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jesuistrestriste · 10 months ago

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♡ Cooking & Cleaning; Art Donaldson x Reader ♡

nsfw! (18+) cw: service sub!art donaldson, dom!reader, afab/fem reader, use of ma'am as an honorific, brief food play, oral sex (reader receiving), begging, handjob, brief edging, praise, degradation, multiple orgasms (character receiving), dry orgasm

wc: 6.3 k (whoops)

note: this was pulled from the most depraved parts of my brain. i refuse to be held accountable for the absolute filth this contains ! :)

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The very second that your key is in the apartment door and you're finally home, you find your legs nearly collapsing underneath you as you step inside and kick off your black kitten heels.

"God," you groan, shutting the door behind you before you move to peel your chic new blazer off of your shoulders. You toss it onto the coatrack nearby and bring a handful of your fingers up to your forehead to rub at it tensely, sighing deeply.

It had been a long day at the USTA (United States Tennis Association) office, and all you wanted to do was come home and see your husband.

After Art had lost several important and consecutive tennis matches, as well as his confidence on the court (despite his actual tennis skills still being phenomenal -- he just psyched himself out too much), he had decided to give up his life as a professional athlete.

At first, this devastated you. Not only did you love your partner and believe in him throughout his career, as well as believing in his very real ability to eventually win the US Open, but this decision of his also meant that your position as his coach would become obsolete..

You actually became quite anxious about you and Art's future at the time.. you had needed a purpose, and so did he. You both were just those kinds of people; you and him both wanted to feel that you were contributing to something bigger than just yourselves, and that you were being useful to someone or something.

Luckily, his many previous years of successful tennis playing had scored you and him a shit ton of wealth. Like, genuinely a lot. You were beyond grateful, but you still wanted a life of your own. You didn't dare to think about the idea of becoming a stay-at-home wife while he went out and did whatever he wanted. Yuck. It just wasn't for you.

Your fears and inner turmoil about this change in your lives were quickly eased once Art had sat you down about two weeks after he had left his tennis career behind. He had taken your hands in his, smiled softly like he always did, and told you that he wanted to stay at home and take care of everything in it while you went out and continued your career in the field of professional athletics.

Of course, you immediately and excitedly agreed with the idea of this new plan, and then that was that!

You two developed new lives and new roles as people over a short period of time, but it didn't take away from the love you two shared. That always stayed consistent and at the center of everything.

Eventually, after a month or so of coming home from your new job to Art doing things like vacuuming the wooden floors of your guys' expensive New York apartment, or making elaborate protein-packed smoothies for the gym sessions that you two still did together, you came to realize that the whole "house husband" persona was actually kinda hot.

He had realized it too. Quicker than you had, actually. In fact, he can distinctly remember the overwhelming feeling of heat that had pooled deep in his gut the first time he had ever served you a home-cooked meal after you came home from a long day at your new job. He had gently rubbed your sore feet that night while you ate, and then suddenly couldn't find a way to deny how this new practice of.. servicing you.. made him feel.

I mean, God, he loved doing that stuff for you.. cooking.. tidying.. pampering.. washing.. he would do it all. You knew that he worshipped the ground that you walked on—reminding yourself constantly of the time he had admitted to you during sex that he believed he would be "nowhere without you"—and you devoured the increased sense of power that came with it every. single. time. It eventually became very easy and comfortable for you to let him take care of you. You grew hungry for it.

And then this persona of his, over time, dissolved into something much more intimate..

After tossing your blazer on the rack and rubbing at your temples, you drag your pantyhose-covered feet across the floor and into the kitchen.

Your nose is instantly filled with the aroma of fluffy, vanilla sweetness and a bit of nutmeg. you sigh happily as you turn the corner and see Art standing over a mess of what appears to be flour and sugar in a large bowl on the kitchen counter. He looks over his shoulder briefly with a smile as he mixes the dry ingredients together with a whisk.

“Hey, hon,” he grins, before turning back to look down at his current baking project.

you shuffle up behind him and hug him, your cheek pressing against his warm upper back as your arms reach to wrap gently around his abdomen. You sigh deeply.

“Hey, babe.. ‘m so tired. It was such a long day.”

He laughs softly, which shakes you a bit as you hold him.

“What’d your colleagues do now?”

You shake your head against him, groaning dramatically.

“I don’t want to talk about it.. what are you baking? It smells good in here.”

“Nothing crazy, it’s just some holiday cookies. I found the recipe online this morning after you left.”

“How many are you planning to make? There’s already some in the oven.” you ask, peeking around his frame from behind to see him set the bowl aside and wipe his hands on the apron he’s wearing. (It was white with small pink hearts by the pockets. You got it for him when he started cooking for you everyday, and he used to feel weird about it. He said it made him feel “slightly emasculated”, but he quickly grew to absolutely adore it. It was just another way for you to claim him as your personal chef. One night before you got home, he jerked off while wearing it, but he would never tell you that.)

“I don’t really know,” he shrugs and chuckles sheepishly, “there are twelve baking right now, but I thought that maybe I could make some for our neighbors.”

You chuckle softly, your hands disconnecting from their place on his stomach to reach down and give his ass a small squeeze. He jumps a little at the feeling, embarrassed laughter bubbling up in his chest.

“Where’d all this holiday cheer come from?” you smirk, pulling back from your position against his back to lean your hip against the counter. You just wanted to look at his pretty face. Your eyes quickly fixate on the fact that he’s got a bit of flour on his flushed cheek.. It’s only a small puff and smear of the white substance near his jaw, but for some reason it starts a flame in your lower stomach. There was just something about the way he got a little messy when he cooked or baked for you.

His cheeks plump up in shape ever-so-slightly as he grins at you.

“I don’t know.. I had time before you got home- I mean, well, before i thought you’d get home, and so i thought I’d just-”

You take a step forward, nodding at his words while your body is now only inches from his. You look up into his glassy blue eyes.

“You thought you’d just.. what?” you purr, your hand coming up to caress his lower back.

He swallows thickly, briefly looking down at the mess on the counter before he looks back to you. His body temperature is steadily rising as he feels your fingertips caress him over his loose t-shirt.

“I just thought I’d make some more,” he whispers.

You lean in, reaching your other hand up to gingerly hold the side of his neck while you press a kiss to it.

“You’re such a sweetheart, aren’t you?”

He nods, slowly, his eyelids fluttering slightly at the feeling of your mouth on him.

“I..I mean, yeah, I guess.”

You lean in a bit more, sucking softly at his neck. His head lolls a bit forward, and you nip at him when the sound of his shaky breathing reaches your ears.

You pull back, a small smirk covering your face as you look up at him.

His focus darts from your eyes to your lips as he reaches both of his hands out for your waist, but he’s rudely interrupted when the timer for the oven goes off— cookies are done.

You both nearly jump out of your skin at the sound; the incessant beeping pulling you both out of the thick fog of tension between your bodies and minds.

“Shit,” he mumbles, flushing pink from his cheeks to the tips of his ears as he turns off the timer at the top of the oven and moves to hastily grab an oven mitt from the lower drawer.

He pulls open the oven door, and you step back to watch him pull the tray out and set it on top of the stove area.

He sighs, pulling off the mitt and setting it aside as he leans over the cookies. His eyes are inspecting each one, and he has a very focused expression plastered on his face. He was as much of a perfectionist in the kitchen as he used to be on the court, that was for sure.

Your body moves in to stand beside him, also peering down at the tray of gorgeous golden-brown cookies. You place a hand on his upper back, rubbing it encouragingly.

“These look incredible,” you say, smiling at him.

He nods, still inspecting them, “They look better than I thought they would.. I actually messed up earlier and accidentally added three-fourths of a cup of sugar instead of two-thirds..”

“They look perfect, don’t stress.”

He looks to you, his gaze meeting yours and then suddenly everything was back to how it was before the timer went off. His hands reach for your waist, squeezing at your hips as he looks lovingly down at you.

“Be proud of yourself, Art.. you did a good job,” you laugh softly, your hands reaching up to cup his face. He pulls you closer.

“I am.”

“Are you?”

“Mhm.”

“Good.”

You suddenly get a very filthy idea.

“Can.. can you tell me what the recipe called for?”

His brows furrow slightly as he seems taken aback by your request, his cock already starting to stir to life in his sweatpants just from holding your body. He didn’t want to talk about the damn cookies anymore.

“What?”

You roll your eyes, one of your hands dropping from his face to reach around the fabric of the front of his apron and grope him over his sweats. Your other hand moves down too, but just to gently hold the side of his torso. His whole body jolts forward and his lips part instantly.

“You’ll like where this is headed, trust me. Just talk to me.. tell me what you did to make the cookies look so perfect..”

He breathes unsteadily, his fingers digging into your waist as he feels your hand start to work his cock up to a full-blown, hot, twitchy erection.

“I.. uhm.. I just..” he breathes out, his eyes growing lidded as he absentmindedly bucks up against your touch, still trying to maintain eye contact as pleasure starts to flood his senses, “one cup of b-butter.. ngh-!.. two cups.. two cups of flour… and then- ugh!- two.. two-thir-r-ds.. of..”

His voice trails off, shaky and low and broken as he hangs his head a bit, leaking incessantly into his boxers. It was that easy for you to work him up.

You frown, “Uh oh.. come on, baby, don’t go nonverbal on me that quick.. we’ve just barely gotten started…”

A small whimper leaves his chest as he tries to finish his words, “Two-thirds, I m-mean- three-f-fourths of a c-cup of.. s-su.. sugar… one teasp’of vanilla.. and.. o-one.. teaspoon of nutm-eg.”

You smile, stroking his cock over the fabric of his pants, “Good boy.. God, you’re so pretty when you’re slurring for me..”

He moans obscenely, melting at the praise while he feels his length grow suddenly intensely hot. A certain kind of numbness starts to creep over his crotch before his hands are flying from your hips to your wrist.

“Wait! W-Wait!” he gasps, his eyes squeezing shut as he blows a concentrated shaky breath from his lips, his fingertips digging into your arm.

Your eyebrow lifts and you smile as you take in the way his body shakes and shudders as he holds it in for you. He knows how to behave.. what would make you happy.. what would make you disappointed.. After all, he’s been trained by you in more than just tennis.

“Close?” you whisper.

His body starts to slowly relax again as he regains some of his composure. He blinks his eyes back open slowly, looking into yours.

“Very,” he groans.

You pull your hands from his body, and he whines softly.

“Take off the apron. Put it on the floor.”

You’re sure you’ve never seen him move so fast— his hands reaching behind his back and undoing the tied string. Then, he pulls the apron off over his head, tossing it off to the side. He watches you study him with parted lips, and he bites onto his own.

“Now take your sweats off for me.”

He does as he’s told; his shaky fingers reaching down to slip his pants down to his lower thighs, and then down to his knees and ankles, and then he steps out of them. He kicks them gently next to where the apron was thrown, now making a mess of grey and white fabric where both items pooled on the kitchen floor.

You step close to his body, cupping his face before running a hand through his messy strawberry-blonde locks. But it doesn’t take long for your eyes to travel solely down to the bulge prominently pressing against the inside of his navy boxer briefs. You run a fingertip up and over the outline of his dick, relishing in the way it makes him shake. He was now just in his tee shirt, boxers, and white socks, while you stayed fully clothed. But not for too much longer.

"My pretty husband.." you coo to him, making his lips part to let out a few uneven breaths. You glance around his frame and notice a bowl off to the side that had remnants of the soft cookie dough from the first batch of the cookies. You smirk.

You lean forward and swipe your thumb along the inside of the bowl, gathering some of the sugary, buttery mixture on your digit. His gaze remains lidded and locked onto your face, not finding any importance in your hand's movements at the kitchen counter. You bring your thumb back in, showing him what you did.

He spares your thumb a quick glance, but then his eyes are back on yours, and then your lips, and then the way that your breasts are peeking out from the low-cut collar of your work top. You bring your thumb up to his mouth.

"Open," you whisper.

He does as he's told, parting his lips further and leaning in to encourage your finger to slip past them.

You push your cookie dough-covered thumb into his mouth, feeling him immediately begin to suckle on it; his tongue swirled over it, and his eyes fluttered shut right after they began to roll back. His brows furrow, and a couple of faint whines bubble up out of him as the taste of his homemade sweetness melts seamlessly on his palate.

While your thumb is in his mouth, you push it down softly on his tongue.

"Knees, baby," you say breathlessly.

Art knew this command like the back of his hand.

Effortlessly and steadily, he dropped down to his knees one after the other, keeping your digit in his mouth the entire time. He didn't dare let it go. He moved to sit on his calves.

"Good job.. good boy..."

He whimpered, the vibrations of his pathetic sounds causing your hand to buzz slightly.

"I want your mouth on my cunt.. can you do that for me, darling?" you purr, running your hand through his hair for a moment. He nods around you.

"Y'sh, m'm.." he mumbled, trying his best to speak while still relishing your touch with enough attention.

You pull your thumb from the heat of his wet mouth, and smirk as you watch his lips chase after it.

"What was that?"

You already had a good idea about what he had murmured, but it was just.. best to be sure.

"Yes, ma'am," he gasps out softly, his eyes glazed over.

He reaches up and pulls at your skirt, shimmying it down and over your ass and thighs, letting it fall to your ankles. You kick it aside, and lean your back against the countertop. Art positions himself on his knees so that he's on the floor in front of you, looking up at you. His hands shakily reach up to the sides of your pantyhose, his tongue licking out over his bottom lip. He digs his fingers into the taut fabric and looks up at you once more, beginning to pull them down.

Immediately you grab his wrists, halting his movements. His eyes look up into yours, worried that he had made a wrong move, but you shake your head with a soft smile.

"You can rip them."

He doesn't even mean to, but he moans when you give him permission to be a little desperate right now.

In an instant, his strong hands are pulling needily at your tights, causing them to rip from your crotch to your lower thighs. He hooks one of his index fingers into the inside of your panties, his thighs tensing up at the feeling of your wetness, and then he's pushing them to the side. His tongue rests out over his bottom lip as he leans in, holding the back of your leg with his free hand as his eyes flutter shut and he engulfs your heat with his mouth.

"Oh, fuck-!" you yelp, reaching down to tangle your hands in his soft curls, "fuck, fuck, that feels good, Art, don't stop.."

He moans, his eyes squeezed shut as he lathes his tongue up and down and over your wet hole. He lewdly sucks and swallows your slick that's quickly spilling over his tongue, trying to focus harder on your pleasure (and less on the feeling of his cock throbbing rapidly in his boxers.. he can feel himself leaking).

You remove your hands from his hair and move to unsteadily grip the countertop, your back pressing hard against it. Art hums around you in his mouth, moving his tongue up to lick sloppily at your clit. He opens his eyes, his brows furrowed, and looks up at you.

"God, you're so good at this.. you're doing so well.. i'm getting.. close.." you breathe out, studying the upper half of his face while the lower half remains buried in your pussy.

He doubles his efforts, smushing his face deeper against you, his lips pursing to suckle against your sensitive nub as his grip on your leg tightens. Art has half a mind at that moment to just scoot forward a bit and slot your ankle between his thighs, but he won't. You came first, in his mind. Literally, and figuratively.

You sling the leg that he's holding over his shoulder, giving him more access, and then you begin to feel an overwhelming, hot numbness creep over your lower half..

"ANGH!" you moan loudly, squeezing your eyes shut as your body begins to shake. Your fingers grip the kitchen counter so hard that you're afraid you'll break a nail.

"I'm going to cum, Art..!"

"Mm! Mm-mm!"

"I'm.. oh my god.... I'm... I'm-! Cumming-!" you whine, feeling your orgasm crash over you.

"MM-!" he laps at your pulsing cunt, squeezing his eyes shut before forcing them open so that he can watch the way your beautiful face moves to contort in ecstasy.

You groan and whine as your orgasm's aftershocks are uncomfortably prolonged by Art's relentless tongue, and your hands release the marble countertop to reach down and grab two soft fistfuls of his hair. You try to tug his head back from your cunt, but he just closes his eyes and presses his nose and mouth further against your core. The repetitive movements of his tongue over your folds cause lewd, wet noises to fill the kitchen.

"Art... A-Art..! Enough!" you slur out as the pleasure from before starts to melt into a prickly sting of oversensitivity.

His eyes flutter open and you shoot him a warning glance as he peers up at you.

"I said enough, yeah?" you snap, "stand up."

He immediately pulls his mouth away from your sticky body and stands up on shaky legs. His eyes look downward, guiltily avoiding your gaze, as he wipes at the clear slick covering his chin with the back of his hand.

You try to catch your breath for a moment, studying his chest as it heaves up and down -- him trying to catch his breath all the same. You reach out and take his lower jaw softly in one hand, forcing him to look at you properly.

"You got a little fucking greedy there for a minute.. didn't you?"

He bites his bottom lip for a second, nervously chewing on the inside of it as he debates what answer he could give that would result in the least amount of punishment from you.

"Did you hear what I said?" you whisper coldly, taking a step closer to him as your hand grazes against the erection standing proudly in his underwear.

His body automatically jolts forward, and he lets out a shaky breath as his brow twitches. "Yeah.. I did.." he huffs out.

You smirk, wrapping your hand around him over the dark blue fabric, "And what do you think, hm? Were you being greedy?"

He looks deep into your eyes, his lips parting as he feels you start to stroke him. He tries to stop it, but his hips start to shallowly buck against your grasp, and now he can't get any words out. He wants to, but he just.. he really can't.

You roll your eyes.

"You know what I want you to say, honey. Use that big brain of yours."

He moans softly, his hands coming up to hold the sides of your upper arms as his eyes grow lidded.

"I'm.. I was being greedy.. I'm greedy," he moans lowly, thrusting into your hand a bit quicker and with a tad bit more abandon.

"Yeah, yeah you are. You're a greedy little whore for this, aren't you?"

He nods slowly but repeatedly as his brows pinch together and his breathing picks up.

"Yesss," he says brokenly, his voice straining a little as his moans start to become whimpers and whines, "I'm.. s' greedy for you.. jus' for you.. mm..!"

You nod and smirk up at him as his face becomes pinker and pinker, "That's it, pretty boy.. good job. You like when I stroke your pretty cock?"

He lets out an obscenely loud moan as his abdomen curls in over itself a bit, his hands gripping the sleeves of your work top and pulling helplessly at the fabric as he feels a spurt of precome burst into the inside of his boxers.

You chuckle a little as you watch him visibly get closer to his climax, but then he suddenly releases the hold on one of your sleeves and urgently grabs the hand that's moving over his clothed length.

You look down to where his hand holds yours, and he lets out a filthy whimper as he pulls your touch off of him and then urgently pushes your hand past his waistband and down into the front of his boxers. You gasp at his seemingly impulsive actions, feeling your fingers finally come into contact with his slicked-up cockhead. Your fingertips just barely brush over his hot, leaking slit.. sliding over a thick glob of pre.. and then he's being sent over the edge. To the average person, the touch would be essentially imperceptible, but not to him.. not to Art. He was just far too sensitive.

Your husband lets out a startled cry as he doubles over your frame in front of him and frantically moans, his whole body trembling and tensing as his balls draw up, "I'm cumming!"

You don't even have time to really process what's happening until you feel your hand being covered in warm fluid, the substance dripping down your fingertips as Art basically comes untouched. You look up at him, dumbfounded, before you feel your abdomen grow warm and tingly. That was kinda.. hot?

"Jesus, baby," you whisper breathlessly as his hips jolt a few more times before stilling as he gulps air down into his lungs, "didn't realize you were that worked up.. that was a little quick, no?"

He moans softly, still feeling your fingers graze him inside of his boxers.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to.." he says, his breathing hitching in his throat as he tries to get the words out in spite of the pleasure still thrumming through his veins. He was still rock hard.

You smile, quickly using your clean, opposite hand to pull his boxers down to his lower thighs. His length slaps up lightly against his stomach before bobbing out in front of him, a tiny pearl-like bead of cum still leaking from his tip. He sighs shakily as he looks down at himself, and then up at you. You wrap your cum-covered hand around the base of his shaft, causing Art to jerk forward from sensitivity. He pulls a sharp breath in, his face scrunching up a little as he tries to control his body.

"I'll let you cum again," you start, watching his eyes light up, "but! you need to give me a warning this next time, okay? I want a clear warning, love."

He nods at your words, a more serious expression plastering over his face, "I will, I promise.. I.. I can give you a proper warning, ma'am.." he whispers.

And with that, you slide your hand from his base to his tip in one smooth motion, your thumb gliding over the head.

"GAH-!" he shudders forward, hissing in pain for a moment before he starts to moan again.

"You okay? Can you handle this?" you ask, your tone soft but seductive as you try to tease him but also legitimately check in. You two were always good at looking out for the other's wellbeing during your sessions together; the exchange of love and tender-care came easily to you both-- it was never something either of you had to question.

He nods, "Yeah, yes-ss, I can t-take it.." he slurs a little, watching your hand move up and down over his throbbing length.

"Look up into my eyes, darling," you purr, your hand starting to pick up speed, "does it feel good?"

He meets your eyes, his blue ones swimming with lust and desperation as he felt the beginnings of his second orgasm start to creep in, "Yes, fuck-! Yes! It feels so fucking good--!" he whines.

"Remember what we just talked about?"

He nods fervently, sucking his plump bottom lip in between his teeth as his focus darts from one of your eyes to the other. You speed up your hand, squeezing his shaft a little more to give him some pressure that you assume he needs.

He keens instantly, a loud moan rumbling from his chest as his thighs start to shake and his eyes squeeze shut.

"Art," you murmur in a seductive but warning tone.

He shakes all over, nodding his head, before his back stiffens up and he becomes incredibly tense. You keep your hand moving at the same fast pace, hoping his memory today is as good as his stamina.

"I'm going to cum," he whispers quickly, bringing his hands up to hold onto your shoulders as he pulls you closer.

You smile in approval, leaning in close to his ear and breathing warmly against his skin as you speak softly, "thank you for telling me, angel. do you want to cum for me?"

He nods, whining out a hasty "mhm". He lets out a breathy moan as he feels your hot words against his upper neck.

You press a chaste kiss there, and then you slide your hand up to gently grip his shaft while your thumb moves to rapidly swipe over his frenulum.

"Come."

And he does just that.

Art's back arches as soon as your one commanding word reaches his ears, cumming uncontrollably with an abrupt cry of pleasure. At first, his body is incredibly rigid as he lets go, his brows pinched up together as he feels the first, pulsing waves of his orgasm hit him, but then the full sensation of his release hits him and his whole body shudders deeply. He lets out little breathy moans and gasps as he relishes in the bursts of pleasure rolling over his cock. You slow your thumb down a bit as you watch him spurt rope after rope over your hand and onto the kitchen floor as he comes undone for you a second time.

"Fucking hell," you moan, now going back to stroking him fully instead of just rubbing a digit against his tip.

He grits his teeth in an instant, being pulled from his afterglow by the feeling of your hand forcing him back into a feeling of overstimulation. "Ah-! Ah!.. T-Too much, too much," he whimpers, his hands instinctively reaching down from your shoulders to push at your hand that's currently working him towards a third, uncomfortable orgasm that he's not even sure he wants anymore.

You use the hand that's not stroking him to move his hands away from your occupied one, giving him a small shake of your head.

"Hands behind your back, please. We're not done yet, okay?" you coo.

He quickly follows orders, moving both of his hands behind his back and away from his aching length, although not without letting out a sniffly whine of protest first.

"Please, ma'am.. I'm.. I can't do it I can't do it-- I'm-- AH!"

You cut off his soft moans of agony with a brief squeeze to the base of his dick, looking intently up into his eyes through your lashes.

"If you really want to stop, baby," you tilt your head teasingly, "you can always use the safeword, yeah?"

He bites his lip before he lets out a warped cry, his head lolling backwards in the same instant. You stop moving your hand.

"Art, darling," you whisper to him comfortingly.

He brings his head back upright to look down into your eyes, his face blank with pleasure; he almost looked drunk. His eyes were glazed over, his cheeks were pink, his hair was a mess, and his lips were parted to let out harsh little breaths of air as he tried to regain some semblance of being grounded in his own, ruined body.

You reach your free hand up to cup his jaw, brushing your thumb over the side of his face.

"Does it really hurt that bad? You know that you can be honest," you whisper, now a little concerned that maybe you pushed him too far.

He thinks for a moment before shaking his head slowly and swallowing a bit of drool that he realized has been collecting in his mouth for the past minute or so, "N-Just a little.." he breathes out.

You nod, giving him one soft stroke of his come-covered cock. He gasps and his torso jolts at the sensation, faint tears springing to his eyes.

"Sorry, sorry," you hum, "should we stop here then? I think maybe that would be best for you.. you've already done so well for me.."

The latter half of your sentence, that subtle bit of praise, gives him all the motivation he needs to want to unravel again.

He looks down at his still-hard cock, and then back up at you, and shakes his head. His tongue pokes out over his bottom lip and wets it as he tries to collect his thoughts.

"No.. no, I can do- I can go again, ma'am.. I pro-promise.." he slurs out, thrusting up into your hand.

You raise a skeptical brow at him and his movements, keeping your hand still.

"Are you sure? You know that I won't be upset with you if you want to stop, Art."

He shakes his head again, his lip trembling, "Please."

You smile softly and start to move your hand up and down over his cock again. Despite his previous indications that it was painful, the feeling has now seemed to morph back into unfiltered pleasure as he lets out a high-pitched moan of your name. He babbles endlessly, a mixture of pleas for more, letting out repetitive mumblings of "feels good", and "yes", and an assortment of stuttered expletives.

It doesn't take long for Art to get close again.

"I think 'm gonna come again," he mumbles, letting his eyes fall shut as his head slumps forward against your shoulder. You stroke him quicker, focusing on his hypersensitive tip as you feel a drip of precome come out.

"Oh? You want to come again?" you tease coyly.

You could be cruel sometimes. He had known that this part was coming eventually.

He shakes his head against the crook of your neck with a whine, "don't do this, please.."

You stop your hand at the base of his cock, halting his orgasm just as his load started to rise up his length. Art bites back an obscenely loud moan of protest that is dying to be let out..

"No, no no noo," he squirms against you, repetitively shaking his head as his face remains buried in your neck.

"You know what you need to do, darling."

"Please," he moans, "let me come.."

"You want to come?"

"Yes."

"You do?"

"YES..!"

"How should I make you come?"

"Can y- keep stroking my- I want my cock to be- I-" he mumbles incoherently.

You place your free hand on the back of his head, pushing your fingers pleasurably into his hair as he trembles against you.

"You want me to keep jerking you off? Hm?"

"Y-Yes-ss!" he moans out brokenly, using every bit of restraint within himself to resist the urge to move his hands from behind his back and relieve his aching parts.

He would never do that, though.. no matter how much he wanted to. He would always follow your wants and needs first. Those were most important to him.

"Ask me for what you need again. Nicely; just the way I like it."

"Please, can I come?"

"Again."

He whines, his hips involuntarily bucking up against your stilled hand wrapped around him.

"Please," he sobs, "can I please come for you?"

"Yes, honey, you can come."

You start to stroke his cock once again, and within just a few pumps Art is releasing again. Even though you can't see them because his face is still in your shoulder, his eyes roll all the way to the back of his head as he lets out a couple pitiful squirts of white, sticky liquid over your hand. "Ooh, that's it.. good boy.. are you my pretty little slut?"

When Art hears this, he isn't exactly sure what happens, but it's like the orgasm that's already halfway finished just completely starts over.

"Ohh my fucking- oh my god-dd-! Ugh! HNGH-!"

It's like every single nerve ending in his body is lighting up at once, and he can't do a damn thing about it.. he can't stop it...

His legs nearly go limp underneath him, and he has to lean further into you to prevent himself from collapsing.

Art then releases the most pornographic moans you've ever heard and tenses up in your hold all over again. You're not really sure what's happening until he--

"I'm cumming again! I'm cumm-m-ing-! Again! Ohmyfucking--! GOD!"

He whines and sobs against your body, his arms still held behind his back as you feel his cock jump and pulse in your hand again. This time, nothing comes out. It's odd because it's clear that he's cumming for a fourth time, but there's nothing to show for it.

You slow your hand but continue to stroke his length which is now covered in the creamy-white filth of his previous loads. His cock softens a little, but you're unsure when his orgasm ends because, again, nothing is coming out.

Art's frame suddenly begins to jerk around every time your hand brushes over his tip, and he lets out a hiss of discomfort through his gritted teeth and a sniffle afterwards. As soon as you hear that, you know he's done and you quickly remove your hand. Any extra stimulation and he'd genuinely start to cry. You could save that for another time.. if he wanted you to.

You move your other hand from his hair to his clothed upper back and rub small, comforting circles over it.

"I've got you," you whisper, "you did such a good job, baby. You just came dry for me."

He nods, sniffling wetly and exhaustedly.

You continue to rub his back for a minute or so in silence as he comes back down to earth; the pleasurable waves of his release's aftershocks allowing him to bask in the ebb and flow of it all as he tries to calm his ragged breathing.

"I feel weak," he groans softly.

You nod, "I'm right here, you're okay.. take some deep breaths for me, honey."

He nuzzles deeper against your neck and sighs contentedly, the fuzziness in his head starting to dissipate with your caring words and gentle touch.

"You're my good boy," you whisper, pressing your cheek against the side of his head.

"Mhmm," he hums, "always for you."

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆. ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆. ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆.

notes; WOAH. ok. so this has been like months in the making by now i think..? but i finally finished it :D thank u so much to everyone who has been patiently/loyally waiting for this one after i teased it for over a month on this blog 😭 + thank u to anyone who gave me some kind words of encouragement when i had to put this aside for a while. i luv u guys !! <3

reblogs are always allowed + appreciated!

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the-broken-truth · 1 year ago

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Civil Obsession: Platonic Yandere Mafia Boss Miguel O'Hara w/ Civilian Teenager Reader [Part 1]

Summary: [Name] tries to lead a normal life in New York, despite the presence of gangs and violence. [Name] resides with their parents who run a Drycleaner Business and attends school while working as an animator and artist on the side. While hurrying to school one day, [Name] accidentally spills coffee on a man wearing an expensive suit. [Name] offers the man their business card for a free dry cleaning service before hastily departing.

[New York - Your Point Of View]

The Streets of New York City were crowded - as always - but that didn't stop me from rushing down the sidewalks of New York, dashing through the slim openings between people's bodies with a coffee in my dominant hand and my other hand pressing down on my satchel that was on my shoulder and across my body but I didn't want my flap to open and my art tablet to fly out or hit someone in the face; I was not in the mood to get sued and possibly robbed but I was pressed for time. I overslept once again and I was late for school - well, late for breakfast at school; I still had about half an hour to get there and I was going to be late, then they were going to call my parents, then my parents were going to be pissed off at me, and for punishment, they were going to make me spend my weekend working in the Drycleaners when I could be finishing commissions and getting paid for them.

I'm getting beside myself. Allow me to introduce myself: I am [Name] of the [Surname] Family of New York City. I'm the only child of my family, thus making me the heir to the family business - a Drycleaner Service that was well known in the neighborhood where I lived in New York. While I respect the business and everything my parent did to make a living for themselves and myself, I found my passions somewhere else - in the world of Animation and Digital Art. I'm going to school to become an animator and my parents support my choice but I agreed to keep my passion aside and focus on helping my family with the business whenever they need my help - I work with them on the weekends when I don't have commissions to fill but sometimes I need to...

Suddenly, the door before me opened and my path was obscure by a large body, my eyes widened as I crashed into the massive body, squeezing the cup in my hand, causing the cup's lid to pop open and spill all over the person's red velvet vest - that was trimmed in white and in the shape of a spider on the chest. I fell on my butt and looked up at the person before me: A Towering Man with dark brown skin, dressed in a velvet red trimmed in cream white in the shape of a spider on his chest, black dress pants, shoes, and a black silk jacket over his shoulders. He looked down at me with his blood-red eyes as his short brown hair waved in the wind. People around me stepped away from me and the man. I quickly rose to my feet and bowed my head.

"I'm so sorry, Sir! I was in a rush and..." Suddenly, I was pushed away from the man by a large man in a tuxedo, black glasses, and an earpiece.

"Step away from the boss!" The bodyguard demanded as I steadied myself, "DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH THE BOSS' SUIT COSTS, YOU FILTHY BRAT?!"

"Hey, I said I was sorry! I'm in a rush!" I yelled back at the man but lifted his hand to punch me when the man - The 'Boss' - grabbed the man's wrist and pushed him away from me before walking up to me and looking down at me.

"You shouldn't run in the busy sidewalks like that, you never know who might be in your way." The voice of this guy...deep but smooth...full of authority but gentle.

"I'm really sorry for your suit, Sir. Oh!" I reached into my satchel and pulled out a business card for my parents' shop before holding it out to the man, "Please, go here and they will clean your suit - tell them [Name] sent you and they will clean your suit for free. I'm really sorry about your suit but I have to leave!" I watched as he took the card from me before I walked around him and started running again - I was in the home stretch - 10 Minutes left before I was late!

[Mysterious Man's Point Of View]

I watched as the young one ran away from me and turned the corner - must be heading to the local school. I looked at the card in my gloved hand.

"[Surname's] Drycleaning." I said as I looked at my bodyguard and handed him the card. "Give to this location. I need to get my suit cleaned." I said as I got into the back seat of my limo before my bodyguard closed the door and got into the front seat with the driver before handing him the card and taking off down the street.

'Just who are you [Name] and why does it feel like the two of us will meet again?' I thought as I folded my arms across my chest and closed my eyes - all I could see was their face and it made me smile.

#yandere miguel o'hara #modern au #teenage reader

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toracainz · 2 months ago

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High Rollers

Masterlist

Summary: Steven Grant, financial savant, gets played

Warnings: Inaccurate depictions of DID (only knowledge from the show/comic and some light research). Alcohol. Comic Book version of the character,

Word count: 1.6k

A/N: Thanks goes out to @missdictatorme for requesting this little fic!

Defending New York from bad guys, supervillains, thugs, vampires, and whoever else chooses the night as the backdrop for their crimes isn’t cheap. Not even a little. And with the way Marc fights, it’s not going to get any cheaper any time soon.

That’s where I come in.

My name is Steven Grant. Though I’m not one to brag, I’m the one that makes sure our little crime-fighting gig stay open for business. We’ve had some setbacks, but I always manage to turn things around and make a quick buck. It helps to have friends in high places after all.

That’s how I found myself at another charity gala, after explaining (again) to the boys why attending these “boring rich folk circle jerks”, as Jake so colorfully commented, was important. They knew why I had to attend, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t moan and complain as I got dressed for it. Sharp suit, tame, clean-cut hair, and deep pockets. Deep pockets that were definitely dipped into when you began to battle me for one of the items at the auction.

☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽

This particular gala was benefitting several charities, plenty of people to rub elbows with, plenty of connections for Steven to get in contact with. He arrived, not-so fashionably late, and began doing the usual song and dance, making small talk and talking business. Some aquaintences of his introduced him to other well-to-do types, more names to add to the contact list if he needs them.

The hourdourves were passable, the scotch was the only saving grace.

After a bit of mingling, the people were funneled into the auction hall for the real reason everyone was there. There were some items that other rich people had donated for auction to be sold with the proceeds benefitting the different charities.

“Alright, Steven. Don’t get too carried away.” Marc chimed in for the first time since Steven had left The Mission.

Steven raised his glass to his lips, attempting to conceal his side of the conversation. “Don’t think you’re quite qualified to give advice on the handling of our money. Gotta keep up appearances don’t we, don’t want to snub the wrong people by being stingy.” Taking a sip of his scotch, Steven takes his seat, setting the glass on the small table next to the bid-paddle. As everyone began to settle in, Steven’s eyes landed on you. He hadn’t met you yet even after all the schmoozing from earlier. Had you slipped in at the last minute? Judging by your outfit and your appearance, he thought art like that couldn’t be rushed.

Almost as if you could feel his gaze on you, you turned, your eyes falling on him. Steven flashed you a rather charming smirk, slightly raising his scotch glass as a sort of wordless greeting. When you smiled back to him, Steven knew he had to find you after the auction.

The auctioneer stepped to the podium and gave the usual introduction and forced jokes before beginning. Item after item, plenty of high rollers were throwing their money around snatching up whatever eccentric items someone else had donated. Events like this weren’t really for the charities so much as it was a time for those in high society to do a bit of dick swinging. Steven played along, bidding occasionally to show he was interested, even purchasing a couple things. The next item up was slotted to benefit the city animal shelters and other humane societies. The profits would be split among a few facilities. Steven thought it was a great cause and one of the facilities was in the neighborhood of The Midnight Mission, so he figured Marc couldn’t argue since it would be in service of “our people”.

Steven raised his bid-paddle to kick things off since hardly anyone else was jumping in. A couple other people placed their bids, all of whom Steven outbid. It became clear to the room who was gunning for the item. Before the auctioneer could give the final call…another paddle was raised…your paddle. Steven was a little surprised, partly because he thought he had the bid in the bag and the other part was how strategic your bid was. This could get interesting.

One after another you and Steven were practically battling for the bid, exchanging glances and smirks, the two of you knowing this game you were both playing, or at least the “game” you might play later. For some rich folks, this kind of tension might be considered flirting or even foreplay, and with the way the corners of your lips curled after each bid, Steven was looking forward to the after-party.

Eventually, once the price had risen quite a bit outside the budget that Steven had set for the night, you finally conceded. Though Steven wasn’t sure you would give up, but as the auctioneer made the final call, naming Steven as the victor, it was clear. He looked around, giving a small wave and nod to the people as they gave a soft applause. The claps died down as his gaze fell on you again.

Steven’s brows raised, a silent question, “Give up?”

You chuckled softly, though you were too far away for him to hear you, shrugging slightly. A silent answer, “Guess so.”

Taking another sip of his scotch, Steven let out his own breathy chuckle.

“Havin’ a good time there, Grant?” Steven could hear the smirk in Jake’s voice.

“So much for not getting carried away.” Marc always had a way of making Steven roll his eyes.

“All part of playing the game, gentlemen. All part of the game.” Steven took another sip, finishing his glass and motioning to a waiter for another as the auction continued. Steven decided that he’d done enough damage tonight, doing the mental math of their collective finances.

☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽

The after-party was nothing but the first part of the event, but with more boasting and more drinks. This was a little more casual now that everyone had loosened up by lightening the load their money had weighing on them. Steven took to what he was good at — more talking, more networking — all the while looking for you in the crowd while feigning interest in what his conversation partner had to say.

It was longer than he would have liked before he caught a glimpse of you and when he saw you talking to someone he already knew, one of the charity gala hosts, Steven took the opportunity to politely excuse himself and make his way over to a potentially much more enjoyable conversation.

As he approached he caught the eye of the older woman.

“Mr. Grant! I was wondering when I’d get to see you! You made quite the stir at the auction, you know.” Her smile was huge and her energy radiating, either from her natural demeanor or one too many cocktails.

“That so? Don’t think I could have done it without our friend here…you are?” Steven deftly maneuvered the conversation into an introduction to which the gala hostess quickly obliged, telling Steven your name, one that Steven won’t soon be forgetting.

You nodded with a playful smirk as you offered Steve your hand, which he took and gently pressed your knuckles to his lips.

“The pleasure’s all mine, Mr. Grant.”

“Please, call me Steven. No sense in formalities. I’d say we know each other quite well after our encounter earlier.” Wanting to be a gentleman, and not press his luck too soon, Steven let go of your hand, but he’d be damned if he took his eyes off you, which you seemed inclined to do the same to him.

“Aren’t you two just hitting it off! I should have known you two would mesh, especially after that generous donation to their animal shelter.”

“Their animal shelter”? Steven wasn’t sure he heard her right.

“Beg pardon?” Steven looked at her, a bit stunned.

“Oh HO! They played you good, Grant. Gotta give ‘em props for sure.” Jake didn’t waste time expressing his amusement. Marc on the other hand…Steven could mostly hear grumbling.

“Yes, the animal shelter your bid went to…our lovely friend here is the chair and executive director for that animal shelter and a number of others in the surrounding neighborhoods.” She placed her hand on your shoulder, doing a little pose as if presenting some item from the auction. You couldn’t help but chuckle. Try as you might, it was difficult to hide your smirk. The jig was up, it would appear that your secret was out. You half expected Steven to either blow up for being played or make some snide passive aggressive comment…either way his money would be going to your organization. But you were rather pleasantly surprised when he laughed as well.

“Well played, well done. Takes a lot to pull one over on me and you did it in no time flat. Perhaps, now that I know who you really are, we could take this discussion elsewhere and maybe you could tell me a bit about your organization that I’ll be benefitting. I’d like to get to know the people I’m working with on a more…personal basis.” He winks before offering his arm to you, the gala hostess giddily bowing out to allow you two to find your own way through this event. The corner of your lips quirking up as you take his arm.

“Sounds delightful…lead the way…Steven.” Pressing your body a little closer to his, he begins to lead you over to the more private rooms. He had already reserved one should he need to more openly discuss finances with Marc and Jake, if he needed to make a call, or just have a moment to himself…after all mingling can be exhausting especially with the wrong people, but there was no mistaking it…you were absolutely the right people.

☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽☽

Hope you enjoyed!!! Please reblog to help share the fic with others!!!

taglist: @roseqzpd @rosecentaur1916 @ahookedheroespureheart@sleepyamaya @parkeepingparker @lockleysgrl @marc-spectorr @vermillionsails @harrys-titties @n0ripeaches @missdictatorme @bitchyglitterfox @spacecowboyhotch @randomchick546 @teacupcollector @local-mr-frog @stevenknightmarc @ahookedheroespureheart @mccn-bcys @juneknight @moonz33 @autismsupermusicalassassin @spicydonut25

#moon knight #steven grant #marc spector #jake lockley #marvel #comicbook!Steven Grant #comicbook!Steven Grant x reader #x reader #marvel comics #moon knight comic #moon knight comics #moon knight fanfic #moon knight fanfiction

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pinkhoneydrop · 2 years ago

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Its A Game

Pt. 1

[ A/N ] - I've been working on this for a little while now and i think it's ready to be shared :) this is unedited I'll be looking for beta readers once i get more into a flow with writing here and I'll have a master list up soon as well!! ps. please request a fic i love new ideas and i don't bite!

[ Pairing ] - Harry Styles x Reader!

[ Genre ] - Smut, Fluff and future angst

[ word count ] - 1.8k

[ All Parts ]

[ Masterlist ]

///

Fucking perfect. That’s what he thought about you every time he saw you. The most perfect person in his grasp as he pushed you up against the door and his finger tried to find the knob. His nose nudging against your neck as his lips found themselves kissing past your jaw. You always smelled like coconut. And if he focused really hard, he thought you almost tasted like it too. Your lips fell on the skin above his eyebrow as he hastily opened the door. Smudges of gloss left behind on his skin and he would get a tingling sensation when he would attempt to clean it off later. Your hands were so gentle on either side of his face as he paused to look at you. The two of you were leaning against the counter of the bathroom. In the mirror he could see his own reflection. Lip gloss sweat and lust tarnished his appearance. You whimpered at the feeling of his hips pressing against your own and his eyes flickered back to you.

“Shh, quiet down darling. Don’t want them to hear us.” And as those words left his mouth Harry took your face in his hand. Rings cold on your skin and nail polish contrasted against its color. He placed a soft kiss to your bottom lip, and you let out the most sinful sound Harry thinks he’s ever heard. He hoped to God someone would walk in and spoil is secret.

Did you think the same about him?

New York City in September. You weren’t from here. You flew out in his request a few days ago and we’re leaving back home tomorrow. And in 48 hours there would be pictures of the two of you leaving a party together. Matching blown out black irises and pink faces. It didn’t matter to him if the media didn’t think you matched up to any of his other exes. Or if they thought you were better. The media didn’t even know who you were. And he like it that way. Even if he hesitated to admit he was sprung for you and wanted more. Not that you made it easy though. It might have been better you were so young birthday just passed 6 years between the two of you and you were as beautiful as the bouquet of flowers you left for him after his last show. Ready to bloom in due time. He wanted to be with you every second. You just seemed to consume his thoughts. The songs he wrote about other girls all became about you. Every fan whose gaze lingered on him a little too long made him wish they were you.

Harry had 6 minutes till he had to start the show tonight and his pointer and middle fingers were knuckle deep inside of you. His lips pressed against your neck and his other had on your thigh. Warm skin against warm skin. Heart rates rising and heat collecting in the squared off room. Your phones forgotten on the sofa in the dressing room along with your belongings. Your naivety was draped across the floor along with your shyness and the coat you were wearing earlier. 6 minutes turned into 5 then 3 then a knock was heard on the other side of the door. Reluctantly the two of you parted ways. Labored breathing and frantic hands passed in between the bodies of you both. You were ushered to your section, and he was escorted to his starting point under the stage. It would be another 4 hours 37 minutes till you would see him again in his local apartment. A humble jet justifiably luxurious flat Sequestered away off some random street far away from Manhattan.

4 hours turned into 5 minutes as your car service pulled around and let you out in front of his building. Looking up to the sky you could just make out the balcony that was his from the front of the building. Pulling your jacket closer to shielded you from the cool air you walked into the lobby. The smell of leather and cleaning products were drastically different from the usual smooth scent the area had. Your heals clicked on the polished stone tile leading into the elevator.

Shiny metal doors closed softly, and you pressed the button with a 14 on it. You sighed and looked to your left to adjust yourself in the glass mirror lined wall of the elevator. Reapplying lip-gloss and being sure your lashes looked okay. A small smack of your lips and you decided you looked cute enough. As the elevator approached the last few floors you could faintly hear music playing from the speakers. The doors opened again to his pent house on the 14th floor. It was quiet for the most part and you shrugged off your coat setting it on the table placed near the elevator. You pulled down your skirt as you walked further into the apartment searching for Harry. Your purse brushed against your leg as you peered around corners and called out for him.

“Harry?”

“I’m out here Darling I have a surprise for you.” Harry yelled back from the patio of his flat and you followed the sound of his voice as excitement filled your belly. You smiled hard as you rounded the corner seeing candles leading to the patio where Harry was sitting waiting for you at the table. It was gorgeous nothing was out of place, and you felt like you could have cried when Harry lifted a slice of cake with a lit candle in it. His voice rang out softly as he began singing to you.

“Happy Birthday to you…” it was so sweet of him to do this for you and you nearly melted.

“You had a show tonight…how did you do all this?” you fought back tears trying not to seem to taken aback by the gesture.

“I missed you birthday so I figured we could celebrate it together just us while you’re here.” Harry was deeply upset he missed your birthday. As someone who missed you when you were in a different room it was hard being in a different state or country as you. He watched as your eyes softened at the decorations and he just wanted to sweep you up and hid you from the world. You were so perfect. The candle light bouncing off your skin and hair. The smile on your face. You looked so delicate. Just so perfect and all for him. You let you a soft laugh and grabbed his face in both hands and placed a wet kiss to his lips.

“You going to make a wish?” Harry whispered into your ear as you pulled away. His eyes caught your right before you nodded and closed them to make your wish. The wind began to pick up, and Harry placed the cake slice back on the table. As soon as his hands were free, he pulled you into him fore heads touching and neither of you said a word. Your lips fell open, just barely touching his, but not kissing. You took one glance at Harry’s eyes, and you knew your wish was going to come true. Fuck it, you thought and pulled at the collar of his top to kiss him.

“Sorry. You’re probably so tired.” You started to ground yourself and remember where you were and what happened that day. Harry didn’t want you to pull away and his lips chased after yours. His hand slipped to your back and fell on the top of your ass.

Pulling you in closer he kissed the side of your ear before speaking. The heat from the kiss made you think back to earlier in the bathroom. How much you needed him then and how much you still want him now. The feeling was mutual it seemed. Harry snuck a hand between your thighs as you leaned into him further. The tip of his finger pushing past the hem of the skirt you had on and your eyes darkened as they ventured further. Harry took his other hand and gripped your face. The fat of your cheeks dimpling around his fingers as he moved you closer, if that was even possible. The top of your outfit doing nothing to prevent him from feeling how aroused you were at his actions.

Your hands were draped across his neck and you moved one arm so your other hand could wander. Through his hair, around his neck. Down the front of his shirt and to the front of his pants. He was dressed so nicely for this little celebration, but you wanted so badly to fast forward time to see him in all his glory. Then gain you would mis doing this. Your fingers slipped past his pants and Harry pulled away from the kiss.

“Darling not out here.”

“But Harry…I need you.”

“Okay.” In a rush harry propped himself up against the table and once again pulled you into him. He took hi hands and ran them up your thighs and under your skirt. The skin burned as you watched him. Waiting for him to hurry up. The need for him spreading to the very pit of your tummy and even lower as her hooked his fingers around the underwear you had on and slipped them down your legs. And patted one of his own after you stepped out of them.

“Go on. ride my thigh.”

You like to think you’re a person who follows directions well. You lifted one leg up and harry hiked it the rest of the way up to his hip and held on to you with the other hand as well. Your skirt was bunching up around your ass and your waist the more you moved back and forth on his leg. With one hand harry put some pressure on your hips and tensed the muscles in his thigh. Normally you would never be so hasty as to make mess of his pants but it looked like the two of you were racing to see who could do it first.

“I bet you want to cum darling, don't you? Beg for it.” Harry watched as you began to fall apart on top of him.

“Please, I need it so bad.” Your voice was strained. Trying to be quiet and fight back the moans the friction was causing. Harry ate every word up and maybe it was cruel of him but he wanted more. He always wanted more of you.

“Be a good girl for me and we'll see what kind of reward I have in store for your present.” Harry knew what he was doing when he said those words to you. You were hanging on every word and both of you were getting off on it.

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #Harry Styles x reader #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles fluff #harry styles smut #harry styles x reader smut #one shot #fanfiction #hslot 2023 #harry styles x black!reader #harry styles x y/n

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bravevulnerability · 1 year ago

Note

Hi! Huge fan of your writing. I come back to fics repeatedly when I need a pick-me-up or the urge to re-read a certain one. Believing Is Seeing is one of my top faves..I was wondering if you'd consider ever doing a fic in which Kate is the disabled one with a service dog. After getting injured on the job (not relating to her mom's case cause that'd be awful) she's depressed and the dog helps heal her spirit & give life back. Maybe AU meeting or he runs into them after he left for some reason.

A/N: I’m not quite sure if this is what you’re hoping for, anon. But I really hope you’re able to enjoy it. :)

It’s his scent that hits her first.

Kate’s fingers stutter over the page of the book she’s trying to read. Granted, she tells herself, there are probably tons of men scattered throughout this city with the same cologne, the same aftershave, but… there’s something mixed in with the scent that has always been only him.

Dovah rustles at her feet, squirming from beneath the cafe table to investigate the approaching figure. But her dog’s lack of growl, lack of tension, and the soft touch of the coffee cup to the table in front of her only confirms it.

“Grande skim latte, two pumps of sugar-free vanilla still your order?”

After three months of not hearing it, his voice is like a tidal wave to her senses. Deep, rich, devastating.

She clears her throat, closes the book she’s been attempting to get through for the last week. Her braille has improved magnificently in the past few months, but reading for the sake of pleasure has yet to become pleasurable again.

Dovah whimpers, an affectionate sound of greeting she typically reserves only for Kate.

And one other person.

“Dovah,” Castle says warmly. She catches the dip in his voice, the likely lowering to his haunches to greet the dog, and feels Dovah rush forward into Rick’s waiting arms. With anyone else, her dog would be skittish, skeptical, ready to snap at the smallest hint of danger or discomfort aimed at Kate. But she’d never turn on Rick.

He’s the one who got her the damn dog in the first place.

“Castle,” she murmurs, gingerly reaching forward to skim her fingertips along the travel cup he’s placed on the table.

Her hearing is better than before, far more honed since the loss of what she once considered her most vital sense. She catches the shallow intake of his breath with ease, listens to the thick swallow that trembles down his throat.

“Kate.” He rises slowly, releasing the air held hostage in his lungs. “You look good.”

She remembers his face, never forgot it. She remembers the defined angles of his jaw, his cheeks and the apples that formed in them when he smiled, the harsh slope of his nose, and those ocean eyes. God, she hates how much she misses looking at him, wishes she did more of it when she had the chance. He was beautiful.

“Wish I could say the same.”

He chokes on a startled noise, a horrified hint of laughter that has her lips cracking a smile that’s been non-existent since… since she made him leave.

The smile falls clean off her face.

“How long have you been in here?”

She wonders if he’s doing that ‘boy caught in the act’ kind of shrug she was once quite fond of.

“Maybe ten minutes,” he estimates, but it sounds like a lie. “Can I sit with you?”

She refrains from biting her lip, knowing it’ll give her away. Instead, her fingers curl around the travel cup’s sleeve, guiding it to her lips.

“Just until I finish my coffee.”

Dovah drapes herself across their feet, her body pressed against Rick’s shin, her head on Kate’s boots. It’s a habit she remembers forming back when he first brought the dog home. Well, to Kate’s home.

“How is Alexis? She messaged me about the application process for Stanford a few weeks ago,” she reveals softly, knowing he’s rooting for Alexis to choose a New York - or at least an East Coast - school for college.

“Ah, yeah, she let me know she was going to reach out to you,” he murmurs. She can hear his knuckles cracking lightly, the slight inhale of his breath. “I told her that I hoped she had better luck than me.”

Her lips purse.

“But otherwise, she’s great. How’s your summer been, Kate?” The bitterness is quiet, but threaded like poison through his words, stinging her.

Miserable, she wants to blurt, but takes a long sip of her coffee instead.

“I’ve just been getting accustomed to my new job,” she admits, brushing her thumb back and forth along the sleeve of her cup. “Can’t live off savings forever.”

“How’s transcription work going in the courts?” he asks her, his voice lowering to a perfect tenor.

Her hearing has felt enhanced since she’s lost what was initially her main sense of identification, and he always knew it sometimes felt too loud in the world now.

“I saw the guys recently,” he adds by way of explanation.

Kate releases a shaky breath, traces the plastic rim of her coffee cup. “I hate it.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, the apology so earnest, overlapping his irritation. It has her chest aching.

After the accident, Castle stepped up for her, became her source of comfort, her listening ear, her… everything. More than he was before somehow.

She hasn’t been able to open up to anyone else, not like she did with him. Not even her therapist.

“I told you, you could’ve been a trophy wife.”

She laughs despite herself. “Yeah, I’m sure that would have worked out great.”

“What about editing? You could be my editor!”

Her eyes roll. “Castle.”

“C’mon, you’re a total grammar snob. I could have it printed in braille. We still have that special printer at the house!” he recalls, the excitement building slow but true in his voice. “All you’d have to do is go over it for me and tell me where all the wrong commas and run-on sentences are.”

Reluctantly, Kate removes her hand from her coffee, reaches across the table space between them until her fingers knock against his. With a shallow breath, she hooks her pinky around his, squeezes gently.

“Thank you, but I don’t think the literary world is for me.” She sighs and begins to let go, but he gingerly flips his hand under hers, encompasses her fingers in his palm. “Don’t worry about me, Castle.”

He scoffs at her.

“Kate, that’s not something I can just turn off.”

She swallows hard and pulls her hand back.

“It was really good to… sit with you again,” she finishes lamely, clicking her tongue once and feeling Dovah rise to attention beneath the table.

“Kate.”

She ignores him, fixing the leash around her wrist and rising from the chair.

“Please tell Alexis and Martha hi for me,” she adds softly, brushing her knuckles to his shoulder. “Dovah, home.”

Dovah leads her to the door, out into the growing chill of the city. The coffee shop she frequents is only a couple of blocks from her apartment, a safe place where she can pretend to be normal for a little while, and an easy venture for Dovah to guide her through.

It only takes her a few minutes of walking down the sidewalk to huff in irritation.

“If you think I can’t feel you right there-”

“It’s so creepy how you do that,” Castle curses, but then his hand is curling delicately along her inner arm. It’s a warm, familiar touch that penetrates the layers of her clothing. A touch that has her chest tightening. “Just listen to me, then I’ll leave. I haven’t seen you in three months, you owe me this.”

Kate exhales through her nose. “Fine.”

“You know I love you-“

“Castle,” she breathes, her heart constricting inside her sternum, arteries tangling into knots.

“And I know it must have scared you, that you probably have some weird idea in your head that it’s all some pity crush I developed after you lost your sight, but Kate… I was done for from the moment you crashed my book party and you know it,” he murmurs, his voice low but so matter of fact. “Working with you for the past year leading up to the explosion… Beckett, you have to have known.”

She chews on her lip until she tastes the spill of copper on her tongue.

“When that asshole blew up your apartment, I ran for my life to get to you, because that’s what you had become-”

“Rick, please-”

“You, my daughter, my mother… you’re my life. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you had to lose so much - your sight, your home, your job. I would give anything to trade places with you, to give it all back-”

That has her jerking to a stop. “No.”

“I just-”

“Are we on a crowded sidewalk?”

Usually she would know the answer without help, but the blood is rushing in her ears.

“No, we’re on Franklin street, at the crosswalk before your apartment,” he relays patiently. “There’s some traffic, but nothing too severe.”

“Good, then listen to me,” she mutters, turning her face towards him. “Even knowing what I know now, I would endure it all again if it meant saving you this fate, okay? You running into a burning building for me was bad enough.”

“I would do it again-”

“That is the problem!” she growls, jerking her arm from him and clicking her tongue twice.

Dovah trots forward. She knows Castle is at her back, following her home.

“Ms. Beckett, Mr. Castle,” the doorman greets, confirming her suspicion.

The elevator doors slide closed, trapping the two of them in the lift, Dovah sitting patiently between them.

“You have a brilliant daughter, a wonderful mother, and amazing talent, Castle. All I gave you,” she murmurs, reaching forward, taking those beautiful hands in hers, cradling the scorched skin, the uneven patches of flesh. He ran into a burning building for her when Scott Dunn set her apartment aflame, he picked through searing debris to pull her charred body from the ashes. The door that landed on her actually shielded her from the worst of the fire, but his hands are covered in second and third degree burns that will take years to fully heal. “Is pain.”

“Wounds heal, Kate.”

“You lost feeling you’ll never get back in some areas,” she whispers, her thumb skirting along the edge of his wrist, the outer bone of his index finger - spots she’s memorized. “You can barely write.”

“You think I didn’t know the risks?” He draws his hands back from hers. “We’ve had this conversation, you’re just too damn stubborn to listen.” His hands touch her cheeks, palms cradling her jaw. “I wanted you more.”

The elevator chimes and she steps out of his grasp, taking the well-memorized path to her apartment, snagging the keys from inside her coat.

“So is that it?” he questions at her back, voice raising. She walks in, leaves the door open, and unhooks Dovah from the leash. “We spend months together, healing, being… happy and you just - you get scared and we’re done?”

Kate shrugs the coat from her shoulders, tosses it on the couch. She doesn’t want to think about the months that followed the explosion - the months spent in the loft with him and his family once they were both released from the hospital. Agent Shaw successfully arrested Scott Dunn, but she could barely find the will to care, to feel any sort of victory.

The doctors told her she was blind - temporary or permanent, it was too soon to know, but the blunt force trauma from the blast had her head slamming hard against the floor, a random piece of furniture, a wall - no one knew - and she woke up unable to see. The last thing she remembers is a blurry image of Castle, stripping off his coat and wrapping her battered body in his arms, carrying her to safety.

The first month was nothing but grief for her. Grieving her sight and the domino effect of loss that came with it - her career, her apartment, her… her purpose, her mom’s murder. All of it was out of reach now, gone.

Castle was the only thing to remain in the darkness.

He snuck into her hospital room every night, listening intently to her confess her fears, her anger, her pain. The first time he crawled into the hospital bed beside her, she let him hold her, bandaged hands at her back.

“I’m never going to see you again,” she rasped into his throat, tears finally falling. “Castle, I can’t see you.”

She buried sobs into his neck, fell asleep against his chest.

He didn’t let her argue about where she would stay once they were released. They moved what little possessions she still owned into his bedroom. He refused to make her walk upstairs until she was more familiar with her surroundings and her blindness. She refused to let him stay in the guest room.

Their routine from the hospital carried on into the new normal of her life. They would spend mornings in the same buildings, in different areas of burn units and physical therapy clinics, and then he would take her on a walk through the calmer parts of the city - his favorite parks, the length of the High Line, along the Hudson on the west side of Manhattan. He couldn’t hold her hand, so she gripped tightly to the arm of his sweater, trusting him with her life as he led her through a city she once thought she could navigate with her eyes closed. They would return to the loft eventually, the two of them figuring out how to make dinner together (“I’m literally blind and you can’t use your hands, this will be great,” she muttered the first time, making him choke on a laugh) and spending evenings with his mother and daughter.

Alexis threw herself into learning braille, rushing in after school and meeting Kate in the dining room with a stack of books tucked under her arms. Together, they would pour over materials, memorizing a new alphabet, talking through the hardest parts.

She still misses her study partner.

At the end of the night, Rick would touch her shoulder and lead her to his bedroom. She would shower and he would wait outside the bathroom to ensure she maneuvered through the process safely. Once dressed, she would help cover his fingers in the cooling, antibiotic salve the doctors prescribed him.

“They’re feeling a little better,” she would examine, the varying terrains of his skin like a map to her fingers. The broken skin and cracked flesh ranged from the tips of multiple fingers to the edges of his wrists, luckily going no further. The doctor had personally promised her that Castle would heal fine, but the assurances failed to assuage her guilt.

“They’re looking better each day,” he would confirm, gingerly sweeping his thumb along hers. “They definitely hurt less.”

After wrapping his hands, washing hers, she would crawl into bed beside him, sinking into the warmth of his mattress and the safety of his body next to hers.

The routine instilled a level of trust in him she never thought she was capable of, but he proved worthy of it. No longer was he the playboy wannabe she had begun to doubt was an act all along; instead, she was met with a man who would stay up all night with her when she couldn’t sleep, who swore to her with fierce reassurance that she would be okay, that she would reclaim her life, and that he would be there for her every step of the way.

He was the man who - exactly a month after the accident - got her a dog straight out of the best academy of guide dogs for the blind that he could find.

“Her name is Dovah. She’s eighteen months old, a german shepherd mix, has bright blue eyes, brown and white fur, and she’s very happy to meet you,” he murmured, barely contained joy in his voice as she listened to him set the dog on the bed with her that morning.

Kate reached out hesitantly and immediately felt the dog’s head come up under her palm.

“Her handlers said she was strong, dedicated, and extremely protective. Reminded me of you.”

The smile had tugged on her lips and they had spent the morning practicing commands with a dog that became a lifeline for her.

Castle helped her find her new apartment shortly after, swearing it was exactly her style, and enjoying every moment of helping her shop for and furnish the place.

“It’ll be weird without you,” she confessed to him that first night she moved into the new building in Tribeca.

They were standing together in a bedroom she couldn’t see, but apparently, he had outfitted her bed with purple sheets and put pictures of her parents on the nightstand. Her appliances were all fitted with braille instruction, Dovah was set up in the living room, Alexis had even made her a map to be sure she wouldn’t get lost in the new place - she had everything she could need.

He reached for her hand with still healing fingers, drew hers to his cheek so she could “see” his expression while he spoke.

“I’m just a phone call away. Less than ten minutes from here, five if I make a run for it,” he promised her, but her fingers trailed along his cheek, traveling the planes of his face.

Her thumb skimmed the paper thin skin beneath his eyes, following the soft wrinkles expanding from the edge of his lashes to his temple.

“What if I don’t want you to go?”

His breath was uneven, but he kissed her palm. “Then I won’t.”

Her fingers curled, as if she could trap his kiss there. But instead, she lowered them to his chin, steadied her hand there as she stepped closer.

“Castle?”

His hands were touching her waist, steadying her, guiding her near. “Yes?”

She tipped her head up, pretended she could still see the ocean blue of his eyes on her. Their noses bumped, the heat of his breath skittering across her lips, and she lowered her fingers to his neck, felt the race of his pulse beneath the skin.

“Will you kiss me?”

It took only a moment for him to close the distance, kissing her gentle and slow and wonderful. She learned then that when Richard Castle kissed her, she could see the stars again.

She hummed into his kiss, gently shut the bedroom door so not to startle Dovah, already dozing on her new couch.

“Stay.” His mouth curved into a smile against hers. “Stay with me, Rick.”

“Yes,” he whispered, pressing her into the new bed.

For months more, she forgot to feel afraid. She let herself enjoy the days leading up to the summer, let herself exist in the bubble of her new life with Castle and Dovah and his family.

Until he told her he loved her, lying in his bed on a Tuesday night after a game of special braille scrabble with his daughter and a long shower together in his bathroom.

“I love you,” he murmured in the quiet of the night, the scars of his hands scraping along her cheekbone. The returning words were already swollen in her throat, how much she loved him back, but… all she could see behind her eyes was how much Castle loved her. What he did for those he loved.

Bursting into burning buildings, ruining his body, turning his life upside down. All for her.

She couldn’t say it back, so she kissed him, hoped he felt it, hoped he knew. Because the next day, she took Dovah, went home, and asked him for space.

“If it’s because of what I said-”

“No,” she told him over the phone, her face buried in her pillow, Dovah curled into her chest as if she could keep Kate’s heart from further fracturing. “No, Castle. I just - we’ve been through a lot these last few months and I need some time.”

“Okay, how much time?”

“I don’t know, I’ll - I’ll call you,” she lied, fisting her fingers in Dovah’s thick fur.

She didn’t call. She forced herself not to call and she hated herself for it, for how much she knew it had to hurt. But he didn’t deserve the life she could give him, the sad world of leading around a blind woman who would always be mourning the past.

She didn’t call because she loved him back, and she wanted better for him.

The press of his chest at her back jerks her to the present. His palms are warm over her shoulders, his hips a bracket around hers, and she can’t help it, she leans into him.

“I miss you, Kate,” he mumbles into her hair. “My kid misses you, my mother. I’ve missed you so much the last three months. Just tell me how to fix whatever I did-”

“No,” she rasps, digging the heel of her hand into one of her useless eyes. “Rick, it isn’t you. It was never you. I’m damaged goods and I wanted more for you. I want to be more-”

“What are you talking about?” She’s shaking, her chest quivering with tears she’s been holding in for months. His arms are around her now, holding her together, and she scrambles to find his hands, to layer her palms over his scarred knuckles. “What the hell are you talking about and why weren’t we talking about this sooner? Why did you disappear on me?”

“Because I love you too,” she chokes out, shifting in his arms to face him, to lift trembling hands to his face, feel the downturned curve of his mouth, the ache in his eyes that radiates to his cheeks. “I love you and it scares me. It scares me to love someone like this, to let you love me, to - to risk losing it all. And god, Castle, I just - I didn’t want you stuck with me. I didn’t want you to think you had to love me because I’m so - so broken-”

His lips quiet her, sealing over her words and stealing her breath. Kate groans, fanning her fingers at his cheek to feel the work of his jaw, fisting her other hand in the worn fabric of a flannel she’s felt before. Her back bumps into the door and then her world is nothing but the sensation of Castle kissing her again, his body flush with hers, hands in her hair, angling her face upwards so he can kiss her deeper.

“You are not broken,” he growls into her mouth, nipping on her bottom lip. “You are the same woman I knew before the explosion. You are strong, you are caring, and you are hot.”

Her lips crack into a watery smile beneath his.

“And everything in between, Kate Beckett. You are everything I want. Always have been. Living together, healing together - it just made me fall in love with you faster,” he murmurs, dusting his lips to the corner of her mouth, the bone of her cheek, the lid of a closed eye. “But don’t think for a second that we wouldn’t have ended up here sooner or later, no matter what.”

His forehead drops against hers.

“God, you’re so damn stubborn and I am so angry with you right now,” he mutters into her cheek, the words vibrating against her skin. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this earlier?”

“I panicked,” she admits, caressing the lines of his jaw with exploratory fingertips, the frown on his lips, the crease of his brow. “I thought - I was scared and I wanted to be selfless. I figured you would see how much I took from your life once I was gone.”

“Stupid,” he corrects, earning a huff, but he only nuzzles closer to her. “Stupid sometimes, but still extraordinary. That never changed, Kate.”

She cranes her neck, finds the corner of his mouth with her lips. “I’m so sorry, Castle.” He turns into the kiss, lets her have the work of his mouth for a long moment before he bumps his nose against hers. “I understand if you need time to-”

“No,” he gruffs, fingers bruising against her hips. “I gave you time, space. No more.”

She sighs, trails her fingers down his throat, caressing collarbones.

“No,” she agrees, staining another apology along his chin. “I don’t want any more space either. I just want you.”

His arms wrap around her, damaged hands splaying firm at her spine.

“Come back home,” he mumbles into her lips. “I’m not asking you to move in yet, just come watch movies on my couch, play scrabble with my kid, share my bed with me three to four nights a week.”

A quiet laugh echoes between them, she ignores the little flip of her heart at his yet, and nods.

“Yes, but can we… can I have you to myself tonight, Castle?” she whispers, feeling his adam’s apple bob beneath the flutter of her fingertips. “These last three months… I ruined our summer and I want to make it up to you, but I want to talk this through. I need to be better about talking.”

Rick’s lips brush the skin between her brows, a pleased little quirk of his mouth against her skin. “Of course. Let me just text Alexis, let her know what’s going on so she doesn’t worry.”

“If she’s not okay with it-”

“She missed you, Kate, was a little confused and disappointed when you stopped seeing me, but I don’t think she’s upset with you,” he reassures her.

“I’ll talk to her tomorrow, take her for coffee or something,” she murmurs aloud, chewing on her bottom lip.

“I’m sure she’ll love that.”

“I’ll bring Dovah, I know that’s who you guys really missed.”

She hears the click of her dog’s nails on the hardwood floor across the room, likely coming in from the kitchen that houses her food and water bowls.

“I mean, she was certainly an added benefit to your presence,” Castle sighs, drawing her from the door, fingers sliding down her arms to find her hands.

She laces her fingers through his.

“Where are we going?” she asks, even though she already has an idea.

“To your room, to talk, maybe do some packing,” he chirps, guiding her along after him, but she can hear the grin in his voice, the mischief that lies there.

“That all?”

“Well, if we can squeeze it in, I was planning on showing you how much I missed you, maybe punishing you a little bit for making me miss you that much for the whole summer,” he muses, one of his arms jerking with what she assumes is a shrug. “But only if we have the time. It’s still early, there’s always tonight.”

“No,” she murmurs, covering the space between them when he slows. Her chest touches his and she swears she can feel the acceleration of his heart against hers. “We have longer.”

#castle fanfiction #castle au #kate beckett #richard castle #prompt #anon #mine

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luxxuriantt · 2 years ago

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♥♥♥ Life with your FS ♥♥♥ Choose the pic that calls out to you the most! pics are not mine

💜 Pile one- New York ASSMAN- ace of pentacles, two of cups, four of pentacles

Lmao the first thing i got was doing chores together and loving it. Having deep convos while you deep clean the bathroom or listening to music while cooking.

Love languages being acts of service and quality times

I see them coming from work and falling into your arms and vice versa, basically you will be each other safe space

Veryy good financial stability and planing, you'd be very responsible with your money and for some i see like planning separate founds for buying a new property/ retirement or college founds

I dont think that romance will ever die in this connection, i see it as finding times to spend time together even when life gets hectic and also going on dates/trying new things and just both of you trying to find the spark

They will be very attentive and protective over you, for some even a bit more then the average person

I see a lifestyle thats traditional, calm and slow, with a routine but somehow both of you finding pleasure in it.

I also think its gonna be a private relationship, whatever happens between you stays behind closed doors, the fights, the happy moments..

❤️️ Pile two- Lookin good, tastin great- queen of pentacles, six of sword, eight of wands

I think you will move with your FS, like living some place different from your/theirs parents country or moving places while married

I kept hearing tranquility, so i think your anxiety or fears will be soothed in this persons presence and vice versa

This is the couple that likes to explore things together and is always moving on evolving. I see you hiking together, taking random travel routes, and even doing spontaneous but mundane things like bar hopping lol and just getting out of your comfort zone

This pile is also the sexually curious and kinky. I wouldnt be surprised if someone who picks this pile is interested in an open relationship or wants to try swinging or other fetishes with their partner.

Tho i also see comforting each other, i saw back rubs and massages, so i think you both will be very caring

This whole pile feels like a breeze to me yet there is stability, like a teenage relationship that matures and becomes even more beautiful

I think either you or them might go on longer business trips or something work related, i see longing and missing

🖤 Pile three- Nachos big ass your ASS-five of wands, page of pentacles, nine of wands

This pile has a heavier energy and its not all sunshine and rainbow but i guess life is not always so bright. Take what resonates and remember all can be changed

For some this is an ex you will get back together with, for some others it can be that marriage will be rather turbulent and rocky. You might be on brakes and then get back together ( divorce is an option for some)

I also see working together and getting above things and finding happiness

There might be external factors interfering, like other people, from third party to parents and finances

I get a feeling of something hitting rock bottom and then starting over

Your relationship will stronger with time i feel too

Nonetheless your partner will try to be supportive in whatever happens

Thank you for your attention and patience <3 much love to you all!

#pick a pile #pick a card #pick a gif #pick a picture #intuitive tarot reading #tarot reading #tarot

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tomorrowusa · 9 months ago

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A MAGA think tank (sort of an oxymoron) published a document with the official title Mandate for Leadership: The Conservative Promise but is widely known as Project 2025 after the name of the group inside the Heritage Foundation which compiled it. Whatever you call it, it is a bloodcurdling blueprint of the shape a second Trump administration would take.

Carlos Lozada of the New York Times read 887 pages of it so we don't have to.

[W]hat is most striking about the book is not the specific policy agenda it outlines but how far the authors are willing to go in pursuit of that agenda and how reckless their assumptions are about law, power and public service. “Mandate for Leadership,” which was edited by Paul Dans and Steven Groves of the Heritage Foundation, is not about anything as simplistic as being dictator for a day but about consolidating authority and eroding accountability for the long haul. It calls for a relentless politicizing of the federal government, with presidential appointees overpowering career officials at every turn and agencies and offices abolished on overtly ideological grounds. Though it assures readers that the president and his or her subordinates “must be committed to the Constitution and the rule of law,” it portrays the president as the personal embodiment of popular will and treats the law as an impediment to conservative governance. It elevates the role of religious beliefs in government affairs and regards the powers of Congress and the judiciary with dismissiveness. And for all the book’s rhetoric about the need to “dismantle the administrative state,” it soon becomes clear that vanquishing the federal bureaucracy is not the document’s animating ambition. There may be plenty worth jettisoning from the executive branch, but “Mandate for Leadership” is about capturing the administrative state, not unmaking it. The main conservative promise here is to wield the state as a tool for concentrating power and entrenching ideology.

We hear a lot of far right rhetoric about destroying "the deep state" or "the administrative state" – particularly from the odious Steve Bannon. But what's clear from Project 2025 is that what MAGA really intends is an unfriendly takeover of "the administrative state".

Executing a conservative president’s agenda “requires a well-conceived, coordinated, unified plan and a trained and committed cadre of personnel to implement it,” the document says on its opening page. The phrasing quickly grows militaristic: The authors wish to “assemble an army of aligned, vetted, trained and prepared conservatives to go to work on Day 1 to deconstruct the administrative state.” That deconstruction can be blunt. Portions of “Mandate for Leadership” read as though the authors did a Control-F search of the executive branch for any terms they deemed suspect and then deleted the offending programs or offices. The White House’s Gender Policy Council must go, along with its Office of Domestic Climate Policy. The Department of Energy’s Office of Clean Energy Demonstrations is a no-no. The E.P.A. can do without its Office of Environmental Justice and External Civil Rights. And the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration should be dismantled because it constitutes “one of the main drivers of the climate change alarm industry.”

Making the US safe for fossil fuel companies is a HŪGE Trump priority which gets too little attention. Remember "drill drill drill" from Trump's dictator interview? If there's any hope of reversing climate change, you can kiss it goodbye if Republicans win in November.

Of course abortion is a target of Project 2025. Christian nationalism would become the semi-official ideology.

If “Mandate for Leadership” has its way, the next conservative administration will also target the data gathering and analysis that undergirds public policy. Every U.S. state should be required by Health and Human Services to report “exactly how many abortions take place within its borders, at what gestational age of the child, for what reason, the mother’s state of residence and by what method.” By contrast, the government should prohibit the collection of employment statistics based on race or ethnicity, and the Centers for Disease Control should discontinue gathering data on gender identity, on the grounds that such collection “encourages the phenomenon of ever-multiplying subjective identities.” (Why the executive branch might concern itself with the subjective identities of American citizens becomes clearer some 25 pages later, when the document affirms that the government should “maintain a biblically based, social-science-reinforced definition of marriage and family.”)

A far right army of ideological zealots is to be recruited to replace anybody in the federal government not sufficiently pro-Trump.

One of the “pillars” of Project 2025 is the creation of a personnel database — a sort of “right-wing LinkedIn,” The Times has reported, seeking to attract some 20,000 potential administration officials. “Mandate for Leadership” maintains that “empowering political appointees across the administration is crucial to a president’s success,” and virtually every chapter calls for additional appointees to wrest power from longtime career staff members in their respective departments.

In short... (emphasis added)

This book does not call for an effort to depoliticize the administrative state. It simply wishes to politicize it in favor of a new side. Everybody does it; now it’s our turn. Get over it.

The book is hardly a secret. The far right is quite open about its intent.

Mandate for Leadership: The Conservative Promise (PDF)*

As with Mein Kampf, we know ahead of time what the bad guys will do if they hold power. We need to take the danger more seriously than Germany of the early 1930s.

What's needed to defeat Trump is a pro-democracy mobilization of the United States. That means putting aside ideological quibbles with other anti-Trump groupings and becoming more politically active in real life.

EDIT*: Tumblr is telling me that the link to Mandate for Leadership: The Conservative Promise isn't working and refuses to let me post it. But I just checked it twice and it's fine. Until this peculiar glitch gets fixed, go to this Substack article and click "Mandate for Leadership" in the middle of the first paragraph.

#donald trump #the gop #danger to democracy #outline for dictatorship #project 2025 #mandate for leadership: the conservative promise #carlos lozada #christian nationalism #abortion #fossil fuels #climate change #republicans #maga think tank #the heritage foundation #lgbtq+#election 2024 #vote blue no matter who #help save democracy

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beardedmrbean · 4 months ago

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When two young Brazilian women were reported missing in September 2022, their families and the FBI launched a desperate search across the US to find them. All they knew was that they were living with wellness influencer Kat Torres.

Torres has now been sentenced to eight years in prison for the human trafficking and slavery of one of those women. The BBC World Service has also been told that charges have been filed against her in relation to a second woman.

How did the former model who partied with Leonardo DiCaprio and graced the cover of international magazines come to groom her followers and lure them into sexual exploitation?

“She kind of resembled hope for me,” says Ana, describing her reaction on stumbling across Torres’ Instagram page in 2017.

Ana was not one of the missing women targeted in the FBI search - but she too was a victim of Torres’ coercion and would be key to their rescue.

She says she was attracted to Torres’ trajectory from impoverished Brazilian favela to international catwalks, partying with Hollywood A-listers along the way.

“She seemed like she had overcome violence in her childhood, abuse, all these traumatic experiences,” Ana told BBC Eye Investigations and BBC News Brasil.

Ana was in a vulnerable situation herself. She says she had suffered a violent childhood, moved alone to the US from southern Brazil, and was previously in an abusive relationship.

Torres had recently published her autobiography called A Voz [The Voice], in which she claimed she could make predictions as a result of her spiritual powers, and had been interviewed on reputable Brazilian media shows.

“She was on the cover of magazines. She was seen with famous people such as Leonardo DiCaprio. Everything I saw seemed credible,” she says.

Ana says she was particularly taken with Torres’ approach to spirituality.

What Ana didn’t know was that the inspirational story Torres told was based on half-truths and lies.

Torres’ ex-flatmate in New York, Luzer Twersky, told us that her Hollywood friends had introduced her to the hallucinogenic drug ayahuasca, and she was never the same again.

”That’s when she kind of… started going off the deep end,” he says.

He said he also believed that she was working as a sugar baby - paid for romantic involvement with wealthy and powerful men who were also paying for the flat they shared together.

Torres’ wellness website and subscription service promised customers: “Love, money and self-esteem that you always dreamed of.” Self-help videos offered advice on relationships, wellness, business success and spirituality - including hypnosis, meditation and exercise programmes.

For an extra $150 (£120) clients could unlock exclusive one-to-one video consultations with Torres during which she would claim to solve any of their problems.

Amanda, another former client who lives in the Brazilian capital, says Kat made her feel special.

“All my doubts, my questions, my decisions: I always took them to her first, so that we could make decisions together,” she says.

But it appears that advice had a dark side. Ana, Amanda, and other former followers say they found themselves becoming increasingly psychologically isolated from friends and family and willing to do anything Torres suggested.

When Torres asked Ana in 2019 to move to New York to work as her live-in assistant, she agreed. She had been studying nutrition at university in Boston, but arranged to study online instead, and says she accepted the offer to look after Torres’ animals - and do her cooking, laundry and cleaning - for about $2000 (£1,564) a month.

When she arrived at Torres’ apartment, though, she quickly realised it did not match the curated perfection projected on the influencer’s Instagram.

“It was shocking because the house was really messy, really dirty, didn’t smell good,” she says.

Ana says Torres seemed unable to do even basic things without her, like taking a shower, because she couldn’t bear to be alone. She describes having to constantly be available for Torres, only being allowed to sleep for a few hours at a time, on a sofa covered in cat urine.

She says some days she would hide in the apartment building’s gym, grabbing a few hours’ sleep rather than working out.

“Now, I see that she was using me as a slave… she had satisfaction in it,” Ana says.

Ana says she was never paid.

“I felt like, ‘I’m stuck here, I don’t have a way out,’” she says. “I was probably one of her first victims of human trafficking.”

She had given up her university accommodation back in Boston, so she had nowhere to return to, and no income to pay for alternative housing.

Ana says when she tried to confront Torres, she became aggressive, triggering Ana’s painful history with domestic violence.

Eventually, after three months, Ana found a way to escape by moving in with a new boyfriend.

But that wasn’t the end of Ana’s role in Torres’ life. When the families of two other young Brazilian women reported them missing in September 2022, Ana knew she had to act.

By this point, Torres’ life had grown in scale. She was now married to a man called Zach, a 21-year-old she had met in California, and they were renting a five-bedroom house in the suburbs of Austin, Texas.

Repeating the pattern she had begun with Ana, Torres had targeted her most dedicated followers, trying to recruit them to come and work for her. In return, she had promised to help them achieve their dreams, capitalising on the intimate personal details they had shared with her during life-coaching sessions.

Desirrê Freitas, a Brazilian woman living in Germany, and Brazilian Letícia Maia - the two women whose disappearance would go on to spark the FBI-led search - moved to live with Torres. Another Brazilian woman, who we are calling Sol, was also recruited.

Posting on her social media channels, Torres introduced her “witch clan” to her followers.

The BBC has discovered at least four more women were almost persuaded to join Torres in the house but had pulled out.

Some of the women were too scared to appear in the BBC’s film - afraid of receiving online abuse and still traumatised by their experiences - but we have been able to verify their accounts using court documents, text messages, bank statements, and Desirrê’s memoir about her experiences - @Searching Desirrê, published by DISRUPTalks.

Desirrê says that in her case, Torres had bought her a plane ticket from Germany, having told her she was suicidal and needed Desirrê’s support.

Torres is also accused of persuading Letícia, who was 14 when she started life-coaching sessions with her, to move to the US for an au pair programme and then drop out to live and work with her.

As for Sol, she says she agreed to move in with Torres after becoming homeless and was hired to carry out tarot readings and yoga classes.

But it was not long before the women discovered their reality was very different to the fairytale they had been promised.

Within weeks, Desirrê says Torres pressured her into working at a local strip club, saying if she did not comply Desirrê would have to repay all the money she had spent on her: flights, accommodation, furniture for her room, and even the “witchcraft” Torres had performed. Desirrê says not only she did not have this money, she also believed at the time in the spiritual powers Torres claimed to have, so when Torres threatened to curse her for not following orders she was terrified.

Reluctantly, Desirrê agreed to work as a stripper.

A manager from the strip club, James, told the BBC she would work extremely long hours, seven days a week.

Desirrê and Sol say the women in the Austin mansion were subjected to strict house rules. They describe being forbidden from speaking to each other, needing Torres’ permission to leave their rooms - even to use the bathroom - and being required to immediately hand over all earnings.

“It was very difficult to, you know, get out of the situation because she holds your money,” Sol told the BBC.

“It was terrifying. I thought something could happen to me because she had all my information, my passport, my driving licence.”

But Sol says she realised she needed to somehow escape after overhearing a phone call in which Torres was telling another client she must work as a prostitute in Brazil as a “punishment”.

Sol was able to leave with the help of an ex-boyfriend.

Meanwhile, the guns Torres’ husband kept began to regularly feature on her Instagram stories, and became a source of fear for the remaining women.

Around this time, Desirrê says Torres tried to persuade her to swap the strip club for work as a prostitute. She says she refused and the following day Torres took her on a surprise day out to a gun range.

Scared, Desirrê says she eventually gave in to Torres’ demand.

“Many questions haunted me: ‘Could I stop whenever I wanted?’” Desirrê writes in her book.

“And if the condom broke, would I get a disease? Could [the client] be an undercover cop and arrest me? What if he killed me?”

If the women didn’t meet the earning quotas that Torres set, which had risen from $1,000 (£782) to $3,000 (£2,345) a day, they were not allowed to return to the house that night, they say.

“I ended up sleeping on the street several times because I couldn't reach that,” Desirrê adds.

Bank statements, seen by the BBC, show Desirrê transferring more than $21,000 (£16,417) into Torres’ account in June and July 2022 alone. She says that she was forced to hand over a substantially higher figure in cash.

Prostitution is illegal in Texas and Desirrê says Torres would threaten to report her to the police if she ever talked about wanting to stop.

In September, friends and family of Desirrê and Letícia back in Brazil launched social media campaigns to find them, having become increasingly concerned following months without contact.

By this time, they were barely recognisable. Their brunette hair had been dyed platinum blonde to eerily match Torres’. Desirrê says by this point all her phone contacts had been blocked and she obeyed the influencer's orders without question.

As the Instagram page @searchingDesirrê gained momentum, the story dominated news outlets in Brazil. Desirrê’s friends even worried she might have been murdered, and Letícia’s family put out desperate pleas for their safe return home.

Ana, having lived with Torres in 2019, said alarm bells rang as soon as she saw the news stories. She says she immediately guessed that “[Torres] was keeping other girls”.

More information and support about human trafficking and modern slavery is available via BBC Action Line.

Along with other former clients, Ana began to contact as many law enforcement agencies as possible, including the FBI, in an attempt to get the influencer arrested. Five months earlier, both she and Sol had reported Torres to the US police - but say they weren’t taken seriously.

In a video she recorded at the time for evidence, since shared with the BBC, a distressed Ana can be heard saying, “this person is very dangerous and she has already threatened to kill me”.

Then the missing women’s profiles on escort and prostitution websites were discovered. Suspicions of sexual exploitation, shared on social media, appeared to be confirmed.

Panicked by the media attention, Torres and the women travelled more than 2,000 miles (3,219 km) from Texas to Maine. In chilling Instagram videos, Desirrê and Letícia denied being held captive and demanded people stop searching for them.

But a recording, obtained by BBC News, gives an insight into what was really happening at this time. By now the US authorities were aware of the concerns about the women’s safety. Homeland security had tipped off a police officer who managed to FaceTime Torres to check on the women. But just before this starts, Torres can be heard saying on the video:

“He will start asking questions. Guys, they are full of tricks. He’s a detective, be very careful. For God’s sake, I’ll kick you out if you say anything. I’ll scream.”

In November 2022, the police finally convinced Torres and the two other women to attend a welfare check in person at Franklin County Sheriff's Office in Maine.

The detective who questioned Torres, Desirrê and Letícia - Detective David Davol - told the BBC he and his colleagues had been immediately concerned, noticing a number of red flags, including a distrust of law enforcement, isolation and their reluctance to speak without Torres’ permission.

“Human traffickers aren't always like in the movies, where you have… a gang that kidnapped people. It's far more common that it's someone you trust.”

By December 2022, the two women had been safely returned to Brazil.

Det Davol says, in his experience, human trafficking is on the rise. His observation is backed up by the UN, which says it is one of the fastest growing crimes, generating an estimated $150bn (£117bn) in profits a year worldwide.

He believes social media gives it a platform on which to thrive, making it much easier for traffickers to find and groom victims.

In April this year, our team was granted a rare court order to interview Torres in a Brazilian prison - the first media interview with her since her arrest. At that point, she was still waiting for the verdict of a trial against her relating to her treatment of Desirrê.

Smiling, Torres approached us with a calm and collected demeanour.

She was adamant that she was completely innocent, denying that any women had ever lived with her or that she had ever coerced anyone to take part in sex work.

“When I was seeing the people testifying, they were saying so many lies. So many lies that at one point, I couldn't stop laughing,” she told us.

“People are saying I am a fake guru, but at the same time, they are also saying that… ‘She is a danger to society because she can change people’s mind with her words.’”

When we confronted her with the evidence that we ourselves had seen, she became more hostile, accusing us of lying too.

“You choose to believe whatever you choose to believe. I can tell you I'm Jesus. And you can see Jesus, or you can see the devil, that’s it. It's your choice. It's your mind.”

As she got up to return to her cell, she issued a parting threat, claiming we would soon find out if she had powers or not. She pointed at me, and said: “I didn’t like her.”

The BBC can reveal that earlier this month Torres was sentenced by a Brazilian judge to eight years in prison for subjecting Desirrê to human trafficking and slavery. He concluded that she had lured the young woman to the US for the purpose of sexual exploitation.

More than 20 women have reported being scammed or exploited by Torres - many of whom the BBC has spoken to and are still undergoing psychiatric therapy to recover from what they say they experienced as a result of her treatment of them.

Torres’ lawyer told the BBC she has appealed her conviction and maintains her innocence.

An investigation into the allegations from other women is ongoing in Brazil.

Ana believes yet further victims may come forward, once they read about Torres’ crimes. This is the first time Ana has spoken publicly.

She says she wants people to recognise that Torres’ actions amount to a serious crime and not some “Instagram drama”.

In the closing pages of her book Desirrê also reflects on her experiences.

“I’m not fully recovered yet, I’ve had a challenging year. I was sexually exploited, enslaved and imprisoned.

“I hope my story serves as a warning.”

#nunyas news

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youvebeenlivingfictional · 2 years ago

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Force of Habit Part One

Masterlist | Next Part

Pairing: Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto x Reader

Rating: M (though it may have explicit chapters in the future)

Notes: Not beta-read. This is going to have at least four parts.

Warnings: Cursing; cigarette smoking; unhealthy coping mechanisms; mentions of a mental breakdown; work-related stress

Summary: Foaming. Gelling. Marinating, roasting, basting, peeling, chopping—Nothing you do there ever seems to be just right. The verbal abuse from the executive chef alone is enough to make you want to quit in the first week. He stares down his nose at you, barks orders until you think your head will explode. To make it worse, you get dirty looks from your fellow brigade.

Berzatto’s the worst of them.

It’s only going to be for a year, that’s what you tell yourself. You'll be working at the most exclusive restaurants in New York. Yeah, the food’s not to your taste, but you know that a year in this restaurant can open doors for you anywhere else.

You’re not completely green. You went to culinary school; you’ve worked at a high-end restaurant for the last three years. So you take a position knowing that you won’t be there long—that you just need to fucking white-knuckle through it.

You couldn’t have anticipated hating it as much as you do.

Foaming. Gelling. Marinating, roasting, basting, peeling, chopping—nothing you do there ever seems to be just right. The verbal abuse from the executive chef alone is enough to make you want to quit in the first week. He stares down his nose at you, barks orders until you think your head will explode. To make it worse, you get dirty looks from your fellow brigade.

Berzatto’s the worst of them.

You know who he is, what he’s done. Hell, you’d even been excited to meet him, but day one, he’d brushed right passed your outstretched hand, and asked why the fuck you were roll cutting your carrots. You’d drawn your hand back to your side and let yourself look at the station.

“I’m just used to chopping them that way, chef. Force of habit,” You stammered.

“Do you know the difference between roll cut and julienne, chef?”

“Yes, chef.”

“Do you think this is fucking acceptable on the line?”

“No, chef.”

“Do you want to be here?”

“Yes, chef.”

“Then fix your shit. Get it together. This isn’t whatever fucking community college kitchen you took home ec in.”

“Heard, chef.”

Your face had gone hot; your stomach twisted with embarrassment and nerves. You’d turn away from Berzatto, shoving the rollcut carrots into the bin and taking up a new carrot. You’d tuck your knuckles, drawing in steady breaths as you focus on the thin slice after slice after slice.

Your life narrows to worn hands, aching feet, and a fucked back from bending over counters and stoves all day. You don’t bother to cook when you’re home anymore. You order out, or you pick from some bulk frozen shit that you buy at bargain stores. You start to smoke. You’ve never smoked in your life, but sometimes, you feel like you don’t remember how to take a deep breath. You find yourself skirting out the back door at the end of service before clean-up, your hands fumbling with your lighter and pack, raising cig to your lips and drawing in the your deep breath in six hours.

The next time you speak to Berzatto—the first time he speaks to you without staring down his nose at you—it’s because you fucking fixed something.

Everyone working in that kitchen is working at a high level, but sometimes flying that high for that long means that if and when you crash, you crash hard. For your fellow chef at the saucier station, it means covering themselves in cold Au Jus and running into the walk-in, screaming obscenities and refusing to come out.

If it had happened your first week there, you would’ve been a fish out of water. But now, six months in, you just step to the side, lower the heat under the bone marrow bordelaise that you’d been working on, and take up the whisk that’s slipped into your station-partner’s pan beside yours. You only manage to stave off a wince at the burning sensation as you hurriedly begin to mix in the citrus zest that had been next in the recipe. You remove it from heat, lowering the temperature on the burner and moving the bordelaise over.

“I need the lemon beurre blanc, where are we?” Carmy calls out.

“Thirty seconds, chef,” You call back without missing a beat, adding the lemon juice and salt necessary. You take up a clean spoon, taking a taste before setting it aside. You wrap the pan handle in a dishcloth, muttering, “Behind, behind—” As you make your way from your station. You set it down, turning and heading back to your station.

“I need the gastrique for the glazed duck, how soon can we get one fired?” He calls after you.

“It’s cooling, chef.”

When you hear no answer, you nervously glance back and find Berzatto looking at you. He seems a little stunned. You think that something must be off with the beurre blanc—or that the gastrique shouldn’t be cooling, but—but you know you’re right.

“Keep pushing chef,” He urges. And it’s hardly there—but there’s a hint of encouragement in his eyes. You nod in turn, obediently answering, “Yes, chef,” Before turning back to your station.

When the shift is up, your body feels like molasses. You’re moving, sure, but you’re not quite sure how. You lean back against the wall, absently patting down your pockets for your cigarettes—and then you remember then that you forgot to buy more that morning. You hang your head, scrubbing your hand over your neck. You fight the urge to whine or—or fucking cry. Oh, you could really go for a good cry right now.

And then a pair of black cooking clogs come into view beside you, and a pale hand holds out a pack of cigarettes. You turn your head to find Berzatto waiting. You reach up, steadying the pack with your hand, your fingers brushing his as you draw a cigarette out. He tucks the pack away and draws a lighter out. He turns toward you, and you lean in, the two of you lighting your cigarettes in tandem. You lean back against the wall as you draw in a deep pull, eyes slipping shut at the feeling.

The two of you stand there in silence for a few moments, shoulders brushing in the dark alley.

“...You did good today,” He finally says. You glance over, eyeing the streams of smoke that he pushes through his nostrils.

“Thank you, chef.”

He huffs softly, the first amused or mirthful sound you’ve ever heard from him.

“You don’t have to call me that when we’re not in there.”

You’re surprised by the assertion, brows raising before you shrug.

“Sorry, chef. Force of habit.”

He lets out another quiet huff, and nods with a mutter of, “Yeah, fair.”

The two of you don’t speak for a few minutes, and then you become acutely aware of the sound of sirens growing nearer and nearer. That’s not particularly out of character for the city, but when they stop right outside, you find yourself turning to look at the back door.

“...Is Davis—?”

“Still in the walk-in.”

“...Huh…That’s gotta be fucking freezing in the Au Jus.”

When your year is closing out—when you are three weeks out from having been at the restaurant for one year, there’s a little bit of you that’s actually contemplating…Staying.

It’s a bad idea. You’ve developed so many fucking bad life habits in the time since you’ve been there—you hardly sleep anymore; you smoke; you serve some of the most expensive food in the city, but you eat some of the cheapest, shittiest food you’ve ever had in your life.

But there’s a little part of you that’s become addicted to this kitchen’s chaos. You still fucking hate foams and gels and all of that hoity-toity shit, but goddamn, you are good at it. You know that kitchen like the back of your hand; you know the recipes by heart. And it pains you to admit it, but you’ve started reveling in your end of shift cigarette with Berzatto.

After that disastrous night at the saucier station, he’d started regarding you differently. Sure, there were still hiccups in service, and yeah, he still reprimanded at you now and again—but he yelled at everyone, and he got reprimanded out (rarely, but when it happened, it was almost painful to watch).

After every shift since the saucier incident, the two of you stepped out back and shared a cigarette, like clockwork. It didn’t matter if it was rain or shine, blizzarding or windy as fuck. The two of you hunched together when it was cold, kept a decent amount of distance when it was too warm.

Now, the winter is beginning to melt and give way to spring. It's freezing out when you traveled to the restaurant, hot as you prep and have family, and fucking freezing again when you're heading home. You spend your commute both ways weighing your options.

You could stay. You have a place in that kitchen—you know your place there. But you’ve been offered other positions—cushier jobs at lesser workplaces, with more money for the same shitty hours. You’ll have to learn who you are in those kitchens. You’ll have to find someone else to smoke with.

(Hell, you should probably just quit the smoking.)

“Can I bum one?”

You glance up from where you’ve sat on an overturned crate, slouching back against the alley wall. You hold your cigarette up.

“It’s my only one. We’d have to share,” You tell him. Berzatto’s lips twist in irritation before he crouches down beside you. He takes the still-proferred cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, raising it to his lips. You glance over his profile as he’s distracted. Your eyes smooth over the slope of his nose, down to the purse of his lips where they’re wrapped around the filter. His hair is slicked back as it always is, tucked neatly away from his palid, freckled face.

You’ve gotten several good looks at him over the last few months. The two of you have hardly spoken about anything outside of the kitchen, though you have chatted a little—when you’ve discussed missing family holidays in favor of working.

“My family’s back in Chicago, so,” He muttered then, cigarette bobbing between his lips. “Not missin’ much.”

“...I’m sure they miss you.”

Carmy hadn’t looked at you, just laughed a bit bitterly, head tipping to the side a touch.

Now, you hurriedly lower your head as you feel him turn his head to look at you. You shift on the crate a little bit, nudging an abandoned cigarette butt with your shoe.

“...You goin’?” He asks. You don’t ask him what he means; you don’t have to.

“I don’t know," You admit.

“If you’re undecided, that means you’ve already got one foot out the door.”

Your face twists with a frown as he holds your cigarette back out. You take it from him, ignoring the brush and tingle as your fingertips touch again.

“Don’t tell me that,” You argue, a rare argumentative feeling welling up in you.

“Why the hell not?”

“Because you don’t know what I’m thinking. It’s not even any of your fuckin' business.”

It’s a stupid thing to say for a number of reasons. First of all, he’s right. Second of—

“It is my goddamn business,” He argues. “There’s gonna be hole that we’re gonna have to plug in the fuckin’ line.”

“Please,” You mutter, shifting around in your place. “There are chefs lining the fucking block to work here.”

“Yeah, well,” Carmy grumbles as you raise the cigarette to your lips. “Not all of ‘em will fit.”

You consider that, holding the dwindling cigarette out to him. You finally offer, “One will.”

Carmy huffs a soft laugh.

“Like I said,” He mutters, leaning back against the wall and tipping his head up to the sky, “One foot out the fuckin’ door.”

Part Two

Tag list: @missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @paintballkid711 ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight; @recklessworry ; @amneris21 ; @ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage ; @lorecraft ; @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; @nolanell ; @millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @dihra-vesa ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices ; @missswriter ; @thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @buckybarneshairpullingkink ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; @winchestershiresauce

#Carmy Berzatto x Reader #Carmy Berzatto x You #Carmy Berzatto/Reader #Carmy Berzatto/You #Carmy Berzatto fic #Carmy Berzatto imagine #Force of Habit

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