The devotion you’d shown to your husband, a version of him, was indescribably delicious. He wanted that for himself. Wanted you, all tears, all love. Each aspect of you a memorising thing; greed flooded him at the thought of claiming you.

It seemed like fate to offer you the guest room of his apartment. He hadn’t used it in years, and it was a waste not to let you in. You’d jumped at the opportunity – a perfect gift. You didn’t know what you were doing to him. Yes. Having you in his house, showering, eating, naked, open – mierda!

 He took a deep breath to cool himself down. You were still at the dorm quarters of HQ, significantly more sane than you were a week ago when the two of you first slept together. Your scent still lingered in his mind. Lilies and cucumbers, fresh and vibrant. Thick and rich, god – he wanted more of that. More of the security of holding you. More of having you have him. The feel of your body curled into his, the softness of your silk skin breaking the delicate thread of his self-control. 

Miguel looked at the room he’d allotted to you. Climbing to a corner to screw in a non-reflective camera. Getting you here was the first step and he was a patient man. Miguel had to make sure the apartment looked lived in. Making sure that some floorboards creaked, chipped at some paint on the walls, and ensured there was a leaky faucet in the guest bath.

His watch dinged. Fifteen minutes away. 

Lyla flickered into existence. “Wow. This violates so many laws.”

“Didn’t ask.” he grumbled, wrenching open a panel of the wall to place a listening device.

“You get that for free.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Anamolly on Earth-7834, they need backup.”

“There are thousands of other Spiders to call.” He placed a nail between his teeth, hammering the panel back on.

“Yeah, well, Y’N asked for you.”

That made him pause. Swearing, he hurriedly put the panel back and suited up, tapping his gizmo and falling into a different dimension. 

***

You only felt a little bad for deceiving Lyla. 

Sure, Miguel would probably be pissed when he found out that you had lied and made his AI lie to him with some clever coding but it would be worth it in the end when the two of you were finally together. You just couldn’t get out of HQ unnoticed without some sort of distraction. So, you figured what could be better than calling in a favour with a friend you’d made while traversing Universes? Felicia was more than willing to play the part, ever wanton for chaos. 

She helped you cause a minor anomaly which sent off enough of the Spiders off and allowed you to sneak into Miguel’s apartment. You looked for the master – the only room with a photo in it, one of him and his passed daughter. It broke your heart to know the pain he’d experienced. But you knew you were here now and more than willing to provide comfort and a new child. You’d even let him name the first one. 

You weren’t here for that. You were here to plant a few presents. Sticking to his bedroom ceiling, you planted a camera in the corner, near his closet. In his bathroom, by his shower and mirror – you planted another one. 

Time was limited. You knew the false alarm would only give you a short time. Before you left, you went through his closet, nose dug into his clothing and inhaling his scent. Sandalwood and oud. God, the earthiness sent a shiver down your spine. Unable to control yourself, you snatched a T-shirt and left through the window. You have five minutes left until your proposed arrival. Five minutes until Miguel consensually lets you into his home. 

Foolish boy.

If only he knew what you had in store for him. 

***

Miguel hurriedly returned home. Frustration laced his sojourn, as he tried to figure out just how Lyla had mistaken you calling out the anomaly of you being there and requesting his help. It was probably some bug. A minor thing he would fix after he greeted you. 

One minute left.

He was cutting it close, climbing through his window and showering as fast as possible. He hadn’t even had time to dry himself off when the doorbell rang, pulling clothes on with wet skin. 

“She’s here!” chimed Lyla, a little too cheerfully.

Miguel rolled his eyes. “No soy sordo, Lyla.”

When he opened the door, you were standing there with just two bags and a smile on your full lips. Eyes fluttering up at him with thick lashes and a soft look; “Hey.”

“Come in,” he welcomed without preamble. Miguel purposefully kept the space for you to pass narrowly. You were shorter than him and plush as you passed, buttocks jamming him slightly as you turned your back to pass in. Your toes shoved behind your feet to slip out of your shoes without him asking, he forgot for a moment that you knew him, even if it was another version. There were parts of himself you probably knew better than anyone did.

That made him excited. 

“Your apartment is lovely.” You said earnestly. “Where do I put my bags?”

He moved to you, taking the bags and walking ahead to lead you to the guest room. It wasn’t bad. A queen-sized bed and all other necessities for a room. Miguel gestured to the opened door, “That’s the bathroom.Might give you some trouble but you’re welcome to use me – I mean mine anytime.”

You didn’t seem to catch him fumbling – ayúdame dios – walking around the room to get a better view. In the dim light, you looked fantastic, the neon of the outside shining on your skin and the expanse of your perfect skin exposed in those tiny shorts you wore. 

Jealously bloomed in his chest. Had you fucking worn those on your walk here? How many people saw you? How many men had seen you in this way? Feral rage gripped him. Miguel set your bags down in the doorway, stepping back before he did something violent. 

“You eat yet?” the question came out as a snappish growl which seemed to startle you. He cringed. He didn’t want you to fear him – he just wanted you to know your place as his. 

Your brows furrowed. “You good, Miguel?”

“I’m dandy, princesa.”

A delicious blush bloomed on your skin. The honey was not enough to stop it from beaming forward. He wanted to drag his tongue down – to see how far this blush went. “I-I haven’t eaten yet.”

He smiled a slow, easy grin. “I’ve got some food in the kitchen. Eat with me?”

“Sure.”

Dinner went by slowly. Not in an awkward manner but it was agonising all the same. Agonsing to watch you sit across from him, agonising not to touch you, agonising not bit into your flesh and claw into your pussy with his hard cock. 

His patience wore thin but he maintained. 

The two of you had drinks afterwards, sitting on the couch until it grew too late. You yawned, hands stretching to the ceiling and pointed breasts jotting out through the cotton of your tank top. Your hoodie was abandoned somewhere. He eyed the pleasant curves of your body, the grooves that came from you being Spider-Woman and the softness that came from your natural figure.

“I’m gonna take that shower.” You announced. “Thank you for letting me stay with you, Miguel…I really appreciate it.”

Could you appreciate it with your mouth around his cock? “Of course. Anything for you. Y/N.”

You smiled prettily scampering off into your room. Miguel wasted no time in heading to his own, pulling up a camera feed from your bathroom. He sighed, watching you undress. You were humming along to something, hips shaking and hands running down your body. 

He raised his hips, shoving his sweatpants down. His half-hard length plopping out. Fingers encircled the base, rubbing up and down as he watched you move. 

You stepped into the shower and he switched the cameras. You sodded your body up, perfect nipples hard and hand slipping between your thighs. You rubbed yourself frantically. Rolling your nipple under your palms as you humped your fingers. 

Miguel turned the volume up, his own cock coated in his special essence as he watched you. His hand became frenzied, tighter as it took him closer to an orgasm. His peak came as your voice sounded the last thing he expected to hear. 

His own name. 

“Meirda…Y/N…you want me too, baby?” He coated himself, groaning as you slumped on the video. You shook off your climax and finished showering, stepping out with a glow. He restarted the video, turning the volume louder – thankful for his soundproof room. 

The knowledge that this wasn’t one-sided set something off in him. He threw his head, stroking himself from top to bottom. Desire coiled in his belly, like a snake ready to pounce.

Who was he to deny your wants, princesa?

***

Your fingers rapped on Miguel’s door somewhere close to midnight. You’d timed it perfectly. Your fearless leader hardly slept anyway so you were sure you wouldn’t be intruding. After all, you were sick? Weren’t you? The pills weren’t working, you needed to sleep. You hadn’t slept properly since that night. Lies concocted to make it all work. You just had to maintain your facade of innocence. 

You smiled, thinking of Miguel’s little performance for you on your camera. You’d seen him stroke himself over and over at some random video feed. You saw his thick seed spurt out. Saw the girth of his length twitch to life. Fuck. You wanted that. 

“Y/N?” Miguel’s voice was hoarse with sleep. You softened your face and frowned. “Did I wake you up? I’m so sorry…I just couldn’t sleep and you’d helped me that night…”

Ever generous, he opened his door wider to let you in. He’d changed form his earlier sweatpants. No doubt it was covered in his own spunk. A shame, really. “Of course, come inside. I’ll get another blanket for you.”

“Oh no.” You showed him the lilac blanket you’d brought with you from HQ. “I have my own.”

“Hmm.” He led you to the bed and slipped behind you to spoon you as easily as he had that night. You hummed, wiggling against him. You made sure to throw your blanket on both of you. You heard Miguel groan behind you, his body shifting and arms holding you close.

The synthetic material was interwoven with your pheromones, wired to set Miguel off. That night he had slept with you, you had plucked hair enough to get his DNA to pattern it so that it made him rut like a beast in heat. It was a chance you were taking. It would only work if Miguel wanted you too – if only a little You grinned, smiling as your payment boiled up. Miguel would be yours, it was what was best. 

Even if he didn’t know it yet.

Hours passed. You laid awake listening to him torture himself. Your patience grew thin. Why didn’t the idiot just hold you down and fuck you yet? “Miguel?” You whispered. “Everything alright?”

He murmured in Spanish, nothing clear enough for you to even hear. His hand, large and spanning, set itself on your hip. 

You ground your ass into his crouch. “Miguel?”

“Cállate princesa,” he growled in a tone that made your toes curl. An excited smile spread across your face. “I need to take a walk.”

That made your smile drop. “Now? It’s so late.”

He didn’t say anything, his weight lifting from the bed as he went to hurriedly dress. His back turned to you as he tried to be modest. Your eyes dropped to his round ass. Was he really going to go out and fuck some bitch after you did all the work? Not on your watch. 

“Miguel,” you dropped your tone, low and purring. “Come back to bed.”

He turned his head, eyes red as they flickered over you. “I don’t think that’s wise.”

Was he afraid of losing control? How adorable. You sat up, letting the blanket fall from you, the muscle shirt that was three sizes too big fell off your arm exposing an entire breast to him. You were being desperate but you’d be damned if he wasn’t going to rearrange your guts tonight.

He paused, staring at you. You almost grinned. That seemed to do it. 

He dropped the t-shirt he held and crawled over to you, pressing his forward to your as he inhaled your scent. “Tell me this is real.”

Oh.

You desperate thing. How I will devour you, How I will keep you. “It's real. I need you, Mig. I want you.”

His lips slammed onto yours. Tongue piercing the seam of your lips to kiss you fully. His hands pawed at your body, grabbing and groping at everything. Your sleep shirt was ripped in half as he claimed total access to your body. Your hands touched him everywhere, settling on the hump of his buttocks, pulling it close to your hips. You rubbed your bare crouch against his sweat, humping him with blind need. 

Miguel pushed you back, your head hitting a pillow as you watched him take his cock out. The fat, beautiful thing you’d been dreaming about riding since you met him. There wasn’t anytime for preamble – you wouldn’t suck the beautiful thing just yet. 

He stroked himself for a moment, red eyes boring into you as he lowered his face between your legs. Miguel ate you sloppily. Lips smacking and tongue licking, he sucked your swollen clit, pressing his index in and out of your weeping pussy. 

You gripped his head, arching your back as your thrust your hips up, truth spilled from you: “Eat me so good, Miguel. Fuck, you don’t know how long I wanted this.”

He was too busy enjoying his meal to respond. The lewd noises making you tremble as much as the act. Miguel’s fangs brushed against your folds, before he fucked your pussy with his tongue, pressing his dampened fingers to rub your clit as he licked your insides. 

Clenching around his head, your mouth spewed all manner of dark desires, the height of your arousal squirting all along his face. Words failed you as he continued to worship your pussy with his mouth and fingers. 

He raised his head for a moment. His left hand cupped your tit for him to suck while his other fingered you to your second orgasm. Thumb rubbing your clit in precise circles as he bit and sucked your areola. Faster than the first, you mewled your orgasm out on his fingers. Miguel let your nipple fall, watching you as he sucked his fingers dry. He sat on his hunches, leaning back as you writhed, quivering pussy begging for more. Begging for his cock. 

“You look pretty like this princesa, pretty falling apart in my bed for me. You want me to fuck you now? Want me to spread this pussy wide? Want me to make you fucking bawl? Beg for it, baby.” His face read of cruelty while his lips purred to you. You watched helpless as Miguel looked down on you. One of his hands stretched forward to your wanting hole and slapped it. You whimpered. He grinned and slapped it again. 

“I want you to know something before I fuck you,” he whispered, leaning forward, mushroom tip brushing along the seam of your slit. “You’re mine, princesa. You’re my puta. My perra, zorra. Mi amor. Mi todo. And I’m greedy, so when I fuck you – know that it's all over. I become your world and you become mine.”

You bit your lip. The words fell like poetry in your haze: you were truly made for each other. Did he even know how perfect he was for you?

“Ye…s.” You croaked out. “Yes, Miguel.”

His hips snapped, bottoming out into you so hard you screamed against his laughter.

***

Was this heaven?

Miguel had long since thought he was banned from such a place. Long since thought salvation was removed from him. But right now, while he held your waist and fucked his cock into you – he knew he had found it. You looked divine. Your mouth agape and hands rubbing all over him. Your breasts, bounced and full as he made his mark in you. He wanted every groove of his cock known by your pussy. His cock was to be imprinted, moulded into you. You were to know no other but his by the time he was done fucking the common sense out of you.

“My pretty cock dumb, princesa.”

You hummed, heels digging to his ass as his hips snapped. You squeezed him tight but he knew he was leaving marks on your body as he fucked you into his mattress. “Gonna keep you on my cock every day. You'd like that wouldn’t you, perra?”

“Love t-that.” Nails scrapped his back. “G-Gonna cum.”

He could feel that in the tightening of your pretty cunt. The slimy stickiness of your desire echoed in the room, he pinched your nipple making you cry out. “I know, princesa. Do that for me. Cum on my cock.”

Miguel felt your climax, wet and whimpering. You cried beneath him, overstimulated as he fucked you. He fondled your breast once more, hand going between the two of you. He rubbed your sensitive clitoris, smirking as you moaned from the ache. “Good girl. So pretty crying like that. Think you can go again?”

You shock your head, tears forming in your eyes. He felt his balls grow tight but kept at your clit. You shuddered at another shockwave. Finally, he thought leaning forward to cover you until your breasts smashed against his chest. His own release came, loosening the taut feeling that had centred his whole body. Miguel’s hips jerked, making sure his seed took its rightful place in you. 

When he tried to roll off, you kept him on. He looked at you questioning.“Don’t want any to drip out just yet.”

“No chance of that,” he muttered, kissing your neck. His hips jerked, as he found himself in a slow rhythm. “I’m not nearly done with this pussy yet.”

***

“I don’t think I’ve ever visited this universe.” you pointed out at one of the monitors. It was an Earth without a Spider-persona filled with cannibals. 

��Miguel looked to your side and grimaced. “Fuck no.”

You rolled your eyes. “What’s the sense of me being here if not to go to unknown places?”

Miguel huffed, hand sneaking under the skirt of your dress. “Princesa, you came here because you saw me talking to a female Spider-persona and then insisted on warming my cock for the rest of the afternoon.”

“So?” You waved your hand. He was lucky you didn’t her to that universe. Perky little bitch was looking a little too googly-eyed at him. “Maybe I was bored. You ever thought of that?”

“You can always go back out on the field.” He suggested.

You snorted, rolling your hips to make him hiss. His cock twitched, surrounded by your leaking cunt. “The last time I went on a mission I thought you were going to kill my poor partner.”

“He was being a little too friendly.” 

“Honey,” Miguel’s hand slipped inside the front of your dress, popping out your full breasts as he slowly rocked up into you. “Peter from Earth-997845 is very much engaged to Johnny Storm.” You wouldn’t mind going out again but you were so comfortable living simply with Miguel and helping him manage HQ. Who was he even talking to? He hadn’t gone on a mission for the months you two had started seeing each other either.

“You’re a hyp–” he stood up, making you bend over the desk, your breasts hitting the cool metal, he pressed the side of your face down as he slowly plunged in and out of you. “–ocrite.”

“Me?” He grunted, hands going up and down your sides as he took his time dragging his cock. “You’re the one who assaulted me in my office just so you could fill it up with your scent. You don’t think I know your tricks, zorra?”

You grinned, working your hips to meet him. “You better make me squirt a few times – just to make sure the scent takes then.”

Miguel chuckled above you, his talons ripping open your dress as he made good on your challenge. 

MASTERLIST

I'll probably make this a reoccurring thing. Hope you guys liked part 1. Reblogs and comments are nice.

[anisangeldust]

Office hours (Pt. 2) 𝜗𝜚⋆

Pt 1 here!!

Read Pt 1 for context and warnings! (It’s just smut, all this part is is just smut)

He should’ve been horrified, yet he couldn’t bring himself to feel but an ounce of shame when the object of his greatest desires was standing in front of him. Alone.

Slowly, he watched as you closed the door and locked it, maintaining eyes contact with him the whole time. “Professor Skywalker” you mumbled out, batting your lashes at him while you walked toward his desk.

Anakin was not going to let this golden opportunity slip out of his grasp, he couldn’t let you slither away, not after the sheer amount of time he’s been pinning after you. He took his hand off of his hard cock and gestured you over oath two fingers.

“Do you want this?” He grumbled out, though he knew the answer. A simple nod of your head and he was taking hold of your jaw “then show me baby” he cooed then pushed you on your knees

You eagerly took his leaking cock into your mouth, earning a lewd groan and one of his big, calloused hand on the back of your head; pushing you down as tears pricked in your waterline.

“Yeah? So good f’me, choking on your favorite professor. Isn’t that right? Such a slut for my cock.” He growls through gritted teeth as he pushes your head farther down on his dick. “So fucking good baby girl, so hot on your knees” he groans.

The sounds you’re making as he uses you are lewd, you’re choking on his cock like it’s the first time you’ve ever given someone head, but to be fair, Anakin had a massive cock.

“I’m gonna cum, and—fuck—you’re gonna swallow it all like a good slut. Okay?” He hissed, wiping the tears from your waterline with his thumb.

Allowing you a moment to nod, he ran his big hands through your soft hair and groaned “suck a good girl, so good at sucking cock” he purred out before starting to push your face further down his fat dick.

It wasn’t long before he was tensing his thighs and cumming down your throat, thick ropes of white seed in your mouth. He pulled out and living stroked your jaw “swallow it all baby.. such a good girl, and you know what good girl get? They get rewards. Stand up and bend over my desk baby.” He commanded gently, smacking your ass playfully as he flipped up your skirt and pushed your panties to the side.

“So fucking wet pretty girl, and all form sucking your professors cock, aren’t you so naughty?” He cooed and shoved two fingers into your weeping hole.

“Oh! Professor Skywalker… please..” you begged, clenching around his fingers.

“Please what baby? You what my cock?” He teased and smacked your ass again as you nodded yes “so good f’me” he murmured. You felt him slide his tip up and down your soaking folds before pushing the head into your entrance.

“Fuck!” He hissed “so fucking right” he groaned and slowly pushed in further.

Half of your brain was gone, reduced to mush; the other half was screaming and crying and jumping for joy at the fact that you were bent over your favorite professors desk.

“Call me Anakin baby, or Ani if that’s easier” he mumbled as he pushed his thick cock all the way in your tight hole with a “fuuckkk..”

“Ah! Ani!” Your moan as he slowly thrusts in and out of you, getting a good feel for your tight walls.

“Fuck me baby, can feel you clenching me so good.. so fucking good baby doll” he praised and smacked your ass again, speeding up his movements and pounding into you “yeah? You like that you slut? Taking your professor so good baby, horny little pussy just needing me so bad yeah?” He jeered and used his hand to rub your clit.

The movement had your brain short-circuiting. You didn’t have the power to warn him before you came all over his cock, the only sounds being muffled screams as you bit your arm.

“Oh fuck! Gonna cum inside you, fill you up so good” he groans and throws his head back as his orgasm approaches. His thrusts become sloppy as he fucks himself through his high, a ring of your respective cums forming around the base of his dick.

He pulled out after a few moments and pulled your weak body into his lap. “Feel good baby?” He murmurs.

“Yeah.. s-so good..” you respond as you melt into his touch.

“Good girl, I’ll take care of you, don’t worry about anything okay?”

@snowtargaryen (here you go!)

[dark-and-kawaii]

༺ 𝑅𝑒𝓂𝑒𝓂𝒷𝓇𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒 ༻

What killed Astarion more than anything was how his daughter carried on your personality. Always wanting to be there for everyone, especially him… He wishes you were still here with him.

Angst - Hurt - Comfort - Mentions of Character Death - Dadstarion

A single tear hit the ground as Astarion looked up into the night sky. How? He wonders to himself… You had both gotten so far the past couple of years. He even managed to kill Cazador, not only for his revenge but to help keep you safe as well... He had done everything to protect you, but in the end, there was nothing he could do. He wasn’t there, he had tried to have been there, but when he got there it was too late.

“What are you doing out here all alone papa?”

Astarion had heard his young daughter calling out to him, but he didn’t want to turn around…

His daughter was a perfect mix of the two of you, she had your hair, his pale skin, one of her eyes were the same color as yours while her other eye was all him, vermilion.

What killed Astarion more than anything was how she carried on your personality. Always wanting to be there for everyone, especially him…

“Papa! You’ll catch a cold if you keep standing out there!”

He sighed heavily, she still hasn’t realized that he’ll always be cold, especially with you gone now, the little warmth he could find in life.

Astarion’s daughter was holding out her arms, a well made embroidered jacket held out in her tiny hands. It was the jacket Gale had gifted her just this year, far too small for Astarion himself yet she still wished to see him cover up.

She was still so young and naïve, Astarion knew this… And he knew she didn’t want her only parent getting sick thanks to the harsh autumn winds.. Even though he wouldn’t…

Another tear slipped past his long lashes, he remembers it like it was yesterday.

He had been sitting outside at night reading a book you had given him. It was such a tranquil evening, the crickets and frogs chorused as the stars twinkled in the sky while you were sat at his side.

-Bringing up his hand he lays it against his shoulder, Astarion swears he can feel your head laying on his shoulder even now…-

You were humming along with nature until you felt the cold air nip at your nose. He could feel the chill run through your body and before he could ask if you’d like to head inside you were removing your jacket and laying it against him as if it were a blanket.

“Just what in the hells do you think you’re doing, hmm?” Astarion arched his eyebrow, his book closing so he can lean into you more.

“You’ll catch a cold,” you wink at him, attempting to be cute.

“Now hold on, as adorable as that is, you should honestly be far more worried about that little thing growing inside of you.” He points to your stomach.

“Oooh please, I defeated an elder brain. Do you really think the cold will hurt me? Besides… I want to enjoy this moment a bit longer, let me have my moment.”

“So stubborn, but you know… I could think of another way to keep you warm and even myself.” He always knew when to turn on his seductive side with you, and tonight would be the perfect moment.

You had both laid out there all night under the maple tree. Your bodies entwined with one another’s, hands roaming, and your jacket covering the both of you in the end.

“Papa?” Your daughter tugged on her fathers pant leg, “Papa you okay!?.”

Astarion focused on his daughter, he tried to stop them but his tears kept making their way down his cheek. He always knew he was weak; knees crumbling to the ground he wrapped his lean arms around his daughter embracing her closely.

“W-whyre you- c-cryin- papa?...” She began to weep with her father.

The past few days his daughter had been asking what happened to you, her mother… And Astarion didn’t blame his daughter for being so curious, nor did he blame her for these recurring memories.

“It-it’s mama, th-thats wh-why you’re cr-cry-crying, right?” Her own tears create a steady stream down her pale complexion…

Astarion wanted to tell her so badly, but how could he tell her… How could he tell his daughter that her mother passed because he wasn’t strong enough… no… he couldn’t. Not yet. She was still far too young for the truth, she could hate him later for it. He was going to protect his daughter no matter what at the moment.

Pulling away from his daughter, he saw so much pain coated on her small face.

Astarion raised his hands so he could wipe away her tears tenderly. Picking up the small jacket she had brought him, he wrapped it around her shoulders.

“Your mother, well she…” He searched for the right words but… “Above us,” he blurted the words before thinking, “See.” He pointed above them, the dark sky was beautiful, stars surrounded them in the sky while the moon gave off a light glow.

She looked up to see all the stars twinkling in the sky.

“T-the stars? Will she ever come down?”

Astarion huffed out a small laugh and shook his head while looking up. “Well, no. But, she’ll always be with you in your heart,” -he pinched her cheeks softly- “Your mother is always going to be keeping an eye on you, I’m sure of it.”

His daughter rapidly began to wipe his tears from his stained cheeks along with hers.

“If she can see us! Then you shouldn't cry anymore papa!” She can see that you are hurting! She wants you to smile.”

Astarion helped her wipe his tears. “You’re right, she wouldn’t. If she was here she’d probably tell me to get over it.”

She nodded in agreement.

“Oh papa! I forgot! I brought out mamas sketchbook! Can you try to draw mama for me!? I want to see how pretty she was!”

“I can most certainly try, for you that is” Picking himself up from the grass, Astarion held his hand out for his daughter so he could take her over to the maple tree, “but don’t complain if it’s terrible.”

Sitting on her papas lap she waited for him to open your long lost sketch book...

Flipping through it, Astarion swore he could feel his undead heart skip a beat… There in the middle of your pages was a sketched photo of himself…

“This is-“ his hand traced over the gray sketch.

“That’s you papa!”

Beneath the sketched portrait was a small note, “The most beautiful vampire I’ve ever laid eyes on, Astarion Acunin.”

[leftoverghosts]

(doubt comes in)

is this a trick that's bein' played on me? 

Art's devotion is almost worshipful, comparable to Orpheus' dedication to Eurydice.

art donaldson x reader.

warnings: implied depression after injury. use of she/her for reader. no use of y/n. not beta read.

nori says: this is an expansion of my orpheus!art blurb okay!!! i hate it!! idk if this is what i wanted, but it's what i have to offer. please love me still. send me ideas if you want to! xoxo.

word count: 2,206

“You’ll get better,” Art says quietly, walking up to the net as you smash your racket against the ground. “You’re only a week post-op from your surgery.”

But you don’t want to get better—you want to be whole. You want to be as you were. What greater glory was there than being you on the court?

Your throat feels raw, imaginary bile rising like a torrent rushing through a gorge. You want to spit, to seethe, to yell.

Instead, you cry, and that only upsets you more.

Art comes around to rub your back, but his words are muffled, drowned out by the water plugging your ears.

He is Orpheus, trying to lead you—Eurydice—out of the underworld of your suffering, wading with you in a river too deep to tread.

He sees through your attempts to abandon him first. And you hate him for it.

Who the hell is Art Donaldson, with two healthy knees, to say he loves you—your pain, your anger?

How could he be so good? So self-sacrificial? How could it be real?

A voice in your head, that you don't recognize as your own, whispers: he too will turn around to watch your demise.

You feel the weight of Art's hand on your back, his touch a reminder of his unwavering presence. But the comfort it once brought now feels like a burden, a shackle tying you to a reality you desperately want to escape. You shrug off his hand, the movement sharp and dismissive, mirroring the jagged edges of your fractured spirit.

The tears keep falling, each one a bitter reminder of the dreams that slipped through your fingers like sand. The sobs choke you, stealing your breath and your voice.

"I'm here," he murmurs, his voice a lifeline in the tempest of your despair. "I'm not going anywhere."

You turn to face him, your eyes searching his for any hint of pity or regret. Instead, you find only love, pure and unwavering, shining like a beacon in the darkness. It's almost too much to bear, the intensity of his devotion, the depth of his commitment. You want to believe him, to trust in the strength of his love, but the voice in your head whispers its poisonous doubts.

"Don't," you whisper, your voice barely audible above the roar of your inner turmoil. "Just… don't."

Art's eyes, those mesmerizing pools of blue and brown, search your face, seeking a glimmer of the person he once knew. But you avert your gaze, unable to bear the reflection of your broken self in his loving stare.

You limp away from the court, each step a painful reminder of what you've lost. The mangled tennis racket dangles limply from your hand, a useless appendage, a cruel mockery of your former glory. Art follows, his footsteps echoing behind you like a persistent heartbeat, a rhythm you can't seem to escape.

"Please, talk to me," he begs, and it sounds like weeping, his voice laced with desperation. "Let me help you."

But how can he help when he doesn't understand? How can he fathom the depths of your despair when he stands on the precipice of his own success?

You whirl around, your eyes blazing with a fire born of anguish and frustration. "I don't need your pity, Art! You can't fix me!"

The words tear from your throat, raw and bleeding, like shards of glass embedded in your vocal cords. Art flinches, his face contorting with the pain of your rejection. But still, he persists, reaching out to you with an open heart and unwavering devotion.

"I'm not trying to fix you," he says softly, his voice a soothing balm against the ragged edges of your soul. "I just want to be here for you, to love you through this."

But love, you realize, is a double-edged sword. It has the power to heal, but also the capacity to destroy. And right now, with your dreams lying shattered at your feet, you can't bear the thought of dragging Art down into the abyss with you.

You turn away from Art, your shoulders sagging under the weight of your anguish. The sun beats down on your back, its warmth a cruel mockery of the ice that has settled in your veins. You want to run, to hide, to disappear into the shadows and never emerge. But your knee, that traitorous joint, holds you captive, anchoring you to this moment, to this pain.

"I can't do this," you whisper, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart. "I can't be the person you need me to be. Not like this."

Art's hand settles on your shoulder, his touch feather-light yet impossibly heavy. "You are exactly the person I need you to be. Broken, whole, it doesn't matter. I love you."

The words hang in the air between you, a lifeline and a condemnation all at once. You want to believe him, to lose yourself in the comfort of his embrace and let his love wash away the stains of your failure. But the voice in your head, that insidious whisper, won't be silenced.

"You say that now," you murmur, your gaze fixed on the horizon, on the future that seems to slip further away with each passing moment. "But what happens when you realize I'm not worth it? When you see that I'm just a shadow of who I used to be?"

Art's fingers tighten on your shoulder, a gentle pressure that draws your attention back to him. His eyes, those captivating pools of blue and brown, bore into yours with an intensity that steals your breath.

"If you are a shadow, then me be swallowed whole by the darkness.” He says, his voice low and fervent. "You mean everything to me - your strength, your passion, your fire - they still exist inside you, even if you cannot see them at this moment. And I will spend every day reminding you of that until you believe it too."

Tears blur your vision, hot and stinging, as the walls around your heart begin to crumble. You want to believe him, to trust in the unwavering faith that shines in his eyes. But the road ahead seems so long, so daunting, and you're not sure you have the strength to walk it.

"I'm scared," you admit, the words tearing from your throat like shards of glass. "I'm scared of failing, of never being the same again. I'm scared of losing you."

Art's arms encircle you, drawing you into the shelter of his embrace. His heartbeat thrums against your cheek, a steady rhythm that anchors you to the present.

"You could never lose me," he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. "I will be here, by your side, every step of the way. We'll face this together, one day at a time. And even if you never set foot on a court again, you will always be a champion in my heart."

Tears well up in your eyes as you hold onto him tightly, as if he might vanish from your embrace. "You're too good to me, Art. I love you."

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

As you stand by the clay courts of Stanford, memories flood back to you. Memories of a time when your name was synonymous with tennis greatness, when you were the future of the sport. But now, even as a New York Times best-selling author and respected ESPN commentator, you felt like a mere spectator in the world you once ruled.

Your attention is immediately drawn to the court on the far left. It was where you and Art spent countless hours, with his arms wrapped around you as the two of you worked through your injury and anger. Even though you had already mastered the basics, you allowed him to guide your hands and correct your form. Your motivation for these lessons went beyond just regaining your abilities; it was also a way to ease Art's worries and show him your love.

In the beginning, you had hoped those lessons would heal you, but after a while, all you longed for was to stand across from Art on the other side of the net and volley with him at full strength once again - not for glory, but for the joy it brought both of you.

"God," a voice calls out, as if that were your name. You turn, already knowing it is your husband who has followed you here. He rarely lets you out of his sight, afraid that you will slip back into your defenses after all the time he spent using love as a Trojan horse to get into your heart. "You shone so brightly on that court."

You wince, realizing that he has spoken your inner thoughts. Art senses your unease and foresees your attempt to escape. Before you can flee, his hand grasps your shoulder, halting your retreat with a firm grip.

You plaster on a smile, your feigned cheer clearly confusing him. He hadn't wanted to come to this event in the first place and seeing how these ghosts still terrorize you, Art is upset.

You allow his touch to anchor you in place. He utters your name like a familiar prayer, drawing you back to the present. You've long accepted that he will always worship at your altar. But the raw sincerity shining in his eyes in this moment feels too genuine, too exposing.

"Are we leaving?" He inquires softly, and his ring on your finger feels like a symbol for safe passage over the river Styx.

"I just wanted to stay for our speeches," you say as he brushes hair away from your face with tenderness. Even in your most tempestuous moments, he shows compassion.

"Baby—"

"I'm sorry for—"

You both start at the same time, but you wave him on benevolently.

"Come back to me," he pleads obediently, "don't go somewhere I can't follow."

His words ignite a fire inside you. No matter what storms may come, he seeks shelter within you and continues to fan your flames. Art's devotion is almost worshipful, comparable to Orpheus' dedication to Eurydice. You can't help but reminisce about moments spent together - showering, Art supporting your injured knee, or him feeding you when your sadness weighed down your hand and you couldn't eat on your own.

He always made sure to remind you that his success was also due to your support. The fruits of his labor - his career - were meant for both of your enjoyment. Without you, he could not thrive.

"I'm here. I'm with you." You say after a moment. Reaching up, you cradle Art's face between your palms, your thumbs gently caressing the smooth planes of his cheeks. His skin is warm beneath your touch, a tangible reminder of the life and love that flows between you. As you trace the contours of his jawline, you marvel at the strength and tenderness that coexist within him, a perfect balance that has sustained you through your darkest hours.

Art leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed as he savors the intimacy of the moment. His golden curls, tousled by the gentle breeze, tickle your fingers, eliciting a soft smile from your lips. In this instant, the world around you fades away, and all that exists is the connection between you, a bond forged in the crucible of adversity and tempered by the power of unconditional love.

"I love you," you whisper, the words a sacred oath, a promise to hold onto the emotions that have rescued you time and time again. Gripping Art closer to you, your fingers entwine in his hair as you bring his mouth to yours.

Art's lips dance against yours with a reverence that takes your breath away, each brush of his tongue a silent prayer, a vow to stand by your side through every trial and triumph.

When you finally part, breathless and flushed, Art's hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away the lone tear that has escaped your lashes. "I love you too," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. "More than anything in this world."