#Clea x reader

[spookie-bitch]

*ੈ✩‧₊˚Information station *ੈ✩‧₊˚

Requests are open! Asks and requests are prioritized the same; the older it is, the higher it is on my priority list.

Who I write for:

JENNA ORTEGA CHARACTERS: Jenna Ortega Wednesday EVA GREEN CHARACTERS: Eva Green Artemisia Miss peregrine CHARLIZE THERON CHARACTERS: Charlize Theron Lady Lesso Andy of Scythia Clea Strange DISNEY VILLAIN MULTIVERSE: Cruella (2021) Maleficent

If you wanna request something make sure they're open so you don't have to ask again. If requests are open and you need some ideas, you can use this Prompt List. It's obviously not required <3

Material list

If you have any questions feel free to ask :)

[cleasimp]

Fluff relationship headcanons for Clea

General headcanons because I be simping.

-Will scare anyone that hurts you or makes you upset. She isn’t the warlord of Manhattan for nothing

-Is secretly a big softie and will get flustered if you hold her hand lol

-Goes to coffee and book shops with you.

-Amazing cuddler. Has a slightly higher body temperature than normal due to being a faltine which makes her hugs amazing

-If you somehow end up with a free day, she will sleep in with you or have lazy cuddles in bed

-Would let you lay your head in her lap while she runs her fingers through your hair

-Will listen to you talk about things you like because she really wants to explore who you are as a person

[lotties-ashwagandha]

HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS

riley johnson x fem!reader

you’re home for christmas, and in the chaos of the holiday season you find solace with an old friend. make the yuletide GAY wooooo!!! tell me you see my vision. 3.2k words.

You stand in the corner of the event center like Santa’s greatest reject. You have banished yourself, let yourself succumb to the fate of being The Weird One Standing In The Corner. It suits you better than the rest of the party — you have no connection to local politics here, you haven’t met half of the guests before in your life, and those you have met you would much prefer to stay away from. Your family has ditched you to mingle, and you start to regret coming back for them.

You are home for the holidays, and it has lived up to your expectations. Staying in your childhood home, met with familiar faces around town, dragged to every Christmas party you come across — privacy has evaded you, and so has the prospect of sleep.

You take a sip of your coffee. It’s the only thing keeping you standing — any of the alcohol being passed around would have you passed out in your car, and the warmth helps to soothe the biting chill.

You don’t hear her approach, but you recognize her voice instantly. “Good choice. If I got drunk right now I would grab the microphone off the stage and yell, ‘No, everyone, I can’t hook you up for any dull pain in your funny bone.’”

You turn to see her, a cup of coffee in her hands to match your own. She watches you with tired eyes, an ever-worn expression that you know every line and look of. Riley Johnson has joined you at your side.

“I didn’t know you were back in town,” Riley says. She turns to gaze out at the rest of the party. “You never called me.”

Fuck.

“Everything happened so last minute,” you lie. You knew you were coming back for weeks before you left home. “It has all passed by so quickly. The holidays always happen that way.”

She hums in response, offering a quick nod. Riley takes a sip of her coffee, a faint crimson smudge is left behind on the mug.

You’re desperate for anything to say to get yourself out of this. “Are you enjoying the party?”

Riley gives you a deadpan look and shoves her free hand into the pocket of her grey blazer. “No.”

It’s been a year, almost exactly, since you last saw Riley Johnson. You were once friends in high school, then roommates in your first two years of college, and now since you moved away you have been immaculately estranged. Since your early twenties you have been seeing one another once a year: during your visits to your hometown during the holidays.

You shouldn’t be avoiding her. Your relationship with Riley has faded pleasantly — she’s a doctor now, you’re successful in your own field, both of you have all you could want out of life. Yet the nostalgia you experience every time you meet her again is wrenching. It has become ingrained in you, triggered at every photo you see of her, the sound of her voice, the way you watch each other change and age with every passing year.

Riley studies you. She smiles softly. “You aren’t enjoying yourself either.”

“Just wait until the White Elephant party.”

She’s silent for a moment, clears her throat and looks back out at the crowd. “I don’t think I’m going this year.”

“You’re not?” A great sense of dread comes over you. Every year you attend the White Elephant gift exchange hosted by Harper’s family — Riley’s ex, another one of your strained friendships, whose family is intensely close to yours. You go every year. Riley usually joins you and for the night you are instantly allies again in the suffering.

“I have had enough years in a row of going to my ex’s house on Christmas Eve, getting drunk on cheap spiced alcohol, and spending the day at the mall wanting to kill myself in pursuit of a White Elephant gift.”

It is a fair point, but still… “I don’t think I can make it through the event without you.”

“No, you will be just fine,” she says. “Don’t let me get in your way.”

You need a drink after all – you need a drink because the hidden implication that you don’t need her has brought you to your limit. “Up for grabbing microphones off the stage?”

“What?”

You look down at your empty coffee mug, over at the drinks being served at the bar near the entrance.

You sit with Riley on a bench outside the building. Three drinks in now, both of your spirits have been lifted, and you disregard the cold night. The light coming from inside the party is cast over you, though you find relief from the noise of the crowd.

“Wait, wait,” Riley starts. “Do you remember when we went to a gay bar for the first time together? And then we got a cab home back to our apartment and you fucking vomited all over the backseat?”

You cringe at the memory, but beside you Riley is hardly able to breathe through her laughter. You throw your head into your hands. “I thought the driver was going to kill me that night.”

Riley pulls one of your hands away from your face and jabs a finger at you. “If you had thrown up in our apartment then I would have killed you. You got lucky.”

“I don’t know if lucky is the right word. Everyone around town was talking about me for weeks.”

“Oh, come on,” she sighs contentedly. “You’re complaining to the wrong person when it comes to public disgrace.”

She leans against you, hands stuffed into the pocket of her blazer and empty glass disregarded on the ground by her feet. For warmth, you think. She leans against you for warmth, and because you lived together for years, and because you are familiar and safe and even after all these years she knows everything about you. She leans against you because, like you, she holds trust in your friendship — however strained and monotonous and lonesome.

You want to wrap an arm around her and pull her closer. You want to lean into her, too, close your eyes and let yourself succumb to the comfort of her beside you and the sharp pine of her perfume. You stay still — if anything, you become more tense, though an unwelcome giddiness spreads through you at having her so close and you work hard to resist the urge to take her hand in yours.

“You’re an asshole,” Riley says.

You panic. “Why?”

“The elephant in the room. It wants me to go to its party.”

“It told you itself?”

Riley nods.

“What else did it say?”

Riley sits back up straight. She considers the mysterious white elephant’s words. “That we should go into town tomorrow and look for White Elephant gifts — unless you’ve already gone shopping.”

“I haven’t yet,” you smile. “I would love to go.”

“Good,” she nods. Her gaze settles on you, she leans back against the bench. For a second she seems to hesitate, gauging your expression to anticipate how you might respond when she says: “I’ve missed this.”

You nod, searching for the words – you have missed this too, you have missed Riley so intensely that you try to disregard any memory of her as it resurfaces during your everyday life. You have missed her so much that you neglected calling her and telling her you were coming back home for Christmas this year because you knew that if you saw her you would leave feeling empty without her. “I’ve missed this too,” you say simply. “I wish we could see each other more often. Once a year isn’t enough.”

Riley smiles softly, her features possessed with the same nostalgia wracking you. She doesn’t have to say it: once a year is the best the two of you will get. Your ship has sailed, you have parted ways, and you will have to make do with the blessing of your paths crossing every once in a lifetime.

Riley stands up. She looks down at you, surveying you for any changes since last year, in the same way you have been examining her. Above all, in her you have noticed a new exhaustion. It possesses her features with tantalizing strength, it has grown parasitically.

“Tomorrow,” she starts, always in her same awkwardness that is charismatic in a way you are not. “We will brave the storm of the mall.”

Terrifying. “I’ll meet you there.”

The night has grown colder. Riley stalks off and a frozen breeze whips against you, and no matter how you brace against it you are chilled to the bone.

You eye the forgotten glass she has left by the leg of the bench.

When Riley meets you at the mall the next morning, you are jittery with the coffee buzz you’ve gotten. You’re nervous, though you hardly have reason to be, and through a lapse of judgement you have been sipping on copious amounts of holiday-flavored coffee drinks while you wait for her.

Riley steps into the coffee shop you had agreed to meet at. It is a place of refuge from the chaos of the rest of the mall, though you have tried to escape the worst of the last-minute Christmas shoppers by going so early in the morning.

In an attempt to be gallant you pay for the black coffee she orders. A simple gesture, one she thanks you for and that you hope can start your journey of reconnecting.

“Okay,” she takes her coffee and looks out of the coffee shop at the rest of the mall. “Anywhere you have in mind to start with?”

You hesitate. It’s been so long since you visited the mall here – you usually come to town with a White Elephant gift in tow, but this year you ran out of time. You shake your head listlessly.

“Come on,” Riley grabs your arm and leads you into the mall.

First she leads you into a home decor store. You browse dinnerware, towels, anything cheap but still appealing enough to give away at a party.

Riley disappears into an area of kitchen gadgets and comes back with a plastic handheld citrus juicer. “Look at this fucking thing.”

She holds it up like a block of gold.

“Oranges,” she starts listing with a deadpan expression, “lemons, limes, grapefruit. Juicers are the future.”

You take the juicer from her. Looking it over, you see the appeal, but you don’t think Ted or Tipper will be as enthusiastic about a citrus juicer. Even one of the high-tech mechanical ones would still be a disappointment to their standards.

Riley snatches it back. “You don’t like it?”

“I like it,” you try. Riley shakes her head and tosses the juicer into the basket you carry.

“I’ll get it for myself. Merry Christmas.”

You look down into the basket. “You used to have one of these when we lived together. You would juice a bunch of oranges and make one singular mimosa for yourself on Sundays.”

Riley nods. The two of you walk deeper into the store. “Remember why you never got a mimosa?”

“No.”

“I had two juicers. The first one broke because you tried to crack nuts in it.”

Oh.

You pay for the citrus juicer, too. “For my sins,” you tell her and offer the juicer in a plastic bag.

You visit a fragrance store next. You decide that if you would appreciate a gift of seasonally-scented soap, so might someone else. You test the peppermint scents, the snowball scents, every variation of gingerbread. The store is packed and you lose Riley in the fray, but you end up by a back wall of older scents you suspect are soon to be cycled out.

You test the scents of the perfumes and soap, but one of them gives you pause. An old perfume you used to wear when you were younger. You thought the line had ended, but now you hold it new and rebranded.

“What’s that?” Riley peers over your shoulder. “Did you find one?”

You hand it to her. “You won’t remember. I used to wear this all the time, I thought it had been discontinued.”

Riley holds it up to smell. There’s a change in her features, the same heady nostalgia that you wore last night has spread to her. “I remember.” She looks down at the perfume, then back up at you, something unreadable in her expression that has you averting your gaze as your chest tightens. “It still suits you… Let me buy it for you.”

You shake your head. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

She has made it to the cash register before you can stop her.

You end up at Riley’s house after purchasing your White Elephant gift, a gift card you put no thought into that everyone will be disappointed in — it’s hardly a gift, and not extravagant enough for White Elephant, but as the mall had gotten busier both of you had been craving to get out. Riley had invited you back for a drink, and it had been beyond you to decline.

You sit on the sofa with her, glass of wine in hand. A small fire dances in the fireplace, relief from the chill running through her house — one far larger than yours, exhibiting the wealth she has obtained through the years. You have been successful apart in your own fields, but you hadn’t realized the extent of Riley’s accomplishment until you had stepped into one of the grandest houses in town.

Instead of feeling welcomed by the grandeur, though, the house feels isolating. It is empty, except for her, and while you know she enjoys her solitude you can’t help but question how much more confined one would feel in the winter months living in a home like this.

“It’s different here for you, isn’t it?” Riley questions. “More contained than Christmas in the city.”

She says it like you loathe the ground you walk on, and you would sell your soul to be back in your house in the city a few hours away. As if you are dropping down into the fire every year you come back to smaller suburbs.

“It’s familiar,” you say carefully. “There are always pieces of this place I’ll miss and pieces I would rather not see again.”

“Is that why you didn’t call me?” She asks, studying you carefully, wearing a playful expression to fall back on. Gold is reflected in her eyes from the fire. It casts the two of you in its light, the rest of the room darkening as the day fades on.

“No,” you shake your head, stunned by the implication – but you remember your earlier avoidance of her, and even now you feel it in your bones drawing you away as you feel forever pulled towards her. It is a balance you don’t understand. “I always want to see you.”

Riley takes a long drink of her wine. Then she leans forward, elbows resting on her knees, and a spike of adrenaline runs through you like a high at her proximity. The silence between you is a heavy, living thing, charged with something best left unnamed. Her gaze flicks up to you and you hate how your breath catches, like it is her your heart beats for. “I hate those fucking parties.”

You know. You hate them, too, the political events and social squabbles hosted annually by the families the two of you grew up with – the events you hardly have a choice but to go to, because you have nowhere else to be for Christmas without a family started on your own and the parties are part of the package.

“I only go for you,” she says softly – anxiously. It is a new color on her. “I’ll never get anywhere with the people here. They all think I’m a stalker.”

You smile. “Aren’t you?”

“Are you into that?”

“I could be.”

Riley laughs, it cuts through the tenderness of her earlier confession. She sets her glass down on the coffee table. When she sits back up she shifts closer to you, like you are a very curious and outlandish thing to occupy space in her home, but one she would like to keep here permanently.

Again, you want to pull her closer to you, live in the bliss of her claiming your senses – and immediately, like being shot in the leg, you realize the nature of your push and pull. Every year it dawns on you and every year you push it aside, the growing love for her that has haunted you throughout every year you have spent apart.

You see it in her, the same longing. It sets you both in terrifying stillness that you don’t know how to break out of. She shifts again and her knee brushes against yours and sends a quick jolt through you, and no matter how you set your gaze away from her you betray yourself in the way you look at her lips.

In the nature of present longing, you make up for past regrets: You kiss her.

She leans into you, wrapping her arms around you and tugging you closer. For a fleeting moment you are wracked with guilt at the touch – after Christmas you will be separated again, back to your own lives and jobs and fates. You will return to your solitude and all of this will have to be forgotten.

The guilt is gone when her tongue slips into your mouth and her hands slide under your shirt. Just for now, you need each other. You have been given the blessing of an escape and it would be a waste of both of your time not to take it – you need it, and you feel in the hunger Riley kisses you with and the yearning in her touch that she needs it, too.

She pushes you to lay down on the couch, lips only leaving yours to pull your shirt over your head. Her hands are cold, you moan into the kiss when they start exploring the newly revealed skin. The warmth of the fire soothes over you in compliment, new softness amid the hunger.

Riley is gentle with you, handling you like an endlessly fragile thing. Her touch is anxious, cautious, but with every passing moment need grows in you, surging beneath your skin. In a smooth motion you pull her down so that it’s Riley with her back to the couch and you hover above her.

Her hands find your hips, nails digging sharply into your skin when you lean down to kiss her. Any hesitation is gone, you are left only with your longing as you rid her of her button-down shirt and your lips latch onto her neck. It comes naturally to you to be above her like this, you are driven on faultless instinct as you find every way to explore her neck and chest that leaves her breath heavy and back arching to find more of you to sate her.

Something breaks in the moment, tenderness returning when she pulls you back up from her neck to meet your eyes.

“Stay here with me,” she whispers. One of her hands runs through your hair and your eyes shut as you savor her. “I want to wake up with you on Christmas.”

You close the distance again, an unspoken promise that you are bound to her. You have found harbor here together, in the privacy of her home and in the love that never extends beyond each other.

HI HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!! happiest season has been my movie obsession this christmas so i had to write a fic for it 😋 if you enjoyed and wanna be my sexy secret santa then fill my stocking with a giant coffee (?) and i will consider it the merriest christmas ever. or just comment or reblog or whatever. anyway love love love you all thank you for reading!!!

[camillecrellin]

Request: Graham Eaton x fem!gf!reader

Plot: Graham seems like someone who isn’t into many kinds of PDA, but I would LOVE to experience or at least read her expressions of PDA. A heavy make out session, an argument like hers with Meghan that turns into the make out session. Maybe them at a party and reader sits on her lap and she gets touchy?

Jealous — Graham Eaton

A/N: It's a short one, but I loved writing it. Enjoy! <333

Word Count: 439

Warnings: Public making out, jealousy, pda

You hated parties. It was never your thing, but Graham wanted to go. It was her best friend’s, Andre’s, birthday party.

And so now you were standing off in the corner, watching your girlfriend talk to her ex, Megan. Graham and Megan had broken up a few years ago on good terms. You knew Megan, you got on well with her. And yet you couldn’t help but feel jealous.

When Graham finished talking to Megan, she instantly locked eyes with you and walked over. Taking a swing of the drink in your hands, you didn’t smile at your girlfriend as you took a seat on Andre’s couch.

Sitting next to you, Graham looked at you face and tilted her head. “Why the long face?”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t respond, making Graham chuckle to herself. “Come on, tell me.”

Graham nudged your shoulder as you looked behind you to see Andre walking past, making you yell over the loud music, “Happy birthday, Andre!”

“Thank you, sis!” Andre yelled back, raising his drink to metaphorically clink yours, making you laugh and blow him a kiss.

“So, you’re ignoring me now.” Graham said, making you place your attention back to her, your smile quickly turning into a frown.

“Fuck you.” You muttered under your breath.

“What did you say?”

“Fuck you, Graham.” You said louder, fully facing the Eaton. “What were you talking to Megan about?”

Graham let out a loud laugh, placing her arm subconsciously around the couch, her hand draping around your shoulder. “Oh my God, you’re jealous.”

“So, what if I am?” You asked. “What the fuck are you gonna do about it?”

“What am I gonna do about it?” Graham challenged, leaning in towards you. Placing a hand on the side of your cheek, she leant forwards smashing her lips onto yours.

A pure euphoric feeling washing over your senses as she pulled you onto her lap. You opened your arms and put them around Graham’s neck, inviting her tongue in your mouth as you completely forgot about the very public social situation around you.

It wasn’t until Andre being Andre came up with a towel and started hitting you two to stop did you realise that you had taken up the focus of the majority of the people in the party.

“Get a room.” Andre complained, a smug smirk falling onto Graham’s face as you sat down on her lap.

Running a hand through your hair, Graham kissed you neck, muttering, “I love you and only you.” Moving up to your ear, Graham nibbled on it teasingly before whispering, “So don’t be fucking jealous.”

[cissyenthusiast010155]

Marvel (MCU) Fandom Masterlist Part. 1 Infinity Saga

This is my Marvel (MCU) Fandom Masterlist ✨ which includes all the Marvel characters and ships I’ve written for Marvel’s Infinity Saga (Phases 1, 2, & 3). Check out my post with all my request details— Requests & Prompt-List! My main navigation post—

Mommy…Master List

Approach at your own risk... smut = * extra smutty=**

Peggy Carter Masterlist

Pepper Stark nee. Potts Masterlist

 Nebula Masterlist

Natasha Romanoff Masterlist

Maria Hill Masterlist

Melinda May Masterlist

Jeri Hogarth Masterlist

Find my Marvel (MCU) Fandom Masterlist Part 2. Multiverse Saga Here!!

Thanks for sticking around 🤍✨🫰🏻 Leave a comment, reblog a post, message me—I want to hear your thoughts!!

© Do not copy, repost, or modify any of my works.

[couldntbedamned]

Sometimes It Hurts Instead

Pairing: Stephen/Reader (unrequited), Stephen/Clea, Reader/Reader's Husband

Warnings: Angst, honestly.

Summary: You see that the man you'd once had feelings for has moved on. You're not sure how to feel.

Note: This is what happens when Adele starts playing while I'm waiting in curbside pickup at the grocery store and I'm already feeling sad because of TikTok dog videos.

It’s a moment captured for the world to see. Standing amongst the wreckage, Dr. Stephen Strange cuts a dashing and handsome figure. He always has, even when you’d wanted to - did - scream at him in frustration because how could he not see just how much his refusal to commit hurt you?

“I told you when we started that I wasn’t looking for a relationship.”

“I know that, but I thought that-”

You’d thought you could change his mind.

“I’m sorry you thought that,” he said. “I’m not the kind of man who’s built for relationships. It would never work.” And he looked mildly regretful, but not desperate to win you back.

Even when you’d screamed and called him a bastard, a dick-whistle, an arrogant self-important fuck… he didn’t yell back.

All these years later you still hate him a just a little for that.

You don’t know the woman standing next to him. She must be new to the pantheon of powered or enhanced heroes that now defend the world. She’d certainly looked powerful as she fought beside him, magic so similar to what he’d become famous for yet so much harsher, more brilliant and pointed. No longer fighting the mystery lady is, you can admit, ethereally beautiful with a sheet of long white hair and a strong, feminine figure clad in purple.

It figured that if he’d ever found someone she’d be stunning, every bit his match.

You’d moved on, eventually. There’d been some drinking and lots of tears and some nights spent inside your tiny apartment wondering where you’d gone wrong. There’d even been therapy, once your friends had had enough and conspired to rally around you and lift you up. You’d met a man who did want a relationship, who did have feelings for you. You love him. You wouldn’t give up your husband and two children for anything, least of all a man who’d never wanted more than casual company and some bedtime fun. You’re happy, you are. 

But seeing Stephen cradle the unknown woman’s face with his scarred, trembling hands causes an ache in your heart you didn’t think you’d still be able to feel.

Had Stephen ever looked at you that tenderly? Had he ever held you that close? More to the point, had he even known how?

If not, he’d clearly learned during all his years away.

Now Miss Purple seems to be the object of his affections, if not adulation.

You watch on the news as Stephen leans into the woman’s own touch, bringing her wrist to his mouth and kissing the inside, uncaring of the cameras rolling and phones flashing. He says something to the mystery woman and there’s the smirk you remember so well. The woman looks around before smiling right back at him and nodding.

They separate with a small kiss - in public! - and then each motioning, begin to help various crews clean up the rubble.

You turn the tv off. You don’t want to see more.

[ciphersonlywife]

guys look it's a miracle!! I finally posted something!!

[solelifauna]

With Bared Teeth & Prayers (Yandere Batfam X Neglected Reader) (Dark!!! Werewolf AU) (PT. 1)

TW: Mentions/allusions to cannibalism, death, and violence.

Three years had passed since that fateful day and your life had only gotten more miserable. Whatever hopes you had for being a part of a family were thwarted as soon as you stepped foot in the household. Bruce doesn't care about you, Dick was straight up mean, Jason (as the pack protector) was aggressive, Tim found you annoying, and Damien simply loathed your existence and would join Dick with his cruelty.

Both Stephanie and Barbara were civil with you, but neither really cared about what you did. Cassandra was nice, sometimes signing to you and giving you scented clothing, but she still didn't really go out of her way to engage with you. The only person who you felt truly cared about you was Alfred.

The first two years you tried your hardest to fit in and get the others to like you. You did whatever they wanted, made sure to learn their interests so you could talk to them, never complained, and made sure to respect the pack's boundaries.

You hoped that eventually, you’d all move past this hurdle and soon you would get along and be allowed in the pack den and other pack activities. Unfortunately, you realized that you would never be considered part of the family or the pack. Which as heartbreaking as it was, was the least of your worries.

You see, there was an ancient custom in werewolf culture concerning new pack members and pack initiation. When a new werewolf is introduced to a pack and their territory, the new werewolf has a certain amount of time to be accepted into the pack; if they’re not, well, they're killed and eaten. 

Yeah… quite terrifying and barbaric if you think about it, but mostly only the old lineages still continue this practice. Which is why you’re absolutely fucked. See, typically when children come to a pack they get accepted immediately, pups were (usually) considered precious.

In your case, being a half-blood severely reduced your chances and well, you guessed the Wayne family just didn't like you. Which sucks because you only have until your 18th birthday to get them to accept you, and considering your 16th birthday was coming up, your time was coming to a close. 

Or, you could always just run away. Hey! It was an option, one that you weren't sure the Bats would even let happen. Still it was worth a try. Which leads to your current situation in Bruce's office; you were trying to cut your losses a little early.

~~~~~~

“Look, I just feel as though this is the best course of action for your pack’s and my own safety.” Came your exasperated and desperate voice.

“Safety?” Bruce questions, causally flipping through some Wayne Industries documents, as if he doesn't know exactly what you're talking about.

“Considering Damian’s tried to kill me five times, two of his attempts almost being successful, and Jason's pit aggression that has him ready to rip my throat out, you can see why someone would feel unsafe.” You state, voice raising slightly in pitch.

He hummed noncommittally, his eyes still focusing on whatever paperwork he was going over.

“I'll think about it.” He replies, still disinterested.

“There’s nothing to think about! I should be allowed to leave if I want to, and if anything I'll finally be out of your pack's way.” You say, finally letting your frustration show through.

Why couldn't he just let you leave? Did he seriously want to keep you here just to kill– sorry, eat you in another two years?

“Excuse me?” He finally looks up from his work, his blue eyes meeting yours. He was unimpressed, you could tell that much at least, coupled with a dark look of simmering anger.

Okay, so maybe you should tone it down a notch.

“Come on, I'm not an idiot. I know me being here is simply a public formality, good fluff bits for the press y'know. But I'm not part of your family, and I'm certainly not part of your pack. You and the others have made that very clear. So please, allow me to do us both a favor and get out of your way.” You add.

“Where would you go?”

“Huh?” You blink in surprise.

“Where would you go?” Bruce repeats again.

“That–that is honestly none of your concern.”

“None of my concern? Aren't I entitled to know where my kid is?”

“No, you’re not. Sure you're biologically considered my father, but we all know I'm not really considered your kid.”

“Is that what you think?” He questions.

“Am I supposed to think any differently?”

“You carry the Wayne surname do you not?”

“I do.”

“Then you belong to the Waynes. To me. Which means that I decide what happens to you.”

There was the familiar darkness that you saw pooling in Bruce’s eyes, the type that left the Joker a tortured mess, the type that disemboweled Ra’s Al Ghul, the type of darkness that reminded you that Batman doesn’t kill. Oh no, he maims and tortures instead.

You unconsciously take a careful step back. 

Bruce’s stare felt like ice, and his words hung in the air, thick and heavy with an authority that was absolute. You wanted to argue, to say something, but every instinct in your body screamed for caution. There was a darkness in his gaze that you had seen glimpses of before, but never directed at you, and now it was there, unblinking, cutting through any hope you’d harbored for mercy or understanding.

Your heart hammered, yet you forced yourself to stand straighter, swallowing down the instinctive fear. 

“With all due respect,” you began, your voice smaller than you intended but steady, “staying here for another two years just for you all to—to follow through with that—custom, doesn’t seem fair.”

Bruce’s expression didn’t soften, but his posture shifted slightly, his gaze piercing through you like he could see every thought you tried to hide. 

“Belonging is earned. It isn’t granted because of blood,” he stated coldly. “If you truly wish to belong somewhere, you work for it.”

“I’ve tried,” you said, voice thick with frustration. “I’ve tried everything. I’ve followed your rules, I tried with everyone, and stayed out of everyone’s way. But nothing I do is good enough.”

“You assume that acceptance is given on your terms,” he replied, voice as controlled as ever. “Pack structure doesn’t bend to anyone’s whims. Least of all a half-blood who hasn’t proven their loyalty.”

The words stung, tearing open a wound that you thought had scarred over. You clenched your fists, feeling the sharp ache of your own nails digging into your palms. “And what exactly does proving myself look like here? Surviving Damian’s attacks? Letting Jason rip me apart every chance he gets?”

“Watch your tone,” he warned, his voice low, cutting through any retort you’d planned.

You took a shaky breath, forcing yourself to take another step back from his desk. Challenging him wouldn’t help. He’d already decided where you stood, and nothing you said would change that. Maybe it was better to save your energy, conserve your strength for the day you’d finally slip away.

“Understood,” you said, swallowing the bitterness in your throat. “If that’s how it is, then I’ll stay out of everyone’s way.”

 But you’d still leave when the time comes.

Bruce’s gaze hardened, like he knew what you were thinking. “Your place is here until I decide otherwise,” he said, a finality in his tone that told you any further argument would only worsen things.

He dismissed you with a look, returning to his papers as if the conversation were over, as if you were no longer there. Every step you took out of the office felt heavier, like the manor itself was holding you down, binding you to this place that was never truly a home.

As you closed the door behind you, the cold emptiness of the hallway wrapped around you, and you knew then—you were on your own. If you were to survive this, it would be on your own terms.

It's like clockwork when Alfred calls you down for dinner. The same time, the same routine.

You show  up to dinner, hands still shaking and mind still reeling from your disturbingly cryptic conversation with Bruce. But, never mind that you’d just eat quietly and leave like you always do. You moved to your normal seat only to find that all the chairs near the end of the table had disappeared. What the actual fuck. Was this some type of powerplay? Something to imply that you didn’t even have a seat at their table anymore? 

You mean, you wouldn't mind eating in the safety and comfort of your own room. With an exasperated sigh, which had a couple of heads turn their attention to you, you grabbed an empty plate and started loading it up with food. You were about to head back to your room when you heard an outraged growl from behind you.

The kind of growl that had you tensing, ready to submit and roll onto your back.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Jason growled out from behind you.

You freeze.

“To my room?” You responded meekly, curling in on yourself as much as you could.

“And pray tell, why do you think that’d be acceptable?”

“Uh–um, ‘cause my seats’ gone?”

Jason only smirked, the feral kind that almost always promised pain to his enemies.

“Oh, but your chair isn't gone, it's right here.” Jason says pointing to a chair right near the head of the table.

You blanked. That's not right. Only pack was allowed that close to the head of the table, where Bruce sat, where the pack leader sat.

“B-But, I can’t–”

“Did that sound like a suggestion?”

You shook your head no, swallowing down a whimper that almost escaped your lungs.

“Then sit your ass down,” Jason growled.

He didn't have to tell you twice.

Immediately you shakily sat down in your new seat, on the left side of Bruce’s seat at the head of the table with Jason sitting at your left shoulder and Dick across from you. Not good, not good at all. You could feel the acidic, green gaze of Jason burning into the side of your face whilst Dick languidly sipped his wine, a sickeningly sweet smile (with way too many teeth to be considered anything but malicious), plastered on his face as he stared at the new seating chart. You let out a shaky breath, trying to get your heart rate back to normal; you were so gonna die tonight.

Thankfully, Bruce arrived and sat himself in his seat at the head of the table; right next to you. You closed your eyes, trying to focus on getting air in your lungs and slowing your racing heart. Unbeknownst to you, Bruce shot a knowing stare at the rest of the table. As much as you tried to conceal it, they could all hear your rapidly fluttering heartbeat and your poorly hidden breathing. Tim and Jason both watched you amused; you looked so darn pathetic, sitting there trembling like a leaf. 

You glanced down at your plate, picking at the food without really tasting it, hoping that staying silent would help you melt into the background.

Bruce, however, remained still and silent, his presence looming over you, radiating the authority that seemed to keep everyone else in check. But even that felt like a facade; the way his gaze lingered on you for a split second too long told you he was watching closely, assessing.

You forced yourself to take a bite, trying to steady your hands enough to appear somewhat composed. But the sound of your own heartbeat seemed to echo in your ears, loud and unrelenting, as if amplifying the anxiety that twisted in your gut. They could hear it too; you knew that much from the way Jason’s smirk deepened, from the way Tim’s lips twitched with barely-contained laughter.

As the dinner dragged on, every clink of a fork, every quiet murmur, felt like it was directed at you. The food turned to ash in your mouth, each bite only reminding you of the eyes trained on you, dissecting you with every chew and every breath.

The rest of the dinner passed in strained silence, every second an endurance test as you forced yourself to stay seated, to keep your head down. When Bruce finally pushed his chair back and dismissed everyone, the wave of relief was almost enough to make you lightheaded. Quick as a whip, you practically ran up the stairs towards the safety and solace of your room.

When you make it, the locks on your door are immediately fastened (not that it would do much if anyone wanted to actually force their way in). You exhale in relief as you try to collect your thoughts. Fuck, everything was going to shit; the worst part being you had school tomorrow (which thankfully you did not go to Gotham Prep; you'd kill yourself if you did). You groaned at the thought, digging the heels of your palms into your eyes to relieve the ache shooting through them.

Looks like another night of shitty sleep.

Taglist!!: @lostsomewhereinthegarden, @the-rouge-robin, @confused-they

[pucksandpower]

Pulled Over

Lando Norris x Reader

Summary: in which Lando’s birthday celebration continues in his car and a police officer gets far more of a show than he bargained for … but it’s not your fault, okay?

Warnings: 18+ content

Note: I woke up to five separate asks in my inbox requesting I post something for Lando’s birthday so … happy birthday 🫶

The engine rumbles beneath you as Lando deftly maneuvers his McLaren through the streets of London. The two of you are headed home after a fancy birthday dinner, still dressed to the nines in your best evening wear.

You steal a glance over at Lando, his brow furrowed in concentration as he navigates the city traffic. Even after all these years together, your heart still flutters a bit when you look at him. The way the crisp lines of his button-up accentuate his athletic build, the slight curl to his hair, the intensity in his eyes as he drives ...

Lando must sense you watching him because he flashes you a roguish grin. “See something you like, love?”

You laugh, feeling your cheeks flush slightly. “You know I do.”

His grin widens and he winks at you before turning his eyes back to the road. You reach over and rest your hand on his thigh, absentmindedly tracing little circles with your fingertips.

Lando shifts in his seat, clearing his throat. “As much as I’m enjoying your … attention, you might want to rein it in a bit until we get home.”

“And if I don’t want to?” You tease, sliding your hand higher up his leg.

He lets out a small hiss of air through his teeth. “Then I can’t be held responsible for getting us pulled over for reckless driving.”

“Is that a promise?” You lean across the console, your face just inches from his, and murmur, “Maybe I want to get pulled over ...”

Lando groans. “You’re killing me here.”

Feeling emboldened, you press your lips to the side of his neck in a soft kiss. He shudders, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.

“Y/N ...” he warns, but his voice is strained.

You trail kisses along his jaw line, nipping at the sensitive skin just below his ear. Lando’s breath is coming in shallow bursts now and you can’t help but smirk in satisfaction at reducing him to this state.

Without warning, the McLaren swerves as Lando abruptly pulls over to the side of the road, throwing the car into park. Before you can react, his hands are on you, pulling you into a searing kiss. You melt against him, twining your arms around his neck as his tongue slips into your mouth.

He breaks away just long enough to growl in your ear, “If you’re that desperate to get pulled over, I’m happy to oblige.”

Then his lips crash into yours again with bruising intensity. You whimper into the kiss, desire coiling hot and tight in your belly. Lando’s arms wrap around your waist, hauling you halfway across the console and into his lap.

You straddle his hips, bunching the fabric of your dress up around your thighs as you grind shamelessly against him. Lando moans into your mouth, his fingers digging almost painfully into your sides.

His lips travel down to your throat, licking and nipping at the sensitive skin there until you’re arching against him with soft cries of pleasure. One of his hands slides up underneath the hem of your dress to caress the bare skin of your thigh while the other deftly works at the buttons of his shirt.

You push his jacket off his shoulders, letting it puddle on the floor of the car, and rake your nails down his now bare chest. Lando hisses in response, bucking his hips upwards. You can feel his hardness straining against the confines of his trousers and you rock back to provide some delicious friction.

“Bloody hell, love,” he growls. “You’re going to be the death of me one of these days.”

Before you can retort, a sharp rap on the window has you both freezing. You look up to find a police officer peering in at the two of you with an utterly gobsmacked expression on his face.

For a long, awkward moment, no one moves or makes a sound. Then the officer seems to recover, clearing his throat loudly.

“I’m ah … going to need you two to step out of the vehicle,” he calls out in his thick London accent.

You and Lando quickly disentangle yourselves, rushing to straighten your clothing and trying in vain to look presentable. Lando takes a steadying breath before cranking down the window.

“Evening, officer,” he says, all polite charm despite his face still being delightfully flushed. “We’re terribly sorry about this, you see-”

But the cop cuts him off, his eyes going wide in apparent recognition. “Blimey! You’re Lando Norris! The race car driver!”

Lando blinks in surprise, then breaks into a lopsided grin, clearly trying to use the situation to his advantage. “The one and only. Look, this is dreadfully embarrassing but-”

“Oh I’m a massive fan, mate!” The cop practically vibrates with excitement now, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Could I … could I get your autograph? And maybe a selfie? That’d be brilliant!”

You catch Lando’s eye and have to stifle a laugh at the incredulous yet hopeful look he gives you. He shrugs fractionally before turning back to the smitten officer with an easy smile.

“Of course, absolutely! Let me hop out and we can get that sorted, yeah?”

A few minutes later, the three of you are posing for a selfie, Lando sandwiched between you and the cop who is gazing at him with unabashed awe. You struggle not to crack up as Lando slings one arm casually around each of your shoulders for the picture.

“Cheers, thank you so much!” The cop beams as he lowers his phone to get a look at the photo. “My son is gonna go bonkers when I show him this.”

“Not a problem at all, happy to do it.” Lando gives the man a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Listen, we’d best be off but thanks for being a good sport about this whole … misunderstanding.”

The cop nods eagerly. “Same to you! And uh, maybe try to keep things legal next time, eh?” He winks exaggeratedly at Lando before tipping his cap at you. “G’night now!”

“Oh my god,” you wheeze, doubling over in peals of helpless laughter. “I can’t — we just-”

“Hey, at least you didn’t have to tell your dad how his little girl got arrested,” Lando points out with a wry quirk of his lips.

That only sets off another round of laughter. Breathless, you flop back against the sleek McLaren, tears of mirth streaking your carefully made-up face. Lando joins you, shoulders quaking and eyes bright with lingering amusement.

“We’re never living this down,” you snort, thumping your head repeatedly against the cool glass. “Literally caught with our pants down. So much for your pristine image.”

“Please,” he scoffs, draping an arm carelessly over the back of your seat and regarding you with a fond, heated look that has your skin prickling all over again. “Like anyone’s actually going to believe some random cop over a devilishly charming Formula 1 driver.”

Your laughter fades to a simmering warmth as Lando leans in, mouth barely a hairsbreadth from yours. “Now c’mere, you gorgeous thing. I wasn’t done showing my appreciation.”

All other comments immediately fly out of your mind and you melt bonelessly against him, tangling your fingers in the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

When you finally break apart, you’re both panting softly, your foreheads pressed together. Lando’s gaze is dark and full of unmistakable want.

“I still need you,” he murmurs roughly, skimming his fingers along your jawline. “I need to be inside you, touching every inch of you ...”

You shiver at the raw desire in his tone, feeling a fresh wave of arousal sweep through you. “What are you waiting for then?”

Lando growls low in his throat and suddenly you’re being whirled around and pressed up against the side of the McLaren. His mouth finds yours again in a branding kiss, all heat and urgency. You arch against him with a soft whimper, your nails scratching lightly down his back.

His hands are everywhere, caressing, squeezing, setting your nerves on fire. The hard line of his body pins you deliciously in place as his hips grind against yours in a maddening tease. You tear your lips from his with a desperate whine, throwing your head back against the car.

“Lando, please ...” you beg breathlessly. “I can’t wait anymore, I need you now.”

For once, the cheeky racer seems to be at a loss for words. His eyes burn with pure hunger as he takes you in — flushed cheeks, tousled hair, chest heaving with every ragged breath. Then he’s on you again, shedding you of your clothes with skilled efficiency until you’re deliciously bare before him.

His calloused fingers trail down your sides, across your stomach, skimming torturously along your hipbones. You bite your lip to stifle a moan, hyper aware of how exposed you are in the open night air. Every nerve ending feels electrified beneath Lando’s scorching touch.

“So gorgeous,” he rasps, dipping his head to drag his tongue along the swell of your breast. “And all mine.”

“Yours,” you confirm in a breathy whine. “Now stop teasing me and-”

You’re abruptly cut off as Lando surges up to claim your mouth again, stealing what little breath you had left. Not that you’re complaining — any thought process instantly wipes out under the intoxicating assault of his lips, his tongue, his hands roaming hungrily over your naked body.

In one smooth motion, he hitches your legs up around his waist, supporting you easily against the solid strength of the car. You clutch at his shoulders with a desperate keen as the hard ridge of his length nudges against your molten core.

Lando breaks the heated kiss just enough to murmur against your lips, “Hold on tight, love.”

Then he sheaths himself in one powerful thrust and you cry out at the incredible fullness, at finally having him buried to the hilt inside you. For a moment you’re suspended in that blissful eternity of feeling so perfectly joined together, your harsh breaths mingling in the barely-there space between your faces.

Then Lando starts to move and the world whites out around the edges.

Time becomes a blur of searing kisses, shared moans, and the slick slide of sweat-dampened skin against skin. Every roll of Lando’s hips has you clinging to him, chasing that burning crest of pleasure. He pounds into you with relentless pace, cursing softly with each shallow thrust.

You’re rapidly unraveling, reduced to a whimpering mess under his eager attentions. Stars are bursting behind your eyelids with each mind-numbing drive of his shaft, each searing brush against that utterly perfect spot inside you. You dig your nails into the straining muscles of Lando’s back, silently begging him for more, always more.

“That’s it, let go for me,” he pants harshly in your ear. “Let me hear you ...”

As if in response, your release suddenly crests in a blinding wave of pure euphoria. You throw your head back against the car with a broken cry, every muscle drawn exquisitely taut for a handful of heartbeats. Then the tension shatters and you’re boneless, sagging limply against Lando as sparks of bliss continue to pulse through your veins.

Lando only lasts a few more erratic thrusts before he’s following you over that edge with a guttural groan, his hips stuttering against yours. He slumps forward, forehead pressed into the crook of your neck as he trembles through the aftershocks.

For a long while, the only sounds are your mingled panting breaths in the stillness of the night. You card your fingers through Lando’s damp curls, savoring the pleasant ache coursing through your thoroughly ravaged body.

Eventually, Lando lifts his head to gaze at you with sparkling eyes and a massive, self-satisfied grin. You laugh softly, bopping him lightly on the nose with one finger.

“So much for subtlety.”

He snorts at that, leaning in to nuzzle against your neck, pressing a few light kisses to the sensitive skin there.

“Please, you’re one to talk. I seem to recall you started this whole debacle.”

You let out a soft hum of contentment, enjoying the solid weight of him against you. “Well, in my defense, how was I supposed to resist you looking like sin on legs in that suit?”

Lando pulls back with a wicked glint in his eyes, running his hands idly up and down your sides. “In that case, consider me your own personal occupational hazard.”

You throw your head back with a peal of laughter. “Unbelievable. You’ve got an answer for everything, haven’t you?”

Lando’s grin softens into something fonder as he gazes up at you adoringly. “Only for you, my love. Only for you.”

He leans up to capture your lips in a sweet, lingering kiss that leaves you feeling warm and cherished all the way down to your bones. As you settle more comfortably against him, tangled up in a perfect post-coital haze, you can’t help but think how lucky you are to have found someone like Lando.

Someone who can make you laugh until your sides ache one minute and then have you trembling with unbearable desire the next.

Someone who loves you fiercely and without reservation.

Someone you would gladly get arrested with if it meant never having to be apart.

With a contented sigh, you tuck yourself further into the protective circle of Lando’s arms, savoring this stolen moment of bliss with the love of your life. Even with the crisp night breeze wrapping around your tangled, sweat-dampened forms, you’ve never felt so perfectly warm.

[likeumeanit9497]

made for me | m.s. |

matt sturniolo x fem!reader

summary: it's been three years since they've seen one another, two and a half since they last spoke to one another. but on this night, time seems to stand still as they meet once again.

warnings: SMUT; angst; unprotected p in v; oral (f receiving); handjob; mentions of alcohol; dirty talk; 18+

notes: hey party people...i...have been trying to work on this singular one shot for months. i've been so busy with school (yes, my program goes over the summer how lucky am i!!!!) and have had absolutely no motivation to write more than like a paragraph or two in one sitting. i miss writing and the tumblr community sooo badly literally every single day, but unfortunately i just have to accept the fact that i don't have the free time i had this time last year. so long story short i'm still here and will still be writing whenever i have the time (and inspiration) to, but pls be patient with me if i disappear for months again (and again). i love you all and appreciate the support u all have given me for over a year (WHAT?!?!?) i hope u enjoy this little angsty fic <3333

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

You winced as the tequila burned your throat down to your stomach. Bringing a lime to your lips and sucking desperately, you shut your eyes so that all you could focus on was the sound of blaring music coming from the speakers littered throughout the house. You were at a party, which is not unlike you on a Saturday night. In fact, you couldn’t even remember a weekend that you hadn’t spent stumbling through crowds of people in a strange house — their figures so blurred you couldn’t even see the faces of the men you let take you home at the end of the night.

It was still early, this shot being only your second of the night, but you had a feeling that it would be far from your last. The past week had been especially stressful — you had told your friends that it was your busy work schedule or that finals were coming up, but you knew what the true reason for the stagnant pit in your stomach was. Matt — your best friend since first grade, your first love, and the one who you thought would be your forever — had been rumoured to be back in Boston for the first time since you saw him last, three years ago.

You dropped the lime and leaned against the countertop — hoping that your body language wouldn’t give away your despair but rather lead your friends to believe that the shot was sitting wrong. When he left three years ago, deep-seeded love combined with youthful naivety blinded you to the severity of your distance. You were so certain that no matter what, you and he would be okay and that the love that felt so powerful at the time would never fade.

Only one of those things proved to be true — and after only six months of him living across the country, one gut-wrenching phone call put an end to what you thought would be your forever. You had no idea that, upon picking up that call, you would shatter the years of what was, but it was as though your mouth formed the words without the help of your mind, and once they were spoken aloud, you both dissolved into tears of acceptance. Not because it was what either of you wanted, but because it was what you believed both of you needed.

That was two and a half years ago, and you hadn’t seen him since. He had been busy with his career in LA, and at times you allowed yourself to search him up — watching his YouTube videos with his brothers — just to allow your chest a moment to ache for what once was. Because the truth was, no matter how much you drank or how often you moaned out the name of another man, his face was what haunted your dreams each night. And now, he was allegedly back home — living, breathing within the same time zone; the same zip code as you.

You shuddered, pushing away the thoughts you had been attempting to drink away as you lifted yourself off the counter. Reaching for the bottle of tequila, you were sure you felt eyes on you. And as you began pouring the clear liquid into a shot glass, you nearly lost your grip as your eyes lifted to find the culprit. Because no more than 10 feet in front of you — as though he had been summoned by your disparaging thoughts just moments before — stood Matt.

It was disorienting seeing him in this environment — at 18 years old you and he cared very little for the house parties of your peers. Yet there he stood, a figure so familiar yet somehow completely different. Arms once completely bare now covered in tattoos crossed against his chest while his eyes — the same crystal blue from your dreams — burned your skin as they travelled across it. The room had grown deadly silent; whether that was truly the work of those around you or simply the fact that the blood roaring in your ears muted their chatter, you weren’t sure. But in that moment, you and he were the only ones in that room.

Not a word had been spoken between you two, yet your frantic, searching eyes seemed to have a conversation of their own. After what could have been hours, Matt’s eyes dragged themselves from you before he began heading in the direction of the stairs. Your stomach dropped at the sickeningly familiar tug, as if an invisible string tied you to him and refused to let go. Fingers white against the counter top, you forced your feet to stay in place as your eyes followed his back — a back that now seemed like a canvas of power; each stride of his revealing coiled energy beneath his black t-shirt — waiting for some sort of signal, an invitation for you to come to him.

As he reached the first stair, the signal came in the form of a brief pause and a final look over his shoulder. Your mind had no say at that point — it had long ago surrendered to him — and you began following him in a daze; throwing a brief regard to your friends over your shoulder as you did. Only once he recognized the determined look in your eyes as you headed in his direction did he continue up the stairs, trusting that you were in fact just behind him.

Once you reached the top of the stairs you found him at the end of the short hallway, peeking his head in the door of what you only assumed was a bedroom before taking one last glance at you as his frame slipped past the open door. The upper level of the house was obscenely quiet, and you could hear your heart pounding as you reached the doorway he had just walked through.

The door clicked behind you, and suddenly you were both alone. No more loud music, no more people, just the two of you and the gravity of three years hanging between you. He was standing a few feet away, arms crossed — not defensively, it seemed, just unsure of what to do with his hands now that you were there in front of him. For a moment, the only sound in the room was your breathing. Quiet, but shallow, the kind of breathing that gave away how much restraint was barely holding both of you together.

Closer now, you took a moment to really look at him. He hadn’t changed much. The boyish narrowness you remembered was gone — replaced by the quiet strength of a man who had grown into himself — but the essence of him that you had somehow memorized without realizing was still very much there. But more than anything, the way he looked at you — longingly, desperately, lovingly — that was exactly the same.

“You really came back,” Your voice came out more breathless than you wanted it to. He didn’t seem to notice, or if he did he was gracious enough to not react with pity. Instead, he ran a hand through his hair and took one small step closer to you. “Why did it take you so long?” You added at nearly a whisper, terrified to hear his answer. “You know why, Y/n.” His voice sent shock waves down your spine. Deeper, the voice of a man, yet still achingly recognizable to the voice of that young boy you met on the first day of school all those years ago.

Your eyes fell in shame from the weight of his reply, knowing that you were the reason he had chosen to stay far away from his home town — his friends, his family — for three years. When you spoke again, your voice had somehow managed to drop even quieter, “Then what made you come back now?” The silence permeated the empty room so immensely that your ears began to ring from the density of it. With your eyes still on the floor, you felt more than saw him move one step closer to you. “The same reason I stayed away for so long.”

His words left his mouth like a confession, and they draped themselves across your skin like a python — the weight of them satisfying but also jarring; threatening to wrap themselves tight around you until your walls cave in. Your eyes flashed back up to his, and upon noticing the question marks swirling within them, he clarified with earth-shattering honesty. “You. It’s always been you.”

The silence after his statement was charged — thick with everything you hadn’t said since that last phone call, with every memory you both buried under the weight of growing up — and growing apart. “I hurt you,” You finally replied, voice thick with emotion as tears began welling in your eyes. Through the blur of your tears, his face seemed to morph into that of his younger self as he fought against his instinct to comfort you. “You did,” He replied, his own words laced with pain, “But I never blamed you for it, not once Y/n.”

You didn’t say anything, couldn’t say anything, so you just looked at him — studying the faint lines beside his eyes that hadn’t been there before, the shadow of a beard that 18 year old Matt could only dream of growing. “Why not?” You asked, true disbelief trapped in the crack of your voice. Instead of answering your question, he pulled on a weak smile. “You cut your hair.” Subconsciously, you ran your fingers through your shoulder-length hair; about five inches shorter than it was the last time Matt was standing in front of you. “It’s been a long time.” Your reply almost sounded bitter, and you instantly wished you could take it back because how could you possibly blame him for the unilateral decision you made years before?

If he took offence to your tone, he didn’t show it. Instead, he took another step towards you, closing the ice-cold gap between you even more. “I just mean,” You began, letting your eyes flutter shut for a moment as you pulled your trembling lower lip between your teeth, “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” There was the air of hesitation between you now, just for a moment, as he struggled to find the words. “I tried to stay away, because it seemed like that’s what you needed,” His words were spoken in the soothing cadence he always used to comfort you all those years ago. “I didn’t want to make it harder than it already was, for both of us.”

It was you who took the next step forward, making it so that you were only inches apart. “Then why are you here nowMatt? And how could you possibly not blame me for what happened between us?” You repeated your question from before, hoping that he wouldn’t ignore it once again. Looking up into his eyes, you recognized the weight of his gaze and the pain buried within it. “Because,” He began, clearing his throat before continuing, “Because I have never been able to stop missing you, and every day without you has felt like a living nightmare. I thought if I stayed away, we would both heal. But instead, I forced myself to endure years of a torture that I knew would never go away unless I saw you again.”

A tear fell from your eye as you watched his face through his confession, each word resonating so deeply within you that it felt like looking into a mirror. “I regretted it the moment I did it, you know.” You replied softly, feeling the years of regret boil over within you, “I was weak.” He shook his head firmly before gently brushing your hair from your face; his familiar touch sending a welcomed shiver down your spine. “You were young. We both were.” His tone was firm, an attempt at freeing you of the guilt that had been slowly eating you alive. You nodded sadly, recognizing his words as truth. “Maybe,” You began, closing the gap so that your chest was pressed against his front, “But I really did love you with everything I had, and I really don’t think I ever stopped.”

Something glimmered in his eyes, then. The same glimmer that had appeared that day on the playground when you had asked him to be your best friend, the day in ninth grade when you had told him that he had been your first crush, and the day in junior year when you had told him you loved him for the very first time. That glimmer had given you so much pride each time you had been the reason for its existence. Another tear fell in relief, as you had long ago accepted that you would never again be witness to it.

His hand slipped from your hair down to your cheek, where he swiped away your salty tears before resuming his movements down your shoulder, down your back, before finally resting in familiarity against your hip. You felt the electricity from his fingertips permeate your skin — shooting throughout your body at the revival of your intimacy. Your hand traveled up to his neck where you toyed with the ends of his hair — slightly longer than it was the last time you had ran your hands through it.

“Did you stop loving me?” You whispered, your lips mere inches from his own. His grip on your hip tightened slightly, pulling you against him even closer than before. “Never.” Was his reply before pulling your lips into his with the slow burn of long-suppressed hunger. The kiss was slow at first, hesitant, like a rediscovery of one another’s mouths after too long apart. Not yet frantic, as you had imagined it would be; just aching.

His tongue brushed against yours with a deep, searching kiss that made your knees weaken. You clutched his shirt, pulling him closer and grounding yourself in his taste, his smell, the gruff sound he made when you moaned against his open mouth. The kiss deepened as his hands slid around your waist, carefully walking you backwards until you were pressed in between him and the wall. When his mouth dropped to the sensitive place on your neck, just below your jaw, that only he knew existed, everything felt too hot, too necessary. You wanted to drink him in — every groan, every sharp scrape of his stubble against your skin, every part of him that you hadn’t touched in years.

You tugged his shirt up, hands dancing across familiar warm skin and foreign muscle. You pressed your palms against his chest, where you felt the rapid thud of his heart below; matching your own. His lips found yours again, and the kiss was deeper — darker. His mouth opened hungrily against yours before strong teeth bit down on your lower lip. A claiming, yes — but not possession. His hands roamed slowly, deliberately. Skimming under your shirt, teasing the bare skin just above the hem of your jeans. A muffled gasp fell from your lips when his fingers travelled higher, delicately brushing the curve of your tit over your bra. You felt his lips curl into a smile against your swollen lips. “Your boobs got bigger.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t deny the flutter in your stomach from being reacquainted with Matt’s goofy side. “Shut up,” You replied with a giggle before taking his mouth in yours again; not wanting to lose the familiar taste of him on your tongue. With a soft hum, his hand traveled behind your thigh, lifting it until it wrapped around his waist; your hips instinctively grinding into his. You released a gritty moan into his open mouth, and he swallowed the vibrations like it fuelled him.

He pulled at the hem of your shirt, undressing you as though he was afraid you might disappear behind the wall of fabric if he moved too fast — each button, each inch of new skin exposed was met with a soft breath of relief. Once you were in nothing but your bra and thong, Matt lifted you up and carried you to the bed; lowering you gently atop the soft comforter before pausing to look at you as though he couldn’t believe you were real.

“You’re just as beautiful as I remembered,” He murmured, lowering himself on top of you, kissing your sternum while reaching behind you to unhook your bra with a practiced flick. Discarding the material, you watched as his lips traveled to the underside of your tit, then higher, before taking your pebbled nipple into his warm mouth; circling his tongue until you whined.

“God, I missed you,” He mumbled against your skin as he began fumbling with his belt buckle. Your body responded to his words as though lit on fire by them, and once he was in just his boxers, you grabbed the back of his head and pulled him closer to you before whispering, “I have dreamt of having you in this way since the last time I saw you.”

He kissed you again then, rougher than before — raw tongue and teeth and years of longing poured into it. Moans slipped between you two as your almost-naked bodies pressed against one another, reconnecting like old friends into a familiar mould. One of his hands slid down your body slowly, between your legs, and as his fingers ran delicately against the warm, damp material of your thong, he groaned. “Still so ready for me,” He uttered against your lips, slipping his fingers under the lacy material and pressing two inside of you just deep enough to make you gasp for air, “Say my name,” He pleaded, his words laced with a longing you had never quite heard from him before, “I need to hear it.”

“Matt,” You moaned, breathless as he began slowly pumping his fingers up into your spongey core.

“Again.” He demanded, picking up his speed slightly — giving you some relief, but not quite enough.

“M-Matt, please,” You begged, your words punctuated by sharp breaths.

He didn’t tease you for long. After hearing the desperation in your tone he pulled his slippery fingers from your core before kissing down your stomach, leaving a trail of your juices along your left leg as he pulled your thong down to your ankles. Now completely exposed, you spread your legs to give him full access to your glistening core — wordlessly begging him to bring you the relief only he can. His mouth traveled from your trembling stomach down to the crest just above your core, hovering there for a moment with his eyes fluttered shut. “Tell me what you want.” He breathed, his voice soft but laced with gruff undertones; giving away just how bad he needed you too. “You,” You replied without hesitation, comfortable in telling the man on his knees in front of you exactly what you needed, “Your mouth. Please, Matt.”

The honesty was all it took, because as soon as the words left your mouth you released a moan at the feeling of his warm tongue against your clit. His tongue moved with slow precision — as though he remembered exactly how to undo you. You threw your head back with a cry, hips bucking against the strong suction of his mouth, but he held you down — savouring every second as if it were something sacred. Through hooded eyes you looked down between your legs, watching Matt’s practiced routine in awe. His eyes, glazed over in sheer satisfaction, locked onto your own as he absorbed every sound, every expression you made in response to the pleasure he was granting you.

Your mouth dropped open in pleasure, fingers knotted in the sheets below you, as he used his powerful tongue to break down your walls. He slipped his thumb inside of you, leaving it there, unmoving, knowing that the slightly-full sensation made your head spin. He used his free hand to push gently against your lower stomach, knowing that the pressure intensified your orgasms tenfold. You moaned on each breath now, your heavy eyes refused to stay open. And once your hands flew to his hair, pressing him firmly against your pulsing core, he responded to the wordless confirmation of your impending orgasm by finally pumping his thumb in and out of you while simultaneously twirling his tongue feverishly against your swollen bundle of nerves.

You violently came undone against his tongue, trembling, moaning his name as if it were the only word you’d ever known. Back arched, you held tightly onto his wavy hair, unsure whether you were pulling him away or closer as the pleasure tore through you in overwhelming waves. Still, he continued to push you through the high, flitting his tongue expertly against your clit as you trembled below him. “Matt!” You cried out, your body so hot with intense pleasure that your skin grew splotchy and red — something it hadn’t done from an orgasm in years.

Just as quickly as it had appeared, the pleasure slipped from your fingers. As your loud cries turned to gentle moans of satisfaction, Matt’s deliberate licks transformed into sloppy kisses as he drank up your juices — memorizing the taste of what had just hours before been a memory. When he finally moved up your trembling body, you immediately dragged him into another kiss — reigniting your desperation at the taste of yourself on his lips.

Hooking your legs around his waist, you tugged gently at the elastic on his boxers. You were both flushed and panting, bare skin against skin, yet still it didn’t feel like enough. Matt seemed to feel the same, because without you having to say a word he covered your hand with his own — helping you slide his boxers down. With his mouth on yours hungrily, you couldn’t see his cock, though as soon as you heard the firm slap of it making contact with his stomach, your hand wrapped around it with ease. A grunt escaped his lips and you swallowed it hungrily — relishing the relief that you were able to grant him — as you began pumping his length in just the way he liked it; soft at the base, tighter and with more pressure at the tip.

“No more waiting,” He breathed against your gasping mouth, “I need to feel you.”

With a soft moan, you began guiding his cock to your core. Not with your hand, as that was proven unnecessary, but by the widening of your legs — the damp warmth emanating from your centre enough to act as a gravitational pull to bring his length right to the slippery crest of your opening. Wrapping his strong arm around your waist, he sank into you slowly, both of you gasping at the sensation; the crushing weight of it all. The heat, the stretch, the sensation of home was enough to bring tears of relief to your eyes — mirrored in his anguished face before you.

He pressed his forehead against yours, locking eyes with you as his hips rolled against you as though he couldn’t look away for fear of missing a single second. Your bodies moved as one, slow at first. Then deeper, harder, a shattering rhythm that came to you as easily as breathing. Yet, neither of you rushed. Every movement, every hushed sound, every messy kiss was a memory revived. Your moans were not just out of pleasure, they were the release of years spent missing him.

He placed a hand under your lower back and you moaned, eyes rolling to the back of your head as his cock hit that spongey spot that made your body tremble. He pressed open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, your jaw, and your chest as the room filled with the wet harmony of two bodies that know one another so well. Everything you never said was finally being spoken in the sound of your arousal as it coated his front; and everything he never said was finally being spoken in the sound of his pelvis spreading the sticky fluid against your inner thighs upon each methodical thrust.

“Made for me.”

His head nestled against your shoulder, where the rumble of his groans burned through your skin. The familiar phrase caused your stomach to do a flip. Those three words had been spoken by Matt thousands of times over the years — both in and out of the bedroom — that the fact that they had fallen from his lips thoughtlessly, as though they had been sitting there waiting to be spoken aloud for years, in a tone of sheer desperation, was enough to tear away any last shred of sanity you had.

You smiled through a breathless gasp, threading your fingers through his hair and tugging at the strands until his mouth met yours again. His kiss was messy, open-mouthed and wet; the kind that said he needed you in every way. He lifted your right leg higher to angle deeper into you, causing your breath to catch in your throat. “More,” You pleaded against his swollen lips, “Right there.” You felt his mouth curl into a smile bordering on arrogance, “I know.” Was all he replied with, proving that each of his movements were calculated, as though the years of exploring your body had burned into his memory and he had every intention of giving you exactly what you craved.

He held you there, driving his cock at just the right pace, into just the right spot. Your mouth dropped open, unable to kiss him back as the pleasure building deep within you doubled, and then tripled. “Oh my god, M-Matt—” Your head fell back against his left palm, and he cradled it gently as your toes curled around his waist. “That’s it,” He murmured, dropping his mouth to your exposed neck and deepening his thrusts, “Let go, I’ve got you baby.”

You shuddered, the pressure of your impending orgasm laying heavy against your helpless frame. He thrust into you again — this time deeper, slower. You could tell that his control was fraying, the cords of his muscles tight beneath your hands as you felt him struggle to keep from falling apart himself. Using all of your restraint, you held your own orgasm back as you spoke, “Cum with me,” You whispered, the strain evident in your thin voice, “I want to feel you fill me up.”

You felt his mouth drop open against your damp neck, his body trembling above you as his struggle was intensified by your filthy words. Using all his strength, he lifted himself from the crook of your shoulder to gaze down at you with his dark, hooded eyes. Him before you like this — undone, trembling with need, his body worshipping yours with every movement — was almost more impactful than the physical pleasure itself.

“I love y— Fuck,” He dropped his forehead against yours once again, “I love you.” He whispered, voice scratchy with tension as your heart melted. “I l-love you.” You parroted just as he sank into you one final time, releasing a guttural moan as he buried himself to the hilt as he came, his breath catching in your ear and spurring your own mind-bending release.

Warm ropes of his cum painted your walls as they flexed maniacally around his pulsing length, driving you both to the edge of insanity as your bodies took complete control. And as you moaned, cursed, and cried out one another’s names, it wasn’t just release. It was relief. The kind that settles deep in your chest when something you thought was gone forever finds its way back. It was a homecoming.

Once both of your bodies stilled, you stayed completely still; breathing one another in at last. Time passed, and as your heart rates returned to normal, the sound of the party still very much alive below you returned to you consciousness. Still, neither of you made an attempt at moving, instead you let the weight of what had just happened settle into your veins. Not just the satisfaction, not just the pleasure, but the rediscovery. The ache that had shaped who you and him had become over three years now filled by each other’s presence.

Even once Matt eventually shifted above you, the post-sex lull was evident in the way he delicately pulled himself from your raw core, using his discarded boxers to clean you up before tucking you against his chest — his lips peppering indulgent kisses against your hair as you ran an idle finger along his forearm.

“What happens now?” He asked, his words soft against your hair but laced with an undertone of fear of what your response may be. You look up at his gorgeous face that, while slightly older, you knew you had memorized, offering him a soft smile. His eyes focused on your lips as his hand subconsciously reached for your cheek; his expression one of a man hungry for another innocent taste of your lips. You relaxed into his hand, granting him the kiss —deep, tender, and laced with words unspoken — before replying in a whisper. “Now we stop pretending we ever stopped loving each other.”

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

[golden-cherry]

deal - cl16 (57/59)

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Series Summary: Your whole life has gone to shit. Your boyfriend broke up with you, you just lost your job and the Monegasque, who suddenly stands in your doorway, claims that it’s his apartment.

Chapter Summary: Italy feels different in winter.

Warnings: 18+ (unprotected sex), angst

Word Count: 4.5k

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A/N: ✌🏻 chapters left. I'm sorry and I love you. feedback is appreciated!

The uber pulls up to the front of the hotel, ist headlights slicing through the pale fog clinging to the cobbled streets. Outside, Maranello is cloaked in winter’s breath – icy, clea, and humming quietly. The doorman opens the car door with a crisp nod, his breath misting in the air, and you step out, coat wrapped tightly around you, footsteps clicking softly against the frost-glazed pavement. 

It’s like the world has changed in the last few hours. You stepped on the plane with the ticket Charles bought you, warm winter sun on your back – and the cold air of Italy enveloped you when you stepped off, wrapping itself around you like a tight rope, making it hard to breathe. 

You have a gut feeling – and it’s not a good one.

The lobby is warm as you enter the hotel – unreasonably warm – and the rich scent of polished wood, espresso, and distant cinnamon candles welcome you. The scent would usually calm your nerves, but now it feels like too much, suffocating you somehow. 

You blame the nervousness and the uneasy feeling on the gala.

The concierge greets you by name, smiling as if he already knows the details of your evening. Since Charles organized everything about your trip to Italy, he probably told the hotel all they need to know about your stay.

You take the vintage elevator up, the golden cage of it rattling softly as it ascends. When the door opens, you enter your suite, lit by soft wall scones and dimmed sunlight filtering through the frosted windows. Everything inside is pristine, from the dark velvet drapes tot he sleek, modern decor with subtle nods to classic Italian design. The room smells faintly of leather and lavender – although the purple plant does nothing to calm your nerves. 

Your suitcase lands on the tufted bench at the end of the bed with a thud. You unzip it slowly, fingers still thawing from the chill. Inside, your wardrobe is tightly packed and carefully folded – thanks to Lando and Lando only. You move with purpose – black heels placed beside the closet, your pyjamas draped across the bed. Then, carefully, reverently, you lift the red dress. 

It shimmers even under the dim light – floor-length, backless, with a neckline that could silence a room. A shade of red that doesn’t whisper, but declares. You hang it on the satin-padded hanger provided by the hotel and place it on the front oft he mirrored wardrobe. It looks like it belongs here. 

You turn on the shower, wanting the chill that sits inside your bones gone. Steam rises quickly, filling the sleek marble bathroom. You peel off your travel layers one by one, the air turning warmer against your skin. As you step under the hot water, you close your eyes and let it run down your shoulders, rinsing away the fatigue of the journey and the tension of the day and the upcoming gala in a few hours. It’s almost mediative – the hush of the water, the warmth oft he space, the thought of what lay ahead tonight. 

The Ferrari gala isn’t just an event. It’s the event. 

It thrums beneath the surface of Maranello like a well-tuned engine – elegance, heritage, velocity. The kind of night that makes the air feel electric, the kind of crowd that could smell nerves and polish from a mile away. But tonight, you won’t be behind the scenes. Not entirely.

You’re his photographer. And his partner. 

Steam curls in the air, thick and fragnant with the scent of your vanilla shampoo. The water has been turned off, but you linger in the haze for a moment longer, towel wrapped tightly around your body, warmth trapped against yoru skin. It feels safe in that cocoon. Quiet. Controlled. 

Outside the fogged glass, the suite turns golden with late-afternoon light – the sun has decided to show up in the cold winter of Italy – but the edge of dusk begins to push against the windows. The red gown still hangs from the mirror like a promise. The camera sits still in ist bag, battery charged and lenses ready to hand.

You hear the door click open. You don’t call out. You already know it’s him. 

Charles‘ footsteps are soft against the hardwood, but purposeful. You can sense him before you see him – something about the shift in the air, the familiar cadence of his movements. You step out of the bathroom, towel still secure, droplets of water trailing down your shoulder blades. 

He stands near the window, still in comfortable black trousers instead of suit pants and a white shirt, jacket draped over the edge of your bed. His back is to you, one hand on the sill, the other running through his hair. 

„Hey“, you say gently, voice still warm by the steam. 

He turns, but not completely, There’s a delay, a hesitation – like someone caught in two different places. His smile comes late and doesn’t quite reach his eyes. „Hey“, he replies, then looks down at the floor for a beat too long. 

You cross the room slowly, bare feet thudding softly, and stop in front of him. „Everything okay?“

He nods, too quickly. „Yeah. Just … tired. Lot of people tonight. Lot of expectation.“

You study him for a moment. He’s here, but not here. There’s a tension in his shoulders, the kind that’s unfamiliar to you. Like something was being asked of him he hasn’t quite agreed to but can’t say no to. Not withough consequences. 

„I know the feeling“, you say softly, pressing your palm against his chest. His heart is steady, but guarded.

He finally looks at you – really looks at you. And for a flicker of a second, the mask cracks. You see the storm behind those beautiful green eyes, the weight of the evening ahead. Not just another event. This is Ferrari’s night. And he’s their golden boy. 

You, by extension, are part of that image now. Once you step onto the red carpet with him, there’s no going back. People will know your name, who you are, what you do. And since the moment you met, he wanted to protect you from all of it. The publicity, the comments, the opinions. 

Maybe stepping onto the red carpet with you scares him more than he likes to admit. 

„I’m proud pf you, you know“, you whisper. „Even when you disappear into your head.“

He exhales a small laugh through his nose, and it breaks something open between you. „I don’t –", he hesitates, „Stepping into this world – it’s not easy. The people won’t always be gentle.“

You smile, brushing a lock of his hair out of his face. „I didn’t fall love with gentle. I fell in love with you.“

The words hang there, suspended in the silence that follows. But he doesn’t answer. Doesn’t smile. Just looks at you – eyes darker now, thoughts too loud to speak. The distance you felt when he entered the room hasn’t left, it lingers in his posture, in the way his jaw tightens slightly when you reach for his hand. 

You hold onto him anyway. „Charles“, you say softly, searching his face. „What’s wrong?“

His gaze flickers away, looking down, then back up, like he’s about to speak – but the words don’t come. Instead, he steps closer, hands finding your waist – and then he kisses you. 

It’s not a passionate kiss, not urgent or soft or sweet. It’s something else – measured. Intentional. Like he needs to do it. Like he’s trying to convince himself or something. Or trying to stop something from slipping. 

You feel it. The way his lips press against yours, warm but not present. The way his fingers don’t quite grip you, just rest there, as though afraid to hold on too tight. You don’t pull away – you want to understand – but it leaves a question in your chest that doesn’t stop growing. 

„Charles“, you say again, more firmly this time, but he just shakes his head.

Not a refusal – more like a surrender. A quiet, broken don’t make me lie to you that never makes it into words. 

He steps toward you again, more decisive this time. His hands find your face and hold you, tighter now. The kiss that fllows isn’t measured like the one before – it’s consuming. Desperate. Not because Charles is full of love, but because he’s full of need. A need to feel something. To anchor himself. To lose whatever storm is brewing behind his eyes in the shape of your body. 

You can feel it in the way he kisses you now – like he’s trying to memorize you. Not just your mouth, but the angle of your jaw, the soft dampness of your skin still warm from the shower, the way you gasp just slightly when his teeth nibble on your lip. He kisses you like time is running out. Like this is the last safe place he has, and even this might vanish. 

„Charles“, you breathe, barely audible, lips brushing against his. „Talk to me.“

But he only presses his forehead to yours, his eyes closed, breath uneven. His fingers trail slowly, down to your jaw and then your neck. He holds them there gently, like if he let’s go, something inside him will break. 

„I just need you“, he whispers, barely louder than the hum of the heater. „Right now. Just – let me have this.“

The words twist in your chest, because they don’t sound like desire. They sound like goodbye. 

But you nod. Because part of you wants to believe it’s just nerves. The pressure of the night. The weight of eyes that will be watching you both. You let him pull you closer, let him kiss you again, let him take the moment he’s asking for, even as a part of you breaks off and quietly begins to drift.

His touch is slower now, reverent. He peels away your towel with aching care, tracing your spine like a man desperate to hold onto something slipping from his reach. He guides you wordlessly to the bed, the city lights outside blinking red and gold against the windowpane. You follow without hesitation, his movements quiet, focused, like he’s afraid any sound might shatter the fragile stillness between you.

The sheets are cool against your skin at first, but his hands are warm— fever-warm — when they come to rest on your hips. He doesn't rush. There’s no urgency now, just an almost unbearable intensity in the way he looks at you. Like he’s afraid to blink and miss something. Like he’s trying to remember you with his hands.

Fingertips graze across your collarbone, slow and steady, dipping down the curve of your shoulder, trailing to your ribs, your waist. Every touch is deliberate. Almost reverent. As if he’s trying to draw a map of you in his mind — one he can take with him, one he’ll never get to trace again.

He kisses the hollow of your throat, the slope of your shoulder, the inside of your wrist where your pulse flutters wildly under his mouth. You feel him breathing you in, holding himself back. Or maybe holding something in.

Your hands slip beneath the crisp fabric of his shirt, fingertips skating across skin that's warm and tense beneath your touch. He breathes in sharply, not from surprise—but from surrender. Like he's been holding himself back all day, all week, maybe longer, and now that you're here, bare and willing and close, the weight of that restraint is breaking apart.

You push the shirt from his shoulders slowly, watching as it slides down the defined lines of his arms, how the light from the city outside catches in the dips and planes of his back. He looks like a marble sculpture come to life—carved by speed, polished by pressure, and fraying just slightly at the edges now.

He leans into you again, more fully this time, his hands cupping your face, his mouth finding yours with something rougher behind it. The kiss deepens, his tongue brushing against yours with a low, quiet urgency that sparks heat low in your belly.

When his hands trail down your sides, they're firmer now, purposeful. He palms your hips, your thighs, drawing your body against his like he can’t bear even a whisper of space. Your breath catches as he shifts you beneath him, his weight pressing into you, grounding you. His mouth moves lower—along your neck, across your collarbone, down the center of your chest—pausing to taste, to breathe, to make you feel wanted in a way that borders on worship.

Every movement is drawn out, deliberate. His fingertips explore you like he's relearning the shape of something sacred, memorizing the sound of every breath you take, every soft gasp pulled from your lips. You wrap your legs around his hips, urging him closer, and he groans softly against your skin—like the need is too much, too sharp to contain.

Still, he doesn’t rush. It’s slow. Intimate. Like he’s trying to make this last — not just the moment, but the way you look at him, the way you're still here, still his.

Your body arches into him as his hands trace every inch of you like a secret he never meant to share. He whispers your name into your skin like a vow, like it’s the only thing he can say without unraveling.

Your legs stay wrapped around him, your bodies close, heat building between you, breath by breath. There’s a rhythm now, unspoken but steady, drawn from every shared heartbeat and every sigh that escapes between kisses. He moves with purpose, but never haste. Like he’s painting something with your skin, with the glide of his mouth down your chest, the slow press of his hips against yours.

You feel everything—his weight, his warmth, the tension just beneath the surface of his restraint. It's not just physical; it’s something deeper. Every touch is layered with unspoken emotion, with fear, with longing. He holds your hand in his, fingers laced tightly like he’s afraid of losing you even now, even here.

When he finally sinks into you, it’s with a gasp — his forehead against yours, lips parted, eyes closed as if the feeling might overwhelm him. And for a second, time stutters.

You whisper his name, soft and unsure.

He opens his eyes, just barely, and there’s something raw there. Vulnerable. Like he’s breaking apart in your arms and doesn’t know how to ask for help.

And still, he moves with you. Slowly. Deeply. Intimately. The tension curls tighter and tighter between your bodies, breath catching, fingers clinging, every roll of his hips sending shivers down your spine.

It’s not about release. It’s about connection. About staying connected — for as long as he can bear.

His hand slides up the side of your body, fingers splayed wide, like he's trying to memorize the feel of your skin. His movements are still slow, achingly slow, measured by emotion more than rhythm. Your bodies move together, and it’s not just friction or heat, it’s something far more delicate. More dangerous.

Your breath stutters as his mouth finds yours again — soft at first, then deeper, more desperate. He swallows your quiet moans, like he needs them, like they anchor him. Each gasp from you seems to steady him, keep him here.

“Je t’aime", he whispers against your lips, the words spilling out between kisses, between shallow breaths. “I love you.”

You open your eyes just enough to see him—his brows drawn together, eyes glassy with something he won’t let fall. He thrusts again, slow and deep, and your hands clutch at his back, nails gently dragging down as you whisper his name like a promise.

“Say it again", you breathe, barely a sound.

He presses his forehead to yours. “I love you.”

It’s almost a prayer. One that doesn’t quite hide the tremble in his voice.

“I love you", he repeats, voice cracking, like saying it might protect you from something. Like it’s all he has left to give.

You feel the ache in him now — how hard he’s holding on, how much he’s not saying. You cup his face, brush your thumb beneath his eye, even as your bodies continue to move, breath rising, your voice breaking as you whisper back. “I love you too.”

You give him this moment. All of you. Because something in your bones tells you he’s not asking for your body.

He’s asking for your forgiveness.

And he hasn’t even told you why.

-

The night outside is razor-cold, the kind that turns your breath silver and makes every moment feel sharper, more intentional. But inside the location oft he gala – a hotel transformed into the glittering heart of Maranello – the air is electric with warmth and money and names whispered like prayers.

You step from the sleek black car, camera in hand, the strap wrapped twice around your wrist like armor. The red dress clings to your skin like a second thought you’re not ready to let go of. It moves with you — graceful, dangerous, defiant. And though your heels click softly against the stone underfoot, your presence feels louder than it should.

Your eyes scan the crowd gathering at the velvet ropes and floodlights. Paparazzi line the barricades, the bulbs of their cameras already flashing in practiced bursts, capturing every second of curated glamor. You lift your own camera instinctively, more for something to do than anything else. Muscle memory. Distraction.

Then you see him.

Charles.

Standing just a few steps away from the entrance, surrounded by the hum of handlers and officials and whispered anticipation. He’s stunning in black—tailored tux, crisp collar, one hand in his pocket, the other hanging loose at his side like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

He doesn’t see you at first.

But then he does.

And in the moment your eyes meet, everything slows.

You walk forward, composed, professional, because that’s what tonight demands for now. Not a girlfriend. Not a secret. A photographer. A guest with a purpose and a mask of her own, until he decides it’s time to pull you up to his side, revealing you as his girlfriend to the world. But as you pass him — just barely close enough for your shoulders to brush — his hand reaches out quickly, catching yours.

A whisper of a touch. A spark.

He squeezes your fingers twice.

It’s a code. The one he gave you weeks ago. I love you.

You squeeze his hand, too – once, twice – but you don’t look back.

Not at him. Not at the way his eyes probably lingered a second too long, not at the curve of his mouth as he turned back to the press. You can’t afford to — not now. Not when you still feel his touch wrapped around your fingers like a pulse you can’t quiet.

So you walk. One foot in front of the other, heels steady on the stone as the crowd thickens. Voices rise and flashbulbs pop, and it all feels distant, like you’re underwater. But your grip tightens on your camera, grounding you. Reminding you of the role you came here to play.

You move behind the rope — your space. Just left of center, facing the red carpet. The place where everyone passes, where moments are frozen with the shutter’s bite and reputations are lit or buried in an instant. You inhale deeply, adjust your lens, double-check the battery and the memory card. Rituals. Safety.

You steal a glance at your phone. No response from Elena. Your text is still unopened, but you don’t spare a second thought to it. She’s probably busy with God knows who. You slide the phone back into your clutch and wrap your fingers around your camera again, just as the atmosphere shifts.

Suddenly, it’s loud.

The hum of anticipation breaks into a roar as the first wave of celebrities steps onto the carpet — sleek silhouettes in couture, practiced grins, the glide of fabric and confidence. Names you’ve only seen on screens and magazine covers drift past you in flashes of color and diamonds. The crowd surges forward, voices rising like a tide.

“This way!” “Over here!” “Turn to your left!”

Your hands move on instinct. Click. Click. Adjust. Frame. Capture. You breathe through the rhythm, let it settle in your bones. The camera becomes your anchor, your voice, your shield.

And then everything slows.

Not in real time, not really — but in the way that certain moments stretch long and thin, pulled tight by something unspoken.

He’s there. Charles.

Just stepping into the light of the carpet, shoulders squared in that tailored tux, a quiet storm of grace and control. The crowd responds instantly, shouting his name, flash after flash turning his face into something almost unreal. Almost untouchable.

He smiles. Polished. Just enough teeth. Chin tipped at the right angle. He knows this dance. He was raised in it. But then his eyes shift. And they find you.

Across the rope, camera to your face, lens between you like a veil.

You freeze. So does he.

Only for a second. But it’s long enough. Long enough to feel it.

He doesn’t smile. Not the way he does for the crowd. Not the way he just did two steps ago. Instead, there’s something else in his gaze, soft and sharp all at once. Like regret wrapped in reverence. Like he’s trying to tell you something from across the noise and chaos, without a single word.

Photographers shout his name. Call for him to turn. To lift his chin. To look left. But he doesn’t. Because for a breathless, infinite beat, all his focus is on you.

He doesn’t smile. Not the way the world expects him to. His face shifts when his eyes land on you — something unguarded bleeding through the composure. Like a door left open by accident. Like the truth slipping out before he can catch it.

You freeze, your camera hovering in front of you like a shield. You shouldn’t be here — not in this moment, whatever it is. Not in the crossfire of something that feels too personal for the stage he’s standing on.

Because his eyes don’t say hello. They say I’m sorry.

There’s no other way to describe it. No smile. No nod. Just that quiet look of someone who wants to take something back—something already unraveling. And before you can stop yourself, your breath catches in your throat.

Then he lifts his hand.

Just slightly. Just enough. Not to wave, not to pose. He reaches out like he might come toward you. Like he might step off the carpet, over the rope, through the noise.

But then someone steps into the space beside him. Your stomach tightens before you even see her face.

Elena.

Effortless. Composed. Her gown deep burgundy, her arm brushing Charles’s with the ease of a woman who doesn’t have to ask for space — because she’s always had it. She leans in and says something you can’t hear. Something light, probably nothing.

But he turns. Just like that.

His eyes leave yours like a door closing in the wind — without warning, without sound. His hand drops, not back to his side, but to her waist. Settling there like it’s meant to. Casual. Familiar. Not intimate — but not neutral either.

The cameras don’t miss it. Neither do the people behind them.

“Charles! Over here—Charles, who’s she?” “Is that your girlfriend?” “Smile for us—stand closer, that’s perfect!”

The shouts crackle above the crowd, hungry and fast, swallowing everything else. And in the chaos, Elena turns into the noise with a laugh—light, polished, unbothered. She plays it well. She doesn’t answer. Just leans in toward him slightly, shoulder against his arm like she belongs there.

He fucking smiles.

You see it happen — the shift. The settling. The way he straightens his spine and squares his shoulders for the attention. That practiced grin slides onto his face, slow and smooth, like armor being fitted back into place. The softness that was there a moment ago — the reach, the ache — it’s gone.

Now he looks like what they want him to be. Untouchable. Charming. In control.

And next to him, she’s dazzling. Effortlessly part of the picture. Her hair swept up, her dress catching the light, her body angled toward him like they’ve been rehearsing this their whole lives.

Your breath catches, camera still tight in your hands, useless.

You shouldn’t care. Not here. Not like this.

But the crowd doesn’t care about lines. They don’t know who’s behind the rope and who’s behind his heart. They only care about the story their flashes can sell.

“Give us a kiss!” someone yells. “You two together? Come on, Charles!”

He laughs, soft and low, and it carries just enough charm to satisfy them. He doesn’t answer the question — he never does. But he doesn’t deny it either.

Elena just tilts her head toward him, smiling like she’s in on some private joke. Her hand brushes his chest, light and fleeting, but it’s enough. Enough to set off another burst of flashbulbs. Enough to feed the machine.

You flinch at the pop-pop-pop of the cameras. You know that sound. You’ve lived in that sound. Behind the lens, behind the scenes. You know how easily a touch becomes a headline. How quickly truth is twisted into suggestion.

And yet, in this moment, it doesn’t matter what’s real.

What matters is what looks real. And right now, they look like a fucking headline.

You lower your camera. Not because you’re done, but because you can’t. Your hands are steady, but something beneath your ribs is splintering — slow and quiet and devastating.

He’s still looking at her. Not like before. Not the way he looked at you.

But he’s holding the pose. Holding her.

And for all the world watching, he’s letting them believe it.

You take a step back. Just one.

The velvet rope presses against your hips like a reminder. A boundary. A border. You don’t belong out there, not tonight. Not in that image. Not in that story. Not the girlfriend. Not the guest of honor. Just a girl behind the rope with a camera and a dress she suddenly feels wrong in.

You glance once more at him, at the easy way he stands with her — then realize the hardest truth: tonight, you’re not the story he wants anyone to tell.

[spookie-bitch]

*ੈ✩‧₊˚Clea Headcannons *ੈ✩‧₊˚

Pairings: Clea Strange x Fem!Reader An: decided to do some hcs because I have writers block 😔

— She's 100% got soft dom vibes

— I don't really think she's the type to get jealous. she trusts you and knows her worth. So why would she have any reason to worry?

— I think she's more of a quie, reserved kind of person. But that doesn't mean she's not afraid to speak up when necessary, because she WILL.

— Despite her mostly intimidating appearance, she cares deeply for those she's close with.

— This sometimes leads to her being maybe a bit overprotective.

— "Excuse me, they asked for no pickles."

— Her love language is a mix of words of affirmation, quality time, and acts of service.

— She's most definitely a sucker for clingy behavior as much as it might annoy her.

— She gives the best hugs, especially when you need it. (She just looks like she gives good hugs. At least to me (⁠╥⁠﹏⁠╥⁠)

— I feel like because she's so quiet a lot of the time, she'll unintentionally sneak into the room you're in and stare at you (not in a creepy way).

— It scares the crap out of you every time to the point where she does it on purpose now.

— <3

[eyes-on-display]

Oml idk what to say, it is so good, so poetic plus those metaphors. The dialogue so humanlike, the descriptions are just so suitable. Thank you for writing this

“Viciously Violet”

Clea Strange x Female Reader

Request by @anonymous

Hello Morning/Afternoon/Evening! I was hoping you could do a Charlize Theron × Female Reader. It is her character Clea Strange (from Doctor Strange: Multiverse Of Madness) So Y/n works for Dr Strange as his apprentice and has secret feelings for his wife Clea Strange. But one day while Dr Strange was on a business trip and Y/n was left behind since she wasn't needed, she is invited by Clea to play a game called Truth Or Strip whereby you ar asked a question and if you get it wrong or you refuse to answer a question you are forced to strip, but things slowly take a turn and they end up having sex. Please, hope you are able to do it <3

cw : 18+ // smut // infidelity // angst

since it wasn’t specified, i hope you wouldn’t mind that i took the angsty route with this one. also there probably are many other Clea(s) in other universes but let’s just ignore the fact for the sake of angst :3

────────────────────

It is both a boon and a bane. An endless cycle of torment, wounded and cured only to be gently maimed again.

There are plenty of fish in the sea, so why? Just why did you end up falling for her? A married woman, the wife of your mentor no less. Oh but there is only one Clea, beautiful, beautiful Clea with bold eyes and kind heart, who certainly is not yours. She will never be yours, forever unattainable. She does not know it of course that you harbour feelings for her. As challenging and agonising as it is, you make sure of it. After all, you do not become the apprentice of the former soccer supreme by being nothing.

Since when exactly they have begun thriving, you do not know. Perhaps, the seed of these fluttering feelings, that will get out of control in the mere presence of the woman, is planted in your heart following that fateful day. She has rescued you from the inevitable tumble down the stair. Inevitable that is, has she not intervened. Given as she has, you come out unscathed apart from your sorry little heart, it seems. You have been carrying a few too many things in your arms, one stacked upon another to the point that they obscure your vision. In your reckless haste to get to the foyer of Sanctum Sanctorum, you fail to see the beginning of the staircase.

One, one misstep is all it takes to send the whole trajectory of your life into complete chaos. Instead of meeting the same fate as the things in your hands and quite possibly suffering from a few broken bones, you are effortlessly pulled into a firm body by an arm that has captured your waist in a snug hold. Looking down, you see purple, and your own fingers holding onto the forearm of your saviour for dear life. Wisps of snow-white hair softly caress your cheeks as you seek the all too familiar face of Clea, subsequently being held captive by those enchantingly green eyes.

Then, follow days wherein you spend the better part of your waking hour reminiscing about the heart-throbbing little moment atop the grand staircase, glorying in the ghost of her touch. A smile or a trickle of attention from her, such as a simple “Good Morning”, will undoubtedly have your heart doing giddy somersaults. Whenever your line of sight is intercepted by a figure well cladded in violet attire, your gaze will linger on her for a beat too long, perpetually in awe of the way it hugs her body in all the right places. It is only admiration, a woman appreciating the beauty of a fellow woman; so you have reasoned in the beginning with no one but yourself.

And then, one day, you walk in on your mentor and his wife sharing an intimate moment. The kiss has been nothing too serious, merely a peck on the lips: a quick greeting between a husband and a wife. In that very moment, inside you rears the head of something ugly, and you have caught yourself wishing that it was your lips embracing Clea’s and your hands book-casing her hips rather than her husband’s. It has served as an eye opener for you to stop lying to yourself. The realisation has been not so much a surprise as a simple fact, which you have decided is time, to finally acknowledge. After such revelation, a pang of heartache accompanies you every time you lay your eyes upon the picture perfect power couple.

In then comes a smile from her, whether directed at you or not, and all the negative thoughts will be immediately dispelled. Such is the predicament you have found yourself in, tortured unknowingly, albeit relentlessly, by one drop dead gorgeous disaster.

Despite being a double-edged sword, the feelings that you have for Clea are sacred, and so, you treat them as such, embracing them close to your heart along with the woman herself. You have sworn silently never to get in the way of her life. If you must carry your feelings to your grave for her to have her happily ever after, then without hesitation, you will.

Such big words, you have said. Then, a request spills forth those dangerously tempting lips, and like a poisoned coward, you become all weak-kneed and lily-livered.

“I have plenty of time on my hand and with Stephen away, no one to keep me company. Indulge me, won’t you darling?”

Darling? Darling?!

She seems intent on giving you a cardiac arrest.

“I- alright. Why not?”

Have you known beforehand the kind of entertainment that you are being asked to indulge her in, you wonder if you will have agreed to it.

The game that Clea has insisted on playing with you has started out innocently enough for you to believe that it truly is a harmless activity. Her questions that she demands you to answer, although challenging in nature, are a walk in the park for you, given that you are well versed in a variety of demanding topics as an apprentice of one fastidious sorcerer.

It is only when she switches to more scandalous questions that you lose your winning streak, and along with it, one after another of your clothing pieces.

“How many people in this room would you be willing to hook up with?”

“But there’s only the two of us in here.”

“And?”

“I- uh I- I don’t know?”

“Strip it is then.”

So, goes your jacket.

“Who is the most inappropriate person you’ve ever had a crush on?”

You are unexpectedly stunned into silence since it has hit a little too close to home.

She has taken your silence as a refusal to answer, and just like that, your socks are the next to go.

“What hook-up scene from a movie or TV show would you like to recreate?”

“If you could cheat and no one would ever, ever find out, would you?”

On and on and on it goes, the following far more outrageous than the previous, and before you know it, you are left in nothing but your undergarments.

Are you truly, terribly bad at coming up with good questions, or does she just have an absurd amount of confidence, you no longer know. She has rarely got an answer wrong, not to mention, hesitated to answer the sordid questions that you have to desperately rack your brains for. The very few errors which she has made in answering your questions barely make a dent in her clothes. You find it ridiculously unfair that compared to your simple outfit, her elaborate attire has more pieces of clothing to it.

“Are you taken?”

The question as it is has twofold meanings, and although you, too, have separate answers, you decide upon the affirmative.

“Yes.”

“By whom, or shall I say with whom are you taken?”

You level her with a glare that screams irritation, or at least, as close to it as you can manage while barely clothed.

“What gives you the impression that I am not taken by someone?”

“Oh honey, you’re an open book. Are you honestly so foolish as to believe that I haven’t noticed yet?”

You blanch.

“Now, onto my next question…”

This is it. Doom is about to befall you and it is no one’s fault but your own. Of course, she is going to know. How can you be so naive? She is Clea after all. What an idiot you are! Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Fucking idiot!

Oh beautiful, beautiful Clea, she is going to be repulsed by your feelings. By you.

“How long have you been sleeping with Stephen?”

“I- what?!”

“I’m not blind. Even if I were, with the way you tend to wear your heart on your sleeve, well…” One hand makes an indifferent gesture. “…you get the gist.“

“I- I don’t. You’re getting it all wrong.”

“Haven’t I made myself clear? You needn’t act all innocent. I’ve seen the way you looked at him, eyes full of longing like a love-sick puppy.”

Clea looks you straight in the eyes, sapphire green eyes narrowing dangerously as if she is seeing something in you that you do not even know exists.

“You must think you’re one perfect pretender.” The warmth from before all but gone, her voice is all ice and razor sharp as it cuts through your flesh. “You’re not. You don’t even come close to being good enough.”

So, this has been her intention all along. To interrogate you for allegedly spreading your legs for her husband. Does she really think so lowly of you? But then again, she is not entirely wrong, and yet, she cannot have been more wrong. My word, you want to cry! Oh how you want to cry! But not here, you tell yourself, not right now, not in front of her.

“I- I don’t feel like playing anymore. Please, excuse me Mrs. Strange.”

“Now, now, we’re just getting started. I can’t allow you to spoil my fun. Sit back down.”

You do not. Ignoring the warmth that is pooling in your eyes and fingers that are grasping your bare forearm, you scramble to your feet, struggle to get your hands through the sleeves of your shirt. And then, suddenly, none too gently, you are shoved into the couch.

“I said sit back down.”

Oh. Oh. Not once during your stay at the Sanctum Sanctorum have you heard Clea using such tone, dripping with dark, dark venom, much less being at the receiving end of it. Alas, it hurts. Your heart hurts. It hurts like a bitch.

“Just admit that you’re sleeping with my husband or strip. Why are you making it so difficult?”

She has your knees pinned between her thighs while she remains standing, looming over your frame that is haphazardly sprawled across the velveteen cushion. You are helpless against the tears that are beginning to cascade down your cheeks, and as a last resort to shield your broken, vulnerable self from the woman, who, in contrast, looks too good to be true, you keep your face hidden in the crook of your arm.

“Oh, so I’m the one who’s making it difficult?” Amidst a violent downpour of tears, your voice comes out pathetically broken, but you just cannot find it in yourself to care anymore. “If you’re not blind, if you’re truly as observant as you’ve so boldly claimed, then you would have known that it was never your husband whom I’ve been pining over, rather naively might I add.” Words boil down to choked sobs, and it is but a whisper when you manage to speak again. “Why are you doing this to me? Whatever did I do to deserve this? If you despise me so, simply say it to my face.”

You hear the rustling of fabric as she shifts, sits beside your body on the couch, and then, you feel the gentle crawl of fingers on your forearm before they go to lock around your wrist. There is no force in her touch; she is not urging, merely holding. Whether you wish to lay yourself bare for her to scrutinise, or keep to yourself, the decision essentially lies in your hands. You cannot help but appreciate her thoughtfulness even in the midst of a dispute. Eventually, you let her carry your arm away. Selfish though it is, a part of you want her to witness the damage done by her actions.

Tears make your vision as good as murky; you can barely discern a look of concern and remorse on her face with a shadow of- is that hopefulness?

“Do you have feelings for me?”

“Isn’t it obvious, but more importantly, am I allowed to?”

“Please, I need to hear you say it.”

“I have feelings for you.”

As per her plea, you find yourself uttering your terrible confession. No sooner have the words left your lips than your breath follows suit, for all too unexpectedly, the lips of Clea, smooth and so unbelievably soft, that you have certainly believed will forever be beyond your reach, have captured your lips in a warm, delicate caress.

The effect is both immense and immediate; melting into the kiss like a scoop on a cone, all the tension ebb away from your limbs, rendering you utterly helpless beneath her touch. It is a tamed kiss, all tender and tantalising, hopefully a promise of what is to come.

When she departs, she does not stray too far. It is while having your faces a whisker away from each other’s, that you ask.

“Is it wrong of me to like you?”

A kiss is dropped atop your cheek, and from there, she answers.

“Like me, please.”

“I like you, Clea. So much so that it hurts.”

“Let me heal you. Let me chase your pain away.”

And who are you to refuse her wishes?

Along with the interweaving of fingers beside your head, lips map every inch of skin; starting from your forehead and ending all the way down your ankles, nothing remains untouched by those lovely lips as your body is drenched in delicate kisses.

Unfortunately, the rain on your parade is your very thoughts themselves that keep reminding you of the gut-wrenching reality that whatever this is, is but transitory. It is only a matter of minutes before you will be thrusted back into your plain old life, your miserable plain old life with no Clea in it. And so, you cry. You cry while having her mouth attached to your breasts. As pleasant as it feels, the pleasure is overshadowed by the pain.

“I will never be yours. I will never be yours, Clea.”

Clea, oh sweet sweet Clea is instantly on you, peppering your face with candied pecks, lulling you with hushed tones and honeydewed whispers, all the while the gentle pads of her thumbs caress your tears away.

“Shh darling, oh my darling angel, in this moment in time, you are mine as much as I am yours. Rid your mind of unhappy thoughts. Focus on me and me alone. Can you do that for me, my angel? For your Clea?”

You give a silent nod which is not a lie per se. Even though you are not confident in your ability to keep the unsavoury thoughts at bay, you will try. You will do that for her, your Clea.

In fact, you learn, once her mouth descends upon where you are needing her the most, that forgetting everything else is not as hard as you have initially thought. Time seems to stop, by the time her lips close around the little bundle of nerves. Nothing but your own heartbeat greets your ears, frenzied and feverish, as one wicked tongue subjects you to a sweet suffering. Submerged in such toe curling sensations, your mouth falls open in a silent scream, thighs trembling helplessly under the relentless assaults of the thick muscle on your tender insides.

A head full of lustrous lily-white hair bobbing up and down between your thighs is truly a sight to behold, and your fingers sink into the smooth strands upon feeling digits slipping inside your core while your sensitive little nub is kissed and suckled by her hot, ravenous mouth. You have surely believed that you cannot fall for her anymore than you already have, but you are proven wrong when she reveals herself once more to your hungry gaze after feasting upon you like you are the rarest delicacy. Lips dewy with your juices, chin coated in a sheen of your essence and pupils blown wide, she looks positively intoxicated, every bit the epitome of Eros.

In the meantime, despite knowing all too well that you are flying too close to the sun, you do not worry about the melting of the wax. If you end up descending into your downfall, at least, you will be falling after having achieved the seemingly unattainable. So, you spread your wings wide and soar high into the sky towards your bright, beautiful sun. But alas, your wings do not melt. If they do, the fall is prevented by a pair of arms that wind up around your waist, pulling you into luxuriously toned laps.

Perched atop her thighs, your lips collide. She trail hers down your neck, suck the little notch of your throat, but it is on the soft swell of your left breast that she decides to leave a lingering bruise.

“A keepsake. Only fitting to leave it on your throbbing little heart, don’t you think, so that with every beat of your heart, you will be reminded of me.”

“You say it as if I could ever stop thinking about you.”

A reply does not come. Only a hum escapes her lips, which softly kisses your sternum, as her face nuzzles your breasts.

“Oh my sweet, sweet angel, don’t you know that I love you?”

There comes your downfall condensed into three little words, and along with it, thorny vines twine round your heart. They squeeze, squeeze until the veins burst, squeeze until the heartstrings snap. You hold the woman of your dreams close all the while, so impossibly close to your chest, beneath which your heart begins breaking into a million little pieces, as silent tears seep into the crown of her head.

────────────────────

[wolvietxt]

𝓟ATCHWORK.

pairings : frank castle x fem!reader warnings : injury, crying, non-sexual nudity, angst, size diff, hurt/comfort, teasing, fluff, happy ending summary : you take care of your boyfriend frank after he shows up at your door, bloody and bruised wc : 1.2k a/n : um hello punisher fandom i’m only on season one i’m so sorry #fakefan😥

the knock at your door came just after midnight, faint but insistent. you had a sinking feeling even before you opened it, knowing who it would be. frank always showed up like this - silent and battered, like a ghost returning to haunt your quiet life. except you really did love this ghost. but tonight was worse. the moment you saw him leaning heavily against the frame, his face pale under streaks of blood, your breath hitched.

“frank,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “oh my god, what happened?”

he grunted in response, brushing off your concern with a slight shake of his head. “‘s not as bad as it looks,” he muttered, but the way he swayed on his feet told a different story. instinctively, you reached out, your much smaller hands pressing against his chest to steady him. he was so solid, so big, but he felt fragile in this moment, like he might collapse if you let go.

“come inside,” you said, your voice wavering as you pulled him in. he barely made it two steps before you had to slip under his arm, guiding him toward the bathroom. “you shouldn’t even be walking. why didn’t you call me?”

“didn’t wanna… bother you,” he rasped, wincing as you helped him sit on the closed toilet lid. his broad shoulders hunched forward, and he sucked in a sharp breath when you knelt in front of him, slowly nestling in between his legs.

“bother me?” your voice cracked, tears already pricking at your eyes. “frank, you’re bleeding all over my bathroom. how could you think…” you trailed off, shaking your head as you reached for the first aid kit under the sink.

his lips twitched, a ghost of a smile despite the situation. “baby, you’re cryin’ already,” he murmured, his tone soft, almost teasing. “i’m the one all cut up, and you’re the one fallin’ apart.”

“shut up,” you sniffled, wiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand before focusing on the deep gash along his side. “it’s not funny.”

“maybe a little funny,” he said, but his voice was gentler now, his dark eyes watching you with something like affection. the size of him made you feel even smaller as you worked, your hands trembling as you cleaned the wound. “you don’t gotta do this, y’know.”

“stop saying that,” you mumbled, dabbing at the cut with antiseptic, trying to focus on stopping the bleeding rather than frank’s cooing at your sniffles. “you’re always saying that, like i’m not here because i want to be. you think i’d let just anyone bleed all over my floor?”

his chuckle was low, rumbling in his chest. “guess not.”

once the wound was cleaned and stitched, you leaned back on your heels, letting out a shaky breath. “all done. but you need to get cleaned up. you’re covered in…” you gestured vaguely at him, your lips quivering as you tried not to cry again.

“hey,” he said softly, his massive hand reaching out to cup your cheek, another of his little scoffs threatening to slip. he was trying to be as serious as possible for you, not wanting you to think he wasn’t taking you seriously, especially after putting you through so much. his thumb brushed away a stray tear, and the contrast of his rough skin against your softness made your heart ache. “don’t cry, sweetheart. it’s okay. i’m okay.”

“you’re not okay,” you whispered, your voice breaking. your train of thought stopped abruptly when you noticed the corners of his lips slightly turning up. “frank! stop smiling. just let me help, okay?” you whined, lifting your head away from his hands.

“okay, sweetheart,” he didn’t argue, too tired to fight you on it. you stood and turned to the tub, starting the water and letting it run warm. the quiet sound of it filled the room, grounding you as you grabbed a clean towel and set it aside. when you turned back to him, he was watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite place.

“come on,” you said, helping him to his feet. he towered over you, his sheer size making the act of guiding him to the tub feel almost absurd. but he let you, his movements slow and careful as he sank down onto the edge. his knees jutted up from the small space, his frame too large for the confines of your tiny bathroom.

“stay there,” you murmured, kneeling again to untie his boots and tug them off. your fingers worked quickly, but you were hyper-aware of his gaze, the weight of his attention making your cheeks flush.

once he was down to his boxers, you helped him ease into the water, your hands fluttering nervously as if you might break him. he let out a low sigh as the warm water enveloped him, his head tipping back against the edge of the tub.

“better?” you asked, perching on the side of the tub.

he hummed in response, his eyes slipping shut. after a moment, his head tipped forward, resting against your thigh. the vulnerability of the gesture stole your breath, and your hand hesitated mid-air before you rested it gently on his damp hair.

“you’re too good to me,” he murmured, his voice low and rough.

“stop saying that,” you replied softly, your fingers threading through his hair. “you deserve someone to take care of you, frank. you deserve…” your voice caught, the words sticking in your throat.

he tilted his head slightly, looking up at you with an amused glint in his eyes. “you’re cryin’ again.”

“shut up,” you sniffled, swiping at your cheeks. “it’s your fault. you’re so… stubborn.”

his laugh was soft, barely more than a huff of air, but it made your chest ache. “didn’t mean to make you cry, sweetheart.”

you shook your head, your hand still brushing through his hair. “you didn’t. i just… i hate seeing you like this. you act like you don’t matter, but you do. you matter to me.”

for a long moment, he didn’t say anything, his dark eyes searching yours. then, slowly, he lifted a hand out of the water, his fingers brushing against your knee. it was such a small, tender gesture, but it spoke volumes.

“you’re somethin’ else,” he muttered, his voice thick with emotion.

the two of you stayed like that for a while, the water growing cooler as his breathing slowed, the exhaustion finally taking hold. you didn’t move, didn’t dare disturb the fragile peace that had settled over the room. he looked so different like this, his usual hard edges softened by the quiet intimacy of the moment.

as his head grew heavier against your thigh, you leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his head. “get some rest,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “i’ve got you, frank. i’ve got you.”

and for the first time, he didn’t argue.

taglist form in pinned post, just added frank castle ><

[camillecrellin]

hii do you think you can write possessive!graham eaton headcannons please? if not that okay!! 🤍

Possessive!Graham Eaton Headcannons

A/n: I'm sorry this is short, this is all I could think of. Hope you like it anon. Thanks for requesting!

First of all Graham has been through a lot and so she doesn't put up with anyone's shit.

If someone doesn't like you, she doesn't like them.

If you don't like someone, she doesn't like them.

Graham is very easily jealous and she shows it. Rolling her eyes, scoffing and tutting at anyone she thinks is hitting on you.

If your at a party, Graham will always have an eye on you even if she's off talking to Hilary, Dolph or Andre, she's watching you.

Graham, though, would never interupt any of your conversations unless someone is hiting on you or making you feel uncomfortable.

In those cases, Graham confronts the person and the steals you away. Sometimes bosting with a slightly tipsy make out session.

If someone cat calls you on the street, Graham always has a snarky comment, making you laugh in her shoulder.

Graham is a hand holder. She loves holding your hand, and if she can't hold your hand at the moment, she'll be gripping onto you in some way shape of form.

Overall Graham loves you, and just wants you to know it.

[tarohugs]

after you find out they cheated (nct dream)

►ot7 x reader

► angst!! some (very minute) fluff, cliff hangers..

►read part 1 here!

►a/n part 2 as requested!! although this was def not what some wanted i think this turn off events is much better. please enjoy and lmk if u do

MARK

After the dispatch rumors, Mark’s name trended on social media for the remainder of the month. Seeing his face constantly had upset you tremendously to the point where you had to mute his name and every nickname given to the boy. 

You two had not talked since he admitted to you over text he had cheated. He made many attempts to come over and make amends but to no avail, you paid no remorse to his actions. Truthfully, Mark was the love of your life and you dearly wanted to give him a chance considering he was trying his best to set forth with your relationship, but something about you couldn’t let him off so easily. 

Throughout the course of your relationship with Mark, he had always said you “were the one” and you shared many intimate moments together. Now, as you watch him through your doorbell camera making his final attempt at reconciling, you decide it is time to finally communicate your true feelings. 

He had approached your front door with flowers and a box of your favorite chocolates along with other of your most beloved items you enjoyed. His eyes swelled with tears as he began to stutter words when you opened the front door. 

“Y-y/n,” Mark faltered in shock that you opened the door before he even had the chance to knock. “I have a lot to explain, just please listen-”

You laughed, surprised he thought he even had a chance, “Mark, you know what you did was wrong and nothing can change that. Look, I didn’t answer to hear you out, I answered to tell you I’m over you and to stop bothering me.” Your eyes watered as you made eye contact with the boy that was once your lover.

“You know it’s just Dispatch,” he asserted, “None of that was the truth, you know this. Please, just listen to me, I can explain everything to you even if you don’t want to hear it. Don’t just throw away years of us for something so stupid.”

You gasped, shocked that he would claim this was stupid, “There’s nothing to explain to me, you fucked up and this is over. None of the shit I’ve seen about you this month was stupid. I’m not dumb, Mark, don’t treat me like this. You don’t deserve a second chance.”

Mark tried to speak again but you immediately shut him down with the palm of your hand signaling him to stop. Maybe you would give him a chance another day but this wasn’t the time. You never accepted the gifts from him as you shut the door in his face. 

As months went on after your final encounter with Mark, he made no other attempts to reunite with you, accepting you were ready to move on to someone better. No texts, no knocking on your door, no phonecalls, no contact at all. Your life with Mark was over for good.

RENJUN

When Renjun had admitted to you he cheated, you didn’t believe his words at first. He had to be joking, I mean who was he to cheat anyways? He was always loyal to you and never failed to ensure you were the number one thing in his life. What could possibly bring him to cheat on you?

“Renjun, what are you talking about?” you questioned, trying to come up with some explanation for his infidelity. 

He couldn’t look you in the eyes as he confessed, “You know Yeji? My new coworker? We were at a holiday party and I was drunk and you know how the rest played out.”

You couldn’t believe his words. Renjun was always the type to inform you of every event in his life. When he had told you about his annual holiday work parties, he always invited you, this year was the first you had heard nothing. As you came to the realization why, you finally connected the dots. 

Even though Renjun excused himself by offering that he was drunk, this wasn’t a drunken mistake. Renjun was intentional with his actions. If he had intended not to invite you in the first place, his objective was clear he was trying to get in Yeji’s pants. 

Not a single bone in your body felt remorse for the boy as you came to comprehend his efforts to cheat on you. “Get out,” you stated strictly, offering no emotion for Renjun to crack.

“Y/n, just give me a chance. I’ll make it up to you,” he began to plead, clutching his fingers together to create a dramatic effect. Nothing could make you forgive him.

“Renjun, you knew what you did. You’re better than this and I deserve better than whatever is going on with you,” you attempted to excuse his infidelity. Renjun had always been truthful with you and although his activities were clear, you had wanted to give him a chance despite your brain telling you not to. 

Renjun simply nodded your head at your statement, beginning to get out of your once shared bed and gather his belongings. He didn’t speak a word as he stuffed his suitcase full other than, “I’ll get the rest of my things later.” He didn’t though, after that night he had left for good.

He never texted you to gather his possessions or make amends. You went on for weeks of no contact and eventually trashed his uncollected belongings due to the high level of emotion they caused you. Not wanting to make the first text, you waited and waited for him to make a move.

Eventually your waiting had done you justice has you finally received a message from your ex-boyfriend.

renjun: y/n

renjun: let’s talk

JENO

After many failed attempts of trying to make Jeno offer some sort of apology for his actions, he eventually started ghosting you as a whole. You couldn’t believe he could once be so loving and switch so easily to being the toxic ex-boyfriend he would shame before. 

The I love you’s turned into Leave me alone’s as you constantly tried to confront him. During the course of your relationship, you two had moved in together and when he cheated on you he made no attempt to move out - simply inviting other girls over without a care in the world. 

Luckily, you two had separate rooms but this didn’t change the fact you could still hear the banging of his bedframe against the wall from one of his many one night stands. One night you had gotten so agitated by his thoughtless actions and confronted him about what was going on.

“Jeno,” you barged into his room, interrupting whatever fuck he had going on. “I’ve had enough of this.”

He pushed the half-naked girl off of him, slowly making his way to throw on a shirt, telling the girl to leave. She scoffed at you limiting her time with Jeno but quickly put on her scattered clothes, leaving your shared apartment. “Y/n, what the fuck is your problem,” he expressed angrily, clearly upset that you would interrupt such an intimate moment.

“Look Jeno, I don’t know what the fuck is going on with you, but I’ve had enough of it. Either you stop with this or you leave. You were the one that fucked up. Figure out your life,” you finally stood your ground. Jeno had always been dominant in your relationship, and after your “break-up” this prevailed. 

He constantly made you feel bad about yourself, blaming you for “not being good enough” as the reason he had to cheat on you. Yeah, this hurt like hell. However, you were desperate to make Jeno love you again, even if he had acted so wrongly. 

Jeno rolled his eyes at your scolding, “If you want me out y/n, so be it. Just know I won’t come back.” He shut the door in your face as you listened to him slam drawers and punch the wall in anger.

You ran back to your room and shut the door behind you, sliding down it as tears began to blind your eyes. What had happened to Jeno? 

The next morning you woke up with no trace of Jeno to be found. He offered no explanation for what had changed him so tremendously but you figured you would find out when you received a knock on the door from Jaemin, Jeno’s best friend.

You answered the door reluctantly, scared Jaemin would make a comment on your puffy eyes and dishelved features. “Jaemin, what’s wrong?” you questioned, taking in his appearance. He seemed to be in the same situation as you, noticing his freshly awoken demeanor.

“Y/n, we need to talk. It’s about Jeno,” he sighed, stepping into your apartment.

HAECHAN

When Haechan saw the look on your face after you discovered him cheating, endless apologies left his mouth. He had never seen you so upset and angry with him, he admitted he deserved your backlash. 

Even though he was quick to beg for your forgiveness, you never offered it to him, opting to move on instead. You were petty and getting back together with Haechan would not be the power move. 

Although you had made it clear you were over Haechan, you never made an official attempt at breaking up with him. Instead, you had simply ghosted him as you didn’t want to make any contact with your so-called ex-boyfriend. This, instead, led you to have even more difficulties moving on as you felt remorse hooking up with other men due to some sort of tie still being connected to the boy.

Months went by and all the efforts you made to sleep with random strangers were ruined as you felt a constant cloud of guilt hanging over you. You tried to get over him by getting blackout drunk at random parties, knowing sober you would make no effort to move on. You were unsuccessful most nights but one night you were finally convinced it was your time. 

Unfortunately, the guy that you landed with in bed was only victorious due to the similar features he shared with Haechan. His hair, his voice, his eyes - everything reminded you of him. Yeah, you had technically not gotten over him, but it was a start!

You were gracious enough to recognize this was a lead in the right direction as you had finally slept with another guy since your relationship with Haechan “ended.” Though, as you began to sober up as you awoke from your one night stand, you couldn’t help but notice the man in your bed appeared too close to Haechan. 

As you took a closer look, your suspicions were confirmed. You were back to square one.

JAEMIN

Following the numerous days you had left your shared apartment with Jaemin, he began to grow concerned for your being and where you were staying. You had opted to reside in your best friend's house as she was the only one kind enough to offer you a place to stay.

Jaemin knew you lacked options to inhabit for the time being and was quick to conclude your location. No longer than two days of you staying there, Jaemin had made his way into her apartment with a bouquet of roses, reciting the speech of apologies for you to hear.

“Y/n,” he sighed, moving closer to you when you opened the front door, “I know you want nothing to do with me, but I have a lot of explaining to do. I’m so sorry for getting upset at you, you did nothing wrong. Please forgive me.”

You laughed in his face. Did he really think you would forgive him so easily? “Jaemin, I can’t believe you right now. You owe me a lot more than this,” you asserted.

He knew you would be reluctant to accept his expression of regret but he knew he could convince you no matter what it would take. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes,” he breathed, handing you the flowers, “please give me another chance. I’ll show you the world.”

It’s crazy to think the way his final sentence could be perceived so differently. Once you had viewed the words as a way of him expressing his love, now it was simply his manipulating attempt to win you over.

Although you were upset with Jaemin for his actions, you couldn’t hate him. You had loved him for months on end and it would be difficult to get over such emotions in such a short time period. You allowed his manipulation to work on you as you offered him a second chance. 

You two continued your relationship for months, rebuilding the connection you once had, this time with more caution. As you began to fall in love again, you couldn’t help but wonder who the girl he had cheated on you with had been. This prompted you to begin searching his phone for clues on who the mistress could possibly be. 

When you arrive upon your best friend's name in his recent text messages, you ponder what the two would be conversing. As you scroll through their texts and see the endless meetups and shared intimate texts, the story finally clicked into place.

CHENLE

After Eric had shown you the texts he shared with Chenle, he was quick to console you over your ex-boyfriend. You had scheduled a meetup with Chenle immediately after and broke up with him, offering no time for an explanation from him. Eric and Yuna had been good friends of yours for years, you knew everything they told you was the truth with no sugarcoating.

As time went on, you and Eric’s relationship began to prosper into something more, sharing many endless night together but never making it further than a few stolen kisses. A couple weeks after your break up with Chenle, Eric had attempted to ask you on a date but you were quick to deny him stating that it was too early for him to make a move. 

“Y/n, I don’t understand. Were those drunken nights nothing to you?” Eric questioned, angered you could deny him so easily. 

You shook your head, upset that he would be so ignorant to ignore your emotions. “You know I just got out of a relationship, Eric, those nights meant something I’m just not ready for commitment yet.” Truthfully you never felt much for him when you were dating Chenle, but due to his chivalrous acts of exposing your cheating boyfriend, you had gained some attachment to the boy. 

Eric accepted your explanation but still attempted to win you over multiple nights in a row. Eventually, you fell into his trap and accepted going on a date with him. As you delved into a new relationship with Eric, you couldn’t help but feel as though something was off. 

Yuna wasn’t very supportive of your relationship after a couple weeks of being with him. She noticed a change in your attitude and offered no reasoning of why she further began to distance yourself from you two. The three of you were inseparable for years so you figured she was just beginning to adjust to being a third wheel.

Though something about Yuna’s lack of support for your relationship with Eric struck a nerve inside you, you couldn’t help but feel there was an underlying message behind her actions. When you received a message from the girl, you were in for a ride.

yuna!!!: don’t hate me but eric lied about chenle

JISUNG

Accidentally live streaming is one thing, having a girl speaking in the background is another. Netizens were quick to spread rumours about who the mysterious voice was in Jisung’s accidental live stream. You were also curious as to know what Jisung was truly doing in that moment of vulnerability, but when you sent him various concerned and aggravated messages, you realized none of your texts were delivered to his phone. Jisung had blocked you.

Being an idol means strict punishment from companies - and under the circumstances Jisung had fucked up, he was in for trouble. Of course his managers were aware Jisung was dating you, so they were quick to assume the mystery girl was you. Due to this, they were punished Jisung by banning all contact he had with you. This led you to having no reasoning for what was going on that day. 

You attempted to contact his members but they made no effort to offer you any explanation either, most likely scared they, too, would get in trouble. If you weren’t terrified of the company, you would reach out to his managers yourself, but you had heard of the things they did to idols and you didn’t want to risk any chance of communication you had with Jisung.

After months of no contact with the boy, you finally began to accept he wouldn’t be returning back to your life any time soon; however, when you received a letter in the mail from Park Jisung, a sliver of hope ran through your veins that this chapter of worrying would finally come to an end. 

As you opened and read the handwritten letter he had graciously sent, your eyes began to shed tears. In his heartfelt letter, he sent numerous apologies and explained the girl in the video had been one of his cousins, he was simply hanging out with family and didn’t tell you because he wanted to surprise you with a gift she had intended on giving you.

Although you were reluctant to believe such a fallacy, you knew Jisung better than anyone else, he had to be telling the truth. The only problem was, that there was no way to contact Jisung other than via the mail. Even though you had found out the truth, what was the cost?