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jasvtsc · 3 days ago
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daddy's home
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at first glance, you were the epitome of innocence.
perfectly manicured nails. neatly styled hair, often with a pinky ribbon added to the mix. lips always shiny, your lipgloss being a necessity in your purse. knee-high stockings highlighting your smooth legs, paired together with some heels. and short dresses, barely hiding the soaking wet lace panties underneath.
yeah, you looked innocent.
but behind closed doors? you were a filthy needy little whore—just what ben liked to call you.
for such a small thing, your sex drive was actually insane, and it shocked him for the first time when you eagerly jumped up and down his softening dick. you were so cockdrunk he couldn’t help but find it adorable. you tried so hard to act like a perfect and innocent girl, but as soon as he was near you, you were a whiny mess, desperate to be filled.
you were like a bunny, always eager and energetic.
and honestly? he was living for it.
he could do whatever he wanted to you, and he just loved fucking you into oblivion, watching tears stream down your face as you turned into a blabbering mess.
hard day at work? he’d aggressively pound into your wet pussy, making you unable to walk for the next few days.
hughie annoyed the fuck out of him? he’d dug his fingers underneath your panties first thing after coming home, sighing in relief at the familiar feeling of your drenched walls sucking them in.
his favourite team lost the game? you were on the bed, down on your knees, ass up as he slapped it, leaving red marks from his calloused hand while fucking you.
lazy afternoon smoking some weed and simply unwinding? he’d have you cockwarming him, just sitting on his lap and looking all pretty with his fat cock buried deep inside your tight hole.
or when you simply wanted to pleasure him, getting down on your knees in front of him, his foot between your legs as you bop your head back and forth, your cheeks hollowing with every suck, his tip hitting the back of your throat as he sunk fully.
you were his drug that he couldn’t get enough. you were his perfect little girl.
and he hasn’t seen you in so long. too long.
butcher sent him on a mission on the other side of the country. he spent almost a week away from you, and even though you were religiously sending him photos he could get off to, nothing compared to the real thing of him nestled in your welcoming heat.
so as soon as he got home, he was met with your pouty lips and tears flooding your cheeks. you hugged him tightly, your arms barely able to wrap around his broad frame as you wanted to squeeze him tightly. he smirked and wrapped one hand firmly around your body, keeping you close and tight without much effort. the other hand moved to your hair, where he stroked the back of your head with his thumb, looking down at your pretty face covered in tears, pressed against his chest.
“well, well, well. look what we have here. missed me that much, hm? don’t worry, baby girl, daddy’s home,” he chuckled and patted your head.
then, he lifted you, the hand on your head now going under your dress. he rubbed your core with his fingers, feeling how wet you already were through your panties. he sighed in contentment, a cocky smirk on his face as he pressed his fingers, making the fabric stick between your folds.
“already so eager to see me. i think i should take care of ya, f’being such a good girl and missing daddy,” he hummed, carrying you to the bedroom.
not even five minutes later, you were already bent over on the bed, your panties stuffed in your mouth to muffle any sounds you’d make. he held your wrists in a firm grip on your back, so you were completely at his mercy as he was sliding in and out of you, your pussy squelching. you were breathing through your nose, whimpering against the fabric in your mouth as he kept your head pressed on the pillow.
“so fuckin’ tight, all f’me,” he growled, reaching his hand between your bodies and delivering a firm slap to your clit. “too tight, though. did your little pussy already forget what daddy feels like? we can’t have that. no fuckin’ way,” he panted, thrusting into you even harder, making you cry out as he pinched your swollen bud. “yeah, just like that. cry for daddy, you filthy whore.”
he flipped you on your back and sunk in your heat again, repeatedly hitting your cervix. with a grunt, he took the panties out of your mouth, instead replacing them with his fat fingers. you almost gagged as he shoved them in, pressing on your tongue, but quickly, you swirled your tongue around the rough digits, eagerly sucking on them.
“yhym. good girl. suck while daddy fucks you,” he growled, stroking your chin with his thumb as he started moving even more aggressively with a clear intention of filling you up with his cum.
when your walls began to clamp down on his cock, he pulled his fingers, now coated with your saliva and roughly grabbed your face, squeezing your cheeks. you whimpered and opened your mouth, and that was exactly what he wanted. he smiled and then spat in your mouth, one look enough for you to know that he wanted you to swallow.
and that’s what you did, seconds later squirting on his thick length, making him tumble over the edge as well. with a loud groan, he stilled and pressed deeper inside you, shooting his load into your tight channel.
“fuck, that’s it. daddy’s home,” he chuckled lowly, pulling you closer and crashing his lips on yours in a hungry kiss.
oh, he missed you so fucking much.
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crushmeeren · 1 day ago
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master list link touya art by birf.
༝ ᭝ ༝ this was written to be the counter part of bodyguard! katsuki by @with-my-calamitous-love ! ༝ ᭝ ༝
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Bodyguard! Touya, who was a sketchy hire at best. Who your mafia boss of a Father discovered on a Craigslist ad. Who has a rap sheet a mile long, which is why he was chosen. It includes, but is not limited to; arson, grand theft auto, breaking and entering, assault, etc. Whose scars and piercings scare off any lingering, unwanted leering.
Bodyguard! Touya, who is so stupidly hot that it just pisses you off. Who’s aware you have a crush on him, even when you threaten to shove your hand down his throat to shut him up. Who jokes “don’t think I’d be too fond of your hand down my throat doll, but I’m all for you sittin’ on my face if you really wanna keep me quiet.” It absolutely does not make your belly flutter with a sweet, rich heat.
Bodyguard! Touya, who stays glued to your side once he’s “welcomed” into the family. Who follows you to the grocery store, to work. Who waits patiently outside in his car until you’re off shift. Who does not give you a damn inch of space when you go bar hopping, hovering like an overprotective Doberman, snapping at anyone who dares to venture too close.
Bodyguard! Touya, who wears a perpetual catlike grin, eyes full of amusement each time you bitch at him for being overbearing. Who secretly loves it when you’re mean to him, blood rushing south when your lip curls and you cuss him out. Who takes it in stride, teasing you relentlessly until your cheeks are flushed and you’re on the verge of slapping him across the face.
Bodyguard! Touya, who gets antsy and fidgety out of nowhere. Who, when he deems you safe with friends, will disappear for ten minutes, tops. When he returns it’s with bloody, busted knuckles and white hair sticking to sweaty temples. Who always pokes fun at you when your concern shows plainly on your features, reassuring you that “it’s nothing I can’t handle, doll. Don’t worry your pretty little head.”
Bodyguard! Touya, who, despite getting on your last nerve, never crosses a line. Who maintains a respectful distance between you, never touching you unless it’s dire. Who grows on you as you learn about his past. Who you catch smiling at you with soft eyes when you animatedly explain something to your friends. Who drives you insane when he tugs on a lock of your hair where it’s fallen loose, lids lowering, grinning lazily as the tension notches up between you.
Bodyguard! Touya, who one day goes to retrieve the car for you while you wait outside the entrance of a bar. Who appears out of thin air when a guy crowds in your personal space and grabs your ass. Who fists the guys collar from behind and throws him around the corner into an alley, beating him until he’s unconscious.
Bodyguard! Touya, who you shove up against that same alleyway wall and kiss until your lungs burn. Whose kisses are hot and slick, chasing you and sneaking his soft tongue into your mouth when you try to break apart and swallow some air. Who you make out with until you’re dizzy, until Touya pushes you in the direction of his car. Who can’t help himself and smacks your ass when you walk in front of him.
⇣ ༝ ⇣ ༝ ⇣
Bodyguard! Touya, who commands you to get into the back seat of his car. Who drives you to the first abandoned parking lot he can find before he joins you. Who manhandles you into straddling his thighs, cupping the back of your neck and coaxing you into another blistering kiss.
Bodyguard! Touya, who moans low in his throat when you grind down onto his stiff cock. Who reaches into his pants and readjusts himself until slick tip peaks out of his waistband. Who places his palms on your lower back, pressing his fingers into the muscle there and helps guide the slow roll of your hips.
Bodyguard! Touya, who surges up and sinks his blunt teeth into the side of your neck. Who leaves dark hickies in a chain along your throat, ignoring your breathy warning not to leave visible marks. Who murmurs in your ear “I don’t give a shit what your Father says, I want everyone to see you’re fuckin’ mine now.” Who roughly shoves his overly warm hands up the front of your shirt, under your bra, and squeezes handfuls of your tits.
Bodyguard! Touya, who doesn’t protest when you instruct him to recline against the door. Who lifts his hips, cooing at you in a patronizing tone when you yank his pants and briefs to mid thigh. Who pets your head as you settle between his thighs, laughing at your affronted expression. Who gasps in delight when you swallow his cock in one go, securing you in place with a hand to back of your head until your throat constricts around him.
Bodyguard! Touya, who gets impatient and pulls you off his cock, shaft shiny with your spit and twitching. Who sits up and, with slender fingers, helps free one leg from your pants, letting the rest dangle on your other ankle. Who shifts you both until you’re hovering on your knees over his lap, tugging off your shirt and bra. You complain about being entirely naked when he’s not even close, but he argues that he just needs to see your tits bouncing while you ride him.
Bodyguard! Touya, who grips your ass when you reach down to circle your fingers around his shaft, steadying him, and sink down onto his cock with ease. Who lets you rest your forehead on his, fisting the shirt covering his shoulders as you adjust to the new blood buzzing ache in your pussy.
Bodyguard! Touya, who lacks self control. Who urges you to move with a sharp smack to the ass. You get the message, hastily rising and sitting down until you find a decent rhythm that allows you to bounce. Who, after awhile, sinks lower into the seat, forcing you to sit up straight, and braces his feet. Who meets you thrust for thrust after that, moaning through his teeth when you cry out.
Bodyguard! Touya, who can’t shut up when your pussy starts to squeeze him. Who babbles “ah fuck, that’s it babygirl. You’re about to cum, yeah? Fuckin’ cum for me, I know that sweet pussy loves me.” Who fucks you through your first orgasm, having to bite down harshly on the knuckle of his pointer finger to last through the second one.
Bodyguard! Touya, who inhales sharply after the second time you cum, gritting his teeth and yanking you down with both hands on your waist as his own pleasure swells and bursts. Whose head thumps back onto the seat, his sweet moan of your name making your pussy tighten once more.
Bodyguard! Touya, who manages to get you redressed and into the passenger seat, still intent on bringing you home by your curfew. Who, before he puts the car in drive, takes hold of your jaw and leans across the console, leaving but an inch of space between you. Who smirks playfully and promises “next time I get you alone, I’m tastin’ that pussy. You’re gonna sit on my face, doll.” Who then winks and acts as if nothing happened, whistling as he begins the long journey back to your home.
Bodyguard! Touya, who leaves you dumbfounded and with a furious blush. Who annoys the ever loving shit out of you, but leaves you a bit too close to falling in love for your comfort.
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peachdues · 2 days ago
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rejoice everyone, my sex drive as returned with a vengeance.
MDNI. Explicit sexual content.
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Inside your apartment offers little relief from the suffocating heat and humidity.
The air is thick with the scent of sex, musky and heady. Sweat sticks your hair to your forehead, slides down the side of your neck to join the thin sheen coating the rest of your skin. Above you, Sanemi fares no better, the ends of his hair having turned a muted gray from the moisture that’s gathered just above his brow.
The coarse hairs around his base are matted down against his skin, soaked from a combination of your cum and his. Still, the faint stimulation his groin offers against your clit with every feeble turn of his hips makes your thighs twitch and spasm where they lay draped over his.
One last, shallow thrust later and Sanemi stills. You hardly notice the shock of cold left behind as he pulls out and collapses next to you in a sweaty, panting heap. His little finger sneaks across the mussed blankets and interlocks with yours. It’s the only contact either of you can tolerate now; he knows it’s too hot for anything more.
“Jesus,” he pants, his voice hoarse from exertion. “That was fuckin’ incredible.”
Two weeks into your relationship with Sanemi and the novelty of it hasn’t worn off.
Despite the exhaustion sitting heavily in your limbs, you can’t help but smile. It’s what he says every time after you’ve finished, and it’s always with the same, breathless wonder.
Content, you roll to your stomach, kicking the blankets away where they tangled around your shins. You bury your face into the lumpy pillow and sigh, marveling at the gush of fluid from between your thighs that further dampens the sheets below.
You don’t mind; Sanemi will wash your sheets for you, anyway, like always. Besides, it may be hot and stuffy inside your apartment, but the warmth left behind by him is a welcome one; tangible proof of how thoroughly he’d just claimed you.
Sanemi is nothing short of thorough.
Exhausted though you are, you can’t help the flutter in your stomach as you feel his hand smooth up the back of your thigh, his fingers gently massaging your hamstring, and then your ass.
If he were to straddle your backside right now and slide into you from behind, you wouldn’t know how to object; wouldn’t want to, anyway.
He’s only taken you from behind twice in the weeks since you’ve begun sleeping together, but it’s rapidly become your favorite position by far. The first time had been slow; a lesson more than an indulgence, with Sanemi gently bending you over the side of your bed, his hands guiding your hips into place and pressing on your spine to deepen the arch of your back.
The second time had reduced you to tears.
There’d been no manipulation of your body that time. Instead, he’d shoved a pillow under your belly and mounted you, those big, strong hands of his holding you down by the small of your waist as he’d rutted into you, hard and deep. At first, you’d only managed a few, gasping squeaks, too focused on the way Sanemi’s thick tip battered away at that spot deep inside that made your toes curl.
One hand pinned your wrists to the small of your back while the other wound gently through your hair. With a firm tug, he pulled your head back, pausing only to press his lips softly to the crown of your head in quiet reassurance.
Then, came his command. Scream, baby. Show me how good I’m makin’ you feel.
Right on cue, Sanemi slammed his hips forward, pushing right into that painfully wonderful spot that made you see stars. He drew back and hit it again and again, and you couldn’t help but wail for him while your eyes rolled into your head, your throat, burning.
You’d ended up making an embarrassing mess atop your sheets, one that made your legs jerk and twitch so violently that Sanemi had been forced to pin them down by pressing his feet to your calves. Yet, he’d seemed to delight in your ruin, if his rumbling baritone groans had been any metric to go by. Certainly the increased force behind his thrusts as he fucked you harder into the mattress meant he hadn’t minded. Not one bit.
But if Sanemi wants to have you again, now, he doesn’t act on it. Instead, he finishes his appreciative knead against your ass and sits up, running a hand through his hair. From the corner of your eye, you spy him as he pretends to look back at you, half-asleep atop the messy heap of your pillows and blankets.
His quiet exhale of approval gives him away. He’s not admiring your post-sex beauty; his attention is locked squarely on the mess he’s left between your thighs.
He’s admiring his handiwork just as much as you are.
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robolvrr · 2 days ago
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pop 'n lock it! *⁠.⁠✧。⁠☆
rodimus prime x gn! flirty bounty hunter reader
sexy aliens at hotspots near you! • rodimus has learned that maybe cybertronians aren't as feared by the rest of the galaxy as he thinks.
warnings: nsfw, sexual content. (fisting, valveplay, friends with benefits.) non-cybertronian reader.
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"come here often?"
your fingers rub absently on the safety lock of a battered pistol. the sizzle of raw laser still sends a wave of nausea through your system, before your internal servers have forwarded through past memories and interactions to positively identify the cocky voice rumbling through your communications system.
your lips playfully pull upwards.
"how'd you get my line, roddy? don't remember giving you this frequency babe."
the laughter that follows is painfully confident. so much so, that you can easily pick the chuckles apart and find the nervousness coursing beneath. he's about to snip back at you but that's just so predictable, especially since he's much more fun tongue-tied.
"daww, you missed me pretty thing? and here i thought you were too busy being a lil commander. if you wanted me so bad you coulda just told me the last time."
rodimus lets out the equivalent of a bark. you turn your attention to the sky, squinting in an attempt to see if he was piercing through the atmosphere or not.
"oh, you're mean! you know, sometimes i think you just like to project. i get you that riled up, sweetspark?"
that's how he wants to play tonight? cute.
you make eye-contact with a ball of flame and melted metal dancing across bright, magenta skies like a comet out of hell. humming, your pistol meets your hip, belt heavy with equpiment.
"your paint job gonna hold, hm? coming down awfully hot, needy."
"am not."
"uh-huh. sure, speedy. you want me to buff it better later?"
"just get that expression off your face. ugh."
that smile is downright cheshire. this planet's entire warmth and core couldn't force his frame any hotter than the sly smirks you design. it's your plotting grin.
the possibilities send a nice shiver down to his pedes.
"good mechs get rewards. stop playing coy and admit you're stressed and you missed me."
silence, for once, fills your comms. he can imagine you sucking your teeth with a feigned, sour pout.
"... be ready."
your head tips back when you giggle. legs drape over a slender, glossy bike before it sets to hover over rusted terrain, helmet clicking into place as your suit whirs to function.
[ welcome back, user. where to? ]
wrists twist back until the engine purrs. you wonder if rodimus will too.
"the usual. clear my night and tell trax the job is done."
your bike and you shoot through the desert in a blur, leaving the approaching prime and your disintegrated target of ash far behind.
---------
rodimus knows he shouldn't be interacting with you on any level. like, at all.
it's not as if you're a major threat. he's learned the hard way not to leap to conclusions, though you've never made a point of following through with any threats and you're cute, kind of intimidating. almost some figment of his imagination that flits in the corners of his optics.
he hasn't told anyone, anyone, on the ship about you.
for one, they just wouldn't get it.
rodimus prime, captain of the lost light, dirty pervert who enjoys interfacing outside his species every once in awhile. who is hopelessly intoxicated by a being hundreds of feet shorter and yet lets 'em run him up a wall.
for two, he's sure it isn't "ethical." magnus wouldn't look at him the same and he already was in hot water.
for three? well for three, you should be in prison. he's not sure where or which one, but from his research and your blunt pride, you're not exactly a good person.
not entirely. you've gotten rid of some awful corruption and he doesn't like how he's starting to question where his morals and your efficiency mix, because he's certain you don't fry his processors that bad to the point he's losing his sense.
you do.
rodimus lands on the planet's surface, fields buzzing too much to remember the name or care about proper docking. it's not as if he's sticking around for long, per your request.
which is cool. totally cool.
rodimus feels like shareware when he transforms into alt-mode, aware you're probably already waiting. his pistons roar and he fights the urge not to ding you again, because yeah, he's needy.
so what if he misses your mouth? missed your skin, synthetic and otherwise, missed your foreign technology analyzing his ticks and limits?
he needed this. he deserves this, that much was true.
the crackle of his comms make his wheels bite rock aggressively.
"don't make me wait."
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he arrives not even five minutes later. you're too static to care about or remember his measurement of time. it's quick and to your standards and that's all that matters.
his chassis is dusty. sure enough, there is visible damage upon his descent. you don't look up, or over, your shoulder until he drawls in bratty greeting.
"you know, most hosts are a little more attentive."
there he goes. classic rodimus, always misbehaving. biting what he could chew and choking instead.
you let the silence grow awkward before you give him what he wants. you can sense the way he's unsure by how his vents vary, fans slowly whirring as they lower the temperature down a degree.
"and most guests are more polite. who said i invited you?"
poor thing looks like a kicked pet. his optic ridges droop and his dermas screw up, stubborn.
"i can be good. it's just... i need you, okay? that's what you wanted to hear, right? just give me tonight. please."
he slips down the concrete wall as steps, practiced and nonchalant, drift his direction. all his insecurities and want bubble to a nasty concoction and his legs part without command.
he can feel it. your stare, right on his closed array. the visual, physical culmination of his obsession dripping and oh, primus. your mouth is opening and you're letting it fall on your tongue.
"hahhh.. frag." he stores the image in a file far away.
"like candy, roddy. i can forgive you for intruding if you haven't been touching yourself like i asked, darling."
he groans and his digits scrape the foundation. you suck your finger and he's shaking.
"sure tastes like it."
frag it all. you make him so desperate it's embarrassing.
he nods his head fast and his panels pop and lock open.
leaning forward, you make a mental note to see just when your schedule will open up again this lunar cycle. while his spike is just as pretty as he is, an curved phallic throb of silver metal with sparkling, ruby bio-lights, you dip lower instead.
rodimus didn't have time to ask, hearing the whoosh of your thrusters and suddenly tongue and spit find his node with turbokitten licks.
"ooohhhh, okay, hah! w-warn somebody before you just g— guhh..!"
you never ask him to mass displace when intimate. it's partially the reason he feels so gross. there is no reason for him to be this broken already.
he should be breaking you. you should be under him, unable to take an inch. unable to think straight, or walk straight—
you're nibbling.
the rounded knob is rubber and thick. solid. firm, but slippery. you're not worried about harming him, though you do bite harder than necessary to ensure he's getting stimulated.
transfluid starts to drench your chin as you swirl and slobber, forming a warm suction that earns you a glitched moan.
"yes, yes, yeeeeeeaaahh... j-jhust like. ah! that.."
eager fingers circle his valve. he hiccups his approval.
then, your hand. he has to focus on not crushing it but from the yelp and helm bumping the ceiling, he wasn't expecting the action at all. you dreamily continue to coat him in your saliva as your wrist slithers in.
rodimus is sure he's going to offline.
you're not big. that's been established. but he still has to ease his calipers, legs trembling as you shove more and more of your forearm in him.
"please don't stop. i-i'm sho sorry. i'll be good. i'll be so good fhoure yew."
lubricant coats his faceplate when he hears your wicked amusement murmur against his valve instead.
his processor is fuzzy. he can't grab at anything because his strength will collapse the support beams, or you'll shoot that domineering leer that makes him feel like he's tipped over a vase.
rodimus whines, bleats. after lapping and swallows, your mouth has lost patience and drifted to his pulsing shaft instead. your lips are so much softer than a cybertonian, pillowy and velvet.
meanwhile, you are lazy. still pumping up to the elbow, in and out, in, out, innnn, outttt.
"let me see you cry, honey. so cute when you do. so handsome. so pretty."
the captain ex-vents sharp. his optics are cerulean. they glow in the darkness and drink you up.
"y-yeah?"
greedy! he's too obvious.
"you're the prettiest cybertonian i have ever seen." there it is, that engine growl. it vibrates your form with a tickle.
"my little light. my perfect...", you know what you're saying is going to make him overthink. you keep going because you feel how close he is already. "perfect prime."
that does it. rodimus tries to reboot his vocalizer as he shrieks out, dopey and bursting. a large, pink pool puddles at his aft, a single servo snatching you by the waist by instinct and dragging you up, up, up, up.
his glossa shoves down your throat and you paw at his helm.
he wants this burnt into his very being. his spark is thrashing.
"give. more. c'mon."
smoothing away tears, you suckle. his glossa slithers out and spit and fluid makes spider-web bridges between your mouths.
"you know i am not that mean, right? relax your pistons."
rodimus looks at you, albeit too tenderly. you close your eyes and distract you both instead by kissing him again.
"hah. as if. you're evil."
"you seem to have a habit of letting evil people around you, roddy." clink. the suit on your body phases off. he looks like he wants to stick you in his intake, drool and all.
"... touché."
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cellophaine · 2 days ago
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Chapter X: APPROACH
Masterlist
Pairing: Patrick Zweig x F!Reader, Art Donaldson x Tashi Duncan
Warnings: Angst.
Author's Note: I'm not going to apologize for what I've done, but I will apologize for uploading this chapter 10 minutes late.
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GIF Source: @/spookyrps
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2019. New Rochelle.
There was no music in the elevator, you noticed. You were alone with your thoughts that echoed back and forth in the chamber of your mind. Sleep didn't come easy the night before, even with the help of the prescribed sleeping pills you hardly ever reached for. After all these years, being face-to-face with Art still managed to draw a reaction from you. One that didn't make much sense. You were a different person now, as he was. Things had happened, and you had changed. Knowing that you were in the same building as Art Donaldson, separated by mere floors, shouldn't make you toss and turn in your bed. You were such a fool; you scolded yourself. He probably slept fine next to his gorgeous wife, with their adorable child in the room next to theirs.
Your likeness on the glossy surface of the elevator door appeared well-kempt, but it wasn't a truthful reflection of how you felt on the inside. The little makeup you used did its job, concealing the dark circles and adding colours to your face. Right there along the seam of yourself was the fatigue, worming its way into the slight slouch in your posture, weighing down your body's effort in keeping it upright. Remembering how your mom used to strike at your upper back so you would sit up straight, you straightened up out of an innate reflex.
The elevator door opened to reveal the first floor. You headed for the hallway Jennifer had led you down, barely passing the peripheral of Art as he stood there in the lobby, talking to a man you didn't recognize. You kept your face away from his direction and quickened your pace, hoping he hadn't spotted you yet. You sighed as the almost empty hallway welcomed you in, save for a couple of people ahead of you chattering about the seat placements. But the relief didn't last long. A familiar voice that you'd tried to forget for years called your name. The marble floor echoed the voice's owner's intention of catching up to you, hurried and rushed as if you were to disappear at any moment. You turned around, stopping him in his tracks – only a few steps from where you were standing.
Art was wearing casual attire, a fitted white t-shirt and black pants, yet he still managed to make them look phenomenal. He looked like he was about to head to practice. You remembered it, all those mornings after spending the night together, watching him getting ready for the day.
For a long moment, neither of you talked, only drinking each other in with your sights. Art broke the tension first, seeming to reprimand himself for staring at you.
"You look great."
"You, too."
You reciprocated, albeit a little cold. There was no reason for you to lie and no excuse for the conversation to be longer than it already was.
"It's good to see you."
You sighed and decided to cut to the chase.
"What are you doing here?"
"I'm here for a challenger."
"No, I meant here, right now."
You pointed to the distance between you. His answer lingered on the tip of his tongue, undecided, but eventually rolled off and made itself audible to your ears.
"I … I want to talk to you."
"We have nothing to talk about."
You shook your head. Art took one step closer to you.
"I know that I'm not entitled to your time, but I've missed you."
The latter part ignited the anger in you. How could he say that so easily? You scoffed at his audacity; your own response came with a bite that aimed to hurt.
"I don't think your wife will appreciate what you've just said."
To your surprise, at the mention of the sore subject for the two of you, his resolve remained unchanged.
"Tashi has nothing to do with this."
"She has everything to do with us."
"Not when she resents me."
For the first time in your tense exchange, you relented. You searched for Art's eyes, looking for a hint of betrayal, of deception, but instead, you found defeat. Your resolve softened, and you felt the familiar pull of a memory from when you first met at the Stanford cafeteria thirteen years ago. Two lonely people meeting one another, and now, finding themselves in each other's paths again.
But it should end here.
"Your marriage problem isn't my responsibility to solve."
"I know, and I'm not asking you to. I just … want to talk about us."
You shrugged, keeping your tone nonchalant.
"There's no more us."
At that moment, a mix of voices from a group of people came out from the conference room area, chatting among themselves. The two of you involuntarily took a small step away from each other as if the guilt by distance association was enough to make anyone suspicious. Art's desperation was clear as day.
"Can we talk somewhere else?"
You couldn't say no, so you settled for the next best thing.
"I have to go."
"Can you at least think about it?"
Art closed the distance, reaching for your hand. You were pliant to his gentle touches, overwhelmed with conflicting emotions that lapped at your conscience. A piece of paper was placed in your palm.
"Text me. I'll figure out something for us."
You said nothing to his promise and walked away; your skin felt hot from his touch. You headed straight for the conference room, and your hand slipped the note Art gave you into the pocket of your blazer.
Art's number had not been a resident in your contact for a very long time. You stared at the ten digits later that night in your room, and your fingers itched to do something about it. Burn it or throw it away; it didn't matter. You knew you should do either of those things, but in the end, you couldn't.
At about 12:40 AM, Art sent you the address to a local restaurant that was about a ten-minute drive from the hotel.
Tomorrow night. 7:30.
As the day drew closer to night, the knot in your stomach tightened even more in anticipation. You sat in the car in the restaurant's parking lot for a while despite being there early. When it was 7:38, knowing you couldn't delay it any longer, you straightened your simple outfit and walked into the restaurant. You were greeted by a bored hostess on a slow night; the place was almost empty, save for two other occupied spots. Art's table was in a more secluded area, where privacy was afforded by the enclosed booth with fake vines cascading down to the back of the leather seats in intricate weaves and big leaves. Art stood up when he saw you. The familiarity of the scene stirred a long-forgotten memory that happened seven years ago.
2012. Columbus, Ohio.
Your first book tour. After the reading and signing event, you were free to do whatever you wished, and that meant roaming the aisle of a grocery store, browsing for juice, painkillers and some chocolate. Your eyes pored over the nutritional value, or lack thereof, of a pack of chips when you felt a pair of eyes on you. That, on top of the fact that they wandered into your peripheral and hadn't made the slightest move. You did a double-take when you saw Patrick Zweig standing within arm's reach with a self-assuring smirk on his face.
"Hey. It's you."
"It's… you."
You echoed his recognition, but on the contrary to his amusement, yours was the faintest touch of dread.
"It's been a while."
"It has been. How are you?"
You turned to face him fully. He scratched the back of his head with his free hand.
"I'm … great! You?"
"I'm good. What are you doing here?"
Patrick looked around the aisle as if the answer was obvious.
"In this grocery store? I'm getting groceries."
You looked at the basket in his other hand. It was filled with chips, soda and some bananas.
"Right. No, I mean, in the city."
"I'm here for a challenger. Well, was."
"What happened?"
"I got eliminated."
He dipped his head and averted his eyes from yours, seeming embarrassed by the admission of the fact.
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"That's alright. At least I'm $300 richer now."
Patrick gestured to you.
"What about you? What are you doing here?"
"I'm on a book tour."
"Ahh. Sounds like you're doing very well for yourself."
"Thank you."
You felt sheepish at his compliment. The two of you fell into a lull of silence, your eyes intertwined in a languid game of cat and mouse. Patrick looked like he wanted to tell you something, but you had nothing to say to him. So you broke the silence first.
"Well, uh, it's very nice to see you again. I should go."
He stepped forward, trying to capture your attention in the way his body language created an invisible enclosure that temporarily held you in.
"Wait. Can we go somewhere else to talk? I think we have a lot to talk about."
"Do we?"
You levelled him with an incredulous look. But he met you with earnestness.
"Yes, we do."
"I don't think so."
"They got married last month."
It took you a brief moment to understand. Still, his decision to break the news to you in an abrupt manner took you by surprise. Your heart seemed to drop into a bottomless pit, and you could feel the frantic beat of it thrumming along every inch of your skin. You quickly fixed your frown into a forced smile.
"Well, that's great to hear. I'm happy for them."
Patrick gave you a look that said your effort was all in vain.
"You don't mean that."
"We all have to move on at some point. Unlike you."
The venomous bite of your words didn't go unnoticed by the dark-haired man before you.
"If you knew what I know, then you would be just like me."
You scoffed, crossing your arms.
"Please, we're not the same. Stop being cryptic and just say what you want to say."
He tilted his head at you, an idea dancing in his blue eyes.
"How about this? I'll tell you over dinner. We can use some catching up."
Your lack of a response made him feel like he needed to apply a little pressure.
"You'll want to know what happened. Trust me."
You rolled your eyes. You couldn't believe you were seriously considering his offer. You exhaled deeply and decided then that spending some time with your ex's wife's ex-boyfriend was better than a night alone in the hotel room.
"Where and what time?"
His smirk deepened, and you wanted to wipe that off of his face.
"There's an Applebee's nearby. How about we meet up there … around 7?"
"Fine."
That was how you ended up here, sitting across from Patrick Zweig, sipping on a Rum and Coke while waiting for your food. Whatever he wanted to say to you might pair better with the taste of alcohol. You hadn't even bothered to change out of the sundress you wore just hours before when you ran into him.
"How's it going for you career-wise?"
Patrick took a sip of his drink to delay answering your question.
"Oh, you know, it's … good. I'm making a name for myself."
You recalled his grocery haul, the pair of shorts that resembled pyjama pants, and the state of his car when you arrived around the same time as he did. The interior was messy, with rolled-up socks and clothes draping all over the back seat, trash and parking tickets in the front. Doubt swelled in your head.
"Are you? I have a feeling that you wouldn't be sleeping in your car if that was the case."
A playful smile appeared on his lips.
"Ouch. The hostel I was staying in had bed bugs, so my car was the next best option. I'll go to a motel after this, though."
You hummed, thinking back about what Art had told you about Patrick.
"Isn't your family rich?"
"They are. Not me."
His long middle finger traced the rim of his drink in a pensive mood.
"Why don't you ask them for help?"
"I don't want to. Let's just say we always fail to come to an agreement when it comes to the choices that I've made."
Your acknowledgement came in the form of slow nods of your head. You understood him for not wanting to depend on your family for anything. It would only give them one more reason to call you a disappointment for daring to seek their help.
The waiter brought out your food, and your conversation was pulled into a lull of quietude as you ate your food. You dabbed the corner of your mouth for a drop of the creamy pasta sauce, while Patrick munched on three pieces of fries. You picked up what was left off moments ago.
"You're still privileged in a way, you know? You could give up and crawl back to your family's mansion. I'm sure they'll welcome you back with open arms."
"I could. But there's no fun in that. Besides, I prefer being a disappointment anyway."
You shared a small chuckle. Under the low light of the restaurant, you allowed yourself to take him in fully. Curly dark hair, contrasted with the soft edges of his face. The light stubble along his jaw added a rugged charm to his laid-back attitude. You couldn't help but compare him to Art. Patrick's confidence was loud, veering on cocky. Art's was quiet, but full of surprises when the moment called for it.
The heady allure of Patrick and his association with Art had started to draw up dangerous ideas in your mind. You inhaled sharply, your fingers rubbed your temple in small circles in an attempt to bring yourself back to the conversation. The one you needed to have the moment you settled in the booth of Applebee's.
"So … they got married."
"Yeah. Pretty recently. Didn't even get an invite."
A sardonic huff of air escaped your lips.
"Join the club. I found out about their engagement last year, but I didn't think …"
You trailed off, not wanting to finish the thought. But the silence did it for you. Patrick nodded.
"Art moves fast. He knows what he wants and he goes for it. And no one can tell him otherwise."
"I know it all too well."
"Little fucker."
You took a sip of your second Rum and Coke. A deep sigh escaped your lungs.
"I get it, though. She's beautiful, she's passionate about tennis. She can help him in ways that I can't."
At that, Patrick stayed quiet. His eyes took you in, all of your honesty and insecurity displayed in a glass case in front of him. You felt the briefest brush of vulnerability on your spine and shivered, but you ignored it. Despite the lack of dialogue and contact during the short period Patrick visited Stanford, your shared history ran deeper than the surface-level interaction that you had.
Patrick set down his burger and wiped his mouth with the napkin. His fingers created a rhythm on the wooden table, but then, the dull melody was cut short.
"Art is devoted to Tashi, but she's not."
"What do you mean?"
You prompted him to continue.
"Tennis is not everything to Art. But to Tashi, it is."
"I figured as much. It's not new news."
An inkling that Patrick was deliberately withholding information from you came to your mind. You sat up straighter, setting your fork down.
"Spill, Patrick."
He relented after a moment.
"I was in Atlanta last year. A couple of months after they got engaged."
You looked at him, unsure where he was going.
"Both of them were there for the Atlanta Open. I … saw Tashi in the hotel they were staying that night, and we … slept together."
You searched for a hint of deception in his face, only to come up with none. His face remained unreadable, betraying nothing, leaving only sincerity despite the irony of the situation. Your mouth opened, and closed, as you were at a loss for words. Patrick shrugged as if what he had just confessed was no more than a harmless, made-up tale.
"She wants an obedient little dog to carry out her fantasy of being a great tennis player. And Art is more than eager to do that for her."
He continued, seeming oblivious to your lack of response.
"She didn't seem happy, being engaged to Art. And if I can be honest, I think Tashi only likes Art because he's loyal to her to a fault, and he'll do anything to please her. I don't think she even loves him."
That somehow took you out of your bewildered state.
"Are you even listening to yourself? He was your best friend."
"My best friend? Who sabotaged my relationship, stole my girlfriend and basically abandoned me for her?"
Your rebuttal shot forward like a bullet out of its chamber.
"So you slept with her? To revenge? Even though she was engaged to Art? You're no better than him, Patrick. Two wrongs don't make one right."
You shook your head and couldn't help the thought that rolled off of your lips.
"You tennis players are such fucking assholes."
Patrick only nodded in agreement and didn't say anything. You sighed, asking the question you'd wanted to know.
"Does Art know?"
"I don't think so."
You shook your head, feeling a wave of fatigue taking over.
"I've had enough of you people. Just leave me alone."
He held his hands up in defence.
"All I'm saying is, you still have a chance if you want it."
You gave a rueful smile.
"Am I an idiot for wanting to believe you?"
He took his time, roaming over you with a pensive gaze. You felt exposed under it, after the confession you had never dared to verbalize out loud. Perhaps it was both of your positions in this game of tennis, the back and forth that inexplicably wove the four of you together in these intricate patterns, so tightly entangled with one another, that made you feel like Patrick would recognize. There was only understanding, and no judgement. The irony was that. Tennis was a simple game when you stripped it down to its barest principles, but the interconnection between everyone was anything but simple.
"No, you're not. You must really love him."
You looked down at your empty glass, unable to meet his eyes.
"I hate that I still feel this way about him."
Even though both of you were hurt by Art, you couldn't help the question that came afterward.
"Do you miss him?"
Patrick was his best friend, and Art was his. They had a life-long history between them that you weren't privy to. Your pain and his were different in kind, but you could understand all the same.
"I do."
The rest of the meal was cast in a sombre hue, with both of you mulling over a mutual understanding and the similarities you shared. Neither of you was the winner, but that didn't matter now.
/
"You didn't have to pay for my meal as well."
He said as you walked together to his car. You came here by taxi, and Patrick had offered to give you a ride back to your hotel. You waved a dismissive hand.
"Don't mention it. Giving me a ride back is enough."
His car was only within a few strides away when Patrick stepped in front of you.
"I can do more than that, you know? To pay you back."
"How?"
"I, we, can make Art jealous."
You halted and repeated your previous question. He arched an eyebrow, his expression said nothing but trouble, and when understanding dawned on you, you levelled him with a glare.
"No. Sleeping with you is the last thing I need right now."
"Who said anything about sleeping?"
You scoffed at the obvious bait, sidestepping him to reach the passenger side of his car.
"We can make out, take a photo, and I'll send it to Art. Make him realize what he's missing."
"If you want to kiss me, just say that. No need to make up excuses."
You rolled your eyes at him and realized just how much closer Patrick was to you than moments ago. He dipped his head to look at you, his gaze traced the shape of your lips and drifted to your eyes. When he spoke, his voice softened, low and careful, and your curiosity responded, pushing back the guard your inhibition had put up.
"I really do."
He leaned in, and you rose on your tiptoes to meet his lips. The touch was gentle and slow at first as you tested the pieces you needed to fit together. Then Patrick took over, and you followed his lead. His presence was all-encompassing, sweeping over your senses. Your lips lapsed and locked together in a feverish rhythm, a playful and exhilarating chase of lust. His tongue prodded at your entrance, and you opened yourself up to him. Your tongues intertwined, determined to draw whatever you needed from the other.
You didn't know when Patrick had pushed you up against his car, but you were grateful as your strength had become dependent on him. The cold metal of his car and the solid yet soft feel of his body created delicious friction on your skin. You grasped at each other's body, groping and pulling, your lips barely parted for a much-needed gulp of air. He grunted when you bit his lower lip, and that earned you a harsh, handful squeeze of your ass under your sundress. Your body called to his, and yet, a small part of your mind beckoned you to resurface, to come to the admission of the truth that you had been running away from.
Your ardour exchange slowed as you parted to breathe. Still, you met each other in the middle for brief touches, and you eventually pulled away. Patrick's thumb rubbed at the curve of your bottom lip as if he were admiring his work of art, which was swollen and glistening with his mark. His whisper was warm on your lips.
"Did you think about him?"
You nodded and swallowed.
"Did you think about her?"
It took him a moment, but he nodded. A woeful smile graced your swollen lips.
"I don't think this is a good idea."
"Revenge is always a good idea."
You touched his jaw, forcing him to meet your eyes.
"You don't win by sleeping with me. I don't want to be a perpetual pawn in the game that all three of you play. Besides, I don't think Art cares anymore."
Patrick shook his head.
"About what happened all those years ago? Maybe not. But I think he still cares about you."
"It doesn't make a difference though, does it?"
"I guess not."
You playfully and gently pushed him back, making Patrick set you down on your own shaky legs. Your front brushed against his arousal, and you bit your bottom lip in amusement.
"Come on, you still have to drive me back."
Before getting out of his car in front of your hotel, you reached for his hand.
"It was nice to see you again, Patrick. I really mean it."
His hand came up to meet yours, giving it a soft squeeze.
"You, too. I'm glad that we got to catch up."
You left his car without saying another word. Your heart was heavy, but at ease. Moving on and forward was your only option, but it felt much easier now. Still, you wished you would never have to see any of them ever again.
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wickedsmille · 7 hours ago
Text
broken and still breaking
uhhhh, this is a little fic technically titled Angsty McAngst Pants Angst in my notes because Jason goes to his Re-Welcoming/It's A(n Alive) Boy! gala then gets triggered into a PTSD episode which Tim helps him through. It was SUPPOSED to be gen but then they started flirting and bantering so. Welp.
Buyer beware cause I haven't beta'ed this, aforementioned PTSD episode, mild depictions of blood and injuries and what nots.
Alright then *thigh slap*
If it weren’t for the overwhelming feeling of being settled in his own skin, Jason would’ve told Bruce to fuck a cactus for offering to make Jason Peter Todd a real boy again. On principle alone he nearly said no. Besides, creating aliases is fun. James Austen, John Red and, to be nothing if not a mature adult with refined tastes, Dick Dickins. So many others, too. He could get the utilities at a new safehouse hooked up under Stephen Wolfe’s name then turn right around and renew Emmerson Bronte’s license at the downtown DMV.  
See? Being legally dead has allowed him room to express himself creatively in a way that has nothing to do with experimental ammunitions and testing the limits of the human body. One might even say it’s a healthy passtime. Sort of. Relatively speaking, okay. He’s not a perfect person, wouldn’t even dream of entertaining the thought. Not when he’s had so much practice turning the inside of someone’s skull into a modern day Picasso. 
But he’s been trying. Is trying. 
So, rather than testing the integrity of Bruce’s dental implants, Jason bit his cheek so hard it bled, swallowed back every bitter, snide remark dancing along his tongue and nodded tightly. He can’t think about the way Bruce deflated after. How his eyes went soft and the weight of the cape and cowl fully slipped off to reveal an infinitely exhausted but relieved Bruce Wayne, Failed Father Extraordinaire. If Jason does, he might ask himself what it was all for anyway and if any of it really ever mattered. Those kinds of thoughts lead to nothing but self-imposed isolation and self-destruction. 
He’s definitely regretting his decision as his gaze scans over the crowded ballroom of the Grand Hotel in downtown Gotham. A sea of opulence swims below the upper landing he has stalled out on. Men and women stand around in circles, chatting one another with plastic smiles etched into their faces. The sound of faked laughter grates, making his jaw clench and his teeth grind together. Wouldn’t it be just his luck that the food tables are all the across the room.
“Ha, ha, ha. Oh my, this little thing?” a woman simpers loudly at the bottom of the stairs. “Why, it was my mother’s.” She fingers the delicate gold chain around her neck. On the end is a diamond large enough it could feed a family of four in the Alley for a couple years.
A man across from her, entrenched in his own conversation partners, tips his head back and holds his belly as he chortles. “Mr. Campbell, you’re in luck! I have a penthouse in uptown and a condo on the westside and they’re alright but, if you’re looking for a sound investment, I suggest getting a cabin or three in the Northwest. Best decision I ever made!” he says blithely like there aren’t families and children sleeping in their cars because every apartment building is leased up and the list for voucher programs are thousands long.
Jesus fuck, he did not miss this.
Being a Wayne again means he gets the horrific honor of taking a half-step into the limelight. At first, Bruce wanted to do a full spread. Interviews and press conferences, staged sightings by the paparazzi and several welcoming events. Jason promptly shut him down by threatening to find every copy of his adoption papers and burning them. He’d rather chew off his own arm and beat Bruce with the appendage than do any of that. The compromise? A single gala as a re-introduction then Jason could fade into the background once more. 
So long as you don’t cause a scene, Bruce had said sardonically, knowingly. Bastard.
With the implied threat to his privacy, Jason has smartly decided to be on his best behavior. Even though the simple, black suit he’s wearing feels too tight and too hot. Though his hair is stiff from all the product in it. Despite the shiny leather shoes pinching his toes. No matter the way he feels like everyone is staring at him even if they’re not. 
Sure, quite a few of the guests are surreptitiously staring, thinking they’re oh so clever with the way they side-eye him before quickly looking away. They’re subtle, or so they think. It’s not like everyone is facing him, gazes boring into him. He almost thinks that would be better. At least he’d have a good reason to sneer and dip out scot free. Would it really be a scene if he were to loudly trip coming down the stairs? He’ll feign embarrassment at drawing attention to himself if it means he can back out. 
An elbow bumps into his side, making him jolt. Jason’s head whips around, intending to give whoever has invaded his personal space a thorough tongue lashing until he sees Tim. Calm, cool, collected Tim holding two champagne flutes, one held towards Jason. He’s smiling softly with his head tipped to the side in an unspoken question. The gold and white of his corset vest contrast well with the black of the rest of his suit and make the blue-gray of his eyes pop without washing him out. Tim would look right at home if he were down on the floor swimming with the other sharks. Goddamn him for fitting in so well.
“I’ll back you if you want to leave,” Tim tells him. “Due to your violent bout of diarrhea and uncontrollable gas.”
Snatching the offered glass out of Tim’s hand, Jason drains the entire thing in one go. “I hate you,” he murmurs miserably, only partly meaning it. Then he snags Tim’s own glass and downs that as well. 
A thoughtful frown makes its way onto Tim’s face. “I’d be careful. Getting tipsy won’t actually make this any easier to navigate.”
“Stop talking like you know me.”
Tim shrugs amiably. “I might not know you as well as I’d like to but I know them.” 
He inclines his head towards the dodos guffawing over their latest insider trading power plays and gossiping on whose husband is sleeping with which of the help. Or lamenting on how finicky children can be, not realizing their kids aren’t really the problem because they’re capacity for introspection matches the frigidity of their hearts somewhere below absolute zero. Jason tries very hard to not bite and snarl at Tim since he’s one of the blue bloods. Born and bred for the hoity-toity bullshit with a silver spoon shoved so far down his throat he must’ve been gagging on it. 
Tim isn’t like that and never has been, he reminds himself. In fact, for all the ways Jason had to show Tim how to effectively coupon stack and explain why he microwaves his sponges, Tim is as far removed from the vultures and roaches and leeches they’re surrounded with as he could be given his upbringing. For one, Tim isn’t a total douchebag. Unthinking at times and eccentric, but not outright malicious. He can be surprisingly sweet like when he requests Alfred make one of Jason’s favorite foods when he knows Jason will be coming over for dinner or upgrading Jason’s helmet when his own tech know-how fails him without Jason ever needing to ask. 
The guy is a squishy ball of good intentions wrapped in a deceptively tiny package which has never, not once, held him back from putting dusty, crusty board members and hardened, violent crooks in their place. Once he’d had a chance to actually get to know Tim, Jason found himself feeling grateful. Bruce didn’t concede to just anyone stepping into Jason’s pixie boots. At least he went for the best. 
“If you knew me any better you’d have a key to my apartment and a drawer in my dresser,” Jason drawls, steering the conversation away from the swarm of jewels and silks he wants to pretend doesn’t exist.
“I already have a key to your apartment,” Tim points out. 
Rolling his eyes, Jason stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, but you come over so I can make you buy pizza and kick your ass in Mortal Kombat. Not fucking you into the mattress and making you breakfast in bed after.”
“You never asked, did you?” Tim asks him slyly.
Just about every coherent thought in Jason’s mind fucks off into some deep, dark hole. Leaving him a flustered mess with vague recollections of waking up sticky and wanting. So his witty, top of the line comeback is, “Nope.”
“Eloquent as always,” Tim laughs, patting Jason lightly on the shoulder like he didn’t just break Jason’s brain. “We should get down there before they start chattering about how egregiously anti-social we are.”
All the clamboring what if’s and could be’s get ruthlessly, shamelessly smothered and die a quick and violent end so he can get himself back on task. “I don’t want to,” Jason says petulantly to drive the conversation back to safer, calmer waters.
Now it’s Tim’s turn to roll his eyes. Huffing, he points at Damian to the far left where he’s leaned against a pillar with his arms crossed tightly. “Suck it up. If he can do it, so can you. Now come on.” 
Tim holds out his elbow which Jason bats away with a scowl. He can make his own way down the stairs, thanks. Telling Tim as much, Jason nearly trips over himself when Tim challenges him to put his money where his mouth is. There’s a reason Tim is his favorite because it’s just the thing he needs to unstick his feet and get him moving despite the way his skin prickles the closer they get to the main floor. Although Tim had been joking when he volunteered to escort Jason down, he finds himself wishing he’d taken Tim up on it if only for the grounding comfort of a familiar touch as the smooth soles of his shoes land on the polished floors. 
Graciously, Tim does see him through the crowd to the food tables Jason had been eyeing up. As a kid, they were an oasis. It’s hard for others to talk to you when you’re stuffing your face as fast as you can while chewing as slowly as possible to delay and discourage conversation. Plus, it’s good. A little bland because the chefs have to cater to the tastes of so many, watering down their usual Michelin star flair to a point that probably pains them. But still good in spite of it being pretentious.
Once satisfied Jason can be his own keeper no longer in need of a handler, Tim drifts off. He switches over from the insufferable geek Jason has come to like to the smoothed, glacial veneer of a corporate socialite. The totality of the shift leaves Jason reeling. One thing he’s never understood, no matter how much he puzzled through it and tried to emulate it, is how Bruce and Tim can switch between the two extremes so flawlessly. It’s like trading out coats for them. A flick and a swish then, poof, like magic they’re entirely new people. What that says about their psyches and the inherent fault in their neural wiring is something he shies away from.
Jason tucks in with gusto when an older woman in an inappropriately low cut halter dress and coiffed hair sets her sights on him and starts striding over. With nimble fingers, he loads up the plate his grabs and shoves whatever in his mouth, hoping the age-old trick still works despite being over a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier. 
Score because it totally does. She wrinkles her nose at his puffed out cheeks and actually sniffs haughtily when he chews purposefully with his mouth open. He even smiles, masticated mush on full display, and waves cheekily. The woman redirects her steps to take her closer to where Dick is holding court about twenty yards out. She joins the gaggle of women and men magnetically drawn in by Dick’s natural charm. He doesn't quite fit like Tim and Bruce do but he has his natural personality to make up the difference.
Unlike Jason. Which he has no problem with. He’ll take himself, authentically cynical and caustic and brutally honest, over being a fake fuck any day. 
The bacon wrapped, maple seared figs don’t settle well as more people attempt to approach him. Even for him, there’s only so much he can eat. Rapidly, he’s reaching his limit. The twisting viper pit turning his stomach inside out isn’t helping his appetite either. So far he’s been successful in warding people off but his stomach flips, signaling his need to find a new method to avoid unwanted advances and carelessly hurtful words. 
Setting his plate aside, Jason casts his gaze out across the crowd once more. Being tall does have its advantages. Like being able to pinpoint where exactly the rest of the family is and relatively what they’re up to. Dick is wholly unaccessible with the amount of attention he’s getting. He can keep the center stage, Jason is trying to move behind the curtains. Bruce is similarly front and center with his own gathered horde so that’s a no go even if he thought he could handle it without fisting Bruce’s collar and dunking him into the champagne fountain in the corner. 
Damian is somewhere. It’s a toss up whether Jason just can’t see the shrimp or he’s faded into the shadows to either eerily stare out at the crowd from a corner or making his way towards a Bat bothole to go on an ill-advised patrol. As helpful as it would be to have Cass, she’s no better handling these things than Jason so Stephanie has been guiding her. Her attempts at bumbling but Stephanie is nothing if not determined and relentless. It’s why Jason likes her even though he hates those qualities, a reflection of his own, weaponized against him. Duke, the lucky duck, got to skip.
Then, there’s Tim. He’s making amiable small talk with a couple to Jason’s left. They’re too far for Jason to make out the words but close enough Jason feels comfortable weaving between bodies to reach him. So what if it makes him needy or weak. Everyone has to take a knee from time to time and he doesn’t need anything more than a temporary crutch to get him through the next hour or two before he can leave without causing a fuss. Tim is crutch-shaped. It makes sense. 
Saddling up to Tim’s side, Jason inserts himself into the conversation. The man speaking stutters, words petering out as he looks up, up, up at Jason. Jason flashes what he hopes passes as a polite smile. He’s not sure it works when the guy recoils minutely. The woman, his wife Jason assumes if the three-figure rock on her finger is anything to go by, gives him a flat grimace he assumes is supposed to be a smile.
“Jason, it’s good to see you. Enjoying the party so far?” Tim asks him, voice level and almost serene.
“It’s a blast,” Jason deadpans, bumping his hip into Tim’s as he shifts his weight from foot to foot.
“It is a fabulous venue,” the woman says. “We were delighted to get the invitation and haven’t been disappointed yet.”
Yet. Goddamn. He forgot just how snippy these people could be. 
“I’ll be sure to pass your praise along to our event planner,” Tim replies so Jason doesn’t immediately make an ass of himself. “By the way, Jason, this is John Anders and Mary Ann Anders. They’re the founders and CEOs of Anders Packaging. Wayne Enterprises is lucky to call them partners.”
“Jason Wayne,” Jason introduces himself. He holds out his hand which John hesitates to take but social norms win out. Jason makes sure to squeeze on the side of too tight and doesn’t stop till John winces. He goes easier on Mary Ann though, maybe he shouldn’t have because she digs her nails into the skin of his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
When Tim’s hip bumps into him, Jason reads it as the warning it is so he backs off. Tim takes back the reins of the conversation to steer them away from Jason himself. The transition back to dull, unassuming chatter is easy when Tim is the one leading. The tension from John drains away as he falls under Tim’s spell. Jason does feel some small amount of respect for Mary Ann as he notes she isn’t as enamored with Tim’s performance as her husband is. She gives Jason a shrewd look as if to say I see you both, I’m watching you and, yeah, he kind of likes her and hates that he does. But she probably hates him right back since she has to like him. Or pretend to.
Jason rises to Mary Ann’s challenge when she narrows her eyes at him. It becomes a game where they both adopt an air of cordial confidence whenever Tim and John are looking. Then they cast it aside for suspicion and mutual distaste when the other two aren’t. It’s kind of fun. If Mary Ann doesn’t think so, sucks to suck. Jason has had an entire lifetime of pissing people off by doing nothing but existing to hone his craft of being a nuisance without lifting a finger.
Tim looks at him askance, drawing Jason away from his silent feud with Mary Ann and back to the conversation. 
“I thought it would be fun,” John laments ruefully.
“You’re adventurous,” Mary Ann says as she pats his arm. 
“I suppose so,” John replies, giving her a small, genuine smile. “I certainly have a better appreciation for remodelers! Doing the kitchen in our summer house? Never again! I was trying to knock out the cabinets with a hammer for ages until Mary Ann grabbed me a crowbar.”
Jason’s blood runs cold. He abandons the game with Mary Ann in favor of racking his mind for a graceful, or graceless if necessary, way to leave. 
The mention of a crowbar sinks its hooks into his mind, making it run syrupy slow. Too slow to slink away before John keeps going. 
“Now that did the trick! It still took me an hour but, whoo, let me tell you. That is a workout,” John laughs. The arm he has around Mary Ann’s waist unwinds and he takes a step back to give himself some more room. Then he’s miming swinging his arm back and forth. High above his shoulder then down and across, grunting from the effort and smiling from the humor of it all. “You have to throw your shoulder into it. Really get into it. It was fun!”
John laughs again but it’s not John. Not to Jason. It’s too high, too loud. The sound echoes in his head and amplifies with every reverberation. He would cover his ears if he knew it would do any good but it’s all in his head. Now would be a good time to leave, decorum be damned. But his feet feel rooted to the spot and every muscle is coiled so tight he’s shaking with it and immobile. Jason's hands start trembling as John keeps going. On and on and on about his skill with a crowbar. Proud of himself for it. 
In horror, Jason watches as John’s smile keeps curving and twisting into a rictus grin so wide it should be splitting his face but it isn’t. The white straight line of his teeth shift and dull to a pale yellow while all the color of his skin drains away to an unnatural white. The charcoal gray of his suit bursts into color Purple and green and red. So much red. John’s hand isn’t empty anymore either. Now he’s swinging a real crowbar with the end of the metal dented from where he used it to shatter Jason’s femur and tailbone. 
Jason watches as John as the Joker pummels Jason as Robin right there on the ballroom floor. A deep dark red spreads out across the ground. Jason as Robin screams and pleads. Snot and blood and a broken jaw making it difficult to form words but he knows what he said. He was calling out for Bruce. But Bruce never came and the pool of blood has spread far enough he’s standing in it and Jason can’t do this anymore - 
He’s off like a shot. All the restless, animalistic panic inside him zips through his veins. His chest heaves with the effort to suck in as much air as possible but it’s never enough. There’s nothing but the jagged, wet sound of him breathing and the pounding beat of his pulse in his temples. Maybe someone is yelling his name, too, but it’s muffled like someone is holding his head underwater. The elite, esteemed guests gawk at him as he flies by and he doesn’t understand why they aren’t in a tizzy about the dirty warehouse they’re in. 
When he reaches the door, it isn’t locked with a winding length of chain. His hands scramble to clutch the knob of the door but it opens easily under his hands. Over the din of the crowd behind him, Jason can hear the tick, tick, ticking of the bomb. But the door leads to another warehouse so he sprints to the next door, hopping over the puddle of blood on the concrete. The next door opens without issue but it leads into a small, black hole. Yawning and bottomless and hungry.
“Get out!” someone commands from close behind him.
On instinct, he lashes out but whoever it is isn’t having it. Their arm smacks into his wrist, redirecting his punch. Then there’s hands on his chest, shoving him back and into the void. He expects to be falling endlessly but his ass crashes into the ground, arms buckling from the way he catches himself to keep from toppling over completely. He hasn’t even completely settled on the floor before the darkness is chased away by a bright cascade of light from above. Shadows lurk in the corners, wriggling and writhing like a mass of worms and maggots. 
“Jason, Jason,” someone says urgently. They try again gently, “Jay.”
“I need you to breathe with me,” they say, tone brooking no argument. It’s all a serious, low tone Jason can hear clearly over the he ha, ha, HA in his head. “You need to follow me. Fuck. Okay, okay. Can I touch you?”
He wants to understand who it is crouching next to him but the black spots dancing across his vision, the blurry edges of it, keep him from piecing it together. A hand encircles his wrist and he tries to twist away from it. They’re strong though. Stronger than he thought they’d be. His hand is planted firmly on a plane of smooth, warm fabric. The fingers around his wrist pop lose and disappear completely so he moves his head up until the pads of his fingers brush against skin. 
Then he latches on and squeezes with his teeth bared and all the higher thinking of a cornered wolf spurring him on. 
“J-Jay,” they choke out. “Alright then. Feel that?” 
They draw in a comically large breath around the pressure Jason is putting on their windpipe. The pulse beneath his fingers is thumping hard and quick but controlled. Up and down their throat presses against his hand. Unconsciously, he finds himself mimicking the movement. His focus narrows down to the rhythmic movement of their throat and the stuttering attempts his chest is making to imitate it. 
“Jay,” they say faintly. 
Jason becomes aware of two things immediately. He’s in a spacious store room. It smells like a hodgepodge of herbs and spices co-mingling into something overpoweringly herbaceous. The smell is enough to tickle his nose. Several overhead lights are shining down on the packed shelves of nonperishables and Jason and Tim. Because Tim is there with him, on his knees in front of Jason with his pants rucked up and jacket rumpled. With Jason’s hand around his throat and the pale skin of his face a worrying shade of red.
Like he’s been burned, Jason’s arm snaps back. The dimples from Jason’s fingers fade, leaving red indents sure to turn a nasty purple later. Tim gasps loudly and pitches forward onto his hands. He coughs and sputters, rubs at the tender skin of his throat. Checking for any cartilage damage, Jason realizes.
He did that.
The thought has Jason leaning to the side and emptying the contents of his stomach. It’s disgusting. Everything he ate earlier comes up for an encore but its decidedly less appetizing this time around. The bitter taste on his tongue makes him gag even after he’s done. All he can smell is bile as shame wells up, threatening to muscle everything else out because he was choking Tim. Fuck the food. They can get more food. If he seriously hurt Tim, they can’t get a new Tim. 
“Why didn’t you stop me,” Jason rasps, clearing his throat and spitting it out onto the rest of the mess. Not like it's salvageable anyway. “Why didn’t you stop me?”
Tim looks up at him sharply. He pushes himself back onto his haunches. Defiance draws his shoulders up and back. Out of them all, Tim has never let him get away with shit. The kid spat in his face even after Jason beat him to a pulp. Never once has Tim backed down from Jason’s misdirected anger or shown fear the times they’ve needed to play fight for the villains intent on pitting them against one another. Dick lets his guilt bleed through too much and lets him be lenient with Jason. In contrast, Bruce is as immovable as Tim but where Tim is kind and even sweet at times, Bruce is a complete and utter asshole.
“It worked, didn’t it?” Tim snarks. 
Jason really hates how little Tim values himself sometimes. Especially given Jason’s own high regard of Tim. 
“Never do that again,” Jason orders, whole body quaking with the aftershocks of his episode. PTSD, one doctor had told him. A normal side-effect of The Life, Jason had privately corrected him.  
“LIke to see you try and stop me,” Tim says, cheeky and sharp with a half cocked grin to match. 
This fucking guy.
“Can I hug you now?” Tim asks with a hint of hostility hiding in his tone. 
Jason can appreciate Tim’s innate ability to understand him and all the ways Jason would outright reject him if he were nicer about it. The contrast to Dick’s antsy need to use touch as a comfort is stark and wonderful. Grumbling, Jason nods his head at the nasty puddle of ick next to him. 
Tim rolls his eyes so hard Jason’s surprised they don’t pop right out of his skull. “Oh, yeah, like I don’t deal with worse on a nightly basis.”
“Touche,” Jason mutters. 
He scoots closer to Tim and away from the gross. His palms stay flat on the ground but Tim shuffles to fit himself against Jason, molding them together as he winds his arms around Jason’s neck. One hand buries itself in Jason’s hair. The nails scratching at his scalp break apart the gel in his hair. It kind of hurts but it keeps him present and helps chase away the jittery feeling in his limbs. The other hand splays across the broad expanse of his shoulders. This close, he has no choice but to follow the rise and fall of Tim’s chest so the quickened pace of his breathing slows to normal. 
Jason’s gut says to push Tim away and maybe even kick him in the jaw for daring to touch him. The impulse dies a quick death as warmth spreads out from his center. It’s soft and sweet and gentle. He presses his face hard into the curve of Tim’s neck and breaths in Tim’s overpriced cologne. Although he’s bigger than Tim, he feels protected like nothing can touch him in this bubble of fragility they’ve created. Finally, finally his mind goes blessedly silent and he settles back into his own skin, not the phantom corpse of a boy who lost more than he ever gained and was cut down before he ever really had a chance. 
Shifting, Jason moves so he can wrap his arms around Tim’s torso and cling tightly to the back of his suit jacket. The ribs of the corset vest flex under his hold. Aside from a quiet grunt, Tim doesn’t say anything. To be a shit, Jason makes them flex again. A warning rumble reverberates from Tim’s chest straight down into Jason’s bones, shaking out the cobwebs of memory and making him puff out a breath through his nose in a parody of a laugh. 
“How do you breathe in this thing?” Jason mumbles into the damp skin of Tim’s neck.
“Force of will and spite,” Tim tells him succinctly. 
“Anything for fashion.”
“More like anything to make Mr. Williams as horrendously uncomfortable as possible after he let slip a couple choice words to me at the last gala.”
“Your commitment to pettiness is unrivaled.”
“Have you met yourself?” Tim accuses him incredulously. 
“I don’t have a commitment to pettiness. I am pettiness.”
The sound of Tim’s easy laughter washes over Jason. He can’t help but to join in even if his own is weak and half hearted at best. Things feel less heavy than they did, less inevitable and better. So much better. Tim still hasn’t let him go and he has no intentions of releasing Tim either. 
With the silence comes the realization of what happened and how it must have looked to everyone else. Jason curls into himself, arms tightening around Tim. In an uncharacteristically small voice, he gives life to his uncertainty and shame. “Everyone saw, didn’t they?” he asks. 
Tim shrugs as much as he can in the vice of Jason’s arms. “You were more subtle than you think you were. Nothing a quick cover of explosive diarrhea won’t fix,” Tim tells him lightly. The callback and absurdity of the idea forces a bark of laughter from Jason. More subdued and serious, Tim adds, “Besides, it doesn’t matter. To hell with them. What matters is that you’re okay and everything else we can fix.”
“Trying to say I can’t be fixed?”
Making an irritated noise, Tim bops his head into Jason’s in chastisement. “I’m saying you don’t need to be fixed. You are who you are and we wouldn’t have it any other way. If it means you need more support, we’re happy to give it but you don’t need to be fixed, Jason.”
“Cool it on the soliloquy, Timberly,” Jason teases so he doesn’t start tearing up. “Ain’t nobody wants to hear your bleeding heart.”
“Charming as always,” Tim sighs, resigned, but he still hasn’t let Jason go.
So Jason smothers the poisonous voice in the back of his head whispering about Tim backing away to leave him cold and bereft, mocking him then relaxes entirely in the safe space Tim carved out for Jason between his arms.
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thebatdadnomad · 4 months ago
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Falling, falling, falling...
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daughterofhecata · 1 month ago
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here-there-were-dragons · 7 months ago
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every time i think the "staff can do no wrong and any form of complaining or expressing literally anything other than "yaaay love it <3" with no further comments is bashing and literally evil we should never say anything that could even potentially be interpreted as mildly critical ever because ~some artist who worked hard on this is probably reading the forums and might feel bad if we ever express anything but praise~ also we must be constantly positive at all times unless we're passive-aggressively shaming someone for having an extremely polite and apologetically worded criticism and if you ask the staff for literally anything you had better be prepared to preface it with 3 paragraphs of apologizing for breathing air" attitude is bad on tumblr, i take one look at the forums, and holy fucking hell is it SO much worse on site
#i go for years at a time without ever bothering to look at fr forums#and then every time i do i remember why i stopped#it feels like a goddamned cult on there and every time i dip my toes i come out feeling slimy and sick#as if i just spent an hour being aggressively gaslit by my extremely manipulative grandmother#what the fuck is wrong with everyone#i'm glad i decided to keep this creepy fucking fandom at arm's length and mostly just lurk years ago#that place is not a healthy environment for anyone to be in#flight rising#legitimately the single worst fandom i've ever had the misfortune of being adjacent to#and in such a creepy and insidious way too#they'll call you an entitled whiny baby to your face and then convince you it's your fault and you're a horrible person for feeling offende#it feels like being neck deep in the absolute worst kind of preformative sj spaces#you know the ones where everyone interacts primarily via callout posts and there's discourse over if crossdressing is cultural appropriatio#that kind of toxic sj space type energy#but somehow combined with like this weird feeling of being in a mormon church in a deep south town#where all the “nice grandmas” will try to put poison in your food if they find out you're gay or voted blue even one time#and it's somehow gotten SO much worse since the last time i looked on there#they've got people literally apologizing for existing what the fuck how is this normal to any of you people#this is so far beyond toxic positivity it's like. crossbred with passive-aggression and shaming and metastatized into something new entirel#it's terrifying. i hope flight rising never shuts down just so that whatever the fuck this is can stay semi-contained.#pro tip: the more a fandom is universally convinced it's Wonderful and Welcoming the faster you should run the other way#actually good fandoms don't have to constantly reassure themselves and everyone that they're great and perfect and toxicity-free#nor do they react with immediate borderline violence to the slightest suggestion there might be anything wrong with the fandom culture#anything wrong other than “people like you who think there's something wrong with our perfect community” anyway#on that note also any fandom that insistently calls itself a “community” just. yeah. no.#get out while you still can.#fandoms work on corporate logic if they're trying to convince you they're your family or friend that's not just a red flag#that's a whole damn red fabric store
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nanaslutt · 2 months ago
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stuck in the dryer w/ perv!Geto
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ʚ cont: fem reader, rough sex, multiple orgasms, oral, unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talkkk!!
ʚ note: welcome back perv geto, we have missed u (gramarly spell checked this for me but i didn’t proof read it so possible grammar mistakes below)
MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:・°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:・°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:・°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:・°❀⋆.ೃ ࿔
"Fuck, Suguru!" You yelled, the sound echoing around from where you were stuck inside the dryer. Somehow, when trying to get the last towel out of the dryer, your hair got caught on the inside of the dryer and you couldn't for the life of you get it out. Your abdomen was starting to cramp from holding yourself up while you were bent over in the dryer on your knees while you desperately yanked on your hair trying to get it unstuck.
When you heard his footsteps get closer, echoing the floorboards you sighed a little in relief. You tried to tilt your hair down to look at him between your legs, but your hair was too tied up and wouldn't allow for much movement. "What the hell am I looking at?" Suguru laughed. You couldn't help but notice he stopped walking, he just stood by the door and watched you wiggle your ass while you tried to free yourself.
"My fucking hair got stuck when I was getting your laundry," you yelled, "please help me get it out." Your only response was a laugh before he started walking again, closing the distance between you. "So you're stuck in the dryer then?" He responded, crouching down behind you on his feet. He placed his elbows on his knees and tilted his head at you from behind, mesmerized by your ass.
You obviously knew what it looked and sounded like, you weren't born yesterday. "Yeah, haha, so funny, I'm stuck in the dryer. "With your ass out." He added unhelpfully. "With my ass out."
"You know," he started, his large hand rubbing over your ass making you flinch before you relaxed again, "I could do some pretty bad things with you at my mercy like this," You sighed when he started massaging your ass with his hands in a circular motion, his thumbs dangerously close to where you now ached. "Don't even think about it, perv, it's starting to get hot in here, help me out." You couldn't help yourself from wiggling back into him when you attempted to pull your hair out again, the action only making him grope you with more effort.
"Yeah? Want me to help you out?" He responded, his tone so cocky you just knew he had a stupid smirk on his face. You were about to retort when he rubbed the pad of his thumb expertly against your clit through your shorts. "Suguru," you whimpered in a pathetic effort to get him to stop, the sound coming out more pathetic rather than serious.
"What baby?" He asked, the sound of his zipper moving making you clench your thighs in anticipation. "Thought you said you wanted help?" He chided, removing his thumb from your clit to grasp the band of your shorts. He slowly slid them down your ass, his lips making a smacking noise when he kissed the skin of your behind as he did. You poked the inside of your cheek with your tongue and suppressed a smile. This whole situation was so fucking cliche.
"I've thought about you like this, you know," Geto said, the sound of his hand moving over something long and thick making your mouth water. You would recognize the sound of him jerking off from anywhere. And by the sounds of it, his tip was already leaking so much from how wet it sounded. "You watch too much porn," you responded, rolling your eyes. Geto reached for your ass with one hand and spread you open, exposing your pussy more for him before he landed a wad of spit against your opening. "Haven't watched any since I got with you."
You gasped and gripped the opening of the dryer when he rubbed his spit and your combined wetness around. "You sure you wanted help getting out of here? Because you're so fucking wet right now, it's like you wanted me to fuck you when you're stuck like this," He laughed, pressing his tip against your entrance before relenting the pressure. He did that teasing movement over and over again, making your hole clench in anticipation only for him to pull away and leave you hanging.
"Jesus christ, if you're gonna fuck me then-" your words were cut off with a scream when he slammed his entire cock inside you all at once. The burn was barely recognizable when he immediately started up a brutal pace, "what was that?" he laughed through a groan. If your hair hadn't been stuck, you would've smacked your head agaisnt the inside of the dryer from how hard he was pounding you.
"Oh fuck, you're squeezing me so fighting tight, h-holy fuck baby," Geto groaned, gripping your waist in his large hands and pulling you back to meet his thrusts. All you could do was whine and take it as his fat tip abused your gspot repeatedly with expert precision. "Taking it so well, my cock was m-made for you." He must have really been enjoying himself, because you could feel him drip inside you, making the squelching noises between you louder and louder.
You pressed your thighs together to bring your clit some stimulation to deal with the onslaught of pressure he was giving the inside of your pussy. You crossed one ankle over the other and your shins kicked up between his legs uncontrollably from how hard he was giving it to you. "Do you like this? You want this?" He groaned, reaching his hand around your body to find your clit and rub it in fast circles. You nodded, knowing he couldn't hear you, but you hoped your loud whines were enough for him.
You thought you upset him when he pulled out completely with a grunt, but you almost cried when you felt his tongue breach the ring of your cunt. "F-fuck, fuck Suguru!" You cried, reaching one of your hands behind you to tangle your hand in his gorgeous dark hair to keep him pressed agaisnt you. He continued rubbing your clit in little circles as he ate you out like a man starved. His lips were moving on your cunt like he was making out with it, and fuck did it send shivers down your spine.
"Almost- almost came," he moaned between licks, his voice muffled by your cunt as he could barely pull himself away to talk, "Almost filled you up in under a minute, that's what you fucking do to me, oh yes pretty yes- squeeze my tongue-" You squeezed your eyes tight, his words only tightening that ball of pleasure in your stomach more and more. You couldn't believe how into this he was, it was like he was possessed.
Geto started rubbing his fingers back and forth over your clit at an inhumane pace, making you scream out in pleasure. "Uh huh- uh- mmm- fuck- fucking give it to me," He gripped your hip so hard with his other hand you knew for sure it was going to bruise. Your legs shook as you felt the first wave of your orgasm crash over you. Wetness dripped between your legs and into his greedy mouth that was groaning against your cunt, some of it falling on the floor, but you didn't have time to think about how he just made you fucking squirt when he pulled his tongue away from you and slammed his cock back inside.
"Oh, you're so fucking soft inside now," He grit through his teeth, his fingers never relenting against your clit. You could barely breathe between screams as he pounded into you and gave you no time to recover from your orgasm before he was quickly sending you headfirst into another one. "S-suguruuu," you wined brainlessly, your chest hitting the opening of the dryer repeatedly as he manhandled your body back and forth each time he sheathed his cock inside you.
"I know princess I know, gonna come all over me again? Gonna squirt on my cock this time while I fill you up? You want that?" He was rambling, a tell that he was close, but you also knew that from how reckless his thrusts were getting. "Y-yeah, yes Sugu give it to me," your words were slurred but he understood the message well enough.
"Yeah you're gonna take it while you're stuck in there, gonna make sure you don't w-waist a single drop," He groaned, rubbing your clit in messy circles. His moans and groans turned into gasps and higher-pitched sounds as he was brought toward the edge. You could picture his head tipped back with his jawline shown off for you. His eyes would be twitching behind his eyelids as he was unable to open them from how much pleasure he was feeling. He looked absolutely beautiful in your mind's eye.
His hips stuttered and his fingers tightened against your hips at the same time you came around him. Geto whimpered when you squirted all over him just like he wanted you to. "H-ah s-so fucking good to me, s-o so good so good," He moaned over and over before he stilled with a loud whine. His moans cut off with a gasp before you felt the first rope of his seed fill you up and he groaned again with it. His body shook and jolted behind you with the force of his orgasm. He was stuffing you so full and all you could do was grip onto the side of the dryer and take it while he ruined your pussy and filled you to the absolute brim.
You started to come from your high, remnants of your own orgasm dripped from your cunt and slid down your thigs adding to the mess on the floor. Geto curled his body over yours and stuck his head in the dryer with you, his soft hair cascading around your shoulders. Your back and abs ached with the effort it took to not let your head dangle how you wanted, and you gasped as you turned your head to the side to look at him through hooded eyes.
There was a dopey, handsome smile on his face as he looked at you. You could still see your wetness smeared all across his cheeks from how messy he had eaten you. "Hey," he said, rolling his hips inside you to stuff you full. You gasped and your eyes rolled back as he pushed his softening cock against your overstimulated gspot. "Don't roll your eyes like that unless you wanna get fucked again, pretty princess," he teased, leaning forward to press a kiss against the tip of your nose.
You sighed and struggled to catch your breath. It was hot enough inside the dryer without his lungs hogging up all the oxygen too. "Get me out of here and if you say please I'll consider it, you fucking pervert," your words held no malice, and they made Geto laugh before he slid out and reached for your hair that was pinched in the dryer. "I'm a reallyy good boy when it comes to begging to fuck your pussy. Give me a couple minutes and I'll be good to go."
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the-ellia-west · 5 months ago
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HOW TO WRITE ROMANTIC ATTRACTION FOR DUMMIES
For anyone who wants to learn, (especially aro/ACE, aspec, ect.)
Requested by the lovely @darkandstormydolls
Alrighty! Welcome back or welcome to my blog! I'm dipping my toes back into the category of posts that gained me my exposure!
So if you're here, you want to know how to write romantic attraction/romance!
Strap in and let's begin!
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(Pls spread this to people you think would benefit from seeing it, or anyone who requested it bc I forgot, ANY ASPECS)
Step one -
Your characters must admire one another at the beginning, Romantic feelings usually do not present themselves as obvious until you really think them through, meaning your characters may not notice they have a crush until it's too late
These are general statistics and light stereotypes. So feel free to not use this tip:
Male characters usually tend to notice physical things first, like body shape, hair, skin, clothing, the way their lover moves, ect
And Female Characters Generally tend to notice more small things and personality-based traits first, like their lover's humor, speaking mannerisms, shifts in expression, ways they fidget, emotion in their voice, ect.
And someone who is in love will generally show more interest in this particular person's movements, actions, words, and anything in general.
Step 2 -
The character will show more interest in sharing their love language with their lover/crush
Physical touch - People with physical touch love languages may want to hold hands, cuddle, hug, or just lean on their crush whenever they are close to them moreso than they want to with others
Gift giving - Gift givers will want to get more gifts more often for their crush, probably thinking of them whenever they see little trinkets or wanting to get them big gifts for special occasions or signs of appreciation
Acts of Service - Acts of service people will offer to do extra favors and a bunch of extra stuff they don't have to do twice as much as normal
Words of Affirmation - Flattery, they will generally flood their crush with kind words and compliments
Quality time - Quality time people will want to spend time with their crush at almost every turn, and when they want company, will turn to their crush first
Step 3 -
After a while, these urges while become very prominent and more noticeable to the person having them
They may find themselves fantasizing about their crush or having them show up in their thoughts more and more, feeling nicer and happier when they're around, or when they're thinking about them
Smiling when they think about them, cutsey little fluff thingies like that
A crush is essentially: I want to date that, I want to be near that always, I want to marry that, I want that to snuggle me (or other love languages)
Or in simpler terms: if that asked me out, I would say yes (or at least want to say yes if your character is in denial)
Step 4 -
The character's urges to be close to this person grows strong enough that they do smth about it, whether prompted by another character. Or they just don't know I how to not anymore (like when you wanna eat candy and you don't want to, but you do anyway bc I JUST NEED THE CHOCOLATE OKAY?)
(Or for Aro/Ace, garlic bread)
People who are in love are generally very prone to be all dreamy and poetic and VERY EXTREMELY BIASED towards their crush
Then Yada Yada they kiss & shit
You're welcome, BYEEEEEEEE 👋
Happy writing!
Love you! Thanks for reading, And Ghost Tumblr Mother says go drink some water and have a snack, you've earned it, and you are beautiful <333
Have a good day! :]
@blue-kyber @thisisntrocket @cosmolumine @i-do-anything-but-write @paeliae-occasionally
@supercimi @the-letterbox-archives @sunglasses-in-the-bentley @vyuntspakhkite-l-darling @artsandstoriesandstuff
@corinneglass @wyked-ao3 @urnumber1star
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luveline · 3 months ago
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spencer x reader where she kisses his forehead and he’s 🥹🥹
“Spencer, are you dead?” 
Spencer ignores your question by accident. Heavy head in hand, he’s slowly sinking closer and closer to the hotel breakfast table to rest. His neck twinges with the effort it takes to stay up. 
“Spencer,” you say more sharply. 
His eyes track like the air is honey. He settles on your sluggishly while offering no greeting, tiredness pulling at him. “My eyes hurt,” he offers. 
“Make you some tea.” 
“Um, okay.” He’s disappointed when you leave, then dozing, face pressed to his desk as itchy eyes press along lids. It feels as though his eyelashes have turned inward. 
You return with a cup. Spencer grabs it blindly, lifts his head to squint one eye open. “What?” he asks. 
There isn’t tea in the cup. There are tea bags, two of them, wetted and leaking tan beige along the white china of the mug. Distinctly no tea. You must be tired too. 
“They’re for your eyes, Spence. They’ll make your eyes hurt less. The caffeine restricts your blood vessels to calm the inflammation, and the tea itself soothes sore skin.” 
“How do you know that?” he asks. 
You rest a hand on his shoulder. “I read about it in a book of modern home remedies. It really works. Here, can you tip your head back?” 
Spencer is very, very tired, but your voice is nice, your fingertips gentle against his neck, so he tips his head back. He doesn’t know how terrible he looks, having forgotten his untucked shirt, his rumpled sweater vest, his hair sticking up all over the place. 
“Close your eyes,” you murmur. 
Spencer shuts them. 
“It’s cold,” you warn, “but it’ll feel nice.” 
Spencer doesn’t care. He waits for you to move. The tea bags you place on his closed eyes feel cold and at first they sting just a touch, perhaps tea finding its way through his lashes, and he can’t confess to noticing a difference in soreness. 
“Hey… what’s this? It looks like it hurts?” you ask, drawing a short line over the side of the bridge of his nose. There’s an indent there that feels like a bruise.
“I fell asleep at my desk with my glasses on,” he says. “They dug in.” 
“You were up late, I’m guessing. Maybe you should go back to the room.” 
“No, I can’t. I’ll be okay. Thank you for the… tea.” 
Your hand rests tentatively against his cheek. He can’t open his eyes to see what you're feeling, and he doesn’t need to. There’s emotion to be felt in your slow strokes, how your thumb rests along his jaw as your nail scratches to the top of his ear, then behind the shell of it. It’s intimate enough to summon a different kind of tiredness. Exhaustion swapped for content. He could sleep in the curve of your palm all day. 
“You’re welcome,” you say. “I’m gonna take them off for a second to check the damage.” 
You take them. Your breath draws near. 
A warmth presses to his forehead atop his left eyebrow. Spencer doesn’t know what it is until your nose graces just above it, and your lips part —it’s a kiss. You’re kissing him sweetly, your fingers sewing through his hair. 
He peels his sore eyes open to look at you. You lean back as unhurried as you’d ferried forward, your hand cradling the nape of his neck. 
“Are you sure you’re okay?” you ask. 
Spencer stares up at you. In that moment, tired, aching, and balmed, he’s completely in love with you. You must see a little of it, your lips parting again in an unnamed emotion. It’s sheer luck that you’re the only one awake with him, because if any of his teammates saw the way he was looking at you they’d never let him forget it. And, he gets to see your reaction. Your partial smile. 
“Did that help?” you ask. 
You must mean the tea. “I feel better.” 
“Yeah? Do you…” Your voice turns to cashmere, a thread of bemusement tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Would another one be okay?” 
Spencer can only nod as you wrap your arms around him and position your mouth at the soft skin where his hair meets his forehead. When you kiss him again, his eyes flutter shut. 
“You really need some help with your insomnia,” you murmur. 
Spencer wonders if maybe you’d want to be that help. You must have melatonin in your kisses.
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monstersholygrail · 4 months ago
Text
In The Darkness
Shadow demon x fem!reader— sensory deprivation, multiple orgasms, bondage (cuffs), groping, fingering, oral (f!receiving), p in v sex, finger sucking, aftercare
Your shadow demon bf had opened your eyes and welcomed you into a whole new world of pleasure that was just waiting to you both to explore. And you have. You’ve done things you never thought you’d enjoy due to the love and trust you have in your bf. In return you’ve gained so many new experiences that you’d never want to take back.
At this point you’ve pretty much stopped asking questions whenever your shadow demon bf proposes that he wants to try something new with you. But this time you think you have to ask some questions.
Because when your shadow demon bf tells you that he wants to fuck you in complete darkness, you’re insanely confused. Sure, you two have never done that before. Always having on at least a candle so that you can see each other as your bf fucks your brains out. But this is far from the craziest thing you two have ever done and it’s left you having no clue what’s going on.
Still, you trust your bf. You follow his exact instructions and you relish in the submission of it. Of letting go of all thought and action, your bf’s voice being your only guiding light. Especially as the darkness surrounds you and it’s the only true thing you can grasp onto.
Tingles shoot up your spine. A smirk begins to play on your lips as you realize the possible appeal. A eery chuckle shifts through the darkness and you jump as a moment later two clawed hands firmly grip onto the waist of your bare form. The prickly tips of sharpened claws caress up and down the curve of your stomach, leaving sparks in their wake.
“What a vision you are in the darkness, my heart. Now do you see mine?” Your bf’s haunting yet alluring voice whispers in your ear. Goosebumps rise along your skin and your smile widens, getting a sense of his intentions with this newest request.
His touch as gentle as the wind, coursing through the pathway of your body till he reaches your breasts and the caress turns firm and purposeful. Groping you and pulling you tightly into his large chest. Your grasp rings out through the dark silent space. It’s echos vibrating and increasing the tension between you.
Leaning back into the comfort of his embrace, you moan. Nothing else to turn to, to focus on, besides his touch. Bringing the sensations to a new height till you’re writhing against him before he’s even done anything to you.
“Near total sensory deprivation, the only real thing being my voice. All of your senses now completely at my mercy,” Shadow demon bf rasps darkly, finally giving you some of his reasoning behind all this.
You have to admit that the idea of it is arousing and your body agrees as your pussy floods with your essence. Always so nice and wet for him, you can’t help it. Everything he says has your nerves standing on edge and your cunt fluttering and begging to be filled.
Careful claws tease and tweak at your nipples, whimpers escaping you as you tremble in his secure hold. You cry out, rubbing your thighs together to gain any semblance of friction you can get. Yet it’s not enough, your hole so achingly empty and needing to be stuffed full. Your mind grows foggy and centers in on this one desperate thought.
“Lost in the void and who is the only thing that can ground you?” Shadow demon bf whispers into your ear again, his forked tongue slithering out and licking along the smooth curve of your ear.
The sensation is quick, tantalizing, and gone far too soon. You whimper, leaning back into him. Your body, floating as if on cloud nine, seeking out that skilled tongue of his. Knowing with every fiber in what’s left of your present being that you’ll get it. So long as you’re good for him.
“You are,” you croak out, voice weak and wanting.
A low rumbles moves through your bf’s chest in agreement, clearly pleased with your willing and eager response. The loss of his touch on your breasts, on your hard nipples, is a hit your floating mind can barely handle. A loud whine escaping you until his cool touch returns, moving along your curves. The further down he goes the less you can breathe, simply waiting.
“That’s right, my starlight,” he says as his deft fingers dip into your folds, spreading them and spearing themselves along your slit. Your breath knocks out of you, exhaling heavily as he ignites the nerves of your pussy lips. They clench and contort around him, mindlessly guiding the digits to delve inside your hole.
Shadow demon bf chuckles at the feeling, causing your cheeks to tinge with red. Thankful that even if he can feel you, he won’t be able to see you in your lewdness. Another thing the darkness around you provides. Another thing you’re looking forward to. Your bfs voice and the slow glide of his fingers snaps you out of your thoughts.
“You overwhelm me, sweet one. You are all I feel and all that grounds me to this plane. I believe it’s time I repay the favor.”
Shadow demon bf’s fingers don’t leave you as his other hand guides you to bend down at the waist. Your own arms reach out, carelessly searching through the darkness until you find it. Fingers curl around the metal cuffs suspended in front of you. The click of each lock as they enclose around your wrists has your back arching, bracing yourself for what’s to come.
“Look at you, so good and ready for me,” Shadow demon bf mumbles, drawing lazy circle against your clit as he kneels down on the ground behind you. You whimper and push back, though his free hand is quick to grab at your plush thigh. Keeping you in place.
His keen eyes reflect in the darkness, giving him access to view everything in front of him. Yet you remain completely clueless. Just how he wants you. Your legs spread further as his fingers slide back down your slit, giving him the sight of your beautiful dripping pussy. Your essence dribbling down your thighs and making such a mess. A mess he’s more than ready to clean up.
In an instant that tongue you’ve been waiting for is back and it’s back with a vengeance. Your body jolts, cuffs clanging and ringing in your ears, surprised by the sudden slick texture of his forked tongued sliding along your thigh and pushing through your folds. Not having expected more than his touch at the moment. The darkness riding you of knowing what’ll happen next.
Though your anticipation doesn’t have time to build as shadow demon bf glides his tongue through your folds, swirling around your clit in a mind-numbing manner. You moan, body rolling into the sensations but not knowing where exactly to move. Leaving you to squirm in search of your bf.
Shadow demon bf grins viciously and you can feel it against your cunt, knowing his enjoying this. Loving how you struggle and silently beg for more of him. His hands shift to your hips, both keeping you in place and letting you know where he’ll be.
All you get in warning is a growl before your bf begins ravaging your pussy, sloppily lapping up your cunt. His hands spread your ass cheeks, widening the entrance for his tongue to slide deep inside your weeping pussy. Pressure weighs down in your belly as your pleasure builds, rising onto your toes and giving him better access.
He grunts his thanks and repeats his rhythm with precise precision and never ending stamina. He doesn’t stop fucking his tongue into your cunt until you explode around it. Your walls clenching around his tongue, your essence gushing onto his tastebuds. Shadow demon bf growls and unhinges his jaw, taking in every last damn drop and working you through it.
Both of you are breathing heavily as your orgasm begins to fade and your bf leans back. You still can’t see, hear, or feel anything beside the cold metal around your wrists. The only noise your breaths. Aside from that the silence stretches on and it has the hair on the back of your neck standing up straight.
“Ready for more?” Your bfs voice suddenly growls in your ear and you shout. Body jerking back and you immediately bump into his broad frame and right into his huge girth. His erection nestling against your ass.
Your eyes scatter and search the surroundings over the shoulder you hear him from but you can’t see anything. Only darkness. Before you can respond your bf crashes his lips against yours and you let out another muffled shout. But you respond without a beat of hesitation, opening your mouth and welcoming his tongue back inside your body. Both of you moaning into it as your cum tickles your own tastebuds.
Shadow demon bf’s cock slowly starts grinding into you, neither of you breaking your kiss. You stay perfectly still for him, keeping yourself wide open and needy for his length. Still not getting your fill of wanting to be split in two.
With your body all prepped for him, your bf guides his dick through your folds. Whimpers leaving you as his tip bumps into your sensitive clit. Your bf nips at your tongue affectionately before you feel his big mushroom tip, leaking heavily with pre-cum, push at your entrance.
With a simply push forward, your bf breaks past your entrance, sinking down into your eager sopping cunt. Your jaw drops, a loud moan lights the room up with noise as his cock stretches your walls for all their worth. Forcing its way in and demanding you submit to its sheer girth and the pleasure it’ll bring. You relax as much as you can, practically sucking him inside of you.
Shadow demon bf growls, your walls nearly suffocating him you’re so fucking tight. When he bottoms out his tip nudges at your cervix. The pain sharp and aching but so delicious. You close your eyes, basking in it all. You feel so full and so complete with him inside you.
Your breaths mingle and mix in the space between your mouths. Eyes open you continue trying to search for your bf in the dark, even knowing it’s useless. Wanting to see how much of a mess you make him and even maybe wanting him to see just how thoroughly he destroys you.
By the way he draws you, making you feel every thick and bulging vein along his cock against your walls before roughly snapping his hips back inside you, you almost swear he can see you. That he knows how much of a mess you truly make him. But that’s impossible right?
All worries and thoughts leave you in the blink of an eye as Shadow Demon bf starts up his demolishing pace. Claws carefully sinking into you to keep you steady. A loud roar rumbles through the room and you jump in your bones, which only serves to push your body back into his intense thrusts.
Your bf grunts, clearly approving and you cry out as he starts moving your body back into his cock, having you meet the rough rolls of his hips. Your body tenses, cunt clenching down around him and having you feel even more full.
Tossing your head back, your teeth clench, pleasure crashing through you in waves you can’t even think to stop as there’s nothing else for you to ground yourself with. Your lost in the sea of pleasure, tingling sensations of arousal pulsing within your body and spreading out over and over again.
Your bf watches your body twist and contort in order to take his giant cock and everything it’s making you feel. A twisted satisfaction burns through him at how much of a beautiful mess you look. The sight has him picking up his pace, slamming his length inside you, molding your perfect pussy to his shape. Making his home here and showing you he’ll never leave.
Moans and cries of pleasure are no longer enough as you release a fierce scream. You can faintly hear your bfs low groan, his voice feeling so far away. Lost in the abyss your hands try and reach for something— anything. But the clang of the cuffs is all that rings true. Sparking an idea in your mind you try and reach forward, hoping you can ground yourself by placing the chain of the cuffs in your mouth.
But just as you reach it, Shadow demon bf pulls you back and burys his cock back inside your crying and begging cunt. Emotion wells up inside your chest and you sob, tears coming to your eyes. Your body moves back into your bfs chest and his voice comes back down to your ear.
“Sh, sh, sh, my love. It’s alright, you’re alright,” he whispers soothingly, hand coming up to stuff a few of his large fingers into your mouth. You whimper, sucking eagerly, letting the sturdy size of his digits ground you back down to earth and help calm you down.
His other hand soothingly caresses your stomach as he continues to fuck into you, his pace not slowing down for a second. Making sure to take care of all your needs at once. Small whimpers continue to leave you, feeling better as his presence surrounds you and stays in your mouth and pussy. You move back into his thrusts again, all on your own.
Tendrils of darkness creep up from the deep and curl around your body. Having been used to them they only provide further comfort to you. One long tentacle wraps up and strokes at your clit, bringing you closer and closer to orgasm. With a firm press of his hand on your stomach and a few more snaps of his hips, you scream once more, this time around his fingers as your orgasm bursts through you.
Your cum paints Shadow demon bf’s cock, your walls spasming and clenching down on his length. Sparks shoot up his spine and his teeth sink into your shoulder as he follows right after you into climax, his heavy load splashing deeply against your womb and filling your pussy even more than you thought was possible. His hips still rocking into you until you both sag into each other.
Shadow demon bf slides out of you gently but you still hiss at the slight sting. As your combined release spills out of you, you shiver and clench down to keep it inside of you. Your bf lights the room with a snap of his fingers and you breathe a sigh of relief as your senses come back to you. As gently as always, he unlocks you from the cuffs. Massaging your wrists and kissing them adoringly.
He guides you to bed, whispering praises, recounting every moment of what just happened through his eyes. Letting you know how good you did, how perfect you were for him, how absolutely gorgeous you looked then and now, and asking how you feel to make sure you’re alright.
Pouring endless praise and love onto you as he cleans up the mess between your thighs before he sweeps you up into his arms the moment you two get into bed. Pressing soft kisses all of your face and sore body. It’s only as you finally relax do you register all his words.
“Could you see me in the dark?” You ask incredulously, voice slightly raspy as you connect the dots. Your bf chuckles and you squeeze your eyes shut, dreading his response and forcing your own laughter down.
“‘Course I could, sweetheart. I’m a shadow demon,” he responds with amusement but your loud groan quickly overshadows his laughter. Red blooming across your chest and up your neck till it spreads all across your face. Your bf merely laughs louder, his hands caressing your back. Wanting to comfort you some before the inevitable teasing begins.
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alnilaem · 13 days ago
Text
coyote head and the body of a man — (e)
ghost/fem reader There's a killer on the loose. But your logging town is small and quaint and doesn't even appear on maps, so you know you're safe. That all changes when a gruff, big, taciturn man shows up at your workplace one day. Or; Simon is a fugitive serial killer, and you're the housekeeping girl that caught his eye.
cw for explicit content, graphic violence, possessive behaviour, size difference, cunnilingus, stalking
pinterest board | ao3 | for @spidehpig <3
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Sometimes, you believe you were born in the centre of a dying star. 
Born on the crest of death and fated for a bleak life. Dead, before you even had a chance.
The universe sweeps before you. Infinite. Expansive. Hungry. You float at the mouth of the galaxy and it swallows you whole, but doesn’t seem to like the taste of you—too bland, too trite—so it spits you back out and sends you tailspinning. 
You land with a lack of courtesy. Tossed between trees and dropped in a basin. You find yourself in nowhere, Oregon. In a town flecked by a lake inlet and a clement fjord, where the moose population outnumbers the people population. It has a maritime allure but strangely enough, isn’t commercial enough to be a tourist hub. It’s too hidden in the thicket. Too deep in a borehole.
Every day here is the same. It's an abyss that yawns before you with no end in sight, lacking undue entertainment and vividness and excitement. There’s no light pollution so far off the beaten track, so oftentimes, you’ll wish upon shooting stars for someone to come for your deliverance. 
There’s a reason they say be careful what you wish for.
The day isn’t even halfway over and your bone tips already ache with hard work. 
It isn’t to say your workplace is busy. In fact, it’s the exact opposite. A cut-rate motel with more vacancies than residents found far-removed from the highway, taking only cash, no card, which is good for deterring paper trails and welcoming the transient but is bad for providing records when the police come knocking. 
You’ll get the occasional trucker, the sparse backpacker. In any case, folks stay here when they don’t want to be bothered. They’ll drive past the splintery welcome sign and stop at the diner for earthy, full-bodied coffee and a slice of famous rhubarb pie. They’ll recuperate in the motel and leave before sunrise, and you’ll be there to clean up what they leave behind, scrubbing the memory out of the fibreglass bathtub for whoever’s next. 
It’s a place where time fleets away. Hallucinatory. Where people pay their due and you hang your head because after all, you’re nothing more than the housekeeping girl. Cottony pinafore and a black dress. Mary Jane flats. Fingers desquamating from years of bleach and vinegar stuck in your nail beds. You get handed dog-eared tips and in return, you don’t ask questions. But maybe you should have.
You’re sliding the window cleaner back into its compartment on the cleaning cart just as your boss scales the veranda. He’s grinning and sporting sweat stains across his armpits. A patchy beard. A loose tie. 
Your nerves lock up tight when he grasps your shoulders. His razorous fingers and the pinchbeck of his wedding band saws under your skin. The dregs of his afternoon drinking knocks into you, and you try not to let your body betray you. Despite that, your eyes water and your nose crinkles. You white-knuckle your dress and almost pop the fabric of your pinafore. 
“How’s my favourite employee?” he grins. “Is she workin’ hard?”
There’s an irreverent innuendo somewhere in his smile. You ignore it and opt for a stale smile.
“I’m working,” you eke out. “I've got to restock the bathroom, then I’m done.”
“That’s good, peach. Real good,” he watches you collect toiletry essentials, then tacks on, “there’s a man in the lobby.”
You falter. The travel-sized shampoo bottle almost slips between your forefinger and thumb. 
“An outsider.”
It’s an observation, not a question. If the man in the lobby were a local, Phillip would have given you a name because in this town, everybody knows everybody. The fact that a name was bereft tells you your new guest came from elsewhere. Maybe he’s cutting through the main road on his way to Yachats for your town’s cascade mountains and bigleaf maple, or for the diner’s famous rhubarb pie. In any case, he's in need of a rest stop. 
“Mh. I’m gonna check him in. Just wanted to let you know I’m givin’ him this room, so try to hurry it up, okay peach?”
You blink slowly. This motel holds twelve rooms—there’s never been a need for any more—and currently, nine of those are occupied. That leaves three. There’s no reason for your boss to put up the new guest in Room 11, especially when you’re still cleaning it.
Phillip reads the question in the bend of your eyebrow. He smiles knowingly and pats your head. “He requested a room on the higher level. Room 9’s aircon is busted and Room 6 shares a wall with the Pettie’s. They’re loud.”
You sigh. “Ah.”
“Sorry peach,” he smiles like he’s apologetic, but you don’t think that’s the case. “Just get it done, alright? And add some extra coffee packets."
You furrow your lips. Displeasure flutters over you but you wash it away with a smile, refusing to irk him. You nod and pivot, bones bending against your skin for an escape as his hand whispers against your bum in an encouraging caress.
Anger simmers in your marrow. Phillip simply chuckles, disparaging.
“That’s a sweet peach.”
His voice gets muted by the tinny, rattling radiator as you make it to the bathroom. You stock it up dutifully—perhaps taking extra long to ensure he's not waiting outside for you—and spritz air freshener around the room when you finish. It’s a flaky, expired bottle of Platinum Ice which barely masks the town’s deep-seated smell of old-growth forest, petrichor and woody debris. You hope the new guest doesn’t have a sharp nose. 
You make sure to stuff the coffee station with extra packets before stepping out of the room. Off the mysteriously stained carpet, onto the veranda. You putter around with your large keyring, thumbing through the nickel-brass since you also have a key to the elementary school, post office, and city hall (aptly titled shitty hall by locals, since this town isn’t much of a city and the building’s roof is held together by nothing but rusty rivets and tassels of sprig collected in the corners). You’ve got so many keys because again, everybody knows everybody, and it isn’t rare to see the housekeeping girl at the motor lodge supplementing her income as a part-time teaching aid. 
Finally, you find the master key. You lock the room and roll the cleaning cart into the utility room before locking that too. Your wrist drags across your forehead, wiping away sweat, and you tug on your dress because perspiration has pasted it onto the pert curve of your breasts, the squish of your thighs. You furtively glance down your bodice and watch how the sweat pocks your skin, knotting your nipples against your cheap bra. Lament catches you in regards to your shower after work—it’s going to be freezing since the heating system here is so fickle—and in the paroxysm of your grief, the sound of heavy breathing eludes you. 
You don’t hear his footsteps. He’s an ambush predator. Stalking and shadowing in the tall grass, waiting for the moment your hackles melt to bite into your neck like an unripe stone fruit. You don’t see him, but you feel him. His breath tickling down your neck. The erogenous zone behind your ear. 
A gasp parts your lips and you whip around, coming face-to-face with a paunchy chest plated by moth-eaten flannel. You heft your head up, exercising the hinge in your neck. Paling at the sight that greets you.
He has a Cabela’s cap on. It’s pulled over his eyes, but a few blonde curls peek out from under the crown of his hat. He has a damaged, blistered face. A cauliflower ear. Nicks on his cheeks that distend from his skin and have turned pallid with time, rippling like seafoam petticoats on waves as he flickers his jaw. He wears jeans and mud-clogged boots and holds a duffel bag. 
His gaze unties you. You slowly find words, fitting them in an orderly queue in your mind as you avert your gaze and stare at the floor. Squirming. Preening. Sweltering.
“Welcome to Sockeye Inn, mister…” 
Silence. He lets your words awkwardly trail off. Doesn’t do anything to belay the discomfort in your belly. The man simply stares at you with brown eyes. 
Humiliation crawls up your spine and settles on your cheeks. It burns through your skin, withering you away, to which you fidget with your fingers and baldly nod towards the door.
“Your room is ready,” you murmur. “Enjoy your stay, sir. Uh– if you need anything just give us a shout. Phone’s on the bedside table.” 
Foolishly, you wait for a response again. Nothing. He towers over you, owlishly blinking, one slower than the other because he seems to have a lazy eye. You clench your skirt and softly shoulder past him, heading for the stairs as you hear him putter with the keyhole. 
You’ve halfway scaled it when a rasp distorted by what seems to be years of cigarettes stops you dead in your tracks. 
“Bring me a BLT and root beer.” 
You burn up at the muscle in his voice. The drag. Just as you’re about to reply, his room door slams shut and rocks across the veranda. 
Your dress is stickier than it was before. Perhaps an ice cold shower isn’t so bad after all.
The end of your shift slowly arrogates. 
After delivering food to Simon Riley—you glinted at the logbook while waiting for his order, reading his name—you left his room as soon as possible. You set the food down and found yourself plugging your nose. The Platinum Ice you sprayed before didn’t accost you— instead, it was pomade. Lucky Strike cigarettes. Decaying heartwood. Bleach. 
You pointedly breathed through your mouth. It didn’t actually help though, since you could taste it then. The ethanol in the air drizzled over your pockmarked tongue and glided down your throat. Collected in your stomach. 
You almost retched it back up at the sight of him.
Through the foggy shower wall, the colour of his hazy contour was striking. It seemed to be a tight fit for him, hemming in his lumberjack build. The shampoo bottle looked like a damn accessory in his large hands and his chased shoulder blades pressed soap against the glass pane, sudsy. 
Your curiosity pulled your gaze lower. Down to the heavy mass between his thighs, thick and fat. Bulbous. 
His spine suddenly went erect, straightening like a chary animal. As if by the agitated pappus of his skin, his chin lifted in your direction, and that’s when the earth collapsed under your feet and you beetled for the door. 
You distract yourself in the kitchen. Emptying the dishwasher. Taking the garbage to the bear-proof receptacles. Putting the oven on steam clean. Kate, the kitchen supervisor, stares at you oddly under her hairnet but she isn’t going to reject a set of helping hands. 
You scrub at a pan hoping it will erase the image burned into your mind. Hoping that the steel wool will have the same effect on your temporal lobe as it does on the pan. You don’t realize your hands are chafing and the pan is flaking, not until Kate is passionately complaining beside you, her spit dashing onto the side of your face.
“—fuckin’ freeloaders. They drain our taxes but can’t even do their damn jobs. Wait until one of their family gets butchered, you’ll see, that’s when they’ll start taking this seriously.”
She waves a newspaper in your face. The paper stack fans in front of you, blowing you with cool air. You’re just barely able to read the big, blocky headline. 
Connection Made Between Ventura, Gilroy and Eugene Serial Killer — Aptly Coined the Ghost.
“Eugene!” Kate slaps the newspaper, frazzled. “Not even three hours from us!”
You scarcely listen to her, her voice ripening into white noise as you scrutinize the police sketch on the newspaper’s margin. The offender is drawn with an overripe balaclava and probing eyes. Dark brown, as if his corneal opacity has laid claim before death. His eyelids have no tension, but a furl of crow's feet gather at the corners. It’s uncanny. Eerie. And even though he’s pressed on paper, you can’t help the unease welling inside you. 
A part of you waits for the other shoe to drop. For him to manifest and crawl out of the paper, dripping ink and viscous tar, ruining your Mary Jane flats and the floor you’d just mopped.
Hemlock hits the back of your throat. Lemony, sedgy. Your eyes fixate on the information detailing his crimes. Spines broken and necks snapped with inhumane strength. Pieces of flesh carved with the precision of either a surgeon or a butcher. Rigour mortis locking the victims in a scream, nail beds caked with skin which implies a struggle, but leads nowhere since the Ghost’s DNA hasn’t been found on any database.
(He’s as elusive as his name suggests. Investigators say he could be foreign, or that he has a clean record. The latter seems unlikely for the violent calibre of his crimes.)
There’s also his modus operandi—slicing off his victim’s ring finger, taking it with him. A cruel reward. 
“They say he’s taking Route 101,” Kate tacks on. “That he’s a long-hauler. How the hell will they catch a long-hauler?”
You shake your head, shrugging. Your tongue is too heavy and your gums rub against the round of your cheeks when you try speaking. The sentence gets snagged on your molars, and all that comes out are sparse words, lamely falling to the floor with how out of breath you are. 
“…They’ll catch him.”
“They better,” she shortly huffs. “I don’t want this town making the paper for all the wrong reasons.” 
Death comes to you in a cornfield. 
You’re sprinting through the crop, barefoot and scantily clad and pricked by thorns. Your clothing catches on thistle and corn husk, slowing you down, but the quick-footed trampling at your tail keeps your pace steady and stable.
Your lungs burn. Your bones rasp. Your eyes well up with how fast you’re moving, with how your retinas strain to see more in the pitch black than just reflective corn silk and the crescent moon. 
The midnight sky is close to swallowing you whole, but at this point that would be an act of mercy. The whistle of his cleaver slicing through the air and the stomp of his boots are promptly catching up, heckling you, barely whispering against the flowy cotton of your dress.
By a cruel twist of fate your foot catches on a tiller and sends you flying. Your nose softens the impact, the crack of cartilage reverberating through your skull, glutinous red spurting down your chin as you try scrambling to your feet.
But true to his name, Ghost, he slips through matter and suddenly, he’s standing in front of you.
Black, sweaty tank top. Freshly sharpened meat cleaver. Stout arms. Predatory eyes. Rotting balaclava—which at this point, you’re starting to believe was grafted onto his face, fitting him like skin. 
You raise your hands for mercy. 
But you should know dead stars have exhausted all their luminosity—that after death, they hold no power. That space is a graveyard. That’s why the Ghost poises his cleaver behind him. That’s why the last thing you see is his cleaver handle swinging towards you, about to collide with and shatter your cheekbone into a million pieces—
—but daylight strikes you with no clear trajectory. 
It’s your alarm that rings, waking you up from a nightmare, telling you to brush your teeth and scrub yourself down and pop your supplements before biking to work. You do so sluggishly, standing under the shower spray as you massage your cheekbone. Burning your toast as you scour the news for developing details on the Ghost case. Ordering a cup of coffee from the local diner and gulping it down behind the motel lest Phillip catches you.  
Your nightmare—omen, prophecy, portent of death?—pursues you like the persistent stench of fish on an angler’s hands all morning. You flinch at the slightest noise while scrubbing toilets, you constantly look over your shoulder while sweeping floors.
Malaise builds in your blood vessels like creosote. It doesn’t thin into fluid, flowing in and out of your appendages and around your sex until you situate yourself in front of Room 11. Fluffing up your skirt and puffing out your chest.
You announce your presence and rap the door with your Mary Jane flat because your hands are occupied with new bed sheets. Your knuckles blanch around the linen, quivering, struggling to keep it in your grip. The sheets almost flutter to your feet when a voice penetrates the door, abrasive and husky. Rough. Grating against your spine and shaving down the vertebrae. 
“Door’s open.”
You wait a few seconds before contorting yourself against the threshold. You try the handle and lo and behold, it’s unlocked, swinging open when you press your weight onto it. 
You step inside and toe off your flats. Next to Simon’s boots, they look fit for a doll, and a dizzy spell ricochets through you at the size difference. At the stark reminder that he’s as big and packed as a thick tree stump.
You walk inside and heed the CRT television playing the news. 
It does nothing to soften the scream that rips out of you as you round the corner.
Simon is in bed, pulling on a cigarette. His pudgy tummy and bristly chest are bared, the steel wool of his happy trail disappearing into the bed sheets furled around his hips. The flat sheet is thin enough to outline something stirring. Something thick and pressed against his inner thigh. 
He stares at you, eyes of Argus. It’s so intense you’re sure he can sense the slick running down your back. The dew that settles in the gusset of your panties. 
You stutter. “I can come back later.”
Simon sits up with a groan. It rattles you. His joints must be fettered with age, or hard work, but in any case your head goes cottony with the picture of him splitting wood and hauling heavy bovine flanks. 
You swallow thick as he shakes his head. “It’s no problem, sugar. I’m not even here.”
The pet name makes you squirm. You sure do feel like it—sugar, that is—with the way you could melt on his tongue, wedge yourself between his teeth. Turn syrupy and sappy at the back of his throat.  
He takes another drag of his cigarette. You watch raptly as his jaw feathers around it, lips proffering another plume of smoke. 
He blinks. “Well?”
You eke out an apology and fiddle with your hands. 
“I’ll have to, um, change your bedsheets first.”
Simon shakes his head. He taps the ashy casualties off the tip of his cigarette and you watch as it sinks onto the bed sheet, almost burning through the floral motif. “No need.”
“Well,” you cough, forcing your eyes away from him, “if I don’t, my boss…”
Simon pricks up. The hind of his spine straightens the same way a dog would sit straight and plumb after hearing rustling in a bush. His muscles tighten, thick, and his face twists into a sneer. The bed sheet around him falls and you lock up tight lest it bare his pubic bone. 
“Is he a minger?”
“I’m sorry?”
He huffs. “‘s he a bully?”
“Oh, no,” you blandly laugh. “Mister Graves isn’t a bully. He just…”
“Makes you uncomfortable?”
There’s a lapse between acknowledging his question and spitting out an answer that makes you kick yourself. Simon already looks dubious. You hug the sheets closer to your chest and smile, your cheeks feathering like beeswax.
“He’s a kind man.”
“Not wha’ I asked,” he says. The bed creaks as he leans forward, the sheets slipping lower, scarcely covering his sex. “I asked if he does stuff he shouldn’t be doin’.”
Your heartbeat quickens. Briefly, you wonder if he can hear it. He probably can, albeit softly, due to his lumpy cauliflower ear.
“He’s a married man,” you mumble. “He doesn’t touch me if that’s what you mean. Not like that.”
“There’s only one way to touch someone,” Simon grunts. His chest starts churning a little, as if he’s agitated. “Does he put his hands on you?”
Your skin burns, remembering. A phantom scar runs through you, long and creeping, mapping all the places in which Phillip’s pinchbeck wedding ring has burned you. The suture of your spine, the pappy flesh of your neck, the rise of your hips where his palm has melted through your dress and smarted your skin.  
Your silence makes Simon grunt. 
Panic surges up your throat. You feel the need to defend Phillip, in some approximation of gratitude and fear since you’re on his payroll and you don’t want to reap the consequences should you rat on him and he find out. 
“No!” you hurry. “Mister Graves isn’t like that. He’s a good man. Honest.”
Simon’s eyes push against your skin. He scrutinizes you, tests you. Waits to see if you’ll fidget too much and flake away and sink into the carpet. 
He growls. “You fancy him, is tha’ it?”
Answering yes is the only way to shake him off your leg. You do so archly, so it seems as though the thought of your boss has you flushing when really it’s Simon. He’s fully upright, and now you can see the girthy base of his cock. Stirring, twitching. You suppress a moan.
“Yeah…” you murmur. You can feel your makeup turning blotchy, running down your cheeks. “It’s just a bit…embarrassing, is all.”
He lapses into it again. Staring at you. Razoring his way into your head and thumbing through your consciousness, searching for an Achilles’ heel. A crack he can break into a hole because he has the size for it—barrel-chested, stupidly thick fingers. 
Simon slips out of bed and disturbs the coiled aches of the mattress. He holds a washcloth over his crotch. It’s crusty and keeps shape and covers almost nothing, confirming your inkling. 
His bulbous cockhead winks at you from under the hem. It’s heavy. Leaky. Dripping precum that laves down his legs and gets caught in the wiry hair of his thigh. 
Anxiety pools in your armpits and around your groin. Or maybe that’s just arousal. Brackish and sticky, rubbing your pussy lips together, hugging your clit. 
Simon pulls on his cigarette once more and then folds it into the bedside table. You should scold him. You should tell him that he’ll have to pay for damages even though the wood is already degraded and mouldy. You should scuttle out of the room and call for Phillip, but that would be a crueler fate. Instead you stay fixed to the carpet as Simon steps forward. Cock swinging between his legs, tummy jiggling. 
You don’t know whether he’s going to pull you in for a kiss or rip off your dress or—and you’re unsure why you think of this—take you by your skull and smash it against the television stand. He has the muscle to, surely, but somehow you know he won’t. And the thought of that makes your skin hot.
You’re at his mercy.
You gird yourself for his lips or for your dress to be torn off, but your preparations flux away as Simon steps close and crowds you against the television stand. The stench of Lucky Strike cigarettes and gamey meat impair you, as he reaches behind you and increases the television volume. You want to say something but cotton fills your mouth and the news report floods your ears. It’s fragmentary—you can only heed oddments of the news anchor’s latest updates. 
The Ghost is still at large. Corpses keep popping up around California and Oregon, each with their ring fingers sliced off. The tipline has been leading investigators nowhere, shepherding them to the end of the earth and over the edge, floating, where they’ll move through molasses and will never be able to catch him. 
White male. 6’4”. 196 centimetres. Brown eyes. Heavyset. Likely military background. Likely a surgeon, or a butcher. A dangerous, ruthless individual. 
If spotted, do not approach. 
Simon’s breath fans against your neck, rousing the bristles of your warm cheeks. He turns off the television and steps back. An ether opens up in the pit of your stomach as your gaze falls on his bulging pelvis, on the purplish veins and webbing muscle, sitting like a tuft under his navel, disappearing behind the washcloth where his cock stirs. 
Simon tuts. “World’s goin’ to shite.”
You nod.
“You shouldn’t be out here anyway,” he tacks on. “Should be at home takin’ care of your man’s house. Keepin’ safe.”
You flash your naked ring finger embarrassingly fast. “I-It’s just me…and my cat.”
His eyes darken. His head tilts down at you. He purrs. 
“Better get started on mine then,” he breathes. “Put yourself to good use.”
You shyly get to cleaning his room. 
You try to ignore his hand disappearing behind the washcloth, pumping his cock. You can’t ignore the silk ruining your panties. Scarcely, you manage to ignore the caution creeping up your back. Your lower instinct that screams at you as you feel his stare tracking you across the room, burning. Smouldering. Warning. 
Daylight scissors into you.
It melts the sleep in the corners of your eyes. It clears the haze in your head. It interrupts the sultry dream you were having. Your flesh is still pocked and your clit is still peaked, as you rehash the contents of it. 
You can still feel Simon’s weight on top of you, sweat compressioning you, the sheets gathering under your slick back. Your underwear had dangled from one of your ankles, flapping and swaying as Simon pounded into you. Your head bobbed over the lip of the mattress. Your tits bounced, nipples caught between his gnashers. Your slick ran down your cunt and over your asshole, pooling onto the floral bed sheets. You just quit your job. You didn’t care about the sheets. Or the Pettie’s down the veranda. Phillip was on the other side of the door too, and he could hear everything. Your moans. Simon’s balls dragging over your furled hole. His groans—
—And the sudden tearing of cartilage and skin stretching, rubbery, as Simon shifted into something else above you. Something larger. Deadlier. His drool dripped onto your chest, and his cock was suddenly too big for your pussy, popping back out until only his tip managed to squeeze inside your puffy hole. He snarled down at you, but it got covered by a creeping balaclava. You still reached your orgasm, quivering around his cockhead. Watching him go spotty and graphite-like in your vision, as if he were a composite sketch.
You get out of bed and wash the absurd dream away under the shower. The nozzle hits your clit weakly, and you never reach your high. You show up to work pigeon-toed and sweaty. Pent-up. You scrub harder at bathtubs and almost snap at Phillip when he swats your bum. Almost. Simon is watching from the dining hall, and he makes you skittish.
The day rolls by sluggishly. There’s a Do Not Disturb sign dangling from Simon’s door, so you don’t get the chance to see him in his room. You huff and puff at the Pettie’s and give Kate attitude. It’s the peak of afternoon when you’re sent home, shoulders stiff because Phillip squeezed them and tacked on, ”I can always help out if you’re stressed, peach,” before shepherding you out the door.  
You bike into town. Indulge in the diner’s famous rhubarb pie because the motel’s cherry pie is nowhere near as good, though you’ll never tell Kate that. You polish off your treat then ride to the beach (which is more of a graveyard for birds and braided, washed ashore sea meadow), and prop your bike against the wooden bollards.
The beach is familiar with you. It sees you when you're overwhelmed by the monotonous colour of your life. You never worry about meddling kids or loud teenagers or anything, because the stench of fish usually keeps them away anyway. It's your own Shangri-La. Your little Eden. Albeit overcast and greyscale, with an ocean spray that gets into your hair and dries out your mouth.
You slip out of your Mary Jane flats and wade through the sand dunes, breathing in salt and sulfur and tasting it on your lips. You maneuver around seawrack and driftwood and eventually find yourself seated behind a tussock of seaoats, watching as the waves lazily beat against the shore.
It's easy for you to lie down and get comfortable among the scent of iodine and the feel of pillowy granules. It's also easy to let your eyes flutter shut, lulled into limbo by the ebbing tide and murmuring waves.
You stir awake with flaccid lungs.
Presentiment hangs in the air, thick, like a blanket of smog. It interrupts your breathing pattern and makes you light-headed. Vertiginous. Makes you see things that aren't there…
…Such as the off-white scleras and twists of dilated blood vessels that stare at you from the foreshore.
They approach you eerily. Two pieces of driftwood floating over the waves, jolting slightly as it hits the sand, splintery and mossy and heavy.
The man feathers toward you from the blue glow of the beach. You squint through the darkness, because maybe it's the sheriff, but you know he walks with a drunken gait and he…strides like a bear on its hind legs.
The way he lurches for you says otherwise. Perhaps he's rather a panther or a coyote, or some crude backyard breed of all three.
A large palm splits itself over your mouth. An arm lays beside you and secretes a musk of sweat and iron. A knee digs into the plush of your cunt, agitating your clit, as a warm breath fans over your pulse point.
"Waited for me, didn't you?" he rasps against your neck.
In your stupor, you brace your hands against his shoulders. A sticky substance coats his skin, too viscous to be sweat.
Nausea knots in your throat. Tremors wash over your body. You dig your nails into his flesh, and when your hands don't fall through it like you hoped, you gravely realize he's made of muscle and skin instead of your drunken, sleep-inspired imagination.
You experience a cruel loss of equilibruim. If you weren't already lying down, you'd collapse to the ground. You go limp in the sand, thawing into his hands which you unwillingly notice are caked with that sticky substance too.
"There's dangerous folk 'round here," he grunts. "What if someone else followed you? A big, bad man?"
A chord of recognition stirs in your brain at his voice. That brash accent.
"Simon…?"
He chuckles. "It's me, sugar."
You squeeze your thighs together but it's abortive. He pries them apart anyway, and cups your pussy through your panties.
He rubs you through the gauze, knuckling your soft lips. Through the darkness you barely see the misshapen silhouette of his mouth. That snarl, curling off him as if he suffers from some chronic wasting disease, slowly atrophying and turning into some vestigal cadaver.
He kisses down your sternum. Grips your hand and forces it over his crotch. Your fingers brush over the solid mass. It's hard due to both stiffened denim and his thickening cock.
"All for you," he mumbles. "Take it out, sugar."
You fumble with the metal teeth of his zipper. You pull him out with both hands and your mouth goes dry. Tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth. Deadly nightshade hitting the back of your throat. Despite you, your thighs squish together, and a rumbling chuckle slips through the seam of his lips.
He's huge. Fat and heavy, so much so you need both fingers to wrap around him.
"Give it a kiss, yeah?" he coos. "Like a sweet girl."
You spread your lips against his cockhead. You pull away and a string of precum chases you, but Simon is pushing your head back down and bucking his bristly pubic bone into to your nose.
"There it is," he grumbles. "Such a big girl, aren't you?"
You look up at him with wide, wet eyes.
The stiffs of hair on his pubic bone tickle your nose. You smell sweat and iron, but you can't tilt your head away, because the stout muscle of his arms keep you in place.
Fighting is futile. His cockhead hits the back of your throat like oleander and he holds your jaw in place, dimpling your cheeks with his rough fingers, letting his balls slap against your chin.
Just as you're getting used to his size, he pulls out, breaking the strands of saliva and precum between you.
"Take off y'panties, sugar."
You pull them off and squirm at the way the gusset clings to your pussy lips a little while longer. Simon takes it against his nose and sniffs it, running his fingers through your pussy, spreading your slick.
You don't get a warning before he's curling one of his fingers into you. Massaging your walls. Scissoring you open. Thumbing your clit.
He adds another and twists them deeper—meaner—into you. He swallows your whimpers but spits them back into your mouth when he empties his saliva down your throat. He keeps stroking the inside of your pussy, your sticky walls, and rubbing your clit.
He squeezes your cheeks together and gives you a big kiss. He coos condescendingly into your lips, and licks away your fresh track of tears. "It's supposed to hurt, baby. Don't be mad, alright? It'll feel good soon."
He gets deeper and deeper. Knuckle-deep, when he curls his fingers inside you. You lock up tight and thrust your hips through the bulk of your orgasm, trembling and quivering around him.
Your lips quiver around a plea when he pulls his fingers out. It's a lapse of judgement on your part—you know it—but you can't help it anymore.
"Please what?" He grins. It's ugly. Like a truss of stitching falling off his face, mangled and chewed up.
"Can you g-go…" you squirm when he rolls his tumb over your clit, agonizingly slow. "Can you go–"
"C'mon baby," he whispers against your lips, "spit it out. Big girls use their words."
"Canyougodownonme?" you gasp and grip onto him, bucking your cunt into his palm.
He chuckles against your mouth. He kisses down your chest. He crinkles his nose against the husk of your pussy. He deeply inhales and vibrates at your scent. He darts his tongue out and flattens it against your dewy folds, licking a stripe up your slit.
You writhe but he holds you in place with those big, thickened hands of his. They're wet but at this point you can't tell if it's your arousal or that mysterious substance on him. You can't even think about it, not with your thoughts melting away, escaping you like the humming waves.
Simon's a bit too aggressive in how he eats you out. It doesn't come from a juvenile attempt influenced by sex-on-screen with undue emphasis, but rather his tongue spelling devotion into the fat of your cunt.
Your fingers flex into his blonde head of hair. It's closely cropped, but you still manage to pull him closer, grinding yourself down on the bumpy bridge his nose. You pull on his hair and he growls and sends a quake up your spine. He wraps his lips around your clit and swirls his tongue further into you, softly suckling your juices out.
The waves fold over each other, beating against the shore. They crest and crash and just as they race up the sand dune, teasing your flexing toes, your second orgasm crashes into you too. You twist and twirl Simon's hair in your grip and almost miss the feel of something cold being slipped onto your finger.
You're shaking, trembling, as you raise your hand. You're hazy and the moonlight is shrouded by clouds. It makes the mystery object look smeared across your vision, blotchy and spotty.
You hold it a little closer to your face, examining the twinkle as Simon massages your thighs to ease the quiver.
You turn your hand over and whisper your thumb over its curve.
You bristle when you realize what it is. It hangs off you a little loosely, burning your knuckle.
A pinchbeck wedding ring.
Stained with red, and still warm from the body it was pulled from.
Bile gathers in your throat and burns your mouth. Tears gather in your eyes. A small gasp parts your lips, billowing out of you like the mushroom-head of a flare just as realization fully commits itself to you.
You shiver. Both through realization, and your orgasm. "…What did you do to him?"
"Took care of him," Simon grunts, caressing your hair. "I'm supposed to handle the monsters under your bed, ain't I?"
You spare him a glance. You heed the white of his teeth and a smudge of—you know it's blood—across his cheek. His eyes, hidden in the shadowy canopy. His nose, bent out of shape and speckled with blood.
"You're not going to hurt me."
He brushes your hair back. "No."
You pant into him when he captures you for a kiss. "…Why?"
"I'm supposed to take care of ya," he grunts. "That's what couples do, no?"
He pushes something in your grasp—a folding knife. Your thumb slips over the two initials engraved into the handle—your initials.
"How do y'feel about Kate?" he asks.
Your coworker flashes into your mind. "I like her"
Simon—the Ghost—grunts. "And what about that bloke at the diner? What's his name?"
"I– Franklin?"
"Hn. Does he bother you?"
You thumb through your memory. Perhaps what you say is an embellishment, giddy of what Simon's going for.
"He did steal my bike once…" you mumble.
Simon pricks up. His chest puffs out and squishes against your arm. "He married?"
"Yeah, um," you swallow, "for about ten years."
"You want his pretty ring? Or his wife's?" Simon asks, then kisses you. "Anythin' you want."
Your lips stretch into a smile.
Simon cups your cheek, blood rubbing off on you. For the first time ever, you feel exhilarated at the thought of the future. At the thought of being taken care of. Doted on.
Suddenly the town doesn't feel so cold anymore. It doesn't feel like an invisible barricade is hemming you in. Simon is your ticket out of here, and a ticket to your new life.
You can abandon your pinafore and Mary Jane flats and maybe he'll spoil you with frilly socks and a cute sundress. Maybe he'll fuck you in his truck or in gas station bathrooms as the corpse of a man who wronged you rots in the truckbed. Maybe you'll get caught but at least you'll be together and at least your name will finally be known.
Not as the housekeeper girl, but Mrs Riley.
2K notes · View notes
astonmartinii · 8 months ago
Text
the father who stepped up | charles leclerc social media au
pairing: charles leclerc x fem gasly!reader
mr leclerc has been spotted with an all too familiar dog recently.
MASTERLIST | TIP JAR | BROTHER'S BFF MASTERLIST
- part of the brother's best friend series -
yourusername
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liked by pierregasly, charles_leclerc and 1,094,523 others
yourusername: ceo of milf industries
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user1: i am NO better than a man
user2: i think enough time has passed... when do we get enzo's paddock debut
user3: i'm hearing monaco at least
pierregasly: this is false advertising
yourusername: enzo is my child, i am his mother
pierregasly: you're not cute enough to be a milf, sorry!
yourusername: just cause you've got the hairline of a grandpa is not mine or enzo's fault
pierregasly: MY HAIRLINE IS FINE
yourusername: PUSH BACK THE FRINGE
pierregasly: how dare you! this is a big insecurity of mine - you are NOT a girl's girl
yourusername: pierre why is mum calling me? PIERRE WHY IS MUM CALLING ME?
user4: i bet they have a get along shirt
yourusername: all i can say is that someone rocks it, and someone doesn't
pierregasly: are you still being mean while on the phone to mum????
yourusername: the hater grind never stops
estebanocon: enzo is getting so big 😭😭😭
yourusername: time flies, oh gosh i'm crying
estebanocon: motherhood does that to you
user5: i love how pierre and este are mortal enemies but y/n is besties with him regardless
yourusername: an opp of pierre is a friend of mine
charles_leclerc: cutest boy in the world
yourusername: i didn't know you had given up that title?
charles_leclerc: oh i-
pierregasly: STOP FLIRTING WITH HIM AND STOP BLUSHING IT'S JUST Y/N
user6: say it's just y/n as if it's NOT Y/N??
liked by charles_leclerc
pierregasly: I SAW THAT
pierregasly
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liked by francisca.cgomes, charles_leclerc and 897,556 others
tagged: yourusername
pierregasly: what's the point of having a sister if you can't steal her dog
view all comments
user7: this pooch has to be one of the most spoilt and pampered dogs in the world
user8: i wish i died and was reincarnated as enzo
yourusername: oh sure, i'm sure i'm great for plucking your eyebrows and helping you text back girls (@francisca.cgomes you're welcome)
pierregasly: do you mind?
yourusername: did you really ever think you'd pull kika with your charm alone?
pierregasly: yes?
yourusername: the delusion of men should be studied
pierregasly: do i have to call mum again?
yourusername: you call yourself tripod, if anything i should be calling the POLICE
user9: i know kika must have the patience of a saint to deal with their bickering
user10: i fear for any man who wants to get with y/n cause lord knows at his big age pierre will be wheeling out the overprotective brother act
pierregasly: that's my god given right
yukitsunoda0511: not in the photo dump... i see how it is
yourusername: every girl for themselves sorry yuki san
yukitsunoda0511: i think pierre is just jealous of our looks
yourusername: i think that is exactly it yuki
charles_leclerc: yuki not in the post but i wasn't even invited 🤨
pierregasly: you're literally in italy?
charles_leclerc: and?
pierregasly: god forbid a man doesn't want to be bullied by you and y/n
yourusername: (pussy)
user11: not to be a freak but charles and y/n would be so cute together
pierregasly: say anything like that again and you're getting blocked
yourusername: they hate to see a girlboss winning
pierregasly: excuse me?
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charles_leclerc
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liked by danielricciardo, joris_trouche and 2.784,566 others
tagged: yourusername
charles_leclerc: no paternity test needed
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user15: okay.... like... they're slay
user16: i'm personally going to celebrate now before the pierre tantrum
yourusername: oh i've already blocked his number lol
pierregasly: knock knock
yourusername: HELP HE DROVE ALL THE WAY FROM PARIS
user17: is charles dead? can we have a sign of life?
charles_leclerc: they can't get rid of me bitch
pierregasly: you're hiding in the bathroom I CAN HEAR YOU GUYS GIGGLING
yourusername: you're BREAKING AND ENTERING
pierregasly: i have a key?
charles_leclerc: for emergencies?
pierregasly: THIS IS AN EMERGENCY I NEED TO BEAT YOUR ASS
yourusername: not his ass!!!! it's so cute :(
pierregasly: not the time
user18: i can't - why are they having a conversation in the comment section when they're separated by a single door
pierregasly: WHY IS ESTEBAN HERE????????????
estebanocon: 1. i love drama and i love annoying you 2. y/n called me as back up
yourusername: you're being insane and i needed the lanky man to escort you out!
pierregasly: i just want to talk
yourusername: I CAN HEAR THE SOCK
charles_leclerc: THE SOCK?
estebanocon: i can confirm he has the sock
yukitsunoda0511: why don't i know what the sock is :(
yourusername: it's a sock full of loose change that you swing as a weapon @ MEN OF ITALY PLEASE MOBILISE YOUR GOD IS IN DANGER
charles_leclerc: tell enzo i love him :((((((
pierregasly: WHY IS MAX HERE AS WELL?
maxverstappen1: i am nosey
maxverstappen1: and esteban left the door open
danielricciardo: i am also here
alexalbon: me too, @yourusername can i have some of the dessert in the fridge?
yourusername: is the entire population of monaco in our house?
charles_leclerc: with that many witnesses he can't do anything
pierregasly: WHY DID YOU GUYS GIVE THEM ENOUGH TIME TO GET OUT AND LET Y/N GET HER SOCK
pierregasly: HELPPPPPPPPPPPPPP
user19: what the fuck have i just read?
user20: are alpine down a driver?
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tagged: charles_leclerc
yourusername: did you guys know i recently became an only child?
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user23: now this could either mean that she has disowned pierre or that we did actually witness murder by sock
user24: enzo down an uncle
maxverstappen1: i am more than ready to take his spot
danielricciardo: me too
alexalbon: me three
pierregasly: i'm still alive?
yourusername: GHOST 🫵🏻
charles_leclerc: someone get the sage STAT
pierregasly; do not try and cleanse me away
yourusername: then stop STINKING UP THE GAFF WITH YOUR ATTITUDE
pierregasly: THEN STOP FUCKING MY BEST FRIEND
charles_leclerc: 🤓👆 she's actually in love with me
yourusername: that's true i am actually in love with him
pierregasly: there's a difference?
yourusername: your fuckboy is showing... kika i'm so sorry
user25: we got a 'LOVE' guys it's real
yourusername: we have a child, this is so real
charles_leclerc: locked in for life 🫰🏻
estebanocon: he just passed out in the sim
yourusername: good 👍🏻
charles_leclerc: he'll come around at some point, but for right now i love you too much to care
yourusername: i love you too charlie x
charles_leclerc: i love you more
yourusername: NOT POSSIBLE
charles_leclerc
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charles_leclerc: two years strong, no pierre tantrum can stop that :P
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user26: this is my official countdown to another pierre meltdown.
pierregasly: TWO YEARS? TWO YEARS? 730 DAYS? I CAN'T BE BOTHERED/CAN'T DO ANY MORE MATHS THAN THAT?
charles_leclerc: bro is proving why we didn't tell him in real time
pierregasly: i will choke you
charles_leclerc: you can't kill enzo's dad and be an absent uncle?
pierregasly: I AM NOT AN ABSENT UNCLE WHERE ARE YOU?
yourusername: newsflash bozo we thought ahead and are at a super secret second location
pierregasly: are you at max's?
yourusername: yes.
pierregasly: i knew you were too lazy to leave the building
yourusername: but you don't have a key to his place 😤
user27: y/n is real for that
maxverstappen1: EVERYONE BEHOLD I AM ABOUT TO COMPLIMENT CHARLES: enzo is very well trained and good with the cats
charles_leclerc: why thank you max
maxverstappen1: he must get it from his mother
charles_leclerc: rude! i thought this was a compliment to me?
yourusername: if it is my trait, it's singularly mine god lord it hasn't been passed down to all the gasly kids
pierregasly: i can read that you know
yourusername: you can read? next you're going to tell me you're potty trained as well
pierregasly: that's it i'm calling mum again
charles_leclerc: btw she already knows about us - i got permission from your parents
pierregasly: SO EVERYONE KNEW
yukitsunoda0511: i didn't :(
pierregasly: you're not in the family yuki that's not a big surprise
yukitsunoda0511: that's not what you said the other day... :((((((
pierregasly: i can't win these days
user28: first the alpine tractor and now this, pierre can't catch a break
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pierregasly
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pierregasly: i guess we're bffs for life now
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user32: balance has been restored to the force
user33: the way it only took some puppy dog eyes from both charles and enzo and the past three week civil war was forgiven
yourusername: thank god, you really aren't made to be a drama queen, keep it for the radio
pierregasly: you're just lucky you chose a guy i like
yourusername: you forced me to hang out with him my whole life, so really this is all your fault.
pierregasly: ????
yourusername: it's always a man's fault
pierregasly: i give up. you win. sure it was my fault
user34: y/n ain't never losing an argument i feel sorry for pierre and charles
charles_leclerc: she's never wrong 🫡
yourusername: this is how it should be ladies
charles_leclerc: how does it feel to be the third favourite to your parents now?
pierregasly: really? i can get the sock back out?
charles_leclerc: i'm sorry!!!
pierregasly: but you are right, y/n is the favourite
yourusername: baby is always the favourite
arthurleclerc: true
charles_leclerc: 🙄
pierregasly: 🙄
yourusername: are we done being dramatic now? can i come to races and can we go to dinner?
pierregasly: don't you dare wear red
yourusername: too late :P
pierregasly: excuse me
yourusername: i've always been wearing red in some way every race
charles_leclerc: i can confirm
pierregasly: EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW
fin.
note: finally back with my fave ever trope and the pics of little leo just gave me that burst of inspiration. leo is so cute and so is the ice cream, charles really coming for babygirl of the year
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2-dsimp · 7 months ago
Text
/—-//——/————————
Smonophillia
/—-//——/————————
(Female reader!)
🔞MDNI🔞
/—-//——/————————
Cw: Overstimulation, excessive creampies, overstimulation, dacryphillia, degradation, praise, begging,
/—-//——/————————
The Dramatic Beggars
“Baby please lemme in there! I promise I’ll make you feel so good! Haah you teasing me? Are you really even asleep right now? Fucking having your slutty pussy suckle on the tip my cock but not letting me in any deeper—Ahn! Darling please make some room for me in that delicious cunt of yours. I’ll die if I can’t cum inside you”
He whimpered pathetically into the crook of your neck deeply inhaling your lovely scent as he rutted desperately against the crease of your ass. Trying to dig his cock deeper inside you whilst you lay there slumbering on peacefully. Unaware that you’re pushing your lover to the brink of insanity as your snatch clamped down harshly on the sensitive mushroom tip of his throbbing cock. Denying him of any further entry inside your welcoming wet heat due to how tight your walls constricted his movements.
The greedy opportunists
“Damn Doll you look so gorgeous when you’re stuffed so full of me. Awe look at you squirming n moaning in your sleep like a whore. Are you having a wet dream about me molding the shape of my dick inside your gummy walls or is my fat cock too much for you? If that’s the case… Don’t worry sweetheart I’ll make sure you get well acquainted with my size. By stretching you out every god damn night with every chance I get my precious little fucktoy”
He chuckled deviously delivering deep long strokes inside your squelching cunt. Making sure to pound his shaft roughly inside of your gooey plump walls hitting that spongey sweet spot that made you cream endlessly on his invading thick dick. That repeatedly ravaged your guts in an effort to make your cunt mold itself in his cocks image. As his fat tip kept kissing the tip of your cervix with every mean pelvic thrust.
The stress fuckers
“Oh fuck yeah that’s the good stuff! You always manage to brighten up my day with your pretty pussy babe. I can’t thank you enough for allowing me to take out all my frustrations and stress from work inside your tight cunt. Fuck! you really know how to treat a man right my sweet baby girl.”
He gushed lovingly as he continued to rub the tip of his cock up and down your puffy pussylips. Licking his lips with a happy go lucky grin as he gently but firmly wrapped his hands around your neck as you slept while he proceeded to ease his long pulsating dick inside your puckered slicked hole. Moaning in satisfaction as he began rocking his hips against your ass. Making sure to bury his long shaft deep inside your sweltering dripping snatch. Using you as he pleased as he fucked away all his earlier frustration and stress from work, abusing your pussy in the most ravenous ways.
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