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barbieaemond · 9 months

Text

Lykirī

PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

WARNINGS: loss of virginity, fingering, oral sex (f and m receiving), handjob, we ride him bitches, dom/sub tones if you squint

WORD COUNT: 8.9k

Author's note: an early Christmas gift for those who celebrate!! For those who don't, just a regular smutty piece. This was based on a request where wife!reader rides Aemond. Merry Aemondmas :)

MASTERLIST

taglist: @zae5 @multyfangirl @arcielee

"You are to marry the King's second son. Prince Aemond Targaryen."

Those were your father's words. Your sister had looked at you almost with pity and a hint of relief since that fate had befallen you and not her. You had simply nodded, accepting the fate decided by your father, just as thousands of other daughters before and after you would have done.

Your mother had come to comb your hair before going to bed, and without much ado, she had told you what would happen after the wedding, after the banquet.

"All you have to do is try to relax your nerves, and I promise it will be less painful.”

The thought had stuck in your brain until the wedding day. And the aura emanating from the prince didn't help. He was stoic to the point of looking like a statue, his posture rigid as a spindle, and there was something unsettling about him that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand when he took your hand to recite the wedding vows. Fear, but also a foreign giddiness prickling your skin upon feeling his calloused fingers around yours.

The banquet had not helped either. Prince Aegon had behaved like a court jester, drinking to the point of wondering how he could stand upright, poking his brother with cruel jokes about his eye and a whore who had made Aemond a man many years before.

You didn’t know what kind of unpleasant memories your good-brother had just summoned in his brother’s mind. That woman and her cheap perfume, that way it had clung to his skin, to his thoughts for days after his only ever trip to Flea Bottom.

Then the elder Prince had approached you with his breath stinking of Dornish and it was then that Prince Aemond broke his icy silence, standing up abruptly and looking down at you. "Come, wife. It is time for us to retire."

Prince Aegon had clapped his hands as if in front of a hilarious show, saying "Finally some fun! The bedding!"

The entire crowd present at the banquet had escorted you to the prince's chambers. The servants had removed your dress, leaving you in your underskirts; you had unconsciously covered your chest, crossing your arms to hide from the greedy eyes of the men peering in the doorway, Prince Aegon in the front row with yet another cup of wine clutched between his fingers.

Master Mellos invited you to lie down on the bed, and you obeyed, swallowing, while a host of servants shielded you from view as the Maester made his humiliating inspection.

"All is in order, your Graces," the Master informed the Prince and Queen. And that was enough for Aemond to completely slip the iron mask off his face and go straight to the door. "The show is over. Get out."

"Oh, come on, little brother. Let me watch, at least. I could give you some tips."

Aemond had towered over his brother, and from your seat on the bed, you were able to see the eldest brother shrinking by the moment. "This is not some common whore you're speaking of.” Aemond seethed “She is my wife, and you will owe her the respect she deserves. One more lewd word from your mouth, and I will rip your tongue with my bare hands. Am I being clear?”

"Gods, brother, are you already so cunt-struck?"

He never got an answer, only the door being slammed right into his face.

You stood in the middle of the room, torturing your hands as he looked at you from the door. He seemed unsure of what to do, until he cleared his throat and took a few tentative steps in the room.

“You could have some wine, if you wish. It may…help you.” He said, but as he said this, he seemed to regret his own words, given how his mouth twitched as if he had just tasted something sour. Memories could come just like that, sudden and sour.

“You must relax, my prince. Have some wine, maybe? No need to worry, I will take care of you just as a prince deserves to.”

“I’d like to keep my mind clear, my Prince.” You said, keeping your gaze down, hearing his fast and deep sigh. “Fine.” he said, straightening his back as a soldier. After all, wasn’t this just another duty?

It wasn’t just that though. You were his wife now, the future mother of his children. It was his duty and his right to claim you as his own.

“Lay on the bed.”

With your heart pounding in your ears, you did as you were told but when the mattress dipped under his weight, you did not expect to see him with his clothes still on, the eyepatch firmly in its place. More so, you did not expect the harshness of his gestures as he held your waist to turn you around. The air hitched in your throat as your face met the mattress and a strange sorrow gripped your heart. Did he not want to look at you? Did he not like you?

“Try to stay still and it’ll be over shortly.” he said. He was trying to sound reassuring, but his voice came out cold and flat. His fingers latched on your underskirts, hiking them up, filling you with embarrassment as you grow completely exposed beneath him.

Aemond knew what to do. He may not have been as depraved as his brother, but he was still a man. And once in a while, when his hands would not suffice, some maid or servant girl would’ve had to bear, quite keenly on their part, his intimate attentions.

As his hands began to glide on your thighs, you shivered and said “Wait…”

Slowly your head turned to look at him, cheeks red and breath slow and anxious. “Am I not allowed to look at you?”

Your words seemed to stun him for a moment. The mere thought of you wanting to look at him made him realize how wrong he was behaving. You were his wife, not a common whore to bend over and have his moment of bliss. He had even told Aegon. That was not his intention, but there was a gap between how he felt and how he acted, a limb severed by years of pity looks and feelings trapped in his mouth and swallowed.

Almost gently, he made you turn but once you were facing him, he pinned your wrists on the mattress, unable to touch him even if you had gathered enough courage to do it. You tried to brace yourself for what your mother had told you. But she had not told you that he would touch you there, that all your senses would go numb except for that one brand new feeling between your legs. But he seemed enthralled by it just as you, his mouth parting to let out slow puffs of air as you grow wet and swollen against his fingers.

Your breath was labored, coming out in soft pants that made your cheeks purple. More so because he kept circling his deft fingers on your core while looking straight into your eyes, reveling in the way you were answering to his call, in the way he was shaping your need, your desire.

“You never touched yourself, did you?” he asked in a husky voice.

You barely shook your head and his eye glinted with something dark as he brought his face close to yours “Good. I shall be the only one inside you.”

He swallowed your shaky breath with this mouth, kissing you for the very first time, apart from the shy, almost prude peck exchanged after the wedding vows. Your lips moved shyly, trembling with the coiling pressure between your legs. And just when you thought this heat, this delicious aching couldn’t grow more unbearable, he sticked a finger inside you, spilling a loud moan right against his mouth.

One of your wrists twisted in his harsh hold, willing to touch him, to grip on something, but he didn’t let you. “Easy…” he blew on your lips “Relax. It’ll feel good, I promise…”

It surely felt good to him, to feel the tightness of your cunt squeezing his finger. He curled it and you squinted your eyes, choking a gasp that made him smirk proudly against your jaw. “Gods, you’re so tight…” he breathed as he kept rubbing slowly against your walls.

“It’s—it’s too much—“ you cried out with pain and pleasure running together, breathing his scent of ash, leather and a hint of something minty.

“How will you take my cock if you can’t even take my finger?” He whispered with benevolent cruelty, moving his finger faster and deeper.

Certainly your mother had not told you of the obscene wet sounds you would hear, of the uncontrollable moans coming out of your mouth, of his soft growling next to your ear when his breeches became too tight.

He had lined the tip of his hard manhood to your entrance, catching your breath away as tried to still your nerves, but the pain came altogether. You felt like he was cutting you from the inside. Tears filled your eyes, squinting for the painful stretching. You knew he was restraining himself; he didn’t want to hurt you more than he already was. And you almost felt affection for him, most men would not have bothered.

Then he had started to move, you felt that stranger body rubbing over and over against your walls, and finally the pain soothed, but not completely. You could tell he was enjoying it, his ragged breath and faint moans told you so, as well as the curses hissed through his teeth in a language you guessed was Valyrian. And then he had stilled completely, gripping your hips hard and firm while you felt a hot wave pulsing through your core.

The next morning, you could barely sit down for breakfast, and your aunt had looked at you with concern and a hint of amusement in her eyes. She was a veteran at court, a long-time widow, and quite happy to be so. It was her who suggested your betrothal to the Prince.

"How are you feeling, sweet niece?"

"Awful." you said promptly, shifting your weight on the seat.

"Well, this is the kind of anguish all women must go through."

"I thought that was giving birth to another human being."

"Oh Gods, no. That is the ugly part. This is the good one," she said with a sly smile "I suggest you enjoy it as much as you can."

At the time, you didn't really understand what she meant. The first night with the prince had gone...well, you thought. But he certainly enjoyed it more than you.

The second time was better. Your muscles were still sore, but the pain was but a faint discomfort compared to the pleasure you felt for the very first time in your life.

The third time he went down on you, bringing you so close to the edge only to deny your release, with cruel enjoyment on his part, making you whine with shame at the loss of his mouth and tongue on your folds.

The fourth time he bent you down on the breakfast table, all things falling in a mess of cutlery. He had pulled up your skirts and lowered his breeches just enough to thrust in, unraveling a special spot deep inside of you that had you mewling like some primitive beast.

The fifth time he had you writhing in bed, hair stuck to your head with sweat and hands clenching the sheets while he had you peak three times in a row.

It was then that you started to think your aunt was right.

That was indeed the good part.

“Are you afraid?” he asks, with a soft taunt on the tip of his tongue. You drag your eyes away from the gigantic beast before you and almost scoff. That is enough for him to laugh, quietly, but still not quietly enough for you to not notice and wonder at the view.

It’s been merely one moon since you’ve been married to Prince Aemond, and you could count on the fingers of your hand the times you have seen him laugh. It was eerie at first, you feared all the things you heard about the One Eyed Prince were true. That he was cold as stone and just as hard. And he was. But the more you spent time together, the more you were able to make cracks, and let light through.

“I’m equally afraid as any little mortal of right mind would be in front of the largest dragon in the known world, my dear husband.”

His lips stay quirked up, but his eye widens, as it always does when you call him that. He steps close to you, a few of his long strides are enough for him to tower over you, and the ground below your feet shifts.

“Come.” He says, taking your hand, “I promise she won’t eat you.” This time you deliberately glare at him, and he raises an eyebrow. “Do you need some other kind of persuasion to trust me? Perhaps like the one I used this morning?”

The early afternoon sun makes his face almost hurting to watch, or maybe it's just his bold gloating that makes his appearance so exhausting.

“That was not persuasion.” you remark, hiding the tinge of red on your cheeks “It was coercion.”

“Hmm. You didn’t seem so hostile when I made you come twice before breakfast.”

"I was hostile to the chance of the maid assisting with what we were doing."

"The maid should know better than to enter while my wife is undressing."

His eye roams over you just as he had done that morning, hunger clouding it, making your insides shrink. "Perhaps it's best if she knew. Someone must be aware of how cruel my husband is." there's a soft tease in your tone—something you are still learning, but true nonetheless.

He had ripped your nightgown with his bare hands when the maid entered to help you dress. She fled hastily, but you barely spared a glance at her, already lost to the fierce claim of his hand between your legs. He had taken you, twice, and then ordered you to dress, forcing you to have breakfast with the Queen and the Princess with your thighs still sticky with sex, sticky with him.

And he had been there, sitting just in front of you, with a piercing and delighted gaze.

He pulls your hand, and you follow, getting closer to that living relic that is Vhagar, Queen of All Dragons. She raises her monstrous head and looks straight at you with her amber eyes.

It is the first time you step so close to her, and even if you thought about it a lot, your heart is pounding fast, and your breath comes out slow and labored. She's a dreadful wonder.

She flares her nostrils and smells you, making a low rumble which results in a gust of hot wind that ruffles your hair and skirts.

“Lykirī, Vhagar.” Aemond says quietly “Issa ñuha ābrazȳrys. Kostā pāsagon zirȳla.”

You look at him questioningly, and he answers. “I told her you are my wife. And she can trust you.”

You cast a curious look at the dragon and then back at him “Is that all it takes? You tell dragons to trust you, and they resist the urge to turn you into their meal?”

Aemond curves his lips and makes you step closer, standing behind you and guiding your hand on the old green scales. “It takes much more than that.” he whispers in your ear “You have to surrender to them, completely. A dragon is no slave.”

You feel the heat beneath your palm, but it’s not that that makes you swallow; it’s the heat of his breath on your neck, right into your ear, scorching his way into your brain and inflaming every thought.

“What does Lykirī mean?” you ask, and you hate how your voice cracks on the edges.

He smirks because he knows, he always does. But he does not answer. Instead, he pulls your hand again, and you follow, circling the beast until stopping before the intricate ropes that lead to the saddle.

“Aemond, I don’t think—”

“You are my wife and you will ride with me on dragon back.” He said, commanding.

Truthfully, you gladly want to obey; there is just a slight difference between picturing riding a dragon and doing it.

Even the climbing to get in the saddle is a challenge on its own, but he helps you until you firmly seat yourself in it. Aemond sits behind you, and you look around with widened eyes, as if you are looking down from the highest tower ever built, except this is a living one, made of fire and breathing fire.

He leans over you to grab the reins, and you tense, waiting with bathed breath.

“Dohaeras, Vhagar. Soves!”

She lets out a loud screech that makes your ears hurt, but you have no time to even register it because she's already moving. You grip Aemond’s arms and brace yourself against his chest when Vhagar lurches onward and opens her huge wings to take flight.

She goes up and up, above the clouds, and your head is dizzy, with fear, with euphoria, until you are laughing like a child, like you never did in your entire life. Aemond lets go of the reins and laces his arms around you, angling his head to look at you, his silver hair violently ruffled by the wind. “How does it feel, my sweet wife?”

There are no common words to describe it. Now you know why they say Targaryens are closer to Gods than men. No man could claim a dragon or rule the skies.

“I feel like I’m close to the Gods.” you say, and he tightens the hold on you “Dragons do not answer to Gods.” he says, burying his nose in your hair “Where does this leave us?”

You turn your head to look at him, and you feel like you are looking at one of them. And yet he looks like he’s beyond any God.

“Above them. Above the Gods.”

“Hmm.” He croons, breathing your scent through his nose, and then his right hand grabs your skirt and dips underneath, until you feel his cold fingers grazing your skin. “I will make you feel like one.”

He cups your core through your small clothes, and you whimper, gripping his arm harder. He feels your heat through his palm, hotter than Vhagar’s own fire, and he sets the fabric aside to properly touch you. “My sweet wife.” he whispers, sliding a finger between your folds “Always so ready for me.”

“Aemond.” You say, holding your breath, trying to oppose but your voice cracks, and your body with it, already answering to his call. You see clouds before your eyes, but it’s all a blur, all your senses are enslaved by his touch, rubbing lazy circles on your bud. Too slow for your liking, for your need. Your hips arch and buck, chasing his hand for more friction, and he laughs, darkly. “What is it? What do you need, sweet girl? Tell me.”

He takes your chin with his free hand and forces you to turn your head and look at him. His hold is ruthless, but his tone is almost pleading. “Tell me.” he orders and you feel like he’s smothering you, sweeping away all the air from your lungs. “I-I need more…”

“More of what?” he asks, stopping altogether. “Show me.”

You look him in the eye and swallow, heat inflaming your cheeks, but there’s no place for shame, not here. It is just a faint ghost passing through you, and then it’s gone. Your hand pulls the gown up, and you place it on his, like a feather. “Here.” You breathe on his mouth “Inside.”

The howling wind does nothing to muffle his growl, and then he’s kissing you, harshly, teeth clashing and biting your lips as he accepts your plea, sliding a finger inside of you.

A strangled moan escapes you, and he swallows it, darting his tongue in every corner of your mouth. He releases your chin only to grab your leg to further open them and then he adds a second finger, moving them deftly until reaching that special spot. Your head falls back on his shoulder, gasping loudly, digging your nails into his hand.

Your breath is ragged and fast, and you uselessly try to stifle moan after moan even if there are only the skies to hear.

“Don’t.” he says grazing your lobe with his teeth “I want to hear you. I want you to scream for me.”

Your mind goes blank, as does all your restraint. You feel the tide coming to crash you, hips moving on their own accord, chasing and chasing. And then you’re drowning in it, mouth falling open and flesh and bones clenching and trembling.

He grunts softly when your nails scratch his skin and his fingers slip out, glistening; he raises them to his lips and tastes every drop of you. Still panting, he takes your chin once more with his sticky fingers and licks your lips, so you taste yourself on his tongue.

Your head is still dizzy when Vhagar lands in a clearing in the King’s Wood, but this has nothing to do with altitude. Your limbs are heavy when he helps you dismount, your legs buckle. There is a tautness knotting your bones, itching your fingertips.

You wish to touch him, because you have never, not as a wife would touch her husband, not as he has done with you.

It is only a moon and yet he has taken you almost every night and every day. He has touched you everywhere, he has molded you to his liking, and you let him do it with giddiness, undoing yourself like clay in his hands. He had put his mouth on you, and you have discovered he particularly enjoyed it, because he has done that at the most inopportune times, even in some dark corner of the corridors.

And you wondered if you could do the same with him—not because you have to, but because you want to. You want to claim him just as he claims you, relentlessly.

And he really is. He is relentless, he doesn't give you the time to wander with your hands, to discover, to touch. Fire burns him quickly and you are ashes before you realise you are burning with him.

“I didn’t know my wife had claws.” He says at one point, while you are going back to the Keep.

You wake from your thoughts and turn, watching him raise his hand to show the red marks on the back of his hand, and the sight makes you almost proud—proud to have left a mark of you on him. But you want more, and he wants more. You know it; it takes a brief look at his breeches to know that he wants more.

You dart your eyes around, but there's no one. So, you stop. Trying to gather all the boldness you never had, you step closer to him and take his hand in yours. Your eyes look up slowly, glinting with uncertainty and bravery. "Then let me soothe your pain, husband."

Aemond’s eye widens, and the air around you turn heavy, forcing you to open your mouth to breathe. You take one more step and bring the back of his hand to your lips, kissing it gently while your eyes stay fixed on his face. The other hand goes tentatively to his chest and then slides down, and for once, just once, he’s the one answering your call. His eye darkens and his lips part when your hands bashfully grab the laces of his breeches.

But you should have known better. Targaryens and their desires. Doomed to take whatever they want, whenever they want, answering neither Gods nor men.

You barely blink and he grabs you by the wrists and forces you to the ground. Cold grass and bushes stinging your back make you gasp, but Aemond is already on you, watching you like a century-long thirsted man who takes a glimpse of a water spring, as if you could evaporate from his sight at any moment.

“Aemond, please.” you beg “let me—“

But his tongue is in your mouth, hot and scorching you alive. Your eyes flutter shut, and he hikes your skirts up, taking hold of your hips. You feel his bulge against you, hard and ready, and you can do nothing else than wait, pinned down like prey, all bravery a distant memory.

Suddenly he lowers himself down, lifting your skirts with haste until you’re completely bare half down. “No—Aemond, please I want to—”

“You want what?” he asks with a wolfish grin “Deny me your sweet taste? Iksā ñuhon, ābrazȳrys.” He said that already, you know what it means. You are mine.

“You belong to me. And this…” he swears placing your legs on his shoulders while looking at your aching core as a man who found the greatest treasure in the world. “This belongs to me as well.”

He runs his tongue up and down your wet folds, humming with delight as he tastes you and sees you squirm, arching your back on the stingy bushes. You moan loudly when he slowly swirls his tongue, not able to keep track of your hips starting to move on their own, thrusting into his mouth and the sight of you like this, makes him even wilder, pushing him to open his mouth and put it entirely on your cunt, sucking harshly until anything before your eyes becomes blurred.

Your legs on his shoulders begin to shake and curl, caging him further against you, but just when you are about to come straight into his mouth, he pulls back. A weak sob leaves your mouth as your hips keep bucking against nothing and he smirks at that, untangling your legs from his shoulders, running his tongue over his lips, to taste what's left of you on him. You look at him through dazed eyes and a tinge of annoyance for the denied release. “What?” he has the boldness to ask with a sly smirk “Did you not enjoy it?” he runs his thumb on his glistening chin and swiftly licks it. "Hmm. I most certainly did."

“Aemond, please.” you claw desperately at his shoulders and forearms, forcing him to lie on you, feel something that could soothe the aching between your legs. He seems keen to grant you this mercy, molding his crotch against you so you can feel how hard and desperate he is.

“Please.” you beg in a thin voice.

“Speak it plainly, my love. I want to hear it from your pretty mouth.”

You look at him straight in the eye and what you say next is not a request nor a plea. Your mother would be ashamed of you, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

You are not begging. You are demanding. “Fuck me.”

He doesn’t need more than a few moments to get his cock out of his breeches, and not a moment later he’s pushing inside of you, your back arching on the bushes and your throat fighting for breath. He groans and starts a relentless pace, lifting his weight from you just enough for him to look at his cock going in and out, the sight only pushing him to thrust harder and harder. “Look at you.” he croons, sweet and rough “You were born to take me, to be mine.”

Your face twists with pleasure, teeth biting your lower lip while he takes you higher and higher, higher than any sky a dragon could ever take you.

He soon becomes messy and sloppy, cursing under his breath, but you can barely hear him. Your mind is sluggish and everything comes muffled: him, the birds chirping on some tree, your wet flesh slapping against his in the lewdest and most blessed way.

He curses some more, and then he’s spilling inside you, his arched mouth opening and his eye closing like a man absolved.

And yet, he does not stop. He has not claimed enough.

“Māzis, dōna ābrazȳrys. Come for me.”

Your hand clutches something on the ground, something with thorns that pierces your skin with pain, but you can’t even feel that, because you are falling, legs trembling around him, and heart stopping for an endless moment of pure breathtaking bliss.

“Gevie.” he coos with his lips on yours, falling with his body on you, still clenching and pulsing around him. He stays right where he is, nesting inside of you, and now it is the only chance you have been granted to touch him. You put an arm around his shoulders, catching your breath, and look at the skies above, thinking you are indeed above them.

It was easy to explain the dirt and grass stains on your dress. It was a little less easy to explain the twigs in your ruffled hair when you and Aemond returned to the Keep only to meet the Queen Mother along one of the corridors. Alicent merely smiled at you with a tight smile and did not spare from giving a look full of daggers to her son.

"Seven Hells" you mutter when you go back to your rooms and catch a glimpse of the mess you are in the mirror.

Aemond stays on the threshold to close the door and grins, or rather, gloats.

You step out of your muddy shoes and start to pull the laces of your dress.

"What are you doing?" he asks, and you playfully glare at him. "Am I allowed to take a bath now? Or do you want me to go around all sullied? I fear there are no believable excuses for the state I’m in."

"You can tell them the truth." he says, walking to you and replacing your hands with his to help you pull the intricate laces.

You smile softly with your back turned before raising an eyebrow, asking "Which is?"

He keeps his eye focused on the dress, a slight furrow in his brow, and stoically serious, he says "That your husband fucked you in the King's Wood."

"I could tell the maid. I'm sure she won't be stunned after what she saw this morning."

He makes you turn so you can look at him, and the sight before you makes your heart sing. His eye roams on your face softly, a rare sight on him, always stoic, always sharp, like all the angles composing this beautiful sculpture of black glass.

You always thought of marriage as a strategic deal for men, and a way for women to prove their value to the world, giving those same men sons and daughters. But you care for him. And he cares for you. That look on his face is enough for you to know that he cares for you, not merely as a brood mare.

“Gevie.” he says, quietly, and he touches your cheek, softly, making you wonder how those same hands can be so delicate and yet so merciless at the same time.

“What does it mean?” you ask, even if you are sure he will not answer. You observed that when he speaks in High Valyrian he does it almost to himself, as if to protect something he does not wish the others to know.

But this time, he meets your eyes and lowers his hand. “Beautiful.”

You look at him with your heart pounding in your throat, and then you stand up on your toes, crashing your mouth against his, almost catching him by surprise. But he is all too deft at turning the game on his side, and a few seconds later, his hands are gripping your hips and his tongue is licking the roof of your mouth.

When the door suddenly opens, you pull back, spotting the same maid from that morning who, this time, can do nothing but suffer the Prince's wrath.

"Can't you just fuck off for once?!"

You hold back a laugh against his chest and the poor maid flees in a hurry. But when he pulls you to him, tilting his head to pick up where he left off, you step back and say, "I'm afraid the Queen has requested your presence. You should go, my dear husband. I promise that by tonight I will be completely clean."

"Tonight?" he asks, raising his eyebrow. "What is happening tonight?"

You shrug your shoulders and hold back a smile. "Innocence doesn't suit you, my Prince."

"Neither does you."

"I'm afraid this is your fault. You are sullying my soul as well as...everything else."

"You won't be of the same mind when you have my child growing in your womb," and he smirks, looking at you as if he's taking a sacred oath, and then walks away.

You finally manage to take a bath and change clothes, and then you go to visit your aunt. She spends most of her time alone, sipping tea in the gardens, partly because she can't stand the other court ladies, partly because the court ladies can't stand her. Truthfully, you cannot blame them, your aunt speaks plainly—too plainly at times.

You sit down with her for tea, which you end up swallowing like salt, because your aunt takes it with a whole squeezed lemon, and no sugar.

"I saw you with your husband earlier. I may be too old for new fashion but mud on your skirt and twigs in your hair seem a bit too brazen, even for me."

You stifle a smile, recalling what happened. If only she knew he was brazen enough to have you utterly undone on dragon back, thousands of feet up.

Your eyes go distant while you fumble with some tablecloth threads, but your Aunt stares at you piercely, and grabbing her cup of tea she says "I love that look on you."

"What?"

She sips the sour liquid and puts the cup down. "That look. The I'm in love look."

"I am not!" you counter, cheeks going red.

"Of course you are. I've watched you two. I dare say he's falling way faster than you."

You look at her puzzled. Many things have changed in a moon. And you are sure you are utterly infatuated with him. But you did not know what to think of what he actually feels for you, if he even feels something. You know he cares for you, you know he loves spending time with you. You know he's passionate, possessive, almost soft at rare times. But in love? That seems too soon to consider, or to hope for.

"It is too soon to talk about love."

"In fact, I did not, my sweet niece. Falling in love and love are beasts of different species. Why do you think we say "falling"? You can't stop from falling. To love a person is an entirely different matter. Love is a choice."

You let those words sink but you prefer not to question your heart right now. There is a reason you have come here to talk to your aunt, even if you don't know how to address the matter without melting from embarrassment.

But in the end, who could you ask for advice? Your squeamish maids? The Queen Mother? Definitely not.

"Listen, I...I wanted to ask you something..." you start "It is uhm...a matter of somewhat intimate nature."

"Ah, my favourites." your aunt says, beaming "I am all ears."

You shift uncomfortably in your chair and swallow another sip of that dreadful tea "My mother...she explained to me what would happen between husband and wife to...consummate the marriage. But she didn't tell me...well, everything else."

Your Aunt is quick to raise her eyebrow "I gathered that your marriage had been consummated by now. Thoroughly."

"Y-yes, of course. But I...discovered...that there are other ways for a husband to please his wife...and I was wondering if...if I could…do those same things to please him."

Your aunt looks utterly puzzled for a long moment, and then, almost stunned, she says "Oh Seven Hells, child. You are telling me you never sucked your husband off?"

A few court ladies walking near turned their heads, going white as sheets, while you, on the contrary, take a nice purple shade.

"Oh, don't look at me like that, prissies. We all did it eventually." she dismisses them, waving a lazy hand, and looks back at you. "You should do it, if you wish. Men love it. Your uncle used to ask—"

"I don't want to hear that, auntie, I'm begging you." you say squinting your eyes.

"Listen to me, child. Men love to think they rule everything, everywhere. But it is not always like that. And if you want to rule your husband's heart, you must rule in his bed first."

That evening, Aemond wanted nothing more than to lock himself in his room with his wife and forget all the hateful political talk he had had to endure at dinner.

You had not attended, and that had bothered him. Never would he have thought of marriage as anything more than a duty, yet there he was, wondering where you were, who you were with, and why you weren't in his rooms when he set foot in there.

"Where is my wife?" he asks the maid, and she keeps her eyes glued to the floor, saying "The princess spent the evening in the library, your Grace. She told me that she would be—"

"I am here," you say, appearing behind the young maid.

You see his chest sag as if a weight is leaving him, and he casts an icy glance at the poor maid "Out."

He is rarely kind to servants, but you can tell by his tense shoulders that something is wrong.

"Aemond, what is the matter?" you ask as soon as the door closes, walking up to him with a hand behind your back.

"Where were you? Why weren't you at dinner?"

"I was in the library."

"For four hours?"

"It was a tough read—"

He grabs your arm, gripping hour wrist harshly, and you flinch. "Aemond, I swear to you.” you say watching his eye on fire and a sneer twisting his mouth “You can ask Maester Mellos."

Suddenly he lets you go, and looks down, closing his eye for a moment. But he doesn't apologize, he never does, and not because he is a Prince. It's just the way he is. He doesn't apologize, he doesn't say thank you, he doesn't say please.

"Aemond, what's going on?"

"I don't want to talk about it now. In fact, never. Not here."

You watch him carefully, and you nod as he moves to pour wine into a cup. You watch him gobble it up greedily, which is unlike him. So, you get close and move your hand from behind your back and say, "Anyway, I wasn't lying. I really spent four hours in the library...trying to decipher this."

You show him an old book, and the title catches his eye, cup held in midair. "Tales of the Dragonlords?" he asks frowning. "This is in High Valyrian."

"It is." you confirm as you move closer, and you steal his cup before saying, "Would you read it to me?" and you take a sip, of wine and courage.

He watches the liquid flow down your throat and then accepts the invitation, taking the book—the one he has read so many times he can recite it by heart. He opens it to the first page, but you say "No. Page 72."

There is a slight imperative tone in your tone of voice, and it thrills him, given how his eye glints under the candlelight. He drops it on the table, looking at you from head to toe, and says, "I'll read it to you later, sweet wife."

He steps closer but you back away saying, "Fine, then. I'll tell you what I understood so you can correct me or not." and at the same moment your own hands go up on your corset and you start pulling on the laces.

The gesture catches his eye like a moth to a flame and he stays silent as you pull all the laces and then slip off your dress, remaining in your underskirt. His gaze roams over you slowly, and with a soft smirk, he decides to play the game.

“Page 72, you said. How Dragonlords claimed Dragons.”

“Yes.”

"And why did it capture your interest? Do you wish to do it? Do you wish to claim a dragon?"

"I wish to conquer, not claim."

He comes closer and looks at you, breathing through his nose, restraining, always restraining, and then he's raising his hand to reach a lock of your hair falling on your shoulder, but you stop him, air as heavy as moss.

"The Valyrian sages say a dragonlord must surrender himself completely to the dragon. But it works both ways. The dragon must submit his will to their rider."

He looks at you without blinking, and you take his arms, guiding him closer until you turn and push him lightly on the bed. He sits and you slowly climb on his lap, knees caging his hips, heart is pounding in your throat like a hammer. You hear him taking a swift breath and pride pools in your bones because for once you have caught him off guard.

You can feel his crotch hardening by the moment, but the look on his face is not one of hunger or lust. It is pure and blessed devotion.

You wonder at the view, and your eyes roam on his face until...

"Can I take it off?"

There's no need to say what. His face goes hard as stone, eye looking away with discomfort, with shame.

"Please, Aemond." you whisper. "I want to see all of you. I want you to bare yourself to me as I did to you."

"It is not pleasant."

"I don't want pleasantness. I want you."

He stares at you for an eternal moment and then he caves.

A flash of sparkling blue catches you completely and you can do nothing but watch with lips parted, while he keeps his eye down.

You wrap an arm around his shoulders and lean your head against his to breathe one single word in his ear. "Gevie."

His arms are all around you, holding you so tight you might gasp for air. Instead you are smiling, breathing through his long silver hair. You are not sure if you aunt is right, if love is indeed a choice. You can't bring yourself to care because you are doing it already.

And then he's kissing you, seizing your tongue with his in a fierce consuming way. He slightly hikes up your hips, and his hand tries to slide between your legs, but you lace your fingers around his wrist, breaking the kiss with panted breath.

"No." you whisper, and he looks at you almost questioningly, mouth open and chest heaving.

"Lykirī."

His eye widens and you smile, secretly. "I know what it means now."

He smirks at this and does not miss the chance to be the ever diligent scholar. "But you said it wrong. The R is hard."

“Lykirī.” You say again, following his lesson, and in the same moment your hand leaves his wrist and goes down to his breeches. He dips his chin to look at it, at your hands unsure, and he too looks unsure.

“You don’t have to—“

“I want to.” You say, and your voice comes out firm and clear. “Please, Aemond. Let me…let me touch you.”

He realizes now that in all the times you have been lying together, you never managed to lay a hand on him. He likes to keep people at distance. Too many wrong hands have been on him. The Maesters’, inspecting, debating, healing without healing. That whore, taking what it was not hers to take, not yet.

But he wants you to touch him. He has dreamed of it, in any way a man could dream of a woman’s touch.

He looks at you for a moment, chest rising slowly, and then, without taking his eye off you, he pulls the laces of his breeches and guides your hand around his cock. You look down, exhaling a long breath at feeling his hard and hot flesh already pulsing.

He knows you don’t know how to do it, so his hands guide you at first, going slowly up and down, and the air comes out of his mouth slowly and labored. You look up at him, his eye is pitch black, lid growing heavy with pleasure, and your core clenches, desire pools in your belly and flows down.

He must hear the call of your body, because he releases your hand, still stroking him, and goes right between your legs. You gasp loudly, and he hums, delight dripping from his voice just as you are dripping on his fingers. He starts to pump his fingers and you can do nothing but moan, clutching his shoulders with your free hand, the other still around his cock, but the act is growing lazy, your mind can’t focus properly on what you are supposed to do.

“Listen.” he orders you, fingers moving faster and faster, and you do listen. Your soaked flesh coming undone at his scorching touch. “Who else has you like this?”

But this is a question he’s asking himself. Because no one else will ever have him bare like this.

“You. Just you.” you say hoarsely, eyes closing and hips rocking on their own accord.

“And who am I?” he whispers just as hoarsely, and yet his voice is like a whip on all your senses.

“My husband.” you cry, feeling the wave ready to drown you “Ñuha zaldrīzes.” My dragon.

You cannot care less about how you said it, because then your mouth falls open, nails digging into his shoulder while your trembling hips keep riding his fingers, clenching them like a vice.

Your head falls onward, leaning against his forehead, and you try to catch your breath. You watch his wet fingers go straight into his mouth while he looks at you, humming with pleasure. “You look so pretty like this.” he says with the ghost of a smile on his lips “I should fuck you in Throne Room with the whole court watching, so they know how pretty you are when you come for me.”

You laugh with your cheeks flushing, and he slides an arm around you, and you know he wants to pin you down on the bed and fuck you until you are muffling nonsense in the pillow. But this is not his game. This is yours, and even if you don’t know how to play, you will win.

“No.” you say, climbing down from his lap, and he looks at you with hunger and a tinge of thrilling curiosity. “It is my turn to claim.” You say with all the bravery you possess.

Not a moment later, you are going down on your knees.

Another small victory, because his eye widens as he had never done before, and you can see that this, the sight of you on your knees before him, is something he has been craving for, even dreamed of it.

His breathing is slow, and you are not even touching him.

You place yourself between his knees and you lean closer and closer, anxiety twisting your insides, but you want to do this. “Lykirī, nuha zaldrīzes. Surrender.” you take him into your hand, tugging slowly, and your lips linger on the tip, heart pounding in your ears and eyes fixed on him. “Lykirī.” You say one last time and then you are swallowing him.

He hisses loudly and his lips part, hands clutching the covers until his knuckles go white. He’s like burning metal inside your mouth—hot and hard. At first, you just taste him, running your tongue over the head, and he’s cursing under his breath. His hands twitch on the covers, restraining and restraining, but there’s no need. You take his hand while looking at him and you release it from your mouth to say “Teach me.”

It’s like you have just poured fire on more fire. His eye goes wild, he takes hold of your head and starts to guide you again, making your mouth engulf him once more and deep down to the base and then up to the tip again, filling the room with a wet gagging sound. You get the gist of what you’re supposed to do, so your head starts going up and down and up and down, and he actually moans for you, head falling back for just a moment before looking back, he can’t help but watch as you fiercely claim him.

You watch his chest heaving fast and your jaw is starting to hurt but you don't care, you are too absorbed by the view before you. You are too thrilled by the fact that, for once, you have made him speechless.

He's always so bold in the bedroom, so cruel in deciding when and how to give pleasure, and now he's utterly speechless. He can only curse without breath, and gasp and groan.

“Kelītīs.” he manages to say at one point, voice all husky and cracking. You don’t know that word, and you have no time to ask because in a blink, he’s slamming you onto the bed and he’s hiking up your skirt, but you get on your elbows pushing him on his back and climbing on him.

“I’m not done, valzȳrys.” you say feeling his hard length inflaming your core, so you lay your hips on it as firmly as possible. “I claimed, but I did not conquer.”

“You are fucking torturing me.” he points out, bucking against you.

“Conquests could last for centuries, dear husband. You above all should know that.”

“All I know now is that I need to fuck you.” he says placing both hands on the sheets to pull himself up.

“No, I will.” you promise, rocking your hips once more “This is my conquest, not yours.”

You keep rubbing your drenched core on his length until a sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead, and he's so hard he's leaking from the tip. "You are twisted, wife." he says with a dazed tone and you smile even if you can't take it anymore, but you rock some more, saying "I'm a quick study. And I'm learning from the best."

Finally, when you are so wet you are dripping on him, you raise just enough to slide his cock inside of you.

You gasp together and you brace on his shoulders to start moving. You both know you are not going to last long, so you start rocking your hips slowly, taking him to the hilt until you struggle for air.

“Move…” he orders but you just take the opposite road, slowing your hips in a delicious torturing way. “Do you know what else the Sages said? A rider must know their mount, feel their heat below them.”

But Aemond does not have a single drop of blood in his head right now to give you an answer, let alone play your game; he's just fire that burns and burns and burns and just like the Sages said, you can feel his heat, burning below and inside you. He grips your hips and starts to thrust inside you like the wild beast you are supposedly claiming, until you are moaning so loud your throat hurts.

“Yes—” he growls as you bounce on him “Just like that—you’re gripping me so well—fuck"

You both turn sloppy, a mess of sweaty limbs and teeth biting, clutching at each other with bruising grips, pulling at the roots of his hair when you’re about to fall from the highest sky.

"Come on, my sweet girl. Let go for me." he breathes into your mouth, forcing you to move even faster "Let go fro your dragon. Seal your conquest." And you do.

He follows right after, spilling inside while digging his teeth into your neck like fangs on a prey, muffling his loud groaning.

And you are smiling like a fool, a lovestruck fool, but most of all, a conqueror.

Thank you so much for reading!! 💞💞

#likiri #liv(in la vida loca)#aemond targaryen #ewan mitchell #aemond x wife reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x wife reader #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x you #aemond x fem!reader #aemond targaryen x fem!reader #aemond fic #aemond smut #hotd fic

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gghostwriter · 2 months

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Hey, how you doing? So I was wondering if you could write a one-shot where Y/N visits Spencer in prison and just like how when JJ visited him, Spencer doesn’t like the way the inmates are looking at Y/N, and when he gets back to his cell or when he is in the prison yard, he hears inmates talking about Y/N and gets protective. Saying stuff like “don’t talk about her like that, you don’t get to talk about her” or something similar.

I am unsure if there is a fanfic like this so just in case, I am asking ☺️

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader Trope: Established Relationship; Protective!Spencer Word Count: 0.8k A/N: apologies that this took a while. I was feeling very hyper-critical and unsatisfied with anything I wrote so this collected dust in my drafts a bit—still do feel it if I’m being honest but I felt the motivation to revisit my rough draft and make some changes before posting. I hope you like it! Main masterlist

His. // Spencer Reid

Spencer hasn’t felt himself ever since his capture. If he was being honest, his descend to rock bottom started even before then but that wasn’t the point. No, the point was the accumulation of his lack of sleep in his single cell—only an hour at most, the constant alertness from keeping his identity as a fed hidden—his fashioned shiv always an inch away from reach, and the group shared meals—never knowing what other contaminants it has, all made him feel one step away from snapping. He was teetering on the edge of lashing out and like the unsubs that he used to profile in black and white typing, he only needed one stressor before all hell broke loose.

And that stressor was you.

Visitation hours were always bittersweet. It soothed his soul to see your expressive eyes and beautiful face but dread always came after, knowing the minutes were counting down before you and him had to separate. He had always hated the idea of separation, hated not seeing you wholly and safe.

During the past cases, the bodies of each victim somehow always reminded him of you and here, locked in the confines with other criminals, made his hyper-vigilance of protecting you increase by a hundred.

“Love, you don’t have to come visit me,” he suggested as the jeers from the other inmates about your looks echoed on the walls. Each whistle and vulgar mention of how your looks get their gears revving was a chip in his knightly armor and although he could see you trying to pay it no attention, it soothe no pain that he was the reason why you were exposed to all this sexualization.

“It’s fine, Spence. I can handle it as long as I get to see you,” you defended. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” the corners of his mouth lifting to a small smile. Four simple words that didn’t fully express the ache echoing in his chest. He could read in several languages but none of them could fully explain the loss that reverberates in him when it’s time to part ways.

You picked on the loose threading of his cardigan adorning your body. “I’ve been visiting your mom. She asks about you a lot. How you’re doing, how you’re being treated and uh—” your lips quivered from emotion “—she misses you too.”

“Thank you for seeing her. Can you tell her I’m doing fine? I don’t want her to worry too much about me,” he uttered a lie. He wasn’t doing great and you could see that but having been together for so long, you understood the reasoning behind the fib without needing any explanation.

I’d like to get a piece of that, huh. Another crude sentence about you reached his ears causing him to snap his neck to the side and clench his jaw. With all of his vast intellect, Spencer never did understand the psychology behind men catcalling as a form of flirtation and expecting the recipient to react positively. But then again, men who perpetuate this behavior were more of animals in his eyes. Plebeian in thought and unappealing in form.

Maybe there was something in the stale air of prison that made him his hackles rise or maybe it was just his biological imperative to protect what was his. Either reason, he felt himself snap the next day during yard hour when a duo of inmates sat beside him to slobber about your beauty and body.

“Hey Twig, was that your girl the other day? That pretty young thing?” The one with the neck tattoo taunted. “Tell me, does she taste as sweet as she looks?”

His bald headed partner sneered. “Man, I don’t think he can get her off, probably doesn’t even know how she sounds like in bed. With how skinny he is, bet he’s also pencil—”

“Have some respect. You don’t get to talk about her like that.” Spencer snarled out. He felt like an animal about to escape from his cage—gone was the logical ex-FBI agent and all that remained was a convicted, highly intelligent felon no longer afraid of committing a crime. Additional blood coating his shackled hands was nothing if done in your name.

They both snickered. “And what you going to do about it, huh?”

He ground his teeth, saying nothing. Spencer knew the statistics of him winning in a fight specially 2 vs 1 was slim to none so he catalogued their faces and numbers in his vast mind and bid his time like a snake lying in the wait for his prey to settle in faux comfort.

“Thought so. C’mon man,” the one with the neck tattoo patted his back and started to stand with his partner. “I’lll see your girl in my fantasies tonight, Twig.”

But before they were out of earshot, he turned and called back a warning—his last mercy before the execution. “You’re going to regret it.”

They both hooted in laughter, unaware that Spencer makes good on his promises—threats really, anything to protect his girl.

And when he poisoned a group of inmates who were smuggling drugs inside the jail, he made sure that all those men who jeered sexual innuendos at you, counting in the two who confronted him in the yard, were included. His methods cold, detached, and impersonal—something he learned from the killers he had spent half of his life profiling.

There were whispers, of course, who caused the contamination. He wasn’t deaf. He knew it was what labelled him as a danger and almost untouchable in prison. An emerging alpha in this testosterone filled animal kingdom. The same status that extend to you, his chosen queen.

And so during your next visit when no cat calls reached your ears, you innocently asked about it and he just shrugged like it was no big deal. He didn’t want to taint your mirage of him any more than his stint in prison had done. You were his to protect, his to care for, and his to love.

To put it simply, you were his.

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

#spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction #pau’s request inbox #Spencer Reid oneshot #spencer Reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spnecer reid x y/n #Spencer reid #spencer reid one shot #gw fics #spencer Reid prison #spencer reid request

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stressforu · 4 months

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♯ itoshi rin — 'you know how to ball, i know aristotle'

a trend perfectly describing you and rin .

note : proplayer!rin x fem!reader

home page . . .

' ITOSHI RIN , a renowned soccer player from Japan have been rumored to attend a graduation ceremony just recently.''

The headline in big bold fonts are highlighted in an article, with a stolen shot (blurry if not with his recognizable dark green hair) of rin holding a bouquet of flowers in his left hand while holding his phone in the right, looking like he's texting someone.

Comments flooded the article, almost everyone is reluctant to know what is the famous striker doing at a university?

anon1028: guys, maybe he has a gf?

➜ anon5027: that's impossible, if he did have, it would've been rumored.

However, there was one thing the world already knew, Rin Itoshi was careful with the media. He's meticulous when he goes out, the paparazzi can't even get a single piece of information out of his private life. (The world turned upside down when a stolen shot of him was sent to the media.)

Though Rin Itoshi was meticulous with hiding, he didn't want to miss your graduation ceremony. Seeing you bask in the joy of graduation with friends and batchmates.

He was proud of you, even though he always scolded you when you didn't have enough sleep, forcing you to eat real food because you've been on noodles since last month.

He was willing to give up his private life in order to watch you give your speech as a valedictorian. (wow ...)

And as you ascended into the stage, the speech you wrote you held in your left hand, and the dainty 'clack' of your heels echoed the silent crowd.

You thanked the dean, the professors, and the staff welcomed the graduating students like you, and wished them a happy graduation.

As you near the end of the speech you want to give acknowledgment to a special someone.

"As the speech comes to an end, I want to thank someone very special who has been there for me throughout this journey. Their constant support, encouragement, and belief in me have always given me strength and inspiration. Whether it was studying late at night, feeling unsure, or celebrating achievements, their presence made a big difference."

Rin felt his eyes becoming teary, his face in a blushing mess, and that tight-lipped smile he'd always wear when he's happy.

You continued,

"To my partner, thank you for your endless patience, love, and for always believing in me, even when I struggled to believe in myself. This achievement is as much yours as it is mine."

You bowed, and the crown erupted into claps, awed by the heartwarming speech you had given on this day. You went down the stage to thank your professors and celebrate with your friends. However, you failed to notice Rin, your lover, walking into the crowd with a bouquet in his hand.

The crowd gasped, and someone pointed out shouting, "LOOK IT'S THE ATHLETE !" getting your attention. You gasped, it was Rin.

He walks towards you and hands out his bouquet with your favorite flowers. Congratulating you, and wishing you a happy graduation.

"y-you came..."

"how could I miss my girlfriend's graduation? congrats, baby ..."

@/itoshi_rin has a new post .ᐟ

———

@/itoshi_rin : love you.

➜ tagged @/yn_tiredofstudying

1728 comments

—> @/sae_toshi : am i dreaming?

notes : UHHH i dunno what to feel about this

#itoshi rin x you #itoshi rin x y/n #rin itoshi x reader #blue lock x you #blue lock #blue lock x reader #itoshi rin #itoshi rin x reader #blue lock x y/n #rin x you

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beneathashadytree · 2 months

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RESPONSIBLE DADS - LOVE AND DEEPSPACE MEN X READER

Warnings : autistic!Zayne with his autistic daughter, all of them are girl dads here (except for Xavier who has twins), cuteness-aggression bites, one mention of a gun (no one is harmed!), no mentions of pregnancy (their kids can be interpreted as biological or adopted), this isn’t proof-read, reader is gender-neutral!

Genre : so much domestic fluff ☹️🫶🏽

Word count : 2.3K words (holy shit???)

Additional notes : This is a combination of two asks I’d received a month or two ago about the LNDS men as dads while their partner is away, and Zayne in particular struggling with his own autism vs his child’s autism. The brain rot was real in this one😭 To anyone else reading this, my requests are still closed!! These are just old requests I had in my inbox🫶🏽

Tip jar!

Masterlist

“She went down without much of a fuss,” Zayne said, slowly closing the bedroom door behind him as he set his phone on the dresser and got ready for bed over the video call, despite the time zone differences. He’d tried to convince them to just let themself rest instead of staying up past 3 AM, but they’d paid him no mind and insisted on seeing him last thing before bed.

They hummed, watching him slip out of his button up through their screen with a fond gaze. “She is really quiet compared to what I’ve heard about kids her age.”

In the midst of folding his shirt, he paused, a slight crease between his eyebrows. “A little too quiet.” At his concerned face, they straightened up in their seat and leaned in closer to their phone. “I think… she has difficulty connecting with me.”

Their expression was unsure at that. “I don’t know, Zayne. You know she loves you…”

“I do,” was his swift answer, pausing as he pulled his pyjama shirt over his head, then popping out with his hair adorably mussed. “But maybe she feels like I wouldn’t understand her.”

No matter how much he wanted to seem stoic and unaffected by the prospect, there was no hiding the conflicted emotions swimming in his eyes. With an almost sad smile, they asked him, “Even though anyone that sees you two says you have so much in common?”

With a slight flush (was it out of embarrassment as he noticed his messy hair, or was it a twinge of pride in being so connected to his daughter?) he began to apply his minimal skincare that he’d grown used to with them, scarred skin deftly being cared for after years of neglect.

“Autistic girls have different experiences than autistic boys, and their struggles are often overlooked because of these differences. Maybe she subconsciously feels that we can’t bridge that gap.”

Resting their head against their hand, keen eyes bore through him. Zayne would never go unheard as long as they were there. “Do you feel that gap?”

He shrugged, swallowing thickly as he wiped the excess off on his hand towel. “It’s not about me. Studies show that—”

Shaking their head, they sighed a little in affectionate exasperation. “It doesn’t matter what studies say. You’re overthinking it because you want things to be perfect. It’s sweet, just… not very realistic.”

“Mm. I know,” he softly conceded, combing through his hair with a distant glimmer in his eyes. It wasn’t so easy, navigating the emotions and ideas of a child that one already struggled with for decades.

They apologetically smiled at him, then added, “She trusts you with her life because she knows how hard you try to understand her, no matter how difficult that may be sometimes. You give her the space to be able to communicate her needs properly, and that’s why she loves you beyond measure, Zayne.”

He looked away for a few beats, but that was enough time for them to see the misty-eyed wonder in his eyes as he looked at the crooked drawing on his bedside table that she’d made of him holding her in his arms.

His sweet daughter who carried a piece of his heart everywhere she went.

“Then she’s just like you. Very open with her affections.” Huffing out an impossibly tender laugh, he picked up his phone once again and began to climb into bed, his shoulders sagging with relief; like he needed that reassurance to be able to nestle his body into the mattress, cold as it was without his lover. “Sometimes I wonder what I did to deserve it from you both…”

“You’re gonna get sick like that, and guess who’ll be cleaning up that mess?” Rafayel frowned, grabbing his daughter by the scruff of her neck and carrying her off before she got her pretty dress drenched by the wave that came crashing down where she’d been standing.

“I can’t get sick from water, daddy, and you know it,” came the reply between giggles, her eyes closed as she relished in the spray of seawater.

With a grunt, he fumbled with his phone a little as he switched to carrying her against his hip with one arm, before turning back to the ongoing video call. “Holding down the fort?” they teasingly asked, arching their brow at their daughter’s windswept hair and inevitably sandy fists curled up against Rafayel’s chest.

“She likes to bully me.” He pouted as he saw two pairs of mischievous eyes looking at him. “No guesses as to where she picked that up from.”

“Are you sure that your six year old daughter—who, mind you, is as cute as a button—is bullying you?”

“Daddy’s just silly, Lemurians are fine with water,” his daughter tried to reason with what she felt was perfectly logical. “He just doesn’t want to wash my clothes again if I get them wet.”

“And why should I?” he indignantly huffed out at the grin that showed she was definitely up to no good. “They’ll get dirty ten seconds later anyways. It’s such a pain.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t leave paint buckets everywhere, then I wouldn’t be on my fourth dress of the day.” Her sassy mutter under her breath was the last straw, and then his instincts took over and—

Chomp!

His teeth nibbled on her round little cheeks, cuteness aggression washing away any possible annoyance (which he’d been feigning, anyways) at the prospect of having to do the laundry all over again. She cried out in protest, though her shreaks of laughter and tighter hold on him gave away the fact that—not unlike his partner—she loved every bit of it.

“You got my face all dirty,” she whined, wiping her cheek against his silk shirt as he walked them back up to the house, much to his dismay.

A chuckle came from his screen, and he flushed under the sweet gaze and the grin he missed so much. “There goes another round in the washing machine. Y’know, Raf, it’s not the smartest move around to wear your favorite clothes around your kid.”

“No kidding,” he grumbled, though there was no bite behind his words. In fact, the tender look in his gem-like eyes only spoke volumes of the adoration he held inside. And maybe his little girl felt it, and decided it would be the perfect moment to press a kiss to where she could reach, right over his heart.

“I don’t mind the paint, daddy. You always make the prettiest things with it, pretty just like you,” she softly said, her tiny index finger toying with the pearlescent button on his blouse.

How much more did she want to squeeze his heart in his chest? He didn’t think he could possibly love her any more than he already did, and yet here she was, proving over and over again that she was the greatest gift he could ever be blessed with after all these years. Walking into their home with sandy feet and salty skin was no longer a dream, but a part of his quaint little life.

“Even if you did ruin my favorite dress and sandals.”

“Papa’s been asleep for three hours now,” she whined in a low voice, her bottom lip jutted out as she looked back at Xavier curled up in a ball in the middle of the unmade bed, legs tangled in the messy sheets. She then turned back to the videocall at hand. “Can’t you wake him up, please?”

Her twin brother popped up from behind her and patted her shoulders in what he hoped was a soothing manner. “He’s tired after he played with us. Let’s leave him for a bit.”

With a downcast gaze, she reluctantly nodded and walked out with him, the phone shaking as it was a little too big for her small hands.

Now out in the living room, they could finally raise their voices a little. “Papa cleaned up in the morning too. We probably shouldn’t have asked him to play with us.” He looked a little forlorn as he fiddled with his fingers. Painfully shy, it often showed when he was doubting himself. “We tried to help him after lunch, but—”

“That’s okay, what matters is that you both tried to lend him a hand,” they sweetly reassured them as they smiled through the screen. “And I’m sure if he was too tired to play with you guys, he wouldn’t have offered it in the first place.”

Their daughter gasped, eyes shining in awe at that. “How did you know that Papa was the one who came up with the game?”

“Because he waits for playtime every day, just to spend time with you guys. He’s always so excited, y’know?”

With matching grins (though one was more bashful than the other), the two seven year-olds looked significantly lighter than they had been when the call had first started. The precious moment was soon interrupted by a yawn from behind and a tuft of blonde hair taking up half the background.

“Did you two sneak off to have them all to yourself?” came Xavier’s sleep-addled voice, as he shuffled to pull them onto his lap and readjust the camera. “Cheeky, taking advantage of my nap.”

His daughter laughed, her hands going to loop around his neck. “We weren’t! Promise.”

Her brother reached up to pat down Xavier’s bedhead, gently combing through the soft locks. “You looked tired, Papa. We didn’t want to wake you up with our voices.”

At that, Xavier couldn’t help the upwards quirk of his lips, all the love one could contain threatening to burst through as he held his world between his fingertips—and the best part of him miles away but no further from the heart.

“You’re sweet, just like a certain someone we all miss,” he said, before kissing their foreheads and ruffling their hair, earning little grumbles of protest. Turning his attention back to the videocall, Xavier’s eyes softened. “How long until we can take naps together on the couch again?”

His partner sighed, glancing at the calender on the wall for a moment. “Should be three days. It’s hell without you guys. Maybe I’ve gotten used to waking you all up for an hour in the mornings.”

“Hey, it’s all because of Papa!”

“He does sleep in twice as long as us…”

“And it’s gotten even worse now that you’re gone.”

He chuckled at their sulking feeding off each other, and the collective agreement that things just weren’t the same when his lover wasn’t beside him where they belonged. “Then maybe this should be enough to convince them to hurry back to us so we can get up early every day, hmm?”

“Tell me why Luke and Kieran frantically called me up and told me stop you from endangering our one year old girl. Now.”

“Well, hello to you too, sweetie.” Sylus rolled his eyes at the clearly enthusiastic greeting. “I’ve missed you too. I’m doing good without you for two weeks. Thanks for asking.”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t give me that crap. You’ll live.” Scoffing, they crossed their arms in front of their chest. “Less avoiding the topic, more explaining why your seconds in command are treating you like a ticking bomb.”

“They’re more like lackeys, you know.” A hint of irritation climbed up his spine. Luke and Kieran were more like lost puppies that would be a danger to themselves—and society—if they were left to their whims. That’s all that they were (or so he tried to convince himself).

They waved him off, knowing that his half-assed words weren’t to be taken seriously. “I beg to differ. Now, where is she and what happened?”

Silence settled for a few moments, but then he realized it wasn’t in his favor to not quickly come clean. “She was playing around with me in bed, then seemed fascinated by my left pocket. Said pocket… may or may not have had a gun.”

Leaning in close to the camera, they sighed heavily, and pinched the bridge of their nose. “And I’m assuming her magic little fingers found the trigger.”

“More or less yes,” he mumbled under his breath, swallowing thickly as he met their dead-eyed stare. “Had to whip it out and fling it across the room… which may or may not have caused it to slam into the new bookcase and send it toppling.”

It didn’t matter how many people he’d managed to fearlessly face down; pinned underneath his partner’s disapproval, he found himself unable to move. “And that’s where they came in?”

Sylus hummed, flipping the camera and showing them the fractured remains on the floor. “Sorry about that, sweetie. Didn’t have the time to clean it up, what with feeding her and getting her ready for bed.”

“It’s fine, I can build another one.” Their quick dismissal was followed by the furrowing of their eyebrows. “What matters is that you prioritized her safety first.”

“Of course,” he was quick to reply, turning the camera back to himself, before he chuckled a little, sweetness seeping through his voice, “Though I do admit, seeing her have no self-preservation instincts really did make her strikingly similar to you in that regard.”

“Really flattering, hearing you praise her brashness and compare it to mine.” Their expression then grew more serious, and they worried their bottom lip between their teeth. “But… please. Don’t keep any weapons in the same room as her. She’s naturally curious.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” he murmured, having had his dose of sheer panic at her tiny hands. He couldn’t remember a moment in his life when he’d been as terrified as he was earlier, his blood turning to ice at the thought of endangering her because of his own fast-paced life.

“I know you’ll be more careful. You’re so good to her—and me,” they quietly mused, a grateful look on their face as they admired him—tired ruby eyes, unruly silver hair, and all.

And Sylus had no control over his own lovesick stare, perfectly content with dancing in their palm for the rest of their lives. After all, he’d found the only two people in this world he could forfeit his life for. There was no shame in admitting it—and so he did, ever so softly. “I suppose you can take pride in knowing that you both have me wrapped around your fingers.”

Taglist: @angry-and-yandere @nxx-jordiepord @honestlyjustablog @dawnbreakersgaze @tartartagliaboo @lucis-noctiana @riinari-sa @flurrina @reika-desu @randomidk-123 @tikitsune @cofijelli @roll-of-royces @lemonsupernova @loveyoutodeep @belovedof @obiwanmcprobie @hawtlineblingz @kalatipunan @eurekazz @bifedebruxa @thescribeswife @mysticangel123 @xenasolos @jvnluvr @dann-acalle @rosariymchapter @rin-sv14 @yololesgo @an-ever-angry-bi @semi-orangeapple @lavanderbliss @myturnwhen @winterlvod @carsonology @deepzombieyouth @respitable @stellisangelicus-world @kvsqkiii @bitchynightmarepost @snoozeflare @spotted-salamander @cindywasneverhere @ladyparamount @sncrly0urs @huntersmoon1 @musiclover2119 @girl-who-lives-in-delusion @milktsukii @fromdeepspace-withlove @flavoredhappy @hrhmimieucliffe @icedunderwaterroom @ay-chuu @granddearduck @skriblobz @nadinefromwhere @thatbaepizzalover @imhere2dosomething @saerotonins (more in replies!)

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disastrqueer · 2 years

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#vent time #my fam and i played a game earlier and i was fidgeting with one of the pieces to help keeping concentrated #and my bro was like can u pls stop and i was like no bc else i will be super spacy and then he was thats not true you just need some #self discipline #and i was like fuck u thats not how my brain works #and then be said not in a positive way #so get urself a fidget spinner or smth #and while i plan to get more stim toys #the way he said that is really fucking with my brain and i feel super bad about my fidgeting/stimming but also hate how general public #just knows bullshit about fidgeting stimming and helpful '#toys/tools #like i was thinking about wishing for some specific stim toys for christmas and i was apready unsure but now im even more unsure& insecure #and will probs not do it #and i just feel super shitty and anxious about this rn #like pls let me fidget/stim in peace #too kany people already scolded me for fidgeting #WHEN IT FUCKING HELPS ME STAYING IN THE PRESENT AND WITH CONCENTRATION #like i am also so pissed #like i just want more stim toys and christmas is gonna be soon anyway and now im just angry and anxious and self concious and just ughhhhh #i hate this #orion rants #angry typos #i want to commit arson

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entitled-fangirl · 2 months

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I'll find you.

Cregan Stark x wife!reader

Summary: the high Septon visits Winterfell, and Cregan would rather do anything else with his time than spend it with the priest.

Warnings: religious trauma, bad theology, blood, fighting, vulgar words and name-calling

Masterlist

.......................................................

"I don't want him near her."

"My lord, please. You and the Lady must greet him most welcomingly. He's an important ally."

Cregan gritted his teeth. "He's a fucking fiend. I'll not have him anywhere near her. I'll greet him myself."

The maester sighed, "You cannot keep her away from him the entire time. It raises suspicion."

"I find myself hardly caring."

"Speak to her on it, my lord. Perhaps you'll come to an arrangement."

…

"You're worried about a septon?" She asked in a confused manner.

"You've ever had your gut wrench at the thought of someone?" He asked.

She leaned against the back of her chair with her head tilted in thought, "I suppose so."

"Septon Garren has no regard for life itself. I'd make a better priest than him."

She rolled her eyes, "We're his hosts. We still make the rules here, Cregan."

He sighed and sipped his ale. "I know that. Still, I'll not have him disrespect you."

"I'll stay at your side. How does that sound?"

He let out a long breath, "You won't wander?"

"I won't."

"Fine. Fine."

…

Septon Garren exited his carriage with a scowl that looked like it was permanently marred to his face.

He looked around at Winterfell with a look that screamed he was unimpressed.

Cregan stepped forward, keeping Y/n behind him, "Septon. How wonderful to have you join us."

He grimaced, "Yes. Yes. Very well."

Cregan had to hold back a sigh, "I've not seen you since I was young. Might I…" He paused, forcing himself to continue, "Might I introduce my Lady Stark?"

Garren's eyebrows shot up at that.

Cregan reluctantly pulled her in front of him, his hands never leaving the woman's body.

She smiled and held out her hand, "A pleasure, Septon Garren."

Garren stared at her hand with an unimpressed stare.

She awkwardly lowered her hand and leaned back into Cregan.

Garren finally spoke, "'Tis colder than I imagined."

Cregan gritted his teeth in frustration, "Yes, well. You did decide to visit at the beginning of winter. So, I imagine it's much colder than King's Landing."

Y/n felt the tension, "Might we go inside? You must be weary from your travel."

Garren's eyes wandered over her slowly, as if seeing something that she didn't. "Yes. That would be fine."

Cregan sighed and pulled Y/n along with him, leading them into Winterfell.

…

"He doesn't seem that terrible, Cregan."

"You've no idea, my love. He's like a spider."

She scoffed lightly, "C'mon. He's unpleasant, yes. But you make him seem like a demon."

"He's the closest you'll find."

She sighed in frustration. "I am going to fetch my book from the library. When I return, I expect you to have pieced yourself back together."

…

She picked up the book she had abandoned in the library, turning around and jumping in surprise.

Septon Garren stood in the doorway.

Just staring.

She held the book to her chest, feeling exposed for some reason. "Septon. Forgive me. I didn't hear you."

He grunted, continuing his stare.

She was unsure of what to do but stare back. He was in the door way. What else was she to do?

She made herself walk the various shelves, pretending to scan for a book.

He continued his stare.

She finally sighed, "My husband told me you've been the high septon for three kings now."

Garren grunted, studying her.

She looked around, very uncomfortable. "I'm sorry. I should return to Cregan."

He moved one step to the side and grumbled under his breath, "Flee from me, Eve."

Her brow furrowed, "Hmm? I'm sorry?"

He stared with a glare now.

She quickly made it back to Cregan.

…

Cregan had decided to give the man a single chance due to his wife's words.

So he sat over his dinner, trying his hardest to converse with the man.

"My friends in the south tell me the weather has been fairing nicely this season."

Garren grumbled, "Aye. A fair amount of rain."

Cregan nodded and sipped his wine, "I see. We're all snow. I understand the feeling of rain."

Y/n leaned forward with an intent to speak, "Tell me exactly what it is you do?"

Garren's brows furrow, "I'm the high septon."

She bit her lip, "Yes. But… what exactly does a septon do?"

He frowned, "Girl does not know the jobs of a septon?"

Cregan's chest puffed out on instinct.

"No, I'm afraid I don't. Please tell me." She tried to reason.

"I… I communicate with the Seven, and relay the message to the people. I perform exorcisms and offer sacrifices to our gods, old and new, to please them."

She hummed, "Oh… is that all?"

Cregan held back a chuckle.

Garren frowned but said nothing.

…

Late that night, she sat up from the bed, unable to sleep.

Cregan snoozed loudly as he always did.

It seemed to be the only time he was in a state of pure relaxation, so she never dared to interrupt it.

She pushed herself from the bed and ran a hand through her messy hair in an attempt to calm it.

After throwing a robe on over her small clothes, she left the room to spend her time in the library until morning. It was a common routine for her to do so, and none of the servants ever batted an eye when she did.

But when she walked into the library, she froze to see Septon Garren there. She let out a soft gasp that caught his attention.

He turned, a new look in his eye, "Come. Sit."

She held her arms over herself, "No, I couldn't. I'm hardly appropriately dressed. I… I did not expect anyone else up at this hour."

He titled his head, "It does not bother me, my child. Sit."

She forced herself to talk slow steps to him, sitting down on the sofa next to him.

He watched her closely, letting his eyes wander over her.

"Couldn't sleep, I suppose?" She asked awkwardly.

He stared at her, debating something.

He leaned towards her, grabbing her wrists and pulling her arms away from her body, making her expose herself more to him.

She watched him in freight as he took her in more.

He finally spoke, "'Tis a shame."

"W…What is?"

"The curse of women."

She let out a breath, "I… I'm sorry."

"You believed you could seduce a high septon? You're certainly a bold one."

She lightly scoffed as her hands began to shake, "W.. What?"

He grinned a sick smile, "You've succumb to your nature, girl. Don't play the fool when your septon discovers so."

She tried to pull her hands out of his, to no avail, "Stop."

He bit his smile back from growing wider. "I bet you've fooled the Stark lord." He leaned in, "No man but a holy one can outwit the dealings of an evil cunt."

"Let me go."

He stands, pulling her up with him, "On the contrary, girl. I believe I know just what to do with you- something Cregan Stark doesn't have the guts to do."

Her eyes welled up with tears, "I haven't done anything… I haven't… I haven't done anything."

One of his hands moved up to her hair, gripping the strands at the back of her neck harshly. "Let's go, Eve."

She could only comply as he began to drag her by her hair with no remorse.

He pulled her from the library and began to pull her down the corridor.

She began to cry, "Stop… please… pl… stop."

He laughed, "Now Eve uses her tears to plead for forgiveness. It's typical."

She tried her hardest to pry his fingers from her.

"You see, every woman is a reincarnate of Eve, sent by Satan to test us all. It's a man's job to keep her evil at bay." He leaned into her ear, "And yours has done a poor job of it, it seems."

She misstepped, tripping herself and falling to her feet.

He reaffirmed his grip on her hair and tugged her up harshly.

She let out a loud shriek in pain.

He pulled her the rest of the way up, letting her go and slapping her across the face so hard, she fell again.

She cried at the pain that throbbed in her face and head. "I didn't… I… Creg… please."

Garren grabbed her by the hair again, "Don't worry. I'll beat it out of you, girl."

She hiccuped, desperate for breath through her panic and tears as he continued to drag her down the corridor.

"Please stop… I… I'll do anything… let.. let me go."

He gripped her chin tightly to pull her face to him, "You'll feel better after a proper beating, I assure you."

She felt the smallest but of determination, and she spit in his face.

He let out a grunt and took a step back. His anger grew tenfold suddenly, and he let out a full swing on her.

She screamed at the pain as she fell to the floor another time.

Blood seeped from her nose profusely.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!" Cregan's voice boomed from down the hall.

He stood in his usual cloak, no doubt thrown over his small clothes.

She hiccuped but made no effort to move from the ground in worry of having him see the blood.

"My lord," Garren began, "Your wretch attempted to seduce me in the dead of the night! You've not done your duty!"

Cregan's eyes widened in pure anger. A fire was lit behind the pupils. "My what?"

"Your wretch."

Cregan immediately began swinging, throwing a series of punches at the man.

She sat herself up, looking down at her shift and robe that now were stained with her blood. She let a small whine at the uncomfortable feeling of the liquid running from her nose.

She let out a grunt and pushed herself up on shaky legs, immediately leaving as quickly as she could.

…

"Let me in."

She turned to look at the door, pausing the patting of the wet cloth to her nose.

She couldn't let him in like this.

"Leave this for the morrow, Cregan. Please."

She heard his feet shuffle.

"I'm not leaving this door until I'm done with the conversation."

"Well, I do not wish to converse."

"Let me in, or I'll break it down now."

She quickly got up, moving to it and unlocking it. But just as quickly as she had gotten up, she moved back to the vanity.

Cregan stepped in, assessing the room before his gaze settled on her, "My gods."

She turned her head to him, immediately beginning a sudden sob at the look in his eyes.

He took a step towards her, but she shook her head, "Stop… d… don't please."

He paused, "You've got to let me see."

She shook her head more, "Don't come near me."

Cregan felt offended, "Love, why not?"

"I… I'm… nothing. I don't… I can't take more today… please."

His eyes softened, "What?'

She sniffled, "I can't take another beating, please, my lord."

He felt his stomach drop. "I… I'm not gonna hurt you, my girl."

Hot tears continued down her face, "I didn't mean to. I didn't know he was there…"

He nodded, "I never doubted you. I never did." He took a slow step forward, "Can I look at you?"

She studied him in deep thought before nodding.

He let out a breath of relief and knelt in front of her, taking her face in his hands gently.

"Nasty hit, huh?"

She scoffed, "That's all you've to say?"

He grimaced, "I have much to say, trust me, pretty."

When her snivels multiplied with the promise of more tears, he quickly corrected himself, "I'm not angered with you."

She looked at him through a blur of tears, "You're not?"

His brows came together, "How could you think that? Of course not. A man beat my wife, and you think I'm mad at you?"

"If you believe him.."

"About what?" He asked incredulously. "You know the horrid things I'll do to that man for what he said?"

She sniffled, "I'm sorry."

He shook his head, "Stop that."

She nodded, "Yes, my lord."

He let out a frustrated sigh, "No. Don't say that."

"What do you wish for me to say?"

"Doesn't matter. You're to call me whatever you wish. You know that." He paused, "Has he brain washed you so easily?"

Another tear fell down her cheek, "I'm just lost."

He nodded and wiped the tear, "I'll find you then. How's that?"

She let out a shaky breath. "Please."

He took the cloth from her hand and tilted her head up as he began to dabble the cloth across her nose.

She spoke after a while, "You can't kill him. He's the high septon."

"He touched you. I'll do whatever I wish with him."

"You'll make an enemy of King's Landing."

"Don't care."

She sniffled, "No?"

"Do you think I'm a formidable opponent because of my worry of making enemies? No." He rubbed a tender spot and apologized, "I'm a formidable enemy because I don't stop until I get what I want."

"And what do you want?"

"His head on a spike and you in my arms."

She smiled, "You have one of those things already."

He chuckled and threw the cloth onto the vanity, "Indeed, I do."

She gasped when he picked her up and took her to the bed.

"In the morning, I'll have them both. Until then, I'll enjoy what I have."

...................................................

Cregan Stark taglist: @misswynters, @cosmosnkaz, @sithapprentice, @kaniromi, @lovemesomevesey, @its-jackie-bb, @callsignwidow, @8812-342, @nyxbranwenn

#cregan x reader #cregan stark x reader #creagan stark #cregan stark imagine #cregan stark #cregan stark x you #cregan stark x female reader #cregan stark x y/n #game of thrones x y/n #game of thrones x reader #game of thrones imagine #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones #house of the dragon imagine #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon fanfiction

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sunsetchicane · 2 months

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i love you, i'm sorry [QH43]

quinn hughes x fem!reader

word count: 2.9k

summary: two years after breaking things off with Quinn, you find yourself going to Game 1 of Round 2 of the Playoffs, completely unprepared to see the man you still harbour feelings for.

based off of: this is loosely based off of I Love You, I'm Sorry by Gracie Abrams

warnings: aggressive amounts of pining (like, probably annoying), two swear words, a few kisses, mentions of a breakup (so like, kinda angst? idk man), copious amounts of cheesiness, probably extremely inaccurate descriptions of the game, not great writing lol. let me know if i missed anything!

author's note: okay, i haven't written anything on here yet due to a horrendous case of writer's block and many hours of working. so, this is definitely not my best work, but it was a fun way to try move past my writing slump. i really do hope that anyone who reads this does enjoy! love, addi <3

Vancouver’s streets preserve memories well. You found that out when, even two years after things had fallen to pieces, you couldn’t go anywhere without seeing the two of you holding hands, sharing quiet laughs, and stealing kisses. You’d thought that after two years you would’ve been able to shake those memories off when they plagued your mind; but it was hard when he was plastered across banners and fans sported his jersey for half the year.

He was making his name known throughout the NHL, and you couldn’t ignore the buzz around Quinn Hughes when the Canucks made it to the Stanley Cup Playoffs.

After you and Quinn had broken things off, you had to find separate friend groups to belong in. The two of you had shared too many mutual friends. The group of ladies you did manage to find yourself among knew nothing about your past relationship with the captain of the Canucks. When the city was gearing up for the first round of the playoffs, even your friends couldn’t stop talking about the sport.

You were standing outside, leaning against the railing on a BC ferry, returning from visiting family on the Island, when you received a call from your friend Lydia. You picked up without hesitation.

“Hey, what’s up?” you asked.

She immediately giggled, which honestly had you a little scared. “I have a surprise,” she said excitedly, the last word dragged out.

You snorted. “Am I allowed to ask what it is?”

“It’s a really big surprise, and you have to promise not to scream when I tell you,” she laughed, acting like a teenage girl again. It was one of the things you really did love about her – her ability to bring childlike joy with her wherever she went.

“I promise not to scream, Lyd,” you assured her, hoping she was satisfied.

She paused for dramatic effect, and you let her. You knew she was having fun with it.

“We’re going to the first game of round 2 of the playoffs!” she squealed.

Your phone nearly slipped through your fingers, almost lost to the sea. You stepped away from the railing, suddenly very glad there was no one on the deck with you. Your heart clenched in your chest. The last time you had been to a game was when you and Quinn had still been together. He wouldn’t even know you were in the crowd, but you would be painfully aware of him in the centre of the arena.

“Okay, you’re even quieter than I thought you’d be,” Lydia commented, reminding you that there was someone on the other end of the line.

You debated for a moment what to say. Would it best to just blurt out that you had dated Quinn Hughes and you were not exactly ready to go watch him play again? Definitely not.

“Uh, yeah, I’m just surprised!” That wasn’t a lie. “How’d you get the tickets?”

“My dad,” she said simply. “When I told him I wanted to go see the Canucks, he was suddenly the proudest parent in the world. You know how he is – once he gets an idea in his head, whether it’s planted there by me or not, he has to do it.”

“Wow, that’s–that’s crazy!” you said stiffly, still unsure of how to act.

“Yeah, and it gets better! We’re sitting right behind the Canucks’ bench!”

You nearly choked on nothing. “What?”

“I know, right? I don’t know how my dad managed it, but he did,” she told you, completely unaware of your stuttering heart. “Who knows, maybe we’ll catch some players’ eyes,” she joked, and you tried to force a laugh out with her.

“Yeah, maybe.” What you didn’t add out loud was your brain screaming please no.

After a few more minutes of chatting and you pretending to be completely sound of mind, Lydia said goodbye, telling you she would send the details soon.

You pocketed your phone and leaned against the railing once more. You watched as the sun brushed the horizon, casting a beautiful pink against the clouds. Vancouver was getting close, and for obvious reasons, you were suddenly dreading it. You wanted to sit on the ferry until it returned to Vancouver Island.

You sighed and rested your chin on your folded arms. You heard a faint buzzing sound above you, and lifted your eyes to the sky. A plane was coming to land at the Vancouver Airport. As it approached, you let yourself imagine it was Quinn flying back from Nashville, and you felt your heart tighten in your chest once more, because you were terrified to see him again, but also because you still missed him. Maybe you were scared to see him because you missed him.

You dropped your forehead to your arms once more and groaned loudly, the ocean and the brightening city lights your only listening companions.

When the morning of May 8th arrived, you found yourself unable to shake the anxiety that had made a home in your chest over the last few days. There was a tenseness in your shoulders that never left, and a squeezing at your heart that seemed relentless.

The group chat you shared with your friends had been buzzing incessantly, the girls incredibly excited. Every now and then you made your fingers put a message out there that hopefully hid your anxieties from them.

After much procrastination, you eventually made your way to your closet. After tugging on a simple pair of blue jeans, you reached towards the back of your closet. Your fingers closed around the unmistakable, thick material of the jersey. Taking a deep breath, you pulled it out. Your only Canucks jersey of course, had to be Quinn’s home jersey from two seasons ago. No one would know it was the jersey that he had pulled over his head before every home game. However, you knew. There was no C on the left side of the chest, and your mind was pulled back to the relationship you had shared.

You often questioned why you and Quinn had even ended things. You missed him so much still, and you were plagued by the way you knew it had been the wrong choice. You had been growing apart as he was dealing with growing attention and expectations within his career, and a promotion at your own job had stolen your energy and attention. You had both been tired and short with one another, and eventually the tension built and had blown up in a terrible way.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to force both the guilt and continued yearning out of your busy mind.

When Lydia texted that she and the girls were on the way to your apartment, you reluctantly pulled the jersey over your head. The sleeves covered most of your hands, and the fabric fell past your hips and part way down your thighs. You pulled on a pair of shoes and left the safe space that was your apartment, locking the door behind you.

Rogers Arena was packed and the energy in the building made you feel like you could start vibrating. You and your friends held hands so as not to get separated. You were glad when your friends made no comment on how tightly you squeezed their hands, or how sweaty your palms might have been.

You were made significantly more nervous when you realised that Lydia had not been exaggerating about your seats. You were sitting right behind the bench.

The arena was filling up steadily, and you sat there in between your friends, not speaking a single word. It had been a couple years since you had been here, and while you were very nervous, the familiarity came rushing back to you and it helped to slow your fast beating heart.

If you closed your eyes, you could imagine Quinn smiling at you from the other side of the glass, and laughing when you blew him a kiss.

You wrapped your arms gently around yourself, the once very stiff material of the jersey now very easily shifted and manipulated. You knew it didn’t smell like him anymore, but when you let yourself get lost in the feeling of his old jersey, it was like he was right there. You were wrapped in him still, and you doubted it would ever go away.

You were shocked out of your own thoughts when your friends, along with the rest of the fans around you, started cheering. The Canucks and the Oilers were on the ice, starting to warm up. Your eyes searched the ice quickly, and gliding easily across the ice on the opposite side of rink, was the captain, the number 43 embroidered on his jersey, just like the one you adorned.

Your own cheeks heated up when it really hit you that you were wearing his old jersey. You weren’t together anymore; what were you thinking? He could see you– what would he think when he saw you right behind his bench, wearing the jersey he had gifted you?

You suddenly wanted to throw up more than ever. He exchanged a few words with Elias, and laughed at something his buddy had said. Your heart ached in longing once more. You had missed his laugh so much.

Quinn now had facial hair, something he hadn’t had when he was with you. His hair was longer, peeking out from beneath his helmet. He already seemed much more grown up. He looked like a captain, something who had become used to leading his team. Quinn had always been somewhat confident in his abilities as a hockey player, but it was easy to tell that he had really gotten used to his role on the team and had come into his own over the past two years.

The girls grabbed your hands and walked into the aisle, just to get right up to the glass. Your face burned and you tried to hide behind some of your friends. You kept your heads down and your arms folded.

Your friends held up hats and other paraphernalia that they desperately wanted signed by players.

“Y/N!” One of your friends practically shouted. You suddenly noticed that they had all stopped cheering. You looked up to see them parted in front of you.

Quinn was on the other side of the glass, looking right at you.

Your friends shoved you up the glass, giggling and squealing. You nearly ran into the glass from the force of their shoves. Quinn laughed at you, his smile exactly how you remembered it.

He pointed at the white Canucks towel in your hands and shouted, “toss it over!” The arena was so loud you were glad he had mouthed it clearly. You hesitated but threw the towel over. With one glove off and in the other hand, he caught it. He gestured to one of your friends to throw over the Sharpie she was holding. She did gladly, happy to be included. He caught it easily and started to write quickly on the white fabric. Your heart did flips while watching him, and your hands shook with nothing to hold onto.

He finally capped the pen and threw both the towel and marker over the glass. You struggled to catch it, but thankfully, you managed to hold onto it. You held it flat before you.

Meet me by my car after. Usual spot. Your breath stopped slightly when you saw a rushed heart drawn next to the words. You looked back up to see him putting his glove back on. He gave you a warm smile that set you on a fire from the tips of your toes to the top of your head. You took a deep breath and nodded to him. His smile widened slightly. Before he turned to skate away, you saw him mouth the words, “nice jersey.” You stuttered for a second, and he simply winked and turned.

Your friends all screamed and crowded you, looking at the towel.

“Usual spot? What the fuck is going on?” Lydia yelled over the noise, cackling.

You just blushed and shook your head, returning to your seat with the towel gripped tightly in your hands.

As the teams continued to warm up, you explained as quickly as you could that you and Quinn had once been together. Your friends, of course, were shocked but also very excited for you at the prospect of reuniting with him. You simply waved your hands in protest.

“I don’t even know if he wants to get back together with me! He might just want to catch up or something… we’re cool now and I don’t want to mess anything up.”

“Girl, please!” one of your friends shouted. “He drew a motherfucking heart and winked at you! Of course he wants you back.”

You all laughed and you embraced the next blush that warmed your cheeks.

The players left the ice, and minutes later, the lights went dark. The deafening sound of nearly 19,000 people screaming almost broke your eardrums. Blue light filled the room, and you looked up to see what was playing on the large screens above you.

You watched the intro video and let a nostalgic, giddy feeling overtake you. You couldn’t help but smile.

The arena fell back into nearly full darkness. You heard the beginning of a familiar sound of twinkly guitar that dragged you right back to 2011. Goosebumps rose up along your skin all over your body. That was the last time the Canucks had made it to the Playoff finals, and you hoped dearly that they could get there again. The playing of Where The Streets Have No Name from their intro from 2011 made hope take hold of you.

You couldn’t help but raise your particularly special white rally towel in the air to wave alongside all of the other Canucks fans in the building.

It had been surprisingly easy to get into the players’ parking garage. Despite it being two years since you had been in the building, you were recognized by several people, who let you walk wherever you wanted.

Your friends had practically shoved you to go after the game, screaming after you to call them later. You had laughed and walked away, your steps lighter than they had been in a long while.

You later found yourself standing by Quinn’s car. It was the same one he’d had when you had been together. Your hand brushed the shining hood of the car, and you could see yourself in the passenger seat, laughing at something he’d said as the two of you drove around downtown Vancouver.

“Thank God you actually showed up.”

You whipped around, seeing a freshly showered Quinn in sweatpants and a hoodie making his way towards you.

You tugged on the hem of the jersey, your heart beating quicker and quicker with every step he took.

He stopped in front of you, and when you looked up, you both spoke.

“I love you.”

“I’m sorry.”

Your eyes nearly popped out of your head. “You-what?”

He bit his bottom lip before repeating himself. “I love you. I know it’s been two years, but-”

“I love you, too,” you said quickly, blood roaring in your ears. “And I am so, so sorry. I never should’ve-”

It was his turn to cut you off. “Don’t apologise, please. It’s not your fault.”

“Can you… can you please accept my apology, at least?”

He smiled softly. “I forgive you. I’m sorry, too.”

“I forgive you, too,” you whispered softly, your heart swelling with affection as you looked at him. You felt an intense relief flood your body. Your shoulders finally relaxed for the first time in what felt like years. He reached out and wrapped you in a warm hug. You melted into it, returning the gesture.

“I missed you. So much,” you mumbled into his hoodie.

One of hands gently scratched the back of your neck like he used to do. “I missed you, too.” He pulled away just enough to lean down and kiss your lips softly. Nothing had ever felt so natural. His playoff beard scratched your face and you laughed at the sensation, pulling away.

“Not used to the beard,” you admitted, smiling widely.

He smiled, too. “Yeah, what do you think? Should I keep it around?”

You shrugged, leaning back into him. “Well, you’re very handsome either way.”

“You think?”

“Mhm. Your hair also looks very good. I like it longer like this,” you told him, ruffling his brown hair. He swatted your hand away and kissed your cheek.

“Noted.” He looked down at me again. “Should probably get you a new jersey.”

“Hm, you think I need the big ole C on here, Captain?”

He shook his head, blushing. “Don’t call me that.”

You laughed, wrapping your arms around him, bringing his head down for you to kiss. “Couldn’t help myself.” You grabbed his hands. “Congratulations on the big win, by the way.”

“I can’t believe you came. I thought I was hallucinating or something when I saw you,” he told you honestly.

“Well, I’m glad I came,” you admitted, running a hand through his hair.

“You have no idea how happy I am right now,” he said, smiling wider than you had seen all night.

You laughed, feeling pure joy in your heart. “I think I might have an idea.”

568 notes · View notes

fairene · 2 months

Text

good for you / ln4, part one

lando norris x fem!reader

no use of y/n, as always.

in which you and lando have parted ways, but on what terms? at what cost is he willing to get you back, and how far down are you finished with him? what lengths with the two of you go, battling with your hearts, before you can be together once more? he knows that no one is good for you, except him.

a/n⋯ a collaborative piece between myself and the lovely @jamminvroomvroom. she will be writing the next chapter, so keep your eyes out! we don't have a total idea of how long this'll be, but we are so thrilled to have it ready for you all. jas is an amazing writer, and i am so, so lucky that she wanted to do this with me. shower her with all the love, and i hope you enjoy this. as usual, reader's clothes are left up to interpretation. this is for you afterall;)!

warnings⋯ smut, MINORS DNI 18++. language, drinking, choking, p in v sex (wrap before you tap!), insecurity, arguments, exes to lovers(?(we shall see!)) possession, jealousy. if i forgot any warnings, feel free to let me know.

wc⋯ 5.2k (unedited.)

the night began well. the boy you were with was well. you were well. that was the most important thing, wasn’t it? it must be. it had to be, you convinced yourself of that very fact. truly, you had no reason to complain. your friends supported you, loved you, were obsessed with you. and you had a man on your arm who felt the exact same way, and would kiss the ground you walked on.

but others, another, would worship you. used to. but now you were alone, a goddess left untouched, brazen in this world of antagonists. yet, it was a change. it was a change that you needed. this relationship you had with damian was one of new blood. a shift from your tumultuous routine that felt liberating over a life you once mourned.

damian was a man of respectful nature, good upbringings, and he was a good chat. he was fit, treated you with a sweet tenderness that you adored him for, and didn’t devolve into a flaming lair of toxicity to keep you trapped.

and, he was a football player, which was a bonus. he played for barcelona’s team, and you couldn’t be more proud of him. after your previous relationship concluded, the pair of you were introduced by mutual friends, namely the ferrari driver, carlos. you were apathetic at first, unsure of if this was the right move. if it was too soon to want to jump into something.

but damian was kind. he adored you. what else did you want?

more.

you danced with him. in the night life of monaco, you were showered with his attention. the attention of your friends. it was a weekend off for the drivers, so you were able to meet up with the other girls you knew. kika and alexandra in particular, who’ve been entirely supportive of you these past few months.

they danced with one another, cheering you and your now boyfriend on, shouting pleasantries of how good you looked at his side.

damian’s hands around your hips felt good. it felt right. when the bass dropped, so did you. he caught your seductive actions and his eyes widened. there were no words to describe his expression besides admiration. you loved his eyes the most about him— his dark hair, tanned skin, muscular physique—

shit,

maybe you did have a type.

you spun back around, latching your arms around his neck, and he cradled your lower back with his palms. “what?” you questioned his stare that was unrelenting.

“nothin’,” he scoffed. “you’re just absolutely beautiful, innit?”

your head fell back with a laugh, patting his chest as a means to quiet him, but he kept going.

“‘m serious,” your name was low on his tongue. “you’re practically glowin’, love.”

you peppered a kiss on his lips. he met you halfway, swallowing your mouth whole. his tongue entered your mouth, and you could only respond with a noise deep within your throat. he felt the vibration against his lips, and continued his movements.

the pair of you were swaying against each other’s bodies, tongue down one another’s throats, and for a moment the world washed away. something that hasn’t happened in ages, you felt like a makeshift paradise was born between the both of you. a hideaway.

but mirages only serve their purpose for a short time before they fade away into nothingness.

you broke away from his kiss. he looked surprised, offended, but you said nothing of his expression. you brought your lips to his ear for a brief kiss, “i’ll get us drinks?”

he nodded, letting you go.

you brushed past him, trailing your hand up kika’s arm. she immediately spun towards you, alexandra’s attention drawing as well. they beamed when they saw you, following you right over to the bar. the triad of you loitered there, swirling the drinks you ordered in hand.

“so?” kika asked you, as if she’s been dying to hear this story the whole night. alexandra glowered at her, pestering her to be quiet, but you’d answer her regardless.

“it’s good.”

the girls looked at one another.

“that’s it? good?” kika looked baffled.

“what? what else do you wanna know?” you took a sip of your drink, feet hanging from the barstool that you were sat upon.

“anything!” alexandra exclaimed. “haven’t seen you this happy in months.” kika made a face at her, telltale of not to bring up what happened. ah, you thought, what happened. none of you discussed in great details of what happened that night, but they knew it was intense. intense enough for you to lock yourself away for a week with no contact. it was a horrid sight, and they were terrified for you.

“well,” you shrugged. “i am. really. damian’s a great guy.”

the girls squealed, grabbing your free hand. “he seems lovely, doesn’t he? ugh! you look so good together, too!” kika was more excited than you expected her to be, but her support meant the world. along with alexandra’s approval, you felt like you were taking the great steps that were needed to…move on. a dreadful phrase that has been bouncing back and forth in your mind.

“you really do. and he’s an excellent photographer. i mean, look at these pictures he took of you—” alexandra passed you her phone, damian’s instagram story open. it was of you, looking divine beneath the yellow-hues of the club. you’d give him credit where credit is due— you looked fantastic.

your hand flew to your mouth, covering your smile. that only had the girls squealing out more, finding your bashful attitude enough to answer their wearisome concerns. they were so worried about your state after the breakup that they would hound you. would stay as invested as they could in your life, until they were rather annoying. but you were grateful for them nonetheless. without them, you would’ve never met damian. without them, you may not have ever found happiness. however temporary it may be, it was what you felt at the moment.

when damian’s drink arrived in front of you, you swung off the stool and bid them a sweet goodbye with a kiss in your palm, blowing it in your direction. you sashayed through the crowd, slithering through the stalks of grass, and made your way into his arms. he reacted instantaneously, holding you close to his chest. his chin rubbed against your shoulder, clean-shaven, and whispered to you.

“thought you ran away on me.” he said with a hushed tone. you swiveled to hand him his drink, which he took, but not before pressing a kiss to the palm of your hand.

“me?” you made a ‘pfft’ motion with your lips. “never.”

but oh,

how right he was.

damian let out a soft laugh before the two of you made a ‘cheers’ motion with your glasses, and danced the rest of the night away. it was a beautiful evening, truly, and you shouldn’t be feeling the way you were. devoid.

you pushed down the feeling as much as you could.

when you and damian left the club that night, you were happy. glittering with the sparkles of what young love was meant to be. you’d only been dating for two months, but it had you on the edge of your seat. fantasizing about what a life you could have with him.

but some things just stay fantasies, don’t they?

“you sure you’ll be alright?” damian asked you when you unlocked the door to your flat. you hummed with appreciation, feeling the buzz of alcohol through your system.

“i’m sure, my knight.” you said with dramatics. he smiled, appreciating your small antics. they kept him on his toes.

“whatever you say, babe.” he shook his head, holding the door open for you. you stepped inside, gripping the wood, and turned to face him.

you kissed him once good night on the lips, “i’ll text you in the morning.” he nodded against your lips, unwilling to let go, but did when you laughed against him. he was sweet. a sweet, sweet boy.\

“goodnight.” you cooed. he returned the phrase, and you shut your door and locked it.

now alone in your apartment, you threw your bag to the empty countertop and sauntered over to your room. fuck taking a shower tonight, you were just too tired for all of that. you stripped of your dress and threw on an old tee shirt that you had, unknowing of its origins, and laid in your bed.

on your phone you scrolled briefly on instagram, but froze on a singular post.

it was a suggested post. you were instantly gripped. the man draped over this girls body was instantly recognizable. his tanned skin. the stubble on his chin. the curls atop his head. the curls that you used to be obsessed with, running your fingers along his scalp.

you stared at the description:

paradise!

paradise. you scoffed to yourself.

tagged in the photo was the man himself. you clicked on his profile, curious, though you promised yourself you wouldn’t. once wouldn’t hurt, would it? too late, anyways, as you were down the rabbit hole of his feed.

the first post was a feature of him at his races. then, the second slide was a picture of him and her. what was this feeling? how could you find the audacity to let your stomach churn, your heart race? it wasn’t your place anymore. your place, albeit fought for, was not at his side.

he looked happy.

but so were you.

you were.

you are.

but the suggested post of his new girl had you hooked. it had you seething. biting your thumb nail with your front teeth, you made an impulsive decision.

you liked the post.

the night was just beginning for lando when you were in your bed. in the club with his mates, he was bumping to the rap mixes they played on the speakers. drenched in the mix of sweat and alcohol, he was living the life he dreamed of having. it was everything to him, picture perfect that no one could argue.

but there was something missing.

the girl at his front, his girlfriend, grinded against him with radical intentions. she was beautiful, of course, but that was all the words that lando had for her. she accessorized well, was in the media spotlight, and that’s all the boxes it took for him to swoop her off her feet. it was easy, truthfully, and their relationship has been a breeze.

but lando didn’t want a breeze, he wanted a storm. you were the eye of the hurricane that he yearned for. nothing about that has changed– and he feared, deeply, that nothing will ever turn his head. he’d been fixated on you since he laid eyes on you, your attitude. you kept him on his toes, not laid down and bored.

the girl, samantha, spun around to wrap her arms around lando’s neck. his hand traveled to her lower back, holding her close to him. she shouted and cheered with her girlfriends, lando’s own doing the same. but he said nothing, and brought his cocktail to his lips, gurgling a deep swallow of the bitter liquid that heated his throat.

with his bloodshot eyes and weary smiles, he’d attempt to be picturesque for the media. media, media, media. everything returned to the circulation of photos that’d come out with him and his girlfriend. girlfriends. you. he’d never felt so protective of you, of anyone, than the relationship that you had with him. nothing could compare, especially how samantha boasted in every post that he was with her.

her following count jumped well over five hundred thousand since he came in the picture. of course she never said anything, made it a point to speak about, but he knew. lando watched. scrolled endlessly through his phone in the middle of night, drinking up every word that his fan spewed out. a folly of comments asking where you were. what happened between the two of you. but he never made a post about it. it had been radio silence on his end, just as it was the same for you.

but it’d end with him throwing his phone to the side, and promising himself that he didn’t care. he couldn’t care. not when you weren’t his anymore, and that you walked out on him that night with valid purpose. he failed you, and that was on him.

in the meantime of your absence, samantha was there to fill the gaps. to soothe his broken heart with her painfully long acrylics that dug into the back of his neck, her pathetic moans of pleasure when he fucked her better than anyone ever could, and the rocking of his hips against her own in the darkness of the night club.

for now, it was enough. just barely, as it scraped the surface, but lando would down cup after cup to glue the pieces of his heart that you shattered.

samantha continued her movements. lando didn’t relent either, finishing off his drink, slapping his palm against her ass. the crowd around them erupted in cheers, and lando plastered a bolstered smile across his face. this is what they wanted. the surface level teasing, the sultry nature of grotesque actions. but it is not what he wanted. he craved the solitude, the comfort you brought him in the hours of the night before his races. he’d been a phantom crawling through this season, a ghost in the shell of a formula one driver.

“you alright?” samantha asked him. apparently he hadn’t been good at hiding the turmoil from his expressive face. her puckered lips had his eyes shifting downward. her bare chest, barely covered tits.

he’d say nothing in response and simply go in for a kiss. a deep one, aggressive, filling her mouth to the brim with his tongue. maybe this could erase the memories of you, however stubborn they were on placating in his mind as permanent fixtures.

his hand came around the back of her neck, angling her head better for him to swallow her whole. the bracelet, silver imbued with his logo, clanged against her large golden hoops. it was a loud noise that samantha pulled their lips apart. she turned her head to glance at the jewelry, and her lip curled with disgust.

the bracelet. the bracelet you gave him.

she scoffed and he could hear it, but he opted to say nothing in rebuttal. instead, she stalked away from him, looming large near the bar. he followed her tail, knowing that this spat between them wouldn’t last long.

she ordered a drink. lando’s head spun as is.

samantha pulled out her phone, bringing her drink to her lips, and damn near spit out the liquid. she covered her mouth from it spilling, and lando watched with a raised brow.

“what?” he asked of her.

“she liked it.” she. who’s she? who is she?

“what? who?” lando begged for clarification. samantha spun her phone around to shove it in his face. the screen illuminated him beneath the barely visible hues of light, and his eyes nearly popped out of his skill.

you liked her post with him.

you who swore you wanted nothing to do with him ever again. you who snapped the chain of the necklace he got from you, though made of the toughest silver, the metal was nothing beneath your furious fingertips.

lando swallowed, though it did little to stifle his salivating mouth, his racing heart. he clutched the back of the bar with one hand, feeling the world collapse in on him in that moment. a singular like on a photo he didn’t even want to be posted. all it took to have him breaking out into a cold sweat, feeling nausea tug on his stomach, was a like on instagram.

fucking pathetic, wasn’t he?

his thumb came to spin the bracelet around his wrist, twirling it in front of him. samantha hadn’t noticed, too hyper focused on your account. she uttered words that he couldn’t make out. things along the lines of, ‘weird,’ ‘she’s obsessed, ‘innshe?’ but they never made sense to his ears. if anything, you were obsessed with staying away. obsessed with anything but him, contrary to his own feelings. he wasn’t even sure if they mattered to you— did they?

in retaliation, he knew only one thing to steady his heart. he took samantha by her wrist to the nearest restroom, a single stall, and banged on the locked door.

she stood there, speechless, but had a feeling how this night would end. it brought a cruel smile to her lips, but she covered it with her phone in hand. she knew this is how she’d get some of the best sex of her life, when he was riled about his ex, brimming with fury. she didn’t care that she was being used as an outlet, for she was using him for the same.

so she didn’t care.

the man in the bathroom left with a curse but lando didn’t seem to give a fuck. he pulled the girl inside and slammed the door behind him, locking it without a care in the world. against the wall she was pushed, ravished by the company of his lips. he sucked and tugged at her lower lip, becoming so bold as to bite the flesh with his top teeth. she smacked his arm and he relented, knowing damn well that you would’ve been moaning with pleasure.

his lips left no surface untouched as he trailed down the surface of her body. along her collarbones, her bare chest, but he left no marks. he never did, much to her dismay, as if he were saying that she was never really his. because she wasn’t, his thoughts were rampant. this should be you.

lando hiked up the fabric around her cunt, scrunching the dress in his hand. his other made work around his pants, shuffling them down so his blistering cock could spring to life. it did, but with the work of you in his memories, and not the girl who was spilling her breasts for him in face.

he didn’t spend long serenading her with his tongue, though it would be a different story if it was you beneath him. he spared no effort where his lips rejected, the only way he found himself happy would be with your own against his. they were claimed for you and you alone.

it would be a fair assumption to say that you utterly ruined him.

his dick slid into her with ease with the help of his spit across his hand. he had slipped a condom on, too, tearing open the packaging and threw it to the ground. samantha’s hands came to wrap around the back of his neck, her claw-like nails digging into his skin. it had him curl his lip, not finding the sensation enjoyable, but he didn’t care. not when you were thundering on his mind. his storm, his sunshine.

she moaned deeply at the contact, finding her g-spot with no effort whatsoever. she was already a mess beneath him as he solidified a pace, grunting in the wake of his thrusts.

but he wasn’t thinking of her. ‘course he wasn’t. he was thinking of the first time he had you. you in your light-toned dress, you with your big, sparkling eyes. it would be there, beneath the moonlight of his monaco apartment, that he’d taken you to his bed for the first time. and that was the first time you’d ever came at a man’s touch, and lando wouldn’t forget that he was the first you spilled a name on your tongue.

how you voice was so iridescently sweet. how it curdled his heart into a bow, tying it off with a kiss. your scent had him stirring with craze, frenzied as he ate you out that first time, and nothing ever compared. your cunt was the nectar of his life, fueling him day to day whilst he could have you. when you were his. now he was a man running on fumes, on the oils you’d left behind in his apartment. there wasn’t much he could spare, but that fucking liked photo seemed to do the trick.

it’s enough to hold him over for the time being. the pace at which hips were thrusting increased, sporadic. his hand came to clutch the base of her throat, but samantha slapped his hand away. the wall would suffice, but knew you’d beg him to hold you. clutch you with your life in his hands, bestowing him the greatest trust he could ever earn. he’d have you tearing up, whining, mewling with pleasure from his hands alone. now, the sex was black and white, when you were the whole world. ripped away from his clutch, he’d be empty handed.

she shouted his name, “lando–!” while she came over his cock, tightening around him. he’d groan, forehead flush against the concrete of the wall.

he was reaching his own. those photos of you on your instagram. the feed of your soft launch with that fucking football player. how your friends posted the pair of you— how you were glowing in every light that caught your face. you were so fucking beautiful, so perfect, that he couldn’t help but cum at the thought of you.

but this time, he made a mistake.

it had been your name that flew past his lips when he filled the condom to the brim. it was your name that he grunted in her ear. not samantha’s.

she was furious. disgusted. she shimmied out of lando’s hold, tugging her underwear up and her dress down.

lando knew he fucked up. this wouldn’t be the first time, and ultimately, not the last.

before she left with tears streaming down her face, she had words. “you’re pathetic,” she spat. “take off that fucking bracelet. you know she won’t want you back.”

and then she was gone.

lando was left in the empty stall of the bathroom with his head draped against the wall. his breaths were rampant, coming down from the high of his orgasm, but there was no regret in his mind. there was nothing there except the distress of his memories, the titration of you that fumigated him, held him in a chokehold.

he fixed his pants, washed his hands, and glanced at himself in the mirror. sweaty, bloodshot, exhausted, he didn’t recognize himself. he didn’t recognize the man that was there; unshaved, overgrown hair, sloppy dress attire. this wasn’t him. he was nothing without you, it seemed, and it would drive him into the fucking ground sooner, rather than later. but he was betting on the latter.

aggravated, he let out a curse, “fuck.” before he left the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

when the both of you were in your beds that night, you tossed and turned. a whirlwind of emotions swaddling the both of your beneath the comforters, you kept checking your phone to see if he texted you. you wouldn’t ever say it, but you’d unblocked him a week after you broke up. you wanted to see if he’d chase you. but he didn’t. he didn’t.

he was on his phone, too, fresh out of the shower. waiting. looming on instagram to see if you’d like any of his posts, but he saw no activity. but he did see that his fans caught wind of your liked post. confusion was stirred, wondering if the pair of you were friends again. he couldn’t help but chuckle at that insinuation, because he was wondering the same fucking thing.

but when you both put your phones down and settled in for the night, you were consumed by your memories, and so was he.

you’d dragged him from the event that night back to his flat. when you opened it with the copy of his key he gave to you, you threw your bag on the sofa without a word. you made move to run right to your shared bedroom, but lando wasn’t far behind, and grabbed your elbow.

“what is it?” he asked, confused, and that only angered you more.

“you’re serious?” you said, mouth agape. you couldn’t believe he claimed to not have a single clue what he’d done. what this mess had been amounting to for quite some time.

“clearly, otherwise i wouldn’t be asking,” he said with a bite. “would i?”

you rolled your eyes, attempting to pull your arm out from his hold. but he didn’t relent. he kept his hands firm on you, keeping you settled.

“don’t be daft,” you hissed. he simply raised a brow, shrugged his shoulders. “how you treated me.”

he was still clearly at a loss, free hand coming to rub the back of his neck with a scoff. “and how did i treat you, then?”

your hands flew up with contempt, finally loosening his grip. “this! like this!” your voice raised. “first you hate to post us, and then you say ‘we’re not that serious’?”

that night you’d been standing beside lando, keeping him company with his mates, when they popped the question about the sincerity of your relationship together. you’d expect him to answer with a smile, saying that you were very much in love— because he’s told you that numerous times— but he simply batted the question off with a ‘not too serious, innit? here for a good time.’

“you know i didn’t mean it that—”

“oh…! here we fucking go.” you turned your back on him, head falling into your hands. you ran them over your face, “you say that. you always say that. ‘it doesn’t matter,’ ‘they don’t know the truth,’ then why don’t you tell them?”

he couldn’t believe what you were saying. that you didn’t trust him, didn’t have faith in the words he spoke to you in the peacefulness of your bedroom.

“we don’t owe them shit,” he spoke your name in a controlled tone, gritting his teeth against one another.

“and when i get flamed on instagram? twitter? for taking you away from them?” the fanbase that lando acquired was some of the most valiant people you’ve ever witnessed, but could also be the most brutal.

“you know how they are—”

“i didn’t sign up for that.” you retorted quick, shouting this time, which had his face going a ghastly white. “i’ve done nothing but love you. cherish you. and you can’t owe me the decency to speak kindly on my name. defend the ‘love of your life,’ — as you’ve so called me before!”

lando was stunned to silence.

“and what do you have to say to her now? while i get numerous death threats, how they’ll kill my family, tarnish my work.” you waited for an answer, turning back to him with your hands up.

he said your name again, stepping closer to you. but you threw your hand up in front of him, halting his steps.

“no. no. what would you say?”

lando swallowed the thick, anguished lump in his throat.

“i’d tell her i was sorry.” he took a step closer, letting your hand rest on his heart as he bumped into it. your lip quivered, finally coming to terms with how emotional you’d gotten. “i’d tell her that she means the world to me, and that i’m the biggest fucking mug she’s ever met.”

your breath stifled. arm relaxing, he closed the distance.

you began to believe him.

“and i’d tell her she’s more than what the internet says.” that had you flickering your eyes up. was he still not going to make a statement? “and that their words are meaningless.”

you raised a brow at his indecency.

“threats that they’ll find my parents? dox them, send feds to their house?” you backed away from him. he realized that he fucked up again, and that it could cost him everything.

“you know that won’t happen—”

“and if it does?” you were still firm with your statements, however desperate he looked in his eyes. “what then, when i get a call that my parents house was ransacked? what would you do, oh lord of fame?”

he took a step back from you as if your words pierced through the thick flesh of his heart. he didn’t see it that way, didn’t see how you saw it. the words of hate he received online were toilsome, ignorable, but it was different from you. you didn’t ask for any of this, and he knew it more than true that you didn’t deserve it.

but he made the discovery too late.

“that’s what i thought.”

you moved to grab your bag, your phone, brushing past him whilst he was locked in place. his heart was bursting out of the cage of his chest, his mind pushing him forward, but he was terrified. terrified that if the next words he’d say, you’d be gone.

“don’t fucking call me until you figure your shit out. i’m not playing—”

you were stopped when you were pulled against lando’s chest. his stubble grazing your shoulder, bringing you a greater comfort than you’d sooner die than admit. you felt his heart against him, racing with a speed greater than his car, and let the tears slip from your eyes.

“stop,” you shook your head, begging him to let you go.

“don’t,” he begged, not even sure what he was truly begging for. “don’t go, baby, don’t leave.”

but your mind was already made up. though his begging could suffice if the circumstances were different, but he’d already made his mind up, too. he embarrassed you, threw you under the bus, and allowed you to be tormented in the eyes of the media. you knew it wouldn’t be easy, but you also thought he’d defend you.

yet, you were met with radio silence on his account.

and nothing but an endless stream of apologies, but no solution.

“let me go.” you said. metaphorically, physically. your hand went to the necklace around your neck, picking at the chain.

he shook his head, refusing.

“lando…” you hissed, trying to weave out of his grip. you finally turned to face him, seeing the tears falling from his eyes.

you were crying, too. it felt like something was ending, though you didn’t wish it to be true. but you couldn’t let this media abuse continue any further, and needed to protect yourself, your family, when he failed as its guardian.

“don’t go. please.” he begged, forehead coming to connect with yours. you sucked in a tight breath, wishing to relieve him of his sadness, but your own was overpowering.

“i have to,” you said, holding back a sob. “i’ll be back once you find a way to fix it.”

it was enough to bring the formula one driver to his knees, falling to the carpeted floor. he shriveled beneath your disappointment, unable to keep himself afloat with your wishes.

“get up.” you hissed, wiping away the tears from your own face.

but he didn’t, and laid his head on your stomach, pushing his face into you as hard as he could. you could feel the indent of his nose, his lips. the quivering of his jaw, the shaking sensation of his fingertips as he wrapped around your waist.

“don’t leave me.”

to be continued

tags ; @landoslutmeout @basicallyric @mybluesoul1 @toriiez @customsbyjcg-blog @sofs16 @strengthandstay @mybluesoul1 @f1fantasys @cmleitora @idgasb @amalialeclerc @laneyspaulding19 @staurdvst @oreosareara @sideboobrry11 @mortallyblueninja @fionamiller123 @2pagenumb @marvelfangirl04 @brune77e @allabouthappiness @tellybearryyyy @ringdingdingdingx @tillyt04 @danywonderland @rosebud224 @simpfortoomanymen @nataliambc @forcesensitivesoulmate @sweate-r-weathe-r @norlestappen @madszoca @milkandcookhot @fionamiller123 @16f1lc @jwiltsz @plotpal @inevesgf @theonottsbxtch

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arminsumi · 11 months

Text

I WANT TO KISS YOU [3]

GOJO さとる + fem!reader

You and Satoru falling in love despite a language barrier.

2.8k

CHAPTER INDEX

Summary : you've come to visit Japan to meet these two boys you met online. Though Satoru can't speak English and you can't speak Japanese, the two of you still fall in love. Very cute. Very cheesy. Oh no... wait is there a tension between you and his best friend, too? Oh boy...

Taglist : @miwanilla / @sukunasdirtylaugh / @coco-cat / @babydiamondblog / @mp3playerblog / @froufrousnowman / @lovesickramblingsofmine / @arminswifee / @instantmusico

Visit : INBOX / LIBARY / JJK / GOJO / GOJO FAVES

You, Suguru and Satoru were stood in the shade of a flowering tree near a vending machine, getting drinks after a long hour of exploring Tokyo.

Since Satoru was tall enough to reach, he stretched his arm up and pulled down a flower from the tree overhead.

Then he turned to you.

「お花だ。」 he said softly, 「綺麗じゃないですか？」 Ohanada. Kirei jyanai desu ka? (Flowers. Aren't they beautiful?)

You listened and tried your best to understand the whole meaning of what Satoru just said.

When he saw your unsure look, he said it all again but slower and better pronounced.

Your eyes lit up with excitement as soon as you understood what he said.

It was a small moment in which you and Satoru felt triumphant over the language barrier between each other.

「はい、綺麗です。」 you replied with confidence. Hai, kireidesu (yes, it's beautiful)

Satoru tried to speak a little more, to test how far you could understand him. His heart was beating harder.

「この花。。。それはあなたのためです。」 Kono Hana... Sore wa anata no tamedesu.

"Huh?"

Suguru started laughing after seeing your expression to this — it felt like such a complicated sentence to you — but Satoru thought it was simple enough for you to piece together.

Suguru was about to translate for you but Satoru waved his hands to say no — don't translate.

「いやいや、できるよ！」 Satoru interrupted. Iyaiya, dekiruyo! (No no, I can do it!)

Suguru laughed and nodded, "Okay." he said and gave you a vending machine soda then opened his own grape soda.

"Flower... for you." Satoru said to you.

Your lips stretched into a smile.

"Thank you, Satoru."

His heart throbbed because of the way you said his name.

He gave you a gentle look as you took the flower. The small skin-to-skin contact between your hands felt electric.

Satoru looked at the flower as you twirled it in-between your fingertips.

なんて面白い。彼女の美しさはこの花の美しさを鈍らせた。 How interesting. Her beauty dulled the beauty of this flower.

He nudged his best friend.

("Hey Suguru, it's definitely pronounced like "Flower", right?")

("Flour...?")

("Flower...?")

"Suguru, are you messing with him?"

"Yes, I am."

("Well, did I pronounce it correctly or not?")

Suguru gave him an assuring nod. Satoru seemed a little proud of himself now.

"Niiice." he said.

You gave him a cute thumbs up. He gave you a cute thumbs up back.

"You two are the cutest..." Suguru smiled softly at the exchange between you and Satoru. "I won't translate this for him, act like I'm saying something boring. But I wanted to tell you that he's been wanting to ask you out to an aquarium date — but he's too worried that you won't feel safe with him, since you can't rely on him to translate anything into English."

"Aw... that would be okay, though. I don't understand why he would be worried. We can use our phones like how we do anyways to translate stuff."

"Yeah, exactly. When I say "worried" I actually mean he's insecure. He told me he doesn't like it when — (私たちは政治について話しています) — "

He quickly said something to Satoru because the poor boy was starting to look back and forth between you and Suguru confusedly as the two of you talked more and more.

彼女とそんな風に話せたらいいのに。言いたいことはたくさんあるけど、言葉が通じないからこそ、僕らの愛は特別なものになるのかもしれない。 I wish I could talk to her like that. There are so many things I want to say, but maybe our love is special because we can't communicate in words.

" — sorry — wait, what was I saying?" Suguru returned his attention to you.

"Haha, you already forgot?"

"Yeah. Damn... what was I gonna say?"

Then Satoru asked him something, and he talked a bit with him and intermittently translated things for you.

And god, it was so attractive to listen to Suguru switch from Japanese to English for some reason. His voice changed. In English it became deeper, and in Japanese it was rumbling with sensuality.

You three took the train to somewhere.

Suguru and Satoru had been on either of your sides, the one acting as a translator and the other acting as a puppy — oh Satoru was just thoroughly obsessed with you.

彼女は天使のようだ。 She's like an angel.

("Suguru, how do I say... that I think she's like an angel?")

("Oh wow, that's quite something to say. Should I say it for you?")

("No, I can say it to her myself...")

So Suguru teaches him; "You're angelic."

And Satoru turns to you and says; "You're angelic."

Satoru looks at you, you look at him and gently raise your brows. He feels his heart start to pang fiercely in his chest and he giggles to cope with his overwhelming feelings.

"You too, Satoru."

"Thanks..." and then he said your name so gently, it made you fall a little bit more in love with him.

You three went for lunch somewhere after a lengthy walk.

Suguru ordered something spicy and offered for you to try it.

"Careful; it's spicy." Suguru told you caringly.

Satoru felt a lighthearted pang of jealousy, and acted on it;

"Hey!" he makes a barrier between you and Suguru, "No way."

"What's the matter?" you asked, thinking that Satoru maybe didn't want you to eat spicy food for some reason.

"No flirting."

"OH MY GOD! SATORU! WE WEREN'T — ughjndbs. We weren't flirting!" Suguru became completely flustered and hid his reddened face.

His overreaction showed that he felt like he'd been caught... uh, flirting. It was funny. Then Satoru made you two laugh even harder because he offered you a bite of his food a few minutes later.

("We weren't flirting...")

("Yes, I know. I was kidding, dude. Kidding.")

("You're so embarrassing, Satoru.")

("But you love me, right?")

("Nope.")

("Ah come on! Well it's fine — if you don't love me, she will love me.")

He turned to you and batted his lashes. Everything he was doing was making you and Suguru laugh.

"Love me?" he said cutely.

"Yes, I love you." you responded.

His heart throbbed.

私を愛して。

私につかまって。

キスして。。。

ああ、キスしてください。

You wondered what Satoru was thinking when he looked at you dreamily.

You three were on the train ride home after a long day spent exploring Tokyo.

Satoru sighed and slid down tiredly in his seat, arms folded over his chest like he was getting ready to take a nap. He glanced over at you in his peripherals, and his heart fluttered.

彼女の肩の上で寝たいです。 I want to sleep on her shoulder.

He brought out his phone and typed into the translator, then nudged for you to read it.

JPN : あなたの上で寝てもいいですか？ Anata no ue de nete mo īdesu ka?

ENG : Can I sleep on you?

You went through Japanese responses in your head, but then decided that a simple nod and encouraging pat on your shoulder sufficed.

So with your permission, he shyly rested his temple on the edge of your shoulder.

天国とはこういうものに違いない。 This is what heaven must be like.

He felt soft and drowsy.

You and Suguru talked in quieter voices so that Satoru could doze off, but then the two of you stopped talking altogether and instead adoringly watched him fall asleep.

His lips were a bit parted as he slept gently on your shoulder. You noticed a teeth mark on his lower lip.

"He must have a habit of biting his lip." you remarked.

"Yes, he does." Suguru confirmed, "It's a nervous habit, he's done it since middle school. I remember he said he bit his lip raw once when he was outside the principle's office after he got in trouble for getting into a fist fight with another kid — "

"He got into a fist fight with another kid when he was little?"

"Yeah. To be fair, though, the other kid started it because he said Satoru looked sickly." Suguru said.

"What!" you exclaimed.

"Yeah, middle school was ruthless. A lot of kids in our class didn't like how Satoru looked. Someone spread a rumor that his hair and eyes meant he was sick, and so if they got close they'd also get sick. So besides me and Shoko, no one really approached or befriended him."

"Jeez! I want to go back in time and also get into a fist fight with those middle schoolers now... teach 'em a lesson about spreading stupid rumors..."

"Haha... don't worry, he and I got into more than plenty fist fights to make up for it. Though, I was usually the one prying Satoru off of some other kid — they didn't stand a chance against him." Suguru laughed reminiscently.

"Oh, was he strong even as a kid?" you asked.

Suguru nodded and looked at Satoru, "Yeah... he's always been the strongest person I've known. But he's still got weak points."

"What weak points?" you asked.

"You, for one." Suguru replied, "... and sweets."

"I'm his weak spot? Ahah... well now you've made my face all hot." you chuckled embarrassedly while feeling your cheeks.

"Have I?" Suguru tilted his head.

His voice got deeper.

Suguru felt up your cheeks to test — and surely enough, they felt hot under his cool touch. You shared an electric moment with him.

「ああ、お姫様のほっぺは本当に温かいですね。」 he said.

"Huh? What does that mean? What did you say?" you asked.

"... I just said your cheeks are indeed very warm." he lied.

"Oh..." you take in a breath and stare at him, "Hey, Suguru..."

"... yeah?" he replies a little breathlessly, trying to close the proximity between you and him.

"... uh, I think we missed our stop..."

"Oh...? Oh — shit, yeah we did. Well, let's wake up the polar bear..."

So Suguru woke up Satoru.

「さとる？私たちは電車の停留所に乗り遅れた。」

「ああ、くそ。」 Satoru replied sleepily.

His head lifted from your shoulder, yawned and stretched and made noises like a cat, and then brought his phone out to type into the translator.

JPN : あなたの夢を見ました。

ENG : I dreamed of you.

You replied.

ENG : I hope it was a good dream.

JPN : 良い夢だったらいいのですが。

Satoru smiled sleepily at you. His eyes were puffy and lidded.

JPN : 夢の中で私たちは猫でした。

ENG : In the dream we were cats.

You let out a laugh as soon as you read the translation.

Suguru was checking train schedules, and said to you then to Satoru that the next train home was in an hour.

"Well, how are we going to spend the hour? Loitering around the station?" you asked.

"No way; spending an hour loitering around the station would be a bore and a shame. Let's go somewhere nice." Suguru said.

So you three disembarked the train and navigated through the station.

Satoru was giggling while desperately trying to communicate with you using his eyes and body language, as well as broken English. Each time you responded with a confused smile or "what?", he giggled harder.

Then once you surfaced from the metro steps you took a moment to look around at your environment in wonder.

"The feeling here is different." you commented. "It feels calmer."

"Yeah, you're right it is. Where we've been exploring all day was very busy." Suguru nodded, then promptly translated what you said for Satoru, then Satoru also nodded in agreement.

"Satoru and I haven't been around these parts, so we don't know any places to go."

You took a deep inhale and caught a whiff of a good aroma.

"Well, how about we go wherever that delicious smell is coming from?" you suggested.

The aroma that you smelled lured the three of you into a restaurant nearby.

When you sat down, Satoru pulled out your chair for you.

The atmosphere was warm and homely. Soft gold glows of lanterns lined under the outside roof of the restaurant.

You were sat outside in the cool night air.

Satoru apparently made a snobbish complaint about the dessert when it came.

"Satoru's a fussy princess about desserts." Suguru told you, "If they're not sweet enough he thinks they're bad."

Satoru interrupted and urged the two of you two look under the table.

「おい、見て見て！猫。」 he said. Oi, mitte mitte! Neko. (Hey, look look! A cat)

He petted the cat, meanwhile Suguru didn't even bother.

"Minto may not like you, but maybe stray cats do." you said.

"It's probably not a stray. It looks healthy, the restaurant owner probably takes care of it. Anyways..." he raised his hand to remind you of how Minto scratched him recently, "I won't risk getting another cat scratch, I'm not carrying any bandaids or antiseptic."

"Cutie..." Satoru was talking to the cat. It seemed to really like him, but then a clattering noise of dishes from inside the restaurant scared it off.

"Don't go!" Satoru whined, then grumbled something in Japanese that made Suguru laugh.

"Aw, Satoru did you just get heartbroken by a cat..." You laughed.

Satoru looked at you as soon as you said his name.

He had been half stretching off his chair to pet the cat.

His hair flopped when he turned his head at this odd angle, looking cat-like himself.

He winked at you.

You giggled flirtatiously back.

"Wow, this tension..." Suguru looked between you two. "It's just eating me up."

"Haha, shut up..."

"You two need to kiss."

「キス？」 Satoru perked his ears up.

"Yeah, kiss." Suguru said.

"Kisu, or Kisshu, from Tokyo Mew Mew?" you joked.

"Huh?" Satoru looked at you.

"Huh?" you looked at Satoru.

"Quiche? Kisshu? Kisu?" Suguru looked at Satoru.

"What??" Satoru looked confused.

The three of you started laughing, not sure what anyone was saying anymore. But anything you did say seemed absolutely hilarious. Maybe you were just high on each other.

After food, the three of you went exploring again, and got lost in each other's company.

Whenever Satoru looked at you, his eyes glittered with wonder. He looked so in love, so enraptured with you, that no one else in the world seemed to exist anymore to him except for you.

You were becoming his everything.

The three of you debated an interesting topic while getting lost in Tokyo; what is love?

Satoru was grumbling and making frustrated noises because he didn't know how to tell you what he thought in English, and he also didn't want Suguru to translate too much because he thought it might be overwhelming for him.

He got a little jealous when you and Suguru understood each other perfectly and seemed to reach a conclusion.

But actually, Suguru was saying something different to what Satoru thought.

"I think the two of you have the purest kind of love. Neither of you say almost anything to each other, instead you just feel love. Which is what you're supposed to do — love is not meant to be declared with words, only felt with hearts."

"Wow... Suguru, you're pretty poetic. But yes, I agree. Wordless love is very pure. Then again... it would be nice to understand each other, you know?" you said.

Suguru shrugged in response, "Enjoy it for what it is now. You'll understand each other one day anyways."

"Love is..." Satoru interjected, thinking hard.

You and Suguru looked at him expectantly.

He'd been preparing himself while you and Satoru had been talking.

"... love is small stuff." he said. "You know?"

"Love is... in small things?" You tilted your head at him, "I like that."

"Mhm. Small things... you know... like... uhhh... like... flowers." he said, and made the giving motion — from his heart to you, "Flowers, you know?"

"Yes, flower giving is a love language." you smiled, recalling the flower that he gave you. You'd pressed it into your Japanese pocket phrasebook to preserve it.

Suguru translated what you ha said to Satoru, and then the latter boy nodded and started blushing.

でも、桜の木全体では、私がどれだけあなたを愛しているかを表現することはできません。 But a whole cherry tree can't express how much I love you.

I do not permit the copying/reposting/translation/plagiarism of my works. Do not steal what I've worked hard to create.

This is fictional work.

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