#Less like that and lean into her softer side. very good | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

abitohoney · 1 year

Text

Workplace Violations

AO3 link

Grayson x female reader

Rating: Explicit, MDNI, 18+, NSFW

Tags: Pining, Enforcer Reader, Power Bottom Grayson, Soft Top Reader, Dom/sub Undertones, Soft Dom Grayson, Sub Reader, Smut, Praise Kink (For both), Lesbian Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Cunnilingus, Voice Kink, Porn with Feelings

Word count: 5.9k

Summary: Sheriff Grayson, your superior and apparently not-so-secret crush, has been under considerable stress as of late. So when you offer your aid via several means of relaxation, she isn’t about to refuse. And when she suggests some additional techniques that just so happen to be considerably less… conventional than others, well who are you to deny your superior?

AN: Already on AO3, just copying it over here. This was for an anon request from WAY too long ago. I'm very far behind on requests. 😩

To say today had been exhausting for Grayson would be a severe understatement. But, really, it's been far longer than just today. More like a hell of a year. Today just happened to be the shitty ass icing on the shitty ass cake. Sheriff Grayson (your superior and mentor for just over a year now) had spent the afternoon down in the Undercity. You (her faithful lap dog as some down there would call you) were at her side while she was trying to cut a deal with Vander to address the rising crime in Piltover. Crime carried out, very obviously, by the citizens of the Undercity. Grayson- bless her patience, understanding, and willingness to compromise- had gone from being chewed out by the Piltover council that morning for not doing enough, to being chewed out by the Undercity's overseers for doing too much. She just couldn't win. It was honestly heartbreaking for you to watch all of it. You knew it was wearing on her. She wore that confidence and carried out that grit with both the city she served and the poor repressed city beneath it. However, the moment she was back alone- well, besides you- in her office, she'd let that facade crumble and show just how utterly defeated she felt.

Striding into her office with you in tow not far behind, Grayson flops down onto the tall back chair at her desk with a resigned sigh. Leaning back, she closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her hooked nose. "Fuck," she exhales under her breath.

Her raspy voice, something you've been rather fond of since the first time you heard her speak, is strained even more than usual. You shift from one foot to the other from where you stand at the opposite side of the desk, struggling with what to do or say to help her.

"Sheriff, if I may," you begin softly, flinching when you see her brows furrow deeper.

“You know that formality is not necessary when we are alone.”

"Grayson," you correct yourself and she seems to at least relax her brows a bit at that. "I know things have been rough with trying to keep the peace between Piltover and the Undercity. It may seem like everyone thinks you're failing. But, I know there are people who do see the effort you're putting into this. They see and appreciate your genuine compassion for both sides. I know I do. And I- well, I'm quite proud to work for you."

Removing her fingers from her nose, she opens her eyes to regard you with a considerably softer expression. Her lips curl into a small, contented smile and you can't help the way that makes your heart skip a beat. "You're too kind, dear," she sighs. "Sometimes I wonder if you're too kind for this job."

And there went that little bit of hope you felt.

She must have noticed too, her eyes going wide for a moment before she starts backpedaling. "That's not what I meant. You're very good at your job. Why else do you think I only ever take you along on my most important tasks? What I meant is that it's not good for you. I don't want to see you so let down when things don't go as planned." Her already beautifully raspy voice is even heavier than usual, weighed down by how exhausted she is.

And it just breaks your heart.

"Sheri- Grayson, it's- it's not so much when things don't go as planned. It's when I see how much it hurts you," you admit, and you fear she can see the way your cheeks redden when she raises a brow.

She releases another heavy sigh and shakes her head. "Please don't worry about me, dear. I'll be just fine." Her tired eyes drift from you to the tall cabinet along the wall just to your right, where she stores her secret stash of liquid relaxation.

Secret to everyone besides you that is.

"Can I get you a drink?" You offer with a smile.

Her eyes brighten just a tad when they flit back to you. "Only if you pour one for yourself as well." The corner of her mouth tugs into a tiny smile before she adds, "And talk with me."

“Gladly,” you reply, and you hope she doesn’t catch how your smile grows dramatically at her request. Quickly, you head to the cabinet, removing two tall flute glasses from the upper half, then an unopened bottle of champagne from the refrigerated lower half.

Setting the glasses on her desk, you can feel her gaze on you as you attempt, with some minor difficulty, to remove the foil from the bottle.

“Need help with that?” she asks, amusement evident in the lilt of her voice.

You’ve only done this a couple of times, but you want her to relax. And you want to impress her with how cleanly you can do this.

“No. I’ve got it,” you reply. Once you’ve pried the wire cage loose, you aim the bottle away from both of you, just in case your statement turns out to be a lie. With one hand wrapped firmly around the bottle and one around the cork, you give both a good twist. The cork slips out with a resounding pop, but it’s controlled. Not so much as a drop is spilled. Grabbing one of the glasses, you carefully pour one and hand it to Grayson before pouring one for yourself.

"Nicely done," Grayson laughs as she taps her glass to yours. "To good company during less than good times."

Your cheeks heat at the compliment, and you hope she doesn't notice. "To a wonderful Sheriff," you say softly before bringing the glass to your mouth. You pause though, enraptured by the view of Grayson's lips through her own glass. They curl into a smile you've never seen her give anyone else in her presence. As you watch the way her bottom lip presses against the rim, your mind wanders to places it probably shouldn't. What would those lips feel like pressed against your own? On your neck? On your-

"Are you going to just stand there all evening, dear?"

Grayson's teasing and subsequent short chuckle snap you out of your daydream.

"S-sorry," you stammer. You duck your head, hoping she won’t notice your embarrassment as you scurry to take a seat in the chair at the opposite side of her desk. She simply grins at you, and despite it being over your own silly fumble, you can't help but feel a warmth spread through your chest that you're the one to cause it.

The two of you drink for some time. Exactly how long, you're not certain, but it's long enough for the two of you to down the last bit of champagne. Long enough for you to really start feeling those drinks kick in.

The alcohol toys with your senses. It leaves your judgment lacking, and your control lowered. You don't even realize how you're so blatantly admiring Grayson from across the desk as she stares wistfully off into the distance, reminiscing over her younger years. Nor how your eyes linger on her beautifully chiseled jaw and cheekbones, the swell of her chest. Or how you lick your lips when you watch, with blatant interest, as she lifts her glass and presses it against her lips to take a drink. Or how you shift in your seat when you see the bobbing motion down her neck as she swallows.

When did it get so hot in here?

Your focus shifts to the way her shoulders and back tense when she leans forward to rest her elbows on her desk. "Can I give you a massage?"

You bring a hand to your mouth, clearly too late to cover your slip. If your cheeks weren't already warm from the alcohol, they certainly would be now.

Grayson turns to you and stares, wide-eyed, for a moment, but says nothing.

"That was inappropriate of me to ask you," you finally blurt out after what feels like an eternity stewing in your own embarrassment. "I'm so sor-"

"Yes," Grayson interrupts.

Your mouth hangs open briefly before you’re able to form a reply. "What?" You ask dumbly.

"I would like that," she replies. “I could really use something to help relax right now.”

You stand— a bit too quickly. In your inebriated enthusiasm, you start to lose your balance. Catching yourself with a hand on the edge of her desk, you pray she doesn’t notice. You glance in her direction. Of course she noticed. Those sharp eyes are honed in on your hand. The one very obviously keeping you from toppling over.

Damnit.

“Perhaps another time,” she suggests, but the corner of her mouth curls just the tiniest amount in amusement.

Laughing awkwardly, you shake your head. “No. I’m good.” Feeling steady enough, you make your way behind her chair. Even with the alcohol to help calm your nerves, you still can’t shake the nervous feeling that washes over you. You're about to put your hands on Grayson, even if it’s just some innocent shoulder massages.

Innocent. Completely innocent.

Grayson normally stands a decent amount taller than you, but with her seated and you standing, it’s almost dizzying to have this bit of height over her. Slipping your hands over her shoulders, you run your palms back and forth across them several times. Glancing down, you find the view is going to be rather… distracting. Her uniform hugs the curves of her breasts a little too nicely.

So much for innocent.

Trying to keep your thoughts from drifting to places they shouldn’t, you turn your attention to the thick hair that covers the top of her head. As you start to incorporate gentle squeezing into your ministrations, you can feel the tense muscles beneath your hands start to relax bit by bit.

Grayson releases a quiet, deep hum of approval before taking a sip of her drink. “That’s lovely,” she rasps.

Janna, her voice is like fucking velvet.

You start to get a bit rougher with your hands, really digging at some of those stubborn knots. Her shoulders suddenly jerk, and you freeze, afraid you hurt her. Before you can apologize, that delightfully husky voice cuts through the air again.

“Mmmm. Right there, sweetheart. That feels wonderful.”

Sweetheart? Sweetheart?! Does she have any idea what she's doing to you right now? Innocence be damned. The way she fucking says those specific words. The possible connotation… used in a different… situation. Oh, what you would give to have that be the case. You quickly resume the massage, making sure you do exactly what you were doing to get her to drop that sweet praise.

Grayson’s eyes close and her head lulls back against the chair. The new position reveals a delightful stretch of her neck. And her face. Her blissful expression. Those slightly parted, wet lips. All at your doing.

"Lower," she husks.

You blink. "What?"

"You can go lower," she replies, and goodness, that incredibly sexy voice of hers has somehow gotten even huskier. Sultrier. And… suggestive?

As much as you want to think she means nice lower on her front side, you know that can't possibly be it. So you let your hands slide lower down her back. At least until you catch her eyes opening and flashing up to you as she arches a brow.

Oh my.

You start to reverse your path and her smile returns. She's watching your face so close that it only adds to the sudden, exponential increase in your body temperature. As the tips of your fingers just barely graze over the swell of her breasts, you freeze again.

Can you do this? Should you do this? You want to. She apparently wants you to. But it's not right, is it?

Apparently noticing your distress, Grayson places a hand gently on one of yours. "Only if you want to, sweetheart," she says quietly.

Oh, sweet Janna.

"Are you alright?" She asks, breaking you from your momentary daze.

"I- Yes. Why?" You manage to get out.

"Well, if I'm not mistaken, you just whimpered something along the lines of Oh sweet Janna."

Thank goodness your cheeks are already flush with the effects of consuming entirely too much alcohol, because the way your face burns at the realization of your slip, you could probably set fire to her hair if you got any closer.

“I’m- I’m okay,” you stammer. “Just had a bit too much to drink.” It’s not exactly a lie. Thankfully she appears to be satisfied with your answer, as her hand slides back down to rest on the arm of her chair.

Slowly, you let your hands travel further down before grabbing a handful of each of her breasts. You squeeze, gently, and the soft moan that pulls from her throat nearly has you moaning all the same.

You've only dreamed of this moment for the past several months. Only ever thought it would be a dream. Nothing more. Simply fantasizing about what you'd like to do to her. How you'd like to touch her. How you'd like to please her. Yet, here you are, in her office just fucking groping her, kneading her breasts as if this was an entirely normal occurrence between you two. And she seems to be enjoying it just as much as you are. Her eyes have fallen shut and her lips are pulled into a soft smile. Such a beautiful smile. And kissable lips-

“Open my jacket.”

“I’m- I’m sorry?” you stutter, blinking several times. Then you realize she's staring up at you expectantly.

“Come now. No more playing coy with me. You think I haven’t noticed how you watch me. How you hang on every word I say, even when it’s not work-related? Your hands are already on my tits, now just get my damn clothes out of the way.”

“Grayson, I- I-” you stammer.

What are you even supposed to say to that? She knows you've been infatuated with her? Have you really been that obvious? And she’s okay with it? Is the feeling mutual? She’s asking you to take her clothes off and touch her… so it must be, right?

You must be dreaming. It's the only logical explanation.

Hesitantly, you reach your hands down to release the clasps on her jacket. You’re not sure if it’s from nerves, excitement, or a bit of both, but your hands shake noticeably. Hopefully, she doesn’t notice. As you lean over her, stretching to reach that last clasp just above her belt buckle, your face comes dangerously close to hers. So close that you can smell the hints of citrus and spice from her champagne and the crisp, clean scent of her starched blouse beneath the jacket. You take in a deep, quiet breath through your nose as you release the clasp.

“You smell wonderful,” you murmur what was supposed to be kept in your mind. Quickly catching your slip this time, you try to withdraw, but Grayson’s hand catches yours against her chest.

Grayson’s eyes meet yours as she tilts her head to regard you. “Listen, darling, all this demure behavior, the blushing, it’s all rather delightful. Flattering really. But, I need you to understand that I’m more than okay with what we’re doing. I wouldn’t be asking you to do this if it wasn’t what I wanted, now would I?”

“No,” you reply dumbly, averting your eyes from her gaze.

“Now if you are not comfortable with this, we can stop.”

Your eyes go wide and shoot back to hers. “No!” you nearly shout. Janna, you need to get a hold of yourself. “I- I mean I’ve only dreamt of touching you like this for…” you trail off and look away again, feeling as if you’ve already admitted too much.

“As have I,” Grayson says softly as she gives your hand a squeeze.

What?

You gape at her, utterly dumbfounded.

She chuckles at your expression, and it’s so wonderfully deep and heartfelt it makes your head spin. “Don’t look so surprised, darling. Hard not to fall for a pretty, sweet thing like you.”

If you could blush any harder, you certainly would. But at least now you’re feeling considerably more confident knowing she’s had eyes for you all this time as well.

“Shall we?” Grayson asks as she slips her hand away from yours to grasp the buckle of her belt. It’s a simple question, but the way her voice drops lower, laced with a suggestive tone- not to mention the way her lips curl into the slightest smirk- clearly there’s something else behind those two words.

You nod and she proceeds to open her belt while you unbutton her white blouse. Pushing her jacket and blouse further open, you find her donning a simple white satin bra. Not that your attention remains there long when there’s so much soft, supple cleavage sitting there waiting to be touched.

Feeling a bit more emboldened now, you don’t wait for her to tell you again. As you slide your hands down her warm, soft chest, you watch her expression closely. Her eyelids droop as you slip beneath the cups of her bra to take a generous amount of her in your hands and gently squeeze. The deep, quiet groans that escape her parted lips encourage you to keep doing exactly what you’re doing.

“You’re doing wonderful, love,” Grayson groans.

Love?

Now you’re downright swooning for this woman. The pet names. The praise. The confessions. The touching. The moans. It’s all so wonderful and perfect. She’s so perfect. And as you start to roll your fingers over her hardening nipples, her responses become so much more delightful.

The soft groans spilling from her mouth turn into a sharp gasp when you give each nipple a playful pinch. Her grip on the arms of the chair becomes so tight you can hear the wood creak. She adjusts in her seat, scooting forward enough to allow her to spread her strong thighs. “Fuck me,” she husks.

Lust-filled eyes meet yours and you realize she wasn’t just moaning expletives out of pleasure. That was a command.

Oh shit. Oh fuck.

“Come here.”

Though she’s rather unclear on where exactly here is, you’re fairly certain she means between her and her desk. You move quickly, but she’s apparently quite impatient. You’re no more than turned to face her and she’s practically ripping the front of your uniform open, leaving you just as exposed as she is. Even the little gasp that you suck in is cut short as she grabs you by the lapels of your jacket and pulls you onto her lap, forcing you to straddle her.

Your hands fly out to grasp at the back of her chair, fearful you’re going to knock heads with how forcefully she pulls you against her.

“Grays-” your startled cry is muffled by the sudden press of her lips to yours. But it doesn’t matter. You forget everything else because she’s fucking kissing you. And it’s nothing like you had ever imagined. It’s so much better. She tastes of citrus and spices, even a hint of coffee. And her lips are smooth, soft, and moving hungrily. Janna, she is kissing you hard, and wild. It’s not sloppy. She keeps it clean and respectable. But it’s so deep and passionate. Like she's been wanting to do this for as long as you have.

As you gather your bearings, you let your hands slip down to her shoulders. You cling to her as you try to match the intensity of her kiss, tilting your head to let your nose rest alongside hers. The thin satin of her bra, and the cotton of yours, do little to withhold the warmth and softness of your chests pressed together. It leaves you sighing into her mouth, which lends her the opportunity to delve her tongue inside to roll along yours.

When she finally pulls back and loosens her hold on your jacket, you’re left panting and wide-eyed. Meanwhile, she seems to still be intent on devouring you whole. Without warning she pulls the front of your bra down, releasing both breasts before grabbing a handful of each. She pushes you back until your head rests against the top of her desk. Then she leans over to take a nipple into her mouth and sucks. Hard.

“Fuck,” you curse under your breath. Her rough treatment- the downright manhandling- is a bit startling. You’re well aware of how tough this woman can get, but you’re usually the exception. She’s typically so calm, gentle, and tender when she’s alone with you. This is a complete contrast. But you are not complaining. Not. One. Bit.

You sink your hands into her thick, wavy hair, pulling her face closer as you feel her swirl that wonderful tongue around your hardened peak. The pleasure of her mouth sucking, licking, and tugging at one nipple while her hand roughly fondles the other makes you arch your back and squirm in her lap.

When she sits back up, releasing your breast with a wet pop, it takes you a moment to come to your senses. Your hands, still in her hair, loosen and slip down to her shoulders while she helps sit you back upright. You catch her expression through half-lidded eyes- and damn, she’s still just as ravenous looking as she was moments ago.

“On your knees,” she rasps. “Remove my pants.”

Still too dazed from the onslaught of physical attention, it takes you a moment to fully process her commands. However, the moment she starts to reposition her chair to give you more room, you quickly move to stand between her thighs. Eager eyes locked with hers, you sink to your knees between the spread of her legs.

With the help of her lifting her bottom off the chair, you quickly slip her pants and underwear down over the top of her boots. And as she settles back into her seat, legs together, you wonder if she’s toying with you. You peer up at her, and judging by the faint curl of her lips, that’s exactly what she’s doing. But you can play along with that.

With your hands hovering just over the tops of her knees, you ask, “May I?”

“Please, love. I didn’t call you over here to simply stare,” she teases, but you’re too enraptured by the lust laced in her gravelly voice to form any sort of reply.

You run the palms of your hands over her knees and slowly up the tops of her toned thighs. Your fingertips trace over cords of muscle beneath soft, warm skin. They tense as your thumbs slip to the insides, inching closer to the apex. Bottom lip clamped between your teeth, you guide her legs apart.

Oh heavens!

Not only can you see her arousal glistening at the edges of her entrance. You can smell it. Somehow, despite a long day, she still smells fresh and clean. Much like her hair. But there’s still that familiar musk that’s all too specific to that area. And it leaves you rubbing your thighs together in an attempt to satiate the growing ache between them.

With your thumbs drawing closer to her folds, you peer up at her through your lashes, waiting for her to give you permission. To tell you what she wants. It's clear that she enjoys the position of authority, of having that control and power, in more than just her job.

Grayson meets your gaze through heavy-lidded eyes and her mouth pulls into a small, appreciative grin. She runs the backs of her fingers along your warm cheek before giving you a nod to continue.

Eyes locked on her expression, you slowly slip one finger inside her. And it's heavenly. She's so incredibly warm, soft, and wet.

“You feel so good,” you murmur. And you’re not sure if the way she clenches around your digit is a result of the praise or just the stimulation, but the quiet groan she releases quickly distracts you from that thought. It’s absolutely divine. Hearing it in her raspy tone is enough to have you biting back your own moan.

“Heavens, Grayson. I think I could get off on your voice alone.”

This time, when her hips buck towards your hand, a strangled gasp falling from her parted lips, you know it’s definitely from your words alone.

Wow.

You watch, transfixed, as her lids fall heavier until you barely see her eyes through the tiny slits. And you wonder, if she’s feeling this great when you’ve only just begun to touch her, what will she be like once you really get going?

Apparently too lost in thought again, you don’t realize just how long you’ve been gaping at her until she’s opening her eyes to peer down at you expectantly.

“Darling, please.”

She says please, but you know damn well she’s not asking. She’s insisting. You whisper a sheepish apology and avert your eyes, focusing instead on your finger as you drag it back out. It's coated, glistening with her arousal. You want to taste her, but you can still feel her watchful eyes on you. Instead, you slip a second finger in, sinking both up to the last knuckle. This time, when she groans, and her thigh muscles flex beneath your other hand, you can't hold back your own breathy moan.

Grayson lifts her hips off the seat as you curl your fingers and drag the tips along her walls while pulling them back out.

You watch, awestruck, as her hands curl around the wooden armrests. A quick glance back up at her face reveals her eyes have fallen nearly shut again.

"Fuck," Grayson curses under her breath.

You repeat the motion- fingers straight in, then curled out- several times, delighting in every twitch of her muscles. Every raspy groan that escapes past her parted lips. Every jerk of her hips.

She looks so perfect. Her square jaw so tense with concentration, dark brows furrowed, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. A goddess.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” you whisper. And fuck, the way her head rolls back at your praise- you never in all your fantasies had imagined her like this. It leaves you teeming with such desire to please her, you can hardly think straight.

“Mouth,” she rasps between ragged breaths.

What?

“Use your mouth, love!”

That husky, breathless demand is enough to knock you out of your reverie to realize what she’s asking you to do. And you’re more than happy to oblige. Without breaking the rhythm you’ve set with your fingers, you scoot further between the spread of her knees, pushing her feet- bound by her pants around her boots- further beneath her chair. You peer up at her through your lashes once more, noticing how she’s watching you through the slits of her eyes, before letting your attention fall to the wet folds surrounding your fingers.

Eyes fluttering shut, you slowly drag the tip of your tongue from just above her entrance to the swollen bundle of nerves above. The taste of her floods your mouth.

“You taste so good,” you moan, but you’re not sure she can even hear you over her own deep groan. That is until you feel the way she clenches around your fingers and hear the almost guttural words that leave her throat.

“Oh fuck me.”

Wide-eyed, you’re not given a moment to respond to that reaction before you feel her fingers curl along the back of your head to pull, or rather shove, your mouth against her. Your muffled gasp quickly devolves into a soft moan. Nose buried in her thick curls, you inhale deeply. You’re met with a heady mixture of her arousal and the crisp scent of her soap. The insatiable need that forms a tight coil deep in your core drives an urge to touch yourself. To relieve some of that ache between your own legs. But you’re determined to focus on pleasuring Grayson.

Lips wrapped around her clit, you gently suck, just once, to gauge her reaction. And a reaction you get. Nails bite into the back of your scalp as Grayson inhales sharply from above you. Her muscles tense beneath where your other hand still rests on the top of her thigh.

Still feeling the desire to experiment and learn what gets you the best response, you swirl the tip of your tongue just around the sensitive bud. That one earns you a throaty groan and her grinding against your face.

"Don't tease," she husks.

If ever you were to lose yourself to sound alone, it would be to her voice right now. It's like gravel, but in the best way possible. So husky, deep, broken, and needy. And it makes her demand sound considerably less, well, demanding.

Despite the lack of severity in her tone, you still heed her instruction and press the flat of your tongue fully against her while scissoring your fingers. That combined motion elicits another one of those heavenly groans.

"Faster. Fuck me faster," She rasps.

You can feel her nails digging deeper into your scalp as she tries to set the pace, and you do your best to match that with your fingers. It doesn't take long for you to find the perfect cadence of sucking and licking, fingers curling and scissoring. One that has her releasing nothing but a series of curses and deep moans, all in that intoxicating voice of hers.

The moment you feel the muscles beneath your hands tense, you know she's reached the pinnacle. Aching to witness her undoing, you peer up at her through the lashes of your heavy lids. And oh Janna, you were already damn near bursting with your own arousal just with the sound of her, but now to see the normally cool and composed Grayson a complete wreck, there's no word to describe how turned on you are. Her jaw is slack, brows pinched, chest heaving, and hairline covered in a fine sheen of sweat. But that's not even the best part. At some point, the hand she'd been using to clutch at the armrest is now groping at her own breast.

Grayson's glassy eyes meet yours, and you try to convey to her without words just how wonderful she is. How she entices you through literally every sense. How you want, so bad, to make her cum. For her to release all that built-up tension.

She must see it in your eyes, because within a mere breath, you feel her muscles tense beneath your hand and her hips suddenly freeze. The hand at the back of your head holds you tight against her. A raspy, near breathless, curse falls from her open mouth, and- oh good heavens - you can feel her walls clench and spasm around your fingers. Warm, cum seeps past your fingers as you slowly help her ride out that sweet release. Captivated, you simply stare up at her through hooded eyes as she goes through the stages of her climax.

When she meets your gaze again, the tiniest smile pulls at her lips. She gently rubs her fingers over the back of your head, soothing the little crescent-shaped indents she left there in her fervor.

She opens her mouth to speak, but freezes as both of you are rather abruptly ripped from your reveries by the door to her office swinging open unannounced.

Suddenly, you find your head clamped between two very powerful thighs, essentially locking your face and fingers in place as Grayson shoves you further beneath the desk while scooting further under herself. The hand in your hair protects you from knocking it against the desktop above, but as stunned and terrified as you are at potentially being caught going down on your superior, brain damage is the last of your concerns.

"Sheriff! There's been-"

The man's voice- a new recruit you recognize- suddenly trails off. No doubt because he's spotted Grayson in a rather suspiciously tousled state.

“Are- are you alright, ma’am?” he asks, taking in the sight of Grayson's open jacket, unbuttoned blouse, heaving chest, and the sweat at her brow and hairline.

Meanwhile, while stuffed into a terribly confined space, legs contorted in an odd manner to leave room for Grayson's legs, you find yourself struggling for oxygen. The death grip of Grayson's thighs around your head, along with the fear of stimulating her with any attempted movement, leaves your face buried deep against her cunt. But in all honesty, you think if you die right there from suffocation, is there really any better way to go than between the legs of Piltover's one and only drop-dead (pun intended) gorgeous sheriff?

“Yes! I’m fine! Besides the fact that one of my subordinates just barged into my private office without knocking," Grayson snaps.

Even though your sense of hearing is rather muffled, you can still detect that lingering husky panting in her tone. You've never heard her so… flustered. And you'd be lying if you said that didn't give you just a little stroke to the ego knowing you were the cause.

"Whatever it is, so long as none of my officers are bleeding, missing limbs, or on fire, surely it can wait until I've finished my work here.”

“Oh. I- I'm so sorry, ma’am,” the man stammers as he ducks out of the room as quickly as he came, nearly slamming the door shut behind him.

Grayson releases a long sigh as she leans back into her chair. Realizing that she's put you in peril, albeit a glorious one, she quickly scoots her chair back out and opens her legs.

When you're finally freed, you sit back on your haunches and suck in some much-needed oxygen.

"Fuck," Grayson heaves. "Are you alright, darling?"

You smile up at her sweetly, feeling plenty good and satisfied. Carefully pulling your fingers out from her warm cunt, you lock eyes with her as you slip them into your mouth and suck them clean.

"That's a good girl," Grayson coos. "Now come. Sit with me."

Slowly, you rise to your feet and straddle her lap. You rest your arms on her shoulders and she wraps hers around your waist. The two of you just smile at each other in silence for a moment, simply enjoying the views and the company.

"That was… so good, Grayson," you finally speak. "I damn near lost it just watching and listening to you."

Grayson says nothing. Instead, she slips a hand behind your neck and pulls you down for a kiss, but you can feel her smile. And you’re certain she can feel yours.

When she pulls back to admire your smile, you realize she is definitely much more relaxed now.

"So I take it my massage helped?" You jest.

"Oh it just certainly did," she chuckles. "So well, in fact, that if I wasn't concerned with the obvious conflict of interest, I'd say you deserve a hefty raise for this.”

"Well, maybe you could pay in another way?" You suggest with a mischievous grin.

"And what's that?" She asks with a cocked brow.

"Take me back to your place or come to mine and return the favor?"

"It would be my pleasure," she replies before pulling you in for another, much deeper kiss.

#arcane #Grayson #grayson x reader #arcane grayson #arcane grayson x reader #fanfic #honey writes

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inexplicifics · 11 months

Note

If you're still open for the heart prompts, here's a lil curveball- 💚 or 🖤 for milena/aiden(/lambert). Or 💘, if those are too tricky.

I want you to know that this was quite a challenge!

Aiden flings himself between Milena and the sorcerer without a second thought. Witchers are sturdier than humans - and Lambert would never forgive him if she died while under Aiden’s protection. Hell, Aiden would never forgive himself.

The spell hits like a charging bullvore, and Aiden goes arse-over-teakettle, landing heavily at Milena’s feet. It feels like his bones have been filled with hot lead and his muscles turned to stinging nettles. He wants to scream and can’t quite find the breath.

“Well, that takes care of that,” the mage sneers, and comes mincing towards them. “Now then, your family misses you very badly, girl. Or at least they’re willing to spend quite a lot of money to get you back.”

“I will not be returning to them,” Milena says firmly. “What have you done to him?”

The sorcerer snickers. “Nothing that can be undone,” he gloats. “He’ll die slowly unless his true love kisses him, and everyone knows witchers can’t love. Now come along, girl.”

He reaches over Aiden to grab Milena’s arm, and two things happen at once:

Aiden finds the strength, somewhere, to lift his arm just enough to drive his sword into the bastard’s leg, high up where the blood runs near the surface -

And Milena produces a dainty little silver dagger from somewhere and puts it neatly and precisely through the sorcerer’s throat.

The sorcerer topples backwards, thank fuck, instead of onto Aiden; he’s probably dead before he hits the ground.

Milena drops to her knees at Aiden’s side, dark eyes wide and frantic. “Aiden - my gods -”

“Worth it,” Aiden rasps. Fuck, he hadn’t realized the pain could get worse. It’s not as bad as the Grasses, not quite, but if it keeps increasing at this pace it will probably outstrip even that particular high-water mark of agony fairly soon. Fucking mages.

But better him than Milena.

“No,” Milena says, shaking her head desperately. “No, you can’t - you can’t die -”

But Lambert’s not close enough; he’s a good three days’ travel away at best, and Aiden is fairly sure he won’t survive that long. Especially given that he doesn’t think he can stand. That blow to the sorcerer’s leg used up most of his strength.

“‘S alright,” he says, finding a crooked smile somewhere. “‘S worth it.”

“No, it isn’t,” Milena says fiercely. “And - and what I feel for you is no less than what I feel for Lambert, and you are willing to give your life for me, so this ought to work -”

And she cups her slender hands around his face and leans down and kisses him fervently.

The shock of the pain ending is enough to startle a gasp out of Aiden, and Milena pulls back, wide-eyed, to stare down at him in desperate hope.

Aiden gapes up at her for a long, stunned moment. Finally he finds his wits enough to croak, “No less than what you feel for Lambert?”

Milena blushes, which is answer enough.

“Marvelous great-hearted girl,” Aiden murmurs, and reaches up to cup her head ever so gently in his hands and guide her down into a second, softer kiss. “I would die for you,” he adds quietly, as their lips part. “Even as I would for Lambert.”

Four days and quite a few miles later, Lambert looks from Aiden to Milena and back again with an expression of incredulous delight and says, “I am the luckiest fucking bastard in the world, holy shit.”

Milena blushes and giggles. Aiden grins. “Nah, I think that’s me,” he says cheerfully. “We can be joint-luckiest, though, if you like.”

“Sounds good,” Lambert agrees, and wraps his arms around them both, clinging tightly. Milena nestles against his chest, tucked safely between them, and Aiden kisses his lover - one of his lovers, because he is the luckiest bastard in the world - with all the joyful gratitude in his heart, because he’s alive to do it.

And then he kisses Milena again, just because he can.

(It's also here on AO3!)

#questions answered #ask meme #heart asks #m'laiden

113 notes · View notes

ohbo-ohno · 2 months

Text

you’re obsessin’ (just confess it) [tashi x patrick x art]

summary: Tashi convinces Art to let her invite Patrick into their bed for just one night, but Art hadn't quite realized he wasn't invited too. (or: shameless cuck art pwp)

word count: 7.6k

cw: dubcon cuck kink (art is ambiguously into what's happening but he does give clear consent), degradation, humiliation, a second of foot kink, dubcon oral sex (tashi doesn't consent but she would), somnophilia, rough domme tashi/switch-dom leaning patrick/pathetic sub art

author's note: this is @alnilaem's fault. also read this fic and this fic. inspo posts are here, here, and here!

read on ao3 - see the (small) pinterest board

“Tashi…” Art hedges, hovering behind his wife as another knock at the door rings through their entryway.

“What?” She hisses, turning sharply to look over her shoulder at him. He can’t even really begrudge her the annoyance, he knows he’s been pestering her just a bit too much all day. But sue him, he’s not exactly confident about inviting his college best friend to fuck his wife.

Tashi sighs, dragging a hand down her face. Art can see the way she talks herself out of snapping at him, the very intentional softening of her shoulders as she takes a few deep breaths and turns to face him fully. “What?” She tries again, still irritated but softer.

“It’s just…” Art starts, crossing his arms over his chest to keep from fidgeting. Tashi usually can’t tolerate more than one nervous habit at a time, and he’s been chewing gum since he finished brushing his teeth this morning. “Are you sure about this?”

She gives him an incredulous look, one eyebrow arched high. “Are you serious right now, Art?”

He jerks his head to the side a bit, trying to convey well, yeah with his body language in a way that doesn’t make him look like a total pussy. He’s not sure why he keeps thinking Tashi will call this all off when it was her idea in the first place, but until there’s another man in front of him Art’s choosing to believe she could.

“Listen,” she sighs, stepping forward and grabbing him by the biceps. “If you have a real objection, tell me now. I’ll open the door and tell him to fuck right off, alright? But I want this, and I think you do too.” She looks deep into his eyes, in that piercing, demanding way that always makes Art go weak for her and agree to anything she says. “I want to do this. Are you with me or not?”

He’s nodding before he can quite make himself talk. “Yeah,” he says, chomping again on his gum. Tashi manages not to comment on it, but he can tell she wants to. “Yeah, ‘course. Anything you want, Tash.”

Her smile is less grin and more smirk, but she moves her hands from his shoulders to his cheeks and gives him a long, sweet kiss, and Art is suddenly sure that he can, that he will do absolutely anything for her.

“Good,” she says once she pulls back, scratching his jaw lightly with her sharp nails. Another set of knocks rings through the house, decidedly impatient now. Tashi rolls her eyes, looking at Art like they’re in some sort of inside joke and he’s not about to jump out of his skin. She ignores how tense he is and squeezes his shoulders before turning away, finally going to open the door.

Art forces himself not to close his eyes, but he lets himself lean against the wall so he doesn’t have to hold himself up. He feels a little weak in the knees in a way he hasn’t in a very long time. He’s been feeling this sort of nervousness far too much lately – it’s been with him for what feels like every second since he retired, and he gets the sense he’s not getting away from it anytime soon.

“Stop knocking so loudly unless you want the neighbors calling on the cops on us,” Tashi scolds, finally opening the door. Art can see Patrick’s curly hair above her head, and he has to fight not to turn away.

“Yeah, well, if you don’t want so much noise you should open the fucking door faster, huh?” Patrick snarks, and suddenly Art’s a lot less sure he can do this.

Patrick shoulders his way past Tashi, shrugging off his worn hoodie and throwing it messily onto a coat hook Art had to measure and remeasure at least five times before hanging. The hook he chooses is two centimeters below the other four – Art didn’t notice, even with his measuring and remeasuring, but Tashi never lets him forget.

“Hey, man,” Patrick says, his smile quirking up on one side.

Art swallows thickly, tongue suddenly bone dry. His gum sticks to the roof of his mouth. “Hey.”

Patrick’s smile grows as he moves closer to Art, completely bypassing Tashi to lean on the wall across from him. The positioning is out of place inside a house instead of in a back alley somewhere, but Patrick’s confidence manages to make everything look natural. “You know, when Tash told me you’d agreed to this I was sure she was full of shit.”

Art tries to smile, knows it ends up as more of a grimace. Gives it up after just a second and lets his face go flat again. “Then why’d you come?”

Patrick’s downright beaming now, folding his arms over his chest, shoulders loose. It feels like the more uncomfortable Art is, the more delighted Patrick becomes. “Why’d you say I could?”

“I asked first.”

Patrick laughs, and Art feels like it’s ten years ago and they’re just kids talking about a terrible first date that Art wasted a Friday on, not two men on the wrong side of thirty about to fuck the same woman. About to fuck Art’s fucking wife.

Jesus. Why did he ever agree to this?

“Really, Art?” Tashi says, rolling her eyes in a way that Art has come to recognize as teasing. “Are you fucking twelve? I asked first – I can’t believe you two.”

“Both of us?” Patrick teases, turning his head towards Tashi but keeping eye-contact with Art. “I didn’t do a thing. We haven’t even gotten to the fun part yet, and you’re already that fed up?”

“Because of you,” Art corrects, beginning to chew nervously on his gum again. “You’re the only new variable here.”

“Well, maybe you’re the one who used up all her patience, huh?”

“That’s not–”

“Boys,” Tashi interrupts, one of each of her hands gripping their shoulders. Art can feel her nails wrinkling the thin fabric of his t-shirt. He forces his shoulders to loosen as much as he can. “If you can’t play nice before we’re even in the bedroom, you won’t be playing at all. Yeah?”

Patrick glances between Tashi and Art, smile sharp and knowing. He doesn’t answer.

Art shifts so he’s standing straight up, arms still crossed protectively over his chest. “‘Course, Tashi,” he repeats again, his life’s mantra these days. “Anything you want.”

But Tashi’s not looking at him, she’s giving that same piercing, demanding look to Patrick. Art’s not sure it’ll work as well for her with him, but then Patrick laughs and uncrosses his arms, and Art’s not sure about much of anything.

“Happy wife, happy life, right man?” Patrick says. Ten years ago Art would’ve said his tone was affectionately teasing. Now it just sounds mean. “Anything you want, Tash. You want me and the hubby here to play nice, I’m sure we can manage it. Right, Art?”

Art’s gum is tasteless and stretched thin, but he knows that chewing it feels better than punching Patrick would right now. “Right.”

“Alright then,” Tashi says, nodding like they’ve actually managed to resolve anything. “Let’s go.”

Patrick stares at Tashi’s ass as she walks down the hallway. Art thinks again about punching him and toys with the gum between a one sharp canine and a molar.

Before he can turn away to follow his wife to their bedroom (to have another man fuck her, oh God, how has Art’s life brought him here?), a hand appears beneath his chin, palm up.

Art looks up at Patrick, and feels again ten years younger. His knee throbs in phantom pain. He doesn’t move.

“Well?” Patrick pushes, lifting his hand more so the skin between his thumb and the rest of his fingers is pushing against Art’s chin.

He spits the gum out. Makes sure to soak Patrick’s hand with his saliva too, just to be a dick. Patrick’s smile only grows, and he dumps the little wadded up ball in a tiny trash-can Tashi keeps under all the tables.

Patrick slaps Art’s cheek a few times, a little too rough to be friendly, a little too soft to be mean, and follows after Tashi. “Still as obedient as ever, huh?”

Art’s glad Patrick’s back is turned, because he’s not sure he could force down the way his face twists and this whole situation is already humiliating enough. He swipes quickly at his cheek with one sleeve pulled over his hand, trying to get all of his own spit off of his face. His chest is tight and his cheeks burn, but he turns to follow Patrick anyway.

Anything for Tashi, he repeats to himself again. You can’t let her leave, not over something this stupid. If watching Patrick fuck her is what keeps your marriage together, then so be it.

His pep talk doesn’t make it any easier to see Patrick spread out on his bed like a king, Tashi moving an armchair from the corner of their bedroom – their bedroom, because Patrick is on their bed – to just a few feet away from the bed.

“Took your time,” Tashi comments, giving Art a look that says I’m not in the mood for your shit right now, Donaldson. Art chooses to ignore it, and Tashi chooses to let him get away with ignoring it.

A marriage is made up of sacrifices. Tashi sacrifices her patience, and apparently Art sacrifices his wedding vows.

“You sit here,” Tashi says, patting the back of the chair as she moves towards the bed, towards Patrick. When Art doesn’t move, she gives him an expectant look, saying everything Art knows she wants to say with just the movement of her head and the angle of her eyebrows.

You said you’re fine with this.

Why aren’t you listening?

Just sit in the fucking chair, Donaldson.

You agreed already. I even double-checked with you. Stop embarrassing me.

Art sits in the chair. His hairline is already damp with sweat, even though nobody has done anything yet. He can see Tashi’s nipples through her shirt – through his shirt, because she’s always stolen his clothing.

(Always stolen Patrick’s clothing too, a voice in his head says. Back when they were dating. And that night, when she came back home wearing a shirt you swore you saw before–

He cuts the voice off before it can say anything else.)

“We getting this started then?” Patrick says, the anticipation thick in his tone, already rubbing one hand over his crotch. Art can’t quite bring himself to look for long enough to see if he’s hard yet. He’s laid back on their pillows, legs and arms spread and his feet planted on the comforter.

Tashi doesn’t respond, but she does pull her top off. Quick and smooth, not for either of the men in the room to get a good show. The only place Tashi has ever cared about putting a good show on is the court, and Art knows tennis is the furthest thing from even her mind right now.

Art’s hands rest on the armrests on either side of him, his fingers digging into the floral fabric as Tashi kneels on the bed, quickly crawling over to settle herself on Patrick’s lap. Patrick quickly shifts, legs falling down to the bed as he sits up more and rests his hands on Tashi’s hips.

The pale skin of Patrick’s knuckles is a beautiful contrast to Tashi’s tan skin and black panties, as much as Art hates to admit it. Patrick’s hands stroke quickly over her hips and down to her ass, trying to yank her forward.

“Wait,” Tashi commands, hands planted firmly on Patrick’s shoulders to keep her position. “I’m not riding you. I want you to eat me out.”

Patrick groans as he immediately shifts down the bed so he’s lying on his back, hands kneading at Tashi’s ass. He shoots Art a look, smirking. “She always this demanding in bed with you?”

Tashi answers for him before Art can even open his mouth. “Don’t talk to him,” she says, twisting one hand through Patrick’s curls as she situates herself over his chest, pushing her panties down and off quickly and leaving them on the bedspread. “You have better things to be doing with your mouth.”

Art can just barely hear Patrick’s snarky “Yes ma’am,” before Tashi sits on his face, one hand planted firmly on their headboard and the other in Patrick’s hair as she starts working herself over his face.

Everything feels like it’s moving just too fast. Art’s boxers are tight, his erection straining against the tight fabric. He holds tight to the chair, unwilling to so much as brush himself and be giving away his desperation so early into what he suspects is going to be a long night. It feels like he hardly took a breath between Tashi stripping her shirt off and her fucking Patrick’s face, hips working harshly over him as the sounds of an eager tongue against a slick cunt fill the room. Art’s cock throbs between his legs.

“Fuck,” Tashi hisses, her back arching and her head thrown back as her movements smooth out, each of her thrusts stronger against Patrick’s lips. Art knows from experience that Patrick’s lips will be numb when she pulls away, that he can hardly breathe under her. The strong line of her back is tense as she takes her hand from Patrick’s head and brings it up the front of her body, doing something that Art can’t see.

She rides him for several long minutes. Art can’t help but wonder what Patrick’s doing – Art’s always found that Tashi gets off fastest with his mouth on her cunt, it always takes more work to give her an orgasm with his cock than it does with his tongue. But Patrick’s been beneath her for far longer than Art would’ve needed.

It makes him feel a bit better, in all honesty. Tashi may have wanted to invite another man into their bed – and Art tells himself it’s not because he’s not enough for her, and he has no choice but to believe it – but at the very least, Patrick can’t make her feel as good as Art can.

Another few minutes later, Tashi leans even more of her weight onto Patrick’s face, her legs spreading wider as the hand gripping the headboard leaves, dragging down to, Art can only assume, finish the job Patrick can’t.

“Tashi,” Art croaks, shifting forward in his chair. “I can–”

“No,” she snaps, jerking her head to the side so she can glare at him over her shoulder. Art immediately crumples back, very familiar with her no-bullshit tone. “Don’t you dare leave that chair.”

Art barely manages to trap a whine behind his teeth. He grits his jaw, nodding jerkily and rubbing his hands roughly over the armrests, his palms stinging. Patrick’s hands flex on Tashi’s ass, leaving pale red lines behind as he drags his nails down her skin.

“Say it,” Tashi insists, her movements losing their rhythm. Art knows she’s getting closer and closer to the edge from the way her thighs and ass clench, and he knows he could get her there, he just knows it. “Tell us you’ll listen or get the fuck out.”

Art’s panting, open-mouthed. “I’ll listen,” he repeats. “I won’t leave the chair.”

She grunts in recognition, shoulders hunching in and hitching with her breaths. “Then shut the fuck up.”

Art’s eyes sting with tears. He’s harder than he’s been in years. Tashi doesn’t bother to quiet her noises as she comes, throws her head back and lets her mouth hang open, moans and keens flowing freely. Art wants to kiss her so fucking badly, he aches with it.

After a long moment of hovering over his face, Tashi finally falls to the side of Patrick, both of them panting, ribs pressed together.

“Fucking finally,” Patrick sighs, his chest heaving even faster than Tashi’s and the bottom half of his face covered in her slick. Even his nose is shiny. Jealousy makes Art’s stomach cramp and his jaw is starting to ache from how tight he’s clenching his teeth. “You used to be easier to get off, you know.”

Art nearly flinches.

Tashi only scoffs, stretching her legs out languidly and her arms above her head, like a sated cat. “You’ve never been any good at eating pussy, I just used to lie to make you feel better.”

Patrick props himself up on one elbow, eyebrows furrowed in offense. “Really?”

Tashi gives him a look like he’s an idiot. “Duh. You’re terrible with your tongue. Clumsy and selfish.” She smirks and pats his cheek condescendingly, and Art can see the way her nails dig divots into his cheeks. His fingers twitch. “Don’t worry, I’ll train you in this too.”

Patrick mimics her smile mockingly before turning his head enough to nip at her fingers, following her when she pulls back with a yelp and a snicker. Patrick crawls over her, His own chest shaking with his laughs as he presses their nude chests together.

Art can hardly breathe.

“Well, I know at least one way to make you feel good. Without any training,” Patrick says. Art can’t see his face or Tashi’s from this angle, just the lithe line of Patrick’s body covering hers and her knees coming up on either side of his hips. He can just barely see the shine of her cunt, with Patrick’s leaking cock bobbing right in front of it.

They look so good, Art can’t quite choke back his whine. Watching Patrick pump his hips, his cock slotting perfectly between Tashi’s swollen lips as he coats himself in her. He can hear the slick sound of it, can see the way Tashi’s toes curl against Patrick’s back.

They’re still speaking, but too quietly for Art to make out their exact words. He can hear the way Patrick’s voice curls up in that mocking-teasing-affectionate way Art used to be so familiar with, can hear the husky rumble of Tashi’s as she uses her hold on his shoulders to work her hips against his. Art’s breaths are loud and wet in his own ears, and his cock has its own heartbeat.

“Need my fingers?” Patrick asks, pulling his head up. From the way he’s panting, Art can tell he and Tashi had been kissing. “Or are you already wet enough, huh?”

“Just fuck me, you asshole.”

Patrick laughs, a rough sound but so happy it’s palpable. “Yes, ma’am.”

Art sinks down in his chair a little further. He tells himself it’s to ease the pressure on his balls, but the new position gives him a perfect angle of Patrick’s cock disappearing inside of Tashi. He runs his tongue over his teeth, his eyes wet.

“Fuck,” Patrick moans, his head thrown back as his balls settle against the split of Tashi’s body. “God, you’re still so fucking tight. Does he not fuck you good enough? Your hubby over there not giving it to you right?”

Art blinks rapidly, his lashes clumping together.

“Don’t talk about him,” Tashi groans, dragging her nails down Patrick’s freckled back and leaving streaks of pink in her wake.

“God, shit, Tashi,” Patrick huffs, working his hips just a bit, pulling out only a few inches and pushing himself back in. Art can’t see much more than his balls, and he feels bereft without a look at his wife’s cunt. “If you don’t want to talk about him, why do you get so much tighter when I bring him up?”

Art can’t hold back his whine this time, the sound of it loud and high, breaking halfway through. “Tashi,” he pleads, feeling more desperate right now than he ever has before.

He can see that Patrick’s really fucking Tashi now, pulling out more fully before bottoming out again. Patrick’s hips snap forward harshly, dragging matching moans from his and Tashi’s throats. Neither of them acknowledge Art’s sounds.

Patrick drops to one elbow, his other hand creeping between their chests to do something Art can’t see. Whatever it is pulls a high-pitched moan Tashi’s chest, a sound Art knows is entirely involuntary.

“Do that again,” she orders, tapping Patrick on the back a few times. Her other hand drags down his back until she can grab his ass, doing her best to guide him into fucking her the way she wants. She moans again a moment later, the sound full of heat and passion and so much pleasure. “Good, that’s so good. Good boy.”

Art whines again, jerking forward in his chair. He knows first-hand just how stingy his wife is with praise – it took weeks for her to call him a good boy in bed for the first time, endless lessons on exactly how he could make her feel best, hours spent with his face buried between her thighs or his cock stuffed in her cunt, Tashi playing a sick game of red-light-green-light to show him exactly how she liked to be fucked.

Patrick fucks her for the first time in a decade, and he gets more praise than Art’s gotten this month. It makes Art’s stomach twist and his dick twitch in his boxers.

Patrick snorts at Tashi’s praise, pushing himself back up on two hands and slowing his hips so he’s thrusting more deeply, a little more force behind each push. “Good boy?” He pants, head falling enough that Art can see the top of Tashi’s head. “Since when do you say shit like that in bed?”

Tashi’s nails are digging so deeply into Patrick’s ass that Art almost thinks she’ll make him bleed. He almost hopes she does. “Stop fucking talking about him!” She nearly shouts, her voice strained. “I’m close.”

Art’s nearly drooling. He presses his hands tight to his hard dick through his pants, eyes rolling back in his head at the relief it gives him.

Patrick manages to keep his mouth shut now, fucking into Tashi’s cunt a little faster, a little messier. The muscles in his back and ass flex with every thrust, and Art thinks briefly that he wants to run his tongue over the hills and valleys appearing there. The thought slips away when Patrick pushes himself up just a little more, taking Tashi’s body with him and letting Art see the way her cunt is absolutely dripping wet.

Before he even realizes what he’s doing, Art is on his feet, then kneeling on the bed and lowering himself to his stomach, squirming closer to them. One hand grips Patrick’s calf as he slides himself between his spread knees, heartbeat ticking somehow fast when he hears Patrick’s ensuing groan.

Art’s chest slides against the sweat-damp sheets, and he breathes deeply enough that he can nearly taste the mix of Patrick and Tashi on his tongue. There’s hardly any room beneath Patrick, but he obligingly kneels even further up on his knees to make room for Art. Art nudges forward enough that he can dart his tongue out and reach Tashi, Patrick’s balls dragging across his forehead and scalp.

He can’t help but moan at the first taste of her, his sound almost drowning out the near-yelp from Tashi herself. He strains to lick around where she’s stretched on Patrick’s cock, all three of them moaning at the contact. She tastes like ambrosia on his tongue, sweet enough that he can almost ignore the heat of Patrick’s thighs on either side of him.

“Fuck!” He hears her curse, and his eyes neary roll back. Art’s licking Patrick’s cock as much as he is Tashi’s cunt, but he can’t bring himself to care. The euphoria of just being with her, touching her again is enough to drown out the feelings he can’t quite decipher about Patrick.

Art manages to wiggle forward another few precious inches, pressing his tongue flat to the crease between cunt and thigh, lapping at sweat and slick. He tries to nose high enough to reach her clit, can’t quite manage it in the tiny space he has beneath Patrick.

“Get off,” he suddenly hears Tashi growl. Patrick grunts above him, whining about something, and a moment later there’s a foot on his shoulder.

He reaches one hand up to stroke the top of Tashi’s foot, but she just shoves him back with as much force as she can nearly when she’s bent in half. Art makes a noise somewhere between a whine and a moan, and the foot moves up to shove at his cheek instead.

“Tashi,” he moans, turning to mouth at her toes. She ignores his kisses completely, instead planting her heel solidly on his forehead and shoving him back.

The sound that rips from Art is so pathetic, it makes the first tear finally streak down his cheek. He paws it away with the back of his hand, looking up at Tashi where she’s looking at him around Patrick’s shoulder.

“What are you doing?” She sneers, digging a hand into Patrick’s hair and guiding his mouth down to her chest. Art can hear the sound of his lips against her breast. He works his hips against the sheets, just once, giving himself enough pressure that he can’t help but moan.

“Are you humping the bed?” Tashi asks, shock and what he thinks might be disgust loud in her tone. He presses the side of his face into the bed, lowering himself as much as possible to look up at her in supplication. Patrick’s hips work slowly as he grinds himself inside of her, but Tashi’s expression doesn’t even twitch. “Fucking pathetic. Can’t listen to a single order and you’re so needy that you won’t even use your own hand.”

“I’m sorry,” he whines, worming one hand beneath his stomach and pressing it against his cock. It makes his face go a little numb, so much pleasure after so long denying himself. “You just- he wasn’t getting you off.”

Patrick makes an offended noise but Tashi just pushes him further into her, not letting him get even a centimeter of space between his lips and her skin. Art thinks he might hear Patrick rumbling, but it isn’t anything close to words.

“I don’t need you to get me off,” Tashi huffs, and Art bites back a whine when he sees her hips start working against Patrick’s again, giving him more room to fuck her better. “There’s a reason I told him to fuck me and told you to stay in that chair.”

“I can make you feel good,” Art swears, fighting to keep his eyes from screwing up as he beats his own dick. Tashi is still looking at him, and he doesn’t want to miss a second of eye contact with her. “Promise, Tash, I can be good for you.”

Patrick finally pulls his head away from Tashi’s nipple, turning enough that Art can see his eyes over his shoulder. “Well, I see why you started talking like that.” He’s making eye contact with Art but his words are for Tashi. “You’re not being a very good boy right now, are you Art?”

God, Art hates the way he moans at that, but he can’t help but want Patrick to just keep talking. His dick kicks up in his hand, even pressed against the bed as he is.

“Oh, you like that,” Patrick nearly purrs, his tone far too close to sensual for the cocksure man Art has always known him to be. “You really are pathetic, huh?”

Art whines, hips working erratically into the sheets. He squirms just a bit closer on his stomach, not daring to lift himself even an inch. Patrick laughs and kicks back with one foot, clipping Art’s shoulder and sending him sliding back several inches. He grasps the sheets desperately with one hand, feeling for all the world like a kicked dog.

“Get on the floor,” Tashi commands, turning away from Art and running her hands over Patrick’s shoulder until she can wrap her arms around his neck. “You’re ruining the mood.”

(Somewhere deep in his mind, Art knows that isn’t true. He knows it isn’t true because he can’t help but cry out at Tashi’s dismissal, and immediately after the sound rips from his throat both she and Patrick moan. He knows they’re getting off on torturing him, but that doesn’t stop the tears from slipping down his cheeks as he desperately humps the bed.)

When Art doesn’t move, Patrick shoots him a snide glance. “You heard her. On the floor, where you belong.”

Art’s hardly breathing as he forces himself to slide back, the fabric against his skin suddenly burning. His knees knock when he finally stands, and he practically falls into the chair as he stumbles backward, unable to tear his eyes away from the flex of Patrick’s ass.

He’s slumped low over Tashi again, covering almost her entire body with his. Art tries his best to get a glimpse of her, but the most he can see are her arms, knees, and Patrick’s balls and taint.

“Patrick, stop – Art!” Tashi suddenly snaps, and Art jerks to attention. Patrick freezes above her, pushing himself up so their torsos are fully separated and he can turn to look at Art. He guiltly tears his eyes away from Patrick’s swaying balls and to Tashi’s eyes where she’s glaring over his shoulder, unable to believe he missed her gaze in the first place. “Are you stupid?”

Art blinks at her, looking all the idiot she accuses him of being. “Huh?”

Tashi rolls her eyes. “I told you to get on the floor. Are you on the floor right now?”

Art shakes his head slowly, frozen in her gaze.

Tashi only cocks an eyebrow expectantly.

Art slides to his knees in front of the bed, lips trembling. He curls his hands around the footboard, gripping as tight as he can to keep himself still. From this low of an angle he can see Tashi’s cunt again, can see the slick smeared on her thighs and the vein running along the bottom of Patrick’s cock.

“Finally. Now stay,” Tashi commands, falling back to her back and pulling Patrick over her. “Ignore him. If I don’t get off soon, I’m kicking you out.”

Patrick laughs, and Art can hear the kiss they share. “You haven’t gotten less demanding, that’s for sure.”

There aren’t any more words shared between them, not that Art can hear at least, as Patrick plants his hands on either side of Tashi’s head and starts to thrust inside of her at a consistent, quick pace. He fucks with all the confidence he carries on the court, movements sure and practiced as he keeps himself at the exact angle that’s jerking moans and whines from Tashi.

It takes a while for her to finish, still. Only a few minutes into their new pace, Patrick’s groans start drowning out Tashi’s. Art watches as his old friend falls to his elbows again, then even further as he buries a hand between their bodies, presumably to work at Tashi’s clit.

It’s hardly a minute after that when Tashi comes. Art can’t see her face but he knows the exact expression she’s making – eyes squeezed tight, lips curled back to show her teeth, eyebrows pinched, looking more like she’s in pain than exquisite pleasure. He could probably count on one hand the amount of times he hasn’t been looking at her face when she comes, he loves nothing more than the sight of his wife surrendering to the pleasure he’s giving her.

To know that it’s another man giving her an orgasm, an orgasm that Art can’t even properly see…

It makes his cock throb and his eyes water. The only thing keeping him from jacking himself off along with Patrick is the sense of shame burning bright in his stomach.

Patrick is loud when he comes. Art remembers that, from dark nights in shared rooms filled with feelings he’s spent years repressing. He remembers the way Patrick’s voice had cracked on a moan, and his eyes nearly roll back in his head when he hears it again now.

They’re all silent once Patrick pulls out of Tashi, falling to his back beside her in a mirror image of how they laid earlier. The loudest sound in the room is Art’s panting breaths, but the buzz in his head nearly drowns it out for him, and he’s miles away from composed enough to try and hide his desperation.

Art leans forward just enough to rest his chin on the footboard, chest pressed against the cool wood. He lifts up just enough that his cock is pressed against it too, albeit with his sweatpants keeping him from actually feeling it.

Tashi’s splayed like a starfish on her back, limbs akimbo in a way that would unflattering on anyone else, but somehow looks perfectly posed on her. Her legs are spread enough that Art can see the mix of her slick and Patrick’s come dripping slowly out of her. He feels a little faint at the sight, saliva gathering beneath his tongue.

Patrick’s laid back on the pillows, reclining instead of laying down. His cock is soft and wet against his thigh, limp and satisfied like the rest of him. When Art looks over at him, he catches Patrick already staring. His gaze is intense enough that Art can feel his cheeks flame hot, feel his cock throb in response where it’s trapped between wood and skin.

He feels like he should say something, but can’t quite bring himself to, his gaze sliding back over to Tashi’s body. She’s sleeping now, he can tell by the slow rise and fall of her chest and by the fact that she hasn’t sat up and started shooting off commands again.

“Art, c’mere,” Patrick bids, jerking his head towards Tashi’s prone form. Art glances at him, wide-eyed and mute. Patrick’s lips are curled up in a smile that Art hates that he can still read even all these years later – he looks satisfied, and so painfully affectionate. The tightness in Art’s chest eases, just a bit. He doesn’t move though, only glances between his wife and Patrick.

“Come on,” Patrick encourages, reaching over just enough to pat Tashi’s thigh enticingly. She shifts a bit in her sleep, making a low sound and spreading her legs even more. “One of us should clean her up, and I’m exhausted.”

Art knows it’s a lie. Patrick’s already cupping his balls with the hand not on Tashi’s thigh, rolling them in his palm idly. But Art can still taste the hint of pussy he got earlier, and he’s too desperate to care about Patrick’s pity.

It’s easy to haul himself over the footboard, keeping himself on his stomach to satisfy some animal instinct that demands he keep himself small. He keeps his hands underneath his body, tucked in front of his chest as he lays himself in front of his wife’s thoroughly fucked cunt, watching with awe as her hole winks at him.

“Pretty, huh?” Patrick rumbles, and a moment later Art feels a hand comb through his hair. He jerks back at the contact, looking over at his old friend with wide eyes and pushing away just enough to be out of his reach. Patrick only rolls his eyes, leaning forward enough to get a good grip in Art’s hair and yanking him until his cheek rests on Tashi’s thigh.

Art whines quietly, blinking rapidly with wide eyes up at Patrick, who just smirks and softens his hold, running his hand through Art’s hair. “Quiet, you’re fine. We both know you like a little manhandling.”

Art closes his eyes for a moment, forcing his gaze back to Tashi when they open.

“Like a little more than that too, huh?” Patrick goes on, fingers not hesitating for even a moment as Art flinches. Part of him wants to speak up in defense of himself, but words feel miles away from his reach right now. “Wish I would’ve known that, before. Might’ve actually gotten to fuck you if I’d known I just had to be a little mean.”

“Patrick,” Art breathes, squirming forward more so he can bury his nose in Tashi’s stomach, tongue darting out to taste her sweat-soaked skin.

“Art,” Patrick mocks, scratching Art’s scalp with dull nails, just on the wrong side of rough. “You know I’m right. It’s why you’re quiet right now – either that, or all the blood in your brain is between your legs.”

Art lets one arm creep up, wrapping around Tashi’s waist so he can force himself as close to her as possible. He sinks a little lower again, nosing at the crease of her thigh. He can smell the mix of her and Patrick still dripping between her legs, and his tongue darts out instinctively. For the first time in his life, he’s disappointed to taste Tashi’s sweat.

“So go on,” Patrick encourages, pushing Art’s head even lower with the heel of her palm. “Clean her up. Then you can pass out.”

Art doesn’t wait any longer for permission, burying his face in Tashi’s folds. Her clit in his mouth, his tongue in her hole offers him the mercy he’s needed all night. Everything else fades away with her taste drowning him – he’s not so hard he hurts, he can’t feel Patrick tugging on his earlobe, his bicep isn’t squeezing Tashi’s thigh, he’s just a pair of lips and a tongue put here to make one woman feel good.

Tashi’s always careful with how responsive she is, only rewarding Art with moans and touches when he’s particularly good with his mouth. But in her sleep she’s limp, only the occasional moan slipping unrestrained from her chest. It’s heaven.

“She taste good?” He hears Patrick ask distantly, and he’s got enough of his wits about him to nod into Tashi, dipping lower so he can fully tongue her hole with his nose brushing her clit.

He can fully taste Patrick now, the salty tang of his cum coating Art’s tongue. He moans as the taste mixes with Tashi’s, eyes rolling back as he shoves himself as far into her as he can get.

He hooks his other arm underneath her leg, hitching her up just enough that he can almost shove himself down and into her, trying his best to mimic fucking her with his tongue. He knows she won’t be bothered by him eating her out, but she’d never let him fuck her with her in some form of control. He so rarely gets to do what he wants with her body, the treat of it is almost worth the show he had to watch to get it.

Art moans into her, drunk as he laps at her desperately, cleaning every inch of her he can reach with his tongue. He licks broad stripes from hole to clit, coating his taste buds in Tashi and Patrick. They’re all he can taste, and the bliss he feels is overwhelming.

“Man, you are gone,” Patrick says, laughing affectionately. He scratches behind Art’s ear lightly, and Art can’t help but lean into the contact. “Can you even breathe in there?”

Not really, but Art doesn’t mind. He doesn’t need to breathe right now, not with unrestricted free access to his wife’s cunt for what’s probably the first time in their entire marriage.

“You don’t even care about your dick, do you?” Patrick continues. “You’re hard as a rock, man, I can see it through your pants. But you’re not even humping the bed anymore.”

Art whines, flushing. His eyes flutter open for just a moment, glancing lazily at Patrick before he gets another rush of his taste and his eyes roll shut again. The hand on his ear shifts to his nape, helping guide him like he really is fucking Tashi with his tongue.

“Guess it’s good that you’re not too bothered. I’m not getting you off and risking Tashi’s wrath in the morning. Maybe if you give her those puppy dog eyes she’ll finish you off in the morning, huh?”

A part of Art wants to cry at the thought of going to sleep without relief, and another part relishes in just the idea of waiting for Tashi’s permission to come. She’s always a little softer with him when he follows her lead, and the bedroom is far from the exception to that.

Tashi’s breath hitches as Art focuses in on her clit, her moans cracking as her hips work subconsciously against his face. Art is happy to follow her lead, going where she guides him and relishing in the way he noises only kick up higher and louder.

He can tell the moment she comes because the rush of her taste washes away Patrick’s completely. A few tears slip down Art’s face as she humps him, locking his mouth over her hole to make sure he doesn’t miss a drop of her pleasure.

He keeps licking at her, sucking on her clit and breathing her scent in deep, until Patrick gets a hold on his hair again and tugs him off.

“Alright, you’re done,” Patrick says, ignoring Art’s bereft whimper and forcing his cheek back to Tashi’s thigh. “You put on a good show, but we don’t want her waking up and getting all bossy again, do we?”

Art would like nothing more, actually, but he doesn’t have it in him to do anything more than blink dumbly up at Patrick. With Tashi’s orgasm fresh on his tongue, he finds all of his worries slipping away. His cock is still hard and sore between his legs, but it’s a distant sort of feeling, one he finds himself capable of ignoring. He lets his eyes flutter shut for a bit, basking in the scent of Tashi and the feel of a heavy hand on his head.

“You gonna sleep down there?”

Art lifts his head at Patrick’s question, dragging himself away from the brink of sleep. “What?”

Patrick shifts closer to Tashi, rolling her onto her side and subsequently forcing Art to back up even further, until he’s on his stomach at the foot of the bed. Patrick tucks himself close behind Tashi, lifting her head so she can use one bicep of his as a pillow.

Patrick looks over at Art expectantly, reaching back to pat the bit of empty mattress behind him. There’s really not much room, since Tashi’s still in the center of the bed, but there’s some.

“Come up here,” Patrick says, turning to wrap himself fully around Tashi and laying his head down, eyes closing. She shifts to the side a bit, laying on her stomach with her arm and leg laid out to take up the rest of the bed.

Art can tell that he fully intends to go to sleep, regardless of what Art chooses to do.

He briefly considers staying where he is, curled up at the foot of the bed like a spoiled dog. He pushes that thought away quickly, with a quick flare of panic at the way his cock kicks up at the image.

He could crawl on Tashi’s other side, tuck himself into her. But Tashi’s always been a bed hog, and always been particular about personal space at night. At least once a month Art wakes up to her kicking and shoving him back over to his side of the bed after he got a little too clingy in his sleep, her hair a bird’s nest but her glare just as fiery as always. He figures if he’s got any chance of earning an orgasm in the morning, it’s not going to come from an annoyed Tashi.

Art reluctantly drags his limbs up behind Patrick, forced to stretch his legs out straight so that he’s not curling them behind Patrick’s. His shirt and sweatpants stick to his skin from sweat, but he refuses to press himself skin-to-skin to Patrick like that.

He shifts over to his side so that he’s not on the very edge of the bed, one hand resting on the pillow. Just as he settles a bit, feels his heart rate finally begin to slow, he hears Patrick’s voice.

“Can you not, man?”

Art tenses again. “What?” He whispers, like they’re kids at tennis camp again and he doesn’t want to get caught awake after light’s out.

“I can feel your dick on my ass, Art. Hard to fall asleep with that.”

Art is on his back again before he can even blink, breaths hitching. He has to fold his hands over his stomach to keep one from hanging off the edge

“Thanks,” Patrick hums, and Art can feel him shift his hips back a little bit. His ass rests against Art’s thigh now.

“No problem,” Art manages, though his whisper is shaky.

He stares up at the smooth ceiling, simultaneously more exhausted than he’s felt since he retired and kicked up on so much energy that he feels like he’ll never fall asleep.

Patrick’s breaths deepen beside him, and a moment later soft snores fill the room. Art closes his eyes and smiles, safe in the dark. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

He counts his breaths, times them to match with Patrick’s. He does his damndest to ignore the erection tenting his pants. He thinks of morning orgasms and his beautiful wife, sleep-soft and mild before the day’s responsibilities settle over her.

He’s asleep in minutes.

#challengers fic #tashi duncan x art donaldson x patrick zweig #i do not know their 3 way ship name sawry #partashi #?#bo writes #how do i tag this lmfaoo

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marveloustimestwo · 2 years

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Hii! I got this idea after I woke up so, I'm sorry if it's a little messy. What if Remus, Sirius and James fall for the same reader? Any of them know about the yandere tendencies of each other (they never talk about it cause they thought the others would judge him) but one day they found each other while stalking the reader? 🤔

Finally got something out! Thank you for your patience and the request!

Warnings: Yandere themes, talk of stalking

I think that each of them is slightly different in how they fall for you and figure out that the others have done the same.

Both Sirius and James are fast to start obsessing over you, yet there is absolutely no shaking them out of it.

We're given hints as to what James acted like with Lily. He pursued her for years, very persistent and firm despite her showing zero interest, and at times, only irritation for him.

I talked about Sirius's behavior during a couple of my writing events, but he's very outwardly passionate about his darling, as well as the most dangerous out of the three of them.

He's impulsive, aggressive, and oftentimes jealous. While James isn't as eager to hurt others who talk to you, Sirius will jinx, hex, and bully anyone who he deems as a threat (which can be almost anyone).

As for Remus, he's not as quick to fall. He likely sees how foolishly his friends are acting and questions how you've brought this out in them.

Trying to figure out the answer to such a question leads him to an obsession of his own.

He's not as bold as Sirius and James are. He's quieter and reserved, and he can actually be very charming when it comes to you.

While obsessed, he leans toward the softer side, and not many will see his yandere tendencies (though he can get worse towards the full moon. More possessive and aggressive if he thinks someone is threatening you.)

As for stalking you, all of them have a certain fondness for it.

For Sirius, stalking you can be pretty easy. He's an animagus, after all, and people won't really question seeing a stray dog on Hogwarts grounds. Soon enough you'll start to call this dog a friend with how often you see him, unaware that it's Sirius trying to get close to you.

Don't worry, Sirius quite enjoys the pets.

For James and Remus, though, it can be more difficult to stalk you.

While James is an animagus, his is much less discreet than Sirius's. He can't exactly follow you around without getting a lot of weird stares. A giant stag isn't as normal to see in the hallways of Hogwarts as a dog is.

However, when you're going for a walk outside through Hogwart's spacious grounds or are attending a Care for Magical Creatures class, you will occasionally see James following you around.

While it may be a bit odd to see a stag, you can't really question it when it's out in nature, can you? After all, Hogwarts is home to quite a few non-magical animals too.

And poor Remus doesn't really have a good way to stalk you discreetly. Unlike his friends, he's not an animagus. His lycanthropy is only during the full moon, and he never does have control of himself then.

Instead, he just does so the normal way.

However, despite Remus not really having a subtle way to stalk you, he would likely be the one to figure out the others are doing it first.

As I said, he's the last to fall, and he knows his friends quite well.

His way of stalking forces him to be smart. He has to stay hidden in fear of you or someone else seeing him.

Considering this, Remus is likely the first to spot the others while they're all stalking you, and it was funny seeing the familiar forms of a dog and a stag following you out on your walk.

Sirius was the next to figure it out. His animagus has the sharpest nose out of them, so smelling both Remus and James close by was a dead giveaway.

And James, as focused as he was on you, was quite confused when Sirius and Remus cornered him suddenly, and he was afraid that they might snitch on him.

Only for Remus to spill out exactly what's been happening. How each one of them has been obsessing over and stalking you for months now.

It doesn't take long for them to come to an agreement. The three of them are about the only people each of them would share their darling with, with only a couple of exceptions.

The amount of trust they have in each other is unrivaled, and soon, so is their ability to woo, and if necessary, kidnap their darling.

As a unit, these three are very dangerous.

#yandere #yandere harry potter #yandere james potter #yandere remus lupin #yandere sirius black

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gilverrwrites · 4 months

Text

Some people have all the luck

Two-Face/Reader, 1.2K words Idk, writing that match-up with good ol' Harv sparked something in my brain and I haven't stopped thinking about him since. I just had to write something. Using his Arkham design in the divider but this isn't specific to that portrayal. [1/2] Already at rock bottom, Two-Face offers you the chance to test your luck. Rating: 18+

CWs: Drunk reader, smoking, implied threats of violence, sexually suggestible themes - nothing explicit, swearing, Reader is kind of a dick - but hey, we all have bad days.

Please: never apologise for being yourself.

It had been a terrible, awful, shitty day, but somebody else’s was about to be worse.

Perhaps because you were too drunk to even think of minding your own business, or perhaps because you wanted to see somebody else’s day ruined, you watch, lucid and transfixed as a strong, grotesque hand clutches the arm of another drunken bar patron.

You’d clocked him as soon as he’d entered; tall, dark, and intriguingly handsome in ways you didn’t care to decipher. His suit was crisp, hugging him in all the right places, a cigar situated cleanly between his teeth.

The unlucky girl had been in a world of her own, dancing amongst friends. The poor thing hadn’t been looking where she was going, and hadn’t seen him coming despite his very noticeable presence. She’d spun around, colliding with his large frame, spilling her cocktail all over his two-tone suit.

Their voices can barely be heard over the blaring music, but she looks to be begging, hunched over in a show of submission, trying desperately to reel back her trapped arm.

When he drops his cigar to the floor, putting it out easily as he reaches into his suit jacket to pull out his signature coin, you sit up straighter. At least you try to, your intoxicated body only allows you to lean further onto your table, angling for a better view.

The silver dollar glints under the spotlights as it flips through the air and lands back in his good hand.

His lips move, either an omen of what’s to come, or a warning for the future and then…

He releases his grip. She bows her head lower, and then she’s gone, disappearing amongst the crowd. Disappointing.

That should have been it, you should have averted your gaze when it was over, nursed your drink, watched somebody else, someone less dangerous. In all honestly, you don’t even realise you’re still staring until he’s standing directly on the other side of your table, glaring back at you. Half glaring. The unmarred side of his face, the ‘handsome Harvey’ side as the paper used to bill him, with a sharp jawline and high cheekbone seems softer, sadder. It looks at you like you’re a lost puppy, begging your safety.

The other side not so much; It's still handsome, all the trademark features of his right side still there, under layers of sharp, twisted skin. It doesn’t seem so bad up close, strangely attractive even, if not for the veiny yellow eye that appears to be routing for your demise.

You can’t help but wonder how much of your perception of his supposed conflicting expressions is real, and how much of it is fuelled by his portrayals in the media, by the uneven shapes of his face under the blinking lights, by your own dubious emotions.

“What are you looking at?” His voice is low, gravelly, threatening. More of a growl that emanates from his puffed-out chest.

Had you been sober, you likely would have let your panic show, would have stuttered over your words, would have uttered a thousand apologies, not unlike his previous target. Instead, you continue to peer up at him as you take a slow sip of your drink, struggling to find your coaster when you place it back on the table.

“I just can’t believe she got away with that.” The words come out slurred, but more confident than you’d expected. “Some people have all the luck.”

Maybe your statement, maybe your demeanour, but something about you seems to amuse him. The space where an eyebrow would sit on his left side raises, his head twists to the side, showing you more of his undamaged side.

“Not you?” His voice is still gruff and husky, but his tone is lighter now, entertained.

“Me? Nah. If I didn’t have bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.” You try to make some form of gesture with your arms, but all you manage to do is spill a tipple from your drink. Finally looking away from him, you grab way too many napkins whilst trying and clean up your spillage.

Distracted, you don’t notice his rounding the table until you hear the sound of metal knocking on glass far too close for comfort. Your eyes dart to the noise. His hand is beside yours, tapping his coin against the table. You unabashedly track your eyes up his body, taking in his dexterous hand, muscular arms, broad shoulders, until you’re face to face again.

Even as you’re perched on the bar stool his standing frame still towers over you. Up close he smells like smoke and jasmine. He radiates authority and malice that should caution you, should send you running. But for some reason you find yourself intrigued, captivated by his formidable presence.

Presumably satisfied to have your attention once again, he brings the coin up close to your face, turning it back and forth between his fingers, displaying its two sides. One clean and shiny, the other dented and scratched, a mirror image of himself.

“Care to test that theory?” What a terrifying prospect, the answer is clearly no, but it’s obvious you don’t really have a choice in the matter. Your only hope is that it lands on his good side.

“Not really, but by all means.” Your attempt to crack a joke seems to land. The left side of his face doesn’t have much of a mouth, but the muscles twitch upwards in a manner that implies a smile.

You watch with bated breath, teeth digging into your lower lip as the coin jolts into the air. It lands in the palm of his hand, and he closes his fingers over it quickly, denying you a chance to glimpse the results.

“This is the part where they usually try to run away.” He comments, and you really can’t tell if he’s trying to make his own joke or not. You tilt your body away from him, buzzed brain trying and failing to locate an escape path. Then you look at your feet, heavy and unbalanced due to the sheer amount of booze you’d been trying to drown yourself in.

“I would but…” I wouldn’t get far, I don’t think I can, I’d probably just fall flat on my face. Warm, rough skin meets your chin, directing your slackened face back to his. When you look up at him, your heart races under his lurid gaze. “I don’t want to.”

His fingers move deftly, opening just enough for him to glimpse the result before placing it back in his inner pocket. Still declining you a peek at your fate.

The same rugged skin that had held your face now rakes down your body, dropping lower until it’s wrapped around your waist, easily hoisting you from your seat and onto unsteady feet. The crowd parts with every step, eager not to get in his way. You wonder how you look to the masses, like lovers heading home for the night? Like a father caring for his inebriated child? His vice-like, bruising grip around your body implies something far less tender.

You spot the girl from earlier, pale and shaking amongst a group of girlfriends attempting to calm her. She offers you a solemn, pitying look. Perhaps this is your penance for routing for her downfall.

“Wh- what are you- where are we…” You trip over your words, nerves finally getting the better of your vocal cords. His expression gives nothing away. “Never mind, I don’t wanna know.”

#two face #two face x reader #harvey dent #harvey dent x reader #dc #reader insert #gn reader #gilverrwrites

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the-ace-with-spades · 5 months

Text

(sometimes I feel) like a monkey pilot fic background bits (heavier on hangster this time), because I wanna write it, I'm having feelings about it, but it isn't coming along

Also, it recently passed 200 bookmarks and my little trans gay heart is so happy 🥹

---- When Jake and Bradley had met for the first time (back when Bradley was pre-transition), they were the opposite of each other's types. They haven't grown into the people they are as the fic begins, personality and body-wise, either, being like 23-24 — Jake was lean but scrawny, had about half of his today's confidence and sass and Bradley was still reeling with compacted anger/sadness and fake-it-till-you-make-it attitude that carried him through college and the basketball scholarship.

---- Bradley up until that point dated only girls and although he was kinda attracted to guys, he identified as a lesbian, and gave Jake a chance on a whim — mostly he thought Jake was a big dork and wasn't making him feel less like a lot of guys did. He felt like Jake didn't categorize him by 'female' standards much and that helped enormously too. Nat might or not have taken pity on Jake and talked to Bradley to emphasize that Jake is just a big dork that grows on you...

---- Jake'd only dated the next-door neighbor type of girls, very feminine and although on the playful side, always softer and more shy girls, usually curvy and tiny in comparison to him. He always imagined himself as a more stereotypical husband, with a housewife and kids waiting at home for him (very similar to the way his own parents were — his ma helped around on the farm, but she was primarily responsible for raising children until they grew enough, and his dad although present, would follow her lead when it comes to childrearing). But there was just something about Bradley, in all the two inches taller, semi-professional basketball player body and the cheeky quips glory and the way he felt challenged whenever they spoke, the way he wanted the attention to never end. Obviously, he found out pretty soon that Bradley was a dork and a softie and just felt even more endeared.

---- The above is also something that causes some problems down the lane — Jake always thought they were each other's 'special ones', that despite being totally different from what either of them would imagine in a partner, somehow they ended just being perfect for each other. He has this whole thing in his head where they're each other's 'exception to the rule' and obviously Bradley still is his exception (because he's a guy and Jake's never been with a guy) but now he isn't Bradley's. It's hard for him to communicate this properly and since Bradley is also very in his mind about Jake wanting him despite being a guy, it causes problems.

---- Their first date (which I'll write eventually) was a stroll at the farmer's market and eating freshly made with produce they bought there breakfast in the bed of Jake's truck. It kinda won both of them on each other and they were goners since.

---- They both dated in the five years of being broken-up. Bradley dated both guys and girls, with various results (some of his dates were trans guy chasers, some were just not clicking) and Jake dated a couple of girls of his previous type (mostly matchmade by his ma...) and a couple more tomboy-ish, sporty girls (mostly on Javy's desperate attempts to get him to move on), but it had never felt the same for either of them.

---- I do also want to emphasize that Bradley's mental state when he and Jake broke up was poor, but not in a very visible way. He's really good at compartmentalizing and since the whole Mav fiasco, also hyper-independent, and given his then-current life, he really didn't see any options that would keep everyone happy — in his mind, he didn't really have a choice but to leave and try to live as a woman once again, but with a clean slate (for both him and Jake) and no expectations but those that the Navy set for him. For him, in the military, it was really easy to lose identity (and also gender as part of identity) — he was an officer, naval aviator, sailor first, woman second, and it was the last line of comfort he had.

---- Jake kinda had a feeling something was off since he proposed and got rejected, but he didn't know how to address it because it wasn't very precise and almost felt as if he was making it up from his own insecurities (because his proposal, which he thought was just a formality, got rejected and now he felt confused and unsettled about how well they really knew each other, even if he didn't doubt they loved each other). Only when Bradley told him they needed to break up and that he was leaving for the Virginia base in half an hour, packed to go, never even having mentioned planning a transfer in the past months, he realized how bad it actually had been.

---- Jake did realize back then that Bradley (still pre-transition) had a lot of insecurities regarding his perception and body, he just kinda misunderstood the assignment and thought it came from the opposite reasons than in reality — that pre-transition Bradley was the most comfortable in the tomboy-ish, cocky image but didn't feel beautiful in typical 'female' standards and such, rather that he, you know, didn't want to feel pretty by 'female' standards at all. The only thing that helped Bradley feel good about

---- Like in most of my fics, I think Mav and Bradley can cook pretty well, mostly due to the headcanoned nature of their upbringings. Mav (who is part Italian in my mind, always), had often helped his mamma cook and then when she passed away, would often be responsible for meal preps as one of the oldest kids in his group homes. He's also used cooking as a way of taking care of the people he loves - Goose would've starved to death if Mav hadn't cooked for the both of them the first year they'd known each other, Carole has a similar upbringing as Mav but doesn't like cooking much, Ice can kinda cook (he can do anything if he tries hard enough) but doesn't like it. And Bradley would often help with cooking as a kid and then had to learn fast when he went to college and didn't have the money or means to not cook. He's also learned to use it as a form of love from Mav, with time.

---- I also think that a major thing about is how being someone's support can set both Mav and Bradley into override mode against all their fears and insecurities. I think Mav overcame a lot of his doubts when he had to take care of Bradley (the idea that he's not made for family, the idea he can only ruin relationships and cause harm to his loved ones, the idea he can be loved unconditionally with reciprocation, etc.) There was a deleted scene (that maybe will come back, I feel a bit weird about it b/c it's really cliche) where Bradley is pretty early in the transition process and where for the first time, he's not afraid to be clocked as trans by a stranger, and this all happens when he's helping another trans person in an icky situation during one of the trans support group meetings.

---- Bradley doesn't come out to anyone in their family — every single time someone found he's transitioning/transitioned, it was from Ice. This is how he preferred it, it started with Slider and Ice's sister (which is also another deleted scene I might post here at some point), and then to take some of the emotional stress, Mav and Ice agreed they could do the initial explanations/coming outs for him. Thing is, Mav always doesn't know how to begin and how to explain stuff without overexplaining it, so it's usually Ice who would actually do the talking with Mav there as support in case something goes wrong (it has not gone horrible even once — with various degrees of explanations and time to process, everyone in their family came around to accept Bradley as a man)

---- the title of this fic, (sometimes I feel) like a monkey pilot, comes from the Comsat Angels' song, Monkey Pilot, and had been chosen mostly because it resonates with my trans experience (and Bradley's) and how it feels to be in the denial, 'if I don't think about it doesn't exist' stage of being trans, when you're so transfixed and not in control of your own life that it all feels like you're just going through the motion and don't know what you're doing, don't care what you're doing as long as you're still in motion (or in the air, in Bradley's case). It's the feeling of doing things out of habit and because that's what is expected of you while realizing sullen it makes you and how there's only a few things that make it better (again, mostly flying in Bradley's case). Also, it's aviation-themed and inspired by J.G. Ballard's short stories, so it seemed fitting to me.

#hangster #trans bradley rooster bradshaw #(sif) lamp tag #this fic needs some banner or something #mavdad #charlie writes #op #bradley rooster bradshaw #jake hangman seresin

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darklydeliciousdesires · 10 days

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Light on the Darkside - Chapter Twenty Two.

Big thanks as always to the LOTD book club for your usual enthusiasm for my little story :)

Previous chapters - One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen Nineteen Twenty Twenty One

Tag list - In the comments. Please DM to be added/removed.

Words - 4,347

Warnings - 18+ throughout. Topics cover depression, suicide and eating disorders. Minors DNI!

It was a rarity, getting to enjoy her husband without rushing the experience, Ella unbuttoning the heavy cotton black shirt he wore, running a lick between his thick pectorals as she watched the grey storm of desire flicker in his eyes. She corralled him against the wall, fingers hooking his nipple rings and pulling, his groan gone to smoke and grit as he bit her tongue, sucking it, their kisses all flames and honey as he reached for her waist and lifted her.

It was fever-hot but winding slow, like flames chasing a chill as his bulky body pinned her against the bathroom door, mouth leaving hers to press a path of kisses over her collar bones and neck.

“Finally, sex that ain't gotta be rushed," he breathed, his cock pressing hard at her hip as her legs tensed around him. “Ain’t half fucking missed it, babe.” With three kids now, unless they had it last thing at night, a rarity with how tired they often were, sex was something that had to be satisfied in under twenty minutes, sometimes less.

Her limbs tightened their hold as she clutched on around him, carried to the bed, watching him undress with desire licking her insides as she made short work of her own clothes, his hard, tattooed bulk pressing her into the mattress thereafter. While she was quite tall, she always felt tiny beneath him, especially over the last few years, his gym dedication as well as working himself up to the status of a third dan blackbelt in kickboxing giving him a deliciously hard bulk.

Her own body had changed through the years, her breasts a little softer from feeding one out of her three children, Ella choosing against breastfeeding in the end, not taking to it. She had a rounder stomach, too, lined with fading stretch marks, but overall thanks to yoga and being talked into lifting weights by her husband, she was in good shape. Whatever shape she happened to be in, though, James still found her the sexiest woman alive, and that was good enough for her.

She melted under his heat, the feel of his mouth all over her, her nipples sucked as his fingers swirled over her sides. He was soft with her for that moment, but she knew her husband of old. Drunk James was demon, a dominant, unrelenting beast and Jesus, how she thrived on that side of him.

For the first few years, she hadn’t really seen it in full effect, with him not drinking alcohol to that kind of extreme back when he was taking his medication. After seeing it, though, experiencing being sexually commanded of, it had definitely worked its way into their relationship as a very favourable dynamic.

“Can you stand, gorgeous?” she purred, nails grazing up his back, the tattooed flesh breaking out into a flush of goose pimples.

“Might wobble a bit, but yeah,” he confirmed. “Why?”

Pushing against his chest, she moved until she was sitting on the edge of the bed, him standing at the side, her hand curling around his cock and pumping slowly as she ran a lick over the crease of his hip. “I want to feel my big man pull on my hair while he’s fucking my mouth.”

He chuckled, low and dirty, hand weaving into her hair to gently pull her head back as he leaned to her, offering kisses steeped in filthy heat. “Then that’s what you’re gonna get, darlin’.”

Straightening up, his abs jumped at feeling her tongue flicking over the tip of his cock, the warm, wet sensations meeting the drag of her nails down his chest, his eyes fluttering shut a moment. Her lips peppered kisses down his shaft, tongue swirling, nails digging in a little harder, his deep moan arrowing right to her cunt.

Her insides quaked with the lust that tumbled through her, her foundations rocked to rubble, his fisted hand in her hair snarling the strands against his rings as they wove a tight grasp. Forcing himself between her lips, his cock touched at the back of her throat, causing her to gag a little, pulling her mouth free to spit on his shaft.

“Mmmm, you fucking dirty girl.” he groaned, hand flexing the grip in her hair. Back in he plunged, her heart skipping a beat, the mix of loving husband and baleful dom ensnaring her senses like a heady potion, her lips tightening around him as his hips began to sway back and forth, fucking her mouth with a slow, deep grind.

The clasp of her lips firmed upon him, her soft moans muted a little, eyes locked onto his as her nails dug into his forearms, his thumb moving to wipe the trails of tears she blinked. Her eyes watered further, soft groans vibrating around the girth of him as he sank a little deeper, fucking her throat as his hand tightened in her hair.

Lightning began to flicker at the base of his spine, crackling heat building, knowing he’d be fit for little else if he gave into it. He pulled back, releasing her hair, a stormy gaze meeting hers, pushing her onto the bed. Big hands clutched her thighs, spreading them apart, his lips pressing a burning kiss to her abdomen, tongue running a long lick back up to her mouth.

She whimpered into the kiss, feeling him steer his cock to slide against the dripping mess of her sex, nudging her clit, pushing against her opening as his mouth glided to her neck. “Dying for it yet, babe?”

He was such a tease, and god, how it burned golden through her, the anticipation to feel him filling her. “You know I am,” she gasped, lifting her hips, attempting to ensnare him.

Oh no. She would not be sated quite so easily. “Well, tough shit. I’m gonna make you wait until you’re fucking nearly crying for my cock.”

His balefulness made her insides clench with want, James turning her onto her side and draping her leg over his hip, one hand gently grasping her neck, the other stroking over her thigh. Reaching her apex, he began rubbing the creamy gloss of arousal that fucking her mouth had keenly evoked, her breaths shuddered, his fingers still as insanely skilful as always. It felt amazing for her, that sating touch after she’d burned so caustically for him.

It was not without its conditions, as she was soon to discover.

“No.” This was not the word she wanted to hear after the firm rubbing at her clit with his thumb and very purposeful teasing of her g spot had culminated in her climbing to orgasm. One he was adamant on deny her of. “You ain’t been given permission, so you don’t get to come yet.”

Her walls fluttered, her body keening. “Please, I need you to make me come. You’re too good!” she gasped, James withdrawing his fingers and slapping her slit.

“I said no. It’s your job to fight it, not mine to be fair on you. Do as I say.” Her whine of protest had his fingers tightening at her throat, the result a light headed mist clouding her. “Behave, little. Don’t be bratty.”

His fingers stretched back into her slick, needy cunt, the sound of him pounding her soaking centre echoing through the room as she wailed, fighting against her body’s unbridled desire to peak as she began to flutter strongly. “No, don’t you dare.” Each word was punctuated with a sharp slap to her folds, her arousal scalding her like wildfire, his teeth nipping at her jaw.

She clung onto his bulk, panting and helpless, trying hard not to let herself tip, nails raking his arms, adding red to the black and grey of his tattoos. Shooting shocks simmered down her spine to puddle at the fingers that continued to assail her, Ella crying out as her hips quivered.

“Please, please let me come!” she cried, her nails dug deep at his bicep, teeth gritted, her need spiralling.

He was entertained by her loss of poise, chuckling deeply. “Is that what you want, to come hard around my fingers?

Her reply was shrill, her voice shaky. “Yes!”

He took a pause, slowing the swirl of his digits within the trembling clasp of her walls. “No.”

Her whine was indignant, protesting. “James, please! I need to!”

“I don’t care. Behave.” Once again, her tingling slit was slapped, his hand saturated with how inexplicably aroused he had her, moving to rub rapidly over her clit, slowing when he felt her ascend, but not by much. He showed no mercy, but she knew that he wouldn’t. That was the thrill of it in itself, regardless of his magnificence with his fingers.

Locked in passionate kisses, she once again felt the tide rising within, James squeezing gently at her throat, maintaining eye contact between each magmatic kiss, her face pleading with him to let her sail into the cloudless skies of her climactic high, feel comets streak through her, be illuminated through the darkness of his refusal to allow for it.

“You want it? Tell me how badly, babe.”

“I’m dying to come, James. Please let me, I need to feel your fingers make my pussy gush for you!” A tempest wound through the depths of him to hear those words, fingers pushing deep within her, bottoming out. Curling his digits and circling her sensitive front wall. She clenched upon them tightly, the heel of his palm scraping hard against her clit sending sparks skittering.

“Alright, you’re allowed now. Come hard for me, beautiful.” The relief his command conjured was so intense, it took mere moments for her to sharply throb to orgasm, clinging to him as she cried and screamed, his hand a relentless blur as his fingers daggered the sizzling pleasure further, bicep muscles flexing with effort.

He smiled at her, impressed with how well she’d handled his demands for obedience, watching as she took his hand and sucked her wetness from his fingers, her other hand grazing over his chest with her nails. “I think you’re ready for my cock now. Lie how I like you best.”

Moving away from her, he watched as she shuffled down a little, her head rested against the pillows, pulling her legs back to touch her chest, spread wide for him, gripping her ankles as she bit her lip and grinned. “Just like this? Is this how you’re going give me every last inch of that perfect, fat cock?”

“You and that dirty mouth, little,” he muttered, taking his cock and positioning himself at her opening, pushing to make her muscles yield, but not entering her past slipping the head in. “Eventually.”

“Oh, come on! I need all of you now!” she pouted, poking out her bottom lip.

“You’ll wait,” he demanded. “Don’t misbehave, Mrs. K.”

“But,” she began, silenced by his teeth biting hard onto her lower lip.

“Quiet.” He silenced her by pushing two fingers into her mouth, clutching her jaw while slowly stroking his shaft along her slit. She mewled and bucked her hips against him, receiving a reprimanding grip against her jaw.

“Don’t be bad.” She bit his fingers in retaliation, James increasing the pressure he held her with, shaking his head. Oh, that look. So darkly sexual. “Be good, or I’ll make you wait even longer, babe.” That voice, too. It shot bolts right to her fluttering cunt, hearing his rumbling tones deepened even further by lust.

Slipping his fingers from her mouth, he clasped her throat, thumb slowly tracing a circle against the column of her neck. He stared at her unflinchingly, something softening as he nuzzled her for a moment, taking his cock and beginning to rub every ridge over her slit once more. Her dew wetted him, clit spasming every time the head swept across it as she whimpered, fed his fingers to suck upon greedily once again.

Her insides fizzed with elation at his unrelenting dominance, her tongue twirling around the digits muting her protests as he began to barely penetrate her once again, teasing her with the promise of more, of the rest of his thick hardness spreading her wide in delicious satiation of her craving. Of course, he made her wait on it, getting off on her desperation.

When he finally did decide to offer mercy, he invoked a fervent blaze, her mouth falling open, his hand stroking over her throat, instigating a flurry of goose pimples rising beneath his fingertips as he arrowed her slow and deep.

“Oh god, ohhhh!” she wailed, the erotic fog of incredible arousal seeping over her entire being, hugging his shaft with a strong clench of her soaking walls.

“No, no squeezing me.”

Again, she pulsed around his cock, receiving a little slap of reprimand to her cheek, his hand clenching her jaw, feeding her his thumb to suck. “Don’t be a brat, Ella.” Raising his eyebrows, she caved to his ascendancy, releasing her clasp upon his cock, feeling him begin to move once more. Bearing down on him so she physically couldn’t clench, he had to fight to stay inside her, her wet plush strong as it bore down on his cock, his groan barbarous, thumb pushing a little harder into her mouth.

The pleasure he inflicted glittered like fireworks shooting beneath her skin, his eyes never leaving hers as his hips began to drive in piston, fat cock dragging her tender walls, her breath cut off as he clasped her throat again. It was scary yet exhilarating, her chest tightening, vision swimming, her eyes closing only to be jolted back with another slap to her cheek. “Eyes on me, darlin’. Don’t close them.”

Her face contorted in bliss, a little desperation there in the glittering blue of her eyes, a lick of fear making her heart jolt, the humidity rising until like a lightning bolt bouncing, fucked raw until the release of his grasp granted her the inhale her body craved. Her heart thrummed rapidly, the waves of release surging as she gasped for air, James showing tenderness again as he leaned in close, nose nuzzling hers. “You’re my perfect, sexy wife, Mmmm, fuck. I love you.”

Kissing her, his hand once again closed on her throat, but with a gentler squeeze, his tongue rolling against hers sensuously. Slowing to a languid trawl within her, his cock dragged her walls in a way that sent glimmers skittering over her spine, everything oversensitive and tender for a few moments before the synapses started to twitch once more.

She felt light headed, the coil within her tightening, a blaze of pure bliss beginning to burn, evoked my every single deep, hard thrust, her cunt glazing his thick shaft as he gave himself completely. Letting go of his hold on her neck, his broad body blanketed hers in tattooed muscles, her legs winding around his waist they kissed each other with magmatic passion.

Their bodies ground together in perfect rhythm, her cries escalating, nails dragging down his back as with a wail. Everything swelled and surged, her entire being shattering beneath him, the fire of orgasm blazing as he fucked out every wave of his undoing into her unrelentingly. His body collapsed atop hers, both fighting for air, the overwhelming nirvana ebbing away slowly as he stroked her skin, her nails tickling the sides of his neck while they shared kisses.

His aftercare was all loving bliss and soft nuzzles, Ella playing with his hair as she lay and basked in the sweet glow of everything he’d inflicted upon her, the high so great, she was barely coming back down from it at all.

They both experienced that dreamy feeling of floating, their post-orgasmic warmth remaining with them. She expected him to be asleep within moments, but he surprised her greatly by kissing his way down her body, mouth settling at her apex.

“Oh?” she spoke, watching him stroke the petals of her sex with his fingers, his tongue gliding between. “Not done yet?”

He shook his head, lips wrapping her clit in a gentle suck. “Not by a fucking long shot, innit.” And god, how he meant that, Ella bounced on his cock, fucked hard and fast against the smooth, white wall and pounded into assiduously from behind until finally, somewhere around the 3am mark, sleep pulled them in. James had felt amazing as he’d passed out wrapped around his love, but the next morning? Ouch. Oh, the regret.

While Ella had been drunk, it hadn’t been to the same excess as her husband, knowing as she stirred beside him, she would have to tread carefully. James under the duress of a hangover was a cantankerous beast at best.

“Ugh.”

Reaching over, she stroked his chest. “What number are we at?”

“Seventy two out of ten,” he croaked, wincing, rubbing his face. “Total bullshit.”

Bloody hell. That was bad. “Do you need your hangover plan implementing?”

“Please, babe.”

Phase one, find him painkillers and leave him be to usually go and throw up a few times. This was evidenced after she’d showered, applied a little makeup and dressed, James flying into the bathroom to expel the contents of his stomach into the toilet. Phase two would be a freezing cold shower, followed by a coffee, which he’d need a while later. A hardened tea drinker, he only ever had coffee when his hangover was so severe that he felt, as he coined it, like he’d given himself gut rot.

Ella expected that this was all to come as she went down into the dining room to meet Andrea, who was also dealing with her own injured beast.

“He’s still groaning under the duvet,” she spoke of Steve as Ella sat down with a plate full of the buffet breakfast items. Bacon, sausages, scrambled eggs, tomatoes and mushrooms, plus a huge cup of tea. Andrea nodded at her plate. “Stocking up for winter, mate?” There’d been a time where she’d never dare make that kind of joke, knowing how even words meant with absolutely nothing behind them other than innocent fun could dent her friend.

“I’m absolutely bleedin’ starving, sweetie,” she confirmed, shaking pepper over her food, leaning across the table. “I haven’t been shagged that ragged in a while, I swear!”

Her whisper earned a little wolf whistle and a wink. “Yes, I can confirm I received much the same. Drunken freight train Steve is top tier Steve. I can’t feel my clit.”

How Ella didn’t choke on her mouthful of scrambled eggs, she didn’t know. “Yeah, I kind of feel like I’ve been split in two. God, it was worth it, though.” She then shifted, wincing a little. “Maybe the bite marks all over my arse not quite so much. Not cool beans.”

“God, I haven’t heard you use that term for well over a decade! Nineties slang making a comeback, hmm?”

“Just might be,” she chuckled. Of course, a person’s vernacular would change with the ages, although she did note that her husband’s hadn’t really altered all too much. Hers definitely had, though. “I might start punctuating my sentences with the word ‘like’ too, just how I used to.”

“You were quite animated like that, back when we first met.” She could barely believe it had almost been eighteen years, Andrea shaking her head in wonder, frowning then as she saw Ella reaching beneath her hair to feel around at the back of her neck. “You okay over there, mate?”

“What’s this here?” she asked, turning and pointing. “Bleedin’ hurts to buggery!”

“A bloody great big bite mark!” Andrea laughed with mirth. “He’s a beast.”

“And how I love him for it!” she chirped, remembering the early hours with a pleasant ripple sparking in her tummy. “Oh, I had an email from the spa earlier. They’ve pushed our check in forward by an hour, so I’ll pick you up at eight next Sunday.” All hard-working mothers deserved a little me time, the women heading to Hoar Cross Hall in Staffordshire for a spa day. Yoga, massages, facial treatments, lunch, a swim and sauna, all were on the agenda.

That morning had an agenda for them, too, but it mainly revolved around looking after their very tender husbands. After they’d eaten, Ella went to the coffee pots and filled one of the larger paper cups to the brim, strong, plentiful sugar and black.

“Cheers, babe,” James groaned, sitting on the edge of the bed when she arrived back in their room, looking very worse for wear. “I feel like hell.”

“Would you like phase three implementing?” she asked, crouching between his long legs as he took a big gulp of the coffee, groaning. He managed to raise a half smile, at least.

“Please.” He winked, puckering his lips at her. “Love you.”

Phase three? Blowjob. Shooting his load usually helped a little with the pounding headache, that release of dopamine making him feel a little less grumpy, too. Five minutes of getting his cock sucked expertly, and his wife was swallowing back what he’d shot into her throat, James feeling marginally better. Still, he needed phase four.

“Ya dead, mate?” Steve groaned from the backseat after they’d checked out, James in no fit state to drive, Ella taking over while he hid in his hoodie, slumped low as he sipped his coffee.

“Proper fucking corpse, bro,” he grumbled. “Damned good night though, innit?”

“Quality,” he confirmed, burping. “Still fucking honked my guts up about four fucking times this morning, though!”

“Yeah,” James confirmed, “once for me but bloody hell. Shit the entire world in burning liquid form out my arse.”

While Steve laughed, Ella turned to him, a look of disbelief on her face before reversing the truck out of the parking space. “Do you have to be so graphic?”

“Yes!” He quietened thereafter, retreating within his hoodie with a groan. The only time he emerged was to thank Ella after she’d driven to the nearest McDonald’s, passing him his phase four of the hangover necessities. Without being able to make his usual of a sandwich loaded with peanut butter, chilli sauce and chips, he settled for three large fries and a chocolate milkshake, Steve furnished with a Big Mac meal.

It was a quiet drive home with both of them passed out after eating, Ella and Andrea chatting as the former sped the truck along the M25, the latter stroking her husband’s hair as he slept with his head in her lap. Just over three hours later and they were dropping them at their front door, continuing on to Leicester to fetch their brood.

“Eee! Someone’s enjoyed himself, eh?” Mary announced on the doorstep to a still blearing looking James, Lyra moving past her to wrap him in a hug.

“How’s your head, dad?” Oh, god. No. Too loud.

“Shhhh,” he groaned, collapsing forward, deliberately squashing her. “I’m too hungover for anything above a whisper, innit.” That stance was soon to be tested.

“Daddy!”

Straightening up, he received the chaos of the night at a hundred miles an hour to his legs, bending to lift Freya into his arms. “Shhhh. No noise. Very important that we’re quiet. Daddy is fragile.”

“Daddy’s been drunken! Daddy had all the booze!”

Ella and Mary shouldn’t have descended into snort laughter, but they did, the look on his face so moody and pained.

“Yeah,” he groaned, “daddy did indeed have all the effing booze.”

“How much?” Mary asked.

“Lost count at ten pints. Nah, actually that was when me and Steve moved onto the JD. No mixer.”

“Christ!” she exclaimed. No wonder he was tender. While James got the eldest and youngest into the car, Zara emerging finally in the big arms of her uncle Archie, Mary’s husband of forty-two years.

“So, how have they been?” Ella asked, receiving her daughter and a kiss on the cheek from Archie.

“They’ve been grand, always are for us, pet,” Mary replied brightly, nodding towards the car. “Big girl has been a bit quiet, but she told me she had her period due so that explains it. Came this morning, gave her a hot water bottle and some paracetamol.”

No wonder she’d came straight out to seek her dad’s arms. Whenever she was under the weather, it was James and his famed amazing hugs she sought out. After saying their goodbyes and thanks to Mary and Archie, they hit the road again. As soon as they were home, to her dad’s arms was exactly where Lyra returned, lying curled up with him on the sofa, both napping beneath a big, soft throw blanket.

While they were fit for nothing more, Freya and Zara helped their mummy sort the washing into piles, Ella having the first load on and the rest of their various weekend items unpacked at speed, wanting nothing more than to sit down and rest. If only the destroyer of worlds would allow for that.

“Mummy! Mummy! Can we play a game?”

Actually, that wasn’t too much of a bad idea. It would tire her out, ready for her 2pm nap that was rapidly approaching. Two rounds of Guess Who later and she was beginning to nod, Ella lifting her from the chair at the island and carrying her through to the lounge. Pulling the blanket back, she placed her down against her daddy’s chest, James stirring only to wrap an arm around her, Lyra tucked in at his side snorting softly.

Sitting down on the other sofa, Ella felt her own eyes growing heavy, very thankful when Zara crawled onto her lap, making her desires for the same known as she tucked under her mummy’s chin. Lying back and stroking her middle daughter’s hair, she looked over to the other sofa, a soft smile gracing her lips as her eyelids grew heavy.

Having a night to remember the people they were away from being parents had been excellent, but returning home to their babies was the perfect way to round it off. As always.

#original fiction #original stories #original story #smutty fiction #smutty stories #smutty story #romance fiction #romance story #romance stories

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hearts-are-connected · 3 months

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I was inspired to write this while chatting with my friend, @pinkomcranger. It's a small companion drabble to my story Until I found you on Ao3, set from Saga's pov.

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Saga stood guiltily as the man she ran into stormed away from her and disappeared down the hall.

"Not the best way to make an impression, Anderson. That's Agent Casey you just dumped coffee on."

"Wait, THAT'S him. Oh great, way to go, Saga."

Checking her own clothes for any spills, she settles for waiting. The large breakroom window giving her an expansive view of the office. Continuously casting glances in between text exchanges with David about dinner plans before soon enough, the tall man she'd accidentally assaulted appeared, taking long strides towards what she assumed was his desk before taking a seat. His jacket was gone, leaving only his white button down and a reminder of her lack of awareness. A damp and faded stain.

Swallowing the embarrassment down, she makes her way back to the coffee pot. Taking him for more of a black coffee kind of guy, she quickly refills her own cup before rushing out the door.

The man sits quietly. His closed fist supports his head as he leans to the side, staring down at scattered case files. A photograph, she can assumes it's one of family or a lover, sits face down on the upper right corner. Unseen by the world, as well as himself.

Noticing an empty spot amongst the clutter, she makes her move, placing the steaming cup down in front of the downed picture frame. Startled, he turns, so quickly that she herself nearly jumps. Managing to keep a mostly chill body language, she clears her throat.

All she can see as she takes him in for the first time is pure exhaustion; skin so pale it's sickly-looking. Dark rings hang beneath his eyes. They're blue, she takes note of his gaze as it seems to pierce right through her.

Thin lips, a little dry and cracked, sit in an almost neutral position. Not quite a frown, but always ready to become one. Brown hair with a few strands of grey a mix of slicked back and tousled. Like he'd been making a habit of running his hands through it; maybe as a calming gesture?

This man is handsome. Beneath the less-than-composed side of him, she notes his sharp cheekbones and strong jawline; like he was sculpted with a chisel, very different from David, who maintains a more filled-out appearance.

Readjusting the files she'd taken with her from the break room, she makes sure not to spill her own coffee. Thinking quickly, she flashes the detective a nervous smile and offers her hand.

"Can we forget everything and start over? I'm Saga Anderson; it's nice to meet you, Agent Casey."

Still staring her down, as if testing the waters, the man pushes back in his chair to stand at his full height. Standing a solid four inches over her, she can't help staring up at him.

Saga straightens her back, gripping Casey's hand firmly as he slips it into hers. Knowing well and good the importance of a good handshake, it's then that Saga sees a small curve in his lips. It's almost unnoticeable, and for the first time since walking into him, she sees the faintest hint of life in his eyes. They almost appear to be kinder. Softer.

"And I, you, Agent Anderson."

#alan wake 2 #alex casey #saga anderson #sam lake #remedyverse #andercase #saga anderson x alex casey #sagacasey #saga anderson/alex casey #the sun and the moon #OTP: parners to the end

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aalissy · 4 months

Text

Poison

Woohoo!! Day 27 is done <3. And, this chapter was superrr fun for me to write too teehee. I hope you like it :).

AO3

Marinette's fingers trembled as she clutched her side, the wound inflicted by the akuma burning with an unnatural heat. She stumbled, skidding across the tiled streets of Paris as her vision blurred. She lifted her head up, feeling lightheaded by how the buildings and Parisian homes around her seemed to tilt and sway. Her stomach roiled at the sight and she quickly clenched her eyes shut, desperate to get rid of the nausea.

This wasn’t good. In fact, this was very... very bad. She needed to transform. Needed to defeat the akuma using her lucky charm to repair any damage. But right now, with how dizzy she was, Marinette wasn’t certain she’d even be able to move.

Regardless, she pushed herself up onto her knees, gritting her teeth at the movement. She groaned, straining to stand up before she collapsed once again. She pressed her fingers more forcefully against her side. She needed to find a quiet place to transform. Surely being Ladybug would at least somewhat stem the effects of whatever this akuma had done to her. A flash of darkness on a rooftop above her left her squinting.

"Marinette!" Chat’s shout broke through her haze, urgent and filled with worry. He was by her side in an instant, jumping from the rooftop to the street she was curled up on, his gloved hand reaching out to squeeze her shoulder softly. "What happened?"

"I… I got hit," she managed to say, her voice weak. "The akuma… I-I think it has a poisoned blade."

Chat’s eyes widened in horror. He carefully scooped her up into his arms, his heart pounding. "Hang on, Marinette. I'm getting you to safety."

Her eyes shut as she leaned into him. Good. Maybe he’d be able to get her somewhere quiet. If he dropped her off at her room and then left to deal with the akuma, she’d be able to transform. For now, though, Marinette curled up even further into his arms, fighting against the haze of dizziness and nausea as she attempted to slow her racing heartbeat.

With swift, agile movements, Chat carried Marinette to her balcony, laying her down on her lawn chair gently. She cracked her eyes open, giving him a weak grin. “Thank you, kitty,” she managed to mumble out.

“Marinette, you don’t look so good.” He frowned, his brow creased with worry. He gently traced his thumb down her wound, shaking his head. “I’m going to stay here. Ladybug can handle the akuma but I need to make certain you’re alright.”

“No!” she shouted, sitting up and wincing at the pain. “I-I mean I’m fine. Ladybug needs your help. I-I’ll be okay.”

Chat stared down worriedly at her side and she looked down at it for the first time as well. Marinette flinched at how terrible it looked. A green ooze was leaking from her wound, the poison obviously working its way through her system. Her mind raced, trying to think of the fastest way of getting him out of here but it felt like everything was so slow. She could barely string together a coherent sentence in her head.

Sucking in a slow, deep breath, Marinette gathered her thoughts as her eyes slowly closed. She dug her nails into her palm, trying to focus. He needed to leave for her to transform for her to get better.

"Don't worry, purrincess," he said, his voice softer now, though no less determined. "I'm going to find a way to save you."

Marinette's eyes fluttered, her breaths coming in shallow gasps. "Chat… you... you need to go. You have to stop the akuma."

He brushed a stray hair from her forehead, his eyes so full of concern and worry that it had her heart thumping even faster. "I need to make sure you're safe."

“I will be.” She shook her head. “But Ladybug needs to use her lucky charm for me to be fixed again. You know that.”

She gasped, pressing into her side as she hunched against another wave of intense agony. Chat needed to leave. Now. Otherwise, she was going to be completely useless. But he was still looking at her with a fear so wild that Marinette almost thought he had feelings for her. But that was impossible. He had already rejected her. Multiple times.

“Go! Please!” She waved him off. “I’ll be fine. I’ll be right here when you get back.”

Finally, his anxiety melted away as a grim look of determination and understanding lit up his eyes. Chat gave her a firm nod before extending his baton and leaping away.

With another groan of agony, Marinette pulled out her phone. It was too late. She had to resort to plan B. If she transformed now, she’d be completely useless. With a shaky inhale, she texted her best friend.

Minutes felt like hours until finally, Alya arrived, crashing open her balcony trapdoor. Her eyes widened at the sight of Marinette lying there, pale and weak. Quickly, she rushed over, clutching at her hands. "Marinette!" she cried, rushing to her side. "What happened?"

“N-no time to explain.” She quickly took off her earrings, shoving them into Alya’s hands. “The akuma’s blade i-is poisoned. Y-you need to transform a-and defeat him. Chat will help. I-I trust you.” Alya nodded, her face set in determination. "I'll take care of the akuma. Just keep fighting. You’re strong."

Marinette gave a weak nod, relief flooding her as Alya transformed into Scarabella and used her yo-yo to leap away. The tense minutes stretched on as she fought against the poison's effects. She clung to consciousness, her thoughts filled with worry for her friends.

Slowly, however, she began to feel the effects of the poison lessen. She sighed with relief. Alya must have defeated the akuma. Marinette glanced towards the city, her thoughts turning to Chat Noir. She hoped he was okay, that he hadn't been hurt during the battle, that she hadn’t terrified him too badly. Just then, a familiar figure landed gracefully on her balcony, the moonlight casting a silver glow on his black suit.

"Marinette!" Chat's voice held a mix of relief and concern as he rushed to her side, his eyes scanning her for any signs of distress. "Are you okay? What happened?"

She managed a weak smile, reaching out to take his hand. "I'm okay, mon minou. Thanks to you and Ladybug. You saved me."

His eyes softened as he squeezed her hand back gently. "I was so worried. Seeing you like this..."

"I'm sorry I worried you," Marinette said softly, her gaze meeting his. "But you helped save the day. I don’t think Ladybug could have done it without you."

Chat’s expression shifted to one of determination. "I'll always be here for you, Marinette. No matter what."

She felt a rush of warmth spread through her chest at his words. She knew she could rely on him, just as he could rely on her. They were a team, both in and out of costume.

"Thank you, Chaton," Marinette said, her voice filled with gratitude. "For everything."

Chat smiled, a playful glint in his eyes. "Anytime, purrincess. Just don't scare me like that again, okay?"

She chuckled weakly, feeling grateful for the friends and allies she had. As Chat stayed by her side, cuddling close to her with a reassuring and protective embrace, Marinette knew that no matter what challenges they faced, they would always overcome them together.

#miraculous ladybug #miraculous #mlb #ml #fic #fanfic #marichat #marichatmay2024 #marichatmay #love square #ml fic

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yanpotatowriter · 2 years

Note

jealous yokovina x reader?

jealous yokovina would be good :)) —--------------------------------------------- Jealous Yokovina sounds amazing —--------------------------------------------------------------------- Can you please do jealous yokovina x reader where they got jealous because the reader starts to hang out with them less so they confronted the reader and it ends with a movie night. --------------------------------------------------------------- I hope you guys enjoyed this one, I was a bit puzzeld on how to write it but I'm happy with how it turned out! ---------------------------------------------------------------------

You don’t know how it happened, or well you could, but it was still something you needed to wrap your head around. You knew that slowly distancing yourself from your very possessive girlfriends would lead up to some kind of confrontation once they figured that out, but you were not expecting to get cornered on your way to another class, making all three of you late for the next class.

“You have been avoiding us munchkin why?” Yoko said, practically staring in your eyes (from what you could see through her sunglasses) while Divina was standing next to her, the look on her face showed that she also wanted an answer, and you pretty much knew that you were screwed if you decided to lie about it or try to divert the conversation. “I…just needed space.” You said in a softer tone, you really wanted to disappear into the wall if you could in order to avoid the confrontation, but you were here now, and you knew you could not escape them. “I mean I love you two really, but I also just need some time for myself you know. You guys are just a lot sometimes and not that I don’t like that, but I barely have time for myself any more, and it was getting to me” You felt the urge to explain what you meant with time for yourself the moment you saw their faces slightly drop from what you just said. “You say need space, but you started to hang out with other people who by the way are not even in our friend group, and only after you started to hang around with them is when you started to distance yourself from us. Do you really need space or are your other friends saying something about us? “ Divina said with an accusing tone, it was also clear from her tone that she did not like your new friends, but you couldn’t really argue against her. Your new friends were constantly asking you to hang out with them and were saying that your girlfriends were too controlling and pretty much did everything in their power to make sure that you got some time away from your girlfriends. You went along with them because if so many people were saying it, it must have been true but now when you see the hurt in your girlfriend's faces you wonder if it was actually worth it and if you should have listened to your friends in the first place Your silence said enough for your two girlfriends and they both let out a frustrated sigh before Yoko gently grabbed you and started t lead you towards her dorm.

“You can’t constantly let people talk you into doing things munchkin, you have to start standing up for yourself if you want to stop people lying to you” She said gently as you approached her dorm, it was clear that you guys were not going to go to your last period but at the end of the day it really did not matter as herbology was one of your best subjects.

“How about you stop listening to other people who try to tell you what to think and do? They will always try to make you distance yourself from us, so why don’t you just hang around with our friends instead that way we all know that no one who you are hanging out with will try to separate us” Divina said to you as all three of you entered Yoko’s room and sat down on her bed, hugging you so that you were leaning on her side.

You just nodded along to their words, not wanting to argue but also not seeing a reason to argue with them because what Divina said was true. Every time you made a new friend they tried to get you to stay away from Yoko and Divina, it made you wonder if people just had it out for your relationship or your girlfriends in general.

“Hey don’t worry your pretty little head about it too much munchkin, how about we just watch some movies to get our minds off of it yeah?” Yoko said once she noticed that you were in deep thought, thinking about your previous friendships and how they all had one thing in common.

You just nodded to what Yoko said and when Yoko put on one of the movies you guys tended to watch when one of you were feeling down you started to relax a little bit more. You let yourself be hugged by Divina and Yoko while you guys watched a movie, not knowing how both girls were more determined than ever to not let you out of their eyesight because this happened one too many times for the girls to be comfortable with you making new friends.

#yandere divina fisher #yandere yoko tanaka #yoko tanaka x reader #divina fisher x reader #yandere yoko tanaka x reader #yandere divina fisher x reader #yokovina #yokovina x reader #yoko tanaka #divina fisher #divina wednesday #wednesday tv show #yandere wednesday tv show #yandere wednesday characters #wednesday tv show x reader #yandere x reader #female yandere x reader #wednesday characters x reader

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moonspirit · 5 months

Note

hi! I hope you’re doing great today ☺️ I wanted to ask you one thing

how do you think Annie got her ring? was it her idea so that she would not have to bite herself? and if so, what does it say about her personality?

Hello! I hope your day is going well too :3

Interesting question tho. I don't think anything about Annie's ring was ever mentioned in the manga beyond the obvious reference to its purpose. Please correct me if I'm wrong tho, my memory these days is WELP xD

However, assuming I am right, this is where I have to say that I like picking tidbits of information from other published sources to expand upon lore, as long as it doesn't straight up contradict canon information.

So, I'll dive into Lost Girls for a bit.

I recall a chapter in it where Mikasa confronts Annie over her ring that she found in the training grounds (we already know that Annie doesn't wear her ring all the time, only putting it on when she's likely to use it, and Lost Girls maintains this). Annie's response to this is that it was an item given to her by her "parents" before she left home, and that it's important to her. Mikasa then asks her something like, "Why are you here, in the military?" And follows it up with, "It doesn't look to me like you're here to secure a place in the inner districts, rather, you're doing it because you have to." Annie then explains that the ring is what gives her purpose, and that's good enough a reason.

From this I've always assumed that the ring wasn't a thing Annie made or bought herself - it was given to her by her father, probably once she was seen by the Marleyan military as a definite successor to the Female Titan.

Now where did the ring itself come from?

Since we aren't told much about Mr.Leonhardt either except for the fact that he was shipped off to Liberio for his half eldian blood, his background remains murky. But I remember reading a reddit post years and years ago about how the pointy blade on Annie's ring was a bit similar to real life poison rings that were used in the middle ages by nobility. These rings were used to poison enemies as well as to facilitate suicide in case of capture. Sound a bit familiar? Anyway, somehow I ended up imagining that Mr.Leonhardt came into possession of a similar such ring with a blade as a part of a loot of stolen goods before he arrived at Liberio, and that has been fact in my head haha xD

So while I've just taken Annie's words (about being given the ring by her dad) at face value and accepted them, it is also highly interesting to explore the possibility that Annie bought it herself. Why? Let's see:

Whichever take you go with, the ring is very symbolic. The choice of using the ring to transform instead of a bite or cut, is very much reflective of what Annie was taught: to be quick, powerful and lethal. With a ring you attract less attention, and the cut will be smaller and therefore easier to hide as it heals. It can assist in situations where the hands and mouth are bound and gagged. It can also act as a psychological trigger: putting it on means you have a mission to complete and see through, no matter what; aka, you mean serious business.

So to put it simply: Annie getting the ring for herself would basically speak about her tactical mind and quick problem solving abilities, leaning towards methods most efficient and able to get the job done with minimum effort - the ring achieves exactly that.

On the other hand, Annie getting the ring as a "gift" from her father would speak to narrative symbolism. The reason I personally like this more than the first one is because Annie calls the ring "important to her", and perhaps that is because the ring is her one, single tangible link between her and father (in the Lost Girls chapter, she pats her left breast pocket to check for it), and as such, it's very precious. This brings out Annie's softer side that yearns and longs for affection and love.

Anyway xD Long ass reply, but I hope that satisfies you!

#ask #oneav #annie leonhart #attack on titan #annie leonhardt #aot #snk #shingeki no kyojin #meta #??

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anonymousewrites · 1 year

Text

A Study of the Heart and Brain (Book 2) Chapter Six

Father Figure! Sherlock Holmes x Teen! Reader

Chapter Six: Broken Code

Summary: Irene has returned, and Sherlock and (Y/N) face a puzzle that could destroy years of work.

One wakeup call, shower, and change of clothes later, Irene was sitting across from Sherlock and (Y/N) in the living room as John hovered awkwardly in the kitchen.

“So who’s after you?” asked Sherlock.

“People who want to kill me,” said Irene.

“Who’s that?” repeated Sherlock.

“Killers,” said Irene casually.

“Being more specific would be more helpful,” remarked (Y/N).

“So you faked your death to get ahead of them,” said Sherlock.

“It worked for a while,” said Irene, smirking.

“Except you let John know that you were alive, and therefore, us,” said Sherlock.

“I knew you’d keep my secret,” said Irene.

“You couldn’t,” said Sherlock.

“But you did.” Irene smirked. “Now, where’s my camera phone?”

“It’s not here. We’re not stupid,” said John.

“Then what have you done with it?” asked Irene. “If they’ve guessed you’ve got it, they’ll be watching you.”

“If they’ve been watching us, they’ll know that I took a safety deposit box at a bank on the Strand a few months ago,” said Sherlock.

A good diversion. Let them break into that instead of here, thought (Y/N). But I have a feeling Sherlock’s just going to hand it over to see what happens with this case.

“I need it,” said Irene.

“Well, we can’t just go and get it, can we?” said John, crossing his arms. “Molly Hooper. She could collect it, take it to Bart’s. Then one of your homeless network could bring it here, leave it in the café, and one of the boys downstairs could bring it up the back.”

“Very good, John,” said Sherlock. “Excellent plan, with intelligent precautions.”

“Thank you. So, why don’t—Oh, for the love of God,” groaned John as Sherlock pulled out the phone and handed it to Irene.

Knew it, thought (Y/N). “What do you have on there?” they asked.

“Pictures, information, anything I might find useful,” said Irene evasively.

“What, for blackmail?” asked John.

“For protection. I make my way in the world; I misbehave. I like to know people will be on my side exactly when I need them to be,” said Irene.

“I guess when you mess with powerful people you need to have security,” murmured (Y/N).

Irene nodded. “I like to slap them around, but I’d prefer them to not slap around me.”

“So, how do you acquire this information?” questioned Sherlock.

“I told you, I misbehave,” said Irene with a smirk and a wink.

“You accidentally got something that’s more danger than protection, didn’t you?” asked (Y/N), leaning forward.

Irene chuckled and smiled. It was softer, less conniving. If Sherlock was correct (and he would say he always was), he would say Irene seemed to like (Y/N). “Clever kid,” she said. “Yes, I did. Problem is: I don’t understand it.”

“Show us,” said (Y/N).

Irene reached out, but Sherlock held the phone out of her reach. “The passcode.” Irene just stared at him until Sherlock handed her the phone.

She frowned as she typed in a code. “It’s not working.”

Sherlock grabbed the phone back. “No, because it’s a duplicate that I made, into which you’ve just entered the numbers 1-0-5-8. I assumed you’d choose something more specific than that but, um, thanks anyway.” Sherlock pulled out the real phone and typed in the code. The phone beeped angrily.

(Y/N) recognized it from his first attempt. This code wasn’t correct, either. And now only one try was left. If they got it wrong, the phone would destroy itself.

Dammit. Irene is clever. It’s impressive but annoying because she’s outplaying us. (Y/N) shivered. Moriarty outplayed us, too… Now that really ruined their mood.

“I told you that camera phone was my life,” said Irene. “I know when it’s in my hand.”

“You’re good,” admitted (Y/N).

“You did your best,” said Irene. She smiled playfully. “And I’m sure you’ll get another chance to prove your prowess.” She held her hand out, and Sherlock begrudgingly handed over the real phone. “There was man, an MOD official,” explained Irene as she unlocked the phone and began going through its contents. “I knew what he liked. One of the things he liked was showing off. He told me this email was going to save the world. He didn’t know it, but I photographed it. He was a bit…tied up at the time.” She smirked before holding out the photo to (Y/N) and Sherlock. “It’s a bit small on that screen, but you can read it.”

(Y/N) peered at the email curiously. They wanted to know what all the hubbub was about. What was the email that was going to save the world?

007 Confirmed allocation 4C12C45F13G60A60B61F34G34J60D12H33K34K

(Y/N)’s mind automatically began dissecting and reassembling the string of numbers and letters in multiple attempts to decode the meaning.

“A code, obviously. I had one of the best cryptographers in the country take a look at it, though he was mostly upside down as I recall. Couldn’t figure it out,” said Irene. “What can you do, Sherlock, (Y/N)? Impress me.”

(Y/N) rearranged it. Seat numbers—Passenger jet—flight from Heathrow—007—They furrowed their brow. 007? Where have I heard 007? What’s that reminding me of? They were so absorbed trying to figure out what they were missing that they didn’t notice Sherlock beginning to speak.

“There’s a margin for error, but we’re pretty sure there’s a 747 leaving Heathrow at six thirty in the evening for Baltimore,” said Sherlock. John’s face was blank, and Irene had raised her brow. Sherlock nodded to (Y/N). “They get it.”

“Huh?” said (Y/N), blinking as they were pulled from their mind.

“It’s a flight,” said Sherlock.

“Oh, yeah, it is,” agreed (Y/N). They cleared their throat. “The numbers aren’t a code—they’re seat allocations. There’s no letter ‘I’ because it could be mistaken for a one, ‘K’ is the width of the plane, some groupings of numbers are seats grouped together, like couples or families. Only a jumbo jet is wide enough to need a letter ‘K’ or rows past fifty-five, which is why there’s always an upstairs. There’s a row thirteen, which eliminates the more suspicious airlines.” They paused as their mind circled back to the 007 number and the memory it was triggering, but Sherlock nodded at them to continue. And they wouldn’t disappoint him. “Then there’s the style of the flight number, 007, that eliminates a few more. And assuming a British point of origin, which would be logical considering the original source of the information and assuming from the increased pressure on you lately that the crisis is imminent, the only flight that matches all the criteria and departs within the week is the six thirty to Baltimore tomorrow evening from the Heathrow airport.”

They frowned. “But—007…Why is that bugging me?” they murmured.

John and Irene sat there, stunned. Sherlock grinned proudly. (Y/N) tapped the table angrily as the 007 number itched at them.

“Please don’t feel obligated to tell us that was remarkable or amazing. John’s expressed the same thought in every possible variant available in the English language,” said Sherlock. He was supremely proud with how well (Y/N) had done. His brow furrowed slightly, though, seeing (Y/N)’s frustrated expression. Something was off, and they could sense it.

“Wow. You’re completely right,” said John. He held up his phone. “Flight 007 from Heathrow to Baltimore.”

“Damn it!” shouted (Y/N) suddenly. They stood up and turned on Irene, who was busy typing away on her phone. “No!” They grabbed for the phone, but Irene dodged.

The telltale whoosh of a message sending answered them, and Irene switched off her phone, shrugging. “Sorry, dear. You’re clever, but that wasn’t quick enough.”

(Y/N) turned to Sherlock, eyes wide. “Sherlock—007. ‘Bond Air is go.’ ”

Sherlock sucked in a breath. Mycroft’s operation. They had just explained his entire operation to a woman who could now bring the entire British government to its knees. Sherlock could see (Y/N)’s nerves getting the better of them, and he cursed himself for pushing them to continue the deduction. He should have realized something was the matter when they did and stopped the whole thing.

“Is something the matter?” asked John.

“Nothing that matters now,” said Sherlock. They couldn’t change what had happened. Hopefully, however, Mycroft would figure out a solution to save his operation. He waved a hand at John. “Just go to work.”

“Right…” said John uncertainly, but he left anyway.

“I should have realized. I should have stopped speaking when I realized something was wrong,” muttered (Y/N).

Sherlock shook his head and knelt by them. “No. It’s not your fault. I pushed you to keep solving the code. I should have noticed something was wrong and stopped you. I’m the one with more experience.”

Irene grinned. “I needed intelligent people, and you both delivered.”

(Y/N)’s narrowed, and they glared at Irene. That was it. They were going to destroy whatever she had planned.

A knock sounded at the door, and it swung open to reveal an government official. The repercussions of Irene’s actions were arriving.

“Have you come to take us away?” asked Sherlock, standing up.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes,” said the official.

“Well, I decline,” said Sherlock.

The man pulled out an envelope and handed it to Sherlock. “I don’t think so.” (Y/N) looked over Sherlock’s shoulder as he opened the envelope and found to airplane tickets.

“Tata,” said Irene, smirking and waving her hand.

(Y/N)’s gaze was cold. They knew she’d be joining them soon. Unfortunately, it would be on her own terms. (Y/N) turned away and followed Sherlock to the dark car.

As they drove, Sherlock spoke, “There’s going to be a bomb on a passenger jet. The British and American governments know about it, but rather than expose the source of that information, they’re going to let it happen. The plan will blow up. Coventry all over again. The wheels turn. Nothing is ever new.”

No one answered, but (Y/N)’s mind was racing. There was more to this than just a bomb. Mycroft was cold and aloof, but he was smart. He’d have a way to not sacrifice so many lives. And they had probably ruined. (Y/N) narrowed their eyes. It just gave them more motivation to take down Irene.

At the airport, Sherlock and (Y/N) exited the vehicle and walked towards the 747 Jumbo Jet. Agent Neilson of the CIA stood at the base of the steps.

“Well, you’re looking all better. How’re you feeling?” asked Sherlock pointedly.

“Like putting a bullet in both of your brains,” said Neilson. He watched them walk up the steps. “And they’d pin a medal on me if I did.”

Sherlock’s hand went to (Y/N)’s shoulder and guided them into the plane. He wouldn’t let Neilson threaten them a third time. Inside the plane, (Y/N) and Sherlock walked through the corridors. Bodies were lined up in seats but…they were just that—bodies. They were dead.

So that’s Mycroft’s solution, thought (Y/N).

“The Coventry conundrum,” said Mycroft from behind them, and they turned. “What do you think of my solution? The flight of the dead.”

“The plane blows up midair. Mission accomplished for the terrorist. Hundreds of casualties, but nobody dies,” said Sherlock in understanding.

“Neat, don’t you think?” remarked Mycroft.

“All of those cases. The girls not seeing their grandfather, the man claiming to have non-human ashes…” (Y/N)’s eyes widened as they realized those were some of the bodies Mycroft had commandeered. They looked at him. “The body in the boot of that car…Was that another ‘flight of the dead?’ ”

“At least someone sees the bigger picture,” said Mycroft sardonically as he looked at Sherlock.

“How’s the plane fly? Of course—unmanned aircraft. Hardly new,” said Sherlock.

“It doesn’t fly. It will never fly. This entire project is cancelled. The terrorist cells have been informed that we know about the bomb. We can’t fool them now,” said Mycroft bitterly. “We’ve lost everything. One fragment of one email, and months and years of planning finished.”

“Your MOD man,” said Sherlock.

“No, Sherlock, you,” said Mycroft. “A man desperate to show off setting a terrible example to a teenager and a woman clever enough to play them like a fiddle.”

“It’s not (Y/N)’s fault,” said Sherlock. “I pushed them.”

“No, Sherlock. I could have stopped…” murmured (Y/N).

“And yet my brother is the one who was played,” said Mycroft, sighing in disappointment.

“It’s my fault, too,” said (Y/N).

“Poor dear,” tutted the voice of Irene Adler behind them. “Sherlock, you should really look after them better.”

“I drove you two into her path. I’m sorry,” said Mycroft.

“Mr. Holmes, I think we need to talk,” said Irene.

“So do I. There are a number of aspects I’m still not quite clear on,” said Sherlock.

“Not you, Junior. We’re done,” said Irene. She passed him and went to Mycroft. “There’s more. Loads more. On this phone, I’ve got secrets, pictures, and scandals that could topple your whole world.” She smirked. “You have no idea how much havoc I could cause, and there’s exactly one way to stop me. That is, unless you to tell your masters that your biggest security leak is your own little brother and his child.”

Mycroft gritted his teeth and looked away. He knew he was beaten. He couldn’t throw his brother and his kid under the bus. They were his family, and as much as he preached that sentiment was foolish, Mycroft was protective of them.

“I have a meeting house nearby. We can conduct our…negotiations there,” said Mycroft.

“You better send for some paper and pencil. And some wine. We might as well make this fun,” said Irene. She smirked. “For me, that is.”

Mycroft and Irene descended the steps from the jumbo jet. (Y/N) paused before they went.

“Sherlock, if we could open the phone, that would solve everything, right? Mycroft would have information she is trying to hide, probably from other governments and organizations, too,” said (Y/N).

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, but we have only one chance. Otherwise, the phone destroys itself.”

(Y/N) furrowed their brow. I have to figure it out, then. I need to win this. It’s my fault this flight can’t go. I need to do this. Their eyes were cold as ice as they followed Irene’s smug figure into the car. She’s not getting away with this. Screw her protection. I’m winning here.

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#a study of the heart and brain #x reader #x gn reader #gn reader #x nb reader #nb reader #sherlock #sherlock x teen!reader #sherlock x teen reader #sherlock x reader #bbc sherlock #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes #x teen reader #x teen!reader #found family #irene adler #the woman

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