#ohnojustwrites

[ohnojustimagine]

Heated

The Shield/Reader, with a focus on Roman/Reader; 3500 words, smut smut smut

This is A/B/O, but kind of... just the bits of A/B/O I enjoy. So like, heats and lots of come but no knotting.

(And theoretically there is supposed to be a part 2 to this, but yeah, given my record on that, who knows.)

-

It's always embarrassed you, how irregular your heat cycle is. Other omegas seem to be able to predict the timing of their heats down to the day, marked safely on the calendar so they can plan ahead, but your own seem to ebb and flow, as if your cycle has a mind of its own.

And the worst of it is that your heats come on hard and fast, so fast that you've often ended up in awkward, sometimes even dangerous situations, unprotected by an alpha when in full heat, unable to isolate yourself.

Most of the alphas you've been with have hated it, dumping you when they can no longer handle the rollercoaster that is your cycle; always putting the blame squarely on you, too prideful to admit they're not up to the task of dealing with it.

But Roman, Seth and Dean are different. They seem to take it all in stride, always managing to somehow get you through your heat even if the timing isn't ideal, finding ways to work around any awkwardness. And the care and understanding they show has meant you've bonded with all three of them on a level that's deeper than you would have ever imagined you're capable of.

Tonight you're in the Shield's private locker room as they gear up ready for a six man tag match, and you haven't felt quite right all day, but you've been so busy that you haven't paid much attention, vaguely assuming it's simply exhaustion.

But then suddenly you start to feel dizzy, faint enough that you have to sit down, your skin tingling hot, a light buzzing sound in your ears, as if the air of the room is vibrating around you.

"Oh, god," you say, closing your eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, trying not to start crying, because the timing couldn't be worse, and you hate this about yourself, that you can't control it in any way.

"What's wrong, baby?" Roman asks you, frowning. He takes a step towards you, and you hear him breathe in, the change in your scent already obvious. "Ohhh," he says. "Another heat."

"Again?" Seth says, incredulous, and though he doesn't exactly sound displeased Roman still shoots him a sharp look, shushing him.

"It's okay," he tells you, sitting down next to you, wrapping one big arm around you, kissing the top of your head.

"But it's nearly time for your match," you say, utterly miserable.

"I know," Roman replies, rubbing your arm. "But it'll be okay, I promise."

"We got time to fuck her before we go out?" Dean asks, sounding eager.  

"No." Roman shakes his head. "We'll need all our energy for the match." He strokes your hair, looking down at your affectionately. "You know you always drain us, baby, with how bad you need it."

"I'm so sorry, I..." You breathe in, because you're already struggling to concentrate, the ache inside you growing into an acutely insistent throb of need, wetness gathering between your legs. "I don't think I can be by myself. Not here." WWE is a hotbed of the most alpha of alphas, and you know that once anyone catches your scent, they'll be after you, unable to resist the lure of your heat.

"We'll lock the door," says Roman.

"You know we always make sure we have a secure room, just in case," Seth chimes in.

"You promise?" you ask anxiously.

"We promise, baby," Roman tells you.

"Wouldn't hurt to have a little extra insurance policy, though?" Dean suggests, and Roman nods, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze as he rises to his feet. He rummages through his bag, pulling out the chastity belt they'll often use on you when you're in heat. There's a small dildo attachment on the crotch of it, and you stand up, breathing in as you look at it.

Your clothes feel too hot and constricting on your body, like they're choking you, and you pull them off impatiently, not caring how you look, your t-shirt nearly getting stuck over your head, ignoring the sound of the zipper on your skirt ripping open, tossing it aside and stepping out of your panties.

You move your feet wider, biting down on the moan rising up in your throat as Roman walks around you, bending lower to guide the dildo inside you, getting it as deep as possible. And though it feels good, it's nowhere near big enough, you think, fretting a little as he fastens the belt into place, adjusting the straps, making sure you're comfortable. You exhale as the padlock on the front clicks into place, and Roman tugs on it, just to be sure.

The key is on a string that he loops around his neck, tucking it under his vest, out of sight.

"All safely locked away," he tells you, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, and you whine as he pulls away, trying to hold onto him, but he peels you off him with a kindly smile.

"You good to go?" he asks Seth and Dean, who both nod.

"We're gonna be thinking about you," Seth tells you. "The whole time. Gonna be real hot to fuck you by the time we get back."

Dean inhales a deep breath, staring at you, lust in his eyes. "You sure we don't have time?" he asks, again. "Just a quickie to tide us over?"

"No," Roman replies firmly. "Got to do it right for her, you know that."

Dean shrugs, like he doesn't agree, but he doesn't say anything further, and Roman looks at you. "We'll be back as soon as we can," he assures you. "You just sit tight."

You nod, unable to even speak by now, watching them leave, closing the door behind them.

You note that Roman has locked it from both sides, and you know it's not that they don't trust you, it's just to make sure, but it's still humiliating, that you have to be contained like this, even if it is for your own good.

You throw yourself down on the couch, hand over your eyes, trying to breathe through it, need building inside you until you feel like you might explode, and you don't know how you're going to hold on.

You find a cloth, running it under the cold tap at the sink in the corner of the room and then folding it in half, pressing it to your forehead, dabbing it on your throat, your skin so hot it's almost burning, the coolness barely registering. You sigh, tossing the cloth aside, and pace up and down the room for a while, back and forth, counting your steps, but that only makes it worse, the dildo shifting inside you with every step. Your pussy is dripping wet, slick seeping out the sides of the belt, and you feel yourself clench involuntarily around the dildo, spasming helplessly. It's too small, you think, barely enough to fill you, and it's no good, anyway, because what you're craving inside you is come, alpha come, the only thing that can bring you even the slightest relief when you're in heat.

Your breasts are already starting to swell, firm when you touch them, your nipples taut and hard, and you lick your fingers, teasing the tight peaks, pinching them. You moan, too loud, you know, but you don't care, straddling the arm of the couch, rubbing yourself on it almost mindlessly, but you can't feel anything, the metal of the belt thick enough not to allow you any sensation. You groan in frustration, anger flaring inside you, childish resentment at the fact that your alphas aren't here to take care of you, and the logical part of your brain might know that's unreasonable, but your heat is taking over, and you can't think.

But then, out of nowhere, there's a sharp knock on the door and you jump up, guilty. Your heart races as you stand there, silent, watching as the door handle rattles, but the lock holds.

"Pretty baby," someone croons from outside in a sing-song voice. "I can smell you in there, sweet little omega all alone." You hear them suck in a deep breath, then exhale. "That's a nice heat you got going there, why don't you open the door for me, little one, and I'll give you what you need."

You stay frozen in place, barely daring to breathe, and the handle again rattles, this time with more force. You flinch as the surface of the door resounds with a violent kick, pressing your hand tight over your mouth so you don't gasp aloud, trembling with fear.

There's silence for a minute, and you dare to creep closer to the door, tiptoeing across the carpet, holding your breath. And you can hear something, rhythmic, small wet noises, and then there's a grunt, the sound of something spattering onto the door.

It drips down onto the floor, and you can smell it, and though it's not the same, not from your alphas, you're desperate enough that you let out a broken whine.

A laugh echoes from outside, and then the voice says, "Enjoy that, omega, and  if you ever want a real alpha you can come find me anytime."

Footsteps echo away, and you back up into the furthest corner of the room, sinking down onto the floor, bending your knees up to your chest, tears running hot down your cheeks. You sob, quietly, and you don't know how much time passes, lost in your own private misery, but finally the door opens, and you look up, vision still blurred by tears.

Dean, Seth and Roman are standing there, staring at the door. "Gross," Dean comments.

"Seems like someone had themselves some fun," Seth says, shaking his head.

"Doesn't matter," Roman states. "As long as they stayed out." He walks towards you, asking, "You okay?" And you shake your head, hiccuping out one last sob. "Oh, baby," Roman says, giving you a concerned smile. "You're really not okay, are you?" He takes your hand, pulling you up to your feet.

"C'mon, man," Dean says, grabbing his crotch, rubbing at it. "Get that fucking belt off of her and I'll make her feel better than okay."

"Patience," Roman tells him, pulling the key out from under his vest.

"Yeah, fuck patience," Dean snaps back. "And just so you know, I'm going first."

"Why does he get to go first?" Seth complains.

"It doesn't matter who goes first," Roman says, calmly. "As long as we give her what she needs."

He carefully unlocks the belt, unfastening the straps, lifting it away from your body. You mewl at the feet of the dildo slipping out of your pussy, the thick scent of your heat suddenly filling the room, potent and undeniable. And all three of your alphas practically growl in desire, their spines straightening, standing tall and dominant, predatory instincts awakened, eyes flashing dark, but it's Dean that moves first, as promised, grabbing you. He drags you over to the table at the side of the room, shoving you down onto it face first, his hand tight on the back of your neck, your hips jammed up against the edge, digging into you. You feel him fumble with his pants, barely able to wait, wailing in relief as his cock sinks into you, fucking you, pumping hard.

"Oh, fuck," he mutters. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

You moan, trying to push your hips back into him, pussy tightening rhythmically around him, keeping time with his thrusts, the need of your heat as if trying to pull his orgasm out of him, hungry for his come.

And it doesn't take long for him to finish, letting out a guttural, bitten-off moan as he comes, shooting thick and hot inside you, spurt after spurt, and it feels so good, but it's not enough, barely beginning to slake the thirst of your heat.

He pulls out of you, and Seth's right there, roughly flipping you over onto your back. He lifts up your legs, your ankles resting on his shoulders as he plows his cock into you, deep and hard and fast, holding on to your legs, his teeth gritted, face twisted up in desire.

His hips piston, thrusting with enough violence that you have to hold on to the edges of the table, your head rolling back, chest arching up towards him, your body begging for what you need.

And you see him close his eyes, tensing as his orgasm hits him, his cock releasing inside you, alpha come filling you yet again, but it only seems to make you want more.

His cock slips out of you, and you slide down onto the floor, legs so weak you doubt they could hold you, but Roman's sitting on the couch, waiting, and he beckons to you. "Come here, my sweet girl," he says, and you crawl over to him, letting him help you up into his lap, facing him, sitting astride his thighs. His hands are on your waist, pulling you up onto your knees, closer to him so your breasts are right in his face, and he nuzzles at them, humming in delight.

They're even more swollen now, taut and tender as he kisses your skin, licking, sucking on the hard peaks of your nipples, so sensitive it's almost unbearable.

It forever astonishes you that he can take his time with you like this when you're in heat, because the man has self-control like no alpha you've ever known, but Roman's special, always worth the wait even if right now you're too impatient to think about anything but his cock.

He gets one hand between your legs, pushing his palm firm up against the fullness of your clit, and you rut yourself on it, your hips working, feeling Seth and Dean's come leaking slowly out of you, gasping as Roman's teeth sink into the flesh of your breast, biting down hard enough to mark you.

You whine as he removes his hand, your hips still moving helplessly even though all that's there now is now empty air, and he kisses your mouth, tongue teasing frustratingly light over your lips.

"Yeah, you want Daddy's cock, don't you?" he murmurs. "Need more of that alpha come."

You nod at him, wide-eyed and desperate, and he smiles at you, hauling you up off his lap.

He sets you down on the floor, on your knees, turning you around so you're facing the couch, arms braced on the edge of the seat in front of you, and you arch your spine, your knees apart, pussy wet and hungry for him.

You pant, barely able to control your breathing you're so dizzy with anticipation, but then Roman slides into you, cock thick and slow, filling you up until you feel like you can't take anymore, and when he's as deep as he'll go, bottomed out inside you, he stops, not moving.

You're whining with every exhale, shaking all over, but Roman can't be rushed.

"Yeah," he says, softly. "So tight, aren't you?" He shifts himself slightly, and you moan at the feel of it. "Never had an omega like you, baby girl, full in heat but so hot and tight on my cock." He lets out a breathless, careless laugh, and you feel tears burning hot in your eyes, your whole being consumed with nothing but want. "Fuck you all night and that sweet pussy will still try and milk me for more."

You squirm, trying to move yourself on him, but he's ruthlessly unyielding, a solid wall behind you.

"You need to let go," he orders, gently yet firmly, "and let me take care of you." He rests one hand in the curve of your back, just above your ass, and you focus on your breath, inhaling and then exhaling, knowing that you have to stop fighting it, that you need to surrender, give yourself and your heat over to him, submit to the will of a true alpha.

You feel your body start to relax, trusting him, and it's only then that he starts to fuck you, slowly at first, but building in intensity and speed until he's pounding into you, holding onto your hips, your pussy so wet with slick that the noise of it seems to fill the room like something obscene.

Roman leans forward, hands either side of yours on the edge of the couch, his body over yours, broad chest pressed to your back. You feel as if you're being consumed by him, fucked until you're split wide open, nothing but a vessel for this need and when he finally comes it's like a rush, ecstasy and relief all at once, because this is what you've been craving, and you don't want it to ever stop, his cock pumping into you until you're so high you're not sure you'll ever come down from it.

But then at last he's done, pulling out of you, and you slump down, sitting on your heels on the floor, swaying slightly, the room feeling as if it's moving slowly around you. And Dean's already hard again, right there with his cock in your face. He gets one hand on your jaw, forcing your mouth open, pushing himself in past your lips, thrusting. And you're way too far gone to do anything but let him take what he needs, your heat meaning your throat is just as open as your pussy, and he goes deep, over and over until he's coming so hard that you struggle to keep up. You swallow as much as you can, lapping up the taste, the rest dripping warm down your chin.

He backs off, and you lean against the couch, exhausted, barely able to stay upright. And you can't even imagine the sight you must make, breathing hard, sweating, come and spit all over your face but Roman, Seth and Dean only gaze at you like you're the most beautiful thing they've ever seen.

"You want her again?" Roman asks Seth, who shakes his head.

"Nah, I'll wait," he says. "We should get on the road."

"Yeah, it's getting late," Dean agrees, and they begin to pack up their bags.

You sit quietly, watching, only standing up when Roman brings one of his hoodies over to you, helping you put it on. He knows it's uncomfortable for you to wear too many clothes when you're in heat, but you need to be covered, and the hoodie is soft, comfortingly imbued with his scent, big enough that it reaches mid-thigh on your smaller frame.

But Seth looks at you, frowning. "Should we clean her up a little first?" he asks. "Can we get her out of here like this?"

"She's fine," Roman replies, no trace of doubt in his voice.

"Everyone's gonna to be able to smell her," says Dean, sounding unsure. "I mean, every alpha in the place will be after her."

Seth smirks, laughing. "Might be fun to stir up some trouble with the opposition, boys."

"They know their place," Roman says. "She's ours." But then he frowns to himself. "Still," he adds, "better put this back on her." He picks up the chastity belt, taking off the dildo attachment, and then he seems to think for a moment before going through one of his bags, producing a small, remote-controlled vibe.

And you whimper in discomforted anticipation, because you know how that's going to feel inside you, your pussy already so overstimulated that it will be way too much for you to deal with.

"Just for on the ride, baby girl," Roman tells you. "Got to keep you nice and hot for us."

You shake your head no, pouting in distress.

"Hey," Roman says, firmly. "You need to trust us." He cradles your face in one hand, his thumb stroking tender across your cheek. "Don't we always take care of you?"

And you nod, biting your lip, knowing you need to accept his authority.  

"Hold her," he directs Seth, who stands behind you, wrapping his arms around you. You squirm a little, whining in protest, but Roman pays no attention, pushing the vibe into your pussy. It slips in easily with how wet you are, nestling up against your walls, and you bite down on your bottom lip, breathing out, because even the presence of it inside you is reigniting the intensity of your heat, urges beginning to return in full force.

"Don't worry," Roman says with a smile, clearly observing your reaction, "we won't turn it on yet."

You shift restlessly as he and Seth help you into the chastity belt, fastening it, locking it tightly, securing you for no one's use but theirs, under their protection.

You breathe out as Roman drops a brief kiss on your lips before draping one arm protectively over your shoulders.

"Ready, boys?" he asks.

"Ready," Seth agrees.

"Always," Dean says.

"Then let's go," says Roman, and he opens the door.

#ohnojustwrites #wwe imagine #roman reigns #the shield #roman reigns imagine #the shield imagine #dean ambrose imagine #seth rollins imagine

[dopekingdomdeer]

[ohnojustimagine]

Blood Rules

Reader/Roman Reigns; smut, 1620 words

Vampire Roman with some very dubious consent

-

He's been back for a few weeks before you're brave enough to try and see him, talk to him.

He keeps to himself backstage now, has his own private locker room, doesn't mingle. Not like he used to, and he's changed, you know that. Everyone knows that, anyone can see. But he's still Roman, you're sure, because no one changes that much.  

You remember how it used to be; you in his lap, cradled in those powerful arms, his mouth on your neck and his teeth so quick and sharp that the bite was always more pleasure than pain, and then him feeding from you; the soft, gentle sound of him swallowing as he drank, the heady feeling of it enveloping your whole body. He'd kiss you, after, the taste of your own blood lingering in your mouth as he undressed you, slowly.

You smile to yourself, standing in front of the door labelled Roman Reigns, and you're about to knock when it's thrown open with some violence, a girl rushing out. She's crying, one hand held to the side of her neck and she hurries away without even looking at you, her choked-off sobs echoing down the hallway.

You watch her go, frowning, and when you turn back around, the door is again closed, but Heyman's standing in front of it, looking you up and down with an undisguised sneer.

"Can I help you?" he asks, tone practically dripping condescension.

"I'm here to see Roman," you say, and Heyman gives you a small, spitefully sarcastic smile.

"I'm afraid," he says, speaking slowly, as if to indicate he thinks you'll have trouble understanding, "the Tribal Chief isn't taking visitors right now."

And maybe you should just leave it, come back later, but this guy's enough of a dick that you decide to be stubborn. "I think he'll want to see me," you state, calmly.

Heyman looks at you for a long moment, then shrugs. "Fine," he replies, and knocks twice on the door, opening it just enough that he can peer inside.

He says something you can't quite hear, and you hear Roman's voice reply, the words muffled.

"Okay," says Heyman, and he opens the door, standing aside to let you in, giving you an exaggerated little bow.

He stays outside, thankfully, and you quickly glance around the room as you enter, finding it dimly lit and mostly bare, just a table, a few chairs. There's a bed set up in one corner, the sheets messily rumpled, and you try to not to think about what that means.

Roman's sitting in one of the chairs, looking at you, dressed in black pants and a black tank top, his hair pulled back. "Hey, baby," he greets you, face all at once breaking into an easy smile. "Been a while." And you're not sure how it's actually physically possible that he's become even hotter during his absence, but it seems he has, because the sight of him literally takes your breath away.

"Hi," you say, trying not to sound awkward, and when he doesn't say anything more, you're not sure what to do. "Yeah," you go on, nodding, "I thought you might want to..." You gesture at your neck, but then suddenly remember the girl you just saw leaving. "Unless you've already..."

"No, no," Roman interrupts. "You know me, always hungry."

"I remember," you say, but you're not so sure you remember it being like this.

"Come sit with me," he says, patting his thigh, and you find yourself hesitating, uncertain. "Am I making you nervous?" he asks, raising his eyebrows a little, seemingly amused.

"No, of course not," you say, shaking your head. "No, like you said, it's just been a while." You swallow, because you could swear there's something not right about this, about him, some tiny nagging warning bell sounding in the back of your brain in a way that you can't quite make sense of, but this is Roman, you tell yourself.

And so you smile, walking over, sitting yourself sideways across his lap, and his arms wrap around you and it's like you're home, sweet and safe and familiar, any doubts instantly forgotten.

"Right where you belong, baby girl," Roman says, softly, fingers smoothing your hair back behind your shoulder, out of the way, and you tilt your head to the side, exposing your neck to him.

You hear him hum to himself as he licks along your throat, tongue wet on your skin, and you have to hold your breath, waiting, your heart racing with anticipation. He lets out a quiet hiss, and then you feel the sharp, brief sting of his bite, making you gasp, but then he starts to drink, and warmth floods through you.

And god, you think, sighing in contentment, because you've missed this, and it's every bit as good as you remember. You close your eyes, losing yourself in the strange, almost profound intimacy of it, a closeness that's like nothing else you’ve ever experienced, every inch of your skin alive, heart pumping inside your chest, your body giving itself over to Roman, his need.

You lean into him, letting go, trusting, falling.

But then something creeps in under the bliss of it, your head starting to spin in a way that's verging on discomfort and you realize that he should have stopped by now, that he's taking way more than he ever has before.

"Roman," you say, nudging him lightly, but he ignores you, continuing to drink.

"Roman," you repeat, louder, and his arms tighten around you as you struggle a little, try to push him away, and you're suddenly dizzy, light-headed, the room feeling as if it's moving around you.  

"I-I can't..." you stutter out, starting to truly panic. "It's too much, I..."

Roman stops, pulling away just enough, but he doesn't let you go.

"It's better like this," he whispers against your neck, licking at the wounds there, his teeth scraping across your skin. "When you're afraid, I can taste it." You hear him laugh, feel his breath on your throat. "Fear makes the blood sweeter," he murmurs, his teeth sinking back in, and you cry out, already too weak to fight him, even when his hand wanders down between your legs, pushing them apart, sliding under your skirt, into your panties.

He sucks harder at your neck, drinking even more deeply, and your body responds, the rush of your blood pulsing through you, your pussy swollen and wet, his fingers slipping inside you with ease, his thumb teasing at your clit.

You let out a whine, and you're drifting away, like you're floating, vaguely aware you're about to lose consciousness, but just before you're gone, he again stops, lifting you up, gathered into his arms as he carries you over to the bed.

He lays you down, and you sprawl out beneath him, unable to move or even protest as he undresses you, moving around you, shifting your limp body with efficient ease, removing your clothing piece by piece until you're naked.

He kneels over you, legs either side of your thighs, staring down at you.

"Please..." you whisper, weakly, barely able to hear yourself, and you don't know what you're asking of him, but he only smiles, teeth stained red with your blood.

"You're so beautiful like this," he tells you, and you watch, helpless, as he takes off his tank top, reaching back and pulling the tie out of his hair, shaking his head so it tumbles down over his shoulders in loose waves. He unzips his pants, taking out his cock, hard and proud in front of him as he strokes it, darkened eyes raking over your body, his gaze hungrily possessive.

And you have to close your eyes as he bends your legs up, spreading them wide, thighs splayed before him as he settles himself down over you, weight heavy on top of you. 

He licks at the marks he's left on your throat, tongue teasing at them until you feel the sting of leaking blood dripping down your neck and you whimper. "Shhh, baby girl," Roman murmurs, reaching down, guiding his cock into you, and even in this state, you're wet for him, taking him in, your body unresisting, and maybe, you think, you want this. Maybe you've always wanted it like this, pleasure like something faint and far away as he starts to fuck you, slow and hard.

He takes his time with it, kissing you, sucking on your neck, his cock thick and relentless, going deep, fucking you open until you feel you might break, come apart and be remade for only this, for him.

He moans as he comes, thrusting into you, and perhaps there's an answering echo somewhere inside you, but you can't tell anymore, numb to it, disconnected from yourself, fading.

Roman stands up, zipping his pants, and your vision is blurring in and out of focus but you can see Heyman standing there beside him, and if you cared, you'd wonder how long he's been there.

"Vince wants to see you," he says to Roman, who nods.

Heyman stares at you, his upper lip seeming to curl in disdain, and you want to turn over, hide yourself, but you can't, lying there, exposed to his gaze. And you know what's he thinking as he turns to Roman. "Do we... need to deal with her?" he asks, carefully.

"She's fine, she'll be out for a while." Roman looks down at you, smiling. "I'm going to want her again later, anyway."

Heyman laughs, shortly. "The Chief has his needs."

"Exactly," Roman says. He leans over, kisses your forehead, lips gently tender on your skin. "Be good, baby," he tells you, softly. "I'll be back soon."

#wwe imagine #roman reigns #roman reigns imagine #ohnojustwrites #roman reigns smut

[ohnojustimagine]

Arrangement

Brock Lesnar/Reader; smut (though it gets weirdly fluffy at the end) 3730 words

Hey, have you ever wanted to read about Brock getting dommed and pegged? No? Just me?

Note: there are a LOT of sexist slurs in this, but Brock probably does get the worst of them. Also a pretty overt threat of violence, but nothing acted on in any way.

-

Heyman is always the one who texts you. Sometimes it'll be every few weeks, sometimes you won't hear from him for months. And while you have no idea what Brock's schedule is like you do have the sneaking suspicion that he at least occasionally flies in specifically for this, for you, but then maybe that's just your ego talking.

It's early evening when you knock at the hotel room door, and it's opened almost immediately. And every time, it sends a sweet little shiver of apprehension through you, the sight of him, just the sheer, looming size of him, the way he seems to fill the entire door frame. Brock doesn't speak, doesn't greet you in any way, only stares, and you like the way he looks at you, with such open, resentful disdain. You like this part of it almost as much as the sex, the way he'll never just simply give in to his own wants, fighting the part of himself that needs this from you.  

He's barefoot, in shorts and a black t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, and he turns away, uncaring, letting you catch the door before it closes, watching him as he sits down on the bed, picking up his phone.

And you don't say anything, but you set your purse on the table, taking out what you need and then calmly removing your clothes. You're perfectly aware that he's paying close attention to your every action, even if he's doing everything he can to pretend he's not, but you let that go, ignoring him for now.

And when you're done, you wait. A minute passes, then another, and finally you say, "You know, if you've got more important things to do, I don't need to be here."

He huffs out a pissed-sounding breath, and tosses his phone aside, folding his arms in front of him. They're as huge as the rest of him, forearms pink and raw as slabs of meat, and he glares up at you, small eyes narrowed.

"So you want me to stay?" you ask.

He shrugs. "I don't care what you do."

"You're not interested in what I'm here for?"

"Maybe, maybe not." He gives you a nastily smug little smile. "Convince me I should be interested."

And one day, you think, you're not going to indulge him like this, but you pick up the strap, snug and ready in its harness, the weight of it thick in your hand. You hold it up in front of him, letting it drift dangerously close to his face.

"Do you like it?" you ask. "It's new."  

He bats it away with an irritated swat and says, "What was wrong with the old one?"

"Nothing," you reply. "This one's just a little bigger." You smile at him. "I think you need something bigger."

He's silent, but you can see the way his mouth thins out, a flush creeping up that thick neck, and you know you're getting to him.

"Maybe I should get you to suck it for me?" you continue. "Before I fuck you with it. I don't think we've done that before, have we?" You look at him, watching his expression closely as you speak. "I bet you like sucking dick, don't you? I bet you'd swallow it down all nice for me, choke on it like a good little slut."

His jaw clenches tight, making his face even more square as it visibly reddens, and he stands up, towering over you, the solid mass of his body like a wall in front of you.

"You don't get to talk to me that way," he says, "you dumb fucking whore."

You stare up at him, your heart beating faster, but you've played this game before, and you know how to win. "My dick's way bigger than yours, Brock," you tell him, evenly, "so I get to talk to you any fucking way I want."

"I could kill you right now," he hisses out, "I could snap your stupid whore neck right now, and no one would ever know. You think they wouldn't cover it up? You think anyone would even care that someone like you was gone?" He breathes in, sharp and fast. "I could do it."

"Do it, then," you say, defiant. "If that's what you want."

His hands fist tight at his sides, threatening, like the weapons they are, and you know he could, if that was what he wanted. In less than a moment, and you wouldn't have even the faintest hope of stopping him. "But then," you tell him, "you'll have to get someone else to fuck you, and you know it won't be the same." And you so want to touch him, but you don't, not yet. "No one could do it like I do," you say, softer now. "No one understands you like I do, Brock."

He does this, or at least some version of this, every single time, and at first it scared the shit out of you but you soon realized that it's nothing more than just his way of getting himself to the place he needs to be.

And you know you shouldn't play into it, at least not the extent you do, riling him up just for the rush it gives you, because there's always the chance that you'll push him too far, past his limits, but you're every bit as addicted to this as he is, and you can't stop yourself.

His mouth is open slightly, small flecks of saliva at the corners of his lips and you can hear him breathing."You're not worth it," he says, dismissively.

"Oh no, Brock," you say, "I'm worth so much more than that." He glares at you, but he doesn't say anything more, and you laugh, briefly, quietly. "Take off your clothes," you tell him, and he does, muttering to himself the whole time, but you don't listen, concentrating as you fit the harness over your hips, adjusting it just right.

When you're finished, you look at him, standing naked in front of you, and predictably, he's rock hard, his cock as red and angry-looking as the rest of him. So you make a show of glancing back and forth between you, visibly comparing before you shake your head. "Aw," you say, "mine really is bigger than yours, isn't it?"

"You need to stop talking," he snaps.

"And you need to get on the bed." You smile at him, secure in the knowledge that he's giving in to it, but still, you're not quite there yet.

But he does as you ask, on all fours, facing away from you, his body solid, stiff with tension, and you grab the lube, slicking up your fingers as you climb onto the bed.

The skull on his back seems to stare up at you, its eyes blank and empty, and your gaze traces lower, past the poorly-lettered KILL EM ALL inked above his ass like some ludicrously dramatic tramp stamp.

You kneel beside him, letting the strap brush up against him, a tease and a warning as you rest a hand on his lower back, waiting as the tension in his body dissipates enough that you can hold his ass apart a little. You tease the tip of one finger at his hole, feeling it flinch, tighten and then release, opening up to let your finger slip comfortably inside him.

"There," you murmur, and he grunts quietly in response. You work it in and out, quickly adding another with some more lube, and then a third finger, because it never does take much once he finally starts to let go, eager for it despite all his protestations.

"Does that feel good?" you ask. He doesn't answer, and that means that you need to take it a little further, which is easy enough. "Did you clean yourself up all ready for me like a good boy?" you ask, even though you know he did, because he always does.

You see the muscles in his back flex, his spine stiffening for just a second.

"Yes," he admits, grudgingly.

"See," you say, as condescending as you can, "you do want it, don't you?"

"Fucking bitch," he mutters, under his breath, and you pull your fingers out of him so fast you hear him wince, but you ignore the sound of it.

"What did you say?" you demand.

And he hesitates, which is gratifying, but he still repeats it, louder, every word clear. "I said, you fucking bitch."

"Oh, baby," you say, "you're on your hands and knees about to take my cock. So I'm pretty sure you're the bitch. In fact, you're my bitch, aren't you, Brock?"

"I'm no one's bitch, you stupid cunt."

"Is that what I am?" You laugh. "Well, I guess that means you're this cunt's little bitch."

"Screw you." He hasn't moved, isn't even looking back over his shoulder at you, remaining in position with his ass all ready for you despite his words, and you suddenly decide you want more from him tonight.

"Say it," you tell him. "Say you're my bitch."

"No fucking way."

"Say it or I won't fuck you."

He shifts, and even from this angle you can practically see him warring with himself, wanting to defy you but so helplessly goddamn needful of what you have to give him. "Fine," you snap, no longer willing to be patient, making as if to get off the bed.

"Wait," he says, hurriedly, a genuine-sounding panic in his voice, and you smile.

"Say it," you repeat.

"I..." he starts, but then stops.

"Say it, Brock."

"I'm..." He sucks in a breath, and you know what this must be costing him, and it's so hot. "I'm your bitch," he says, as if spitting the phrase from his mouth, like it's something disgusting to him.

"Yeah, that's not good enough," you state. "Try again, and this time, Brock, you better fucking mean it, or I swear, we're done here."

"I'm. Your..." Each word is gritted out, but then, as if all once, you hear him take a breath, his head sinking low for just a moment, the shift in his demeanor clear; a tangible, physical change. "Bitch," he finishes, with a broken, obedient sincerity and god, it's like a fucking rush right through you.

"See, now, that wasn't so hard, was it?" you tell him."You are my bitch, baby, and good bitches like to get fucked, don't they? Need a nice big cock to keep them in line."

"Shut the fuck up," he murmurs, but you can tell he doesn't mean it, not anymore, and so you arrange yourself behind him, slicking up the strap, getting him to spread his knees a little wider so his ass is lower. The height difference between you always makes the logistics of this slightly complicated, but you've learned how to work with it.

"You ready for me?" you say, not waiting for him to answer, holding the strap, guiding it to his entrance, and he tenses up immediately.

"Relax," you murmur, "stop fighting it. Let go and take it all sweet for me, like a good little bitch." He exhales a long breath at that last word, and the cock enters him easily, you pushing it in slow. You look down, watching as it's swallowed up, inch by thick inch and when your pelvis is right up against his ass, you stop, holding there, waiting for him to adjust to the full length of it inside him. You rub his lower back, circling your hand over his skin, heated under your touch. "You're so tight, aren't you? So hot for it."

He hisses out something that might be yes, and you start to move back, carefully, pulling out almost all the way before going back in, still steady but faster, and this time, there's no resistance.

He lets out a high-pitched whimper, and you smile to yourself, triumphant. "Oh, listen to those noises you make for me, all whiny and pretty. Like the pussy you are." And you start to thrust, moving your hips, nice and shallow for now, just to get him going. "What would everyone think if they saw you like this?" you ask. "What would they think of you?"

You pull out, further, and this time you slam back into him, settling into a rougher rhythm.

"Sometimes I like to imagine that," you say. "Doing this to you with everyone watching. In the ring, in front of an audience, all of them seeing."

He's moaning now, but you don't let up.

"I want you to think about that," you tell him. "Right now, I want you to think about doing this in the ring, you bent over in front of the whole world with my cock in your ass, just taking it like some..." You pause, recalling what he said to you earlier. "Like some dumb fucking whore. What do you think they'd all say? Because they'd know then, Brock, wouldn't they? What a needy, pathetic cock slut you are, how much you love it."

You shift right back, gripping the base of the strap to get the perfect angle as you you push back inside him, hitting him exactly where you know he needs it, and you can see the sheen of sweat on his skin, beading into droplets at the base of his spine.

"You want to touch yourself, baby?" you ask, softly, and you see him nod, huge head moving on that thick neck. "Hand," you order, and he shifts his weight onto one arm, reaching back behind him as you squirt a generous helping of lube into his waiting palm.

"There you go," you tell him. "Say thank you."

"Thank you," he says, without the slightest hesitation, so docile and compliant that it makes something flare inside you, high on the power of it, because you could make him do anything right now, anything at all. But you know what he needs.

"Stroke yourself nice and slow," you say. "And don't come until I tell you."

He gets his hand on his cock, and you can see the muscles in his ass tighten, clenching around the strap as he works himself.

His whole body is flushed red, and you fuck into him, hard, then even harder, and the sound he makes is one of pure, unashamed desperation, and maybe you should keep him on edge for longer, but you're too turned on. "Come for me, Brock," you say. "Right now." And his response is instant, the way he gasps, whining high in his throat, his body jerking as he shoots off into his own hand, come spilling down onto the bed.

He's still panting as you pull out, slowly, forcing yourself to be careful, and you unfasten the harness, tossing the strap aside. You nudge impatiently at him with one knee and he rolls over onto his back, whole body heaving with every breath, and you can't wait.

You crawl up over him, and he wraps his hands around your thighs, dragging you closer. It’s always awkward getting the angle right, because he's just so goddamn wide, shoulders and chest huge and broad but you get your cunt over his face, holding on to the headboard of the bed, steadying yourself as his mouth finds you.

And it doesn't help that he's actually really, really bad at this, but it never matters, because you're so hot for it that it barely takes anything to make you come. He licks you, clumsily, like he doesn't even know where your clit is, but you move your hips, managing to get enough of it, and perhaps, you think, one of these days you'll bother to teach him how to do this properly. You picture it, him kneeling in front of you, his head between your legs, a crop in your hand, ready for punishment when he doesn't follow your instructions fast enough, and the thought is more than enough to send you over the edge.

You grind down onto his face as you orgasm, taking what you need from him, and when you're done, you kneel up, shifting back.

He stares up at you, and maybe he's smiling, maybe he's not; small, pale eyes unreadable. His face is slick with your wetness, and you rub your thumb over his lips, smearing it further, watching his tongue flicker out to lick it up.

But then you breathe in, climbing off him, turning away to sit beside him, bending your legs up in front of you, hands clasped around your knees, aftershocks throbbing faintly inside you, fading away.

Brock hasn't moved, still lying next to you, and he rests one hand on your back, slowly stroking down your spine. There's something vaguely tender in his touch, an affection that should surprise you but somehow doesn't, and you're not sure why, but you don't question it.

Neither of you speak for a good, long time, and you know you need to leave, but you like this, sitting here in silence. It's weird, you muse to yourself, because while you might essentially be strangers you know more about each other than anyone should, and there's something comfortably familiar in that.

"I never asked you," Brock says, after a while, "how do you know Heyman?

And you'd wonder why he's curious, but you don't much care, so you answer honestly, saying, "I used to date one of his friends."

"'Date'," replies Brock, with a weird, cynical-sounding little laugh. There's an edge in his voice as he goes on, asking, "So how much does he pay you?"

You look back over your shoulder at Brock. "He doesn't pay me."

He seems confused, staring at you, mouth slightly open. "So you're not a..."

"No," you tell him, and for a second you're puzzled by the sheer panic on his face, but then you realize. "Don't worry," you assure him. "Paul had me sign an NDA before I even met you."

"Oh," he says. "Okay." He breathes out, as if in relief. "Sorry, I didn't mean to... I just assumed you were..." He doesn't finish, and you turn around to face him, sitting close, your hip pressed warm up against the hard expanse of his thigh.

"Don't apologize," you say. "That's actually kind of flattering, that you think I'm that good."

"You are," he replies, almost painfully earnest. "I mean, you really are." He frowns, as if thoughtful. "So why do you do this, then? If you don't get paid?"

"Um, because I like it."

"You like it? Really?"

And oh god, you think, he really is so genuinely, sincerely stupid that it's actually kind of endearing. "Brock," you say patiently, "you eat me out after every time we do this, you see how wet I am, I know you do. What makes you think I don't like it?"

"I don't know." He seems to consider the question. "I thought you were just... you know, really committed to your job."

"Well, I do like it."

"Huh," he says, his forehead wrinkling with concentration, like he's processing that information. You can almost see the wheels turning in his head, until he asks, "Why do you like it?"

"It's hot," you answer with a laugh. "Big huge guy like you taking it up the ass from me?" You smile at even the thought of it. "Yeah, that's fucking hot."

He's silent for a minute, and you wait, curious as to what he's going to say next. "I guess... I mean, I guess I should say sorry."

"What for?"

"The way I talk to you, before we..." He stops, abruptly, as if he doesn't want to actually name what it is you do together. "I know I'm an asshole, but I never thought about it, I thought if you were getting paid, I could say whatever I wanted to you."

"It's okay, I know you need to say all that shit." You shift, moving your legs behind you, lying down your stomach with a tiny, contented sigh. "And I like it, you know, feeling like I'm really taming the beast."

"Yeah, I like that too." He stares at you, and there's something different in his gaze, something you've never seen there before. "I like that you fight me, make me give in. Not many people stand up to me like that. It makes it... it makes it better."

"Better for me too."

You kiss his chest, unthinking, before you realize what you're doing, because this kind of casual intimacy has never been part of the bargain between you, but you don't stop, licking his nipple, moving across, lazily tracing your tongue over the outline of the tattoo on his chest. It's a sword, you suddenly notice, because you'd always assumed it was a knife, and huh, you think, wondering what else you might have missed. His fingers rest lightly on the back of your neck, the barest caress, subtle in a way you wouldn't have ever thought him capable of.

"You could make a lot of money, you know," he says, absently. "If you ever wanted to."

"Maybe." You look up at him. "But I like it better as a hobby."

"So you do stuff like this with other guys?"

"Not right now," you reply. "You fulfil all my current needs."

"You... fulfil my needs too," he says, with a serious little nod. Which, oddly, might be one of the sweetest things anyone's ever said to you, and you lean down for a moment, kissing his chest again so he won't see your smile.

"You know, I was going to get some room service, have some dinner." He shrugs. "If you want to stay for a while."

You narrow your eyes at him, wondering what he's actually asking, but what you say is, "Do you want me to?"

"I don't know," he replies, hesitant, as if he's not sure if he needs to give you an out. "I mean, maybe."

"Then say that," you tell him, letting the faintest hint of authority creep back into your tone.

And it seems he's happy to cede this to you without a fight, because he nods, again, and says, "I'd like you to stay."

"Well, I'd like that too."

"Okay," he says.

"Okay," you agree.

And this time, when you smile at him, you don't hide it.

#wwe imagine #ohnojustwrites #brock lesnar #brock lesnar imagine #wwe smut

[ohnojustimagine]

You Should See Me In A Crown

Baron Corbin/Reader; 735 words, smutty-ish

-

You've barely made it back to Baron's hotel room after the show tonight before he's kissing you, hands running over your body, every touch a demand for more. "I think you need to be naked right now," he says, mouth on your ear, teeth nipping there. And you couldn't agree more, pulling away from him enough that you can strip off your clothes, dragging your tank top up over your head, tossing your jeans aside carelessly. You've just stepped out of your panties when suddenly you see Baron's entrance gear, sitting on top of one of his bags; the cape and the crown and the scepter, and all at once you stop.

"Or," you say, picking up the cape, holding it in front of you, "I could be wearing this?"

And Baron doesn't say anything, but he gives you a sly, dirty-looking smirk of approval, sitting down on the end of the bed, his legs wide, black jeans tight over his thighs.

So you sweep the cape around behind you, pulling it on. It's long and heavy, the hem of it touching the floor, the fur lining soft on your tingling skin as you fasten the chain across the front, letting it drape across your chest, above your breasts.

The cape sits back on your shoulders, framed around your body but open enough that it covers absolutely nothing.

You reach for the crown, raising it onto your head, and of course it's too big for you, so you have to angle it slightly, resting it across your forehead. And the way it feels, the weight of it... it's not at all what you expected, giving you a feeling that's a little more more formal and a lot less playful than you intended when you put it on.

You pose with the scepter laid across your arms, and Baron smiles at you.

"Do I look like a queen?" you ask.

"You look like my queen," he tells you, and you raise the scepter to your mouth, licking slowly up the length of it.

Baron leans back, his eyes focused on you, darkly intent, watching as you tongue at the small spikes that decorate the head of the scepter, delicately sucking on the sphere at the tip.

But then you stop, staring back at him, waiting.

"You know," he says, after a minute, "even a queen has to submit to the King."

"Really?" you reply, a haughty tone creeping into your voice.

"Oh yeah," he tells you, "that's how it goes. It's a hierarchy, and the King has ultimate authority."

"Ultimate power," you say.

He nods. "Exactly."

"But right now," you say, "I'm the one wearing the crown."

"But you'll still kneel before the King, won't you?" He laughs, easy and assured. "Just like everyone else."

You gaze down at him. "I don't think you understand power, your majesty, if you think being on your knees is a position of weakness." You point the scepter at him, touching it to the middle of his chest, and then drag it downwards, slowly, until it's resting just above the buckle of his belt. He doesn't move, and you look at him. "Great power can be wielded on one's knees," you say.

"Maybe you should show me," he replies, a challenge in the words, and so you set the scepter down, bending to kneel before him. The fur of the cape rustles across your skin, and though you might shiver, you don't lose focus, running your hands up his thighs, leaning to kiss the hardening outline of his cock through his jeans. You hear him inhale a rush of breath as you mouth at it, wet, black denim darkening with your saliva, and you look up at him.

"See," you say, "I think I could make you do anything right now."

And this time there's a rasp in his voice as he speaks, asking, "What would you make me do?"

You frown, tilting your head one side slightly, as if you're considering the question, and then smile. "I'd make you shut your royal mouth and let me suck you until you come right down my throat."

"That's..." he stutters, visibly undone, and it's not often you see Baron lost for words. "Yeah," he finally says. "I could do that."

And you bow your head, your hands on the buckle of his belt. "A Queen," you murmur, "knows how to please her King."

#ohnojustwrites #wwe imagine #baron corbin #baron corbin imagine

[ohnojustimagine]

A Man Like That

Brodie Lee/Reader; smut, 1460 words

Set after last week's Dynamite.

-

Brodie's still ranting by the time you get him alone backstage, closing the door of the Dark Order's locker room behind you, no one else daring to follow you in. He throws the dog collars down onto a table, the chain that connects them clattering violently as it lands, and then he paces up and down the short length of the room, his anger so fierce it seems to fill the space around you, words bouncing off the walls, spat out accusations of cowardice and audacity.

You stand there, quiet, watching calmly as you let him keep going for a few minutes, knowing he needs to get this out, waiting until he pauses for the merest second to inhale before you speak.

"So," you say, jumping in before he can go on, "why does Brandi get to call you Daddy?"

And Brodie stops dead, turning to stare at you, almost as if he'd forgotten you were there. He's breathing heavily, sweat still dripping down his bared chest. "Because her husband's not a real man," he growls out. "He's a coward."

You smile, taking a carefully measured step towards him, and when he doesn't react, doesn't say anything, you take another, moving closer. "But you're a real man," you say, gently placing your hands on his chest, palms resting on the broad, firm rise of his pecs. He flinches as you touch him, just slightly, looking down with narrowed eyes, but he's silent, letting you push him back into a nearby chair, seating himself, his expression impatiently expectant, but you know him well enough to understand what he needs.

You gaze back at him, unafraid, taking off your clothes, your eyes never leaving his until you're naked, sliding yourself onto his lap, sinuous and graceful, legs spread so you're astride his thighs, facing him, draping your arms over his shoulders.

"What does a real man like to be called?" you murmur, shifting forward, your mouth close to his, beard ticklish on your face as you smell sweat and damp skin. He doesn't answer, his hands on your waist, so huge they're halfway up the sides of your ribcage, fingers digging in just enough that you feel it.

"Sir?" you ask, softly, your teeth nipping sharp and quick at his bottom lip, pulling away as his mouth chases yours. "Mr. Brodie Lee," you whisper, feeling his breath hot on your lips as you kiss him, tantalizingly brief. "Exalted One," you breathe out, closing your eyes for just a second, because you like that, but then you look at him, smiling. "Daddy," you say, and you see his eyes flare, darkening with something far more dangerous than anger. And his hand is on the back of your head, tangling painfully tight in your hair as he pulls you in, kissing you, taking your mouth, deep and hungry and dominant.

You're breathless by the time he stops, seeing him glance suddenly over your shoulder, looking at the table, and for a second you wonder what he's doing, what's distracted him, but then he leans across, picking up the chain, the dog collars dangling off each end of it. And he doesn't need your permission, so you don't say anything, simply lifting your hair up and out of the way as he loops one collar around your neck, buckling it, not too tight, but firm enough that you feel it, the pressure of it on your throat lightly insistent as you swallow.

"Can't you wear the other end?" you ask.

"Not now," he tells you, shortly. "Not for you." He wraps the chain around his hand, once and then twice, the metallic links tight across his massive fist, and even just that, just the sight of it, makes you feel weak, breathing in as he tugs on the chain, testing it, the leather of the collar digging into your skin.

You squirm a little in his lap, and ask, hopeful, "If I'm wearing a collar, does that mean I can be Daddy's little pet?"

"No," he says, shaking his head. "What you are is Daddy's little bitch." And you can't stop yourself from gasping at the word, the way he says it, stirring something deep inside you, arousal slipping hot down through your body, your cunt suddenly aching, pulsing with need. He pulls at the chain, dragging you towards him to kiss you again, and then says, his voice low, "You want Daddy to fuck you like a little bitch?"

"Yes," you hiss out, aware of how desperate you sound, but you don't care, and Brodie pushes you off his lap, tugging roughly on the chain to lead you onto the couch, shoving you down on all fours. You shift enough that you can rest your hands on the arm of the couch, bracing yourself, waiting, feeling the cool weight of the chain snaking down your back, heavy like the promise of what's to come, anticipation rushing through you.

You look back over your shoulder, restless, watching as Brodie pulls off the tank top that's still bunched up around his middle after his match, tossing it aside and unfastening his pants, and then his hands are on your hips, roughly angling you towards him, lining himself up behind you, one knee on the couch, other foot on the floor. You exhale as he enters you, forceful, burying his cock inside you, right up to the hilt, the girth of it filling you, making you moan, going even deeper, slamming into you again and again as he fucks you.

And you're just getting close when he stops, pulling out of you and standing up. You whine in protest, high and fretful, but he slaps your ass, just hard enough to be a warning. So you bite your tongue, glancing back to see him with a bottle of lube in hand, slicking up his cock and you're already whimpering softly, arching your back so your ass is higher, ready for him. You feel him get back into position behind you, the head of his cock immediately at your hole, blunt and thick. And you do this often enough that you don't need any real prep, but still, Brodie's big, big enough that you have to consciously relax, breathe in. He goes in slow, letting you adjust, and it's so good, so overwhelming in a way that's almost too much, but you love it.

And once he's in, he doesn't wait, starting to fuck you, no mercy now, hard and fast. He gets hold of the chain, pulling on it in time with each thrust, collar tightening around your throat, heightening the feeling, every sensation in sharp relief.

And then, without any warning, he yanks on the chain, forcing you up onto your knees as you yelp in pain and surprise, trying to catch your breath as he wraps one arm around you, pulling you into him, cock still pounding into your ass. His other hand toys with the buckle on the collar, sliding up over your jaw, fingers stroking across your lips as he pushes his thumb into your mouth. You suck on it, instinctive, tongue working, hearing yourself whimper and cry. "Louder," he tells you, mouth wet on your ear, beard brushing hot and damp against your skin. "Daddy wants to hear you moan." He punctuates the last word with a sharp, viciously forceful thrust and so you do, you moan, the sound of it almost a wail as his thumb slips out of your mouth and you'd bet Silver and the others are outside the door, all listening, and you know Brodie knows that, and that he likes it.

You get your hand between your legs, pressing up on your clit, so on the edge of it that you cry out almost immediately, your body bucking up against Brodie's, held so tight you want to fight it, but he doesn't let go, not even when you slump back against him, limp and spent, aftershocks trembling through you as he still fucks you, finishing himself inside you, using you, taking what's his until you have nothing more to give.

But then he's done, still for a minute before carefully pulling out of you. You wince at the feeling of it, but he sits down, lifting you into his lap, the chain of the collar pooled between you as he kisses you, slow and messy, licking at your mouth, breathing together as you both come back down.

"Did you like that?" he asks. You nod in reply and he smiles at you, indulgent. "Then say thank you."

"Thank you," you reply, and he looks at you, face all at once stern. "Daddy," you add, quickly. "Thank you, Daddy."

"Good girl," Brodie murmurs, and he kisses you again.

#aew imagine #ohnojustwrites #brodie lee #brodie lee imagine #brodie lee smut

[ohnojustimagine]

Full of Love

Jon Moxley/Reader; smut, 1045 words

Impregnation kink.

-

"I want to do it," you tell him. "I want to start trying."

"Are you sure?" Jon asks, as if he doesn't quite believe you.

"I'm sure," you say, and he sweeps you up into his arms, grinning, peppering ticklish kisses all over your face until you're giggling, and though you're a little scared at what a big deal this is, you know it's right, because it's with him, with Jon.

You're beaming back at him, because you love seeing him so happy, but then his expression changes, and oh yeah, you realize. Because he's not going to wait, and before you know it, you're both naked, both on the bed, and he's on top of you, kissing you, biting at your lips, his teeth sharp, hungry with desire. "Gonna have my baby," he growls. "I'm gonna knock you up so good."

And him just saying it like that is so not what you were expecting that you laugh, not sure if you're nervous or turned on or just weirded out.

He gives you a look, but he doesn't seem offended. "You think it's funny?" he asks.

"No, of course not," you say, worried that you've hurt his feelings. "It's just... strange, to think about it like that." You stroke the back of his neck. "But kind of cute."

"Ohhhh," Jon says, "nothin' cute about it, sweetheart."

"No?" And suddenly you don't feel like laughing, because there's something about the tone in his voice that's making you feel other things.

"Nope." He shakes his head. "Nothin' cute about how hard I'm going to fuck you." He grabs your wrists, pinning them to the bed, either side of your head, and leans in as if to kiss you, but then pulls back at the very last second, and you let out a frustrated little mewl. "Nothin' cute about how many times I'm gonna come in you," he goes on.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." And he's smiling, eyes soft and dirty and loving, all at once. "Over and over, fill you right up."

Jon's always liked to talk in bed, but he's never talked to you like this, and it's not just what he's saying, it's the way he's saying it, voice low, edged with a need that feels like something brand new.

"You're gonna look so beautiful," he says, moving down your body, kissing your stomach, lips wet and warm on your skin. "This belly all big for me."

Ugh, you think, suddenly distracted by how uncomfortable that sounds. You sigh. "I bet I'll be huge."

He looks up at you, as if aghast at what you've said. "No," he tells you. "No, you're gonna be beautiful, all sweet and heavy and ripe."

Ripe, you repeat in your head, and yeah, maybe, when he puts it like that... and all at once, you really understand, what he wants from you, what this truly means.

You get your hands in his hair, pushing his face down between your legs, getting his mouth on you, and even now he can't stop talking, breath hot on your skin. "Need you real open," he murmurs as he licks you, sucks on you. "Nice and wet so you can take it real deep."

And you are, you're so wet, his tongue lapping up your juices as he hums with pleasure, and you're right on the verge of coming when he stops, climbing up over you, grinning at you, his mouth slick.

He kisses you, quickly, and says, "You ready for me, sweetheart? You ready for this?" And you nod, because you can't wait, not anymore.

You moan, breathless as he slides into you, and it shouldn't feel so different, because you stopped using condoms a long time ago, but it is different, the connection between you so raw and pure it's like nothing you've ever felt before. A sharp cry catches hoarse in your throat, your eyes fluttering closed, but it's not enough for Jon. "No," he says, insistent. "Look at me." You open your eyes, staring into his as he starts to fuck you, and it's so much, it's too much, because you're coming, your hips bucking up as he thrusts into you, unceasing..

And you feel it, every inch of it, of him, but it's so good. "So hot," he mutters. "Shit, you're so fucking hot, pussy all hungry for it, just like it was made for."

He goes even harder, driving into you, and you moan. "Please," you whisper. "Come inside me, Jon, please."

"Oh, fuck," he grits out, and you hear him panting, his breath ragged, and god, you think, holding on to him, urging him on right to the finish, wanting it all, feeling as if he won't ever stop.

But he does, and as soon as he pulls out of you, he's got his fingers inside you, roughly working you. You whine, shaking your head, helplessly trying to push him away, because with how he's just fucked you, it's way too soon, your whole pussy still so sensitive that his touch is nothing but overwhelming. "No..." you stutter. "Not yet. It's..." You bite back a sob as he shoves another finger into you, pressing down inside you, right where it's most intense.

"No," he tells you, firmly. "Right now. Gonna need you to get off again, right now."

"I can't," you say, trapped somewhere between pleasure and discomfort, your pussy spasming around his fingers, each twinge like electricity through your body.

"Oh, you can, sweetheart, I know you can." He licks your ear, bites your neck. "Need to get it all real deep inside you, all my come, and then I'm gonna fuck you again, just to make sure."

You breathe in, closing your eyes and listening to sound of his voice, letting it take you away, giving yourself over to him as another orgasm pulses through you, even stronger than the first.

"Good girl," he says, a little softer now. "Take it all for me, beautiful, don't you? But I'm gonna give you more." He kisses you, and you can feel the urgency in it, that he's nowhere near done with you. "You want more?" he asks.

And you're already way beyond what you thought were your limits, but you only want to go further. "Yes," you say. "More."

#ohnojustwrites #jon moxley #jon moxley imagine #aew imagine #jon moxley smut

[ohnojustimagine]

The Prince and the Duke

Humberto Carrillo/Reader/Angel Garza; smut and fluff (with a touch of angst along the way), 6760 words

Historical AU with arranged marriage and poly.

-

You are the youngest of five sisters, but for some time now you have been the only child remaining at your family home. You have watched your sisters leave one by one, all to be married to noble gentlemen of your parents' choosing, always aware that sooner or later, your own time would come.

And though you are now of marriageable age, it seems you are not an easy match, as several potential suitors have already come and gone, apparently unimpressed by your manner, the way you carry yourself. Your mother tells you you need to be more reserved, less bold, as you have a habit of speaking your mind, a trait which unfortunately does not endear you to all. And lately, you have begun to wonder if she is right, because you are growing restless, waiting for your life to truly begin, but you tell yourself it will happen soon, that there surely must be a man who will appreciate you for who you are.

One dull afternoon you are sitting at the window, and though you are supposed to be sewing, embroidering the hem of a nightgown for your trousseau, you are instead staring out wistfully at the mist that hangs over the lake by your parents' house, your mind wandering aimlessly. You quickly turn back to your sewing as you hear someone approaching, glancing up to see your father entering the room with your mother trailing along behind him, a pensive expression clouding her features.

Your father comes to stand in front of you, and for a moment does not speak, seeming uncharacteristically apprehensive. But then he clears his throat, and addresses you. "My dear child," he says, "I must inform you I have of late been corresponding with a good family of very high standing, and that we have just received an offer for your hand in marriage."

Your mother sighs quietly, dabbing at the corner of her eyes with a lace handkerchief, and such a reaction does not fill you with confidence.

"Who is it?" you ask, your heart sinking a little at thought that perhaps your intended husband is very old, or ugly, or poor. "What is wrong?"

"The offer is from the royal family of the Kingdom of Garza," your father explains.

You have not heard of such a place, but your mother makes a small noise of distress at even the name.

You frown to yourself, and your father continues. "The kingdom has some customs that are..." He pauses. "They are different to our way of doing things."

"How?"

"There is legend of a curse that once killed all daughters born to the family, some supernatural nonsense from long ago." You father shakes his head. "It is no doubt just an excuse for their habits, but for generations now, the royal men of Garza..." He again stops before continuing, taking a deep breath. "The men share a wife."

"They... share?" you say, not comprehending.

"You would have two husbands."

"I would..." You still do not understand. "Two?"

"You would be married to two men," your father states. "They would share you between them."

Your mother lets out a sob, rushing from the room, and you do not know what to say, but your father takes out a small, delicately engraved silver pocket frame, opening it to reveal two finely painted portraits. "This," he says, pointing to the one on the left, "is the youngest son of the King, Prince Humberto." And he is remarkably handsome, you think, with slicked-back hair, and soft, kindly eyes, the hint of dimples either side of his face. "And this," you father goes on, finger sliding across to the other section of the frame, "is his cousin, Angel, Duke of Garza." He is just as handsome, but wears a more rakish expression, something of a mischievous smirk hovering about his lips, his eyes shining in a way that makes your heart beat a little faster.

"Would you be willing, my child?" your father asks. "They are an extremely wealthy and respected family, so you would be well provided for." He takes your hand, holding it. "Your mother and I grow old, and it would gladden our hearts to see you settled."

Two, you think to yourself. Two men. Two extremely fine-looking men.

"Yes, Father," you tell him, gazing up at him, careful to keep your expression demure, not betray the direction in which your thoughts begin to stray. "I would be willing."

-

You are being fitted for your wedding dress, and your mother sits by you, watching, though she has barely spoken to you for days.

"Do you..." she says, suddenly, and you hear her take a short breath. "Do you understand what it will mean? To serve two husbands?"

"I can guess," you reply to her shortly, trying to hold still as the seamstress adjusts the bodice of your dress. It is very beautiful, you think, far finer and more womanly than anything you have ever before been allowed to wear.

"Men are..." your mother starts, then stops. "They have needs," she continues, pointedly. "And to be required to satisfy the needs of two men is not a burden you should be taking on lightly."

And yes, you should be fearful, you know that, but instead a small, secret flare of heat runs through your body, seeming to settle somewhere deep and low inside you.

"I'm sure I will manage," you tell her.

She sighs. "You were always a wilful girl," she says, bitterness in her voice. "Perhaps they will tame you."

"Perhaps they will," you muse, staring at yourself in the glass before you. The dress is snug under your breasts, lifting them full and high, and you turn a little to the side, admiring your reflection, wondering what it might mean, to be tamed.

-

It is several weeks' journey by carriage to the Kingdom of Garza, and though the trip is somewhat arduous, you never lose that sense of nervous anticipation, some strange mix of hope and trepidation stirring you, contrasting tensions that push and pull until you feel as if you cannot think.

But you force yourself to keep your head, your eyes forward, and finally you arrive at the palace the day before your wedding. You are given a short while to tidy yourself before you are whisked off to a formal afternoon gathering, where you will meet your fiances for the first time.

You take a deep breath as you enter the room, your heart fluttering light in your chest as you see them turn and walk towards you, for they are every bit as attractive as their portraits indicated.

"I am Humberto," says the Prince, the one with the dimples, which are even more beautifully pronounced as he gives you a warm smile, taking your hand and raising it to his lips, kissing your fingers as he regards at you with a delighted wonder.

"And I am Angel," the Duke interjects, though, as you suspected, you can already see there is very little of the angel about him beyond his looks. He seems quite delightfully devilish, his eyes sparkling as he takes your other hand, dropping a lingering kiss on it.

They both straighten up, Humberto glaring at Angel, who looks back with a pronounced sneer, and oh, you think, because this is something you had not expected.

Because it would appear your fiances are not fond of one another, that, while they might be blood-related family, they do not get along, not at all, and you have no idea what that will mean for you and your life with them.

Yet there is no turning back, not now, and so you smile, uneasily, allowing yourself to enjoy their attentions.

-

The very next day, you stand between them at the altar, every breath you take tight in your chest as the priest speaks of the sanctities of marriage. Your husbands-to-be are dressed all their finery, so manly and handsome that you can barely stand to look at them, Humberto on your left, Angel on your right, each holding one of your hands in both of their own.

The two of them repeat their vows in unison, promising to love and honor you, cherish you, and you in turn swear to honor them as your husbands, to forever love and obey.

"I do," you say, and the priest decrees you married in a covenant never to be unbroken

They both lift one side of the veil that covers your face, gently arranging it back behind your head, and then kiss you demurely on your cheeks, either side of your face. You blush a little, feeling their lips too-brief and soft on your skin, your own mouth left wanting, but you know the time will come for that. Soon, you tell yourself, and try to be patient.

-

There is a feast, and music, and you dance with both your husbands, separately and together, Humberto gazing at you in reverent adoration, Angel with an expression that is equally adoring but also suggestive of somewhat less noble intentions.

The hours pass quickly, and soon it is time for the three of you to retire for your wedding night. Already in your time here you have overheard enough talk and innuendo to understand that most, though not all, wives occupy one bedchamber with both their husbands, and you would be very, very interested to know how that works.

But it seems you will not find out, because it is clear Humberto and Angel are not willing to share you, as they lead you off through the palace to an out-of-the-way corridor that houses three separate doors, lined up along one side.

You stand in front of the first of them, nervous, but Humberto is quick to allay any confusion. "This is my bedchamber," he explains, nodding at the door before you. "And that," he continues, gesturing with some disdain at the farthest entrance, "is Angel's. And this..." He points to the door in the middle. "This is for you, as a private room for dressing." He smiles at you. "I have had the servants unpack all your things, and you will find all that you need in there."

You nod, grateful, still not understanding what they have planned, who you will spend your first night with, but it appears that it is already settled.

"For tonight, I will have the pleasure of your company," Humberto announces. "As Prince, I outrank my cousin, and so it is only proper."

"Only proper because I have agreed to it," Angel interjects before giving you a sly smile. "I always prefer a woman with some... experience," he says.

"I hope you are not insinuating our bride is of low morals," Humberto snaps back, practically bristling with indignation.

"I would never do such a thing," Angel rejoins, and you can tell that, for once, he is perfectly sincere. "I have no doubt of her purity." His eyes shine as he looks at you. "But I'm sure she would rather the disappointment of your attentions to be over and done with before she enjoys what a real man can provide."

"Please do not insult me on this, of all nights," Humberto says, taking a step towards Angel, who quickly begins to back away, laughing.

"I will see you tomorrow, my sweet," he calls, blowing you a kiss as he turns, entering his own chambers, closing the door behind him. You blush, and turn to see Humberto scowling.

"I am sorry," he says. "My cousin is..." He shakes his head, as if consciously damping down his anger, and then takes a deep breath. "But I will not let him spoil our first night together," he states, firmly, and then opens the door to his chambers, ushering you inside.

The room is sumptuously appointed, but your attention is so drawn to Humberto that your surroundings barely even register, the thrill of finally being alone with him like a rush in your veins, dizzying and intoxicating.

"You are so beautiful," he tells you, softly.

"As are you, your majesty," you reply.

"No," he instructs you."No formalities, I am your husband now." He gently cups your face between his hands, gazing down at you. "Call me Humberto."

"Humberto," you repeat, letting the r roll across your tongue.

He smiles, and you hold your breath as he leans in to kiss you, his mouth soft and gentle against yours. His lips linger, his breath warm, and then you feel his tongue, licking its way slowly into your mouth, hot and sweet against your own tongue which responds as if by instinct, tangled in a dance you feel as if you already know. You close your eyes, sure you are falling, wishing for this to never stop, but when it does, when Humberto at last pulls back, your mouths separating, you are instantly certain that you are ready for far more than just a kiss.

You turn away from him, looking back over your shoulder, encouraging, and he understands, unbuttoning your dress, carefully helping you remove it, unfastening your stockings and petticoats, letting every layer that covers you slip away until you are naked in front of him. And though you have been taught that you should feel ashamed at such a lack of modesty, Humberto looks at you with nothing but the purest, most loving desire. You feel as if you are glowing under his gaze, made into something new, the woman you were always meant to be.

"So, so beautiful," he murmurs, taking off his own coat and shirt, and it is your turn to stare, at his body so strong and yet so fine and smooth. You want to touch him, but instead he takes your hand, leading your towards the bed. He helps you up, watching you lie back, making sure you are settled comfortably before he joins you, arranging himself to lie beside you.

He kisses your mouth again, strands of his hair trailing delicate across your face, but then his lips wander, exploring, as he begins to kiss you all over, from your head to your toes, until every inch of your skin is tingling, and then, without warning, he parts your legs and kisses you there too.

And you gasp, because you could not have even conceived of such a thing, not when he is licking you, his tongue soft and then hard, pressed against you, inside you and then not, seeming to find places you had no idea existed, your body responding to him in ways you would not have dreamed were possible. You feel a pleasure that you have no name for, the heat of it increasing within you like something catching fire.

But then he stops, and you hear yourself whimper in helpless frustration. "I..." you say, not having the words for what you are experiencing.

Yet Humberto seems to understand. "I want you," he says, softly. "I need to be with you, my love."

You do not trust yourself to speak, but you nod, staring up at him wide-eyed, practically breathless with anticipation.

He unfastens his pants, lowering them, and though you do not dare to glance down at what is between his legs, you feel it, brushing against your thigh, nudging thick at your entrance, and you gasp.

He hesitates at the sound, giving you a questioning look, but you are certain. "Yes," you whisper. "Please."

He reaches down, holding himself steady as he enters you; slowly, slowly, but there is no need, as his attentions have left you more than ready, your body willingly receiving him into you, opening wet to him. You hear yourself moan, filled by him, and when you think it cannot be better, he begins to move himself, in and out of you, his hips thrusting with a vigor that you have no choice but to surrender yourself to.

And again you feel that heat stir within you, rising like a crescendo to heights that become more and more dizzying. But it is even better this time, because it is clear that Humberto is experiencing his own similar ascent, your mutual need becoming more and more urgent, until it is as if you are one, connected in a way you could have never imagined as you fall into each other, pleasure spilling over you. You cling to him as he says your name, again and again, and when you are both spent, you lie there, panting to try and catch your breath as Humberto smiles at you, his face lit up, kissing you, softly.

"I am so happy," he says. "I never dreamed I could be this happy."

"And I too," you reply, gently smoothing his hair back and away from his face, and he kisses you again.

"We are not expected in court tomorrow," he tells you, pulling you close to him, wrapped up in his arms. "We have the day together."

"Good," you say, nodding, a sweet tiredness drifting over you, sleep gradually taking you, still in Humberto's embrace.  

You do not know what time of day it is when you both wake, but it does not seem to matter, for there is nothing but each other. You eat and drink and talk and laugh and join together once more, and you are certain that this was meant to be, that this is exactly where you belong.

But however blissful, the time still passes, the afternoon drawing in, and Humberto begins to frown.

"What is wrong?" you ask, concerned.

He is silent for a long minute, but then says, "You will have to go to him, now. The Duke, my cousin." Humberto shakes his head.  "I wish you could stay. I wish you could be only mine."

And while you would be quite content to remain with him, you find that something stirs inside you, restless, a curiosity that desires to know what awaits you in Angel's chambers. "I cannot," you tell him. "I am married to both of you."

Humberto kisses you, and says, fiercely, "I will not let him take advantage of you, I promise. If he is improper in any way, then you only have to call for me, and I will be there in a moment."

"I understand," you tell him, but you are already pulling away, knowing you cannot linger here anymore, that you are needed elsewhere. "I will see you again," you say, "the night after this?"

"Of course," he assures you. "I will be waiting."

You nod, trying to put his anguished expression from your mind as you open the door, peering out carefully.

There is no one in the corridor, and so you creep out, still naked, hurrying into the middle room. Just as Humberto told you, all your things are here, and while your own dresses are laid out carefully, there is also a selection of newer, even finer gowns which you would like to admire, but you have other priorities in this moment.

There is a small alcove with a washstand, a jug and a basin filled with water that steams lightly, obviously warmed, and a folded cloth lying nearby. And so you wash yourself off, wondering if Humberto's scent will linger on your skin, if Angel will be able to smell him on you. The idea of it is strangely exciting to you, but you put the thought from your mind, pulling on a white slip made of the finest, thinnest silk, edged with lace.

You again make your way out into the oddly, almost eerily silent corridor, your footsteps muffled as you walk towards Angel's door. You pause for a moment, then knock, hearing his voice from within as he calls out, "Enter."

And so you do, into a room that is not quite as lavishly decorated as Humberto's, but still most fine, perhaps a touch more manly in its simplicity.

Angel is sitting there on the bed, reading through some papers, casually and unashamedly naked. "Ah," he says, his face lighting up at the sight of you. "My bride. I have been waiting for you." He stands up, and you cannot help but let your eyes dip downwards to his lower body, the most prominent part of which you can see is already beginning to awaken. He follows your gaze, and when you look back up, he is smirking at you, the expression on his face so very knowing that it makes you blush, glancing away from him.

"I hope my cousin treated you well?" he says.

"Very well."

Angel gives a dismissive little shrug. "He is at least a well-mannered boy." He regards you, something burning hot in his eyes, and an answering fire stirs to ignite inside you. "I myself," he goes on, "am less well-mannered." He smiles. "And less of a boy. More of a man."

"Is that so?" you ask, daringly coquettish, suddenly feeling bold, sure he will like it.

And it seems he does, his smile widening as he approaches you, closer. You hold your breath as he reaches out to trace the tip of one finger slowly up the center of your throat, taking hold of your chin and tilting your face up towards him, and this time, you do not hesitate, knowing what you want, letting him lean in, opening your mouth to him and kissing him deeply.

His hands slide down over your shoulders, arms wrapping around you as he walks the two of you towards to the bed, falling, pulling you down with him as still he kisses you, only stopping to murmur,"Your mouth is so sweet, my pretty dove."

He nips lightly at your bottom lip, growling playfully, and you giggle in delight, laughing as his eyes sparkle at you. But then he seems to become more serious, and you see him swallow, as if perhaps nervous. And he takes your hand, gently pulling it down his body, towards what lies proud between his legs. You do not resist, allowing him to guide you, and when you reach it, his manhood, you startle slightly at the unexpected feel of it, glancing up at him, breathless in your surprise.

"Touch it," he whispers, and you do, careful to temper your eagerness, stroking your fingertips from the root to the tip, sitting yourself up a little so that you may see what you are doing. "Hold it," he encourages you, and your fingers curl around it as if by instinct, the heavy weight of it resting against your palm. You move your hand up and down over it experimentally, and Angel moans, the sound of it electric in your veins, and so you repeat the motion, again, and then again, observing his reactions curiously, noting the places where your touch seems to garner the most response.

He looks at you, his face flushed, and you pause, waiting for him to speak.

"Would..." he starts, and you see him inhale deeply before he can continue. "Would you use your mouth for me? Do you want to taste?" He's watching you, his gaze intent, and you can see that he is uncertain as to whether you will do as he asks. But you are more than willing, and not only because you want to please him, but because you want to know, and so you breathe in, and then lean over him.

You are unsure as to how to begin, so you first pepper soft little kisses up the length of it, until you reach the place where it flares out into the rounder, fuller... head, you decide to call it, and you might wish you knew the proper terms but there will be time for that, you know.

There is a drop of liquid beading at the opening on the tip of it, and you dare to lick it away, tasting salty-sweet, Angel's whole body jerking at the touch of your tongue. His response makes you bolder, and so you lick more thoroughly, using the broad flat of your tongue, and he urges you on. "Yes," he whispers, the word almost hissed out, "just like that." And so you continue, until it becomes obvious what action must be next, and you wet your lips nervously, inhaling before carefully taking the entire head into your mouth, feeling it smooth against your tongue. For a minute you simply hold it there, but then, as if instinctively, you suckle on it, as lightly as you are able. And it seems you must be doing something right, because the noise Angel makes is like nothing you have ever heard.

"Oh, my lovely," he moans out, and for a moment his head falls back in apparent ecstasy, but then he stares at you, his eyes steadier, wondering. "Did you do this for Humberto?" he asks.

You let him slip from your mouth, gazing up at him, and say, "No."

"And for no one else before him?"

"Never."

"So perhaps I am still your first." He smiles at you. "You are very talented," he says, and you again blush, smiling back at him.

"May I..." you nod at his member, asking permission to resume your task.

"You most certainly may," he says, laughing breathlessly. "You may do this as often as you like."

And so you continue, exploring him with your tongue and lips and hand, until he is writhing with need, his hands in your hair, hips lifting off the bed as he pushes up into your mouth.

"Wait," he cries out, suddenly, and you back away hurriedly, worried you have displeased him, but it seems the opposite is true. "I do not want..." You can see his chest rising and falling as he struggles to catch his breath, and it fills you with an awed wonder that it is you who has taken him to such a state. "I do not want," he goes on, "to... finish like this today, for our first time." He raises himself off the bed slightly, leaning back on his elbows. "I want to be inside you."

You nod, showing him you understand, and he smiles. "Can you take this off?" he asks, toying with the material of your slip, and you remove it without hesitation, revelling in his expression as he stares at your body, the hunger in his eyes plain to see.

"Oh, I need you," he says, and beckons to you, guiding you to straddle his thighs, your bent knees either side of his body, and it is plain even to someone as inexperienced as you what he has in mind.

"We can go slow, if you wish," he says, though his voice betrays that that is not what he wants.

And it is not what you need, so you shake your head as you again take his length in your hand, moving so you are over him, then lowering yourself down, letting him fill you.

He is thicker inside you than his cousin, and you shift slightly, adjusting to the feeling of it, so broad and deep it sends shivers through you.

Angel runs his hands up your thighs, holding on to you, as if to encourage you. "Now, ride me, my sweet."

You begin to move on him, the motion of it coming to you easily, naturally, and Angel's hips fall into rhythm with yours, your bodies seeming to come together with an intuitive, familiar ease, like you have known one another before, as if you were both made to be together in this way.

And his enjoyment is far more vocal than that of his cousin, as he moans with a brazen, unashamed abandon, and for a brief moment, your thoughts stray, wondering if Humberto will be able to hear this from his own room, and what he will think.  

But such distractions are quickly driven from you mind as Angel thrusts up into you, and you again find yourself swept up in desire, taken over by it, as one with Angel as you both finish in perfect time, staring into each other's eyes, peak after peak until you are overcome, and all you can do is surrender yourself, letting go.

And then you smile down at him, breathless. He answers with his own smile, rearing up off the bed and then pulling you down with him as you laugh, wrapped in his arms, kissing you as if he will never stop.

-

The day to day running of the palace is overseen by the queen, who rules with an iron fist that does not require the assistance of a lowly daughter-in-law, and so you have very little in the way of actual duties, only being required to appear in court beside your husbands for one or two days every week.

Which means your time is mostly your own, though you find plenty to amuse yourself, as the palace has a vast library, filled with books that you would never have been permitted to read at home, and extensive gardens you happily explore, finding many beauty spots where you like to sit, watching the sky, waiting for evening to fall.

Because it is the nights that you live for, alternating between your Duke and your Prince, and while they are as different as two men could ever be, they both have introduced you to delights you would not have ever dreamed of as being possible.

But...

But.

They begin to grow restless, you can tell, because it seems that whatever rivalry existed between them before your arrival has only been inflamed by your presence in their lives. Every time you leave one to go to the other they become more and more resentful, bitter and surly in a way that sometimes frightens you. And when you are in court with both of them, it is impossible to miss the way they glare at each other, barely containing their loathing, jealousy threatening to consume them like the monster it is.  

"What if you had to choose?" Humberto asks you, one night. "Who would you choose?"

And you know what he wishes you to say, but you cannot lie to him. "I would never choose," you tell him, as gently as you can. "I am married to both of you, you are both my husbands."

He closes his eyes, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath. "I cannot think of it," he says. "I cannot stand to think of him touching you."

"You do not need to think of it, my love," you tell him. "Be with me now, in this moment. That is all that matters. Right now, I am no one but yours."

He shakes his head, hurt written plain over that handsome face, and you cannot bear to see it.

"Show me," you beg. "Show me that I belong to you."

And he does, but after, he turns away from you, silent. You curl up against his back, pressing a kiss to his shoulder blade, but his body is stiff and unyielding

-

The next night, when you enter Angel's chambers, he is waiting with a goblet of wine in his hand, and you can see that he is already quite thoroughly drunk. He does not say anything to you, grabbing you roughly, pulling off your clothes, barely touching you before he pushes you down onto the bed and enters you, taking you with a force darker than you have ever before seen in him.

Until now, he has always given the utmost care that you both derive equal pleasure from your time together but tonight, he simply takes you, unheeding of your enjoyment, the act feeling more like an expression of anger than one of love.

After, he stares at you, his eyes dark. "I hate him," he says. "I hate that he is allowed to touch you." He climbs off the bed unsteadily, picking up his goblet and taking another deep swig of his wine. "You should be mine, and mine alone."

You do not know how to reply, watching in quiet anguish as he staggers over to sit in the chair in front of the fireplace, gazing emptily into the flames. And it is not so long before you see him slump down, the wine overtaking him. The goblet falls to the floor, a dark stain spreading slowly over the rug.

You sigh, setting the drink upright, cleaning up the wine with a dampened cloth.

Angel does not stir, and you leave him in the chair, crawling back into bed alone, lying awake, thinking.

-

And so, the evening after, you ready yourself for bed, dressing in your finest nightgown, and then take Humberto's hand, leading him out of his own chambers and down the corridor. "What are you doing?" he demands, though he follows you.

"I would like to speak with both of you."

"I do not want..." he says, but you are already opening the door to Angel's bedchamber.

"Leave," he snarls as soon as he sees Humberto. "You are not welcome here."

"I have brought him," you say. "I wish for him to be here."

"Well, I wish for him to leave," Angel replies, standing before both of you, eyes staring daggers at his cousin.

But you take his hand, still holding Humberto's in your other, glancing between them anxiously. You lift Humberto's fingers to your mouth, kissing them softly, then do the same for Angel, your lips brushing over his tense, whitened knuckles as Humberto looks away in disgust.

"Would you make me watch you be with him?" he says. "Would you be so cruel to me?"

"No," you reply, "not watch." You take a breath. "I want to be with both of you. Together."

"Never," Angel spits out.

"I will not." Humberto shakes his head, his mouth set, eyes hard.

"You will," you tell them, your tone suddenly sharp, your voice raised and they both stare at you in obvious astonishment, seemingly taken aback by the vehemence of your words. "I have had more than enough of these petty, foolish jealousies. I want you to see how I feel. About both of you."

They stand there, visibly glowering with anger, but they do not protest further for now.

And it is Humberto you turn to first, tilting your head up to kiss that full, lovely mouth, but it is closed to you, pressed tight.

"Kiss me, my Prince," you whisper.

"I cannot," he says.

"You can," you reply, your tongue easing past his lips, and for a moment, he does not respond, but then he kisses you back, restrained, but there's something desperate there, something you can almost taste.

You hear Angel make a noise of obvious displeasure but you keep tight hold of his hand, and when you are done with Humberto, you shift enough to face his cousin.

And Angel does not in any way resist your attentions, instead taking your mouth with an ostentatious vigor, and you know it is mostly because he wants to make Humberto jealous, but it serves your purpose just as well. You pull away, and he leans forward, chasing the kiss, but you shake your head, smiling.

"My loves," you say, softly. "You give me so much, I am so very, very lucky." You look at them, both so handsome yet so very different, the two of them somehow managing to be everything you have ever needed. "I want you to understand that you both have all of me, that every part of me belongs to you."

You draw in a breath, knowing what you must do, and then kneel, in front of the two of them, unfastening Humberto's pants first, freeing his manhood but not touching him beyond that, not until you have repeated your actions on Angel. And while they are certainly showing some interest, neither of them is at any kind of fullness, and so you start to stroke them, taking one member in each of your hands, feeling them respond to your touch in a way that gives you hope even as it makes your own body begin to awaken.

You take Angel in your mouth, sucking on him, your tongue circling around his head in that way he loves, your hand still working lightly on Humberto.

You glance up and over at him, seeing the frown still on his face, and you pull away from Angel, dropping a brief kiss at his tip before you shift across to his cousin.

"I..." Humberto starts, but you hush him, soothing.

"Let me please you," you murmur, licking your lips, sliding them down wet over him. He whines, quietly, as if he is trying to stifle the sound, and you hear Angel hiss in a breath as your hand caresses up his length.

You move back and forth between them, your mouth on one, your hand on the other and you have experience enough now to know exactly what will most excite them, but you do not let either of them get close to reaching completion. You watch them, observing the expressions on their faces as you attend to them, and slowly, gradually, you can see their focus begin change, their attention drawn away from each other and on to you. And so you redouble your efforts, doing everything you can to satisfy both of them, trying to make your actions not just physically but visually engaging, all lingering shyness gone as you lick and suck and moan around them, letting them see and hear plainly what it does for you, to honor them in this way.

And by the time you stop, they are both painfully erect, both visibly breathing hard, two sets of eyes deep and dark, as if overtaken by lust.

You stand up and look at them, and for the first time, you are sure, certain that you are more than enough for the two of them, that your true need is to be pleased by both of them, together. "Do you want me?" you say, stripping off your nightgown, crawling on the bed, lying back. "Then you must take me," you tell them.

You open yourself, body splayed wantonly, invitingly, and they look at you, then at each other. And you do not know what unspoken agreement passes between them, but you see it, a peace seemingly declared, however temporary, as they both climb onto the bed, looming over you, ready and wanting.

They each take you in turn, working together in a way that might surprise you, but there is something natural and right about it, first one inside you and then the other; kissing you, touching you, deliberately delaying their gratification until you have reached yours, again and again.

You are almost spent by the time they finish themselves, trembling beneath them, overwhelmed in the best possible way as Humberto thrusts himself into you, moaning, barely having moved off you before Angel is inside you, impatiently satisfying his need, your own desire threatening to consume you once again, but then he is done.

You whimper lightly, helpless, and they soothe you, lying either side of you, kissing you until you calm, and then not stopping, Angel teasingly nibbling at your ear and Humberto licking your neck, their hands on you until you begin to ache with renewed want. But you do not need more, for now.

"Do you see?" you ask. "What you both give me?"

"Perhaps," Humberto says, as if relenting just the tiniest amount.

"Maybe," Angel allows, cautiously.

You laugh at their stubbornness, saying firmly, "And now, we will rest."

"Can you not send him back to his own room?" Angel complains.

"No," you say, for you have decided. "From this time on, the three of us will spend our every night together."

"Every night?" they reply in dismayed unison.

"Every night," you say, and though they both seem to be prepared to argue, you cut them off shortly. "Do you wish to please me?"

"Of course," Angel answers.

"It is my only desire," Humberto says.

"Then you will do as I ask." You settle in, comfortable between them, perfectly, contentedly happy. "Now we will sleep and in the morning, the two of you will make love to me again."

"We're going to need a bigger bed," Angel grumbles.

"Then we will see the palace carpenters tomorrow and have them make one for us."

"I still hate him," Humberto mutters quietly.

"I still hate you," Angel rejoins.

And though you have no doubt that that is true, there is less fire remaining in their words.

"Well," you say, "that may be, but I love you." You smile. "Both of you."

#wwe imagine #ohnojustwrites #humberto carrillo imagine #angel garza #angel garza imagine #humberto carrillo

[ohnojustimagine]

Empty Your Hands

Santos Escobar/Reader, with Raul Mendoza and Joaquin Wilde as observers; smut, 1155 words

-

You find the three of them in the mostly-deserted bar of the hotel, where Santos has asked you to meet him. You'd assumed you'd be alone with him, but Legado del Fantasma are drinking, talking seriously enough to be obvious it's regarding business. And so you take a breath as you approach, not wanting to interrupt but also not wanting Santos to think you're disrespectful enough to be late.

He greets you with nothing but a small smile, his gaze raking over your body, the presumed ownership in his eyes possessively dominant. You've dressed to please him, in a silky black wrap dress, nothing underneath but a garter belt and fishnet stockings. The dress ties at the waist, and you've left the upper part open enough that your breasts are barely covered, because you weren't expecting company tonight.

Raul and Joaquin don't say anything, but they're both blatantly staring at your chest, and you want to adjust the dress, but you know Santos wouldn't like that, so instead you swallow nervously, looking around for another chair, wondering if you're supposed to sit down and join them.

Santos pats his lap, and you hesitate for a second, feeling awkward, but he gives you a look sharp enough that you obey, balancing yourself across his thighs awkwardly, trying to keep your dress in place. But Santos wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you in closer.

He's still talking as he sets his drink down on the table, the ice in it clinking softly, and he slips his hand inside your dress, over your breast. His fingers are cold, damp from the condensation on the glass and your nipple instantly hardens at his touch. He strokes it, circling around the hard peak and then across it, teasing, shifting his hand enough to move the material of your dress aside, exposing your breast.

And you might gasp quietly, but there's no one here to see but Joaquin and Raul and yet you're still embarrassed. You squirm a little, trying to hide your discomfort, and Santos only holds you tighter.

"Go get us a room," he says, nodding at Joaquin, who stands up, straightening his jacket as he strides off.

"Us?" you ask, timidly, wondering who exactly that includes.

"Us," Santos repeats. "All of us."

Raul raises his eyebrows at that, his eyes widening, but he doesn't say anything, gulping down the rest of his drink.

"Why?" Santos asks you. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"No," you reply, quickly, because you don't. "It's just a..." surprise, you want to say, but Santos cuts you off, his words decisive.

"You're mine," he says, and then smiles at you. "And I like to share what's mine." He runs his hand up your thigh, under your dress, dipping down between your legs, and for a moment you keep them closed tightly, aware of Raul's eyes on you. "Mine," Santos whispers, threatening, and you part your legs, his fingers finding the heat there.  

"See," he murmurs, "already wet."

You bite your lip as he touches you, and when you look up, Joaquin is standing there, waiting.

The elevator ride up to the room is silent, and once you're inside, door safely closed, Santos takes charge immediately.

"Sit down," he tells Raul and Joaquin, gesturing at the bed. "Let me show you how she likes it."

They do as asked, Joaquin perched on one corner, Raul making himself more comfortable, leaning back against the headboard. You're standing facing them, and Santos moves around to stand behind you.

You don't know what he's going to ask you to do, feeling yourself shaking as you inhale, taking in the scent of him; expensive cologne and cigar smoke, the hint of alcohol on his breath as he kisses your cheek.

His hands are at your waist, untying your dress, opening it wide, and you hear Raul and Joaquin both let out a breath at the sight of your body and you're dizzy, your heart racing out of control, like it won't ever stop. Santos kisses your neck, his hands sliding up under your breasts, lifting them, kneading, his touch firm. He pinches your nipples, not letting go until you whine with the sharp pain of it, your back arching up, head falling back against his shoulder. He releases his grasp, smoothing over the hurt with his thumbs, gentle for just a moment before he presses down, hard, and you cry out, but that only makes him even rougher.

He keeps one hand on your breasts, not letting up, the other moving downwards as he uses one knee to nudge your legs further apart, still caressing your stomach, lower and lower.

You make a desperate sound as his fingers stroke through your wet folds, opening to him as he pushes into you, slowly, his two fingers curling inside you, your hips jerking as he finds that one spot with an unerring, unnerving precision.

"You like that?" he asks, softly, his mouth hot on your ear, the rich, almost mocking chuckle he lets out echoing in your head, because you can't answer.

He fucks in and out, hard and steady, and you're close to losing it when he stops, swapping his hands over. And you quickly realize it's his dominant hand that's now between your legs, even more skilled, his other fingers now slick with your wetness as they toy with your nipples, slippery-sweet on your skin, and you moan, closing your eyes.

"No," Santos says. "Eyes open." And when you hesitate, he squeezes your breast so hard you gasp. "Now," he orders, and you obey with a swallowed-down whine. Raul and Joaquin are staring at you, at your body, Santos' hands on you, and you see Raul start to rub himself through the front of his pants.

"Look at them," Santos tells you. "I want you to look at them when you come."

"I..." you stammer out. "I can't, I..."

"Shhh," Santos tells you, though there's nothing soothing in it, his hand clamping over your mouth as he presses down on your clit, the pressure of it like something ruthless, calculated to send you right over the edge.

You have to reach back, touch him, your hands on the broadly muscular sides of his thighs, fisting at the fabric of his pants, trying to hold on as your orgasm rocks through you, wave after wave of it, Santos knowing exactly how to make it last. Raul and Joaquin watch, their eyes dark, and you can't look away, not until you're done.

"Good girl," Santos murmurs, kissing your cheek, holding you as you lean back against him, trembling, your legs weak. "Such a good girl."

"Now," he says, arms supporting you as he pushes you forward. "I think Raul and Joaquin are waiting, aren't they?" You whimper, not yet ready for more, but wanting it anyway, and Santos only smiles. "Show me how good you can be for me, baby."

#wwe imagine #ohnojustwrites #santos escobar #santos escobar imagine #el hijo del fantasma imagine

[ohnojustimagine]

Into This Night

Damian Priest/Reader; smut, 1995 words

Anon with all the good ideas suggested this, set around that angry promo Damian did after he lost the match against Dijakovic for the title opportunity, where he had all his women waiting for him.

Note for unprotected sex and a bit of choking.

-

It's your friend Sofia who convinces you to come along.

"Wrestling?" you say, scrunching up your nose in distaste, because that doesn't sound like something you'd be into.

"Not wrestling," she says. "Wrestlers." She smiles at you. "Big difference."

But you're still not so sure. "Come on," she tells you, "Why do you think I keep going back every week? Those guys are..." She exhales, shaking her head, slightly wide-eyed, and okay, that gets you interested, because right now you really could use something low-commitment with someone hot.

"Maybe," you say, fully aware you're going to let yourself be talked into it.

And, of course, you are, and now you're in some room backstage at Full Sail with Sofia and a bunch of other girls, and so far you don't know what to think because there's something weirdly competitive about the atmosphere in here.

"When do the guys show up?" you ask, starting to feel restless.

"Patience," Sofia tells you, and all at once a hushed silence falls over the whole group.

You turn, curious to see what or who has them so enthralled, and jesus, you think, having to consciously stifle a gasp at the sight of the man standing in the doorway. Startlingly tall, with dark, dampened hair and even darker eyes, all tattoos and muscles that are barely covered by the sleeveless t-shirt he's wearing, a deep v cut in the front to expose his chest.

"That's Damian," Sofia murmurs in your ear.

Damian, your mind echoes, as he scans the room with a practised gaze, looking over every girl, coolly assessing, and, to your shock, it's you his eyes alight on.

"You're new," he says, his voice deep and smooth. He smiles at you, so voracious it makes you shiver. "I like new."

"Hi," you say, unsure if this is what you're supposed to do, taking a step towards him anyway. "I'm..."

"Yeah, I don't care," he interrupts, cutting you off abruptly. "You." He points at you, and then three other girls. "And you, you... and you."

They each quickly separate themselves from the rest of the group, walking after him as he turns and leaves, but you hesitate.

"Go on," Sofia whispers, nudging you forward, and so you follow along, a sinking, twisting feeling in the pit of your stomach, because you have no idea what you're letting yourself in for, but somehow you're already certain that you won't be able to resist.

He leads the four of you to what seems to be some kind of outdoor seating area, saying, carelessly, "Stay here," and then he's gone.

You sit down with the other girls, and they don't speak to you, all taking out their phones, as if this is just how things go, like they're accustomed to waiting around for him.

Time passes, and you start to second-guess yourself, wondering if maybe you're making a huge mistake, but Sofia drove you here and you don't have enough money to get yourself home.

"How long will he be?" you ask the others. None of them answer, but one glances up from her phone for just long enough to give you a sneering, withering look and you shrink back down in your seat, ashamed.

And you hear him before you see him, shirtless and practically growling in anger, a camera crew trailing in his wake. You can only assume whatever he's been doing didn't go as planned, watching in alarm as he rants at the camera, words spitting like fire from his lips, talking of how he's going to live forever. He slams his fists against the nearest wall, and you startle, fear running through you, but there's an edge to it, something electrifying in seeing a display of such raw, uncontrolled rage.

"Let's go," he orders impatiently as the camera backs off, and the four of you jump to your feet.

You end up in some kind of backstage dressing room, and it's not big, but what space there is is dominated by a huge, wide couch.

Damian's still muttering to himself, shaking his head, and you're not sure what to do. "Are... are you okay?" you ask, timidly, immediately regretting even speaking because he's straight up in your face, looming over you, eyes almost glowing, as if incandescent with rage.

"Do I look okay, new girl?" he snaps and you shake your head mutely, lowering your eyes. "Because I'm not," he grits out, "and what makes me even less okay is when stupid little girls ask me stupid questions."

"Sorry," you mutter, and you hear him let out an impatient sigh.

"Why are you even here?" he asks, voice calmer now but no less deadly, and he's stalking around you, circling you like he's a wolf on the hunt, looking you up and down. He stands behind you, and you can feel heat emanating off him; lust and power and desire and suddenly you're afraid of what you might do.

"I..." You stop, because you don't know what to say.

"You think you can handle this?" he says.

"Yes," you lie, because you don’t even know what this is, and he laughs.

"No, you can't." He's pressed up against your back now, arms around you, pinning your own arms to your sides. His body is hot, still damp with sweat, and you can feel how strong he is, how easy it is for him to restrain you. "But I can teach you." He licks your ear, nips at it. "I can break you, make you learn for me."

You're trembling now, his hands sliding up your body, over your breasts in a firm caress that makes you moan quietly. "Yeah," he murmurs, the word practically rumbling in his throat, but then he raises his head. "Get out," he says to the other girls, and you see them hesitate. "Now," he orders, in a tone that allows no room for disobedience and they hurry to leave, closing the door behind them.

"Just you and me, sweet thing," he says, one hand on your throat now, and you swallow, feeling the hint of pressure in his touch. "You like that?" he asks, his fingers and thumb slowly tightening either side of your throat, merely limiting your air at first, but he doesn't stop, not until you really, truly can't breathe. Panic rises inside you, and your first instinct is to want to struggle against it, but there's something inside you that won't let you, something powerful enough to override your natural reaction. Because you need this, you suddenly understand; to give in, to surrender yourself to this man, body and soul, and so you allow yourself to weaken into his arms.

He makes a satisfied noise, as if you've pleased him, and then releases his hold on you, breath flooding back into your body like euphoria, sweet as a high. The feeling rushes through you, seeming to pool between your legs and you're so turned on by it you can't even think.

He throws you face first down on the couch, kneeling over you, roughly pulling off your clothes, manhandling you in every sense of the word. You hear fabric tearing as he rips away your panties, and when you're naked, he drags your hips up, nudging the backs of your thighs until you get your knees under you, head still down so your ass is raised high.

You hear the soft clink of him unbuckling his belt, the slide of it being pulled out of the loops of his pants, and you let out a whine, assuming he's going to hit you with it, but instead he trails the dangling edge of it across your ass, the leather smooth on your skin  You flinch at the touch of it, gentle when you were bracing yourself for harsh, and he laughs, yanking your arms up behind your back.

Your face is pushed into the couch, forcing you to turn your head to the side to be able to breathe, and he grips your wrists, holding them with ease in just one hand, using the other to wind the belt around, binding you, fastening the buckle tight.

"Don't you look pretty like this, angel," he croons, and there's the sound of him unzipping, the feel of his cock as he teases the tip of it through your wet folds. 

"And just so you know," he says, casually, like it's nothing, "I'm going to come in you."

You feel like you might cry, and not because you want him to stop, but because you're going to let him do this to you, and you want it. So bad, so so bad, and you can't help the choked-up little sob that escapes past your lips.

"I told you," he says. "You need to learn. Like it or not, you're going to learn and the first lesson is that you trust me."

You feel him lining himself up against you, his cock sliding into you, and he's big, but your body opens up to take him in in a way you didn't know you were capable of, thick and full inside you, and you can hear him breathing. "So good," he murmurs. "So tight for me."

He starts to fuck you, holding on to your hips, pulling you back into him with every thrust, and it shouldn't be different, but it is, knowing there's nothing between you, that you're giving yourself to him in every way.

You feel him shifting behind you, moving you enough that he can get one foot on the floor, extra leverage so he can go even harder, deeper, holding on to the belt tied around your wrists, wrenching your shoulders back, and you don't know how long it goes on but you don't want it to ever stop.

He grunts when he comes, exhaling as he releases himself inside you, and maybe you're just too far gone but you swear you can feel it, as if you've been marked by him, claimed somehow.

He pulls out, dragging you upright into a sitting position, your ass right on the edge of the couch as you sprawl backwards, helpless, and he kneels between your legs, spreading them so wide you feel the burn in your inner thighs.

"You didn't come, did you?"

You shake your head slightly, not wanting to look at him.

"You need to come," he tells you, shoving his fingers inside you so hard that you gasp; two, then three, fucking in and out. He pulls you forward, one arm around your lower back, supporting you, and kisses you, tongue licking into your mouth, hot and forceful.

Your body spasms, right on the edge of it as he presses the knuckle of his thumb into your clit. "Come for me, angel," he whispers, then, louder, "Now." And you don't need anything more than his permission, your orgasm his, shuddering through you as he holds you tight, fingers working you all the way through it.

You can barely catch your breath, aftershocks pulsing over you like sparks dancing on your skin, and he doesn't let you go. "You're mine, now," he says. "All mine, to do whatever I want with." He kisses your forehead, softly, the tenderness of it almost startling. "Do you understand that?"

"Yes," you say, hearing your own voice as if from far away, but knowing that it's true.

He unbuckles the belt, releasing your hands, and you fall into him, letting him lift you into his lap as he moves up to sit on the couch.

You rest your head on his chest, feeling as if the rest of the world no longer exists, that there's nothing but him, and this.

"Can you come again?" he asks, after a minute.

And your heart is instantly racing. "No," you say. "I don't know, I..."

"It's okay," he tells you, but there's nothing reassuring in his tone. "I'm going to make you."

And you whimper as he touches you, but he doesn't stop.

#ohnojustwrites #damian priest #damian priest imagine #wwe imagine

[ohnojustimagine]

Full Bro

Matt Riddle/Reader/Pete Dunne; fluff with smut build up, 760 words

-

You're backstage in the Broserweight's designated locker room, and you're currently in Matt's lap, stripped down to your bra and panties and making out with him as Pete half-glares, half-sneers at both of you from the other end of the couch.

You could swear you can see Matt glancing over at Pete every so often, as if out of the corner of his eye, and at first you're a little confused that you don't have his full attention, but it doesn't take you long to realize that Matt's only distracted because he's so enjoying Pete's visibly increasing irritation at the display the two of you are putting on. Which is actually kind of funny, and so you play along, moaning loudly and kissing Matt as messily as possible, shifting so you're sitting over his thighs, straddling him, kneeling up like you're trying to climb him.

Pete huffs out what sounds like a wordless expression of distaste, and Matt pulls back from your kiss, smirking conspiratorially at you as he asks, all barely-faked innocence, "You okay, Pete?"

And Pete rolls his eyes. "Fine, mate."

"Cause I've got to say," Matt goes on, "you don't seem fine. In fact, I would go so far as to say that you seem kind of tense."

Pete stares straight ahead, folding his arms, not speaking.

"You know what you need, bro?"

"What?"

"You need to relax." Matt smiles. "You need to chill."

"Perfectly chill, thanks, yeah," Pete says.

But Matt turns to look at you. "Babe," he says, "how would you feel about enjoying the full Broserweight experience?"

"I'd be into that," you reply.

Pete's lip curls up, almost twitching, but he doesn't say anything.

Which only makes Matt's smile even wider. "Then go give my bro here some love," he tells you.

And you'd be more than happy to do that, but, frankly, Pete does not look enthused at the prospect of receiving some love. Like, at all. "Yeah," you say, "I don't think he's into it."

"No, no," Matt assures you. "He is. That's his happy face."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah," says Matt. "Pete's like, deep, you know."

"Huh," you reply, still unsure, but you shuffle up the couch to kneel in front of Pete, who just looks at you. And he's hot, and you'd really like to kiss him, but you don't know. "Can I?" you ask.

And he still doesn't speak, but he shrugs, which isn't a no, and maybe, you think, Matt's right, because you're getting the feeling that there really is something more lurking underneath that scowling exterior.

So you lean in, and you kiss him. Just quickly, briefly, barely even a peck on the lips, but his mouth does move just a little in response to yours. You pull away, studying his face, which is, you decide, maybe slightly less surly-looking now, so you kiss him again. And this time you let it linger for just a second or two more, and again, you feel him respond, even if only subtly, and when you shift back, you're certain that there's a hint of something in his eyes.

"Third time's the charm, I bet," Matt says, nodding.

And maybe he's right, so again, you press your lips to Pete's. A moment passes, then another, and then he grabs you, and you're about to let out a surprised oh, but you've barely opened your mouth before his tongue feels like it's halfway down your throat, and he's kissing you so aggressively you can barely keep up. You can't do anything but give in to it, and even with your eyes mostly closed you see Matt's double take, the way he startles backwards before a slow, delighted grin spreads over his face.

"Bro," he drawls out. "Pete, you're like full stallion, man."

Pete breaks the kiss, nipping at your lips, and you're both panting as you stare at each other, and there's definitely no mistaking the look in his eyes now.

Matt scoots up the couch, closer to you, his hands on your waist, either side of you, caressing down over your hips as Pete kisses you again. Slower this time, and a little more softly, but no less deep, and you sigh happily, grabbing one of Matt's hands and shoving it down the front of your panties.

"Oh, yeah," he says, quietly, and yes, you think in agreement. Because you're more than sure you really are about to get the full Broserweight experience and you have no doubt it's going to be way more full than you ever could have imagined.

#ohnojustwrites #wwe imagine #pete dunne imagine #matt riddle imagine #matt riddle #pete dunne

[ohnojustimagine]

Somebody to Have, Somebody to Hold

Jeff Hardy/Reader; fluff and smut, 755 words

As suggested by a particularly inspiring anon!

-

You wake a little early, sun just beginning to peer bright around the corners of the blinds in your and Jeff's bedroom. But you're in no hurry to get up, breathing in the quiet that surrounds you, warmth and calm enveloping you.

You're lying on your side, Jeff spooned up loosely behind you, his arm slung over your waist and there's a peace to it, being here, with him, and maybe it's a peace that's been hard-won, but it feels all the more sweet for it.

You snuggle back into the curve of his body and oh, you think, feeling his morning erection poking into you. And suddenly you're more awake, smiling to yourself, wriggling your ass up against him, reaching behind you to stroke him, sliding your hand inside his shorts and feeling his cock thick and hard in your palm.

He stirs, and you hear him take a breath, long and deep, still sleepy. "What you doing there, baby?" he murmurs.

"Nothing," you say, quickly moving your hand away.

"Mmm," he hums, nuzzling into you, rubbing his nose up against your ear, his mouth on your neck. "Sure felt like you were doing something."

"I don't know what you're talking about," you reply innocently.

He laughs, soft and lazy and happy. "So you're just gonna touch me like that and then leave me hanging? Cause that doesn't seem very nice."

"What made you ever think I was nice?"

"Never thought that, baby girl," he says. "You're bad all the way down, aren't you?" He bites down on your shoulder, playful, and you squeal, squirming in his embrace, but he holds you tight, arms wrapped around you. "You wanna tap out?" he teases.

"No way," you tell him, trying to kick up, but he tangles his legs around yours, and you giggle in delight.  

"Give in," he threatens, laughingly.

"Never," you say, breathing hard, but then you relent. "What do I get if I give in?"

"You know what you get," he says, hooking one leg even further over yours, rubbing his cock up against you, and how can you resist?

"Fine," you admit, tapping your hand on his forearm, and he releases you enough that you can turn over to face him. He kisses you, your mouths meeting messily as you tug at each other's clothes, him pulling off the worn old t-shirt your wear in bed, and you managing to get his shorts pulled down enough that he can kick them off his legs. You're still kissing as you roll over on top of him, grabbing his hands, interlacing your fingers through his. And you're maybe feeling a little devious, wanting your revenge, and so you sit up enough that you can pin his hands to the mattress, holding them down either side of his head. 

"Now you tap out," you tell him with a smirk, but Jeff just grins up at you.

"Oh, no need for that, I'm happy to stay like this forever."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he says, softer, the drawl in his voice stronger, and you can't help yourself, letting him go long enough that you can reach down to take hold of his cock, guiding it inside you, sinking down onto him, gasping as he fills you.

"You feel so good," he whispers as you start to move on him, watching his eyes close, the way his mouth falls open, his tongue wet as he breathes.

You lean back, going faster and his hands slide over your thighs, around your ass, up to caress your breasts, then down to your hips, holding on.

And you can't stop staring, taking in the sight of him, body so long and lean and beautiful, his head tilted back enough to show his throat, the claws etched there moving like they're alive, and you have to get your hand between your legs, rubbing your clit as you ride his cock.

You come together, him thrusting up off the bed and you grinding down onto him, so connected you swear the feeling of it pulses back and forth between you, taking each other higher until it peaks, rushing through you, and you hear him moan.

You fall down beside him, limbs entwined, skin on skin, bodies as if one and you could never have imagined you'd be so happy.

You both catch your breath, and finally you ask, "You want some coffee?"

"In a minute," Jeff says, pulling you even closer. "Just wanna stay like this a while."

"Yeah," you say, content. "Yeah, this is good."

#ohnojustwrites #wwe imagine #jeff hardy #jeff hardy imagine

[ohnojustimagine]

Duality

Drew McIntyre/Reader; fluffy nonsense, 600 words

-

You might not really know Drew, but it's obvious to everyone he's been different for a while now, with that permanent scowl and aura of ruthless malevolence having seemingly mellowed into something more quietly powerful. And since the Rumble it's like he's levelled up even more, exuding a relaxed, self-assured confidence that is, you will admit, really really attractive.

But still, you think to yourself as you warm up backstage for tonight's Raw, you kind of miss watching him stalk around glaring at everyone, that sleeveless coat he wears to the ring billowing behind him, black like a villain's cape. That was pretty hot.

You're so lost in the thought of it that it takes you a second to notice that Drew is actually walking by you, though he's dressed in jeans and a t-shirt and doesn't seem in any way villainous. He glances over at you as he passes, and you blush, forcibly dragging your mind away from fantasies that are probably inappropriate to have about a co-worker at any time, let alone when he's right next to you. He gives you a friendly yet thoughtful look, and you can't help smiling at him because you're just that weak.

But then he stops, and turns and oh shit, you think, panicking, because you haven't had your makeup done yet and your mouth is suddenly dry and you don't know what to do with your hands.

"Hello," he says.

"Yeah, hi," you manage to squeak out.

"You know," he goes on, smoothly, perfectly composed, "I might be mistaken, but I can't help feeling like you've been paying me some extra attention lately."  

"Oh," you reply, semi-mortified that he's noticed. "Sorry, it's just... the Rumble win and all." You breathe out, staring up at him, because he's so tall it makes you dizzy. "It looks good on you."

He nods in agreement. "I think it suits me, yeah."

"You always used to make me a little bit nervous," you admit.

"But I don't make you nervous now?"

"Well," you say. "Kind of. But not in the same way." You laugh, trying desperately not to seem even more awkward than you're sure you already are. "I mean, you're the sexy Scotsman, now, right? No more Scottish Psychopath?"

"I wouldn't say 'no more'," he muses. "Never say never."

"No?"

"Maybe, maybe not." He gives you an easy smile, and suddenly it feels like it's just the two of you, his gaze focused on you in a way that makes your heart beat dangerously faster. "Why?" he asks. "Do you miss him?"

"Who? The Psychopath?" He nods, and you frown to yourself, thinking. "I don't know," you say. "He was..." You pause, wanting to choose your words carefully. "He was interesting."

"I always thought so," he replies. "But he's still..." Drew puts his hand on his chest, only serving to emphasize how broad it is. "He's still in here." He smirks at you, eyes darkening for just a split second. "I think I could still bring him out," he says. "When necessary."

"Necessary?"

"Maybe for special occasions."

And you swallow, nervous, because you're pretty sure you understand what he's getting at. "Yeah?"

He shrugs. "For the right person."

"That is... good to know."

"So if you ever find yourself in need of a Psychopath..." He gives you a knowing grin, turning and walking away before you can even think to reply.

And while you might have no idea what just actually happened, you're somehow more than certain that you are going to be needing a Psychopath in your life.

And soon.

You smile to yourself. Very soon.

#ohnojustwrites #drew mcintyre #drew mcintyre imagine #wwe imagine #wwe fluff

[ohnojustimagine]

Next Somebody

Candice LeRae/Reader/Johnny Gargano; 760 words, smut

-

You've been friendly with the two of them for a while now, and maybe you've always kind of vaguely thought they're both really hot, but that's not the kind of thing you dwell on when you're friends with a married couple. And they've changed lately, you know that, but you still don't think anything of it when they invite you over for dinner.

You sit around the table, and they make a joke of the cup still there in its glass case like some kind of weirdly surreal centerpiece, and when you laugh, Candice refills your wine glass, again. You see them look at each other, smiling, something communicated between them so very clearly that you don't even have to ask what it is.

Because you're going to say yes, of course you are, but still, you think, you want them to take the lead, and so you don't say anything, drinking your wine.

After dinner the three of you sit on the couch, talking, laughing some more, and you're just drunk enough to be comfortable, your body a little loose in a way that feels really nice, and when Candice shifts closer, leans in and kisses you, you're not surprised.

And so you kiss her back, her lips tasting sweet, dark lipstick smearing as her tongue licks into your mouth, exploring, then asking for more. She gets one arm around you, and when you open your eyes you can see Johnny watching, something like hunger in his gaze.

"Bedroom?" he asks, and he's not talking to you.

"Yeah," Candice says.

-

By the time you take your clothes off they're already fucking, Johnny on top of Candice, her legs wrapped around him, his ass flexing as he thrusts into her, making her moan.

And maybe, you think, you're just supposed to watch, maybe they just want an audience, and you can do that, kneeling beside them on the bed, one hand between your legs, touching yourself.

The connection between them is so strong you can almost feel it, the intensity and intimacy of it seeming to fill the room and you almost want to back away a little, wondering if you should give them some space, but then they stop, both looking over at you.

And they move, separating, and Candice pushes you down onto the bed, grabbing your wrists, pinning them down while Johnny straddles your chest, kneeling up, his cock right there, still glistening with Candice's wetness.

You raise your head, licking your lips, wanting to taste it, but he shifts out of your reach.    

"No," he tells you. "You don't get that."

And you whine, frustrated, squirming in Candice's grasp just so she'll hold you down harder, her hands tightening on you, even stronger than you thought. "I think she likes it," Johnny says, and Candice smiles.

"Is that what you get off on?" she asks. "Being denied?"

You don't answer, but you blush, closing your eyes for moment and they both laugh, but then Johnny starts to stroke himself. You can't stop staring at his cock, the way his hand moves on it, faster and faster until he comes, all over your chest, streaks of white falling warm onto your skin. "Yeah, baby," Candice murmurs, letting you go, bending to lick off your breasts. Her tongue is slick and hot, swiping up Johnny's come, swallowing it down, and when she's done, she sucks on your nipples, hard enough to make them extra sensitive, making you cry out when she bites you, teeth suddenly sharp.  

You're panting as she kisses you, again, the taste of come still lingering in her mouth, and then she lies back, pulling you over, guiding your head down between her legs, opening them wide.

She's so, so wet, and you breathe in, the scent of her like something heady and sweet, making your own need throb urgent inside you.

"Come on," she urges, impatient.

You look up at her, and though you suspect you might pay for it later, you can't resist the sly dig, saying, "I thought you said you were going to eat first from now on?"

She stares at you for a second, as if puzzled, but then it clicks, and a slow, wide grin lights up her face. "I also said I was going to take what I deserved," she tells you, her hand in your hair, arching up her hips as she pulls your face into her. "And this is what I deserve," she says, sighing at the first stroke of your tongue.

#ohnojustwrites #wwe imagine #johnny gargano imagine #candice lerae imagine #wwe smut

[ohnojustimagine]

The Devil’s Due

AJ Styles/Reader; 1225 words, some smut but mostly just weirdness

Demon AU, set after AJ's match at Wrestlemania.

-

You're been told to expect him, sent to this in-between plane to await him. There's nothing here, nothing at all; only a smooth, dark blankness, silent and endless, and so you've conjured a small circle of light, just to be polite, enough that he'll be able to find you when he arrives.

And it will be easier, you know, if you don't show him your true form, so you've made yourself appear human; sleek and beautiful with a full-lipped mouth and dark hair, a tight red dress and black heels.

He's coughing as he stumbles into the light, still spitting up dirt, bent over as he tries to catch his breath, choking on his own freshly-dug grave.

You wait, watching him stand up, panting, wiping the saliva off his mouth with the back of his hand as he stares at you. "Well," he says, "I'd ask where the hell I am, but I guess I just answered my own question."

"No." You smile at him. "That's not where you are."

"No?" he asks. "And you're not..." He frowns. "Well, I always thought the devil was a dude, but you're..." He looks you up and down, warily curious, his eyes lingering for a moment on your breasts, which are, you will admit, quite magnificent. "You're definitely not a dude," he says.

"I'm not," you reply. "But yeah, the devil is."

"You know him?"

"I'm familiar with his work."

"I bet." He sneers at you, bolder than you'd expect, and oh, you think, because you like this one. "If this isn't hell, then I'm pretty damn sure it ain't heaven."

"No." You shake your head. "This is somewhere else."

"Okay, so," he says, voice firmer now, "what do I need to do to get out of here?"

You laugh, quickly. "That's a little more complicated."

"Well then, make it simple, honey, 'cause I got places I'm supposed to be."

"We're all supposed to be somewhere, honey."

"Fine." He shrugs, and strides off into the darkness. You sigh, because of course he'd want to do this the hard way, but you wait and it feels like barely any time has passed before he's again standing in front of you. "Huh," he says. "Wrong way, I guess." You have to roll your eyes as he sets off in the opposite direction, but he's soon back, obviously trying not to show his frustration.

"Got me walking in circles, right?” he says, impatience creeping into his tone. “Is that your trick?"

"It's all circles,” you reply, knowing he won’t understand. “It's all the same thing, over and over." And he's so simple, you think, so very human, all hubris and stupidity, but that's not necessarily a bad thing, not to you.

"So, why am I here?"

"This is just a place on the way to somewhere else."

"And how do I move on to that somewhere else?"

You smile, because now you’re beginning to get somewhere. "You give me what I want, and maybe I'll tell you."

"Maybe?" he asks.

"If you play nice."

He shakes his head, folding his arms in front of him. "I don't like those odds."

"It's cute," you say, "that you think you have a choice."

"I have a family, they need me."

"Then maybe you shouldn't be so reckless, should you?" you say, taking a step towards him. "Messing with what you don't understand, starting fights you can't win."

"I could have won," he tells you, confidence so misplaced it's almost endearing.

You tilt your head a little, looking at him. "And yet you didn't."

He's silent, as if wordlessly conceding the point, so before he can say anything else, you kiss him, pressing your mouth to his, your tongue licking soft at his firmly closed lips.

"Come on," you croon, coaxing. "You can do better than that."

You hear him exhale, short and sharp, and then he opens his mouth to you, reluctant, but it's all you need, your tongue slipping hot and demanding past his lips. And he tastes like flesh; skin and sweat and the hint of blood, so alive you want to suck the essence out of him, swallow him down whole, but you sink down onto your knees, unfastening his jeans.

"Do you..." He stifles a gasp as you take out his cock. "Do you have to?"

"Oh no," you say. "But I'm going to." You bite your lip as you stare up at him. "If it helps, you can pretend I'm someone else."

"Yeah, I'm gonna have to."

"I don't mind," you tell him, and it only takes a few firm strokes of your hand before he's rock hard, ready for you, and it never ceases to amaze you how easy humans are, their desires so straightforward and yet still somehow so fascinatingly complicated.

You suck the head of him into your mouth, tasting salt, swirling your tongue around him until he's moaning. "Ohhh," he murmurs. "Holy... holy fuck."

"Shhh," you say. "Just enjoy it."

You lick your lips, wetting them as you take him in again, sliding your mouth up and down his shaft, widening your throat enough to let him in deeper, swallowing around him, your tongue working as you try to control the urge to bite down, your teeth almost aching with the need for it.

But you stop yourself, because there are other ways to hurt him, you know, and so just as he's about to climax, you let the glamor disguising your appearance slip away. He's not looking at you as he grunts, thrusting into your mouth, seed spilling down your throat.

And then he opens his eyes, looking down, and he sees you, your true face. "Jesus fucking christ," he sputters out, recoiling in horror, backing away like he's been burned.

You smirk, rearranging your features carefully back into something more human and rising to your feet. "No use calling for him here."

"What the hell are you?" he asks, but you don't answer that.

"I thought you might like to see me," you say. "I thought it might be something to remember me by."

"Yeah, I'm not gonna forget that in a hurry, that's for sure."

"Good," you say. He tries to take another step back, but you focus your power, keeping him in place. You hold up one hand, curling your fingers in the air, squeezing around nothingness, and he starts to choke, his throat closing tight. "I want you to remember," you say, your voice low. "I want you to see that, see me, every time you come."

You keep the hold for just a second longer, so very tempted to let him pass out, because oh how you'd love to play with him some more, but instead you release him. He gasps for breath, wheezing, but you're pleased to note that he still has the energy to glare at you. "Maybe you are the devil, lady," he grits out hoarsely.

"Well, I do have ambitions."

He mutters something under his breath, and though you hear the words, you choose not to acknowledge them.

"I think we're done here," you say.

"That's it?" he asks, narrowing his eyes, suspicious.

"For now," you reply.

"So I can leave?"

You nod. "You can leave here, yes."

"Where do I go?"

"Just start walking," you say. "You'll get there."

"Fine," he snaps, turning on his heel, striding away with a firm step and you know you won't see him again.

"Good bye, AJ," you whisper, softly, but he's already gone.

#ohnojustwrites #wwe imagine #aj styles #aj styles imagine

[ohnojustimagine]

Blood Lust

Shayna Baszler/Reader; dark pre-smut, 615 words

The obvious vampire AU, because bitey bloody Shayna on Raw last night really was something. Slightly dubcon-ish.

-

Walking home from the bar in the early hours of the morning probably isn't the best idea you've ever had, but you're with your friend Jake, who's a bodybuilder, and huge and intimidating enough that you feel reasonably safe. But unfortunately it turns out that Jake is a whole lot more wasted than you realized, and despite your protests he insists on taking the shortcut through the cemetery.

It's dark, but there's a full moon, so you can kind of see, even though there's a thin fog hanging in the air and you could swear the temperature dropped the moment you walked through the gates, but, you tell yourself, that's probably just your imagination.

You shiver, pulling your coat around you, nearly tripping over a headstone when, as if out of nowhere, you see a woman approaching you.

She's wearing a leather jacket and dark jeans, her hair pulled back, and she carries herself with a strength and power that seem to almost resonate from her, like an aura.

"Hey," Jake says to her, puzzled, and you see her smile at him, her teeth startlingly white in the darkness. And oh shit, you suddenly realize, because those aren't teeth, they're fangs, and you stare in horror as she grabs Jake like he's nothing, swinging his struggling body down in her grasp and sinking her teeth into his neck.

You're feel like you're frozen in place, sheer terror paralyzing you, because you can't believe what you're seeing is actually real, what you know this must be, what this woman is.

She lets Jake fall to the ground with a thud, and you gasp as she looks at you, her mouth bloodied, glistening dark red in the moonlight.

"Don't worry," she says. "Your boyfriend's not dead."

And you don't know what the actual fuck is going through your head that the first thing you think to reply is a stuttered-out, "H-he's not my boyfriend."

She grins at you, those long, curved fangs stained red. "Yeah?"

She stalks towards you, and you force yourself to take a step back, but before you can even blink, she's behind you, her forearm across your throat, applying just the barest threat of pressure, her other hand on your head. And she's even stronger than you thought.

"You're not going to scream are you?" she asks.

"No," you reply, because you're pretty damn sure she'll choke you out if you do.

"Good girl," she says. "Are you scared?"

"No," you lie, and she laughs, her breath unnervingly cool against your ear.

"Oh yes, you are," she says. "I can smell it on you." She tilts your head away from her, pressing her face into your neck, inhaling the scent of your skin. "Not just fear, though, is it?" You hear her hum to herself, and she keeps one arm on your neck but wraps the other around your waist, pulling your body in close to her, her hips pushing into your ass. "You want to play, baby girl?" she murmurs.

"I..." you start, but then she licks up the side of your throat, teeth scraping over your skin, and your words dissolve into a whimper. "Please..." you whisper helplessly. "Please don't hurt me."

"I'm not going to hurt you," she says. "Unless you want me to." She gets her leg between yours, shoving her thigh upwards so it's pressed hard and tight against you, and you swallow the moan that threatens to rise up in your throat. "Do you want me to hurt you?" she croons, so tender it's like poison inside your head.

"You'll like it, I promise," she tells you, and when she kisses you, all you taste is blood.

#ohnojustwrites #wwe imagine #shayna baszler #shayna baszler imagine