#Lawn trousers

[skrubu]

Discourse Delivered by Pekka Nikrus Via Flickr: In album Humans (not me)

[shaisuki]

❝ LOOSE ENDS. ❞

✞ FEATURING. BULLY! GOJO SATORU AND GETO SUGURU

▶ SERIES MASTERLIST

CONTENT WARNINGS. college au + heavy bullying + gaslighting + noncon + dubcon + implied sexual assault + allusions to depression/suicide + alcohol consumption + drinking + implied drugging + fatphobia + overdosing + naoya zen'in is an asshole + humiliation + threats + minor oc character + DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT.

NOTES. this might come as disappointing since some of you wanting revenge what this two idiots had done to reader. there are some matters that i think is too complicated and impossible so i came with this way as the breaking point where reader starts to retaliate/plan her revenge. will get to it later and to that anon, who asked for the revenge, i will get once i start to finish this one up. please read the warnings, i don't want someone bitching in the comments telling me that the contents above is uncool. it truly is not cool. that's why it have warnings. it is on a fictional context. do read the warnings before continuing. also do let me know of what you think of this chapter.

SYNOPSIS . you let them take and take what they can from you. you were a nobody after all but everybody have their breaking point.

the world is a blur to you. colors of red and blue dances in your vision while voices whispers to you. what's happening? you can't move. it's like your body were made of lead. you can't understand what they were saying. multiple faces stares at you, are you dead? is this what you see when people surround you while they lower your casket. is it? you hope it was, cause you didn't plan on living anymore. there's nothing worth moving forward and the world around you turns black.

there's a beep and then silence. you hear before you see and when you opened your eyes, all you can see is a bright light above you. it took you minutes to adjust your vision and realize where you are. you're in a hospital. laying on a bed and you started to get irritated at your oxygen mask. you tug at it. getting frustrated why it keeps coming back at you before someone put their hand on it. completely removing it and there you breath. your sight darted to the hand who helped you until your sight travels to his arms and then to his face. a brief recognition flashes through you.

“nanami?” you call his name unsure but you know it was definitely him. it was hard to mistake him for someone. there's his blonde hair, neatly parted. his pristine beige sweater paired a dark colored trouser, not a crinkle in sight and his signature silver watch in his wrist. you met him once at the literature club and decided you were going to be there too not until it changed due to some circumstances. his lips parted but before he can speak, a cheery voice interrupted him.

“she's awake!?” said haibara, you also knew him since he and nanami were always together. seeing your confused state, his voice died down. “what happened?” you asked them and they exchanged looks before haibara answers you.

“we found you passed out in the lawn. thought you were drunk but you weren't breathing.” haibara's voice was soft while he slowly breaks down the reason why you ended up here.

a doctor comes inside to your room before haibara can finish. you took note of her pristine white coat with her surname embroidered on it. clicking her pen and whipping out her clipboard she pulled out of nowhere. you were distracted by it. the doctor's eyes is on you now and you began to frown.

the doctor coughs clearing her throat before speaking. “hello, ms. (y/n). i'm glad you're awake now.” noticing your confused expression she pauses began answering the question. “to answer your question you were unconscious for two days and is brought for possible assault. we need your con—”

“no!”

“ms. it would help for you t—”

“you heard me!? i said no!” you scream at the doctor and your tears appeared in your eyes. you didn't realize you were screaming. nanami and haibara stand there in silence but the looks on their face said otherwise. concern painted in their faces and the doctor bows before leaving. looking at the men inside in your room to call her if you need anything.

cause if they would test you, they would find the remains of their sperm inside you and then report? who will believe you? it would be buried like the case of another girls like you who were too afraid nor fight their abusers. you don't find the point of that. they would twist the words out of you. it was easy to believe than you.

you curled up in bed and did the next thing you can. cry. now, you're in here and the events before this plays in your head in repeat.

“f-fuck”

satoru curses out while suguru bites your ear. your body like jello as they spilled their load for the nth that day. both of them lowered your body after fucking your brains out. warm up, they say. you shiver as you feel their cum running down your thighs. feeling disgusted as it began to stick after being exposed to the air. you grab the wipes but suguru stopped you, grabbing it from your hands and cleaning you up. fixing your skirt in the meantime.

“worth every penny.” suguru mutters. staring at the new clothes they bought for you. a baby blue corseted puff-sleeved, square neck top matched with a black skirt that rests on your mid thigh is what they forced you to wear. it feels tight. intentionally buying it one size smaller than you usually wore and it more feel you like a stuffed sausage rather a comfortable piece of clothing. you can't say no to what they wanted. you're a bit of grateful that they allowed you to wear your white sneakers rather than those kitten heels that would put your feet in blisters.

satoru's fingers brushes through the expanse of your exposed flesh. playing with the small bow in your top. sighing, “suguru, can we have more with (y/n)-chan?” his best friend chuckles at him. “idiot, we're already running late, after that we can.” satoru pouts. “tch, party pooper.” he ignores gojo and moves his attention to you.

“smile, this is your first real party. you're going to enjoy this.” suguru lifts your chin up with his finger and you obediently nodded. “ditch and you know what will happen.” he warns.

it was a bad idea. the moment you stood in the front door. the party was already in motion. you can hear the people inside shouting profanities and booming music mixed with already drunk frat members and student bodies. this was never really your crowd and when you were shoved inside with gojo and geto you were done and you already felt like crying. you look at the duo in front of you. they were already engaged in conversation with the other people here.

“gojo, you son of a bitch. you fucking came.” a guy hollered in the side and you see more of his features as he gets nearer. a snarl in his face with multiple piercings in his ear. a hair dyed blonde with green accents.

“ah, zen’in. wouldn't missed this just i could wipe that smirk off your face.” gojo mocks him and before the guy whom gojo called zen’in darts his sight to you. he raises a brow. “you two in fat bitches now?” pointing at you with hand cupping a plastic cup. gojo scoffs. “none of your business, zen'in.” glaring at him but he can't see that gojo's looking at him with dark glasses in the way. “then you two wouldn't mind me using her.” he suggested and suguru gaze darkens at him. “fuck off, naoya.” almost growling at naoya and the latter raises his hand in mock defeat before finding shit he could entertain himself with.

suguru scowls after naoya left, he looks at you like you just turned his mood sour. “you're an embarrassment.” he says and you bit your lip. keeping the tears at bay and you don't really want to embarrass yourself more at this party. “hey, hey suguru.” gojo taps his shoulder. “let loose, don't naoya get to you.” satoru glances at you. his blue eyes peering in his glasses. “you're right.” his stare cold at you. “find a seat, (y/n). you're embarrassing us now with you around.” you nod and you find yourself in a vacant corner. near to those already wasted or just plain chilling in the couch in front of you.

what did you expect? that were all sex talk or when they're in good mood. all those praise and compliments are just enough to feel you good about yourself for a bit and then they'll come destroying it. you stare at the view through the window. the night's particularly beautiful and peaceful except the place you're in and you're already missing the comfort of your bed.

you take a sip from your cup. a girl gave it you earlier saying that it's a special concoction that's only made at this parties. unsure you took it. not wanting to show ungratefulness to someone whose only been polite to you and she seems nice. you cringe slightly at the taste and the burning of the liquid as it flows down your throat. coughing you bring down the cup, not used to drinking.

your first time being a party, your eyes wander how your peers lost their selves in the influence of alcohol. some where dancing and mingling. talking like they were friends and you caught of others taking their business upstairs. you were kind of jealous how everyone are the life of the party and you sit here in your misery. you continue to observe everyone and you caught gojo. it's impossible to miss his tall stature and his white hair standing in the crowd. a petite woman is linked to him. her thin arms are wrapped around his neck and it was clear what they were doing. there they stood in the crowd. kissing.

“satoru.” gojo was taking a swig of his drink when a girl approached him. calling his name like they were lovers but it was more like an ex-fling. never had a relationship with her. she was only a temporary fun. “ah, sar—ah, sayuri.” he almost curses at himself. sayuri playfully pouts at him and there it is, the batting of eyelashes. “that's mean, satoru. you already forgot me.” her lips puckers before placing a hand in his chest. if this was a another party of gojo and he really liked this girl. he would have taken her upstairs. he caught you in the corner. you were like a child in awe at the people in this house. gojo almost chuckles at your cute antics but suppressed it and then a cruel idea pops in his mind. “missed me?” he asks sayuri and there was no answer needed as he crashes his lips to sayuri. his sight never leaving yours and when you caught him. he watch as your eyes widens, you lower your head in embarrassment before chugging that drink in your cup in one swig. he smirks in the kiss as he watches you wiped your tears away. he always liked making you cry.

you should have ditched this stupid party, even it means getting punished by those again. you were hurt. they always like to torture you. listen as they tell you how worthless and unlovable you are while they keep girls who are clearly not you by their side. those girls were perfectly fit for them to be seen in public and you were there for them to humiliate you. with your head lowered, you stifled a sob. wiping your tears with your hands shaking. they kept flowing and you kept messily wiping them and with that you slowly made your way outside. discreetly making your way through the door and you almost laugh. you were a nobody. you're not made for pretty things and this goddamn outfit you wore only added to your misery. you never felt beautiful and it looks ugly on you. wrapped a sausage with a different and it will still look the same.

no one noticed you leaving except for suguru's watchful gaze.

suguru finds his friend making out with a girl he definitely doesn't remember. suguru slaps his back and satoru broke the kiss. wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and ignores the girl he was just making out seconds ago. suguru points the door where you left earlier. you're really looking for trouble and with that they left following you.

sayuri was stunned being shoved aside again. she was angry. how the fuck did you get those two's attention especially gojo's? she's beautiful. she's thin. academically excelling and you, a fat nobody bitch easily made those two fall for you. she knows they were just playing at you and sayuri could take it but being shoved again by satoru isn't what she expected tonight. she's going to be satoru's bride. it was decided from the start and satoru knows it. their fathers friends since their college days had made a decision to marry their son and daughter before they were even born and she did everything she can just to have satoru's attention but why can't she even get to look at her without her trying. it's your fault. it's your fucking fault! you deserve to die. you're fucking stupid for accepting that drink like you're a fucking saint and now, maybe you'll rethink your choices of making those your own and satoru will only have his eyes for her and only her.

weird. why are your hands sweating? it's cold. freezing cold. you know this temperature at night is normal but why are you freezing cold. hah, your vision's starting to get funny too. where there always stars in the sky? ahh, i want to go home. i wonder if akira's still awake. i didn't told her that i was going away tonight. my eyes hurt. you were crying. this was your thoughts as you walked away.

it was to easy to catch you with their long strides. satoru grabs your flabby arm angrily. “we told you, you don't leave without us. do you really want to get punished, (y/n)-chan?” his voice snarky as he digs his nails in your arms. it hurts. it really must really hurt but you're suddenly numb to feel anything. you just stare at him in confusion and then you hear voices. they were calling them to get back.

gojo scowls at them. your knees buckled and you sat in the ground. geto tsked. “we're going back to you later.” he says and they left you there and there were loud cheers. you lay there in the ground. numb and your vision fades away.

you blinked as you stare in the nothingness. that's what you last remembered. they left you there and you hoped you died. you can't take another bullshit of what they put you through. the tears continuously flows from your eyes and your blanket is wet with tears. haibara puts a comforting hand in your shoulder and you bursted crying again. this was the real kindness you felt since the accident. they didn't blame you. they only stayed and made sure you were resting enough. stranger they maybe or an acquaintance. you would never forget this kindness from them.

days. nights. you stayed in the hospital until you were cleared. you made nothing of what happened to you. putting it in the records as an allergic reaction in which the hospital agreed. just like that even when you're in the brink of death of what happened to you. if you took the procedure for assault. they would be guilty but it was days old now and bruises are left in your skin as nothing but reminders of the humiliation of what they did to you.

for now, you're going to cry. cry until there's nothing left to cry for.

[bitchlessdino]

nobody's home (m)

Pairing: neighbor male nanny!seungcheol x afab maid!reader Genre:  smut, fluff towards the end Word count: 3.8k tags: working class au, mentions kids, big dick!Seungcheol, reader wears skirt and thong and panty hose, dom!seungcheol, brat!reader, rough sex, rough hair pulling and head movement, spitting and swallowing, heavy degradation kink, window sex, overstimulation, name calling (brat, slut, mr. choi), choking unprotected sex, breeding kink, cream pies Summary: Seungcheol and you have never crossed paths for long, but boy have you imagined it. Too preoccupied with your jobs working for some of the richest families in the city, you've sacrificed your grueling hours when you could've been fucked your brains out all this time. However, big risks come with big rewards when the holidays arrive. Then there's nobody home to stop you. author note: horny, horny, horny, that was the entire process writing all of this. i feel like i pulled this out one of my deepest most darkest horny moments bc why am i so into writing every part of this and thats so rare?? i enjoyed this alot, please enjoy guys and happy new year! its almost 2024 thats insane!!!!

Tag: @shiningstar-byulxx @misssugarlips @tommolex @hoeforhao @goblinvern @dkakapizzaboy @junhui-recs @svtup @buffhoshi @meowmeowminnie @caratochan @lovebot4han @6969lilithcat @camisun93 @emmmui @toruro @jeonride @novalpha @nvmrljk @feat-sun @tinkerbell460 @aaniag @tacosandbitch @cottoncheol @embrace-themagic

You haven’t worked for this family all that long. Only long enough to realize the cute male nanny living in the house next door.

You've caught glimpses of him a handful of times on the lawn, overseeing the kids as they bask in the fresh air. His eyes sparkle like stars that lit the night sky and his smile outshines the opulence of this entire block of one-percenters. Witnessing that radiant smile aimed in your direction brightens your day each time. Without fail, you exchange polite greetings, accompanied by smiles and pleasant small talk, forming a delightful routine in your interactions.

As the housekeeper, you’ve had plenty of encounters while getting groceries, lawn or backyard parties, and windows. Lots of windows. You’d peer through when you’re cleaning, see him glance back at you, maybe sending you a wave as he’s mid-feeding the kid veggie tots. Your interactions with him were typically very brief and fleeting.

Now, there were no excuses. The holiday season is around the corner, and families in the neighborhood will soon be heading to the Alps, tropical destinations, or somewhere along those lines. That meant you’d be all alone in their mansion, much like someone else in the neighborhood.

You learn about it by seeing him at the grocery store. Trying not to get distracted by the loose-fitting dress shirt tucked in the waist of his trousers, you notice the little one he cares for rolls through the aisles full of toddler swagger in the shopping cart. You would gush at their delightful giggles if you didn’t find their caretaker so mind-numbingly distracting. 

With his broad shoulders, sturdy arms, and consistently solid build, you too would trust him with something so delicate and needy of attention. It was such a natural choice. However, the nearest option you had was, well, yourself.

He mentions that his employers preferred to keep their vacation exclusive to family, providing him with paid time off to use as he pleased. In turn, you mention being offered the same form of compensation, and am eternally grateful for such leniency. His expression sparks in piqued interest, briefly glancing at you before storing the hot chocolate package away in the cart. 

“Does that mean you’ll be away for the holidays?”

You muse at his question, fingers taking over your basket handle as he ponders on your response. A glimmer of optimism in his eyes beams in your direction, with a dimple etched deep in his cheek as he splays a hopeful smile. To which you answer jesterly, "Well, I hadn't implied that."

He softly chuckles, nudging you at the elbow, obviously trying to banger a proper answer. “Then tell me, what’s a pretty thing like you doing in a big house all alone during the holidays?”

His compliments delight you and warmth festers in your chest, greedy for more. "I suppose we'll find out, won't we?"

Seungcheol doesn’t have a moment to react as the child in the cart regains their energy. He shifts his gaze away momentarily and soon you escape his line of vision, seamlessly blending in amidst the bustling crowd of grocers. 

Returning to the residence, you linger by the largest window, offering a perfect view of Seungcheol dining during supper. It's a familiar scene, replaying like clockwork at the same hours each time. His silhouette in the warm glow of the neighbor's dining room becomes a sight with more to be desired, and you imagine a world where the divide doesn't exist. Staring in his eyes, you picture your entanglement. The heat of your bodies weaving together like threads in a tapestry, each bonded tightly, with only the power of shears to tear you apart.

His eyes reflect the same intensity, mentally undressing you down to the skin, making you his perfect canvas. He ponders the texture of your skin, your hair, and the sound you make when he tenderizes your flesh with his teeth. He wonders how full you feel between his fingers, or how sweet your nectar tastes. He can only envision the favor, the sensation, the warmth; holding the fantasy close to him like a secret taken to the grave.

That day would come soon enough.

Anticipating each passing hour of every day, you are elated by the promise of bidding farewell to your employers at the airport. You assure them of returning to a pristine home, meticulously cleaned from every nook and cranny. A grin, so expansive it borders on pain, graces your face, and there's a noticeable spring in your step as they fade into the depths behind the security checkpoints.

Without a moment's hesitation, you rush home, eager to connect with a kindred spirit just a few cobblestones away from your work residence. Judging by the expression in his eyes, it's clear he has fulfilled his responsibilities and bid farewell to his employers as well, eagerly awaiting your arrival. He grins at you, pleased to see you approach him.

“I see it that they made it to their flight safe?”

You hum in confirmation. “You would be seeing correctly. How did your family make it?”

"Quite smoothly," he answers nonchalantly, the dimple on his cheek sinking into a subtle but contented expression.

A palpable wave of relief releases from the depths of your lungs, and a chuckle escapes as you observe Seungcheol displaying a similar reaction. Even in the subzero temperatures, you sensed the fire of his gaze, unraveling your logical resolve and liquefying you into a puddle of your own arousal. In the depth of your gaze, he discerns your hopeful anticipation, one that matches his. “So, what are the plans for the rest of their absence?”

The corner of your lips can’t help the way lifts, smiling slyly back at him. “I’m sure you have some ideas.”

You thank the heavens every day they never reinstalled those security cameras. Utilize their vulnerability, you invite the neighbor’s nanny into their home, and the automatic door locks behind him. No use in holding back, he claims the lips swiftly, tasting need and rebellion on your tongue in a rough liplock.

His lips full and plush, they part to speak, but not with words. His tongue aligns with yours, only to tangle in incoherent mumbles that escape in between, yet communicate with you in perfect fluency. Much like the intimate gazes you share from the windows multiple times a day, the fervent kiss unfolding spoke more than the audible language ever could.

His hands work around your body, shoving off your coat and cardigan, abandoning them on the hardwood to slip his fingers beneath your shirt. A shallow breath leaves your lips and you rush him against you, planting yourselves against their pristinely white wall. The texture of the plaster digs into your backside, abrasive against your flesh and Seungcheol locks you in place by holding your thigh against his side.

“You don’t know how fucking bad I wanted to do this to you,” he growls into your kiss.

You let out a sultry chuckle, fiddling with his earlobe between the pads of your fingers. “You can say it out loud. Nobody’s home.”

He scoffs. “I said, I wanted to—“ he slams his hips against you, his cock bursting at the seams against your torso, “—fuck the living shit—“ he does so again, digging your sobbing clothed cunt with his solid thigh, “—out of this stupid, pretty cunt. That loud enough for you?”

You moan through your firm pressed lips, grinding against his steel hard thighs. “Just the perfect amount.”

In admiration, your hands roam over his body, and shamelessly rips off his dress shirt, hearing the buttons skip against the cool tile. He grunts at the sensation of the frigid air enveloping his broad stature as it pebbles goosebumps on his upper arms. Returning your savage gesture, his hand fingers through your hair and dragging it back to pin your head on the wall behind you, fisting handfuls of your locks. “That wasn’t very nice of you. Could’ve asked for permission at least first,” he snarls, baring his front teeth.

“Can’t help it,” you grin, “you just look so good without it on. I bet you look without anything on.”

His chest presses flat against your body without even space to breathe and his unyielding gaze bore into you. He aligns his conceited grin against your lips to smash it brusquely—as if thanking you—pulling at your bottom lip between his perfect teeth. “I’m sure it’s all you think about when you see me.”

Quickly, he maneuvers you; twisting your heel and guiding with a hand on your waist, he forces you against the unyielding surface of the wall and trails that same hand over your chilled spine. 

You softly gasp at his touch, feeling the flood of your clenched walls seep through your underwear and layering your inner thighs. His chilling, velvet voice beckons, coating the inside of your ears. “But I’ve dealt with brats, you know that. Let me show exactly what happens when you test the limits of my discipline.”

Seungcheol lifts the flap of your skirt, barring the shape of your cheeks protected under a layer of pantyhose and caressing its plush cushion. Then came the flat palm of his hand coming against you at full force. You jolt upon contact, clinging to the foundation of this house to recover, yet mewl at the arousal erupting inside you. A sound emerges from the depths of your throat, vaguely sounding of his name as well as plead.

“You like that, don’t you? A naughty little brat you are,” he chuckles sinisterly.

You push your back against his hips, finding the mold of his cock readily and fitting between the rounds of your ass. His soft groan follows, his erection rubbing against the pantyhose. “God, you really like that.”

“I want it,” you whine impatiently, backing your hips on him, and crushing his length, “give it to me.”

“What kind of authority figure would I be if I gave into one of my brat’s demands?” He strikes your cheek again, stinging lingering dully as your flesh had barely recovered from the last hit, and drool leaking out of the corner of your lips. “Not a very good one,” he answers.

“Please, Seungcheol...”

He does do again, if not harder, and each strike collides with both cheeks. “You’ll be referring to me as Mr. Choi now, brat.”

You never knew his surname, but upon discovery, you notice how smooth it rolls off the tongue. How delicious it sounds out of your swollen lips.

“Mr. Choi…” You breathe out, your cunt vibrating at the notion of his power.

He hums pleased, rewarding the back of your neck with a gentle peck. “Good job. What is it you want?”

“Please, Me Choi, I want your cock inside me…”

He clicks his tongue. “Do you, now?” He chides, “Are you going to behave from now on?” 

You nod gingerly. “Yes, just give it to me, please…all of it…”

“Mmh, since you’re being so polite. I guess positive reinforcement is in order.” Seungcheol’s hand caresses your hips, reaching for the curves of your ass in confident determination. The soft caress of his rich voice proceeds, “Let’s just get these out of the way.” 

He ruthlessly tears the sheer material of your pantyhose, exposing your skin and the red lacy thong that hardly holds you up. You erupt in a startled gasp, welcoming the cool embrace of the air ventilation on your blistered skin. His voice drops to a lower octave and his groaning dissolves, melding into a soft sigh. “What a pretty little holiday gift for me. Only took me a moment to realize I have to unwrap it.”

“I thought of you when I decided the color,” you admit in feigned innocence, “you seem to like the holiday colors.”

“I do. Darling of you for noticing,” he praises with a hint of tease, “and my, does it suit you. Maybe there is hope for a brat like you.”

You hear the draw of his zipper, following the heavy drop of fabric to the ground. Slightly turning your head, you see he kicks the clothes aside and grins upon inspection of his full-length lining up between your legs. Your knees began to wobble, parting your feet for a more stable stance, and you swoon with your head against the wall. “You look so big…”

The head of his cock rubs against the lace, precum leaking from the tip and creating a small mess on your already ruined panties. You hear a smile in his scoff and feel the snap of your underwear before his tip breaches your molten warmth. He whispers, “Wait until you feel how big it is pushing in and out of that pretty wet cunt of yours…”

“Mmh, Mr. Choi…” Your breath halts as his girth parts your entrance, stretching your walls until it is Seungcheol and your lubricating arousal. He seethes in relief, letting your welcoming embrace around him soothe his intensifying erection and he bucks his hips, having you adjust to his size.

You rest your forehead on the wall, feeling him bury himself inside you. “Shit…yes, Mr Choi…”

“Such bratty pussy.” He spanks both cheeks once more, watching the recoil of your flesh. “My perfect bratty little pussy…bet you’re so used to misbehaving. It won’t be like that around me.”

He took one deep, languid thrust, automatically groaning, “Fuck,” then released his hips.

You immerse in his plunder of your voice, letting it ache in need as you repeat his name. Meanwhile, your internal temperature rises with the collision of his lap and your ass growing harsh and unforgiving. Pinning your wrist together single-handedly, he lets his other grip reclaim your hair, dragging your body to him for his own use. “You feel so fucking good around me.”

He tenses his torso to take sharper strikes, pulsing deeper and quicker. Your hand slides on the solid surface in front of you, pushing yourself against him as you take every inch. Your jaw drops low, echoing a hollow whine, devoid of incoherent thoughts and instinctive response.

Seungcheol lets go of your wrists and instead sandwiches them between your back and his chest. He finds the front panels of your shirt and tears it apart similarly you did with his, echoing that familiar sound of buttons being abandoned on the ground. 

“Because you deserve the same thing to happen to you,” he softly mutters, only to cup your cladded breast hungrily, squeezing your flesh to the point it spills out of the material as his teeth kiss your neck, “and because I couldn’t stop looking at these when you’re walking around that see-through blouse by that window we share.”

Thinking about the fact that you share something made his intention all the more intimate, and you cling to his body like saran wrap due to the simple fact. You melt as he marks your body with bites, the stinging resonating on your goosebumped skin. “I wear that because of you,” you manage to squeak, “only because you wear that t-shirt that clings to your body during the summer. How it got damp from sweat fixing that broken bookcase. God, is it satisfying to rip your shirt off.”

“That window was always the culprit, hmm?”

He pries you from where you stand and drags you to the referred structure with you giggling after him. There he bends you over the dining table placed strategically in front of it, while your ass points towards the glass screen. His spanks come flying, tenderizing the already raw and blistered skin, “This damn window you always linger by.” 

His nails dig into your kneaded flesh and he fits his cock right where it belongs, plunging back inside you as he secures your head against the table. “The way I wanted to fuck you on this exact table, spank this cute fucking ass,” he roughly tugs your head up, watching your tits bounce as he ruts in you like a damn dog, and meets your warm wide-eyed gaze, “Spit in that slutty, brat mouth.”

Your lips part without delay, death gripping the edge of the mahogany, and your tongue slings out enthusiastically. He breaks out in an amused grin before it melts back into a smolder, gripping you closer until he hocks a hot load of salvia in your mouth, forcibly closing your jaw with his hands.

“Hold it,” he commands, seeing the subtle frown on your face as you obey. He smiles sinisterly, hands on your hips as he slams you towards him, watching your head bob at the harsh rhythm. He places his palm over the column of your throat, teeth clawing your cheek. “Now swallow, you slut.”

He feels the shift in your throat as it goes down, relishing that light gasp of breath leaving your lips, “Good slut. You’re finally learning.”

His power, his strength, his cadence were inexplicably captivating and you succumb to his every whim. It only intensifies as you drink in his delectable lips, so soft in contrast to the abrasive snap of his hips, hitting in a spot so sensitive you don’t even predict it coming.

Your moan resonates through the entire first floor, palming the dinner table as you ride out your high in teary anguish as Seungcheol’s pace doesn’t seem to falter, in fact, it seems to have grown angrier. Furious. 

“You fucking slut,” he spits, rubbing your overstimulated clit in the thick of your climax, squeezing the tears out of your eyes. You clutch his forearm in desperation, writhing uncontrollably. “S-Seungcheol—“

“Misbehaving again, I see.” He pulls out of you to flip you on your back. He watches at your hot cheeks expel heavy pants, sweat filming your entire torso, and eyes rolling to the back of your head. “You’re still conscious; you haven’t had enough just yet.”

Dragging by the arm, he takes you against the tempered glass, chilling your bare spine. He lifts your legs off the ground and holds them on either his side, stuffing himself back into you. Your heat drips around his cock, and he catches it in his thrusts, pressuring you to feel every inch of his cock rammed inside. 

Your ass and the pads of your fingers press against the glass, smudging its once-pristine sheen. “Mr.Choi…”

He strokes your cheek, fondness in his eyes before it lowers to your throat and closes around it. Then his eyes penetrate through you, eying you in a dark allure as he robs you of breath, and catching the daze in your eyes as he ponders in thought. 

“What are you thinking dirtying up the thing you took so long cleaning with your fingerprints and cum, hmm? Marking your claim on the house you've spent all day and night on looking perfect? A house far from being yours? How does it make you feel?”

“…Exhilarating,” you sigh shallowly, staring back at him with a smile. Your arms loop around his neck, finding security and embracing his vigorous nature. “Like it’s all worth the painstaking labor to make a complete mess of it.”

He groans at your answer, reconnecting your lips in what feels like an eternity, and cradles the side of your face endearingly with one hand still around your neck. His lips devour yours, swallowing your moans, jerking his hips, and savoring the velvet of your walls clench around him so deliciously. 

“You were just as worth the wait. Made my job so damn hard thinking your pussy wrapped around my cock, made me fucking blank out most of my day. Not a good move for me, but–really–I blame you,” he slams you against the window before quickly returning to his rhythm pace. 

“You and your perfect body—” He grinds up into you, relocating your sensitivity and you whimper, “—Your sexy fucking voice when you greet me,” and he finally, makes notice of your face, using that hand that crushed around throat now gripping your chin, “—or this beautiful face that I couldn’t wait to see contort when I push my fucking cum inside.”

Usually, you know better than to let that kind of thing happen, but after the long duration of having only distant contact, his offer becomes tempting—alluring even—that you knew someone had to physically pry you off of him until you were filled with his seed. “Well, you’re so good with kids, wanna make some of your own?”

Seungcheol beckons closer, grinning mischievously, “Should I? You want me to put my babies in you? Fill you up with cum?”

You mewl at the thought, bringing his warmth closer, “I’d be so full…taking your fat cock and all your hot cum inside me…it’d be a dream, especially knowing how good you’re taking care of us, especially me.”

“You’d want that, hmm,” driving himself into you until you're lost in your own world again—losing the grasp on reality—and he persists. “You want my cum making a mess of you and this house just so I could put some babies in this pretty cunt? Hmm? That what you want?”

You nod mindlessly, anchoring yourself to him until he finally lets up. When he does, you feel the power surges through you as if you’re fresh new battery, the electrical current being the cum he shoots up into you. You let yourself ride this high, rocking into his hips, and soon your weight takes over, deducing you to a puddle. He takes his final pumps, cooing softly at your lips as you share a kiss, then drops you back on the dining table, letting you catch your breath as the cum spills slowly out of you and stains the floor under your feet.

He stands between your legs, tracing over the texture of your thighs, and his other hand claims your waist, meeting your face with a tired but tender smile. “Hi.”

You softly chuckle, resting a palm on the back of his neck. “Hi,” you repeat back.

“So dinner?” 

You playfully roll your eyes, bordering his hips with your legs. “Are you offering to cook?”

“My job requires me to, so yes,” he traces over your jaw, drawing in closer, “Wouldn’t want to feed my clients burnt Mac and cheese with their frozen Dino nuggies.”

“True,” your arms lock at the elbows around his neck, “But what else can you make besides Mac and cheese with Dino nuggies?”

“That is the question, isn’t it?” He answers vaguely.

You finger through his hair and notice how his perspiration has left him mouthwateringly disheveled, quietly contemplating how to stretch out this vacation time. Your solution: never leave each other’s side. 

“I’ll tell you what. We can think about what to eat…after a shower. “

You retrieve his hand, tugging him in your desired direction and he follows graciously with a knowing grin. “We can do that, but we both know that shower will end up more dirty than clean.”

“Good thing I’m an expert in keeping a clean home, now it’s your turn to clean my home.”

His dimple graced his cheek, visibly interested. “My pleasure.”

[driaswrld]

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

LADY DRIA WRITES . . . ˚ ༘ *

🪷 dearest gentle reader, in matters of love and longing, prince satoru comes to the realization that love may only visit the fearless, whilst prince suguru comes to terms with the taste of hope on his tongue... 5k words.

🪷 prince gojo x reader x prince geto jjk regency/royal au, romeo & juliet esque balcony meeting, fruit flavored jealousy.

CHAPTER TWO. . . ˚ ༘ *

GRAPE FLAVORED.

Sleep eludes you tonight.

Two nights have passed since the first feast and despite Areta’s consistent chatter of appearances and well needed fun time for a lady of your stature — you’ve chosen not to attend the others for the time being.

You’re assured that Satoru’s presence at the feasts and balls in between remain slim to none unless called upon by his mother, a notion that you would be grateful for under any other circumstance to dodge the question everyone at the palace court whispers behind your back—

( why hasn’t the prince married her yet? )

—but you miss him.

Embarrassingly so.

With palms outstretched, you cradle your weight against the concrete rail of the terrace adjoined to your bedroom. A wisp of wind cooling your cheeks, realization settling in.

You miss Satoru — your best friend, your person.

You miss when he’d sleepily stumble into your alcove by the palace’s west wing and lay dramatically before you, begging you to paint him or at least sketch the width of his shoulders ; begging you to 'immortalize the omnipotent beauty of the realm’s strongest' — his words not yours.

The way he’d linger by your side, laugh at your jokes and make even cruder ones of his own—

This yearning settled deep within your bones akin to that of a grieving widow doesn’t feel the way it should feel when one misses a friend.

( satoru does not yearn for you in this way, you know it. )

It’s hot, a boiling pit within your stomach and it never leaves your veins—

—not until two nights ago, that is.

Two nights ago when he reappeared.

“Your highness?”

Dearest gentle reader,

in these delicate matters

of love and longing—

“My lady,” Suguru calls out in a similarly hushed fashion. “You're awake.”

Down below the terrace, he stands on the trimmed lawn in his sleep trousers and shirt, dark hair tousled and eyes half lidded — you would've laughed at him if the air between you two hadn't settled with something else.

“I couldn't sleep,” you respond, watching with bated breath as he steps forward, one foot resting atop a raised brick in the mud, eyes trained above, where you stand.

“You often take late strolls, your grace?”

Suguru laughs, breathy, soft. “Your grace,” he repeats your words, mockingly. A few dark strands fall over his eyes as he tilts his head back to look up at you. “You’d think having me in my sleeping trousers alone would be enough for you to discard all formalities—”

( right, this encounter is improper. )

“Forgive me, Suguru,” leaves your lips in correction. You lean further over the terrace rail, body bent in near half to gaze down at him. “It isn't often I speak with men while in my dressing gown.”

“Dear God, I hope not.”

A laugh of your own breaks through and he joins in unison.

So far, and yet so close.

A soft silence soon passes over the two of you under the moonlight.

Suguru, who’d been away for so long, could make years of absence feel null — as if he’d been residing here with you all this time. As if he had been keeping your company in tow, as if the breath of your laugh belonged to him.

As if he hadn't left you.

“I wondered,” Suguru breaks the silence, pale fist wrapping around a stray vine along the wall. “If I would get the chance to speak with you like this.” He whispers, but even from so high above, you hear him clearly in the night's silence.

You know what he means. Just us two. You’ve wondered the same, albeit too often through the years.

Why didn't you write to me? You want to ask. Why didn't you come to visit? Follows next in your brain. Did you move on? Did you fall in love?

( have you been happy away from me? )

“Did you read my letters?”

—often we forget

just how greedy

the heart can be.

“All of them,” Suguru breathes, almost like it hurts to say.

As if it pains him physically to remember how he tore the wax seals open with his teeth, licked the flap of the envelopes and nearly cried when it tasted of you—

“More than once, more than I ought to.”

Suguru grips the vine tighter in his fist, stilling himself and invoking restraint. This isn't his place, not anymore.

If he had it his way, he’d be on the terrace with you, and he’d tell you every thought he had about each word you’d written, with his hands, his teeth, his tongue.

“Suguru. . .”

It reminds you too much of your childhood.

Often you would chase after Satoru and Suguru.

Always both, never one.

And though you knew your fate as a Princess — who would marry a crowned Prince — your foolish heart, so greedy and naive. . .

“I have my obligations.” It leaves your lungs like a lie, something you won't even begin to believe.

You're betrothed to Satoru. It's set in stone.

But the both of you know that's not why you're saying no. “The solstice ends in a week and you will be—” He'll be gone again.

“I’ll not wait a whole week.” Suguru’s voice is still quiet, but even you can't deny the raw hunger behind his words. “If I apologize and say that I wish—”

“You will do no such thing,” you warn, shakily. “Not now, not. . . because of this.” Not because in nearly every way that matters, you’re Satoru’s.

( i wish i told you. i wish i wasn't too late. i wish )

Suguru wished he had stayed.

He wished he had made do on the promises he made to you as children and been at your side, not just as your friend but as the man you would marry—

All those things he had sworn upon his own heart. . .

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

“And if I say I will, what then?” Suguru had scoffed at your cousin back then. At the mere age of twelve.

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

“Don't be so crass, Satoru.” Suguru grumbled, grabbing ahold of your hand and tugging you forward the moment you fell behind. “She's my friend.”

( and yet. )

Lady Dria writes : Prince Geto to assume royal estate in the North following rumored betrothal to mystery woman! Is this the end of our beloved royal trio?

( duty came first. )

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

“I’ll let you keep your tongue,” Satoru scoffed, stepping between you and one of the ladies at court the day after Suguru left. “But address the Princess so loosely again and I swear—”

That night, you cried in the confines of Satoru’s private chambers, your fingers bleeding ink and red wax staining the front of your dress.

What was her name? How long had Suguru known it was arranged? Why didn't he tell you? If you ask him now, will he tell you? Is he ever coming back?

Does he love her?

And it was then, when you didn't have any more words to write, nothing left to say to Suguru that he might not have known, did Satoru tell you,

“I’m here.”

And you believed him.

“Name—” Suguru calls to you and you shake your head, straightening your posture and leaning off the terrace rail. “I wanted to say it before, you were gorgeous at the first solstice feast. . . Still are, even after so long.”

Suguru bites back the words he really wanted to say. I dreamt of you, you look the same.

“You flatter me,” it leaves you breathily, and the beats of your heart elude your better judgement.

“Perhaps, silken gloves suit you, my lady.” Suguru's words hold an undertone that’s lost on you in the moment, yet still you smile at him.

He doesn't see the expression on your face when you turn away, craning his neck to find something— some inclination that he has a chance—

“Goodnight, your highness.” In your voice he finds it, that small sliver of nostalgia, and his heart grasps it in earnest.

Beloved reader,

I fear I must also

impart the knowledge—

Satoru stops dead in his tracks, a single peach colored rose falling from his palm.

—that there are always

three sides to a story.

From across the way his cerulean eyes lock with Suguru’s darker ones, and there is nothing to be said, as they both know what the other is thinking.

You are not worthy of her.

Morning gives way to the first of three hunting days.

As per the terms of the competition, all commoners go ahead before nobles to keep the proceedings fair.

Satoru sits still atop his horse, cerulean orbs downcast and flitting through the mass of bodies in the crowd riding ahead of him.

“Have you and Suguru finally fought?”

Satoru’s eyes widen for a brief moment, turning his head to the side and loosening his grip on the horse’s reins, his mother standing at his side, caressing the mare’s mane with jewel adorned fingers.

“I’ve no idea what you mean, mother.”

The older woman scoffs, the horse leaning eagerly into the touch of her palm.

“When you and Suguru were but meek babes, you two had your first fight you know.” Satoru’s mother smiles a little at the memory.

Back then, both boys were merely toddlers and squabbling with tiny fists over nothing but a simple rattle.

Neither would concede to the other.

Even so young, they fought as they still do to this day. As rivals, as best friends.

“Did I win?” Satoru asks, lifting his gaze to the scenery of dawn before him, drowning out the eager shouts of men and women alike, placing their bets for the competition to come.

“No,” she responds and Satoru’s lips curl into a small frown. “The rattle you fought over snapped in two, ‘toru.”

This isn't about a rattle, is it?

“I won't concede, if that’s what you’ve come to ask of me.” He affirms, and his mother shakes her head, stifling a laugh.

“She isn't a rattle, nor is this a battlefield—” Satoru’s mother is observant, painfully so. “I asked your father to arrange the match myself for the sole purpose that I know you care for her, and I would not subject you to a fate not of your choosing—”

( she can choose, whereas a rattle could not. that is the sole difference is it not? )

“But you would have me sit here and let her choose him?”

Satoru Gojo is many things.

Selfish, spoiled, strong. Greedy even.

He fights for what he wants and he remains determined to win no matter what.

But when it comes to you. . .

Doting reader,

our beloved Prince Satoru

has yet to realize—

“I did not raise a selfish fool. Maybe a proud fool but not a selfish one—” She smacks the side of his leg to which he immediately recoils with a pout on his lips. “You never win love, you earn it.”

As if love can be akin to fleeting favor.

“I am selfish,” Satoru confirms, not shy of shame though. “She would hate me for it, if she doesn't already.” He hangs his head for a brief moment, a puff of a sigh leaving his parted lips. “But can you blame me?”

Satoru is many things.

But not blind.

How can he tell you that he cares for you, that he’s fallen helplessly and carelessly in love with you knowing that he’d be imprisoning you to a fate he loathes?

Whispers behind your back the more you are seen with him or without, the more he puts off the betrothal, the more he leaves your side the more he hopes you’ll learn you don't want him—

That this life, at this palace is less than you deserve.

And yet. . .

—that love is not

a war you march into

of your own accord.

He’s selfish.

“Have you asked her what she wants?”

No, because he’s afraid you’ll say what he wants you to. That you don't want him.

That by the hour you grow more miserable the more he keeps you waiting, tethered by a short thread just waiting to snap—

Satoru convinced himself that if he waited just a little longer, that maybe you’d grow tired and snap the thread all together in one go.

And then the marriage wouldn't happen, you’d contest it and he'd agree. He could keep you close like before, without breaking your heart, even at the cost of his.

“Satoru.” His mother warns, deep azure boring into the side of his face. “That debutant at the dinner—” God forbid she did raise a selfish fool, who would selfishly self sabotage—

“I never touched her.”

“You say that and then you do these things as if I'm to be convinced you've changed.” His mother sighs, as if history has come around to repeat itself. “You don't even realize you're clutching your end too tight.”

And you’ll break if he doesn't let go.

“I can't tell her.”

“You must.”

Who is he to condemn you to the life of a Queen?

In the same way his father did his mother?

That spark in your eyes will go dim, and he’ll watch you give yourself to your duty and it’ll kill him, even worse than you not wanting him will.

He’d prefer you hate him altogether.

“Are you happy with father?”

Darling reader,

perhaps love

only visits the fearless.

“Your father is a good man.”

Satoru would rather die by his own hand before he hears those words from your lips too.

“My lady?”

You visibly wince, cowering behind one of the marble columns in the ballroom.

The few chandeliers that provide light do little to help your situation as Areta’s voice had already notified a few of the dancing nobles of your presence — to which you were met with confused stares.

“Please, keep your voice down.” You hush her, sliding around to the other side of the column where Areta stands, eyes wide and curious.

Areta’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, her lips parting, about to question your odd behavior.

You're hiding. Or at least trying to.

You had no choice in coming to tonight's festivities, as you were already knee deep in your pre-arranged afternoon nap when your dearest mother barged in and asked ( read : demanded ) that you attended tonight's ball to quote en quote ‘keep up appearances.’

With much practiced skill, you’ve eluded Satoru and Suguru by barring yourself in your room recently.

But, cowering behind a column won't get you far, right?

“I don't think hiding is what I mean when I encouraged you to have fun, my lady.” Areta speaks hushedly, joining you behind the column, two full glasses clutched between her fingers. “And if it’s the Prince who you—”

“Oh, spare me, which one?” You chuckle, tilting your head back onto the marble with an eye roll.

“You’ve had trouble with Prince Geto too?” Areta gasps, though not shocked, the young girl's eyes gloss over with curiosity — ever the devoted gossip.

( perhaps if you stay here and sip drinks with Areta, no one will even notice your presence ! )

Devoted reader,

our protagonist

has a pattern of

terrible judgement.

“Hardly trouble, I’m afraid.” You take one of the glasses from Areta’s hands and bring the rim to your nose — grape juice. How fitting. “Trouble would be better, I can handle trouble.”

What you can't handle is both your childhood friends driving you mad with feelings you never even knew existed.

One who torments you with mixed signals and provokes new feelings in the pit of your stomach.

And another who stirs and awakens old feelings inside of you that you thought were long lost.

“Well, I doubt trouble is what you need presently, my lady.” Areta chuckles a little, her voice soon trailing off as she takes a sip of her own drink. “Oh! You wore them—”

“I thought perhaps,” You murmur, more to yourself, fingers fiddling with the edge of your silk gloves – the same black ones from a few nights ago. “I’d wear them once more before I set them aside.”

Now that you think about it, Satoru never said anything about the dress or the gloves — not that it matters to you anyway.

Faithful reader,

it matters.

Too much.

“They're quite beautiful, as are all Prince Satoru’s gifts.” Areta affirms with a soft smile as you drink from your glass, leaning off the column and straightening your posture. “But, I thought he usually had more of an affinity for lace—”

“I was called?”

You jump just a little, turning immediately to meet the source of the intrusion, to which you bump straight into Satoru, spilling the contents of your cup on both of you.

“I’m sorry—” “Grape juice—”

You take a few steps back, immediately crouching to retrieve your fallen cup, but Areta beats you to it, not shy of shooting you a quick wink before she scurries off into the crowd. Deviant.

“You don't like the wine tonight?” Satoru hums, outstretching a hand to pull you to your feet, and you hesitate for a moment.

Only for a moment.

“I didn't think drinking would be wise,” You take his hand, silk sliding soft against his awaiting palm. You don't miss the way his shoulders tighten. “And grape juice—”

“Is your preferred drink of choice, I know.” He finishes, cerulean orbs gazing into your very soul.

You can feel the thrum of his pulse speeding up against your fingertips, calling you, like a siren song. . .

( you should've stayed in bed tonight. )

Admittedly, Satoru was never the type to drink either. He could never hold his alcohol, hated the taste, even if it was just a drop in fermented fruit.

Grape juice was his drink of choice.

And then it became yours.

“I’m sorry, again.” It leaves your lips in a hurry as you look away from him, pulling your hand back as soon as you're upright. “My head must've been somewhere else. . .” Last night on the terrace. Your mind remains there.

Is Suguru going to magically appear too?

You furiously rub a fist over the purple stain forming at the front of your gown. “I need to change my dress—”

“It's not your fault, silk can be slippery.” Satoru bites back a grunt, bringing a palm to your elbow as he guides you off to the side, towards the adjacent corridor. “Come, I’ll help.”

Silk.

( what's his problem with the gloves? )

You follow his lead, a sigh escaping your lips as you both come upon the nearest alcove in the dim light.

You can barely see the velvet cushioning of the sofa tucked away neatly in the back.

The soft moonlight falling through the open window brings a sense of calm when you take a seat, eyes catching on the violet smudge against Satoru’s pearl white vest.

Often in your youth between balls, you, Satoru and Suguru would sneak off to the nearest alcove you could find, pry the window open and sit together on the sill—

“Your vest—” He follows your gaze as he bends a knee, kneeling at your feet casually.

Satoru presses his middle finger over the damp fabric, and unabashedly sticks the digit into his mouth. “Mhm, that's grape juice.”

“Satoru!” You scold.

He only laughs, strands of snowy hair bouncing with each shake of his shoulders. It's a very Satoru-like laugh, but there's something else you can't quite place—

“It's just a juice spill, I’ll live.” Satoru’s smile dips into his cheeks. Dimples. “Hated this stupid thing anyway, I should be thanking you for ridding me of it,” he murmurs, rolling his shoulders back to slip the vest off, muscles taut against his shirt with each movement of his arms.

“Hey— hey—!” You raise your palms to push against his chest to stop him, heat rising at the back of your neck. “Don't do that—” It comes out too late because Satoru is in the middle of rolling the vest off his arms. "You can't just undress—"

The way Satoru only leans forward, shades of azure searching your gaze for something, it's like he's daring you to not look away as he slips the vest off his arms bent behind him.

( why did you run away from me? )

You hold his gaze, the longest you have in days, manicured nails digging into the fabric of his shirt.

( why didn't you give chase? )

“Name,” he whispers, as if he’s holding back, but he refuses to look away from you. Not right now.

“Don't look at me like that, ‘toru. . .” You whisper, and it takes everything inside you not scream at him, to say everything you've been wanting to say, everything that's burning your insides.

( don't look at me as if you know desire. )

“Name.” Satoru calls your name, firmer this time, just as his vest drops to the floor behind him.

His knees burn, or maybe his eyes — he doesn't know, his mouth has gone dry and oxygen eludes him.

He's not how he was in your youth.

Satoru slides a pale hand up to grasp one of your palms against his chest, pads of his fingers hooking under the dark silk, and in one fluid motion, he's pulling the glove off your hand.

“That's disrespectful,” you breathe, voice barely audible, the echo of classical instruments sauntering through the vacant corridor. “You can't have two times the favor in any competition—”

“It's not your favor I want.” Satoru grasps the silk in his palm, biting back a grimace.

I’m jealous, he wants to say. Instead he leans closer, and without letting go of your bare hand, he’s aiming to toss the glove over your shoulder and out the window.

“Satoru—!” You retract your hand from his chest to paw at the glove, trying to get it back, and his breath tickles the skin of your throat, his eyes looking down at you, only this time a few shades darker — royal blue, cobalt.

Perhaps, silken gloves suit you, my lady.

( so that's what suguru meant. . . )

“Are you—”

“Jealous? Me? Never.” Satoru rasps the words out like a cancer, his heart seizing and doing somersaults against his ribcage.

“I have to commend Suguru though, the North does make the finest silk. . . Any lady would be glad for such a gift,” he whispers. Even praising Suguru is like an act of surrender to him.

“I wasn't going to say jealous, my Prince.” Your brain melts to a mush of questions.

Satoru isn't jealous because of you— no, that can't be right— he’d be jealous if someone bet on the same horse race as him and won—

( you’re thinking too much, name. )

It's the assessment of his audacity that has the back of your neck heated.

Satoru bites down on his bottom lip, and for a second he squeezes his eyes shut.

Everything burns, it's a miracle he can still see straight.

“What were you going to say?”

You swallow, hard.

Satoru’s face is so close to yours that every word he speaks reverberates through your being like electricity. “I was going to ask if you were okay.” A half truth, really. "Your vest is stained—"

First, you were going to ask if he’d lost his damn mind.

“God, name.” Satoru grunts, dropping the glove dramatically onto the velvet sofa, instead moving his hand to cage you between his arms, his hips against the outerskirts of your dress. “You don't even know what you're doing. . .”

His lips curve into a smile, dimpled cheeks staring back at you.

“Satoru—” It’s innocent enough, the way he leans forward enough to press the side of his face against your cheek.

It’s innocent enough, the way his hand grips your hip, firm and reassuring, the way he’d guide you on horseback. You only pretended not to be good so he'd teach you.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes against the shell of your ear, his lips soft against your burning skin.

“Do you even know all the ways a woman can be seduced?” It's a sultry tease that has your nails digging into the sofa under you.

Silk gloves, he wants to say. Men seduce women with silk.

Satoru dips his head in a swift motion, his mouth planting a ghost of a kiss to the corner or your lips, and his dimples deepen when your head moves forward to chase his taste, something you’ve never had but crave with every inch of your being.

“Satoru.” You whisper, desperate. He hates himself for wanting this so bad.

He doesn't make you wait long as he presses his lips to yours, it's rough, hungry — he sighs into your mouth, shoulders drooping like he’s finally found what he's been searching for all his life on your tongue.

He’s kissed you before, on the cheek, side of your neck, corner of your mouth — tasted the salty tears of your youth, licked his lips and drank in the remnants of your flavored lipgloss.

He was too young then, too foolish, too afraid to want more.

Satoru’s tongue slips past your parted lips, teeth on wet pink muscle and a shiver runs down his spine when he tastes you, truly tastes you for the first time.

Grape flavored and starving.

Your hand reaches for the collar of his shirt to tug him closer, to pull him deeper into you.

Slender fingers wrap around your wrist and your body trembles, unravelling, unravelling for him until—

He stops.

“Name,” Satoru breathes it in a broken whine, lips wet and swollen with you, each exhale he makes tickles your chin. “We have to stop.”

He’s made a mistake. A foolish one.

“‘Toru, it's okay,” you urge him, moving to pull him closer but his grip on your wrist tightens, keeping you still.

A frown forms on your lips when you see his gaze downcast, unable to meet you, and that gleam in his eyes — guilt.

“We should stop.”

Darling reader,

we all know

how the saying goes. . .

“Why?” The way it leaves your mouth so innocently, so small, in the same tone you had when you were little, chasing behind him no matter how he tried to leave you behind—

( why won't you look at me? )

It makes Satoru hate himself more.

“I’m a gentleman.” Satoru clears his throat and rises to his feet, folding his vest haphazardly over his arm. “You're a lady— a Princess— I can't just. . .”

“You can't just what?” Satoru doesn't recognize the bite behind your voice, the thread he kept toying at with razor blades finally thinning out, ready to snap and break apart. “You can't take me in a dark corridor as you do the other girls?”

He sputters.

It is that. But it's also so much more.

“Princess—”

“No.”

Nothing has changed. And you're not stupid, maybe slow, but never stupid. This isn't about a grape juice spill. It isn't about titles or being respectable.

( it’s about the three of you. )

Is it jealousy? Is this all about a stupid pair of gloves? About his pride? Why? Because he won't let Suguru win even if it means—

“Look at me.” Satoru is slouching in front of you, holding out his palm for you to take. He’s sincere, raw. “I swear to you, the way I feel about you cannot be likened to a secret in a corridor.”

( and yet, you always wished you were one of those girls with him in a dark corridor. )

. . . it's all downhill

from the first kiss.

“Your excuses again—” Satoru steps back when he feels silk stinging against his outstretched palm in a slap of rejection.

The glove he pulled off your hand, the glove Suguru gave to you, falls to the floor.

“And what even is it that you feel?” Your tone reverberates through his bones and Satoru’s considering finding purchase on his knees, where he’d show you what exactly he feels, he'd drink you in, drown in you and be done with the aftermath. “Do you enjoy this? Making me feel like a fool while you stay the bachelor—”

“This engagement was never my choice!” Satoru’s tone raises an octave, brows dipped and frown deep. “And I never—”

That's not what he means to say, not now.

( i never touched another since i laid awake thinking of you. )

“And that's why you won't touch me? Because I'm not your choice, I'm your duty?”

“God, ofcourse I want to touch you—” A guttural groan leaves him then, a rumble in the back of his throat. “If you would just understand—”

He’s a gentleman. Is what he says every waking moment he spends lying to himself that this is for you, that this is for your own good. . .

Because he knows—

( if he touched you now, he’d never stop. )

“Even now you can't say it.” How long have you known Satoru? How long have you been by his side, or rather, chased after him while he remained out of your reach? How long— “That you want me.”

It's almost comical, the way Satoru’s breath hitches in the back of his throat and the palm at his side forms a fist.

He wants you.

“Say it.”

Tell me you want me, tell me it’s me, tell me you feel what I feel too—

“I can't.”

You don't deserve this, I can't give you what you want, hate me so it hurts a little less—

You rise to your feet, the grape juice bleeding into your dress forgotten. “I always thought you were the bravest person to ever live. . .” The strongest. Prince Satoru, the realm’s omnipotent son — “You’ve fought in all these wars and you’ve fought and fought—”

Ever since you were children.

Satoru was every bit a soldier, princely and polished to perfection with his blade. He’s never lost a battle, you're sure, poets write about him.

( what does it feel like to be fought for? )

“Why won't you fight for me, Satoru?”

Satoru Gojo is many things.

Selfish, spoiled, strong. Greedy even.

He fights for what he wants and he remains determined to win no matter what.

But when it comes to you. . .

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Sorry, I’m so selfish. Sorry, I don't want you to leave. Sorry, it should be me and not him.

Sorry, I'm paralyzed in love with you.

He’s not asking you to stay.

This is what he wanted, right? For you to hate him — who is he kidding, you wouldn't hate him even if tried to make you — for you to realize he isn't what you need.

“You won't even give me one reason to stay.” Your throat hurts, you can still taste his tongue in your mouth, grape and mint, mint and grape. “Of all things, I never thought you to be such a damn coward—”

“I’m the Prince, for fucks sake!”

Your lips part then shut again, and Satoru takes a step back. This barrier between you two was always there, wasn't it? Invisible, cold to the touch.

Don't question me, I'm the Prince, he had said the day you asked him why, why can't I come play with you and Suguru?

( why won't you let me in? what are you so afraid of? )

“Then if it pleases the Prince,” It comes out shakier, in a voice that's barely your own.

Satoru picks it up before you do, you sound like a child — the same way you used to when he left you behind. “I’d like to be dismissed.”

The Prince.

Not your Prince.

( does a heart make noise when it shatters? )

“No,” Satoru steps forward, and you step back. It's like a sick game now, and with every thrum of his heart he swears he’ll die. “Name— just. . . no.”

He’s selfish. He knows that.

After this you’ll run off to Suguru won't you? And he’ll be there with open arms and words as soft as silk—

Satoru would know. Because he did the same thing once Suguru left.

But that was before it was this, before this was everything, before—

“Then forgive my defiance to the crown tonight.” You murmur and turn away, the glove is left behind.

Satoru is left behind.

You never win love, you earn it.

L’Incomparable is hardly the jewel on Satoru’s mind when you walk away from him for the second time.

( before he knew he loved you. )

🪷 taglist : @angelshimaa @yunymphs @todorokies @satocidal @maeby-cursed @rinniessance @cinnaboonn @shegetsburned @starry-grace2 @selfishdoll @shuuennovirche @wishmemel @riaki @yazzzmints @aphroditisxc @gojorbit @izakyun @satoruoo @irisxyphium @zwtari @/lollipop974 @r0ckst4rjk @softgirlgonehaywire @lilvampirina @brianmaysclog @/baepsays @xxemmarldxx @/adoraspace @/hikaorinx @/lanecass @/theloveofnagiseishiroslife @/bajbbq @/jiraiyaisgod69 @/gojo-sunglasses @/in4rizaki @/chimsblogg @xkittiecatx @lordbugs @soultoru @ladytamayolover @the1exiled @pasta-warlord @drogonfruitzen @sexeyess @siren776 @v0ctin @scinclaitnoir @gugggu6gvai @shartnart1 @nnanamii @vanevafu @lillmyg @nikitopia @altyx @beaniedoodz @fubukeys @simpforramenboy @sinnerstardoll @coco-cat @melancholia-k

[zablife]

Listen Carefully

Summary: Danny falls in love with Johnny's girl during his interviews.

Warnings: slightly nsfw, angst

Danny leans one elbow forward on his trembling knee, extending the microphone closer as a way to bridge the gap between your bodies. He listens carefully as you confide the secrets of the club. Though he doubts it's anything Johny hasn't told you to say, he's still mesmerized by your every movement, so much so he's barely moved in the past twenty minutes. Cigarette between his lips all but forgotten, he finds he can barely breathe in your presence, let alone smoke. He only becomes aware of the impediment when you dip forward to tug ever so gently at his cigarette, glossy lips parted as though you might replace it with a kiss.

Despite his best efforts to stay cool and detached, the corners of his mouth turn upward in a goofy grin. The heart of a rabbit beating within his chest when you gaze back at him, smile bathing his entire body in honey coated warmth. You twirl a lock of your hair as you hold him under your spell and the effect is instantaneous. His palm lands on the ground, fingers tangling in the tall grass to keep the world from spinning as all the blood rushes to his crotch. Your head cocks to the side as you take notice, eyes flicking downward momentarily, diverting to the tape recorder at the last moment as you ask sweetly, "Do you need anything else, Danny?"

The sound of his name on your tongue could make him cum on the spot, but the loud roar of a motor cycle engine behind him reminds him you're not alone. His hand shifts to the front of his trousers, clearing his throat in a poor attempt to hide his discomfort. "Maybe a few more questions..." he grunts.

Benny cuts his eyes at Danny from across the lawn before taking a swig of whisky. “You believe this guy?” he asks Johnny, hackles up even though you haven't been touched. He stands, ready to charge, but Johnny places a hand to his chest.

“Wait a second. Got a better idea,” he chuckles, stamping out his cigarette. Sauntering over to the patch of ground Danny occupies, Johnny settles behind you, tickling the spot beneath your ribs he knows will produce the most delicious, impish giggle.

"Hi baby," you simper, turning your head to capture his face in between your palms. He doesn't hesitate staking his claim, kissing you with heated passion. Then he turns your chin back toward Danny, urging you to concentrate on the questions the young man is struggling to ask.

And though his brain is foggy, Danny presses on with Johnny bearing down on him, Johnny relishing the thought that he's throwing the kid off his game. As Danny stutters out the next question, Johnny's large hand caresses your stomach, your shirt billowing in the breeze to reveal a slight swell. Wait until he finds out she's pregnant, Johnny thinks with a mischievous smirk, but keeps that part to himself as he accepts a cool beer from Cal.

Then another devilish thought comes to mind. Let's give him one more souvenir to take back to that fancy college of his. Running the icy cool beer bottle between your exposed shoulder blades, Johnny feels you jump between his legs and you gasp out a deep, raspy breath that sounds so wanton and orgasmic, Johnny feels his own cock twitch at the sound. He's sure he catches Danny gulp too.

"That's...that's all I need," Danny admits soon after, excusing himself to somewhere unknown and Johnny can't help but toss his head back and laugh. Little does he know the damage that's been done to the poor kid's psyche.

He'll go home and replay that tape until the ribbon is threadbare, ticking ominously in the recorder late one night as he's jerking himself off to the now familiar sound of your high pitched whimper, despairing as the reel snaps in half just before his favorite part... "Hi baby."

He hadn't wanted to accept Brucie's letter until now, the cold hard truth that you're having Johnny's baby, but that's when he has to admit you'll never be his. This recording was the tether to his sanity, the last moment he'd allowed himself to dream of something more. He pitches forward in the darkness to mourn, part of him wishing he'd never known you so he might never have felt such sorrow.

[jam3sacaster]

Every Breath You Take.

(Rivals) Rupert Campbell-Black x Reader

Synopsis: Rupert pops the biggest question of his life…

Title derived from Every Breath You Take by The Police.

Prologue: 18+ FANFIC / Just some super cute, soppy Rupert 🥺 Reader character aged at 21. Hope you enjoy! 🩷

Spring — your favourite month — had officially engulfed the entirety of Rutshire, with vivid daffodils rising from the ground in droves, and a plethora of tulips lined the garden of Penscombe Court, vibrant pinks, indigos and scarlet reds. The gardeners were occupied outside, shearing the hedges into the most fantastic shapes. The lawn was freshly trimmed, the nostalgic aroma of the clippings clinging to Penscombe Court. From the hanging baskets surrounding the mahogany back door, a blissful cloud of sweet alyssums and cyclamens. Dressed in his Sunday best, Rupert was sporting a rather suave navy blue jumper with white lining around the waistband and neckline, brown corduroy trousers and tan leather brogues, his ink black hair gelled flawlessly. “You’re pulling out all the stops this season, Mr Campbell-Black.” The portly gardener chirped, holding his shears mid-air. “All for good reason, Dennis. You’ll soon see. Can you ask Edith to plant a few lilacs there? They’re angel’s favourite.” He announced, pointing towards an empty flowerbed. The man nodded in response and returned to shearing the hedge.

Pottering back inside, Rupert sloped into the kitchen, his smile immediately brightening as he saw you, freshly awake from your slumber. You were dressed only in one of his Venturer t-shirts, that hung down to your knees — your cappuccino-brown hair tangled across your shoulders. “You’ve been outside for a while, what are you doing?” You questioned suspiciously, flicking on the kettle. “Nothing. Just… go and get ready, will you?” Rupert snapped, anxiously adjusting his watch. Furrowing your brow in astonishment at his miniature outburst, you barged past him and marched upstairs. “Properly ready, we’re going out!” He called up after you, sighing.

-

Rupert was all too aware that it took you a while to get ready, but wow, you were taking your sweet time today. Almost two hours later, as the grandfather clock struck 12pm, you were finally dressed, and howled at Rupert to wait by the stairs. Obliging like the obedient man he was, Rupert stood at the foot of the winding staircase, his jaw instantaneously dropping in adoration as you began your descent. Your curvaceous figure was wrapped tightly in a black silk dress cut to your knees, cleavage on show with a plunging neckline, alongside black kitten heels and accessorised with a pearl necklace and earrings. Coffee-coloured hair was draped across your back, tied neatly with a black satin bow, and your makeup was subtle and elegant. In other words, you looked phenomenally glamorous and utterly irresistible. “Wow, angel… you look incredible.” Rupert chuckled, offering his hand to guide you down the last few steps. “Thank you.” You muttered, still partially irritated by his snapping. “Come with me.” He winked, beginning to lead you out into the garden.

Penscombe’s garden had been entirely transformed overnight. Spring - and the gardeners - had transformed the dreary, overgrown disarray into Eden. “Rupert! It’s… it’s beautiful” You weeped, heart fluttering at the arrangement of lilacs. Thank God, thought Rupert. Atop the freshly-trimmed lawn sat a tartan picnic blanket filled with fresh treats, helpfully provided by Taggie O’Hara the night afore. Unbeknownst to you, the large topiary bushes lining the lawn were methodically sheared to spell out ‘Marry me?’ The hired orchestra of five musicians began to play Every Breath You Take by The Police, your favourite song, as you both sauntered onto the grass. Blissfully unaware of the sheared topiary, you gasped in delight, clapping your hands together in time to the music. “Oh Rupert, you shouldn’t have!” You joyfully exclaimed, unable to remove your gaze from the violin.

Wrapped up in your harmonious euphoria, you hadn’t noticed Rupert had gotten down on one knee, yielding a small red leather box. Within the plush cushioning of the box sat a silver banded engagement ring, an immense diamond proudly glinting on top. “Angel…” He prompted, gazing up at the woman he so loved. Slowly, you began to read the words sheared into the topiary, jaw dropping rapidly. A dumbfounded gasp parted from your lips as you spun round to meet him. “Rupert…” You managed to breathe out.

“My darling, any attempt I make to tell you just how much you’ve illuminated my life… not just with your vivid flowers or your awful music, but with your beautiful, caring heart, will never be enough.” He began, hand trembling slightly. Tears had already begun their descent across your cheeks. “You haven’t had the easiest job in taming me, but you made it look effortless. Whenever you are gone, I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I can’t breathe. I can’t live without you. I wonder if you’d take on the awful burden of becoming Mrs Campbell-Black?” He asked, that awfully heart-wrenching nervous look overtaking his features. “Rupert… yes! Of course I will! My God.” You stutter, grinning widely as he hoisted himself up and enveloped you in his arms.

[toomuchracket]

fourth of july (politician!matty x reader smut)

another summer75 fic. warnings for shibari (light) and breeding kink (HEAVY). bon appetit <3

“you're sure you don't need anything else, ma'am?”

“thanks, claudia, but we're all good,” you smile at your assistant, her eyes flitting between the windows (and the party on the lawn outside) and you. “it's been a busy morning - i think you should go and relax, do some celebrating of your own, yeah?”

her eyes light up. “really?”

you laugh. “of course. just, piece of advice? don't drink anything anyone tries to serve you from a fishbowl tonight,” you grimace, shaking your head. “too many 5th of julys have been ruined for me that way. and for the president, actually, he was so much worse than i was at parties. stupid boy.”

claudia giggles. “noted, ma'am. i'll be sure to have a glass of water after every drink, too.”

“smart girl. well, i'll leave you to it,” you stretch, moving to close the door to the presidential living quarters. “have a good weekend!”

“and you, ma'am!”

closing the door behind you, you wander through towards your bedroom. aside from the sound of your husband humming to himself in there, the place is quiet, only the two of you around.

just how you like it.

you smile as you enter your bedroom, ogling matty as he pulls his shirt over his head. his hands move to his belt, but he stops his undressing in favour of walking towards you with love in his eyes and a grin on his lips; you pretend to sulk, but open your arms anyway. “damn, i was enjoying the show.”

“of course you were,” matty kisses your forehead, pulling back to arm's length to look at you. “i don't look half as good as you do, though. i love that dress, baby.”

“i thought it was pretty,” you clasp your hands behind matty's neck, and his find home on your hips. “it's really uncomfortable, though.”

it's a blatant lie, and you're sure you aren't being very subtle, but matty has the good grace to play along anyway. “is that right, my love?” he coos, hands moving across your back to undo the halter neck “well, we'd better take it off, then.”

“fabulous idea, mr. president,” you snuggle into him, sighing when the fabric of your dress falls to the ground and your bare chests press together. matty's arms wrap tightly around you, and the feeling of home washes over you. the two of you hug in comfortable silence for a second, your fingers gently twisting into your husband's curls, before you speak softly. “m'really proud of you, you know. it was a good morning. and i know you were reluctant to host anything today, but… i'm glad you did. it was fun.”

matty huffs out a laugh into your hair. “was only reluctant because it cut short our usual long weekend plans. and you know how much i love those.”

his hands travel towards your ass, sliding under the waistband of your thong to squeeze it; you giggle softly in response, pressing a long kiss to your husband's neck and enjoying the moan he lets out. “sometimes i wonder if you'll ever get bored of driving to the cabin whenever we get a few days off.”

“if we ever get rid of the shibari rigging hooks, i might.”

“as if we'd do that. be serious, please, matthew.”

matty laughs, scooping you up and dropping you onto the bed. “i love you, my perfect little rope bunny. and wife, obvs.”

“love you too. i also love that you've got your priorities straight,” you bite your lip as you watch matty undo his trousers, leaning up to kiss him messily as he crawls up to hover over you. it's a good kiss, sloppy and passionate, one that goes straight to your underwear and prevents your brain from thinking about anything other than matty inside you. “fuck, baby. tie me up now, please? we still have,” you glance at the alarm clock on the bedside table. “two hours before we need to start driving. pleeeeeeease?”

matty simply raises a brow.

you pout, batting your lashes. “come on, baby, please? just a little design? a little preview for the rest of the weekend?” you wrap your legs around his waist, smiling prettily the way you've done to get whatever you want from matty since you were twenty-two. “because you love me?”

at that, your husband sighs, nodding and trying to keep the smile from his face. sap. “legs only, alright? just because i love you.”

“mhmm,” you take his face in your hands and pull him in for a kiss, smiling at the way he melts against you. “thank you, my love.”

“sweet girl,” matty strokes your cheek, before moving off you and reaching to pull a box from under the bed; inside, you see pink rope neatly arranged in loops of figure eights. your heart leaps and core gushes at the sight, but matty makes a face at it. “not very patriotic colour-wise, is it?”

“pretty sure the amount of time i'm gonna spend on my knees worshipping you this weekend will make up for that, mr. president.”

“fuck. underwear off, now,” your husband quickly takes two separate loops of rope from the box, twisting them into position while you shimmy your thong and lie down, practically vibrating with happy anticipation. “and speaking of knees - bend them for me, darling, that's it. tell me if it's too uncomfortable, yeah?”

“i will.”

“good girl.”

with that, he begins to loop the rope around your left thigh and shin, securing them together with an intricate pattern you hope to god will leave a mark on your skin. you can't remember whether it was you or matty who first suggested trying shibari a decade or so ago, but you both took to it with enthusiasm - since then, every extended private moment you've had together has involved some sort of artistic bondage, exploring new designs and positions and making each other feel good. the rope took a bit of getting used to, initially, but now you love the feeling of it against your bare skin; it's a reminder that, for at least the next few hours in your busy lives, it's just you and matty, alone together, getting to love and appreciate and care for each other at the most primal, most intimate level.

once he's done, matty taps your bound knee. he moves back, smiling at his handiwork. “that feel alright, gorgeous?”

“yeah. thank you, angel.”

he blushes, and your heart flutters. “you're welcome, my darling. gonna do the other one now, yeah?”

“go ahead.”

the two of you settle back into comfortable silence, matty continuing his work while you smile at the way his tongue pokes out of his lips in concentration, one of the things that first endeared him to you when you met at law school. suddenly, those lips part as he speaks. “isn't it funny how many people just, like, handed their babies to us at the garden party this morning?”

your brow furrows slightly. interesting topic of conversation. “happens to me quite a lot, to be honest.”

“yeah, i've noticed. s'happened eighteen times to you in the past week alone.”

your brow furrows further. “you've been counting?”

matty's cheeks go pink again. “well… not deliberately, darling, i just,” he sighs, finishing off the shibari and sitting back on his heels to look at you sheepishly. “i can't help but notice when you're interacting with babies at the minute. like, i really can't.”

oh. how interesting. and, if you're honest, not entirely unwelcome. you smile. “you think it's time?”

his eyes widen. “for… for us to-?” he clears his throat. “for us to… have a baby of our own?”

“yeah, sweetheart,” you reach up to caress his face, smiling softly at the way matty leans into your hand. “do you think now’s the time?”

“well… yeah.”

you smirk, removing your hand from your husband's face so you can use it to pull your bent legs open as wide as possible and expose your glistening cunt. “let's make a baby, then.”

matty blinks. suddenly, your instructions seem to sink in, and he follows, not even bothering to take his boxers off fully before sliding through your wetness and pushing inside you; his lips meet yours as he bottoms out, the two of you sighing into each other's mouths.

home at last.

for a moment, there's nothing but the two of you kissing like teenagers, passionate and messy and desperate, matty throbbing inside you in the most delicious way, and then he moves, pulls his hips back and snaps them forward again, over and over and over, drawing soft moans from your lips every time he slides in. a huge part of the reason matty was elected, everyone says, is because he does everything with focus and conviction - the way he fucks is no different.

he pulls back from your lips, resting your foreheads together in the most tender way and sliding his hands over yours against the pillow; when you intertwine your fingers, he smiles. “sweet girl, taking me so fucking well.”

“your sweet girl.”

“that's right. my girl, all mine,” matty beams. something about the ownership reminder spurs him on, makes him thrust faster and harder and deeper into you. you whimper his name, and he kisses your nose. “what is it, darling? need me to fill you up, is that it? put my baby in you and let everyone know you're mine?”

the words go straight to your cunt, brain too hazy with pleasure to properly take them in. “please.”

“cum for me first, sweetheart, and i will,” he coos, stroking your face and dropping a sweet kiss onto your nose. “touch that pretty clit for me, yeah? and then i'll fill up that needy little pussy of yours. promise.”

“okay,” you exhale, hand sliding down your sweat-shiny chest and between your legs, circling your aching clit the way you know matty would. ecstasy shoots through your body the instant you touch the bundle of nerves, causing you to whine and clench around your husband's dick - which in turn makes him whine - but, somehow, it isn't enough. “matty,” you croak out, blinking up at him. “need you to talk to me. please.”

“oh, my darling,” matty grins, not unkindly. “need me to tell you how good you feel, how much i love how fucking tight your cunt is? even after all this time, after all the pounding i've given you, she's still clenching around me like a fucking vice. could stay inside you forever, you know. wanna do that. i think you want me to, as well, don't you, gorgeous? feels like it, anyway.”

the pleasure's practically blinding you at this point, tightening your muscles and clouding your mind - all you can do is frantically rub your clit, and whimper. “yeah, yeah, want you in me all the time.”

“needy girl,” matty's lips crash onto yours, tongue licking into your mouth before he murmurs against you. “can't fucking wait to fill you up properly, sweetheart. please tell me you're close.”

“i am, oh shit, i am!” you aren't lying, either - your legs are quivering as much as they can within the rope, and the pressure building in your lower stomach feels like it's about to reach breaking point. you're vaguely aware of tears streaming down your face and pooling on your chest, but all you can focus on right now is matty. “gonna cum, please, please let me cum.”

your husband leans forward, cock driving impossibly deep and lips ghosting over your ear. “do it, my darling. cum for me, let me give you a baby. our baby.”

and that's all it takes.

you cling to matty like a liferaft as your orgasm hits, although the more accurate nautical metaphor would be to liken him to an anchor; without him above you, hands digging into the flesh of your legs almost as much as the rope, you're certain you'd float away, buoyant from sheer fucking ecstasy. he cums with a guttural moan of your name as you clench around him, kissing you deeply as his thrusts get more and more shallow, and you don't think you've ever been more full, metaphorically (of love) and literally (of cum, crass as it sounds). once he's done, your husband nuzzles into the crook of your neck, both of you sweaty and breathing heavily.

for a few blissful minutes, you stay like that, weaving a hand into matty's messy curls and scratching his scalp while you exchange murmured “i love you”s. your eyes flick sideways to the alarm clock, and you tap his shoulder in a feeble attempt to get him to move. “sweetheart, we need to get cleaned up before we leave.”

“just give it another minute or two, darling,” matty mumbles into your skin; he pulls himself up just enough to kiss you, looking adoringly into your eyes. “have to make sure the baby sticks, after all.”

you giggle, stroking his flushed face with your thumb. “we'll miss seeing the fireworks from the cabin if we don't get a move on, though.”

“trust me, my love, you'll get your fireworks this weekend no matter when we leave.”

“whatever you say, mr. president.”

[maracujatangerine]

93. Firelight

CW: institutional slavery, pet whump, dehumanisation, box boy universe

The snow glittered in the moonlight. It lay undisturbed and soft like a feather down duvet all over the lawn, the trees, and the roofs of the other houses. Brutus looked despondently out the window, then paced across the room and looked out at the same view from a slightly different angle.

Master and Mistress had just left the house in a haze of sparkly red dress, fine, dark grey suit, fragrant perfume and red-bottomed heels clattering against the wooden floors.

”Down, boy! I won’t need you tonight.” Master had told him. ”This is the sort of party that will have their own security.” He’d added, with a smiling glance at Mistress Cecilia, who was adjusting an errant strand of her up-do in the floor-length hall mirror.

And then they were gone…

And Brutus worried. As usual.

The guard dog tried to convince himself that his Master knew what he was doing, but he couldn’t stop himself from restlessly wandering from room to room in the huge apartment.

As he was staring out yet another window, multicoloured lights from the Christmas tree falling over his face, Absalom silent-footedly appeared next to his elbow.

Today, the romantic wore a white shirt, marine trousers and a bow-tie in midnight-blue silk. A sapphire mounted in silver spilled down from his collar, catching the light in undersea reflections.

“Make a fire.” He said.

Brutus started at the unexpected request.

”But… But Master and Mistress just left. Did they really ask for a fire?”

Absalom stared out the window, then slowly turned his head to look at Brutus. Blue eyes meeting dark brown. Smooth, glossy brown hair like a waterfall framing his pale face.

”Make a fire for me.” Absalom clarified. His facial expression neutral, his voice toneless, but there was something in his eyes that hinted of this being a very heartfelt desire indeed.

Brutus was going to refuse. To tell the pet that he could do it himself, if he wanted to risk their owners’ anger. True, they had not forbidden the pets from making a fire, but they had never told them to do so either. It was hardly worth the risk, the room was warm enough already. But that hint of something stopped him.

Instead, Brutus gave a curt nod and turned to kneel in front of the fireplace. It was the guard dog’s task to make sure the firewood rack was filled, and he did it diligently.

The wood was dry, Brutus had already prepared smaller pieces of wood and strips of bitch bark in a basket next to the rack. It was quick work to build a neat staple of pieces of wood, with the kindling and bark in the centre. He could not deny a small sense of satisfaction as he lit the match and watched the yellow and orange flames eagerly catch in the firewood. Brutus carefully fed some smaller pieces of wood to the fire, guarding its progress. When he was satisfied the fire was well established, he tidied up the leftover kindling and put the matches back on their designated place.

Just as the guard dog got to his feet, Absalom came in through the door. He carried a silver tray, his back as straight and his movements as elegant as if he was serving their owners. On the tray was two thick glass cups filled with steaming wine that gleamed a deep ruby red in the firelight. There was also a plate with gingerbread cookies decorated with white icing in shapes of hearts and snowflakes.

With a flourish, Absalom held out the tray to Brutus. The large man just stared at him quizzically.

”Don’t worry, darling.” Absalom said. ”There are lots of leftovers from their get-together on Wednesday. They will never know.”

Brutus still hesitated. Their eyes met. Absalom smiled, just a little. Brutus nervously pulled a hand through his black hair, but finally took the proffered cup.

The romantic gracefully sank down in front of the fireplace, placing the silver tray with the cookies on the floor. He took a drink and cradled the warm glass cup in both hands. Brutus sat down next to him and sipped his drink cautiously.

The mulled wine was warm, and sweet, and strong. The taste and scent of it filling his senses. It was rare that Brutus tasted anything like it, and for a moment, he was completely absorbed.

When he glanced over at Absalom, the other pet was looking into the flames. The orange firelight reflecting in his eyes. His face was impassive, his breathing calm, but silent tears were streaming down his cheeks.

Brutus watched him with astonishment. He’d never seen Absalom show emotion in any way like this before. The guard dog wanted to speak, but he didn’t know what to say. Absalom’s quick wit could scratch like cat’s claws, if he was displeased.

He couldn’t just ignore it, either.

Slowly, Brutus reached out and laid his muscular hand on the pet’s thin shoulder. Absalom stiffened. For a second, Brutus thought the romantic might whip around to hit him.

Then, Absalom raised his own hand, thin and pale in comparison, and put it on top of Brutus’ hand on his shoulder. For a moment, they sat together and just watched the fire.

*

Fun Facts:

To drink warm, spiced wine has a long history, even the ancient Romans and Greeks did it. There are different versions of mulled wine across the world. In the Nordic countries, we drink glögg. It is a quite sweet version of mulled wine that most often is served with almonds and raisins.

Tag List Part 1:

@cupcakes-and-pain @whump-em @whumpzone @wh-wh-whu @neuro-whump @carnagecardinal @cowboy-anon @whump-me-all-night-long @redwingedwhump @myst-in-the-mirror @haro-whumps @eatyourdamnpears @bloodsweatandpotato @pinkraindropsfell @whumptywhumpdump @theydy-cringeworthy @whump-in-progress @whumpsy-daisy @nicolepascaline @whumpcreations @briars7 @shiningstarofwinter @whumppsychology @alex-ember @miss-kitty-whumptastic @whumpy-writings @in-patient-princess @youtube-fandoms-bands @goblinchildindabog @mazeish @distinctlywhumpthing @inpainandsuffering @canniboylism @icannotweave @incoherent-introspection @kim-poce @broken-typewriter @the-monarch-whumperfly @whumpers-inc @grizzlie70 @lil-whumper @writingbackwards-blog @sunflower1000 @wingedwhump @thecitythatdoesntsleep @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @onlybadendings @rabass @wolfeyedwitch @melancholy-in-the-morning

[quickiesgirl]

In the Kitchen - Wanda Maximoff

Paring: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader

Warning: 18+, Smut, Dom/Sub, Semi-Public Sex, Kitchen Sex, Cunnilingus, 50s Theme, Alternative Universe, My Shitty Writing.

Kinktober 1 - Kitchen Sex

You weren’t entirely thrilled receiving an invitation to the summer block party, thrown by your neighbor, Agnes. As fun as it may seem to fellow Westview residents, you rarely cared for the large, interactive crowds.

Instead, you enjoyed being in the presence of your family, whereas your wonderful wife, Wanda, was a social butterfly. Yet, even with these different traits, you still found some interesting ways to work around them.

Wanda glanced over her shoulder watching you walk through the kitchen door, well-dressed, and fresh out of the shower. 

“Almost ready, my love?” She asked with the sweetest, most loving tone, untying the white, laced apron around her waist to lay it on top of the countertop, watching as you walked through the kitchen door, well-dressed, and fresh out of a shower.

“Almost,” You repeated, leaning into the side of the counter, feeding the thin, leather belt through your trousers, noticing the silence that filled the active household, “Did the boys already head outside?”

“Yeah, they’re out on the lawn playing with Señor Scratchy.”

You took a moment to admire the missis. She looked absolutely stunning, standing there, dressed in her new blouse, bought specially for this occasion, and a bright, flowy pencil skirt that stopped mid-knee, hugging her hips in just the right places.

You came up from behind and wrapped your arms around her waist, chest pressing into her back while your chin lowered upon her shoulder with pursed, pouty lips, “Sure we can’t stay home today?” 

“Honey, we have to show up to the block party, Agnes is counting on us to bring the pies. I just hope I followed her grandmother's recipe correctly..." She said, glancing down at the recipe card, squinting her eyes, and knitting her brows together at the barely eligible writing scribbled across it. 

Wanda quickly caught her bottom lip between her teeth, her attention was now set on the warmth spreading through her entire body as your lips began to lay kisses along the back of her neck, her floral-scented perfume filling your nose as you hummed softly and allowed your hands to caress her round, curved hips. 

Wanda sighed softly, cheeks growing a shade of scarlet as she tilted her neck to the side, allowing you more space to do as you please. 

Intoxicated by your touch and attention.

You move up slowly, soft lips brushing against the ridge of her ear, sending a shiver down her spine, whispering in that dominant tone, “mhm, least I’ll have my gorgeous wife by my side,” 

She spun around in your embrace, laying her hands upon your clothed frame and sliding from your waist up to your breasts to adjust the collar of your long-sleeved button-up. 

“You know, no one would mind us being a few minutes late,” You suggested knowingly, inching your face closer to hers, “Just a little taste, baby?” 

Wanda immediately looked around seeing the many open windows surrounding the two of you, along with the frequently used door leading into the kitchen, “In here? W-what if someone sees us, or the kids walk in on us?” 

“No one will catch us, darling. I’ll be listening for the door the entire time.”

That look on your face tells everything she needs to know, all your wants and desires, without even having to read your mind. It made her ache for your touch. “Promise?” 

“I promise.” You smirked, watching her slowly move in, lacing her arms around your neck and connecting her lips to yours for a deep, intimate kiss.

Before she could think, you pinned her to the kitchen counter and grabbed ahold of her upper thighs to swiftly place her on top, causing a soft gasp to escape her lips. Your action sends a wave of heat between her thighs. She loved it when you’re forceful.

Wanda slowly kicked off her pearl-colored kitten heels, dropping them to the floor as she draped her arms over your shoulders, feeling your hands massage the underside of her smooth legs, the metal of your wedding ring cold and prominent against her skin, reminding her of the undying love you share for each other. 

With a twist of her wrist, her fingers blazed with red translucent energy, using her powers to suddenly close the kitchen shutters that looked in on the dining room table and living room, giving the two of you some much-needed privacy.  

Wasting no time, you pushed her skirt up and discarded her white panties to the floor, kneeling down, face inches away from her pretty, hairless pussy, already glistening with arousal. 

Eyes fluttering shut, taking in her sweet aroma with each breath before pressing your warm, wet tongue just above her entrance, licking a long, teasingly slow strip between her folds till you reach her sensitive bud, feeling her pulsate beneath your touch. 

Wanda sucked in a sharp breath, instantly dropping her hands up to grab ahold of your hair and push you deeper, showing you exactly where she needed you the most, causing you to devilishly smirk at your beautiful wife before pulling her hood back ever so slightly to reveal her swollen, sensitive clitoris, finally giving her some well-deserved attention. 

 The second the tip of your tongue swirled around, a pretty moan escaped her lips. Her head arching back as she squeezes your hair between her fingers, feeling the heat already pooling in her stomach. The weight of her gorgeous thighs now strung over your steady shoulders. 

“Best keep those eyes on me, sweetheart…” You said in less of a suggestion and more of an order, “I wouldn't want you to miss the show.” 

Wanda’s heavy gaze lowered, lashes batting as she watched your tongue work and maneuver her sweet spots between those pink, puffy lips, licking and teasing till her legs were trembling around your head. 

Your mind was set on one thing, getting a taste of that sweet cum gushing across your lips. 

 Her little pornographic sounds began to build, more and more, until they were spilling out of the kitchen. She was struggling to remain quiet. 

Wanda bunched the beautifully old-fashioned material of her dress in the palm of her hand, digging her long, painted nails into the fabric as her other hand reached down to grip the edge of the wooden counter, searching for any form of support so she could roll her hips on your tongue. 

A coil lay in her stomach, tensing and tightening, pulling her closer to release. 

“Mhm, that’s it, pretty baby,” You growl, grabbing hold of her hips over the soft material of her skirt to arch her pelvis forward and hold her still while you sink into her wet, tight hole, allowing your tongue to side in and out relentlessly, stroking her velvety walls while you fucked her forcefully. 

“Please, I'm gonna come! Y-you're gonna- make me cu-mmuhh~” She reached her tipping point, eyes rolling to the back of her head and her body tensing under your touch, unable to hold back any longer. 

Her cunt contracted, releasing her sweet juices along your tastebuds, painting your tongue like so many times before, yet every time, it was just as sweet as the last.

You happily cleaned her up, and slowly dragged your hands down, planting gentle kisses along her plush inner thigh while you ogled your wife, who was beautiful as ever with that dazed, euphoric look across her face.

The sound of the front door slamming shut instantly caught your attention. Your eyes broaden, listening to Billy shout from the living room, “Mom? Mom? Hey, where is everyone?”

Wanda gasped, hurriedly standing to her feet, hands flattening down her skirt, and slipping back into her heels as you swiped her panties from the floor and tucked them into your back pocket.

“We’re in the kitchen.” You spoke up, dragging your thumb over your bottom lip, collecting the rest of her juices to lick away before gazing in her direction, “We’ll be finishing this later.”

She blushingly smiled, trying to hide it as soon as Billy and Tommy rushed through the swinging door with pure excitement on their faces.

You made her needy, sick thoughts begin to wander, anticipating sundown when the kids are tucked away in bed, peacefully asleep while their moms finally have some alone time. 

Wanda Maximoff Smut Taglist: @sunflowerharrington @wandsmxmff @cantthinkofauserlololol @pikachupepito2 @Natashamacimoff69 @likefirenrain @olsensnpm @cristin-rjd @demxnicprxncess @acimadetudorubron

Taglist Form | Message if you want to be removed <3

[bullet-prooflove]

Halloween Bingo Card 2024: Poison - Terry Silver x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @anamiad00msday @stelacole @withakindheartx

Terry learns there’s a naked painting of you through his own contacts in the art world. He’s asked them to notify him when your ex JP tries to put anything new on the market because he doesn’t trust the fucker not to retaliate after the shit he pulled at the sex club. He had hoped he’d made his point back at the Red Room but then he gets a text that makes him realise his faith was misplaced.

In one week’s time JP plans to reveal his latest masterpiece ‘Poison’ and that painting, it’s of you, bare for all the world to see.

Terry spends the next half an hour studying the image, he takes in the definition, the contours, the shades. He’s kissed every single part of your body, he would know it by touch alone and he sees it right here in this painting, everything from the pale birthmark on your inner thigh to the scar on your right knee.

The press release that’s going out alongside the piece states it’s based on an ex, a toxic relationship that JP was involved with, one where his partner belittled him, berated him, burned his paintings. All those things he did to you, he retells it through his own lens.

Terry sees it for what it is, a weak man’s attempt to torpedo your career. JP wants to humiliate you, debase you, that’s what the invitation to the sex club had been about that night. He wanted to put you back in your place, exert his control but Terry, he will never let that happen. So he buys the painting, in fact he buys every one of JP’s paintings and then he takes them in a car to the other man’s house, dumps them on the lawn in his backyard, the exact same place he destroyed your work and sets fire to them right before his eyes.

“That is you career going up in smoke.” He tells the other man as they watch it burn. “Every time you release  a new painting, no matter what it is, I’m going to buy it before it ever reaches the public eye. Then I’m going to come back here and do this over and over and over again until you get the message that Georgia is off limits.”

He watches the moment that information dawns on JP, the moment he realises the reach that Terry has, the malevolence.  With no paintings out there in the world, no new work being produced JP’s name will fade into obscurity, that fame he covets, that power he thinks he wields, it dies along with every single image that Terry destroys.

“When I get done scrubbing every trace of you and your shitty art from the internet it’ll be like you never existed.” Terry informs him, his hands tucked into the pockets of his suit trousers. “You’ll be nothing but a footnote in her story and I’m going to make sure it stays that way.”

To a man like JP who craves that notoriety it’s worse than any beating Terry could have given him.

Bones heal, bruises fade but legacy, that’s forever.

Love Terry? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[fayes-fics]

Moments: Like Father, Like Son

Moments Masterpost

Pairing: Benedict Bridgeton x fem!reader

Summary: One-shot set in the Moments universe. Thomas inherits a rather embarrassing trait from his father...

Artwork credit: @margowritesthings 

Warnings: none... this is pure fluff and humour.

Word Count: 1.8k

Author's Note: It's been AGES since I did anything in the Moments verse. This idea has been kicking around in my drafts for six months, maybe more. Thanks to @chaoticcalzoneranchsports, who came up with this idea with me all that time ago. This is very silly, light-hearted family nonsense. Enjoy! <3

“What the…?”  Benedict’s voice fades out, standing by the window.

“What is it, my love?” you ask mildly, taking a bite of toast as you read the newspaper.

“Thomas… he is running full pelt down the lawn… absolutely nude,” he answers, perplexed, “.... and there goes Abigail…” he adds, referring to your nanny, “she can barely keep up, poor thing.”

Wiping the toast crumbs from your fingers onto a serviette, you get up, walk over to join your husband at the window, and have to stifle your giggle behind the back of your hand as you observe the tableau before you.

Out in the early morning sun is your youngest child, now four, running circles around his nanny, giggling loudly. As naked as the day he was born.

“You know you could go help her. Round up your son?” you twist your mouth into a bemused pout and look up at him, bumping him gently with your shoulder.

“She seems to have it in hand,” he responds as you both watch her change direction and fool Thomas, catching him and picking him up to bring him back indoors. “I do hope this doesn't become a habit,” Benedict comments airily as you retake your seats at the breakfast table.

“What makes you think it would?” you frown.

“No reason…” he responds, a little too hasty. 

Something in his tone makes you think there may be more to that story.

_____

“Mummy, Thomas has taken all his clothes off again.”

“Amelia, what are you talking about? And what do you mean by ‘again’?” you question your daughter as she throws herself into the chair next to yours on the terrace outside your home.

“He is always doing it, Mummy. Last week he lost a game of tag and took off his clothes in protest. Nanny Abigail had to give him bonbons to put them on again before you and Daddy got back from your walk,” she breezes, pushing a strand of hair from her face.

“Hmm, I never heard about that.”

“Well, now he’s done it again,” Amelia rolls her eyes.

“Where is he?” you ask.

“He's down by the fish pond. He's upset about something,” she shrugs.

“And his answer was to take his clothes off?” you check.

“Apparently,” she says dryly, with an almost world-weary expression of someone who has seen such a thing far too many times.

“Let's go find out what is going on, shall we?” you offer your hand to your daughter and round the garden to the pond where sure enough, your son is naked—and looks absolutely furious.

“Thomas,” you call gently, “what on earth is the matter, my love? And why are you without your clothes?”

“Frogs.” He opines—as if that one word explains everything.

“Explain to me, please, and put your clothes back on.”

“Do not want to,” he pouts.

“That was not a suggestion, Thomas,” you warn firmly and raise an eyebrow. All your children know better than to argue when you use that tone. 

Thomas stomps back to the pile of clothes and starts to redress with tantrum-like dramatic flair, and again, you have to stifle your giggles about his antics behind your hand.

“Now come here, my love,” you kneel now he is back in his shirt and trousers, holding your hands out wide for a hug, “and tell me what the problem is.”

“The tadpoles are not frogs yet, and Daddy said they would be soon. I want to see frogs Mummy,” he huffs into your shoulder as he accepts your embrace.

“Of course, Thomas. As soon as they are frogs, Daddy will show you. But why did you take off your clothes?”

He just shrugs as if even he doesn’t know why.

“Next time, rather than take off your clothes, please find me or Daddy, and we can talk about whatever is upsetting you,” you soothe.

“Alright,” he grumbles mutely.

_____

Later that night, as you lie in bed, you raise it with your husband.

“Thomas took off his clothes again,” you comment casually.

“Why?” Benedict puts down his book and frowns deeply as if he appears very troubled by the idea.

“He was upset about the tadpoles not being frogs,” you sigh, nonplussed.

“And his answer was to remove his clothes?”

“Yes.”

“What did you tell him?”

“To come and speak to you or me before taking off his clothes next time.”

“Let's hope that works,” Benedict hums thoughtfully. Again you get the sneaking suspicion there is something he is not telling you.

_____

You are hosting a party the following week with all the Bridgerton clan visiting your cottage when it happens again. The dinner table chat is lively and convivial as dessert is served. Suddenly the door swings open, and in runs your youngest son.

“Mummy, where is MooMoo?” Thomas calls loudly, asking about his favourite cow toy.

Everyone stops talking, their attention drawn to your child, completely unphased by his audience as he stands there. Once again, completely naked. 

Hyacinth snorts so loudly that apple juice shoots out of her nose just as Benedict slumps his head into his hands, mortified. As you go to stand and move him, Abigail bursts through the doorway, out of breath.

“My sincerest apologies, my lady,” she puffs, “he managed to unlock the nursery door somehow,” she adds very contritely, curtseying and picking Thomas up, bundling him out of the room before you can reply.

“Apologies for the interruption, everyone,” you call a vaguely embarrassed smile painted on your face as you gesture for them to continue talking as they were before. 

Conversation restarts, but as you take your seat at the far end from Benedict, you notice that Violet sitting next to you is trying valiantly but failing to control a bout of silent giggles. When she sees you looking at her, she attempts to school her expression and calm herself to speak.

“Oh my. I was wondering if this would ever come to haunt my darling son,” she stutters between laughs.

“What do you mean?” You ask, genuinely baffled.

She clutches her sides and dabs her eye. “Your husband was quite the nudist himself as a child,” she says drolly. “He would embarrass Edmund and me by bursting into soirées completely without his clothes. And he was so fast no one could ever catch him, the little scamp.”

Your eyes drift to Benedict at the head of the table, who looks deep in conversation with his eldest brothers, almost like he knows what his mother is saying and wants to look very much otherwise occupied to avoid the topic.

“I KNEW IT!” you exclaim quietly. “He keeps saying things like ‘Oh, I hope this doesn’t become a habit’... I just knew there was something he was not telling me,” you shake your head as Violet continues giggling in sympathy. “How on earth did you get him to stop?!” You quiz with a touch of desperation.

“He grew out of it,” she shrugs, reaching over to pat your hand, “I'm certain Thomas will too.”

“And in the meantime, I just need to accept this will happen?!” you decry.

“Or a stronger lock on the nursery door,” Violet suggests, giggling louder.

Just then, Benedict glances down the length of the table to you; you shoot him a look of daggers that makes his brow knit in confusion.

_____

“What was that look for?” Benedict asks as you guide your guests into the parlour after dinner.

“Thomas. It's all your fault, this nudity thing,” you scowl.

He has the decency to look contrite. “Mother said something?” he guesses, looking sheepish, folding his lips under his teeth and averting his eyes. 

“Yes, she did,” you volley, “why did you not inform me?”

“I did not think such things would be inherited!” he argues defensively.

“Well, I need you to think back. What would have stopped you from doing this when you were a child? Your mother seems to be under the impression nothing can be done. That we should merely wait for him to grow out of such behaviour….”

“I… was three… I honestly cannot recall,” he confesses.

You sigh. “Fine, but next time this happens? It is all upon you, husband.” You raise an eyebrow indicating the finality of your opinion on this topic.

“Understood.” he nods, chastened.

_____

The following day you are all gathered around the lake, having a relaxed afternoon watching the children all playing together spiritedly - Simon and Daphne’s, Kate and Anthony's, as well as your own.

Isobel and Amelia tag out of the games and come to sit with you under a parasol with Violet.

“Hello, darlings,” you kiss them both on the head as they snuggle against you, panting a little from their gameplaying, reaching gratefully for the glasses of water laid out for them on the little table behind.

“Mummy,” Amelia begins, “why did Daddy just give Thomas bonbons and tell him he can have more if he keeps his clothes on?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you can already see Violet shaking with laughter behind the back of her hand.

“He did what?!” you cannot prevent your outburst.

“It is bribery, Amelia,” Isobel pipes up, ever your family’s straight-talking lawyer.

“If I take off my clothes, do I get more bonbons, Mummy?” she asks, twisting to look up at you with fluttering eyelids.

“Most certainly not!” you scoff. “Girls, please remain with your grandmother here,” you add, brushing your dress and going to stand up.

“BENEDICT BRIDGERTON!!!” you yell sternly, striding purposefully towards him, your irritation barely contained. 

As you walk through the assembled family, they all move aside, smirking, already knowing what is about to happen. If there is one thing the Brigerton men are known for, it's their spirited wives.

“Now, ladies,” Violet leans in to whisper with her granddaughters, “pay great heed to your mother. If there is one thing that a man must know, it's when he has done something unacceptable to his wife.”

“Daddy said he likes it when Mummy tells him off,” Amelia answers, between gulps of water, watching you remonstrate with Benedict as he looks suitably chastised.

“When did he say that?” Violet inquiries intrigued.

“I heard him say it once when they were in bed and wrestling noisily,” Amelia sighs, matter-of-fact.

Violet turns bright red and almost chokes on her tea.

“I had left the nursery to ask for biscuits when Nanny Abigail was sleeping, but they didn't hear me, so I just went and got some from the kitchen myself,” Amelia continues, finishing her story with a shrug.

“The lock on the nursery is broken, by the way, grandmama,” Isobel adds, as if sensing this is the right time to announce such a thing.

Just then, Thomas wanders over, fully clothed for once. “Grandmama, more bonbons, please?” he grins toothily, nodding to the glass jar next to her, his eyes so hopeful.

Some family moments are very entertaining indeed.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @Mlovesbridgerton @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover@corpseoftrees-queen @jeanfreau @magical-spit

[kit-williams]

I need to be folded like a lawn chair while big Black Templar man breeds me for all he's worth.

*cracks knuckles also pauses work on another boy*

Alright ya'll are getting Brother Roland again because he causes the most thirst. If you need to put this into a time line setting this is before Bun in the Oven

SMUT heavy breeding kink

He tried to be good to his Bäckerin but there were some months that his will would faulter. And as Roland would discover putting a baby inside of his Bäckerin wasn't as simple or as easy as he thought. He could smell the biological changes and the fact that something took but then he could smell her body change back. Frustrated he asked her not understanding that the human body was just too strong for it's own good. His Bäckerin soothed him by simply saying "well if my body reabsorbed it this early then there might have been something genetically wrong. A lot can go wrong... I'm certain you can put it in terms of becoming a Black Templar. Sometimes healthy aspirants just die during the process... sometimes what might have been a viable baby just doesn't make it." She would smile at him and just soothe his wounded pride.

She still humored him to make sure that they could both still could conceive and it was simply the roll of the dice. Though Roland knew him being a Space Marine probably wasn't helping him. He finished his prayer and headed to training as he was just stewing in his own mind. His Bäckerin smelt so good this morning... just like the day they first had sex. He couldn't stop himself from pinning her down and bullying his cock inside of her. Watching her whine and whimper under him just sent such a... a thrill up his spine. Chaplin Eckehard was so helpful for Roland during these times but even Roland would watch him stalk after one of his two wives.

Training was hardly helping as it just seemed to get his blood flowing faster to between his legs. His Bäckerin should be out... just a cold shower. He marched back to his quarters after bidding his brothers farewell. His Chaplin had explained that like with battle brothers once he had "imprinted" upon his mortal that he was suddenly acutely aware of her scent biology... he could still look at other mortals and find no desire stirring in his loins but looking at his Bäckerin and occasionally women who looked similar to his Bäckerin could cause the stirring between his loins.

Perhaps it was a bad idea to be where her scent was the strongest. But he was a Space Marine if he could not resist temptations then he was vulnerable. He did not wish to be a weak link when out in combat with his battle brothers. The cold water seemed to hiss against his naturally warm physiology but he could feel himself calming down... coming down from the frenzied high. Till he heard the front door open and his eyes snapped open.

He could hear her... he could smell her... he held his breath so he wouldn't taste her. He could smell the scent of flour, yeast, butter, and eggs against her... probably entangled into the scent of her hair. She was bringing home bread was all... she would leave... he waited those painful seconds as his eyes went over to the bathroom door... she would leave...right?! Oh by the Throne why wasn't she leaving?!

He couldn't face his Bäckerin just yet... "Oh Roland..." his ears picked up even muffled through the door. He twisted the water off and stalked out running his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he could smell her. He watched her pull her fingers out of her unzipped trousers and put them into her mouth licking herself clean.

"Bäckerin," He snapped, "Get on the bed now!"

He watched her jump as her head whipped her head to him seeing him fully naked and he watched her eyes fail to meet his as they were caught between his legs looking at the angry throbbing thing. His own eyes were no longer the soft honey brown but were black with how he looked at her with nothing but a predatory desire. But when she didn't move suddenly she was face first into a burly chest.

"R-Roland?! W-what"

"Less words." He felt himself salivating as he unabashedly inhaled her scent, "I'm going to fuck a baby into you!" He snarled as he threw her onto the bed as he punched a code into a terminal. Only the Chaplin could contact him or get in during this time. When he looked over at his Bäckerin he was pleased that she had stripped naked.

She flinched in unconscious fear as suddenly he was looming over her. She was still a mortal at the end of the day and he was a lethal weapon. As much as he wanted to pin her under him and thrust with reckless abandon, as her scent was coaxing him to do, he rolled over laying on his back. "Work yourself on. Please." He hissed giving her this one concession.

Lucky for him she was already so wet. He let out a guttural hiss from the back of his throat as her hips began to roll and bounce her way down his cock. "Du riechst so gut." He groaned arching and pushing himself into her more. She felt so full and whimpered as he gave her till she started to move.

She found herself on her back quickly as his hips began to piston in their barely restrained pattern. He really shouldn't indulge himself during these times of the month... but it was addictive to smell her fertile scent just mingling with his own when he fills her with his sperm. His drool splashes on her breasts as he is lost in his fantasy. Her breathy moans filling the room just as much as the wet squelch and slap of his hips against hers. The way his balls met her skin, the feeling of her feet against his chest and shoulders... oh he knew when he was bad she would press them against his neck to try and break him out of whatever trance he was in.

He pressed her down causing her moans to increase an octave as she was utterly cock drunk slurring his name as the bed creaked and rocked with the rhythm his hips had set. He sometimes wished his Bäckerin could handle him more... but he wouldn't give her up for anything. He could feel the way she clenched around him and the way she groaned in pleasure as he fucked through her orgasm simultaneously extending it but also building up the next one.

"So gut." He salivated on her shoulder before sucking a hickey into her skin. It didn't take him very long to get her to orgasm again but when she did he bottomed out snarling, "Meine Bäckerin, meine... meine... meine." All gutteral sounded and coming from deep within his chest and throat as he stilled his hips just rolling them as he flooded her insides. He knelt there just panting softly as he let her legs go and watch them just spread wide and she rested her feet on his thighs.

"Um... hi to you too?" She spoke softly.

"You're ovulating." Roland said as if it was completely obvious as to why he dragged her to bed, "I wasn't expecting you home."

"I was just going to leave some bread and... yeah neither was I expecting you." She moaned softly as he had softened and pulled out. He cocked his head to the side as he felt some pride and sexual satisfaction seeing at how wide open he would leave her. Pushing some of the oozing cum back into her quivering cunt. She moaned softly as he would do so. She wasn't staying as open as long any more. "Roland?"

"Hmm?" He finally looked up at his Bäckerin.

"Get my laptop I'm not going to be moving for a bit. Not with... that."

He just grinned going to get her some water and her device. He would pepper her with kisses and his tender affection till he had to return to his duties. But he was happy to return to them with a clear head even though it meant any plans his Bäckerin had were ruined.

Though he was certain she hardly minded.

[mrs-elsie-barnes]

The Old Gods and The New - Chapter 2

Cosmic Political Game | Loki x Reader

Loki and Thor arrive at the Avengers compound and Loki gets his first look at the mortal that has everyone so confused.

Chapter Warnings: False/medical imprisonment, masturbation, language, reader shapeshifting so some descriptions of hair and eyes but not skin colour.

Series Masterlist | Loki Masterlist | Masterlist

Thor and Loki arrived in the dead of night when only a single flood light was left illuminating the empty lawn that sprawled between the buildings of the Avenger’s compound. The two gods left a large, circular, burnt patch of grass when they landed, marking their dramatic entrance back into the lives of the Avengers and leaving a smouldering pattern in their wake.

Safe inside the private penthouse, Wanda took the lead explaining the vivid and detailed dreams they had all been experiencing since your arrival. Thor had laughed heartily, slapping the small witch on the back and sending her flying forwards with the force. But Loki was intrigued, a slow smirk appeared on his face as he sat to the side of the vast living room, toying with sparks of magic between his fingers and thinking of the beings he’d met that could wield such powers.

“You’re frightened of your own lusts. Typical, petty mortals. They are but dreams,” the gold spark flashed green, lighting up his face and swirling in the dim light of the early dawn. Loki’s leather trousers creaked against the contrasting white of the expensive couches that lined the living space.

“She controls these dreams, what else can she control? What else can she make us think?” Steve rushed out. Loki was impressed. He had never seen the Captain this flustered or confused. Whatever power the little mortal possessed it was surely powerful if it could render the normally clear headed Captain a garbled mess.

“So what do you want of me?” He asked, long legs resting on the coffee table with a soft thunk of his boots.

“We need to know what she is. Is it magic, mutation or something else?” Bruce cleaned his glasses, yawning as he let his eyes drift to the clock above the faux mantle piece. “I’ve run out of ideas, but she can shape shift, change her appearance sometimes, like you,” he looked over at Loki “but we’ve yet to see her pose a material threat…which is somehow worse. That we could deal with. But it’s the-” he trailed off, waving his hand in a circle.

“Not knowing.” Natasha interjected and Bruce nodded at her in agreement.

Loki went quiet, thinking, the magic he had been playing with dying in his hands from sparks to embers to nothing. Shape shifting was, really, simple magic, something his mother had taught him as a young boy. It would seem especially extraordinary to such mortals, but it was also something that, though simple, took a great deal of practice and instruction to perfect. Wherever she had learnt this trick, it must have been somewhere equally magical.

“She can shape shift. Interesting. Can I see her?” Loki bent forwards, resting his elbows on his knees and surveying the Avengers, the golden twinkles that had danced between his fingers now dancing behind his eyes.

“Tomorrow” Steve said, decisively, “I think we should all enjoy some peaceful sleep while we can and then, tomorrow, you can meet her”

“Ahh, she isn’t here, is she?” Loki asked, trying hard not to sound too eager.

“No, we’ve separated her. We thought it would be safer.” Tony tried to explain.

“You’ve imprisoned her?” He scoffed, “frightened children, scared of anything you don’t understand,” Loki stood and walked off, “I have no time for this.”

Loki waited until everyone was asleep before exploring the compound properly. The layout was in clear blocks, with apartments lining up with the offices and laboratories below. Knowing they wouldn’t have let her leave for the secondary building on the campus, one where junior agents and scientists may be living, he deduced she must be somewhere in the medical bays. It didn’t take Loki long to find the secure room in the medical wing, mostly because, once he got close enough, there were hundreds of signs telling people to stay away.

The room itself was dark, but he could see a figure inside through the two way mirror, wearing what looked like a big white t-shirt dress, but it had marks on it, measurements.

The mortals had said she could shapeshift, so it was unclear whether this was her true form, as he watched her hair fade through a spectrum of white, grey and black, curling tight and then falling around her shoulders with each intake of breath while she slept. Like the tide ebbing and flowing along the shore, she seemed to change from one moment to the next, whenever he found a fixed spot, a hair length, a beauty mark, the tone of her skin against the bedding, even her height, it appeared to change again, imperceptibly at first and then it was shocking he had ever held the previous image of her in his mind.

He pressed his forehead against the cool glass and closed his eyes thinking.

Images flooded his thoughts, she was awake in them, smiling, dancing, singing, her hair bright red, then black. She was looking at him and smiling, not smirking or smug, a warm smile. Her white shift morphing into green, gold, black and back again. A gown, a cape, a corset, nothing and back again. He saw others, women and men he had known before and felt their hands, lips, kisses and sweat in his skin. Then he felt her hand, sensed her magic as it touched his own.

He woke with a start just before dawn, the taste of her, of you, of something lost to the passage of time, on his tongue.

The Captain was right to be worried. If you had projected this on him from the other side of the glass without even seeing him, what wonders had you conjured up for the innocent Avengers? If he was right, then your powers had grown immeasurably since you’d last seen each other, but The Captain and the bossy one had suggested you couldn’t explain your powers at all.

This was powerful magic, it thrummed in his bones and called to his own sedir. He had sensed it only once before, a long time ago on Asgard, although it was definitely not Asgardian. Nor was it Midgardian sorcery either.

He smiled, it would be like an Asgardian to play such games with mortals, but equally, perhaps you truly didn’t know your strength. Either way this was going to be an awful lot of fun, Loki thought, flicking his hand to straighten his sleep roughened clothes.

He watched as you woke, blinking, using the blanket to wipe sweat from your eyes. You looked around, through the mirror and straight into his eyes, unseeing, and then turned away. Your hands worked under the thin sheet, disappearing from his direct sight, although he could see the tell tale creep of your fingers as they inched lower.

Behind the glass, you gasped and Loki took a step forward, as close as he dared, watching as you moaned and moved, sighing along with you as you panted out your release. As you moved your hand back above the hospital sheets, your hair shimmered again, blushed pink and fushia.

The sun was starting to lift and the curtains parted on the small glass window, looking out over the surrounding woods. Your arms lifted too, yawning, eyes closed and light flooded the room, your hands touched your hair, assessing the changes in texture, length and colour before dropping back to your sides. The light vanished, back to the ethereal glow of sunrise.

Drumming his fingers he watched you move around the room, you didn’t seem to have any other clothes. But you splashed your face and brushed your teeth, watching the sun rise.

Inside the room you felt hot and itchy still. You had had a vivid dream, not of the people in the compound. Now there was someone new. He was tall, hair dark around his shoulders, lithe but muscular. You had felt him in your dreams, his slender fingers dancing on your forehead and cooling your skin. The tang of metal on your tongue. In the dream he held you, his hands tantalising but not enough to satisfy. In an attempt to rid yourself of this feeling your own fingers had danced beneath the large nightgown you’d been forced to wear, but even as you woke, the feeling lingered.

Washing your face and brushing your teeth did nothing to distract you from the sensation. Instead you climbed back onto the bed, pushed the sheets down and lay back. In vain you tried to picture the man again and as you did your fingertips dipped below the elastic of your underwear. He had dark hair, her hair, in return, darkened, smoothing out the curls into gentle flicks. He wore dark clothing. His fingers were slender, elegant, you felt a nudge against that secret spot inside of yourself and pulled back shocked. Your hands looked different, the usually small palms were wider and the fingers were longer too. You pushed back inside, pressing and grinding into your palm until you felt your legs tighten, toes curling and cried out.

Hopefully that would satisfy you for now. Standing, you examined your ruffled hair in the mirror, admiring the mirror shine of the now dark locks. You were starting to enjoy the changes in your appearance, it was fun, at least, to see yourself with a different body, a different slope to your nose, a tint to your eyes and various textures of hair.

You turned from the small mirror to the larger one next to the door and approached slowly, eyeing the length of your white shift to assess her new height, much taller, at least 4 inches. Stopping in front of the mirror you made your eyes wide, gold flecks alongside dark pupils. They’d go back to grey soon but, for a moment, you enjoyed this ethereal look.

On the other side of the mirror Loki watched, inches away, as you slowly took on subtle characteristics until, suddenly, he could see his dark hair, his blue grey eyes, you even looked taller. He took a step away from the glass. The changes were simple enough, if you knew how, but how had you done it when, surely you, couldn’t see him. He was breathless. The Captain was right, this was no mortal being, this was powerful magic, old magic.

A door along the corridor banged and you both jumped, Loki looked around hastily for an excuse to be here, rifling some papers. When he looked back you were sat on the bed again, cross legged, hair a pale red, eyes the same grey as the morning light beginning to burn through the curtains of your hospital room and his heart clenched. He’d been locked up before, misunderstood and mislabeled as something so much worse than he was. Used and cast aside as a pawn in some cosmic political game.

Loki’s jaw tightened as he made his decision.

He would help you, he would get you out of this prison, he would teach you to control your magic. But he would not give you back to the Avengers.

<< Part 1

Part 3 >>

[eeveelover23]

Sanctuary in Shadows

(Jason Todd x reader)

When a coordinated attack compromises the security of Wayne Manor, the Batfamily is forced to evacuate immediately. With limited time to find a secure location, Jason Todd insists he knows the perfect safe house. Trusting his judgment, the family reluctantly agrees, despite their reservations about Jason’s unconventional methods.

However, when they arrive, the "safe house" turns out to be the cozy suburban home of Jason's British girlfriend,(Y/N), and her quite younger brother, Henry.

Contains: romantic jason todd, Platonic damian wayne, annoying brothers (y/n) is British and has a brother, AFAB (female pronouns and adjectives used e.g 'Girlfriend') (Y/N) is a goth queen

Wayne Manor had never fallen before. It was a fortress, a symbol of security, and home. But tonight, it was in flames. The Batfamily stood amidst the chaos, their escape barely successful, cloaked in the biting night air.

Dick rubbed a hand through his hair, his frustration apparent. “We need somewhere secure. Somewhere no one knows about.”

“Wayne Enterprises safehouses are too risky,” Barbara cut in. “Whoever did this will be monitoring.” “I got it,” Jason said abruptly, his tone brooking no argument. The family turned to him, scepticism evident in their eyes. “You?” Damian sneered. “Why should we trust your judgment?” Jason rolled his eyes. “Trust me, brat. I’ve got this. Follow me or don’t. Your call.” With little choice, the Batfamily followed Jason’s lead, weaving through Gotham’s labyrinth of streets until they reached a quiet, suburban neighbourhood. The contrast was stark—neat lawns, fairy lights, and a silence that felt almost alien to them. Jason strode up to a quaint, ivy-covered home, its exterior cosy but dark, and knocked twice on the black-painted door. The door creaked open, revealing a striking figure. (Y/N) stood in the threshold, her height almost matching Jason’s, her long (h/c) braid with red streaks hanging over one shoulder, and her (e/c) eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. She was dressed in a Victorian-inspired black jacket over a dark corset paired with lace-trimmed trousers. She raised an eyebrow, her painted black lips curling into a sly smile. “Jason Todd. You’re a sight for sore eyes.” “Hey, (Y/N)” Jason greeted, his tone softer than the Batfamily had ever heard. “We need a place to lay low. Can we crash here?” (Y/N) tilted her head, considering, then stepped aside. “Of course, love. Come in. Bring your... friends.” As the Batfamily filed in, they were greeted by a younger boy, Henry, who couldn’t have been older than ten. His wide (e/c) eyes mirrored (Y/N)’s, and his curly brown hair was a wild mop atop his head. He didn’t speak, merely watched them with curious intensity. Henry’s eyes lit up when he spotted Damian, who scowled. “What are you looking at?” Damian snapped, but Henry only smiled shyly, tugging on (Y/N)’s sleeve. “Don’t mind him,” (Y/N) said, her voice thick with a British accent as she ruffled Henry’s hair. “He’s just a quiet one.” The house was a strange blend of gothic elegance and modern coziness—velvet drapes, antique furniture, and a roaring fireplace, alongside a fully stocked kitchen and a large sectional sofa. Barbara folded her arms. “Alright, Jason. Spill. Who are they?” Jason leaned casually against the doorframe, smirking. “This is (Y/N). She’s my girlfriend.”

The room went silent.

“What?” Dick finally blurted. “She’s your what?” Tim echoed. “Girlfriend,” Jason repeated, emphasizing the word. “And this little guy is Henry, her brother.” (Y/N) rolled her eyes, though a faint blush colored her pale cheeks. “Charmed, I’m sure.” Henry had made his way to Damian, holding out a small, intricately folded paper crane. Damian hesitated, then accepted it with a curt nod. “Your brother is tolerable,” he muttered, glancing at (Y/N). “I like him,” Henry whispered for the first time, his voice soft but clear. Jason smirked. “See? Henry’s got good taste.” As the Batfamily settled in, the tension began to ease, though questions lingered in the air. How Jason had found someone so... domestic was a mystery, but for now, they were safe. And for the first time in what felt like years, the Wayne family found themselves in a home filled with warmth, however unconventional it may be.

[hannahssimblr]

Seven on the button, and the doorbell rings. I hear it from the garden as I empty the contents on the lawn mower into the bin, grass stains on my new shoes, sweat on my brow. Dad comes to the back door. 

“Bell,” he says. 

“Is it someone for me?”

“I assume so. A young woman.” 

“Didn’t you let her in?”

“No. I spotted her from my office window.”

I scoff. He’s so weird. Why wouldn’t he just answer? I wipe the grass from my hands onto the sides of my shorts, kick my dirty shoes off on the patio, and head down the hallway to the sounds of Ivy plonking on the piano. 

It’s Evie, in her usual denim shorts and a thin green cardigan, hair straight and shiny and wearing a shy smile. Despite seeming slightly frazzled, she looks so nice, like she’s put in effort, unlike me, all grass stains, sweat, and hair that is no doubt sticking up at some wild angle. I run my fingers through it. 

“Oh, hi,” I say. “I didn’t think you’d come so early. I… still have to shower.”

“Oh, God, sorry, am I the first one here?”

“Yeah, but come in, anyway. My sister is just practising for her piano lessons. She hasn’t played all summer.” I roll my eyes as the door clicks behind us. “In case you can’t tell. She’s a bit shite.”

Evie doesn’t respond, but looks around her with those big green eyes taking in her surroundings, skating up the panelled walls to the Georgian coving, the ceiling roses around the lights, all restored, faithful to the original house. It occurs to me to wonder, for the first time, what her home looks like, and the differences between our upbringings that didn’t matter an ounce on our little escapist slice of the beach.

“Do you want tea or something?”

She nods, and I take her through to the kitchen. There, she perches on a stool at the island and rests her elbows, trying not to be so obvious to her gawking. This time, she takes in the kitchen, this bespoke, perfect show-house-like kitchen with all of its integrated appliances, the state-of-the-art hob that’s barely used, the skinny cupboard made specifically for all the herbs and spices that still have the plastic wrap on them. It’s nice, sure, it’s like something from a magazine, but I would prefer this was the type of house that had magnets on the fridge door instead. 

“I’m sorry I’m early,” Evie says with a rueful smile. “I thought you said seven.”

I drop a tea bag into a mug for her. “Yeah, I said seven in the text, but I suppose I should have been more specific.”

“More specific about…?”

“That seven doesn’t actually mean seven, you know? That it means, like, sometime after eight.”

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you expected me to decode your text.”

I laugh. The misunderstanding was my fault, really, and if I’d thought about it for even a minute, I would have known that Evie, a girl who likely doesn’t go to a lot of parties, wouldn’t know the procedure. I don’t mind that she’s here at all. I am happy to see her, but the fact that she is in my house at the same time as my family is awkward. Every time I hear someone moving about in another room, all my muscles tense up. I cannot bear for her to meet them, and be able to make some kind of judgement about who I truly am through the encounter, or worse, expose herself to their judgement and scrutiny. 

As though on cue, my mother’s heels clack through the hallway, increasing in volume until all I can do is mentally prepare myself for her entrance. I curse under my breath while I fill Evie’s cup with boiling water. 

In freshly pressed trousers, she strides into the room. All jangling keys, and an air of busyness about her, so self-absorbed that it takes a moment for her to realise we have a guest. She stops dead, and surveys Evie in dull surprise. She’s like some kind of wild, feline predator, and witnessing her interactions with people who don’t yet know her ways is excruciating. 

“Oh, hello.”

“Mom, this is my friend Evie. Evie, this is my mom,” I say. 

Evie fidgets in her seat. “Hello missus Turner,” she says, and it’s so polite that I squirm.

Mom lets out a short, percussive laugh. “Oh, no, darling. It’s just Colette. Are you one of those girls from the Holy Faith school?”

“No, actually, I’m not. I’m from Tullamore, in Offaly.” 

Mom’s eyes glaze over so immediately and obviously that I cringe. 

Pulling the tea bag out, I clarify, “She’s one of my friends from holiday.”

“Ah, Shane’s sister.”

Evie picks the mug from the counter and cradles it in her hands. “No, um… No, I’m not.”

“Ah.” She’s already rifling through her handbag. “Jude, have you seen my reading glasses? I haven’t been able to find them all afternoon.”

“Did you check the office?”

“Why would they be in there?”

“I’m just asking, did you check?”

She huffs. “Why would you suggest the office? Why on earth would I have left them there?”

“Because this is your house, and you can go into any of the rooms you like. Sorry if that’s an outrageous suggestion.”

“You know I’m never in there.”

“Well, maybe dad mistook them for his and took them in. I don’t know.”

Evie stares into her mug. I am aware of the atmosphere we’re generating here, my mom and I, but it’s hard not to descend into this childish bickering every time we speak to each other lately. Even seeing her ignites this rage in me, as she is a reminder of the injustices thrust upon me, and every time I see her smug face, I think about the position she has put me in. Dad too, obviously, but I mercifully don’t have to see him outside of occasional mealtimes, and whenever someone makes a noise that disturbs him.

Eventually, mom struts out of the room and flings open the door to the living room, curtly calling on Ivy to get ready to leave, and I thank God. I won’t relax until they do. 

“How’s your tea?” I ask Evie, and she responds with a grateful smile. “It’s lovely, thank you.” I know she’s lying. I don’t know how the nuances of creating drinks I don’t enjoy. There are rules about the correct amount of milk, and how long to brew the tea bag. Maybe I shouldn’t have bashed it around in the cup with such vigour, as though transferring some of my contaminated energy into it. I wonder if she can taste it. 

“That’s good,” I say, and we lapse into a long silence.

Beginning // Prev // Next

Corresponding LG Chapter

[jam3sacaster]

“What do ‘ya want me to do to ‘ya?”

(Rivals) Declan O’Hara x Reader

Suggestion by a sweet anon 🫶🏽 / Hellbent on pleasing you after an argument, Declan allows you to take control…

18+ FANFIC / SMUT! Short work! Something a lil different for Declan 💋 Reader character aged at 21.

Observing the most magnificent view from the bedroom window of The Priory, your heart leaped at the wintery scene — blankets of glacial snow covering the vast lawn, snowdrops billowing in the arctic breeze & tiny badger prints making a path under the grand oak tree. “Feeling better yet?” A familiar voice spoke from behind you. No, I am not, you thought to yourself. It was often that you and Declan had arguments, but they were monumental when you did — thunderous screaming matches that often ended in Declan having one too many a whiskey and you, retreating to your bedroom in a rouge mass of tears. “Ahh, come on. You’ve got to speak to me at some point.” He huffs, puffing on his briar wood pipe. No, I don’t, you think to yourself again.

Eagerly catching sight of the badger that had created the tiny path, you gasp in amazement and shuffle to the end of your bed. “If ya’ won’t speak to me, at least let me make it up to ‘ya.” Declan tuts, sitting next to you now, clouding your vision with pipe smoke. Not waiting for your response, Declan takes hold of your arm and lays you down on the bed, drinking in as much of your body as he could from under your thick, emerald-green woollen jumper and black trousers. “What do ‘ya want me to do ‘ya?” He asks, voice gruff and wanting. “Oh, come off it, Declan. You hate not being in control.” Eyes rolling as you mumble. “But you love bein’ bossy. Just tell me what to do.” He urges you, kneeling beside you.

“Hmm, well. I’m not in the mood, really. So, maybe lick me to get me ready.” You begin shuffling out of your trousers, but Declan takes over, removing them and subsequently peeling your vile paprika-orange pants from your cunt. Lying between your legs, Declan wrapped his rugged arms around your thighs, drawing your heat closer to him. “How do ya’ want me to do it?” He asks, hazelnut moustache bristling against your folds, making your thighs tremble in anticipation. “Gentle and slow. Like how you did it when we first got together.” You respond, grabbing at your own breasts lustfully. Declan began to circle your pink bud with his pointed tongue, flicking haphazardly after a moment and waiting for your soft whimpers. His coated lips took your clit between them, sucking softly. Your slender hand gripped firmly around his ringletted curls, moans increasing in frequency. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum if you keep doing that.” You groan, back arching in ecstasy. “Good.” Declan spoke through a mouthful of your wet cunt. “No, I don’t want to cum yet. I want to sixty-nine.” You moan, prompting Declan to free himself of his beige outfit. “Top or bottom?” He questions, devilish smirk creating tension in your stomach. You point to your soft belly, and Declan lowers himself onto you, being careful not to apply all of his weight.

The scene that played out was nothing short of heavenly. Declan’s cock was buried inside your throat, restricting your breathing and releasing a stream of tears from your glassy eyes. The Irishman, however, was treating your cunt like the most delectable banquet, grunting under your heat and leaving a trail of saliva hanging from his lips. Gyrating your hips towards his mouth, you rode out your orgasm in deafening moans — or the most you could manage through the girth of Declan’s cock. Thereupon, your moans were stifled by the emergence of Declan’s hot, sweet load pumping into your throat, making your eyes bulge from the sockets with pleasure. His orgasmic grunts rose to the most magnificent crescendo.

Pulling back to lie next to you, body sticky with sweat, Declan lit a cigarette and panted in exhaustion. “You’re rather good at following orders.” You joked, eyeing up his cock, still proudly at half-mast. “And you’re fuckin’ good at being bossy. Like I said.” Declan replied.