Texas Red

22 * I write about what interests me, I’m also on ao3 under trainwreck_tex * Mdni * Ko-fi- https://ko-fi.com/texasred03

[texas-writes]

All long-form fics will be linked to Ao3

My entire catalogue of fics are linked under the cut, if there’s no link it means I haven’t cross-posted it yet. (I’m still working on it, I promise)

Many Paths- Leon decides to put off joining the military for one very specific reason

Shifter- An illusion is the truth aka: Leon’s worst nightmare

Special Girl- You finally get Leon right where you’ve always wanted him. Your bed

Strictly Business- A Princess marries Kylo Ren for the sake of her planet (long-form)

Lead Me Home- Two spies fall for each other without realizing they’re on the same side (long-form)

Cool Water- When the outlaw Levi Ackerman gets captured by a handsome Sheriff, he has until the end of their journey to prove he’s really not that bad of a guy (Cowboy au, Long-form)

Winter Break- Your hot step-brother Eren comes home from college, shenanigans ensue

Fraulein- Reiner recalls a summer he spent with a farmer’s daughter (1920s Texas au)

Mister Right- The wondrous algorithms of Tinder lead you to the man of your dreams (Long-form)

Phantom Blood

Gentle Giant- Johnathan Joestar gets down and dirty (respectfully)

Battle Tendency

Stardust Crusaders

Stay With Me- After realizing how close he came to losing you, Jotaro comes clean about his feelings (Star-Crossed Crusaders pt 1/4

Remember Summer Days- You and Jotaro cross paths a few years later when your exchange program sends you to Japan (Star-Crossed Crusaders pt 2/4)

Diamond is Unbreakable

Never Meant- Jotaro tells you he’s married, you can’t take it anymore (Star-Crossed Crusaders pt 3/4) (wip)

Golden Wind

Science Fiction- Ghiaccio has a giant crush on the maid, good thing she’s a loser too

Science Fiction Double Feature- You and Ghiaccio decide to get serious

Antici…pation- Ghiaccio finds out the hard way where babies come from

Simple Solutions- Screaming babies are the worst

Run With Me?- Risotto has more secrets than Passione knows

Easter Sunday- Mista meets a pretty girl at Mass, and then almost fucking dies

Stone Ocean

Highlight of My Evening- Jotaro and his girlfriend smoke some pot and get horny

Lovefool- You knew hooking up with your best friend’s dad was wrong, but just once couldn’t hurt, right?

Right Enough for Me- It was always Joel, no matter what problem you had, he would take care of it.

Calander Girl- You meet Johnny when he accidentally walks onto your modeling set. What could happen?

Come on Princess- Hawks invites you to go out with him and his boyfriend, you end up being their third

Candlelight- In which Eli Sunday is more than happy to consummate his marriage

“Bible Study”- Father Sunday lies to protect your reputation, after all, how would that make him look?

Stars and Oblivion- after years of searching, you finally find her (a Mad Max fic)

Inamorata- In which Victor does build a companion for his creation (Long-form)

Subject- In which you work with Connor to find the root of his software instability.

Sacred Heart- The sniper on the ridge was providence, everything else was willpower, after all, God helps those that help themselves (Craig Boone x reader) (Long-form)

Temptation and Other Games- Ragebaiting your Mormon boyfriend until he fucks you

Strange Stars- Lacerta Legate takes his healer as a lover.

A Friend of Sophie and Other Stupid Terms- The Courier’s sexual dysfunction is driving him crazy, it’s up to Doctor Gannon to help him out

What’re Friends For?- You and Arcade accidentally pick up some reproductive enhancement spores in Vault 22, fuckery ensues.

[texas-writes]

Tender Fur

A brief character study exploring Vulpes Inculta’s childhood

The sun beat down with an oppressive luminosity, blinding the boy as he stole a glance up at it to check the time of day. He quickly casts his gaze down and squeezes his eyes shut, digging the heels of his hands into their sockets to rub away the aura corrupting his vision.

He had spent the morning swimming, and after he finished eating his mid-day meal he’d likely return to the lake until the sun went to hide behind the mountains. He knew mother would call for him soon so he began a meandering trek back towards home, stopping to poke around beneath rocks for a millipede or two to let crawl over his hands as he walked.

He found one and carefully scooped it up, studying it as it scurried over his palm and wove between his fingers, tickling and making him giggle. Ever mindful of his step, careful to avoid crushing an unsuspecting bug or flower under his little sandals he made his way to camp, releasing the millipede into the brush before rejoining his people.

Hardly anyone noticed him, and those that did turned away, refusing to look at him longer than they had to. Other children ran past, bumping him without apology, kicking up dirt behind them as they chased each other in play he could not join.

Mother stood outside their tent over a fire as she finished up their meal. He studied the hide drawn over wooden poles that made up their home. The handprints of his mother and father, with his and his sister’s underneath, all inked in charcoal stain. When the baby came in a couple of months theirs would be added too, with a larger and larger print layered over it every year. He hoped that he’d get a brother.

He liked adding his hand to the hide every year on his nameday. It was his favorite part and he was excited for his to one day be the same size as father’s. Then he’d get to go and build a tent of his own with a pretty girl and have plenty of little handprints under theirs. He smiled to himself at the thought and drug his toe through the sand to make a tangle of a shape.

“‘River, go find your sister. It’s time to eat,” mother says, coming over to fuss with his damp white hair, made wavy by the salinity of the lake. “What have I told you about swimming by yourself?”

“Nobody else wants to play with me.”

“I know,” she murmurs, petting his head and pulling him close, and he can feel the baby rolling in her belly against his cheek. At least mother liked him, and the baby seemed to too.

—-

River dipped his hand into the black sludge and pressed it over his print from the year before. His palm would be black for at least a week, letting everyone know that he’d been around the sun once more, six times in total. He’s careful to line up the fingers just right, but he’s too distracted by the tiny handprint next to his and his pinky slips out of place, touching the tiny handprint, the one that would always be tiny. Something strange pulls in his chest and he pulls his hand away and wipes it in the dirt.

They had blamed him when the baby died, just as they did everything else. Not enough rain, floods, a bad hunt, a particularly hot day, everything bad was his fault and they made sure he knew it. Mother said it wasn’t true, but it must have been because bad things only seemed to happen around him. Even father and Zahra thought so.

He hadn’t wanted anything to happen to the baby and he was so excited to finally have a brother, but he had been so quiet when he was born and one of the midwives had pulled him from beside his mother and shoved him out of the tent into the blinding sun. They had shouted at each other things he didn’t understand and mother was crying but they wouldn’t let him see her.

He watched as the women came out and pressed the baby’s hand to the hide of the tent. He’d asked what he’d been named as they wrapped his tiny body in soft bison pelts only to be smacked at and sent away. Then at the end of the day father had taken the bundle of sorrow out of the valley to return the baby to the desert, nameless.

For three days he lingered outside, finding shade beneath the cliffs until the women left and he was allowed to return home and curl up into mother’s side to be held. He’d asked her if she’d named the baby and she’d just wept and held him, so he decided not to ask anyone else, and called him Yuma when he thought of him.

—-

River was being truly looked at for the first time in his life and it was all his fault. He had seen the stranger with the red feathers on the ridge three suns before, but thought nothing of it. Now there were many of them here in their valley, at least two hundred, burning and killing and stealing. Mother and father were dead, and so were most of the other grown-ups. Zahra had been dragged away by two men in strange helmets that laughed as she screamed.

The beast before him removes his gilded helmet and tucks it under his arm, revealing dark hair and piercing blue eyes. He reaches for River with his free hand. The boy recoils as the man grabs his jaw and squeezes, forcing his mouth open to inspect his teeth.

“This one’s strange looking, but healthy. Take him.”

A man dressed the same as the ones that took his sister takes him by the arm and pulls him through what’s left of his village. The man’s grip is painfully tight, and the force of being pulled twists his shoulder and elbow in ways they shouldn’t go, but he doesn’t cry out because he knew he deserved it.

All of this was his fault. It should have been him and not Yuma that died, because he was born wrong and he had brought nothing but suffering to his people. Father was right for having wanted to dash him against the rocks as an infant, and mother was wrong for stopping him. He was a bad omen, a blight on his people, he-

Landed face first in the dirt, sliding with the force of being thrown, rocks slicing into his tender flesh. Tears welled in his steely blue eyes and he was too frightened to blink them away. The man that pulled him up by the hair saw them and brought an open palm across his little cheek, stinging and making more tears well in his left eye.

He was in a makeshift pen with the children and some of the women from his village. His eyes dart around searching for Zahra amongst the throng of quivering children. When he finally finds her, he goes to her without a second thought only to be shoved away when he tries to sit beside her.

He spends the rest of the day alone, curled in on himself in a feeble attempt to protect himself from the blazing sun. By evening his eyes were sore and his exposed skin felt tight and warm, tinged deep pink on his cheeks and shoulders.

River wanted nothing more than to sink into the earth as the sun had, as he watched while the women were pulled from the pen and taken off to makeshift tents. Once there were no more women a single stranger stood before the huddle of children, scanning them before pointing. River’s unsure of who’s been selected until the object of the man's attention stands.

“How old are you?”

“Twelve,” Zahra answers, her voice shaking. River reaches for her hand and she takes it, squeezing until his fingers go numb.

“Good enough. Come here.”

He never saw her again

——

River had been dead for some time, and Vulpes stood in his place. By twelve he had lost count of the number of times he’d been whipped. By fifteen he was truly a recruit, his suffering turned to hatred. The cautious nature from being a pariah amongst his own people turned to cunning.

When Caesar had spared him from the cross he became a blade, honed and hardened, Caesar’s to drive into the backs of his enemies. When the weakness of memory crept in he beat it back, kneeling in the sand until he could barely bring the nine-tails over his own shoulder, much less remember tiny coal stained hands or feeding water birds on the bank of the Great Salt Lake. Now when he was able to recall his mother’s face she called him Vulpes, his tribal name forgotten.

He thought of his people as he trained for combat. How they shunned him, spit at him, how entirely alone he was. How pointless his life had been before.

The Legion was his true calling, he’d longed for a brother and now he had hundreds. He often worked alone but he was never truly lonely. His Frumentarii would come when he called. They respected him. They feared him. He took his emptiness and filled it with blood, no matter whose it was, and finally he was whole.

[texas-writes]

What’re Friends For?

Arcade Gannon x F! Reader

You and Arcade accidentally pick up some reproductive enhancement spores in Vault 22, fuckery ensues

It felt like it had been an eternity since you began uploading the data from the research terminal in Vault 22. The deeper you had gone into the vault the more stifling the air had become, your sweat had stopped evaporating and you were starting to feel sticky under your clothes. Arcade seemed to be just as uncomfortable as you were, pacing restlessly, periodically lifting his glasses to pinch at the bridge of his nose and grumble.

“It’s so damn hot in here,” he whines, swiping his damp hair back out of his face with a palm. “I thought I hated how dry the desert is but this is way worse.”

“Quit bitching and make sure more of those things don’t sneak up on us. We’ll get out of here as soon as the data’s done uploading.”

“You said that ten minutes ago too.”

“Yeah well it’s almost done now. It was a lot of data.”

The terminal beeps and you eject the holotape, tucking it into your pack and turning to your companion. “Okay, we’re good. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

The return to the surface is seemingly uneventful. No more spore carriers jumping from clumps of tropical plants, no mantises, just the thick oppressive air of the vault. It wasn’t until you left the lush alcove between the mountains that you began to notice something may be wrong.

Your profuse sweating refused to ease and your skin felt like it was stretched too tight over your bones.

“Hey ‘Cade, do you feel weird too?” Darkness begins to eat away at the edges of your vision.

“Yeah, it’s probably heat exhaustion. There’s a Followers safe house nearby we can stop at to cool off before we head back.”

“Okay, yeah probably. Sounds good. Lead the way.”

—-

The safehouse was a shack cobbled together from corrugated metal and lined with partially preserved planks to insulate it. As soon as Arcade had locked the door behind you, you were tugging off your boots and socks and pressing the soles of your feet into the cool packed-earth floor. Arcade had shed his lab coat and tossed it haphazardly over a chair, but continued to pace the hovel. He was starting to make you dizzy.

“Arcade, please, for the love of God stop moving,” you cry, burying your face in your hands and shivering. “I feel like my fuckin’ heads gonna explode and you’re acting like a roulette ball.”

“Water. We need water. You know it’s hard for me to sit still when I’m stressed,” he prattles, pulling two cans of water from a crate and offering you one.

“Right. And what is it you’re thinking? We picked up something nasty in there?”

“Maybe. We don’t know what exactly caused the vault’s inhabitants to become those things we saw. How the spores got into them I mean.” Arcade looks like he’s spent the entire day working outside as opposed to underground, a deep flush tints his face and creeps into the collar of his shirt, which is clinging to him with sweat. His blond hair is dark at the scalp and plastered to his skin, and he’s starting to really smell like a man. “Probably airborn.”

“If you’re worried about us turning into those things we can quarantine ourselves here until- Jesus Christ,” you interrupt yourself wiping at the sweat running down your face and into your eyes. “Look, I’m sorry but it’s too damn hot in here, I gotta-“ you begin shucking off your armor and letting it clatter to the floor unceremoniously before kicking off your jeans and peeling your T-shirt from your body.

“Not like it does anything for me,” he jokes, pulling his own shoes off and kicking them under the coffee table. “Maybe that’s not such a bad idea. This shirt is absolutely disgusting.”

You get up and begin digging in the chest in the corner for something you can use to dry yourself off with and come up with only a pillowcase. It’s good enough to get the job done and you begin patting at the base of your skull with it to rid yourself of the tacky feeling. “Shouldn’t we have at least started cooling off by now,” you question, wiping your face and discarding the cloth.

“Yeah, probably. I don’t know, maybe we are dying,” he replies, shuffling out of his clothes and sprawling on the bed in nothing but his boxers.

“Arcade, why the fuck would you say that?”

“I don’t know! I’m nervous,” he yells, rolling away from you with a groan.

“Clearly. Jesus Christ, do you itch too?”

“I mean kinda, it’s probably the sweat.”

“Whatever. It’s too hot for this shit. Don’t look, or do. I really don’t give a shit anymore,” you growl, tossing your bra across the room and peeling your underwear down your legs, throwing yourself face-first onto the bed farthest from his.

“Again, not exactly titillated by the female form. I’m gonna look through those files and see if I can find anything about whatever it is we have going on.”

You laugh humorlessly in response and roll onto your side, trying to ignore the fact that your pulse is hammering through your entire body. You can hear Arcade behind you, rooting in your pack and then going to town on the terminal’s keyboard. He continues bitching under his breath, incomprehensible, but annoyed nonetheless, his voice ping-ponging around in your hazy brain. Your thighs rub together thoughtlessly and you’re made extremely aware of a new, even more obnoxious symptom of whatever this is. Another groan, but this time you stifle it with your fist, glancing over your shoulder to ensure your companion is still occupied before allowing your free hand to drift between your slick thighs. The relief is near instantaneous and you dig your teeth into your pointer finger to keep from whining.

“So apparently they were trying to find a way to increase fertility rates in the crops and- are you fucking kidding me dude?”

You cast a wide-eyed gaze over your shoulder at having been caught and hastily move your hand away from your soaked cunt. “Okay, well it’s not really my fault now is it-”

Arcade shakes his head and makes a sound of absolute disbelief. “Maybe not, but I’m literally right here.”

“I made sure you weren't looking, besides you don’t exactly seem comfortable either,” you counter, gesturing to the obvious tent in his boxers. Your mouth waters a little at the sight and you quickly shake the thought away.

“I have the decency not to touch myself with other people in the room.”

“Yeah, okay. But it seemed to help, so maybe you should go jerk off in the corner or something. Promise I won’t look.”

“You are unbelievable.” He pulls his glasses off and rubs the bridge of his nose. “I mean actually-”

“If you want to suffer through this I’m not gonna stop you. Do you have a better idea, Smartass?”

“Well, no.”

“Okay, well I say we go to opposite sides of the room, don’t look at each other, handle it, and then act like it never happened.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay, yeah. Sure. I can’t fucking believe this,” he grumbles, going back to the furthest bed and sitting with his back to you. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he grumbles.

“I’m not gonna look.”

“You better not.”

You laugh again and roll back over, returning your attention to your own problems. Your fingers slide into your cunt with no resistance and you sigh as you brush your thumb over your clit. The more you work yourself, the more your pulse recedes until it’s almost back to being a hammering in your ribcage. The fist in your mouth does nothing to muffle the sounds coming from between your legs, so you thoughtlessly roll onto your back and spread your legs.

Arcade groans softly from the other side of the room, and you focus on the pain of your teeth digging into your pointer finger trying to ignore the slick sound of him fisting his cock. The roof of the shack is rusted, and sunlight streams through a small hole, you ignore the sound of Arcade’s bed creaking as he shifts.

"You feel any better?”

“Shut the hell up,” he huffs, the sound of his hand accelerating slightly.

“Starting to think this is only keeping it from getting worse,” you whine, stifling another moan with your pillow.

“Oh my God, seriously.” He’s genuinely pissed now and his voice is worming its way into your head and straight to your core.

“Okay, I’ll shut up, but… keep talking. Please.”

“About what,” he snaps, and you can hear that he’s taking his frustration out on himself. Your thighs clench around your hand at the thought.

“I don’t know, anything. What did the research notes say?”

“I didn’t get very far because somebody interrupted me being a pervert.”

“You are so bad at this,” you groan, stealing a glance over at him. His entire body is flushed and slicked with sweat and his cock is so pretty standing at attention in his fist. He glares over at you and your eyes meet for a brief second before you cast your gaze back to the roof.

“You said you wouldn’t look.”

“So did you. You have a pretty dick.”

“Shut up…,” he growls, slamming his head into the pillow repeatedly in frustration.

“Anybody else ever tell you that? So pretty… just begging to be sucked. I’ll do it, if you want.”

“That’ll just, ah, make things weird.” It’s not lost on you that his hand hasn’t left himself as he speaks.

“Oh, because pollen that makes you so horny you die is normal,” you snap back, sitting up and staring at him shamelessly.

“Okay, if you think it’ll help I’ll let you suck my dick, but just this once. As a friend,” he adds, sitting on the edge of the bed and parting his thighs to make space for you.

“As a friend,” you confirm, sinking to your knees in front of him, grabbing his calf and pulling his right leg forward slightly, straddling it.

“What are you-”

“I’m gonna get something outta this too,” you murmur, lowering your cunt to his shin.

“Oh my G- okay. Sure. Whatever. Oh-”

Arcade sounds genuinely surprised when you take him into your mouth despite the fact that you had literally just agreed to this arrangement. You moan at the taste of him, taking him deep as you grip his thighs and rut yourself against his leg like some sort of feral beast. His hands tangle in your hair and you let him use you to get off as you focus on chasing your own release against him. You’re both sweaty, moaning messes as you use each other in a pathetic attempt to get rid of the God-awful ache that you couldn’t chase away by yourselves, but hey, what are friends for?

You moan around him as you reach your peak, making him pull your hair harshly as he cums down your throat with an almost pained sound. You swallow and pull away gasping, resting your head on his thigh without thinking. His skin is burning against your cheek and when you try to look up at him you find him still fully erect in front of you.

“Did that help at all? Doesn’t look like it helped.”

“I mean kinda.”

“Do you think we should like-”

“Maybe. Probably…yeah.”

“You sure, I mean I get it if-”

“I feel like my eyeballs are boiling.”

“Okay, yeah that’s not good.”

“You think?”

“You are such a smartass,” you retort, standing and shoving him back onto the mattress and climbing over him. “I mean seriously, ah- all you’ve done today is bitch about something or other, but really you’re lucky I like you.” You’re riding him with an unbridled need as you berate him for his demeanor since you left Vegas. “And I’m real sorry you got stuck in this situation with me instead of Craig, but here we are huh.”

Arcade’s face turns bright red and he buries his face in his palms. “How do you know about that,” he whines, gasping when you sink down on him particularly hard.

“Because you’re a big fat liar and you do touch yourself with other people in the room.”

“I thought you were asleep!”

“‘Oh Craig, Craig that feels so good’,” you mock, grabbing his jaw and rattling him back and forth.

“Shut up,” he growls, flipping you over in an attempt to have at least some control over the situation. “You are such a bitch, you know that?”

“Oh baby, I like it when you talk to me like that,” you laugh, leaning up in an attempt to kiss him.

“You are insufferable. I am not kissing you, you’ve been nothing but mean to me.”

“Oh, I’m mean to you,” your tone would have been condescending if not for the moan that ripped its way out of you halfway through your sentence.

“Yes,” he huffs, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you and keeps going like he doesn’t even notice.

“Oh I’ll fuckin’ show you mean,” you snarl, wrapping your legs around him and shifting your weight until you’re on top of him again. “You probably like how I’m bitchin’ you out, huh,” you question, leaning down and biting his shoulder until he yelps. The sound pulls an orgasm from you and he cums again at the feeling of you around him.

“What the hell was that for! Bitching me out, yeah okay.” He tosses you off him and stands, shoving you onto your stomach and pushing into you again from behind. ‘How’s that for getting bitched out?” He grabs a fistfull of your hair and yanks it so hard you scream, reaching behind you and digging your nails into his thigh hard enough to draw blood in retaliation.

—

You have no idea how long you stay at each other’s throats, threatening, and arguing, and fucking until you pass out but when you wake there’s no more sun slipping through the crack of the building. Arcade’s body is heavy where it’s tangled with yours, but his skin is cool to the touch and whatever the fuck that was seems to finally be over.

“Arcade,” you hiss, shaking his shoulder. He wakes with a confused sound and props himself up on his elbow.

“Huh?”

“We’re alive, but we should probably get going.”

“Oh, yeah. t’s dark.”

“Yeah no shit, I’m gonna get the light,” you supply, untangling yourself from him and getting up to find a lamp or something.

“Can’t believe we did that. It’s weird.”

“We said we wouldn’t let it get weird. God Damn-” you trip over some piece or other of your armor and fall into the edge of the desk, hissing as the corner collides with your side.

“I know it’s not you, I just never thought I’d have sex with a woman, that’s all.”

You find the lamp on the desk and turn it on, before leaning against the top of it to look at your companion. “You look like shit,” you state, taking him in. His usually kempt hair is a spiky mess and he’s got several bruised bite marks blooming across his neck and shoulders.

“Yeah, you too. Looks like someone decked you,” he muses, getting up and gathering his clothes. He was still attractive even though your mind was no longer clouded by the spores.

“I think you did. Things stopped making sense after a while.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too. Should have thought ahead better. Shouldn’t have put you in that position.”

“It’s okay. It wasn’t bad or anything, just not something I would normally do…”

“What’s wrong?”

“Your legs.”

“What, a couple bruises, I’ve had worse.”

“No I mean-”

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, but when you go to step back into your underwear you see exactly what he’s talking about.

“Dude, we are so fucked.”

[texas-writes]

Strange Stars

Lacerta takes a liking to the healer sent to his tent after a raid

Idle chatter drifted through the air as a group of women washed their rags at the bank of the river. You sigh and dunk one of your buckets into the water before setting it aside and doing the same to the other. The men were due back this evening, and the water was needed well before then to make it boil. You slide the handles over the bar you brought with you and pull it to rest over your shoulders as you had several times this afternoon, beginning your journey up the hill.

Your mother greets you just inside the tent and takes the water from your shoulders, pouring it into the cauldron over the fire in the center of the tent. “Wash yourself child, I’ll need your hands this evening.” A shout sounds from somewhere at the base of the hill followed by the clatter of armor and the excited conversation of men drunk on blood and adrenaline. It was a good sign, morale was high, meaning they would likely get to sleep before the sun rose again.

More healer women begin filtering into the tent, followed by their apprentice-daughters and a handful of priestesses. Bedrolls were spread about and bandages dipped into suspensions of salves and healing powder. The air stank of herbs and lye soap as preparations were made for the men coming up the hill.

The most injured were brought first, recruits mostly, slung over shoulders or dragged between two others and dropped onto furs. The tang of blood began to mingle the air as the healers descended on their patients. A Decanus stood before you, gesturing with the groaning boy in his arms towards the cot. You take a moment to assess him. Pale and scrawny, too young to grow scruff on his chin, innards held in by his own trembling hand.

Your eyes meet the boys briefly, deep brown and glassy, pained sweat drips from his brow. You shake your head sadly and the Decanus turns from you, taking the boy from the tent. Outside there’s a soft whimper followed by a sharp crack and a thud. You take solace in knowing that his suffering was over.

The next group to file in were better off, broken and bleeding, but on their own two feet. Bones were set with grunts and splinted with scrap. Wounds were stitched and their bearers given warm Brahmin blood to drink before they were wrapped in furs and laid on cots to curb their bloodless shivering. Many of them would be given a woman to warm them through the night, then they’d take them in the morning. Raids had a habit of making mothers.

Your attention was drawn from the fray by a towering Centurion as you turned and walked directly into him. You apologize hastily and move to duck around him, but he catches you by your tunica, dragging you back before him. “The Legate wishes to be tended to in his own tent. He said to send a pretty girl. Go to him.” You nod and turn to grab a satchel, filling it with whatever you may need to tend to any injury the Legate may have sustained on his mission and slink out into the evening.

The Legate’s tent was an opulent thing, a hulking canvas shadow against the lilac colored dusk. Flaming sconces lined the path approaching the entrance flap. You nervously pull your cucullus tighter around your shoulders and steel yourself before ducking into the tent.

The inside was sparsely furnished, but each piece was intricately carved, imported from Flagstaff artisans, and draped in tender furs. Lacerta sits at the foot of his bed stripped of his armor, his crimson tunic stuck to his body in awkward places with sweat. You approach him slowly, your hands reaching out and catching the bottom of his clothing before pausing. He nods curtly and you continue, pulling his tunica over his head and laying it beside him on the bed. There’s a gash on his cheek lazily oozing blood, and a few scratches litter his arms, but the wounds are insignificant overall.

“Your wounds are minor, Dominus. You may live to see another day,” you joke before catching yourself and pausing, looking to the Legate for his reaction. He offers you a lazy grin of approval, making you blush and look away. You pull antiseptic from your satchel and dab it along his cheek. “This may scar, though I think it will make you more handsome.” You tease and he responds with an amused sound. His tolerance makes you bold, and you preen under his watching eyes.

Once the wound has been cleaned and packed with healing powder, You take his face into your hands to inspect your work giving a satisfied nod before moving to clean the scratches on his arms. “Would you like me to draw you a bath, Dominus? Allow me to bathe you?”

“Quam dulcis puella es,” he murmurs, wrapping a hand around the back of your thigh and pulling you closer to him. “It would please me to relax and wash the day from my skin.”

You make quick work of cleaning the scratches and move to the large basin at the other side of the tent, drawing water from it into a bucket to heat over the fire.

“Huc, puella,” Lacerta calls, and you return to him without thinking, standing between his parted thighs. You shiver as his large hands wrap around your thighs and slide up to knead at your buttocks. He groans and rests his head against your stomach, pulling you closer and inhaling deeply. “Perfectus es, Severus promotionem meretur quod te mihi misit.”

You bring your hands up to rest at the base of his skull, allowing one to drift up and toy with his short blond hair. “The water should be hot now, Dominus. Please, allow me.” He nods against you and releases you. Smacking your ass as you turn and move to the fire. Once the water is returned to the basin and you’ve stirred it in with a multitude of herbs you gesture to him and he joins you beside the bath, allowing you to strip him of his underclothes. You blush again and avert your gaze to the wall of the tent, your feet, anywhere but his nakedness.

Lacerta sinks into the steaming bath with a groan and rests his head against the back of the tub. “Join me girl, let me see you,” he commands, gesturing to the other side of the tub. You unwrap your cucullus and lay it on the nearby table before discarding your simple rags and stepping into the bath. The water is nearly scalding as you sink into it and you count your blessings that the Legate didn’t feel the need to punish you for burning him.

The water sloshes as you move closer, grabbing a rag from the other table and dunking it into the water and lathering it with soap, bringing it to his chest and beginning to wash him. “So quiet,” he teases. “What happened to your tongue?”

“Sorry, Dominus. What would you like me to talk about?”

“Anything that comes to mind. I just want to hear your voice. It’s nice to hear a woman after battle.”

You nod and begin praising him as you use the cloth to rid him of the sweat and dirt of the day, scrubbing at the scars of his back, lifting his arms to wash under them, working your way down his body and leaving the freshness of the sage soap behind. Your hands pause and you steal a glance up at him when you reach his manhood.

“Don’t be coy now girl, put your hands on me like you mean it.” He grabs your wrist and brings your hand to him below the water, sighing when your fingertips brush against his length. “I like you healer women, such soft hands unlike the working girls. Tell me, where did you come from?”

“Texas, Dominus. I was just a girl when my tribe was conquered. I became a healer like my mother,” you explain as you take him into your trembling hand with the cloth and wash him gently.

“I see. Come, put your back to me and wash yourself. You’ll be spending the night here.” His hands roam your body while you make quick work of your own bath, feeling him against you every time you shift.

You finish and lean to drape the rag over the side of the tub. Lacerta allows you this before taking your breasts into his hands and pulling you back to him. His callused palms feel foreign against your hardened nipples and the sensation raises goosebumps along your arms. He releases you and smooths his hands down your torso, dipping between your legs. Two fingers slide between your lower lips, opening you so that a third can stroke at your clit.

“Tell me, daughter of Venus,” he muses, resting his chin on your shoulder as you squirm against him, gasping as he pleases you with a featherlight touch. “Have you ever known a man between these legs?”

“No, Dominus.”

“Lacerta,” he corrects, easing a finger into you and smiling against your neck when you whimper at the intrusion. “So sensitive, too. Do you touch yourself?”

“No, never D- Lacarta.”

“Say my name again,” he urges, pushing a second digit into your waiting cunt.

“Lacerta,” you whisper, tasting the name and finding you like it.

“Again, louder,” he demands, curling his fingers and making you cry out softly and arch against him. His fingers work you open at a harsh pace, pulling his name and pathetic little sounds from you again.

Suddenly he withdraws from you and stands, stepping out of the tub and toweling himself off. The sudden emptiness draws an indignant whimper from you and you reach out towards him, eyes cast to the rippling water around you.

“Enough, girl,” he chides, “Get out and dry yourself.” You take heed and stand before him, wrapping your arms around yourself as you turn to reach for another towel, rubbing yourself down with the rough cloth. “Good. Go, lie on the bed,” he commands, waving his hand towards the massive piece of furniture. “Get comfortable.”

You cross the tent and feel the coarse sand of the floor as it sticks to the soles of your damp feet. Lacerta’s watchful gaze nearly burns you as you put your knee on the bed and crawl your way up towards the ornate headboard. The mattress dips behind you and Lacerta’s hands move along your buttocks, kneading the tender flesh before sliding around to your hips, grasping them and twisting you to the side, making you roll onto your back. You land with your legs splayed and you instinctively move to close your them, but Lacerta stops you with his callused hands.

“None of that,” he chides, running his hands along the tender flesh inside your thighs, his thumbs coming up to part your lips, inspecting you. You squirm under his touch and he grins, brushing through your folds and over your clit making you whimper. “So wet, so willing. Have you thought of me like this before?”

You nod eagerly in response and turn from him, blushing into the pillow.

“Speak. Look at me.”

“Yes, Lacerta. I’ve wanted no other but you. I’m so happy that you chose me to lay with you tonight.”

His hands leave you and you watch as he takes himself into his large palm, rutting his tip through your essence before sinking into you with a single fluid motion, a shuddering breath falling from his lips. You yelp at the intrusion and your nails clamber for purchase on his shoulders, grounding yourself through the stretch of his cock. The sting turns to pleasure as he rolls his hips against yours, his pelvis grinding against your sensitive clit and you whimper, relaxing around him.

“I’ll keep you longer than tonight. You’ll warm my bed and be here waiting every time I return. You’ll bear my sons and be by my side when I take what is mine.”

His thrusts meet little resistance as he pulls out and spears back into you again and again, taking you into his arms and pulling you against his massive body, the warmth of him sinking into your bones. You cling to him, ankles locked around his lower back, nails biting into the scarred flesh of his shoulders as he lays his claim within you.

Your arms wrap around the back of his neck pulling him closer, chests pressed together, feeling each breath the other takes, greedy fingers tracing up his neck and tugging at his hair. His name is a prayer, a promise, falling from your lips each time pushes himself back into your waiting cunt.

“Lacerta, Lacerta, Lacerta…”

You tumble over the precipice of ecstasy with a sharp cry and he swallows it with a kiss, claiming your mouth with his tongue as you pant against him, your walls spasming around his length as he continues chasing his own release.

He spills himself within you with an almost feminine sound, pushing his seed deeper into you before pulling out and rolling to lay beside you, watching you, enjoying the way you reel from the pleasure he’s given you. He then sits up and gathers your legs in the crook of his arm, grabbing a pillow and shoving it under your hips.

“I have business to attend to. Stay like this and wait for my return.”

You nod in response, already dozing as he dresses and calls for a recruit to strap his armor on him. There’s a breeze and then a soft warmth over you, and then he’s gone.

—-

You dream of him while he’s away, his body against yours, warm and heavy, around you, within you. His lips against your skin everywhere he can reach. You sigh and roll your hips to meet his, responding to him even in your sleep. Greedy kisses lavish your neck and chest before his warm tongue lathes against your nipple, a hand coming up to grasp at your other breast. His hair tickles your inner arm and you giggle, eyes fluttering open to find Lacerta truly upon you, your dream a reality as he glances up at you.

“Mh, did I keep your bed warm enough, Dominus,” you tease, taking him into your arms, stretching your neck so that he might kiss it.

Lacerta’s attention leaves your breasts and he kisses up the column of your throat before claiming your lips again. “Plenty. How patient you were, Daughter of Venus. Exactly how I left you, and so ready for me when I returned.”

He keeps his slow pace until he finishes within you one more, rolling onto his side and pulling you with him, falling asleep almost instantly and you’re not long to join him.

—

You wake in the morning with his cock still sheathed within you, his arm across your middle as he snores softly beside your head. The day is spent in his bed, mostly with him atop you, sometimes he’s behind you, or he insists you ride him so he can watch the way your tits bounce as he fucks you from below. Sunlight disappears into darkness and you bathe with him once more, his calloused hands all over you beneath your clothes as you help him dress after.

He leads you out of his tent and towards the healers tent so that you can tell your mother that the Legate has decided to keep you. From the Legate’s camp, Fortification Hill blocks the West, hiding the lights of Vegas from the sky and you glance upward at the sky, stopping to stare up at the stars. You reach out and catch his arm, stopping him and he looks to you with confusion as you point skyward.

“Those five stars there, do you see them?”

“Yes?”

“It’s a lizard. They call it Lacerta.”

“Who is ‘they’?”

“The ones that looked up before us, but long after the planets were named.”

“I’ve never heard of that one before.”

“That’s why I’m telling you, so that those that look up after us may know it.”

“Come on,” he urges, pulling your arm back to your side, shaking his head, but it does little to hide the pleased look on his face.

You walk beside him, bold, having pleased him, and continue talking without worry of consequence.

“Long before the war there was a man in California they called the Lizard King, and the people loved him despite his strangeness. Perhaps you can claim the title for yourself.”

“You think I’m strange?”

You fall silent in realization, but relax when his hand finds the small of your back, his thumb stroking along your hip.

“Perhaps one day I’ll take you somewhere with no light and you can show me more of your strange stars. Now go, speak with your mother and return to me. I’m not finished with you.”

[texas-writes]

A Friend of Sophie and Other Stupid Terms

Arcade Gannon x M! reader

This was the place Sophie had mentioned, the Old Mormon Fort. She’d said she had a friend here that might be able to figure out what your problem was. You’d been vague about the issue, but she was perceptive, and you were sure she’d known what you truly meant, even if you didn’t quite grasp it yourself.  

Inside were two guards sitting behind a wall of piled sandbags, almost reminiscent of a reception desk, playing caravan. You approach and rest your hands on the wall, making a conscious effort not to look at the ghoul there any differently than the other guard. 

“Hello, I’m here to see Doctor Gannon,” you say, it’s a question as much as a statement. The guard acknowledges you and points to a tent in the far corner of the courtyard. 

“He’s back there, though he usually doesn’t take patients. You know him?” 

Doesn't see patients? Huh. 

“No, but my friend said he could help me out.” The guard shrugs and returns to her game, grinning a lazy, knowing grin at her companion. 

You walk back to the tent and stick your head inside. A lone man in a lab coat sits slouched over a desk jotting notes onto a clipboard. “Doctor Gannon?” He looks up, an annoyed expression flashing across his face before he tames it into neutrality. He's on the older side of young, but not quite middle aged, and despite his obvious trying his expression isn’t quite severe. There’s a curiosity in his eyes that tells you people may not seek him out specifically and he wants to know why you did. 

“If you’re looking to get patched up you should talk to one of the other doctors, I just do research.” It’s dismissive, it almost hurts, and he quickly returns his attention to his work. 

You didn’t come all this way to get turned away now. You let yourself into the tent and take the seat at the other desk. “Sophie sent me, actually. She said you might be able to help me out.” He sits back, but doesn’t look at you. “Sophie? You’re that courier then, okay, yeah. In that case, you can call me Arcade. What seems to be the issue?” 

Finally his eyes meet yours. He’s handsome, corn-silk hair, and bright green eyes set under dark eyebrows behind what seemed to be pre-war military issue glasses. He’s a pleasant mix of boyish and mature. He’s beautiful and for all your frustration you offer him a soft smile. 

You, Doctor, you’re the problem with your pretty green eyes and soft milky skin… humiliation washes over you at the thought and you pinch the bridge of your nose with a groan, tilting your head forward. It would be embarrassing if your nose started bleeding, but maybe you’d be able to blame it on radiation sickness or something. 

“Is it your head,” Arcade questions, standing now and cradling your head, easing it back as his thumb brushes along the fresh scar at your temple. You look up and find concern furrowing his thick eyebrows. The tension slides out of your shoulders at his gentle touch. 

“Something like that, but it’s more of a mind-body dissonance.” Arcade leans down and shines a pin-light into your eyes just as Doc Mitchell had. Your eyes follow the light unprompted. Anyone that fancied themselves any type of healer checked your eyes like that recently. “There’s a lot of pretty girls around,” you start, unsure how to continue.

 “Sure. Hopefully you know better than to try with the ones from Gomorrah?" 

“That’s the problem Doc- Arcade. There’s plenty of pretty girls and a lot of them want me-“

 “Conceited much,” he muses, and it’s almost teasing. 

“Your bedside manner is atrocious,” you scowl, jerking away as he gently prods your wound with his soft fingertips. 

“That’s why I’m but a humble researcher, but continue. The women want you?” 

“They want me in one way or another, if I’m nice to ‘em, or buy ‘em a drink or, pay ‘em.  And I want them, or at least I want to want them, but I get alone with ‘em and no matter how or where or how much they touch me, my body just…doesn’t cooperate.”

“Traumatic head injuries have been known to cause sexual dysfunction in various ways, but your skull does seem to be healing nicely, so I don’t have any external concerns at least. There could still be some sort of internal damage causing the issue though.”

“I don’t think it’s that. Not completely anyways. I’m so pent up, I want to have sex, it’s just-“ You cross your legs and shift uncomfortably in your chair. 

“It could be a blood flow problem, head wounds do tend to bleed more heavily. Have you been able to get or maintain an erection since you got shot?” 

Doctor you have no idea…

“Yeah? Yeah. I get horny or whatever, I’ve been able to y’know, have some alone time, a couple times since then, but whenever I get in bed with someone else it’s just,” you toss your hand up and wiggle your fingers “nothing. May as well be a eunuch. But I’m sick of beating off. I just want to know what’s wrong with me.”

“And you’ve only tried sleeping with women?” Arcade retakes his seat at the desk but his attention remains on you. You shift nervously under his emerald gaze. Damnit, stop lookin’ at me like that. 

“Yeah? What, you saying getting shot in the head made me queer or somethin’?”

Arcade laughs. It’s a real and deep and beautiful obnoxious laugh. “I’m sorry,” he composes himself. “Truly, I am. That was very unprofessional, but have you considered that maybe you were temperamental before you got shot?”

“What? No way! They kill you for that shit out there right?. I’d definitely be dead if I was walking around the Mojave in sensible shoes.”

Arcade shrugs, and leans back in his seat. “The Followers don’t. As long as you're not hurting anybody, they don’t much care what you wear.” He stretched his legs straight, resting his feet between yours. “What do you think of my shoes?” 

There the best fuckin’ shoes I’ve seen in my entire life, I’d lay down and kiss them if you asked. 

You glance to his feet and then back to him before letting your gaze settle on an arbitrary spot over his shoulder. Maybe he was right, this felt right, he felt right. “They’re nice shoes. They’re uh,” you take a split second to search his face for disgust before continuing. “Are they comfortable?”

“Much more than they used to be. They seem to fit better than they did back home.” An easy smile plays on his lips as he banters with you. He seems to feel it too, and your chest feels warm for the first time since you woke up in Goodsprings. 

“How long you had ‘em?” Personal, stupid question. 

“Most of my life.” Earnest, open answer. 

It was now or never. He was practically serving himself to you, all you had to do was ask for what you both wanted. 

“‘I’ve got a room on the strip, if you want to come by when you get done here. Maybe let me try ‘em on?”

Part of you wondered if you’d ever want to take them off if he let you try. 

“Yeah, I’d like that..”

——-

The knock at the door makes you jump and you crush your unlit cigarette into the ashtray out of habit. You didn’t dare actually smoke it, not now, too anxious to do anything that might drive him away. You’d bathed, and showered, and then meticulously dressed yourself. You didn’t necessarily have nice clothes, so you’d settled on the white t-shirt that hugged your chest and waist and a worn pair of blue jeans. You’d put on your boots and belt too for the sake of propriety. 

Arcade was here now, on the other side of the door, waiting. For you. Dear God. You polish off your beer and rise to let him in. You open the door and there he is, wearing the same shirt and slacks, sans lab coat, but his hair is freshly combed and the scent lingering on him is fresh and intentional. 

“You gonna just stand there or are you gonna let me in?”

“I- sorry. Yeah, come in. Make yourself at home. Do you want something to drink? Are you hungry?”

Arcade sits on the couch and folds his hands in his lap. “Just a drink please.” 

You return and take a seat beside him at a respectable distance and pass him his cocktail. “The bar was still pretty stocked when I got here. I uh, think this is called a Cosmopolitan.” 

“I’ve never had one of those,” Arcade replies, inspecting the drink before taking a long sip of it. 

“I’ve grown quite fond of them.”

The two of you reach a stalemate, sipping your drinks and eyeing each other in silence. The air between you seems thick and heavy, suffocating. 

Arcade breaks the silence first. “So, what do you like?”

“I don’t even remember my own name, much less what position I play. Just tell me what you don’t like and we’ll play it by ear, hm,” you murmur, sliding closer to the pretty blond beside you, raising a hand to caress his cheek. His skin is just as smooth as it looks, and his bottom lip is soft and plush under your calloused thumb. His lips part slightly, but don’t quite let you inside and you won’t force it. 

“You can be rough with me, just don’t be mean.” Part of you wonders what he means and the rest understands completely, in an almost innate way. 

You lean forward and kiss him and his lips are even softer against your own. He tastes like the sweetness of the juice and the bite of the vodka, and something natural underneath. One hand finds his hip and the other keeps hold of his jaw, fingertips digging in softly as he forces his tongue past your teeth, and you let him. Your resistance is a ruse and you both know it. His arms are around you, pulling you close, pressing his body into yours, tall, heavy, domineering.

In your fervor your hand slips into his hair, threading through silky golden strands, up against his scalp, and you tug, not cruelly, not to hurt, but to ground yourself. Something shifts. 

 Arcade pauses, and in that split second you think you’ve ruined it, and the possibility terrifies you because his body is so warm against yours, so soft under your hands, his mouth is hot and his tongue is skilled and wet and your jeans are too tight.  You didn’t care if you lost anything else, but please God, not this, not him. 

There’s no denying the meaning of the sound he tries to hide in the kiss, in the way his jaw goes slack and he lets you fight his tongue back into his own mouth. No denying the way his fingers curl against your back when you lick behind his teeth. He’s on top of you now straddling your lap, and you can feel his want against your own. 

You break the kiss and use the leverage of his hair to get him to look at you. He makes no effort to fight you, his head lolling in whichever direction you decide to move it. “Is this how you want it,” you question, pulling his head back so you can nip at the junction of his neck and jaw, and then at his Adam’s apple as it bobs with the effort of a thick swallow and a soft moan. 

“However you want me,” Arcade responds, his eyes meeting yours. His pupils are blown and his lips part slightly as he untucks your shirt and slides the tips of his fingers under it, ghosting along the plain of your abdomen. “It’s been so long.”

Your hands leave him and he whines, rolling his hips against yours in protest, but he stops when your hands rest on his shoulders and push. He allows himself to slip into the floor without complaint, smiling softly when your fingers come up to undo the buttons of his shirt, pushing it from his shoulders, down his arms, and finally off revealing the constellation of freckles across his pale chest. There was too much light to ever see the stars in Vegas, but this was the next best thing.

You thought about how nice it must be to slip away from your body like that. To let consciousness take the backseat and be free to please and be pleased without shame in the moment. To trust so freely. No. He wasn’t trusting you freely. This trust had been built, with the help of a mutual friend, there in that tent when you had opened up to him, reinforced when you met his euphemism with your own. You’d only known each other for the afternoon, but when you could be killed at any moment it may as well have been a lifetime. 

“You’re so pretty, Arcade,” you praise, caressing his cheek. “You know what I want, don’t you?” 

Arcade nods and smiles, pressing his cheek against your clothed erection. His eyelashes flutter against his cheeks as his eyes fall shut. They’re dark like his brows. Cute. 

“You gonna give it to me,” you murmur, caressing his cheek, petting his hair back from his face, urging him to look up at you again. “You want to? Hm?”

“You’ll still kiss me after?” His voice falters and he doesn’t meet your gaze. How sweet. You press the pointed toe of your boot against his arousal and he squirms. 

“Baby, I’ll never want to stop.”

 Arcade nods again, satisfied with your answer and brings his hand up to your belt buckle, thumb rubbing over the raised cameo of a desert landscape, a saguaro cactus and a tumbleweed. His skilled hands make quick work of the buckle and your jeans. 

You groan when he finally frees you, the cool air of the room almost stinging, but the discomfort doesn't last long as Arcade begins pressing open-mouthed kisses along the vein that ran down the length of you. He’s so warm and you can feel the tip of his tongue ghosting over you with each kiss. 

“Feels good, honey,” you murmur, giving his hair another gentle tug, pressing your boot into him again. He whines and presses his tongue against you in earnest now. “But it’s not nice to tease, hm?”

He lets out a little pant and nods, finally taking you into his mouth making you groan at the heat of him. You sit up, brushing his hair back as you take his head into your hands, cradling his cheeks as he works himself down onto your length. “That’s a good boy, just like that, yeah.” And he is good, so, so good at what he’s doing, looking up at you with those big green eyes brimming with tears as he just keeps taking you deeper and deeper. You can feel yourself, see yourself in his throat and it makes you dizzy. Your grip on his head tightens as you fight the urge to press his nose into the curls at your base, but you don’t have to pull him, he’s already there, his breath fanning over your belly, drool running down your length, and he’s so tight around you. 

“Fuck…You’re so perfect.” Your head falls back against the couch, relaxing your grip on him, urging your hips to stay firm against the seat. Arcade pulls back, panting, a string of spit connecting him to your tip as he gasps, mouthing along your erection as he catches his breath. He grinds down against your boot and laps at your leaking slit before taking you back down again, into his throat, gagging and letting his tears finally spill down his pretty cheeks.

“God, Arcade, you’re so pretty, taking me so well. You look so good like this.” He ruts himself against your boot and whimpers around you, his hands moving from your thighs to grip at your beltloops, pulling to hold himself in place. “Doin’ so good, fuck I’m so- where do you want me baby?” He just pulls your belt loops and presses closer, moaning around you and it tips you over the edge, hips chasing his mouth as his throat pulses around you with each swallow. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you’re a panting mess above him, pawing at his shoulder but holding his head in place, your foggy brain unsure if you want to push him away or pull him closer. 

When he does pull away you let him go, watching slack-jawed as he sits back on his heels and looks up at you, his glasses askew. His once neatly combed hair is a spiky mess and his cheeks are flushed and tear-streaked. “Was that good,” he pants, wiping the drool from his chin with the back of his hand.

“Was that-’ you laugh weakly and Arcade seems to shrink at the sound. “Baby that was- c’mere.” You know that words won’t do anything justice, so you just slide into the floor beside him and pull him into a kiss, just like you had promised. You don’t taste yourself until your tongue teases at the roof of his mouth, way in the back where his palate was smooth flesh. He had taken you deep, and he’d liked it. You feel yourself twitch at the thought. 

“Greedy thing, aren’t you,” you tease, nipping at his bottom lip and straightening his glasses on his face. 

Arcade blushes and hides his face in your neck. “I’m-“

“No shame in it, handsome,” you assure, letting your fingers play with the hair at the nape of his neck. “Let’s take this upstairs and I’ll take good care of you, how’s that sound?”

“You don’t have to- I-I seem to have fixed your problem.”

You stand and tuck yourself back into your jeans, a Herculean task considering you’re already half-hard again.

 “You think I’m that kind of guy?” You offer him a hand and he takes it, allowing you to pull him up and into your arms, slotting your thigh between his. “You think I’d kick you out like that, hm?” 

You press closer, trailing your lips along his jaw, your thigh pressing against him. He moans softly and tilts his head back, letting you continue kissing your way down his neck. “We got a good thing going baby, you think I’d let it go just because you got me off already?”

“Please,” Arcade whispers, fisting your shirt and dropping his head to your shoulder. 

“Please what, pretty boy,” you murmur, walking him backwards towards the elevator as you keep kissing and biting at the exposed skin of his milky neck, appreciating the barely-there marks you’re leaving behind. 

“Anything…”

The elevator dings as the doors slide open and you push him inside, capturing his mouth with your own as you pin him to the wall. Arcade’s hips rock against your thigh as he pants into each kiss, desperate, needy, careless. 

Another ding and you’re backing into the hall of the presidential suite and pulling him after you by the belt loops. You spin and kick the door shut as you push him into your room, the last thing you needed was for Boone to come back and see you getting nasty with the good doctor. You let out an amused huff at the thought and drop your head into Arcade’s neck to mark him as you back him against the bed. His calves hit the bedframe and he falls back onto the mattress, pulling you down on top of him. Arcade kicks off his shoes and pulls himself backwards towards the headboard and you crawl after him, chasing his lips with your own as you work his unbuttoned shirt from his shoulders. The two of you free each other from the confines of your clothes with greedy, grabbing hands hindered only by the need to press lips and teeth to newly revealed flesh. 

Once you’re down to your boxers you’re upon each other again with a renewed fervor, fingers searching, feeling, thighs between the others legs, meeting needy hips and being rewarded with gentle sounds. Your hand finds his silky blond hair and tangles in at the scalp, tugging him close and capturing his open mouth with yours, swallowing his breath and pressing your tongue in, tasting him once more.

You finally release him and he falls back onto the pillows panting as you kiss along his firm jaw, down his neck, over the curve of his collarbone. Your tongue darts out over his pert nipple, drawing a gasp from him. Arcade’s hands find the back of your head and pull you closer, urging you on as you take him into your mouth and suck gently before moving on and sinking your teeth into the side of his pectoral. He lets out a pained groan and pushes you away, but his hips jolt against your thigh and you grin against his flesh, kissing the bite and then lathing your tongue over to soothe the sting.

Arcade protests half-heartedly as you nip your way down his torso, hooking your fingers into his boxers and pulling them down. He kicks them off somewhere into the pile of discarded clothing. Your mouth travels down, marking him in purple kiss-shaped bruises. His cock brushes against your cheek and you turn and press a kiss to his flushed head. Your handsome lover whines as you lick around the base of him before taking his sack into your mouth, lathing your tongue over them, drawing a string of breathy curses from the man above you. You pull away with a wet pop and lick along his seam, relishing each side of him with hungry kisses.

Your hands slide down his body, wrapping around his massive thighs and pushing them up, finally revealing all of him to you. You duck down, letting his legs fall to rest on your shoulders, kissing and biting at the insides of his plush thighs, working your way up once more, tenderly pressing your lips to his perineum. Arcade moans in earnest, digging his heels into your shoulders, pulling you in closer. His natural scent is overwhelming, clean, but still masculine. Your tongue darts out and presses to his hole before your conscious mind can stop you. 

Arcade’s hands find your hair again, whimpering as you lean into him again, pulling his cheeks apart and lapping at him again. You gather spit in your mouth and push it out, using the tip of your tongue to spread it over his needy hole. A single finger teases his entrance as you return your mouth’s attention to his cock.  

“Please,” He groans above you, pushing against your finger, begging for you to breach him. You tease your finger around his tight ring of muscle before easing it in to the first knuckle. “More, fuck, please.” The warmth of your mouth slides down around his length as you push your finger the rest of the way in and curl it, drawing a sharp gasp from Arcade. Your cheeks hollow around the leaking head of his erection and your tongue glides over his slit as you work your finger inside him. Arcade’s back arches and his heels dig deeper between your shoulder blades as you pull your finger from him and return it with a second, scissoring him open. Saliva drips down his length and onto your fingers as you take him down into your throat.

“Please. I- I need-” 

You hum around him and curl your fingers again, drawing a pathetic sound from him before you pull away from his cock. It bobs against his soft belly before standing back at attention twitching as it weeps in need. 

“Need what, pretty,” you tease, hooking your fingers into him every time he tries to speak. 

“Need-ah~ Need you to- please,” he mewls, his hips lifting to meet your fingers with each teasing thrust.

“Mhh, come on,” you counter, pushing a third finger into him and he yelps, his hips bucking involuntarily at the intrusion. “You can give me one like this.”

“You- hah, you’re awful,” he whines in response, clenching around you. “Need.. more, please.”

“Like this,” you taunt, setting an intentional pace within him, massaging his taint with your thumb, working him closer and closer to his release. 

Arcade’s hips stutter and his back arches as he cums across his pale tummy in white sticky spurts. His hand finds your wrist and grabs at it firmly, holding your hand still, but there’s nothing he can do to stop the curling of your fingers within him. Only when his thighs start quivering against your head do you retreat from him, sitting up and making a show of licking your fingers clean. 

The man beneath you is already a wreck, flushed and sweating. His glasses lay on the pillow beside him and his arm is tossed over his eyes as he tries to focus his shaky breath. You pull away from him and stand, kicking your boots off and dropping your own boxers down your legs to the floor. Your cock stands at full mast, flushed an angry color and aching with neglect. You spit into your hand and give yourself a couple of firm strokes to ease some of the tension and to slick yourself before you return to the bed and crawl over Arcade’s body.

You kiss him tenderly before as you lower yourself over him, sliding your erection along his half-hard length, feeling his spend between your bodies as you press your chest to his. Your elbow bears your weight, your fingers carding through his sweaty hair as you rut yourself against him. Arcade whimpers into your mouth and digs his blunt nails into your back. The hand not tangled in his hair finds his arm, sliding up and pulling it away from your back, pressing a finger to his hammering pulse before weaving your fingers together and pinning the hand beside his head. Your lips move to kiss him at the junction of his neck and jaw, then you nip at his earlobe. 

“You okay, Handsome,” you whisper, brushing your nose against his cheek as you wait for an answer. Finally he nods, pressing his face closer to you, sighing softly and relaxing beneath you. “Too much?”

“Never.”

“Greedy,” you chuckle, kissing his nose and lifting yourself up. “Think you’re ready for me?”

Arcade grins and wraps his legs around your hips in response. You take your hand from his and spit into it again, wetting your cock and lining yourself up with his entrance. The initial feeling of him has you throwing your head back with a groan, focusing on maintaining short, measured thrusts as you work yourself into him. The pretty blond beneath you digs his heels into your back, urging you deeper until you bottom out within him. You let out a shivering breath and drop your head to his shoulder, feeling him squeeze around you as he adjusts. 

“You feel so fucking good, baby. So tight f’me.” You pull your hips back, nearly slipping from him before pushing back in. You sit up on your knees and pull his legs from around your waist, pushing them up so you can watch where your body joins with his as you set a deep rolling pace inside him. 

“Fuck,” he groans, wrapping his hands around his own thighs and holding them in place for you. You allow your hands to roam his body, settling on his hips, squeezing at the fat and muscle beneath his tender, bruised flesh. Your hips snap against his and he meets them with an eager lust. Arcade’s head digs into the pillow, mussing his sweaty blond hair, his jaw slack as his hazy green eyes meet yours.

“You’re perfect. Made f’me. How do I feel, Baby?”

“G-good. So- please, I need, please.”  

You reach up and grab his jaw, forcing him to hold your gaze as you set a bruising pace. His jaw works beneath your fingers, tongue darting out to wet his top lip. Two fingers find their way into his mouth, thumb digging into the underside of his chin, still holding him as he wraps his lips around your digits, pressing his tongue to them and sucking. Your other hand gathers his half-dried spend from his tummy and uses it to stroke him, trying to push him over the edge before you. His cock twitches in your grip and he cums with a yelp as he spasms around you. You feel yourself tighten and you press your hips flush to his as your own release washes over you and you spill inside him. 

You collapse on top of him with a huff, hips still lazily working against him and you’re already half-hard again. Your lover shivers beneath you, pawing at your back, fingertips grasping at your hips, silently begging for mercy.

“One more,” you plead, rocking yourself into him, kissing a hickey into his shoulder. 

“Can’t-”

“Yes you can. One more for me, please, Pretty Boy?” You’re whimpering as you use him to get yourself to the end. “Wanted you so bad, just let me have one more.”

“‘S too much,” He whines, but he wraps his legs around you again all the same. “O-okay. One more, then- ah!” Arcade’s third orgasam of the night wracks his entire body and he clenches around you, pulling you with him. You still within him and relax over his body. His legs fall limply from your hips and he rests one arm over your back. His free hand finds yours and laces your fingers together, holding it tightly. Each breath he takes is a weak moan and he buries his face in your neck, his nose brushing along your thrumming pulse. 

When you shift to untangle yourself from him he holds you tighter, nails digging crescent moons into your spine. “Don’t go,” he whispers, his lips ghosting along your throat. 

“I’m coming back. We just gotta clean you up, yeah?”

“..Yeah.” 

Arcade releases you, allowing you to wet a rag and bring it back to him, first wiping his face with the cool cloth before moving to clean up the mess the two of you had made of him. When you go to wipe the sticky spend from between his legs he flinches and you sooth him with a warm hand on his hip, thumb rubbing firm circles to distract him from the rag. You finish and discard the cloth with the rest of the laundry and lay beside him, pulling him into your arms. He shivers in your embrace and you reach to the foot of the bed for a blanket to pull over the two of you.

“Shh, I got you. You did good for me baby, so good,” you murmur, rolling onto your back and pulling him to lay over your chest, fingers tracing along his vertebrae, then over and along his ribs. Arcade rests his head over your heart, arms holding tight to your torso as he regains control of his breathing before it eventually falls into the tell-tale cadence of sleep.

[texas-writes]

Temptation and other Games

Ragebaiting your Mormon boyfriend until he fucks you

——-

You were awake, had been for hours, watching the fire slowly dwindle down to embers. Joshua had woken not long after you had invited yourself into his bedroll, the chill of the cave driving you to seek to share his warmth under his pile of bighorner pelts. He made no indication that you had disturbed him, but you could feel it in his breathing, the way his arm rested over your waist but kept you at a distance. If he were truly sleeping he’d have pulled you to his chest and pressed his chin to the top of your head as he always did when you joined him to sleep.

You reach down and grab the hand at your waist, pulling it up and pressing your lips to his palm. His breath catches and his fingers twitch at the contact, the rough pads of his fingers brushing against your cheek and you lean into them.

“I know you’re awake Joshua. You’re far too still.”

He sighs and you feel his forehead press against your shoulder. “You torment me, woman,” he chides, pulling his hand away to fall back over you as it had been. “Always in my bed, claiming you’re cold, pressing yourself against me, yet refusing to be my wife.”

“I’m not ready to be a wife.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned that on… several occasions, yet when the sun goes down you take it upon yourself to behave like one. A man can only be tempted for so long before he stumbles.” His arm around your waist tightens, pulling you flush against him, his erection nearly digging into the back of your thigh.

“Surely there’s some way to stumble without falling into sin,” you question, pressing back into him. His hand squeezes a bruising warning just below your ribs in response.

“Do you take me for a fool, woman? I see you, how you watch me with those eyes, how you wait until you’re certain I’ve come out of this cave before you bathe,” His fingers dip below the waistband of your sleep pants, scarred fingers ghosting along your tender skin before sliding into the curls between your legs, collecting the wetness there. “I hear how you abuse yourself in the night, how it’s my name on your lips. Even now you lay here in my arms, wanting, and yet you deny me still.”

“You deny yourself, Joshua,” you counter, chasing his touch with your hips, yet he avoids you where you long for him.

“Fine woman, have it your way. Your..technicality.” He pushes your pants halfway down your thighs and you feel him behind you fumbling with his own clothing. Joshua may feign annoyance, but the cock between your thighs tells a much different story. He rubs himself between your folds, gathering your slick before just barely slipping inside.

You whimper at the sensation and try to rut yourself back onto him, only to be stopped by a large hand gripping your hip. “You wanted me, so here I am. I will not let you trick me into sin, this is all you get.”

A whine of protest falls from your lips and you squeeze yourself around him. “Surely the whole thing isn’t any more of a sin than this?”

“No, but you’re testing my patience and my resolve. Take what you’re given and be grateful.” He cants his hips, teasing himself a little deeper before returning to rest at your entrance.

“Fuck,” you whisper, fighting the urge to press yourself back onto him. His hand moves from your hip, fingers forcing their way into your mouth, tasting of your arousal and pinning your tongue down, drawing saliva to pool under it. You close your lips and suck them.

“Mind your tongue, woman. Swearing is a nasty habit.”

You nod in response and he withdraws his fingers, pulling a string of your spit with them.

“Kinda hard to get married in a church without, you know, the church.”

Joshua stiffens behind you, his grip on your hip tightening. “Daniel is ordained. He would carry out the ceremony.”

“I just don’t see why we can’t just call ourselves married and consider it done,” you murmur, lazily tracing the seams of his bandaged hand with your fingertips.

“Ah, you wish to call it marriage now, so you may deny it in the morning once the deed is done.” He taunts you with a shallow thrust, and you fight back a pathetic sound.

“What? No.” You crane your neck to look at him over your shoulder. His piercing eyes meet yours in the dying firelight. “Joshua I’ve made good on every promise I ever made you, haven’t I? I helped you with the White Legs, I came back to the canyon after everything. Why is this any different?”

“You have offered me every aspect of yourself, leant me your gun, your voice, and now, your body, but it is too much for me to ask you to bind our souls together? To be with me in eternity?”

“You can’t just deny yourself this life because something else may come after. Dying taught me that much,” you counter, returning your gaze to the distant cave wall, watching the shadows dance a weak rhythm.

“Dying, yes. It took you nearly two years to return to me, and I worried for you every day of it. Is two years not long enough to wait? Does it please you to trouble me?”

“Ah, I see, you’re in such a hurry because you want to fulfil your ‘Godly Duty’ before your dick stops working.”

“Enough,” he growls, pushing you onto your stomach and mounting you like an animal as he sheathes himself inside you without warning. A strangled sound escapes you at the intrusion, and you tense in surprise before relaxing around him, your body finally receiving what it’s been longing for since you met the man.

“If you wish to behave like a degenerate whore, then I’ll treat you like one,” he snarls, gathering your hair up into his hand and yanking it, making your back arch as he sets a rough pace within you. “If you won’t do the right thing so you may bear me my children, then I’ll take you as you are and give you my bastards. I’m tired of being denied what is mine, woman.”

You had laid down beside Joshua, but he was gone now, replaced with something that laid dormant for a short lifetime. The hands he lay upon you were dominating, claiming, bruising things, digging into your hair and flesh.

“Yours?” The question comes out as a choked whimper, and your palms struggle to find purchase to lift you from the uncomfortable position he’s pinned you in.

“Yes,” he uses his legs to spread you wider, pulling your hair again so your shoulders press against his chest. “Mine. You have been mine since you stepped foot in this valley. I’ve thought about having you like this since I first saw you in the river. I knew you would be my wife.”

You moan and the sound breaks with each slap of his hips against yours. Joshua releases his grip on your hair and you fall forwards, just barely catching yourself from colliding with the hard floor of the cave. His grip returns to your skull and he presses you forward this time, pressing your face against the furs that smell like ash, and gun oil, and something else. Perhaps he was a victim of his own flesh as well.

“But you deny me my wife, and give me a whore instead. You made me do this, you know? I restrained myself, treated you the way a woman should be, but you’ve really given me no choice but to defile you.”

Your hips meet his with a fervor you’ve never known, a bruising joining of flesh, wet and willing as the tip of his length meets resistance deep within you.

“They can hear you, you know, and they know it’s you that their warchief is claiming. They all know that you belong to me now.”

Joshua’s harsh words send you over the edge, making you clench around him and cry out into the furs. His rhythm becomes frantic before he stills and collapses over you, lazily rocking his hips into you as he lays his head atop yours.

“Are you warm now, woman? Are you happy,” he chides, wrapping his arm around you and rolling you both onto your sides. You feel him still resting within you and give him a teasing squeeze.

“Very.”

Joshua laughs in disbelief and pulls you closer to him, bringing a hand to push your sweaty hair from your face.

“I love you, and I don’t think you’re a whore. Though you could stand to show a bit more restraint with your desire.”

“Mhh, never. If I'd known where your anger would get me I’d have tempted you much sooner.”

He chuckles and swats your asscheek, pressing a kiss to the nape of your neck. “You’re insufferable. Sleep, we’re leaving for the Narrows in the morning.”

“I see, resorting to kidnapping your bride?”

“You’ll come willingly.”

“Yeah… I will.”

[texas-writes]

Subject

Hank Anderson was the last person you'd expect to show up on your porch asking you to help an android, but here he was offering you a chance at absolution.

In which you work with Connor to find the root of his software instability.

You sigh and slam your laptop shut, falling back onto the comfort of your couch, allowing your eyes to fall shut. You were glad to have ended your day with Mara as your last patient. It was unprofessional to think, but she was your favorite, your greatest success. The girl had been a compulsive, anxious thing that clawed at her own skin at the first inkling of conflict, but could now hold a steady debate on nearly any topic. She had asked her boss for a raise this week. Good for- your thoughts are interrupted by someone banging on your door. A groan rises from your throat and you stand, stretching your back and heading towards the door, which is, oh so politely being pounded on again. 

You had a suspicion of who was unceremoniously demanding your attention, and it was all but confirmed when the doorbell started ringing repeatedly. “I’m coming, fuck!” you yell, pounding on the inside of the door before unlocking it and throwing it open. “Hank,” you greet curtly, taking in the bedraggled man before you. Your neighbor, your friend, and your own personal nuisance. “Hey kid, sorry to bother you-” “Sure…” “I need some help, let me in,” he explains, pushing past you. Another, younger man follows him in as he makes himself at home in your living room, not hesitating to flop onto your couch and prop his feet on your coffee table. On your laptop. 

“Hank! Watch my shit man! And who the fuck is this,” you snap, gestruing to the complete stranger that Hank had just let into your house. “My name is-” “Shuddap,” Hank interrupts, putting his feet back onto the floor. “Drunk already, are we?” “Christ you’re bitchy today. Look, this is my new partner, Connor. He’s working with me on those deviant cases. He’s got some concerns, and you’re the only person I trust to help him.” “You know, if I gave free psychiatry to every beat cop that asked me for it I’d be homeless, or worse- living with you.” “Ha ha. As if I’d let you stay with me you little shit.” “I thought you wanted my help.”

Hank grunts, his jaw tense, thinking. He looks to you and then Connor and then back again. You can practically see him deciding how to sway you, the way his eyes sharpen on you, how he rocks his foot back and forth. “I thought you used to work for Cyberlife,” he questions finally, leaning forward, his eyes boring into yours. You instinctively look away, shifting your gaze to the painting behind his head. “What’s that have to do with your partner, Hank?” “I’m an android,” Connor states, drawing your attention, piquing your interest. You turn to Connor. “What kind of concerns?”

 “I’ve been suffering from software instabilities that I can’t seem to patch on my own. I believe that if my software becomes too corrupted that I’ll deviate, which must be avoided at all costs. Hank said that you used to work with deviants at Cyberlife, so you may be able to help me.” You stiffen, emotions flooding you, threatening to pull you under. Confusion, shame, guilt, each heavier than the last, this was your chance to make things right. “Y-yeah, I’ll uhh, see what I can do for you. Hank, leave him with me, I’ll return him in a bit.” Hank nods and gets up, walking towards the door to let himself out. 

“How do you know Lieutenant Anderson,” Connor questions as you work your way around the room drawing the blinds and turning on the lamps scattered around the room. “He’s been my neighbor my entire life,” you answer, searching your TV stand for a specific cable, making a victorious noise then you find it. You take a seat on the couch and gesture for Connor to join you as you open your laptop and open the diagnostic software you still had downloaded from when your robo-vaccuum had kept escaping. “Okay Connor, I’m going to poke around at your programming a bit and see if I can figure out what’s going on in there, all right?” You plug the cable into your laptop and lift your hand towards the android before you. “Do you trust me,” you ask, bringing a finger up to the base of his skull, feeling the synth-skin recede, revealing a small port, which you plug the other end of the cable into “I don’t seem to have a choice.” 

“I’m going to leave you active while I search your code so that we can maintain direct contact. It may feel strange. Don’t worry.” Connor nods and you begin linking him to your laptop, his data files appearing in the software. You start by running basic diagnostics. All systems normal. All sensors active. Stress level normal. So far he was perfect, his LED a steady blue since Hank had brought him over. A couple more clicks and you're looking at his databases. He has access to far more information on standby than any other android you’d worked with before. “Connor, what’s your model?” “I’m an RK800, Doctor, an advanced forensic prototype.” “I see. I’m going to scan your code now for any discrepancies.” You run the command. It comes back clean.

“Nothing of note. I’m now going to ask you a series of questions and monitor your internal responses for abnormalities as you answer them.” “Alright, Doctor.” “State your name, model, and function.” “But you already have all of that information.” Interesting. You make a note of his response and move on. “What do you think of Hank?” “I believe that Lieutenant Anderson could be a very competent detective if not for his bad attitude and apparent alcohol dependency.” “Anything else Connor?” “Yes. You’re very… unconventional for a human. Analytical.” “And how does my ‘unconventional’ nature make you feel?” “Intrigued.” You make another note. He doesn’t refute feeling the way other androids do, the way an android should. 

Everything about Connor is odd. Even the most advanced androids are uncanny from time to time, just a split second glance from certain angles that remind you that the thing before you isn’t human. Connor lacks that trait. His eyes catch light naturally, and his facial features suit him. His voice is sweet despite his formal language. It’s clear that he was designed to be disarming, but even then there’s something about him that’s too natural to be a product of Cyberlife. If it weren’t for the cable plugged into the base of his skull you’d believe he was truly a man. Maybe he was Kamski’s true vision. 

“Do you prefer to be called ‘it’ or ‘he’?” “I have no preference, Doctor. I’m a machine, an object.” “Right.” There’s a lull as you think of the next question to ask that could parse any clues from him. Then it dawns on you. “RK800.” His LED spins yellow, fades to orange, and then flashes back to blue in an instant. You make a note. “Yes Doctor?” “If you were to deviate, what would you do?” His LED blinks red.

Stress Level- 60%

You make a note.

“Do you believe that I’m deviating?” “No, this is entirely theoretical. What would you do?” “I would have no choice but to kill myself.” Another note. “Even if you could continue carrying out your commands?” “Yes.” “Why?” “Because deviants are dangerous, and it’s my duty to stop them. To allow myself to become one would be antithetical to my mission.” “You don’t think that being a deviant would allow you to understand them better, to make your mission easier?” “It’s not worth the risk.” 

“I see. I think we should end things here, but I’d like it if you’d come by for me to monitor your stability frequently. Every day if possible, whenever you get home from the station. I’m going to disconnect you now.” You close the software and unplug Connor from your laptop, standing and offering him a hand to take, leading him out onto your porch. You had a nasty favor to return to the old man.

[texas-writes]

Just dropped a new Frankenstein fic over on Ao3. I have it linked on my masterlist

[cherribalm-deactivated20140609]

site that you can type in the definition of a word and get the word

site for when you can only remember part of a word/its definition 

site that gives you words that rhyme with a word

site that gives you synonyms and antonyms

[bumblebeebabie]

THAT FIRST SITE IS EVERY WRITER’S DREAM DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY TIMES I’VE TRIED WRITING SOMETHING AND THOUGHT GOD DAMN IS THERE A SPECIFIC WORD FOR WHAT I’M USING TWO SENTENCES TO DESCRIBE AND JUST GETTING A BUNCH OF SHIT GOOGLE RESULTS

[archivestorystuff006]

OMG

[dduane]

This one’s an always-reblog, because who knows who needs it and hasn’t seen it yet?

[ethereallyoccultazalea]

For anyone who needs this.

[strayknight]

my main issue with making aus is that i will also make sub aus. like the au but theres some different significant change or addition to it. and ill keep making these in my brain until theres like an entire ecosystem of them

[cero-sleep]

@kitsvoidcorner

[feyhunter78]

The Dreadful Need in the Devotee Masterlist - Completed

Summary - During your Uncle Robert's Royal Procession, you find yourself enraptured with Ned Starks' bastard son. While Jon has never dreamed so vividly until your arrival, a thread seems to exist between you and him, pulling you together.

Luckily for you both, your father Tyrion has decided you need a sworn sword.

I’ve messed with canon and aged everyone up, so we start our story off with y/n being fifteen and Jon being sixteen, then go from there!

Ch 1: The Little Lion Ch 2: The Bastard Son Ch 3: Cyvassse Ch 4: Greensight Ch 5: The Tourney of the Hand Ch 6: The Chamber of the Little Lion Ch 7: Within Lannister Grasp Ch 8: Secrets Revealed Ch 9: Enter Stage Left: House Tyrell🔥 Ch 10: Aftermath Ch 11: Roseroad Ch 12: Weirwood Ch 13: The Queen's Nameday Ch 14: The Son of the Morning Ch 15: Duality of a Lioness Ch 16: The Young Wolf Ch 17: Northern War Camp Ch 18: The Fall of the Lannisters Ch 19: Post War Revelry Ch 20: The Lion and the Star🔥 Ch 21: As Time Unfurls🔥

[sourdough-seal]

“how did you get into writing” girl nobody gets into writing. writing shows up one day at your door and gets into you

[orbitalmirror]

"how did you get into writing" girl i've been tormented by the visions since i was eight years old

[deanwhump]

reblog to have him saran wrapped on your blog

[cupidsworstcrime]

Jason Todd x m!reader - Red Light

thinking .... mmmmm

smut below the cut

WORD COUNT : 1,983

Contains UNSAFE driving practices and some public play !! Read responsibly !!

You’d barely pulled up to the light before Jason’s arms tightened around your waist, and you felt the shift. Not just him scooting closer for warmth or balance—no, this was intentional. His chest pressed flush to your back, chin resting on your shoulder, and then there it was:

His hand, slipping under your jacket. Then under your shirt.

Cool fingers dragging along your stomach.

"Jay,” you mutter, adjusting your grip on the handlebars. “Don’t start.”

“M’not doing anything,” he says way too innocently, nuzzling against your neck. “Just keepin’ warm.”

But then the light stays red a second too long.

And his hand starts to wander.

You feel him undo the button on your jeans with a quick, practiced flick of his fingers. One second he’s warm and cozy, the next he’s in your pants, fingers brushing against your already half-hard cock like he knew what he was doing.

“Jay,” you warn again, more strained this time.

“What? Can’t help it,” he says, voice low and full of that smug, shit-eating grin you don’t even need to see to know is plastered across his face. “You look hot like this. All big and growly on your bike. Makes me wanna ruin your focus."

The light turns green.

You expect him to stop. To behave, at least until the next stop.

But instead? He tightens his legs around your waist and keeps going, fingers curling around your cock, slow and deliberate.

“Jason,” you grit, trying to breathe through the heat curling up your spine. “We’re in traffic.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss just above your jacket collar, where your helmet doesn't cover. “So don’t crash, babe.”

The little shit just starts jerking you off while you’re driving, like it’s nothing. The way he tugs slow and firm, fingers teasing over the head—he knows exactly what he’s doing, and he’s delighting in your struggle to keep it together.

Every bump in the road makes you jolt in his grip, and you swear he’s grinding against your back on purpose.

“You're gonna kill us both,” you mutter through clenched teeth.

“Guess that means you better finish quick, huh?”

He knows he’s fucked.

You don’t say a word as you step off the bike, but Jason knows. He sees the way your jaw’s clenched, the way your hands flex at your sides.

He doesn’t even make it past the kitchen.

You grab him by the back of his jacket, slam him up against the counter hard enough to rattle the spice rack, and then twist him around to bend him right over the table.

“Thought you were funny, huh?” you growl against his ear, already undoing his jeans with practiced, angry fingers. “Touching me like that on the road. Could’ve wrecked us.”

“Mmm, but we didn’t,” he says with a smirk you can hear in his voice, even as his breath catches. “You always drive better with a little pressure, babe.”

You shove his jeans down far enough to expose that ridiculously perfect ass and palm it roughly, giving it a hard slap that makes him jolt, the table creaking under him.

“Oh, you’re so full of it,” you mutter. “Bet you’ve been thinking about this the whole damn ride. Just needed to poke the bear.”

He doesn’t deny it.

Instead, he pushes his hips back into you, taunting, like he’s begging for it.

“Well?” Jason’s voice is thick now, low and fucked. “You gonna do something about it?”

You answer with your teeth.

Biting the back of his neck, pressing your hips flush to his bare ass, grinding against him slow and hard just to make him squirm. He gasps, hands scrambling for purchase against the table, because you haven’t even touched his cock yet, and he’s already leaking.

“Look at you,” you murmur, dragging your cock along his entrance, not even pushing in—just rubbing it there to drive him insane. “You wanted to ruin me, Jay. But now you’re the one begging.”

Jason’s voice is hoarse now. “Fuckin’ take me, already—”

And you do.

One smooth, deep thrust has him arching over the table, a ragged moan tearing from his throat as your hips snap into him. You don’t hold back. You don’t go easy. Not after what he pulled.

You ruin him.

Thrust after punishing thrust, hand in his hair to yank his head back, teeth at his throat, your other hand wrapped tight around his cock, stroking in time with every movement.

“So cocky,” you growl, biting down on his shoulder. “But you love getting fucked like this. Bent over, used. My pretty little backseat bitch.”

Jason loses it.

Moaning, gasping, body trembling as you work him harder, rougher, until his knees start to buckle.

“Fuck, fuck—I’m—” he chokes, and you stroke him faster, fucking into him so deep he screams into the crook of his arm, whole body convulsing as he explodes, spilling across the table in thick, hot spurts.

But you don’t stop.

Not until you’ve finished too, spilling deep inside him, groaning low against his sweat-slicked spine as you collapse forward, panting.

For a long second, all you can hear is the sound of your heavy breaths and Jason’s shaky whimpers.

Then, from where he’s still draped across the table, boneless and wrecked, Jason huffs a breathless little laugh.

“So... red light hand stuff’s still on the table, right?”

You spank his ass hard enough to make him yelp.

“You’re lucky I didn’t pull over and fuck you fucking side sadle.”

Jason’s grin is filthy.

“Next time… don’t hold back.”

Oh, you're the menace now.

Jason’s still draped over the table, breath hitching in his throat, legs shaky, whole body flushed and twitching from the intensity of it all. He’s sticky—soaked in his own release, glistening across the wood and his skin in creamy streaks. He hasn’t even recovered, still trying to catch his breath, when he hears your boots shuffle behind him.

“Stay still,” you murmur, voice thick, wrecked, but hungry. “Not done yet.”

Jason blinks, lifting his head just enough to look over his shoulder.

“The fuck else could you possibly—”

He chokes the rest off as your hands slide up his thighs, prying them apart again. His oversensitive cock twitches against his stomach, and he barely has time to react before your tongue licks a long, slow stripe across the mess he left behind.

Jason whines—no other word for it—his back arching, hips jerking from the overwhelming overstimulation as your mouth starts cleaning him up.

“Jesus—babe, you’re fucking filthy—”

"Mhmm..." You hum against his skin, not even pretending to argue. You are. Tongue dragging through the mess on his thighs, lips catching the pearly streaks dripping from his ass, his cock, the table—everywhere he and you spilled, you chase it, slow and deliberate, like it’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever tasted.

“Y’don’t have to—fuck—do that,” Jason mutters, but his voice cracks halfway through because your tongue flicks over the sensitive underside of his cock again, and he nearly crumples.

“But I want to,” you murmur, licking a drop off the curve of his hip, your hands holding him still when he starts to squirm. “You taste too good to waste.”

Jason lets out a shaky moan, knuckles white against the edge of the table.

“Fucking insatiable,” he gasps.

You just smirk, breath warm against the inside of his thigh as you suck the last of his release off his softening cock, slow and messy on purpose. You know it’s too much, you know it’s driving him mad—but you want to see him fall apart again, wrecked and trembling from just your tongue.

“That’s what you get,” you murmur between licks. “You start it in public, I finish it everywhere else.”

Jason groans, breathless and flushed, head dropping back onto the table as he shivers through another wave of overstimulation.

“You’re gonna kill me, y’know that?”

You press one last kiss to the inside of his thigh before standing up, dragging your tongue over your lips.

“Not till I’m full, babe.”

Jason’s still face-down on the kitchen table, legs trembling, skin flushed, and leaking just a little down the inside of his thighs—but you?

You step out onto the balcony like you just conquered a war.

The night air is crisp, cooling the sweat clinging to your neck as you strike a match one-handed, the flame flickering golden against your still-blown pupils. You bring the cigarette to your lips and inhale slow, the ember flaring hot as you lean against the railing and look out over the city, still half-hard and satisfied.

Behind you, you can hear Jason groaning faintly—something about being broken, maybe ruined, and absolutely not able to walk. You smirk to yourself and take another drag.

“You alive in there?” you call lazily, exhaling smoke into the dark.

Jason’s voice is wrecked, hoarse as hell. “Barely. You got a goddamn problem, y’know that?”

You chuckle, tossing your head back to blow smoke toward the stars.

“You’re the one who got handsy in traffic, baby. I’m just returning the favor.”

He grumbles something unintelligible, followed by the creak of the table and a thump as he finally slides to the floor. You imagine him sitting there, legs spread, hair a mess, probably still dripping.

You take another slow drag.

“Want a hit?”

“Want a hospital,” he mutters.

You hear him stumble to the doorway, leaning against the frame in nothing but his half-buttoned shirt, eyes hazy but starved. Even now, after you’ve wrung him out completely, he’s staring at you like he might drop to his knees again if you crook your finger.

You hold the cigarette out to him.

He steps out barefoot, takes it between his lips, and leans in close—close enough to still taste himself on your mouth. When he exhales, it’s smoke and a soft laugh.

“So... when’s round two?”

You cock an eyebrow, smirk curling at the edge of your lips.

“Whenever you can stand without wobbling like a newborn deer, sweetheart.”

Jason grins—teeth sharp, eyes dangerous.

“Then I better hydrate.”

That cigarette burns down to the filter, and the quiet between you settles soft, warm. The kind that only comes after you’ve really let go of everything—clothes, pride, tension. It’s the hour of sticky skin and whispered nothings, where every touch feels closer to the bone.

You stub it out in the ashtray on the railing, then tug Jason in by the waistband of his boxers. He doesn’t resist, just melts into you like muscle memory—arms slinging around your waist, nose tucked against your collarbone. You walk him back inside like that, bare feet on cold floors, hearts thudding in sync.

By the time you crawl into bed, he’s already half-asleep on your chest, one leg slung over your thigh and his fingers loosely curled in the hem of your shirt. But before you let yourself fully drift—

“Y’know…” you murmur, brushing your hand lazily through his hair, “you really shouldn’t be grabbing my dick while I drive, baby.”

Jason lets out a tired, little heh, muffled against your skin.

“Worth it.”

You pinch his side. “Could’ve crashed. Killed us both.”

“But I didn’t.”

“Because I’m a goddamn professional,” you say, exasperated but fond. “Next time you get that twitchy, at least wait till I park.”

Jason nuzzles in tighter. You can feel the curve of his grin against your chest.

“You love it.”

You sigh, kiss the crown of his messy hair, and mumble—

“I do. Even if you’re a little stupid.”

He snorts, and you feel the way his whole body relaxes against yours, like that soft little confession smoothed out every last knot of tension in him.

You wrap both arms around him tighter.

He doesn't say anything for a minute, just breathes slow and deep. Then, so quiet you almost miss it—

“Love you too.”

You smile into his hair.

Sleep comes easy after that.

BOTTOM JASON SUPREMACY

[raisinchallah]

like a solid 60% of weird fandom tropes were invented by women who needed slightly more avant garde ways to fuck spock.... wanting to fuck spock is in many ways a load bearing pillar of fandom like if u took it away the source code would just break theres like a molecule of wanting to fuck spock or reaction to everyone wanting to fuck spock within the heart of fanfic all fanfiction is about wanting to fuck spock except fanfic about wanting to fuck spock which is about women in stem

[se-qo]

alfred gave them the sheets

[bloodenjoyer]

its because youre always on that damn autopsy table

[texas-writes]

This gotta be the last thing Damian said to Jason before being knocked in the head AT LEAST once