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bratfiction · 3 months

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MY GIRL | FELIX CATTON

(🗒️ ᝰ.ᐟ♥︎) 𝒩𝒪𝒯𝐸𝒮 — this came to me in a vision; brainrot about how felix’s savior complex and daddy kink more or less go hand in hand. and just how much he loves you.

WORD COUNT… 1k WARNINGS… 18+ CONTENT, MDNI. f!reader, mentions of nausea + throw up, crying, pet names, daddy kink.

Ever since you met Felix, he’s wanted to take care of you.

At first it was insulting. He was born into wealth and class, and you weren’t necessarily dealt that hand despite ending up at the same university. You’re not jaded— you come from two different worlds that don’t mesh. Two different backgrounds and your’s happens to be far more tragic. Poetic even, given how far you’ve come. Naturally you assumed he was only trying to get some good guy points by helping you out. Giving you a peek into what it’s like to be in a social circle filled with young adults that vacation in Portofino and have money wired to them every week.

It took months of warming up to him. Looking back on it, it seems you went from scowling up at him in the middle of conversations to finding his hand in crowded areas before you could blink, with so many fleeting moments of thinking you may throw up on your maryjanes in between. Because surely Felix Catton couldn’t have swept you off your feet so easily. But he did. Lifted you up and kissed your round cheeks in the process, too.

“I want to take you away while we’re on break,” he says it like it’s so simple, over lunch in your tiny apartment.

“Take me away?” Even you would admit you’re being a bit daft, but it’s fine.

“Yeah, like… Italy or Greece, wherever you fancy really.”

Oh. There’s that throw up feeling again, mostly due to how casual he is about it. You couldn’t impose like that. Drinking champagne and eating caviar on your uni boyfriend’s private jet— who do you think you are? Not your father’s daughter, that’s for damn sure. However you’re boarding that same jet a week later. Your heart is pounding, hands clammy as you hand off your luggage. At least Felix seems to be having a good day. He helps himself to the complimentary snacks; you can’t even stomach an apple from the fruit bowl.

And as if on cue, he senses your now visible uneasiness. It’s only the two of you in the cabin of the jet. Beige walls and deep brown, leather seats… throw pillows to give a homey feel, or to give your shaky hands something to grip onto.

Felix reaches out, and his long fingers find your own in seconds, holding them so gently that you remember why you fell for him all over again— “You alright?”

No. You nod in the opposite direction, regardless. Now finding it in yourself to fake a smile, snuggle close to him and give a big smooch that quells his worries but makes your own grow. It’s childish, you know that. Just say what’s fucking wrong with you. Say that you don’t feel like you belong in this scenery. Go on. Nothing of the sort falls off of your tongue out of your fear of being the bratty, ungrateful girlfriend. And it’s not until long after you two make it to the villa that you’re finally sniffling and sobbing into Felix's shirt. The thin cotton is see through thanks to your tears and drool.

“I’m so sorry,” you blubber through swollen lips, “This is s’fucking stupid.”

You two should be going out right about now, but you can’t find it in you to even put on some lip balm through the tears. Let alone slip on a party dress. Felix only holds you tighter. One of his big hands rubs the middle of your back soothingly while he shushes you— “Oh, sweet girl. Don’t be silly, yeah?”

The sniffle he gets in response is expected.

“Jus’ wish you told me how you’re feeling sooner, little one.”

You and him both.

Felix takes your wet face in his hands, cradling your cheeks with the same amount of love he always does. Nothing has changed. Nothing ever will. Especially when you look up at him with those glossy eyes and thick lashes— how precious. Your smaller hands wrap around his wrists whilst he forces you not to shy away from him.

“Y’know you’re my girl, right?” He starts, leaning in and whispering to you oh-so softly, “Don’t care ‘bout things like that. Just want your pretty self right next to me.”

You nod, and this time you mean it. Felix kisses your forehead. Then the tip of your nose. Then your lips. Slow and delicate as if you’ll break if he goes too hard on you. At this point, you think you might too. He pulls away, cracks a smile that makes your heart do a little flip and brushes his thumbs under your eyes, collecting the last of your fat tears. He recognizes that dreamy look on your face. Like you’ve been fully pacified, like you feel as safe as you possibly can be.

“There’s daddy’s girl.”

He knows just when to get you. Knows to attack when you’re all dizzy and sensitive from crying. Knows that you can’t resist him slowly but surely laying you down, shushing your little sniffles with kisses. More passionate ones, too. The kind that have you gripping at his shirt.

God, that button down is going through it tonight.

You really are a daddy’s girl, now. You’re being taken on expensive getaways, coddled whenever ‘n wherever you need it and now layed to rest on silky sheets. You’re fully his in every sense, and as much as it scares you, the pride in your chest overflows— “I love you, daddy.”

Both of you stop breathing for a moment, staring at each other with wide eyes before you’re wrapped up in a sloppy kiss. You whine into his mouth, and Felix decides it’s the perfect time to bunch your sundress up, squeezing your waist while he’s at it. He hovers over you, covering your neck and chest with smooches and brushes of his teeth until he drags his lips over your tummy and reaches the waistband of your panties.

You’re already out of breath. Huffing and puffing while he nips at the little bow on your panties, cocoa irises meeting your gaze to let you know you’re in for it… Not the worst way to spend your first night vacay, you suppose.

#⌨️.kit's writing #🤍.saltburn #didn’t wanna make this too smutty soz #felix catton x reader #felix catton smut

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sodamnradd · 9 months

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She never imagined an adolescent flame could turn so deadly.

At fifteen they kissed one another on patrol. The first time a boy slipped his tongue between her lips and made her feel desired.

She kept Draco to herself and suspected he did, too. Hermione, his dirty little secret. After three kisses in June, school came to a close. She dreamt of peppermint lips and the drag of solid white teeth all summer long.

At sixteen, she learned how to comfort someone and expect nothing in return. Tight-lipped, subtly explosive, selfish, and uncouth, Draco pushed her away and reeled her back in. He took her virginity in Filch’s supply closet. It was harsh and unromantic and horribly cruel when, afterwards, he revealed his Dark Mark and asked if she still wanted him.

At seventeen, he saved her life.

“Where have you been?” he wanted to know. An unmasked face in a sea of secret soldiers, intent to torture and kill them. The wild jealousy in his eyes was really asking: who have you replaced me with?

“Nowhere.” No one.

He slipped her his wand, told her to stun him, save her friends, and run, promising to find her again.

Seventeen was the longest year of her life.

Draco used his wand to track her whereabouts.

She didn’t know if she could trust him. If he was the cruel sixteen-year-old who hurt her all year long, or the fifteen-year-old who’d kissed her, pulled away, stunned, as if he’d come to a shocking revelation, then kissed her again with reckless, open-hearted abandon.

By eighteen he was her confidante and closest friend.

They met in public spaces. Chiswick. Richmond. Hammersmith. She wore Muggle clothes, and he showed up in all black. Autumnal chic. Trendy Londoners didn’t blink twice. He’d sweep her onto an empty double-decker, a vacant pub, a locked greenhouse in the botanical gardens, remove his leather gloves, and touch her face, her hair, rub her cold hands between his palms and kiss her fingertips. He took note of her scars. The ones he recognised and the ones he didn’t. Demand who did it, vow to make them pay, then offer everything he knew about Voldemort’s next moves.

At eighteen, he confessed he loved her.

It was the worst of the war. She’d been beaten, tortured, scarred, and branded. Draco hardened, trained and bathed in Dark Magic. They did not belong with one another.

Keeping her safe was like clutching a bar of soap beneath the tap and praying it wouldn’t slip from his fingers. But he tried his damned well hardest, and she loved him for it.

By nineteen, freedom tasted like luxury.

War-torn homes, constant nightmares, society’s vitriol, friends who didn’t understand, a world who wished them apart.

It was caviar and champagne.

The ability to sleep in the same bed and touch one another when they felt like it (always), and say I love you without the fear of never saying it again.

(494 words, photo prompt from twitter)

#sodamnrad #dramione #draco malfoy #hermione granger #draco x hermione #hermione x draco #dhr #dramione drabble #drabble #sodamnraddrabbles

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munsster · 5 months

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Hiiiiiiii loved your Eddie munson x wealthy!reader fix, I was wondering if you could do a billy Hargrove one? Thank you bby💗

billy with a wealthy s/o

A/N: its 100% giving reluctant allies to lovers gif cred: @selinasdalton

Warnings: partying, drinking/smoking, insults (mostly playful), pet names (sweetheart), implied sex

the FIRST thing i thought of was reader rolling with the popular crowd

ie harrington, tommy, carol etc

and seeing billy for the first time at a party

honestly, he probably offers you a drink or better yet a smoke

and you’re disgusted (horny)

and he thinks he’s totally gonna score (you accepted his drink offer)

neither of you really remember how or when it started

you can never agree on an anniversary date

but you both know he fell first

mainly because he was absolutely floored by just how many insults you had ready in your back pocket

“the ball goes in the basket, airhead” “you look like rob lowe if he was a woman and a munch” “my dog could sink more free throws than you and he’s 20 years old”

honestly, he was a little flattered by your creativity

which is why he knew he had to get in your pants somehow

and the first time you invited him over to your house, you wouldn’t hear the end of it

“hey, richie rich, where’s your robot maid?”

“oh, it’s her day off”

“…”

“i’m kidding,” you tease, “she’s not a robot”

he does not know how to handle the amount of shit you spoil him with

“billy… i really like your necklace”

“…”

“i can buy you a new—”

“i dont need a new one, sweetheart”

and you don’t know how to handle the fact that he doesn’t want to be spoiled

but you eventually figure out how to be sneaky with it

making him lunches (con caviar), ‘accidentally’ misplacing his shoes so you have to buy him new ones, taking him to fancy barbershops and paying half the cost so it still seems like he’s paying the full price

some may say it’s manipulative. you say it’s loving.

and the first time he buys you a meaningful, mildly expensive gift, you tear up a little bit

you bringing him to the golf course and finding out 1) he’s really good at golf and 2) he is excellent cougar bait

not that you want the over 60’s hitting on your man, but it’s very sweet when they send him drinks and call him a handsome young man

you definitely encourage him to play into it with some “how are you young ladies this evening?” and “don’t you have to be 21 to sit at the bar?” action

he has his fun with it, but he really only does it ‘cause it makes you smile

would never BEG for anything…. but he DOES get really sad when you don’t bring him to the mall to watch you try on shoes or sweaters or whatever.

yeah, if there’s something he’d beg for, it’s that

he lives for the moment you walk out of the dressing room, do a twirl, and ask (like clockwork) “do you like it?”

his answer is always yes, but you claim to know the differences in his tone that indicate what he actually likes

sometimes, if he’s lucky, you’ll let him sit inside the dressing room. watching you change. watching you change.

he is the reason you’re both banned from sears at starcourt

the first really expensive watch you gift him is INSANE

it has like four dials and you said something about alligator leather and 18 carat gold

he can’t decide between wearing it on special occasions to preserve its value or never taking it off because he loves you

when you do stay at his house, usually no ones home

but you have met max

and she likes to stay away from you

but you took her to get a new skateboard and you think that might’ve helped her warm up to you

just a smidge

now she lets you gossip about stupid boys and watch shitty action movies with her

she even promised she would go as croft’s robin for halloween if you swore you’d go as wilson’s batman

that was an interesting halloween for billy

your mansion house has this shiny ass gramophone in one of the downstairs offices

and you told billy that the last thing that had played on it was a glenn miller ‘best of’ album

and that was just not good enough for billy

so one night, he brought over his twisted sister vinyl and convinced you to dance with him while what you don’t know blasted through the brassy pavillon

he also may or may not have convinced you to make out with him while the rest of the record played

even though you drive a brand new, cherry red benz (convertible, he might add), you still love it when he drives the two of you in his camaro

but you also let him drive your car whenever he wants. and he wants to most of the time.

in fact, he’s pretty sure he drives your car more than you do

he also loves to let you dress him up

and do his hair (please practice that cute hairstyle you saw on him. he’ll think about your hands in his hair for hours on end)

even if youre just going on a chill diner date, you still drag him into your (now shared) walk-in closet and pick out these satin shirts and pressed slacks and the shiniest shoes he’s ever seen

but of course, most of your dates are lavish and breathtakingly creative, anyway, so he’s already dressed accordingly

his new catch phrase is something along the lines of “what happened to eating somewhere normal. like pizza hut”

sometimes, his only requirement is “as long as there’s no chandelier”

you flatter him so often, he gets grumpy on days you forget to call him handsome (or pretty boy, which has really grown on him)

typically, he wouldnt go for all the fuss and feathers, but he likes to see you happy.

and boy, does prettying him up make you happy

seriously, you get the wildest look on your face. it’s fulfilling enough that billy feels safe to say he’s content being your ken doll forever

if you’d let him

masterlist

#billy hargrove #billy hargrove fic #billy hargrove fanfiction #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove x fem!reader #stranger things #x reader #stranger things x y/n #stranger things x reader #fluff #x fem!reader #billy hargrove headcanons #billy hargrove headcanon #fanfic #fanfiction

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octuscle · 4 months

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A biker decides to throw a party at his house but only invite one guy to turn him into his dream house boy.

(Rest in DMS xxx)

I'm convinced that I'm a fucking jackpot. I'm clever, I'm damn successful professionally with my biotechnology start-up. And thanks to my genes, hard work in the gym and some of my own inventions, I can't say I'm anything other than a wank template made flesh.

My mother, who sadly passed away at an early age, always said that envy is the most honest form of appreciation. My fucking neighbor must appreciate me enormously. Envy literally oozes from every pore of his big drunkard nose. An incredibly unpleasant guy. He's hated me ever since I offered him USD 5 million for his apartment to enlarge my dressing room and add a spa to my bathroom. Luckily, I have a range of products to help me with my plans. And I want to be rid of this pain in the ass by New Year.

The flyer with "Dear neighbor, it may get a little noisy today, but just come to my party. There'll be caviar and champagne, as much as you like" I just dropped it in my neighbor's letterbox. I knew he wouldn't be able to resist this offer. So at 7 p.m., my doorbell rings. I smile at him and say that he's quite early. He's already at the caviar bowls, shoveling Beluga Severol onto his blinis. Well… What can I say… It's not beluga… But I'm proud of the effect.

With his mouth full, my unkempt, disgusting neighbor asks when the other guests are coming. He'd like to be back in his apartment by then. Too bad, I reply, you would have hoped to settle your dispute today. I open a bottle of Dom Perignon and pour two glasses. I grin. I grin very broadly. I can see that the "caviar" is already starting to take effect. My neighbor burps. And farts. Phew! It stinks of fermented herring! But I can see his fat melting away. He looks younger and younger. And he has to fart again. Holy shit, my invention is obviously not free of side effects. My neighbor starts giggling silly. He lisps so that his pants slip down. He starts calling me "Daddy". He asks if his daddy wants to dance with him. He starts shaking his increasingly grotesque-looking ass. Somehow, unlike the rest of his body, it's not getting any slimmer. His pants slide to the floor. He strips naked, still dancing. And asks if Daddy has anything to wear. I have something prepared…

The advantage of the motorcycle suit is that when I'm not fucking the Dainese drone, it holds my houseboy's farts. In a week's time, just after the New Year, the workmen will arrive and combine his and my apartment. He'll get a room next to the laundry room. And a special ventilation system will be installed in the darkroom. Otherwise, it's really no fun fucking my houseboy's otherwise damn delicious big ass.

That was all a few months ago now. Yes, I've gotten used to my boi's flatulence. I've decorated him a bit. With his teenage fuzz on his upper lip, he looks even dumber than he's actually become. But he blows like a devil. And I love it when he's happy as a puppy when I come home in the evening.

First two pics found @elbe-lad, home of hot leather studs.

#male tf #age reduction #twink tf #biker tf #revange tf

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acapelladitty · 2 months

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Captain Boomerang/Female Reader - PetPlay

Summary - Collared and kneeling, Digger is eager to show just how much of a pathetic and slobbering pup he truly is.

"Handsome little devil."

Offering the praise with a small smile, you glance down at Digger as he remains kneeling on all fours like a dog - his body as quick to follow instruction as it is to cause trouble which was definitely one of his most attractive traits. Naked as a babe, his tattooed frame splayed itself without shame – the auburn hair which scattered across his body looking unkempt, particularly around his cock where his pubic bush was in desperate need of a trim.

Surveying him like a prized hound, you lean forward in your chair as you tip the bottom of his chin up with your toe, forcing him to stare up at you from his submissive position.

"That said, it's weird to hear you shut the fuck up for so long. Hmm. Bark for me." You demand, pulling at his collar as you lean even further from your chair to loop your finger through the blue leather which sits tight around his throat.

He follows the demand instantly, his sharp barking being followed by a wolfish smile which showcases his teeth - slightly stained and crooked in places as he looks up at you expectantly, awaiting his praise for a job well done. Between his legs, his cock hangs hard and heavy - the mushroomed head shiny with pre-cum due to its continued denial. He loved this, loved being put in his place, and it was a role you were more than happy to fill for him as your cunt floods with your own arousal.

"Good boy." You purr, ruffling at his messy, russet hair with a casual hand. "Maybe you deserve a reward. What do you think?"

His body is quick in its attempt to rise, and you quickly stop him with your foot as you press down on his shoulder roughly to force him back to the floor.

"Tsk tsk. No rewards for a bad dog who tries to walk when he should be crawling. Stay on your knees and come here."

Heat flushes across his face, his crooked nose glinting due to the slight sweat which sits across the bridge of it.

"Oops." He whines, playing into his role as he bares his teeth with a playful edge.

"Crawl." You beckon him with a finger, spreading your thighs invitingly to show him the mess that he was responsible for. "And you can show me just what a slobbering pup you truly are as you enjoy your meal."

For a man on his knees, he makes some speed, and it catches you off guard as thick, calloused hands envelop your outer thighs and his fingers knead into the flesh there to secure a steady grip while his face buries itself in your aching cunt. The sudden onslaught of sensation is intense and your back arches off the back of the chair as his stubble scores its way along your inner thighs as his breath teases at your hole.

Without hesitation, he dives in and his tongue licks a sordid line up your slit - ensuring that not a single inch was neglected as his tongue brushes across your throbbing clit. The small bit of contact makes your thighs clench in his grip and you feel the chuckle of his amusement as he repeats the feat until you growl and pull him away due to the overstimulation.

It's a mess. His sloppy movements somehow possessing absolutely no finesse as he switches his attention between your hole, his tongue swirling and pushing into you as he tastes everything you have to offer, and your clit, his lips circling the ultra-sensitive bud and sucking it roughly into his mouth. Your hands are rough in his hair, pulling at the ruddy strands until he grunts in discomfort, but nothing seems to put him off as he drinks in your every moan like a starving man.

"Digger!" You cry out, toes curling in the air as you dig your heels into his exposed, heavily tattooed back. "Don't you fucking stop."

"Never, darlin'." A muffled response, one almost muted by your cunt as it remains roughly pressing into his face. "Y'know me, I eat like an animal. Caviar or cunt - it's all good for ol’ Digger."

Choosing to ignore that sentence, you jerk his head forwards to fully put his smart mouth to better use. Shuddering into his enthusiasm once again, you settle in for the long run as you know his stamina will see you a ruined, writhing mess before the session is out.

"And don't even think about pulling away until your lips are numb, and I can't remember how much of a fucking pain in my ass you are."

Blunt teeth threaten your most sensitive skin for a moment and the sheer cheek of him brings a smirk to your lips which is quick to disappear as he resumes his role as the most eager little hound in Gotham.

#captain boomerang #digger harkness #captain boomerang x reader #digger harkness x reader #captain boomerang x you #digger harkness x you #ssktjl #suicide squad #suicide squad kill the justice league

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5starluvr · 1 month

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Gangster

Paring:Gangster!Lee Felix x Gangster!reader

Genre:slight angst?,fluff?

Warnings:violence,blood(just a little at the end,guns,stealing

Words:1.2k

The dimly lit safehouse buzzed with nervous energy.Y/n, clad in her usual black jeans and combat boots, paced before a worn leather couch where the rest of her crew lounged. Felix, her ever-present partner-in-crime and maybe something more though they'd never admit it outright, fiddled with a silenced pistol, it’s sleek black frame catching the dim light.

"Alright, crew," Chan announced, his voice sharp. "Tonight's the night. Let's run the plan one last time."

They huddled closer, voices murmuring as they went over the details.Y/n, alias Tiffany Kim, daughter of a tech billionaire a carefully crafted lie for tonight, would infiltrate the high-society fundraiser thrown by Mark, the arrogant secret arms dealer who held the key to their mission.

"Tech here," Seungmin piped up, holding a sleek black earpiece. "Comms are crystal clear.Y/n, this bad boy will let you hear everything we're saying and vice versa."

She took the earpiece, the familiar cool plastic a source of comfort. Testing it, she spoke, "Can you hear me?"

A chorus of affirmations rose from the group. "Loud and clear," Felix said, his voice a steady rumble. "Remember, y/n, get close to Mark. Charm him, distract him, whatever it takes. We need that key."

She grinned, a dangerous glint in her eyes. "Charming billionaires? Piece of cake."

They ran through the escape route, Felix pointing out the security cameras they'd disabled and the quickest way to their getaway van. The tension crackled in the air, a mix of fear and excitement. They were about to steal from the thief, reclaiming what was rightfully theirs – the weapons Mark had stolen from their gang.

Later, bathed in the garish glow of the ballroom, she navigated the sea of socialites with practiced ease. Her gown swished around her ankles. Mark, a walking cliché in a polished suit, approached, his eyes sweeping over her with a practiced appraisal.

She forced a smile, laying on the charm as thick as the caviar on a nearby platter. "Well, hello there, beautiful," Mark drawled, his cologne a disgusting presence in her nostrils. The act was loathsome but necessary.

"Why, hello yourself," she purred, her voice dripping with feigned sweetness. They waltzed to the deafening music, his every touch sending a shiver down her spine, a mix of disgust and the need to stay in character.

"You have eyes like gold," Mark declared, leaning in a little too close. "The kind that could pierce a man's soul and steal all his secrets." She fought back an eye roll. Was this supposed to be romantic?

"Oh, really?" she countered, batting her eyelashes for maximum effect. "Perhaps they can steal the key to your heart as well, Mr. ?"

"Mark," he supplied, puffing out his chest in a way that made him look like he was lifting heavyweights "Mark Lee, at your service, beautiful lady."

Y/n choked back a laugh. "Damn, How cringe." He said through the earpiece, Felix's voice cracklings with amusement. “That's gotta be the worst pick-up line I've ever heard.”

She stifled a smile. Tell me about it she thought. She focused back on Mark, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Well, Mr.Lee, perhaps you can show me some of your… treasures later?" She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Mark's eyes widened, and a flush crept up his neck. Bingo. She thought, feeling a surge of satisfaction. This was going to be easier than she thought. As they twirled, y/n focused on the conversation Felix fed through the earpiece, their plan unfolding in real time. Her heart pounded in her chest, mimicking the rhythm of the music. Then, with a practiced flick of her wrist, she snagged the key from his pocket while they spun. Success. A silent thrill surged through her. The booming bass of the music seemed to vibrate the very floor beneath her feet. Through the earpiece, Felix's voice was a constant murmur, keeping her focused on the task at hand. Mark, thankfully oblivious, babbled about his latest yacht acquisition.

Suddenly, the air shimmered with a change in energy. She felt hair prickle on the back of her neck. A hush fell over the crowd, the music stuttering to a halt. Then, the ballroom doors exploded inward with a deafening bang.

Ateez, their most ruthless rivals, flooded the room. Their faces, twisted with murderous intent, scanned the sea of terrified socialites. Guns, a chilling army of black metal, rose in unison, trained on the unsuspecting crowd.

Panic ripped through the air. Screams rose, a cacophony of terror drowning out the remnants of the music.Y/n, momentarily frozen, felt a hand clamp around her wrist. Felix, his face a mask of cold fury, yanked her towards a strategically placed side door behind a towering potted plant.

"Go!" he barked, his voice a harsh rasp over the din. She stumbled the stolen key digging painfully into her palm.

"Felix, we need–" she spluttered, desperation warring with a burgeoning fear.

"No arguments!" he snarled, shoving her through the heavy oak door. It slammed shut behind her with a sickening thud, plunging her into the cool darkness of a deserted hallway. The faint thump of Felix's boots echoed against the floor as he disappeared back into the pandemonium.

Y/n sprinted, adrenaline coursing through her veins. Her dress, ridiculously impractical, caught on a loose wood board, ripping at the hem. She ignored it, driven by the primal need to get away. Behind her, the ballroom erupted in chaos. Shouts, gunfire, and shattering glass formed a terrifying symphony.

Reaching a pre-arranged meeting point, a back door leading to a collection of fire escapes, she collapsed against the wall. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Relief, heavy and sweet, washed over her, laced with a sickening dread. Felix. Where was he?

His voice, rough and laced with concern, crackled in her earpiece. "Y/n, are you alright?"

She lunged for the microphone, her voice raw. "Felix, I'm here. But you—"

His reply was a guttural sound, a mixture of pain and determination. "Get back to the safe house. I'll meet you there."

The line went dead. Fear, cold and primal, coiled in her stomach. Felix. He couldn't be hurt. Not him. Not after everything.

Ignoring the tremors in her legs, she pushed herself up and sprinted into the night. The stolen key felt heavy in her hand. Maybe she had gotten the key, but at what cost?

Minutes bled into an eternity as she navigated the back alleys. Finally, she reached the safe house, a small building cloaked in shadows. The heavy steel door creaked open before she even knocked.

There, in the dim light, stood Felix. His Face was soft and a dark stain bloomed on his silk white shirt. Yet, his eyes, the familiar fiery, held an unwavering softness.

He pulled her into a crushing hug, the metallic tang of blood mingling with the familiar scent of his cologne. In that moment, the world around them faded away. There was only him, her anchor in the storm and the unspoken promise that hung heavy in the air.

"Always behind you," he rasped, his voice thick with emotion. "Ride or die, remember?"

Her tears stinging her eyes could only manage a shaky nod. A genuine smile bloomed on her face. "Now let's go get our weapons back, baby," he murmured, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips before he closed the gap between them.

#stray kids #skz x reader #skz fluff #lee felix #stray kids fluff #stray kids x reader #lee felix fluff #lee felix x reader #stray kids felix #stray kids imagine #Spotify

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bebemoon · 9 months

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look for the name: ABIGAIL

vivienne westwood over-size python and roses sweater vest

aelfric eden plaid mini skirt w/ stacked belts

miu miu tortoiseshell/gold plexiglas headband

chanel caviar leather "cc" logo mini backpack in black

sandy liang double strap mary jane in black spazzolato leather

cartier "tank vintage" 26mm watch w/ croc-embossed band and gold hardware

d'orsay "g.a dandy or not" eau de parfum

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radiowallet · 11 months

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I Can

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x Marcus Moreno Summary: Dieter and Marcus meet a second time. WC: 4K Warnings: 18+ MDNI Explicit sexual content. Exclusive M/M dynamics. Written in third-person POV, male protagonists, handjob, dry humping, dirty talk, praise kink, a smidge of edging. Mentions of food and drug use. Small angsty moments. AU Marcus Moreno (no wife, no Missy).

A/N: A Saturday night fic drop? Why not? I'm literally just a chaos demon at this point. Big thanks to @writer-wednesday for this prompt and for inspiring me to revisit my boys (and basically create a whole entire universe for them). This is a follow-up to my random little drabble You Can. I have wanted to revisit these boys for so long and when the inspiration struck, I couldn't help but run with it. Thank you to my beloved @jazzelsaur and @magpie-to-the-morning for listening and encouraging every unhinged thought inside my head. The very best of enablers.

Pretend Alleyways Masterlist II Main Masterlist

For any new writing follow @radiowallet-writes and turn on notifications.

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Dieter refuses to spend another meal in some stuffy, overpriced hoity-toity bullshit restaurant. Ever since his plane touched down at JFK he’s been dragged from meeting to table read to some supposed ‘life-changing’ meal and back again. Which, okay, there are worse things in life than a $100 dollar plate of food, but the pretentiousness of it all was starting to eat away at him.

And the problem with the meals in particular is that even if they were somehow able to change the trajectory of his life, there were only so many tiny portions of shaved truffle caviar foie bullshit he could eat.

No. Tonight he needs something else. Cheese, and bread, and beef. Something warm and comforting and covered in just a touch too much grease. Something he can purchase with a 20-dollar bill and bring back to his hotel room to eat while he watches something trashy on television, before downing an edible or two, and jerking himself off until he passed out.

Marissa, thankfully, was a manager who knew when he had hit his limit. She waved him away with only two reminders of his call time for tomorrow and a promise to send a car. Dieter half mumbled his acknowledgment before slipping out of the lobby that housed one of the many studios he had met with that day, turning left and disappearing into the crowded streets of downtown Manhattan.

This was Dieter’s favorite part of the city. Sure, it was too loud. Too busy. Too bright. But hiding in plain sight? That became easy. Even in his most outlandish of outfits he blended in, able to make the walk to his hotel in relative peace.

He passes a myriad of carts on his way, each one smelling better than the last. He’s not sure what he’s craving, but Dieter is positive he’ll know it when he sees it. The sun has completely set by the time he turns the corner, the city lights guiding him towards the Park Hyatt just up ahead. And there, across the street, was a cart, neon signs for gyros and knish calling to him.

The line was only one man deep by the time he jaywalked his way over, the street light shining down like a spotlight, catching the actor’s attention almost immediately. Dieter stops short at the sight of him, the breadth of his shoulders and cut of his jaw enough to drag up a memory that has his toes curling and his belly swooping low. The memory of a frustrated frown shifting into a soft smile, brown eyes wide beneath thick glasses, a kiss that should have lasted a lot longer than it did.

He’s traded the tux from that night in for a black leather jacket and a pair of dark wash jeans, his head bent low, glasses slipping down the slope of his nose. Dieter smiles, stepping in line with a little more bounce in his step, his lips caught between his teeth, his appetite suddenly shifting. It seems he’s finally figured out exactly what it is that he’s been craving.

— — —

Marcus doesn’t really know how he feels about New York. He thinks maybe in another life he would hate it; one where he had a family at home waiting for him, someone to share the day-to-day mundane things with after all the superhero crap was put to bed. He probably would have pulled every string in the book to bring along this hypothetical family, and that thought alone takes his mood from sour to rancid. As it was, home, New York, Paris. It hardly mattered. He just wanted to wrap up the last of this press tour shit and get back to the real work.

There was only one more round of interviews tomorrow, most of them with the entire team. God willing, he could get away with a few quick answers and then nod along as the rest of the Heroics did the heavy lifting.

He was supposed to be out with the team right now. Drinks and dinner that he had (sort of) politely begged off, content with something hot and cheap to eat in the solitude of his hotel room. The smells from the Greek-themed cart had been calling to him since he first walked out of the Hyatt earlier that day and he was intent on stuffing his face full before passing out to the sound of some trashy reality show playing in the background.

He’s just starting to rationalize ordering one of everything, the Heroics Amex card already in the palm of his hand when the flick of a lighter and the smell of a cigarette catch his attention from behind. He wants to frown as the smoke invades his senses, the nasty habit once something that turned his stomach. But now all it does is drudge up a memory, almost 6 months old, but still there at the back of his mind; a dimpled grin and a searing kiss that left him aching.

He breathes in deep, letting the smell fill his lungs, humming at the bitter taste that coats his tongue. If he closes his eyes, he swears can almost feel the warmth of a breath on his neck, a man much too free for Marcus to keep, but who he wanted to anyway.

A loud cough yanks him back to reality, a gentle nudge urging him forward.

“Your turn, Heroic.”

Normally the call out would make his skin crawl, a signal to the beginning of either a very uncomfortable fan encounter or a 20-minute lecture on the interference of government sanctioned vigilantes. But the tone of the man is neither fawning nor judgmental, instead a teasing warmth that almost feels familiar. Marcus turns, an apology on the tip of his tongue and….

“It’s you.”

Dieter Bravo smiles around the cigarette dangling from his lips, all teeth and dimples and Hollywood charm, just as Marcus remembers.

“And it’s you.”

— — —

They end up ordering enough for two small armies, both men overtipping the patient cart owner enough that he promptly starts closing up shop the second they step away with their food. Marcus shrugs, the bag held tight to his chest, compelled to offer an explanation that Dieter didn’t ask for.

“Superhero metabolism.”

“I get it,” Dieter hums, wanting to put the other man at ease. It’s clear he’s wound just a bit too tight, the pressure of whatever responsibilities he carries with him not so much weighing him down as they do hold him up. Dieter thinks, assumes, the joy of being a hero left Marcus Moreno far too long ago, and he wonders if he could help him save just a tiny piece of it. Or at the very least get the man to smile once before they part ways again.

“I’m up for this gladiator thing. I have a feeling once I get back to L.A. it’s going to be all protein shakes and boiled chicken and green-colored juice. Probably best to indulge while I have the chance.”

Marcus frowns, shaking his head. “That’s not right. Starving yourself to hit some sort of stupid unattainable body image that was set by others.”

“Yeah,” Dieter hums, poking Marcus in one of his firm shoulders. “Can’t imagine what that’s like.”

The other man blushes and shakes his head. “Mine’s mostly genetics. Which…hearing out loud just makes me sound like an ass.”

“Mmm, I actually think your ass could use a bit of work,” Dieter clicks his tongue, eyes drifting around to Marcus’s backside.

His blush only darkens, and Dieter can’t help but delight in the reaction. “I’ll be okay, Heroic. All par for the course! Besides, it’s a 6-month shoot in Morocco. It’s been ages since I’ve been back there.”

“Oh, well…if you need help…I mean before you leave. Shit. I’m pretty handy in the gym, I mean,” he stammers out, hands clinging tighter to the greasy brown bag in his hands.

“Do superheroes make house calls?”

Marcus grinds his jaw to the left, his eyes shifting as far from Dieter’s as they can, but the blush remains. “If it’s something important.”

— — —

They’re staying in the same hotel. It shouldn’t surprise Marcus. Honestly, nothing should at this point, serendipitous coincidence managing to bring the two men together again despite all odds. They cross the street side by side, the doorman quick to open the door with a nod and a wave. Their steps echo through a seemingly empty lobby, most of the hotel guests having stepped out, their nights just getting started.

Dieter moves easily, the hand holding his food swinging back and forth in time with his steps. His jaws works effortlessly at the piece of gum he traded with the cigarette he had been puffing at, the tip of it crushed into the side of the hotel perfectly in time with their entrance. Marcus watches from the corner of his eye, admiring the way the other man moves, as if he’s dancing, each movement as fluid as the last.

The actor chatters beside him, an endless barrage of words that would be easy to write off as nonsense but despite that, Marcus finds himself listening with rapt attention. The actor talks about his meetings tomorrow, a chemistry read he hasn’t quite prepared for, an interview with Variety magazine scheduled directly after. Then he talks about the painting he had started before he left L.A. How he hopes the inspiration is still with him when he gets home.

By the time they get on the elevator, their shoulders brushing in the tight space, Marcus knows the type of bike Dieter owns (a 10-speed he likes to ride down to the pier), how he likes his toast (just shy of burnt, butter and jelly), and his plans for the night (food, edible, jerking off).

Marcus had even been caught up in the moment briefly, his own surprise at seeing the other man loosening his tongue just as it had all those months ago. He had stammered and stuttered in a way that he hadn’t since high school. He can’t seem to decide if he should be embarrassed or not, so he settles for quiet instead, only muttering his floor number once the elevator doors slide shut.

Dieter eyes him over his shoulder, the flecks of grey in the scruff of his jaw illuminated in the low light and mirrored walls. He leans closer, just enough to nudge Marcus’s shoulder, his smile slipping into something more tentative, mint and menthol and something sweet hypnotizing the heroic. He can’t help but match the other man’s movement, leaning in and licking his lips, trying to capture the taste on his tongue. Dieter doesn’t miss it, brown eyes flickering to Marcus’s lips and back again.

“Would you like some company?”

— — —

They ultimately decide to go to Dieter’s room, a joke about seeing the Penthouse tilting the actor’s grin to just this side of wolfish. Marcus is instantly drawn to windows, stretching from floor to ceiling, the whole city lit up, a glaring shine just beyond the glass.

“It seems brighter from up here.”

“The lights are so bright but they blind me,” Dieter sings beneath his breath, spreading out the food with careful dedication.

Marcus smiles at the sound of his voice, marveling at the sudden domestic turn his night has taken before placing his attention back on the skyline. Dieter moves around the couch to join him, carrying that same intoxicating smell with him.

“Haven’t you seen it from rooftops?”

Marcus shakes his head, eyes still glued to the sparkling spectacle in front of him. “The world looks too dark from that angle.”

Dark. Or Ugly. Honest. Yeah, Marcus can see everything from the rooftops, but none of it glittered. Not like this. Not like Dieter Bravo.

The tip of a finger, softer than he expected, touches his chin, the pressure light but insistent, impossible to ignore. He turns to find Dieter watching him, brown eyes reflecting the city stars back at Marcus, and he fights the urge to blink and miss what comes next. They move in together, almost close enough but not, and Dieter laughs, a soft chuckle that rumbles in his chest.

It reminds Marcus of that first kiss, so very long ago, down a dark alleyway, both of them pretending, for just a moment. He takes in a breath, a quick pull of air that steadies his nerves, before finally, finally, closing the last of the distance between them.

The kiss is soft at first, a brush of lips and a scrape of stubble. It’s faint, the sweetest shade of something new between the press of their lips, the taste of mint and menthol permeating his senses. Marcus can’t help but take one more, letting his lips linger on Dieter’s, his hands fitting perfectly along the dip of the other man’s hips.

It’s Dieter who deepens it, one palm sliding along the curve of Marcus’s cheek, the other grabbing where his leather jacket hangs open, fingers clenched into the fabric and yanking him closer. It’s the slip of a tongue between his lips that breaks him, a moan parting Marcus’s lips, the sound only encouraging Dieter to continue.

The hand on his hips pushes him back gently, one, two, three steps before they stop. Marcus pulls away to catch his breath but Dieter keeps him close, soothing the pad of his thumb across the flush of his skin.

“I missed you, baby.”

He wants to laugh, to point out it was just one kiss, and how? How could he miss him when he barely even knows him? But the endearment has him dizzy, the roof of his mouth tacky with desire, and all he can do is nod because yes. Of course, Marcus missed him too. What else was there to do but miss him?

He swoops in for another kiss, this time meeting Dieter’s tongue with his own, tasting him full on and groaning into the feeling. The noise seems to startle something awake in the other man, the grip on his cheek growing tight, his own strangled whine rising up the column of his throat.

When the kiss breaks, Dieter leans in, the scratch of his mustache rough where he hums his request in Marcus’s ear. “Can I take you to bed?”

“It’s been a while,” he can’t help but blurt out, pulling back to watch Dieter’s face carefully, preparing himself for the laughter and the teasing. “Almost 2 years.”

Still, Dieter doesn’t say anything, and Marcus can’t help but explain himself just a little bit more. “Most people can’t handle it.”

Marcus hates to say it. Hates the way it sounds and feels and tastes, the words bitter and biting on his own ears. The harsh, unrelenting truth that what he is will always be overwhelming for those that dare to love him. That the painful responsibilities that were forced upon by the realities of his genetics will always be the barrier around his heart. Most days it was easy enough to ignore, and in the time since had last felt another’s touch, Marcus had found a way to cope, where loneliness was just another weight he would bear in order to do what was right.

Dieter nods, eyes wide and frown small, an equal mix of understanding and pity marked across his features, as if to say ‘yeah, people can be assholes.’

And then he actually says it. “Assholes.”

There’s another kiss and then another, their bodies moving slowly back towards the couch. Dieter's fingers are skilled, pushing and pulling, Marcus’s leather coat hitting the ground seconds before his own. Those same fingers find their way beneath his shirt, mapping the planes of his stomach, the quiver of muscle chasing Dieter’s touch.

Marcus can only cling to the other man, refusing to part from their kiss for more than a second, breath traded back and forth, the only oxygen he ever needed between Dieter’s lips. His touch is insistent, smoothing at his heated skin, fingers digging into the flesh, the almost bite of his nails leaving Marcus gasping high and bright into their kiss. His glasses are pulled off somewhere in the fray, finding a home on the floor behind them.

“The …t-the bed?”

“Figured I’d take it easy on you,” Dieter grins in time with Marcus’s knees bending around the couch cushions.

They fall down together, Dieter immediately crowding into Marcus, his large hand palming where he strains beneath his jeans while he takes care to kiss each and every freckle scattered across Marcus’s. His hips buck immediately, even the gentle touch enough to send him lurching. Dieter is quick to soothe him, teeth nipping at his ear as he coos sweetly, the press of his hand only growing more insistent.

“Patience, baby. We have time.”

There it is again. That little endearment. Sweet and small, and so so much that Marcus can only moan, head falling into the crook of Dieter’s neck. Somewhere above him there is a chuckle, the sound vibrating from one man to the other, and Marcus can only hold on tighter as Dieter tugs at the zipper of his jeans. His breath hitches as the sound of it echoes inside his head, and he feels Dieter pause, only the brush of his thumb on the head of his leaking cock ground them to this moment.

Later, Dieter will confess, sweat cooling on Marcus’s temple, the actor's lips kissing the slick of it away, that he was watching him carefully at that moment. Desperate to see him fall apart, anxious to know if he needed to pull back. It’s then that they promise to say it. Always say it. Exactly what they need and what they want.

Secrets have never done either man any good.

Marcus leans into the light touch, awkward and needy, lips fusing to the curve of Dieter’s neck. There’s the musk of his cologne, something earthy and real clinging to his senses, mixing with the smell of smoke that always seems to burn around the other man’s edges. Marcus is ravenous for him, marking him with a bruising kiss, the steady chant of mine, mine, I wish he was mine thumping inside his chest.

Dieter doesn’t falter, pulling Marcus’s aching length from the confines of his jeans, a loose grip around the base as he continues to stroke the tip softly, gathering the bead of precum with the pad of his thumb. It’s more intimate than he expected, reputations always proceeding those in the limelight. Marcus should have known better, the camera always giving away more falsehoods than beautiful truths.

“Eager, aren’t we?” Dieter teases, not an ounce of cruelty in the words. Another kiss is gifted to Marcus’s neck, the drag of Dieter’s tongue follows, his own groan pouring out of him. “I’m gonna make you feel so good. I promise.”

The effect of his words is maddening, and Marcus takes care to muffle his whine into Dieter’s neck, teeth and tongue still working along the salt of his skin. The actor is only encouraged by this, continuing to purr little drops of filthy encouragement into his ear as he starts to stroke Marcus from base to tip.

“Been too long since someone made you feel this good,” he hums, twisting his wrist lightly each time he strokes up the length of Marcus’s cock, the velvet heat of his skin catching on the other man’s palm. The friction is almost too much, a staggering sort of gasp breaking past his lips as Dieter’s voice continues to coach him through each and every stroke of his hand.

“You look so good like this, baby. So good. You can fuck my hand if you want. Go on, use your hips.”

The prompt is all Marcus needs, his hips canting up to meet Dieter’s touch. His fingers dig in hard, one hand finding purchase on Dieter’s forearm, the other wrapped around the curve of his shoulder. He anchors himself to the other man, fucking up into his fist faster and faster and faster still.

“Feel good? Hmm?” Dieter asks, the hook of his nose pressed into Marcus’s temple, lips teasing the swell of his cheek. “Fucking someone else’s hand instead of your own?”

Marcus stutters out a ‘yes’ the word lost between his cries of pleasure. Dieter continues to indulge in the noises, each one helping to shift the weight of his touch, the grip around Marcus’s cock soft then hard, the pressure building faster than he can take in breaths. He tilts his head, eyes searching frantically, a desperate plea tumbling from his lips and hanging thick in the air between them.

“Kiss me.”

And Dieter does, lips molding to Marcus’s, the tip of his tongue tracing the seam until finally, he parts beneath, another moan for him to swallow. All the while, his pace is consistent, up and down, faster then slower then faster again. It’s indulgent, the way Dieter touches him, relishing in each pulse, every sound, and Marcus loses track of how long it’s really been. The pleasure is blinding, keeping him tethered to the edge of the cliff, release blissfully out of reach.

“Bet you look so pretty, all cock dumb, hmm? I’d love to see that,” Dieter teases and Marcus agrees, can only agree, something ragged taking over his sensibilities.

He continues to move with the other man, rising up into the open air, hips awkwardly meeting each and every caress of his hand. Dieter moves with the same freedom he had in the hotel lobby, his own hips grinding up and down, the length of his cock hard and pulsating where it presses into Marcus’s side. Their kisses only grow more wild, just a sloppy press of lips, off-centered and well-intentioned, as they both work closer and closer to the crest of arousal.

Dieter remains focused, his own pleasure secondary to that of the Heroic’s. The kiss breaks just in time for something white hot to settle at the base of Marcus’s spine, everything grows tight and bright and so so sweet. Teeth scrape along his jaw, the tip of a tongue soothing the same path, Dieter’s words coaxing him up to the top of the hill.

“You’re close, baby. So close. Go on, you can let go. I’m right here.”

It’s all Marcus needs, the last of his strength giving out as everything burns, thick ropes of white cum spilling out of him. Dieter hums, using his seed to smooth out his strokes, and continues to whisper little bits of praise into Marcus’s ear.

“I know. I know, baby. You’re doing so good. Tell me if it’s too much.”

It is. It is too much, the way Dieter keeps stroking his cock, half hard and still dribbling drops of cum around the curl of his fist. But Marcus refuses to stop him, leaning into the painful overstimulation until the tips of his fingers go numb, his moans breaking out into sobs, tears tracking down his cheeks to mix with his sweat. Dieter decides for them both then, his hand finally slowing, giving Marcus a chance to adjust to the light touch before pulling away for good, the palm of his hand sliding a sticky trail up his cheek.

It should feel filthy, Marcus’s own cum pressed into his skin while Dieter grinds his cum soaked pants into the dip of his hips. But even now, Marcus can feel his cock twitch in interest, the moment so very decadent and dirty and leaving him hungry for more. Dieter grins, licking his lips, clearly agreeing with whatever look that is crossing Marcus’s features, swooping in for one more kiss, this one there and gone, a fleeting breath of him that leaves him whining.

But Dieter doesn’t go far, his hand smoothing up to push back an errant curl, brown eyes impossibly deep, and he takes his time to kiss away each and every tear. When he pulls away, it’s only to whisper a quiet promise. “I can.”

Marcus tilts his head, his confusion unspoken, the haze of his orgasm still gripping tight to his senses. Dieter takes it in stride, his smile growing, confident and cocky with how dumb he’s rendered the heroic.

“I can handle it,” he clarifies, dragging his hand down to rest his thumb where Marcus’s lips part, the faintest taste of himself waiting there. “Can you?”

And all Marcus can do is nod. Because. Yes. Of course. Of course, he can. What other answer is there?

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Pretend Alleyways Masterlist II Main Masterlist

For any new writing follow @radiowallet-writes and turn on notifications.

Dedications:

To my dearest, my wonderful enablers @jazzelsaur and @magpie-to-the-morning who have listened to me talk about these boys ALL. WEEK. Literally, every random thought I had about Dieter and Marcus, together or separate, was blasted into their DM's. I have become a woman possessed. The best friends a girl could ask for in these trying fandom times. Thank you both, for loving me and my boys.

#Dieter Bravo #Marcus Moreno #Dieter Bravo x Marcus Moreno #male on male #the bubble fic #we can be heroes fic #pedro pascal characters #Pretend Alleyways

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peacekeeperangel · 5 months

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Well this was my attempt at the idea I had for Drawing Gajinka of everyone's favourite pairing of Captain Caviar Cookie and Black Pearl Cookie. I had 3 major disadvantages. 1- I have never read a Harlequin Romance novel in my Life so the only idea I could come up with is "Puffy White Shirt and tight leather pants" for the Good Captain

2- Whatever research I found with Harelquin Romance novels the poses and images looked REALLY BORING. Seriously lots of Mermaids, lots of Sailors but no combo images?! Anyway I just winged it. 3- In case it isn't obvious compaired to a lot of really brilliant artists on tumblr I'm not really that good. So while I'm proud that it looks great with what I got I didn't totally 100% get that gloriously cheesy slutty Romance image I had in my head. Oh well.

This was fun though, for the Blackaviar fans out there give it a try yourself, if nothing else for the mental image of the two badasses screeching in horrified embarassment, that's what kept me going.

#cookie run kingdom #captain caviar cookie #black pearl cookie #blackavar

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mrs-trophy-wife · 9 months

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#chanel #classic flap #double flap #caviar leather #cc #coco Chanel #Chanel bag #bag #handbag #purse #foowers #bouquet

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quills-of-freedom · 1 year

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Series ~ Modern AU house party pack

Armin Arlert edition 🌺

Includes screen-shots, a song, sex positions, aesthetics & more

Warnings: Includes Alcohol consumption. Smut. I understand you need to be 21 to drink in America but it's 18 here :) So 18+ only for the smut please ~!

Armin's aesthetic:

You can’t help but feel a little nervous as you lock your door and turn to walk towards Armin, who is waiting patiently for you in his car. He hadn’t been waiting long, so his engine was still rumbling.

He’s fumbling with something down the side of his door as you approach - his strong neck muscles flexing as his head bobs slightly with his lean.

Greets you with a warm; “Hey!” And a huge smile as you open the passenger door.

Getting inside, your senses are bombarded with his car air freshener mixed with whatever beautiful cologne he was peppered with.

His long fingers turn the volume down of the music so he can hear you better; waiting for you to fasten your seat belt.

“Hey, how you been?” You ask a little shyly as you strap in, the cool leather seats caressing your bare thighs.

“Great thanks and yourself? You look… Amazing.” His ocean blues soften as he says this, hand absentmindedly grazing the top of his steering wheel.

He clears his throat and puts his attention on the road as he begins to pull away.

“Are you hungry?” He’ll ask. “I could drive through a burger place if you want? Shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach.”

You tell him you’ve eaten but he goes through anyway - he himself being peckish and it was a good way to have a little catch-up before the party as you both sit in the parking lot munching on whatever you’d ordered. (Yes you couldn’t turn down something once you caught the smell of the fast food joint)

The party

It’s almost ten by the time he pulls up outside of Historia’s house. You already spot Zeke having a cigarette on the porch, standing talking to Proco and Pieck. The front door open with music blaring out onto the lawn had your heart racing with excitement as Armin walks round and opens the car door for you.

Porco teases you with a long, loud whistle from across the lawn. “Lookin’ good, baby.”

“Shut up.” You laugh, knowing he was playing around.

It was still a little early but there were plenty of people around to feel comfortable with the vibe that was building. Your heart almost explodes when Armin casually laces his fingers into yours as you walk towards the house, his car alarm beeping with confirmation of being active behind you.

Okay so this was a date. And he’s already making it clear you’re his for the night.

Once inside Historia greets you both - already pretty drunk and hanging off the neck of her boyfriend. Some guy who owns a farm somewhere.

The party is amazing. More people arrive and you and Armin temporarily part ways to socialise, bit you notice he’s keeping a close eye on you at all times. In fact, everytime you glanced in his direction his eyes would quickly snap back to the conversation he was having.

Reiner, Connie, Marco, Jean, Porco and Eren had a chugging competition at one point. Marco coughed and spluttered his beer everywhere - snot falling out of his nose and everything.

Sasha and Niccolo were snugged up in the corner making out most of the night. They were new lovers, you couldn’t really blame them.

Mikasa and Annie just sat and bitched about how shitty men were most of the night.

At one point though, everyone was dancing and it was so much fun you were crying with laughter as Connie and Reiner had a dance off.

Connie won with the robot followed by a worm.

Reiner didn’t wanna get on the floor.

Porco and Reiner had an argument. Typical. Nothing new.

Surprisingly, you walked in on Jean and Eren having a “bro” moment in the washroom near the back door.

“Eren… I know we don’t get along. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about what happens to you. I just wish you took care of yourself more. It’s a big world out there. And it’s nasty.”

“Jean… I feel the same! Like sometimes I just wanna scream at you to shut the fuck up but also that I love you as a brother? Am I making sense?”

Ignoring it you continue outside for some fresh air when Armin follows you out.

“You alright?” He smiles, snaking his arm around your waist.

You nod. “Yeah just getting some fresh air.”

His cologne was still evident as you push into his chest as a guard from the cool air that raised Goosebumps across your skin.

His mouth presses against your head and your entire body catches fire when he whispers; “It’s getting late. Wanna get out of here?”

Your place

Your ears are still ringing from the loud music when you both leave the cab and enter your house, your body aching from the dancing and sore from the laughing.

“You want a drink? Water or soda?” You ask Armin as he gingerly walks into your living room.

You both talk over some bottled water, both of you a little tipsy but nothing too bad. Before you know it, it’s 5 am.

You offer Armin a place in your bed for the night. He says he wouldn’t mind sleeping on the sofa if you were more comfortable with that.

That’s when you press your lips against his, hungrily before grabbing his hand and leading him to your bedroom.

Your bedroom

It’s that kind of sex where you’re both so eager that you’re panting pretty much straight away with quivering, loud breaths.

Your lips smack loudly off each other in needing kisses, hands and fingers trembling as you undress one another.

You were blown away but how surprisingly soft yet dominant Armin was. First, he blows you away with this

After your third climax, he has you all over the bed, absolutely feral for you. His moans are so pretty as well as his cock, and God does he know how to use it.

Has you like this, this, this and this.

“You look so pretty bouncing on my cock…”

“Ah, you’re so tight.”

“I’ve wanted you for so long…”

“Mmm you feel beautiful inside.”

“Shit… Y/n…”

“You’re such a good girl for me, aren’t you baby?”

Aftercare

Armin holds you close, running his hand through your hair and letting you know how amazing the sex was and how beautiful you are.

Will probably ask to be your boyfriend. He wasn’t after a one time thing.

Will definitely order you both breakfast once you’ve woken up - or probably lunch, maybe even dinner by the time you do rouse from your sex induced slumber.

#armin smut #snk armin #armin arlet smut #armin aot #snk x y/n #snk x reader #snk x you #armin x fem reader #armin x reader #Spotify

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gemville · 1 year

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Jacob & Co. Caviar Flying Tourbillon "Tsavorites" Timepiece

388 Baguette-Cut Tsavorite Garnets With An 18k White Gold Case, Bezel, Face and Crown. Green Alligator Leather Strap

Source: yahoo.com

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inklores · 1 year

Text

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐆𝐍𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐌𝐒.

pairing: henry!sherlock holmes x fem!oc

summary: sherlock holmes needs to find his intrepid little sister. clara bedi wants to keep his sharp nose off her trail. (word count: 3.1k)

content contains: fluff, sherlock being bad with women, slight strangers to lovers but they're both smart idiots

author's note: made originally for a class assignment but i'm too proud of it to keep it hidden away in my google docs!! enjoy

FUMES OF SMOKE lifting from the corners of his lips, he thumbed the lapis silk tie the pamphlet was bound by. The rhythmic movement was a rehearsed habit of his, charting keen thoughts that were falling into place.

Tea in the Parlor

Magazine of Modern Womanhood

25 April 1884

“A Problem With No Name. I’ve first heard that uttered so solemnly beneath the breath of a mother amid other mothers over the scent of teacakes and the English brew that her hands had surely processed the week before. Another cried. As your humble magazine writer, there have been women beyond our teatime who had answers to my questions. Those who sort matchsticks in factories, who raise children, who nurse other children. Those who live in the fine estates of Westminster, lodging houses along Greater London, and flats bordering Whitechapel, all have the same problem. The groping truths to their lamentations, brought into light when the children were away and their husbands attended to important business over a glass of sherry at their gentleman’s clubs,—”

Something more than a scoff and less than a laugh escaped Holmes.

“—were provoking. Just what was this nameless problem? A whisper that refuses to be said. The bond of pain, of womanhood, of the searing feeling that something great shall arrive to our fair England.”

— C.E. Babbington.

“Mr. Holmes, I hope you’re not mistaking me as someone with whom you are at odds with.”

Clara wore burgundy today.

Or indigo to a sharp eye, moreso if she sat in the dusky shade rather than by the window where sunlight was allowed to stream through the frosted glass tiles. The heat of the afternoon, Clara could tolerate. The brisk cold, the musk of tobacco, pomade, and fine English leather that filled her office—all mingling together to create one scent that floated around the man who stood in front of her— she virtually could not.

Well, “office” may have been a playful nudge to her ego. It was more of a closet with a pen, a hook to hang her coat when there was a chill, a canister of her favorite tea matched with her precious teapot, and a small sideboard that she used to stash her extra paper. Clara had spent enough time in that little closet to learn its quirks and commodities. The shutters would not close in blustery weather unless they were bound by a scarf. The gentleman who would take his Saturday morning coffee and eggs always found something to guffaw about in the newspaper. Clara knew because she could hear the fervor of his chortles from one story up. The fifth floorboard from the door creaked with the slightest movement and she had garnered the will to purchase a rug that softened footsteps over the parquet.

Now if only she could purchase a rug to wrap around the man filling her tiny corner with the fumes of… man.

A tall man. Haughty by the way he stood. He looked strong and sturdy, weaned on the finest food money could buy. Clara wondered if he teethed on crumpets and caviar as a baby. His clothing may have been picked to feign oneness with the people of England, but she noticed a grain on his breasted black coat. His crisp white shirt boasted no wrinkle, cinched around his neck by a silk ascot the color of charcoal. Chestnut curls spilled across his head—sharing no unified form—and fighting to be free of the pomade that gleamed in the dimness of the lamplight. She imagined an artless tumble of locks when he was nose-deep in a case. An errant strand fell over his brow, softening his countenance where his tone failed to.

“Have you anticipated me, Miss Bedi?”

It was Clara’s mistake for stopping short of her movements. Her fingers froze on the handle of her teapot and it was then she realized the incriminating ink stains that blotched her bronzed fingers.

She did not. He knew that. He likely knew what she had for breakfast as well. Hence the cloying pride that laced his query.

A tickle caught in her throat and she swallowed tightly to preserve her pride as she arched a dark brow. “No, I have not, but I applaud your effort. Nobody contemplates and makes a theater out of their face quite like you.”

Looking up from the tea she was pouring, Clara barely caught the indignant twitch in his face, even as his mountainous posture was unrelenting. For a man who was presumed to be discreet, he was quite eye-catching.

He dropped his gaze down to the lonely armchair and side table Clara would enjoy her tea in. It was the one perpetually surrounded by her basket of stained pen tips and folded newspapers— Clara had the habit of saving old prints—bits of thread, scraps of silk in cooler hues, linen from occasional embroiders, and stacks of books from Edith that never make it back to the shelf, being moved around constantly on the empty promise of being read to completion.

It was a detective’s heaven.

“The name ‘Holmes’ is beginning to mean quite a deal in this country,” her eyebrows slanted, copper eyes filled with constellations, “and do you think I would be in my position if I did not know?”

“Precisely why you flinched when I used your name and not your pen name.” His voice was rich as a fine velvet she let her hands graze over at a textile stand, but detached. “Deceit. To hide the plain truth, just as frills and elegant coifs do. Yes, it may dress you like a powder puff—” she parted her lips in protest but his eyes glimmered like opals, he was clearly not done—“but the man holding the pen is entirely different. In that…”

Her grip on her teacup could not get any tighter, for one tremor to rattle the porcelain would have him arriving quicker to the deduction he savored for last.

“He is not a man at all, is he?”

She watched in bated, almost nonexistent, breath—wondering how quickly she could get her hands on the cake spade lying unfashionably by the crumbs of a Dundee cake she had scarfed down the night before—as he fished a blue silk tie that bookmarked the yellowed book she just realized he held.

“How does a C.E. Babbington become… the elusive Clara Eashwar Bedi?”

A wave of cold took her from head to toe. If Clara wasn’t gripping the edge of her desk, knuckles quickly whitening, she was sure her knees would’ve given out. She stared down at the pretty silk tie, and then at the folded pamphlet he slid over the varnished surface, the black ink script almost snickering at her in mockery.

His words came as fluidly as water, uttered with a stone-cold expression she figured was his mask for his famous deductions.

“Four separate purchases of pens and paper from three different vendors.”

Spreading her tracks. No writer who desired anonymity would so foolishly expose herself by making a reputation with one seller.

He was studying her closet-office now. A satin kerchief protected his hand as he chose a stained pen to scrutinize. “Bills from Whitechapel. Cheaper ink—a shadowy writer such as yourself would not earn her dues to spend carelessly on finer supplies than supper for the night. Or silk ties to make her mark. To create a name.”

Cheaper ink bleeds easier. Her fingers, a blatant victim.

“Bedi.” He tasted her last name on his tongue for a moment, eyebrows pinched as if he was trying to paint a map in his acute mind. “When did your father leave India?”

Her throat was dry but she swallowed down her apprehension and managed out, “Fifteen years ago.”

“Does he work on the docks?”

“Worked.”

A flash of humanity lightened his eyes and the man of a chilly, pragmatic acumen faltered. “Apologies.”

The sound that tumbled from Clara’s lips could only be described as something between a shaking sigh and an aggravated grumble. “What is it you want, Mr. Holmes?”

“You write for the Magazine of Modern Womanhood,” he continued, making Clara bite back an exhausted groan. “Yet you affect a pseudonym. Why?”

“I don’t write for the magazine, I write alongside it,” Clara mumbled. Why was she entertaining him? “I don’t have the means to print my pieces independently— as you so cleverly deduced by my purchases of ink.”

“Your pieces… and other submissions, I’d bet.”

“Are you a betting man?” She lifted a brow curiously, daring him to stop this frivolous quadrille of tongues and get to the point.

“A cipher with the fingerprints of my sister was published in the personal advertisements column of your magazine, The Pall Mall Gazette, and The Journal of Dress Reform. It’s our mother’s interest she hopes to attract and with the choice of your publication, she has a good start.”

“God, there’s more of you?” she asked, feigning horror. “Is the world ready for that?”

(But where the name Mycroft Holmes was etched in cold stone and proud, old money, she had the sense the name Sherlock meant something else. Something whisper quiet like a dusty novel on crumpled velvet. Elegant with solitude.)

Sherlock took a step forward, his fingers still thumbing the fraying corner of the book. “Have you any idea where she might be?” He tilted his head. “I’m afraid our mutual acquaintance Edith had more to say of my “ostrich-like” nature than my sister.”

Clara couldn’t help the kick in her voice as she responded, “Appropriate.”

He smiled at her, a Private Investigator brand of Smile that Clara knew well enough from the numerous times a constable had approached the magazine for its inflammatory words, and which only deserved a Young Journalist Smile.

But what he said snagged her attention as well as a good story. Eudoria’s daughter. Little Enola.

Edith had mentioned her once or twice. Clara might have seen a glimpse of a little brown-headed girl with quick feet, dashing about Ferndell Hall when ladies of a particular ilk huddled around a table, bearing swords on their tongues and determination in their hearts. Clara typically stood behind her bolder friend, Edith, clutching a pen that barely made a scratch against her worn pocketbook. She knew little for the illustrious Sherlock Holmes to knock on her door… but little was more than enough to be cunningly dissected and deduced by him.

“Enola’s missing?” she asked slowly, hoping to stall but Sherlock Holmes was not a man for idle chatter. Her head shook in a disappointing, deceiving refusal. “I’m sorry, but I have the faintest idea as to where she’s gone and why.”

“I find that highly improbable,” said Holmes in a tone that suggested he too was done with this waltz. “You’re protective of your name, or, names —”

“And what will you do if I use your name, Mr. Holmes?” Clara countered rigidly, her heart leaping into her throat. “Loudly? With proper dictation? Letting everyone know your business more than you’d like?”

“Then you’d also find yourself and Edith in a very difficult position, one that I’ve made clear to her and will to you if I must,” Sherlock warned, dropping his voice to a decibel that made a chill rattle her spine. A hint of vague frustration was tangled within his dull humor.

Clara stilled, watching as he turned over the book and leafed through toward the back cover. Stuffed in the spine was a folded napkin and he paired it with the newspaper clipping for her viewing displeasure. Wrinkled and white and stamped with the crumbs of a pastry, her eyes were naturally drawn to the hasty scrawl in ink:

“C.E.B.

Matter of Bill —

Tea Rooms”

The same dismayed expression from when he dissected her alter ego took ahold of her face once more, even if she tried to disguise it by a clench of her jaw.

“Macaroons could do with some attention but Edith has enough to worry about,” said Holmes. “She’ll notice the missing book from her seditious collection but not the message hidden inside— a message written to Babbington, who I understand is an intrepid young woman, so I’m sure you’re aware of what the proper connections can do for a man.” The distant, icy blue of his eyes warmed. “I asked of your father— a man who likely worked too hard for too little a reward and you, his daughter, silently fighting in favor of a bill that will help the men and women like him.”

“My,” Clara gasped, “Mr. Holmes, I didn’t take you for a man of politics.”

The stray little curl swished across his brow as he shook his head. “Oh, I’m far from it.”

She hummed curiously. “Then, what do you fancy? People? Poetry? Probably not. It’s your cases that keep you warm at night, which is why you hunt your own sister in blind circles like a dog chasing his tail.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice, “If Edith tells you nothing, I will say even less. Trust your sister… and the future. Good day, Mr. Holmes.”

She made to go around him, ignoring the way her stomach fluttered as she did, until a bleak and dare she say, concerned mutter caught her ear.

“She’s a child.”

“By my understanding, you’ve abandoned her once, Mr. Holmes. In the pursuit of where your mind takes you and little of your heart,” Clara said, more sharply than was her wont.

“I beg your pardon.”

The anger in his voice flared like a bleeding heart. A man who was a fire next to gunpowder, ready to speak his mind and snatch the rug beneath a pair of unsuspecting feet. She could loathe him for being so perceptive and intelligent, yet plainly missing the changes of the world. But that tone… He was no longer a brilliant mind or a pleasantly distant man. He was a brother who wanted to know where his sister was.

And if there was ever a case that Sherlock Holmes would encounter, it would leave no secrets he could not crack.

Clara turned around, stained fingers toying with each other, teeth worrying her lower lip to a reddening bruise. Amusement danced in her eyes, quenching the frustration that twisted his sharply cut features.

“You have it,” she admitted after a pause, cheeks growing warm. “Because I’m a woman who believes in second chances… and the calling of her heart rather than her mind. And a desolate, hopeless bachelor tugs at that heart, I’m afraid.”

Sherlock’s face contorted incrementally, the corners of his lips curling up just a tad. It was not a smile. Another part of her would have thought so but not the smart part. Still, it was an odd expression that made Clara think it was gracious.

“I’m not aware of such a reputation.” Fond.

“Figures,” she sighed, eliciting a huff of laughter from him. The sound was enough to make her face crack with a smile. “Enola’s sixteen. And if she’s anything like her mother and brother, she won��t go down with a fight nor will she be drawn away from it. And the real fight is coming. I advise you to start there.”

He squinted at her. Then at the napkin. Then at the clipping signed by C.E. Babbington. The fight.

“A problem with no name,” he murmured.

“It has a name, Mr. Holmes. Whether it will be spoken is decided by men like you and your older brother,” she added, rightly hopeful. “Perhaps that will change.”

Silence settled comfortably between them until the pounding of her heart became too loud for her ears to bear. She cleared her throat and pulled the knob to her door, returning her gaze to Sherlock.

“Until next time, Mr. Holmes.” She smiled. “I hope your game finds its feet. My best to your sister.”

He tilted his chin in an understanding nod, hand pressing against the curly blue tie that still sat next to his evidence, her pamphlet. To her surprise, he waited. One hand disappeared in the flap of his jacket and came out holding a fine black pen shot with gold trimming. To a man like Holmes, it was a pen to write some very useful reckonings of the mind but to Clara, it looked more valuable than what she earned in a week. It clinked as he set it on her desk, accompanied by that slight, mysterious smile.

“Trust a bill won’t be made,” Sherlock assured, amused as he approached her. He extended the blue ribbon to her.

“And a secret will be kept,” she enforced, fixing him with a look as she curled her fingers over the forbidden silk tie, folding it into his palm.

His hand was cold, callused like the reward of cracking cases. Yet it managed to send a surge of heat swirling in her chest, akin to lightning crossing a black sky.

(And did she intend the other thing she did too? The split-second brush of her fingertips over his palm and the way the ball of his throat was disturbed by a tight swallow. Savoring the softness of the lapis silk strand against his pale flesh and her copper skin.)

He lingered by the doorframe for more than a second. Sherlock looked at her— perhaps a more bewitching case with the narrowest twists and the sharpest of turns. A shadow of a smile graced his prim lips and he let out a delectable, ruminative hum. “Is that a promise I would be foolish to break, Miss Babbington?”

“Indeed it is, Mr. Holmes.” She watched him depart, a puzzling black figure who had more to his voice than what he decided to speak.

“Oh, on the subject of hearts…”

Sherlock paused and turned around. He studied the meticulous way she swept her indigo skirt behind her and made him wait until she finally, painstakingly met his gaze. Only then she made him realize how beholden he was to her unfinished prose.

“While surely hopeless for a… perspicacious man with such a baffling pigheadedness,” Clara murmured, smiling lopsidedly, “do keep yours open.”

Before he left with another curt, reserved nod, Sherlock ruminated on her words. Her tone— he barely noticed the way he wondered how all of her other pretty, printed words would sound if they were turned from ink to… to… that voice.

No… she was not a case. She was a quandary. An unsolved riddle that he cracked with the full assumption that the winning hand was in his, only to turn over his cards and see that it was she who had the royal flush.

What fresh hell was this?

#sherlock holmes x oc #sherlock holmes #enola holmes #henry cavill #henry!sherlock #cavill!holmes #one-shots #ao3 #sherlock holmes x fem!oc

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