#the improper silence

[layzeal]

not saying that post doesn't have good points, but "forcefully silencing a jin ling wasn't a good or fair teaching method" guys did we forget this is a xianxia 😭

#kids are being whipped and forced to kneel for hours #and silenced and forced to copy rules while doing handstands #we have no reason to believe hgj also doesnt forcefully silence his own students when they speak innappropriately #none of the adults here are using good or fair teaching methods by 21st century standards... what's happening sdjkhjdskfjdkf #hgj silencing jl was improper bc he's not his teacher but he's still his senior #which is why jc just tells JL to accept the punishment once he realizes theres no point arguing about it #not saying hgj isn't bitchy <33 he is #but this is a weird example to use when mdzs is full of adults not knowing how to properly discipline children. theyre ALL losers #and that's just how it worked back then #modao #lace speaks

[pucksandpower]

It’s Only Natural

Max Verstappen x innocent!Reader

Summary: in which Max shows you that it’s okay to want

Warnings: 18+ content

You sit on the edge of the bed, your hands folded primly in your lap. You watch as Max moves about, discarding his shirt and stepping out of his jeans until he’s down to just his boxers. There’s an easy grace to his movements, like a predatory animal comfortable in its skin.

Your eyes trace over the curves and lines of his body appreciatively before you catch yourself and quickly look away, heat flooding your cheeks. You hear him chuckle.

“See something you like?”

You keep your gaze fixed firmly on the floor. “I wasn’t looking.”

The mattress dips as Max sits beside you. He tilts your chin up. Reluctantly you meet his stare, the grey of his eyes as vivid as the stormy sky.

“It’s okay, you know. To want me.” His thumb brushes over your bottom lip. “We’ve been together for months now. It’s only natural.”

You swallow hard, torn between embarrassment and yearning. “Wanting is … improper. Before marriage.” The words sound weak even to your own ears.

Max smirks. “Who told you that? Your parents? The church?” He leans in close, his breath hot on your ear. “They don’t own your body or your desires. Only you do.”

You shiver at his proximity, inhaling the scent of his skin. Like walking past a bakery first thing in the morning, the aroma of fresh bread wafting out onto the street. Your mouth waters.

“I know you feel it too,” Max murmurs. “This hunger. This heat between us.” His fingers trail down your arm, raising goosebumps in their wake. “Don’t be ashamed of it.”

Your breaths come faster. You’re trembling, but not from the cold. “Max ...”

He silences you with a kiss. His lips are firm yet soft, coaxing rather than demanding. The kiss deepens slowly, each brush of his mouth unraveling you further until you’re clinging to him, dizzy with want.

When you finally break for air, Max gazes at you tenderly. “How do you feel?”

You lick your tingling lips. “I-I don’t know. Confused. Like my body is doing things without my permission.” You press a hand to your heaving chest. “My heart is racing so fast.”

“That’s desire, liefje.” Max strokes your hair soothingly. “It’s new and frightening now, but you’ll get used to it.” He kisses your forehead. “There’s no need to be scared.”

You nod hesitantly. He’s right, this feeling is terrifying in its intensity. But it’s also tantalizing, a thirst you never knew needed quenching.

You take a deep breath. “What happens next?”

Max smiles encouragingly. “That’s up to you. We can take this as slow or as fast as you want. It’s your journey — I’m just your guide.” He lifts your hand to his mouth, kissing your knuckles. “You lead, I’ll follow.”

Reassured, you lean into him. “Kiss me again?”

“With pleasure.”

This time when Max’s lips find yours, you let your instincts take over. Your mouth moves shyly against his at first but grows bolder, mimicking the way he teases your bottom lip, coaxes your tongue. The tender exploration sends pulses of heat coursing through you. You’re lit up from the inside, like a lantern glowing in the dark.

You come up for air again, dizzy and breathless. Max’s eyes are hooded, his own breathing uneven. “How was that?”

You press closer, craving the hardness of his body. “I want more.”

Max grins. “Do you now?”

Before you can respond, he captures your mouth again, kissing you with a passionate urgency that steals your thoughts away. You cling to him as the last of your inhibitions burns up like paper held to a flame.

There is only feeling now — exquisite, terrifying, blissful feeling.

When Max finally releases you, you’re shaking all over. He brushes the hair back from your face tenderly. “Talk to me. How are you?”

You wet your parched lips. “I feel … alive. Awake.” You glance up at him almost shyly. “Thank you for waking me up.”

Max’s expression softens. “You’re welcome.” He lies back on the bed, opening his arms to you. “Come here.”

You curl into him without hesitation, resting your head on his chest. His steady heartbeat grounds you as his fingers trail up and down your back idly. You trace random patterns on his skin, marveling at the way it prickles under your touch.

“Can I ask you something?” You murmur.

“Of course.”

You chew your lip thoughtfully. “How did you know? That I wanted this?”

Max considers the question. “I saw how your body responded to mine, even when you tried to hide it.” His hand slides to your hip, rubbing gentle circles. “I heard how your breathing changed when I got close to you.”

You flush at the knowing tone in his voice.

“Most of all though, I recognized the longing in your eyes.” Max tilts your chin up so you have to meet his earnest gaze. “You and I are the same. Our bodies have needs we can’t ignore.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Is it always this … intense?”

Max laughs. “No, it gets easier. The more you open yourself to pleasure, the less it will overwhelm you.” He plays with a lock of your hair idly. “Think of your desire like a wild horse. Right now it’s bucking and straining at the reins. But with time and training, you’ll be able to ride it smoothly.”

You consider this. “Have you trained your horse well?”

“Very well,” Max says wryly. “We understand each other perfectly.”

You bite your lip. “Will you teach me?”

Max’s eyes darken. For a long moment he just looks at you, desire written plainly across his face. Your own excitement builds under that molten stare.

Finally he nods. “If that’s what you want.” His voice is slightly hoarse now. “We’ll take it slow. One step at a time.”

Your heart flutters wildly. You nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

Max clears his throat. “For now, just try to get comfortable being so close to me. Explore a bit.” His hand trails down your side. “Learn what feels good.”

You arch into his touch instinctively, craving more contact. Your mouths find each other again, hot and seeking. You let your hands wander across the warm planes of his chest, tracing each ridge and valley. When your fingers brush one of his nipples, Max makes a low sound that shoots desire through you like lightning.

You tear your mouth from his, eyes wide. “Did I hurt you?”

“God, no.” Max’s pupils are blown wide, fixed on you intently. “That felt good. Do it again.”

Emboldened, you experiment with touching him the way he touched you, learning which caresses make his breath hitch and muscles tighten. Before long Max is shaking under your hands, his control fraying at the edges.

“Enough,” he growls, grabbing your wrists and pinning them to the bed. “Any more and this lesson will be over far too soon.”

You grin up at him impishly. “Maybe next time then.”

Max groans. “You’re going to be the death of me.” But he’s smiling as he dips his head to kiss you lazily.

When he finally releases your wrists, you wrap your arms around him, enjoying the warmth and solidness of his body. You feel different now — more awake, more alive. Like you’ve stepped through a doorway into a bigger and brighter world.

“Thank you for today,” you whisper, meaning it with your whole heart. “I feel … free.”

Max kisses the top of your head tenderly. “You’ve always been free, schatje. I’m just helping you see it.” He lifts your chin so your eyes meet. “We’ve only just started. There are so many wonders still to show you.”

A thrill races through you at the promise in his voice. You settle against his chest again, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart as you fall asleep in his arms, unafraid of wanting anymore.

Your body and heart are finally coming home to each other.

***

Morning sun spills through the curtains, rousing you slowly from sleep. The other half of the bed is empty but still warm, and the faint clatter of dishes downstairs means Max is already up and making breakfast.

You stretch languidly, yesterday’s explorations still fresh in your mind. A newfound heat simmers in your veins, sending a flush across your skin.

You find Max in the kitchen, hair charmingly mussed, wearing only pajama bottoms that ride low on his hips. He grins when he sees you.

“Good morning, liefje. Sleep well?”

You come up behind him, sliding your arms around his trim waist. “Mmm I did,” you nuzzle into his bare shoulder. He smells warm and masculine. You press a kiss to his skin, eliciting a pleased hum.

“Keep that up and I’ll burn breakfast,” Max says wryly. He turns in your embrace, fingers tilting your chin up for a slow, simmering kiss. By the time he pulls back you’re breathless and tingling.

“What’s gotten into you today?” He looks delighted.

You bite your lip coyly. “I can’t stop thinking about last night.” You flatten your palms against his chest, feeling his heart pick up speed. “I want to keep learning.”

Max’s eyes darken. For a long moment he just looks at you, desire pooling in his heated gaze. “Finish eating first,” he says finally. “Then meet me upstairs.”

Excitement bubbles through you. You eat breakfast quicker than you ever have before, then hurry to the bedroom where Max awaits, sitting on the edge of the bed. He beckons you over with a crooked smile.

“Eager today, are we?”

You nod, leaning down to initiate a kiss. Max obliges, his mouth warm and seeking against yours. When you move to deepen it further, he gently grasps your shoulders and eases you back.

“Slow down, schatje. We’ve got all the time in the world.” His tone is kind but firm. “Let’s take this lesson nice and easy.”

You duck your head, chastened. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to rush.”

Max tips your chin back up, eyes tender. “It’s okay. I know everything feels new and exciting.” His thumb brushes your bottom lip softly. “But the best pleasures are the ones we savor.”

Heart swelling, you turn your head to press a kiss to his palm. “Teach me?”

Max nods. “Come sit with me.”

You settle beside him on the bed, pulse skipping when he draws you close. His hands glide up your arms, raising goosebumps, before coming to rest lightly around your neck. His touch is reverent, worshipful.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs. “I could spend hours exploring you.”

He kisses behind your ear, along your jawline, each press of his lips languid and unhurried. By the time he reaches your mouth you’re trembling, hyper-aware of everywhere your bodies touch.

Max takes his time kissing you deeply, thumbs sweeping over your throat and down to your collarbones. You lean into him, chasing more of that exquisite friction, but he doesn’t allow you to rush. He pulls back again and again until you relax, surrendering to his pace.

“There you go, just like that,” he praises. “Nice and slow.”

You keen softly when his fingers trail down to trace along the neckline of your shirt, back and forth. He toys with the top button, watching your face attentively.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

“Don’t stop,” you breathe.

Max smiles and pops the first button open. Then he pauses, bending to kiss the new inch of exposed skin. Goosebumps prickle across your chest as he continues his unhurried path downward, kissing each new glimpse of flesh laid bare.

By the time he reaches the last button you’re trembling violently, head tipped back in bliss. Max’s strong hands sweep up your sides and around to unclasp your bra. You gasp as the garment falls away, leaving you bare before him.

Reverently he cups your breasts, thumbs sweeping over your tightened peaks. The sensation wrings a desperate moan from you.

“You’re exquisite,” Max marvels. He bends to take one nipple into his mouth and your vision goes white, senses overwhelmed by slick heat. He suckles you gently, littering kisses across your fevered skin until you’re writhing mindlessly against him.

“Max, please ...”

He kisses his way back up to your mouth, face alight with tenderness and desire. “What do you need?”

You clutch his shoulders, nearly sobbing. “You. I need you.”

Max groans, deepening the kiss until you’re drunk on him, on this feeling. His body shifts, pressing you down into the mattress, and you go willingly, eagerly.

“Not yet, liefje.” With monumental effort he stills, pulling back to look at you. His eyes are dark, lips kiss-swollen. “Is this too much?”

You shake your head desperately. “Don’t stop. Show me everything.”

Max hesitates, muscles corded with restraint. “Next time,” he grits out. “I want our first to be perfect.”

He rolls off you and you whimper at the loss of contact. Max gathers you close, stroking your hair as you slowly come down from your near-high.

“You were incredible,” he murmurs. “So receptive. So passionate.”

You cling to him, heart still pounding. “I want you so much it hurts.”

Max tips your chin up, gazing at you solemnly. “I know. And you’ll have me, I promise.” He kisses you sweetly. “But forcing things too soon will only dull the pleasure later.”

You know he’s right. With great effort you tamp down the fever in your blood, focusing on the warmth and strength of his embrace.

“Thank you for stopping,” you whisper. “I know it wasn’t easy.”

Max smiles wryly. “You have no idea.” He caresses your face tenderly. “But your pleasure means more to me than my own.”

You lick your suddenly parched lips. “I’m ready,” you say simply. “Whenever you think the time is right.”

Max’s eyes darken. For a long moment he just looks at you, stripped bare by yearning. Then he nods slowly. “Soon.”

***

The next few days pass in a haze of stolen kisses and wandering hands. Each touch stokes the fire between you higher, until you’re dizzy with anticipation.

When Max finally whispers that you’re ready, that tonight will be the night, you can scarcely breathe for excitement. He takes you upstairs after dinner, kissing you deeply before leaving to run you a bath.

“Make yourself comfortable, I’ll be right back.”

You change into the lacy lingerie set you bought just for this occasion, hands trembling. The ivory silk and lace hugs your curves perfectly, making you feel delicate and desired.

Max returns to find you sitting primly on the bed, heart in your throat. His eyes widen, traveling appreciatively over you.

“You’re a vision,” he murmurs. He sits beside you, hand coming up to caress the line of your throat, tantalizingly close to the swells of your barely concealed breasts. “I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

He kisses you, slow and deep, until you’re breathing hard. With gentle hands he undresses you, lips following the path of revealed skin. By the time the lingerie slips to the floor, you’re trembling and ready.

Max rises gracefully from the bed, shedding his own clothes. The hunger in his eyes steals your breath away. He’s beautiful like this, powerful muscle and taut sinew under smooth skin. Your apprehension melts into awed desire.

“Come,” he says simply, holding out a hand.

He leads you into the bathroom where rose petals float across steaming water. Candles line the counter, filling the air with a soft glow.

Max helps you into the tub before sliding in behind you. You sigh, relaxing back against his chest. For a while he just holds you, lips grazing your temple, your cheek, the curve of your shoulder.

“Are you nervous?” He asks eventually. His breath tickles your ear.

“A little,” you admit. “Mostly just excited.” You cover his hands with your own, drawing them around to span your stomach. “I’m ready for you to have all of me.”

Max nuzzles into the crook of your neck. “You honor me.” His palms glide higher, cupping your breasts as his thumbs tease your nipples. You arch into the caress, lips parting in bliss. He kisses down the slope of your neck until you’re mindless, head falling back onto his shoulder.

“Max ...” His name catches on a moan.

He kisses just beneath your ear. “Tell me what you need, schatje.”

You take one of his hands, guiding it lower beneath the water. Max exhales harshly when you press his fingers between your legs.

“Please,” you beg softly.

Max complies, caressing you in unhurried circles. The slick glide of his fingers has you shaking, pulsing against his hand. He works you higher with gentle expertise until your climax crashes over you like a wave. You cry out, collapsing limply back against him.

Max holds you through the aftershocks, murmuring praise and adoration. As you float back down he washes you tenderly, hands worshipping every inch of your spent body. By the time he helps you from the bath your nerves have melted away, replaced only by bliss.

Max dries you off before scooping you up and carrying you to bed. He lays you down reverently and you reach for him, needing to feel him against you.

He goes willingly, covering your body with his, all heated skin and taut muscle. You revel in the delicious weight of him, the intimacy of full-body contact. Max kisses you deeply, one hand trailing down to lift your knee, opening you up to him.

He pulls back just far enough to meet your eyes. “Are you sure?” His voice resonates with restraint.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please, Max.”

He kisses you sweetly as he finally, carefully, joins your bodies. You gasp into his mouth at the feeling of him filling you so exquisitely. For a moment you’re frozen, overwhelmed by the intensity.

Max stills, letting you adjust. “Talk to me, liefje.” His voice is tight. “Does it hurt?”

You run your hands up his back, grounding yourself in the solidness of him. “No. It just feels … big.” You shift your hips experimentally and have to stifle a moan. “But so good.”

Max relaxes slightly, some of the tension leaving his frame. “We’ll take this slow.” He kisses across your cheekbones, your fluttering eyelids, soothing you as your body adjusts to accommodate him. “Just breathe. There’s no rush.”

When you finally nod for him to move, he rocks into you in achingly gradual strokes. Each glide lights you up from within, pleasure swelling inexorably. Your legs come up to wrap around his waist, taking him deeper.

Max groans. “You feel incredible.” He quickens just slightly, just enough to wring gasps from you both. “So perfect for me.”

You cling to him, this man you love beyond reason, beyond promise. He fills you in every way, heart, body and soul. “Max,” you breathe against his lips like a prayer, and his pace stutters.

“Say it again.” His eyes are molten, searing into yours.

“Max.” You pour every ounce of love and devotion you feel into his name.

With a ragged moan he claims your mouth, kissing you fiercely even as his hips snap against yours. You cry out, senses flooded by him, by the feeling of your bodies joining so exquisitely. The pleasure crests unbearably high before you shatter, clenching and shuddering around him.

Max follows you over with a harsh groan, chest heaving against yours. For an eternity all you know is each other, breathing as one.

Max rolls to the side so he doesn’t crush you, pulling you along so you stay cradled against him. You cling tightly, still joined, overwhelmed by what you’ve just shared.

Max tilts your chin up, eyes tender but concerned. “Are you alright?”

You smile shakily, smoothing back his sweat-damp hair. “I’m perfect.” You press soft kisses across his face. “That was … everything.”

Relief breaks across his face. He wraps you in his arms, tucking your head under his chin. “I love you,” he whispers into your hair. “Beyond anything.”

You snuggle closer, basking in the warmth of his embrace, the steadiness of his heart. “I love you too. Forever.”

Eventually Max slips from your body and you mourn the loss, even as exhaustion tugs at you. He cleans you gently with a warm cloth before pulling you against him once more.

You drift toward sleep, lulled by the soothing strokes of his fingers through your hair. Just before slumber takes you, Max presses his lips to your temple.

“Thank you for your gift tonight,” he breathes. “I’ll spend my whole life trying to be worthy of it.”

#f1 imagine #f1 #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 fanfiction #f1 x reader #f1 x you #max verstappen #mv1 #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x you #max verstappen fic #max verstappen fluff #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen blurb #f1 fluff #f1 blurb #f1 one shot #f1 x y/n #f1 drabble #f1 fandom #f1blr #f1 x female reader #max verstappen x female reader #max verstappen x y/n #red bull racing #max verstappen one shot #max verstappen drabble

[foxy-eva]

Stress Relief

Summary: When Reader complains about back pain, Spencer offers a massage. Things escalate. 

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Category: Smut 

Content Warning: (18+, minors DNI) a little bit of awkwardness, massages, implied hand kink, heavy kissing, fingering, handjob, unprotected penetrative sex

Word Count: 3k

Masterlist

It wasn't the first time your team had to double up in a hotel while working on a case but you had never ended up being paired with your favorite coworker before. When you stepped into the room after a long day of trying to save lives, you suddenly realized something. 

Spencer was right behind you when he saw it too, mumbling an almost inaudible, "Oh."

Oh. 

There was only one bed. 

The receptionist had already let you know that they were completely overbooked, so switching to a different room was no option. 

Spencer was quick to offer solutions as he started rambling, "I know Morgan said he wouldn't share a room with me but maybe he'll change his mind if I explain this to him?" 

"Don't you think it's more likely he'll tease us? Besides, that would leave me with Hotch and I'd rather share a bed with you than with my boss."

Spencer shrugged and mumbled, "I always liked to double up with Emily. I wonder why she insisted on sharing a room with JJ." 

You looked at him with raised eyebrows and a smirk on your face. "Yeah, who knows!" 

You did know but Spencer was as oblivious as ever. If he was really that bad at seeing what was right in front of him, there was at least a chance that he hadn't yet caught onto your feelings for him either. You really hoped that tonight any improper thoughts you had would be drowned out by the exhaustion slowly taking over your body.

"I can sleep on the floor," Spencer voiced his final offer. 

You shook your head in protest. "The bed is big enough for the both of us."

With that it was settled, you were going to share a bed with the man who had been occupying your mind an almost embarrassing amount. Spencer, however, had never once shown any signs that he reciprocated your growing feelings for him. So instead of addressing them, you decided to simply suffer in silence until they'd pass.

When he stepped into the bathroom to get ready for the night, you couldn't stop your mind from racing to fantasies far from being appropriate. It didn't help to hear him turning on the shower because now all you could think about was tearing your own clothes off to join him. Somehow you managed to keep your composure - for now at least. 

Spencer looked absolutely adorable with his washed-out Caltech shirt and checkered pajama pants, so much so that you took several seconds to blatantly stare at him when he came back into the room. It caused him to look down at his body to make sure that everything was in place. 

“Sorry, you just look really… cute like that,” you muttered to help with his confused look. 

A slight rosy shade spread over his cheeks at your compliment and he looked at you as if he wasn’t quite sure if you were making fun of him. But of course your words were genuine. 

As you gathered your things to go take a shower yourself, you snickered, “It’s a shame that outfit probably wouldn’t pass the FBI dress code.” 

He took a book out of his bag and sat down on one side of the bed, chuckling, “Yeah, it definitely would not pass.”

The shower helped clear your mind and you were positive that you’d be able to go to sleep without any other distractions. As you approached the bed in your usual nightwear - a tanktop and some colorful shorts - it became obvious that Spencer was even worse at hiding his staring than you were. 

“It’s weird, right?” You asked as you sat down on the bed. “Seeing each other in casual clothes, I mean.”

Without saying a word he just nodded before focussing back on his book again. As you leaned against the headboard of the bed you noticed something that had been bothering you all day. Your back was aching and your shoulders were painfully tense. You stretched your arms over your shoulders before you reached back to massage some tender spots on your neck. 

“You okay?” Spencer asked as he turned his head to watch you. 

“Yeah, it’s just my back pain. I slept weird last night and I have been sitting at my desk too much those past few days,” you explained. 

To your surprise, he offered, “Maybe I could help?”

Before you could consider what feeling his hands against your body would do to you, you replied, “Yeah, that would be nice, actually.” 

You readjusted your position until you sat cross-legged on the bed with your back facing your roommate for the night. Spencer set aside his book and sat behind you, tentatively putting his palms on your shoulders. The heat his body radiated entered your body and lit a spark inside you that you desperately tried to ignore. 

When he began pressing his fingertips into the tense muscles of your shoulders and neck, you instantly became pliable under his touch. The places he touched were innocent but that didn’t change the fact that a familiar warmth spread through your body and collected in your center. 

There was no way to hold back the shy moan from falling from your lips when he found a particularly tender spot. 

He halted his motions to ask, “Did I hurt you?”

“No, it just feels really good,” you breathed. 

“That’s nice to hear,” he cooed in the softest tone you’d ever heard from him. “You deserve to feel good.” 

Those last couple of words echoed in your mind before you could grasp what they meant. It was that moment that you asked yourself if the innocent and shy Spencer Reid was trying to flirt with you. 

To distract yourself, you decided to talk to him - unaware what colossal mistake that was going to be.

“So, where did you learn how to give back rubs?” 

Nonchalantly as ever, he responded, “I read a book about it a few years ago.” 

“You read a book about massages?”

The breath he let out at your question tickled the skin of your shoulders and you broke out in goosebumps. You hoped that he wouldn’t notice. 

“Well, it was about tantric practices and there was a very interesting chapter about… uhm… full-body massages,” he explained, not helping with your current situation at all. 

It was getting almost impossible for you to form coherent sentences, even more so when Spencer continued talking. 

“Are you interested in that?”

Almost jumping at his words, you blurted out, “In getting a full-body massage?!” 

“No!” Spencer laughed. “In reading the book!” 

Before you could respond, you felt his hands wander down your back, lightly rubbing over your shirt. It was getting harder to focus with every second passing, too overwhelming became the need to feel more of him. 

“I’ll think about it,” you finally responded. 

Spencer’s fingertips brushed over your lower back, way too lightly to find any tight spots and you were wondering if he was trying to tease you at this point. 

His words brought you back to reality. “I can continue with my massage if you want but uhm.. your shirt is getting in the way.”

Without thinking about it, you stated, “I’m not wearing a bra.”

“I know,” Spencer chuckled. “I won’t look, I promise. Just lay down on your stomach.” 

The feeling of his hands on your body had left your skin tingling and you were yearning to feel it again. So without questioning his intentions or making sure his eyes were really closed, you took off your top and lay down on the mattress. Spencer kneeled beside you and began working his skilled fingers over your entire back. 

Any tightness from tired muscles slowly left your body but you felt another kind of tension growing in your core. When Spencer grazed the waistband of your shorts with his fingertips, a sigh escaped your throat. He didn’t say anything, instead he kept massaging you until there was no patch of skin on your back left unattended to. 

The second time he brushed over your waistband gave away that he was doing it on purpose. For a moment you thought that he might slip his hands right beneath it to descend further down your body. That thought caused you to unwillingly press your thighs tightly together to soothe the aching between your legs. 

Spencer must have noticed it, too, because he audibly let out a breath right at that moment. His hands were still on your back when a quiet moan left your mouth and you noticed that your hips had started moving ever so slightly, desperate to find some friction. You weren’t sure if Spencer had been watching you doing that until you halted those tiny motions. 

“Don’t stop,” he purred. “You look so pretty like this.” 

You turned your head enough to see him from the corners of your eyes. The hardness straining against his pajama pants was impossible to ignore but even more intriguing was the smirk spread over his face. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were dark and filled with lust. Seeing him like this suddenly let any restraint you had left vanish. 

“Please, Spencer,” you begged him to keep going. 

One of his hands found the side of your face to brush a strand of hair aside. He leaned down to place a soft kiss on your heated cheek before he whispered, “Tell me exactly what you want.” 

Spencer’s hands were all you could think about. Every fiber of your body was longing for him and you felt like you might combust if he didn’t grant you relief anytime soon. 

“Please continue and… go lower.” 

In an instant his hands were on your backside, greedily grabbing your soft flesh through your shorts. 

“Like that?” Spencer groaned. 

You tilted your hips to press your butt against his hands and slowly opened your thighs before you whimpered, “Lower.”

As his fingertips wandered over your thighs you felt how your arousal began soaking through the fabric of your panties. His hands dared to move underneath your shorts, grazing along the apex of your thigh. It was not enough to soothe your aching but enough to drive you wild. 

You moaned out his name before whining, “Take them off, please.” 

“You’re so cute when you get all desperate,” he chuckled in response. 

There was no more teasing then. When he finally grabbed the waistband of your shorts, you immediately lifted your hips so he could pull them down together with your panties. He reached between your thighs to finally touch you where you were burning for him. 

The realization of how aroused you were let a groan escape his mouth. His fingertips glided through your folds before focussing on your most sensitive spot while he purred, "You're so fucking wet." 

It was the first time you had ever heard him use a curse word, the sound of such crude language shooting through you like lightning. All your senses were on edge, you couldn't think about anything else but him. 

The sensation of his fingers moving over your sensitive pearl was somehow too much and not enough at the same time. You hadn't realized that you were grinding your hips against his hand until his words brought you back to reality for a moment. 

"You deserve to feel so, so good. Let me take care of you."

At that you point you weren't even sure what you were begging for when an almost silent "Please," made it past your lips. Spencer, however, seemed to understand. He let two of his digits enter you, finding no resistance from your body. As soon as you felt him inside you, you couldn't help but clench around him.

Slowly he began working his fingers against tight muscles at an angle that made you almost lose your mind. There was no more holding back the sounds of pleasure falling from your lips, so you buried your face into the pillow to muffle your moans. 

You felt Spencer's free hand brushing over your hair while he whispered, "Don't hide those sounds from me. I want to hear you."

With that you turned your head to the side again, just enough to be able to see his beautiful face. His smile was too much for you to handle, so you decided to close your eyes instead. 

The room filled with your moans and mewls and the sound of his hand relentlessly moving against your wet center. Within just a few minutes you were dancing along the edge of euphoria. Spencer noticed that, too.

"You're doing so good," he praised you. "Let go for me, sweet girl." 

You felt him moving over your swollen nub one more time before your body began to tremble beneath him. He helped you ride out your high with a few more skillful motions before he lay down right beside you. 

When he found your eyes, he whispered, "You okay?" 

Instead of answering him, you grabbed his wrist to bring his fingers to your lips. They were still coated with your essence when you took them in your mouth to suck them clean. Spencer stared at you in disbelief, almost as if he was witnessing some kind of miracle. 

You could still taste yourself on your tongue when you found his lips in a hungry kiss. He didn't waste any time to reciprocate your enthusiasm, his tongue meeting yours as the two of you melted into one another. There was no space allowed between the two of you, with your chest pressed hard enough against his you could feel his accelerated heartbeat. 

His palms began wandering over your exposed skin as if he'd never have enough of touching you. Your hand became curious as well, moving underneath the hem of his shirt to finally feel him without any barrier. It wasn't enough though, you needed all of him.

With joined forces you rid him of his clothes and took a moment to take in the beauty of the man in front of you. As your eyes locked once more you found the sweetest smile spread over his face. 

"You're so pretty," you breathed before kissing him again. 

"And you're so beautiful," he mumbled against your lips. 

His hardness was pressed firmly against your thigh and you could already feel the tip leaking onto your skin. A sneaky hand found its way between your bodies to touch him. Your fingertips found soft curls at the base of him before wrapping around his shaft. He felt hot and heavy in your palm and you noticed him twitching when you began moving your hand. 

Spencer gasped into your mouth once you reached his tip and his whole body quivered when you let your thumb swipe over it. Your kiss was interrupted by him panting against your face as you sped up your motions. 

"Look at who is getting desperate now," you teased him. 

He already seemed lost in the pleasure when he whimpered, "Feels so good."

Your hand left his erection to push against his shoulder until he was lying on his back while you snickered, "You know what would feel even better?"

As you began straddling his hips, Spencer's hands flew to your waist. 

He still needed reassurance before he let you continue. "Are you sure about this?" 

You nodded and promised, “I want you Spencer.” 

"I want you, too. More than you can imagine."

With your hand around his cock you lifted your hips to guide him to your entrance. As you sank down on him, Spencer moaned out your name. You took your time, relishing the sensation of him slowly stretching you open. Once he was fully inside, you could feel his heartbeat deep within you. 

As you began grinding your hips against him, his hands moved from your waist to your breasts to caress your soft curves. 

“You have no idea how long I have wanted you,” Spencer sighed.

You leaned down to find him in a kiss before you whispered against his mouth, "You have me now. I'm yours."

His hips began moving in perfect synchronicity with yours as you chased the sweet relief together. When you began moving faster, Spencer suddenly gripped your hips to halt your motions. 

"I'm so close. Slow down," he whined with desperation clearly audible in his voice. 

That didn't slow you down, though. Instead you purred, "Me, too," and kept going. Spencer threw his head back into the pillows and sang your praise in the form of his moans. You tried to hold on just a little bit longer, not to torture him but because you didn't want it to end yet.

When one of his hands descended from your hip to where your bodies were joined, you knew that it wouldn't be long now. He began drawing small circles with his thumb around your little bud, throwing you over the edge within a few seconds. Once he felt your walls pulsing around him, he let go himself. 

Each of your twitches was answered by him throbbing inside you, sharing his essence with you until he had nothing left to give. Spencer welcomed you inside his arms as you collapsed on top of him with a racing heart and lungs longing for air. 

You stayed connected for as long as physically possible but once he was soft, you felt him slowly slipping out of you together with the mixed evidence of your shared desire. Spencer insisted on helping you clean up the mess between your legs and was quick to get a damp towel from the bathroom.

Watching him carefully rid you of any remaining stickiness somehow felt even more intimate than anything you had done before. Neither of you bothered to put clothes back on, instead you cuddled up under the comforter together to savor the sensation of having each other near.

When you thought back to what led you into Spencer's arms earlier tonight, you couldn't hold back your giggles. 

"Maybe I should read that book you mentioned." 

"You can, if you want," Spencer chuckled before he began kissing along your neck. When he found your ear, he whispered, "I'd much rather show you everything it says, though."

Taglist: @nomajdetective @reidsbookclub @gspenc @justreadingficsdontmindme @samuel-de-champagne-problems @matthew-gray-gubler-lover @malindacath @pauline5525mgg @sanaz1dlol @luredwithpretzels @reidselle @alexxavicry @frickin-bats @spencersprettyslut @sebs-oxygen @beepbooptoop @lovejules888 @liltimmyst @encyclo-reid-ia @lilibet261 @fandomstuffff @spencer-reid-wonderland @happymangospot @conniesanchor @reaux02 @ellamaianderson @cynbx @dashneydanger @melifluorei-d @bitchassbecky691 @iameternallylonely @hotchandspencearedilfs @kobaltdragon @amititties @castiels-majestic-wings @torigorie @emiliaserpe @thenerdthatwrites @reidtopia @velvetthunder93 @cncoxlifeline @jordie-gvf-admin @saturnstringz @missabsey @spencerslove @guacam011y @whoopdy-doo @hugyourlungs

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds smut

[samodivaa]

Bucky with an oral fixation due to his anxiety so you let him suck your big tits (smut)

Bucky’s heart may fail him in so many horrors—both in waking, from his nerves, and in sleep, from his nightmares, because the punishment of his disordered mind is its own disorder. A disorder nobody else has. There is no cure, but he is trying to master it, he is learning to live with it—just as he has learned to live with other storms of his mind. The impossibility of love? He has you now. The past can't be annihilated, it is a part of him. Regret, denial, sadness—it leads to anxiety and his habit of always chewing on something—gum, sweets. He holds his breath, a desperate attempt to slow down his heartbeat, a desperate attempt to get away. One second. Two seconds. The moment he chews on the pencil you gifted him for that purpose, he is feeling better. No amount of him trying to explain himself is doing any good, he doesn’t even know what is going on inside of him—but your observation is the first step of the inner unfolding, of finding a solution to every problem he has. You create so much love, compassion, equanimity and joy in his mind that he doesn’t feel ashamed or judged. But seeing him biting down on that pencil—once you've seen how broken he is, it's like seeing him naked. How can you help now? “Bucky, why don't you suck on my tits instead?”

His gaze, though almost improper, is the most sensual thing he could have done at the moment, and it jolts your heart into a strange rhythm, leaving you unable to speak. There is lust and then there is love. They are related, but still very different things—you surge forward, crossing the final, tiny gap and pressing your lips to his. It is desperate and frantic, but the feel of his mouth against yours sends a bolt of electricity straight down your spine. Bucky grips your waist and lifts you off the ground with ease, dropping you softly on the luxurious white linen bed. He gets on top and the gentle, erotic pressure of his mouth on yours, the compelling pleasure of his kiss—the world stops and all the silence, but for your hearts, trying to synchronize your crashing. It is all the thrill of these kisses, of your new naughty suggestion. It is the impatience of the way he tears your shirt from your body, that really turns you on—lust getting the better of him, Bucky is a gentle lover, but not today which makes a jolt of some foreign but not unwelcome sensation pierce you. He leans down, his breath hot against your ear as he mutters out: “I already love that idea, baby”

You let out an involuntary airy moan as he grabs them in his palms, his huge hands palming your tits, kneading gently at first before he rubs his palms in circles. He rolls one nipple between his fingers, humming in satisfaction as it hardens under his touch before he begins to suck on it while massaging your other tit. He's drooling, swirling his tongue over it before biting gently the nipple and he is thankful that your head is thrown back so you don't look how desperate he is. How fucked up he is. He fully embraces the deliciousness of this sin, the calmness that it brings to his mind and all you want to drown his worries. You want him to do something totally unlike himself and it is working—but this lust is something close to anguish, because he needs to stop eventually and he doesn't want to. He leans back a bit, searching for your eyes as he struggles to breathe, focusing on his lungs, on his ability to take deep breaths, to soothe with oxygen—the vast ocean of blue that is his eyes, remarkably focused and soft at the same time. “I love it, I love how big they are” he says thickly and completely without shame. He bites down on the curve of your breast, breathing softly on top of the skin “Can’t stop,” he says, the words coming out like a caress. He says it again, over and over. A litany. As your clothed cunt contracts at the friction against his pelvis, his words, you can feel him, hips bucking slowly up into you. He latches his mouth directly on your other nipple, making you cry out as he envelops a part of your breast into his mouth, a hand coming up to play with the other one. “Bucky—enough”  Your hands go to his hair as he sucks sharply on the breast, but you can’t pull him away. You can’t help the whimpers that escape you, the long drawn out sobs that punch out of your throat whenever he bites a little harder, giving your other nipple a harsher tug as a punishment every time you try to push him back. Sucking removes any daily existence from his mind, any anxiety, grounding Bucky firmly in the moment and dragging your body with it. Until he had enough. What a beautiful madness, he never felt so relaxed.

#lord have mercy #drabble #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky smut #bucky barnes smut #bucky x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky imagine #bucky x reader

[driaswrld]

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

LADY DRIA WRITES . . . ˚ ༘ *

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

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

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

CHAPTER ONE. . . ˚ ༘ *

L'INCOMPARABLE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your anointed Prince, the attention whore.

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

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

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

It was a disastrous first few encounters—

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

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

Not around you, at least.

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

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

THE SCANDAL OF THE CHILDHOOD CONSORT.

Dearest gentle reader,

As all royal scandals do,

It started with an invitation.

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

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

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

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

But I assure you,

When it comes to matters of the heart —

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

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

And yet.

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

Dare I say, our beloved crowned Prince

Is not the strongest.

“Some nerve you have, boy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She will never be Queen.”

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

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

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

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

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

Three months, thirteen days.

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

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

Three million dollars was your reverse dowry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That, and the prize.

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

Gentle reader,

The famed jewel for the taking

This summer, is none other than—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—The champion’s jewel,

A wraith necklace fit for a Queen.

The L’Incomparable.

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

Three months, thirteen days.

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

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

It’s eerily similar to your childhood.

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

L’Incomparable.

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

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

A gift he only got to place on her corpse.

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

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

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

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

L’Incomparable is not a jewel of love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s a gentleman. He was raised right.

This urge—

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

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

( it will pass. )

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

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

Pure white, pearl decor, lace trim.

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

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

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

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

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

As if you had never been there.

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

L’Incomparable is a jewel of longing.

Morrow brings with it the beginning of joyous festivities.

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

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

It made you giggle.

The palace corridors are bustling with life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You choke. Audibly.

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

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

Oh, fair reader, it seems

Our dear protagonist has come upon

A treasure trove of memories.

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

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

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

“Oh, about Prince Geto!”

Dearest reader,

Suguru Geto enters.

A man of great mystique,

the northern Prince.

And striking opposite of

our beloved crowned Prince Satoru.

“Yes! About him—”

Suguru Geto.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Faithful reader,

she could not have been

more wrong.

Four days remain until the summer solstice hunt.

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

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

Another trousseau is delivered to your chambers when you wake.

This time, you’re taken aback.

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

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

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

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

It's almost intimate.

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

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

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

˚ ༘ *

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

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

Wait, why do you even care?

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

Darling reader,

it was in fact,

not the tea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Devoted reader,

our protagonist

is in denial.

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

( oh god, no. )

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

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

“You're here—” “You’re still clumsy—”

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

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

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

You don't doubt that.

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

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

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

( oh, the gloves ! )

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

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

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

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

( what a coincidence. )

˚ ༘ *

Time passes in waves.

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

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

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

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

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

“Bitter.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looks. . . disheveled.

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

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

( so that's what he was doing. )

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marriage.

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

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

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

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

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

Satoru rises from his chair only four seconds afterward.

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

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

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

My dearest reader,

brace yourself for the

next publication.

Your kind author

bids you farewell.

#⋆ 🪷 A ROYAL AFFAIR ! ˚ ༘ * #👑 TSCC — series. #★ driaswrld #jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo x reader #geto x reader #satosugu x reader #satoru gojo x reader #suguru geto x reader #gojo satoru x reader #geto suguru x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk fic

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Bedside Manner.

Pairing: Yan!Doctor!Gojo x Reader x Yan!Nurse!Geto (JJK).

Word Count: 2.9k.

TW: Non/Con, AFAB!Reader, Sex Toys, Could Be Read As A Geto Stayed AU But It's Funnier If You Don't, Bondage, Improper Use of Cum, A Brief Blowjob Aside, Overstimulation, Unprotected Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Slight Dom/Sub Dynamics, and Medical Malpractice.

“The patient should be waking up any second now, doctor.”

You stirred at the sound of Geto’s voice, groaning as you blinked away harsh, colorless light. The room around you came into focus slowly; your bleary eyes scanning over four blank walls and sterile titanium cabinets, only lingering momentarily on the tool-crowded trays latched onto either side of the metallic examination table you’d been laid across before moving to the doorway. Gojo was stepping across the threshold, wearing what you could only describe as a child’s idea of how a general practitioner might’ve dressed. His blindfold was gone, replaced with a pair of thin-rimmed shades he wore low on the bridge of his nose, and his uniform had been swapped out for a fitted button-up and a long, unwrinkled lab coat. An authentic-enough stethoscope had been strung around his neck, latex gloves pulled over his hands, but he hadn’t bothered to write anything on the paper held by the clipboard tucked under his arm, and his tie was left loose and undone in his collar. If you saw him in an actual hospital, you might’ve hesitated before asking to see his medical license. Might’ve.

Geto entered behind him, hands clasped behind his back and hair pulled into a loose bun. Your gaze dipped below his collar and your brain immediately short-circuited.

You couldn’t remember ever seeing a skirt that short in a… well, you couldn’t remember ever seeing a skirt that short anywhere.

Unlike Gojo, he’d clearly gotten his costume out of the darkest corner of the sketchiest store he could find. It might’ve been able to pass for a nurse’s uniform, had it not been for the fishnets stretched over his toned legs, the skin-tight skirt that ended well below his mid-thigh, the plunging neckline framed on either side by a pressed white collar. As you gawked, he caught your eye, a pointed grin tugging at the corners of his red lips. “Doctor,”he practically purred the title, bringing his hands up to Gojo’s shoulders. “It seems the patient is in a state of shock! Oh, no, what are you going to do?”

What his costume lacked, Gojo made up for with his acting. “There’s nothing to worry about.” His voice was artificially deep, his tone low and gravelly. “You’re both in good hands. I specialize in cases like this – needy young things neglected for far too long.” He clicked his tongue, flicking his glasses on top of his head. “Why don’t you prepare the patient, nurse?”

At that, your expression dropped. “I’m not in the mood for your bullshit today, guys.” You threw your legs over the side of the table, your scowl deepening as you glanced down and found that your clothes had been replaced with a nearly transparent hospital gown. Geto appeared behind you as you moved to stand, his fist curling around your wrist, but you shook him off. “Where are we? If swear, if I find out you cleared out an actual hospital for the sake of your shitty roleplay, I’ll—"

“Doctor,” Geto crooned again, “The patient seems to be hysterical. It’s driven them to delusion!”

His hands clapped over your shoulders. With that terrible grin still plastered across his lips, he slammed you down against the metal table and ignored your attempts to thrash against his hold. Gojo gasped, throwing his blank clipboard to the ground as he rushed to slap a hand over his mouth. “Their condition must be worse than we thought. If we don’t act now, we might lose them for good.”

Geto’s hold tightened. “Do you think it’s come to that, doctor?”

There was a beat of silence. Eventually, Gojo replied, “Yes. That.”

Geto let out a deep breath, his grin faltering. “The toys, Satoru.”

Immediately, he perked up, striding confidently to the foot of your bed. “Their treatment, you mean.” He reached towards one of the trays latched to your cot and, this time, you noticed that they weren’t housing tools, but an almost impressive collection of toys; bullets and wands of as many sizes and colors as you could imagine lined up in neat rows between bottles of lube and textured silicone monstrosities. After a second of thought, he chose a ribbed, hot pink rabbit vibrator, the insert just a little too big not to send a pang of dread to the pit of your stomach.

You scratched at Geto’s wrists and, when he failed to budge, let out a long, wordless scream – punctuated by a frustrated growl as you kicked toward Gojo. “If you so much as thick about touching me with that, I’ll—”

“Hysterical, like you said. If left untreated, it’ll progress into constant agitation, or worse – sexual repulsion.” He paused, slipped two gloved fingers into his mouth. A wet, slick sound filled the cramped space. By the time he pulled away, a string of spit stretched between his fingertips and his lips; only broken as his hand fell to your cunt. “Of course, proper preparation is necessary. We wouldn’t be able to call ourselves professionals if we didn’t take care of our patients, would we, nurse?”

Geto shook his head dutifully as Gojo spread the lips of your pussy apart, his haphazardly lubricated fingers thrusting into your entrance. They must’ve already done something to you in your sleep. Your body offered no resistance as he spread his fingers apart inside of you, slight discomfort turning to reluctant pleasure too quickly to be the first time they’d stretched open your body that day. He curled his fingers and you jerked against Geto’s hold, your hips bucking upward and earning a click of his tongue, a more pitying shake of his head. “Unruly patients have to be restrained.”

You opened your mouth, bracing yourself to ask what that was supposed to mean, but anything you might’ve said was replaced with a sharp whimper as his attention moved to your wrists – catching them in one hand while the other began to fiddle with something at the head of the table. You felt it more than you saw it; thick and leathery, looped once around your wrists and pulled tight, binding your hands above your head. Now freed, his own touch drifted to the collar of your gown, then lower, cupping the curves of your chest through the papery material and squeezing harshly. His thumbs swiped over your nipples while Gojo’s fingers ground against something soft and sensitive inside of you and stuck between the two of them, you shrunk into yourself, shutting your eyes as little whines and hitched moans escaped your treacherous lips.

Your pathetic resistance was met with an airy chuckle, a mouth pressed against your collarbone as Geto bent at the waist. “What a lucky little thing you are – to have such a skilled doctor looking after you.” His breath fanned over your skin and, as if to prove his point, Gojo forced another finger into your now slick-soaked cunt, pumping all three into you at a brutal, breaking pace. Bucking against him wasn’t an act of rebellion, this time, but a necessity; a choice your body made on your behalf. You didn’t want to, but you would’ve done anything to loosen the vice-tight coil in your core, the cool the pure warmth flooding through your veins. “You’ll show him how thankful you are for such thorough treatment, won’t you?”

Willing or otherwise, you would have to. You could feel your body starting to stiffen, your pussy clenching around his fingers as something deep inside of youbegan to smolder. The heel of Gojo’s palm ground against your clit and you moaned shamelessly, struggling not to clench your thighs shut as—

—as Gojo drew back, leaving you empty and quickly coming down from your near-high. There was a twinge of disappointment, but any relief your better judgement might’ve been able to summon was quickly smothered and suffocated as Gojo, color-bleached hair falling over his eyes, thrust his chosen vibrator into your vulnerable pussy and switched it on.

It wasn’t a question of when you would break, but how quickly. It only took a few seconds under the harsh vibrations being pumped into your clit, of enduring the way the bulbed insert pumped and ground against the walls of your cunt for you to crack. “Take it out,” you begged, spreading your legs involuntarily. “Take it out, turn it off, please, I—”

“That’s just your condition talking. You’re looking better already,” Geto cooed, his arm snaking around your neck and drawing you flat against the examination table. “Good patients take their treatment with a smile.”

“Helpful as always, nurse.” Gojo flattened one hand against your lower stomach, using the other to keep his vibrator in place despite your body’s convulsions. “But you don’t need to be so harsh. Look – it’s already taking effect.”

He was right. He was right and you hated him for it. You could feel yourself clenching around the length of his insert, your back threatening to arch off the examination table as you came around his toy. Climax provided no reprieve, though. Gojo only hummed, his thumb pressing into a silver button on the vibrator’s base. In an instant, the vibrations grew stronger, the aching pleasure being forced onto your body more savage. As you fought not to come undone for the second time in seconds, Gojo’s eyes flickered to Geto. “I think it’s about time we started on the patient’s medicine.”

Geto didn’t protest. He pressed a lingering kiss into the curve of your neck before straightening his back and climbing onto the examination table with you; a knee planted snuggly on either side of your head, giving you a view under his skirt too perfectly posed not to be deliberate. The costume was worse than you could’ve possibly imagined. Black garter belts hugged his muscular thighs, a stark departure in tone and style from the silken ivory panties barely covering his thick cock. He was already painfully hard – the outline of his length showing through the thin material, the tip leaking enough arousal to render both his panties and the cheap fabric of his skirt transparent.

He bent down and Gojo rose to meet him, propping one knee on the edge of the table as Geto undid his belt and shrugged down his dress pants, freeing Gojo’s cock. He let out a raspy groan as Geto’s painted lips ghosted over his flushed tip, as he ran his broad tongue running over the underside of Gojo’s cock before taking it into his mouth. You tried to look away, to focus on something that wasn’t one of them or the vibrator pulsing in your cunt, but its mechanical pattern was just jarring enough to keep you grounded in reality and they were so fucking loud, Geto’s noisy swallows and stifled moans always met with Gojo’s praise. The bright blue of his gloves stood out against Geto’s dark hair like lightning against a storm, the shape of his cock visible against the column of Geto’s throat as he swallowed Gojo down. Drool pooled at the corners of his mouth, smearing his lipstick and dripping down to his chin as he bobbed his head in-time with Gojo’s idle thrusts. As you were nudged closer to your second climax, Geto worked Gojo towards his first; his already erratic pace growing more frenzied. His eyes fell shut, Geto’s name slipping past his lips – cut short by a hitched breath as he rutted into Geto’s mouth.

You forced yourself to look away as Geto choked him through his high, but it didn’t matter. Burning white blotted out your vision as his vibrator forced you over the ledge, sending another wave of blissful agony coursing through hyper-sensitive body. It seemed to hold you in that state of euphoric paralysis for minutes – your eyes glazed over and unfocused, your legs twitching and your cunt clenching around the bulbed insert. Gojo’s airy chuckle was the only thing that stopped you from spiraling completely. The vibrator was switched off and removed unceremoniously, Geto helped down from the examination table with a muffled whine of protest. Gojo’s hands curled around your ankles, dragging you downward until your legs hung over the table’s blunt edge and Geto could position himself between your twitching thighs. Exhausted and limp, you could only shake your head and whimper as Gojo’s hands slipped under Geto’s skirt, hiking the fabric up to his waist and tearing away his panties entirely. With his chin propped on Geto’s shoulder, his hand panted on Geto’s hip, he wrapped his fist around Geto’s cock and lined his leaking tip up with your dripping entrance. Geto, with a pursed-lipped frown and eyes blown just a little too wide to sell the doe-like innocence he was aiming for, paid Gojo a hesitant glance, but Gojo clicked his tongue, pressing his chest into Geto’s back with the practiced steadiness of a decade-long mentor. “Don’t be shy, nurse.” He slotted his lip against Geto’s ass. “Someone’s still waiting for their medicine.”

His assurance was kind, but unnecessary; Geto couldn’t play coy for very long. Wordlessly, he thrust into you, bottoming out in a single stroke.

Gojo was still there, providing a steadying hand, but what little self-restraint Geto had snapped the moment he felt your cunt clamp around him. While you recoiled, your body attempting to escape his hostile affection before your mind could realize it was futile, he groaned and lurched into you, never satisfied unless he could be buried as deeply inside of you as possible. A hand shot up – taking hold of your jaw and prying your grit teeth apart as his mouth crashed into yours. The kiss was open-mouthed and rough, his tongue lashing out to force something warm and bitter into your mouth. You begged yourself not to put a name to the substance he was practically tongue-fucking down your throat, but tears still managed to blur your hazy vision, overstimulation and humiliation turning every sensation sharp and invasive. What was left of your limited strength was poured into writhing and thrashing underneath him, but that only seemed to spur Geto on, to let him fuck into your cunt with that much more force, to make the sound of his skin slapping against yours that much more unbearable. Gojo didn’t help, but he didn’t stop him, either. He kept his hands on Geto’s waist, kept that shit-eating grin plastered across his lips as he watched Geto fuck into you like a wild animal, let out of its cage for the very first time.

Your third and last climax was almost pathetically weak; your body wrung dry and your nerves burnt to nothing. Your final moan came out hoarse and stunted, your form going limp underneath him, and yet, it was enough to tip Geto over the edge, to leave him grunting as he pressed his hips flush to yours and filled your cunt with something so, so much worse than the stale cum he made you swallow. At least that, you’d been able to ignore, to reject. The feeling of pure heat dripping down the inside of your thighs as he stilled against you wasn’t as easy to block out.

He lingered on top of you, his breath ragged and his face buried in the side of your neck. Gojo was the one to break the stillness, predictably, letting out a pitchy whine as he threw himself onto fGeto. “You looked so hot.” He drew the final word out for a second too long, his voice cracking on the final note. “You looked hot and I couldn’t say anything because I had to stay in character but all I wanted to do was put my di—"

“Later, Satoru.” With a groan, Geto straightened his back, taking Gojo with him as he pried himself away from you. The leather strap around your wrists was pulled loose, and he helped you sit up-right, your legs still dangling over the side of the examination table. His cum stained the inside of your thighs, the hospital gown they’d dressed you in hanging wrinkled and ragged from your shoulders. Geto let out a soft coo as he looked over you, his acting only slightly more believable than it’d been a few minutes ago. “I’ll get you cleaned up while Satoru takes care of mess. We’ll get you back home after that, alright?”

You let your head lull forward. It was your turn to bury your face in his chest, now, to huff as Gojo changed tactics – positioning himself behind you and nuzzling into the nape of your neck. “I hate you two.” You spared a fleeting glance to either side. “Where are we? This doesn’t look like any of Shoko’s labs.”

A beat of silence lapsed between the two of them. Finally, Gojo chimed in. “That would’ve saved us a lot of time, huh, Suguru?”

Immediately, you stiffened. “This cannot be a real—”

Geto pressed a kiss into your forehead. “It’s nothing worth worrying your pretty little head over, sweetheart.”

“There’s not even a law for—”

“Doctor,” Geto called, speaking over you. “Your patient’s getting riled up, again.”

You jolted, but didn’t have time to get away. Gojo was already pressing himself against you, his hand slipping between your thighs as his grin bit into the side of your throat.

“You can leave this one to me, nurse.”

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere oneshot #yandere jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jjk imagines #yandere jjk #jujutsu kaisen imagines #yandere gojo satoru #yandere geto suguru #gojo x reader #geto x reader #nurse geto #doctor gojo #yanderecore #yancore

[faetreides]

summary: paul atreides x plus sized afab servant!reader

cw: power imbalance, somnophilia (dubcon in my mind as the reader wouldn’t push him away if they woke up but feel free to skip this if you could feel icked out by it), petplay (cheated again and didn’t make it explicit but it’s very petplay coded in a way), size difference (paul’s the skinny bf that would fall over if a gust of wind was strong enough), paul eats reader out, crack treated seriously vibes bc he’s so awkward 💀, ambiguous somno occasion (like how the reader fell asleep), implications of improper use of the voice but it’s weak for this paul era so reader could probably push against it, possible dune lore inaccuracies idk don’t think just vibe

wc: 1k +

block & move on if uncomfortable !!!

don’t repost, translate, or give ai my work

kinktober masterlist

You’re having the same dream again. Paul Atreides, the duke’s son who you are tasked with looking after is the star.

He looms over you as you lie flat on your back, though in your dream you’re never in your servant’s quarters. No, the surrounding walls bear a more striking resemblance to Paul’s bedroom. You’re always groggy in the dream, which is a strange feeling to have when you usually are profoundly awake in your other dreams.

You’ve only been having this one since you arrived on Caladan from a smaller planet with no name that they took ownership of. Paul Atreides had seemed to seek you out like a moth to a flame, making a beeline for you and demanding in front of your mother that his father hire you. Even weirder was the fact that the ships belonging to the Atreides left immediately after you agreed to go with them, as if the trip had only one purpose.

“Shh, mouse, it’s just me. Don’t wake up.” He whispers, nuzzling his nose against yours and pecking your lips.

You lie there in a daze, eyes wide and mouth agape as Paul reaches for the fastenings of your top. It’s an orange silk number he gifted you, all your clothes are. Your breaths come out in shallow pants, the disbelief that Paul Atreides would be disrobing you with the intent to bed you is overwhelming. He gives your plush curves loving squeezes as he reveals more and more skin.

Eventually you’re stark naked under him. You sluggishly try to cover yourself with your hands but Paul swiftly knocks them aside, pinning them to your sides so he can drink in the mouth watering image. You have no idea how many dreams he has had of you, ones concerning moments like these and ones about the life you’ll experience together in between. A gaggle of tiny feet playing tag around his throne, domestic mornings of blissful silence waltzing in the dining room.

“I…. I have never seen anyone as beautiful as you, i swear it.” Your heart skips a beat, despite knowing very well that this is all some passing fancy. Dreams never have to see the light of day, so you can luxuriate in your delusions.

Paul leans down to shakily mouth at your collarbone, scraping his teeth against the skin and playing with your love handles. You whimper as he litters your rough skin with love bites, you open your mouth to apologize that it’s not as smooth as a noble consort’s would be, but something in the way he shoves his tongue in your mouth to silence you tells you he somehow already knows.

You poke and pull at his dark shirt, the fine black material feeling like heaven but you’d rather it cover your garments next to the bed.

Paul chuckles, nipping at your lips and pulling back to shirk his clothing off. He throws it across the room and goes back to kissing his way down your thick body. Once he reaches your stomach, he takes extra special care to dote on the rolls of skin, softly kissing and pressing his forehead against them.

“You would be a beautiful bride, you know…”

“Um… thank you, sir.” You squirm, all the attention on someone like you from someone like your employer’s son becoming too real. The Paul Atreides would sooner be lost to the sands of Arrakis than utter those words to you in the waking world, but perhaps your long harbored infatuation has leaked into your subconscious.

He smiles, as if charmed by your shyness. “You’re welcome, mouse.”

His favorite nickname for you, given to you due to your adorable scurrying around to avoid others and shy high pitched squeaks that you use instead of words. (Also because he saw you crouch in a corner and nibble on a piece of bread that you had managed to snag from the table.)

He sits back on his heels to grab your thighs, the skin bulging in between his fingers. He draws you into a slow and sensual kiss as he pushes them apart and sinks into the empty space. You squeak in shock when you feel something stiff press against your wet pussy, but Paul only shushes you in your head and you relax again.

“Mmm~” He hums, flicking his tongue against the seam of your lips and lifting himself to hover over you once more.

He winks before tightening his grip on your thighs and stretching them wide enough for him to slink down and have access to the small hole at their apex.

You jolt when he presses a soft kiss to the top of your mound. You squeak and try to close your thighs around his head but he doesn’t let you, keeping your thighs pinned to the bed and licking a flat stripe up your pussy.

“So sweet, mouse….” Paul grins and repeats the motion a few times. “I could just spread you out over the table whenever I need to eat.”

You moan at the attention, desperately wishing that you could grind against Paul’s mouth but it feels like something more than his grip is holding you back, something about the touch seeming too vivid. You shake the thought away and sink your fingers into his hair, brushing any strays away from his face as he moves to suck on your clit.

He hollows out his cheeks a bit to get better suction on your fat clit. Paul nuzzles his face as deep into you as he can possibly get, the chubby lips of your pussy sandwiching his nose. You wrench your eyes shut as your pleasure builds and builds, but a single thin finger eases into your hole right as you’re about to tumble over the edge. The intrusion isn’t painful so much as it is entirely foreign to you, the second finger goes in much easier.

The combination of eating you out and finger fucking you makes the knot in you stomach blessedly come undone. Paul swallows it all down like there’s no better substance in the grand scheme of the universe.

You hope to have this dream again tomorrow, even at the cost of being able to look Paul Atreides in the eyes.

#kinktober #paul atreides #paul atreides x reader #paul atredies x reader #paul atredies smut #dune #dune x reader #dune x you #paul atreides x you #paul x reader #paul x you #paul atriedes #⚰️.deaddove #tw somno #tw power imbalance #yandere themes #male yandere smut #male yandere x reader #yandere smut #dune smut #yandere x you #soft yandere #yandere x reader #male yandere #yandere male #dark fic

[zhonglism]

18+ MDNI; 4.2 archon quest spoilers (for those who haven’t finished it. nothing too detailed but a major spoiler, nonetheless), slightly possessive neuvi, unprotected semi-public s*x (in neuvillette’s office), handjob (brief mention), riding, neuvi has two c*cks. divider: cafekitsune

── it was scandalous, utterly improper, and impure, the list could go on and on to describe what was happening behind the unlocked doors of the iudex’s grandeur office; it held an outstanding reputation, housing the most respected man in fontaine but right this moment, it was nothing more than a mere space to fulfil both of your sordid fantasies. risqué behaviour that would absolutely tarnish neuvillette’s esteemed reputation. he could already see the front page of steambird’s papers adorned with a controversial ebony-inked title that’d make serious waves throughout the nation of hydro, flowing from conversation to conversation of each fontanian.

oh but the thing was, at this very moment, iudex neuvillette could not care less, even with his high honour on the line. to think of someone walking in on you two passionately enjoying one another was exhilarating; especially when you’re straddling him this good; one cock hugged oh-so-tightly and invitingly by your sopping cunt while the other being wickedly taken care of with your trembling hands—thumb focusing on rubbing the sensitive slit of his tip. it was ironic how the expanse of neuvillette’s office didn’t seem enough for this sinful act, it was suffocating and stuffy but maybe it was all because of the fine azure fabric he donned every day; layers and layers of fine cerulean textiles that hid the very monstrosity between his legs.

“n-neuvi—ah! this is inappropriate. . ungodly.” you panted into the crook of his neck, his intoxicating scent only driving you further down the line of insanity as it engulfed your senses. neuvillette wanted to laugh but all he could muster were heated moans and occasional grunts. “mon trésor, i’m quite taken back by your choice of words.” he let out a soft sigh, the gloved grasp on your waist mirroring the tightening grip of your walls around his cock.

ungodly? of course it was.

neuvillette was certainly no god after all, he was more than that of a lowly usurper that answered to the divinity beyond the clouds. to use such a word to describe the intimate act between the two of you as if it was sinful stirred the depths of his mind—a draconic trait he had neatly tucked away, one that was a tad too dangerous to just let loose. possessiveness. to think of mentioning the gods with his length sheathed all the way inside you flipped his switch. you shouldn’t even be thinking of the gods, especially in a godless nation like the land of justice.

offering a response would have been a sensible option if it weren’t for the sudden shift in aura inside the chief justice’s office, a ripple of unmatched power pressing on your sweat-covered skin. earlier, neuvillette gave you the liberty of riding his cock however you wanted but now the bounce of your hips were forcibly halted with a singular arm around your waist. neuvillette’s free hand dug itself amongst your hair, tugging at the roots to assert a wordless power.

with your hips stilled and body flushed against his own, you braced yourself from the merciless ramming of his hips. heated moans that once filled the office now silenced with a passionate, rough kiss—wet lips chasing one another, biting, and sucking. the change in your lover’s pace caused you to tighten your grip around his other cock, earning a fervent moan from neuvillette to slip in between the messy make out. neuvillette may solely be associated to the nation of many waters but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be as burning and fervid like the land of pyro—a blazing flame inside him that could only be fuelled by you.

the chair beneath the iudex groaned and screeched with each sinful thrust, driving his cock deeper and deeper into your slicked walls until you felt him in your stomach—unable to sufficiently pleasure the other cock in your grasp as your body bounced and jolted with his hips. neuvillette kept his lips on your own, making the room spin a little from the lack of oxygen; kissing and nipping at your swollen lips with such desire, even going as far as shoving his tongue past them.

with each passing second and his unfaltering pace, stars slowly crept into your vision, muscles tightening, and toes curling at your impending orgasm. as if on cue, neuvillette pulled his lips away, hand that was once tangled in your hair now resting on your nape, “look at me. .” he panted, his lustful lilac gaze tracing over your cock-drunk face. “look at me while you indulge yourself in immeasurable pleasure, ma belle. . s’ naughty for me, my little temptress, aren’t you?”

neuvillette loved watching the way your face contorted in pleasure while you come around his cock—eyes rolled back, and lips parted to let out such naughty noises; the way your body shivered with sensitivity as intense pleasure kissed down your spine, it was enough for him to come as well. an ardent moan of your name echoed throughout the walls of his office as neuvillette generously emptied himself into you.

scandalous and improper it may be for the iudex to fuck you in his sacred office—where all court files were stored away—he could never deny his lover.

#zhonglism ༄ #neuvillette #genshin impact #neuvillette smut #neuvillette x reader #neuvillette x you #neuvillette x y/n #genshin impact smut #genshin impact x you #genshin impact x reader #smut #mdni

[ushiwhacka]

IT'S A KINDNESS, HIGHNESS | gojo satoru + fem! reader | 4,500 words | mdni | royalty au, gojo is the most obnoxious, annoying, charming prince ever <3

⇥ summary: your betrothed is unlike anything you ever imagined. he's improper and brash and delights in embarrassing you - but he wants you. and he always gets whatever he wants. ⇥ warnings: corruption, oral (f! receiving), spit, pussy job, food play (just a tiny little bit), reader is a virgin, satoru is so impatient

for my most beloved char <3 thank you for being so patient and for this super cute request (and also for reading but shh)

You were bred to marry royalty. It’s what you’ve been told since you were old enough to know the meaning of it. You were raised to marry royalty. To sit with your legs flawlessly tilted. To sing like a delicate bird. To speak low and curtsey even lower still. A perfect daughter destined to become a perfect wife. 

A resounding click as you close the locket once more. The intricate flowers are warm under your skin, worn out with how many times you’ve run your fingers over them. Clutching it to your chest, giddy with thoughts about the man who looks back at you through the heart-shaped frame. The many nights it has spent tucked under your pillow as you dream of chaste hand kisses and dancing with your betrothed as everyone else looks on. 

“Do you think he’s as handsome as his portrait?” You peer down at the now opened heart again, sighing wistfully as you think of looking into those shining eyes. 

“Keep your head straight.” A sharp reprimand before you feel another pin scrape at your scalp. And you do your best to swallow an audible wince. “It does not matter if he’s handsome, he’s a prince. And one day, he will be king and you will be queen.”

“But, mother —”

“And you will provide him with as many heirs as he wishes.” Her thumbs press into your bare shoulder blades as she regards you in the mirror. A familiar expression on her face, her mouth taut in a thin line, she levels you with steely eyes. “This will do.” You swallow your questions. “Now go.”

There is a whirlwind of kitchen maids and footmen carrying silver trays overflowing with food, dusting the railing, adding wood to the already roaring fireplace. It all comes to a sobering still at the sound of galloping horses and wheels rolling over gravel and the clamour turns into concealed whispers and feet scurrying away. 

Two years since your betrothal. Two years of waiting and wondering. Two years worth of daydreams and fantasies of saccharine words and stolen glances and promises made tucked away behind secret corners. The air lodges in your lungs.  

The silence in the room is so heavy that you can hear your heart thumping in your chest, faster and louder as the steps in front of the door grow nearer. A click. Then the thumping stops. 

He is just as beautiful as his portrait. And yet, he looks nothing like it. There’s something so brazen about him, how strands of messy, white hair fall over his eyes. How his shirt is too loose and untied, the deep opening showing the pale skin of his chest. 

You follow the contour of it. Wide eyes taking in the dip of his throat, the swell of muscle just underneath. It feels forbidden, something you shouldn’t be allowed to see. And still you cannot peel your eyes away. Watching as he draws closer with every long step. Your feet feel like lead sinking into the hardwood floors. 

Curtsey. You’re supposed to curtsey, low and steady. You’re supposed to bow your head before the prince. 

“Ah, my future wife.” It’s too late. “You look ravishing.” 

Before you know it, your hand is in his hand and you can barely breathe. Your chest straining against the fabric of your dress. He looks at you in a way no one has before, like a predator who’s about to devour his prey. Then he brings your hand to his mouth, his lips warm against your skin. 

And he looks at you. Impudent eyes burnt into yours for too long. It’s lewd. It makes your stomach flutter and your cheeks heat in embarrassment. 

Your head is reeling, hand clutched into fists as you follow the group into the dining hall. You had only read of such behaviour in forbidden books hidden in the depths of your family library. It was inappropriate, a stolen moment of intimacy. Still, you can feel the shape of his lips on the back of your hand, stinging like a brand. Thumb pressing into it as you sit on the table with your hands in your lap and head hanging low. 

He sits with his chin propped on his fist, looking around with lidded eyes, the very picture of boredom painted on his fair face. Every word out of his mouth comes drawn out and lazy. But you can still feel his gaze following you, the bob of your throat as you swallow, the tiny drop of red wine sauce on your lips, the nervous fidgeting of your fingers. 

The rest of the world feels like noise, blurs, falls away under the weight of his curious eyes until it’s just you and him. And there’s nothing else to feel but how he drinks you in, how he lingers in all the forbidden crooks of your body. Like you’re already his and his alone.

You’re almost afraid to look at him. The way he stretches in the chair, legs spread wide and slouching over the armrests. Every attempt of your father’s to make polite conversation is thwarted with a disinterest that is almost insulting. Current affairs, politics, and tomorrow’s hunt pale in comparison to the way your hands trembles around the fork. How it clatters against your plate when you feel his hand brush the side of your thigh under the table. 

“Are you feeling unwell, My Lady?” The conversation halts when the prince speaks, heads turn to focus their attention on you. 

“I — I am quite alright.” You feel as though you might choke on the very air you breathe. “You are kind to ask, Your Highness.”

It must have been an accident. You try to reason with yourself that it was an accident. But you suspect it wasn’t. Not when his companion turns to glare at him. Not when his mouth quirks up ever so slightly in satisfaction.

Not when he looks at you as a child looks at a new toy. His new toy. There for his amusement.

Feet patter softly against the floor as you pace around your chambers, watching the sky turn black then lighten again. The pillows feel too warm and your bedding is scratching against the skin of your legs. And every time you close your eyes, you see him, you feel the warmth of his hand on yours, his plush lips on your knuckles. 

You press your mouth to the patch of your skin he kissed, you wonder what it would feel like if he kissed you. Would he be loving and tender? Or would he simply take and take some more, leaving you breathless and trembling? 

It is your duty to give, give him whatever he asks for. That’s the purpose of a wife. You had heard the same lecture nearly daily for over two decades of your life. But there was never an explanation. What must you give? Which part of you would he want for himself?

There’s a fluttering feeling in your belly. Like a sense of frustration that builds and grows with each new thought. Spreads lower still and your whole body comes alight. Like you might not mind giving as many parts of yourself to him as he may want, even if it’s all of you. It makes your chest heave and sweat bead at your hairline. Persists until you succumb to the mercy of exhaustion.

You spend the next morning avoiding anyone with a pulse — the gossiping servants, your mother, and especially him. Walking softly and peeking around corners until you find refuge in the library. The tips of your fingers grazing across dusty books as you read the titles. None of them particularly exciting. And either way, none of them have answers to the questions swirling through your mind. So you resign yourself to your thoughts, fingers dancing over the spines of dusty tomes.

“There.” Before you even know you are no longer alone, your body is pressed forward into the shelves, a chest flush against your back. “Just what I was I was searching for.” 

The sound of his melodic voice makes the blood simmer in your veins. He’s toying with you. You know he has no interest in any book your library could offer. And you’re angry. Angry because you know none of it is an accident. Angry because he is not the man you had imagined. 

And all that rage turns to ice in your veins when you turn around to face him, neck craned upwards only to be met with his bare chest peeking out of the crisp white shirt and a wolfish grin. 

“Your Highness, you —”

“Did you like my portrait?” His fingers inch towards you, rest on your collar bone as he examines the little silver heart that hangs around your neck. “I sat for it just for you.”

“It is in your likeness.” 

“You wound me.” His face is much too close to yours, so close that his breath fans over your skin when he breathes out a laugh. You’ve never felt smaller. “Do you think I’m handsome?”

“Your Highness —”

“Satoru.” He interrupts you again. His lips brushing against your ear. “If you are to be my wife I want to hear you say my name.” Your skin prickles up as he whispers, raw where his words fall over your neck. 

There’s an eerie quiet wrapping you together. Like anything beyond those towering shelves falls away. And all that’s left is the sound of his calm breaths and your heart pummelling against your ribs.

“Satoru.” It feels foreign in your mouth, fills it up. Sits heavy on your tongue.

“Good girl.” 

Then he leaves you. He walks out of the grand room with a spring in his step and a wave. And you’re gasping for air, one hand splayed over your chest where he had touched you, the other digging into the wooden shelves as a means to keep you upright. 

You feel watched, his shining eyes follow your every step. He finds you in the library again even when you’ve tucked yourself away in the most private of nooks. He finds you in the kitchens late at night, sneaking a few bites of cake and milk before bed. He finds you in the garden too as you sit on a bench overlooking the pond, tucked in the thick shade of a weeping willow. 

You’ve grown used to his presence in a way. Used to the quickening of your heart at the mere sight of him, at the sound of his voice. Used to the way your tummy coils when he touches you with near unbearable familiarity. 

Satoru sits next to you and puts the tray of lemon cakes on his lap. He’s too close again, his knee touching yours. And you allow it. Again. 

He shuffles in his seat, taps his fingers on the bench, then sighs deeply — making his presence known, waiting for you to acknowledge it. 

You don’t. 

The silence only lasts for one brief moment. “Have a taste.” He brings the sweet to your mouth and nudges your hand away when you try to take it. “No, no. Open wide for me.”

That feeling that sits low in your belly comes back, twists your insides. But you do as you’re told and part your lips. You’ve learned by now that he enjoys watching your face twist with embarrassment. Just loves that you will disregard every lesson in proper behaviour you’ve been taught for him. 

The pad of his thumb brushes over your bottom lip, lingers there too long. The cake crumbles on your tongue, tangy and sweet. And his mouth hangs slightly open as he watches the way the cream sticks to your teeth, his lithe fingers resting on your chin. It’s suffocating, like the air has thickened in the space between you. Like you cannot breathe until he tells you to. 

“Why are you squirming?” 

The question catches you off guard. “I’m not.”

“Do you like it when I touch you? Does it make you feel strange between your legs?” He leans into you as he speaks. “Is your cunt all wet?”

Your eyes widen in shock. He’s not supposed to say that word. So filthy and unbecoming.  And it makes you feel all… wrong. Too aware of how your body preens for him.

“That is not an appropriate way to speak to a lady.” It takes every drop of strength you possess to not trample over your words. To ignore how he looks at you, barely surpassing his amusement. To stand on your feet and stomp away from him. 

But still, when you slam the heavy doors to your chambers closed, all you can hear is his voice, deep and sanguine. And all you can think about is how it feels to be so close to him, to breathe in his scent and feel the warmth of his skin on yours. How you sink into every touch and every brush of his knuckles. How you feel dazed and light-headed when he speaks words he shouldn’t. 

How you wish to know more.

He finds you again that same night. Walks into your bedchambers wearing a shirt pulled further apart than usual. Feigns innocence as you regard him with stern eyes and your mouth pressed into a disapproving line.

“You really cannot be here.” You fold into yourself, suddenly aware of how he can see you, see all parts of you through the nightgown that’s turned translucent in the candlelight.

“I must have lost my way.” His voice hushed, but you can still hear the insincerity in it. “It’s a big house.”

“I’m certain you’re used to bigger.” You pull your arms closer to your chest. “Now go.”

He doesn’t. You can feel how his eyes rake over you, take in every detail as you stand almost bare before him — how your hair looks when it’s not neatly arranged and adorned with pearls, how your fingers dip into your shoulders, how the tops of your breasts peek from behind your forearms with every heavy breath.

“You’re beautiful.” He takes a step toward you, long fingers brushing over your hair. “I don’t want to leave.”

“Satoru, please.”

“Tell me you want me to leave.”

You swallow thickly, throat tight around your words, swallowing them. Your eyes dart away from him as embarrassment climbs up your legs, warms your cheeks. 

He reaches out, holds your chin between his thumb and index finger. Tilts your head so that you have to look at his face, so that he can see up close the quiver of your lips as you succumb to him. “I’m waiting.” Because you will succumb to him.

The air between you feels suffocating, sticks to you. You turn your head, desperate to breathe, to escape what feels inevitable. But you’re met with the palm of his hand, searing in its tenderness as it pulls you closer to him. 

His lips hover above your own, impatient but still waiting for your resolve to fracture and crumble in his grip. The flicker of your eyes brimming with anticipation is enough of an answer. A shared breath and the distance between you dissipates as he kisses you. 

You’re standing on the tips of your toes, your body extending to dissolve into his. Like it knows its place. He’s gentle, his lips plush and soft and oh so warm as they press on yours. And you feel like you might lose yourself to this feeling, to his touch, consumed by his hunger. And when he pulls away you chase after him.

But he stops you with a hand around your jaw. “Don’t be greedy, now.” His thumb swipes across your lips. “You’re such a good girl, yes?” A dazed nod and his finger pushes inside your mouth, runs over your teeth and pushes onto your tongue. He stakes his claim on you. You’re his. Every last part of you. All of you. His to touch as he pleases. To have as he pleases. His and his alone. “And did they teach you what husbands and wives do together?”

You shake your head.

He swipes over the plump of your lips again, coating them in warm spit as you struggle to keep upright, light-headed, feet tingling with trepidation and something unfamiliar. “Would you like me to show you?”

“Y-yes.” It comes out shaky and breathless, like it should have remained in your throat, died there. Like you should have said no. But there’s that feeling in your belly again, starved and growing, and it wants him. And everything that may entail.

He kisses you again. This time it’s different, firmer, he forces you to open yourself up to him, his tongue licking inside your mouth. Holds you in place with a hand wrapped around the back of your neck. Devours you. Your every sense is alight with the feeling of him, forbidden and yet there in between your eager fingers. 

There’s drool dripping down the sides of your chin, so unbecoming, so embarrassing. Yet it doesn’t compare to the sting that spreads to your cheeks when his tongue darts out to lap it up, lick you clean. Then he kisses you once more, even deeper than before and no drop of himself he has so graciously given you goes to waste. 

You can’t escape the scrutiny of his crystal eyes, shining with pride at the result of his efforts as they take in the sight of you. From your swollen lips, down your neck, to your chest heaving with every laboured breath, and your arms folded together in a feeble attempt to protect your modesty. 

“Let me see you.” His voice trembles just for a moment. As if he, too, is being held together by delicate seams, bursting with want, with the need to have you. 

His fingers snake around your wrists and your breath hitches. But you still let him peel your arms off your body, let his knuckles ghost over the thin material, let him undo the bow that holds your nightgown together. 

You can hear how hard he swallows, see how his throat bobs with the effort, how his mouth goes slack at the sight of your perky nipples peeking out from underneath the white cotton. “Are you nervous?” 

“A little.” 

Knuckles ghost over your clavicle as he hooks a finger around each strap of your nightgown. He looks into your eyes as he pulls them over your shoulder. “Don’t be.” And the dress falls around your feet in a rustle.

The look on his face is unlike anything you have ever seen before. Something primal and fierce. Like a starved animal, a wolf about to devour the lamb caught in his paws. He will take everything, carve it out of your core and grind it between his molars. And you will let him. And you will ask for more.

Feverish lips leave a trail down the column of your throat, teeth grazing your pulse point. Not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough to send a shiver down your spine. You hold onto him, nails digging into the base of his neck as he moves further down, watching in awe as he licks a stripe in between your breasts. He’s watching you too, eager to see how your eyes squeeze shut in pleasure, how you try to bite back the moans that tumble out anyways.

His hands move to cup your tits and he takes his time watching how the fat spills from in between his fingers. Touches your nipples so lightly it tickles, then latches his mouth onto one. It’s obscene, the prince on his knees, your skin glistening with a thin layer of his spit. And oh the noises he makes, whining as he sucks on the hardened buds, the pop as he releases one, only to move to the other side and do it all over again. 

The blissful smile on his face as he looks at you coming undone in his arms. 

But it’s not enough. Not nearly enough to fill the emptiness that’s spreading inside out you. “Please, Satoru —” Your voice weak and desperate, begging for something, anything that will make you feel whole again. 

“What’s wrong, My Lady?” He stands to his feet, curving into you. “What do you want?”

“Satoru…” You say his name like a prayer, like it’s your only salvation.

“Do you want me to touch you —” His fingers dip between the fat of your thighs “— here?”

And you gasp oh so sweetly as his middle finger presses into your folds. Your legs buckle, nails digging deeper into his skin. You want more. And you squeeze around his hand like your body knows what you need when even you don’t. But it’s too late. He’s already holding his finger in between you, dripping with your slick. Then he pops it in his mouth, looks into your eyes as he swirls his tongue around it. 

“Mmm, sweet.” It’s like he delights in embarrassing you even now. “I want more.”

He carries you to the bed, sets you down gently before pulling the shirt off his back. He can see you and, at last, you can see him too. The peaks of his chest, drops of sweat running down between the ripples of his abdomen. So broad. Not even marble statues, perfectly carved works of art, can compare to him. 

His hands are smoothing over your legs, firm, like he’s trying to commit every dip and curve of them to memory. His kisses start chaste, airy over the bone of your ankles, tickle the back of your knee. Slowly, they turn hungry, demanding as he buries his head between your thighs. He sucks on your soft flesh there, his mouth hot and needy. Then his tongue laves over the teeth marks imprinted into your skin, soothing the sting of it. 

He stops for a moment. Desperate eyes taking in the sight of your pussy, wet and sticky with arousal. He runs his fingers over the sensitive skin, listens to you sharply inhale at the contact. 

“You’re mine.” The world stops. “Say it.”

You can only manage a strangled whisper. “I’m yours.”

Then you feel it, the warmth of his breath as his mouth hangs just above your core, how wet and thick and hot his tongue is when it licks between your folds. How it curls around that spot that makes you whimper and call out his name. And he wraps his lips around it, sucks on it and you cannot stop the cry that erupts out of your mouth. 

Your belly tightens. And you have to hide your face behind trembling hands, hide your panting and the way your cheeks could burst with shame. But you cannot stop how your body leans into him, how your legs wrap tightly around his head, pulling him closer still. 

“You’re doing so well.” His voice vibrates against your centre and you moan, high-pitched and strained. “Just let go for me.” 

You can feel the sheets grow wetter beneath you, him cursing under his breath about how perfect you are, his tongue all over you, lapping up your slick and dipping into all the perfect places. And that feeling snaps, spreads until your legs are shaking and you can do nothing but wail and scratch your nails across his scalp. 

Lips move across your tummy, sloppy wet kisses mix withe the damp of your skin. He kisses you again, cradles your neck, holds you in place. It’s forceful and his mouth is so hot on yours, dripping, covers you in a taste that’s salty and sweet and intoxicating. 

His hair is tussled, face shiny with you. And he looks at you with some kind of twisted pride in his eyes. “Have I won My Lady’s favour?”

A weak nod.

“Then —” He starts as nimble hands undo the ties on his breeches, “— I should show you what you have done to me.”

It’s a sight unlike any other. His cock, with soft white tufts of hair at the base, thin veins curving around his length and a blush pink tip leaking something clear and thick. And when he rests it on top of your tummy it feels heavy and it goes all the way up to your belly button. 

“When we’re married I intend to have you like this every day.” His eyes are glued to where your bodies connect. “Perhaps more than once. We need heirs, don’t we?” Excitement tingles in your fingertips.

He runs the fleshy tip over your slit so agonisingly slowly. Follows every little movement with such intensity. And he feels like velvet against you, warm and throbbing over your core. Each buck oh his hips catches that sensitive peak between your folds and you feel your insides coil again. Writhe with want, with need to feel that release again. 

You reach out to touch him, feel how he ruts into you. And he moans at the contact, a little choked out and whiny. You run your hand over his length, encouraged by how his lips part so prettily. And he feels so thick, so firm in your grasp.

“You’re a fast learner.” His mouth stretches, a picture of satisfaction.

But his tip catches against your entrance, and his eyebrows knot uncomfortably and he grinds his teeth. Knuckles white around the crumpled sheets as he tries to ground himself. Resist. Just for now. But never again.

His thrusts become more erratic, reckless as he surrenders to the tenderness of your flesh. And you follow closely along, hips bucking into him, looking for more friction, more of him. Your name falling from his lips, and his from yours. Like a sacred choir chant, or a cry for mercy, or something no words could ever convey. 

He finds his release with his head hung and a low grunt. Spilling all over your belly, white and sticky and hot. He’s spent, hair damp and sticking to his forehead, chest heaving. You like the way he looks at you, bright eyes dimmed and hazy. Softer. And you think you must have taken a part out of him too.

He clings to you, lets you lay your head on his chest, your ear just above his heart. Its steady beat is oddly soothing. And so is the way he gently rubs little circles into your back, grounds you, binds you to him. Unexpected but not unwanted. 

“Do you want to marry me?” He looks so different. Vulnerable and entirely too human, gaze locked onto the carved wood of your ceiling. As if he’s afraid of your answer, the truth in your eyes.

“Hm.”

“Hm?” His chest tightens.

“Only if you promise to sleep in my bed for as long as we both shall live.”

He turns to you with a click of his tongue. “I think they will have to drag me out by my arms and legs.” A wistful sigh. “There might even be casualties.”

thank you for reading! interaction is very much appreciated! ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

#gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo satoru x you #gojo smut #jjk smut #gojo satoru smut #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x y/n

[gh0stswh0re]

cockwarming with ghost

warnings: f! reader, mentions of injuries + physical pain (improper treatment of said injuries), mild somnophilia, manhandling, cockwarming, m! cries, very brief mentions of marriage, literally one line of a breeding kink

a/n: 1,5k words, writing time of 3 hours

it was a routine at this point – the regular, daily routine he'd always put you through – coming home late; his steps echoing throughout the apartment, the heavy combat boots sinking down onto the wooden floor with each weary step – he'd try to keep quiet, to not wake you up, but he was tired - too tired to notice how loud his heavy stomping actually was. if any luck is on his side, he'll manage to drop his keys somewhere in the process – just fucking great he'd think to himself, physically cringing as the metal hit the floor.

he'd start undressing before he even made it to the bathroom – hot strings of pain shooting up his spine, jolting his muscles as he pulled his shirt over his head – it was covered in dust, soaked in blood and sweat.

he'd turn around - facing the mirror as he inspected the freshly made wounds up close; maybe it was a bruise, a scratch, a cut, or perhaps a bullet grazed the soft tissue of his shoulder blade - recently he even made a habit of returning from the battlefield with burns scattered over his skin – it was whatever, really - any wound you could ever think of, he already came home with it at least once.

after a while – after he's already placed a damp, wet cloth over the scratched, bruised skin; cleaning off the blood clumps which formed at the red, burning surface of it – he'd notice your clumsy steps making their way to the bathroom – fuck, he had no intention of waking you up. you already don't sleep enough – waiting for him for hours on end every single night.

you'd lean against the door frame, watching him through half-lidded eyes as your head fell to the side. "it's not as bad as it looks" is a regular excuse of his – he really ought to get more original with his words.

but how could you not notice it - how his heartbeat thrummed in his fingertips as he carefully brushed against the injured skin - how his eyes shut closed each time he'd make the wrong move, and how he hissed when putting a new shirt on?

sex was the other part of the conventional routine – he'll always walk toward you, quickly closing the distance; picking you up, and carrying you around as if you weighed nothing.

dipping his head down to kiss you, his needy tongue slips inside your mouth as his lips sealed around yours and he practically swallows your whimpers with that fever, undying desire that burns deep inside, completely endowing him.

laying you down on the bed or tossing you around as he pleased – it was his choice entirely, as your very existence borderlines on his mercy.

he worries he's tainting you, all of you, - leaving a perverted, everlasting mark of his touch on your soul each time you present yourself - bare and naked - in front of him, and he fucks into you, stretching the tight, warm walls of your cunt, splitting open your core. as he silences your vulgar, nasty moans each time he claims your lips in a frantic kiss, and you rank your digits through his hair, nails scratching down his bare neck.

it just helps him calm down, cut loose for a bit – something that's hardly achievable for those in command, the men responsible for dozens of lives. it lifts some of the weight that lies on his shoulders and filters out all the shit he's put through every day.

it's as if he's suffocating throughout the day – drowning – and then you breathe the life back into his lungs with each kiss.

as if all the pain flees from his body the very moment you touch him – your hand brushing against his back, fingers playfully running over his shoulders before you start working on the ugly knots tied deep inside his muscles. he takes one of your hands into his own, bringing your palm flat against the side of his face, slowly nuzzling his head into your soft skin – his eyes looking up to yours for just a split moment before you hug him – fully embracing him in your tender, ever so loving touch.

he needs this – this part of the routine that you quietly established without ever saying a word – he craves it, but you decided to break the torturous pattern of the repeating cycle – he'd always pull out after feeling his dick grow limp inside you, but tonight you stopped him – "can we stay like this- just for a minute?" – it was a shy request, and the uncertainty of your voice made your lips tremble. but you notice his gaze softening, as his dark eyes found yours – if you didn't know any better you'd dare to say you caught him off guard – he nodded gently, before he readjusted himself, so he'd be laying on top of you a bit more comfortably; still careful not to crush you – he was always cautious of it, no matter how many times you told him to relax, reassured him he's not going to hurt you.

except that minute turned into two, and then those two turned into five, and then an hour passed by. you already dozed off - barely drifting in and out of your sleepy state, when he'd softly whisper your name, nuzzling hand against your cheek, caressing the delicate skin. 

he'd change positions – so that you were laying on your side, with your back pressed against his bare chest – without saying a word. you didn't ever need to – sometimes you wondered if not only has he been reading your thoughts, but also planting some of them inside your mind.

he'd press his face into the side of your neck, smelling your scent as the drowsy sensation of arousal spread from his abdomen – weary breaths from the depths of his chest wracking his ribs – his throat bobbing each time he swallowed - his heart beating quicker each second, pumping his veins full of adrenaline. fuck, he's getting hard again.

he'd start pressing his body even closer to yours, unknowingly rolling his hips against you – subconsciously chasing the pleasure. his muscles growing weak - each movement malfunctioning, failing mid-synapse, despite his pathetic thrusting being barely noticeable – he just couldn't risk losing how close he was to you. 

you'd knead the silky sheets between your fingers, as the misty moonlight fully awakened you. "didn't wanna wake you up, darling" his voice was muffled against your bare flesh, his hot breath tingling your skin. "-'s okay" the sweetness of your tone rang in his ears – as if your words hung in the air, messing with its molecules, for a little while at least – before your moans drowned out any remaining sounds, as the wetness dripped from the slit of your cunt down your thighs.

he'd sneak one of his arms around your side, entangling his fingers with yours as he held his hand flat against your chest – wrapping you up in the welcoming, familiar sense of safety that his embrace brought.

he'd press his face even further, harder into your neck – muffling his groaning as the ecstasy numbed every nerve in his body.

his composure is seeping away from him – his hips losing any and all rhythm, as he savagely, ferociously bucks even harder into you -  the burning sensation of him nearly hitting your womb mixed with the anticipation growing in your belly - the warm, fuzzy feeling of your orgasm building up overtaking your body.

suddenly, you'd feel it – the warm tears, which crept by the corners of his tightly shut eyes, falling onto your skin – he was quietly weeping, his breath hitching in his throat.

"wanna marry you" he confessed. "put a baby in you" he blurted the words out.

"you'd let me do it, wouldn't you?" you silently hummed – your chest tightening, preventing the oxygen from entering your lungs. you couldn't fathom the actual weight, and importance that his words held – you couldn't even make up a half-assed reply without it breaking down at the second syllable – anything you'd say right now would be incoherent, wailing nonsense – no doubt about it.

the pure bliss numbed your mind and set your skin ablaze. the worst – best thing about it? the pleasure always hit you in waves – just when you thought it couldn't get any more intense, just as you feared your body might break, shut down completely - just as you thought he couldn't slam his cock any deeper in you ... it always happened, he always found a way – whether it was by lifting your leg up or quickly tossing you around or applying some extra pressure on your swollen, sensitive clit – he always managed to do it – pushing you even further into the hysteric pleasure, making your vision momentarily fade to black.

"say it" he demanded, his voice harsh and raw, simmering with frustration. "tell me you'd let me".

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley smut #simon riley x reader #simon riley headcanons #ghost smut #ghost headcanons #ghost x reader #ghost #ghost mw2 #cod #cod mw2 #cod mw22 #cod ghost

[aemonds-sapphire]

Inexperience

Summary: You have often wondered how it feels to pleasure a man, so you take it up with Aemond.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader

Warnings: NSFW. Inexperienced reader. Friends to lovers (if you squint). Handjob. Masturbation.

Word count: 2k

Part II

“You’re doing it again.”

Aemond’s velvety voice snapped you from your intrusive thoughts state at once.

Inwardly scolding yourself, you shifted your attention back to the embroidery in your hands.

You weren’t being exceptionally subtle when it came to staring at him.

And Aemond’s observational skills were far too perfected for your own good.

“I apologise,” you said quietly.

Even from the corner of your eye you could see an intriguing smile on his lips as he lifted his eye from the book. “As you wish, my lady.”

You felt a rush of heat pool in your face. Even after years of growing up with Prince Aemond and tearing down any walls that were built from the unavoidable hierarchical imbalance, he would always know how to get under your skin.

The two of you would spend long hours in the fireplace room after supper, enjoying the calmness and silence. You’d be entertained with your embroideries while Aemond took his time diving into history and philosophy books.

A very intriguing young man he was.

In fact, he was just as intriguing as he was perceptive, which was why it didn’t surprise you that he had caught on to you occasionally glaring at him.

Not just him.

His body.

Quite frankly, the burning curiosity inside you begged you to just ask. It could be considered improper, but your mind kept wondering how.

How did he do it?

How did it feel like?

What was the worst that could happen should you ask these questions?

The matter of intimacy was all but known to both of you. He’d often invade your dreams with kisses and moans, but you didn’t dare reveal any of that to him. Sometimes, when about to doze off, you’d wonder whether it was reciprocal.

Not that it mattered. Your father would one day marry you off to some lord in some decaying castle never to cross paths with Aemond Targaryen ever again.

So you might as well ask and it was apparent that your body language betrayed your forced calm demeanour as it was enough to get his attention.

“Why are you so tense?”

You jolted in your seat, nearly jabbing the needle in your finger. “I am not tense at all,” you offered a smile.

“Lying is very unbecoming of you,” he said, flipping through a couple of pages. “Whatever is on your mind, you can share with me.”

You straightened in your seat, lowering your faze to the flowers you were carefully threading with your needle. Given the current circumstances, embroidery seemed far more inviting in comparison with having to deal with a suspicious Aemond.

“Take your time,” he said, not tearing his eye from the book and drumming his fingers on the padded armrest.

“I… it is nothing, Aemond.”

If you thought that was enough to shake him off, you were dead wrong. Instead, Aemond heaved a deep sigh and closed the book on his lap, staring intensely at you.

You tried your best to ignore his penetrating glare, but all to no avail.

“Do you take me for a fool?” he asked, but there no hint of annoyance in his voice.

If anything, he seemed deeply amused.

“What do you—”

Aemond interrupted you at once. “I’ve noticed the way you’ve been staring at me as of late.”

You looked at him wide-eyed. “Staring?”

“Subtlety isn’t your strongest suit.”

His eye was studying your every move and you had to be the inside of your cheek in frustration. More at yourself than at him, if you were being honest. You knew he wasn’t who was easily fooled, but you had also not expected that all the glaring had become that noticeable.

“It is nothing,” you said, feeling droplets of sweat coating the pads of your fingers, staining the coloured thread.

“You keep staring at my hands. Why?”

He had beautiful hands, indeed.

“For no reason.”

“Lie to me one more time and I will not have you riding Vhagar with me again.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He clicked his tongue. “Do not try me.”

Your heart clenched as your felt trapped. “It’s nothing much,” you lowered your voice and glanced around to make sure no unwanted visitors were present. I was just wondering how it feels when you... uh... when you... do it.”

Aemond’s eyebrow arched. “Do... what?”

You weren’t sure if he was genuinely unaware of the implication, or if he was just pretending in order to get you riled up. However, were willing to bet on the latter.

“Hmm... you know...” you said, feeling your face burn hot from embarrassment. “How does it feel when you… hmm… pleasure yourself,” you finally managed to get the words out but quickly added, “Just curious… because… hmmm… just curious and—”

You cut yourself off, realising you were now rambling.

Tense moments ticked by and you noticed Aemond Targaryen was visibly amused. “Is this your subtle way of asking me to touch myself in front of you?”

Panic immediately hit you hard. “Of course not! Why would I want to see that? How — how is that—what? — I was merely wondering.”

He placed the heavy book on the table by his side, as his lips curled into a smile. “I wouldn’t mind it.”

You shot him a death glare. “If you don’t want to tell me just say that.”

“I do not indulge in such depravities.”

“Lies,” you threw at him in disbelief. “I do not believe you.”

“Lies? Well, it does take one to know one, I reckon.”

You bit the inside of your cheek once at the remark regarding your earlier failed attempt at deception.

“There is no need to get tense,” Aemond said, standing up to take a seat in the nearby velvet-padded settee.

“I’m really not.”

“We all have urges, I suppose,” he then shrugged, staring at his own hands. “I have never done this with someone else. It could be… interesting.”

“You could simply tell me how it feels or how you do it,” you said, mouth turning dry. “Besides, we would not be doing anything here.”

“Why tell you when I can show you?”

He could not be serious…

“The doors are closed,” he said, extending one hand to you. “No one comes here this late at nigh. Come here.”

Your feet brought you to him before you could even process what was happening. “I was having a serious conversation and you’re now talking about your… your…” you pointed at his crotch as you say by his side.

This time he arched an eyebrow at you. “I’m afraid I don’t follow. Weren’t you the one who wanted to know how it feels like?”

Point taken. “Yes, but—”

“So what do you want me to talk about?” Aemond asked, lips turning into a devious grin.

“You are being vulgar.”

“You started this conversation, my lady,” he pointed out. “You’re the one who’s being vulgar.”

There was no way around it. You were definitely making things worse for yourself. This had started off innocently enough, but he was easily bending the conversation to his will.

You decided to ignore his remark and had your eyes on the lit fireplace in front of you, determined to enjoy the way the flames danced around and burned through the wood.

But Aemond was relentless.

“I can show you.”

Your heart skipped a beat. You awaited for him to quickly take that back as a joke, but that moment never came.

He was dead serious.

“No, thank you,” you breathed, still not daring to look at him.

In all honesty, you wouldn’t mind taking a peak, but you couldn’t just admit to that. What if it made things awkward between you? What if you had crossed a line you weren’t sure you could go back from?

You kept your eyes firmly locked on cackling fire, but you could feel him shift beside you. It was probably a bad idea to dart your eyes to the side to watch as his legs lazily sprawled out from the settee, with and one hand resting on his belt.

You jolted when you saw him extend his hand to you. “You may touch it.”

This was definitely not what you had in mind. “Uh...”

He chuckled briefly. “It is my hand, not my cock.”

Your chin nearly dropped at his crass words and you frowned. “It’s simply genuine curiosity.”

He chuckled. “And I’m here willing to satisfy that curiosity. We have shared a friendship for many years,” he said, voiced coated in tones of warm honey. “If you are to learn about such things, I’d rather be the one enlightening you.”

It was such an unexpected and truthful statement, you felt your heart soar.

But as satisfying as it was to hear such words from him, you still had a shred of dignity left. “What if someone comes in?” you hissed in a low voice, eyes roaming across the room.

“We can be discreet,” he said. “Have you forgotten the many times we hid under beds after raiding the kitchen? No one would ever find us and those apples tasted ten times better.”

The memories of your shared youth tugged gently at your heartstrings.

“But we’re not hiding.”

Aemond brought a finger to trace the back of your hand. “We don’t have to. Not anymore.”

You swallowed hard hand watched as he offered you his hand at first. Without failt, your heartbeat sped up instantly, but you did your best to ignore it as you inspected his hand. His palm was turned upwards, giving you access to his warm skin.

“Can I...?”

Aemond had his head on the backrest, half-hooded eye still on you. “Yes.”

Holding the back of his hand in yours, you let your index finger slowly drag across it.

You could have sworn you heard the faintest sound come from him.

His skin felt really warm to the touch, nearly

“Is this alright?” you asked, halting briefly and studying his face.

“Carry on.”

But then something else in your field of vision caught your attention.

The hand he had resting on his belt drew you to look a bit further down and—

“Aemond?” your sudden gasp had him staring at you. “How are you...”

He bent his neck to stare down at the bulge in his pants. “I have no control over it.”

You wanted to be outraged, but this made you feel empowered and did wonders to your ego. You wanted to let go of his hand and be done with... whatever this was.

But you didn’t dare break contact with him.

If anything, the grip on his hand only intensified.

“Keep going… I can get harder than this.”

Gods. His hoarse voice immediately caused your thumb to resume the soft strokes along the palm of his hand.

The tension in the room was palpable, and you were no longer bothered in concealing how much your body craved more of him.

And just like Aemond had promised, you were able to see his cock growing harder and even twitching slightly each time you applied a certain amount of pressure on his skin.

Your breath was coming out in shallow pants.

You wanted more.

No.

You needed more.

Apparently, the feeling was mutual as he had his fingers on the buckle of his belt, tugging on it. The sight had your mouth watering. The not so subtle bulge was clearly making him uncomfortable in a way and in eye you detected undeniable lust.

You couldn’t help but shift closer to him, and the motion triggered him into undoing his belt. Once he got it out of the way, he unbuttoned his pants.

He heaved a deep sigh of relief at sudden relief of tension.

“Maybe we should stop?”

“Do you want to?” he asked, gently fiddling with the waistband of his pants.

No. “It’s just... what if someone—”

“You keep sabotaging yourself,” he groaned in exasperation.

“But... if someone comes in...”

He growled. “I will behead them.”

Your eyes widened in sudden horror.

“I am not being serious,” he finally added, offering you a grin. “Just enjoy this.”

In one switft motion, he pulled the fabric down, freeing his hard cock.

“Oh...”

You had never seen one before. It looked intimidating and you tried to do something other than just glare, but you couldn’t quite believe in what was happening just yet.

“Such a pretty mouth...” he observed as his eye dropped to your lips and wrapping his fingers around himself.

Your clit was pulsing as your walls clenched and pushed out more and more wetness to coat your folds.

Aemond started pumping his cock in a lazy rhythm, eye fully locked with yours. You saw a few beads of a clear liquid pooling around the tip.

“Keep touching me…”

“I... I...” you sounded like a fish out of water.

He tightened the grip on his cock, forcing more of the liquid to come out. That’s when it started sliding down and onto his knuckles.

“Keep going…”

It was clear he was getting impatient and the strain in his voice hit your brain, causing you to straighten before bringing the palm of his hand to your lips.

You made sure he kept his eye on you when you started pressing soft kisses to each finger.

“Good...” he praised and encouraged, bringing the palm of his other hand to rub on the tip of his cock.

He had his wetness smeared across his skin and you kept on kissing him until he dragged his hand down to pump his cock once again.

“Let me feel you,” he panted, squeezing himself tighter. “I want to feel you.”

You presse one last kiss to the palm of his hand. “What?”

It was his turn to grip your hand. “Let me fuck your hand.”

Oh… Gods…

You felt a load of wetness leak from you it’d be a miracle if you managed to somehow finish this without having your own dress completely soaked.

He guided you down to his crotch, letting go of his cock only to have your own hand wrapping around him, drawing a beautiful hiss from him.

The sudden urge to kiss him took over your senses, and just as the thought flooded your mind your body promptly acted in it, and you crashed your lips onto his.

He was definitely caught by surprised, but had no problem reciprocating the same hunger and lust you felt for him by having his tongue against yours.

You allowed him to guide your hand up and down his cock with his own, feeling his grip increase. He set up a very slow rhythm as if making the most out of this moment.

“Tighter...” he moaned in between a sloppy kiss.

Your fingers promptly squeezed around him. He had been leaking so much that it didn’t take long before your own hand was drenched in his wetness.

It was hard to focus on his cock when he was completely robbing you of air, refusing to break the kiss.

When he finally let go of your lips, you saw him staring down at his cock fucking your hand. You could feel his breath come out in pants when he started lifting his hips to set a new tempo.

“Is… is this how you do it?” you said innocently.

Aemond’s eye closed shut and that was the best reply he could have given you.

You absentmindedly brought your free hand to roam under your dress and to your undergarments. Your wetness was sipping through the fabric, your pussy clenching at the thought of one day having him take your maidenhead.

You didn’t even notice that he had undone his coat and lifted his shirt, exposing his abdomen as it flexed with each snap of his hips, a sheer coat of sweat forming as he sped up.

“Are you tighter than this?” he groaned.

How could someone be this… alluring?

He kissed you again, his hand gripping yours tighter once again.

But you needed more of him.

You pushed him away for a moment so you could swing one leg over his waist, effectively sitting on his crotch. Lifting your dress, you revealed your soaked undergarments. Aemond was shamelessly glaring at the stain that was spreading across the fabric.

“Be quiet,” you told him, squeezing his cock as a warning.

“I said nothing,” he said with a knowing smile.

You needed the friction on your clit and this new position would grant you that. With each thrust from him, your clit was being pressed gently, and you couldn’t help the deep moan that slipled through your mouth.

Aemond finally let go of his grip in you and brought both hands to frame your face, once again draining your lungs from air as he pulled you into a scorching kiss.

You never thought you’d be this close to release, but that was the least of your concerns. You wanted to watch that beautiful man unravel before your eyes.

He kept on thrusting into your hand, and when he pulled away you knew he was close. You took some time to admire how his beautiful face twisted in pleasure, mouth parted into laboured gasps.

“Faster...” he urged you and you were more to glad to oblige.

You were now familiar with what made him groan deeper, gasp louder, and roll his hips higher. It took him only a few more moments before his thrusts started faltering, and he had to bite the back of his hand to keep himself from groaning out loud as hot spurts of cum started shooting against your undergarments. You shuddered as the head of his cock pressed into your clit and his warm released sipped into the fabric.

You tumbled forward to rest your head against his shoulder, not even concerned about the mess.

“That was…” he let out, chest heaving rapidly.

“Can we do this again?”

You felt his chest rumble into yours. “Give me some time to recover… you just emptied me…”

-

Part II

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond smut #aemond x you #aemond x reader #hotd smut

[pucksandpower]

Susie Wolff is officially suing the FIA. Her statement on the matter is especially relevant:

“I feel more than ever it is important to stand up, call out improper behavior and make sure people are held to account.

Whilst some may think silence absolves them from responsibility — it does not.”

#the timing … the message … susie knows exactly what she’s doing and i couldn’t be more proud #it is so important to see a public figure with a platform actually take action like this #the fia needs a complete overhaul #f1 #formula 1 #formula one #susie wolff

[bee-s-corner]

A 22 year old woman was killed for the sake of wearing "improper hijab". The police brutally killed her and then tried to blame it on the hospital staff and even tried to fake her having an illness just to "justify" their actions. As if there could ever be a justification for such blatant brutality and slaughter.

Let me quote a translated line from the holy Quran for you:

"There is no forcefulness in religion."

There is no such thing as a forced religion. And Islam is not what these fiends make it out to be. It breaks my heart to see people associate Islam with them when they don't even hold to God's most treasured principle: be good to each other. Be good people. Be human.

And yet, here we are in this country. They want to force everything on us. Our beliefs, our religion, our thoughts, and even our feelings. They try to control everything about us. How inhumane of a system do you have to be to do that?

And when we protest, they silence us. They take away our internet, beat the voice out of us, and in some instances, literally kill us for crimes that we have never committed. How wrong is it that we ask to live?

Our hearts go out to Mahsa and her family, and the others who've lost their lives in the protests that have followed her unjust and evil murder at the hands of this regime. This regime, this system, is neither Islam nor is it Iran. And we are no longer staying silent.

What can you do? Be our voice. Spread awareness. This is not us, and this is not our religion. We may lose this battle yet again to bullets and blatant slaughter in the streets, but our war with this regime will never be over. Not until the day Iran is freed.

For the sake of Mahsa and everyone else who's died an unjust death at the hands of these murderers, we ask you humbly: don't let our voice die out. Don't let us be forgotten.

Sincerely, thank you, from a woman in Iran.

#Mahsa_Amini #MahsaAmini #IranProtests

#مهسا_امینی #زن_زندگی_آزادی

#(( i was gonna stay quiet about this at first as to not burden my mutuals #(( but i can't do that anymore #(( please don't let our voice die down #(( don't let the world forget us #iran #iran protests #mahsa amini #مهسا امینی

[luvrxbunny]

Bunny I was randomly thinking about slow sex with Miguel with the !Cradle Sex Position! 🥺

i had to google what that was and omg the fucking fire that starting in my stomach AHHHHHH

also there were a bunch of diff photos so i hope this is the one you were talking about

warning 18+ - an animated photo of the position is below the cut

not proofread and probably some improper grammar CUS THIS WAS JUST SUPPOSED TO BE A BLURB

wc: 1k

it'd be really emotional sex. like maybe you almost died on a mission, ohh- like andrew garfield's spider-man! you were falling like that and Miguel had seen that canon event for other spiders so many times that he thought this was it- that no matter what he does, no matter how hard he tries, how quickly he shoots his web it wont reach you, he wont catch you, you're gonna die and it's his fault. but then his web reaches you and you're shaken up but completely safe.

he doesnt leave you alone for the rest of the day. he becomes worse than your shadow because at least your shadow can't insist your keep one part of your body on his at all times.

once you guys get home you ask him why he's so worked up and bent outta shape by what happened today and he breaks down. tears begin to stream down his face despite how aggressively he's trying to rub them away and you force him to sit down and explain himself to you.

you’re being so gentle as you comfort him, so caring and loving in a way he’s never felt before. so ofc he gets hard 🥳

he pulls you into his lap slowly and just stares at the shocked expression on your face once you feel that he’s hard. you’re sitting across his lap because of how he pulled you in. your legs run off the sides of his thighs as his legs stay planted on the ground.

he readjusts himself, slides down a bit and spreads his legs before wrapping a thick arm behind your thighs, one behind your back and slowly folding you up for him. he turns you so your back is to his chest but you can still hold the eye contact he’s kept this whole time.

the silence in the room is so fragile you’re afraid to breathe, not wanting to shatter the moment. his eyes flicker to your lips for a moment before coming back up with a pleasing look. his cheeks are still wet with tears, you can’t resist him. you lean in slowly and don’t close your eyes until your lips are locked with his. he moans and he reaches for your hand. he grabs your wrist and fidgets with buttons until your suit dissipates, one of his favorite things about having chosen to make you a digital suit.

he adjusts his watch to just dissipate the crotch, always needing that power imbalance between the two of you. his cock slaps against your pussy the moment it’s freed, eliciting a shocked, but desperate moan from the both of you.

miguel planned on taking his time with you but after his cock hit your plush, wet, lips— he can’t wait any longer. “putting it in, baby.” he grunts out into your ear as he lines himself up with your entrance. your hands reach back to caress his head, play with the curls at the base of his neck.

both your eyes roll back as he slides into you. it’s funny how in sync the two of you are, feeling the same things at the same time for the same reasons. the emotional exposure has left you both raw, sensitive for each other. you both are moaning louder and more frantically than you usually would, on edge already.

“m’not gonna last miguel. oh i love you so much, baby. you’re so good, keeping me safe at all times. my big protector.” your delirious, running your hand through his curls and grinding on his cock as you speak. your words affect him more than he ever could’ve expected. he’s cumming.

it’s worse than a punch to the gut. he lets out a yelp/moan of your name like a scolding and you can feel his warmth flooding your insides. his hands grip your thighs so hard you actually think they may pop, you have to dig your nails into his wrists for him to realize. his hands are shaking— his whole body is shaking so violently that you’re trembling along with him, causing an extra tightness over his cock as you start to cum.

he was on the tail end of his orgasm but now that you’re cumming around him… it’s been renewed. he lets out another shocked moan, closer to a whimper and a sob as he crosses the line into overstimulation. he’s still fucking into you though because you’re cumming. he wants you to cum so hard you’re nothing but jelly in his hands but it seems to be having the opposite affect.

your head is turned to his, you hand on the back of his head, in his curls to angle it towards you and you’re mumbling with a smirk against his lips. “oh- yeah. fill me up, miggy. you’re pumping me so full, baby. kee- keep going. miguel. keep filling me up, my love. m’all yours. make me yours- mark me. want everyone to know.” your words penetrate his brain like bullets. shooting through him and never leaving. mark you

he takes a bite before he can think. wanting to mark you in anyway he can and the sensitivity on his fangs as his eyes crossing as his cock shoves out another fat rope of cum into you. you’re squealing, trying to hold your sounds in as you flutter over his cock again, creating an obscene noise as his thrusts die into slow grinds. his teeth are still in your shoulder, feeling too good under the rush of your warm blood to pull out. his brows are furrowed as he tries to collect his thoughts again.

this never happens to him. you’re stroking the back of his head now and whispering loving words into the air, hoping he can hear them. you’re usually the one in this position, all fallen apart and gifting miguel the honor of putting you back together. but now he’s gifting the honor to you, giving himself you you completely, letting you clean him up and take the both of you to bed.

HOW THE FUCK DID THIS GET SO LONG OMFG 😭 THIS SHOULD COUNT AS TODAYS FIC

i literally burnt myself out from this and now today's fic is like 800 words

#I REALLY DIDNT MEAN TO MAKE YHIS SO LONG OMG 😭 #miguel imagine #miguel o hara #miguel spiderman #miguel smut #miguel 2099 #miguel ohara #miguel o'hara #miguel o’hara smut #atsv miguel #miguel spiderverse #miguel x reader #miguel x you #miguel o'hara spider man #miguel o’hara imagine #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o'hara imagine #miguel ohara x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o’hara x y/n #miguel o’hara x you #miguel o’hara fanfiction #miguel o’hara fluff #miguel o’hara fic #miguel o’hara drabble #miguel o’ hara smut #spiderman 2099 smut #spiderman 2099 spiderverse #spiderman 2099 miguel o'hara #2099

[driaswrld]

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

LADY DRIA WRITES . . . ˚ ༘ *

🪷 dearest gentle reader, in matters of love and longing, prince satoru comes to the realization that love may only visit the fearless, whilst prince suguru comes to terms with the taste of hope on his tongue... 5k words.

🪷 prince gojo x reader x prince geto jjk regency/royal au, romeo & juliet esque balcony meeting, fruit flavored jealousy.

CHAPTER TWO. . . ˚ ༘ *

GRAPE FLAVORED.

Sleep eludes you tonight.

Two nights have passed since the first feast and despite Areta’s consistent chatter of appearances and well needed fun time for a lady of your stature — you’ve chosen not to attend the others for the time being.

You’re assured that Satoru’s presence at the feasts and balls in between remain slim to none unless called upon by his mother, a notion that you would be grateful for under any other circumstance to dodge the question everyone at the palace court whispers behind your back—

( why hasn’t the prince married her yet? )

—but you miss him.

Embarrassingly so.

With palms outstretched, you cradle your weight against the concrete rail of the terrace adjoined to your bedroom. A wisp of wind cooling your cheeks, realization settling in.

You miss Satoru — your best friend, your person.

You miss when he’d sleepily stumble into your alcove by the palace’s west wing and lay dramatically before you, begging you to paint him or at least sketch the width of his shoulders ; begging you to 'immortalize the omnipotent beauty of the realm’s strongest' — his words not yours.

The way he’d linger by your side, laugh at your jokes and make even cruder ones of his own—

This yearning settled deep within your bones akin to that of a grieving widow doesn’t feel the way it should feel when one misses a friend.

( satoru does not yearn for you in this way, you know it. )

It’s hot, a boiling pit within your stomach and it never leaves your veins—

—not until two nights ago, that is.

Two nights ago when he reappeared.

“Your highness?”

Dearest gentle reader,

in these delicate matters

of love and longing—

“My lady,” Suguru calls out in a similarly hushed fashion. “You're awake.”

Down below the terrace, he stands on the trimmed lawn in his sleep trousers and shirt, dark hair tousled and eyes half lidded — you would've laughed at him if the air between you two hadn't settled with something else.

“I couldn't sleep,” you respond, watching with bated breath as he steps forward, one foot resting atop a raised brick in the mud, eyes trained above, where you stand.

“You often take late strolls, your grace?”

Suguru laughs, breathy, soft. “Your grace,” he repeats your words, mockingly. A few dark strands fall over his eyes as he tilts his head back to look up at you. “You’d think having me in my sleeping trousers alone would be enough for you to discard all formalities—”

( right, this encounter is improper. )

“Forgive me, Suguru,” leaves your lips in correction. You lean further over the terrace rail, body bent in near half to gaze down at him. “It isn't often I speak with men while in my dressing gown.”

“Dear God, I hope not.”

A laugh of your own breaks through and he joins in unison.

So far, and yet so close.

A soft silence soon passes over the two of you under the moonlight.

Suguru, who’d been away for so long, could make years of absence feel null — as if he’d been residing here with you all this time. As if he had been keeping your company in tow, as if the breath of your laugh belonged to him.

As if he hadn't left you.

“I wondered,” Suguru breaks the silence, pale fist wrapping around a stray vine along the wall. “If I would get the chance to speak with you like this.” He whispers, but even from so high above, you hear him clearly in the night's silence.

You know what he means. Just us two. You’ve wondered the same, albeit too often through the years.

Why didn't you write to me? You want to ask. Why didn't you come to visit? Follows next in your brain. Did you move on? Did you fall in love?

( have you been happy away from me? )

“Did you read my letters?”

—often we forget

just how greedy

the heart can be.

“All of them,” Suguru breathes, almost like it hurts to say.

As if it pains him physically to remember how he tore the wax seals open with his teeth, licked the flap of the envelopes and nearly cried when it tasted of you—

“More than once, more than I ought to.”

Suguru grips the vine tighter in his fist, stilling himself and invoking restraint. This isn't his place, not anymore.

If he had it his way, he’d be on the terrace with you, and he’d tell you every thought he had about each word you’d written, with his hands, his teeth, his tongue.

“Suguru. . .”

It reminds you too much of your childhood.

Often you would chase after Satoru and Suguru.

Always both, never one.

And though you knew your fate as a Princess — who would marry a crowned Prince — your foolish heart, so greedy and naive. . .

“I have my obligations.” It leaves your lungs like a lie, something you won't even begin to believe.

You're betrothed to Satoru. It's set in stone.

But the both of you know that's not why you're saying no. “The solstice ends in a week and you will be—” He'll be gone again.

“I’ll not wait a whole week.” Suguru’s voice is still quiet, but even you can't deny the raw hunger behind his words. “If I apologize and say that I wish—”

“You will do no such thing,” you warn, shakily. “Not now, not. . . because of this.” Not because in nearly every way that matters, you’re Satoru’s.

( i wish i told you. i wish i wasn't too late. i wish )

Suguru wished he had stayed.

He wished he had made do on the promises he made to you as children and been at your side, not just as your friend but as the man you would marry—

All those things he had sworn upon his own heart. . .

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

“And if I say I will, what then?” Suguru had scoffed at your cousin back then. At the mere age of twelve.

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

“Don't be so crass, Satoru.” Suguru grumbled, grabbing ahold of your hand and tugging you forward the moment you fell behind. “She's my friend.”

( and yet. )

Lady Dria writes : Prince Geto to assume royal estate in the North following rumored betrothal to mystery woman! Is this the end of our beloved royal trio?

( duty came first. )

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

“I’ll let you keep your tongue,” Satoru scoffed, stepping between you and one of the ladies at court the day after Suguru left. “But address the Princess so loosely again and I swear—”

That night, you cried in the confines of Satoru’s private chambers, your fingers bleeding ink and red wax staining the front of your dress.

What was her name? How long had Suguru known it was arranged? Why didn't he tell you? If you ask him now, will he tell you? Is he ever coming back?

Does he love her?

And it was then, when you didn't have any more words to write, nothing left to say to Suguru that he might not have known, did Satoru tell you,

“I’m here.”

And you believed him.

“Name—” Suguru calls to you and you shake your head, straightening your posture and leaning off the terrace rail. “I wanted to say it before, you were gorgeous at the first solstice feast. . . Still are, even after so long.”

Suguru bites back the words he really wanted to say. I dreamt of you, you look the same.

“You flatter me,” it leaves you breathily, and the beats of your heart elude your better judgement.

“Perhaps, silken gloves suit you, my lady.” Suguru's words hold an undertone that’s lost on you in the moment, yet still you smile at him.

He doesn't see the expression on your face when you turn away, craning his neck to find something— some inclination that he has a chance—

“Goodnight, your highness.” In your voice he finds it, that small sliver of nostalgia, and his heart grasps it in earnest.

Beloved reader,

I fear I must also

impart the knowledge—

Satoru stops dead in his tracks, a single peach colored rose falling from his palm.

—that there are always

three sides to a story.

From across the way his cerulean eyes lock with Suguru’s darker ones, and there is nothing to be said, as they both know what the other is thinking.

You are not worthy of her.

Morning gives way to the first of three hunting days.

As per the terms of the competition, all commoners go ahead before nobles to keep the proceedings fair.

Satoru sits still atop his horse, cerulean orbs downcast and flitting through the mass of bodies in the crowd riding ahead of him.

“Have you and Suguru finally fought?”

Satoru’s eyes widen for a brief moment, turning his head to the side and loosening his grip on the horse’s reins, his mother standing at his side, caressing the mare’s mane with jewel adorned fingers.

“I’ve no idea what you mean, mother.”

The older woman scoffs, the horse leaning eagerly into the touch of her palm.

“When you and Suguru were but meek babes, you two had your first fight you know.” Satoru’s mother smiles a little at the memory.

Back then, both boys were merely toddlers and squabbling with tiny fists over nothing but a simple rattle.

Neither would concede to the other.

Even so young, they fought as they still do to this day. As rivals, as best friends.

“Did I win?” Satoru asks, lifting his gaze to the scenery of dawn before him, drowning out the eager shouts of men and women alike, placing their bets for the competition to come.

“No,” she responds and Satoru’s lips curl into a small frown. “The rattle you fought over snapped in two, ‘toru.”

This isn't about a rattle, is it?

“I won't concede, if that’s what you’ve come to ask of me.” He affirms, and his mother shakes her head, stifling a laugh.

“She isn't a rattle, nor is this a battlefield—” Satoru’s mother is observant, painfully so. “I asked your father to arrange the match myself for the sole purpose that I know you care for her, and I would not subject you to a fate not of your choosing—”

( she can choose, whereas a rattle could not. that is the sole difference is it not? )

“But you would have me sit here and let her choose him?”

Satoru Gojo is many things.

Selfish, spoiled, strong. Greedy even.

He fights for what he wants and he remains determined to win no matter what.

But when it comes to you. . .

Doting reader,

our beloved Prince Satoru

has yet to realize—

“I did not raise a selfish fool. Maybe a proud fool but not a selfish one—” She smacks the side of his leg to which he immediately recoils with a pout on his lips. “You never win love, you earn it.”

As if love can be akin to fleeting favor.

“I am selfish,” Satoru confirms, not shy of shame though. “She would hate me for it, if she doesn't already.” He hangs his head for a brief moment, a puff of a sigh leaving his parted lips. “But can you blame me?”

Satoru is many things.

But not blind.

How can he tell you that he cares for you, that he’s fallen helplessly and carelessly in love with you knowing that he’d be imprisoning you to a fate he loathes?

Whispers behind your back the more you are seen with him or without, the more he puts off the betrothal, the more he leaves your side the more he hopes you’ll learn you don't want him—

That this life, at this palace is less than you deserve.

And yet. . .

—that love is not

a war you march into

of your own accord.

He’s selfish.

“Have you asked her what she wants?”

No, because he’s afraid you’ll say what he wants you to. That you don't want him.

That by the hour you grow more miserable the more he keeps you waiting, tethered by a short thread just waiting to snap—

Satoru convinced himself that if he waited just a little longer, that maybe you’d grow tired and snap the thread all together in one go.

And then the marriage wouldn't happen, you’d contest it and he'd agree. He could keep you close like before, without breaking your heart, even at the cost of his.

“Satoru.” His mother warns, deep azure boring into the side of his face. “That debutant at the dinner—” God forbid she did raise a selfish fool, who would selfishly self sabotage—

“I never touched her.”

“You say that and then you do these things as if I'm to be convinced you've changed.” His mother sighs, as if history has come around to repeat itself. “You don't even realize you're clutching your end too tight.”

And you’ll break if he doesn't let go.

“I can't tell her.”

“You must.”

Who is he to condemn you to the life of a Queen?

In the same way his father did his mother?

That spark in your eyes will go dim, and he’ll watch you give yourself to your duty and it’ll kill him, even worse than you not wanting him will.

He’d prefer you hate him altogether.

“Are you happy with father?”

Darling reader,

perhaps love

only visits the fearless.

“Your father is a good man.”

Satoru would rather die by his own hand before he hears those words from your lips too.

“My lady?”

You visibly wince, cowering behind one of the marble columns in the ballroom.

The few chandeliers that provide light do little to help your situation as Areta’s voice had already notified a few of the dancing nobles of your presence — to which you were met with confused stares.

“Please, keep your voice down.” You hush her, sliding around to the other side of the column where Areta stands, eyes wide and curious.

Areta’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, her lips parting, about to question your odd behavior.

You're hiding. Or at least trying to.

You had no choice in coming to tonight's festivities, as you were already knee deep in your pre-arranged afternoon nap when your dearest mother barged in and asked ( read : demanded ) that you attended tonight's ball to quote en quote ‘keep up appearances.’

With much practiced skill, you’ve eluded Satoru and Suguru by barring yourself in your room recently.

But, cowering behind a column won't get you far, right?

“I don't think hiding is what I mean when I encouraged you to have fun, my lady.” Areta speaks hushedly, joining you behind the column, two full glasses clutched between her fingers. “And if it’s the Prince who you—”

“Oh, spare me, which one?” You chuckle, tilting your head back onto the marble with an eye roll.

“You’ve had trouble with Prince Geto too?” Areta gasps, though not shocked, the young girl's eyes gloss over with curiosity — ever the devoted gossip.

( perhaps if you stay here and sip drinks with Areta, no one will even notice your presence ! )

Devoted reader,

our protagonist

has a pattern of

terrible judgement.

“Hardly trouble, I’m afraid.” You take one of the glasses from Areta’s hands and bring the rim to your nose — grape juice. How fitting. “Trouble would be better, I can handle trouble.”

What you can't handle is both your childhood friends driving you mad with feelings you never even knew existed.

One who torments you with mixed signals and provokes new feelings in the pit of your stomach.

And another who stirs and awakens old feelings inside of you that you thought were long lost.

“Well, I doubt trouble is what you need presently, my lady.” Areta chuckles a little, her voice soon trailing off as she takes a sip of her own drink. “Oh! You wore them—”

“I thought perhaps,” You murmur, more to yourself, fingers fiddling with the edge of your silk gloves – the same black ones from a few nights ago. “I’d wear them once more before I set them aside.”

Now that you think about it, Satoru never said anything about the dress or the gloves — not that it matters to you anyway.

Faithful reader,

it matters.

Too much.

“They're quite beautiful, as are all Prince Satoru’s gifts.” Areta affirms with a soft smile as you drink from your glass, leaning off the column and straightening your posture. “But, I thought he usually had more of an affinity for lace—”

“I was called?”

You jump just a little, turning immediately to meet the source of the intrusion, to which you bump straight into Satoru, spilling the contents of your cup on both of you.

“I’m sorry—” “Grape juice—”

You take a few steps back, immediately crouching to retrieve your fallen cup, but Areta beats you to it, not shy of shooting you a quick wink before she scurries off into the crowd. Deviant.

“You don't like the wine tonight?” Satoru hums, outstretching a hand to pull you to your feet, and you hesitate for a moment.

Only for a moment.

“I didn't think drinking would be wise,” You take his hand, silk sliding soft against his awaiting palm. You don't miss the way his shoulders tighten. “And grape juice—”

“Is your preferred drink of choice, I know.” He finishes, cerulean orbs gazing into your very soul.

You can feel the thrum of his pulse speeding up against your fingertips, calling you, like a siren song. . .

( you should've stayed in bed tonight. )

Admittedly, Satoru was never the type to drink either. He could never hold his alcohol, hated the taste, even if it was just a drop in fermented fruit.

Grape juice was his drink of choice.

And then it became yours.

“I’m sorry, again.” It leaves your lips in a hurry as you look away from him, pulling your hand back as soon as you're upright. “My head must've been somewhere else. . .” Last night on the terrace. Your mind remains there.

Is Suguru going to magically appear too?

You furiously rub a fist over the purple stain forming at the front of your gown. “I need to change my dress—”

“It's not your fault, silk can be slippery.” Satoru bites back a grunt, bringing a palm to your elbow as he guides you off to the side, towards the adjacent corridor. “Come, I’ll help.”

Silk.

( what's his problem with the gloves? )

You follow his lead, a sigh escaping your lips as you both come upon the nearest alcove in the dim light.

You can barely see the velvet cushioning of the sofa tucked away neatly in the back.

The soft moonlight falling through the open window brings a sense of calm when you take a seat, eyes catching on the violet smudge against Satoru’s pearl white vest.

Often in your youth between balls, you, Satoru and Suguru would sneak off to the nearest alcove you could find, pry the window open and sit together on the sill—

“Your vest—” He follows your gaze as he bends a knee, kneeling at your feet casually.

Satoru presses his middle finger over the damp fabric, and unabashedly sticks the digit into his mouth. “Mhm, that's grape juice.”

“Satoru!” You scold.

He only laughs, strands of snowy hair bouncing with each shake of his shoulders. It's a very Satoru-like laugh, but there's something else you can't quite place—

“It's just a juice spill, I’ll live.” Satoru’s smile dips into his cheeks. Dimples. “Hated this stupid thing anyway, I should be thanking you for ridding me of it,” he murmurs, rolling his shoulders back to slip the vest off, muscles taut against his shirt with each movement of his arms.

“Hey— hey—!” You raise your palms to push against his chest to stop him, heat rising at the back of your neck. “Don't do that—” It comes out too late because Satoru is in the middle of rolling the vest off his arms. "You can't just undress—"

The way Satoru only leans forward, shades of azure searching your gaze for something, it's like he's daring you to not look away as he slips the vest off his arms bent behind him.

( why did you run away from me? )

You hold his gaze, the longest you have in days, manicured nails digging into the fabric of his shirt.

( why didn't you give chase? )

“Name,” he whispers, as if he’s holding back, but he refuses to look away from you. Not right now.

“Don't look at me like that, ‘toru. . .” You whisper, and it takes everything inside you not scream at him, to say everything you've been wanting to say, everything that's burning your insides.

( don't look at me as if you know desire. )

“Name.” Satoru calls your name, firmer this time, just as his vest drops to the floor behind him.

His knees burn, or maybe his eyes — he doesn't know, his mouth has gone dry and oxygen eludes him.

He's not how he was in your youth.

Satoru slides a pale hand up to grasp one of your palms against his chest, pads of his fingers hooking under the dark silk, and in one fluid motion, he's pulling the glove off your hand.

“That's disrespectful,” you breathe, voice barely audible, the echo of classical instruments sauntering through the vacant corridor. “You can't have two times the favor in any competition—”

“It's not your favor I want.” Satoru grasps the silk in his palm, biting back a grimace.

I’m jealous, he wants to say. Instead he leans closer, and without letting go of your bare hand, he’s aiming to toss the glove over your shoulder and out the window.

“Satoru—!” You retract your hand from his chest to paw at the glove, trying to get it back, and his breath tickles the skin of your throat, his eyes looking down at you, only this time a few shades darker — royal blue, cobalt.

Perhaps, silken gloves suit you, my lady.

( so that's what suguru meant. . . )

“Are you—”

“Jealous? Me? Never.” Satoru rasps the words out like a cancer, his heart seizing and doing somersaults against his ribcage.

“I have to commend Suguru though, the North does make the finest silk. . . Any lady would be glad for such a gift,” he whispers. Even praising Suguru is like an act of surrender to him.

“I wasn't going to say jealous, my Prince.” Your brain melts to a mush of questions.

Satoru isn't jealous because of you— no, that can't be right— he’d be jealous if someone bet on the same horse race as him and won—

( you’re thinking too much, name. )

It's the assessment of his audacity that has the back of your neck heated.

Satoru bites down on his bottom lip, and for a second he squeezes his eyes shut.

Everything burns, it's a miracle he can still see straight.

“What were you going to say?”

You swallow, hard.

Satoru’s face is so close to yours that every word he speaks reverberates through your being like electricity. “I was going to ask if you were okay.” A half truth, really. "Your vest is stained—"

First, you were going to ask if he’d lost his damn mind.

“God, name.” Satoru grunts, dropping the glove dramatically onto the velvet sofa, instead moving his hand to cage you between his arms, his hips against the outerskirts of your dress. “You don't even know what you're doing. . .”

His lips curve into a smile, dimpled cheeks staring back at you.

“Satoru—” It’s innocent enough, the way he leans forward enough to press the side of his face against your cheek.

It’s innocent enough, the way his hand grips your hip, firm and reassuring, the way he’d guide you on horseback. You only pretended not to be good so he'd teach you.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes against the shell of your ear, his lips soft against your burning skin.

“Do you even know all the ways a woman can be seduced?” It's a sultry tease that has your nails digging into the sofa under you.

Silk gloves, he wants to say. Men seduce women with silk.

Satoru dips his head in a swift motion, his mouth planting a ghost of a kiss to the corner or your lips, and his dimples deepen when your head moves forward to chase his taste, something you’ve never had but crave with every inch of your being.

“Satoru.” You whisper, desperate. He hates himself for wanting this so bad.

He doesn't make you wait long as he presses his lips to yours, it's rough, hungry — he sighs into your mouth, shoulders drooping like he’s finally found what he's been searching for all his life on your tongue.

He’s kissed you before, on the cheek, side of your neck, corner of your mouth — tasted the salty tears of your youth, licked his lips and drank in the remnants of your flavored lipgloss.

He was too young then, too foolish, too afraid to want more.

Satoru’s tongue slips past your parted lips, teeth on wet pink muscle and a shiver runs down his spine when he tastes you, truly tastes you for the first time.

Grape flavored and starving.

Your hand reaches for the collar of his shirt to tug him closer, to pull him deeper into you.

Slender fingers wrap around your wrist and your body trembles, unravelling, unravelling for him until—

He stops.

“Name,” Satoru breathes it in a broken whine, lips wet and swollen with you, each exhale he makes tickles your chin. “We have to stop.”

He’s made a mistake. A foolish one.

“‘Toru, it's okay,” you urge him, moving to pull him closer but his grip on your wrist tightens, keeping you still.

A frown forms on your lips when you see his gaze downcast, unable to meet you, and that gleam in his eyes — guilt.

“We should stop.”

Darling reader,

we all know

how the saying goes. . .

“Why?” The way it leaves your mouth so innocently, so small, in the same tone you had when you were little, chasing behind him no matter how he tried to leave you behind—

( why won't you look at me? )

It makes Satoru hate himself more.

“I’m a gentleman.” Satoru clears his throat and rises to his feet, folding his vest haphazardly over his arm. “You're a lady— a Princess— I can't just. . .”

“You can't just what?” Satoru doesn't recognize the bite behind your voice, the thread he kept toying at with razor blades finally thinning out, ready to snap and break apart. “You can't take me in a dark corridor as you do the other girls?”

He sputters.

It is that. But it's also so much more.

“Princess—”

“No.”

Nothing has changed. And you're not stupid, maybe slow, but never stupid. This isn't about a grape juice spill. It isn't about titles or being respectable.

( it’s about the three of you. )

Is it jealousy? Is this all about a stupid pair of gloves? About his pride? Why? Because he won't let Suguru win even if it means—

“Look at me.” Satoru is slouching in front of you, holding out his palm for you to take. He’s sincere, raw. “I swear to you, the way I feel about you cannot be likened to a secret in a corridor.”

( and yet, you always wished you were one of those girls with him in a dark corridor. )

. . . it's all downhill

from the first kiss.

“Your excuses again—” Satoru steps back when he feels silk stinging against his outstretched palm in a slap of rejection.

The glove he pulled off your hand, the glove Suguru gave to you, falls to the floor.

“And what even is it that you feel?” Your tone reverberates through his bones and Satoru’s considering finding purchase on his knees, where he’d show you what exactly he feels, he'd drink you in, drown in you and be done with the aftermath. “Do you enjoy this? Making me feel like a fool while you stay the bachelor—”

“This engagement was never my choice!” Satoru’s tone raises an octave, brows dipped and frown deep. “And I never—”

That's not what he means to say, not now.

( i never touched another since i laid awake thinking of you. )

“And that's why you won't touch me? Because I'm not your choice, I'm your duty?”

“God, ofcourse I want to touch you—” A guttural groan leaves him then, a rumble in the back of his throat. “If you would just understand—”

He’s a gentleman. Is what he says every waking moment he spends lying to himself that this is for you, that this is for your own good. . .

Because he knows—

( if he touched you now, he’d never stop. )

“Even now you can't say it.” How long have you known Satoru? How long have you been by his side, or rather, chased after him while he remained out of your reach? How long— “That you want me.”

It's almost comical, the way Satoru’s breath hitches in the back of his throat and the palm at his side forms a fist.

He wants you.

“Say it.”

Tell me you want me, tell me it’s me, tell me you feel what I feel too—

“I can't.”

You don't deserve this, I can't give you what you want, hate me so it hurts a little less—

You rise to your feet, the grape juice bleeding into your dress forgotten. “I always thought you were the bravest person to ever live. . .” The strongest. Prince Satoru, the realm’s omnipotent son — “You’ve fought in all these wars and you’ve fought and fought—”

Ever since you were children.

Satoru was every bit a soldier, princely and polished to perfection with his blade. He’s never lost a battle, you're sure, poets write about him.

( what does it feel like to be fought for? )

“Why won't you fight for me, Satoru?”

Satoru Gojo is many things.

Selfish, spoiled, strong. Greedy even.

He fights for what he wants and he remains determined to win no matter what.

But when it comes to you. . .

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Sorry, I’m so selfish. Sorry, I don't want you to leave. Sorry, it should be me and not him.

Sorry, I'm paralyzed in love with you.

He’s not asking you to stay.

This is what he wanted, right? For you to hate him — who is he kidding, you wouldn't hate him even if tried to make you — for you to realize he isn't what you need.

“You won't even give me one reason to stay.” Your throat hurts, you can still taste his tongue in your mouth, grape and mint, mint and grape. “Of all things, I never thought you to be such a damn coward—”

“I’m the Prince, for fucks sake!”

Your lips part then shut again, and Satoru takes a step back. This barrier between you two was always there, wasn't it? Invisible, cold to the touch.

Don't question me, I'm the Prince, he had said the day you asked him why, why can't I come play with you and Suguru?

( why won't you let me in? what are you so afraid of? )

“Then if it pleases the Prince,” It comes out shakier, in a voice that's barely your own.

Satoru picks it up before you do, you sound like a child — the same way you used to when he left you behind. “I’d like to be dismissed.”

The Prince.

Not your Prince.

( does a heart make noise when it shatters? )

“No,” Satoru steps forward, and you step back. It's like a sick game now, and with every thrum of his heart he swears he’ll die. “Name— just. . . no.”

He’s selfish. He knows that.

After this you’ll run off to Suguru won't you? And he’ll be there with open arms and words as soft as silk—

Satoru would know. Because he did the same thing once Suguru left.

But that was before it was this, before this was everything, before—

“Then forgive my defiance to the crown tonight.” You murmur and turn away, the glove is left behind.

Satoru is left behind.

You never win love, you earn it.

L’Incomparable is hardly the jewel on Satoru’s mind when you walk away from him for the second time.

( before he knew he loved you. )

🪷 taglist : @angelshimaa @yunymphs @todorokies @satocidal @maeby-cursed @rinniessance @cinnaboonn @shegetsburned @starry-grace2 @selfishdoll @shuuennovirche @wishmemel @riaki @yazzzmints @aphroditisxc @gojorbit @izakyun @satoruoo @irisxyphium @zwtari @/lollipop974 @r0ckst4rjk @softgirlgonehaywire @lilvampirina @brianmaysclog @/baepsays @xxemmarldxx @/adoraspace @/hikaorinx @/lanecass @/theloveofnagiseishiroslife @/bajbbq @/jiraiyaisgod69 @/gojo-sunglasses @/in4rizaki @/chimsblogg @xkittiecatx @lordbugs @soultoru @ladytamayolover @the1exiled @pasta-warlord @drogonfruitzen @sexeyess @siren776 @v0ctin @scinclaitnoir @gugggu6gvai @shartnart1 @nnanamii @vanevafu @lillmyg @nikitopia @altyx @beaniedoodz @fubukeys @simpforramenboy @sinnerstardoll @coco-cat @melancholia-k

#⋆ 🪷 A ROYAL AFFAIR ! ˚ ༘ * #👑 TSCC — series. #★ driaswrld #jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo x reader #geto x reader #satosugu x reader #satoru gojo x reader #suguru geto x reader #geto suguru x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk fic

[florencemtrash]

Hummingbird: Chapter One

Miguel O'Hara x Reader

What if the Earth-1610 (Miles’s universe) version of Miguel’s wife was actually Miles’s AP Art teacher?

Masterlist

You leaned back against the desk, ignoring the leftover smattering of paint as it seeped into your overalls, and checked the time. Miles’s face was stuck to the pages of his sketchbook, blue and red ink staining his cheek as he snored softly. One hand loosely gripped an open highlighter, the other dangled over the edge of his desk, half-eaten sandwich abandoned on the floor.

Twenty minutes. He’d been asleep for twenty minutes, and if you let him sleep any longer, he’d be late for fifth period.

You rapped your knuckles on his pencil case, the ringing tin jolting the teenager awake. Brown eyes flashed around the room, fists shooting out in an amateur boxing move as he tried to figure out why his spidey sense hadn’t warned him of any danger.

But there was no danger here. Nope, just Miss Y/l/n staring at him curiously from under raised brows.

“Wakey wakey, Miles,” You wore your usual pair of yellow Converse and paint-splattered overalls, the pockets hanging wide and loose after years of carrying around paint bottles, brushes, and books. The school board liked to complain about your “improper dress,” but at the end of the day you were one of the school’s only art teachers - and the most highly approved by students.

“Oh heyyyyy Miss Y/l/n.” He laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck before dropping to the floor and snatching up his forgotten lunch. This was the fourth time you’d caught him sleeping in your classroom. Any more and you might actually have to start giving him detention. He tossed pens, snacks, and his sketchbook haphazardly into his bag, but not before you caught sight of a familiar blond-haired, blue-eyed girl smiling in front of a backdrop rioting with yellow, pinks, and blues more vibrant than a fireworks display. “GWEN!” the comic-style calligraphy called out next to her glowing face. Miles always seemed to be drawing her these days.

“You’ve still got five minutes left, calm down.” Miles straightened up to face you, clutching his lunchbox to his chest and smiling nervously. You folded your arms over your chest and stared pointedly at the gangly boy in front of you. With how much he’d grown over the last few months you wondered if one of his ancestors had been a garden weed. 

“You want to talk about what’s been going on, Miles?” 

“What do you-what do you mean?”

“You’ve been falling asleep in my class, this is the fourth time I’ve caught you napping here during lunch, and now I hear from Mr. Maloney that you’ve been skipping English.”

“He-he told you that?” He tugged at the collar of his shirt, hoping for a breeze to drift in through the window and save him from his nerves. He thought he’d been good about juggling the responsibilities of being a high-schooler and everyone’s friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. If his parents noticed anything different about him they chalked it up to teenage angst and grief over Uncle Aaron’s death. But someone had caught him slipping up.

You shrugged, “The teacher’s lounge exists, and people like to talk.”

“Oh…” he mumbled, shoulders dropping.

The dull ringing of the school bell cut through the silence, followed shortly by the rumblings of conversation as students filled the hallway, moving with the current like fish in a river.

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose, “Listen, Miles, you’re not in trouble, ok?” Miles sighed in relief. “If you need to eat your lunch or just take a break in my classroom that’s fine with me. I just want to make sure you’re not trying to flunk out like last year.” 

He shook his head adamantly. He couldn’t - wouldn’t - drop out of Brooklyn Visions now. He had a plan for the future: go to Princeton, figure out multiversal traveling, and reunite with Gwen and Peter and the rest of the Spider-gang. Seemed simple enough… and totally doable…

“I promise that’s not the case, Miss Y/l/n.” The sincerity behind his words satisfied you.

“Alright Miles, but I’m keeping an eye on you,” You said dramatically, squinting your eyes and pointing at his chest. Miles snorted, mouth breaking open into a lopsided grin, “Now get out of here or Mrs. Cape will think I’ve convinced you to go to art school again.” 

“Yeah. Sorry about that. I just…”

“Yes, yes, you want to go study physics at Princeton,” you waved your hand in the air, tracing some invisible pattern in the sunlight before grabbing a wet wipe from your desk and tossing it to Miles, “Quantum mechanics, the multiverse, and all that stuff.” 

It wasn’t the first time he’d told you about his future plans, but the words that left his mouth had a tendency of flying over your head. The kid was too smart for his own good.

You paused and took a moment to look at Miles, to really look at him as he scrubbed away at the ink on his cheek, “Those Princeton schmucks would be lucky to have you.”

“Thanks Miss Y/l/n.” Again he gave you that crooked, boyish smile.

“Alright now out, out!” You shooed him towards the door, watching as he saluted you and flashed you one last smile before joining the crowd of students and disappearing around the corner.

You slipped back into your classroom, the smell of charcoal, dried paint, and pencil shavings settling into your lungs - sweet and comforting. There wasn’t an inch of space that wasn’t covered in some manner of artwork: sketches, paintings, collages… colorful graffiti that you should probably scrub out before parent-teacher conferences. Most of the pieces were the works of current students, but sometimes people like to leave things behind on purpose, trusting that you would find a place for them somewhere.

You wiped down the desks, rubbed the worst paint splotches from your overalls, and then collapsed into your chair, swiveling around and munching on the sandwich you’d picked up at the Prospect St. bodega. You had thirty minutes of peace and quiet before sixth period. 

That’s more than enough time. You thought to yourself. Maybe I’ll get some grading done and-

A head of curly black hair popped into the room, face wet and screaming with tears. You straightened in your chair as the boy’s lips thinned, then turned down. His shoulders began to tremble.

“He…He,” Hiccup, “He broke up with me, Miss Y/l/n.” 

“Oh geez,” you sighed deeply, setting your sandwich down and ushering the boy in. 

There were things you missed about being a teenager… the highs and lows of a first love were not on that list.

>>>

Saturday nights were sacred - the only time you reserved entirely for yourself. No grading, no reviewing and updating lesson plans, no agonizing over student reviews. You’d used to go out with old college friends for drinks on the weekend, but most of them had moved out of the city or gotten married and were doing married people things.

Is this what getting older is like? You wondered as you snuggled further into your couch, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders to keep out the chill. It wasn’t too terrible… albeit a little lonely.

The latest in a slew of cooking shows played out on the tv, throwing flashes of light onto the book-burdened coffee table and providing the background noise necessary for you to finally get your thoughts out of your sketchbook. But the moment you went to put the pen nib down, your mind went blank, and not in a good way. Every line looked wrong, the eyes of the figure looking bloated and misshapen. Time creeped by slowly, dragging you along for a ride as smooth as sandpaper.

 You knew the cause of your frustration, but knowing never made it better. It had been two months since Richard had moved out, two months and one day since you’d found out he was cheating on you with some grad student at NYU. 

Pendejo.

You’d hated his interior decorating, but now the blank spaces on the wall screamed his name. 

You tossed your sketchbook and pencil onto the ground and went to make a cup of tea. Maybe you were better off calling it a night and crawling into bed. Mid-year reviews had just ended and you had a long list of emails to reply to in the morning. One thing you hadn’t been expecting when you’d accepted this job was the number of parents who’d be on your ass about their kids getting a B in art - in art. 

The tea kettle was just about to open its mouth and start singing when a crash sounded from the living, followed by a sheepish “Whoops.” The muffled word punctuated Paul Hollywood’s critique of someone’s lemon tart - too stodgy.

Your blood ran cold as the stranger continued to mutter. 

“There goes another one. Wow there’s a lot of stuff on the floor.” Another one of your precious potted plants hit the ground with a dull crack. 

You grabbed the wooden bat from where it leaned against the wall, swinging it easily behind your head. At least there was one good thing Richard had left you with. 

You creeped out into the hallway, backing up towards the front door with your eyes trained on the shadowy figure making a mess of your living room. The figure fluctuated in and out of existence as he stumbled about the room, tripping over the piles of books and art supplies littering the ground. His body splintered outwards like cobwebs and twisted with flashes of bright light, haunting and inhuman. 

The creak of the floorboards gave you away. All at once the figure stopped and turned around to look at you. Where its face should have been was a single, flickering white spot, pulsing with curiosity as it tilted its head to the side. 

Mierda. 

You bolted towards the door… but he was already there.

“Why hello Mrs. O’Hara. Nice to finally meet you.” A thousand voices said at once.

You screamed and swung. 

The first swing missed, leaving a crater in the drywall. The second swing hit true, but the bat merely sunk into the black void of his body, some force ripping it out of your hands as you staggered backward. “Oh! Well that wasn’t very nice.” The creature laughed. 

Spindly tendrils of dark matter grabbed hold of you and you let out one final scream before the Spot swallowed you whole.

There was a momentary blindness and the sensation of falling before you were unceremoniously spit out onto a hard granite floor. You winced at the rough cut of broken glass beneath your heels, with nothing to protect you but a thin pair of socks. You looked upward and gasped. 

Where there had once been a towering glass ceiling dozens of stories high lay a gaping hole, the metal beams blown backwards into the night air like a blooming flower. It took you a moment to recognize the building, after all you’d seen it nonstop on the news for weeks last year - Alchemax.

What the hell?

Police tape criss-crossed over the debris like yellow spider webs, the scene broken up by black holes that morphed and twisted around you, pulsing with the same energy as the stranger in your apartment.

I must be dreaming. You thought. But in the back of your mind you remembered bits and pieces of what Miles told you he’d been studying over the summer - wormholes and spacetime and portals to different universes. 

You picked up a piece of metal off the floor, experimentally tossing it into one of the spots. It disappeared under the surface like pottery in slip before popping back into existence above you. You only narrowly lunged out of the way before it crashed into the ground and stuck there like a sword in a battlefield.

“Beautiful, isn’t it Mrs. O’Hara?” the Spot stepped out of a hole in the fabric of spacetime beside you. 

You jumped back, choking the scream in your throat. “That’s not-that’s not my name.” You managed to say. “Maybe you’ve kidnapped the wrong person?” A stupid hope.

“Oh? What is it then?” You said nothing, daring to lean down and pick up a jagged piece of roof panel. It might not do much, but it made you feel safer with its weight in your hands. “Well you don’t need to tell me. I just wanted to ask you a question.” He blipped out of existence, taking with him the darkness that pooled out of his skin.

“Who is Spider-Man?” the voices said as the Spot reappeared right beside you.

“You’ve got to stop doing that! Pendejo.” 

“What?”

“Just talk to me like a normal person.” You pointed the roof panel at him, keeping him at a safe distance.

“Who. Is. Spider-Man?” He stepped closer, the tip of your makeshift weapon sinking into his skin like he wasn’t even there. 

The question made you pause. That was what he wanted to know? He had kidnapped you just to ask about Spider-Man? 

“Um, I mean, he’s kind of the local superhero. Stops thieves, saves kittens stuck in trees, makes questionable brand deals at times-”

“NO! I know who Spider-Man is.” 

You blinked in confusion, eyes shifting to the side, “Then why did you kidnap me?”

“I want to know Spider-Man’s identity! His real identity.” The edges of his body sparked, shooting outward and striking the walls of the room. Dust and plaster fell to the ground like snow.

“I don’t-how the fuck am I supposed to know who Spider-Man is?!”

“You know him! The other version of you knew him!” 

“What, other me?”

“The alternate universe version of you!” He threw his hands up into the air like a petulant child. The darkness around him grew with every passing minute, crawling around on the floor and up onto the walls like a reptile looking for its next meal. He slid his hands down his face, somehow pulling at the ether he was made of as he muttered under his breath.

“Whatever, I may have miscalculated. You’ll still be important. Don’t you worry. You may not know who Spider-Man is, but Spider-Man sure knows you.”

Next chapter ->

>>>

Author's Note: so... I may have gotten carried away and written the second chapter as well... hope you enjoy!

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