i use my blog to give my imagination a safe place to wander, so get yourself at home and dive in (an euphemism to say that i'm too lazy to make a masterlist)! And, please, do not mind my ortographic errors: english is not my first language nor my second. What's more, every one of them confirms that I don't use artificial intelligence!
i’m currently consuming and posting content about Bullseye (Daredevil) and Ghost (Call of Duty), so: if you have any ideas or thoughts about them but don’t have the time to write them down, drop me a message ꕥ
My OC's rarely have a name, but i refer to them as 'Dove/Dovie' and as a female since is that is what i have the most experience with
about me:
in my 20s somwhere between university - library - craving some dopamine. also a medicated + diagnosed autistic person with ocd and chronic pain, which means that some of my stories aim to give a voice to people with mental and physical health issues, whilst we having fun! so, if you share some of the conditions on my list, you’ll see a bit of representation in every step i take as a writer <3
WHAT I DO NOT WRITE ABOUT:
1. Step-father / step-brother / family trope basically.
2. Noncon - cnc
My others:
- ig: @/worstbookpage
- wattpad: sara7227
- goodreads: S. W. - Spain (1,127 books) | Goodreads
- pinterest
everybody talks about the concept of dex always hitting the right spot during sex, but what about him doing it so incessantly that it borders on painful at times?
and it's not like he's even doing it on purpose, dex couldn't possibly miss that spot even if he tried. it's just something he knows, a strange kind of awareness that sometimes slips from his mind completely, most likely when he's buried so deep inside you he can't bring himself to think about anything else other than fulfilling what he deems to be his most important task: getting you off. that familiar instinct takes over completely then, the only thought registering in his fucked up brain being to just fucking. hit. that. spot.
every thrust lands with striking precision, your whole body jolting beneath him at each slam of his hips against yours. pleasure hits you so strong it creates a deep pressure just below your navel, your mouth slackening to release sounds that seem foreign coming out of your own mouth. you're sure your entire fucking neighborhood can hear you at this point.
"dex—dex! if you keep—oh my fucking god—we'll have to stop—" you all but yelp, hands flying in an attempt to steady yourself. they land across his back, nails digging into skin with enough force to draw blood.
"no! no no no, sweetheart," dex urges, eyes snapping open to find yours. "i'll go slow then. i'll make it good for you. like this—" the change in pace is deliberate, instantly allowing you room to breathe again once he's no longer pounding into that sensitive spot over and over again. "you like it like this? let me make you feel good, please."
you know it'll give you only a few minutes before dex starts to get lost in it again, but you can't really deny him anything when he looks this desperate—this eager to please you. so you will yourself to nod, even as your head feels much lighter than it probably should, your face contorting into what you're sure is the most dumb, fucked out expression to ever grace your features.
summary: the life of being just a wife who cleans, makes food and listen to an absent husband is starting to take its toll, but then... you find the hunter
warning: sexual headcanons, cheating! (with shane), porn without a solid plot, guilt, lust, moral problems
❀ ── your husband had turned your sex life into something robotic; lights off, two minutes of awkward thrusting, then rolling over to check his phone. that night at the cabin party, the hunter of the yosemite park was there. you didn't even know that was a real job until you met him, and yet shane maguire cornered you like a mouthwatering prey against the wall of the old boathouse. within minutes he had your dress shoved up around your waist, adorable greeny panties yanked to the side and two thick fingers buried deep in her already dripping cunt. "been starving, haven’t you?" he growled against your neck. "poor thing" you came hard on his hand before he even got his cock out.
❀ ── when he finally turned you around and squeezed half of your face, still pretty red and warm, against the wall, he pushed inside you — raw, thick, and relentless —. you had to bit down on his hand in order to keep the party going on outside. shane fucked you like a man, not a husband. he smelled like sweat and like the soft ground after the rain pounding you against the wooden wall until your legs shook and his cum was leaking down your underware.
❀ ── without being able to walk in a straight line or remember your own name, you only had one thing on your mind, and it was shane, shane, shame?
❀ ── days after that unspeakable event, your husband was gone on another work trip. shane, who was keepin an eye on you, didin't knew you were married and he wouldn't even mind. he knocked your door under the excuse of fixing the faucet. ten minutes later he had you bent over the kitchen counter where you served eggs and coffee to your husband hours before, dress rucked up, bare tits pressed against the cold granite. he didn’t bother with foreplay and neither did you. he spat on his cock and thrust in hard, stretching you in one brutal stroke. "so fucking tight," he grunted as he railed you, one hand fisted in your hair as if you were young. the other slapping the fat flesh of your ass hard enough to leave red marks. making you whimper and bite back your moans
❀ ── you did something you couldn't believe it was actually real: you came twice. each one more fucking loud than the other, messy orgasms that soaked his balls before he buried himself deep and pumped full of hot cum. using the hands he had buried in your ribs to lean towards you, pressing his chest against your back and putting a thick arm over your stomach to breathe a little, smelling the hair on the back of your neck
❀ ── "pretty thing" it slipped out of him by mistake, because your home was all soft things: drying herbs in the windows, sun on the floorboards, and a place set for someone to come back to. and his words froze you in place, because you didin't knew if he was talking about the house or you. guilt branched out inside, sealing your lips.
❀ ── it was twisted and horrendous, but the thrill of almost getting caught made you reckless. shane texted you to meet him behind the abandoned mill. and you climbed into his truck and he immediately pulled you onto his lap. no talking. he shoved your laced panties aside and impaled you on his thick cock in one go. but, fuck, you learnt quickly how you wanted to rode him. desperately, tits bouncing in his face while he sucked hard on you nipples and gripped your ass, guiding you up and down, slowing your high a bit. "your husband ever make you this wet?" he taunted with a cocky smile that you hated. you slap him hard on the face and came shuddering around him with your last strength, clenching so hard he groaned and flooded your pussy with rope after rope of cum.
❀ ── what started as "just once" became an addiction. now you crave the way shane acts. the way he chokes you lightly while fucking you, the filthy things he whispers about everything your husband doesn't deserve, how he makes you beg to be filled. you started wearing the lingerie your husband never notices just so shane can rip it off, you buy new bottles of perfume insted of beers, you comb your hair in pretty braids or buns, you even caught yourself smiling at your own reflection sometimes.
❀ ── you always say the night before was the last time. but every time your husband comes home and and sits down on the sofa to turn on the football like another plant, the urge to shake him by the shoulder and yell at him for being so passive with life, turns into sighs full of longing, for a man who is not him.
❀ ── you two rented a cheap room on the edge of town, out of sight of the gossips. and shane spent time devouring you like he trully wanted to do it. he ate your pussy until you were grinding against his face, kicking and trying to push him off by the shoulders. then he smiled at you, naughty and greedy, cleaning his wet lips before flipping you over. you rested in your stomach with a gasp, feeling his big harsh hands running down your legs to position you the way he wanted, fucking you from behind, deep and punishing. he pulled your hair until your scalp stung, slapped your ass, and licked your spinal cord till pecking your sensible spot on the neck. almost crushing you beneath his body.
❀ ── "jessus christ, you’re dripping down my thighs," he grunted. “your husband ever make you this wet?” “shane...,” you gasped, nails digging into his biceps. “shane i love my husband. i do. he’s been my life for years." shane’s eyes darkened with something between lust and pain. he bit her shoulder almost angrily, then slowed, grinding against her clit. “then why does your pussy keep sucking me back in like it’s starving?” "fuck, shane, please" he came inside with a low groan, holding you close afterward longer than he should have, stroking your hair like you were something precious he couldn’t quite have.
❀ ── after, you both waited until you'd regained your composure and had some reheated room service dinner in bed. he made you laugh about something that, at the time, had mortified him in his army years. you told him you'd adopted an orange cat to feel less alone in that house, and he replied, "just like in your dream," in a calm and pleasant way. yes… like that dream you had. you barely even remembered it. but he did.
❀ ── the beggining of the end was on a rainy night. it was pouring outside when he parked his car on your street and you arrived like drops of cold water trickling down the windshield. your husband was home asleep, none the wiser. shane had you straddling him, nightgown bunched at her waist, sinking down onto his thick cock with a wet gasp he swallowed between kisses and licks. “ffuck… you feel like you were made for me,” he growled, hands gripping you hips as he thrust up hard. then softer, almost broken, he couldn't even handle it: “i think about you too much, baby. this ain’t just fucking anymore.” you moaned, riding him slower, tears mixing with rain on the window. “shane… i love my husband. i do. he’s safe. he’s what i always had” but your pussy clenched tighter around him as you said it. shane buried his face between his breasts, sucking hard, and fucked her deeper, almost desperately, like he could erase the memory of your husband from your body. no more words spilled out that night. he came with you with a deep groan, filling you until it leaked down his balls, whispering against your warm skin, "i’m not asking you to leave him… just don’t ask me to stop wanting you either"
❀ ── but will that be the last time? your guilt and your lust whisper to you at the same time.
note: no proofread, i'm sorry and sleepy! + a reblog is a writer's best friend <3
kissed by the sun, cold like the wind (benjamin poindexter)
delicacy was not something benjamin poindexter was used to. excuses were all that emerged from his hands, dead birds like the far-off smoke of the city that watched him decay every night.
no, benjamin poindexter wasn't cut out to hold a butterfly between his fingers. he watched them flutter over the flowers, lively and startled, without disturbing his reality. the things that needed protection turned out to be the most troublesome. what did a colorful ladybug contribute to the world? headaches, guilt for having to watch them die so early.
that's why, one day, when you told him the sun seemed to caress him and you ran a buttery-soft hand through his blond hair, he understood why he hated you. he looked at you, at his neighbor on the third floor of the building's rooftop, in silence… and he saw himself.
he hated you for making you love him. you didn't even know who he was, but he'd given you a beautiful, mistaken idea. you didn't even have to try very hard; love flowed from you so easily it made him want to throw up.
dow could you want to love something so rotten, twisted, and violent? what did that make you? a would-be savior or a martyr? that's what you wanted from him, wasn't it? recognition. to be able to tell the world that you were a person capable of showing mercy.
fuck you, he already hated himself for both of you. he didn't need your pity.
disappearing was the hardest part, ironically. you didn't know it yet, but prison had made him even more lonely. without looking for it, he searched for you in the corners of his memories, he always found his way back to you, to your kind eyes and your caramel mouth, ready to lie to him, spitting out the sweetest words, which he dismissed with a vague nod.
he stared out the cell window, and the bars weren't the only thing keeping him locked up; it was the ghost of your presence. where were you to hate you? would someone else take the place he'd left on the rooftop? someone uglier, more corrupt, more unforgivable to keep you on that moral pedestal?
fuck you, he was missing you.
when he escaped from prison, he didn't look for you. that would have healed a wound he kept scratching.
however, you found him one evening in his usual spot, on the empty rooftop, with the smell of potato chips in the air and wispy clouds in the sky.
you smiled when you saw him. yes, he could hear that smile even with his back to you. he could smell your honey shampoo from that distance and taste your citrus cologne on his tongue.
he swallowed words and didn't answer you. he kept himself busy carving a piece of wood with one of his favourite knives.
he heard you take the necessary steps to sit on the edge, next to him, and you remained in that silence as the afternoon bled into night.
"what you doing here?" you asked him after a while, because he seemed very... changed. his expression was sharper, perhaps because of that straight line he always wore on his lips, which accentuated his furrowed brow. fortunately, the scar on his cheek softened his expression. it continued to confirm that he was human, after all, and that words could hurt him as much as they hurt you.
from where did your empathy come from? he would wonder. you would have laughed if he had. questioning why someone was being considerate for another human being was like asking the earth why it kept nourishes the trees. but you would have killed to get him to talk to you beyond the reproaches he always spouted.
"fuck does it look like 'm doing?" he retorts, chucking a scrap of wood from hundreds of meters high
"if they find you here..." you barely said, more worried than intrigued by his presence, staring at his face and waiting for him to look back at you.
"then why are you here?" he answered you, examining the wooden anthropomorphic figure in his hands. "go away"
he had been waiting for months for that sunset to tell you directly and not only in his thoughts. he could ask you first, then he will yell at you to leave him, and his last resort being to grab your small arms and pull you away from him
but you didn't move, and you awakened an anger in him that he didn't knew he had.
why didn't you leave? you, the neighbor from the third floor.
when he looked into your face, the cuts on his darkened features didn't frighten you. he didn't see you flinch or grimace uncontrollably at your good samaritan principles. no, you turned benjamin poindexter into a wounded kitten and gritted your teeth to try and save him with what little you had to give him. even if it was little, even if it was never enough, even if he hated you for it because he saw in your help a projection of the rejection he inflicted upon himself.
"i really don't know" you whispered, half smiling half sighing, because that was your truth.
Ariana Grande · hate that i made you love me · Song · 2026
late at night, lying in bed with the window opened. the cool breeze caresses my skin and i hear distant fireworks exploding in the starry sky. the closest i will feel 4th of july
walk him like a dog (benjamin poindexter x reader)
warnings: sub dex x female
i just know he's a soft lover. even a pathetic man beyond that mask.
whenever you're close to him, he can rest. no more thinking about his next breath nor what to do. you want to scold him for getting into trouble again with the brigade? he would stay still and pretty, all stitched up from your hands. you may had put too much pressure on his open wounds to make him listen? that'll go.
however, the fainted scars shattered dex's face even more those days, always stained with fresh traces of blood like he was young. but what you used to joke about—a fool blonde knight in shining armour—was beginning to be streaked with silver hair. he was finding it harder to stifle his groans of pain when you were cleaning him, and you were starting to hate this dynamic.
after a long night, dex came home through the window so as not to wake you up and to bleed out in peace in the kitchen. that didn’t save him from what was already waiting for him. dex saw your shape among the dark, tried to stammer something above the pain, reaching out an arm towards you, but you didn’t move. while he collapsed between the wall and the fridge, you let him trumble to the floor before you reached out some scissors and bandages from the drawers, trying not to step on him.
when you ripped off the fabric, his compression tshirt was alredy too wet and sticky, since the blood was beginning to dry but a trickle of red continued to flow from the open wound. what a sexy thing to watch.
once you have cleared the area, with dex's quiet whines coming out increasingly clenched between the teeth as he started to wake up, you look at his face with lidded eyes, closing the bandage without blinking as if you still wanted more. he looked up at you with his face marked by lines of barely healed cuts. clenched his jaw even more tight, swallowing his grunts to brace himself for any familiar line of criticism you might hurl at him.
dex knows how to deal with you when you're mad, he often enter this state naturally while you are lecturing him, turning off his brain as a wave of calm washed over amidst the anger. all he knew was that he was at home, and you were with him: safe. it didn’t matter whether you were sulking, shouting at him or crying. but not that.
“eyes up hear. where are you at pretty boy?” you uttered, trimming the excess bandage. “we don't want a concussion”. you sighed. a fucking sigh.
dex first looked away, pursing his lips. “why aren't you shouting?”
you took a deep breath first. “i am tired”
“of what? of me?” he answered, more like a bark. “i haven't asked you for help, if that's what's bothering you. i can manage this on my own”
“okey”. you stood up.
“where you going?” dex raised his voice immediately, clutching the bandage on his side as he sat up on the floor. “don't you ever whisper to me!” he growled, partly out of anger and partly out of pain. “Come to me, shout at me that I’m going to kill myself one of these days, that i’ve grown old and too slow; look at me with pity and spit in my face. give me everything you feel. don’t go, please. come back, give me something. come on.”
as he uttered those final words—which seemed to come straight from his gut rather than his chest—his raw voice revealed itself for what it truly was: a plea.
and you stood motionless in the kitchen doorway, giving him the false hope that you had finally realised how futile his cause was and would abdicate. without knowing fully, his glossy eyes started to tear up. “if you don’t you love me enough to shout at me anymore don't say it out loud, please” was his turn to sigh, pushing aside the stinging physic pain.
his begging mingled with the smell of blood, clinging to his flesh. dirty, with sweat giving his skin a glistening sheen and darkening his hair; it was as if he were offering an apology for his actions, knowing they were hurting you but unable to go any further and stop —it was simply his nature. and you knew that. his soul was the key to your heart, you couldn't blame him more than you loved him. beyond the pain that it might cause to you.
so, dex saw you turn around. you knelt down to his level again and, as he looked at you—hiding his trembling behind his laboured breathing—he clung to the sight of you, hoping you’d do something. disdain him, insult him, any action would do. so he welcomed your slap, feeling the jawbone tighten beneath his skin, but smiling at the sensation of your hand. enough to make you look and focus on him.
I don’t know much about shane but quick little thought … going out hunting with him but seeing his dollface get dirty makes him too hard to focus and he takes u against a tree 🤭
-🐰
!! he never sees you get dirty in fact, you are always so pampered, staying by his side while he does all the work. in your cute little outfits and matching sets that you claim are “hunting clothes” but it’s really just camouflage print and that’s the closest you’ll get to wearing real hunting clothes. he teases you about it constantly — calling you a princess and all that. 🙄
but one day you have a backed up laundry day and all your cute clothes are washing, but you also don’t want to be left all alone in the cabin so you sift through shanes clothes and wear one of his shirts!!
and he looks suprised because you really only ever wear his clothes for a moment of time in the morning. usually it’s only until you take a shower and pick out your clothes from your closet. he raises his eyebrows when you walk past but doesn’t say anything.
then you and shane reach his campsite and for some reason you are willing to help him today?? maybe it was the oversized shirt and boots that made you feel like a real girl scout or something but you offered to organize his gear and even set up his trail cameras to track the deer. he holds his teasing comments until he sees you come back from setting up a camera somewhere in the woods, his prissy girl covered in dirt.
your boots are caked in mud, and there is some on your shorts but you just look so hard working and cute because you wanted to help him and shane can’t help but get hard. I think he likes how he finally got his spoiled princess to be dirty for once, he’s seeing how much he’s rubbed off on you and it makes him crazy..
next thing you know he’s cornering you into on of the trees you set a camera up by and fucking you there, your dirty shorts pulled down your legs as you grip onto the tree. moaning out to him as he pounds into your pussy, “look so pretty all filthied up like this for your old man sweetheart..”, shane grunts, his hands get firmer on your hips as he slams into you from the back. your pretty face all dirty and pushed onto the bark of the tree :(
