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fraugwinska · 13 days

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Guys, here we are - my first try at VOX x Reader! ;> Who knew we would be here one day? And it's all thanks to @macabr3-barbi3, for whom this bribe was intended, but we'll graciously share it with you ;> Don't worry though - I am a Deer Girl through and through. Just with a side of TV Slut now (once in a while)

Vox x Reader : Hatefuck prompt - 18+ - Minors DNI!

Pretty Desperate

"Sir, your 6 o'clock is here."

"She can fucking wait, I need another five."

Vox rubbed at his temples, staring down at the monitor in front of him as Papermint quickly retreated from the control room, the clipboard the little shit always carried clutched in front of his chest. He had dreaded this particular meeting the whole day.

Alastor's bitch, the little assistant he had hired not a month before had been nothing but trouble. And if Vox was honest, not only to him, but also to Alastor himself. The Radio Demon had been completely clueless to the goddamn puppy crush the assistant had on him.

It made Vox sick.

Little Miss Nobody wasn't even that hot! Just an average looking demon. A bit short, not really muscular, no wings, no tail, no tits, nothing special, except for a pair of twisted horns and a somewhat nice ass. Following Alastor around like a lost dog, carrying his coat, running errands for him, all the while fluttering her lashes and smiling coyly at him, thinking nobody noticed.

Except Vox did. He fucking noticed, and he wanted to throw up.

He could understand, honestly, why the assistant had the hots for Al. His friend was charming, had a killer body, and his voice was a goddamn treat to listen to, especially when he got all excited and happy about something. His laugh was loud, a tad maniacal, and it always made Vox shiver to his bones.

But the problem was, the feeling wasn't mutual. Alastor wasn't into his assistant. Didn't have the hots for her, and wouldn't want to get between her thighs even if she shoved his microphone in her cunt. Al had never even touched her, or anyone else for that matter. Vox knew that, from first hand experience, and still he hated this bitch. He hated how she thought she had any chance with Alastor. And he hated her because he didn't have a chance with Alastor either.

Not that it was her fault per se, but still. She had some audacity, to even think to have a chance when Vox hadn't even gotten past a fucking friendly pat on the shoulder yet.

"Fuck!"

Papermint flinched, and Vox felt his lips twitch, the little shit had entered again without him noticing.

"Mr. Vox, your-"

"Yeah yeah, I know, send her in. And get me a drink, and make it a strong one."

He nodded, hurrying to get the requested drink before opening the door to let Alastor's assistant inside. She had a stack of folders under her arm, and a nervous look on her face. She had a thing against the Vee's, especially him, and it made him want to strangle her, even though he knew that his overall appearance, the sharp angles of his screened head and the cold look he always gave her was most likely the reason for her nervousness.

"Mr. Vox-"

"No small talk, get to the point. I'm sure Alastor wouldn't have sent you here if it wasn't something urgent."

"O-oh, of course. There was a... situation, I was instructed to deliver these to you, while Mr. Alastor has gone to check it out."

"And he didn't bother calling?"

"It was quite sudden, and he wasn't sure if you would answer your landline."

Vox grunted, Alastor's refusal for any modern technology past fucking landlines and telegrams was getting on his last nerves more and more, but there was nothing he could do about it. If he wanted to live in the stone age, that was his business.

"Hand those over and get out.”

"I'm afraid I was instructed to stay until you've taken care of them."

"As fucking usual."

He knew for a fact that Alastor sent her here only to annoy him. Those papers didn't need checking, Vox would only look over them and stamp a little print on the front saying 'Approved', and they were done. But his friend loved to tease him, and ever since Vox had voiced his dislike against his assistant, Alastor had gotten a certain morbid joy out of pushing him to work together with her.

"Yes, fuck, whatever. Let's get this shit over with. Come in, and shut the door behind you."

At least she kept her mouth shut while he skimmed over the content of said papers, drinking from the tumbler filled with what tasted like Gin. For once she wasn't being annoying, and she didn't stare at him defiantly the way she usually did. She looked defeated in a way, the usual sass in her stance missing as she waited, silently and unmoving next to him, hands folded tightly in front of her. Odd.

"What's the matter, dollface? Alastor finally told you he'll never fuck you?", he smirked, turning a page and scribbling his signature at the bottom of the page.

He heard a quiet, shaking breath, and for the first time since she entered the room, he looked directly at her.

Her eyes were burning red, and Vox hadn't realized she had been crying, but she clearly was. Silent, thick tears escaped her eyes, running slowly down her cheeks, leaving trails where her finger wiped them off hastily.

"Oh, seems like I've hit the bull's eye. Fuck, doll, stop crying, I get that he rejected you, but that's just pathetic."

"Leave me alone. What does it matter to you anyway?", she whispered, more tears running down her face.

"Like I care, you'll run back to Al with your little tears and tell him how much you're pining for him, how desperate you are. Maybe that's a bit of his kink and he'll actually consider it, who knows. You might get a pity-fuck with one of his voodoo-minions at the end, is that what you want?"

He expected her to respond, expected her to either throw something at him or slap his stupid grin off his screen. He certainly hadn't expected what happened. She sobbed and slapped a hand across her own face, silencing the heart-wrenching noise she emitted. But Vox had to watch how her whole expression just crumbled, he watched her face turn red, and how she wiped over her face furiously, swiping away more tears that were still coming.

For a few moments, Vox sat frozen in his chair, unable to process the situation. The paper in his hand was crumpled in his grip. It wasn't a little crush, that was painfully obvious. Fuck, what was her name again? Did she like Alastor for real?

"Alright, shit. You, uh... sit down."

He pushed another chair forward with his foot.

"Wh-why would I..."

"Because you don't really look stable on your fucking legs, and I hate this bullshit already, so come over here, take a fucking seat and pull yourself together."

She made a face, sniffling pitifully before crossing the short distance towards the chair.

"How long?"

She bit her lip, a bitter laugh escaping her as she sat down.

"Ever since I've started working for him."

"Oh wow, that must be so hard on you, sweetheart." Vox voice dripped of sarcasm. He leaned over to her, shoving his half-full glass of gin in her direction with a scrutinizing smile. "Try seven decades, then we can talk."

For the first time her lips turned upwards, not quite a smile, but the scowl wasn't there anymore.

"You're no better off than me."

He scoffed in response, filling the tumbler back up to the brim. She took it carefully, taking a few sips from the translucent liquid. Vox eyed her for a moment, wondering if she would spit it back out. Okay, she wasn't that ugly. Her lips were nice and puffy, pink, a color not that usual in hell, almost human-like.

"Maybe not, but at least I have the decency to not follow him around like a lost dog. That's just sad."

"You're one to judge."

Vox laughed a humorless laugh. "Oh-ho. Have we found our backbone, doll? I actually hate you a little less like this. It gets boring, the whole spiel with the kiss-ups constantly trying to lick Alastor's boots... or anything else."

"He never notices anyway."

"Nope. Doesn't notice shit.", Vox takes the glass from her and empties it in one big gulp.

"And still you hate me."

"Of course I fucking hate you."

"Why? Because you want him for yourself? Because you can't stand it that someone else wants him? That I want him?"

Vox snorted, the sound a bit static-y, and she flinched.

"Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart, I don't give a fuck about what you want. He doesn't give half a shit about you. He doesn't want you - End of the story. But if he did, he'd deserve much better than you. You're a whiny little bitch, you follow him like a kicked puppy, and you're a fucking annoyance. Al can do better than that."

Her wet eyes burned with fury. Huh. The bitch had a little bite in her after all, good to know.

"Fuck you, you're no better. You're an arrogant, narcissistic, stuck-up prick, you think everyone loves you and worships the ground you're walking on, you act all high and mighty, you're a bully, a control freak and a manipulative asshole."

He had to admit, she hit a few bullet points herself. But that didn't mean he liked her. He stood up, taking a step towards her. Her face was tinted red, anger clear in her round face. Now that was something he could work with.

"At least I don't cry about it like a pathetic little loser."

She was crying again, angry tears this time, her eyebrows furrowed and a scowl on her lips. Fucking perfect.

"I fucking hate you, too."

"Good."

Vox leaned over her, gripping her chin harshly. She flinched, and a new tear rolled down her cheek, falling on her blouse and wetting the dark fabric. She was trembling, but she wasn't moving away from him. He smirked, his hand wandering up, fingers digging into her cheeks painfully, and then his lips were on hers, hard and rough. She tasted salty from her tears, but there was a certain sweetness, a bittersweet note of her own, and the faint taste of gin. She made a small, protesting noise, but her hand gripped his arm, holding onto him tightly.

He broke the kiss, staring down at her, her lips swollen and reddened, her cheeks flushed and stained with tear marks, her eyes burning with hatred.

"Get on the desk."

He grabbed her and picked her up easily, setting her down on the large table. He grabbed her chin again, and she glared at him, cheeks flushed and eyes glazed, but a deviant smile on her face.

"Fuck you."

He smirked.

"Exactly."

The blouse tore like paper when he ripped it open. Her tits were actually nice, not as big as he was used to, but round and perky. She was panting heavily, and he had a feeling she hadn't expected this turn of events. Well, neither had he, but right now, Vox couldn't care less. All he cared about was his rage-filled desire to fuck this shitty feeling out of his system and the invitingly wet stain on her panties as he shoved her pencil skirt up her thighs, the way she squirmed and arched her back slightly, silently begging him to touch her. He leaned over her, capturing her mouth again, and he couldn't help the smirk at the way she kissed him back, a tad aggressive and demanding. His fingers pushed aside the soaked fabric, rubbing her clit lightly. She moaned quietly, breaking the kiss. Vox didn't waste a second, pushing a finger inside her.

She was hot and slick, and she was fucking tight. Vox groaned, and she whimpered, a high-pitched noise that went straight to his groin.

"Look at you, so wet already. What would Alastor say if he saw you like this, moaning like a cheap slut for another guy?"

He grinned, thrusting the finger harder and adding a second. She was almost dripping, the noises his fingers made were obscene, and it was fucking hot.

"He'd scold me for downgrading myself to someone like you."

Vox laughed as he added a third finger, bending them skillfully to hit just the right spot. "Oh please, you're a mess, doll. Your cunt is dripping, and you're trembling. And still you're trying to be a snarky little bitch."

He rubbed her clit again, and she gasped. He had to admit, her pussy was probably the best one he had felt in a while, and it was definitely the most fun he had ever had with a woman. Usually it was all him calling the shots, the women he fucked were usually dumb and eager to please, and not really capable of sassing him back the way she was doing now.

"You're one to talk, finger-banging me while having a hard-on. Is it because fucking his assistant is the closest you'll ever get to fucking Alastor?"

He didn't give her the satisfaction of a reply (of course he had a good one), but instead he removed his fingers in a swift swipe, ignoring the way she whimpered at the loss. He undid his belt and zipper, freeing his aching cock, his newest, upgraded model. She stared at it, wide-eyed, and for the first time, she actually looked intimidated, unsure... scared. Vox grinned satisfied, stroking himself a few times.

"Don't worry, dollface, it'll fit, and it'll feel really good. And the best thing - if you stop your constant bitching, maybe I'll even make you cum."

He rubbed the head of his dick over her clit, the LED's on it brightly illuminating her core in a blue hue, and she let out a strangled moan at the sensation. Her face was red and flushed, her eyes half-lidded, and she looked so goddamn sultry with her legs spread wide and her pussy glistening.

Vox grabbed her hips, pulling her close until her ass was at the edge of the table, and then he lined up his cock.

"Last chance to back out, sweetheart."

He couldn't believe his own words. Was he really offering her a way out? Why did he even care, he was the one with his dick out, and she was the one that would have to take the consequences of this whole hate-fuck-thing, he'd be fine either way.

She looked up at him, her face determined.

"Alastor always told me you're all talk, no action. Was he right?"

Oh, this little bitch was going to regret that. He pushed inside her, his cock sliding in easily. He was big, and she was so fucking tight, it was incredible. She cried out, a sharp, high-pitched sound.

"Too much action for you?"

She didn't answer, instead she was trying her hardest not to move, her hands firm on his shoulders, and Vox had to give her that, she did a good job of staying still, only the slightest of trembles visible on her legs as she willed herself to relax around him so he could move.

He was throbbing inside her, the walls of her cunt pulsing and fluttering painfully around him, and it was taking everything he had to let her at least adjust and not just fuck her right into the table. He was still holding her hips, the tips of his fingers digging into her skin, probably leaving marks, and he was sure that the force with which he was gripping her would leave traitorous, colorful bruises. Markings, his markings on Alastor's bitch. The thought made him shiver, sending electric currents down his spine as he pulled out slowly, the drag deliciously torturous. And then he thrusted back in, all the way. Hard. Her pussy clenched deliciously around him, and Vox threw his head back, a silent moan leaving his throat as he moved in and out, feeling her stretch and contract around his length, sucking him in greedily.

He felt his body overheat, electrical current flowing through him in intense pulses straight to his dick, adding another sensation to the already wonderful tight, wet, hot feeling enveloping him. He might need a little fix-me-up, it had been a while since someone got this much of a reaction out of him. The room was quiet, only her rapid panting and the sound of her cunt swallowing his cock with every pull filled the air, the noices slick and sloppy. Vox pressed one finger firmly on her clit, making her arch her back as he began circling it, the heels of her feet pressing painfully into his lower back as he increased his pace. His own breathing was starting to become labored, short puffs of static leaving him.

"Say his name", he heard himself demand, the sound of his own voice was low and static-y.

"Wh-"

"You fucking heard me, say his name. Call for him while I'm fucking you, come on, princess. See if he cares."

He increased his pace, hammering in and out of her, the air was heavy with the thick smell of sex and arousal, and she was becoming louder, keening, gasping, mewling.

"Fuck you.", she gasped.

"Wrong, try again."

Vox slowed, changing the angle to thrust right up where it made her shake. He smirked when her toes curled. "Come on, I know you can say it, I'll make it easy on you, I'll say it with you: A. La. Stor."

With every syllable he pumped into her a bit harder, the electricity from his fingertips stinging her clit, and the extra sensation had her shudder, a shaky moan leaving her throat. Vox wasn't giving her any chances to catch her breath, the air was filling with the familiar buzz of static electricity, the screens inside the room began to flicker as more and more electricity flowed from the TV overlord into her body, to her limbs.

"Oh my...fucking god... Vox!"

Her hands dug into his suit, and then she gasped, a beautiful, long, drawn-out moan ripping through her chest as her back arched, her heels digging harder into his lower back. She shuddered, violently, and came, the feeling of her pulsating muscles sucking him in combined with his fucking name rolling from her lips completely doing it for him. With one last, well placed thrust, and her voice in his ears calling for him and not Alastor, he buried his dick deep inside her cunt, riding out his own orgasm with small, careful thrusts, hissing quietly as her tight walls were milking him for all his worth.

He leaned forward, his forearms framing her on the table, and he huffed. Fuck, that was intense.

Her whole body was buzzing with the electrical currents he was putting off, and her muscles were tense as she willed herself to breath, gasping softly. Vox smirked and released a bit more power just for shits and giggles, just enough to make her gasp again, and he watched as her lips formed a tiny 'O' as the currents jerked every muscle in her body, making her walls tighten one more time around his softening dick and forcing another soft grunt from his own lips. He let off after that, knowing how tiring it could be.

He carefully pulled out, watching a mix of his cum and her own juices dribble out of her cunt, and he huffed at the sight, giving a quick rub to her swollen clit to push the rest of his cum inside.

She laid motionless for a second, staring at the ceiling blankly, and Vox was just wondering whether he had actually fried her brain, when she shifted, pulling her panties back into place. She looked up, and her almost human eyes found his digital ones, a very soft, amused, almost fond look settling on her features.

"You are really pathetic." She pushed herself off the desk, wobbly on her knees but upright while she pulled her skirt down and tidied her clothes, putting the ripped blouse back together as best as she could. "But I have to hand it to you - you know how to fuck."

Vox grinned smugly. "Baby, what do you think got me where I am now?"

"Mhm. Anyway- that was fun. Very entertaining, as Alastor would say. Might need a new blouse though."

She gathered the signed papers in front of her chest to hide the gaping hole exposing one of her tight breasts, opened the door and gave him a last glance over her shoulder, an impish smile on her round, flushed face. "I still fucking hate you."

For a few minutes, Vox remained behind, a dumb grin on his lips. He should really ask for her name at some point, he guessed, especially if Alastor planned for him to work with her again.

Hopefully in the near future.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fanfiction #fraugwinskawrites #hazbin alastor #alastor #vox fanfiction #vox x reader #vox smut #radio silence #hate fuck #quickfic

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seecarrun · 2 months

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It’s about a week after their trip down to the sewer that Eddie tells him about the placebos, and Richie sees fucking red.

“She made it all up?!” he nearly shrieks, and Eddie hushes him, looking, of all things, embarrassed.

“It’s fucked up, right?” Eddie asks, and it pisses of Richie even more, knowing Eddie can’t even trust his own feelings of betrayal because the manipulation has gone so far. “I dug around, right? And I found a whole folder of all my health records. No sign of chronic illnesses, no allergies, no asthma. I wasn’t even born premature; I was late, even! I did have a small bout of pneumonia not long after my dad died, so maybe that freaked her out and started all this shit but—” He sighs and turns his big doe eyes to Richie. “I’m…normal. All these years worrying…and I’m actually healthy.”

Richie’s heart aches, and for once he lets his face do whatever it needs to do to let Eddie see it. “Dude. Fuck that. Fuck your mom. And not in the good way.”

“Beep beep,” Eddie sighs, and it lacks its usual bite. “It’s just… What now, ya know? What do you do when everything you know about yourself is a lie?”

Richie thinks about it for a second, then reaches into his backpack and pulls out an open bag of Reese’s Pieces, wiggling it temptingly. “You eat some goddamn peanut butter, Eds,” he tells him.

Slowly, Eddie grins and grabs the bag.

#reddie #car’s fanfiction #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #it 2017

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covetyou · 2 months

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some good friend - pt. 1

ao3 ⋆ main masterlist ⋆ series masterlist part 1 ⋆ part 2 ⋆ part 3

pairing: Tim Rockford x Soft Dom!Sex Worker!f!reader rating: Explicit (18+ only!) warnings: pegging, anal fingering, praise kink, mild glove kink, very mild feminization, masturbation, Tim has body image issues and a bit of an identity crisis, kind of coming untouched, sex work, comfort word count: 7k summary: Nerves were coiling in his belly in a way they typically only did at the end of a big case. There was no judge or jury here, no sentence, no surprise acquittal. There was just your door, and the promise of everything that lay beyond it. And it made him nervous.

A/N: finally, my boy Tim sees the light of day. I've been working on this for a while, and it's been nice to try something a little different. I hope you like it (and someone, anyone, please, stop me from making this a 3 part series too late, it's going to be a series)

divider by @saradika-graphics follow @covetedfics and turn notifications on for updates on future fics

Everything burns. His lungs, his legs, his goddamned feet.

He wasn't made for this. Not any more. His fucking shoes definitely weren't made for this - a fact made more and more obvious with every harsh, sharp, slap of his soles against the ground. Gone were the days of intense foot chases. They'd long since been replaced with hours spent at his desk, in interview rooms, searching the stacks in the archive room. The only saving grace was at the very least he was accustomed to low light - the dimly lit rooms he frequented coming in handy now as he thuds along in the semi-darkness, chasing after someone who is more shadow than man.

The drizzle of a cold October day certainly isn't helping either. He's coated in a fine mist of rain and soaked through to the marrow. His shoes - these fucking shoes - skid on the wet road, threatening injury with each turn of a corner. Every intake of breath blooms pain in his chest, each gasp seeming to draw in more water than air. That is, of course, if the biting chill of the wind doesn't swipe it all out of his mouth first.

He's drowning. Drowning and suffocating and burning all in one, but he can't stop. He can't will his legs to stop, even through the burn. Stopping means he loses, and he cannot lose. Not again. Not with this case.

But then, he turns a corner and the shadow is gone, faded into the darkness of an unlit alley, and out of his grasp once again.

Shit.

The ache is settled well into his bones by the time he gets home in the early hours of the morning. His tie sits damp in his jacket pocket - discarded at the roadside in a fit of rage and stomped into the wet ground, only to be picked up and pocketed a moment later. He liked that tie. His holsters tug uncomfortably at his shoulders, the twist of his body as he was running having shifted them to where they now pinch uncomfortably at his underarms. He can't wait to discard it all, to take off the whole damn lot - and these fucking shoes - and pretend for just one moment that he's not who he is.

So, he begins to shed the skin of Detective Tim Rockford.

The shoes go first. The jacket second. And then he removes his gun, stashing it in its case where it belongs and throwing his holster at his closet, where he'll no doubt struggle to find it again tomorrow. The burning sear of a shower is the last thing left to rid himself of the title that hangs over him, but instead he walks to his office. He needs to be Detective for just a moment longer.

It's tidier and more comfortable in here than it has any right to be. Dark wood, soft leather, neat folders, and blank papers. Of course, it's neat because he's rarely here to use it, preferring to use the space given to him downtown where a plaque sits on his desk telling all and sundry that Detective Tim Rockford works here. Here, in this room, he can be a little less Detective and a little more him.

He flops heavily into his chair, a move he immediately regrets when he feels the relief of taking the weight off his feet. How he'll ever get up from here, he doesn't know. Maybe he'll sleep here. Halfway between Detective and himself, stuck in some weird limbo where he is both and neither all at once. That'll lead to some good dreams.

Tim thinks of you. This was the place for that kind of thing, after all. This office where he is himself and someone else, the perfect parts of a person to be liaising with someone like you. Because that's what it was with you, a liaison. Nothing more, nothing less. And you, everything that you were, were his last chance for some good news before he peeled back the rest of the Detective and became himself for a few blissful hours.

Pulling a card from a drawer, he flips it in his fingers once, then twice before tapping it on his desk. You'd given it to him on his last visit - your address and number emblazoned on the front, both things he no longer needed to see to know, and a small list of services on the other side. Services that he ignored when you'd first pointed them out to him with a wink, but that he'd since spent a long time mulling over and, on occasion, searching in an incognito window of his browser.

With a heavy sigh, he picks up the phone, dialing your number from memory, and waits for you to pick up. Anyone else would be furious with a 4am phonecall, but not you. For a while he thought it was what suited your work best - common sense, and his years on the job, had taught him that illicit activities so often were better suited to darkness than daylight. But he'd seen clients leave your studio in the middle of the day on more than one occasion. No, by this point he simply suspected you didn't sleep at all.

A click of the call connecting, a soft breath down through the line, and there you are, the lilt of your voice ringing through his ear like music.

"Detective Rockford, how nice of you to call. What can I interest you in this fine morning?"

He pinches his nose, card still gripped tightly between his middle fingers. You did this every time, no matter the time of day or night. You were always on, always ready to try to rile him and get into his bloodstream. He'd admonished you once, told you he was only trying to do his job and he expected you to do the same. When you told him you were doing your job, Tim had to admit you got him there. You were both professionals, just in very, very different ways. From then on, he'd learned to appreciate it. Even if it did make him ache sometimes in ways he thought best to ignore.

"You got any news for me?"

You scoff down the phone. A light sound, but he can picture you rolling your eyes with it anyway. "Always so charming, Detective. Diving straight in without any foreplay at all. You can do better than that. Sweeten me up a little before you -"

"Please."

He sounds desperate in a way you haven't heard before. A year into your arrangement and he'd never sounded so bone tired and stressed out. You can even hear the pinch in his brow over the phone, the wrinkles there getting deeper and deeper the longer you knew him.

"It's been quiet, Detective. I doubt I have the names you're after, but a few whispers have been floating around. The case with the cat still causing you problems?"

From the heavy sigh he gives you can tell it's not what he was after, but that it is, indeed, still causing him problems.

"Well, I heard that..."

And so, you divulge your secrets, secrets that aren't really yours to have or to give, but you give them anyway. Whispers and names softly delivered down the phone line where he scribbles them down on a blank sheet of paper, careful not to indent the pages below it.

The pen clatters to the desk when you finish. You both know you haven't given him what he needs, but if Tim's honest with himself he isn't always sure what he needs from you any more. Though, he knows what he wants. Yes, he's frequently made painfully aware of what he wants.

"Anything you need?" he asks, his voice sounding tight with frustration. You can't blame him any more than you can hold back the laugh that trickles from your lips.

"Nothing right now. Here I was thinking that was my line anyway, Detective. The things I could do for you, if you'd let me."

Tim's eyes are drawn to the card again, now face up on the desk beside the scrawl of information you'd just given him. Truth be told, your services are as emblazoned in his mind as the details on the front of the card. Sometimes, like right now, he could barely get that list out of his mind long enough to think straight.

That's the moment when, after a long day at the end of an even longer week, part Detective but part just him, he gives in to what he's been fighting himself for for almost a year, and clears his throat.

"Like what? What... what exactly could you do for me?"

You're caught between surprise and glee, briefly straightening where you lounge in your chair. Softening back into the plush fabric, you dance a finger across your lower lip, wry smile tugging at your mouth as you think of the very many things you could do for him.

"Oh, Detective Rockford. I thought you'd never ask."

Nerves were coiling in his belly in a way they typically only did at the end of a big case. There was no judge or jury here, no sentence, no surprise acquittal. There was just your door, and the promise of everything that lay beyond it.

And it made him nervous.

He was in half a mind to walk away, but it was too late. His knuckles had already rapped against the wood, and you were already flicking the latch on the other side, readying to let him in.

When you do he's stunned, just like he always is when he sees you. This time you're half naked, a thin robe draped over your shoulders and left untied at the front. Beneath it you're wrapped in soft mesh lingerie, your nipples visible through the fabric as you beckon him inside.

The space - your studio - was a simple office unit in an undesirable part of town, but you made it work. As funny as it felt to admit, it was familiar to him now, and there was a comfort in that that was already easing the swell of nerves in his body. It wasn't always this way, of course, that first visit being eye opening both figuratively and literally. Furniture and furnishings that were odd were now somewhat normal, and the soft, rich, scent that permeated the room was one that he now associated only with you and this place you existed within. It was a smell too, he notices, that is so much stronger today than it has ever been on any of his previous visits, and he breathes in deeply, both to savor it and to calm the last of the nerves vibrating in his core.

When you shut the door, closing off the world outside, you stand before him again, looking a picture of sultry confidence as you size him up. This wasn't something that was new. You often stood there, letting your gaze wander up and down his body, lingering in places that made him flush red as you taunted him with flirty quips he'd ignore. This time is no different, and he finds himself mesmerized by the way you toy with the ties on your robe as you eye him, fingers gliding up and down the fabric.

"Are you here on your business, or mine, Detective?" you say with a smile, drawing his gaze from your fingers to your face. It was a long running joke, something you said each and every time he visited you here, despite the answer always being the same. But today, finally, it would be different.

Tim rolls his eyes, just as he always does, but instead of replying with a curt mine, he lets a smile pull at his lips instead. "Yours."

"Music to my ears. And you still want to do this? You're ready?"

You both knew that had a double meaning. In the literal physical sense, he knows he's as ready as he could possibly be. But he still takes a moment to check in with himself, to see if going through with all of it is something that he still wants. If those whispers down the phone, whispers that had quickly turned from flirty promises to guidance, to gasps, to relief, were what he still wanted. Would it be worth it, or was it a momentary blip of weakness and want? But then he remembers that relief once again, the soothing of that ache like sitting down off of pained feet, and can only imagine how much better that will feel here, with you, in this room. He's ready.

Tim nods, prompting you to take another step forward. The smell isn't the room at all, he notices. It's you. The fragrance clinging to your hair or your skin, he's not sure, but so much stronger each time you move.

"Good," you say on your slow approach. Barely a step from him you reach out, tugging on his jacket and straightening his tie before letting your palm rest on his chest. The soft stroke of your fingers does nothing to soothe the rapid hammering of the muscle pumping in his chest cavity, but you suppose it wasn't meant to. You wanted him excited and desperate for it. He'd already shown you how beautiful he could be for you over the phone - all whines and whimpers and yes ma'am's. Now you wanted the real thing.

"Why don't you get all of this off for me."

Before now, Tim had wondered how you started these things - how you went from 0 to seemingly 100 with clients to get them in through the door and out in the allotted time frame. He hadn't expected it to be so quick, or so easy. Maybe he just hadn't expected himself to be so quick, or so easy, but he's tugging at his tie before you even move away to settle against your desk with your ankles crossed.

"That's it, Detective," you prompt, letting your robe slip from your shoulders and pool at your elbows as he stuffs the tie into his pocket. "I want to see all of you."

And he wants you to see all of him. He wants to take off everything that makes him Detective Tim Rockford right in front of you, and have you take control, tell him what to do, make his mind blissfully empty. So, first he kicks off his shoes, then he takes off his jacket. Slowly, his shirt is peeled from his body, the nerves racketing up again with each button. He doesn't look how he did 10 years ago, he was less lean and more soft than he had ever been, the middle aged spread proving to be a fact of life he couldn't escape.

You know what he's thinking as his fingers stall on the last few buttons of his shirt. You'd dealt with these insecurities before, in countless other clients. You weren't immune to similar thoughts either. But, he'd told you he wanted to let go, to give up control with you, so you nod to the remainder of his clothes and prompt again.

"Come now. Let me see."

Tim's fingers work quickly over the last buttons and pull the shirt from his broad frame just as quickly, giving no time for the nerves to take root. You voice the sound of your smile the moment his shirt is discarded and he looks up to see your appraisal. Each button had drawn your eyes down his chest, to the soft swell of his belly, and further still to the growing bulge in the front of his pants. Tall and broad and beautiful, the mass of man in front of you had the power to catch your eye even fully clothed, but now, shirtless with the promise of more on the horizon, you couldn't ignore the thrill at seeing so much of his tanned skin, littered with freckles and a soft smattering of hair.

His belt is unbuckled and off, and his fingers are pulling open the button of his pants and his fly. He doesn't look at you again. He can't right now - if he does he'll choke up and stop himself, feeling entirely inadequate offering this body of his to you. Pushing down his pants, down past soft thighs and strong calves, he steps out of them, taking his socks with them with each step, before nervously scratching at his belly.

Only then, does he look back up at you. You're enraptured, and have already pushed back off your desk, circling him to look at every inch of his body. You'd dimmed the lights slightly, as you always did for client sessions, but even in the soft lamplight he looked stunning. Your fingers trace the swell of his bicep, across his shoulder and the jut of his shoulder blade. A shudder runs down his spine as your fingers dance across it, down to the dimples at his back and over his hip before you round him again where your fingertips rest on his soft belly and the trail of hair there.

"You've been hiding all of this from me for how long, Detective?" you whisper, letting your fingers glide down further and further with each word. "It makes me wonder what else you're hiding."

Tim's cock twitches in his boxers, the thin fabric straining more and more with each passing moment under your gaze. He'd never felt so seen, so appraised, before. The way you looked at him was so easy, the shine in your eye so bright as he peeled back each layer.

"You still want this?"

It's what he said he'd wanted. Days ago now, but he'd said he wanted it and he did. He does. He swallows thickly, desperate to get moisture back into his mouth, nodding a croak of a yes.

At that, you slide the tip of your finger into the waistband of his boxers and pull, stretching the elastic a fraction before releasing, pinging it sharply against his skin.

"Then get these off too, Detective."

His boxers are on the floor a second later, his cock springing free semi-hard between his legs. Raising your hands to your face, you gasp in faux shock, hiding your very real delight behind your hands as you take in his entire naked form.

"Oh, Detective Rockford. I'm disappointed. After all this time you've been hiding that from me?" you gasp, and while Tim can't help but roll his eyes, his cock betrays him and stiffens even more at your words. You'd been through it all with him. Your services, yes, but also specifically what he wanted from you, some of which you'd discovered together on the phone that morning. This was one of those things - a thing you'd discovered on a whim, but something you both knew he would like before the words left your lips. There was a reason he was asking you for this and nobody else - Tim knew the specific brand of sordid you dealt in and, more than anything, he trusted you. Unfortunately for him, you planned on keeping exactly to your word from that call and, guiding your fingers down his bare chest, you tease closer and closer to his length.

"Tsk. Such a shame I won't be playing with it today."

Tim groans, a gasp of a thing he cuts short with a pinch of his lips. He's frowning again too, but nods, knowing that what he came here for wasn't that, but also very aware of the weight of the words you used. Not today, but not never.

Then, your robe is off and you're guiding him to the bed, where he lowers himself and leans back, watching your form as it retreats into the other room. He looks down, down at the body you'd just spent minutes looking at and enjoying, and wonders what you see that he doesn't. All he knows is he's trusted your word for as long as he's known you, and it's no different now. Whatever you see in him, you at least believe it to be true, and that alone makes it easier for him to believe himself. Before he can figure much or anything else out, you're sauntering back into the room.

In your hands you hold a few things. None of them should be surprising to him, but he still sucks in a sharp breath when he sees it - the strap you'd picked out just for him. You'd told him about it over the phone, said that you had the perfect one for him, that you could picture him beneath you taking it, moaning and shaking as you fucked him, and now there it was, exactly as you described. This was never something he felt able to ask for with anyone else, his ex-wife especially. It's true he was always married more to his job than to her, but even in the privacy of their own bedroom he had secrets and wants he could never share with her - she made that much clear early on. With you, he didn't even need to mention it first for you to suggest it to him, didn't even need to feel the heat of shame in his cheeks as he struggled to find the words for what he wanted, because there you were already with all the answers.

You settle everything beside him, letting him see the soft, slender, curve of the dildo up close for the first time, and pass him a bottle of water. Tim takes it, grateful that once again that it was another thing he didn't have to ask for, and cracks open the lid, taking a deep gulp of the cold liquid before setting it out of the way. Another day he'd wonder how it got to this - how on earth Tim Rockford got so used to suffering in silence that even thirst wasn't something he'd remedy until he was desperate. But, right now all he knows is the heat of your body and the smell of your skin as you kneel next to him on the bed, looking down at him with a smirk on your lips.

"Usually I ask people how they'd like it," you whisper, stroking gently down his neck, "but I think we both know you'd like it on your knees, Detective." You twirl your finger in the air, signalling for him to move, and like the good little thing he is, he shifts onto his hands before crawling forward slightly to perch on all fours on the bed.

You think he looks glorious; he feels so exposed - entirely naked for you while you're draped in that thin mesh he can see right through. He doesn't want to think about how he looks like this, on his knees with his ass on total display, his cock hanging low and, already, starting to leak precum.

Blunt nails drag down his back, softly scraping down his ass cheeks and the backs of his thighs. He shudders. You can see his cock where it bobs between his legs, and his balls where they hang softly just beneath the cleft of his cheeks. If he were a different client, maybe you'd give in and drag your nails across the soft flesh of them too, cup them in your palm and give them a firm squeeze, but you resist. Whatever this is doing to you, you'll deal with later. For now, this is for him and that desperate man, the Detective, who had all but begged you for information down the phone.

Grabbing at the small selection of things you'd dumped next to him, you get ready. Tim watches, eager eyes looking as you pull a black nitrile glove down your hand and snap it around you wrist, wiggling your fingers at him when you spot his gaze.

"I can tell you're excited," you say with a look down to his ass where his cock bounces hard against his belly with a tense of his muscles. "You're so ready for this too, aren't you? You've been waiting so long..."

Guiding your ungloved hand down his ass, you squeeze, gripping the flesh and pulling him apart, exposing him to your gaze. "Very pretty."

Tim huffs a laugh, not believing for a second that he is pretty at all, let alone like this, or there.

"What? You don't think you're pretty, all bent over and exposed for me, Detective? I'd argue you've never looked better."

"Right. Is this how you get all your information? Your clients must tell you all sorta things, huh? Vulnerable like this."

A swift, sharp slap is delivered to his right ass cheek, making him gasp as you tut and soothe the sting with your palm. "Ah-ah, Detective, you're off the clock. No work talk. We're here on my business now, not yours."

"Fu- Never off the clock, not in my line of work."

"And that's exactly why you're here, sweetie."

"...Yes ma'am."

There's a small delighted giggle that you just can't hold back, a sound that makes him flush, before you speak again. "Polite and pretty. Are you ready for me, Detective?"

It's then he realizes that your hand hasn't stopped its slow, steady caress of his ass cheeks, pushing and pulling him apart as you watch the tension leave his shoulders. He nods, trying not to brace himself for whatever is coming first, not hearing the click of a lube bottle through the blood rushing in his ears, but definitely feeling the cool trickle of it when it drips onto his asshole.

"That's it," you say, soothing with your ungloved hand, as your gloved one comes down to stroke the pucker of his ring. "We both know you're familiar with this feeling, Detective. Are you going to let me in here?"

The wet swipe of your finger between his cheeks almost feels like it could be cool, cold tongue with how you swirl it around and around his asshole. He tries not to curl his toes, and manages not to until he can't help but beg, a small please falling softly from his plush lips, and you immediately push, sinking the tip of your finger into his ass.

Tim groans, gripping the sheets in an effort not to surge forward and away from the gentle probe of your finger.

"Make all the noise you need to, Detective."

"Fuck."

Your finger steadily sinks into him, drawing out and in to collect more lube as you drizzle it onto his hole.

"Remember how this feels?"

He remembers. Remembers the crackle of your voice over the phone line as you told him to finger his ass. How his hands had scrambled to turn on speakerphone, the other still wrapped around his cock, jerking weakly as you whispered filthy encouragement down the line. Before even that, he remembers the nights spent in his own bed, concocting his own fantasies while he fucked his fist and fingers in tandem.

Except, your fingers feel so much different from his own, can reach places his cannot, and he's groaning with his head hung low between his shoulders before you're even knuckle deep.

Curling this way and that, you feel him from the inside out. Soothing him with a hand on his back, you can feel the deep breath he takes just as the tip of your finger collides with a spot inside him he was all too familiar with, massaging back and forth until he's a groaning mess.

"Oh, well that's a pretty sound, Detective. It sounds to me like you want another."

If he closes his eyes, he can see it, see the black of your gloved hand curled into a fist as your index finger stretches his hole. He can see already as you pull out a little, unfurl another finger, and slide it next to the first, ready to push into him again.

And he takes it, letting out a shuddering gasp, as your fingers fuck into his ass once again, scissoring in him before pushing down and beginning a slow curl against that spot again.

"There. That was easy. I think someone is enjoying this quite a bit, aren't you, Detective?"

There's no denying it, he is. The feel of your hand making him want to buckle into a heap on the bed already and you'd barely even started.

"Yeah. It's - ah fuck - it's good. That's - uh - not fair."

You'd been curling and prodding against his prostate as he tried to talk, making him garble words at you as you watch his cock get more and more engorged between his thighs. "What's not fair?" you ask, with a firmer press down into the spot, and you relish in the deep gravelly moan that grumbles from his chest, forcing his elbows to drop down onto the mattress.

When his hips buck forward, you place a steadying hand on his back, stroking soothing circles with your bare fingers over the dimples in his skin whilst your gloved ones curl into the spot again and again. Part of him is longing to reach down and grab his cock, to jerk it and come all over his fist with your fingers buried in his ass, but that's not what he's here for. Each time he opens his eyes he's made aware of what he's here for by the strap that still lays next to him. If he comes too soon, he's scared that'll be it over, the relief he was really seeking from you still totally out of reach by his own failure. He couldn't, wouldn't, fail at this too.

"Just look at you, Detective. You're getting so wet already." He is. He can feel it. His cock is dripping, beads of precum collecting on his tip and threatening to make a mess of the sheets below. Nodding and groaning and squeezing his eyes shut seem to be all he can do already, feeling like a total mess of a man with your voice like honey trickling into his ear. "So good. I think you can take one more finger. That's it, just one more. Good. Good boy."

He preens, back arching with the praise, cock definitely dripping onto the sheets now, three of your fingers curling and thrusting into his ass. He throbs, the ache of arousal thrumming through him with no relief, just building and building and building with nowhere to go, because you don't let it. You control it, each press of your fingers still so achingly slow that it can make him drip and ache but never explode.

A thin sheen of sweat is coating his body, his legs shaking, forehead pressed into the cool sheets, groans falling wantonly from his mouth, by the time you gingerly pull your fingers from him. That in itself feels like a relief, he thinks. Even though he's still painfully hard at least, for one moment, he's not being worked up and up to an edge you won't quite let him over just yet.

But the strap beside him is gone when he looks up, pushing up on shaky hands to look around for you again. Now, it sits on your hips, straps pulled taught over the mesh of your lingerie. You're pulling a condom over the length of dildo, rolling it down to the base, your glove discarded somewhere he can't see. His mouth is dry again, so he reaches for the water, swallowing deeply, wiping away an errant drop from the scruff of his beard.

He can't stop looking. Between your face, your beautiful face, your scantily clad body, your hands and those fingers that had just been inside him, the cock between your legs. He's entranced. It takes a gentle hand on his shoulder for him to notice you're talking to him.

"Look at you, Detective," you hum down to him, and all he can think is Yes. Look at me. Please. Here he was, stripped bare as a man could be, seen by you in ways he'd never been seen. And that name - a taunt coming from you that he longed for rather than loathed. Each tease of Detective a reminder that with you he could be both and neither all at once, just as he always was.

He reaches for you then. Slowly. Delicately. Fingers bridging the gap between you. Usually you'd step back, move away from grasping hands when permission wasn't granted. But, you let him touch, his fingers resting on your mesh covered hip and stroking you. It's the first time he's ever touched you, and it's so soft. You're so soft.

"You're ready for it, aren't you?" you ask, your eyes lazily dragging down to the strap between your legs where his follow.

Without word, and avoiding the mess already splattered on the sheet, he moves back to all fours, his hand leaving you cold. Slicking more lube across the strap, you kneel behind him, palming his ass with both hands, rubbing soft circles down his thighs as you gently rut against the crevasse of his ass.

"Do you trust me, Detective?"

It's a stupid question - stupid because you already know the answer, and so does he.

"You're kidding, right?" he says in disbelief, looking around to see the coy smile on your face.

"Humor me."

"Of course I do."

With his eyes still on you, you press forward, hand steadying the dildo to slip the tip into his slick asshole.

"Oh. That's it. Look at me when I fuck your ass. That feels so good doesn't it?"

Tim pants, nodding as you bear forward. The strap is barely thicker than your three fingers, but his rim still stretches and pulls as you breach him, slowly, steadily, until the entire length is buried in his ass.

"There we go. That's it. I'm all the way in. You take an ass fucking so well, Detective. Are you sure you haven't done this before?" With another roll of your hips he's gasping again, dropping his face to the sheet. The heat of his thighs are against yours and you know, you just know, that his cock is straining, his balls begging to empty already.

"There we are. That's it. You can take it. Oh, good boy. You like that don't you. You like being a good boy."

With his cheek is pressed to the mattress, you can see nothing but the pinched look of ecstasy on his face. It's boiling in his veins too, the heat spreading up his back and burning his cheeks. If he opens his eyes he'll see you, looking down with intent at his ass as you slowly roll your hips into him, and the thought alone makes him groan, brings him so close to coming that he's scrambling for purchase on the bed again, desperate gasps rattling out of him. The cloying scent of you is all over him - stuck in his lungs like molasses, each deep breath in of you coinciding with each slap of your hips against his ass until desperation turns to pleading.

"Please. P-please. Fuck. Please."

"Please what?" you say, looking around at him. And that's when you see his cock, angry and weeping, splattering cum all over your sheets. You hadn't felt him come yet, there'd been no tensing of his muscles or twitching of his cock, just a steady stream of precum dripping from him like a leaky faucet. "Oh, look at that. You're making quite the mess, aren't you, sweetie? Are you going to clean that up? Hm? Or will I have to bill the city for my laundry?"

"Oh, fu-," he pants, and you feel a shiver trickle down his back at the empty threat, his palms pressing harder into the mattress beneath him as his shoulders draw back. He's going to come. You don't even need to move, you could just talk to him in that voice of yours, call him a good boy and tell him how dirty he is and he'd be gone, skyrocketing to a place he'd never been and making a glorious mess of everything.

"What was that?" You slow down the roll of your hips, drawing him back from that edge you'd been dangling him so deliciously over.

"No. No. Don't - Fuck."

"Then you'll have to clean up your mess."

You swipe your finger through the cum that has steadily dripped from his cock and onto the sheet below, and lean forward to bring it to his lips, pressing your hips further and further into his ass. There's a sticky sheen of sweat on his back that slicks you together, and you can't resist. You kiss him. Soft lips pressing into the muscle of his shoulder, waiting for that moment he parts his lips in a voiceless moan to slip your finger inside. His tongue laves around your digit, tasting himself on the salt of your skin and he groans, vibrating desperate sounds from his chest to yours as you fuck so deep he's seeing stars.

"That's it, that's a good boy," you coo, dragging your finger from his mouth, leaving a trail of saliva across the scruff of his cheek.

"It's such a shame I have no use for your cock when it looks so pretty, Detective," You say, lifting your leg to fuck more deeply into him. "Look at it, all drippy and useless. You're going to come, aren't you? Even without touching your cock, you're going to come and make even more of a mess."

"Yes. Fuck, yes. Don't stop."

The steady slap of your hips picks up, and you're panting with exertion now too. You could've had him coming in five minutes, but that was no fun for you. You'd waited too long for this not to drag it out, not to see how long he could hold off for you, how much of a desperate mess he could be before he was begging for release. This was it. His limit. You'd found it, and his groans were suddenly impossible to ignore, shooting white hot heat into your own core, making you feel slick with want as you fucked him. You need him to come, before your need for more friction clouds your brain and you need to slip your hand between your own legs before he even leaves.

"Such a pretty ass to ruin. Come for me, Detective. Oh, fuck. Come for me."

He stops breathing. He thinks he's died. He has to have. You think you've killed him. But then his whole body tenses and he groans out a sob, biting sheets and spitting them out over and over as he comes, and comes, and comes. You don't stop, each shuddering sob of a gasp spurring you on until he's milked dry and almost prone on the mattress.

"That's it. That's it. You did it. Good boy. Well done, Detective. Well done."

He feels so soft. His bones must have turned to dust and spurted out of his cock with that final thrust of the strap in his ass. He's never been this weightless, never been this carefree. There's not an ache in him, just pure bliss, and he's so relieved he could cry.

And you're there. Pulling out of him slowly, wiping down his back, his thighs, with a damp towel, cooling him before you dry him with another, bringing water to his lips for him to drink. Pushing his hair back from his forehead, you guide him onto his back, letting him lie down and take a moments rest you know the man wouldn't take any other time. You're fairly certain he doesn't sleep. Detective Rockford works too hard because he cares too much, you know that. And you also know he doesn't care for himself. That is why he's here, even if he'd never say so himself.

"Up you get, sweetie. It's cold. Let's get something on you," you're whispering to him all too soon. Tim's lost, the concept of time gone from his body entirely, but he supposes it has been too long, his time is up. He only paid for an hour of your time, and even that seemed much more valuable than the price you'd put on it. He should go.

When he sits up he's lethargic, reaching for his clothes as he shuffles to the end of the bed. He doesn't know you're holding a robe out for him, strap discarded. He doesn't see the concern in your eyes because he suddenly can't meet them. "Should get going, I guess."

"No. You shouldn't. Stay."

Tim looks up to you then, seeing you wrapped and fully covered for the first time in the year he's known you. You're no more on the job right now than he is, he realizes, blinking in confusion at the robe you toss next to him.

"Look, I've taken up enough of your time, I don't want to overstep -"

"I'm not asking you to stay as a client, Detective. I'm asking you to stay as a friend. Stay. Talk to me." And you say it because god knows you mean it. You want him to stay and you want him to talk as much as you know he needs it, that gap he'd bridged with his hand now being bridged by you, and your simple request that he stay.

"Some friend to have."

"A good friend to have, Tim.”

“- I didn't mean - I meant me, I -”

“The point still stands either way," you say. And you mean that too. "Stay."

And that's it. There he is. Stripped back, just like he wanted. No more Detective. Just Tim. And there you are. Sitting on the blanket draped sofa, looking him straight in the eye. You don't need to look down to see him, and he doesn't need to look up to see you.

Grabbing the robe, Tim drapes it around himself, walking on unsteady feet toward you, the mess of the sheets and his life forgotten for one more second.

"Decaf? Might not have all the answers. But I do have coffee. And that's a start."

"Yeah," he says as he sits beside you. "Yeah, that's a start."

taglist: @jupiter-soups @wannab-urs @bean-is-reading @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @youandmeand5bucks-blog @bbyanarchist @vickywallace @kamcrazy123 @valkyreally @ashhlsstuff @a-literal-goblin @ariundercovers @iluvurfather @stevie75 @toxicanonymity @thesevi0lentdelights @sp00kymulderr @corazondebeskar-reads

also a little sneaky tag if you showed interest in my snippet the other day 💛 @heareball @nerdieforpedro @missredherring @survivingandenduring

#tim rockford x reader #tim rockford x f!reader #tim rockford x you #merge mansion #merge mansion fanfiction #tim rockford fanfiction #tim rockford #detective tim rockford #coveted fics

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jet-teeth · 4 months

Text

Specifically relating to my latest post, but in general also: I feel like my attention span has gotten so bad these days in terms of actually finishing anything, to the point that the deflection/procrastination-projects get as silly as "builds a whole-ass 3D model instead of finishing the goddamn drawing because that's somehow easier than dealing with the perfectionism demon hovering over my shoulder when I draw these days"

(I think this why I'm trying to chase looser styles/play around with traditional media here and there again, since anything too precise starts to activate the Overthink Demon. I guess what I post is "oops! All sketches" anyway, but a lot of things still get overworked. Probably should start using timers again or something idk) Rarely do I actually "finish" models as well, which is generally why I don't post any (they are almost always studies/character reference models) but let's see if I can get around to making some Printable Little Guys this year, since frankly I find 3D a more comfortable medium to work in than outright painting/doing rendered-out stuff

Ramble post, but I'm always interested in the topic of "process" when it comes to art, and how struggles & limitations might actually help an individual find what their strengths really are too (or, just reveal areas that need more work. I DO want to finish a couple of the paintings in my WIP folder, but I also have accepted that it's not gonna be the natural medium for me ever) (I always try to include art in long text posts like this so they aren't as boring. Have a Banana Cat drawing I never uploaded. Also yes the printer HAS been added to my enclosure and it's great fun :> )

#jet squawkings #Jet art #IDK what the heck it is these days but Art Is Hard #might have something to do with the medium involved + always figuring/remembering more things out about how my brain likes to work #(being a strongly spatial thinker paired with aphantasia is a really funny combination)#(but I think it might partially explain why the “Pain” in PAINting is real whereas Making Shapes in Blender is super zen for me)#Head Full Many Thoughts about the whole “aphantasia” topic as well but I might save that for another post #long post

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yuesya · 8 months

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yknow Twins!Suguru only seems normal when compared to Sato-Shiki. He's a SPECIAL-GRADE sorcerer, he's gotta have at least a dozen screws loose compared to a normal sorcerer, and we know what he does in canon. Does he ever get a chance to let loose, perhaps in response to an attack (emotional/physical/political/etc) on Sato-Shiki?

Oh for sure haha. The thing is, though -Suguru still thinks of himself as 'that one sane person.' He's not exactly wrong, except sorcerers in general are a pretty crazy lot. What do you expect out of a Special Grade, really?

I'm thinking... given how strong Satoru (and Shiki) is (are), people usually aren't suicidal enough to make any obvious moves against them. But there are probably lots smaller things that pile up -minor inconveniences, obstructions in processing documents, assigning way too many missions, etc.- and the only reason why they haven't keeled over from exhaustion is because they're two people working as one, and they cheat with reverse cursed technique. Anyone else in their position would've keeled over from exhaustion -or lowered their head and asked for the higher ups to lighten their mission load.

Suguru, having a front row view to all of this, smiles when Satoru receives yet another assignment. Reaches over, then promptly snatches the entire goddamned folder out of his friend's hands. It's a testament to how tired both of them are that he's able to do so with zero resistance whatsoever.

"Suguru...?" Satoru blinks at him, uncomprehending. "C'mon, give that back, I need to-"

"You," Both of you, "Are going to get a soda from the vending machine down the hallway, and sit down right here."

"Huh?"

Suguru ignores him. Instead, he flicks through the stack of papers... What the hell, it's not just a single assignment. It's a whole goddamned chain of back-to-back missions in a cluster of European countries. The twins just got back from trekking through the mountains in Hokkaido!

"Suguru, what-"

"Sit. Down." It's slightly gratifying when, after a beat of silence, Satoru heaves a dramatic sigh and sits down in the nearby chair. The tension in his frame does not disappear, but it... eases, slightly.

Good.

"I'm going to have a chat with the elders," Suguru informs the two of them. "Sit here, and stay until I'm back. It won't take long."

"I'm not a dog," Satoru says dryly, rolling his eyes. "... You don't have to make such a big deal out of this. It's only-"

"They've kept you busy nonstop for an entire month!"

Satoru shrugs, unconcerned. Even though he should be. "You know it doesn't really matter that much for us, Suguru."

Suguru clicks his tongue. "I disagree. You're not their tool, Satoru. Neither of you are."

I won't stand aside and watch this happen.

...

(Geto Suguru immediately requests an audience with the council. In the aftermath, Gojo Satoru's missions to Europe are temporarily put on hold.

No higher up present at the meeting ever discusses just what happened, exactly, but there are several members whose mysterious disappearances require new appointments to substitute for their vacant seats. No investigation is ever held.)

#QA #zenith of stars au #twins au #Writing

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howdoyousleep3 · 2 years

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Rating: Explicit (E) Word Count: ~ 5.2 K (i have no chill, it seems) Notable Tags: Mafia Boss Steve Rogers, Daddy Kink, Age Difference, Established Relationship, Manhandling, Spanking, Slapping (pussy and face), Crying, Rough Sex, Dirty Talk, Multiple Orgasms, Light Breathplay, Office Sex, Desk Sex, Possessive Behavior, Flirty Bisexual Bucky Barnes A/N: Ugh y'all, these two. This has been in my WIP folder for so so long now and I'm thrilled to finally finish it and share it, even if it almost ended me and even if I hated it by the end because I'd been staring at it for far too long. 😅 Special thank you to those who looked it over and reassured me constantly, @vilkasdaina, @maddiewritesstucky, and @sweeterthanthis. Find more of Daddy and his Kitten's story here. Read on Ao3 here. I hope you enjoy! 🧡

You try your hardest to not let the power go to your head.

The love of your life may be the feared and respected leader of the underbelly of the east coast, but you know who he comes crawling back to each night, who has the honor of worshiping him in a way that no one has had the privilege to before.

While you try your hardest to not let said power go to your head, it never fails to do just that each and every damn time you’re reminded of your possession over each other. And if it goes right to your pussy as well as your head, who can blame you?

The moment you catch Bucky’s eye from down the hallway, you can hear the relief in his voice, can see it in the way he takes a deep breath and lets his shoulders drop.

“Fuck, doll— I’ve never been happier to see someone in my whole fuckin’ life,” he exclaims as his eyes run down the line of your body, his eyebrow arching immediately. You aren’t sure why he’s surprised; he warned you that pulling out all the stops was necessary on a day like today.

“I’m happy I could make your day,” you joke as you reach for each other in greeting, Bucky’s fingers wrapping around your nape, lips pressing tightly against your cheek. He smells like spearmint, a bit musky like he’s worked up a sweat at some point during the day. You’re almost certain it’s sweat brought on by his boss and you already feel the need to apologize on his behalf for working Bucky up over what is assuredly nothing.

“Sweetheart, if you can fix his fucking attitude you’ll make more than just my day.”

You’re sure you should be offended on some level, degraded maybe, but being called in to help improve Steve’s piss poor mood makes you feel special, makes you hot right where it counts. Knowing that others have done what they can to help improve his mood, his sharp tongue and his short patience, with no success makes you feel unique, privileged, one of a kind. It makes you hold your chin high.

You know what your Daddy needs, know that you hold the answer to what will improve everyone’s day, starting with Steve’s own. Everyone knows why you’re here, everyone knows what you can bring to the boss that no one else can, and you aren’t ashamed in the slightest.

You’re almost tempted to drop the thin, knee-length jacket you’re donning to the floor right where you stand outside Steve’s office. Then there would be no trace of doubt left behind as to why you’re here and what you’re bringing to the boss.

“Anything I should know?” you inquire softly, Bucky immediately sighing and running a hand down his face in response to your question.

“Nothin’ new, same prick as always, just maybe…times ten. Can’t get two words out without him snapping at you, not one goddamn thing is good news. Dealt with some trouble down in the borough himself, went a bit far. Might still be bloodied up from that. Didn’t even lift his spirits any.”

It’s worse than you thought. Your plan immediately shifts in your head where you stand. He doesn’t need a docile, sweet partner— he needs that final push. You nod your head, mind quickly made up, and turn towards Steve’s office doors.

“You sure you don’t wanna stick around, Buck?” you tease quietly, and it’s indeed a bad day if Bucky, although he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, shakes his head as he begins to walk away.

“Goddamn, you know I’d love to, doll. But I can’t stick around and look at his ugly fuckin’ mug for one more second; I gotta go do some damage control. He may owe me for this, but I owe you.”

Another time then.

You wouldn’t have needed Bucky’s warning to know that Steve is indeed having an awful day; the state of his office is enough of a sign that things are not going well. Chairs are misplaced, papers scattered and quite obviously unorganized on both the coffee table and his desk. Steve enjoys a calm work environment, is a man that prioritizes tasks daily, enjoys sunlight and openness, demands serenity from the aspects of his life he can control.

Steve is not having a very good day.

You don’t bother locking the door; you aren’t worried about others seeing you with the boss. You almost hope it happens; it might improve his mood even further. You make quick work of the belt on your coat, slipping it off from your shoulders and draping it along the back of a chair. The crisp air of Steve’s office slips up your spine, your neck, down your nearly nude form. It’s comforting as it spreads across your heated body, has your shoulders squaring on their own accord.

Your matching lingerie set is black and sheer, leaves nothing to the imagination with the strings of your thong resting high on your hips and your bra cupping your breasts perfectly. You leave your heels on, just as he’d like, same with your stockings. Steve is weak for the feel of their sheerness, softness, on his skin and you’ll take any sort of help you can get.

His back is turned to you, his attention placed solely on whatever it is he is looking at at the table behind his desk. Even hunched over and irritated, he exudes such natural power and dominance you can’t help the warmth that builds between your legs, the way your eyelids droop at the sight of him alone. His dark slacks, his crisp white dress shirt that’s open at the collar, the ring on his pinky and the matching gold of a watch at his wrist, the ink that litters his body with purpose— he’s so obviously a man in charge.

You want to console him, want to press your lips to his temple and hum, want to sit yourself in his lap and ground him, but from what Bucky has told you, that won’t work today. You're racking your brain of how to proceed when Steve is the one to speak up first.

You should have known that he would be more than aware of your presence. You’re the one that has snuck into his office unannounced and here he is, speaking up with a stern enough voice that it startles you.

“What are you doin’ here, kitten?”

His tone demands an answer, an honest one and a quick one. It’s an impatient tone you aren’t used to but one that fits this environment. You’re bristled at his shortness but you don’t let it show, keeping your chin high and voice firm.

“What do you think I’m doing here?” you respond with, beginning to slowly make your way in Steve’s direction, heels muted against the sprawling rug in his office, trailing your fingertip over the leather seats as you prowl. He scoffs then, a tiny noise that could be mistaken for something it isn’t, but to you it almost feels like a slap to the cheek, and not the kind you’re fond of.

You continue to take steps in his direction nonetheless.

He turns and looks over his shoulder and there’s a brief moment where you feel you’ve won, where you feel victorious in your purpose in the way he allows himself to drink you in, eyes damn near a physical touch as they roam your form. It is but a moment though, and he’s quick to turn his attention back in the other direction.

You don’t think he’s ever rejected you.

In fact, he’s always been quick to do the opposite, to make you more than aware that he craves you day and night.

You’re immediately miffed, more than so. You look like a fucking bombshell, you left work early, you’re ready to help melt the stress away from your boyfriend’s day— how dare he not drop everything and crawl in your direction?

You think you’re angry now, but then you hear him mumble a curt, “I’m a bit busy here, sweetheart,” and that’ll do it.

Fuck him.

You can’t even stop to see this situation from his point of view, can’t calm your emotions long enough to consider the circumstances that brought you here. You’re standing here in stockings and sheer lingerie and red bottoms and he wants to dismiss you? No, no. You don’t even hesitate to go for the kill, go right for what will piss him off the most.

“Oh, that’s fine,” you start, voice deceivingly angelic as you glance down at your pristine manicure, paid for by him of course. “Bucky seemed to think I could come make your day, but if you want to be a dick about it, I’ll go see if he is willing to take full advantage of all of this.”

You don’t even wait for him to say anything, digging your heel into the carpet as you turn your back on him, your body trembling all over in anger. You make sure he gets an eyeful though, the cherry on top surely being the sway of your hips, the view of your ass he can never say no to.

You make it two steps towards the door after reaching for your coat before his hands are on you.

He wraps a thick arm around your waist, his other hand coming up to curl around the front of your throat, yanking you back against his chest. You can immediately feel the way his own body trembles with caged emotion, and while it should be a comfort to you, it is anything but. It could be pent up emotions from the day, it could be ones you’re bringing out right now. It could be a combination of the two. Either way, you do not find solidarity in your shared outbursts.

The fight within you is strong. You’re ready to take him on and if he wants to go about it in such a physical way, then so be it.

“You wanna run that by me again, kitten?” he spits lowly into your ear, holding you roughly against the rigid line of his much larger body. You don’t make it easy for him, twisting and bucking as much as you can as he pulls you back further into his office, further away from the door. As physically useless as the fight is, pushing back feels good. You dig your blood red nails into his forearm, thrash against his hold.

“Yeah, sure,” you bite out like a brat, making sure to speak clearly. “If you’re not going to take advantage of me, I’m sure Bucky would love to. In fact—”

Your words are muffled by his hand, the last of them drowned out by his growl. You kick over a chair as he picks you up off the floor, knocking it to the ground as you flail, and as you reach his desk, you happily tear your teeth into Steve’s palm. He only grunts in frustration, hand coming back down to your neck in an instant, frustration evident in the way his fingers curl around the column of it.

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth,” he whispers against your temple, and you can’t stop your husky laugh as it tumbles out of your mouth.

“Daddy doesn’t mean that.”

With a noise of frustration, he has you shoved over his desk at the waist, hip bones digging sharply into the expensive oak. Your coat is long forgotten a few steps back and his hand is on your ass without pause, squeezing roughly at one cheek and then the other. The set of smacks that follow are startling, painful and succinct.

You love it.

The huff you let out is intended to be one of irritation, of shock, but instead it comes out laced with throaty pleasure. Damn Steve Rogers and the size of his hands, his strength, his intimate knowledge of everything that makes your pussy throb and your walls crumble for him and only him.

He may have you deliciously and physically restrained, but you’re still more than upset he didn’t want a taste of what you’ve brought to him, a taste of this. But he still hasn’t covered your mouth, and you’re not quite done pushing his buttons.

“Daddy loves it when my mouth is wide open. Right, Daddy? Didn’t you say something like that last night?”

You rarely speak to him this way, goading and aggressive, and you momentarily question whether or not you’re crossing a line. That is, until you feel his cock dig into the cushion of your ass cheek, the grind unintentional if his grumble turned bitten-off groan tells you anything. Perfect— you’ve just figured out how to help improve your boyfriend’s mood.

You roll your ass back into his cock, swirl your hips back against his bulge.

With a snarl, he flips you, tosses you onto your back onto his desk.

Goddamn. You pause for a moment to take note of how fucking hot Steve is when he’s angry. It’s different when it’s at you, you see this now. You’ve witnessed his anger directed at others, but you’ve not once been on the receiving end of it. Maybe you should make him angry more often.

His chest heaves as he looks down at you, stormy eyes slow to rake over your surely flushed body, a normally slicked-back lock of hair curling over his forehead. The tattoos that lace the column of his throat seem more pronounced with his open collar and his heaving chest. There isn’t a stray beard hair in sight, the salt and pepper hairs trimmed close to his skin. The pause drags on for a few seconds more and you almost feel the need to heel and spread your legs and to give in. But that’s not what Steve needs.

Instead you spread your legs and bring the point of your heel up to dig into his shoulder.

He visibly grits his teeth as he gazes down hotly at you, his hands coming to grip your waist tight enough to make you wince. But you don’t break eye contact, even as he leans into your heel, even as he digs it further into his shoulder. Fuck, you’re in love with this man.

“You think Bucky would tell me to keep my mouth closed?” you whisper without shame, leaning up onto your elbows to drive the point home. “You think he’d appreciate me coming into his office in his favorite pair of panties of mine, just about begging to be fucked?”

It’s harsh, yes, but you’re still upset and you have a job to complete; you’re not a quitter. And it pays off immediately when Steve all but growls, “You think he can give you somethin’ I can’t?”

Perfect.

You dig your foot into his chest with a hard shove.

“No.”

You can’t see the confusion in Steve’s features but you know it’s there. He can stay light on his feet all he wants but you’re hard to keep up with, you know this.

Dropping your foot from his shoulder, you wrap both of them around his waist, damn near yanking him towards you. The impressive bulge in his pants is hard as steel and you whimper softly yet unashamedly when it grinds in tight against your panty-covered pussy, eyes still on his. Feeling his need for you, it’s easy for the anger to slightly clear and for you to finally consider the kind of day he’s had, that he needs you to prove to him that this is part of your purpose as his partner.

“No, he can’t, Steven,” you sternly tell him, voice low yet demanding as you reach for the collar of his shirt, tugging. “No one can give me what you can give me.”

A spark of a flame reaches his eyes then, hitting him right where it counts, right in that possessive bone in his body. You speak into his mouth, his warm breath on your tongue causing your chest to constrict.

“But if you want to be a dick about me showing up looking hot as fuck, showing up just so you can fuck me and go about your day as the boss, then yes— I’m gonna tease you about someone else appreciating me”

Steve rolls his hips slowly, deeply, rumbles as he rakes his hands up your torso to palm roughly at your breasts over your bra, your nipples pebbling immediately. He pinches them both before his hands are moving on. You hiss, clit throbbing at the rough attention.

“You’re a real fuckin’ piece’a work. You know that?”

You dig your heels into his back when you huff, brazenly nipping at his chin.

“Of course I know that. Now, fuck me, Daddy. Take it out on me, use me to feel better. Come on.”

Steve never needs to be told twice; he’s a man of action. He takes full advantage of being told he has complete access to your body, reaching for the strings of your panties and ripping them down your legs carelessly.

“Of fucking course you wore the stockings. Knew from the moment you walked in here. With these on, you’re up to no fuckin’ good.”

He grabs and squeezes at handfuls of your thighs as he speaks and you finally cave and give into the moment with a whine, head falling back onto the desk. Steve shoves your legs apart in the air around his body, his hand coming down tightly over your bare pussy, first one time and then a few smacks after that. Fuck. The sting of it is exactly what you want, what this moment is worthy of, and you clench desperately around nothing in response.

“Motherfucker,” you damn near snarl, and where you’d normally spread your legs further and pout, you try your hardest to pull them tightly closed. Steve needs a fight, needs to burn off more energy than a normal fuck will provide him with. He proves you right once more when he pries your legs apart, uses a kind of force that you rarely see. You’re no match for his strength. Your legs are barely pressed together for two seconds before he’s got them spread yet again with a growl.

You barely get out a hiss of “Yes,” before he’s draped over you, mouth latching onto your neck. It’s so much. In your head you hadn’t got as far as this, your plan only reaching up to you convincing Steve to have his way with you, and even that hadn’t gone as planned. You hadn’t considered how difficult it would be to keep your goal and purpose in the forefront of your mind while Steve actively ravaged your body.

His mouth is brutal on your neck, the press of teeth and the suction of lips enough to leave you gasping, your hands making weak attempts at pushing him away. You feel him reach between your bodies and fumble with his belt, the zipper of his pants, and you force out an impatient noise to rile him up further.

“Come on, Daddy— give it to me,” you murmur, reaching around to dig your hands into his ass. “Show this little pussy why you’re her Daddy, why you own her.”

“Fuckin’ hell, kitten…”

He brings his hand up to his mouth, collects spit on a few of his fingers, brings them back down to his cock. He doesn’t slam his way inside of you, and while he ensures you aren’t in unwanted pain, that first deep slide is enough to shove you halfway to your climax already. The girth of him never fails to take your breath away, to send you sailing into orbit.

His deep and appreciative groan is enough to have made all of this shit worth it, the chaos that was this almost failed attempt at providing your boyfriend with stress relief. It’s also enough to send you that much closer to your orgasm.

There is no difference between the pushiness and aggression leading up to this point and this moment; Steve fucks you with unabashed emotion and need. You aren’t used to this, this sort of raw need, this force. The walls of your pussy strain to take him, to adjust. The sensation of Steve on top of you, between your legs, the whole weight of him pressing you into his desk, being selfish is foreign.

Where Steve is usually smooth and focused and giving, this version of him is anything but.

He isn’t concerned about you for a second, not your pleasure or your feelings. His hands delve up into your hair, the both of them, twisting them as he fucks roughly up into your pussy, grinding and rolling and humping. He holds you where he wants you, restricts your movements and keeps you where he can best get his dick soaked. It’s a form of bliss you’ve not once experienced, and your shared eye contact, this heavy gaze he refuses to break, makes you choke on a sob.

“Fuck it,” you bite out against his mouth, barely able to hear your words over the rush of blood in your ears, over the sound of him fucking into you with abandon. “You fuck that pussy like no one else can, Daddy. That’s Daddy’s pussy.”

Steve curses. Even as you say the words, you feel them directly in your clit, the throb of them intense. The forceful grinds with every other thrust presses the base of Steve’s cock tight against your clit, each one making you choke down a whimper. You’re shaking where you lay, nails digging encouragingly into the meat of Steve’s ass, legs spread wide, knees pressed back towards your shoulders. Steve has full access to you, as he deserves. The glide of him is sublime, the stretch of him enough to leave you panting, in and out, in and out.

Your pussy feels so good being used the way that it is. You can’t catch your breath.

You aren’t the least bit surprised when your orgasm tears through you.

“Oh shit, that’s yours, that’s Daddy’s. That pussy comes for Daddy, all for—”

“Jesus Christ, you’re gonna milk me fuckin’ dry. Haven’t even been inside’a you for a minute and you’re fallin’ apart.”

You openly sob, tears springing to your eyes as the sensitive walls of your pussy suck Steve in, flutter and pulse around his girth. He doesn’t stop, cock digging into that sweet spot inside of you, movement prolonging your orgasm as you groan. Your pussy is so wet you can feel it soaking the inside of your thighs, the base of Steve’s cock.

You have half the mind to note that your plan is working, that Steve is finding his footing again, that he’s confident and feeling dominant, in charge. You can’t hold back your lax smile, and the way Steve all but scoffs at the sight of it makes you turn your face and reach for his teeth with your jaw.

“Surely that’s not all you’ve got,” you hear yourself pant shakily, your voice and the way your limbs tremble betraying you in an instant. “Come on, big daddy— show ‘em why you’re the boss.”

He’s climbing onto the desk, still inside you, without a second thought.

“Yes, yes—”

“Un-fucking-believable…”

The smile that’s spread across your face is only present for a few seconds before you’re biting it away, Steve’s hands in your hair moving, one curling to scruff you by the nape of your neck. The other tears at your bra, impatiently ripping one cup down, your breast spilling out and into his waiting hand. He squeezes at you roughly, fingers smacking down tightly over your nipple.

Your head bounces with his thrusts, only to be pulled back by Steve’s hand on your nape. He uses you like a doll, like a toy. It all makes you want to scream: the new angle allowing for Steve to fuck messiliy into you, the complete physical dominance, the animalistic noises Steve continues to let out, how wet and wrecked you feel and sound. It’s enough for tears to begin to stream down your face.

Looking back, you’ll surely blame it on how startlingly emotional you became as he fucked you mercilessly, how unprepared you were for your body and mind’s reactions. You may blame it on how cockdrunk you are, how out of your mind the feeling of Steve dicking you down so thoroughly made you.

You raise your hand and bring it down hard across his cheek.

The crack of it is so shocking to you, both in sound and sensation on your palm, that you gasp raggedly. The moment seems to have called for it, such harsh treatment, but you hold your breath when Steve grunts, hips stilling, eyes wild when his head snaps back down to look at you.

When he doesn’t say anything, you whimper, your whimper easily turning into a hiccup, too nervous to speak.

He punches his hips forward, silencing you with the stretch of him, with feeling him up in your guts. You blink back your tears as you bite down onto your lip.

“Again,” he finally rasps out, the hand on your nape slipping around to the front of your throat, squeezing. “Fuckin’ hit me again, kitten.”

That’s it for the both of you.

Your opposite hand is up in the air and you do what you can to bring it down onto Steve’s other cheek with another sob, all while he fucks into you so roughly your body scrapes across his desk with every thrust. The smack is sloppy and only slightly makes contact with his jaw, but it’s enough to send the two of you hurtling towards your orgasms.

Yours is so blinding it almost hurts, the way it bursts from your center and outwards. You can’t make a noise, a scream lodged in your throat, body making a valiant attempt at arching up into Steve’s own, shaking. You lay there and take your climax, let Daddy rob it from your body, drink it up.

You know he’s coming by the way he squeezes your throat and bites out a gritty, “Fuck.”

“You better think twice about comin’ into my office and teasin’ me with your pussy again, little girl,” he pants into your ear, voice rougher than you’ve ever heard it to be, just able to cut through the fog in your mind. “Fuck, you wanna come up into my office tellin’ me you’re gonna go let somebody else have what’s mine?”

There’s not an ounce of fight left in you as your pussy continues to pulse and quiver around his cock, as you lay there splayed for him, taking his load.

“No, no! It’s Daddy’s, s’daddy’s pussy, all for Daddy. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m—”

You’re babbling nonsense, the roll of Steve’s hips not slowing, the stroke of his cock along your inner walls making you dizzy. Your voice has turned nasally, small and whiny, just like Daddy likes it. Steve’s hand trembles around your neck. You can feel his come leak out of you, how messy you feel as he continues to fuck into you, hips slowing but not halting like you’re used to.

“No,” he groans, shaking his head, his lips smearing messily against your cheek, your jaw. “You’ve got nothin’ to be sorry for, baby. You know me so fuckin’ well, know just what your Daddy needs. You’re perfect, fuck, a perfect goddamn angel.”

Euphoria.

There’s nothing else he could have said that would make you feel the way you do now. You’re pushing overstimulation, thighs trembling around Steve’s waist, chest heaving as you’re left sucking air into your lungs. Your body and mind have been sent to hell and back and you didn’t realize how badly you wanted to hear Steve reassure you that this was okay, that everything you’ve done and said was acceptable.

You pull him down to you with another hitch in your breath, fingers slipping through his hair, arms winding around his neck.

He begins to litter your face with kisses once he finally does slow and eventually stops the slide of his cock, hissing, body settling down onto your own with a heaving sigh. The weight of him is hefty but welcomed, the reminder of his sturdiness something that you let settle into your bones.

“Don’t be sorry, kitten. I won’t allow it. Not after that.”

You hum.

“So bossy,” is all you murmur into his beard, your legs slipping down the backs of his own, holding him close.

“I’m pretty sure you were just tellin’ me to prove I was the boss, so…”

You merely harrumph in response; you’re done arguing for the day, possibly the week.

After a few blessed, silent moments of breathing and coming down from your shared high together, you begin to let a sense of accomplishment slip through your mind. You were brought in to help, to bring Steve out of his head and to improve his mood and therefore the mood of everyone else in his presence. You’ve made a difference, have helped your Daddy, were thoroughly dicked down in the process. And even though this was more emotionally heavy than you anticipated, you feel good.

“I’m sorry,” Steve eventually breaks the silence with, pulling his head back in order to look you in the eyes as he apologizes. He always has to look you in the eyes when you’re sharing serious words. Communication is something he values highly, your constant honesty with one another a must for him and in turn you. In his line of work, how he spends his days, he can’t risk the two of you not being on the same page.

He kisses your lips softly, his hands slipping through your hair.

“I’m sorry for not giving you the attention you deserved when you walked in here, baby.”

You shake your head. “I should have been more cognizant of your mood and how your day has gone. I’m sorry too.”

He kisses you again, once and then twice, lips soft and gentle with your own.

“What I’m not going to apologize for,” he whispers then, voice deep and mischievous, “is everything that led up to you smackin’ me.”

You giggle, first softly and then louder as Steve grips your chin and doesn’t let you shy away from his eye contact. He nips at your chin.

“Fuck, sweetheart. Where the hell did that come from?”

“I don’t know! I…it just felt right. I’m so—”

“Nope,” he cuts you off quickly, nose nudging your own. “No apologizing, I already said that. You’re perfect. I’m serious— this was just what I needed.”

You sigh into his next set of kisses, exhaustion slowly seeping into your bones.

“Well, you’ll have to thank Bucky for this later.”

“I will do no such thing.”

He slips from your body then, motioning for you to stay where you are and to not move. You don’t think you could sit up without help. He comes back from the adjacent bathroom looking everything provider and Alpha and Daddy, slacks buttoned and white shirt tucked into them. He cleans you off with a warm washcloth, puts the pieces of your sexy getup that are out of place back to where they belong. His hands linger on your thighs, stroking at the softness of your stockings.

He touches you with such gentleness and care. It’s so different from the touches he gave you just moments before, the ones you can feel growing sore already.

“I love you,” you find yourself whispering once he’s pulled you into a sitting position on his desk, taking a seat behind it in his chair. He pulls you easily to the edge, takes both of your hands into his own, brings them each to his lips.

“I love you as well, sweetheart,” he purrs, hands moving to grip at your hips, to pull at them like he does when he’s feeling ready for another round. Surely he isn’t, not after that. He leans forward, kisses the top of each of your breasts.

“I was rough on you wasn’t I, kitten? Gonna have to make it up to her later, get my mouth on her and give her kisses to—”

Bucky doesn’t even knock when he enters the office, walks right in as if it’s his own. He doesn’t care that you’re practically naked, that you’ve obviously been fucked to the edge of your life, that the two of your are surely flushed and marked enough to prove what you’ve just been spending your time doing. He walks right up to Steve’s desk, hands in his pockets, casual.

“You missed the show, Buck,” Steve grumbles, pulling you closer and gathering you into his lap, not wanting your near naked body to be seen by his right hand man. As if he hasn’t seen it before. Bucky whistles low, throws a wink over your way that you catch over your shoulder.

“Oh, no no no,” Bucky rumbles knowingly. “I don’t think anyone in this house missed that show…Daddy.”

#howdoyousleep kinktober 2022 #my writing #howdoyousleep #mafia daddy steve #mafia daddy steve and reader #put your loving hand out #female reader #reader insert #this one barely got posted lol #these beans y'all! time and attention suckers!#(i'm joking yet v serious)

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makeyoumine69 · 1 year

Text

Take me Back to the Start

◥ PAIRING: Sugar Daddy!Patrick Bateman x Fem!Reader

◥ SUMMARY: You couldn't imagine that just one random meeting can change your life forever.

◥ WARNINGS: Swearing, Patrick being a dick, super toxic behavior.

◥ WORDCOUNT: 2k

◥ A/N: Finally, I wrote some backstory about how Cupcake and Patrick met; I hope you like the whole idea of story-driven fics!

◥ SONG REC: Pastel Ghost - Dark Beach😈

◥ LINKS: [Sweet like a Cupcake Masterlist] [Main Masterlist]

Another busy day at Pierce & Pierce turned into a full mess, as you didn’t know how to handle all the things you had to do, starting with some shitty paperwork and ending with a lot of calculations for the upcoming monthly report. Being an accountant in a company like that was hella tough, but you never used to complain because you loved your job, anyway.

“(Y/N)! (Y/N), do you hear me?” Your colleague called you several more times before you finally glanced at her as you were sitting at your desk, which was littered with different documents.

“Yeah, what happened?” You grumbled, rubbing your tired eyes as if it could freshen you up a bit.

“Need your help, I know you are busy, but...”

Sighing, you put your pencil on the table, taking a sip of the awful coffee you never liked. “Surprise me, what problems do we have this time?”

“Ah,come on!” she waved away, but her face turned red. “It’s nothing crucial, just some courier stuff…”

“What stuff?”

With a dull thud, your colleague placed a thick folder on your desk, with some papers inside—it looked like something really important. “(Y/N), please, save me! I need to finish my report today or our old witch of a manager will tear me apart!”

Crossing your arms on your chest, you gave her a judging gaze, shaking your head and lamenting: “Did I tell you that your habit of procrastinating will end up badly?”

“I know… I just had a date yesterday and…”

Frowning, you stopped her with a hand. “Heard this story already! Better tell me who our courier is and when will he come?”

“Gosh, (Y/N)! You’re the best,” she nearly jumped in place before she rushed towards your desk once again and took a seat on the wooden surface of it. “I don’t really remember the name of the courier service, but I remember the courier will arrive in about… Agh-an hour and a half!”

“Okay, okay,” nodding your head, you grabbed a folder and pulled it closer to inspect it a bit. “To whom are we sending these docs? I can’t see the recipient's address…”

“Oh shit, I probably forgot to fill it in!”

“Great….” You were about to facepalm when an unexpected knock at the door got your attention.

A slightly familiar face showed up in your office, but you couldn’t remember who exactly the old woman was and your colleague seemed to be quite confused too.

“Sorry, ladies for disturbing you, but I got a call from the receptionist. It said some courier was waiting for his package.”

Now, you were furious. “But you said an hour and a half!”

“Sorry, sorry! I probably mixed something up… Wait! I have a card which belongs to the one guy from that company,” she quickly gave it to you, looking very embarrassed. “There should be an address!”

“You better hope it’s correct,” you stood up from your armchair, taking the folder with you as you were in a nervous rush, and you hated situations like that. “And when I come back, I don’t want to know how you got this card, okay?”

Scowling, you excused yourself to the old lady in the doorways as you moved past her, sensing yourself on the verge of annoyance.

The hall was very crowded at this time of the day, nothing new actually, but the long waiting for a goddamn elevator irritated you, especially now, when you needed to be as swift as you could cause you didn’t like to be late, ignoring the fact that this whole situation was already fucked up not your fault.

Looking around you were searching for the courier when you noticed a handsome guy standing near the reception desk. Still anxious, you strolled across the hall toward that man, hoping your intuition won’t fail you.

“Excuse me, sir,” you said, tapping his shoulder. “Are you waiting for someone?”

“Good afternoon! What a busy day!” he exclaimed, swinging his hands in the air. “Uh, I’m here to pick up some docs from a lady whose name is…”

“Cindy Harrington?” The guy looked at the small piece of paper before replying: “Yes! That’s right.”

“Well, I’m not her but I brought you the stuff you need.” Smiling, you gave him the folder, breathing a sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank you so much! I thought I was gonna be here forever.”

“Erm, sorry for the delay!”

“It's not a big deal, have a nice day!” He grinned in response before turning around and walking away.

Pleased with yourself, you were watching him going through the crowd of people when you remembered you didn’t write the recipient's address and didn’t even hand him a business card, which Cindy gave you before you left your office. Damn, how could you forget?!

Breathing heavily, you broke out of the place to chase the courier, yelling: “Sir, wait!”

You could barely see his back in the endless flow of people, but you didn’t give up, almost running across the hall, fumbling with the business card in your hand.

“Sir!”

You shouted again and again, seeing nothing but his departing figure, feeling adrenaline rushing in your veins. The guy was so close and so far away but once you thought you almost got him; you felt a strong hit right against your body as it seemed like you bumped into someone, someone very solid.

The clash was so sudden; you let the business card fall on the floor and almost right away some yuppies stepped on it without even noticing. Once you got down to grab it, you spotted a pair of patent leather shoes. Swallowing hard, you raised your eyes to see a tall, good-looking man, whose facial expression caused your heart to skip a beat.

“Are you blind?” He yelled at you, taking off his headphones angrily.

“I’m sorry, sir...” You conceded, standing up and noticing how tiny you were compared to him.

“You are just sorry? Look at that!” he pointed at his shoes, with a cigar in his hand. “I bought them only yesterday! Do you even know how much they cost?”

“Sir, I’m really sorry!”

“Do you really think ya sorry is fuckin’ enough?” He blurted out, making everyone around look at you.

It was so frustrating; you even closed your eyes for a moment as you didn’t really know how to react in this situation.

“You are not only blind but deaf too?”

“Sir, I already apologised to you!” you suddenly sneered in a stern voice. “I’m sorry, but right now I don’t have a shoe brush to solve this problem!”

He seemed to be shocked, as he looked at you in disbelief before shouting in a furious voice: “You fuck…”

“Bateman!”

Shaking slightly, you flinched and glanced to the side to see a dark-haired yuppie who patted your offender’s shoulder; that was the best moment for you to run away from here, disappearing into the crowd of people.

“Hey, we aren’t finished!” Patrick screamed at your back, pushing Timothy Bryce from his way.

“What’s wrong?” Bryce asked, giving him a questionable look. “Did that chick reject you?”

“W-what?” Bateman almost choked from indignation, brushing off Timothy’s hands from his shoulders. “Did you even see her? She’s ugly as hell!”

“Yeap, definitely not your type,” he clicked his tongue before lighting a cigarette. “But seriously, what happened? I could hear you shouting from outside.”

“That bitch stepped on my shoes,” Patrick looked down at them, biting his lower lip, frowning with displeasure. “And this is the first time I’ve worn them!”

Bryce rolled his eyes, theatrically wiping away a tear. “What a tragedy, Bateman. Are you gonna fire her for that?”

Humming to himself, Patrick glanced at the place you were standing some moments ago, his mind was busy thinking about a plan… Cause, if he just fired you, that would be too easy…

“Bateman, are you here?” Timothy snapped his fingers in front of Patrick’s face.

“I have… I have a better idea. Let's go, gentlemen are waiting for us in the meeting room.” Patrick uttered, his devilish smile glowed on his face, as he moved forward, leaving Bryce completely confused.

Huffing, you nearly broke into your office and leaned against the door with your eyes firmly closed.

“(Y/N), what’s wrong?” Cindy worried, leaving her desk. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

“I saw worse...” You snorted, fixing your slightly messy hair.

Now, your colleague was looking as scared as you, nervously twirling a pen with her fingers. “Maybe you want some coffee?” she watched you walking back and forth around the office. “Something bad happened with docs? You didn’t make it?”

Her quiet but demanding voice brought you back to the Earth as you breathed deeply, pulling yourself together. “No, everything went fine.”

You confused Cindy, so she got closer to your table, picking up the spoiled business card you just laid on. “Is this why you look so sad?”

“I bumped into one of the Vice Presidents and it seemed like I stained his super expensive shoes!” You said quickly, and you even had to catch the air after your words, feeling your head pulsating from massive stress.

“Wow! Do you know his name?” She sounded strangely excited.

“Whose name?” You sat at your desk, leaning on your elbows as you were massaging your temples.

“Vice President you bumped into, of course! Who was that?”

“His last name is Bateman if I’m not mistaken…” You almost fell from your armchair from how she screamed at your words.

“No way!” Cindy pressed both hands to her forehead like she was about to lose consciousness. “Oh my God! He’s…He’s so hot!”

Your half-opened mouth literally froze in shock as you couldn't believe what you just heard.

“Damn, (Y/N)! I wish I were in your place!” She murmured as if she was dreaming about it right now.

“Are you kidding me?” you crossed your arms, scowling just from one thought about him. “He’s an arrogant bastard! Who knows nothing about good manners!” you nearly spitted out your words, hitting your little fist against the wooden surface of your table. “And now, my destiny is in his hands–will he fire me or not? How pathetic…”

“What are you talking about!” she rolled her eyes, wailing as if she was your teacher: “Mr. Bateman is a very kind man! I heard a lot about him, he’s the boy next door! How can he fire you? Besides, he has a weak spot for cute girls…”

“Jesus…How in the hell did you know about all of these stupid yarns?” you grabbed your head in order to close your ears. “Wait! Don’t tell me! I don’t want to hear anything about this ‘boy next door’, you understand?”

Cindy let out a small giggle, looking at you suspiciously before asking some more questions, which pissed you off completely: “You like him, don’t you? I bet he’s so handsome…How does it feel to stand beside him? Ohhhh… Which girls do you think he likes the most?”

Sighing helplessly, you gave her a killing gaze, cutting her off with a stern statement: “Why don’t you go there and ask him yourself about all this bullshit you want to know about him?!”

Thank God, your phone rang–never in your life have you felt happier getting a phone call than now.

Confidently, you picked up the phone. “I'm listening...”

“Hi, (Y/N)!” your boss's slightly grumpy voice echoed in your ear. “My colleagues told me you had a conflict with Mr. Bateman in the hall today. I just wanna know if you resolved that situation. Everyone in our company must appreciate their superiors!...”

You made a loud gasp, not really paying attention to your boss's instructions anymore as your mind was occupied by the only one thought, which would bother you for a long time–how had this bastard managed to bring you so many problems so quickly all of which you had never had during all the time you’ve worked here?

#american psycho #patrick bateman x reader #patrick bateman imagine #patrick bateman #patrick bateman x female reader #patrick bateman x you #slasher x reader #slashers x reader #slasher x you #slasher smut #patrick bateman smut #patrick bateman headcanon #christian bale smut #christian bale x reader

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hoodoo12 · 10 months

Text

It Felt Like A Kiss

This one sat in my doc folder for quite a while as I tried to consolidate to opposite facts: Justin Collette is a warm, funny guy who is great with kids; he plays Beetlejuice darker and slightly more unhinged than some of the other actors.

NSFW. Beetlejuice x f!reader. It's not a healthy relationship.

Enjoy!

Work had been a bitch. The drive home had been a nightmare. By the time you walked up to your door the simmering rage kept tamped by having to, you know, remain employed exploded outward. You shouldered the innocent door violently. Its doorknob slammed neatly into the hole punched out in the drywall previously, when you’d done the exact same thing before.

“Hey baby,” Beetlejuice said, sliding around the doorway between the foyer and the living room. You supposed he did that to look nonchalant and smooth, and not because he’d sat in one place all day just waiting for you to get home again. “Hey.” The shortness of your response would have been a red flag to any normal person to just let you have some space.

Him being nothing like a normal person, sidled closer. He inhaled as he entered your personal bubble, his eyes widening. “You smell angry.”

“I am angry!” you spat. Again, a normal person would have backed off to let you cool down. Again, Beetlejuice didn’t conform to society norms. “I like it,” he said with a grin and a glint in his eye a little more feral than sympathetic or understanding.

His eyes--so light, so piercing--skipped down your front. He took in your set jaw, your clenched fists, all the tension in every joint. He saw the way you were breathing; short shallow breaths. He knew you wanted to yell. Throw things. Let that anger out. Any normal person would have asked what they could do to help to calm you down and help make you feel better. Maybe some tea. A hot bath. To just leave you alone.

Beetlejuice raised an eyebrow and asked, “Wanna fuck?”

⁂

When you were in a state like this, he fucked you hard and raw. Not that he had a whole toolbox of different techniques; hard and raw was his main go to. You didn’t mind. In fact, when you had a head full of steam from dealing with the outside world, you liked it because you gave as good as you got.

At the moment, after he’d given you the barest cursory prep by shoving his face into your pussy and giving you one, two, three licks with a tongue that delved a little more than humanly possible into your cunt, you were face down on your bed with your toes on the floor trying your best to keep them slipping out from under you. Beetlejuice slammed his hips into you, grunting each time he bottomed out. You clutched the sheets in an effort to stay where you were, because it felt like you were either going to fall to the floor or get shoved on your stomach further onto the bed. “F-uck, baby, your snatch is a vice grip--you like that? Huh? Huh? You like my big cock opening you up?” Beetlejuice’s dirty talk might be a little trite but goddamn did it get you going. “Fuck yes,” you squealed in reply. The mattress muffled your voice. He slapped your ass to show his appreciation. That stung so you jumped, so he did it again. Pushing yourself up on rigid arms, you attempted to twist and order him to stop slapping you but that only shifted you to a position he liked more. He took the opportunity to grab a hunk of hair at the back of your head and pull you backwards.

“Tell me again,” he ordered, leaning over your arched back to your ear. “Tell me again how much you fuckin’ love this, that I fuck you better than anyone else, that I’ve ruined you for anyone else--” How he managed to say all that without stuttering or pausing, while thrusting into you with wild abandon, you’d never know. Probably something to do with the fact he didn’t actually have to breathe even though he grunted into the side of your head. You could barely string two words together, being bulldozed into at such a frenetic pace. Moans tore themselves from your throat. That ache mirrored the ache between your legs, the one that was overshadowed by the pleasure building second by second-- In his uncanny way, Beetlejuice knew you were close to climax. He kept a tight hold on your hair, pounded into you, and managed one more precise open-handed slap to your ass, saying, “Come for me baby, come on my cock, come right now--” With a roar, you jerked up and away from him. Hair and all. Part of you wanted to whine and just let him continue, but the other part, the angry part, had you spin around to face him. Beetlejuice gawped, his dick bouncing comically as he seemed to try and figure out what just happened to make this go from fucking amazing to just . . . not fucking. “Don’t order me around,” you hissed at him. In the epitome of irony, you demanded, “Get on the bed!”

He didn’t need to figure out what happened to scramble onto the mattress to obey. Laying flat on his back, he watched you closely as you climbed over him. Automatically his hands went to your hips as your threw a leg to straddle him; you slapped them away. He didn’t know what to do with them then so he clutched at the sheets. Leaning forward, you grabbed his chin. “I’m tired of people ordering me around, I hate it!” you continued, inches away from his face. “I’m sick of being nice--it makes me so angry!”Beetlejuice held deathly still, as only a ghost could, below you. He continued to watch you with wide, unblinking eyes.

“It’s every day. Every. Fucking. Day! I just can’t--I don’t want--I, I . . . ” Your rage made you stutter to a stop. You had to take a breath to try and steady yourself before continuing. “I don’t want to be nice any more. I want to be angry and just . . . let it out.” Although you still held him uncomfortably by the chin, his expression changed. Narrowing his eyes in challenge, he dared, “So do it.”

You took him up on the offer.

It wasn’t nice and it wasn’t pretty. In theory it was mutual because he urged you on, but nothing you did was for his pleasure. Only yours. You rode him. Fucked him how you wanted, not paying any attention to whether or not he enjoyed it. You ordered him into a position--knees bent, heels on the bed, bridged back--that was best for you, so you had something arched to slam down against. Since he’d pulled your hair, you returned the favor, grabbing him by his knotted locks to slam him back into the pillow, exposing his neck. You actually put your teeth on him, but stopped short of actually biting him. When he laughed at your restraint, you slapped him. He laughed even more at that, calling it nothing but a weak girly hit. You snarled wordlessly at the insult. Although he’d been passive during the mistreatment so far, he roared back, “DO IT AGAIN! I DARE YOU!”

You slapped him and truly meant it that time. Beetlejuice took a moment to reposition his head look up at you again, his tongue exploring the minor split lip his tooth created. Those pale eyes lit came alive with fire, and he demanded you do it again, and again, and again.

Each strike rocked him, telegraphing through his body back up into you. A few times your nails caught him, opening small lacerations on his cheeks. You didn’t care. You took a healthy handful of his hair to hold his head steady and gave him the hardest punch you could. He laughed at the hunk of hair it tore from his scalp.

A torrent of words flew from your mouth along with spittle. If spoken words left physical damage, he’d be unrecognizable. All the rage, all the feelings of hopelessness . . . you peppered it with enough swearing Beetlejuice actually managed to look impressed as he urged you to continue. "Give it to me, baby, I fuckin’ love you degrading me.”

You called him a cheat and a liar, just like everyone else. He was a fucking whore. Less than a whore. A slut because he took it and went back for more. Worthless. Useless. Unlovable. He agreed to all that and more.

In the middle of your diatribe, he grabbed your hands. You thought he’d had enough and it was too much, or that you’d pushed him so far he had to retaliate--you’d caught a glimpse, once, of shadowy tentacles edged with wicked spikes he seemed to have hidden somewhere; you wondered if they’d pull your flesh free from your bones--but instead of stopping you he guided your hands to his neck. He nudged your thumbs to the sensitive spot under his jaw. The ridges of his windpipe were easily felt. You’d refused to bite him, but this--

“Chokin’ helps me feel like I’m alive, baby. It was the last thing I felt before . . . you know.” The confession was more intimate than anything he’d ever admitted before. But this wasn’t for him. This was for you, your time, your needs. Selfishly, it was your turn to laugh. Instead of complying as he’d wanted, you yanked your hands off his throat, leaving claw marks from your nails, and returned to open-handed slaps.

Fucking became a punishing slam of body against body. Every time your palm met his skin, every time a particularly creative expletive amused him, Beetlejuice punched his hips upward, nearly unseating you off his cock. Squeezing him with your thighs to keep in place only increased all the pressure in your core, heightening all the sensations in your pussy. You came in an explosion of white, blinding light. You may have dug your fingernails into the ghost at that point; you weren’t sure. Gradually coming back around, you were sore, weak, and shaky from not just the wild fucking, but from taking your frustrations out on him as well. Dripping with sweat, you peeled yourself up off Beetlejuice. Liquid gushed from between your legs; it was more than just his final contribution to the act. You’d drenched him and the sheets. Beetlejuice grunted at the mess, running his fingers through his pubic hair to gather a bit of the combined physical evidence of you and him together.. He stuck the digits in his mouth and with obscene pleasure, sucked them. Already all the marks--swelling, abrasions, and the like--of what you’d done to him were gone, minus the split lip which he probably thought looked cool. Laying beside him, you tried to slow both your breathing and shaking. He plucked a lit cigarette out of the ether and took long drags on it. Pushing yourself off the bed, you left without saying a word to clean up. Beetlejuice didn’t say anything to you either. Only the faint whisper of burning ash followed you out of the room. You stared at yourself in the bathroom mirror. Sweat caked hair plastered your forehead. Mascara made black trails over your reddened cheeks. Your eyes were bloodshot; from the force of your orgasm, or had you been crying too? Your shoulder and hand ached from the repeated force of slapping him. You were a mess. He made you a mess. You barely remembered the awful things you’d said in the heat of the moment. All you knew was that you hadn’t actually been talking to him. You were talking about yourself. You were the worthless, useless one. The slut who kept going back for more with people you hated because you couldn’t do anything better with your life.

You wanted to change. You needed to change. You couldn’t keep going like you this, despising what society made you in to. You needed to stop allowing Beetlejuice to take the brunt of your rage. It horrified you that you could so easily slip your leash and let it all out. Setting yourself up to associate doling out physical punishment while having your nerves overloaded with pleasure was not healthy in the least.

Beetlejuice wasn’t good for you. He encouraged the wrong things. Reveled in you losing control. He loved bringing you down to his level, even when it meant physical abuse to him. He probably thought that each hit was like a kiss.

Cold water on your face made you resolve to banish him. Throw him out and be better. You returned to your bedroom where he still lounged, still smoking a cigarette that hadn’t changed length. He grinned, all vulpine and pleased with himself, and patted the bed next to him to invite you back in.

A sigh escaped you. He accepted you. Told you he loved you. You crawled beside him and he let you take a drag off his smoke. Beetlejuice wasn’t good for you but by god, you didn’t know how to quit him.

fin.

#Beetlejuice #collettejuice #beetlejuice x reader #beetlejuice x you #writing #fanfiction

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greenbergwrites · 6 months

Note

hi!! idk if you’ve answered an ask about this (or if you have any interest in continuing this verse, which is totally ok if you don’t!) but I always wondered what you had planned for those 2-3 extra parts you mentioned in the blood in my veins. it’s one of my favorite stucky fics so anything and everything you’re willing to share about it would make my day 🫶🏽

ah, my first foray into stucky <3 I really loved that 'verse, I can't believe I never finished it

The TL;DR version is that Part Two was going to be them during the war and Part Three was going to be modern day where they reunite once and for all. I had 2500 words written for the modern day part, and I can share it if you're interested, but here is an interlude that I wrote about them from the Commandos' point of view but never finished yes this has been sitting in my WIP folder for almost a decade

(There was supposed to be more between everything else and those last two lines. I always knew those lines would end this part.)

~~~

Here’s what the Commandos know about Rogers and Barnes:

Don’t try to come between them and you’ll be alright.

---

The facts are this:

The war tried to come between them when it drafted Barnes, so Rogers decided he was going to enlist. The Army tried next when they wouldn’t let him, so he signed up for Project Rebirth.

Colonel Phillips tried when he wouldn’t send Rogers to the front lines and then he tried again when Barnes was captured and the Colonel didn’t plan on sending a rescue team.

It’s around that time that people start getting wise to the idea that trying to keep them apart is pretty embarrassing for everyone involved. The crazy bastards are going to stay together no matter what. They’re gonna follow each other anywhere - everywhere - and it’s just easier if you let ‘em.

So, Rogers rescues Barnes and then the Army gives them their own team. Officially, it’s Captain America’s team but none of the Commandos are stupid. They know exactly how the hierarchy in the team works and rank has exactly fuck all to do with it.

---

Dugan saw Barnes’ tattoo pretty early on. The damn thing was like his good luck charm. He wasn’t shy about staring at it or running his fingers over it. Hell, he even kissed it before one fight. Dugan ribbed Barnes good about it, but he only received a sharp grin in response. Barnes never rose to the bait and Dugan was never trusted with the name of the dame to which the initials SR belonged.

After Azzano, he doesn’t really think to connect the dots. Not until Rogers catches a knife to the shoulder in their second mission.

Now that’s a story all its own but the long and short of it is this: they capture an enemy combatant. The plan is to take him back to base for interrogation but the sonuvabitch gets loose, manages to get some sort of shiv in the good Captain before he’s subdued.

Rogers, blood soaking his uniform, just looks at the poor bastard and says, calm as anything, “you shouldn’t have done that.”

No sooner are the words out of his mouth, there’s a bullet in the prisoner’s skull. Rogers is the only one that doesn’t jump, the only one that isn’t goddamn floored by it. Barnes appears out of thin air, holstering his side-arm calmly. His face isn’t calm, though. It’s a dark thing, that look in his eyes. Near black with rage.

He strides purposefully toward Steve, settling proprietary hands on him as soon as he’s close enough. He pats Steve down for any other injuries as the others look on in frozen shock.

No one had even known Barnes was there.

“You okay?” Barnes asks, and Rogers nods, a funny little smile twisting his mouth.

He looks at Barnes like he hung the fuckin’ moon and Barnes is looking back like he’ll burn the world down around them if he thinks it’ll heal Rogers any faster.

It’s Dugan, Morita, and Falsworth that see the whole thing go down. It’s the three of them that find themselves on the receiving end of Barnes’ glare when he says, “Get Jones, now.”

Morita’s the first to move but he does it slowly, like any wrong move will get him a bullet, too. Dugan and Falsworth follow, helpless, when Barnes starts herding their Captain towards shelter. There’s a kind of morbid fascination to see how this turns out.

“Get to the tent,” Barnes says. “We need to get this off’a you.”

Rogers moves but reluctantly, rolling his eyes. “C’mon, Buck --”

“Shut up, Rogers, don’t give me any of that super soldier bullshit. Get in the fucking tent.”

Rogers does and then Barnes starts undressing him. He touches the Captain like he owns him, not bothering to ask about this or that before he just does it and Rogers, well. Rogers lets him. It’s completely at odds with what they know about the man.

“You shouldn’t have shot him in the head,” Rogers says but he doesn’t sound angry. He sounds almost amused.

Barnes pauses to give him an incredulous look. “He fuckin’ stabbed you, Steve. What did you want me to do?”

“Try a kneecap next time.”

Next time.

Jesus, Dugan thinks. Rogers expects this to happen again.

Barnes grunts, assenting, as he carefully peels the uniform off the Captain’s injured shoulder and then shoves it down around his waist. Blood trickles down Rogers’ bare chest and Barnes uses the cleanest rag they currently have to wipe it away. He doesn’t leave Rogers alone until the rest of the team arrives–Morita dragging Jones, Dernier taking up the rear–and then he moves to stand behind Rogers, a hand on his uninjured shoulder.

“He got stabbed,” Barnes says, short and angry. “Shoulder. Fix it.”

Jones blinks, surprised by the venomous tone, but nods and goes to work. There is a careful wariness in his movements as he goes to touch Steve, the barest of glances toward Bucky that ask for permission to touch and Barnes knows it because he nods his approval. Morita must have given them the quick and dirty of what happened.

As the wound is tended, Barnes’ fingers dig into Steve’s flesh and Steve reaches a hand up to soothe him.

That’s when they see it. It’s there and gone in a flash, a blink and you miss it twist of Steve’s wrist that gives them the show, but none of them actually miss it.

They glance at each other to make sure–Jones tilts his head to Dernier for just a second, Dernier to Morita and Morita to Dugan, Dugan to Falsworth–and then just as quickly, they all glance away.

JB, the tattoo on his wrists says--a mirror to Barnes’ own.

Well. At least Dugan knows who SR is now.

---

They bury the body in an unmarked grave and when they get back to camp, no one mentions the soldier they captured. It’s as if there never was one.

Barnes never does it again but he comes close enough that Dugan knows if it hadn’t been for Steve’s words, there’d be a lot more dead bodies left in their wake.

---

There’s a shadow over Barnes and there always has been. Dugan saw it the first time they met; past the pretty boy face and the charming smiles, darkness lurks. It didn’t matter much back in the beginning and it doesn’t matter much now.

Shadow or not, Barnes is a likable guy. He’s a good shot and a good soldier, tells good stories by the campfires, and he’s loyal to boot. Not just to Captain Rogers, either. He’s been loyal to his men since day one and he’ll do anything he can to see them through to the other side of whatever shit the Army puts them in.

That doesn’t change when Rogers comes along but there is a noticeable shift in priority. Barnes will always protect Rogers first and nothing anyone says is gonna change that. Dugan thanks his lucky stars every goddamn day that Rogers is a man who can take care of himself, otherwise the rest of ‘em might be fucked all to hell.

---

Nobody is surprised when Steve crashes the plane. They’re just surprised he lasted as long as he did.

#moodymelanist #greenberg replies #the blood in my veins #my fic #wips that i never finished

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1rsoldiersince2012 · 4 months

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Bound by Law (Matt Murdock x Reader)

Words: 4711 (chapter 45)

AN: woow, big chapter, lots of talking and problem solving! some spicy moments, so please, minors, do not interact!

45. not the best lawyer, but a goddamn good criminal

"We'll reach out to you soon, Miss, as soon as we get an answer from the court about the deal you're suggesting." You steal a glance at Matt, he's been talking on the phone for about 20 minutes, too. "Yes, Miss, your case is our top priority, but now everything depends on..." You roll your eyes when the middle-aged woman interrupts you again, "yes, I'll call you, personally... Yes, have a great day."

"I'm sure everything will be alright, Mr Dunway, I assure you, you're in good hands. We'll meet you exactly at 8 o'clock on Monday. Yes, safe travels, Mr Dunway." Matt says, smiling at something the man said on the other side of the phone call. You notice the dimples on his cheeks and barely noticeable crows feet under his eyes when he flashes his teeth. With one last nod, although it obviously went unseen during this talk, Matt puts his phone down, lifting his head towards you, "Wow, he really likes to talk."

"You should be glad it was only a phone call." You smile back, "he won't let you rest when he comes here."

"Is Margaret gonna let you rest?" Matt fixes his glasses with a single push, and rests his head on the palm of his hand. "I heard something about 'top priority'."

"Every case is our top priority, boss," the slight change in your voice sent shivers down Matt's spine, and as much as he hated to admit, he felt a bit of blood rush to his dick. "I'm surprised that she didn't chicken out when I introduced myself. That woman sounds like she's a fan of Bulletin."

"Alright, Sherlock Holmes," Matt chuckles, "if you can guess what she's a fan of only by hearing her voice..." his voice gets lower, despite the closed doors of your office and phones going off non-stop the whole morning, "then could you guess what's on my mind?"

"Why? Are you afraid that I have finally discovered my superpowers?" You also lower your voice, slowly brushing your high heel along Matt's leg under the tables. "I'm guessing..." you begin, watching how Matt, not expecting your sudden touch, slightly jumps in his seat, "that you have some dirty things on your mind... Things that shouldn't be talked about in the workplace."

Matt fidgets, as if trying to create more friction for himself, when your foot travels up to his knee, but he quickly grabs it, keeping it in place. You slightly gasp, afraid that Karen might see you through the half-closed curtains, but then you lower your head, pretending to write something in your notes. Matt feels your pulse quicken, your skin suddenly feels hotter than it was before, and he lessens his grasp on your foot, letting his fingers slowly slide on your skin. "I think you should do whatever your boss asks you to do, y/n." Matt's fingers gently push your foot off his knee and it lands with a soft thud. "I won't ask for an explanation next time. "

"You-" you shut up when someone opens the door and stops. Turning to look back, you notice Foggy standing with an open folder in the doorway, looking at the two of you with a raised eyebrow.

"Am I interrupting something?" Foggy asks, and you feel your cheeks turning red again. "Are you sick or something? It looks like you might have temperature."

"What? No, I was just..." You stumble on your words slightly, "on this long phone call, I got a bit frustrated, that's it."

"You know, I have to apologize, y/n." Foggy begins, briefly looking at his feet. You raise your eyebrows, waiting. "I was an asshole earlier, when you saved the firm's ass with all these new clients, the ad in the newspaper is doing numbers, I..." You suddenly feel shyness creep on your cheeks, a warm feeling in your chest. Matt, on the other hand, tries to make himself as invisible as possible, still angry with Foggy. "I'm really sorry about everything that happened with that glasses guy and Fisk, trust me, if I could, I'd go beat them up, and the devil too, because you deserve so much better."

"I... Wow, I don't know what to say, I'm just doing my job, Foggy, I want us to be a successful company as much as you do, although, you two need to stop acting like donkeys and make a truce at last." You clear your throat, "Wesley's dead, so unless you want to beat up a corpse, I won't stop you."

"What? Fisk's right hand is dead?" Foggy sits on one of the two armchairs, thinking for a moment. "That means he's vulnerable and might let something slip. We can finally put him behind bars."

You briefly glance at Matt, but get no response. "I feel like you're hiding something." You say to Foggy, noticing how his eyes widened a bit. "If you still want to build a case against Fisk, you two have to have at least one real piece of evidence, but even without Wesley, he has more people working for him... There was this guy with white hair at the Gala. I don't remember much but he was acting strange."

"Strange how?" This time the question comes from Matt.

"I don't know, but he looked like he was anxious, or waiting for something, he was almost all over the place, kept interrupting Fisk, but... If he wasn't something important, I'm sure he would've gotten a word from James."

"White hair?" Foggy rubs his forehead for a moment, "hey, wasn't there a guy when Fisk went public with him?"

"Don't remember." You say shortly, and Matt understands the reason why - Wesley.

"Wait... he was the accountant or something-" Foggy stops when someone slams the main door of the office loudly.

Karen barges in, breathing heavily, "Ben's dead."

***

As Matt leaves with Karen to attend Urich's funeral, you and Foggy stay in the office to receive new clients and potential cases, but as soon as it hits noon, the place quiets down. "Hey, partner." You slide onto one of the chairs in front of Foggy's desk and hand him a cup of freshly brewed hot coffee.

"Busy day, huh? Never thought I'd have to experience this when we got license to open our firm." Foggy pulls away from his computer and takes a good look at you. "You seem tired, maybe you should head home early today."

"Don't really feel like rotting away at home." A heavy sigh leaves your lips and you rub your forehead, "if it wasn't for that crazy masked guy, I'd say we all just leave the city for the weekend, drive to a casino and just gamble all our money away."

"I'm bad at gambling. One time I lost a bet to my brother and had to run around the house naked three times." Foggy laughs and you break into a small smile.

"Is it fun? Growing up with siblings?"

"It's a pain in the ass, but as you get older, you begin to understand just how lucky you are to have them in your life." Foggy shrugs, "you're an only child, yeah?"

"Yeah, maybe it's alright, the world would not have survived two y/l/ns in the same city, let alone under the same roof." You think for a moment, "Pug has always been like a brother to me, sometimes I wish I met him earlier, maybe I would've ended somewhere else.

"You said he's also a lawyer?"

"Yeah, he keeps trying to talk me into moving back to LA... But it's just... Too fancy for me."

"Too fancy? You're like the closest richest person I know, y/n!" Foggy leans back, putting his cup on one of the shelves behind him.

"More than half of my money, actually being my dad's money, doesn't really make me a rich person. I don't like showing it off, because eventually, money is all people see you as - a giant 100 dollar bill with long legs." You slightly scoff, "hell, I've been driving my dad's old car for as long as I remember."

"Okay, maybe not the richest, but pretty rich nonetheless." Foggy sits in thought, then asks, "How are you and Matt getting together?" Before you can control your facial expressions, your eyebrows slightly shoot up, but Foggy doesn't notice and continues, "I mean, when we got our first cases against your clients, I thought that he was going to completely lose it from the anger that you were just a better attorney, but now you two are sitting all day in the same room and... It's safe to say that I was expecting to find the place wrecked one day."

"Fighting? You really thought that after I left Benowitz and you took me in, offered me a job and kept my legal reputation as clean as possible, that I would be fighting with Matt?" You try your best to act innocent and surprised, but not too much to avoid suspicion.

"Well, to be fair, you almost got into a fight with Karen..."

"That's totally different, and what, you expect me to start throwing punches around?" You can't help but laugh a little.

Foggy takes the note of the lighter mood and continues, "You know, sometimes I'm scared of you, after all, your father was a police officer, I'm sure you have some tricks under your sleeve."

"You wanna see them?" You put your hands up in a fighting manner and crack up.

"No, God no, I want to continue living my peaceful life... Preferably with fewer criminals like Fisk and that Devil."

"Me and Matt..." You say, instead of reacting to the mentioning of the Devil, "I don't know, I guess our brooding days don't match, so we're okay with not ripping each other's throats." You shrug, hoping that this threw Foggy off potential tracks that might lead to more suspicion.

"That's good, for business, I mean."

***

"How are you holding up?" Father Lantom asks Matt after most of the people left Urich's funeral.

"Like a good Catholic boy." Matt doesn't smile or grin, indicating that his joke was pure sarcasm.

"That bad, huh?"

"He was a good man. And he's gone because I haven't stopped what's happening to this city."

"Can't put that on yourself, Matthew. You've done everything you can. A lot you probably shouldn't have." Father puts a hand on Matt's shoulder, trying to somehow get him into thinking more clearly.

"And here we are." Matt's response is cold. He hated funerals. The smell was...well, terrible, lots of crying and nose-sniffling around him made his head spin and the situation made him turn his guard down.

"Matthew, maybe you should stop by for a talk? Sometime soon?" Father's voice is calm but strong, and Matt knew that he wasn't suggesting a simple meeting.

"Sorry, Father, I have lots of work to do."

"Yeah, that's what I'm most afraid of, Matthew." Father notices Karen walking towards them and quickly says, "treat her right okay, she's been through a lot."

"Who?"

"You know who. See you soon." Father leaves Matt standing in the wind with his coat open and flying around his thighs, until Karen finally approaches him and they leave the graveyard.

***

You see Matt and Karen return, but don't make a single move out of Foggy's office, just follow them through the open curtains, talking with an elderly man about the changes of his will. Matt lingers next to the clothes hanger and you notice his sour face before he disappears further into the office.

"He just stood there, like he was his friend. Like he had nothing to do with what happened." Karen speaks as soon as Matt comes towards her table.

Matt tunes you and Foggy out, feeling that he should be more sympathetic to Karen. "I thought Ben said he didn't have any evidence Ellison was taking money from Fisk."

"No, but it makes sense. I mean, it explains Do you know what makes this worse? Foggy. Didn't even think about going with us."

"I think he stated it clearly that he'd rather stay here and work with y/n." Matt says with a hidden note of 'I couldn't care less' attitude.

"He knew Ben too, but then he'd rather work than come to his funeral?" Karen rolls her eyes, desperately trying to find somebody to blame.

"It's my fault, Karen. All of this with Foggy." Matt says, lingering near his office door, but not going inside, because without you there, it was just an empty, soul-sucking place.

"No, everyone shares the blame in a relationship. That's just the way that it works. We all made mistakes."

"No, not always. Why don't you go home, get some rest, huh?" He asks, softly, but Karen lights up like a candle.

"I can't. Every time I close my eyes, I see... What if he finds out that I...That I was with Ben at Saint Benezet. What if he finds out that I spoke to his mother too?" Karen sighs heavily after maneuvering her response out of potential trouble.

"If that happens, we will deal with it." Matt's voice is soft, but reassuring.

"How? I mean, the news barely mentioned what happened to Ben because Fisk pays off the media. And the police haven't arrested anyone for it because Fisk pays them off, too. Foggy was right. How do you stop someone like that, someone who has so much?"

"It just means he has more to lose."

"He's gonna find out what I did and he's gonna come after me just like he came after Ben." Karen closes her eyes and takes deep breath in hopes of stopping herself from crying.

"I told you I would keep you safe, Karen, when he came after you over Union Allied. That hasn't changed. Everyone that's taken money from him, everyone that's helped him tear this city apart they're all gonna get what's coming to them along with Wilson Fisk."

You walk out of Foggy's office, carrying a bunch of documents in your left hand and helping the old man to walk with your right one. Sparing a single glance to Karen's desk, you can only make yourself to turn your lips into a polite smile and walk out of the office down the stairs with the man. Matt thinks for a moment, then grabs his coat from the hanger and leaves without saying a word to Karen.

You catch a taxi for Stanley and bid him farewell, reassuring that the consultation was free and stop on the corner of the building to smoke a cigarette. "You're gonna catch a cold." Matt emerges from another corner and stops next to you, hands hidden in the pockets of his coat.

"Jesus, you scared me, Matt." You gasp slightly and almost playfully punch his arm. "How'd you know where I was?"

"That stink I could smell before opening the doors." He points somewhere where your cigarette was supposed to be and smiles when you chuckle. "Here." You watch him take off his coat and put around your shoulders, and despite your protests, Matt stands in the wind only with his jacket.

"Don't be crazy, come here." You briefly look around, making sure that there's no one in the street and pull onto Matt's sleeve to make him stand a bit closer. "How'd it go?"

"As good as these kind of things go, I suppose." Matt inhales the smoke that you just breathed out and you notice this.

"Take a puff when I put it next to your lips." You say, stopping Matt's hands from moving from your hips where he was keeping them warm. "No hands." You say softly, guiding your almost burned out cigarette to Matt's half open lips, and watch how he inhales the smoke.

He exhales a moment later alongside with a heavy sigh. "You're a bad influence on me."

"We could argue about that." You smile to yourself when his grasp on you tightens. "Come on, let's go inside."

Matt pulls away, although reluctantly. He knew that he couldn't stay tonight at your place or invite you to his, because you didn't use silk bed sheets and as much as he hated to admit, his rest wasn't perfect. But silk sheets or not, he had so much work to do in the mask that he just couldn't make time for you later.

"Matt, what are you doing?" You ask in a hushed tone when he starts guiding you towards the bathroom on the first floor and locks the doors from the inside after a moment of silence.

"What I know I won't be able to do later." He whispers, taking his coat off your shoulders and dropping it onto one of the sinks. He's quick to let his hands roam on your body, feeling the soft material of your knitted dress.

Your body responds on its own, and you curse yourself for feeling so horny the second Matt starts touching you, "in the bathroom? Really?"

"Shhh," his lips ghost over yours, "listen to your boss." Matt steps in between your legs, pushing his knee between yours, and your breath catches in your throat when he gets closer and starts moving his leg up and down so that his thigh would create friction to your core. You watch curiously for a moment, but then focus on Matt's face, taking off his glasses and putting them on.

"How many more times do I have to tell you that I want to see you without your glasses?" You whisper, connecting your lips with his, and soon, you're moving your body much quicker, grinding on his thigh.

"Many, many times." He rasps out, sliding one hand under your dress and you slightly gasp when his cold fingers meet with your already throbbing pussy. A sigh leaves his mouth at how wet you were and Matt is quick to start rubbing your clit faster.

"Please..." You look at him through his red-tinted glasses and notice a satisfied smirk resting on his face.

"What do you need? Tell me, y/n, tell me and I'll do it."

"If you don't put those fingers inside of me right now, I'm gonna have to do it myself." You push your dress higher and take a tight hold of Matt's wrist. "Don't you want to feel just how ready I am for you?"

Matt smiles, enjoying the way you're becoming bolder each time you have sex with him. "I thought I told you to listen to me, y/n, and you haven't been doing that-" He grunts lowly when pushing two fingers inside of you and you tightly grip his shoulders for support. "Oh, so tight."

"Matt!" You gasp when he starts moving his middle and his ring finger inside of you at an agonizingly slow pace.

"I'd gladly turn you around and make you watch yourself while I fuck you from behind," his voice is low and seductive in your ear and your grip on his jacket tightens, "while you're gripping the sink tightly," he quickens his pace, enjoying the sound of your wet pussy, "and I'd make you cum so hard, you'd forget your own name."

You let out an involuntary whimper and kiss him hard, smudging your rose pink lipstick on the corners of his lips and surprise yourself with your next words, "please, put another finger in me, Matt."

He stops, contemplating his actions, but then agrees, curling three fingers inside of you, earning a low, restricted moan. "Feels good?"

You laugh at the ridiculousness of his question and mutter before kissing him again, "don't stop now."

Soon enough, you feel your legs giving up, your knees bending on their own and you no longer trust leaning on the sink, but fully rely on hanging onto Matt. He felt your orgasm coming way before you did, your pulse spiking up, causing you to take shorter breaths, the lack of oxygen clouding your mind. He sighed at just how good it felt to have you clenching around his fingers, all three of them and gripping his shoulders tightly. He remembered the jolts of electricity he felt when you dug your nails into his back muscles and understood that if he wasn't wearing so many layers, you'd be doing exactly that... Raking his flesh, marking him as yours, because no other man, only him, only Matt, made you feel so good.

"Fuck.", you sigh when he pulls his fingers away, and cross your arms on his shoulders. "I'd do something now if we had more time."

"Yeah, like what?" He gently brushes his nose along yours and connects your foreheads. The coldness from his glasses resting on the bridge of your nose, made him feel a weird wave of relief.

"I can only perform, not describe." You smirk, coming down from the unexpected mid-day high.

"Maybe some other time." Matt pecks your lips, and you try to brush away your lipstick from his lips with your thumb. "We have lots of work to do."

"You should talk to Foggy. I don't... Want to feel like a therapist in your friendship." You pull away, giving Matt his glasses back.

"Have you told him the same thing?" He turns on the water to wash his hands.

"Something similar. I don't know what caused this but if you two continue not talking to each other, then we all might as well leave." You walk out first, hoping to avoid possible suspicion as to where where you for so long.

***

"What's this?" Owsley looks around the dim lit alley and takes a piece of paper from Fisk.

"I asked Wesley to transfer funds for me the night before we found him." Fisk intently looks at Owsley, studying every twich of his muscles.

"I thought financials was my job."

"Yes, that's why I wanted you to have a look at these. There seem to be some irregularities with my accounts."

Owsley scoffs, not sparing a single glance at the papers. "Of course there are. I move money around all the time. It's a shell game to keep the SEC off our backs, it's nothing."

"Your hand's shaking." Fisk doesn't hurry to take the paper back, watching Owsley's hand shake.

"'Cause it's freezing out here!"

"Then why are you sweating, Leland?"

"All right, okay, Jesus. I figured you'd find out sooner or later. What's a guy gonna do?"

"Wesley found out, didn't he? He confronted you and you shot him?" Fisk raises his voice.

Owsley sighs, "I have no idea what happened to Wesley. I wasn't a part of that. But to be frank, I said from the beginning that him messing with that lawyer wasn't going to end well."

"You tried to kill me." Fisk focuses on other perspective of the events that took place at his Gala.

"The poisonings at the benefit were just to make it look like someone was trying to get at you. That lawyer could've died as well and I'd be damn glad if she did, but Wesley was running after her like a lost puppy. A pathetic sight that was, honestly. You know, you and Wesley were more similar than you thought."

It takes a moment for Fisk to connect the dots, "Vanessa? You wanted to kill her?"

"Do you blame us? Just look at what's happened since you took up with her. You've been distracted, emotional, erratic. We just wanted to nudge you back on track. But obviously that went south, so we will be parting ways and I'll be taking half your assets with me."

"You think that I would let you walk away after what you've done?"

"That's exactly what you're gonna do, because I have Detective Hoffman." Owsley takes a big step back, creating more space, "Hoffman never left the city after he murdered his partner in the hospital. I scooped him up, squirreled him away for a rainy day. If I don't check in every 24 hours, Hoffman gets dropped off to the Feds, tells them all the shit he's been up to."

"Hoffman, he's he's a frightened little worm. He would never risk going against me."

"Ten million buys a lot of courage. He thinks he's going into witness protection, get the money on the other side. Now, I know you'll get to him before he cashes in, but by then the damage will already have been done and everything you've been fighting so hard for will come tumbling down." Owsley tries to play cool, holding his ground, but not for long.

"Yeah, but you would get caught up in that as well."

"I've spent my entire life hiding assets overseas for pricks like you. My son and I will be just another transaction, disappearing into the tax-exempt ether. But I'm a fair sort. That's why I'm only taking half your money. You go your way, I go mine. Not what I'd call win-win but it's as close as we're gonna get with this. So we on the same page?" Fisk hesitates to answer, so Leland adds, "I bet you wish you'd had that lawyer on your side now, don't you?"

Fisk punches him, screaming like a predator, and Leland tries tasing him... but Fisk quickly recovers, still shouting, "You hurt her!"

" Wait, wait!" Owsley tries to negotiate, but Fisk pushes him into an elevator shaft.

"You hurt Vanessa!" He comes closer, looking at the pool of blood that grows with every passing moment. Fisk turns to Francis, his bodyguard, "Sweep the city. Find Hoffman and put a bullet in his head."

***

Foggy enters surprisingly well-lit Fogwell's Gym and sees Matt hitting a punching bag quite furiously. Upon hearing Foggy enter, Matt stops and turns around, catching his breath, "How'd you know I was here?"

"Known about your outlet for a while. I didn't say anything because I thought it had something to do with your dad. Now I know better. Thought you'd be out punching people in the head, or whatever you do." Foggy rolls his eyes, keeping his distance.

"I was. Paid Ben's editor a visit." Matt shrugs, and starts rolling off the tape from his hands.

"Ellison?"

"Yeah. Karen thinks he's working for Fisk."

"Did he talk?"

"No, never got close. Wife and kid picked him up outside the office. Try it again tomorrow night."

"Looking like you have some anger issues. Wanna talk about it?"

Matt sends his friend a smirk, "You're not my priest, Foggy who you might have met today if you'd shown up for Ben's funeral."

"Karen's that upset? I told her we had lots of work to do."

"I told her this was my fault all of this between you and me." Matt sighs, "She told me that y/n could've stayed at the office alone."

"When you two left, we did have only a couple of clients come in... But then I got a call from Marci... And just, truth to be told, I enjoyed spending time with our new cases, and not listening to all these people crying at the funeral."

"Wait, Marci called? Are you two back together?" Matt raises an eyebrow, listening to Foggy's heartbeat slightly picking up pace.

"She's been helping me copying files from Landman and Zack on the quiet. Whole stack of documents on their dealings with Fisk, and Owlsley at Silver and Brent."

"Ben is dead, Foggy, because he got dragged into this. And now you're doing the same with Marci." Matt waves his hands in the air, a scowl forming on his face.

"We're being careful-" Foggy answers, sounding like a highschooler who got caught hiding condoms in his drawer.

"This has to stop. Fisk has to - I have to stop this before there's no one left to bury." Matt squeezes his fist tightly, remembering how much you've already had to experience since coming into his life. He didn't want to lose you, especially not now.

"Matt! Last time you went after Fisk, I found you half dead! More than half. You go after him in the mask again, he might kill you. Or you might kill him, which would probably have the same effect on someone as Catholic as you are!" Foggy raises his voice as well, which painfully echoes in the empty space.

"What am I supposed to do? How do I stop him?" Matt starts shouting, his anger getting the best of him quickly.

"By using the law, Matt. Like you told me and Karen to do. That's how we take him down. Come on, there's four of us now, we can create some badass plan and put Fisk behind the bars."

"We? Thought Nelson and Murdock were over." Matt voice gets quieter.

"There's nothing I want more than to find a way back to where we were, but I don't know if we can."

"No, we can't. But maybe we can find a way to move forward, Foggy." Matt steps closer, putting a hand on Foggy's shoulder. "All four of us."

#matt murdock #marvel daredevil #foggy nelson #matt murdock x reader #bound by law #netflix daredevil #lawyers #matts superhearing complicates things for you #daredevil #marvel #wilson fisk #karen page

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myfaveisfuckable · 8 months

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1. I want to roam my hands all over his body. His arms, his tits, ughghghgh. I bet he gives the best hugs.

2. He has a goddamn tiddy belt I know this bitch has already been submitted and if he doesn't win then he has no purpose (affectionate)

3. i dont really have anything to say other than her whole thing is that she's got a giant ass. also she's voiced by Jennifer Coolidge so bonus points

#poll #tournament #one piece #orv #robots (2005)

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chipped-chimera · 10 months

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WIP WEDNESDAY - 12/07/23

AND IT'S ACTUALLY ON A WEDNESDAY! Thanks @theviridianbunny for the tag <3 I regret to inform you ... it's more hair again @.@ (this one is actually different, I swear)

More under the cut, as usual~

Soooo if you've been following me you probably know I've done a few things since my last WIP Wednesday, namely more tattoo stuff, and more recently ... more hair stuff.

After a LOT of agonising over it I finally consider the neck 'done' ... or done enough (vaguely ... thinking about doing something more in the transition between the tattoo and the jaw but I probably should stop honestly or I'll never stop). This means I probably have enough done to get away with taking screenshots while I work on the rest of it. Been pondering drawing up an actual plan for the rest beyond what I've been doing so far - mostly winging it and smashing things together. Might get stuff done faster, who knows.

Anyway I am back on my hair shit, yet again that's going just about ... as well as you'd expect ...

Okay okay, I'll be honest, this has been fixed but I gotta say after spending a whole 12 hrs staring at lines of code, changing entries and having to redo them several times because I'd fucked up some file name or changed my mind or found out 'no that is not where you should be putting that folder you absolute dingus' and this was the best I could do was kind of hilarious. 😂

The important part was I'd gotten it IN, which was a process and a half, considering THIS time I'm using a custom made 2048px hair texture (alpha is 4k) and a higher poly mesh - which means yeah, this is the same hair rebuilt from scratch.

After some additional fiddling ...

... and a very unamused Ven (I'm sorry hun) ...

I got it in. All of it. No missing textures, no hair cards in the hair cap slot. The physics look janky but it's somewhat intentional - this is a minimal effort rigging job based on the alt rig, the priority was to get this hair texture IN so I could see how it looked in game and how everything sat before I dug myself further into a sunk cost fallacy over this second version of the hair.

And I'm actually pretty happy with it? There is some curl distortion yeah but it's not as bad as it was last time - and considering I'd rigged that one PROPERLY is saying something. Higher poly + textures are making a big difference here. It's pretty obvious in the comparison -

Also yes I am aware this one is WAY too shiny, but that one is a considerably easy fix now I know how Vertex Paint actually affects this value. I was a bit too generous on the highlight gradient so I've already repainted what I have so far, using side-by-side references with existing game meshes to try and get it 'equal' but it's likely gonna be a lot of back and forth calibrating with that one.

Excessive shiny-ness aside I'm actually REALLY happy with how the side curl is sitting nice and neat in her jacket collar this time! Also man ... doesn't that look silky ... (ok maybe some shine is good lmao)

I guess that's kind of it on the mod front. I've got other projects in a very initial stage (it's fanfic. Ofc it's fanfic) but work on both the tattoo bodysuit + hair is eating up a lot of my daily spoon allowance so that one will happen when it happens I guess (and probably when at minimum, this goddamn hair is done).

Oh and this hair is using UUH4V. I GOT IT TO WORK. Which means I'll be able to use multiple rigs which will hopefully prevent these carefully crafted curls from getting minced beyond recognition, fingers crossed.

Anyways until next time!

(Uh, I tag anyone who read all of this. Yes you. sorry I don't know many people yet and I'm shyyy)

p.s. yes hair tutorial. soon. In the case you are similarly frustrated and desperate as I was and working on hair please note I AM VERY OPEN TO TELLING YOU ALL THE INFO just ask me. Cause tutorial might take time unfortunately. But it's in the works.

#kerytalk #my modding #wip wednesday #cyberpunk 2077 modding

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leiawritesstories · 1 year

Text

Lights, Camera, Yulemas!

Written for 12 Days of Rowaelin, basically every day lol @rowaelinscourt and based off this prompt from @everenvacker

Word count: 2,865

Warnings: language, innuendo, flirting, slight hints of angst. also i'm not sorry for ending it there teehee

Enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Good afternoon, passengers, this is your captain speaking from the flight deck." The man's smooth voice cut through Aelin's concentration, and she looked up from her thick folder of notes, wincing a bit at the pinch in her neck from spending four hours bent over her work. "We have begun our final descent into Orynth. The local temperature is just about 8 degrees Fahrenheit, with clear skies and sun--though the sun isn't doing much against the chill, I'm afraid." A pause so the passengers could chuckle. "We're expecting to land in approximately twenty minutes. Flight attendants, final checks and prepare cabin for arrival." He put down the microphone.

Aelin stretched her arms above her head and closed her thick manila folder, tucking it back into her expensive tote bag--the only piece she'd ever designed exclusively for herself--which she stored in the lovely little closet space to her right. Ah, the perks of flying first class.

Directly across the aisle, a woman who appeared a few years older than Aelin gasped, clearly having caught sight of her tote. "Excuse me for my rudeness, but is that...a Galathynius?"

Aelin half-turned, offering the woman a smile. "It is! In fact, it's a custom one, something you won't see in any in-store or online collection." She winked. "Let's just say I...well, I know the designer personally."

Just her luck, the couple of sketches that had slipped her notice chose that moment to flutter onto the ground.

"Bloody hell," Aelin grumbled, leaning down to pick them up. "Pardon my rudeness."

The woman gasped, clearly having seen the sketches. "Holy gods!" Her eyes were wider than the plane windows. "Are you...you're Aelin Galathynius!"

Aelin tipped her head. "Busted." She tucked the drawings neatly into her bag. "Pleased to meet you, Ms...."

"Lyria," the woman rushed. "Lyria Frelau." She flashed Aelin a charming, sweet grin. "If it's not too personal, I actually work in the modeling industry--gods no, not as a model, that was never my path. I'm an agent at a firm in Orynth, that's all."

"Well, Lyria, let me tell you something--there's no such thing as 'just an agent.'" Aelin winked. "If I'm being honest, agents are the ones who make the world go 'round, as it were, because you help set up the people who walk in shows so little designers like me can get our work out to the world." On a whim, she handed Lyria her business card. "I'm releasing a Yulemas collection here in Orynth, actually, and if you're interested, please do give me a call." She grinned. "I'm sure I can find you a few tickets."

"Oh my--I--" Lyria accepted Aelin's card, incredulous. "Gods, thank you so much!" She beamed. "If it's not too much, I will certainly be interested in this show of yours--oh gosh, I can hardly believe it!"

Aelin grinned, settling back into her seat. "From one person in the industry to another, that's all."

In the whirlwind that swept her up almost the second she walked out of Orynth International Airport, she nearly forgot about Lyria.

Until the agent with the sweet smile turned out to be just the woman she needed to save the unexpected catastrophe that threatened to ruin her whole entire show.

"He what?" Aelin all but shrieked, her pulse spiking as high as her stress level. "Go--fucking gods, NOW?"

"I'm so sorry, Ae!" On the other end of the phone, Lysandra was trying her absolute utmost to placate her dear friend. "Shit, I didn't know until the goddamn hospital called, saying Fen was out."

"Again. Fuck!" Aelin raked her hands through her loose hair, sending the shoulder-length golden blonde strands into disarray. "Fen's my core male model, Lys, what the hell am I supposed to do?"

"Hold on a sec--" Somewhat muffled, Lys's voice barked orders at whoever was close by in the office, probably trying to find any of the understudies they might have. She was back a few tense minutes later, her voice tight. "Fuck, Ae, I'm so sorry."

"Just what I fucking needed," Aelin grouched. "Thank you, Lys, you're a superhero."

"I'll keep trying to find someone," Lys promised. "I just..."

"Hold on a sec, I've got a call incoming."

"K, call me back." Lys hung up.

Sighing heavily, Aelin accepted the incoming call. "Aelin Galathynius, what's your call?"

"Miss Galathynius?" Lyria's voice. "I really don't mean to intrude, not at all, but my agency just received a call from your office saying there was a last-minute gap in your model cast?"

All of a sudden, Aelin's head cleared. Or at least cleared enough to hear herself think. "Actually, yes, we do have a gap. Fenrys Moonbeam had an unexpected skiing accident yesterday and is unable to walk today."

Lyria cleared her throat. "Well, as it happens, we do have someone available here in Orynth." Rustling paper as she checked her file. "His name is...Rowan. Rowan Whitethorn."

Aelin's brows furrowed. "I'm not sure I've ever heard that name before, is he new?"

"New to major designer shows, yes," Lyria confirmed. "He's walked in smaller shows for a few years, done a lot of work for brands and magazines, mostly in menswear and cologne."

"Ah. Worlds I don't keep up with as much as I should." Aelin thought for a brief moment. What the hell, he's here and he's male and I need a male model right the hell now. "Lyria?"

"Yes?"

"Send him over. I'll give you the address; if he could be here as soon as humanly possible, that would be amazing."

"Of course!"

"Thank you so much," Aelin breathed. Then she rattled off the address and hung up, barely even noticing that Lyria was halfway through one last note.

"...Rowan's not much of a Yulemas person, though."

Chaos.

Everything was chaos.

And Aelin was very much part of the chaos, running from station to station, model to model, team to team, checking hair and makeup and the lineup and going over any last-minute notes she had. All while distracting herself from checking the door every three seconds to see if the model Lyria said she would send--Regan? Ronan? Roger? What was his damn name again?--had shown up.

She successfully distracted herself enough that an assistant had to tap her shoulder to inform her that a Rowan Whitethorn was here to fill in for Fenrys.

Rowan. Right. Aelin strode over to what would have ben Fen's dressing area, flicking through her folder of notes. "One hour to runway, people!" she called. "Whitethorn, was it?"

"That's me."

For what felt like eternity, Aelin froze, sweeping her eyes over the sight of six foot three of sheer perfection in front of her. Then she cleared her throat, extended her free hand like the businesswoman she was, and shook hands with the model. "Aelin Galathynius."

"Pleasure to meet you, ma'am." Rowan's handshake was as firm as the defined muscles carving every inch of his body.

"Don't ma'am me, it makes me feel ancient," she laughed. "Right. Fenrys Moonbeam was supposed to walk the core male position today but is currently incapable of walking. So. How much runway experience do you have, Mr. Whitethorn?"

"Rowan, please, and not much. I've done a lot more with campaign shoots, magazines and all that fun shit. I have walked in a few Fashion Weeks, but that's about it as far as major runway shows go."

"I see." Aelin scribbled a few things on her notes. "Well, something is always better than nothing." She nodded at the stylists and dressers, who went right to work with Rowan's appearance, tousling up his silvery hair--a unique color, Aelin observed. Casually observed.

Not like she was ogling the man.

"Good news," the dresser murmured to Aelin. "He's just about the same measurements as Fen."

"Finally, some good luck," Aelin muttered, half under her breath. "Great, let's see if we need any alterations done."

When the wardrobe people wheeled in the rack of outfits, Rowan's posture stiffened, his spine solidifying into steel. Aelin's keen glance didn't miss the shift. "Are you alright, Rowan?"

"Fine," he bit out.

"Rowan." She placed herself in front of him, folded her arms, and leveled a flat stare at the man. "Truth?"

He met her stare with one of his own, a current of wrath simmering beneath his flat glare. "A Yulemas collection?"

"I thought Ms. Frelau or whoever your agent is would have informed you of that." Aelin's brows knitted. "Didn't they?"

Rowan shook his head. "Nobody did. Just told me to get here ASAP."

"Damn industry," Aelin grumbled. "Yes. A Yulemas collection. My first solo clothing line, in fact."

"Congratulations," he returned, something resembling actual warmth in his tone.

"Thank you." She arched one brow. "Nothing I have for you is ostentatious, I promise. I'm not that kind of designer."

Thank the gods," he deadpanned. "One less godawful tinsel-tree contraption to haunt the stores."

"Oh, you're a funny one," she snarked right back. "I'm sure the audience will be entirely captivated by you regardless of the clothing, Whitethorn. In fact, I'm half-tempted to send you to the runway with just your skin and your sass; you'd charm the pants right off half the crowd at least."

His lips flattened, laughter forcibly pressed back. "Funny."

"I know." She winked. "Right, let's see the outfits."

Rowan Whitethorn was completely and utterly fucked. Had been since he walked into the Yulemas explosion of the Galathynius show's backstage area to realize that he'd been called into a huge blaring show of everything he couldn't stand. Had been even more fucked when he met Aelin Galathynius, the designer, and very quickly discovered that he would have to keep a constant sad-puppy image in his mind lest he walk onto the runway standing upright, as it were.

But this was a godsdamn Yulemas show. A Yulemas collection. A whole lineup of clothing that represented everything Rowan hated about the winter season.

How the hell was he going to make it through?

He had to admit Aelin was telling the truth--none of the clothes that were rapidly pulled on and off his body were terribly ostentatious. In fact, they were really rather tasteful and beautifully designed, even if almost everything was in a color palette of greens, reds, ivory, gold, silver, and white. Holiday colors.

Colors he refused to admit were actually quite well suited to him.

Aelin, though, spoke her mind freely. "Well, sign me the hell up," she smirked, appraising him with her glance.

Gods roast him, Rowan wished that glance was her hands. Or even better, her tongue. Not that he would ever do something as completely inappropriate as fantasize about a woman he hardly knew...right?

Aelin smacked her lips. "I was right about that gorgeous ass of yours, Whitethorn. Every lady in the audience is going to be having some wonderful dreams tonight, oh yes."

"Galathynius," Rowan groaned, tipping his head back and screwing his eyes shut in discomfort. "Why?"

She chuckled. "I have a penchant for teasing people when I'm stressed, so forgive me if I've said anything wrong."

"'S'fine," he mumbled, beyond thankful for the runway makeup hiding his violent blush.

"Good." And Aelin whisked out of his dressing room, calling out that there were only five minutes to showtime.

Hell.

Just like that, the nerves exploded in Rowan's stomach. He looked at himself in the mirror, stared at the deep-red, fitted trousers, the partially unbuttoned off-white shirt, the casually festive tie hanging loose around his neck, and he felt faintly sick. That tended to happen when he had to face the flashy glamor of Yulemas.

"You'll do wonderfully." Unexpected, Aelin's voice broke into his reverie.

He whirled around. "What?"

"You'll do just fine, Rowan," she repeated. "I know you will."

"Hope so," he muttered. "Goddamn Yulemas memories."

If Aelin heard--which she most likely did--she said nothing, just adjusted the artfully tousled fabric of his shirt and patted his shoulder. "Oh! We almost forgot." She grabbed something off the table behind Rowan. "Give me your hand."

A little confused, Rowan held out his left hand. Aelin swiftly looped a small strand of multicolored lights around his wrist--a holiday decoration. "Every model is wearing one of these bracelets," she explained. "It's the little thing that's going to run through the whole show."

"Oh." He rolled his wrist around a bit, getting used to the lights. And forcing away everything those Yulemas lights brought to mind. "I like the idea, it's a nice touch."

"Us designers have to have those nice little touches." Aelin eyed him once more, obviously satisfied for how she nodded. "Queue up, Whitethorn. And don't worry, the show will be over before you know it."

Aelin was right--the show did go by in a hazy blur, and before Rowan knew it, he was standing in the wings waiting for his signal, clad in his final outfit of the show. And of course, of fucking course, this last outfit would have been the one that most made him want to crawl into the ground and hide.

The suit (should he even call it that?) wasn't awful, just...green. Festive holiday green. And the suit jacket's lapels were embellished with shimmering silvery fabric. And there was a sprig of mistletoe, of all things, tucked into the breast pocket.

Oh, and he was conveniently shirtless.

It was far, far worse than the magazine shoot he'd had to do last Yulemas, where he was dressed in fitted red velvet pants, a very tight matching jacket, and a Santa hat and been subjected to three whole hours of giggling little jokes about Santa being caught looking like a whole snack. Whatever the hell that meant.

Jaw locked, he ignored yet another snicker from his left as someone else passed by and ogled him. He really didn't know why everyone seemed so obsessed with his shirtless-ness; for the gods' sake, being physically fit was part of his job description.

"Annoying, isn't it?" Aelin's voice unexpectedly sounded near his side.

"Awful," he muttered.

She snickered quietly. "Well, you only have to wear this for about ten more minutes, and then never again."

"Thank the gods," he grumbled. "No offense to you, of course, the designs are phenomenal."

"You flatter me." She flashed him a quick, genuine smile. "Wait--before you walk, I need to fix this." Rising onto her tiptoes, she quickly smoothed out the jacket and adjusted the mistletoe in his pocket.

Which oh so conveniently required that she teasingly pass it over his head.

"Look at that," she drawled, "guess we found the mistletoe. Pucker up, Whitethorn."

He didn't have time to choke out any response before her soft lips pecked his, barely there for half a second before she replaced the mistletoe, patted his shoulder, and giggled.

"You've got this, Whitethorn! Make me proud." And with that, she gave the signal, nudging him out onto the runway.

Rowan's brain completely stalled, his body moving on autopilot down the runway and back. She kissed me! his mind screamed, the thought incredible and overwhelming all at once. As that thought finally quieted, he realized something.

He wanted to kiss her properly.

Not that...not that he would ever kiss a woman he barely knew, much less the designer who'd hired him to model her collection.

What the hell was wrong with him?

Pull it together, Whitethorn! he yelled at himself. This is work, not a goddamn crappy Hallmark Yulemas film!

Along with all the other models, he waited backstage as the lights went down and the audience broke into waves of applause, calling for the designer. The lights rose back up and Aelin, after a few nudges from a brunette woman in a headset, walked out onto the runway, beaming and waving to the crowd's cheers. She walked back smiling giddily, an almost girlish expression that made her striking turquoise eyes light with gold. The models and the teams cheered just as loudly when they were all backstage, congratulating the young designer on a wildly successful first show.

"Stop it," she laughed. "I could never have done it without all of you, and you all know it. Congratulations, everyone!"

As she passed Rowan, he shook her hand. "Congratulations."

"Thank you," she beamed. "Couldn't have done it without you, Whitethorn. I'm dead serious." Then she winked, that gleam in her eyes going wicked. "Besides, who am I to resist seeing you shirtless?"

"Gods," he groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You're bad, Galathynius."

"Oh, you have no idea," she purred, her voice dropping to a velvety purr.

Rowan was too stunned to form a coherent retort, especially when she threw him a smirking wink and a lazy, sensual grin as she walked away. Too stunned to retort for several moments, at least.

He was decidedly not stunned, however, when he returned to his dressing room to find Aelin perched on the stool, wearing a form-fitting golden dress of her own design, the glimmering material molding to her form like a glove, save for the deep slit running all the way up one leg.

"Ho ho ho, Merry Yulemas," she hummed, brazenly appraising his form with her molten gaze. "Lock the door behind you, darling."

~~~

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#my writing #12 days of rowaelin #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #rowaelin #model and designer au #designer aelin #model rowan #rowan x aelin #rowaelin fanfic #enjoy #hehehehehe

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