#How To Send Express Mail

[age-of-moonknight]

Hellooo

I dont wanna bother you, but would you wappen to know what that concept art of old marc was for?

Also i love your blog, makes me happy to read the tags too

Hello! Thank you so much for stopping by; I’m glad you’re enjoying this blog! :D And please, never wonder about bothering me, as I always love having a reason to go down a Moon Knight-related research rabbit hole hahaha

Nonetheless,,,,I know y’all can’t see me, so just imagine some vaguely human-shaped entity, head in hands. When I tell you I spent hours going through my posts and spinning up some increasingly bonkers boolean searches for this 🤣 and don’t get me wrong, it was absolutely a labor of love, but I’m still not entirely sure I found the exact concept art you’re referring to.

Closest thing I could find was the concept art for an aged Marc Spector in Battleworld: Secret Wars Journal (Vol. 1/2015), #1 by Luca Pizzari (which objectively I think is dope as all get out and I’m glad I found it, but I’m still not sure exactly if it’s what you’re looking for).

Hope this is of some use to someone out there! Sorry if I’m off-base; I completely respect the desire to remain anonymous, so please feel free to send another ask or perhaps a DM with any more possible details or the exact image you would like to learn more about (as again, I don’t need much of a reason to keep researching Moon Knight things :D).

[inkandapex]

you are so kindness

Lando Norris x Y/N

Summary: Lando and his girlfriend, Y/N, spend time unboxing and reading heartfelt gifts and letters from his fans.

Words: 1.05k

Warnings: none

Lando sat in front of the camera, comfortably settled in what appeared to be his apartment. Beside him, several bags overflowed with letters and gifts—tokens of appreciation from fans collected throughout race weekends.

"Right, so—" He clapped his hands together, ruffling his curls absentmindedly as he figured out how to begin.

"A while back, I filmed a video reading a compilation of really sweet messages from young fans. My team and I saw how much it meant to them, so we wanted to do something similar. This time, as a way of showing appreciation for all the effort you guys put into making these gifts, we've gathered a bunch of them here, and we’ll be going through them together." He gestured at the bags surrounding him, a warm smile tugging at his lips.

As he took in the sheer amount of mail, Lando let out a small chuckle. "I doubt I’ll get through all of these by myself, so I’ve brought in some help—my lovely assistant for today." He grinned at someone off-camera before patting the spot beside him.

Y/N walked into frame, settling down next to him with an easy smile. She glanced at him before turning to the camera. "Hey guys, I’m Lando’s assistant for the day."

"My beautiful assistant here actually helped collect these gifts—whether from fans at the track or people we ran into on the streets."

Y/N nodded, looking around at the colourful packages. "I’m really excited. I’ve already seen some of these, and they’re really cool. You guys are so talented."

"Alright, let’s get started." Lando reached into the nearest bag, pulling out a handful of letters. As he read through them, he skipped over certain parts, but the way his face softened showed how much the words meant to him.

Meanwhile, Y/N unwrapped a small package, revealing a set of handmade beaded bracelets in papaya colors, complete with Lando’s initials and a tiny version of his race helmet.

"Lan, look!" She held them up, making him pause mid-sentence. Turning to the camera, she showed off the bracelets with a grin.

"Those are sick," Lando said, taking one and slipping it onto his wrist before grabbing the other and gently putting it on Y/N. "We actually love these—we’ve got a whole box of them somewhere in the apartment."

"I'm pretty sure I have one that says 'Smooth Operator,'" Y/N laughed. "Not sure if the fan meant to give it to me or if they wanted you to pass it on to Carlos, but either way, we kept it!"

Lando chuckled, shaking his head. "Carlos is gonna love that."

And with that, they continued sifting through the gifts, their easy banter filling the room as they shared moments of appreciation for the fans who had taken the time to send them something special.

Lando picked up a letter, his smile widening as he began to read aloud.

"Dear Lando... My dad told me I could be just like you one day. I also want to drive really fast cars. P.S. I think your hair is really nice. P.P.S. Can Y/N and I be friends too?"

He let out a chuckle, glancing over at Y/N before handing her the letter.

Y/N skimmed through it, her expression softening. "Of course we can be friends!" she said brightly, looking into the camera with a warm smile.

They continued opening gifts, appreciating each thoughtful item. But when Y/N pulled out a beautifully crocheted tote bag—designed with Lando’s helmet pattern—she let out an audible gasp, holding it up for the camera.

Lando chuckled, immediately recognizing the look in her eyes. "You want it, huh?"

Y/N nodded eagerly, giving him a hopeful glance.

His features softened. "I don’t think they’ll mind if you have it, my love," he said with a fond smile before turning back to his own box.

Y/N peeked inside the bag, pulling out the accompanying letter. As she read it, a soft laugh escaped her lips, catching Lando’s attention.

"What?" he asked, pausing mid-unwrapping.

"It’s for me," she said, biting back a grin.

"The tote?"

"Yeah, they made it for me," she confirmed, handing him the letter as proof.

Lando scanned the note before shaking his head with a smirk. "Guess I should’ve known."

Y/N beamed, hugging the bag close. "I love it even more now."

"Look at this," Lando grinned, holding up a sheet of fan-made Sonny Angel stickers—tiny, cherubic versions of himself, Oscar, and Carlos.

"Ah!" Y/N gasped, immediately reaching for her phone. She flipped it over to show the camera her phone case, which had the same Lando Sonny Angel sticker stuck to the back. "The fan from Australia gave me some when I saw her!"

Lando’s expression softened as he looked at her. "Glad you’re repping the right person," he teased. "Bet you don’t have this, though." With a triumphant smirk, he pulled out a Miffy plushie—dressed in a tiny replica of his racing suit, complete with a mini helmet in its hands.

Y/N let out a loud gasp, covering her mouth. "That’s adorable!"

Lando turned to the camera knowingly. "She’s gonna ask me for it—"

"This one's mine too, actually," Y/N cut in before he could finish.

Lando blinked, looking over to see her holding a letter she had just fished out from the box. He leaned over to peek at it before shaking his head with a dramatic sigh.

"Why do I have a feeling half of these are actually meant for you now?" he pouted, reluctantly handing over the plushie.

Y/N took it eagerly, a wide smile spreading across her face as she admired it. "What can I say?" she grinned, squeezing the tiny Miffy. "They love me."

ando squinted dramatically at the camera. "And here I was thinking I was your favorite because of my kindness."

Y/N smirked, immediately catching onto the reference. "You are so kindness, Lando. We love your kindness," she teased, perfectly mimicking Oscar from their last video.

Lando burst out laughing, shaking his head. "Thank you, my love. I try," he said, voice laced with faux humility. Then, with a soft chuckle, he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek.

Y/N beamed, playfully nudging him. "You’re so humble too."

"Truly the full package," Lando sighed, before reaching for another gift, still grinning.

[noisilyscreechingsong]

Image this:

Danny is sixteen. He just found out he is to become King, with a capital K, when he becomes a mature ghost, which is at least 20 years after his death. So he’s got time. Everything’s fine. Except for the Observants pushing his education. Tutors shoving information down his throat like he’s cramming for finals. Princess Dora, Pandora, Frostbite, and even Clockwork checking on him frequently and making a schedule for him to come visit their territories for little learning sessions. Fright Knight has been following his every move. And let’s not forget the other random ghosts he’s never even met before coming to ask for favors or to complain or just give him their problems in general and expect him to fix it.

He can’t even let his frustrations out! All his regular rogues avoid him now! Even Vlad doesn’t want to get involved, but that could be because he’s still bitter about not getting the crown like he wanted.

Good thing he knows a king that has probably been through the same thing.

King Arthur of Atlantis. In other words, Aquaman.

Because Danny wasn’t technically king yet, crowned prince is probably the right title?, he couldn’t just call him up or send a letter asking to meet. So Danny decides to go give the man a visit himself.

Using process of elimination, he was able to find Atlantis after about two months of research and searching. He didn’t have a whole lot of free time, okay?

Turning invisible and flying through the water was a lot easier than he thought. Getting through the barrier was a piece of cake and the castle was obvious to find. What wasn’t obvious to find was the king himself. He wasn’t in the throne room, or his study, or the training grounds, or literally anywhere in the castle. He checked.

No. He finds the king playing some game with some kids in the underwater city.

It was surprising to find him there, especially after the etiquette lessons from Dora, but it gave Danny some hope that maybe he wouldn’t be miserable and burdened with paperwork and boring meetings when he becomes king.

Danny turns visible. They were still invested in the game but the guards noticed him. Spears were pointed at him in a second.

“Halt! State your business,” the guard demands.

The shout caused everyone in the area to stop and look, including the king.

Danny raises his hands in surrender.

“Uh, hi. Sorry to stop the game, I just wanted to talk- sorry, speak to King Arthur, if- if that’s okay? There wasn’t an address to mail to that I could find-“

“It’s okay,” the king interrupts. “Let’s go somewhere private to talk then. Do you have any weapons on you?”

Danny perks up at the opportunity to finally talk to him.

“Yes please! And no, no weapons, sir.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” the king replies with a smile. Danny smiles back widely.

“My king-“

The king holds up a hand to stop the guard’s worries.

When they finally arrive to the throne room of the palace King Arthur turns to Danny.

“Who are you?” He asks in a tone that was a bit more serious than it was before.

“Oh! Sorry. Hi. I’m Danny. Danny Phantom. It’s nice to meet you, King Arthur,” he answers quickly with a nervous smile.

The king nods, obviously thinking about something else as he watches Danny with guarded eyes.

“How can you breathe underwater if I may ask? I’m curious.”

“Well that’s easy, I’m not breathing.”

“You’re… not breathing,” the king repeats with skepticism.

“Yea,” Danny agrees freely. “I don’t have to breathe if I don’t want to. You know, because of the whole ghost thing.”

“Ghost?”

“Yea. Can turn invisible, walk through walls, fly- you know. Haven’t you ever seen a ghost before?”

Danny tries a bit of humor with a crooked smile, but it falls when he sees the contemplative expression on the king’s face.

“Wait, seriously? You’ve never seen a ghost?”

“I’m aware of a ghost named Deadman apart of Justice League Dark but he is invisible to everyone.”

“Really?! I didn’t know that! I need to go talk to him! Where can I find him?”

“Hold on there, guppy. Didn’t you want to talk about something?”

Danny is drawn back to the topic at hand.

“Right, okay, so I was recently told I was gonna be king in like twenty years, which is news to me, and now they are just throwing everything at me with all this information I don’t know what to do with and I’m getting complaints and requests and everyone is expecting so much from me when I’m literally sixteen years old! I don’t know what I’m doing with my life, whether I want to go to college or if I’ll even graduate high school, and they want me to solve territory disputes and create new laws and provide protection for those who want to go into the living plane. I just- I don’t know what I’m doing and the only king I could think of was you, so I guess I was wondering if you could, I don’t know, give me some advice or if I could shadow you for a bit to see what an actual king should do or act. I know it’s a lot to ask coming from someone you don’t even know, but I’m just a bit overwhelmed with everything and I don’t really know where to go from here and was hoping you would at least understand. My friends don’t get it and the other ghosts are kinda afraid of me now because of my title and they wouldn’t get it anyway…” he trails off awkwardly.

Arthur had never had this conversation before. He was honestly flattered and the kid looked genuine. Maybe he’d wait until one of the magic users okay-ed the young ‘ghost’ before revealing any information about himself.

He pulls out a device and throws it the kid. Danny dodges just to snatch it out of the air from reflex alone.

“That’s a communicator. I’ll send Deadman and Constantine your way and call when I get the okay. Where are you located?”

Danny’s toxic eyes were big and hopeful, shining brightly through the water.

“Thank you, sir! Amity Park, Illinois, the most haunted city in America!” He answers proudly.

The king just smiles.

[madammidnightsblog]

Yandere Mailman X Sleepy Darling

Yandere Mailman fell in love with you the first time he was sent to work in your neighborhood and caught you sluggishly walking out of your house to get the mail. He watched you walk out onto the wooden porch with your blanket wrapped around you and your hair a mess for napping, it was your day off from a busy week at the office so that was a very much needed nap. Yandere Mailman was taken away by how cute you looked with drool stains down your chin and the sleepy look on your adorable face as he watched you from across the street. He just wanted to scoop you right up and pull you into his mail truck and take you home. Yandere Mailman who memorized your address and the white painted fence with what looked like fake plants decorating your front porch as they looked too green for someone who never was home. It was burned into the back of his head and how couldn't? The owner was just so cute! Yandere Mailman gets so jealous when he sees all the envelops that were filled out in such pretty handwriting of yours, addressing to a man at a military base- he didn't care that it was your brother that you were writing too (he didn't open them and read them, what kind of person would invade such privacy? their seals just happened to be broken- okay?) You shouldn't be writing to any man! Yandere Mailman just can't help but take those letters you send to your brother and his letters; you shouldn't talk to him- he left you after all, right? If he cared, he wouldn't be away and stayed by your side. That's what you do for those you love and no, he totally didn't jerk off to your letters because you went into detail about how excited you were to go to the beach with your friends and how you bought at new swimsuit for it- okay! Yandere Mailman who sits outside in his mail truck he parked across the street with his dick in his hand, jerking off as he watched you once again sluggishly walked outside to get the mail. The adorable, tired expression of yours and how you're wearing such small night shorts and that big loose t-shirt, it just has him throbbing every time. Yandere Mailman who cums once you noticed the unmarked envelope he left for you, watching the once sleepy expression turn into a confused one. It was just so damn cute, and he couldn't help it, knowing you're opening it and reading the little love letter he made with your chubby cheeks turning red. His balls were squeezed in his free hand while the other moved in a fast and sloppy pattern until he makes a mess all over his hand. Yandere Mailman makes sure you memorize the days you're home in the mornings and leaves little love letters that are totally are normal! They might talk about how much he loves your adorable little face and how your hair is just so damn pretty that he wants to play with it and how he wants to see your little sleepy face sucking him off while you're barely awake, drooling and sleepily blink up at him as he helps you since you're just so tired.

[yuujispinkhair]

Bad Boy - Good Toy

Sukuna is used to girls throwing themselves at him, begging him to dominate them. He never met any resistance. He never met any challenge. Until he meets you, and suddenly, the bad boy becomes nothing but a willing fucktoy.

There is now a Part 02

Pairing: Sub!Sukuna x Dom!Reader (female) Genre: smut, College AU Word Count: 3.5k Warnings: 18+, smut, degradation, humiliation, edging, exhibitionism, voyeurism, smoking, mentions of drugs, sharing chewing gum, facesitting, squirting, abs-riding, overstimulation, Sukuna cums untouched, piss (Reader pees on Sukuna to humiliate him, and he likes it). Reader calls Sukuna slut, fucktoy and fuckdoll. Unhealthy relationship dynamics. Reader and Sukuna don't talk about limits or safe words. Sukuna is ok with everything Reader does to him, but please be aware that this isn't the way a sub/dom relationship is supposed to be in real life. I just wanted things to be a bit fucked up in this story ;) Divider @/benkeibear

Sukuna is bored. So fucking bored. Bored with college in general, bored of the parties that are always the same, bored of the drugs that don't give him the kick he craves anymore. Even sex is boring nowadays. He sighs as his gaze brushes over the girl kneeling between his spread legs. He didn't bother asking for her name. He thinks she might be in his history course. But it doesn't matter. Nothing matters.

He doesn't even bother to hide from view, letting her suck him off in the back of the dimly lit living room on some ratty couch, while a few meters away, people are dancing and drinking and singing along to songs that Sukuna hates. She is eager, bopping her mouth on his dick enthusiastically, humming around him, and hollowing her cheeks like a champ. But he feels nothing at all. He isn't even sure he can cum tonight. It's like he is numb to everything. The nameless girl moans around his dick, and Sukuna grabs his phone to send his brother a message.

Where are you, brat? I want to leave.

He doesn't get a reply and instead checks his group chats and e-mails while the girl between his legs slurps loudly on his tip. Sukuna huffs in annoyance and lets his bored gaze travel through the room. It lands on a girl in a red t-shirt who is looking in his direction. You are sipping your drink casually while you unashamedly watch him getting his dick sucked.

It makes him grin broadly. Finally, a little bit of entertainment. Maybe he will manage to cum just to give that little voyeur a good show. And afterward, he can take you to one of the bedrooms and fuck you. Or maybe do it right here on that couch, too.

He winks at you. A smile spreads over your face, but it's not the smile Sukuna usually sees on the faces of the girls he plans to fuck. It's the kind of smile he sees in the mirror. A smile that means trouble. His cock twitches, and he groans softly.

He doesn't break eye contact, and neither do you. Sukuna raises an eyebrow challengingly, smirking at you, daring you to come over while he gets his dick sucked. His stomach flips when you really start walking towards him.

Sukuna's pulse accelerates when you stop right next to him. You let your gaze travel from his face down to his cock, watching it bop in and out of that other girl's mouth. You chuckle. It's not a nice sound.

"Aww, do you have problems cumming, Sukuna? Is your dick not working?"

For a stunned second, Sukuna just blinks at you, mouth hanging open. The resident bad boy rendered speechless for the first time in his life. And then he throws his head back and laughs, and simultaneously, he feels his balls tighten.

"If you get on all fours, I will show you just how good my dick works, sweetheart."

You roll your eyes and cross your arms in front of your breasts, looking at him with a bored and unimpressed expression.

"What makes you think I would let you get anywhere near me with that dick of yours. I don't want dirty, good-for-nothing sluts like you."

"What did you just call me?"

But his response lacks the bite. Instead, he sounds breathless, and his hand tightens on the couch as his cock twitches in the other girl's mouth. Fuck, it feels so good all of a sudden.

You smile that dangerous smile again and lean closer, your flowery perfume filling Sukuna's nose, and you repeat your words to him, slowly, overly accentuated as if he is stupid,

"Dirty. Good-for-nothing. Slut."

A raw groan spills from Sukuna's throat, and his hips buck off the couch, making the girl between his legs choke on his cock, as he nuts so hard into her mouth that she's spluttering his cum everywhere.

He stares wide-eyed at your smug face as the gears in his mind shift at lightspeed. What the fuck just happened?

The girl between his legs climbs onto his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck, and tries to kiss him, but Sukuna turns his face to the side, looking at you instead,

"Who do you think you are to talk to me like that?"

"Why? Enjoyed it too much, and now you are scared of how your body betrayed you, little slut?"

You laugh and turn around, walking away while you lift a hand in a mocking little wave, and Sukuna stares after you with his mind whirling and his cock still throbbing.

He wakes up the next morning with a strange feeling in his gut. Something is different.

And after a moment, he realizes what it is when the memories from last night come back, and his eyes widen, and a whispered curse falls from his lips. The encounter with you replays in his mind just like it did countless times before he managed to fall asleep last night. Your cruel smile and the sadistic glint in your eyes. The way his body reacted to it.

He is so used to everyone cowering before him. So used to everyone submitting to him so willingly. All those countless girls throwing themselves at him, begging him to please let them suck his dick, obeying his every command, asking him if they can please call him daddy during fucking.

He never met any resistance. He never met any challenge. One look from him and the girls were practically on their backs with their legs spread like some animal in heat.

No one ever talked to him the way you did. Or looked at him that way. As if he is worthless trash in your eyes. Your words resonate in his brain. "You dirty, good-for-nothing slut."

Fuck! It turns him on. It makes him achingly hard even now. He turns onto his back and shoves a hand into his pants. He jerks off so furiously that his wrist hurts, making a huge mess all over himself when he cums to the thought of you calling him a useless brat.

Sukuna isn't the same man he was 24 hours ago.

He totally doesn't look for you on campus on Monday morning. It is totally a coincidence that he slides up to you when you pull out a package of strawberry bubble gum from the vending machine. It's definitely not like he followed you around like a puppy for a whole hour until he finally got his shit together and decided to approach you.

"Strawberry flavor, huh? Wouldn't have thought that a foul person like you would pick such a sweet flavor."

You eye him lazily, eyes never leaving his as you tear open the packaging and put one of the pastel pink bubble gums into your mouth before you grace him with a reply.

"Oh, shut up. An attitude like that doesn't fit a pretty boy like you. Learn to behave, and then we can talk again."

Sukuna feels his lips lift in his trademark smirk as that weird, exhilarating sensation fills his veins again. He is enjoying himself far too much. He braces himself against the vending machine, his large hands on both sides of your face, caging you in, towering over you, while he smirks down at you.

But you don't seem intimidated at all by his height and muscular figure and the tattoos on his face. Instead, you smile at him and cock your head to the side, eyeing him expectantly as if you are waiting for him to do something.

He leans down, bringing his face closer to yours.

"Can I have a gum too? Please? See, I can behave very well."

His voice has dropped to his usual flirty, seductive tone, which he always uses on girls. The tone that always drives them crazy and makes them drop their panties faster than they can say his name.

You flutter your lashes exaggeratedly at him, smiling a sickeningly fake angelic smile as you open your mouth and pull out your gum.

"Ok, you can have one since you asked so politely. Open up, slut."

He laughs when you push the used gum to his lips, but Sukuna isn't one to back down, so he grabs your small hand, wraps his tattooed hand around your wrist, and opens his mouth. He licks your fingers, lets his tongue-piercing glide over your fingertips, and sucks the used bubble gum into his mouth.

You gaze deeply into his eyes, looking amused.

"You didn't even say thank you, Sukuna. You are still such a useless and rude brat."

You turn on your heel and leave him standing there like some rejected loser, and he chews the gum that tastes like strawberry and your spit and feels his cock twitch against his sweatpants.

Sukuna sees you again on Saturday at another party. Two girls danced with him and asked him if he wanted to fuck them both upstairs in one of the bedrooms, but he turned them down, not even able to grasp why.

Until he walks into the kitchen and sees you. And suddenly, things fall into place.

Why bother with those random girls when the one he really wants is you? You are the only one who poses a challenge. The only one who makes his skin tingle with excitement. The only one who makes him feel like he is still alive and not some fucking ghost.

He leans against the fridge and watches you while he lights a cigarette. He smokes it in silence, just smirking at you and hoping you will come over and call him a slut again. Or any other degrading name you can think of. Sukuna isn't picky.

You walk over to him, a few drags into his cigarette, and stop in front of him, so close that he can smell your sweet perfume again. And you smile that smile that isn't sweet at all as you reach up and take the cigarette from Sukuna's lips. Your eyes never leave his as you bring his half-smoked cigarette to your mouth, wrapping your lips with the red lipstick around the filter right where Sukuna's lips were a moment ago, and the sight is so sexy to him that Sukuna has to bite his lip not to moan.

You take a deep drag, and your eyes close for a moment as the nicotine fills your senses before they open again to gaze up at Sukuna through your long lashes, grinning as you slowly blow the smoke right into Sukuna's face.

He laughs, pushing himself off the fridge, stepping closer to you, so close that his hips brush against you,

"You know what that means, right princess? Blowing smoke in someone's face?"

"Who doesn't know that?"

You roll your eyes and look at him as if he is stupid, and he can't help but place his large hands on your waist and drawl in his best bedroom voice,

"So, you admit you want to fuck me?"

You smirk back at him as you push his hands off your waist, sounding dismissive when you shrug and say,

"You have a pretty face and a good body. And I am horny right now. So why not? And you are probably a good fuck, with all that practice you had."

"What makes you so sure I want to fuck you?"

"Oh, don't be silly. You won't say no. A slut like you never does. Everyone knows you are easy."

Sukuna doesn't bother telling you that he just turned down two hot chicks half an hour ago. He lets you grab his hand and pull him along, and he follows you with a broad smirk on his tattooed face.

His cock is already pressing against his jeans when his crotch brushes over your ass when you pull him up the stairs. His mind is hazy, thoughts clouded over by lust, finally feeling that sweet, exciting buzzing again that he missed so much.

You pull him into one of the bedrooms, yank off his t-shirt, and push him onto the bed. Or you try to. You push against his broad chest, not able to move him an inch, but he plays along and lets himself fall onto the bed, looking up at you with heavy-lidded maroon eyes and his throbbing erection leaking pre-cum into his pants like some pathetic little virgin before his first fuck.

Sukuna licks his lips when he watches you reach under your skirt and take off your panties. That's the only thing you take off before you join him on the bed, straddling his thighs, making him smirk at you like the devil that he is,

"So eager to get my cock inside you that you can't even be bothered to get naked, princess?"

"Shut up, slut. Good boys don't talk unless I allow it."

Your little hands are on his belt, opening it, unbuttoning his jeans, and pulling down the zipper, making Sukuna's hips twitch when your hand rubs over his boxer-clad erection. He knows he is acting pathetic right now, cock so eager, already staining the fabric of his boxer briefs with a ridiculously huge amount of pre-cum. But fuck it, he is finally turned on again, finally excited to fuck again after all those months of feeling bored.

He pushes his hard cock against your hand, but you pull away again, smiling that devilish smile at him as you crawl on top of him.

Sukuna laughs breathlessly when you hover above his face, letting him know what you want from him. His large hands reach out to run slowly up the back of your thighs before they cup your ass cheeks, and he pulls you down onto his face.

He groans when your hot wet pussy settles on his tattooed face. Fuck, he always heard his brother go on and on about how hot he finds it when a girl sits on his face with a skirt and no panties. Sukuna had never found it so fascinating until now. Until it is you, and you tell him in that emotionless voice,

"Get to work, my little slut. If you make me squirt, you will get a reward."

He turns his face and moans against your inner thigh, leaving a kiss there,

"And what will my reward be?"

"I'll allow you to cum."

Allow him to cum?

Fuck. The words alone make Sukuna throb in his boxer briefs, another pearl of pre-cum leaking out of him.

"Then stop acting like a squeamish virgin and sit on my face for real."

"I told you to shut up, brat."

"Then shut me up with your pussy."

Sukuna grabs your ass cheeks tightly and pulls you down further, making you sit on his face for real. He isn't just a good fuck. He is the best fuck, and he will prove it to you!

He sucks your little swollen clit into his mouth and laughs when you gasp loudly. You grab his hair, tugging on it, making him groan as the slightly painful sensation goes directly to his throbbing cock. And he spoils your pussy like the slut that he is. Teases your clit with the stiff tip of his tongue and pushes the metal ball of his tongue piercing under the hood of your clit until you tremble and moan loudly.

He gets really into it, fucks you with his tongue and sucks savagely on your clit, eats you so good that it only takes a few minutes until you let out a high-pitched squeal and buck wildly against his face.

Hot, sticky liquid gushes over his lips, and you rock against him, voice breathless but still so stern,

"Open your eyes. Watch me cum all over your pretty face. Yeah, take it all, you little slut. Drink it all up."

Sukuna's eyes meet yours, and he moans, and his hips buck involuntarily, cock so desperate that he is rutting against thin air while pulsing pre into his boxer briefs.

He drinks you up, pushes his pierced tongue deeply into your twitching pussy, and licks it all up, basking in the way you mewl his name for a split second before you regain control and run a hand through his tousled pink hair, smoothing it down again,

"You are a good little fucktoy, Sukuna. Well done."

Sukuna's cock throbs at your words, and he blinks in surprise. Ok, so it's not just degradation that gets him excited, but also praise? Well, he is so fucked. So thoroughly fucked, and he loves every second of it!

You climb off his face, kneeling on the bed beside him, and let your small hands trail down Sukuna's defined pecs and his taut abs, following his tattoos down to the hem of his boxer briefs.

"You have such a nice body, Sukuna. The perfect little fucktoy. And what about that pretty cock? Is he perfect too, hm?"

A breathy gasp falls from his lips when you run a single finger over the thick bulge in his boxer briefs, slowly running up and down his whole throbbing length. Just a light, teasing touch, but it makes his vision blurry and pulls a desperate-sounding whine from his mouth.

It's so fucking humiliating. He's making such pathetic noises. But he simply can't bring himself to care. Not when he finally feels alive again when he is with you. His low voice is thick with need when he whispers,

"You said you would make me cum."

"Uh uh, I didn't say I would make you cum, sweetheart. I said I will allow you to cum. Let's see how things will go. Let's see how excited my little fucktoy will get. Don't forget what you are here for, Sukuna, baby. You are in this bed to serve me."

"Fuck..."

It takes all of Sukuna's willpower to not shove a hand into his boxer briefs and relieve that fucking pressure.

You straddle him again, sit on his abs this time, rubbing yourself on them, making him gasp when he feels how wet and hot your pussy is and how you spread your cream all over him. It's sexy. Nasty, just as he likes it.

Sukuna can see your face now, and it makes his chest fill with elation when he sees the fucked out expression on your face as you slide over his firm abs, rubbing your little clit against his hard muscles, your eyes closing and lips hanging open dumbly when you moan so sweetly and twitch on his stomach, reaching another orgasm on him.

He could sneak a hand behind you, could jack off behind your back, but he doesn't do it. He wants to be your good little toy.

You don't stop but keep rutting against him, your fingernails digging into the swell of Sukuna's pecs, leaving their crescent-moon-shaped marks there as you abuse your puffy clit further on his abs.

And Sukuna grabs your hips and helps you ride his abs, grinning as he hears your harsh breathing and feels you starting to tense up again. Another loud squeal tumbles out of your mouth, and Sukuna is about to taunt you for being so horny for him that you cum on him three times in a row when he feels something hot and wet on his abs, much more than during your other two orgasms.

You hum and grind against him as more wetness flows out of you and onto Sukuna's stomach, warm and sweet-smelling, and Sukuna's gaze snaps to yours in understanding.

You laugh and rub yourself against him, smiling that devilish smile as you pee on him. And he can't hold back the loud moan falling from his lips, can't stop his cock from twitching, almost cumming in his boxer briefs.

"You like that, you fucking pervert? Yeah, Sukuna? You like getting peed on? Well, I have more for you, my nasty boy."

You slide off him, hands grabbing his boxer briefs and pulling them down, finally freeing his aching cock. Sukuna groans when it springs up, bouncing lightly, rock-hard, pre-cum dripping down from it onto his abs.

You throw one leg over his thighs, kneeling over his stiff cock, and then more piss rains down from your hot cunt and onto Sukuna's cock.

And Sukuna moans and curses loudly as his back arches off the bed, and he cums all over himself, untouched, shooting hot ropes of cum out of his tip, all over his abs, and over your cunt that's hovering above him.

His vision goes black for a moment, and his breath comes out in loud, harsh huffs, his whole body shaking from the intensity of his orgasm. He thinks he never came so hard in his life.

You laugh and finally sit down on Sukuna's twitching cock, letting it glide between your wet folds, making him buck against you. But you don't let him push inside you. You just rub your wet cunt slowly over his spent length, watching with an amused smile as you milk every last spurt of cum out of Sukuna while you let more pee trickle over his cock, mixing his cum with your piss.

Sukuna's heart is beating so fast that he feels lightheaded. And the overstimulation makes him sob, makes his oversensitive cock ache and twitch, but oh, how he craves this sweet pain. He lets his head fall back on the pillow, letting more low moans spill from his lips, eyes closing as he pushes his slowly softening cock between your pussy lips, whimpering softly anytime that delicious pain pulses in his length.

He doesn't know how long it takes before you stop moving on him and slip off his lap. But he sighs when the sticky heat of your cunt leaves his cock.

The bed creaks as you crawl up to him to press a gentle kiss to his cheek, whispering in his ear,

"You are such a mess, Sukuna. Such a cute mess for me. I'm excited to see what else you can give me, my little fuckdoll."

You leave him lying there on top of the blanket, his cock pulsing hotly from the overstimulation, mind hazy with post-coital bliss, chest heaving with heavy breaths, skin sticky from his cum, and your squirt and pee.

It's disgusting, and he should feel embarrassed, but he can't help but moan softly as a small smile creeps over his face. Sukuna feels satisfied like he hasn't felt in months. He hopes you will use him again as your personal fucktoy very soon.

FUCKTOY SUKUNA, I WANT YOU 💗💗 I wrote the first draft of this story a while ago and then thought I wouldn't dare publish it because it's too nasty, but I changed my mind, lol. I hope it was ok and that my fellow sub!Sukuna enjoyers accept this treat ;)

There will be a second part!! The story got too long, and there would have been too many sex scenes, so I decided to split it.

Thank you so much for reading 💗 Reblogs and comments would be very sweet!

HERE IS PART 02

[juletheghoul]

father figure

a/n: Clint got me big time, and originally I wanted to write one hot scene but I am who I am and now I have 21 pages written lol. Thanks to @foli-vora & @just-here-for-the-moment for screaming at me about this and for letting me scream at them about it too, hopefully you enjoy the first chapter. I'm still on a little break from Tumblr but with the movie out I really wanted to share. xoxo

Warnings; 18+ no minors, vague but big-legal age gap, piv sex, dirty talk, shitty dad (neglect), absent mother, allusions to illegal activity, daddy kink, secret relationship, period piece - takes place in 1987, Clint being a big guard dog for you, let me know if I missed any!

Pairing: Clint Flood x F!Reader

Ko-fi link 🥲💕

word count: 5.3k

reblogs are appreciated

Masterlist series Masterlist

-

It’s so cold, the breath from your lungs steams a little. With an angry sigh, and the comforter from your bed wrapped tightly around your shoulders you descend the dark steps into the living room. It’s late, past midnight but the neighbourhood is still buzzing with life. 

The dial on the thermostat still shows what the temperature should be set to and then what the actual temperature is and they don’t align, that can only mean the heating bill hasn't been paid again. Your teeth clench, anger swirls like a sudden squall, a heavy sigh pushed roughly through your lips.

The kitchen door opens and the object of your ire walks in, speaking loudly to someone and the annoyance only climbs. On any regular day you’d be asleep by this time, not that he’d care, based on his fucking volume.

Your mouth is open, the scathing words already in the chamber when the bulk of him blocks the kitchen light and the words die in your throat; Clint, neighbourhood thug and overall goon. He follows your dad in, his leather jacket covered frame too big for the dingy little kitchen, his big boots squeaking against the linoleum. 

“Fuck, it’s cold in here—“ you dad frowns, pulling two glasses from the cupboard, “Clint, can I get you a drink?��� 

“Uh, yeah, sure.” He shifts on his feet, the bulk of him moves slowly towards the too-small kitchen table, “Thanks.”

“You didn’t pay the heating bill.” The shock of Clint in your house doesn’t stop you from giving your dad a hard stare, his wide-eyed, mooncalf expression doesn’t inspire shame or regret at letting him know. He frowns after a few seconds, an angry huff leaving his lips before laughing, it annoys you that he meets Clint’s eyes before answering you. 

“Yeah yeah, I sent it in, must be another mail fuck-up, you know how it is.” He shakes his head but the pulse in your ear only quickens with anger. 

“When?” With more force than is necessary, you pull the blanket tighter, “When did you mail it in?” The clench in his jaw only compounds your suspicion.

“You didn’t send in shit, and now you’re here in the middle of the night with—“ your eyes find Clint, and what meets you isn’t what you expect. The perpetual scowl you’ve come to expect to see on his face, whether he was walking down the street, idling in his car at a stoplight, or even sitting in the diner having coffee is gone. What’s there is a piercing gaze, a knowing expression, pride? 

“You’re here, getting mixed up in God knows what instead of getting a fucking job—“

“I am getting a job. A good one, one that’s going to change our—“ Clint clears his throat, and the words die, his expression shifts from angry determination to a pleasant, paternal—yeah fucking right—blankness. 

“Go to bed, I’ll make a few calls tomorrow and get the heating turned back on.” 

The disgust is hard to hide, so you don’t even try. They both call out a soft goodnight when you turn and walk back up the stairs. You don’t respond.

-

The bell jingles, but your eyes stay on the pile of returned tapes in the bin under the window. The weekend crowd would be in soon, just like every other Friday, all of them flooding towards the new releases section to pick their movies for the weekend. The box is heavy, but you lug it over anyway.

“Let me help you with that—“ his voice cuts through the mental list flickering through your mind, startling you enough that you practically jump. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He's taller than you remember, greyer, hotter. 

“You didn’t,” you lie, “just caught me off guard.” The step back is involuntary. 

“Where did you need it?” He holds the heavy box without trouble, it barely seems to register, a testament to at least one of the rumours you’ve heard about him, that everyone has heard about him—his strength. Seemingly just to compound the thought, he shifts it to get a better grip, and for a moment holds it with one hand. 

“Yeah uh, just there is fine. Thanks.”

He gives you a tight smile after putting down the box, highlighting the deep scar that begins from the top of one eyebrow and runs down his nose, ending just under the other eye. It’s jarring enough to see it healed. Unwanted images of what it must have looked like fresh, of having a bloody slash across his face fills your mind's eye. It sends a chill up your spine. 

Clint's smile evaporates under your gaze, the usual scowl takes over while a curious guilt burns within you.

“Thank you.” You repeat yourself, giving him a smile of your own. A tiny, silent apology. He nods.

“Is there something I can help you with?”

“Your dad asked me to meet him, I forgot you work here.”

“Forgot? I didn’t know you knew it in the first place.” You mumble it mostly to yourself as you begin the process of filling the shelves with the returned tapes. 

“I’ve seen you here before.” He leans against a bare space on the wall, the leather in his jacket creaking as he crosses his arms. You’re not sure what to do with that information, and the easy assumption is that he’d been in the store before, or that he’d walked by enough times, seen you during a shift enough times to recognize you as the video store girl. You accept this assumption.

“Been here a few years.”

“I know—“

“Look, whatever bullshit my dad is trying to get involved in, can you please just tell him to stop?” The words bubble up, spilling out as you slide tape after tape behind the corresponding case. He frowns, you continue.

“He doesn’t need to be getting himself mixed up in things he shouldn’t be getting mixed up in.” His expression is cold when your eyes lock, the reminder of who he is, of his reputation makes your stomach drop.

“It’s not my business, it’s not anything I want to know, but it shouldn’t be his business either.”

“Your dads a big boy sweetheart, not up to me to tell him what to do.” 

The bell chimes over the door, ripping your attention away from the endearment. Your father walks in. Something curdles in your gut that he smiles at the sight of Clint, smiles in a way that spells trouble.

“You’re late.” Clint’s tone is icy, the warmth that curled around the syllables he’d directed at you has frozen over into something unwelcoming. It served to highlight a warmth you hadn’t noticed. That curdled thing shifts to a warmth of your own to see the smile die on your fathers face, to see him chastised. Shame eclipses it however, you focus on your task and leave them to their business.

Your father leaves without a word once their meeting is done, Clint doesn’t say anything either, but his eyes find yours, they linger longer than necessary before he walks out of the store. Thoughts of him linger, of his strength, of his voice, of the shape of the word sweetheart in his mouth until the rush comes and you forget all about him.

-

It’s not until a week later that you see him again, another unofficial meeting at the video store. They stand in the x-rated section, the two of them speaking in hushed tones while half-heartedly pretending to look at the cheap pornos lined up on the shelf. The curtains for the section aren't completely closed off, giving you a clear view of them from where you stand at the aisle just outside of it, and you’ve stacked those shelves enough times to know exactly what Clint is looking at. Something inside jumps at the thought of knowing which tape caught his attention, however superficially. Barely legal babysitters, a girl that Bobby, your shithead coworker has taunted you with by saying she looked an awful lot like you.

Your brow creases when you see him idly pick up the case, watch him study the image of the bubbly girl smiling cheekily. He puts it down, and then looks back at you. Your stomach drops, but you don’t look away. Heat floods the whole of you, a cold drop of sweat following the line of your spine. They leave without a word, but the look in his eye stays with you.

-

The heat turns on a week after that, blessed warmth blows steadily through the vent in your room, chasing away the chill that’s haunted the whole of your house. Clint walks in with your father that night, a tight smile greeting you in the kitchen. 

“Shit, I didn’t know you were home tonight.” Your dad frowns, take-out bags in his hands and something burns clean through. Anger, annoyance, embarrassment when Clint frowns in understanding. 

“I never work on Thursdays.” 

“Fuck. Okay well—“

“You serve yourself a full plate, and we’ll make do with the rest.” Clint speaks over your dad, that same tone you’ve heard a few times, the one that leaves no room for argument fills the tiny kitchen but you protest anyway.

“It’s fine. I can just go out and get myself something.” It should make you happy that he wants you to have some, but all you can focus on is the fact that it’s him that offers it and not your dad.

“Get yourself a plate, and fill it. Come on.” Your feet bring you to him, your hands reach for the cupboard and obey while your dad says nothing. 

“That’s it sweetheart, go on, grab as much as you like.” He opens the containers and urges you, his tone softening up into something warm, something almost nurturing. You smile up at him, taking a little bit of the sticky sweet orange chicken, you huff out a laugh when he tuts at how little you take. 

“That’s not enough. Don’t be shy, there you go.” He slides a few more pieces onto your plate before opening up another container.

“You want fried rice? Or just the steamed one?” His hands are scarred, his knuckles littered with the tiny silver lines of stitched over skin. His fingers are deft when they open the containers, for a second you imagine how they’d look opening up the button of your jeans, or the tiny ones on your favourite cardigan. 

“Veggies too, here have some broccoli.” He tips another container, piling the shiny, bright green vegetables onto your plate while you reign your thoughts back in.

“That’s more than enough, I won’t eat all of this.” He waves you away.

“Eat.” He urges, and with a shy, tight lipped smile and less than wholesome thoughts, you sit at the table and eat. 

Your dad serves himself after Clint, silently. His plate has perhaps half the food that yours does. 

“I won’t eat this all, you—“

“No, that’s yours. He should’ve considered his daughter before coming home without enough food. Next time he will.” Clint eats, impervious to the sulk on your dads face. 

The strangeness of it all isn’t lost on you, to have someone who is for all intents and purposes a criminal, going to bat for you against your own father. If this had happened a few years ago, if you’d been younger, more naive, you might have felt bad for your dad, you might have stuck up for him and defended his actions, but you aren’t that person. The shut off heat comes to mind, the unpaid bills over the years, the endless schemes to make a quick buck, the general neglect moves your fork across your plate. 

Clint catches your eye and winks, a cheeky thing that fills your body with heat, shoos away the very idea of neglect. 

Undeterred, your dad continues a previous conversation you tune out. Your eyes are fixed on the man across from you, on the breadth of his shoulders and the flex in the muscles of his jaw and neck as he chews through his bites of food. 

When they leave, the thought of him lingers. The sound of his voice fills your ears when you tuck yourself in, the heat of his form beside you fills your bed like a ghost, until you fall asleep and dream of that wink. 

-

It doesn’t register at first, but after the take-out fiasco, the meetings at your house tend to take place on Thursdays. They fill out the kitchen, talking about things you have no reference for, coded language regarding God knows what while you make yourself dinner, or tidy up, while you fold laundry on the couch. Little things pop up too, the fridge is full of food, a rare occurrence and part of you suspects that Clint is responsible. How novel, that the neighbourhood goon would push your father into providing. 

It shifts eventually, from an influence on your father, to him providing directly. It starts with a coffee, a warm, sweet one from the diner down the street given to you without a word before another video store meeting. Fresh donuts on another night, breakfast before a shift on another morning and although completely confusing, it feels a bit like a feral cat bringing dead mice to your door. An offering, a courtship? You shake your head, eat the food, drink the coffee, and enjoy the donuts. 

-

Rain pours, heavy and relentless as you finish up vacuuming the musty old carpet of the store. A loud sigh leaves your mouth, already shivering in anticipation of the short walk home in what is quickly turning into a fucking monsoon. A car pulls up in front of the store, idling just outside the door and you recognize it as Clints. 

“Get in!” He shouts from the open window when you open the door, pressing yourself as close as you can to lock it without getting drenched.

With a frown you stare at him, noting the lack of your father. 

“Come on, get in sweetheart, I’ll drive you home!” He reaches over, unlocking the door and you jump in as fast as you can. You don’t escape the water, despite it only being a few seconds your jacket is soaked, water droplets run down the back of your neck. He turns the heat up full blast and you’re more grateful that you know what to do with. 

“Thanks, what are you doing here?” You rub your hands together in front of the vent, soaking up the warmth. 

“I didn’t want you walking home in this.” His tone is simple, matter of fact. He drives slowly, the windshield wipers are working as hard as they can but the visibility is still trash. 

“Why?” 

“It’s pouring, you shouldn’t have to walk home in this, you shouldn’t have to walk home at all.”

“And why shouldn’t I–”

“Because.” The word comes out in a huff, almost annoyed–no, not annoyed, passionate, “If it were up to me you wouldn’t even need to work.”

Your mouth clamps shut, your mind races. Thoughts swirl as he turns slowly down your street. Heat that has nothing to do with the air blowing through the vents claws at your chest, curls in your gut and trickles to the place between your legs. 

He parks outside your house, dark and lifeless, coming up out of the concrete like a rotten tooth. 

“Why are you saying that?” The car rumbles, the rain pelts against everything. His eyes are hungry when they meet yours and the air in the car, in your lungs is gone. 

“Because you deserve to be spoiled. You deserve to be taken care of and loved–” the words are a tide, a great big wave on the horizon of a barren desert. 

“You definitely shouldn’t have to worry about bills or whether there will be heat in your house, you shouldn’t be taking care of your dad, he should be taking care of you.” A crack spreads through the veneer of the fantasy and clarity comes through. Where you thought he was confessing his feelings for you, it was actually a paternal worry. 

Embarrassment burns so much hotter than desire.

“I’m fine–”

“I know, I know you’re fine but I don’t want you to just be fine. I want you to be happy, I want you to smile.” He frowns, his big hand engulfing yours and it only makes you feel worse, until he pulls you in and presses his mouth to yours. He swallows the gasp, along with an unintentional whimper. His kiss is softer than you'd ever expected, a delicate, plush press of his lips to yours until your arms drift up to slip along his neck. He feeds you a sound of his own, a low, rumbling thing as he deepens the kiss. He tilts his head and slips his tongue past your slightly open mouth, slides along yours, licks deep until you moan.

When he pulls away the world is on its ass, your heart races and your pulse pounds both in your ears and in your cunt. 

-

His jacket thwacks onto the ground of your tiny bedroom. It’s accompanied by your soaked jacket, the discarded items surrounded by tiny pools of rainwater but you couldn’t care any less. His hands squeeze at the meat of your hips, they slide around to the small of your back, press you close to feel the heavy weight of his cock against your hip as he presses you down onto your tiny bed. 

The lust, the want is so intense it drips onto your inner thighs. It clouds any and all thoughts that aren’t about his tongue licking a hot stripe up your neck, or the look on his face when he kneels between your legs, when he sees the glossy lips of your sex, the wet spread of you begging for any part of him. 

His cock barely bobs, it lands like a brand against your cunt when he settles in the cradle of your hips, bracketed by your thighs. His lips engulf a nipple, his tongue swirls mercilessly around the sensitive peak and liquid fire burns clean through you. With a steady suck and a life-altering flick of that tongue he rocks his hips. His cock spreads your seam wide, coating himself in your arousal, the fat tip of it bumping your clit with every push and pull. 

There isn’t enough air, there isn’t enough room in your lungs. 

“So fucking wet for me huh baby?” He nudges at your nipple with his nose, his tongue licking at it again and again before he moves to the other breast. He sounds almost pained as he worships your chest, breathing hard through his nose as you stare in horny silence.

It’s so hard to focus on anything but the all-consuming heat of his mouth on your nipple, or the heavy weight of his cock against your mound but you try to take in the details of him. The scars on his golden skin, the freckles on his shoulders, the size of him on top of you, so broad he blocks the light when he moves up towards your mouth. He’s an eclipse, a dark, welcome shadow across your sky, across your life. Until him, you hadn’t realized how fucking bright everything had been, how blinding, how exposed.

“Gonna take care of you.” He kisses a path up to your neck, leaving both nipples wet and puffy. “Gonna fuck you how you deserved to be fucked, you want that?” He reaches down, pressing himself harder against your clit. 

An inhuman sound comes from somewhere in your throat, the part of your brain that forms words has left the building. 

He laughs, a cocky, self-assured thing. 

“Come on, pretty baby, tell me. You want my dick don’t you? Because I really wanna give it to you, but I gotta hear it. You gonna be my good girl and tell me?” The tip of his dick slides deliciously over your clit and it’s so good you might come just from the stimulation, it’s already building at the base of your spine, spreading through your hips like a warm bath. 

“Oh yeah, she wants me so fucking bad huh? Look at her, all wet, trying to pull me in, greedy little thing.” He moans almost to himself, looking down to watch himself tease you halfway to madness, 

“Please Daddy–” It slips out, unbidden, unmistakable and panic hits like a bucket of cold water. 

His eyes shoot up, silently pinning you to your bed and for a split second, you can almost pinpoint every single drop that hits your window. 

“I–I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I–” You scramble for a second, trying and failing to get out from underneath him. You don’t make it far, his grip tightens, his eyes dilate, a grin spreads across his handsome face. 

“Oh baby, that’s what you need huh? Just a daddy to take care of you. A real one.” His lips drift across your skin as the rain pelts harder, the soft glow of your lamp casts his face in shadows at this angle, the scar on his face looks more pronounced, his normally slicked back hair falls in soft tendrils. Something swells, an emotion you can’t really parse, it lodges itself in the back of your throat. 

“Let me take care of you, baby.” His kiss is gentle, his hands too, hitching your legs high on his hips. You’re wet enough that he slides right in, but the size of him bottoming out inside you makes you gasp out a surprised moan. 

“Holy fuck–” You swallow thickly, breathing deep despite feeling like his dick is in your lungs.

He lets out a deep sigh, licking his lips before he looks down to see himself stretching you open on his length. 

“That’s so fucking pretty, Daddy’s in there nice and deep.” His words send a shock of pleasure through your body, like a lightning strike pulling more and more liquid arousal to seep out around him. He sees it, and smiles big. 

“Oh you like that, you just wanna be my baby don’t you?” 

You want to answer, you want to use your words and pull him apart, make his heart race the way yours does but he pulls his hips back and thrusts in deep and every word falls out of your head, leaks out around his cock, comes out as a breathy pant. 

Your inner thighs burn, sweat beads on your skin and his, the slick rhythmic noise between your legs fills the space between you along with your heavy breaths. Rain pelts outside, lightning flashes, shining a spotlight on the vulgar tableau like a spotlight, like a camera flash for an image you never want to forget. 

He’s so fucking beautiful, so warm against you, so fucking hard inside you. His eyes take in the no doubt cock-dumb expression on your face and there is only desire in his gaze. The rest of the world falls away under the weight of it. One big palm skates up, squeezing at the weight of your breast, his thumb brushes against the sensitive peak before sliding up and pressing gently against the base of your throat. There is no threat, only the comforting feel of him holding you down, the reassuring feel of just how much of your skin his hand can touch at once. It sends a hot lick of desire up your spine. 

“Harder–” You pull him closer, canting your hips up to meet his thrusts, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist, the blunt ends of your nails digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders and he pulls his lip into his mouth at the sound of your voice. 

There is no preamble, no teasing, in a moment he’s up and kneeling between your legs. Those big hands are holding onto your hips tight enough to bruise, thrusting, and pulling you towards him at the same time. Your bed rocks, your breasts bounce, and your brain runs celebratory laps around itself on just how lucky you are to have found this man. 

His face is a frown of concentration, mouth open, dark eyes fixed on the way you leak around him, on the way your hands scramble for purchase on anything they can reach. He grunts, moving one thigh up so your calf rests against his shoulder and the other reaches down to swirl mind-blanking circles at your clit. 

“Oh god–” Your stomach tenses at the threat of pleasure looming, heat spreads and he doesn’t alter his movements, he doesn’t speed up. 

“That’s it baby, come on, you can do it.” He nods at you, his eyes guiding you into the abyss, his thumb in place and it’s almost there, you can taste it. 

“Come on, pretty baby–” He leans forward a little while keeping his rhythm, lining himself up and then he lets a glob of spit fall slowly over the target of his thumb and the thought, the act, the feel of that extra hot slip sends you over the edge. 

Your voice breaks with it. Your body clenches tight as a bowstring, and he only grips tighter, fucks you harder, swirls his wet thumb faster. Your pulse pounds in your ears as you ride out the high, the vulgar sounds between your legs only get louder, more obscene until he pulls out, and tugs at himself in tight, fast movements. The sight of him over you, bathed in shadows and silhouetted by the streetlamp outside, his arm flexing, muscles shining with exertion while he strokes himself above you is enough to reignite that desire in your belly. 

It’s only compounded when he lets out his own unadulterated moans, when he leans forward again and palms your breast, squeezing as he paints you in himself. 

He’s the most relaxed you’ve ever seen him after he comes. That constant tension you’ve come to recognize in his shoulders is gone, the scowl he wears in the video store is replaced with a serene, soft expression as he wipes his cooling come away from your skin after making his way naked and unbothered to your bathroom next door. A shyness creeps in along with the clarity of what you’ve done. Any stress you’ve leached away from him, seeps into your body the longer you lay there, naked and hyper aware of the shift in who he is to you. 

“You okay? I didn’t hurt you did I?” He tosses the damp washcloth into your laundry basket, but lingers beside you, sitting at the edge while you lay there, naked, damp and fidgeting. 

“No, no, not at all.” You take a deep breath, try to smile but he frowns, his warm hand settles softly, lightly on your belly. You can see the way he draws up, shoulders rising with the growing tension. 

“Are you upset that this happened?” There’s something slithering through the tone, through the undercurrent of his question and you can see it clear as day, doubt that you wanted this, doubt that you wanted him. 

“No! No, this was, it was great, really.” Your smile is real, and his eyes are intense, trying to decipher your words and your body language. You rise, shoving down that self-conscious chatter about your body, about the fact that he can see everything. 

“I–Clint, it was really good…I’m just, I’m nervous about what happens now.” Your hand holds his arm, breathing through and ignoring the mean little voice that focuses on his hand on your belly. 

“What do you mean?” His thumb rubs at your skin, frown in place.

“Well, what is this?” You gesture to the two of you, “not to be that girl, but what are we? You’re working with my dad, are we dating? Was this just a one night thing? Are we going to pretend nothing happened–?” Questions spill out, word vomit in his lap like a sick cat. 

“Okay, okay–” His hands land on your arms, sliding up to cup your cheeks and the tension leaves him again, a smile replaces the frown and you mirror the expression back, embarrassed. 

“I am happy with whatever you want. I would prefer this wasn’t a one-time-thing, at this point I don’t even think my dick would get hard for anyone but you, sweetheart.” He pulls you forward softly, but firmly to straddle him. 

“As for your dad,” He lets out an annoyed sigh against your shoulder, pressing a soft kiss there before shaking his head.

“I’ll be honest, I’m not sure he has a future in what I do.” He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t give you any details and you don’t ask. Your arms wrap around his neck, your fingers thread through the damp hair at the base of his skull. 

“So what happens now?” he pulls you closer, his strong arms make you swoon but you focus. 

“I’d like to keep seeing you. I’d like to take you out on a real date, show you off.” 

“Really?” Your teeth dig into the plump of your lower lip, heat spreads through every inch of you, pooling in the parts of you that are pressed up against the parts of him. 

“Yeah baby, of course, if you’d let me.” His smile is so soft, so sincere it bolsters you enough to pull you forward, his mouth begs for yours and you have no choice but to obey. It’s soft and sweet, and when you pull away your face is warm with the feelings swirling within. 

“I want that too, but–”

“What is it?” His hands stroke your back, soothing, strong, reassuring.

“Can we just keep it to ourselves for a little bit? I don’t want to deal with the drama of my dad. Not just yet.”

“Whatever you want, baby.” 

-

Your dad shoves himself into the kitchen an hour later, shaking himself off like a wet dog. Clint sits at your table, a steaming cup of coffee in his hands and the smile, the pleasant conversation between you is gone and it’s like he’s another person. 

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Your dad speaks to Clint, ignoring you completely, it doesn't phase you. The clench in Clint's jaw though, that makes you smile to yourself. 

“Why? I told you I would come find you.” He frowns, rising and putting his cup into the sink. 

“This isn’t going to work if you aren’t going to listen to me.” He leans against the counter, pointedly staring your father down. Your father crumbles. 

You rise, knowing whatever they have to speak about is none of your business. 

“Thank you for the coffee, sweetheart.” He says it as you walk away, tone cold but you smile anyway. His smell lingers in your room, in your sheets, wraps itself around you as you fall asleep. 

-

Your heart leaps, a staccato, tachycardic thing that would worry you if weren't for the recognizable shape of him entering the video store. He smiles a private smile, hands you another sweet coffee he knows you like from the diner. His fingers linger on yours when you take it from him. He pulls a warm pastry from one of the big pockets in his jacket, and gives it to you with a wink. Your face warms and suddenly, keeping this whole thing a secret seems so stupid. Every molecule of you wants nothing more than to jump over the counter and climb him like a tree, wanting to feel those strong arms wrapped around you. 

Your dad walks in, and the urge dies. The thought of his expression if he saw that is enough to curdle milk. 

“You busy on Thursday?” Clint asks low, uncaring and you shake your head no. “Don’t make plans.” He winks again, and then turns, and leaves you with the sweet taste of coffee in your mouth, wishing it was his tongue instead.

-

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[freshlovefein]

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ RAPPER!CHRIS X MODEL!READER HEADCANNONS

HEADCANNONS of rapper!chris and model!reader ,★

warnings , mentions of sexual themes, drugs, and alcohol.

read in DARK MODE!

. ⭐️ ݁₊ ੭ RAPPER!CHRIS HEADCANNONS ,

RAPPER!CHRIS , who’s stage name is ‘FRE$H LUV’.

RAPPER!CHRIS , who’s very needy when he is high and craves attention when he is around you and becomes very touchy until you give him the right attention.

RAPPER!CHRIS , who always includes something about you in his songs, expressing how much he appreciates you and loves you and always refereed as ‘my girl’.

RAPPER!CHRIS , who make you be included in some of his songs getting you to record your laugh or you saying his name and your voice mails you send him when he is on tour.

RAPPER!CHRIS , who’s always by your side when you are around his boys, as much as he trusts them in general he doesn’t trust them around you so he makes sure he is overly touchy with you when you are around them.

RAPPER!CHRIS , who had a bad reputation before he met you, but you changed his point of view on life completely once you both started dating.

RAPPER!CHRIS , who loves when you are being bratty because he knows he is able to fuck it out of you if you carry on — ‘you want me to f’you right here or sum?’.

RAPPER!CHRIS , who loves when you give him head in the studio when you come and see him there especially when he is in the studio working late.

RAPPER!CHRIS , who always makes sure he is at every single one of your shoots when you are shooting for brands and your runway shows, so you know he is your biggest supporter.

RAPPER!CHRIS , who only focuses on making as much money as he can, his musics, you and his brothers.

RAPPER!CHRIS , who is obsessed with having phone sex when he goes away for work, he loves hearing you moan his name and beg for him to come home because you crave him — ‘mmh, ma keep using those pretty fingers of yours until i’m back okay!’.

RAPPER!CHRIS , who’s lock screen is a picture of you from one of your lingerie shoots.

RAPPER!CHRIS , who doesn’t let you do any drugs, he doesn’t want you touching any of the shit he does other then weed because he loves your high eyes.

RAPPER!CHRIS , who loves snorting lines of your tits when he is in club.

RAPPER!CHRIS , who definitely likes it when he is rough with you when fucking you in doggy — he loves watching your ass bounce against him whilst covered in hand print marks from spanking. ‘good girl, keep bouncing that ass all on me,’. ‘s’good, ma taking me all in’.

RAPPER!CHRIS , who gets your initials on his grills and always makes sure he is wearing them when around other women.

RAPPER!CHRIS , who gives you money each week so you can treat yourself get your nails done, lashes new jewellery and a new set for you to wear whilst you ride him.

RAPPER!CHRIS , who has your initials embroidered on the passenger seat headrest in his car because you are his passenger princess.

RAPPER!CHRIS , who always makes sure your in his music videos if it includes any women in them as he doesn’t want to be touching anyone other than you.

RAPPER!CHRIS , who has your name tattooed on the inside of the bottom lip so when they are making out and you bite his bottom lip you can see your name knowing only you can kiss him.

. ⭐️ ݁₊ ੭ MODEL!READER HEADCANNONS ,

MODEL!READER , who sits on his lap when they are in social settings and you slowly pushes your self into him, you love teasing him in public.

MODEL!READER , who has his name tattooed behind your ear, when he holds your hair back when you are giving him head he strokes it.

MODEL!READER , who rolls his blunts for him whilst he is on the mic in the studio working.

MODEL!READER , who moans and dirty talks in his ear quietly when you are feeling horny and are out in public so he knows to come with you and find somewhere private to go — ‘my pussy is so wet baby just from looking at you!’.

MODEL!READER , who’s whole camera is full of videos of you going to his concerts and all you can hear is you in back of them as you are his biggest fan.

MODEL!READER , who is always mentioning him when you are doing an interview and getting him in your vouge beauty secret videos.

MODEL!READER , who dances on him when you both go to parties together, making sure all the girls who have been looking at him the whole night know to look somewhere else.

MODEL!READER , who buys yourself and him matching chrome heart bracelets.

MODEL!READER , who makes sure you invite him to everyone of your shoots that involves lingerie so he can pick his favourite one on you.

MODEL!READER , who always offers to give him road head whilst he is driving you both back home from being at the studio. — ‘lemme relax you baby, you look stressed’.

MODEL!READER , who models all the clothes you get sent by brands in front of him.

MODEL!READER , who does explicit photoshoots just for him, so he can keep the photos to himself so when he goes away for work he can touch himself to the pictures of you.

MODEL!READER , who has a huge walk in wardrobe in your home that you demanded chris’ to allow you to have.

MODEL!READER , who gives chris’ ‘fuck me eyes’ when you are both across the room from each other — you love too tease him at all costs.

© chromehrts 2025

⤷ back to , MASTERLIST ✧

[occamstfs]

Typecast Troubles

After turning down twink roles for too long, Henry needs work. Now. Offered one final lifeline in the role of Brutus, a stereotypical meathead, he has no choice to accept. Worry not, by the end of the audition he'll be more than muscular enough to embody the brute.

Here's an actor learning the hard way that some roles can change you whether you like it or not. Muscle growth and himbofication! Hope you enjoy! -Occam

Henry desperately needed some work. For a few years now he had been consistently acing auditions and getting roles, never a lead but never out of work. After being typecast one too many times as bitchy twink and gay best friend he was ready for something else.

Unfortunately for the C-inching towards D-list star the industry did not care about his desire to move on. Never was he in a position safe enough to turn consistent work down. It has now been long enough since someone’s expressed any interest in having him on set that the theoretical actor has begun to search for other work.

Inches away from applying to some unenviable job out of showbiz, his phone rings. Seeing it’s his agent Jeremiah calling, Henry slams his laptop shut and bashes his phone into the side of his head from the excitement. This does not distract from his anxiety at the pile of bills lying in front of him nor the fingers crossed that a solution is on the line.

“Okay Henry, I know what you said a few months back. I fought you on it at the time, after all why shoot yourself in the foot when you’ve got a mouth to feed.”

Henry’s halfway to agreeing and begging his agent to send his resume to every shitty teen drama and made for TV movie out there before he hears Jeremiah continue, “But, I think this little gambit might have paid off. The studio apparently asked for you by name, my friend!  Of course there’s still auditions…”

His agent presumably continues, explaining details about the show and its production, benefits for taking the job, people who might be part of the audition process, but Henry doesn’t hear that. Despite the mail pile filled with aggressive red text still sitting in front of him, with the prospect of work on the horizon, Henry’s mind is preoccupied with what the role is. The fact that he was asked for my name obviously ringing alarm bells that he’ll be back in the circuit of playing teens at least a decade younger than himself, “so what is the part then exactly? Do you have the script?”

There’s a clear hesitation as if Jeremiah isn’t quite sure how to broach the subject, “Don’t you worry now Hen, as demanded it is not at all like your usual stuff. No screaming yaaas or clapping back to your fag hag. No, no nothing the studios y’know, want you to do.” The agent pauses and resets, putting on a saccharine tone as if he knows he’s about to pitch shit as gold.

“Okay! So all goes well, you’ll be going in for a series regular role as Brutus! He’s well- I’ll just read the casting call specs: Brutish and barely literate, this oaf has a heart of gold and mind like a sieve, loves hanging out with his bros-” With each word Henry’s face scrunches tighter. Eventually he has no recourse but to interrupt his agent.

“Jere? What the fuck is this? They asked for me, specifically to come in for this? Is this some kind of a joke?” There’s another pause before Jeremiah releases the telltale sigh of a man at the end of his rope, “Look, Hen. Kid. I get it, you got these big ideas about dream roles and artistic integrity, but you gotta understand. This is what you got, what we got. You know the agency’s breathing down my neck about cutting dead weight. I- Look, you don’t gotta take the gig if it’s no good, but if you’re not willing at least hear ‘em out. I mean shit kid, you’re the one who asked for new ground yeah?”

Were his piling bills and draining savings not enough of a wakeup call, Jeremiah’s words were. Maybe it’s ironic casting, or an animated project, Jere probably said as much earlier when Henry tuned him out. He doesn’t really have a choice. After a prolonged groan, Henry pinches the bridge of his nose and gives in, “Ugh fine- whatever. Just send me the details and I’ll, I’ll do my best.”

Ever the professional, and hearing his client despondent,  Jeremiah shifts gears yet again, “Aces kid. Gonna be a star yet, remember they wanted you. They need you not the other way around. Sent you the information, let me know how it goes. Phone’s always on me.”

The audition is early the next morning, earlier than the actor usually prefers to be awake. The call said something about Brutus being an early bird which, whatever. Henry’s well past the luxury of getting to do what he usually prefers. He briefly tossed over dressing up in character, though checking his wardrobe there is simply nothing that would fit the bill of Brutus.

Instead, he just cleans up as he always does and heads out the door. Wearing a button up and borrowed shoes, with each step closer to the studio he must continually remind himself that they asked for him specifically. For reasons he can’t understand. For reasons he will hopefully understand soon. His questions certainly aren’t answered when he arrives.

Before the actor even enters the lobby the receptionist rushes to greet him, “You must be Henry Harris! We’re so excited to have you in today!” Escorting him to the elevator, Henry is on edge at just how much the secretary seems to be fawning over him. In between what can only be deliberate attempts at massaging his egon Henry catches a few strange remarks, ‘can’t wait to see what you become’ ‘hope you brought a change of clothes.’

It is upon this bizarre encounter Henry reflects as he rides the slow elevator up to the casting office. There he almost recoils away from the door as he’s greeted by another secretary, almost identical to the first who treats him similarly bizarrely. Frequently eying up the actor like a slab of meat, tossing cryptic wanting flirtations as they go. “Here we are! Director Marlowe’s office. Hope you have a productive meeting in there Brutus!”

Henry sneers at the strange escort, “It’s Henry.” For the first time he notices the glassy, almost mechanical look in the eyes of the secretary. Despite being too chatty in their time together, at this his guide simply tilts his head with a grin before turning away and wandering back towards the elevator. Under his breath Henry complains, “Ugh, already ready to write this whole thing off.”

“Mr. Harris, Henry, do come in!” Henry flinches as he turns to find the bearded tank of a man behind him. Welcoming him into the office with an outstretched hand, Henry shifts into his poised polished self and offers his own dainty hand to shake. “You must be, Director Marlowe? Thank you so much for having me in today! I simply cannot wait to see what you have in mind for me. This Brutus character is absolutely the kind of role I’ve been waiting for.”

The director’s wide toothy smile only grows wider as his face betrays nothing besides a desire to get this process started, “Please come in, come in young man, have a seat.” The director leads Henry to a cozy chair opposite his desk before going to sit down himself, “Of course Henry, after all what actor wouldn’t be excited at the idea of a role made for them in mind. Though let’s cut to the chase. You must be wondering why in the world we came to you for this role hm? Quite the leap from twink-phenom to thoughtless gym rat is it not?”

Henry was on the backfoot from the first moment he saw the man, his dark eyes and darker, well-groomed beard were more than enough to set the actor on edge. Now that the man has directly addressed the one line of question that has been preoccupying his thoughts from the moment he heard the name Brutus, Henry is not sure what his next move is to be.

Easily catching the smallest break in the actor’s facade, the director pounces, “Worry not Mr. Harris! Whatever questions you might have will surely be answered by the time you leave today! For starters though, I hope you won’t mind signing a small NDA and consent form? We’re trying something experimental with this show and we can’t risk the exciting details getting out early. I’m sure you understand.” 

Only now does Henry notice the contract sitting in front of him on the desk. This isn’t his first rodeo though and he’s no fool, his eyes narrow at the document and he begins to open his mouth to assert that he’s not going to even humor signing a document without legal advice. Though just as soon as the thought appears he’s reminded how lacking he is in funds for a lawyer. His desperation and curiosity begin to mount his waning caution.

Marlowe raises his hands, feigning sympathy, “Oh of course, by all means if you want to go through the document with a fine toothed comb be my guest, we also have a legal team on site should you need clarity.” The director has a few more droll lines planned on how excited they would be to have Henry on board, perhaps even revealing some of his hand to further entice the actor. Though this is unnecessary as the actor’s apparently even more desperate than they had assumed. 

Biting his lip and already kicking himself for the foolhardy action, Henry Harris signs on the dotted line. Caught off guard, the director frowns in surprise, “Well! Just like that is it? I do believe we can start this process outright Henry.” He reaches and tidies up the paperwork before filing into his desk. Templing his fingers his wide smile returns as he looks down at the actor who nervously stares off into space. 

“The network wants to try something new. I’m sure you’re aware original content is suffering on streaming and the powers that be are tired of finding new creatives. My solution is simple: mold actors into characters so truthful to themselves that the creation of content is simply second nature. Does this make sense to you Henry?”

Having signed away at least some degree of autonomy, wholly unaware just how deep a commitment he just made, Henry decides to focus on the matter immediately at hand, sighing. “Sure yeah. Why me? This guy’s supposed to be a gym bro right? I mean, just look at me!” Motioning towards his pale, purposefully thin body Henry scoffs before looking at Marlowe. 

The director’s expression shifts severe, chiding. “Now Henry. This negative self-talk, don’t you think it’s unbecoming of Brutus?” Henry reflexively rolls his eyes and scoffs, as he is wont to do. Or no, he tries to roll his eyes and does not. He tries to scoff but instead he finds himself nodding, agreeing. Brutus wouldn’t talk about himself like that. 

He glares at the director as underneath thoughts of Brutus slowly flowing into his mind, he realizes something greater than himself has happened. Something sinister has begun to influence his thoughts and he must understand the rules before it is too late. Having spent a solid chunk of change at drama school he is well aware of Faustian bargains. The director simply grins, exposing too-white teeth, “You were saying Hentry?”

Henry’s mouth squirms as the name hits him like a punch. He knows it was deliberate, he knows it is not his name. He struggles to decide if he should dispute it but instead plays along, clinging to his years of experience at keeping up the act. “Sure. Mr. Marlowe, I am of course quite excited to see where the studio goes with this. As you know I will do my best to fill Brutus’ shoes with aplomb. I love a challenge, and playing this character will be more than interesting.”

Pleased, the director sees blood in the water, “Ah yes. His shoes you say, now what size shoes would those be.” Henry, Hentry? hesitates, struggling to play whatever sick game of 4d chess this is. His attention flicks down to his shoes and he discovers just how supernaturally outmatched he is. He knows he’s a size 8.5. He squeezed his feet into size 8 shoes he borrowed from his corporate friend forever ago for this audition, so it’s no wonder his feet feel a little squeezed.

This does not explain how his feet seem to be pushing against the shining leather with each passing second. Hentry’s hand flies to his mouth as he gasps at his feet bursting the seams of his friends shoes. His shock is displaced by grunting pain as toes burst from dress shocks and shoes he does not have the money to pay his friend back for are left tattered on the floor. He feels his soles stretch wider than the soles as his toes splay further, flexing from the pain as they surge onto the carpet of Marlowe’s office. 

Clinging to reality in the wake of this impossible happening, pushing down the visceral bizarre feeling of his feet growing, stretching against socks before bursting from their containment, Hentry finds himself hung up on how much those borrowed shoes cost. Somehow making him more anxious than the fact his body has changed beyond his control. Drawing his attention more than the feeling of thicker soles and a wider foot flexing out of his control. Then from some recess of his mind comes a ripcord. What’s the problem? Why was he wearing dress shoes anyway, surely he should be wearing his gym shoes like always.

To the delight of the director, Hentry’s eyes shift slightly duller as he stares blankly at his feet as shoes begin to reform. The actor doesn’t hear the sound of leather stretching to hide his newly massive feet, doesn’t see as the tanned leather shifts to cheapening fabric, new laces bursting forth and knotting a few times over as the cheap shoes still struggle to contain feet that absolutely do not wish to be contained.

“Much of a runner are you Hentry?” The actor slowly shakes his head, uncomfortable with the memories that begin to surge through it. Clenching his jaw he can’t prevent his mouth from answering, his voice sloppy and slow, “y-yeah. Sometimes I’ll jog, I think? Gotta get the blood pumping before an- umph!-” Whatever admission of gym time that was surely coming is cut off as Hentry forces his arm into his mouth, doing everything in his power to prevent himself from finishing the sentence. 

The wheels have been set in motion however as, sticking out from well-worn ratty gym shoes, slightly discolored socks begin to worm their way up his legs. Launching up past his smooth ankles they struggle to reach too high as new muscular legs begin to form. Eyes determinedly ahead at Marlowe can’t help but steal a glance downward as his calves begin to itch and burn. His mind races with new memories of running on treadmills and down streets as his legs surge larger. New muscle fibers and thick curls strands sprouting forth with every must-be artificial memory. 

They flex in place as Hentry sits there. His calves bulge larger with every faux flex, soon enough they’re the size of baseballs yearning to burst from his dress pants. There’s no risk of this however as his pants rapidly pull up into shorts, exposing the hairy calves to the cold air of this corporate studio. They are however not nearly fast enough on the draw to make it unscathed as thighs larger than his waist begin to bulge into existence.

The chair creaks under the weight of his legs alone as his pale thighs send a few tears into his new gym shorts. Marlowe’s eyebrows raise in shock as he seems almost impressed. Seeing this, Hentry is unsurprisingly of two minds, though for their varied reasons they both yearn to address their boss’ surprise. Jaw slightly sore from pain, he removes his arm and allows his mouth mobility once more. His original self thoroughly convinced that the director's simply so impressed at how well he’s fighting back, Hentry can’t help but try and get a dig in. “Betcha didn’t think I’d put up such a fight huh big guy?”

Perhaps a sign at just how much his mind has been eroded already, Hentry fails to see through the truly pathetic performance Marlowe gives, “My my Huntry! Indeed my terrible powers have been unable to change you at all! Perhaps it is the strength of your legs that allow you to stand so strong in the face of my wicked ways!” He does a twee flinch back, leaving one eye locked on the actor to see his reaction.

Arms crossed and smirking, Huntry’s eyes narrow as he finds himself agreeing with Marlowe, that is after the name of course. His name is, uhh. Doesn’t it start with a B? His eyebrows knit together as he skips past this and tries to find what else is bothering him from the director’s words, his legs are built? He works hard for them after all? Squirming in his chair he feels his powerful ass push him higher as he fights the urge to stretch. 

Failing to hold back, he grunts as he stretches taller. His dress shirt coming untucked from the elastic waistband of gym shorts they had no right of being tucked into to begin with. Midriff exposed it is clear that changes have not arbitrarily stopped at his lower body. Across his thin torso muscle has begun to pack on from nothing. His clumsy fingers scratch at his waist as a treasure trail begins to prickle up and decorate his new lowest rung of abs. 

Eyes closed, Huntry’s mind is totally distracted by the pleasure of his body burning as it grows. Forgetting himself and where he is, Huntry feels his cock pulse as the growing pains of his massive form feel decidedly pleasurable. Feeling the beginning of new muscle on his chest his tight lips twitch into a grin as nipples larger and more sensitive are dragged against his button up by a growing chest.

In no time at all, under the frequent barely quieted moans of delight, his sleeves are strained by biceps  that must have taken years to grow. His blue balls become much more of a problem as he feels the fabric begin to tear, thick arms wholly outsizing the tight sleeves by an order of magnitude. Raised in a flex his veiny biceps send tears down the length of his sleeves as they refuse to be held back. As they refuse to be the scrawny twigs that they may have once been.

Huntry bites his lips he feels pre begin to stain his briefs, no, his jock. His shaky hand begins to reach down, getting so far as gracing his new thick bush of pubes before his quest for relief is interrupted  by the director clearing his throat. “Mr. Buntry? If you recall, we were in the middle of your audition?”

Buntry snaps back to attention, gasping in shock in a deeper voice at having been in such a compromised position in the middle of something so significant. His slightly thicker brows, now jutting out ever so slightly over his eyes, furrow again as he realizes he isn’t embarrassed. Though- why should he be. He’s just a dude, sometimes you gotta adjust right? Yeah. A dumb smile plasters its way across his face as his jaw thickens, his pretty boy appeal falling to the wayside as he shifts to become not quite leading man material, but someone who could easily play a soldier, a goon, a brute. “Whaddya need from me next boss man?”

Shaking his head Marlowe is shocked at just how well this has gone, “I believe you were about to take off your shirt. This is after all quite a physique intensive role if you recall.” Buntry guffaws and scratches his chest, seemingly pulling his pecs larger with every pass of his clumsy, calloused fingers. “Why didn’t ya say so boss huhuh!” He goes to unbutton the shirt before stupidly groaning as he finds obviously he’s not wearing a button up. 

The sleeveless garment has turned into a tank, slightly stained around his pits from deodorant that was instantly rendered obsolete by his heady musk, joined by a dark sweaty patch in the center of his massive chest. Eyes caught up on the strained shirt, he gulps as he tries not to get distracted by his pecs overhanging, by the unmistakable hard nipples showing through the tight top. Barely hanging in there, he gets his fingers under the hem of the shirt hugging his abs and yanks. It gets stuck over his head and he laughs again, trapped in a prison of his own design, pits exposed to the open air as thick curls blossom further from his underarms.

Marlowe’s smile flickers as he wonders if this process was almost too effective. Lost in thought he watches as Buntry stands and struggles to escape, knocking over the chair behind him. Eventually the shirt tears before coming off and the brute guffaws once more, “Sorry boss! Guess I don know my own strength huhuh!” Free from the shirt however, he does what he has done in every audition he can recall and begins to pose. 

Sweat courses down from his hairy pits and shines across his burly chest as he flexes and awaits Marlowe’s feedback. The director’s hitherto constant smile flickers as he wonders how he’s going to be able to run a set with a man who can scarcely find two two brain cells to rub together. Lost in thought he loses track of his polished persona and thorough plan and speaks aimlessly, sniffing the air he complains, “Do you smell that?”

The jock pauses his performance and turns to look at his own pits, bending his thick neck down he laughs and confirms that it’s him. “Huhuh Sorry bro! Thought you wanted me to come au natruale y’know! You’re always saying you want the real Brutus! Well here he is huhuh! Hup!” Grunting he launches into a most muscular, crab pose. 

Marlowe’s eyes widen as the actor refers to himself as Brutus. Clicking his tongue, the director can’t help but feel this has gone off the rails somehow. The plan was to create a perfect combonation of actor and character, but clearly something has gone awry, whispering ‘god damnit’ under his breath, Marlowe forces a smile back on his face as he addresses the man who has yet to stop posing, flinging sweat across the room with every clearly practiced adjustment. “Bunt- er Brutus, yes? Would you mind taking a load off?” 

The new bodybuilder smirks and nods with a “Yuh! No problem boss huhuh!” The director feels a migraine coming on as he sees the behemoth crash to the floor as he sits in a chair that can absolutely not hold his weight. “Oh shit! Sorry Mr. Marlowe!” His mouth is hanging vacant as he struggles to lift his impossibly heavy form. Panting as he often is, when Brutus stands he opts to take a load off on the directors desk.

“Pardon my asking, Brutus. But you are an actor, are you not?” The massive man scratches his defined jaw as his face finishes its transformation into a face that could sell any schmuck some protein powder, “Yeah guess you could say so? I’m always puttin’ out content y’know? Definitely a star huhuh.” A gym influencer? That Marlowe could work with. He temples his hands as he schedules a date to potentially give this process another go. See if they can’t bring back some of Henry’s refinement. These things are complicated after all.

Just to test the waters before concluding this ‘audition,’ Marlowe opts to toss out one final question, “Does the name Henry mean anything to you Brutus?” 

In response the man lights up, “Yeah! Course it does boss! That’s my- uhhh?” Somehow the perpetually confused man looks even more confused for a moment, scratching his balls he holds back from smelling his hand in front of the director before continuing, “‘S that my last name boss? Do I got one of those?” Marlowe waves off the questions, foolish of him to try that. 

“Let’s get you to the locker room hm, Brutus? The young man outside should lead you to the setup we have on site.” Without a second thought Brutus sprints out the door, like a dog chasing a squirrel. He runs right past the secretary, apparently already knowing his way around. Marlowe’s phone vibrates as he sees a text that the next actor is apparently on the way up. Some angsty goth who the network has requested to audition for the role of the show’s rich prep.

Hearing heavy footsteps racing down the hallway he wonders if they are biting off more they can chew. No matter though, these are not his calls to make. Still he sighs to himself as he checks the notes for his upcoming meeting, another tall ask, “No rest for the wicked,” Marlowe complains as a pale frowning form is ushered out of the elevator. This time perhaps he’ll try and take it slower.

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

So in The Pro Art says something like “letting you go back to your husband every day isn’t going to be easy is it” - in your mind would he eventually try and convince the reader to leave her marriage for him or would he just kinda accept that she’s not his and keep it as a relationship of infidelity?

the pro

Notes: Got a long-winded answer for you, nonnie.

Warnings: Infidelity; married Reader; coach Art Donaldson

"You could leave him, you know."

It's murmured against your hip. You don't look at him for a few moments; you don't move, and for a few beats, you don't even breathe. It's not the first time he's said it to you, but it catches you off-guard every time.

The first time, he said it right in front of your husband.

The fact that Art had become a near-permanent fixture on your husband's party lists was a blessing and a curse. It was always tantalizing to have him around, but it was also torture. You didn't allow yourself to be drawn away or followed as Art had that first night together. The two of you had agreed after the fact that it had been a reckless act, and that there was too high a risk of getting caught when the house was full of people.

It didn't stop you from fooling around at the house after lessons. It was still reckless, but you'd won the favor and trust of the house staff. They steered clear when Art came to see you, and turned a blind eye if they happened to see him going up or down the stairs.

You came to know every inch of Art's body as well as you knew your own—every scar, freckle, slope—all of it. You learned the taste of salt by lapping a bead of sweat off of the swell of his Adam's apple. You memorized the way a blush spread across his cheeks when you took his cock into your mouth, and the flutter of his lashes as he struggled to against his pleasure to watch—because he liked to watch. You held the memories of his touch, his kiss, his embrace when you went on business trips with your husband, and savored the scant phone calls that you managed to take and make with Art when you were away.

It was enough to get by, and enough to sate you through those parties when he was so painfully close—especially when you were subject to Art palling around with your husband. It was worse still when you'd become the butt of your husband's jokes, though these days, it was about how focused you were on your tennis.

You could see the tightness in Art's expression, the growing cracks in his patience as you forced a smile through tease after tease. But Art had widened his own smile and barbed his words:

"Careful. She could leave you any time she wanted."

You were stunned, and you knew that you weren't covering it well. But your husband hadn't taken it seriously in the slightest. His laughter had covered your shock as he clarified:

"For tennis?"

Art's eyes held your steadily as he lifted his glass to his lips.

"Sure," He agreed after a sip. "For tennis."

--

The next time Art mentioned it, you chalked it up to the heat of the moment.

Art wasn't always mouthy during sex, but sometimes, he seemed unable to stop himself. You had been away from one another for nearly three weeks—no practice or meetings, nothing but a handful of phone calls and a string of texts a mile long.

When you'd returned from your trip, you'd had to wait another week before you'd been able to sneak away and go to his place. You'd hardly been a step inside the door before he was on you. You didn't make it past the front hall before he'd had your tennis skirt shoved up, your panties pulled aside as he drove into you. His body was flush against yours, his hands grasping your hips in a way that you feared would bruise.

"Never letting you out of my sight again," He groaned, "I want you to leave him."

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, holding on for dear life as one of his harder thrusts made the table beneath you rattle, sending a stack of mail sliding to the floor.

But that had been months ago, and he hadn't brought it up since.

As you finally draw in a deep breath now, you force yourself to focus on his ceiling, your fingers tenderly combing over his scalp. You feel him shift against you, his chin resting on your belly.

"...D'you hear me?" He finally presses, and you sigh, knowing that you can't hold off any longer.

"It's not that easy."

"Sure it is."

"No, it isn't."

"You're making it difficult."

"Art."

"You could pack up your shit and walk out tomorrow."

"In theory, sure."

"And in practice. What the hell's stopping you?" Art pushes himself to get a better look at you.

"Besides the fact that I'd be broke?"

"I'll take care of you."

"...You already took care of me," You tease, letting your eyes lower between his legs, a teasing smile on your lips. But when you meet Art's gaze again, your find his expression hardened with annoyance.

"I mean it."

You roll your eyes, swinging your legs over the side of the bed and pushing yourself up.

"I don't have time for this."

"For what? A question?"

"It's not a real question, Art. You're being facetious," You insist, snatching your bra and underwear from where they've been tossed.

"I've never been more serious in my life—Hey, hang on a second," He pleads, taking hold of your arm. You go still, fingers flexing in the fabric of your clothing. Why does he have to do this now? The two of you are meant to be cuddling in your afterglow, not bickering like this.

"I am tired of sneaking around," Art presses closer, the heat of his body beginning to break down the icy wall that you're desperately trying to build up around yourself. "I hate seeing you fake smiles at those stupid parties, and I am sick of not waking up with you."

You squeeze your eyes shut as you force your upset down.

"Art."

"I'm tired of pretending that I don't think about you all the time—"

"Art, don't—"

"And I am tired of pretending that I don't love you."

It takes all of your strength to stay standing. You just manage to shake him off, lowering yourself to sit on the edge of the bed again as you try to keep your cool.

"Why would you say something like that?" You breathe. You feel Art's hands smooth over your knees and thighs as he kneels in front of you.

"Because I can't lie to myself anymore," He murmurs. "And I don't want to lie to you about it, either."

"Sometimes a lie can be a good thing." You scrub your hand across your face, trying to settle yourself. When you lower it, you find Art looking crestfallen. You shake your head, cupping his cheeks.

"I don't mean that," You insist. "I'm sorry."

"Tell me you don't feel it, too."

Sometimes a lie can be a good thing. But you know that if you manage it, you'll break this beautiful boy.

"You know that I do."

You watch Art's shoulders relax before he surges up for a kiss. You whine softly as he eases you back onto the bed, rolling his hips. You shiver as you feel his cock twitching and hardening against your thigh.

"You'll leave him?" He mumbles against your lips.

"Yes."

"Soon?"

"Yes."

"Promise me."

"I swear, Art."

"I love you."

You tip your head back, cupping his face and sweeping your thumbs across the swell of his cheekbones.

"I love you, too."

[cheralith]

about a secret admirer who sends you mysterious letters in the mail, describing your beauty and nature… so intricately… who sends you gifts signed by anonymous…

at first, they’re tame; nothing more than just a few lines of fawning love and adoration tagged along with the occasional bouquet of flowers or a plushie. you think it’s cute, even, and you try to guess who on earth this mystery admirer may be.

but when the letters start detailing about specifics that happened in your life (“has macbeth been faring well, beloved?” you only picked up the book just yesterday …) or you start receiving items that eerily align of your desires (“you’ll look nothing less of lovely in lilac.” reads a note placed on a purple skirt you were admiring outside a storefront just a few hours ago) … your giddiness slowly turns to unease.

you’ve grown a habit of looking over your shoulder every few minutes to scan the area for a familiar face, weary.

pausing in his tracks, your friend cocks his head and asks you what’s wrong.

you sigh, “you know that admirer i was telling you about?”

reo nods, perplexed and concerned at your pinched expression. “yeah. did he come back again? should i ask ba-ya to accompany us?”

you shake your head but thank him for the offer.

“yesterday. he gave me some expensive stuff…” you mumble. “like really expensive. he’s been doing that a lot, lately. first it was a perfume, then it was chocolates—gosh it’s all just so much.”

your friend hums sympathetically with a frown.

“yeah, that bracelet especially seemed really pricey,” reo remarks.

you open your mouth to agree with him, but you pause suddenly. you did just receive a bracelet from him, but that was quite literally only yesterday night… and you have yet told your friend about his latest gifts.

“reo,” you start slowly, “how did you know… he sent over a bracelet?”

reo freezes in place, spine going rigid.

uneasily, you turn to him with unblinking eyes. he’s wearing a tight and wide smile now—one that looks almost painful. you swallow dryly, not liking how his stare is so intently fixed on you.

“… reo?”

[coquelicoq]

how to write a sympathy card

so someone you know recently lost a loved one and you would like to extend your sympathy, but you have no idea what to say. here are some ideas to get the juices flowing. i did not even try to keep this short, so i've broken it up into four sections: general advice, what to include, some example cards i've written, and takeaways.

general advice

first, if you're reading this i'll assume that you have decided to express your sympathy in some way and just don't know how. the thing about doing this is it will always feel inadequate. it will often feel very awkward. you may be worried that everything you say sounds weirdly insincere even if it isn't. i'm here to tell you that that is all okay and normal and to be expected. i've written a lot of sympathy cards and afterwards i've never been like "wow, i nailed it!" and yet i've gotten a lot of comments from people thanking me for showing up even when all i did was send a measly insufficient card, because most people don't do that. it will mean something to the person that you did it at all, even if it's not perfect.

should you send your sympathy in a card or some other method? if you never send mail, if you don't have their address, if you don't even own stamps, maybe sending a card is not for you. but everything below also applies to an email you could send. i personally prefer a card because i like the physicality; it's something they can keep and look at later if they want to, and it's a way of showing a small amount of deliberation and care (i went to the store and picked this out; i sat down and handwrote this). more importantly, i feel like there's less pressure to respond to a card than an email, and a phone call can be overwhelming to someone who is already dealing with a lot of shit, while a card is just there whenever they feel up to looking at it. but that is entirely my own perspective; there are differences culturally as well as personally. you should do what makes sense for you.

do think about what you're trying to accomplish by sending this card. you may not be able to make things better, but you are certainly trying not to make things harder. one example of this might be: if your friend has just lost her mother, you might have a lot of complicated feelings about this that aren't really about your friend or her mother specifically (you also have a mother!), and that's natural and okay, but those feelings would perhaps be best to share with other friends of yours who didn't just lose their mother. another example: it's okay to be worried about your friend and how they're doing, but try not to imply that they owe you updates or that they're causing you a lot of stress by not keeping you in the loop. (of course, if they are instead sharing more with you than you can handle, it's important to set boundaries around that! though probably not through the mechanism of a sympathy card.)

it is okay to keep it really short and generic. again, i think just the act of thinking to get a card, getting a card, writing something in it, and mailing it already means something regardless of what is written in it. if you feel overwhelmed trying to figure out what to say, it is okay to keep it to "I'm thinking of you in this difficult time. I'm so sorry for your loss." i also sometimes add "I don't know what to say, except that [I'm thinking of you, etc.]."

one thing i've learned that makes this harder is that you cannot assume you know how anyone else feels. you may be thinking, "i also lost a parent, so i know how it feels," but you only know how you felt about it. there are infinite ways to feel about losing someone, including:

sadness for the deceased, that their life is over

sadness for themself, that the deceased is gone

sadness for the other people who lost the deceased

fear of their own mortality

fear of dying in the same way

fear of how their life is going to change without the deceased

relief that the deceased is no longer suffering

relief that their caretaking duties are over

relief that the deceased can no longer mistreat them

anger at the deceased for dying or for not doing something before they died

anger at god

anger at others/self for contributing to their death or not saving them

overwhelm from all the logistical things there are to deal with when someone dies

overwhelm from all the emotions

confusion at their own reaction

guilt for outliving the deceased

guilt for not feeling sadder or for feeling other things in addition to sadness (or for being numb/in shock)

this is an incomplete list!!!

i try not to project onto my friend or put words in their mouth, because it can be very isolating to be told how other people think you should feel if that's not exactly how you feel. because you're sending them a sympathy card, there is some baseline assumption that there is something to feel sympathy about. but beyond that i try to be careful not to get super specific about how "you must be feeling" or how hard "this must be". generally i try to avoid the word "must" because it implies that there is a certain way this is supposed to go, when there isn't.

if i know that they are struggling in some way but haven't talked to them much about it, i personally usually feel okay saying "Loss is hard" or "It's hard to lose someone", which might seem similar to "This must be hard", but avoids the word "must" and the direct reference to their situation ("loss" in general vs. "the particular instance of loss you are experiencing"). if i don't know much at all about how they're doing, i might say "Loss can be hard", which presumes even less, or i might not directly mention the difficulty of loss at all.

but also, it's okay to be more specific and personalized if you have been in contact with your friend as they've been processing the situation. it's good to acknowledge specific feelings that they've told you about, but try to also leave room for other feelings and/or ways their feelings might have changed.

what to include

here are some categories of sentiments you may want to include (all optional!):

thinking of you: even though it's kind of self-evident that you're thinking about them, this is something that is always appropriate to say and always nice to hear. examples: You're in my thoughts. I'm thinking of you often.

wishing you comfort/support: comfort and support are very safe things to wish somebody because they don't assume anything very specific about how they're feeling, and they express care for their wellbeing without putting pressure on them to be fine. I hope you can find moments of comfort in the coming days. I hope you're feeling supported by friends and family.

sorry for your loss: this is one of those things everyone knows is a stock phrase, but it's the kind of stock phrase that imo actually communicates something, so i do generally use it. I'm so sorry for your loss.

my heart goes out to you: this stock phrase is a little iffier, meaning it can be kind of a toss-up on whether or not it will sound insincere. it might depend on how close you are to the person. use your discretion. again, even things that sound insincere to you can still mean a lot to the recipient. My heart goes out to you. My heart is with you.

i'm here for you: offer logistical and/or emotional support if you want to and if you're reasonably sure that you could provide it. if you're able to be specific, that can be very helpful; one thing that can be overwhelming in the aftermath of a loss is dealing with lots of people wanting to help and having to come up with ways for them to do that. Please reach out anytime if it would help to talk about it. If you ever need to be distracted, I'm good at that! I'd love to bring over some food/help out with chores and errands; I'll text you to see if that would be helpful and not disruptive.

prayers: if you and the recipient are both religious/spiritual and it feels right to say, you could say "I'm keeping you in my prayers" or similar, in addition to or in lieu of "I'm thinking of you." if you are religious but the recipient isn't (or you're not sure if they are), i suggest not saying this, but use your judgment. some people don't mind hearing that someone is praying for them even if they don't believe in prayer and may in fact expect you to say it if you are known as someone who often expresses care through prayer, but for others, this can be actively offensive. i would say when in doubt, stick to "thoughts" instead of "prayers". You're in my prayers. I'm praying for you.

there are many ways to grieve: this one is harder to describe, but i like to include something that validates whatever the recipient may be feeling, despite not knowing how the recipient is feeling. the downside of a card is that it's not in real time, so you really have no way of knowing how your friend is feeling when they read it, even if you talked to them previously and know how they were feeling during that conversation. so i like to, in addition to not assuming any particular emotions, make space for the fact that their emotions may be shifting in ways that are confusing or distressing. but you have to be kind of vague about it, because you don't even know if that's happening. I hope you have the space to grieve in whatever way you need to/is meaningful for you. I hope you're getting through this time in whatever way is best for you.

you may want to express your own grief over the loss of this person, if you knew them. i think this can be comforting for the recipient to hear, but i suggest keeping it brief and not overwrought. the last thing you want is for your friend to feel they have to manage your emotions in addition to their own. if you can, do the below instead of or in addition to this.

now i will share my LIFE HACK!! for the very best thing to put in a sympathy card. this will not always be possible, because it relies upon a) you yourself having a relationship with the deceased (which is not always the case) and b) you being able to remember things (which i often cannot, especially when i'm sad). but if you can, i highly suggest something along the lines of the following.

say what you will remember the deceased for. (I will remember them for their wry sense of humor. I will remember them as a compassionate/driven/curious person.)

give an example of a memory you have of them in which they exemplified that characteristic.

if you can't do both, it's also good to do just one and not the other. if you have a favorite memory but it's too hard to think of adjectives to attribute to them, just share the memory. if you tend to think of them as [positive adjective] but no specific evidence is coming to mind, that's okay, this isn't a debate. in general it is comforting to people to know that they are not the only ones who will remember their lost loved one.

example cards

i will now give some examples of cards i've written. these all feel really awkward and inadequate to me, and you can see i didn't always stick to my own advice! but they were all deeply appreciated.

[to my coworker. i didn't have much detail except knowing her dad had been in the hospital a lot, and she was sad that he died]

I was so sorry to hear about your father. It seems like the last few years have been hard on your family, and loss is especially hard. I hope you are able to take the time you need to be with your family and cherish your memories of him together.

[to my friend's mother after the passing of her husband. i knew from talking to my friend that her mom was struggling especially with outliving him, because she was sick and had expected for a long time to die before him]

I'm thinking about you and [friend's name] a lot. I'm so sorry for your loss. Losing someone is so hard. Adjusting to their absence is, too. I hope that you're finding moment of comfort and feeling supported by friends and family. He will be missed. I will remember him for his wry sense of humor; I still have a "card" from him on my fridge (he cut out a sample "thank you" card greeting that said "The smallest good deed is better than the grandest intention" from a list of things to write in different kinds of cards (a sample message for a "Get Well Soon" card was on the back, crossed out) and simply added my name at the top and his name at the bottom. It's one of my favorite pieces of mail I've ever received and it's been on my fridge for many years). I am so sorry that he's gone. You are in my thoughts and my heart goes out to you.

[to my close friend and her husband i don't know as well, after a late-term abortion for a baby they had been very excited to raise. in this case i knew some of my friend's feelings, but not her husband's, and while i knew that many things about the pregnancy had been hard (lots of waiting for test results about the viability of the fetus, for one thing), i didn't want to imply that the decision to abort was hard, because my friend said it wasn't]

I'm thinking of you both lots. I'm so sorry for the loss of your baby. It sounds like it's been a difficult and fraught process, and I hope you're getting space and time to grieve and to come to terms with the loss. I hope you're getting whatever kind of support you need. If there's anything I can do to help, whether logistical or emotional, please let me know. I would love to be of service to you. I wish I knew what to say. You've just had such a fantastically shitty year. I do believe that things will get lighter for you both, and I hope that happens soon. Take care, and know you are cherished.

[to my grandmother after the loss of her estranged brother, when i was extremely unsure how she was feeling about it and had my own complicated emotions]

I just wanted to send you a card to say I'm thinking of you. Mom let me know about Uncle [name]. I know things had been strained for many years and I haven't seen him in a long time, but I'm sorry to hear that he's passed. I hope that you and [grandmother's sister] are able to reminisce in whatever way feels appropriate and meaningful to you. I'm not sure what else to say, other than I'm thinking of you, I love you, and I'm sorry. It was really nice to see you at [family member's] graduation the other day. The next time we're together, I look forward to giving you such a big hug! I feel very lucky to be your granddaughter and to have you in my life.

[to my grandmother after the loss of my 38yo cousin, which was hitting me really hard]

I don't know what to say, but I just wanted to tell you that my heart goes out to you and that I'm thinking of you, and [cousin], and [uncle], and [father], every day. It's so hard to lose someone, and I'm so sorry for your loss. My grief is a strange animal that sneaks up on me at the strangest times. I hope you are finding moments of comfort and feeling supported by friends and family. I'm looking forward to the day when I can hug you in person.

[to my close friend on the loss of her father after a long illness. she had been leaning on me for support, as another person who has lost someone after a long illness]

I'm thinking about you lots. I hope you're getting through this time in whatever way is best for you. Loss is hard even when you know it's coming and even when you get to say goodbye. I hope you are finding comfort and feeling how loved you are. He was a special person, and I'm so sorry he's left you. I know part of him will live on in you and the other people who learned from and admired him. It's still so hard to lose him, and grief is a strange animal. Take care. Reach out anytime. I love you so much.

takeaways

it will probably feel inadequate to you, but chances are it will still be appreciated.

remember that though you may not be able to make things better, you are trying not to make things harder.

it is okay to keep it really short and generic.

you cannot assume you know how anyone else feels. there are many ways to grieve. that said, it's nice to acknowledge any specific feelings your friend has expressed to you, while also leaving room for other feelings you may not know about.

if you want to offer support, it can help a lot to be specific in how you are able and willing to help.

it is usually comforting to people to know that they are not the only ones who will remember their lost loved one.

even if you do it awkwardly, just the act of reaching out is meaningful! people don't know you're thinking about them unless you tell them.

and remember to take care of yourself, too! watching friends lose loved ones can be hard for you as well for a variety of reasons. reach out to other friends for support when you need it.

[revelboo]

Sending you the blokees update, in a fascinating twist somehow starscream beat the order of Megatron and shockwave??? My dude what foul play did this boy pull to manipulate the mail deliveries?

(He stole a crown too it seems)

Murder, most likely

True Romance Pt 13

Seeker Trine x Reader

• Stretching your arms over your head, you watch Thundercracker fussing with your blankets. That tension you’d felt that afternoon outside is still pulling at you. Feeling it in the way Thundercracker glances at you and catches your eye, feeling like there’s something unsaid right there. And then his wings flick and he resumes adding pillows and blankets to what’s essentially a nest on the edge of Star’s berth. Though, you never sleep there anymore. Every night, they alternate and you sleep sprawled on one of them, a massive hand draped against you so you don’t roll off in your sleep.

• Wings flaring slightly knowing you’re watching him, he keeps adjusting your nest. Perfecting it so you have a soft spot to rest when they’re out on patrol. And preening for you as silly as it is. Liking that you’re looking at him, wanting to pick you up and run his servos over you. Reaching, he gently hooks a servo around you and tugs you to the nest. Bracing a hand on the berth as he lifts you and carefully drops you in the middle to make you suck in a sharp breath in surprise and startling a laugh out of you. Leaning over you as you smile up at him, sprawled in the space he’s made for you, he wants to brush his mouth against you. To mass displace and pin you under him. Maybe just hold you. Instead he runs a servo over your hair. “This good?”

• “It’s great. Thank you,” you say and Skywarp glances over, frowning as Thundercracker leans over you, big frame blocking you from view. Realizing he’s jealous of his brother. That he wants to be the one providing for you and it’s crazy, but he wants it. Sliding off his berth, he shoulders up against Thundercracker, feeling his brother stiffen as he brushes his wings with his own. Leaning his arms on the berth, he grins down at you. Thinking he likes the way you look like that, hair spread out around your head, limbs spread out. “Hi?” You whisper and he lowers his chin into your nest, nearly touching you. Aware of Thundercracker growling softly beside him.

• Now they’re both looming over you, their shadows falling across you as those red optics stare at you. Making you strangely self conscious as you try to sit up and Skywarp drapes a servo over you to pin you flat on your back. There’s something almost predatory in his expression when Skywarp grins at you and Thundercracker rumbles. Knowing he’s just picking at you like he always does to irritate you and Thundercracker both. “You belong to us, don’t you? To our Trine,” he says, and he’s grinning like he’s teasing, but there’s an edge to the words. A hunger that makes you squirm under his servo. “You’re ours. We take good care of you, don’t we?”

• “Stop it,” Thundercracker growls, grabbing his brother’s wrist. Even if those low, possessive words ring through him and spread warm in his spark. Because you are theirs and they’re yours. Something he’s been sure of for some time now, but afraid to voice. Not wanting to be shut down by you or his brothers. But watching your movies, seeing those love stories? He wants that so much it hurts. Wants a soft, warm mate who’ll be happy to see him, who’ll reach for him and welcome him into your arms. “He’s not trying to scare you,” he reassures you, getting lost in those eyes looking up at him. “You just- we care for you.” Hating those words and how inaccurate they are.

• Why does that dark, hungry claim of Skywarp’s make your skin prickle all over? It’s all possessive, but not the way you want it to be. That thought shocking through you, realizing you do want that. When had that happened? When had you started thinking of them as yours? Your Trine. Even if it’s only going to hurt you in the end. Lips parting as Thundercracker glares at Skywarp, his knuckles brushing your leg and Skywarp’s servo still splayed against you to keep you from moving. “I know you do,” you say, reaching to touch them both. And you care about them, even though you know they see you as some sort of exotic pet to pamper and spoil, not a person. Certainly not an equal. Knowing that you can never be more than that. Their pet.

Previous

Next

I'm a screw up of epic proportions

A walking hand grenade

Hyper-manic, a dime store dramatic

A conduit for pain

She said, "Don't speak, don't think

Just take it off, take it off"

I said, "Don't speak, don't blink

Just mess me up, mess me up"

Humming a slightly varied tune

Opposite angles of the moon

Buried in layers of ourselves

Leaves room for no one else

I believe it's true

Cause nothing matters when I'm all wrapped up in you

[tf2occontest]

The Courier VS Armani & Marcel, The Decoys VS The Therapist

(Final round! No match-up list here)

Alright team, here's a recap: This is a contest to determine who amongst you will take the top of the leaderboard and be hired at TFI! Simply put, whoever gets the most votes wins the contest, and whoever doesn't... Well. They'll be put down swiftly and cleanly. :}

So, mann your stations, because here are your FINAL contestants! Vote for your favorite mercenary who you want to win the TF2 OC Contest! - P

OC INFO UNDER THE CUT!

We highly encourage you to take a peek to make your decision!

The Courier

@sicc-nasti

Image credit: @/sicc-nasti

Do you like receiving your mail on time and your packages in pristine condition - untouched by curious hands and peeping eyes? Do you love when your woefully embarrassing love letters filled with poetry from your soul are delivered with the utmost care and secrecy? Does it fill you with glee when your special snacks you ordered overseas finally make its way into your hands and not a SINGLE piece is missing?

If you said yes to any of these questions then WOW do I NOT have the guy for you!!!!

Instead-

TFI presents you something you didn't know was possible OR legal - weaponized postal services!

Meet your 10th Class-

The Courier!

By intercepting and opening someone else's mail, an individual can gain access to confidential information that can be used for identity theft, fraud, or other illegal activities. And we wouldn’t want that, now would we? That's why our solution to this simple problem is bringing the mail to the battlefield! Courier is equipped with MANN CO approved disposable stackable mail crates for your climbing or shielding needs. Just think of how nice it would be to build a tower to do taunts on or have cover from that enemy Heavy's hail of bullets. Sure it's clunky but nothing shreds paper faster than a bullet - that's science tested and math approved by TFI scientists! And monkeys!

Courier is THE MANN for the job.

If that ain't enough to catch your attention, let's take a peek at the men behind the uniform.

RED’s Courier is a Puerto Rican ex-felon hailing from the greatest place on earth! New York City! With an insatiable appetite for all things fraud, deli meats, and violence - what more could you ask from a guy?

BLU's Courier is a Puerto Rican-Italian ex-con plucked from the greatest place on earth! Jersey City! With an insatiable appetite for all things smuggling, deli meats, and violence - what more could you ask from a guy?

Not enough for a vote?

Well, listen, I'm not above bribery. If you vote for them, Courier promises to not read your mail for like a week and INSTEAD- will write you up a totally not fraudulent marriage certificate to any merc you want!! Just think! Finally legally married to Heavy! Or Engie! How’s that sound for incentive, boss?

THROUGH RAIN, SHINE, BULLET HAIL OR SNOW, THEY’RE YOUR COURIER.

VOTE FOR COURIER IN THIS UPCOMING TF2 OC CONTEST

Maybe there’ll be enough in the budget for a third one!

Armani & Marcel, The Decoys

@friendlyengie

Image credit: @/friendlyengie

When your job description is to be as obnoxious as possible, obviously you’re going to send in a clown! Armani is a Decoy, which means his purpose is to get on the field and draw as much attention to himself as possible. Sure, it probably means he gets killed frequently, but isn’t that half the fun?

Personally, Armani is rough and over the (big)top. He’s Italian, too. If that helps. If it doesn’t ignore that part. He’s got the flowery language exaggerated expressions of a performer and absolutely none of the social tact. He’s loud and in your face and simply does not care! Take him or leave him, baby! (Please take him.)

Marcel is just a guy. A little man. His mime-specific approach to the decoy class means he’s a lot less loud shouting and japes, and a lot more inconvenient tricks and hiding where you just can’t see him. He saves his breath unless he has the chance to be really funny. As a person, Marcel is eccentric and expressive. Cartoonishly so. A man of few words, since said words can only be spoken when he pulls the string on his back, he normally conveys his thoughts through actions instead. He’s annoying, and he wants you to know that specifically. He’s charming enough that he can make people forget how obnoxious he is just long enough for whatever stunt he pulls next to come out of nowhere. Ain’t he just so charming?

The Therapist

@hazardtoons

Image credit: @/hazardtoons

You wouldn’t expect an organisation like Team Fortress Industries to invest in something like mental health treatment for its hardened soldiers. The one giving them this generous care is a woman only known by those who work at the company as Therapist - a seemingly well-intentioned lady there to give everything from a shoulder to cry on to someone to seek advice from.

There is a catch, however. Not all the information she gathers from her clients is used for good. Underlying that comforting presence is another tool of oppression used in the company.

[quinnydoll]

A Good Companion Doll

There are many kinds of doll, as there are many kinds of Purpose for them. It would be quite the labyrinthine task to name every type, but if we were to boil them down to three base categories, we could classify most doll types under the following:

Service Doll

Combat Doll

Companion Doll

Service dolls are often for domestic or commercial use. Their job is to complete a task, and be polite and pretty while doing it. This, much like the other descriptions for today, is an incredibly broad simplification, but for our purposes, it is sufficient. These dolls are your cooks, maids, landscapers, mechanics, delivery workers, and many other things. There are some Purposes for Service Doll subsets which would be unnecessary and inappropriate to name, but much like all dolls who fulfill their Purpose, we can consider them from an outside perspective to be Good Dolls.

Combat dolls are implemented into military and security roles. Their job is either to eliminate or protect. The Purpose of a combat doll tends to be quite straightforward, as long as they're properly commanded by a good Witch/Miss/Handler. Combat dolls come in a diverse range of shapes, sizes, and constructions, but their Purpose tends to remain the same. Just like Service dolls, all who fulfill their Purpose, we can also consider Good Dolls.

Companion dolls occupy a space outside a singular implementation for use. They are often used for service, and sometimes used for combat, but as the category seems to suggest, they are intended first and foremost for companionship, and the tasks that may come along with it. Whether you need a doll to reciprocate affection, or one to entertain your guests, a companion doll may be suitable for you. These dolls can often be fickle, however, and without a clearly defined Purpose, need reassurance when they are in fact, Good Dolls.

"This one is a companion doll, Miss. B-but it's not a Good Doll..." The ball jointed hands of the companion doll having just read the pamphlet that came in its box fall to the soft, frilly apron of its maid dress.

The woman who's opened the box for the newly refurbished synthetic confidante gently slips the paper out from between its fingers, weaving her hands between them instead, "Surely that can't be, sweetie. I'm sure you're a perfectly fine doll!"

The doll shakes its head suddenly in response, "Its defined characteristics for itself being a Good Doll are, service to its Miss, refusal of hostility to all classified as Entities, and unconditional love to all Entities it cares about!"

The woman looks puzzled at the response from her new companion, "But you've been sweet so far... The chats we had before they mailed you to me seemed to suggest to me that you're a Good Doll!"

"It hurt someone, Miss... The one it believed it was going to be with forever. Its love is meant to be unconditional, how could it forget? It couldn't be romantic love anymore, but that shouldn't have made it conditional..." The doll's expression is downcast, and full of sorrow.

The woman leans in and wraps her arms around the doll, "You still care about this person, yes?"

"It does, Miss..." The doll's voice rings out quietly, nearly inaudibly, but still there. She picks her doll up and allows it to lean back in her arms, now nearly cradling it, "Then you're still capable of loving them, aren't you?"

"It... It is, Miss! And it will. It does, okay, this one does!" The doll stammers as it processes the message its new Miss is trying to send it, as its statement ends in mild excitement.

The Miss smiles as she looks into her dolls eyes, "Good Doll."

The companion doll leans up and hugs its Miss tightly around her shoulders, happy to have received this reassurance. The Miss returns the gesture in kind, tightening her grip around it as well. She's read the pamphlet as well, and knows how much her doll needs it. She needs to make sure her companion doll knows that it's a Good Doll.

"Thank you, Miss. A-and it loves you, too..."

[komoboko]

𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐚 𝐭𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐜𝐬

ft: Gyomei Himejima, Sanemi Shinazugawa, Obanai Iguro, Giyu Tomioka, Mitsuri Kanroji, Muichiro Tokito, Kyojuro Rengoku, shinobu Kocho, Tengen Uzui

hi i forgot i have a tumblr account this was an unfinished drafts so i just decided to finish dis

# gyomei ! ☆

GYOMEI can’t really text, he can’t even read your text.. the only time he has is when muichiro came over and read the text for him. You were then hit with a very long and dragged out voice message about what he did today, how he loves you and asks you to come by and visit his estate. You appreciated it but that was the first and last time you texted gyomei.

# sanemi ! ☆

A bit of a dry texter if I had to be honest with you. Not completely that its annoying but SANEMI isn't super energetic either.. that's only if you can properly get him to text you. He's rarely on his phone and when he is he rarely ever goes out of his way to read or respond to anybody's text messages. Luckily Sanemi "waste his time" in his words and actually responds to you and on the rare occasion hits you with a "i love you" instead of calling you dumb.

# obanai ! ☆

Another very very dry texter, excepts OBANAI actually answers your text messages. Sometimes. He loves using those text reactions instead of sending a proper message, or other times he just uses "👍" instead. When he does text its always to remind you of something or asks you a question he would rather say online. There are those times where he blames kaburamaru for slithering over his keyboard when he sends you a heartfelt message.

# giyu! ☆

Is much much much worse than sanemi when it comes to not texting people. You rarely if ever get a proper text message from him, to the point you question if he even owns a phone. GIYU always tells you that he prefers to properly adress you in public (he has yet to figure out how to use facetime when he said this) and he just likes to see your expression. Though when giyu did figure out facetime exist you get a call once a night just so he can tell you he loves you and properly see your face.

# Mitsuri ! ☆

A very VERY energetic texter. MITSURI practically texts you every single second she has!! She also absolutely loves informing you on anything that happens during the day making sure she always sends you a selfie or two before the day ends. Probably one of the people on this list who texts you more than you do by a mile. She just has so much to tell you! She's also obsessed with using filters so most of her photos of herself and you have a filter on them (her favorite is the pink dog face one).

# Muichiro ! ☆

MUICHIRO gives giyu a run for his money when it comes to never texting you at all. Yet unlike giyu who just likes seeing you in person (Muichiro does too of course) Muichiro just forgets. If he doesn't see you text immediately then you'll get a response in approximately 3 days. You probably have to call him just to tell you to respond to your text. Atleast he makes it up to you by hanging out with you in person.

# Kyojuro ! ☆

You're sure his phone must be broken because you've never seen KYOJURO type in lowercase before. Another person who texts you alot but less than mitsuri. He always tries to make sure to send you morning and good night texts (he wakes up at the crack of dawn and goes to sleep at 9:30 p.m on the dot). Also somebody to send those really cringey gifs constantly. You without fail always get a "HAVE A GOOD DAY! I LOVE YOU AND I'LL SEE YOU SOON!! 🔥"

# Shinobu ! ☆

Unlike some of the people on this list she texts you on a regular but casual basis. SHINOBU always make sure to text you atleast once a day, the only problem is she texts you like she's sending a lettter in the mail. Every single message has 'Dear.. and From, Shinobu Kocho" and she has the most on point grammar you'll ever see. Her little letters would be really romantic if you actually got the physical letter instead of the text message.

# Uzui ☆ !

A wild card when it comes to texting but UZUI usually texts you frequently. Another person who is obsessed with using emojis and also uses the "✨" because he claims its the most flamboyant emoji his phone has. He takes alot more selfies of himself compared to Mitsuri and always asks you to rate them for him. His wives usually are the ones who texts you with more sense, all of you are in a groupchat (excluding tengen) that you gossip in.

[candycandy00]

I Got a Goth Santa Boy for Christmas! - A Dabi x Reader Fanfic

You ask Santa for a hot goth guy to fuck you stupid. Dabi shows up at your door. 

Smut. 18+. Fem Reader. Dabi as Santa’s Helper. Spanking. Degradation. Humiliation. Squirting. Faint Praise. 

Dividers by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more!

Part of CandyCandy’s Kinkmas 2024!

It’s Christmas Eve, a little before midnight, when you hear a knock at your door. You’d just settled in with a mug of hot cocoa and a blanket on the couch, ready to watch looping classic Christmas cartoons as you fall asleep. But before Santa can even begin bullying poor Rudolph, you get interrupted. 

Sighing as you peel the blanket off and sit down your mug, you wonder who could be knocking on your door at this hour. You went to a small Christmas party at a friend’s house earlier today, but if you’d left something there they would have just texted you, right?

The knocking is getting insistent as you reach the door. “Alright already!” you yell as you unfasten the lock and swing the door open. “Stop knocking so loud on Chris-“

Your voice dies in your throat, because what you find on the other side of the door is a very strange sight indeed.

It’s a man in a bizarre Santa suit. The parts that should be red are jet black, and the edges of the coat are frayed and stitched at odd angles. He’s wearing black gloves and boots, both a little too stylized and a little too shiny leather to fit the Santa look. His hair, what you can see of it beneath the black Santa hat, is snowy white and his eyes are bright blue. He has piercings dotting his face and ears, but what strikes you most of all are his scars. 

Rich purple burn scars cover the lower half of his face and form half circles under his eyes. They contrast beautifully with the blue, making his eyes seem to glow. 

He’s gorgeous. And he’s so very much your type that if a friend saw him out in public, they’d snap a photo of him and send it to you. 

You finally find your voice again. “Uh, can I help you?”

He looks at you with an almost bored expression. “Yeah, I heard a naughty little slut lives here. That you?”

Your jaw nearly drops. “Excuse me?!”

“Oh? Did I get the wrong place again?” he asks, pulling an electronic tablet from his coat and tapping the screen to turn it on. He looks from the screen to your face, then holds the tablet out for you to see. “This is you, right?”

On the screen is a picture of you with your name and address beneath it. “That’s me,” you say, “but I’m not a slut!”

He pulls back the tablet and taps the screen a few times. “Really? We got this letter from you. ‘Dear Santa, send me a hot goth guy to fuck me stupid for Christmas!’ Didn’t you write that?”

Your face immediately burns with embarrassment. You did write that. As a joke. And you never showed it to anyone, much less mailed it. How the hell did this stranger get ahold of it?!

You cross your arms defensively. “Even if I did write that, as a joke, it doesn’t mean I’m a slut!”

He taps more on the tablet. “Maybe not, but Santa’s surveillance network is pretty good. We’ve got these videos of you playing with yourself every night.”

“WHAT?!”

Suddenly you hear sounds coming from the tablet, your own voice moaning and crying out in pleasure. The stranger grins, and you can see him using his fingers on the screen to zoom in on something. 

“Wow, look at you go! If this ain’t a horny little slut, I don’t know what is!”

You lunge forward, trying to grab the tablet, but he jerks it out of your reach, holding it up high. On the screen, you can see your own fingers rubbing your clit. “Turn it off!” you scream, absolutely mortified that this hot guy is seeing something so private. How did he get these videos?!

“Oh? Gettin’ worked up?” he asks, laughing as you continue trying to grab the device. 

“I’m not a slut,” you yell out, “I’m still a virgin!”

Both of you freeze. Did you just yell that out to a complete stranger? He’s staring at you, the video still playing, your cries reaching a crescendo as you cum on screen. His eyes flick back to the tablet. “Holy fuck. Never seen a virgin squirt like that!”

You feel tears stinging your eyes. You glare at him in silence for a moment, then step back into your apartment and slam the door in his face. 

“Hey, don’t be like that!” you hear him shout through the door. “I’m your present! You asked for me, right?”

“I didn’t ask to be humiliated!” you yell back. 

You hear him sigh. “Look, it’s not a big deal, okay? You’ve been good enough to get your wish granted, but Santa thinks you’re spending’ too much time flickin’ the bean. I’m supposed to punish you, but in a fun way, yeah?”

“What do you mean, in a fun way?”

His voice is sultry as it glides into your ear. “Let me in, and you’ll find out.”

You stand there facing the door, having a full on mental debate. Should you let him in? He’s an asshole, but he’s fucking gorgeous. You’ve been wanting to lose your virginity for a while now, and you have the hottest guy you’ve ever seen at your door, ready to do the deed. But how did he get your letter, and those videos? 

Oh shit. Santa Clause is real. And this guy works for him. 

Once you accept that, everything else starts to make sense. The guy seeming to be tailor made to fit your taste, him knowing all about you, the way he’s dressed. 

So he’s your present from Santa? 

You take a deep breath, then open the door. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, his back against the opposite wall in the hallway. He looks up at the sound of the door opening and gets to his feet. 

“I have a question,” you say, a little uneasily. You’re still grappling with the fact that this guy has watched you masturbate. 

He dusts off his black Santa suit. “Yeah? What is it?”

“Did they make you do this?”

He tilts his head and frowns. “They?”

“Whoever you work for. Santa or the elves or whatever.”

He bursts out laughing then. “No, doll, the elves ain’t whorin’ me out. I volunteered after they showed me those videos!”

You look up at him. “Really?”

“Yeah. Got me all riled up. And besides, those little fuckers can’t make me do anything,” he says, a smirk on his handsome face. 

That’s a relief to hear. You don’t want to do this with someone who’s here against their will. 

“So?” he asks, blue eyes gleaming. “You want your present or not?”

You step back inside your doorway and to the side, gesturing for him to come in. You can barely look at him as he walks into your apartment. You’ve fantasized about something like this for years, and you’re certainly horny enough, but now it’s actually happening. Just thinking about it makes you nervous. 

He doesn’t say anything as he follows you to your bedroom, but once there he glances at the bed and grins. “There’s a familiar spot!”

You grimace. “Please stop reminding me of that!”

“Why?” he asks, his eyes not so subtly sliding up and down your form. “You were hot as fuck in those videos.”

The comment makes you blush. Did he really like watching you? Still, you’d rather forget all about that. “Let’s just pretend that never happened, okay?”

He shrugs, standing near your bed. “Okay, so do you wanna unwrap your present now?”

Before you even answer, he’s opening up his furry black Santa coat, revealing no shirt underneath. Oh god, the scars are all over his body, making such a lurid patchwork. You can’t take your eyes off them. 

He sits down on your bed and pats his thigh. “Come sit on Santa’s lap,” he says. 

You cross over to him, your candy cane striped socks making no noise at all on the carpeted floor. You’re wearing a red tank top and green pajama shorts. Nothing fancy or sexy but it’s not like you expected any of this to happen. 

When you get close enough, he suddenly grabs your hand and pulls you over, so that you’re laying across his lap, face down. Your ass is slightly raised in the air, and you squirm a bit in surprise. 

“H-hey!” you shout, trying to wiggle off him, but one of his hands is gripping your thighs while the other is holding your back down. 

“I gotta punish this naughty little slut before we have fun,” he says as the hand on your thighs slides up, over your ass, and then hooks a thumb into the waistband of your shorts and panties. In one smooth motion he pulls them both down, exposing your ass and leaving the fabric around your knees. 

You squirm around in his lap, making a show of struggling, but the truth is that you’re more turned on than you’ve ever been in your life. He raises one hand in the air, then brings it back down in a harsh slap to your ass that makes you yelp. 

“How many do you think you deserve?” he asks, then brings down his hand again. 

You’re trying to keep from moaning, clamping one hand over your mouth, hoping he doesn’t notice how wet you are. 

Another slap. “Come on, answer the question!”

You move your hand from your mouth. “Ahh, I don’t… know!”

He laughs. “Well, tell me how naughty you’ve been and we’ll figure it out.”

Another slap. “I’ve been… very naughty!” you squeak out. 

“I can see that,” he says as his fingers slide down, between your legs. “What naughty things have you been doing?”

“Y-you already know!” you cry out, your voice shuddering as his fingers probe your wet folds. 

“Yeah, but you gotta say it, doll.”

His hand withdraws from your pussy, and you feel another slap, this time to the backs of your thighs. 

“I… I masturbate too much!” you blurt out, feeling your face burn. 

Another slap. Is it your imagination, or does his hand feel unusually warm? 

“Such a dirty little slut,” he says, giving your ass another slap. “So how many whacks does that deserve?”

“Uh… ten?”

You’re too embarrassed to look at his face, but you can practically hear the grin when he says, “Ten? Goin’ a little easy on yourself, huh doll?”

He gives your ass a firm squeeze, and you bite back another moan. Why is his hand so hot? And why is this making you so wet? 

“Well, whatever,” he says. “Ten it is. One…”

Another whack, and you twist in his lap to look back at him now. “One? You’ve already given me a bunch!”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t countin’ those.”

You groan and bury your face in the nearby pillow on your bed. If this keeps up, you’re gonna cum right here, while being spanked. 

The next nine whacks go by with you biting your knuckles, whimpering from the strain of holding back. You refuse to cum in this position, even when he pauses halfway through to rub your sore ass and dip his fingers into your quivering pussy again. 

When all ten whacks are given, he suddenly flips you onto your back on the bed, making you wince when your raw bottom collided with the mattress. Before you can complain, he jerks your shorts and panties off your ankles, pulls your legs apart, and moves between them. “Ready for the fun part?” he asks, leaning down, licking his lips. 

Oh god. You’re so ready. But you’re afraid you’ll make some embarrassing sound if you speak now, so you nod emphatically. 

Then, all at once, his face is in your pussy, his tongue parting your folds and circling your clit. Your body arches off the bed, your legs spreading wider automatically. Your breaths come quicker, shaky and hitching. 

His tongue feels so much better than your fingers! You’ve never felt anything like this, so warm and wet and moving expertly over the little nub. When his thumb takes over for a moment, rubbing your clit in a slightly rougher way, your legs begin to tremble. 

He’s looking up at you from between your thighs. “Gonna squirt for me like you did in the videos?” 

“N-no!” you say, trying desperately to contain yourself.

His thumb rubs upward on your clit, pushing back the hood, making you almost buck off the bed. “Show me how dirty you can be, naughty girl,” he says, then lets his tongue go back to work. 

You can’t stand it any longer. It just feels too good. You let out a cry as you cum, squirting all over him in the process. You squeeze your eyes shut and throw your head back against the pillow, your body spasming with pleasure. Once fully spent and panting, you gather your nerve and look down. 

His face is glistening, your juices dripping from his chin. He’s licking his lips and grinning back at you. 

Face burning, you grab your own pillow and pull it over to hide your humiliated expression. But the man gently tugs it out of your grasp. “Don’t hide,” he says. “You look real cute right now.”

You slowly open your eyes. “I do?”

“Yeah. Now how about I give you the rest of your present?” he asks, drawing back on his knees and unbuckling his black leather belt. 

Oh god. It’s happening. You’re equal parts scared and excited as he opens his pants. You’ve never seen a dick in person before, though you’ve seen plenty in porn. This one is, surprisingly, very pretty. The piercings dotting it catch the light in such a lovely way, and the small patches of scar tissue contrast with his pale skin. 

He leaves on the open Santa coat as he pushes his black pants down his hips and pulls your lower half into his lap. He lines himself up, then slowly pushes in. 

You feel yourself stretching to accommodate him, and there’s a bit of a sting, but not as bad as you’ve imagined while pleasuring yourself. When he starts thrusting lightly, the friction feels good. You can feel the cool metal of the piercings and the warm heat of his hard cock as it slides in and out of you, going deeper each time. 

When he finally gets all the way in, his tip pressing against your cervix, you gasp at the fullness, at feeling him so deeply within you. 

You’re losing your virginity to a guy who works for Santa, whose name you don’t even know. But it feels so amazing, you don’t care. You clamp onto him, throwing your arms around his neck as he pounds into you. 

You hear his voice at your ear. “This what you wanted for Christmas, doll?” 

“Yes!” you cry out, gripping him harder, not wanting to ever let him go. 

He’s practically slamming into you now, your whole body jerking with his thrusts. You’re holding yourself up off the bed by clinging to his neck, and he’s got one hand on the back of your head, cradling it as he fucks you. His other hand, which had been holding your hip steady, slides down between your bodies and finds your clit. He gives it a pinch, and you moan, your mouth pressed against his collarbone. 

Now he’s rubbing small circles into it with his fingertips, and you know you can’t last much longer. Your body is already quivering again, on the edge of release. 

He gives a few more especially deep thrusts while his fingers continue stroking your clit, and you come undone. The orgasm smashes into you, making you scream out as the pleasure washes over you. 

Almost immediately after, as if he were waiting for you, the man cums inside you, clenching his teeth as he shoots his load into your waiting pussy. 

Your arms slide from his neck, and he lowers you to the bed. It takes you a long moment to catch your breath, during which he pulls out of you and buttons his pants. 

“Your name,” you mumble, still dazed. 

He looks at you. “Huh?”

“What’s your name?”

He hesitates, looks away, then mutters, “Touya.”

You laugh weakly. “I thought all Santa’s helpers were elves.”

He sits down on the edge of your bed. “Most of ‘em are. I’m a special case.”

You raise up, pulling a sheet over yourself. “Special how?”

He grins. “This is my community service, to make up for all my fuckups when I was alive.”

Your eyes widen. “Are you… dead?”

He laughs at your reaction. “Nah, dead isn’t the right term for it. ‘Between lives’ works better.”

“What does that mean?” 

“It means I was on the naughty list in my previous life. Did a whole lot of bad shit,” he replies, looking a little nostalgic. “So I got an offer. Do some good deeds for a while and start my next life with a clean slate.”

“How long is a while?” you ask. 

“Sixty-five years,” he says. 

You shoot straight up in bed. “That long?!”

He laughs again. “It’s not so bad! I help out at the workshop a few months a year and spend the off season ice skating with elves.”

You stare at him for a moment. “Are you, uh, allowed to leave the workshop?”

His eyes slide over to your face. “Why? You want me to come visit you?”

You’re immediately flustered. “No! I mean… maybe. If you want to.”

He stands up and leans over you, kissing you on the cheek. “You’re really cute right now,” he says, then straightens up and heads for your door. Before he leaves, he looks back at you. “We’re pretty bored up there around Valentine’s Day. Maybe I’ll come see you.”

You find yourself smiling. “I’d like that.”

He raises his hand in a casual wave as he walks out, saying, “Merry Christmas!”

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