#🪷.fics

[houroftheowl]

do you get deja vu?

miguel o'hara x female!reader–minors do not interact

rating: explicit

summary: what you think is a chance encounter brings miguel o'hara into your life, but it's all a part of his master plan.

content: slight stalking, mutual pining, unprotected sex, breeding kink, size kink, mirror sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms

Empty.

That’s the only way you could describe the way you always felt after a long day of work. You consider yourself lucky, having an office job and weekends off. The salary you were paid was enough to make ends meet without having to eat ramen noodles for every meal.  

So what if it was mind-numbing work that made you so mentally exhausted at the end of the day that you couldn’t hold a conversation? Who cares if most of your coworkers made your life exponentially harder by refusing to listen to the simplest of directions, making you repeat yourself five times for a simple task?

For the salary they paid, you could make peace with being dead inside. Most days you were able to get home on auto-pilot without so much as looking away from your phone. In fact that was the norm for—

A firm grip on your bicep rips you out of your thoughts, yanking you backwards and into a firm chest only moments before a car flies through a red light. 

“Shit,” you hiss under your breath, but it’s drowned out by the sounds of tires screeching and blaring car horns. 

“You should be more careful,” a deep voice rumbles against your back.

You spin on your heel to face him and nearly gasp at the sight of him.  

He feels familiar from the moment you lay eyes on him. Your eyes travel along the curves of his face, the furrowed brows, the apples of his cheeks before settling on pillowy, pouty lips. 

Heat rises to cheeks at the thought of them against yours. 

Calloused fingers flex around your bicep and snap you from your reverie.

“I… uh thank you,” you say nervously.

A handsome stranger saves your life, and all you can do is gawk at him like an idiot. Said stranger stares at you for a bit, regarding you with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

He looks like a prince out of a fairy tale, you think. 

Long lashes kiss his high cheekbones when he blinks; and when those striking eyes meet yours, you feel your heart skip a beat. Wisps of hazelnut brown hair have fallen to his face as he looks down at you. Never in your life would you think to describe a man as pretty, but the word suits him. 

Deep brown eyes rake down your body in a flash, so quick you nearly miss it. 

“I saved your life and all I get is a ‘thank you’?” Your handsome savior cocks his head to the side.

You can’t tell if there are chills running up your spine or butterflies in your stomach, maybe it’s a mixture of both. A thumb strokes the fabric of your blouse, and you can feel the heat of his fingers as if you were skin to skin. His hand feels big enough to enclose your arm entirely.

He gestures to a building down the street, “You could at least buy me a cup of coffee.”

It’s half past five in the evening, a cup of coffee would keep you up all night. But he did save your life.

“Sure, of course.”

It’s the least you could do.

You order a cup of caffeine-free chai, him a black cup of coffee. He tells you his name is Miguel, that he’s new to the city. He’s easy on the eyes, but not much of a talker, preferring to ask you questions rather than talk about himself.

“There isn’t much to tell,” he responds every time you ask him about his family or friends, and you don’t try to dig any further.

But despite his desire to remain mysterious, he wants to know everything he can about you. When you speak, you have his undivided attention. He hangs on the edge of your every word, asks follow up questions when possible, like a perfect gentleman.

The two of you stay in the café chatting until the barista politely asks you to leave so she can begin closing up for the night.

“Can I walk you home?” Miguel asks.

“Oh, that’s not needed,” you reply bashfully, “I don’t live too far from here.”

Miguel hums a disappointed tune before nodding and sliding his hands into his pockets.

“It’d be nice to see you again,” he says wistfully.

“Maybe without the near-death experience,” you laugh and his eyes light up at the sound of it.

He laughs, and again it doesn’t meet his eyes.

“I’d love to buy you dinner sometime.”

Even though you’d already repaid him with a cup of coffee, it was so cheap that your tea was more expensive. You feel obligated to accept, so you can really pay him back and make things even. At least with more than two dollar cup of coffee.

He doesn't give you a phone number, just a time and the name of the restaurant with his name.

“So you don’t forget it,” he added.

A date, you have a date. And not with some weirdo from an app who can’t stop staring at your cleavage long enough to hold a conversation with you. Not a creep who started a conversation with a picture of his genitals, but with an honest to God gentleman.

~*~

Seven days go by before you see Miguel again, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been on your mind. As you think about him throughout the day, your stomach does enough flips to compete with an Olympic gymnast. There’s something about him you can’t quite figure out, a feeling like you’ve met him before but you can’t narrow down the time or place.

Miguel is easy to spot in a crowd, he’s a full head taller than most men you’ve seen before. Towering above the people on the sidewalk like a moving skyscraper.  As he walks towards you, the crowd splits to make way for him like the parting of the Red Sea, and just like everything else about him, it’s mesmerizing.

Even if you find yourself thinking of an animal stalking its prey. 

That feeling is back, the one that’s not quite fear or excitement, but an acrid mix of the two. Your body can’t decide if it wants to flee or drop itself at his feet, and all you can do is stand there dumbly. Beaming at him and waving, you stay rooted in place.

Up, up, up your neck cranes to meet his gaze, and you can’t help but wonder if you’ll have an ache there by tomorrow morning.

The instant he closes the distance between you, he wraps you in a tight hug and in the back of your head, it feels like something he’s done a thousand times before. Familiar. Warm. Safe. His hand rests at the small of your back as you’re led to a table.

Again, Miguel is hesitant to provide any details about himself. Miguel is only slightly more forthcoming when you ask him about himself, but still retains his air of mystery. A few jokes to make you giggle here, a compelling anecdote there. It’s not enough to fully satiate you curiosity, but it’s plenty to have you wanting more.

And again, he doesn’t seem too interested in his food, he’s still laser focused on you. Idly he pokes at it with a fork, his free hand resting on the table only inches from you.

Anticipation has your entire body jittery and you take a sip of wine to steady your nerves.

His eyes follow you with rapt attention like they did in the café, focused on your every move while lingering from time to time on your mouth and neck. He stops mid-sentence when you chase a drop of wine with the tip of your tongue as it tries to spill from your lips.

Timidly, your fingers tap against the tablecloth as you wait for the check. Only inches away, Miguel rest his own hand on the table.

You wonder if he’ll try to kiss you at the end of the night, as the evening goes on, you start to hope for it. But he seems to enjoy making you wait. His lips curl into a smirk when he catches you staring at them.  

He’s teasing me, you think. Winding me up like a top.

Fine, he’s not the only one who can be obstinate.

It’s almost agonizing the way he’s such a perfect gentleman. He doesn’t let you pay the bill (so much for paying him back), opens the door for you, walks on the outermost part of the sidewalk as he escorts you to the subway.

Quick steps turn into slower strides, drawing out the journey the closer it gets to the end.

He’s stalling.

“I’d really feel better if you let me walk you home.” His eyes are gleaming as he asks.

“I’ll be sure to look both ways before I cross the road,” you say with a smile, and turn on your heel towards the train station.

“So when do you want to see me again?”

Cocking your head to the side, you make a show of rolling your eyes, “And who says I want to see you again?”

“You say so,” he retorts smugly.

One stride of his long legs is all it takes before he’s right next to you again.

“Do I?” you inquired innocently. 

“Someone who’s been looking at me the way you have definitely wants to see me again.” Well, he’s got you there.

“Then I guess it’s my turn to pick a time and place?”

He nods, “It is.”

“Two weeks from Friday, there’s a new movie I want to see.”

Miguel takes a step down, so that you have to crane your neck all the way back to keep eye contact. Blood rushes to your head, and you stumble trying to take a step back. But he is quick to grab you by the hip and keep you steady.

He could take the chance to mock you, toss some remark about having to save you again. Instead, he leans in close enough that you hear his voice over the bustling sounds of the train running below you.

“It’s a date,” he breaths against your ear.

The heat of his voice swirls down your neck and settles in the base of your stomach. You feel hot under your skin despite the cool weather. Heat rises in your cheeks, overflowing until the tips of your ears feel like they’re on fire. Hot liquid desire, bubbling under your skin and burning away any remaining stubbornness.

Oh.

You book an appointment with your waxer before your train even arrives.

~*~

Why did you say two weeks? Why not one? Why not the very next day?

The last fourteen days had been agony. You couldn’t text Miguel, couldn’t check in to make sure you wouldn’t be stood up. You couldn’t even send him a little text to say you were thinking about him.

Which you did. A lot. An amount some people might consider to be embarrassing.

How many times did you catch yourself distracted at work to daydreams of him? How many times was he the first and last thing you thought of for the day?

How many nights did you fuck yourself silly on your fingers fantasizing that they were his?

Part of you was bashful at how quickly you became enamored with him. You’d only met him twice, and it was impossible to shake him from your thoughts. Miguel had so quickly settled under your skin, like he was there the entire time.

By the time Friday finally came around, you were bouncing off the walls with giddy anticipation. You leave work at the earliest opportunity, practically sprinting down the sidewalk to make it home. It would only take you two hours to get dressed, but you also wanted to clean up your apartment a little.

Just in case.

Picking the perfect outfit was a meticulous process. You sorted through every item in your closet before deciding on a simple black dress that fell slightly above the knee paired with sheer tights. It was simple, but cute. Patterned with little flowers, with a low neckline that gave a tasteful—but tempting—amount of cleavage. You didn’t even need to wear a bra with it.

Briefly, you considered wearing heels, but dismiss the idea just as soon as it blossoms. Even in heels, Miguel would still tower over you. Not that you minded, of course. Something about him was so eerily electric, equal parts arousing and terrifying.

He’s waiting for you outside the theater, dressed in a sleek button down shirt and dark washed jeans. Miguel leans against the building with his hands in his pockets, he doesn’t try to hide it as he looks you up and down, his eyes focus on your tights just a beat longer than the rest of you and you bite your lip.

“You look nice,” Miguel says warmly.

“So do you.”

Miguel huffs a laugh and looks over your head to the line forming in front of the box off, “We better get our tickets.

You don’t miss the way the tips of his ears are tinged with red.

Why you decided on a movie, you’ll never know. It was torture, two hours in a dark room, right next to the man who had been plaguing your thoughts non-stop. You want to crawl over the seat and mount him in front of all the other theater-goers.

But you don’t, you sit there next to him, rubbing your thighs together as the movie flickers on the screen in front of you. You care barely pay attention to the plot, you can barely sit still next to him until he rests his palm on your knee to keep you fixed in place.

As the night goes on, his thumb taps idly against your knee cap. You wish his hands would wander up further, but he stays rooted in place.

The rest of the movie is spent suffering.

When the credits finally roll, Miguel’s hand slips down to squeeze your thigh, “That was good.”

Meanwhile, you couldn’t remember a single detail about the film. “A little anticlimactic, though.”

His brow cocks at your choice of words, but he doesn’t comment on it. Your mind is racing as you exit the theater and begin walking towards your station.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Why did you choose a movie? Why did you waste this outfit? Will he even want to see you again?

Nerves are twisting your stomach into anxious knots. Anxiety won’t let you look at him, won’t let you speak. All you can do is walk with him in silence, fighting the urge to throw a temper tantrum on the pavement if it gets you a kiss.

It’s not that you’re opposed to making the first move, you just don’t want to. You want him to initiate things because you want to feel wanted.

You just happen to be dreadfully impatient at the same time.

It’s your turn to draw out your steps, to get so far behind Miguel that he has no choice but to turn around and find out. You stare up at him with big, pleading eyes, swaying your weight from one foot to the other.

“So.”

“So?” Miguel asks.

“Aren’t you going to ask me if I want to see you again?” You tease.

Miguel huffs out a laugh, “We already answered that one. You do want to see me again, and soon.”

“How soon?” you continue to play coy.

“Tomorrow, soon,” he responds smugly.

You tap your finger against your chin, pretending to think.

“Tomorrow? I think I have something going on tomorrow actually,” you can help but grin when Miguel rolls his eyes.

“Uh huh,”  he hums like he doesn’t believe you, “You letting me walk you home tonight or you still wanna be stubborn?”

You feign offense with a dramatic gasp, and Miguel cocks his head to the side and if he’s daring you to prove him otherwise.

“And if I do?”

Miguel takes a step close, his hand darting out to grip the back of your head and pull you in close to him.

“I know how to handle stubborn girls like you,” his eyes drop to your lips a moment before staring back into yours.

Handle you, your cunt clenches at the thought. His other hand circles around your waist to hold you still against him. Eyes fluttering shut, you lean towards him as your crane your neck. Your breasts smash against his firm chest as you rise on the tips of your toes to meet his lips.

His kiss is gentle at first, soft plump lips pressed to your chastely. Miguel breathes you in through his nose, hands wrapping around your middle and something in him snaps. Gripping you tighter, his tongue pressing into your mouth with more urgency. The fingers at the back of your head have tangled into your hair and you imagine strangers passing the two of you on the sidewalk are disturbed by your PDA.

Miguel breaks away for air, and you whine at the loss of him. He rubs a gentle thumb against your lower lip to soothe you.

“It’s dark,” he says lowly, his lips hovering above yours, ”I should walk you home.”

You nod and Miguel takes your hand in his and begins a brisk pace back to your apartment. The subway ride feels more excruciating than the movie. He’s close enough that you can finally get your hands on him, but you’re in too public a setting for you to actually follow through with the filthy thoughts rolling around in your mind.

You barely manage to get the door locked behind you before Miguel starts pawing at your clothes. His fingernails snag along the fabric of your tights. Your mouths are slotted together, tongues engaged in a battle for dominance that you’re quickly losing.

By some miracle you make it to your bedroom despite the fact that your eyes are closed and your lips are glued to his every step of the way. 

Miguel uses his towering height to his advantage and steers you back towards your bed, and you don’t realize it until you feel it against the back of your knees. You barely have time to get comfortable before he drops to his knees. Sparks shoot through your spine when your eyes meet.

Heated breaths puffs against your center. Your tights and panties, already soaked from your juices, grow even damper. His hands are everywhere except for where you need them most. Miguel manipulates your body until you’re sprawled out on your back, knees pressed to your shoulders.

As his hands explored your body, you squirm beneath his hold. He squeezes your thigh, a silent  command to stay still. You whine, but comply all the same.

“Patience, kitten,” he growls against your skin.

Again he squeezes you, and he savors the way his fingers dig into the fat of your thighs. His tongue darts out to wet his lips at the sight of you.

“Did you wear these for me?” he asks, index finger gliding along the edge of your lace panties that are doing nothing to hide your modesty.

“Yes,” it comes out as a whisper.

“Oh,” he purrs, resting his face against the back of your thigh, “You’re so good to me.”

He kisses your pussy through your tights. At first, you think he’s going to take the time to peel them off you; instead he rips them right down the middle so there’s only the thin layer of your panties separating your sex from his open mouth.

And then it clicks. He’s playing with you, making sure you’re desperate for him before he makes the next move. In the short time he’s known you, Miguel has managed to get you wound tighter than a spring.

You try to cant your hips towards his face and he laughs at you. You’re on the verge of tears, spread open and throbbing with lustful fervor, and he laughs.

“Miguel,” you whine, “please.”

A single digit presses against the soaked cloth, dead center on your puffy clit and you wail. Tears bead at the corners of your eyes, and it seems to do the trick.

“So greedy you forgot your manners?” Miguel tuts.

You bite your lip in apology, too flustered to speak.

“It’s ok,” he assures you with a kiss to the apex of your thigh, “I know just what you need.”

Pressing lower, Miguel twists his index finger so it catches the edge of your panties to peel away the ruined garment. A string of your juices connects your weeping cunt to your underwear and Miguel hisses at the sight of it. He frantically snatches the liquid desire with his tongue, moaning when the flavor of you hits his taste buds.

“Taste just as good as I thought you would,” he remarks.

Your panties are pulled harshly to the side, kept in place by the swell of your ass. Miguel’s thumb strokes softly against the lips of your cunt, gently spreading you so he can see the mess he’s made of you.

Miguel runs his tongue along his teeth before spitting on your cunt, the thick globule striking firm on your clit before dripping down to your achingly empty pussy. For a second, you could swear Miguel had fangs, but then his tongue traces a stripe from your clit to your hole and your mind goes blank.

His saliva must be mixed with something the way it lights your nerves on fire. Every stroke his tongue has your eyes rolling to the back of your head. You’d be embarrassed by how quickly he’s able to reduce you to a whining mess if didn’t feel so damn good.

Crying out from his touch, your voice echoed off the walls of your bedroom. Miguel’s tongue continued laving against your clit, grinding the muscle against your nub. His middle finger began to slip into your center, eased by how wet you were but his knuckles still dragged against your walls.

You’re only given a moment to adjust before his ring finger joins the other and begins to scissor you open.

“Wa-wait,” you whine as Miguel begins eating your cunt in earnest fashion.

The slide of his tongue through your folds has you gasping for breath. His fingers probe your walls, touching experimentally until they find a spot that makes you cry out and he begins tapping the pads of his fingers against it rapidly.

Stars burst behind your eyes as you cry out. Your toes curl so tightly, you’re shocked they don’t pop.

Your fingers weave through his deep hazelnut locks and tug until he hisses and removes his mouth from your center. He looks absolutely feral, mouth agape and your juices glistening on his full lips, the look on his face could only be described as pained.

He tries to dive back to your cunt, but you again tug at his scalp to hold him still.

A pathetic sound, one full of ache and longing slips from his plush lips and your pussy clenches at the sound. Miguel’s brows are furrowed, his tongue swipes at his lower lips to collect your slick that’s pooled there.

“Is something wrong?” The expression on his face looks like he's been wounded.

“No, I just…” you pause to catch your breath, “I want to make you feel good too.”

He seems irritated by the statement, frustrated with you for interrupting his meal. He makes a show of sucking your juices off his fingers, they leave his mouth with an audible pop. You jump at the sound. Miguel kisses his way up your body, stopping to nibble at the soft skin of your stomach. His hands are delicate as they creep over your body, nothing but feather light touches before he gathers you in his arms so he can flop on to his back.

Miguel manipulates your body so your dripping core his hovering above his face. He gives you a few moments to remove his belt and free his cock before pulling your hips down to meet his open mouth. You gasp as his tongue prods your aching clit.

Your hips grind against his tongue, need rippling through your body as he explores you with his tongue. Stupidly, you thumb as his belt, quickly succumbing to the onslaught of his tongue against your clit.

Groaning at the taste of you, Miguel pulls your hips lower still so he can work his tongue even deeper inside your heat. You try to wiggle your hips higher, afraid you’ll smother him with your ass, but his nails dig into your skin and hold you in place.

From the sounds Miguel made as he devoured you, it sounded like you were pleasuring him too, but you could barely keep your eyes open to unfasten his belt and get your lips around his cock.

Every drag of his tongue along your clit has your brain short-circuiting like you’re connected to a live wire. Your mouth hangs open in a prolonged sigh and you can’t help but rock your hips into his face. Miguel hums approvingly, digging his fingers even deeper into your plump skin to further aid you.

You should feel guilty, nearing the edge of your peak as he lays beneath you, completely untouched. But your hands keep balling into fists, your eyes keep crossing, and it’s taking all the strength in your body to keep you up right.

Shocks of lightning shoot up your spine as he goes on. Your pulse is starting to race, the pulse of your heartbeat thrumming through every inch of your body. Your climax is just beyond your reach, nipping at the edge of your consciousness.

His hand slides forward on your thigh to rub firm circles on your swollen clit and you shatter. A high whine rips from your throat, echoing off the walls so loudly that you know your neighbors can hear you. Thighs quivering around his head, Miguel holds you close and lets you ride out your orgasm on his tongue.

It feels like your soul is leaving your body. It feels like you’re floating above the earth. It feels like Miguel ripped your spirit from your body and is rolling it around on his tongue. Your ears are ringing, your breath is catching in your throat. Your cunt is clenching around Miguel’s tongue and he can’t stop growling into your flesh.

You could die right now and be perfectly happy.

All of your limbs buzz faintly, your eyes slowly blinking as though you’ve been drugged.

In your post-orgasm haze you barely register that Miguel is twisting your body into a new position. Your limbs feel boneless as he deposits you on his lap, pulling your dress over your head. Hooking his finder under the waistband of your tights, he tugs them back before letting them snap against your skin. You whimper in response.

Goosebumps bloom over your skin, the cool air of your apartment rushing over your newly freed skin. Mind still cloudy from your orgasm, you nip at Miguel’s neck as he tries to rid himself of his own clothes. Your teeth catch his pulse point and he hisses at the sensation.

“What did I fucking tell you about being patient?” He says with a swat to your ass.

Whining, you make your way to his mouth. Miguel has only managed to take off his shirt, his hands just below your ass as he tries to pull his pants down long enough to free his legs. The jingling of his belt buckle has you squirming with anticipation.

The tangy taste of your cunt lingers on his tongue and it spreads in your mouth as his tongue slides over yours. You can feel him smile into your kiss, silently teasing you. But you’re too hungry for him to care. Sliding your arms around his neck, you suck his plump lower lip into yours and bite down hard.

The sound he lets out is absolutely feral.

His hand leaps from his pants to your hips, his nails leaving crescent moon scars in your skin. A harsh slap followed up by his fingers sinking into the meat of your ass is your reward.

Sharp canines drag down the side of your face, not with enough force to draw blood—not yet—but still with enough force that they leave a faint trail of raised skin in their wake. Miguel groans, his breath hot and heavy at the base of your ear. Idly, his tongue leaps out to taste the sweat that’s dripping down your neck.

Sinful, debaucherous things—promise of what he wants to do to you— rumble like thunder through his mouth into your throat, echoing within your body and tingling down to your toes. By the time he reaches the hollow of your throat, he’s eagerly lapping at your flesh and sucking dark marks into your skin.

Traveling farther south, Miguel’s tongue teases the edge of your areola before curling his tongue under your nipple to pull your breast to his mouth. Rolling your nipple on his tongue, he reignites the flame of your desire.

His cockhead grinds against your clit and you have to fight the urge to grind back against him.  

“A condom,” you say meekly gesturing towards the nightstand with a look.  

Miguel groans with a roll of his eyes, impatient but compliant nonetheless. Shifting his weight to his elbow, he fishes through the nightstand until he procures the square of foil. His teeth rip at the package, and he makes quick work of rolling the donut of latex down his length. All the while, he keeps you pressed to his chest as if you weigh nothing.

A dark dusting of hair covers the wide plane of his chest and drags against your nipples in a way that has you whining. Miguel seems to be taking his sweet time, more focused on kissing you between your sighs than anything. He’s warned you twice to be patient, but you’re finding it hard and hard to take the lesson to heart. Easing yourself back on to his cock, you gasp for air as the mushroom tip of his cock stretches you.

“What a greedy little pussy,” he groans in your ear approvingly.

He bucks his hips upward, rewarding you by pressing more of himself inside your hot, wet heat as slowly as he can stand. Gentle as he is, it still has you feeling full. Though it feels more on the side of pleasure than pain, you know you’ll definitely be sore for the next few days.

There’s no rush as you work him inside you, no sense of urgency as his cock slips in, inch by inch. Every so often, you take too much at once, and your hips try to retreat, but the hands that rest on your hips keep you in place.

“Take it slow baby,” he purrs as he rubs gentle circles into the tops of your thighs.

Miguel continues whispering praises to you, dragging his palm up your thigh until he can thumb at your clit in slow languid circles to help you take him deeper. You make the mistake of looking down and cry when you see how much of him is left to go.

“’S too much,” you whine drowsily, “Won’t fit.”

Miguel lets out a pained noise, desperate and needy.

“No, no,” your lover coos, “We’ll make it fit baby, I promise. Just keep being good for me.”

His praise is like sweet music. You sigh and shudder at every word that leaves his lips, your eyelids flutter shut and you just let go. All you focus on is your breathing, chest rising and falling with each inhale. A little lower, another breathy whimper.

Your slick dribbles out around his cock, wetting your inner thighs. It feels sticky and hot as it dries on your skin only to be replaced as more of your juices spill forth.

When you’re finally skewered on his length, the coil of pleasure has wound so tightly in your belly that you feel dizzy. Your spine arches almost painfully, you could feel every vein of his cock, feel the rhythmic thrumming of his pulse through his dick.

You let out the breath you’ve been holding, let your cunt relax around him for just a second and when you try to breath in again your walls clench around him again and you cum. Whispering curses against his neck, you tremble around him pathetically as you try to steady your breathing.

Slumping against him, you let out a pathetic cry as your cunt quivers around him. The angle of your hips has his cockhead lodged against your g-spot. Your vision whites out, you may even have fainted for a moment or two. You don’t come back to reality until Miguel starts to pinch at your nipples, twisting them with his forefinger and thumb until you’re crying out for him again.

Your lover chuckles darkly as he teases you, tugging your spine straight by your tender breasts. Whining, you can feel yourself growing wetter from his touch.

“You wanted it so bad, you better be ready to take it,” Miguel huffs through clenched teeth.

Pulling you to his chest, his bicep locks around your waist so he can begin driving his hips up into your still-quivering cunt. Your climax is drawn out, pulled taught like a rubber band before it snaps and you’re cumming all over again.

“Ooh,” you whine, your voice low and heavy.

His cock is hitting a dangerous spot inside you. The slightest gasp slips out from your lips, but no matter how faint, Miguel hears it and rocks his hips into yours to drill against the spongy patch of nerves until you’re squealing from the pleasure of it.

The higher your voice grows in volume, the meaner he is as he drives his length into your pussy. He feels impossible hot, even through the condom you can feel every ridge and vein along his cock.

There will be bruises everywhere he’s touched, you think. A map of his hands in purple and red.

Three orgasms back to back to back have you dizzy. Tears bead and spill from your eyes and Miguel wipes them away with soft cooing sound.

“Look at me,” your lover commands.

Your eyes snap open.

“There’s my good girl,” Miguel sighs, pressing a tender kiss to your lips, “Taking me so perfectly.”

The praise has you blubbering joyfully, a fresh wave of tears pouring from your eyes as a dopey grin blossoms on your face.

His good girl.

It might be your proudest achievement.

Whining, you buck your hips in rhythm with his thrusts. Your arms wind around his neck, your forearms pressing down against for leverage. Miguel moans into your mouth as his hips pick up speed.

“So fucking good to me,” he hisses against your lips.

Yes, you scream internally, yes, yes yes. His good girl.

Your fingers tangle in his hair as your tongue explores his mouth. The patch of curls at the base of his cock provide delicious friction against your over sensitive clit.

It’s easy to lose yourself in him, to focus on nothing but the slapping of skin and labored breathing. Miguel is bouncing you on his cock now, the tip of it pounding against your g-spot with each time he sheathes himself in you.

You don’t realize you are on the verge of another peak until falling over the edge. It comes in waves, each one cresting higher than the last, your entire body feels like it’s squeezing around his cock until you burst and you gush around him. Your slick rushes forth to coat his lap and thighs. The high pitched whine that leaves you barely sounds human.

Through your tears you see Miguel’s eyes roll to the back of his head. He lasts for a few more pumps before his hips slow to a stop inside you and he locks you in his grip. Miguel feels even hotter inside you as he cums. 

Your body feels like you’ve run a marathon as you both pant against each other’s lips as you come down from your shared high.

Mouth closing around yours in a bruising kiss, you can feel your lover take in a deep breath through his nose. The rush of air feels like heaven against your overheated skin. It seems like he’s trying to take in a piece of you and replace it with himself.

Despite him still being inside of you, you can’t quite get him close enough. One of his hands rests on the small of your back, fingers splayed so wide it nearly spans your entire back. The other tangles in your hair. Hours could have passed as you kissed him, and you’d be none the wiser. You could spend days kissing him and be perfectly content.

Miguel is all around you as you float back down to Earth. You would have stayed there all night if not for the annoying voice in the back of your head reminding you to pee. Each of your limbs feel like they weigh fifty pounds each, but you know you have to get up.

Something feels like it’s leaking out of you, and your snap to full alertness. Eyes focusing on where you’re still joined, you can see milky white leaking out of you and you panic.

The loss of him inside you makes you whine as you try to detangle yourself from Miguel, the tip of him snagging against your sensitive walls. His seeds pours out of you, thick and viscous as it drips down your swollen labia to pool on his cock.

Shit.

What remains of the condom is tangled around the base of Miguel’s cock, the edge of it still stretched in a way you imagine is painful around the girth of him. It’s then you notice he’s still rock hard, like he didn’t just empty himself into the deepest part of your pussy less than a few minutes ago.

Jesus Christ. Had something that big really fit inside of you?

Your knees feel weak the longer you look at it. Miguel laughs at you, tucking his hands behind his head to stretch out on the bed. He doesn’t seem in the least upset—or even shocked—that the condom broke, if anything he looks like he wants to go another round. Cheeks burning, you pry your eyes away from him and make your way to the bathroom.

The three feet to your bathroom has never felt so long. Ecstasy is quickly replaced with embarrassment as you waddle your way there and feel more of your mingled fluids leak down your thighs. When you finally reach the cool marble of your countertop, it feels like heaven against your heated skin.

Ok, the condom broke. They made pills for this, you assure yourself, This isn’t the end of the world.

Your muscles cry in pain as you rise from the toilet. If Miguel wasn’t in the other room, you may have fallen asleep right there. Turning the knob, you quickly wash your hands before splashing a bit of water on your face.

Wearily, you slurp handfuls of water from the tap to cool your scratchy throat. It was a miracle you could even stand with the way your legs were trembling. You could barely speak, you could barely think. Sure, you were hoping for a romp in the sheets that actually made you cum, not reality-shattering sex that had you questioning the existence of God.

You glance at your reflection in the mirror, and fuck—You look like a complete mess. Flushed skin, tousled hair, a litany of teeth marks on your neck and shoulders. That freshly-fucked glow is radiating out from your pores and it makes you feel almost guilty.

The creaking of your floorboards breaks you from your reverie. You didn’t even hear him get up from the bed.

Miguel doesn’t speak at first. Slowly, he saunters your way as he pulls off what’s left of the condom to toss it in the trash. The energy coming off of him is electric, every hair on your body is standing on end. He almost seems angry at first, but the edge of his mouth quivers and you realize he’s being playful.  

You’ve just barely caught your breath. You’ve just barely come back to the earth from your last climax.

You should go to bed. You should make up some reason why you have to be up early in the morning.

By absolutely no means should you let him fuck you again, because you know he has every intention of fucking you within an inch of your life. His arm wraps around your center, pulling you closer.

“I didn’t say I was done with you,” Miguel says from behind you.

His eye catches yours in the mirror, soft brown has shifted to a reddish ochre.

He kisses a trail down your spine, fingers trailing along your sides until they rest on your hips. His thumbs curl around the globes of your ass, sinking into your flesh and spreading you open for him. His foot taps against your ankle, and you widen your stance before he has to tell you again.

Miguel watches your reflection, studying your expression for the smallest sign of denial. You still have the chance to say no, to ask him to leave or even join you in bed to go to sleep. But just the way he’s looking at you has you melting.

Precum beads out of the tip of his cock, smearing against your thighs. Your cunt clenches around nothing and you lick your lips.  

“There’s no point in me wearing a condom now, right?” He asks, sliding his cock through your soaked lips. “I already came inside once, a few more times won’t make a difference.”

Sharp teeth tease at the side of your neck as he waits for you answer. But the truth is, you’d give him damn near anything if he asked for it in such a saccharine voice.

“That’s fine,” you pant dreamily, already walking backwards to meet his cock.

Chuckling at the way you’re standing on tip toes to reach him, Miguel gives you a firm swat on the ass. You yelp in response and it turns into a purr as his hand cups the curve of your ass and slides towards your center. The tips of his fingers swirl at your lips, gathering the bits of his cum that dribbles out of your hole.

“That’s my good girl,” Miguel huffs as he gathers your hair in his hand. His wrist twists to wrap your hair around his palm and gives it a firm tug.

You take a deep breath through your nose and just as you’re about to push it from your lungs, Miguel impales you on the entire length of his cock.

There’s no preamble this time, no gentle build up to let your catch your bearings. Instead his hips snaps cruelly into your wet sex and all you can do is whine and whimper and take it. His grip on your hair forces your spine into an arch, his other rests on your hip as he holds you tight so he can keep rocking his hips into you.

Miguel’s hold on your hair forces you to look at your reflection. You look absolutely destroyed. Cheeks flushed, a layer of sweat coats every inch of your skin, there’s a trail of mascara down each eye and your hair is sticking to the sweat at the column of your neck.

Somehow, Miguel looks like he’s completely unphased by your coupling, save for the prideful smile that graces his lips. His skin is just barely flushed, only a few beads of sweat decorate his forehead and chest. The corner of his mouth turns in an even bigger smirk as your airy whimpers grow louder.

His eyes are fixated on your abused cunt, eyes cast downwards as he marvels at the way the lips of your pussy are stretched around his cock. Each thrust of his hips pushes his previous load deeper into your cunt, closer to your aching womb. The slick spasms of your cunt around his cock feel heavenly, your molten walls pulling him back in every time he pulls his hips back.

The wet slap of Miguel’s skin against yours feels even louder in the cramped tile walls of your bathroom. Squelching obscenely, your cunt continues to gush around him.

“Your pussy just sucks my cock right in,” Miguel groans, “Feels like you were made for me.”

Your lover thrusts his length into you like his life depends on it. And maybe, yours does too.

The last ebbs of your last orgasm has just barely left you by the time Miguel had joined you in the bathroom. With only a few stroke his cock, Miguel has you on the edge again, desperate and aching for him.  

Your clit pulses in time with your heartbeat, swollen and untouched between your thighs. It’s screaming to be touched, begging for the faintest of caresses so you can be sent back to that sweet abyss.

But both your hands are supporting your weight against the countertop, and Miguel has his fisted in your hair and the other his forcing your hips to arch against his cock so he can keep driving himself in you.

Somehow, he feels even bigger in this position, his cock hitting you so deeply it pushes the air from your lungs. The spiral of pleasure is winding tighter than before, burning hot and low in your belly.

Your voice echoes off the tile walls of your bathroom, the only sound louder than the wet slap of Miguel’s hips against your damp skin.

“Miguel,” you whine, your voice low in your throat.

Knuckles protesting at the strength of your grip on marble, your voice turns into high whines and gasps. You need him just a little closer, you’re just as greedy as he accused you of being.

More, the thought echoes in your head.

Pushing against the marble, you throw your weight back against his thrusts. He drills into you with so much force that your ears are ringing. You can see the heat burning in his eyes in his reflection. It’s possessive and all-consuming, you want him to look at you like this for the rest of your life.

“Miguel,” you cry again, your voice even more desperate.

You need more of him, but can't gather the strength to speak. Your eyes are glued to his in the mirror and you can feel a fresh batch of tears threatening to begin. Lips mouthing your pleads for him, for God—and at this point you couldn’t tell the difference.

Pleasepleaseplease.

“What does my good girl what?”

Isn’t it obvious? You’re calling out to him from the marrow of your bones, a weeping mess on his cock and he can’t see how hopelessly you need him?

“M-more,” you croak out.

The hand holding your hair pulls you back, forces you to let go of the counter and your hands claw backwards for him wildly. Your head falls back against his shoulder as his arm curls around your shoulders to support your weight. His free hand pushes against your lower stomach, making sure you feel every inch of him with paralyzing clarity.

“Fffuck,” you sob between gasps for air.

Miguel grips your chin, pulling your face so he can slot his lips over yours in a sloppy kiss. Teeth clacking against each other and still he doesn’t let you go. Your fingers dig into his arm, your legs twitch frantically like you’re connected to a live wire.

All it takes is a touch, a gentle rubbing at your clit and you explode. Lungs burning, you let out an obscene sound. Miguel makes a purring sound deep in chest, smug and satisfied as his hurried thrusts slow into steady precise strokes.

Your cunt milks him, his cock giving one final pulse before painting your cunt white with his seed. Miguel moans thickly, exertion finally starting to show in the heavy way he’s panting. Lips parting, you suck in tiny lungfuls of air.

“Try not to let it all spill out this time,” he whispers.

The rest of the night is a blur. You lose count of how many times Miguel takes you. The night blurs into day with him between your thighs, behind you, above you, anyway he could twist your pliant form to reach his peak.

~*~

A prideful feeling has settled in Miguel’s chest as he watches your sleeping form.

Last time was a mistake.

He didn’t take the right variables into consideration, didn’t test his hypothesis enough times before execution.

That wouldn’t be the case now.

The universe he’d found you in wasn’t ideal, but he could work with it. Replacing the version of him from this universe was an easy feat, a man who couldn’t protect you and your future family wasn’t worthy of your time.

Everything else would fall into place, first you, then Gabriella. His eyes drift to his spend seeping out of your swollen cunt and uses two fingers to shove it back inside of you as gently as he can. All there was left to do was wait.

A breathy sigh leaves you at his touch, but you’re too fucked out to stir. His cock twitches at the sound of it. He’ll keep you in bed for the rest of the weekend, long past the 48 hour window that emergency contraception would be effective.

At the first sign of the universe being in trouble, he’ll whisk you away back to his universe where you’ll stay safe and sound for the rest of your pregnancy. He imagines you'll be so grateful to him for saving you, it’ll be easy for the two of you to build something real.

He’s already destroyed one universe, what’s one more?

[cheonstapes]

Nothing in my mind but nerd! Miguel and titties.

I'm going back to sleep.

miguel o’hara stars in… ‘YOUR BOOBS LOOK HEAVY, LET ME HOLD ‘EM FOR YOU” ƪ(˘⌣˘)ʃ

a/n ~ i am so downbad for nerd miguel, what the fuck. titties, titties, titties, titties, rocking everywhere! thank you nonnie!!!! love you !! creds to @nymphomatique 💗

summary; you let miguel sleep over for the first time, and it definitely won’t be the last.

wc; 1.3k+

pairings; nerd!miguel x fem!reader

cw; SMUT!!, titties, body worship basically, switch!miguel, switch!reader, reader has pierced nipples, spanking, anal play, slapping, anal fingering, breeding kink/impregnation kink, cumming in pants, cumming kinda untouched?, biting, dry humping, they’re in love idc, nawt proofread - why did this take me like a week

miguel had been such a good boy for you, making sure you passed all your exams for this semester - you decided that he deserved a little treat

you invited him over one weekend to your dorm, telling him he was allowed to sleep over

he’s never moved faster with the way he packed up his bag and ran to your dorm which is on the other side of the campus

when he got there he was all sweaty n panting heavy, it was a little pathetic how eager he was but you let him in, making sure he went a took a shower asap

to be honest, you didn’t expect it to be hard for you to keep your hands to yourself, especially when your little boytoy is walking around your dorm in that combo - grey sweats and a tight wife beater, you can even see the outline of his abs

he followed you around like a lost puppy, it was cute at least. he couldn’t go two seconds without latching onto you in some way

he was just so excited! getting to spend time with his not-yet-but-almost girlfriend, seeing you in all your natural glory. you thought you had it bad? try hiding a hard-on whilst the woman of your dreams is walking around in booty shorts and a braless cami

speaking of that, miguel could just about make out your puffy, little, nipples through the fabric of your thin shirt - hello kitty barbells piercing your nipples

fuck, he was hard. and those sweats he was wearing weren’t making it any less obvious

miguel loves your tits. period. kneading the soft flesh, sucking on then, biting them. sometimes, whenever he cums inside, he imagines them filled up with milk - he would do anything to get you knocked up

you knew how horny he was, you could be wearing a trash bag and he’d still be as smitten for you as he is every second

so you made a decision - you told him to sleep on the floor.

you almost felt bad, almost

he looked like a kicked puppy, your 6’9 almost-boyfriend pouting like a child

i mean, you gave him a pillow and a blanket at least - plus, you have heated floors. it’s not that bad

he slept right on the side of your bed, making sure to face you directly so he could watch you sleep (not in a creepy way, he just loves you T^T)

you even made sure you were hanging just a little bit over the edge of your bed, an arm hanging over the side - a silent invitation for him to hold your hand

he was sleeping fine for a good while, hands still laced tightly with yours - but he was getting restless not touching you for so long

he stood up, as quietly as his huge ass feet would let him, walking round to the other side of the bed and sliding in

it creaked loudly but you were fast asleep anyway, so he moved closer

he wrapped a beefy arm around your middle, hand coming to rest on your chest

oh. yeah, your tits.

now he was hard again

he pressed himself against you, completely spooning you, large hands sliding under your cami and groping your tits

you weren’t an idiot though, you knew this was gonna happen - having calculated every possibility before he came. you would rather die than admit you were a bit nervous about him sleeping over too

you purposely wore the cami cause you knew it would rile him up, n he always took such good care of his mommy’s pretty tits

you turned to look at him, smiling teasingly - “why’re you in my bed, hm?”

—————————————————————————————————

miguel felt like he was in deep shit, he knew how easily you could flip on him despite that pretty smile. he immediately retracted his hand, stammering as he tried to sit up. “s-sorry, i just missed you. i…i couldn’t sleep, ‘n you just look so gorgeous when you sleep and i couldn’t help myself-“ god, he always talks so much. with a tight grip on his bicep, you drag him back down to the bed, pushing him down on the plush pillows as you straddle his waist.

he was so pretty beneath you. glasses laid somewhere on the floor, curly hairs framing his face. his hands gripped your ass, whining quietly as he ground up against you. “mommy…” you placed your hands on his chest, keeping him pinned to the bed as you leaned forward. he felt like he couldn’t breathe, your tits were resting just above his face, hard nipples grazing his lips. yeah, he was definitely gonna fuck a baby into you one day.

his hands moved up to your hips, squeezing the flesh before he placed a hand on your upper back pulling you down completely. miguel’s tongue snaked out to lick at your hard nipples, the sensation of the cold barbells on his tongue making his hips jerk up against the crotch of your tight shorts. “shit...when d’you get them pierced?”

you rolled your eyes, lifting up your shirt and grabbing the back of his head - pushing his mouth to your tit, grinding salaciously against his clothed cock. “none of your fuckin’ business. if you wanna suck on my tits, then shut up and suck.” you didn’t have to tell him twice.

he sucked hard, unable to resist imagining them filled up with milk, all swollen and heavy, you round with his kid- SMACK. his head whipped to the side, lips slipping off your spit-soaked nipple as he stared up at you in shock. his cheek was stinging, but his cock was straining even harder against the fabric, twitching as his face thrummed with pain. “stop thinkin’, and suck harder. you should even be grateful i’m lettin’ you sleep here, so worship mommy’s tits like you mean it.”

miguel grasped your ass once again, large hands digging into the flesh as he caressed your soft skin through your skimpy shorts, sneakily pulling the waistband down as he ran his fingers down to your cunt. ‘course you were wet, slick staining his sweats. he collected some on his fingers, dragging it back up to your puckered hole, thrusting two wet fingers inside as other hand controls your movements.

“f-fuck, wait, you dickhead.” he continued to suckle on your breasts, flicking and teasing your nipples, tugging on the barbell’s softly as his fingers sped up. your body was quivering in pleasure, his free hand spanking your ass occasionally whenever you would pull yourself away from his mouth - massaging the reddened flesh soothingly afterwards.

his mouth and tongue were downright sinful. the sensation racking over your whole body as your orgasm steadily approached, the swirling fire in your lower belly lighting up. you weren’t the only one, though. miguel was hardly keeping himself together, thick thighs trembling as he tried to keep himself from spilling out his cum in his boxers, the tip of his cock peeking out of his waistband. all he wanted to do was see you writhe in pleasure, see that beautiful face of yours glowing in ecstasy after your release.

you would always let out this adorable, whiny moan when you were close, lips parting, small breathy pants - he knew you better than he knew himself. he was more motivated than ever, fingers moving a bruising speed, tongue relentless. he tugged on your piercing hard, a hand coming to rub your engorged clit through your thong. “m-miguelll - shit, baby - ugh.” creamy liquid coated your panties, not your cum - but his. the red tip spurting out thick loads all over his stomach, the sticky mess tangling with his happy trail ‘n pooling in his navel.

“t-thank…fuck- thank you, mommy.”

you pushed him back to the floor, curling up in the blankets - cheeks heating up as you muttered. “yeah, whatever. shut the fuck up and go to sleep.”

“goodnight, sleep well p-pretty.”

“…night, miguel.”

yeah, you were falling for him - hard.

- my titties are small but he’d hold them like they weighed the world

[sun-snatcher]

If you're writing for dp3 then Hiraeth from your prompt list would work SO well since they're all stuck in the void! 🤲🏽😭 We need Gambit fics its a DROUGHT HELP

♧ ⎯ LUCK O’ THE DRAW !

summ. You find the Devil himself at the end of the world. Surprisingly, it isn’t the first time you have. It is, however, the first time it hurts. pairing. Void!Gambit x f!Anomaly!reader (established relationship. Kinda. Multiverse be funky like 'dat.) w.count. 1.8k a/n. Because Channing deserved that Gambit all those years ago, and I've come to (attempt to) deliver what the the people have asked. Masterlist here.

MOST PEOPLE MEET THE DEVIL at a crossroads, but you meet yours in— quite literally— the back end of fuckin’ nowhere.

It hurt more than it should.

Your heart practically stutters. 

“Remy.”  

Then he turns, and you wait for the flash of recognition in his eyes.

Nothing comes.

And then. And then.

Realisation— logic. The cold, hard truth: This isn’t your Remy LeBeau. Your Remy had died long before, in a Universe that was pruned and erased into nothingness by the TVA. Your Universe. The joke? That the Gambit before you is merely a variant amongst a million. The punchline? He looks exactly the same as the day you’d lost your own. 

“Well, this is awkward. You know off-shoot Hawkeye here?” Wade says, astonished, before his eyes widened. “Ah. Tragic exposition time for the readers, I see.”

Your mind is still reeling. It feels like someone’s just jammed a chisel straight into your gut. “I— Knew a version. Variant, I guess,” you manage to correct yourself, distracted by the skirting trenchcoat and the all too familiar sound of shuffling cards. 

Christ, it’s like he’d stepped right out of your memories.

Remy’s eyebrows shoot up as he studies you. Something in your chest pulls taut, threatening to snap as he speaks. “Apologies, mon ami. But as far as I remember, I ain’t never seen you before.”

“Ouch,” Wade winces, looking between you both. “What a classic trope! This is like, me talking to my past Mom in The Adam Project. Funnily enough, my Mom was you!” He snorts, pointing to Elektra. 

You ignore Wade and offer Remy a wan smile. “I figured. It’s okay.”

…It is obviously, in fact, not okay. 

You avoid him like a plague shortly after the entire commotion; it’s almost comical. Wade had managed to come up with a plan with the rest of the group, albeit a ramshackle, flimsy one, but you’ve hardly been able to pay attention through the bloodrush of shock rocketing in your head, anyway. 

Being around this Remy is stunningly stifling. 

The lilt of his accent, the sharpness in his smile; the flourishing of cards and the faint hum-drum of kinetic charge against his fingertips. 

You’ve seen it all before, once upon a time. You never thought any of it could ever bring you to this bad of a heel. 

It hadn’t taken long before you’d tried drowning yourself at the end of a bottle of brandy Logan had handed you that night. (The whiskey tames his mordance and makes him uncharacteristically civil. He’d said something along the lines of: Y’need this more than I do, bub; look like you’ve just seen a fuckin’ ghost. Shit, I guess you did, huh? )

“Mais la,” comes a huff. “Ain’t that mine?”

A frisson runs through your heart. 

“Sorry,” you say, barely glancing up from the barrel fire tucked outside the team’s hideout. You’re not quite sure you can handle meeting his gaze. “I know I should’ve asked.”

A playful hum. Remy settles on the log adjacent to yours. “S’alright. No harm done, chèr.”

It takes everything in you not to flinch at the endearment. If he’d noticed, well— he’s smart enough not to mention it. He’s curious and it stands to reason; afterall, he’s never quite seen someone look at him as weathered as the way you do. It’s as if the effort itself to do so would be unbearable.

“Y’kno’, I been told I’m easy on the eyes. Not for you, tho’, eh?” Remy shoots you an amicable smile. It’s charming, if a little compelling. “Guessin’ I made bad on you where y’from? You done been boudéin’ since y’first got here.” 

You let out a laugh. It’s the most brittle sound he’s ever heard come from someone. 

“No, no,” you shake your head. “It’s… You just make me a lil’ homesick, is all.”

Remy bristles with his deck of cards. A Charlier cut; a One-handed shuffle. It’s a mindless tic; your variant used to do the exact same with the exact same ease.

(Such a miracle, you remember thinking once, that there could be symmetries in the Multiverse. Now you learn, perhaps, it’s far more a curse. Either way, you can hear Remy’s doting voice in a distant memory, dimpling coyly at you: “S’just the luck o’ your draw, chèr.” )

You tamp down the memory before it could sink its jowls any deeper in you. 

“You’re curious,” you say.

He makes a noise of assent. Revolution cut; One-handed shuffle. Repeat.

“I ain’t gon’ axe if y’ain’t wanna answer.” 

It’s kind of him. 

You forgot he was like this.

Witty, yet gentlemanly. The way Remy always has been.

Underneath the blanket of the night, the crackle of the flames limn the planes of his face in flickering, hazy saffron. The look in his eyes is sincere as they meet your red-rimmed gaze. It’s been awhile since you’ve seen him, and in this light no less: tall, cutting, strong.

Lively.

The last you’d seen Remy, he’d been drawn out and battered by the war. Not that he’d ever admit it; he always insisted on keeping up his sunny disposition despite the constant losing battles happening. (Sometimes you think you resent him for doing that; it’d felt like he’d taken the light of the world with him when—)

You thank your lucky stars the variant Remy doesn’t make a comment on how you must be staring so openly. It’s a feeble attempt to committing every detail to memory, you suppose, in case you don’t get the chance again.

“In my Universe, a war was waging against mutants.” Your nails tinker against the empty bottleneck of the flat whiskey you’d nursed, thinking of how to cut a bloodshed of a story short; to get your point across before you falter and lose your footing.

“There was a mission sanctioned, and during it— a decision had to be made at that moment. So… you chose. Easily.” Your brows pinch tight against your will. The molten burn returns to the back of your eyes. “You saved so many lives the day you died.” 

Something catches in your throat when you realise your mistake, find yourself amending instantly, “He. He died.”

(It had been swift. A small mercy, all things considered. There wasn’t even a need to check for a pulse when you finally managed to reach for him.)

You’re fidgeting, too, with something in your other hand. Remy catches sight of it only now: a card, sitting pinched between your ringed fingers. Nine of Hearts. Its edges are torn and creased across the face, singed an ashen black. 

A proverbial piece of Remy’s heart, carried to the end with you.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel a cold rush over his body at the sight. 

“…I’m sorry, chèr,” he offers quietly, inadequate as it is. He hadn’t expected that. 

He can’t imagine how haunting it must be to look at someone you’d shared a lifetime with and be met with a complete stranger instead. 

A living, breathing, ghost.

That unbiddable feeling of longing had always seemed to accompany the sight of him; but now it’s different. Now, there’s a blistering, brutal pain to come with; All-encompassing grief, thick as molasses in your lungs, overturning itself like a phantom from wherever you thought you’d buried it a long time ago. 

The only way to smother it would be to reach out, to hold him like you had once before, and isn’t that an ironic inconvenience? 

“No, no. I’m sorry,” you tell him, sigh coming out as an awkward laugh. A breeze passes and you inhale deep to ground yourself. Press your eyes shut momentarily to will away useless tears. “It must be so weird to hear all of this from me about— well, you, technically.”

“Mais, can’t ‘ave all been a bad memory, tho’, right?”

Right. No. It hadn’t been. There’s something else too. An undercurrent. Beyond the grief, the deep ache in your marrows— you think it’s nostalgia. Hiraeth. More bittersweet than it is painful.

It’s… It’s watching mutant schoolkids teaching him UNO for the first time. It’s the bickering over the beignets for breakfast, or your feet on his lap at the couch in the lounge after dinners with the rest of the X-Men. Lazy banter. Conversations that go everywhere and nowhere.

“Yeah,” you agree, feeling something bloom in your chest you thought long lost. “You taught me everything about your home, too. Down South. Told me about the bayou, the cypress trees. Your Cajun, your ways. We used to play Bourré.”

Talk of home has him ducking into a laugh. Remy had been in the Void far longer than the rest (he figures, at least)— he’s very nearly lost most of his fragmented memories to time by now. “Did I? Oughta’ play a game or two wit’ you.”

You buckle at that. “Ah. You were always the better player.”

Then:

He makes the leap before he runs out of steam. “Was we…?”

His finger darts between the space you two share.

“Oh, no,” you override, sheepishly. “No, we, we were good friends and stayed good friends. I was—” Your breath scurries; a reconsideration. “I was glad with that. You had a Southern belle named Anna Marie. A powerful mutant called Rogue. You two were good for each other.”

You must have given yourself away somewhere, though, the way Remy is reading you with a pinned gaze. It’s the same, levelled look you’ve seen before— the kind he gets in a game of cards. 

Something discerning eclipses in his eyes.

He’d gotten the measure of you in an instant. 

“Gambit musta’ been blind blind not t’see you.”

Ah.

You smile. It’s windswept. Resigned. “Well. Doesn’t matter now, does it? My Gambit’s gone. No matter how much I wish I can see him again.”

Remy’s eyes dart to your hands.

“Y’kno’, chèr,” he begins, something spirited in his tone. “In the world of cards, each a’ these and they suits hold a meanin’.”

He flourishes his deck, hypnotisingly smooth with every elegant cut, fan and spring. Every shuffle cascades as smooth as liquid in the sleight of his hands.

“Some of my folks back in New Orleans I remember, they learned me to read ‘em. Now, outta the whole deck? What you got there; the Nine of Hearts is also called the Wish card.”

The small laugh that punches out of you is bell-like. “Really?” 

It’s warm. Bright. Musical to his ears. It washes over him, and he can’t help but hang on to the peal. He wanted to hear it again. 

“Yes, Ma’am.” Remy clicks his tongue as he shoots you a sunny look. “Would never lie t’you, chèr.”

The cracks in your soul don’t disappear, but they surely lighten as you look gently at him. “Huh. Well, I guess I got my wish, didn’t I?” 

He chuckles. 

“Mais, I ain’t your Gambit but—” 

He leans. Reaches out behind your ear with an empty palm, playfully revealing a gilded card from seemingly thin air with a sharp flick of his wrist:

Another Nine of Hearts. His. He hands it over to you, by way of meaning—  I’m here, now.

New beginnings.

You take the card with a smile.

[driaswrld]

🪷 — A ROYAL AFFAIR . . . THE SCANDAL OF THE CHILDHOOD CONSORT

LADY DRIA WRITES . . . ˚ ༘ *

🪷 dearest gentle reader, what is a princess to do when she's caught between two dashing princes, both of which are her childhood friends? — one her betrothed and the other her past love... 4.7k words.

🪷 prince gojo x reader x prince geto jjk regency/royal au, use of regency era terminology, longing and more longing.

🪷 taglist : (lmk if you want to be added or removed!) @angelshimaa @yunymphs @todorokies @satocidal @maeby-cursed @rinniessance @cinnabooonn @shegetsburned @starry-grace2 @selfishdoll @shuuennovirche @wishmemel @riaki @yazzzmints @aphroditisxc @gojorbit @izakyun @satoruoo @irisxyphium @zwtari @/lollipop974 @r0ckst4rjk @softgirlgonehaywire @lilvampirina @brianmaysclog

CHAPTER ONE. . . ˚ ༘ *

L'INCOMPARABLE.

Talks of betrothal began in the last Spring of your youth.

Under the cherry blossom trees, you sit in silence, fuchsia petals decorating the length of your hair in messy scatters.

Satoru Gojo, crowned prince and heir to the Gojo throne, picks the fallen remnants of flowers from your hair one by one as the nobles watch on.

Whispers of ‘they would make such a beautiful match’ and ‘look how the Prince dotes on her’ echo in the brush of the gardens, women whispering among themselves and the men chortling between swings of their mallets — in a near deathly game of pall mall.

“Don’t hide from me,” Satoru dips his head, breath fanning the shell of your ear. If possible, the whispers intensify, cutting past your ears and you bite back a giggle, stifling down the thought that crosses your mind, attention whore.

“I’m not hiding, your highness.” You counter, shifting to the side, your smile hidden behind a porcelain teacup, swift sips of ginger warming your cheeks.

“It’s improper, you know.” The words linger in the air between soft wisps of wind, flurries of foreign fabrics and bright layers of skirts pass your vision — and yet, all is drowned out by him.

Your anointed Prince, the attention whore.

“Improper to gaze upon my companion?” Satoru scoffs, grinning wide, toothy, dimples.

Childhood found you both tethered like bee and nectar, always close, always coming back.

At first, it was through duty, sharp tongued ten year old Satoru Gojo, a prince born with a halo and the title of the realm’s strongest to his name, meeting you, the humble princess of the Western kingdom, born in valor and sprouted in pride, a warrior’s code.

It was a disastrous first few encounters—

(—but then he was your bestfriend, and you his. )

His dear mother, bless her soul, had taken the time out to host this marvelous garden party to welcome the newest maidens into their debuts – moreso, to marry Satoru off quicker than he could leave for another battle, chasing another war – and yet, he cared not to meet with any of the women or entertain them beyond an inch of his being.

Not around you, at least.

“You shouldn’t jest about these things—!” A snort leaves your mouth, and whereas the ever uppity ladies of the palace court gawk at you in utter disbelief and mild disgust, Satoru finds himself bellowing a boyish laugh.

That was the last time he’d laugh like that with you, before a warm spring of youth turned to a burning summer, hot with passion, scorched with lust.

THE SCANDAL OF THE CHILDHOOD CONSORT.

Dearest gentle reader,

As all royal scandals do,

It started with an invitation.

We cordially invite you to the Gojo palace grounds to celebrate the betrothal of our crowned prince Satoru Gojo and his bride to be [name] [name].

This author finds herself compelled and rather . . . intrigued.

What a match made in heaven! Our beloved Prince Satoru and his most dearest childhood friend!

Your fingers tremble at your sides, the aura that is the strongest permeates your very being. The soft hum of piano keys coupled with string and bow becomes near inaudible – the power Satoru Gojo has on you is like a moth to a flame, lamb to slaughter.

But I assure you,

When it comes to matters of the heart —

Carefully, your feet carry you across the crowded ballroom, mass of bodies parting the instant they catch a glimpse of your eyes – that desperation is familiar in young women like you – and they pity you.

You, who should be above them, who should be the next Queen, the current Princess consort to be.

And yet.

“I’ve told you endlessly, I will take no wife!” Satoru’s voice is a staccato, bouncing off the walls of the vacant corridor adjacent to the ballroom, echoing past your ears.

Dare I say, our beloved crowned Prince

Is not the strongest.

“Some nerve you have, boy.”

Satoru’s father, the King, is a stoic man.

You’ve come to know this well in your youth. He rules firm and his word remains law. By no means is he the strongest or possesses any more battle capacity than that of any other noble, but he remains a political stronghold.

And his grip over his family — his subjects, remains unwavering.

“I don’t care for your affairs or your crown,” Satoru’s gaze remains hard, even as he meets his father’s ire in tow, and in such a barely secluded place too. “Let one of your bastards have it, my place is on the battlefield doing what you are too cowardly to.”

Your mind runs rampant, palms pressed against the cold wall concealing your presence.

You wonder what Satoru might be thinking — if he’d be so foolish as to forsake his lineage and do away with his duty, if he’d give up simply because his fate was not his choice — he wouldn’t.

No, Satoru is good and kind, and he would see this kingdom to a new realm of peace just with his bare hands alone.

“And that is all? You wish to do away with it simply because it does not suit your childish desires? I have given you everything! And the one thing I ask of you—”

You still yourself at the near animalistic growl that leaves Satoru’s lips.

“She will never be Queen.”

It cuts through you like blades of grass, familiar, scratching at your skin softly, pinpricks of green drawing blood from your calves.

It reminds you of when you were younger, more naive and susceptible to the follies of men and matters of the heart.

“Who’ll marry you if you spend your days swinging a sword and broadening your shoulders?”

“Aren’t there girls your age you can follow around? I don’t care if you’re a princess, we’re not friends.”

“I don’t know why you’d believe he’d ever want to court you.”

Three months, thirteen days.

Your betrothal has long exceeded and broken the record of engagement wait time.

Most women would be married within the same month of betrothal, the longest and most respectable wait time being a month and a half, only due to cases of overdue dowry payments.

Three million dollars was your reverse dowry.

Paid directly from the royal treasury to your father, and four million dollars paid in return. That was how much yours and Satoru’s hands were worth to your families, a testament to the weight you’d both bear by wearing a crown.

Except, you hadn’t been crowned yet. Or married for that matter.

“—summer solstice hunt!” It’s Yuji who exclaims, voice filled with childlike wonder. Recently knighted by Satoru himself and a renowned protege of the Kingsguard, the boy is eager to please. “Who will you cast your bets on, your grace?”

The confines of Satoru’s private study function as a meeting room for idle chatting — he leaves the letters to his advisors when they are of little importance.

Or discards them entirely when he has company, like now.

You sink deeper into the cushioned seat, Satoru’s arm draped over the back of your chair. A tuft of snowy hair falls over his forehead and he breathes a chuckle, your weight curling in on itself with every rise and fall of his chest.

why don’t you want me why don’t you want me why don’t you want me why don't you want me

“It’s out of question to bet on one’s self, no?” Satoru chuckles and it earns a cackle from Yuji, who, despite himself, has already casted his own bet on his annointed Prince. “I wouldn’t want to make anyone’s head bigger than it ought to be.”

The summer and winter solstice brings with it two separate ceremonial festivals — the hunt being the most anticipated due to its cutthroat competition among nobles and peasants alike.

That, and the prize.

The winner of the hunt, the man or woman to capture the famed primordial stag — which is really a regular stag trained and bred to elude even the most skilled knights — would be rewarded a grand jewel from the Queen’s vault.

Gentle reader,

The famed jewel for the taking

This summer, is none other than—

“I’ve placed my bet on you,” you comment plainly with a shrug and Yuji beams.

It isn’t unlike you to root for one of Satoru’s proteges, the ones fairly skilled and new to knighthood – you’ve always found yourself cheering for the peonies in a garden full of roses — the underdogs full of potential . . .

Satoru glances over to you, and for a second you miss how his gaze lingers.

“You’re too kind, Princess…” Yuji sighs, near dreamily. “I will no doubt do well now that I have your favor on my side.”

( losing dogs, satoru wants to say. all you ever do is bet on losing dogs. )

“You have her bet, not her favor.” Satoru scoffs dramatically before you can even think to lend Yuji your well wishes. “It isn’t something given, it’s something won. And from a maiden, not a Princess consort.”

She’s spoken for, is all you hear though.

There’s an air of uncertainty that passes between you and Satoru that only thickens with your closeness.

A pale palm curls around the cross rail of the back of your chair and you lean into his touch subconsciously – it’s warm, secure – he’s saying, I have your favor, don’t I? Tell me I do.

—The champion’s jewel,

A wraith necklace fit for a Queen.

The L’Incomparable.

“Nevertheless, you have my good faith.” You interject, followed by a sharp inhale, and you stand abruptly from your seat. Satoru’s hand falls to his side. He knows what you're thinking.

Three months, thirteen days.

You’ve sat by and watched Satoru deny you marriage – his excuse, that he’s waiting for his coronation first – you’ve watched him continue to entertain the women around him like he’s done since he was merely a squire, plastering a smile on his face from this glass castle he calls home.

He’s close, but never too close. Stringing you on then letting you loose— it’s routine.

It’s eerily similar to your childhood.

“Yuji,” Satoru speaks, soft yet firm. The young boy is on his feet immediately and offers a swift bow to his majesty, handing his service in tow to the call. “Leave us.” Satoru commands, and just as swiftly as he came, Yuji is bowing to you and exiting through the study doors.

L’Incomparable.

The largest internally flawless diamond in the kingdom and the most expensive chain sitting in the Queen’s vault currently, worth eight billion dollars alone.

Allegedly, it was handcrafted as a gift from an ancient Gojo king to his mistress — whom he had knighted and sent off to fight in the war at her wishes once their affair had been brought to light and scrutinized.

A gift he only got to place on her corpse.

Even in death, he loved her. More than he loved his own wife and Queen.

And though many attempts had been made to destroy the necklace, it remains near indestructible.

“Something troubles you.” Satoru murmurs the moment the door clicks shut. His gaze remains strained forward on your form, from where you fiddle with the frayed hem of your gown, back turned to him.

“I simply think of the prospects of the hunt,” you retort. “There are many promising young competitors traveling to partake— I fear my Prince would simply be. . . thwarted, is all.”

L’Incomparable is not a jewel of love.

It's a sickening story of a woman who loved a man who could not love her back in the way she deserved.

A woman who took what she was given, secret meetings, hushed whispers and fleeting gazes.

And when he did, finally love her back wholly and ardently, unable to bury it behind a locked door in the dungeon he called a heart — she was already gone.

“You doubt me?” Satoru’s voice is closer now, and you wonder when he even stood up – if he'd been taking small steps toward you the entire time.

“No.” It leaves your mouth like a prayer, an oath, worship. Every ounce of confidence you have is in him. He has protected you, kept you, safeguarded your sanity and treated you with grace— “Never that.”

( —he is your friend. nothing more than that. )

He exhales, and you hear the faint sound of a swallow, the click of his tongue. Your ear feels hot with the proximity, yet, he inches closer still.

“Will you give this to me, then?” He whispers, faint, uncertain — almost desperate.

And you turn, faces inches apart, breath mingling. “What is it you wish of me, my Prince?” Your pupils dilate.

“Your Prince,” Satoru repeats, like it knocked the wind out of him. It's a common way to address the monarch, you’ve said it before as have others. “. . . asks for your favor in the upcoming hunt.”

He keeps his hands folded behind him, curled into fists and trembling. Your Prince. Yours. Yours.

He’s a gentleman. He was raised right.

This urge—

( you’re his friend. his advisor. his confidant. this is not what he wants. )

The urge to strip you down to nothing but your chemise, lay you on his desk and hike your legs over his hips, show you things you’ve only seen in dreams or read in books — like he’s done to so many women before — he promises himself he’s not a rake, he’s just a man, but when you look at him like that and say his title so softly—

( it will pass. )

“Then,” your breath slows as he steps forward, so easily leaving you pressed back against the hardwood desk, caged by him. “I will grant my Prince my favor.”

Satoru watches in earnest, places his hands on either side of you on the desk as you remove one of your gloves.

Pure white, pearl decor, lace trim.

He would've laughed if he wasn't so enthralled by such a simple thing. Satoru wants to pull the other glove off with his teeth.

“I’ll return it to you,” he says, a promise. He takes the glove as you hand it to him, leaning forward and chasing the remnants of your fingertips against his once you pull away. “When I win.”

( and maybe then, you’ll understand i am devoted to you, wholly and utterly, if only in these moments and never again. )

There's a knock at the door, brief and soft. A maid, come to drop off another stack of letters.

And just as quickly as Satoru had found himself against you, he’s across the room, opening the door.

As if you had never been there.

The only evidence that he had even touched you is the lace cupped in his palm, middle and index tracing over a minute pearl.

L’Incomparable is a jewel of longing.

Morrow brings with it the beginning of joyous festivities.

You woke to another trousseau. This time, from a distant cousin in the Easternmost kingdom.

Attached was a letter of the newest development in her love life – said development being a defected knight nonetheless.

It made you giggle.

The palace corridors are bustling with life.

Servants and attendants eager to welcome early visitors who have come for the summer solstice, robust back and forth on decorations and food and gossip and many a’ things outside the realm of possibility to be discussed in one sitting.

Your lady in waiting, Areta, whom you’ve known since your youth, creeps into your room with a grin as wide as a war banner – you immediately assume the worst, mischief is your pastime but you fear the poor girl takes ‘eavesdropping on court gossip’ to another level.

“My lady, you would not believe—” Areta huffs, journeying to sit with you on the balcony, wiping an imaginary bead of sweat from her brow. “The things I’ve heard today!”

“You hear things everyday, I fear.” You indulge her, as always. And she begins to talk your ear off, all in good faith of course.

Down below in the courtyard, is the sound of smacking wood and the occasional chorus of baritone conversation.

Satoru, who should be attending treaty meetings with his father, bides his time sparring on the cobblestone with the other men of the Kingsguard – the noise wakes you most mornings.

“—talking to Julietta, you know? The girl who attends to the countess? And she said—”

You hum along to Areta’s words, eyes peering over the edge of the balcony, gaze fixed on the crown Prince.

His snowy hair is damp with sweat, Victorian style dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves, every swing of his wooden sword causes a commotion — muscles in his back flexing under the sunlight, so easily seen beneath the thin white fabric.

“—that her lady told her that she heard from a cousin-in-law who works at the docks that—”

You wonder what expression Satoru has as he pummels through his underlings playfully, hardly sparring but more play fighting. You imagine he’s grinning wide, crystalline blue eyes shimmering with glee—

“—that Prince Geto is coming for the hunt!”

You choke. Audibly.

Areta is quick to shut her mouth and lend you a concerned gaze. “Princess, are you—”

“I’m alright.” You wave a hand, catching your breath. Prince Geto. If you think about it too hard, you fear your chest might burst open and spill out your insides.

Oh, fair reader, it seems

Our dear protagonist has come upon

A treasure trove of memories.

“You were, ehem, saying?” You twirl your index finger in the air as if to prompt a rewind. “About. . .”

Areta raises an eyebrow, but nods slowly. “About Julietta’s lady’s cousin-in-law?” The girl questions, dim.

“No!” You interject immediately, twirling your finger in the other direction. Fast forward. “The other thing— the thing you heard!”

“Oh, about Prince Geto!”

Dearest reader,

Suguru Geto enters.

A man of great mystique,

the northern Prince.

And striking opposite of

our beloved crowned Prince Satoru.

“Yes! About him—”

Suguru Geto.

In many ways you could say he was Satoru’s best friend, his greatest rival and worst enemy all at the same time.

Through solstice events, formal gatherings and other royal duties, the same way you met Satoru, you met Suguru through him.

“Well, Julietta’s lady’s cousin-in-law works at the docks,” Areta begins again, regrettably. “You know? The private harbor where all the spirit and wheat shipments come in, but that's besides the point—”

( suguru was your bestfriend too. in every way it counted. )

“Areta.” You coo, coaxing her to get back to the main point. Why was Suguru coming for the summer solstice hunt? After being away in the North for so long, why now?

The only correspondence you’d had with him was a few letters years ago. And then he stopped writing.

“So, Julietta’s lady’s cousin-in-law saw the Geto family's ship dock in the private harbor!” The girl exclaims hushedly and you hum to yourself, curious.

Rightfully, you’d hold a grudge about never hearing from Suguru.

But in this moment, you feel no resentment or hurt. Instead, excitement that you might see your old friend once more.

And maybe, you, Suguru and Satoru could spend the summer solstice together— just like old times.

( and that’d be enough to get rid of the heat in your chest when satoru gets too close to you. )

Faithful reader,

she could not have been

more wrong.

Four days remain until the summer solstice hunt.

Satoru is scarce around the palace in preparation for his coronation coming soon and treaty arrangements.

You, on the other hand, have exhausted all your hobbies, biding your idle time helping the other ladies at court pick their gowns for tomorrow's feast — the first of seven nightly ones during the solstice.

Another trousseau is delivered to your chambers when you wake.

This time, you’re taken aback.

Instead of an elaborate stack of gifts, a box of jewelry or even a scandalous collection of seductive corsets and nightgowns to remind you of your predicament—

There's a long wooden box, coupled with a sealed parcel.

Inside the box is a beautiful gown, deep burgundy and shapely. Fitted with a low bust cut and short sleeves. It's a mouth watering dress, one you would've bought yourself if you even knew it existed.

But you've never seen a dress designed like this before, down to the intricate details of the underskirts and the hemming.

It's almost intimate.

When you finally open the parcel, you expect a note, but there's none. Instead, inside is a pair of black silk gloves, so smooth it melts in your palms – your mind immediately goes to Satoru and the glove he still holds hostage for you.

You don't think twice before telling Areta that this is what you’ll be wearing to tomorrow’s feast.

( you ought to thank satoru for this gift by wearing it, no? )

˚ ༘ *

The lights in the dining hall are dimmed perfectly to match the moonlight.

When you slip in from the adjacent corridor, greeting visiting nobles and residents of the palace court alike, a sense of nausea floods the pit of your stomach – what will Satoru say when he sees you? Will he like how the dress looks – or rather how you look in it?

Wait, why do you even care?

You’ve never really cared for these things— it must be the tea you had earlier. You nearly feel faint.

Darling reader,

it was in fact,

not the tea.

Your thoughts don't get the chance to linger very long, as the soft hum of music slows to a halt, and everyone begins journeying to their assigned seats.

Naturally, you fiddle with your gloves, not wanting to sit down at the second table yet.

One, it would be very impudent of a lady of your caliber to be seated without a proper escort by a gentleman.

And two, even though you did decline the few men who asked to escort you, you can't help the anxiety that floods your veins when you begin to realize that so many people are sitting already and you're not!

Sure, you're a Princess, but can't a girl be a little shy?

( not that you were waiting for satoru or anything of course. )

Devoted reader,

our protagonist

is in denial.

“It pains me to see such a beautiful lady left unaccompanied.” A voice flits past your ears, so close you can taste it on your tongue — incense, sandalwood.

( oh god, no. )

Your body turns in an instant, almost too quick, and your underskirts almost trip you as the weight sends you wobbling forward.

“Easy—” Suguru Geto’s arm darts out to curl around your waist, steadying you.

“You're here—” “You’re still clumsy—”

The both of you lock eyes at your shared unison of speech, then chuckle to yourselves.

You let your eyes wander over his features, how much he's grown over these past years.

He’s still as ethereal as the royal painters would describe. Prince Geto, the joy to paint, once in an era type beauty, born to be depicted in art, they’d say.

You don't doubt that.

“You look well,” you say. Suguru glances down at you and shakes his head, as if that is too much of a compliment for him to take. “No, honestly— I don't tease, you look very. . . stately.”

“Are you trying to call me old in a polite way, my lady?” He feigns offense, tilting his head to the side a little. You cover your mouth to laugh.

You don't miss the way his eyes linger on your gloves.

( oh, the gloves ! )

“Your highness,” leaves your mouth in a whisper, half teasing, half regal, and you give a brief curtsy, which he counters with a swift bow. “Would you do me the pleasure?” You grin, extending your hand to him.

Suguru — never Prince Geto, not to you at least — had been your solace, your comfort and your refuge.

The greatest friend you could have asked for in your youth.

“The pleasure is all mine.” Suguru whispers, taking your hand in earnest, escorting you over to the table and pulling your chair out for you — settling himself in the seat across from you, on the other side of the table.

( what a coincidence. )

˚ ༘ *

Time passes in waves.

People are whispering, no doubt. As they always do about you. No matter how hushed, you always hear them.

‘Look at the poor Princess consort, sitting beside an empty chair.’

‘You’d think she’d refer to herself as Lady now instead of Consort—’

‘To think even a Princess is not immune from such things. . .’

‘These things happen when you're sold off to a future King.’

“Bitter.”

Your head snaps up at the sound, dessert fork halting mid stab into your slice of cake.

Suguru’s eyes meet yours, as if he’d been looking at you the entire time, like he reads your thoughts as his own.

The people sitting at the table alongside you both fix their attention on him, the whispers halting.

“The cake,” he leans back in his chair, shrugging strands of his hair out of his face, looking down the length of the table at the spectators, nonchalant. “It's terribly bitter.”

You think you’d open your mouth to scold him a little, to not joke about what people say, royals should never engage in such petty gossip – but instead, you smile in gratitude.

( bitter. everybody's so bitter in this place. )

“That's quite unfortunate.” A familiar voice rings out, your fork sliding out of your hand to rest on the edge of your plate. “I hoped it would be rather sweet tonight.”

When you look over your shoulder, Satoru is already at your side, bending a knee and outstretching an open palm to you. “My Princess.”

He looks. . . disheveled.

Not completely out of order, it's something so small — so minute that only those who know him well would be able to point it out. From the crease of his vest to the shaky rasp in his voice—

And the woman in your peripheral stumbling back into the dining hall from the garden entrance on shaky legs. . .

( so that's what he was doing. )

“Your grace,” leaves your lips in a whisper and he kisses the back of your palm before sinking into his seat.

The way he presses his middle finger against his bottom lip like he’d been burned by the silk makes you raise an eyebrow. Does he not even have the common courtesy of pretending to like the gloves he gifted?

“I’m pleased you took time out of your busy schedule for us regular people.” Suguru chuckles, and Satoru’s mother, sitting near you all at the head table seems far from pleased.

“Well, a small act of kindness goes a long way.” Satoru parries and you force a smile, stabbing your dessert once more. “Especially for someone as regular as you, Prince Suguru.”

If you had initially thought this would be a quaint rekindling of an old childhood friendship, you never felt more wrong than in this moment — the air settles thick between you three.

“Isn't the future King Gojo just so kind?” Suguru addresses you, and you swallow, stifling your laugh.

“I pray for your marriage. . .” One of the Dukes seated at the table jests, to which you fiddle with the hem of your dress, the burgundy falling over your palms as a chorus of laughter ensues.

Marriage.

Suguru notices your gaze on him – or rather far away – and he smiles to snap you out of it. “Lady name?”

Just then Satoru’s hand reaches for yours under the table, halting your fiddling with the fabric, his grip steady and soft.

“Princess Consort.” Satoru interjects with a flat lipped smile, which could be perceived as kind, but to Suguru. . . “She changed titles.”

When was the last time someone called you by your name and not Princess consort? Always that. Not even Princess name.

“Pardon me,” you mumble beneath your breath, your grip on your dress going slack. You shrug your hand free from Satoru’s grip, abandoning your seat in an instant.

Satoru rises from his chair only four seconds afterward.

“Name—” he calls to you, following you out of the dining hall and down a vacant corridor.

Your footsteps evade him as he chases after you wide steps.

But he stops dead in his tracks when he hears you slam the door to an empty side room shut.

My dearest reader,

brace yourself for the

next publication.

Your kind author

bids you farewell.

[taegimood]

No because there's size kink and then there's Soobin size kink... you know? He's got NO BUSINESS being that tall and hands and legs and– and– hhhhhhhh

STOP BECAUSE HE’S SO BIG BUT SO GENTLE aside from when he’s got beomgyu on a hit list AND HE LITERALLY WOULDN’T EVEN HAVE TO DO ANYTHING EXTRA TO SEND YOU RIGHT OVER THE EDGE BECAUSE HE’S JUST SO ??? BIG ???

EVERYTHING about him is bigger than you… he could still be so gentle but it would all feel like so much. one finger is enough to bring tears to your eyes. one caress to your throat and you’re seeing stars. size training to help you fit his massive cock into your poor little pussy.. he’s barely even done anything yet and you’re already falling apart on him, big broad bunny and his little pillow princess so dumb on his cock 🤧

soft sex where he’s got you wrapped up in his arms and if someone were to walk in they wouldn’t even see that there was a second person there, because his broad frame covers yours completely as he hovers over you, pulling you close and fucking you so deep. whispering how good you’re taking him and how he’s so proud of you… kisses to your temple and soft, breathless moans in your ear as he feels the way your warm walls suck him in.

and ofc don’t even talk to me about the more passionate sex that has your tongue lolling and eyes rolling just from his pace alone. bouncing you effortlessly up and down on his cock as you’re too fucked out to do anything but moan his name. holding your hips up off the bed in missionary as he thrusts into you, his eyes fixated on the bulge in your tummy and knowing that he’s the one putting it there. fingering you into oblivion as he studies every expression your face makes, and he’s practically drooling while he watches and feels the way your pussy clenches around his long, slender fingers as he pounds them into your cunt just right.

i’ve mentioned this before when they joked about it in their live but soobin’s slaps are no joke and he doesn’t even realize it.. i can imagine his shock when he’s got you ass up, not even fully inside you yet as he gives you a simple spank and you instantly cum right then and there. he didn’t even think he hit you that hard, but you’re gasping and spasming around him just from one spank from his huge ass hand and he’s literally just. the surprised pikachu meme. baby doesn’t know his own strength.. his own size..

leads me into himbo!servicetop!soobin thoughts 😖 just wants to make you feel so so good and he guesses he’s doing it right from the way you’re moaning and writhing underneath him, so he just keeps going, pounding his fat cock into you the way you seem to always like it, panting and whining and grunting as he holds you in place to keep you from jolting up the bed with every thrust. so big and strong and exerting himself till he’s dizzy just to keep those pretty sounds coming out of your mouth as you cum around him over and over and over again. edges himself, overstimulates himself, he doesn’t care — gives it all to you even though he’s so confused about what it is that gets you off so much. he doesn’t understand how big he is and how delicious it feels to you.. doesn’t know why your body responds so intensely when he manhandles you even just a little.. why you could get yourself off just from licking and sucking on his fingers alone.

speaking of sucking, size training your pussy is one thing, but your mouth? holding your hair gently into a ponytail and watching you with his lip between his teeth as he gives little shallow thrusts to your throat, easing you into it, his poor baby’s mouth already completely stuffed and he’s not even halfway in yet :(( also thinking about you going to bestfriend!soob to ask him if you can practice deepthroating on him because you KNOW he must be massive, so who better to ask than him? and his initial spluttering, red-faced shock eventually turns into his legs spread wide with you between them as he melts into the couch, head tipped back against the top of it and jaw slack as he uses your ponytail to bob your head up and down on his cock, his moaning shamelessly loud, not giving a single fuck how messy it is as everything is covered in spit and drool and pre-cum. his cock is just too big, too much for your little throat, and the both of you are obsessed as you gag on it till you can’t breathe.

hard dom, soft dom, switch, sub, no dynamics at all — IT ALL APPLIES W SOOBIN + SIZE KINK 😩

i repeat. soobin is just. so big in every way that he would barely even have to lift a finger to make you never want another man’s cock again.

so you can only imagine what it must be like with what we know of soobin: that he’s competitive, and he always puts in the work.

[mischievousmoony]

hi i saw your request were open, and i really love you’re work and i was wondering if you could do something with james where the reader talks very quickly and quietly and often is told that she needs to speak up. and james always knows what she says and its kinda just fluffy? no worries if you don’t want to write!! have an amazing night/day

- 🪷

is this my first emoji anon? 🤭 thank u love, i had a lot of fun with this request

𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚞𝚙

⟢ james potter x reader ⊹ 1.9k ⟢ warnings/tags: not bully per say but other students are rude, fluff

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

"Miss. Y/L/N, have you found a group to work with?" Professor McGonagall asks as students around you huddle in groups of four whilst you stand alone at your desk, packing your things.

You mumble a response as you stuff your books into your bag, attempting to flee the scene as fast as possible. It wasn't anything to do with Professor McGonagall, but rather the fact that you always felt a little scrutinized when talking to anyone in a position of authority.

McGonagall squints as she tries to decipher your words. She finds herself having to make a guess.

"If not, I am more than happy to assist in finding–"

"She's with us, Professor!" James jogs over, returning from enlisting members for your group. As you straighten out your leafs of parchment, James starts packing away your ink and quill for you.

"And 'us' entails?" Professor McGonagall questions.

With a casual flick of his thumb over his shoulder, James gestures to a pair of Ravenclaws standing by the door.

"Very well," McGonagall hums in approval before walking off to ensure any other stragglers have found a group before they depart.

James would prefer to have Sirius and Remus as the other half of your group, but McGonagall has permanently banned James and Sirius from working together ever since they turned a simple demonstration into their own personal stand up comedy gig, resulting in some arguably intentional mishaps in their spellwork.

You've just latched your bag closed when James takes it from you and slings it over his shoulder without giving it much thought. He’s always absentmindedly doing you little favors, like it's his second nature.

"So, Cody has nothing better to do on a Friday night, why am I not surprised?" James says teasingly. "He’s insisting we hit the library and get a head start on the project. You free right now?"

"I'm free," you confirm, looking over James' shoulder at your group mates.

You hate group projects for a multitude of reasons. At least with most Ravenclaws— especially the two you're partnered with, Cody and Isla— you don't have to worry about them not carrying their weight.

This makes your main concern having to work with people you don't know that well. All you did know about them is that they're the kind of Ravenclaws that other Ravenclaws say give them a bad rap. They have a raging superiority complex, and you’d be surprised that James is okay to work with them if you didn't know him. That boy thinks he can make a friend out of anyone, save for some rivals he has in Slytherin.

So, you’re mostly surprised that they want to work with the two of you, but that probably has something to do with James being at the top of the class. Otherwise, they wouldn't normally branch out to students outside of their house.

You suddenly feel uneasy, realizing that for this project, you’ll be the student that the others are weary of not pulling their weight. You feel your hands get clammy over the potential judgement running through Cody and Isla's heads as James leads you over to them.

"Are we going or what?" Cody asks rather unmannerly.

James opens the door for everyone, "Lead the way."

You filter out into the hallway. Soon, the four of you fall in step with each other as James throws an arm around your shoulders.

"How long are we planning to spend on this today?" Isla asks.

"Well, if we dedicate the afternoon to it, we could get all of the research out of the way in one go." Cody responds.

James meets your eye with a sideways glance, and an entire conversation is shared through a couple facial expressions.

His lips curl into a knowing half-smile, See? No plans.

Your eyes twitch with amusement before they shift toward the pair. A microscopic scrunch of your nose conveys, I don't want to spend the whole day with these people.

His face contorts, Me neither, and he shakes his head, we can't anyway.

Your head tilts curiously.

"We have plans later," James verbalizes.

"We do?"

“Sirius got his record player repaired.” James smirks, “And I may have some butterbeer and a certain record waiting for us back at my dorm.”

Your eyes widen with excitement, “James, you didn’t!”

“Oh, but I did.” James says proudly.

“Sorry,” Cody interrupts, “you can’t work on the project tonight because you have to go listen to music?” Cody asks, and the rhetoric nature and judgmental tone are lost on you.

You dive into an explanation on how it’s not just any music, but your favorite band’s brand album. And not just that, but the limited edition record complete with bonus tracks not available anywhere else.

The record was wildly out of your budget and although record stores far and wide all received copies, they didn’t receive very many. You had accepted that you would likely never get your hands on a copy, but you hadn’t accounted for James’ readiness to move mountains at your whim.

You excitedly speak about your favorite band and everything you know about the new record, and it’s like you can’t get the words out fast enough. James listens intently, grinning widely and nodding along with your every word, interjecting occasionally with commentary of his own. You're too busy raving to notice the shared look between Cody and Isla.

"Is this supposed to be a private conversation or are we expected to understand you?" Isla sneers as the four of you reach the library doors.

James' grin falters as watches your excitement fade. You mumble out an apology, which James found completely unnecessary.

His tone flattens out from amused to deadpanned as he addresses Cody's earlier question, both to alleviate some attention from you and to deliberately ignore Isla, "We'll stay for an hour, maybe two. But after that, yeah, we're going to go listen to music with our friends."

Ever the gentleman, even when annoyed, he holds the library's door open for everyone. He eyes the back of Isla's head with offense as she passes, but his eyes soften when you walk through next.

The four of you quickly find a table, as not many are occupied to begin with.

James musters up a semblance of professionalism as he forces himself to stop glaring at Isla as she and Cody begin to discuss a plan for the project. Cody takes it upon himself to divide up areas of research without consulting the rest of the table.

"Hold on," James' brows furrow at his audacity, "What if I don't want to be in charge of researching the wand mechanics? And Y/N has an exceptional understanding of magical theory, she should be in charge of the magical formulas."

Cody and Isla's eyes fall on you and this time you don't miss their criticism.

"You have an exceptional understanding of magical theory?" Isla's face contorts into that familiar sneer.

James doesn't try to hide the way he rolls his eyes. He nudges you, "What was it you were saying earlier? The idea you had for the project?"

You gulp before you dive into an explanation. It feels like Cody and Isla were burning holes through you with their stares, so you try to distract yourself by gazing down at your hands as you them wring together.

In the middle of your explanation—

"Couldn't you at least look up so that I might have a chance at reading your lips?" Cody grumbles.

If looks could kill, James Potter would be a wanted man.

"S- sorry," you practically squeak. You do look up, but the glare on Cody's face intimidates you into mumbling even more. Even the most skilled lip reader wouldn't have a clue as to what you are saying.

"Merlin, could you just speak up?" Cody snaps his fingers in your face and your words die in your throat.

James suddenly wishes he had a beater's bat handy.

"Oi! Get your hand outta her face!" He raises his voice to levels that would surely attract Madam Pince's shushing any minute.

Cody retracts his hand but stands by his actions, "We'll hardly get anything done today if she can't even speak clearly. How do you expect me to deal with this?"

"Alright then, new plan," James says through gritted teeth. He stands abruptly, and his chair scrapes loudly across the floor as it shoved back by his sudden ascent. "The two of us will research the wand mechanics and magical formulas on our own, you two can have the rest. I'll let you know where we'll go from there next class."

James' hand finds yours in a grip that is surprisingly gentle considering the way he is currently conducting himself. He tugs on your hand, prompting you to rise from your own seat.

"You're just going to leave?" Isla asks.

At the same time, Cody protests the plan, "There's no way that I'm accepting that."

"Well, Cody, if you wanted to be in charge, then I guess you shouldn't have been such a cun–"

"James!" This time you're loud enough to speak over James' biting words.

"See you in class" are James' parting words to the very stunned Cody as he pulls you away from the scene.

Once in the hall, James can't help himself from raging over Cody's behavior.

"What a slimy git! Who does he think he is?"

You squeeze the hand that James still has wrapped around yours as he tugs you through the halls.

"James," you call gently.

"Don't know why I said yes to working with them. They basically cornered me, I'll have you know! I should've ran the other way when I saw them–"

"James," you try again, more firmly.

"Maybe if we talk to Minnie on Monday we can get our group switched. You don't suppose we can work with Sirius and Remus considering these extenuating circumstances?"

You dig your feet into the floor, "James!" you call out one last time, finally earning his attention.

James spins to face you, his hold on your hand not letting up.

"Yeah?"

"Calm down, would you?" You're voice comes out tinged with laughter.

James' troubles melt away at the sound of your laughter. His eyes search your face for any sign that it's false.

"You're not upset?" he asks, knowing you've been sensitive in the past to people's commentary on the way you talk.

"No, the look on Cody's face when we stormed away was healing enough."

This earned a laugh from James, "It was pretty satisfying."

James gives your hand another tug so that you fall into step with each other again. He only drops his hold on you to sling his arm over your shoulders.

"Dunno why people become such dunces around you." A playful smirk dances on James' lips, "Distracted by that pretty face, maybe, whereas I know how to multitask."

You shake your head at his antics, but your lips can't be stopped from curling into a grin.

"I can't deny the fact that you're the only one who seems to always hear me."

In the past, you've considered the possibility that James can always tell what you're saying because you feel more comfortable around him than anyone else, prompting you to speak more clearly. In actuality, James doesn't even need your words to know what you're thinking. He's known you for a long time, and he's spent every minute of it learning everything there is to know about you. By now, he might know you better than he knows himself.

"I guess I just might be the luckiest guy around, then, that I don't have to miss a second of your charm."

You sigh at his teasing and knock your shoulder into his, completely missing the genuine adoration in his eyes as he studies the way you smile at his words.

He can't wait to see how your smile looks when you find out that record he got you is signed.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

[cieloclercs]

congrats on your 1K you deserve it‼️‼️

when you have the time could you write for lewis hamilton + nepo!reader ( male or female ) who is an actress / actor?

king of my heart — lewis hamilton

pairing. lewis hamilton x nepo baby!actress!reader

genre. social media au

face claim. gigi hadid

warnings. mentions of age gap, swearing, some online hate, lewis and reader are literally the hottest couple ever, daniel lowkey trolling lando, sex jokes ??, mixed up met gala years sorryyyy, some inaccuracies with race outcomes shshsh

author’s note. hello anon! thank you for being my first request for my 1k event 🥰 i wasn’t sure if you wanted an imagine style thing or not so i’ve gone for a social media au. hope that’s ok ! if not just let me know and i can redo this for you <3

liked by kaiagerber and 4,739,725 others

yourusername when he takes you on a romantic getaway to a private beach island after being away for a month 🥹🥹 lewishamilton i love u bby 💕

view all comments…

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liked by yourusername and 59,136 others

themetgalaofficial This year’s hottest couple, award-winning actress Y/N Y/L/N and seven-time Formula 1 World Champion, Sir Lewis Hamilton, grace the Met Gala red carpet 🤍

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*yourusername liked this comment

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*themetgalaofficial liked this comment

liked by yourusername and 7,241,936 others

tagged: yourusername

lewishamilton The happiest 4 years with my Queen 🤍 Here’s to forever x

view all comments…

yourusername the last picture was uncalled for 🥲

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liked by lewishamilton and 10,256,947 others

tagged: lewishamilton

yourusername king of my heart 👑

…

lewishamilton 🤍🤍

comments on this post have been limited.

[deathbyathousandspiders]

So imagine a fic based off the song "boy in the bubble" by Alec Benjamin where reader gets in a fight on the way home from school the one time she doesn't walk with Peter. Preferably have her father be Tony Stark and he'd take place of the mother in the story.

first, i wanted to say that i loved writing this and i love song prompts :) i hope you enjoy this !!

second, i want to apologize to the anon who told me i better not disappear for months because oops–

WARNINGS (18+ MDNI) — hurt reader, mentions of blood, mentions of pain/wounding, swearing.

✨masterlist✨.

3.6k.

Typically, stepping into your downtown apartment on a Friday evening would be more exciting for you. It meant that your week of stuck–up students and nerve–wracking tests could be long forgotten. It meant that you had the weekend to live freely from academic cages. At the beginning of that day, you would’ve thought today would be like any other Friday; with Peter accompanying you and your father for dinner like every week.

But Peter didn’t walk back with you.

Your tired limbs ripped from the floor with every step, hobbling out of the elevator with as much grace as you had room to carry. That room was slim, making space for the array of bruises and blood tainting your clothing. You carried the last bit of dignity you could, and tried to replace the sinister words spat at you from your attacker:

“What a weak, pathetic excuse for a Stark.”

See, till now, you’d been grateful to be excused from the attention and popularity that accompanied your title. You didn’t care for followers or anything that catered to your birthright. Your father was your best friend, and you were lucky to be a Stark just to have his light in your life. However, there were some who weren’t like your classmates or peers — people who hated the Stark name, and wouldn’t rest until the family name died at their hand.

Tonight, you’d met the first of who knows how many. The thought alone sent a serpent–like shiver down your body.

And Peter wasn’t with you.

The fumes of Tony Stark’s cooking filled your senses as you limped further into your family room. You consciously knew you were late for dinner, but the pain throbbing throughout your body put that knowledge on the back burner. The sunset was just beyond the apartment windows, and it made you wonder whether Peter had beaten you to your own house or not. It was 6:48 after all, he was bound to be there.

You’d nearly forgotten that the subtle ping of the elevator doors announced your arrival. You heard your dad set down his spatula. “You kids are late.” He greeted, hollering from the kitchen. “I hope you two didn’t stop for Delmar’s on your way back!” You processed the undertones as your knees gave out, left hand pressing into the top of the sofa back.

White knuckles gripped onto your couch as you tried to gain your balance, wincing through gritted teeth. Your right arm remained hugging your abdomen, palm pressed onto a sore–spot on your torso. Every fiber in your body ached for some sense of relief. To sit down. You were a bit too stubborn for your own liking, trying to hike up the steps and get to your room without being spotted—

“Jesus Christ!” Your father cried from the archway of the dining room. You heard his hurried steps across the hard–wood flooring, almost too nervous to meet his eyes. He made his way over quickly, and the first thing you noticed through your periphery was the ‘kiss the cook’ apron he kept tied around his waistline. “Kid, what the hell happened?” Your dad crouched down beside you, finally locking eyes with you.

The cold air hitting your eyes made you realize just how quick the tears were welling. You swallowed the lump in your throat, whether it was sobs or embarrassment or dried blood from thrown punches. “I was jumped.” Your bottom lip trembled a bit before you mustered the words out.

Your dad scanned over your body, eying just how tattered your clothes were, and how much blood painted your outfit. His eyes glistened with a parental look— a look shimmering with something mixed of worry and sadness and anguish and apology. “And Peter wasn’t with you?”

That confirmed that your best friend, in fact, had not beaten you to your apartment.

And for some reason, it made things all the more worse. Your jaw clenched a bit, both of concern and frustration. Disappointment nagged at the corners of your lips as you shook your head. “No, he said he’d meet me here later.” Your imagination got the best of you, replaying your evening but if Peter actually had been with you. The thought alone made you shutter. “But it was probably for the best.”

“Did he say what he was doing?” The look in his eyes said something that he wasn’t communicating. They said something unspoken that made you feel like there were things that you weren’t being told.

You ignored it, feeling a surge of pain in your abdomen. A quiet hiss fought its way up your throat. “He didn’t. But it’s fine.” No, it wasn’t. “Peter can’t throw a punch to save his life.”

A laugh actually left your father’s lips. “You’d be surprised.” He muttered, his tone speaking the same tongue that his eyes were. There was definitely something that you didn’t know, but your intuition couldn’t place its finger on what.

It wasn’t your fault that you were oblivious to your best friend’s vigilante status. You were kept in the dark about what web–slinging activities Peter Parker kept behind closed doors. Tony and Peter kept it secret that you were best friends with Spider–Man. They hadn’t let the news slip yet, and Tony wasn’t about to. They both agreed it was in your best interest to keep you safe.

Apparently, their efforts weren’t enough.

Your eyebrow rose, trying to cut through the bullshit. “Are you kidding, Dad?” You asked, maintaining eye contact as your father rose from his crouched position beside you. “It’s Peter Parker we’re talking about here. He wouldn’t even kill a fly.”

Tony’s hands creased his hips, shoulders shrugging gently with his response. “I don’t know, hon. He told me May had him take Karate years back.” He didn’t leave time for a response as his eyes trailed back down to the developing bruises along your arms. Seeing the crusting crimson on his daughter’s body was a sight that made him lose his appetite. “I’ll go grab my medical kit. You’re lucky that Pepper taught me a thing or two before she got promoted.”

The room fell quiet as Tony put pause on dinner and soon rushed back over with a first–aid kit. You didn’t want to stain any furniture, so you managed to sit on a wooden coffee table until you were given further instruction.

It didn’t take long before your mind wandered off to worry about Peter, and what could be keeping him so long. He did tell you before you’d parted ways that he’d join you guys for dinner? Right? You swore that he told you he’d be there by 6:30, and even you were late. Thinking back to the details made you recall some harsh memories. Your wounds throbbed at the recollection of how they came to be, and the blood that was shed, and the words that were spat…

“What a weak, pathetic excuse for a Stark—”

“We should call Bruce.” Your dad’s voice of concern and reason brought you back to the moment. All you could do was stare. You hadn’t noticed that he’d started to examine your wounds, or just how defeated and pained for you he was.

The look made your stomach twist at the insults your own self–critic threw back at you.

Before you knew it, you were standing up, choking back a wince, fighting against yourself. “No! No– it’s just a few scratches. It’s fine.” Was it? Even though the pain was searing, and you wobbled as you stepped to the bathroom. Clearly your father was overreacting. He had to be. You weren’t weak.

Tony followed your footsteps, treading close behind in case you were to trip. “Hon, I’m serious! You look like you went through a paper shredder!”

You looked at him with a grimace, disbelief shone in your eyes. Almost as if he were calling you pathetic. “Don’t make it so intense! I’m sure it’s—” You halted. Everything froze. The air sucked right back into your lungs at the sight of your bloodied figure in the mirror. Flicking on the light, you couldn’t breathe.

The color palette that covered your body could’ve painted an entire canvas worth; the shirt you wore was hanging onto your shoulders with two threads and a miracle, not to mention the slashes at the thighs of your jeans. You’d nearly forgotten that your attacker had such a thick knife until you saw it— saw yourself. A shiver snaked down the length of your spine, leaving a splintering chill behind it.

It wasn’t until Tony turned off the bathroom light that you’d realized you were staring at yourself. He carefully grabbed your hand, leading you back into the living room. “We don’t have to call Bruce, but can I at least clean you up a bit?”

You didn’t have the words to respond to him. A nod was all you could muster before he sat you back down at the coffee table. “Should I– uh.. Should I shower first?”

Tony shook his head beside you. “Until I figure out if you need stitching, no.” He went to investigate the damage, but hesitated, trying to navigate an approach. “Sweetheart? You decent enough to take your shirt off? I could grab you a blanket if that would help–”

But before your dad finished his thought, you went to try and peel off your shirt. It was a lot more difficult than you thought. Painful, too. You were cold and hot and sweaty and sticky and pins and needles dug their way into your limbs each time they moved. You were grateful your dad didn’t even pause before assisting you. He grabbed his medical scissors, snipping off the sleeves of your top.

You and your dad were really comfortable with one another, so this didn’t bother you. You were more blinded by the burns and the harshness to each ache and blemish coating your limbs and torso. Daggers upon daggers of pins and needles sunk into your flesh, yet it hurt you the most to know that you had to present yourself so battered and bruised to your dad. It made you feel so…useless. So…pathetic.

A minute of silence passed, filled with nothing but pity and the sear in your eyes, holding back tears. You wanted to be strong. You needed to be strong. Showing weakness would mean that your attacker was right. Your throat burned, swallowing hard and pushing back your damaged narrative. The feeling of how feeble you felt.

The subtle ping from the elevator made your blood run cold. Your head snapped up to look at who entered the apartment, eyes wide and teary when they met the pair of Peter Parker. And the second he jogged out of the elevator, he stopped dead in his tracks. He gasped quietly, staring back at you with the same gaping eyes.

You didn’t see the way Tony glared at Peter from beside you, but you felt the way he’d stopped inspecting you. Peter walked closer, taking cautious steps as he minimized the distance. “What happened?” His voice was gentle, perhaps because he noticed the tears coating your cheeks.

Wiping your eyes, you realized your hands were trembling. Your whole body shook from the endured trauma, and you shivered like you were in the midst of a blizzard. Had you been shaking that whole time? You didn’t have time to overthink it. You felt like you were being whisked away into a whirlwind of panic.

Tony stood up, his expression crossed with some unspoken irritation. “I need to finish dinner.” His words were short. “Kid, could you help patch her up? She mainly just needs disinfectant.” There was no room for response from Peter before your father started walking. You didn’t see him leave, but you felt the gentle kiss he placed on your head before he left one final comment with Peter:

“And you and I are going to have a talk later.”

You weren’t sure what was going on with the two. Quite frankly, you weren’t sure what was going on in general. Shaking like this, being emotional like this, it was far from anything you were used to.

It felt like you were being violated, forced open, naked— and that wasn’t just because you were without a shirt. You felt exposed, and you couldn’t hide anymore. There was nowhere you could go and nothing you could do to shield from the fact that you were vulnerable right now.

Peter sat in front of you, kneeling so that you could see him. So that he could see you. “Hey..” His voice got soft, gentler, and somehow it broke you. You caught your bottom lip between your teeth to try and stop the way it shuttered. Metal lingered on your tongue and your throat felt hollow and thick with the cries you held back. But Peter was your best friend, and he knew you.

He knew how stubborn you were with your own emotions, and how guarded you kept yourself from showing that part to other people. He knew that you couldn’t hide forever, either. And maybe he’d figured that out when his right hand went to cradle your face, and the tears finally washed away the walls you’d been keeping up.

Somehow seeing him safe was your undoing. The downfall of the avalanche you’d been hobbling in attempt to support, but you couldn’t seal the dam anymore. The relief of knowing that Peter was unharmed, the ease to all your worries, it made you forget why you’d been trying to stop your tears in the first place.

Your body broke out into violent shivers the second you let it, and your shoulders shook with every sob. Peter didn’t say anything. He merely took you into his arms and held you to him, careful not to press against any wound. It terrified you to think about what would’ve happened had Peter walked home with you, unbeknownst to you that he probably would’ve protected you from any of this happening in the first place.

It took you a minute or two to cry it out before Peter set you back on the coffee table. It seemed effortless to pick you up, and that made you realize just how strong he was. Your dad was right, Peter did surprise you.

Peter knew exactly how to mend these kinds of wounds, too. Where did he learn? It might always be a mystery. Still, it came in handy now. He draped his zip–up jacket over your shoulders, before dabbing a cloth of rubbing alcohol against every cut on your torso. He was so focused. Tensed jaw and creased eyebrow, not wavering for a second until you gained the courage to ask him a question. You took a shaky breath.

“Peter?” You murmured, immediately grabbing his attention. Peter glanced at you, the cold glisten in his focused stare began to thaw when he did. He took a breath, perhaps needing to be broken from the train of thought he’d started to entertain. With his attention, you took another breath, nervous.

Your fingers gripped the edge of the coffee table with white knuckles. If you’d been any stronger, maybe you’d broken the table, or even your fingers. “Do you.. think I’m–” You had to suck in another chunk of air just to muster out that taunting, despicable word. “Weak?” Even in your efforts to say it straight, your voice broke in an instant.

Without a beat, his eyes met yours again and he stopped everything he was doing. “Weak?” He repeated back. “No.” The word was so instantly rejected, you’d almost felt stupid bringing it up in the first place. “You’re so far from weak, Y/N. You’re one of the strongest people I know.”

Your hands went to hide your face, too ashamed of how quickly you broke before him. From the solitude behind your fingers, you couldn’t see the way Peter also broke at the words. He wasn’t sobbing as you were, but he couldn’t help the sulking of his shoulders. Peter truly blamed himself for this. Setting down the rag, gently wrapping his fingers around your wrists. “Anyone who thinks you’re weak is blind to who you are. That, or they’re fucking stupid.” He spoke softly, pulling your hands from your face.

“You’re the most courageous person. The amount of bullshit you put up with, and the reporters you call out– Fuck, I can’t even imagine walking away from a fight like you did tonight..” His words of endearment warmed your heart. “You’ve seen the unthinkable, are still going, and you think you’re weak?” He shook his head. “Impossible.”

You and Peter stared for a beat or two before he stood up, carefully helping you to your feet. “I think you’re all set to shower. Do you want me to walk you upstairs?”

Taking a breath, you took Peter’s words to heart. You got this. “I think I’ll be okay.” Ignoring the shakiness in your voice, you took paces to the stairwell. “If I’m not back in thirty, you have permission to make sure I didn’t pass out.”

Peter cracked a small smile at you, “Noted. Text me if you need anything!” He added the offer, to which he saw you nod to, and he caught a glimpse of your timid smile. He knew you’d be okay, but it still didn’t shake the weight of how to blame he was. The sound of Tony clearing his throat from the kitchen only seemed to remind him. And with a second clearing of his throat, Peter realized that Tony was trying to communicate.

Walking into the kitchen, Peter saw Tony leaned back against the counter, arms crossed with a cold stare. “Mister Stark, I–”

“Where the hell were you tonight?”

The tone changed the entire atmosphere. No amount of savory fragrances from the cuisine could take away from the fact that Peter was in trouble.

Peter’s shoulders squared at the intensity carried with Tony’s aggravation. He took a breath, pausing in the doorway. “Sir, there was an armed–”

Tony’s fist met the marble counter in a startle. “Damn it, Pete!” Kid couldn’t get a word in if he tried. “Damn it, you had one job!” His index finger went up to emphasize his point.

“What was I supposed to do??” Peter felt like he was fighting a losing battle. “I had no idea what was going to happen!” In the midst of his hushed defense, his voice broke a bit from the weight of his guilt. “Mister Stark.. I think it’s time we tell her.”

A scoff was what Peter was met with. A rush of air caught on Tony’s disbelief, throat, and dismissal. “We’d tell Y/N what? That you’re Spider–Man? That we’ve been lying for this long?”

It was a tough call, and Peter knew that. Peter also knew that Tony couldn’t keep this shit up any longer than he could. “She deserves to know!” He planned to plead his case. “Whoever attacked her tonight planned this. It wasn’t by chance, she was targeted–”

“You don’t know that—”

“And you don’t either!” Peter wasn’t about to get cut off again. He let out some of the steam he’d began to bottle. “The way she’s acting.. Something’s off about what happened. And I think she deserves to know why I wasn’t there to defend her tonight.”

As much as the two had raised their voices, or grown to anger, they let the reality of the evening sink into the space between them. The thickened air sat within the walls as they both took a breath and collected themselves. Tony’s expression melted, and he finally reached over to turn off the stove.

Dinner was almost ready.

The back of Tony’s hips met the marble countertop behind him, supporting his weight as he crossed his arms, looking at Peter sympathetically. “Look, kid. I don’t blame you for what happened tonight.”

A weight or two instantly lifted from Peter’s guilty–conscious. “I know.” He lied.

Tony’s lips curled ever so slightly at the hasty quip. “As much as I agree with your conspiracy theories on Y/N’s attacker, I don’t know if coming clean about everything will solve this.”

There was a subtle sinking to Peter’s mending optimism. “Then when do you plan to tell her?”

A pause. Tony sighed, releasing a breath he’d been holding since Peter’s spider bite. “I don’t know..” Genuinity. Tony’s paternal protocol kicked in, and he wasn’t sure how to navigate it entirely.

On the one hand, his daughter deserved to know the truth. You deserved to know the truth. His wisdom and knowledge was such a curse when it came to fatherhood, because while being honest was what his role as a father called for, logic came right back to remind him of just how many lies were piled on top of each other. What if there was no coming back from this?

Tony shrugged, appearing more open to the idea of being truthful. “I’ll tell you what.” He started, “You tell me how you’d suggest telling Y/N you’re Spider–Man, and I’ll consider it–”

“Peter’s what?”

Ice. The room turned to ice too quickly, both Tony and Peter snapping their heads to look at you in the doorway. They hadn’t noticed you’d been listening. You’d been standing there for who knows how long, considering that you hadn’t even showered yet.

Both of the men in front of you exchanged glances of sheer panic before Tony cleared his throat to get your attention. He held up the frying pan, looking you dead in the eyes with the most false–confidence you’d ever seen your father carry.

“Dinner’s ready.” His voice cracked.

Yeah, there was absolutely no coming back from this.

[y2xnjn]

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ racer!taehyun (nsfw 18+)

— a/n: this look will forever be iconic 😖 also i barely know anything about racing or cars, i'm so sorry if this is inaccurate

✧ racer!tyun x fem!reader, wc: 1.8k

✧ warnings: smut— MDNI! tyun is lowk cocky, car sex, unprotected sex, grinding, fingering, pet names, creampie

your heartbeat speeds up when you see the row of cars, each one at a different pace than the other but all so fast that the sound of the friction between the fast tires and the concrete road makes you wince for a split second. they all look like colors passing you by as you wait on the sidelines, cheers and screams on either side of you, people nearly toppling over each other to get a closer look. you watch as each carl crosses the finish line, so close to one another you’re unable to identify which one placed first until you hear your boyfriend’s name being announced on the megaphone, and your friends are cheering by your side.

catching taehyun’s eyes as he exits out of the black and red-striped car with an obnoxious slam of the car door and a cocky smile on his face as if he thinks he’s the best–cause he is–you attempt to run up to his side, sliding by the planted post, but a guard stops you, his large figure blocking your view.

“excuse me, miss. you can’t go up there,” he says, a snarky smirk on his face as he puts his hands right above your breasts to push you back, clearly delighted by the touch of your cleavage. you try to push his hands off of you, your friends also clearly disgusted by the sight as they try to pull you away, but he doesn’t budge, using the excuse that he’s just making sure the racers are safe from any ‘threats’. lucky for you, taehyun ignores the calls of his name by the judges who are ready to present him his award and makes his way towards you instead. he comes up behind the guard and pushes him out of the way, his body being significantly smaller in height, but still dominated by muscle, a result of his time at the gym.

"she's with me, dipshit." he glares at him, and he gladly moves to where he was standing before with an apologetic look on his face. taehyun takes your hand in his and leads you up to the podium with him. you roll your eyes at the way your girlfriends giggle and 'ooh' as he gives you a quick peck on your cheek. you reciprocate, squeezing his hand tighter, a way of saying your congratulations; of course there will be more later, but for now, this will do. he steps up on the podium, you wait at the bottom insisting this is his moment, and you don't want to intrude. taehyun says to come up with him almost every time he wins—many many times—claiming that the two of you are partners, and he can't do any of this without your support, but you know he should be given the chance to be his own entity in front of the world, and you're happy at the sidelines.

he grins when the award is placed in his hand, looking directly at you, and you show your look of endearment back until you see a cameraman waiting for him and gesture at him to look forward. he does, and many photos are taken with many people, many words of pride and cheers from his supporters, until he's finally free and leading the two of you away to his car. his own car is a beauty, a stunning blu abu dhabi ferrari 296 gtb, a gift to himself after winning a special race, and also, your favorite car of his because you love the way he gets relaxed and confident when he drives it.

the garage is dark, dimly lit by a few suspended light fixtures throughout, mostly emptied out due to the time, so taehyun takes this chance to press you against the door of his car. he places the trophy on the hood in a position where it won't fall—not that he cares if it does, he has many more— and tangles one hand in your hair while the other rests on your hip, his lips making their way to yours. he kisses you a few times until he travels down to your neck when you open your mouth to speak.

"tae, you did so well today," you breathe out, eyes fluttering shut when his thigh presses directly against your crotch.

"i always do well, baby." he speaks against your skin, breath warm and minty. "it's nothing new." you roll your eyes and sigh playfully, taehyun was always confident, and you admired it.

"i know, but i'm just—" he flexes his thigh cutting you off, and you feel his grin against your neck when you struggle to find your words. "i'm so proud of you—shit, you worked s-so hard, and you—you looked so, i can't— fuck, tyun."

the way he grinds his leg against you has you throwing your head back, eyes clenched shut because the muscle has somehow found the exact spot that has you whining and throbbing against him. your cotton panties barely covered by your miniskirt leaving you exposed to him, your arousal leaking on his leather pants. "aw, baby," he coos, but he sounds evil as he says it, "i know, and i appreciate you so much. my girl is always there for me, hm?"

the kisses on your neck halt as he looks up at the way you're already so fucked out, just from kissing and a few rocks of his thigh. taehyun grins at the sight, licking his lips and holding your face when you don't respond. "answer me." you nod eagerly, widening your doe eyes, wanting to show your full support. "wanna show me how proud you are?"

he moves away from you, a whine leaving your lips at the loss of his touch, but he opens the door to the front passenger seat and sits himself down, patting his thigh, his boba eyes looking up at you, waiting for you. you take a seat on his lap, somehow closer than before, and he closes the door, locking the door. you can barely see taehyun in the darkness of it all, but you can definitely feel him underneath you.

his lips return to yours, catching them in a quick breath, and his fingers trace up from your thighs to prod at your entrance. you gasp against his lips, and he groans at the wetness of the cloth at his fingertips before tugging it to the side and slipping two fingers inside you. you grab at his jacket and tug him closer, gripping it tightly while he thrusts his digits into you relentlessly. "tyun, please— can i ride you? wanna feel you."

"of course baby, lemme just— fuck, need you to cum on my fingers first," he watches the way you grind against his hand in mesmerization, obsessed with the way your arousal drips in between your legs on his expensive leather. taehyun tugs at your low cut top, revealing your breasts, and he hangs his head low to nip at the supple skin. he pumps into you faster, finding it a necessity to have you cum, and you finally do not long after, a whine of his name falling from your lips.

you find yourself unbuttoning his pants quickly, in a rush to have him inside you, as he finds his way back to your mouth, sinking his teeth into your bottom lip. struggling to get his tight leather pants down his hips, wailing in desperation, he grabs your hands, putting them around his neck, and does it himself, pulling his cock out, hard as it slaps against his stomach. he throws his head back in relief, having been constrained in his underwear but snaps back up when he feels your folds rub at his tip, dripping down his shaft. he pulls your hips down, slowly taking him inch by inch as you wince at the stretch of his length filling up your walls. taehyun groans, a grip on your hips as you sink onto him. "fuck, my girl is so tight. so wet and warm—shiitt."

once he bottoms out inside you, his hips tightly pressed against your, he sighs loudly, bucking his hips up into you. you nearly topple over, having to grab his shoulders to balance yourself until you're able to move. you roll onto him, a slow grind contrasting with your hurried movements from earlier. the angle, the intimacy, the expensiveness of it all has you enjoying it all more, loud moans slipping out with every movement. his eyes zone in on where the two of you meet, loving the wet sounds that are produced. "baby’s so proud of me, she's leaking all over my seats,” he shakes his head, “how dirty."

you frown, knowing he paid a lot for this car, and you’re spoiling it, tears well up in your eyes, and you mindlessly sniffle out apologies. “don’t worry, baby. i would buy a thousand cars just to fuck you in each one,” his words are spoken against your chest, and your back arches when his hips thrust into a certain spot, his teeth scraping your and adding to the stimulation. his jacket being clawed at by your fingers, needing something to maintain the rise and fall of your body on his length.

"soso full tyun, i— fuck, s-so good—you're fucking me so good," you cry out, spurring him on. he lifts you up and lays your head on his dashboard, taking over and pounding into you with a new angle that has you losing your mind. his hand crawls up your back, and finds its way in your hair pulling it back to reveal your flushed neck, filled with his marks. he leans forward to make more, the zipper of his jacket brushing against your hardened nipples, making you squeal.

"you know i think about you when im racing? thinking about how good i get to fuck you when i'm done. how fast i'd give it to you, and it just makes me go faster." you whine at his words, getting close to your climax.

"i'm close, tyun. please fill me up."

"yeah? want me to make an even bigger mess? " he lets go of your hair, reaching down to circle your clit, pushing you over the edge as you tighten around him. "gonna smell you all over my car, baby." he twitches inside you, the feeling of you clenching unable to ignore, and releases, his fluids leaking out to join yours on the chair. taehyun pulls your limp body back up against him, pulling out with a wince and tucking himself back into his pants. "we should make this a ritual."

his words bring you back, and you look up at him with sleepy eyes and a tired smile. "what, you fuck me every time you win?" he nods, delight on his face, and he gathers tissues from the center compartment and cleans the two of you up— starting with his seats. "no thanks, tyun. you almost always win, my legs will give out one day." he gives you a sweet kiss, a giggle attached to it.

"that's okay, i'll just drive you around everywhere myself."

[neteyamyawne]

🫀— You Promised

༄ Pairing : Aged!up!Neteyam x Fem!pregnant!Reader

༄ Summary : You never thought about losing your mate, atleast not when you needed him the most in your vulnerable state.

༄ Warning : Angst! Lots and lots of angst, no comfort, crying, pregnancy, major death, depression, sadness, dying of a loved one and more sadness, maybe a smidge of fluff.

༄ Prompt : Holding their mate's (or child's) unconscious/dead body

༄ Word Count : 2.7k Proof read.

༄ Note : I love making you guys cry, idk why, I cry myself when I write this kind of stuff.

༄ Glossary : [Yawne] - Beloved, [Olo'eyktan] - Na'vi clans' leader, [Iknimaya] - Na've rite of passage, [tsahik] - Na'vi clans' spiritual leader, [Uthuru] - to seek refuge, [Paskalin] - sweet berry, [Skxwang] - moron.

◦ Angstmas || Masterlist

It was like any other normal day only if you were in your home and not in another strange clan that you've never known except for stories and political talks.

You lay on the soft woven mat, made by your mate just for you, a hand on your swollen stomach as the life growing inside moves at its own pace while you rest from the tiredness that comes with.

»»————-　𑁍　————-««

You and Neteyam mated right after he passed his Iknimaya, being the first in line to be the olo’eyktan and you to be his tsahik but it was all came crashing down when your father-in-law decided it was better to flee for the good of the clan and for the family as well.

It was the second month of your pregnancy when you had to leave your home forever, the strength of your mates arms held you up as you cried in his chest, hands shaking like a leaf as you watched Jake renounce his position as the Olo'eyktan to Terasem.

The tears in everyone's eyes, Neytiri’s sobs, Neteyam could only stroke the side of your head, pressing a kiss to your temple as he lead you to his Ikran “It'll be okay, Yawne, believe me, we'll be alright, I'll take care of you and our little one” he whispered comfortingly in your ear when you both mounted his Ikran and he placed you in front of him, your face towards him as he draped and covered you with his own shawl, he held you against his chest tightly before he took off with his family.

He had one hand on Seze’s reigns, controlling her moves through the air and the other on your back, under the shawl that was draped on your body, your face buried in his neck, your arms wrapped around his waist, so you could rest comfortably on the rough journey, he caressed patterns on your back as everyone flew more and more away from the forest until it was just the expanse of the water in front of them.

Neytiri kept glancing at her eldest son, pride blooming in her chest as she saw how much of gentleman her son is, the scene could only remind her of the time with Jake during the war, when they aligned all the clans, with a small smile she looked away, giving the couple some privacy as she moved closer to Jake's Ikran, bob, while running her hand through Tuk’s braids.

»»————-　𑁍　————-««

It took a week or more to reach the metkayina clan, Awa’atlu, they accepted your Uthuru, with much criticism and nagging, but they did, it wasn't the same since then, there was always a deep feeling in the back of your mind, reminding you, again and again that something is wrong or would go wrong.

Even now, 4 months later, as you rested in the mauri with Neytiri on the other side making dinner while the others were out for their lessons, as Neytiri didn't willingly wanted to take the lessons and would rather look after you because it wasn't recommended for you to start your swimming lessons yet, she was always there for you, no matter what.

Even then, it's only been a month or two since Quaritch started his search spree across all the water Na'vi clans for Jake, that was the one thing everyone was alert for after Tonowari gave us the news, you didn't want to keep that in mind, not in your condition, not when it added to your ever growing worry.

Neteyam came back later, seemingly happy to see you resting on the mat he made, and because he loved the beautiful curve on your belly, the sign that his little baby grew safe and sound, he also knew that you didn't like the ocean as much as the trees back home but it was doable, plus he would rather have his baby in a safe environment than a hostile one, which was the only reason he loved this place, for the sake of his family's safety was all he cared about.

On a good day, you'd join the group, watching them learn in the depths while you sat in the shallow waters laughing at their failed attempts until your stomach starts to hurt from laughing while clutching your bump or learning new things with them, even successfully befriending an Ilu and riding it safely that you could have options to move around Awa'atlu.

But on days like these, when your exhaustion hits a little too hard, he couldn't help but lay down behind your back and just wrap his arms around you and pull you into his warm hug.

You always knew it was him, by the way he'd kiss your neck gently, one large hand on your belly as he strokes it softly, his head nuzzled in the Crook of your neck “You know you don't have to pretend you're asleep when I'm right beside you, Paskalin” he whispered, hot breath lingering on the curve of it.

You chuckled at the tickling sensation, giving in after he catches you in your pretend sleep, once again for the upteenth time, turning around to face him while he strokes your cheek with his hand as the other caresses your belly, peppering your face with kisses as you giggled “Did you eat anything, Honey?” He asked in a whisper, picking up after his father to call you sweet human nicknames that he loved. Like father, like son.

He was disappointed when you shook your head “how many times have I told you to eat something every two hours? It's not good for the baby, yawne!” He whisper-yelled at you but the answer he got from you was just a chuckle “I wasn't hungry, Ma teyam, and i wasn't feeling well either, Now let it-” he just shook his head in disappointment “tsk tsk tsk, you should have told me or sa’nu, she would have-”

The sentence was left unspoken when the loud commotion and yelling was heard outside, the locals were screaming at something or someone and loud cries were heard, both you and Neteyam got up with Neytiri and made your way to the rage going on inside the supply tent.

Neteyam kept his arm around your waist as you entered the tent, shielding you from the hands that reached out to hit or hold you or him. He was surprised at the sudden uprise until he understood what was happening when he took in the gossip and looks he was getting and looked at his father who was trying to explain.

Ronal’s Tulkun, Roa, was found dead or rather murdered by the human, as well as her babe.

»»————-　𑁍　————-««

When Jake apologized and made his preposition on how to save the other Tulkuns from further harm, Neteyam saw Lo'ak running away from the crowd towards the diving edge, calling for his Ilu, immediately knowing what he was upto, he went behind him with you in tow after him.

“No way you're rolling out of here, baby brother” Neteyam said sternly as he walked in on Lo'ak strapping the saddle on the Ilu, Lo'ak halted, rolling his eyes at his brother in annoyance.

“I have to warn payakan about the pingers!” He snapped back but lowered his voice when he saw you behind Neteyam.

“No! you've gotta keep your skxwang ass here, you understand me?!” Neteyam said with a hint of annoyance lacing his, he didn't want another one of his brother's stupid mistakes to be blamed on him, not right now, not when he himself was about to be a father.

“Neteyam…Calm down” you whispered lightly, holding his arm back, you didn't want him to blow off on Lo'ak again, it could be done quietly and patiently.

Lo'ak on the other hand wanted to try and reason with him to let him go “he's an outcast, there's nobody to warn him but me”

Neteyam huffed, placing a hand on Lo'ak’s head, holding his brother in place “bro… why do you always have to make things so hard?”

Lo'ak hissed, flicking his brother's hand off his head in anger and defiance as his tone shifted to an aggressive one “No. You mean why can't I be the perfect son like you! The perfect little soldier! Who does everything right, has the perfect life and a perfect little mate and family! Well I'm not you! Okay?!” Neteyam sized him up and Lo'ak took a step back looking up at his brother and lowered his voice again “I'm not you..He's my brother! I'm going”

You were taken aback at that, you grabbed his arm making him face you as anger simmered in your eyes at what he just said “LO'AK!! What are you talking about?! He's your brother! Stop this right now! Is this how you talk to your brother?!”

Lo'ak skipped a look between you and Neteyam nervously as he took another step back but Neteyam stopped him by grabbing his arm tightly and forcing him to look “He's not your brother, skxwang! I am! And don't you dare talk like that again”

But Lo'ak was having none of it as he twisted his arm out of his grasp just when Tsireya, Ao'nung and Rotxo arrived giving Lo'ak a good distraction to dive into the water for his Ilu, Neteyam growled loudly before patting on Ao'nung’s chest “we have go behind him, he's going to payakan” he said urgently.

But something in your heart panged when he said that, a weird unease spreading to your chest again and you called out to him “teyam…please, don't go” you didn't know if it was stupid or not but you wanted to believe it “please, it doesn't feel right”

He looked back at you after he called his Ilu and came up to you quickly, cupping your cheek in his palm, stroking his thumb over your cheek, his other hand caressing your swollen belly, as he looked into your eyes intently, connecting your foreheads together and kissing your nose “Shh… I'll be right back, I promise, don't worry, I just have to put this Skxwang back in his place again” he whispered lovingly with a smirk, kissing your forehead one last time and giving your hand a tight squeeze before diving into the water with the others and following Lo'ak.

»»————-　𑁍　————-««

Your heart was pacing a mile per second, the feeling of dread getting worse when it was notified by Lo'ak that Payakan was marked by the humans and Neteyam was their with them, Almost half of the clan, including Ronal and Tonowari were gone to save them, but all you could think of was Neteyam.

Hours passed and the sun began to set, spreading an eerie red and orange hue throughout the sky, no news of anyone or anything, only the sight of the injured or fallen warriors broughton back to Awa'atlu filled your mind with nightmares you only prayed stayed in your dreams.

You placed a hand on your stomach, the feeling of your baby moving against your palm was enough to give you some courage to call your Ilu and riding over to the scene yourself following behind another group of Warriors who were sent back to help others.

»»————-　𑁍　————-««

The sight was a horror to take in as you sat on your ilu looking at the havoc the place was in, the ship sinking, fire ablaze on the water from the oil spill, the sky dusted in a amber color and dark smoke, as if matching the hell beneath on the water but your heart dropped when you saw the rock Island… with others gathered together around something.

Urging your ilu over to it, you climbed off of the creature before you saw a body lying on the rock and dread filled the pit of your stomach, the feet looked eerily familiar but you refused to think about it, it couldn't be… a cold shiver running down your spine, goosebumps spreading over your body as your breath hitched, before you could confirm your suspicions spider pulled you back, shaking his head, but that's all it took for your worst fear to come true, gears in your head turning as a scream erupted from your throat which ultimately caught everyone's attention in horror when they saw you, when you realized what you were looking at.

“NETEYAM!!!!! NO NO, GREAT MOTHER, PLEASE” you ran towards him but Neytiri stopped you, catching your body in her arms as your cries rang out for everyone to hear, thrashing in her arms as Jake came up to you “Shh look at me, look at me…” he whispered holding you back and not letting you see his body yet, placing his hands on your cheeks and forcing you to look at him as tears already ran down your cheeks.

“NO NO NO, NETEYAM, LET ME GO PLEASE!! please….” You sobbed as they held you back, Neytiri couldn't hold back either as she hugged you, your loss was far greater than any others, your knees gave out from the shock as they caught you once again before they let you go, knowing there was no denying it “It's going to okay, it's going be okay” Neytiri whispered desperately to calm you but nothing could soothe you in this moment.

Your heart almost stopped beating in your chest as you saw his lifeless body, crawling over to his side, with trembling hands as you touched his chest that was now covered in his blood, cold lifeless eyes staring up at the sky, as sobs wrecked your body, crying over your mate, who promised you he'd come back, who promised to spend the eternity together, now gone, forever.

Kneeling beside him as your wails of despair shook the heart of great mother herself, shaking your head in disbelief, as you held his limp hand in yours, only if he listened to you, only if he stayed back!

Your head laid on his chest, like the thousands of times before where he caressed your hair, as he hummed a sweet melody for you so you could sleep peacefully in his arms, listening to his heartbeat as you fell asleep, was cold, quiet and unmoving, as if the once alive, beating heart, never existed, you sobbed on his chest, blood coating the side of your face but you didn't care, holding his hand as if he would wake up and smile saying this was all just a dream and he was there with you, like he said.

Lo'ak placed a hand on your shoulder to comfort you but it only fueled your anger towards himas you snarled at him viciously and everyone was taken aback “DO NOT TOUCH ME, STAY AWAY! ONLY IF YOU EVER DID AS YOU WERE TOLD TO THIS WOULDN'T HAVE HAPPENED, LO'AK!”

Your anger was justified and no one dared to stop you or invented in between, Your screams hit him like bullets as he didn't say a word, stepping back as you turned back to look at Neteyam's face, still unable to register the fact that he's gone and would never come back to you or your child ever again and your weren't ready to face it just yet.

“Teyam, please… you promised, right? you promised you'd come back to us, please, you can't do this to me, teyam… I can't do this without you, you promised to be there with me, to hold our baby, to hold my hand, you can't do this to me please, we- we…” you couldn't even form words anymore as more tears streamed down your cheeks, breaking down to the point of no return as your cries rang through everyone's ears.

They all couldn't handle to see your desperate attempts and cries to get him back, in hopes to get you back, begging any greater force would listen to give him back, their hearts breaking even more as they saw you placing his hand on your stomach one last time as you broke down completely, your head placed on his chest, watching the horrific sight of a mate mourning over her other half as their symbol of love grew inside her.

You closed your eyes and held him close one last time, holding his hand one last time, laying your head on his chest one last time, his hand on your stomach to feel his child for one last time as he still watched the darkening sky unmoving “you promised…”

Ho Ho Ho : @cryinginthemoonpool, @luvv4j4ybe11, @xylianasblog, @plooto, @itchaboi-itchyboy, @pandoraslxna, @taylormarieee, @thewiltedpeony, @neteyamswillow, @danniackerman, @hotdsworld, @zafrinaxyz, @xstarsdiary, @moondaisye, @puddle-nerd, @eywxveng, @minnory, @neteyamssyulang, @tavsianus, @ele-sme.

©Neteyamyawne2023 | All Rights Reserved. Do not repost on other platforms, copy, steal, or translate any of my works!

[houroftheowl]

hold your hands across my heart

(and hold me down)

joel miller x female!reader–minors do not interact

rating: explicit

summary: joel's nightmares wake you from time to time, and in these small hours of the morning, you're the only two people in this world.

content: smut, established relationship, unprotected sex, breeding kink if ya squint

Waking in the night to sounds of Joel moaning in his sleep were nothing out of the ordinary for you. While Joel had let you into his heart, you knew it was a crowded place, filled with ghosts and haunted by their painful memories.

During the daylight hours, Joel could keep it at bay, busying his mind and his body with various tasks around Jackson that need his attention. But there was no refuge when the shadows of night covered you both in their inky embrace.

There were no distractions in sleep, no chores to divert his attention. His regrets and demons held his full focus.

Most nights you could lull him back into an easy sleep by rubbing his chest, but this wasn’t one of those nights. This night, Joel’s whimpers turned to audible cries, his arms flailing as his heart raced frantically in his chest.

“Joel?” you said, your voice still thick with sleep, “Joel, wake up.”

Your eyes are blurry and unfocused as you tried to blink away the last remnants of sleep. In the low light that filled your bedroom, you could see tears beading in the corners of his eyes as he yelps like he’s fighting some invisible enemy. Timidly, you place a hand on his bare chest and find it cold and damp from sweat. His pulse races beneath your hand.

“Joel, baby, wake up,” you plead, rocking him gently.

Delicate nudges barely rouse him, his eyes blinking open for an instant before clasping shut once more. He’s screaming now, the pained cries echo off the walls and twist your gut with anxiety.

In the back of your mind, you’re thankful Ellie has been sleeping in the garage. Regardless of whether or not she and her pseudo-father are on good terms, you know she’d be frightened by the almost inhuman sounds coming from Joel.

“Please, baby,” you say, tapping your hand against his jaw, “Wake up!”

There’s no gentleness in your attempts to wake him now, your voice nearly as high as his and your hands trying desperately to pull him from sleep.

It maybe took all of thirty seconds, but by the time his eyes finally open and focus on you, it feels like hours have passed. You can tell by the confused way he’s staring at you, he’s not fully present, not fully aware his nightmare has ended.

“Darlin’?” he asks, “What… what time is it?”

“Early,” you sigh with relief, “Probably a few hours until sunrise.”

Joel sniffs, wiping away the tears that roll down his cheeks as he rises into a seated position.

“Must be three in the goddamn morning,” he groans, his voice laden with remorse. “Fuck, ’m sorry for waking you.”

A sharp pain pulses through you at his apology. Guilty even though he’s the one suffering.

“Don’t be sorry,” you say softly, “I.. you were screaming.”

He hums thoughtfully, nodding slowly as he flexes and relaxes his fingers like he’s just been in a brawl.

You don’t bother asking him what his nightmare was, you learned a long time ago he would never say. Joel is a man who keeps his demons close to his chest, as though speaking them aloud will breathe life into his deepest darkest fears.

An unsteady hand rakes down the back of your neck as you try to slow your breathing. Both of you are too alert to try to fall back asleep, not that it matters much anyways. It’s so late in the night that by the time you could fall back asleep, you’d be lucky to get another half hour of rest before it’s time to start your day.

“I never know what to do when you start crying like that,” you say, breaking the silence. “I just.. I can’t stand the sound of it, can’t stand the thought of you hurting in any way.”

Joel sighs again before gathering you in his arms and pulling you into his lap. You feel his lips against your forehead as your slide your legs to wrap around his hips. Tucking your face into his neck you breath in the smell of him. The faint scents of sandalwood and pine that linger on his collarbones calm your frazzled nerves.

The two of stay like this for a while, sitting in the stillness of the night with nothing but the sounds of your breathing to fill the room. His pulse thrums beneath his skin, still too fast for your liking.

“You don’t have to do anything darlin’,” he says after a while, “Just be with me. That’s all I need.”

You glance up at him through your lashes and find yourself mesmerized by how angelic Joel looks painted in the moonlight. Hair that was once brown, but is now over taken by dray sticks out wildly from being smushed against his pillow. His aquiline nose catches the light, painting shadows on his face. Instinctively, you run the tip of your finger along the bridge of it.

The contact makes him squeeze his eyes shut and his arms draw you closer to his broad chest. Shifting your weight, your raise yourself to press your forehead against his. His tears are have begun anew, spiling down his face as rubs his nose against yours. You raise your jaw to meet him, and Joel is quick to slot his mouth over yours. Cradling his face in your hands, your thumbs wipe away his fallen tears but they continue to flow and dampen your fingers.

Joel isn’t the type of man to say, ‘I love you’. The post-outbreak world has robbed him of that sort of softness. Instead he proves his devotion to you in other ways, and this is one of them. He is equal parts cold blooded killer and a deeply sensitive man, but the latter he only revealed to those he truly trusted.

Allowing himself to be vulnerable with you is louder than any declaration of love. Trusting you enough to keep his secrets—to see him cry—means more than any words he could say.

“Stay with me baby,” he breaths against your lips.

His kisses grow more and more heated until he’s peeling the oversized shirt from your body—one of his—and tosses it behind you. His calloused palms roam over the newly-freed skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

You can feel his cock stiffening through the thin cotton of your panties. Joel bucks his hips to grind against your core to elicit a gasp from you. The thin layer of fabric separating your bodies grows wetter with each cant of his hips, heightening each sensation until you’re moaning into his mouth.

Nimble fingers pluck at your nipples, and you’re moaning even louder. Joel answers each cry with a groan of his own, his cock pulsing beneath you with need. He works you up until your panties are absolutely drenched with your juices.

This isn’t the usual way Joel takes you, hurried and rough around the edges, his hunger for you so ravenous that it feels like it will consumes his entire being.

No, not tonight.

His touch is languid as his hands roam the hills and valleys of your body, as though he’s trying to commit every minute detail to memory. Every so often his fingers squeeze your plump flesh as he reminds himself that he’s awake. You and him are the only the thing that are real right now. The kisses he presses to your skin are a silent plea to stay in his arms—to stay his—for as long as this cruel world will allow.

“Don’t leave me,” he begs.

As if you would ever entertain the thought. You’re not sure when your love became symbiotic, but all you know is that if you tried to tear yourself from him, you would shatter in the process.

“I won’t,” you promise. Joel’s arm wraps around your waist, holding you close to his chest as he pulls his boxers down just enough to free his cock. He doesn’t bother removing your panties, he can’t be bothered to take time away from your body. Even so much as a millisecond would be too long to wait, so he pulls the dampened fabric aside. A shiver runs up your spine as the cool air caresses your flushed skin.

His nails drag against your skin as he holds your underwear in place, using it as an handle to guide your body where he wants you. The head of his cock of slides through your folds, smearing the precum that’s leaked from him against your already soaked cunt. Again, you moan for him, hoping to spur him on, but he wants to draw this out.

“Joel,” you urge against his lips.

He nips your bottom lip in response. Be patience.

Any other night, you’d whine and beg, work him up until he’s practically punishing you with his cock. ‘Fucking the brat right out of’ as he’s said on more than one occasion.

But right now, he needs to know you’re real, needs to know that whatever he saw in his nightmares was just a figment of his imagination. And the only way he can do that is to recenter himself in reality—in you.

“Promise me,” he whispers, “Promise me you’ll stay.”

“I’m right here, baby,” you assure him, your voice needy and high.

Enough of your slick coats his cock that he slides into you with relative ease. Well, easy enough considering the ample girth of his cock. The walls of your cunt ache with the stretch of him despite the countless hours Joel’s spent inside of you.

You cry out in relief as his pelvis grinds against your aching clit. It’s almost embarrassing how quickly he can work you up to the point that your body is screaming for his touch. He lets you set the pace for a while until your body adjust to him, easing the drag of your hips with the hand that holds your panties.

“Just like that darlin’,” he groans.

The praise spurs you on, and you suck air through clenched teeth as you try to speed up. Your arms are wrapped around his broad shoulders, your face contorted in pleasure as you take your fill of him.

“Fuck,” Joel hisses, “Need you so bad, darlin’.”

Now it’s his turn to set the pace, bouncing you on his cock until you wail from him slamming against your g-spot. His thrusts have you seeing stars, each lungful of air pushed from you just as you’ve gulped it down. Your spine arches to indulge in the way he ravages you, and Joel leans down to suck your nipple into his mouth.

Sharp teeth bite into your overheated skin, not so deep that they draw blood, but hard enough that you know you’ll have a bruise in the shape of his bite. He soothes the injured flesh with his tongue.

It won’t be the only bruise you’re left with. Despite Joel trying his best to be gentle, his hands grip you so tightly, you’ll have marks in the shape of his hands along your ribs and hips. In the days they take to heal, they’ll serve as welcome reminders that you’re his. All the while his cock is pounding into your wet heat, the slick sounds of him rutting up into you fill your ears.

His mouth travels up the slope of your neck to suck at your pulse point, nibbling at the skin until it too turns red and bruised from his efforts. Your hands rake through his hair, fingernails scratching his scalp as you grab at his sweat-damped tresses for leverage.

“Just like that, babe,” he pants against your neck, “Feels so fucking good.”

Grinding your clit against his curls at the base of his cock, you chase your high. Joel too is reaching his own peak, his hips stuttering with every thrust.

“D-don’t pull out,” you beg, “Cum inside me.”

Joel practically growls at your request, squeezing his arms around you tight so he can piston his cock into you. Stars fill your vision once more as you tumble over the edge, his name on your lips as you wail. A while hot orgasm rushes over you, leaving you limp in his hold. Soon after, Joel groans into your neck as his hips slow to a stop, his warm seed filling you up.

The two of you stay in this tight embrace for a while, too lost in the afterglow of your climax to part from each other. It’s easy to imagine the world is just the two of you, that you and Joel are the only people left in the world, and the only thing that matters is holding him close like this.

But all too soon, the sun will rise, and if you and Joel aren’t present and accounted for, someone will come looking. The greedy part of you wants to keep Joel all to yourself like this, satisfied and sweaty from your hedonistic embrace.

Without worries, without nightmares to plague his dreams.

When you finally float back into your body, you kiss the top of his head. Your fingers smooth through his untamed locks, and you whisper your ‘I love you’s against his scalp in a voice so small, you don’t think he can hear you.

“I’ll always be right here, Joel,” you remind him, “Right where you need me.”

He raises his face from your neck, and your heart clenches when you see he’s still crying. Your lips press to his forehead, his nose, under each of his eyes until his tears slow. If only Jackson could see your lover like this, his hard exterior shed like the clothes that litter your bedroom floor.

But you’re far too greedy for that, this Joel is for you and you alone. In these four walls, he belong to you, and you to him.

His arms relax around you slightly, still holding you close as he leans back against the pillows with you on his chest, all the while keeping his cock inside you. A pleased sigh leaves him as his thumb traces patterns along your spine.

“We could get a head start on chores for the day,” you muse as you press lazy kisses into his chest.

Joel scoffs at the idea, squeezing you to make sure you don’t get out of bed.

“I’d rather watch the sunrise with you, darlin’.”

[lotus-n-l0ve]

may i request a gun smut to feed my desires :< a wife!reader would be cute..

Look at me, shamelessly answering after months 🫣 honestly speaking, I have tried to write something with this so many times before but I just couldn't. My smut game is really bad 😮‍💨

TOUCH OF DELIGHT

— Gun Park x Wife!Female Reader

Its Not Smut It's Romance.

*⁠.⁠✧ SYNOPSIS : Just gun and his wife fucking.

*⁠.⁠✧ WARNINGS & TAGS : Smut, kissing, slight cockwarming, inappropriate language, unprotected sex, 633 words.

*⁠.⁠✧ — NAVIGATION // LOOKISM MASTERLIST

DON'T PRESS [KEEP READING] IF YOU ARE NOT COMFORTABLE. MINORS DNI, IF YOU DO THEN IT'S YOUR OWN RESPONSIBILITY.

The spacious room is dimmed with just the golden light of the lamps. Uncountable petals of red rose scattered all over the bed and floor. Gun sat on the fluffy bed with his back resting on the headboard while you straddled his lap. Your naked limbs entangled with each other, feeling each other up. His semi hard cock resting comfortably between your warm walls.

“Do you know how beautiful you are?” Your whisper cut through the silence of the night.

Gun hummed with his ever so deep voice as he admired you and let you do whatever you wanted. Your fingers caressed under the raven void for eyes. Only you could look at him, possibly the most dangerous gangster of Japan, and think of him to be adorable. Other people wet their pants at even a mention of his name.

Can't blame them though. After all you were the only one with whom Gun left himself so vulnerable. You could stab a knife through his chest and he would still believe that you did that to protect him. He just trusted you that much. Though his trust did not come easy. After years of hurdles, tears, angst and undying love did you two became one.

You held his cheek with both hands, placing feather-like kisses on his closed eyelids. His sturdy arms that were wrapped around your waist descended to grasp your hips on the side. Butterfly kisses drifted down to his swollen lips before taking his lips in a long, passionate kiss.

Gun returned the kiss with equal hunger. Your walls clench around him, making him groan. Gun tightened his grip on your hips and raised you up before slamming you down on his hard cock, making you moan embarrassingly loud in the process. The previous orgasm worked as lubricant as his dick slipped in and out smoothly.

Your moans mixed with his heavy grunts. It was not enough. Gun raised his hips desperately, meeting you in the middle. Seeking for relief. Frustrated, Gun slammed your back on the bed and hovered over you.

“Get ‘n your fuck’n knees.” Gun sneered, lipping his cock out. Though before you could move he flipped you like a sack and brought your ass up in the air and pushed his cock all the way in.

“Ah— gentle, Gun.” You yelp but your throbbing pussy said otherwise.

Gun held your hips and snapped his against your ass desperately. Stretching your wall real well. His heavy balls slapping on your clit and sending shivers down your spine.

“So fucki’n tight even after cumming that much earlier?” Gun taunted through clenched teeth.

A smack lands down on your ass, forcing a mewl out of you. You bury your head further into the pillow and clutch the bedsheet in a death grip. You were a babbling mess, too fucked out of your brain to make any sense since the night began. All you could do was moan and beg for a release.

“Fuck, fuck- Yuzuru, I can't—”

The soft moan of his name sent a rush of adrenal straight to his dick as he picked up the speed. That vein wrapped around his cock rubbed your inside making it harder for him to last.

“Come for me sweetheart, won't ya?” Gun hissed into your ears

Your toes curled up as he shot hot threads of seeds in your pussy, combining with your cum. Gun stayed in you for a few minutes. hysterical panting of you two filled the room. As his heart calmed down Gun pulled his dick. A whimper left your lips.

Gun stared at the white fluid oozed out, running down your tights and dripping onto the sheets. He scooped the liquid spread on your lips and shoved them back in your cunt. Exactly where they belong.

LIKED IT? THEN PLEASE LEAVE A LIKE, REBLOG & COMMENT. IT WOULD MEAN A LOT AND FOLLOW ME FOR MORE LIKE THESE. THANK YOU ♡

© 𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐔𝐒-𝐍-𝐋𝟎𝐕𝐄 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒, 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 — all content rights belongs to LOTUS-N-L0VE. do not plagiarise any works and do not repost or translate onto any other sites.

[koiiiji]

I dont want to die yet but if its by suffocating from Jake’s bicep I’ll gladly accept it 😫

-🪷 anon🤯🤯

it’s been a while 🪷 nonnie!! just randomly got something out of ur message bro🤭🤭

author’s note ; okay now serious topic, empty blogs, pls update at least something in your blogs - age, some info like “here for fics/reblogs/etc/“ or at least some pfp, otherwise i will recognize you as bot blogs and will block you, thank u!

꒰꒰・┄┄┄┄┄┄┄・♡・┄┄┄┄┄┄┄・꒱꒱

playful fights had never been something big you and Jake paid much attention to. it was always just you and him snuggling into each other, like two cats, lightly biting, hugging tighter than needed, and playfully punching. but this time felt different. the second you thought Jake wrapped his arm a little harder around your waist, a mischievous grin spread over your face. wriggling out of his grip, you saddled up his hips and placed your hands on his chest, inaugurating your victory in this little fight. "got you," - you grinned at him, looking from top to bottom at his surprised expression. Jake looked at you with wide-open eyes, a little amazed at your courage, but he immediately came to his senses and responded with the same insidious smile, grabbing your elbows.

"are you sure, baby?" - he teased, pulling you towards him and forcing you to lean down to his level. with a swift, practiced movement, he rolled over onto his side, making you gasp as you suddenly found yourself beneath him. the unexpected motion left you breathless, your heart pounding as he loomed above you. but you weren’t one to give up easily. using all your strength, you pushed against his chest, flipping him onto his back once more. a triumphant laugh bubbled up from your throat as you straddled him again, pinning his wrists above his head this time. "now i’ve got you," - you declared, a playful glint in your eyes. Jake chuckled, clearly enjoying the challenge. "oh, really?" - with a burst of energy, he broke free from your grip and rolled you back underneath him. you squealed in surprise as he hovered over you, a smug grin on his face. "looks like i’m back on top," - he said, leaning in to brush his lips against yours in a teasing kiss. you couldn’t help but laugh, the joy of the playful fight filling you both. refusing to let him have the last word, you managed to wriggle out from under him once more, using the element of surprise to wrap your legs around his hips and flip him over and climb on top yet again. "not for long," - you quipped, breathless but determined. Jake’s eyes sparkled with mischief as he wrapped his arms around your waist, this time moving with a fluid grace that left you no room to escape. in one smooth motion, he pulled you down, shifting his position so that your back was pressed against his chest. his large biceps encircled you, one arm slipping under your chin while the other wrapped around your shoulders, while his legs pushed your hands down. you found your face nestled in the crook of his elbow, his huge biceps squishing your cheeks and making it nearly impossible to move. Jake laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that reverberated through you. "looks like i’ve got you now," - he murmured, his voice filled with affectionate amusement. you tried to wriggle free, but his hold was firm, his strength undeniable. "Jake, i can’t move!" - you protested, your words muffled against his skin.

"that’s the point," - he replied, chuckling as he tightened his grip just enough to keep you in place without causing discomfort. "i’ve taken over your head. you’re not going anywhere." despite your best efforts, you couldn’t help but laugh along with him. the sensation of his biceps pressing into your cheeks was oddly comforting, and you found yourself relaxing into his embrace. "okay, okay, you win," - you conceded, your voice tinged with playful resignation. Jake pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his laughter dying down to a contented hum. "i always do," - he said softly, his arms still wrapped securely around you. "but you put up a good fight.”

Jake laughed, the sound warm and genuine, and he rolled onto his side, pulling you with him so you were both lying face-to-face. he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering as he traced the outline of your jaw, his eyes twinkling with mischief once more.

you snuggled closer, burying your face in the crook of his neck, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat against your cheek. "i can live with that," you whispered, contentment washing over you as you basked in the warmth of his embrace.

꒰꒰・┄┄┄┄┄┄┄・♡・┄┄┄┄┄┄┄・꒱꒱

bonus : bro i got some ur and Jake photos here, i swear🥺😭🫶🏻🎀🩰💒🧺🧶🧸🐈🧴💌

[driaswrld]

🪷 — A ROYAL AFFAIR . . . THE SCANDAL OF THE CHILDHOOD CONSORT

LADY DRIA WRITES . . . ˚ ༘ *

🪷 dearest gentle reader, in matters of love and longing, prince satoru comes to the realization that love may only visit the fearless, whilst prince suguru comes to terms with the taste of hope on his tongue... 5k words.

🪷 prince gojo x reader x prince geto jjk regency/royal au, romeo & juliet esque balcony meeting, fruit flavored jealousy.

CHAPTER TWO. . . ˚ ༘ *

GRAPE FLAVORED.

Sleep eludes you tonight.

Two nights have passed since the first feast and despite Areta’s consistent chatter of appearances and well needed fun time for a lady of your stature — you’ve chosen not to attend the others for the time being.

You’re assured that Satoru’s presence at the feasts and balls in between remain slim to none unless called upon by his mother, a notion that you would be grateful for under any other circumstance to dodge the question everyone at the palace court whispers behind your back—

( why hasn’t the prince married her yet? )

—but you miss him.

Embarrassingly so.

With palms outstretched, you cradle your weight against the concrete rail of the terrace adjoined to your bedroom. A wisp of wind cooling your cheeks, realization settling in.

You miss Satoru — your best friend, your person.

You miss when he’d sleepily stumble into your alcove by the palace’s west wing and lay dramatically before you, begging you to paint him or at least sketch the width of his shoulders ; begging you to 'immortalize the omnipotent beauty of the realm’s strongest' — his words not yours.

The way he’d linger by your side, laugh at your jokes and make even cruder ones of his own—

This yearning settled deep within your bones akin to that of a grieving widow doesn’t feel the way it should feel when one misses a friend.

( satoru does not yearn for you in this way, you know it. )

It’s hot, a boiling pit within your stomach and it never leaves your veins—

—not until two nights ago, that is.

Two nights ago when he reappeared.

“Your highness?”

Dearest gentle reader,

in these delicate matters

of love and longing—

“My lady,” Suguru calls out in a similarly hushed fashion. “You're awake.”

Down below the terrace, he stands on the trimmed lawn in his sleep trousers and shirt, dark hair tousled and eyes half lidded — you would've laughed at him if the air between you two hadn't settled with something else.

“I couldn't sleep,” you respond, watching with bated breath as he steps forward, one foot resting atop a raised brick in the mud, eyes trained above, where you stand.

“You often take late strolls, your grace?”

Suguru laughs, breathy, soft. “Your grace,” he repeats your words, mockingly. A few dark strands fall over his eyes as he tilts his head back to look up at you. “You’d think having me in my sleeping trousers alone would be enough for you to discard all formalities—”

( right, this encounter is improper. )

“Forgive me, Suguru,” leaves your lips in correction. You lean further over the terrace rail, body bent in near half to gaze down at him. “It isn't often I speak with men while in my dressing gown.”

“Dear God, I hope not.”

A laugh of your own breaks through and he joins in unison.

So far, and yet so close.

A soft silence soon passes over the two of you under the moonlight.

Suguru, who’d been away for so long, could make years of absence feel null — as if he’d been residing here with you all this time. As if he had been keeping your company in tow, as if the breath of your laugh belonged to him.

As if he hadn't left you.

“I wondered,” Suguru breaks the silence, pale fist wrapping around a stray vine along the wall. “If I would get the chance to speak with you like this.” He whispers, but even from so high above, you hear him clearly in the night's silence.

You know what he means. Just us two. You’ve wondered the same, albeit too often through the years.

Why didn't you write to me? You want to ask. Why didn't you come to visit? Follows next in your brain. Did you move on? Did you fall in love?

( have you been happy away from me? )

“Did you read my letters?”

—often we forget

just how greedy

the heart can be.

“All of them,” Suguru breathes, almost like it hurts to say.

As if it pains him physically to remember how he tore the wax seals open with his teeth, licked the flap of the envelopes and nearly cried when it tasted of you—

“More than once, more than I ought to.”

Suguru grips the vine tighter in his fist, stilling himself and invoking restraint. This isn't his place, not anymore.

If he had it his way, he’d be on the terrace with you, and he’d tell you every thought he had about each word you’d written, with his hands, his teeth, his tongue.

“Suguru. . .”

It reminds you too much of your childhood.

Often you would chase after Satoru and Suguru.

Always both, never one.

And though you knew your fate as a Princess — who would marry a crowned Prince — your foolish heart, so greedy and naive. . .

“I have my obligations.” It leaves your lungs like a lie, something you won't even begin to believe.

You're betrothed to Satoru. It's set in stone.

But the both of you know that's not why you're saying no. “The solstice ends in a week and you will be—” He'll be gone again.

“I’ll not wait a whole week.” Suguru’s voice is still quiet, but even you can't deny the raw hunger behind his words. “If I apologize and say that I wish—”

“You will do no such thing,” you warn, shakily. “Not now, not. . . because of this.” Not because in nearly every way that matters, you’re Satoru’s.

( i wish i told you. i wish i wasn't too late. i wish )

Suguru wished he had stayed.

He wished he had made do on the promises he made to you as children and been at your side, not just as your friend but as the man you would marry—

All those things he had sworn upon his own heart. . .

“Who’ll marry you if you spend your days swinging a sword and broadening your shoulders?”

“And if I say I will, what then?” Suguru had scoffed at your cousin back then. At the mere age of twelve.

“Aren’t there girls your age you can follow around? I don’t care if you’re a princess, we’re not friends.”

“Don't be so crass, Satoru.” Suguru grumbled, grabbing ahold of your hand and tugging you forward the moment you fell behind. “She's my friend.”

( and yet. )

Lady Dria writes : Prince Geto to assume royal estate in the North following rumored betrothal to mystery woman! Is this the end of our beloved royal trio?

( duty came first. )

“I don’t know why you’d believe he’d ever want to court you.”

“I’ll let you keep your tongue,” Satoru scoffed, stepping between you and one of the ladies at court the day after Suguru left. “But address the Princess so loosely again and I swear—”

That night, you cried in the confines of Satoru’s private chambers, your fingers bleeding ink and red wax staining the front of your dress.

What was her name? How long had Suguru known it was arranged? Why didn't he tell you? If you ask him now, will he tell you? Is he ever coming back?

Does he love her?

And it was then, when you didn't have any more words to write, nothing left to say to Suguru that he might not have known, did Satoru tell you,

“I’m here.”

And you believed him.

“Name—” Suguru calls to you and you shake your head, straightening your posture and leaning off the terrace rail. “I wanted to say it before, you were gorgeous at the first solstice feast. . . Still are, even after so long.”

Suguru bites back the words he really wanted to say. I dreamt of you, you look the same.

“You flatter me,” it leaves you breathily, and the beats of your heart elude your better judgement.

“Perhaps, silken gloves suit you, my lady.” Suguru's words hold an undertone that’s lost on you in the moment, yet still you smile at him.

He doesn't see the expression on your face when you turn away, craning his neck to find something— some inclination that he has a chance—

“Goodnight, your highness.” In your voice he finds it, that small sliver of nostalgia, and his heart grasps it in earnest.

Beloved reader,

I fear I must also

impart the knowledge—

Satoru stops dead in his tracks, a single peach colored rose falling from his palm.

—that there are always

three sides to a story.

From across the way his cerulean eyes lock with Suguru’s darker ones, and there is nothing to be said, as they both know what the other is thinking.

You are not worthy of her.

Morning gives way to the first of three hunting days.

As per the terms of the competition, all commoners go ahead before nobles to keep the proceedings fair.

Satoru sits still atop his horse, cerulean orbs downcast and flitting through the mass of bodies in the crowd riding ahead of him.

“Have you and Suguru finally fought?”

Satoru’s eyes widen for a brief moment, turning his head to the side and loosening his grip on the horse’s reins, his mother standing at his side, caressing the mare’s mane with jewel adorned fingers.

“I’ve no idea what you mean, mother.”

The older woman scoffs, the horse leaning eagerly into the touch of her palm.

“When you and Suguru were but meek babes, you two had your first fight you know.” Satoru’s mother smiles a little at the memory.

Back then, both boys were merely toddlers and squabbling with tiny fists over nothing but a simple rattle.

Neither would concede to the other.

Even so young, they fought as they still do to this day. As rivals, as best friends.

“Did I win?” Satoru asks, lifting his gaze to the scenery of dawn before him, drowning out the eager shouts of men and women alike, placing their bets for the competition to come.

“No,” she responds and Satoru’s lips curl into a small frown. “The rattle you fought over snapped in two, ‘toru.”

This isn't about a rattle, is it?

“I won't concede, if that’s what you’ve come to ask of me.” He affirms, and his mother shakes her head, stifling a laugh.

“She isn't a rattle, nor is this a battlefield—” Satoru’s mother is observant, painfully so. “I asked your father to arrange the match myself for the sole purpose that I know you care for her, and I would not subject you to a fate not of your choosing—”

( she can choose, whereas a rattle could not. that is the sole difference is it not? )

“But you would have me sit here and let her choose him?”

Satoru Gojo is many things.

Selfish, spoiled, strong. Greedy even.

He fights for what he wants and he remains determined to win no matter what.

But when it comes to you. . .

Doting reader,

our beloved Prince Satoru

has yet to realize—

“I did not raise a selfish fool. Maybe a proud fool but not a selfish one—” She smacks the side of his leg to which he immediately recoils with a pout on his lips. “You never win love, you earn it.”

As if love can be akin to fleeting favor.

“I am selfish,” Satoru confirms, not shy of shame though. “She would hate me for it, if she doesn't already.” He hangs his head for a brief moment, a puff of a sigh leaving his parted lips. “But can you blame me?”

Satoru is many things.

But not blind.

How can he tell you that he cares for you, that he’s fallen helplessly and carelessly in love with you knowing that he’d be imprisoning you to a fate he loathes?

Whispers behind your back the more you are seen with him or without, the more he puts off the betrothal, the more he leaves your side the more he hopes you’ll learn you don't want him—

That this life, at this palace is less than you deserve.

And yet. . .

—that love is not

a war you march into

of your own accord.

He’s selfish.

“Have you asked her what she wants?”

No, because he’s afraid you’ll say what he wants you to. That you don't want him.

That by the hour you grow more miserable the more he keeps you waiting, tethered by a short thread just waiting to snap—

Satoru convinced himself that if he waited just a little longer, that maybe you’d grow tired and snap the thread all together in one go.

And then the marriage wouldn't happen, you’d contest it and he'd agree. He could keep you close like before, without breaking your heart, even at the cost of his.

“Satoru.” His mother warns, deep azure boring into the side of his face. “That debutant at the dinner—” God forbid she did raise a selfish fool, who would selfishly self sabotage—

“I never touched her.”

“You say that and then you do these things as if I'm to be convinced you've changed.” His mother sighs, as if history has come around to repeat itself. “You don't even realize you're clutching your end too tight.”

And you’ll break if he doesn't let go.

“I can't tell her.”

“You must.”

Who is he to condemn you to the life of a Queen?

In the same way his father did his mother?

That spark in your eyes will go dim, and he’ll watch you give yourself to your duty and it’ll kill him, even worse than you not wanting him will.

He’d prefer you hate him altogether.

“Are you happy with father?”

Darling reader,

perhaps love

only visits the fearless.

“Your father is a good man.”

Satoru would rather die by his own hand before he hears those words from your lips too.

“My lady?”

You visibly wince, cowering behind one of the marble columns in the ballroom.

The few chandeliers that provide light do little to help your situation as Areta’s voice had already notified a few of the dancing nobles of your presence — to which you were met with confused stares.

“Please, keep your voice down.” You hush her, sliding around to the other side of the column where Areta stands, eyes wide and curious.

Areta’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, her lips parting, about to question your odd behavior.

You're hiding. Or at least trying to.

You had no choice in coming to tonight's festivities, as you were already knee deep in your pre-arranged afternoon nap when your dearest mother barged in and asked ( read : demanded ) that you attended tonight's ball to quote en quote ‘keep up appearances.’

With much practiced skill, you’ve eluded Satoru and Suguru by barring yourself in your room recently.

But, cowering behind a column won't get you far, right?

“I don't think hiding is what I mean when I encouraged you to have fun, my lady.” Areta speaks hushedly, joining you behind the column, two full glasses clutched between her fingers. “And if it’s the Prince who you—”

“Oh, spare me, which one?” You chuckle, tilting your head back onto the marble with an eye roll.

“You’ve had trouble with Prince Geto too?” Areta gasps, though not shocked, the young girl's eyes gloss over with curiosity — ever the devoted gossip.

( perhaps if you stay here and sip drinks with Areta, no one will even notice your presence ! )

Devoted reader,

our protagonist

has a pattern of

terrible judgement.

“Hardly trouble, I’m afraid.” You take one of the glasses from Areta’s hands and bring the rim to your nose — grape juice. How fitting. “Trouble would be better, I can handle trouble.”

What you can't handle is both your childhood friends driving you mad with feelings you never even knew existed.

One who torments you with mixed signals and provokes new feelings in the pit of your stomach.

And another who stirs and awakens old feelings inside of you that you thought were long lost.

“Well, I doubt trouble is what you need presently, my lady.” Areta chuckles a little, her voice soon trailing off as she takes a sip of her own drink. “Oh! You wore them—”

“I thought perhaps,” You murmur, more to yourself, fingers fiddling with the edge of your silk gloves – the same black ones from a few nights ago. “I’d wear them once more before I set them aside.”

Now that you think about it, Satoru never said anything about the dress or the gloves — not that it matters to you anyway.

Faithful reader,

it matters.

Too much.

“They're quite beautiful, as are all Prince Satoru’s gifts.” Areta affirms with a soft smile as you drink from your glass, leaning off the column and straightening your posture. “But, I thought he usually had more of an affinity for lace—”

“I was called?”

You jump just a little, turning immediately to meet the source of the intrusion, to which you bump straight into Satoru, spilling the contents of your cup on both of you.

“I’m sorry—” “Grape juice—”

You take a few steps back, immediately crouching to retrieve your fallen cup, but Areta beats you to it, not shy of shooting you a quick wink before she scurries off into the crowd. Deviant.

“You don't like the wine tonight?” Satoru hums, outstretching a hand to pull you to your feet, and you hesitate for a moment.

Only for a moment.

“I didn't think drinking would be wise,” You take his hand, silk sliding soft against his awaiting palm. You don't miss the way his shoulders tighten. “And grape juice—”

“Is your preferred drink of choice, I know.” He finishes, cerulean orbs gazing into your very soul.

You can feel the thrum of his pulse speeding up against your fingertips, calling you, like a siren song. . .

( you should've stayed in bed tonight. )

Admittedly, Satoru was never the type to drink either. He could never hold his alcohol, hated the taste, even if it was just a drop in fermented fruit.

Grape juice was his drink of choice.

And then it became yours.

“I’m sorry, again.” It leaves your lips in a hurry as you look away from him, pulling your hand back as soon as you're upright. “My head must've been somewhere else. . .” Last night on the terrace. Your mind remains there.

Is Suguru going to magically appear too?

You furiously rub a fist over the purple stain forming at the front of your gown. “I need to change my dress—”

“It's not your fault, silk can be slippery.” Satoru bites back a grunt, bringing a palm to your elbow as he guides you off to the side, towards the adjacent corridor. “Come, I’ll help.”

Silk.

( what's his problem with the gloves? )

You follow his lead, a sigh escaping your lips as you both come upon the nearest alcove in the dim light.

You can barely see the velvet cushioning of the sofa tucked away neatly in the back.

The soft moonlight falling through the open window brings a sense of calm when you take a seat, eyes catching on the violet smudge against Satoru’s pearl white vest.

Often in your youth between balls, you, Satoru and Suguru would sneak off to the nearest alcove you could find, pry the window open and sit together on the sill—

“Your vest—” He follows your gaze as he bends a knee, kneeling at your feet casually.

Satoru presses his middle finger over the damp fabric, and unabashedly sticks the digit into his mouth. “Mhm, that's grape juice.”

“Satoru!” You scold.

He only laughs, strands of snowy hair bouncing with each shake of his shoulders. It's a very Satoru-like laugh, but there's something else you can't quite place—

“It's just a juice spill, I’ll live.” Satoru’s smile dips into his cheeks. Dimples. “Hated this stupid thing anyway, I should be thanking you for ridding me of it,” he murmurs, rolling his shoulders back to slip the vest off, muscles taut against his shirt with each movement of his arms.

“Hey— hey—!” You raise your palms to push against his chest to stop him, heat rising at the back of your neck. “Don't do that—” It comes out too late because Satoru is in the middle of rolling the vest off his arms. "You can't just undress—"

The way Satoru only leans forward, shades of azure searching your gaze for something, it's like he's daring you to not look away as he slips the vest off his arms bent behind him.

( why did you run away from me? )

You hold his gaze, the longest you have in days, manicured nails digging into the fabric of his shirt.

( why didn't you give chase? )

“Name,” he whispers, as if he’s holding back, but he refuses to look away from you. Not right now.

“Don't look at me like that, ‘toru. . .” You whisper, and it takes everything inside you not scream at him, to say everything you've been wanting to say, everything that's burning your insides.

( don't look at me as if you know desire. )

“Name.” Satoru calls your name, firmer this time, just as his vest drops to the floor behind him.

His knees burn, or maybe his eyes — he doesn't know, his mouth has gone dry and oxygen eludes him.

He's not how he was in your youth.

Satoru slides a pale hand up to grasp one of your palms against his chest, pads of his fingers hooking under the dark silk, and in one fluid motion, he's pulling the glove off your hand.

“That's disrespectful,” you breathe, voice barely audible, the echo of classical instruments sauntering through the vacant corridor. “You can't have two times the favor in any competition—”

“It's not your favor I want.” Satoru grasps the silk in his palm, biting back a grimace.

I’m jealous, he wants to say. Instead he leans closer, and without letting go of your bare hand, he’s aiming to toss the glove over your shoulder and out the window.

“Satoru—!” You retract your hand from his chest to paw at the glove, trying to get it back, and his breath tickles the skin of your throat, his eyes looking down at you, only this time a few shades darker — royal blue, cobalt.

Perhaps, silken gloves suit you, my lady.

( so that's what suguru meant. . . )

“Are you—”

“Jealous? Me? Never.” Satoru rasps the words out like a cancer, his heart seizing and doing somersaults against his ribcage.

“I have to commend Suguru though, the North does make the finest silk. . . Any lady would be glad for such a gift,” he whispers. Even praising Suguru is like an act of surrender to him.

“I wasn't going to say jealous, my Prince.” Your brain melts to a mush of questions.

Satoru isn't jealous because of you— no, that can't be right— he’d be jealous if someone bet on the same horse race as him and won—

( you’re thinking too much, name. )

It's the assessment of his audacity that has the back of your neck heated.

Satoru bites down on his bottom lip, and for a second he squeezes his eyes shut.

Everything burns, it's a miracle he can still see straight.

“What were you going to say?”

You swallow, hard.

Satoru’s face is so close to yours that every word he speaks reverberates through your being like electricity. “I was going to ask if you were okay.” A half truth, really. "Your vest is stained—"

First, you were going to ask if he’d lost his damn mind.

“God, name.” Satoru grunts, dropping the glove dramatically onto the velvet sofa, instead moving his hand to cage you between his arms, his hips against the outerskirts of your dress. “You don't even know what you're doing. . .”

His lips curve into a smile, dimpled cheeks staring back at you.

“Satoru—” It’s innocent enough, the way he leans forward enough to press the side of his face against your cheek.

It’s innocent enough, the way his hand grips your hip, firm and reassuring, the way he’d guide you on horseback. You only pretended not to be good so he'd teach you.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes against the shell of your ear, his lips soft against your burning skin.

“Do you even know all the ways a woman can be seduced?” It's a sultry tease that has your nails digging into the sofa under you.

Silk gloves, he wants to say. Men seduce women with silk.

Satoru dips his head in a swift motion, his mouth planting a ghost of a kiss to the corner or your lips, and his dimples deepen when your head moves forward to chase his taste, something you’ve never had but crave with every inch of your being.

“Satoru.” You whisper, desperate. He hates himself for wanting this so bad.

He doesn't make you wait long as he presses his lips to yours, it's rough, hungry — he sighs into your mouth, shoulders drooping like he’s finally found what he's been searching for all his life on your tongue.

He’s kissed you before, on the cheek, side of your neck, corner of your mouth — tasted the salty tears of your youth, licked his lips and drank in the remnants of your flavored lipgloss.

He was too young then, too foolish, too afraid to want more.

Satoru’s tongue slips past your parted lips, teeth on wet pink muscle and a shiver runs down his spine when he tastes you, truly tastes you for the first time.

Grape flavored and starving.

Your hand reaches for the collar of his shirt to tug him closer, to pull him deeper into you.

Slender fingers wrap around your wrist and your body trembles, unravelling, unravelling for him until—

He stops.

“Name,” Satoru breathes it in a broken whine, lips wet and swollen with you, each exhale he makes tickles your chin. “We have to stop.”

He’s made a mistake. A foolish one.

“‘Toru, it's okay,” you urge him, moving to pull him closer but his grip on your wrist tightens, keeping you still.

A frown forms on your lips when you see his gaze downcast, unable to meet you, and that gleam in his eyes — guilt.

“We should stop.”

Darling reader,

we all know

how the saying goes. . .

“Why?” The way it leaves your mouth so innocently, so small, in the same tone you had when you were little, chasing behind him no matter how he tried to leave you behind—

( why won't you look at me? )

It makes Satoru hate himself more.

“I’m a gentleman.” Satoru clears his throat and rises to his feet, folding his vest haphazardly over his arm. “You're a lady— a Princess— I can't just. . .”

“You can't just what?” Satoru doesn't recognize the bite behind your voice, the thread he kept toying at with razor blades finally thinning out, ready to snap and break apart. “You can't take me in a dark corridor as you do the other girls?”

He sputters.

It is that. But it's also so much more.

“Princess—”

“No.”

Nothing has changed. And you're not stupid, maybe slow, but never stupid. This isn't about a grape juice spill. It isn't about titles or being respectable.

( it’s about the three of you. )

Is it jealousy? Is this all about a stupid pair of gloves? About his pride? Why? Because he won't let Suguru win even if it means—

“Look at me.” Satoru is slouching in front of you, holding out his palm for you to take. He’s sincere, raw. “I swear to you, the way I feel about you cannot be likened to a secret in a corridor.”

( and yet, you always wished you were one of those girls with him in a dark corridor. )

. . . it's all downhill

from the first kiss.

“Your excuses again—” Satoru steps back when he feels silk stinging against his outstretched palm in a slap of rejection.

The glove he pulled off your hand, the glove Suguru gave to you, falls to the floor.

“And what even is it that you feel?” Your tone reverberates through his bones and Satoru’s considering finding purchase on his knees, where he’d show you what exactly he feels, he'd drink you in, drown in you and be done with the aftermath. “Do you enjoy this? Making me feel like a fool while you stay the bachelor—”

“This engagement was never my choice!” Satoru’s tone raises an octave, brows dipped and frown deep. “And I never—”

That's not what he means to say, not now.

( i never touched another since i laid awake thinking of you. )

“And that's why you won't touch me? Because I'm not your choice, I'm your duty?”

“God, ofcourse I want to touch you—” A guttural groan leaves him then, a rumble in the back of his throat. “If you would just understand—”

He’s a gentleman. Is what he says every waking moment he spends lying to himself that this is for you, that this is for your own good. . .

Because he knows—

( if he touched you now, he’d never stop. )

“Even now you can't say it.” How long have you known Satoru? How long have you been by his side, or rather, chased after him while he remained out of your reach? How long— “That you want me.”

It's almost comical, the way Satoru’s breath hitches in the back of his throat and the palm at his side forms a fist.

He wants you.

“Say it.”

Tell me you want me, tell me it’s me, tell me you feel what I feel too—

“I can't.”

You don't deserve this, I can't give you what you want, hate me so it hurts a little less—

You rise to your feet, the grape juice bleeding into your dress forgotten. “I always thought you were the bravest person to ever live. . .” The strongest. Prince Satoru, the realm’s omnipotent son — “You’ve fought in all these wars and you’ve fought and fought—”

Ever since you were children.

Satoru was every bit a soldier, princely and polished to perfection with his blade. He’s never lost a battle, you're sure, poets write about him.

( what does it feel like to be fought for? )

“Why won't you fight for me, Satoru?”

Satoru Gojo is many things.

Selfish, spoiled, strong. Greedy even.

He fights for what he wants and he remains determined to win no matter what.

But when it comes to you. . .

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Sorry, I’m so selfish. Sorry, I don't want you to leave. Sorry, it should be me and not him.

Sorry, I'm paralyzed in love with you.

He’s not asking you to stay.

This is what he wanted, right? For you to hate him — who is he kidding, you wouldn't hate him even if tried to make you — for you to realize he isn't what you need.

“You won't even give me one reason to stay.” Your throat hurts, you can still taste his tongue in your mouth, grape and mint, mint and grape. “Of all things, I never thought you to be such a damn coward—”

“I’m the Prince, for fucks sake!”

Your lips part then shut again, and Satoru takes a step back. This barrier between you two was always there, wasn't it? Invisible, cold to the touch.

Don't question me, I'm the Prince, he had said the day you asked him why, why can't I come play with you and Suguru?

( why won't you let me in? what are you so afraid of? )

“Then if it pleases the Prince,” It comes out shakier, in a voice that's barely your own.

Satoru picks it up before you do, you sound like a child — the same way you used to when he left you behind. “I’d like to be dismissed.”

The Prince.

Not your Prince.

( does a heart make noise when it shatters? )

“No,” Satoru steps forward, and you step back. It's like a sick game now, and with every thrum of his heart he swears he’ll die. “Name— just. . . no.”

He’s selfish. He knows that.

After this you’ll run off to Suguru won't you? And he’ll be there with open arms and words as soft as silk—

Satoru would know. Because he did the same thing once Suguru left.

But that was before it was this, before this was everything, before—

“Then forgive my defiance to the crown tonight.” You murmur and turn away, the glove is left behind.

Satoru is left behind.

You never win love, you earn it.

L’Incomparable is hardly the jewel on Satoru’s mind when you walk away from him for the second time.

( before he knew he loved you. )

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[fairene]

i'm not dead!!!

just... y'know...

busy.

outlining.

lando dad will soon be available at your local convenience.

[cieloclercs]

Eternal life

Oscar piastri x russian figure skater

the ice queen — oscar piastri

pairing. oscar piastri x russian figure skater!reader

face claim. alina zagitova

warnings. swearing, google translate russian (im sorry), look guys i know the winter olympics were last year but for the sake of this they’re this year ok ?? 🙏 i used pictures from oscar’s sprint podium in spa for singaore (which obviously isn’t accurate plz overlook it hehe)

author’s note. hello anon! i hope you enjoy this, sorry it took so long ❤️

requests are still open for my 1k event! send something in if you’d like <3

liked by oscarpiastri and 76,264 others

yourusername swipe for a fail 🥴

view all comments…

yourfriend1 pleased to announce i got said fail on video ☺️

yourusername if you ever show that to anyone i’ll smother you in your sleep.

yourfriend1 wow 😃

yourfriend2 i feel like one of those aesthetic skater pinterest girls in the second picture

yourusername we definitely pulled off the pinterest girlie vibes 👍👍

yourcoach очень продуктивная сессия! 👍 / very productive session !

yourusername я знаю точно 😃 / i know right

username yourcoach i’m sensing some sarcasm 🤔

username no shit sherlock 🙄

username MY FAV TRIO IS BACKKKK

username girllll are you competing at the winter olympics ?? i won’t take no for an answer btw you better be there. 🔪

yourusername in that case yes !!! 😀

username olympic champion 🔜

yourusername 😉

username hold up what’s oscar doing here? 🤨

username who tf is oscar

username oscar piastri, he’s a formula 1 driver for mclaren

username and he’s lurking in MY WIFE’S likes?? get tf out of here he drives cars in circles for a living 😭😭

username can you blame him tho y/n’s this total badass skating GODDESS and he’s just a silly little aussie like ofc he’s infatuated with her 😒😒😒

username guys all he did was like her post no need to create an entire backstory out of it 😭 they’re both highly successful sportspeople so they probably just mix in the same circles from time to time 🤷‍♀️

username boo you’re ruining my fun 🙄

username МОЯ ЛЕДЯНАЯ КОРОЛЕВА 🩵 / MY ICE QUEEN

username word on the street is oscar’s liking this girlie’s post 🤔🤔 now i just have to figure out who she is 😃

username girl u can’t be serious 😭

username how do u not know who y/n is are you living under a rock

username no?? should i know who she is?? 😭

username erm YES

username i simultaneously love and hate how this oscar dude has liked ONE y/n post and suddenly all the f1 fangirls have appeared 😭 go find a hobby plz i beg you x

username jokes on you, stalking potentially new f1 wags IS our hobby

username that’s quite possibly the saddest thing i’ve ever read

username as both an f1 and a skating fan, OSCAR GIRLIES I BEG YOU PLEASE DONT DRAG Y/N INTO THIS IK HOW CRAZY Y’ALL CAN GET

username babe what are they gonna do 😭 she’s y/n y/l/n she has like universal immunity from haters lol

username you’re clearly not an f1 fan and it SHOWS 😭😭

username sweetie i’ve watched the f1 girlies single handedly DESTROY relationships do not underestimate them

username ^^ does anyone know if they’re being dramatic or not??

username long-time f1 fan here !! trust me, they’re not.

liked by yourusername and 23,815 others

oscarpiastri Ready to shine in Singapore 🇸🇬🤩

view all comments…

username LET’S GOOO OSCAR

username podium loading…

username i’ve got £50 riding on you getting a podium don’t let me down 💪💪

username so this is oscar piastri… 🤨

username uh oh the skater girls have arrived 😨

username *y/n girls

username no one gets into y/n’s inner circle without our approval first 🤭

username and you called US sad 😭

username how the fuck is this guy expecting to be able to pull a queen like y/n 😭😭

username seriously he looks so silly 🥴

username guys he only liked her post they probably don’t even know each other 🙄 stop making drama out of nothing jeez

username yikes someone sounds jealous…

username he looks goofy, next please 😒

yourfriend1 literally what i said smh

username PHAHAHA WHAT

username girl 😭

username i hate to break it to you oscar, the y/n girls are never going to accept you x

username yeah sorry babe, you’re just not worthy of our ice queen 😘

username the way y/n’s literally a thousand leagues above him 😔😔 the pain of being a badass bitch 🥲

username BACK OFF FROM MY WIFE Y/N YOU DONT DESERVE HER

username y’all are crazy what 😭

username imagine thinking THIS GUY stands a chance with the hottest woman alive and future olympic champion 😭😭 i’d be so embarrassed 😭

username he looks like a capybara tf

username STOP PHAHAHHA WHY DO I SEE IT

username lmao if y/n and oscar ever do end up dating he’s not going to live this down 😭

landonorris oscarpiastri since when did you become enemy number 1 to the ice skating community

oscarpiastri 🤷‍♀️

username LANDO OH MY GOD 😭

username PHAHAHHAA HE KNOWS THEY BOTH KNOW

username poor oscar getting dragged by the most intense fandom on earth 😭

yourusername 🧡

oscarpiastri 😊👑

username WOAH WOAH WOAH

username THEYRE INTERACTING OMG EVERYONE STAY CALM

username EXCUSE ME THE CROWN EMOJI?? HES ACKNOWLEDGING THE QUEEN AS HE SHOULD

username no.

username this can’t be happening

username oscarpiastri LEAVE MY WIFE ALONE BITCH 🤺🤺

username y/n you’ve just made everything so much worse 😭

yourusername

replies:

oscarpiastri cute cap, where’d you get it?

↳ yourusername this weird australian guy gave it to me. idk i would have preferred a number 4 🤷‍♀️

↳ oscarpiastri you sure? i heard number 81’s the favourite for a podium this week 😏

↳ yourusername we’ll see 🙃

liked by yourusername and 50,367 others

oscarpiastri First ever F1 podium 🧡 Let’s keep them coming 😉

view all comments…

username YES OSCARRRRR

username my driver 🧡🫶

username LEGEND 🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺

landonorris congrats mate! the extra motivation did you some good 😉

oscarpiastri it sure did :)

username excuse me? 🤨

username lando. what do u know.

username i bet this has something to do with y/n

username girl bffr 🙄

username LANDO I JUST WANNA TALK (tell me what u know rn.) 🔫🔫

mclaren Doing us proud 🥹🧡

*oscarpiastri liked this comment

username best rookie since hamilton button >>>

*liked by yourusername and 5,217 others

carlitosalcarazz Congratulations, amigo! 😁

oscarpiastri Thanks mate! 😊😊

username AUSSIE AUSSIE AUSSIE

username the y/n girlies have been real quiet so far 🤨

username they’re finally realising oscar isn’t just some nobody 😭

username he might not be a nobody but one podium still doesn’t make him good enough 🥰

username y’all are psycho i swear 😭

yourfriend1 ok maybeee he’s not that bad 🙄🙄

*yourusername liked this comment

username omg the y/f/n seal of approval ??? ITS HAPPENING

username calm down nothing’s happened yet 😭 as far as we know they’re not even friends lmao let alone dating

username girl did you even see y/n’s story she was literally in the mclaren garage repping oscar’s merch 😭😭

yourusername incredible 🧡

oscarpiastri Thank you for your support today 🧡 Hope you liked the cap 😊

username wait hold on a second OSCAR GAVE HER THAT CAP???

username HES GIVING HER HIS MERCH NOW??

username oh they DEFINITELY into each other 😏

username oscar’s such a simp oh my god she turns up to one race and he’s giving her his merch 😭😭 what a dork

username i mean it’s y/n y/l/n can you blame him 🤷‍♀️

username i fear we’ve lost her y/n nation 😔

username as much as it pains me to say it i think you might be right 🥲

username i just can’t believe we’ve lost her to a guy who drives in circles for a living 🙄

username doesn’t y/n skate in circles? the shade works both ways honey 😚

liked by oscarpiastri and 90,712 others

yourusername thank you for having me mclaren 🥰 and congratulations to oscarpiastri on your first f1 podium !! i had a blast 🧡🧡

view all comments…

mclaren Glad to have you on board, champ 🧡 See you again soon 😉

*yourusername liked this comment

landonorris you do know oscar’s not the only mclaren driver right 😃

yourusername the only mclaren driver with a podium this week though 🙃

oscarpiastri Thank you Y/N 😊🧡

yourusername 🫶

comments on this post have been limited.

months later…

oscarpiastri

replies:

landonorris ice queen? 🤨

↳ oscarpiastri of course

↳ landonorris simp.

yourusername

replies:

oscarpiastri ouch ☹️

↳ yourusername just telling you what you need to hear, babe ☺️

liked by oscarpiastri and 112,678 others

yourusername олимпийский чемпион! после стольких лет упорной работы я не могу поверить, что эта мечта наконец-то осуществилась 🥹 я хочу поблагодарить многих людей, которые помогли мне достичь этого: моего тренера, моих товарищей по команде, мою семью. я бы не справилась без каждого из вас! 🤍

olympic champion! after all the years of hard work, i can’t believe this dream has finally come true 🥹 there are so many people i want to thank for helping me get to this point: my coach, my teammates, my family. i couldn’t have done this without any of you! 🤍

i also want to thank my boyfriend and number one supporter oscarpiastri for putting up with me these last few months of prep 😭 i don’t know what i would have done without you 🥹 love you baby ❤️

…

oscarpiastri congratulations, my love 🩷 i’m so proud of you 😘

yourusername 💗💗

comments on this post have been limited.