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sceletaflores · 4 months

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Being a professional masseur for players and taking care of our boy art.

Hes just so sad and so pretty that you just giving head to make him feel better 😔

Plot twist: he falls in love with you because duh? Hot+sex=you being promoted pookie, you are now the donaldsons elite employes!!!!!!

Baby, show me where it hurts...

pairing: art donaldson x fem!reader

summary: you never intended on becoming a "celebrity" massage therapist. you just wanted to be a massage therapist, the whole celebrity thing just sort of happened, you blame cali for that. but the novelty of your job wore off long ago, you hardly blink at the clients on your table nowadays. that is until tashi duncan calls you and absolutely fucks everything up

— or: art donaldson needs a massage therapist…

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, oral (m!receiving), oral (fem!receiving), p in v, fingering (fem!receiving), angst? maybe? could this be considered angst?, slight age gap, no tashi duncan erasure because i don't stand for that, cheating but not really cause tashi knows, she always knows, she is an all seeing eye, and she kind of orchestrates it, SOOOOO much plot, like way too much i'm sorry, art being sad and tired, art also being kinda pathetic a little bit, unprofessional massages, no use of y/n.

word count: 10k+ (someone stop me....pls still read this lmao)

author's note: this ask was blessedly placed in my inbox and it was all i’ve thought about since. this is my first big fic since my mike schmidt days so hopefully i'm not rusty! i've seen this damn cursed hell movie ten times, so hopefully i do it justice. i'm also still struggling sooo much with art and tashi as characters so please bear with me if they aren't movie accurate i'm trying my best. okay. thank you. hope you love it! mwah xoxo.

You don't get starstruck often, not anymore at least. The clients that find their way onto your table are just that in your eyes, clients. You don't see them as big time "celebrities”. Just men and women who need your professional help.

That being said, you almost dropped your phone the first time the Tashi Duncan called you.

It was a normal work day for you, spent buried in paperwork and training a new secretary. You're folding the steam room towels on your lunch break when your phone rings. No caller ID, you answer it anyways.

"Hello, you've reached Lush Retreat Med Spa," you rattle off into your phone, placing it between your ear and shoulder to continue folding. "How can we help you?"

"This is Tashi Duncan calling for Art Donaldson, we've heard great things about you and were hoping to schedule an appointment."

The towel drops from your hands, your mouth falling open in shock. You reach up to tightly grip your phone, not wanting to embarrass yourself by dropping your phone with Tashi fucking Duncan on the end of the line.

Of course you know who she is, but doesn't everyone? The tennis prodigy from Stanford who was on top of the world when a tragic knee injury stole everything from her in a single second. You absolutely idolized her when you were in high school and playing tennis competitively. You watched all the recorded matches you could get your hands on, wore your DUNCANATOR shirts to practice constantly, only bought the tennis rackets she used. You had her fucking posters plastered on the walls of your old bedroom for Christ's sake.

That was until you, ironically, shattered your wrist in a car accident and had to hang up the racket and pleated skirts forever. Just like her.

Now, Tashi Duncan and Art Donaldson are California royalty. An unfairly beautiful couple living what seems to be the dream. You'd never kept up much with Art's career like you did Tashi's, but you follow them both on Instagram and you see his face on billboards all over the city almost daily so you can assume it was fruitful. It may help him that he's extremely easy on the eyes, or "super fucking hot!" in your coworkers words.

"Hello?" Her voice ringing out from the tiny speaker ripped you out of your thoughts and back into reality.

"Y-yes, sorry," you cringe internally at yourself, stuttering over your words like a loser. You force yourself to sound professional when you speak again, "We'd love to help you any way we can. Do you have a certain time and date in mind already?"

"We're not home right now, we were thinking next Thursday. Around four." There's no question mark on the end of her sentence, you know that she isn't asking you, she's telling you. You don't even bother to check the schedule before you're answering.

"We will be free that day. I'll go ahead and put you in our system." you rush over to the front desk computer and open the calendar, thankfully you are actually free for Thursday. "I'm assuming you know our location?" you ask as you type in the appointment details, ignoring how your fingers shake ever so slightly as you type Tashi into the slot.

"Actually," Tashi's voice has a different tone to it when she speaks again, it’s something you can’t quite place, your fingers slow down slightly as you listen, "we wanted to make this a home visit."

You stop typing completely, brows furrowed in confusion as you stare at your computer screen. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Donaldson but we don't do at home appointments…per our policy." you reply meekly, almost surprised that you're denying her.

"Duncan, actually,” she corrects you nonchalantly, you don’t have time to unpack that before she’s speaking again. “We did read that on your website, but we'd hope you might make an exception. You wouldn't need to bring much. We have our own table." Her tone isn't harsh or impolite, just firm and certain, like she knows you'll give in to her.

You do.

"Well," you bite your lip as you wrestle internally with yourself, torn between what you want to do and what you should do. "Okay, we can do that for you."

"Great. I'll send you the address. See you then." She hangs up without saying goodbye.

You plant your phone next to you and stare at the filled out appointment slot taking up your computer screen, processing what just happened. You're going to Tashi Duncan's house. To give her hot pro-tennis player husband a massage. In their house.

"What the fuck."

SIX DAYS LATER...

The walk up to The Donaldson's huge mansion on a mountain has your stomach turning in on itself. All week you were a ball of nervous energy just floating around your office, trying to find anything to distract you from your upcoming appointment. Now that it's here, you feel you may have bitten off more than you could chew.

You hardly got any sleep last night, tossing and turning in your bed for hours before you gave up, barging into your building's gym to try and sweat your nerves out. When that didn't work you just retreated back to your apartment and got ready.

You try not to think about why it took you so long to get ready, longer than most work mornings. Taking more time in the shower, more time doing your hair, more time doing your makeup.

You even choose an outfit you'd hardly ever wear in front of regular clientele. A matching white polo set, a skirt in place of shorts. You tell yourself that you just want to look good, who wants to look like a mess in front of Tashi Duncan?

Your hands white-knuckle the steering wheel of your car on the drive over. You couldn’t even play any music, the noise in your head already too loud as it was, only cranking up the AC and silently following the crisp voice of your GPS reading off the directions Tashi sent you.

The closer you get to the door the more you want to turn and run down the insanely long driveway, get back in your car and haul ass home without ever looking back.

You don't because you're a professional, or at least that's what you keep telling yourself.

Your hand shakes as you ring their doorbell, hearing it echo back at you from the inside. You only wait a few seconds before the large door swings open and there she is.

Tashi Duncan is every bit as beautiful in person as she is splashed across the pages of magazines and blown up twenty feet on billboards. She looks so effortlessly classy in her Ralph Lauren sweater and flowy black dress pants.

Your name falls from her lips, and all the blood rushes to your ears. Her silky voice wraps around each syllable with an enticing heat that makes you weak in the knees. You feel sixteen years old all over again, standing at the woman who basically molded you into who you are today. It's a dizzying sensation, the rush of nostalgia and emotions flooding in like an avalanche. The memories you have locked away in your brain of the countless late night practices, the hundreds of hours spent on the court, the trophies and ribbons littering your moms basement collecting dust, the refusal to give up and pushing your body past its own limits because you wanted to be just like her. You wanted to be Tashi Duncan, and when you catch yourself nervously rubbing your thumb over the scar spanning your right wrist, you guess in some sick twisted way that you kind of are.

"So glad you could make it," she greets breezily, stepping to the side to let you in. “We were worried you’d get lost.”

The house is, of course, beautiful on the inside. Tall ceilings, big fireplace, a beautiful staircase leading to the second floor. There’s toys strewn messily along the living room floor, the TV mounted on the wall is paused on ESPN.

You hope you don’t look as crazy as you feel taking in the space, taking in the fact that Tashi is standing right in front of you.

“No, the directions were very helpful,” your voice only slightly wavers as you respond, you count that as a win, “it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Donalds–uh–Duncan.” You cringe at your fumble, but try to power through by extending Tashi your hand.

She watches you for a second, sharp eyes flicking over your body quickly like she’s inspecting you. It makes your cheeks feel warm as you struggle to not squirm underneath her gaze. Finally, she takes your hand in hers and gives it a firm shake. You ignore the way her touch makes your palm burn.

“Art should already be in the massage room, it’s in the pool house,” Tashi says, gesturing to the huge windows in the living room showing off a lavish underground pool with a smaller building situated next to it, “I have to take a phone call here in a few minutes so I trust you’ll find your way there.”

You nod slowly, adjusting the strap of your supply bag on your shoulder. Tashi doesn't even pause walking further into the house as she speaks to you, heels clicking with each step as she makes her way to the large staircase in the middle of the room. There’s still no question marks tacked on to the end of her sentences, just like over the phone.

“It’s just through that door, first room on the left. I told him to leave the door open for you.” She continues, reaching the stairs and making her way up slowly. She tosses her head over her shoulder to make eye contact with you again. “He’s been complaining about his shoulder acting up. The right one, it’s what needs the most attention. He serves with that arm, we need it at a hundred.” she fires off casually, like she’s recited this information before.

You go to speak but her phone ringing cuts you off, echoing off the house's crisp white walls. “Thank you for coming to see us, it was nice meeting you.” Tashi says politely, giving you one final once over before she’s answering her phone and disappearing up the stairs.

“It was nice meeting you too…” you trail off quietly, fully caught off guard by whatever the hell that was. Out of every single time you’d fantasized about what meeting Tashi Duncan would be like, none of them were quite like this. At least it’s over you figure, and you even managed to not make a complete fool of yourself.

You hold onto that tiny win as you walk through the living room doors and outside, making your way to the pool house like Tashi instructed. The entrance is unlocked as you step inside, thankfully you spot the cracked door a little ways in front of you.

The sound of your footsteps are loud as you make your way down the short hallway, tennis shoes making small thump sounds against the concrete floor. You pause for just a second outside the cracked door, taking a deep breath before pushing it open and stepping inside. The room is empty, the only things inside are some shelves lined with various essential oils and lotions, and an expensive looking massage table in the center. You muse over the fact that their table looks a little better than the ones in your own spa, no wonder they wanted a home visit.

The room is well lit as you walk around, dim in a way that promotes relaxation. The soft, ambient lighting bathes the room in a gentle, golden glow, complemented by the flicker of aromatic candles placed strategically around the space. You wonder who lit them, Tashi? Or maybe Art? You let out a small laugh at the idea of Tashi Duncan and Art Donaldson fawning over the room before you showed up, setting up candles and mood lighting to make it feel nicer, less clinical.

You’re probably just reading too much into it. You always urge clients to ask for anything that will make them feel more comfortable, apparently Art just likes eucalyptus sage candles and mood lighting. It has nothing to do with you.

Your name being said from somewhere behind you rips you out of your own mind. You whirl around, and find yourself face to face with six time Grand Slam Champion, Tashi Duncan’s super hot husband, Art Donaldson. And he’s only wearing a fucking towel.

“Hello,” he greets with a kind smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “it’s nice to finally meet you, thank you so much for taking the time to come out here.”

Art is already worlds different from Tashi, or that’s what you’re inferring after spending less than five minutes with each of them. It’s still extremely apparent, Tashi has an almost overpowering presence to her, everything about her commands respect and she knows that. She uses that to her advantage, she likes it like that.

The man standing in front of you is nothing like that. The Art Donaldson in front of you doesn’t seem like some big shot tennis player with more impressive stats than you could wrap your head around. You’ve come to know that a few pro-sports guys like to swing their dicks around, bragging about their booming careers non-stop during a session. Yet everything about Art is unassuming as he stands in the doorway like he’s trying to make himself look smaller.

“Hi, Mr. Donaldson,” you’re not sure if it's appropriate to offer a man wearing a towel dangerously low on his hips your hand, you decide against it. “It’s no trouble really, I’m happy to help.”

“Please, call me Art.” The tone of his voice makes you want to shiver, smooth and warm like honey.

You try your best not to stare, but it’s so hard to ignore the toned expanse of Art’s body when it’s right there. He’s all broad shoulders, firm pecs, sculpted legs, with a cut Adonis belt. He’s like a marble statue, made in Michelangelo's perfect image.

Your eyes trail back up his body, lingering on his chest before rising up to his face. You’re mortified to see he’s staring right back at you, effectively catching you in the act. Your cheeks burn as you tear your gaze away, looking at anything and everything other than him. In your panic, you don’t notice the way his eyes rake over you in the same way.

“Okay, Art,” you say a little breathlessly, tightening your grip on the strap of your bag. “It’s nice to meet you. Mrs. Duncan let me know about your major problem areas, I’ll be sure to focus on them.” Involuntarily bringing up Tashi has your stomach clenching up in guilt, you just got done ogling her husband's body. You hope he takes the silent cue you're giving him to get on the damn table so you can start the massage and get the hell out of here.

Art nods silently, walking over to the table and moving to lie down on his stomach. You busy yourself with prepping your oils, taking them out of your bag and setting them on a small side table next to the massage bed uncapped for easy access. You can’t help but sneak glances at the rippling muscle of Art’s back as he shifts, his skin looks soft and is littered with freckles. You don’t miss the hiss he lets out when he lays his weight on his shoulder.

You usually don’t speak much during appointments, only engaging in conversation when your client initiates it, but you feel the need to fill the silence between you and Art. The quiet atmosphere makes everything seem far too intimate, and sure on some level it always is, but this feels different.

“How’d you hurt it? Your shoulder. If you don’t mind me asking.” you ask once he’s settled, placing your fingertips to the middle of his right shoulder, feeling around for any tension. Art tenses slightly at your touch, taking a sharp breath. You guess you should have warned him, you open your mouth to apologize but he lets out a small breath and relaxes onto the table again.

Art sighs, his voice tinged with weariness. "It was, uh, during a match. I overextended trying to return a serve. Haven't been able to move it properly since."

You nod, hands starting to move in slow, deliberate circles across the muscle. “That sounds about right. Most people don’t realize how brutal tennis is to the body, injuries are common,” you pointedly try to ignore the flashbacks of your wrist failing to swing a racket properly after you healed from your accident, flashbacks of watching as the bone pierced through your skin. “Sounds like you might need to take it easy for a while.” you continue, trying to keep the conversation light.

Art chuckled, though it was devoid of real humor. "Yeah, I’ve been playing a lot lately. Guess I pushed myself too hard." He winces slightly as you work on a particularly tight knot, shoulder tensing under your hands.

You pause, your hands stilling momentarily as you catch the underlying tension in Art's voice. "The season’s almost over, maybe it's time to give yourself a break, take some time to rest and recuperate." you remark softly, your tone gentle yet concerned.

Art's gaze flickers to yours, a flicker of vulnerability shining through. "I wish I could," he admits, his voice heavy, "But it's hard to step away, especially when it feels like it's all I have that’s still keeping everything together."

Your heart clenches at the raw honesty in his words. He’s completely silent afterwards, you wonder if he’s regretting telling you something like that, like maybe it just fell out of his mouth before he could stop it. Without a word, you continue to knead away the tension in his muscles, offering a silent gesture of support.

As you continue to work, hands skillfully moving over Art’s shoulder, you can’t help but notice the weariness in Art's demeanor. His presence feels heavy, almost broken, as if the physical pain was just a small part of what he was carrying. You feel a pang of sympathy for him. You can feel the weight of struggles pressing down on him, the way his shoulders sag slightly even under your careful touch.

“I can feel the tension here," you say gently, applying a little more pressure, "Just try to relax.”

With each knead and press, you remind yourself of your role. You’re here to help him heal, and that was all that mattered. But as your hands move over his warm skin, you can’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t what you had anticipated, something that made your heart race with both excitement and anxiety. You were so worried about meeting Tashi you completely forgot about Art. It’s a different story now as your hands explore the smooth planes of his back to the steady sound of his breathing.

"You're really good at this," Art says after a while, his voice a bit lighter.

You smile, a genuine one, the first real smile you’ve had since you got here. “Thanks. I’d hope so after all this time.”

Art lets out a small chuckle muffled by the table, it makes your stomach flutter. “How did you get into this? Massage therapy seems interesting.”

You laugh but it’s a bitter sound, moving your hands down to focus lower on Art’s shoulder. You try not to think about your tennis career, even after all this time you struggle with the memories despite all the good it brought you. “That’s a long story.” you mutter under your breath, even to your own ears you sound resentful.

“I’ve got time.” It’s a simple reply, but it’s so honest. Like Art’s genuinely interested in you, in getting to know you. It makes you feel dizzy.

“I, um,” you worry your lip between your teeth, working your hands harder over Art’s back. “I actually used to play tennis. When I was in high school.”

Art makes an interested noise, shifting under your hands as he moves his head to lay on the side of the table so he could look up at you. “No shit?” he looks more shocked than anything.

You nod, humming in confirmation as you finally move onto his other shoulder. “Yup, I was pretty serious about it back then, until I got injured.” You don’t meet Art’s gaze, but you can see how his face falls in your peripheral vision. You kind of want to laugh at how ironic this moment is, you wonder if Art’s thinking about Tashi’s knee. You know he was at the match, you’ve seen the blurry footage of Tashi Duncan’s fall from grace, watched Art vault over the net to get to her.

“That’s awful. I’m sorry.” He sounds like he means it.

“It’s okay, wasn't like it was my fault or anything,” you say, finally meeting his eyes with a rueful smile and raising your right wrist to show him your scar. “I got hit by a drunk driver coming home late from practice one night. Nasty fracture, bone went straight through.” You hope your voice is coming out as nonchalant as you’re trying to make it sound.

Art's eyes widen in disbelief as he takes in your scar, a mixture of shock and sympathy evident on his face. "Wow, that's...terrible," he murmurs, his voice tinged with compassion.

You shrug, the memories still vivid despite the passage of time. "It was tough, it was awful actually. All the physical therapy in the world couldn’t get a racket back in my hand,” you confess softly, fingers tracing the outline of the scar absentmindedly again. “But it also forced me to reevaluate things, in a way. It made me realize that life doesn't always go according to plan.” You see Tashi’s knee buckling in your mind's eye. “When I finally realized that I could take all the hate and all the anger I was feeling and channel it into something good, something like massage therapy, I never looked back."

You immediately regret over-sharing, feeling silly telling Art your sob story, but when you meet his eye again, he has an odd look on his face. His expression is soft as he looks up at you through long lashes, understanding and empathy swimming in the blue of his eyes.

"Well, silver linings, huh?" he says after a few seconds, there’s traces of a smile playing on his lips. You let out a small laugh, nodding your head slightly.

"Yeah," you agree, a small smile on your lips. "Silver linings."

As the conversation fades into a comfortable silence, you and Art find yourselves locked in a silent exchange, your eyes meeting and holding a depth of something you can’t quite pick up on. In that moment, the world around you seems to blur, leaving only the two of you suspended in a shared moment of vulnerability. There's a subtle shift in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the bond that has formed between you, as if you've uncovered a piece of each other.

The shrill ringing of your phone’s alarm pierces through the moment, both you and Art jump at the sudden sound. It’s like a cold bucket of water pouring over your head, washing away whatever just happened between the two of you. The session’s over, you’re done.

“Okay,” you say a little too loudly, taking your hands off Art's back like his skin could burn you any second. “Looks like we’re all done.” You try to smile but it feels fake, forced, so you turn your back to Art and start capping your oils to shove them back in your bag.

Art’s voice breaks the silence as you pack up, sounding a little less confident than it did earlier. “Uh, my neck has been bothering me too, recently,” he says offhandedly as he sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the table. “I think I may have slept on it wrong.”

You stop what you’re doing, turning to face Art again, silently cursing him for not just letting you leave. “Do you want me to take a look before I go?” You pray he says no. You should know it won’t be that easy, not with your shit luck.

“If you don’t mind?” His tone is so hopeful and his eyes are so big that your feet are walking towards him before your mind can catch up.

“Not at all,” you reply, your voice steady despite the tightness in your chest. You step closer, practically between his slightly spread legs, feeling the warmth of his skin even before you touch him. Your fingers brush against his neck, and he shivers slightly, the muscles tight and knotted beneath your touch.

"Just relax," you murmur, trying to maintain any shred of professional demeanor. As you work, you can't help but notice the way his breath hitches, the tension in his body melting away under your skilled hands. The room feels smaller, the air heavier with each passing second.

He closes his eyes, a soft sigh escaping his lips. "That feels amazing," he whispers, and you swallow hard, trying to focus solely on the task at hand. As you work, the intimacy of the moment isn't lost on you, and you can't help but wonder if he feels it too.

Minutes tick by like hours as you work the tense muscle of Art’s neck. You're acutely aware of every sigh, every shift in his body, every subtle reaction to your touch. You finally pull away when you think it’s been enough time, eager to get out of this damn house before you do something you’ll regret.

You didn’t notice how close you really were to Art until you pulled back only to be met with his face mere inches away from yours. Startled by the sudden proximity, you freeze, caught off guard by the intensity of Art's gaze. His eyes, dark and searching, seem to hold a silent question, a silent invitation.

Now, Art’s body is one thing, it’s objectively perfect. He’s a professional athlete, of course it’s perfect. It has to be perfect. It’s his damn face that gets you.

He’s beautiful, beyond beautiful. He looks like he should be splayed across canvas hanging in the Louvre. The dim lighting in the room illuminates his face beautifully, his golden hair haloing around his head makes him look ethereal. Each of his features look as if they were handcrafted by a master sculptor, each contour and line a testament to perfection. His chiseled jawline speaks of strength and determination, while his lips, soft and inviting, seem to beckon you closer with every breath. His eyes are deep pools of ocean blue, though this close you can see a small splash of brown in his left eye you didn’t notice before, swirling with emotions that stir something deep within you.

Something more shocking than Art’s beauty, is how fucking tired he looks. Lines of exhaustion are etched along his face, subtle but undeniable. The weariness in his eyes speaks volumes, a silent plea for respite from the relentless demands of tennis. And yet, even amidst the exhaustion, there's a flicker of longing. He’s staring at you like he needs you, eyes wide and yearning. His chest rising and failing a little more harshly than it did before, each exhale coming out ragged and sharp.

“Art…” you whisper, heart threatening to beat out of your chest. He’s so warm, the heat emitting off of him makes you want to lean into it. You want to crawl on top of his powerful thighs and bury your face in his chest and never leave. Your hands flex where they’re draped over Art’s neck.

It happens in slow motion, Art’s hand trails up the skin of your thigh as your name falls from his lips like a prayer, and it’s like you’ve been electrocuted. You’re rearing back with a sharp breath, dropping your hands from his neck and taking a couple steps back.

“It was really nice to- uh to meet you, Art.” you say frantically, swinging your bag firmly over your shoulder and rushing to the door. Art’s still sitting on the table, silently watching you panic. He doesn’t try to stop you. “I hope your shoulder feels better,” is all you say before bursting out the door and speed walking out of the pool house.

Your heart's racing as you walk through the backyard, hands shaking even through the death grip you have on the strap of your bag. What the hell was that? What the hell was that? Did Art Donaldson just make a pass at you? You must be imagining things.

The thought rattles around in your mind, refusing to be dismissed. His words, his tone—they seemed to linger in the air, haunting you with their implications. The way he touched you, like he couldn’t help himself. But no, it couldn't be. He was married to Tashi, and besides, he was just being polite, right? You try to convince yourself of that as you make your way back to the house.

As you walk inside, still slightly shaken up, Tashi’s the first thing you see. She’s sitting in the living room, laptop open on the coffee table in front of her.

“Hey,” she says, sitting up straighter on the coach, “how was it?”

You swallow, urging yourself to calm down. “It was great, he should be seeing some improvement over the next few days.”

Tashi nods her head, seemingly pleased though it doesn’t show on her face. “Could this be a weekly thing, these appointments. He could really use them.”

No question marks. Motherfucker.

You flounder, stomach dropping. “Weekly? As in every Thursday?”

Tashi’s brow raises, eyes looking over you inquisitively. “Yes, preferably all home visits.”She stands from the couch, taking a couple steps towards you. “We read on your website you take permanent clients, is that not the case anymore.”

You shake your head, eyes wide as they follow her while she walks. “N-no, Mrs. Duncan we do. We could pencil you in if you’re willing to pay monthly for the time slot. Would you like to talk to some of my other employees to work out a rotating schedule?”

Tashi stops a few feet away from you, hands in her pockets. “Actually, we were hoping you’d be the one coming down. The only one.” You blink, her words slam over you like a ton of bricks. Just you, in a room with a half-naked Art. Every single Thursday. That can’t happen, not after what just went down between the two of you.

You can practically hear the warning bells blaring in your mind, urging you to refuse, to put an end to this before it spirals out of control. Yet, there's another voice, quieter but no less insistent, whispering seductive promises of what could be if you were to stay.

Your heart pounds in your chest as you grapple with the conflicting desires warring within you. Tashi's expectant gaze weighs heavily on you, waiting for your response, and you know that whatever decision you make will irrevocably alter the course of things between you and Art. With a shaky breath, you steel yourself, the weight of your choice settling like a stone in your stomach.

"I...I'll do it," you finally say, the words leaving your lips before you can stop them. "I'll make sure to pencil you in for weekly sessions, Mrs. Duncan."

Tashi's lips curve up slightly, satisfied, but beneath the surface you can sense the tension thrumming through the air. You've made your choice, for better or for worse, and now you can only hope that it won't lead to the downfall of everything you've worked so hard to build.

“Wonderful,” she says, gesturing for you to follow her to the front door. You trail behind her like a loyal pet, silently allowing her to drag you wherever she pleases. “Thank you again for coming out, and please,” she pauses with her hand on the doorknob, turning to meet your eye, “call me Tashi.”

"Thank you, Tashi," you murmur softly, the weight of her name feeling foreign on your tongue when you’re actually saying it to her for the first time. "I'll make sure to arrange everything at the office."

Tashi's smile widens, though there's a glint of something unreadable in her eyes. "I look forward to seeing you, then," she says, her tone laced with a hint of anticipation. "And please, if there's anything you need, don't hesitate to reach out."

With a final nod, Tashi opens the front door, the outside world beckoning beyond its threshold. You take a hesitant step forward, the weight of your decision pressing down on your shoulders like a heavy burden. As you step out into the cool evening air, you can't shake the feeling that you've just crossed a line from which there may be no turning back. But for now, all you can do is steel your nerves and hope that you haven't made a huge mistake.

A LITTLE MORE THAN SIX DAYS LATER…

Your sessions with Art continue on. The guilt settling deep in your stomach each time you set foot in the Donaldson/Duncan house also continues. It worsens each time the two of you are alone in that damned massage room. Technically you’ve done nothing wrong, but you know deep in the back of your mind that what you’re doing isn’t normal. Each meeting is a strange mixture of tension and familiarity. When you arrive, Tashi always greets you warmly, her trust in you unwavering. It feels like a dagger each time, twisting deeper and deeper into your conscience.

Neither of you talk about it, what happened during your session, and Art doesn’t treat you any differently. He still goes out of his way to make polite conversation, asking you about your life, about your business, he even brings up old anecdotes you told him offhandedly. He doesn’t talk about tennis, and he has to know you can keep up in conversation with it since you told him about your history with it, you just assume he doesn’t want to.

That makes sense, you always think back to the first time he met you. How he brushed off any conversation about his career, how his demeanor changed when he spoke about it. How drained he looked. There was a sadness in his eyes, a weight he carried that seemed to go beyond just a few standard aches and pains. You remember how it struck you then, and it strikes you still, each time you see him.

His shoulder is getting better, you can tell. He can lay on it, or raise it above his head, without wincing. That makes your heart swell, knowing that despite how weird and kind of fucked up everything is, he’s healing.

The familiar sound of your timer ringing pulls you out of your thoughts. You’re shocked at how fast this appointment flew by, but you could tell as soon as you walked into the massage room to find Art already sitting on the table waiting for you, that something about this session feels different. It’s silly to call it “sensing a bad vibe”, but that’s exactly what you felt entering the room's threshold.

Art didn’t speak much as you worked, just laying on the table silently after saying hello and asking you about your week. The silence is definitely odd, Art’s not a chatterbox by any means, but he usually keeps some form of conversation flowing. After a while, you start to think it might be something you did, like maybe he’s mad at you. It sounds so stupid in your head, like you’re some poor high school girl getting hung up over a fucking guy giving you the silent treatment.

The only thing more stupid than that is how much it’s actually affecting you. Art has you over analyzing everything you’ve said or done over the last couple visits, you dread that maybe he just came to his senses after all this time. That he finally snapped out of whatever trance he was in and remembered he has a beautiful wife, and that he doesn’t really want you.

“Alright,” you say softly, stepping away from the table, “All done.” As you turn off the timer and gather your thoughts, you can't shake the feeling that something is off. You force yourself to bury it, Art doesn’t owe you an explanation, he doesn’t owe you anything. You aren’t his.

You glance over at him as he slowly sits up, his expression unreadable. "Thank you," he murmurs, his voice barely audible. You offer a small smile in return, trying to squash all the ugly feelings mixing in your stomach. You turn to busy yourself with packing up, feeling a weird sense of déjà vu.

Art’s voice cuts through the silence, sounding weary. “Are we still pretending it didn’t happen?”

It catches you off guard, making you drop the bottle in your hands back onto the table loudly. Your heart races as you turn back to face him, unsure of how to respond. The weight of his words hangs heavy in the air, demanding a response you’re not sure you’re ready to give.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. “I...I don’t know,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I guess I was hoping we could just…forget about it.”

Art’s eyes search yours, filled with a mixture of longing and uncertainty. “I don’t think I can,” he confesses, his voice tinged with sadness.

The same feelings from that day rush back in your mind, flooding all your senses. It's as if time folds in on itself, bringing you right back to that moment where everything changed. You feel panic clawing its way up your body, fight or flight response waging a war inside of you.

You chose flight, shoving the last bottle in your bag and making a break for the door. Ready to run just like you did back then, run and come back next week with your tail between your legs desperately trying to forget that this ever happened, again. Art’s voice stops you just as you have your hand on the doorknob.

“Please…” he whispers, he sounds so broken, so vulnerable. “Please, don’t run.”

You don’t know what it is, maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you, or the repressed feelings, or your shitty back bone, but whatever it is makes you pause, hand falling off the doorknob to lay limp at your side. You turn back to face him, the raw need in his eyes mirrored by your own emotions. It tugs at your heart, making it impossible to leave. You feel a surge of guilt and hesitation, but the longing in his gaze holds you captive. Slowly, you make your way towards him, taking small slow steps like you could still leave at any minute, but you know you won’t.

You walk until you’re crowding him, standing between his spread legs just like you did all those sessions ago. His eyes are wide, almost disbelieving, like he thought you’d turn around and slam the door on him instead. Which is what you should do, you should walk out that door right now and never step foot in their house again.

Art whispers your name, his voice a soft caress that sends sparks zapping down your spine. You're close enough to feel his breath fanning over your face, warm and intimate. You inhale, like you’re trying to absorb his words, his essence, his everything.

His hand takes yours, bringing it up to his chest. He presses it firmly against his pec, right on top of his heart. You can feel the rapid, uneven thumping beneath your palm. His thumb caresses your wrist gently, making goosebumps pebble over your skin.

It’s easy to get lost in Art’s eyes, so you’re shocked to notice something that very quickly grabs your attention. Art’s towel is tented obscenely, hard cock straining against the thick material. You swallow roughly at the sight, feeling the need to touch, to take, to help.

Your knees hit the floor before you fully realize the entire gravity of what you’re doing. You don’t care about any of that anyway, not right now.

Right now Art Donaldson is swiping his thumb across the scar on your wrist with his big sparkly eyes desperately looking into yours, unashamedly begging for you to touch him.

Who are you to deny him?

Your hands find the knot of his towel and yank it roughly, ripping it off Art's hips and tossing it aside. His hard cock springs out, slapping up against his stomach enticingly. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, pleased to see he’s perfect all over.

Art’s cock is long, and thick. He’s big, but in an exciting way, not in an intimidating way. He’s already steadily drooling pre-cum from his soft pink tip, already so hard and you haven’t even touched him yet. You reach up, tracing your finger along the length of him lightly. Art inhales, his eyes fluttering closed as you touch him for the first time. The anticipation in the room is palpable, a heady mix of desire and need that seems to swirl around you both.

You circle your hand around the base of his cock, stroking up and up until your hand bumps into the head, where you start to rub your thumb back and forth gently, spreading the wetness from his pre-cum before sliding your hand back down. Slowly, you lean in, placing a soft kiss on the tip of his cock before taking him into your mouth, savoring the taste of him as he groans deeply, hands gripping the massage table tightly.

“Shit,” he grits out, casting his gaze to the ceiling, chest already heaving raggedly.

You slide the warmth of your mouth down the shaft of his cock, moaning at the heady taste of him, skin soft and velvety on your tongue.

“Fuck, your mouth…” Art whispers above you, his words trailing off into a string of breathy moans. You hum in response, working his cock faster to draw out more of those noises. Hollowing your cheeks, you sink down towards the circle of your fist still holding the base of his cock with wet, slippery slurping sounds. Art’s hand lets go of the table, coming up to cup your cheek in a move way too intimate for what the two of you are doing.

You chance a look up, and your heart skips several beats at what you see. Art’s already staring down at you, his face twisted up in pleasure. His pale cheeks are flushed, brows drawn together tightly, plush bottom lip caught between his teeth. All that is enough to make you feel ten feet tall, but that’s not what makes you pause.

It’s his eyes, the way Art’s looking at you.

The look in his eyes is…worshipful. Reverent. Like you’re a celestial being, a divine grace walking among mortals. Not some girl on her knees for a married man in his house’s private fucking massage room.

Yet the longer you hold his gaze, while still working your mouth over his hard cock, you feel something strange stirring inside you. Art’s eyes holding such a longing reverence so intense, it was starting to elevate you to a pedestal of adoration. Of devotion.

Right now Art’s like the sun, burning so brightly you feel you need to look away before he consumes you, but you don’t.

“Please,” Art begs desperately, voice so soft you barely even hear it. There’s tears welling in his eyes, his red rimmed and so so tired looking eyes. It breaks your heart, how could such a wonderful man be reduced to this?

You pull off Art’s cock, hand still pumping firmly over him. He whines at the loss of your mouth, hips bucking up to chase after the warm heat. His tip bumps over your lips as he moves, trailing a thin line of pre-cum across them.

Without breaking eye contact, you speak.

“You’re so good, Art.”

It’s those four words whispered against the tip of Art's leaking cock that has him coming with a hitched breath and a soft cry. A few bursts of his warm come land over your parted lips before you take the head of his cock back in your mouth to greedily swallow down the rest.

"Thank you, fuck, thank you...!" Art grates out as his body trembles above you, hand squeezing yours so hard it borders on painful. You know you’re never coming back from this, but you still squeeze back as hard as you can all the same.

A LITTLE MORE THAN SIX DAYS LATER…

Maybe this is just your life now, fucking the husband of the woman you worshiped like a God for years on end. It’s like you can’t stop, like you’re an addict or something. No matter how disgusting and shameful you feel every time you get home from Art’s appointments, you can’t help but give into him. It’s a twisted dance, a cycle of pleasure and regret that you can’t seem to break. One look into his sad, kicked puppy eyes and you crack. You’ve convinced yourself it's just you reveling in the feeling of being truly wanted for the first time. But deep down, you know it’s more than that. It’s the way he makes you feel alive, the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters in his world.

Art wants you. He needs you. He’s made that more than clear every single visit since you dropped down on your knees for him. The guilt gnaws at you, a constant reminder that you can't escape. Yet, every time you see him, every time he reaches out to you with that desperate need in his eyes, you find yourself powerless to resist.

You’ve never kissed, not on the lips. Art’s certainly tried, lips seeking yours out as your oiled up fist slips up and down his cock, as you sit on his lap and grind against him until he’s dirtying his towel. You just turn your head every time, letting him trail kisses along your jaw and neck instead somehow feels less real. Kissing Art will make it feel real, you know it will. So you don’t.

Funnily enough, you think things are going well. Maybe even as well as getting a married man off every Thursday can go. You can see a change in Art, in his behavior and the way he holds himself. He smiles more, he laughs more, it’s like he’s giving more of himself to you each time you meet with him. It’s exhilarating, the way your presence has this effect on him, almost as if you’re breathing new life into him.

Art’s newfound lightness is infectious. You find yourself looking forward to Thursdays with an anticipation that borders on impatience. The way he looks at you, the tender touches that linger just a bit longer, the conversations that flow more freely–it all feels like a dream you’re afraid to wake up from.

You should have known it was too good to be true, that this little world you created in your head was just the calm before the storm.

Everything about this session was normal to start. It’s a little less intense since Art’s shoulder is doing better, now you have free reign over the rest of his body. Greedy hands free to glide over the planes and planes of muscle you’ve become familiar with.

As you work on his lower back, your hands moving in practiced, soothing motions, you notice a subtle rigidity in his muscles. “Everything alright?” you ask, keeping your tone light.

Art hesitates before answering. “Yeah, just…a lot on my mind.”

You frown, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Art stays quiet, still laying silently on the table face down. You stare at the back of his head, like if you stare hard enough you’ll be able to tell what he’s thinking. Taking his silence as not wanting to talk, you continue on. You don’t want to pressure him to confide with you, not when he already has a wife for that.

As your hands continue to move over Art's tense shoulders, he lets out a deep sigh, breaking the silence. "I need you,” he whispers softly, his voice filled with an unexpected vulnerability. He shifts on the table, leaning up to look you in the eye; his own eyes are watery, lashes clumped together with unshed tears. “It's not just the massages. I need you in my life, no more of this half-assed bullshit. I need all of you.”

You feel your whole world turn upside down in a single second, the distinct feeling of your heart lurching out of your chest and your stomach dropping to your feet. It’s like the walls of the room start moving in on you, caging you in. It makes your chest feel tight, breath coming out in short jagged rasps. Panic grips you, and you violently rip your hands off Art’s body, stumbling back from the massage table.

"I-I'm sorry, I can't," you stammer, voice choked with emotion, as you turn to flee from the room, not even bothering to grab your stuff. But before you could escape, Art was right behind you, reaching out to catch your wrist, his grip gentle yet firm. "Please don't go, please," he begs, his eyes pleading with you to stay and talk. You wrench your hand free and run out of the room.

You think you hear Art calling out your name through all the static rushing through your ears, but you’re not sure, and you don’t look back to check. Your feet pound against the tile as you run out of the pool house feeling like you’re about to throw up, or pass out. Art’s confession is the only thing running through your mind. The only thing that’s still clear through your dizzying panic.

You finally start to breathe again when you burst into the house, leaning back against the cool glass of the door to try and relax before you start to spiral. The silence inside is almost oppressive, the only sound the rapid thudding of your heart in your ears. You close your eyes, willing yourself to calm down, to find some semblance of control.

Your name being said grabs your attention, and you open your eyes to find Tashi at the top of the stairs.

“Is everything okay? I heard the door slam.” Her expression is a mix of concern and confusion as she takes a few steps down. You push yourself off the door, you need to leave as soon as possible, before Tashi can reach you and coerce you into staying.

“Everything's fine!” Your voice sounds shaky despite your best efforts to calm yourself, you’re basically speed walking to the door. “I just, I got a phone call, and I need to leave. Right now. I’m so sorry.”

You don’t even wait for her to reply before you’re yanking the door open and rushing outside. You hope to God that she doesn’t follow you outside. She doesn’t.

You walk, arms wrapped around yourself tightly in a feeble attempt to stop shaking. There are tears burning your eyes and making everything in front of you blurry. The wind whips your hair around your face, stinging your cheeks as you walk further away from the house.

Each step feels heavier, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you try to make sense of the storm inside you. The chaotic weather seems to mock your turmoil, perfectly matching the chaos you feel. You struggle to piece together what just happened, the intensity of Art’s words echoing in your mind.

“I need you.”

His voice had been so raw, so vulnerable, and it scared you. You weren’t ready for that kind of emotion, that kind of responsibility, that kind of guilt. The weight of it had sent you running, and now you’re left grappling with the aftermath.

Fuck.

A LITTLE MORE THAN SIX HOURS LATER…

The drive home was a blur. Rain and wind beating against the windshield nearly the whole time. You’d laugh at how ironic it was, like God’s punishing you with shitty weather, but you’re too busy fighting tears to find the humor in it.

The dread didn’t set in until you got home, stumbling through the front door on shaky legs until you reached your kitchen where you promptly emptied everything in your stomach into your trash. After you force yourself into the shower to wash the rain, and guilt, off of your skin. You scrub yourself raw, skin pink and sensitive to the touch, like that will somehow erase all that you’ve done.

When you finally step out, the bathroom mirror is fogged, a ghostly reflection staring back at you through the mist. You avoid its gaze, wrapping yourself in a towel and padding through your room to collapse onto your bed. The silence of the house presses in on you, letting your thoughts consume you.

Art’s words play on a loop inside your head, the look on his face burned to the forefront of your mind. The weight of his confession hung heavy in the air, rocking you with its intensity. Running away had seemed like the only option at the time, a knee-jerk reaction to the overwhelming flood of emotions threatening to engulf you.

You know you didn’t run from Art because you don’t want him, you ran because there’s nothing you want more. In the aftermath, running felt less like a choice and more like an instinctual response to the storm of emotions threatening to consume you whole since the first day you met him. Every step away from Art was a battle against the gravitational pull of your desires, a struggle against the overwhelming urge to surrender to what you both shared.

The truth is crystal clear: you didn't run from Art because you're devoid of feelings for him. You ran precisely because your heart beats in synchrony with his, because the depth of your longing for him is as boundless as the universe itself.

Your phone pings from the dresser, you ignore it. A second later, it pings again, and again, and again. You furrow your brows, glaring at your nightstand until you reach over and pick up your phone. It’s an unknown number, but you know who it is.

UNKNOWN NUMBER I need to see you. Please, I can send a car. It's Art. Tashi isn’t home tonight.

Maybe you’re the worst person in the world, but all the fight leaves your body the second you read Art’s texts. You need to see him as much as he needs to see you. Your fingers type out a response before you can think twice.

Art okay.

You send him your address, jumping out of bed to throw on the first things you see. A black SUV was waiting for you as soon as you got downstairs, just as promised. You climbed in after getting confirmation from the driver, and sat in the backseat quietly as you went down the familiar streets.

As the house comes into view, you can see the front door’s light is still on, waiting for you. You barely wait for the car to stop before you’re opening the car door and stepping outside. The rain immediately drenches you, seeping through your thin sleep clothes. You take two steps before the front door swings open and Art comes rushing out into the rain. He’s only wearing sleep pants, his bare feet smack wetly on the concrete as he runs to you.

Art stops short of you, hesitating, like he doesn’t know whether to touch you or not. You want him to touch you so bad you’re scared it might kill you. The air between you feels charged, every drop of rain a tiny spark. Finally, Art reaches out, his hand trembling as he brushes a soaked strand of hair from your face. The warmth of his touch sends a shiver down your spine, and you step closer, collapsing into his arms. The rain continues to fall around you, but at this moment, it’s just the two of you.

"Art," you breathe, your voice trembling. "What are we doing?"

He gazes into your eyes, the raw emotion in his expression mirroring your own. "I don't know," he admits, his hands gently sliding down to your shoulders. "But I can't let you go. Not now." His words hang between you, a fragile thread of honesty that binds you together. You can feel the weight of his words, the sincerity in his voice, and it tugs at your heartstrings.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as his words sink in. The honesty in his gaze, the desperation in his touch—it all overwhelms you, leaving you breathless. The only thing you can think of, the only thing that feels right, is kissing him. So you do.

You lean closer, your heart pounding in your chest, and gently cup his face in your hands. His eyes widen for a moment, a flicker of surprise mingling with the intensity of his emotions. Then, as if drawn together by an invisible force, your lips meet his.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative and sweet, a question and an answer all at once. His lips are cold and slightly trembling, matching the fluttering in your chest. You can taste the salt of your tears mingling with the sweetness of the moment. Time seems to stand still as you lose yourself in the sensation of his mouth on yours.

Gradually, the kiss deepens, becoming more urgent and fervent, a silent expression of everything words can’t convey. Art’s arms wrap around you, pulling you closer, his fingers threading through your hair. The heat between you intensifies, both your breath coming faster, mingling as the kiss grows hungrier.

Art’s heartbeat echoes against your chest, you can feel his grip on you getting tighter like he's scared of letting you go. Your hands slide down to his shoulders, your fingers digging into his muscles as you press closer, your bodies molding together. His tongue flicks against your lips, seeking entrance, and you part them eagerly, welcoming him in. The taste of him is intoxicating, a mix of desperation and passion that makes your head spin. A soft moan escapes your lips, and he responds with a low growl, his hands roaming down your back, pulling you impossibly closer.

“Art,” you say in between kisses, panting into his slick, open mouth. “I need you to fuck me.”

You can feel Art’s whole body shiver, groaning unabashedly into your mouth like he’s dying for it. “I’ve been waiting weeks for you to finally admit that.”

The two of you tear through the house, all tangled limbs and bumbling steps, you trail water all over the floor. Somewhere in the chaos you drop your phone and keys on the large kitchen island. Art refuses to let go of you to walk properly, blindly leading the way so he can keep kissing you breathless.

Art only stops kissing you when you finally make it to his bedroom, pulling away to wrestle the now soaked sleep pants off his legs. You follow by example and peel your shirt off, skin damp and cold but you could care less, not when Art’s pants are pooling at his ankles and he’s throwing his boxers carelessly over his shoulder.

“God,” he breathes out, shaking his head like he can’t believe you're giving him this, “You’re so beautiful.”

The raw honesty in his tone has your cheeks burning, you cast your gaze to the floor instinctually, feeling too overwhelmed by his charged gaze raking over you. You can hear his feet softly padding against the floor, making his way closer. You watch his feet come to a complete stop in front of you, he takes a hold of your chin gently forcing you to look up at him.

His eyes, intense and unwavering, lock onto yours. “You’re fucking perfect.”

With a gentle push, Art lowers you onto the bed, his weight a comforting presence above you. He tilts your head back and kisses you breathless, one big hand sliding lower and lower on your stomach till he’s got his hand down the front of your shorts, he groans when his hand makes contact with your bare skin. You’d almost forgotten you hadn’t worn any underwear. His hand so close to your aching center has your breath hitching as you kiss, hips bucking up towards his palm.

You reach for his cock, an angry shade red and leaking steadily, but he catches your wrist before you can touch. You meet his eyes confused, but he just shakes his head.

“It’s been about me the whole time, baby. Let me fix that,” he whispers.

You nod your head wordlessly. You wouldn’t dream of denying him, not right now. He smiles, pecking your lips again before he starts to kiss his way downwards. He explores your body with his mouth with such care it has you shaking under every brush his lips. He kisses all down your jaw and neck, taking extra time on your chest to map out the skin of your breasts with his tongue. He circles your right nipple with the tip of his tongue a few times over before he takes it in his mouth, rolling it between his teeth gently. It has your back arching into his mouth, hands scrambling for a purchase on the silk sheets. One long finger slides around your entrance and dips inside, shallow, then deeper, stretching you slowly, carefully, while his other hand rubs your clit with light, gentle touches. “Is this good?” Art asks quietly, voice tinged slightly with insecurity, like you’re not completely unraveling because of him.

“God yes! Yes – fuck! – Art,” you mewl loudly, hips grinding down roughly onto his finger, desperate to take in more of him. You can feel him smile against your skin, pulling off to blow cool air over your hard nipple and repeating it all over again on your left. His finger slides through the wetness collecting in your hole, spreading it to your throbbing clit. He finally sinks a single finger into the warm, tight, heat of your cunt.

Art pulls away from your chest to kiss his way down your stomach, sliding lower and lower on the huge king size mattress, he doesn’t stop the rhythm of his fingers as he peels your shorts down your legs, tossing them aside. A guttural groan leaves his lips at the sight of your slick cunt parting over his fingers, taking them so well. He pitches forward like he can’t help himself, like his lips are magnetically drawn to your cunt, and presses a small kiss to your clit.

“Fuck!” You squeal and writhe as his finger fucks in and out of you, hands tangling in his messy hair, cheeks flushing at the sound of your leaking cunt squelching against his wrist with each thrust. Art's lips tighten over your clit, sucking for a brief second before he moves back to start laving his tongue over your cunt in careful, slightly clumsy, strokes. The sounds he's making, almost filthy slurping, accompanied by little moans now and then send small vibrations through you that shock your system, making you fist his hair even tighter.

Art’s lewd noises fill the air, mixing with your own moans to fill the room. His eyes stay closed for the most part, fluttering open every couple seconds to watch you fall apart. Your thighs shake uncontrollably around his head when you make eye contact, threatening to clamp around his ears and keep him there.

A sob tears from your throat when he adds another finger, then he curls them inside you and pulls back and god, shit, shit, fuck, fuck me, god, Art, please fuck me.

“Fuck me Art please fuck me I need it so bad please-” you ramble nonsensically, pulling at Art’s hair desperately. You can feel the warmth starting to pool in your stomach, but you don’t want to come on his tongue, or on his fingers, you want to come with him inside you.

Art lets you drag him up, the bottom half of his face is slick and shiny, drenched in your wetness. He makes his way up your body quickly, hands gripping tightly to your hips, not hesitating to kiss you even as your juices decorate his lips. You kiss back desperately, tasting yourself on his tongue. The head of his cock bumping against your twitching, empty hole has you whining.

“Fuck me, Art,” you breath hotly, hips canting up needily. “No condom, I’m on the pill. I want you to come inside me. Please, I need it.”

Slowly, he starts to sink in. Feeding you inch by inch torturously slow. He kisses you the whole time, greedily swallowing the moans flowing out of your mouth as he stretches your cunt on his thick cock. You grab at his shoulders like a lifeline, kissing back with everything you have.

“God, you’re so fucking tight,” he says through gritted teeth, hands gripping your hips hard enough that you know you’ll be bruised in the morning. “So fucking perfect for me, such a perfect pussy for my cock.”

“Move.” Is all you can manage to squeak out, nails digging into the meat of his shoulders.

Art starts to move, thrusts slow and gentle, like he’s easing you into it. You’re grateful for it, you’ve never taken anyone as big as him. Slowly, his thrusts speed up, cut hips smacking against the fat of your ass a little rougher than before. You revel in it, pushing your ass back greedily for more more more. From this angle, the thick head of his cock drags against your g-spot perfectly every time he plunges back into your dripping cunt.

“Shit! Right there, don’t stop,” you slur breathlessly, feeling the familiar warmth swirling through your stomach as he fucks you.

“I love you.” Art confesses against your lips, his breath hot and erratic. His sweaty forehead pressed to yours as he pounds in and out of you, the motion both relentless and tender. His eyes are wide open now, so blue and so big and so honest as they bore into yours so intensely it’s suffocating.

It’s soon, it’s way too soon. You’ve barely known each other for a couple months, but you can't deny the warmth spreading through your chest, mingling with the heat of the moment, making everything feel both overwhelming and perfect.

Now that you're here, with Art’s cock fitting so perfectly in the wet heat of your cunt, you can’t believe it took you this long. You love Art. You’ve been in love with Art since the first time he spoke to you. Since the first time he touched you like you were the solution to all his problems.

Art must take your stunned silence as rejection, head falling to rest on your shoulder dejectedly, but his hips don’t slow their rhythm. If anything he speeds up, hips thrusting against you desperately.

“Please, please say it back,” he begs, voice thick with emotion, “Say it back, I need to hear you say it. Please,”

You surge up, wrapping your arms around him as tightly as you can, ankles locking together across his back. Art couldn’t pull out of you if he wanted to, judging from the long whine he lets out, he doesn’t mind.

“I love you, Art” You whisper back, barely audible over the lewd slap of his hips stinging your ass. Art groans so loudly you can feel it reverberating off the sensitive skin of your neck.

Hips speeding up even faster, Art turns his head to catch your lips in a searing kiss. This kiss is different than any of the other ones you’ve shared tonight, full of so much emotion and unspoken words. You swear you feel your heart grow three sizes, almost full and threatening to break out of your chest.

“I’m gonna come, fuck, I’m gonna fucking come,” he breathes between kisses. You can only moan in response, right on the brink of your own orgasm. His hips start to lose their rhythm as he chases it, fucking into you faster and harder.

Art’s cock gives a final twitch inside you before his hips are stilling and he’s coming with a broken moan, unloading everything he has into you. You’re right behind him, vision whiting out as you come, thighs shaking where they’re draped around his hips.

Art collapses onto you, both of you breathing heavily as you come down from the high of your orgasm’s. You lay like that for a while, heaving and sweaty wrapped up in each other's arms. You feel something slot into place, something that you’ve been missing.

Art’s soft voice pierces through the afterglow, “Will you hold me?”

“Yes,” you whisper back, circling your arms around his shoulders.

…

When you wake up hours later you’re beyond thirsty, dehydrated from all the crying, and maybe from the sex. Art’s head is laying across your bare chest, tousled hair tickling your jaw and arms snug around your waist. He looks so peaceful, eyes closed with his long lashes fanning over his cheeks. The sound of his steady breathing is almost enough to lull you right back to sleep. You smile softly, running your hands through his hair slowly. Savoring how at peace he looks, so different from the battered, broken man you met.

You slip out of his arms as carefully as possible, not wanting to wake him. Rolling out of bed to search half-assedly for your clothes in the darkness. You can’t find your shirt, only your underwear and shorts. You notice a red shirt strewn over the dresser next to the bed, illuminated by the moonlight pouring through the blinds. You pick it up without thinking, it's soft in your hands, the fabric thin and worn down. You toss it on before padding out of the bedroom.

You get a little lost in your thoughts as you make your way to the kitchen, Art loves you.

The thought has you biting back a giddy smile. Art loves you and you love him too. It sounds fucking crazy, but you know it’s true. Your life is so completely fucked, you don’t know if you care.

Art loves you.

Your smile doesn’t leave your lips as you turn the corner, arms wrapped around yourself tightly, the warmth of Art's affection lingering like a gentle caress.

“He smiles more.”

The soft voice ringing out from your left makes you stop in your tracks. You turn, and there in the kitchen illuminated by the soft glow of the ceiling light, like an angel, is Tashi Duncan.

Tashi looks at you from her spot across the room with an impassive look on her face, she’s got your keys in one hand, fiddling with them boredly. When you don't reply she speaks again, "He's playing better, won the last three tournaments he was in." She says casually, setting her half full wine glass down on the island.

You don't need to ask her who "he" is.

You're silent for a few more beats as she stares at you expectantly, silently urging you to say something. You rack your brain for a response, caught like a deer in headlights under Tashi's gaze.

"What?" you softly mutter, words cutting through the air weakly.

Tashi sighs in exasperation, like you're a child who doesn't understand the simple question she's asking. She raises her wine glass back to her lips, draining the rest of it before setting it down once more and making her way over to you.

You know you should flee, make a break for the door before she reaches you. Running away from the woman whose husband you’re fucking - whose husband you just got done fucking, and who told you he loved you - while she pays you seems like the easiest thing to do in the moment, but you don't.

You find yourself glued to the spot as Tashi's commanding presence looms over you, until she's all you can see. Until her expensive smelling perfume is all you can breathe, until she's towering over you, miles of soft skin on display in a classy black nightie.

She stares down at you, her face completely unreadable. It feels like hours as her brown eyes burn into yours, your heart must be beating a thousand beats per second.

When Tashi finally moves, it’s her hand you see rising up in your peripheral vision. At first you think she's going to hit you, get you back for sleeping with her husband, for falling in love with her husband. You tense up, bracing for the slap, it would be the least of what you deserve, but it never comes.

Instead, Tashi's hand finds its way up to the side of your face, cupping your cheek gently. You can feel the chilled metal of her wedding band make contact with your warm skin.

You feel like you might pass out staring into the eyes of Tashi Duncan. Everything you ever wanted in high school flashing rapidly right before your eyes.

If Art Donaldson is the sun, Tashi is the moon. Her light draws you in and keeps you looking at her, and never wanting to look away.

Her thumb slides across your bottom lip, the same lip that’s kissed her husband. Ever so slightly, she pushes the tip of her thumb into your parted lips, far enough to touch your bottom teeth. Your breath catches in your throat, eyes widening in shock, your pulse is fluttering wildly. You distantly wonder if she can feel it on the inside of her wrist.

“I’m his coach, I need to be hard on him or he fails. I refuse to let him fail,” she says softly, tone casual like she’s not brushing the tip of your tongue with her fingers. “But I’m not stupid, I know what he needs. Someone sweet, someone gentle, someone who looks at him and doesn’t see tennis.”

You couldn’t answer her if you wanted to, but you wouldn’t trust yourself to speak anyway. You feel far away and floaty the longer her fingers sit in your mouth, your brain feels like molasses.

“I can’t give him what he needs. I’m not that kind of person,” Tashi says, eyes roaming your face languidly, like she’s window shopping your features. Her voice is nearly a whisper the next time she speaks, “but you are. You could be that for him.”

Your heart drops, the haze surrounding your brain rips away so violently, like someone took a leaf blower to it. Her words make everything start to fall into place, the at home visits, the “exclusive deal”, the weird ass run-ins you’ve had with her over the weeks.

This was never about the goddamn massages.

For a few seconds you both stay like that. Standing inches away from each other in the half-lit kitchen of her and Art's house. For a second, you think you can see the tiniest smile playing on her lips before she drops her hand from you completely.

"There’s a car waiting for you outside,” she says, still close enough that you can feel her breath fan over your face, “See you next Thursday."

Tashi turns on her heels and leaves you alone, disappearing down the long hallway leading to her and Art's bedroom. You watch the whole time she goes, until she completely fades into the shadows. Your lip still tingling from her touch.

There’s only one thing on your mind as you incredulously stare down the now empty hall…

These people are so fucking weird.

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heartfullofleeches · 1 month

Text

[Angst]

Childhood Best Friends with a small age gap- two or three years, nothing crazy- but it means everything as they age.

It was hard for them to make friends their age when you first met. They liked things that were too "childish" for their peers - things another child who lived not to far away adored. They'd seen each other on the way to school, but they didn't interact frequently due to their difference in grade.

Until that day-

"Whoa...Cool backpack. You like that show too?"

"Thanks... I'm thinking of getting a new one though... Do you want me to ask my parents if you can have it?"

"What?! It looks fine to me... Why are you getting rid of it?"

"My friends called me a baby... I won't be able to go back to class without everyone laughing at me unless I get a better one."

"That's silly!.... It's on right now... Wanna watch it with me?"

The two were inseparable from then on- School hindered the time they had to see each other each morning, but as soon as it let out - both ran to meet with their new best friend. The elder of the pair was often mocked and teased for their choice, but they could hardly care anymore. They had someone who'd stick by their side to the very end - childish fixations and all.

Years went on and they made new friends. It happens. More obstacles began piling up throughout - chipping away at the few hours they scarcely had to begin with. Studying, Hobbies, balancing days between hanging out with other friend groups and the person who once meant the world. They tried to make things works, but nothing went to plan-

"Is it alright if Y/n comes with us tonight?"

"Y/N? Aren't they're too young to see this movie? We shouldn't be responsible if they have night terrors or something.."

"They aren't that young... Are they?"

They never thought about it before. You were so close in age as kids it never hit them that as you grew that little gap drew a bridge between you - and it was easier to let you go than finding an alternative.

"Hey, Dude! Are we still on for this weekend? I can't believe they're making a reboot after all this time!.."

"Are my messages going through? You haven't responded in a while... I saw you outside school yesterday and yelled your name, but....."

"Did I do something wrong?"

"Hey."

"You're hanging out with them today? Did you forget about my birthday?...."

"You removed me off your list of friends...We're still friends, right?"

"Let me alone. I'm sick of being your babysitter. Go find friends your own age and stay away from mine."

And that was the end of things.

College cames around and their live became relatively tame. Their thoughts drifted to that childhood friend of theirs every now and again, but between school and partying with the new friends they had made - those memories faded to the back of their mind.

An acquaintance asks them to help show some new faces around the campus. One sticks out to them amongst the crowd. It's you. What do they say to you after all these years? You don't look sad to see them. Nor angry. Intact - you look..

Relieved.

Pulling them aside at the end of the tour, you free yourself from the burden that's weighted down on you since they left you.

"I'm sorry."

"It was never my intention to hold you back. Overtime I realized I was just that annoying kid who clung onto you because I thought you were my first and only friend...When you never felt that way about me. I'm sorry for taking that away from you. If our paths cross again, I promise I won't even look at you."

After being abandoned by your best friend- the person you looked up to most, you matured well beyond your years in hopes that would make you like them again. Overtime, you gave up that goal, but others could see how you've changed.

"Isn't that.... Y/n?.."

"Oh, man- It is! You guys were glued at the hip before we became teens."

"They're..kinda cute... Do you still have their number?"

All this time apart, a feeling long forgotten resurged inside them. The need to protect you. You didn't know these people like they did. You shouldn't be going to parties with them, getting to know and befriend them. They'll only hurt you - worse than they had. They never should have said goodbye to you- They should have allowed the feelings they were so scared to have, but had always been there develop and blossom naturally until you both were adults ready to move on to that stage in your friendship.

They know you best. No matter how much you grow as a person, you're still the same.

"That's a cute Keychain, Y/n!"

"Thanks! I've loved this show since I was a kid!"

They'll prove it to you.

#yandere scenarios #yandere insert #yandere headcanons #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere x reader #yandere #yandere oc #yandere blurb #yandere angst #yandere drabble #yandere x y/n #yandere best friend

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cordeliawhohung · 3 months

Text

In Limbo [Chapter 7]

mafia!141 masterlist | In Limbo masterlist | general masterlist | taglist | playlist mafia!Simon Riley x fem!Reader

another deal. another oath.

cw: illnesses and symptoms, PTSD, allusions to past non-con situations

wc: 4.4k

Marco got you sick.

Building pressure throbs between your eyes, ravaging your sinuses with tightly packed snot. It moves to your ears and throat until you’re constantly hacking up phlegm and the tinnitus in your ears is so bad you can hardly hear patrons over the idle chatter in the restaurant. Of course, there is no evidence to prove that Marco was the one to get you sick. There are countless people who flood through the door of Sapori with empty stomachs and noses running from the bitter, humid cold of London. Anyone could have gotten you sick.

Yet, over the last week, no one has gotten as close to you as he did. Fingers digging into your arm. Leg pinning yours. Gentle hand — the hand of a killer, his hand, that brutal fucking hand — caressing the side of your face, holding you hostage. Taking and taking and taking, tongue shoving past your teeth —

Blurry eyes glance away from the assaulting brightness of your phone screen. Sapori is quiet; it always is this early. Early for late night dining, anyway. Half past ten, you’ve spent most of the morning cleaning every single corner of that building, but got dizzy after an hour, so you��ve taken refuge at a lonely table. The dust and carcinogens you’ve inhaled in the process hasn’t done anything to ease your symptoms, but you can’t afford to stay idle. There are numbers to be crunched, cash to be earned, and debts to be paid.

Which brings you back to your phone.

Having only graduated school without any sort of higher education, your options for jobs are limited, but only working at Sapori isn’t cutting it anymore. You can either pick up more hours like you have been this past week, or attempt to find a job that’ll pay slightly more and help cover the difference in what you now owe Marco every month. You’ve been staring at hourly wages for so long you feel your eyes begin to cross, and you don’t exactly like what you’re seeing. An early morning librarian job for £11.44, coffee shop barista for £12… nothing salary. Nothing that will save you.

“Job hunting?”

The ringing in your ears suffocates your senses so viciously that you didn’t hear Bruce’s footsteps approach, and you stare up at him like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Nothing like looking at other jobs with your boss staring over your shoulder. The screen goes black, and you choke out a sheepish smile through the snot leaking into the back of your throat.

“Just for a second job. Part-time,” you explain. Your voice sounds louder than his, ears too clogged to properly receive soundwaves. “Don’t worry, I’m not leaving any time soon.”

Bruce’s mellifluous laugh is the first thing that’s warmed your soul all week. It’s contagious. The smallest of smiles flitters across your lips as he carefully takes the seat across from you, large bowl in either hand.

“Ah, I would not be upset if you left. Sad, yes, but everyone finds their way out of here eventually,” Bruce assures. His accent is odd. Immigrating from Italy at a young age, his vernacular is a mash of proper English, Italian, and what you’re guessing is Italian-American slang. Or, at least, that’s what you’ve been able to gather from the movies, anyway. “You are a hard worker. Anyone would be lucky to have you.”

A wave of tears build up behind your eyes at his words, and they’re held back by a flimsy, half-formed dam. Your emotions have been strewn about in your brain, cluttered, sticking halfway out of folders and filing cabinets. It’s hard to shove them back when you can hardly shut the drawers.

“Here,” he continues as he pushes the bowl toward you. The hard lines of his face soften as he watches you curiously peer at the contents; tiny bits of pasta mixed with some sort of thickened broth. “Pastina. Good for your health. You sound sick. Eat up and go home.”

Your hand is hardly gripping the spoon when he says that, and it nearly slips out of your grasp. Mouth half open, you stare at Bruce with wide eyes. There’s not a single hint of maliciousness on his face — his eyes twinkle bright as he runs a hand over his balding head. Though he appears happy — almost proud of himself, even — you feel nothing of the sort.

“I can’t go home,” you try to argue, but he quickly cuts you off with a wave of his hand.

“You’re sick, and you’ve been working too much. You’ve worked more hours than I have this week, and I can’t allow that. Rest, before you really make yourself sick,” he dismisses.

Swallowing thickly, you attempt fruitlessly to hide the tremor in your voice. “But I… need the money.”

It’s all you can think about. Money. Numbers. This vicious counting game. How you’re going to cough up the extra cash for Marco and still have enough to feed yourself. To do anything. To live. Or worse — what happens to you if you can’t make enough? How many more times is he going to change your payments based on stupid mistakes that aren’t your fault?

Waving your words off again, Bruce stands to his feet, hands pressing flat against the swell of his stomach as he does so, like the jovial chuckle he gives you needs support. “I’ll give you a raise, then.”

Jarred, the side of your spoon taps against the edge of your bowl as you follow him with your eyes. “A raise?”

“Twenty,” he replies. “Should be enough. I’m tired of you working so many hours. You need to go out and be a kid before you get old and useless like me. Pick up a hobby. Hang out with that guy Bee won’t stop talking about. He seems nice, hm? I just want you to be happy, kid. Now, eat up. You’ll feel better.”

Bruce vanishes just as quickly as he appeared, leaving you alone with a bowl of pastina and your thoughts. It’s good that he did, because if you tried to thank him for such a gracious gesture, you’d certainly crumble. Perhaps he knew that, too.

In a poor attempt to save yourself from crying in public, you quickly turn your attention to the food Bruce lovingly whipped up for you. Steam wafts and twirls upwards, hitting your face in a fine mist. Its flavor is difficult to discern with how congested you are, but the rich texture is enough to satiate the hole in your stomach. It always seems ever growing these days. A barren cavern; a void that wants to swallow you from the inside out. Not ravenous, just gutting.

Maybe one day it will fill itself up again.

For now, it grows. Slowly. Insidiously. Taking bits of you and shredding them into ribbons. They trail behind you, fluttering in the wind as you walk up the steps to your flat where they roll down the stairs. It would look beautiful, if it wasn’t for the fact that it was you. You, with quiescent feet trudging through the door. You, with the fatigued body that can hardly dress herself into pajamas. You, who curls into bed, a motherless child — a creature waiting to vanish.

Too broke to afford cold medicine to aid you with your congestion, it takes time before you can finally fall asleep. When you do, it grips you like a vice, pinning you down, spoon feeding you dreams you haven’t been able to see with the hours you’ve been pulling at work. They’re heavy, holding your head under water, threatening to suffocate you; but you need the rest.

You dream of your mother. She’s folding your school uniform in the laundromat you use as common ground to meet Marco at. Washers swish water in their drums as dryer alarms chime the end of their cycle in terrible cacophony. Pristine white blouses become ruined with burgundy — her hands are soiled; covered with blood. She folds, and you sit and watch her, hands tangled in string, fingers unable to move. Each fold is done with purpose. Crisp. Effortless. Blouses, skirts, and ties stack up taller than her on the table, threatening to scrape the ceiling above.

“Throw them away,” you say, voice too weak.

She does not look at you.

“They’re ruined. Throw them away,” you say.

She does not look at you.

“Did I ruin them?” she asks.

You blink. The string around your fingers tightens. You feel them turn cold as ice. Lack of blood. Festering wounds. Irritated nail beds. An extension of the sins trapped inside of you.

“It wasn’t you,” you say.

Finally, she looks at you, and you flinch.

“Who was it?”

Fibers snap, and the string falls free from your hands. Fluttering, dainty; it lays on the floor in generous spirals. There’s so much blood on her shirt. You can’t look away.

“You already know,” you choke out.

She smiles. A toothy grin. Teeth perfect and whole, lips curling, but it’s not real. Her eyes are cloudy — her eyes are dead. Her smile is dead. Your mother is dead. Cold skin, colder gaze, coagulated blood on linoleum. Rotting. You still smell it: stale blood, cologne, and mint. It follows you everywhere.

He follows you everywhere.

Your phone is under your pillow when you receive a call. Vibrations rattle through the cotton filling, yanking you out of your dream like you’re being pulled out from under water. For a moment, you think you’re home. Really home. Yet, the room is too cold, and you are too alone. Blinking the sand from your eyes, you shove your hand between comforter and mattress and yank out your phone to be met with a flashing screen.

Incoming Call from Captain Jack Sparrow

You hit accept and bring the speaker up to your ear. “Hello?”

“Chip!” Row’s voice purrs on the other end. “What are you up to?”

“Uh…” you pause as you turn to lay on your back, eyes blankly glued to the ceiling. You forgot to turn the heat back on when you got home, and you swear you can almost see your breath. “...relaxing…”

“That’s a first. Hey, I’m stuck at the club, and I’m bored. John wanted to have a quaint evening together but caught up with work stuff. Wanna get dinner or something?” she asks.

You sniff, and the pressure behind your eyes nearly doubles. “I… don’t think I’m feeling up to that tonight, sorry.”

“Oh wow,” Row gawks. Her voice drips with concern, and you hear shuffling on her end. “Are you sick? You sound very… congested.”

“Yeah, I got sent home from work. Must’ve caught a bug from… somewhere.”

Row says something in response, but you can’t hear it. There’s nothing but ringing as you force yourself to sit up and hack up snotty phlegm, trying not to choke on it as it comes up. Acidulous liquid coats your tongue, and you wince. Vile. Why can’t you ever have anything that tastes sweet? Something easier to stomach than an unwanted tongue or blood?

“Chip?”

Row’s voice brings you back to the present — back to your cold apartment with frigid sheets and your pounding headache. There’s no reason for your tears. Maybe it’s from your cold. Maybe it’s because you dreamed of your mom. Or maybe it’s just because you’re sad, and you have been for a while. You’re just not able to hold it back anymore.

“Do you want to spend the night with John and I?” she finishes.

Lips curling in, you try your best to hold back a sob. “Yeah… Yeah, that sounds nice.”

“Lovely. Riley’s driving. We’ll be there soon, okay?”

An attempt is made at making yourself look somewhat presentable, but it’s hard to make art when the canvas is crumbling. Nothing can cure you of the red irritation plaguing your scleras, nor the constant sniffing from congestion. You make do with fresh clothes and a washed face before shoving a few necessities in an overnight bag. Simple. Small. Something that won’t take up much space.

When Row arrives, it’s a very unceremonious occasion. Gentle greetings. A pitiful look. There is no mention of how cold it is, or how the place looks sparsely lived in. She’s beautiful in her coat with pristine hair and flawless makeup. Perfect for a quaint dinner with a friend. You feel bad for being sick; she seemed thrilled to eat with you.

Simon waits for both of you in front of the building in a sleek, black car that you’re surprised he can fit into. Terribly appropriate; something that would look perfect parked in front of John’s club, yet is now being used to transport you, a pathetic, ill woman, to her friend's house as if you’re nothing more than a child.

It isn’t until you find your seat in the back that you realize just how long you were sleeping. Dusk pulls its cimmerian shadow over the sky, obscuring the streets in pale streetlights as Simon pulls into traffic. You’d gotten home around noon. Nearly a whole day wasted with sleep.

Little is said between the three of you as you struggle to stay conscious. The consistent, gentle hum of the car’s engine is better than any lullaby that you can recall. A siren’s song. A gentle hand on your back. Head bobbing and swaying with the turns of the road, you listen to whatever Simon has droning on the radio; some sort of rock station that plays so quietly you almost can’t hear it at all. Every now and then you catch his eyes in the rearview mirror glancing at you like you’ll vanish if he doesn’t keep watch over you.

It seems he’s still taking Row’s request to heart.

As the car approaches the house, Row digs into her bag where she quickly shuffles through a small, periwinkle wallet. She fishes out some cash before handing it to Simon as he parks.

“Here,” she whispers, though you can still hear her. “Get her some medicine, please.”

“Yes ma’am,” he mutters in reply.

Before you know it, you’re tucked into a quiet guest room on the second floor of Row’s home. Heat radiates from the baseboards, yet your muscles tense and ache in a shiver. To combat this, Row has found every spare blanket and duvet she can find and tossed them on top of you like a heaping pile of laundry. At first, she had recommended throwing them in the dryer to help warm them up further, but you reject it. You hate making her go through any more effort than needed on your behalf.

Still, she refuses to leave you as you curl into a ball, face pressed against her side as she sits on top of the covers next to you. Row always smells lovely. Fresh rosewater and lavender. You’re enveloped by her scent as she rubs a hand along your back, but it’s muted. The considerable amount of blankets only allows you to feel the ghost of her touch.

“How long has this been going on?” she asks tenderly.

You shrug. “Day before yesterday, I think.”

She pouts with a huff, hand ceasing movement as she silently chastises you. “And you were still trying to work?”

“I have to,” you mumble against her.

A terrible quiescence soaks the room. Everything hurts, and you want to rest, but you know that won’t come soon. Not with Row’s concern eating her alive — a vicious plague ripping through her heart. You can hear the beasts feasting on her marrow even now.

“I’ve heard you and Riley have been getting close,” Row prompts like she’s about to spill the daily gossip. A change of subject. A way to ease you into what she really wants to talk about. “Visiting him at the club, then?”

The club. Andrei. Spilled pasta in an alleyway. Marco stealing away more parts of you had made you forget about how you ended up in that mess in the first place. The blade of Andrei’s knife glints just as brightly in your mind as it did that night, and you cover your urge to puke with a well timed cough. You wish she wouldn’t bring it up, but it’s a good sign. It means Simon was true to his word.

“Just to deliver food. He kept fixing stuff at my apartment. Had to pay him back,” you explain like a broken record.

Lips stretch over ivory teeth as Row shifts next to you. “That so? Sounds like he likes you.”

“Or maybe he’s just doing the job you assigned him,” you reply bluntly.

Row doesn’t tense at your insinuation, but she does sigh as she settles back against the headboard. “Thought he was better at keeping secrets.”

“I figured it out on my own,” you claim, stuffy voice unable to land the plosives of your consonants.

She chuckles amicably as she looks down at you. Eyes closed, you’re nearly asleep, and you would have been if it weren’t for her conversation.

“Well, you were always the smart one. Still, I won’t retract my statement. Riley’s had a lot of… partners but he never lingers around anyone like he does with you,” she insists.

“Can’t entertain that,” you say. There’s a sour stoicness to your tone; too tired to be annoyed yet yearning for silence. “I’ve got work.”

Another stillness — a suffocating one. Row’s smile has long vanished as her lips press together tartly. There you go, talking about work again. Like you can’t stand to do anything else. Like you’ll die without the money.

“Chip… you know that if you need help you can always ask, right?” she prods carefully.

Help. You think of that word, and a sour cordolium rips through your chest. Asking for such a thing from someone is out of the question. You made that deal with yourself ages ago. Besides, you’ve been doing plenty well all on your own.

“I don’t… I don’t need help, I just miss my mum,” you admit.

You feel the moment when the room freezes. It’s when Row looks down at you, doleness unleashed in her gaze. Bringing up your late mother was a mistake, but she’s all you can think about after that dream. You wonder if you’ll ever have a normal dream of her again — fresh, normal, and void of all blood. A dream where she smiles and it’s not dead.

“I’m sorry,” is all Row can say.

“Me too.”

When Simon returns, you’re fast asleep. Row can hear the sound of his boots on the floor from a mile away; purposefully making his existence known as he opens the door to the only room with the light on. His eyes land on you, form curling into your friend like you’ll fall through the bed without her. He approaches the bed and holds out the bag for Row to take, and the very first thing she finds is every bit of cash she had given him to buy the products in the first place.

Instead of chastising him, she rummages through the rest of the items; NyQuil, sudafed, Vicks, various soups and electrolyte drinks. It’s a variable feast to fight off your cold. Row looks up to poke fun at the man — at this raging chink in his armor — but she loses all words when she sees the way his hand presses against your forehead. He watches you with gentle devotion as your shoulders rise and fall with your breaths, congestion causing you to quietly snore. You do not stir awake, but she watches your brows furrow when he pulls away.

“She’s got a bad fever,” he concludes quietly. “She looks exhausted. Dehydrated.”

“Yeah. She’s been overworking herself too much. Hasn’t been resting or healing like she should,” Row concurs.

Fragile silence breaks as you breathe, airways too clogged for you to sleep peacefully. Simon and Row stare down at you for a moment, each of them considering the circumstance. Her lips press tightly together in thought before she carefully slides away from you, leaving your coiled form. She sets the bag of medicine and supplies on the foot of the bed before facing Simon with crossed arms.

“Can I talk to you before you leave?” she requests.

Simon answers her with a curt nod before they exit the room, lights off and door shut tight behind them. Row’s heart pounds away in her chest as it fights against the tightness of her ribs. It’s an ever constricting cage. Relentless. Vile. She ensures that she’s not facing Simon once they traverse down the stairs and make it to the landing on the bottom floor.

“Chip is… really scaring me,” Row breathes, and she feels her voice crack nearly as bad as her heart. “I’m more than a little concerned or worried now she… she’s always been something of a workaholic, but this is different. It feels like she’s trying to run away from something and she’s just, I don’t know, keeping something buried inside of her. Pushing away any help anyone tries to offer her. I’m terrified she might hurt herself.”

“Hurt herself?” Simon repeats in disbelief. “She done somethin’ like that before?”

“No, not that I know of, it’s just…”

The words die as Row’s lips press tightly together once again, and she finally forces herself to look at Simon. He’s nothing but a stone — this immovable being who won’t be swayed by anything physically or emotionally. She steadies her breath as she wills away the tears welling in her eyes.

“I’m going to tell you this because I trust you,” she says, gaze attempting to harden. It’s a silent vow. A demand that he not repeat any of the words she’s about to speak.

“‘Course,” Simon nods.

Row swallows the guilt in the back of her throat.

“Chip’s parents are dead. They have been for a while. First it was her dad, and then her mom. My dad was the chief working the cases of their deaths. It wasn’t… from natural causes. She holds a lot of guilt and she gets in a bad headspace over it, and I think that’s a bit of what’s happening and… it’s worse than I’ve ever seen it before. And, I don’t know, maybe it just seems worse because she’s sick but… fuck, Simon, the way she talked about her mom just earlier, I swear to god I nearly cried.”

Crisp eyeliner marks the edges of her eyes, yet it smudges as Row banishes the tears from her vision. Still as ever, Simon watches carefully and without judgment as she gathers herself together in order to finish.

“She needs to talk to someone about it but I don’t think she wants it to be me. There are many things I think she would tell me, but there’s no way she’d give me the whole story,” Row concludes.

Confusion clouds Simon’s stern gaze, and he shifts on his feet. “What, you’re thinkin’ she’ll tell me and not you?”

“Yes.” Her reply is speedy and sharp; a warning. No one knows you better than her. “She carries guilt for many things. Some things I know she won’t want to tell me.”

Something is off — Simon can smell the stench of it from a mile away. He knows better than to question Row, as she seems very convinced that this is the true issue at hand, but there’s an uncomfortable trepidation that hangs somewhere in the balance of it all. A picture half developed. The brittle edge of a cliff. It’s the same feeling that afflicted him the night he fought Andrei in the alleyway — a deja vu that screams trouble if he even attempts to entertain it.

“Please,” Row begs. “You don’t have to do anything crazy, I just don’t want her to be alone. Swear to me you won’t let her be alone.”

Another deal. Another oath. Simon has always been a protector, in some way. A tool which one uses to bludgeon. He doesn’t know if he can be gentle. He knows he’s certainly not palatable. But he thinks of your sleeping form in the VIP room after the tussle with Andrei, and the heat of your fever against his hand, and he thinks he’d at least like to try.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he assures her.

Nodding, Row attempts to strengthen her resolve with a deep breath. Frayed nerves still poke out of her skin, completely wired with worry. It sparks and fizzles, yet she still glances back up the stairs, as if she can feel the aura of exhaustion seeping out of the bedroom.

“Thank you,” she says, voice hardly a whisper as she looks back at him. “Truly, I appreciate it.”

“Can’t do everythin’ on your own,” he says.

She scoffs playfully. “Tell Chip that.”

Once the front door locks shut behind Simon and the house is still and quiet, Row sneaks back upstairs. You’re hardly conscious when she gently urges you awake to press cough syrup to your lips, but you don’t complain. You never complain — not when there’s bitter liquid on your tongue; never when you should. Silent. Pliable. Once you’ve swallowed every last drop, you collapse back into bed, body weak and overheated; slick with sweat.

She knows she should leave once your snoring starts back up again, but she can’t. There’s something to relish in how peaceful you are in this moment. Not working yourself to death. Not running from the grief that’s been strangling you since you were a child. For a moment, as you lay there in bed, Row gets to see you as you were when you were a kid. Quiet. Basking in the halcyon atmosphere that preceded the worst day of her life.

Row recalls the movie you watched that night. How you giggled at the terrible graphics and corny writing. She remembers how your face squished against the cushions on the couch as you fell asleep. How her father covered both you and her with blankets before wishing you goodnight. You’ve grown so much since then. A fine woman who should be proud of herself. And she wants to shake you awake. Yank you out of sleep and scream at you that there’s nothing to be forgiven — nothing to punish yourself over. She doesn’t.

Instead, she turns around and leaves, ensuring that the electrolyte drink Simon brought you is on the pillow next to you for when you wake up in the morning.

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #mafia!ghost #mafia!141 #f!reader

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alexiroflife · 3 months

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being married to gojo as an actress while playing the role of a villain...

au, fluff, some suggestive themes, cheating themes

🌟🌟🌟

both you, satoru, and probably the rest of the world can confidently say that satoru is your biggest fan. while he is fully successful within his own career, he can not help but fawn over your achievements like a ten year old boy with one of your movie posters hung up in his room

the world does not associate either of you without the other. yes, you have individually made an outstanding name for yourself within the television and theater industry, but your fans find the two of you so adorable, so iconic that it’s impossible to imagine you without satoru gojo and satoru gojo without you

viewers are starstruck when you arrive to your film premiers with satoru on your arm, beaming pridefully as though it’s his first time walking the red carpet when that’s hardly true. you’re beautiful, and everyone knows it. the second your eyes meet a camera along with satoru’s striking blue ones, his hand wrapped snugly around your waist and your faces adorned with dazzling smiles, photographers go wild. even more so when satoru blatantly grabs your face and kisses you all over, feeding your fan pages’ content as well as his desire to constantly shower you in affection

and when it’s not at premieres, satoru’s supporting you during tours, press conferences, galas, meet and greets, sitting backstage or in the front row of the crowd or at times by your side as though he can’t bear to be away from you. when you’re being showered in appreciation, he’s flicking thousands of pictures, capturing the way you interact with your adoring admirers

satoru's grown rather used to the array of roles you have played. he's seen you in rom-coms, dramas, thrillers, actions, you name it, and though he doesn't necessarily get jealous when you have to kiss someone on screen anymore, he doesn't always appreciate some of the intimate scenes you do. despite so, he trusts you. he knows it's your job and that none of it is real, and above all, he knows the faces you make when you're truly experiencing pleasure. while you're an amazing actor, those faces you make on screen could never begin to compare to the ones he draws out of you

ever the arrogant man, however, satoru always makes it a point to remind you of who makes you feel good- who has you crossing your legs under the table as you meet with colleagues over the computer, his fingers working their way in and out of your sopping cunt off camera as you try your damndest to keep a straight face while your entire lower half is squirming- who makes a point to fuck you over the dresser of your trailer in between shoots after having brought you some coffee to help keep your energy high, rambling on about how one of the tech assistants had been looking at you for too long- who, at any event possible, will never fail to lay you back on the seat of your limo before even stepping outside, scrunching up your obscenely priced gown to eat you out as he gazes up at you over your legs

"you're so gorgeous, pretty. my pretty girl," "how lucky am i to be the only one who gets to see you like this, hm?" "fuck, baby, they have no fuckin' idea how good you feel"

even with his habits, satoru will never turn his nose up at any role you play simply because you're far too talented and simultaneously devoted to him for him to ever feel put off by your occupation. besides, he's managed to bag one of the most famous actors in the world. he truly does not think he has anything to worry about when it comes to you

satoru finds himself rather surprised, yet excited nonetheless, when he hears that you are to be playing a dislikable character in the upcoming film of the summer. you warn him that it's drastically different, that you'll be tapping into a morally poor side of yourself for this role that you have never delved into, nor really favored before

"pretty, you'll do amazing. trust me. do i get to watch you be mean to other guys? do you get to beat anyone's ass? honestly, that sounds like a dream come true" "i mean, yeah, but toru it's more than that. my character is actually a bitch. an unfaithful, abusive one. i don't know how i'm gonna do that..."

satoru knows that behind all the glitz, glamor, and fame, the occupation of an actor can be incredibly emotionally and physically taxing. you don't tell him much more about the role before rehearsals and filming starts, but he can tell over time that you're struggling with this particular film. simply because you're just too kind of a person despite how large your presence is

well into the filming process, he decides to visit you on set to serve as some extra emotional support. he's watching from behind the cameras intently as you go through a scene that's way more intense than he had previously expected, and his jaw practically drops as he watches the scene play out before him

your character is being confronted by her husband about her infidelity, and all the while as your acting partner screams at you in tears to beg you for some remorse, you lay back on a sofa with a cigarette pinched between your fingers, face completely dull and apathetic

"how could you do this to me?! to us? why won't you look at me! I say something!"

"whatever i say won't change the fact that i fucked someone else."

"...do you even care? do you care that you've ruined our relationship?"

"let's be real, there was no relationship to begin with."

"w-what do you mean?"

you stand, stubbing your cigarette into a mug, and walk over to your sniveling scene partner. the camera zooms on your face, your dead eyes, your angled brows. "i never loved you. don't you get it? you're just a pet, and you know it. so don't go crying to me about breaking something that was never promised"

satoru's eyes are wide, completely enraptured as though this scene is a real moment he is witnessing from afar. your fake husband he breaks down, dropping to his knees and clinging to you, but you curl your lips in disgust.

"get the fuck off me," you hiss, shoving him rather aggressively away. he falls, sobbing. "pathetic piece of shit."

you go to turn away, but stop and stumble. immediately you break, and gone is the merciless woman that was acting before the crew seconds ago. the light returns to your eyes as you cover your mouth in embarrassment, looking up.

"sorry, i forgot my next block," you say sweetly, timidly. "how was that?"

"perfect! let's pick up from when you turn away. once you say that last line, you-"

satoru is baffled, the director's notes falling into muffled white noise as he stares at you. he's never seen you in such a position before, one that has him questioning everything about you. and though you claimed to have a hard time with it, you were doing fucking phenomenal

he sees now what you mean about your character being... well, a horrible person for lack of a better term. he doesn't even recognize you, and he's sure your fans are going to have a field day when this film comes out. you're being shown in a drastically different light from your heroine and emotionally relatable love interest positions, and it will surely be a sight for the world to see.

during your break, you walk up to satoru tiredly and burrow your face into his chest. he wraps you up immediately, babbling about how insane you were in your scene. you look up at him with those big (e/c) eyes as he runs his hand over the back of your head.

"you think so?"

"baby, my jaw was dropped the entire time. i don't even know how you did that. you played that a little too well."

he's joking, but you still make a face of slight fear, as though you're scared of offending him. "you think it's too much?"

"no- it's a lot, but no- it's perfect. it's bold, and you do it so well."

"it doesn't make you uncomfortable?"

"why would it make me uncomfortable, pretty? i know you're acting, and it's not like you'd ever cheat on me let alone act like that," he tilts his head as a remorseful look flashes through your eyes. "are you uncomfortable?"

"i don't know... i'm just scared of how people will react... mostly because i could never picture saying this stuff to you, and i've had to do a lot of exercises to get into this toxic mindset that just... eugh. trust me, you haven't even seen the half of it."

"have you been able to take long enough breaks?"

"kinda..."

"alright, let's go chill in your trailer 'til your next call. i don't want you stressing your pretty little head about this, princess. you're doing amazing and remember, it's just a movie."

and yes, it's just a movie. a movie that has satoru twitching in his seat during the premiere at how uncomfortably awful you're acting the entire time in the film. by now, you've eased into the feel of things and are rather proud of the work you''ve done, but also happy that it's all over. you hold satoru's hand tight during some of the worst scenes, sneaking glances at him as the screen flickers intensely over his glassy eyes. you can tell he's rather moved by it all, by seeing you in such a position, and you chew harshly on the inside of your lip

when the lights come up, you're given a standing ovation initiated of course by your rather emotional husband, but in his defense, the entire room has tears in their eyes as well. satoru's clapping harshly, and you try to hide your face as grateful tears spring in your eyes, grateful for this opportunity, for your accomplishments, for the support that surrounds you

satoru wraps you in a huge hug and whispers in your ear "don't ever do what you just did in that movie to me," he whimpers, and you laugh loudly because both of you know the thought is inconceivable. "you did so so good, baby. m'so proud of how far you've come"

that night, you shower each other with love. you're wrapped up in each other's limbs, your lips meeting every part of his skin to remind him that you are still you despite the realism of the character you played, and that satoru will always be your one and only you devote yourself faithfully to for the rest of your life. when the two of you have spent yourselves, satoru holds you in the moonlit darkness of your bedroom, arms wrapped around you from behind with your back to his chest. he kisses your shoulder softly, then your cheek

"you really liked the movie, toru?" you whisper. "i loved it," he mumbles into your skin. "but, god, i thought i was gonna have a heart attack almost fifty times and that one scene with you at the bar didn't help." "i knew you were gonna say something about that!" "i can't help it, baby, you were just so heartless and scary," he pouts

#jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fandom #jjk fanfic #anime #jjk #jjk season 2 #jjk x you #gojo x reader #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo smut #satoru x reader #satoru gojo headcanons #jjk au

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irndad · 1 year

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in every other life- s.r.

a/n: my soul is in this mf fic. there's a lil sexual tension lol! this is a behemoth of pining. so much fucking pining. this guy needs you like air wtf!! ALSO the poem is from a book, the lover's dictionary by david levithan. summary: the love of spencer's life is also his best friend, and she goes on a few dates. he does not handle it well, internally. ft. metaphysics by our dear genius boy. wc: 3.3k (holy shit)

While he recognizes that no direct injustice has actually been done to him, he can’t help but feel that it’s so unfair.

Because Spencer had never actually wanted much of anyone, actually. He was too much of a child through his entire education, and he’d found anyone that he’d even consider had almost instantly had dismissed him. He’d grown used to a life where companionship wasn’t a desire that crossed his mind.

But he wanted her.

His lovely friend, his coworker, who was the kind of lovely that it feels unfair you’d ever have to take your eyes off of. She’s the best person he’s ever met, the sort of wonderful you read about but never convince yourself you’ll ever see. He knows the shape of her, has her form memorized from watching, waiting for her to step into the office every day.

It was only a matter of time until he wasn’t the only one with his eye on her.

She’s actually absurdly easy to want. There’s nights where they watch something, often what he picked, Doctor Who or some other science fiction which would be great if he could focus on anything but her. Her warm disposition ruminating his too-small apartment with a kind of light that follows his every movement. He’d adore her even if she wasn’t, but it’s impossible to ignore how beautiful she is- the kind of pretty that you hardly expect to see in real life.

“Hey you,” her so-sweet voice is what breaks him out of his daydreaming, and he looks up at her lovely face smiling down at him. Fondness seeps through her tone, and it’s everything he can do not to preen that her first thought at seeing him is one of pleasure.

“Hey back,” he says, greeting her with a warm grin of his own. “How was your weekend?”

It’s a calculated question.

She had canceled their weekly movie night. He’d tried not to look too disappointed, like the idea of her next to him on his couch, of her nimble fingers raking through his unkempt hair while something nice, but far less wonderful than his company played in the background wasn’t all that was keeping him going. These days, and he knows it’s likely delusion, that she sometimes seems to gaze back at him with a similar sort of desperation, hooded eyes and tenderness.

It’s a liminal space, those nights. How can people be two things at once? You cannot be both in love and not. In the low-light of his place, under his blanket- it’s like Schrodinger’s experiment. She can’t love him like a friend and more at the same time- it resists the laws of physics. She is his best friend, a fact he knows as sure as gravity and the elements, and believing anymore than that- it’s asserting an impossibility.

When they’re alone together, though. It seems like the impossible exists.

But she’d canceled it, something she hadn’t done for the months they’d been engaging in their little tradition. So there had to be a reason. She sits next to him, her desk next to his.

She looks a little disheveled, only in an adorable way- but a little like she’s been busy, like her flow is disrupted.

“It was good! I finally went out with that guy Penelope’s been begging me to let her set me up with.”

It’s all that he can do not to freeze up.

Penelope has been trying to get her to go out with her friend Ben, which Spencer thinks is a stupid name, by the way, and secretly he’d been so, so pleased when she had brushed off the invite. It’s a dangerous thing, hope. He tries not to have too much of it, tries to savor the thought of her, of more for moments of particular vulnerability. It’s treacherous, to want her the way he does. He knows he can’t let himself feel it all the way.

And logistically- romance is not a reason for a valid reason for him to be panicking the way he is, but all he can think about is the physics. Two opposite things cannot be true at the same time.

“You know, studies suggest that even now, the majority of couples are meeting in person or through friends over any other medium.”

It hurts to say. She’s part of a couple, one half a whole that he doesn’t complete.

“Seriously? I’d have thought it’d changed by now. I guess it’s safer to date someone you know.”

She’d date someone she knew? Is that what she prefers?

“How did it go?” He hears Emily ask, and this conversation is already the bane of his existence.

“Guys, it really wasn’t a big deal! We got dinner, it was just a little thing.”

Spencer isn’t experienced in dating, but he does know that dinner is a serious date. Coffee is a smaller thing, but dinner-

Dinner means she got pretty for him. Probably picked out a dress for the evening, spent time on a carefully manicured look. Spent hours of her precious, rare, time on him.

It’s not fair how much he fucking hates this guy.

“Dinner is not nothing!” Penelope squeals, and he would love to share in her excitement, except it kind of feels like a piece of his heart is being shredded.

“Dinner means coming up to my place, have coffee, oh look who doesn’t have her hair done-“

Please kill me, he thinks. Please.

“Oh, that definitely did not happen.”

Thank god.

Except he can’t miss her flush, how her expression shifts- and he has the sickening feeling he’d be hearing that guy’s name again.

When they all settle around the table, her doe eyes focused on gruesome images that were the exact antithesis of her spirit, he couldn’t help but feel that even if it hurt, there was finality.

The cat was out of the box. Two things cannot be true at once, and so only one is- she does not love him, at least not the way he does.

Ben, is not in fact, going away.

If he had more willpower or self-preservation, Spencer would keep his distance from her, but the truth of it is that as much as he wants to be the person she turns to, her smile is most of why he can stand his job anymore.

It’s a Tuesday, and everyone is grumbling about being pulled in early in the morning, but he’s just happy to have a reason to leave the house.

“Spence!” He hears her excited voice carry, the pretty sound picking his ears up at once. “I got you coffee. It’s hazelnut, and it’s like, 90% sugar. You’re gonna love it.”

She beams at him, and he takes it in his hands. Their hands brush, and he tries so hard not to notice how soft her hands are. Her name is on the cup, and an unconsenting fantasy of her name meaning that he’s hers creeps into his mind before he can bat it away.

But her cup says Ben.

“Thanks,” he says her name, tries to sound measured and friendly. “Coffee date?”

She preens, and god, if this guy doesn’t get how lucky he is it might be thing thing that actually sends him over the edge after all these years.

“Just a quick thing, we were just in the same place and he bought me a coffee, I’d already gotten yours.”

If there’s two roles he can fill and he doesn’t get to pick, if he’s stuck with friends, he’s gonna be great at it, and he’s gonna be grateful. Because knowing her is a grace in itself, the kind of thing you should could yourself so lucky to have.

“He sounds like a great guy,” he hears himself say, “I’m glad you’re doing this.”

It’s the right thing to say. He’s sure of it. The thing he’s not sure of is why the smile she offers him doesn’t reach her eyes.

The next time he notices the cracks in their relationship, it’s when they’re out. She’d suggested this bookstore-cafe kind of thing, and he’d jumped at the thought, all of his favorite things in one afternoon. He’d felt foolish spending so much time picking out his outfit out, wearing the blazer she’d once complimented-he’d actually stuttered so hard in thanks that Morgan laughed for a full minute when she left the room- but she always looked beautiful, and he knows he sometimes pales in comparison.

“Oh, I love this one!” She thumbs over the spine of a thin book of poetry. She’s wearing a forest green sweater that hugs her frame, and a bracelet hangs on her delicate wrist. He loves looking at her, though he tries to conceal it. His goal of being a supportive friend includes trying not to make it that known how gone for her he is.

“I don’t read too much poetry,” he admits, “But I’m sure you have excellent taste.”

Her keen eyes skim through the pages intently, clearly seeking out a specific passage before stopping, gaze alight with recognition.

Her tone is molasses-sweet when she begins reading, and his heart skips a beat.

“When I say be my lover,” her voice hitches, reverent of the quote and he is reverent of her, “ I don’t mean ‘let’s have an affair. I don’t mean Sleep with me. I don’t mean Be my secret. I want us to go back to that root. I want you to be the one who loves me. I want to be the one who loves you.”

It feels impossible to look away from her, doe eyes practically sparkling in the low light of the shop, and there it is. His heart’s in his throat. Of all the things you could have told Spencer he’d experience, hearing her lovely voice wrap around the words be my lover in hushed tone, in sacred sweetness, would never ever be one he’d guess.

He’s not sure how he feels about the multiverse theory, but right now, he can feel all the versions of himself pressing right up against him. Can see into lives he doesn’t get to live, lifetimes where his love isn’t a buried, worn-out tattered thing to keep his ever-frigid chest warm. Versions of himself that in this very moment can smile back at her, warm and open and kind, and kiss her perfect smile.

Because he would be her lover. He would come home to her, spend the rest of his life building a home that she could fit into. It’d be easy, actually. She’s easy to imagine- nights of laughing in a shared kitchen, evenings where her company is a fine wine, sipped at leisure with the comfort of knowing it’s never going to slip from your grasp.

“I like that,” he says, voice too vulnerable for his own good, eyes unable to tear from the eye contact. “I really like that.”

In the root of it, he already is her lover. He is the one who loves her. She’s just not his.

It comes to a head on a Friday. It’s a few weeks from he book shop, and the air feels heavier between them now. The last handful of Fridays he’s sat with the ghost of what used to be their plans, empty time lingering where in its’ place used to be her company.

He doesn’t know if she’s been with Ben. He tries not to think about it.

The sound of her voice lingers in his mind, sweet and bitter in his mind like old lemon candy, the kind his mother would save for special occasions. He’d spend any amount of money he had to hear her lovely voice say those words to him out of the context of a poem.

At work, they seem almost normal. Like one of them wasn’t desperately in love with the other; like a genius and his lovely, incredibly empathetic, kind best friend. In the field, their actions flow together seamlessly. She is always the first to listen and to understand (and god, isn’t it intoxicating to have someone meet you in understanding) and there is nothing to suspect is off.

But there’s still a cloud lingering. The poem- the soft melody of her voice curling around the words, the request of it all, the way she had sounded so wanting- and then, there’s Ben.

She doesn’t mention Ben to him, of course, but Penelope does. Penelope, all bows and bright colors and cheeriness keeps bringing the absolute worst news to Spencer with a smile on her face.

He’s taking her out for drinks! Oh, he’s reading her favorite book, do you know what it is?

This anger isn’t an emotion that he’s familiar with. A roar of possessiveness, the bite of it not tempered at all by rationality. Has he touched her?

It seems almost a tradition at this point when she shakes him out of his jealous storm of thought.

“Spence?” she muses, “You alright?” They’re alone at his desk, everyone having fled for their own evening and weekend plans. This was one of the Fridays that she had agreed to spend with him, and he wonders if he’ll be able to handle the scent of her shampoo so close after such a lapse of the sensation. Will all of his judgement go where he can’t follow?

“Yeah,” he says, tucking his papers into his bag, “I’m excited for tonight.”

His place is actually a short walk from the office. He’d been embarrassed to show her the place at first. It’s all function over fashion, and a bit cramped, but she’d looked at as though it was made of something more, something good. She didn’t even tease him. It had actually been her idea, to start these movie nights.

Ironic, really.

The walk was pleasant, the weather a little frigid but still nice, and she looks beautiful under the setting sun. It’s incredible to him, how her lashes catch the light and make her irises look like polished stained glass. His favorite color. Through the looking glass of another life, he sees a version of himself that gathers her up in his arms. In this daydream, she grants him one of her smiles that seems to carry its’ own light, and leans into his body like it’s the only thing that keeps her steady. It’s so clear. On the other side of the veil, he kisses her reddening nose, and keeps her warm himself.

In the here and now, Her coat is long, and hangs low by her ankles. It’s an elegant thing, like the woman who wears it, and Spencer would be grateful for a lifetime of just looking.They stop in front of his door, some invisible force stopping him from entering.

She sheds the coat inside his home. It smells like the candle she got him for his birthday, a reminder of her grace. He’s saved a bottle of wine for them, a sweet thing for the sweetest thing he’s known.

“I’m sorry,” she speaks the warmth of the beverage on her tongue, and it should feel abrupt but it doesn’t.

“What for?” He can’t imagine what she would have to apologize for.

“I know things have been…off between us,” she says carefully, considering the phrasing of each word. He watches her with a reverence, his hazel eye brimming with affection with nowhere to go. “You’ve been so great through it.”

Her legs are thrown across his own, and she’s dangerously close to sitting in his lap, but not exactly. He’s missed having her this close, the last time she’d been in his orbit was before she’d had reason to be gone. She smells floral. He fights With limited filtering through his already treacherous mind he thinks, He can’t take this from me. I still get her like this.

“I’m not entirely sure what it is.”

She slowly shuts her eyes, go for a moment to somewhere he can’t follow. Her cheeks are rosy from the cold.

“This whole Ben thing.”

“Oh.”

Logically, it always had to come back to this. Someone else had the good fortune to know her like this, to be the person she reads poetry to in deep meaning to.

He’s been stealing moments from someone who’s not his to take them from.

“I don’t even know how I wanted you to react.” she murmurs, staring at the rim of her glass.

“I just want you to be happy” His voice is something low, grit in the sound of it. His hand rests on her thigh. There’s warmth blanketing the room and he wants to kiss her. He wants to kiss her all the time.

She laughs, but it’s not her normal laugh. It’s tinny and a little bitter. He pushes his luck, and reaches out to brush the side of her face, moving the hair but still holding her face. Her breath smells like strawberry wine and temptation.

It feels different tonight. Low light and tension that could be sliced with wire. Every part of her is in reach, and something in the air makes all of this talk of relativity, of physics, moot.

Like maybe he’s not in the only world they don’t end up together.

Her face is warm and soft under his touch and he loves the sight of her. He’s never touched her like this. Every point of contact feels electric, addicting.

“What is it? The Ben thing?” He doesn’t know what he’s expecting to hear. What he wants, is for her to tell him that it doesn’t matter anymore, that she picks him-

“I only went out with him the once.”

“What?”

“I told Penelope I was still going because it made her happy and she said I couldn’t keep going to your apartment and reading you poetry and call that romance.”

Romance?

Wasn’t it romance, though?

Her eyes widen in something akin to horror.

“Shit, Spence- I’m sorry, that is so fucked of me to say-“

“You,” he tries to say calmly, “aren’t going out with Ben.”

She blinks.

“No?”

He has spent so much time living in other lives, existing in the minds of versions of himself he wasn’t lucky enough to be. Drinking coffee imagine a life colored in her presence, falling asleep yearning for the presence of something lighter than what he has to carry.

He can’t exist in two places. That was the entire basis of the experiment.

He moves his other hand to hold hers, and somehow she’s shifted to being on top of him, and he looks up at her with unwavering desire.

Spencer isn’t good at wanting people, but it comes naturally with her. Less of an action and more an urge, a course of motion to which he is at the mercy of. This is what leads him to close the gap between them, and kiss her. It’s

Her delicate fingers run through his hair, and she can’t be close enough, please, and he could spend the rest of his life kissing her, actually. He probably will spend the rest of his life thinking about the soft sigh he pulls out of her.

“I want it to be me,” he manages to say through shallow breath, still so close that his lips brush hers every other word, “I want to be the one you pick. I want it to be me.” His hazel eyes seem to shift in the moment, swirling with emotion.

She brushes a lock of his overgrown hair out of his face. He normally shaves when he sees her, but he’d been so busy that he’d forgotten, and felt embarrassed of it now. That is, until she runs her index finger along the edge of his jawline.

It’s then she leans down and kisses him again, pliant and good, his hands around her waist. He breathes a prayer into her mouth, one that hopes that she never ever comes to her senses about him.

“Spence,” she says, her voice golden silk, a kindness. “There was never anyone else to pick.”

#spencer reid #spencer Reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x fem!reader #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds fanfic

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milktei · 5 months

Text

Homecoming

Ushijima Wakatoshi x gn!reader

Genre: Sickfic, hurt comfort

Warnings: Slight manga spoilers

Requests: Closed*

a/n: hello hello! (is acting like i haven’t been gone for forever), can you believe i found this just sitting on a random note in my phone 90% done???? i literally wrote this over a year ago and never found the motivation to finish it ;-; due to its age toshi might be a bit ooc.

anyways, i’m not entirely back yet but i keep seeing lovely comments and reblogs that just make me want to start writing again ;-; maybe with the haikyuu movie being released soon my motivation will amp back up. ALSO i’m gonna try to start reblogging regularly again

*request box is still technically “closed” but if anyone has some genshin or *ahem* Baldurs gate 3 requests, i may be inclined to write if they pique my interest :)

enjoy!

If there was one thing that you knew for an absolute fact. it would be that volleyball would always be his main priority.

You knew this well before you started dating him, it was part of the reason you refused to admit your true feelings for him. You refused to take him away from his first love. Something that he was so visibly passionate about.

So you stayed on the sidelines, watching wistfully as the boy you had a crush on rose higher and higher, while you stood on the ground looking up in awe. This was comfortable, you were content with just watching and admiring. It was all you thought you were able to do.

Until he had asked you out first.

You had genuinely thought that Tendou was joking when he had told you that the Ushijima Wakatoshi saw you as anything more than one of the team’s managers.

His face was always devoid of emotion. Your interactions were limited to him nodding in thanks as you gave him a towel or water bottle, or him humming in acknowledgment as you relayed to him the notes you took after the most recent practice match.

And yet you found yourself standing in front of him, just outside the gym after practice, heart absolutely racing as he asked you out on a date.

Your first date was awkward to say the least. Having never spoken outside of club activities, you found it hard to keep a conversation flowing as you two sat in a cafe sipping your drinks.

He had walked you back to your dorm that day, but before you could go in, he had grabbed your hand.

You stared in shock at the large hand enveloping yours, “Ushijima?”

Suddenly, you felt a tiny gust of wind and a slight pressure against your forehead. You could only stammer dumbly as you realized the pressure was his lips.

He pulled away after a moment. He was heavily avoiding eye contact and turned his head to the side, but you could see the tips of his ears turning red.

“I don’t know much when it comes to this stuff. But I know I would like to go out again… if that’s okay with you of course.”

You gaped at the boy in front of you “I- um we…” you took a deep breath to centre yourself and smiled “Yes I would like to go out with you again Ushijima.”

Your relationship progressed quite fast after that. More dates, hanging out with him and Tendou in their dorm.

You were there for everything, cheering him on during games, you were the first person he would seek out when he won, you comforted him after a loss.

Your relationship lasted through high school and even university. It wasn’t long before you two ended up moving in together.

When Wakatoshi found his place with the Schweiden Adlers you were ecstatic. You had also just landed a great job and it felt like your two were simply cruising through life with ease.

Unfortunately your seemingly perfect life would never last forever.

Being in the v-league, volleyball seemed to fill his schedule more now than ever. Constant practice, games outside of the city even in other countries sometimes.

You hardly saw Ushijima anymore despite living with him. Even when you did, he was tired or just about to leave for practice.

It felt like you were pushed back into the sidelines. Watching hopelessly as he rose higher and higher, to places where you could not reach. It was no longer comfortable, you could no longer look in awe, but in despair as you watch him slip from the already loose grasp you had on him.

You couldn’t even remember the last time you went on a date. Every time you mentioned doing something in his free time he had brushed you off.

Which led you to now.

You woke up to an empty bed yet again. It was your day off so you weren’t rushing to get out of bed.

Yet you felt off.

The dryness in your mouth and throat is what you felt first. Then how runny your nose was. Finally, the cold sweat you were experiencing.

You were definitely sick.

You groaned to yourself and pulled the blanket to your chin. Hoping that you could possibly sleep it off.

Yet your efforts were in vain. After what felt like hours of trying to fall back asleep you realized that you were just going to feel even more miserable without anything to eat or at least drink.

You pushed yourself up onto your elbows and immediately regretted it. The world spun around you and your entire body shook. You collapsed back onto your pillow and panted at the exertion it took.

As you caught your breath you turned your head towards your bedside table, where your phone sat charging.

Weakly, you lifted your arm and with a bit of effort you were able to grab your phone. As it turned on you winced at how bright the screen was and with bleary eyes you managed to open your contacts.

The words seemed to blend together as you searched through your contacts, you nearly sobbed in relief as your eyes finally focused on the name of your best friend.

You clicked the call button and dropped you hand to beside your ear, preparing for the way your throat would undoubtedly hurt as you spoke.

After a couple rings you heard the person on the other side pick up and you quickly began speaking, desperate to get them to come quickly so that you could hopefully feel better.

“Hey, I’m sorry if you’re busy but do you think you can bring me some drinks and maybe food? i’m not feeling the best and I don’t know if I can get up at all.”

The person on the other end of the phone began talking but you could barely decipher it as your head spun and your body shivered despite how warm you were.

“-/n….y/n?”

You froze at the deep voice on the other side of the phone. You pulled away an looked at the screen, nearly breaking down at the sight of Wakatoshi’s name instead of your friends. Quickly you put it back against your ear

“Ah I’m sorry Toshi. I meant to call a friend you’re probably busy you don’t have to come back home.” you said quickly, actually sitting up as you rambled nervously, reprimanding yourself for interrupting his practice.

You had called and texted him during practice before. At one point he was fine with it, responding during breaks or calling you back once practice had finished. But lately you had been greeted with one worded responses, or you were just ignored.

One time you even tried to pry once he got home from practice, asking him about his odd lack of response. That day, he had turned to glare at you.

“I’m busy y/n. I don’t have time for things like that.”

“You’re sick?” your thoughts were interrupted by his voice again. He used a tone much gentler than the one he had used that day.

“A little bit, nothing to worry about I can just call-“ you cut yourself off with a harsh cough, unable to hold back the whimper as your throat throbbed in protest.

“I’m coming home.”

Whether from his words or the fever you couldn’t tell, but a chill ran down your spine

“N-no toshi you don’t have to I’ll be fine don’t leave practice just because of me”

“I’ll stop by the store for some ingredients don’t get out of bed.”

And with that the call ended. Slowly, you took the phone away from your ear and looked at it in shock. He was leaving practice early. Something you weren’t aware he was willing to ever do.

At least not recently.

Only when the shock settled, did you realize just how much your body was protesting you sitting up. So, despite your better judgment, you lied back down, waiting in nervous anticipation for him to come home.

What might have been half an hour felt like forever as you laid in bed. Shivering underneath the comforter despite sweating profusely, rubbing your nose raw from having to blow it constantly, all whilst it felt like you were spinning.

In your haze you didn’t even hear the front door or you bedroom door open. How could you when your body demanded all the attention you had?

Wakatoshi stood frozen in the doorway, a plastic bag hanging off his arm, silent as he took in the state you were in.

How hadn’t he noticed before he left? you couldn’t have possibly entered this state within the couple of hours he was gone.

He felt a tug of unease pull at his heart and willed himself to walk up to you.

“y/n,” he called softly. sitting on your side of the bed.

You flinched at the sound of his voice not knowing he was in the room. Slowly, you opened your eyes and winced at the light in the room.

“Toshi,” you croaked pathetically.

His face softened and he brushed your damp hair away from your face, frowning when he felt how warm your forehead was.

“Hey,” he greeted, he lifted a hand and that’s when you saw a thermometer from the medicine cabinet in his hand “can you open your mouth please?“

Weakly, you did as he asked, and as it sat in your mouth, he quickly walked towards the master bathroom. Mumbling something about a towel.

You didn’t hear him however as you turned your head back towards the ceiling and already felt your eyes drooping again.

You only came to when you felt something cool against your forehead, you opened your eyes to see Toshi looking down at you with furrowed eyebrows. The thermometer beeped and when he looked at the reading the crease deepened.

Toshi disappeared for a moment again, making his presence known when he began to take the comforter off of you.

You whined as he did so, shivering even harder as air hit your body. You even sat up to try and grab it back.

“‘s cold toshi,” you slurred.

He was quick to place a thinner sheet on top of you “I know dear, but we have to get your body temperature down.”

As you pulled the blanket closer Wakatoshi opened the bag he brought with him. You heard the rattle of a pill container and then the crack of a bottle being opened. Wakatoshi turned to you and held out some medicine and water.

You reached out a shaky hand to take the medicine, placing the pill in your mouth. Wakatoshi helped you hold the bottle, noting how weak your arms were.

You sighed in temporary relief when you finished drinking, glad that your mouth felt less dry.

Wakatoshi allowed a small relieved smile to cross his face and he quickly helped you lay back down.

“I’ll make you some food, stay here.”

Once he was sure you were comfortable he made his way to the kitchen quickly getting his ingredients ready.

It was only when he was midway through washing some rice when he took a moment to pause.

When was the last time he had cooked for you?

Wakatoshi continued his task albeit feeling guilty thinking about how you’ve been the one cooking and eating dinner alone for some time now. It used to be a shared responsibility. Now he usually came home late so you would put a plate aside for him or he would go out to eat with the team.

He was still deep in though as he pushed the bedroom door open with his back, a tray consisting of a bowl of rice porridge and a cup of tea left a trail small trail of steam as he walked.

You were asleep but woke easily at the sound of his footsteps. It took a moment for your eyes to focus on him.

He gestured with the tray, “Do you think you can eat?”

You looked at the food, perfectly plated and garnished, your mouth watering slightly at the savoury smell.

“I think so. At least a little bit.”

He helped you sit up, and when he saw the weakness still in your arms he fed you himself.

You hummed contently at the first bite of food. You had missed this more than you thought you did.

After about half the bowl was done and your tea finished, you signalled that you stomached as much as your body would allow. Now with your body temperature having gone down and your stomach full you could feel yourself becoming less and less loopy. You watched quietly as he put the tray on the bedside table. When he was finished with that, he sat still on the bed and stared at the wall.

You looked at his face, despite it deceptively lacking emotion, you knew better than anyone else that something was bothering him.

However before you could ask he began to speak

“Why wasn’t I the first person you contacted when you realized that you were sick?”

You froze, looking down in your lap fiddling wIth a loose thread in the blanket.

“…Well…you’ve been busy as of late….I didn’t think it was important enough to take you out of practice. Someone less busy would have probably been willing to come.”

He slowly turned to face you. “You didn’t think that your wellbeing was important enough?”

You shrugged, “Well volleyball is always going to be your biggest priority. I’m just sick it’ll pass.”

Obvious distress crossed Ushijima’s face “y/n, you are my main priority.”

You paused. Perhaps it was time to tell him how you were really feeling instead of dancing around the subject.

“…It hasn’t felt that way lately.” you say hesitantly, your voice small.

Wakatoshi faltered. You kept looking down, almost scared to look him in the eye.

“I was content with that at first, your love of volleyball is admirable, it’s was drew me to you at first. But it always made you seem unattainable. When you asked me on that date all those years ago I was over the moon,” you paused to clear your throat huffing in annoyance as your sickness interrupted you.

“But I can only endure so much Toshi. Nowadays it feels like your going where I can’t reach. You’re always busy, which is understandable for a professional athlete… I just wish it wasn’t to the point where I’m worried about your reaction if I were to try to talk to you.”

There was a shift in the mattress. Then familiar arms that you had been longing for wrapped tightly around you.

“Toshi you’re gonna get sick.”

“It’s fine,”

“but-“

“I’m sorry y/n.”

you stiffened but stayed quiet to let him speak.

“You’ve done so much for me without complaint and I have done so little in return. i’m sorry for letting it get to this point. It took you getting this sick for me to realize.”

A stormy look crossed his face, “I… I’ve been struggling to balance work and home, in return I’ve been neglecting you and letting how tired I am influence my reactions. you don’t deserve that. you are my first priority y/n, I don’t know what I would do without you.”

You sniffled and wiped a tear that fell from your face. You didn’t even know you were crying. For a man usually so quiet and stoic, he always knew what to say to you when he needed to. It was always so endearing to you.

“If I had known you were going to take it this well I would’ve said something earlier,” you say softly.

He smiles sadly, “I haven’t been making it seem that way hmm?”

You shake you’re head but smile back, “no”

He sighs to himself but places a gentle kiss against your forehead much like how he did all those years ago. Your eyes flutter shut and you make let out a pleased sigh. You were much more comfortable than you were when you first woke up.

“We’ll talk more once you get better. I promise,” He eventually says. holding you a bit closer to him.

You nodded and snuggled closer to his chest. While it wasn’t an immediate fix, it was a start.

“Sounds good to me Toshi.”

He smiled down at you “Sleep, I’ll be here when you wake up.”

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu reader insert #haikyuu oneshot #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu!! x reader #ushijima x you #ushijima imagine #ushijima x reader #ushijima wakatoshi #wakatoshi x reader #haikyuu wakatoshi #hq angst #haikyuu angst

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girlokwhatever · 5 months

Note

omg would love if you could do famous!reader x paige hcs!!!

paige bueckers x famous!reader hcs

‧₊♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧₊˚ෆ paige with a famous gf,,

— you met paige on social media

- she’s literally your biggest fan

- you posted a video with the caption: ‘when she’s blonde and tall and plays basketball’ and it went VIRALLL (everyone tagged her)

— she ending up reaching out to you and the rest is history

— before you started dating she would always repost your videos or pictures whenever you posted

— you kind of dabble in everything (singing, acting, modeling, etc.) and she really respects that about you

- she calls it your ‘hustle’

— you were honestly a fan of hers too, all her tiktoks and edits would be on your feed

— no one even asks who her celeb crush is anymore cause she always says you (lowkey always has)

— you both hard launch each other

— paige loves your music (i’m imagining r&b but you do you boo) and will play it for everyone in any place at any time

- at church?? doesn’t matter: “have you heard my girlfriend’s new song?”

— you took her to her first ever premiere as your plus one

- had way too much fun together during the interviews

— you have to media train her because one time she leaked your new song on kk’s live

— everyone she knows will ask for her to get them an autograph

— her mom is a massive fan and kinda freaks out when she meets you (paige is embarrassed but you think it’s sweet)

— has watched every single film/show you’re in and saves every magazine cover you’re on

— defo gets a little jealous if you have to kiss someone else on screen

- you have to tell her beforehand so she can mentally prepare

— sometimes she’ll get insecure if the media ships you with someone else, but they rarely do it cause everyone knows the two of you are locked in

— she’s absorbed all your fans into her cult

— sometimes she’ll troll everyone and make up the craziest lie/rumor and watch everyone post about it

- “guys we got married last may”

— at first your demanding schedule was a bit of a problem cause you hardly ever saw each other

- you prioritize her more now, but there’s still sometimes where you’ll have to go months without being in-person together (you both have mental breakdowns)

— she always listens when you tell her celeb drama (she’s so into it)

- you make her promise she won’t tell anyone

— you’ve definitely made some songs about her

- they always make her cry cause they’re so beautiful and sweet

— paparazzi anytime the two of you go out (they do catch some cute candid pics though)

— she’ll be at EVERY award show to cheer you on, no doubt

— you get her free tickets to concerts cause of connections

— saves every edit she sees of you (movie scenes, media moments, concerts, you name it)

— sometimes you ask her for inspiration (she’s your muse fr)

— when you see each other again for the first time in awhile… be prepared. she’s bombarding you with kisses, smothering you with hugs, and never lets you leave her bed

— will cry if you ever have to do a sex scene (she prays it never happens)

— she makes sure EVERYONE knows you’re dating.

- she’ll wear shirts with your face on them

— will post the craziest off-guard and bts pictures of you and the fans go craazzzyy

— “so.. how does your next movie end? is it like-“

- “i’m not telling you so don’t even try.”

₊˚ෆ.ೃ࿐༉‧₊˚.𐙚⋆⭒˚｡⋆

i feel like maybe i ate this down????!

i had so many ideas for this request you guys

hope you enjoyed!! 😋

#paige buckets #paige bueckers #uconn wbb #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers x reader #uconn huskies #uconn women’s basketball

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daisyvisions · 2 months

Text

[7:07PM] Distraction - (l.j.y)

Warnings: Smut (18+, minors DNI), roommate / fwb!juyeon, cnc (free use - do not read if triggering), teasing, groping, unprotected sex, some kisses here and there, pet names (sweetheart, baby, good girl), mentions of fem! oral and drunk sex, slight degradation (being referred to as a “toy”), Word count: 0.8K

A/N: Another short fic to exercise writing! Based on a conversation I had with @aimeecarreros I don;t know if you remember this but here you go 😏 Proofread once! Tagging @deoboyznet @winterchimez @snowflakewhispers

Saturday night, a time when you can just relax and not think of any responsibilities. Wear the comfiest clothes, lie on your stomach in bed, and either watch a movie or just be online.

You had no intention of going out whatsoever, no matter how many times your friends had begged you to get up and go out of the house. This was your night, your self-care night! Nothing and no one would come between you and your time of relaxation.

That is until you feel a warm pair of hands caressing the back of your thighs…

“No plans tonight, sweetheart?” His deep voice soothes you as you window shop online.

“Mmm, didn’t feel like it,” you replied nonchalantly. “How about you? Aren’t you going out clubbing with the others tonight?”

“Yeah, I did, was gonna say goodbye to you before going but… now I’m not so sure if I want to go out anymore…” His hands continue caressing you, fingers teasingly going over the exposed skin of your ass from the tiny shorts you decided to wear tonight.

“Oh? And why is that?” You pretend to act dumb when you know very well why Juyeon’s second-guessing about his date.

“Just felt like it, that’s all.” His hands groping your ass before you start feeling his lips on your thighs, slowly kissing until you could feel his face attempting to go in-between your legs.

You try to hold in any pleasurable sound, not giving in to him so easily as you continue to use your laptop. But you slowly feel yourself slipping away as he starts to spread your legs open, trying to kiss your inner thighs until you feel his plush lips nearing your clothed core.

It was a little game you two started ever since you fucked each other on one drunken night. An unspoken but equally consensual thing of trying to get the other distracted or upping the ante of who would give in to the other faster.

And tonight was definitely not working in Juyeon’s favor.

He inhales the scent of you, his cock throbbing beneath his jeans as he imagines how sweetly you taste. He slightly contemplates whether or not he should still go out. But with you looking so damn hot like this?

Fuck it, he's definitely staying in tonight.

His fingers reach for the waistband of your shorts, slowly pulling them down and exposing your already wet cunt. He smirks to himself, now knowing exactly what you had planned tonight for him.

“Baby… so wet for me already? I hardly even touched you.” His hands massaging your ass before giving it a good slap. You continue to stay silent, prolonging this little game you had with him.

“Quiet, Juyeon, I’m trying to find that jacket I saw the other week.” You reply, still pretending he’s being a nuisance to you.

“Well, don’t mind me then, sweetheart, just keep doing what you’re doing, alright?”

You feel a dip in the mattress as he positions himself on top of you, straddling your thighs as he holds his heavy cock in his hand. He leans forward, giving a kiss on your shoulder first before presenting his open palm in front of your face.

“Spit.” He commands, and you follow what he says with no hesitation.

Your warm saliva coats his length as he tugs himself for a bit before tapping your ass with it. He lowers his hips, aligning his member to your entrance. The tip slowly pushes its way inside, instantly giving you the stretch you’ve been craving.

Juyeon observes for any slight discomfort, but with the way you’re “subtly” wiggling your ass, he smirks to himself, knowing you’re already waiting for him to fill you up. He fully sheathes himself inside you to the base of his cock, both making you moan at the stretch of his thick size.

He presses his hands down on your lower back, balancing himself as he starts to fuck you. The feeling of his weight pressing you down onto the mattress makes you clench around him tighter. The thought of being trapped beneath him and becoming his pretty little toy to use makes you moan even further.

“You like it when I fuck you like this? Like you’re my personal fleshlight, hm? So fucking dirty…” He groans before slowly falling on top of you, his full weight now pressing your entire body down. As you’re about to utter a response, he covers your mouth with his big palm, fucking you faster than ever before.

“Shhh, toys aren’t supposed to respond back, remember?” He whispers in your ear. “Now keep quiet, or else you don’t get to cum tonight.”

You still try to nod in response, giving him that reassurance. Juyeon smiles softly at you before holding your jaw in his hand, turning your head to give you a deep passionate kiss.

“That’s a good girl.”

#deoboyznet #juyeon smut #lee juyeon #juyeon #tbz smut #the boyz smut #the boyz hard hours #tbz scenarios #the boyz fic #the boyz fanfic #tbz drabbles #the boyz scenarios #tbz hard hours #kpop smut

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youryanderedaddy · 26 days

Text

Bad dog

tw: very trippy and edgy rawr, hinted captivity, hinted abuse, insults, victim blaming

During the coldest nights, as the fireplace tickles your cheeks red, he likes to tell you over and over - with the slightest of smiles, the story of how you two first met. As if you don't remember it. As if you don't regret every second of it.

You with your long raincoat crying, barely coherent, searching for escape, for a savior to run into. Clinging to any stranger who looked kind enough, who had innocent eyes, who wasn't drunk or drugged out of their mind - but in that type of neighbourhood after dark, you hardly met any respectable people. Heavy stench of wet tobacco sinking to the very fabric of your flimsy dress under the cargo (feeling like a whore and looking like one, he often adds with a biting chuckle) - your heart was beating, clapping like a dying bird's wings, and if it could speak with a human voice, it would be screaming. You were being chased.

You don't even recall his name or his face anymore. Maybe an angry lover? A crazed admirer? Your father, drunk and bitter after a fight? Back then you were so terrified you could describe him in your sleep, but now nothing seemed as scary as it did back then. Darkness has become your sanctuary and even the monsters pity you. You were afraid you were losing your mind, once, (don't be silly, he had said. you were crazy from the star, doll.) you could feel his hands on you, but whose hands were they really? Why were you running in the first place?

He was screaming. Threatening to murder you, maybe. You were shaking and wet and you just needed a hug. And perhaps one hundred martinis followed by the most gruesome, toe - curling, humiliating fuck of your life. The type that leaves you feeling filthy, bleeding, and not even in a good way. The type you could control and write down, and fully envision with director cuts and quotes and props, as if come out of your own personal fucked up pink little porn studio.

You needed someone - something. A friend? A kind soul that happened to pass by? You had watched too many movies. You were naive - all those offices, all those mass corporate names, those leather seats at the top floor right next to the big boss, those tears and sweats to climb the ladder and yet, you were still a naive, stupid little girl. Believing in fairytales, in the power of love, tenderness, believing that out there exists someone who might just take you as you are for free. Someone who will hold you without bruising you. Someone who will save you without destroying everything you are. Someone who will fight those fights for you without somehow perversely enjoying breaking down all those walls, all that independence you had created for yourself.

You're not a child anymore. And as you look at the man across from you, with his crazed eyes, with what he thinks is love, you're not sure if you're the naive one. You're not sure if good exists, if love is real or just some commercial bullshit. A lie that communists invented to get free sex, or whatever.

"You looked like a nasty little street rat. You jumped into my arms and I was thinking," He speaks and speaks and speaks, and God, you're tired of hearing. You wish your ears would bleed out before he is finished with the story. "Maybe I should blow your brains out. One less sad whore on those streets." He grips your thighs painfully and you kick him in the groin, but he only groans in return. Freak. "But then you opened that cute little mouth of yours and-"

And you begged him to help you. To save you. To take you away from this miserable life of yours.

"You looked so helpless. I couldn't help myself."

And that's why he decided to chain you like a dog and fuck you black and blue. Because he couldn't help himself. And because you couldn't help yourself, you had invited him. Your body was calling out to him. If you weren't so sad, if you weren't so lonely, so helpless. If you weren't in the wrong place at the wrong time, you wouldn't meet the wrong people. If you had only been a good girl. If you had just stayed put. If you didn't entice bad men - even as a child. Even as you were spilling your guts out, maybe your blood was just that beautiful.

"You basically threw yourself into my arms. It was love at first sight."

Right. It was love all along.

#yandere #yancore #male yandere #male yandere x reader #yandere oneshot #yandere x you #yandere male x reader #yandere oc #yandere oc x reader

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whore4abby · 11 months

Text

cookies 2; dbf!abby anderson

part 1

warnings; older!abby, smut - fingering (r!recieving), masturbating (reader), mdni

wc; 1.5k

secrets and side-eyes;

she’s your dad’s best friend for fucks sake, you shouldn't be feeling this way about a woman 20 years older than you, but yet here you are silently pining after her and avoiding her like the damn plague that you’re desperate not to catch. staying cooped up in your room with the lame excuse of ‘homework’ whenever she came over to watch a game with your dad. catching glimpses of her as you leave the safe confinements of your bedroom and sneak down to the kitchen to get a glass of water, your heart almost stopping and you eyes widening immediately when she makes eye contact, a shit-eating grin plastered on her face, showing her delight in making you flustered.

abby looks up at you and raises an eyebrow as she sees you walk into the living room, ”hey, honey~” she says casually, but there’s an undertone of something more in her voice. she leans forward and places her elbows on her knees, her blown-out eyes trail down your body hungrily. a hint of a cocky smirk curls at the corner of her lips. the sexual tension between you two is extremely evident and you can’t help but squirm a little under her gaze as her eyes linger on you for a little too long.

“hey…abby….” you try and speak as nonchalantly as possible, but the words seem to snag in your throat as she’s practically undressing you with her eyes, probably thinking about bending you over the nearest counter and fucking you dumb until you can’t walk straight.

“come and watch a movie with us…” your dad doesn’t seem to notice abby staring and smiles happily. he’s sitting in his trusty old, leather la-z-boy recliner, leaving you no other choice but to sit next to abby on the tiny beige two seater sofa. fuck that. you have better things to do than to endure some mind-numbingly shitty movie for the rest of the night.

“dad i would love to, but…i got stuff to work on…” you sigh softly in frustration, talking in a mildly exasperated tone as you're absolutely insistent on not sitting next to abby. but you truly would rather work on a bullshit project than sit beside her for two hours.

“cmon, kiddo….i hardly spend time with you anymore.” your dad looks at you with a hint of sadness showing on his face and you can’t help but feel a wave of guilt. because its true, being so busy with college and the relentless studying and countless assignments doesn't leave you much time to spend with him these days.

“ugh…fine…”your shoulders slump in defeat and you pout as you walk over to sit beside abby. you squeeze in next to her, her thick thighs pressing into yours as she manspreads even further, obviously getting a kick out of this.

you instinctively reach for a nearby fuzzy blanket to cover up your bare thighs, mentally cursing yourself for wearing such small pyjama shorts in front of her. abby notices you trying to cover up your legs and a smug, knowing smile spreads across her lips, she crosses her arms and leans back into the couch, pushing her knees out even further and bumping them into your legs which only heightens the ongoing tension between the both of you.

you catch onto her act but don’t acknowledge her subtle clues at all, choosing to continue watching the television quietly. after a little while you can feel the weight of her gaze on you again and you turn your head slightly to look at her curiously from the corner of your eye and see her staring at you intently, almost as if she’s studying you somehow.

you turn your head fully and your eyes lock with hers but you don't say anything as your father is still in the room and it makes things unbearably awkward. but despite the growing tension, abby doesn't give a single fuck that he's sitting right there as she slips her hand under the blanket and traces an intricate pattern with her fingertips across the flesh of your thighs.

“you're so naughty… letting me touch you like this while your daddy's in the room~” she whispers into your ear as she slips her hand beneath your soft cotton shorts. you’re thankful for your dad being utterly engrossed in the movie and the booming sound effects making it impossible for anyone but you to hear her words but you still feel so embarrassed of the way your body is reacting to her lewd touch.

the crotch of your shorts is practically sopping wet by the time she gets her hands to where you need her most. she smirks when she feels that you aren't wearing any panties, this new revelation seeming to amuse her. she ever so slightly brushes the pad of her middle finger across your clit, making you bite your lip harshly to stop yourself from making any noise.

she continues to tease you, rubbing tiny circles over your clit before dragging her fingers down through your folds to thrust into your soaked slit, before dragging them back out, evoking a gasp from you.

this back and forth continues for what feels like forever until you're so wet its almost dripping down your thighs and you have to resist the urge to start bucking your hips up into her. the movie quickly comes to an end and she reluctantly drags her hand out of your shorts and rests it back on her own leg. her fingers are still shiny with your slick, glistening in the dim light, your eyes widen as she subtly puts them in her mouth to suck them clean with an air of pride.

you quickly spring up from your seat as soon as the credits start rolling, “i’m really tired, i’m sorry…” you lie, adding in a faux yawn to hopefully fool your dad into letting you leave. your father looks over at you and nods, “of course, you should go to bed. i’ll see you in the morning.” you smile and say your goodnights to both your dad and abby before retreating back up the stairs. the stickiness on your inner thighs reminding you of the feeling of abby’s hand on your cunt just mere minutes ago.

you quickly close your bedroom door behind you, relishing in the silence and security. the room is cozy, decorated with soft colors, from the lavender walls, to the soft white sheets on your comfy bed with plushies and various stuffed animals sitting neatly against the fluffy throw pillows.

you walk over to your bed and collapse down onto it, the lingering wetness of your shorts pressing against your throbbing pussy. you close your eyes in an attempt to calm yourself down, but it's no use. your body is still hot and trembling from all the excitement that abby had brought upon you. and as much as you try to ignore it, that familiar ache between your thighs keeps growing stronger and harder to ignore by the minute, leaving you helplessly longing for a release.

you hand drifts down into your shorts to slowly touch yourself, the memories of what happened earlier still floating around in your mind. your shaky fingers glide over your pussy, still soaked from all the attention abby gave you. barely audible moans leave your lips as you rub through your delicate folds before mimicking the rhythmic movements of abby’s fingers on your clit. your mind is filled with nothing but dirty thoughts about abby and it makes it harder to resist your orgasm.

your breathing becomes ragged and your hips buck up involuntarily, seeking more of the delicious friction that’s pushing you over the edge. your fingers start to move faster, frantically rubbing across your swollen clit and it isn't long before you're cumming, covering your mouth to muffle your whimpers and desperately refraining from crying out her name.

thinking only of the lingering and vivid memory of abby's fingers inside you and how good they stretched you out as you bite your lip and come down from your high, still feeling so aroused but so ashamed at the same time. you feel like such a pervert for thinking about abby this way but she seems so comfortable in this new situationship that’s unfolded between the two of you and it's as if all the existing boundaries been completely erased since that odd afternoon in the kitchen.

you get into bed with a strange sense of guilt lingering over you as you close your eyes tightly, as if trying to forget about everything that happened between the two of you. you lay there staring at the ceiling for a while, the experiences with abby feeling so surreal almost dream-like, and you’re not even quite sure how to process it all.

all you know for sure is that this changes everything between the two of you and it exceeds way beyond a fleeting infatuation or a silly crush on your end.

#*ੈ✩‧₊˚ ⋆.ೃ࿔myfics⌨️#abby anderson #abby tlou #tlou abby #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson x you #abby the last of us #abby x reader #abby anderson x female reader #abby anderson smut #abby x fem!reader

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sugrhigh · 8 months

Text

FIRST OF MANY - ( m.s )

REQUESTED**

summary- you and matt have been dating for over a month now, and you’ve never had sex. his curiosity gets the best of him while you’re watching a romcom, and you find out he’s actually a virgin.

warnings- swearing, virgin!matt, technically unprotected sex, smut at the end (lmk if i missed shit)

virgin!matt x fem!reader

a/n: this is my first req that i’ve ever done, so THANK U TO THE ANON WHO LEFT IT i hope it lives up to your expectations ❤️ if u have ideas drop them in my inbox ! all da love

there is literally nothing matt likes more than spending the night in with his girlfriend, as corny as it might sound. it’s been well over a month of dating now, and he still can’t get enough of you.

the warmth of your body is comforting as you lay beside him on the sofa, dressed down in sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. he has one steady arm wrapped around your shoulder so he can hold you against his chest.

he breathes you in as his fingers skim absentmindedly up and down your exposed bicep, a familiar mixture of laundry detergent and citrus shampoo.

“that feels nice.” you mumble into his shirt, eyes still glued to the tv.

you’re forcing him to watch friends with benefits, since he picked the last movie and you were in dire need of a romcom fix. it’s one of your favorites, mainly because you loved mila kunis so much in that 70s show.

it’s only been on for roughly thirty minutes, but matt’s been enjoying it way more than he expected considering this genre is not his norm. he’s even let out a couple laughs at the scripted jokes.

the main characters are in bed together again, rolling around as they banter back and forth about sleeping with each other. it sparks a fire of curiosity inside of him as he continues to stare at the screen.

“is this really what it’s like?” he asks without thinking, and he immediately regrets his words as you tilt your head to look up at him curiously.

“what, the sex? don’t act like you don’t know.” you say, playfully smacking him with the back of your hand.

matt isn't sure why he brought it up, but he figures now is as good a time as any to have this dreadful conversation.

“how could i know if i’ve never done it?”

he feels you tense up slightly under his arm, which scares him. the last thing he wants you to think is that he’s some sort of loser. he just hadn’t found anyone that he really wanted to be intimate with before he met you.

it’s not like you guys don’t fool around sometimes. he’s perfectly capable of using both his hands and his mouth; this is a fact you’ve been made well aware of.

you two just haven’t gone all the way yet, especially considering you hardly ever get real alone time together.

“you don’t have to lie about the girls you’ve been with just because we’re dating now.” you finally respond, quieter than before.

“oh my god, i’m telling the truth, so please don’t make me say it again.” he can’t look at you anymore, because he’s too embarrassed.

this makes you fully sit up in shock, no longer focused on the premise of the film. he can feel you staring at the side of his beet red face, clearly confused by this revelation.

“wait, are you seriously telling me that you’re a virgin?” you question.

matt glances back at you and crosses his arms defensively, because it suddenly feels like he’s under attack. “you’re making me seem like a freak or something.”

he watches your eyes soften as you put a tentative hand on his shoulder, trying to let him know that you weren’t making fun of him.

“shit, i’m sorry, i swear i didn’t mean it like that. it’s just…really surprising, that’s all.”

“surprising how?”

you pull your lips between your teeth, exhaling through your nose as you try and find the right words.

“well we’ve done stuff before, and you were just naturally good at it, so i assumed you’d learned from hooking up with other people. and i know girls must have liked you with a face like that.”

this boosts his ego, and he’s already in a much better mood knowing he’s at least made you feel good in the past. that doesn’t mean he’s not still terrified, but he’s a little more confident than he was before.

“nope, not really. you’re the only one i’ve ever done that kind of thing with, aside from a little making out.” matt admits with a shrug.

your lips part, and it’s making you feel all fluttery.

“wow.”

he smiles a little bit. “i don’t know what that means.”

“it doesn’t mean anything really. i’ve only had sex a few times, and it doesn’t change anything either way.” you move your hand up and down his arm a little bit.

the tv plays in the background, and your mind flits to his original question.

“are you curious? is that why you asked?” you tilt you head toward the screen, though you keep your focus on him.

his eyes go a little wide, and the feeling of your hand on his arm suddenly becomes overwhelming.

“yeah, i—uh, i guess i am.” matt stumbles over his words, and your fingers travel higher to run through his hair slowly.

“you don’t have to be nervous. you can ask me anything you want, i’m not gonna judge.” you say softly.

your fingernails raking along his scalp makes him shudder slightly, a response that you both enjoy.

“i’m…more of a hands-on learner.” he rasps.

you let your fingers travel to rest on the back of his neck, drawing him in for a soft kiss. it’s short and sweet, and his eyelids flutter a bit as you pull away.

“what do you want to do?”

he pauses for a moment before deciding to give in and say what’s on his mind. “nick and chris aren’t home. maybe we should go to my room?”

you grin, nodding your head like you’re in a trance. you’re both trying to hide your giddiness as you scramble off of the couch, carelessly tossing the blankets aside.

you can feel him staring at your ass as you lead him through the hall, and he gives it a little smack of appreciation.

“matthew sturniolo!” you laugh, turning the doorknob to his bedroom.

it greets you warmly, and you always love it because the whole place smells like him. the overhead light is off; it’s just the singular lamp casting warm rays across the mattress.

“couldn’t help it.” he says, smile prominent in his tone as he locks the door behind you.

you slow to a stop at the foot of his bed, and he stands at your side, hand intertwined in yours. it makes your heart swell as he admires you with those charming eyes.

“are you sure? we really don’t have to, there’s no rush.” you squeeze his palm reassuringly.

matt lets go just so he can hold your head, kissing you hard as an answer. you literally can’t help but beam into his lips, and you put one hand on his chest to push him against his silk sheets.

he falls onto his back, propping himself up on his elbows so he can keep looking at you. you crawl on top of him, slowly settling on his hips.

he sucks in a shaky breath as you shift against him to get comfortable. you can feel matt growing harder beneath you as you lean down to give him another swift kiss, letting his mouth melt against yours.

then you move to his earlobe, pressing your lips to the hollow part of his neck. you swipe your tongue against his skin, biting down just a bit so you can suck on the area slightly.

he groans, laying down now so he can move his hands to grip your ass, pushing you against him harder to feel a little more friction. the thin material of your sweatpants doesn’t hide a whole lot, and he’s straining against you now.

“you’re so cute, baby.” you say against his skin, and his hands go to the bottom of your shirt, pulling it up over your hips.

you lift your hands from his chest so he can fully remove it, leaving you in your stretchy black bralette.

“god, you’re unreal.” he breathes, and you guide his palms to cup each of your breasts, still rocking against him slightly as you straddle him.

you can feel him squeeze your nipples between his middle and pointer fingers, whimpering below you as he starts to get worked up. you’re growing wet by the second, the delicious feeling of his clothed dick rubbing against you sending shocks of satisfaction right to your core.

“do you wanna keep going?” you ask, just to make sure he’s still on board.

“please.” he begs.

you move his shirt up his chest, and matt sits just high enough to rip it over his head. you trace the tattoos on his arm faintly, trailing a finger down the center of his stomach till you hit the waistline of his sweats.

“you’re terrifying.” he smiles as you slip your hand under the band of his boxers, slowly scratching the area gently.

“why?” you ask.

he grabs your waist and flips you so you’re the one on your back, feet hanging over the edge of the bed as he stands.

“because everything you do is perfect.” he says, and this time he’s the one that goes to your pants, grabbing the soft material and looking at you for permission.

“that is so not true.” you grin as you lift yourself up to help him.

he strips them off your legs and tosses them away blindly, so you’re left in your matching thong. the spandex-like material hugs your sides, the last layer standing between what you both truly want.

“i mean look at you.” he sounds dumbfounded as he gazes at your body, and you feel your face flush from the attention.

“trust me, i’m the one who’s punching.” you reply as he strips down to his boxers, dick clearly pressing against the plaid cloth. you’ve seen it before, on two occasions to be exact.

both of those experiences were great, and you didn’t know that was the first time a girl had ever given him head. now you know this is the first time he’s having sex, and even though it’s not the same for you, you’re still a bit nervous.

matt’s a little above average, and the last and only person you’ve ever done it with is your ex, so it’s been a minute. even so, you’re so enthralled with your boyfriend that you can’t help but pulse in excitement.

he pushes your legs apart with his palms, and air rushes across the wet spot that’s already formed over your panties. two fingers press against the fabric covering your heat, which shocks a gasp out of you. he moves them in a little circular pattern, applying more pressure so he can really feel you.

“love your fingers,” you rock with his pace, speaking through a moan, “but i wanna make you feel good too.”

“oh, okay. so i should…” he stops his motions to go for his own underwear, finally sliding them down so his hard length springs free.

you’re already working your own bottoms down your thighs, and he finishes the job for you once his hands are free.

“do you have a condom?”

“uh, shit…” you can tell by the solemn look that crosses his face that he doesn’t, and you let out a short laugh.

“it’s okay, it’s alright, i’m on birth control. we’ll be more prepared next time.”

his eyebrows shoot up before he can help it. next time. just the confirmation that this will happen again makes him disgustingly happy.

you wiggle up on the bed a little bit, so he has enough room to hover on top of you. he leans down a few more inches to give you a kiss, and you can tell he’s unsure what to do next, so you take control.

“don’t put it inside yet, just slide it against me a few times.” you try and instruct, and he follows well, dragging the base of his shaft up and down your wet cunt.

you let out a little noise of pleasure, and he wants to save it as a sound bite in his memory.

“okay, slowly, go ahead.” you say after a few more seconds spent enjoying the feeling, and both of you make sure he’s lined up properly.

matt looks you in the eye as he pushes inside, taking his time as you adjust bit by bit. he lets out a moan when he’s fully filling you up, shocked by how fucking amazing you feel.

you know he’s stretching you out, but the small pinpricks of pain subside as you get situated.

“you can start moving now, just keep it gentle at first.” you guide him, voice all choked up.

he nods, his long hair almost tickling your forehead as he starts to pump in and out at a leisurely pace. you’re both groaning messes, and your hands go to claw at his back as he keeps pace.

“fuck, you’re doing so well matt.” you mutter against his chest, pressing open-mouth kisses to his collarbone.

he’s getting into it now, finding a good rhythm and relaxing his hips slightly so he’s not as stiff. your bodies are molded together as you move back and forth, and matt can feel you clutching against his cock with each stroke.

“m’not gonna last much longer, angel.” he confesses, clumsily stumbling over his words as he tries to calm himself down, to keep it in just a bit longer.

“that’s okay, babe. tonight is all about you.”

he’s growing sloppier, and matt leans in to kiss you passionately as he gets closer and closer. surprisingly enough, you can feel the pressure building in your own stomach, and you’re both whining into each others mouths as your tongues mesh together.

“right there baby, i’m close too.” you breathe, and you can feel his body trembling against yours, one hand slipping underneath your bra so he can run his thumb over your nipple.

matt holds it all back, drilling into you as hard as he possibly can with the energy he has left. he loves the way you’re scratching at his back, pulling him as close as possible as you both reach your peak.

“i’m—fuck, oh my god.” he tenses up, and you feel him twitch inside of you as he comes undone.

his own reaction is what sends you over the edge, and you ease into the high, letting yourself finish all over him as he slows to a stop.

“yes, matt, holy shit.” you sigh, and he pulls out carefully moments later.

matt flops down beside you, rolling to press his lips to your cheek. you turn your head slightly to look at him, capturing his mouth with yours for another real kiss.

“i think i could get used to that.” he says with a small grin as he pulls away, and your ruffle his hair lightheartedly.

“lucky for you that was just the first time of many. so how was it?” you ask him.

he’s just opening his mouth when a loud pounding erupts on the door, and you both nearly jump out of your skin at the disturbance.

“hey! open the fucking door, we brought you guys mcdonald’s!” chris screams through the barrier.

you both look at each other, still grinning, and matt can’t help but roll his eyes.

“well, being alone was nice while it lasted.”

#matt sturniolo #matt sturniolo smut #matthew sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #smut #fanfic #boyfriend

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endless-ineffabilities · 2 years

Text

in the shadow of your heart (part one of two)

Daemon Targaryen x f!Reader

requested by anon: inspired by the plot of the movie Flipped, where the reader openly pines for Daemon, but he always brushes her off until one day, she stops bothering him.

word count: 2.5k ▪︎ part two (preview) ▪︎ masterlist

themes: one-sided pining (by f!Reader in the beginning, then Daemon eventually), angst, language, Daemon being Daemon

It’s no secret that you pined for the Rogue Prince. Ever since you moved with your father to King’s Landing after he was appointed Master of Laws in King Viserys’ Small Council, your admiration has steadily grown for Daemon. He was in and out of the city, due to his tumultuous relationship with his brother.

One week, Daemon returns. He trains with his gold cloaks in the front courtyard, surrounded by intrigued spectators. Workers of the Red Keep, knights, lords, and ladies. The last group bothers you slightly, the ogling ladies are all clearly there for Prince Daemon. You are, too. But you believe yourself to be different.

You consider Daemon to be a friend, at least. The two of you spoke from time to time. For seventeen different instances now, but it’s not like you were keeping count.

Your mouth falls open in awe as he spins, dodging an attack from his opponent. He might just be the most impressive fighter you’ve ever seen, all bias aside. He dodges quickly to one side, and digs his elbow in the other knight’s ribs, making him stumble to the ground. One down. His other opponent, though, manages to take advantage of this pause and slams the hilt of his sword heavily on Daemon’s back, bringing him to his knees facing you.

“Fucking cheat!” you sneer openly, “Get up, Daemon!” Several ladies moan in worry. Simpering sycophants.

He raises his head at your voice, and your eyes meet, “You,” he only says. His opponent moves closer to him, making you more alarmed, but Daemon does not seem to care.

“Get up,” you hiss, “turn around!

Daemon digs his sword into the ground, and leans into it, merely smirking at you. Just when it seems like his opponent has him beat, about to ceremoniously demonstrate the final blow, Daemon rolls completely, slantwise, ending up behind the knight. He pulls the knight's legs back with such force that the man screams in shock, before his body slams forcefully on the ground.

The crowd begins to cheer, nodding to each other, admiring the Prince’s prowess. Daemon walks over to a bench, wiping the sweat off his brow.

“Quite a good fight, as always, my prince.” He hears your voice pipe up. His little shadow, he calls you. He’s gotten used to your affections at this point, and it isn’t like you were shy about them, either. His gold cloaks have even created a sort of running joke about you. Then again, you care not about what anyone else thinks. Only Daemon.

“Enjoyed the show, my little shadow?” he takes a large swig of ale, “It seems as if you have nowhere else to run to this morning. Not that it’s any surprise to me.”

His crassness affects you no longer. You even like how blatantly honest he is, even when it’s at your expense. “Watching you train is just as good of an activity as any other, my prince. I might say that I prefer it, even.”

“Oh, of course it is.” He seems to drift off, his attention not focused solely at you anymore.

You sit next to him, sighing loudly, trying to get him to look at you again. “So,” you think of something interesting to say, “my father says that the war in the-”

He quickly interrupts you, “I hardly care what your father has to say.”

The smile falls from your face, “I must admit he has no fondness for you, too.”

The silence falls over the both of you. You stare down at your hands, furling and unfurling on your lap. You hear Daemon tiredly sigh beside you, “Is that a new dress?”

Your head snaps back up. You didn’t think he would notice. He never notices details like this. “Oh, yes, it is actually. I rather like it.” You turn to him hopefully, “Do you?”

His hand drifts atop your skirts, feeling the material. You struggle to ignore your pounding heartbeat, driven wild by his proximity, by his touch. “It’s nice enough, I suppose.”

“My prince,” one of his knights beckon to him.

“The colour isn’t the most flattering on you, though.” He says, before standing up to leave you. “My lady,” he nods once, and walks away, not seeing how your face falls in dismay.

Great. As you make your way back to your chambers, determined to change into your old dress, you think of how you never wish to put on anything with this colour ever again.

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

The next time you see him, he actually is the one to find you. He storms into the godswood, evidently distressed, kicking up stones in his path. You sit underneath the old tree, reading a heavy volume on Aegon’s conquest, when you notice him. You’re not certain whether to approach, but he seems so worried and angry, that you don’t think twice about comforting him. You slam your book shut, and approach him.

“You, again,” he sneers, “I thought I came here to find some peace.”

“You can find it here,” you say gently, “I do not wish to bother you.”

“And yet you always do.” He paces away from you.

The arouses your annoyance. Why can’t he, at the very least, be civil towards you? Granted, he may just be taking his anger out on you, so you voice out, “Something’s bothering you? You can tell me what it is, but you don’t have to be so heedlessly rude.”

He seems surprised at your tone, “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Of course I won’t,” you can’t help but scoff. How lowly must he think of you? Your affections are clearly wasted on the prince, but something still draws you to him. There is something there. There has to be.

“I shall take my leave if you can’t stand my presence, Prince Daemon.” You start to walk away from him, but he grabs your elbow, pulling you back.

You look at him questioningly, “Well?”

“Stay.”

His eyes hold so much depth, a silent plea directed to you. Your anger dissipates, and you ask softly, “Are you certain that you wish me to?”

He softens at your welcoming expression, and hums in affirmative. So you take his hand, and guide him to your previous spot under the tree. You sit side by side in relative tranquility, in the crisp autumn air and faint sunlight.

Daemon leans back against the wood, and for the first time, he gets to observe you. He sees that you are once again wearing your old dress, so you must have taken his thoughtless opinion to heart. Your beauty is heightened under the sunshine, making you almost glow, like an ethereal being. Daemon's expression brightens unconsciously. My little shadow. More so my light, in this moment.

You peer at him, “What are you smirking about?”

“Nothing of any concern, my lady.”

“I am glad that your spirits have lifted, somehow.” Bravery takes a hold of you, and you reach out for his hand, squeezing gently.

He looks down at your hand, slight and soft compared to his. He won’t admit it to himself, perhaps not just yet, but he feels an immediate comfort from your presence. He had stormed out here after another heated confrontation with his brother, not expecting to find you. But find you he did, and he’s only glad for it.

“You don’t have to tell me about it, if you don’t wish to. Your secrets are your own. I do hope that I can bring you some calm, with my company.” Your voice is ever so gentle with him. He’s aware that in comparison, he has been mercurial in his disposition. Sometimes tolerating your flirting, your playful remarks. Most of the time, turning his cheek in apparent displeasure.

He can’t quite point it out, but he appreciates how unabashed you can be around him. Whether he's cordial or downright impertinent, whether he’s being showered with praise after a victory in battle or treated as the kingdom’s outcast after being dismissed yet again by his brother. You only see him for who he is, one and the same.

“I appreciate that, my shadow.” He smiles faintly back at you, genuinely, a rare sight to behold. “But I suppose I shall let you know part of what’s bothering me. My dear brother wishes to wed me off to some dolt of a lady, from some southern house. I’ve refused, of course, as she looks just as goatlike as my late wife, the Lady Royce.”

“I heard that the late Lady Royce was a beautiful and strong-”

He cuts you off sharply, “She was just about as riveting as watching paint dry, and our lifeless marriage was no more than a mummer’s farce.”

Oh, gods. Daemon wouldn’t be Daemon if there is no fire in his words. In an attempt to lighten the mood, you nudge his shoulder, “You could just marry me, you know. I’m sure I would be a whole lot more interesting than some southern lady.”

He looks at you strangely, as if he can’t believe that you had the gall to even offer such a thing. “Hmm,” he raises an eyebrow, “but you can’t be my wife. You’re already my shadow.”

“Funny,” you smirk back at him.

You think again about how you care not what people say about Daemon, what they might think about your desires of him. They matter very little, if not at all.

Only Daemon.

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

This year, your father arranged for a grand celebration for your nameday. No expense was spared, despite your reluctance. You cared little for these festivities, but the whole arrangement made your father happy, so to hell with it. This was another opportunity to see Daemon, after all.

You had seen him yesterday, in the Red Keep. There was a woman walking with him. She was beautiful indeed, with dark and silky hair, sensual lips, and a knowing gaze. You later learned her name to be Mysaria. One of Daemon’s… night time companions. The thought of it made your stomach churn, but you did your best to ignore it.

“Prince Daemon, I’ve been looking for you,” you greeted him, and only him.

“Aren’t you always?” Daemon replied playfully.

“Yes, well,” you stammered, and looked away briefly, before relaying your message, “It is my pleasure to invite you to the festivities occurring tomorrow, for my nameday.”

“Ah, my warmest wishes, shadow.” He tilts his head in response.

“Why do you call the lady shadow?” Mysaria questions, reminding you of her presence.

“Just a little something between myself and the lady, my dear.” Daemon says to her. My dear. You hated the jealousy springing from you. My dear. Not as endearing and meaningful as 'my shadow', I would say. Any lady can be called my dear, as a polite gesture.

“Can I count on your presence, my prince?” You ask excitedly, eyes twinkling up at him.

“I’d be loathe to miss a good revelry, my dear shadow. I’ll be there.”

“Very well then!” you steal a glance at Mysaria, who was eyeing you surreptitiously, “My father had his messenger send proper invitations to you and your family, but I thought I would ask you myself.”

As you sit at the main table, guests constantly come up to you to give their greetings, most of them you’re not familiar with at all. Anyway, the one you were most interested in seeing was Daemon, but he hasn’t arrived yet.

All at once, the crowd stands at the arrival of the Kingsguard. The Targaryens are sure to follow, so you stand eagerly to greet them, keeping an eye out for the Rogue Prince. But you fail to spot him, and only the King Viserys and Princess Rhaenyra come into view.

They reach you, with genuine smiles on their faces. “Our warmest greetings, dear lady Y/n.” King Viserys happily exclaims.

“My King,” you bow to each one in turn, “My Princess. You both honour me with your presence, truly.”

King Viserys moves on to speak with your father, while Rhaenyra takes your hands in hers, “You are having a great nameday, I hope?” She’s always been amicable with you, and you’ve grown fond of her friendship in turn.

“I am,” you weakly smile back, but he crosses your mind again, “I do wish Daemon was here, though. Is he not coming?”

Rhaenyra’s heart breaks for you, as she knows of your feelings for Daemon, “Well, I believe him to be occupied at the moment. Him and his gold cloaks left for the brothels earlier tonight, as is their usual routine.”

Your entire demeanour falls. You were aware of Daemon’s preferred activities, but you choose to ignore them. It isn’t as if you have any say in his doings, as much as you wish it.

“He’s an absolute idiot.” Rhaenyra is determined to cheer you up, “Why don’t we have some wine and plenty of cake, and go dancing with some of these dashing lords? Oh, and don’t look, but Cregan Stark looks as if he’s been eyeing you for a while now.”

You can’t help but glance at the Lord of Winterfell, meeting his heated gaze. Okay, then.

“Come, let’s get some cake.” Rhaenyra beams at you, and all thought of her absent uncle is pushed from your mind.

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

Daemon has been roaming the castle. He’s just been to the courtyard, and to the godswood, and to the gardens. He’s been practically everywhere, but he’s yet to see you. Strangely enough, he hasn’t seen you for a long time, it’s been nearly a fortnight since he last encountered you, when he was walking with Mysaria.

Where in the seven hells is my shadow? She can’t very well be my shadow, now can she, if she’s not even around.

Everyone has noticed that Daemon has grown even more unpleasant and impatient, as of late. More so than he already is. Snapping at servants, his gold cloaks, and basically anyone else who might unfortunately come across his path.

He’s had half a mind to ask your father himself for your whereabouts, but he has not come around to that just yet. He knows that you would turn up, somehow. You have to.

He turns a corner, when he hears it, faintly. Coming from the end of the corridor which leads to the open rooftop. His ears perk up at the sound of it again. Your laugh.

His legs propel him forward, quickly, yearning for the sight of you.

Then he sees you. But you are not alone. You lean against the balcony, a man standing close next to you. Judging by the man’s garb, he recognizes him to be Cregan Stark of Winterfell.

An unfamiliar sensation arises within him, accompanied by a sense of dread. He immediately wants to pull you to his side, and chuck the young Stark over the balcony for even being so near you. For making you laugh like that.

What the fuck? Daemon ponders to himself. What in the seven hells is this?

He steps forward to finally make his presence known, “Hello, my shadow.”

Daemon / General HotD taglist: @random-human02 @thelastcitysposts @avalyaaa @angel6776 @huntycola @sanguinalia @just-a-harmless-patato @outundertheocean @schniiipsel @my-dark-prince @darylandbethfanforever9 @daeneeryss

It's been quite a task to manage the taglists, but those here have asked to be tagged for Daemon fics or HotD in general (I think!) Apologies if I've missed anyone, just comment if you want to be added.

The next thing I'll post will be for Aemond ;) I've missed my little one-eyed mommy's boy/war criminal 🖤

#daemon targaryen x y/n #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen imagine #daemon targaryen #house of the dragon imagine #house of the dragon #matt smith imagine #matt smith #daemon targaryen fanfic

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