#Look the bar is really low at this point he's having the time of his life

[toyybox]

Spiderwebs #30: Preparation

Masterlist

content: no warnings :)

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It was a lot like planning for a vacation, but more stressful. For Heather, at least. Her packing had the frantic, frenzied pace of a burrowing shrew. She came up with a list of things to bring: clothes, food, money, a weapon—better safe than sorry, she told him—coats, water, more food? Toothbrushes, soap, sedatives—she wouldn’t offer an explanation for this one—buy gas, gloves, boots, and so on.

Jackie certainly wasn’t taking this any more seriously than a vacation. He hadn’t gone outside in a while, and besides that, he hadn’t left the vicinity of Heather's house for several months now. He found himself curious as to what it’d be like. Had the world changed at all while he was gone? No longer was he privy to the knowledge free men took for granted. News never reached his secluded life. He wouldn't know if there was high water coming or if the Swedes landed on the sun.

Like Heather, he also packed a few things. Nothing impressive. A new book from Heather’s shelf—something by Oscar Wilde about a portrait—alongside his clothes, a pencil and paper, the dollar bill he'd taken from Matthew, and one of Heather’s old backpacks to carry it all. 

On the second day, she also handed him a heavy, black wool coat. It went a few inches below his hips, and was studded by brass buttons all along the front. 

“I think it looks good,” she offered.

It did look very intimidating in the mirror. He pulled the coat off and shrugged. Petty things like vanity no longer appealed to him. There was no time for such luxuries. He could remember being invested in his appearance, long ago. He missed being able to care about stupid things. He missed buying his own clothes. Heather’s fashion sense was okay, but it wasn’t the same.

There was also the matter of the cop, with his warning of returning in two weeks or so. Evidence was key, and they needed it gone. With a gallon of gasoline and an old firepit in the yard, Heather burned the tapes, the cassette recorder, the polaroids of Jackie’s open chest and exposed organs, hell, even the ropes. It all went up in flames, went black and curled around the edges, until there was only a pile of ash and char. She cleaned the blood off her tools and gutted the house of stains from the inside-out. 

The third day arrived with a flurry of snow outside. The intensity of the sun was wholly unfamiliar to Jackie, and it took a minute for his eyes to adjust. They shoved their luggage into the back of the car. Jackie was happy to learn that he could sit in the front.

“What?” she said when he let out a sigh of relief. “Did you think I’d keep you in the trunk?”

He laughed at this, but it was an uneasy smile he wore. It was hard to tell with her. What sorts of things she found ridiculous, and what lines she wasn’t opposed to crossing. 

Still, things were generally okay. He was safe. He was out of the silence, out of the isolation, and he felt okay. He felt happy. Before this, his happiness was brief and based on whatever small luxury could distract him. Maybe a painkiller, maybe a break from the tests. But his happiness now was more of a pervading contentment. It was a constant, heavy high in his heart, felt in the far edges of his soul.

Although he had found it redundant, Heather had an idea with strings of thread. Before they left, she taped up a string near the front door, and also to the hallway’s entrance. This, she informed him, would reveal if anybody had come in and searched the house. The thread would snap easily when someone walked through it. It wasn’t clear what the benefit of this knowledge was, if she would go to jail either way, but it seemed to calm Heather down a bit.

The wind scratched at Jackie’s face when he stuck his head out the window. The flecks of falling snow pierced his skin. The cold stung his eyes, making them water. He didn’t care. The feeling of movement and freedom was exhilarating. Heather started the car with a jerk of the gear shift. And off they went, out of the house, into whatever lay behind the highways and empty roads.

He rolled the window up after a while, then turned to her. “How long are we leaving for?”

“Three weeks.” Her grip on the steering wheel was tight enough to nearly bruise. “Longer, if we need to.”

“Where are we going?”

“I don’t know. Stop asking me questions, I’m going to be sick.”

Indeed, her expression had not shifted from dull panic. There were dark circles under her eyes. Something played on the radio, but the melody was too quiet to recognize. She turned it off with a small, barely noticeable frown. 

Jackie left the subject alone and leaned his face against the window. This was the best day of his life, he thought. 

The sky was starting to turn black. They left the house late, to draw as little suspicion as possible. Streetlights shone like cat’s eyes on the sides of the road, streaky and long with motion. He thought he saw a few people, passing by, their faces blurry and indistinct. There were trees, pines with bristling needles, bare birches, old oaks. Snow stained the sidewalks in shades of dirty white. There were one or two other cars, but not many. Maybe it was a holiday. Maybe it was Christmas.

“What’s the date?” he asked.

“I told you, stop asking—” The tension eased from her shoulders, but only slightly. “Sorry. I’m tired. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

Well, he could wait. He was good at waiting. Jackie wondered how long he had been waiting, locked down there—it could have been weeks or years, and he would never know. But that was behind him, now. That was in the past. He could file it away with all his other bad memories. There was no point in dwelling on it. He had lived, and he would continue to live, and that was all. It was nothing to worry about.

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Taglist:

@theelvishcowgirl

@lthrboy

@whumpy-wyrms

@yassifiedinformation

@creppersfunpalooza

[racew1nn3rs]

─ 𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘦 𝘪. (𝘪'𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘸𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦) 🧶

⤷ summary: the world meets the newest mclaren team member, and they are loving it! it's poor oscars first day and shit's already hitting the fan sorry dude ): LMAO. lando just experienced love at first sight, while y/n is ready to fist fight

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liked by landonorris, oscarpiastri, and 32,890 others

mclaren oscar's first day of kindergarten, done. pre-season testing, done. (we'll be even faster soon 🙏🏼 don't worry guys)

2,568 comments

user2 HELLO??? WHO HACKED THE MCLAREN ACCOUNT

user6 we'll be racing past redbull in no time

mclaren a girl can dream

user7 lando is this you??? 😭

user8 budget dropped so low they had to hire the drivers for social media

user3 this is haas money behavior

mclaren excuse you i am NOT LANDO

user8 oscar????

mclaren no sir, i'm the owner of this house 🫵

user9 idk if this is a new admin but this is so unserious

mclaren new year new me babe

user9 give her a raise mclaren 🙏🏼

mclaren REPOST REPOST REPOST

landonorris first day on the job and already asking for more money?

mclaren i'm so sorry lord lando, you forget that us lowly peasants aren't on an athelete salary 🙄

user10 HUMBLE HIM, WE LOVE TO SEE IT

user11 mclaren admin beefing with lando was NOT on my 2023 bingo card

user12 she really said, "ik we're slow but LET US COOK"

mclaren TRUUUSTTT THAT COMEBACK IS COMING (im manifesting)

oscarpiastri KINDERGARTEN??? i'm nearly 22 mate

mclaren teensy weensy baby basically

oscarpiastri your fired /:

mclaren HAHA YOU CAN'T DO THAT 🏃🏻‍♀️

user13 petition for all the f1 team accounts to be run by young admins, this is tooooo good

mclaren screenshotting this for my boss so they don't see these comments and fire me

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user14 she. looked. up. his. salary. 💀 ICON

user15 hiring her was such a rare mclaren W

user16 MCLAREN ADMIN HEAR OUR PRAYERS AND MAKE TIKTOKS 🙏🏼

user17 OMG CAN U IMAGINE

user18 HOW MUCH MONEY DO I HAVE TO PAY MS. MCLAREN FOR THIS OMG

user19 will our team win? probably not BUT AT LEAST WE'LL BE GETTING CONTENT 😘

user20 AYYYYEEEE

user21 LANDO MAY NEVER WIN, BUT THE FANS NEVER LOSE 🤞🏾

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liked by mclaren, maxfewtrell, and 60,050 others

landonorris don't mind me, just living my lord life on my athlete's salary. bahrain here we come!

10,750 comments

user22 WHERES THE MCLAREN ADMIN

user23 lando nowins flexing on us poor people

user24 someone come get this man's phone

user25 oh i KNOW pr is mad 💀💀💀

user26 daniel ricciardo leaves and mclaren loses it's mind

user27 daniel leaves and all of us lose our minds 🥲

oscarpiastri jesus christ mate, log out

mclaren i'm not sure he knows how, he might need to pay someone to /:

user28 CRAZZZYYYY

user29 THE GIRLS ARE FIGHTING

user30 "f1 is a serious sport." the serious sport in question:

user31 the papaya hat 🫵

user32 HE'S SO FINE IM GNAWING AT THE BARS

user33 BARK BARK WOOF WOOF

mclaren phones. on the table. NEOWWW

user33 holy shit this is actually so embarrassing

mclaren at least ur self aware!

user34 she clocked ur asses 😭😭😭

maxfewtrell lord lando flying economy

landonorris I AM NOT

user35 bro took that personally

user36 me thinks the man doth protest too much

danielricciardo i leave you alone for a few months and this is what you're doing

landonorris i learned from the best

danielricciardo DONT BLAME ME FOR THIS

maxverstappen1 ... that's my plane???

landonorris SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP

maxverstappen1 you can't just take credit for my private jet. its mine.

mclaren this just in, little lando norris is a little LIAR

mclaren when he steals a plane and wears bucket hats 🫵🤣 everyone point and laugh

landonorris I QUITE LIKE BUCKET HATS

mclaren i quite like bucket hats 🇬🇧☕️🤓

maxverstappen1 🫵🤣

danielricciardo 🫵🤣

charles_leclerc 🫵🤣

carlossainz55 🫵🤣

maxfewtrell 🫵🤣

oscarpiastri 🫵🤣

landonorris OSCAR????

oscarpiastri 🫵🤣 🫵🤣 🫵🤣

mclaren damn he got you there

user37 this cannot be real

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There were quite a few things Lando expected to be on his agenda when he arrived in Bahrain after him and Max went seperate ways to their own teams. He figured he would meet with his engineers, spend some time getting adjusted to working with Oscar (especially given he hadn't had very much time to meet or bond with the rookie over the break or during pre-season testing), and doing some press interviews as per usual. However no where on his list was an impromptu meeting with Zak Brown. Oscar seemed clueless as to what was going on as well, and Lydia, Lando's personal assistant of two years, was just as clueless.

Lando and Oscar filed into the board room, bottles of water in hand, only to be met face to face with their team manager. Nothing seemed suspicious which Lando hoped was a good thing, but after their underwhelming performance in pre-season testing he knew anything was a possibility.

"Have a seat guys, it's good to see you both. I hope you've been well-rested since testing," Zak greeted with his usual cheerful attitude. Lando and Oscar looked at each other warily but nodded at their boss nonetheless. Zak was usually more of a 'get to the point' kind of man, so this change of pace was unnerving to say the least. Normally it scared Lando a little bit, but truthfully, right now, Lando wanted to be done with this meeting and to get to race preparations.

"That's good, you need all the rest you can get if we're going to try and put up a fight this weekend. In all honesty, I think within the next two years we have a chance to become real competition here. I think we can give Red Bull and Ferrari a run for their money and earn plenty of points this year. Hell," the older man chuckled, "maybe we can win it all."

Lando didn't want to seem skeptical, but he was definitely skeptical. He did not think the car he was given in testing could win the championship, but he would sure as hell be trying.

"But no matter how hard the engineers work the car, and no matter how many sims we do, the one thing we're lacking in is presence. McLaren is notable, we have a famous team and a long roster of famous, successful drivers, including the two of you, but we don't have the same dominating media presence that Mercedes or Ferrari do. And that's what gets us sponsors, and celebrity visits, and fans, and funding. We may not be struggling for money, but if you guys like your multi-million dollar salaries and you want your car to keep being better, we need more media presence. Which is why we decided we wanted to go a bit of a different route this year, with media and all of that."

Oh god. Lando knew where this was going. This was about the new social media admin that had been ruthlessly harrasing him- albeit teasingly- for days now. Only employed for less than two weeks and already stirring up the pot across platforms. Lando looked at Oscar, noting that his teammate was clearly following as well now.

"I know you both have come to realize this already, but there is a new social media manager who runs all of the McLaren accounts. We wanted someone young, someone trendy, someone who knew what the internet is looking for, and who can help us connect and start getting more eyes on McLaren. We want her to meet with you guys today to share a couple of ideas so you can be on the same page for what we'll be doing online. The new manager is just outside. Let me get her so you can speak with her."

Lando nodded dumbly. Right, ok, he could do that. Lando was young, he was online, he was trendy. Plus, most of if not all of the F1 drivers had some kind of media presence already. Lando streamed, he had instagram accounts and twitter, and he even had Quadrant. Lando steeled himself. This would be just fine. An adjustment, but fine.

Zak greeted someone outside of the door and a small bit of shuffling sounds were heard. Before Lando had a chance to stand, Zak was turning and nodding a quick goodbye. Leaving the office room, as a smaller body replaced the space he had been in.

Lando felt like the air had been knocked from his lungs and hoped he hadn't made a noise out loud. He stared, he couldn't help it. He was sure he was slack-jawed, mouth agape and flies coming in. Somewhere in the back of his mind he registered that he should be professional and behave like a normal human being. But the other part of his brain, the dominant part of his brain, was in awe.

Lando looked at the girl in front of him up and down, probably far too obviously, and was stunned. He saw jean shorts, a faded and a mid-washed denim. A colorful-tighter cropped shirt and some layered gold jewelery. Rings on her fingers. Sunglasses in her hair, making her look way to cool to ever speak to him. She rocked on the balls of her sneaker-clad feet- sneakers that matched her clothes perfectly much to Lando's delight- and quickly moved to set her laptop down of the table. She left her small colorful handbag on the table alongside a cup of iced coffee that was already melting in the Bahrain heat. She looked as if she had jumped straight from a Vogue cover (or one of his favorite dreams) and landed right in front of him.

Was it the heat that was making it so hot? Because Lando was becoming suddenly aware of the heat beneath his shirt collar. A stifled cough from Oscar drew Lando from his observation- or rather his creepy, stalker staring- and Lando realized this was not the social etiquette that the situation called for.

Before Lando could even take a step, the girl smirked.

"Nice to finally meet you guys. Hello Oscar," the girl leaned over and shook the taller man's hand. "And Lord Lando, is it? It's nice to finally meet you. I'm Y/N L/N, i'm the new social media manager for the season."

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Y/N could now officially say she is not a fan of Lando Norris. The online feud she had cleverly created to generate some conversation about McLaren before the season started had been banter. She had taken no offense to Lando's jokes at all, but now that she was in front of the man and could feel his judgement, her opionions had changed.

From the second she walked in Lando had begun unabashedly staring at her. Looking her up and down, from the shoes she had recently bought to the hair clipped back on her head, and was not sparing a single detail. She felt vaguely like a mannequin on display and it unnerved her.

Oscar smiled at her politely as she set her things down, and she felt thankful for the reprieve from the judgement and critcism she had been recieving since she arrived and was now experiencing again from Lando in full force.

Y/N was aware that her outfit wasn't uniform or professional, but those were not the qualities she was hired for. Y/N had been confident coming in here, feeling like she would likely connect better with people her own age, but was thoroughly dissapointed to find this was not the case.

Oscar ultimately cleared his throat awkwardly, and it appeared as though this finally snapped Lando out of his judgemental stupor, so Y/N decided to finally make her introductions.

"Nice to finally meet you guys, hello Oscar," she leaned over and shook the taller man's hand. "And Lord Lando, is it? It's nice to finally meet you. I'm Y/N L/N, i'm the new social media manager for the season."

Lando groaned loudly and Oscar laughed.

"Lando I don't think you'll ever live this one down," and Y/N forced a laugh and nodded in agreeance.

"No, probably not. But that's good, that's what I was hoping for." Y/N stated bluntly.

"You were hoping to torture me?" Lando stuttered out and Y/N rolled her eyes, "You'll live I promise." Oscar laughed before pointing out, "at least your not a kindergartener."

Lando stifled a laugh but agreed.

"What purpose did Oscar's baby jokes serve?" Lando asked, and Y/N forced herself not to punch the man at his judgemental tone. He clearly didn't believe in her ability to do her job.

"It's funny, that was it's purpose," she stated, gesturing to the table for the boys to sit as she opened up her laptop. She turned to face toward them, lifting herself slightly so was seated criss-crossed in the chair. She never had liked sitting normally. The boys across from her stared at her expectantly.

"So you create jokes the make people look at us more?" Oscar asked.

"In a way yes. My job is to manage the accounts, but I've also been hired to help get you guys more fans. Fans love to be interacted with, they love seeing you guys joke around, they like feeling like they have content to consume," Y/N explained.

"By playing into these desires, you get more fans, because they feel they 'know you" in a way they don't know the other drivers." The boys nodded their head in understanding.

"So the plan is for me to keep interacting with fans through the McLaren accounts, playing up jokes with you too, and for us to give the fans new content in a way they don't usually get it. Livestreams, youtube vlogs, inside internet jokes, TikToks, the works." Y/N stated.

"Essentially," she said dragging the word out, "I'm going to make you guys the internet's little papaya stars," Lando laughed but nodded. Y/N, despite her first impressions and her developing dislike for the driver, found herself smiling. She could see the vision. Both Oscar and Lando would be awkward and loveable and humorous. The perfect mix for internet support.

"So where do we start?" Oscar asked.

"I'm glad you asked," Y/N smirked. "Have you heard the clip of 'Cuffing Season' by SZA? There's a TikTok trend I think will be perfect for you to do."

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user38 can we talk about how gorgeous admin is?!?!? LIKE OH MY GOD

user10 only hot people go to mclaren

user40 that check better be huge for her

user41 oscar was so mf stiff 💀💀 free my boy

user42 who had a gun to oscars head, he was so scared

user43 lando thirst trapping ICB 😭 I NEED A BIG BOYYY

user44 god admin is so sexy and smart, that was art

user45 CAN WE DISCUSS HOW LANDO LOOKS AT HER

user46 ikr 💀 get off the floor lando your drooling

user47 i want a man to be that down bad for me

user48 lando loverboy era unlocked

user49 meanwhile admin didn't look him in the face

user50 f1 2023 is going to be a WILD RIDE for us mclaren fans if this is before the first race even starts

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hope you all enjoyed! please let me know your thoughts and feel free to leave a request for me to write something for your fav <3

-

𝙩𝙖𝙜 𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

@lemon-lav @slutforpopculture @m4rt10ne

[swordsandholly]

Double Date - Double Down

NSFW | MDNI

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Fem!plus size!reader

Word count: 4.9k

Summary: When you get a call in the middle of the afternoon from your friend begging you to fill an empty spot on a double date your initial instinct is a hard no. After all, no one wants to go on a blind double date and be surprised by the fat friend. It doesn’t help that this Simon guy is stupid fucking hot and obviously doesn’t like you - if his lack of talking is anything to go by.

A/N: Just a fun little oneshot I used as a warmup between working on chapters of future multi chapter projects.

“I said *no*.” You snap, angrily folding the washcloth in your hands.

Your friend splutters from the other side of the phone, the desperation in her voice only growing now that she’s on her fourth ask. “*Pleeeaase*! Steph backed out last minute and no one else is free-“

“How do you know I’m free?”

“You just said you were!”

You huff. She’s got you there. When she first called, you admitted you didn’t have anything going on but that was *before* she told you the plan for the night. Before she mentioned that her very, very conventionally hot military boyfriend wanted to do a little double date with his friend and one of hers. Plus, you take a least a little offense to being second choice. Really, last choice, it seems.

“Cass, you can’t just set up a blind date and take your fat friend. That’s not-“

“You’re not fat, love. You’re beautiful.” Her words drip with turned honey. You make a gagging face to yourself in the mirror. “You just need more confidence!”

You sigh loudly, pinching the bridge of your nose. You could try, for the millionth time, to explain to her the nuanced ins and outs of dating as a fat woman. The rules and stats that could rival even the most complex rpg… or you could be petty. It takes less time to be petty. “If I go, you’re paying for my drinks.”

“Johnny’s friend will probably-“

“Yeah, and when he leaves you’re paying for my tab.”

“He won’t-“

“We got a deal?”

She clicks her tongue. “*Fiiiine*.”

At least you can get wasted for free either way. A small consolation. She texts you the time and location, barely leaving you with enough time to shower and turn yourself into something presentable. Not that you really care. It’s going to be shit either way, most likely. Staring yourself down in the mirror, you suppose you could at least try to look somewhat attractive. If you’re about to get rejected (or possibly shouted at, you’ll never forget *that* horrendous interaction) you might as well feel your best.

The pub is small as you push through the front door. Casual. A couple pool tables, some darts, a large bar and few booths with stools on the outer side. You scan the room, searching for Cass’s familiar face.

“Over here!” Cass waves with a wide arc at you, a grin plastered from ear to ear. At least she’s having fun.

You take a long breath, bracing yourself for whatever is about to happen. Cass introduces you to her boyfriend - who is somehow even hotter in person. You can see why she’s so smitten with him. Johnny looks you up and down as he shakes your hand. He doesn’t comment, or make a face, or really react in any particular way, but you can feel a shift. Something in his eyes…

Maybe it’s just your imagination. You’ve always been a little over sensitive.

“Si will be back in a sec. Stepped over tae get a drink.” He flashes a grin.

You hum, quietly folding your hand as Cass pushes a cocktail for you that she preemptively ordered. Criticize her as much as you like, she knows her mixes.

“There he is.” Johnny grins, turning slightly.

You follow his gaze, heart sinking as your eyes settle on the man approaching your table. He’s massive. Tall and wide. Total brick shithouse. His face is mostly covered by a black surgical mask. A few years ago you might have questioned it but at this point you couldn’t care less, especially when his dark eyes meet yours, small flecks of gold honey catching the low bar lights. Barely styled tufts of blonde hair stick up from his head. They look like they might curl if he let it grow a little longer.

All in all, wayyyy out of your league.

He settles into his seat with all the confidence of any military man - back ramrod straight. He extends a large hand. “Simon Riley.”

You murmur your name, somewhat enthralled by the half lidded, almost bored look in his eyes. Now that he’s closer you notice a large scar splitting his left eyebrow and light, newly forming crows feet in the corners of his eyes.

“S-so you’re military, too?” You stutter, eyes trained on his the massive hand holding his glass. It’s nicely vascular, his nails are well groomed but it also looks like he could snap you in half with it.

Not that that’s entirely a bad thing - whatever that may or may not say about you.

He nods. “I’m a Lieutenant.”

“Oh! Officer position. So you’re smart, then?” You try to be charming, to give him a sweet smile and keep your body language open.

“Enough.” He deadpans. It takes a few beats for you to realize he’s not going to say anything else.

“Uh…” You squirm awkwardly under his gaze. It’s intense - his dark eyes nearly black in the low light of the bar. “I do hair.”

Conversation is slow, to say the least. The longest answer he gives you is maybe five words. He only flips up the mask long enough to take a sip of his drink every so often. You start to talk less, opting toward a group conversation in which Johnny takes the lead, which he is obviously very good at. He regales you and Cass with a few stories of his and Simon’s adventures. Some funny, some brave, some worrying. He’s setting the man up to be a god, nearly, but Simon himself just shakes his head and insists Johnny is exaggerating.

You wonder what he sees in Simon. Alternatively, you wonder what *you’re* supposed to see in Simon. Besides his good looks, of course. He’s… bland. Obviously bored if his constant glances toward the exits and rhythmic, occasional tapping on the corner of the table are anything to go by.

“Want tae go dance, lovie?” You overhear Johnny as he leans in toward Cass.

She glances at you, then Simon, then back to you before nodding enthusiastically. “We’ll give you two some time *alone*.”

In any other situation, you’d probably beg her to stay in desperation for a conversation buffer. Here and now, though, you’re grateful. You can finally let this poor guy off the hook. You wait until they’re gone; fully out of earshot before turning to the man in front of you.

“I…uh… look…” You chew your lip, glancing between him and your folded hands on the table. “Sorry… I know I’m probably not what, uh, what you expected… I get it if you want to leave. It’s - you don’t have to stay, or whatever. Don’t have to be polite…”

He cocks an eyebrow, eyes boring through your skull. “Why would I want to leave?”

“I know what I look like. You don’t have to be nice.”

His raised brow turns into a slight frown. “I think you’re quite pretty.”

You scoff - blushing despite yourself. “Again, you don’t have to be nice.”

“Do I seem like the type to just be nice?”

You continue to gnaw at your lip. He’s got you there. Simon definietly doesn’t come off as the type to bow to polite society. “You’ve barely talked to me.”

He stares for a moment. It’s his turn to avert his eyes, swirling around the whiskey in his glass awkwardly. Almost bashfully. “It’s not you. I’m… not great in public… especially in crowds…”

Oh.

*Oh*.

You’ve completely misjudged him, haven’t you? Shit. He’s just a big awkward lug isn’t he?You sigh, rubbing your temple. “Oh God, *I’m* the asshole, aren’t I?”

He chuckles, “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I’m sorry it’s just…” you scrub a hand over your face. “Most men don’t really want to be surprised with a fat girl on a blind date. Guess I assumed the worst.”

Simon hums. A low vibration that settles into your bones. He gets up, sliding into the booth side of the table beside you - his massive frame pushing into your space. He smells like spices. Cinnamon and pepper. A little hint of leather and tobacco underneath. It’s heady, and some primal part of your mind wishes you could roll around in it like a dog.

“Some men might like a waifish little thing, that’s their business, but personally…” He leans in, a large hand resting on your wide thigh. “Yeah. I like somethin’ I can get a proper handful of.”

“*Oh*.” You squeak, back stiff. Was that what you saw in Johnny’s face before? Approval?

“‘Ere’s a thought - we go back to mine. S’quiet. Can talk more freely. See where the night goes, hm?”

You smile hesitantly, finally looking up to meet his gaze. It’s honest. Kind. Dark pools of sincerity. It’s against your better judgement. Impractical. Out of character. Even so, you allow yourself to surrender with a warmth in your cheeks and a small nod.

“I’ll get an Uber.” He pulls out his phone, tapping away. “Five minutes out.”

“Want to wait outside?” You offer, nodding toward the front entrance. Simon just nods, following you out close behind. Neither of you say much of anything while you wait, but you watch him out of the corner of your eye. He taps on his leg a few times in much the same way as he did on the table.

He dutifully opens the car door for you, letting you slide in before climbing in beside you, long legs slightly cramped in the small sedan.

“You don’t live on base?” You ask as the Uber drives away from the infamous military housing. You’d been there once or twice - a while ago when you were younger and messier.

“S’too loud.” He shrugs. “Too crowded.”

“Well, at least you’re consistent.” You smile.

Simon hums, resting his hand on your thigh once again. It’s casual, not too high up or too much pressure. Not presumptuous.

“How’d Johnny get you out there in the first place? If you’re so *averse*.” You tilt your head.

He shrugs, “Was supposed to be another Sergeant we work with but I guess he cancelled. No one else was free.”

“Ah, so we’re both last choices, then.”

“Yeah?”

“Made Cass promise me free drinks if I came.”

“Smart girl.” He chuckles, holding out a hand to help you up out of the car upon your arrival. His hand is warm when you take it, and a small part of you feels disappointed when he lets go.

The building is small. Old. All red brick with a thirty year old intercom and an elevator that you’re pretty sure hasn’t been inspected since the place was built. About halfway down the hall, you start to second guess yourself. You don’t know a thing about this guy - you don’t know what’s going to happen as soon as you get on the other side of his door. His weird, bright red door. Wait - why is this whole floor covered in red doors?

“Alright?” He grunts, back turned to you as he wrestles with the lock.

“Uh - why is your floor color themed?”

Simon laughs, wide shoulders shaking with the movement. It’s a low sound, something that vibrates in his chest. Makes you want to press your ear to it, see how it feels. If it will reverberate into your bones as well. “The old lady that owns the building is a bit… unique. Likes to talk about colors and karma and destiny stuff.”

“Ah.” You nod, as if that makes any sense at all. “So you’re red?”

“Apparently.”

His apartment is actually quite homey, as you step into it. From a stiff military man like him you expected something akin to an ikea floor model. Instead it’s furnished with a well worn, green couch. A large TV with an extremely up-to date surround sound system and an entertainment center filled to the brim with CDs sits against the wall. A few movie posters fill the walls. All horror classics - you count three of the scream movies. The first two final destination. There are condensation rings on the coffee table.

Behind you, you hear the door lock and unlock three times, but you don’t pay it much mind.

“Want a drink?” Simon asks, already popping open a decanter full of something gold on a small drink cart beside the kitchen island.

“Sure.” The agreement is automatic - blurted out before you can second guess taking a drink from a total stranger.

You watch a little too closely as he takes off his light jacket, exposing his strong arms and a half sleeve tattoo. It’s a bit tacky, all skulls and military symbols. The black ink has been sun worn over time. The motif of a young getting his first tattoo after enlisting. He settles down on the couch with the decanter and two glasses, patting the spot beside him. You plop down. It’s pretty comfortable, honestly.

His fingers loop into the mask’s straps. You find yourself watching with wide eyes and bated breath as he removes it. His nose is crooked - broken more than a couple times, you think. There’s a scar running from his nose to upper lip that could only come from a cleft palette. It’s charming, in a way. When he turns toward you, you notice a patch on the side of his face that looks like a rather large burn all the way down to his sharp jaw. The roughness of him works, somehow. The scars and tattoos and choppy hair all coming together to create the visage of a life hard lived.

“You’re really pretty…” the words slip from your tongue before you can stop them.

Simon splutters out a laugh, the slightest hint of color appearing across his cheeks. “Didn’t take you for a flatterer.”

“I’m not.” You huff before nodding toward the posters. “Horror fan?”

He hums, passing you a glass. “Are you a fan? Of horror, I mean.”

“Found footage!” You grin a little too excited. “It’s the best genre.”

“Terrible taste.” He scoffs.

“Wrong! Found footage can be anything you want it to be - slasher, thriller, mystery, mocumentary. Anything.”

“Which makes them messy.” He argues. “Anyone can make one.”

“Yeah! Theres so many hidden gems out there.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Oh, I’ll put you on them. We just need to get you a good one.”

“Askin’ me on a second date already, love?”

“Oh, fuck off.” You shove at his shoulder. He was right, it is so much easier to talk freely out of the bar. Away from everyone and everything. His posture is far more relaxed, laid back into the couch with his hips canted forward rather than stiff as a board.

“We could watch one now?” He offers. If you were more sober, you might have heard the twinge of pleading in his voice. As it stands you’ve already drained the glass he gave you and are perfectly buzzed enough to be ignorant to the subtler parts of communication.

How convenient.

“Okay.” You whisper.

After a bit of debating back and forth you settle on Hell House. After all, it’s been your tried and true method for getting anyone and everyone into the genre. You don’t notice it, at first, but you slowly begin to scoot closer to him as you fold your knees up on the couch. Eventually, tucking yourself under his arm sling across the back cushions. Between him and the drinks - which you’re pretty sure is a rather fancy bourbon - you feel what could only be described as snuggly. Limbs loose and pliant, smile easy and words flowing as you cheer and jeer at the characters together.

At some point, Simon’s dark eyes meet between yours. You lean in, so does he. Inch by inch until your lips meet. It’s tentative, at first. Testing the waters. His lips are soft and move expertly against yours. You part for him has his tongue darts across your lower lip.

It’s easier than it usually is for you. Easy to let him pull you over his lap. To rest your hands on his broad shoulders as you take each other in. Normally, you’re not a person for one night stands. A commitment kind of gal. You can’t exactly say no, though, when you have a beautiful man’s hands traveling over your body like it’s the only thing in the world worth paying attention to right now.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to grunt, “Bedroom?”

“*Yes*.” You gasp between kisses.

Suddenly those large hands grasp under your ass as you’re hauled up. You grapple to hold onto the back of his neck, keeping your weight forward.

“Simon!”

“Yes, love?” He asks as if he didn’t just life you like a sack of potatoes.

“A-aren't I heavy?” You question as he makes his way through the apartment, peppering kisses over your neck and jaw.

“No.” He replies bluntly. Like what you asked was stupid.

You’re placed on a bed with all the gentleness of a rare china plate- one hand cradling your upper back and the other tucked under your thighs. There isn’t any time to take in the room before Simon is kissing you again but you do count approximately five pillows and zero navy sheets.

That shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

Simon leans in close, nose ever so slightly bumping yours. “Before we keep going, I want to establish a rule. Red light means stop. At any time, for any reason.”

You can’t help but smile. “Okay.”

“Say it back, doll.”

“Red light means stop.” You reach up and cup his face. So handsome. So warm.

“Good girl.” He murmurs. “Let’s get these off, hm?” Simon pulls your clothes off deftly - dragging those rough palms over your skin as he moves and kneading at the plushness of your hips appreciatively.

You reach up to tug at his shirt. “S’not fair if I’m the only one naked.”

Simon chuckles and hastily sits back to yank the shirt over his head, giving a lovely show in the process. You think this what people mean when they talk about an Adonis. There’s a comfortable soft layer of his strong abdomen. Something you want to sink your teeth into. Your fingers trace each dip and curve of his muscles, the lovely shape of his pectorals, the raised scars littering his body. Floral shapes from bullets along with slashes and smaller jabs. A particularly nasty one runs down his side, coving his ribs. A burn, you think.

“You’re beautiful.” You murmur. Definitely out of your fucking league. You move to sit up, reaching for his waistband.

His hand pushes your shoulder back on the bed. “Let me take care of you tonight, bird.”

Your face warms. Simon kisses your cheek, continuing down to your chest and taking one of your nipples in his mouth. Gently sucking and nipping at it while flicking the other with his hand. A shameful whimper escapes your throat.

Simon leans up to murmur in your ear, “What do you want, sweet girl?”

“Want you to fuck me…” You murmur, embarrassment making you want to close your legs. His solid hips block you.

“Oh, I will, but first I want those beautiful thighs wrapped around my head.” Simon continues to place kisses down your body, over your stomach, stopping right at your panty line and tracing along it with rough fingers. His arms circle your thighs and in one swift motion your hips teeter on the edge of the bed, Simon kneeling between them. His fingers hook in the waistband of your underwear.

“W-wait…” You sit up on your elbows.

He freezes, looking up at you.

“I, uh, I haven’t exactly *landscaped* in a while… wasn’t really planning-“

Simon huffs out a laugh. “I’m a grown man, love. You think a little bush is gonna scare me off?”

All thoughts related to anything within the proximity of embarrassment come to an instant halt as Simon’s lips wrap around your clit- sucking and nipping and lapping like a man starved. Like he’d die without it. A low groan rumbles through his throat.

“F-fuck!” You gasp, whimpers and moans interrupting any chance you may have at putting words together.

“Taste so fucking good, princess.” He mumbles against you. A shaky moan rattles through you as he pushes a thick finger in, working it gently. His other than grips your hip tightly, pinning you in place. The pet-name sends a shiver down your spine - leaving you rolling your hips and clenching on the finger inside you.

“Fuck, Si…” You gasp, tangling your fingers in his hair.

“I can tell your close, baby.” Simon groans. “Cum for me. Come on, be a good girl and cum all over my fucking tongue.”

The bastard knows the power he has in that voice. He *has* to. That baritone gravel sinks in your veins and all you can do is whimper. Panting pathetically the closer you get. His fingers curl up and your back arches harshly as your climax washes over you. Your legs tremble as he works you through it; stopping just shy of pushing you too far.

“Hey!” You gasp indignantly as a jolt shoots up your spine as he settles a final, harsh suck on your clit.

Simon taps your hip, climbing back over you as you scoot up on the bed. He carelessly kicks off his pants as he goes, toeing them off before settling between your legs. Those dark eyes rake over you leisurely - taking in every inch. Every curve and dip and flaw categorically. He sucks in a breath and sighs. “Bloody ‘ell, look at you… so fuckin’ pretty.”

Your face heats and you look away. “Who’s the flatterer now?”

“Not me. Just bein’ honest.” He places a quick kiss to your soft jawline before reaching over to dig through his nightstand drawer. You don’t miss the gold foil of the condom wrapper.

You can’t stop yourself from licking your lips as he pulls off his boxer briefs. Simon is uncut, already ruddy and leaking and just begging for your mouth. Maybe next time, though. He’s already slipped on the condom, carefully hooking one of your legs over his shoulder and the other around his hip. The man has a laser-focus to him, you’ll give him that.

“Still want t’ keep goin’?” He mumbles, eyes locked on his cock as is drags between your folds.

“*Please*.” You whine pathetically. Simon’s chuckle turns into a gasp as he presses in. It’s achingly slow and you roll your hips in demand for more.

Simon lets out a low groan as his hips meet yours. The stretch is perfect - just enough to feel completely full without pushing you too far. As though your bodies were made to slot together just so. Your head falls back, chest heaving as you beg him to move, to fuck you, just *please* for the love of god-

“Needy little thing.” He gives you a sloppy smile before setting a brutal pace. You find yourself clawing at his back, clinging to him as your back arches and the most obscene sounds are systematically torn from your throat. The angle he has your hips placed causes his cock to bully that sensitive spot inside you - dragging over it with every thrust.

Simon leans toward, bracing himself on his forearms and pinning you under him as he fucks into you. “So fuckin’ good f’me. Knew you would be. So soft and sweet and goddamn *pretty*.”

“*Fuck, Simon*.” You gasp, nose bumping against his as your lips intertwine. Breaths and moans intermingle as you both chase that edge. There’s nothing else, in this moment, just you and Simon and the sounds only he has ever managed to pull from you.

Your orgasm hits you like a train. Out of nowhere and all at once, tensing every muscle into a trembling mess as you clamp down around his cock. Simon sinks his teeth into your neck as his own climax takes him, cradling you close and moaning out your name so muddled you almost miss it.

For a few moments, you stay frozen in place trying to catch your breath as you come down. Your limbs feel like jelly when you finally try to move, body limp and pliable. It almost feels like a loss as he pushes off of you, leaving you open and vulnerable to the cool night air while he ties off the condom.

“Be right back.” He murmurs, slowly climbing off you and heading for an attached bathroom off to the left.

You let your eyes slipped closed only to jump and shoot back open as a dap rag drags between your thighs. A little yelp escapes you as the rough material drags across your oversensitive clit. Simon chuckles at you, tossing the rag back somewhere in the bathroom before crawling into the bed beside you. It’s so easy to curl into his chest and let those strong arms encircle you.

“Have fun, love?” Simon murmurs into your hair.

You just hum happily, smiling against his hard chest.

“Good.”

It’s just as easy as the rest of it to fall asleep like that. To seek out the warmth of his body in your satiated haze and press into him, allowing the night and rhythmic beating of his heart to overtake you. You feel four small taps between your shoulder blades just before tipping over the edge into comfortable nothing.

You wake slowly to an empty bed. The light from the window above you streams in - bathing the room in a light golden tone. It’s cozy. The blankets seem to pull you in, keeping you snugly in place. Distantly, you hear the sound of pots and pans clinking.

Shockingly, you’re not hungover. Well, not much at least. There’s a slight twinge in your head and a not unpleasant soreness in your hips. You dig around, finding your clothes strewn across the room haphazardly. Your underwear are nowhere to be found and you eventually give up with a shrug. They weren’t one of your best pairs anyway.

When you come out of the bedroom, you pause. Simon stands in the kitchen, working on something over the stove wearing only a pair of sweatpants. They hang loosely around his hips, showing off the rises and dips of his strong muscles and well defined waist. This scene somehow feels too intimate despite your activities the night before.

“Perfect timing.” Simon turns, placing a plate down on the kitchen island. The omelette before you looks immaculate, all the way down to a light garnish on top.

Your eyes turn to saucers. “You…you made me breakfast?”

“Course.” He nods sharply as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. As if *not* doing so would be some sort of affront. Either you’re still asleep and this is all a dream or you stumbled upon the perfect man through pure happenstance.

He turns the stove off and on and off twice before standing at the counter across from you while you sit on one of the stools at the island. It’s a comfortable silence as you both eat. Simon keeps glancing up at you as if waiting for your disapproval. Boyish, somehow, despite the size and breadth of him.

It’s perfect. The eggs practically melt in your mouth and the goat cheese and vegetables taste fresh. You can’t help but him happily as you eat.

By the time you’re done, you think you might be a little in love.

Maybe you should text Cass and thank her or something. Maybe a gift basket. “Oh. My phone’s dead.”

“Didn’t charge it before y’left last night?” Simon cocks an eyebrow, chewing on his last bite.

You snort. “It was last minute, remember?”

“What if I’d been some sort of psycho? What was your plan?” He grins as he takes your empty plate. If you were a more impulsive woman you may have gone so far as to lick the damn thing.

“Are you a psycho?”

“Not generally, no.”

“Well then, nothing to worry about.” You grin, watching a little too happily as he rinses down the dishes and loads the dishwasher.

Simon just scoffs at you.

You glance at the time above the stove, disappointment settling deep in your chest. “Shit. I should get going.”

“I’ll get you a cab.” Simon offers automatically, reaching for his phone.

You shift side to side, twiddling your thumbs. “Y’know… we never finished the movie…”

Simon cocks and eyebrow. From the pleased smirk on his face you can tell he knows what you’re implying. He still patiently waits for you to say it out loud.

“Would, uh, would you want to exchange numbers? Maybe… meet up… again…?” Your voice is more timid than you’d like. This fear of rejection is new. Being rejected is nothing new for you, so why does it suddenly feel so high stakes with this one guy you barely know?

You don’t miss the way his eyes light up ever so slightly at the question. “I’d love to.”

[sceletaflores]

ghosts, ghouls, goblins, and other things that go bump in the night!

pair: logan howlett x fem!reader

wc: 4.5k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, drinking, resident bestie diva wade wilson, matching costumes ofc, established relationship, p in v, semi-public sex (bathroom), rough sex, mirror sex, gratuitous amounts of dirty talk, light degradation, light hair pulling, light choking, nasty dirty breeding kink (@guiltyasdave infected me with the breeding kink disease...it's all her fault), 4k words for straight up porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

nat’s note: happy halloween! sort of...i obvi couldn't wait to post this until the actual day cause i have absolutely zero patience so here you go! i thought up this idea in the middle of the night and literally got out of bed to start it. it's a nasty self indulgent mess...hope you love it! kisses <3

cutie divider by icon @saradika-graphics!

you and logan have some fun at wade's halloween party...

Unsurprising to no one, Wade Wilson knows how to throw a party. 

Every year since the two of you became neighbors, you’ve gotten a gaudy invitation decorated with cartoon bats and devils slipped under your door just in time for Halloween.

Of course, it’s always in some cheesy font, red and glittery. A crappy pun about “scaring up some fun with your favorite mercenary” with a return address listed as ‘Hell’s Playground’ inscribed on the front.

It's awful. You haven’t missed one yet.

And not just because you’re a sucker for free booze and cheap decorations. It’s like tradition now, you can't have your perfect attendance streak cut off four years in. That's just bad manners.

Besides, this is the first year you’ve gotten to do a couples costume.

“I look fuckin’ ridiculous,” Logan mutters, deep voice laced with irritation as he messes with the wolf ears perched awkwardly on his head. “Can’t believe I let you drag me to this thing.”

You don’t turn to face him, but you can still see the frown tugging his lips down in your mind. Logan’s never been one for costumes, but his options were either dress up or stay home while you went and had fun without him.

He was dead set on staying at home for most of the day.

One look at the frilly white bloomers that came with your costume and he changed his tune.

“Quit being such a baby,” you toss over your shoulder, pouring your second cup of whatever Wade mixed together in the mini cauldron sitting on his bar. “You look great, babe.”

He really shouldn’t complain, his costume is barely a costume. An old flannel with the sleeves ripped off and some mangy jeans.

The fake ears and tail were a struggle and a half to get him on board with, but Logan’s all bark and no bite. He was more than willing to roll over and show you his belly after enough begging.

Logan scoffs, big hand pawing at your hip to drag you to his side. “You owe me for this,” he rumbles low in your ear, the playful threat sending a shiver down your spine.

“You’ll survive,” you tease, a smug grin spreading across your face as you tug playfully on the tail clipped to his belt loop. “Unless you wanted to switch?”

Logan’s eyes drag over your body shamelessly, all the way from the floppy sheep ears sitting on your head to the lacy white corset and matching bloomers that do little to hide your curves. 

You don’t miss the way his eyes darken, how he runs his tongue along the sharp point of his canines like he wants to sink his teeth into you.

It sends a familiar heat coursing through your veins, warming your insides just as much as the vodka with a hint of mixer you’ve been sipping at.

You start to wish you shelled out for the fake fangs at the party store.

Logan tugs you closer, his lips curling into a slow, predatory smirk. “Not a chance in hell,” he rasps, voice dipping a couple octaves lower. “Looks better on you, baby.”

You hum idly as his arm snakes around your waist, fingers splayed along your lower back, inching dangerously close to the swell of your ass.

“You better behave,” you chastise, though it’s more playful than stern as you look up at him through your lashes. “We’re in public.”

Logan’s grip tightens, a soft grunt leaving him as he leans in, nosing along the side of your face. “Doesn’t seem like much of a party when all I’m thinkin’ about is how fast I can get you outta this damn costume.”

Blood rushes to your cheeks, the warm puff of his breath over your skin makes your knees feel weak. You try to keep your cool, but it’s hard when he’s practically radiating heat and that intoxicating scent of leather and pine fills your senses. 

Before you can respond, a loud call of your name grabs your attention. 

"There you are!" Wade shouts from across the room, already making his way towards you.

All six foot two and half inches of him is wrapped in blue and white lace, paired with a matching hoop skirt that bounces with every step he takes. His shepherd's staff thuds against the floor when he comes to a stop in front of you. “Fashionably late, I see.”

“We’ve been here for thirty minutes,” you point out, brow cocked as you take in his costume. “Where’ve you been?”

“I’m the hostess with the mostest, honey bunny,” he says, throwing his arm out to gesture towards all the dressed up guests crammed into his living room. “Can’t spread myself too thin.”

He eyes Logan's wolf ears and fake tail, then turns back to you, wiggling his brows suggestively. 

"Kinky,” he comments, flicking the little gold bell hanging from the choker around your neck. “You two just couldn’t resist a little predator-prey roleplay, huh? Should I be worried about you getting all ‘Animal Planet’ on my couch?”

Logan’s grip on your waist tightens, his mouth brushing your ear as he mutters, “I’m gonna kill him before midnight.”

“Now, now, big bad wolf, no need to huff and puff and blow my skirt up. We’re all here to have a howl of a time!” Wade continues, undeterred. “Plus, if you behave, I might just let you keep your sheep when the night’s over.”

You can practically feel Logan’s eye twitch, but you snicker, leaning into him just a little more. “Play nice, Wade,” you say, trying to smother your laugh. “The wolf might eat you first.”

“Please,’ Wade snorts, twirling his shepherd's staff deftly in his hand. “If that’s on the table, I’ll lay out the fucking fine china.”

Logan lets out a huff of air, dropping his hold on you and brushing past Wade with a grunt. "I'm gettin' another beer."

“Try not to stab anyone!” Wade shouts after him, loud enough to be heard over the Monster Mash blaring from the speakers. “Al might blow the whole complex if any more blood gets on the linoleum!”

Logan throws a middle finger over his shoulder as he disappears into the kitchen. 

You watch him go, a grin plastered to your face at the way the tail swings with every step he takes. Something warm and fuzzy settles in your chest, blooming in the empty space of your ribcage.

You know Logan hates this–the people, the lights, the music, the costumes.

But he’s here anyway, for you.

Here wearing the stupid wolf costume you bought for him, surrounded by drunk people in inflatable dinosaur costumes and witches with dollar-store broomsticks. And despite all the grumbling, he hasn’t bolted for the door once.

All for you. And that makes your heart thump a little harder in your chest, your smirk softening into something sweeter.

"You’ve got him whipped," Wade deadpans, crossing his arms, the lace of his sleeves rustling as he does. “It’s really disgusting.”

You snort, shaking your head softly. "More like he's got a soft spot."

Wade eyes you skeptically. "Same thing, toots."

You hum noncommittally, turning back to him. “Cute outfit,” you comment, eyeing the white bonnet secured by a neat little bow under his chin.

“You like it?” Wade does a quick twirl, the blonde curls of his wig nearly slap you across the face as he does. “The guy at party city kept giving me weird looks, but I think he was just jealous of how well I fill in the blouse.”

You rake your gaze over him slowly, taking another slow sip from your cup. “The stockings are a nice touch, but don’t you think running around as Little Bo Peep will send some confusing messages.”

“Well, duh. That’s only the whole point, Sherlock.” Wade snorts, shaking his head like it’s obvious. “I’m way too emotionally invested in this relationship to not try and wiggle my way into throuple territory.”

You can’t help but laugh, rolling your eyes. “A throuple? Hate to break it to you, Peep, but Logan doesn’t really strike me as the sharing type.”

Wade leans in conspiratorially, cupping a hand around his mouth like he’s letting you in on a secret. “That’s why I’m playing the long game. Gotta wear him down with my irresistible charm, and when he finally snaps, I’ll swoop in with a bottle of Jack and a promise of no strings attached.”

You shake your head, chuckling into your drink. “You’ve got it all figured out, don't you?”

“Oh, honey,” Wade purrs, winking at you with a dramatic flutter of his lashes, “I've got a five-year plan.”

You roll your head to the side lazily, sheep ears swaying as you do. “I’ll give you points for persistence.”

"Damn straight," he says with a grin, straightening his bonnet proudly. “This level of commitment takes stamina. And by the way, I’ve got great stamina. My record is thirteen.”

You raise your brow, intrigued. “Thirteen what? Rounds? Hours?”

“Wouldn't you like to know,” he scoffs indignantly, rolling his eyes. “I’m more than just a pretty face in a killer dress, thank you very much.”

You groan, giving him a light push. "You’re impossible."

Wade grins, leaning closer to throw an arm around your shoulders. “I’m just pulling your tail, Wooly. You know I’d never come between you and your beefy boy toy. I mean, look at him. He’s practically pacing the kitchen like a caged animal just looking at you in your slutty nursery rhyme getup. How pathetic.”

You turn to steal a glance at Logan, who’s leaned against the counter scanning the room from behind his beer bottle. You feel a thrill at the idea that he’s watching over you like a hawk, making sure no one gets too close, slowly working himself up over the mere sight of you. 

But more than that, it’s the slight reluctant smirk tugging at his lips as he takes in the party. You can tell he’s managing to find some enjoyment in all this, even if he’d never admit it.

“Well,” Wade starts, dragging the word out slowly. “Since you’re all cozy over here with your alpha male, I’m gonna go find someone to share these…”

He holds up two shot glasses filled with some unidentifiable neon liquid, “…artisanal beverages with. Maybe that guy dressed like a merman. I’ve always wanted to see what's going on under those tails.”

You snort, raising your own cup to your lips. "You're awful."

“Only on the outside, sugar,” he says leaning down to kiss your cheek with a wet smack before flouncing away into the crowd, his skirt swishing as he goes. “Don’t fuck in my house without at least inviting me to watch!”

You laugh to yourself, watching as Wade fades into the crowd of gyrating bodies. You take another long sip, relishing in the familiar burn as it slips down your throat.

The laughter, the music, the chaotic energy of the party—it’s all intoxicating in its own right, but it’s nothing compared to the way Logan’s eyes are boring a hole through the back of your head.

You can feel his gaze like a tangible force, wrapping around you and drawing you in. Logan’s not just watching; he’s assessing, hungry for something that goes far beyond the Halloween festivities surrounding you.

The heat radiating from his gaze only intensifies your already buzzing anticipation, mixing dangerously with the two drinks swirling in your stomach, making you bolder.

You throw back the rest of your drink, setting the empty cup on the bar and making your way across the room. You weave through the crowd seamlessly, the music pulses around you, drowning out the laughter and chatter.

You feel a daring grin spread across your face as you saunter closer, reveling in the way Logan tracks your every move like a predator zeroing in on its prey. 

When you’re finally standing in front of him, you lean against the counter, giving him a good view of the way your corset dips lower. The fabric hugs you in all the right places, teasing him with glimpses of your skin beneath the delicate lace. 

"Looks like Little Bo Peep lost his sheep," he mutters, voice like gravel drenched in honey.

You smirk, tilting your head to the side innocently as you step around the counter. “Maybe I was already planning to run away, to go looking for a big bad wolf to play with.”

You slip two fingers through the belt loop at the front of his jeans, tugging him closer with a rough yank.

Logan’s goes willingly, taking a step closer. His breath hitches as he does, the hazel of his eyes darkening as you press your body against his, not letting an inch of space between you.

“You're really pushin it,” he warns lowly, hands finding your waist, fingers digging in hard enough to send a shiver cascading down your spine. "Makin’ me watch you run around in this fuckin’ thing.”

“Am I?” you reply coyly, fingers toying with the button of his jeans. “I’m just—” you start, but the words are swallowed by the thumping bass of the music as Logan’s lips crash against yours, silencing you with a hungry kiss.

His mouth moves against yours with a fervor that leaves you breathless, and you can’t help but melt into him, feeling the world around you fade away.

The taste of beer mingles with the vodka on your tongue as you sink into the kiss, his hands tightening around you as he pulls you even closer.

“You have no fuckin’ idea how hard it is keepin’ my hands to myself,” he murmurs against your lips, his breath hot and heavy. 

“Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea,” you tease, biting your lip as you pull back just enough to meet his gaze. You can see the fire smoldering in his eyes, the predatory glint that makes your stomach flutter with excitement. “But maybe you could show me just how hard it really is.”

Logan lets out a low growl, and before you can blink, he’s snatching your wrist up and dragging you through the kitchen. 

Laughter bubbles out from your chest as you trip over your own feet in an attempt to keep up with him. Adrenaline pulses through your veins, the warmth in your stomach dipping lower to leak sticky and wet between your thighs.

He’s not rushing, but there’s an undeniable urgency in his step, a raw need that makes your pulse race in sync with his heavy stride. Weaving you through the crowd and out into the hallway until the noise of the party gets lower and lower. 

You’re familiar enough with the layout of Wade’s place to know where Logan’s taking you, the bathroom.

The door is hardly shut before Logan’s spinning you around and crowding you against the sink. His lips are on you before you can even catch your breath, rough and possessive, as if he’s been starving for this all night. 

The kiss is rougher than before, dirty and all consuming as he claims your mouth. A mess of teeth and tongue and spit that sends your head spinning, body arching off the counter and into his instinctively. 

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he growls, trailing his lips down your neck, kissing and biting his way to your collarbone. “Drivin’ me so crazy, baby.”

You bite your lip, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as his calloused fingers trace over the swell of your breasts, kneading the soft flesh with a possessive grip that makes your breath hitch. 

Your arms circle his neck, dragging him down for more filthy kisses. The thick length of his cock pressing against your stomach insistently has you keening, a hard plane of scalding warmth even through the thick material of his jeans.

You let out a soft whimper as his fingers brush against your inner thigh, and he grins at your reaction.

He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. "Bet you’re already soaked for me, aren’t you?" His voice drops even lower, a filthy rasp that sends a jolt of heat straight to your core.

You don’t answer, can’t answer, because Logan’s already got his hand between your thighs, fingers teasing over the soft fabric of your bloomers.

His touch is feather-light, but it’s enough to have you gasping, head lolling back to expose even more of your neck to his fever hot lips.

He groans when he feels how soaked you are, his breath coming out in a rough exhale.

“Figures,” he grunts, his fingers pressing harder, rubbing slow circles over the slick fabric. “Could smell it on you from across the room. You’re fuckin’ drippin’ for me, baby.”

You whine, high in the back of your throat, chest heaving with every quick breath. Your legs spread, thighs widening like you can’t help it. His words send a wave of heat straight to your core, fanning the fire of need festering inside you. 

“Next year we’ll get you in a skirt,” he says, nipping at your bottom lip teasingly. His fingers slip under your bloomers, running through your slick folds teasingly. “Easy access.”

You let out a breathless moan, your hips bucking against his hand, begging for more.

“Logan,” you whimper, but he just smirks, applying more pressure with his palm as he leans in closer, his mouth hovering over your ear.

“You like that, don’t you?” Logan rasps, his voice thick with desire. Dark tone laced with satisfaction as he dips one finger inside you, making your breath catch in your throat. “Look at you, drippin’ down my hand. You want more, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you nod frantically, your breath coming in shallow pants as he continues working you with skilled, relentless touches.

Two thick fingers plunged in your aching pussy, his thumb rubbing over your swollen clit. "Please," you whimper, gripping the edge of the sink so tight your knuckles turn with it, needing more, needing him to ruin you. 

“Please what, honey?” he rasps, leaning in to press a sweet kiss to the corner of your mouth. “You gotta be more specific.”

You grind against his hand faster, desperate for any kind of relief from the unbearable heat building between your legs. “I need you,” you breathe out, your voice trembling. “Need you to fuck me.”

Logan’s response is immediate. A low growl tearing its way from his throat as he gives your bottoms a rough tug, letting them fall down the length of your legs to pool at your ankles.

He slips his fingers out of you, ignoring your displeased whine and spinning you around to face the mirror, hands gripping your hips as he roughly bends you over the sink.

You find his eyes in the reflection, and the hunger there makes your pulse quicken. His lips are swollen, red and slick just like your own. Hazel eyes blown out and stormy, as he meets your gaze.

The fake whiskers and nose you drew on him before the party using an old eyeliner pen are smudged across the lower half of his face along with the red remnants of your lipstick. You have matching black marks scuffed along your cheeks.

"You’re gonna watch while I fuck you," he growls, popping the button of his jeans and pulling them down just enough to free his cock. He strokes himself once, twice, before lining up behind you, dragging the blunt head along your soaked entrance. "Don’t take your eyes off the mirror, baby. I want you to see what you do to me, what I get to see every fuckin’ time."

You nod breathlessly, eyes locked on his in the mirror as he pushes into you with one hard thrust. You gasp at the stretch, head falling to your chin at the pleasant burn of his cock.

"Fuck," Logan groans, his eyes glued to your reflection as he bottoms out inside you, the sheer size of him making your body tremble.

"Tight little fuckin’ pussy," he mutters, his grip on your hips tightening as he starts to move, setting a brutal, unrelenting pace. "You were made for this, weren’t you? Made to take my cock."

You can’t stop the moans that fall from your slack lips, pathetic little uh uh uh sounds that get punched out of you with every sharp thrust of his hips.

“Take me so fuckin’ well,” he growls, one hand coming up to grip around your throat, tugging meanly at the bell of your choker that rings as he pounds into you, each thrust harder than the last. “Such a good little sheep, lettin’ your mean old wolf fuck you like this.”

 "Fuck," you moan, the sound broken and desperate as he drives deeper, the thick length of him hitting that spot that has your knees buckling beneath you. “God, Logan…”

“Look,” Logan commands softly, reverently. His lips brushing your shoulder with every word as he tilts your head back up to the mirror, making yourself watch as you take his cock. “Look at how fuckin’ pretty you are getting wrecked on my cock.”

Your reflection in the mirror is a mess—flushed cheeks, eyes glassy with lust, your lips parted in a constant stream of breathless moans. You feel embarrassment mixing with the arousal swirling through your stomach, thighs shaking wildly from the onslaught of pleasure.

The loud slap of skin on skin rings through the tiny bathroom, underscored by the wet gush of your pussy around him each time he buries himself in you.

If anyone were to walk by, they’d surely hear it. They’d know someone was getting fucked, really taking it. The thought alone has you tightening around Logan’s cock, velvety walls clenching around him desperately. 

Logan notices, because of course he does, clever eyes picking up on the way your own drift to the door, lingering.

He threads his fingers through your hair, meanly yanking your head back to the mirror, a feral grin stretching across his face as he watches the way you fall apart for him. 

“Want me to howl for you, baby?” he teases, breath hot against the shell of your ear. You can feel the way his lips curve into an evil grin at the pathetic whine that bursts from your lips, at the feel of your pussy drooling around him even more than before.  

“She likes that, huh?” he chuckles darkly, his thumb finds your throbbing clit, rubbing tight circles as his hips speed up impossibly faster. “Dirty fuckin’ girl, you want everyone to know how good I’m givin’ it to you?”

You whimper, overwhelmed by the raw intensity of his words and the rhythm of his thrusts. Your thighs are trembling, barely able to hold you up as Logan takes you apart, piece by piece, with every deep, punishing stroke.

"Answer me," he growls, voice dripping with dominance as his hips snap against you, the head of his cock slamming into that perfect spot inside you again and again. "You want everyone to hear what a dirty little slut you are for me, huh? You want them to know how much you love being fucked like this?"

“Yes,” you gasp, your voice shaky and breathless as pleasure floods your system. "Yes, Logan, fuck—ah! Just—just don’t stop."

Logan growls, low and feral deep in his chest. It shakes through your body, rattling your bones just as much as the heavy smack of his metal laced pelvis against the raw skin of your ass.

“Greedy fuckin’ pussy, I can feel the way she’s sucking me in, baby,” he grits out, hips stuttering slightly. “She want my come, darlin’?"

You’re a mess of gasps and whimpers, nodding frantically as his words push you closer to the edge. Throwing your hips back to meet his thrusts as the spring inside you coils tighter and tighter, a hair's breadth away from snapping.

"Yes, please, Logan," you moan, your fingers digging into the counter as you brace yourself for the relentless onslaught of his cock. "I want it, want you to come inside me." 

Logan’s hips stutter as he slams into you, his cock buried so deep inside you it feels like he’s splitting you in half. He’s close, his breath coming out in ragged pants as his hand tightens around your throat, fingers pressing against your pulse just hard enough to make you dizzy.

“You’re gonna come for me,” he growls, heavy balls slapping against your ass lewdly. “Gonna come all over my cock, aren’t you? And then I’m gonna fill you up. Gonna fuck my come so deep inside you, you’ll be beggin’ me to give you more.”

That’s all it takes for the coil in your belly to snap, pleasure surging through you in hot, uncontrollable waves. You cry out, your vision blurring as your body clenches around him, and Logan lets out a rough growl, driving into you harder, faster. 

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, dragging out every last second of your orgasm until you’re shaking, your voice hoarse from how loud you’re moaning.

“Goddamn, baby,” he mutters, his voice thick with lust as he keeps fucking into your trembling body. “You’re squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight—gonna come so deep in you.”

Your breath is coming in short, desperate gasps, your entire body still shaking from the aftershocks of your orgasm. But Logan isn’t finished. He used the fistful of your hair still trapped in his hand, tugging your head back to meet his wild gaze in the mirror. 

“Eyes on me,” he commands, his pace growing erratic. “You want me to fill you up? Want me to come in this tight little pussy?”

“Yes, Logan,” you manage to choke out, your voice barely a whisper. “Please—I need it.”

With a deep, broken groan of your name, Logan slams into you one last time, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you, hot and thick. His fingers tighten on your throat, and you moan at the feeling of his cock pulsing, filling you up to the brim. 

You can’t stop the whine that falls from your lips at the feel of his come spraying your insides, completely drenching you with it. So much that it just has to take.

A shudder runs through you at the idea, pussy clenching around his spent cock weakly.

Logan sighs contently, dropping his head to rest on your shoulder as he catches his breath, hands falling to your waist like it's the only anchor keeping him from floating away entirely.

For a moment, the only sounds in the room are your ragged breaths and the faint thump of the music outside bleeding through the walls.

Logan tips his head back up, meeting your hazy eyes in the fogged up glass of the mirror with a shit-eating grin. “Happy fuckin’ Halloween,” he says smugly, dropping a kiss to the sweaty skin of your shoulder. 

You huff, rolling your eyes with a reluctant fondness. The thought of walking back out there makes your stomach turn, nerves and arousal churning together at the chance that everyone knows what you two were doing after disappearing for so long.

You only hope the white fabric of your bloomers is good enough at hiding the come already leaking from your pussy.

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

[reshinless]

sylus is a girl dad.

sylus whose daughter loves telling everyone hi, with a wave and a cheeky smile (in hopes to find a mom and a wife for her papa)

she, who bumps into you while running around the candy isle.

"oh sweetheart, are you okay?" she immediately gets up to see who she bumped into-

"oh wow.. you're so pretty, lady!" she cheers as you pick her up. "mmhm? where's your parents, honey?" you search signs for any parents.bmaybe she was just wandering?

no no, a kid with this type of fashion would not just 'be roaming around'. she had a necklace with her own name on it.

"my daddy would like you." the small white-haired little girl looked at you with awe. playing with your hair as she leaned onto your chest, as if she was ready to call you mom.

you started to walk around the store, asking around if they'd seen her parents. but every stranger you met- to no avail did you get to find any clue. let alone the man himself.

"sweetheart, do you know what you're papa looked like?" tucking in one of her stray strands of hair behind her ears as she nods her head. "yeah, handsome and very nice. he is very tall too! and.. ummm... he has my hair!" huh.. you couldn't find anyone else that seemed to have similar hair to hers.

"ah, there you are scarlett. don't roam around aimlessly. you heard a low voice coming from behind you. oh this must be her father.

oh- wow. he was definitely a lot more different than expected. you expected an appearance similar to the way his little girl had dressed. "papa! look i found pretty woman!" she pulled on your collar, asking you to get closer.

'you.. you're her dad?" you looked back at the little pearl you had in your arms, she was wearing all pink and a dash of white. and compared it to the man in front of you's look. a black suit paired with a few touches of red here and there.

you chuckled at first, getting to converse a little deeper with the tall man, although he looked scary, he was not as unfriendly as he seemed.

"you're good with kids, hmm?" the white-haired male hummed, looking into your e/c eyes, he definitely could hold it. "I suppose!" you cheer as you watch the small girl run back and forth, grabbing unhealthiness off the shelves.

"miss! can you pretty please buy this for me?" she grinned, oh what a cute little smile! sylus suddenly stopped you by your shoulder; "I'm really sorry for her behavior, she doesn't usually act like this. scarlett, go put it back." the last of his sentence almost sounded nice, but a twinge of anger in it. well, understandably..

"don't worry, i can buy it for her. which one did you want again?" you stepped closer, kneeling down to her level, watching her point out what chocolate bar she wanted.

he had to marry you.

after a quick trip to the counter, the small girl happily munched on her candy, smiling a teethy grin at you. bits of chocolate over her mouth. "hey, careful now, chocolate can stain easily.." you walked to her, wiping her mouth with a part of your clothing.

"hey- you didn't have to do that." sylus was too late to stop you, the mocha already stained onto your shirt. "huh? oh it's nothing much really, I'm fine. they're just clothes anyway."

"let me repay you."

"no, no need really!"

"let me."

"no! it's fine!"

he grabbed your hand not too roughly, but places what looked like at least one-thousand dollars?!

by the time you looked up from counting the money, he had already gone. oh, what's this? a note?

"call me XXXX-XXX-XXX when you find something." huh. his number? now that's interesting!

[confused-pyramid]

Breaking Point

pairing: art donaldson x fem!reader

summary: You and Art were hitting partners (and a bit more) in college, so when you run into him a decade later at the U.S. Open, old sparks reignite...

word count: 3.4k

warnings: SMUT, p in v, oral (fem!receiving), slight marking, drinking

a/n: I watched Challengers last night and then wrote this whole thing in one sitting. Nothing in this is really canon other than Art being a major simp lol so no spoilers for the movie! I usually make playlists (or at least find a few songs that get me in the zone) when writing, so I thought I'd start sharing them here too if people are interested!

You should've known he'd be here. You've been following his career for the last decade since you graduated, and ever since he won Wimbledon last year, he's been tennis royalty, but a small part of you still thought you wouldn't run into him here. At the fucking U.S. Open.

Stanford was a lifetime ago, and you haven't kept in touch with anyone from the college team, but there was always something about Art Donaldson that stuck with you. Ten years later, that hasn't changed.

"It's been so long," he calls out when he spots you from across the practice courts. "I didn't think I'd see you."

You didn't either, and you still haven't decided how you feel about it yet, but when he jogs over to your side, you just shrug. "Guess it's your lucky day."

He smiles, and his teeth glimmer in the bright sunlight. "It certainly is."

The loud thwacks of tennis balls hitting rackets echo around you, but you can't seem to focus on anything but the man standing in front of you. He looks good.

He was beautiful in college too, whether he was training across the net or slipping into your bed, but it feels different now, with so much time apart. He looks like a man now.

"Anyway," Art says, jerking you back to reality. "We should get a drink sometime. To catch up."

He adds the last part almost as an afterthought, but it doesn't escape your notice how his eyes have been trailing up and down your body since he walked over.

A drink could mean almost anything with Art Donaldson, but you're too curious to refuse. "Sure. This weekend, after the semi-finals."

He nods, his eyes glinting with amusement, and you grab your bag from the bench beside you before looping the strap over your shoulder.

You walk off the practice courts after one last glance over your shoulder, and you feel his eyes following along until the doors swing shut behind you.

***

He should've expected this. You were a firecracker in college, and you kept him on his toes every single day you were together, so he really should have known what he was getting into when he met you for drinks that weekend.

Instead, he's one too many beers in, and his buzz is only enhancing the glow of your beauty in the hazy bar light. Your dress isn't even that low cut, but something about the shadows glancing over your strong shoulders reminds him of late nights in the Stanford dorms after a hard practice when there was only one thing he wanted more than sleep.

"You played really well this morning," he says genuinely as he sets his beer back onto the table. "After that first set, Mueller didn't stand a chance."

You flash him a dazzling smile as you shrug, resting your chin on your palm. "I had her after the third game, but thanks. It was a quick match."

Art hasn't taken his eyes off of you since you sat down, and while prolonged eye contact usually makes you nervous, you find that you're actually enjoying the attention quite a bit. Attentiveness was never an issue with him, and you would normally give in to your urges, but there's just too much history with him, and you can't afford to lose focus. Not when the title is so close you can taste it.

"I hear the networks are eyeing you for a commentator post," you say, trying to change the subject.

You trace your finger around the rim of your nearly empty margarita, before lifting it to take a final sip, and you don't miss how his throat bobs as you lick the salt off your lips.

"Uh, yeah," he mumbles, clearing his throat. "It was just some chatter, but I'm not looking to retire anytime soon."

You frown. "Is that right?" He's playing better than ever, but he definitely hasn't been himself out on the court in years.

He glances down, clearly trying to avoid the scrutiny, and when his eyes land on your empty glass, he changes the subject again. "You want another drink?"

You shake your head, knowing that another will lead to a less than fun morning, but he isn't done yet.

"You sure?" His eyes find yours again, and this time the eye contact feels primal. "It doesn't have to be here."

Your eyebrows lift and you tilt your head with a knowing smile. "Where were you thinking?"

"I don't know," he shrugs, before his lips curve up into a cheeky grin. "My room's nice."

You saw it coming from a mile away, but it still pulls a laugh out of you. "Oh, I'm sure it is, but this isn't college anymore, Art. You should get some sleep...focus on your match in the morning."

You push your glass forward and stand up, nodding at him as you turn to leave, but then you see him stand too out of the corner of your eye.

"I'll walk you to your car."

He looks at you with a hint of amusement in his expression, and you can't help but want to play along, even though Art Donaldson was nothing but trouble for you.

You don't respond, instead just stepping out from around the table and walking out the front doors of the bar. You don't have to turn back to know he's right behind you, and when you reach your car, parked in the center of the nearly empty parking lot, you spin around.

He doesn't stop walking until he has you practically boxed in by your driver's side door, his face less than a foot from yours as he tucks his hands into his pockets.

He had pushed his sleeves back at some point in the night, from the humid summer heat of the bar, and you can see the veins on his forearms now, under the dim light of the street lamps.

"This is me," you say jokingly, tipping your chin at your car as he looks at you with an expression you can't distinguish. "I'm good from here."

He doesn't move.

It's not that you expected him to give up so easily; you had just forgotten how persistent he could be.

Art's mouth stretches into a slanted smile. "Do you remember the Davis Invitational? Junior year."

Speaking of his persistence...he had been pursuing you for months, not in any tangible way, but you always knew what he was thinking.

After the invitational, where you and Art had been the respective men's and women's champions, you had gone back to his dorm to celebrate. Three hours and just as many vodka shooters later, he had finally gotten you in his bed. Not that you were complaining.

Art knew his way around your body, and even that first night, he had managed to get you off more times than you can remember.

"What about it?" you shoot back, your eyebrows raising at the insinuation.

"Nothing," he says with a shrug, but you don't miss the humor glinting in his eyes. "You just used to be a lot more fun to celebrate with."

"Fuck you," you spit out, shoving his shoulder harder than you mean to. He barely budges, instead grabbing your hand and tugging you a few inches closer, and suddenly a wave of lust washes over you, making your breath hitch.

You press your thighs together under your dress, hoping he can't feel the heat spreading across your skin, but then his smile turns to a smirk and you know you're done for.

"What do you think?" he whispers, leaning in so close that his lips brush over your earlobe. "Want to celebrate?"

Molten lava pools in your gut and you are only peripherally aware of his hand sliding down your hips to the flowy edge of your dress. His fingers glide over your skin as his hand goes under the loose fabric, before rising up to grab your ass, drawing your hips flush with his.

Your arousal is already starting to soak through your panties, but the feeling of his hard bulge pressed up against you sends you flying back to reality.

You lift your hands to his chest and push him back so that he's a few steps away from you. It's not far enough, but at least you can't feel him from there. "I'm not fucking you, Art."

He shrugs, his smirk only slightly shaken. "Who said anything about fucking? I just wanted to talk."

You huff out a laugh. "You're funny. Besides, I'm too tired for this. I need to rest up before my match."

"What about tomorrow night then?" His lip is still curved up in a smirk, but there's an earnestness in his gaze that surprises you.

"What makes you think you'll still be here tomorrow?"

His mouth spreads into a wide smile. "I always win."

You snort. "Fine. Win your match and we can talk."

You don't miss the grin on his face as you climb into your car and leave.

***

You win your next match in straight sets again, so by the time you're out of the locker room, Art's match is still in play. Driven by a mixture of curiosity and intrigue, you head over to his court and find a seat halfway up the stands.

He has won two of three sets, and he's leading the fourth, so with the prospect of the match ending soon, you use the time to observe him from a different angle.

His form is much better than it was in college, and you've seen him play countless times on TV, but you haven't really let yourself see how good he looks out there. The sinewy muscles rippling in his arms as he lifts them to serve. The rugged sturdiness of his legs as he races back and forth across the court.

You wish you could be down there with him, running your hands over the smooth lines of his abdomen, tasting the drops of sweat as they roll down his body-

The crowd erupts in cheers, and you are thrust back into reality as Art throws his arms into the air with a loud whoop. The scoreboard confirms his victory, and you clap along with the audience as he shakes his opponent's hand and heads over to his chair.

People around you stand up to leave, but you stay in your seat, watching as he grabs his bag and stuffs his rackets inside. When he wipes a towel over his face, his head turns up and his eyes immediately go to you, like he knew you were here the whole time.

Your stomach does an involuntary flip and he flashes his eyebrows at you as you bit the inside of your lip, trying to hold back a smile.

When he ducks back down to grab his things, you stand up quickly to avoid letting him see your blush and follow the rest of the crowd off of the stands.

***

You hear it late that night. Three little raps on your hotel room door, just before midnight.

You're in the finals, and you don't have any friends here to celebrate with, so you were sipping a beer and watching old match recordings when you heard the knock.

There's no one else who would come to see you this late, so you're not surprised when you open the door to find Art, dressed in a tee shirt and comfy-looking pajama pants.

"What are you doing here?" you ask, even though you already know the answer.

Art just looks at you, his pupils already massive. "You said if I win, we could talk." He shrugs. "I won."

"Okay," you concede, opening the door wider to let him in. "Just talking then."

He nods, before following you inside and shutting the door.

"You want anything to drink?" you ask as he trails behind you.

He shakes his head. "I'm good."

You grab your beer bottle from the side table and sit down on the floor, crossing your legs beneath you.

Art sits across from you, his feet in front of him and his elbows on his knees. You were assigned to a modestly sized room, but for someone as tall as him, the space must feel cramped.

"How did the match feel?" you ask, taking a swig of beer.

He thinks for a moment. "It was close at first, but once I shook my legs out, it became a breeze."

"Your legs were never the problem," you say, leveling him with a serious look. "It was always your attitude. Or your confidence."

He frowns, his eyebrows scrunching slightly. "I'm plenty confident."

"You are now," you tell him as you swirl the bottle around in your hand. "You won Wimbledon, you have a reason to be confident."

That makes him smile. "So you're saying my legs are fine."

"Yeah," you say before you can process what you're saying. "You looked good out there."

His smile turns to a smirk so fast it nearly gives you whiplash. "You think I look good?"

You let out an exasperated scoff. "At tennis."

His grin doesn't falter so you roll your eyes at him before lifting the bottle to your lips to take another swig. When you tilt the bottle back down to swallow, his hand reaches forward to take it from you. Your grip on the beer doesn't loosen, so the motion sends you pitching forward.

Your mouth parts with a small yelp as his arm wraps around you, tugging you closer, and before you can process what's happening, his lips are on yours.

If you let yourself think too hard, you would realize that there is way too much shared history and way too much baggage here for this to be a good idea...so that's why you don't.

Instead, you let him pull your body flush against his and when his tongue slides over the seam of your lips, you grant him access immediately. Your shirts come off in quick succession and you gasp as his hands run up and down your body, his strong, calloused fingers grasping at every inch of purchase they can find. Yours reach up to tangle in his messy hair, and when his lips move down your neck, your grip tightens, making him moan quietly against your skin.

Something about being on the floor takes you back to your college days, when you'd both be so worked up after practice that you couldn't even make it to the bed, but that feels too real right now.

"Art," you whisper as he runs his lips and teeth over your neck, before replacing it with his tongue to soothe the quickly blossoming marks. "Art, the bed. Now."

It takes him a second to process your words, but when he does, he loops an arm around your waist and lifts you up and onto the bed in one motion, before pushing you back onto the covers.

By the time your head hits the bed, he's already pulling your shorts and panties down, exposing you to the cool air. His lips follow the path of his hands as they trace up your legs, making you squirm under the hot touch of his rough fingers. He presses wet kisses to the insides of your thighs before spreading them apart and dropping to his knees on the floor in front of you.

"So wet for me," he whispers, almost to himself, before he dives in, his mouth making lewd noises as he licks a thick stripe up your core. "You taste so good."

He lifts your legs over his shoulders to give himself some leverage as he makes a mess between your thighs, licking and sucking your clit into his mouth before fucking you with his tongue.

His grip on your thighs is the only thing keeping you pinned to the bed as you writhe beneath him, trying to not squeeze your legs together from the heat spreading up your core.

His mouth feels amazing and it takes only minutes before you're already nearing the edge. You don't want to come until he is inside of you, though, so you yank his hair, pulling him up and off of you.

He looks up at you through his lashes, and he looks ethereal with his disheveled hair and his chin wet with your slick.

You, on the other hand, look like heaven itself with your eyes half-hooded from pleasure, and he can't help the grin that crosses his face as he licks his lips and climbs over you onto the bed. He lets you taste yourself as he kisses you again, and he lets out a low groan when you bite his lip just hard enough to sting.

"Fuck me," you gasp, your voice too breathy to be actually authoritative. "Fuck me the way I like."

Art grins at your desperate tone and the wild lust in your eyes, committing this image to memory for a later time when you're much further away.

He kicks his pants off as he lifts you both further up the bed, and after covering himself with a condom from his back pocket, he lines himself up and slowly pushes forward.

He gives you a few moments to adjust to his size before slowly pulling out nearly all the way and then thrusting in again.

The slight pain turns to pleasure almost immediately, but he keeps his pace steady so as not to hurt you. You need more right now, so you wrap your legs around him for leverage and flip him over so that you're straddling him.

He groans as his head hits the pillow, and when he tries to sit up, you press your hands to his chest, pushing him down as you ride him. This position gives you a lot more control, and you use it to your advantage as you bounce yourself on his cock, feeling the way he fills you up so fully from this higher angle.

His fingers dig into your hips as he helps lift you up and down, and his eyes are practically feral as he watches the spot where his cock disappears inside of you.

He's the perfect size to fill you up completely, and with each swivel of your hips, you get closer and closer to your climax, which is approaching so fast you can taste it.

You cry out when he hits exactly the right spot deep inside of you, and his eyes fly to yours as your movements start to stutter from your impending release.

Needing to see the look on your face when you come, he pushes your lower back forward so you fall against his chest, before lifting himself up to meet you halfway. With one arm locked around you, he brings his other hand down between the two of you to rub quick circles over your clit. The new angle lets him thrust up into you, and the increased pace of his movements mixed with the speed of his fingers sends you flying over the edge.

Your mouth falls open with a loud cry, and you squeeze him so tightly he's practically seeing stars. You look so beautiful when you come, like a goddess sent down here just for him, and when your eyes meet his, he finds his own climax.

His body jerks forward with the force of his release, and you let him thrust a few more times as he finally finishes inside of you.

After pulling out, he tugs you down to lay next to him, and at first you let him, but the emotions warring inside of you don't stay quiet for long.

You know that whatever this was isn't going to go anywhere. You didn't work in college, and you won't work now, and you don't want anyone to get hurt again, so you have to make a choice. Now.

"I need to get some rest," you say quietly, a tiny part of you hoping he doesn't hear you. "Before the next match."

"Yeah," he sighs after a beat. "Me too."

You let him hold you for a moment longer, before he unwraps himself from your body and sits up, tugging his shirt and pants back on. You tug the sheet back and wrap it around your torso as he stands up and walks to the door.

You're not sure what you're expecting as he goes to leave, but what you get is a silent nod as the door swings shut behind him.

[pellucid-constellations]

All Over Again

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: You're drunk. Your mate is trying to get you home. Only problem is—you're really, really drunk.

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: Drinking, absolutely zero attempt to establish a pov on my part

a/n: A cute little drabble because if it all fell is making me a tiny bit sad and I love this trope <3

Main Masterlist ♡

~~

The world spun around you as you let out a delighted laugh, faerie wine pulsing in your veins. This was bliss, and—admittedly—the most fun you’d had in months. The workload you’d been dealt this last year was one for the books. 

“Exactly how many drinks did you have?” Feyre asked you, red and green rays lighting up her face in time with the beat inside Rita’s. 

“So many,” you yelled back, flinging your arms around her shoulders. “So many and I’m going to have more!” 

The High Lady chuckled and swayed with you as you dragged her around the dancefloor. 

This was good for you, your friends had decided, a girl’s night where you could let go of all your responsibilities and inhibitions and then sleep for a solid two days afterward. Feyre and Mor had agreed to stay relatively sober to watch over you, but Mor was just as intoxicated as you were at this point.

“Mor!” you screamed, the shout directed fully into Feyre’s ear. She flinched, but you just continued. “Mor, come here! We can all dance together!” 

The blonde was pulled into the circle of fae, but very little “dancing” took place. You were far past the level of functional inebriation. 

“We should get Azriel,” Feyre shouted over your head, trying to catch the attention of her very distracted friend. 

But Mor just laughed and asked, “Who the hell is that?” as she left the pair to join a woman in a dazzling purple dress at the bar. 

Feyre bit back a sigh, still feeling patient with the small amount of alcohol running through her. “We should go home, yeah?” she attempted, catching your clutch as it tumbled out of your hands. 

You responded with a loud, “Woo!” and Feyre knew she needed to call in reinforcements. A quick outstretch of her mind and the request was sent. 

“This is so much fun!” Your smile was infectious, Feyre replicating it unconsciously as she watched you jump around. “I love you!” you screamed at her—again, directly into her ear. 

It was a few short minutes before Azriel’s presence was felt inside the overcrowded pleasure hall. Small streams of black shadows had begun to slink around your shoulders and arms with you none the wiser to their arrival. Feyre smirked when you jumped at a hand on your back. 

“Hello, my love,” Azriel said, voice low as he bent over to relay the words. “Having fun?” 

Your responding screech had panic flashing across the spymaster’s face, the man simply watching as you threw yourself against Feyre’s chest. He sent a tentative hand out in your direction, but you only pressed further into your friend. 

“Y/n—” Azriel began. 

“I’m married,” you seethed. “I have a mate,” you doubled down. 

Azriel blinked. 

He looked around him, checking behind his tightly coiled wings and past the broad expanse of his shoulders. 

When no other fae appeared to be lurking near his mate, Azriel returned his attention to the pair in front of him, his hazel eyes meeting your piercing (but rather hazy) glare. 

“Y/n, I am… well aware that you have a mate,” he replied, shaking his head to match his slow words. 

You scoffed, sending Feyre a glance as if to say, “Can you believe this guy?” 

“Well, then you should be well aware—” A shaky, misguided finger pointed close to where Azriel was standing “—that I am not interested in you. Got that?” 

A smile paired with furrowed brows conveyed the vast array of Azriel’s current feelings. He watched as you sent him another scathing glare and turned back to your High Lady, noticing the uneven way you stood and the handful of your belongings being managed by your friend. 

“She’s had a lot to drink,” Feyre emphasized. “I’ve been trying to get her to go home but she won’t budge. I thought you’d be able to persuade her. She’s been talking about you nonstop.” 

You were maneuvered into a quieter hallway as Feyre recounted your adventures of the night, making sure to catalog each drink she saw you consume. Azriel fought back a grimace as he pictured you in the morning. You had the worst hangovers. 

“Y/n,” Feyre began, offering you an encouraging smile as you blearily blinked at her words. “Azriel’s here. Do you want to see him? He said he’d bring you home with him.” 

This time, you gasped, face betraying you as it heated with embarrassment. “You called Azriel here?” 

“Mhm, and he said he’s terribly exhausted and needs you to come home for the night.” 

You gaped. “He wants me to come home with him?” 

Standing at your back, Azriel felt his expression pucker in confusion. Hadn’t you just chastised him for flirting with you, a married woman? A married woman who was married to him? 

Feyre seemed to agree with that sentiment as she nodded and said, “Of course he does. He always wants you with him.” 

Your eyes grew wide, hands reaching out to grip Feyre’s shoulders in a serious motion. “Did you tell him?” you panicked. “Fey, you promised you wouldn’t tell him. It could ruin everything.” 

Azriel was suddenly catapulted back about 20 years to when you were too nervous to tell him you were in love with him and Azriel was too much of an idiot to tell you that you were his mate. But that time had passed, thankfully, long ago. The two of you were now very much in love, both mated and married shortly after the inner circle had meddled in your affairs. 

Looking past his disorientation, Azriel caught your wide, pleading gaze directed at Feye. 

“Y/n?” he asked, craning his neck to catch your eyes. When you slowly turned in mortification, a soft kind of adoration pulled at his chest. “Hey,” he smiled. “I’m going to take you home, alright?” 

“O-Okay,” you blushed, taking his outstretched hand in your own. “To my apartment?” 

“No, I thought we’d go to mine. That alright?” he asked, voice gravelly and low and echoing off the long hallway inside Rita’s. 

It didn't matter that you were actually going to his house. The one the two of you shared. 

Instinctually, Azriel grabbed your hand, twinning his fingers with yours and pulling you closer. You, however, so drunk that you were unsure of your current whereabouts or today's date, let out a shaky breath at the intimacy. Azriel felt your fingers tremble between his own. 

“Is this okay?” he found himself asking. 

You nodded jerkily, and Azriel relished in the feeling of falling in love with you all over again. It was an immensely better experience than you pushing him away and accusing him of preying on married women. 

His married woman, but that was beside the point. 

A few steps in silence. You shivered with the rush of cool air outside the pleasure hall. Azriel shifted his wings out, enveloping you in their warmth. 

“Um,” you began, fiddling with his fingers as they rested beside yours. “It’s really nice of you to walk me home.” 

His heart was going to burst. Seeing you, his mate, so shy and reserved and hopelessly enamored by him in such a public way was endlessly endearing. 

“Of course. I would never let you walk home alone,” he replied evenly. And then, to spice things up, he added, “I told you I would always protect you. I meant that.” 

“You said th—” 

You whipped your head to the side as you spoke, losing your balance with the alcohol coursing through you. Your feet fumbled over each other and Azriel caught your hip to deter you from making a full-on beeline for the ground. After he was sure you were not going to plummet to your death, he tucked your hair back from your face. 

“You are my mate,” he said, so assuredly. It was a truth ingrained within him. “I will always walk you home.” 

Your eyes went wide, fingers wrapped tightly around his arms as he held you. You held eye contact with your mate, a feat in and of itself with the state of your head, and he watched as your tongue came out to wet your lips. 

And then, just because he could—because you were his and because you probably wouldn’t remember this in the morning—he whispered, “I love you.” 

The sharp intake of breath that followed his words was apparently too much for your alcohol-addled brain. You let out a small squeak, blinked at him several times, and then, you fainted. Directly into your mate's arms. 

Azriel carried you home (the one you two shared, to clarify yet again), silently laughing to himself, feeling quite smug at the outcome that night. 20 years and he still felt the same. 20 years and he was still in disbelief that he got to walk you home. 

[on-the-clear-blue]

Dead Man's Diner pt 2

Danny had to admit, Lunch Lady was an excellent teacher.

Sure they were blitzing though a cook book thst was more tape and hope the paper, but Danny was for once actually understanding and enjoying being taught.

Cracking an egg into a bowl, Danny held it close while whisking quickly, not fully incorporating the flour in his pancake batter before dumping a good sized dollop on the flat top, smiling from the brief sizzle that he heard.

There was a sudden cacophony sounds from the front of house (which was the dining area? He never knew that before) putting the flat top on low, Danny looked over to where Lunch Lady was floating only to find nothing.

Blinking a bit, Danny wiped his hands off OK his apron as he poked his head out, frowning at the diner car, "What was that..." his words were cut off by one of the blinds slats bending as if pried open, and as he squinted, Danny saw two figures watching from a distance ontop another rail car.

Vigilantes

Danny felt his heart flutter with excitement, while not as cool as maybe Martian Manhunter or StarFire (since y'know...fucking aliens, Space) the Gotham caped community were interesting, if only since Batman and his Flock were Sam's low key obsession, she had even gone out as Robin for multiple Halloweens, and don't even get him started on the fan theories about them all.

Smirking he tapped the bar, allowing thr blinds to snap closed, "Sam is so going to flip that I saw the Birds before her." Letting out a little giggled, Danny quickly swore as he smelt a bit of burning and rushed to flip his pancakes.

---

Tim was, in Dicks opinion, the most concerning member of the family, sure most days he gives of "miserable wet cat" energy but even then Dick had seen his little brother easily take down guys that even Bruce had trouble with.

That wasnt even touching on his um...mental quirks

The less he speaks of the time period between Bruce's and Kons deaths till their eventual return, the better.

Putting down the binoculars, Dick stole a glance over at Red Robin, who was frowning deeply at his wrist computer, scooting a little closer Dick leaned over to see what was happening, "Whatcha do~oing?"

So entranced by what he was reading Tim jumped a little, an elbow flying out to where Dicks face had been a second ago as he turned and glared.

"Don't...! Do that Wing! Ugh..." shaking his head as he let out a huff Tim took his eyes off the small monitor and looked up at the diner car, pointing at it as he spoke scornfuly.

"That place does not exist."

"Like, legally? I am sure Batburger doesn't either-"

"No." Tim said, cutting the older vigilante off, "It doesn't exist physically."

"Timmy..." Dick said as he ran through the protocols for when RedRobin got a little too many insane things in his head.

"Get that look off your face Wing, it really doesn't exist, like..." letting out a sigh, the teen tried to put his words right "Don't look straight at it but a bit to the side so it's to the side of your eye." Pointing to a middle distance a bit away from the diner cart, Dick sent a small frown at his brother but did as he was asked.

"Holy leaping lizards..." Tim, somehow, was right, since when Dick just looked about a few feet away from the diner, it started to waver turning...transparent? And a little blue? But when he looked at it closer it was just a normal, abet run down looking diner.

"Exactly, no need to bench me till Agent A stuffs me full of anti-psychotics!"

"That was one time Tim, and you were having a mental break down."

"I am not lying when I say we killed Santa Claus Dick!"

"Sure Tim...sure"

---

Danny drummed his fingers on the breakfast bar, nursing a cup of coffee as he waited for something to happen.

He knew thst he was being watched, he had a vague idea who was doing the watching, but was starting to get a bit bored waiting for them to get closer.

Pausing mid sip, a grin spread across Danny's lips, "Hey cart? Can you do something that might draw those guys over here? Let's get some customers!"

Some how, Danny's grin only grew at the rumble of the cart, and he xould hav sworn he heard a sound that was a mix between a train horn and a chuckle.

---

Tim shot his brother a stinging glare, swatting at his arm as he blushed, he did every much indeed accidentally killed Santa Claus and took an impromptu trip to Apokolips to give DarkSeid coal.

His next rebuttal to Nightwing was cut off as the diner cart shuddered as if it was in an earthquake before it stilled, and the banner that was across it suddenly gained a new line.

[JUST NOW! VIGILANTES AND HEROS GET ONE FREE SIDE OF FRIES! COME ON IN BEFORE THE OFFER ENDS!]

Tim was silent for a moment, watching the cart to see if there was any more changes before turning to Dick, who had lost the joyful energy that he always seemed to have.

"RR, plans changed, we are going to investigate inside."

Tim gave a sharp nod, his bo staff elongating as he grappled down to the train tracks below, his boots crunching gravel underfoot as he slipped from shadow to shadow, getting closer to Big C's diner.

---

Danny was in the back, flipping through his cook book as he heard a bell ring, jolting up, Danny could see through the service window and see who came in.

He had never met a real hero before, not like the two that had just came in, feeling nervous, Danny fumbled with a small notebook as he came out from the kitchen, grinning at the two Birds.

"Heya! Thanks for coming to Big C's! Names Danny and I am kinda the only one in today, what can I get you both?"

His eyes flickered between the two vigilantes, noticing new things each time he looked at them, like how Red Robin's cape had buttons instead of being sown on, or how Nightwings suit wasn't slick but actually textured.

---

Dick looked at everything he could as he stood in the diners door, it looked like a typical 50s styled mom and pop kinda place, an old radio buzzed with songs of a bygone era while the seats were cracked pink leather vinyl.

He could hear someone moving in the back, resting a hand on his eskrima sticks, Dick stalked further in, it felt real enough...

He could feel Red Robin knock into his back as the person from the back came into view, it was a teen, and holy hell did he look like Bruce Wayne adoption bait, raven hair, blue eyes and a cheesy looking grin.

He couldn't be older than Damian, who had turned 16 a few months ago, the teen was just so...tiny.

Danny, that's the name given to them, and Dick can see it, he looked like a Danny.

Pausing to look to Tim, Dick smiled back at the teen, "Well...can we see a menu?"

[crashandlivewrites]

Bathroom Habits with the 141 Boys

These were random thoughts that I had so I wanted to make it a thing with some input from @soapsgf

TF141 x GN!Reader

CW: it gets mildly steamy in a couple of them, but relatively domestic otherwise

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

Chronic shower sharer. If you’re showering, he’s showering. Just enjoys spending the time with you

Hogs the water and adjusts the temperature for his liking, even if you got in there first

Washes your hair and body tenderly, massaging you gently with your favourite soaps and presses soft kisses to your shoulders as the water rinses your skin

Always comments on the smell of everything and tells you his favourites so you buy them again. Also takes into consideration the smells you like best on him

Loves when you return the favour and wash him. He’s a glutton for being pampered

Avid skin-care enthusiast. You don’t get skin that pretty without some TLC. Definitely takes sunscreen away with him

If you’re into skin-care as well, he enjoys doing it together (read: he enjoys lying in your lap and having you take care of his skin for him. Don’t worry, he’ll return the favour)

Does enjoy a cheeky swipe of moisturiser on your face when you’re not paying attention then bolts out of the room before you can retaliate

He’s also a neat man, meticulously laying out your bathroom bench or shelves with products so they’re easy to grab

Enjoys having his face mostly clean shaven when he’s home, but goes to a barber more often than doing it himself

Pushes the toothpaste from the bottom, making it easy to get most of it out

John Price

Not really a fan of sharing showers but enjoys sharing the bathroom at the same time

He likes doing his beard routine/ casual trims if you’re in the shower and vice versa for your small daily tasks whether it be hair or skin care

However, if you are looking to have a bath and you have one big enough to hold you both? You can be damn sure he’s joining you

Also makes it a big deal when he’s back. There’s candles, drinks, bath salts, and a movie playing in the background as you relax, back against his chest

Cannot keep his hands to himself. As you’re paying attention to the movie, his hands are gliding down your sides and over your thighs

Tells you to keep focusing on the movie if you start squirming too much before doubling down

Not big on skin care, but has a beard care range. Thoroughly enjoys spending his time re-shaping his beard especially after coming back, then having you keep up the smaller trims here and there

Does let you put moisturiser and sunscreen on his face but that’s it

Enjoys brushing, stroking, and/ or braiding your hair as you brush your teeth

Sits on the toilet for an hour despite knowing it’s bad for his bowel health

Clenches the middle of the toothpaste tube initially, but does push it up from the bottom when it gets low

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish

Gremlin in the bathroom. Invades your space. Like Kyle; if you’re showering, he’s showering even if he’s already washed himself for the day

Unapologetically pees in the shower and on you if you’re not careful

Enjoys washing you. Or rather, your chest. Loves soapy nipples. It’s the cleanest part of your body

Also abuses your body with the detachable shower head, holding it between your legs as he pins you to the wall, making you whine

Encourages you to wash him too, trapping your wrists and running your hands over his body suggestively

Can’t have a minute alone with this man. Always has something to talk to you about or show you so there’s no point closing the door

Washes his face with water; bar soap if he’s particularly dirty. We all know he’s a 3 in 1 user

Skin is crusty when he comes back from missions but sits pretty for you if you want to put moisturiser on his face (read: you’ll have to sit on his chest and pin him down but he likes it)

Also another one to spend an hour on the toilet but doesn’t think it’s an issue. Wants you to sit in there with him (no thanks)

Adores it when you shave his mohawk for him. Pretends he can’t do it himself if you’re around. Loves the way your eyes squint in concentration and move his head around forcefully, barking orders at him to sit still

Squeezes the toothpaste right at the top, doesn’t close the lid and leaves it in the sink

Simon “Ghost” Riley

Like Price, also not a shower sharer fan, especially early on in the relationship

The size of him is the main reason, but also wary of making you anxious about his heavily scarred body

No preference of soap or shampoo, probably whatever he’s stolen from base. Also doesn’t use conditioner

Doesn’t mind sharing the bathroom with you though once he gets comfortable, if you happen to be in there at the same time

If you’re having a bath, he won’t join you in the bath, but rather sit next to it on a stool either silently or having quiet conversations with you

Does love washing your hair as he enjoys the way you moan softly at the feeling of his strong hands pressing into your scalp

Always takes deep breaths of your hair and skin when it’s clean, committing the smell to memory

He wears a mask most of the time. He has acne because he doesn’t really wash it, especially on deployment

Doesn’t really care about treating it, but sits for you if you express an interest in taking care of it for him. He won’t admit it, but he is also a glutton for being pampered

Tries to remember what you’ve told him but forgets when he’s away. Sometimes he remembers moisturiser and sunscreen, but it’s a bit hit and miss

Toothpaste looks like he’s had it for years. All shrivelled, cut open, and squeezed to high hell in order to get every bit out

Thank you for reading!! If you have any requests for hc’s, don’t be afraid to send them through!

[princesssmars]

abby who definitely doesn’t have a thing for showing you off. nsfw.

you remember a certain night a while when you had started dating abby, both curled up on her couch and cozied under a blanket while watching one of your comfort movies. the man on screen was getting jealous at someone hitting on his girlfriend in a bar, and you’d passively asked her if she’d do the same for you.

“ok, be honest. if someone bc was hitting on me in front of you, how would you react?”

“i’d hope as soon as they saw me they’d stop. but i’d probably just tell them to leave you alone unless they escalate.”

“aww, you’re so cordial. so you wouldn’t punch someone in the face for me?”

“of course, but i’m definitely not throwing the first one. i like you but a night in jail is a little too extreme for me.”

you’d laughed together and averted your attention back to the movie, cuddling up closer to her side. at this point the couple had returned to their home, the man pressing the woman up into the wall as he left a collage of love bites over her neck and shoulders.

“what about that? would you do that to me?”

you could feel the woman next to you as she slightly shifted her body, suddenly jittery in her position.

“what like…leave marks on you? for other people to see?”

“yeah, then everyone would already know i’m taken. would save you some time instead of yelling at pervs.”

she let out a stunted little chuckle when you pressed a small kiss to her cheek and grabbed her hand to hold in yours. you noticed the way her eyes locked into the screen when the couples actions started getting heated, the way her chest started to stutter with her breathing.

really, you didn’t have any choice but to take advantage of her clear excitement over the prospect.

the next time you were planned to head out with your girlfriends you wore a top you knew she wouldn’t be able to resist you in, low cut with plenty of your skin on display. it was almost comical the way her eyes became the size of dinner plates when you walked out of the bedroom, strutting over to the woman who sat on the couch and was gripping her thighs so aggressively you thought she might rip her pants.

it was no surprise that only a few minutes later she had you pressed into the cushions under her, lips kissing and biting marks from your neck down to your breasts and stomach. a firm hand gripped the meat of your thigh and bringing it up to wrap around her waist, the other pushed up into your skirt and rubbing you through the fabric of your panties.

your head feels fuzzy as she grinds her fingers up into your clit the same time she bites a deep mark into the special spot on your neck, body and voice involuntarily reacting and pleading for more. you know she wants to give it to you, can tell by the way her whines reverberate each time she finds a new spot on your chest to mark and how her hips grind themselves into her arm to push herself against you even harder.

but still, she pulls away. you’re both breathing heavily, droopy eyed and ogling each other when she quickly stands up and yanks your arm to bring you to a standing position. her hands place themselves on your upper arms when your legs slightly falter and she bites her lip when you look up at her with a whine, not able to come up with the words to ask her why she’d leave you so close to the edge.

wordlessly she grabs your purse and places it in yours hands l, guiding you to the doorway before pressing a lingering kiss on your forehead. you pout before making your way to your car, plopping down in the drivers seat and gasping when you catch a glimpse of your neck and chest in the rear view mirror, shades of reds pinks and purples dusting your skin.

you aren’t given the chance to ask about it before your phone is dinging with an message from abby, the words lighting up the top of your screen.

“let everyone at the club see those, huh?”

[dead-girl-tells-stories]

DC x DP Prompt

To the delight of Gotham's citizens, and the dismay of her criminal underbelly, the GCPD has a new specialized unit that ACTUALLY apprehends criminals and brings them to justice!

It's a relatively small squad of mostly young adults, who looked fresh out of their teens. But age didn't matter once they got the work done. And they did, as they've already got criminals like Penguin, Riddler, and Bane behind bars for what looks to be 'for good'.

No one besides Commissioner Gordan knows anything about the squad as they operate as a mostly separate entity from GCPD. It was rare to see any of them, and any photos taken were unusually blurry. They are also extremely secretive; if you exclude their social media which are usually just shit posts, memes, and thirst edits of the Wayne family.

They were a total mystery. Almost as mysterious as Batman.

But those who have seen/worked with the squad before all had the same thing to say about them. They were cool. They had an unusually effective method. And their leader is a menace. With his sharp teeth and pointed smile. And bright blue eyes that spoke to your soul. It was a pleasure to see/ work with him, it really was. But they weren't planning on doing so again for a long time.

That being said, Gotham had been quiet for a while. A bit too quiet if you ask anyone, especially the Bats. Strangely, it didn't feel like the usual calm before the shit storm. The instinctual pit in their guts that usually formed just wasn't there. This was different. This wasn't the calm before the storm. This was the ocean receding. But no one seemed to realize it yet.

Not until the tsunami came crashing down on them.

The GCPD special unit accounts that had been inactive for the last three months suddenly pinged to life. Everyone who followed them clicked the notification almost immediately. With this unnerving calm surrounding them, who the hell didn't want to see what batshit crazy statement they would make after three months of radio silence.

What they didn't expect, was to see a crystal-clear picture of justice finally being served.

The picture was a selfie, taken in an abandoned warehouse. In the middle of the dirty floor was the Joker. He was tied up and his head hung low. You could see how beaten he was, his clothes torn and bloody. His face paint was also coming off, revealing pale blotchy skin. Reminding everyone that, he was still human, just like the rest of them.

Behind him, all lined up with smiles on their faces, was Team Phantom. They were a bit bloody and bruised as well but overall in much better condition. They weren't wearing the normal GCPD navy blue uniform, but black and white ones. All stylized to fit the wearers taste. They all looked so young, but their eyes looked like old tired eyes, finally getting some relief.

From in the corner was their leader. Only part of his face was in the picture. One glowing blue eye, and part of his Cheshire smile. His hand making a peace sign next to the Joker. Even with only part of his being shown, everyone could tell he was relived as well.

And while the picture itself was shocking, the caption was what really got them. The top was what you would usually expect from the team. A big bold 'GOT EM' ' at the top. But at the bottom in small, almost unnoticeable text was:

"He will face his punishment. We will get our retribution. May we finally rest in peace."

[robo-writing]

Hello!! I came from your single mom one shot and I am in love with how you write Logan. Could we have a worst!Logan and wife!reader at a bar and he’s getting hit on relentlessly by a girl who won’t take the hint even though he has stated that he is happily married MULTIPLE TIMES and then reader comes in and rips the girl a new asshole and Logan likes it a little too much and practically drags her home to fuck because of how hot he got from her getting angry and defending him?

How very Beth Dutton of you op! The girl that stands in front of him flashes him a smile—pearly whites, black hair that reaches down to her back, topped off with a low-cut shirt and a pair of jeans that draw the eye of everyone behind the bar—everyone except him that is.

He knows what she wants from him before she can utter a single word, eyes shamelessly moving across his body with not a hint of subtlety. A few years earlier and it might've worked, she's cute enough. A vixen, all doe-eyed and determined, if he was a younger man she might've been his type. But that's all in the past; she's cute, Logan thinks to himself, but she's not his wife. His eyes don't move from where you're standing at the bar, barely giving the girl more than a passing glance as she speaks. "Hey there, mind if I keep you company?" He almost rolls his eyes, but he keeps himself in check in hopes that he can resolve this without any trouble.

"I do unfortunately," he says, flashing the pretty gold band around his finger as he takes another swig of his beer. His fingers play with the ring around his finger, smiling to himself like a love-struck fool when he remembers what it symbolizes. He'd hope that would be the end of it, but unfortunately for him, it is.

The gal's either too drunk or too pig-headed to get the hint, so instead of backing away she leans in real close, too damn close—close enough that it starts to draw your attention from across the bar.

Suddenly your interest isn't in your drink anymore, and before you can walk closer Logan puts his hands up, mouths out lemme handle this, before speaking up again. "Listen, I'm a taken man." He says with a sigh, giving her his full attention. It doesn't deter her in the slightest, a coy smile tugging on the ends of her lips. "That's a shame. Your wife know you're here?" "She does," he nods with a smile, "and she's right over there." He points right to you, where you raise your glass with a thin-lipped smile, sarcasm evident in your body language. He can tell you're in a good mood tonight because you haven't dragged the girl by the hair yet, and he'd rather not ruin the night because she can't take a hint. Surely, she'll leave—except she doesn't. No, she does the exact opposite; she looks back and sees you, laser-focused on the two of them, and with all the audacity in the world, she fucking smiles back. You almost shatter the damn glass in your hand. "Oh, that's alright," she whispers with a wink. "Lemme go talk to her." His eyebrow damn near reaches his hairline, looking at the young girl as if she's truly lost her damn mind. Normally he wouldn't give a damn if someone wants to catch their death, but he takes pity on her for the sole reason that he really doesn't want to get kicked out. "I don't think that's a good idea." "Don't worry," she says, and to put the icing on the cake she puts her hand on his chest, loops her fingers around his dog tags and tugs him down. "I can handle myself." With that one gesture he knows she's just sealed her fate. No, you can't, he wants to say, but she's already making her way across the bar where you stand, looking like hell itself. You know he doesn't have eyes for anyone else but you, but it doesn't matter—someone else touched what's yours, so you have to remind Logan where home is. He's not really sure if he should feel happy that his girl is so protective of him, or sad that he's about to get kicked out of his favorite bar. Logan sighs and puts his beer down, reaching into his pocket and dialing 9-1-1 just as the telltale sound of glass shattering echoes across the bar. It really is a shame—he liked this bar too. The only good thing that comes from tonight—minus the visual of you with blood across your face—is the jaw-dropping sex that ensues the moment the two of you get home, remnants of rage seeping through every touch as you drag him upstairs by the collar. He's more than happy to let you take the lead, content in being your personal scapegoat if it means he gets to see you bounce on his lap like a woman possessed.

Lips intertwined, clothes askew and hair tousled. The taste of iron—a split lip, he remembers—then moans into your mouth when he remembers how you got it. Is it wrong to say you look your most beautiful when you're mad? He doesn't give a shit if it is, especially if his punishment is your pussy gripping him like a vice. He likes you like this—jealous, protective—it's what drew him to you in the first place, how you bite down on what's your and refuse to let go. From the moment you saw him you staked your claim and he was more than happy to follow you for the ride. "You like it when she touched you?" You mutter, lips pressed against his as you ride him for all your worth. Sweat beads off his brow, eyes closed in bliss, he nods his head no but it's not enough—you want to hear him say it. You teeth dig into the skin of his shoulder, a delicious groan erupting from him as you repeat yourself. "Answer me Lo, did you fucking like it?" "No, no—" he gasps, hands wandering across your body. "Wasn't even looking at her, swear to god—" "And who were you looking at?" you ask, and the answer makes your walls flutter across his cock. He lets you hear him loud and clear, giving you a lop-sided grin as he thrusts up into you.

"You, sweetheart, only you." "Louder," you moan, scratching at the expanse of his back, encouraging him. He repeats himself, fucking into your gushing cunt, his words bringing you to a new high with every thrust. His words are long, drawn out, caught in his throat as he struggles between speaking and catching his breath. "Only got eyes for you baby—fuckin' christ—" He speaks long after you've stopped, so engrossed in pleasure you can barely hear anything beyond your ringing ears and the slap of your ass against his thighs. "All yours baby, all fuckin' yours."

[sugurusfavemonkey]

A Helping Hand summary: Satoru needs help taking care of Megumi and Tsumiki. pairing: Satoru Gojo x reader ୨୧ friends to lovers; mutual pining; domestic fluff; canon divergence - both Gojo and reader are over 18 when Gojo takes in the Fushiguro siblings. word count: 3.8k warnings: very brief suggestive themes by the end that may lead to a spicy pt 2

UPDATE: read part 2 here

"Not everyone can handle that much sugar, Gojo." you deadpanned as soon as you answered your ringing phone, eyes still glued to the paperwork you had neglected finishing until the very last minute. "Some of us are prone to get cavities you know... or diabetes."

You smiled at hearing his laughter from the other end of the line, grateful he wasn't in the room to tease you about your affectionate expression, "Hello to you too, sunshine"

"Like I said, if you want to try that new bakery at Nihonbashi go bother Shoko. Yaga has been pestering me about handing over my papers on time for the past few days and I'm already behind on it."

"Oh! I had nearly forgotten about that place. I heard they have the best strawberry shortcakes in Tokyo! I'm definitely taking you there this week, paperwork can wait." Gojo mused with a soft hum, "that's not why I'm calling though."

"Um-hum. What issue do you need my help with then?" You dropped your pen, yielding on getting any work done while on the phone with your troublesome friend.

"I resent that. Sometimes people call their friends just to catch up or something like that!"

You pushed the swivel chair away from the desk you had been leaning over for the past hour and put one leg up, resting your elbow on your knee, "except they're not you."

"Are you implying I'm not a good friend?" Satoru gasped dramatically, "you wound me, woman!"

"Gojo."

"What?"

"Get to the point"

He sighs, "fine. I need your help."

"Ha! I knew it!" you snapped your fingers at his admission and smirked to yourself, pleased with being able to read Satoru to a T.

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Just get to the address I'm sending you." you could nearly hear the eye roll in his tone.

"What? Hold on, I never agreed to-" your leg slid back down, your sock clad foot dropping to the ground with a muffled thud as you slid forward in your seat, free hand grasping onto the arm rest.

"See you soon, sweets!" he hang up before you had time to counter any further.

You hadn't even put the phone down when your heard two successive chimes, announcing incoming messages from none other than Satoru Gojo himself consisting of the address he had promised followed by one short instruction:

"...bastard." you mumble the insult under your breath even if he can't hear. The knowledge that he knew you would follow his command despite your earlier resistance making you drop your weight back in the chair dejectedly.

。。+゜゜。。+゜゜。。+゜゜。。

It takes you nearly two hours, what with having to appropriately dress yourself before leaving your room, taking the train from Tokyo to Saitama and finally a bus until you made it to the nearest stop to the location Gojo had "requested" your presence at.

The address led you into a path of uneven, light-colored stone slabs, bestrewed with patches of moss and grass - an obvious sign of the minimal maintenance kept over the time - that winds between rows of low-rise visibly weathered residential buildings on either side, with peeling paint, small cracks and walls darkened from exposure.

You compared the number on the side of building to the message's one more time, trying to figure out what was Satoru's goal sending you to the scanty suburban neighborhood you stood at. You check your surroundings, expanding your senses for any signs of danger, but nothing really stood out for you.

"There you are! C'mon in, slowpoke. Get up here. We've been waiting long enough for you!"

... we?

You looked up at the voice calling out onto to spot Gojo waving enthusiastically from his spot leaning at the protective iron bars of the narrow balcony above.

Overhanging gutters and pipes snake across the building, along with electrical wiring. The wooden eaves and narrow balconies seem to have endured years of use in a slightly chaotic but familiar urban atmosphere.

Satoru didn't give you time to form a response before diving back inside, disappearing from your view.

You shake your head incredulously and quickly head to the door underneath the balcony.

The entrance led to a narrow staircase barely illuminated by flickering yellow fixtures and a slightly ajar wooden door at the end of it. You climbed up the stairs two at a time in your haste.

Before you even thought of knocking the door was pulled open, revealing Gojo and, behind him, a much better illuminated ambiance than the one you stood in.

The inside of the house was small, the furniture simple, an obviously lived in place if the strewed pieces of clothing, books and toys were weighted in. A living room and a tiny kitchen with a conjoint laundry separated by a counter only made up the space you could see and a door led further into the apartment, probably into a corridor with more doors or directly into an ensuite bed and bathroom.

"What the fu-"

"Shhh!!" He snapped, hand pressing over your mouth to stop you from finishing your sentence, "watch your language, sweets. We have tiny ears in the room."

You glanced over his shoulder again, this time taking notice of the two children sat on the worn out green(ish) three-seat couch. Your widened eyes only made Satoru smile as his hand dropped from your face.

"I know cuss words too, you know." the boy voiced with a bored expression from his spot, clearing having guessed on what you have been about to say before the interruption.

"Of course you do, little adult." Satoru spoke with a chuckle, peered over his shoulder and returning to you in a whisper: "can you believe he is a first grader? The boy looks and sounds like he could do my taxes for me!"

"Wha- what is the meaning of this, Gojo?" You questioned once the surprise eased up, trying to look into his eyes for an explanation through the dark lenses of his glasses.

"These are Toji Fushiguro's kids."

"Actually, I'm not really related to him." the girl chimed in quietly, waving meekly when you looked her way.

"Are you gonna make her stay at the door, Gojo?"

"You're totally right, little guy! How inconsiderate of me." He stepped aside, bowing at the waist and doing a grand gesture with his arm. "Would you like to come in, milady?"

"Shut up, dork." You giggled in spite of yourself as you passed him into the place.

"Sweets, meet Tsumiki and Megumi Fushiguro!" Satoru beamed, looking almost proud as he pointed out each kid to you.

"Hey there." You waved with a soft smile, still trying to make sense of the scene in front of you.

Tsumiki smiled politely while Megumi offered you a head nod in acknowledgment. You winced at their lack of response.

"Can we speak privately, Gojo?" you whispered, leaning a bit closer to your friend.

"Right!" He clapped his hands together, the sound echoing in the room and turned the kids again, "would you guys mind go play or something while the grown ups talk?"

Megumi rolled his eyes, but jumped from the couch, waiting until his sister followed suit. "We'll just be in the main room while you talk."

You patiently waited until they were on the other side of the door you had spotted in your first surveyance of the room before crossing your arms over your chest and demanding: "explain. Now."

"Okay, okay. Calm your horses. It's simple, really. I don't think I told you this, but... Toji told me about a son he had sold to then Zenin's before... you know. So, being the good samaritan that I am, I decided to look for said kid and voilà! Here we are."

"That explains nothing, dumbass. Why am I here? Why are you here?"

He sighed, dropping onto the sofa with a dramatic flare that would bring many actors to their knees, head thrown back and one arm slung over his eyes, the appliance making a weird noise at the sudden weight thrown onto it.

"Out with it." You relentlessly pressured for more information. He sat back up, manspreading on the sofa, eyes still hidden under dark lenses when he faced you.

"I asked what he wanted. The boy." there was a seriousness to his tone you didn't hear often.

"Megumi?"

"Yeah. And he wanted to know if his sister would be happy there."

"Hell no! Those bastards treat women like shit! And she doesn't seem to have a lick of cursed energy, so she would probably be treated worse than the dust under their shoes." You shivered at your own observation, concerned for the little girl.

"That's what I said! So... I promised I would take care of things."

"Ok... what does that mean? Have you reached another relative that can take them or what?"

"About that..."

"Gojo."

"They don't have anyone else. Tsumiki's mother and father are gone, as is Megumi's mother. And Toji..."

"Yeah, I know." You paused, pinching the bridge of your nose. "So what? You'll just... adopt them? Gojo, you can barely take care of yourself, imagine not one but two kids?"

"Hey! I'm great at taking care of myself! And no one said anything about adoption. I was thinking maybe more on the line of a sponsor. With the schools endorsement, too. Those old farts will probably be very interested in Megumi's technique." you opened your mouth to comment on it, but Satoru cut you off, "don't worry! I won't let them lay a finger on the boy. I said I would take care of things. And I will."

You uncrossed your arms, kicking lightly at his foot so he would free some space for you on the couch. You couldn't help but smile upon noticing the drop of his infinity to let you hit him. Satoru put his legs closer together and you sat down on the space beside him with a deep sigh. "Still, that's a lot of responsibility to take on." you pointed out softly.

"I know, but I made a promise." He turned his to the side, chin dipping so his eyes could meet your over the rim of his sunglasses, "besides, I have you."

The effect of his eyes on you was instantaneous. Your guard dropping, face softening. "You do." you admitted quietly, but cleared your throat and averted his piercing gaze upon noticing what you had just said. "Fine. How are we doing this?"

"I knew you would come around!" He jumped up and grasped onto your hands to pull you up as well, eliciting a chuckle from you.

"What would you even do without me, Satoru?" the tease came naturally and so did his nonchalant answer:

"Wither and die, most likely." Satoru still held onto your hands, face turned to the door where the children hid behind. "Because I have no idea what to do now."

You rolled your eyes, pulling your hands free and lightly slapping his shoulder.

"I assume you're not gonna leave them to fend for themselves, so I'll go around check how's their pantry and other supplies to make a list for you to go shop while I watch them. Restock the house."

He listened attentively, nodding vigorously.

"Then we're gonna have to figure out a schedule to check on them regularly. They seemed to be doing alright alone so far so we know they don't need constant supervision, but someone should always be here to make sure they're fed and, well, taken care of in general." You listed as you went around the room, checking drawers and cabinets and nodding to yourself.

"God. You're brilliant! I don't know how I'll ever repay you for this."

You scoffed lightly, "I'm doing this for them just as much as I'm doing it for you, Gojo."

"Still. You're a real lifesaver."

"Stop with the flattery and write down what we need."

"Yes, mam!" He saluted you playfully.

。。+゜゜。。+゜゜。。+゜゜。。

You called out for Megumi and Tsumiki after sending Gojo to the store, making him promise not to splurge on sweets, reminding not everyone needed the mental stimuli he did, especially growing children who require a more balanced diet.

You talked to them, made sense of their routine and doings while getting to know them a bit better, finding out they had been living from the little money left by Tsumiki’s mother. It was a luck strike that Satoru got to them when he did considering those funds were on its way to end very soon.

They were both way too mature for their age and you silently vowed to yourself to change that. You would do your best to take care of everything else so they could just be kids. It's the least they deserved.

。。+゜゜。。+゜゜。。+゜゜。。

Things progressed naturally after that day. You bonded with Tsumiki over her love of books and Megumi over his passion for standing up for others.

They were good kids, never required much coddling. Tsumiki was particularly affectionate and, while he was more aloof, you could tell Megumi cared (especially about Tsumiki).

The Elders had acquiesced (not without a very through pushing intimidation from Gojo, of course) with letting you become the official "benefactors" of the Fushiguros.

You took on the role with earnestness, making sure to spend most of your free time with them. Cooking or ordering in, helping with their homework or just talking became routine in your hectic sorcerer lifestyle.

Surprisingly, Satoru also made an effort to be there, but due to his extremely busy schedule it wasn't always a possibility.

There were times neither of you would make it and it you would lead to you apologizing profusely into the phone receiver to one of the siblings (they were always extremely understanding). Other times, Shoko, Nanami or even Yaga would check in on them after your incessant begging.

Your favorite times though, rare as they were, happened when yours and Gojo's schedule were simultaneously unoccupied and allowed the both of you to go into the apartment. You could count in one hand the number of times that had happened in the year the two of you had been taking care of the Fushiguro siblings.

Satoru made a point to express his gratitude for your help whenever he could: every time he decided to spoil the kids with expensive gifts, he would get something for you as well. He would drop his infinity to receive your playful blows when he's being exceptionally annoying.

Oftentimes you found his gaze strayed to you or the soft smile on his lips directed at you and wondered if, perhaps, Satoru felt the same you did. If the longing of years wasn't as one sided as you had thought, but then he would make some inappropriate joke and the charged tension would fall. It was probably all in your head anyway.

He still kept some walls up though. Geto Suguru was a difficult subject for both of you. After his defect, Satoru seldom allowed himself to be vulnerable, not that he ever had before, but he become even more guarded afterwards. Still, you were there for him and he was there for you and that was enough.

。。+゜゜。。+゜゜。。+゜゜。。

"I'm hungry."

"Huh. I thought you were Tsumiki?"

Megumi groan was accompanied with an eye roll, as it usually was when Satoru made his jokes around the house, but Tsumiki giggles always brought a tiny smile to the corner of his lips. "You know what I meant, silly!"

"Was that a dad joke, Satoru?" you playfully hip bumped him as you made it from the counter he leaned on to the stove with the chopped vegetables.

"Ugh. I'm too young and handsome to be a father. It's not my fault their sense of humor is top tier."

"It's really not, Gojo." Megumi pointed out, his eyes never straying from the manga in his hands.

"What do you even know about that?"

"Hey! I'll let you know Megs can be really funny, you just don't get his subtle humor because your head is too big." You gestured around with a wooden spoon, your words bringing more giggles out of Tsumiki and a proud smile to your face.

"My head is perfectly proportionate to my body."

"Of course that's the only part you heard." You peeked over your shoulder finding Tsumiki standing on the other side of the counter. "Dinner is nearly done, Miki."

"Alright. I'll set the table!" the eager preteen rushed out.

"Thank you, dear!" you bellowed, attention turning back to stirring the pot of food.

"It smells great by the way." Satoru pointed out, slowly inching closer to you.

"You hungry too?"

"Kinda. I'm more excited for the dessert to be honest."

"Of course you are." You laughed.

"Hey, sweets?" Satoru was right next to you then, licking a swipe of frosting he had gathered on his finger as he passed by the dirty bowl.

"Huh?" You attentively followed his hypnotizing gesture from the corner of your eye, your arm stopping its movement momentarily as blood rushed up to your chest and neck.

"Do you ever regret it?" his question has your focus snapping back into place as you finally allowed yourself to look his way.

"Regret what?"

"You know... taking on the kids." Satoru tried to seem nonchalant, but you know him too well. There's clearly a motive to his sudden approach.

"You having second thoughts, Gojo?" Your tone was playful, but there was an edge of alert to it.

"No! no. I was just wondering. I don't want you to resent me for stealing up your youth or something like that."

The sudden understanding made you freeze. You quickly turned off the burner and fully turned his way.

"Stop with that shit. I could never resent you from bringing me into their lives." You moved towards the sink, washing your hands as you spoke, "I love these kids." turning off the faucet, you took one deep breath and shifted so you're standing face to face, "got it?"

"But don't you want your own family?"

His insistence had you exhaling exasperatedly, "this is my family, Satoru. Tsumiki, Megumi, Shoko, Nanami... you. It may not be conventional, but I wouldn't have it any other way."

You watched as his playful expression softened. Satoru removed the sunglasses covering his eyes and dropped them at the counter to his side, eyes never once leaving yours.

You felt yourself warm up instantaneously, hands clammy and lips dry, but still you tried to keep up the pretense of coolness with an airy jab, "what's that face for, dumbass?"

"That's just my face, sweets. I'm sure you've noticed how beautiful I am before." his voice had taken a lower cadency and for some reason he seemed to be closer than before, standing impossibly tall in front of you.

"Your ego really is something else." your smile faltered when he simply hummed in response, his unblinking eyes making your head swim and heart flutter dangerously, "stop staring!"

That seemed to snap Satoru out of it as he put one step of distance between you, gaze finally settling elsewhere. "Sorry. I know my eyes can be intimidating."

Your hand flew to his without thinking, masking your surprise when you immediately felt his skin instead of the barrier of infinity. You knew you had hit a nerve then and was quick to attempt remediating it.

"Not exactly the word I would use." You murmured, seeking his eyes again. Something flashed in them, something you had seem a few times before in passing when he looked at you, but it was always gone so quick you never really managed to read it properly.

"What word would you use?"

"If I wasn't afraid of providing too much fuel to your ego I would probably say something like beautiful. Entrancing. Maybe breathtaking." You listed, thumb caressing the back of his hand back and forth.

"You're making me blush, sweets." His grip tightened on your hand and he used it to pull you even closer, until your chest was nearly brushing his stomach, your neck straining to keep looking up at him.

"Yeah? Who would've thought... the strongest sorcerer reduced to a mess over a few measly compliments." your voice was almost a whisper, worried anything louder would burst this bubble you found yourselves in.

"Nah. Over you." he admitted with a loving smile, one you now recognize he only ever use with you.

"Satoru..."

"God. I love when you say my name."

"Noted." You licked your lips and watched as his stare followed the tiny movement, pupils blowing wider, nearly taking over the striking blue. "What is this, Satoru?"

He finally closed the distance between your bodies, bending down until your faces were only a breath away, hands finding your waist like they belonged tgere. Your heart sped up, seemingly ready to burst from your chest.

"Shoko mentioned overheard one guy from the Zenin clan noticed how good you were with kids when we took Megs there, said something crass about wanting to father your kids when he stopped by the school." his dry chuckle made you shake along with him, "I'm not gonna lie, I wanted to hollow purple his ass as soon as she said that. It made me realize I would end up losing you if I didn't man up and made a move soon. So this is me stopping being a pussy."

"I want to be with you. In any way you'll have me. If you will have me." Satoru admitted quietly. "Your boyfriend, maybe?"

"Just as long as I can be your girlfriend."

You were nearly blinded by his bright responding smile.

And then he bent further down to touch his lips to yours. He wanted to make it romantic, soft, his lips met yours in brief caresses once, twice... and then something snapped.

It's like all those years of yearning led to this moment and Satoru had to have you impossibly closer.

One of his hands held onto your jaw, long fingers touching the back of your neck, keeping your head in place and the other slowly explored you back, stopping at the stripe of skin where your shirt had ridden up when you threw your arms around his neck. His tongue pushed at the seam of your lips, seeking entrance and who were you to deny Gojo Satoru?

You let out a muffled moan, ready to move it forward when a voice shattered the moment:

"Ew! Stop sucking her face!"

"Shut up, Megumi! They're finally getting together, dummy!"

You broke apart in an instant, your head pending forward until your forehead rested on his chest, willing your blush to simmer down so you could face the kids.

"Yeah. Shut up, Megumi. I'm trying to score the girl of my dreams here, man!" Satoru joked, but you picked up on the slight quiver to his voice. Then, lower, just for you. "C'mon, sweets. Let's feed the little beasts and put them to sleep so we can finish this."

note: I think we're lacking more fluff pieces for the JJK fandom so I wanted to contribute to it somehow, but I still also want to try my hand at the more sexy bits so expect a part 2 made entirely of smut very soon ;)

PART 2 IS UP

[luvrgreyy]

WHAT GOOD IS SORRY?

ex husband!leon x f!reader

word count: 3.3k summary: why does one wound those they love so deeply? masterlist | taglist | ko-fi

18+ MDNI. mentions of divorce, cheating/infidelity, awkward leon stuff, guilt, yearning, leon and reader have a child together — and i named her denise for whatever reason, getting stood up by a date, drunk texting, kissing, oral(r!receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, bittersweet ending(?) i guess.

a/n: old wip,, this was supposed to be super gut wrenching and angsty but for some reason, my brain didn’t want to cooperate and decided that this would be the ending. also, i’ve been contemplating whether to address this or not and even tho its not a big issue, PLEASE interact with my posts. it’s the only way i’m able to know that you guys actually like the stuff i write, and ever since i’ve started writing on here 7 months ago, i’ve been noticing a decrease in interactions. im honestly losing motivation to write because i truly don’t know if people actually read my shit and like it. anyway, enjoy my mediocre writing ^___^

leon regrets everything he’s done up to this point. running into ada on a mission, going to the bar with her afterwards, and the kiss. the stupid kiss that eventually led up to this.

the divorce.

it all felt wrong, so wrong. yet here he was, driving his car to your doorstep, his stomach in knots despite having done this several times before.

for the sake of your daughter, the two of you had decided that shared custody would be the best option.

he stands at the door, hesitating before knocking, his knuckles hovering anxiously. clearing his throat, he gently raps his knuckles against the door, hoping for an answer. he's already second-guessing himself, wondering if he should have texted or called first.

your door eventually opens, and he's met with a familiar face. you.

you greet him with a civil smile, pressing a kiss into your daughter’s hair before ushering her inside.

he fidgets, adjusting the brim of his leather jacket nervously as he takes in the sight of you.

you reach to shut the door, catching a glimpse of him awkwardly hovering over you porch.

“you okay?”

he tries to find his voice. "yeah, i just, uh... i was just thinking..”

he looks down at his feet, kicking the ground with the side of his scuffed boot, as if trying to buy some time or maybe just willing the floor to swallow him up. when he speaks, his voice is low and sheepish. “when i was— last night, i thought… uh, do- do you remember when.. shit. are you free this weekend?”

”what?” you muse at his question. “leon, i really don’t wanna have this conversation with you again,”

he winces at the rebuff, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets as a defensive measure.

leon’s adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows hard, his ears burning at your words. he looks anywhere but at you, his eyes darting over the porch railing, the foliage, the sky — anywhere but your eyes. oh, those eyes he adored so much.

"no, wait, hear me out,”

"listen..." he takes a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever fallout this might bring, knowing he's already on shaky ground. “i just wanna talk.. to you.”

he shifts his weight, glancing up at the roof of the house as if the heavens themselves could offer a solution. when he does meet your gaze again, his eyes are pleading, his jaw clenched with a mix of anxiety and something akin to desperation.

“i’m sorry, leon. i’m busy,”

he scoffs and his face scrunches up, a pained grimace contorting his features as he cuts you off. “c’mon, please?” he's standing too close now, invading the personal space he once knew so well. “i.. i know it isn’t what we do anymore but—“

“no, seriously. i literally can’t. i have something up.”

“oh.” he deflates slightly at your dismissal, shoulders slumping in defeat. a soft, regretful sigh escapes his parted lips, and his eyes drop, gaze wandering aimlessly. "can- can you can you cancel? is it really important? what about on sunday-? i’m sure we can..“

“leon.” it's not a question this time, you stare at him with the tiniest hint of pity. “i have a date.”

ouch. he freezes, his chest constricting as if he's been punched. a date? the words echo in his mind, each syllable like a dagger to his pride, his ego, his everything. a muscle in his jaw twitches, his hands clenching and unclenching in his pockets. leon swallows hard, his throat suddenly parched.

"oh," he repeats, the sound barely above a whisper. he takes a shaky breath, trying to calm the storm brewing inside him.

he rubs a hand over the back of his neck, jaw working in agitation as he grapples with the blow of your words. a snarky retort rises in his throat, a cutting remark to deflect the sting, but it withers on his tongue, a futile attempt at salvaging pride he knows is misplaced.

leon swallows hard, his mouth opening and closing a few times before he finally finds his voice, laced with a wry bitterness. “yeah, no worries.. guess that's that," a bitter, hollow chuckle escapes him as he shifts his weight. his tone is flippant, trying to mask the sting of rejection, but the defeat is palpable as he turns to leave. he starts down the porch steps, his boots thudding against the wooden slats.

you finally close the door on him, standing by the door, hand on the knob, unease prickling along you skin like a thousand tiny needles, each one stinging with the weight of guilt. you sigh, rubbing the bridge of her nose as she tries to process her feelings. guilt, regret, a twinge longing — it's all so confusing, so messy.

the weight of his pleading eyes, the desperation in his tone — he had no right acting like a dejected puppy after he cheated on you.

you shake your head, face between your hands. he made his choices, just as you had, and now it was time to move on. you squared your shoulders, took a deep breath, and stepped away from the door, determined to let go of the ghost of what was and focus on the life you were building. for you, and your daughter.

but it’s not really easy.

not when you’re sitting alone at a restaurant, waiting for a date that never bothered to show.

your phone buzzes and you hold your breath. hoping for some sort of confirmation, but it's quickly snuffed out.

‘hey, sorry i couldn’t make it. something important came up’ the simple text reads. the same stupid excuse. every. single. time. your heart sinks, a dull ache forming in the pit of your stomach.

a bitter, derisive chuckle escapes your lips. serves you right. you knew he was trouble from the start. yet, your heart aches, a dull throb of pain and disappointment. you feel so foolish, sitting there, waiting for someone who never shows. though, it isn't really new.

now you lay in your bed, having already kicked off your heels and changed out of the uncomfortably tight dress you wore.

you pull the blankets up to your chin, suddenly feeling cold. you toss and turn, brooding and wallowing in misery, and it seemed like you’ve been doing it for hours till you’re startled out of your fitful doze by the buzz of your phone.

it's a text from leon, of course it is. it’s another one of his ‘where are u? i miss u’ ‘can’t stop thinking about you. please let me c u’ meltdowns.

he's drunk again, you can tell by the sloppy caps and the desperate pleas. every time he has a rough night, he always thinks coming over will magically fix everything. and you always refuse, knowing he’s only drunk and alone. but tonight, you feel particularly lonely.

your thumb hovers over the keyboard, and before you know it, you're typing. ‘come over.’ you hesitate, then send the message.

by then, he’s already halfway out the door, stumbling out and nearly falling as he trips over his own feet in his haste. he takes the stairs two at a time, a goofy, shit-eating grin plastered on his face. when he reaches your door, he pounds on it with a fist. his breath comes out in short puffs as he waits, anticipation making his heart race.

click.

the door creaks open a fraction and his eyes lock onto you, looking all soft and domestic in a robe. leon's breath catches in his throat as his eyes drink you in.

he tumbles in, arms outstretched as if he's about to catch something. he's immediately in your space, arms around you in a tight, needy embrace. his face buries itself in the crook of your neck, breathless with relief and something else, something suspiciously like love.

“leon—“ he smashes his mouth against yours, tongue pushing past your lips, the taste of beer and regret in his breath. his hands roam, sliding up your back, gripping your hair, fingers splayed wide as if to assure himself you're real. a low, desperate sound escapes him, half-groan, half-moan as his body presses against yours. he's desperate, sloppy, but undeniably passionate. when he finally breaks for air, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes glassy with drink and longing.

“missed you s’ much, baby,” he presses a kiss to your neck, tongue tracing the pulse point with a reverence that borders worship.

“let me make it up to you, please,” he looks up at you with those big, puppy-dog eyes, an expression so pathetic it’s comical. yet, the desperation behind them makes it anything but.

his hands skim down your sides to your hips, fingers digging in as if to keep you anchored to him. his face buried in the crook of your neck as his hands knead the meat of your ass, claws digging in through the fabric of your robe. his breath hitches as he nuzzles into you, inhaling deeply as if committing you to memory.

he trails a string of open-mouthed kisses down your neck, pausing to nibble on your collarbone before continuing his journey south. his hands never stop moving, roaming over your body with an insatiable hunger.

you let out a soft whimper, arching into his touch. "bedroom," you breathe out, and he happily obliges.

once inside, he kicks the door shut behind him and spins you around, backing you up against the bed. he begins to undo your robe with shaking fingers, your heavy breathing and the rustling of silk the only sounds in the charged silence between you. when the robe falls open, he pushes it off your shoulders, letting it pool at your feet.

the thin, sheer fabric of your nightgown offers little resistance as he practically rips it off you. a shaky breath escapes his parted lips as he reaches for you again, fingers grazing your skin as if he's not quite trusting his own touch.

he guides you to the bed, pushing you to sit on the edge. he immediately drops to his knees before you, face between your legs.

“these ‘re pretty,” he slurs out, before he fucking tears your underwear off.

“leon!”

he chuckles at your reaction, a low, rumbling sound in the back of his throat. “sorry,” he murmurs against your inner thigh, his hot breath causing goosebumps to rise in its wake. “gonna buy you new ones,”

his stubble scrapes against your sensitive skin as he slowly trails open-mouthed kisses up your thigh, savoring every inch of you that you’re willing to give him.

he buries his face between your legs, licking and sucking with a single-minded devotion that makes your toes curl and eyes roll back in your head. his scruffy cheeks hollow as he sucks a hickey into the soft flesh of your inner thigh.

god, it’s been so long. the feelings practically foreign.

his tongue begins to lash at your slit, long and flat, with a dexterity that belies his level of inebriation.

“you still mine?” he huffs. “‘course you are, ‘m the only one that can get ya this wet,”

slurp, smack, suck, repeat.

his tongue is relentless, probing your entrance, swirling around your clit with increasing fervor. he's sloppy, uncoordinated, but it only serves to heighten the intensity of it all. every time he pulls back, you can hear his heavy breathing, feel the vibrations of his moans against your most intimate flesh. your fingers thread into his hair, tugging him closer as your back arches off the bed. a keening whimper escapes you, the sound muffled by your clenched teeth as you struggle to maintain some semblance of control.

“fuck, leon—” your words trail off into incoherent mumbles as he drives you closer to the edge, tongue darting in and out with a pace that’ll make a grown woman go crazy. “d-denise, were gonna wake her up,”

a low growl rumbles in his chest as he responds to your whine. there's a hint of accusation in his gaze, but it quickly morphs into a look of raw, desperate need. “don’t matter,” he's relentless, persistent, refusing to back down even as you tremble and writhe beneath him.

he grunts, his attention snapping back to you, blue eyes squinting as he looks up from between your thighs. his tongue is a damn metronome, lapping and smacking with a relentless rhythm that has you chasing the edge of oblivion.

it's like every drunken fantasy he's ever had is being poured out onto you. messy, uncoordinated, desperate. and you’re eating it up. “gonna make you forget all about that stupid date," he mutters through slurred words. "’m the only man who can make you feel this good,"

he's not wrong. the way he's attacking you with his tongue, it's like he's trying to prove a fucking point.

"leon, please," you gasp out, and he takes it as an invitation to continue. your entire body is wound up tight, a taut string ready to snap. he slips a finger in, then two, curling them just right so that they’re pressing against that spongy spot that has you seeing stars.

your legs wrap around his head, fingers threading into his hair as you pull him in as close as humanly possible. his name is a chant on your lips, a prayer to the gods of pleasure. "leon, leon, leon,". denise could come in right now and catch you like this — legs splayed, back arched, eyes squeezed shut in bliss. he's that good. or maybe that bad. you dont know. and you don’t care to find out.

"yeah, just like that," he praises, voice a low, gravelly growl. "love my fingers in this greedy little cunt, don't you?"

your thighs clench around his head, heels digging into his back as you ride out the pleasure. "gonna cum, leon, please—“ yours words trail off into a wail, a keen of pure, unadulterated euphoria.

your back arches, toes curl, and your fingers dig into his hair, holding him to you as the wave crashes over you. he tugs you down to the edge of the bed, practically burying his face in your groin. he laps at your slit, in and out, in and out, until the last bit of resistance melts away.

he lifts his face from between your legs, eyes hazy and unfocused as he fumbles to unbuckle his pants. once he has it off, he's back, pushing your legs apart as he kneels between them. the thick of his length throbs against your lower belly, and you can feel his racing heartbeat through every inch of him that's in contact with you.

he notches the head of his cock at your entrance, pressing in just enough to make you feel the pressure, gathering your juices before giving a long, slow stroke up and down, coating himself in you. he's throbbing, pulsing with need, and you can practically taste the desperation in your mouth.

he presses in, just the tip at first, then a bit more. slow, shallow strokes, in and out. his hips rock against yours, the motion slow and languid. one of his hands cups your cheek, thumb brushing over your closed eyelids to check if he was dreaming. the other hand palms the small of your back, fingers digging in as if to anchor himself. your legs wrap around his waist, ankles locking behind his back as he slowly sinks into you.

he's quiet for a moment, just holding you, his heart racing in his chest as if he's trying to communicate something without using words. his hips move, the action slow and lazy, as if he's trying to spoon you into submission.

he pulls out, just to the tip, before pushing back in. the motion is slow, sensual, a deliberate teasing that has you whining and writhing beneath him.

sweat beads on his brow, tracing down the lines of his face, but he doesn't slow. if anything, he's driven by a desperate need to make up for lost time, to prove himself worthy of you. your back arches, hands scrabbling for purchase on the sheets as he pistons in and out, the force of his thrusts rocking your entire body. he's not gentle, not soft, but rough and demanding, just like he always used to be when he was trying to stake his claim.

he nips at your earlobe, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh before he sooths it with his tongue. “fuck, feels so good,” he gasps out, his words punctuated by the slap of skin against skin. “can't believe i ever let you go.”

"leon," you whimper, the name a plea, a prayer. his lips find yours in a sloppy, frantic kiss. he's drinking you in, devouring your mouth, your moans, your gasps, trying to consume every ounce of you.

he's sweating, hair a mess, face scrunched up in concentration, but those blue eyes remain locked on yours.

you're lost in the sensation, every nerve ending on high alert, screaming for friction, for relief, for release. "leon, leon, gonna cum," you pant, your voice raw, your throat dry. "please, i—" but your pleas are swallowed by his next thrust, his cock dragging against your sensitive walls.

he leans forward, his forehead pressing against yours, noses nearly touching. his hot breath mingles with yours, the scent of his beer-soaked breath and the musk of his arousal mingling together in the most intoxicating way. "love you," he suddenly whispers, the words a quiet, a desperate confession that hangs in the air between you.

“love you, love you, fuck—“

the way your walls squeeze him when you cum drags his own orgasm from him. for a long moment, he stays frozen, buried to the hilt, his chest heaving against yours as he tries to catch his breath.

the heat of your body seeps into his skin, chasing away the chill of the night air. he collapses against you, a boneless heap of satisfied male. his cock throbs, pulses, and drips onto the bed between your legs as he tries to catch his breath. the room is silent, save for your joint heavy breathing, and the occasional groan as his softening length slips out of you. eventually, he rolls off, lying on his back beside you, one big hand coming to rest on your stomach, thumb stroking in a slow, idle pattern. his eyes are hazy, unfocused, but they find yours and hold. a small, sheepish smile tugs at his lips.

"sorry," he slurs out, the word garbled and slightly off-kilter. "i shoulda been better, should’ve tried harder, i... i‘m gonna make things right, i swear,"

he peppers your neck with soft kisses, his stubble rasping against your tender flesh. he's warm, solid, and comforting. gentle and tender, a stark contrast to the desperation that drove him mere moments ago.

he's not reaching for grand gestures or flowery declarations. he's asking for something simple, intimate, and achingly human. a chance to hold you, to sleep beside you, to maybe, begin to rebuild something from the rubble of what once was.

and for a moment, you let yourself believe that he’ll be different this time. that he's not just trying to relive past glories, but genuinely wants to make amends, to start anew.

tags: @crowleyco @withonly-sweetheart @fanilkychae

[thef1diary]

Yes, Sir | L. Hamilton

Kinktober 2/11 ~ Sir Kink

Summary: Lewis’ dominant yet tender energy sets the tone of the night, which meant one thing, you’d only refer to him as “sir”

warnings: 18+ smut, soft dom!lewis, sub!reader, blowjob

wc: 1.7k

kinktober masterlist

© thef1diary 2024. all rights reserved. Do not copy, steal, translate, or repost any of my work

You stood by the window in his luxurious hotel suite, gazing outside. Though the city below is alive with muted sounds—people stumbling out of bars, traffic gathering on the roads—the night feels silent from your perspective. None of it really registers as you’re lost in thought, your mind elsewhere. The room feels empty without him, but you know that will change soon.

The soft click of the door opening pulls you from your reverie, and as you turn, it’s as if the entire room suddenly comes to life. Your eyes lock onto him immediately. There he is—Lewis, exuding that effortless charisma, his tailored suit hugging his athletic build in all the right places.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he greets, his voice a smooth velvety drawl that sends shivers down your spine.

“Lewis,” you respond, your voice barely above a whisper, already breathless. It’s as if you hadn’t expected him to be there, yet you were undeniably waiting for his return.

You can feel your pulse racing as removes his blazer, and undoes a couple buttons of his dress shirt. He steps closer, his presence filling the space between you, making the room feel smaller. There’s an energy to him tonight, a tension that you can feel thrumming in the air. He closes the distance between you in a few confident strides, stopping just inches away from you. His gaze is piercing, studying you with an intensity that makes your knees feel weak.

“You’ve been thinking about me,” he murmurs, his tone low, almost predatory. It’s not a question—it’s a statement.

You can only nod, your voice caught in your throat. There’s no point in denying it; he always knows. He’s always had that effect on you.

“Good,” he says softly, reaching out to brush his fingers along your jawline, the touch is tender yet possessive. “Because I’ve been thinking about you too.”

The words sent a jolt of desire through you, pooling heat low in your belly. “You were?” You manage to ask, your voice barely steady.

Lewis raises an eyebrow, a look of disbelief crossing , but then his gaze darkens, and he tilts your chin up with a single finger, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“Of course, sweetheart,” he replies, his voice firm, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re always on my mind. You have no idea how tempted I was to leave the party, knowing you were here waiting for me.”

His words hang in the air, laden with unspoken desire. The thought of him, mingling with others while his mind was fixated on you, sends a thrill through your body. The way he looks at you now—like you’re the only thing that matters—makes your breath hitch.

“I couldn’t wait to get back to you,” he continues, his voice dipping lower. His fingers trail down from your chin to your throat, then lower, teasing the edge of your collarbone. “The whole time, all I could think about was being here with you, alone.”

“Tonight,” he murmurs, his voice wrapping around you like a velvet command, “you’re going to listen to every word I say. Understood?”

“Yes,” you breathe, the anticipation thrumming through you like a live wire, electrifying every nerve.

His eyes narrow slightly, and he doesn’t move, waiting, his silence expectant. The moment stretches, taut with tension, until his hand suddenly finds your nipple through the silk of your robe. He pinches it just hard enough to make you gasp, the sensation sharp, a clear punishment for forgetting something crucial.

“Yes, Sir,” you whisper, the words feeling both thrilling and dangerous on your tongue.

A satisfied smirk tugs at his lips, his eyes glinting with approval. “Good girl,” he purrs, and the praise sends a wave of heat through you, your body humming with need, your breath catching in your throat.

Lewis leans in, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath hot and teasing against your skin. “You know what I want, don’t you?”

“Yes, Sir,” you reply again, your voice quivering with a heady mix of arousal and nerves.

His hands slide down your sides, firm and possessive, claiming every inch of you. He guides you closer to the bed, his hands resting on your back, fingers splayed out, the warmth of his touch seeping through the thin silk of your robe.

When you reach the bed, Lewis turns you to face him, his tattooed hands deftly undoing the silk knot of your robe. The fabric parts, revealing the delicate lace lingerie beneath. His eyes darken with desire, his gaze devouring you as you shrug the robe off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a silken pool at your feet.

Without a word, he guides you down, his hands firm on your shoulders as he lowers you to your knees in front of him. The plush carpet feels soft beneath you, grounding you as the world seems to narrow to just this moment, to just him.

Lewis sits on the edge of the bed, his eyes never leaving yours. He leans back slightly, his legs spreading just enough to give you space. The look on his face is pure authority mixed with a desire that makes your mouth go dry.

Eager to please him, you reach for the waistband of his pants. With careful precision, you undo the button, your fingers grazing his skin as you pull down the zipper. He lifts his hips as you tug the fabric down his legs, revealing the black boxers that cling to his body. Tossing the fabric aside, you gaze up at him and your lips part in awe. The sight of him, so powerful and commanding, makes your mouth water with anticipation.

You inch closer, your eyes still locked on his as you press a soft kiss to the bulge straining against his boxers. The warmth of him seeps through the fabric, and you can’t resist the urge to nuzzle against him. Your lips and nose brush against the outline of his cock as you shift your head slightly and close your eyes.

A low groan escapes him, and his fingers tighten in your hair, a silent encouragement that sends a thrill through you. Emboldened, you continue your exploration, mouthing at him through the thin fabric, feeling the heat and hardness beneath. The scent of him fills your senses, intoxicating and unmistakably him, and it makes you dizzy with desire.

You glance up at him, your eyes wide and filled with need, seeking his approval. He looks down at you with a smirk playing on his lips. "That's it," he murmurs, his voice a deep rumble that vibrates through you. "Show me how much you want it."

The praise sends a jolt of pleasure through you, and you respond by pressing your lips more firmly against him, your tongue darting out to taste him through the fabric. The texture of the cotton is soft against your lips, but you're craving more—craving the feel of him, bare and hot, in your mouth.

“Take them off,” he orders, his voice low and commanding.

“Yes, Sir,” you murmur, pressing a final kiss to his bulge before hooking your fingers in the waistband. Slowly peeling the fabric down, you feel his muscles tense beneath your touch as you free his cock.

Without hesitation, you lean in, taking him in your mouth. The heat of him against your tongue is intoxicating, his taste driving you wild. You work him slowly at first, savouring the way his grip tightens in your hair, the subtle groans of approval spurring you on.

His hips begin to move in time with your rhythm, his control slipping as you feel the tension build in his body. His deep, commanding voice cuts through the air as he moans your name, mingling it with that title you love to hear from him. "Just like that, sweetheart. Don't stop."

You nod slightly, your eyes never leaving his as you continue, the intensity between you growing with every passing second. His praise, his control, his approval—it all drives you, fuels your need to please him, to be his good girl. The words "Yes, Sir," become a mantra in your mind, guiding your every move as you push him closer to release.

When he finally reaches his climax, the sound of his deep, guttural moan sends a wave of satisfaction coursing through you.

You swallow every drop, feeling a sense of pride in knowing you've given him exactly what he wanted. As his breathing slows, he pulls you up onto his lap, his arms wrapping around you in a possessive embrace.

“You’ve been such a good girl for me,” he murmurs against your ear, his voice filled with warmth and satisfaction. “Putting my pleasure before your own.”

You shake your head, a slight smile on your face. “I like pleasing you, Sir.”

Lewis hums in approval, his hand finding its way to your cheek. He pulls you in for a kiss, his lips warm and demanding against yours. The kiss is slow at first, almost tender, but there’s an underlying hunger there, a promise of what’s to come. You melt into him, feeling his strength, his control, the way he guides you even in something as simple as a kiss.

When he finally pulls back, his thumb strokes your bottom lip. “You’ve been so patient, so good for me.”

His hands trail down your body, caressing your skin as if memorizing every curve, every dip. “I think it’s my turn to make you feel good, to take care of you.”

You shiver in anticipation as his hands move lower, slipping beneath the delicate lace of your lingerie. The fabric feels fragile under his touch, like it might tear at any moment, but he pauses, connecting his gaze with yours.

“What do you say?” He waits for your approval, and you obey instantly, nodding with your bottom lip trapped between your teeth.

“Yes, please, Sir,” you nearly whimper, causing a smirk to tug at his lips.

“That’s what I like to hear,” he murmurs, placing tender kisses down your throat, while his hand unhooks the clasp of your bra.

taglist: @cheer-bear-go-vroom @ggaslyp1 @nominsgirl @moll1701 @mrs-saturday @teamnovalak @sassy-chan @ruti26-11 @kennysimp101 @falling-feels-like-flying @laeblue @tremendousstarlighttragedy @bountychanti @savewaterdrinkvodka @cloud-55 @aarchiives @holylovercopsludge @black-fireproofs @lazydragonpeach @biancathecool @myownwritings @rebelatbay @laur2608 @ethereal0810 @leclercsluvs @01rrdbull @fallingforfalll2 @lilorose25

[catscidr]

// the fatui's alcohol tolerance and drinking habits //  

i. note — after writing this post i started thinking about how the other harbingers would tolerate alcohol and then.... but this is also because of a lovely commenter on ao3, thank u pookie for enabling me ♡ ii. includes — all of the harbingers + pierro and the tsaritsa. gn!reader iii. cw — not proofread, alcohol, various fuckery and headcanons. crack. that's it iv. wc — 1,2k

丑角/Pierro, The director. 

-> tolerance: 8/10, high.   -> habits: has an entire wine cellar in the zapolyarny palace and owns a vineyard southern of snezhnaya. one of his hobbies consist of wine-testing; he’s the kind of person to cleanse his palate with a small sip that he swooshes in his mouth, then swirls his glass to observe the coat, sniffs the wine, takes another sip- you get it. if you asked, he would recommend you a wine based on your taste. you want something sweet but not dry? try dessert wines. want something a little more on the bitter side? get yourself a malbec from argentina. 

he hates anything that isn’t wine. don’t even try to give him a beer, he’ll look down at you with the most vicious glare you’ll feel sorry for being born. 

队长 /Il Capitano, The first. 

-> tolerance: 10/10, very high.  -> habits: doesn’t see the point of drinking so he never has a glass in his hands from his own volition. if he’s drinking it’s either because some coworkers managed to get him to come out for drinks, because he caught one of his agents drinking on the job and decided to have a drink as well, or because you convinced him to drink with you. 

his drink of choice is literally just any hard liquor, he doesn’t really care for taste. everyone is under the impression that he can’t get drunk, but some people just take it as an invitation to try to get him shitfaced (it never works out). 

博士/Il Dottore, The second. 

-> tolerance: 3/10, very low.  -> habits: never drinks and doesn’t see the point in it anyways, because it’ll only hinder his cognitive functions (you tried convincing him that he can get different perspectives that way. you were swiftly rewarded with a flick on the forehead). on top of that, he just can’t really handle alcohol so why purposely leave himself vulnerable like that. he didn’t care enough to give himself a higher tolerance for it when he modified his body, apparently. would probably be the designated driver if he went out to a bar (if he were invited in the first place. if he accepted the invitation, second.) 

the kind of person to get weirdly tipsy after two white claws. 

少女/Columbina, The third. 

-> tolerance: ?/10. What.  -> habits: o̴̻̒f̴̭͋f̵̣͝ė̵͎r̴̻̄ĭ̵̙ñ̶̥g̸͙͋ ̵̦͆ḫ̸̏e̷̺̊r̶̳̈́ ̴͖̓ä̷͖ ̷͓͆d̴̜̆r̴̡̄i̷̪͝n̵͕͂k̵̠̄ ̴͈̈́ŵ̵̭ȉ̶̺l̸̩̃l̵̲̈́ ̵͖͝ö̸̪n̸̘͝l̸̺̈ỹ̷̹ ̴͑͜ṡ̸̞p̵̪͆e̶͈̊l̵͈͌l̶̜͗ ̵̣̌y̵̢͒ŏ̴͔u̴̹͐ŗ̶̀ ̶͎̈d̶̥͑ö̷̧o̶͓̕m̵̘̃.̷̡̽ ̵͙̐ý̴̟o̸̻͝u̵̳͘ ̶̙́s̴̠̿h̶̡͋a̴̫͊l̶̮̾l̷̳̃ ̷͓͝n̶͕͝o̶̢̓ț̵̏ ̶̞͋w̷̹͝i̶̦̚ṫ̴̪n̸̖̉e̶̢͝s̸̝̕s̸͉͒ ̵̗̈́h̸͜͝ě̵̝r̷͙̉ ̶̭̃h̵͍͒o̶̠̅l̸̗͂i̴̞̕n̷͚̓ẽ̴͙s̵̙̀s̵̖̄ ̷̟͐ć̵͈ó̴̭n̴̙̾s̶̠͋ũ̷̙m̷̬̈́ì̷ͅn̶̯͛g̸̯̔ ̴̨͝t̶͙̕h̴̢͝e̵͔̋ ̵̖̀d̵̖͛ë̷͖́v̵̯͂ii̵͖̿q̵̯̽ŭ̴̺o̶͖̔r̵̠̒.̶̺͒ ̵̙͘l̵͑͜e̸̖͗a̷̞͝v̷̉ͅe̵̮̕ ̸̦̎h̸̩̎e̴̪̐r̸̰̀ ̷̩͠b̷̛̥ĕ̸ͅ ̸̪͒e̴̜͂l̸͖̄s̴͖̆ẽ̷̝ ̸̘͘y̸̹̋ô̴̺ṷ̷̓r̸̭̈́ ̸̜̅l̶͖̾i̵͇͘f̵͉̔e̵̜̚s̷̖̏p̴̫̈́ä̷̬́n̷͔͌ ̴̰̑w̵͝ͅȋ̶̫l̶̛̯ḷ̸͒ ̸̡̊s̷̹͠h̶̭͋o̶̹͆r̵̮͂t̵̥̽é̴̡ṉ̷͌ ̶͕̑ĉ̸̰ǫ̶̈́n̶̔͜s̸̺̃i̷͌͜d̸͚̂e̵̺͊r̸̺̄ą̸̆b̷̲͘ḻ̸̎y̶̠͂.̴̣̉ 

in her free time, she likes to practice her bartending skills, like making fresh piña coladas! 

仆人/Arlecchino, The fourth. 

-> tolerance: 8/10, high.  -> habits: likes to unwind with a glass of wine in her office while overlooking a multitude of paperwork. never drinks enough to get tipsy, but she could if she were surrounded by the right company...? if she wanted to, she could probably enter a drinking competition and win, though. whatever that means 

has let some children of the house of the hearth try wine. finds the grimaces they pull after a sip very amusing 

公鸡/Pulcinella, The fifth. 

-> tolerance: 6/10, moderate.  -> habits: the kind of man to drink wine with his meals, but he won’t have more than one and a half—two if he’s feeling particularly pent up. his tolerance isn’t that good because of his weight, unsurprisingly.  he doesn’t get invited to go out for drinks because he always ends up indulging just a bit too much. he then acts like a disappointed dad to everyone in the vicinity.

0/10 don’t bring him to a bar unless you want to be scolded for breathing.

国崩/Scaramouche, The sixth. 

-> tolerance: 4/10, low.  -> habits: hates alcohol but is weirdly competitive when it comes to it, if he’s with the right people. sort of. although alcohol doesn’t affect him in the same way it does regular people, it still makes him feel gross enough to not want to be near it. if he had to pick a drink it would be something like an aperol spritz. he’d wait like thirty minutes before drinking it, letting the bubbles fizz out a bit. hates the “taste” of carbonation with a passion.

don’t even try to get him to try give him a beer, he’ll turn it into a molotov cocktail 

木偶/Sandrone, The seventh. 

-> tolerance: 4/10, low.  -> habits: similar to il dottore, she hates drinking because it impairs her genius mind, but she’ll go out if only to make fun of drunk people (it rarely ever happens anyways). if she’s stuck with a drink in her hands for some reason, she’ll make the dapper ruin guard that’s at her side dispose of it for her. 

will it literally throw it away or will it dispose of it in a less destructive way? don’t stick around to find out. 

淑女/La Signora, The eighth. 

-> tolerance: 8/10, high.  -> habits: similar to arlecchino, she enjoys a good red wine occasionally. the only difference is that she needs to have it while bathing in the most expensive bath salts accompanied by so many candles it would be a hazard for her lungs. the queen of being a diva, has perfected the art of swirling wine in a glass while listening to jazzy music. 

absolutely adores dandelion wine; she always buys crates upon crates despite the ridiculous import fees. has one from so long ago you’re surprised the bottle hasn’t disintegrated yet—the name Rostam is engraved into it. 

富人/Pantalone, The ninth. 

-> tolerance: 7/10, moderate.  -> habits: probably the only normal one out of the bunch (which says a lot). whenever he drinks he always ends up tipsy, and when he’s tipsy, that façade he wears crumbles at the speed of light. gone are the strained fake smiles for politeness’ sake, in are the loud, angry rants about annoying clients. he won’t stop until his voice starts straining from usage. 

his go-to drink is literally whatever expensive wine he can get his hands on; he’ll drink with pierro and analyze wines, on occasion. don’t join them, you’ll die of boredom. 

公子/Tartaglia, The eleventh. 

-> tolerance: 9/10, very high. Debatable.  -> habits: you wouldn’t believe that he can handle alcohol better than most people because every time he drinks, he always gets shitfaced. he’ll insist he’s just testing his limits and building a higher tolerance. don’t bring him out for drinks with il capitano, he’ll inhale 5 shots of fire water in a couple of minutes to “convince” the first that he’s strong. it never works. 

probably the best person to go to a bar with, if you manage to go on a day where he didn’t wake up with the urge to get so stupidly plastered that he’ll try to fight every single man in the building. don’t let him try to show off, there aren’t many bars left that haven’t banned him yet. 

Царица , The Tsaritsa. 

-> tolerance: ?/10. What²  -> habits: ṯ̵̿ḧ̸̤́i̷̹͊s̴̠͐ ̷̧̍i̵̦͝ṡ̴̼ ̵̪͛ä̶̙́n̵͙͆ ̴͆ͅȃ̶͓s̵̜̅s̴̫̀a̵͑ͅs̵̡̓s̷͇̈́í̷̹n̷͕͠a̷̛̱ṱ̴͘i̷̡̕ō̴̻ń̷ͅ ̶͍̃a̵̧͝ṭ̶͝t̶̮̏e̴͉͑m̵̮̈p̵̰̕t̶̼̔.̸̯͆ ̵̗̔y̵̖͝ó̶̡u̶͇͑ ̵̜͌ẁ̶̘ï̵̢l̶̥̈l̶̲͐ ̴̩̔b̴̪͋e̸͎͌ ̷̲̑p̷̲̋r̴̦͐o̷̙͐m̵̟͝p̴͔͛t̷͔̂l̶̪̏y̶̖͂ ̶͊ͅd̵͉̓ỉ̵͔s̵̩̕p̴͖͐o̶͈͘s̵͌ͅḛ̴͂d̶̺̊ ̴̯̓ơ̵̺f̶̠́ ̵̈́͜a̴͙̎t̵̠͋ ̵̲̈ō̵͉n̴̨̒c̸̭͛ê̵͎.̶͓͘ ̵͇̃y̷̡̆ő̵͍ű̸̮ ̸̙͌c̶͈̔ȧ̷̳n̴͍̎ṅ̵͖ŏ̷̪t̵͉͝ ̸̩̇r̷͈̈́u̷͍͝n̷͔̿.̵̮͘ ̷͕̈́w̸̼̄h̴̥̏ý̵̘ ̷͇̀d̶͉̋ii̷̭̎n̶͙̎k̷̢̀ ̵̢̐c̷̣̀o̴͖̍ḿ̵̹i̵̥͘n̵̲̈g̸̫̒ ̵̠̏iͅií̷͎ť̴̻t̷̛̠y̴̟͝ ̴͖̑c̶͔̎o̴̮̽r̷̬̐ñ̴͖e̶͙͒ŕ̵̥ ̴͈̾s̶̙͊t̶̛̫ò̸̲r̶̺͊e̶̮͆ ̶̣̃b̷̰͘ḙ̴͘e̸̖̕ṛ̸̏ ̵̖̓ẃ̷̞a̷͕͐s̶̳͆ ̵̘̾a̶͔̓ ̵̣͛g̴̰͐o̴͕̊o̵̲̾d̸̦̔ ̴͓͗i 

drinks wine with la signora and arlecchino sometimes! their girls' nights only happen once in a blue moon and she doesn’t drink much, but she enjoys the slight buzz from a good red wine nonetheless.