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sceletaflores · 4 months

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Being a professional masseur for players and taking care of our boy art.

Hes just so sad and so pretty that you just giving head to make him feel better 😔

Plot twist: he falls in love with you because duh? Hot+sex=you being promoted pookie, you are now the donaldsons elite employes!!!!!!

Baby, show me where it hurts...

pairing: art donaldson x fem!reader

summary: you never intended on becoming a "celebrity" massage therapist. you just wanted to be a massage therapist, the whole celebrity thing just sort of happened, you blame cali for that. but the novelty of your job wore off long ago, you hardly blink at the clients on your table nowadays. that is until tashi duncan calls you and absolutely fucks everything up

— or: art donaldson needs a massage therapist…

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, oral (m!receiving), oral (fem!receiving), p in v, fingering (fem!receiving), angst? maybe? could this be considered angst?, slight age gap, no tashi duncan erasure because i don't stand for that, cheating but not really cause tashi knows, she always knows, she is an all seeing eye, and she kind of orchestrates it, SOOOOO much plot, like way too much i'm sorry, art being sad and tired, art also being kinda pathetic a little bit, unprofessional massages, no use of y/n.

word count: 10k+ (someone stop me....pls still read this lmao)

author's note: this ask was blessedly placed in my inbox and it was all i’ve thought about since. this is my first big fic since my mike schmidt days so hopefully i'm not rusty! i've seen this damn cursed hell movie ten times, so hopefully i do it justice. i'm also still struggling sooo much with art and tashi as characters so please bear with me if they aren't movie accurate i'm trying my best. okay. thank you. hope you love it! mwah xoxo.

You don't get starstruck often, not anymore at least. The clients that find their way onto your table are just that in your eyes, clients. You don't see them as big time "celebrities”. Just men and women who need your professional help.

That being said, you almost dropped your phone the first time the Tashi Duncan called you.

It was a normal work day for you, spent buried in paperwork and training a new secretary. You're folding the steam room towels on your lunch break when your phone rings. No caller ID, you answer it anyways.

"Hello, you've reached Lush Retreat Med Spa," you rattle off into your phone, placing it between your ear and shoulder to continue folding. "How can we help you?"

"This is Tashi Duncan calling for Art Donaldson, we've heard great things about you and were hoping to schedule an appointment."

The towel drops from your hands, your mouth falling open in shock. You reach up to tightly grip your phone, not wanting to embarrass yourself by dropping your phone with Tashi fucking Duncan on the end of the line.

Of course you know who she is, but doesn't everyone? The tennis prodigy from Stanford who was on top of the world when a tragic knee injury stole everything from her in a single second. You absolutely idolized her when you were in high school and playing tennis competitively. You watched all the recorded matches you could get your hands on, wore your DUNCANATOR shirts to practice constantly, only bought the tennis rackets she used. You had her fucking posters plastered on the walls of your old bedroom for Christ's sake.

That was until you, ironically, shattered your wrist in a car accident and had to hang up the racket and pleated skirts forever. Just like her.

Now, Tashi Duncan and Art Donaldson are California royalty. An unfairly beautiful couple living what seems to be the dream. You'd never kept up much with Art's career like you did Tashi's, but you follow them both on Instagram and you see his face on billboards all over the city almost daily so you can assume it was fruitful. It may help him that he's extremely easy on the eyes, or "super fucking hot!" in your coworkers words.

"Hello?" Her voice ringing out from the tiny speaker ripped you out of your thoughts and back into reality.

"Y-yes, sorry," you cringe internally at yourself, stuttering over your words like a loser. You force yourself to sound professional when you speak again, "We'd love to help you any way we can. Do you have a certain time and date in mind already?"

"We're not home right now, we were thinking next Thursday. Around four." There's no question mark on the end of her sentence, you know that she isn't asking you, she's telling you. You don't even bother to check the schedule before you're answering.

"We will be free that day. I'll go ahead and put you in our system." you rush over to the front desk computer and open the calendar, thankfully you are actually free for Thursday. "I'm assuming you know our location?" you ask as you type in the appointment details, ignoring how your fingers shake ever so slightly as you type Tashi into the slot.

"Actually," Tashi's voice has a different tone to it when she speaks again, it’s something you can’t quite place, your fingers slow down slightly as you listen, "we wanted to make this a home visit."

You stop typing completely, brows furrowed in confusion as you stare at your computer screen. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Donaldson but we don't do at home appointments…per our policy." you reply meekly, almost surprised that you're denying her.

"Duncan, actually,” she corrects you nonchalantly, you don’t have time to unpack that before she’s speaking again. “We did read that on your website, but we'd hope you might make an exception. You wouldn't need to bring much. We have our own table." Her tone isn't harsh or impolite, just firm and certain, like she knows you'll give in to her.

You do.

"Well," you bite your lip as you wrestle internally with yourself, torn between what you want to do and what you should do. "Okay, we can do that for you."

"Great. I'll send you the address. See you then." She hangs up without saying goodbye.

You plant your phone next to you and stare at the filled out appointment slot taking up your computer screen, processing what just happened. You're going to Tashi Duncan's house. To give her hot pro-tennis player husband a massage. In their house.

"What the fuck."

SIX DAYS LATER...

The walk up to The Donaldson's huge mansion on a mountain has your stomach turning in on itself. All week you were a ball of nervous energy just floating around your office, trying to find anything to distract you from your upcoming appointment. Now that it's here, you feel you may have bitten off more than you could chew.

You hardly got any sleep last night, tossing and turning in your bed for hours before you gave up, barging into your building's gym to try and sweat your nerves out. When that didn't work you just retreated back to your apartment and got ready.

You try not to think about why it took you so long to get ready, longer than most work mornings. Taking more time in the shower, more time doing your hair, more time doing your makeup.

You even choose an outfit you'd hardly ever wear in front of regular clientele. A matching white polo set, a skirt in place of shorts. You tell yourself that you just want to look good, who wants to look like a mess in front of Tashi Duncan?

Your hands white-knuckle the steering wheel of your car on the drive over. You couldn’t even play any music, the noise in your head already too loud as it was, only cranking up the AC and silently following the crisp voice of your GPS reading off the directions Tashi sent you.

The closer you get to the door the more you want to turn and run down the insanely long driveway, get back in your car and haul ass home without ever looking back.

You don't because you're a professional, or at least that's what you keep telling yourself.

Your hand shakes as you ring their doorbell, hearing it echo back at you from the inside. You only wait a few seconds before the large door swings open and there she is.

Tashi Duncan is every bit as beautiful in person as she is splashed across the pages of magazines and blown up twenty feet on billboards. She looks so effortlessly classy in her Ralph Lauren sweater and flowy black dress pants.

Your name falls from her lips, and all the blood rushes to your ears. Her silky voice wraps around each syllable with an enticing heat that makes you weak in the knees. You feel sixteen years old all over again, standing at the woman who basically molded you into who you are today. It's a dizzying sensation, the rush of nostalgia and emotions flooding in like an avalanche. The memories you have locked away in your brain of the countless late night practices, the hundreds of hours spent on the court, the trophies and ribbons littering your moms basement collecting dust, the refusal to give up and pushing your body past its own limits because you wanted to be just like her. You wanted to be Tashi Duncan, and when you catch yourself nervously rubbing your thumb over the scar spanning your right wrist, you guess in some sick twisted way that you kind of are.

"So glad you could make it," she greets breezily, stepping to the side to let you in. “We were worried you’d get lost.”

The house is, of course, beautiful on the inside. Tall ceilings, big fireplace, a beautiful staircase leading to the second floor. There’s toys strewn messily along the living room floor, the TV mounted on the wall is paused on ESPN.

You hope you don’t look as crazy as you feel taking in the space, taking in the fact that Tashi is standing right in front of you.

“No, the directions were very helpful,” your voice only slightly wavers as you respond, you count that as a win, “it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Donalds–uh–Duncan.” You cringe at your fumble, but try to power through by extending Tashi your hand.

She watches you for a second, sharp eyes flicking over your body quickly like she’s inspecting you. It makes your cheeks feel warm as you struggle to not squirm underneath her gaze. Finally, she takes your hand in hers and gives it a firm shake. You ignore the way her touch makes your palm burn.

“Art should already be in the massage room, it’s in the pool house,” Tashi says, gesturing to the huge windows in the living room showing off a lavish underground pool with a smaller building situated next to it, “I have to take a phone call here in a few minutes so I trust you’ll find your way there.”

You nod slowly, adjusting the strap of your supply bag on your shoulder. Tashi doesn't even pause walking further into the house as she speaks to you, heels clicking with each step as she makes her way to the large staircase in the middle of the room. There’s still no question marks tacked on to the end of her sentences, just like over the phone.

“It’s just through that door, first room on the left. I told him to leave the door open for you.” She continues, reaching the stairs and making her way up slowly. She tosses her head over her shoulder to make eye contact with you again. “He’s been complaining about his shoulder acting up. The right one, it’s what needs the most attention. He serves with that arm, we need it at a hundred.” she fires off casually, like she’s recited this information before.

You go to speak but her phone ringing cuts you off, echoing off the house's crisp white walls. “Thank you for coming to see us, it was nice meeting you.” Tashi says politely, giving you one final once over before she’s answering her phone and disappearing up the stairs.

“It was nice meeting you too…” you trail off quietly, fully caught off guard by whatever the hell that was. Out of every single time you’d fantasized about what meeting Tashi Duncan would be like, none of them were quite like this. At least it’s over you figure, and you even managed to not make a complete fool of yourself.

You hold onto that tiny win as you walk through the living room doors and outside, making your way to the pool house like Tashi instructed. The entrance is unlocked as you step inside, thankfully you spot the cracked door a little ways in front of you.

The sound of your footsteps are loud as you make your way down the short hallway, tennis shoes making small thump sounds against the concrete floor. You pause for just a second outside the cracked door, taking a deep breath before pushing it open and stepping inside. The room is empty, the only things inside are some shelves lined with various essential oils and lotions, and an expensive looking massage table in the center. You muse over the fact that their table looks a little better than the ones in your own spa, no wonder they wanted a home visit.

The room is well lit as you walk around, dim in a way that promotes relaxation. The soft, ambient lighting bathes the room in a gentle, golden glow, complemented by the flicker of aromatic candles placed strategically around the space. You wonder who lit them, Tashi? Or maybe Art? You let out a small laugh at the idea of Tashi Duncan and Art Donaldson fawning over the room before you showed up, setting up candles and mood lighting to make it feel nicer, less clinical.

You’re probably just reading too much into it. You always urge clients to ask for anything that will make them feel more comfortable, apparently Art just likes eucalyptus sage candles and mood lighting. It has nothing to do with you.

Your name being said from somewhere behind you rips you out of your own mind. You whirl around, and find yourself face to face with six time Grand Slam Champion, Tashi Duncan’s super hot husband, Art Donaldson. And he’s only wearing a fucking towel.

“Hello,” he greets with a kind smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “it’s nice to finally meet you, thank you so much for taking the time to come out here.”

Art is already worlds different from Tashi, or that’s what you’re inferring after spending less than five minutes with each of them. It’s still extremely apparent, Tashi has an almost overpowering presence to her, everything about her commands respect and she knows that. She uses that to her advantage, she likes it like that.

The man standing in front of you is nothing like that. The Art Donaldson in front of you doesn’t seem like some big shot tennis player with more impressive stats than you could wrap your head around. You’ve come to know that a few pro-sports guys like to swing their dicks around, bragging about their booming careers non-stop during a session. Yet everything about Art is unassuming as he stands in the doorway like he’s trying to make himself look smaller.

“Hi, Mr. Donaldson,” you’re not sure if it's appropriate to offer a man wearing a towel dangerously low on his hips your hand, you decide against it. “It’s no trouble really, I’m happy to help.”

“Please, call me Art.” The tone of his voice makes you want to shiver, smooth and warm like honey.

You try your best not to stare, but it’s so hard to ignore the toned expanse of Art’s body when it’s right there. He’s all broad shoulders, firm pecs, sculpted legs, with a cut Adonis belt. He’s like a marble statue, made in Michelangelo's perfect image.

Your eyes trail back up his body, lingering on his chest before rising up to his face. You’re mortified to see he’s staring right back at you, effectively catching you in the act. Your cheeks burn as you tear your gaze away, looking at anything and everything other than him. In your panic, you don’t notice the way his eyes rake over you in the same way.

“Okay, Art,” you say a little breathlessly, tightening your grip on the strap of your bag. “It’s nice to meet you. Mrs. Duncan let me know about your major problem areas, I’ll be sure to focus on them.” Involuntarily bringing up Tashi has your stomach clenching up in guilt, you just got done ogling her husband's body. You hope he takes the silent cue you're giving him to get on the damn table so you can start the massage and get the hell out of here.

Art nods silently, walking over to the table and moving to lie down on his stomach. You busy yourself with prepping your oils, taking them out of your bag and setting them on a small side table next to the massage bed uncapped for easy access. You can’t help but sneak glances at the rippling muscle of Art’s back as he shifts, his skin looks soft and is littered with freckles. You don’t miss the hiss he lets out when he lays his weight on his shoulder.

You usually don’t speak much during appointments, only engaging in conversation when your client initiates it, but you feel the need to fill the silence between you and Art. The quiet atmosphere makes everything seem far too intimate, and sure on some level it always is, but this feels different.

“How’d you hurt it? Your shoulder. If you don’t mind me asking.” you ask once he’s settled, placing your fingertips to the middle of his right shoulder, feeling around for any tension. Art tenses slightly at your touch, taking a sharp breath. You guess you should have warned him, you open your mouth to apologize but he lets out a small breath and relaxes onto the table again.

Art sighs, his voice tinged with weariness. "It was, uh, during a match. I overextended trying to return a serve. Haven't been able to move it properly since."

You nod, hands starting to move in slow, deliberate circles across the muscle. “That sounds about right. Most people don’t realize how brutal tennis is to the body, injuries are common,” you pointedly try to ignore the flashbacks of your wrist failing to swing a racket properly after you healed from your accident, flashbacks of watching as the bone pierced through your skin. “Sounds like you might need to take it easy for a while.” you continue, trying to keep the conversation light.

Art chuckled, though it was devoid of real humor. "Yeah, I’ve been playing a lot lately. Guess I pushed myself too hard." He winces slightly as you work on a particularly tight knot, shoulder tensing under your hands.

You pause, your hands stilling momentarily as you catch the underlying tension in Art's voice. "The season’s almost over, maybe it's time to give yourself a break, take some time to rest and recuperate." you remark softly, your tone gentle yet concerned.

Art's gaze flickers to yours, a flicker of vulnerability shining through. "I wish I could," he admits, his voice heavy, "But it's hard to step away, especially when it feels like it's all I have that’s still keeping everything together."

Your heart clenches at the raw honesty in his words. He’s completely silent afterwards, you wonder if he’s regretting telling you something like that, like maybe it just fell out of his mouth before he could stop it. Without a word, you continue to knead away the tension in his muscles, offering a silent gesture of support.

As you continue to work, hands skillfully moving over Art’s shoulder, you can’t help but notice the weariness in Art's demeanor. His presence feels heavy, almost broken, as if the physical pain was just a small part of what he was carrying. You feel a pang of sympathy for him. You can feel the weight of struggles pressing down on him, the way his shoulders sag slightly even under your careful touch.

“I can feel the tension here," you say gently, applying a little more pressure, "Just try to relax.”

With each knead and press, you remind yourself of your role. You’re here to help him heal, and that was all that mattered. But as your hands move over his warm skin, you can’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t what you had anticipated, something that made your heart race with both excitement and anxiety. You were so worried about meeting Tashi you completely forgot about Art. It’s a different story now as your hands explore the smooth planes of his back to the steady sound of his breathing.

"You're really good at this," Art says after a while, his voice a bit lighter.

You smile, a genuine one, the first real smile you’ve had since you got here. “Thanks. I’d hope so after all this time.”

Art lets out a small chuckle muffled by the table, it makes your stomach flutter. “How did you get into this? Massage therapy seems interesting.”

You laugh but it’s a bitter sound, moving your hands down to focus lower on Art’s shoulder. You try not to think about your tennis career, even after all this time you struggle with the memories despite all the good it brought you. “That’s a long story.” you mutter under your breath, even to your own ears you sound resentful.

“I’ve got time.” It’s a simple reply, but it’s so honest. Like Art’s genuinely interested in you, in getting to know you. It makes you feel dizzy.

“I, um,” you worry your lip between your teeth, working your hands harder over Art’s back. “I actually used to play tennis. When I was in high school.”

Art makes an interested noise, shifting under your hands as he moves his head to lay on the side of the table so he could look up at you. “No shit?” he looks more shocked than anything.

You nod, humming in confirmation as you finally move onto his other shoulder. “Yup, I was pretty serious about it back then, until I got injured.” You don’t meet Art’s gaze, but you can see how his face falls in your peripheral vision. You kind of want to laugh at how ironic this moment is, you wonder if Art’s thinking about Tashi’s knee. You know he was at the match, you’ve seen the blurry footage of Tashi Duncan’s fall from grace, watched Art vault over the net to get to her.

“That’s awful. I’m sorry.” He sounds like he means it.

“It’s okay, wasn't like it was my fault or anything,” you say, finally meeting his eyes with a rueful smile and raising your right wrist to show him your scar. “I got hit by a drunk driver coming home late from practice one night. Nasty fracture, bone went straight through.” You hope your voice is coming out as nonchalant as you’re trying to make it sound.

Art's eyes widen in disbelief as he takes in your scar, a mixture of shock and sympathy evident on his face. "Wow, that's...terrible," he murmurs, his voice tinged with compassion.

You shrug, the memories still vivid despite the passage of time. "It was tough, it was awful actually. All the physical therapy in the world couldn’t get a racket back in my hand,” you confess softly, fingers tracing the outline of the scar absentmindedly again. “But it also forced me to reevaluate things, in a way. It made me realize that life doesn't always go according to plan.” You see Tashi’s knee buckling in your mind's eye. “When I finally realized that I could take all the hate and all the anger I was feeling and channel it into something good, something like massage therapy, I never looked back."

You immediately regret over-sharing, feeling silly telling Art your sob story, but when you meet his eye again, he has an odd look on his face. His expression is soft as he looks up at you through long lashes, understanding and empathy swimming in the blue of his eyes.

"Well, silver linings, huh?" he says after a few seconds, there’s traces of a smile playing on his lips. You let out a small laugh, nodding your head slightly.

"Yeah," you agree, a small smile on your lips. "Silver linings."

As the conversation fades into a comfortable silence, you and Art find yourselves locked in a silent exchange, your eyes meeting and holding a depth of something you can’t quite pick up on. In that moment, the world around you seems to blur, leaving only the two of you suspended in a shared moment of vulnerability. There's a subtle shift in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the bond that has formed between you, as if you've uncovered a piece of each other.

The shrill ringing of your phone’s alarm pierces through the moment, both you and Art jump at the sudden sound. It’s like a cold bucket of water pouring over your head, washing away whatever just happened between the two of you. The session’s over, you’re done.

“Okay,” you say a little too loudly, taking your hands off Art's back like his skin could burn you any second. “Looks like we’re all done.” You try to smile but it feels fake, forced, so you turn your back to Art and start capping your oils to shove them back in your bag.

Art’s voice breaks the silence as you pack up, sounding a little less confident than it did earlier. “Uh, my neck has been bothering me too, recently,” he says offhandedly as he sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the table. “I think I may have slept on it wrong.”

You stop what you’re doing, turning to face Art again, silently cursing him for not just letting you leave. “Do you want me to take a look before I go?” You pray he says no. You should know it won’t be that easy, not with your shit luck.

“If you don’t mind?” His tone is so hopeful and his eyes are so big that your feet are walking towards him before your mind can catch up.

“Not at all,” you reply, your voice steady despite the tightness in your chest. You step closer, practically between his slightly spread legs, feeling the warmth of his skin even before you touch him. Your fingers brush against his neck, and he shivers slightly, the muscles tight and knotted beneath your touch.

"Just relax," you murmur, trying to maintain any shred of professional demeanor. As you work, you can't help but notice the way his breath hitches, the tension in his body melting away under your skilled hands. The room feels smaller, the air heavier with each passing second.

He closes his eyes, a soft sigh escaping his lips. "That feels amazing," he whispers, and you swallow hard, trying to focus solely on the task at hand. As you work, the intimacy of the moment isn't lost on you, and you can't help but wonder if he feels it too.

Minutes tick by like hours as you work the tense muscle of Art’s neck. You're acutely aware of every sigh, every shift in his body, every subtle reaction to your touch. You finally pull away when you think it’s been enough time, eager to get out of this damn house before you do something you’ll regret.

You didn’t notice how close you really were to Art until you pulled back only to be met with his face mere inches away from yours. Startled by the sudden proximity, you freeze, caught off guard by the intensity of Art's gaze. His eyes, dark and searching, seem to hold a silent question, a silent invitation.

Now, Art’s body is one thing, it’s objectively perfect. He’s a professional athlete, of course it’s perfect. It has to be perfect. It’s his damn face that gets you.

He’s beautiful, beyond beautiful. He looks like he should be splayed across canvas hanging in the Louvre. The dim lighting in the room illuminates his face beautifully, his golden hair haloing around his head makes him look ethereal. Each of his features look as if they were handcrafted by a master sculptor, each contour and line a testament to perfection. His chiseled jawline speaks of strength and determination, while his lips, soft and inviting, seem to beckon you closer with every breath. His eyes are deep pools of ocean blue, though this close you can see a small splash of brown in his left eye you didn’t notice before, swirling with emotions that stir something deep within you.

Something more shocking than Art’s beauty, is how fucking tired he looks. Lines of exhaustion are etched along his face, subtle but undeniable. The weariness in his eyes speaks volumes, a silent plea for respite from the relentless demands of tennis. And yet, even amidst the exhaustion, there's a flicker of longing. He’s staring at you like he needs you, eyes wide and yearning. His chest rising and failing a little more harshly than it did before, each exhale coming out ragged and sharp.

“Art…” you whisper, heart threatening to beat out of your chest. He’s so warm, the heat emitting off of him makes you want to lean into it. You want to crawl on top of his powerful thighs and bury your face in his chest and never leave. Your hands flex where they’re draped over Art’s neck.

It happens in slow motion, Art’s hand trails up the skin of your thigh as your name falls from his lips like a prayer, and it’s like you’ve been electrocuted. You’re rearing back with a sharp breath, dropping your hands from his neck and taking a couple steps back.

“It was really nice to- uh to meet you, Art.” you say frantically, swinging your bag firmly over your shoulder and rushing to the door. Art’s still sitting on the table, silently watching you panic. He doesn’t try to stop you. “I hope your shoulder feels better,” is all you say before bursting out the door and speed walking out of the pool house.

Your heart's racing as you walk through the backyard, hands shaking even through the death grip you have on the strap of your bag. What the hell was that? What the hell was that? Did Art Donaldson just make a pass at you? You must be imagining things.

The thought rattles around in your mind, refusing to be dismissed. His words, his tone—they seemed to linger in the air, haunting you with their implications. The way he touched you, like he couldn’t help himself. But no, it couldn't be. He was married to Tashi, and besides, he was just being polite, right? You try to convince yourself of that as you make your way back to the house.

As you walk inside, still slightly shaken up, Tashi’s the first thing you see. She’s sitting in the living room, laptop open on the coffee table in front of her.

“Hey,” she says, sitting up straighter on the coach, “how was it?”

You swallow, urging yourself to calm down. “It was great, he should be seeing some improvement over the next few days.”

Tashi nods her head, seemingly pleased though it doesn’t show on her face. “Could this be a weekly thing, these appointments. He could really use them.”

No question marks. Motherfucker.

You flounder, stomach dropping. “Weekly? As in every Thursday?”

Tashi’s brow raises, eyes looking over you inquisitively. “Yes, preferably all home visits.”She stands from the couch, taking a couple steps towards you. “We read on your website you take permanent clients, is that not the case anymore.”

You shake your head, eyes wide as they follow her while she walks. “N-no, Mrs. Duncan we do. We could pencil you in if you’re willing to pay monthly for the time slot. Would you like to talk to some of my other employees to work out a rotating schedule?”

Tashi stops a few feet away from you, hands in her pockets. “Actually, we were hoping you’d be the one coming down. The only one.” You blink, her words slam over you like a ton of bricks. Just you, in a room with a half-naked Art. Every single Thursday. That can’t happen, not after what just went down between the two of you.

You can practically hear the warning bells blaring in your mind, urging you to refuse, to put an end to this before it spirals out of control. Yet, there's another voice, quieter but no less insistent, whispering seductive promises of what could be if you were to stay.

Your heart pounds in your chest as you grapple with the conflicting desires warring within you. Tashi's expectant gaze weighs heavily on you, waiting for your response, and you know that whatever decision you make will irrevocably alter the course of things between you and Art. With a shaky breath, you steel yourself, the weight of your choice settling like a stone in your stomach.

"I...I'll do it," you finally say, the words leaving your lips before you can stop them. "I'll make sure to pencil you in for weekly sessions, Mrs. Duncan."

Tashi's lips curve up slightly, satisfied, but beneath the surface you can sense the tension thrumming through the air. You've made your choice, for better or for worse, and now you can only hope that it won't lead to the downfall of everything you've worked so hard to build.

“Wonderful,” she says, gesturing for you to follow her to the front door. You trail behind her like a loyal pet, silently allowing her to drag you wherever she pleases. “Thank you again for coming out, and please,” she pauses with her hand on the doorknob, turning to meet your eye, “call me Tashi.”

"Thank you, Tashi," you murmur softly, the weight of her name feeling foreign on your tongue when you’re actually saying it to her for the first time. "I'll make sure to arrange everything at the office."

Tashi's smile widens, though there's a glint of something unreadable in her eyes. "I look forward to seeing you, then," she says, her tone laced with a hint of anticipation. "And please, if there's anything you need, don't hesitate to reach out."

With a final nod, Tashi opens the front door, the outside world beckoning beyond its threshold. You take a hesitant step forward, the weight of your decision pressing down on your shoulders like a heavy burden. As you step out into the cool evening air, you can't shake the feeling that you've just crossed a line from which there may be no turning back. But for now, all you can do is steel your nerves and hope that you haven't made a huge mistake.

A LITTLE MORE THAN SIX DAYS LATER…

Your sessions with Art continue on. The guilt settling deep in your stomach each time you set foot in the Donaldson/Duncan house also continues. It worsens each time the two of you are alone in that damned massage room. Technically you’ve done nothing wrong, but you know deep in the back of your mind that what you’re doing isn’t normal. Each meeting is a strange mixture of tension and familiarity. When you arrive, Tashi always greets you warmly, her trust in you unwavering. It feels like a dagger each time, twisting deeper and deeper into your conscience.

Neither of you talk about it, what happened during your session, and Art doesn’t treat you any differently. He still goes out of his way to make polite conversation, asking you about your life, about your business, he even brings up old anecdotes you told him offhandedly. He doesn’t talk about tennis, and he has to know you can keep up in conversation with it since you told him about your history with it, you just assume he doesn’t want to.

That makes sense, you always think back to the first time he met you. How he brushed off any conversation about his career, how his demeanor changed when he spoke about it. How drained he looked. There was a sadness in his eyes, a weight he carried that seemed to go beyond just a few standard aches and pains. You remember how it struck you then, and it strikes you still, each time you see him.

His shoulder is getting better, you can tell. He can lay on it, or raise it above his head, without wincing. That makes your heart swell, knowing that despite how weird and kind of fucked up everything is, he’s healing.

The familiar sound of your timer ringing pulls you out of your thoughts. You’re shocked at how fast this appointment flew by, but you could tell as soon as you walked into the massage room to find Art already sitting on the table waiting for you, that something about this session feels different. It’s silly to call it “sensing a bad vibe”, but that’s exactly what you felt entering the room's threshold.

Art didn’t speak much as you worked, just laying on the table silently after saying hello and asking you about your week. The silence is definitely odd, Art’s not a chatterbox by any means, but he usually keeps some form of conversation flowing. After a while, you start to think it might be something you did, like maybe he’s mad at you. It sounds so stupid in your head, like you’re some poor high school girl getting hung up over a fucking guy giving you the silent treatment.

The only thing more stupid than that is how much it’s actually affecting you. Art has you over analyzing everything you’ve said or done over the last couple visits, you dread that maybe he just came to his senses after all this time. That he finally snapped out of whatever trance he was in and remembered he has a beautiful wife, and that he doesn’t really want you.

“Alright,” you say softly, stepping away from the table, “All done.” As you turn off the timer and gather your thoughts, you can't shake the feeling that something is off. You force yourself to bury it, Art doesn’t owe you an explanation, he doesn’t owe you anything. You aren’t his.

You glance over at him as he slowly sits up, his expression unreadable. "Thank you," he murmurs, his voice barely audible. You offer a small smile in return, trying to squash all the ugly feelings mixing in your stomach. You turn to busy yourself with packing up, feeling a weird sense of déjà vu.

Art’s voice cuts through the silence, sounding weary. “Are we still pretending it didn’t happen?”

It catches you off guard, making you drop the bottle in your hands back onto the table loudly. Your heart races as you turn back to face him, unsure of how to respond. The weight of his words hangs heavy in the air, demanding a response you’re not sure you’re ready to give.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. “I...I don’t know,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I guess I was hoping we could just…forget about it.”

Art’s eyes search yours, filled with a mixture of longing and uncertainty. “I don’t think I can,” he confesses, his voice tinged with sadness.

The same feelings from that day rush back in your mind, flooding all your senses. It's as if time folds in on itself, bringing you right back to that moment where everything changed. You feel panic clawing its way up your body, fight or flight response waging a war inside of you.

You chose flight, shoving the last bottle in your bag and making a break for the door. Ready to run just like you did back then, run and come back next week with your tail between your legs desperately trying to forget that this ever happened, again. Art’s voice stops you just as you have your hand on the doorknob.

“Please…” he whispers, he sounds so broken, so vulnerable. “Please, don’t run.”

You don’t know what it is, maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you, or the repressed feelings, or your shitty back bone, but whatever it is makes you pause, hand falling off the doorknob to lay limp at your side. You turn back to face him, the raw need in his eyes mirrored by your own emotions. It tugs at your heart, making it impossible to leave. You feel a surge of guilt and hesitation, but the longing in his gaze holds you captive. Slowly, you make your way towards him, taking small slow steps like you could still leave at any minute, but you know you won’t.

You walk until you’re crowding him, standing between his spread legs just like you did all those sessions ago. His eyes are wide, almost disbelieving, like he thought you’d turn around and slam the door on him instead. Which is what you should do, you should walk out that door right now and never step foot in their house again.

Art whispers your name, his voice a soft caress that sends sparks zapping down your spine. You're close enough to feel his breath fanning over your face, warm and intimate. You inhale, like you’re trying to absorb his words, his essence, his everything.

His hand takes yours, bringing it up to his chest. He presses it firmly against his pec, right on top of his heart. You can feel the rapid, uneven thumping beneath your palm. His thumb caresses your wrist gently, making goosebumps pebble over your skin.

It’s easy to get lost in Art’s eyes, so you’re shocked to notice something that very quickly grabs your attention. Art’s towel is tented obscenely, hard cock straining against the thick material. You swallow roughly at the sight, feeling the need to touch, to take, to help.

Your knees hit the floor before you fully realize the entire gravity of what you’re doing. You don’t care about any of that anyway, not right now.

Right now Art Donaldson is swiping his thumb across the scar on your wrist with his big sparkly eyes desperately looking into yours, unashamedly begging for you to touch him.

Who are you to deny him?

Your hands find the knot of his towel and yank it roughly, ripping it off Art's hips and tossing it aside. His hard cock springs out, slapping up against his stomach enticingly. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, pleased to see he’s perfect all over.

Art’s cock is long, and thick. He’s big, but in an exciting way, not in an intimidating way. He’s already steadily drooling pre-cum from his soft pink tip, already so hard and you haven’t even touched him yet. You reach up, tracing your finger along the length of him lightly. Art inhales, his eyes fluttering closed as you touch him for the first time. The anticipation in the room is palpable, a heady mix of desire and need that seems to swirl around you both.

You circle your hand around the base of his cock, stroking up and up until your hand bumps into the head, where you start to rub your thumb back and forth gently, spreading the wetness from his pre-cum before sliding your hand back down. Slowly, you lean in, placing a soft kiss on the tip of his cock before taking him into your mouth, savoring the taste of him as he groans deeply, hands gripping the massage table tightly.

“Shit,” he grits out, casting his gaze to the ceiling, chest already heaving raggedly.

You slide the warmth of your mouth down the shaft of his cock, moaning at the heady taste of him, skin soft and velvety on your tongue.

“Fuck, your mouth…” Art whispers above you, his words trailing off into a string of breathy moans. You hum in response, working his cock faster to draw out more of those noises. Hollowing your cheeks, you sink down towards the circle of your fist still holding the base of his cock with wet, slippery slurping sounds. Art’s hand lets go of the table, coming up to cup your cheek in a move way too intimate for what the two of you are doing.

You chance a look up, and your heart skips several beats at what you see. Art’s already staring down at you, his face twisted up in pleasure. His pale cheeks are flushed, brows drawn together tightly, plush bottom lip caught between his teeth. All that is enough to make you feel ten feet tall, but that’s not what makes you pause.

It’s his eyes, the way Art’s looking at you.

The look in his eyes is…worshipful. Reverent. Like you’re a celestial being, a divine grace walking among mortals. Not some girl on her knees for a married man in his house’s private fucking massage room.

Yet the longer you hold his gaze, while still working your mouth over his hard cock, you feel something strange stirring inside you. Art’s eyes holding such a longing reverence so intense, it was starting to elevate you to a pedestal of adoration. Of devotion.

Right now Art’s like the sun, burning so brightly you feel you need to look away before he consumes you, but you don’t.

“Please,” Art begs desperately, voice so soft you barely even hear it. There’s tears welling in his eyes, his red rimmed and so so tired looking eyes. It breaks your heart, how could such a wonderful man be reduced to this?

You pull off Art’s cock, hand still pumping firmly over him. He whines at the loss of your mouth, hips bucking up to chase after the warm heat. His tip bumps over your lips as he moves, trailing a thin line of pre-cum across them.

Without breaking eye contact, you speak.

“You’re so good, Art.”

It’s those four words whispered against the tip of Art's leaking cock that has him coming with a hitched breath and a soft cry. A few bursts of his warm come land over your parted lips before you take the head of his cock back in your mouth to greedily swallow down the rest.

"Thank you, fuck, thank you...!" Art grates out as his body trembles above you, hand squeezing yours so hard it borders on painful. You know you’re never coming back from this, but you still squeeze back as hard as you can all the same.

A LITTLE MORE THAN SIX DAYS LATER…

Maybe this is just your life now, fucking the husband of the woman you worshiped like a God for years on end. It’s like you can’t stop, like you’re an addict or something. No matter how disgusting and shameful you feel every time you get home from Art’s appointments, you can’t help but give into him. It’s a twisted dance, a cycle of pleasure and regret that you can’t seem to break. One look into his sad, kicked puppy eyes and you crack. You’ve convinced yourself it's just you reveling in the feeling of being truly wanted for the first time. But deep down, you know it’s more than that. It’s the way he makes you feel alive, the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters in his world.

Art wants you. He needs you. He’s made that more than clear every single visit since you dropped down on your knees for him. The guilt gnaws at you, a constant reminder that you can't escape. Yet, every time you see him, every time he reaches out to you with that desperate need in his eyes, you find yourself powerless to resist.

You’ve never kissed, not on the lips. Art’s certainly tried, lips seeking yours out as your oiled up fist slips up and down his cock, as you sit on his lap and grind against him until he’s dirtying his towel. You just turn your head every time, letting him trail kisses along your jaw and neck instead somehow feels less real. Kissing Art will make it feel real, you know it will. So you don’t.

Funnily enough, you think things are going well. Maybe even as well as getting a married man off every Thursday can go. You can see a change in Art, in his behavior and the way he holds himself. He smiles more, he laughs more, it’s like he’s giving more of himself to you each time you meet with him. It’s exhilarating, the way your presence has this effect on him, almost as if you’re breathing new life into him.

Art’s newfound lightness is infectious. You find yourself looking forward to Thursdays with an anticipation that borders on impatience. The way he looks at you, the tender touches that linger just a bit longer, the conversations that flow more freely–it all feels like a dream you’re afraid to wake up from.

You should have known it was too good to be true, that this little world you created in your head was just the calm before the storm.

Everything about this session was normal to start. It’s a little less intense since Art’s shoulder is doing better, now you have free reign over the rest of his body. Greedy hands free to glide over the planes and planes of muscle you’ve become familiar with.

As you work on his lower back, your hands moving in practiced, soothing motions, you notice a subtle rigidity in his muscles. “Everything alright?” you ask, keeping your tone light.

Art hesitates before answering. “Yeah, just…a lot on my mind.”

You frown, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Art stays quiet, still laying silently on the table face down. You stare at the back of his head, like if you stare hard enough you’ll be able to tell what he’s thinking. Taking his silence as not wanting to talk, you continue on. You don’t want to pressure him to confide with you, not when he already has a wife for that.

As your hands continue to move over Art's tense shoulders, he lets out a deep sigh, breaking the silence. "I need you,” he whispers softly, his voice filled with an unexpected vulnerability. He shifts on the table, leaning up to look you in the eye; his own eyes are watery, lashes clumped together with unshed tears. “It's not just the massages. I need you in my life, no more of this half-assed bullshit. I need all of you.”

You feel your whole world turn upside down in a single second, the distinct feeling of your heart lurching out of your chest and your stomach dropping to your feet. It’s like the walls of the room start moving in on you, caging you in. It makes your chest feel tight, breath coming out in short jagged rasps. Panic grips you, and you violently rip your hands off Art’s body, stumbling back from the massage table.

"I-I'm sorry, I can't," you stammer, voice choked with emotion, as you turn to flee from the room, not even bothering to grab your stuff. But before you could escape, Art was right behind you, reaching out to catch your wrist, his grip gentle yet firm. "Please don't go, please," he begs, his eyes pleading with you to stay and talk. You wrench your hand free and run out of the room.

You think you hear Art calling out your name through all the static rushing through your ears, but you’re not sure, and you don’t look back to check. Your feet pound against the tile as you run out of the pool house feeling like you’re about to throw up, or pass out. Art’s confession is the only thing running through your mind. The only thing that’s still clear through your dizzying panic.

You finally start to breathe again when you burst into the house, leaning back against the cool glass of the door to try and relax before you start to spiral. The silence inside is almost oppressive, the only sound the rapid thudding of your heart in your ears. You close your eyes, willing yourself to calm down, to find some semblance of control.

Your name being said grabs your attention, and you open your eyes to find Tashi at the top of the stairs.

“Is everything okay? I heard the door slam.” Her expression is a mix of concern and confusion as she takes a few steps down. You push yourself off the door, you need to leave as soon as possible, before Tashi can reach you and coerce you into staying.

“Everything's fine!” Your voice sounds shaky despite your best efforts to calm yourself, you’re basically speed walking to the door. “I just, I got a phone call, and I need to leave. Right now. I’m so sorry.”

You don’t even wait for her to reply before you’re yanking the door open and rushing outside. You hope to God that she doesn’t follow you outside. She doesn’t.

You walk, arms wrapped around yourself tightly in a feeble attempt to stop shaking. There are tears burning your eyes and making everything in front of you blurry. The wind whips your hair around your face, stinging your cheeks as you walk further away from the house.

Each step feels heavier, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you try to make sense of the storm inside you. The chaotic weather seems to mock your turmoil, perfectly matching the chaos you feel. You struggle to piece together what just happened, the intensity of Art’s words echoing in your mind.

“I need you.”

His voice had been so raw, so vulnerable, and it scared you. You weren’t ready for that kind of emotion, that kind of responsibility, that kind of guilt. The weight of it had sent you running, and now you’re left grappling with the aftermath.

Fuck.

A LITTLE MORE THAN SIX HOURS LATER…

The drive home was a blur. Rain and wind beating against the windshield nearly the whole time. You’d laugh at how ironic it was, like God’s punishing you with shitty weather, but you’re too busy fighting tears to find the humor in it.

The dread didn’t set in until you got home, stumbling through the front door on shaky legs until you reached your kitchen where you promptly emptied everything in your stomach into your trash. After you force yourself into the shower to wash the rain, and guilt, off of your skin. You scrub yourself raw, skin pink and sensitive to the touch, like that will somehow erase all that you’ve done.

When you finally step out, the bathroom mirror is fogged, a ghostly reflection staring back at you through the mist. You avoid its gaze, wrapping yourself in a towel and padding through your room to collapse onto your bed. The silence of the house presses in on you, letting your thoughts consume you.

Art’s words play on a loop inside your head, the look on his face burned to the forefront of your mind. The weight of his confession hung heavy in the air, rocking you with its intensity. Running away had seemed like the only option at the time, a knee-jerk reaction to the overwhelming flood of emotions threatening to engulf you.

You know you didn’t run from Art because you don’t want him, you ran because there’s nothing you want more. In the aftermath, running felt less like a choice and more like an instinctual response to the storm of emotions threatening to consume you whole since the first day you met him. Every step away from Art was a battle against the gravitational pull of your desires, a struggle against the overwhelming urge to surrender to what you both shared.

The truth is crystal clear: you didn't run from Art because you're devoid of feelings for him. You ran precisely because your heart beats in synchrony with his, because the depth of your longing for him is as boundless as the universe itself.

Your phone pings from the dresser, you ignore it. A second later, it pings again, and again, and again. You furrow your brows, glaring at your nightstand until you reach over and pick up your phone. It’s an unknown number, but you know who it is.

UNKNOWN NUMBER I need to see you. Please, I can send a car. It's Art. Tashi isn’t home tonight.

Maybe you’re the worst person in the world, but all the fight leaves your body the second you read Art’s texts. You need to see him as much as he needs to see you. Your fingers type out a response before you can think twice.

Art okay.

You send him your address, jumping out of bed to throw on the first things you see. A black SUV was waiting for you as soon as you got downstairs, just as promised. You climbed in after getting confirmation from the driver, and sat in the backseat quietly as you went down the familiar streets.

As the house comes into view, you can see the front door’s light is still on, waiting for you. You barely wait for the car to stop before you’re opening the car door and stepping outside. The rain immediately drenches you, seeping through your thin sleep clothes. You take two steps before the front door swings open and Art comes rushing out into the rain. He’s only wearing sleep pants, his bare feet smack wetly on the concrete as he runs to you.

Art stops short of you, hesitating, like he doesn’t know whether to touch you or not. You want him to touch you so bad you’re scared it might kill you. The air between you feels charged, every drop of rain a tiny spark. Finally, Art reaches out, his hand trembling as he brushes a soaked strand of hair from your face. The warmth of his touch sends a shiver down your spine, and you step closer, collapsing into his arms. The rain continues to fall around you, but at this moment, it’s just the two of you.

"Art," you breathe, your voice trembling. "What are we doing?"

He gazes into your eyes, the raw emotion in his expression mirroring your own. "I don't know," he admits, his hands gently sliding down to your shoulders. "But I can't let you go. Not now." His words hang between you, a fragile thread of honesty that binds you together. You can feel the weight of his words, the sincerity in his voice, and it tugs at your heartstrings.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as his words sink in. The honesty in his gaze, the desperation in his touch—it all overwhelms you, leaving you breathless. The only thing you can think of, the only thing that feels right, is kissing him. So you do.

You lean closer, your heart pounding in your chest, and gently cup his face in your hands. His eyes widen for a moment, a flicker of surprise mingling with the intensity of his emotions. Then, as if drawn together by an invisible force, your lips meet his.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative and sweet, a question and an answer all at once. His lips are cold and slightly trembling, matching the fluttering in your chest. You can taste the salt of your tears mingling with the sweetness of the moment. Time seems to stand still as you lose yourself in the sensation of his mouth on yours.

Gradually, the kiss deepens, becoming more urgent and fervent, a silent expression of everything words can’t convey. Art’s arms wrap around you, pulling you closer, his fingers threading through your hair. The heat between you intensifies, both your breath coming faster, mingling as the kiss grows hungrier.

Art’s heartbeat echoes against your chest, you can feel his grip on you getting tighter like he's scared of letting you go. Your hands slide down to his shoulders, your fingers digging into his muscles as you press closer, your bodies molding together. His tongue flicks against your lips, seeking entrance, and you part them eagerly, welcoming him in. The taste of him is intoxicating, a mix of desperation and passion that makes your head spin. A soft moan escapes your lips, and he responds with a low growl, his hands roaming down your back, pulling you impossibly closer.

“Art,” you say in between kisses, panting into his slick, open mouth. “I need you to fuck me.”

You can feel Art’s whole body shiver, groaning unabashedly into your mouth like he’s dying for it. “I’ve been waiting weeks for you to finally admit that.”

The two of you tear through the house, all tangled limbs and bumbling steps, you trail water all over the floor. Somewhere in the chaos you drop your phone and keys on the large kitchen island. Art refuses to let go of you to walk properly, blindly leading the way so he can keep kissing you breathless.

Art only stops kissing you when you finally make it to his bedroom, pulling away to wrestle the now soaked sleep pants off his legs. You follow by example and peel your shirt off, skin damp and cold but you could care less, not when Art’s pants are pooling at his ankles and he’s throwing his boxers carelessly over his shoulder.

“God,” he breathes out, shaking his head like he can’t believe you're giving him this, “You’re so beautiful.”

The raw honesty in his tone has your cheeks burning, you cast your gaze to the floor instinctually, feeling too overwhelmed by his charged gaze raking over you. You can hear his feet softly padding against the floor, making his way closer. You watch his feet come to a complete stop in front of you, he takes a hold of your chin gently forcing you to look up at him.

His eyes, intense and unwavering, lock onto yours. “You’re fucking perfect.”

With a gentle push, Art lowers you onto the bed, his weight a comforting presence above you. He tilts your head back and kisses you breathless, one big hand sliding lower and lower on your stomach till he’s got his hand down the front of your shorts, he groans when his hand makes contact with your bare skin. You’d almost forgotten you hadn’t worn any underwear. His hand so close to your aching center has your breath hitching as you kiss, hips bucking up towards his palm.

You reach for his cock, an angry shade red and leaking steadily, but he catches your wrist before you can touch. You meet his eyes confused, but he just shakes his head.

“It’s been about me the whole time, baby. Let me fix that,” he whispers.

You nod your head wordlessly. You wouldn’t dream of denying him, not right now. He smiles, pecking your lips again before he starts to kiss his way downwards. He explores your body with his mouth with such care it has you shaking under every brush his lips. He kisses all down your jaw and neck, taking extra time on your chest to map out the skin of your breasts with his tongue. He circles your right nipple with the tip of his tongue a few times over before he takes it in his mouth, rolling it between his teeth gently. It has your back arching into his mouth, hands scrambling for a purchase on the silk sheets. One long finger slides around your entrance and dips inside, shallow, then deeper, stretching you slowly, carefully, while his other hand rubs your clit with light, gentle touches. “Is this good?” Art asks quietly, voice tinged slightly with insecurity, like you’re not completely unraveling because of him.

“God yes! Yes – fuck! – Art,” you mewl loudly, hips grinding down roughly onto his finger, desperate to take in more of him. You can feel him smile against your skin, pulling off to blow cool air over your hard nipple and repeating it all over again on your left. His finger slides through the wetness collecting in your hole, spreading it to your throbbing clit. He finally sinks a single finger into the warm, tight, heat of your cunt.

Art pulls away from your chest to kiss his way down your stomach, sliding lower and lower on the huge king size mattress, he doesn’t stop the rhythm of his fingers as he peels your shorts down your legs, tossing them aside. A guttural groan leaves his lips at the sight of your slick cunt parting over his fingers, taking them so well. He pitches forward like he can’t help himself, like his lips are magnetically drawn to your cunt, and presses a small kiss to your clit.

“Fuck!” You squeal and writhe as his finger fucks in and out of you, hands tangling in his messy hair, cheeks flushing at the sound of your leaking cunt squelching against his wrist with each thrust. Art's lips tighten over your clit, sucking for a brief second before he moves back to start laving his tongue over your cunt in careful, slightly clumsy, strokes. The sounds he's making, almost filthy slurping, accompanied by little moans now and then send small vibrations through you that shock your system, making you fist his hair even tighter.

Art’s lewd noises fill the air, mixing with your own moans to fill the room. His eyes stay closed for the most part, fluttering open every couple seconds to watch you fall apart. Your thighs shake uncontrollably around his head when you make eye contact, threatening to clamp around his ears and keep him there.

A sob tears from your throat when he adds another finger, then he curls them inside you and pulls back and god, shit, shit, fuck, fuck me, god, Art, please fuck me.

“Fuck me Art please fuck me I need it so bad please-” you ramble nonsensically, pulling at Art’s hair desperately. You can feel the warmth starting to pool in your stomach, but you don’t want to come on his tongue, or on his fingers, you want to come with him inside you.

Art lets you drag him up, the bottom half of his face is slick and shiny, drenched in your wetness. He makes his way up your body quickly, hands gripping tightly to your hips, not hesitating to kiss you even as your juices decorate his lips. You kiss back desperately, tasting yourself on his tongue. The head of his cock bumping against your twitching, empty hole has you whining.

“Fuck me, Art,” you breath hotly, hips canting up needily. “No condom, I’m on the pill. I want you to come inside me. Please, I need it.”

Slowly, he starts to sink in. Feeding you inch by inch torturously slow. He kisses you the whole time, greedily swallowing the moans flowing out of your mouth as he stretches your cunt on his thick cock. You grab at his shoulders like a lifeline, kissing back with everything you have.

“God, you’re so fucking tight,” he says through gritted teeth, hands gripping your hips hard enough that you know you’ll be bruised in the morning. “So fucking perfect for me, such a perfect pussy for my cock.”

“Move.” Is all you can manage to squeak out, nails digging into the meat of his shoulders.

Art starts to move, thrusts slow and gentle, like he’s easing you into it. You’re grateful for it, you’ve never taken anyone as big as him. Slowly, his thrusts speed up, cut hips smacking against the fat of your ass a little rougher than before. You revel in it, pushing your ass back greedily for more more more. From this angle, the thick head of his cock drags against your g-spot perfectly every time he plunges back into your dripping cunt.

“Shit! Right there, don’t stop,” you slur breathlessly, feeling the familiar warmth swirling through your stomach as he fucks you.

“I love you.” Art confesses against your lips, his breath hot and erratic. His sweaty forehead pressed to yours as he pounds in and out of you, the motion both relentless and tender. His eyes are wide open now, so blue and so big and so honest as they bore into yours so intensely it’s suffocating.

It’s soon, it’s way too soon. You’ve barely known each other for a couple months, but you can't deny the warmth spreading through your chest, mingling with the heat of the moment, making everything feel both overwhelming and perfect.

Now that you're here, with Art’s cock fitting so perfectly in the wet heat of your cunt, you can’t believe it took you this long. You love Art. You’ve been in love with Art since the first time he spoke to you. Since the first time he touched you like you were the solution to all his problems.

Art must take your stunned silence as rejection, head falling to rest on your shoulder dejectedly, but his hips don’t slow their rhythm. If anything he speeds up, hips thrusting against you desperately.

“Please, please say it back,” he begs, voice thick with emotion, “Say it back, I need to hear you say it. Please,”

You surge up, wrapping your arms around him as tightly as you can, ankles locking together across his back. Art couldn’t pull out of you if he wanted to, judging from the long whine he lets out, he doesn’t mind.

“I love you, Art” You whisper back, barely audible over the lewd slap of his hips stinging your ass. Art groans so loudly you can feel it reverberating off the sensitive skin of your neck.

Hips speeding up even faster, Art turns his head to catch your lips in a searing kiss. This kiss is different than any of the other ones you’ve shared tonight, full of so much emotion and unspoken words. You swear you feel your heart grow three sizes, almost full and threatening to break out of your chest.

“I’m gonna come, fuck, I’m gonna fucking come,” he breathes between kisses. You can only moan in response, right on the brink of your own orgasm. His hips start to lose their rhythm as he chases it, fucking into you faster and harder.

Art’s cock gives a final twitch inside you before his hips are stilling and he’s coming with a broken moan, unloading everything he has into you. You’re right behind him, vision whiting out as you come, thighs shaking where they’re draped around his hips.

Art collapses onto you, both of you breathing heavily as you come down from the high of your orgasm’s. You lay like that for a while, heaving and sweaty wrapped up in each other's arms. You feel something slot into place, something that you’ve been missing.

Art’s soft voice pierces through the afterglow, “Will you hold me?”

“Yes,” you whisper back, circling your arms around his shoulders.

…

When you wake up hours later you’re beyond thirsty, dehydrated from all the crying, and maybe from the sex. Art’s head is laying across your bare chest, tousled hair tickling your jaw and arms snug around your waist. He looks so peaceful, eyes closed with his long lashes fanning over his cheeks. The sound of his steady breathing is almost enough to lull you right back to sleep. You smile softly, running your hands through his hair slowly. Savoring how at peace he looks, so different from the battered, broken man you met.

You slip out of his arms as carefully as possible, not wanting to wake him. Rolling out of bed to search half-assedly for your clothes in the darkness. You can’t find your shirt, only your underwear and shorts. You notice a red shirt strewn over the dresser next to the bed, illuminated by the moonlight pouring through the blinds. You pick it up without thinking, it's soft in your hands, the fabric thin and worn down. You toss it on before padding out of the bedroom.

You get a little lost in your thoughts as you make your way to the kitchen, Art loves you.

The thought has you biting back a giddy smile. Art loves you and you love him too. It sounds fucking crazy, but you know it’s true. Your life is so completely fucked, you don’t know if you care.

Art loves you.

Your smile doesn’t leave your lips as you turn the corner, arms wrapped around yourself tightly, the warmth of Art's affection lingering like a gentle caress.

“He smiles more.”

The soft voice ringing out from your left makes you stop in your tracks. You turn, and there in the kitchen illuminated by the soft glow of the ceiling light, like an angel, is Tashi Duncan.

Tashi looks at you from her spot across the room with an impassive look on her face, she’s got your keys in one hand, fiddling with them boredly. When you don't reply she speaks again, "He's playing better, won the last three tournaments he was in." She says casually, setting her half full wine glass down on the island.

You don't need to ask her who "he" is.

You're silent for a few more beats as she stares at you expectantly, silently urging you to say something. You rack your brain for a response, caught like a deer in headlights under Tashi's gaze.

"What?" you softly mutter, words cutting through the air weakly.

Tashi sighs in exasperation, like you're a child who doesn't understand the simple question she's asking. She raises her wine glass back to her lips, draining the rest of it before setting it down once more and making her way over to you.

You know you should flee, make a break for the door before she reaches you. Running away from the woman whose husband you’re fucking - whose husband you just got done fucking, and who told you he loved you - while she pays you seems like the easiest thing to do in the moment, but you don't.

You find yourself glued to the spot as Tashi's commanding presence looms over you, until she's all you can see. Until her expensive smelling perfume is all you can breathe, until she's towering over you, miles of soft skin on display in a classy black nightie.

She stares down at you, her face completely unreadable. It feels like hours as her brown eyes burn into yours, your heart must be beating a thousand beats per second.

When Tashi finally moves, it’s her hand you see rising up in your peripheral vision. At first you think she's going to hit you, get you back for sleeping with her husband, for falling in love with her husband. You tense up, bracing for the slap, it would be the least of what you deserve, but it never comes.

Instead, Tashi's hand finds its way up to the side of your face, cupping your cheek gently. You can feel the chilled metal of her wedding band make contact with your warm skin.

You feel like you might pass out staring into the eyes of Tashi Duncan. Everything you ever wanted in high school flashing rapidly right before your eyes.

If Art Donaldson is the sun, Tashi is the moon. Her light draws you in and keeps you looking at her, and never wanting to look away.

Her thumb slides across your bottom lip, the same lip that’s kissed her husband. Ever so slightly, she pushes the tip of her thumb into your parted lips, far enough to touch your bottom teeth. Your breath catches in your throat, eyes widening in shock, your pulse is fluttering wildly. You distantly wonder if she can feel it on the inside of her wrist.

“I’m his coach, I need to be hard on him or he fails. I refuse to let him fail,” she says softly, tone casual like she’s not brushing the tip of your tongue with her fingers. “But I’m not stupid, I know what he needs. Someone sweet, someone gentle, someone who looks at him and doesn’t see tennis.”

You couldn’t answer her if you wanted to, but you wouldn’t trust yourself to speak anyway. You feel far away and floaty the longer her fingers sit in your mouth, your brain feels like molasses.

“I can’t give him what he needs. I’m not that kind of person,” Tashi says, eyes roaming your face languidly, like she’s window shopping your features. Her voice is nearly a whisper the next time she speaks, “but you are. You could be that for him.”

Your heart drops, the haze surrounding your brain rips away so violently, like someone took a leaf blower to it. Her words make everything start to fall into place, the at home visits, the “exclusive deal”, the weird ass run-ins you’ve had with her over the weeks.

This was never about the goddamn massages.

For a few seconds you both stay like that. Standing inches away from each other in the half-lit kitchen of her and Art's house. For a second, you think you can see the tiniest smile playing on her lips before she drops her hand from you completely.

"There’s a car waiting for you outside,” she says, still close enough that you can feel her breath fan over your face, “See you next Thursday."

Tashi turns on her heels and leaves you alone, disappearing down the long hallway leading to her and Art's bedroom. You watch the whole time she goes, until she completely fades into the shadows. Your lip still tingling from her touch.

There’s only one thing on your mind as you incredulously stare down the now empty hall…

These people are so fucking weird.

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margowritesthings · 1 year

Text

A Job Well Done

pairing: Arthur Morgan x reader (f) word count: 4944 words warnings: 18+ minors dni, sexually explicit, oral (f giving), rough oral, a little choking, a touch of voyeurism, explicit language, it's pretty much a blowjob fic authors note: idk what to say... this started as a little drabble because me and my fiancé love having a little smoke together at night and.... well, here we are I guess?? i hope you enjoy you lovely lot, and if you've asked to be tagged and you're not please let me know!! I have a new system for keeping track of my taglist and I may have lost some requests in the transfer

taglist: @cowboydisaster @inkandbloodbound @counteveryfreckle @elifsukirdaghehe @reaveries @delilah-grimes @mrsarthurmorgan7 @twola@the-marsh-harrier @wildfloweroutlaw @photo1030 @luvliewriting@pine4pple-b0i *if i've missed you please let me know!!!*

You pull Arthur’s jacket tighter around your shoulders, settling into the old wooden chair while it creaks beneath you. Thanks to being in the middle of the Lemoyne swamps, it isn’t too cold despite the moon hanging so high in the sky above you, the jacket is more for comfort. From where you sit, you can see near the whole camp, watching lanterns flicker off incrementally as each member of your makeshift family retires for the night. A few of the boys stay up, drinking by the fire, their voices muffled and distant in the thick air.

It’s been a week to the day since you last saw Arthur, before he left to track a rather sizable bounty down and attempt to cushion out the camp funds, and God do you miss him. The days feel so much longer, nights so lonely you’ve considered saddling up and finding the bastard yourself just to bring him home sooner. Comfort can be found, though, in the ways Arthur’s presence has bled so deeply into your life that his physical being doesn’t even need to be here.

His smell lingers on the jacket he left (the one he wore every day before he had to leave just so you could wear it when you missed him), that perfect mix of tobacco and whiskey and something so ineffably Arthur that you soak up every time you wrap it around your frame.

He’s there in the routines you've built your lives around, intertwined as they are, the ones you can’t shake even if he’s not beside you. The cup of coffee in a morning, his so much better tasting than yours but you try anyway. The first morning after he left, you made two, ending up giving the extra to a very grateful Abigail to save face.

There’s a nightly routine, too. The one where you get ready for bed, then climb through the window to meet him on your balcony. He’s always there waiting with a cigarette hanging from his lips, patting his lap ready for you to crawl on. He’ll drag a match across his boot, (or sometimes the bottom of yours, if you’re still wearing them) lighting up the smoke before handing it to you. You’ll pass it between each other, catching up on your days, limbs entangled just how they should be as you watch Shady Belle fall asleep around you.

Without him, those routines bring you comfort, grasping onto the remnants of your cowboy until his safe return. That’s why you’re sitting in this spot, pulling a cigar out of the little tin stash box Arthur left behind. Normally it’s just a cigarette, you could never survive a cigar a night and have the throat to tell the tale, but there’s something inexplicably Arthur about this brand of smokes, something you’re seeking tonight.

You pluck a match from the tin, striking it against the table beside you, never having gotten the knack of igniting the thing on your boot as effortlessly as Arthur does, and light the cigar between your lips. The all-familiar woody essence dances across your tongue, your tired muscles relaxing from the first few tokes.

It’s just you, the moon and the crickets as you sit on the balcony, Arthur’s smoke between your lips. You wonder what he’s doing. He should be sleeping, but knowing him he’s probably up planning, or doing exactly what you are right now. You pray he’s safe, hasn’t been gotten by the law or worse, gotten himself killed. You can’t let yourself even think about that, the very idea bringing a tremble to your limbs. To combat the sudden spike in anxiety, the next time you bring the cigar to your lips you drag in just that bit more smoke, letting it soak down your spine. Not nearly as experienced in smoking as Arthur, you cough a little, but you recover much quicker than you used to.

Memories of that first time, of Arthur offering you the little brown stick and you nervously nodding, bring a little smile to your face. Oh, how you spluttered, Arthur giving you his drink on instinct, only realising that the whiskey burn would do the opposite of help once it was too late. You’d have been in your right mind to be embarrassed as hell, but by the way he chuckled as he rubbed circles around your back told you that he found it nothing but adorable.

You sit there for a few minutes, basking in the precious peace so seldom found nowadays and taking a drag every now and then, the smoke riding a sigh from your lips. Your eyes slip closed, trying to shut off as many senses as you can to really connect with that smell and taste, imagining him emerging from your bedroom window to be here with you.

He’s much less graceful than you are, often catching some part of his person on the windowsill when he climbs out onto the balcony. So many nights spent patching up little holes in his pant legs, right where that out sticking nail used to be in the frame before he ‘bested it in combat’ (i.e. pulled it out with a hunting knife and threw it ceremoniously in the lake).

Manifestation is a powerful tool, you’ve always believed that, but you still nearly jump out of your skin when you feel a large hand grasp your shoulder just as you imagined, Arthur’s gruff, hushed whisper tickling the words “hey, sweetheart” into the skin of your neck. It takes you a second to catch your breath, heart racing from the shock before everything registers and reality sets in.

“Arthur?”

He’s here.

“C’mere, darlin’.”

You fly out of your seat, the rickety old thing nearly splintering under the force, launching yourself into his open arms to burrow yourself into him. Every part of him consumes your senses and you drink it all in like an addict. The smell, the real thing, much more of that Arthur essence than the whiskey or cigars, probably because he forewent breaks in his journey for those little pleasures to get back to you sooner.

He seems to be taking you in as much as you are him, inhaling long through his nose and sighing it out contentedly, feeling whole again after so long without you in his arms.

“I missed ya’, beautiful.” He says softly into your hair, holding you tight against him, his knuckles brushing up and down the small of your back through layers of clothes you’ve stolen from him.

“I missed you so much…” You mumble into his shirt, hardly able to breathe through the wall of hard chest muscle you’re pressed against, caring even less.

It’s only then do you remember the cigar, forgotten and abandoned, smoking away on the table propped up on a jar lid turned makeshift ashtray. Most of the boys don’t bother with one, and neither did Arthur, until a fateful night a few months before you started dating when you first handed him the jar and told him you read something about birds and rabbits eating the butts of cigarettes. He kept the little piece of junk right next to his bedside, waiting for you to find it after that first night together.

Arthur spots your momentary pull of attention, pulling his chest away to raise a brow down at you with a little chuckle rumbling his chest.

“Having a fancy smoke of a night, are we?”

A cheeky little smirk- Arthur’s favourite, actually- tugs at the corner of your lips, waiting patiently for him to kiss it away.

“The smell reminds me of you…” you play coy, earring yourself that kiss when Arthur lifts you up to his height, kissing you softly, letting his world and yours fall back into place together.

“Well I’m here now, angel. Wanna sit? Could do with a nice cigar with my girl to celebrate a job well done.”

You’re eager to nod, heart fluttering at the prospect of getting to sit with him and hear all about his trip. He untangles from you to sit down first, patting his lap for you to crawl into. You fit perfectly together (you should do, you were made for eachother), head resting on his shoulder, legs splayed over his thighs with your arm draped over his shoulder. The cigar has gone out, so Arthur strikes a match so expertly on his spurs before shaking it out and placing his hand on the small of your back for support. You lean into him, watching him take puffs of the cigar and feeling the tiniest bit of tension leave his joints. He looks so natural with a smoke between his teeth, commanding an air of power with each movement he makes. Smoking doesn’t suit just everyone, you think, but God, does it suit him.

“We’re celebrating? You got the bastard, then?”

“Sure did,” he says, smoke spilling from his lips with each syllable. Arthur looks you over again, drinking in the dearly missed view, before kissing you on the forehead and flipping the cigar between his fingers to offer it up, “Eventually found him up in Fort Brennand, but he weren’t alone. Nearly lost a damn eye, but luckily only Woffard had to be brought in alive, so I dropped the other bastards and ran.”

You hang on his every word, your hero. You know he’s downplaying the fight, the danger of it all, but he does it so that you don’t worry every time he’s gone. It never works, and you always do, but you love him for trying.

“Oh, Arthur, I’m so glad you’re alright…” You coo, pressing a hand to his cheek, feeling the weeks worth of stubble scratching against your palm. He nuzzles into your touch, not unlike a cat, and your find yourself keeping your hand there to mindlessly play with his hair, tipping his hat off to put on your own head. He chuckles, reaching to adjust it on you.

“Course I am, couldn’t leave you here all alone with this buncha’ fools, could I? Besides, someones gotta bring home the bacon around here, and you know Marston’s too trigger happy to bring a bounty in alive.”

“So you got the full price?” Your eyes gleam, the proudest smile on your features as Arthur nods and shifts both your weights for a moment to pull out a stack of bills and smack them on the table dramatically.

“You’re damn straight I did, baby.”

Of course he did. Arthur never fails, and God knows how much the camp needs this right now, freedoms diminishing by the day as Dutch makes more enemies and plans jobs that just seem to keep going wrong. But you don’t want to think about that right now. Right now, there is only you and Arthur, and the promise of a whole night spent with him uninterrupted. You hand him the cigar back, along with a stolen kiss, and he takes another mesmerising drag. The way he holds it, every so often tipping the ash into the first gift you ever gave him, it does things to you that you just can’t explain. It’s just a cigar, and yet you’re pressing your thighs together tight to futilely subdue the tightness coiling between them.

“I’m so proud of you… I always am.” Unkempt locks of hair are twisted between your fingers, your face so close to Arthur’s you can pepper his cheek, temple and lips, whenever not occupied, with little kisses, Arthur’s hat sometimes tipping up against his forehead on your head. The two of you are always like this after a few days apart, unable to get enough of each other or keep your hands off one another. You shift your weight to access him better, catching his bottom lip between your teeth to press a long, tender kiss there. He hums under you, hand splaying under your jacket to grasp at your shirt. It’s seconds before you feel it, that hardening that nudges up against your thigh, prodding and reminding you just how much Arthur has missed you.

You pull away from the kiss, just enough to raise a teasing brow at how sensitive your cowboy is to your touch. He shrugs, unashamed, with that cheeky grin and those glistening eyes directed right at you.

“What? I missed ya…” His words are accompanied with a pinch of your ass, which makes you writhe on top of his stiffness, the friction dragging a low growl from deep within his chest.

“I can see that, cowboy… I missed you too. I missed you more.” You emphasise, nipping at his lip again and splaying your fingers across his chest. He rises to your touch, and you feel him stiffen more so under you. It takes a second of manoeuvring, but you’re soon straddling him, hovering above him like the angel he sees you to be. From this angle, with the moon behind you, you’re glowing.

“You absolutely did not, you little siren…” He growls again, pulling at the flesh of your ass so that you’re grinding against him, the friction of denim against denim igniting you both and burning so wonderfully.

“Oh, yeah? I can prove it.” There’s a little cock of your head, a raise of one teasing brow as you start to slide off him. He looks confused, disappointed, even, until your knees rest on the planks of wood on the balcony floor and he instinctively spreads his legs to give you the space between them. Your fingers splay across his thick thighs, and they tense under your touch, as does Arthur’s jaw. He’s starved after a week without you, clearly trying to reign in a control he’s struggling to possess. There’s no wonder, having his girl knelt before him like this.

“You wanna take this to the bedroom?” He growls out, abandoning the still smoking cigar in the jar lid. You look up at him, peeking out from under the rim of his hat.

“No.” You reach for the cigar, taking a few drags yourself before flipping it in your fingers just like he did and placing it between his teeth, “Finish your smoke.”

A distant laugh captures Arthur’s attention for a second, reminding you both just how close you are to the other gang members. You’re somewhat hidden by the railing, but if they looked in your direction, Arthur is fully visible from the chest up. A simple bob of your head- and you’re planning on plenty- would bring you into view.

The look Arthur gives you when he quickly diverts his attention back from Marston and the others is downright feral, especially when your hands reach for his belt buckle. Nimble fingers make quick word of the obstruction, and you’re soon pulling Arthur’s thick, long length out from his jeans. He groans at your very touch, involuntarily bucking his hips up into your hand.

You laugh, the sound a tempting little giggle as you tell him “Patience, cowboy…”

He almost snarls in response, clearly having been goddamn patient enough over the last week where all he could do is fuck himself with your name on his lips and the thought of you knelt just like this between his legs at the forefront of his mind, always.

Just as you lean in, when your soft lips trace over his rosy, swollen head, he pulls you back by plucking his hat from atop your head and throwing it to the side. He rests the cigar between the fingers of his free hand to free his mouth to speak to you.

“Need to see you while I fuck that pretty little moutha’ yours, angel…”

His words soak through you (and soak you through), and you just can’t wait a second longer, needy to have his cock deep down your throat, desperate for the burning of your lungs and the stinging in your eyes when he loses that control he so often vehemently clings to.

Unable to wait a second longer, you run your tongue from base to tip, feeling every vein pulsing under your muscle and eliciting a deep groan from Arthur. When you finally take him in your mouth, his hand reaches to cup your cheek, following you down as you take as much of him as you can.

“Fuck.” He groans, fingers reaching to tangle in your hair, scratching at your scalp. He’s probably louder than he should be, your eyes flickering to the general direction of the others as a warning, but they soon snap back to your cowboy, an intense eye contact burning at your skin as the head of his cock bumps the back of your throat. Arthur never takes his eyes off you, guiding you up and down his length and bringing the smoke to his lips. The tip of the cigar flares a deep, fiery orange, and smoke billows from his mouth with each laboured breath you coax from him. The way he’s sitting, fingers of one hand pulling at your hair, controlling your movements, and the other limply holding the smoke, he exudes a power many seek to master but never quite get. It makes your heart swell and your cunt throb for him, knowing on your knees before him is the only place you ever want to be, knowing only you inhabit it.

You can taste Arthur, his salty essence leaking from the pure ecstasy you’re providing and spit pools in your throat, mixing with it and dribbling down your chin. Arthur catches it with his thumb, guiding you off his cock to push the digit into your mouth and let you suckle from it. You do, hungrily, adjusting on your knees to better take Arthur deep down your throat and-

“Arthur! That you?”

Marston.

For eyes widen at each other, Arthur instinctively pushing you a little lower by your shoulder to keep you out of sight. John hasn’t seen you, and you’d like to keep it that way, being in the incriminating position you are between Arthur’s legs.

You spot the irritated sigh, the twitch of Arthur’s jaw as he plasters a fake friendliness onto his features and peers over the balcony to see his brother standing on the clearing below.

“Sure is. Whatchu’ want?”

Straight to the point.

“We didn’t hear you get back. How long’ve you been here?”

All that tension you’ve worked so hard to dissipate comes back to Arthur’s form with a crashing force. You can almost hear his plea for just one second a’ goddamn peace, merely by the way he sighs before answering.

“Not long, thought I’d try and sneak past you fools and get some shut eye.”

Subtle, cowboy.

Ever oblivious, or simply not caring, John continues, “How’d it go, then? You got the bastard?”

He has you pressed against his thigh to hide you from sight, cock standing to attention right beside your face. It’s too tempting, especially with a none the wiser Marston stood right below. When your tongue darts out, hovering above Arthur’s twitching, aching cock, his eyes flick down to you, warning residing deep in his eyes. You take it as less of a warning, more a challenge.

You wouldn’t.

Oh, but I would.

And you do. You lift up, just enough to fit the head of his throbbing cock past your lips and slide the whole length in. It bumps the back of your throat, but upon hearing Arthur’s strangled, poorly hidden groan, you can’t seem to stop yourself.

“Y-uh… Yeah, I got ‘em…”

It’s impressive, how he can just about hold a conversation despite his cock being so far down your throat his balls rest on your chin.

You can’t see John, but you can only imagine how his head must tilt and his brows must pull together at the strange response from Arthur.

“You alright, brother?”

He won’t be.

You blink up at Arthur, feigning an innocent, near angelic expression as you inhale through your nose and push him even further into you. You hum, low and quiet, letting the vibrations pass through him. Arthur whimpers, instantly knocking any and all sounds you’ve ever heard from top spot and replacing them as your favourite in the whole world.

“I-I’m fine. Just tired.” He tries to hint again, to no avail. His fingers are digging into your shoulder with a bruising force, that control slipping bit by bit with every passing second, every little movement. Tears prick at your eyes, that burning in your lungs you’ve been reaching for finally igniting. You’re stuffed with him, feeling so full that it’s hard to breathe. When you go to release him, to be able to gasp for precious air, you realise you can’t, Arthur’s huge hand holding you right in place with his palm flush against the back of your neck. Revenge.

“Where’s the Mrs?”

A raise of a brow. You’re not married, but everything is so naturally right between you and Arthur that the gang just seem to have defaulted to that. It makes you beam, wanting nothing more than to be this man’s wife, the kind of wife that makes him cum down your throat while he has a menial conversation.

“S-She’s- fuck…” When he grips harder at you, you gag around his length, tears now streaming down your cheeks and mixing with your spittle and the little bits of precum that leak out from Arthur. “She’s in bed. I-I better go check on her, a-actually.” He whimpers again, fingers now gripping into your hair to keep you in place. You’re not sure how much longer you can last like this, struggling to breathe, overflowing and, God, so wet for him.

John sounds unconvinced. You’d giggle, if you could.

“Alright… Well, g’night, brother.”

Arthur barely manages a grunt, and you can feel his thighs tensing and twitching from the sheer effort of not bucking his hips up into you and giving the pair of you away. He stills, most likely waiting for Marston to fuck off already, before he rips you away from him and pulls you to your feet, gripping your aching jaw with force enough force to keep it open.

“You goddamn siren.” He isn’t mad. He’s trying to be, but you know Arthur far too well, and he’s burning with a fire far hotter than mere anger. Need.

The mischievous glint in your eye is all you can offer for response, what with his iron grip on your face, but you do manage to slip your tongue out and lick the pad of his thumb, tasting the mixture of fluids still lingering.

It’s all getting too much, knowing what you just did and who you did it around, hearing Arthur unable to string a sentence together because of you. You don’t think you’ve ever been so turned on in your life, so desperate for a release that you’re pathetically writhing in Arthur’s hold. He notices, forced anger on his features replaced with a cockiness that only comes from knowing he’s regaining the power in the situation.

Your cheeks tingle when he releases you, sitting back in the seat and leaning back, one elbow resting on the arm of the old wooden chair and picking the cigar back up. God, you could ride him in that chair till morning, if you thought the wood wouldn’t splinter under the force.

“You gonna finish what you started, my little siren?” He asks, taking an especially long toke from the smoke while he waits for you to drop to your knees before him. Your cunt throbs, screaming out for his attention, but it would seem your antics have earned you punishment.

Your knees hit the wood with a force, though an involuntary whimper escapes you, hips grinding pathetically against nothing. Arthur notices, smirking like a goddamn cheshire cat at his little wanton whore.

“Patience, angel.” Your own words echo back to you like a slap in the face. You definitely deserve this.

The grip you had on the power in this game you’re playing with Arthur officially disappears when his hand snakes around the back of your neck, grasping at your hair and winding it around his wrist like a leash. You have to tilt your head so the tugging at your scalp is a mere burn rather than a sharp pain, but that’s just where he wants you.

“Now, little siren, I’m gonna teach ya’ some manners, and you’re gonna finish what you started, alright? And if you’re a good girl, maybe I’ll think about getting that sweet little cunt of yours off…”

It’s all it takes, the promise of Arthur’s fingers deep inside you while he sucks on your clit just how you like it, lapping up your juices like a man starved, and the defiance in your eyes dissipates. Arthur bends you to his whim, messy, sloppy putty in his hands as he drags you onto his weeping cock. You’re all but drooling for him, leaking out of the corners of your mouth when he slips into you. Your scalp tingles with the pull, especially when Arthur involuntarily tightens his grip with a hiss of his breath. His tip bumps the back of your throat, but he doesn’t stop even when you’ve fit all of him in that you can.

“Fuck, good girl, just like that baby girl…” he groans, and when you open your eyes to look up to him, he is watching you with a gaze so intense you feel like it could tear you apart. The tension burns between you, coiling so tight the chirp of a nearby cricket could snap it.

There’s an unspoken question in your eyes when you start to nearly choke on his length of when you’ll be released, but his eyes darken, “Come on, baby, you can take more, can’t you?”

He seems to register your fear, but it phases him little. It seems more a challenge, really, coaxing him into rocking his hips into you, pushing you even further onto his cock until you feel it start to breach past your throat in a way you didn’t even know possible. You splutter, wriggling and writhing as you try your hardest to breathe through your nose.

“Shh… good girl,” he coos, a ravenous look taking over your usually so lovable cowboy. You’ve pushed him, and God do you live for it. “Not much further… wanna see you take all of my cock, alright? You gonna do that for me, angel?”

You can’t nod, but it isn’t much of a question, not much choice available with your limited movements and the way Arthur has completely commandeered your body. You’re irrevocably his, body and soul.

It doesn’t feel possible to fit more of him in, your throat burning for relief that won’t come until Arthur is satisfied, but when he bucks his hips into you, you feel his base press against your nose. He groans hard, the noise initially from the sensation of having your throat wrapped around his cock, but when he sees the sight of you, tear stained and gagging on him, the moan is pulled out into a noise of pure ecstasy.

“Good girl… my good fuckin’ girl.”

His thumb rubs lovingly over your wet cheek, a sensation you cling to as the corners of your vision get fuzzy. Fuck, you’re not sure how much longer you can hold out, but you’re so desperate to feel Arthur’s spend trickling down your throat, feel him lose control and moan just for you that you’d honestly be willing to die for it.

Your expression, complete with lust-fogged, watery eyes, and beautifully flushed skin, teases the last of Arthur’s restraint like a razor thin blade against that final thread. When it finally snaps, you’re allowed one gasp for air, before he’s thrusting back into you hard. You can feel him stiffen, even more so than before, as his hips splutter into your mouth and he starts to tumble over the precipice into that realm of pleasure that only the two of you share.

“F-Fuck, sweetheart, I’m gonna-” But he interrupts himself with a visceral, primal groan, the vibration of it shattering the both of you. You take advantage of his practically inebriated state to regain some of your own anatomy, managing to swirl your tongue around his pulsing head inside your mouth. The hot, salty spend blooms across your tongue at that, Arthur guiding you by the cheek to bob up and down on his cock while he paints your throat white. His moans are a melody you’ll never tire of, animalistic and vulnerable all the same.

It feels like it never stops, Arthur’s spend filling your mouth up and leaking out from the corners of your lip. You can hardly stay still, writhing your needy cunt against your own heel, desperate for a reward you’re earning when you look him in the eye and swallow it all down. Pride blooms across Arthur’s features, saturated with a love that warms you from the inside out. His thumb caresses your face softly, wiping the tear tracks as you finally release his cock from your mouth and he guides you to your feet, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then nose, then lips.

“My good girl…” He coos, barely above a whisper as you breathe each other in, both as breathless as the other. Your throat aches, your jaw burning, but you’d do it a thousand times over to experience what you just did all over again.

“Now…” He splits the sentence with another kiss, catching your chin between his thumb and forefinger, “Get on inside, sweetheart, I think you’ve earned yourself a reward.”

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 #arthur morgan imagine #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan x y/n #arthur morgan x you #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 fanfiction #arthur morgan fanfic #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan fanfiction #red dead redeption 2 #red dead 2

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brucewaynehater101 · 4 months

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Hi! I have a writing idea, but I neither have the skill nor the motivation to turn it into a full story, so I thought of sharing it with you because *grips you by the shoulders with tired eyes* you have soooooo many writing ideas, and most of them inspired this brainrot in the first place

It all starts with Tim Drake living the good life. He's married, he has an aquarium full of fish, he's Aquaman's No. 1 Rival in being loved by fishes, and he's a mentor of most Young Heroes of that generation.

He's literally a grandpa (grand-uncle? grunkle?) with a good relationship with his brothers and Bruce, and a loving and spicy relationship with his partners (I can't choose between Kon and Bernard so they're poly)

He dies of old age with no regrets, content with his life and full of hope for the future.

And then he wakes the fuck up.

What. Was. Was none of that real? Did everything good that happened just a dream? A figment of his imagination?

Because not only did he not wake up, he woke up in a pool of his own blood within Titan's Tower. Jason was still there, painting on the wall with the blood that Tim spilled, still wearing that laughingly atrocious costume.

This.

This is bullshit.

Was his life too good that the universe decided "Ha. Fuck you. You need to suffer more, Bitch," and chucked him all the way to the past?

Jason notices him awake, picks up Tim's bō, and prepares to whack Tim.

But Tim barely cares. He's hurting in so many places. He misses his husbands. He just wanted his forever vacation.

He closes his eyes and just waits for the unconsciousness to happen.

It happens, and the next time he wakes up, Nightwing is hovering over him, and Batman is walking away to hunt Red Hood down.

Tim takes in a deep breath. Exhales slowly.

And then, he screams, "GET THE FUCK BACK HERE, YOU GODDAMN FURRY."

Bruce pauses in his walk, Dick is gaping, and Alfred simply blinks at the side.

"YOU GONNA GO SEE JASON? WHAT ARE YOU GONNA DO? SLIT HIS THROAT? YA BETTER STOP WHERE YOU FUCKING ARE BEFORE YOU DECIDE TO CONFRONT HIM, BECAUSE BY DIANA, YOU'RE MESSED UP IN THE FUCKING HEAD, YOU KNOW THAT?"

Dick tries to placate him. "Tim, calm down--"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, DICK! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS FUCKER DID ON MY BIRTHDAY?! ASK ALFRED BECAUSE HE WAS IN ON IT, TOO!"

Tim was panting now. But he didn't care. He remembered heart to hearts with Jason. He remembered how he and Jason had matching neck scars, and how much pain Jason's face was in when he shared what happened between him and Bruce.

"We need to restrain, Bruce. He's going to kill Jason. He's going to put Jason back in the grave if we let him go out."

Everyone pauses, Dick and Alfred's eyes widened in horrified shock. Bruce's face paled.

Tim may have exaggerated a bit, but they don't know that. Because Jason still died. His heart restarts later, but it really doesn't erase what happened.

"I don't kill."

Tim scoffed.

"Just because a man doesn't die at that moment, doesn't mean he won't die later if he's left for dead.

"Jason is going to make you choose between him and the Joker. You're going to save the Joker. And Jason? Because he's no longer how you remember him? He's going to be left with so many injuries caused by you. And you'd want no one helping him, because you don't believe that the Jason that came back is even him anymore. Ergo, an indirect killing, Batman."

Tim glares at Alfred. "I don't fucking care if you're on Bruce's side." Then, he snarls at Dick, "And I don't fucking care if you know Bruce more than I do!"

"I don't give a damn that Jason hunted me down for some twisted revenge or some shit.

"But here's what I do care about: I worked too hard in making sure that the idea of Batman doesn't get tarnished. I'm Robin now. I'm here because I believe you need a Robin. And I'm going to do my fucking job of being your leash if it's the last thing I do!"

Bruce is just fucking standing there.

Tim wants to rip that cowl off.

He already went through sooooo many heartbreaking conversations with Bruce in his old life. Why does he have to go through this again?! Did Jason and Bruce not talk about this with each other in the other timeline?! Does Tim have to bridge their relationship and mediate like he does when Dick comes to visit?

Fuck this life.

Ahhhh, Tim misses his husbands so much, why couldn't they regress back in time with him?

After a few moments, Bruce.

Fucking.

He fucking leaves!

Tim gapes, he glances to Dick with his disbelief clear on his face, and then he grabs a pillow and screams into it.

Fuck. Fuck-fuckity-fuck-fuck.

Tim is soooooo not doing this anymore. He's 16 again, c'mon! He doesn't even feel any of his joint pains (which may be because of the anesthesia, but whatever.)

Tim turns to Dick with a grim expression.

"Call Superman," he says. "And Wonder Woman, and Martian Manhunter. Heck, even call Green Lantern and Flash."

"Why?" he asks.

This motherfucker even had the gall to be confused.

"Because you're the Justice League's eldest child that they raised together as a village," Tim says slowly, as if he's talking to a preschooler. "Let's not give a fuck about the 'no metas in Gotham' rule, and start giving a fuck about all we could accomplish by letting so many adultier adults help us."

Thank Billy Batson Dick nods.

"We're gonna save Jason?"

Tim shrugs, lies down, and tugs his blanket over his whole body. "I don't give a fuck about Jason, Dick."

"Wha--"

"I just care about making sure that Batman doesn't turn into a villain to his own children. He's already fucked up so bad with you, Dick. We gotta make sure he doesn't fuck up any more, especially when Bruce wants to bring Jason home some time later when he stops being an ass."

Tim makes a mental note to make sure that Bruce doesn't get any mind control technology on his hands either.

He hears Dick sigh, slide his chair back, and probably stand up.

"I'll be back," he says softly.

Tim grunts like the true bat-child he is.

Finally, Dick leaves.

Unfortunately, Alfred was still here.

In the previous timeline... Tim never got a heart to heart with Alfred about all the things the man did and didn't do. And he thought he moved on but...

This is the man who gave him the Robin suit first. This is the man who he helped take dishes away from the table every time Dick and Bruce gets onto their violent screaming matches. This is the man who everyone put on the pedestal, but is Tim's equal in everything regarding Bruce's wellbeing.

And it hurt. It hurt so much when only Tim is witness to all of this man's flaws.

°°°°°°°°°°

Aaaaand then I got nothing else to add. I have no idea where I was going with this but here is the culmination of my hatred for Batman, my disenchantment with Alfred, and my need for Tim to scream his heart out because, no. Tim did not die contentedly. He did not actually die a natural death of old age. And the only hope for the future he has is of him meeting up with Kon and Bernard in heaven while everything else on earth can crash and burn for all he cares.

Hello!!!! I'm so glad you shared this and for the compliments. It makes me really happy to see people sharing their AUs. It kind of feels like a community project? People will reblog or do asks for different AUs, so lots of people end up contributing. I love that this is the direction this blog has taken.

As far as what you've shared? Positively beautiful. Fuck Bruce, Tim deserves the chance to scream, and I agree about Alfred. I love that man.... but only some versions of him. What he did to Tim was foul, and his tendency to just stand aside (to not stop Bruce) is horrid. Fuck that bystander shit.

For your time travel AU, I love that he died peacefully and old before being thrown into the hell that was his childhood again. Even worse, it's during Titan's Tower, so he can't change anything that leads up to that. He's thrown smack into the thick of all the drama and bullshit.

Also, rip Tim's relationships in the AU. Unless his husbands got transported back in time with him, he wouldn't be able to fall in love with them. He'd look at their younger selves and see them as the children they are (and the kid he no longer feels like).

To add onto that, he might feel older than Bruce too. If Bruce is 35 ish in this and Tim was like 70, he probably sees Bruce as a grown adult who's also a baby. That man needs to get his shit together, but gods is he so fucking young and stupid.

Special parts I loved:

Fish loving Tim more than Aquaman

Tim going from hard-earned decent relationships with his family to the sewage of his Robin years

The acknowledgement that Tim was Alfred's equal on taking care of Bruce (and how much that betrayal hurt)

Jason actually dying when his throat was cut (that's my hc too)

Tim immediately getting the JL involved

I would so be down with exploring this AU more. Your writing is also fantastic!

#dc comics #tim drake #dc universe #dc au #bruce wayne #thank you for the ask!!!!#jason todd #dick grayson #alfred pennyworth

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spooky-pop · 2 months

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Happy Birthday!! Uhm... I hope you don't mind me sending you this short story (bc I can't draw😭) based off of your adorable Broppy family❤❤❤

~~~

Poppy took a deep breath as she walked into the kitchen after just tearing her older daughter apart from her younger son during a silly fight. Plopping in a seat next to her husband at the breakfast nook, she heaved a huge sigh.

Branch, who was trying to focus on his forms that he had to sign but couldn't because of children screaming, looked up at her with a raised eyebrow.

"You okay?" he asked gently.

Poppy gave him an exhausted smile. "Yeah... just- tired."

He smiled back. "I feel that completely." Branch began to work on his forms again, but quickly noticed his wife wiggling in her chair, a sign that she had more on her mind. He looked up at her again and waited.

Poppy opened her mouth, shut it, then opened it again, asking, "Do you think I'm doing something wrong?"

Branch stared at her blankly. "Doing what wrong?"

Poppy looked over where she could see straight into the living room. Their daughter, Ivy, was attempting to build a pillow fort with the couch cushions while their three year old son, Oakley, laughed and giggled as he climbed and slid down the blankets and cushions, causing her fort to fall.

Ivy groaned and pushed the baby boy off the pillows, telling him to go away, while he just gave more bubbly giggles and shouted, almost evilly, "More!! More!!"

Poppy bit her lip and turned back to her husband. Branch was still waiting for her response, looking extremely concerned.

"Poppy..." That was all he needed to say to coax her.

"I don't know, I just... I would do anything for Viva, and I know you would do anything for your brothers, and Ivy just seems like she wants to toss her brother down a pit or something," Poppy explained, tumbling over her words.

Branch chuckled, reaching for his coffee. "Relatable," he muttered with a smile.

"What?!" Poppy gave him a nudge.

"I'm kidding!" Branch sighed and sat back and looked over his wife for a few minutes, a smile still hovering, before answering. "Poppy, this is totally normal. Do you not remember how I got separated from my brothers? It was from a fight. Siblings argue all the time." Branch groaned to himself as he leaned to the side as he peeked over Poppy's shoulder to shout, "Ivy, let's not break your brother's neck by pushing him off the couch please, thank you!"

As he turned back to Poppy, she heard Ivy shout with annoyance and grunt, "Fine!!" as a response to his firm "required suggestion".

"It's totally understandable. Sometimes I want to push John Dory into the oven, or Bruce down the stairs, or Clay--"

"I get it, Branch," Poppy interrupted, not wanting to hear more. "But...why doesn't Ivy love Oakley?"

Branch sat up straighter. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Poppy, you can't just assume something like that."

"Remember when Oakley was born?" Poppy began to sniff. "She almost cried from anger. She told us she didn't want a brother. And I remember you told her that she may say that now and then end up ready to give up her life for him, but three years have passed and nothing new--" she stopped before she began to cry.

Taking a deep breath in, she whispered, "Maybe I have been doing something wrong. Maybe Ivy thinks I have replaced her. Maybe I haven't taught them how to love and take care of each other enough. Is it me, Branch? Do I need to become a better parent?"

Poppy felt her eyes shut, trying to block any dumb tears of disappointment from dripping down her cheeks. She felt Branch's hand place on top of hers and gently caress her hand.

"Poppy... You seem to think that you're on your own. I'm a parent too. If there was anything that was wrongly taught to our kids, it would be something we both could work on. It's not you, honey. We are in this parenting business together, whether we like it or not."

Poppy opened her eyes to see Branch's gentle smile as leaned over toward her. She gave a brief nod.

"Ivy and Oakley are young. Oakley is still basically a baby. He doesn't understand completely how much he may annoy his sister. Ivy hasn't had much time to work on her temper. We have room to work there. But, sometimes, getting on each other's nerves is the only way people feel they can share love."

Poppy frowned. "What do you mean?"

Branch flushed lightly. "Well...I used to annoy you because I felt bugging you, warning you, doing whatever isn't being kind, was the only way I could be able to see you that day, the only way to show to myself that I cared, without showing to you completely that I cared." He gave a shrug as if it didn't matter, though they both knew it meant a lot. "John Dory does the same. He feels I won't truly welcome kind words or something from him, so the only way to say hi or hang out is to tease me or annoy me." He was quiet for a little bit after that.

Noticing that it was quiet in the living room, they both quickly peeked into the room. Ivy was sitting on the floor, looking extremely annoyed, having given up on the fort, on one of the cushions while Oakley danced around happily, dug his chubby little hands through his sister's purple hair, tangling it, and his sister just crossed her arms with a murderous look on her face.

"There's always a meaning behind actions," Branch whispered. "Whether it's a good reason or not is a whole other thing."

Oakley stumbled and Ivy, still looking murderous, reached out and caught him before he could fall, and straightened him. He gave a squeal and danced and tangled her hair some more.

Poppy gave a soft smile.

Branch turned to her. "Poppy, one of the things I love most about you is your patience and kindness. When it comes to things like this, those qualities are amazingly helpful and can help strengthen these relationships." He took her hand again. "I love you, Queen Poppy. You are an amazing parent, and I hope you learn to realize this. You will make mistakes, so will I, but that's the adventure of parenthood. We shouldn't let them keep us down but have them bring us back up again, and become better."

He leaned a bit closer. "Sometimes, it's your patience in the moment that encourages me not to toss one of my brothers into a pit myself."

They both laughed before he leaned in for a quick kiss. They heard a laugh from the other room and saw Ivy, her face beginning to brighten as Oakley scratched gently at the back of her neck, probably at some dirt she had gotten there during one of her escapes into the forest in search of adventure. Oakley looked confused at why the dirt didn't move from off of her as he basically tickled Ivy's neck.

Her laugh was like a light bell, happy and joyful, like Poppy's Branch noted to himself, like he did whenever he heard Ivy's laugh.

But the joy-filled moment ended when instead of tickling, Oakley began to tug at Ivy's already tangled hair.

"OW! OAKLEYYYYY STOPPIT!! DADDDDDD!!"

Branch closed his eyes for a minute, yanked at his own hair from exasperation, then marched into the living room. "Okay, Oakley, how about we get off of our sister, alright? Hey!! Heyyyy, no pulling!!!"

Poppy watched as Branch pulled Oakley off of Ivy, and knew that he was right. She couldn't expect her kids to be friends every moment of their lives. They were siblings, after all.

But she knew that she would be able to help her children whenever she could if she tried. And she wasn't about to give up, not even close.

Poppy told herself one more thing before she ran off to help Branch:

I Love My Family So Darn Much.

And it was truth. And she was about to use that love to teach her kids all they needed to know and to be taught everything she needed to know herself as well.

~~~

Okay, yeah, that really stank, but I hope it's not complete trash to you. I think ur amazing! Happy Birthday!💕 ~JessiDogg

OMG thank you so much??? This is SO good and I can't believe something this good was inspired off of my silly little AU ;; Holy cow. I love what you did as well as your take on these characters, you captured them wonderfully! You have no idea how special this is to me thank you again ;; I'm gonna go weep now

#ask #yall #im unwell #this is so cute #i eat up fics inspired off my aus bc i cant write

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givemea-dam-break · 1 year

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May I request a fem reader x Anthony lockwood where reader is a super talented fittes agent who constantly trades barbs with lockwood but he soon realises that she fancies him so he ends up teasing her during missions by doing small stuff like pulling her close and calling here babe when no-one is around

a/n: ahhhhhh this is such a cute idea, yes of course!!! i hope you like it <3 buckle in because this is a long one - which could constitute for a part 2 if anyone wants one lol

warnings: language fem reader (few pronouns used)

part 2

"Don't you get tired of me saving your ass? This is the third time I've done it this week alone."

Anthony Lockwood leans against the partially splintered doorframe of the house he and his team were working on a case in, arms crossed over his chest and smiling proudly as if he wasn't on his back in ghost-lock mere minutes ago. His hair is slightly ruffled, cheeks flushed, but that cocky grin is there despite it all.

"Sometimes I just need reminding that there are scarier things than ghosts," he says.

Bristling a little, you raise an eyebrow at him. "Is that why I see you looking in mirrors so often? I'd chalked it up to narcissism, but, hey, if it's for a reality check instead, who am I to judge?"

His eyes roll, and he makes a sound that's half-scoff and half-laugh. "We would've been fine without your help, just so you know."

"Mm-hmm." You look around the salt-covered kitchen and the tiles that were pried off the wall - by you - that uncovered a hole in the wall containing the source. "So George was looking for the source in the bathroom just because? And Lucy was fighting the second ghost that she herself told me you guys didn't know about? Not to mention you being ghost-locked. To each their own, I suppose."

"At least I looked good doing it. Your uniform is the most boring thing I've ever seen."

"Oh, so you're a fashion expert now?" you ask, placing a hand on your hip. "No offence, Lockwood, but I'd stick to ghost-hunting. You're at least half-decent at that."

Kipps appears down the hallway, pointing to the front door before disappearing, followed by the rest of your team. He's slowly slid out of the role of being the one to provoke Anthony Lockwood, leaving the pleasure solely to you. Not that you're complaining. There's something so enjoyable about riling him up.

Plastering on a too-sweet smile, you say, "It was great seeing you, Lockwood. I'll have fun saving your life again soon."

You push past him through the doorway, stopping just past.

"And, before you comment on my 'boring' uniform, at least try to get your socks and tie to match. Those are two wildly different shades of blue."

You glare at the house towering before you, pissed that you've been sent off on messenger duty not by Fittes, but by DEPRAC. They've got vans and cars and dozens of employees to do their bidding, but old Inspector Barnes has sent you off instead. Maybe as some kind of torture.

Annoyed, you ring the doorbell and wait.

When the door swings open, you're at least grateful that it's Lucy Carlyle that opens it. While she can be quick to anger and is prone to making snide remarks - although you're no better - she's the preferable option. George has a hatred for all Fittes employees and Lockwood... You scowl at the thought of him.

"Oh, (name)," she says, frowning in confusion. "Why are you here?"

You hold the papers out. "DEPRAC lapdog, apparently. I've been sent to give all three of you these NDA letters. They need signing and sent back to DEPRAC."

Lucy takes them gingerly, eyes skirting over the writing. "This is about that case the three of us did in Greenwich?"

"The owner of the National Maritime Museum doesn't want potential customers finding out there were ghosts there, or something," you explain. "I don't know. Barnes caught me on a run earlier and asked me to deliver these."

"Deliver what?"

Scowling, you look over Lucy's shoulder where Lockwood's face has just appeared. Lucy shows him the papers, passing them over and crossing her arms as she explains what you've just said.

Lockwood frowns, looking at you as if it's your fault.

"Barnes has got you on a lead, huh?"

"You calling me a dog, Lockwood? I don't think you want to see how you'll end up after that."

He raises his hands in mock surrender. "I would never do that. You know me. Besides, you're not wearing your signature grey today, so you don't even look like a staffy."

It's at that moment that Lucy slips away, taking the papers with her.

"I'm in no mood for you today," you say. "I've not even been back to my place, so I'm all sweaty from my run and in need of a shower. Barnes has sent me here because he and his lackeys can't get off their arses. And, to top it off, my favourite café ran out of the coffee I like. So, I advise you to pack it in, or I'll be arrested for trespassing and assault."

"There will be no need for that," he promises. "Do you want to come in for that coffee you so desperately want? George is quite adept at making good coffee."

"Even if I wanted to step foot in your house, which I don't, George would probably poison my drink, so no, thanks."

For a moment, he's quiet, as if trying to think of some way to insult you. Then, he says, "I admit, I thought Barnes would've sent Kipps. Maybe even Kat. But not you."

You cross your arms, the cold air nipping your bare arms. You hadn't thought to bring a jumper with you. "Like I said to Lucy, Barnes caught me while I was on my run. I think he was going to head here himself, but decided he liked seeing your faces even less than I do and sent me on my way. Pig."

Lockwood breathes a laugh like he's hesitant to really laugh in front of you. He leans against the doorframe. "Are you sure you don't want to come in for a moment? You're shivering, and it's cold out."

"I'm more than sure." You peek past him, eyeing the clutter and the hint of a collapsed pile of clothes in one of the rooms with disdain. "I need to get back anyways. The sight of you is making me feel violently ill."

"All right, all right, there's no need for that. We were having a civil conversation for a moment. At least take this." He reaches behind the door, pulling out a large grey hoodie. "It's cold, and it's a long walk back to Fittes."

With a bit of hesitation, you take the hoodie from his hands. It's warm like it's been over a radiator. "Thanks. I'll get this back to you."

"Hey, at least it matches your uniform."

"Oh, shut up. You're just proving you've got no sense of style - it's not even the same shade. And, I'm just noticing, you're still not able to match your socks and tie. You need to do some homework."

He rolls his eyes. "Whatever. Get gone. You're making the street look untidy."

You flip him off before turning and trudging down the steps, then make your way home.

"That's not your jumper."

You look up from your mug of coffee tiredly. The case you'd been on the night before has left you completely drained, and having a nine am start didn't make it any better. Even the coffee hasn't perked you up.

"What?"

Kat's icy gaze studies the hoodie you wear. "Did you not hear me? I said -"

"I know what you said. But why?"

"Whose is it?"

You rub your eyes. "I don't see how that's any of your business."

"It's Anthony Lockwood's, isn't it?" she says, practically spitting the name. "I thought you hated him."

"Like I said, none of your business."

You pull the grey jumper tighter around you. The whole morning, you've been so cold that you've resorted to wearing it. And, despite your - now, somewhat mixed - feeling for Lockwood, you find comfort in the scent of tea and toast it carries. You've not seen him in the last few days since he gave it to you, so you've not had the opportunity to return it. Might as well take advantage of it, seeing as all of your jumpers are dirty.

Kat scowls. "Give it back. Burn it. Just get rid of it."

"I'll do what I want with it," you say, shocking yourself with your defensiveness. "Just lay off. I'm cold, I'm tired, and I'm hungry. I'm not in the mood for this."

"You're never in the mood for anything," Kat says.

"I wonder why," you mutter quietly before taking a sip of your coffee.

"What was that?"

"Oh, nothing. Just saying how much I appreciate your constant input."

"Saving you again. Who'd have thought?"

Lockwood rolls his eyes, rapier held out in front of him. "I think you enjoy it. That, or you enjoy seeing me. I'd prefer the latter because I love the attention, but either way."

You scoff, throwing a salt bomb at the ghost that has cornered you both. "I most certainly do not like seeing you. It's the worst part of my week."

"Oh, sure, love."

The nickname causes you to choke, but you keep your guard up. This ghost is relentless, and you won't let some arrogant boy cause you to falter. You're one of the best agents Fittes has, a professional in your field. You know better than to let him distract you.

In front of you, the ghost makes a faint wailing sound, though your Listening isn't strong enough to make out what it's saying. Judging from the glowing blood that pours from its neck and spills over its dress, you judge that it's a Wraith, and not a very happy one at that.

"What's our plan, then?" you ask. "We're trapped in a hallway with nothing but a basement door behind us. Lucy and George are looking for the source, I take it?"

"Lucy and George didn't take this case with me. They're on a separate one."

Scowling, you say, "Oh, well, just as well that I happened to pass by when I did then, huh? You'd be dead right now if it weren't for me."

You're about to keep talking, but Lockwood shouts, "Duck!" before tackling you to the ground. Your head narrowly misses the wall but bangs against the floor instead, and you're overtaken by a horrible chill as the ghost darts over top of you both.

All of a sudden, you're acutely aware of Lockwood on top of you, shielding you from what could've been potential ghost touch. His breath is warm on your face, and you can feel his heart racing above your own, which feels like it's going a million miles an hour. Your cheeks, despite the chill, feel awfully hot. He looks down at you, grinning and about to say something.

"Watch out!" you interrupt, kicking him off of you and grabbing his rapier. You slash it through the air, temporarily dissolving the ghost.

You push yourself off the ground, throwing another salt bomb at the Wraith. Lockwood is on his feet shortly after, and you both hurry to his iron circle by the living room door, panting and gasping for breath. The lamp in the centre flickers slightly, and the floorboards creak.

"Hell of a house you've got here," you grumble. "Who is this miserable git anyways?"

Lockwood eyes the ghost before grinning at you once more. "Lady called Angela, was killed in a burglary back in, oh, what did George say? Nineteen-forty-nine, I think. As you can see, she's very unhappy."

The Wraith wails and a liquidy choking sound becomes more apparent, which makes you squirm. Your Sight is about as good as your Listening, but it's still hard to make out the glowing features of the woman besides all of the blood and her spotty dress.

"Your Touch is good, right?"

"Best of the best."

Lockwood scoffs. "All right, no need to get cocky."

"You're one to talk."

"I was just going to ask if you could search for the source with your Touch while I cover you! You make everything so difficult."

You brush hair out of your eyes. "Yeah, me. Okay, whatever. I'll go find this source then. Which room is my best bet?"

"Living room."

Glancing into the room just beside you, you nod, waiting for your cue to go. For a brief second, Lockwood touches your arm, telling you to stay safe, and then he's launched himself at the ghost. You don't stick around to see what kind of pretentious rapier moves he's doing.

The living room is pretty empty, compared to others you've seen. The walls are plain and beige, with very few photos hung up in boring old frames. There's a two-seater sofa with the ugliest floral pattern you've ever seen and an armchair that doesn't match in the slightest. The fireplace has no wood, no ash, no nothing as if it hasn't been used for years.

You're instantly drawn to the fireplace. Crouching down to the ground, you place your hand on the bricks that make it up, closing your eyes and falling into your senses.

The room has changed. It's brighter, more colourful, happier. Sunlight streams through the window, and a woman hums as she dusts the ornaments on the wall. She's pretty, wearing a spotty blue dress, and her voice is soothing. When she passes over to the fireplace, it's almost as if she is really there next to you, replacing the burnt wood with fresh. But her fingers graze a brick inlaid in the ground, lingering for a moment too long before she moves away to replace the flowers in a vase.

Colours blur as the vision fades away and the sounds of Lockwood's fight resume. Immediately, you begin clawing at the brick you saw in the vision, grateful to find it loose already. A horrible wail indicates that you're right.

A spider crawls out of the hollow gap beneath the brick, and you reach your hand into the gap, which is filled with cobwebs. Your fingers latch onto something, but you don't stop to look at what it is before you wrap it up in the silver net you always keep in a pouch on your belt.

Seconds later, Lockwood appears in the doorway, panting and smiling. "Thanks for the help, love. You're very handy. What's the source?"

You scowl. "Don't call me that."

"What? Love? Thought you'd like it. I mean, you've still got my jumper, and Lucy says that's got to mean something."

"Be quiet. I've not had the chance to give it back. Here's the source. Look for yourself. I'm heading home, as far away from you as I can get."

"Oh, come on. Let me walk you home at least."

For a moment, you consider it, and you hate yourself for it. But part of you, a treacherous little piece of your heart, yearns for it. When was the last time someone walked you home? When was the last time someone offered to bring you in for a coffee or gave you their jumper to keep you warm? Though you hate to admit it, Anthony Lockwood is not the worst out of all the people in London.

"Fine," you mutter. "Just this once."

"So, tell me about yourself, love. What makes you tick?"

You look at Lockwood incredulously. "This isn't the time, you twat! There's a pack of Phantasms following us."

Lockwood glances back at the ghosts trailing you. He waves a hand nonchalantly. "Oh, they're fine. We're covered in iron and silver protection."

"I can hear them calling for us, and they're getting closer."

"Well, good thing you've got me to walk you home. Who better to keep you safe?"

You curse under your breath, wondering why you'd ever agreed more than once to let him walk you home. The first time was bearable, the second time less so. Now, the eighth, you're at your wit's end. Having the company, especially when walking in the dark so late at night, made you feel a little better, but things would definitely be splendid if he'd shut his mouth for once.

"What did I say about you calling me 'love'?"

"If I remember correctly, you said, and I quote, If you call me that again, I'm going to tear out your tongue and feed it to Kipps for breakfast. Did I get that right?"

"Yes, you did."

"Well, if it annoys you, more the reason to say it, right, love?"

You shove him, and he stumbles, laughing, as you trudge along the park's path, glancing back at the phantasms following behind.

"So...?" Lockwood says, drawing near once more.

You raise your eyebrows. "So?"

"What makes you so prickly? Kat Godwin is bad, but she's quiet most of the time. You, on the other hand, spark a debate the minute you walk into a room. What is it? An incessant hatred for the world? Never had any friends growing up? Oh, I know, you had a pet that got run over when you were a child, and now you hate everyone in return?"

Glaring at him, you say, "No. To all of them."

"So what is it then?"

"I don't know." You shrug. You don't know why you feel the urge to tell him a real answer. "I've never seen anything different, I suppose. My parents didn't really... parent, when I was a kid, so now I don't know how to talk to people any other way than how I do. It's how they spoke to me, or so I've been told. Kipps put me in therapy for a while, but my therapist was a thick-skulled -"

Lockwood's laugh cuts you off, and you glance at him sidelong. There's something about the way the moonlight hits his skin; how the cold midnight air makes his cheeks rosy; how his smile seems to light up his face. It makes everything feel a little less bad.

"I don't know how to word things without sounding mean," you say, "because that's all anyone has ever been to me. Even at Fittes."

"So you don't mean to hurl verbal abuse at me every chance you get?"

"Oh, no, I absolutely do. You're the biggest idiot I've ever met, and you could really work on that narcissism of yours. It's a killer. Real no-go for a girl."

"So now you're saying you're interested in me, but my confidence is putting you off?"

The arrogance in his eyes makes you want to strangle him. "No, that's not what I'm saying at all."

But, is it? You're not sure. There's a funny feeling in your chest, but you're half convinced it's just heartburn and not something people tend to call 'crushing' or 'loving'. You're not entirely sure what either of those things feels like.

He makes to speak again, but he glances back at the group of phantasms following you and grins. "Fancy another ghost fight tonight?"

You sigh. "You really know how to get a girl excited."

"Love, pass me a salt bomb or five."

You glance into the hallway for any of the other agents scouting the mansion, scowling. "Don't call me that!"

"Whatever you say, love. Now, the salt bombs?"

Resisting the urge to throw them at his face, you pass Lockwood a few salt bombs begrudgingly.

Your Fittes team and Lockwood's agency have been teamed up on a case by DEPRAC, and Lockwood being the pompous ass he is paired you both together and has been teasing you incessantly. Nothing new there, except for the feeling it incites in your chest.

It can't really be described as heartburn, anymore, because it only ever happens whenever you see him or hear his name. You've found yourself growing bored and - you hate to say this - lonely without his company and quips, and find yourself to be your happiest when throwing insults at each other, though they feel a little more light-hearted now than they once did. Well, you feel as happy as you believe you can be, with as little experience of it as you've had.

You try to ignore the way your skin tingles and cheeks flush when his fingers brush yours and try even harder to pretend you don't see the shit-eating grin on his face from your reaction.

"You're insufferable, you know that right?" you ask as you pull iron chains from your bag.

"Only because you tell me every chance you get," Lockwood says. "I live to give you that privilege."

You roll your eyes. "I can stab you with my rapier, so you'd do well to remember that."

The weight of his arm rests on your shoulders, and he pulls you close to his side. You grow tense at the sudden movement and the close proximity, and hope he can't feel your racing heartbeat. It'll only give him one more thing to pick at you about. You're just unused to being held, you tell yourself.

"But you wouldn't do that, love. You've grown quite fond of me these past few months."

"Have not."

"Care to return my jumper, then? I'm in dire need of it."

Once more, your face flushes. "You told me to keep it a little longer while my morning runs are still cold."

"As a formality. You were meant to say something smart like, Like hell I will, asshat, take it back before I become infected by the bacteria you carry. Your insults are becoming boring."

"Is that so?" You narrow your eyes at him. "Well, you are an asshat, for one. For two, I'd advise you let go of me, or I fear my skin will burn off from the way your brain is overheating trying to keep a conversation with me. So, love, how about you take your arm back?"

He grins, drawing you closer until your cheeks are almost touching. "If I die from overheating, you're going down with me."

You shove him away, scowling once more, but part of you wants to laugh. This kind of banter with him has grown familiar, comforting. And, well, though you might protest it much of the time, being called 'love' gives your heart a little flutter, like it's glad it's finally getting some attention after a lifetime of being as hard and cold as stone.

Bit by bit, Lockwood has softened it up, but you'll never tell him that. He would only grow too smug.

"You know," Lockwood says, "I think you're bribing DEPRAC so that you can get put on cases with us. This is the second one in two weeks."

"Why on earth would I ever bribe DEPRAC for that? If anything, I'd bribe them to get me out of it." You lay the chains out in a neat circle and place all your things inside. "If anyone's doing it, it's you, because you're obsessed with me."

"And so what if I am, love? You're very fun to poke fun at."

Your hands falter, and you hope he hasn't noticed. "Whatever."

He grins, watching your every move. "You can admit you feel the same, you know? You're not going to face a horrible death for admitting you enjoy spending time with me."

You don't know what to say to that. Because, yes, you do enjoy spending time with him, in your little confusing way. Being around him has opened you up to new feelings you've never had the chance to really feel before, and you're grateful for it, but admitting it? It's like giving him the key to a locked door and granting him 24/7 access. It terrifies you and makes you feel vulnerable.

"Be quiet so we can get on with our surveys," you murmur. "I'd like to get out of here as soon as possible."

"Scared? Don't worry, I can hold your hand."

And he does. His hand wraps around yours, enveloping it in warmth, and you find yourself staring at it, unwilling to pull away from his touch. It seems to shock Lockwood, too, judging from his parted lips and slightly-too-wide eyes, but his hand squeezes yours gently and you feel a little piece of your heart soften.

There's a creak in the hallway, and you jerk your hand away, standing straight, face hot. But there's nothing, no one. Just you, Lockwood, and a barrage of feelings you're not sure what to do with.

#anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood x reader #lockwood and co x reader #lockwood and co fanfiction #lockwood and co #lockwood and co netflix #anthony lockwood #george karim #lucy carlyle #x reader #fanfiction #givemea-dam-break

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wolfchankki · 6 months

Note

If you're still taking requests, may I request sub!txt any of the members because I love all of them, one member riding my strap and another on my face. ❤️

Hi anon! Thank you for the request, I’m very glad! I hope you don’t be bothered that I made the two imagines separately. I’ll post this one first, and when possible, I’ll post the other part. Hope you like it tho!

Also, English is not my first language, so I’m very sorry for any mistake.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Sub!Soobin x Afab!reader

use of strap, implied punishment, bit of noona kink

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“Take it, baby”.

Some would call you cruel, but you knew that you had to do that. Soobin thought that every single misbehave could be taken aside every time he’d flutter his long lashes, his bunny like smile would make you step back with the decision of putting him back into his place. To be fair, most of the days it worked.

But not today.

He was just too ingenue to worry about later when he was focused into palming your crotch under the table at the dinner his dad invited you two; the worst is that his sister noticed that something was going on since you couldn’t stop blushing and side eyeing him.

Now in his old bedroom, after a way too long (for him) scolding, and after making him gag in your strap as silent as he could, you put him to work; he was riding your strap with no help at all, just having you holding his wrists firmly with one hand in front of his body and, with the other hand, tugging his hair with everything but gentleness, giving you free way to his neck, sucking and licking and biting, purposely marking him.

“No-noona, please! Help me cum please!” poor thing was trying to quiet down his sobbing, on verge of cumming, but it was still not enough since his legs are now trembling and giving up, making him stop to rest a bit, frustrated for interrupting his own pleasure.

“They will hear you, Soobin” you remind him “I suggest you shut up and take it like the bitch you proved to be earlier”. You squeezed his wrists more when he tried to bring it to his forgotten dripping cock.

“I’m too tired, I can-cant take it anymore, please!” as he wasn’t done with his whining, tears streamed down his pink cheeks.

“Color?” You and Soobin used the traffic lights system for each other security and wellbeing, a deal you two settled to know and recognize boundaries after a very extended talk.

After thinking for a bit, biting his lip all the time, the younger looked up at you again with glossy eyes.

“Green” he mumbles, voice barely above a whisper.

“Are you sure? We can stop here” only for him to respond “No! I…I want it”.

With a smirk, the hand that was in his hair is now on his sensible dick, giving a few slow strokes, and with the hand that was in his hair, you gave him two taps in his thigh “that’s the only help you’ll get from me. Now, you can continue”.

The new stimulation helped a lot, to be honest. Riding back and forth with revigorated strength, Soobin was finally able to cum hard against your belly, chest and even his own chest, covering his moans and whines in your shoulder, biting forcefully, making you sigh and your breath hitches.

You take your strap out of him, hearing his muffled whines. Still with his trembling body above you, you managed to take of your strap and throw it on the empty laundry basket in the corner of the room to be cleaned later.

Laying on the bed with him above you, you kissed him all over the face. “You did well baby, take it so well for me. Now, I need to give you a bath, don’t I?

“No. Tomorrow.”

“Soobin, you need a bath, love”

“Tomorrow”

Hearing his tired voice, you gave up eventually with a sigh.

“You won this time. Good night, love.” With a little and exhausted smile, Soobin was already fast asleep just as you.

#txt #sub!txt #sub!idol #sub!soobin #dom!reader #afab reader #afab!reader #txt imagines #txt hard hours #txt hard thoughts #txt smut #soobin imagines #soobin hard hours #soobin hard thoughts #choi soobin #txt drabbles #soobin drabbles #request

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plusvanity · 4 months

Text

To make this clear, Old Mayhem and me NEVER attacked one another.

There's no animosity going on between me and her. Although in the same 'fandom', our blogs exist separately and don't overlap. This doesn't mean hatred. This simply means a different public. The effort that me and her seems to put in the content that we create is massive, so as I said before, I will say I again, be a decent person and don't spread misinformation about what my dynamic between me and her is like. Also, don't spread hateful messages in anyone's inbox about how 'shit their art is' or 'how dare you not like this blog??' Because you NEVER know if the person who reads it has s*****e thoughts and the LAST THING that they read is your spiteful message. It happened with me before, and I wouldn't wish this feeling even on the worst people in my life.

This is all I had to say regarding Old Mayhem.

Now, I want to address the real issue who's name I didn't mention until now, Kelma 69, the one blog who's proud description is 'Getting rid of weird Mayhem fans, mostly from Pelle's fans'.

I don't even have to add anything about this description, her malicious 'witch hunt' intentions are more than obvious and the fact that I seem to be her number one target is sending a shiver down my spine.

I don't have an issue with people who block me and move on with their lives, this is normal, it's expected. But I have an issue with someone who blocks me and keeps endlessly talking about me with every chance they've got, so I want to ask her why?

I never interacted with her before, yet she comes across so vicious about my art and fiction for seemingly no reason other than envy.

Of cause that you're entitled to your own opinion, of course that you don't have to like me, this is absolutely alright, but you should assume your words instead of hiding behind blogs that had been here long before you or 'adjusting' your statements to how it seems more convenient for you.

Calling my art 'crap', than saying 'I'm not insulting the artist' is blatantly lying with proofs on her own page.

Also, the fact that she was both following me and my other artist friends, liking our 'Vargelle' fanarts until someone brought this to her attention and she suddenly blocked me and my friends is a 'getting caught' behaviour. I can understand that she may had liked those fanarts because of Pelle's design, as she mentioned at one point, but some of those drawings didn't even had Pelle's face in it, so how does this work? She also liked fanarts of Varg (alone) even if she hates Varg more than anything, so was this for his 'design' too? Is it?

Also, her parasitic tendency to accociate herself with Old Mayhem to seem relevant, to gain attention and admiration denote very evident deceiving and manipulating tactics.

Another aspect of her double-faced behaviour is the fact that she presents herself as 'shy' when she has no problem whatsoever getting rid of what might step out of her appreciation area. Shyness doesn't come with blunt insults and a covert need for conflict and drama. Shy people doesn't seek reactions, they don't go out to hate on people to boost up their ego and shy people DON'T throw the 'you just play the victim' card whenever they can't find solid arguments against their accusation.

Is calling out someone's falsehood the equivalent of 'playing' the victim? Is this the way to wash your hands clean from taking responsibility?

The fact that you won't allow a conversation to take place and once you consider that 'you're done playing your game' you pull out, just shows how unwilling you are to recognise what you've done.

I hope everyone can leave behind this senseless drama. I'm so sick and tired talking like a broken record about these things.

Live and let live. There's so much to do in life other than being angry about fiction, trust me.

#my ramblings #pelle ohlin #varg vikernes #mayhem #mayhem band

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yawnderu · 9 months

Note

non con means non consensual

no consent = rape

can you explain why you don’t think writing rape is an issue and that it shouldn’t go unreported? i’m curious

please be kind i’m genuinely curious as to why people think it’s ok to write about

This has been explained multiple times and— not to be rude, but you can easily do your own research. It's tiring explaining this over and over, but here we go again.

TW: talks of SA and rape.

If you think it's an issue, Tumblr and media gives you the options to blacklist words, tags, and even usernames, in case blocking is somehow not an option.

There are things called dark fics, which include topics such as dubcon, rape, and other things. The fact that an author writes about these topics doesn't mean you should report their content or account, it's actually very easy to avoid, and you're responsible for your own triggers and media consumption. Every single author who writes dark fics and I've seen in the COD fandom writes the trigger/content warnings at the beginning of their fics because we understand it's not for everyone.

I've explained this before, but as someone who used to get molested/SAd since middle school and until my late teens, writing about these scenarios helps me cope. Why? Because I get to have control over what I write and situations similar to everything that happened to me, and I get to pick which character is doing that, rather than all the people who did things to me.

Some rape and SA victims develop kinks related to it, and that's totally okay. The fact that we write things about it does NOT mean in any way, shape or form that we want this to happen to our readers or ourselves, it's simply a kink that oftentimes comes from being a victim ourselves. It's all a fantasy, a controlled environment where we can write these things and have control over it, unlike in our real lives.

You may not agree with these things being written and that's where the fact that you can easily avoid them comes into play. It's truly as easy as dismissing a post, blacklisting words/tags, and blocking the creator. Trust me, no creator will ever care that you block them. I have so many people blocked in here, including some of my mutual's mutuals or followers and that has never been an issue.

Dark fics are not for everyone and that's totally okay, but reporting a creator's account for writing a sexual fantasy with fictional characters is something way too extreme. We're not posting rape videos, we're simply writing things with fictional characters. If you're (in general, not only you) not mature enough to understand why dark media is created, you're likely not old enough to be in our blogs in the first place.

I hope that explained it well and pray that this will finally be the last ask I get about it.

#stray answers

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vasito-de-leche · 9 months

Note

okay I read your analysis on Forget Me Not and I'm in tears now thank you. (No but really thank you, it's such a touching piece.) Can you PLEASE for salvation of our fans souls write anything to like,,, give him hope? Forget Me Not x reader but it doesn't have to be actually all-out with hugs and kisses. We may,,,,,,,, just show him a new hobby? Any hobby of your choosing or idk play an instrument together. Just to give him something else to focus on, to channel at least part of his energy from self-destructive activities to something less hurtful. I'd personally like to bandage his (not actually wounded but still) hands as if they were bleeding. Something of the kind. Sorry for mistakes writing is incredibly inconvenient cuz tears aaa.

;R1999 FORGET ME NOT - "hands, fingers, scales"

Forget Me Not x Reader. 2.3k words. self-harm implied You've befriended Forget Me Not the same one befriends a rabid, beaten, old dog. And while he's much too busy fighting his inner demons, you're more worried about stopping these "pernicious habits" of his. A casual afternoon trying to make sure he's taking care of himself turns into something deeper.

thank you so much for the ask, nonnie!!

I got a little carried away with this request because thinking about how fucking insufferable and confusing FMN has to be just to indulge in HAND HOLDING and GETTING A FUCKING HOBBY made me so deranged and feral as if hes not fucking TOUCHSTARVED lmfao. this guy's love language is straight up worshipping, mf is not subtle about it

either way, hope you like it! here's the lil preview!

Sometimes, Forget Me Not understands the reason men and women kneel at the pew to worship and pray.

Devotion is something arcanists and humans share, whether honest or not. He's witnessed the rich and the poor, the pure and the depraved, and every binary that rules this world - all of them begging, pleading and praying at the end of their lives, casting away the pride they've held on for so long for the chance of salvation. Once stripped down to their core, there is nothing to do but hope God has enough love in His heart to look their way.

And sometimes, Forget Me Not prays that you’ll find someone else - anyone but him - to fill the role of devotee.

The gentleness in your eyes whenever you look at him is enough to bring him to his knees, and Forget Me Not doesn't know what to do with himself but to worship and pray. Praying that you'll continue to look at him for a little longer, silently begging for your attention until you finally tire of him. Do you think yourself holy enough to replace the vitriol in his veins?

He does.

On good days, he even hopes that you can save him.

You never asked him to become your one and only believer, of course. You're not even aware of the space you take in his mind, nor the conflicting images he keeps conjuring of you at night, he's certain of this. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here, holding his hands and inspecting them for any injuries. This role is one of the many self-imposed tragedies in his life.

Your thumbs knead and massage his palm, as if you could soothe the pain away, and yet you refrain from pressing down hard. He's at your mercy, why hesitate? What do you see that he cannot?

Something is bothering you. It's obvious in the way you touch him, like you're afraid of hurting him, as if you were the one with a body count between the two. Every so often, your movements come to a halt and you both sit in silence, until you return to your ministrations, filling the nothingness with your sighing and humming.

All he needs is to look up, right at your face, to know everything he wants to know - but he's too much of a coward for that. Instead, light grey eyes follow your index finger as it slides under the cuffs of his shirt. You trace over the bone of his wrist and continue upwards.

He can't tear his eyes away.

Normally, Forget Me Not wouldn't mind. There is an addictive thrill to witnessing the shock of anyone who dares get so close and personal, but he feels himself shrink when you brush against his scales and recoil away on instinct. That's when he raises his head and finds your eyes in the dimly lit staff room.

That expression on your face - surely, you were regretting every choice that led you to him. By now, you might've surely realized that there is nothing for you to salvage in this shipwreck he calls a life. All attempts to check on him were surely a façade for whatever ulterior motives you continued to withhold from him. He's stubborn, believing that he can read you like an open book, but now he's just as lost as you are. When he opens his mouth to speak, you beat him to it and he grows a little restless at your words.

"Sorry, sorry! Did I, uh, hurt you? Dumb question, you would've definitely told me if that were the case. Anyway, it looks like you're okay! I don't know why I was so worried, actually."

His silence prompts you to continue, and all Forget Me Not can focus on is the absence of your warmth.

You raise a hand to gesture dismissively at your behaviour, brush it off to ease your embarrassment, that much he understands - though it's painful to watch you fumble like that, to deny what he hides under his clothes. Forget Me Not thinks of filling the space between your fingers with his own, just to drag you back to that quiet, albeit suffocating, moment of peace. Instead of doing that, he retreats and places both hands neatly on his lap.

"Thanks for indulging me and, yeah uh, again - sorry about that? It just caught me off guard. I should've been more careful."

But you were never careful with his space or his rules, plunging in and out of his life and leaving him to figure out where he stood in his game of push and pull. Why were you being careful now?

"It's nothing, I understand," he lies. Everything you do means the world to him and he doesn't even understand why. "It cannot hurt to know what sort of things the person pouring your drinks might be hiding under their sleeves."

The word "hypocrite" lingers at the tip of his tongue, threatening to spill out with as much venom as he can muster, but it stays lodged behind his teeth because he knows he's even worse: Forget Me Not prays that you'll stay with him, while also opening the door right out his life for you. As much as he wants to, he has no right of calling you out.

He's not used to receiving apologies and so he chooses not to think too hard on yours - though he's dreamed countless of times for the perfect situation in which he finally rips out one apology after another from the throats of those who wronged him, this one feels different. Undeserved, even.

His heart, that wretched lump in his chest, finally settles down and he prepares to end this interaction to save you the awkwardness of addressing his "deformities". But then you go and surprise him once more.

"Come on, I already told you..." You sigh and he inhales in tandem, but you're much too busy rolling your eyes to notice. "That whole thing you do, when you start scratching or, like, picking at your hand? You've been doing it more lately. It had me worried you might've been doing, I don't know - something."

Forget Me Not's eyes widen in surprise. The audacity to notice such things about him? And to put them on display without a warning? What else did you find out?

Part of him wants him to embrace his nature and scare you away, but that's the side of him that's been slowly losing this battle of attrition in his heart - you're a bad influence for him, after all. The other part... Well, it's still trying to sort itself out.

He settles for slowly undoing the buttons on his sleeve. It only takes a moment to roll up the fine fabric to his elbow, knowing you're staring right at him, through him maybe. The expression on his face is one of indifference, one he fights to maintain - this is the most vulnerable he's felt in decades.

That unsightly pattern begins exactly where his sleeves usually end, coiling around his forearm not unlike a snake and traveling upwards. The scales are dark, an iridescent black that reminds him of an oil spill in the middle of the ocean, and the ones at the edges fade away into lighter hues until they mix with the pale, sickly tone of his skin. He knows the sort of beauty he holds, one that can only be admired at a distance, turning into a grotesque imitation of a man when up close.

Forget Me Not presents himself to you and, with his free hand, gets ready to pluck one of the scales off.

"Wait, don't do that-!"

Seizing his arm and holding it close to your chest, you deprive him of the catharsis that comes with this level of self-mutilation. He knows you're connecting the dots, feeling the scattered, empty spaces from all the times you saw him pick himself apart and more. Your fingers brush against his bare skin looking for said spaces, counting them in your head, mourning their loss.

Some scales are in the process of regrowing like unwanted parasites, and he wishes he could feel anything at all just to be closer to you.

"God, what is wrong with you?! What was the point of that?"

Something compels him to laugh (perhaps it's your heartbeat reaching out to him loud and clear through your clothes, he feels it faintly) it comes across as sinister and condescending, the only way he knows how to express joy. Like he's making fun of your concern.

"Apologies," Forget Me Not begins to say, readjusting his glasses. The way you try to keep his own arm out of his reach doesn't go unnoticed. It's such a petty, childish gesture that makes his grin widen and your frown deepen. "I was under the impression you found this little oddity distasteful. There's no need to worry - they will return in a few days, they always do."

"Still, don't do that. It's not funny. It must...hurt a lot."

"Ah, but it doesn't. If else, I'd compare it to being pricked by a very small needle."

"You're just going to find something to nitpick and contradict everything I say, aren't you?" It's the least he can do to repay all the headaches you've given him, and for forgiving his transgressions too easily.

An intrusive thought makes itself known from the depths of his mind - would you forgive him just as readily if he were to kill someone in front of you? If he showed you just how destructive his arcane skills could be when given free reign? Where would you draw the line? And how much could he continue to push his luck before he lost you?

Before Forget Me Not realizes it, you've loosened your grip on his arm and returned to that previous moment of suffocating peace - the only difference is that you've gone from being deep in thought to troubled and miserable, one hair away from darting out the room and refusing to speak to him. At this, his pinky finger wraps around yours and neither of you mention it.

"Can't you... I don't know, do something else?"

"I could be doing my job, but alas, you're keeping me prisoner here." He says, like he's not delighted to be given your undivided attention. There are no complaints when you step on his foot with a huff, he deserved that one.

"I'm talking about the scales thing! You could wear gloves. If it happens when you get distracted then, I could hang around to make sure you stop in time." A pause, and then the sound of your voice becomes unsure and so very small. "Maybe if we covered them with bandages...? But that could be annoying. Band aids? No, no - too unprofessional. It would ruin the whole aesthetic you're going for."

You continue to trail off, coming up with many different ideas and solutions to a problem he caused. He doesn't understand why you'd even bother in the first place. For you to reciprocate the attention he gives you, to care about him? That's the hardest pill Forget Me Not has ever swallowed - it's something he twirls around with his tongue, as if deciding whether to poison himself with bliss or spit it out and continue latching on to his doubts and insecurities.

Outside, in front of everyone at The Walden, he's the one leading the crowd and talking for hours on end, commanding their attention and manipulating the flow of every conversation.

Behind closed doors, all he does is listen to every nonsensical thought, unnecessary opinion and strange anecdote you throw at him.

"...No, that won't work either." Absentmindedly, you fix and button his sleeve back into place.

You've grown used to his silence the same way you've adapted and grown used to his flaws.

"I mean, it worked on me - getting a little slap on the wrist whenever I started biting my nails, but..." Without even thinking, you rub circles with your thumb across his knuckles.

You might as well be the stupidest angel in heaven.

"Why don't you just get a hobby? That's good enough, right? It's been so long since I've heard you play piano, the one by the stage." And just like that, you're on your feet attempting to drag him outside for a demonstration. "You could teach me! That way, we get to do something fun and I get to keep an eye on you."

Forget Me Not knows he has nothing to offer to this world, but when his saint looks at him with such hope, he cannot refuse. The path to recovery seems almost doable when you bump your shoulder into his, challenging him to play the hardest song he knows.

The stars in your eyes whenever you recognize all the songs he plays becomes intoxicating, more so than the sweet, sweet revenge he's yearned for since he spiraled into decadence.

Some days, his patrons join with their own singing or humming, and he forgets that he hates each and every one of them for as long as his fingers dance across the keys - a momentary reprieve from the constant stream of negativity. It doesn't take long for his body to remember his training and soon, he's improvising.

A melody for gloomy, rainy days. A whimsical tune here and there for celebrations.

A song for you and himself - the first one he teaches you and the only one he plays in private, when he's all alone with nothing but his thoughts. Solitude has gone from a noose wrapped around his neck to the perfect time to compose and hone this long forgotten passion. For the first time in forever, he doesn't dread the silence of an empty room, the endless wait between his shifts at The Walden - not when he can simply fill them with more and more music.

And so, Forget Me Not plays, hoping that you'll continue to cheer him on. Hoping that this tiny spark you've ignited in him can truly become his salvation.

#reverse 1999 #reverse: 1999 #r1999 #reverse 1999 x reader #reverse 1999 fanfic #reverse 1999 forget me not #forget me not #outing myself as a huge fuckin religion/devotion as a metaphor for relationships freak #and as a hand freak as well. love it when the smallest acts of intimacy are the BIGGEST FUCKING DEALS for characters who are touchstarved #i love writing reader inserts from the pov of the character instead of the reader like #what goes in their head and shit??? THE INNER MONOLOGUES AND DRAMA ?????#FORGET ME NOT'S WHOLE ACT IS A COVER FOR THE FUCKING MESS HE IS WHEN YOU LOOK AT HIMMMMM!!!!!!!#soggiest wettest most pathetic man at manus vindictae #i hope i got his whole fuckin two faced and contradicting mentality across. mf is not having a good time healing but my GOD hes. trying #he hates you but he loves you but god he hates you so much but yeah he'll still worship the ground you walk on #the title is a pun btw. scales. musical scales. his snake scales #IM VERY SMART

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koostarcandy · 2 years

Text

nonsense, it's l-o-v-e!

summary: "she's a, oh my god, she's like a taylor swift song!"

pairing: student!jungkook x student!fem!reader

genre: fluff, mentions of smut, koo is a music major here hence the banner :)

wc: 1.8k

a/n: there was an anonie who wanted a song fic based on into you so i combined that and my new playlist i've been obsessed with! also im abit obsessed with writing a whipped male lead ;)) oktyilybye <3

"are you out of your mind? it's not nausea, you fool, it's called being in love."

"love? like l-o-v-e love or what you and taehyungie hyung do everyday?"

jimin has half a mind to punch the innocent doe-eyed face infront of him, who's slightly trembling because of a text he got a few moments back. and left it on read.

"you idiot, reply to her quickly or she's gonna think you fainted again!"

jungkook scrambles for his phone, tossing aside the controller to goodness knows where. "i will see you, no, i will pick you up and we will go for boba together tomorrow. with a heart, duh." he says what he types out loud, a habit he developed along with your blossoming relationship. either his namjoon hyung would be there to correct his grammar which he would've made a ton of mistakes in his eagerness to reply to you or he would be batshit scared if he sent something which may or may not upset you, very slightly. hence why jimin is there, who is nursing his empty can of beer, wishing he had something stronger, because he doesn't remember signing up for this clownery, just for dance club.

"jungkookie?" jimin calls him sweetly, a fond expression growing on his face when he looks at his best friend's lovesick smile.

"yes, hyung? is it my hair again? i didn't put too much serum this time, right?" jungkook has registered that tone of voice in his head under the category of "uh-oh. something isn't right."

"when you and your, uh, lover move in, do you expect me to do the same with you both?"

"why are you moving? did the landlord raise the rent here too? do you want me to knock some sense into him? people are acting crazy now, don't they know broke college students actually exist?"

"no, kookie," jimin giggles, "you always need one of us around when you're doing anything remotely concerning her. like what we were talking about before, maybe you should tell her, no? save yourself the heartbreak and whatnot."

jungkook's thighs which were shaking in excitement slowly cease. he's way too familiar with that concept, always hoping and praying and wishing that isn't the case with you. he likes you too much that he can't imagine his future without you. somewhere, in his rose-tinted dreams and in a perfect house, you're growing old with him, laughing at something silly he said. in the 2 years he's known you, he was lucky enough for you to like him back, getting giddy again when he remembers you asking him on a date quietly in the middle of class, fingers intertwined with his tightly when he whispered an excited "yes!", not caring if he garnered a few concerned and judgemental looks.

"don't think about it too much, little one," jimin pats his head and pecs, throwing the can into the bin. "go home and worry about the outfit you're wearing tomorrow 'cause lord knows you've pulled all-nighters for that one."

"you look so pretty right now, i'm actually jealous, koo."

jungkook thinks you're more beautiful and more pretty but he's too tired to argue now. the golden rays are hitting the both of you just right, golden hour living upto it's name. your warm skin against his cold one raises goosebumps, wondering if you can hear his heartbeat from the close proximity. you shift from your position on his chest to propping yourself up on your elbows, the duvet slipping from your bare shoulders.

"your hand goes down any further and i'm yeeting you out of this bed, my love." you threaten jungkook half-heartedly, referring to the wandering hand on the small of your back, inching towards your hip chain.

"you couldn't get one more out of me even if you tried your very best, darling." he says, leaning his head back on the new pillow you bought with an infatuated smile, throwing a tattooed hand over his eyes.

"is that a challenge, jeon?" you tease, fingers playing with the thing string of sliver around his neck, matching pendants with your bracelet. you let the magnetic pendants do it's job, looking at the pretty heart stuck together with a solicitous gaze. "looks adorable, doesn't it?" you praise his choice, reluctantly pulling away to place an indulgent kiss on his sternum.

you had all but jumped on him when he had come early to pick you up, in your favourite jacket and his ripped jeans, kissing him all over his face, claiming you missed his cute dumbass. that compliment ensued scattered clothes on the floor, needy lips trying to convey so many emotions fervently.

you're now tracing impatient shapes on his chest, your quickly shifting mood and pouty lips hinting that you're hungry. it's currently 2.45 pm on a sunday, but honestly, who cares? jungkook has the love of his life wrapped around him and is practically on cloud 9. he could literally-

"did you just say love of your life?"

jungkook shoots up, suddenly sitting up and looking at your blinking face, rubbing your eyes for some reason.

"what did you say?"

"i thought you were sleep talking again but it seems like it wasn't," you mumble, looking away from him. this is it, this is where the sky comes falling, pigs are flying, hell is freezing and-

"you're so annoying, i wanted to tell you that first!"

you're close to tears, frustrated for some reason. he takes in your messy hair and swollen lips, courtesy of him of course. you're glaring at him, like he just stuck his tongue out at you and he told you that he finished the last of the raspberry cheesecake in your fridge. "oh thank god," jungkook lets out a sigh of relief, strong arms pulling you to his lap and kissing your lips repeatedly. he's acting like he's come back from war, holding you so close and so tight.

"what? why would you say that? is this some big set up so you can finally ask me to move in with you so you can quote, unquote save money and electricity?" you ask, eyebrows furrowed cutely that he can't help but place the sweetest of kisses on your forehead, smoothing the creased lines.

"let's save money and electricity, i've had enough of you complaining of inflation along with jiminie hyung."

"you're just ditching your hyungie, my precious roommate, just like that?"

ah, so that's why jimin asked. so much for him being concerned about his love life. "we'll think about the technicalities later," jungkook says cheekily, chasing your lips and holding your face between his large hands.

"that's cool and all but can i get off you now? koo junior seems to want attention now."

"you know, some of us are very painfully single here," yoongi comments, staring at jungkook over his simple lunch of kimbap and iced americano. "so, the lyrics sound good?" jungkook smiles, stealing a bite of veggie kimbap.

"you're whipped, man, you've written these lyrics in record time. the last time this happened you were crying on our shoulders, telling us you love us all so, so, so, so-"

"okay, i think the point has come across, hyung." jungkook shudders at the thought, vividly recollecting the time he got drunk with his friends for the first time, dragging them all to their shared studio so he could showcase his latest assignment.

"you must really like her alot, huh?" yoongi comments off-handedly, secretly trying out a theory that taehyung had put out. one mention of you had jungkook's irises turn into pink hearts, his hands quickly taking his phone to show pictures of your latest date.

"i'm sure like is a understatement at this point, hyung," the said whipped man says sagely, like he's preaching to an attentive crowd of 100.

"oh god, here we go-"

an elmo-like laugh resonates in the small spaced studio, jungkook anyway going on a joyful rant about you. it can be seen in his lyrics, the way his eyes light up like you're his most precious person (and you are, no doubt), how he sincerely writes love poems for you and how he loves seeing your face light up when it shows randomly in one of your notebooks, happily tucking it away in a file you've saved especially for his letters.

"its like I can finally relate to those poems namjoon hyung reads to us sometimes you know?"

"mhmm.."

"and every one of iu's love songs is suddenly right and the universe finally makes sense and-"

"uh huh?"

"she's like a, oh my god, she's like a taylor swift song!"

"wow."

"whatcha upto, handsome? too busy to spare some time for your hungry roommate?"

jungkook glances at the time from the digital clock, glaring 12.30 am. he stretches and breaks his finger knuckles, legs moving towards you on a mind of it's own. you're wearing one of his many oversized shirts, a white one this time, big but it seems to fit you just right.

"why are you still up, baby?" he asks, arms around you immediately. "i'm hungry, koo," you say again, "was waiting for you so we can order some snacks and watch hotel del luna again," you mumble against his chest, your hands rubbing his tense back. "let's go then," he grabs his phone and throws you over his shoulder effortlessly, nonchalantly saying it's been awhile since you've had spicy tteokbokki and bingsu. you stumble when he puts you down, unfazed when you're voicing out that you both can't eat spicy food at night anymore, as if the last time that happened wasn't scarring enough.

you kiss his cheek, reminding him to save his work and that you'll get everything ready in a jiffy. jungkook all but zooms to the bedroom, already eager to get back to you. he chuckles at the title on his screen, knowing that "nonsense, it's l-o-v-e!" is going to be the best birthday gift you've ever gotten.

he finds you sipping away on a cranberry breezer, can of chilled beer waiting for him. your eyes are enraptured by jang manwol and her beauty, instinctively leaning on him when he's settled next to you.

it's like a satisfying puzzle, feeling all the pieces click easy when he's with you. in your shared abode, huddled up and in your own cosy bubble, away from the world. hands easily finding their way around your bodies. synchronized laughing at a clever comment passed by the male lead. jungkook feels like this is one of those moments he would write about in a song later or write in one of your weekly love letters. you're the definition of right person at the right time, knowing that if you both were in a rundown apartment or in one of the biggest bungalows ever, you'll still love him the same.

pt time: @armys-dna ; @junsai-tree ; @soobhyun ; @shatzkrinslinzki ; @astronaut-jin-moon ; @cherishoshi ; @fragmentof-indifference

#jungkook #jungkook fluff #jungkook smut #jungkook x reader #jungkook imagine #jungkook drabble #jungkook oneshot #bts x reader #bts jungkook #bts oneshot #bts fluff #wow so soft im.melting bye

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drake-bois · 3 months

Note

Omg, ur thing with gale kisses was so sweet, I can't stop reading and thinking about this 😭🥺❤️✨

But what about us giving him kisses maybe? 🥺👉👈 I luv my man, I wanna smooch him to death 😚✨

omgggg gale needs kisses so so bad i love him so much!! ty for the request!!

kisses served for gale🤍

a/n: tysm anon for this lovely request!!🫶🏻 g/n reader, mostly just talking about what i see happening and what you would do🤭 may be a bit spicy so just in case MDNI 18+! 💜

you're enough for me kiss

we all know(at least before the orb is taken care of) that he is very unsure that he's enough for you. he always tells you that yourenough for him, but he doesn't believe that you love him for who he is. He doesn't think that would be even remotely possible. One particularly bad night, he's nearly in tears because of his self doubt (it hurts my heart so bad to see him doubt himself so much :( ) and you're just holding him and he's on the verge of tears and you keep kissing him on the cheek and the lips and the forehead and the nose, and telling him over and over again that he is more than enough for you, just the way he is. you don't need him any other way than just plain old Gale Dekarios. The most handsome wizard that is the most gentleman of all gentlemen. "you're enough for me gale. just the way you are. i'm never leaving your side. we'll figure this out." you say as he's calming down. "you promise?" he says, unsure still. "i promise, cross my heart and hope to marry you(because he can't fathom the thought of you dying so we'll keep it at that) he chuckles and kisses you. "thank you my love. even on my darkest of days, you are my light and the reason to keep living. to keep fighting." (ok i made myself cry im so sorry)

after a difficult fight kiss

after a particularly difficult fight, you guys run to each other, tears in each others eyes, and capture one another in the tightest of all embraces. the mere thought of losing you for him is utterly unfathomable, he couldn't bare it, and vice versa. you pull back, look him in the eyes with the desperation of a thousand suns and kiss him with the intent of never detaching. it is so passionate, but not because it's sensual, it's a need to know you still can, you can still kiss, embrace, and be with each other. after fights like these, you kiss gale all night long, never leaving each others embrace.

i need you now kiss

he's been eyeing you all night, and you can't take it anymore. you stand up with such purpose it nearly startles the whole camp, you grab gale and walk off to a secluded area, party members giving you and gale knowing glances. you don't let him talk, he knowingly conjures up a nice bed, and you push him down, and climb on top of him and kiss him with so much passion, it takes him by surprise, though pleasant. you grip his beautiful long hair with one hand and one hand on his cheek, he can't help but hope this isn't going to be a one time thing, (being a dom all the time can get tiring and he needs a break every once in a while 😏)

after a hard day kiss

y'all are married now and living in waterdeep, and gale is a professor. he comes home one night after a particularly hard lesson, drops his satchel on the ground and sulks into the living room where you are sitting. you notice his frustrated and sad look. you get up and rub his shoulders and he relaxes instantly under your touch and just melts into your arms. you have him talk about his day to get it out , and give him lots of soft kisses. once he's done explaining his day, you have the dinner you prepared for y'all, and you run him a lavender bath with rose petals and pamper him all night bc he deserves it!! (men (Gale) deserve romance too!!)

---------------------------------------------------------

i hope you enjoyed it as much as i loved writing it!! tysm again anon for this beautiful request to write about our beloved wizard💜 if anyone would like a blurb, one shot, imagine, check out my pinned post to see who i write for!! (only bg3 at the moment!) and thank you for reading 🫶🏻💜

#gale bg3 #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #gale oneshots #gale imagines #bg3 gale imagines #bg3 imagines #bg3

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genshingorlsrevengeance · 10 months

Note

Hey, love your work and I hope you are having a great day. If it isn't too much to ask, could you do a imagine where team Defy and AR team travels to an alternate timeline where S/O is a Big Boss like status (owns his own army)? Would be cool to see their reactions compared to normal version(s).

(GFL) AR and DEFY meeting their S/O in an alternate timeline

AR: M4A1, ST AR-15, M4 SOPMOD II, M16A1, RO635 DEFY: AK-12, AN-94, AK-15, RPK-16, Angelia

You activated my sleeper agent response by mentioning Metal Gear, and I love Metal Gear. I hope you're happy now, because this post is 10x longer than what you probably imagined it to be.

M4 fell in love with one of the human officers of Griffin.

They were casual, quite teasing, but most of all, optimistic.

Despite World War 3 passing, their job as a mercenary, and their war with Sangvis, S/O had faith in her, the rest of Griffin, and humanity.

They believed that one day, humanity would be able to live without fear of eradicating itself.

M4 still had no idea how she ended up in another timeline, frankly she thought it was impossible, yet instead of an arctic base, she found herself in the middle of the ocean on top of a metallic catwalk.

Soldiers wearing uniforms she didn't recognize surrounded her, all pointing their weapons.

M4 reached for her own and pointed it back, quickly trying to scan who her attackers were.

Only to realize that she recognized some of the faces, they were other human personnel under Griffin.

They must have recognized her too, judging by their shocked faces, and the way they looked at her.

(S/O's Voice) "...M4?"

From the crowd of soldiers, S/O waded their way towards the front, making M4 lower her weapon.

S/O wore some kind of battle fatigues, a patchwork of newer equipment and an old red Griffin Uniform. An black patch covered their right eye, and they looked far more tired than she had ever seen them before.

(M4A1) "...S/O? What's going on, why are you wearing that?"

(S/O) "Is...Is that really you?"

Before M4 could say anything else, S/O wrapped her in the tightest hug she had ever received from them.

The soldiers quickly backed off and saluted, giving the two alone time once they confirmed there was no threat.

Taking them to a private room, S/O slumped down in the chair and closed their eyes while M4 examined the room in curiousity.

There was not much in the bedroom, only their bed, a shelf full of pictures, and weapons.

Half the pictures she recognized were S/O with M4, AR Team, the Commander, and many other people.

The other half seemed to be brand new, all sporting the uniforms she saw outside.

(S/O) "...You're not my M4, are you?"

(M4A1) "And you're not my S/O."

The two of them looked at each other silently, but S/O still relented, sighing in what she assumed to be a mixture of defeat yet acceptance.

(M4A1) "Then if I may ask, what happened? Judging from your tone, I'm not around anymore."

====

S/O remained silent as they tapped their finger idly against their leg. Their eye seemed to be swirling with emotions, nothing to say of their facial expression as it scrunched up in debate.

They sighed, motioning to the chair across from them. M4 slowly walked over and sat herself, her full attention given to S/O.

(S/O) "It was nine years ago. Griffin's main base came under attack, AR Team and all of the other T-Dolls were the first line of defense."

They turned to face M4, their uncovered eye staring at her with a mixture of sorrow and affection.

(M4A1) "Was it Sangvis?"

S/O nodded and turned away again, closing their eyes as their head faced the ceiling now.

(S/O) "They put everything into their assault, and the end result was that we tore each other to shreds...You, the rest of the Anti-Rain, everyone else...There weren't exactly a lot of us left...You died protecting me."

M4 chose to say nothing, her metaphorical heart aching for S/O. They had always been so full of life and energy, and seeing them with barely anything in their eye left was a pain she didn't know she could feel.

(S/O) "The only survivors were myself, a couple of the guys you saw outside, a handful of T-Dolls, Kalina, and the Commander. It was in the aftermath I learned what we had been fighting for was a lie. Why we fought Sangvis, why we fought at all..."

Their hand clenched, slamming it on the table.

(S/O) "All the friends we lost that day. Every life lost. For fucking nothing. And the higher ups knew the entire time. The Commander wanted us to stick together, I wanted to make the rest of Griffin and Sangvis pay."

(M4A1) "You're at war with Griffin?"

(S/O) "We still are."

(M4A1) "B-But, how could you...?! After everything we-"

(S/O) "I lost my faith in Griffin a long time ago, M4. It died the same day you did."

They got up from their seat and reached for M4's face, gently caressing it. M4 let their hand stay a moment before slowly lifting it off, making S/O walk toward the door.

(S/O) "M16 was the one who convinced me to choose my own path, actually. She's still around, though she's part of Sangvis."

(M4A1) "M16...?"

(S/O) "I want a world where soldiers like us can live without being used as tools. That is why I want Sangvis and Griffin dead."

They turned to her one last time and closed their eye, facing the door after a moment had passed.

(S/O) "I don't know how you got here, but go home, M4. This isn't your war."

====

M4 wanted so desperately to try and comfort the S/O of this time, but knew she could do nothing.

Their cold monotone voice replaced the warm and joyous tone she had grown so accustomed to.

Nothing she could say or do could convince them otherwise. M4 still believed in Griffin, no matter what.

Realizing that, she had no choice.

M4 would have to fight S/O.

M4 immediately engaged S/O in combat, though she was completely blindsided by how deadly they were in close quarters.

Even though she was a mechanical being, S/O was able to match her blow for blow, when the S/O she had known had received only basic training.

And it was then she realized that some of their combat skills were in fact her own.

M4 saw the way S/O reloaded their weapons, threw her against the ground and even dove for cover. It was a mixture of the training she gave them, and more than likely their own experience after nine years.

They were more than a match for her, which horrified M4 to no end.

S/O was never in a combat role in her world, she could not imagine what they had gone through here.

And the absolutely loyalty S/O commanded in their troops as they engaged her was nothing short of awe-inspiring.

They had such absolute confidence in them, even when they were getting injured or worse, they fought on in S/O's presence.

It was almost cult-like in the way they refused to yield no matter how dire.

But before she could make any meaningful progress against S/O, she was forcibly yanked back into her world.

Something she was thankful for. M4 wasn't entirely sure just how much longer she could stomach that timeline.

====

(S/O) "M4! There you are, you've been gone all day!"

M4 eyes fluttered open, reaching for her head and seeing the light come into the room.

S/O was in their Griffin uniform, both of their eyes looking at her with a modicum of concern.

(S/O) "Wow, you're looking pale. Heh, I didn't know you could!...Oh, that's probably not good."

M4 blinked a few times to make sure she wasn't dreaming. Checking her weapon, it was definitely used, which meant what she had seen actually happened.

(S/O) "M4?"

M4 said nothing and instead hugged S/O with an iron grip.

(M4A1) "I-I'm sorry...Could I bother you to stay like this for a while, S/O?"

(S/O) "Sure, but...what happened?"

(M4A1) "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

(S/O) "Try me."

(M4A1) "Well, I just met you from another timeline. And you almost killed me."

(S/O) "...Okay you were probably right, I don't believe that for a second. I can't even beat SOPMOD Jr. in an arm wrestle!"

M4 chuckled and continued holding them, not wanting to think about the horrific 'what if' scenario she had witnessed.

She doesn't bring it up again afterwards, but makes sure to keep an eye on what missions she was assigned afterwards, especially concerning S/O.

STAR is both amazed and in utter confusion that alternate timelines actually exist.

Let alone something so similar to her own world.

But when she sees S/O not looking too dissimilar from M16, her thoughts screech to a complete halt.

(ST AR-15) "What the hell happened to you, S/O...?!"

Seeing their eyepatch, their new robotic arm, and their own PMC was almost enough to fry the logic circuits in her head.

But what broke STAR was how tired and scarred S/O looked, the spark in their eyes had vanished a long time ago it seemed.

STAR wanted nothing more to comfort them, but upon learning what S/O's goals now were, she could not in good conscious get near them.

She tried to justify in her head in order to fight, they only looked like the person she loved.

And she was right to do so, since S/O and their men had adopted the same mindset.

It threw her off with how well S/O had combatted her, in fact they had surpassed her in some aspects which almost got her killed.

Before anything too dire could happened, she was brought back to her own S/O, needing to remind herself that this S/O was hers.

(S/O) "STAR, you're being a little more clingy than usual. Something happen?"

(ST AR-15) "Be quiet for a second, okay...H-Hang on a second, I am not that clingy!"

STAR doesn't dare bring up once what she saw, attributing it all to some weird fever dream, despite the fact it was impossible for her to do so.

(SOPMOD) "...Neat, this place looks new!"

When SOPMOD first sees S/O, she honestly thinks it's just some new outfit they decided to wear, nevermind the fact she had literally been teleported.

Her cheerful energy dissipates once she sees that this S/O was not at all entertained by her usual tone.

It was enough to make SOPMOD go on guard from the moment she arrived.

Surprisingly, she is quickly able to grasp that this S/O had gone off the deep end and was ready to fight.

Her ferocity in combat is matched by S/O's skill, but only barely.

It surprised SOPMOD that they were even able to withstand being on the opposite end of her barrel, given how they were able to dodge a majority of her attacks.

When SOPMOD is brought back to her timeline, she just rushes up to S/O.

(SOPMOD) "Oh my god, that was SO WEIRD! You had an eyepatch and you kind of reminded me of a pirate!"

(S/O) "...But that doesn't tell me where you've been all day, though."

(SOPMOD) "I was probably asleep, I must have been to think of that kinda thing!"

(S/O) "Hah, well I guess you have an active imagination!"

SOPMOD decides its for the best that it was some strange dream she had.

She especially keeps out of mind the fact S/O's robotic limb was in fact her own replaced arm, and how sad they looked.

No matter what happened, SOPMOD would never let S/O look like that!

(M16A1) "...I think I've had too much Jack Daniels tonight."

M16 is convinced what she's seeing is some hyper-realistic drinking induced coma.

Or whatever the T-Doll equivalent of it was.

Because it sure as hell wasn't natural.

When she meets S/O, M16 is about to crack a joke about them stealing her eyepatch, stopping when she sees how depressed and tired they were in comparison to their normal selves.

M16 doesn't fight back at all, listening to what S/O had told her about Griffin and Sangvis.

She wasn't surprised at all, since she knew far more than what she was supposed to as well.

Especially in regards to Griffin's secrets.

M16 never engaged in combat with S/O, instead watching them train their men.

She would normally make all sorts of jokes and tease S/O, but given the circumstances they were in, she didn't have the heart to do so.

It was impressive, but tragic S/O had to become as skilled of a fighter as they currently were.

Getting back was a jarring shift for M16, though she was not even in the alternate timeline for long.

(S/O) "Hey, you alright? You look a bit out of it."

(M16) "Eh? I-I'm fine, thanks."

M16 doesn't bring it up, but from then on, she seems to be lost in thought more often when she sits by herself.

(M16A1) "...Griffin's secrets, huh...?"

RO own train of thoughts could not function as she witnessed a brand new environment materializing around her, despite the fact she was just in an office room not a second ago.

Seeing S/O, RO's first instinct is to help them and check for injuries based on their appearance.

She halts herself once she realizes this S/O was far different than the one she had grown to love.

Looking at their eyes alone was enough to tell her that the person she fell in love with died, and what stood before her was just a husk.

RO does not even hesitate in fighting S/O, though she is quickly overpowered in terms of skill by S/O, to the point it startled her.

What the hell happened in those nine years for a human to match a T-Doll in combat capability?!

As she's thrusted back into her own world, the first thing she saw was S/O looking back at her with a smile and both eyes in tact.

(RO635) "S/O! I swear, nothing will hurt you!"

(S/O) "WOAH! Heh, t-thank you, RO. I didn't realize you'd get like this after being gone for a couple hours."

(RO635) "Hours?...I-I see. I must have fallen asleep then."

(S/O) "...RO?"

(RO635) "Nevermind me, S/O. I have to make sure that AR Team hasn't burned itself down while I've been gone. You're coming with."

RO drags S/O by the hand to see the rest of her squadmates. Half because she was genuinely worried about what shenanigans they had gotten up to, but the other half was to calm herself down.

What had happened couldn't have been real.

...Right?

(AK-12) "...Something must be wrong with my scanners."

12 refused to believe what she was seeing was real.

But it couldn't have been someone hacking her systems. She would have noticed immediately.

When she opened her eyes and saw S/O with an eyepatch and robotic limb, she was immediately convinced someone was playing a prank or trying to confuse her.

Seeing how dead inside S/O looked was enough to convince 12 that whatever this was, it wasn't going to work, and immediately reached for her weapons, smile vanishing completely.

12 commends this look alike that they were able to at least match her in combat, but she still had the upper hand.

But she was going to tear this S/O look alike limb from limb for impersonating such a loving person.

When she realizes she's no longer in that timeline, she's doubly convinced that someone had messed with her systems, or that she had not run proper diagnostics.

Especially when S/O came to greet her with a loving hug.

(S/O) "12!...Oh wow, that's a pretty serious expression. Something going on?"

(AK-12) "Hm?...Ah, it's nothing, S/O. I think I just need some maintenance."

12 stared at her with open eyes, just to make sure the one she was seeing was the proper S/O.

(AK-12) "...A smile suits you better, S/O."

(AN-94) "...I do not comprehend what I am seeing."

94 cannot compute what just happened. One moment she was in DEFY's dorms, and the next she was in the middle of the ocean.

She immediately assumes something is trying to hack into her systems the entire time, and has her weapon raised.

Though when S/O arrives, she hesitates for the slightest moment before going back on guard.

S/O should not look as blank as her own face, which steeled herself even harder.

In combat, 94 and this fake S/O seemed to be nearly a perfect match, but her being a T-Doll gave her the upper hand.

When she blinked, she was suddenly in S/O's bedroom, reaching for a gun that wasn't there.

(S/O) "Woah! 94, what's going on? Why are you like that?"

(AN-94) "...I request to see an engineer. I believe something is wrong with my digi-mind."

(S/O) "...O-Okay?"

94 has an iron grip on S/O's hand the entire time, not budging nor really giving a reason why.

Whatever she saw left her horribly confused. Especially that vision of S/O, it pained her to see them without that usual smile on their face.

She didn't realize how much she would miss it when it wasn't there.

(AK-15) "It'll take more than an optical illusion to make me falter."

15 immediately assumed that she was under attack and reached for her weapons.

And upon seeing unknown soldiers descend upon her, 15's training immediately kicks in to subdue them.

Even though one of them wore S/O's face, it did not make her stop to think about her situation for even a second.

She raised a single eyebrow when the fake S/O seemed to be almost on par with her close quarters fighting, but it made her take the threat of whatever was happening far more seriously.

15 was far too busy to process what she was seeing in the heat of the moment, but it was when she returned to a non-combat state once more did the image of S/O sink in.

They looked as blank as she did, which troubled her.

Although S/O's teasing and loudness was annoying at times, she did not want to think about if they had lost their love for life and the rest of DEFY.

But she stopped thinking about it, and began to think more pragmatically.

(AK-15) "S/O. I request for you to remain the same as you always have."

(S/O) "Awww, does that mean you love my antics?"

(AK-15) "I did not say that."

(S/O) "But your face is telling me-...H-Hey, you look really serious. Did something happen while you were out?-"

15 held S/O tightly, and rested her head against their shoulder.

(AK-15) "...No. I just experienced a strange sensation, and had an the engineers fix a potential issue."

(RPK-16) "...Well, this is not what I expected to happen when I woke up today."

Unlike the rest of DEFY, 16 knows what she's seeing is real.

It intrigued her to how she arrived, but the main star of her interest arrived, that person being S/O.

But the way they looked was drastically different from the one she knew.

And they looked...somehow less human than before.

Their eyes looked machine-like. 16 had seen T-Dolls with more life and human-like qualities than what she was seeing in S/O right now.

Upon learning what happened, 16 remains quiet. So this is what they would become like should DEFY fall in combat.

Well, that was one curiousity satiated.

And she knew immediately that she hated this curiousity.

16 was a support gunner and not a close combat fighter, so for this terrible parody of S/O to overpower her was not surprising in the slightest.

When 16 blinked and found herself back in her room, she breathed a sigh of relief. She had no idea what veil of madness she entered, but she was glad to be out of it.

(RPK-16) "S/O, do me a favor and never lose that smile of yours."

(S/O) "Hm? Why's that?"

(RPK-16) "...Let's just say my life would be terribly dull without it."

Angelia was sitting in her room with a cup of tea in hand before being transported.

She simply sighed and put her cup down.

(Angelia) "Definitely need some more sleep."

But when she felt the ocean breeze blow across her skin, she knew that this wasn't a dream.

Especially when S/O arrived. She had always known them to be a softie, but capable.

What stood in front of her was some pale mockery. They looked too far gone to be anything remotely like S/O.

Especially hearing what their end goals were. Even though she was an ex-Griffin member, they were not the enemy.

Angelia could hold herself in combat, but the startling speed at which S/O moved and was able to disarm here was nothing short of inhuman.

It was as if she were fighting a T-Doll.

When she finds herself in her room again, she immediately calls for S/O.

(S/O) "Hey, Ange~! You call?...E-Er, did I do something?"

(Angelia) "Not really. Just get over here real quick."

S/O did as she asked before Angelia wrapped her prosthetic arm around them.

(S/O) "ACK! A-Ange, too tight!"

They chuckled nervously, which made her ease up.

(Angelia) "Sorry, just trying to give you a hug."

(S/O) "By trying to choke me with a metallic arm?"

(Angelia) "Yup. I thought you'd like it as a nice change of pace."

(S/O) "Hah, m-maybe I would if you weren't smiling while you said that!"

Their banter immediately put her to ease, and she had S/O sleep next to her that night, holding them.

Whatever the hell that was, she did not want a reminder of it ever again.

It was definitely some vivid nightmare she had.

The lifeless look in S/O's eyes was enough to scare her that week alone.

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