ladykelsi 2025. please do not steal, copy, plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my works without my permission, including ai/c.ai/chatgpt/lore.fm and similar sites and softwares.
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Most of the time—correction, all of the time—he would ignore such a call. If someone is stupid enough to try and reach him at this hour, that's their business and mistake to make. Why should he care for stupidity of others?
Especially when he has urgent reports to read and prepare for a meeting tomorrow. He is to attend this meeting on his father's behalf due to his...slipping health.
There is a change in the air, Santino can detect it and taste it. He knows Gianna is the same. She's pulling her own strings and making her own preparations.
Camorra is on a brink of a revolution once again and he and his sister are at the helm of it.
However, only one name could ever distract him from his family—only one and he lowers his wine glass for upon spotting it.
(Name)
Dropping his pen on the documents carelessly, Santino picks up the phone at the second ring.
"Cara mia," he greets with a slight twitch of his lips and leans back in his leather seat. "So lovely to hear from you."
He tries to imagine you—wherever the Russian might have sent you away—and wonders what horizon you are observing. Outside, the bay of Naples glows in the pale moonlight through the partially opened balcony doors.
Silence greets him.
"Bella?"
A rattling, shallow breath echoes in his ear and his slight smile crumbles as he sits up, pressing the phone closer.
"Where are you?" he demands softly. "Are you injured?"
"I'm...fine."
You don't sound fine.
You're not fine.
But you were. You've been doing well. No relapses, slow but steady progress since Chicago. Fewer nightmares, more genuine smiles. He barely checks in with Winston anymore, and the last time he did has been as awkward and as stilted as all the times before it but necessary.
She's doing well. There was the Casablanca incident but it was harmless. She's stronger now. I think she's finally starting to let it go.
You are.
Casablanca has been a small setback—more worry that it was worth because you were fine. When he tracked you down, you had clung to him, arms around his shoulder and soft pants against his neck.
He had chewed out the manager who sat through it all with gritted teeth and pinched expression—apparently your newest friend, and he couldn't help but wonder how you always win loyalty so damn easily in a world where none is given.
Still, he's Camorra heir and she was a newly appointed manager who did not need an enemy. A smart woman if not a highly unpleasant one.
You had needed him though.
Didn't allow anyone else to touch you or help you, and through the uncomfortable roll of something he didn't dare to acknowledge as worry in his chest, shone something close to...happiness.
He's been hated, cursed, scorned.
Never needed—not genuinely. Not without deals or favours or expectations. Not with a sleepy smile and crinkling of eyes as he helped you to bed.
A vast difference to what he witnessed in Chicago.
An emptiness still but softer this time. More bearable.
Now though—
"Water?" he guesses, tense. "Is it getting bad again, cara?"
"Yes."
Santino is not quite sure which question you're responding to but it doesn't matter.
"Where are you?" he urges, trying to keep his tone calm. Patience, as you always remind him with a judicious grin, is not his strong point. "Tell me where you and I'll send Ares with the jet, amore. She can pick you up and you can stay with me for a few days, hm? Or New York, whichever you prefer."
Somewhere safe. Somewhere where this won't be used against you.
He feels like punching something. He should call the old man now, warn him. Winston has...something with you that Santino doesn't quite understand. It's an odd bond but you trust the man and Winston has proven that he...cares.
"No. Can you..." you breathe and he steps from behind the desk, marching towards the balcony. He needs fresh air—your voice— "Could you...just...stay on the phone with me, Santi?"
Santi.
He hates the fact that even now you calling him that makes lightness bloom in his chest.
Fuck, fuck.
He has a mountain of work to get through but your voice—
Tiny and scratchy with pain. He doesn't hear tears and feels selfishly grateful for it because he can't imagine not tearing the world apart to find you if he did. See with his own eyes that you will be fine. It's only been three weeks since he's last seen you but it feels like an eternity now.
"Of course, amore," he reassures and steps into the warm Italian night air, running his hand through his hair. He swallows, listening to your unsteady, slow breaths through the line. "Are you counting?"
A pause. "Yes."
"Ah, that's my girl," it slips out before he can control it, and he rushes ahead before you can comment, "Keep doing that, bella. Would you like me to talk?"
Another breath, steadier this time. "Please."
He's imagined plenty of scenarios in which you may use that word with him but none of them involving this damned pain.
He fucking hates it.
"My birthday is in a few months," he says conversationally, forcing the loftiness into his words, but his fingers keep flexing against the railing. He stares out towards the sea and wonders where in this wide, wicked world you are. How long it may take to reach you. After Tokyo, every time something goes wrong, he's always intimately aware of the particular disadvantage that is you still being on Tarasov's chain. "I am planning a party. Would you care to come? As my honour guest, of course. Perhaps my plus one as well, yes?"
He wants it.
That dream of you beside him.
One day soon you will be free of Tarasov and after that—
Oh, after that. He has every intention of offering you a place in his family, beside him.
His father's reign is coming to an end and one day he will sit at the very top.
The Camorra crown will sit on his head and he will spill all the blood needed to get it.
And when he's Head you will be free.
Even if it means shredding Viggo Tarasov and his family to pieces. Slowly. For all he's done.
Blood for blood.
"I would like that."
He leans over the railing, his fingers rubbing against his temple.
"Good, amore. How are you? Do you need anything?"
Because he never knows what to expect or what he can do to help with this.
It's uncomfortable and pitiful to admit his lack of know-how when it comes to these matters. He doesn't understand your demons, not really. He tries but fails most of the time.
Caring is exhausting. But it's you.
A muffled rustling, and then he hears your voice clearer like you're speaking right into the receiver, "Would you stay with me?" you half-ask and half-plead and it's like a kick to the chest. One of your blade between his ribs. Sinking deeper, deeper, deeper— "On the phone till I fall asleep. Please, Santi."
Fuck.
You are so very, very dangerous.
Special. Dear.
"You don't need to ask, (Name)."
He's only returning the favour, he reasons, for back when you stayed with him on the phone as he rang you drunk and in need of company. He's never had someone before he could trust with grief.
He's only returning the favour, he forces himself to repeat.
Over and over.
Like that might change the fact that you could ask him anything with that subdued need in your voice and he would give you everything.
Grace is on Erid, dying of malnutrition and every other disease. The Eridian scientists are fighting for their lives to try and keep Rocky’s beloved flesh blob from shrivelling up. They can’t synthesize the food he needs and it all seems hopeless. But then, in their finest hour, a beautiful dwarf descends from the thick ammonia atmosphere to provide Grace with his first proper meal in years.
Not in the slightest! I actually think its deeply unfair for the principles of this poll that he has random sexualized fan art instead of a picture from his game while senshi and grace are just the photo that first pops up when you look up senshi or Ryland Grace. But at least senshi is still neck and neck despite this unfair set up!
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Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Disgustingly loving sex (sorry). Soft dom!Simon Talks You Through It™️ Creampie. Brief mention of Reader’s insecurities w sex
Word count: 2.1k
It wasn’t like you hadn’t tried before.
You’d had your fair share of lovers and experienced more than a good deal of fun. With everyone in the past, climax came the same way, every single time: clitoral stimulation, and clitoral stimulation alone.
By this point in your life, you suspected your g-spot was probably just a figment of your imagination, no more real than Atlantis, Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.
That was, until, you met your boyfriend, Simon.
And things had only been official for a week.
You and him had fooled around a handful of times—made love, as he called it, and kissed and cuddled and occasionally dry-humped until the two of you were both panting, groaning messes—but all of this was new. Simon was still learning you, as you were him.
He finished between your tits. You came on his tongue. He fingered you to the point of tears, and you learned how to touch his sac just right to get him to blow his load in seconds. On this night in particular, you were fucking missionary, and holding hands while you did.
Lovesick puppies, Price would say. Neither one of you seemed able to unglue your lips or unlace your fingers or keep your hips from colliding again and again and again in frantic search of the other’s furthest depths. You were perfectly wrapped up, with no desire to move
Except, you needed to reach down between your bodies to actually get off. That was a minor detail.
You didn’t think the man above you would mind if you moved your touch from his, but then that grip tightened the second you tried pulling away.
“Keep it there, lovie. Like holding you like this,” he said.
You enjoyed it, too. It was intimate, and sweet, and with your hands pinned on either side of you, locked securely in his, you felt safe. You just couldn’t finish.
“But I…I need to come,” you whispered against him. You rolled your hips and felt his cock twitch inside you.
Simon grunted, then swallowed. Nodded slowly.
“Yeah. I’ll get you there. Feel this?”
He slid deeper for emphasis.
You didn’t.
You rarely did, or at least not in the way you figured you were supposed to get when something pressed there.
“I think…sort of, yeah,” you hedged your answer.
Don’t bruise his ego, don’t hurt his feelings.
This is all on me, Si, I promise it’s not you.
Cutting in over your thoughts, Simon moved swiftly. Took your hips in his big, strong hands, lifted up, and plunged his cock to the hilt. The girth of him was enough to knock the air out of your lungs, and you felt your walls stretch, sting, and weep sweet liquid warmth around that intrusion. You moaned.
“Better?” The man’s question was simple.
Before you could answer it, he was sliding a pillow underneath your backside. Sawing his long, thick, leaking cock in and out of you, he reached a new spot.
You made a face, feeling good from that but…strange.
Simon snatched your hands up again and planted them beside your head on the mattress. He thrusted steadily. He peppered kisses all over your face and your neck while the bed frame squeaked in time, and you had to dig your heels into his ass to ground yourself.
“Talk to me, baby. Can’t make it better if you don’t.”
“I—I know, I just can’t—”
At the same time, Simon tilted your hips slightly once more, and the tip of his cock kissed something soft and wet and dizzyingly pleasurable inside your body. A loud, embarrassing cry slipped out between your lips.
You wanted to clap a hand over your mouth, hating the way you’d just sounded, but your fingers were stuck to his. Simon grinned down at you, toothy and approving.
“Can’t do what, now, darlin’?”
The warm, bulbous head of his cock had found its mark, and he just kept prodding that spot, like it entertained him to do it. The fingers laced between your own constricted their grip even more, and Simon leaned down to kiss you while his cock carved a mind-numbing path. In between kisses, he praised you.
“That’s my girl. She’s likin’ it now, isn’t she?”
“Feel good when my cock hits that spot?”
“Your pussy’s fuckin’ soakin’ me, baby.”
But still, somehow, it just wasn’t quite enough.
Maybe you’d never found that place after all.
This was where most men gave up—after a few good minutes of fucking when their balls had gotten to be as swollen as stones and their bodies were aching for release, more often than not, they’d go off chasing their own high. That was when you usually started rubbing your clit, or waited for your partner to finish so they could get you off with their tongue or something.
You hated to feel like a burden, and you really despised the thought of being the reason your sweet Simon couldn’t get to orgasm. So you squirmed again.
Straining to reach down, to try and touch yourself, you whimpered, “Si, please, it just—it takes me too long—”
“Good thing we’ve got all night,” Simon replied bluntly.
Then, once again, he twisted your bodies like you were as soft and malleable as putty in his hands, and this time, he hitched one of your legs around his hip, high.
With one slow-rolling thrust and an audibly squelching sound, Simon’s cock stretched your hole to maximum capacity, and then a little more. Your juices leaked down his shaft, aiding the slide, and he stabbed in a few shallow strokes. Probing. Testing the waters, as if he were trying to find something hidden inside you.
You sucked in a breath. Simon’s gaze slid to yours.
“Let’s find that precious spot, lovie. Easy, now.”
Gently coaxing your body open, he drove a slow, measured pace. He split your cunt like it was the easiest thing in the world, delving within your wet, velvety heat to tease every contour and crevice of your pussy. His tip leaked precome. His balls glistened in your arousal and landed with the gentlest plap, plap, plaps while he explored your insides with his member.
It really was as simple as that, nothing more and nothing less than poking around. Having patience.
“S-Si,” you stammered, nose wrinkling slightly.
“What’s’at, baby? Got something to tell me?”
Like a teacher, almost, he pressed for more.
Like his cock was showing you something new about your body but he needed your help to tell him just how and where to find it, Simon took care to be kind. He smoothed a hand over the crown of your head and then cradled the back of it, one massive set of fingers splayed out against your skull and engulfing it wholly.
He still held onto your other hand tight.
Your cunt pulsed. Ached. Fluttered around him.
Stuffed to the brim, you had only to feel, and murmur:
“Higher.”
“Higher?”
“Um, to the…to the left.”
Simon tilted his hips left.
Yes.
That was just it. So close.
Almost…
Or, maybe…
“Maybe it just…isn’t there,” you huffed out, deflating. “Know you’re trying so hard, baby, but I think I can’t—”
Then Simon hit the same spot as before, only higher.
Just like you’d told him: to the left, and then…
“Oh, fuck,” you cursed. “Oh, fuckfuckfuck.”
The grin above you stretched even wider.
“There, lovie?” Simon goaded you on.
“Right there.” You nodded furiously.
A wave of pleasure swept through your limbs, from your core down to the soles of your feet. Your toes curled, and you squeaked, feeling Simon’s cock graze that soft, spongy, sensitive place—except he’d pushed in deeper. The sensation made your eyes roll back.
“Little dove doesn’t mind my pokin’ after all, huh?” Simon’s words were a tease, but you heard a strain in them, too. The second you were caught in the throes of real pleasure, your cunt must’ve clamped like a vice.
“Keep…keep pokin’, Si,” you choked out. “I like it.”
Your lover kept at it—poking from the inside.
The routine almost felt like losing your virginity all over again, together. Simon cradled your head, told you how good you were doing, how sweet you were for him, and you whimpered under his hold. Squirmed and clung to him for dear life, then kissed him feverishly.
Simon’s mouth was hard and hungry, his thrusts deep. His cock throbbed within the wet, clenching confines of your pussy, and he seemed to be going wild at the feeling. With the idea that he was driving you wild, too.
You realized as much when he whispered it to you.
“Could lose my bloody mind when you’re like this—” Another sharp, labored breath. Another shudder passing through his body when your insides squeezed. “—so why didn’t you talk? Ask for what you needed?”
Your voice was small. “Didn’t wanna be a bother.”
Your eyes were locked with Simon’s, and in his irises, you caught a shade of concern. It flared, hot as anything, then mixed with disbelief. Disappointment.
“Don’t be angry, Si, I—” you started, hurried.
“‘M’not.” Simon blinked. But he gritted his teeth, and he withdrew his cock until the head was bumping and teasing between your folds, then he shook his head. “It’s those fuckin’ pricks who should be sorry, yeah?”
The ones that you’d been with before.
You wanted to protest, insist that you were at least partly to blame, but you never got the opportunity.
Simon was back inside you in a blink.
Hitting that same spot again, and again, and again.
He grinned, the tic of a muscle in his jaw telling you that he was less amused this time around, but proud.
Vindicated.
“Well. It’s not like they’re ever gettin’ a chance in between these pretty legs again, are they, lovie?”
You nodded in agreement.
You smiled back at him, only to have that gentle curve falter a little when you felt Simon’s thrusts accelerate.
“Only thing that’s gonna touch this spot other’n my cock is my seed, splatterin’ all over your walls, right?”
When he gave a playful nip to your lower lip and squeezed your hand tighter, you knew that he meant it. The man had plunged so deep inside you that his pubic bone was now grinding against your skin, and the rest of him was buried. His balls, all full and warm and heavy with his release, rested firmly in your cleft.
And the steady, measured strokes of his cock landed with near-surgical precision on the G-spot you’d convinced yourself up until tonight didn’t exist.
Simon beamed. You were overcome with ecstasy.
“This it, lovie? This spot right ‘ere?” he cooed.
His cock bobbed against that gummy and indescribably dizzying place, causing your last moan to morph into something more akin to a shriek.
You nodded your head: “Y-Yes. Yes.”
“Feel good when I hit it?”
“Fucking perfect, Si.”
You sighed when the man bottomed out for what felt like the millionth time, and the pleasure never waned. He felt just as good now as he did when he first got in.
“Yeah? Gonna come on my cock then, pretty girl?”
“Yeah. I’m— I’m so close.”
“Go on then, love.”
And, shortly, you did.
Maybe three, four, five more stabs of his cock to your most precious, intimate place and you were unraveling beneath him, stars bursting in your line of vision. It seemed dramatic to say, but that was really what it came to—your mouth hanging open, eyes wide, gaze peering into Simon’s while he fucked you through the most intense orgasm of your life. You clung to him, and your walls spasmed again and again and again, milking the man’s release in the next few seconds. Simon shuddered and grit his teeth as he unloaded a thick, gooey load inside, dousing that spongy, body-numbing spot and then some. The two of you moaned in unison.
Your body was boneless, your head a hazy mess.
It took several seconds for your conscious mind to come back online fully, and when it did, Simon was leaning in again and planting kisses along your face.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured, breath fanning hot across your skin. “My perfect girl. You did so good.”
You smiled and caught his mouth for a proper kiss.
“Thank you,” you murmured against him.
Then Simon squeezed your hand—the one he’d been holding this entire time. He lifted it gently, like he was afraid too rough of a movement might split you in two.
He turned your wrist and kissed the back of your hand, eyes locked on yours and expression soft while he did.
One night stand Gaz that you met in Italy who speaks perfect Italian and you think is a local until he shows up around your neighbourhood in London (you only ever spoke to him in shitty Italian which he indulged in because you said you wanted to practice, and which you must have really needed because you clearly didn’t listen to any of the things he rasped in your ear while bottomed out in your cunt about following you home and making you his)
something something pre-negotiated cnc scene with gaz where you go for a hike and he's waiting for you with his ghillie suit on, taking you entirely by surprise as he drags you into the bushes, holding his hand over your mouth so as not to alert the passing hikers as he fucks you on the ground, completely camouflaged underneath him
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After exchanging letters for half a year with ranching man Hans König, you finally travel out west to be his bride. But when you arrive, you find he is not at all like the man you corresponded with—meanwhile, handsome cowboy Kyle “Gaz” Garrick looks at you like you hung the moon and stars.
read here on ao3
Gaz x reader. Western AU. Cowboy Gaz. Mail order bride. Slow Burn. Mutual Pining. Virgin reader. Infidelity. Angst. Hurt/comfort. Strangers to Lovers. Implied racism. Second chance romance.
It's incredible how much Anakin fans truly do not want to grapple with the fact that Anakin is a VILLAIN. He is The Villain of the story. It's not actually Palpatine really. It's Anakin. Anakin is the main character, sure, but it's his choices that determine everyone else's fates and he chooses to be a villain. He chooses to make everyone else suffer when they don't have to. He chooses to make everyone else miserable with him because he's too much of a coward to do anything else. Palpatine didn't even EXIST in the first ever Star Wars film and barely exists in the other two in the original trilogy. The villain you spend a lot more time with is ANAKIN and then they wrote an entire trilogy about how he BECOMES the villain of the story.
But his fans never ever ever want to admit that he's the villain of the story. They just don't. And it makes having discussions with them about this story and this character near impossible because they interpret the story as being "about" someone else like Palpatine or the Jedi just so that Anakin can be that much less at fault for everything and that much less of a villain.
It's so tiring. Anakin is such a complicated complex fascinating character, but ONLY if you're willing to engage with him on the level he actually exists at which requires being willing to acknowledge that he is The Villain Of The Story.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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soapgaz goes to the beach and do end up clearing a full mile of shoreline because soap keeps moaning loudly when gaz rubs sun lotion into his back and "accidentally" dropping his towel when he tries to change to his swim shorts, and gaz keeps rolling his eyes and doing a lot of "get a load of this guy" work but he is clearly hard, and they keep grinding against each other while trying to set up the sun umbrella until inevitably the last person packs up their kit and starts the journey to the other end of the beach, and they can forget all pretenses and just start fucking each other
