#credit belongs to the owner of these

[3dogbones]

I actually worked hard on this and it came out okayish IM PROUD ACTUALLY AHHAHAHA MY VISION HAS BEEN REALIZED 🤩🤩🤩

How the flip so people actually do long colored animations though… already felt like dying while making this my respect for animators is actually so high PROPS TO YOU GUYS

[xoxochb]

[21-roses-a-day]

MILEY CYRUS – promotional pictures for upcoming project (August, 2023)

[rings-of-power-realm]

Credit @celebrimborium

[spotsquad]

Fluster Alastor 🤣Never thought I'll ever see this.

[monchaeni]

@monchaeni

┊͙ ˘͈ᵕ˘͈ 우리 리아 ⋆ ★

<33

[prfcthands]

sabrina + 😎

likes and reblogs are appreciated! ♡ if used please give credits.

[wolfvirago]

— places in the lost woods realm 1/?: コンビニ (konbini)/convenience store

Within the pocket realm of the Lost Woods, sometimes, visitors may come across the Konbini. It’s a convenience store stocked with groceries, some fresh, some old. It’s impossible to tell if you bought good food until you leave. Once you check out, the store will vanish. It can take up to a week for the store to reappear to visitors.

Sometimes an old man runs the counter. Other times a woman does. They always have useful information and rumors about the forest that could potentially help lost souls leave. 

[awalkoflife-arc]

samantha carpenter in her reputation era.

[21-roses-a-day]

SABRINA CARPENTER during her show in New Orleans, Louisiana. 20th March, 2023, Orpheum Theater emails i can’t send tour: second leg l NIGHT 3 © (on twitter): recklessmyron, julespowell13 & dimondsforeverr.

[shadesofdeviant]

Five comfort characters & Five tags!

Big thanks to @swiftiebvcks for the tag! Here's my five as promised.

These aren't in any particular order, but I'm probably slightly more biased towards some of them.

1 - TK Strand | 9-1-1: Lone Star

2 - James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes | MCU

3 - Anthony J Crowley | Good Omens

4 - Evan "Buck" Buckley | 9-1-1

5 - Aziraphale | Good Omens

No pressure tags: @rxsterek, @noxsoulmate, @chaotictarlos, @lightningboltreader & @bonheur-cafe and anyone else who wants to do this.

[beeing1alive]

Hi!! I really liked your "turning them on without knowing" post , I wanted to know if you'd like to write a second one but with Tenjiku!! 🙇🏻‍♀️

Note: Thank you for your enquiry, I was very happy about it and hope you like it

Warning: Nsfw content, minors do not interact

Izana:

Gets a hard-on when you give him a tight hug

He just can't help it, as soon as he feels your warmth and smells your body odour he goes crazy

He doesn't want to let you go and wraps his arms around you even more so that you can feel his pulsating cock

Begins to place feather-light kisses on your neck and throat and asks you if you don't want to help him

Kakucho:

It especially turns him on when you try to tease him with something

I mean, the grin on your face and the galnz in your eyes

He immediately gets butterflies in his stomach and his body starts to tingle with excitement, only that the tingling mainly affects the centre of his body

And before he knows it, he's sitting there with an ever-growing bulge in his trousers

Ran:

Becomes instantly rock hard when you whisper in his ear

It doesn't even matter what you say because, to be honest, in this situation he doesn't care

It's just that as soon as he hears your sweet voice so close to his ear, goose bumps spread all over his body

Try 100% not to hide how you hit on him and will ask you if you can help him with the bulge is trousers

Rindou:

Absolutely loves neck kisses

Just can't help but let out a soft sigh as soon as you're busy with his neck

Pulls you onto his lap so he can kiss you and press his hard cock against your bum

Nevertheless, his cheeks are barely noticeably red all the time, because he's just an idiot for you and can't do anything about it

Shion:

Immediately gets a hard-on when he sees you concentrating

The way your eyes dart across the sheet of paper in front of you and you try to memorise as much as possible with a furrowed brow

Feels the need to sit behind you and look over your shoulder so that you can feel his hard cock

Will indirectly try to distract you from your work and gently rub against your bum, which only makes him hornier...

Here is pt.1

Attention: The characters and the GIF do not belong to me. All credits go to the original owners. If you want anything to be changed or removed, please contact me.

[lilaccmilk]

naga bf! winter headcanons

contains: fluff, smut, talks of tail snd scales, cock warming, cunnilingus, heat.

being a snake he obviously need a source of warmth. he gets lazy during winters too, trying to save up his energy.

he holds you close in bed, his huge tail wrapping around you to keep you in place(his arms).

he would also follow you around wherever you go, despite constant grumbling.

his skin is a bit rough and scaly compared to you. (i have added a picture at the end for better understanding) hence why he likes cuddling naked.

blanket n pillow nests are a necessity.

whenever you’re away from him, his tail wraps around you to pull you close to him. you glare at him but he just claims that “sweetheart it’s like my tail has a mind of its own” with a cocky grin.

nsfw

remember ‘bout that naked cuddling? yeah never is only cuddling, his cock is always nuzzling into your folds. “won’t go any further my love” he mumbles against the crook of your neck.

he stays true to his promise and goes for cock warming.

doesn’t really fuck you that much during winters (unless he is in heat), opts for fingering you or eating you out.

cockwarming at almost all times is a must.

loves eating you out. him being a naga, gives him the advantage of having a long tongue. makes you cum quickly. but doesn’t stop until the sheets are soaked, tears are streaming down your face from the overstimulation and your hands are trying to push his face away. he just looks at you with a lazy smile, resting his face on your thighs, giving occasional kisses to your swollen cunt.

note: this picture does NOT belong to me, credits to the original owner. I found it off of Pinterest.

[rottenfyre]

⸻ ᴛ ʜ ᴇ ᴛ ʏ ʀ ᴀ ɴ ᴛ ⸻

Pairing: Yandere HOTD x Targaryen Reader Part 4

Summary: after your conversion with your father, you just wanted to be in peace. Especially since your husband name day is close.

Warning: Y/n herself is a warning.

Notes: English is not my first language. Gifs don't belong to me, credit to the owner. Hope you enjoy!

The water was warm, steaming against her pale skin as she reclined in the tub, the scent of lavender and rose oil wafting through the air. Elira’s hands worked delicately, her touch soft as she poured water over her mistress’s shoulders, letting it cascade down in rivulets. The bath chamber was silent save for the occasional splash of water and the crackle of the fire in the hearth.

Elira hesitated, biting her lip as she wrung out a cloth. Her nerves were apparent, her usual timidness magnified in the face of what she wanted to ask. Y/n smirked to herself, already anticipating whatever foolish question the girl was about to utter.

“My lady… may I ask something?”

Y/n opened one eye, watching her through half-lowered lids, her expression languid and amused. “You may,” she said, her tone carrying a sharp edge of mockery, as if daring the girl to test her patience.

Elira hesitated again, then quickly stammered out, “Why… why did you choose to marry Prince Aegon? He’s just a child, my lady. If—if I were in your place… and a man like Lord Jason Lannister wanted to marry me…” She trailed off, her cheeks flushing red. “I would have accepted.”

For a moment, the room was silent. Then, Y/n laughed—a sharp, derisive sound that echoed off the stone walls. It was not a warm laugh but one laced with scorn. She turned her head slightly to look at Elira, her lips curling into a cruel smile.

“Of course you would,” she said, her voice dripping with contempt. “That’s the difference between us, Elira. You’re a peasant. A frightened little girl who would gladly sell herself for a crumb of comfort and a pat on the head from some bloated fool with a golden lion stitched to his chest.”

Elira’s head bowed, her hands trembling slightly as she dipped the cloth back into the water. Y/n continued, her tone growing sharper, each word a dagger aimed at the girl’s pride.

“But I am Y/n. I am a Targaryen, the blood of Old Valyria. I am the rider of Vermithor, the princess of dragon stone. I don’t need a man’s protection, nor his gold, nor his pathetic little affections. I don’t need anything from a husband save for two things: a pretty face to sit on and a hard cock to ride.”

Elira gasped softly, her eyes widening, but she said nothing. She knew better than to interrupt.

Y/n leaned back, stretching her arms along the edge of the tub, her smirk deepening. “But if you’re so curious about my decision, I’ll enlighten you.” She tilted her head, her voice softening into a conspiratorial tone, though the mockery remained. “I choose Aegon because he’s a child. A boy with no power to tell me what to do, no authority to make demands of me.”

She let her words sink in for a moment before continuing, her eyes gleaming with cold, calculating ambition. “And more importantly, he’s the firstborn son. He is father's heir, whether my father likes it or not. I may not have a chance at the throne, but Aegon does. And I will mold him. Raise him exactly as I wish, shape him into who I want him to be. And when that day comes, when he sits the Iron Throne…” Her voice dropped to a near-whisper, her lips curling into a wicked smile. “I will be the true power behind him. I will be queen.”

Elira’s hands faltered, the cloth slipping from her fingers and sinking into the water. She stared at Y/n, her face pale, clearly unsettled by her mistress’s words. But Y/n only laughed again, throwing her head back, her voice ringing with cruel amusement.

“Now,” she said, her tone suddenly light and airy, “be a good girl and fetch me more hot water. This bath is growing cold.”

The woods were unnervingly quiet, save for the occasional rustling of leaves underfoot and the distant cries of birds. Y/n walked beside Ser Criston, her irritation growing with every step. Hours had passed, and they’d yet to find anything worth hunting. So fucking annoying. She tightened her grip on the bow in her hand, the frustration threatening to bubble over.

She was about to complain when her ears picked up something—soft footsteps, the kind that didn’t belong to animals. Her gaze narrowed, her body tensing as she held up a hand to stop Criston. Then, she heard it: her sister’s voice, faint but unmistakable, carried on the wind.

Rhaenyra.

Y/n’s head snapped in the direction of the sound, her sharp violet eyes catching movement through the trees. She crept forward silently, motioning for Criston to follow. As they approached, the figures came into view: Rhaenyra, her silver hair gleaming even in the dappled light, and beside her, that hulking brute Harwin Strong. But it wasn’t the sight of them that made Y/n pause—it was the majestic white hart standing just a few feet ahead of her sister, its antlers rising like a crown from its head.

She grabbed Criston’s hand, holding him back before he could move. “Be quiet,” she hissed, her voice barely above a whisper. Her lips curved into a smirk as she watched her sister. “And don’t make a sound.”

Y/n crouched low, her eyes fixed on Rhaenyra. Come on, sister. Kill it. Her heart beat faster, anticipation coiling tightly in her chest. She waited, watching for the moment when Rhaenyra would draw her weapon, when she would finally prove herself capable of something more than riding her dragon and being a spoiled cunt. Show me you have the spine.

But Rhaenyra didn’t move. The hart stood before her, regal and unafraid, and Y/n saw her sister’s hand drop to her side. And then, Rhaenyra stepped back, letting the beast go.

Y/n’s smirk twisted into a sneer, her mind filling with sharp, cutting thoughts. Of course. Of course, you don’t, you stupid cunt. What did I expect, really? She shook her head, her contempt flaring as she silently drew an arrow from her quiver. The string of her bow stretched taut as she aimed, her eyes locking on the white hart’s elegant neck.

And then she let go.

The arrow flew true, piercing the hart’s neck with a satisfying thunk. The beast reared back, stumbling as blood gushed from the wound. Rhaenyra gasped, her shock written plainly across her face, but Y/n didn’t give her a second glance.

“Finish it,” she said coldly, tossing a glance over her shoulder at Criston.

Ser Criston moved quickly, drawing his blade and putting the hart out of its misery with a single, clean stroke. Y/n rose from her crouch, her movements smooth and graceful as she strode forward, stepping into the clearing. Her boots crunched softly against the ground as she approached Rhaenyra, whose wide eyes were still fixed on the fallen hart. Harwin stood beside her, his hand resting protectively on his sword hilt, though he didn’t move to stop Y/n.

“Well, well,” Y/n said, her voice light with mockery, “what a surprise to see you here, sister.”

Rhaenyra turned to face her, her expression a mix of anger and disbelief. “Why did you do that?” she demanded, her voice sharp. “I let it go.”

Y/n tilted her head, her lips curving into a sweet, venomous smile. “Why? Because I needed a new cloak, of course.” Her tone was dripping with false innocence. She gestured to the hart with a casual wave of her hand. “This beautiful creature is perfect for it. Don’t you think?”

Rhaenyra stared at her, speechless, her mouth opening and closing like a fish. Y/n took a step closer, her smile widening as she leaned in and pressed a kiss to her sister’s cheek, the gesture as mocking as it was intimate.

“Goodbye, dear sister,” Y/n whispered, her voice a soft purr. “Enjoy the rest of your little walk.”

Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel, her crimson cloak swirling behind her as she walked back to Criston. “Bring it,” she ordered, gesturing to the hart’s body, and he obeyed without question.

As they disappeared into the woods, Y/n glanced over her shoulder one last time, catching the stunned, angry look on Rhaenyra’s face. Her smirk returned, satisfaction blooming in her chest.

Weak, little Rhaenyra, she thought. You’ll never understand. But don’t worry, sister—I’ll show you.

The ride back was slow, her mood as sour as the metallic scent of blood wafting from the stag’s severed head strapped to the back of her horse. The triumph of the kill had already faded, leaving her simmering irritation in its place. Criston walked beside her, one hand steady on the reins of her horse, his ever-watchful gaze scanning the path ahead. She barely acknowledged him, her thoughts consumed by the tedious pomp awaiting her return.

As they entered the camp, banners flapped in the wind, servants bustling about like ants beneath the royal pavilion. Y/n slid off the horse with practiced ease, her boots hitting the ground with a soft thud. “Take care of the stag’s body,” she ordered Criston sharply, tossing him a brief glance. “The head stays with me.”

Criston bowed slightly, his armor clinking. “As you command, princess.”

She didn’t wait for him to finish. Her sharp eyes scanned the camp until they landed on her brother, cradled in Alicent’s arms near the pavilion. Without a word of greeting, she strode toward them, her crimson cloak billowing behind her. Alicent looked up, startled, but before she could protest, Y/n reached out and plucked Aegon from her arms.

“Y/n,” Alicent began, her tone edged with concern, “he’s just—”

“I know,” Y/n cut her off, dismissing her with a glare. “Don’t fuss.”

Aegon, his little head still bandaged, squirmed briefly in her grasp before recognizing her. His tiny arms flung around her neck, hugging her tightly. “Si-ster!” he exclaimed, his small voice brimming with excitement.

Her irritation softened for a fleeting moment as she kissed his forehead, her lips brushing against the white cloth wrapped around his head. “There you are, my little husband,” she murmured, a rare tenderness in her voice.

But the moment didn’t last. She turned, gesturing for Criston to bring the stag’s head forward. The grotesque trophy swung slightly as it was presented, blood still dripping onto the dirt below. She held Aegon up slightly so he could see, her voice lilting with mock enthusiasm.

“Look,” Y/n said, holding him slightly away from her so he could see better. “This is yours. The white hart of the Kingswood, a beast worthy of a prince.”

But instead of the reaction she anticipated—delight, awe, perhaps even pride—Aegon’s lip began to quiver. His bright eyes welled with tears, and before Y/n could react, he burst into loud, pitiful sobs, his tiny body shaking in her arms.

Y/n froze, staring down at him in disbelief. “What… What is this?” she muttered, her irritation flaring. “Why are you crying? It’s a gift, you foolish boy.” She bounced him slightly, trying to quiet him, but it only made his wails louder.

Alicent rose from her seat, her expression a mixture of concern and anger. “He’s just a child,” she said, extending her arms. “He doesn’t understand.”

“Clearly, he doesn’t,” Y/n snapped, her patience wearing thin. She thrust Aegon back into Alicent’s arms, ignoring the boy’s desperate grip as he clung to her for a moment before being transferred. “Take him. If he can’t appreciate what I’ve done for him, then let him go back to you.”

Alicent cradled the sobbing boy, soothing him with soft words and gentle strokes of her hand. Y/n turned away, brushing her hands down her cloak as if to rid herself of the inconvenience. She cast one last glance at the stag’s head, her jaw tightening.

Ungrateful brat.

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3.

@ʀᴏᴛᴛᴇɴꜰʏʀᴇ 2024. ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴏʀ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴇʙꜱɪᴛᴇꜱ.

[pascaloverx]

HAUNTED

Summary: You awaken from a two-year coma to find that Detective Lois has been eagerly awaiting your recovery, believing you might have witnessed something crucial to catching a serial killer. What you didn’t expect is to learn that she suspects your doctor of being the murderer—and even more shockingly, it appears that you are married to him. Now, you must uncover your lost memories and find out who Charlie Mayhew truly is to you.

Author's Note: Yes, I'm writing another fanfic featuring Nicholas Alexander Chavez’s character from Grotesquerie. The characters belong to the universe created by Ryan Murphy in the series Grotesquerie (2024). This fanfic will include violence, strong language, and adult content. It will portray the character Charlie Mayhew as a doctor. I hope you enjoy the fanfic, but there's nothing certain about its future. If there's no interest, unfortunately, I will be abandoning the idea.

AO3 LINK ONE

© credits for the owners of the pictures used. they don't belong to me. credit is not mine for the pictures.

PREVIEW

Strange noises surround you, and the brightness stings your eyes, but you want to wake up. In the distance, you hear a woman shouting for a nurse to come help. Is she a relative? A friend? You wish you knew. You feel connected to machines, surrounded by tubes, which nearly makes you gag. “Don’t pull on any of the wires attached to you. A nurse will be here to help you. My name is Lois Tryon. Detective Lois Tryon.” The woman speaks, trying to sound gentle but coming off as forced. She smells of cigarettes and alcohol. You remain silent, motionless. You don’t want to die—even though you don’t even know who you are.

"How long have I been here, Detective Tryon?" you murmur with some difficulty. There might be other important questions, but right now, this is the only one you need answered.

"About two years," she says, sounding almost excited about your recovery. A medical team enters your hospital room, adjusting and checking your body as if you were a doll—a sensation that’s starting to make you feel nauseous. The detective vanishes amidst the medical team as they check your reflexes, vital signs, temperature, and run several other clinical tests that will apparently tell them how you’ve woken up and if you’re truly all right.

Everything felt so secretive, with nurses whispering as if you couldn’t hear them. Two doctors were even debating whether they should tell you something or not. They decided to wait for Dr. Mayhew, whoever he might be. After a while, you drifted off to sleep, still waiting for them to explain what was going on. You had the same dream as before—a strikingly attractive man dressed as a priest making you kneel, asking for forgiveness for some unnamed sin. What stood out was how he always touched your face gently, saying that if you truly sought forgiveness for what you had done, you would have to accept your punishment. Then you would start taking off your clothes for him. The man dressed as a priest would then put you between his legs and spank you. He used to ask if you would be a good girl for him, and when you answered; he would whisper to you to take responsibility for what you did. And then you found yourself surrounded by blood and corpses, like a nightmare.

This time, you opened your eyes, letting out an almost desperate cry. There are fewer tubes attached to you, fewer wires surrounding you. There’s also a doctor—a different one from those who tended to you before. He’s lying back, asleep in a chair that doesn’t look at all comfortable. You wonder if it’s common for doctors to fall asleep beside their patients or if you’re getting special treatment due to the time you’ve been unconscious. The doctor is strikingly handsome. He looks exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes and his breathing deep and steady. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t wake at your cry.

You try to get up, nearly falling back at the sudden motion, but on the second attempt, you manage with some difficulty. Unsteady, you grab one of the spare blankets at the foot of your hospital bed and gently drape it over him. But there’s something peculiar—you feel as if you’ve seen him before. You move closer, laying your fingers lightly on the warm skin of his hand. His hair falls messily over his face, obscuring your view. Then you recognize him: the slightly wicked priest from your dreams, too alluring to be a saint, who meted out your penance. Yet something within you stirs, as if he holds a deeper meaning, something that seduces and captivates you. You touch the scar on his forehead, feeling a surge of electricity ripple through your body.

Then he grasps your hand, pulling you down onto his lap, where you land anyway. You’re silent for a moment, staring at him. “You used to brush my hair away from my face whenever you wanted to tell me something embarrassing,” he says, his voice close to yours, a sly smile playing on his lips as he settles you in his lap. “You’d say that if you focused on my scar, you wouldn’t feel so shy talking to me.” You’re surprised, but you don’t move. Something about being close to him feels familiar, leaving your body unresponsive in his presence.

“I imagine you don’t speak like that to all your patients, Doctor…” you say, trying to keep a serious tone as you study the face of the man whose lap you’re seated on. He chuckles, clearly amused. “Dr. Mayhew to some, Charlie to others. But to you, I’m husband.”

The words startle you, and you jump off his lap, steadying yourself on the hospital bed. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?” you ask, bewildered. You’re married?

“I know this might be difficult to understand, but we are married. Don’t feel pressured to remember—it’s all right…” he murmurs, rising from the chair and moving toward you. His calm tone, almost as if he’s trying to make you feel safe, is surprisingly comforting. Your gaze falls to his hands as they reach out to you, but you instinctively move to the opposite side of the bed.

“I’m sorry, but there must be some mistake. You can’t be married to me. Your face looks like it stepped right out of a magazine. I can barely believe you’re a doctor, let alone my husband. If this is a joke, know that it’s unfair to mock someone who doesn’t even know her own name,” you say, sounding slightly indignant. But honestly, what are the odds he’s really your husband?

Dr. Mayhew laughs, a sound both frustrated and enchanted. He runs a hand through his hair as if searching for patience. “It’s funny you’d say that. When we first met, you called me a ‘Ken wannabe.’ Later, you swore you hadn’t fallen for me because of my looks. When you remember that, I’ll be sure to remind you of it,” he says, his gaze deep and searching, as if his eyes are speaking more than his words.

“If you’re my husband, then tell me something only you would know about me!” you exclaim before he can come any closer. Your hands are trembling—whether from the intensity of his stare or some other reason, you’re not sure.

"You like to fuck when you're stressed, usually you prefer me to fuck you from behind but when you're pissed off, you bounce on me like there's no tomorrow. You don't like to feel pressure so I personally think you married me not because I'm handsome but because I let you be in charge. When I asked you to marry me, you broke up with me. You thought I was rushing things, and you couldn't stand the idea of not being able to give me children. You had two cats when you were younger and you named them 'Beelzebub' and 'Crowley' because your mother was very religious and you never liked her." He seems sincere, even if he's embarrassing you on purpose. It's obvious from the way he talks about your sex life, which you can't even confirm.

“Hold on, Doctor. We both know the sexual details were unnecessary. If I can’t remember other parts of my life, am I really going to remember what our… sex life was like?” you say, feeling your cheeks flush with embarrassment. Your hands are beginning to sweat, but you don’t break eye contact with Dr. Mayhew.

“Actually, of all the details I’ve shared, those are the only ones we can test right now,” he says, closing in on you with surprising speed. His gaze is fixed on you, predatory and intent, as though you’re his prey. Strangely, you feel no embarrassment—just a stirring curiosity to uncover this for yourself.

“Do you often suggest casually sleeping with your patients? We are in your workplace, after all,” you say, feigning reprimand, though part of you wonders if he’s ever done this here before.

“I only suggest it to those who are married to me. And honestly,” he says, drawing closer to you, his voice dropping to a whisper, “we’ve done far worse in both our workplaces.” He nods between himself and you, hinting at shared memories. There’s a tension in the air, something almost tangible. You swallow hard, unsure why his closeness doesn’t make you uncomfortable—but rather feels strangely familiar.

“You sound extremely dangerous saying things like that,” you murmur, holding Dr. Mayhew’s gaze as if daring him. For a moment, you think he might close the distance and kiss you—a thought that leaves you unsettled. How should you respond? You’re not even sure if you believe he’s really your husband.

“You were always one to take risks; has amnesia made you forget your true nature?” His fingers trace lightly along your arm, his gaze heavy with desire. He clearly wants you, yet that alone proves nothing. Whoever you once were, in this moment, you feel as though you’re standing bare before him.

"I hope I’m not interrupting the happy couple, but I heard Mrs. Mayhew was awake. I thought I’d finally come to speak with my most anticipated witness. I’ve waited two years for this conversation,” Detective Lois Tryon stands in the doorway of your hospital room, a victorious smile on her face. Dr. Mayhew doesn’t look pleased to see her there. They exchange a tense look, while you remain close to him, caught between their silent standoff.

“I don’t believe it’s appropriate to question my wife mere hours after she’s woken from a two-year coma,” Dr. Mayhew says, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close. “I’m sure you’re aware of her memory issues, Detective Tryon. It would be courteous of you to give her a moment to adjust.” You’re taken aback but stay pressed against his well-defined frame, momentarily wondering if he’s a doctor or a bodybuilder.

“It’s no surprise you don’t think it’s appropriate for me to question your wife,” Detective Tryon replies, her tone laced with sharpness. “I would have to reveal to her that her husband is a primary suspect in a series of murders. That he’s so determined to evade justice he might’ve orchestrated the accident that left her comatose. And that he’s been having an affair with the lead investigator of this case—while she’s been unconscious.” Mayhew tenses, a flicker of fury crossing his face as he grips your waist tighter. You watch as his features contort slightly, weighing the situation. You can’t help but wonder if you’re witnessing an innocent man being falsely accused or a guilty man feeling the noose tighten. For some reason, this only heightens your intrigue in him.

[tawfu]

Thinking about Sugar daddy!Pantalone, who escorts you by the arm in public, flashing his close-eyed smile as he shows off the fact that you chose him to the world. Is there a greater honor than that?

Sugar daddy!Pantalone who hires one of his underlings to hack into your phone just so that he can search through your texts for anything you might possibly want that you’re hesitant to ask for. Somehow, you always find yourself spoiled with everything you can think of, and in turn, you throw him a gentle smile as you jokingly ask if he can read your mind. God, that smile of yours is like a drug to him.

Sugar daddy!Pantalone who travels with you all around the world, eagerly taking you to the most luxurious spots and making sure that you don’t have to move a single finger, no matter the cost. Though he’s got plenty of rats by his feet, ready to serve him, you’ve got him under yours.

Sugar daddy!Pantalone who doesn’t hesitate to take out anyone who dares to look your way for a moment too long. Anyone who has the audacity to offer you help, whether it’s one of his servants suggesting to put your jacket on, or a strange man opening a door for you in public, is met with a death glare that later, when you, the deity beside him isn’t there to witness it, leads to their demise.

Sugar daddy!Pantalone who always offers to take care of you. Arrived home after a night out? You mustn’t waste those beautiful hands on something as miniscule and pathetic as changing. Your jacket’s already on the hanger, and he’s on his knees, slowly removing your expensive shoes. He takes a moment to admire the sight in front of him, thinking about all the times he’s been in this exact spot before.

Like when he’d look up at you, just like this, with pleading eyes, begging for you to step on his cock. It has no use, after all. He’ll give you anything you want, as long as you bless him with that disdainful look on your face when you watch how drools and squirms on the floor, trying to gain control over the way his hips jump at the feeling of your foot rubbing him.

Or when you actually allow him to cum from the stimulation, and he knows that the only place to do so is on your shoes, for the sole purpose of buying you new ones, but more than that, so he can lick them clean afterwards, like your own personal dog.

Sugar daddy!Pantalone who feels like he’s too cocky for his own good, and needs you to put him down where he belongs. Make him scrape his knees on the floor while you tug at the leash in your hand, one that’s attached to a beautiful silver collar with your initials carved on it, as you force him to crawl to you with his credit card in his mouth. Promise that you’ll only allow him to spend his money on you if he repeats that he’s nothing but a wallet to you, an utterly useless pet whose only purpose is to serve you in every way possible.

Sugar daddy!Pantalone who always gets bratty when his ass is stuffed, whether it be by a plug or your cock. He’ll purposefully ignore your commands, talk back and degrade you, resist when you attempt to restrain him, all in hopes that you’ll punish him and fulfill his masochistic desires.

Throw him on the bed, pound into him, gag him with your fingers, spank him with a paddle, torture his cock, gods, just please do whatever you want to him, as long as he’s left in a puddle of cum, drool and tears, unable to think a single coherent thought.

Sugar daddy!Pantalone who loves the strong and powerful image the two of you exude, and the fear in people’s eyes when they recognize him. Little do they know about the ropes hugging his body tightly underneath his clothes, or the vibrating butt plug that’s sitting comfortably inside him, filling him with the anticipation for the moment it’ll turn on. How about the pretty, pink cock cage that serves as a constant reminder of who the true owner of his body is? 

Sugar daddy!Pantalone who’s completely and utterly obsessed with you. No money in the world compares to your gaze. His body and soul is nothing if not yours. He would do anything, whether it be betraying his own god, or burning the world away, just to be close to you.