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pucksandpower · 3 months ago

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Princess Protection Program

Logan Sargeant x Princess of England!Reader

Summary: when your safety is compromised due to escalating threats, the decision is made to send you overseas for your own protection, with one caveat: no one can know about your true identity (aka the fix-it fic we desperately need right now)

The sun streams through the ornate windows of Buckingham Palace as you pace anxiously in your private chambers. Your fingers fidget with the hem of your designer blouse, a habit you’ve developed when stress creeps in. The weight of the situation hangs heavy in the air, thicker than the plush carpet beneath your feet.

A sharp knock at the door makes you jump. “Come in,” you call, trying to keep your voice steady.

Your father, King Edward, enters with a grim expression etched on his face. Behind him, your mother, Queen Charlotte, follows closely, her usual poise wavering slightly.

“Darling,” your mother begins, her voice soft but strained. “We need to talk.”

You sink into a nearby armchair, bracing yourself. “Is this about the threats?”

Your father nods, his jaw tightening. “I’m afraid so. The situation has ... escalated.”

“How bad is it?” You ask, dreading the answer.

The King exchanges a look with your mother before responding. “Bad enough that we can no longer ignore it. The security team believes your life is in genuine danger.”

Your heart races, but you force yourself to remain composed. “What does that mean for me?”

Your mother moves closer, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. “We think it’s best if you leave London for a while, sweetheart. Just until we can neutralize the threat.”

You stand abruptly, shaking your head. “Leave? But I can’t! I have responsibilities here, engagements planned for the entire summer!”

“Your safety is our top priority,” your father interjects firmly. “Everything else can wait.”

“Where would I even go?” You ask, exasperation creeping into your voice.

Your mother hesitates before answering. “We’ve been discussing options with the security team. We think it’s best if you go somewhere ... unexpected.”

You raise an eyebrow, curiosity momentarily overriding your anxiety. “Unexpected how?”

“Florida.”

You blink, certain you’ve misheard. “I’m sorry, did you say Florida?”

Your mother nods, a small smile tugging at her lips despite the gravity of the situation. “Your Aunt Maggie and Uncle George have that lovely beach house in Fort Lauderdale, remember? We visited when you were younger.”

“But ... Florida?” You repeat, still struggling to process the idea. “It’s so ... American.”

Your father chuckles softly. “Exactly. No one would think to look for you there. It’s the perfect cover.”

You begin pacing again, your mind racing. “For how long?”

“We’re not sure yet,” your mother admits. “But we promise to bring you home as soon as it’s safe.”

You pause, turning to face your parents. The concern in their eyes is palpable, and it hits you just how serious this situation must be for them to suggest such a drastic measure.

“Can’t I just stay here? Increase security or something?” you plead, making one last attempt.

Your father shakes his head firmly. “The palace is too exposed. There are too many variables, too many potential weak points. We need you somewhere more ... inconspicuous.”

You sigh heavily, knowing deep down that they’re right. “When do I leave?”

“Tonight,” your mother says softly. “We’ve already begun making arrangements.”

Your eyes widen. “Tonight? But I haven’t packed, I haven’t said goodbye to anyone-”

“I know it’s sudden,” your father interrupts gently, “but the quicker we move, the safer you’ll be.”

You nod slowly, reality sinking in. “I understand.”

Your mother pulls you into a tight embrace. “Oh, darling. I know this is difficult, but please try to think of it as an adventure. A chance to experience a different kind of life for a while.”

You lean into her hug, drawing comfort from her familiar perfume. “I’ll try, Mum.”

As she pulls away, your father clears his throat. “There’s one more thing. While you’re there, you’ll need to ... blend in.”

You furrow your brow. “What do you mean?”

“We think it’s best if you adopt a different identity,” he explains. “Just temporarily, of course. To throw off anyone who might be looking for you.”

“A different identity?” You repeat, the concept both thrilling and terrifying. “Like ... a commoner?”

Your mother nods encouragingly. “Exactly. You’ll be staying with Maggie and George, of course, but to the rest of the world, you’ll just be their niece visiting for the summer.”

You take a deep breath, trying to wrap your head around it all. “I suppose I could use a break from royal duties,” you admit with a small smile.

Your father’s face softens with relief. “That’s my girl. Always looking on the bright side.”

A knock at the door interrupts the moment. “Your Majesties,” a voice calls from outside. “The security team is ready for the briefing.”

Your father sighs. “We’d better go. Darling, start packing what you can. Someone will be up shortly to help you with the rest.”

As your parents move towards the door, you call out, “Wait!”

They turn back, concern etched on their faces.

“I just ... I love you both,” you say, your voice thick with emotion. “And I know you’re just trying to protect me.”

Your mother’s eyes glisten with unshed tears as she rushes back to embrace you once more. “We love you too, sweetheart. More than anything in this world.”

Your father joins the hug, his strong arms encircling both of you. For a moment, you’re not a princess facing a crisis, but simply a daughter cherishing her parents’ love.

As they reluctantly pull away, your father says, “Remember, this is only temporary. Before you know it, you’ll be back home, safe and sound.”

You nod, forcing a brave smile. “I know. I’ll make the best of it, I promise.”

With one last loving look, your parents exit the room, leaving you alone with your swirling thoughts and a suitcase to pack.

You move to your closet, running your hands along the rows of designer gowns and tailored suits. How do normal people dress in Florida? You wonder, realizing just how much you’ll need to adapt.

As you begin selecting clothes, a bittersweet excitement begins to bubble up alongside your anxiety. It’s terrifying, leaving everything you know behind, but there’s a tiny part of you that can’t help but wonder what adventures await in this unexpected journey.

You’re lost in thought when another knock sounds at the door. “Come in,” you call, expecting to see one of the staff sent to help you pack.

Instead, your best friend and lady-in-waiting, Olivia, bursts into the room. “Is it true?” She demands without preamble. “Are they really shipping you off to America?”

You sigh, nodding reluctantly. “Florida, to be exact.”

Olivia’s eyes widen. “Florida? Land of alligators and questionable fashion choices? Oh, darling, no.”

Despite everything, you can’t help but laugh. “It’s not that bad. I hope.”

Olivia moves to your side, helping you fold a blouse. “How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Until they catch whoever’s behind the threats, I suppose.”

Olivia’s face softens with concern. “Are you scared?”

You pause, considering the question. “A little,” you confess. “But also ... I don’t know. Maybe a tiny bit excited? Is that weird?”

Olivia shakes her head, a small smile playing on her lips. “Not at all. It’s like your own personal Princess Protection Program, but with better weather and beach access.”

You snort, grateful for her ability to find humor even in the darkest situations. “I’m going to miss you so much, Liv.”

“Oh, please,” she scoffs, though her eyes are suspiciously shiny. “You’ll be having so much fun living your secret Florida life, you’ll forget all about little old me.”

“Never,” you promise, pulling her into a fierce hug.

As you embrace, Olivia whispers, “Just promise me one thing?”

“Anything,” you reply without hesitation.

“If you meet some devastatingly handsome American and fall madly in love, you have to tell me every single detail.”

You pull back, laughing. “Liv, I’m going there to hide, not find romance!”

Olivia winks mischievously. “The best love stories always happen when you least expect them, darling. Trust me on this.”

As you continue packing, chatting and joking with Olivia, the weight on your shoulders begins to lift slightly. Yes, you’re leaving behind everything you know. Yes, there’s danger lurking in the shadows. But with the love of your family and friends behind you, you feel a flicker of hope.

Whatever awaits you in Fort Lauderdale, you’ll face it head-on. After all, you’re not just any ordinary girl — you’re a princess. And princesses, as you’ve always been taught, are made of stronger stuff.

As the sun begins to set, casting long shadows across your room, you zip up the last of your suitcases. Olivia helps you change into a simple outfit — jeans and a t-shirt, clothes that won’t draw attention during your journey.

A soft knock at the door signals the arrival of your security detail. “Your Highness,” a voice calls. “It’s time.”

You take a deep breath, looking around your room one last time. “Well,” you say to Olivia, your voice barely above a whisper, “I guess this is it.”

Olivia pulls you into one last fierce hug. “Go show those Floridians what British royalty is made of,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. “And don’t you dare come back with an American accent.”

You laugh, wiping away a stray tear. “I’ll do my best. Take care of everything while I’m gone, okay?”

“Of course,” Olivia promises. “Now go, before I change my mind and hide you in my closet instead.”

With one last smile, you open the door. Your security team waits outside, their faces a mask of professional calm. As you follow them through the winding corridors of the palace, each step feels both like an ending and a beginning.

At the private exit, your parents wait. Your mother pulls you into a tight embrace, whispering words of love and encouragement. Your father, ever the king, maintains his composure, but you can see the emotion swimming in his eyes as he kisses your forehead.

“Remember,” he says softly, “no matter where you are, you carry the strength of your ancestors with you. You are a princess of the realm, even if you’re pretending not to be for a while.”

You nod, standing a little straighter. “I won’t let you down.”

“You never could,” your mother assures you.

With one last look at your family, at the only home you’ve ever known, you step into the waiting car. As it pulls away from the palace, you don’t look back. Instead, you fix your gaze forward, towards the unknown adventure that awaits.

Florida, you think with a mix of trepidation and excitement, I hope you’re ready for me.

***

The Florida sun beats down mercilessly as you step out of the air-conditioned car, squinting against the bright light. The humid air immediately wraps around you like a warm, damp blanket, a stark contrast to London’s typically cool climate.

“Welcome to Fort Lauderdale, sweetheart!” Your Aunt Maggie’s voice rings out, full of warmth and excitement.

You turn to see her hurrying down the driveway of an impressive Mediterranean-style villa, arms outstretched. Behind her, your Uncle George follows at a more leisurely pace, a wide grin on his face.

“Aunt Maggie, Uncle George,” you greet them, trying to infuse your voice with enthusiasm despite your jet lag and lingering anxiety. “Thank you so much for having me.”

Aunt Maggie pulls you into a tight hug, her floral perfume momentarily overwhelming your senses. “Oh, darling, we’re thrilled to have you. Aren’t we, George?”

Uncle George nods, giving you a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Absolutely. Our home is your home, princess. Er, I mean-”

“Just Y/N,” you remind him quietly, glancing around to ensure no one overheard. “Remember, I’m just your normal, everyday niece visiting for the summer.”

“Right, right,” Uncle George says, lowering his voice. “Sorry about that. Old habits, you know.”

Aunt Maggie loops her arm through yours, leading you towards the house. “Don’t you worry, dear. We’ve briefed all the neighbors. As far as they know, you’re our lovely niece from England, taking some time to experience life across the pond.”

You nod, grateful for their thoughtfulness. As you enter the house, the cool air conditioning washes over you, providing instant relief from the oppressive heat outside.

“Now,” Aunt Maggie continues, “I know this must all be very overwhelming for you. Why don’t you freshen up, and then we’ll give you the grand tour?”

“That sounds lovely,” you agree, realizing just how grimy you feel after the long journey.

Uncle George appears with your suitcases. “I’ll show you to your room. It’s got a great view of the pool.”

As you follow him up the stairs, you can’t help but marvel at the casual opulence of the house. It’s certainly luxurious, but in a relaxed, lived-in way that feels worlds apart from the formal grandeur of the palace.

Your room, as promised, is beautiful. Large windows overlook a sparkling pool surrounded by swaying palm trees. For a moment, you feel like you’ve stepped into a holiday brochure.

“I’ll let you get settled,” Uncle George says, setting down your bags. “Take your time, we’re on Florida time now. No rush.”

As the door closes behind him, you sink onto the plush bed, finally allowing yourself a moment to process everything. You’re here, in Florida, thousands of miles from home and everything familiar. The reality of your situation hits you anew, and you feel a lump forming in your throat.

A soft knock at the door interrupts your thoughts. “Y/N, dear?” Aunt Maggie calls. “I’ve brought you some iced tea. May I come in?”

“Of course,” you reply, quickly composing yourself.

Aunt Maggie enters, carrying a tall glass of tea so cold that condensation is already forming on the outside. She hands it to you with a warm smile. “I thought you might need this. The Florida heat can be quite a shock to the system.”

You take a sip, the sweet, refreshing liquid instantly soothing your parched throat. “Thank you, Aunt Maggie. This is delicious.”

She sits beside you on the bed, her face softening with concern. “How are you really doing, sweetheart? I can only imagine how difficult this must be for you.”

For a moment, you consider maintaining your composed facade. But something about Aunt Maggie’s gentle demeanor breaks through your defenses. “I’m ... scared,” you admit quietly. “And I miss home already. But I’m trying to be brave.”

Aunt Maggie wraps an arm around your shoulders. “Oh, my dear. It’s okay to be scared. What you’re going through, it’s not easy. But you are brave, just by being here.”

You lean into her embrace, allowing yourself this moment of vulnerability. “I just feel so ... out of place. I don’t know how to be a normal person.”

Aunt Maggie chuckles softly. “Well, I’ve got news for you. None of us really know how to be normal. We’re all just figuring it out as we go along.”

Her words bring a small smile to your face. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Tell you what,” she says, giving your shoulders a squeeze. “Why don’t you get changed into something cool and comfortable, and then we’ll show you around the neighborhood? It might help you feel more settled.”

You nod, feeling a flicker of curiosity despite your apprehension. “I’d like that.”

After Aunt Maggie leaves, you dig through your suitcase, realizing with a start that you have no idea what constitutes “cool and comfortable” in Florida. You eventually settle on a light sundress and sandals, hoping it’s appropriate.

Downstairs, Aunt Maggie and Uncle George are waiting. “Oh, don’t you look lovely,” Aunt Maggie coos. “Very Floridian chic.”

Uncle George grabs a set of keys from a hook by the door. “Shall we take the golf cart? It’s the preferred mode of transportation around here.”

You blink in surprise. “We’re allowed to drive golf carts on the streets?”

“Welcome to Florida, kiddo,” Uncle George laughs. “Different rules apply here.”

The next hour is a whirlwind tour of the neighborhood. You zip along palm-lined streets in the golf cart, waving at neighbors who call out cheerful greetings. Aunt Maggie provides a running commentary.

“That’s the Johnsons’ place — lovely people, but their dog is a menace to squirrels everywhere. Oh, and over there is the community pool, although everyone just uses their own pools, really. And that’s where we have our neighborhood barbecues ...”

As if on cue, a man watering his impeccably manicured lawn calls out, “Hey, Maggie! George! Don’t forget the barbecue tonight!”

Aunt Maggie turns to you with a bright smile. “Oh, that’s perfect timing! What do you say, Y/N? Feel up to a little neighborhood gathering?”

You hesitate, anxiety bubbling up at the thought of meeting so many new people. But you remind yourself that this is part of your cover, part of being normal. “Sure,” you say, trying to sound enthusiastic. “Why not?”

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of unpacking and preparation. Before you know it, you’re walking down the street with your aunt and uncle, a dish of something called “ambrosia salad” in your hands.

The barbecue is in full swing when you arrive. The air is filled with the smell of grilling meat and the sound of laughter and cheerful conversation. Children splash in a nearby pool while adults mingle, cold drinks in hand.

“George! Maggie!” A jovial man with a impressive mustache approaches, clapping Uncle George on the back. “Glad you could make it. And this must be your niece!”

You smile politely, remembering your cover story. “Yes, hello. I’m Y/N. It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Welcome to the neighborhood, Y/N,” the man says warmly. “I’m Bill, by the way. Now, let me introduce you to some folks. Can’t have you standing around like a wallflower, can we?”

Before you can protest, Bill is leading you through the crowd, making introductions left and right. You smile and nod, trying desperately to remember names and keep your story straight.

“And this here is Logan,” Bill says, stopping in front of a young man about your age. “Logan’s our local celebrity, drives race cars for a living.”

You look up, meeting a pair of startlingly green eyes. The young man — Logan — smiles, and you feel your heart skip a beat.

“Hi there,” Logan says, his voice a pleasant drawl. “Logan Sargeant. Nice to meet you, Y/N.”

“Hello,” you manage, suddenly very aware of your accent. “You’re a race car driver?”

Logan nods, a hint of pride in his smile. “Formula 1, yeah. I drive for Williams Racing.”

Your eyes widen in recognition. You’ve attended a few F1 events in your official capacity, though you’ve never paid much attention to the drivers themselves. “That’s impressive,” you say genuinely.

“Ah, it’s just a job,” Logan says with a self-deprecating shrug, though his eyes sparkle with obvious passion. “What brings you to our little slice of paradise?”

You launch into your prepared story about traveling abroad, surprised at how easily the words flow. Logan listens attentively, asking questions that show genuine interest.

Just as you’re starting to relax into the conversation, Aunt Maggie appears at your elbow. “Y/N, dear, come meet the Hendersons. They’ve got a daughter about your age.”

You turn back to Logan with an apologetic smile. “It was nice meeting you, Logan.”

“Likewise,” he replies, that charming grin still in place. “Hope to see you around, Y/N.”

As Aunt Maggie leads you away, you can’t help but glance back over your shoulder. Logan is still watching you, and when your eyes meet, he gives a little wave.

For the rest of the evening, you find yourself scanning the crowd, hoping for another glimpse of those green eyes. But between meeting what feels like the entire neighborhood and helping Aunt Maggie with hostess duties, you don’t get another chance to talk to Logan.

As the sun begins to set, casting a golden glow over the gathering, you feel a mix of emotions washing over you. There’s still a lingering sadness, a homesickness that sits heavy in your chest. But there’s also a tiny spark of excitement, a feeling that maybe, just maybe, this unexpected adventure might not be so bad after all.

Uncle George finds you as the party begins to wind down. “How you holding up, kiddo?” He asks gently.

You consider the question for a moment. “I’m okay,” you say, surprising yourself with how true it feels. “It’s all very different, but ... I think I might be able to get used to it.”

Uncle George smiles, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “That’s my girl. Now, what do you say we head home? I don’t know about you, but all this socializing has worn me out.”

You nod gratefully, suddenly aware of how tired you are. As you walk home with your aunt and uncle, the warm night air filled with the sound of cicadas, you feel a sense of calm settling over you.

This isn’t home, not really. But maybe, for now, it can be enough. And as you climb into bed that night, your mind drifts to a pair of green eyes and a charming smile, wondering what other surprises Florida might have in store for you.

***

The Florida sun has barely crested the horizon when you step out of your aunt and uncle’s house, running shoes laced tight. You’ve taken to early morning jogs as a way to clear your head and adjust to the new time zone. The neighborhood is quiet, save for the occasional chirp of exotic birds and the distant hum of sprinklers.

As you round the corner, lost in thought, you nearly collide with another runner coming from the opposite direction.

“Whoa there!” A familiar voice calls out, hands reaching out to steady you.

You look up, startled, into the green eyes of Logan Sargeant. He’s dressed in running gear, a light sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead.

“Oh! Logan, I’m so sorry,” you stammer, feeling heat rise to your cheeks that has nothing to do with the morning warmth.

Logan grins, his hand lingering on your arm for a moment before dropping away. “No harm done. I didn’t know you were a runner.”

You shrug, suddenly self-conscious. “I’m not really. Just trying to ... acclimate, I suppose.”

“To the heat or to Florida in general?” Logan asks, falling into step beside you as you both slow to a walk.

“Both, I think,” you admit with a small laugh. “It’s quite different from home.”

Logan nods understandingly. “I bet. I’ve been to England quite a bit since Williams is based there. Beautiful country, but yeah, not exactly known for its tropical climate.”

You’re about to respond when your stomach lets out an embarrassingly loud growl. Logan’s eyebrows shoot up in amusement.

“Sounds like someone worked up an appetite,” he chuckles. “Have you tried the coffee shop down on Atlantic Boulevard yet? They make a mean breakfast burrito.”

You shake your head, realizing you haven’t ventured much beyond the immediate neighborhood.

Logan’s face lights up. “Well, we can’t have that. What do you say we grab some breakfast? My treat, to make up for almost running you over.”

You hesitate for a moment, your ingrained caution warring with the genuine warmth in Logan’s smile. “I wouldn’t want to impose ...”

“Not at all,” Logan insists. “Besides, I could use a coffee after this run. What do you say?”

Against your better judgment, you find yourself nodding. “Alright, that sounds lovely. Thank you.”

The walk to the coffee shop is filled with easy conversation. Logan asks about your impressions of Florida so far, and you find yourself relaxing as you share some of your culture shock moments.

“Wait, you’ve never had a key lime pie before?” Logan asks incredulously as you approach the quaint storefront of the coffee shop.

You shake your head, laughing. “I had never even heard of it! Aunt Maggie was scandalized.”

Logan holds the door open for you, the aroma of fresh coffee and baked goods washing over you as you enter. “Well, we’ll have to remedy that. They make a pretty decent one here, actually.”

As you settle into a cozy booth by the window, you can’t help but marvel at how ... normal this feels. Sitting in a cafe with a handsome boy, discussing pastries and local cuisine. It’s a far cry from formal state dinners and carefully orchestrated public appearances.

“So,” Logan says after you’ve placed your orders, “what brings you to Fort Lauderdale? Your aunt mentioned something about you taking some time off?”

You nod, reciting the cover story you’ve practiced. “Yes, I wanted to experience life outside of England for a bit before graduate school. My aunt and uncle were kind enough to let me stay with them.”

Logan leans forward, genuinely interested. “That’s cool. Any specific plans while you’re here?”

You shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. “Not really. Just ... experiencing life, I suppose. What about you? Shouldn’t you be off racing cars somewhere exotic?”

Logan grins, a spark of excitement lighting up his eyes. “Usually, yeah. But it’s the summer shutdown right now. All the teams take a break for a few weeks. I always try to come home when I can.”

“That must be nice,” you say softly, a pang of homesickness hitting you unexpectedly.

Logan’s expression softens. “You miss home?”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak for a moment. Logan reaches across the table, giving your hand a gentle squeeze.

“Hey, it’s okay. Homesickness is rough. But you know what helps?”

You look up, meeting his eyes. “What’s that?”

“Making some good memories in your new place,” Logan says with a warm smile. “And I happen to be an expert in South Florida fun.”

You can’t help but smile back. “Is that so?”

Logan nods solemnly. “Oh yeah. In fact, I’d be happy to be your official tour guide. If you’re interested, that is.”

Before you can respond, your food arrives. The conversation flows easily as you eat, Logan regaling you with tales of his racing adventures and you sharing carefully edited stories of life in England.

As you finish your meal, Logan glances at his watch. “I hate to eat and run, but I’ve got a training session in an hour. But hey, if you’re free later, maybe we could meet up at the beach? I could show you some of the best spots.”

You hesitate, knowing you should probably decline. But the thought of spending more time with Logan, of experiencing a slice of normal life, is too tempting to resist.

“That sounds wonderful,” you find yourself saying. “What time were you thinking?”

Logan’s face lights up. “How about three? I can meet you at the public access point near your aunt and uncle’s place.”

You nod, already looking forward to it. “Three it is.”

As you part ways outside the cafe, Logan gives you another heart-melting smile. “See you later, Y/N. And welcome to Fort Lauderdale.”

The rest of the morning passes in a blur. You help Aunt Maggie with some gardening, your mind constantly drifting to thoughts of green eyes and easy smiles. By the time 3 o’clock rolls around, you’re a bundle of nervous energy.

You spot Logan waiting by the beach access, a backpack slung over one shoulder. He waves as you approach, that now-familiar grin spreading across his face.

“Ready for Beach Life 101?” He asks as you fall into step beside him.

You nod, breathing in the salty air. “Lead the way, Professor Sargeant.”

Logan laughs, the sound warm and genuine. “Oh, I like that. Maybe I’ve found my post-racing career.”

As you walk along the shoreline, Logan points out various landmarks and shares local trivia. You find yourself captivated, not just by the information, but by the passion with which he speaks about his hometown.

“And over there,” Logan says, pointing to a stretch of beach dotted with volleyball nets, “is where I learned that I am absolutely terrible at beach volleyball.”

You giggle, the sound surprising even yourself. “Oh? Do tell.”

Logan dramatically recounts a particularly disastrous game from his teenage days, complete with exaggerated gestures. You’re laughing so hard you barely notice when you stumble over a piece of driftwood.

Logan’s arm shoots out, steadying you. “Whoa there. You okay?”

You nod, suddenly very aware of how close you’re standing. “Yes, thank you. I’m not usually this clumsy.”

“Must be my sparkling wit distracting you,” Logan teases, his hand lingering on your arm for a moment before dropping away.

As the afternoon wears on, you find yourself relaxing more and more in Logan’s company. He’s easy to talk to, genuinely interested in your thoughts and experiences. For a few blissful hours, you almost forget about the circumstances that brought you here.

As the sun begins to dip towards the horizon, painting the sky in brilliant oranges and pinks, Logan leads you to a quiet spot away from the main beach.

“This,” he says with a flourish, “is the best place to watch the sunset in all of Fort Lauderdale.”

You settle onto the sand, marveling at the view. “It’s beautiful,” you breathe.

Logan sits beside you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his sun-kissed skin. “Yeah, it really is.”

For a moment, you sit in comfortable silence, watching as the sun slowly sinks into the ocean. Then Logan turns to you, his expression suddenly serious.

“Can I ask you something?”

You nod, a flicker of nervousness igniting in your chest. “Of course.”

“Why do I get the feeling there’s more to your story than you’re letting on?”

Your heart races, panic threatening to overwhelm you. “What do you mean?”

Logan shrugs, his eyes searching your face. “I don’t know. There’s just something about you. The way you carry yourself, the things you say ... or don’t say. It’s like you’re holding part of yourself back.”

You look away, focusing on the horizon. “I’m just ... adjusting. To being here, I mean.”

Logan nods slowly. “I get that. And hey, if there are things you don’t want to share, that’s cool. I just want you to know that you can trust me. If you want to, that is.”

You turn back to him, struck by the sincerity in his eyes. For a wild moment, you consider telling him everything — who you really are, why you’re here. But the weight of your family’s expectations, the very real danger that drove you here, holds you back.

Instead, you offer him a small smile. “Thank you, Logan. That means a lot.”

He returns your smile, reaching out to squeeze your hand gently. “Anytime. Whatever brought you here, I’m glad it did. It’s been really nice getting to know you.”

As the last rays of sunlight disappear beneath the waves, you find yourself wishing you could freeze this moment. Here, with the sound of the ocean in your ears and Logan’s hand warm in yours, you feel more like yourself than you have in years.

But as the sky darkens and the first stars begin to appear, reality starts to creep back in. You know you can’t stay in this bubble forever.

“We should probably head back,” you say reluctantly, breaking the comfortable silence that has settled between you.

Logan nods, standing and offering you a hand up. “Yeah, I guess so. But this doesn’t have to be a one-time thing. Maybe we could do this again sometime?”

You smile, surprising yourself with how much you want that. “I’d like that very much.”

As you walk back along the beach, Logan’s hand brushes against yours. After a moment’s hesitation, you let your fingers intertwine with his. It’s a small gesture, but it feels monumental.

At the edge of your aunt and uncle’s property, you pause. “Thank you for today, Logan. It was ... wonderful.”

Logan’s smile is soft in the dim light. “I’m glad. And if you ever need a break from acclimating, you know where to find me.”

Before you can overthink it, you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Goodnight, Logan.”

As you hurry inside, your heart pounding, you catch a glimpse of Logan touching his cheek, a dazed smile on his face.

In your room, you sink onto the bed, a whirlwind of emotions swirling through you. You know you’re treading dangerous waters. Logan is everything you shouldn’t want — a distraction, a complication, a risk to your cover.

But as you drift off to sleep, your dreams are filled with green eyes and the sound of waves crashing on the shore. And for the first time since arriving in Florida, you find yourself looking forward to what tomorrow might bring.

***

The gentle lapping of waves against the hull of the boat fills the comfortable silence between you and Logan. You’re sprawled on the deck, basking in the warm afternoon sun, while Logan sits nearby, his fingers absently tracing patterns on your arm.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Logan’s voice breaks through your reverie.

You turn your head to look at him, a soft smile playing on your lips. “Just thinking about how surreal this all feels. A few weeks ago, I never could have imagined ... this.”

Logan’s eyebrows quirk up in amusement. “What, lying on a boat in the middle of the Atlantic? Or spending time with an incredibly charming race car driver?”

You laugh, playfully swatting his arm. “Both, I suppose. Though I’m not sure about the ‘incredibly charming’ part.”

“Ouch,” Logan clutches his chest in mock hurt. “You wound me.”

Sitting up, you lean against the boat’s railing, taking in the endless expanse of blue around you. “It’s just ... I’ve never felt this free before. This ... unburdened.”

Logan’s expression softens as he moves to sit beside you. “What do you mean?”

You bite your lip, choosing your words carefully. “Back home, there’s always ... expectations. Responsibilities. Here, with you, I feel like I can just be myself.”

Logan nods thoughtfully. “I get that. It’s kind of like how I feel when I’m racing. When I’m in the car, nothing else matters. It’s just me, the track, and the speed.”

“That sounds exhilarating,” you say, genuinely curious. “Is that why you love it so much?”

Logan’s eyes light up with passion. “Partly, yeah. But it’s more than that. It’s the challenge, you know? Pushing yourself to the absolute limit, always striving to be better, faster.”

You listen intently as Logan delves into the intricacies of Formula 1 racing, marveling at the depth of his knowledge and the intensity of his enthusiasm.

“Sorry,” he says suddenly, looking a bit sheepish. “I tend to ramble when it comes to racing. I’m probably boring you.”

You shake your head emphatically. “Not at all! I love hearing you talk about it. Your passion is ... inspiring.”

Logan’s smile is warm as he takes your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. “Thanks. You know, it’s nice to be able to talk about this stuff with someone who actually listens. Most people just hear ‘Formula 1 driver’ and make assumptions.”

“What kind of assumptions?” you ask, curious.

Logan shrugs. “Oh, you know. That I’m some adrenaline junkie who doesn’t take anything seriously. Or that I’m living some glamorous, carefree life.”

You squeeze his hand gently. “But it’s not like that at all, is it?”

“Not even close,” Logan admits. “Don’t get me wrong, I love what I do. But the pressure ... it can be overwhelming sometimes.”

“How so?” You prompt, recognizing the weight in his voice.

Logan leans back, his gaze distant. “It’s not just about driving fast, you know? There’s the physical training, the technical knowledge, the media obligations. And then there’s the constant pressure to perform. Everyone always questioning whether you deserve your seat.”

You nod, understanding all too well the burden of constant scrutiny. “That sounds incredibly stressful.”

“It can be,” Logan agrees. “But then I remember how lucky I am to be living my dream, and it puts things in perspective.”

You smile, admiring his positive outlook. “That’s a wonderful way of looking at it.”

Logan turns to you, his green eyes intense. “What about you? What’s your dream?”

The question catches you off guard. For so long, your life has been dictated by duty and expectation. The concept of a personal dream feels almost foreign.

“I ... I’m not sure,” you admit quietly. “I’ve never really thought about it in those terms.”

Logan’s brow furrows in concern. “Really? There must be something you’re passionate about, something you’d love to do if you could do anything in the world.”

You ponder the question, thinking back to the interests and passions you’ve had to set aside for your royal duties. “I’ve always loved art,” you say finally. “Painting, specifically. But it’s always been more of a hobby than a serious pursuit.”

Logan’s face lights up. “That’s awesome! Have you painted anything since you’ve been here?”

You shake your head, a twinge of regret in your chest. “No, I ... I didn’t bring any supplies with me.”

“Well, we’ll have to fix that,” Logan says decisively. “I’m sure there’s an art supply store in town. We could go tomorrow if you want?”

The thought of picking up a paintbrush again sends a thrill of excitement through you. “Really? You wouldn’t mind?”

Logan laughs, the sound warm and genuine. “Mind? Y/N, I’d love to see this side of you. Maybe you could even paint me sometime,” he adds with a wink.

You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks. “I’m not sure you’d want that. I’m terribly out of practice.”

“I’m sure you’re amazing,” Logan says with such conviction that you can’t help but believe him a little.

A comfortable silence falls between you, broken only by the sound of the waves and the occasional cry of a seagull. You find yourself studying Logan’s profile, admiring the way the sunlight catches in his hair and highlights the strong line of his jaw.

As if sensing your gaze, Logan turns to you, a soft smile playing on his lips. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say, returning his smile. “I’m just ... happy.”

Logan’s expression becomes tender as he reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah? Me too.”

The moment stretches between you, charged with unspoken emotion. Logan leans in slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away if you want to. But you don’t want to. Instead, you meet him halfway, your lips brushing together in a soft, sweet kiss.

When you part, Logan rests his forehead against yours. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while now,” he admits.

You laugh softly, your heart feeling lighter than it has in years. “Me too.”

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of conversation, laughter, and stolen kisses. As the sun begins to set, painting the sky in brilliant hues of orange and pink, Logan steers the boat back towards the docks.

“So,” he says as you dock, “what do you say we go on a proper date tomorrow? Dinner, maybe? After our art supply shopping trip, of course.”

You nod, unable to keep the smile off your face. “That sounds wonderful.”

As Logan walks you back to your aunt and uncle’s house, his hand warm in yours, you can’t help but marvel at how much your life has changed in just a few short weeks. The weight of your royal responsibilities, the constant fear from the threats that drove you here — it all feels distant, like a half-remembered dream.

At your doorstep, Logan pulls you close, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Goodnight, Y/N. Sweet dreams.”

“Goodnight, Logan,” you reply, reluctant to let go of his hand.

Inside, you lean against the closed door, your heart racing with a mixture of excitement and an emotion you’re not quite ready to name. For the first time in your life, you’re experiencing something that’s wholly yours — not dictated by duty or protocol, but born from genuine connection and shared moments.

The next few weeks pass in a whirlwind of stolen moments and shared adventures. True to his word, Logan takes you to the art supply store, insisting on buying you the best paints and brushes despite your protests.

You find yourself rediscovering your passion for art, spending hours capturing the vibrant colors and energy of Fort Lauderdale on canvas. Logan is always eager to see your latest creations, his genuine enthusiasm bolstering your confidence.

One evening, as you sit on the beach watching the sunset, Logan turns to you with a mischievous glint in his eye. “What do you say we go for a swim?”

You laugh, gesturing at your sundress. “Now? We’re not exactly dressed for it.”

Logan shrugs, his grin widening. “So? Live a little, Y/N. When was the last time you went swimming in your clothes?”

You think back, realizing with a start that you’ve never done anything so spontaneous. “I ... never, actually.”

“Well then,” Logan says, standing and offering you his hand, “there’s no time like the present.”

Before you can overthink it, you take his hand, allowing him to pull you to your feet. Together, you run towards the water, laughing as the cool waves crash around your ankles.

Logan pulls you deeper, until you’re both waist-deep in the ocean. The water is refreshing against your sun-warmed skin, and you can’t help but giggle at the absurdity of it all.

“See?” Logan says, pulling you close. “Isn’t this fun?”

You nod, wrapping your arms around his neck. “It’s perfect.”

As you float together in the gentle waves, the last rays of sunlight painting the sky in brilliant hues, you’re struck by a sudden, overwhelming realization. You’re falling in love with Logan Sargeant.

The thought should terrify you. After all, you know this can’t last forever. Your real life, your responsibilities, they’re all waiting for you back in England. But in this moment, with Logan’s arms around you and the vast ocean stretching out before you, you can’t bring yourself to care about the future.

“What are you thinking about?” Logan asks softly, his fingers tracing patterns on your back.

You look up at him, taking in the warmth in his green eyes, the gentle curve of his smile. “Just ... how happy I am right now. How I wish this moment could last forever.”

Logan’s expression softens as he leans in to kiss you. It’s a kiss full of unspoken emotion, of shared dreams and secret hopes. When you part, Logan rests his forehead against yours.

“Me too, Y/N,” he whispers. “Me too.”

As you float in the warm Florida waters, the stars beginning to twinkle overhead, you allow yourself to fully embrace the moment. You know that reality will intrude eventually, that the carefree days of this Florida summer can’t last forever. But for now, in Logan’s arms, you feel truly, completely free.

And for the first time in your life, you dare to dream of a future shaped by your own desires rather than the expectations of others. It’s a dangerous thought, a seed of hope that you know might lead to heartbreak. But as Logan pulls you in for another kiss, you can’t bring yourself to regret it.

For now, you’re just a girl falling in love under the Florida stars. And for now, that’s enough.

***

The sun is setting over Fort Lauderdale as you and Logan stroll hand in hand along Las Olas Boulevard. The street is alive with the buzz of restaurants and boutiques, but you’re barely aware of your surroundings, lost in thought about the conversation you know you need to have.

Logan’s voice breaks through your reverie. “Earth to Y/N,” he says, gently nudging your shoulder. “You okay? You’ve been pretty quiet tonight.”

You force a smile, trying to quell the anxiety bubbling in your chest. “I’m fine. Just ... thinking.”

Logan’s brow furrows with concern. “Anything you want to talk about?”

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. “Actually, yes. Logan, there’s something I need to tell you-”

But before you can continue, a flash goes off nearby, startling you both. You turn to see a man with a camera, his lens pointed directly at you.

“Princess Y/N?” The photographer calls out, his voice a mix of disbelief and excitement. “Is that you?”

Your blood runs cold as more flashes go off. Suddenly, it seems like cameras are appearing from every direction, voices calling out your name and title.

Logan’s hand tightens around yours. “Princess?” He repeats, confusion evident in his voice. “Y/N, what’s going on?”

You feel panic rising in your throat. This isn’t how you wanted him to find out. “Logan, I can explain-”

But Logan’s already pulling you away from the growing crowd, his jaw set in a hard line. He leads you down a side street, away from the main thoroughfare, until you reach a quiet park.

As soon as you’re alone, Logan drops your hand, turning to face you with a mixture of hurt and bewilderment in his eyes. “Princess Y/N? That’s who you are?”

You nod, your heart racing. “Yes. Logan, I’m so sorry. I was going to tell you-”

“When?” Logan interrupts, his voice sharp. “When were you planning on telling me that everything about you has been a lie?”

“Not everything,” you protest, reaching for his hand, but he pulls away. “My feelings for you are real, Logan. That’s not a lie.”

Logan runs a hand through his hair, pacing back and forth. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t you tell me? Did you think this was funny? Playing at being a normal girl, slumming it with the commoner?”

His words sting, and you feel tears pricking at your eyes. “No! Of course not. It wasn’t like that at all.”

“Then what was it like?” Logan demands. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve been playing me for a fool this entire time.”

You take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart. “I came here because my life was in danger. There were threats, serious ones. My family thought it would be safer if I disappeared for a while, if I lived like a normal person.”

Logan’s expression softens slightly, but the hurt is still evident in his eyes. “Okay, I can understand that. But why didn’t you trust me enough to tell me the truth?”

“I wanted to,” you say softly. “So many times. But I was scared. Scared of how you’d react, scared of ruining what we had.”

“What we had,” Logan repeats, his voice bitter. “And what exactly was that, Y/N? Or should I call you ‘Your Highness’ now?”

You flinch at his tone. “Logan, please. What we have is real. My feelings for you are real.”

“Are they?” Logan challenges. “Because the Y/N I thought I knew wouldn’t have lied to me for weeks. The Y/N I was falling in love with wouldn’t have let me make a fool of myself, talking about my problems like they were anything compared to being actual royalty.”

His words hit you like a physical blow. “Falling in love with?” You repeat, your voice barely above a whisper.

Logan’s expression crumples for a moment before he schools it back into anger. “Yeah, well. I guess that just shows how stupid I’ve been.”

“You’re not stupid,” you insist, taking a step towards him. “Logan, I love you too. That’s why I was so scared to tell you the truth. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Logan laughs humorlessly. “Well, great job there. Because finding out like this? With paparazzi swarming us? That’s so much better.”

You feel tears starting to fall, but you make no move to wipe them away. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen.”

“What did you think was going to happen?” Logan asks, his voice softer now but still laced with hurt. “Did you think we could just keep playing pretend forever? That your real life wouldn’t come crashing back in eventually?”

You shake your head, feeling the weight of your reality pressing down on you. “No, I ... I don’t know what I thought. I just knew that when I was with you, I felt free. I felt like myself for the first time in my life.”

Logan’s expression wavers between anger and sympathy. “And who is that, Y/N? Because I’m not sure I know anymore.”

“I’m still me,” you insist. “The girl who loves art and quiet moments on the beach. The girl who laughs at your terrible jokes and feels safest when she’s in your arms. That’s all real, Logan. The only thing that’s different is my title.”

Logan scoffs. “Only your title? Y/N, you’re a princess. Do you have any idea what this means? The media frenzy, the scrutiny, the expectations ... it’s not just your title that’s different. It’s your entire world.”

You feel a flicker of frustration ignite in your chest. “You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t lived with that pressure every day of my life? That’s why being here, being with you, has meant so much to me. For once, I got to just be myself.”

“But it wasn’t really yourself, was it?” Logan counters. “It was a version of you. A version without the weight of a crown.”

His words hit too close to home, and you feel your own anger rising. “And what about you? You talk about pressure and expectations like I couldn’t possibly understand. But I do understand, Logan. More than you know.”

Logan shakes his head, his voice rising. “It’s not the same thing, Y/N! I chose this life. I worked for it. You ... you were born into it. And you lied about it. To me, to everyone here.”

“I didn’t have a choice!” You shout, surprising yourself with the intensity of your emotion. “Do you think I wanted to lie? Do you think I enjoyed keeping this secret? I was trying to stay alive, Logan. I was trying to protect myself and the people I care about. Including you!”

Logan takes a step back, his eyes wide. For a moment, silence hangs heavy between you.

“Protect me?” He finally says, his voice low. “How does lying to me protect me?”

You take a shaky breath, trying to calm yourself. “The less you knew, the safer you were. And ... the more I fell for you, the more I wanted to keep you separate from that part of my life. To keep this — us — untainted by all of that.”

Logan’s expression softens slightly, but the hurt is still evident in his eyes. “Y/N ... I get that you were in a difficult position. I do. But relationships are built on trust. How can I trust you now?”

His words cut deep, and you feel fresh tears welling up. “I don’t know,” you admit quietly. “But I want to try. Logan, please. What we have ... it’s worth fighting for, isn’t it?”

Logan runs a hand over his face, looking suddenly tired. “I don’t know, Y/N. This is ... it’s a lot to process. I need time to think.”

You nod, your heart sinking. “I understand. I just ... I hope you can forgive me. Eventually.”

Logan looks at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “I hope so too. But right now I think we both need some space.”

As he turns to walk away, you feel a piece of your heart go with him. “Logan,” you call out, your voice breaking.

He pauses but doesn’t turn back. “Yeah?”

“I really do love you,” you say softly. “That was never a lie.”

Logan’s shoulders slump slightly. “I know,” he says, so quietly you almost don’t hear it. And then he’s gone, disappearing into the growing darkness of the park.

You stand there for a long moment, tears streaming down your face, feeling more alone than you ever have before. The sound of distant camera shutters reminds you that your private world has well and truly shattered.

With a heavy heart, you pull out your phone to call your aunt and uncle. It’s time to face the music, to deal with the fallout of your exposed identity. But as you dial, all you can think about is the look of betrayal in Logan’s eyes, wondering if you’ve lost him for good.

As you wait for your aunt to pick up, you gaze out at the Florida skyline, the twinkling lights now seeming cold and distant. For a fleeting moment, you allow yourself to imagine a different life — one where you’re just Y/N, an ordinary girl in love with a boy who races cars. But reality crashes back in as your aunt’s worried voice comes through the phone.

“It’s time to come home,” she says, and you know she doesn’t just mean back to the house.

Your summer of freedom, of love and normalcy, is coming to an end. As you give your aunt your location for pickup, you can’t help but wonder … was it worth it? The joy, the love, the heartbreak — would you do it all again, knowing how it would end?

As you spot your uncle’s car approaching, you realize with a start that yes, you would. Because for a brief, shining moment, you knew what it was like to be truly, completely yourself. And no crown, no duty, no threat could ever take that away from you.

***

The Florida sun beats down mercilessly as you sit on the porch swing of your aunt and uncle’s house, listlessly flipping through a magazine. It’s been a week since the paparazzi incident, a week since your world turned upside down. The threats back home have been neutralized, your security team assures you, but it feels like a hollow victory.

Your aunt’s voice drifts from inside the house. “Y/N, darling, are you sure you don’t want to come to the beach with us?”

“I’m sure, Aunt Maggie,” you call back, forcing a cheerfulness you don’t feel into your voice. “You and Uncle George go ahead. I’m fine here.”

As the sound of their car fades away, you let out a heavy sigh. Fine is the last thing you are. With only a week left before your scheduled return to England, you feel like you’re in limbo, caught between two worlds and belonging to neither.

The sudden roar of an engine pulls you from your melancholy thoughts. A sleek sports car you recognize all too well pulls up in front of the house. Your heart leaps into your throat as Logan steps out, looking as devastatingly handsome as ever in jeans and a simple t-shirt.

For a moment, you both freeze, eyes locked on each other. Then Logan takes a hesitant step forward. “Hi,” he says, his voice carrying a mix of nervousness and determination.

“Hi,” you reply, barely above a whisper. “What are you doing here?”

Logan runs a hand through his hair, a gesture you’ve come to recognize as a sign of his anxiety. “I ... I needed to see you. To talk to you. Can we ...” He gestures vaguely towards the porch.

You nod, moving over on the swing to make room for him. Logan sits, careful to leave space between you, and for a moment, neither of you speaks.

Finally, Logan breaks the silence. “I owe you an apology,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “The way I reacted when I found out ... it wasn’t fair to you.”

You shake your head, feeling a lump form in your throat. “No, Logan. I’m the one who should be apologizing. I lied to you, kept this huge part of my life secret. You had every right to be angry.”

Logan turns to face you, his green eyes intense. “Maybe. But I’ve had time to think. To really process everything. And I realized something important.”

“What’s that?” You ask, hardly daring to breathe.

“That it doesn’t matter,” Logan says simply. “Princess, commoner, whatever — it doesn’t change how I feel about you. Because the girl I fell in love with? She’s real. Royal title or not.”

You feel tears welling up in your eyes. “Logan ...”

He reaches out, taking your hand in his. “Let me finish, please. I talked to my family, tried to sort out my feelings. And I kept coming back to one thing — how I feel when I’m with you. How you make me laugh, how you challenge me, how you see me for who I am, not just what I do.”

“I feel the same way,” you whisper, squeezing his hand. “Being with you ... it’s the freest I’ve ever felt.”

Logan’s thumb traces circles on your palm, sending shivers up your arm. “I know we have a lot to figure out. The distance, the media attention, our careers ... it won’t be easy. But Y/N, I think what we have is worth fighting for. If you’ll have me, that is.”

You can’t hold back your tears any longer. They fall freely as you launch yourself into Logan’s arms, burying your face in his neck. “Of course I’ll have you, you idiot,” you mumble against his skin.

Logan’s arms tighten around you, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head. “Thank God,” he murmurs. “Because I don’t think I could bear losing you again.”

You pull back slightly, meeting his gaze. “I’m so sorry. For lying, for putting you in this position. I never meant to hurt you.”

Logan cups your face gently, wiping away your tears with his thumbs. “I know, sweetheart. And I’m sorry too, for not giving you a chance to explain. For letting my hurt and pride get in the way of what really matters.”

“And what’s that?” You ask, though you think you already know the answer.

“Us,” Logan says simply. “You and me. Everything else ... we’ll figure it out together.”

You lean in, pressing your forehead against his. “Together,” you repeat, loving the sound of it. “I like that.”

Logan’s lips curve into a smile. “Me too. Now, can I please kiss you? Because I’ve been dying to do that since the moment I saw you on this porch.”

You laugh, a sound of pure joy and relief. “I thought you’d never ask.”

As Logan’s lips meet yours, you feel like you’re coming home. The kiss is tender and passionate all at once, an apology and a promise wrapped into one. When you finally part, you’re both breathless.

“So,” Logan says, his arms still wrapped around you. “What now, Princess? Because I have to say, I’m a little out of my depth here. Is there some royal protocol for dating I should know about?”

You can’t help but giggle at the mix of humor and genuine concern in his voice. “Well, traditionally, you’d have to ask my father for permission to court me. Preferably while wearing a powdered wig and breeches.”

Logan’s eyes widen in mock horror. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

You pat his cheek affectionately. “About the wig and breeches, yes. About talking to my father ... that might actually have to happen at some point.”

Logan gulps audibly. “Right. Talking to the King of England. No pressure or anything.”

You snuggle closer to him on the swing. “He’ll love you. How could he not?”

“I hope you’re right,” Logan says, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Because I’m not giving you up without a fight, royal decree or not.”

You sit in comfortable silence for a moment, enjoying the simple pleasure of being in each other’s arms again. But reality begins to creep in, and you feel Logan tense slightly.

“Y/N,” he says softly. “What about ... I mean, you’re leaving in a week, right?”

You nod, feeling a pang in your chest. “Yes. The jet is being sent to pick me up next Saturday.”

Logan takes a deep breath. “And then what? I mean, for us?”

You sit up, turning to face him fully. “I don’t know,” you admit. “I want to make this work, Logan. More than anything. But I won’t lie to you — it won’t be easy.”

Logan nods, his expression serious. “I know. The distance, our schedules ... not to mention the media circus that’s bound to happen when word gets out.”

“Are you sure you want to deal with all that?” You ask, voicing the fear that’s been nagging at you. “It’s not too late to back out, to go back to your normal life.”

Logan’s hand comes up to cup your cheek. “Y/N, look at me.” When you meet his gaze, he continues, “My life stopped being normal the moment I met you. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. Whatever challenges we face, we’ll face them together. Okay?”

You lean into his touch, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. “Okay,” you agree softly.

“Besides,” Logan adds with a mischievous grin, “dating a princess might actually be good for my image. Think of all the sponsorship deals I could get.”

You gasp in mock outrage, swatting his arm. “Logan Sargeant! Is that all I am to you? A ticket to better endorsements?”

Logan laughs, pulling you back into his arms. “Busted. It was all an elaborate scheme to get my face on a tea towel.”

You can’t help but join in his laughter, marveling at how easily he can lift your spirits. As your giggles subside, a thought occurs to you.

“You know,” you say slowly, “there might be a way to make the distance a little more manageable, at least for a while.”

Logan raises an eyebrow. “I’m all ears, Princess.”

You take a deep breath, hoping you’re not overstepping. “Well, the F1 season isn’t over yet, right? There are still races in Europe ...”

Logan’s eyes light up as he catches on. “Races where a certain princess might be able to make an appearance?”

You nod, feeling a flutter of excitement. “It would be a good opportunity to show support for British motorsport. Purely diplomatic reasons, of course.”

Logan’s grin widens. “Of course. Very diplomatic. I’m sure the press won’t read anything into the Princess of Wales suddenly becoming a racing enthusiast.”

You lean in, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “Let them talk. As long as I get to see you, I don’t care what they say.”

Logan’s expression softens. “You really mean that, don’t you? You’re willing to face all the scrutiny, the gossip, just to be with me?”

You nod, your voice firm. “You’re worth it. We’re worth it.”

Logan pulls you close, burying his face in your hair. “I love you,” he murmurs. “God, I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” you reply, your voice thick with emotion. “More than I ever thought possible.”

As you sit there on the porch swing, wrapped in each other’s arms, you know that the road ahead won’t be easy. There will be challenges, obstacles, moments of doubt. But looking into Logan’s eyes, seeing the love and determination there, you know you can face anything as long as you’re together.

The sound of a car approaching breaks the moment. You recognize your aunt and uncle’s vehicle coming up the driveway.

Logan tenses slightly. “Should I ... do you want me to leave?”

You shake your head firmly. “No. Stay. It’s time they met the real you, not just the boy next door.”

As your aunt and uncle pull up, looking surprised to see Logan there, you stand up, hand-in-hand with the man you love. You’re ready to face whatever comes next, be it nosy relatives, prying media, or the complexities of a long-distance relationship between a princess and an F1 driver.

Because now you know — home isn’t a place. It’s not a palace in England or a beach house in Florida. Home is wherever you and Logan are together. And that’s a feeling worth fighting for.

***

The Florida sun is just beginning to peek over the horizon as Logan’s car pulls up to the private airstrip. The sleek private jet waiting on the tarmac is a reminder of the reality you’re about to step back into. Logan cuts the engine, but neither of you move to get out, both reluctant to face the inevitable goodbye.

“So,” Logan says, his voice barely above a whisper, “I guess this is it, huh?”

You turn to him, taking in every detail of his face as if trying to memorize it. “Not it,” you insist. “Just ... see you later.”

Logan manages a small smile, reaching out to take your hand. “Right. See you later. In England. Where you’ll be a princess again.”

You squeeze his hand. “I’ll always be me, Logan. Title or no title.”

“I know,” he says softly. “It’s just ... it’s going to be different, isn’t it? You’ll have responsibilities, obligations. And I’ll be ...”

“The man I love,” you interrupt firmly. “No matter what.”

Logan’s eyes soften at your words. “I love you too. I’m going to miss you so much.”

You lean across the center console, pressing your forehead against his. “I’m going to miss you too. But we’ve got a plan, remember?”

Logan nods, his breath warm against your skin. “Right. The plan. Want to run through it one more time? You know, just to make sure we’ve got it down.”

You can’t help but smile at his attempt to prolong the moment. “Okay, let’s see. You’ve got ten more races this season, right?”

“Yep,” Logan confirms. “Zandvoort, Monza, Baku, Singapore, COTA, Mexico, Brazil, Vegas, Qatar, and Abu Dhabi.”

“And I,” you say, sitting back slightly to meet his gaze, “will be making surprise appearances to as many as I can. To support British motorsport, of course.”

Logan grins. “Of course. Very diplomatic of you.”

“Then,” you continue, “once the season’s over, you’ll be spending more time at the Williams headquarters in Grove.”

“Which, coincidentally, is just a short drive from London,” Logan adds with a wink.

You nod, feeling a flutter of excitement despite the impending separation. “And I’ll make sure to have plenty of reasons to visit Grove. Lots of ... local businesses to support.”

Logan laughs, the sound warming your heart. “I’m sure the people of Grove will greatly appreciate the royal attention.”

“Then there’s Christmas,” you say softly. “I talked to my parents, and ... they want to meet you. Properly.”

Logan’s eyes widen slightly. “Christmas with the royal family. No pressure or anything.”

You cup his cheek gently. “They’ll love you, Logan. How could they not?”

He leans into your touch. “I hope you’re right. Because I plan on sticking around for a long time, Princess.”

“Good,” you say firmly. “Because I’m not letting you go that easily.”

Logan’s smile fades slightly as his gaze drifts to the waiting plane. “We should probably ...”

You nod, feeling a lump form in your throat. “Yeah. We should.”

With a deep breath, you both step out of the car. Logan moves to the trunk to retrieve your luggage while you take a moment to compose yourself. As he joins you, bags in hand, you’re struck by how domestic this feels — and how much you wish this was just a normal trip, not a return to a life an ocean away.

“Your chariot awaits, Your Highness,” Logan says with an exaggerated bow, trying to lighten the mood.

You roll your eyes fondly, but play along. “Why thank you, kind sir. Your service to the Crown is most appreciated.”

As you walk towards the plane, Logan’s free hand finds yours, intertwining your fingers. “You know,” he says casually, “I’ve been thinking about taking some flying lessons. Might come in handy for, oh, I don’t know ... surprise visits to England?”

You laugh, squeezing his hand. “Logan Sargeant, are you planning on becoming my personal pilot?”

He grins, that mischievous sparkle you love so much dancing in his eyes. “Well, I figure if I can handle an F1 car at 200 miles per hour, a plane can’t be that much harder, right?”

“I’m not sure that’s how it works,” you say, unable to keep the amusement out of your voice.

“Details, details,” Logan waves his free hand dismissively. “The point is, I’m going to find ways to see you. Even if I have to learn to fly, sail, or ... I don’t know, teleport.”

You stop walking, tugging on his hand to make him face you. “You know you don’t have to do all that, right? I mean, I love that you want to, but I don’t want you to feel like you have to change your whole life for me.”

Logan sets down your bags, taking both your hands in his. “Y/N, listen to me. You are worth changing my whole life for. But that’s not what this is about. It’s about finding ways to make our lives fit together. Because that’s what I want — a life with you in it.”

You feel tears pricking at your eyes. “I want that too. So much.”

Logan reaches up to brush away a tear that’s escaped. “Then we’ll make it work. Whatever it takes.”

You nod, leaning into his touch. “Whatever it takes,” you repeat softly.

The sound of someone clearing their throat breaks the moment. You turn to see the pilot standing a respectful distance away.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Your Highness,” he says, “but we need to begin boarding if we’re to make our departure time.”

You nod, straightening your shoulders. “Of course. Thank you, Captain. I’ll be right there.”

As the pilot retreats, you turn back to Logan. “I guess this is really goodbye.”

Logan pulls you close, wrapping his arms tightly around you. “Not goodbye. Never goodbye. Just ... until next time.”

You bury your face in his neck, breathing in his familiar scent. “Next time,” you murmur. “The Netherlands, right?”

“The Netherlands,” Logan confirms, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll be the one in the Williams car, trying not to crash while looking for you in the stands.”

You can’t help but laugh, even as tears threaten to fall again. “Please don’t crash. I quite like you in one piece.”

Logan pulls back slightly, cupping your face in his hands. “No promises. You’re pretty distracting, Princess.”

Before you can retort, he leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that takes your breath away. It’s tender and passionate, a promise and a farewell all at once. When you finally part, you’re both breathless.

“I love you,” you whisper, your foreheads still pressed together.

“I love you too,” Logan replies. “Now go, before I decide to jump in the cockpit of that plane and fly us both to some remote island where we can just be us.”

You laugh, reluctantly stepping out of his embrace. “Don’t tempt me. That sounds pretty perfect right now.”

Logan picks up your bags again, walking with you the last few steps to the plane’s stairs. “Your royal carriage, m’lady,” he says with another exaggerated bow.

You shake your head fondly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it,” he counters with a grin.

“I do,” you admit softly. “I really do.”

With one last lingering look, you start up the stairs. At the top, you turn back. Logan is still there, watching you with a mix of love and longing that makes your heart ache.

“Hey, Logan?” You call down.

“Yeah?”

You smile, feeling a sudden surge of certainty despite the impending separation. “We’re going to be okay, aren’t we?”

Logan’s answering smile is like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. “Yeah, Princess. We’re going to be more than okay. We’re going to be amazing.”

With those words echoing in your heart, you finally step into the plane. As you settle into your seat, you watch through the window as Logan returns to his car. He stands there, hand raised in farewell, until the plane begins to taxi.

As the ground falls away beneath you, you close your eyes, already counting the days until the Dutch Grand Prix. The path ahead won’t be easy — you know there will be challenges, misunderstandings, moments of doubt. But you also know that what you and Logan have is worth fighting for.

You’re leaving behind the carefree summer days of Florida, returning to the responsibilities and expectations of your royal life. But you’re taking with you something precious — the knowledge that you are loved for who you are, not what you are. And that, you realize, is the greatest gift of all.

As the plane soars over the Atlantic, you allow yourself to dream of the future — of stolen moments at race tracks, of quiet evenings in London, of a love that bridges oceans and transcends titles. It won’t be easy, but then again, the best things in life rarely are.

You’re a princess and he’s a race car driver. On paper, it shouldn’t work. But as you drift off to sleep, Logan’s last words replay in your mind.

“We’re going to be amazing.”

And you believe him. Because with Logan by your side, how could you be anything else?

***

The Texas sun beats down mercilessly on the Circuit of the Americas as Logan adjusts his fireproofs, preparing for another round of interviews. It’s his home race and the pressure is palpable. He’s been struggling all season, the weight of expectations and the constant comparisons to his teammate wearing him down.

As he walks towards the waiting journalists, Logan can’t help but feel a pang of disappointment. You had told him you couldn’t make it to this race, citing royal obligations back in England. He understands, of course, but the thought of racing on home soil without you in the stands feels hollow somehow.

“Logan! Over here!” A reporter waves him over, microphone at the ready. “How are you feeling about today’s race?”

Logan pastes on his media-ready smile, falling into the familiar rhythm of pre-race interviews. “I’m feeling good, you know? It’s always special racing at home, and the energy here at COTA is incredible.”

“There’s been a lot of talk about your future with Williams,” another journalist chimes in. “Any comments on the rumors that your seat might be in jeopardy for next season?”

Logan’s smile falters slightly, but he recovers quickly. “I’m focused on doing my best in every race, including today’s. The future will take care of itself.”

As he continues answering questions, Logan’s gaze drifts over the bustling pit lane. Mechanics scurry about, making last-minute adjustments to the cars. Team personnel hurry back and forth, clipboards and tablets in hand. It’s a familiar scene, one he’s witnessed countless times before.

But then, something catches his eye. A flash of familiar hair, a silhouette he’d recognize anywhere. Logan blinks, sure he must be seeing things. But no — there you are, walking down the pit lane as if you belong there (which, he supposes, you do in a way).

“Logan?” The interviewer’s voice seems distant. “Logan, can you tell us about your strategy for today’s-”

But Logan isn’t listening anymore. His jaw goes slack, eyes wide with disbelief as he watches you approach. You’re dressed casually in a flowing maxi dress, your hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. To Logan, you’ve never looked more beautiful.

“I ... uh ...” Logan stammers, completely losing his train of thought. The interviewer follows his gaze, her own eyes widening as she recognizes you.

A hush falls over the pit lane as heads turn to watch your progress. You seem oblivious to the attention, your eyes locked on Logan. A brilliant smile lights up your face as you break into a run.

Logan barely has time to brace himself before you’re launching yourself into his arms. He catches you instinctively, spinning you around as laughter bubbles up from his chest.

“Surprise!” You exclaim, pulling back just enough to see his face. “Did you really think I’d miss your home race?”

Logan shakes his head in amazement, still not quite believing you’re here. “But you said ... how did you ...”

You grin mischievously. “I may have told a tiny white lie. Royal prerogative and all that.”

Logan laughs, setting you down but keeping his arms wrapped firmly around your waist. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” you reply with a wink.

It’s only then that Logan becomes aware of your surroundings again. The entire pit lane has gone silent, all eyes on the two of you. Cameras flash incessantly, capturing what must be the most undignified public display the Princess of England has ever made.

Logan feels a moment of panic. “Y/N,” he whispers, “everyone’s watching.”

You shrug, seemingly unconcerned. “Let them watch. I’m just a girl supporting her boyfriend at his home race.”

The casual use of the word ‘boyfriend’ sends a thrill through Logan. Despite the months you’ve been together, sometimes he still can’t quite believe this is real.

A throat clearing nearby breaks the moment. Logan turns to see James Vowles approaching with a bemused expression.

“Your Highness,” James says with a slight bow. “This is ... an unexpected honor.”

You turn to face him, your arm still wrapped around Logan’s waist. “Mr. Vowles,” you greet him with a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I hope you don’t mind me dropping in unannounced. I was just so eager to see how our British team is faring.”

James nods, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. “Of course, we’re always delighted to host you. Perhaps you’d like a tour of the garage?”

“That would be lovely,” you reply, your voice sweet but with an undercurrent of steel that makes Logan’s eyebrows raise. “I’m particularly interested in discussing team strategy. And driver management.”

Logan feels you tense slightly beside him, and he suddenly realizes what you’re doing. His heart swells with a mixture of love and awe.

James seems to pick up on the shift in atmosphere as well. “I see,” he says carefully. “Well, I’m sure we can arrange a meeting after the race-”

“Oh, I think now would be perfect,” you interrupt, your smile never wavering. “After all, I’m quite invested in the success of this team. Particularly when it comes to nurturing young talent.”

Logan watches in fascination as James visibly squirms under your gaze. He’s never seen his usually unflappable team principal so wrong-footed.

“Of course, Your Highness,” James finally manages. “Shall we step into the hospitality area for some privacy?”

You nod graciously, but before following James, you turn back to Logan. “For luck,” you murmur, pulling him down for a quick kiss that leaves him breathless and the watching crowd buzzing with excitement.

As you walk away with James, Logan overhears snippets of your conversation.

“I do hope, Mr. Vowles,” you’re saying, your voice light but with a clear edge, “that Williams is committed to giving all its drivers equal opportunities to succeed. It would be such a shame if rumors of ... unequal treatment were to reach certain ears.”

Logan watches in awe as James nods frantically, clearly understanding the implied threat behind your words.

“And these whispers about potentially dropping Logan,” you continue, your smile never faltering. “I’m sure they’re just baseless rumors. After all, it would be terribly short-sighted to let go of such promising talent, don’t you think?”

As your voice fades into the distance, Logan stands rooted to the spot, a goofy grin spreading across his face. He’s vaguely aware of the chaos around him — journalists clamoring for comments, team members and rivals alike shooting him curious glances — but all he can think about is you.

You, who flew across an ocean to surprise him. You, who jumped into his arms without a care for protocol or propriety. You, who’s currently backing his team principal into a corner with a smile and a veiled royal threat.

In that moment, Logan Sargeant knows without a doubt that he has never been more in love.

A hand on his shoulder startles him out of his reverie. He turns to see Alex grinning at him.

“Mate,” Alex says, shaking his head in disbelief, “when you said you were dating a princess, I thought you were having us on. But that? That was ...”

“Yeah,” Logan agrees, still a bit dazed. “She’s something else.”

Alex laughs. “Understatement of the century. You better hold onto that one, Sargeant. And maybe put in a good word for the rest of us with her royal highness? I wouldn’t mind having that kind of backing in contract negotiations.”

Logan chuckles, finally snapping out of his stupor. “Sorry, Albon. This princess is spoken for.”

As Alex walks away, still shaking his head and laughing, Logan takes a deep breath. The pre-race nerves that had been plaguing him all morning have vanished, replaced by a surge of confidence and determination.

He may not know what the future holds — for his career or for his relationship with you — but in this moment, he feels invincible. Because no matter what challenges lie ahead, he knows he has you in his corner.

With renewed purpose, Logan heads towards the garage. He has a race to prepare for, after all. And now, more than ever, he’s determined to prove himself worthy of the faith you’ve placed in him.

As he reaches the garage entrance, he catches sight of you emerging from the hospitality area, James trailing behind you looking slightly shell-shocked. You spot Logan and wink, giving him a thumbs up.

Logan grins, blowing you a kiss before disappearing into the garage. He has a feeling this is going to be his best race yet. And win or lose, he knows he’ll have you waiting for him at the finish line.

And really, what more could a guy ask for?

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6gumi · 6 months ago

Text

jealous little angel.

synopsis ﹒” oh mr. sunday 、you really need to work on your jealousy ! it was just a prank ! ”

pairings﹒sunday x f!reader

cw﹒ nsfw MDNI. jealous s3x 、rough ! sunday :< 、some possessive themes / tendencies 、usage of petnames ( angel-face、dove、etc ! ) 、wall s3x 、semi-public s3x 、slight breeding kink if yew squint ! ^-^ 、he rips your stockings . . hehe 、we luv possessive sunday !

note﹒hai hai ! ! decided to write for sunday . . . ooh he’s so dreamie . . . he’s such a red flag but i luv him . . . x.x hehe here’s a special taggie for a special someone ! @cubffections | reblogs are highly appreciated. if you would like to talk to me, send in rqs or thirsts, feel free to send me an ask ! — rubi ♡

this party was going to drive him to the edge. sunday can't contain his excitement as he examined his surroundings . . . the anticipation of seeing his beloved made his heart race. he knows you’re waiting for him, dressed in something that's bound to drive him wild. It's maddening, the way you tease him, playing with his emotions. he steps forward, closing the huge door softly behind him. the scent of you permeates the air, and he can't help but inhale deeply, relishing the familiar comfort it brings. sunday knew you were off talking to a few ipc members here and there, so he took his sweet time trying to find you, savouring every step.

rounding the corner, he spots you in profile, your body bathed in the soft glow of the hallway light. the sight of you in that red lace nightgown, the way your breasts sway with each step, is enough to make his cock ache. it’s an irresistible sight, and sunday moves toward you with predatory intent. but wait . . . why were you speaking with someone else? sunday’s smile faded . . . lost in the immediate shuffle of emotions as he examined the man that was way too close to you for comfort, that dopey smile on that man’s face wasn’t fooling anyone . . and he was aware of that. his vibrant gaze slowly faded away, clouding the atmosphere with nothing but tension. he clenched his fists as hard as he could, enough for his nails to draw blood to his delicate skin.

sunday really couldn’t stand it.

he couldn’t stand seeing you with someone else. even so, he knew very well you were doing this on purpose just to tease him . . . seeing you having such a great time with someone else triggered a primal protective instinct within him. the way you touched that man’s shoulder . . . those pretty doe eyes of yours staring into someone else’s eyes other than his . . . the way your breasts squeezed together when you crossed your arms, fuck. he couldn't ignore the need to discipline you when you behaved like this, and he knew he had to put you in your place.

with a smooth, fluid motion, he scooped you up into his arms, carrying you away from the party, away from your new little friend you made and any distractions. “huh . . . ? sunday?—“

“not another word from you, my love.” sunday tried to act firm . . yet he couldn’t stop his heart from skipping more beats than one at the sight of your cleavage in that god-forbidden revealing dress, the memory of how they felt in his hands coming back to him in a rush. sunday swallows thickly, his gaze locked on your exposed cleavage. he can almost smell your arousal now, faint but undeniable. "what were you thinking? were you trying to seduce that fool?“ he was moving closer. He can't resist the temptation, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek . . . his thumb pressing against your lower lip.

"you know I can't resist you, and you know i can’t stand it when you’re all dolled up talking to someone else but me. have you learnt nothing from the punishments i’ve given you? is that it?” a devilish glint sparkles in his eyes, promising an evening full of sin and pleasure. who knew such an angel like him would have eyes this dangerous. sunday leans in, his lips brushing against your ear. "you belong to me . . ." he whispers, taking in the scent of your fragrance, “. . . or have you forgotten that?”

you couldn’t help but shiver against his body, you wanted this as much as he did and he could tell, he knew very well you did. “baby . . . i just wanted to play a little prank on you, ‘s nothing serious . . . promise!” sunday kept his mouth shut as he wrapped his arms around you from behind, tugging you flush against his body. his lips find the nape of your neck, where he plants a series of wet, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin. "it is serious when there’s another man involved," he growls, his voice deep and rough with need. “ . . . and you know i don’t share, darling.”

with a hand, he reaches down and eases your pretty lil’ dress up, exposing your ass. his gloved fingers dig into the soft flesh, tracing the curve before giving it a firm, possessive squeeze. "bad, bad girl.” he murmurs, already envisioning the way you’ll shred under his touch. “what am i gonna do with a bad girl like you . .” sunday examines your facial expression, giving your cheek a gentle slap, inserting his thumb inside your mouth. “should i tie your arms around your back? shove my cock inside this slutty mouth of yours . . . or fill you up with my cum? or maybe . . . i should fuck you in-front of everyone else, let them know that you’re mine and mine alone . . do you want that, my love?”

sunday’s lips curve into a wicked smile, and he nods, his hand still firmly gripping your ass. "i wish i can hide you away from the world, angel-face . . . you need to be taught some more.” he warns, his voice thick with lust. “guess those punishments didn’t work on you . . . how pitiful.”

sunday kept your body pinned against the wall, the grip on your ass never wavering, the feel of his beloved pressed against him driving him wild. he knew you both had to be careful . . his little wings would flutter at the loud sound of music from below, there were still people around . . and getting caught was not something he would want. once you both were in the clear, he doesn't waste any time. with one swift movement, he lifts you even further up against the wall, your legs parting to reveal the wetness between them. sunday’s sinful eyes devour the sight, and he can't help the predatory smile that spreads across his face. "such a naughty girl, wet for me already,"

"now, what do you say we do something about that wetness of yours?" he asks, his voice low and suggestive, the air thick with the promise of pleasure and sinfulness. “ . . ‘s not fair i’m gettin’ punished for a prank . .” you murmured, legs trembling under his hold. sunday chuckles darkly, giving your ass a hard slap, the sound vibrating against your skin.

“now, now, baby . . no need to act all innocent," he teases, his hand never leaving your hip . . gently pinning you with his body even more. “i like how feisty you can get, angel face . . . but there's a time and a place for everything, right?" he purrs, his eyes dark with lust. “you won’t be acting all innocent once i fuck you dumb on my cock.” your husband traces his fingers down your chest, pausing to tease your nipples through the lace of the dress. his mouth finds yours, his lips soft as he explores your mouth with his tongue, taking his time to savor the taste of your lips he yearned for all day. when he pulls away, he's breathing heavily. the young male tsked, shaking his head as he reached your chin again, “you know how i feel about disobedience, correct?”

"tonight i’m going to show you who you belong to," he murmurs, reaching for the hem of the dress. with a swift yank, he pulls it over your head, revealing your body in all its glory. “the man you will belong to until the end of time.” sunday’s eyes drink in the sight of your black stockings, licking his lips. "you’re not getting away from me anytime soon, my love, i hope you and your pretty little head realize that.” he asks, his voice thick with desire as he starts to tug the stockings down.

“you’re not escaping me, angel-face.” he growls, his hand gripping the delicate fabric of the pair stockings you wore . . . with a swift and violent motion, he tears them down your legs, the sound of the material tearing filling the empty hall. he relents, pulling back just enough to grip your inner thigh, his grip firm but not oppressive. . . admiring the rip he caused with your stockings, giving him easier access to those pretty panties you wore.

sunday’s eyes gleam with a deranged excitement, gripping your hips, positioning himself at the entrance of your pussy . . giving it one painful slap. "you’ll thank me for this someday," he growls before gently sliding himself inside your wet heat, the friction sending shivers down his spine. “you’ll thank me for claiming you, my dove. you will.”

“a-ah . . sunday . . !” the young halovian’s lips curve into a wicked grin as you gasp, the surprise at the sudden invasion of his cock into your pussy more than apparent. he’s not gentle, not this time. sunday needs to claim you, to make sure you knew who owns you in this moment and forever. his thrusts were harsher than usual, tongue lolling out as you were slowly losing your mind already when his cock filled you completely. “you’re mine, angel. you’ll always be mine," he growls, the possessiveness in his tone thick. he pounds into you with desperation to get his message across your head, the rhythm erratic, as if he's trying to claw his way into your soul . . fingers nearly turning white as they dug into the flesh of your hips, pulling them back to meet each thrust of his cock.

his own heat was rising, the scent of sweat snd sex filling the air around you. with how loud you were moaning, he was almost certain someone would catch you both. “let the heat pass through you, and i’ll mark you. i’ll claim you, my love.” he was going to breed you, to leave no doubt that you were his. his thrusts became more erratic, more urgent, as he fights to push aside the thoughts that threaten to consume him. the single thought of his seed filling you only intensifies his need to dominate, to control . . to keep you all to himself.

"nobody will take you away from me. nobody.” sunday grinds his hips against you, his cock sliding against your tight entrance. sunday already came inside you multiple times the previous times you both had intercourse, but it's not enough. he wants your body to be filled with his seed. his fingers dug into your hips, holding you in place as he thrusts forward, filling your cunny with his throbbing dick. sunday’s eyes roll back as he relishes in the feeling of your tight pussy wrapped around him once more . . only raising his urge fill you up even more. “s—so tight, so perfect. i wish i could fill you up every day . . let everyone know you’re mine.” sweat drips down his forehead as he drives into you with a newfound fervor. each thrust is a powerful assertion, “easy now . . you don’t want us to get caught now, do you?" his voice is a low, gravelly growl, laced with desperation.

“sunday . . f-feels weird . . feels like i’m goin’ stupid . .” drool slipped away from your lips, a chuckle left sunday’s lips as he slowed down his thrusts . . giving you a moment to adjust to his size again, taking that moment to kiss and mark your neck, nibbling at the sensitive skin. “you were sent to me by the angels of this world,” he whispers, the possessiveness in his tone unmistakable. “you look so pretty pressed up against the wall like this . . . are you enjoying yourself?”

“fuck . . yes, yes!” sunday’s eyes flare with delight at your whine, your need for him clear, and it makes him even more aggressive in his thrusts. sunday was close, so close. he leaned over your shoulder, his teeth finding their mark on the juncture between their delicate skin of neck and shoulders, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. “mine, mine, mine . . ." he whispered against your ear, burying himself deeper and deeper, caging your hands above your head, holding them there as he filled you completely, ensuring that when you cum, you cum for him and only him. he’s not going to let you go.

with one final, brutal push of his cock, the halovian came inside your aching cunny, flooding your walls with his seed. he held you tightly against his body, shifting gently further into the wall. his release was intense, seed spurting deep inside as some dripped down on the floor. he nestled close against your neck, breathing heavily, refusing to let go of you even after he emptied himself inside. “ . . . so tell me, angel face, did you learn your lesson?”

#millie’s writings ✔︎#millie’s thoughts: sunday ! 💗#eeee . . . dis took longer than expected x-x #sunday . . . the dreamiest man of all dreamies x///x eeeek !#honkai star rail #sunday hsr #hsr smut #hsr x reader #hsr x you #hsr sunday #sunday x reader #sunday smut #sunday x you #sunday x y/n

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perlelune · 1 year ago

Text

no body, no crime | Coriolanus Snow | ii.

Your childhood friend returns from his exile in district 12, but he's not the sweet, quiet boy you once knew anymore.

Warnings: NON-CON, Plinth!Reader, Gaslighting, Drugging, Murder, Forced Marriage, Forced Pregnancy, Loss of Virginity, Somnophilia

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

Astonishment widens your gaze when you find your mother sitting on your bed when you go back upstairs. Her hands are twitching in her lap and she makes a beeline to you when she sees you.

“So, how did it go?” she asks, urgency laced in her tone.

Your brows knit. “It went fine. Why do you even care, mother?”

“Coriolanus will be a good friend to have in the future,” she says, her hands seizing yours for emphasis.

“A good friend?”

Your mother rolls her eyes. She then tugs you by the hand and takes you to your bed so you can both sit on it. The mattress dips with both your weights.

“Don’t you know, sweetie? How well his tribute did in the last Hunger Games? That Lucy Gray girl-”

“You know I don’t like to watch it,” you underscore, your frown accentuating. You don’t know why anyone would willingly tune in to this butchery and call it entertainment.

Her hold on your hand grows tighter. “You need to grow up. You’re not a child anymore.”

You tamp down your hurt at her criticism.

She licks her lips and continues, “And it’s not just that. He’s on the fast track to becoming top student at the University, he’s Volumnia Gaul’s apprentice and he’s even got sway with-”

“What does any of it have to do with me, mother?” you interrupt, your well of patience running dry as she keeps singing the young man’s praises. It’s not like you’re not aware of Coriolanus’ accomplishments. He’s ambitious and clever. It was always obvious he’d get far in life. But clearly your mother’s trying to make a point and you’d like for her to stop beating around the bush and just spill it.

“He likes you.”

“I like him too,” you reply with a shrug.

She tilts her head, her interest seeming piqued. “Do you really?”

“Yes, I’m glad we can be friends again.”

“Friends is a good start. Your father and I started as friends…”

You draw your hands back, standing up in shock at her implication. Outrage blooms inside you. This is just like Demetria Plinth. While you’re aware your mother doesn’t approve of your current match, you never thought she’d be so devious.

“I’m engaged, mother.”

She sighs as she stands up too. Disappointment paints her features.

“I know, I know. And William’s a sweet boy but-”

“But what?”

She tilts your chin up. “What kind of future do you think you’ll have with him, hm?”

“One full of happiness and love,” you defend hotly.

She bursts out a chuckle. “Love and happiness do not provide food or shelter. But a match to a promising young man from a great house would-”

You cut her off again, peeved at her repeated ignorance of your wishes, “Like I said, we’re friends, mother, nothing else. I’m getting married in three weeks, whether you and Dad like it or not.”

Her lips clamp shut as she steps back from you.

“And you have made that exceedingly clear, how little you cared for our opinion…”

“It’s not that, I just wished-”

She waves a dismissive hand in the air. “It’s no matter. Just promise me one thing?”²

“What thing?” you ask, suspicion clear in your voice.

“Keep him close,” she says, her eyes softening. “Can you at least do that for us, sweetheart?”

“I’ll try.”

“I’m being serious,” she emphasizes. “After your brother…” Her voice breaks at the mention of her son. Tears start to press behind your eyes at the sight of her grief-stricken expression. “We can’t afford any misstep. Do you understand?”

You don’t have it in you to fight her anymore, not when she’s like this. So you wrap your arms around her, giving her a tight hug. “I understand,” you reply, rubbing her back as she weeps in silence.

Naturally, your own tears follow suit. Whenever your mother cries, it's never too long before you start crying as well.

You may not go as far in your relationship with Coriolanus as your mother wants you to, but you can at least keep him in your life. And based on your encounter this afternoon, it will not be hard. You want him in your life. You missed him.

You just hope your mother learns to accept that you and Coriolanus will never be more than friends.

God, you despise these events. You peer at your lavish surroundings once again. They certainly didn’t spare any expense, and this includes your father. Every inch of the palatial room screams wealth, from the champagne tower, to the elaborate sculptures and gold accents from floor to ceiling.

Internally, you wince. This is the kind of futile displays of privilege the Capitol likes to indulge in. A waste of resources when people in the Districts are starving.

You bet if Sejanus were here, he’d feel the same.

Sipping lightly from your glass of posca, you nod along at the man who speaks to you. It’s been almost an hour and he hasn’t realized you haven’t uttered a single word. You wonder if he even cares. Gauis Creed, Festus Creed’s father, is the kind of man who basks in the sound of his own voice more than anyone else’s.

Eventually, you excuse yourself, pretending you’re tired and need to sit.

William follows you as you go find your father’s table.

You unleash a sigh as you plop down on one of the velvet chairs around the table. An Avox approaches you, plate of appetizers in hand, and offers you one. You refuse with a smile, your heart twisting as you meet their gaze.

William’s hand folds over yours.

“You’re okay, baby?” he asks, concern swimming in his green eyes.

“I’m fine. These things are just so exhausting.”

His thumb sweeps over your knuckles as he smiles at you. “We just need to stay long enough to be polite.”

“I know.”

William suddenly straightens his spine, his attention traveling above your head. You pivot in your seat to see what caught his eye.

Your breath hitches at the sight of Coriolanus. He smoothly walks into the room, locking arms with his cousin Tigris. His stylish crimson fit, a two piece suit with a white rose pinned to his breast pocket, highlights his good looks. His blonde locks are slicked back in that formal way you’ve seen him sport since he came back. He wears it well. It makes him look older, wiser.

He radiates confidence and you don’t miss the looks that trail him as he enters. The young heir of House Snow is making quite an impression.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” William inquires, smoothing the wrinkles in his suit and rearranging his lapels.

“Yeah, that’s him,” you reply, placing a hand on his arm in reassurance.

But your fiancé’s eyes don’t stray from Coryo. A frown mars his brow.

“Who’s the woman with him?”

“That’s Tigris, his cousin.”

Striking blue eyes slam into yours, making your heart skip a beat. You watch as the blonde whispers something to Clemensia Dovecote before weaving his way through the crowd.

“He’s making his way to us,” William says.

Frozen in your seat, you nod dumbly.

He glides in your direction, each of his steps graceful and determined. Not once does Coriolanus’ cobalt gaze strays from yours.

“You came,” you say when he’s in front of you.

He plucks your hand from your lap and drops an ephemeral, soft kiss on it. When he lets go of your hand, the feel of his lips linger, making your flesh tingle. You confine a gasp, your face warming. The move surprises you coming from Coriolanus. He knows etiquette better than anyone else. Doing this in front of your fiancé could be perceived as provocation.

You’re sure he didn’t mean it that way, being naturally suave and charming, but you wish he’d tone it down tonight to not give William the wrong impression.

“I made a promise to a pretty girl, so I had to,” he rasps, honey dripping in his deep timbre.

Part of you melts. Ten years ago, you’d have done anything for Coryo to notice you, let alone whisper words such as these to you.

You collect yourself, giving a nod as you rise from your seat.

You beam at his cousin. As always, she looks stunning. Tonight she wears a tight, scarlet dress that compliments her slender frame.

“Tigris, it’s been a while,” you chime.

“Too long,” she replies before hugging you.

You return the gesture. Tigris was always sweet to you. While you never went to school together as she’s three years older than you and Janus, there were many times she’d admonish children who pestered you. You remember wanting to be like her when you were younger, a poised, beautiful Capitol lady that’d make your parents proud.

It was before you realized how vapid most citizens of the Capitol are, that none of them care about anything that matters. Still, Tigris remains one of the kindest people you’ve ever encountered.

“You’ve grown into a gorgeous young woman,” she praises.

Despite you, a sliver of pride flutters inside you at her compliment.

The reunion is interrupted when your parents arrive.

As you expect, they barely acknowledge William, but they grin from ear to ear when addressing Coriolanus.

“You clean up nicely, young man,” Strabo lauds.

Your mother doles out similar praise, asking him where he got his shirt from.

“Shall we sit?” your dad adds.

“Oh, may we?”

“Don’t be silly. We made sure there’d be room for both of you.”

So that’s who the extra chairs were for. You wondered before. You suppose it makes sense now.

Everyone sits and food is brought to the table.

The tantalizing spread of meat and vegetables doesn’t entice you despite its artistic arrangement. Still, you dutifully gulp bite after bite, aware people in the districts are starving while you get to enjoy a fancy meal. You shouldn’t waste any of it.

The whole time, you try your best to ignore the way Coriolanus’ arm keeps grazing yours as he talks.

You stay quiet as the Snow cousins and your parents drone on about clothes and other frivolous matters.

When the conversation begins to veer to more serious topics however, your ears perk.

“...And we’ve been trying to raise the viewership for the next Hunger Games through-”

“Well, maybe if it wasn’t about sponsoring the murder of children, it’d be easier,” William notes, cutting your father off mid-sentence.

Quiet falls over the table. Strabo’s jaw ticks while he glares angrily at your fiancé. Your mother shakes her head and tosses you a look of disapproval.

She doesn’t have to utter a single word for you to hear her thoughts loud and clear. They’re plainly written all over her face.

As for you, pride and love glow inside you as you twine your fingers with William’s.

Once again, he makes you feel like you’re not the mad one in this mad world.

“What do you think?”

Coriolanus’s abrupt question has you choking on your spoonful.

You cough and dab your mouth with a napkin, embarrassment swirling in your gut.

Beneath his intense stare, you quickly try to gather your words.

“Me? I…There has to be another way to discourage rebellions, a more humane way. Wouldn’t you agree?”

A tender smile unfurls on his lips. “You’re sweet.”

The symphonic orchestra on stage starts playing music. Some of the guests start joining the dancefloor, waltzing along to the melancholy tune.

Coriolanus suddenly gets to his feet and steals your hand.

“Do you mind?” he tells William while tugging you out of your chair.

“I…” your fiancé begins. But Coriolanus drags you to the dancefloor, not waiting for his response.

Too dumbstruck to utter a word yourself, you let him.

He slips his arm around your waist and sways to the music. You follow his lead, trying to discard how unnerving the proximity is. The faint scent of roses coats your senses, rendering you a bit dizzy. It reminds you of your garden.

“He speaks like a rebel,” he says.

You stiffen. “He speaks the truth, and he isn’t afraid to do it. It’s what I love about him.”

Coriolanus scrutinizes you, his blank expression impossible to read. You gasp when he spins you. He then pulls your back flush against his broad chest. Your heart hammers wildly and you find yourself praying he doesn’t hear it.

His soft whisper fans over your ear. “He’ll get you in trouble.”

“Maybe I like trouble,” you reply.

His deep chuckle ripples along your neck. “Hm, do you, princess?”

Your throat goes dry. You pivot in your heels so you aren’t so close, remembering that William is a few feet away watching.

Your cheeks burn.

“Coryo,” you mumble, lifting your head to meet his gaze.

“Yes?”

“You’ve changed, you know.”

“Hm, maybe it’s my hair. I’m trying to grow it out again.”

You shake your head.

“It’s not that. You’re just…a bit different.”

You don’t remember him ever being so bold and…so many other things you can’t place. You simply know that the longer you are in his presence, the longer it feels as if you’ll tumble into an abyss, one you won’t so easily climb your way out of.

He slants his head.

“Good different or bad different?”

You shrug and smile.

“I guess we’ll have to see.”

The gala leaves you rattled, hesitant to speak to Coriolanus for a few days. You know he’s not to blame for your parents’ behavior, but he didn’t exactly help matters with everything he did that night. Your mother for instance couldn’t stop raving about it on the way back home. You were grateful William wasn’t there to hear it. He’s worked hard to obtain your parents’ approval, even pretending to be someone he wasn’t at first just to impress them. But nothing he’s done ever worked. By mere virtue of his birth, the match is ill-fated in your parents’ eyes.

Maybe distance with the blond is what is best. Once you and William are married, they’ll have no choice but to accept it after all. It’ll be done and there’ll be nothing else for them to say.

“Your mother said I could find you here.”

Startled, you nearly drop your embroidery hoop.

Your head snaps up.

You’re welcomed by the sight of Coriolanus’ towering frame darkening the entrance of the sunroom, sporting a white shirt and a long black coat.

“Are you upset?” he asks, heading towards you.

His bluntness, coupled with his unexpected presence, snatches the words from your tongue for a few minutes.

You blink and frown, focusing on driving the needle through the cotton fabric.

“Upset, why would I be upset?” you evasively reply.

“The gala…” His voice is closer now, the smell of roses floating around you.

You dip your head and examine your needlework. You frown. It’s a bit crooked. The stitches aren’t as tight as they should be, making the petals you were sewing appear misshapen.

“You’ve also been avoiding me,” he adds. Your breath catches as you realize he’s sitting next to you now. “You leave right after every class.”

It’s true that even at the University you’ve made yourself more scarce. You didn’t expect him to notice. But you surmise nothing ever escapes Coriolanus Snow’s sharp senses. As long as you’ve known him, he’s been this way. He’d let the tiniest, most insignificant problem corral his entire attention until he solved it.

“I haven’t,” you mutter, shrugging. “I’m not upset, Coryo.”

“So why won’t you look at me?” You squeeze your mouth shut, sewing as if your life depended on it.

“Look at me, princess,” he repeats, his hand finding your chin to force your gazes to meet. Your nerves thrum as he gauges you.

“I’m looking at you,” you whisper.

The blond’s forehead creases. His deep timbre softens while he explains, “I just want to be here for you, take care of you. That’s all. It’s just that…” He releases your face, his shoulders sagging. “Nevermind.”

“Tell me,” you insist, now eager to know what words were about to cross his lips.

It’s his turn to dodge your eyes now. “I probably shouldn’t.”

Your frustration hits its crest.

“Now I want to know even more.”

Coriolanus studies you for a while before a long, weary sigh drops from his chest.

“It’s what Sejanus wanted,” he confesses, his soft inflection wavering.

You exhale sharply. “What?”

His throat bobs, emotions storming his blue eyes as they turn glassy with unshed tears.

“It’s almost like he knew, like he could feel it coming, you know?” Coriolanus pauses as if to gather himself. “He said ‘take care of her for me, please.’ He even had tears in his eyes.”

The hoop slips from your grasp as you gape at him in shock. Your voice comes out a watery quaver, tears welling in your eyes too.

“Did he really say that?”

“He did,” he confirms with a nod. A lone tear travels down his cheek. “I keep wishing I could have saved him, you know?”

He sounds disgusted with himself and your heart wrenches. It’s not like Coriolanus had anything to do with your brother’s death and could have prevented it. It saddens you that he feels the need to carry a burden that isn’t his own. All he did was be a friend to Sejanus. The picture of the two of them Janus carried proves it.

Without thought, your hand reaches his.

“This isn’t your fault. None of it is.”

His fingers curl around yours.

“I just want to honor your brother’s last wishes. He was my best friend.” His thumb caresses the back of your hand. “And I know I can never replace him but…let me be here for you, okay?”

You chuckle through the blurry veil of your tears. You can’t believe Coryo carried this weight with him all along. You wish he’d told you earlier.

He simply wanted to be here for you. You’re both grieving your brother’s death, after all. Guilt trickles within you for even doubting him.

“Of course,” you reply, giving a tearful smile.

His hands rise to cup your face. He gingerly wipes your tears as you sniffle.

His face comes alight with a broad, tight-lipped smile.

“I’m very glad to hear that, princess.”

#dark!coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #tbosas fanfiction #hunger games #coriolanus x reader

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osarina · 6 months ago

Text

ᡣ𐭩 CHAMPAGNE KISSES

FEATURING: pm!dazai osamu

SUMMARY: in a desperate attempt to try to get you to drink with him, dazai offers up a secret he's never told anyone... and how could you possible refuse that? AKA the first kiss fic.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: here is the promised second fic! another light hearted one :D (warnings: fem!reader, there are some implications of reader and chuuya being taught to use their bodies as tools - as implied in canon - but nothing else really, this is light-hearted as promised)

You don’t usually drink.

In fact, you usually stay as far away from any type of alcohol as you possibly can because the one time you did drink, you ended up passed out on the floor of the Colonel’s office with no recollection of how you got there. You blame Nakahara Chuuya because he is a bad influence and stole one of Kouyou’s bottles of wine, sneaking it up to your office to convince you to drink with him to celebrate your sixteenth birthday. The Colonel was severely unimpressed with you and you were severely embarrassed, more so when you found out that he spent half of the night cleaning up after you.

You blame Chuuya.

Neither of you can recall how you’d gotten separated that night, but you’re certain that it’s his fault somehow.

“Just a few glasses,” Dazai complains, a pout tugging at his lips as he drapes himself half over you and half over your couch, dangling a bottle of champagne in your face as if to tempt you. “We just ended the biggest conflict Yokohama has ever seen. I was just promoted to executive. Celebrate.”

“No,” you tell him instantly, putting your palm to his face and shoving him away from you.

Dazai instantly lets out a string of complaints, unbalanced as he rolls off the couch and onto the ground. He scowls up at you, disgruntled and irate as he pushes himself back to his feet and throws himself right back down where he was, perhaps even more on top of you than he had been before. You sigh, he looks distinctly pleased by the withering look you give him.

“You drank with Chuuya.” Dazai instantly throws the fact in your face, as offended about it as he was the day he found out you and Chuuya got drunk for the first time without him. As if it was your fault that he was sent away on a two-week mission in Sapporo to try to draw Murasaki and her men out of Yokohama and back to their homefront.

He didn’t speak to either of you for days.

It was the most peaceful few days of your life.

No, you’re joking, you spent a whole week doing paperwork for him as an apology, but no matter how much he tries to convince you to drink with him so he can be even with Chuuya, you deny it because you have no interest in drinking again any time soon.

“You drank with Chuuya and you won’t drink with me. You hate me,” Dazai complains, dropping his head into the crook of your neck. “You want me dead.”

“Dazai,” you start, but he doesn’t even let you get out a second word.

“You can’t even deny it,” Dazai accuses, pulling off of you to glare at you. “I’m supposed to be your best friend. Not Chuuya. You’re trying to replace me with him.”

You give him a blank look right back, and distantly, you wonder how you ended up in this position, regretting that Mori ever pulled you back to Yokohama from Kyoto, desperately wishing to go back to the city just so you can escape Dazai’s dramatics. Maybe you’ll ask him now that the Dragon’s Head Conflict has ended.

His expression shifts into one of offense, as if he can read your thoughts.

“Take that back,” he demands.

“I didn’t say anything,” you say, appalled.

“You didn’t need to, it was all over your face. Take it back.”

You lean forward, hand lifting to his face to squish his cheeks together. He squints at you, aggrieved, but you don’t let him yank his face out of your grip.

“I am not drinking with you,” you tell him firmly, tired of this conversation, you’ve been going back and forth about it with him for almost thirty minutes. You duly ignore the way his eyes droop and the way he sticks his bottom lip out—a ridiculous expression considering you’re still squishing his cheeks. “You’re welcome to have a few drinks yourself, but I am not going to be cleaning up after you.”

You drop your hand back to your lap and relax back against the couch, raising your eyebrows when Dazai only continues to pout in your direction. At once, a glimmer of mischief flashes through his visible eye and instantly, you’re on edge, tilting your head to the side as you wait for him to speak.

With no concept of personal space, clearly, he leans forward again, lips curling up into a suspicious smile. “What if we made a deal?” he asks, looking mighty pleased with himself when your eyes narrow onto him, interest piqued.

“What type of deal?” you ask dubiously, not entirely convinced that he has something up his sleeve that could convince you to drink again.

“If you drink with me, I’ll tell you something about me that I’d never admit sober.”

Oh.

Dazai smiles like he’s won.

You click your tongue sharply and then say, “Pour me a glass.”

This was a mistake.

You don’t know where Dazai got his hands on two bottles of champagne, but you almost would’ve preferred his choice of whiskey to it. The bubbles have gone straight to your head, your entire body feels light and Dazai has become far more touchy than he usually is. It started out with subtle brushes—he moved closer to you, thigh pressed to yours as he spoke animatedly about his portion of the last mission, occasionally knocking his shoulder into yours. He’s no doubt over-exaggerating the grandeur of it all, but you find yourself smiling as he waves his hands around and describes the epic staging of his capture and how he almost died at the hands of the enemy because Chuuya ‘can’t function without Dazai there to order him around.’

You think Chuuya would punch him in the face if he heard Dazai say that, but you think you’ll let it slide this time because Dazai looks cute happy rambling on about the mission and boasting his feats. His cheeks are tinted pink from the alcohol and he’s talking so fast that you can hardly keep up.

Dazai had been weird the past two weeks. You thought he’d be excited with his promotion to executive and beating both you and Chuuya in the race to the open seat, but he’s been oddly glum. Hasn’t risen to the bait of Chuuya’s gibes, hasn’t chased you around headquarters to bother you about one thing or another; when people congratulate him for his promotion, his gaze slides past them as if they aren’t even there. You and Chuuya have been trying to figure out what’s wrong with him but every time you guys try, it’s like he knows to evade you.

This is the most ‘normal’ you’ve seen him in almost two weeks.

“What were you going to tell me?” you finally ask curiously when the conversation lulls as Dazai reaches to pour himself another glass.

He pauses, gaze cutting to the side to look at you. Your eyes narrow and for a moment, neither of you move, just staring at one another. Then Dazai pointedly continues to pour himself another glass.

Notably, not answering your question.

You scowl at him. “You are not getting out of this, Dazai Osamu,” you say, irate. If your voice is a little slurred, you ignore it. “You promised.”

Dazai makes a noise in the back of his throat—something caught between a complaint and a whimper—and you lean a little closer to him, intrigued, watching as his face steadily gets redder.

“Oh my god,” you say more to yourself than him. “You really are embarrassed. Come on, tell me, it can’t be that bad.”

“I’m not drunk enough,” he protests, trying to physically turn his body away from you, but you shift closer to him, half leaning on his lap so you can keep your gaze trained on his face. “Stop that, get off.”

“No,” you say instantly, delighted at the change in demeanor. “I’m drunk enough. Tell me. It’s time.”

The expression Dazai shoots at you is nothing short of withering, the look in his eyes hateful, you only give him a simpering smile in return. He pointedly turns his head away from you and mumbles something under his breath that you can’t hear. You frown as you lean in a little more.

“Speak up,” you tell him, nudging your shoulder into his and you can see him scowl, cheeks flushed, chin raised high.

“I’ve never had my first kiss,” Dazai rushes out as if it’s his greatest shame, refusing to look at you.

You stare for a moment and then you snort.

“Did you just… laugh at me?” Dazai’s head snaps toward you, thoroughly offended.

“No,” you say immediately, forcing the smile off of your face as you look at him, but as soon as you catch the pink tint on his cheeks, your hand is flying to your mouth to muffle another giggle, this one far more obvious than the last.

Dazai looks entirely insulted. “You did. You’re laughing at me. You’re laughing at me.”

“I’m sorry,” you gasp through a wheeze. “I’m sorry, I just-you’ve got to be lying. There’s no way, I mean-”

Dazai bristles. “Stop laughing at me,” Dazai complains, burying his face in his hands, he covers his cheeks as he turns to glare at you. “I don’t know why you’re so surprised, it’s not like the slug has either.”

“Chuuya has had his first kiss, Dazai,” you say before you can think over your words and instantly Dazai’s brows are furrowing, eye squinting as he looks at you.

You think you’ve made a fatal mistake. The alcohol has made your tongue far too loose.

“How do you know that?” he asks suspiciously, staring at you intently as he waits for an answer.

Shit. You stare at him for a moment, contemplating your options because there’s no way in hell that you’re admitting to Dazai Osamu that you were Nakahara Chuuya’s first kiss. But the longer you wait, the more suspicious he’s getting, you can tell, and you have a feeling that if you do lie, he’s going to figure it out right away.

“He told me,” you finally answer and instantly, Dazai’s gaze sharpens.

Fuck.

“Liar,” he accuses, and you can see that even under the influence of four glasses of champagne, his mind still works sharply—a bit slower, maybe, because even Dazai Osamu is not immune to the effects of alcohol, though he does clearly have a ridiculously high tolerance.

You see his thoughts whirling, racing to put together the pieces laid out before him, and you watch as he suddenly straightens in his seat, eyes wide. “Dazai-”

“No,” he breathes out, horrified. “No. No. You’re lying. You must be lying.”

“Dazai,” you say again, but he doesn’t let you finish.

“Noooooo,” Dazai complains, louder, more aggrieved. He tugs at his hair, squeezes his eyes shut. “No. No. Noooooo, I can’t accept this. Revoke it. Revoke it immediately.”

You blink. “Dazai,” you start slowly, “I can’t just revoke it. That’s-It’s not how that works, what-”

“REVOKE IT!”

“Jesus Christ. Fine. Revoked. It's been revoked.”

Dazai lets out a long breath, leaning back against the couch as he turns another flinty look onto you. “You’re so disgusting.”

“Look in a mirror,” you snap back, irritated.

“No, you look in a mirror. You’ve kissed a-” he gags as if he can hardly bring himself to say the words. “You’ve kissed a slug. You’ve kissed a slug, you’re so disgusting, I can hardly stand to look at you.”

“You’re so fucking dramatic, Dazai,” you snort, rolling your eyes at the genuine repugnance painted all over his face. But you watch as the disgust suddenly disappears, melting into a conflicted expression that you have trouble reading. “You really haven’t had your first kiss?”

You don’t really know what you expected. Well, you would have thought that Dazai would have some experience—maybe not as much as you or Chuuya, the two of you have been trained in utilizing your bodies for strategic purposes, but you would’ve thought maybe he found someone to experiment with.

Although, you suppose you shouldn’t really be that surprised. Mori is Dazai’s mentor, and he has the boy constantly swamped with missions and operation preparations, keeping him carefully under his thumb so that no one else can taint the control he has over his precious Demon Prodigy—Dazai likely doesn’t even have the time to even think of stuff like this, much less go out of his way to experience it himself.

Dazai doesn’t respond, pointedly turning his face away from you.

“So what if I haven’t?” Dazai snips, regaining his cool facade, even if it did take a bit longer while under the influence of the champagne. “Maybe, I’m saving it for someone special, ever think of that?”

You coo, reaching out to pinch his cheek, and Dazai gives you a look nothing short of affronted, pulling his face away just as you feel how warm his cheeks are.

“Tell me about your dream woman then, Dazai?” You lean your elbow against the back of the couch, resting your cheek on your palm as you look at him. “I wanna know allll about her.”

“Well-” Dazai starts, clearing his throat as he takes another sip of his drink.

You watch as he stares ahead for a moment, waiting to see what he says—a part of you is genuinely curious, a tight feeling of anticipation in your throat that you can’t seem to push away but don’t know why.

Finally, Dazai looks at you with a crooked smirk and a victorious look in his eye that makes you realize whatever he is about to say is going to piss you off. “You would like to know, wouldn’t you? I knew you had a crush on me. I bet you just want to know if you’re my dream woman.”

“HA!” you bark out a laugh immediately at the prospect, ignoring the weird tug at your chest. “You wish, Dazai, maybe when hell freezes over.”

You miss the way Dazai’s expression falters as you try to distract yourself from the tightness pulling at you by taking another generous sip from your half-full glass.

Dazai lets out an irritable puff, pushing out his cheeks as he looks away from you, making a show of being offended by your comment. You roll your eyes at him as you turn your attention back to him.

“So you’ve both had your first kiss then,” he says, voice clipped, and before you can make a comment about it, he continues, “Whatever. It’s probably not that great anyway. It’s just pushing your lips against someone else’s. What’s so special about that? Honestly, it sounds kind of gross.”

He’s not looking at you, and you have to gnaw at your bottom lip to not snort at the blatant bitterness in his tone as he speaks. You wonder if he’s that aggrieved by the situation, or if the alcohol is just making him looser with his emotions because he’d never usually be so openly bothered by this.

“Why haven’t you kissed one of Mishima’s daughters?” you ask curiously, tucking your knees to your chest as you watch him curiously. “Those three are always hanging around trying to get our attention.”

That’s putting it gently—Mishima’s girls are your age, and whenever the Sun and Steel host an event that the Port Mafia is invited to, the three are all over you guys. Whether it’s teenage rebellion against their father, or they’re actually interested in you, you don’t really know, but they make for better company than most of the other people in attendance and have loose lips, so you tend to find the oldest sister to entertain you for the night.

Dazai hesitates for a moment, an odd expression crossing his face. He finally says, “They’re not interested in me.”

You wrinkle your nose as you look at him, leaning your head against the back of the couch. “What do you mean? The youngest is interested in anything with two legs, pretty low bar to reach,” you try to joke but Dazai seems to find no humor in it, lips curling down as he stares ahead absently.

“Not me,” Dazai says after a few seconds. “... They think I’m weird. Heard them talking about it at the last event—Noriko and Michiko.”

You pause, lowering your glass from your lips to rest your hands down in your lap as you observe him. His expression is mostly blank, but there’s a conflicted look in his eye that makes your throat feel tight. You’d always wondered if Dazai cared about what people would say about him—they’re not exactly subtle regarding how they feel about the youngest executive. They find him odd and disturbing, most people evade him as much as possible. They think he’s inhuman, closer to a demon than man. You’re sure he’s overheard a lot of it: Dazai knows anything and everything that goes on in the Port Mafia, you can’t imagine he’s blind to people’s opinions on him, but if he is aware, he’s never let it outwardly bother him. In fact, you think he’s utilized it to his advantage for the most part.

But… you’d learned quickly once you were back in Yokohama that Dazai Osamu isn’t alone by choice. He craves interaction with people, but finds little of it because people find his presence unnerving and the few that don’t are wary of the tight leash that Mori has him on. So, you suppose you shouldn’t really be surprised that he’s more bothered than he lets on about some girls your age, who are clearly hung up on both you and Chuuya, having no interest in him because of how they perceive him.

“Well, fuck them,” you finally scoff, already plotting out a way to humiliate the two that Dazai had overheard talking shit about him at the upcoming event in a few weeks. “They’re bitches anyway. And stupid too, clearly. You’re not weird.”

Dazai looks as if he doesn’t believe you, lips tight as he lifts his glass to his lips only to find it empty. He seeks out the bottle and sighs when he notices that it too is empty. He places his glass back down on the table, but doesn’t turn to look at you.

“You don’t need to lie,” he says, keeping his voice breezy but you can see the expression on his face even if he is trying to hide it from you. “I know that I am, I-”

“You’re not,” you repeat, getting increasingly more irritated. “Don’t piss me off. Stop saying that shit.”

“It’s the truth,” Dazai says simply, folding his hands over his lap. “I don’t know why you’re getting so upset about it. Even Chuuya thinks so.”

“It’s not the truth,” you snap, “and I’m getting upset about it because you’re my best friend. I’m sick of people acting like you’re some evil incarnate for doing what we all do. And I’m sick of you letting it feed into whatever complex you have about your humanity. And for your information, Chuuya has drop-kicked people for talking poorly about you—and you better not tell him I told you that, he said he’d kill me if I did.”

Dazai doesn’t react to what you say for a second, brows furrowing and a strange expression crossing over his face at your words, as if he wasn’t sure what he expected from you but it wasn’t that. But it’s the truth.

Chuuya has beat the shit out of people for talking badly about Dazai—no matter how much he bitches and complains that Dazai is annoying and a freak, he doesn’t let other people say the same shit when he’s around. You don’t like getting your own hands dirty like Chuuya does, but you’ve had people killed for talking badly about Dazai—you won’t admit that to anyone even if there’s a gun to your head—but all it takes is a few words about a certain subordinate stirring dissent within the ranks and the Black Lizards are on the move to take care of the inciter.

It’s safe to say that the Mafia subordinates are careful to not voice their opinions about Dazai around the two of you anymore.

Then, he says firmly, “I’m not your best friend.”

Your eye twitches. “What?”

“I’m not your best friend,” he says again, speaking in a calm, matter-of-fact tone. “Chuuya is your best friend. You hang out with him more than me, you go drinking with him and don’t drink with me unless I bribe you, you kiss him.”

“Why can’t you both be my best friend?” you ask, annoyed, feeling much like a child.

“That defeats the purpose of best,” Dazai says snidely. You roll your eyes at his tone.

“Well, I only hang out with Chuuya more because you’re on missions more than both of us because you have that fancy executive title now. And I don’t go drinking with Chuuya. I drank with him once and never again.”

You pointedly don’t say anything about the last comment he made, but Dazai catches that, leveling a steady look onto you.

“You kiss Chuuya,” Dazai repeats, quieter this time. “You don’t kiss me.”

“I would kiss you,” you tell him, voice a little more hesitant than you intend for it to be. Nervous, even.

This is different from when you kiss Chuuya—from when you do anything with Chuuya. Kouyou directed the two of you to each other a few weeks ago toward the end of the conflict, saying that if you ever plan to bring any of the tactics taught by your mentors about utilizing your bodies for strategic purposes to the field, it’s best for the two of you to practice with one another as training.

It was work.

It was training.

It wasn’t whatever this is about to be.

Your heartbeat feels erratic in your chest as you stare at him, he hasn’t reacted to your words, staring at you as if trying to figure out if you’re being serious or if you’re setting him up to make a fool out of himself.

“… I would not mind if hime was my first kiss.”

You let out a flustered noise in the back of your throat at the sudden use of the title you’ve grown to loathe over the past two years, dubbed by none other than Mori himself. Usually, Dazai only uses it whenever he’s trying to goad you into an argument, knowing how much you hate it, but there’s something different about it this time—something that has your cheeks heating up. His voice is softer, breath a bit hitched as he speaks, as if he’s just as nervous as you are but is trying to hide it.

“I thought you were saving it for someone special,” you say quietly, looking at Dazai carefully.

Dazai finally turns his head to look at you, expression subdued. “... Hime is special to me.”

Your breath catches at the admission, wondering if he’s trying to say you’re special because you’re his closest friend or if he’s trying to hint at something more, but Dazai’s expression doesn’t betray any of his thoughts and he doesn't seem inclined to expand on his painfully cryptic comment.

Nor do you have the courage to ask.

You take in a quick breath, gathering your nerves before Dazai takes your prolonged silence as rejection and flees. You shift closer to him, watching as he takes in a sharp, quiet puff of air, staring at you carefully. His fingers are stiff in his lap, twitching as if he doesn’t know what to do with them. You lift your own hands to cup his cheeks between them.

His bandages are rough against the pads of the fingers on your left hand, and absently, you think that you should maybe stock up on a softer brand, because you’re sure they must be irritating his skin. His skin is smooth in contrast as the fingers of your other hand brush along his cheekbone, you watch as he lets out a shaky breath, visible eye wide as it traces your face. He instinctively leans into your touch and for a moment, you can’t help but wonder when the last time someone has touched him gently. Even Chuuya didn’t have such a reflexive reaction to your touch.

You don’t kiss him for a second, gaze lingering on his face, searching his eye to make sure that he’s ready. His tongue darts out to nervously wet his lips, cheeks tinted pink, fingers still unsteady in his lap as he waits. It’s cute, you think—and it might be the first and last time you’ll ever see Dazai Osamu so plainly flustered over something, so you want to savor it as best you can.

Once you’re satisfied, you lean in to press your lips against his. His lips are chapped and taste like the champagne the two of you have been drinking and faintly like the cigarette he’d been smoking on the walk back to your apartment. Not the most pleasant taste, but for some reason, you can’t seem to get enough of it.

As far as kisses go, it's definitely a bit awkward, but still, it’s nicer than kissing Chuuya. You tell yourself it’s because kissing Chuuya is like any other job or mission, but a part of you wonders if it might be more than that.

You disregard that thought instantly.

You keep the kiss soft and chaste, lips moving only subtly against his own. Dazai doesn’t kiss you back—you can feel his lips trembling and you try to relax him by smoothing your thumb over his cheekbone, but it only seems to make him even more nervous from how his breath hitches against your lips.

You can’t help the smile that tugs to the corner of your lips and he can obviously feel it, so he pulls back and asks, “Are you about to laugh at me again?” His voice is edged with a whine, lips turned down and expression sullen.

You don’t respond, instead, you lean in to press another quick kiss against his lips, letting out a puff of amusement when he lets out a surprised noise but swiftly melts into it.

Then you press another, and another after that, and again, until you can feel his own lips curving up against yours. You don’t know how long the two of you sit there, sharing short, chaste kisses and giggles until you can hardly remember how the two of you ended up there. You blame the dizziness you feel and the way your heart flutters in your chest on the alcohol.

When you finally pull away, Dazai’s face is flushed. He tries to hide the way his fingers are shaking by sneaking his hands beneath his thighs to sit on them, attempting to save some face by raising his chin and giving you an arrogant look.

“I knew you had a crush on me.”

“Ugh! I do not, you’re so gross, Dazai.”

But even as you speak the words out loud, you know that it’s a shameless lie.

#bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #dazai x reader #dazai x you #dazai fluff #bsd fluff #bungo stray dogs x you #bsd x you #bungo stray dogs fluff

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candycandy00 · 8 months ago

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Office Life (Shigaraki x Reader)

Just Shigaraki awkwardly fantasizing about the cute receptionist who works in the same office building as him. You guys let me know if you like this quick “imagine” format for when I don’t have a full fanfic idea.

Smut. 18+. Violence/Blood (not Reader’s). Gender neutral Reader. Dubcon.

Shigaraki, who never had much interest in sex before, when he was so busy with the League and the war. Sure he jacked off to hentai every now and then, but the thought of having real life sex with a real live person didn’t really enter his brain.

Until now.

Shigaraki, who is fresh out of prison and working a dumb office job as part of his “rehabilitation”. Who is ignored and avoided by most of his coworkers because of his very publicized past.

Shigaraki, who just can’t understand why you’re nice to him, why you smile at him so sweetly, like he’s an actual human being and not a monster. Why you, the cute receptionist from down the hall, keeps coming into the office he works in with five other men, desks all lined up neatly.

Shigaraki, who likes that you look at him and acknowledge him, but sometimes has the irrational urge to show you how terrifying and monstrous he can be, to make you fear him the way everyone else does.

Shigaraki, who sometimes has violent fantasies about you that he will never act upon. Like today when you come into the room to share cookies you baked and brought in to the office. You, having such an obvious crush on him that even a socially inept weirdo like him can tell, blush and smile shyly when he takes a cookie from the box you hold out to him.

Shigaraki, who has no idea what you could possibly like about him, but feels a little smug that the rest of the guys in the office are clearly jealous.

And as you move toward the back of the room handing out cookies, constantly glancing back to see if he’s eating his, as if wanting his approval, Shigaraki’s dark fantasy takes over again.

He imagines standing up from his chair and moving through the room, decaying each man in turn, most of them still holding their dumb fucking cookies, only to reach the back, where you’re cowering in a corner, trembling with fear as blood pools around your feet.

You turn around to look at him, terror in those big wet eyes of yours, and then the pleading starts. He imagines you begging him not to kill you, babbling promises to not tell anyone, confessing your love in some desperate attempt to win his favor. You’re still clutching your frilly pink box of homemade cookies in your shaking hands.

In his fantasy, he has perfect control over his quirk at all times, and with no effort at all he can decay the clothes right off your body, leaving you naked and vulnerable in the room full of bloody chunks. And you drop the cookies in your shock, trying to cover yourself with your hands.

He won’t allow that. He’s wondered what you look like under your clothes for too long. And so he roughly pulls your hands away, getting an eye full, before shoving your back onto the nearest desk, spreading you open and unbuckling his pants.

In this fantasy, you always struggle at first. But after he starts fucking you hard, you begin moaning his name, wrapping your arms around him, looking up at him with teary eyes and blushing cheeks as he rails you.

Shigaraki, who snaps back to reality when you walk by him, the scent of your floral perfume drawing his attention. You look at the uneaten cookie in his hand and a flash of sadness crosses your face. He hurries to take a bite, and tries to give you a smile that isn’t creepy.

You smile back, and he knows for a fact he will never, ever act on his worst impulses with you. Because far more than his desire to show you how much of a villain he can be, he wants you to keep smiling at him.

And someday, maybe he’ll stop being a fucking coward and ask you to go to a movie with him.

#shigaraki x reader #shigaraki smut #shigaraki #shigaraki tomura #bnha smut #bnha x reader #x reader

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cinnamonest · 4 months ago

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I do want to also continue my primary momcon storyline at one point, but with the recent delinquent/bully Ajax posts I am now contemplating modern small town au delinquent Ajax but instead of student/classmate it's momcon…

Poor single mom who is already judged and ostracized by the small town community for being a single mom who had her baby way too young, unmarried, and with a deadbeat at that, made so much worse by the fact that your precious baby boy is a notorious problem child, treated as a menace and threat to the entire town. Hearing people mutter about how that's what happens when some girl that can't keep her legs shut has a kid with no father, how the whole household is messed up in the head, how his lack of inhibition must be hereditary.

Everyone knows him, and by extension, everyone knows you. Who you are, what your marital status is, the fact that you’re the mother of the town menace. You were hoping to live quietly, avoiding negative judgement as much as possible, but unfortunately, that proves not doable when your son is constantly drawing attention to himself in the worst of ways.

You’re always profusely apologizing whenever you get called to the school, bowing your head and squeezing your eyes shut as you promise for the umpteenth time that you'll talk with him and that it won't happen again, unable to look the faculty in the eye, knowing from experience how much their disdainful, judgmental glares hurt. Knowing what they're thinking in their heads even if they don't say it out loud, what they probably say to each other once you leave. How it's your fault, how you have no control over your child.

Or that one line that still hurts you to think about, that time you overheard two other moms with kids on the playground mutter about how they do this or that with their children, or how they would never have a kid without a present father — or else they turn out like that kid…

You were told that once before to your face, back when he was little — that you needed to hurry up and find a step father for him, or else he'll become a bad kid — because he's a boy and everyone knows boys don't obey their mothers the way they do fathers, you know? Sure they love them and all, but once he gets older he's going to start seeing you as small and weak, socialized by other boys and culture into feeling superior to you, and everyone knows that turns into blatant disregard for your authority.

But it's because of him that you can't — you tried, but he always drove away every man you dated, always reacted very badly whenever you got a new boyfriend, being mean and hitting and kicking and setting up cruel pranks and making the man miserable until he told you he couldn't do it anymore and left you alone again. Eventually it gets to be too much for you to handle, and you resign yourself to give up for now, maybe try again when he’s older and mature enough to have a serious discussion on the matter.

Or maybe wait until he’s grown and moved out — if that ever happens, seeing as when you bring up the future, he insists that he’ll stay here and take care of you, says I could never go off somewhere and leave you here by yourself, Mama.

Regardless, you do try and work with him, get him to behave better, but you just can’t. It’s incredibly frustrating. Everything you say goes in one ear, out the other (maybe those people had a point when they said he wouldn't respect your authority). You fuss at him as you wrap the little band-aids all over each of his fingers where they’re scraped up from the fight of the day, but he just smiles, seems to not really be paying any attention, just happy to have your attention and see you worrying over him.

He always dismisses you with ease, promising you he’ll do better and won’t beat anyone up again, but you can very easily tell he doesn’t really mean it at all. And his actions follow suit — you often get a phone call from the school the very next day.

He doesn't really have friends anyway, your attempts to get him to socialize with other kids always ended up leading to fights instead. But that's okay, he doesn't need friends, he says, he has his Mama.

You do feel like it's your fault. Why did he become so violent? Surely you did something wrong. But at the same time, you don't feel like you did anything bad to him, because if nothing else, Ajax is ferociously defensive of you.

You lose count of how many times, after being called in about yet another fight, your son proudly tells you he was defending your honor — yes, he may have cracked that boy's skull open against the brick wall of the building, but he only did it because that bastard had the nerve to call his Mama a whore, so he deserved to have his face disfigured like that. Yes, he may have put three kids in the hospital, but only because they were doing the thing teen boys do where they joke about fucking someone's mom, and he couldn't stand for that, he had to teach them a lesson so they think twice before doing that again. And it's true that one time he did stab someone, he'll confess to that, but it was because that guy spread rumors that his Mama was hooking to make money, and he couldn't stand for that.

This becomes a very well-known thing with him, which creates a bit of a conundrum — on one hand, most people learn to shut up about you if there's even a possibility he's within earshot. However, some of the other rowdy, bully-type boys know that talking about Mama is like his berserk-button, a guaranteed way to get a reaction out of him, so they go out of their way to set him off, believing they can just run away before he can get to them. Usually they stop once they get proven wrong about being able to run and get beaten up badly enough, but there's always some kid dumb enough to try, thus the violence is endless.

Not to mention those cases are worse. Normal fights get a visit to the nurse, but if the motive involves you, he's far more violent. The thankfully few, but nonetheless increasing number of times you had to pick him up from jail were almost all related to those fights in particular, that got so out of hand they warranted a teacher or bystander calling for help. Not to mention he's not at all hesitant to hunt offenders down in town to hurt them, away from the school authorities (who are always keeping an eye on him), so he'll get more punches in before a townsperson notices and calls for help.

And much like the school faculty, the law enforcement always gives you these awful, hurtful looks of disdain, a condescending tone in their voices when they ask if you're here to get your kid again and sighing when you nod your head. A few have the nerve to tell you that you really need to do something or else it's only a matter of time before he does something you can't just bail him out of.

And he's always so cheerful when you do come get him. A bit sheepish, apologizes for the inconvenience of you having to drive out here to come get him (not for the act that got him put there in the first place), but otherwise very smiley and touchy and grateful.

Very, very touchy. He's always been like that. He was a cuddly kid, always lifting his arms up in a gesture to be picked up, always clinging to your sleeves. He never went through that phase most boys go through, where they think they're too old to be spending time with their Mom or get embarrassed by affection and push her away or distance themselves from her. You were always grateful for that, it was heartwarming that he always seemed to be proud of you and happy to be seen with you.

But he does get very, very touchy. Always wrapping his arms around you. When you come to school events, visiting distant relatives (who all dislike him, but stopped bringing it up when you got defensive), even when you go grocery shopping (he always comes along, insistent on helping you), he's always coming up behind you, resting his head on your shoulder and keeping his arms looped around you from behind. And sure, he's never stopped kissing you on the mouth and not your forehead or something, but that's normal for some families, right? And it's only for a second, so it's not weird.

People do notice. You see the furrowed eyebrows and wrinkles noses and perplexed expressions, people leaning over to whisper something in another’s ear.

But at the same time, how could you ever bring something like that up? How could you possibly be mad at him for showing you affection? It's not as if you don't like it, it's just somewhat inappropriate in public… but it would surely hurt his feelings if you told him not to, so you say nothing.

You’re so, so grateful for him. He’s always there for you, always so loving, and has never even complained about having to go without a lot of things other people have.

And because he sees you struggling so much financially, by the time he’s a teenager he gets that itch where he feels like he has to prove himself, because how can he just sit back and let his Mama provide for everything, when he’s technically The Man of the household?

So soon enough he’s telling you — rather, insisting, no matter what you say — that he wants to help you pay for expenses.

It’s not consistently timed, but every now and then, he sometimes comes home to pull wads of cash out of his pockets, handed over to you with a sweet smile… and where did he get that money? Don’t worry about it, is all he’ll willingly say.

You know there’s no way anyone in this small little town would willingly hire him, since everyone knows who he is, and he’s coming back around the same time as he normally would… except sometimes he goes out in the evenings every now and then for just a few hours, when he never did that before, and takes his bag with him for some reason, and you know now that you think about it you recall the local news talking about a string of break-in thefts and increase in drug usage and — no, no, you know what? You decide to not think about it. Your mind has had as much as you can handle and you decide to tell yourself your beloved baby boy has some lucrative job he just never talks about for some reason or another. If you can convince yourself of that, well, that’s the first step to blissful ignorance, so you just cup his face in your hands and kiss his sweet face and tell him you’re so thankful and how much you love him and feel your heart melt when he looks so happy and proud of himself for you saying so.

But because he’s at least starting to show some self-awareness, understanding money issues and such, you figure this is a good time to get him invested in his own future.

You’re also a little worried about said future, given that the prospects for partnership in such a rural place are already sparse. Since everyone knows him, people guard their daughters and watch him like a hawk, tell them to stay the hell away from that boy, and they do listen, keep their distance. This troubles you, you bring it up to him — if you get a bad reputation, you’ll scare all the girls away! — and for once, he actually has some reaction.

But you’re not scared of me, are you?

Of course, you coo and fuss and say of course not — he's your baby, even if he hurts others, he's always so soft and sweet to you — and that seems to make him content, and anything you say about future prospects thereafter goes ignored.

Well, he ignores anything about prospects for him, at least. It's a different story when it comes to you.

Because the subject does come up once again. If you can just get a wealthy man, you say one day, you can easily make life so much easier for the both of you. You could get him a good education without debt, really set him up to have a bright future.

But the moment you mention it, his expression contorts with some amalgamation of shock, disgust, outrage, concern. He shakes his head and grabs you so firmly by your shoulders and says you can't be serious.

He'll be fine without college. No other man is going to appreciate you like he does. Love you like he does. No way can he let some guy just come in and invade the space you two have always shared. It would feel wrong, it would feel so foreign to him to have someone else living here when it's always been just you two. Besides, so many men would just use you, hurt you, leave you, he doesn't want to see you get hurt — and he'd never hurt you.

He's insistent, actually, on not going off to study. He wants to stay home, he says. He can't just leave you all alone! You'll be so lonely and you might replace him with another man— ah, you might get a boyfriend, and he couldn't be there to keep the guy in line.

And if some other man hurt you— well, he would do something really really bad, something that would get him locked up for a long time.

You don't want that, do you?

Because then, if some guy dumps you — which would inevitably happen, that's just how guys are, they'd use you and leave once they got bored or decided to replace you.

Like Dad, he says.

And sure enough, you tense up — he knows exactly what to say to make his words sting, he knows how much it hurts you, knows it's digging up pain you've tried to bury. You want to think he wouldn't do that on purpose. He's just distressed and the words came out without thinking.

But that pain is the hook to get you to listen. Because, he says, then if he goes away too, you'll be all alone without him. You'll have no one, and everyone in town already judges you, how would you ever survive without him? You need him, don't you? Could you really deal with the guilt of knowing it's your fault he would be locked up?

You try to reason with him, and his grip on your shoulders grows so tight it hurts.

For the first time, you feel a little scared of him, as he looks down at you — when did your baby boy get so much taller than you? — with a dark look in his eyes.

You find yourself shrinking back. Stammering out a soft little okay, nodding your head, saying you understand. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat.

And with that, he's immediately back to normal, smiley and happy and relieved you understand. He just doesn't want you to get hurt, is all. Because he loves you. You know that, right?

As long as you stay with him and him alone, he won't have any reason to really hurt someone. So, you know, his future hinges on your decisions, because he just can't help himself when it comes to defending you.

But that’s unlikely to happen on its own (everyone avoids you because of him and all), which is why you'd have to deliberately choose to pursue another man, which would make what happens your fault. He'll chase off any guys that get too close on their own.

Just don't put him in a position where he's forced to kill someone, and everything will be fine. You'll always have him, after all.

#.momcon #he's so scummy aaaaaaaa

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oxydiane · 2 years ago

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sns is so fucking unhinged and nobody will ever be them i’m sorry. you start the series and it’s like oh haha look at these goofy angsty rivals! they hate each other! then sasuke dies for naruto thirty chapters in giving up his dream of revenge and naruto goes batshit insane. now you’re like ah they’re friends i guess that’s cute! and sasuke is trying to kill naruto because he’s the most important person in his life which is . ok and it becomes the driving force of everything or something. sasuke leaves and naruto dedicates the rest of his life to bringing him back and you’re still a casual fan so ur like he’s doing it for the promise right? then orochimaru says sasuke is his and naruto goes batshit insane feral homicidal (again) and after that sasuke reappears and they have ??? like five different panels dedicated to them staring at each other??? and he jumps off a mountain and hugs naruto for some reasons just to whisper some gay shit in his ear kishimoto frankly needs to be jailed drawing this and keep that best friend nonsense going. anyways. you have sasuke become a convicted terrorist to which the normal people response is “ok we need to hunt him down” and when naruto learns they’re gonna hunt him down he starts screaming crying throwing up he has a panic attack he can’t breathe he’s falling in the snow he gets on his knees and begs them to spare his BFF. after having a meltdown over the thought of sasuke dying what may possibly be the natural coping mechanism any stable person would adapt? of course realising that if sasuke dies he can die too. so he sees sasuke again and after he attempts murdering sakura twice and expresses the intent to murder kakashi he’s like. i will bear the burden of your hatred and die with you hehe and if we both die you won’t be an uchiha and i won’t be the jinchuuriki to the nine tails and we’ll be able to understand each other better in a different lifetime! WE’LL MEET AGAIN IN THE AFTERLIFE BECAUSE NOT EVEN DEATH CAN DO US PART! and sasuke (just as insane as him) doesn’t even flinch he’s like what the fuck is wrong with you but then ok let’s fuckingggf die together on my god i will kill your first anyways . then they find out they are soulmates and get cute matching tattoos on their hands and decide to fight to the death once more because sasuke is back on his i will shoulder all the hatred of the world alone and i need to kill you because i love you more than anyone else in the world actually you’re the only person i love so you need to DIE and naruto is like I WILL NOT LET YOU SHOULDER THAT HATRED ALONE I WILL FREE YOU FROM THE PAIN and they fight and despite all the whatever weapons used in the war it’s a fuckinggg fistfight in which just as sasuke is about to inflict what he thinks is the last blow says “farewell… my one and only…………………. (very long pause to accentuate how heteronormative this next word is gonna be) FRIEND” and fucking stops using his sharingan because not even then he can record the image of naruto dying especially by his hand but naruto STOPS HIM LIKE A f cHAMP and they end up blowing each other’s arms off (rip the matchies) and as they’re bleeding to the fucking death sasuke is like you’re the only person that has never tried to severe their ties with me why do you go so far for me and naruto from the depths of comphet hell is like because you’re my FRIEND and sasuke being absolutely done with this bullshit is like ok what the fuck does that mean to you then and this is where it gets even gayer and relatable because naruto is like i don’t KNOW i just know that when you hurt i hurt and i just can’t take it and isn’t that the most gay experience thing ever? naruto knows what it feels like to have friends but what he feels for sasuke is so bone deep and unconventional that he cannot make sense of it and can only describe the pain it brings. after that sasuke CRIES LIKE THEYVE GOT ME SOOO FUCKED UP but you know what got me even more fucked up?

naruto waking up bloodied and battered and half alive with one arm missing but still wondering if that was heaven because sasuke was next to him. sasuke looking so happy and peaceful when saying “i lost” as a stark contrast to him looking and feeling like half of his body was being torn apart when he “won” against naruto in vote1 and left him. the bitterness of victory vs the sweetness of losing if you will. AND HIM COMPARING WHAT HE FEELS FOR NARUTO TO PRAYING MY GODD. did i forget to mention that then we learn that Ohhh it was never a stupid shallow rivalry as we all thought! they have actually been watching each other from afar since they were little freshly traumatised children and have longed to hold each other’s hands since then! what was it sasukeeee you felt warm and fuzzy when you saw naruto to thought of it as a weakness? these two are so astronomically hopelessly desperately obsessed in love with each other it’s ridiculous i’ve had ENOUGH free me from this mental prison

#soo talks #its 4 am #this is word vomit #ignore me #naruto #naruto shitpost #sns #narusasu #sasunaru #pro sns #naruto uzumaki #sasuke uchiha #thoughts

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fairytsuk1 · 1 year ago

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mr. o'hara | (s)

pairing: miguel o' hara x reader

words: 2.0k

warnings: workplace relationship, cunnilingus, dom!miguel, over the desk, degradation, fingering, size difference, dom/sub dynamics

He was impossible to ignore. Yeah, with a wide frame and dominating presence that kept you on edge. Impossible. You were his equal, a cute brown-skinned Spider-Man. You could swing, you had spidey senses… you were more Spider-Man than him!

That didn’t keep you from daydreaming about Miguel, though. You knew you should hate him. His rudeness and closed-off nature should annoy you to no end. But you didn’t hate him, not at all. If anything, you were endeared. He was rude at times, but you could tell there was to be more to him. Before everything happened.

Jess caught and engaged you in conversation while you were meandering about the complex one afternoon, “hey, Miguel needs to see you.”

You froze, swallowing your anxieties.

“Me?”

“I don’t know anyone else,” she smiled and crossed her arms, “why do you look so nervous? You do somethin’ wrong?”

“No! Of course not; I’m sure it’s nothing.”

She smiled cooly, “I’m sure too. You should get going.”

“Right!”

You quickly saunter off, eager to escape her calm and piercing gaze. Miguel might be mad, might be furious even. You’re considering whether you should jump to your death before seeing him, but somehow find yourself behind the doors of his lair in minutes. Swallowing dryly, they open, and there’s no air in your lungs as you enter the room.

Miguel is facing away from you, and there’s a tense feeling in the air as you approach from below. You don’t speak, and your core throbs seeing him stand so casually in his suit. You look down; you look obedient. Like you’re at his mercy. Miguel peeks behind himself, eyes narrowed but widening at your submissive self.

Neither of you speaks as he’s lowered to the ground, and you glance at your… boss. He looks so fine as he prepares to scold you for your misdeeds. He calls your name, voice drawling out like honey. It leaves you slick and breathless.

“Did you even hear me just now? Do you understand the mistake you’ve made?”

Your eyes flit around as you try to repeat his words back to him. Everything goes so wrong. You can’t find your voice, and Miguel is twisting his features at you to determine why you are acting so strange.

“I-I’m sorry,” it comes out meekly, “I didn’t mean to cause any harm.”

“Am I meant to take your word for it?”

He draws closer; you must crane your neck to maintain eye contact. He’s more menacing as he towers over you. It makes your pussy throb, knowing how easily he could pick you up and seat you over his cock. He’d fill you so well you could feel him in your throat.

“You can believe me! I promise it won’t happen again.”

There’s a ghost of a smirk on Miguel’s lips as he steps back to cross his arms.

“Fine. But, you need a punishment,” Miguel leans against a pillar, crossing his lean legs, “what do you think is suitable for you? Since you’re so… sorry.”

You know what he’s implying. It drips from every word that slips through his lips. You can hear it in the way he lets the pauses hang in the air. Make you listen, submit to him.

A punishment that seemed appropriate... you can’t help but trail your eyes over his clothed cock. Was that a bulge, or was he that big? You drag your eyes back to his, and Miguel’s already narrowed his intense stare at you.

“I-I’ll do anything you need me to, Miguel.”

“Hm.”

You take the bait, drawing closer and sniffling. He watches you with an unreadable expression.

“Get on your knees then.”

Automatically and pathetically, your knees thump against the floor as you sink down. You’re eye-level with his cock now, growing harder as you stare up at him. He’s smirking now, hand tenderly stroking your pulled-back hair before roughly dwarfing your bun with his massive hand.

Your mouth is salivating as you eye his attractive figure. There’s a slight push as he tugs you closer to his lower half. Immediately, you open your mouth and lick your tongue over the growing bulge. You don’t want to disappoint him. He makes quiet noises, grunts, and groans as his hips buck towards your soft pillowy lips and awaiting hot mouth.

“God, cariño, do you always suck your superior’s cocks? Are you always such a whore?”

You pull away, mouth slick with spit, “N-no! I-I’d only do this for you.”

He smiles in earnest, “As you should. Go on, let my fat cock stretch your pretty little lips. Show me you’re sorry, pretty.”

It’s easy to listen to him, letting him guide you as he rids himself of his suit and allows his cock to slap against your cheek. The pre-cum sticks in a glob, and your cheeks are hot as he hits the tip against the apple of your cheek again and again.

“This should be your new job; what do you think?”

A whimper escapes you, a weak protest.

“No? That’s too bad…”

The end of his sentence trails off as he rubs the tip over the slick of your bottom lip. Miguel seems to lose himself in both the visual and sensation, then he lines himself up with the opening in your mouth.

“Open, mami.”

You eagerly obey, letting him split your lips open and fill your mouth. He lets out a long, relieved sigh like he needs this. Wanting this, “Coño, your mouth is fucking amazing. Sucking me so good, fuuuck.”

Miguel’s cock is massive, and tears prick your eyes as you swallow him. You gag, but he doesn’t relent in sliding down your throat till your nose is brushing the hair that curls at the base of his dick. He overwhelms you, and your wrist sneaks into your panties to rub desperate circles.

If Miguel notices your fingering, he doesn’t mention anything about it. He only raggedly breaths, shallowly thrusting his hips while controlling your head with a fierce grip on your hair. Whining, you give him your best needy eyes as your throat constricts; he hisses and pulls you off.

“Sorry, cariño,” he laughs lowly, watching you heave for air as his cock stands hard and leaks, “your throat felt too good. Come here.”

Despite your recovering raw throat, you stand and face him. He immediately drags your soft palm towards his cock, urging you to jerk him off. There’s the sound of fabric ripping as he makes access for his hands to stroke your wet folds; you’ll ask about repairing your suit later. Soon enough, you’re connected as you eagerly make out, quivering and moaning against each-others lips. All this under the sound of squelching, mewling, slapping, and heady pleasure.

“Miguel, I need you. Please…”

He pants, feeling weak from your hand dragging over his head and smearing the pre-cum. If your pussy was anything like your throat, he might cum in an instant. Quickly wrenching your hand away, Miguel gives you a deep kiss before pawing at your waist.

“You need me? Really? Then beg for it.”

“Miguel…”

“Do it, or I won’t fuck you at all, which is what you deserve considering earlier,” his hands grip your waist even tighter, and you can see the flash of white in his canines.

It’s a clear threat; he practically growls at you, “Don’t forget yourself.”

Considering how weak you are for him, for how your cunt is drooling and fluttering to be filled, begging isn’t so bad. You bat your eyelashes, “please fuck me, Miguel. I’m so fucking wet, and I need you. I’m sorry, so please…”

He makes no move, and you amp it up. Your hands palm his pecs, making yourself small as you grind your lithe body against him, “I want to feel you. Raw, please fuck me.”

You’re unsure what causes the switch, but you see it swirling in his eyes before he finds whatever he wants. His smile grows like a Cheshire cat, strong arms angling your waist to bend over his desk while he positions himself behind you, “wow, you really are sorry. I’m proud of you,” he sighs, flicking his head against your sensitive clit.

“Miguel…”

“I know, baby,” he coos, sliding in inch by inch as you nearly spasm under him, “that’s it, feel me. Squeeze my cock, show me how much your pretty pussy loves me.”

“Oh, Miguel! I-I can’t; it’s too big!”

It leaves you breathless. Miguel spears you, thighs tensing as he pushes inch by devastating inch inside your sopping pussy. It’s so much, yet you take it like the good girl you are or as Miguel grunts in your ear. You can only whine into his work desk, arms held hostage by his strong arms as he waits till his balls slap against the lips of your pussy.

You’re full to the brim, almost feeling Miguel in your throat as he makes sure not to blow his load too early into your greedy hole.

“Mig–Miggy…!”

You miss his happy face at your submissiveness, knees knocking like a newborn fawn as he thrusts his hips against your ass. Your boss puts effort into his thrusts that shake your body up and down. There’s a clatter from things dropping from his desk, but neither of you cares as you fuck like rabbits.

“Yes! Yes, please! S-So good, so good! Miguel, you feel so good,” you sob, crying out for him, “thank you! Thank you, Miggy.”

Miguel fucks into you hard, feeling your hot insides mold around his cock and make room for him to hump your needy cunt. He closes his eyes as you cry for him, focusing on the tightness of your pussy and how you’re fucking thanking him for pleasing you.

You’re exactly where you should be. He muses as his eyes rake over your sweaty, fucked out form. He dominated you so quickly, and he couldn’t be harder at the thought of it. His hands dig into your hips, leaving bruises in their wake. This was your punishment, no matter how much you loved it, no matter how much you creamed all over his cock.

“I-I’m getting close! Oh, fuck, fuck! Miguel…!”

Clearly, you enjoyed your punishment more than he hoped.

“Eres tan preciosa, ah fuck,” he gasps, bullying his cock into your creaming pussy and hitting the spot that makes you see stars, “take it. Fuck, take it!”

Miguel could feel you squeezing tighter around him. He was also losing himself, feeling the push of fangs through his gums as his claws made their dramatic appearance. Your hands desperately grab for purchase on his desk, but you get no relief as your eyes roll back, and you cum the hardest you ever have. Miguel pants, wrenching an arm around your neck. The feeling of his big strong hand splaying over the column of your throat leaves your brain dumb.

“Yeah, yeah. Remember this, what a good girl,” he whispers in your hair, hips shuddering as you clench wildly, “qué maravilla.”

Every muscle in your body tenses up, feeling your toes curl and your head tilt back. You can hardly form a coherent sentence, only mumbling as your orgasm crashes onto you. Your hips can’t stop shaking, jutting towards Miguel as he takes care of you. You shouldn’t be acting so desperate with your boss, but you can’t help it, considering he’s given you the most intense orgasm of your tender life.

“Oh fuck.”

Miguel cums hard. His hips stutter in your tempting pussy as he fills you with his seed. It feels like lava, making you whimper his name in a small voice.

You can feel his hot load warming you from the inside out. Miguel’s hips press against yours in an absolutely devastating way. The two of you sit, you cockwarming him as he relishes in the post-coital glow. Wiggling slightly, you turn towards him with a hopeful look.

Miguel smiles cockily at you,

“I still feel like you haven’t learned your lesson, cariño. What do you think?”

You can’t help but agree.

#miguel o hara x reader #spiderman 2099 x reader #miguel o hara smut #spiderman 2099 smut #across the spiderverse x reader #atsv x reader #across the spiderverse smut #atsv smut #miguel o’hara x reader

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snotbuggle · 8 months ago

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Omega when she gets to jail and realizes that she now has to big sister four other children. One of which is nowhere near her age.

Going to try and condense some more serious thoughts about these episodes down below so I can avoid spoiling someone as much as possible and not post a dozen times. I don’t want to miss tag any one of those.

Jex/Jek?? I can’t completely remember his name, but the mirialan kid is for sure not going to trust her at all. Can’t say much for the pantoran kid since they haven’t shown much of them so far, but Eva is going to love her.

I think the mirialan kid is definitely going to be skeptical of Omega’s prior knowledge of the facility, Emerie, and why they’re there. Although he might overlook these things hanging on her promise that her brothers will get her, and in turn them, out of there. I can’t help but wonder what Omega and the others will think after about a week and there still not being a rescue. (These two are assuming that she will be placed with the other force sensitive children. Although she may be moved since her blood actually works for project Necromancer)

Crosshair is definitely going to hear it from Hunter. ESPECIALLY after he threw Hunter’s past failure to keep her out of Tantiss in his face. What I think will weigh on his conscience more though is the fact he thinks she’ll be alone this time. In a way she definitely will, but I have no doubt that he realizes he was probably the highlight of her day. He was probably the one thing that kept her hopeful even if he tried to talk down on her and get her to leave. Yes, she had hope that Hunter and Wrecker would find her, but she also needed someone there with her. A familiar face and not someone who just revealed they were your sister out of the blue. Her situation has changed, but Crosshair doesn’t know that. The Crosshair guilt is going to be so real in these last episodes.

Switching gears, CX agents are always a cool and interesting topic for me. While the identity of CX-2 isn’t usually as engaging, I have to say that I’ve drifted from the standpoint of “there’s no way that’s Tech” to “it’s a possibility” over the course of the last two episodes. I’ve seen some fun ideas for who it is otherwise. Personally, I think that they’re probably just another copy paste man with no autonomy anymore.

ANYHOW! I haven’t seen anyone talk about it much, but the scene with Hemlock reviewing the CX agent data and the capsule has me thinking a little harder on their creation/conditioning. The way Hemlock talks about the other operatives as well. “The others aren’t ready to join you” (paraphrasing) seems to show that after the mental conditioning through obviously brutal means, it takes a load of time to physically condition the agents. Seeing as CX-1 was most likely initiated around the same time as Crosshair (I choose to believe that they were near each other’s tables which is why they’re familiar), that took around five months to half a year. In that time span there had to be a lot of soldiers who Hemlock saw fit to be “reprogrammed” but we see very few operatives throughout. This means that if they make it out of mental conditioning, physical conditioning is most likely very dangerous and often times fatal. I’d like to draw attention to the capsules as a part of that physical conditioning. There were several capsules that Hemlock was observing, along with the foggy one that is most likely that new Huyang-lookin-ass operative. If these capsules are the final stage of physical conditioning, it adds meaning to CX-2’s first line, “Why have I been activated?” (Once again paraphrasing). Although the capsules could be for something else entirely.

Also a bit of a gripe, why in the world do you need a new secret-secret operative, Hemlock? You have the commandos, and then the first X troopers, now the CX’s, and what? You wanted a new one? I can’t tell if this man is an overachiever or just way too absorbed into the advanced trooper rabbit hole. Also for you Tech theorists, it’s kinda suspicious that he makes a new version of agents isn’t it? Almost like there’s something…deviant about him?

Completely side tracking here, I really like Phee’s awareness in the station. Yeah she didn’t hear the blaring alarm, but she was in a room where it’d be hard to hear anyways. However, when she got back she felt something was off about the ramp. We’ve seen how slick CX-2 is, so her noticing something is up was a nice touch imo. Also was very appreciative of her caution and readiness with her knife. I love when female characters get to be aware of their surroundings and ready to throw hands if things go south.

In conclusion, thank you for listening to my dump-rambling. I’ve been trying to keep my lips shut so I don’t miss tag anything and spoil it for someone (because I know that I’ll forget to tag everything right). I hope Wrecker is okay. And even if I’m not a Tech CX theorist, I have to admit that I’ve been seeing some fairly strong parallels.

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andersonfilms · 7 months ago

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high sex with dina…. high sex with dina……

kiss of heaven | dina

tags: eighteen+, sexual content, cannabis sex, oral (dina!r), face sitting, , dub-con (both reader and dina are high).

an. here's my first fic of dina! it's not perfect by any means by i kinda like it?? i hope you enjoy it as well.

there’s something special about it. firsts always are. the adrenaline pumping through your veins, the serotonin getting sent through your head when someone new kisses you for the first time, the very beginnings of an orgasm never been given by them, the shivers traveling up your spine with a promise of something more. it’s all so inviting your doe-eyed heart welcomes it with open arms.

but this isn’t the case.

dina sitting on your lap the entire night, taking hit after hit, the both of you lost in the feeling of what could’ve been all night. now, the both of you are too far lost in the lust of weed, all you can think about is fucking her. she’s been grinding back into you all night, as if it’s not torturing you to no end. you’re sure you’ve soaked yourself through and it would be embarrassing. possibly. desperately, you crave her more than anyone, you just need to be satiated. or sedated if she turns you down.

you’ve both been here before, years ago, but it feels just as it’s always been. somehow, you knew this would be your fate tonight. tongue tied with the woman you’ve never been able to get over. she comes into your life like nothing has changed. you let her, it makes you feel like a love struck idiot all over again.

well, tonight. you’re more high strung than anything. the both of you are.

the white of your eyes populated by red little lines, hooded as you have her pinned to the wooden door of a vacant room. all you have is a simple bra concealing your from her, delicate panties accentuating her divine hips. soft skin to the touch as you rub her hip bone with the pad of your thumb, drawing goosebumps in your wake.

you can’t help but look at her perfectly sculpted breast, soft stomach, the collarbones you crave to sink your teeth into. it’s what you dreamed of. even if inebriation took over you both, if you got to have her? it didn’t really matter at all. not really.

locking the door, you’re pulling her towards the bed as you take a seat in the middle as she stands there for you. “take them off.” you command, gesturing with a tilt of your head. she slips them off, not so gracefully, tripping as she does so. she warns you with her warm eyes to not utter a fucking word.

but you can’t help the small giggle you try to stifle. it’s impossible to conceal.

“you sure you want to test me?” she pushes, raising her bold eyebrows at you. intentionally, you snap your bra off before saying “no ma’am. wouldn’t dream of disappointing you.” instantly, the power becomes hers. as if it was ever anything different. a silent hope, wanting to have it for once, but with her? you crumble.

her beautifully dark hair is a mess, from your endless pulling. “can you, um—” she raises her expressive brows indicating for you to give in and tell her. you try your best, but you’re so distracted by her beauty, the cannabis taking over as you’re impossibly wet, drooling over having your dream girl back. even if it’s for a short time, she’s here.

“i want you to sit on my face, tonight. please?” she stalks you like her prey, climbing up your body before resting at your hips, before leaning down and whispering in your ear, “hm, finally seems like someone learned their manners.” the soft chuckle cured you of the last time before she wastes no more time. not a fucking second.

it’s all so quick. happening in a flash of your eyes, maybe it’s the weed and maybe it’s just her. the instant sigh released from her lips makes your thighs clench. you’re thankful she is facing you or else she’d make you split them apart. you know she would.

it’s been too long since you’ve had her. your tongue licking a bold strip from her clit, sliding down her labia until lightly dipping into her hold before traveling back up her pearl of pleasure. you’re missing the way her head is being thrown back with your eyes shut as you suckle on your favorite meal. being deprived of the sweet taste of her cunt for so long, you eat it up as if you’ve been starved.

“s’good baby, fuck. forgot how good your mo—” you spit dramatically on her cunt, smothering your spit on her pussy with your thumb, applying light pressure on her clit. “yeah , you should have never forgotten, baby. i always take care of you, don’t i?” slapping her supple ass with your free hand.

dina sinks down the extra weight she’d been holding, suffocating you with her slick. you open your eyes for a moment to take her in, only to find she’s looking right back. “hi angel” she whispers, making you giggle softly.

desperately, you’re trying to recall the last time she’s been this light hearted but you can’t. is it possible she’s changed? fuck, the possibility of new beginning is sent throughout your cunt. the idea only latches onto your brain for a moment before dina’s moaning again, rolling her hips deliciously, fucking your face and looking gorgeous doing it.

“is this what you want, huh? fuck…need to cum so fucking badly.” she moves her hips quickly, lost in the way you’re fucking the shit of her. skilled tongue giving her your best, hoping she’ll paint yours in return. she knows she never would’ve succumbed so easily if it wasn’t for the cannabis. dina, always one to savor. not go through the motions so quickly, but now she doesn’t really give a shit. all she craves is the high she knows you can offer.

fully focusing on her clit, you suck the pearl into your mouth, flicking your tongue over, over, and over. dina’s delicious thighs began to shake. irrevocably so. it’s her tell. right before she cums, each and every time, they shake. high pitched moans escape as she tries to regain composure but it’s useless. she’s far gone and you’re more than happy to send her tumbling over the edge.

“jus’ let go baby, yeah? just me ‘nd you. cum for me mommy? please?” you pause before saying what you know will send her over the edge. “c’mon, making a fucking mess all over my face. i can’t take it, babygirl. promise.”

#guys....i dont think i can write cute little blurbs anymore #actually crying about it #dina nolastname #dina woodward #dina x reader #dina x female reader #dina smut #dina nolastname x reader #dina woodward x reader #dina woodward smut #tlou x reader #dina x masc reader

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webslingingslasher · 10 months ago

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hey, love ur writings, can i have one where the reader is meeting peter’s family and she starts drinking and gets a little tipsy. reader isn’t a big fan of pda, but starts kissing peter and showing him affection in front of his family, making him blush and everything

*cleaning out my inbox.*

Normally, you’re good. Especially when around Peter’s family but his aunt poured the community punch a little too heavy handed and now you can’t stop thinking about how cute he looks.

“Kiss.” Not an ask. A demand. It surprises him for a second, briefly pausing from his conversation with a family friend before giving a peck. It does just enough to allow him to finish, even building the strength to walk away and entertain yourself.

Until your boyfriend was all alone, then, you’re wrapped around his side and dotting kisses anywhere they’ll hit. “What’s with the attack?” He’s not complaining, not one bit. But he is looking around to see if anyone else is watching him get loved on.

“Kiss me!” He can’t when you’re busy doing it for him, he fights your hold to have you stand in front of him. Your arms loop around his neck, you’re kissing him in a second and in Peter’s opinion, it’s not PG. He draws the line at tongue, he can’t have May knowing he does those things. Or confirming that he does those things.

“No, no, no.” A gentle ease, you follow his face, a kiss to his chin. “Peter, c’mon, kiss me. Just one more.” You pucker up, he’s not going to leave you hanging, but untangling your hands from his body and holding them steady let you know he was controlling this one.

It’s a measly peck. It’s basically nothing.

“No, a real one.” Peter dodges your kiss, you gasp and step away. “Fine. I was just trying to foreplay tonight, but no, now you’re getting nothing.”

Peter pulls you back in, you still can’t get your hands back. “You’re trying to make a baby at my distant cousin’s birthday.”

“I just wanna kiss you, I promise.” Peter’s staring you down, he knows that’s not all there is. He blames his aunt, a blush spreads when she appears and nudges his shoulder. “Don’t worry, we already got a kick out of it.”

A group of women in their sixties cheer from the deck, you brightly wave and smile. “May, your juice is so good. Also, tell your nephew to kiss me.” Peter looks right at her, “don’t tell me to do that. It’s weird.”

May nods, “do it and I won’t have to tell you.”

You light up, you’re getting what you want. But this time Peter spins so his back is the only thing in view and not the insane, dizzying, mind high kiss he left you with.

#peter parker blurb #peter parker x reader #peter parker fluff #tasm!peter x reader #my writing

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lucygxybaird · 3 months ago

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warning: caliente cowboy content

your first time (ever) with billy

You had been so shy to tell Billy that you were a virgin. Although Billy is your first everything — your first date, your first kiss, your first proper relationship— you know that isn’t the case for him. Sometimes, the thought of him with other woman makes your heart ache, just a little; it’s beneath you, and you know that, but you can’t help it.

It isn’t jealousy, so much as…as a longing to have him all to yourself. Your time with Billy is so precious; both of you are achingly aware, like two tightrope walkers balanced precariously in midair, that Billy can be taken away at any moment.

You fully believe he’s doing the right thing, fighting against Riley and Murphy, against Jesse and his infernal gang. And you’re proud of him. But it means he draws danger down on himself as surely as a lightning rod will draw down a blazing bolt from the sky.

Which, in turn, means that every day — every moment — with Billy is like a gift, eked out from a world which has shown time and time again that it did not care about the two of you. But you don’t care if anyone else in the world gives a damn about you, as long as you have Billy.

So — not jealousy, but a febrile, futile wish to hoard as much time with him as you could, even if you have to reach into the past to do so. As selfish as it is, you have no compunctions with the thought of clawing his memory away from others, women you don’t even know, just so you don’t miss a thing.

You remember the way you blushed, hiding your face against his chest, as you admitted that you had never…been with a man like that. His chuckle reverberated against your cheek, his arms still snug around you. Your hair had fallen forward like a veil, and you made no move to brush it away; but he did. His fingers gently tucked a sheaf of strands behind your ear, craning his neck to try to catch a glimpse of your expression.

“Baby, it’s not anythin’ to be embarrassed over.” He’d pressed his lips against the crown of your head. “You just gotta tell me what you’re ready for. I don’t wanna push you.” Another soft kiss against your hair. “I want you to feel safe with me.”

You had lifted your head then, peeking up at him, and you were rewarded with his smile. “I do feel safe with you, Billy.”

“Good.” Another kiss. “You promise you’ll tell me if we get too close to somethin’ you don’t comfortable doin’.”

You’d promised, and he’d kissed you, over and over again until you were supple underneath his hands, molding yourself against him. After that, you kept your word, putting your hands against his chest to gently press him back, or turning your head so that his kiss landed on your cheek instead of your mouth. He never once intimidated, by so much as a sigh or a downward twitch of his mouth, that he was disappointed — let alone angry — that you wanted to stop. Instead, he would just lay back against the pillow, drawing you against his chest and holding you there.

He would stroke your hair, or run the heel of his hand up and down the length of your spine, and the two of you would just talk. About nothing, about everything. If you hadn’t already been head over heels in love with him by then, those soft, meandering conversations would have pulled you under completely.

You aren’t sure what makes tonight different. Maybe it’s because it’s the first cool night after the merciless, broiling heat of summer, where the air feels like a gentle caress, and you can smell the comforting scent of woodsmoke on the breeze. Billy has built a fire and laid out your dinner on a blanket in front of the hearth, and now the two of you are nestled together on the flannel, your bodies twined together. You look up at him and realize it’s not the beautiful night, or the romantic dinner, but just the fact that you love him so fiercely and can’t get enough of him.

You want him to know that.

“Billy,” you murmur against his lips. You finger one of the buttons at his collar, slipping it open. “I…I want you. Tonight. Now.” You look up at him, undoing another one of his buttons. “Please…”

He freezes for a moment, as if unsure he’s heard you right. Pulling back just a little, propping himself up on an elbow, Billy frames your face between his hands. “Are you sure? I need you to be sure. Don’t just say yes cause you think it’s what I want.”

You draw your fingertips over the angle of his cheek, although your gaze falls on his lips. Those impossibly plush, soft lips. “I’m sure.”

He looks at you for a moment more, as if measuring the strength of your certainty. And then he stands up and draws you to your feet, pulling you flush against him. “Listen,” he murmurs. “If you wanna stop, you tell me, okay? No matter what we’re doin’. Just say the word, and we’ll stop.”

You nod. “I’ll tell you,” you say, because it seems like he’s waiting for confirmation right from your mouth. “I swear.”

His hands find your waist as he leans down to kiss you again, this time even hungrier than before. And you thought you knew the passion in his kiss. You had no idea. He must have been holding back, tamping down his own desire just to make sure you were comfortable. His kisses have always made you burn in the most delicious way, but now — it’s like comparing a candle to a wildfire.

You wind your arms around his neck, fitting your body against his. It’s almost physically painful, like tearing a bandage away, to pull back just enough to keep working on the buttons of his shirt. Your hands go to the bare skin of his chest, and he lets out a soft sigh against your mouth, the sound of someone returning home after a long journey. A sound of relief and an intense happiness that’s as keen as a knife’s edge.

Your fingertips brush over his ribs, and you’re surprised when he huffs out a laugh. “That tickles,” he mutters. Of course, you do it again. He giggles, the sound deep and husky, but undeniably a giggle for all that. You smile as you reach up to slide his shirt off his shoulders. He lets it fall to the floor before he reaches up to grasp the shoulders of your dress.

“Can I?” His expression is earnest, his eyes beseeching, and you know he’ll only keep going if you give your assent. So you nod, keeping your gaze on his, and his palms gently caress your shoulders as he slides the dress off, exposing your from the waist up. He waits, looking at you; when you nod again, he reaches down and pulls the material around your waist down. The dress pools at your feet.

“Let me look at you,” he pleads. “I just wanna look at you for a minute.”

“You can,” you say.

Only then do his eyes leave your face. You can almost feel his gaze as if it’s a physical caress, brushing your breasts, your waist, your hips. He lingers between your legs, his lower lip catching between his teeth. He’s looking at you as if he’s fighting the urge to drop to his knees, the pose of a man worshipping at the feet of a goddess.

“C’mere,” he says, his voice rougher than before, rumbling deep from his chest. He takes your hand and leads you to the bed. He wraps his arms around you, drawing you against him and kissing you hungrily; the sensation of your bare skin against his sends such a strong sensation surging through you that you gasp softly against his lips. “Billy…God, I want you—”

“I’m right here,” he promises you, lifting his head to look you in the eye again. “You’ve got me, honey, I promise. You have all of me.”

You lay down against the pillows, fighting the urge just to part your thighs in invitation. He must read something in your expression, because he grins at you, and you grin back, a nervous giggle bubbling over your lips. He moves over you, holding himself up; he kisses your lips again, feathering kisses over your jaw, down your neck.

Billy trails kisses down your body, starting at your collarbone, his tongue darting out to taste the hollow at the base of your throat. His hands brace themselves against your hips, and his grip tightens as his mouth ghosts over your breasts; you feel his breath shudder against your skin, and you think you can see a quick thrust of his hips as he grinds against the bed. “Billy…”

He looks up at you from underneath his impossibly dark lashes, a question in his eyes.

“More,” you breathe. “Please…”

In response, he wraps his lips around one of your nipples, sucking as his tongue flicks against the sensitive bud. You moan softly, encouragingly, one hand coming up to tangle in his hair. The other reaches up to grip the pillow behind your head. You’re already aching, yearning to touch yourself, but you want him and only him. Even your own fingers would break the spell.

He moves to your other breast, and when you whimper, you see his hips rock again. Billy kisses each rib where they press against your taut, feverish skin, and when he reaches your waist, his hands move down to your thighs. His fingers dig into the flesh, massaging, thumbs brushing over your inner thigh. The thought of him touching you there has your back arching, the ache only building. You think soon it will be unbearable.

“I wanna put my mouth on you, baby,” he says, his voice low, throaty. “I wanna make you feel good.” He nips gently at your hipbone. “Can I?”

“Yes,” you say, without hesitation, which makes him grin. “Yes, Billy, please…”

He smooths his hands under you, gripping your ass and lifting you up to his mouth as he settles between your legs. Billy keeps his eyes on yours as his tongue sweeps over your slit, and you cry out, your head falling back. He starts up a rhythm, tongue lapping at your core, sucking, kissing, and then—

“Oh, God—”

His nose brushes that bundle of nerves you’ve shyly explored with your own fingertips before, as his tongue delves into you. Your mouth falls open and your eyes scrunch shut, and you grip his hair tightly, hardly aware of the way your hips are bucking frantically. “Fuck! Oh, God — oh, Billy — Billy, Billy, Billy…”

He moans against you, which only intensifies the almost agonizing pleasure surging through your veins. You open your eyes, looking down to watch him devour you. He keeps grinding against the bed, fitful thrusts, before he stops himself, as if he’s trying to keep control but he can’t hold onto it. “Oh, Billy — I — I’m — oh — ”

You can’t speak anymore. The only sounds falling from your mouth are desperate, raw cries, and everything is building, building, building, until —

A wordless scream tears itself from your throat as you reach your peak, an animalistic cry that trails into desperate whimpers, almost sobs, as you come down. He keeps swiping his tongue against you, as if he’s drinking in your peak, and you keep rocking your hips to meet his tongue. Finally, he lifts his head, and you fall limp against the bed.

“Fuck, honey, you taste so goddamn good,” he groans. The evidence gleams on his lips, his chin, even his cheeks. He moves over you again, leaning down to kiss you greedily. You barely have the strength to wrap your arms around him, but you do, holding him as tightly as you can.

When you feel his fingers brush against your inner thighs, you give a soft moan. He meets your eyes again. “Can I touch you? I gotta get you ready for me.”

You whimper softly. “Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, oh, Billy…I want you inside me so badly…”

With a soft groan of his own, he drops his head to your shoulder, tucking his face against the crook of your neck. “You have no idea,” he breathes, “how bad I want you. Shit…”

His fingers stroke your folds, thumb moving in gentle circles over your clit, barely applying pressure. But it still doesn’t take long for you to start whining, gasping against his lips. He kisses you over and over again, almost in rhythm with his touch, and then you feel him brush against your entrance.

“Baby?” he whispers, and when you nod, he slowly, slowly, presses a finger in.

It burns, but his lips moving against yours and his thumb working against your clit help to relax you. “More,” you breathe, and he adds a second finger, beginning to move them in and out. You moan as the stretch becomes less of a surprise and more of a pleasure, and you feel yourself clenching around his fingers, your body acting independently of you.

“Billy,” you gasp out. “Billy — I need…I need more…”

He groans, immediately starting to move his fingers faster. Harder. You cry out, head pressing back into the pillow. “Yes! Oh, yes, yes, like that, just — oh, Billy, just like that — don’t stop, please, don’t stop, don’t stop…”

Your only answer is another groan. When your gaze flashes to his face, you think his beauty alone might be enough to drive you over the edge. His cheeks are flushed, his blue eyes burning, his lips swollen and deliciously pink from your kiss. You reach up one hand for him and pull him down, the gesture almost rough, certainly possessive, and you kiss him again as if you would pour all the passion filling you up right back into him.

“Oh, God — ” It’s building up again, the throbbing ache in your core, and all you can think about is having his length buried inside you. You can feel it against you every now and then as he moves over you, a hard ridge pressing against his pants. God, you can only guess at how big it is; the very idea makes you rock your hips down on his fingers.

“I’m gonna come,” you mutter. “Billy — Billy — fuck — oh, I’m gonna — ”

He nips at your earlobe, sucking against the skin. “Come for me, baby,” he whispers. “I love you. I love making you feel good, I love you, I love you so much…”

His pace intensifies, and your back arches, your legs trembling. His thumb presses harder against your clit, still moving in circles, and you let out a helpless half-sob, half-moan as your second orgasm hits you like a thunderclap. All you can think of is wrapping your legs around Billy’s waist, digging your fingernails into his shoulders, marking him up, writing on his skin in a language that only the two of you can understand.

Billy carefully pulls his fingers from you, and as you watch, he lifts his hand to his mouth and licks his fingers greedily, like a starving man will like a plate free of crumbs. This time, your thighs do part, and you whine helplessly. You never imagined you’d be like this, wanton and needy, barely aware of yourself as anyone or anything more than Billy’s lover. It’s like desire and pleasure — and love, God knows — have merged into a great ocean, and the waves have closed over your head. But you don’t mind sinking into it.

He groans at the taste of you, and then moves back, getting to his feet. You watch with ravenous eyes as he undoes his pants, shucking them in a moment; you swear to God, your mouth waters at the sight of him. He is big — and he’s so hard for you, his length laying flat against his stomach.

“Shit,” he breathes, looking down at you. “Baby, I — I need to be inside you so fuckin’ bad, please, tell me I can…”

As if he really needs to ask by this point. But you love that he asks, anyway. You reach for him. “Please, Billy…”

He moves on top of you again, urging one of your legs up over his hip. Without prompting, you wrap the other around his waist, lifting your hips to him. “Ready?” he murmurs, and you nod, so desperate for him that you might actually begin to weep if he’s not inside you in a moment.

And then —

Oh.

Your lips part in a silent moan. The head of his cock presses inside you, and then he stops, watching your face. You nod, and he presses in a little more — slowly, slowly, pausing every now and then, always waiting for you to signal your assent somehow before giving you more of him. When he’s pressed in to the hilt, you grasp at his shoulders, writhing a little beneath him. “Billy, fuck me,” you whisper in his ear, and you’re rewarded with an immediate thrust.

He presses his cheek against yours as he starts to move — again, slowly at first, a gentle, exploring motion of his hips. You gasp out, encouraging, pleading, tugging at his hair with one hand and raking your nails down his back with the other. Billy grunts softly with each snap of his hips, an animalistic sound, rich with pleasure, with possessiveness. It’s like he’s saying mine — mine — mine — with each rough, deep noise. You rock against him, your cries intensifying as your body becomes used to him, and the only thing you feel is a pleasure so intense you find your eyes stinging.

“Harder,” you beg. “Faster. Fuck me.”

The groan he lets out rumbles up deep from his very core, and he obeys you instantly. He takes one of your hands, and then the other, pinning them above your head as his hips slam into you, over and over. His cries get louder and so do yours. You’re so close, and as yet another orgasm races toward you, you whimper in his ear: “Billy, Billy, I wanna ride you.”

He whimpers, and rolls the two of you over, settling you on top of him. “Baby,” he breathes, looking up at you as if you’re made of starlight and lace, something beautiful and delicate, and more importantly, all his. “Fuck — like this, like this — ”

His hands on your hips guide you in a rocking motion, and it isn’t long before you find the rhythm yourself. Billy’s eyes shut tightly, his brow furrowing, his mouth falling open. He braces his feet against the bed and rocks up into you. “That’s it, baby, just like that — fuck — you’re so fuckin’ perfect — ”

You want to warn him again, tell him you’re about to come, but the only sound you can make is a desperate moan, repeated with each movement. You brace yourself against his chest, working your hips on his length, feeling every inch of him so deliciously deep. In another moment, you’re coming hard, your thighs shaking as your throat goes raw from crying out. Billy keeps rocking up into you, both of you gasping, and then he rolls you onto your back again.

You go to cling to him, not wanting him to leave, but he pulls out and strokes himself once, twice, before he’s coming all over your stomach -- up to your chest — with a cry of your name. “I’m — I’m sorry, baby,” he blurts out. “I didn’t…if I’d…”

“I know,” you manage, despite still struggling to catch your breath. You smile sleepily as he digs a rag from the bedside table and cleans you off, before pulling you into his arms, burying his face against your hair.

“Did I…did I hurt you?” he murmurs, his tone soft and shy.

“No,” you assure him.

You snuggle closer. There is an ache between your legs now, but you find it easy to push to the back of your mind. More important is the contentment washing over you, loosening your muscles, making you melt against Billy’s chest as you wrap an arm around his waist. Not that you ever wondered, but now you know for sure Billy is the one you’ve been waiting for all your life. Your first, your only, your everything.

You lift your head and smile at him. Relief washes over his features as he smiles back. “I love you,” you tell him, and he reaches up, brushing a strand behind your ear.

“I love you, too, darlin’.”

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