#not like The Resistance but still it's a start

[thewitchblue]

"Jason, lovely?"

You called out. You had been looking for him for half an hour in the manor. He was a recent edition to the family, and he has been hidden himself away like a frightened animal. You were beginning to think he doesn't like you. He only showed up for patrol as Robin then hid away again. You didn't even know where he slept because he changed locations every night.

You really were defeated. You wanted to bond with him and show him the love he deserves, but he's nowhere. You wanted to cry, and you almost did, but Alfred pat your shoulder and told you to keep your head up. He would come to you, not the other way around.

You still sat down heavily with a frown. You didn't understand why he's avoiding you. Does he hate you? Does he resent you for taking him in? What did you do for him to hate you? You thought you had been welcoming when Bruce brought him home. Why is Jason so scared of you?

"I don't understand why he's avoiding me, Alfred. What did I do wrong?"

You knew Alfred didn't know either, but you needed to voice your sorrow. You were so saddened and defeated. All you wanted to do was bond with the little one, but he didn't seem to want to. He even cooks his own meals just to avoid the family.

Alfred walked up to you and softly said,

"You did nothing wrong, my dear. Master Jason will come to you in time, just as Master Bruce had to come to me after his parents' death."

You started to cry but waved off Alfred's comforting hand. You got up and walked away with a heavy heart and tear-filled eyes. You just want your baby to love you and accept you.

Little Jason watched from behind the corner, frozen in place. He thought he was doing the right thing by avoiding you both. He's only ever known adults who wanted to be left alone. He thought it was normal to stay out of the way to avoid dangerous situations with adults. He's learned noisy kids get tossed away, but does hiding do equal damage? Where is the median for you? How does he make you three happy? Jason didn't know what to do, but the more tears you shed, the worse he felt. He did this, but how does he fix it?

He hesitated before slowly approaching you. He truly did care about you. You are warm and loving despite knowing very little about him as a person. You took him in and loved him so easily. He didn't know what to do. Does he hug you? Does he talk to you? What won't get him thrown out? He doesn't want to anger you. He awkwardly shifted in place, uncertain and anxious.

You noticed him, but you were equally lost. Would he run away if you hugged him? You wanted to love him the way he deserves to be loved. You asked softly,

"Jason, sweet pea?"

Jason slowly nodded, as if he needed to confirm his identity or confirm he's real. You almost sobbed when you managed to coax him into a hug.

"Jason, my lovely, never hide from me."

You kissed the top of his head. You held him like he was going to disappear into thin air. He was overwhelmed by the love, but it was a good overwhelm. He felt warm and safe for the first time. Is this what a parent is supposed to be like?

You loved Jason so easily and openly. He was such a kind kid. You both grew incredibly close after that day.

The library was a safespace where Jason was free and comfortable to do anything, and you often spent time with him in the library as a result. Every time he needed an honest conversation with you, he asked,

"Can we speak in the library?"

That was that. You always obliged when he asked. Who can say no to tiny Jason? You couldn't resist his beautiful eyes and his hopeful expression.

He asked for the library talks even after his revival. He even shot Bruce in the abdomen for interrupting his library time (he claims by accident, but you knew better). He never apologised to Bruce or even to Alfred, who had to attend to the wound. In fact, he actually used the shooting as a distraction and left the manor. He talked to you after patrol and gave you some homemade cookies he made to make up for it. He didn't say anything, and neither did you, but he knew you weren't mad when you offered him a hug and ruffled his hair affectionately. He may be a giant now, but he's still your baby boy, and even Jason can admit you were babying.

He loves you, and he has shot many people that were in his way to your side. He was indiscriminate who he shot. Family and friends have long learned to avoid the library when Jason is suspected to be home. You say suspected because he can get in and out of the manor without ever being seen.

"Jason, lovely?"

You called out when you thought you noticed his shadow. He's built like your husband, so you can't be sure it's Jason from the glimpse you saw.

"It's me, ma."

He confirmed as he guided you to the library. His rough hand held yours gently as you both walked together. He's always loved holding your hand when he was nervous, and that seemed to persist into adulthood. You smiled warmly at him. You asked,

"To the library, lovely?"

He nodded and lightly squeezed your hand. His gaze never stopped scanning the area, as if his eyes were looking for any threats, aka snooping siblings. He needed to tell you something important or embarrassing and needed only you to hear about it.

When you do arrive at the library, he brings you to your usual spot next to all of the young adult books you bought for him through the years. You smiled and sat down at the familiar armchair while Jason stood awkwardly in front of you. He used to sit on your lap when he was younger and giggle when you showered him with kisses, but now he sits in the closest chair available or sometimes on the ground so you can run your fingers through his hair in a soothing motion.

"I'm seeing someone."

He managed to blurt out before quickly looking away from you. He was flustered and blushing, but he wasn't really ashamed. He was embarrassed. It was such a simple thing to say, but he couldn't help his flushed face.

"When do I get to meet this 'someone,' lovely?"

Jason nervously cracked his knuckles. He wants you to meet two-on-one, not the whole family. Your opinion matters the most out of everybody in the family.

"Does Saturday work?"

You took his hand in yours and lightly squeezed it with a warm smile. You said softly,

"Any time, lovely."

Jason breathed a slow sigh of relief. Hurdle one covered. He looked at your conjoined hands as he asked nervously,

"Can you keep this between us? We want to meet only you."

You smirked. With a mischievous gleam in your eyes, you said,

"It's library time. Nobody hears anything outside."

Jason smirked back at you. Oh, he loves you dearly. You offered him a hug, which he gladly accepted.

You held him like you always did, but the hug felt different now. It felt like a proud mother accepting the baby bird to fly and make a life for himself. Your arms promised love and security no matter what happens.

[mullermilkshake]

An unreadable measure

Part 10 <- Part 11 -> Part 12

You and Jinwoo try and get the twins ranked, courtesy of the hunter's association.

Yandere!Jinwoo Sung x Fem Hunter!reader Tags - Pregnant reader, talks about pregnancy, mentions of medical tests/ needles, pet name, hormonal reader,

<<< For more Dark/Yandere content, click this link to go back to the Masterlist! >>>

<<< Or back to this fic's Master list. >>>

You never agreed to meet Jinwoo’s mom and sister until your twelve week scan. Anxiety no doubt.

Jinwoo’s system quest clocked over at thirty out of one hundred. 

Still early into your pregnancy, the twins were growing at the same rate as Hae-in’s pregnancy. Despite a month and a half apart, according to the doctor, Jinwoo was sure she shouldn’t have mentioned that. Odd. You didn’t speak on it though, despite her baiting it like it was some sort of competition. You never bit.

That day, after the scan, you were scheduled to test the mama of the babies in a ditch effort to get some sort of a reading instead of guessing.

Chairman Go’s idea of course.

“This is stupid… how is this even going to work?” Your hand absentmindedly rubbed your visible baby bump, your other lazily pressed to your back.

A short, little man dressed in a smart suit adjusted his glasses and wrote notes on his clipboard. “Well, based on the aura your pregnancy is producing, the Chairman is curious to see if you can produce a score other than your own unreadable measurement. It will give us an idea of what kind of rank your children will be once they are born.”

You huffed and flicked your hair out of your face. “That’s if it actually works, what if it just reads my own score?”

“Block off your aura and only make contact with the sensor using your stomach.”

“How the hell do I do that- oh my god!” Jinwoo lifted you onto his shoulder, high enough so that you didn’t need to reach the meter.

He smiled and ignored the cursing under your breath. You were as light as a feather, and each time Jinwoo levelled up again, he would need to lift you with caution as to not overdo how easy it was.

The man stood back and watched the screen closely, he fiddled with some dial knobs. “Okay, we’re ready. Go ahead and touch it- only with your stomach, nothing else.”

Jinwoo edged towards the meter, holding his breath with each inch. He’d taken note of the babies mana as they were growing even if you couldn’t, and it was only getting more intense with each passing week.

Right now, Jinwoo could sense that if the twins were born with their current mana intact, they were easily upper B-Ranks right now, Maybe even A-Ranks, but that was only a guess.

“We’re going to start the test now, so please hold still.”

You sat upon his shoulder with ease, remaining as still as you could with comfort. Jinwoo stopped as soon as he felt the resistance of your little bump on the meter.

And then it turned on.

The machine hummed and made whatever noises were expected for Jinwoo’s third time standing in that room, and something shifted.

“What? T-That can’t be right…” That man fiddled and spammed the controls. “It’s- it’s unreadable!”

You didn’t react the way Jinwoo expected, more of a slouch if anything. “It’s probably just my mana level you’re reading.”

“N-no… the meter's detecting four separate energy sources…”

“If there’s four, just ignore the two S-Ranks.” It was that simple, Jinwoo didn’t understand his hysterics.

“That’s the thing, Mr Sung… all readings are S-Ranks. I-I can’t tell them apart- it’s making the system overheat, they’re all unreadable!”

“Oh shit.” It was meant to be under your breath, but it wasn’t.

The systems alarm whistled and beeped, airing a warning in the room. Jinwoo set you down and pulled you over to the side getting in between you and the mana meter.

“Turn it off.” He said, commanding the room to the effect of making the man panic further, flicking all kinds of switches. “I said, turn it off.”

“I’m trying!”

The alarms groaned, making the meter tremble and shudder in an invisible icy breeze, emitting smoke from the top of it.

“We have to get out of here.” You left his side and stormed off towards the door that didn’t open. “Why won’t this open?”

“It’s in a system shut down- the whole system’s fried! The room shuts itself off if there’s a fault, it’s to stop further damage to headquarters if the fault causes a fire hazard, it won’t open until the system either cools down or erupts completely!”

“Iron.” Jinwoo called upon his shadow.

He chose Iron due to his raw, tanked strength but also to your own familiarity having met only Igris thus far. He, appeared in his brute fisted glory and hunched over watching you instead of Jinwoo. 

"Who is- What is he doing?" You asked, neither backing away or getting closer.

Jesus… he’s always so distracted. 

Jinwoo pinched the bridge of his nose. “ He's insufferable... Iron. Go and disconnect it before it blows up.”

The shadow nodded and trudged over to the thickened power cable, pulling at it and ripping it out of the wall. 

But the meter didn’t let up.

“It’s still going, it’s going to rupture!” The man ducked and cowered behind the console.

Jinwoo got a hold of you. “I can shadow exchange, keep ahold of me-“

He wasn’t in the room anymore, a split second and the room had disappeared, so did you. The experience was weightless, without any effort and kept him in suspended animation. You had pulled Jinwoo into Royal’s Gatekeeper, floating inside a mana made portal flat against the wall with a viewing hole back through to the room. Iron trudged about the place and covered his face when the meter blew up, casting bits of hard metal and singed plastic everywhere. By some miracle the man by the console survived and Iron morphed back to Jinwoo.

“We should be safe now.” You said, sitting in a position that you almost floated, weightlessly watching.

So beautiful.

He would have told you that too if your nose hadn’t started bleeding right in front of Jinwoo’s eyes. He called out to you, but you’d already stepped back out in to the destroyed and charred plastic covered room. The entire window had blown out, emitting a high pitched winded whistle zipping past on the high floor. The scattered papers from the clipboard were ripped and torn and singed on the edges. 

He said your name again, yet you spoke first. “We didn’t have time to think, so I just acted off of instinct… what is it?”

“Your nose, what’s wrong? Are you feeling alright- are the babies doing something? You used your ability, has it drained your mana?”

You batted him off and wiped your nose, your eyes widening in shock at the red across your hand. “What is… what’s happening?”

“It appears that your babies are using your mana to grow, hence their S-Rank status at three months gestation.”

Jinwoo looked up just as startled as you were. ���Chairman Go.”

“I see you’ve destroyed my meter, that was quite a show.”

“It was an accident, Chairman. I think the equipment read it wrong.” You tried to even the playing field, taking accountability.

The Chairman entered the room with his hands hidden behind him, Jinwoo naturally flocked to you, pulling out a tissue to wipe the red from your nose and got in front of you. 

He and the Chairman both mirrored each other, unknowingly sizing the other up in a way that animals did, being in favour of the one who was strongest.

And that was exclusively Jinwoo.

He could obliterate the Chairman quite easily if he wanted to, and he wanted to for not-so-clear reasons. Even so, he also wanted to see how this played out, finding hidden secrets and things in plain sight. There was something bigger at play here, Jinwoo could tell from the jittering in his bones.

“Please, stand down, Hunter Sung. Although the meter will be down for a week or two, I’m thoroughly pleased with the result.” He smiled sweetly, clasping his hands together as though to say, this is just perfect for me.  

“What does that mean exactly?” You asked, emerging from Jinwoo’s guard. “The twins are using my mana- they’re draining me. Is that why I can't sense them? How do you know all this, anyway?”

So you picked up on that too? Jinwoo knew this was all too well thought out, he just never asked the questions until he had something more concrete to go on. You jumped ahead of him once again, a reason for why he was in love with you. Your somewhat dominant side.

“We’ve only seen this once before in Japan. It was the same case there for the mother, and apparently they can use the mother's mana. It disguises their own mana as they'll use the more accessible mana to their disposal. That being said we only have observations to go on, we’re all still pretty much in the dark. it's purely anecdotal... But I think they’ll be some people who’d like to meet you both, but for now, I think further tests are essential.”

You scoffed. “What sort of tests? You’re not prodding me or these babies with needles.”

“No needles, I assure you. Some mana tests and other observations once they’re here. That’s all.”

Tests and examinations needed for Jinwoo’s children? Poking and prodding them while they’re so tiny and vulnerable just to see the rare genetics passed down from their mother? Not to mention anything they could inherit from Jinwoo.

Like hell would anyone treat them like guinea pigs.

“Not a chance.”

“Jinwoo?”

He maintained eye contact with the Chairman, not you. “I said no. No testing those babies, they’re babies . Leave them alone and observe them from afar.”

“Jinwoo-“

“We can discuss this at a later date, for now, go and get some rest.” The Chairman addressed you directly. “You look exhausted. A mother-to-be needs plenty of rest.”

You didn’t respond, not at first, anyway. Not until the Chairman left. “What the hell did he say? I look tired- what does that even mean?”

“W-well-“

“He means nothing by it.” Jinwoo eyed the man from behind the console, emerging back into the room.

“What? What does he mean, Jinwoo?”

Jinwoo knew better than to offend someone who was exhausted and pregnant. This man however, was too honest. A fucking idiot.

“The Chairman meant that you look…” His voice trailed off, stepping back from Jinwoo’s narrowed eyes.

“He meant… nothing by it.” 

“O-Of course! I meant nothing by it- she- you look healthy and glowing!”

“Good man.” 

You sighed heavily, rubbing your stomach before cursing something under your breath. Then, you walked right out of the room in a stomp, leaving the weak little man in Jinwoo’s company.

And that compulsion came back.

Jinwoo grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and clenched his fist tight around the material. “Think before you speak. If you speak out of turn and upset her again, you’re going to wish you died in that explosion.”

“Y-Yes, Mr Sung- I won’t say anything at all, I promise!”

Jinwoo dropped him on the floor and left the room to follow you, skipping a step of the stairs up towards the apartment. Igris was nearby, hovering around up there as near to you as your aura would allow. By the time Jinwoo arrived, he noted how your energy still hadn’t changed, he could sense it from the front door all the way to the en-suite bathroom.

You were really emotional.

Jinwoo called your name softly, hoping it might change your mindset or do literally anything else besides upset you further.

It didn’t. Well, you didn’t respond.

He called out to you again and waited, edging closer to the bathroom until the sound of your stifled sobbing permeated the bathroom door through the crack.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” The pet name slipped out.

You didn’t react to it. “I’m exhausted!”

Little black streaks dribbled down your cheeks from the waterlogged mascara, eyes swollen and puffy, nose all pink and adorably blushed. Jinwoo rubbed the marks away from your cheeks the best he could, moving the slick strands of hair from your damp face.

“You could have fooled me.” He said. “I happen to think you look beautiful.”

“No. You’re just saying that. I look horrible and bloated and I’m a big mess!” The flood gates opened and you couldn’t stop crying.

Jinwoo wanted to say something had the babies aura not spiked, it stopped him in his steps. Like they were reacting to you, but it could have been an array of reasons, maybe they were moving about or kicking and you couldn't feel it? Despite that, he monitored it with each passing moment, but never said anything to you.

I guess I’ll be dealing with this a lot for the next seven months. 

“You don’t look bloated, or horrible. But I think it has been a long day, and I think we should leave seeing my mom and go lay down. I can get you whatever you want, or everything for you,” Jinwoo took it a step further and ran his hand over your baby bump. “And whatever these two need, you’re going to have cravings soon, right?”

“I am…” It didn’t stop you crying, but took your mind off things. “I’m getting cravings already- I just wasn’t sure what-“

“Shh, shh…” You let him embrace you, stroke your hair lovingly to soothe you. “We can trial it. See what you like and don’t like, then I’ll buy one hundred of it, okay?”

“Okay…” Sniffling into his shirt, you clung to it. “Okay… that sounds good.”

Just like that, you were starting to rely on him. Jinwoo wanted to give you the entire world, to you and the babies.

All he wanted from you was that love in return, eventually. The rest of the world could leave for the day, including the chairman and whatever intentions he had.

Jinwoo could sort it later. You and his babies were the top priority.

Part 10 <- Part 11 -> Part 12

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DISCLAIMER - Crossposted from my AO3 - I do not own any of the characters or anything from the anime or manhwa. This is a work of fan fiction and is absolutely not representative of the views or intentions of the original creator(s).

Also please don’t post any of my work without permission thank you!

[woniwontons]

dead end - CHAPTER FOUR

bob reynolds x therapist!reader

summary: after being assigned to monitor bob reynolds’ recovery inside the new avengers tower, you try to keep your fears hidden. but between quiet training sessions and unsettling therapy logs, you start to realize he’s watching you more than he should—and that something inside him never stops whispering.

w.c: 4.2k

warnings: psychological thriller, inaccurately depicted mental illness, emotional manipulation (by void), nightmares, slow burn, possessive themes, combat violence, unreliable realities, hallucinations, murder, domestic bob, gore/bloody void, like a lot of blood & violence, running away in the woods

chapter nav: one | two | three | four | five (coming soon)

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°｡⋆

Your calendar had no color-coded blocks. No assignments. No meetings. Just one blank space stamped across the interface: DAY OFF.

It didn’t feel like relief though, just a boring day ahead of you.

You made breakfast and sat in the lounge with a coffee you barely tasted. Read the same paragraph in your data log five times without processing a single word.

Still, you could focus on nothing but the questions in your mind.

By noon, you were moving on instinct, feet carrying you to the gym without direction. You knew who would be there at this time.

You found Bucky where you usually saw him: stretching in the corner, his hoodie peeled down to his waist and gloves half-fastened. His expression didn’t shift when he saw you.

“You’re off today,” he said simply, gesturing to your plain clothes.

“So are you.”

“Not really,” he muttered, going back to the resistance band in his hands.

You sat on the bench across from him, watching the line of his shoulders tense and relax with each pull. A few beats passed in comfortable silence before you spoke.

“Can I ask you something?”

His hands paused mid-stretch. “You just did.”

You offered a dry smile. “About the people who worked with Bob before me.”

He exhaled through his nose. “What about them?”

You hesitated. “They didn’t last long.”

He rolled his wrists. “That happens.”

“What kind of happens?”

He looked at you then—flatly. “The kind that gets people reassigned. Burnout. Not getting along with him. The usual.”

You tilted your head slightly. “You and the team haven't ever experienced that around him, have you?”

“I’m not an empath,” he said, almost too easily. “I don’t absorb what I don’t need to.”

You watched him carefully, waiting for the twitch, some flicker of discomfort. But Bucky Barnes was good at hiding his emotions for everything. Better than good.

“You don’t think there’s something unusual about it?” you asked.

“No more than usual.”

He clipped the band back to the wall and stood, wiping his hands with a towel.

“Sometimes things don’t work out,” he said, voice neutral. “Doesn’t mean there’s a conspiracy.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re not curious?”

He shrugged. “Not really.”

But he didn’t meet your gaze.

And when he turned to grab his water bottle. "Please just don't go looking for trouble, y/n," he added quietly, "for your own good."

It hung in the air longer than it should have, with a surprising level of concern and care.

You stood a moment later, nodding like the conversation had satisfied something. Like you were any closer to the truth.

You walked away with your jaw tight and your throat dry.

No one was going to tell you anything.

You weren’t trying to go anywhere.

That’s what you told yourself, anyway, as you walked the endless hallways of the tower. No destination. No objective. Your shoes padding across the floor. Doors passing on either side like silent, judgmental witnesses.

Maybe it was just your nerves. Maybe it was the way your own thoughts had started to echo louder than sound. You’d been craving something you were unsure of. A reason to feel more. But the deeper you wandered, the more hollow everything seemed.

At some point, your footsteps slowed.

And when you looked up, you realized where you’d stopped.

The hallway was empty. The lights overhead flickered once. And in front of you—just a few feet away—was his door.

You hadn’t been here since that first night, and you froze.

The panel glowed the same:

SECURITY OVERRIDE IN PLACE — MONITORED ACCESS ONLY

But again, no guards or cameras.

And for a moment, you felt it—the pull. Not from the Void. From something subtler. Like gravity. Like muscle memory.

You stepped closer.

Your hand hovered just inches from the lock pad, like you already knew the passcode to enter.

You didn’t even know why. You just—

CLICK.

The lock disengaged.

The door hissed slightly, then opened.

And standing there, backlit in soft white light, brown hair tousled, expression still -- was Bob.

Neither of you spoke, but he didn’t look surprised to see you. If anything, he looked relieved.

"You came," he said quietly.

You let your hand drop from the lock pad. “I didn’t mean to.”

He smiled faintly, stepping past the threshold and into the hallway with you. “Doesn’t matter. You still did.”

The door sealed shut behind him.

Silence stretched between you, but it didn’t feel cold. Just cautious.

You both stood there a long moment before Bob leaned against the wall beside you, folding his arms. "Did you speak with Bucky or Yelena?"

"I spoke to Bucky, but all I got was a whole lot of nothing," you huffed in frustration.

Bob nodded, "So back to square one? Maybe there's a different explanation for all of this."

"I'm confident about what I saw," you stressed, "Do you think it has something to do with the nightmares?"

Bob's jaw tensed slightly. "The nightmares, you're still having them?"

You swallowed, his response throwing you off. "You don't remember them?"

He paused.

"No."

You turned your head. "The Void takes all of your memories?"

His voice was quieter now. “There are gaps. Long ones. I know I’ve said things I don’t remember saying. Felt things I can’t explain. I used to think it was the Void blocking things out.”

"How can I stop him from," you started, before being cut off.

"You can't stop it, none of us can once it starts," he said sadly, "I'm sorry."

You exhale a breath you didn't realize you were holding before nodding slowly, taking in his response. He stared down at you then, his eyes scanning over your facial features, over every tick of non-verbal response. The guilt eating at him, making him feel so useless.

"It isn't your fault, I'm sorry for involving you."

He scoffed before suddenly picking up your hands, clasping them in-between your own. "Don't apologize. I've never felt bad for listening to you, please, if you have anything to get off your chest. I'm here for you."

You gazed up at him, feeling your heart rate speed up. Brows furrowed in confusion, you bobbed your head in agreeance. "I appreciate that."

"I appreciate you."

You told yourself you were just passing by.

That your feet brought you here again out of habit. A wrong turn. An aimless loop through the admin level. But as you stood just around the corner from Dr. Harding’s office, that lie grew too heavy to hold.

The hall was quiet.

Her door, like always, was closed. But the lockpad light was green. Not red. Not yellow. Green.

Unlocked.

Your heart stuttered.

You glanced both ways. Empty.

You stepped forward—slowly, cautiously—reaching for the panel.

It chirped softly under your touch.

One press. That’s all it would take to slide the door open and—

“Hey.”

You jerked so fast your elbow banged the wall behind you.

An intern—probably no older than twenty-two—stood at the other end of the corridor, holding a datapad and a cup of coffee. Her brows knit together.

“You lost?”

Your mouth went dry. “I—uh—no. I was looking for… the sensory deprivation room.”

The girl blinked. “Sensory deprivation is two floors down.”

You forced a smile. “Right. I must’ve hit the wrong button in the elevator.”

She didn’t move. Just stood there, watching you.

A long pause stretched before she gave a tight, practiced smile and turned on her heel.

“Have a good one.”

You nodded, then retreated in the opposite direction at a normal, casual, totally-not-panicked pace. It wasn’t until you rounded the next corner and pressed your back to the wall that you let yourself breathe.

You almost got caught doing something horrendously stupid.

No—worse.

That light on Harding’s door hadn’t been green by mistake.

What if you were being tested?.

Tested.

And you failed.

In Your Nightmares, In the Maze

You opened your eyes and the world was wrong.

The floor beneath your feet was cold concrete, cracked and damp, covered in grime that had soaked into its pores. The air reeked of mildew and rust, thick with dust that scratched the back of your throat. Made you feel sticky, dirty.

You didn’t know how long you’d been standing.

Only that you had no memory of getting here. And your feet ached.

The hallway stretched in both directions—long, narrow, and dimly lit by broken fluorescent tubes overhead. One of them buzzed in a stuttering rhythm, flickering so violently you couldn’t tell if it was about to go out or explode.

You turned in a slow circle, arms folded tightly across your chest.

The walls were tiled, but discolored. Yellowed, cracked, and tagged with smeared fingerprints like someone had clawed at them over and over again. Shattered mirrors were mounted in uneven rows, jagged corners jutting out like teeth.

You caught your reflection in one of them.

And froze.

It was you. But not exactly.

The reflection stood too still. Her arms weren’t crossed. Her head tilted slightly to the side, eyes wide and expressionless. She blinked—but too slow. Like a puppet learning how to mimic human movement. Then her lips moved.

You took a step back, heart hammering.

No sound.

Another mirror—this one lower, shattered into shards across the floor. The sharp edges caught the flickering light, reflecting your face in fractured pieces.

You crouched, trembling, reaching toward one of the shards.

It wasn’t curiosity. It was like you had to see, you had to know if this was real.

The moment your fingers touched it, you flinched.

A thin line of blood opened across your palm, bright and stinging.

“Ah—”

You dropped the glass with a suck of your teeth.

It clattered against the floor with a sound too loud, too final.

And from somewhere behind you—

A whisper.

You spun around, heart in your throat.

No one.

Nothing.

But the hall behind you looked... different.

You hadn’t turned around, but now there were more doors. More mirrors. And the mirror where your reflection had been was gone.

Your blood dripped onto the floor, each drop loud in the silence.

You stumbled backward, away from the glass, away from the mirrors, clutching your hand.

And that’s when you heard it.

Breathing.

Not yours.

Slow. Steady. Too close.

You ran.

Your footsteps echoed down the hall, too loud, too fast. The breathing behind you had stopped, but only because it was closer now. You could feel it. Like hot breath against your neck, even though nothing touched you.

You turned a corner—

and another

another

—until your shoulder hit a doorframe and you stumbled sideways into a room.

The door shut behind you on its own in a violent slam.

You whirled around, heart pounding, but the knob was gone. Hell, the door was gone. Replaced with cracked tiles and a bloodstained seam.

The light in the room was a single bulb hanging from a frayed cord in the ceiling. It swung gently, casting warped shadows against the walls.

But you weren’t alone.

There was someone else here, and this room felt horrifically familiar.

At first, you only saw her back; hunched over, gasping softly, her arms trembling at her sides. The room was small, just a few paces wide. The tile beneath her knees was slick, and something thick and dark glistened across the floor.

You took one step closer.

Her head lifted slightly. Then her arm.

And she slammed something down.

A wet, sickening crack echoed through the room.

You jolted back, mouth open, but the scream got stuck behind your tongue. Her hand lifted again.

Another, crack.

You couldn’t see who she was hurting. The body beneath her was just shadow. Faceless, formless, made of blood and bone and the sound of something breaking.

Crack, again.

Again and again.

You stared in horror until she finally slowed, breathing hard, hand shaking in the air.

And then she turned.

It was you again.

Your face—spattered in red, eyes empty, chest heaving.

Her gaze met yours across the room, tears streaming down her bloody, sunken face.

You screamed. The bulb burst above you, showering the floor in sparks and blackened glass.

The floor dropped out beneath you.

In one blink, you were standing. The next, you were falling.

There was no wind. No scream. Just the sickening weightless feeling of your own body surrendering.

You hit something hard, your bones crushing with pain as they protested against all movement.

The world bent around you—walls folding like wet paper, corners bleeding into one another. Your knees struck concrete. Your palm, still bleeding from the earlier cut, left a smear across the warped ground beneath you.

Your breath came ragged, your head spinning.

You crawled forward, but the walls spun in circles around you. Lights blurred into trails. The air stung your eyes.

“Where am I?” you whispered aloud.

No answer.

Only a low hum in the distance. Like the power grid of a dead city flickering back to life.

You tried to stand, but your legs gave out.

You reached for a wall that wasn’t there anymore.

The floor cracked open.

And you dropped once more.

In the Nightmare, In the Maze

Your vision cleared all at once.

Flashing red and white lights pulsed in your peripheral.

Siren tones wailed in the distance, but muffled, like they were underwater. The air was cold now. It smelled of metal, antiseptic, and the copper tang of blood.

You were standing on the edge of an open ambulance bay. Night stretched beyond the parking lot like a black ocean, with figures moving just at the edge of the darkness. Too far to see, too distorted to name.

Inside the ambulance, the doors were open.

You stepped forward, and saw her.

Yourself.

Again.

This time she sat on the gurney, knees drawn to her chest, face streaked with blood. Though, none of it looked fresh. Her skin was pale and blotchy; eyes glassy and swollen. Her hands trembled around a disposable shock blanket, still clutched tightly around her shoulders like armor.

She wasn’t speaking. She just stared down at her lap, jaw tight, fingers twitching.

A paramedic stood off to the side, whispering to someone you couldn’t see.

“She wouldn’t stop screaming. Had to sedate her. We think it was self-defense… but the scene was brutal.”

Another murmured reply: unintelligible to you.

You took a step closer.

And then she glanced

Just barely—her gaze lifting enough to meet yours as her lips moved.

But no sound of a woman came out, but something akin to that of the void himself.

"Ever my ś̸̡t̸̨͛r̶̤͝o̴̻̓n̶͉̔ǵ̴̘ ̴͙͆g̴̭̈́ȉ̷̡r̴͕̿l̴͔̽."

The scene around you began to shake, like the ambulance bay itself was coming apart. The sirens slowed. Then stretched. Then distorted.

"Not everyone could, but ÿ̴̫́ò̸̤ǘ̴̮ ̶̳͑m̸̢̊a̸̧̿d̴̬̆e̶͈͆ ̶͎͊i̶̻̒t̴̤̑ ̵̰̂ò̷͙ů̶͜t̸͎̄. Didn’t you, little liar?"

You clutched your ears as the air seemed to pulse against your skull.

And the ambulance doors slammed shut in your face.

You blinked.

Open, Close, Open.

And the world changed again.

Gone were the lights, the pavement, the sirens.

Now there were trees. Towering silhouettes pressed in around you, black against a gray sky smeared with faint clouds. Their branches clawed overhead like bones, creaking faintly with every whisper of wind.

The ground beneath your feet was mud and moss and broken roots.

It was dark.

But not silent.

Snap.

A branch cracked behind you.

You spun around, chest rising sharply, but saw nothing. Just more trees. More endless darkness.

Your breath came faster now, eyes darting to every shadow, every movement of wind-tossed leaves. You took a step—

Crack.

Another behind you. Heavier this time.

Then—

Breathing. Fast and angry, barely contained.

You ran.

Your legs burned, your lungs screaming with every intake of cold air. Branches sliced across your arms. Something wet ran down your face; blood or rain, you didn’t know.

The breathing followed.

Always just behind you.

You didn’t dare scream. The sounds around you were too loud already. The woods echoed everything. Your heartbeat, the dead leaves crunching, and...

his voice.

"You've run faster than that."

You stumbled, but caught yourself. Feeling the bark of the tree imprint itself into the skin of your palm.

You couldn’t tell where it came from, but it was close.

So close that you pumped your legs faster, ignoring the pain of your bare feet hitting the forest floor.

Something grabbed your sleeve and snatched you backwards —no, just a branch.

You tugged roughly and broke free, but your breathing was slowing you down now. Your chest willing itself to explode as your lungs stretched for oxygen.

The trees grew tighter. Narrower. Like the forest itself was closing in to crush you. The breathing behind you accelerated.

It was laughing at you now. Not just with joy, but with certainty that it would catch you.

"They might have carved it out, but I remember. I always remember."

You saw a shape ahead—barely visible.

A black door. Standing hauntingly alone in the woods.

You didn’t think, only sprinted towards it. Heaving now, your lungs threatened to rise from the bottom of your throat. It pained you horribly, but nothing else mattered except escape.

Mud flew from your heels. Your vision blurred with tears.

"You were never meant to be happy, y/n."

Your hand hit the door handle, slipping on its sleek handle with the slick of blood that coated your palm.

"You're meant to be with me here."

You yanked it open—

And fell inside.

In the Nightmare, Outside of the Maze

The door vanished behind you.

The ground was… nothing. A space with no walls, no ceiling, no shape. Just pressure and the oppressive weight of silence.

You were alone.

Until you weren’t.

He emerged from the dark without warning; no footsteps, no sound. It was just there, like he’d always been waiting.

The Void. A silhouette carved from everything the world wasn’t meant to touch. His skin absorbed the light instead of reflecting it, black as rotted stars. His hair curled weightlessly like smoke.

Your legs gave out and you collapsed forward into his body, wrapping your arms around his legs in terror. The coldness of his body comforting to the exhausted heat being expelled from your own.

And then he was lowering himself to meet you on the ground. Arms slowly coiling around your back.

He held you like you were fragile, digging his fingertips into the sides of your waist as he held you upright.

You cried harder.

Not just from fear, not just from exhaustion, but from the horrible, gut-wrenching feeling that this was the first time you felt like yourself in so long. Broken, hurting, and miserable, such a familiar feeling to you.

"There she is," he whispered into your hair. His hand moved to cradle the back of your head, fingers impossibly gentle. He pressed your body to his like he could bury you in his chest.

His breath brushed your ear. Your throat. Your skin.

"It's no wonder you always come back to me, and every time, we end up here."

You tried to speak, but your voice was shattered glass in your throat.

He lifted your chin with a single finger. His gold eyes burned straight through you. "No need to speak, just think. Know that I remember, no matter what they take from you, I will always remember.”

You shook your head, but he only smiled. A reverent, broken thing.

"Let me keep you. Just like this. Broken, bleeding, and mine."

His lips ghosted over your forehead, slow and steady, like a temptation. "You don't have to run from it anymore."

And then—

You gasped awake.

The scream didn't make it out properly—lodged deep in your chest like a stone, but your body snapped upright. Drenched in sweat, your sheets tangled like restraints around your legs.

Your throat burned. A heartbeat galloped in your ears, loud enough to drown everything else.

Your eyes darted across the room, searching corners, shadows, the cracks beneath the door, expecting to see blackness leaking from the walls, gold eyes waiting in front of you

But instead:

He was sitting there.

Bob.

Near the edge of your room. In the dark. His form barely outlined in the weak glow from the hall’s emergency light.

Not moving, and certainly not speaking. Just watching.

Your breath hitched.

"Jesus—” You scrambled backward on the bed until your shoulders hit the headboard. “What the hell, how did you get in here?”

He didn’t rise or even answer at first. Just studied you, head tilted, brow furrowed. Quiet concern etched into every line of his face.

"I heard you," he said finally. Voice low and careful. "Screaming through the door, but... you were asleep."

You stared at him, heart still slamming in your chest.

You couldn’t even remember doing it. Only the maze. The blood. The gold eyes that felt too close to forget.

"I didn't want to scare you," Bob said softly. "I just didn't want you to wake up alone. It looked terrifying."

That cracked something inside you.

Because it meant he hadn't come here with any ulterior motive but to just make sure you weren't alone, having night terrors in the dark.

You wiped at your sweaty face, breath still uneven.

"I don't even know when I fell asleep," you murmured.

Bob’s voice was impossibly gentler now. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You shook your head, but after a moment you spoke anyway, "I was in a maze," you whispered. "And something was chasing me. I think."

Bob exhaled, slowly, "Do you remember who was chasing you?"

You looked up. "No, I don't, I never looked back."

"That's good," he hesitated, "did it feel like a dream or a memory?"

"Both."

The room fell quiet again. You noticed then that his hands were clasped in his lap. Knuckles white. Like either he wasn’t sure if he should come closer, or he was terrified of your response.

"They're not just dreams anymore," he said. "Are they?"

Your hands trembled in your lap, and you fought to answer him honestly. "No."

Bob stood slowly, careful not to make a sound too sharp or sudden. He looked like he was trying to give you space, even as his eyes lingered on the sight of you trembling in your bed. "I'll let you rest," he said carefully. "I shouldn't have come in. I just wanted to be sure you were okay."

He turned toward the door, but for some reason, your panic spiked.

"Wait—" You reached out and caught his wrist, hand tremoring. He stopped to listen, and your voice was barely more than a breath, "Can you stay... please?"

He turned back toward you slowly. “You sure?”

You nodded, pulling on his arm, just enough to guide him back. "Please," you whispered again, tugging him towards your bed.

He hesitated only a moment longer. Then sat on the edge of the bed, uncertain.

You didn’t wait.

You shifted beneath the covers and pulled him with you, tugging gently at his wrist until he followed. His weight dipped the mattress, and then he was lying beside you. He was awkward at first, stiff from uncertainty.

You curled toward him, face pressed to his chest.

And only then did he move.

His arms came around you, gentle and hesitant, like you were made of glass. One hand stroked your back; the other came up slowly to comb through your hair.

The moment his fingers threaded through the strands, something deep inside you twisted.

It was… familiar.

Your heart stuttered, but you didn’t pull away.

"You're okay," Bob murmured into your hair. "You're still safe here."

Your eyes burned. "I don't feel safe," you confessed. "I don't even feel like myself anymore, I don't know what I'm supposed to feel. I can't understand any of these emotions inside me."

His fingers brushed behind your ear. "Like a phantom emotion?" he asked, voice low but firm.

You pressed your face tighter against his chest, trying to keep your breath steady. But you couldn’t. The tears came quietly at first, then stronger. "I'm scared to fall asleep," you whispered.

Bob didn’t flinch. He just held you tighter, one hand never leaving your hair. "Then be scared," he said softly. "Feel everything. Cry if you need to, but don't ever think you have to do any of it alone."

You cried harder. You didn’t know if it was the nightmare, the silence, or the way his voice made the grief inside you finally feel seen.

But for the first time in what felt like so long, you let it out. And he didn’t let go.

His thumb brushed soft circles across your shoulder as your tears soaked through his shirt. His heart beat slow and steady beneath your ear. "You're not alone," he whispered, "I promise."

You weren’t sure when you stopped crying. Only that at some point, the world grew still again, and you stayed there, curled against him. And yet, it felt as though this had happened before, as if you were experiencing deja-vu for this very moment and couldn't fathom any reason for it.

His breath moved softly against the top of your head.

And sleep, when it finally came, did not take you kicking and screaming.

It came wrapped in warmth and wool.

Alright friends, I'm sure you're very confused as to what the heck is going on. I added a lot more hints in this one, in hopes that maybe some of you will catch on ;). Answers will come, to be revealed in the next chapter, followed by a full Bob Point-Of-View in part six. We are at our halfway point now since I'm thinking of eight parts total for this. If that changes, I'll be sure to edit this and update you in future notes. Thank you for all your love on this story, it motivates me to write more everyday, and I appreciate you. xoxo -woni

ALSO: if you are not currently on the taglist, please comment down below if you want to be! if you already commented on previous chapters, don't worry because i've already added you :)

continue to part five (coming soon)

[blueberrybirdsworld]

Collision 15/20

Summary:

Lando always had a type : blonde, models, not ready to settle down. Yet once he met her, all his world is changed and he slowly start to realises maybe he was wrong all this time.

It's a prequel story of The Cat Distribution System, on how Lando Norris fall in love with Ariana. Could be read seperatly.

Pairing : lando norris x original female character

Genre : SMAU, Fluff, slow burn, enventual smut and angst

Warning : angst, Lando is sad (yes it's a warning)

CHAPTER 15 :

Serie Masterlist

The villa was too quiet. 

The kind of quiet that wasn’t peaceful but tense, sharp-edged, and waiting to explode. 

No one laughed today. No one joked. No soft teasing over breakfast. No sunbathing by the pool. The warmth of Brazil felt foreign now. Wrong. Like it belonged to someone else's story. 

Ariana had locked herself in her room since their fight. 

Lando hadn’t said a word to anyone. 

Not a joke. Not a glance. Not even a sigh. 

Max tried twice to get through to him: once with food, once with sarcasm. Neither worked. Charles suggested they go surfing. Lando didn’t answer. Carlos tried to break the tension by calling him “Romeo, version parano”, but even that landed flat. 

Everyone knew. 

Something had happened. 

Something big. 

Kika stood outside Ariana’s door at least three times, knocking gently. 

“Babe, just tell me if you’re okay.” 

Silence. 

Pietra eventually snapped. “They need to talk.” 

“Not our job to force it,” Max muttered. 

“No,” Kika said, eyes hard, “but it’s our job to stop them from breaking something real.” 

By the time sunset rolled across the sky like fire, the tension in the house had become unbearable. And Kika had enough. 

Lando was pacing in the living room. Ariana hadn’t emerged all day. 

So Kika did what no one else dared. 

She marched upstairs. Knocked on Ariana’s door. “Put on something. Five minutes. You’re talking to him.” 

Then she went straight to Lando, grabbed his wrist, and dragged him like a furious little storm cloud through the house. 

Pierre tried to interfere. She silenced him with a glare. 

“Get. In.” 

She shoved them into the smallest guest room, snapped the door shut behind them, and locked it. 

From the other side: “You’re not getting out until you talk. So fix it. Or burn it down. But decide.” 

Footsteps faded. 

Silence fell. 

Ariana stood near the bed, arms crossed. Lando by the door, fists clenched. 

The space between them felt oceans wide. 

Neither moved. 

Her voice came first, quiet but sharp. “We just have to pretend we’re fine. Then Kika will let us out. I’ll go back to my room, pack my things, and leave first thing tomorrow.” 

His jaw clenched. “Back to Paris.” 

She nodded. “Obviously.” 

“Back to your dear dancer,” he snapped. 

She froze. 

“What?” Her voice was hollow. 

Lando laughed, humorless and mean. “Isn’t that what this is? You come here, say all the right things, play with me for a week, and then go back to the guy you never stopped seeing.” 

She stared at him. 

He kept going, voice getting louder, sharper. “He’s the one, right? The one from the photos. The one you said was nothing. You still with him, aren’t you? Just couldn’t resist the thrill of sneaking around?” 

Her voice cracked. “Lando—” 

He cut her off. “Was I just a fun distraction?” 

Silence. 

Her tears welled instantly, blurring her vision. 

She took a shaky step forward. “Do you really think… I’m cheating on my ‘boyfriend’ to be with you?” 

He didn’t answer. 

“Do you really think,” she whispered, voice shaking, “that I would say all of that, do all of that, travel across the world to be here with you… if I was still with someone else?” 

Still silence. 

Lando stared at the floor, chest heaving. 

She let out a breathless, hurt laugh. “You don’t even see me.” 

“You never said anything,” he muttered. “You never explained. You refused to talk about him. I had to find out online.” 

“So that’s your excuse?” she shouted suddenly. “You believe Twitter over me?” 

He flinched. 

She stepped closer, voice rising. “You think gossip blogs and blurry pictures know me better than you do? Since when do you care about that kind of bullshit?” 

He stayed silent. 

And in that silence, something in her broke. 

“You want the truth?” she said, voice trembling, “here’s the truth.” 

She took a deep breath like she was pulling a blade from her own ribs. 

“I dated him, yes. His name is Marc. He was my partner for three years. We were together the whole time. I thought he was the love of my life.” 

Lando blinked, stunned. 

She kept going. 

“But he lied, hurt me, change me in a way I hated. Turns out he was cheating on me with half the damn company. Sleeping with students. Assistants. Anyone who smiled at him.” 

Her voice cracked fully now. “I found out. I left him. That was a year ago. That’s how old those photos are. And no, I’m not still with him. I fucking hate him.” 

Lando’s breath hitched. “Ari—” 

She shook her head. “No. You wanted the truth, so just listen.” 

His mouth snapped closed. 

“I still have to dance with him. Still have to see him. Smile. Be civil. Pretend everything is fine because it’s my job. Because it’s the fucking Royal Ballet and I can’t let heartbreak cost me everything I’ve worked for since I was a kid.” 

She wiped a tear off her cheek, furious with herself for crying. 

“And this fucking jerk is still around me, remembering me of how much an idiot I was for falling for him, to believe all his lies and manipulation. He still posts about me or hugs me after a show like I am still his and it’s killing me. But I can’t say a thing because he is the fucking lead dancer, he had power and connection, so I had to work with him and pretend I get along, until the day my contract end and I will return to Paris, until now.” 

Lando didn’t say a thing, he just looks at the ground, his heart fill with guilt and shame. 

“So yeah. I lied that night at the Opera in London. I told you he was just a friend because back then, you were a stranger, Lando. A stranger I met at a Christmas party. And I didn’t owe you anything.” 

He stood frozen, every muscle in his body aching. 

“But now you know. Now you’ve ripped it out of me. Congratulations.” 

Her voice dropped. 

“Do you know what hurts the most?” 

He lifted his gaze. 

“I told myself I would never trust another man again. Never fall for someone. Never let anyone in after him. And then I met you.” 

His throat burned. 

“I fell for you. I loved you,” she whispered. “I know I should've explain it to you but Lando I was scared, and it's a part of my life I prefer to forget, to not talk about. You could've understand it, be patient, be kind, but no the moment it got hard, the second you felt doubt… you turned on me. You threw everything I gave you in my face and treated me like the villain."

She tried to breathe, to find words through the mess clawing at her throat. 

"I never asked you about your past," she whispered, voice cracking with hurt. "Because it didn’t matter to me. Because I trusted you." 

He was crying now, silent, hot tears that slid down his face like punishment. 

"After everything I've been through..." she pressed on, voice breaking, "after everything, I still chose to trust you." Tears blurred her vision, but she refused to look away. "I saw the pictures too, Lando. I'm not blind. The girls at the clubs. The rumors about you. About the way you used to be." 

His mouth parted, chest shifting with a sharp inhale. 

"Ariana, I—" 

She shook her head sharply, cutting him off before the words could leave his mouth. 

"Don't," she whispered, voice thick with unshed tears. "Don't you dare try to explain now." 

He stepped forward instinctively, reaching for her, but she stumbled back, out of reach. 

"I ignored all of it," she said, voice trembling. "Because I knew you. Because I believed the Lando I fell for was different." 

He flinched at that, visibly. 

And then she added, softer, broken, like it was costing her everything, "But maybe I was wrong." 

The silence that followed was suffocating. 

Lando stood there, hand half-lifted like he didn’t know whether to reach for her or let her go. 

She turned to the door. 

“Kika!” Her voice was sharp. “Open the door.” 

Seconds passed. Then a quiet click. 

The door swung open. 

Kika stood there, silent. 

Ariana didn’t look at Lando again. 

She walked out. 

Up the stairs. 

Straight to her room. 

And the sound of her suitcase unzipping was the final note in the symphony of everything falling apart. 

The house was still dark when she left. 

6:04 a.m. 

No sunrise yet. Just a dim grey light casting long shadows across the marble floors of the villa, painting everything in the dull palette of goodbyes. Just her suitcase in hand, hair pulled back, eyes heavy but dry, the tears had already come in the quiet of the night. 

Ariana descended the stairs like a ghost. 

Kika stood first, wrapping her in a long, warm hug, whispering things into her ear that Ariana would later forget the words of, but not the warmth. Pierre kissed the side of her head gently and said nothing. Alexandra gave her a sad smile and Charles a long squeeze of her hand. Max, still in his hoodie and socks, looked heartbroken. 

“Are you sure?” he whispered. 

Ariana nodded. 

Pietra was crying in Rebecca arms while Carlos had no words. 

Lando stood in the doorway. 

He hadn't slept. Hadn’t eaten. His hoodie was stained with salt from silent tears dried and cried again. 

Ariana didn’t look at him. 

Didn’t say a word. 

Not goodbye. Not even a fuck you. 

Just silence. 

The kind that broke bones. 

And then she was gone. Out the door. Into the waiting car. Into a plane. Out of his world. 

Back in their room, it was still dark. 

The air was heavy. Still. 

Lando stepped in slowly, as if the room would collapse if he moved too fast. 

Her perfume was still there. 

Sweet, floral, soft. Like summer mornings and pointe shoes. Like the softness of her neck pressed into his chest. Like her laugh when she tried to cook pasta barefoot. 

And on the chair by the closet, the hoodie she always stole from him. 

Folded. 

Untouched. 

Cold. 

He sank to the floor. 

He didn't sob. Not at first. 

He just sat there. 

Then his chest heaved once, twice, and suddenly he was curling into himself, arms wrapped around his knees, the hoodie clutched to his chest like it was the only thing tethering him to her memory. 

And he cried. 

Hard. 

Ugly. 

Painfully. 

The kind of cry that comes when you realize you’ve truly, completely, irrevocably fucked it all up. 

She was gone. 

She had left him. 

And this time, it wasn’t a game. There would be no playful texts. No teasing glances. No lazy mornings and paint-stained kisses. No ballet tickets. 

Just absence. 

Downstairs, the mood was shattered. 

The group didn’t know what to say. 

No one wanted to touch it. 

Max, finally, got up and went upstairs. Quietly opened the door to Lando’s room and saw the boy he’d known since childhood curled in the ground. 

“Mate,” he said gently, stepping in, “I don’t want to tell you how to feel right now. You’re in hell. I get it.” 

Lando didn’t answer. 

“But you need to talk to her. Fix it.” 

Still nothing. 

Max sighed, ruffling his curls, helpless. “Alright. Be sad. But don’t stay here forever.” 

He walked back out. 

And that’s when Kika came in. 

She didn’t knock. 

Didn’t soften her voice. 

Didn’t give him any chance to prepare. 

She walked right up to him, arms crossed, eyes blazing. 

“What the actual fuck are you doing?” 

Lando flinched slightly, looking up from the floor. 

Kika didn’t stop. 

“She’s gone. She left. And you’re just sitting here like you’re the victim in this?” 

“I know I’m not,” he muttered hoarsely. 

“Then why are you acting like it’s over?” 

He looked away. “Because it is.” 

“No.” Her voice was sharp. “It’s over because you’re letting it be over.” 

“Kika—” 

“She loved you.” 

“I know.” 

“She trusted you.” 

“I know.” 

“Then what the hell are you doing crying on the floor instead of going after her?” 

Lando stood up slowly, eyes bloodshot. “Because I broke her. Because I said things I can’t take back.” 

“And?” 

“She won’t forgive me.” 

“Not if you don’t fight for her,” she shot back. “But maybe that’s the truth, maybe you don’t actually love her the way she loved you.” 

His head snapped up. “Don’t you dare.” 

“Then prove me wrong,” she hissed. “Because right now? She’s in a car. She’s in an airport. She’s in a goddamn plane flying away from the guy who she thought would never hurt her. And you’re just… what? Gonna stay here? Let her leave?” 

He didn’t answer. 

Kika’s voice cracked now, not angry, desperate. 

“Are you really going to let the love of your life walk away from you, Lando?” 

His eyes closed. 

“You know where she lives. You know where she dances. If you really love her, if you meant all of it then one mistake shouldn’t ruin everything.” 

Lando was breathing hard now, like he couldn’t catch his breath. 

Kika whispered. “Or will you let your fear ruin it.” 

The room was quiet again. 

But something inside him had cracked open, wider than guilt. Deeper than sadness. 

Something that ached to be fixed. 

And for the first time since she walked out the door… 

Lando wasn’t crying. 

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[calisverse]

SPARRING/TRAINING SESSIONS WITH A DASH OF TENSION. all these sentences and prompts are made about training sessions or sparring partners that can develop into tension, be it antagonistic or sexual. These quotes explore dynamics like rivalry, mentorship, flirtation, intensity, grudges, and emotional undertones. please change pronouns, locations and more as you see fit.

“You’re holding back. Are you afraid of hurting me—or of what happens if you don’t?”

“Every scar on my body started as a lesson. Let’s see what you’ll teach me today.”

“This isn’t dancing. Stop smiling and try to hit me.”

“You fight with your heart. That’s why you lose your breath first.”

“That sword’s too heavy for your pride to carry.”

“If you flinch again, I’ll hit you for real.”

“I’m not your enemy. Not today. But train like I might be tomorrow.”

“Careful. You’re starting to enjoy this a little too much.”

“You think you can beat me? Prove it.”

“You learn fast. But I hit faster.”

“No talking. Just blades.”

“Each strike tells me more about you than your words ever could.”

“Are we sparring or settling something?”

“I said train, not try to kill me.”

“Your stance is perfect. Shame about the hesitation.”

“You’re bleeding. Still want to keep going?”

“This isn’t over. We just paused it.”

“Getting close doesn’t mean winning.”

“The floor loves you today. How many times will you kiss it?”

“Pain is just honesty from your body.”

“Try that move again. Slower. I want to see why it failed.”

“You hide behind form. Real fighters bleed.”

“I’m not impressed by technique. Only survival.”

“Your anger makes you predictable.”

“Don’t flirt with your opponent unless you can block while blushing.”

“Oh, you meant to fall like that?”

“We’re not done until someone can’t stand.”

“Training with you is like dancing on the edge of a blade.”

“Is that a sword or an extension of your ego?”

“You hesitate before every strike. Why?”

“Your hands shake. That fear’s still in you.”

“The closer you get, the less you see. Keep your distance.”

“You’ve improved. But I still see the boy behind the blade.”

“One day, you’ll beat me. Just not today.”

“You strike like you want to be seen. Real warriors strike like shadows.”

"You keep getting this close… is it my blade you’re after, or my breath?"

"You're flushed. Is it the fight, or the way I look at you between strikes?"

"Careful—if you keep pinning me like that, I might start to enjoy losing."

"Every time we touch steel, you shiver. Admit it—you crave this."

"Your grip faltered. Did my voice distract you again?"

"Harder. Or are you saving your strength for something else tonight?"

"I can hear your heartbeat. Fast. Wild. Not from fear, though… is it?"

"You breathe like we’ve already tangled in the dark—and not just with swords."

"Keep whispering in my ear during combat and I might forget which weapon I’m holding."

"If you want me on my knees, just say so. You don’t have to disarm me first."

PROMPTS.

Two rivals are forced to spar alone for the first time since a bitter argument.

One fighter begins to pull punches—until the other calls them a coward.

A training match gets interrupted when one draws real blood on accident... or was it?

The master and student swap roles mid-spar, revealing secrets.

A sarcastic remark mid-fight sparks a dangerous escalation.

They lock swords—too close, breathing fast, tension crackling between them.

One fighter is injured but refuses to stop. The other hesitates.

Training in the rain turns messy, slippery—and harder to resist each other.

During drills, one whispers something distracting, causing a mistake.

The match ends when someone is disarmed and ends up pinned.

After a harsh blow, the silence between them is louder than the impact.

A bet is placed: if one wins, the other must do something embarrassing.

One fighter keeps losing on purpose—for a reason they won’t say.

A bystander watches the match, clearly affecting one fighter's confidence.

The match was meant to be a formality—but neither pulls punches.

One grabs the other’s wrist mid-strike and doesn’t let go.

Training weapons get swapped mid-match—testing adaptability.

They practice close-combat, and the proximity flusters one of them.

A mistake leads to an awkward fall—someone lands on top of the other.

Someone uses an unexpected move that only a specific teacher would have taught.

They mimic each other’s movements, until one gets frustrated.

Sparring becomes a silent argument—no words, just strikes.

A third person comments from the sidelines, stirring jealousy.

A fighter wins with a trick, and the loser storms off—pride wounded.

One fighter keeps using a move the other dislikes—on purpose.

The match is over, but they keep going.

After sparring, neither speaks, but both keep glancing back.

A sudden shift—sparring turns into a real fight.

The tension finally snaps, and a kiss replaces the next blow.

They train late at night, when no one’s watching.

One accuses the other of holding back feelings during sparring.

Their blades clash repeatedly in rhythm—like a dance they’ve done before.

Sweat drips, bruises bloom—but neither yields.

One drops their weapon and dares the other to continue unarmed.

Sparring ends with someone flat on the ground, laughing instead of angry.

[anakinstwinklebunny]

PAIRING: mafia!anakin x f!reader

FLUFF ❦

You were halfway through trying to decipher some ancient-looking Italian cooking book that was spread open over the kitchen island. Your fingers were smudged with flour, your cheek covered in white powder from you brushing the strands of hair from your face with dirty hands. Your voice was all soft and confused as you read out loud with a frown, “Okay, wait—‘aggiungere un pizzico di sale’… that means… add a pinch of salt? Right? Right? It must be salt..”

Have you mentioned that the counter was also a mess? With the flour dusting like little sparkles of snow in the air, cracked eggshells swaying at the corner, and a half-chopped onion you were pretending not to cry over glared at you from where it stood. And somewhere behind you, the low sound of footsteps padded across the tile. Of course you were too busy, too rushed in your own thoughts to even hear anything but the italian words mixing in between with your native ones in your mind.

“Yeah, amore mio,” came that deep, velvet voice from behind you, causing a small shiver send up your spine. “A pinch of salt. Not the whole damn jar.”

You gasped in shock before twisting your neck to the side to see the face of a man who almost gave you a heart attack. A silent i'll kill you spread over your expression as you were met with his proud little smirk. His arms had already wrapped around your waist, pulling you into the warmth of his body like a you were some kind of force he couldn’t resist. He buried his face into the crook of your neck with a content little sigh, his voice muffled and dripping with adoration. “God, you smell like garlic and heaven.” lips brushed over your pulse point - lazy, slow kisses like your skin was the holiest thing he’d ever tasted.

“Ani-” you started, half-laughing, “I’m literally trying to make your nonna’s dish here. And remember, you told me she used to smack people with a wooden spoon for distractions in the kitchen.”

He only hummed into your skin, tightening his grip slightly as he swayed the both of you in place without any care about your culinary ambitions you tried to fulfill. “Mm. I’ll risk it,” he mumbled. “You studying my culture like this? Getting flour all over the counter, reading off bad Google translations with your little furrowed brow?” He groaned softly. “That’s hot, sweetheart. So hot.”

You tried to wriggle away just enough to stir the bubbly sauce in the pot, but he didn’t let you go. At least not fully. Those large, mainly hands still stayed firmly on your waist, thumbs grazing the curve of your hips through the fabric of his T-shirt you’d stolen that morning. His mouth ghosted over your shoulder, breath warm. “You don’t get it,” he said quietly, letting his hand slip underneath the shirt, making a bubbly giggle burst through your mouth. “This? You trying to learn my family’s food? My language? It does something to me.”

A light pause.

“You could’ve asked me for help, you know.”

You snorted, finally reaching to stir the sauce. “You’re the worst backseat chef. You hover and judge.”

“I adore you,” he whispered into your neck, voice suddenly turning into more raw and raspy, swollen lips brushing over your skin with every spoken word “that’s not the same as judging.”

“Besides, ti amo, dolcezza,” he whispered. “Even when you burn the garlic.”

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[pervoshi]

SENTRY!BOB . drabble

is this incredibly ooc? yeah a Little, however! it was worth soooo . . .

sentry, who has you pinned against the wall, one hand knuckles deep inside of you, the other covering your mouth so valentina can’t hear how loudly you’re whining out for him.

he couldn’t help himself, the way you so stupidly thought he wouldn’t find you hiding inside his tower? did you really find him that dumb?

the thunderbolts helplessly waiting for you to signal, not knowing you’re currently getting your insides rearranged by the man that not even a day ago was a fidgeting, anxious mess.

bob wasn’t bob anymore, he was someone else completely — someone you didn’t recognize.

“b—bob please—,”

“didn’t i say to call me sentry?”

right, this wasn’t bob at all actually, it was sentry, the almighty hero — well, as heroic as someone can be when their hand is down their ex-coworkers pants.

“not c—calling you that,”

“excuse me?”

bob— sentry’s free hand pressed into your neck, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to keep you check.

“you wanna try that again?”

god, he was hot.

too fucking hot that it was driving you insane.

“s—sentry, sentry!”

you had to speed this up, the sounds of your teammates worrying voices in your ear making you panic, knowing they’d start making their way up if you didn’t give a response.

sentry could see the way your eyes flickered between him, his hand in your pants, and the elevator just down the stairs.

it was cute, the way you tried to act scared when in reality this was exactly what you could ever hope for.

“you scared they’re gonna come up and see you like this—,”

he pushed his fingers further, curling them more, brushing right against your sweet spot.

“a mess, dripping all over me,”

you bit into your lip, hands curling into balls against the drywall, eyes closing as you tried so hard to swallow any moan clawing at your throat.

“no, don’t do that,”

sentry’s hand still on your neck slid up to pry open your mouth, keeping his thumb pressed against the plump of your bottom lip to keep it open.

“let me hear how good i’m making you feel.”

it shocked you just how mouthy he was being, this confidence seemingly coming out of thin air.

maybe it was his ego talking, knowing just how much power he had now, especially over you, his strength reaching new heights he had no idea he possessed.

valentina did say he was as strong as god, so why not make the most of that?

“i think, after this mission,”

you felt him lift your head slightly, eyes now looking directly into his, a cynical grin on his face.

“i’ll keep you here with me, in this tower,”

his fingers sped up, now ramming into you at a pace you’d never experienced, your legs starting shake from the sensation.

“just so i can play with you whenever i want.”

“b—,”

sentry’s eyes flashed a deep yellow, a warning to you if you even uttered that name.

his thumb came up to lazily rub your clit, your body arching slightly as your impending release was slowly building, the warmth bubbling in your stomach.

“s—sentry, i’m—!”

“close? i can tell, she’s clenching around me.”

why did he have to be so cocky about it? it didn’t help how incredibly turned on it was making you —him, having so much control over you.

sentry’s hand, not on your cunt, moved to grope the flesh of your tits, pinching your nipples through the material of your suit.

“oh my go—!”

he chuckled, leaning his head forward so his lips were pressed right against your ear, teeth nipping at the skin ever so lightly.

“yeah, i am your god, aren’t i?”

holy fuck.

your orgasm washed over you like a wave, body shaking, eyes rolling, voice breaking as you flew your hand onto sentry’s wrist.

sentry could feel his cock straining against the annoyingly tight fabric of his suit, the way you so quietly whimpered out his name made him resist the urge to turn you around and fuck you right there.

“go—,”

an elevator ding, followed by the sound of valentina’s voice echoing through the room.

“how crazy is it to think of all the monumental fights that happened exactly here where you’re standing?”

he quickly pulled his fingers from you, looking at the sticky substance before raising them to you lips, pushing against them slightly.

“c’mon, open up.”

you let him slide them into your mouth, tongue licking away your slick from them, trying to hold back any noises that could slip from you.

sentry pulled them out quickly, hearing the thunderbolts move around, voices bickering with one another.

he gave your cheek a couple soft taps, taking a few steps away before turning back, eyes trailing over your fucked our body.

“guess you should clean up before going back down there, huh?”

this cheeky fucking bastard.

[daeniradraconis]

can i req a auston matthews x reader where they are in a like semi-secret relationship and the whole team is at a bar dancing after a big win and they are just in their own world dancing together

Sorry darling, this took me way too long, but I hope you’re going to like this🫶

Warm and Sneaky

You’re warm from the drinks — flushed cheeks, heavy limbs, a soft buzz spreading through your chest — but your fingers are still cold. Not frozen, just that stubborn kind of chill that clings after a long night out. The bar isn’t technically cold, but the music’s too loud, your legs are aching, and it’s the kind of late where everything starts to feel dreamlike — a little loose around the edges.

And then there’s Auston.

Just standing a few feet away like it's nothing — hoodie slung over his broad shoulders, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, tattoos winding lazily over the muscle of his forearms. One hand curls around a half-finished drink, the other tucked into his pocket, like he’s settled in for the night with nowhere better to be.

He radiates warmth. Not just because of the fleece hoodie — though that oversized thing practically begs to be stolen — but because he is warmth. The kind that settles deep, that lingers. The kind of heat that feels like it was made just for you.

His skin holds the soft gold of a late July afternoon, still sun-kissed even in the dead of winter. His eyes are brown and slow-burning — the kind that melt like caramel or whiskey left too long on your tongue. His black hair is a little messy, falling over his forehead in a way that softens him further, especially when he leans in and looks at you like you’re the only person in the room.

And then there’s his body — broad, steady, the kind that makes you feel small just by proximity. Protective without trying. He’s a human furnace you want to curl up against. And you don’t even question the need to be near him — it feels natural. Instinctual. Like gravity.

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the hour.

Or maybe it’s just him.

Because even though he’s doing nothing special — just standing there, hoodie loose around his frame, that easy look on his face — your body’s already moving. Pulled toward him.

You don’t stop to overthink it.

Your fingers twitch.

And then you reach for the hem of his hoodie.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t step back. Just arches a brow as your cold hands catch the edge of the fabric.

“What are you doing?” he asks, entirely without protest.

“Getting warm,” you say, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Don’t move.”

There’s a flicker in his eyes — amusement, maybe surprise — but no resistance. If anything, he’s just waiting to see what you’ll do next. And he loves this — loves when you take what’s already yours.

So you slide your arms around his waist and duck under the hoodie from below like you own the place. It hikes up a little, your face emerging just beneath the neckline, eyes bright as you glance up at him.

The scent of him hits you all at once — clean laundry, cedar, something sharper from his cologne, and something else that’s just him. Familiar. Warm in the way memories are.

He laughs, startled and soft, his chest rising under your cheek as his arms instinctively lift to give you space.

“Jesus,” he mutters, his voice vibrating through your whole body. “You’re insane.”

“I’m freezing!”

“Your nose is freezing,” he says, incredulous. “I can feel it on my skin.”

“That’s literally the point.” You tilt your head, peeking up at him again, chin resting lightly against his sternum. The hoodie’s all bunched around you both now, like a tent. “You’re big. I like it.”

You nuzzle your cheek against him, chasing the heat, and feel the deep breath he draws in response. He’s still got that half-amused smile — the lazy one that says he’s mildly annoyed but completely gone for you.

“I’ll get you a new one,” you mumble, smug and cozy. “Since I’m clearly stealing this one in broad daylight.”

That earns a real laugh — sharp, involuntary — one of those ones that bursts out of him before he can help it.

“Absolutely not,” he says. “This is my favorite Patagonia hoodie.”

“What? Why not?” you grin, poking his chest. “I’ll get you something better.”

“You have terrible taste in hoodies.”

“I do not.”

“You do,” he insists, dipping his chin so his face is closer to yours. “You bought Willy that one that said ‘Chill Daddy’ in glitter letters.”

“It was ironic!”

“It was traumatizing.”

You laugh into his chest, the hoodie slipping further over your head as you burrow in. His hands settle against your back, anchoring you there as the two of you sway slightly where you stand.

“I’m serious,” you say, voice muffled against his shirt. “I’ll get you one from that pretentious LA store you like. With the stupid long sleeves and the tags that itch.”

“You mean Balenciaga,” he deadpans.

“Exactly! See? I know your taste.”

“I don’t want a pity hoodie from someone who wore cowboy boots with a silk skirt last week.”

“They were cute!”

“They were a cry for help.”

“Oh please — I’m not taking fashion advice from a man who wears a paperclip as an earring.”

“Right. Coming from Miss Socks-with-Sandals. Are you sure you wanna start this conversation?”

You gasp, all mock outrage, and give him a dramatic thump on the chest. He catches your hand mid-swing, lacing your fingers together without even thinking. Your hand ends up sandwiched between his and the heat of his chest, and you fall quiet for a moment.

Still tucked under the hoodie, you look up at him, eyes soft.

“You’re really not gonna let me replace it?”

“Nope.”

“Even though I’m literally inside it like a human backpack right now?”

“Especially because of that.”

There’s a pause. A long, slow beat of shared breath, close space, and that look he gives you when he thinks you’re not paying attention — the one that’s so full of quiet affection it makes your stomach flip.

“I don’t want a new one,” he says, voice low. “I like this one. With you in it.”

You break into the stupidest, softest grin, your whole face lighting up before you can stop it. You press a gentle kiss against his chest, right over where his heart beats steady and strong.

“I love you, Papi.”

“I love you too, Mami.”

---

From across the bar, the new guys are watching.

It’s not exactly intentional — more like inevitable. Because how do you not look when someone is crawling inside the team captain’s hoodie like it’s their own personal shelter?

Scott Laughton narrows his eyes, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. “Okay, am I drunk,” he mutters to Brandon Carlo, “or is she literally... inside his hoodie?”

Carlo doesn’t respond right away. He’s too busy staring. Auston’s just standing there — big and steady, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other loosely resting on your back like it belongs there. You’re fully bundled up inside his clothes, face peeking out from the neckline like this is the most obvious, casual thing in the world.

“I thought they weren’t a thing,” Carlo says finally, brows furrowed. “She’s Nylander’s sister, right?”

“Yeah,” Scott says. “Yeah, she is.”

They both slowly turn to look at the booth behind them, where the rest of the Leafs are hanging out like this is just another Tuesday. Mitch is scrolling TikTok. Morgan’s sipping his beer. William — your older brother — is chewing his dinner slowly, completely unbothered.

“Hey,” Scott says, gesturing toward the scene across the bar. “Do you guys see that?”

Mitch glances up lazily. “Yeah?”

“That’s not weird to you?” Carlo asks. “She’s practically in his hoodie.”

Willie doesn’t even look. “She’s probably just cold.”

“She’s always cold,” Morgan adds, smirking into his drink.

“No, like—” Scott waves a hand. “That’s not just cold. That’s...that’s domestic. Like I’m watching a Hallmark movie in real time.”

“They’re like this all the time,” Mitch shrugs. “Nothing new.”

Carlo stares. Auston shifts his stance slightly, adjusting to your weight like he’s done it a thousand times. Your head’s resting just under his chin now, and you look… safe. Like you’re home.

“She’s in his clothes,” Scott emphasizes. “That’s not a casual-friend move.”

“Oh no,” Morgan agrees, “they’re definitely in love.”

“But they say they’re not,” Mitch says, grinning.

“And they’re extremely bad at lying,” adds Jarnkrok, like it’s a known fact. “But they’re committed to it.”

“Wait,” Carlo says, glancing again at Willie, “you’re just... okay with it? That’s your sister, man.”

Willie finally looks up, shrugs. “She’s happy. He’s good to her.”

Scott looks back at you and Auston. Auston’s rubbing slow, lazy circles against your back now, eyes half-lidded, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. You’re tucked under his chin, arms locked around his middle, completely still — not speaking, not even moving — like the entire world has narrowed down to just this one, quiet space.

And it’s silent. Just stolen glances, the occasional flicker of a smile, and the way you sway slightly like music’s still playing just for you.

“This is crazy,” Carlo whispers, like he’s witnessing a miracle. “They really think they’re being subtle?”

Willie pops another fry into his mouth. “Oh yeah. Total stealth mode.”

“They’re not even talking,” Scott says. “They’re just... standing there. Together.”

“They do that a lot,” Mitch replies, casually reaching over to steal a piece of meat off William’s plate. “No words. Just cuddling.”

“Nobody even care anymore” Morgan adds, nodding in agreement.

“They never say anything,” Mitch says, rolling his eyes. “Ask them and it’s always—” he lifts his fingers to make exaggerated air quotes, “—‘good friends.’”

Carlo rubs a hand down his face. “This is like watching two golden retrievers try to keep a secret.”

“You should see them on road trips,” Jarnkrok jumps in again. “She joined the physio team last year, and since then, they’ve been inseparable. On the plane, she’s always the first to curl up on his shoulder or lap, headphones shared, totally knocked out while he zones out or watches game footage. When Auston’s stressed before a big game, she’s the only one who can calm him down — a quick forehead kiss or a few quiet words, and he’s ready to focus again. They grab meals together in the team hotel, swapping bites and teasing each other about their routines. She knows exactly how he likes his pre-game coffee and when he needs a break. And don’t even get me started on their hoodie exchange — it’s basically a running joke that half his merch ends up on her.”

Scott is still staring. “And you’re all just... fine with this?”

Willie shrugs again. “Auston doesn’t mess around. If it wasn’t real, he wouldn’t be touching her like that.”

Across the bar, Auston leans down and presses a soft kiss to the top of your head. You don’t even react — like it’s muscle memory. Like it’s happened a hundred times.

“Alright, this is starting to be a little too much,” Mitch grumbles, squinting like the sheer force of his disgust might shatter you two apart. “There’s cute, and then there’s I might barf cute—and we’ve definitely crossed that line.”

“Isn’t that just called love, Mitchell?” Morgan drawls, not looking up from his drink.

“It’s called unfair,” Mitch mutters. “Steph’s back in Toronto with the baby and I’m stuck here watching them make eyes at each other like nobody else exists. I feel abandoned.”

“You trying to stop them with dirty looks and it won’t work,” Mo adds. “You’ve tried, like a hundred times. They’re in too deep. It’s a lost cause.”

Willie lifts his glass, the corner of his mouth twitching with a barely-there smile. “Let them be.”

Across the bar, Auston shifts slightly, one hand resting low on your back, the other tucking more of his hoodie around your shoulders like it’s his full-time job to keep you warm. You tilt your head against his chest without thinking, lips curved faintly, eyes shut.

“I miss Steph,” Mitch groans. “She’d be gagging with me right now.”

“She’d also be filming it,” Morgan adds, “and sending it to your mom. They made some bet on when Y/N and Auston are gonna break the news.”

“How do you even know that, man?” Mitch mutters.

“Tessa’s in on the bet too,” Morgan replies, a loving smile playing on his lips as he mentions his wife.

They all glance over again.

You’re practically asleep on your feet now, swaying slightly in Auston’s arms as he rubs lazy circles into your back. His chin rests on your head. You breathe in sync.

William smiles at the sight of you. His chest swells with a quiet, proud love watching you being so safe and so loved. After all, this is all a big brother could wish for. Auston looks up from holding you and catches William’s eye. His soft smile twists into a cocky, playful grin — like he’s silently saying, Yeah, I’m lucky, and I know it. William shakes his head with a quiet laugh, the kind that holds respect and a little bit of fond amusement. No words are needed — just a shared understanding and the unspoken bond they both have for you.

[rexhya]

What if the prince found out we were terminally ill and coughing blood and wasn’t suspected to live more then 6 months?

yandere!prince who doesn't initially notice the changes to your body. even he who watched you like a hawk couldn't detect the subtle differences from when he'd first seen your light sickness to when it was too late.

The trouble started up about a month ago, you'd contracted a cold from one of the other maids, that was nothing special. In fact, your other symptoms went away not long after but the hacking stayed persistent. You gone to see a general medic but he'd simply said it was a bad cough.

How wrong it was of you to trust him. "Are you still alright?" Anul asked, the two of you were in his room, his head resting on your lap as you ran cards through his hair.

"Yes I'm okay." Anul frowned, and flipped his body upwards so now he was facing you.

"You look pale, I should take you to Rosenwar. Rosenwar was the royal families personal doctor, she'd been serving the Royal Family for years, you had no place being tended to by someone of such importance.

"No, no that's quite alright, I've just been having allergies from the seasons changing that's all. There's no need for a doctor I'm quite alright." you patted Anul's hands as they cradled your face delicately. For a few moments he said nothing, simply stroking your cheek with his thumbs, his expression unreadable.

"Okay." he said, and his lips pressed to yours softly, it was the most innocent kiss you'd received from him in all the time you'd spent.

If only he knew it would be the last, he would have held It longer.

His coronation was only 3 weeks from now, days had passed without since that day in his bedroom and he was ready to be done with all the ceremonial and technical transfers from prince to king that kept him away from you.

Around 2pm in the afternoon, the hazy summer light falling into his bedroom, Anul found you on his bed, your back was turned and you were breathing so softly he almost didn't look at you, as to not wake you up.

But your sleeping face was never one he could resist. His heart fell into abysmal. Velvet red blood pooled at your mouth, it's why your breathing was so soft you were unconscious. He's frantic and scared at Rosenward examines you with her team of nurses, he's halfway into a heart attack when the doctor tells him you're most likely going to wake up today if not tomorrow.

He stays with you the entire time, abusing his power to keep the nurses on round the clock care for you, though your vitals never change and your heart never stops.

When you do finally open your eyes, Anul wants to scream at Rosenward, that wasn't today or tomorrow, it took a week for your body to recover from whatever horrible disease had gotten to it.

You look thin, Anul tries not to cry. "Sweetheart?" he asks tentatively, like speaking would somehow send you back into a week long coma only this time you'd never return.

"Water." you croak and the man brings you a glass within seconds.

Soon enough your body is examined, you contracted a rare disease from that maid, (one he's kept in mind to already kill). Mortuupulmonis only affected 1% of his kingdomes population, and worst of all, it had no cure.

He's wasted about two weeks of his coronation preparation time when he finds this out. The doctor estimated about a 6 months before he ran out of time. The coronation is post poned until then (his father is livid as usual) but Anul doesn't care not even in the slightest bit.

You get worse and worse everyday as Anul pours millions and millions of coin into finding a cure for you, he even goes international to make a statement and hopefully received something, anything but with not luck. He feels hopeless by month 3, your body is piratically crumbling at the seams and all he could do was watch. By month four he's broke, there was no more cures for him to spend, no more medicines to buy, there was nothing.

Nothing but you and your hosiptal bed srounned by things you loved.

"How you feeling today?" Anul whispers. "Mm." you haven't been much into talking these days.

He does his routine, clean your bedding, force feed you anything you'll take that day and check in with Rosenward on things you know didn't matter.

You were going to die, he knew it, you knew it, they both knew it.

On month six Anul doesn't renounce his coronation. Instead he stays by you side until the very end, even after youve took your last breath, Anul would probably stay with you until l your body rotted.

If only he knew. He would've kissed you harder.

[delilahsturniolo]

— ♡ six thirty . . . c.s

in which . . . chris can’t resist fucking you in the morning

warnings . . . smut, cockwarming, unprotected sex, making out, praise, use of pet names, soft!dom!chris. (no somnophilia!!)

written by @delilahsturniolo. do not copy, steal, or modify my works. if you are taking any inspiration from this, please ask me first before posting and credit me in your description. happy reading! :)

POSITIONS WRITING MARATHON . . . fic #6

it’s 6:30 a.m. and the sun hasn’t fully risen yet. the room is bathed in soft blue-gray light, quiet except for the steady hum of the fan and the lazy rustle of sheets. your eyes are half-closed, still drifting somewhere between sleep and consciousness, and chris is beside you, warm, tousled, bare-chested. his arm is already draped over your waist, fingers curling slightly like they don’t know how to let go of you even in his sleep. he shifts a little, breath warm against your neck, and then… he kisses your shoulder. slow. soft. like it’s instinct. like his mouth just belongs there. “you awake?” he murmurs, voice gravelly, ruined by sleep. you hum, pressing your back against his chest. “barely.”

“mm. good,” he whispers, nosing along your jaw. “just stay right here.” you feel him smile against your skin before his lips find your neck, slow, warm, and unhurried. it’s not a kiss meant to wake you up. it’s a kiss that says i missed you even in my dreams. you turn to face him, eyes still heavy, and he looks wrecked in the prettiest way. messy hair, swollen lips, that sleepy look in his eyes that makes your stomach flutter.

“you always kiss me like that before sunrise?” you tease, voice soft. he grins, lazy and dangerous. “only when you sleep in my shirt.” you glance down, his shirt hangs off your shoulder, thin and wrinkled. no bra. just skin and fabric and heat building between you. “you gonna start something you can’t finish, chris?” you murmur. his hand slips under the shirt, fingers grazing your hip. “not a chance.”

the kiss starts slow, just a brush of lips, lazy and sweet. then he deepens it, one hand sliding to the back of your neck, the other gripping your waist like he needs you closer. your fingers curl into his hair, tugging just enough to pull a groan from his throat. he rolls you onto your back, never breaking the kiss, moving over you like he’s done it a thousand times. his knee slots between your thighs, his mouth claiming yours again, deeper, messier. your breaths start coming faster, mouths moving like you’ve got nowhere to be. because you don’t. “you know,” he mumbles against your lips, “we could sleep in…”

“you think i’m sleeping after that kiss?” he laughs, low and warm, and then kisses you again. and again. and again. hands exploring slowly, lips trailing fire down your neck, across your collarbone, under the hem of his shirt. every touch feels like a question he’s already answered a hundred times.

his shirt rides higher up your body with every kiss, and you swear it’s the only thing keeping you from coming completely undone. his hand slips beneath it, palm warm against your stomach, fingers skimming slow, lazy circles that have you squirming underneath him. “you’re so warm,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “so soft…” you tug at his waistband, fingertips teasing just under the hem of his boxers, and he hisses through his teeth, forehead dropping to yours, breath hot. “careful,” he warns, voice low and strained. “you’re gonna make me forget how to be gentle.”

“maybe i don’t want gentle,” you whisper. that’s all it takes.

he exhales sharply, eyes flicking to yours for permission, just a flicker. and you nod, already pulling him closer, already lifting your hips to meet him. the shirt is gone first. his hands tug it up and off in one smooth motion, tossing it somewhere over his shoulder. his eyes rake down your body like he’s been starving, like this is something he’s craved in secret every damn night you’ve slept next to him. and then he’s on you again, mouth on your chest, your stomach, your thighs. kissing, biting, marking you slowly. you moan into his hair, fingers tangling, pulling him closer as he takes his time with every inch of skin like it’s something sacred.

“fuck, chris,” you whisper, breath catching. he smirks against your skin. “yeah, baby? you like that?” you nod and grab his jaw, pulling him up to kiss you again, this time desperate. teeth, tongue, heat. it’s sloppy, breathless, perfect. he groans into your mouth, grinding into you with just enough pressure to make your thighs shake. he kisses you hard, and this time, there’s no teasing. no waiting. he lines himself up with your entrance, eyes locked on yours, and when he pushes himself in, you both gasp. the stretch. the heat. the way he fills you like he was made for you.

he moves slow at first, deep, deliberate, his name spilling from your lips like prayer. every thrust pulls another sound from you, every grind of his hips makes you arch and cling to him harder. he’s everywhere, in everything. the morning light catching on his skin, the rough groan in your ear, the hand on your thigh keeping you wide open for him. “chris..” you mumble, his thrusts nice and slow.

“you feel unreal,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “you are unreal.” you kiss him before you can say something too soft. but he already knows. he always knows. you reach that edge and cum together, his pace quickens, your legs tighten around him, and the air fills with broken moans and whispered curses. when it hits, it’s not just physical. it’s electric. overwhelming. consuming. like you’ve given in to something that’s been building for so long. afterward, he doesn’t move right away. just collapses against you, both of you still panting, bodies tangled and sticky and flushed.

“so…” he says eventually, grinning. “this our new morning routine?” you laugh, lips brushing his shoulder. “if it is, i’m never leaving this bed again.”he hums, trailing lazy fingers down your spine. “let me just keep my cock in you, yeah?” chris smiles, his cum and his length still stuffed inside you. and with the sun barely rising, chris wrapped around you like gravity, and your body still buzzing from him.

© delilahsturniolo

💌: shittt i missed my opportunity to do the greatest thing ever and post this at 6:30 am but i slept in!! 😭

[urinarythreatinfection]

Hair

a/n: I like writing fluff, it makes me happy.

Shanks x GN!reader. 921 words. Post-Loguetown.

“I gave the straw hat to Luffy but now my head looks a bit empty…” Shanks thinks to himself as he looks in the mirror. He tries to run his left hand through his hair, realizing once again that it’s gone. “Shit, I need to get used to this.” He doesn’t regret saving Luffy one bit, he’d sacrifice his arm again if he were to go back in time, but it is proving to be more and more troublesome missing an entire arm; especially his dominant one. “Can I even cut it now? It’ll take a while before I have the precision again to trim this.” So many new issues to deal with, and he’s had the hat for so long he looks weird and plain without it. ‘Maybe I should grow out my hair a bit, but taking care of it seems like a hassle.’ Despite all these ideas, he sighs. ‘I’ll think about it.’

_______________________

Shanks walks outside onto the deck and notices you talking with Benn, he freezes. Right, you left Loguetown with him. You said yes and joined his crew. That thought makes him giddy and he wants to talk to you but he stops when he hears the conversation.

“So, what looks do you like in a man?” Beckman’s asking your type… Well, it’s not like the deck is strictly for you two. He slowly makes his way back to where he was, slowly hiding behind one of the masts.

“Looks, hm?” You put a hand on your chin, pondering. “I’m not too strict about what I find attractive but if I had to have a preference I do like men bigger than me.” The corner of Shanks’s mouth twitches up. Not to toot his own horn but he is taller than you. However, it quickly goes down when you continue. “Something about the way they can envelop me feels warm. A nice hug, their arms around me, it just feels very safe.” Arms. Ah.

‘They didn’t mean it like that.’ The redhead tries to tell himself, but it’s not working. Another new thing he has to deal with. He lost his arm, his dominant one. He can’t keep you as safe as before, envelop you like before. His expression darkens.

“Red hair too.” He’s snapped out of his moping. “The shade matching their personality would be nice too. A deep red for a passionate person.” Shanks thinks of his hair, he’s plenty passionate, and his hair is a deep red. “Also, maybe this is a bit unpopular, but I actually prefer men with hair on the longer side.” Long!?

“Are you hitting on me?” Beckman jokes and you laugh a little. Shanks panics, he doesn’t know how he could take care of long hair with one non-dominant arm.

“You do look handsome, so maybe I am.” The length based on their personality is nice too, for you your hair length is perfect.” He can’t listen to this. “For a more elegant man, hair to the mid back is nice.” It turns out Beckman is your type. “But, for a rouge-ish man like I mentioned it definitely has to be hair a little above or to the shoulders. Just enough to put it into a little ponytail, basically. It always looks so perfect that I have to resist the urge to stare.” Your cheeks tint at the thought and Shanks’s heart starts to quicken. He could handle hair at that length, not too hard.

“Red hair and a rogue-ish appearance. Reminds me of someone. Though he’s missing the hair length.” Beckman’s eyes glance at Shanks’s hiding spot, he’s been caught! The captain flinches and makes his escape to the back deck via speed walking. While he walks a smile forms on his face. Longer hair. He can work with that.

______________________

Shanks has been growing his hair out. Well it’s not surprising considering it would be hard to trim the way he used to with one hand, but you still didn’t expect it; especially since he’s mentioned before that anything not short would be a hassle to take care of.

“(Y/n)” You sit on the grass at an island, looking up to see your captain casting a shadow over your face. “Photosynthesizing?”

“I’m shocked you know that word.” You joke and he laughs, sitting next to you.

“I’m a real scholar.” He looks into your eyes and you smile back. Maybe you’re biased but he looks better with longer hair, your eyes keep gravitating to him. “Do I have something on my face?” He teases.

“You look handsome.” You state and his eyes widen. He didn’t expect you to just say it.

“R-Really!?” He grimaces at his stutter but your smile gets wider.

“Mhm, you look better with your hair longer like this. I like it a lot.” Shanks manages to regain his composure, smirking.

‘Wow~ Don’t fall for me too quickly.” He winks and you laugh.

“I’ll try, but if you steal my heart I’ll have no choice but to take yours. It’s only fair~”

___________________

That night Shanks looks into the mirror in his room, your words repeating in his head.

“If you steal my heart I'll have no choice but to take yours.”

His cheeks flush, what a funny thing to say when you already have it. “I’m the one trying to get one back” Shanks sighs and flops onto his bed stomach first. A moment passes.

“You look handsome.”

“I like it a lot.”

"Hehehehehehe" He giggles, rolling around on his bed.

I offer you.. a small cute shanks drabble. Hope you like! The 3rd scenario with the old men and male reader will be posted tomorrow, obvi, so the people who wanted don't worry :D

[dina-winchester]

Drunk Shenanigans ²

Read part one here

Pairing: Dean x you | Established relationship

Summary: Dean’s the one who gets hammered this time.. oops

Warning: cuteness overload, tiny bit of insecurity (cause we know how Dean gets sometimes), fluff, caretaker reader, no use of Y/N

A/N: I wish I could take care of him like this for real… sigh.. anyway, I really hope you like this one! Let me know what you think :)

Dean stumbles back into the motel room, boots scuffing loudly against the tile, keys rattling as he misses the hook on the wall three times before clattering to the floor. You barely manage to catch the door before it slams.

“Whoooa,” he laughs, grinning wide as he turns toward you, arms flopping open like he might sweep the whole room into a hug. “There she is. My girl. My—my…” He squints at you. “…My everything.”

You blink. “Dean, how much did you drink?”

He holds up four fingers. “Not that much.”

“Baby, that’s ten fingers.”

He stares at his hands like they betrayed him. “…Shit.”

You walk over, steadying him as he starts to lean—right into you, all six feet of warm, sleepy, drunken Winchester, your arms wrapping around him instinctively, steadying him. “You smell like a bar floor.”

Dean hums and nuzzles into your neck like a damn cat. “You smell like heaven. Like cinnamon and calm. Like I’d fall asleep inside you if I could.”

You snort softly, threading your fingers into his hair. “Jesus, honey.”

He grins against your skin. “Marry me.”

“Maybe when you stop smelling like cheap whiskey and regret.”

“’S fair,” he mumbles, words slurring now.

You laugh despite yourself, wrapping an arm around him as he sways. “C’mon, let’s get you outta those boots, baby.”

He resists weakly, arms winding tight around you like he thinks he’s strong right now. “Nooo, no, wait—wait—I didn’t tell you. You’re the best thing. The best ever. Like if—if God made pie outta sunshine and sass? That’s you.”

You snort. “Pie?”

“I said what I said.”

You gently guide him toward the bed, and he flops onto it dramatically, limbs sprawled everywhere like a starfish. You kneel and start unlacing his boots, fingers patient, tender.

“Hey,” he says as you try to unlace it. “Y’know you’re too good for me, right?”

You pause, hands still on his boot, and lift your eyes to meet his. He looks so open in that moment. Raw. Breakable.

“Like, you… you’re all smart, and soft, and real nice to look at, and I’m just this—this mess,” he goes on, gesturing vaguely. “Just broken parts in a leather jacket.”

Your heart clenches, sudden and sharp, at how easy it is for him to believe that and you shake your head immediately, voice firm but soft. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

“No, it’s not,” you whisper, pulling off his boot and tossing it aside, then moving to the other. “You are loyal and brave and stubborn in all the right ways. You love harder than anyone I’ve ever met. You’re not broken, Dean. You’ve just… been through a lot. But that’s not the same thing.”

He stares at you and you swallow, heart tugging at the way his eyes suddenly look a little glassy.

You crawl up to sit next to him after removing his other boot and cup his cheek, thumb brushing gently over the stubble along his jaw. “You are so much more than what you think.”

He reaches for you, fingers fumbling until he catches your hand and tugs you to lay down onto the bed beside him. “I don’t say it enough. I love you, like… love you. With all my stupid, stubborn, monster-huntin’ heart.”

You smile softly, brushing his hair back from his face. “I know, baby. And I love you, with all of mine.”

He leans in, pressing a clumsy kiss to your cheek, then your jaw, missing your mouth entirely. “Good. Gotta remind you. Don’t let me forget, okay?”

You settle in beside him, pulling the blanket over both of you and curling your fingers through his.

“Never,” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his temple.

He’s asleep within minutes—snoring, one arm slung protectively over your waist, mouth slightly open.

You stroke his hair once more, settling in close.

And you know in the morning, he’s gonna pretend none of this happened.

But you’ll remember. Every messy, lovable, hammered word.

And as you lie there, watching him breathe, you make a silent promise: You’ll always remind him who he is—until he believes it, too.

[cabotinheels]

— FILTHY TEXTS — c.novak x g!p sugar baby

PREMISE: You spend your afternoon sending Casey Novak filthy photos and videos of your aching cock while she’s trapped in court, slowly unravelling her composure. By the time she gets home, you’re already a desperate mess — and she’s about to ruin you for it.

WARNINGS: sugar mommy casey, sugar baby reader, oral sex, sexts, nudes, teasing, casey spanks reader, dirty talk, use of cigarettes and mention of alcohol, g!p reader, reader is basically a spoiled brat, unspecified legal age gap, mention of masturbation, bodily fluids, mommy kink.

WORD COUNT: 2.3K

You start early. A grainy mirror selfie in the bathroom, phone angled just right to capture the thick, heavy length of your cock resting against your thigh, half-hard and teasing. The caption reads: thinking about your mouth, Mommy.

You know Casey’s in court today, probably standing in front of some smug defense attorney, giving them that sharp, unimpressed stare that makes juries fall in love with her. You imagine her phone vibrating in her pocket. That small flicker of her brow when she feels it. The way she has to resist checking, even though she already knows it’s you.

An hour later, you send a short video. You’re sprawled out in her favorite chair in the bedroom, the one upholstered in deep burgundy velvet, cock thick and flushed in your hand. You stroke yourself slow, precum beading at the tip, glistening against the pink head. The video cuts off right before you moan.

The next one’s mean. A close-up of your cock pressing against the waistband of your underwear, straining, wet patch spreading. Your voice, a low, breathy whine: I wish you were here. Wish it was your pussy instead of my hand.

You can practically picture her in the courthouse hallway, somewhere between cross-examinations, her jaw tight, phone angled toward her chest as she checks the message in secret. She’d have to clear her throat, keep her expression neutral. Maybe grip the railing of the staircase a little too hard. She’s so composed, so precise. But you know you’re breaking her.

By three o’clock, you can’t take it anymore. Another video, longer this time. You’re lying on the bed, legs spread, cock in hand, thrusting up into your own fist. Skin slapping, your voice low and wrecked as you mutter fuck, Casey… fuck, Mommy… over and over. The head of your cock is a glossy pink, thick veins pulsing along the shaft, every inch begging for her.

You know she’s still at work. Probably stuck in her office, door locked, one hand between her thighs under the desk while she listens to your voice through her phone’s speaker, trying not to pant out loud. You can imagine it so clearly it makes you ache.

Your cock’s thick, long enough to push against your lower stomach when you’re fully hard, flushed a deep, needy red, the skin tight and hot. You keep getting yourself right to the edge and pulling back, just to drag it out, make yourself desperate for her.

And you are desperate. Desperate to feel her tight little pussy wrapped around you. To have her ride you, pin you down, pull your hair and call you her filthy little slut while you fuck up into her.

You send one last text: Come home, Casey. I’m gonna fill you so good, you’ll forget your name.

When you hear her key in the door an hour later, you’re already waiting on the bed, cock flushed and aching, precum glistening at the tip.

And the look on her face when she walks in?

Worth every second.

The second that door creaks open, you know it’s her. The way her heels click against the hardwood, the low rustle of her coat as she shrugs it off onto the hook — every sound is sharp, deliberate, like it’s meant for you.

You’re sprawled out on the couch, a lazy, smug grin tugging at your lips, cigarette between your fingers, glass of whiskey in the other. The room’s dim, the only light a soft glow from the lamp beside you, bathing your skin in warmth. Your cock’s hard, flushed, heavy against your stomach, a bead of precum already glistening at the tip.

“Look at you,” Casey’s voice cuts through the room like a blade, thick with exhaustion and something darker, hungrier. She crosses the space between you with that slow, predatory gait she only gets when she’s about to ruin you. “You think just because you’re my sugar baby, you can get away with being a menace while I’m busting my ass in court all day?”

You smirk around the cigarette, tapping ash into the tray beside you. “Not my fault you’re so fuckin’ irresistible, Mommy.”

That earns you a sharp, warning look. “Up. Now.”

You scramble to your feet, half-drunk on whiskey and anticipation. She sits down on the couch, legs spread, crooking a finger to pull you over her lap. Your cock throbs at the rough scrape of her skirt against your stomach as you settle in place.

The first spank lands hard, her palm cracking against your ass with a sting that makes you hiss through your teeth.

“One,” you count, voice tight.

She lands another. Then another. Each hit sharper, meaner than the last, making your cock jerk against your stomach. By five, you’re grinding down on her thigh like a needy little thing. By eight, you’re panting. By ten, your skin’s hot and tender, but you don’t want her to stop.

“Ten,” you breathe, looking up at her through your lashes.

Casey smirks, sharp and wolfish, before her hand moves to your cock. She slaps the tip — quick, mean, just enough to make you jolt and groan — precum smearing across your stomach.

“Such a spoiled fucking brat,” she murmurs, palming your ass, squeezing hard. “Get up.”

You do, cock bobbing, desperate and leaking as you drop to your knees in front of her. She reaches for your cigarette, plucking it from the tray, lips wrapping around the filter. She inhales deep, the tip burning bright as she holds your gaze through the curl of smoke.

“Undress me,” Casey orders, voice low, dangerous.

You fumble with the buttons of her blouse, eager fingers brushing against soft skin. You mutter Mommy under your breath like a prayer, like a curse, like you’ll fall apart if you don’t say it.

She leans back, taking another drag, blowing smoke down at you as you push her blouse off her shoulders, undo the clasp of her bra, bare her perfect tits to your hungry eyes.

“Fucking obsessed,” you groan, leaning in to mouth at her skin.

“Did I say you could touch?” she snaps, grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking you back. “Finish undressing me. And maybe — if you behave — I’ll let you fuck me tonight.”

You swallow hard, cock twitching, and get back to work, unzipping her skirt, sliding it down her legs, your lips brushing every inch of skin you can get away with.

Mommy.

You’re gonna fucking ruin her. Or she’s gonna ruin you.

Either way, you’re both getting what you want.

Casey lets the cigarette hang between her lips, smoke curling up around her face, half-lidded eyes watching you like she owns you — because she fucking does. She always has.

“You can touch me now, baby,” she murmurs, voice rough, thick with smoke and power.

You don’t waste a second. Your hands go to her thighs, fingers sinking into soft, warm flesh as you lean in and take one of her perfect tits into your mouth. You suckle, tongue flicking over her nipple, feeling it pebble against your tongue. Her skin tastes like salt and perfume and something that’s just her, something you’ll never get enough of.

Casey hums around her cigarette, her fingers tangling in your hair. “That’s it. Good girl.”

You move to the other, sucking, licking, kissing, leaving your mark like you’re starving for it. Because you are. You’ve been desperate for her since the second you woke up this morning, your cock aching, your mouth dry for her skin.

You kiss down her stomach, lips brushing the curve of her hip as you spread her legs wider. And fuck — you’ll never get over it. Casey’s pussy is perfect. Slick, pink, already glistening from nothing but power and anticipation. The soft folds part so easy for you, her clit swollen, begging for your tongue.

You don’t care that she’s older. That she’s your sugar mommy. That she runs your entire fucking life with a text message and a loaded credit card. You love it. You crave it. The way she uses you. The way she ruins you and makes you thank her for it.

Your mouth latches onto her, tongue sliding through her folds, flattening against her clit in slow, filthy circles. She tastes like heaven and sin, warm and sweet, slick and intoxicating. You moan into her, sucking her clit into your mouth, flicking the tip of your tongue against it in quick, desperate little licks.

“God… fuck, baby,” Casey groans, hips rolling against your mouth, her hand tightening in your hair. “Eat my pussy, you fucking brat.”

You do. You eat her like you’ll never get to again. Like she’s the only thing keeping you alive. Tongue pushing inside her, curling, then pulling out to suck on her clit again. You don’t care about your cock throbbing between your legs, don’t care about the ache in your balls or the pulse of need that makes you want to hump the air. She said no, and you obey.

Your only job is making her come.

Her thighs start to shake. Her head tips back, cigarette still between her lips, smoke rising as she pants through gritted teeth.

“Oh fuck, yes, right there — don’t you fucking stop—”

You moan against her, tongue flicking her clit harder, faster, lips wrapping around it, sucking, your fingers digging into her thighs so tight you’ll leave bruises.

And then she’s coming, hips jerking, a sharp cry ripping from her throat as her pussy pulses against your tongue, soaking your mouth with slick. You ride it out, licking and sucking until she’s twitching, legs trembling around your head.

You don’t stop until she shoves your face away, hand in your hair, panting.

“Jesus Christ,” Casey mutters, pulling the cigarette from her lips, stubbing it out in the ashtray with a shaky hand. She looks down at you with that wrecked, satisfied grin. “You’re so fucking good at that.”

You grin up at her, chin shiny, cock leaking against your stomach.

“I live to serve, Mommy.”

And you mean it.

Casey’s still breathless when she grabs you by the hair and hauls you up for a kiss — all teeth and tongue and smoke, messy and desperate like she can’t get enough of you. Her tits press against yours, both of you slick with sweat, nipples hard and dragging against each other with every ragged breath. The sensation makes you whimper into her mouth, hips grinding up instinctively, cock throbbing between your bodies.

“On the floor,” she growls, pulling back just enough to nip at your bottom lip, voice so wrecked it makes your head spin.

You barely get a chance to drop down before she’s on you, straddling your hips, her thighs slick against yours, her pussy already dripping onto your cock. She grabs it at the base, her grip rough, thumb swiping over the leaking tip before lining herself up and sinking down in one tight, wet, perfect slide.

“Fuck, fuck,” you both groan in unison, your hands flying to her waist as you feel her stretch around you. Her pussy’s so hot, so tight, and it feels like it grips every goddamn inch of you as she takes you to the hilt.

Your tits bounce with every rock of her hips, both your nipples hard and flushed, brushing together every time she leans forward. You swear you could come from that alone — from the burn of her skin, the wet drag of your nipples catching, the slick heat of her pussy squeezing you.

Casey rides you like she owns you, her hands braced on your chest, hair falling around her face, the cigarette long forgotten. Every grind down makes both your tits bounce, the slap of skin and the slick sounds of her pussy swallowing your cock loud in the thick, smoky air.

“Oh fuck — Casey, you feel so good,” you whimper, your head tipping back as your hips start meeting hers, driving up into her harder.

She leans down, her lips against your ear, panting, her breath hot and ragged. “That’s it, baby. This is what you wanted, huh? Thought you could tease me all day and not get fucked stupid for it?”

You moan, wrapping your arms around her, your hands sliding over the curve of her ass, fingertips digging into soft flesh. Your cock throbs deep inside her, every thrust making your breasts press tight together before they bounce apart again, nipples catching, the friction making both of you gasp.

“Look at us,” she pants, grinding down harder, her clit dragging against your stomach. “Fucking perfect — look at these tits, bouncing while I wreck this cock.”

You both whimper at the same time when she clenches around you, the filthy, wet sound of her pussy milking your cock almost enough to make you lose it.

“Please,” you gasp, your voice cracking, eyes glassy. “Please let me come, Mommy — fuck, I’m so close — I need to fill you up.”

She grabs your face, nails biting into your jaw, those hazel eyes wild. “You don’t come until I say so. You hear me?”

You nod frantically, your whole body tight, cock aching so bad you swear you’re shaking. She grinds down faster, your hips stuttering up to meet hers, your tits bouncing with every thrust, both of you moaning now, skin sticking together from sweat.

“Now,” Casey growls, slamming down onto you one final time, grinding her clit against you as she starts to come, her pussy spasming around your cock.

You cry out, cock jerking inside her, thick, hot ropes spilling deep into her, filling her so full it leaks out around you. Your whole body shudders, your breathing ragged, your nipples tight and tingling from every rough brush of her skin.

“F-fuck, Mommy — fuck,” you gasp, holding her tight while you spill every drop she wrung out of you.

Casey stays there, panting against your neck, both your tits still rising and falling against each other with every ragged breath, sweat-slick and messy and perfect.

“Mine,” she mutters, biting your shoulder, and you whimper as your cock gives one last twitch inside her.

“Yours,” you breathe, voice breaking on it, already desperate for the next round.

[xaythefreak]

UGH PROWL uhm I got this idea while reading the asks about Prowl calling LL and cucking him

And uhm... some bot fucking you while being on call with Prowl. Though you talk to him like normal save for the occasional stutters, Prowl can definitely hear the sloppy plaps in the background and the bot moaning about how good you feel and if you're done calling the asshole yet so they could finally pound you to orgasm.

It pissed him off of course, enough to yell into the call about how much of a bastard that bot is and how he'd fly right there right now and kill him. But he can't deny how hot you sound right now getting fucked.

And right there in that moment, while on call still spewing threats towards the bot, he started fisting his spike and/or fingering his valve, unable to resist the pull of lust. Its not his fault! He just misses you so much...

tldr; cucking turns into 'reluctant' phone sex (while spewing abuse towards the bot who dared to fuck you)

OH GREAT HEAVENS!!!!!!!! /pos

depending on the type of bot it gets either 50 or 100% worse,, like imagine Prowl just calling you while your being railed by Rodimus and when your about to decline the call HE PICKS IT UP AND ANSWERS IT!!!!! he starts bragging about how much better he is at fucking you and how much you like him MORE than Prowl's stinky ass, Prowl would just be fucking PISSED!!!!!!!

on the other hand if it's someone like Rung, he'll still be extremely jealous (only HE is allowed to give you backshots /j), but Rung is just so damn respectful and apologetic while blowing your back out on the call that Prowl just reluctantly goes along with it

TARN RUBBING IT IN PROWLS FACE- he switches the call to face (with your permission ofc <33) just to gloat like "even someone as lowly as me is more worthy to fuck my god than you", either that or your calling Prowl while Tarn's getting pegged and he makes sure to moan a little bit louder than usual <3

Fortress Maximus would probably shove it in Prowl's face to- after everything Prowl has put him through he deserves to gloat that he's pumping you full of cum, as a treat <3

[wordsofwhimsy]

𝓘 𝓛𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒮𝑜

Pairing: Sinister!Mark Grayson x f!Reader

Warnings: Oh lord, where do I start… I don’t like saying non-con ‘cause that’s gross but… I mean, it’s Sinister, it’s kinda always that way with him isn’t it? Abuse (physical & emotional), reader’s held captive, cannibalistic implications

Tags: Yandere!Mark, Mark’s bipolar as hell, this is post-wasteland in an AU where he made it out alive

Word Count: 1,326 

Synopsis: Mark LOVES you – he swears he does. You just don’t understand it – you used to though. That’s okay. He’ll make you feel good – even if it’s through restraint and little bit of pain.

Inspiration: ‘Breezeblocks’ by Alt-J

a/n: this shit is sooo dark & twisted please ONLY READ if you’re really ‘bout that FUCKED UP SINISTER life 😩😮‍💨 i had to put that extra mature filter on this bihh just for safe measure phew

He doesn’t mean to hurt you.

That’s what he tells himself when your voice is hoarse from screaming, wrists raw from the restraints, and you won’t even look at him anymore.

“You keep trying to leave me,” Mark whispers, crouched by your side like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks. “You keep trying to ruin what we have. Why would you do that? Why would you do that to me?”

You don’t answer.

You’re curled into yourself—barefoot, bruised, trembling. The first few days, you fought. Viciously. Now? You just wait. Watch. Plot with your silence.

He hates it.

“Say something,” he breathes, hand twitching. “Please. I brought you dinner. I brought you your favorite, remember? You used to love when I cooked for you.”

You stare at the wall. Don’t move.

He swallows thickly. Then slams the tray of food into the wall hard enough to shatter the plate.

“You loved me,” he says, voice shaking with something ugly. “You used to smile when you saw me. You’d run out to meet me like you couldn’t wait to touch me—now you act like I’m the monster.”

He crouches lower, tilting his head, eyes wide and red-rimmed.

“I’m not the monster. You made me this way. You broke me.”

Your voice is quiet. Brittle. “I didn’t break you, Mark. You were always fucked up.”

That earns a dark laugh. He licks his bottom lip and leans forward, touching his forehead to yours. You flinch, but he doesn’t move.

“I’m gonna fix us, baby. I promise.”

“We're not—” Your voice trembles. “You’re not fixable.”

His grip tightens in your hair.

“Then I’ll keep you broken with me.”

—

You don’t scream anymore. That’s what kills him most.

You just whimper, low and bitter, when he yanks your ankle and drags you across the floor like some ragdoll he paid for. Skin scraped. Hair tangled. And that damn shirt slipping off your shoulder again—his shirt. The one he left folded on the end of the bed to remind you you’re his.

You didn’t wear it by choice. But he still stares like it means something.

“Every time you pull away,” he growls, slamming you down onto the mattress, “you make it worse for yourself.”

Your chest heaves. You’re breathless, not even resisting as he forces you down, wrists pinned, thighs spread. Your lip’s split from earlier. He kissed it before. Then did it again.

“You want to act like you don’t feel this,” he hisses, rutting his hips between your legs. “You want to pretend you don’t drip for me. But I know you. I know your body better than you do.”

“Fuck you,” you spit, eyes wild.

His grip tightens. And for a second—just a second—he looks devastated.

“You will.”

Then he slams into you with no warning, no mercy, and your cry cracks the air like thunder. In truth, it's somewhere between fury and pleasure.

He fucks you like he’s angry. Like you betrayed him. Like you belong to him and you’re being ungrateful for not crawling into his lap and thanking him for keeping you alive. The mattress creaks. The headboard slams against the wall. You bite your lip so hard it bleeds.

Still, his voice is tender—sweet, even—as he leans down to brush your hair from your face mid-thrust.

“You’re so pretty when you cry.”

He kisses you. Gently. Tender as a lullaby.

Then flips you over and shoves your face into the pillow.

You’re choking on gasps now, wrists straining where he’s tied them above your head. His pace is brutal, hips slapping against your ass with unforgiving rhythm. And all the while, he’s panting against your ear, whispering promises like a lover—not a captor.

“I’ll take care of you. You don’t have to be scared. You never have to leave again. I’ll kill anyone for you.”

You jerk beneath him, thighs trembling, and he feels it—feels you tightening around him like your body’s betraying you.

“Oh, baby,” he coos, licking a tear from your cheek. “There she is.”

He pulls out just long enough to flip you again, dragging you down the bed by the hips so you’re looking at him. Your lips are swollen. Your eyes—glassy, fucked-out, furious.

“Look at you,” he breathes. “So perfect.”

Then he sinks back in, slow and deep this time, watching you squirm. One of his hands slips between your legs—just to feel how soaked you are. How ruined.

“Say it,” he murmurs, not even angry now. “Say you’re mine and I’ll let you come.”

You glare at him. Bloody lip. Heat in your eyes.

“I hate you.”

He smiles, tender.

“I know.”

And he makes you come anyway.

—

The room is quiet now.

Your wrists are raw where the restraints rubbed your skin. Your thighs still tremble from the way he took you—again and again until you couldn’t see anything but white.

You lie still. Breathing slow. Not asleep. Just… tired.

And then he’s there.

Curled into your chest like a child—like the monster never existed. His face presses into your collarbone, arms looped tight around your waist, breathing like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. He’s warm. Heavy. Almost peaceful.

“I love you,” he whispers. “I love you so much.”

Your hand twitches. But you don’t move it. Don’t touch him. That’s enough to make his breath hitch.

“You’re not saying it back.”

Silence.

He exhales shakily, rubbing his cheek against your sternum like he’s trying to burrow inside you. “Please don’t leave me. Please, baby. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good.”

Still, nothing.

And that’s when the switch flips.

It’s not sudden. It never is. It creeps in quiet—like the cold. Like the memory of what he did there.

He lifts his head. Eyes distant. Wet. Wide.

“I was alone for so long.”

You feel yourself grow tense.

“They left me in that world. I didn’t eat for weeks. My powers were fading. I—I started seeing things. Voices. My own reflection talking back to me.” He laughs softly. “But I lived. I won. Do you know how?”

His mouth curls—not cruel, not angry. Reverent.

“I killed the others. All the other versions of me. I—I ate them.”

You don't say anything, every muscle frozen.

“I didn’t want to.” His voice trembles. “But I was starving. I loved them. They were me. But I love you more.”

You try to move. Just a little—just a shift.

His grip tightens violently.

“Don’t go,” he says. Then louder. “Don’t go.”

He’s shaking now. Trembling all over. His hands fist the sheets beside you like he doesn’t trust himself not to crush you if he touches you again.

“I’ll eat you whole if I have to,” he breathes, staring into your eyes with something too wild to name. “I’ll keep you inside me forever. I’ll love you so much it hurts.”

Tears slip down his cheeks.

“You’re the only thing that ever tasted like home.”

[ghostgirl-22]

i’ve been thinking of this for days and i cant get it out of my head but tashi and art playing good cop bad cop essentially with patrick in the bedroom, patrick had been pissing them off more then normally and they have had enough, art fucking patrick from behind making patrick lose any sense of speech going on and on about how pathetic patrick is for him, tashi holding patrick’s hand and tugging his hair while he eats her out whispering about how good he is being for them

whoops i went insane. Here’s 3.6k words anon. Help! Idk why this is so long. Also I’m really fucking bad at dominant Art like…i don’t know why it’s not clicking but here he is trying like i am.

CW: MDNI, NSFW, not really proof read, soft!dom art

—-

It’s always hotter when Art gets jealous. So pretty and sweet and compliant for her. He’s got this other side to him. This side of him that Tashi never really saw until Patrick came back into their lives. This side of Art that she’s kind of obsessed with. It comes out when Patrick’s flirting with other people… usually guys.  

Patrick’s always been flirtatious, it’s something of a default. But these days… the way the three of them have been unable to keep their hands off of each other… it’s just been so much… worse. And Tashi—well Tashi’s complicit actually. She often finds herself egging him on—sometimes even starting it. Both of them doing it just for a reaction. 

It’s an otherwise typical summer day, another hotel. Another tournament. Lily’s at home with Tashi’s mom, she’s going to day camp with friends from her expensive private school and she refused to miss any of it. 

So it’s just the three of them this week. On their best behavior.

Well… it’s only night one.

They have a couple hours off before a charity awards banquet and she and Patrick are lounging at the pool. It’s Tashi who notices when the pool boy spares an extra glance at Patrick spread out on the deck chair. Half naked, short swim trunks, still wet and clinging to his muscular thighs. 

“Someone’s got a crush,” she says softly, nudging between his ribcage and looking towards the pool boy. Patrick can’t resist. Suddenly he’s showing off, asking all about pool maintenance (like he fucking cares). Legs spread on either side of the pool chair, the beginnings of a bulge in his shorts just visible. The kid, he can’t be much older than 24, is practically drooling. Can’t keep his eyes off of him. 

It’s timed so perfectly when Art comes out of the hotel to join them on the pool deck.  Tashi can see the peak of color blooming on Art’s cheeks as he takes in the scene. Watches his eyes go dark and the way he grips his phone tighter. The pool boy is practically on Patrick’s lap. 

Art clears his throat and Patrick just waves, still flirting, acting oh so oblivious when he knows. 

Tashi grabs Art’s arm as he approaches, pulling him down onto her pool chair.  Whispers in his ear, “He’s so fucking out of control… I told him to stop flirting but you know how he is.” She pouts. 

They both look over at the manager who seems to be the only one more annoyed than Art. “Oh no, I hope he doesn’t get the kid in trouble,” Tashi says, genuinely.

That’s all the motivation Art needs. “Patrick let him do his job so he doesn’t get in trouble over you,” he says, coolly. Controlled. 

“Shit… I’m sorry. You can tell him it was all my fault,” Patrick says with a grin that makes pool boy blush. He stands up and stumbles a little. Tashi wants to laugh because she gets it… Patrick’s so annoyingly disarmingly charming he has that effect on people.

“Maybe I can tell you more about it later,” the kid says, eyes falling back down to Patrick’s shorts. 

“You can tell me whatever you want when you’re off the clock sweetheart,” Patrick smirks. 

Tashi notices the way Art’s white knuckling the pool chair, his jaw set.   

“Thank you mister… um…” 

“Just call me Patrick.” 

“Thanks Patrick,” the kid grins and then waves, hurrying back to his work. But he keeps glancing over, and Patrick’s always there to show off a little more for him. 

“What the fuck are you doing? You’re old enough to be his dad,” Art snaps. 

“Oh yeah, cause I was having kids at the age of 8,” Patrick laughs. “Don’t be jealous, baby. He doesn’t get to have it. He just gets a show.” 

But Art is jealous…so fucking jealous. “Tashi already told you to stop flirting. Maybe you need a lesson in how to behave,” He says it soft, but it’s definitely a warning. Tashi almost grins but she bites down on her lip instead.  

Patrick glances at her and then smirks, both of them knowing she told him no such thing.    

*

It’s the same thing at the gala that night. Patrick’s all dressed up in a three piece suit. It looks so good on him he might as well be naked. Pearlescent lavender tie, tucked neatly into his fitted waistcoat, perfectly tailored suit jacket to pull it all together. All the trappings of being a former rich kid slipping through. She can’t believe she’d ever worried he wouldn’t fit in. He's fixing his cuff links in the full length mirror and it takes everything inside her not to hike up her gown and straddle him before they leave. She can tell by the way Art’s gaze lingers on him that he feels the same way. Patrick knows it too… which is the problem. 

He’s preening all night. No one knows he belongs to them. They’ve all decided to keep it quiet just for the fact that they don’t really want the general public and all their crazy judgements and opinions in their bedroom. (She’s still seeing think pieces about Will and Jada’s open marriage for christs sake). 

But that just means it’s open season. 

Tashi’s playing both sides. In Patrick’s ear, pointing out all the pretty girls and boys who seem curious about the Donaldsons handsome new friend. And then pretending to be so furious alongside Art when Patrick flirts with them. 

She does sometimes wish that she was normal. That she didn’t find it all so exciting. She’s pretended to be normal for so very long. She’s a wife, a professional tennis coach, a mom. She’s even a token an honorary member of the stuffy all waspy parents board at Lilly’s school. She can’t imagine what any of those mothers would say if they knew what she was really like.  

“It’s pathetic really,” Art complains to her, clinking his whiskey glass on the table. Staring hard at Patrick who’s been cornered up against the bar by some handsome tall guy. Talking too close. Phone in hand for his number. ”How is he this fucking desperate for attention?” 

“Oh I know,” Tashi agrees, like she’s innocent. “I was thinking the same thing.”

She looks him over, he’s so fired up, blue eyes alight with hunger and frustration. It makes her wet. Makes her want to get on her knees for him right underneath their table and take him into her mouth… lick him till he feels better. Instead she reaches up and gently brushes his hair back, his hungry gaze falling onto her. “Mm sorry, it’s just annoying and we’re in public I wish he’d…” he sighs softly and kisses her on the cheek and then the shoulder, she responds by gently rubbing his thigh.  

“What if…tonight we taught him a lesson?” She suggests. 

Oh he likes that idea. For the rest of the night he’s eager, leg bouncing impatiently as they’re seated for dinner (Patrick flirting with the waiter). Nearly forgets himself as they get up to accept the award for their charity work. They’re taking pictures and shaking hands (and Patrick’s in the back chatting up some guy from the press).

Art can’t take much more. It’s how the night ends early. How they race to get Patrick back upstairs to the bedroom. All of them still in their finest dress clothes. Tashi sitting on the edge of the king sized bed watching Art play with Patrick’s tie, a gentle tug to pull him closer. “Why do you need so much fucking attention?” Art asks it like he’s shy.  

Patrick just grins, “What do you mean, Art? You’re the one who got the reward… I mean award.”

Art tugs a little harder on the tie and Patrick’s forced to stumble forwards. ”Come on… you know what I mean. Why do you have to flirt with everyone you fucking meet?” Tashi crosses her legs, leaning back on her palms, she’s so fucking obsessed with this dynamic.

“I can’t help it if everyone wants me,” Patrick says, Cheshire grin only widening. ”I’m not even married to you, sweetheart. You’re getting all this for free so honestly…you should just be grateful.”

That makes Art smile, but there’s nothing sweet about it. “Should I be grateful? Sweetheart?” Art asks, eyes so wide and “innocent” ...tugging full force on the tie so Patrick is made to lean in close, his hands flying up to brace himself on Arts shoulders. 

“Well yeah,” Patrick rubs at his neck, tenderly, still smirking. Their faces inches apart and Patrick’s tongue peaks out between his lips. Oh he loves it as much as she does. She can barely sit still. Barely be quiet. She had no idea this was in Art. He's so sweet with her. So compliant. So yes, no, whatever you want babe. Apparently takes it all out on Patrick. 

“I think if it’s attention you want…” Art shrugs, wrapping the tie around his fingers. “Maybe we should give you attention. What do you think Tashi?” he glances at her and Patrick follows his gaze, though he’s already on a really short leash. Two pretty boys, eager for her, eager for each other. Tashi tries not to reveal how desperately hot she finds all this. 

God she can hear the snobby mother of Lilys best friend now. “Two men. You have two men in your bedroom? I knew you were a freak.”  God forbid she found out they also fuck each other. This is so far from normal. But god she needs it.

She rests  her head on her shoulder, eyes darting back and forth between them. “I agree, I think he needs it.” 

“Bout fucking time,” Patrick says. 

His last bit of sass before Art makes him get on his knees. Patrick Zweig all prettied up in a ridiculously expensive suit, on his hands and knees on the floor of their fancy hotel suite, wiggling his ass suggestively for Art’s benefit. “Like this?”

”Yeah like that,” Art says, his tone light. Soft. He’s always so soft until he isn’t. “Now can you please say sorry to Tashi? Tell her how you’re really sorry that you acted like such a slut tonight.” 

Patrick snorts. “Sorry Tashi even though—“ 

“No Patrick…” Art cuts him off.  “Say it between her legs. Spell it with your tongue.” 

Tashi feels her heart rate pick up. She’s already squirming and now Patrick’s looking at her… eyes so hungry. 

“Mmkay,” Patrick grins as he crawls over, eyes dancing with their little secret. Co-conspirators. Both of them working together to get Art to this point. She uncrosses her legs and he plays with the straps of her heels for just a moment before he starts to move up her body. Slowly guiding the sheer fabric up her calves along her knees to her thighs. Peppering little kisses as he works his way up. She opens a little wider for him as the gathered fabric pools at her waist. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers. 

“Shh,” she smiles and he grins back. He plays his fingertips along her calves, under her knees, and she curls her fingers into his thick black hair as the soft scruff of his beard tickles her inner thighs. 

He mouths at her panties. “Mm, just like that,” she sighs softly as his hot tongue laps at the lacy fabric. He groans. She gazes up at her husband while Patrick’s tasting her, like she wants his approval. (“Am I doing it right baby? Is this how you wanna play it?”). It makes her giddy to be able to follow his lead.

He holds her gaze as he shuffles out of his suit jacket, his waistcoat, undoes his tie. There's a careful practiced control in his movements, years of being in the spotlight, a dominant player on the professional tennis circuit… he's got a good handle on his physicality by now. But everything’s still visible in his eyes. His gaze heated, intense, feral. She glances down, noticing the visible bulge along the inseam of his dress pants. 

God. Tashi bucks up against Patrick eagerly. Feels him slip his tongue just past her panties, directly into the wet heat of her cunt. It makes her gasp and he hums between her legs in response. the vibration of it makes her wiggle her hips, spread her legs wider. 

“Mm so good at that baby,” Tashi breathes. 

“Tastes good, Tashi,” Patrick breathes, hot against her thighs. 

“Why are you talking Patrick? I don’t think I told you to stop,” Art says, singsong, he’d been rustling around in their luggage. Now he’s approaching Patrick, a little bottle of lubricant in hand. Slowly he gets to his knees. Takes his time undoing Patrick’s pants, dragging them off of him. Followed by the deliberate tug of his boxer briefs. “God you’re a whore,” he sighs as he surveys Patricks bare bottom. 

Patrick whines and Tashi shivers in response . “It's okay baby, I've got you,” she says, trying to be gentle, but the tension in her body is rising. She feels so out of control she’ll probably end up shoving his face deeper into her cunt soon.

“Imagine if we weren't here to keep you under control.” Art continues. “I bet you’d let anybody come inside. I bet you’d let them line up for this. Men just taking turns loosening you up.” He slips his lubed up fingers inside, his eyes back on Tashi as he does it.

Tashi feels the ripple effect when Patrick moans.

“Thats what you want isn't it?”  Art murmurs, fingers working faster. “One man after the other after the other. All of them so hard for you. No time in between. Just boy after boy pumping you so full of cum you can’t think straight. Fucking you dumb like the horny brainless slut that you are.”

Patrick moans again. God. He’d love that. Boys standing in line jerking themselves off watching him take it while they wait their turn. He's already pushing back on Art's fingers while he laps at her, so hungry all the time. So greedy.

 “Oh fuck,” she whines, she can’t help pushing Patrick’s head down. She can feel herself thrusting up against his face, mouth and tongue, she drapes one leg over his shoulder. Pulling his hair to hold him there. His desperate lapping at her wet cunt starting to sound obscene. 

She feels it when Art takes hold of her heeled foot and places a gentle kiss to her ankle. “Fuck yes. Is he sorry baby? Does it feel like he’s sorry?” 

“Yes,” Tashi gasps, stunned by the whiny octave of her own voice.

“Mmm, i dont know,” Art’s voice breaking too… just a little bit. “I don’t think he’s sorry enough. I think he can do better.” 

Tashi whines as Patrick, desperate to prove Art wrong, presses his tongue deeper, teasing her clit. So much heated pressure all at once she’s holding her breath, toes curling in her strappy shoes. “Oh fuck Patrick… ohmygodohmygod oh. oh fuck,”  she whines, practically fucking his face as she feels the tension spill over and suddenly she’s clenching, over and over… her body spasming through orgasm, drawing whines from deep within her. 

“Fuck,” she hears Art whisper as she sinks back onto her elbows arching up while Patrick is gasping into her cunt. His big hands under her thighs dragging her closer to the edge of the bed, like even with his head jammed into her pussy, it still isn’t close enough. 

She has to shove his head away a minute later when it gets too sensitive. She catches her breath, pulling her leg off his shoulder. She realizes she’d been pulling hard on his hair so she makes up for it by gently brushing it back. He’s looking between her thighs like he wants to start again. She makes him look at her face, she wants to see the mess she made. His mouth all wet, eyes glimmering in the dim light.

 “Good boy,” she whispers. 

Patrick’s breathless and moaning and thats when she realizes Art’s still fingering him and he’s pushing back, eagerly. Whining as he presses light, eager, wet kisses into her inner thighs.

“Fuck Patrick…I'm barely two fingers in and you’re dripping all over the floor.” Art says, and oh he's breaking. she’s watching him fall apart in real time. He removes his fingers to the sound of Patrick whimpering and Tashi notices Art can barely keep his hand steady as he unzips himself. He’s shivering… the last crumb of control going out the window.

Art presses himself inside of Patrick, falling apart with every inch, desperate. Pretty, pretty boy. He's not gonna last. Patrick is taking it. Giddy for more. Needs it harder. Rougher. Faster. “Oh fuck yes, Art, fuck yes,” Patrick groans so giddy for something more substantial to fill him up. 

“Quiet,” Tashi says. She knows Art like Patrick knows Art. Too much talking will cut whatever time he has left in half.  

She slips two fingers inside herself and Patrick gasps watching her. “You want another taste?” She breathes. 

“God yes,” Patrick groans. She can’t help fingering herself just a little longer before feeding her sticky wet fingers into his mouth. God, shes so turned on watching Art fuck him it’s like she’s ready again. Like she didn’t just finish a minute ago.

She’s gentle with her fingers in his mouth at first. And then her mild tendency towards sadism takes over and she's sitting up…shoving more fingers in, shoving them deeper. Filling his mouth while Art fills his ass. Making him gag for her and then telling him, “it’s okay… shhh, you're okay.”

And Art so messy… so all apart. Skin slapping loudly as he shoves himself inside, talking like he needs it. Talking like its the only thing keeping him sane. “Dont you love it Patrick? All the fucking attention. Dont you fucking love it? ” voice like honey, sticky warm. punctuating his words with deep jerky thrusts. “You little fucking whore.” Fingers dug so tight into Patrick’s hips they’ll be etched there for days. “You think that silly little pool boy could do this? Hm? You think he could fuck you like this?”

Patricks whining with his mouth full. Eyes watering because of all the gagging. He wants to touch himself but Art wont let him. Its not long before he’s just a mess of moaning and whimpering and gasping. All sensation, all exposed. Like a raw nerve. 

That's when Art shatters. Groaning, hips stuttering as he releases, holding himself flush inside Patrick letting himself spill as deep as he can. It makes Tashi shiver. She pulls her fingers dripping from Patrick’s mouth and slides them under the buttery fabric of her dress. Pressing them back inside herself while she watches them.  

Patrick tries to touch himself again and she nudges him away with her foot because she knows it’s not what Art wants.   

“Fuck I need— I need—,” Patrick gasps. His breathing uneven, voice a raspy shell of itself. Christ. Patrick, absolutely wrecked, sounds so sexy.

Art begins to come down as he slips out. He lifts his pants back up over his ass and drops onto the floor, breathlessly looking at Patrick still displayed on hands and knees in front of him. “Look at you,” he hums like hes proud of his handiwork. “All dressed up just to be fucked like a whore.”

“Fuck, please Art can I— can I— just need a little—“

“Oh? You need more attention? After all that we just did for you?” Art says condescendingly. “Hey… why dont you go call that guy who gave you his number?”

Tashi giggles and Patrick groans. “Art, fuck, come on… tashi…” Patrick looks up at her desperately. Shamelessly. Her natural tendency isn’t to be nice but she’s fair… and to be fair they are kind of in this together. After all she did egg him on.

She gazes at him, slips her fingers out from inside where she’s been lightly playing with her clit and paints his pouty lips with her slick, his greedy little tongue following her movements. So gorgeous. “Baby be nice,” she says to Art. 

“Thank you, fuck yes, be nice. Thank you Tashi.” Patrick looks back at Art though…still begging him for permission.  

Art smirks at her and then shrugs as his gaze falls back to Patrick. “You’re so lucky aren’t you? You’ve got two people taking such good care of you…you little fucking show off… give us a show.” 

Patrick doesn’t need to be told twice. He clambers to his shaky feet. Stripping down to nothing for them. A strip tease that’s effectively more amusing than sexy…At least until he takes himself in hand. The full heft of him sliding between his thick calloused fingers, his biceps flexed, abs taut. Art on the floor, Tashi on the bed and he’s looking between them both as he gets closer and closer.

“Like it?” Patrick gasps out. “Just like when we were teenagers, huh? The time you asked me to do it while you watched me, Tashi.  Fuck. All those nights lying next to each other in bed while we did it together, Art.”

Tashi and Art exchange glances before looking back just in time to watch him finishing, blowing it all over his fancy dress clothes… puddled on the floor. Still tugging at it, heavy breathing, moaning as more of it spatters. Shameless.

Tashi feels antsy. She can see the way Art is beginning to tent his briefs. She knows this is only round one. No kids. Nothing to do tomorrow. They’ll be up all night.