#🎂sweet~･ﾟﾟ･｡

[confettipopsoda]

my love language is learning recipes to make for my long distance gf so I can make her lots of treats when we're together in person 🥰🥰🥰

[makishmolnezar]

[digitalfriend08]

XXX

[sanjoongie]

𝑩𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑩𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝑮𝒐𝒐𝒅

👑Pairing: Wealthy born! Prince! Seonghwa x Inherited! Princess! Reader (f)

👑Au: Modern interpretation of Sweet Sorrow of Evil, royal au, modern royal au

👑Trope: established relationship (married), reincarnated, soulmate

👑Genre: smut, romance

👑Word Count: 2,294

👑Rating: 18+, MDNI

👑Warnings: dom!seonghwa, sub!reader, oral (m), aftercare

👑Summary: a peak into the life of evil queen! reader and guard! hwa reincarnate. their date night sure isn't private but what they do in private after said date is another story entirely...

👑A/N: this is for my small's birthday @smallfrye (modern! sweet sorrow guard hwa aka prince hwa au) this has been bubbling in our brains for MONTHS and i'm happy to put the first scene i tortured myself with into words so that you can read it. Thank you for being my braincell in this journey of our friendship. I am truly thankful for your presence in my life and i hope this fic shows it 😆

“Prince Seonghwa!”

Camera’s flash and click; all the cacophony that is due with a public appearance of a royal couple nowadays. You let go of Seonghwa’s hand, but not without some resistance from your husband. The tips of his fingers curl, indicating he doesn’t want to let go but knows what you’re doing. He sends you a small smile but then focuses on his public job.

He smiles and tilts his head, putting the hand that had been holding yours in his pants pocket in a pose. It was his job to look good and thus make the royal family look good. And he always did a good job in that regard.

“Prince Seonghwa! How’s date night?” One reporter shouted. 

Seonghwa laughed gently. “I was enjoying time with my wife, of course.”

The crowd of reporters laugh together as Seonghwa pokes at the fact that they in fact interrupted said time with questions and photos. 

Seonghwa informs a fashion magazine what his fit was dutifully. He brushes a strand of his bangs out of his eyes with a pinky finger and blinks and the camera’s click in quick succession. 

“Does the Princess like the long hair?” Another reporter shouts.

Seonghwa tilts his head flirtatiously. “Why do you think I’ve left it this long for so long?”

“What’s on the itinerary after this?”

Seonghwa shakes his head. “Oh, just some boring husband duties, nothing impressive. I’m afraid my social battery is much depleted now.”

Then your husband sends the longest, most goosebumps-inducing look that makes you have to bank your face but you still swallow in futile. Your court-trained husband knows exactly how to affect you in public. And he takes great delight in testing your public mask.

You swoop in to ‘save’ your husband. “That’s all for tonight folks,” You insist demurely. 

The yells continue as you take up Seonghwa’s hand and pull him to the car that’s waiting for you outside of the high-end restaurant. You both settle into the plush leather and take a sigh of relief being out of the eye of the public. 

Seonghwa’s thumb passes over the back of your hand, as if he’s winding the string of a fishing pole and you’re at the end of the string. “Princess,” he says your title softly but you’re not falling for that trick.

“Seonghwa,” You open your mouth to scold him but he places a chaste kiss at the corner of your mouth to halt you. 

“I know. I won’t start anything in the car. But just so you know…” Seonghwa lets the words hang in the air to tempt you.

You stubbornly look out the tinted windows. “Yes, Dear.”

Seonghwa chuckles lightly. “Your tone might get you in trouble later, dear.”

You turn, head in hand, lifting a perfectly penned-in eyebrow. “Should I have not saved you from the crowd of reporters, husband?”

A polite, playful smile pulls the corner of Seonghwa’s lips. “We both know what really happened.”

You quickly glance towards the front of the car to make sure the window that separates driver from client is up and then lean over towards Seonghwa. With your entire back to the driver, you whine. “Seonghwa, you promised!” 

Seonghwa reaches out and runs his hand over your hair. His eyes travel over your face, your body, simply drinking you in. “You look gorgeous tonight, wife of mine.”

You sigh in gratitude, a bit relieved. “Pretty enough to distract you from the not-so-private date, I hope.”

“You know when I’m with you, it’s like the rest of the world melts away,” Seonghwa admits.

You grip Seonghwa’s hand. “I know. It’s part of the reason you married me.”

Seonghwa’s soft look twists into a darker, more lust-filled one. “And the other half?”

This time you can’t help but laugh. “Seonghwa, please.”

“You’ll show me when we get back home?” Seonghwa still prompts hopefully.

“Of course,” You agree. 

That is why you knelt before your husband, whose legs were spread on your thousand thread count sheet on your bed. You subserviently removed his designer shoes and put them to the side. Next came off his socks. You then stood up on your knees, reaching for his belt. 

Seonghwa’s fingers quickly grip your wrist tightly. “Slower, dear. You promised adoration, not a quickie.”

“Yes, Prince,” You intone quietly. 

Seonghwa lets go of your wrist and allows you to proceed. You place both of your hands on Seonghwa’s knees. You squeeze his thighs, that tense in response back. You methodically squeeze up his leg until you can see that he is hard under his baggy slacks. Swallowing loudly, you dip your head to mouth at the imprint of his cock. Seonghwa makes a low noise in the back of his throat and you take that as a sign of approval. 

“Your Highness,” you say conservatively. “May I remove your royal shirt?”

Seonghwa’s pupils are blown but his eyes are lidded. “You may,” he allows.

There aren’t a lot of buttons to undo, for Seonghwa had already popped many for his date night look. His jacket is already dutifully hung up in the walk-in closet, so all you have to do is push it easily off his shoulders. 

Your breath catches in the back of your throat at how tantalizing your husband is at this moment. His palms are flat on the sheet, leaning his weight back to watch you work your magic. You can’t help but linger as your hands caress down his torso, following the lines of his muscles. 

“This body is wasted,” you murmur under your breath.

“Wasted on what?” Seonghwa chuckles.

“You should be sold to the highest bidder and then fucked every hour upon the hour,” your mouth says without a filter.

If you weren’t admiring Seonghwa’s body so much, you might have glimpsed the slight blush that clung to his cheeks. “Dear one,” he drawls. “Your mouth is getting you into trouble again.”

You drop to your knees again. You lick your lips as your hands reach for his belt buckle a second time. “Let me keep it busy then.”

Seonghwa does not stop you as you manage to free his cock from the confines of his pants and boxers. You sigh dreamily at his curved, long cock. As your husband is a dream in of itself, so is his cock. You suck happily on his cockhead, swirling your tongue around it. 

With a loud gasp, Seonghwa’s hand flies to your hair, needing a handhold immediately. His desperate cries only fuel your hunger for his cock, as you then bob up and down his length. You let your throat adjust to the length with each bob, and eventually you can manage to get him completely inside of your mouth and throat. 

The room echoes with the wet, choking noises but it seems as if Seonghwa is feeding off them. “That’s it, dear, gobble me down, you greedy girl.”

Nothing tickles Seonghwa more pink than watching you give him a sloppy blowjob. The sucking noises only add to the way your mouth circles around his length, eyes trained on him. You don't use your hands; you simply let your lip and tongue do the work. There's saliva all over your chin and cheeks and the bed sheets but you know that's the way Seonghwa likes it. Seonghwa likes knowing you'll debase yourself for him.

You reach underneath your skirt, and rub your clit through your thong. You know you're creating a wet spot on expensive silk but the need to indulge yourself burns in your lower stomach. You let out a small whimper as your finger pad brushes against your throbbing nub. 

Seonghwa’s eyes snap open. “Dear,” he croons softly, dangerously. “The only pleasure you should be getting should be from wrapping those pretty lips around my cock.”

You whine around his length but remove your hand from between your legs. He's right. He hates the spotlight but goes on these public dates to satisfy your need to be among your people. And so, you rewarded his time by being the one to admire him. 

In this moment, as the princess, he is the only one who truly matters, and that's all he wants. Because Seonghwa, above all of his needs, loves you.

Like a flip of a switch, you find yourself pressed against the foot of the bed. Your head is held in place against the mattress. Seonghwa is on his feet now, almost towering above you as you’re still on your knees. His tongue snakes out to lick his lips and your lower half tightens at the action. “Be a good Princess and swallow everything I give you.”

You drop your jaw in anticipation for Seonghwa to fuck your mouth. It’s still a sloppy job but it’s in no way rough like you expected. Seonghwa simply works in and out of your mouth of his own accord. Again, it’s very much about feeling like only he can do this to you; only he has the privilege to fuck the princess’s mouth. 

Your fists grab his slacks, one clutching to each thigh, to keep your wandering fingers away from pleasuring yourself. The only noises you can hear are the small, desperate gasps as Seonghwa chases his high and of course, the wet noise of his cock sliding in and out of your lips.

When Seonghwa reaches his climax, he tosses his head back, showing the line of his neck and jaws. You missed his nose scrunch because of this but his loud cry as he shoots down your throat more than makes up for it. You swallow everything, or at least attempt to, but when Seonghwa pulls out of your mouth, a tiny amount squirts on your cheek. 

Seonghwa clucks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “You get so dirty when we do this.” He absentmindedly captures his cum with a swipe of his finger and pushes it into your mouth. 

Dirty is an understatement. You know your makeup is streaked, dry saliva and cum all over you. You’re sure your hair is a mess and so is your underwear. You are definitely in need of some much needed aftercare. But first!

You shoot to your feet, slanting your lips across Seonghwa’s eagerly. “You did wonderfully, my love,” you gasp between kisses. 

Seonghwa laughs under his breath, feeling a tad bit shy after the complete show of dominance. “You sure it wasn’t too much?”

You shake your head with a small, happy smile. “Nope. It was perfect. Help me in the bathroom? I’ll get a washcloth for you too.”

You walk to the bathroom and Seonghwa can’t help but note how, even now, after he just fucked your throat full of his cum, that you still manage to walk as if you are in public and waving to a crowd of your people. You can take the princess out of the grace, but you can’t take the grace out of the princess.

The two of you clean up and then lounge in the bath together. You have your princess crown back on, figuratively of course. You’re checking all the social media posts of your date, official and tabloids, scanning all the comments, good or bad. 

“Wooyoung,” You say your best friend’s name in part astonishment and part scolding. 

You hold your phone up to show Seonghwa. One of the reporters had perfectly captured Seonghwa’s bedroom eyes as he had peered at you earlier. Wooyoung had left a comment on said photo that was bordering on appropriate. 

Ym_ooyng: i’ll be performing my boring best friend duties tomorrow 😉

“Do you have a date with Wooyoung that I’m not aware of,” Seonghwa intones, not being able to hold his tongue when it comes to your best friend of a prince. 

“No,” You muse. “But I bet he’s planning an impromptu drop in to get the tea. You know how he is, husband of mine.”

You run your nails along Seonghwa’s inner thigh propped up beside you and he shudders delicately. You try to remind him through actions that Wooyoung can say whatever he wants, but you’re still in the bathtub with him right now. 

Seonghwa hums in acknowledgement. He dips his hand under the water and lets droplets fall from his fingertips onto your arm. “Dear…?”

“Seonghwa?” You put your phone away and give your husband your undivided attention. 

“You think we could schedule some getaway time?” Seonghwa asks.

You cannot help but turn around in the tub to look at Seonghwa’s face. He won’t meet your gaze so you use a wet hand to push up his downturned chin. “Seonghwa, look at me.”

Seonghwa tentatively looks up, eyes bearing his soul to you, and then looks away. “Just a little bit of time. To get away from the cameras.”

Your heart wrenches. You know that he’s become a public figure simply for you. But you’d throw it all away if he asked it of you. “Of course. I’ll speak to Jongho, get him to figure out what would be a good time--”

“Tomorrow.”

“Before Wooyoung can drop in?”

A small, conspiratorial smile pulls at Seonghwa’s lips. “Maybe.”

“Okay,” You agree. You turn back around and settle into Seonghwa’s chest, tucking his arms around your collarbone.

Seonghwa squeezes his arms so that they’re wrapped around you. “Okay.”

You slowly fall asleep as Seonghwa rocks you gently, humming a mindless tune under his breath. You are in and out of consciousness as he drains the bath and bundles you up in a robe. The last thing you remember is a kiss on your forehead, and then your nose, and then your lips before Seonghwa mumbles, “Goodnight my fair princess. Sleep well.”

[x-weisselilie]

Today is my cat's birthday (⁠✿⁠ ⁠♡⁠‿⁠♡⁠)

[lliminall]

carino

[giorno giovanna/reader]

word count: 6.9k

tags: fem reader, NSFW (minors do not interact), giorno being smitten with you, fingering, teasing, giorno is older than you by about 10 years, sappy sweet sex for the birthday boy. giorno is charming but he’s also a bit of an intense weirdo and I wish we would talk about that more

It occurs to you, as your shoulder is clipped for the third time this night and you almost spill your drink again, that you should learn to get more comfortable with saying the word no.

No, Chiara, I don’t want to go clubbing with you tonight. No, I’m tired and I’ve got work in the morning and I’m really not that thrilled at the thought of spending my Sunday night surrounded by people several tax brackets above me.

Ah, but as your drink sloshes in your glass and you bite back a sharp fuck, Chiara leans against you and laughs wholeheartedly, and you remember why you can’t ever seem to deny her anything. For all the trouble she gets you into, she’s your friend.

And she’s got a credit card with her dad’s name on it that she whips out every time she drags you to these upscale venues. That certainly helps.

“God, your clumsy tonight,” she laughs. “I told you not to wear those shoes.”

“What, and ruin this outfit with my sneakers?” you say, gesturing to your dress and heels. Around you people mingle and dance, wearing clothes from brands you see in fashion magazines. And here you are among them, in your bargain rack best.

“True,” Chiara concedes. “Well. At least you look pretty.”

Before you can thank her, her eyes blow wide and her shoulders go rigid as she catches sight of something behind you.

“Oh, god,” she says with dread, and you follow her line of sight to see none other than her father, seated at a table on the balcony overlooking the floor. She gasps.

“Oh, god,” she says, with even more dread, as her father catches sight of her and waves her over. She whips around to face you.

“Shit. I didn’t know he was going to be here,” she whispers.

“I mean, I guess old men are allowed to have fun, too,” you tease.

“No,” she hisses. “That’s not what he’s here for. Don’t you see who he’s sitting with?”

You peer over her shoulder to look at his table again. Through the crowd you can just make out bits and pieces of men in fine suits, a man in a bright red hat, and…someone else. Someone who certainly stands out from the rest with his long blonde curls and the low cut of his pink suit. The set of his shoulders and the hard line of his gaze as he converses with the man in the hat communicates clearly that he is someone important. Someone who’s used to being treated as important.

“The blonde?” you ask.

“The blonde?” Chiara repeats, incredulous. “The blonde? You don’t know who that is?”

You tilt your head at her. “Uhm, should I?”

She stares at you for a moment, thinking.

“Right,” she says. “I forget that you’re not…well. I guess you wouldn’t know. Just, uh, be polite. Really polite. Like you’re talking to the president.”

She takes your hand and begins to tug you to the stairs.

“Sorry, what?” you hiss. “Who’s up there?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she says quickly. “Don’t worry about it, we’ll just go up and say hi to my dad and leave.”

“Don’t worry about it?” you argue as she drags you up the stairs. “You can’t make a huge deal out of it and then tell me not to-“ your voice trails off as you realize you’re coming within earshot of the table, and Chiara’s face breaks into a grin as her father waves the both of you over.

“Ah, mia principessa,” he greets her as she leans over his chair to kiss his cheek. “How fortunate to see you here. You never visit your poor father these days.”

“Papá, I told you I’ve been busy,” Chiara groans.

Her father says your name warmly, and offers his hand for you to take. In the few times you’ve met him, Signore Alessi has only ever been kind to you. “A pleasure to see you, as always. I trust you’re keeping my daughter in line?”

“Trying to,” you say, letting him clasp your hand in his. “You know how it goes.”

“Indeed I do,” he says, and motions to two men who immediately pull out a chair for each of you.

“Oh, we don’t want to interrupt,” Chiara says, and tries to wave one of the men away.

“Nonsense,” her father replies. “I was just telling Don Giovanna about you, anyway.”

Chiara laughs nervously and takes her seat. You follow suit.

The seat you’re offered places you next to Chiara, and across from the man with the red hat. At the head of table, beside him, is who you assume is Don Giovanna.

“He had only the best to say of you,” Don Giovanna says with a low smile. Signore Alessi couldn’t look more pleased, and it occurs to you that this man, although younger than him, is clearly the one with the most influence at this table. The honorific title of Don only confirms that he’s someone of great social standing here. Your gut twists uncomfortably with anxiety; Chiara really has brought you out of your league with this one.

“Your father tells me you’re studying sociology?” Don Giovanna continues.

“Ah, yes,” Chiara stutters quickly.

“What would you like to do with it?”

“Social work,” she answers.

Don Giovanna nods his head. “That’s an admirable goal,” he says. “We could certainly use more compassionate workers in the social services.”

And because Chiara is apparently uncomfortable with the amount of attention on her, and because you’re the most convenient victim, she says, “thank you, Don Giovanna, but really I only chose to do it because of my friend.”

She motions to you, and the Don’s eyes, and every other pair of eyes at the table, move to watch you.

“She’s always there for me, even when I don’t deserve it, and she’s the kindest person I know. I just want to be able to become that kind of person for others.”

You think you could cry at hearing such genuine praise, if you couldn’t feel Chiara nudging your heel under the table to shake you out of your headspace. The table full of important men is awaiting your response (and, conveniently, no longer pinning that attention on Chiara).

You don’t know what to say. How do you even respond to such high praise? You don’t know what to say but you need to say something. Anything.

“Oh, uhm. Fuck.”

Ok, well. Anything but that.

The table bursts into laughter. Chiara covers her mouth and snorts as her father claps his hand to his chest in a full belly laugh. The man in the hat cracks the first grin you’ve seen from him yet, and even the Don is stifling a low smile. You don’t know whether you should be relieved or even more embarrassed.

“(Y/n) has been a wonderful friend to my girl,” Signore Alessi says, saving you from having to recover yourself with a response. “I’m grateful that my daughter has such a good influence in her life.”

As Signore Alessi goes on, gracefully rescuing you with a change of subject, the man in the hat catches your attention.

“Is that an accent I’m hearing?” he asks.

“That obvious?” you say sheepishly. “Yeah, I moved here a couple of years ago.”

“Your Italian’s very good, but I can always clock a foreigner,” he says. “And I’m also guessing this isn’t the type of place you usually hang out in.”

God, you’re going to kick Chiara for this later.

“Uh, no. I mean yes, you’re right. This wasn’t exactly my first choice for tonight.”

“Ooh, well don’t tell my boss that,” he says with a teasing lilt, nodding his head towards Don Giovanna, who is listening attentively to whatever story Signore Alessi is in the middle of. “He kind of owns the place.”

Beside you, Chiara sighs. “What she means to say is that she’s a homebody who doesn’t know how to party. Of course the club is lovely.” She kicks you under the table.

“Hey, no shame in that,” the man says. “Between you and me, I’d rather be at home with a beer right now, but duty calls.”

“Oh, are you in real estate like Signore Alessi?” you ask. The man stares at you for a beat. Chiara shifts in her seat beside you.

“Yeah,” he answers at last. “Real estate. We were just meeting about uh, property and shit, you know how it goes. Boring stuff.”

As Chiara is folding and unfolding her hands, you notice that her eyes have flicked to the Don, and you also notice, in your peripheral, that the Don’s eyes have flicked to you. There’s a sense that something is going over your head here, like being on the outside of a joke everyone else is in on, but as soon as the feeling appears the man in front of you is speaking again.

“Anyway! I haven’t even introduced myself. The name’s Mista.”

You offer him your own name, and he orders drinks for you and Chiara, insisting that you stay and chat with everyone. Their meeting has wrapped up anyway, and he would never turn down the company of two pretty girls, he explains.

Mista is easy to talk to. Easygoing and genial, he quickly has you relaxing into a friendly conversation. Your anxiety from before melts away as you tell him about your home country, about the ridiculous situations Chiara has dragged you into (which she responds to with a groan), and as he answers with a laugh and a funny story of his own. You are so wrapped up in conversation with them, that you pay no attention to the eyes watching you quietly from further down the table.

You’re laughing with a half-empty glass in your hand when Chiara tugs on your wrist and excuses you both from the table for a moment.

“Oh my god. He’s checking you out,” she whispers as she pulls you into the bathroom.

“Mista?” you ask, feeling your cheeks warm. “I mean, he’s sweet but-“

“No!” she interrupts, and leans into your space conspiratorially. “The Don.”

Hah. The Don.

“Ok. Sure,” you say.

“I’m not joking,” she says. “God, you’re so clueless. He’s been watching you this whole time.”

“I haven’t even spoken to him,” you say. “And he’s like, 10 years older than us, at least. And rich.”

“And he was watching you,” Chiara huffs. She says your name lowly and levels you with a stare. “I know these things. Remember the last time I caught someone checking you out?”

“The guy who showed up to our date with an ankle monitor on?”

“God, that’s not the point. I told you he was flirting and I was right.”

Sensing that this conversation is not about to go anywhere else, you concede with a halfhearted “ok” and push the door open to leave.

You push the door open into the Don’s face.

He catches it smoothly with one large hand and doesn’t flinch as you squawk.

“Sorry! I didn’t see you there,” you squeak.

“No worries, Signorina,” he says. In the small space of the hallway, you notice that his voice is rich, masculine, smooth. “Is everything all right? Your friend seemed to be in a hurry.” Has he sounded like that all night? Has he been looking at you like that all night?

The hallway to the bathrooms is small, and the the placement of his hand on the door has his arm and body hovering over you in a way that’s almost…intimate. You notice, not for the first time that night, that Giorno is handsome. Very handsome. You decide that you’re reading into things too much because this isn’t a romance novel and things like this don’t happen to you, of course.

“Everything’s fine,” you answer, looking over your shoulder to see that the bathroom behind you is empty, which means that Chiara has hidden herself in one of the stalls.

“My friend was just”-you think of telling him she has a headache, and then remember how embarrassed she made you earlier-“throwing up. A lot. I told her she should have eaten something before coming out and drinking.”

Giorno’s brows pinch in concern. “Ah. Is she…all right? I would be happy to call someone over to check on her.”

“Nope,” you answer. “She’ll be fine as soon as she gets it all out. Last time we went out clubbing it took-“

“Actually!” Chiara’s voice rings out behind you, the stall door flying open with a thud. “I think I’m sick, because I can handle my alcohol just fine, actually, so I’d like you to take me home now, please?”

She sidles up beside you and pinches your side, politely excusing the both of you from the Don as you say “ow.” He makes a face somewhere between quizzical and amused as you’re dragged back to the table for Chiara to kiss her father on the cheek and tell him goodbye.

“So good to see you, principessa,” he says, and turns to you. “Tell her to come visit her poor father sometime, and bring yourself along while you’re at it.”

You smile. “Of course, Signore.”

It seems that the rest of the table is ready to call it a night as well, as Signore Alessi and the others stand and begin to give their goodbyes. You down the rest of your drink quickly, finishing just in time to see that Don Giovanna has come back to the balcony—and that his eyes are on you again, for the second before Signore Alessi is calling for his attention.

You decide that you should leave before he can ask about your poor, sick friend again.

The wash of cool air is more than welcome as you step out of the building and into the street. Your skin must have been flushed for half the night, between the embarrassment, the laughter, the drinks, and…whatever that was with the Don.

“Thank god that’s over,” Chiara sighs beside you, whipping her phone out to call an Uber. “I’m remembering why I always skipped out on dad’s dinners when I was a kid.”

“Oh, I didn’t think they were that bad,” you say. “Especially for a bunch of middle aged-“

The door swings open behind you, and Mista strolls out alone.

“Good, I caught you before you took off,” he says. He nods at Chiara and then looks at you expectantly. “I’ve got a little favor to ask. Could I get your number?”

Oh. Oh no. Mista seems sweet, really, but-

“For my boss.”

Oh. Oh.

Over Mista’s shoulder, you see Chiara’s mouth fall open as she holds herself back from giving you an immediate “I told you so.”

Don Giovanna wants your number. The Don wants your number. You have to be misreading this. Maybe he’s just got an open position for an intern that needs filling. Maybe he’s just very polite and wants to check up on your supposedly nauseous friend later.

“He would’ve asked you himself, but he got a little wrapped up, as you saw,” Mista goes on with a laugh.

“Yeah, sure,” you say before your brain can catch up to your mouth. You enter your number into a phone Mista hands you, and he turns to enter the building again as your Uber pulls up to the curb.

“He’ll probably call you sometime tomorrow,” he says with a wave. “Great meeting you guys. Ciao!”

You watch the door click shut behind him. Chiara is going to be so obnoxious about this. You dive into the car before you can see how smug her expression is and look very pointedly out the window. Incredibly, she says nothing as the driver pulls up to her apartment just a few blocks away, and the both of you trudge through the lobby, into the elevator, and through the doors to her apartment. You’re tugging your dress over your head to change into your pajamas when she finally speaks.

“I’m booking you an appointment with my Brazilian waxer,” she says.

You would smack her with a pillow, if you didn’t know that she was also offering to pay. And with the way your nerves are already beginning to act up, it’s an offer you may want to take her up on.

—

The next weekend, Chiara comes over to help you get ready for your date by laying in bed and watching while you put your makeup on and offering such useful suggestions as “are you sure you don’t want my push-up bra? I would want a push-up bra.”

You don’t bother to respond, because you think your boobs look fine in the mirror, and because you still can’t make yourself believe this date will end up in that direction anyway. Giorno, as he asked you to call him, had been nothing but polite over his texts to you. Brief, formal, but polite.

He did specifically call it a date, which defeated your theory of a job offering, but it all still feels so…unbelievable.

“I still can’t believe this is happening,” Chiara says, as if reading your thoughts. “I mean, of course he’s into you, because you’re beautiful and smart and nice, but-“ she sighs. “God. You have no idea how big this guy is. This is so insane.”

“What, is he the prime minister’s landlord?” you laugh. “I can handle some big-shot real estate mogul.”

Chiara looks at you the way she might look at a dog with three legs. Sweet, but pitiful.

“You are so, so clueless,” she says. “You should probably stay that way.”

You don’t have time to wonder what the fuck she’s talking about, because your phone pings with a text from Giorno. He’s pulling up to your apartment complex.

—

It’s drizzling as you push past the doors of your apartment building. You didn’t think to bring an umbrella down, you hope this doesn’t smudge your makeup—and the worms have already begun to wriggle onto the sidewalk.

Poor things. The skies will be cleared up and the sidewalk will be bone dry again in just a couple of hours. They don’t even know that they’re about to die slowly and horribly.

It’s just as you’re picking up the last one that you hear a car pull up to the curb behind you. You pray that it isn’t Giorno, come just in time to see you crouched in a puddle with a worm between your fingers, but you can’t imagine that anyone else in this grubby apartment block would be driving a Ferrari. He steps out just as you’re placing the little guy into a soft patch of grass.

“Buonasera,” he greets you as he takes in the scene. Your hands are dripping with mud water and worm slime, and suddenly you’re very worried about getting dirt in this car that probably cost more than you’ll make in years.

“Buonasera,” you say. “I was just, um. The worms-“ you trail off as you realize you don’t have an explanation that doesn’t make you feel a bit silly, but Giorno’s face breaks into a soft smile. He produces a handkerchief from his pocket and takes your dirty hands in his.

“I can see that,” he says, rubbing your hands gently between the fabric, brushing it between each finger and over every knuckle. His hands are warm. Your skin is clammy. “I’m sure they appreciate the effort.”

He opens the passenger door for you and escorts you in with a hand on your arm, and your cheeks begin to warm with that familiar heat.

The restaurant he brings you to is easily the nicest you’ve ever stepped foot in. Certainly nicer than the boutique cafes Chiara (and her dad’s credit card) often treat you to. Giorno hands his keys to a valet and leads you up the steps with a hand on your lower back, through a set of heavy double doors and into the lavish building. Elegant decor, low lighting, floor to ceiling windows overlooking Naple’s skyline and the bay…this definitely has ankle monitor guy beat. Regretfully, you do have to give this one to Chiara.

The hostess looks up from her station as you approach, and upon seeing Giorno, immediately gathers a couple of menus and motions for the two of you to follow her. He must be a regular here, you think, or maybe it has something to do with what Chiara was telling you earlier. Something about Giorno being a bigger deal than you understood.

The hostess seats you at a table in the far corner of the restaurant. Quiet, secluded from the other patrons. Giorno pulls your seat out for you and takes the jacket from your shoulders. He orders a bottle of wine with a name you don’t recognize and the hostess leaves you with your menus.

“I hope the restaurant is to your liking,” he says. He must be joking. Everything about it is beautiful, if not a little intimidating for someone unused to such luxury.

“It’s very pretty,” you say, looking out across the bay. The sun is beginning to set, casting vivid red hues across the seawater.

“Do you like to watch the ocean?” he asks.

“From a distance, absolutely,” you answer. “Up close it gets a little…scarier.”

“Scary? Are you not a fan of swimming, then?”

“Oh no,” you say quickly. “I saw Jaws when I was a kid. Never been the same since.”

The corner of Giorno’s mouth quirks. “I can assure you no one here has died in a shark attack for a very long time.”

The waiter returns to set a wine bottle and two glasses on the table, pouring it out for both of you. Giorno takes a slow sip of his and you pick up your glass to do the same. You aren’t usually one for wine, but you’re not about to offend him by rejecting it. You take a sip and try not to make a face that says “ew.”

“Do you enjoy wine?” Giorno asks.

“Yes,” you lie. “Your friend said you own the club we met at?” A smooth change of subject.

“I do, as well as a couple of others in the city. My business partners and I often hold meetings there, as you saw.”

“Meeting about uh, real estate things?” God, you’re bad at this.

Giorno smiles. “No, not quite. We were actually discussing an upcoming charity fundraiser.”

“That’s nice. Chiara always said her dad’s coworkers were-“ you realize you’re about to put your foot in your mouth yet again, and change course. “-great people. Really generous.”

Giorno takes another slow sip from his glass, and fixes you with a look you can’t quite place. “That very kind of her, but things haven’t always been this way. I do try to keep them in line now that I’m in the business.”

“What charity are you fundraising for?”

“A few,” Giorno begins. “Most of them supporting children and families affected by substance abuse.”

Ah, Naple’s infamous addiction issues. From what you’ve heard, the problem has lessened in severity since the last decade, but an issue with roots so deep can only be uprooted so quickly.

“I’ve heard about the addiction rates here,” you say. “Is it something you’re passionate about?”

“Absolutely,” Giorno says, and his gaze becomes intense, even more so than it always seems to be. “You could say that my life’s work has revolved around it. To threaten the well-being of these people, to pollute these streets with drugs-“ he turns to gaze through the window, at the sidewalks and people below. “-it’s unforgivable.”

You aren’t sure how to respond to such a speech, at first. Giorno’s intensity is brilliant to the point of intimidation, firm and absolute in this conviction he’s shared with you. You realize that this is the same assuredness you’ve seen in him since you met him that night, in every small interaction you witnessed (and shared) with him. In the way he’s looked at you, even after only just having met you. An absolute certainty in what he wants, and the absolute confidence to pursue it. You have no doubt, somehow, that he’ll have it.

“I like that,” you say simply. “I mean, you must be very proud. It seems like all your work is paying off.”

“I am,” he says, with that intense gaze fixed on you. Bright. Brilliant. “Thank you. You would be surprised at how much…resistance my work has been met with. It isn’t something one receives thanks for often, in my circle.”

You can’t imagine an apparent philanthropist being so deprived of something as basic as genuine praise, but the look on his face is achingly close to something you’ve seen before. In kids who were never told enough how good they were, in quiet classmates who’s work never seemed to be noticed. It’s uncomfortable, almost, to see pieces of those people in the man in front of you. It’s intimate, too intimate, and Giorno is still pinning you with that look, so you decide now is a good time to veer the conversation onto a different course.

“Well, if your whole real estate business doesn’t work out, I guess you could always ask the local mafia for a job,” you say.

Giorno’s mouth quirks again. “Oh?”

“My friend says they’ve really cracked down on the drug trade around here,” you explain. “I bet you’d fit right in. Be like a real Dark Knight type of situation.”

“Was Batman in the mafia?” Giorno says, matching your playful tone.

“Uh, maybe? He broke a lot of laws, right? So basically the same thing.”

“Mm,” Giorno hums. “Yes, I suppose it is.” Something in his smile is unplaceable to you. It reminds you of the night in the club, when you were pricked with the feeling that something was going over your head. That Giorno is in on some private joke you’re oblivious to.

“But if I was spending my evenings fighting crime,” he begins. “I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of meeting you.”

Warmth spreads through your cheeks, now from more than just the wine. Giorno is easy to talk to. Charming, witty, polite. The food he orders for you is delicious, of course, and you don’t realize until your plate is cleared and the sun has set that Giorno has managed to keep you talking for the entire evening. To think that you had been so anxious about this date, and just a few hours later here you are, chatting like you’ve known him for months.

When Giorno leads you outside the moon has already begun to rise, cool night air brushing past your flushed skin. His hand is warm on your lower back as he escorts you down the steps, firm under your fingers as he helps you into the car. When he slides into the driver’s seat and his own door clicks shut beside him, the bustle of the street and chatter of the crowds melts away, an intimate silence filling the small space of the car.

“Have I told you that you look beautiful tonight?” Giorno says, his eyes dipping briefly along the curves of your face, your neck, your…they flit back up to meet yours. Your skin prickles.

“Mm, maybe a couple of times,” you say.

Headlights from passing cars bathe Giorno in fleeting streaks of light, glinting off the rings on his fingers, illuminating his face and the skin of his chest where his unbuttoned shirt parts. He brushes his fingers over the soft skin of your hand, watching your face intently, as if testing the waters for your reaction. You curl your fingers into his, feeling the warmth of his palms, the slick metal of his rings.

“Thank you for taking me out,” you say softly.

“The pleasure was mine,” he says, his thumb making slow drags across your knuckles. “You’ll have to allow me the chance to do it again. After all, I need to redeem myself with a drink you actually enjoy.”

You huff sharply at the mischievous edge to his words. “You noticed.”

He smiles, teasing as his fingers brush up and down yours. “It was very kind of you to try to spare my ego, but I did notice.”

“And you were just going to let me suffer through it?” your smile back.

Giorno leans into your space, your twined hands close enough to his face that you can feel his breath on your fingers.

“Do you know that you scrunch your face when you drink something bitter?” he says. You’re suddenly very aware of the drool pooling underneath your tongue, and swallow hard. “It’s very endearing, (y/n).”

You can’t seem to push a response through your lips. The two of you sit in a charged silence, watching each other, feeling the warmth radiating from his body.

He says your name in a low voice. “May I kiss you?”

Oh, he may. He absolutely may.

“Yes,” you breathe. His hand untangles from yours to slide up your shoulder, your neck, under the line of your jaw and into the thick of your hair. His fingers curl into it there, the pressure on your scalp tilting your head back and pulling a sharp exhale from your lips.

“Can I ask you a question?” he says, his breathe fanning across your mouth. You answer with an “mm,” too woozy with anticipation to put together anything more.

“How long have you wanted me to do it?”

Oh, he is cocky. Most frustrating is the fact that you can’t say it’s undeserved; Giorno is gorgeous, and charming, and right in front you, and you do want it. You have wanted it since…you think back to the first time you felt this familiar heat around him.

“Since you cornered me. Against the bathroom door in the club,” you tell him.

From this close, you can see the tiniest pull of a smile on his lips. “Hm,” he says. “That long?”

He’s finally worn out your patience. Your hands fly to his face, cupping the sharp lines of his jaw, threading into his hair and tugging him into you, covering his warm mouth with your own. He hums into it, returning your kiss with equal pressure, and as quickly as you’ve kissed him you realize he’s already taken back the reigns.

Giorno’s mouth works against yours slowly, surely. You cede control to him happily, letting your hands slide down the hard lines of his neck and shoulders. The fabric of his jacket is like butter under your hands, fine and delicate over his sturdy form. You nudge it to the side as your hands wander, the skin of them pressing into the bare skin of his neck where his muscles work as he takes your mouth over and over again.

His other hand presses into your waist then, encouraging you over the center console and closer to his chest. You let him pull you wherever he pleases, one hand dropping onto his leg to steady yourself as you’re dragged nearly on top of him. With the distance closed, his hand slides to wrap his entire arm around you, pulling you further into his chest, close enough for his mouth to wander down, down to your neck and the sensitive space where it meets your shoulder.

Your breathing has picked up. Enough that the window in front of you is beginning to fog, and you can feel your chest brushing up against his with every gulp of air. He runs a hand down your back in soothing strokes.

“Easy,” he coos. “I’ve got you.”

He pulls away just enough for you catch your breath, but close enough still to leave his grip in your hair and his arm around your body, making steady, steady strokes. It isn’t like you to get so worked up so quickly. But then, none of your dates before now have been…well, Giorno.

“Giorno,”you breathe. Your fingers find the skin of his shoulders again, scratching lightly them, and the sharp breath it pulls from the man pressed up against you is delicious.

“I’m here,” he says. Is his voice getting huskier? “Is there something you need?”

There is, but it isn’t something you normally ask for. Not on a first date, and certainly not from a man your hardly know.

But Giorno has made you feel nothing but safe in the short time you’ve spent with him. It’s irrational, how much you want to trust him despite practically being strangers, but you cannot deny this quality about him that just makes you feel…safe. That coaxes you gently into placing your faith in him.

He says your name again. “You don’t have to do anything you’re uncomfortable with. I can take you home now, if that’s what you want.”

But you do want it. You do want him. The hard part is asking for it. Giorno is older than you, wealthy, gorgeous, wildly successful, and a dozen other things that make insecurity coil tightly in your gut. But he watches you so patiently while you deliberate, his gentle hand making circles on your back, and to assume that he would look down on you for any of those things feels as if it would be an insult to his character.

You swallow hard. “No, I want it.”

That smile on his lips again. “Want what?”

Your head drops to his shoulder and you groan, taking a fistful of his undershirt. “Please don’t tease me like this.”

Giorno tucks his head into the space between your neck and your shoulder, his breath fanning over your ear. “Tell me exactly what you want, and I’ll give it to you.”

You whine into his shoulder and only feel a bit embarrassed at the childishness of it. “I can’t,” you tell him.

He places one of his hands into yours and you take it in your grasp. “Then show me.”

Splaying his hand out on your ribs, he waits for your guidance. You intertwine your fingers again, feeling the size of his hand under yours, the metallic edge of his rings. He squeezes your fingers back, but makes no other move. He really is going to make you ask for this.

You let out a long, shaky breath. You want this. You want him. Tentatively, you begin dragging his hand across the plane of your body. Up your ribs, just underneath the swell of your breast, where his thumb brushes curiously over the underwire of your bra. You linger there, moving his hand in short arcs under the curve of your breast, breath hitching as his thumb travels closer and closer to the stiff peak of your nipple…and then you drop your hand, dragging him away from the soft flesh.

His mouth curls into a smile against your shoulder. “Teasing me?”

You laugh breathlessly as you guide his hand over the dip in your waist. “Only since you seem to like it so much.”

His hand slides appreciatively over the meat of your hip, kneading it firmly. You follow the cut of your hipbone inward, underneath the plush of your belly, to the crease between you thigh. Blood rushes hot through your ears, making you almost dizzy with want. Anything you ask for, he said. Anything you ask, he’ll give.

The heat of his mouth attaches to your neck again, and the feeling is so wonderful against your buzzing skin that you feel your eyes flutter close. He’s encouraging you, you realize. Gently coaxing you into confidence. He wants you, too.

Inching him down, you guide his hand to brush over the mound between your hips. Your breath catches. You’ve never had to ask for this before.

You think of the men you’ve been with in times past. How they practically threw themselves at you, taking absolutely anything they could get from you, hungrily, without restraint. This is foreign. It makes you feel almost desperate with need, to be so close to having what you want, but to be so nervous to reach out for it.

Sensing your hesitation, Giorno opens his mouth and presses the wet heat of his tongue flat against your neck, dragging it up along the line of your jaw to the sensitive skin below your ear, and this time your eyes do roll back. The wet trail he leaves on your skin chills in the night air, and you moan for him.

“Che brava ragazza (what a good girl),” he praises you. “You can have it. Just ask me for it, you can have it.”

He squeezes your hand gently, reassuringly, and you don’t have the patience to be bashful anymore. You slide him down to the bunched up hem of your dress, under the fabric, and flat against your aching core. The meat of his palm is firm against your folds and he rewards you immediately with a strong grip around your pussy.

“Good, good girl,” he says, making short strokes with his whole hand up and down your center. He pulls away from your neck only to drag you into another kiss, harder than the last, and you abandon his hand against you to fist both of yours into his hair. The moan you let into his mouth is wanton, embarrassingly so for someone who’s only barely been touched. You can’t bring yourself to care. The pressure between your legs is so, so good.

Deft fingers slip under your panties and you gasp as he slides the pads of his fingers along the wet of your lips.

“All this? Already?” Giorno says airily.

“You make—fuck,” your voice clips as the pads of Giorno’s fingers dip into your entrance, dragging your slick up to the nub of your clit. “Mmmm fuck, you make me feel good.”

Giorno groans, a low rumble in his chest, and you drop your head to his shoulder as his fingers make quick circles around your clit. His pace is steady, pressure firm, as he works you closer and closer to a peak that is quickly approaching.

You take the hand still tangled in your hair and drag it to rest flat on the meat of your breast, which he kneads greedily. The temperature in the confined space of the car has risen, high enough that you can feel sweat starting to gather on your skin and dampen your clothes, but you don’t care. You might be about to squirt all over the interior of Giorno’s nice car, but you can’t bring yourself to care about that either when he’s pulling you so diligently to your climax.

“You’re so worked up,” he says, and his voice is definitely shot now. Deep. Gravelly. A little bit desperate. “Are you going to cum for me?”

You are. You are you are you are, and his fingers pick up their pace under your panties, and the hand on your breast finds the soft peak of your nipple underneath the pad of your bra and pinches, and you squeal. The pressure between your legs is hot, hot, hot.

“Yes, I’m gonna cum. Fuck, I’m gonna cum, please please please-“ You collapse into his chest, thighs shaking underneath you, and moan into the fabric of his suit as the pressure in your hips finally releases. With the arm around your waist Giorno holds you upright while you go practically boneless against him, hips stuttering into his hand as he works you through the length of your orgasm, his chest rumbling against you as he praises, “brava, brava ragazza, proprio così (good, good girl, just like that).”

As the rush begins to sizzle out, his fingers continue in their persistent slide against your clit, until you’re pushing at his hand with an “ah, ah” that has him laughing airily. The car is filled with the sound of your fluttering breaths, and of the quiet, soothing noises Giorno makes above you.

“Good thing I don’t have a night job fighting crime,” Giorno teases you.

You laugh breathlessly. “Yeah, good thing.”

You wrap your arms around his broad chest, sinking into the warmth of his body, and he envelops you in his arms. Stroking your back as you shiver, carding fingers through the tangles of your hair. As the fuzz begins to clear from your head, you feel the faintest warmth in your belly again as you realize you aren’t quite finished. Your fingers slide along the edge of his belt, playing with the buckle before he scoops your hand into his and brings it to his lips for a kiss.

“Not yet, amore,” he says. “Not here.”

Your shoulders slump with your disappointment and he laughs against your hair.

“When I fuck you,” he speaks into your ear. “I’m going to do it properly.” You shiver against him.

He lets you rest against his chest until you’ve caught your breath. “Do you have work tomorrow?” he asks.

You shake your head. “No.”

“Then come home with me,” he says with a smile and a kiss to your head. “And I’ll let you have whatever else you want.”

You pull back to look at him. Cheeks flushed. Hair tousled from the work of your fingers. The collar of his shirt pushed wide open against his chest. You want, you want, you want.

“Ok,” you answer, and press your lips to his warm cheek. The car starts with a low rumble, and you fix yourself in your seat. Your skirt is bunched around your waist, your hair a mess, your makeup smeared, no doubt. Giorno pulls away from the curb and you roll down the emptying Naples streets. “But only if I get to tease you this time.”

He meets your eyes with that look that promises absolutely nothing good. “Of course,” he says, pulling your hand to his mouth for another kiss. And another.

“Anything you want.”

[hyunsvngs]

Hihi! New anon here heh. Idk why but enemy!Minho and reader having to share a room because it's winter and your room's heating is broken and Minho's mom comes to visit and tells him to let you sleep in his room until it's fixed like the girlboss she is and he gets soo pissed at you he starts an argument amd you storm out. He's so worried because he loves you but is in denial that he waits on the couch before dragging your ass to his room and you have make up sex. Random ik but I wanna know your thoughts!

-Love, new anon

OH THE E2L…. bonus points if mr mimo is coming out shirtless wearing just boxers cause yk he’s been in bed (i have also been thinking about his thighs in just boxers all day)

LIKEEE he drags you off to his room once you get back and he hasn’t even said ANYTHING. you lose your head a little because why is he so silent? he’s just practically taken you hostage into his room and for what? you’re mid-shout when he just kisses you, one muscled arm bringing you in by your waist.

you’re not surprised when he’s bullying his cock into your cunt later on. you’re whining, and all you can say is “thank you- thank you for letting me stay, min.” and he can’t help but chuckle - you’re thanking him right now? at this point in time? he runs one thumb over your cheekbone, and then he’s cooing at you. “don’t thank me for that, jagi, thank me for how i’m gonna make you cum.”

[bananamiimii]

sweeties!!

[chi-chai-monchan]

[ariadnasdiary]

Happy Birthday Shortcake~

Ari's favorite day of the year is of course her B-day! It's the only day she allows herself to be selfish, spoiled and overall feel like a princess. She specially loves to spend it with her friends and of course her boyfriend 💕🙈. I love how this turned out 🥹💕.

Gorgeous commission by @dlyuiannii!!

🚫 As always: the reposting, editing/tracing and claiming of this picture as yours is strictly forbidden 🚫

[strawhatboy]

When you're on the sea, you fight pirates! | happy birthday margaux @gizaoyas

[presidential--suite]

🎂🎂 *•~ Happy Birthday Trey ~•* 💜💜

[m4g0rtz]

It's midnight in Jersey! Happy birthday, love! 🦖🐄💖

Thank you so much Jules!!! It was a bit of a rough morning today (kids will do that to you 😂), but your ask made me smile. I appreciate your kindness, your listening ear, all of the ways that we are the same, and all of the ways we are different. You're the best kind of friend a person could ask for and my birthday will be better just for knowing you. 💖🦖💖🐄💖

[digitalfriend08]

[llicorice]

SCARLET ALSO SAYS LICORICE IS REAL

oh what a wonderful creature! a very beautiful cat you have, hello scarlet! i will be sure to tell licorice

[happyfunf3tti]

oh these are adorable