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vultbae · 4 months

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negroni ✩

art donaldson x female reader

↳ summary: After winning against Patrick, Art takes the night off to grab a few drinks at the Ritz Carlton lobby bar. There, he meets a profound admirer.

Things go wrong with the girl who bought him a Negroni.

↳ warnings: fingering (minors dni), age gap (reader is 22), manipulation, infidelity, angst towards end.

↳ extra warnings: english is not my first language pookies + my first fic + yall I'm messyy so I added drama out of nowhere. if u read this I love u thank u for giving me a chance

word count: 4.9k

✩

"Excuse me, no smoking."

The blonde man lifts his chin to encounter a young waitress warning him about the cigarette dangling off his mouth. His middle and index fingers immediately approach the cigarette and gradually pull the filtered end from between his lips. "Sorry." Art frankly apologizes.

The waitress's purposeful avoidance of directly looking at him makes Art borderline giggle. He can't help but discreetly give her a comprehensive look; the girl is attractive, with velvety skin that impersonates caramel and peaceful facial features. He shushes all the pushy thoughts resembling the waitress to his wife staying upstairs. He is not that desperate, plus, everyone knows he is married to the Tashi Duncan.

Art audibly clears his throat and articulates before the young woman strolls away, "Can you get me a Negroni, please?" He requests, showcasing a courteous smile. The woman nods.

He didn't even realize when he positioned the cigarette between his lips. He had been anxiously waiting for an instance when he could be alone -at least since the match against Patrick. Tashi cheerfully agreed to let him descend to the lobby bar to grab a few drinks.

✩

Art had been attentively scanning his frame on the wide mirror and adjusting strands and strands of hair as he paid more attention to his hairstyle; his somber eyes descended from his impeccable hair to the unfastened buttons of his seersucker shirt, revealing a fraction of silk-like, gloomy skin from chest to lower stomach, his well-grooved muscles casting shadows under the bathroom's dim yellow lighting.

"I'm going out!" Art shouted from the bathroom as he fastened the remaining buttons of his shirt.

From the corner of his eye, he sensed Tashi approaching the bathroom doorframe and standing by it. Art tilted his head up to encounter Tashi, his wife, silently grinning, dressed in a beautiful pearl-white silk robe, "I won't be gone for more than an hour-

"It's fine," Tashi interrupted. "I'll watch a movie with Lily. We can talk about it later."

Art nodded. His eyes stared at her with minor fascination. Tashi couldn't figure out why, but the feral spark on Art's orbs evaporated. She walked away.

Art slightly opened his mouth to say something but suddenly cut himself off, lips slamming together. He didn't say anything. He allowed the slim figure of his wife to vanish from his eyesight. He authorized himself to go out alone for the first time in years and think about his relationship with Tashi and tennis -if, at this point, they were not equal. And his relationship with Patrick, of course.

After today, he felt things he hadn't felt in a while.

✩

An insistent tap on his shoulder provokes Art to flinch and abruptly land on earth again.

"Excuse me, Negroni..?" Another waiter says in a quivering voice—a statement rather than a question—hardly maintaining eye contact. He is holding a tiny round silver tray with a bloody-looking Negroni sitting on it.

Before the amateur waiter can shakily grasp the crystal glass to place it on Art's table, Art raises his arm and moves the Negroni himself. As soon as he places the glass on the marmol table's surface, his long fingers seize the thin wedge of orange embellishing the glass, bringing it to his lips and sucking on it instantly.

He doesn't realize that the one time he and the waiter are maintaining eye contact is while he sucks on a slice of orange -slowly.

"Thank you." Art says, dragging the wedge out of his mouth, detecting the scarcity of color on the waiter's facial canvas. "Why is he so pale?" Art thinks. The meddling stare from the waiter endures for maybe five seconds before Art frowns his eyebrows slightly in confusion; the poor guy nearly jogs away from Art's table.

Does he carry that much power over people? It has been long since Art calculatedly flirted with or attempted to gain someone's attention. To be accurate, since Tashi entered his life. He has officially lost the "open-to-the-public" charming spark and neglected his intrinsically flirty side.

But today, for some reason, he feels different than usual. Not that he is trying to test it...

The Ritz lobby bar is moderately quiet. Art peeks at a few travelers relaxing with their baggage as they sip cocktails in miniature glasses and couples drinking -"probably pre-gaming before a night out," Art assumes. His gaze disembarks over two guys in their premature 20s, brunette, and blonde, chuckling and vividly chitchatting about topics he can't overhear properly. Art is hooked to the scenario in front of him as he stares enthusiastically: it bitterly reminds him of his friendship with Patrick, whom he hasn't heard of since the match.

As he finds himself —once again— daydreaming about what once was, Art takes decent-sized sips of his Negroni, with his right hand hugging the crystal glass just right. He is sitting on one of the many hickory brown leather armchairs dispersed across the bar, manspreading as his left hand lays over his lap.

Suddenly, a personal reflection pops into his mind like a light bulb unexpectedly turning on; what is he doing? Sitting submerged in loneliness in a 5-star hotel lobby bar will not change anything. It simply won't. He would rather go back to the suite and have some pleasing fucking sleep. He is feeling tired, and confused, and depressed, and—

Well, If anything, people who recognize him could come and disturb his night.

Art locks eyesight with the first waiter wandering across his vision field; he pitches a writing motion with his hand and requests the bill. As the waiter walks in his direction, he chugs down the leftover sips of cocktail in the glass.

"Bill?" Another waiter wearing a burgundy uniform asks Art. The tennis player shakes his head up and down, murmuring a yes please, "Don't worry, on the house."

"I can afford it." Art stresses, with a robust sarcastic undertone tinting his voice tone while attempting to maintain the most benevolent smile on his catalog.

The waiter chuckles in exaggerated glee. "I know, Mr. Donaldson. Your bill has been cleared by another customer," he clarifies, standing in front of Art with the straightest stance and hands intertwined in the manifestation of hospitality. The waiter clears his throat, "Actually, by the young woman over there," and discreetly points his finger at the stools by the bar gantry.

Art's gaze dashes over to a woman standing by the bar gantry. He can only see her back, not her complete complexion. Although he has internally accepted this demeanor as improper, he allows his eyes to scan over the woman's silhouette freely, lingering a little longer on her legs. In the background, he can faintly attend to the waiter talking about hotel-specific branch issues and how stays such as his and Tashi's benefit the hotel's branding -isn't this the Ritz Carlton?

"Yes, I agree." Art blurts out as soon as he realizes the waiter has concluded his monologue, his gaze glued to the enigmatic female standing five meters away from him.

"Thank you, Mr. Donaldson. Have a great night." Just as Art opened his mouth to greet him in return, the waiter had already shifted on his feet to approach another table.

Art reevaluates what he is about to do. Should he greet her, thank her, or gently communicate how unmannered it can be to buy a married man a drink?

But also, what if it's an obsessed groupie attempting to instigate drama?

It doesn't matter. Buying Art Donaldson a drink is disrespectful. Literally everyone —quite literally everyone— who knows Donaldson knows he is married to Tashi Duncan!

Come on, a woman, unattended in a bar, buying me a drink? Art thinks.Of course, she has hidden intentions, he reassures himself. Art shifts on the armchair, resting his elbows on his knees, still pondering whether he should approach her.

Why isn't he simply disregarding this and walking away?

He hadn't felt so much excitement about something so childish in a while. It felt like being nineteen again. After hugging Patrick today, he sensed a heartwarming relief regarding Tashi cheating on him. But, on the other hand, he's a fucking human.

Fuck it. He just wants to chat with the girl and perhaps communicate that she shouldn't do that again. Right, that's it.

Art picks up his belongings and strides towards her.

"Hey, sorry..." Art speaks, dragging the stool beside the woman and grinning warily at her. His soothing, recognizable tone of voice instantly captures her attention.

Art expected many things, but not a drop-dead gorgeous woman. A girl. She looks...young— not underage kind of young, but unquestionably not over twenty-five. On the other hand, as a well-known tennis player, he's had plenty of exquisite-looking women begging for attention; Tashi herself is stunning. Somehow, this woman left his lungs tightening for a sizzling second, which is concerning.

Plus, her aroma. Jesus, the scent, Art thinks. He would continuously go weak on the knees when Tashi wore that damn tangy, dark cherry fragrance she had. He immediately identified the distinct smell.

"Mr. Donaldson, oh my god..." The girl's voice pitches high, and she extends her right hand in his stomach direction as if she had been rehearsing for this moment. "I didn't believe you would accept the drink," she adds enthusiastically.

Her voice is too harmonious for his ears.

Art stretches his hand and shakes hers. "Well, I didn't." Art retorts, unconsciously smirking at the girl's harmless bliss, "I was pretty much obligated to accept the free Negroni."

"Well, either way, I am honored," she says with a slight shrug and giggles, "Names Y/n; by the way, very nice to meet you, Mr. Donaldson. Big fan of yours"

"Nice to meet you too, Y/n," Art unpretentiously expresses. His facial expression goes abruptly blank as he realizes he might be snitching on himself. "Uh, Y/n, I don't wanna sound rude, but what you did... with the drink," he struggles to word it nicely, worrying about coming out as unpolite. He laboriously swallows as Y/n raises her eyebrows, expectant. "You shouldn't buy drinks to married men," he concludes.

Y/n lets out a gigantic gasp, "Oh my- this is so embarrassing," her hands fly over to her mouth, covering it in mortification, "I am so sorry, Mr. Donaldson-

"Please, call me Art," Art interrupts, a smirk rising on his face.

"Well, Art," Y/n corrects herself, now speaking with a mischievous undertone, still with an infectious grin plastered on her face. "I go to Stanford. I couldn't stop hearing about you —your skills. Well, I grew up in a household of tennis enthusiasts, and I, myself, am a tennis player. I just wanted to show my appreciation for what you've done for the tennis culture."

Art's cheeks feel hot. Heck, they are burning.

"Oh.." he mumbles, mainly to himself out of amazement.

"I would never, don't worry, Mr. Donaldson- I mean, Art." Y/n reassures, emphasizing the never. But as she justified herself, a sad half smile crooked on her plump lips, "I mean... No one can deny you are very handsome, but I am a respectful woman-"

He unmistakably heard the last sentence but will bypass it for his mental stability. "It's fine, Y/n." Again, he runs over her words, interrupting, "I should be apologizing; I don't want to come across as an entitled asshole."

For some reason, Art can't stop feeding the conversation. You are a fucking horndog, Art internally insults himself.

"Let me buy you a drink as an apology," Art says bluntly, requesting clearance but simultaneously demanding. Y/n, on the other hand, has her eyes set on the blonde man in front of her, both gazes perforating each other. "I mean, if you are of age.."

She giggles.

"Twenty-two. Took a gap year," the girl admits, "and I wouldn't mind a Negroni," she adds, now faking a nonchalant accent.

Y/n can hardly believe the circumstances she has put herself in. She observes the man standing before her, deftly moving from how he calls the server to how he licks his lips after ordering the Negroni. He's so fucking hot, she thinks. She had only seen him through flat screens and once attended one of the numerous lectures he gave back on campus.

But no, Y/n wasn't an obsessive stalker. Earlier that day, she had been at the New Rochelle Tennis Club with her father and the new newbie guy he was coaching —she can't even recall his name. Long story short, the guy had asked her on a date, and as a grandiose concurrency, Y/n had suggested the Ritz —they serve finger-licking cosmopolitans at their bar. It wasn't until she reached twenty minutes earlier by mistake that she contemplated bailing on her plans. Why? Because she laid eyes on the mouthwatering blonde man sitting by himself, ingesting a depressing ass-looking Negroni.

She knew it was a hit or miss. But she would rather miss if it came to the possibility of messing around with the man of her most soaked dreams.

Y/n's nostrils pleasingly burn as she inhales a warmish, spicy fragrance emanating from Art's clothes and skin. She can't dodge the impulse to frequently peek at the opening of his shirt, revealing milky skin. Her breathing becomes erratic just by fantasizing about him without the fucking seersucker shirt. She knows he's fucking ripped.

Y/n chews on the bottom of her lip anxiously, contemplating her words. "By the way, what you did today was insane."

Art arches a brow. "You mean playing tennis?"

"That wasn't even tennis; that was an entirely different game," Y/n responds as if Art had offended her. "It felt as if the court was entirely yours," she overpraises him, feeling rewarded by the minuscule giggles escaping from Art's lips.

Art feels his heart warm up at the familiar sentence choice. "It is not a big deal, just a good tennis match," he elucidates.

She rolls her eyes. "Sure... or maybe you are just too skilled for other players." Y/n softly laughs.

Art bits back the tiniest groan of frustration. He feels his dick hardening underneath the light-washed denim jeans he's wearing. He tries to comprehend if it is because of the sudden sensual undertone in her delicate voice, her unmistakable submissive look penetrated deep into her big eyes, or the fact that Tashi had not touched him below the hipline in months and turned him into a precocious motherfucker. Or it could be the alcohol making him horny. He hadn't noticed before how tight her clothing was —it took one swift glimpse at her body for Art to see her thighs spilling out of the hem of the strapless mini-dress. It took another one to realize she was now gently caressing his arm.

Art was convinced there was nothing left to wipe the carefully crafted agitated expression from his face. "Could be, yeah," he says, subsequently coughing to avoid strangling on his own spit. "I don't want to be seen as some kind of God."

"Well, you move like one," Y/n affirms, chuckling at her own filthy sentence, her fingers playfully stirring the brand-new Negroni sitting on the bar table with the cocktail straw. She licks her lips, "You know what I mean."

Bullshit. There is no way this girl doesn't want to fuck.

She dodges eye contact, but there is a peculiar shift in the air, and a smirk exponentially extends her lips.

"I know what you mean." Art snaps back, incapable of looking away from the cocktail straw now entrapped in between her glossy lips.

His muscles and head feel more lightweight, but his ocean eyes remain entirely tied to her outline.

Their bodies have shuffled negligibly closer—inappropriately closer. Art senses warmness filling his face from the subtle friction of their knees: the coarse texture of his denim and Y/n's smooth, bare skin.

From her peripheral vision, Y/n glimpses a security guard patrolling the hotel lobby. She makes eye contact with the robust man for a split second, whose facial expression reshapes in dull stunner as he peeks at who's sitting next to her.

Y/n sets her crystal glass on the bar counter. "Thank you so much for the drink."

"Wait. Are you leaving?" Art questions, with feigned etiquette that reeks of desperation.

Y/n's eyes dart to the man standing near their stools. Art tracks her gaze and sighs. "You already gifted me minutes of your time and a Negroni. That's enough coming from Art Donaldson."

Art hesitates. "They are not in my business." He practically whines, progressively revealing his despair to the young woman sitting before him.

"I still need to Uber home," Y/n excuses, pouting at her words. "A woman can't be alone that late-

"I can drive you."

✩

The drive is around twenty-five minutes.

Y/n quietly sits in the copilot seat of Art's Bentley Bentayga. By her left side, Art grips the steering wheel confidently, his fingers switching effortlessly over the controls as they drive through the streets of the suburban county of Westchester. She peers through the shadowy window glass on her side —there's a winter storm outside.

"How many days are you staying in Westchester?" Y/n asks while her gaze stays fixed on the passing scenery framed by the window.

Art clicks his tongue. "Not much. Most likely leaving tomorrow morning."

"Did you do anything fun around the county?"

"Well, a rich-people county isn't the most amusing place to visit." Art jokes, speaking with a devilish tease.

Y/n doesn't reply. Instead, her eyes quickly flicker to his silhouette under the fuzzy skyglow leaking through the car's transparencies. Art's blonde hair captures the faint illumination beautifully, each strand seeming to shimmer under the dim light. His muscles tighten at—

Red light.

When the car stops, Art twists his head to the right, his and her gazes collapsing. He runs his tongue over his upper lip before talking, "You mentioned something earlier..." he begins to say.

In the stillness of the moment, the only sound is the soft hum of the engine idling.

"I mentioned many things," Y/n corrects.

A faint crease of discomfort crosses Art's brow, and he shifts slightly on the red leather seat. Y/n examines each of his subtle hip and torso motions as he gets rid of the discomfort. Finally, again sitting still, he resumes. "Let me be specific. You mentioned I am handsome."

A sudden warmth spreads across her cheeks, an unmistakable flush of embarrassment.

"I don't think this is appropriate."

"I don't think neither of us cares about what's appropriate anymore."

It feels as if the world has stopped for Y/n. It feels as if a spell had caught both of them, leaving them besotted, and fucking horny, and awaiting the other to give the—

Green light.

"I think there's a parking lot next to a store that shut down recently 3 minutes away."

That's all Y/n says. Art presses down the gas pedal and tightens his grip on the wheel to suppress some exotic sensations that rocket down his spine.

Raindrops splatter against the windshield and the car's roof, and the blonde guy continues to drive through a road of infinite rain-soaked side trees swaying in the wind's rhythm and closed shops.

It takes four minutes and fifty seconds to reach a gigantic parking lot beside what once was a Dollar Tree. Although Y/n can scarcely appreciate the space due to the weather conditions and the tinted glass, she can see some faded, bright yellow parking lines now covered in dirt and droplets of rain. The place is totally empty.

Y/n's heart sprints ten times faster when the engine settles into a contented hum. Goosebumps flourish on her skin as serenity inundates the car interior—complete silence. The SUV has parked on a random corner.

And she doesn't want to look in Art's direction because she knows he's already looking.

She plays it credulously. "I think this is a great place to talk in peace," Y/n murmurs, finally turning her head towards him.

The fleeting moment her eyes cross with his evokes a sense of vulnerability for the girl. Art's orbs shamelessly spark with a glimmer of mischief, like a predator stalking its prey. The unbridled desire is nowhere near disguised now, and Y/n knows the guy won't keep playing the innocent role anymore. Is buying him a drink disrespectful? Bullshit. But she's grateful the poor, troubled man will have some fun. She knew he'd surrender faster than expected.

Yeah. Art had lifted the white flag as soon as he reached out a hand to grasp the door handle of his sexy ass Bentayga to open it for Y/n, and his eyes had flown by instinct to the girl's ass when she was hopping on his car.

Now, he can't tear his eyes off her lips.

"I've had a fucked up day." Art suddenly breathes out. There's a steady rise and fall of his chest, but Y/n can tell he's struggling to maintain it. His eyes ascend to lock in with hers. "I want to forget who the fuck I am."

Y/n is drowning in the noise of her own accelerated heartbeat. "I can help you." Y/n's words shoot out in submission, haltingly batting her eyelashes at him.

It's humorous mainly because she has no idea what is happening in his life. She doesn't know the mess between Tashi and Patrick; the fact that Tashi allegedly fucked Pa—well, whatever. Y/n doesn't know. She understands the man is disturbed, though, because the instant she stepped inside the luxurious lobby of the Ritz Carlton, she could tell the man had no emotion on his face. She recalled watching his matches when she was younger, and one thing about Art Donaldson was the radiant vitality his presence brought to any room he was in.

It's evident that the radiance was gone. For whatever reason.

Their bodies draw closer, the only barrier being the gear stick and seat partition between them. Y/n can feel Art's warm breath clashing against her lips, a slightly intoxicating and crisp scent of gin climbing to her nostrils. She moistens her lips with the tip of her tongue before grabbing Art by the collar of his shirt and pulling him into her mouth. He briefly widens his eyes but reciprocates instantly.

He is the sort of kisser who goes slowly but deepens as much as possible, inserting his tongue everywhere attainable. Y/n tastes good and, heck, excellent —sweet and spicy, as if she chewed cinnamon gum before assaulting his mouth. The flavor and the satiny texture of her lips push him to near insanity; Art pumps his tongue in and out, desperately, sweeping against hers because of the faint, delicate moans leaking from her side every time he does it —it makes him vertiginous.

It isn't until Y/n sucks on his lower lip that he splits off to breathe. "No marks." Art forewarns with his face dropped in soberness, heavily panting.

He discerns something shifting inside of him when Y/n's beautiful features soften for a beat, casting a veil of a peculiar sentiment he's too emotionally dumb to interpret —bitterness? sadness? He can't tell. The fuzzy thoughts fade when her lips attack again, parting his with ease, allowing her tongue to slip inside. "Shut up." Y/n spits lowly between kisses.

A couple of sizzling minutes of pure, obscene french kissing pass before Art realizes the pressure underneath the light-washed denim over his crotch is tormenting him. His left-hand glides over Y/n's thigh and gently squeezes, letting her know he needs to move forward. At this point, he has readjusted the position of his body over the red leather seat, facing Y/n straight; the hand resting over her thigh gradually shoves the hem of the mini-dress upwards, revealing more skin and dangerously approaching her pussy.

The tempo of Y/n's kisses becomes unsteady with the sensation of his physical touch near such an intimate area. It felt weirdly mortifying for her to be this wet this early —her pussy felt slippery and willing to take whatever Art proposed. She breaks off the kiss out of involuntary reflex, with her gaze immediately descending on Art's left hand, too big for her, and skillfully positioning the lace of the light-pink panties aside.

If Art was a magician and opening her legs was a challenging magic trick, goddamn, he'd be a good magician. Y/n had no idea how, in such an undersized space, her legs had managed to spread that wide. The specific moment when Art's middle finger comes in contact with her wetness is a blur, but the filthy, low-pitched groan that his mouth emits as the first finger rubs her pussy lips will never be forgotten. Y/n unconsciously rocks her hips in search of more friction-

"Stay still." Art demands, chest rapidly going up and down. Although he attempts to sound demanding, his voice is weak in want and ridiculously desperate. Y/n's cheeks flame up when he begins toying with her clit, rubbing slow circles, with an equally attractive and irritating cocky grin resting over his face.

But she wants that one finger to go in. Y/n sighs in eagerness, muttering a series of pleasepleasepleases.

"Art..." Y/n mutters between choked moans, bucking her hips forward into his hand. Art gazes at her, intoxicated by her facial expressions and the mild tone of her voice, delivering such nasty noises. His eyes don't leave Y/n's face as he thrusts his middle finger past her slick folds. He feels his dick twitch at her exaggerated facial response.

What was one finger quickly became two, picking up their speed and twirling inside, hitting the sweetest spot. "Not a virgin, right? " Art abruptly asks, terrified but astonished at the tightness her pussy held, clenching down on his digits and squeezing.

"No... oh my god—" Y/n yelps, hardly managing to articulate words as his fingers keep steadily penetrating her pussy.

Y/n tilts her head back and instantly feels a trail of sloppy, wet kisses on her jaw; Art is nearly over her body, working his way downstairs and upstairs, too. The accelerated rhythm of his fingering ceases for a hot second as his available hand reaches her chest to unashamedly pull down the neckline of Y/n's mini-dress, freeing her tits and letting them bounce out of the expensive cloth.

As a sheer coincidence and dissolving in pleasure, Y/n's eyesight dismounts in one of the tall buildings in front of the parking lot. What she sees is practically ironic. An immense billboard with Art's face crammed inside, by his side Tashi Duncan's iconic facial features, and an oversized Aston Martin logo. "Game Changer," the thing reads. Funny, she thinks. He is a game changer, though —not sure if he is the same kind Aston Martin broadcasts.

But seeing his face and Tashi's painfully reminds her the man is not hers.

In fact, the man has a whole wife.

"Fuck me." Y/n requests, still a complete mess, moaning, arching her back, breathless.

And nothing happened where she thought the fire test lay. Art obliged. In fact, he seemed enthusiastic. He wants to make her his. Y/n modestly smiled at the thought.

"Yes... fuck, yeah." With a deft hand, he reaches down and unfastens the button of his pants; he eases the zipper down, and the faint sound of it sliding makes Y/n nauseated of anticipation.

Art reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, pulling out a beautiful, black leather wallet. He flips it open, his brows furrowing in concentration as he sifts through its contents. With a muttered curse under his breath, he begins to dig deeper; Y/n doesn't understand what's happening —is he searching for a condom?

After eternal seconds, the blonde guy lets out a frustrated sigh and shakes his head, resigned.

Y/n sits beside him awkwardly, unhurriedly pulling up the neckline of her dress, covering her now shivering body.

"...So?" she questions.

He remains silent.

"I don't have condoms."

"I'm on the pill." Y/n offers.

The look Art shoots at Y/n isn't gracious. In fact, it triggers a big spark of frustration on his face, eyebrows knitting together in a light scowl as he looks at her incredulously.

Then it turns worse when, by mistake, his gaze falls on the same billboard Y/n had seen earlier.

"I can't. Sorry."

Y/n slowly closes her legs and adjusts her neckline. "Why?"

Art's eyes fall to his lap. "Well, starting from the fact I have a family-

Y/n interrupts. "Well, you didn't seem to care when you offered to drive a total stranger."

It was most likely the sassiness and the blaming in her voice that unexpectedly threw him off. Really threw him off.

"That's none of your business. I just took the opportunity of a warm hole."

In one swift, rampant movement, her hand connects with his cheek with a resounding crack, the sound echoing through the air like a crash. His head jerks to the side. A slap.

She had fucking slapped him.

With a trembling breath, Y/n doesn't think twice before she pushes open with unmeasured force the door of Art's fucking ugly car —or that's how she thinks of it now. The storm still persists, rain pouring down in sheets. Tears accumulate over her eyes as she steps out into the downpour, grabbing her purse tightly.

"Hey, hold on..."

She completely ignores Art's words, which get easily lost in the roar of the rain.

But she turns to face him one last time, sitting on the pilot seat, visibly ashamed of himself —and still with unbuttoned pants.

"Fuck you. I hope you lose every single fucking tennis match." And with a forceful push, she slams the car door shut.

As Y/n steps away from the vehicle, leaving a splash in the puddles on the floor, she wishes the man she met two hours ago had run after her and begged forgiveness. But of course, he didn't. Instead, she watched as the vehicle got started again and drove past her, quickly rejoining the road and disappearing in the darkness.

✩

#art donaldson smut #challengers fic #challengers smut #challengers fanfic #art donaldson imagine #challengers x reader #art donaldson x reader #smut #fanfic #imagine #mike faist #challengers

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long-live-astronerd-ghost-king · 9 months

Text

DPXDC prompt. Dead on main.

Okay, Danny’s revenge for Jason through the Joker murder is fine.

But imagine the wrath of the Ghost King who responds to a call for help from his boyfriend and finds Red Hood with his throat cut and bleeding. Aside from it, there’s a bloody batarang on the roof. And it just pisses the Phantom off. Bat just left main treasure of his core to die.

Danny is still terrified even when Frostbite confirms that Jason will survive. Dan’s future is still fresh in his memory. That’s probably why when the councilman takes him off hospital ward duty to clarify what His Majesty wants as the guarantor of the Peace Treaty with demon race and what price to set for summons from cults Danny answers without a second thought.

Phantom: Batman.

Ghost: From a cult, Your Majesty?

Councillors have long been accustomed to Phantom giving strange requests so that people would not have the opportunity to really summon him.

Phantom: From the cult, from demons, ghosts or elves. Whatever. I need Batman and I need him yesterday. I give any reward to whoever delivers him to me, the price will be fair.

Ghost: Your word is our command.

~~~~~

In Gotham it’s 4 AM when Constantine is calling an emergency Justice League meeting.

'What did you do, Bats?' Shazam asks with undisguised concern.

~~~~~

Bonus points if Jason has to teleport himself directly to the JL space station and stop his feral lover from murder. Yeah, this is definitely not how he planned to reveal who was hiding under the Red Hood.

#dpxdc #dcxdp #dpxdc crossover #dpxdc prompts #dead on main #dead on main ship #dp x dc #dp x dc crossover #ghost king danny

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ellastone-olsen · 5 months

Note

Could I request something Rhaenyra x Stark!reader smut with them being feral codependent soulmates? I love that trope. They would totally be unhinged and in love wives together plus the fire and ice parallels 😭 Like after Laenor “dies”, Rhaenyra’s goes looking for a new spouse and runs into Stark!reader and it’s just love/obsession at first sight?

My queen is cruel | Rhaenyra Targaryen

★Pairing: Rhaenyra Targaryen x fem!Stark!reader

Summary: your family comes from Winterfell to the capital at the invitation of the Targaryen family. Princess Rhaenyra announced that she would choose a new spouse. Your brother was a contender from the House of Stark, but it seems to the princess that another contender from the rulers of the north is more interesting.

★Warnings: NSFW 18+, soulmates dynamic, mentions of blood and alcohol, innocent reader, virginity loss, oral, fingering

★Word count: 3.1k

★AN: omg my first House of the Dragon fic, I hope I translated some titles and names correctly. Thanks for the request, it took me so long to write this, but I love Rhaenyra so much 💕

Rhaenys's bitter, heartbreaking cry is heard in the silence of the room. The woman looks at the burnt body that just a few minutes ago was her son. “Who allowed this?! Why wasn’t anyone around?!” Corlys embraces his wife in rage and grief. That day, sadness became the main companion of the grieving parents.

No one knows that on the shore, the one who is now considered dead is running towards the boat. Laenor Velaryon sails away to disappear forever from this life in which he was imprisoned. Rhaenyra gave him a chance at happiness and Laenor will not forget this.

Rhaenyra Targaryen is officially recognized as a widow. It is expected that rumors about the death of the princess's husband began to spread like a plague, from servants to other servants, and those to their families, from there the plague was transmitted to all seven kingdoms. Some believed in the official story, others, like the grieving mother, blamed the Targaryen family for everything, they said that the princess ordered the murder, that she was tired of her husband. But for Rhaenyra it was enough to know that this was absurdity and slander.

“So what are you going to do next?” Daemon approached unnoticed. Rhaenyra didn’t look at him, her gaze was directed far out to sea. "I think I'm looking for a new spouse." Damon thought the hint was crystal clear. He thought that she still wanted him, wanted to finish what they started that night all those years ago. “Rhaenyra...” He was interrupted, “No uncle, leave it alone. Kiss me and let me go. If you do not...” A ringing silence hung between them. The phrase did not need to be continued; he already understood it.

King's Landing was filled with lords, princes and princesses from all over Westeros. The royal family invited all the noble houses, announcing that the heir to the iron throne would thus choose a new life partner.

“I don’t understand why you took me with you.” Your carriage was approaching to the King's Landing. Your parents were, as always, calm and cool, as befits the Starks, the rulers of the north. Your younger brother looked around the windows excitedly, clearly excited about his first trip outside of Winterfell. “Your mother and I think that you also need to see the capital.” Your father, as always, spoke directly and to the point. You smiled bitterly. “Only we’re here to try to marry Rob to this pompous princess.” You didn’t hide your bias towards this whole thing, which was more like an auction. “Y/N just try to say something like that about the princess in public and you will disgrace the entire House of Starks.”

For the rest of the trip you rode in silence, only occasionally fiddling with the hilt of the sword hidden in a sheath under your heavy black coat. Perhaps you had a little curiosity about the princess. What does the one who will take the iron throne look like, against whom there was so much outrage just because she was a woman. You thought that she must be strong and stubborn just like her ancestors. The same as the previously lived Visenya about whom you once read.

The carriage stopped.

“Do I have to wear this? How will I take my sword with me?” Your mother stood in the chambers that had kindly been allocated to you and watched as a maid helped you lace up a black dress with antique long sleeves. “You don't need the sword today, honey. This is a royal ball and you are not a knight in service." You looked in the mirror, and even though dresses weren't something you wore often, it didn't look bad at all for your taste. Still, the velvet in tandem with the large fur coat that you took from Winterfell looked harmonious.

“But what if something goes wrong and I’m left without a weapon?” You insisted. After so many years of training, the sword became an extension of you, and going out without it was akin to death. "The Royal Guard will protect us all." Your mother tried to be gentle and calm your worries. The woman came up behind you and put her hands on your shoulders. “For just one evening, be a princess and not a rude warrior. For me." You covered her hands. "Okay, just for you."

All arriving guests entered the huge hall in turn, after which they were seated at long tables, which were bursting with an abundance of dishes kindly offered by the royal family. “The Starks of Winterfell,” the man shouted and your family entered the hall. You followed your parents straight to the table in the center, at which the Targaryen couple was already sitting with the king and that famous Princess Rhaenyra at their head. Finally, you were close enough that you could see a woman with dazzling white hair and sharp purple eyes. Your breath caught somewhere in the depths and you couldn’t look away. It seems at this moment the ice and skepticism inside you broke, burst into a thousand pieces. You had to lower your head according to the rules of etiquette, but you couldn’t tear yourself away from contemplation. And when she finally looked at you, when your eyes met, you realized that you had problems. “Your Grace, this is our son Rob and eldest daughter Y/N.” Your father, as the head of the family, introduced his children and added, “I hope that Rob can claim the place of your husband Princess Rhaenyra.”

At these words, you remembered why you were here and a little jealousy pricked somewhere in your chest. You were almost jealous of your brother. But who are you to be jealous, because you just met. This is all becoming too strange, but so tempting. You sat down and the evening began.

Wines of different varieties continually filled the glasses of rich gentlemen, everyone laughed, joked and discussed who the heiress would choose as her husband. The Lannisters were sitting next to you and you could hear snatches of greasy jokes about how their eldest son could have Rhaenyra in all poses. Anger boiled inside you, how could this bastard say such things about this woman. “And they also say that her sons are bastards, and she is a whore.” The loud laughter of the Lannisters infuriated you even more. “Then your house is no better for having sworn allegiance to a whore.” You thought you said it quietly, but they apparently heard you.

“I didn’t hear what the pup from Winterfell was barking just now?” Everyone who was at your table fell silent and the whole room also paid attention to this. “I said what I meant.” The man was already deeply drunk and clearly in the mood for a fight. He stood up and you stood up next, you were the same height. “If you are so brave, then say out loud what you think of the princess.” Rhaenyra's purple eyes watched your quarrel carefully, it would be a lie to say that she did not look at you all evening, knowing that all the men in this room would be denied. She definitely liked your spark and wanted to see what happened next.

“I said that her sons are bastards, and she is a whore.” The man said the last word slowly, syllable by syllable, everyone present was in suspense. King Viserys took out his favorite blade. "I'll cut out your filthy tongue." As soon as he finished the phrase, a knife, prudently hidden under a fur coat, appeared in your hand and pinned Lannister’s palm to the table. He tried to get it. “There are a lot of vital veins in this part of the arm; if you try to pull it out, you will bleed to death.” The white cloaks immediately drew their swords and stood ready. Rhaenyra's entire being was hypnotized in delight by your actions and words, at that moment she chose her spouse. The entire Lannister family stood up and was ready to tear you apart.

"Get them out." For the first time that evening, Rhaenyra's voice broke the silence of the event. The bastard's face lit up with a smile. “My princess, thank you...” But before he could finish speaking, the guards twisted his hands, pulling the knife out of his palm, causing the man to let out a bitter scream. The entire Lannister family was disgracedly eliminated from the feast; there was silence for several more minutes, only whispers were heard from different sides.

"What are you doing." Your father pulled you by the arm, urging you to sit down, and glared at you with eyes full of rage. “Your mother asked you not to take weapons with you.” “She asked not to take the sword, dear father.” Rhaenyra stood up. “Today, to our great regret, unpleasant and unacceptable events occurred for the royal court.” She paused, her gaze returning to you and a smile gracing her lips. “But let’s not let these events overshadow our holiday, let’s raise our glasses and have a feast.” The crowd cheered and raised their glasses as they praised Princess Rhaenyra's wisdom and resilience. The celebration continued until late at night, you drank several glasses of wine after the incident and by the end you were decently drunk.

All evening you kept looking at Rhaenyra, your head was filled with thoughts about how beautiful and wise she is, about how wrong you were, how you regret that you didn’t want to go to the capital. But then these euphoric thoughts were darkened by the fact of her imminent marriage to one of the men of these noble houses and perhaps even to your brother.

You headed to your chambers, every now and then passing by local servants. Your legs dragged you heavily, your mind only thought about taking a warm bath and washing away inappropriate thoughts about the heiress. The heavy door opened with a slight creak, letting you into the semi-darkness of the room. You thought that you asked the servants to extinguish all the candles, but for some reason they were burning. Your gaze caught on an unfamiliar figure standing with his back to you, and the knife that had recently been in the Lannister’s bastard was again in your hand, waiting to defend yourself from intruders.

"You're a little warrior aren't you?" A velvety voice broke the silence and the stranger turned to face you. You immediately lowered the knife. “Your Grace, forgive me, I didn’t know it was you.” You immediately bent your knee in front of her. You were absolutely at a loss and the whole situation was a little confusing, why was the princess, the heir to the throne, waiting for you in your chambers in the middle of the night? “No need for formalities, please stand up.”

She walked through your chambers looking at some of your personal belongings until she found the sword. “Oh, this is your main weapon, as I understand it, you don’t to swing a knife every time of course ...” she bent down to take a closer look at the sparkling silver blade. “Such a beautiful thing, to match the owner.” Her compliment made your already red cheeks flush. “Did you want to talk about what happened, Your Grace?” you desperately wanted to change the topic.

“Did your mother ever tell you the legend of soulmates?” You were dumbfounded by her question. “Your Grace, I don’t quite understand...” She continued to walk around the room. “Don’t they really tell such stories in the north?” Her tone sounded fakely upset. “They say I know one.” “Then tell me too.”

You didn’t understand anything, Rhaenyra Targaryen came to you at night to listen to fairy tales for children? Perhaps something was put in the wine and now you were hallucinating, but it seemed like everything looked real. The woman lit the fireplace and, unbecoming for a future queen, sat down on the soft fur in front of the fire. She looked up at you, inviting you to sit next to her, you obeyed. The crackling of logs, the heat of the fire and the soft floral perfume of Rhaenyra lulled to sleep.

“My mother... told me when I was a child that there was a belief...” you cleaned the throat. “That every person has their own soulmate, but not everyone is able to find it, it’s like a person who was created by the seven gods just for you.” Rhaenyra began to unravel her tight braid; her head began to hurt unpleasantly from her hairstyle. You watched out of the corner of your eye as her snow-white strands gradually fell onto her shoulders. “And how do you understand who exactly your person is?” She encouraged you to continue. “I don’t remember exactly, but they said that when you see him or her, you will immediately understand, just the first glance or the first meeting and…boom.” "Boom?" She asked again, not quite understanding your strange wording. "Yes." You were looking at the burning logs when Rhaenyra's hand covered yours. She has already unbraided her hair. “Do you want to brush them?” Something strange was clearly happening. But who are you to refuse, you nodded and took the wooden comb brought from Winterfell from the nightstand. Hands carefully took strands of silver hair and combed them, as if they would break from the wrong movement.

“Do you believe in this legends?” You thought for a second. “I’m not sure, or rather I didn’t believe it before, but now these fairy tales don’t seem so stupid to me.” You put comb down, combing all hair perfectly. “I don’t understand why these questions are asked, Your Grace.” Your head was a complete mess due to the mixture of alcohol and adrenaline caused by the woman next to you. “Please call me Rhaenyra.” She turned to face you. “You understand everything, little warrior, don’t lie to me.” The woman moved closer and closer until she placed one hand on your shoulder. "Your Grace...Rhaenira." She leaned in so close that her lips were almost touching yours. "I want you." You looked into bright purple eyes, which shone yellow in the firelight. “Tell me the wolf of Winterfell, do you want me?” Her perfume smelled so delicious, her soft skin, white as her hair, that the dress did not hide, begged to be touched, “I...yes please, I want you.”

Rhaenyra's lips touched yours, sharing the sweetness of the recently drunk wine. One of the woman's hands grabbed the collar of your velvet dress and began to pull it down your shoulders to free your soft breasts. She carefully laid you on your back, on the soft fur, holding the back of your head. Her lips moved to her neck, then to her shoulder and then wrapped around her pink nipple. The action caused you to place your hand on her head, stroking her silver hair. The princess's hands lifted the skirt of the dress to the waist and stroked the skin of your soft thighs. "Cute little thing." She giggled and touched your lips again. The kiss was untidy, but full of tenderness and desire. Rhaenyra relieved you of underwear, her fingers slipped inside without a barrier, you were completely wet, just for her, but then she remembered. “Is this your first time?” She stopped any action, waiting in horror for an answer. "Yes, my grace." Rhaenyra buried her nose in the crook of your neck and began to kiss you, whispering, “I’m sorry, I should have asked earlier.” Your hand rested on hers that was still between your legs. “Please continue, I want this more than anything.”

And she continued, gently pounding and curling her fingers to hit that sensitive spot inside that made you see stars and whine like a pup. "Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra, oh please my grace." Your hand touched the sensitive bud for additional stimulation. “Oh fuck, fuck...I'm gonna...” “Cum for me, cum for your queen.” Her movements became faster and clearer until you came, squeezing around her long fingers, biting your hand so as not to scream from the new sensations that she was giving you. She pulled out and showed you her hand, which sparkled in the firelight from your release, and then licked every last drop, causing your eyes to darken.

When you came to your senses, you stood up, only to strip completely and push Rhaenyra towards the bed, urging you to sit on it. "Please let me return the favor." You knelt in front of her, lifting the skirt of her dress up to expose her stockinged legs. Your lips kissed every centimeter of skin, no one worshiped it like you. When your mouth reaches her pussy, you notice that her arousal has left a wet mark on the bed linen. The tongue draws a line along the entire length, collecting her arousal, and the woman moans, lowering her hand to stroke your cheek. “My little savior, tell me, would you have killed him if I had not intervened?” You kiss her palm. "Yes my grace." And you hug her sensitive bud with your lips, simultaneously pushing three fingers inside, immediately picking up a fast pace. "Oh Gods!" She moans and screams without being embarrassed to be heard, the way you stretch her drives the woman crazy. “Fuck, that’s it!” and “Yeah right there, that’s my good girl.” You fuck her, trying to please your queen as best as possible and feel how she clench around your fingers. “Fuck fuck Y/N!” She cums, for a long time, and you fuck her through orgasm until she whines from overstimulation, asking her to stop.

You move onto the bed and lie on top of her again, kissing her. “I didn’t believe in soulmates until I saw you.” She hugs you, covering your naked body. You lie there, again inhaling the aroma of her perfume and not believing in the reality of what happened. “I would like to believe that it’s true,” she replies and you think.

“Have you already chosen someone to be your spouse?” You say this quietly, in a whisper. It was at this moment that you remembered why your family came here in the first place and how you may have acted meanly towards your brother. She laughs and you don't understand. "Yes, I chose you."

You lift your head sharply, looking into those purple eyes to see if she's deceiving you. “But...what if people are against it, what will you do?”

She thought about it, she knew that there would be dissatisfied people. “Then I will personally give Syrax the command to burn to the ground anyone who questions my choice.”

#house of the dragon #rhaenyra is my queen #rhaenyra targaryen #queen rhaenyra #rhaenyra x reader #rhaenyra targaryen x reader #hotd rhaenyra

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fushiguho · 3 months

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All Mine ☆ Miguel O'Hara

☆ WORD COUNT – 6.3k ☆ SYNOPSIS – Miguel O’Hara has always been a jealous man, one with very strong feelings toward those he loves, so you really can’t be surprised when he’s hell bent on proving to you just how much of a jealous man he can be, can you? ☆ CONTENT WARNINGS – Miguel is FERAL and possessive, breeding

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*: ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ

“Thank you.” You gently smiled, taking the warm plate from the waiter's hands before placing it before you.

God, the smell was salivating, intoxicating even. Fresh salisbury steak topped with chives and parsley, paired with the fluffiest mashed potatoes you had ever seen.

“Anything for a pretty lady.” He responded, voice riddled in nothing but amourism. “Anything else for the table?” He finished, taking his lingering gaze off of you and directing it toward the dark-haired man beside you.

Miguel shook his head quickly, “You’ve done enough. Thank you.” he feignedly smiled, his lips tight, pressed into the thinnest line.

Miguel was never one to react. He liked to think of himself as a reserved man, one of reticent emotions, quiet, civil. Though he was all of these things and more, he couldn’t rid the thought that other men have imagined themselves with you– inside of you. God, the mere thought of it made him sick to his stomach.

There was a small part of him that wished the worst to any man that looked in your general direction. He would be lying to himself if he said the thought of killing a man for you had never crossed his mind, that being the more dishonorable part of him of course. However, he would never hurt anyone over a quick, meaningless glance, though it was tempting.

The only thought that kept his homicidal tendencies at bay was the fact that those men will never see you in the ways he does. They’ll never get the chance, not if Miguel is around at least. He would never allow it. Not even over his dead body.

They’ll never see your bare body sprawled out before them, or how your mouth falls open and stays wide at the feeling of his hands caressing your body, or even how your cunt glistens in the faintest light from the simplest touch. They will never see those parts of you and that’s what kept Miguel sane.

All they’ll ever get from you is a fictitious smile, one of basic human decency and societal mannerism, a small giggle maybe , only if you’re feeling generous. Other than that, there’s nothing more to give, and certainly not to some child disguised as a waiter.

The poor fork in his hand was pleading for dear mercy with the way he was gripping it. Knuckles nearly turning a pale white at the sheer amount of pressure he was exerting. If you weren’t mistaken, you could have sworn you saw the metal bending.

“Miguel?” You questioned, your smaller hand reaching for his clenched fist.

“Pretty lady.” He scoffed to himself, mocking the waiter’s so-called compliment from earlier before taking the gasping fork and mercilessly shoving it into a piece of steak on his plate.

“Oh, Miguel.” You smiled sweetly, voice soft as you reached a hand from under the table to place it on his thigh, squeezing gently. “Don’t get so worked up. He’s a child, baby. No more than nineteen I assume.”

“That’s not the point, hermosa.” He sighed, “I don’t care how young or old he is–him or anyone else as a matter of fact. I just don’t want another man looking at what’s mine.” He reminded, a small hint of discontent lacing is words.

You leaned forward to press your lips to his cheek, planting a warm kiss to the skin before dragging your lips up to his ear. You kissed there too, leaving behind a wet path in your wake.

“Well, they don’t get to see me like you do, do they?” You too reminded, your voice warm and inviting and directly in his ear.

Miguel shook his head lightly, subconsciously craning his head in the opposite direction, granting you more access to the sensitive flesh of his neck. God , he would take you right here if you’d let him, in front of all these innocent people too.

He could feel himself straining against the fabric of his trousers, growing harder and harder by the fucking second. It never took much for him to get like this. If he were being completely honest, he was a goner as soon as you put your hand on his thigh.

Slowly, you began to move your hand along the length of his thigh, careful not to cause too much of a distraction to those around you, though there weren’t many. The restaurant was practically empty excluding the older couple in the far corner who realistically couldn’t see beyond their own table, and the occasional pass of a busy server.

You could hear Miguel suck in a tight breath as you neared the tent in his trousers, but stopping once you’ve gotten too close.

“They don’t get to hear me either… my moans, whimpers. Only you, baby.” You continued. “Only you can hear me, see me, touch me.” You purred, voice low and tantalizing as you hummed in his ear, hand still working at his tensing thigh.

And he knew all of this of course, he just loved it when you gave him a little reminder from time to time. Nothing wrong with a little reassurance, right?

Miguel remained silent, afraid replying with anything would result in the two of you fucking eachother right on this goddamned table. He needed you–needed to fuck you, be inside of you, show you that no one else could possibly fuck you like he could.

“Come on.” He muttered suddenly, practically yanking you up from where you sat.

Miguel said nothing as he stuffed a hand into the back pocket of his trousers, retrieving his wallet before pulling out several bills and nearly slamming them on the table. He grabbed your purse from the chair beside you, slinging over his shoulder before taking you by the hand, leading you out of the restaurant.

“I didn’t finish my steak.” You huffed as you quickly followed your husband to his blacked-out Ashton Martin.

“We’ll come back tomorrow.” He spoke quickly as the two of you approached the passenger’s side of the vehicle. He was then opening the door for you before helping you duck to get inside of the lowrider.

Miguel was soon closing the door and quickly walking around to the driver's side before opening the door and throwing himself into the seat, hurriedly starting up the car and shifting the gears.

The car ride home was the longest twenty minutes of your life–between the lingering glances, his hand creeping higher up your thigh, and the thickening sexual tension in the atmosphere, you would much rather have been dead.

Miguel was fiddling to unlock the front door with a blind hand as his lips were slotted against yours, his tongue already pushing itself inside of your mouth. He’d much rather struggle for an extra minute to open the door than pull away from you for even a second.

Eventually, the door was pushed open and the two of you stumbled inside of the dark house, lips still pressed to one another. His keys were dropping to the floor with a thud, then so was your purse, your jacket, his wallet, and soon, your heels were slipping off too.

“Take this off.” Miguel muttered, referring to the over priced dress that hugged your body a little too perfectly. Almost immediately, one of his hands were reaching behind you in an attempt to find the dresses’ zipper before hurriedly tugging at the small piece of metal.

“Careful. I like this dress.” You warned, smiling at his eagerness.

“I know, baby. I bought it.” He reminded as he pulled the zipper down until it reached the waistband of your sheer underwear. “I can always buy you a new one.” He finished before quickly pulling the straps down your shoulders, allowing you to shimmy your way out of the fabric.

It wasn’t long before his lips were back on yours, his tongue delving into your mouth once again. He couldn’t get enough of your mouth and after that stunt you pulled in the restaurant, his only intentions were to fuck you into a whining, sobbing mess.

“You’re so beautiful, amor.” He exhaled, the tips of his fingers roaming your almost bare body. “And all mine.”

He dragged rough, calloused hands down your waist before meeting the curve of your hips. He squeezed gently, savoring the feeling of you beneath his fingertips before dragging his hands down a little further, cupping the fat of your ass.

“Tell me.” He spoke, pulling away to steal a glimpse of your swollen lips. “Tell me you’re mine, please?”

“I’m yours.” You responded, voice sweet and honeyed. “All yours, baby. You own me.” You moaned as he leaned forward, connecting his lips to your neck.

“Say it again.” He whispered, his voice warm and desperate.

“You own me.” You breathed as you craned your neck to the side, granting him more access to the flesh.

He hummed in agreement, lips still pressed to your skin, surely leaving several marks you’d discover in the morning. You could feel the graze of his cuspids as he dragged them along your throat. The slight pinch of him sinking his teeth into you forced a gasp past your lips.

With both hands, Miguel was slipping them just below the curve of your ass and gripping the back of your thighs. He was soon pulling you forward, silently beckoning you to jump to which you did. He was then wrapping your legs around his waist before blindly walking toward the dimly lit living room.

Miguel sat on the couch with your legs tightly wrapped around his waist. God, the heat was palpable. You could feel the growing need, the desperation, the hunger . The look in his eyes had your core aching with desire.

You have never seen Miguel like this–so feral and possessive, but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t have your cunt leaking with arousal. There’s just something about the carnality of it all, the want .

“Mmm, so fuckin’ pretty.” He hummed as he was taking your face in his hand, his palm resting on your warm cheek, “My pretty baby.”

You leaned into his touch, relaxing in his hand as he grazed his thumb along your skin, inching closer and closer to your bottom lip. Miguel was slow as he slid the pad of his thumb along your lip, the slickness of your saliva coating it.

Soon, he was pushing it past your lips and into your mouth. You allowed him to explore the wet cavity, his thumb rubbing against your tongue, teeth, inner cheek, hell, all of it. He even pushed it to the back of your throat, forcing a small gag from you to which he smiled admirably.

Miguel was pulling his finger out of your mouth only to put it in his, cleaning your saliva with his own. Your lips parted as you watched him lick and suck at his thumb, humming in satisfaction as he tasted you. He loved all you, he just couldn't get enough.

“Always taste so good.” He muttered as he leaned forward, pushing his lips against yours, “Need more.”

He wasn’t shy as he kissed you hungrily, his lips moving with nothing but urgency. You kissed him back, matching his fervor, your nose pushing against his as you pant into his mouth.

His lips were so sweet, so warm and delicious. You could taste the lingering red wine on his tongue from dinner, the saccharine twinge of aged grapes and honey, fuck, it was intoxicating. Not to mention the growing passion in his hurried movements.

His hands were gripping your hips, palms splayed along your skin, fingers digging into the sensitive flesh. There is no doubt in your mind that there would be crescent-shaped indents for you to admire later.

He was pushing your hips against him, rocking you back and forth along his growing erection, the friction making you dizzy. You could feel the nudge of his cock against your clothed cunt, your poor walls fluttering around nothing in response.

A gasp left your lips at the feeling of him bucking his hips forward, firmly pressing himself against the lace of your underwear. And God, how you were so wet and bothered. Miguel fucking loved it. He swore he could feel your wetness seeping through the fabric of his trousers.

You couldn’t help the whiny moans that tumbled past your lips and into his mouth. Plead after plead fell from your tongue, begging him for more, more, more. Your voice went straight to his cock as he swallowed your saccharine whimpers.

You could feel the graze of his tongue along your bottom lip, silently begging for more to which you obliged, granting him access to your sweet mouth. You allowed him to taste you from the inside, desperate to feel him explore your mouth. Even the subtle exchange of saliva had your heart slamming against your chest.

The sheer need was nothing but pathetic–desperate grinding, sultry moans, sloppy kissing, his tongue lapping and sliding against yours, his hands pulling you over his cock, fuck . It was almost too much for your poor brain to handle.

You were nearly falling apart atop him, your entire being melting into the palms of his hands for him to mold and to shape you into something of his own creation. You loved how he effortlessly turned you into a puddle of nothingness, handcrafted into his perfect little slut, his favorite slut.

“Mierda, you make me so hard, baby, fuck.” He moaned, lips still pressed to yours, “You feel it?” He hummed as he bucked his hips once again, pushing himself deeper into you.

You whined in response, that’s all you could do. It was absolute torture, complete agony. You could do nothing but sit prettily in his lap as he took control of your body, turning you into an utter mess atop him.

“You want it?” His hand was moving from your hip to slip past the waistband of your thin underwear before running his fingers through your dripping folds, collecting your arousal on the pads of his fingers.

“Yes.” You choked as you subconsciously rolled your hips against the palm of his hand. “Fuck, yes.”

“Yeah?” He hummed, his middle and ring fingers pushing themselves inside of you, desperate to feel your wet walls wrapping around them.

You nodded as you rolled your head back, lips parted and wet, silently begging for just a little more. He was slowly pulling his fingers out of you, only to push them inside once again, quickly picking up a steady pace that had your mind falling blank.

You couldn’t help the subtle movement of your body as you rocked your hips against his fingers, nearly riding his hand like the desperate woman you are. You were insatiable as you leaned forward, placing your hands on his shoulders in order to press yourself further down onto his fingers.

You were fucking beautiful, he thought. Nothing compared to your beauty, not the prettiest flower, the brightest sunset, or even the bluest ocean. Nothing in his mind even came close to you. He’d be lying if he said you weren't the prettiest thing he had ever seen.

Who could blame him? Look at you. The expression on your face was peerless, your blown-out pupils, parted lips, furrowed eyebrows, flushed cheeks, fuck , all of it had Miguel in a trance. Not to mention the way you were fucking his fingers like you would his cock.

“More.” You panted, “I need more.”

“Paciencia, princesa.” He drawled as he pulled his fingers out of you before bringing his hand toward his face, shoving his fingers into his mouth, tasting you like before. He was humming and groaning in satisfaction as he licked you clean off of his hands like a man starved.

“I’ll give you what you want.” He was then lifting you off of him to lay you on the couch before standing to his feet.

You laid there impatiently, your bottom lip tucked between your teeth, watching like a hawk as he undressed himself before you. You watched as he undid the clasp of his belt, pulling the dark leather through the loops of his trousers, dropping it to the floor with a clank.

You couldn’t help the hand that snaked down your body, eager to relieve the gnawing ache between your thighs. Your sweet fingers worked slowly at your cunt, rubbing small, tight circles through the fabric of your underwear, wanton moans falling from your mouth as you kept your gaze steady on his.

Miguel shook his head in disbelief, “Do you have any idea what you do to me?” He sighed.

You smiled in response, nodding knowingly as a devilish grin tugging at the corners of your lips. With your other hand, you were pushing the wet fabric out of your way to expose your glistening cunt to him before dipping two fingers inside of your leaking hole.

“Fuck, amor.” He cursed.

With his eyes boring holes into your own, he was unzipping his pants before pulling them down his hips, allowing the fabric to pool around his feet before kicking the garment away.

Looking at the bulge hidden beneath his briefs had you subconsciously pushing your thighs together. You couldn’t wait to have him inside of you, in fact, there wasn’t anything you craved more in that moment.

He was reaching for the hem of his shirt, crossing his wrists over one another before yanking the fabric up his torso and over his head, dropping to the floor, adding to the ever-growing pile of clothing. As he was beginning to take off his maroon briefs, he was kneeling on the couch before you, eyes filled with nothing but hunger.

You felt like prey under his gaze, as if you had been running from him for so long, and he finally caught up to you and is as starved as ever. God, he was going to devour you, eat you up and swallow you whole and couldn’t be anymore more excited.

With two hands, Miguel was reaching forward to pull your sopping underwear down your legs, tossing them aside. He was then sitting you up to undo the clasp of your bra before pulling the straps down your shoulders, also tossing the garment somewhere you’d realistically never find again.

Miguel was soon situating himself between your thighs, pushing your legs on either side of his hips, the heat of his body radiating onto yours. He always looked so big like this as his body towered over yours. His beaming figure always made you nervous. Your pretty pussy glistened in the dim lighting of the living room, swollen and aching, ready for anything he’s willing to give.

Silently, Miguel drank you up as his gaze tore you apart. His usual brown eyes now glimmer a faint red as he dragged them along your pretty little body. It’s like he couldn’t decide what he wanted to do with you. His sharp eyes flitted from your kiss-swollen lips, to your throat, down to the juncture where you both meet.

He thought you looked absolutely beautiful lying beneath him–your beautiful breasts on display for him, nipples growing hard in arousal, your pretty waist and the curve of your hips. All of it had his cock twitching like no other. He could almost cum to the sight of your bare body alone.

His cock sat so eagerly between your thighs, begging for something, anything . The poor head was leaking with precum, weeping tears of desperation, aching to feel the pressure of your slick walls around it. And how it stood so impatiently, so hopeful, hungry . It was going to split you open and Miguel would make sure of it.

With his cock in his hand, he dragged the head of it along your slit, collecting your essence on the tip, creating the sinful mixture of arousal. He pushed himself against your clit, prodding the tip against the sensitive bud with increasing pressure.

The moans that fell from your lips were nothing but needy–sultry whines and little gasps of air as he continued to tease your cunt had you sounding like a broken record.

Miguel groaned in response to your pretty little sounds, his voice that low and guttural. There was nothing he loved more than your sweet voice, especially when you get all needy and whiny like this.

“This pussy is all mine.” He muttered as his hand was reaching down to play with your slick cunt, picking up where you left off.

You nodded in agreement, pursing your lips together at the feeling of him pressing the pad of his thumb against your clit, tracing slow circles around the bud. He was soon dragging his fingers down to dip them inside of you, admiring the way you took him in so easily.

Of course you appreciated the time he took to prepare you, but you couldn’t stand the torment of it. It was absolute torture laying there, watching him take his sweet time, making sure you’re all stretched out for his cock, but quite frankly, you were growing impatient.

“Miggyyy.” You whined, your hips bucking forward in a vein attempt to get more out of his teasing hand.

He only laughed at your desperation, a small chuckle, one from the depths of his chest, one that had you completely spiraling. You could feel his voice in the pit of your stomach, his tone like kindle to an ever-growing flame.

“Tell me you want it then.” He was taking his cock in his hand like before, prodding it lazily against your sloppy hole, “Tell me you need me and only me.”

“I need you, baby, you know I do.” You cried, voice wavered and needy, “I need you to fuck me, please. Please?”

Your pride was long gone, swept away and blown out of the window. You’d beg for him for as long as he’d want you to, just as long as he’d turn you into a cum-drunk slut by the end of it. The only thing that plagued your mind was the thought of being stuffed full of him. The thought alone had you on the verge of tears.

Miguel didn’t need much convincing if any at all, he just loved when you get like this, all needy and desperate. He couldn’t ignore the painful throb of his cock as it laid against your cunt, his aching balls round and full of cum, eager to fill you up in the most sinful way.

“Gonna let me fuck you, cariño, hm? Is that what you want?” He hummed as he was beginning to line himself up with your dripping heat, his eyes still following yours. “Gonna let me show you how much I love this pussy?”

You nodded eagerly, desperate to take anything he’s willing to give like the good girl he knows you are. The swarming excitement you felt as you impatiently waited for him to slip himself inside of you had you whining in restless anticipation.

You released a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, “Show me.”

It was sudden, warm, and well fucking worth the wait. The stretch of his cock as he slowly pushed himself inside of you is something that would never grow old–the longing, the burn, the relief . It was all too much, you could almost cry.

The shared gasp as he pushed past the brief resistance of your walls was like oxygen to a rampant flame. As he bottomed out, heavy balls kissing the fat of your ass, there’s a soft cry of his name that feels like cold water dripping down his searing skin.

“Oh my… fuck.” It was quiet, more to himself if anything, but God, did you hear it.

With a slack jaw, Miguel pulled out slowly, admiring the shiny layer of arousal you left behind. He was slow as he pushed himself back inside of you, afraid moving too quickly would have him cumming far too soon.

It lasted for a while too–the slow, ponderous pace. You were nothing but impatient as you pushed your hips forward, desperate whines falling from your lips like some insatiable dog.

Obeying your silent pleads, Miguel drew his hips back on final time before sitting up on his knees, readjusting himself. He was then leaning forward to push his lips against yours while shoving himself inside of you, picking up a merciless pace.

His lips were like water to a fire as he fucked you into a whimpering mess. The tenderness of his kisses in contrast to the harsh thrust of his hips had your mind going hazy. You could hardly keep up as you laid before him, taking everything like his good little girl.

“Mine.” He muttered, lips still slotted against yours, “You're all mine.”

You let a moan fall from your mouth in agreement. Miguel swallowed all of your pretty sounds, loving and cherishing them. Your voice was his favorite melody, like the random major note in minor songs.

As he pulled away from you, you couldn’t help but to lift your head up, chasing his fleeting lips. Your frown was short lived as it was soon turned into gasps of pleasure at the feeling of him trailing wet, openmouthed kisses down your throat.

His lips were warm and soft as he pressed them to the tight flesh of your neck, licking and nipping at the sensitive skin. There was not a doubt in your mind that he was leaving behind the prettiest marks for him to admire later.

He was eventually dragging his tongue down your neck and along your collarbone, leaving the shiniest trail of saliva in his wake. His lips were like hot metal, branding you, marking you with his touch so that the thought of having you wouldn’t even cross another man’s mind.

“Mine.” It was almost a growl.

He was hovering your chest, lips brushing the space between your breasts, nose pressed to your sweet skin. You could feel the warmth of his breath as it fanned your chest with every exhale.

His gaze never left yours as he lowered his face, his lips now pressed to the valley between your breasts. He left kiss after kiss, moving between both of your tits with increasing keenness. The feeling of him slipping one of your nipples into his mouth is what had your back arching up off the couch.

Both of his hands were sliding up your waist to take your breasts into his palms, kneading and groping them, rolling your nipples between his fingers. He was eventually pushing the fat of your tits together before stuffing his face into them.

His tongue was quickly slipping past his lips to lick at the flesh, leaving a messy trail of saliva along each of your breasts. He hummed in satisfaction while he kissed and nipped at you, savoring the taste of you on his tongue.

Every breath, every groan, and every whimper that left his lips was absorbed into your skin, his sounds sending vibrations throughout your body. God, he loved all of you and your breasts were no exception.

“These are mine.” He breathed, lips still pressed to the fat of your chest.

You sucked in a tight breath, eyebrows furrowing at the feeling of his warm tongue gliding along your skin. You could only feel yourself growing wetter as he devoured your tits like it’s the last meal he’d ever have.

You could hardly register him pulling out of you to kneel on the floor in front of the couch. He was quickly pulling you toward his face by your hips, draping your legs over his shoulders. He was soon stuffing his face between your legs, licking a long strip up your slit.

“Mig–fuck, it’s too much.” You whined, your hips stuttering against his face.

Miguel shook his head as he began to wrap his lips around your clit, sucking on the sensitive bud with growing fervor. It’s his pussy anyway, he can do whatever he wants with what’s his.

Two hands were flying up to card through his hair, your fingers harshly gripping the roots. You were nothing but greedy as you pulled him impossibly closer, shamelessly grinding your cunt against his face.

Miguel would be one hell of a liar if he said the feeling of you tugging at his hair didn’t have his cock throbbing between his legs. The drip of precum from the tip of his wet cock was creating the most sinful pool of arousal on the carpet.

There was absolutely nothing in the world that made Miguel harder than eating you out, especially when you’d use him for your own pleasure. The taste of your pussy on his tongue was intoxicating, he could feel himself growing drunk from your saccharine flavor.

Moan after moan fell from your lips as he pushed you closer and closer to an inevitable orgasm. You rolled your hips against his tongue, back arching up off the couch at every sudden flick of the wet muscle.

“My pretty pussy.” He was running his tongue through your cunt, “So pretty n’ wet for me, fuck.” He moaned.

He just couldn’t get enough of you, so when he pushes your thighs apart, pinning them to the cushion of the couch in order to see more of your cunt, you really can’t be surprised, can you?

Miguel was backing away slightly to steal a glimpse of your pussy. He loved the way it glistened in a mixture of saliva and arousal. He even loved the faint pulse of your dripping hole as it fluttered around nothing, silently begging him to do something, anything . Though he loved it all, it still wasn’t enough, not nearly as messy as he would like.

Miguel was gathering saliva in his mouth, allowing it to pool behind on the tip of his tongue before puckering his lips and spitting it onto your cunt. He was then smearing himself all over you, fingers gliding between your folds and dipping inside of you. He even took it upon himself to smear it between the slit of your ass.

“Miggy, fuck.” You gasped as you felt the cool, unforgiving air of the living room kiss your cunt.

He could almost cum at this salacious sight of you–your wet, little cunt on display for him, chest heaving with arousal, your furrowed eyebrows and blushed cheeks, fuck, Miguel was fighting the urge to release himself all over the fucking carpet.

He was muttering profanities under his breath as he was beginning to push himself up from the floor in order to kneel on the couch like before. It wasn’t long because he was pulling you toward him to hover over you, his warm gaze eating you up like you’d disappear if he were to take his eyes off of you.

“M’gonna fuck you until you cum all over me, baby. You want that?” He hummed as he was beginning to push himself inside of you like before. “Want me to make you cum?”

You nodded blankly, grimacing at the sound of your sopping cunt taking him in with such greediness. The sound was obscene as he picked up his pace–lewd squelching combined with skin against skin had your stomach aching with the need to cum.

“God, you’re my good fuckin’ girl.” He moaned, his head dipping down to rest within the crook of your neck, “All mine… no one else’s, you hear me?” His lips pressed to your throat.

“Y-yours… m’yours.” You whimpered, rolling your head back to give him more access to your skin.

“Again.” He whispered.

“Fuck, I’m yours, Miguel, all yours.” You cried, your voice sweet like honey in his ears, “All of me belongs to you, okay?” Your hands were coming up to rest on his cheeks, palms warm and inviting.

He could only groan in response before nodding his head in approval. You were right. All of you belonged to him–your heart, your body, your soul . You weren’t ashamed to admit it either. Being his is what you’re most proud of. He’s the greatest prize in your eyes as you are in his eyes.

Your reassurance is all he ever needs. Hearing your sweet reminders from time to time is what keeps Miguel sane. He would spiral if it weren’t for your constant words of affirmation. They always turn him into a sappy mess and whenever you’d tell him how much you love and appreciate him, he always seems to melt, so that’s what you did.

“I love you, baby… so much.” You whispered as you pulled him close for a sloppy kiss, “Always been so good to me.”

His hips stuttered at your words, thrusts growing messy and haphazard as he hastily kissed you back.“Te amo mucho, cariño.”

That winding coil in the pit of your stomach, begging to be released only grew tighter and tighter. You could feel the pulse of your walls around his cock, silently warning him of the impending orgasm.

“You gonna cum?” He cooed as he was bringing a hand down to play with your clit, tracing small, tight circles around the sensitive bud, encouraging your looming orgasm.

You squeaked a small mhm in response, eyes falling shut as you felt your orgasm creeping up your neck. His voice only pushed you further. It was way too soon but you couldn’t help it. He was sending you so far, stringing you along so thin, beckoning you to cum all over him and it was fucking working.

“Cum for me, my pretty baby, c’mon.” He encouraged, “Cum for me like I know you want to.”

It happened all too fast. Your poor brain couldn't register the orgasm that coursed through you. The feeling of your abdomen tightening and the fluttering of your soft walls around his cock made it nearly impossible for you to breathe. Your head fell empty as your long awaited orgasm finally took over your limp body, leaving you a whimpering, stuttering mess. That feeling would always be unmatched.

“Fuck, that’s it. Oh my God, mira que hermosa eres.” He was leaning down to kiss you again, fucking you through your orgasm as he desperately chased his own.

As he continued you fuck you, the force of his thrusts had your cum leaking out of you and onto the couch, creating the messiest little puddle beneath you. He could feel his own stomach tightening as his cock twitched inside of you, beads of precum leaking into your cunt.

"Oh, f-fuck, you make me wanna cum so bad, baby." Miguel stuttered as his head fell back to face the ceiling. “Please, can I cum inside? Please- fuck , cariño, please?” He begged.

You nodded eagerly, desperate to feel his warm cum inside of you, you’d do anything for it. “I need it… need your cum–want your babies, Miggy.”

“Fuck, don’t say that, hermosa.” He whined.

You shook your head, “I need it, make me yours… wanna show everyone m’yours.” You whispered.

Miguel didn’t need much convincing at all. He’d be lying to himself if he said the thought of fucking a baby into you has never crossed his mind. It’d be the unparalleled way in making sure everyone knows who exactly you belong to. Far more efficient than a simple love bite that’d eventually fade with time. He craved something a little more permanent. And what better way is there than to get you all round and plump with his child? The thought alone had him on the brink of cumming.

“God, you want it, don’t you?” He was bringing a hand down to rest on your cheek, “You want me to fuck a baby in you? Get you fuckin’ pregnant?”

You nodded frantically. There was nothing you needed more in that moment.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck–okay, baby. Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you.” He moaned.

His whiny moans soon turned into broken ones, each of them interrupted with a dog-like pant. His chest heaved as he felt his lower stomach beginning to tighten with a tension that was mere seconds away from snapping. Eventually, that winding coil in the pit of his stomach broke, releasing itself in several spurts of milky-white cum, coating your walls in his thick seed.

“Gonna make you a mommy, fuck.” He whined as he continued to fuck you through his orgasm, ensuring that his cum was nice and deep inside of you.

He stayed still for a while, cock buried inside of you, his cum leaking from your cunt. Truthfully, he didn’t want to move, he wanted to stay inside of you until the end of time, all warm and happy. God, it was hot, too hot. And the proximity of his body to yours didn’t make it any better, but you wouldn't trade it for a goddamned thing.

His forehead was pressed to yours, breath fanning your lips as he held himself above you. All that could be heard was the shared erratic breaths as you tried to calm each other's heartbeats. Though he had to will himself to, he was eventually pulling out of you to lay beside you on the couch, stuffing himself into the small space between you and the backrest.

Miguel pulled you impossibly closer as a hand slipped between your thighs. You could feel his fingers gliding through your slit before dipping inside of you, stuffing his leaking cum back inside of you. He only shushed you as you whined his name, telling you that he doesn't want any of his cum going to waste.

When he was satisfied, he began kissing your neck softly as he dragged his fingers along your body, tracing sweet little shapes against the warm skin. It was quiet for a while, a comfortable quiet. The two of you laid still, basking in the scent of each other, mentally adding this moment to the arbitrary file cabinet in the back of your minds.

Miguel finally spoke, breaking the comforting silence, “Please tell me I can take our baby on missions with me.”

“Absolutely not.”

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*: ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ

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heavysighing-dreamyeyes · 25 days

Note

God ever since reading A Gilded Cage I cant get the thought out of my head of a part 2 where Reader doesn't see Jason for a few days after the revelation. Like maybe he thinks he's being kind and giving us some time to process, maybe he's on his angst again, or maybe some outside factor has taken his attention so the only time he's able to visit is while we're asleep.

And the whole night of the reveal feels like a fever dream when we wake up but there's a blanket draped over us and a fuzzy little kitten purring up a storm on our chest (in my heart his name is Bean (short for Toebean)), so we're at least kind of sure it happened. But as the time passes with no sign of Jason our certainty begins to wane and until we finally get fed up and write on the notepad the first thing we've asked for since that night: "You."

Or something like that idek okay I've been over here clawing at my walls frothing at the mouth I never really even liked ak!Jason before reading your stuff and now I'm feral for him and its all your fault and I'm not even mad about it

A Glimmering Collar

AKA Part Two of this series. Ahh, nonnie, you literally cooked with this. I love when my fics inspire people enough to keep thinking on them! Seriously, ty for dropping these ideas in my inbox cause I had nothing going on in my brain for a part two initially. Hope you enjoy!

~2.6k words

You wake up to something tickling your nose. Your body feels heavy, your mind even more so. Nothing in you is ready to open your eyes, to face the fact that last night could all have been a dream. That he isn't– that was just a dream.

Something soft flicks your nose again, and you force your eyes open. You blink hard once. Then twice. It's a kitten. It's tiny, and it's sitting by your face. Every few seconds, its tail sways and brushes your nose.

Oh. You sit up slowly, trying not to frighten the small thing. It looks at you contently over its shoulder and meows. The kitten stretches as you stare at it, then plops itself directly on the blanket resting over your lap.

Huh. There's a blanket you definitely don't remember grabbing sprawled over your legs. You carefully reach down to pet the kitten's head. Your heart melts a little when it nuzzles your fingers and purrs.

You look around the room slowly. Nothing else looks different. The notepad is still in place, but the kitten and blanket all point to one thing. Last night was real. Jason is alive. Jason is the Arkham Knight.

You're trying to wrap your brain around that when the door flies open, nearly making you jump out of your skin.

"Good morning!!" A flurry of voice call from the doorway. Your eyes widen as three brightly dressed people strut their way into your apartment, "Are you ready for your shopping trip, hun?"

"My– excuse me?" You stumble out, tucking the kitten to your chest as you stand.

They giggle, and one of them steps forward, "Your shopping trip, sweetie! And spa day, of course. Oh, ha, we haven't even been introduced, have we? I'm Krystal with a K, she's Destini with an i and he's Robbi also with an i."

Robbi huffs and walks up to you to pet your kitten, "Why can't you ever introduce Destini second? She can be Destini also with an i, ya know."

The other girl walks up to you as well and picks affectionately at your clothes, "Because it's alphabetical that way, Robbi. Now you better go get dressed, we have brunch reservations and mimosa plans!"

"I– sorry? What?" You ask, eyes darting between the three of them. Whatever this is, you can't keep up. You've barely processed Jason kidnapped you, and now you're supposed to go get a massage and drinks?

"The boss wants you to go out," a flat voice cuts in. You're the only one that stiffens at the sight of two large men stepping through the door.

Krystal speaks up, "We're here to make sure you have a good time! And Mack and John are here to keep us safe!"

"Mack and John," You echo weakly.

"Your body guards, silly," Destini chirps, ushering you to your room. She plucks the kitten from your hands, "Now get dressed! Wear something nice!"

You stare at the door as she shuts it. What just happened? You hear them chattering happily in the kitchen, idly talking about pregaming your shopping trip.

Your whole mind is a mess, and you sluggishly get ready, thoughts whirling. You've barely talked to soul since you were kidnapped, and now you have five new names to remember, a kitten, and a day out.

You're not exactly sure if you should be unsettled or grateful at how quickly Jason worked to get you what you asked for. By the time you've opened your bedroom door, Krystal, Destini and Robbi are passing around a flask, and playfully trying to get your 'bodyguards' to drink it.

You wonder what they must think of all this. Who they think you are. You're struck with the realization that Jason must be paying them to entertain you today.

You don't get to linger on the thought before Robbi hooked his arm with yours, dragging you towards the door, "Let's gooo, the brunch place we're going to does the best pineapple mimosas. Or cherry, if that's your thing."

"Wait," Mack– or John, you're not exactly sure which one is which– stops you, "Boss wants you to wear this."

The girls and Robbi coo in awe when Mack opens a box, revealing a glittery, jaw-dropping choker. You waver at the sight of it. It's not that it doesn't match what you're wearing. You'd dressed up like Destini suggested, but it feels like some kind of trap.

You reluctantly pick up the necklace, eyeing how it catches the light, "Is it– are sure it's safe to wear this out?" Safety isn't really what you're concerned about at the moment.

You're more worried about the crushing weight that this means more than you understand.

John nods once, "There won't be any problems."

Krystal happily plucks the necklace from your fingers, and before you have time to argue, she drapes the necklace around your throat. "It's beautiful, hun. Just like you. Let's go get you something to eat," her voice is soft, measured, and full of so much understanding it makes you want to cry.

You don't know much they know, but when she hooks her arm with yours to guide you out the door, you have a feeling there's more awareness than their bubbly attitudes let on.

The day ends up being wonderful. Being around people, out under the sun (the sun Gotham does get), was rejuvenating. You had fun, joked, smiled, and for a day, it was almost like you didn't have a prison cell to go back to.

The food was delicious, the spa relaxing, and you didn't have to carry back a single bag. Krystal had flashed a black card at every payment, every place ever could want to shop at, reassuring you it's all been taken care of.

But the time you've collapsed on the couch, exhausted but content, the uneasy feelings from this morning are gone.

You settle on the cushions to wait for Jason. To thank him for listening or to yell at him for still keeping you here, you're not exactly sure yet.

But he doesn't come, you fall asleep in your expensive necklace and pretty clothes with one hand petting your kitten. He doesn't come the next day either, at least not while you're awake, but Krystal, Destini, and Robbi do.

Your friends, the people being paid to entertain you are nice, perfect even. They're exactly what you would have asked for.

Your kitten is perfect too, it cuddles with you at night and nuzzles under your chin after you're left alone, when the unease finds its way back to you.

It's been days since you've seen him. It's starting to feel like a lifetime. You know he comes back after you fall asleep, he moves things. You think it's his way of showing that he listened, that he came back because you asked.

The notepad, the one you haven't written on since that night, shifts closer to you on the glass table if you sleep on the couch.

The glimmering choker gets pulled out of the drawer every time you try to put it away. Your kitten has a growing collection of toys and things to climb on.

It's obvious he's visiting, so why won't he let you see him? Day five of dancing around each other breaks you. You want to see him, want to talk to him, and understand. You want Jason.

Your hand shakes a little, when you go to write on the notepad, and when you wake up the next morning, the paper is blank again.

You wait. You wait some more. All day you wait for him. No one else comes. It's strangely quiet, with just you and your kitten. You've just about given up, collapsed in your bed, when the glowing whites of his helmet catch your attention.

You sit up quickly and throw your legs off the bed as you stare into the doorway, "You came."

"Did you mean it," he asks, any emotion he's feeling hidden by the aggravating modulator.

"Mean what," You question, standing off the bed to walk closer to him, "Will you take the mask off?"

He doesn't move for a moment, just takes in the sight of you. The silence that drags almost makes you regret the question, but he carefully pulls off his helmet, "What you wrote. That you wanted me."

"I– yeah, Jason. I haven't– it's been days since I saw you," You only notice mid sentence that his hand is reaching for your face, it makes your voice waver. "You never answered any of my questions," You finish weakly.

His hand stills and he drops it, "Questions. That's what you wanted?"

You nod a little, searching his face for any hint of what he's feeling, but he gives nothing away.

He sighs softly, and looks away, adjusting his helmet under his arm. You think he might look disappointed, "I can't give you the answers you're looking for."

"Why not," You question softly, worried to push him away.

Jason turns his focus back to you, "I just need you to stay here. Please," he sighs out your name, and his hand twitches as if to touch you, "Don't fight me on this."

"That's not fair," You mumble, "Why am I here, Jason? You know I would have listened if you came to talk to me instead of– this."

Silence falls again, and he steps past you into your room. He sets his helmet on your dresser and picks up the choker resting on the wooden surface, "I wish you would wear this. I picked it out for you."

"Jason," You start, tracking his movements.

"I know," he cuts you off, "but I told you, you don't need to understand anything." You stiffen when he steps back towards you and guides you to turn around.

The air leaves your lungs as his gloves brush over your skin. He sets the necklace around your throat, and even after it rests heavy against your skin, his touch lingers.

"You just need to stay here. It's safe. I've given you everything you've asked for, and everything you haven't," Jason says softly, stepping out from behind you. His gaze lingers on your neck for a moment, and the stifling, unexplainable feeling sets back into your gut.

Your words stick in your throat. There's a sense of danger, one that doesn't make sense. Jason wouldn't hurt you. Not the Jason you know. But is this the Jason you know? The thought makes you want to tear the choker from your skin and throw it at him.

"It feels like a collar," You say quietly, and your breath hitches when his gaze snaps go yours, "I mean, it's pretty. Really. But, it feels– like it's more," You stumble out.

He nods slowly, and he doesn't stop himself from touching you this time. His fingers trace the choker, linger over your collarbones, brush along your pulse, "Maybe it is."

You blink at him, every thought flying from your brain, "What?"

He hums softly, hooking a finger under the shiny jewels to draw you closer, "Does that scare you? Knowing that you can't leave? Knowing that no matter how pretty these are, it's just another way to keep you?"

"You wouldn't hurt me," you say instead, it sounds like you believe it, but you're not sure if you're trying to convince yourself or him.

"I don't want to," He admits, fingers leaving your throat to trail up your jaw, "but I probably could."

"I don't believe that. I remember–" He tuts, tapping your cheek. Your heart drops when you realize he's mirroring where his own brand is.

"I'm not what you remember," he says firmly, before whispering your name, "I'm not that Jason. Not really."

"Then who are you," You ask, even though you don't want to know the answer. You want to pretend he's still something you know.

His eyes dart over your face, then back down to the necklace, "I'm still Jason. But I'm also the Arkham Knight."

"What does that mean," You push, reach up to grab his wrist, demanding his attention, demanding real answers.

"It means that you stay. It means that I give you what you want. Everything and anything except leaving," he says, voice lowering to something kinder, gentler, "it'll make sense eventually. You'll be happy here. Safe."

"Will that make you happy?" You ask, fingers tightening on his wrist. Half of you wants to pull him away, stop him from tracing patterns over your cheek, but the other part of you wants to press his hand closer.

Something flicks in his eyes at your words, "Yes."

"Will it keep you safe?" You murmur, eyes locked on his.

He doesn't answer, clenching and unclenching his jaw for a moment, "Safety is an option I don't have."

"It could be, if you wanted it," You say, dropping his wrist. It must be true. Even with all the secrets he's keeping, his evasive disappearing act, he could take off the armor. Leave behind the new symbol engraved over his chest.

He laughs a little and swipes his thumb under your eye, "I'm glad that you don't understand. It's good, that they didn't twist you into something unrecognizable."

"Understand?" You prompt, unsettled by his laughter.

"That they need to pay. All of them do," he smiles a little, it's a mockery of the one you remember. Jason traces the choker one last time before stepping back.

"You're leaving," You say, not a question, a statement of fact. He's leaving, without explaining anything again.

"I am," he affirms, moving to grab his helmet.

"I want you to stay," You breathe out and he freezes in place.

He exhales softly and faces you again, "You don't know what you're asking."

"I do. I want you to stay," You repeat, reaching out to push his helmet back towards the dresser.

"And then what?" He asks lowly, a warning, "What do you expect to happen?"

It makes you waver, "I– I don't know. But it's what I want."

It's another long moment of nothing before he answers, gesturing towards the bed, "Go to sleep."

"You'll stay?"

He nods at your question, unceremoniously dragging the chair from your desk to your bedside.

"Is that going to be comfortable–" You begin, settling yourself in the bed.

"You're overthinking it," he mumbles, waving at you to lay down. You do, watching as your kitten jumps into his lap, curling up like this is something that happens all the time. (You have the feeling it is) "Have you named him," he asks quietly.

"The kitten? Mm, no. Wanted you to," You say softly, carefully not to unsettle either of them.

"I wouldn't be good at it," Jason protests, eyes flicking between you and the kitten.

"I don't mind," You murmur, "anything's better than 'kitten'."

He pauses, so quiet and still you think he won't answer, "Bean," he mumbles, reluctant as the newly appointed Bean cuddles into his armor.

You smile, "Bean's a good name."

He doesn't answer, seemingly engrossed with watching the kitten.

You take him in for another moment, memorizing his face before closing your eyes. It's not an accident that you leave your palm open and face up by the side of the bed.

There's no more pleasantries exchanged, no sweet goodnights or the gentle touches against your face you've grown used to. But just as you finally start to drift off, as darkness finally draws you to rest, a warm, rough hand weaves itself into yours and squeezes.

Part Three

#arkham knight x reader #jason todd x reader #jason todd #x reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you

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ellecdc · 1 month

Note

HI QUEEN 🎀🩷🎀🩷

I literally just atalkws all your marauders fics for like 2 solid hours. You're writing is healing me at this point.

I was wondering if your requests were open? And if they are can I please request a fic that happens directly after the first war (marauders era) and reader has ptsd and maybe got triggered by the smallest of domestic actions done by one of the boys and comfort ensues for the episode and aftermath guilt?

I'm sorry it's oddly specific, just fighting some demons rn and your awesome writing kinda does the trick heheh

please feel free to ignore this one! love u <33

thanks for your request, love. hope things have been easier on you as of late <3

poly!marauders x fem!reader who is struggling with PTSD [1.5k words]

CW: PTSD, post-war, mention of past character death/grief, panic attack, hurt/comfort

The war had taken its toll on all of you; ghosts of the people you lost and the people you all once were haunted you, reminding you of scars both visible and invisible that coloured every aspect of your life.

There were things that the four of you staunchly refused to talk about; Remus refused to speak about his time in the feral packs, Sirius refused to speak about his brother, James refused to speak about Peter’s betrayal, and you refused to speak about what happened when you went missing.

Perhaps there were healthier ways to manage the grief and pain, perhaps you would all benefit from reconsidering those lines each of you had drawn in the sand.

But you were all alive, you were all together, and you had your whole lives ahead of you, and for now, that was enough.

It was enough until it wasn’t.

It was enough until Remus was sitting on the floor of your kitchen with you pulled into his chest as Sirius hovered in front of you, holding your hands against his chest as he begged you to breathe, to copy his breaths, to come back to him.

To come back to him.

You and James had been fussing in the kitchen making breakfast this morning; Remus being wholly uninterested in mornings but very much interested in the two of you had been sitting at the kitchen table in camaraderie as Sirius shuffled sleepily into the room.

He took the time to admire Sirius’ sleep rumpled hair and the faint lines over his face and bare torso, clearly having rolled straight out of bed before going in search of his loves.

You were reaching into a cupboard to retrieve Sirius’ favourite mug when he came up behind you and placed his hand at the nape of your neck at the exact moment that James burned himself at the stove; cursing loudly and dropping the pan which landed on the floor with a bang, closely followed by the sound of breaking glass.

Remus was up from his seat in record time, aching joints be damned, and at James’ side.

“I’m sorry, I’m okay; sorry.” James gritted out, acquiescing to Remus’ probes and allowing him to examine his hand.

“Awe bubs, you got yourself good.” Remus cooed as he cast a quick aguamenti over the burn.

“Shit, yeah.” He breathed out. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“What broke?” Remus asked then, looking down at the pan that had landed horribly close to James’ feet and searching for evidence of a broken bowl.

“What do you mean?”

“Did you not drop something?” Remus clarified.

James shook his head with furrowed brows. “Just the pan.”

Their bemusement turned to concern when they heard a choked “baby” coming from Sirius’ lips.

Remus’ stomach dropped as he turned to see you half keeled over, leaning against the counter with one hand at your abdomen and the other over your mouth as if you were suppressing a scream.

“Is she hurt!?” James asked quickly, moving swiftly along from his own pain.

“It…I- it was me. I-” Sirius started, sinking to the floor in time with you as your legs seemed wholly unable to hold you up in your current state.

“She’s panicking.” Remus surmised aloud, quickly tiptoeing over what he realised were shards of Sirius’ mug that you’d been procuring moments before.

“Dove? Hey, look at me.” Remus offered as he crouched in front of you.

You shook your head quickly and sucked in a stilted breath. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry, my love, just look at me.”

You shook your head again and tried to back further into the lower cabinets as if hoping they would simply swallow you whole.

“I’ll clean it up. I’m sorry.”

“Sweetheart,” Sirius pleaded, “we’re not worried about the mess.”

“I’m okay.” You sobbed, sounding anything but.

“I know you are, dove. You’re okay, come now.” Remus said as he finally joined you on the floor, leaning back against the cabinets and pulling you into his lap so that you were fully enveloped in his embrace. “Big breath, babylove, can you do that for me?”

You made a high pitched keening sound and shook your head quickly. “I’m sorry.”

Remus looked over to notice that James had his burnt hand held protectively against his chest while his other kneaded into Sirius’ shoulder as he whispered into his ear.

“Look, dove, Jamie can fix the mug no problem, and Siri’s gonna help you take big breaths, okay?” Remus tired then, stirring both boys into action as James straightened and cast a quick reparo to Sirius’ mug and Sirius shuffled over on his knees to station himself between Remus’ spread legs and in front of you.

“Can you copy me, baby? Like this?” Sirius begged. “Just like this.”

Sirius pried your hands away from your face and encouraged them to flatten out against his chest where Remus was sure you could feel the hammering of his heart as he took a dramatic breath for your benefit.

You choked out a few more apologies that both boys gently admonished you for as you tried to copy Sirius’ breaths; they were nowhere near as deep or graceful, but Remus was thankful for your effort nonetheless.

James reappeared then, his own hand now wrapped with medical tape and smelling strongly of Remus’ healing balms when he held something out for you.

“Angel, can you do me a favour?” He asked extraordinarily softly that it even had Remus feeling more at ease. “Can you hold these for me?”

Remus watched your face as you wretched your eyes open - another ‘deep breath’ stilted by a sob as you looked to him - to see him holding two large spheres of ice that Sirius had for his firewhiskey.

Sirius kept his hands gently stationed on your arms as you removed them from his chest and accepted the ice from James, still never letting go even as the ice began to melt and drip freezing water down your wrists.

When your sobs became the occasional hiccups and Remus felt you deflate further into his embrace, he braved a gentle caress of your upper arms in warning of his presence.

“Better?” He murmured lowly into your shoulder, earning him a deep sigh that came out only slightly shaky.

“I…think so. I’m s-”

“No, no, dove.” He admonished quickly, peppering slow kisses along your shoulder and the column of your neck. “There’s nothing to apologise for.”

“I didn’t mean to cause a scene.” You murmured quietly, and Remus watched as Sirius’ face crumpled.

“You didn’t cause a scene, baby.” He argued quickly. “You were scared; I-”

James made a sympathetic sound in the back of his throat as he wrapped an arm around Sirius and pressed his lips to his long-haired boyfriend’s head.

“Should we not touch you like that, dove? Here?” Remus asked carefully then; dragging a barely-there finger across the nape of your neck and watching goosebumps appear.

“No, that’s fine, I- it wasn’t that I…it was just both and I…I didn’t sleep very well and it was just…”

“Too much?” Sirius offered as James relinquished you of what was left of your ice that had you and Remus damp, drawing circles into your wrists that he still had secured in his grasp.

“Just at once, I’m sorry.”

“Angel…” James chided.

“I am sorry.” You insisted as you looked at James imploringly. “I’ve not been doing a very good job handling my shit lately and now I’ve ruined the morning for everyone.”

“It’s not your shit, baby, and it’s not only yours to handle; we’re supposed to be helping you too, yeah?” Sirius pressed as he craned his neck to meet your eye that you were trying to avoid.

“And you didn’t ruin anything; you could never ruin anything.” James added.

You sniffled at that and took another deep breath that hardly shook at all as you leaned further into Remus. “Is your hand okay, Jamie?”

James smiled softly at you before bending down to press a kiss to your forehead. “It’ll be good as new, but I owe Moons some healing balm since I used a whole jar from his stash.”

“I’ll buy it!” Sirius announced quickly, surprising a small laugh from you.

“I’d think not, Pads; I’m the one who used it up!”

“Yes but you’re the one who was hurt, I’m the one who upset our girl.”

“I upset her too.” James countered as they began arguing who had played a bigger hand in this morning’s commotion.

You and Remus shared a fond yet exasperated look before the two of you stood - on shaky legs after being folded up for so long - and opted to take a warm shower and change into dry clothes.

It may not have been the start to the day any of you would have liked, but you all made it out okay, you were all together, and you had your whole lives ahead of you.

And for now, that was more than enough.

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querenciasturniolo · 8 months

Note

chris or matt x fem!reader please !!! i legitimately cannot choose between them for my life so you can choose :) maybe reader’s also like an influencer and they have this secret sort of relationship for a while and its all super fluffy, but fans are already starting to speculate that they’re together and stuff, and then at the end they finally go public with a hard launch and/or live and everyone in the comments ( or chat if it’s a live ) is going FERAL

p.s. also i’ve loved your works for so long you DO NOT UNDERSTAND and i’ve finally gathered up the courage to send in a message even tho it’s sent in with a request !

hard launch ⮕ m.s.

word count: 911

warnings: swearing

summary: request

a/n: STOP YOU’RE SO SWEET 😭 please don’t be scared of me, i promise i don’t bite HAHAHA, ily are you kidding me 🫶🏻😭 also this was so fucking cute, i’m obsessed fr

everything written is completely fictional. the people i write for are written with characteristics and mannerisms that i made for them, this is in no way depicting what would actually happen in real life.

Watching Matt stream always had your heart stuttering in your chest.

The theme for Hogwarts Legacy was playing as he was adjusting his camera, your eyes watching him closely and trying to fight the smile stretching across your face. You were sure the viewers could see you staring, considering you were sitting in the chair directly next to him, on camera. His eyes dropped from the screen as he grabbed his controller.

“Alright guys, so, we’re playing Hogwarts Legacy tonight, but I have a special guest with me, as you all can see.” He turned his head and met your eyes, his own smile growing and his cheeks tingeing pink as he caught you already staring. Introduce yourself, he mouthed. You turned to face the camera, grinning wider than before as your eyes scanned over the chat.

“Hey guys, I’m the guest, obviously. My name is Y/n.” You said.

did anyone else see the way she was staring at matt ? they’re in love, confirmed

she’s so real, i’d be staring too

i can’t even handle this, she’s so cute

“Basically, Y/n’s going to play while I tell her what to do. She’s never held a controller in her life.” Matt teased, his eyes flickering between the screen and the chat as you pressed the button to start the game.

“Wait, I have to create a whole character?” You asked, glancing over at Matt as he placed the headset over your ears. He chuckled and nodded.

“Yes, you have to create a whole character, is that not what you were expecting when you begged me to play this game?” He teased. You rolled your eyes and adjusted the headset, making sure the ear that was on his side was exposed so you could hear him.

“This is ridiculous, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me I had to create an entire chara—oh my God I can have pink hair, I take it back.” You rambled, scrambling through the hair colors. Matt’s laugh next to you had you grinning as your eyes flickered between the screen and the chat.

this banter is only proving my point that they’re in love

i’m so glad she’s streaming with him this is so funny

has anyone else noticed that matt hasn’t looked at the screen once

You glanced over at Matt, meeting his eyes immediately. You couldn’t help but mirror his smile as you shook your head and faced the screen again. You created your character, groaning when you realized you had to go through a thousand cut scenes, even though you were thrilled to be playing this game.

“I never understood why you can’t see those weird horse things until that dude gets eaten by the dragon.” Matt said, catching your attention enough for you to glance at him with wide eyes and a slack jaw. You sighed through your nose and shook your head.

“I forgot, you’re a fake fan.” You said, interrupting him before he could fire back. “They’re thestrals, you can only see them if you’ve witnessed death, but they’re always there.” You explained, Matt furrowing his eyebrows as you faced the screen again.

y/n being a harry potter fan was not on my docket, but i’m not complaining

her humbling matt has got to be the funniest fucking thing i’ve ever seen in my life

i love this

The entire time you were going through the beginning quests, you and Matt had bickered back and forth, your smile wide with each comeback you shot at him. It wasn’t until a knock on Matt’s door that the two of you stopped talking. You paused the game, but Matt scoffed and unpaused it.

“You keep playing.” He demanded playfully, your own scoff leaving your lips as you shook your head and continued. Chris peeked his head into the door.

“Food’s here, just thought you guys should know.” He said, Matt nodding his head. Chris left the room, and Matt turned to you.

“I’ll go get it.” He said, standing from the chair as you turned to face him. Before you could process it, he leaned down and pressed his lips to yours firmly and turned to leave the room. You smiled and shook your head before facing the screen and realizing what just happened.

oh mY GOD I FUCKING KNEW IT

DID ANYONE ELSE SEE THAT ??????

WHAT IS GOING ON MATT JUST KISSED HER ON FUCKING STREAM

You ignored the chat, trying to play it off and completely move past what happened, thinking that Matt did it on instinct. Chats were flying in at such a rapid pace that it felt as though everything on the screen was lagging. It was completely screwing up how you were playing, not only your racing heart and shaking hands on the controller.

You completely short circuited, having no idea what to do as Matt walked back into his room. He was laughing at something Chris had said as he sat down next to you and glanced over at the chat.

“Oh.”

You looked over at him and raised your eyebrows, your skin on fire as you watched his eyes scan over the rapid chats flying in at once.

“Yeah.” You said, Matt finally meeting your eyes with pink cheeks. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders, leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to your nose before he sat back and grinned widely.

“I guess that was one hell of a hard launch, huh?”

tags: @strniolo , @ssturniolo , @thetriplets3 , @stvrni0lo , @gabbylovesreading , @dwntwn-strnlo , @tylerscreat0r , @toyourloves , @lvrsparadise , @angelcake-222 , @20nugs , @obsessivencrazy , @lollibumblebee , @stargirlv0id , @jellybeanbby , @idontexistman , @emssturniolo , @soursturniolo , @bernardenjoyer , @mxqdii , @leah-loves-lilies , @mattsnutsack , @champangekisses , @floofparker , @lovelysturniolo

#sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo imagine #matt sturniolo blurb #matt sturniolo fic #matt sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo x you #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #nick sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo #the sturniolos #the sturniolo triplets #querenciasturniolo

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cookie-waffle · 1 year

Text

Hot take but the gerudo vai outfit was never “sexy” to me. Even back when I was 17-18 and was still looking at botw Link like 👀.

To me it looked more “cute” than anything. Especially since the young children in gerudo town wear similar-ish outfits. (yea, I get that the gerudo outfits are really poorly designed)

But in totk a lot of the outfits seem to be more blatantly suggestive. I mean holy shit, this open back is literally pointing directly to his ass

Bro finally got to show up in a game as an adult (who isn’t dead or actually a 9 yr old trapped in a teen’s body) for the first time, and by Hylia did Nintendo let him go feral. He is serving cunt and being nonbinary and building giant flaming cock robots to his heart’s content. Good for him.

#tears of the kingdom #totk spoilers

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jadeslayter · 3 months

Text

︶ ◜ᴗ◝ ࣪ 𓈒・ 𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍' 𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐍 𓇼

꒰ : 𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇 ˚ ｡ ⋆

★ The jjk men have a marathon session . ★ Pairings ⦂ Sukuna , Geto , Toji x Fem!Reader ⭒ (separate)

꒰ ୭ৎ 𓂃 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓 ׂ ׅ

♡⃕⠀ - short drabble : scratching, choking, somnophilia, (dom & feral jjk men cus yesss), degradation, praise, overstim, piv, creampies, spanking, dub-con, dumbification, edging, domestic Geto, power dynamic, true-form kuna, masochism

୫; - pet names : doll , (pretty) girl, baby, princess, mama, ma ୫; - wc : 3k

─── ⋮𝐑. 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀

THE ROOM WAS HOT. Sweltering, even— thick air swallowing your shaking body as you convulsed underneath that bastardly curse; his nails digging angry crescent moons into the plush of your supple thighs– reddened from his previous assault. “Takin’ that c-ock so good,” Sukuna would praise, his warm breath bellowing directly into your face as his hips snapped forwards with ungodly haste, stretching your overstimulated cunt until your velvet walls sheathed the entirety of his size. He wanted you full of shaft– full of him. “I should make it..fuckbaby,” He paused, reeling his head back in pleasure. “Should make things h-arder for..you.. yeah?”

This was not a question, but a statement— Sukuna would ask these things to make you feel as though you had some sense of power over the situation. You hadn’t, but it never hurt to imagine you did. Sukuna preferred things this way, and you’d accede, too. He was certain of it.

The man’s calloused hands— two of them, the other pair gripped firmly behind your knees, locking your thighs against your chest in a tight mating press— travel along the lines of your body, grazing over your sweat slicked skin. Lower and lower— tantalizingly lower.

Until they were nestled within the cute folds of your cunt, his big fingers working the bud from hiding as he pinched her between two rough fingers. Not gently, either. He wanted to hurt you; and so he would. He’d squeeze on your little clit with malice, massaging the bud aggressively between an index and a thumb. His other hand spread your lips, sheen coating his shaft in sinful pleasure.

You’d be cockhungry and desperate by the time he was finished with you— a sloppy puddle of a woman drenched in her own arousal. “‘Kuna—Fuck,’Kuna!” You would scream into the recesses of your lovers neck, inundate scent enveloping you; sukuna laying his full claim to every inch of your being. It was impossible to escape him.

Your toes curled, his precious cock head jutting against an all too familiar patch of textured velvet. Sukuna was an expert at anatomy— your anatomy, only. He knew your body like the back of his hand, and he’d studied hard to understand it. He’d shoved every inch of himself inside of you to accustom himself with your pleasure points, and he wasn’t afraid to admit it.

“Shut up n’ take that fuckin’ dick,” He would be so mean with you, degrading you— invalidating you crudely as he split you on his cock. He just couldn’t help but lose his sense of stability, you knew that, Doll.

He was very lenient with you; very loving, in all the ways he knew how to be. Not many. But, the effort was still there.

His body would press down against yours— his weight heavy above you as his waist slammed down into you; his inches slipping inside of you with ease, slicked with your pitiful fucking orgasms. Over and over (and over).

He made you cum so much. Until you were physically unable to move beneath him— it just felt so good. But seeing you immobile wasn’t enough; he needed you brain dead. He needed you to rely on him, you could do that, couldn’t you? You would. He’d make sure you fucking did.

“Kuna, fuck—right there, baby— hohgod, g’na cum!” The words ripped from your throat, your moans bellowing within the echoes of your bedroom. “yesyesyes, Kuna— fuck m’ cummin’”

“Yeah, baby, give me what I want— gimme ‘notha one, make it g-ood. Don’t you dare disappoint me.” He meant what he said. His words were sharp in your ears; his breath hitting against the shell of your ear.

And God, would you fucking cum. All over his cock— for the nth time. Your release flowed out of you with haste, coating his shaft in another layer of your euphoria. Your body would convulse, shivering desperately beneath the man once more as you struggled to overcome your high.

His thighs wouldn’t stop their smacking; his heavy balls slapping against your cunt with hellish velocity— Godspeed. He was so careless.

“Thas’ it, Pretty girl,” He huffed, his chest heavy with the weight of his own impending orgasm. “Giveitall— give it t’ me. Not stoppin’ til’ you’re fallin’ asleep on my cock.”

─── ⋮𝐒. 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎

“DONTSTOPDONTSTOPDONTSTOP,” You’d pant, latching your flailing hands around the bare abdomen of your lover– his skin dewy with sweat as he forced another inch of himself into your sopping walls; cunt swallowing his shaft expectantly.

He was right where you wanted him— ramming against that spot with genuine rapture; his hips rocking into you gingerly. “Don’t stop, baby? Yeah?” He’d mimicked, his hands traversing the frill of your nightgown; thin silk hiked over your thighs, pooling above your bellybutton.

Cute little lolita top he bought you on the night of your honeymoon— the night you were finally taken by a real man— it had always looked so good on you; the blue of the fabric slightly faded over the years of your marriage. He loved seeing you in his clothes; albeit his personal wardrobe, or the clothing you’ve accumulated with his money. The feeling never faltered.

Geto would be obsessed with the way your perky nipples peak from below the fabric, sensitive buds hardened underneath the restrictions of your nightgown.

A strained chuckle would pass Geto’s pre-parted lips, heavy breaths and groans resounding within the man's throat. “Thas’it, Baby,” Suguru would moan, the intensity of his thrusts sending recoils through your body. You’d grip the headboard for stability– fuzzy brain swarmed with indescribable pleasure.

Geto was an elephant when it came to retaining information; all information. Names, dates, locations, everything. So, naturally, Geto’s interests peaked when you had mentioned being woken up to the rock of his hips between your thighs; how foreign his cock would feel inside of your sleepy lil’ cunt while you dreamt of him, and how familiar it’d feel when you awoke to the sensation of spilling on his length.

So here he lay, a soft hand wrapped firmly around the width of your neck, the other clasped firm within the bend of your knee, your ankle resting upon his broad shoulders. That cute little nightgown of yours clinging to the curvature of your body with sweat.

You were so pretty when you were like this— cum drunk, lust clouding your comprehension. You only knew how to ask for more and more. You only spoke Geto’s language, and he had no problem following suit. You were his— through and through.

“This pussy’s s’ fuckin’ good, Baby,” A husky groan reverberating in his throat— adam’s apple bobbing as he spoke. “‘specially when i work her up in the mornin’.” You felt so good around him. Looked good, too; cute little cunt puffy with overstimulation; your holes clenching so desperately around his thick cock.

And those eyes, Jesus, those eyes, Baby. He could stare into them for hours; big curious orbs blown with pleasure. Hearts practically morphed your irises; delectation overwhelming. This— in all of its glory— is why he wanted you in missionary; wanted to see that pretty, drool-crusted face as he edged you into oblivion.

He almost felt bad for you— princess pussy so sensitive, yet so eager for a release. So needy, only for his package. “So—hnh— full’f me, yeah? Wanna cum, Princess?” His pelvis pistoned between your shaking thighs as the heat of a prolonged orgasm washed over the both of you, coiling the knot within your stomach with yearning.

Geto would roll his hips into you, slowing his pace as he ground himself deep within your velvet walls, pressing your abdomen into the mattress— his raven locs veiling against your forehead; hair disheveled atop his head. He was so focused. Determined.

He looked the most attractive this way, his skin ripe with droplets of sweat; blotchy patches dotting his arms— soon-to-be-bruises forming just beneath his flesh. He looked so strained above you, thrusting everything he had into your cunt as he distributed his weight into his forearms, his nose directly against yours.

He’d exhale against your lips, beridding his lungs of their oxygen before pulling you into a sensual, slow, kiss— his lips entrapping yours as they began to swell with pressure; his teeth boring indentions into the plush.

Geto would tilt his head slightly to the right , angling his nose before yours as he deepened the kiss; his desperation palpable. His tongue would slick over your lips; a gesture of request— and he’d slip himself within your mouth when you oblige, his tongue exploring your cavern hungrily.

You’d dance in tango, tongues swirling vehemently as the kiss grew increasingly sloppier with every reposition of your lips against his; saliva glistening along the corners of your lips, some dripping upon your chin.

His cock continues its cruel assault, bucking away at your g-spot with malice; his hips shifting slightly to elicit more lude noises from your throat— to which he would swallow up in that kiss, drinking down your essence as he fucked himself into you.

He was fucking you so good. The pleasure had your eyes rolling into your skull, your toes pointed with tension.

So fucking close. Just a few more thrusts—

Geto’s lips unlatch themselves from yours, a bubble of intimacy stringing between you before snapping, the droplets warm against your flesh as they land.

A deep sigh; and then it’s gone. Everything. The movement of his hips ceases between your bruised thighs— begrudgingly, ‘course. You’d feel so empty; so indifferent, so.. frustrated. He’d taunted you with the idea of an orgasm yet again; eighth time in counting.

“Not yet,” He’d huff as he’d collapse above you, his flesh adhering to yours with sweat— lots n’ lots of it. “Just a little bit longer, You can hold it f’ me, huh?”

─── ⋮𝐅. 𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈

SOMETIMES WHEN TOJI fucked you, you were physically incapable of making any noise.

It just felt that good— your little cock hungry brain unable to process any sounds other than pitiful whimpers, occasional gasps when he’d force the arch of your back deeper into the mattress.

Especially after he’d ram the entirety of his dick into you; his balls slapping against your thighs, girthy 7 inches bottoming out within you, not the slightest shiver of repentance. This was your punishment, after all. What did he have to be apologetic for?

Certainly not your actions. You were responsible for atoning those. And you would, he’d make sure of it. Your careless transgressions were what got you in this position to begin with— slutty little holes on display for him while you drooled helplessly upon the cotton of his pillowcase, your saliva soaking the fabric through and through.

“D’aww, Mama,” He’d chuckled ingenuienly through his teeth, callous fingers adamant with their search between your legs, his broad fingertips circling your clit prudently with the resolve of his amatory impurity. He wanted you so bad; wanted to split you open with his seed, fill your breeding chamber until you were swollen with every last drop. “T’s too much? hmm? c’mon, use that mouth, t’s all ya’ good for, idntit?”

Toji was so mean.

So condescending as he forced his vigilantic tournament upon your cunt. She could take it.

But God, it’d feel so good. He’d feel so good inside of you, stretching your velvet over the length of his cock, burrowing himself into your cute lil’ g-spot. He loved being inside of you, even if it were for the benefit of punishing you with the sadistic means of fucking you until you nearly safeworded.

He hadn’t wanted to hurt you, Doll. Only a lil’ bit. Out of spite, ‘course.

You’d manage to force a lamentable little whine once more, nodding your head frantically as your sweat adhered your forehead to the pillowcase. “Please,t’stoomuch, Jiji— god, rightthere!” Muffled moans swallowed up by the material your husband were fucking you into.

“Yeah, right there?” His tone was teasing, his voice pitching as he mocked your desperate pleas of pleasure; how very piteous you sounded begging him to continue with his assault on your insides. Had you no shame, baby? But t’s okay, Toji preferred you absolutely fucking stupid on his dick. Easier for him to thrust his seed into your cunt, because you were simply unable to object. Not like you would, anyway.

Your arch deepened, the fat of your ass recoiling against Toji’s brutality— skin slapping whilst your eyes rolled into the back of your skull. So fucking good. Toji knew just what you needed— knew your body better than you had.

Knew how to push you beyond your limits; have you a crying, screaming mess on his bedsheets. He loved seeing you so voracious; all created by him.

“You don’t get to say that,” He breathed, his thrusts erratic from behind you— peak of his orgasm approaching rapidly, desirous cockhead famished for its release. “‘T’s too much’, this ‘s—..fuck, Baby— This is your f-ault.”

A coy chuckle, and then he’d shove your face deeper within the recesses of the mattress— his right hand heavy above your head as he crushed your frame into the foam. His fingers entangle your roughly tousled hair— the singe of his grip searing through your scalp. “If you’d learn patience, I wouldn’t have ‘t fuck you this way—“ His large knuckles strategically angle your head, his fist pressing your left cheek into the pillow. “Now you’re stuck, Mama,”

Toji was so ashamed of you, he had trained you so much better than this. You couldn’t even resist your primal urges long enough— couldn’t respect yourself or your husband long enough to wait for his return. Had to call and call his phone; sending him nude photos of those perfectly unbruised breasts, squeezed between a pair of elbows Toji so desperately wanted tied behind your back.

Your soft eyes would gaze up at the camera as you angled your tits into the frame, snapping the photo and shooting it off to your preoccupied, very busy, husband. Caption being a string of pouting emojis, your desperation almost sickening. Toji’s eyes glossed the minute he opened the inappropriate image, his cheeks warm with the creeping effects of your careless neglect.

He had you stripped bare and teary eyed in no less than 10 minutes after walking in the door; no hooking his keys, hanging his coat; slipping off his shoes— straight to the bedroom, straight to burying his cock inside of your disgustingly greedy cunt. “Yeah, this’s what ya’ wanted, wadntit’, fuckin’ whore.” He had panted against your skin after his second soul snatching nut, gleaming as he watched the cum spill from your hole. You were able to speak then, strings of curse words and affection spilling from your raspy throat.

But now he’s pushing out his fifth, and all you can do is lay breathless, pinned to the mattress as your body jolts from the force behind— your ass bruised in bright red handprints, purple and dark green splotches adorning either side of your waist's curvature. Your cunt tight and unwinding against your lovers intrusion as the heat of your orgasm buzzed overhead.

“Oohbaby, t’s’ close, huh? Can feel that pussy clenchin’, Ma.” He rasped deeply, beads of sweat dribbling down onto your back as he rammed himself into you. “Go ‘head, Baby, cum on this dick— fuck, yeaahh baby, M’ cummin’, too,”

He shot another thick load within you, your pussy clenching down— spazzing helplessly against shaft as he bucked, the accuracy and rhythm of his thrusts receding. He gripped onto your waist for support, balancing himself before lifting his right leg and sitting the flat of his foot against the bedsheet, angling himself inside of you to better overstimulate that poor lil’ g-spot.

Your screams would prove futile; the fatigue of your cries evident, though no sound emits, your vocal chords just too strained. The sting hurt so good, overstimulation paralyzing you. You really were stuck at the mercy of this man, cumming repetitively on his cock like it’d be your last.

His thighs resounded off of yours as he fucked the both of you through your paralytic highs, his dick splitting you deftly. It wasn’t long before the peak of yet another release overcame, the sensation sending a rush of euphoric bliss over you as you gasped, your body language giving way to your liberation; shivers and jolts of electricity firing through you— a tired arch faltering underneath him.

Exactly the way Toji wanted you. Punishing you was so much easier when you obeyed. When you sat and took your punishment like a big girl— Toji’s big, strong girl. Like you’d take this one, over and over, until he decided he was done with you.

And he was far from that. You hadn’t begged enough, and that just wouldn’t do. No matter, you’d pay with every drop of cum you pushed out of that swollen, sweat-slicked cunt.

“Gimmie anotha’ one, c’mon, cream until you’ve learned your fucking lesson— til you learn the privilege of restraint.”

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