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hopefulceladon · 4 days ago

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︶⊹ all beauty, no beast | phainon x reader

summary: phainon, for whatever reason, refuses to reveal his demiurge self, up until the very moment you manage to get him to crack. notes: WRITTEN BEFORE THE 3.4 UPDATE!! if this ends up ooc at all i'll cry. i love phainon and freaknon so much that i ended up listening to an indulgent worm whispering that i should make a fic where you get to hug demiurge phainon. so now we're here. word count: 2.2k ao3 link: here!

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“I... really don’t think you should see me like this, partner.”

There was an anxious waver lingering within Phainon’s voice as he addressed you from behind the nearby wall; a broken, unsure cadence familiar to your ears, but deeply foreign as it rang forth from his lips.

It was hard not to frown at his desperately uttered sentiments, but it didn’t come as a complete surprise. After all, upon the days that followed both the retrieval of Kephale’s Coreflame and the subsequent beginning of Era Nova’s end, Phainon had grown increasingly distant.

It had stung, of course, being gradually pushed away by the very man who had already sworn nearly everything to protect you from whatever turmoil that’d erupt—and was, already, erupting—upon the disintegrating planet, not realizing that he was actively hurting you in the process, but you tried to regard the circumstances with as much understanding as your wounded heart would allow.

Still, never once did you suspect he’d ever go so far as to physically avoid you, too.

But despite all your growing fears of abandonment and the countless streams of resentful thoughts that had trickled forth from them, you swallowed down any trace of the biting poison that resided upon your tongue, and lathered your words with the patience you knew was far more productive to possess.

The vile aftertaste of the hastily downed bitterness had burned your throat, but you knew it was only a small price to pay to maintain a bond once so sweet.

“You’ve avoided me for the past few mornings,” you finally stated, silently praying none of your deeply bruised feelings would surface. “You’ve hid behind pillars, slipped off into abandoned corridors...” you trailed off with a frown. “Whatever it is, it can’t possibly be as dire as you so clearly fear.”

A small, shaky chuckle from the other side proved he was still there, still listening.

“You’re right,” Phainon agreed, and it had lifted up your hopes for only a second, before they were chased back down with a weary sigh. “...it’s worse.”

“Phainon.”

The stubborn man didn't yield, even at your utterance of his name. “I know,” he whispered, despite his own cluelessness. “I know what you're thinking—that we’ve stuck to each other's side through thick and through thin, rejoiced in both our highs, and tried to cheer the other up at both our lows...”

He took a breath before he continued. “But, this is... different. This-”

“Phainon.”

You were pleased by the silence that had followed—it always was hard for him to outshine your own obstinance, after all.

“...amidst all this chaos and all this uncertainty, I really just wish to see you again.”

In light of your earnest sincerity, Phainon allowed for nothing to escape in response; not a word was uttered, nor did even a single sigh escape past the separating barrier. All you could hear was a series of light tapping noises against the surface—rhythmic, yet hurried, steady, yet unassured.

This time, his silence had worried you.

“I think,” Phainon continued after moments had passed, as if he had taken the time to deeply mull over your words. “...that if you’re trying to avoid any sort of ‘chaos’ in your life, then I’m right, and I really should stay behind this wall.”

“Oh, please.” you brushed his words off with a huff, growing weary of your unwilling role in this endless song-and-dance. “...how bad can it really be?”

You swore you heard a soft gulp.

“...very bad?”

It had taken an arduous amount of restraint to force down a harsh groan that, judging by Phainon’s current tone alone, would’ve certainly deflated him into a completely pitiful pile, but you willingly did it for his sake.

“My love,” you uttered the endearment abruptly, before softening your voice down to a pleading whisper. “...please.”

It was a terribly cheap tactic, but it was one you had indeed learned and mastered from the indirect guidance of the very worst. After all, the master must’ve surely been even the slightest bit fallible to the very weaknesses he exploited?

The small, hushed ‘that’s hardly fair...’ you heard Phainon whisper—whine?—underneath his breath already allowed you to picture the pitiful expression upon his features, from the slight frown upon his lips, to the widening of his pupils as he immediately yearned to rectify his mistakes.

“...I never could say no to you, could I?”

Upon his confession, a bitter, resigned sigh had escaped him, as if Phainon had finally accepted his own fate.

“But... you can’t say I never warned you.”

Even amidst such a dire situation, you couldn’t help but crack a weak smile at the familiar words. It was a phrase that once would’ve forced a loving wince out of you in happier times, but now, you were just thankful to be even brief acquaintances with a fleeting touch of normalcy at all.

As expectant as you were to hear approaching footsteps, tapping against the shared ground beneath both your feet, you were taken aback by the stillness that followed. Even if you could somehow sense that Phainon’s presence was drawing near, you weren’t certain as to how that was.

That was, of course, until Phainon finally revealed himself.

What stood—moreso hovered, really—in what you had expected to be Phainon’s place, was a floating figure that strongly resembled a man of similar stature, if not just the slightest bit taller.

The first difference you had recognized was his hair, once a comforting shade of snow-white and lightly fluffed, now a glowing hue of pale gold, unruly and tousled about. Phainon’s sudden lack of the typical armor that adorned his body was the next thing you noted, as unfamiliar wings of black and gold shielded his form away from your perception, the shiny, nearly mechanical plumes wrapped around his torso like a curtain that hid away all of his shame.

You finally looked up to meet his eyes, hoping to still see the same pair of aquamarine you’ve familiarized yourself with, only to gaze upon shimmering gold instead.

The man who levitated before you might’ve looked so vastly different compared to what you’ve always known, but despite all the physical changes that might’ve separated one from the other, deep down you could tell it was still him.

And as you cast your gaze upon the spiked, gleaming halo that clung behind Phainon’s head and bathed his form anew with warm, ethereal light, you swore he was a sight ripped straight out of a myth of old, a celestial vision bestowed upon only a select few.

You weren’t scared like he had feared you to be, no.

Matter of fact, it was hard to feel anything but downright awe at the sight.

Still, in light of your sudden brush with speechlessness, Phainon’s lips obliviously downturned.

“...you must think it’s pretty bad, too.”

Phainon’s voice, despite his tensed features, was still soft, as if he had already resigned himself to the likes of his false beliefs, yet remained so dejected because of them.

It was then you swore to yourself you never wished to hear the once-beaming man sound so uncertain ever again.

“What? No, you look-”

“Like a monster, prepping himself to strike?” he guessed.

“No!” you cried out, your boiling frustrations over his lack of understanding starting to spill over into your words. “We’ve both seen monsters before. We’ve both seen the depraved hunger in the eyes of the creatures consumed by the Black Tide, the crazed bloodlust radiating off the corrupted Titankin—we’ve even both been on the receiving end of the Flame Reaver’s blade!”

You paused, hastily chasing after the air that eluded you upon your spiel.

“We’ve both seen the very epitome of evil before, my love—”

Even as your gait trembled, with every step more cautious than the last, you stood before him, closer than either of you expected to be.

“—and I’m positive you couldn't look anything less alike.”

Phainon had froze at your words, a slightly hitched intake of breath giving his surprise away.

The silence that fell upon the atmosphere was solely broken up by the pattering of more careful strides towards him, all gentle in their approach, treating him as if he were a wounded stray at high risk of snapping forth to protect himself.

But even despite his new, slightly imposing visage, Phainon remained incredibly docile.

“You really are breathtaking.” you whispered with earnest reverence.

Phainon chuckled weakly before he shook his head. “You know, if I were you, I’d... probably be running away from me in utter fear.”

“Right, well,” you clicked your tongue, unable to prevent the smile that soon formed. “...you’re also sometimes an idiot, so...”

Cautiously, you lifted up your hand and cradled Phainon’s cheek against your palm, the surface of his pale skin surprisingly warm against the thumb you stroked it with.

“...maybe it’d be for the best if I didn't always listen to what you’d do in my shoes, yeah?”

It didn't take long for Phainon to lean—no, melt, into your soothing touch.

As your fingers reached skyward to thread themselves through his mussed locks of ivory, it was if your presence alone had been what finally stilled him, as Phainon all but clung to you like a scared, helpless puppy would still cling to a beloved tattered toy, his arms firmly wrapping around you and pressing you closer against him as if you were the very fragile, fraying tapestry that upheld what little remained of his diminishing stability.

Maybe because to him, that's nearly what you were.

And as you basked in the comfort of his embrace—even if it had, indeed, felt far stronger than the likes of the ones he bestowed from his other form’s arms—you willingly molded yourself against Phainon’s frame in kind, bathing yourself in the pleasant, perfect warmth that radiated from his body, breathing in the sweet scent of the morning's dreary dew that had bonded itself to his skin.

Phainon soon turned his head and pressed fleeting kisses to the skin of your palm, his eyes squeezed shut, as if this were a blissful dream he had no desire to rouse from.

“I’m sorry for avoiding you.” Phainon murmured, further sealing his apologies against your hand with another press of his lips, the brief touch nearly trembling, as if he’d rather soon perish than to allow for even a mere inch of your palm to go unloved.

You deeply loathed the waver that remained in his voice.

“It’s alright,” you tried your best to soothe, hugging him ever closer. “...the past few days have been absolute living nightmares. I could never fault you for falling prey to any stressful whims.”

Phainon didn't respond further, stiffening at what you presumed was the reminder of all the discord that wreaked havoc upon the surrounding world. Before you could apologize for bringing such a depressing topic up, however, the man had scooped you closer and floated down until you both rested upon the ground, propping you upright against the wall that once separated you, before choosing to rest his head against your lap.

You froze.

Hesitant to break the tranquility of the moment, and even more reluctant to shatter the peaceful expression upon Phainon’s features that had only grown to be an increasingly rare sight as of late, you didn’t dare question his actions, choosing instead to resume rubbing soothing circles against his warm scalp.

“...angel?”

Your fingertips stilled at the abruptly whispered name, and you were quick to glance down towards the source.

What had met your gaze was the precious sight of Phainon looking up at you through long lashes, his softened, golden eyes gleaming—tenderly, pleadingly so—with the same levels of potency as the bright blue you’ve always known. He then grabbed onto one of your hands—utterly careful with exactly how he had grasped it, solely so that the gilded claws of his armor would not penetrate your flesh and draw pointless blood—and squeezed it within the confines of his own, firm enough to ground himself in the moment, firm enough to remind himself that yes, you truly were there with him.

Phainon’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“I never wish to live a life where you’re not there by my side, you know.” he confessed quietly.

It was such a profound thing to admit so suddenly, but you knew why he had done so; Phainon’s life had always been dotted and dashed with countless loss after loss, and so he must’ve feared that you...

You squeezed his hand in return.

“I... I don’t think you ever will.”

Of course, you both knew that neither of you could ever wholeheartedly afford to keep such a lofty promise, but you were more than willing to take your chances upon whispering flimsy sentiments none could ever fulfill, if it meant your beloved hero could finally find some temporary semblance of rest.

And it must’ve worked, because the tension that had once left Phainon’s shoulders haggard seemed to have ebbed away at your reassurances, which only encouraged him to hold you even closer, his arms now lazily draped over atop your legs.

“Mm, good.” Phainon finally whispered against your thighs, his voice slightly muffled.

Your heart warmed at his sleepy murmur, your hands still idly playing with his hair.

“Why 'good?'”

“...because you really were my greatest miracle.”

#︶⊹ writings #︶⊹ of fantasy's sweetest memories #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail imagines #phainon x reader #phainon x you

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vigilantekisser · 13 days ago

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Let It Be Done Unto Me

pairing: husband!matt murdock x f!reader (wc: 7.5k | ao3 mirror)

18+! cw: breeding kink (mentions of impregnation & pregnancy – both matt and reader want kids here), dom!matt, rough sex, oral!f receiving, doggy, mating press, light bondage, choking, biting, use of “good girl” “my wife” during sex, slight dacryphilia, possessive behavior, classic daredevil guilt, allusions to religious devotion, fluff

summary: some dreams have always felt beyond reach for matt, including having a family of his own. but post-party, three drinks in—turns out all he had to do was ask.

note: foggy and marci are married and have a kid here! also matt holds a baby in this one, so obv it’s totally self-indulgent : )

A/N: HAPPY FATHER'S DAY to the dilfest lawyer on earth!!! i started this completely intending for it to be just filth but my nine year delusionship with this man means everything i write about him WILL grow feelings. also I’VE BEEN SO BUSY but i alw read everyone’s sweet messages in my inbox and thank you so much for them, i’ll get through everything eventually!! dex again next

The bustling warmth of Foggy’s apartment hits you the moment you step in the door. Every inch of the space is alive with the sound of chatting adults and shrieking children, not to mention the same incongruously happy verse of “We Did It!”—the Bluetooth speaker cutting out the Dora playlist over and over. Bright balloons cling to the backs of chairs, paper plates and half-eaten cupcakes cluttering every surface. To put it simply, it’s utter domestic chaos.

So obviously, it’s hard not to smile.

“Wow,” Matt says beside you, his lips twitching upward faintly as his head tilts to take in the scene. “This place is alive.”

“Alive,” you snort, swatting him gently on the arm as you guide him through the threshold. “It’s a full-on circus. Foggy must be in hell.”

“Can confirm,” Foggy interjects. He’s appeared behind you as if summoned by the mere mention of his name. There’s a smear of frosting on his button-down, and there’s a crazy light in his eyes you haven’t seen since college. “Thank God, cavalry’s here. I was this close to drinking Scotch out a sippy cup.”

You laugh, leaning in to hug him as Matt claps him on the shoulder. “Happy birthday to the big guy!” you grin as Foggy pulls back. “Officially one! How’s it feel?”

“Haven’t heard, huh? We’re auctioning him off later,” Foggy deadpans, though the affection peeks through. “Which reminds me—mind if I pawn off your husband for a bit?” He turns to Matt, gesturing toward the kitchen where a battalion of Nelson women’s engaged mid-conversation, holding plastic cups and talking animatedly. “Dude, do me a solid and work your lawyerly magic on the aunties, please. They’ve been talking about SNTs all afternoon and frankly, I cannot feign interest anymore.”

“Oh, Fog, I don’t know if I’m the guy for that—” Matt starts, but Foggy’s already steering him toward the fray. “You’re exactly the guy, go make them cry with one of your blind crusader stories. Right this way, ladies,” Foggy urges, as Matt’s protests are drowned out, swallowed by the chattering mass of Nelson aunts.

You stay back, still laughing, and duck toward the table of snacks. From the few remaining drinks, you grab a can of Yoo-Hoo and your finger along its sweaty condensation—until the sharp wail of the baby cuts through the din.

You turn.

Across the room, the birthday boy’s squirming in his frazzled aunt’s arms, flushed and clearly seconds away from a full-blown meltdown. Without thinking, you slip over to them (Yoo-Hoo forgotten), holding out your hands with a soft, “Here, let me.”

Teddy comes to you easily, his weight settling against your hip as he lets out one last cursory wail before quieting. His chubby fists tangle in the fabric of your dress, his head falling against your chest as his breathing hitches. You rock him gently, murmuring soft nonsense under your breath until his cries subside entirely. It doesn’t take long before he’s calm, little body relaxing against yours as he smacks his lips softly, his stubby fingers patting at your collarbone.

Across the room, the Nelson women chatter on around Matt.

“You poor dear,” one of them coos, clutching his elbow, “how’s work? Foggy says the firm’s doing very well. You boys must be rolling in clients.”

“It’s steady,” Matt says mildly, “we’ve been lucky.”

“And her?” someone else asks. “That sweet girl of yours still hasn’t run away screaming?”

A small smile curves his mouth. “Still here, thankfully.” A chuckle goes around the circle.

“Oh honey,” Foggy’s mom cuts in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “So, when do you think you’ll have one of your own?”

Matt raises his eyebrows, amused and a little cornered.

One of the great-aunts is squinting across the room. “Hmph, looks like she’s halfway there already.”

He tilts his head slightly, tuning in—adjusting the direction of his senses—then stops. His heart stutters. The space between you—the constant hum of your heartbeat, the soft lilt of your voice as you soothe the baby—it’s all amplified in his head, pulling his attention like a magnet.

“Must be nice,” another jokes. “You can always tell who’s gonna be a good mom. Poor Foggy looked like he was going to pass out.”

Matt smiles faintly, his usual charm just barely masking how his throat has tightened. “Ah, she’s good with kids. Always has been,” he says, deliberately keeping his tone light.

The mention of children is a trap he’s navigated before, typically with casual deflections that fall back on vague hopes of someday. But this time, the words are harder to shake off, and when one of the aunties has so pointed it out—the way you’re holding Foggy’s baby, calm and radiant and perfectly at ease—it feels less hypothetical and more, well, inevitable.

“Well, you’re doing well for yourselves now,” one of the women says, her tone pointed but kind. “Don’t wait too long. You’ve got a good thing going—and if you ask me, you could use one of those little ones running around.”

“We’ve got some time,” Matt laughs offhandedly. “Haven’t really sat down and talked it through in depth. Maybe soon.”

Mercifully, the conversation shifts, but Matt’s distracted now. Every word buzzes in the background as he hones in on the sound of you: the soft rise and fall of your breathing, your voice swaying upward as you coo at Teddy, the faint rustle of fabric as you shift your weight to keep him secure on your hip.

Before he knows what’s happening, you’ve made your way across the room to him, oblivious to the swirl of tension beneath his skin as you’re saying something lighthearted about how “it’s about time Uncle Matty took a turn.” He doesn’t even have time to protest before the toddler’s being nestled against him, pudgy fingers pawing at his tie.

“Careful,” he says, a little alarmed. “I could drop him.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Couns,” you say breezily, smoothing a hand over Matt’s arm. “You’ve done this before. Plus he’s pretty sturdy, you know. Babies are tougher than they look.”

Matt falls silent, holding the baby cautiously, keeping completely still so that not even his breathing will disturb the delicate balance of the moment. Teddy squirms briefly before miraculously—horrifyingly—settling into his chest, and Matt’s heartbeat jumps, but the baby’s doesn’t. There’s just the faintness against his sternum, the rise and fall of milky breath; he can feel the pulse in his tiny wrist. The echo of a hiccup in his ribs. He finds himself cataloguing every flicker of life beneath the fragile skin.

It’s overwhelming.

“Matt,” you say softly, “you okay?”

He nods, handing Teddy back to you a little too quickly. “Yeah. It’s just—he’s warm.”

“He didn’t pee on you, did he?”

“No—no,” Matt chuckles faintly. “Not that kind of warm.”

You lift a brow at him, but say nothing more. The baby yawns, then burrows into you again. Matt can hear everything. The low, involuntary sound you make when the baby nestles just right under your chin. The shift in your skin temperature: your whole body warmer than usual. And that scent—he’d missed it before, but God here it is, subtle but unmistakable under the usual fare of your perfume. Sweet earth, clean sweat, and something deeper, headier. His heightened senses tell him what his mind has tried to ignore; it makes his chest tighten and imagination run rampant. He tries to shake away the thought, wresting his focus from the way you smell so right, so perfect, but it’s hurtling like a tidal wave.

Later, by the time you’re on the train ride home, the realization has planted itself in the hollow of his chest, refusing to be moved. You sit beside him, scrolling idly through your phone, humming some barely-there melody under your breath.

He’s silent the whole time, thoughts turning over in slow, endless waves.

It’s already dark outside when you arrive at the apartment. Matt’s still unusually quiet, his mind somewhere else entirely. You shrug off your coat by the door and toss it onto the hook with a bit of flair. Trying to fill the silence, you busy yourself with telling him about the Nelson family dog—a story you picked up about the ratty little mop of a thing getting passed around from household to household like a fuzzy hot potato.

“It’s probably because it’s so ugly,” you grumble lightly, shooting him a grin as you kick your shoes off toward the mat. “Swear, if you could just see it, it really is so ugly it’s insane.”

Matt is usually one to tease, grinning back in that sly, devil-may-care way, but tonight he doesn’t even give you a huff of amusement. Your brows draw together in concern: could someone have said something earlier? He wasn’t one to let offhanded comments get to him, but there had been exceptions… Or maybe the party was too much? Its noise and chaos and endless stimulation, well— you could see this silence as an aftermath.

“Matt?” you finally ask, your tone gentle as you cross the small space to him. He hasn’t moved from where he’s standing near the door, barely out of his coat. “Are you okay? You’ve been so quiet since we left. Did something happen at the party?”

The longer he stays silent, the more determined you become to shake an answer out of him. Whatever storm is brewing in his mind, you’ll be damned if he keeps it locked away, as he tends to do. It triggers your instinct to soothe. Or at the very least, poke fun at it to take the edge off. “C’mon, don’t leave me hanging here. Whose ass do I have to beat? Was it Uncle Tommy? Was it something I–”

“Sweetheart,” Matt cuts through your ridiculous coaxing. Though his tone is steady with concerted effort, there’s a flush creeping up the column of his neck, coloring the edge of his ears.

You step back half a pace, blinking. “What?”

“It’s nothing. Please.”

“Doesn’t seem like nothing. Matt, tell me what’s going on with you.” In truth, you greatly dislike all this unceremonious pushing and goading, but the last time he’d gone quiet like this it turned out he’d been hiding a broken rib and a tender side from late night patrol. You frown, stepping closer. “Are you hurt?”

“No, no, I’m not. Honestly.” The shift is almost imperceptible, but you notice the way his body tenses further, throat bobbing as he swallows hard. He drags a hand through his hair, sighing deeply, “Forget it.”

“Forget it?!” you gasp dramatically, clutching your chest. That at least earns you the faintest twitch of a smile on his lips, but he smothers it so fast you wonder if it was a figment of your imagination. “Oh, no. No, no, no.” You wag a halfhearted finger at him. “You absolutely do not get to brood like that then ‘forget it’ me! You’re going to tell me, Matthew”—the way you enunciate his name is pointed—“because you at least owe it to me to tell me if you’re hurt, or I swear to God I’m—”

“Fine,” he snaps, putting an end to your mock dramatics. The tension in him pulls tight enough that the words tumble out unguarded. “Let’s have a baby.”

You blink.

The air around you seems to still, as if the apartment itself is holding its breath, having followed his bidding for silence. “What?”

“I want a baby with you,” he confesses slowly, sounding pained. It sounds almost like loathing, the derision with which he views how badly he means it.

You laugh before you can stop it, strangled and half-scandalized. “Matt, Jesus! What the hell…”

But your startled amusement is already tapering off as it clicks into place. Oh. His quietness, his strange mood during the ride home—it was now making perfect sense. Earlier, you were utterly at ease with Teddy, and maybe he’d been, too. The situation now glaringly obvious, your heart starts to race and Matt’s expression darkens when he picks up on it, his lips twitching with that slow, devilish smile you know all too well.

“Oh,” you begin, blinking up at him as you straighten.

That smile. Christ.

“Yes, oh,” he says, already closing the distance between you. “I mean it.”

His hand finds your waist, pulling you closer to him with deliberate pressure.

“Let’s make one,” he murmurs. “Right now.”

Your heart hammering violently in your chest, you tip your head back slightly to meet the wine-dark mirrors of his glasses. In the reflection, all you can see is yourself. His next step seals the last inch of space between you, and when his mouth finds yours, whatever resistance you had left dissolves like sugar on the tongue.

His kiss is needy, and you feel his every hot exhale fanning your cheeks as a hand slips to your waist—guiding you, pushing you back, back until your spine hits the wall. His other hand curls around your nape gently, cushioning the press of your head against the panel. You gasp into him, grabbing at the tense muscles of his shoulders through his shirt. He’s so close, pressing so close now that you can feel the heated hardness through his slacks. Well, he seems to not mind. If anything, he wants you to feel it, grinding himself against your stomach.

“Somebody’s eager,” you tease playfully, never mind that you’re growing lightheaded from the delicious burn of his stubble scratching your face. “Christ, this is a lot of intensity for a lady who just inhaled too many cupcakes. Mmf, ow!”

His teeth catch your bottom lip, nipping at it lightly before letting it free.

“Not now, honey,” he rasps against your mouth. You know it well enough to be a warning, but you don’t know if it’s more terrifying or thrilling. The hand at your waist slips upward, finding the curve of your breast over the flimsy material of your dress. Your face grows embarrassingly hot, and Matt’s breath hitches, groping you a little harder, more possessively, and the thought crosses his mind: the sensation of your tits rounding out for him, growing swollen, heavy with milk… Fuck, the thought makes his cock jerk hard in his pants, and the guttural moan that tears from his chest seems to surprise even him.

Fuck, Matt, get it together.

Shaking his head, he dips down to the crook of your neck, inhaling deep. You smell so damn good—milky and earthy and uniquely you—it’s a shame you’re oblivious to it. What you aren’t oblivious to, though, is the way he’s trembling slightly. From restraint or the desperate undercurrent of his desire, you can’t tell.

“Is this really you?” you ask, breathless now, trying to wriggle just enough to make him loosen his grip. This isn’t like him—not Matt the charming husband, the overzealous lawyer. But you do recognize him. This voice, it belongs to the man who comes home late at night beaten within an inch of his life, collapsing on the floor as you scramble for the medkit. But that part of him has been quieter, gentler lately, less frequent with the overly suicidal excursions—a promise he’d offered you when he asked you to marry him.

And yet here he is now, returned with that fire reignited, directed solely at you.

“You smell so good I can’t think straight,” Matt murmurs, his nose dragging along your throat, pausing to press a hot, deliberate kiss behind your ear. “You wanna know something?”

You nod, the unbearable heat trickling between your thighs.

“You were holding him,” he begins, voice rasping like he can barely get the words out, “and all I could think about was my baby. Our baby. You’re ovulating right now, and Christ, sweetheart—I can smell it on you.”

That stops your breath cold. You’re reeling, your internal voice screaming for decorum, coolness, anything that might save face—but it’s impossible to, not when hot nerves are zinging traitorously through your body at his words. Not when his hands are on you, hot as brands. Not when he’s put words to the question you’d been hoping he’d bring up again for the past year.

It’s so embarrassing how easily he unravels you. Case in point–

His hand cups your sex through your soaked underwear, pressing the heel of his palm into you hard.

“Matt—!” It’s more of a plea than anything else, but you barely manage to say anything else before his hands slide down your weakened thighs, broad palms curling under them, and he lifts you effortlessly. He hikes you up further against the wall, grinding his hips into you and fuck, you can feel him pulsing—he’s like iron, a fact you’re darkly aware of even through the unconscionably selfish layers of his clothes hiding his hardness from view. The sheer force of his want makes you gasp, hands to his chest as if to push him away—though you clearly have no intention of doing so.

But seemingly, he does.

He pulls back from the kiss, and for the first time all night, you catch a flicker of hesitation cross his face. A crack in the mask of breathless certainty, the very same that had carried you across the room and into his arms just minutes ago.

“Are you sure you want this?”

You almost laugh. He’s asking you? When he’s the one tearing you out of your clothes, talking filth? “Are you?”

“I… Well–” The vibrations of his voice tickle your collarbone as Matt rests his head against your shoulder, unceremoniously snapped from the trance of his arousal. Visibly, achingly, he’s searching for words that won’t come. You take it upon yourself to help him out.

“I am.” It’s unsatisfactory; his silence tells you this. For a moment there’s only his measured breathing. But you know what he’s not saying, and he doesn’t have to tell you. It’s there again—the old voice in his head, convincing him he doesn’t deserve any of this, much less the privilege of asking for anything more. The quickly vining doubt in him dictates it: allowing himself this is the most selfish thing he can do.

You cup his face in your hands so he can’t turn away from you.

“Matt, I know what you’re thinking,” you say gently. “I want this, alright?”

For a split second, you wonder what it’ll take to pull him back from his misery. You swallow, rubbing the sides of your thumbs along his cheeks soothingly. “I want it. Not in spite of your life; because of it. Yes, you bleed and lie and you flake out and… keep going on these fucking suicide missions and yes, yes they scare the shit out of me… But even if I’m scared, I believe you’ll come home, because you always do; that’s who you are. You keep getting back up even if the world’s given you so much reason to be unkind to it.”

Wordlessly, you reach up and remove his glasses gingerly, tossing them toward the table. They land somewhere with a dull clatter. In the half-light of the living room, you can only make out parts of him, the cut of his cheekbone, the impressionistic slopes of definition on his face. This must be just a fraction of how he sees you, defined solely by blunt form and sensation.

“And that’s why I’m here, too. It’s just my choice as it is yours.” You press your forehead to his, finding him scorching against your clammy skin, before pulling back again. “Your night patrols, all that… If you believe that people deserve all the chances they can get, that there’s always a future for them no matter what came before, then have faith that it includes you, Matt. Everything you fight for is why I believe we could do this. What’s ahead could be dangerous, but what if it’s worth it a—what’s that word you like?” Your lips quirk slightly. “A thousandfold more. We can still bring good into the world, in all the ways we can, can’t we?”

Have faith that it includes you, Matt.

He closes his eyes. He does want it, all of it, more than anything in the world and he’s being the greediest man in the world right now, taking and taking and you’re letting him. Have faith that it includes you.

“You make it sound so easy.”

“Well, it is. It’s no question if it’s with you.” You pause for a bit, before leaning back in, eyebrows wiggling playfully. “And you know, I haven’t refilled my prescription… So if we do this, it’s real. So ask me again.”

An incredulous, lighthearted scoff finally breaks through him. “Unbelievable. Are you sure you’re not the lawyer between us, sweetheart? That was one hell of an argument,” he says, chuckling boyishly through the pecks you’ve started to nip on his cheeks. “Fine. Last chance—are you sure about this?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Ha, ha, Mr. Murdock. Please. As if you believe in last chances.”

He grins, can’t help it, can’t hide it; it’s crooked and a little desperate. But it’s impossible to skirt around it, your body betraying every rational thought. “Yes,” you whisper, your legs wrapping around his waist, arms sliding around his neck to pull him closer. “Yes, I want this. I want you.”

The words have barely left your mouth before Matt presses his hips into yours again, his groan muffled against your neck. The conversation has quelled the worst of his fears—but not the hunger. If anything, your unshakeable trust in him has unleashed something deeper within, darker and older than guilt. Something he can’t say aloud.

But God knows it. And he knows it.

The knowledge threatens to unmake him: he could fill you now, right now with your heated body primed and the timing perfect, let nature take its course. Your cunt is soft and warm and open, ripe and ready for him. And fuck, it hits him like a train.

Fucking you full to knock you up, marking you with proof of your unwavering faith—

The thought makes his cock ache so hard it’s a mercy he’s still clothed.

Conversely you’re a mess, dress bunched up and panties soaked, and your heart is beating so hard you’re sure it’s deafening him. Matt locks your thighs over his forearms and carries you down the hall in steady steps, kiss never breaking until your back finally hits the bed. He’s over you in seconds, broad and solid and trembling with restraint that’s quickly breaking.

He looms above you, working deftly on the buttons of his shirt with one hand, the other braced beside you on the mattress to keep you where he wants you. His lips—rosy and pouted, kiss-swollen—curl into a knowing half-smirk.

“You have no idea,” his voice is rich with the thickness of his lust, “the way you taste and smell right now. If you could feel what I feel standing this close to you, you’d lose your mind.”

The shirt finally slips free, hitting the floor with a dull thud. Your eyes trail over his chest, marked by two long scars like uneven wings taking flight. Then his broad shoulders, the planes and valleys of muscle. Oh, Christ. He leans down, his hands already finding the material of your dress.

“Up,” he coaxes, warm but unyielding. You obey instinctively, helpless to raise your arms up and shimmy a little so he can peel the dress up and toss it aside in one smooth motion. His lips descend to your collarbone, stubble grazing the sensitive skin there as he kisses you with maddening patience. Every sensation of his tickling, hot breath sends sparks rushing through your veins, but it isn’t nearly enough. You squirm, desperate for more, but he’s already working his way down—kisses tracing paths between the valley of your breasts, down your stomach, until he reaches the waistband of your panties.

Nose nudging against the soaked fabric, Matt inhales deep, a shameless groan rumbling from his chest as his hands grip your thighs, keeping them spread. “Fuck,” he murmurs, “you’re dripping for me, honey. Been like this since the train home, haven’t you?”

You flush but don’t deny it. The damp feel of the delicate lace between your thighs is proof enough. He chuckles softly at your silence, a finger twisting under the waistband to peel the damp fabric down, sliding it off the smooth skin of your legs to toss it aside. And suddenly, the room seems to be completely saturated by your arousal, steeping into every inch of air he pulls into his lungs.

Still, Matt doesn’t seem to be in any rush. His lips return to your inner thighs, tracing sultry kisses to burning flesh. Thighs pressed to his ears, the sound of your arteries reverberates like a drumline inside his skull. Femoral, uterine, iliac —he can name every one he hears. A symphony thrumming for him, hot and rhythmic. He kisses the spot where it sings beneath your skin.

(What an asshole, you’re thinking, knowing his every peck is deliberate; every drag of his tongue is just close enough to where you need him that it makes you squeal with frustration.)

“Matt,” you snip, tugging at his locks to guide him where you want him. “Stop teasing and just fuck me already!”

He pulls back from between your legs, lips curved into a cocky grin. “Be patient,” he chides, shaking his head like you’re a child spoiled rotten. “I gotta take care of you first, don’t I?”

You open your mouth to argue, but he isn’t done.

“I heard, it’ll take better if you come first,” he says evenly, using that court voice, the one he uses to explain the facts of a case and win over the jury without fail. “So… I’m gonna make you come again…” a kiss on the inner side of your knee, “…and again….” on your inner thigh, “…and again…” on your pubic mound, “…until your body has no choice but to take me.”

The filthy promise pulls you taut as his nose bumps against your clit. “Oh? And just where did you hear this news from, Counselor– Oh Christ–!” You gasp, hands tightening in his hair as his tongue darts out, tasting you lightly before pulling back just long enough to smirk at how you tremble under him.

“See?” Matt says, voice positively dripping with smugness. “You’re already so wet, sweetheart. Let me handle it, alright?”

And then he buries himself between your thighs, his tongue delving into your folds with ravenous precision. Fuck, he could die happy right then, the sour-sweet taste of your slickness robust and vividly ripe on his tongue, incomparable to its scent he’d only enjoyed since before that point. You cry out, your head falling back to the mattress as he pulls you higher with every stroke of his tongue, every flick and flat press against your clit, mouth working generously to kiss your needy cunt open.

Determined to see you come undone, he dives his rough fingers into you, his tongue maintaining pressure upon your clit. Your walls clench at the sensation of being breached, nerves going haywire with excitement as he pumps his fingers in and out of you. When you call out his name, he brushes at that sensitive spot, conditioning you by the whimpers and cries falling out of your mouth. Training you like an animal to associate the heightened pleasure with his name, though really he has no need to. No one has ever touched you with such precise devotion as him.

Your heels dig into his back, hips canting to demand more. Matt grunts against you, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your entire body, and you can feel the mattress dipping slightly as he ruts against it, his own desperation spilling over.

“Matty—fuck—” you pant, hands clutching at the sheets. He only growls in response, his free hand curling against your legs to hold you in place, barring any attempt at escape. He’s eating you like a man starved, shamelessly groaning and fucking the mattress at your taste—and with the pressure in your stomach threatening to snap, you fold and unfold, instinctively trying to get away.

But Matt, all-knowing and bent on denying you the privilege of holding back, presses down harder inside you, rubbing while he sucks at your clit. You curse uncontrollably and the white-hot high finally, finally washes over you violently, downwards, down then up with your thighs clamped around his head, clenching around his thick, thrusting fingers. Matt refuses to slow down or let up, working you through every spasm until you’re left a panting, boneless mess beneath him.

“Christ,” you mutter weakly, when you can get it together enough to speak. The world’s still spinning around you, folded inwards to just the sight of him sitting back on his heels. His mouth and jaw are obscenely glistening with your wetness. Matt, sensing your hitched breath, correctly infers that you’re staring shamelessly at him, and at the bulge that’s tented angrily between his legs.

Smug little shit that he is, he brings his hand up to his mouth. The pretty-pink petals of his lips purse around his fingers as he revels in your taste. Matt hums his praise low in his throat, but you don’t get to enjoy the show as much as you want. The mattress shifts, and his hands close tight around your waist, turning you over onto your arms and knees.

Bent over for him, the anticipation is electric, your body still oversensitive from your high. But you can’t help it, that errant need to reassert yourself.

“Jesus, finally,” you muse, smirking above your shoulder. “I was starting to think you were all talk, Counselor.”

That earns a snap.

You hear the leathery rasp of his belt sliding through the loops of his pants, a sound that makes your toes curl.

“Watch your mouth,” he says, pushing your head forward. He leans down to press a hard, claiming kiss to your shoulder blade. The cold metal of the belt buckle kisses your wrists a moment later, and he binds them behind your back in a practiced knot, giving the binding a perfunctory tug to test its hold.

Oh. Fuck.

Every inch of your arched posture has you laid bare for him in surrender. Your shoulders are sunken into the mattress, having lost the arms to brace yourself with. Ever the gentleman, he holds you steady with a firm grip while the other hand touches between your thighs, trailing all the way to your wet slit. He inhales sharply at the mess waiting for him, your arousal clinging sticky up to his knuckles.

Matt huffs a laugh under his breath.

“So fucking ready for me,” he murmurs.

Fisting his cock, he gives it a few rough tugs, precum slicking over his palm as he aligns his hips behind you, pushing forward. You feel the fat, hot head of his cock notch between your folds, and your cunt clenches on instinct, greedy for the stretch about to come. But Matt’s cruel with his patience, and his pace is leisurely slow.

One of his hands finds the knot of your bound wrists and tightens his grip, using the tension to anchor himself.

He’s soaking in every detail. How your heat radiates off every cell of your skin; the fertile slick seeping out of you, perfuming the air so thickly he can taste it on his tongue. He can hear your heartbeat in your cunt, veins rushing with blood and fuck, he wants to ruin it, claim you with a violence that will leave no doubt in your body, least not in your womb. But even completely soaked, he knows your body needs time to adjust to him.

You whimper, pushing back to take control, but Matt holds you rooted in place. “Ah,” he tuts, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “You’re not getting it that easy, sweetheart. Patience, remember?”

“I literally just fucking came!”

He grits his teeth. The blunt crest of his cock presses into you, splitting you open and it knocks any trace of defiance from your mouth, bordering on too much but your pussy’s welcoming it, spasming around the overwhelming sensation as he fills you to the hilt.

“Oh fuck—” you gasp, “you’re so deep, Matt– Matt—”

“Yeah?” Voice almost cracking as he draws his hips back, only to thrust forward again with a punishing roll that has you keening. “I told you. So fucking tight. Jesus. Your pussy’s just pulling me in.”

Your body jolts with every thrust, each one driving deeper, testing the limits of what you can take. Every time he slams in, your cunt makes a wet humiliating sound and then the hand gripping your wrists slides up, pushing between your shoulder blades to shove you down hard into the mattress as his movements pick up. Fucking you in earnest, his cock drilling into your heat with a brutal, single-minded rhythm that has you whimpering, crying out his name.

“Listen to how wet you are,” he snarls, grabbing the round swell of your ass, “you want it as bad as I do. You smelled so fucking good all day, d’you know how hard it was for me? It was torture. So good with that baby— Gonna let me give you one? Make you mine? Do you want that, honey?”

“Yes–fuck–yes,” you’re panting, thighs trembling as the coil in your stomach tightens and tightens, “want it so bad, Matt, don’t stop–”

“Oh, I’m not stopping,” Matt growls, his chest pressing flush against your back. His breath is hot and wet in your ear. “How many kids do you want, honey? I’ll give you as many as you’ll let me. I’ll put one in you right now. Not gonna stop til I fill you up.”

The shift in angle forces a sob from you as he sinks even deeper, his cock grinding up deeper than before, hitting that unbearable bundle of nerves with a dense pressure that makes your vision blur at the edges. Your arms are still trapped between your bodies, they’re numb and aching but it feels so so good, getting fucked by your husband with abandon. Matt doesn’t falter; he’s fully over you, pinning you down with his full weight as his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder, teeth scraping the tender skin before biting down hard.

You cry out, pain-blinded. The sharpness slices clean through you and with the overwhelming heat, the stretch of him inside you—there it is, you come undone with a fractured sob, violent and searing. Your bound hands writhe uselessly, the bite on your shoulder singing as your vision whites out. Your ears ring, barely registering Matt’s voice swimming in and out of focus, calling you Good girl good girl… his hand petting your head, stroking your hair as your body shakes for him.

Then he’s pushing himself upright again, pulling out and rising to his knees behind you. His praises are still trailing out of him in soft whispers. One hand reaches for the belt at your wrists, tugging—your spine pulled upright by the motion. You whimper a breathy protest as your limbs stretch from disuse.

“You’re doing so well for me,” he praises, voice buttery and low. He sounds so sweet it makes your bruised core flutter, even now. His hands work at the leather binding behind you and finally, mercifully, you’re freed. But your body’s limp, shaking from the aftermath, and without the belt holding you up, you collapse forward like a puppet with its strings cut.

Matt chuckles. “Easy, baby.”

He eases you over onto your back carefully, slipping a pillow under your spine to support your sore back. He’s pressing kisses all over your cheeks— and his cock, still swollen and slick with your release, twitches at the salt clinging to his mouth. You’ve been crying.

“Poor thing,” he murmurs, brushing a knuckle along your jaw. “So sweet for me. Is my girl tired?”

You can barely say anything; you nod shakily. Your arms are tingling from the blood finally returning.

“And does she want to stop, hm?” A kiss to your cheek. “Does my sweet girl want to stop?”

You manage a small shake of your head.

A rough, pleased sound rumbles from his chest. “Good. That’s what I thought.”

The pins and needles in your arms are buzzing unpleasantly, but your cunt clenches at his voice anyway. You whine pitifully, and of course he hears.

“One more, alright, honey? Will you give me one more?”

Then he’s shifting, settling himself between your legs again. His hands wrap under your knees–thumbs pressing into the tender divots beneath the joints—and he presses them forward, toward your shoulders. Folded in half, you gasp at the stretch. Completely open beneath him, pinned by nothing but his weight, you shiver under the totality of his presence over you.

“This,” he murmurs, brushing a hand over your lower belly, “this is where our baby’s gonna grow, sweetheart. Right here.”

The blunt head of his cock nudges at your entrance and you’re so wet it slides through the mess of your arousal, teasing but not entering, just enough to make you sob.

“Matt—please—”

“Shh,” he soothes, lining himself up, pressing in. “There we go. So good for me, you’re taking it so well.”

This angle—God, it’s worse than before; better than it. Deeper, impossibly so, hitting places inside you you’ve never felt before, spots that send your nerves screaming. You sob helplessly as your body struggles to accommodate him, every thrust dragging against your walls, each ridge and vein of his cock felt completely.

“C’mon,” he pants as his movements pick up the pace, thrusts growing fast and erratic. “Gimme this one, sweetheart. Just one more for me, I promise.”

The bed protests beneath you, the frame rattling against the wall. The wet slap of skin fills the room, and just as you start to feel that sharpness creeping up again, something stupid occurs to you: you’re loud. Your screams, the creak of the bed, the sound of your cunt around him– the neighbors—

You turn your head, trying to muffle yourself against your arm.

Matt growls, yanking your arm down and at the same time, he pulls out nearly all the way—only to slam back in with bruising force, hard enough to knock all the breath from your lungs. You can’t stop the scream of his name torn from your throat.

“Matt— please, the neighbors—”

“No,” he snarls. “I’m your husband. I get to fuck you as loud as I want. You want this?”

You nod frantically, too breathless to answer.

His hand finds your throat, grasping firmly around the delicate column. He feels the hammer of your pulse against his palm, heavy and turbulent like a rushing flood. He tightens his grip just enough to feel it catch beneath his thumb. To him, it seems unmistakably perverse—this power to still you if he wanted. And yet your trust is entire, your faith in him unshaken.

“Then let them hear,” he says. “Let them hear what I do to my wife. Let them know how good I’m fucking her.”

A generous god, a present one. That’s what you’ve made him.

“Say my name,” he demands, voice rough. “I want to feel it in your throat.”

“Matthew,” you choke out, completely helpless to his touch. Matthew, Matthew, Matthew…

It’s slipping. That darker thing inside him rising, coaxed loose by the mess of needy wetness where you’re connected. It wants to claim you and mark you, become His peer, one worthy of your devotion.

Have faith that it includes you, Matt.

He licks the salt from your neck. “Can feel how close you are.”

His hand leaves your throat and presses flat against your stomach, right above where his cock punches deep. The pressure of his cock bulging under his palm sends another wave through your body. The feeling at the pit of your gut’s starting to rapidly swell, acute and compounding by the second as he fucks you with the whole length of his cock.

“Feel that?” he rasps, pressing down harder. “That’s where m’gonna fill you. Right into your womb. And if it doesn’t take this time— I’ll fucking make sure it does the next. You won’t even have to lift a finger.”

Then his hand drops lower, to your cunt, gathering your creamy slick with his thumb to rub the swollen nub of your clit with.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he says, the words strangled. “Come while I fuck my baby into you.”

You look down where you’re connected, where his cock sinks in and out of you, coated in slick and so much need and you break. Your walls seize around his length, body convulsing as your climax tears through you. You cry out, legs twitching and nails raking across the sheets. Above you, Matt groans with a guttural, broken sound. His hips drive forward once, twice—the head of his cock kissing the ripe seal of your womb, and then he’s coming, thick and hot, filling you with so much it leaks around his cock even as he keeps pumping deep as he can go. His sweat’s dripping onto you as he holds you tightly, arms trembling with the effort of staying upright. You twitch beneath him, aftershocks rolling still and he collapses onto you, pulsing with the last desperate pulses of cum from his cock.

Your body’s completely pliant, legs trembling even when he finally stills.

“Let gravity help,” he says, easing out gently. He slips the pillow from beneath your back and tucks it under your hips, before slumping beside you. You giggle weakly, nuzzling into his neck. Your sweet husband’s back, placing soft lingering kisses all over your face as his chest heaves from the earlier exertion.

“So,” you start, the haze starting to set, “can you really tell?”

“...Yes,” Matt admits. His voice is husky, warm with affection. “You smell different. And you’re warmer, just a little–”

“Smell different?! Do I stink or something?”

He laughs into your hair, arm pulling you in tight. “Sweetheart, I think we’ve established well enough that you smell absolutely beguiling to me.”

You roll your eyes, your finger tracing absent shapes on his chest. Heart, triangle, star—he hums at each one.

Smiley face. That earns a chuckle.

“Anyway, you weren’t half bad with Teddy either,” you muse thoughtfully. “I think you’d make an amazing dad.”

You opt not to tease him about the blush creeping up his cheeks.

“Matt.” You clear your throat. “You know, I really do want it, but… I just want you to know that I’m happy, even just now. And I’m not stupid, I know you could…” you try not to say die, “...well, the worst could happen. Even then, I’d still want this life with you, whatever I can get. When we got married, I knew that would come with it, and– And if we do have a kid, if the future holds that for us, then it won’t just be us. We have Foggy and Karen and Marci, and my family, too. Takes a village and all that, y’know?”

You pause to catch your breath, Matt nodding you on.

“Point is, we’ll never be left alone, no matter what. I know that’s something you worry about a lot. So if– if something ever did happen to you…” You force yourself to say it, “we’d survive. We can keep living. But between surviving with you and without you, I’ll always choose with. So I’m asking you to let yourself have this. If you really want it. Just promise me you’ll be more careful.”

Have faith that it includes you.

He’s silent for a moment, his hand stroking gently at the slope of your arm.

“I promise,” he says at last, “I really do want it.”

He knows you know the rest. That’s all he can say, pressing a kiss to your temple. Thank you isn’t nearly enough, but it buzzes in his pulse anyway. Smiling faintly into your hair, he lets it stretch just long enough… Before the gravity of the moment slips from his shoulders, not all the way but just enough to let in that familiar, crooked grin.

“Oh, but you know, honey,” he murmurs, lips on your cheek, “you’re not pregnant yet.”

The laugh bubbles from your throat, and he can feel the sound against his skin.

“That was just round one.” His hand slides down to grip your thigh, and he feels you shiver. Perfect. “Let’s get to work then, Counselor.”

tryna get a load from of this guy

#I WANT HIM CARNALLY #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x you #matt murdock imagine #matt murdock smut #daredevil imagine #daredevil x reader #daredevil smut #matt murdock #daredevil #daredevil born again #ddba #🖋️

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shiugart · 10 months ago

Text

Not said | Sylus

I'm in love with this man, and I wanted to introduce myself by writing something about him in the best way… fluffy and self-indulgent! I hope you enjoy the read, English is not my first language ;; Likes and respoted are aprecciates!

It was crazy...

Yes, crazy. Because... How did you go from repudiating and fearing the infamous leader of Onychinus... to... to this?

His soft hair shook as he rocked his face to the left, settling his sleeping form better into your bed. And, clearly, as the mature woman you are and not at all affected by his celestial beauty, you did not annihilate the voracious impulse to shake your legs and slide your fingers through his pretty grayish strands.

You sighed, feeling out of place in your own home. In your own bed! With the curtains closed, somehow trying to wipe most of brightness of Linkon's sun, that your... Ally? Buddy? Lover...?

Gosh, you weren't even sure about that...

Yes, definitely, crazy.

You couldn't even try to figure out Sylus. No matter how hard you tried to collect each piece of his complex puzzle... Most of the time you felt at a dead end.

You blame his pretty voice, his sharp but gentle features, the damn way he pronounced your name, and how he acted when it came to you. God, his damn treatment of you...! That started being so cold, almost spiteful, as if with his words and behavior he will "subtly" (because the bastard wasn't subtle at all!) demand that you remember something he didn't even bother to explain.

The memories in your mind were confusing, blurry and melancholic.

It was strange...

You did not remember exactly that mysterious past, and your "first" meeting was undoubtedly bitter... And now, much to your regret, is the moment where you most feel that your relationship with him wanders on a different astral plane! Completely unrelated!

Because... What the hell were you two?!

There was something implicit there, something mutual that, for better or worse, neither of you had dared to utter. Plus, he completely contradicted himself at times like these. Where the words become extinct, the walls collapse and only that soft perfume of vulnerability remains that surrounds both.

When the cold, calculating and demanding leader became a mirage, leaving only a man... just Sylus.

When he laughed at your antics, and his pretty eyes crinkled in tenderness. Or when he poured honey from his lips, calling you affectionate nicknames that made the butterflies in your stomach flutter. The stolen pettings, where his fingers lingered longer than they should along your hair, those times when his knuckles subtly traced your shoulders and the sides of your arms, or those moments where he let his fingers protectively around your waist.

Moments like these... Where without warning he arrived at your apartment, and took over your bed. If you had a nickel for every time his actions nearly gave you a heart attack, chances are your wealth would begin to rival his.

"Can't you sleep?" His hoarse, sleepy voice startles you, tearing you out of the limbo of your thoughts.

"How could I? It's past twelve." You complain, to which he hums, slowly opening his eyelids.

And there it is again.

Those damn eyes... Those eyes that looked at you as if you were the most important thing to him, with absolute adoration. Full of that affection that made your skin tingle and your knees weak. God, how come this man who initially acted like a demon... Did it end like this?

Overwhelmed, you decided to look away.

His large hand cupped your chin with a firm softness, encouraging you to return your gaze to him.

"Yeah? Is that why you haven't taken your eyes off me?"

Damn.

At this point, it should no longer surprise you that he'll notice those things... But damn! That didn't make it any less embarrassing.

He must have noticed your embarrassment, because his sly smile widened.

"You were looking at me with such intensity that I thought you were going to pierce my face, kitten."

"I-I don't...!" Excuses die out in your tongue, there is no use arguing. You push his hand away and sigh. "Just... I was just thinking."

That gets his attention. He rests his face on his bent arms, and you try hard to pretend that it is something as banal to other mortals as settling into bed, they make it look so perfect, so ethereal, like a muse out of a painting.

It was driving you crazy.

"Yeah? And what were you thinking, pretty?"

Once again, you have to do your best to put on your best poker face to disguise the effect that their disgustingly (wonderful, perfect, amazing) cloying nicknames have on you.

"Nothing in particular..." Your lie is evident, especially by how you avoid his gaze and nervously play with the bedsheets.

He hums, of course he doesn't believe you, in fact, you're sure he already gets the idea... But, as always, he gives you your space, followed with silent reverence the path you chose, and sticks to you with each of your decisions.

Instead, he pulls your arm and wraps it around you lazily, settling your face into his chest, barely hidden under a thin tank top. You can feel his nose on your hair, gently inhaling. Shame pulses through your bloodstream.

"Sy-Sylus...?!"

"Just pretend I'm one of your plushies and try to get some sleep." Sylus pronounces, and you perceive how drowsiness quickly takes over him. There's nothing you can do, not when those strong arms have you happily captive in their embrace. You can only huff and resign. You listen carefully to the pulse of his heart, as erratic as ever, even when he is in this calm state.

The haze of your memories returns to you for an instant. The smell of sulfur and blood, your fingers on a sword and his voice encouraging you not to stop pressing the dagger... Or else, there would be no turning back.

Absently, your fingers outline where the scar should be, unaware of the effect your touch has on it. He shivers, one of his eyes opens and you feel how his gaze shines with intensity, while he holds your wrist firmly with his fingers.

"Kitten..." He warns, and you lower your hands quickly. He laughs, that rich tone, snuggling back into you.

Once again, a sigh leaves your lips. You imitate him, burying your face in his chest, delighting in the persistent rumble of his heart and the manly scent of his cologne.

Yes, there was a lot he hadn't said... But his actions were very clear. And that was enough, at least for now.

#love and deepspace #sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus x mc #lads sylus #sylus qin #sylus romance #lads sylus x reader #sylus fic #sylus love and deepspace

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burnyouwithacigarettelighter · 2 years ago

Text

GUINEA PIG ───

jonathan crane ✧𖦹

ೃ⁀➷ “I think we most fully understood each other when once I tried to kill him with a kitchen knife.” — ‘South and West’, Joan Didion

pairing. switch!jonathan crane x professor!reader

summary. you and your dear friend, jonathan crane, have an odd relationship: he experiments on you, you experiment on him. one day, you experiment your aphrodisiac on him.

warnings. swearing, use of aphrodisiac & fear toxin, oral sex (m), unprotected sex, creampie, p in v, mention of death, murder, drugs, multiple orgasms, slight breeding kink, face fucking, dubcon(?) SMUT UNDER THE CUT!

word count. 6.1k

a/n. the enemies to friends to fucking pipeline is sooo real and i love it. BTW! this is really self indulgent and again, i’m a beginner to writing smut so pls don’t judge😭 the beginning is also oddly plotty, so i apologize for that.

You and your colleague, Jonathan Crane, have a harmonious, albeit slightly sick and twisted, relationship.

Your repertoires, opposite in every way, complete one another like you were made to match. You are messy, frenzied, intimate; he is neat, calculated, distant. He is impatient, histrionic, stubborn. You are tolerant, deadpan, submissive.

This is an odd, good-cop bad-cop dynamic you’ve built, but it works. Your traits uphold the order you’ve built around yourselves; you allow each other to function.

Who ever said something so codependent, so parasitic, would fall apart? That it was dangerous, destructive? Everyone, but in your case, it has been anything but.

These are the simple rules of your relationship: he experiments on you, you experiment on him. This partnership came to bloom when, after years of competing to be the “better” psychology professor at Gotham University, he sent you a gift that sprayed with you with fear toxin, and you baked him a cake that knocked him out for 24 hours following, heart rate so low he could’ve been mistaken as dead.

“Fucking - hell,” You murmured under your breath, stumbling halfway across Gotham City to locate Crane’s absurdly lavish condo in the Diamond District, barely able to keep yourself upright.

You were being visually assaulted by dozens of images, all your phobias no matter big or small, dancing across your senses. Spiders crawled all over your body, you saw yourself about to step off a steep, snowy cliff, you felt yourself suffocate as you were buried to death in a casket. It was utter torture, and you would have to endure it until you found Crane.

You must’ve looked like one of those tweaking drug addicts from down in the Narrows, shivering, sweating, and rubbing all over your body to remove some of the “spiders” taking over your body. The terror was settling into you, into your spine like a terribly malignant disease.

At last, you found the apartment building, blearily snuck in behind a drunk couple, and scanned the mail boxes until you found J. CRANE: 525.

You headed up the elevator, grasping at the walls for dear life, feeling that growing, unmistakable sense of dread start to take over your mind. You felt like you were going mad, now, not just afflicted with something that made you look like it.

When you finally got to his door, it was left open a crack, and you welcomed the small mercy of Crane’s overarching narcissism: he didn’t lock his door, often, because most days he felt more invincible than fucking god.

“Crane!” You shouted, clutching at your head and staggering into his large apartment. “Crane!” you repeated, this time more desperate, more fearful than anything.

However, your deepest fear, at the moment, had come true. You stepped into his kitchen, and found the man laying on the floor unresponsive.

“Fuck me,” you cursed. You’d sent the man home with the cake twelve hours ago, when he took the half-day off from GSU, and you came home from your after-class tutoring hours just moments ago.

You’d opened the mystery package on your front porch promptly, and you found yourself having been gassed with a compound that made you see every little thing you were afraid of. Immediately, you’d known it was Crane; the man’s pet specialty was fear.

As for you, you wanted your… gift, to serve a reminder to him that he should not overstep your boundaries, your territory, as the psychology professor who was there first. If knocking him out was a little bit mad, he was bordering insanity for the toxin he poisoned you with.

Even so, your threat was an empty one. You weren’t counting on the man to even eat the cake - hell, you’d never seen the man consume anything but straight black coffee.

You couldn’t judge a book by its cover, you know now, and laid there on the couch of his apartment, waiting for the twelve hours to be over. Waiting for Crane, the fucking madman, to wake the hell up, blaming him for the predicament despite your very obvious involvement in it.

You breathed in and out, harried and rapid fire as you tried to focus, tried to block out the horrific things you were seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting.

(Your eyes are swarmed, viscerally, by a grotesque hallucination of your family burning to death; you hear them cry out, voices interrupted when they’re fire gets to their lungs; you smell their death, the smell of flesh burning, how the smoke chokes you — you taste their blood on your tongue, how tender a raging fire makes charred flesh.

Tender, you think on your choice of words again, and almost throw up.

What have you done, you think, and what is going through that fucked up head of yours, Crane?)

You tried to ground yourself, tether your lost mind back to Earth. You’re sitting in a field in Northwestern Ireland, you said to yourself, inhaling. Up ahead is the beach; water is crashing on the rocks. You exhaled, the wind tastes like salt, and it is just you and I, here together. It is only I and you, here, together.

Like so, 12 hours passed. Not so much passed — that word gave the connotation the hours slipped past you, the way a peaceful stream of water does; no, more accurately, it dragged by, like when an arm slips out of the ambulance cot on its way to the emergency vehicle, and drags on the concrete. The EMT’s don’t notice what’s making their trip so hard, so slow, until the hand is rubbed raw and bloody.

You repeated that mantra so many times you were starting to get queasy when you thought the words “you’re sitting in a field..” but nonetheless, the string of words kept you sane.

Sane enough, at least - you weren’t sure you’d be the same blissful person you were yesterday. Sure, you were always a little bit… unorthodox? Petty? Competitive enough to bake so many drugs into a cake your opposing professor knocks out?

But, with this — this being drugged by Crane — made you feel a piece of yourself break away. There would be no more of your life lived without knowing how fearful, well, fear, is. It's like discovering the Boogeyman and never being able to stop checking under your bed; the paranoia moves into your head and never leaves.

Crane began stirring, and your eyes opened as soon as you heard the noise. Surprisingly enough, however, you were no longer being hammered with the hallucinations that had been distressing you just half a day ago.

Had it been the mantra? The near-prayer you now swore was etched on your heart?

“Fucking…” Crane said, getting up off the floor. He was clutching his head, eyes squinted, body hunched and tense. Looks like spending half a day on the floor wasn’t the most comfortable place to sleep, but you didn’t give a fuck — atleast he was sleeping. If you had to be mentally destroyed by his toxin, you’d best believe you were taking the couch.

“Why - why are you here? What the hell did you do to me?” He said after noticing you, voice raspy. He hadn’t had anything to drink or eat in a while, after all.

“I could say the fucking same for you,” You muttered, giving him a pointed look. “You - what the fuck did you spray me with?”

Immediately, a twisted grin was bared on Crane’s lips, despite his fatigued demeanor. “Did you like it? My fear-toxin,” he preened, like the winning kid at a school science fair.

You rolled your eyes, and before you could control your tendencies, you’d swung back and then socked him straight in the face.

Crane double-backed, looking terribly affronted, as if he hadn’t sent you the gas knowing how it would affect you. “Ow,” is all he said, face contorting oddly around the pain.

“Yeah, “ow”. Fuck you, Crane.”

Crane raised a brow. “You’re acting like you didn’t feed me a poisoned cake!” He said incredulously.

“It wasn’t that poisoned,” you bit out, teeth gritted. “Not so poisoned I was hallucinating my family dying for twelve hours straight.”

“Ah, thanatophobia, not really one of my favourites—“ Crane started, like he was losing himself in a romantic daydream, before snapping back to reality. “Did you just say twelve hours?”

“Twelve hours for me. Twenty-four for you.” You said, reveling in how panicked he looked.

“I — that’s long enough for me to be killed a hundred times over,” he mumbled under his breath. “What the fuck did you put in that cake?”

“I never expected you to eat it, Crane. You’re fucking skin and bones, I thought you’d just throw it out.”

“What did you put in the cake?” he repeated.

“Ugh,” you sunk into the couch, “some amytal, zolpidem. Some melatonin. I didn’t measure, okay, and again, I wasn’t counting on you eating it.” You didn’t know why you had this urging feeling to respond to him, to humor his jabs, his dumb fucking theatrics, but you did anyway.

“Some amytal? Some zolpidem? Some melatonin? Jesus fucking christ - is that what you wanted? To kill me?” He was leaning down, face inches away from yours now.

You pushed him away, disgust on your features clear as day. “Shut the fuck up. I’m not some sociopathic fear-freak like you, Crane. I don’t mix compounds in my creepy little office with the thought of drugging out my fellow professor in mind. It was just an empty threat.”

He let out a disbelieving laugh, “Mixing barbiturates and medications into a cake sounds like an empty threat to you?”

“You know what?” You said brightly, getting up off the couch, “I don’t have to argue with you. I came to get my cure, woke up having cured myself.” Then, you burst out the door, fury rolling off you in waves, and you left.

There was something about the incident, however, that seemed to intrigue Crane to no end. Soon enough, he began entering your office during your breaks, asking to have a chat. Or, he’d walk in during your lessons, forcing you two in the hall alone. Sometimes, he’d even wait for you after school, dozing off in front of your classroom and waiting for you to exit your office.

You couldn’t tell what was making Crane so interested, but he was hanging off you and your every word like some lovesick puppy.

You, on the other hand, also couldn’t get Crane out of your head. Certainly not for some weird, fucked up reason like his, but because of what he had created. A lot of people doubted his intelligence, mostly because of his obsession on things nobody really cared about, but that obsession made way to the destructive fear-toxin you’d inhaled, and it was seriously unlike anything you’d ever experienced, hell, even read about. It was a brand new creation, and downright deadly.

Your interest in the man was more so on… keeping him in check. As rivals did. But his was on how you’d breezed past the effects of his toxin in just twelve hours. He’s expected you to go half mad, honestly. Your threat was empty… his was, decidedly, not.

By the end of the next week following the incident, you two began eating lunch together, asking for joint classes, and spending nights over at each other's places. Not in that way, of course — your way was like a group of scientists having a forever eureka, because your minds fit like perfect puzzle pieces.

Your intrigue had met his intrigue, and it felt natural, coming to a united front like that. You found you had more in common than you thought, something you should’ve found out about a long time ago, 3 ½ years kind of long time ago. Apart, you two were volatile; angry, spewing threats, attempting murder on the other. Together, however, you were absolute perfection: productive, well-mannered, motivated.

Now, fast-forward coming on two years since the incident. You and Crane - now, Jonathan, have been inseparable since that time. You two were close, closer than siblings or children and parents or couples; you felt like the same person that had been split into two. Being together was the only thing that felt right, being back at the origin, like being at home.

Fuck’s sakes, you did have the same home — you’d moved in together. Not to his, nor yours, but to a big house you bought on the outskirts of Gotham, with a big yard and an even bigger lab in the basement. It was like a scientist's amusement park.

Maybe it - this relationship of yours - was codependency. But maybe it was utter genius: your careers had both never seen so many accomplishments until you and Jonathan came together. Partly because you had a greater inspiration when coupled with the other, but, mostly because you had a body to test on during preliminary trials.

Creating things, like the fear-toxin, required human testing, and finding a way to get that done always slowed Jonathan down. Since finding you, however, it’d been a breeze.

You offered yourself up readily, given Jonathan would do the same. And, besides, Jonathan had never been worried about you and his toxin very much — after that first time you took the toxin, you could easily find yourself out of its effects. You were the only person he’d ever encountered who could do this, and it was downright fascinating. He wanted to keep you, see how that strong little mind of yours worked overtime to fight his toxin off.

You, on the other hand, rarely tested anything like that on Jonathan. Your interests lied elsewhere: what smells activate the human mind to recall memories, what are ways to accurately fight off drugs like GHB — all mental stimulation.

That, however, changed one evening, when you had been brewing up a serum for the past few weeks. You’d gotten to the point in creation where you needed to test on someone, and observe the effects.

“Jonathan,” you called out, looking down at your notes. The man in question was grading assignments for the psychology class you taught — now, in joint lessons more often than not — sitting at a desk a few metres away from you in the lab.

“Jonathan!” you repeated louder this time, looking up from your notes.

“What?” He shouted back, still hunched over on the ungodly amount of assignments he needed to mark.

“Come here. I need to test something on you.” You said, nonchalant.

That, however, piqued Jonathan’s interest to no end: you hadn’t tested anything on him in nearly a year. It hurt, a little, to test you endlessly and have nothing to give in return - so this, no matter what it was, Jonathan would take in stride.

Jonathan nodded vehemently, “Okay.” He then dropped all he’d been doing on the desk and made his way over, before sitting in the chair next to you. You made quick work, tying his arms and legs to the chair like he’d done to you so many times before. He watched you work, completely enraptured in how you looked while experimenting.

“So,” He said, tearing his sticky gaze off of you, “what’re you pumping me full of?”

You sat back in your desk chair and scratched your cheek, a little unsure how to say this. “Well, I created a serum that, once injected, would lower or lose all inhibitions of the victim. They’d be completely malleable, agreeable, if you just, um,” you fanned yourself, feeling a little too close to the man in front of you, room feeling incredibly warm.

“Just what?” He pried, leaning back in his chair.

You exhaled shakily, “if you just promise to - to provide relief to them. Sexual - relief.”

Jonathan let out an incredulous laugh. “You made a working aphrodisiac?”

“I mean, I wouldn’t exactly — I don’t even know if it works, for sure. If you don’t want to- take it, then you don’t have to.” You offered up weakly.

“How d’you get it out of the system?” He said instead, ignoring your words and picking up the needle you had ready for him on your worktable, which was filled with a thick, pink liquid.

You flushed. “You, um, help the victim relieve themselves, until the feeling is gone.”

Jonathan looked up at you, a sly smirk on his lips. “And you were going to give this to me?”

You turned away, face red, exasperated. “I told you, you don’t have to take it if you don’t want to.”

“And let you pleasure some random guy you snatched off the street? No way,” he said, before you heard a familiar prick, small whine leaving Jonathan’s mouth.

You spun back around so fast you thought you got whiplash. “Jonathan, wait—“ you said, alarmed. You were really, seriously, considering not giving the aphrodisiac to him — it would disrupt the careful balance you and he had built over the past years.

You were afraid that if he took the serum, and let you, for lack of a better word, get him off, you wouldn’t be able to look at him without remembering him needy, hot and bothered, calling your name out like it was the only word he knew.

He’d done it anyway, though. And now, you both just had to get through this… experiment.

Quickly, you grabbed your pen and notebook, ready to approach this scenario as detached and clinically as possible, ignoring the pulsing need in your insides as you saw Jonathan’s face slowly contort into a warm, heavy-lidded lustful one.

“How do you feel, Jonathan?” You said, standing further away from him so he couldn’t so much as feel your body heat on him.

“I…” Jonathan blinked rapidly, licking his lips, looking you up and down. “Warm. I just feel… warm.” He readjusted in the seat, unable to sit still. “And - kind of, tingly? Like I - well, I don’t know…”

You noted his words, as well as some of your own observations: his pupils were dilated, so much so the crystalline blue of his eyes were merely slivers, his lips were pursed, plump, and he was pink all over; pink cheeks, pink ears, pink neck. He was talkative, loose-lipped and a little out of it.

You inhaled, then exhaled, before starting the next phase of the experiment. “Jonathan, how do you feel when I touch you here?” You said, raising the back of your hand to caress his cheek.

Jonathan was affected almost immediately, eyes shutting tight. “It feels,” he said breathily, leaning into your touch, “ah… nice. Good.”

You nodded, promptly pulling away as soon as he’d finished his sentence. Subject enjoys physical touch. Jonathan then peered up at you, looking slightly… disappointed?

You shook yourself, getting back on task. “How do you feel now?” You pried, noticing he looked far more affected than before.

Beads of sweat were dripping from his forehead, making his wavy brown hair stick to his skin. He was breathing heavily, and, when you had touched him, he was extremely warm, like he had a fever.

“I’m, I…” Jonathan trailed off, eyes shutting, shaking his head. “Mmm… my head feels — fuzzy,” he bit out raspily.

“Okay. Good. It's exactly as I thought,” you murmured, continuing to scratch down notes.

You ignored him for a few minutes, writing up a list of side effects and observed results of the aphrodisiac. Then, your gaze drew back to him, who had been focussing intently on you the whole time.

“Jonathan?” you called out quietly, seeing his dazed expression. “Talk to me.”

Jonathan shuddered, leaning forward in the chair, head hanging low, “My - my body’s, hnngh… it feels— feels weird.” He bit his lip, face screwed up and tense. “I’m warm all over…”

His shoulders were hunched in, and he was trembling. You lifted a hand up to his head, petting him softly, carding your fingers through his hair.

“Ah…” Jonathan squeaked out at your touch, face going slack, “I feel like I need you to - to…” he sighed exasperatedly, “I need you.”

You chewed the inside of your cheek conflictedly. On one hand, you needed to finish up a few more tests, meaning Jonathan would be teased - or tortured, depending on how fast the aphrodisiac was affecting him - a little longer. On the other hand, he was already a breathy mess, begging for your touch. For you.

“Fuck,” you murmured, turning away from the man who’s eyes were practically rolling into the back of his head at the way you tugged at his locks. “No, no,” you fought your internal struggle. You would not give in to his pleas - you would finish this experiment.

“Okay. Okay.” you said to no-one but yourself, extracting your hand from his velvet soft hair. “Let’s be professional about this. Jonathan, I’m going to take your clothes off, but you can’t move, and you can’t touch me, okay?”

Jonathan’s breathing became more labored as you spoke, and you swore you could see desperate tears filling his eyes. “I can’t- I can’t touch you? But… but why not?” He was practically whining for you.

“Because, Jonathan, it wouldn’t be beneficial to the experiment.” You didn’t look your partner in the eye, because his complete and total change in behavior had you feeling, quite frankly, as warm as him.

You continued by undoing the restraints on his arms and legs, and his sharp intakes of breath as your fingers brushed past his skin didn’t slip past you. Not at all.

Firstly, you undid the man’s white button-up shirt slipping it past his flushed torso. Jonathan’s skin was actually pink and warm all over, and he was breathing heavily now, gripping the chair so tight his knuckles were white.

“Are you okay, Jonathan?” you asked absently, as you began unbuckling his belt and slipping down his fly.

Jonathan’s breath hitched in his throat, and he didn’t answer you, biting down on his lower lip to stop any desperate moans from escaping him.

You finally finished undressing your partner, then redid his restraints, before you stepped back to see him fully. Jonathan was shivering, faint tear tracks on his pink cheeks, head cocked back.

“It’s just - one, or two more tests, Jonathan.” You murmured quietly, kneeling down in front of him.

Your hands pressed flat on his thighs, rubbing him up and down, grazing your fingers lightly on his feverish skin. You had to regularly ground yourself, stop yourself from inching up to the poor, untouched tent in his boxer shorts.

Above you, you could hear Jonathan let out a low groan, “Ah, hnng— please,” he called out to no-one in particular.

“Does that - feel good, Jonathan?” You ask, getting back up on your feet. His desperate groans were getting to you now, how needy his little keens were.

“So - good,” he panted. “Your— you, I want— need, I need…” he trailed off, babbling, lost to the pleasure of your touch.

“Jonathan, if I… touched you more, would you do anything for me?” You said finally. The invention of the aphrodisiac was intended to sway someone's motivations, make them bend to your will. Sure, there was that added sexual aspect, but it was created with less… pleasurable intentions.

“Anything, anything at all,” he said deliriously, rolling his head around. “Jus’… just need you to- touch me.”

“Would you give yourself fear-toxin, Jonathan?”

“Yes! Yes, just — please… please! Stop asking me— questions… I need you so fucking bad, ah…”

“Jesus,” you said. Your aphrodisiac was stronger than you thought. You were satisfied, however, with the results of it. The first trial was a success, and you saw how you could use this on anyone - even people in particular positions of power, and get them to do your bidding. Quite helpful, indeed.

Now, you needed to… get Jonathan out of this state. By, ah, relieving him.

You had decided to do this, to test him, so you had to be responsible and help ease him out of this experiment. Quickly, you stripped your own clothing, even your underwear, before undoing the restraints on his arms and legs.

Jonathan’s eyes widened as he watched you undress. “Are you - are you… gonna t—touch me? Now? Please?” He practically begged, almost drooling at the sight of your naked body.

“Mhm,” you said, a tremble in your voice. “Gon’ help you get out of this.”

Then, you climbed onto Jonathan’s lap, shutting your eyes as you felt his hard cock within his boxer shorts slide between your legs deliciously.

He let out a guttural groan as your weight pressed down on him, feeling your wetness soak his shorts. That measly piece of fabric was all that was keeping him from entering your plush, velvet folds, and he was going practically insane at the feeling.

“M’god,” Jonathan whined out, leaning his sweaty head on your shoulder. “Y’feel so, a—ah, good…”

You couldn’t help the breezy laugh that made its way out of you. “I haven’t even touched you yet, Jonathan, and you’re already so worked up,” you whispered in his ear, hot breath fanning on his warm skin.

“P-pleeeease,” He begged, slowly grinding into you. Jonathan was barely coherent, mind just focussed on chasing the release he so desperately needed.

You raised a brow, but complied, slipping your warm hands down his boxer shorts and pulling his thick length out. You pumped him lazy, feeling how he writhed under you, tasteful whimpers slipping out of his mouth.

After another second of you stroking him lightly, your thumb grazing past the tip and collected a decent amount of precum, he actually did come, wet hot load spurting upwards on his chest and your face. “Ah - hnngh, oh my — oh my god,” he drooled, jutting into your hand.

It dripped down from your cheek onto your lips, and Jonathan squeezed his eyes shut, losing himself in the pleasure. You swiped a handful of his cream off your face, before covering his still hard, curved cock with it.

“You’re not done, aren’t you?” You said to him quietly, his hips stuttering as you artfully smeared his come on himself. Jonathan was arching into your touch, completely putty in your hands.

“Nuh- no, m’still— still need you, need you so bad.” he whimpered shamefully, hands stuck to your waist.

“Look at you go,” you found yourself cooing, dragging a creamy hand down his equally as creamy chest, your fingernails grazing him. “Let me take care of you.”

Then, you lifted yourself up off his lap, and carefully situated your slit on the tip of his head. “Christ,” you called out as you slid down, “you’re fucking big,”

Inch by inch, you took him, and Jonathan’s eyes were rolling into the back of his head, a string of senseless groans and whines leaving his mouth. “Feels so warm, so so warm,” he choked out at last, looking at you adoringly.

You started to lift out of him, your cunt stinging slightly at the sheer size of his cock, when you felt a heated liquid shoot through you, Jonathan’s knees buckling under your ass.

He’d come, again, even before you could get started. You shook your head incredulously at the terribly horny man beneath you, eyes glazed over in the pure ecstasy he was feeling.

“Stop, fucking — coming,” you scolded, bottoming his cock into you once more, “you’re gonna get me so — ah— fucking - pregnant if you keep coming.”

“Sorry,” Jonathan said sheepishly, burying his head into the crook of your neck. “Can’t help it— you feel so — hnngh — feel so good.”

You rolled your eyes at his words, then focussed on getting a good pace of sliding in and out, your hips rolling deeper and deeper into his own. You were bouncing quickly on his cock, dick-riding him like you’d never done before.

With all other sexual partners you had, they wanted to be all vanilla, always just missionary, going slow until they were close, no sense of creativity or any other wishes that just feeling you. With Jonathan - especially in the state he was in now - you could do whatever you wanted, as long as his cock was in your cunt.

“Good — god,” you screamed out, when Jonathan suddenly gained control over himself and snapped into you, rough hands pinching the flesh of your hips. He rutted into you, hard and fast, for a moment like that continually, before his control melted once more into nothingness, and all he could do was let you take the reins.

“Please— how’re you so — ah, how does your pussy feel so good…” he murmured, trailing off into a high-pitched moan when you pulled out, then just as fast sunk down on him.

Jonathan’s fingers trailed up your body, rubbing at your soft flesh, before they found your breasts, kneading you tenderly. He chanced several licks on both your erect nipples, and you shuddered, tightening around him. Your cunt was sucking him in, devouring his length no matter how big he was, and he could feel how his length was stretching your walls wide open.

“So fucking big.” You panted, arms wrapping around his neck, “fat fucking cock all needy, just me.”

“Jus’… just for you! All - ah, all for you,” Jonathan repeated with a squeak, lips bitten delicately between his teeth.

Your hands trailed all over his body, and as the pleasure was getting to you, making your head dizzy and your thoughts foggy, you bounced down on him and your nails scratched up his back, surely leaving small wounds.

This miniscule amount of pain seemed to amplify Jonathan’s endless pleasure, and you could feel him pumping you full of his come once again, the tip of his dick pressed flush against your cervix. His come made you feel so full, fuller than you already did with his monstrous cock nestled into you, continually rubbing up on the toe-curlingly spongy spot in your cunt every time you pushed him back in.

“Mmf,” Jonathan groaned, pleasure muffling whatever he was was going to say, “m’gonna… gonna get you pregnant,”

“Yeah?” You breathed out, squeezing your eyes shut, “Is that what this needy cock wants? To get my wet cunt full and me pregnant?”

“Yes, yes, hnngh, please, wanna come - wanna come more,” Jonathan cried out.

“‘kay, okay,” you nodded vehemently, “then make this pussy feel good.”

Then, you slid out with a whimper, two loads worth of come spilling out of your worn-out cunt, turning around so your ass would face him, before you sunk back down on him. You were chasing your own pleasure now, the unmistakable feeling rumbling within your lower stomach.

Jonathan was completely fucked out, just a shaking, hot and bothered mess on the sticky wooden chair you’d both occupied, but he still welcomed your warm pussy back on him with open arms. Your folds beat any other cunt he’d ever been in, and he knew nothing, not even his own hand, could match up to how addicting you were, how delectably you took him.

The new angle had you reeling, your hands gripping Jonathan’s thighs for some much-needed support. You were buckling, getting weaker with every bounce, but were still desperate for release. It affected Jonathan too, and he was pressing his face up against your hair, biting down lightly on your shoulder to collect himself despite the earth-shattering pleasure you were inflicting on him.

Your fleshy cunt met his rock-solid cock every moment perfectly, and soon enough your back was arching, head leaning back on Jonathan’s shoulder. That knot in your stomach was tightening, a fire burning within you and begging you not to stop.

Jonathan’s needy hands were coursing all over your body, rubbing on you in all the right places, and when his calloused fingers began pinching and twisting at your sensitive nipples, you saw white. That burning feeling dragged across your entire body, your jaw tensing, and you felt positively fuzzy, pure pleasure destroying all coherent thoughts you’d been having, your mind now focussed on the insane way he made you orgasm.

There was nothing that could compare to how you felt now, this being the hardest you’d orgasmed in your entire life. There was just something about Jonathan — be it how unbelievably big he was, or perhaps the odd tension that surrounded you two for the past few years — that made this experience ten times, no, a hundred times, better.

It was like his dick had been artfully crafted to stretch you out and stuff you full; that thick cock, made just for you.

In place of your weakening strength, Jonathan kept his hand tweaking your breast, and his other hand gripped your hip tightly, helping you bounce up and down on his cock. Thus, the pleasure was maximized by his touch, and you rode out your high like that for a few more long moments.

You stayed there, on his lap panting and drooling, for a few more seconds, before you climbed off of him, grimacing at the loss of his sweet cock in you.

You stood shakily, feeling his come ooze out of your sticky hole, and you were surprised to see that Jonathan was still hard. He was panting, head leaning against the chair, hands and legs trembling, but his dick could probably still pump out another round of come.

You did always wondering how he’d taste, and after seeing how long and thick he was, you wanted to know if his dick could make you cry, too. So, you kneeled down on the cold floor, pulling him by the ankles a little further off the chair, so you could get better access to him, and buried your pretty little head between his shaking thighs.

“What’re you— doing?” Jonathan said blearily, but before he could continue, your soft lips wrapped around him, and your tongue began artfully swiveling his sensitive head.

The loudest moan you’d heard so far was drawn out of Jonathan, and more, similar noises came out of him. It was nonsensical, and unintelligible, but you could tell he was having the time of his life — as if he hadn’t just orgasmed three times prior.

You started slowly, mouth taking his cock until you felt like you couldn’t anymore, before forcing past that point and making yourself take him to the back of your throat. Tears lined the rims of your eyes, your head swimming from lack of oxygen, but you couldn’t help how badly you wanted to hear him whimper and whine out from how good you were servicing him, his pretty groans reaching your ears like music.

You pulled his cock out of your mouth when you felt like you were going to pass out, and then you began lapping up at his cock, sucking and curving your tongue around his long length. You sucked him hard and fast, and then, his hands grappled at your hair.

At this point, you believed the aphrodisiac was wearing off, and Jonathan, now a little more clearheaded, began face fucking you, filling your sweet mouth full with his filthy cock. He couldn’t resist doing so, especially with you looking up at him through your tear-stained lashes, hollowing out your cheeks and gripping his thighs like your life depended on it.

You gagged on him, several times, but he didn’t care, and with a jolted thrust past your swollen lips, he came, squirting all he had left down your throat. You sucked and swallowed every drop of him into your mouth, loving the taste of his salty liquid.

Now, you were both fucked out, beyond tired, the strain on your muscles settling in. Your core had been properly exercised, what with how many times you rutted into Jonathan, and he, similarly, had a strained back with how much he arched into your touch, his aphrodisiac-clouded mind wanting nothing more but to be touched by you.

“Good god, woman,” Jonathan said, collapsing into the wooden chair, which was sticky with sweat, come and your cunt’s soaking wetness. “You could’ve just said you wanted to fuck,”

You panted, dropping down onto the cold floor beneath you and wincing. “We’re — we were, just friends.”

He waved away your words, “We live together, darling. Not quite sure if that's “just” friends.”

You looked up at him, before laughing agreeably. “Felt good though, didn’t it?” A smug grin made its way on your lips, remembering how submissive Jonathan had been, how desperate he’d been just for the slightest bit of touch.

“Amazing,” he said exasperatedly. “But next time, you’re not topping.”

“Next time, huh?” You said brightly, shakily getting up. Jonathan helped you, both of you limping exhaustedly up the stairs to your actual house, where you really should’ve been fucking, instead of the clinical environment of your large basement lab.

Jonathan’s hands found your ass, pulling you flush against him and kneading the flesh roughly. “Why not? Don’t you wanna know how I fuck?” he whispered suggestively into your ear, nibbling at the lobe.

“I think, you’ve still got some aphrodisiac in you, Jon.” you said, laughing breezily.

#jonathan crane x reader #jonathan crane smut #jonathan crane #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy #batman #sub!jonathan crane #sub!jonathan crane x reader

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piplup335 · 25 days ago

Text

Griefer x reader! (post-Venomshank when he has all the plant stuffs)

*inhale* HELLO, F E L L A S wanted to try writing for block tales lmao, probably gonna open requests for them mb I wanna work on requests but I'm tryna write self-indulgent reqs rn aaaaaa I'm sorry ;-; but yeah uh first time writing for block tales, I'm trying :,D enjoy!

⋯⇋ ૮(•͈⌔•͈)ა ⇌⋯

You were tired of everything that had happened to you so far.

When you were torn out of your timeline so you could go back to the past to help Shedletsky get the SFOTH swords, you really didn't know what to expect. You expected an arduous journey, sure...after all, these swords were the stuff of legend. You knew that much...after all, the swords also existed in your timeline, and you learnt about them before.

You didn't expect...everything else.

When you were first sent to get the Ice Dagger after having a short, grumpy penguin guide you through the ropes of the new world, the journey you went on was predictable, to say the least. Having some old, regal king as the guardian of the sword wasn't unexpected to you, especially because of all the video games you played in your old world. What you didn't expect was how delirious he seemed to be.

Based on what you heard from the villagers living in the kingdom, he was a reasonable and just ruler. No one had any complaints about him, and all respected him for his decisions.

That wasn't reflected in your fight, though.

When you fought him, he seemed to be detached. Paranoid. Cruel King thought you were going to tear down his kingdom, and no amount of talking deterred his insatiable need to cut you down. You had to physically wrestle the Dagger away from him- not the sensible and just king you expected, but a complete and utter lunatic.

You thought it was the end of it, but it wasn't.

Shedletsky then sent you out to Turitopulis to retrieve the Venomshank from Mayor Thanyiel. On the plane ride there, you decided to go prepared and read up on Turitopulis' culture, nature and residents...just so you knew what you were going to be up against. You didn't want to get blindsided by a seemingly normal ruler again.

Upon reaching there, you realised you were probably a bit too late. You saw Mayor Thanyiel...held hostage by a gorilla, commanded by some dude who looked like some edgy teen. He even spoke just like an edgy teen, too- some of his words seemed a bit distorted, but you could somehow understand his speech as leetspeak.

Maybe the Ice Dagger gave you some of the old King's knowledge.

Regardless, you still had a job to do.

You spoke to people in the town, simply wanting to get your job over and done with so you could return to your timeline as soon as possible. But the more you spoke to the people there the more intrigued you were about the place. Gone was your annoyance pertaining to your job

You traversed through the dense forest, careful to prevent any unwanted encounters. The fauna was quite hostile there, after all.

By the time you finally navigated to Griefer's crib, or whatever that place was called, it was already too late for you. You wanted to resolve the situation peacefully, but by then Griefer had already tied his father to the Venomshank and used him to pull the sword from the stone.

Cue a long fight where you had to battle the Venomshank-wielding male...and even after losing, he stabbed himself with the very sword he tried to kill you with.

It didn't end well for either of you.

While you were severely injured, Griefer's fate was much worse. He got transformed into some plant...spider...hybrid monster thing.

Even after purifying your soul to retrieve the Ghostwalker and defeating some ancient god for the Firebrand, when you went back to Turitopulis, he was still in his plant-like form, if not in an even worse state.

When you checked in with Mayor Thaniyel, he mentioned that not only had Griefer not returned to his usual self, but he was also less responsive as the days passed. Barely reacting to his dad's voice. Barely getting up to eat. It was as if his life was withering away day by day like the plants covering his body were consuming him from the inside...so you knew what you had to do.

After a bit of sailing and a trip to the late Kitchen Wizard, you returned to Turitopulis, some onion ring tart in your hands.

Allegedly, based on the cookbook you found at the heart of the jungle, it was supposed to be some cure for Griefer's condition. It worked, thankfully...but only to some extent.

He still had plant-like features around him, but you thought it made him look cooler.

That was when finally...he opened up to you and agreed to join you on your journey to find the rest of the swords.

He told you everything about himself. He mentioned how he was always curious about the Venomshank, how he heard the voices from it just like Blackrock's king...how it controlled his mind and made him do things he never should've done. He told you about how he'd get yelled at by his father every time he tried to bring up the topic of the Venomshank...and everything in between.

For once, he felt safe. He felt like you were someone he could truly trust, and therefore agreed to aid you in your adventure.

Fortunately for you, Shedletsky had no information to give you regarding the other sword guardians, so in the meantime, you could take a break and explore the new world. Despite all that, though, you enjoyed staying in Turitopulis by Griefer's side, getting to know the community better with each passing day. However, you still wanted to return to the Temple of the Red Sun to train and loot the place...which was how you ended up falling for him.

You let out a choked cough. Blood was starting to flood your throat, and you were just a few hitpoints away from dying. With whatever Special Points you had left, you pulled out one last card from your deck.

"Griefer...? If you're there...somewhere...please, help..."

The being...The Ancients, it called itself, stared down at you, its soulless, unmoving eyes never once leaving your wounded form. Calypso lay before you, crumpled up into a heap. She had passed out trying to protect you, just as how Captain Trotter wanted.

She was loyal to him until the very end.

And even then, her loyalty to him was her downfall.

As The Ancients wound up its arms, preparing for one final strike, you squeezed your eyes shut.

You were already in too much pain to move. You just wanted to die quickly so you could respawn and be freed from whatever agonising pain you were in.

Just as The Ancients lunged forward, ready to take away whatever life you had left, you heard some faint rustling as a familiar figure dropped down in front of you. Two pained grunts could be heard from him as he was struck by the two blows that were meant for you.

"...N0T 0N MY W4TCH, PUNK."

The crowbar-wielding male stood in front of you, protecting you from The Ancients.

You glanced up at him, confusion and shock on your face. You had no idea how he got into the temple and found you in such a short amount of time, but you weren't complaining.

"G...Griefer...? You...actually came to help..."

A weak cough escaped your body as you tried to stand up. Getting bashed in multiple times had done quite a number on you, and you almost fell flat on your face.

"...D0N'T PU5H Y0URS3LF."

He knelt down and held out a hand for you to grab. You gratefully accepted his help and pulled yourself back on your feet. Due to your weakened state, however...you stumbled into him.

Griefer, upon seeing your weakened state, instinctively caught you as your legs gave way, not wanting you to fall. What you didn't expect was for him to do so by pulling you against him so you could put your weight on him instead of on your own legs...which resulted in him tightly hugging you to himself.

"I G0T Y0UR B4CK. L3T'5 PWN TH15 5UCK3R T0G3TH3R."

One thing slowly turned into another, though...and on one moonlit night, Griefer ended up asking you out during a leisurely nighttime stroll. By that point, you were completely smitten by him, so you agreed.

Ever since that day, Griefer treated you like a delicate porcelain doll. He offered to take care of you as you recovered from your injuries, offered to do little things for you and always protected you from whatever was out to get you. Once, he even followed you to The Guru so you could get more training by refighting your own embodiment of hatred. Despite you telling him multiple times that you'd be fine since you'd fought it before and could even respawn, he was determined to follow you so you'd come back safe and sound.

On this day, however, you really didn't feel like training. Your body was sore from the excessive practice you did the previous day, and all you wanted to do was take a break for one day.

So what did Griefer do? He decided to pop over to the Turitopulis' Town Inn you were staying at to pay you a visit and spend some quality time with you.

As you lay in bed, your muscles sore from all the combat you did the previous day, you heard a soft click as the door opened. Griefer stood in the doorway, a small bowl in hand.

"H3Y. (Y/N). I M4D3 Y0U S0M3 S0UP. Y0U 5H0ULD H4V3 S0M3, IT'5 G00D F0R Y0U."

Griefer set the container down on your bedside table and opened it. The smell that wafted out and filled the room was heavenly- it smelt delectable, just like the soup your parents always made for you in the past.

Griefer went to the inn's pantry and grabbed a spoon. He picked up the bowl of soup, scooped up some soup and held it to your mouth.

"D0 H4V3 S0M3, D34R35T...Y0U N33D 1T."

You opened your mouth and let Griefer spoon-feed you the soup. It tasted just as good as it smelled, if not even better. The soup was rich and savoury, and it tasted absolutely heavenly.

You instinctively opened your mouth every time he brought the spoon to your lips, gratefully consuming every bit of soup he fed you.

It tasted like familiarity. It tasted like home. It tasted of the good old times when you were safe and secure in the arms of people you cared for.

Now, you were in a new universe. There were so many new things to see. So many things to appreciate. Someone by your side to truly love.

As Griefer continued feeding you the soup, you had a sudden thought.

"...Griefer...? Could we...cuddle, by any chance?"

He paused, a faint hint of pink spreading across his face. Eventually, he relented, setting the bowl back on the bedside table and crawling under the blanket with you.

"...F1N3. C'M3R3..."

Griefer wrapped his arms around you, pulling you to his chest. The leaves covering his face and arms tickled a bit, so you squirmed in his grasp to get comfortable.

He buried his face in your shoulder, the leaves on his face brushing against your neck as he lay there, the only sound in the room being the faint hum of the air conditioner and the soft breathing from both of you.

"I'V3 W4NT3D T0 D0 TH15 F0R 4 WH1L3...JU5T L13 D0WN H3R3 W1TH Y0U L1K3 TH15. 1'M GL4D 5H3DL3T5KY H45N'T SENT Y0U 0UT T0 F1ND 4N0TH3R 5TUP1D 5W0RD..."

You lay there in bed, too tired to say a word and too comfortable to move. You never knew how nice it was to get spooned by someone you loved until then. As you let out a soft yawn, Griefer chuckled.

"T1R3D? Y0U 5H0ULD SL33P. Y0U'V3 B33N TR41N1NG 4 L0T R3C3NTLY."

You subconsciously caressed some of the vines that snaked down Griefer's arm, silently adoring his new look. You knew that deep down, Griefer was insecure about the new additions...but you liked them anyway.

As you drifted off to sleep, you felt his hold on you tighten slightly.

"5L33P W3LL, MY L0V3...1'LL 4LW4Y5 PR0T3CT Y0U FR0M WH4T3V3R PUNK TH4T TR135 T0 HURT Y0U."

⋯⇋ ૮(•͈⌔•͈)ა ⇌⋯

and that’s all, fellas! I hope you enjoyed, and I’ll see you guys soon! :D

#roblox #roblox x reader #x reader #blocktales #blocktales x reader #block tales #block tales x reader #block tales griefer #blocktales griefer #griefer block tales #griefer blocktales #griefer x reader #marinated seasoned and grilled to perfection!

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affableramen · 8 months ago

Text

waking up with them

fluff; early relationship; no smut but implication of you sharing the same bed

note: very self-indulgent & comforting

Wriothesley

When you wake up, Wriothesley is still sleeping soundly. His hair is slightly disheveled, and his mouth slightly opened as he looks extremely tranquil in his sleep.

But when your brush your fingers over his thick hair, he responds, wakin up to your touch immediately. He opens one eye and sees you next to him, your hand in his hair. Wriothesley touches your wrist gently, pulls it down and delivers a shallow kiss onto your palm.

“You’re so beautiful.”

“Come on, Wrio. Who is beautiful at this hour? I am sure I look messed up in the mornings.”

He nuzzles his face into your hand, kissing it all over and murmurs silently:

“Beautiful.”

Tartaglia

He is deeply asleep when you play with his copper hair. When you find yourself under the same blanket with Ajax, you feel utter sense of home. His place radiates the vibe of wanting to have you here. You think it ridiculous first, but your thoughts are kindly interrupted by Ajax’s slowly stirring. As he wakes up, he pulls you closer to his chest, there is a silly smile on his lips.

“Need your warmth a while longer…” he says, still sleepily.

“I’m happy to share some with you.”

Neuvillette

Neuvillette wakes up long before you to simply admire your sleepy state. You look beautiful when you’re asleep to him: peaceful, tranquil, gorgeous even, he thinks. Not a single shade of worry appears to touch your face. You look incredibly smooth and contented. As you stir gently in your sleep, Neuvillette feels like he should have been more careful with stroking your face. Though he didn't want you to wake up so early, he becomes the happiest man alive when he sees the way your eyes stop at him.

“Neuvi…” says the dreamy you.

“Apologies if I woke you, it was unintentional”, he resumes stroking your hair and pushes a lock behind your ear. “I like the sight of it.”

“Of what?”

“Of you wrapped in my blanket. It makes me feel so warm.”

Pantalone

You wake up in the softness of sheets of his king-sized bed. The sunlight lets thin rays get through your curtains and illuminate a part of your boyfriend's face. He’s woken up before you, his eyes softly looking at you, and he moves his hand out of the middle of the fuzzy blanket to run his fingers over your cheek gently. The touch is lightweight and innocent, so is Pantalone’s smile. Slowly waking up, you cannot believe that you are under the same blanket together. Carefully, you push yourself closer to embrace Pantalone, and he does the same as if having read your mind. Tightly he hugs and cuddles you.

“You’re here.”

“Did you think I’d leave you to an empty bed?”

“I can’t say I did not consider that outcome. But I am most contented with how the things are now.”

Ayato

You wake up and first few moments stare into Ayato’s violet eyes, him being woken up early. You look into his face: it’s peaceful and quiet. The man known for liking to talk your ears out and sprinkling sarcasm here and there is quietly lying in the bed right now enjoying the sight of your presence, so intimate and so close. He is completely silent, just examining the look on your face, your features, trying to find any discontent or discomfort in your gaze but fails to find one.

“Won’t you be late?”

“I will”, he says nonchalantly. He wants to stay with you in the bed so much that it’s apparently read on his face.

“But you’re the CEO…”

“Can wait. Besides, no one will die if I am just 30 minutes late.”

Capitano

He wakes up first and strokes your hair gingerly. You are still asleep when a rough big hand caresses the thin skin of your face, from time to time stopping on your chin and lips. Though Capitano tries to hide his affections and make the touch as much subtle as possible, his calloused hand betrays his gentleness. You stir, slowly coming to senses and see Captain’s grave face appear in front of you. This man just seems incapable of smiling, even in such domestic and sweet circumstances. You pout back at him.

“Must you be so tense?”

“I’m unhappy to wake you. Try to sleep more, you’ve been through a lot.”

“I don’t mind sleeping more. But only if it’s in your arms, sir.”

Alhaitham

You wake up first and cannot deny yourself the joy of seeing Alhaitham so peaceful and pretty. As he is deep in his sleep you notice some features of his face that you’d never seen before. The features that are only taken notice of when in close proximity. You try to silently move closer to him, balancing on your elbows and ending up delivering a little peck in his lips.

That cautious but satisfying action makes Alhaitham stir and wake up eventually. When you pull away you see his half-closed eyes staring at you. But if his look is usually clouded with intense judgement and disgust, right now he looks extremely soft for someone who avoids being in people’s company too much.

“Hey”, he is surprised and troubled. “You stayed?”

“As you see. I wasn't ready to let you go. Besides, you give out very nice hugs.”

Dottore

He wakes first. His usually eerie expression now less eerie as he looks at the person sleeping next to him, comfortably wrapped in the blanket he previously used for himself. Dottore gives up to a little blush on his face because he does not understand how you could agree to stand the whole night with him. He knew you are not the type of girl to leave without a word, but he still expected you to escape. But you stayed, and Dottore finds himself utterly perplexed, but also madly in love.

“Dott…” your hand reaches out to touch him. Dottore blushes even more and thank God your eyes are still shut when you touch his cheek, otherwise he’d embarrass himself with a tomato-red face.

Dainsleif

You wake him with your gentle touch. Although you had hoped the light weight touch of your fingers wouldn't stir him, yet the sensitive Dainsleif still finds himself waken up by you. And he is completely disoriented. One part of him screams happy of seeing you next to him, under the same blanket as his own body, but the other is angry that he let you, perhaps, too close.

But he doesn't want to think. Not right now, when you are looking at him with so much affection. Dainsleif wants you to recognise the same affection in his eyes as he pulls you closer, finds your hand and intertwines his fingers with you.

“So delighted you’re here.”

“I wouldn't go anywhere without you, Dain.”

Baizhu

He wakes first and moves some strands out of your face to see you more clearly. Baizhu didn't even dream of it — to see you so closely, so intimately. He has you touch the same blanket he used to cover his own body with, to get some warmth. This feels so personal to him, he lets out a little chuckle, smiling to his thoughts.

When you wake up, the first thing you see is emerald green hair before you. You raise your hand to caress the hair and this might be the first time you witness the pharmacist without his glasses. His face is extremely different from what you had known before. You now clearly see his eyes which are usually sad and radiate constant struggling, but right now he looks somewhat tranquil and at peace. If you are the reason of his calmness, it makes you immensely happy.

“I didn't want to wake you up. Sorry”, he lets out a nervous laugh.

“I don’t mind.”

“You’re so beautiful in the morning.”

“So are you.”

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leonalovesalot · 2 months ago

Text

Freaky on camera IV

Brother’sBestFriend!ArtDonaldson x Camgirl!Reader

18+ MinorsDNI

wc: 2.9k

.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._

The next few weeks were spent in your room, alone, or out with your friends. You were doing everything and anything you could to avoid Art. That night replayed in your mind every time you closed your eyes, and that same nauseating feeling continued to overwhelm you.

After the subtle threat that Art spat at you, you stood there frozen. Your eyes were blurry because they were brimming with tears. You thought he’d panic and apologize profusely because he was your big brother’s friend and you trusted him to do good. But from what you recall, he just turned around and walked out of your room without uttering a word.

You were petrified, to say the least. This cam-girl side hustle was never supposed to creep its way into your real life. It was your own world where you could indulge in your darkest desires and feel secure about yourself in doing so. And somehow, in an instant, that world crumbled.

It was all Art's fault.

So, since then, whenever you hear Patrick mentioning plans with Art, you just grab your car keys and leave the house. When he stays the night, you crash on a friend's couch.

You couldn't talk to anyone about this because that would mean exposing your confidential persona. Left to your own devices, you thought a lot about your next moves.

Interestingly enough, as the days went by, your fear began morphing into anger. Mainly because it was so unlike you to just cower and stutter like a bitch in the face of some guy. Giving Art that kind of power over you made you tremble with rage. It was so humiliating. The way he felt like he could control and take advantage of you. You would never, ever let that happen. You would never give him that satisfaction, even if you had to risk being found out.

You had taken a hiatus from your camming. Some of your viewers were upset and left angry comments on your profile as if you owed this to them. The parasocial attachment some people had formed with you was quite appalling. Like they'd just die if you weren't squeezing your tits for them twice a week. Absolute losers.

In just a small amount of time, you became bitter and revengeful.

You weren't going to stand idly by as the pathetic, second-rate men of the world tried to tear you down.

You'd start with Art Donaldson.

Art, Art, Art.

Oh, how he surprised you by revealing himself to be such a complete and utter scumbag. It was saddening too, because you always thought he was a sweetheart. He and Patrick were always giggling and running around together as kids. Even as they got older, that playfulness and love for one another never died down. It was so endearing and you always admired the strong bond between the two.

But now?

You didn't know how to feel.

Did Patrick know about this side of Art? They told each other everything so it wasn't totally out of the question. But there's no way Art told Patrick about your camming because Patrick had been acting the same around you. Phew.

When the summer semester began, you were actually glad. It meant that Art would drive his awful self back to Stanford, and you could finally walk freely through your house without being on high alert all the time.

It was time to put your plan into motion.

.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._

Art had a confusing summer break. He was expecting some more friction between you and him, but you going MIA after that night was unexpected. He wondered if he'd gone too far when the following Tuesday, YourRoxy had announced a hiatus. He was sitting in his childhood bedroom, lotion in hand, only to be blueballed.

This wasn't what he wanted. He wanted you to continue, he wanted to be next to you while you did. He couldn't get enough of you. Yeah, he did kind of blackmail you but he didn't think you'd just give up and turn into a recluse.

That wasn't you.

He had heard stories, through Patrick, of how you had no problem standing up to the mean kids in elementary school. You once told off this one older kid, Eddy, who would bully Patrick, during recess, on the playground. He'd tease Patrick about being on the shorter side as an eleven year old. Now that Patrick was a lot taller and muscular, he often mentioned how he wishes he'd run into Eddy again just to show him how much he's changed. But even back then, as a tiny eight year old, you saw your brother in distress, marched right up to Eddy, and made him cry.

Art loved that story.

After getting back to school for the summer semester, Art lost himself in his lectures, practices, and games. It was only syllabus week and there was already so much to do, he couldn't believe it. He was taking two classes this term and it still seemed just as hectic as when he'd take four.

He went right back to just, surviving. Nothing out of the ordinary, no excitement in his life. He didn't even feel like relieving stress by jerking off anymore. Without you, it wasn't as fun.

On the Friday of his first week back, he trudged to his dorm tiredly after practice. He was exhausted all week because the time off school had ruined his sleep schedule. So much so that he almost fell asleep in his lecture today, and then again while showering after practice (standing up). He was glad to be done around four p.m. and decided to just sleep the whole day.

He reaches his door, and takes the Yonex tennis bag off his shoulder. He opens the small zipper at the front and takes out his key and sticks it into the entrance of his dorm. Art unlocks the door and yawns as he walks in.

His eyes widen at the sight before him, and his yawn becomes a gasp as he recoils, back hitting the doorframe.

There you were. Sitting on his unmade twin bed, twirling a strand of your hair around your finger. You wore the tiniest denim shorts—they were basically panties—along with a tight black top. You looked unbelievably sexy.

"Finally," you sigh, "I aged like ten years waiting for you." You didn't look the least bit surprised when he walked in. This is the Y/N he was used to. The one that exuded confidence and poise.

Art just stood there, hand wrapped around the doorknob while the other held his bag.

"You gonna come in or...?" You stand up and stretch your neck, tilting it side to side.

He slowly takes a step inside the dorm room and closes the door behind him. He drops his tennis bag on the floor by his foot and gulps, suddenly hyperaware of how small the room is. It definitely wasn’t meant for two people—especially not two with this much sexual tension between them.

"So how was practice-" You begin to ask casually, but Art impatiently cuts you off.

"How did you get in?" He looked tense—angry, even. Like he couldn’t believe that you had the nerve to show up unannounced after avoiding him, and letting him believe he had destroyed you.

You scoff, annoyed that he cut you off. It was your biggest pet peeve.

"You made your boyfriend a copy of your key, remember?" You say, reaching into your back pocket and holding up the key—with the tennis ball keychain—that Art had given to Patrick in case of an emergency. Earlier today, you had simply walked into Patrick's bedroom and taken it from his bedside drawer. It was too easy.

Art rolls his eyes and your sarcastic remark.

"What're you doing here?" Art asks slightly irritated. To be honest, he was just so tired and you were literally standing in the way of him and his bed.

The corner of your lip curled up, "you don't seem happy to see me."

Art inhales sharply, "I'm- I just- why're you here?"

You put your hands in your pockets and rock back and forth on the balls of your feet. Your cool demeanour was a stark contrast from Art’s cautious one.

“Well, our last encounter left us with a lot to discuss. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Art swallows. He didn’t understand how the tables had turned. You were in his dorm, on his college campus, and yet it felt like you had all the power. Whereas, when he was in your house, he seemed to be the one running the show. That confused him, but he took a deep breath and tried to get some of his mojo back. He had nothing to be afraid of, he reminded himself. You were the one playing the dangerous game of how-do-I-not-get-caught-today? Art was in the clear.

His eyes meet yours, suddenly a little more confident. But you didn’t back down, you just smirked. You felt excitement, like you both stepped into a ring and were ready to see who would come out on top.

“Sure, yeah.” He nods.

"Good, so we're on the same page," you walk over to his desk and push his laptop aside. You hop up and sit on it. Legs swinging.

Art's eyes follow your every movement. He couldn't predict what you'd do next which made him all the more nervous.

"I was shocked when you came into my room that night.” You kiss your teeth. “The way you talked to me—just thinking about it makes me wanna—” You pause and shake your head.

You didn’t finish the sentence, but Art knew it was probably something along the lines of 'bash your head in'.

"But, I'm here to speak about what you said to me. I wanted to know whether you were all talk." You cross your arms.

Art mulled it over. Was he serious? Did he want your money? Did he really want to blackmail you—to make you hate him? Well, yes and no. The last thing he wanted was for you to despise him—but he knew it was already too late. Fuck, he just wanted you around. He liked you. Even now, when you were pissed at him, he didn't want to be anywhere else. He had gotten a taste of you and didn't want to go back to the way things were. And if he came clean—told you he didn’t actually give a fuck about the money—he knew he’d lose whatever this was.

"Well, I'm not." Art takes a step further into his room, "I meant it."

Your brows raise like you were impressed, "did you now? You seriously want me to split my earnings with you?" You scoff.

“Yeah. And if you don’t—well, I’m sure you know what’ll happen.” He was starting to feel at ease.

You listen and nod slowly, a smile creeping onto your face. Not from joy, but from the sheer absurdity of it all.

"Right, you'll run off and tell Patrick." You tilt your head and stare at the carpeted floor. It’s surprisingly clean—no stains, no socks, not even a little lint. You hadn’t pegged him as the tidy type. Cleanliness was actually a quality you found very attractive in a man. But seeing as that man was Art Donaldson, you knew the spotlessness on the outside didn’t translate to the inside.

"It's a pretty straightforward situation, Y/N. I mean, I'm letting you buy my silence." Art looks smug as he sees your jaw clenching, knowing he was getting to you.

"Letting me?" You chuckle in disbelief. "Art there is no fucking way I'm going to just let you walk all over me like this." You were being stern.

"Oh okay," he shrugs, "then I guess I'll just call Patrick and let him know his little sister is an exhibitionistic freak."

Your lips part at his comment. It was far from the truth and you hated that he reduced your secret profession down to some sick fetish.

"Like you're any better," you slide off his desk and stand up straight, "Blackmailing me because you're just some privileged asshole with affluenza."

“You can say whatever you want,” Art says with a shrug, his expression cocky. “But the fact remains—you’re fucked.”

You let out an artificial laugh. “You do realize that if you tell Patrick, I’ll be more than happy to fill him in on your little diabolical scheme, right?”

You were acting a little unhinged—but he was getting used to it. In fact, he was starting to enjoy it. It gave him a glimpse of all the colours of you. You could be so intimidating when you wanted to be. And, to his surprise, he found that… attractive.

"And you do realize that I'll just deny it, right?" Art smirks as he mocks you.

You roll your eyes, "he wouldn't take your word over mine, Art. I'm his blood."

"Maybe, but I have tangible evidence," he nods toward his laptop on the desk, "just one click."

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” Your anger was starting to surface again.

“Careful,” Art warns, fire in his eyes. “You wouldn’t want to make this worse for yourself by running your mouth.” That fire wasn’t going out anytime soon.

You gasp, then bite back, “You’re just as deep in shit as I am, Art.”

Intrigue flashes across his eyes, "really? How so?"

"I mean, the fact that you were lurking on my profile for God knows how long! Did you feel no shame, Art?" You take a step closer to him. "I'm willing to bet that, even though you were shocked to see me, you definitely couldn't stop yourself from getting hard. I bet you even jerked off." you whisper, "while moaning my fucking name."

Art's expression hardens and he takes in shaky breath. "Even so, you have no way to prove that," he chokes out.

Your tongue clicks, annoyed that he was right. "So if I give you thirty percent of what I make after each session," you think out loud, "you'll leave me alone?"

Art was surprised that you were beginning to give in. He was slightly let down that you weren't as full of spunk anymore.

"That's what I said, yeah." Art walks over to his bed and sits on the edge of it, looking up at you.

Now it was your turn to mull it over. You wanted nothing more than to scream at him and storm out of his stuffy dorm room. But you couldn’t risk being found out. What if he wasn’t bluffing? You couldn’t take that chance. Still, this deal wasn’t good enough. You needed more—a guarantee. Maybe even something on Art.

"Fine." You exhale heavily, "but, I'm also going to need a little something of yours."

Art furrows his brows, "what do you mean?"

You take a step closer and it forces him to tilt his head further to meet your gaze.

“I’ll give you the money—but I need some assurance you won’t fuck me over. You know, like take the cash and snitch to Patrick anyway.” Your uncompromising demeanour was back and even though you had to give him what he asked, you were still only going to do it on your own terms.

"I wouldn't do that to you, Y/N," he says, starting to sound almost genuine.

You snort and cut him off. “Well, you can’t blame me for not trusting you. Before that night, I thought you were a decent guy. And now? Well... I think the opposite.”

A frown crosses his face, but you didn't care.

You continue, "I need to know that if I promise to follow through on my end, there is absolutely no chance of you ever slipping up." You emphasized every word in the sentence. You weren't messing around.

Art agrees with you and nods, "okay, that's fair."

"Good." You were glad that the two of you were finally in agreement.

"How do we go about this then?" Art swallows, his neck beginning to ache from staring up at you.

You stare down at the floor as you thought about what would be enough to reassure you. You didn’t have to hold back in front of him; after all, this whole dilemma was insane to begin with.

You finally speak up.

"You have to film with me."

Art's eyes widens in shock and he gulps, "what?"

"I didn't stutter," you walk closer and were basically standing between his legs now, staring right into his blue eyes. "that way I know you won't even think to utter a word about me."

Art couldn't comprehend the words coming out of your mouth, filling his ears. He couldn't fathom how out of hand this had gotten. Film with you? Were you two really going to fuck in front of your viewers? Oh God, he would get to see you naked in person. He'd get to touch you, run his hands over your beautiful body, and have you all to himself. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, feeling a familiar tug in his shorts.

“I don’t know if that’s the best idea, Y/N,” Art stammers, nearly choking when you grab his jaw between your index and thumb, shutting him right up.

"We're doing it," you smirk at the accidental double entendre.

"If I go down, I'm taking you down with me."

.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._

Thank you for being patient with me!!

I hope you enjoyed this chapter!!

Next part will probably be the last :))

Tags <3: @won-every-lottery @improbablynotpoppy @challenger-fan-club @x0teric @theynothem @bigsattirn @coolgirlsyndrome @jamespotteraliveversion @idyllicdaydreams @tamprongsobsessor

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#challengers #challengers fic #art donaldson smut #art donaldson #art donalson x reader #Spotify

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