#painted edge business cards

[exprintmart]

The Art of Business Cards: Why Choose Painted Edge, Velvet Laminated, Soft Touch, or Textured Designs?

[er1nne]

rafe hates when you buy things without using his card

(do not copy or plagarize, original work) The Range Rover hummed quietly, its blacked-out interior wrapping you and Rafe in a cocoon of shadows and muted streetlights. It had been his idea to take you for a nail day—completely unprompted but not surprising. Rafe had a way of knowing when you needed a little spoiling, especially after the week you’d had. The air smelled like his cologne, something expensive and sharp, mixing with the faint scent of leather from the seats. You were reclined comfortably with both legs stretched out, your freshly painted white toes wiggling lazily as you scrolled through your phone.

Rafe sat in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your thigh. His thumb stroked absentminded circles into your skin while his sharp blue eyes flicked toward the darkened street ahead. Traffic was crawling, a sea of red taillights stretching endlessly ahead. Rafe didn’t seem too bothered, one hand resting on the wheel while the other stayed on your thigh. His thumb moved in slow, hypnotic circles against your skin, his blue eyes flicking between the road and the glow of your phone screen. He was calm—you liked him this way.

“What’s got you so quiet, huh?” His voice broke the silence, smooth but with an edge that always demanded your attention.

“Just trying to check out before everything sells out,” you mumbled, barely glancing up. You were busy, furiously tapping away as you finalized your cart. The latest House of CB drop was a battlefield, and you weren’t about to lose.

“Lemme see.” He leaned closer, his sharp gaze cutting toward your screen. When he caught sight of the digits you were typing, his brows furrowed, his jaw tightening. “Wait, is that your card?”

You paused, immediately bracing for what was coming. “Yeah? Why?”

Rafe let out a short, irritated laugh, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You have all of my cards saved to your phone, and you’re using your own card? What the hell for?”

“It’s not a big deal, Rafe.” You kept your voice calm, like you weren’t trying to spark an argument in the middle of what was such a nice day. “It’s not like I can’t afford it.”

Rafe raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a humorless smirk. “Afford it?” he repeated, voice tinged with a certain tone to it. “Sweetheart, I literally pay for your life. Why do you even have a card? For decoration?”

You glared at him, but the faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips betrayed you. “Rafe—”

“No, seriously,” he cut in, shaking his head as if the idea itself was absurd. “What are you holding onto that thing for? Just in case I drop dead tomorrow and you suddenly need it?”

You huffed an air of annoyance as a pout covered your slightly glossed lips and starred out the car window. The car filled with an almost unbearable silence. His hand, which had been rubbing your thigh, went still.

He turned to glance at you a few times before looking back at the road, the corner of his mouth twitching with a mix of disbelief and annoyance. “Afford-” he repeated again slightly scoffing, voice low and slow, like he was trying to decide if you were messing with him. “Do you even hear yourself?”

You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms leaning slightly closer to his natural warmth. “It’s not that much.”

“To you. To me, that’s pocket change.” His fingers drummed a little harder against the steering wheel now, a restless energy creeping into his movements more obvious than ever.

“Rafe,” you started to whine, but he cut you off, shaking his head.

“Nah. Don’t start.” He turned fully to face you now, his hand lifting to cup your jaw, gently but firmly enough that you couldn’t look away. “Why do you always make this a thing? Is it so hard to let me take care of you? That’s why I’m here. To take care of you. You’re supposed to let me.”

Your resolve faltered under his intense gaze. He wasn’t just irritated—he was hurt. His words were a reminder, the same ones he’d given you before. Rafe wasn’t just possessive for the sake of it—he hated seeing you stress over anything, especially when he had the means to give you whatever you needed, whenever you wanted it. He didn’t want you holding onto burdens you didn’t have to carry. He’d told you before how it made him feel when you refused to lean on him, how he hated the idea of you ever struggling when he had the means to make your life easier. Rafe always told you how much he loved taking care of you, he felt proud to. Anything you ever want, he would give you, plus more.

“I’m not helpless,” you said softly, and it sounded weak even to your own ears.

“Did I say that you were?” he shot back immediately, his sharp blue eyes flicking from the road to meet yours. There was no trace of anger in his voice, just a steady, unyielding determination. “I know what you’re capable of. But you don’t have to do it all alone anymore.”

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, his gaze softening, though his tone stayed firm. “I’ve got you. I’m right here. You’re mine, remember? So stop making it harder than it needs to be. Let me do my job.”

Even while navigating the slow-moving traffic, his focus on you didn’t waver. His eyes flicked back to yours, holding them for just a second longer than he should have, but long enough to make your heart skip a beat. You felt the weight of his words settle over you, the quiet conviction in his voice leaving no room for argument.

“Rafe…” you started. You stared at him for a long moment before finally relenting, handing over your phone with a quiet sigh. “Fine. Just this once.”

He smirked, already deleting your card details and replacing them with his own Amex Black information. The confirmation dinged almost immediately, and he handed the phone back to you, smug satisfaction written all over his face. “There. Easy. Now you’ve got your shit, and I’ve got my peace of mind.”

“Thank you,” you muttered, cheeks warming as you avoided his eyes.

Rafe tilted your chin up, his fingers brushing against your jaw as he pressed a lingering kiss to your lips. “Don’t thank me, baby. Just stop making this harder than it has to be. Just let me take care of you?” A small pout covered your slighly glossed lips as you responded to him in a small voice, "Okay."

“That’s my girl,” He smiled and leaned back in his seat, hand returning to your thigh as he glanced toward the street, his usual sharp focus slipping back into place.

You smiled slightly, your frustration melting away as you leaned into him. Because no matter how stubborn you could be, you both knew he’d always win in the end. And deep down, you didn’t mind.

[fear-is-truth]

𝐇𝐈𝐌 & 𝐈 𝜗ϱ . . . 𝓟𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝓑𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐍

tags — fem!reader﹒sfw + nsfw﹒headcanons﹒drug use﹒kinda toxic relationship﹒ p in v﹒handjobs﹒choking﹒use of the word “daddy”

SFW

has a habit of disappearing without explanation, sometimes for days at a time. when he returns, he acts as though nothing happened, brushing off your concerns with dismissive and cryptic responses.

extremely critical of appearances as he doesn’t handle flaws well—patrick fully expects you to mirror his aesthetic standards. even the slightest imperfection, such as chipped nail polish or an out-of-place hair, will piss him off. you’re basically his personal doll at this point—he buys you designer clothes, ensuring you wear the “right” brands to fit his ideal of a partner. he notices everything, from your choice of perfume down to the shade of lipstick you wear. if you switch brands, he’ll immediately make a comment on it.

prefers to keep conversations shallow and detached, as deep emotional topics make him uncomfortable. he constantly rambles about his niche obsessions—pop culture, business cards, and the “superiority” of certain types of suits. that being said, patrick talks at you rather than with you. he can yap on for an entire dinner about the fabric quality of valentino suits or the importance of a tie that “truly complements the suit’s structure.”

a walking encyclopedia on serial killers. in the middle of any conversation, he’ll start spouting facts about ted bundy or ed gein. he expects you to be thoroughly impressed by his knowledge and gets viscerally disappointed if you don’t show interest.

genuinely believes his opinions on music are groundbreaking. he’ll pull out albums and spend a good thirty minutes explaining why genesis or huey lewis and the news are masterpieces, analysing lyrics and production with the passion of a critic.

talks about dorsia as if it’s the holy grail of fine dining. if he’s lucky enough to get a reservation, he’ll spend days before and after the meal casually hyping it up to everyone, making sure they know he managed to get a table. however, if he fails to secure a reservation, it completely ruins his week. you sometimes wonder if he’d cry over it. (as a matter of fact, he does)

frequently asks if you think his business card is better than “so-and-so’s,” as if it’s a critical matter. if he gets even a whiff of another guy’s success, patrick becomes obsessed with one-upping them. you’ve had to sit through countless complaints about paul allen, his dorsia reservations, the fisher account. he can’t handle criticism, especially if it challenges his idea of “perfection.” if you casually mention you’re not a fan of his music taste or his suit choice, he’ll literally sulk about it for days.

when patrick gets jealous, you’ll catch him clenching his jaw, his hand gripping your waist a bit too tightly. sometimes he’ll try to act indifferent, but the slight sweat on his forehead or the vein throbbing in his temple gives him away.

lives by his routines and gets annoyed if anything disrupts them. you’re expected to adhere to his exact schedule when you’re with him, from gym time to dinner to his beloved skincare regimen. if something goes off-plan, he becomes irritable, even if it’s just because you suggested a new restaurant.

although he appears to be emotionally distant, he’s highly hypersensitive to how he’s perceived by you. an offhand comment or anything less than admiration from you makes him noticeably on edge.

obsessed with acquiring materialistic items that showcase his success. he’ll bring up these possessions repeatedly, and when he buys something new, for instance a painting or a stereo, he’ll practically drag you to admire it with him, giving an extensive monologue on its artistic value or technical specs.

constantly trying to impress you with his wealth or his “connections.” he’ll drop the names of people he “knows” (sometimes with questionable authenticity) or go out of his way to show you his credit card just to emphasise how wealthy he is. patrick assumes his looks and material success is inherently attractive to you, and if you ever show interest in something less superficial, he’s truly baffled.

always subtly fishing for compliments, but he wants them to sound like they’re coming from you, not just because he’s prompting you. if you mention anything flattering about another human, you can see his jaw clench as he makes a mental note to find something he’s “better” at. if you don’t give him the attention he craves, he becomes passive-aggressive until you finally give in and tell him how handsome he is.

if you so much as hesitate before complimenting patrick, it eats at him. he starts nitpicking his own looks, spending even more time obsessing over his skincare routine, gym sessions, and hair products.

to patrick, relationships are transactional. he’s constantly buying you lavish gifts, partially to impress you, but mostly to keep you “tied” to him. he would be genuinely insulted if you didn’t wear or display his gifts, taking it as a personal rejection, even though he never explicitly says this. instead, he’d pout or go into a passive-aggressive silence until you “make it up” to him (usually with sex)

loves the fact that you’re both attracted to and a little intimidated of him. what he doesn’t know is that you also think he’s a pathetic loser.

insecure about whether you actually love him or are just with him for his wealth and status. he craves reassurance but would never directly ask for it, so instead, he does things to elicit compliments from you or waits for you to say something affirming.

secretly torn between wanting to keep you as a sort of trophy and feeling an actual attachment he doesn’t understand. on more than one occasion, he’s imagined what it might be like to marry you—he’s even purchased a 7ct diamond ring on impulse. the thought terrifies him, though. he’s afraid of real intimacy, of anyone truly knowing who he is. still, he sometimes drops hints about “the future,” gauging your reaction to see if you might even consider it.

likes it when you adjust his tie or fix his collar. there’s something about your delicate hands on him, perfecting his appearance, that makes the blood rush to his groin as he reminisces the same pair of hands wrapped around his cock. he’ll even purposely wear his tie a little off or leave his collar slightly askew, just so you’ll step in to fix it.

whenever you say goodbye before he leaves, patrick insists on making eye contact, as if daring you to look away first. it’s his way of ensuring that he’s the last thing on your mind as he walks out the door. expects you to fix his lapel, straighten his tie, or give him a quick peck on the cheek. if you forget or rush the routine, there’s disappointment on his side.

patrick insists on every detail being pristine and coordinated, and he takes pride in the aesthetic of matching “his & hers” items. towels, robes, toothbrushes etc. he doesn’t necessarily see this as sentimental but as a way to project his status to anyone who might see it—like a small, smug reminder that you belong to him. he’ll also make a point to keep these items perfectly aligned on the bathroom sink or kitchen counter, internally congratulating himself when he sees them.

adores watching you in the kitchen, especially if you’re wearing something skimpy or nothing but one of his button-ups left undone just enough. he’ll lean in the doorway, watching as you busy yourself slicing fruit or preparing his bran muffins for breakfast. he often finds himself admiring the delicate curve of your neck, the swell of your ass as you move, though he’d never voice anything genuine about it.

his nicknames for you : “kitten”, “bunny”, “sweetheart”, “doll”, “hun” or “honey” in public, “fuckdoll” in private.

your nicknames for him : “daddy”, “sir”, “pat”

super meticulous when it comes to your wardrobe, especially lingerie. he’s obsessed with victoria’s secret and demands that you wear sets he’s chosen—lace and silk, only in shades he deems “fashionable.” as a way to elevate his experience. he’ll sit back with a drink in hand, watching you with an air of smug satisfaction as you parade around the bedroom like it’s a runway.

has certain… kinks that he knows you wouldn’t approve of. this is when sex workers come in handy. sometimes, he wonders if he could somehow desensitise you or change your mind about these things. he drops hints, gauges your reaction to certain acts, and tests boundaries. if you outright refuse to engage in his fantasies, he holds it against you, making passive-aggressive comments about your “prudish” nature or implying that he “puts up with it” because he “cares about you.”

NSFW

his dry cleaning bill has spiked noticeably ever since you started dating. nearly every other day, a new suit or bedsheet stained with cum is dropped off, patrick never looks the dry cleaner in the eye.

patrick’s version of aftercare is incredibly minimal. he’ll be content to simply roll over or give you a lazy kiss on the shoulder but that’s about as soft as it gets—he’ll immediately head off to the en suite to freshen up. if he’s feeling particularly generous, he’ll hand you a bottled water and that’s that. if you need anything more, he’ll listen, but the faraway look in his eyes suggests he’s already moved on mentally.

very fond of kissing your neck or collarbone, especially before you attend social settings—leaving hickeys and bruises. kisses from patrick can be surprisingly sweet and sensual when he’s in a rare moment of vulnerability, but it’s always short-lived.

he’s become addicted to the sound of your voice, so much so that he has tapes of you—masturbating while saying filthy things. when he’s stressed at the office, he’ll slip on his walkman, listening to your sweet whimpers and moans echo in his ears.

gets a thrill every time you say his name—whether it’s a soft “good morning, patrick” or a “mghm-ahh patrick!” when he’s jackhammering his cock into your cunt. he’s especially weak to hearing you coo or whimper his name, and he’ll go out of his way to make you say (scream) it repeatedly.

has a ritualistic routine for doing coke—spreading a neat line along your stomach and the valley between your breasts, admiring how good you look beneath him. when he leans down to snort the line, he often allows his lips to ghost over your hard nipples.

has no problem dropping obscene amounts of money on you—high-end jewelry, designer clothes, perfumes, he loves the way you look in everything he picks out. “only the best,” he’ll mumble as he fastens a diamond necklace on your neck. but his favourite part is admiring the pieces when he has both hands wrapped around your throat while fucking you.

he’s particular about which rings he picks out, envisioning how they’ll look on your fingers while you jerk him off. there’s something erotic about the way they catch light and glitter against your skin.

you’re kneeling in front of him, the hardwood floor cool against your knees as you stroke his thick, angry cock. patrick reaches down, thumb brushing over the 18k rose gold ring he’d recently bought for you. “looks nice on you,” he mumbles, almost distracted. you watch him for a moment, noticing the way he’s staring at your hand, like the ring is something precious he’s put a part of himself into. “you think so?” you ask, trying to read his expression as you continue to jerk him off. patrick clears his throat, dropping his hand a little too quickly. “of course. wouldn’t have bought it otherwise,”

 fear-is-truth 2024 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[joonipertree]

To show someone that you care, is a gift itself. | Sugar Daddy Bakugo Series

Where you show Katsuki what a gift can be.

Tags: Artist!reader, very self indulgent, like guys....please buy me watercolour paper instead of Versace. Watercolour paper is stupid expensive. Im also not skilled enough to actually make the gift so--

Pt 1 Pt 3

Katsuki's birthday had been looming when the two of you started going out, like a weighted shadow. You had spent a very long stressing about what to get him with a budget that wasn't even worth a fraction of what he would buy you.

But, like gift giving was Katsuki's, it was your love language as well. And you'd gotten good at getting heart felt things for people. Admittedly, it took a lot of brainstorming and notes upon notes of what to get.

You'd always go overboard to please the people you cared about, afraid that they'll leave if you didn't cross the limits and bend over backwards for them.

Katsuki had always taken care of you, never asked for anything and your love was returned albeit in a quieter and tsundere manner. So the urge to go above and beyond didn't fester for long, knowing that your bare presence made him warmer.

Your gift idea came when he was on the ring, swift on his feet and solid in the rigidness of his body. You'd brought your sketchbook and while you wanted to keep your eyes on your boyfriend, your hands became busy with large curves and sharp flicks of your pencil that brought dark edges .

You'd made at least 20 quick gestures drawings that were more crude representations of movement for you. But with those and the feelings you trapped in your heart, you made thumbnails and chose one to draw large scale.

One where Katsuki's face was partially blocked by his arm and he gave a blow. His elbows were jagged, muscles taut and rippling. And his eyes sharp and cat like.

The charcoal pencils and sticks used to create tapered lines to create hard surfaces was 340 yen. The watercolour pallete used had messy paint splattered everywhere and its lid broken, having been with you for a good while. The coat over the charcoal was 50 yen hair spray that worked just as well as professional sprays.

It didn't cost a lot but your hands were full of care and by the end of it, you hoped that it'd be something Katsuki would at least like. The man could have the world but all you had was you.

You didn't realize that you were more than enough

Katsuki to lost his voice when you handed it to him at midnight, eyes wide as he stared at him but not him. The layers on layers of paint held emotions that he could only describe as love, meticulously hand picked and felt in strokes. He'd seen HD pictures of his fights, seen videos of them where his sweat and pores were as clear as day. The most he'd thought of them were how his form could improve or how cool he looked.

But what you made, it twisted something in his chest and stung his eyes and filled him to the brim with love so warm and overwhelming that his body wasn't big enough to hold it.

You two had been dating for 4 months, Katsuki had spent that time falling in love with you in ways he didn't think possible. He'd fall with every giggle and kiss and ramble and your face when you were concentrating. He'd never said 'I love you', hoping his actions showed it enough, still too scared to speak it in case it was met with hesitance or silence.

But Katsuki had gently put down the canvas, something you that you'd built, stretched and primed yourself. And while you made eye contact with the walls and ceiling, you explained how the only thing you could come up with was the painting, that you wanted to capture the emotions you felt when you saw him fight. That it wasn't much but---

Katsuki had engulfed you in a hug, hand on the back of your head to press it against him and an arm around your waist. He squeezed you, tried to express all that he was feeling with one hug alone. You felt it, held him tightly and carded your fingers through his hair. With his shoulders shaking, you had an inkling that he had been crying. When he spoke, with a wobbly voice, you were sure that he was.

"I love you." He'd muttered out for the first time.

"I love you more." You whispered back and Katsuki had firmly denied it, that no one could love a person as much as he loved you.

Getting a gift for you became hard after that, because Katsuki sucked at making shit.

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Butter

Joel Miller x F!Reader

{ Main Masterlist }

Rating: None

Summary: What if Joel doesn't forget to buy himself a cake for his birthday? But by the time he remembers, all the bakeries in his neighbourhood are closed - except yours.

Warnings: No outbreak AU, pure fluff, mentions of baking and food, meet cute, some sexual tension but very mild stuff compared to my other fics, single dad!Joel being a sexy menace, reader has a nickname related to her job, reader has an accent similar to Joel, very lightly edited, not my best work, but I'm in my writing for fun era 💁🏻‍♀️

Word count: 3.6k

Notes: It's here! This was an exercise in speed writing, and just putting words to paper without overthinking anything. I really enjoyed writing this sweet little piece, this is dedicated to @psychedelic-ink who has been the biggest cheerleader for this idea since day one. Happy birthday to our favourite single dad who never lived through a cordyceps outbreak ❤️

September 26, 2003 was supposed to be a good day.

It’s Friday, after all. Not that the weekend is relevant to you anymore, with Saturdays and Sundays being the busiest days for business. But you have a date for once tonight, and you’re determined to enjoy it.

If you can get the goddamn security shutter to close, that is.

Standing on your tiptoes, you pull futilely at the bottom of the metal shutter with both hands, but it refuses to budge. You lament the sweat seeping through the fabric of the nice dress you changed into, the hem reaching almost indecent heights on the back of your thighs where it’s climbed up. And you don’t have to look at your reflection to know that stress has already smudged the edges of the eyeliner you hurriedly painted on as soon as you got the last customer out the door.

You can be forgiven for not noticing the wash of yellow headlights over the windows of the shop front and the sound of rolling tyres as a truck pulls up on the curb outside the bakery, until a gravelly voice pipes up behind you alongside hurried footsteps.

‘Ma’am, please tell me you’re still open.’

You tap on the ‘Closed’ sign through the window without turning around, determined to wrangle the shutter into submission. ‘Bad luck buddy, come back tomorrow. We open at nine sharp.’

‘No I can’t, I’m so sorry, but I need a cake now.’

Curiosity turns your head, and over your shoulder, you find a broad-shouldered man in a dark tshirt and casual jeans standing a respectful four paces away. Under eyebrows sloping downwards in a pleading angle that matches the slant of his moustache, his warm and imploring eyes are on you.

‘I’m sorry, sir, but I really need to go,’ you say. ‘Can you give me a hand?’

‘Look, I’ll do you one better. I’ll fix the shutter for you for free - if you sell me a cake.’

You purse your lips, the prospect of saving on what looks like an inevitable repair bill tempting. ‘You can fix it?’

‘I’m a contractor,’ he replies, reaching into his back pocket to pull out a battered looking wallet. ‘Here’s my card, if you think I’m bluffin’.’

Miller & Associates is printed in bold across the top, and underneath, is presumably his name and cell number. Glancing up at him, you say, ‘Look, Mr. Miller, I really want to help, but I’m late for a date, and I’m all sold out of cakes today -’

‘I’ll take anything you got. Cupcakes, cookies, whatever you have left,’ he cuts in, then apologises in quick succession, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. ‘I’m sorry to be so pushy - I’m not, usually - but I promised my daughter I’d bring something home, and by the time I remembered, this is the only place I could think of. Please.’

You feel the exact moment your resolve crack, and then fold like a goddamn lawn chair. What can you say, this contractor really knows how to work those puppy eyes, and you can never say no to a man who refuses to let their kid down. 

Especially when the man looks like this.

Shooting off a text to your date to push back your dinner plans, you nod towards the door. ‘Alright. C’mon in, Mr. Miller.’

‘Nice place you got here,’ he remarks politely, hovering by the entrance as the fluorescent lights flicker on, his manners impeccably southern. 

‘You don’t have to flatter me, I’ve already let you in,’ you joke, lips quirking at the way he flusters. ‘But I appreciate it. You been here before?’

When he smiles, you notice the corners of his eyes crinkle charmingly. ‘No, but I know I’ll be comin’ back.’

‘I wasn’t lying when I said I was out of ready-made cakes,’ you tell him, holding the door open to the kitchen so he can come in after you. ‘But I have some cake layers in the fridge so I can put together something fairly quickly.’

He ducks his head in a manner that tells you he’s not used to demanding things, and protests, ‘I don’t want to put you out. I meant it, if you just have some cupcakes or somethin’ -’

‘Listen, you promised your daughter a cake, didn’t you?’ you interrupt.

He shrugs. ‘Well, yeah I did -’

‘I’m guessin’ it’s for a birthday?’

He nods sheepishly. ‘It is.’

‘Well, as a baker, ‘mfraid I can’t let a cakeless birthday happen on my watch, Mr. Miller,’ you insist, opening the fridge door with a flourish. ‘Let’s see what we have here. Cake for three, I assume?’

‘Two, actually.’

Hopefully you’re as discreet as you think you are when your eyes drop to his left hand - his fourth finger is conspicuously ringless.

Interesting.

You hum, considering the mismatched options in your inventory. ‘It’s gonna be a bit of a Frankenstein’s monster of a cake, if you don’t mind. How does chocolate and vanilla layers with cookies and cream frosting sound?’

‘Sounds perfect,’ he answers without skipping a beat. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

You shake your head, hands full of cake rounds wrapped in cling film as you nudge the fridge close. ‘Please, call me Bri, Mr. Miller.’

‘And you can call me Joel,’ he says in return. ‘Is Bri short for somethin’?’

Laying the cakes on the work surface, you reply, ‘Yeah, Bri for brioche, like the bread. It's a silly nickname.’

The single dad surprises you with a low whistle. ‘Can’t say I saw that comin’.’

You grin. ‘You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, Joel.’

You don’t often have an audience while baking, and you find yourself talking Joel through the steps while you prep everything for assembly.

Swirling a spatula through the tub of buttercream you made earlier that day, you explain, ‘I just need to whip up some of this frosting so that it’s nice and soft for putting the cake together. You wanna help me break up some Oreos so we can make it cookies and cream?’

‘I’m all yours, chef,’ he says, one corner of his mouth curling into a teasing smile that has no business warming the apples of your cheek as it does. ‘Just tell me what to do.’

While your Kitchenaid whirrs to life, whipping air into the buttercream, Joel wields a rolling pin, smashing a generous helping of Oreos into crumbs in a Ziplock bag. The almost exaggerated care with which he moves speaks to inexperience in the kitchen, and you muse that either his kid makes up for it in that department, or they live off takeout.

Eventually, he picks up the bag and looks at you in a question. ‘I think I’m done?’

You smile and tap the lip of the mixing bowl. ‘That’s perfect. Why don’t you tip in the crumbs straight in here?’

Before you can step back to allow him space, Joel’s taken two strides towards you, and his arm brushes your shoulder when he lifts the bag and tilts the contents into the frosting. He’s warm and solid, and damnit, he smells good - like sawdust and sweat.

The thought comes to you unbidden - what a man.

There’s a lull, and only when you feel the weight of eyes on you do you realise that you missed his question.

‘Did you say somethin'?’ you squeak, embarrassed.

‘I said, is this ok?’ he repeats, nodding at the mixing bowl.

You nearly stumble over your words. ‘Yes, yes it’s perfect.’

He watches you closely, a touch of concern in his brown eyes. ‘You ok there, honey?’

‘Yup,’ you chirp, far too cheerfully. ‘Just need to mix it all up now -’

If you had your wits about you, you would stir in the crumbs first and set the machine on low. But this man somehow stole said wits by sheer proximity to you, and you accidentally start the Kitchenaid on high, an indignant yelp escaping you when Oreo dust flies aggressively out of the bowl along with a splatter of white buttercream that lands squarely on the front of your dark knit dress.

‘Oh shit!’ you cry out, frantically turning off the mixer. ‘Shit shit shit!’

Over your panicked mantra, Joel is calmness itself. ‘Hang on, honey, I gotcha.’

He makes a beeline towards the sink, grabbing a tea towel and wets it under the tap with a bit of dishwashing liquid. It all screams competent single dad, and you find yourself staring at his unfairly large hand, mapped with thick veins, holding out the damp towel for you to take.

‘Thanks,’ you stutter self-consciously, the tips of your ears hot while swiping at the stain. ‘That was a rookie mistake. I promise I’m actually a good baker.’

He gives you a wink to put you at ease. ‘Don’t worry, I believe you.’

Starting over, the mixer hums as it gently incorporates the Oreos until the buttercream is a speckled grey and doubled in volume. ‘Looks like it’s ready. You wanna taste, Joel?’

‘Sure,’ he says. ‘D’ya have a spoon or somethin’ for me?’

‘You can use your fingers,’ you reply, and it's too late to take it back.

You feel the back of your neck heating up when he shoots you a meaningful look, just a touch of mischief in the tilt of his lips. 

‘Can I, now?’ he teases.

You try a nonchalant shrug that probably comes off as painfully awkward. ‘This batch is just for you, I won’t tell the health inspector if you don’t.’

Joel chuckles, his strong shoulders quaking. And so you watch, shamelessly, as he raises his right hand, index and middle fingers at the ready, before diving into the metal bowl, scooping up a generous dollop of buttercream. There’s a peek of his pink tongue when his plush lips part, and then he sucks his fingers into his mouth with a gratuitously loud moan, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

When he turns to you with a pained expression on his face, maintaining eye contact all the while licking an errant streak of frosting off the side of his middle finger, you gape at him for a whole five seconds before you manage to unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth.

‘Good?’ you barely manage to squeak.

‘You betcha, honey,’ he declares, then adds, ‘Mind if I double dip?’

He doesn’t mean anything by it, you know it, but a hot flush runs through your body and you swallow thickly. ‘You can do whatever you want, cowboy.’

You don’t think you’re imagining the wicked glint in his answering stare - you’re getting yourself into trouble, and don’t you know it. 

Clearing your throat, you attempt to thwart your mind's dangerous descent into the gutter by changing the subject. ‘So, I can do somethin’ really snazzy that I think your daughter would like - do you know what a piñata cake is?’

He shakes his head. ‘Sounds dangerous.’

‘Hardly,’ you chuckle. ‘It’s a cake filled with sprinkles, so when you cut into it, it’s a sprinkles surprise!’

He lets out a playful sigh of relief. ‘As long as there’s no whackin’ involved, it’s good by me.’

You gesture at him to follow you across the room. ‘And here’s the fun part - you get to choose the sprinkles.’

Joel whistles at the reveal of your compulsively organised sprinkles cabinet, each shelf sorted by colour, shape and size. He quips, ‘Is this what the inside of your brain looks like, honey?’

You grin. ‘Pretty much. What’s your daughter’s name?’

‘Sarah.’

‘What colour does Sarah like?’

‘Any and all shades of pink.’

‘I can work with that.’

Now that everything is ready and waiting on the work surface, you pull out a lazy Susan and plonk a cake board on top of it, dusting your hands dramatically. ‘Alright, Joel. Ready for the magic to happen?’

Making himself comfortable next to you, he leans on his elbows, and your eyes are immediately drawn to the way his tshirt stretches and strains over his back. ‘Go ahead, I’m ready to be impressed, honey.’

Filling a piping bag full of the cookies and cream buttercream, you ask, ‘You wanna get your hands dirty?’

He raises his palms in surrender. ‘I’ll leave it to you, I don’t want to make you any more late for your date.’

You’re used to working with much bigger cakes, so this one doesn’t take you long. With a cookie cutter, you carve out a small circle from each cake round, then you stack and fill the layers with buttercream. After loading the shaft in the middle with all manner of pink sprinkles, you stopper the top with the cake cut-outs.

‘How old is Sarah turning today?’ you ask conversationally while you spin the cake around, smoothing on the crumb coat.

Joel looks up, surprised. ‘Oh, it’s my birthday today, not hers. ‘

‘Wait, what?’ you cry, throwing your hands up. ‘I made this cake with Sarah in mind - it will literally be vomiting pink sprinkles!’

‘I’m a girl dad. I like pink,’ shrugs Joel easily.

You huff, using an icing smoother to make sure the buttercream is even all over the cake. ‘I would pop the cake into the freezer to firm up before adding a final layer of frosting if I had the time, but this will have to do.’

‘It looks great,’ Joel assures you as you put the finishing touches to the cake, with buttercream swirls all around the top and a final baptism of sprinkles.

‘There, all done. Lemme box it up for you and this bad boy is ready to go.’

‘Amazin’, thank you so much,’ he grins. ‘Please, lemme do the washin’ up while you’re at it.’

‘Oh, Joel, you can’t,’ you protest, but he’s already grabbed the mixing bowl and all the bits and bobs stained with buttercream. ‘You’re the birthday boy!’

‘Least I can do,’ he shoots back over his shoulder, already halfway to the sink.

‘Well no, you promised to fix the security shutter for me, remember?’ you call after him.

‘Damn, I was hopin’ you’d forgotten about that.’

Joel cleans up with a practised air, humming under his breath as he waits for the water to heat up and the soap to lather. You watch him from the corner of your eye while you secure the cake inside the box, throwing in a birthday candle for good measure. You’ve just tied a nice ribbon around the cardboard box when he puts away everything in the drying rack and wipes his hands dry.

‘Didn’t expect you to be good at that,’ you tease, moving towards the door.

‘Sexist much?’ he jokes, no real bite in his retort. Then by way of explanation, he tells you, ‘I work late, so Sarah usually cooks and I wash up afterwards.’

‘Sounds like you guys make a good team.’

Joel helps with the lights and locks the door, and you stand to one side when he grabs the security shutter and forces it into submission by brute force. You can’t help but stare when the bottom of his tshirt rides up, revealing a soft sliver of belly underneath, his biceps bulging and back rippling as the shutter is finally forced shut in a metallic ripple.

You give him a smile. ‘Well, happy birthday, Joel.’

‘Thanks again for the cake.’ He looks around, as if looking for your car, but the sidewalk is empty except for his truck. ‘How are you gettin’ to your date?’

‘I was just gonna call a taxi.’

‘No, you ain’t,’ he nods towards his ride. ‘C’mon, I’ll give you a lift.’

‘Oh, no, it’s late, and you should be getting back to Sarah -’

‘I spoiled your date, so please, let me,’ he insists, holding the door open on the passenger side. Hop in.’

Joel takes the cake off your hands and puts it in the backseat carefully, putting the seat belt over it while you climb in. Glancing over your shoulder, you see toolboxes and newspapers on the floor, and it smells like paint and wood dust.

‘Sorry it’s a bit messy, occupational hazard,’ he apologises as he straps himself in. ‘So, where are we goin’?’

‘Do you know the steakhouse on Third Street?’

‘Vaguely,’ he replies, pulling smoothly away from the curb. ‘It sounds fancy.’

‘You been?’

‘Nope, I barely have time to go anywhere nowadays. It seems like I’m only ever in bed, or at work, or in my truck.’

You turn to smile at him, admiring the way his his thick fingers around the top of the steering wheel, making it look so small. ‘I feel you. Small business owner, am I right?’

‘I hear ya,’ he shoots you a smile. ‘So - what’s the deal with tonight? First date?’

‘Fourth, actually.’

He wriggles his eyebrows suggestively. ‘Fourth date? You know what happens on a fourth date, honey.’

‘I don’t, actually. Tell me, what happens on a fourth date?’

He blows out his cheeks, and admits, ‘Honestly, I can’t tell ya. I haven’t been on a fourth date since 1991.’

You burst into laughter at his unexpected answer. ‘You’re such a dork, Joel Miller.’

When the truck rumbles to a stop outside the steakhouse ten minutes later, he looks at his watch and announces, ‘Here we are, only fifteen minutes late.’ Squinting through the windshield, he points at a man smoking outside, an impatient frown on his face. ‘That him?’

‘Yeah, that’s him,’ you nod, but you stay put in your seat, in no hurry to make a move.

Joel nods, tapping his tidily trimmed nails on the steering wheel. ‘So I’ll swing ‘round tomorrow after work with my toolbelt? ‘Round six thirty?’

‘A toolbelt? What a sight to look forward to,’ you rib, slowly reaching for the seatbelt and unbuckling it.

‘Hell yeah, it’s got a special clip for my Nokia and all,’ he adds mischievously.

'You must fend off the ladies by the dozen,' you tease.

'Daily,' he answers without skipping a beat.

You probably shouldn’t have, especially not with the guy who you’re supposed to be on a date with glaring daggers at you through the windshield. But there’s something cackling in the air between you and this man you just met not an hour ago, and the way the streetlight filters through the window, backlighting his messy curls and scraggly beard, that has you throwing caution to the proverbial wind.

Impulsively, you lean across the gear shift, your left hand finding purchase on his knee before pressing your lips to the side of his whiskered jaw, your kiss fitting right into that little heart-shaped patch on his beard. 

You’re not sure who’s more taken aback, but you don’t have time to find out. 

‘Happy birthday, Joel Miller.’

He smiles after you as you hop out of his truck.

You’ve just sold your last cupcake of the day when the bell over the bakery door rings. And sure enough, it’s Joel Miller crossing the threshold, right on the dot at six thirty.

‘Hey, Bri,’ he waves, hovering half-in and half-out of the shop, a slight awkwardness having set in overnight.

But it's ok, you're happy to pick up where you left off. Putting your hands on your waist and a cheeky grin, you quip, ‘Wow, you weren’t kidding about that toolbelt, huh?’

Your chest swells as you watch him thaw with an easy smile, and he banters back, ‘I’m a man of my word, honey. You ok with me gettin’ to work now?’

‘Yes, thank you. I’ll be cleanin’ up back in the kitchen, I’ll join you when I’m done.’

Joel shoots you a thumbs up. ‘Great. I’ll grab the ladder and get right to it.’

When you emerge fifteen minutes later, he’s on the fourth rung of the ladder, tinkering the rolling mechanism with a screwdriver and a studious frown on his brow. He looks like he’s wearing the same thing as yesterday - you can believe that he’s a man who buys the same tshirt in bulk - and he smiles at you when you duck out of the shop.

‘Did Sarah like the cake?’ you ask in casual conversation.

‘She went nuts over the piñata surprise,’ he replies. ‘And the cake was delicious, there were hardly any crumbs left when we were done with it. She says we’re definitely ordering a cake from you for her birthday.’

‘I like the sound of that.’

‘How was your evening?’ he asks, glancing down at you from his perch. ‘Did you find out what happens on a fourth date?’

You let out a dry laugh. ‘Yeah, I did, actually. He dumped me.’

Joel freezes, a scowl darkening his countenance. ‘Oh shit, what? Why?’

You shrug, leaning your weight on the ladder as you look at the ground. ‘I mean, I did show up an hour late in some other guy’s truck. And I guess probably shouldn’t have kissed you on the cheek right in front of him.’

You startle when Joel’s fingers slip under your chin, tilting your head up towards him. ‘It’s all my fault. I’m so sorry.’

‘Honestly, you don’t look that sorry, Joel Miller,’ you joke.

He cocks his head to one side. ‘Well, I can't lie, I think you deserve better than him.’

‘Do you now?’ you prompt. ‘Who do you have in mind?’

Joel peers at you from under long lashes with a half-smile that's almost shy. He dodges your question, and says instead, ‘I didn't mean to ruin your night, let me make it up to you, honey.’

‘How?’

Deftly, he climbs down the ladder, landing squarely on two booted feet, his presence comforting as he looms over you, his eyes warm. ‘Can I buy you dinner?’

‘Like - a date kind of dinner?’

‘Yeah, like a date,’ he nods.

You can’t help the dig. ‘And you were just sayin' you haven’t been on a date since...?’

He flashes you a smirk, and you shiver when his hand brushes your waist. ‘Since 1991. Tough sell, I know - but I thought I’d give it a shot.’

Running a finger along his sharp jawline, softened by the endearingly untidy beard, you have to bite your bottom lip to keep yourself from giving away too wide a grin. ‘Why, I think I have a good feelin’ about you, Joel Miller.’

Catching your wrist in his fingers, he presses a sweet kiss to your knuckles, the rough graze of his stubble chasing goosebumps across your skin as his eyes smile at you. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow then, honey.’

More notes: I hope you enjoyed this sweet little oneshot 🥰 I really leaned into the fluff and I have no regrets. Comments/reblogs/asks are much appreciated as always! I don't have plans for a second part right now, but a smutty follow-up is always a possibility...

The adorable dividers are by @firefly-graphics 👩🏻‍🍳

[sabrinasopposite]

game-boy !

red kryptonite!clark kent x reader

you got a cute face  and that kept me entertained and the way you said my name,  won't lie, it felt amazing.

summary: clark kent finds himself caught in a whirlwind romance with y/n in metropolis, his heart as unpredictable as a gameboy game. what starts as an exciting, addictive connection soon reveals itself as a series of highs and lows, with y/n unable to escape the emotional rollercoaster. as the game progresses, she realizes she’s been playing a losing game, constantly chasing a happy ending that may never come.

The flickering glow of the cinema screen painted Y/N’s world in shades of silver and shadow. The soft hum of the projector was her comfort, a backdrop to her quiet nights in the old theater nestled in the heart of Metropolis.

Here, stories came to life—perfectly framed, perfectly scripted. If only life outside the reels could be so simple.

“Popcorn for one, or is it two tonight?” she teased, turning to the tall, dark figure leaning casually against the concession stand.

Clark Kent grinned, a mischievous glint in his eye that made her stomach flutter despite herself. “You tell me, Y/N. Think anyone in this city could keep up with me?”

Her laugh was soft, polite—a practiced shield. “Plenty of girls would love to try.”

“Yeah?” He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “But I’m only here for the ones who can keep me guessing.”

Y/N froze, her cheeks heating against her will. She hated how he could do that—turn an ordinary moment into something electric. She tried to play it off, shaking her head as she handed him his ticket. “You’re shameless, Clark.”

“Guilty as charged.” He winked, brushing his hand against hers as he took the ticket. The touch lingered just long enough to make her heart skip before he disappeared into the theater.

Alone again, Y/N let out a shaky breath, her hands clutching the counter as if to anchor herself. She could feel the danger in his charm, the way his words wrapped around her like a velvet ribbon—beautiful, soft, but binding. Like when he said her name, it felt amazing.

She told herself she wouldn’t fall for it

But telling herself something and believing it were two different things.  

The week rolled on like an old film reel, each day blurring into the next. Y/N had her routine: school, work, a quiet walk home. And yet, Clark became the unexpected twist in her predictable story. He didn’t just come to the cinema—he lingered. Each visit brought a new quip, a new glance, a new spark of something she couldn’t quite name.  

“Let me guess,” she said one night as he approached the counter again, his broad shoulders framed by the golden light of the marquee. “You’re starting to think this place needs a loyalty card?”  

Clark grinned, his hands in his pockets as he leaned on the counter. “What’s the point? I already know the best part of coming here isn’t the movie.”  

Y/N felt her cheeks flush, and she ducked her head, busying herself with the popcorn machine. “You really don’t quit, do you?”  

“Why would I?” he asked, his voice laced with that same teasing charm. “You make it too easy.”  

Her lips pressed together, fighting a smile she didn’t want him to see. He was trouble, she could feel it. The kind of trouble that swept you off your feet and left you dizzy, unsure of where you landed.  

“You must have a whole book of lines like that,” she said, her voice light, but there was a trace of something real in her words—an edge of vulnerability she tried to hide.  

Clark tilted his head, his eyes scanning hers like he was searching for something. “Just the ones that work on you.”  

Her heart jumped, and she hated herself for it. She forced a laugh, shaking her head as she handed him his ticket. “Enjoy the show, Clark.”  

“I always do,” he said, his voice softer now, almost thoughtful. “See you, Y/N.”  

He brushed her hand as he took the ticket, the contact brief but electric, before he disappeared into the theater.  

Alone again, Y/N let out a shaky breath, her hands clutching the counter as if to anchor herself. She didn’t know what to make of him—the way he could make her feel special and off-balance all at once.  

The next night, she told herself she wouldn’t let him get to her. But there he was again, standing at her counter with that same easy grin, his presence filling the room like he owned it.  

“You must really like popcorn,” she said, trying to sound indifferent.  

“I like this place,” he replied, his gaze holding hers a moment too long. “And the company’s not bad either.”  

Her stomach twisted. How could someone be so effortlessly charming, so completely... unreal?  

It all started small. A passing comment here, a lingering glance there. Clark had a way of weaving himself into her days, like a melody she couldn’t get out of her head.

“Y/N, are you always this serious?” he asked one evening, leaning against the counter with a smirk. The last show of the night was playing, and the cinema was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of popcorn bags and the faint score from the theater behind them.

“I’m not serious,” she replied, wiping down the counter. “I’m just working. Some of us have to, you know.”

“Oh, come on.” He gestured at the empty lobby. “You’re saying there’s nothing fun about this job? Not even talking to me?”

She paused, giving him a mock glare. “You really think highly of yourself, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” he said with a grin. “But you haven’t told me I’m wrong.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her. “Fine. Maybe you make things a little less boring around here.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” He stepped closer, his tone playful but softer now. “So, what do you do for fun, Y/N? Outside of this glamorous life of popcorn and projector reels?”

The question caught her off guard. No one had asked her that in a long time. She shrugged, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “I don’t know. I guess I don’t really have time for fun.”

Clark tilted his head, studying her. “Then let’s change that.” She blinked. “What?”

“Come on,” he said, his eyes lighting up with that same mischievous glint. “After your shift. Let’s get out of here. You and me.”

Y/N hesitated, her heart pounding. She should’ve said no—should’ve reminded herself that he was a walking complication. But instead, she found herself nodding.

“Okay,” she said softly.

That night marked the beginning.

They went for late-night walks through the glowing streets of Metropolis, the city humming with life around them. Clark had a knack for finding hidden gems—quiet diners with the best coffee, rooftop spots with breathtaking views, street performers who played music that made the world feel still. He made her laugh, teased her endlessly, and listened intently when she talked about her dreams, her worries, and the stories she wished she could write for herself.

“You’re amazing, you know that?” he said one night as they sat on a park bench, sharing fries from a paper bag.

She laughed, shaking her head. “You don’t even know me.”

“Sure I do.” He turned to her, his expression unexpectedly serious. “I know you’re kind, and smart, and way too hard on yourself. And I know you deserve more than this job you hate and this city that doesn’t appreciate you.”

His words hit her like a punch to the gut. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe someone like him could see her that way.

And so, she let herself fall.

The situationship unfolded like a dream, one where the edges were just blurry enough to ignore the red flags. Clark would disappear for days, only to show up with that same dazzling smile, pulling her back in with an inside joke or a casual touch that lingered.

“Miss me?” he’d ask, leaning against the counter at the cinema as if he hadn’t been gone long enough for her to question where he’d been. “Hardly,” she’d reply, trying to sound unaffected.

But it was a lie, and they both knew it.

The days turned into weeks, and Y/N found herself slipping further into Clark’s orbit. He was magnetic, always pulling her closer with that effortless charm. Their late-night escapades became routine—quiet pockets of time that felt stolen from a movie script.

One night, as they sat on the roof of a crumbling building downtown, the city stretched out like a glittering sea beneath them, Clark leaned back on his hands, gazing at the skyline.

“Why do you work so hard?” he asked, his voice low but curious.

Y/N glanced at him, surprised. “What do you mean?”

“You’re always at the cinema,” he said, turning to face her. “Studying, working. Don’t you ever just… want to do something for yourself?”

She hugged her knees, her breath misting in the cool night air. “It’s not that simple. I’ve got rent to pay, and college isn’t exactly cheap. Besides, who has time for themselves in this city?”

Clark frowned, his expression softening. “You deserve more than just scraping by, Y/N.”

His words struck a chord she didn’t know existed. She looked at him, trying to gauge if he meant it or if this was just another line in his endless repertoire. But his face was earnest, his blue eyes steady on hers.

“Not everyone can just…” She hesitated, gesturing vaguely at him. “Be like you. You act like you don’t have a care in the world.”

For a moment, Clark’s expression flickered, a shadow of something she couldn’t quite name crossing his face. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by his usual grin.

“Maybe I don’t,” he said lightly. “Or maybe I just know life’s too short to spend it worrying all the time.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help smiling. “Must be nice.”

“It could be,” he said, nudging her shoulder with his. “If you’d let yourself try it.”

It wasn’t all rooftop views and stolen moments. Sometimes, Clark left her hanging. He’d promise to meet her after her shift, only to vanish without a word. Days would pass, and just when she thought she might never hear from him again, he’d show up—apologetic, charming, and impossible to stay mad at.

“Sorry, got caught up with some work stuff,” he’d say, his voice tinged with just enough sincerity to make her believe him.

And she did. Every time.

Because when he was with her, it felt like the world stopped spinning. Like nothing else mattered but the way he made her laugh, the way he looked at her like she was the only person who existed.

But there was a cost.

One evening, as they sat in her small apartment, the city’s glow seeping through the curtains, Clark leaned back on the couch, tossing popcorn into his mouth.

“You’ve got this whole place to yourself?” he asked, his tone teasing. “I was expecting roommates or something.”

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “Nope. Just me. Not everyone’s lucky enough to have a rent-controlled unit in Metropolis.”

“Lucky?” He raised an eyebrow. “I’d call it resourceful. You’re full of surprises, Y/N.”

She rolled her eyes, but the warmth in her chest spread at his words. He had a way of making her feel seen, even when she didn’t want to be.

“What about you?” she asked, curious. “You’re always showing up out of nowhere. Where do you even live?”

Clark’s grin faltered for a split second before he recovered, tossing another piece of popcorn in the air and catching it. “Oh, you know. Here and there. I’m a man of mystery.”

“Clark…”

He met her gaze, his expression unreadable. “What’s the fun in ruining the illusion, Y/N? Just enjoy the ride.”

She wanted to push, to ask the questions bubbling in her mind. But instead, she nodded, biting back the words.

Because that was what it felt like—a ride. Fast, exhilarating, and impossible to get off, even as she felt herself losing control.

Y/N had never thought of herself as impulsive. Her life had always been a series of calculated steps, careful decisions made to keep her afloat in the chaos of Metropolis. But with Clark, everything was different.

Their moments together were often fleeting, stolen pockets of time that felt more like dreams than reality. She didn’t know when it started—the first time he reached for her hand, or the night he walked her home and lingered on the doorstep just a little too long.

“Goodnight,” he’d said softly, his voice barely more than a whisper.

And then he kissed her.

It wasn’t the kind of kiss she’d seen in the movies she played every night at the cinema. It wasn’t choreographed or perfect. It was real, slow and searching, his lips brushing hers as if he wasn’t sure she’d let him. When she kissed him back, his hands moved to her waist, pulling her closer, and for a moment, the city disappeared.

After that, the kisses came more easily. Quick pecks when no one was watching, longer ones that left her breathless when they thought they were alone. She didn’t let herself think too much about what it meant, afraid that if she did, the spell would break.

As their situationship deepened, Y/N found herself holding on to the moments that felt real—his unexpected vulnerability, the way he’d light up when he talked about the stars or how he’d brush her hair back from her face when she laughed too hard.

But even then, she couldn’t ignore the cracks. The unanswered texts, the fleeting glimpses of his phone when he wasn’t looking. The nights when she’d watch him leave, wondering if he was going to someone else.

And still, she stayed.

Because despite it all, he made her feel alive.

Y/N couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when the feeling started—when the quiet nagging in the back of her mind grew too loud to ignore.

It wasn’t like Clark made it obvious. In fact, his charm was part of the problem. Every time he smiled at her or pulled her close during one of their stolen evenings, the doubt seemed to shrink, fading into the glow of the moment.

But it always crept back.

One night, as they sat in her apartment, Clark sprawled comfortably on her couch while she worked on a paper at the small dining table, she noticed it.

His phone buzzed once, then again. He was scrolling through something, his expression as casual as ever, but her gaze lingered.

It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen his phone go off before—it always seemed to buzz with some notification or another. But tonight, something about the rhythm of it tugged at her curiosity.

Clark caught her looking and raised an eyebrow, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What’s with the stare? You jealous of my phone now?”

She rolled her eyes, forcing a laugh. “Hardly. Just wondering if I should start charging you rent, the amount of time you spend here.”

“Ouch,” he said, mock-wounded as he tossed his phone onto the coffee table, screen down. “I thought you liked having me around.”

“Sometimes,” she teased, though her smile felt tighter than she wanted it to.

The next time she noticed was when they were at the cinema after her shift. Clark had offered to walk her home—something he’d started doing more often lately, as if trying to cement his place in her life.

As they stood in the empty lobby, his phone buzzed again. He pulled it out, glancing at the screen briefly before tucking it back into his pocket.

“Who’s that?” Y/N asked, her tone casual, though she wasn’t sure why she was asking at all.

“Just a friend,” Clark said smoothly, not missing a beat.

The words were innocent enough, but the way he said them left a strange taste in her mouth. She told herself she was overthinking it. She had no reason not to trust him—or at least, that’s what she wanted to believe.

But the moments kept piling up.

Once, as they sat on a park bench sharing ice cream, his phone buzzed on the table between them. He didn’t pick it up, but Y/N’s eyes flicked to the screen before she could stop herself.

The name Lana flashed briefly before the screen dimmed.

Her stomach dropped, and she quickly looked away, trying to focus on what he was saying. Something about how the city looked different at night, how the lights felt like they told their own stories.

She nodded along, forcing a smile, but her thoughts were elsewhere.

Lana.

She didn’t ask. She didn’t even react. But the name lingered, repeating itself like a line of dialogue she couldn’t quite shake.

The turning point came on a quiet Sunday afternoon. They’d spent the day wandering through Metropolis, stopping at a food truck festival where Clark had charmed his way into getting her an extra serving of her favorite dish.

Later, as they sat by the river, watching the boats drift lazily past, his phone buzzed again. He picked it up this time, his fingers moving quickly as he typed out a response.

“Busy?” Y/N asked lightly, trying to keep her tone even.

“Just catching up with someone,” he said, not looking up.

The words stung more than she wanted to admit. She tried to brush it off, telling herself it wasn’t a big deal. He wasn’t hers—not really.

But the more she tried to ignore it, the more the doubt festered.

Over the next few days, the pieces started to come together. She’d catch glimpses of his screen more often than before—names she didn’t recognize, messages that seemed to come at odd hours.

Clark’s behavior hadn’t changed; he was still the same playful, charming presence in her life. But for Y/N, it was as if a curtain had been pulled back, revealing something she couldn’t quite unsee.

And yet, she couldn’t bring herself to confront him.

Instead, she told herself she was imagining things, that she was looking for cracks where there weren’t any.

But late at night, when she was alone in her tiny apartment, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was holding onto something that wasn’t hers to keep.

It was a rainy afternoon, the kind where the city’s usual hum dulled into a soft, rhythmic patter against her window. Y/N had the day off for once, and she spent it curled up on her couch, a blanket draped over her legs and an old Game Boy in her hands.

The screen glowed faintly, and the familiar 8-bit theme of a puzzle game filled the quiet space. She hadn’t touched the thing in years, but nostalgia had called to her, and for a while, it was comforting.

Until she started losing.

“Come on,” she muttered, pressing the buttons a little harder, as if that would help. The pieces weren’t falling into place the way they should. She kept making mistakes, and the game wasn’t forgiving.

By the time the little pixelated “GAME OVER” flashed on the screen, Y/N let out an exasperated sigh, tossing the Game Boy onto the cushion beside her.

She sat back, staring at the ceiling, the lingering frustration from the game mingling with something deeper. Her mind drifted, as it often did lately, to Clark.

He was like that Game Boy in a way, she thought. All bright and addictive at first, easy to pick up but impossible to put down. Every button press, every move, felt like it mattered. But no matter what she did, she was always one wrong move away from losing. 

The thought made her stomach twist.

She reached for the Game Boy again, turning it over in her hands, tracing the edges of the faded plastic. The thing was so old, yet it still worked perfectly—reliable. Clark, on the other hand...

Her lips twisted into a bitter smile. Reliable wasn’t the word she’d use to describe him.

He’d been MIA for the past two days. No texts, no calls. She’d tried not to overthink it, but every time her phone buzzed, her heart leapt—only to sink again when it wasn’t him.

She hated how much space he took up in her mind, how even when he wasn’t around, he lingered in the buzz of her phone or the gaps in her schedule. Two days without a word, and it felt like the world had shifted just enough to make her stumble.

Y/N powered the Game Boy back on, more to distract herself than anything. But as the game’s cheerful chime filled the room again, the metaphor struck her with full force.

Clark didn’t just remind her of a Game Boy. He was a Game Boy. She was the one pressing all the buttons, trying to figure out the right moves, while he stayed the same—unchanging, unbothered. And the worst part? He made her feel like winning was possible, even when the game was rigged.

The thing about the game was that it didn’t care how hard you tried. It followed its own rules, punishing every misstep without hesitation. No second chances, no rewinds. And yet, she couldn’t stop playing, hoping that maybe, this time, she’d get it right.

The thought stung more than she expected. She hit “Start” on the game, more aggressively than necessary, but her focus was already elsewhere.

Later that evening, when Clark finally called, his voice warm and playful as if nothing had happened, Y/N couldn’t shake the lingering bitterness from earlier.

“Miss me?” he asked, his tone as casual as ever.

She hesitated, the words caught in her throat. She wanted to call him out, to tell him how it felt to be on the other side of whatever this was. But instead, she forced a small laugh.

“Maybe a little,” she said, her voice quieter than usual.

Clark didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

As the call ended and the room fell silent again, Y/N picked up the Game Boy one last time. She stared at it for a long moment before setting it back down.

Maybe it was time to stop playing altogether.

Yet, she couldn’t stop. It was like an addiction to this game, she didn’t want to play but she wanted to reach the end, the happy ending. 

Y/N had grown accustomed to the uncertainty. The missed calls, the unreturned texts, and the occasional days when Clark would vanish altogether. But somehow, when he did show up, it always felt like enough to keep her hooked.

She told herself it was temporary—that whatever it was between them, it would find its footing. Clark wasn’t perfect, but who was? She liked the way he made her feel when they were together, even if the gaps in between left her spiraling.

Late one evening, they found themselves at her apartment again. Clark had breezed in like he always did, with that easy charm and a bag of takeout in hand.

“Thought you might be hungry,” he said, setting the bag on the table.

Y/N smiled, pushing down the familiar ache in her chest. “Thanks. You didn’t have to.”

“Of course I did,” he replied, leaning against the counter. “Gotta keep you from wasting away, right?”

She laughed softly, shaking her head, but as they ate, she couldn’t ignore the buzzing of his phone on the table between them.

“Popular tonight?” she asked, keeping her tone light.

Clark glanced at the screen but didn’t pick it up. “Just stuff,” he said, brushing it off.

She nodded, not pressing further. But the tightness in her chest remained.

Yet it was like finally reaching the end of a level in a game, only to see the mistake you’d been overlooking all along.

The city was a hush of soft shadows and distant lights when Y/N found herself walking through the park. Her shift had run late, and the cool night air was both soothing and unsettling in its emptiness. The rhythm of her footsteps echoed in the silence, a lullaby of solitude that matched the slow beat of her heart.

She had no intention of looking for him—not tonight. But then she saw him, standing beneath the streetlamp like a figure she could never quite forget. Clark.

For a fleeting moment, her chest fluttered, the warmth of seeing him grounding her in a way she couldn’t explain. But that feeling faltered when she saw her.

The woman.

Y/N’s heart stuttered, and her mind scrambled to make sense of the scene unfolding before her. Clark stood with her, his figure tense, his back slightly turned. It didn’t take long for Y/N to notice the subtle shift in the air—how Clark’s posture had become a cage, arms crossed tightly, his body angled away as if protecting something fragile. The woman stood too close. Too comfortable.

Y/N’s feet froze on the path, as if the ground itself had turned to quicksand. She wanted to look away, to deny the scene before her, but her body betrayed her, drawing her closer to the shadows of the trees where she could no longer pretend she wasn’t watching.

“I’m not leaving until you listen to me,” the woman’s voice cut through the night, sharp and demanding.

Clark didn’t respond immediately, but his gaze dropped to the ground, the weight of his silence heavier than any words he could have spoken. Y/N’s breath hitched. Something in the air shifted again—tighter, colder—and the world felt as if it were held together by the thinnest thread.

“Clark…” The woman’s voice was softer now, laced with something deeper. Familiar. “You’ve been acting like a completely different person. You don’t get to just pretend everything’s fine.”

Y/N felt the tremor in her chest. She was a witness to a story she hadn’t known she was part of. Her heart pounded a frantic beat, the pulse of something unraveling. Her eyes stayed locked on them, unwilling, unable to pull away.

Then came the name, sharp and clear, ringing through the night air like the crack of a bell.

“Lana.”

It was just one word, but it crashed over Y/N like a wave—cold, relentless, pulling her under. She gasped, instinctively shrinking back behind the tree, but she couldn’t escape the force of it. The name had weight, had history, had meaning she could never understand. A name that tore through the quiet between them, carving itself into the space where she stood, invisible but not unseen.

Clark’s lips parted, but it wasn’t the words Y/N was listening for. It was the tremor in his voice, the falter in his breath.

“I’m fine,” he said, but there was no conviction in it, no strength. Only a thin veneer of something that felt like a lie.

Lana didn’t flinch at his words. She stepped closer, her hand light on his arm. The touch felt like a declaration. “You’re not fine, Clark. You’re not the man I used to know.”

Clark stiffened, but Lana didn’t let go. The grip of their conversation tightened around him, around them both. She wasn’t letting this go.

Y/N’s stomach twisted, a knot of disbelief gnawing at her insides. She could almost feel the pull of the gravity between them, a force too strong to escape.

“Maybe I don’t want to be that guy anymore,” Clark finally said, his voice barely a whisper, a secret too heavy for him to carry alone.

That guy. The words echoed in Y/N’s mind like a cruel whisper, and with them, the realization broke her like a tidal wave. She wasn’t even part of the equation. She was never meant to be.

Lana’s next words were the ones that would haunt Y/N long after the night ended, long after she walked away, trying to escape the truth.

“You’re my boyfriend, Clark,” Lana said softly. The words wrapped around the air, thick with a kind of finality Y/N couldn’t ignore. “And I’m not giving up on us.”

Boyfriend.

It was the word that shattered the glass, the weight that crushed her chest, the sharpness that split open the place inside her she thought was invincible. The pain bloomed from her heart, a wildflower of confusion and bitterness. She should have known. She could have known. But somewhere along the way, she had let herself believe in the game.

Her hands shook as she took a step back, retreating into the shadows, every part of her wanting to scream. Why hadn’t she seen it? She had known all along, hadn’t she? This was never hers to win. She was just another player, another hand on the controller.

But now, the game was over.

That night, Y/N sat on the edge of her bed, her thoughts replaying the scene in vivid detail. She wanted to be angry. She wanted to hate him. But all she felt was the weight of her own foolishness.

She’d been a chapter in a story that wasn’t hers, a subplot in a life already entangled with someone else.

Clark didn’t come back. Days turned into weeks, and the silence stretched like an endless road.

Months later, as she sat in her apartment, the Game Boy in her lap, Y/N realized something. Clark had been like the game all along—an unpredictable rush of highs and lows. And like any game, it had an ending.

The difference was, this time, she wasn’t hitting “Start” again.

As she set the Game Boy down, her phone buzzed on the table beside her. For a fleeting moment, her heart leapt. But when she looked at the screen, it wasn’t him.

It never was.

And maybe, she thought, it was time to stop waiting.

She didn’t want to play anymore.

AHHHHHHHHHH!!! its probably one of my fav stories. along with ,star of the show'---- maybe.

pt 2: game-boy: resume?

ps: stream the song ,gameboy' by rosé to have a better vision of the story :)

💌taglist: @blackynsupremacy @angelsgalore @alelo23

[munsonsmixtapes]

Paint Me

Benedict Bridgerton x fem!inexperienced!American!reader

summary: Anthony finds out what happened between you and Benedict at the ball and offers Benedict two choices: to marry you or duel.

word count: 4k

cw: MDNI (18+) reader and Benedict take a bath together, Benedict gives reader a massage, Anthony and Benedict get into a fight

part one part two part three part four part six part seven

March 4, 1817

The next morning, Anthony still wasn’t able to shake the events of the night before. His office being a mess, you leaving it suspiciously, and the necklace in his pocket were all pointing signs to something but he wasn’t sure what. He knew he should have spoken to you, but he felt bad for accusing you of doing something when you were so sweet. Maybe you really were just trying to find the bathroom and you weren’t the one to mess up his office. What reason would you have had to do that? 

Anthony leaned over to his bedside table and reached for the necklace to get a look at it again. It looked familiar, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on who it belonged to. He didn’t think it was his wife’s, but maybe it was a piece that she hadn’t worn before. He turned the necklace this way and that and figured that it was expensive and that whoever it had belonged to would come back to claim it soon enough. 

“What’s that?” Kate asked as she snuggled into her husband’s chest as she looked at the necklace he was holding up to the sunlight. It looked familiar to her and unlike Anthony, she knew exactly who it belonged to. She could clearly see you fiddling with it in memories that she had of you in all of the time that you had spent together, but why did Anthony have it?

“Not sure. I found it in my office after the ball last night. It isn’t yours, is it?”

“No,” she shook her head. “But I know who it belongs to.” She wanted to tell him the truth as she had seen both you and Benedict entering his office together and made the assumption as to what you were going to get up to, but she felt like that was a betrayal of your trust. Yes, it was Anthony’s business now that he had your necklace, but she also didn’t want Benedict to get into trouble with his brother over it. He was her brother now and she, for whatever reason, felt the need to protect him. 

But, at the same time, Anthony was her husband, so she reluctantly told him that Benedict had taken someone into his office, but didn’t say who as a way to protect you. She didn’t want to drag you into it too. You didn’t deserve that and she didn’t want you to be on the receiving end of one of her husband’s lectures. 

The truth sent Anthony off the edge. Why he was surprised, he didn’t know. But he would have at least thought that Benedict would have listened to his threat and stopped what he had been up to. And it hadn’t been a suggestion. He meant every fucking word and if his brother didn’t find a wife by the end of the season, he would make sure that the family disowned him. 

Anthony quickly got out of bed and didn’t even bother to get dressed as he stomped over to his brother’s room, rage filling him as he clutched the necklace in his hand so hard that it was going to leave a mark. 

The sun seeped into the window of Benedict’s room and you woke up to see the man next to you, sleeping soundly. His arms were wrapped around you and there was a slight smile on his face to signify that he was enjoying whatever he was dreaming about. You carded one of your hands through his hair and his eyes opened to look into yours. 

A smile broke out on his face as he grabbed onto your waist and pulled you in for a kiss. His hands ran up and down your back gently, the exact opposite of how he was the night before and you liked that he was also able to behave that way with you. 

There was a loud knock on the door and the two of you quickly sat up and turned in that direction, wondering who would be wanting to speak to Benedict so early in the morning. He ushered you to move and you hurriedly rolled out of the bed and reached for the blanket that was at the end of it to cover yourself up. 

“Come in,” Benedict called as you hid yourself on the side of the bed that was by the window so you wouldn’t be seen. Your heart was hammering your chest as you tried to find a way to get out of there without being caught. But there wasn’t one, so you just sat there, panicking while you waited for the visitor to leave.

“Brother,” Anthony greeted as he entered the room and you felt your heart beat harder in your chest, worried that you had been found out. If you had, you don’t know how you would have been able to live it down, and worse, how to live with yourself. If anyone had gotten wind of the activities you had partaken in the night before, you would have been shunned for eternity. And your mother certainly would not want anything to do with you. And just when you had gotten into her good graces.

“Ah, Anthony,” Benedict replied. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Anthony didn’t like the smirk that was on his brother’s face. It was smug and it was certainly a product of seeing the anger on his own face. Sometimes Anthony thought his brother got too much pleasure out of upsetting him. Almost as if he lived every day to piss him off in some way.

“I’m afraid it’s not a pleasure that I’m here.” He held up the necklace and Benedict’s face went white. Where had Anthony gotten that and how had known that you two had fucked in Anthony’s office? Someone had to have told him and as soon as he found out who, it would be over for them.

“Where did you find that?” Benedict sat up in the bed and tried to be calm, but he was panicking internally. He feared that Anthony wasn’t just threatening the other night, but more like promising to ruin his life. 

“In my office.” He made his way over to the bed and you backed away, hoping that you still wouldn’t be seen. “I guess you don’t like to listen, do you?” He sat on the edge of the bed and threw the necklace and his brother and it hit his chest before falling onto the bedding. 

Anthony eyed Benedict’s bare leg that was sticking out of the blanket and he was quick to cover it up, but it was no use. Anthony crawled to the other side of the bed and Benedict tried to stop him by pulling on his waist, but it was too late. Anthony had already seen you. He made eye contact with you then slowly turned to his brother, feeling rage fill his body as he removed himself from the bed. 

Without a word, he rounded the bed and held out his hand to help you to your feet. He then took the necklace from where it had fallen and handed it to you all while you felt your face burn in embarrassment. You wrapped the blanket tighter around you and went over to reach for your dress from the night before then headed to the bathroom to get dressed the best you could by yourself. 

You never would have imagined that you would have gotten caught, especially not by Anthony. He seemed a little suspicious after he had caught you in his office, but still seemed to believe you when you told him that you were just looking for the restroom. How had he found out and who had told him? There was no way he could have come up with that conclusion on his own so someone must have seen the two of you go into the office and mentioned it to him. 

The dreams you had after your night with Benedict seemed to all fade away as you were realizing that maybe he didn’t want what you did. Clearly all you were to him was just someone he could use then throw away when he was done. Maybe Anthony was being a little dramatic about the whole thing, but first and foremost, you were a priority to him and he wasn’t going to let you get hurt by his stupid brother.

You pressed your ear to the door as you tried your best to tighten your corset, desperate to get the hell out of there, but you were also curious to hear what they were talking about. It sounded like they were arguing, but the door muffled their voices so you couldn’t exactly hear what they were saying. 

“Have you lost your mind?” Anthony asked as he turned his back to his brother so he could put on some clothes. Clearly he must have if he had thought it was okay to take your innocence. For the most part, Anthony didn’t really care who the women Benedict messed around with were, but now this was personal. 

“I don’t know,” Benedict smirked. “I really like her.” And he wasn’t lying this time. He really did like you. He was even considering courting you and that thought put a bright smile on his face. He was so happy that not even his brother’s anger could get to him this time.

“Do I need to remind you of what you have done? You just did unspeakable things with a woman you are not married to. A woman who is a friend to this family. Actually, she isn’t even a woman when I compare your ages. She is a child, Benedict.”

“And so was Edwina.” That made Anthony turn around to face him, marching towards him. He punched his brother square in the nose which caused Benedict to hunch over in pain. How dare he mention Edwina and how dare he suggest that his relationship to her was anywhere close to what Benedict’s was with you? That was nothing but insulted and low fucking blow if anyone asked him.

“But I didn’t defile Edwina. Now you have two options, brother. You either marry her or we duel.” Marry her or duel? Wasn’t there a third option? Benedict liked the thought of marrying you, but he didn’t think it was a good idea because of his reputation. What were people going to think when the engagement was announced? Most likely that you were with child if Benedict had actually agreed to marry you. And he couldn’t have people spreading rumors about you.

 And he didn’t want to duel his brother either. He always thought that was such a dramatic option to jump to when there was a disagreement. Couldn’t they have just played a game of cards or chess? The stakes were much lower with either of those and none of them would have gotten hurt either. It was a win-win in Benedict’s mind.

“Duel? Don’t you think that’s a bit dramatic?” Benedict asked as he held onto his nose. He wasn’t going to marry you, but he wasn’t going to duel Anthony either. Maybe there was a way he could find a way out of it, but he wasn’t sure how. 

“No, not when it comes to this. To someone who I consider to be a sister,” he pointed to the door that you were behind. “I am so disappointed in you and let me just tell you now that father would be too.” Now it was Benedict’s turn to throw a punch. Anthony could think whatever he wanted, but the second he mentioned their father, it was personal. And the thing was, he was right. Their father would have been disappointed in Benedict and that was why he was so upset. 

“How dare you say that to me?” Benedict pointed at him, feeling tears welling up in his eyes, but he was quick to wipe them away. They rarely mentioned Edmund and when they did, it was on his birthday or just when they were reminiscing. Bringing him up in an argument was just cruel and Anthony knew that, but he didn’t care. He was just trying to get his brother to see the error of his ways.

“No, how dare you?” Anthony jabbed his chest with his pointer finger. “How dare you, Benedict? I don’t know who this man is who’s standing in front of me, but he’s not my brother.” All Anthony could do was shake his head and turn to head out of the room, leaving Benedict to clean up his giant mess by himself. He made his bed and now he had to lie in it.

You exited the bathroom as soon as the yelling stopped and Benedict was nervous about just how much you had heard. Clearly not much since you were still smiling. As you approached him, all he could think about was the choices he was offered. Marrying you sounded nice, but what would people say when they found out that a rake like him was getting married? They wouldn’t believe it and certainly have things to say. Benedict could take the gossip, but he didn’t think it was fair to you to let everyone whisper about you when his reputation was all his fault. And he wasn’t going to drag you down with him.

“I’m so sorry, Benedict. I had no idea that he-” Benedict wasn’t going to listen to you blame yourself. Yes, you had consented to everything, but he was the one who initiated it so he was going to be the one to take all of the blame. And he didn’t mind doing it as long as you didn’t get hurt because of it.

“This isn’t your fault,” he pulled you to his chest and let his hands run up and down your arms as a way to bring you comfort. “I pulled you into this mess.”

“Benedict, I may not have a lot of sexual knowledge, but even I know that it takes two people to do that. So I’m just as much to blame as you.” Sure, technically that was true, but he wasn’t going to take that. He couldn’t. He dragged you into it and he was going to get you out however he could.

“If anyone gets wind of this, everyone will want to kill me and they’ll call you unspeakable names. I-I want to marry you, I do, but I don’t think it’s the best idea.” He could see your face fall and he was beginning to regret his words, wanting to take them back. Anything to prevent you from looking at him like that.

“Why not?” Your voice sounded so heartbroken and he was considering changing his mind. He couldn’t stand hurting you again. Not after what happened last time. He had let you slip through his fingers one too many times and he was sure that this one was one time you’d actually leave for good.

“Because I’m a rake and I won’t let you settle for someone as lowly as me.” You just shook your head and grabbed him by his chin, forcing him to look you in the eye. Your hand cupped his cheek and you could see the sad look in his eyes. The mischief that was always behind them was replaced with something that you couldn’t make out. 

“You don’t think very highly of yourself do you?” Your thumb stroked his cheek and he leaned into your touch. “Anyone who thinks lowly of you clearly doesn’t know you at all.” You were so gentle and kind that he didn’t think he deserved you. You had left time and time again and he wasn’t sure what he had done to have you in his arms every single time. Maybe it really was time to turn over a new leaf and commit to one woman.

“Not even my own brother?” Anger was coursing through him and you were prepared to do whatever you could to calm him down. You completely understood where Anthony was coming from, but thought that he was being a little too hard on Benedict. Yes, he had been a rake, but that was all in the past. He was going to throw all of that away if it meant that you’d be by his side.

“Anthony is just protective.” That was true, but perhaps he was too much so. You weren’t even related to him, but he was acting like you were one of his little sisters and if any of them had done those kinds of things with a guy like Benedict, he wouldn’t have been so nice. In fact, he wouldn’t have been nice at all. 

“He hates me.” He shook his head and looked down at his feet, but you were quick to force him to look you in the eyes, yours boring into his as you pressed your forehead to his. 

“He doesn’t hate you, darling. He’s just upset but he’ll get over it.” You carded your hands through his hair gently and he closed his eyes at your touch, leaning down to press his lips to yours in a gentle kiss.

“I don’t deserve you,” he shook his head. “I tell you that I can’t marry you and you’re still so understanding.”

“You only think you don’t deserve me because you keep telling yourself that you don’t. But I will be right by your side, okay? I don’t care what we are to each other as long as we’re together.” Benedict couldn’t believe his luck. He had fucked up time and time again now here you were, looking like a dream in front of him, saying the most poetic words he had ever heard in his life. Any other woman would have probably left in anger or tears, but you didn’t. And that was what set you apart from them. In Benedict’s mind, you were absolutely perfect. 

“I think we have a few minutes to spare if you want to make use of them,” you batted your eyelashes as you pulled him closer by his shirt. Just one night together and you were already beating him at his own game. And he was fully prepared to let you. 

“Yeah?” he asked, pressing his lips to yours. “And what do you propose we do?” He could see your eyes taking on a flirty look and he knew that he was going to want to give into whatever you were suggesting.

“I feel so dirty and need someone to clean me up. Think you could do that for me, Mr. Bridgerton?” You asked as you made your way to the bathroom and he followed quickly behind, slamming the door shut as soon as the both of you were inside. For only having one sexual experience, Benedict was convinced that you were a natural at dirty talk and it was alway so surprising hearing those things come from his little darling. 

In truth, you had taken a bath before the ball, but the thought of taking one with Benedict just sounded so nice. You wanted to soak up what little time you had left with him since you knew that Anthony was going to want to separate the two of you since Benedict had no interest in marrying you. 

Benedict fetched the hot water from one of the servants and assured that he could pour the water into the bath himself and he did while you watched, knowing that the hot water would feel so good on your body that was still aching from the night before. Once the water was in the tub, Benedict pulled your dress over your head then turned you around so that you were facing the tub and began to undo your corset slowly. 

He finally got your corset undone then removed your chemise while you got rid of your shoes and stockings. He pressed his lips to your neck as he moved his hand to your breast while his other one stayed at your waist. He massaged your breast as he sucked on your neck and you let out a moan. You then turned around in his grasp and began to unbutton his shirt while he peppered your chest with kisses, making sure to be gentle so the marks wouldn’t be visible. 

His lips then moved to yours as you got his shirt off and made your way to his belt. He licked into your mouth and you moaned as his tongue scraped against yours. You broke apart briefly so you could pull his breeches down and he pressed one more kiss to your lips before climbing into the tub, holding his hand out to you once he was settled.

You took it and stepped into the bath, sitting between his legs and he pulled you back so you’d lean against his chest. His hands went to rest on your thighs and you were quick to grab them before lacing your fingers together and pressing a kiss to each hand. You let out a contented sigh as you settled into Benedict and closed your eyes, deciding that you would have stayed like that forever if it were possible. 

His hands moved to your shoulders and he began to massage them, his thumbs digging into your shoulder blades. Your eyes closed in pleasure as his thumbs worked into your shoulder and you accidentally let out a moan at the feeling. Your eyes shot open and Benedict chuckled.

“Make all the noise you want, darling,” he encouraged. “I want you to feel good.” His thumb hit just right the spot and you moaned once again, feeling his cock get hard behind you as you did so. His hands were gentle with you, which had been the exact opposite of how they had been the night before and you weren’t quite sure that you could handle anymore of that so soon. 

His hands continued to massage your shoulders and you couldn’t help but continue to make noise at how good it felt. It felt like he had been removing all of the weight that had been sitting on your shoulders your entire life and now he was carrying all of it in his hands. 

Once you both felt like you were content, his hands slid down to yours and he interlocked your fingers before pressing a kiss to each hand before crossing your arms over your chest and pulling you to lean against him. He pressed his lips to your temple then brought them to your ear, his hot breath fanning that entire area, making a shiver run down your spine.

“I could stay here forever,” he whispered and you just leaned further into him while leaning your head back against his shoulder. You puckered your lips as if to ask for a kiss and he was happy to oblige, turning your face towards him as he leaned down, pressing his lips to yours in a gentle kiss. 

“Me too,” you replied with a smile once he pulled away. You had meant what you said when you said that you didn’t care what you were to him as long as the two of you were together. You just wanted to be around him wherever you got the chance, loving the way he made you feel special. And you didn’t care what Anthony said. That was who Benedict was. He was a sweet man and his brother was too focused on who he had been in the past to see that. 

You and Benedict spent probably a bit too long in the bath and had been too caught up in each other’s company to even remember to actually clean up. Once the water had gotten cold, Benedict helped you out of the bath and wrapped you up in a towel, helping you dry off before assisting you in getting dressed. 

Once you were both decent, he took you by the hand and led you down the stairs as quietly as possible so as to not get caught by one of his family members. You had never snuck around that and you had to admit that you enjoyed it more than you probably should have. The adrenaline was addicting and the idea of sneaking around with Benedict on a regular basis sounded very inviting. 

The carriage that he had called for you was sitting out front and he took you by the hand, slowly leading you to it as a way to stall. He didn’t want your moment of paradise to end, knowing that reality was heading towards him as soon as you were gone. He opened the door for your and helped you inside and made sure no one was around before pressing another kiss to your lips and closing the door. As soon as the carriage rolled away out of his line of sight, Benedict headed inside to let his brother know that he had made his decision.

[butmakeitgayblog]

Hi yes hello help me I have a new fic idea for this picture

And it's giving me brainrot because I have too many wips and yet... I must write this ficlet. It's very soft. Friends to lovers.

Lexa owns a little holistic shop that always smells like incense and fresh herby plants. Fresh sprigs of flowers and dangley charms everywhere. Not quite "nature child/granola sister" vibes because it has too many sleek and modern details to it, but still very earthy and calming. Clean and fresh. It's tucked away in a sleepy little town along the coast that's just a short walk to a pier, so the fresh scent of the ocean's spray always mingles with all the perfumes of her shop.

Clarke moves there following the death of her father. Not running from anything, but more just trying to find herself in her new found peace. She's faced her own mortality and come out the other end understanding who she wants to be vs who she thought she should be. Exchanging her med school white coat for cable knit sweaters. Sneakers for deck shoes. Reading glasses for wayfarers.

Chaos for calm.

Which of course leads her right into Lexa's shop a few weeks into getting settled, deciding a new skin routine may be in order as well. Maybe a new lotion and a few handdipped candles to line her fancy new bath tub too, if the hand painted sign outside the shop is to be trusted.

Of course all chances at being the chill, solitary new girl in town who lives quietly and keeps to herself kind of fly right out the window when she hears the little ding of the bell overhead and looks up to see brilliant, soft green eyes already crinkled at the edges in a welcoming smile. Seeing all that sun kissed brown hair pulled back in a delicate crown of braids, the waterfall length of untamed curls falling over strong but slender shouders. Hearing that lyrical voice that's not at all chipper like she'd expect from someone peddling holistic wares. Instead it's soft and vibrant, more like too-warm honey that's been left out in the afternoon sun. Feminine but sure of itself as she merely bids a simple, "Hello, can I help you find anything in particular?"

All that chill is also nowhere to be seen when this freaking angel made of droplets of sunshine and chamomile takes it upon herself to squeeze a dollop of the lotion she'd been eyeing into Clarke's palm and start massaging it in with hands that are so fucking soft Clarke forgets how to breathe. Her intense eye contact as she gently explains the ingredients and why they're so good doesn't help either. Not that Clarke could be PAID to recite any of it, not having taken in a single damn syllable.

She could easily tell you the exact slope of the woman's eyelashes though. Could probably draw the freckle on her upper lip from memory too.

Of course Clarke would leave 2 bags and the shopowner's business card heavier, $70 lighter, and with absolutely no qualms about trading in at least part of her medical knowledge for giving this holistic stuff a try.

And that's it! That's all! Just a pretty girl who is maybe slightly nuts but beautiful and sweet who runs a little holistic beauty shop.

Nothing life altering or anything for Clarke, obviously.

Clarke being new and so in her head about everything and all the changes? It's just A Lot already on her plate. She doesn't have the space for anything else.

But... then there's just Lexa. So unassuming and mild and calming in her presence. Undemanding of Clarke's attention despite always seeming to have it. That slow fall into each other over too prolonged eye contact and friendly waves as Lexa glances at her through the arching windows of her shop, Clarke seeing those plump lips tug up into a grin that mouths an amused but unheard "Hi" as Clarke walks past for the third time that day.

Total coincidence.

But the friendship blooms just like the little plants and sprigs around Lexa's shop. Taking shape and growing as the season changes.

Passing glances and friendly waves turning to chance meetings and slipping away to sit on the bench at the end of the pier, splitting batches of seasoned fries and garlic aioli that Clarke has no idea where Lexa manages to put considering all her halter tops and sundresses that, whew, just leave not much to the imagination.

Walking through a local garden/woodsy path and talking aimlessly for hours as she watches Lexa collect little wildflowers and clovers along the way, stowing them in a satchel she keeps in her long flowy pants, only to drop by the shop the next afternoon and find that the tiny wood nymph-turned shopkeeper has braided her treasures from their outing into her hair that day.

Walks along the rocky beachside and lunches sat huddled together in the park. Lexa sharing how she got into her business and Clarke relaying her past in the medical world just to falter, only to breathe a sigh of relief at Lexa's lazy grin, "Don't worry, Dr. Griffin. I still believe in the power of penicillin."

Lexa showing Clarke where she makes her wares while standing far too close than what's necessary as she lets Clarke peruse everything. Always catching Clarke's gaze in her excitement at Lexa's creations, holding them with that soul-quieting smile of hers.

Clarke noticing how Lexa's scent changes slightly with the seasons because of course Lexa only works with fresh product. Noting how as the months get colder, she goes from airy, delicate lilac scents to heavier sage and sandlewood notes. Fresh pine, peppermint, and holly. Noticing how cute little painted toes trade in their freer sandles for more sensible uggs and the occasional snow boot, seeing how dresses and spaghetti straps get exchanged for cardigans and knitted sweaters big enough to juuust effortlessly slip off her shoulder...

(Still no bra)

(Not that she's... keeping track...)

Lexa is just so unexpected and so... not at all anything Clarke would've ever thought she'd be attracted to. Beyond just her stunning face that is, obviously. It's her personality. She's not someone Clarke can easily "put in a box". She's not quite a hippie, she's not exactly new agey, she's certainly not weak, but she's not overbearing. She's maybe a liiiittle bit nuts, but also so fuckin smart and not cocky about it at all. But absolutely is cocky about the silliest things, like being good at Scrabble and knowing how to fold a fitted sheet. (Again, liiiittle bit nuts.) She's kind, but not a pushover. Soft in ways Clarke can't even begin to fathom or calm her heart over, but so deceptively strong, both in body and spirit.

And she's quiet. Quiet and reserved in her perfectly Lexa way. Yet, when she does open up, there's so much there. So many layers to her, and every time Clarke thinks she's gotten to the bottom of the question mark that is "Lexa", there's a whole new labyrinth to uncover.

The connection between them expands and blooms and becomes something entirely its own. And it kind of just gradually dawns on her that Clarke has somehow managed to find her best friend in the entire world... and has promptly fallen in love with her.

Now.

If I wrote this obviously very short ficlet (😤), would anyone read it?

[himbocoups]

˗ˋˏ CRAWL ˎˊ˗ | 18+ Only

SYNOPSIS: If there is anything about the Devil, it’s that he always keeps his promises. The problem is, he’s mad that you seemed to have forgotten his promise. Crawling for the Devil is the least of your problems.

PAIRING: devil!yjh x reader (afab)

GENRE: fantasy | smut, pwp

TAGS: featuring: sub!ksy, artist!xmh, housemate!jww | auditory voyeurism, pegging (m receiving), fingering, hickies, face sitting, oral + face fucking (m receiving), tail play, degradation, crawling, spanking, swallowing, toys, manhandling, pnv

WC: 5.2k

A/N: hello! currently working on my thesis so writing this was a way to blow off steam. I also wasn't going to write another devil!jeonghan fic so thank you to @whenyourenothere for convincing me! this can be read as a standalone fic or a part two of red horn. special s/o to @junkissed for helping me figure out the tags for this fic bc there's a lot <33 - nu ♡ | tagging: @jjeongddol

himbocoups's masterlist

It is a rusty metallic foldable chair that you sit on that squeaks and creaks even with the slightest movement. You try to readjust your posture — definitely not sure if you should sit up straight with your back against the dusty chair or with your hands folded neatly on the edge of the devil’s table in front of you. In fact, you’re not sure whether or not you are supposed to touch the devil’s office desk, so you choose to lead with the prior option. And the metal chair reacts, drawing out a long and uncomfortable creeeeak as you shift your weight backward. 

Maybe you were just lucky last time, led by the Devil to believe that maybe you were worthy of being somebody special in this vast world. In this underworld where the universe’s menagerie of creatures visit with last hopes of finding a solution, you are finally coming to a conclusion that you’re only but a speck of dust in a world that knows no bounds. 

The small office room feels humid and stuffy; its previously supposedly beige wallpapers are now a darker shade of brown that peels in large patches to reveal dirty and white painted-over bricks. Splotches of mold line the edges of the patches, and you find yourself wishing that mold spores aren’t a thing that exists in Hell. But it’s Hell, and anybody who dealt with mold before knows that the process of treating mold is basically hell. The navy colored carpet looks old and worn out. Several flat and black pieces of gum stick to it, already dried and surprisingly shiny in color. 

On the desk and pushed to the corner is an old and vintage PC, the kind with the square monitors and the back that protrudes outwards. You can feel the heat from the computer console blow against your skin and leave a faint burnt metallic scent in its wake. Not sure what to do or if you’re supposed to do anything, you sit in silence as the devil behind the computer screen slowly types and moves his mouse on top of his mousepad to fill out the information he has in the giant manilla folder spread out in front of him. 

You retract your lips inwards and bite the gummy and smooth underside of your lips while you stare at the stack of business cards pointed toward you. Craig. His name is Craig with no last name. Demon. So you’re wrong. He’s neither a devil nor is he the Devil with a capital “D” whom you were previously introduced to. He’s just office worker Craig, the demon you were assigned today. 

“Do you think it’s too stuffy in here?” He asks you while lifting his mouse from the mousepad before setting it back down to readjust the roller ball underneath. Not once does he turn to look at you or make eye contact with you.

“A little,” you reply feeling awkward and a bit burdened by the question for almost no reason at all. 

He nods his head while tracing his long and crooked finger against a line on the stack of papers in front of him before typing in the data in his computer. He sniffs and snorts his phlegm while clearing his throat. It was just small talk; there is no way an office worker in Hell would care about your wellbeing. You find yourself wondering if central cooling is a thing in Hell while trying to peek at the contents of your surprisingly large folder with no avail.

This room, this office worker, this situation…none of this is the same as the beautiful and luxurious office space you imagined stepping in for the second time. Long gone is the plush gray Persian rug and the mahogany desk that belongs to the owner himself. And your large file that is spread out before the demon you’re assigned, you cannot help but think about the event or even events that could have possibly added to the flimsy pieces of paper the Devil flipped through when he first met you. And the thought of Craig reading your file only causes your face to heat up in embarrassment. 

“Um.” You force yourself to break the awkward silence. “May I use the restroom before we start? You still haven’t asked me what I’m here for, and I think I accidentally came under the assumption that I would be assigned to the same person. I’ll be quick in case you need me immediately.” 

“Down the hall,” the demon mumbles while hunching his back to allow himself to squint closely at the screen in front of him. 

Picking yourself up from your seat, you basically fling yourself out of the office while thinking about the fresh air that awaits you in the hallway. No thoughts about the demon nor suspicions regarding the fact that the demon didn’t really point you towards a particular route to the restroom floated in your mind. Coming here was a mistake, and you are willing to face any repercussions for walking out of a meeting with a demon if it means having to save yourself from the embarrassment of having that demon read your file regarding your previous request with the Devil. 

However, what awaits you on the other side of the door isn’t the hallway from which you entered the office you were in. Instead, you find yourself in an oddly familiar bedroom. Light navy blue floor-length curtains cover the window with their original pleats from when it was first purchased about a year ago still intact. Pushed against the window is the full-sized bed with the orange-stained wooden headboard and the mess of frost blue blankets haphazardly strewn on the mattress. The soft and rotund tiger plush lays threateningly close to the edge of the bed, able to be toppled over even with the slightest movement on the mattress. 

The owner of this bedroom is in the middle of it all. Kwon Soonyoung kneels on his bed with his legs spread and his ass up. He already looks so fucked out. His left cheek is pressed against his mattress while he looks back at you with his hands tied behind his back. The position he’s in doesn’t seem comfortable at all, but his expressions, demeanor, and soft whimpers coming out of his mouth digress. 

“Please,” he practically begs you from his pitiful position. You can see how his lean thighs tremble while he struggles against his restraints. He wails with such desperation, “I want it. I want it so badly,” so much that it almost sounds as if he is going to cry from your lack of action. 

You don’t realize it until now, but an object manifests itself in your hands. A thick and ribbed silicone dildo, one that you’re too familiar with, is being stroked by you unconsciously. You feel the girth of it and how the lube it’s coated with prepares the toy for insertion. 

Then comes the teasing. You find the words naturally flowing out of your mouth: “Conciseness in your language, Soonie. What is it that you want?”

But the thing is, you know what comes next. You know what his response is as you slowly make your way over to him.

“Peg me. I’m ready,” he gasps while a tiny translucent pearl gathers at the tip of his dangling cock. “Blow my back out.”

You already know exactly how many times you will yourself to slap his ass to prep him before his legs give in. You already know how lewdly he would gasp as you insert the tip of the toy, how he would bury his face in his blankets as he moans out loud. You find yourself repeating actions as if being controlled by a machine, yet you don’t hate it. You’re magically stuck in a limbo between reality and déjà vu, presently recreating the past. 

You feel his walls sucking in the toy, taking it in so well. Like a special switch in an escape room, once you grab onto his aching cock to stroke him while you peg him, the scene immediately switches.

Naked and in the middle of a studio apartment that reeks of paint fumes and essential oils, you look at yourself through the standing mirror in front of you. Despite the fan blowing in the background and the apartment windows propped open, you don’t feel cold at all. Instead, your skin pricks with heat as the sensation of arousal gathers itself at your core and spreads to the tips of your fingers. Beneath you is a mop of platinum blonde hair of the artist who sits by your feet. 

Xu Minghao gently grabs you by the waist so that he can angle you so that you can get a better view of his artwork on your body. You remember that with him, you always felt safe and appreciated. He traces his slender finger along the length of your thigh, bringing it up to your ass. He makes you feel valuable through your soreness, the entirety of your right ass cheek covered in his carefully placed hickies. Your pussy throbs with eagerness, waiting to be filled before all of the juices run dry. 

“My work of art,” he mumbles before he brings his lips to your ass cheek. In the open space where the bruises connect, he bites it with his teeth and swirls the flesh in between his teeth with his tongue. His left hand makes its way to your opening, thumbing the smooth nub that immediately makes your knees buckle. So he positions himself behind you, strongly wrapping his long right arm around your legs to keep you steady as he nips and sucks while he takes your time to circle your clit before he finally slips his finger in your core as if the action is like second nature to him. 

Pleasure builds in your soul and makes your body scream with pleasure as Minghao meticulously massages your inner walls, stroking and tapping your spongy insides as you writhe in his arm. He adds another finger, filling you up and building your high, scissoring you while you moan his name as your liquid drips down his fingers and collects in his palm. 

“Done,” he breathes as he shifts his body so that he sits between your open legs. You can feel how his warm breath hits your skin as he speaks with his lips nearly on your cunt, “Flower on your ass. Sweet and puffy rose sitting on my face.”

Before you can re-experience all of what it felt like to sit on Minghao’s face like a chair, you find yourself in another room. This time, you’re in your own place in the room next to yours. From the placement of the desk to how the bed is pushed against the corner of the room, flush against the wall, the layout of this room directly mirrors your own. There are a lot more notecard art prints taped to the wall than you last remembered. The LED lights built into his mechanical keyboard softly pulses as it switches colors. And there is the all too familiar smell of his laundry detergent and dryer sheets that fills his room — he had just unloaded his laundry from the dryer, but didn’t have time to fold his clothes as they still sit in the laundry basket placed in front of his closet. 

You’re not sure if you’re allowed to be here at all. It’s not often that you find yourself in Jeon Wonwoo’s bedroom, but when you do, you’re usually near the threshold of his door. And to be sitting on his plush gray sheets, you think it feels too intrusive. Still, you’re not sure if you should move from your comfortable position despite the fact that you’re not close enough to him to enter his bedroom just to chill without him present. And the worst of all, you’re pretty sure you’re still soaked from your previous encounter with Minghao. And that you’re still definitely in hell because there is no way you would ever allow yourself to feel this close to coming on Wonwoo’s bedsheets without his permission. 

Two soft knocks on the door diverts your attention to the closed door. 

“Yn,” Wonwoo's deep and tender voice calls your name from the other side of the door. “Is everything okay? I’m coming in.”

The thing is, this occurrence with Wonwoo had never happened before. You’re stuck in a scenario far different from the other two. So, you shouldn’t be as surprised as you are when you saw him walk through his bedroom door. Instead of the tall and built housemate that you sometimes find yourself secretly fawning over, is the sinister yet charming man you haven’t seen in ages. 

Yoon Jeonghan steps into your housemate’s bedroom with the irresistible charm of his while flaunting an oversized black t-shirt whose sleeves almost touch his elbows. The Devil is here, and he knows everything that you’ve been hiding from him.

He slams the door behind him and takes long and fast paced strides toward the bed until his figure towers over you. And the Devil himself smirks as he purposely leans down until his bangs dangle in front of his forehead and your entire upper body is pressed against Wonwoo’s sheets. His right hand presses into the space next to your left shoulder as he looks down at you with a pitiful look on his face. 

“What?” He almost scoffs at you in his beautiful light and airy voice. “You didn’t once stop to think that maybe all of this was my doing? That you would relive your memories with who was it? Kwon Soonyoung and Xu Minghao? You’re more fucking stupid than I remembered. Were you fucked too hard by Seungcheol that you lost a few braincells? Or was it with Joshua when you accidentally hit your head too many times against the inside of his car door?”

He cocks his head to the side as he grabs your chin with his left hand. Cold to the touch, this miniscule action has you struggling to catch your breath. He tilts your head left and right as if to carefully inspect what is his. 

“My pet,” he coos while letting go of your chin. Where his cool fingertips touched your skin now pricks with burning heat. And he takes his time to kneel on the bed while still hovering over your body. “This is the bedroom of the guy you get off to? You don’t think I know about how often you touch yourself while he fucks the people he brings over to this bedroom? And now you’re horny again? You want to fuck on the bed of the guy you want so deep in your gut?”

As stupid as you are, you find yourself shell shocked and in awe at the Devil on top of you so much that you unconsciously nod in agreement to every single humiliatingly detailed sentence that comes out of his mouth. The topic isn’t about Jeonghan and you, but the sexual tension established between the two of you knocks on your pussy and makes your mouth go dry. Fuck, maybe he is right. Fucking other men over the span of time since you last saw Jeonghan could never amount to what you felt when you were fucked by the Devil. Lost in your delusions, you could only get off to what you couldn’t have. And when the world’s most untouchable creature is currently so close to you that the collar of his black tee hangs so low that you can peek through the hole to see the expanse of his lean body, the warning signals your brain is desperately trying to send you are unfortunately dispelled by the eagerness of wanting to take a second dip. 

“How much do you want me?” 

“Enough,” you reply while staring straight into his eyes.

He wastes no time by pulling out his cock from his sweats as you sit up from your previous position. Cold and hard are the two adjectives you can use to describe the feeling of him tracing his cock along your open lips. But he won’t let you touch him. He won’t let you kiss him. He lets you starve as your eyes flitter between his cock on your mouth and his deceivingly beautiful face as he pumps his cock. And he taps his member on your lips, telling you to open your mouth wider. And you can feel him slip himself through the hole you made, how the veins on the underside feel against the smooth and warm inner part of your lips. You’re hungry. Starving. Basically wishing that he’ll let you close your mouth around him and suck him to the point you’re reminded that he had no soul to begin with. 

So when he commands you to suck, you do as he says. You lick the tip, wetting and coating it with your saliva. Swirling your tongue around the length, you warm up the member in your mouth as more of his salty taste coats your tongue. Then you close your lips around him in a perfect “O” while shifting yourself on your knees so you can take him better. 

You suck, hollowing your cheeks while gliding your mouth along his length. God, how you bend so easily for him. Your eyelids flutter as you continue to take him along his curved length. And moan while your mouth is plugged, a muffled moan of ecstasy when you feel him twitch while sandwiched between your lips. To make matters worse, whenever you look up at him as you edge yourself to take him in further, you see that he looks perfectly composed. 

“Wider, slut,” he tells you while pumping what you can’t take. His hand is on your jaw again, and he squeezes your jaw between his long fingers so that it stays open. Your pool of saliva escapes the corners of your lips and trails along your chin before it drops on Wonwoo’s sheets. And he fucks himself in your mouth by manually moving your head along his length, barely giving you enough time to flatten your tongue against the whole of his length. He pushes his length into your mouth and groans when you gag. 

He fucks your mouth to find satisfaction and get off on your uncomfortableness, watching you moan while struggling to keep up with his pace. His hand leaves your jaw and attaches itself to the back of your head, grabbing a fistful of hair as he uses it to swing your head back and forth like the ping pong ball attached to a paddle toy. The two of you know that the rate in which he fucks your mouth is too much for you, yet you find pleasure in being used by the higher being while he fucks your mouth to the sounds of you struggling against his cock and the wet smack of your lips when you spit him out after he comes. You swallow what you have and hurriedly wipe the liquid white off your chin and lips. You watch him tearfully as he finishes with his cock in his hand and his seed on the bedsheets and your thighs. 

“I- I’m sorry,” you stutter as his angry red length bounces in front of your teary eyes. You want to lean in again to put him between your lips before he can punish you. You want him to call you names and make you feel bad about yourself. You want him to pump himself while he looks at you attacking the slit on his tip like how you want him to eat you out. You want to swirl your tongue around the spongy smooth surface before using the tip of your tongue to dig into the area in which his precum emits. 

Your thighs rub together to ease the unsatisfied throb of your core. You need stimulation from him in any way. Just a kiss. A touch. Anything from Jeonghan would probably edge you to completion, but he doesn’t want to help you. And you don’t want to give up this opportunity with him.  

“I’m s-sorry Jeonghan. Jeonghan, I’m sorry. Please…,” you plead as you watch him look down on you with a face of disappointment. You want to physically reach out to him to tell him you’ll do better, to tell him to give you another chance. But you see him take a few steps backwards and you’re sent into a state of frenzied lust and panic. You’ve never been so desperate to please, to complete a request from a man. You’re so deluded by the Devil that it feels as if your entire world will end if you don't please him or hold yourself up to his standards. 

Gone is the man who called you his Angel the first time he met you. In front of you is the Devil who willfully draws you in, who has you stumbling off of your housemate’s bed just so that you can crawl your way over to him in your blissful haze. The more Yoon Jeonghan steps backwards, the more your vision tunnels on his body as you crawl across the bedroom floor, not caring about how uncomfortable the hardwood floor is underneath your palms and your knees. 

When you come to your senses, you realize that it’s a different kind of hardwood underneath your body. Your naked body is displayed on all fours on Jeonghan’s large mahogany office desk like an object on display. You don’t even remember if you had your clothes on in the first place. But it feels as if the Devil suddenly wanted to bring one of the several trinkets he has displayed along his office wall to play with at his desk. You were confident that you could show him how much you’ve changed since you last saw him. Yet he has a way of proving how wrong you are. You’re no match for the Devil, and he intends to keep it that way. And in a way, to be displayed in front of him, it makes you feel as if you’re one of his prized possessions. 

Your eyes watch him as he circles around his desk while he looks you up and down. He’s no longer in his t-shirt and sweats, but in a classic white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and a pair of black tailored slacks. Golden and thin-wired circular glasses sit on the bridge of his nose. Protruding from the top of his head are his red horns. And this time, the long and forked tail that he previously kept hidden swishes behind his back. He brings the length of his long tail up to his left hand before tightly coiling it around the palm of his right hand like a long red rope. And one look from him through his glasses, a satisfying smirk and an arched brow, you know that you’re done for.

He takes the tip of his tail and traces it along your naked body, causing your body to jolt and shudder in response. He uses it like a teacher’s pointing stick, the tip running smoothly along the curvature of your body. He’s purposely toying with you, watching you try not to squirm every time he traces his tail anywhere near your glistening cunt. 

“Do you think it’s too stuffy in here?” He jests while planting himself at the edge of his desk behind your ass. It hits you that you heard this question before, and only now do you realize that the Devil has been playing with you all along. You feel him trace his tail along your cunt, letting a prong trace along your folds as if it were his finger. 

“Fuck!” you gasp out loud. “That was you?”

You feel the stinging pain on your ass after you hear the crisp slap ring into the air. Your stomach tightens as your pussy clenches in response.

“Shut the fuck up Yn,” he grunts. “Cumsluts can’t talk.”

You moan when you feel his tail go underneath a fold, causing your thighs to go weak. But he pulls his tail away from your core to tap it against your outer thigh. Hold yourself up, the action seems to say. So you gather your strength to maintain your position, ignoring the soreness in your knees and the fact that he’s been with you ever since you stepped into “Craig’s” office. When you spread your thighs, your sensitive cunt opens up like a flower in bloom, warm and wet against the stale office air. Jeonghan doesn’t ravish its beauty like how Minghao often does. He doesn’t want to. 

Although your forearms are tired and your thighs burn from exhaustion, your pussy pulsates like it’s its own living entity — full of life and eager to be filled. Right now, only Jeonghan can grant these conditions. And you’re willing to wait even if your horniness drives you mad. 

He firmly grabs your ass, angling it so that your glistening pussy is in full view. 

“From this point on, I’m going to make you scream my name like a requiem made for angels.” He forcefully pulls your ass back so that it’s pressed against his stomach while he leans over your figure so that his mouth is near your left ear. “I’ll ruin you if you try to crawl away. But I’d like to see you try.”

You’re pretty sure you already soaked his shirt in the place where your core was pressed against the fabric. It amazes you how he easily flips your body so that you’re laying flat on his desk with your legs propped up against the wood. Any further back, you would be in a mating press. 

You wonder if he can read your mind, how much you want to ride him up and down his length and for him to coat you so much that you’re left with soft and silken skin. Even if he tied your hands behind your back, you would still go on your knees to unbuckle his belt with your teeth. 

He’s been sensing your urgency since you summoned him. Looking at your sopping cunt and dragging the tip of his tail along your clit, he decides to ease the heat in your stomach by slowly pushing his tail into your core. You moan in response as you slowly adjust to its size, feeling everything from the way it fills your walls to the way it is as smooth as a glass dildo. You shudder at the way he pulls it out of you for a mere second before pushing it back into you, causing your stomach to twitch and your thighs to close around his hand.

He leaves his tail in you while he pries your thigh apart. 

“What’s the use in thinking about mounting my cock if you can’t even keep your legs open? What’s an ego if you can’t even embody it correctly?” he mocks you before bringing down the hand that once held his tail against your heat. The impact feels as hot as the way your arousal burns. You cry out in elated pleasure; one convulsion is enough to push the tail halfway out of you. “Useless excuse of a human,” he laughs at you before grunting as he pushes his tail back inside, twisting it as he plunges it in and out of you. “You’re all talk, yet you bend at the thought of me.” 

Cock-deprived, you clench around his tail as you gasp for air. Your pussy sucks the tail in and refuses to let go, making you mewl for Jeonghan to fuck you hard while he thrusts his tail in and out of you. “Nn-nh. Jeonghan! Ah- Yes. Yes. Fuck me. Use me.” You squeal and moan out loud as your high builds at an incredible speed. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as your back arches off the desk and you feel as if you’re levitating. “I’m gonna come.” 

“Come.”

You cream at his command, coating his instrument in a thick and white sheen. Your stomach folds inwards as you whimper from the pleasure. He pulls his tail out of you while coaxing more out of you by lightly tapping your nub as you convulse. Overstimulated, you come another time, babbling his name and telling him how good you feel as you squirt against his slender fingers. 

“Look at you,” he coos. “You made a mess on my table only from my tail. What’s going to happen when you take my cock? You’ve already folded yourself into a fucking fetal positon, Yn.” 

You can feel your liquid drip from your pussy to your ass before it pools on the table underneath you. You feel so relieved and relaxed from your high, but there is still this insatiable need for the Devil to fuck you.

When he does, his cock fills you and squeezes you dry. His head rubs against the top of your walls while his veins work like a ribbed toy — adding more pleasure than you have ever experienced. Fingers digging into your thighs, he pulls out and slams back into you, his balls slapping against your ass with every thrust. You want to scream out his name as you clench around his length, sucking him in and never wanting to let go. But the image in front of you is a sight to behold, leaving you breathless as you watch it unfold.

You watch him through your half-lidded eyes, the scene of him as he throws his head back. You can see the way he swallows your cum that coats the tail he sucks in his mouth, how his Adam’s apple bobs when the liquid travels down his throat. You’re nothing but an instrument for his pleasure, and he sure knows how to show it. 

He bucks his length into you so that it kisses the deepest parts of you, causing you to gasp and quake in your stomach. And he keeps it there with his legs pressed against your ass and the underside of your thighs. Slowly grinding against you, he revels in how you choke from the size of him and how you clench and unclench as if you’re struggling to hold on. 

He pops the tail out of his mouth, a long string of saliva like a web between the tip of his prong and his tongue. He looks like a character from a lewd illustration, so beautiful yet so deadly. And you find yourself into another dimension as he thrusts further into you, grunting as he watches you scream for him.

“Fuck!,” you scream as you squeeze your eyes shut. “You’re going to tear me apart.”

“Gonna,” he grunts between every thrust, increasing his pace with every word. “Make. You. Feel. Everything.” 

Your entire body trembles with pleasure, your breathing erratic. He continues to thrust into you, talking with his sweet tongue about how your slick and puffy pussy drives him insane. 

“There’s nobody in this world who can fuck like I do,” he reminds you. “Now squeeze me hard as I cum in you. We’re going to be making a new type of liquid.”

Copyright © 2023 Himbocoups. All rights reserved.

[robolvrr]

i beg of you more prowl!!!!

maybe a drabble? what if the reader is some kind of thief/criminal when he's sent to patrol and help forces on earth?

no rush 🤍

cat 'n mouse ·˚ ༘

[ request - 2/11 finished ]

prowl x gn! jewel thief drabble. warning: suggestive language and content. not full nsfw.

midnight strolls by at snails pace, rain battering rooftops and car hoods. it's bitter and it's cold — you bank on this, because a certain exhausted security guard will very likely be too busy snoozing company time away and not notice the skylight letting water pour in, splashing the tile.

this little job should set you up for the rest of the year, if you play your cards right. you rarely don't.

slinking down the corded wire, your frame twists downwards, a quiet clikclikclik of your grappler setting you comfortably on your feet.

the museum is pretty like this. shrouded by raincloud and slivers of moonbeam flirting edges of paintings, marble statues. a squirm of your lips follows by a roll of your shoulders. such lovely pieces, stuck to rot and be stared at by uppity people, lacking appreciation.

you'll take good care of your findings, you assure yourself, creeping past cameras you've taken time to reboot, slipping into vents until you find the usually locked room of the city's latest eye-candy.

"the weeping diamond." so dramatic.

a jewel is a jewel and you'd be inauthentic if you didn't get your hands on it first. when you press forward, it's almost like letting out a long, breathy sigh. your palms find the glass casing and you cut a perfect circle.

a smile finds your lips next.

"put it down, thief."

it widens, cheshire. oh?

"ah. so it was you parked on tenth and cherry?"

this should frighten you. because you've not bothered putting on night vision, leaving your human sight to squint at shadows.

you see those ocean blues. angry. expectant.

"how much longer do you plan on throwing your life away?"

that indistinguishable mass starts to move. closer, until it's hovering over your income and the mystery disappears. isn't this your luck? attracting the attention of the boys in blue and their precious new toy.

"gotta make a living, somehow." -- his hand, much larger than you, grasps at your wrist. through the electric hum comes a shockingly, human scoff.

"by breaking the law? i highly doubt that's all you have available."

you give him a coy blink. you can almost see him calculating the miniscule changes to your body language.

"well, aren't you just a good cop. go ahead and put the cuffs on then. guilty until proven otherwise, mm?"

tugged forward, a laugh is earned. he's tired of this game.

"you're a criminal. responsible for several heists in the past six months. responsible for multiple of other crimes, such as resisting law enforcement, grand theft auto - do i need to continue? if anyone should be spending time in a cell", his face is close, those metallic lips torn in a snark, "it's you."

his rant is cut short as he feels the warmth of you press into him. so tempting. all his manhandling sets you on fire. he can see it, each degree, see you wet your dermas with your glossa - prowl snarls, his motor making a frustrated rumble.

he can't even bother to separate the languages between you anymore. he curses and it sounds like a clatter of pipes, whisper of broken gears. still, you press forward as much as he lets you. his gaze dips down to your chest, once.

"and there's nothing i could do? nothing at all, that might change your mind?"

your other hand presses to his helm. traces, suggests.

he's thinking. he should put you in his alt-mode and never unlock his doors.

he shouldn't be thinking of you.

how you'd look peeled of that ridiculously, tight clothing of yours. how you'd look spread open, cheeks flush. on your stomach, ready. on your knees, apologetic.

a vicious daydream he's been trying to uproot flashes before his very optics; a repetitive one that's haunted him throughout the year he's trailed your activity. your legs somehow fitting around his midriff, vocals shrieking when he pounds down and in you, harder and harder until those flimsy bed contraptions snap —

his grip loosens. you're free of it faster than a spooked kitten.

brought to the moment, his surprise gains you some time to escape. and when you start your motorcycle, it's still raining, your skin is still hot and you wish for a moment that the vibration of your bike's engine was him underneath you instead, adrenaline pumping blood as his sirens flare not far behind in your rearview mirrors.

a neverending cycle of cat and mouse. but just who is chasing who?

robolvrr 2024.

a/n: WHEW. i feel like prowl would definitely have a batman dynamic. 🫣 this was fun, thank you for your patience!

[yameoto]

dropping a spare change in ur inbox and coming to spill spoiled brat cate dunlap thoughts that have been rotting my brain ever since that bot of urs was dropped🫠

spoiled brat cate dunlap who came to the office wanting something completely different (just your attention and affection) than what you'd have in mind— unsure how she'd found herself in this situation— forced to take the custom strap she'd bought with your card, squirming in your lap when she'd highly underestimated the sheer size of the toy, trying to blink unshed tears away and unaware of the blooming marks on her skin and the few, stray workers of yours hearing the muffled screams she'd desperately tried to cover, definitely something that had her in trouble with vought.

(she doesn't regret it though, not one bit, despite waddling like a penguin and gripping onto the walls and nearby surfaces to get home)

i absolutely adore your work darling💞💞

lololove this. spoiled!brat cate dunlap whose just begginggg for it. how was she supposed to know that it was that day that you found that she'd overrun your card? on sex toys, no less. it wasn’t her fault! she’d been so horny that day. like so fucking horny. and then she’d showed up to your office, legs spread and cunt leaking all over your desk for what felt like hours until she had to find out second-hand that you were away on some urgent stuffy business trip. how could you? no wonder she comes away all huffy n puffy abt not being able to see u. miffed that you didn’t even tell her. and! she’s still horny.

of course she’d splurged a little. a girl needs to self-soothe, after all. so what if she ordered an entire set of custom straps, and then maybe a little bit of the wholeentirestore out out of spite? you’re practically made of money. it couldn’t hurt. it certainly made her feel a hell of a lot better, in more ways than one. and she thought she’d gotten away with it, too— until.

“you do know nothing slips from my sight, right?” you’re infuriatingly collected—conversational, even, as you brush the tip of the strap along cates folds. god, it looks so fucking big from here. even the act of pressing it up through her thighs makes her whimper. she’s not gonna say that though. just gonna blink up at you unapologetically, determined to keep up her bravado. chin trembling as she raises it. “you were away. needed something to keep me occupied.” she grumbles

“something to keep your cunt warm, you mean.” and you take your fingers and stretch cate’s pussy as wide as it can. cate can feel the tip tickling her cunt, and she whimpers. the air-conditioned breeze of the office hitting her wet, squelching nerves. much too big for her tight little cunt.

“what a waste of my money,” you hiss, slapping the strap against her clit. cates whole expression scrunches in effort to bite back a cry, eyes flaring in defiance.

“i can take it.” she insists, determined to win this. she’s not sorry. she’s not.

your smile is placating and condescending and it infuriates cate. you know it does. “of course you can, baby.”

“i can!” cate insists, wriggling on the desk. and what cate wants, cate gets, after all. she’s got to right to cry out like that when you tear that pretty pink pussy into two.

“ah—ah-ah-ah—fuck!” she spits, tears welling up in her eyes. making them all wet and glossy and gosh, does she look pretty like this. so does her cunt. straining against the girth of the strap. wetness squeezed out her folds already, plastic pushing hard n painful only to get a millimetre deeper. stretching her so full she can’t be stretched anymore. fucking her into the desk and calling her pussy a greedy little thing. calling her a greedy little thing. panting. whining. painting your paperwork sticky.

“this what you ordered, baby?”

cate nods dumbly, eyes rolling back and spit pooling in her mouth. red indents dug along her hipbones from the edge of your desk. (afterwards, she wears the bruises like a badge of honour. swaying her hips in too-too low-rise jeans as she waltzes into your office, flaunting each brand like it’s something to be proud of. shameless fucking brat.)

[themareverine]

Wild Man | Logan Howlett x fem!OC

summary: Blizzards and pane glass windows—typical for a Thursday night at Laughlin City's favorite haunt. Until the Wolverine walks in, and hell hath no fury like a man ravaged by jealousy.

warnings: language, possessive behavior, angst, jealousy, implied sexual content, established relationship from my Mare & the Wolverine series.

a/n: i don't know what this is, really. went to write a different oneshot and it turned into this. guess my brain needed some jealous Logan. reposted from my deactivated account.

MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

Inky midnights glare through the windows of Laughlin’s oldest haunt as the season’s thick, wet snow falls in an almost sideways blanket. The bar is flatlined, almost asystole. Heavy bass, thanks to Huey Lewis and the News, thunks from the stereo system like a jackhammer against her skull, trying to fill space that bodies aren’t.

Stale cigarettes and fried food in the air mingled with the highschool smell of sweat and testosterone, which may as well have been painted to the walls they were so familiar. Sticky floor, slick bartop, chipped tile in the bathroom—common ghosts for nearly eleven thirty on a Thursday night.

“Really comin’ down, ain’t it?” 

It’s more the sudden spike of cold overflow from the tap that jars Mare McAffery from attempting to glance around her reflection from the pane glass window. Surprised, she startles, slapping at the tap’s toggle before her fingers curl around the chilled glass. Slick with foam as it sloshes over the rim carelessly to the mix of drinks that have already found their fate on the floor at her feet. It isn’t her night. The lack of business has her brain running, her thoughts anywhere but here on a Thursday night among the snow, cigarette smoke, and canisters of beer she needs to change in back. 

She’d rather be home. Bundled in blankets, wool socks. Watching the kick of fireplace flames from the safe brace of Logan—just Logan. All of Logan. His arms, that absolutely breathtaking chest that ripples with life and hard muscle and heat. Feeling the rise and fall of his every breath, how the fresh wash of her hair tangoes with his heady scent of whiskey and cigar, wood and snow.

Feeling the warmth of his feet toying with hers under blankets as they stretch out towards flame, listening to the rich way he chuckles every time his nose brushes against the back of her ear. How his rough fingers pull through her cropped curls, teasingly carding as he dares to whisper about his day against the curve of her ear—-

She jumps when the edge of the bar comes up a little too quickly against her hip. Her heart shellshocks against her ribs like a violent engine. Feeling flushed, she bites the inside of her cheek. Lathes her tongue against the front of her bottom teeth. Praying to God the low light hides the color on her face seems fruitless, but it's there. 

Reaching for a bar napkin, her smile is slow as she slides the beer in front of Laughlin’s foremost gossip, affectionately christened Flappin’ Jim by the town’s population. No less than four decades her senior, stringy silver hair peeks out from beneath a nearly-threadbare Carhartt beanie, stained with what could only be assumed was engine oil. Jim has owned the zip code’s only machine shop longer than she’s been alive. 

She shrugs a shoulder when he mentions the snow a second time. “When isn’t it snowing up here?” The squared-off toe of her western boots scuff the floor cooler behind the bar as she reaches for Jim’s ever-requested cocktail straw, plopping it in the dark amber of his lager before his parted lips could continue, “I’ve seen my fair share of the white stuff—but never like this. You know how they say everything is bigger in Texas?” Jim chuckles, nodding as his tongue seeks out the straw, his gaze never leaving her, “Well, I swear to God, everything is colder and thicker in Laughlin.”

His laugh comes from his chest, phlegm from forty years of smoking Player’s. “Forget it’s your first snow with us, poor thing,” Jim waves a hand between the two of them, brows bobbing suggestively as his grin widens enough to reveal half-rotten mid-to-back teeth, “iffin’ you’re thinkin’ you need a ride home, darlin’, ol’ Jim’s got room for two on the old snowmobile—” 

Her brain nearly melts at the absolute atrocity of a mental picture that statement provides. She could think of not a single thing worse than going to the door with Flappin’ Jim, much less riding an hour west on a snowmobile in little more than jean’s and a leather jacket. Laughlin’s poster child for bad decisions and alcoholism. Perfect. 

Informing him of her lack of proper gear was the kind out. “Thanks for the offer, though, Jim,” her nose scrunches a little as she works at the try-a-hundred-times-a-day-but-still-nothing stain practically etched into the oak grains of the bartop, “Logan’s coming to get me, he knew the snow would be bad. Dropped me off this morning before work.” It’s nonchalant—surely women were dropped off and picked up by their boyfriend’s during bad snow in Laughlin. 

Never mind working a double, Jim’s brows popped tall as if it were an entirely new concept straight out of a Stephen King skincrawler. “Wild Man’s comin’ all the way down the mountain in this shitstorm?”

His thumb goes over his shoulder, despite evidence of his claim hanging in the window to his three o’clock left. He whistles over his shoulder for his buddy, Kenneth, to listen up. 

Kenneth’s head raises with interest, like a meerkat rising from his hole. “Lord’a mighty, Kenny boy—you was right, mus’ be better than’w thought!” 

More vapid laughter has Jim, and now Kenneth, hacking up a lung from their respective seats. 

Whatever population’s in the bar—eight souls —turns to look at her, snickering and the twist of their upturned lips all but nailing her to the back wall. Like looking from the outside in. May as well have all been pointing fingers at her—and, unsure whether her gaze should fall to Jim or past him to Kenneth, her raised brows opted to consider the older man sweeping his hat off his head.

Unwashed hair nearly glistening with what she can only assume is grease and oil, a thought that makes her stomach rise up to kiss the base of her ribs. His laughter turns raucous as his eyes skim over her, hazed. 

Swallowing a splash of stomach acid, her brow furrows hard behind the bridge of her glasses. 

“Pardon?” 

Wringing the bar rag through her hands, Mare ultimately realizes how this makes her look. Tosses it aside. Stands a little taller, wants to look down her nose at Jim, but realizes she’s shorter than he is, perched on a stool. More wind howls, biting at the bricks, flecks of snow tick tick ticking against the pane glass windows outside in the dark. Working a double has never felt so dehumanizing—she could melt into the floor right now. Whether from the tired headache blooming behind her eyes or the full attention from the bar, she’s not sure. 

A sharp smack! of Jim’s hand against the bartop makes her jump. “Oh come on, honeybunch,” the low accent matches every step that Kenneth, now, manages as he stumbles over to lean a plump hip against the bar. “E’ryone knows no mountain man like Logan Howlett comes off the mountain for just anythin’—‘less he’s gettin’ head,” Eyes skate her over her, visually-stimulated from top to bottom, ultimately parking at the cut of her tank top as he sloshes back the rest of his bottled MGM, “just how it works, sugartits.”

His eyes remain welded to her chest, but her jaw has long since lost its hinge. Any second now it would start creaking like a rusty gate, bone raking against bone. Opening and closing, like a fish choking on air. Slack and openmouthed, she blinks through the little flecks of dirt on the lens of her glasses, brain short circuiting to assimilate just how absolutely crude of a statement has just landed between her eyes like a stone to Goliath. 

Words don’t find her for a full handful of minutes before Jim and Kenneth’s attention are drawn away. Onto other conversation, this time bear hunting stories and the back-and-forth of rifles. Throat burning, like the inferno sands of Moab. Every sticky string of saliva moisture in her mouth is tapped dry, she attempts to raise spit on her tongue, to swallow. Virginal heat chases up her neck like a predator, sinking teeth into her confidence. Fans across her decolletage and collarbones. 

Queasy, embarrassment spins a weave down her spine and through her guts like a snake. Reminds her that wolves of the world so often hunt the lines of the innocent perimeters she’d fought hard to preserve—did everyone in town think she was sleeping with Logan? Like a broken record it spins, wobbling on the needle, screeching and clawing deep into the lines of her psyche. 

Years as a preacher’s daughter had provided her a certain level of naivete, certainly—-never ignorance. Wasn’t dull to the world beyond innocence, outside the lines of the pure and spotless idea of Christ and His church. She knew the world was spiraling, hell and brimstone around every corner. All parlor tricks and open gates, brazen. Like a painted woman in scarlets and pearls—or a drunk on a barstool at quarter-too. 

Mare hadn’t expected this level of forward. This, gall. Audacity. Snapping teeth of a big junkyard dog trying to look tough and scare her into shock—that’s what this was. Provocative, seeking a response. Gasoline on a snapping fire. Enough to make a harlot blush, and Jim knew it—it’s in the way he guzzles hops like his veins crave it, eyes following her even through the bottom of his glass.

He’d blurted what she’d suspected everyone in town to think, and for half of a breath, she wasn’t sure how to feel. Flushed and embarrassed, a given. 

Defiance lands like an airliner in her blood. Surprising, but not wholly unwarranted. Jaw setting with force enough to shatter the world, the heel of her boot grinds into the sticky floor as she turns to busy herself with empties. Glass cries out as she stacks them in the crook of her arm, fingers grabbing for whatever she can manage to stalk back to the kitchen.

Her heart pistons between her ribs like it’s been dropped into an Indy car, eyes flitting to and fro behind the bar. Anger. There's lots and lots of anger.

For handfuls of seconds she scours for a response. Something smart, smarmy—will fly in the face of what everyone in this town had been thinking about her since her boots had hit the province.

What Jim has actually implied—it burns. Like hot coals. For months she’d been walking the flames of the rumors; innocent little preacher’s daughter from the States.

“Y’even know how to spell ‘fuck’, darlin’?”

Far too busy brushing her dirty hands on the back of her jeans, Mare doesn’t even hear the squeak of Jim’s barstool swivel, “Well, I’ll be damned—if it isn’t the man of the mountain. How goes it, Logan?”

More snickering, and she about-faces, all-soldier as relief hitches itself like a wagon team to one of her ribs. 

Jim’s brows bounce over her direction, his look provocative enough to make her want to vomit right there on the floor.

Continuing his thought, he scoots his empty to her with his knuckles, “Come to fetch our pretty little Miss Minnesota here, eh, boy?” Another wet cough grates across her nerves like nails to blackboard, “Looks like you were right, babygirl—s’told us you’d be makin’ your way in, Logan. Didn’t quite believe ‘er, but wonders never cease I reckon.” His nose scrunches as she passes him another pint glass, “Was about to keep little girlie here all to m’self.” 

The line of her jaw twitches with how tight she’s clenching her teeth together, and it takes herculean will not to shoot off at the mouth—a trait she’s less than proud of. Thanks, Dad.

And it’s laughable how Jim is so quick to assume age, Logan’s raised brow in response shows it. At nearly 200 years old, he’s beyond surprise. Maybe, nearly. Closer than any part of her would like to admit, though nobody would know it—he doesn’t look a day over thirty-five. 

A little tick of contained smile at the corner of his mouth is enough to make her forget her name.  His dark eyes, calculating and deep, hold her gaze a few heartbeats. Logan reads her like an open book, an interested investigator—always has. She breaks first. Looks away, wiping at the sweat bubbling up on her brow. 

His sparkling, steady eyes flash with something she can’t identify before darting back to Jim. Logan’s hum of suspicion is warm. Low, too low. Medicinal honey, going straight to the center of her femininity like nothing could. Lord, if it didn’t set every bone in her body to gelatinous flame—she sucked in a breath that stabbed at the mesh of her lungs as he settled against the bar.  

He leans against the corner of the bar like he owns it, and he may as well have—out of the way and almost bleeding into the shadows of invisibility, he rests an elbow to the worn wood. A hand reaches to brush the wet of the storm from the sheepswool of his coat. Kisses of snow melt from his beard, ebony hair almost as quickly as they’d entangled—she doesn’t miss the blush that cold has left on his nose. 

“Is that right?” Leaning a bit heavier on his arm, his lips tip up in an amused little way that sets off fireworks in the depths of her womb, reminding her of organs long forgotten. “Good thing I’m a man of my word.” Toe-over-toe she slips to a stop across the bar from him, reaching for a half glass that’s almost too cold between her sweating palms. 

Logan pivots to face her, eyeballing her with a cool smile. Her usually-bright greeting is quiet, “Please sit. You’re ordering a whiskey.” It’s a demand, not a request.

Anything to keep her hands busy, to keep her from noticing how Kenneth hasn’t stopped ogling her tits since he sat down next to Jim, deep in his drink and fully, entirely out of his mind. 

“Just one?” Let no man say Logan Howlett isn’t keen. “Hi.” And just like that, he changes gears. Keeps her guessing, like always. Mysterious as the shadow, bright as the sun.

Elbow planted on the walnut bar, his brows bounce as his finger crooks. Come. 

Resting her hands at either side of his glass, she leans across the wood slowly. Considering him through low lashes, her heart swells at the way his tongue fills the pocket of his lower lip, considering. Hungry, almost.  Possessive.

He makes her forget Jim, and Kenneth, and anything resembling breathing in flatline seconds.

Logan’s eyes flick to her mouth, in a tantalizing, only–the-stuff-of-Hollywood way as her bottom lip curls in, a little sheepishly. Nose to nose, the bite of cigar smoke lingering about his beard is dizzying—a scent of fresh pine clings to his clothes. He smells of snow and man, just as he should. 

“Hi.” Little more than a breath and he closes daylight between them, lips brushing hers in a soft and slow hello. Smiling into his kiss, she sinks back to her feet behind the bar. Fingers curl into the wood beneath her palms. 

Changing gears, Mare reaches for a bag of clean bar rags and begins folding. “How was your day on the mountain?” 

His finger traces the rim of his whiskey glass and he shrugs a shoulder. “Peachy,” he takes a drink. She keeps looking over to Jim and Kenneth, who haven't stopped looking, and takes notices.

Logan's glass finds the counter again but his hand doesn’t lift from it, content to linger in the droplets of sweat. Simple, cleancut. Like always.

Then, “What’s wrong.” 

It isn’t a question—as her eyes cut up from her work to look at him, his are open and waiting. Seeking. Ever since she’d known him he was always watching, waiting; seeking something. 

He’d said once that he’d been looking for her all his life—her innocence. Purity. And it was no different, right now. Just now, he hunted the demons creeping inside her head, sitting invisible on her shoulder instead of the crisp light she usually carried. Nothing about him belies the name he gave himself, the name he carries nestled beneath his shirt on adamantium dogtags and numbers. 

The Wolverine—her Wolverine.

The sound of it, inward and out, snaps like a whip even months later. It suits him in such a way she’ll never fully describe, that poetry could never adjective. Thirty-two days of her calling Logan Howlett her own and it felt little more than a fairytale, her own Cinderella story lost to fantastical girlish dreams and giggles. A little over a month since he’d asked if she wanted to “go steady,” since she’d giggled at him like a child, “Nobody says that anymore, Lo,” and his “Wanna start?” had her—has her, to this very breath—unable to think straight. 

She lies.

“Nothing.”

Too quick to be truthful, she turns to replace a bottle of Bulleit, its glass lightly clattering against its brethren on the mirrored shelf. Her eyes flutter closed and she releases an uneasy breath, disappointed in her response—Logan wouldn’t take no for an answer. Never had, since she’d known him. 

A snippet of the night she’d met him races through her brain like a racehorse. “You should let me take a look.”  

“I’m fine,” She’d been too quick—too defensive. Good lies always bare a little truth in between their teeth, but—she’d always been a bad liar. A sheep amongst wolves. Or, rather, wolverines. 

“Bullshit. Needs stitches, we both know it—you’ve been workin’ the cage long enough to know the difference. Can’t let you go without a look.”  His look had been unmovable, like the earth. Understanding of her plight, her hesitance for an almost-stranger to look her over. Gentile as she’d sank low on a barstool to accept a beer from him.

Gentlemanlike, walking her through the steps—careful with his hands. Hands that hold her world, hands that could cut through stone. Aware of her nerves, but unrelenting all the same. 

His dark eyes narrow at her just so, his nose scrunching a little as he checks her reflection in the mirror. Much to her relief, Logan drops the subject. And she can see, in the reflection, he isn’t all too thrilled with dodging the question.

Knowing what topic of conversation would be on the ride up the mountain didn’t take rocket science, and she wilts inside knowing that honesty hadn’t been her first blush.

Two thunks on the bar have her checking her shoulder. Jim, signaling for another beer.

“‘Nother here, sugartits—make ‘er tall and strong, gotta get me home in one piece, y’know.” Jim’s smile is toothy, lopsided as he goes to the effort to lift his ass out of his seat. Passing by without so much as a nod, she swipes the glass from out in front of him. 

And before Kenneth’s hand is at his shoulder, Jim’s palm smacks across her ass cheek. Hard enough that it thwacks! against the pockets of her jeans.

It catches her off guard. Nobody had ever so much as ogled her ass to her knowledge, much less actually touched it—the pint glass falls from her fingers. Hits the boards of the wooden floor, the thick glass shattering to big pieces, low before her feet as if she’s some goddess worth breaking over.

A little breathless, she stumbles over her square-toed boots. Fingers curl into the wood until her knuckles are white. At first there’s anger, then embarrassment that hits her like an overloaded tractor trailer. Fluster ruffles her feathers like a wet hen, and she considers the broken glass at her feet. 

Audacity to laugh at the red bouncing to life on her cheeks has Jim roaring with laughter, unaware of what sin he’s just committed—her fingers are brushing the first big piece of jagged glass when she hears the swivel of a stool. The thunk of boots hitting the floor.

And before she can even begin to piece together what she suspects, she pops tall from behind the bar at the exact moment Jim’s laugh becomes a strangled wheeze. 

Collar snugged up too tight against his throat, Jim gags for air, tongue poking between fat lips as spit collects in the corners of his mouth. Breathing steadily, the crest and fall of Logan’s chest is evidence that he is on the raw and bleeding edge of composure—if his dark glare could be considered composed.

Brow little more than a hard line, his gaze narrows in Jim’s face as he leans in, lips curling in an almost animalistic snarl. 

“Logan,” Mare’s hiss is low, eyes skirting about the eight bodies that have almost backflipped up from their seats scattered about the bar, “Logan. Please—put ‘im down.” Murmurs have overtaken the air like quiet demons, they are no longer their own spectacle. 

Jim manages what sounds like the-hell-d’ya-think-yer-doin’, which produces a low rumble from somewhere in the base of Logan’s chest. Dark eyes cut to her, sweeping over her frame as she discards the chunk of glass to the small sink to her right. Heart pounding unlike anything she’d ever felt in her chest, bludgeoning the soft flesh of her lungs, she sucks in a stale breath that does nothing to ease the fire that seems to throb beneath her skin—sweat has replaced any semblance of chill in the room. Oxygen may as well be a hope. Tank top sticking to the flesh between her shoulder blades, her tongue nervously darts over her front teeth, eyes to Logan’s ironclad grip at Jim’s shirt collar. 

Logan doesn’t relent. Instead, she notices the cord of muscle in his arm tighten. Even beneath the shield of a coat, the mask of humanity —and she knows. His opposite hand lifts in Jim's face, and she's counting heartbeats before familiar adamantium splits skin wide open, bleeding with rage.

Adrenaline snaps into her blood like a whip, and she’s around the bar at his side in no more than a heartbeat or two. Hands at his arm. Fingers curling into the denim of his clothing. Met with hard muscle, he may as well have been cut from marble—an Adonis of power and strength unlike anything she’d ever seen.

The white’s of Jim’s eyes are all but tracking, brimming with terror as Logan snarls—actually snarls—down into his face. Possessive rage clouds any semblance of humanity left in his face—it’s all Wolverine. 

The Wolverine. Her Wolverine. Out from the shadows, out from any corner anyone had ever shoved him in—out to fight. To kill. For her. All for her, all for them, all for this.

She can’t put a full finger on the power of this honor, this…privilege. And that’s what it is, really—loving him is privilege. Is honor, only imaginable and dreamstate for girls like her. Everyday girls with little to offer, with little hopes for the next day other than to survive, to pray.

But Logan, somehow, had seen her—had seen her enough to care and care deeply, to his bones, adamantium bones he wars every second of the day to mummify, contain.  

Truth of the matter hits her like a stone between the eyes—it doesn’t matter how deeply Wolverine is buried within Logan’s sarcophagus of self control, his ability to walk the lines of his anger. Logan would kill for her, over nothing at all. It’s right here, right now, plain as the nose on her face—splayed out like prey, easy prey ready for the slaughter.

Logan would, could, destroy a man over a simple drunken act of flirtatiousness. If it meant her pleasure. 

What a position of power, indeed.

And Mare isn’t certain if it's love or power—if it’s even human.

Humanity wins. Logan's grip on Jim’s collar releases. Jim scurries away foot-over-foot, gasping for air, her realizing this is honestly much less complicated than matters of love, power. Both are players, but never common denominators.

A wolverine, after all, doesn’t fit into just one category—he’s both predator and prey. To something larger, to something smaller. 

This is just, very simply, Logan. 

Fisting and unfisting his fingers, he studies his hand as if it is otherworldly and not a part of his anatomy. After a few beats, Logan turns to face her. Jim is across the bar, a few hands clapping his back to check on him—as if he isn’t the offense of the entire situation.

Pressing into Logan, she rests her cheek against his chest, arms circling him in a hard embrace. He presses her close, a hand on the back of her head, chin coming to rest in her mess of curls. Breathing in his deep sense, her blood begins to cool—earthquaking in the base of her spine begins to dissipate. Colors of the room come alive again, the air suddenly all too breathable. 

Her head tips back to consider his face—unreadable, mostly, save for the glimmer of light in the corners of his eyes. 

The corner of her mouth tips up into a small tick, a heat she can’t describe hanging low in the base of her ribs as his hands lift to hold her face, delicately. As if he couldn't destroy her with a breath, as if he hadn't almost just culled mostly innocent blood.

Calluses rough against her cheeks, she presses into his touch. Firms up her arms around his middle. 

“And there he is,” there’s no malice in her voice, only awe. Care. “Had me worried there for a second, bub.” Smallest hint of a smile at the return use of his favorite jibe from her sends her heart pitching across her chest, as if it’ll take residence on the other side of her ribs.

The line of his jaw relaxes and she nuzzles her nose into the front of his flannel, “Now I get why Riz says ‘no boyfriends at work’—you’re a walking OSHA violation, Logan Howlett.” Unsure if Canada has anything remotely similar to OSHA, she forgets the idea entirely.

He knows, he always knows. 

Sighing into his chest, he fills up her senses on a full, deep breath. “And as much as I should slap you upside your thick head for almost slicing one of my best customers into tiny pieces, I have to say—I like the overprotectiveness,” her fingers gently brush through his beard, head tipped to the side like a curious pup, “a bunch. Like it a lot, Howlett.”  

His fingers in her hair tip her head back to look up at him, again. A low chortle has her blood flaming deep beneath her skin. “Yeah? Seemed a little nervous to me, bub,” he emphasizes the use of the name with a smile, spinning one of her curls around his finger. A gentle tug as her nose scrunches in amusement.

She giggles at the sensation of his fingers playing through her hair, “Flappin’ Jim had what was comin’ to him, that’s all.” 

“Maybe.” And without thinking, “Nobody’s ever stuck up for me like that before, Logan.” 

And there it is, out in the open.

Like the soft underbelly of the mud turtles she’d spotted all summer—-vulnerable. It hangs between them like a prayer. Lines on his face pull into a surprised wrinkle for all of a beat, then something enters his expression she’s never seen before—sorrow, maybe. Compassion, in the way his head cants to the side as he studies her looking at her boots. Just standing there, like a fortress. Unmoving, and resounding. Saying nothing and everything all at once.

Logan’s finger dips beneath her chin to tip her gaze up to his. “Don’t ask me how, but somehow I knew that,” his palm moves to caress her cheek, pad of his thumb gently skipping over the curve of her bottom lip. “You’re worth stickin’ up for, darlin’—I’m honored to be the first one to actually show it.” Two fingers dip into the front pocket of her jeans, shuffling her a few steps closer, until her chest brushes his.

“And let’s hope I’m the last."

Her heart swells to new heights yet unsurpassed by science, maybe even prose. “Who am I to deny the Wolverine?” Lifting on her toes, her nose brushes the seam of his mouth before her arms curl around his neck, his hands soft at the flare of her hips. “I’m yours if you’ll have me, Logan,” biting her lower lip, she fights the urge to smile—can’t, never could.

His kiss is hard. Fast, hungry—rough in the way God Himself intended for man. It’s everything the poets ever described a kiss to be, probably more. Infinitely more, mostly because it was her kiss. Hers, and hers alone. Right here, right now, even if the stars couldn’t see.  

He’s a little breathless when they part. And God, if it doesn’t take her apart. 

“Y’know, Logan—Jim was right about one thing, before he ran his fat mouth off.” 

He chuckles. “Hm?” 

“You really kinda are a wild man.”

[unintentionalseductress]

Hello. It is i, your dirtiest filthiest slut.

How about we continue this somewhere more private?

I think it's number 11. With my BEAUTIFUL MAN. NANAMI KENTO MY FUKDNHI HUSBAND I LOVE HIMS UGHHHH pleaseeeee 🥺🥺🥺🥺🙏🏼🙏🏼

Also, kissing you on the noz.

Hello my pet. It's been so long. I hope all your thirsting needs are being satisfied. Kisses your noz back.

"How about we continue this somewhere more private?" --------

The both of you are tipsy, shamelessly all over each other at the bar. Your teammates roll their eyes at the sight. It was no secret that the two of you were dating but alcohol when the two of you were together was always a mistake.

Noticing their disapproving looks, Kento murmurs into your ear, "How about we continue this somewhere more private?"

You were busy leaving lipstick marks on his neck and collar but giggle and nod in agreement. Back in the privacy of your hotel room, Kento lazily skims his lips over the crook of your neck, coming to your shoulders, his hands expertly pulling away your clothes, a trail of discarded garments leading the way to the bed. He sits down at the edge and helps you straddle him, his fingers tracing circles into your hips, his mouth hungrily capturing yours.

You card your fingers through his hair, leaving it tousled, lightly scratching his back, unwilling to part with his lips. His fingers pull at your nipples, your noise of delight muffled by his mouth.

"Kento. I can't wait. Please." You start to rise on your knees, and he holds you steady, helping you get seated on his lap, arms coming around you securely as you arch back, hips rolling down to take his hard erection into your needy cunt.

You ride him slowly, feel his thumb find your clit and start stroking it in steady circles and feel like you might lose your mind. "Ken. That's so good. Yeah. Like that." Your words start to slur and he lets out a groan, the feeling of your snug wetness around him like a drug.

The familiar feeling of growing euphoria starts to push its way into brain, and with a moan you ride faster, hips slamming down onto his thighs, desperate for release.

"Together my love," Kento whispers, eyes watching you adoringly, quickening his motions on your clit, encouraging you to ride him faster. You cum together, your cunt spasming, and his cock twitches, unloading his seed in hot, white ropes that paint your walls.

Send me a prompt!

[milkycarnations]

Lecher Bitch | Jane/Reader/Natalie | 1k words

Divider can be found here. Just a short and sweet drabble about a dream I had. It isn't much, but I think the quality is adequate and I'm willing to expand on the mindfuckery aspect in the furture.

one-shot masterlist | mdni | cw: lesbians with a daddy kink, threesome, hairpulling, dirty talk, mirror sex, Quebecois.

I should make it very clear that I do not speak Canadian French. I simply copy and pasted the phrase Natalie says. According to Wikipedia, it roughly translates to "Jesus christ, there is no way you can be this stupid" - or something like that.

Your breath hitched as Natalie thrust into you. You were dizzy, sandwiched between two hot women, and rutting dumbly. A whine fell past your lips as Nat's hips pushed into yours, a domino effect that sent Jane's bumping against the bathroom counter. Nat mumbled something illegible in French, her pronunciation raspy and slurred.

Vanity overcame you. In the mirror, two extra sets of eyes stared back: Natalie's sharp and green, Jane's honeyed, round, and accentuated by the sharp black winged liner she had painted on her lids. She was a total bombshell, despite her scars - a complete one-eighty from the tall and lean woman pounding into you.

A snap of her hips drew you from your thoughts, drawing a whine from you.

"Are you even listening to me?" Natalie snapped, her blue strap filling you completely.

You weren't.

You hummed in acknowledgement, lids growing heavy as you watched Jane's breasts bounce from the motion of her grinding into your hand. You reached up, tugging her tank top beneath her tits with one hand. Her nipples were hard - a light nude shade. She pulled your arms around her tighter, giving her more leverage over your fingers as she rocked back and forth.

"Esti de câlice de tabarnak, c'est pas possible comment que t'es cave!"

Natalie's fingers carded through your hair, pulling your head back and forcing you to look into her eyes. Just hers.

"Are you listening now?"

Nodding, you agreed. You were listening, but you didn't promise to listen good. The weight of Jane's hips stuttering, her thick scarred thighs brushing past your hands made the bathroom feel humid. Nat rolled her eyes.

"God, you cum-brained idiot. Can you use your mouth, at least?" she spat, her eyes filled with faux disgust. Her free hand reached out to push a thumb into your mouth, pressing down on the wetness of your tongue. It hardly put a dent in her pace. With a moan, your tongue lolled out, sticking past your bitten lips.

"Good. Now give Jane a kiss like she asked for."

Her hands pushed you forward until your lips met Jane's neck. She kept one grasping at your hair, the other pressing just above your ass as she steadied you. Even in your haze, you wasted no time in pressing wet, hot kisses against Jane, feeling her shiver under the touch. A deep groan bubbled from her chest, echoing slightly in the poorly decorated bathroom.

"Augh! Fuck-"

From in front of you, Jane panted under your touch. You caught each other's eyes in the mirror, her teeth sinking into the matte black lipstick she'd flawlessly applied. The makeup hardly budged. Shakily, her hands returned to the edge of the counter as you sucked at the crook of her neck.

"I'm gonna cum fast," she said, rhythmically grinding her hips forward as you rubbed at her swollen clit. A grunt came from behind you. Natalie glared at you through the mirror, her gaze peeking over your shoulder threateningly.

You tried not to focus. Tried not to hyper fixate on the rhythm and pressure. Once more, your eyes squeezed shut as you busied yourself with giving Jane love bites. When Nat's hips nestled the tip of her cock against your cervix, you mimicked it against the swell of Jane's ass. If you fucked this up, both of them might kill you.

Jane's whines hitched and rose, turning into deep, breathy moans as she drew closer. You grasped onto her like a starved man. She sputtered.

"I'm cumming!" a barrage of noise following as she dripped over your fingers. You didn't dare stop - not until she begged you to. "Fuck, yes!" she gasped.

Eventually, Nat tugged at your hair again and your fingers left Jane. Her cock pulled out, leaving you feeling void and empty at the loss. Natalie wasted no time pushing you down to kneel on the tile floor.

In a split second, Jane was on top of the counter, her hips spilling off the edge. Your hands reached out, gripping at her plush thighs and supporting her on your chest and shoulders as you lapped at her cunt.

"Unnnngh..." was the most you could manage - drawn out and stupid. Natalie laughed as she got on her knees, situating herself right behind you. To your surprise, she pushed in. The position was cramped and didn't offer much room for movement, but it was just enough to rock her strap into you - massaging against your cervix.

Gasping, you tasted Jane on your tongue, falling further against herself. Dear lord, you were going to die here.

Your actions were frantic, and your eyes rolled back as you sucked and licked, occasionally pulling away to blow cool air against her cunt.

"Yeah... Keep using that tongue for daddy," Nat panted.

The misnomer did horrible things to you, making your pussy twitch around her strap. You moaned into Jane, the vibrations sending pleasure through her. Using a pointed tongue, you switch-backed your way to her clit, swirling around it.

"Shit, you like that, huh? Fucking hell." Natalie cackled, noting how you seemed to work harder; grow more desperate

Jane's head was thrown back, gravity pulling her hair down towards the countertop. She braced against the wall and the mirror.

"Don't even think of stopping or I'll beat your ass raw." The threats continued, pouring from the woman behind you as she thrusted. You wouldn't dream of stopping. "Keep taking my cock like a good little slut. I'm not stopping until you cum around me."

She pushed your face even further into Jane, muffling your moans. You were close, but the only way the girls could know is through your sounds. You didn't hold back, crying out into her pussy as Nat drove you over the edge.

"That's right. Oh, good girl!" she cooed mockingly, "Cum all over your daddy's cock. Know what you're good for baby."

You squirmed, your body flailing out around you in sheer pleasure as the orgasm came in waves. Fingernail indents spotted Jane's thighs. Nat kept fucking you for a few moments after, only stopping because she knew you wouldn't prevent her from smothering your face into her girlfriend's cunt.

She pulled you back, your face soaked and glistening in the light.

"C'mon, you still got a lotta work to do." leaning over, she licked your lips. "Jane's still gotta cum again, remember?"

[overandundertarot]

How Can You Enhance Your Beauty?

What can you do to acentuate you features and which style/aesthetic suits you best? Lets take a look!

Please pick a card; (1-4, left to right)

Pile One(Ace of Spades)

Cards; The Empress, The world, King of Cups, Ace of Pentacles.

Pile one you have that supple, vivacious feminine beauty. Think of ancient portrayals of feminine goddesses. The way women were portrayed in renaissance paintings. Fuller figured, softer around the edges. You may be a romantic in terms of kibbe body types. You may have a wide set body and thicker bones. You could be tall, and may appear larger than you actually are. That is to say, because of the rouded nature of your appearence people may expect you to be heavier than you are or weaker/lacking muscle. A good example is Marylin monroe who was actually quite petite and was said to diet often despite her voluptuous appearence. You could have big eyes and a vacant look about you, a natural poise and grace. Despite this overt feminity, you could have androginous features. That is to say, you may have a larger nose than others, a wider jaw, slighty bigger feet, some 'traditionally masculine features' bleed into your appearence. But these just add to your beauty in a subtle way. You have a welcoming, receptive energy at first glance, think of a cancer rising. You may have had issues with people underestimating you or looking down on you because of this initial soft and welcoming appearence. People may have even sexualised you in the past, placing strange expectations on you and im also hearing that some of them outright started telling you about their sexual fantasies involving your body? Pile one, you look best when you look abundant. When you look like you are well taken care of and happy with your life, determined. When you are at a place in your life where you feel fulfilled and balanced, there is a natural glow that comes over you and enhances your beauty. Jewelry also enhances your beauty, specifically jewelry that looks expensive and tasteful. You may look really good in business casual style outfits. When you combine feminine and masculine elements in your look, it really complements your features . You look really good when you give your soft features an 'edge' this can be with makeup, fashion, whatever way you want. It's good to let some of your personality shine through, to communicate that you look soft but have a backbone. You may favour more structured, masculine looks but have had poor experiences with styling these because they may not have fit the way you wanted/imagined them on your body. Find a way to work around that, incorporate things like shoulder pads, strategically loose clothing, boots etc. There're some pictures of jennifer lawrence walking dogs that went semi-viral, her outift in those pictures would suit you well. That kind of quiet luxury fashion look.

Pile Two(Ace of Hearts)

Cards; Queen of cups reversed, 3 of swords reversed, King of swords reversed, The Fool.

Pile 2 you have a melancholy sort of beauty. There is something haunting and sad about you. When people look at you, there is a depth that they can feel. Your emotions, your sadness, you wear them on your face. This is not to say that you are sad all the time, its just that it's easy for people to attach those qualities to you. People wonder what you could be thinking about when they look at you, how your life may be going and who your friends are. Sad girl aesthetic, you may like to wear muted colours, grunge/emo fashion. You could have saturnian features; strong bone structure, deep set eyes/an intense gaze. Prominent eyes. I'm seeing that some of you have undereye circles and forehead lines/crinkles. Freckles as well. Whatever you do, it seems picturesque; perfectly imperfect. If someone were to capture you in the moment, the picture would come out with a raw, dark academia feel. You have a certain vibe that transcends what you wear/look like. You can enhance your beauty by trying something new. A lot of you who chose this pile have a comfort zone that is enforced solely through force of habit. Don't be afraid to try things that pique your interest even if it may seem strange to the people around you. Some of you want to completely change your aesthetic but are worried that you will regret it and have to buy a whole new wardrobe/makeup collection etc afterwards. It seems that a lot of looks, aesthetics appeal to you but you're not sure which to focus on. Some of you used to have a more sexy/mature vibe but feel the need to cover up/dress more conservativly recently. You'd do well to slowly incorporate the new style and grow comfortable in it day to day. For others, you're perfectly fine the way you are but are feeling stagnant. Social media trends hold quite the sway on you and you are worried about how people perceive you because you don't have the newest clothes/jewelry/shoes and dress similarly each day. You may also like to thrift your clothes and have some well loved favourites that you wear constantly. It seems there's really no issue, if you feel the want to change, try it to see if the satisfaction is as great as you would have thought. Otherwise, its not really worth the hassle. It seems that you also need to change your perspective/the content you consume. Content that aligns with your interests and natural inclinations will help you feel more secure in your habits and the way you choose to present yourself. Some of you could be thinking about undegoing surgery and making a more permanent and drastic change to your features. You are being advised to think long and hard as to why you wish to do that, and if you will really be satisfied with the results. Beauty standards change, you may find that your 'flaw' will be the next beauty trend or that you never really hated the a way a certain feature looked after all.

Pile Three(Ace of Diamonds)

Cards; The Magician. Nine of wands reversed, Ace of pentacles, Three of pentacles.

Pile 3, you have the ability to present yourself however you desire. You have a very versatile look and many makeup and fashion styles suit you. Some of you are aware of this and take advantage of the fact. But others aren't and like to stay within a single fashion/makeup style. Either way it looks good on you and you are often complimented for your looks. You are quite creative too, and customise your clothes/hair makeup to fit your personality. Something about your hair stands out. It seems that your personality may come as a surprise to people who perceive only your looks as a first impression. You could also be quite spiritual/witchy and use glamours and charms to exert a specific appeal depending on your goal. You can enhance your beauty by going for an understated look. I'm seeing that you haven't really tried simplistic makeup before, or you don't wear it often. Consulting an external influence could also help you enhance your looks. Such as colour analysis, analysing your features(like the kibbe body types), or even asking a friend what they think you should do. I'm seeing that you are generally happy with where you are in terms of looks/beauty and could just be looking to spice things up/suggestions because you are an open minded and optimistic sort of person. A message for you is also to utilise beauty sevices like spas, make up studios, stylists etc. You are good at styling yourself but other factors in your life may be occupying your time/energy and taking care of yourself may start to feel like a burden. Take the opportunity to treat yourself and relax, you deserve it!

Pile Four(Ace of Flowers)

Cards; 7 of swords, Knight of cups,4 of swords reversed, 3 of swords.

Pile 4 you have a duaity about you. I'm seeing that you dress according to how you feel. You have moments where you don't want to talk to anyone and would rather stay at home. During those moments you wear athleisure, comfortable clothes and put little effort into your appearence. But when you feel more confident and extroverted you put on bold and colourful clothes to match your bright and energetic personality at the time. You could be tall/look tall, and have a preference for baggy silhouttes. Something about your lips is prominent. You could have long limbs and be slender, regardless of your weight/fitness. You are someone who's talkative, or very expressive. You have a lot of opinions, even though you may keep them to yourself. You're quite involved in your own inner world and even when you are not talking to anyone, your face is very expressive in reaction to your thoughts. You may be cheeky as well, and like to have something going on that nobody knows about. Your personality is really shining through here, despite it being a beauty reading lol. That's your appeal, you're a whirlwind and people can't help but notice you. Your looks just add to your character. You can enhace your beauty by increasing your activity level. Becoming fit, going to the gym or participating in an active hobby. It'll suit you well to have something that occupies your mind as well as your body. Also, to try a more somber look in regard to fashion and makeup, like a dark feminine siren type of makeup style/clothing. It seems that there is also something that you have been struggling to accept about yourself, this weighs on you and is cauising visible tiredness/strain. For some of you, it is a body part that you are insecure about, for others its a tendency to overthink and neglect yourself in the process. Learning to accept that part of yourself and developing healthy coping mechanisms to distract you in your times of mental strain will have you feeling and looking more confident.

******

That's it! Thank you for participating in this pick a card reading! If you would like to book a private reading with me, you can do so here. If you're interested in my other PAC's, you can check them out here!