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thekinslayed · 1 year ago

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Edge of Desire

summary | Your efforts in the marital bed stayed fruitless after many moons married to your uncle, and Aemond wants to change that. (based on these requests.)

pairing | aemond targaryen x niece!reader

tags | 18+, MINORS DNI! unprotected sex, oral (f), lovemaking, morning sex, medieval conception practices, awkward pining, enemies to lovers kinda, cockwarming

song rec | Edge of Desire - John Mayer

wordcount | 5.5k

note | something softer with aemond this time around :)

(special chapter -> Show Me Your World)

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

“Ow! My hair!”

“Stay still, woman.”

Aemond readjusted his weight above you, grumbling as he leaned on his elbows. He huffed out a hot breath of air, which fanned your face while you lay on your back. His length softened within your walls the longer you stayed connected, preventing any seed from leaking out per the maester’s orders.

It had been nearly a whole year since you proclaimed your vows to your uncle under the eyes of the Seven. Your hand had been offered as a gesture of good faith, arguably a desperate attempt between both sides of your family to mend the rift that has been growing for years. It had worked somewhat, but as the moons passed and your relationship with your husband refused to warm, there have been growing concerns on either side of your family. Your animosity towards each other was no secret, with the vile insults Aemond had thrown against you and your brothers regarding your questionable parentage throughout your youth, which ended of course, in the incident. You had no part during that horrific night in Driftmark, but you were not saved from the consequences of that night.

Barely a moon after you had turned eight and ten, you sailed towards King’s Landing, to your fate. Your only comfort was the sight of your dear dragon flying above you, watching over you like a guardian. After you were draped by your lord husband with the dark, dragon-embroidered cloak, you made an agreement with each other. Aemond shall have his space, and you will have your own. You shall not bother him, and neither will he. However, you are expected to keep up appearances, at court, at the feasts, and even at the dinner table where queen Alicent pestered you both endlessly with any progress on your efforts in the marital bed. With the lingering friction still driving you apart from your husband, it was no surprise your womb still bore no fruit. He would call you to his chambers to perform your duties for one night each week, sometimes twice, for extra measures. Your efforts remained futile, for his seed never took and you remained childless many moons after your wedding. This growing concern has led to an intervention by the maesters, who recommended a myriad of methods that would aid in your conception.

You were to lay together every morning. Not at night, unless you wanted a girl.

The princess must clench her fist while her husband “did nature’s work”.

Your bed must face the east while you coupled, to ensure it is a boy.

The prince must remain inside the princess for an hour after he has finished to guarantee the seed is taken.

The last measure was absolutely dreadful. It was painful enough to have your womanhood assaulted by a man you rarely saw eye-to-eye with, but to stay there for an hour? Gods be good.

Aemond let out another grunt in your ear when his left arm grew sore from carrying his weight, shifting to lean onto the other arm instead. You turned your head to look at the hourglass on the nightstand. There was still a good amount of time left, and you silently prayed that the sand passed through the glass faster so you may escape this awful predicament. Your tailbone was starting to grow numb from the lack of movement, causing you to subtly shift your hips upwards to relieve the pressure from your backside.

“Stop it,” your husband hissed, making you huff in annoyance. Aemond rolled out his shoulder to relieve the soreness from the joint, before shifting his weight to do the same to the other. His long, silver hair enclosed you like a curtain, soft and light like the touch of a feather. You would be tempted to feel it under your fingertips if only it wasn’t tickling your face, adding to your aggravation. You moved his hair away from your face, letting out another huff. “Stop acting like this inconveniences only you, wife, I would’ve been much happier spending my mornings down in the training yard. My arms are getting too fucking tired,” Aemond grumbled.

You could feel his muscles start to tremble from the exertion of holding his weight up, unwilling to touch your skin by even a hair. You bit back a snarky response, starting to feel bad for him.

“Can’t we switch positions? Perhaps I could be on top,” you recommended, to which your husband only responded with a grunt.

“No, the maesters said we must stay this way. Any other way would make the seed fall rather than stay in. I do not want to do this any longer than we have to.”

You snickered at his words, turning your head away to subtly roll your eyes. Despite your irritation, his subtle quivering was making you feel sorry for him. You bit your lip as you thought about what to do.

“Here, why don’t you…” You placed a hand on his back, urging him to lay against you. Aemond had started to refuse, but you insisted, assuring him he wouldn’t crush you under his weight. With a sigh, your husband relaxed above you, finally letting his arms rest. He laid his head right beside yours, and with only a small turn you could smell the remnants of smoke in his starlit hair, coupled with the rosemary oil rubbed into his tresses every night. His lips ghosted over your shoulder; the skin exposed from when your nightgown had shifted askew. His warmth engulfed you like a warm blanket, his weight surprisingly comfortable. It was quite nice actually, despite your reluctance to admit the fact.

“Is this better?” you asked, your tone simmering down into a softer tone. Aemond hummed in response, turning his head to the side. His lips were now positioned right under your ear, and his every breath fanned the side of your face like a warm breeze on a summer’s day.

“Quite. Though this whole ‘laying for an hour’ nonsense is still quite dreadful, in my opinion,” he muttered. His voice buzzed directly into your ear, pulling a strange twinge in your chest when he did so. You trained your gaze on the embroidery on the roof of the canopy, studying the two dragons seemingly entwined against each other. It was almost like you and Aemond, funny enough.

“It is easy for you to say when men often find the act more enjoyable,” you commented almost bitterly. Aemond was silent momentarily upon your words, before seemingly snuggling even closer to you, though you assumed he was only trying to make himself comfortable.

“Is it so horrible?” your lord husband asked, a subtle hint of concern in his words that you barely caught. You turned to look at the hourglass again. Still quite a bit to go.

“Well, it hurts, more than anything.”

Another silence passed. Aemond’s mind ran a league in a minute at your words, reflecting on the pain he unknowingly inflicted upon you on the times you did your duty. As much as he harbored no love for your family, especially your bastard brothers, you were still his wife. His mother had instilled in him since he was a boy that any woman he would take as his wife should always be treated with respect, for she was an image of the Mother. Granted, Alicent was surely not picturing Rhaenyra’s only daughter beside her favored son upon the altar of the Sept when the day came, but the sentiment still extended to you all the same.

Aemond shifted his weight back to his hands as he lifted himself once more, so he may look upon your face. It was then he granted himself to really get a good look at you. He may be half-blind, but Aemond knew you were beautiful, there was no denying it. His good eye studied your features, noting the absence of the crease between your eyebrows whenever you were displeased, which was most of the time you spent by his side.

“I have no wish to hurt you,” he whispered.

“I know, ‘tis alright. I am tougher than I look,” you replied softly, your lips turning into a downward smile. Before you could stop yourself, your hands moved to tuck a stray strand of silver behind his ear on instinct. You looked into the purple of his good eye, the other covered by a patch of leather. “Besides, Daemon always used to say men have it much worse on the battlefield, for there is far less mercy when facing your enemies than your own wife,” you added to which Aemond only scoffed in response, shaking his head. Your chest rumbled with a laugh at his reaction, especially after his lips pursed into his signature feline-like pout.

Of course, Daemon would think that way, Aemond thought. His uncle was hardly the image of chivalry for any married couple across Westeros, and it was rather gauche of him to be bestowing any words of wisdom to his stepdaughter about the matters of matrimony.

All of a sudden, there was an odd feeling in his chest when your eyes seemed brighter than they had even before when you looked at him. He’d seen that light before, when you looked at your brothers, his half-sister, even at Helaena, but never him. You had such beautiful eyes, ones he could swim in their depths forever. Aemond faltered, unsure of what to do with this newfound flutter in his otherwise stone heart. He opted to lower himself to your warmth once more, burying his head into the junction where your neck and shoulder met. The scent of your flesh was naturally sweet, making him subtly press his nose into your skin.

“I am not your enemy,” he said, with a rather unfamiliar softness. He felt your hand come up to rest on his back, resting on the space in between his clothed shoulder blades. A small smile lifted the corners of your lips, one hidden from his view. You turned to look at the hourglass, which had already emptied. You made no move to tell Aemond to get up, but instead, you pressed the side of your face against his own, breathing in the scent of his hair.

“I know, husband.”

Walking through the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast, Aemond thought back to all the depraved remarks Aegon would make him listen to about his experiences in the Streets of Silk— how the whores would touch him, and how he would touch them, making them mewl and sigh in delight. He knew not whether they were doing it only for show, but perhaps in some way his brother might have learned a thing or two in the many years he frequented the stinking streets of Flea Bottom just for a taste of flesh.

Despite better judgment, his feet led him to his brother’s door. His fist had raised to rap against the old wood, but then he faltered. Though seeking Aegon’s insight would surely be far less embarrassing than continuing to follow through with whatever the maesters have him and his wife doing in the marital bed, the endless jests and amusement the elder shall find in the matter would definitely haunt him for a long time. Your husband did not wish to humiliate you any further, not when the matter has already involved too many people. With a hair’s breadth between his fist and Aegon’s door, Aemond sighed, dropping his hand and turning on his heel to walk away.

He and his brother have had their fair share of women who have warmed their beds, Aegon more so than himself, but they have only ever fucked. It was for their pleasure, to quench the fire in their cocks. It wasn’t tender or sweet, or gods forbid… loving. He knew he couldn’t treat his wife the same way he did a whore if he wanted your partnership to prosper; he couldn’t treat you this way.

He thought about asking his mother, though letting her know of your problems in bed, even more than what she already knew, would probably do them more harm than good. Perhaps Cole? No, that wouldn’t be a good option. Matters of the flesh are a touchy subject for Aemond’s mentor and father figure, perhaps even more so when the blood of the woman who shunned him is involved.

It had always been like this for him. A plethora of questions would boggle his young, curious mind, yet there was no one to indulge him. It had hurt him, of course, but he had learned that some things would have to be acquired by his own volition. This is how he had become such a prolific scholar, had come to claim Vhagar, and proven himself a man worthy of praise.

A laughter through the halls snapped him out of his exasperating worries. The glimmery shrill of youth, unmistakenly that of his sister’s babes, beckoned him like a beacon towards the nursery. There he found little Jaehaerys riding his wooden pony, mimicking a horse’s bray as he rocked back and forth. Helaena watched on in amusement, little Maelor clutched in her elbow. And then there was you, tickling his niece’s belly on the floor, a joyous laughter of your own adding to the symphony. You bent to pepper kisses into the crook of Jaehaera’s neck, making the girl squeal and kick her legs in delight.

You were so good with the babes, this Aemond couldn’t deny. You would offer to help Helaena watch over them on most days when she would grow weary and Aegon was away on the council. As much as your husband would try to look the other way, he couldn’t miss the way you looked at them with fondness, how you would press your nose into the youngest’s hair to smell that sweet, milky scent of his skin. Perhaps he would like to see you with a babe of your own. Yours and his, he wondered what they would be like.

“Oh, Aemond, come!” Helaena exclaimed, beckoning him over. It was then he realized he had been standing in the doorway like a fool, and so the prince stepped into the nursery. Jaehaera, after having spotted his approach, jumped to her feet in excitement. Aemond greeted her with a fond smile and a pat on the head, kneeling to her height. You moved your skirts to let your husband settle by your side, your knees slightly pressed against each other.

His eyepatch had been knocked askew when the young princess had gleefully embraced her uncle, and you had quickly righted it in its place. Your touch was light on his scarred cheek, a foreign featherlike caress that sent a slight shiver down his spine.

“Thank you, wife,” Aemond whispered, turning to you. There it was again, that little look on your face. You regarded him with a budding warmth he hadn’t quite known, a smile that rounded out the apples of your cheeks, though he figured it was one you directed to the little girl in his arms. He returned his gaze to Jaehaera, who had handed him a dragon toy to play with, willing himself to pay little mind to your lingering gaze burning the side of his cheek.

You couldn’t quite recall when your affections towards Aemond had started to change, all you knew was your heart didn’t hold the same twinge of displeasure in his presence, nor did you dread having to keep up appearances in court. There were some instances where you even sought him out, had peeked out the Keep’s yard to watch him train some mornings, all without his knowledge of course. Your coupling was still as unpleasant as ever, but you had grown to not mind the feeling of his weight on yours once the hourglass had been turned to start the hour, the pair of you descending into a comfortable silence most times. Going through the motions had gotten easier by the day, a well-practiced dance between the two of you.

You would wake with the sun’s rise, and then make your way to your husband’s chambers. He would be already awake, always, awaiting your arrival. The bed would be quite warm from his heat, thanks to his dragon blood, and it was a pleasant comfort to have. Once the deed was done, you were off to your separate duties for the day. It was routine at this point; therefore, it was quite odd when you were summoned to your husband’s chambers late into the night.

“It is nighttime,” you said when you entered as if it wasn’t quite obvious from the darkness that enveloped his apartments. Your husband was clad in his cotton tunic and breeches, sipping on a glass of wine.

“I know,” Aemond replied, turning to you. He could chuckle at the look of confusion on your face, with your furrowed brows that creased the skin between them, if it weren’t for the odd nerves swarming in his belly.

“Was there something you need?” you asked, accepting the cup of red that was handed to you.

“No, well… perhaps,” he muttered. You gulped your wine, a droplet spilling over the corner of your lips. Before you could act, Aemond’s thumb darted out to wipe away the tear of red that was on its way to run down your chin. You stopped yourself from jerking away, though you couldn’t deny your perplexion. “I just… I figured we could try something.”

“Try what?” you asked again. He was acting odd, with the way he was looking at anywhere but you, a contrast to his usual sharp form. This was starting to grow concerning; gods, he’s not about to kill you, is he?

“Do you trust me?” Aemond asked. He had gotten closer to you, quite close enough that you could feel the warm waft of his breath on your cheeks. His large, calloused palm cupped your jaw, warming up your cheeks. You stared up at him, wide-eyed, nodding your head meekly.

You trusted him, you really did, in an inexplicable, convoluted way. The past would tell you not to, but your time as his wife had shifted your connection into something intimate. Away from the endless troubles within your kin, all the terrible infighting with burning words and stares sharp as knives, you and Aemond found little trouble with each other, especially with the arrangements you agreed upon. After you had said your vows in the great Sept, you spent your first moons as the one-eyed prince’s wife with a guarded vigilance. You blocked the entrance to Maegor’s tunnels with your vanity, had given the first bite of your food to the rats in search of poison, and had even slept with a dagger underneath your pillow in case your uncle came to you in your sleep. There was none of that. Granted, the Hightowers weren’t the warmest, most welcoming bunch, but they treated you well— some of them, at least.

You weren’t sure where you stood with Aemond. You didn’t hate him, not anymore at least, and you would like to believe he wasn’t coming for your head anymore. The pair of you were… fine. You figured this was a comfortable position to be in, and you dared not utter the wish in your heart of hearts, in fear of rejection. The budding light in your chest as he looked at you now, in the dim glow of his chambers, made known what had been growing over the days you spent in his presence. It couldn’t be helped.

And now, as you stood toe to toe with him, your face cupped in his palm, you knew the balance was about to tip over; for better or for worse, however, you didn’t know.

Your breath came out as a shudder as his face descended upon yours, the time moving all too slow in your perception. Your hands tightened into fists in anticipation, your pulse thrumming in your ears so thunderously you could only hope he didn’t feel it. Just as his lips were a mere hair's breadth away from yours, Aemond stopped, sensing the rigid tension in your spine. With a sigh, he leaned his forehead against yours.

“Aemond, w-what has gotten into you?” you whispered, cautious to not break the solemn air in the room. Your hands came up to rest on his biceps, squeezing at them in question. He was silent for a moment, his eye closed in thought. You waited, patiently.

“I want to make you feel good,” your husband finally uttered in a whisper. You sputtered half words in shock. He did not need to do that, you expected little as a woman and were doing your duty in bed just fine. Why would he willingly want to do so? By the gods… why did he want to?

His thumb caressed your cheek ever so softly, pressing on the supple plumpness under the pad of his finger. He had leaned away, not too far, just enough to gauge your reaction.

Your throat felt dry, and you longed for the cup of wine you had set aside. Your mind ran a league in a minute, the proposition he was offering was one many women would kill their spouses for. Truthfully, you didn’t know what making you “feel good” would entail, your lack of knowledge and experience from your sheltered upbringing limiting your mind on the art of the ways of the flesh.

“Will you let me?” he asked.

You could say no and he would dismiss you, and the night would be over. You would pore on what could’ve been if you had said yes, and you would never know what would have transpired. You could say yes, and this whole thing would be a disaster, an embarrassment if it ended in proving how incompatible you truly were. Or… you would enjoy it, you both would.

You nodded your head again, still untrusting of your own words. Aemond walked you backward to the bed, urging you to lay back once the back of your knees hit the frame.

As his deft hands lifted your nightgown to your hips, you fisted the sheets tight in your hands in angst. You watched him as he watched you, or your womanhood, rather. Your husband’s tongue ran over his bottom lip, his good eye twinkling under the subtle warmth of the dimness in his chambers.

You felt open… exposed. The urge to cross your legs shut threatened to overwhelm you, but his hands caressing the meat of your thighs prevented you from doing so. He descended upon you, planting a trail of kisses down the inside of your thigh. Gooseflesh rose all over your skin, and you gasped when he came close to your flower, making you grip his shoulder to stop him.

“Aemond…” you breathed out.

“Let me do this for you,” he whispered, taking your wrist to direct his kisses there. “Have faith in me.”

You retracted your hand from his firm shoulder, leaning your weight on your elbow to watch him. His breath was hot against your slit, making you involuntarily clench. He started with light kisses on your mound, then little licks against your slit. His good eye flickered to gauge your reaction, where you had started to bite your lip. Two fingers split your folds open, baring all of you to his hungry gaze. His tongue delved deeper into your slit, penetrating you.

“Oh,” you exhaled, tilting your head back. With a surge of confidence, your husband began to devour you in earnest, licking and sucking. Sweet sounds, ones unheard of before, had started to spill from your lips, and what a delightful song it was.

A finger soon replaced his tongue, entering your gummy walls as though it were his cock. It thrust in and out of you the same way, and when he bent to feel up a rough patch within your walls, your toes clenched as a jolt ran up your spine.

“Good?” Aemond asked, to which you could only respond with a nod and a whine.

His lips found your pearl, and then another finger had joined the other. The prince soon found a rhythm, one that had you writhing and moaning unabashedly. What an odd sensation it was, yet utterly delicious as it was depraved.

The pressure in your stomach built in a steady rise. It sparked your muscles to twitch in Aemond’s hold, growing spasmodic as you were hurled closer to your precipice. You came with a whine, your head thrown back into the feather mattress as your husband guided you to your end.

“Where did you learn how to do that?” you asked, breathless. Black spots danced around your vision of him, swarming around the otherworldly sight of his flushed, glimmering lips and the loose silver strands that framed his face. It quirked into a small smirk as he regarded you, his arms caging you in between his hold. His hair draped around you like a curtain, the wispy ends tickling your nipples through the cotton of your dress.

“I am quite diligent in seeking the knowledge I might find useful, dear wife, and it seems they have proven to be so,” Aemond responded. You dared not ask what he meant, unwilling to learn who he had sucked and licked the way he did you to be so proficient in the act, how he had learned to poke all the right places to earn such lewd sounds from you. You merely hummed, tracing the line of his jaw in a trance.

His deft fingers had grabbed a hold of the straps of your nightgown, pulling them down to bare you fully. You let him, willingly so, encouraged by the look in his good eye that promised you more. His good eye was glued onto your breasts immediately before his warm, calloused hands took them into his hold. They fit perfectly in his palms, much to both of your delight. You bit your lip as he squeezed them, massaging the supple flesh and rubbing on your sensitive bud. Aemond could do this for hours, and if it weren’t for the throbbing in between his thighs, he would’ve done so.

His cotton tunic soon followed, then his breeches, and as he stood before you, cock stood stiff in attention, you get a good look at him. He was utterly handsome like this, bare and unguarded. You beckoned him closer, pulling on the strip that held half of his hair up. Soft fingertips trailed his jaw, his scar, before circling the leather patch that masked his left eye.

“Can I?” you whispered, looking into his good eye as he studied you. Aemond paused for a moment, almost faltering. The warmth of your thighs caged onto the sides of his waist was a welcome comfort, luring him closer to wanting to nestle in your ever-loving heat.

“Tis not a good sight to gaze upon,” he mumbled. You had cupped his jaw when he started to look away, keeping him close with a small smile.

“You are my husband. I wish to have you, all of you, as you will have me.”

A promise. An agreement.

A solemn echo of your vows upon the altar.

I am his and he is mine from this day, until the end of my days.

He had pulled the patch off from the clasp on the back of his head. The sparkle of the sapphire had stunned you in awe, and as you cupped his jaw, the look of wonder on your face and the lift in your lips couldn’t be helped.

“It is beautiful, husband,” you said, beaming up at him. “You are beautiful.”

He had huffed in amusement, planting a kiss on your cheek before mumbling into your skin, “I should be telling you that.”

His stiff length was hot and heavy as it sat against your hip, a reminder of the fire that still coursed through your veins. Aemond pulled away, the look in his eye taking a warmer, softer tinge as did yours. The smile on your lips had melted away to something sincere, hopeful. With a nod, you watched him take hold of his shaft, lining it upon your entrance. His breach was much smoother this time, no stabbing pain that made you scrunch your face, all thanks to his efforts in preparing you. It was rather delightful, a delicious stretch that made you bite your lip as he grunted above you. He would have asked you about the pain, but the deep kiss you had pulled him in to let him know there was little of it.

Aemond’s hips took on a steady pace, rocking into you gently and slowly. It was nothing lewd or animalistic, but rather sensual, intimate. You had never felt closer to him the way you did now, your connection transcending that of something physical. Your husband’s face was buried into the crook of your neck, his grunts and moans traveling straight into your auricle. You fared no better, your mewls echoing into the quiet of the room. Aemond had taken hold of your fisted hand, the godsdamned instructions from the maester taking on memory in your muscles, and he had pried them open. His larger, rougher fingers intertwined with yours, holding onto you for dear life as he took you deeper, and deeper, poking a spot within your womb that made you shiver in delight.

“Aemond,” you breathed out. His aquiline nose pressed into the side of your face, breathing into the sweet scent of your dampening flesh.

“Say it again… say my name again.” His voice was growing raspier by the second, but his tone was ever so soft with you, only you. His lips closed around one of your nipples, sucking on the stiff bud in a way that made you moan.

“Aemond, oh, Aemond! My lord husband,” you whined, holding onto the planes of his back as his pace hastened. His pubic bone rubbed on your pearl, sending shoots of fiery pleasure up your spine. Your grip on him was tight, almost numbing, but he relished in it. He wanted to feel you everywhere, kiss on every ounce of flesh he could, you were his after all.

“My wife, my dearest darling. Will you come for me again? Spill around my cock, hm?” You nodded fervently at his dirty whisper, wanting nothing else to do exactly as he asked. His forehead was prickled with salty sweat when he had pressed it against yours, his lips barely an inch away from yours. The silver-haired prince’s breath mingled with yours, and you had chased him when his tongue darted to lick a swipe across your bottom lip. Your release washed over you the moment he kissed you again, your moans swallowed by his hungry mouth. His length drove into you still, chasing his own release, and your spasming walls massaged him to guide him to his end. Aemond pulled away to look at where you were connected, committing the sight of his cock, painted with a white ring around its base, disappearing into your sweet cunny. His pace grew rhythmless as his hips began to sputter. He was close, evident from the way his eyebrows scrunched together. With a hand on your breast, the other on your jaw, your husband came with an open-mouthed groan, spilling his hot seed into your womb.

Aemond had moved to collapse by your side, but you had pulled him close to your chest, letting him lay on you with his softening length still nestled in your walls.

“Stay.”

You lay there together in silence, breathless, boneless. His hand rubbed on your waist, as did yours on his muscled back, comfortable in the silence you were in.

“I am sorry,” your husband had whispered, before shifting to lean on his elbow to look at you. “For…”

He need not say everything, or anything at all. You knew what he meant. That was all too long ago, almost a lifetime that scarcely felt yours. It was different now between you and him. The world could descend into flames and tear itself inside out, but you and Aemond would not lose each other.

You nodded, tucking a loose strand of silver behind his ear. “I am sorry too, deeply so.”

Slumber had found you while you were wrapped in your husband’s embrace, the heat emanating from his bare body pressed against yours a comforting blanket. In the morn, he had taken you again, slipping into your welcoming walls as you both stayed laid on your side. Aemond had left Cole a waiting fool in the courtyard while he missed his training, a curious deviation from his otherwise strict routine.

You were both learning how addicting this could be, though it seemed neither of you wanted to complain. You could hardly separate from your husband’s hold to dress to break your fast, and the pleasant glow on both your faces at the dining table with the rest of the family was a dead giveaway of the progression in your relationship. With the frequency of how much you latched onto each other every moment you found yourselves alone, it came as no surprise that by the end of the moon, the realm celebrated the growing babe in your womb.

A life forged by your own hand. Yours and his.

#bella writes ✍️#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen imagines #aemond targaryen smut #aemond fanfiction #aemond one eye #aemond smut #aemond targaryen #hotd x reader

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landoughnut · 3 months ago

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The Tube Top Incident - KA12

masterlist - request

pairing: kimi antonelli x horner!fem!reader

summary: your top fails you in the paddock, so you go to kimi's garage, but when you're father sees his shirt on you, he doesn't take it lightly

w/c & a/n: 1.2k | this is based off of this request! thanks for sending it babe :)

"This is bad. This is so, so bad."

Your heart was now racing as you rushed through the paddock, one hand clutching the torn fabric of your top over yourself while the other frantically tried to keep yourself covered.

Eyes darted around, scanning for anyone who might notice Christian Horners daughter's very obvious wardrobe malfunction.

Desperate times called for desperate measures. And right now, that meant getting to Kimi's room without being seen.

It was one thing for you to date a driver, but a Mercedes driver? That was practically treason in your dad's eyes.

You barely managed to slip inside your boyfriend's room, slamming the door behind you, chest heaving.

Kimi, who had been lounging on his couch, looked up lazily from his phone—only for his blue eyes to widen slightly as he took you in. Then, a slow, amused smirk spread across his lips.

“Well, this is interesting,” he drawled, stretching his arms behind him. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” He tilts his head, eyes shamelessly raking over you, “Did you come running into my room half-dressed just because you missed me?”

“Kimi!” you hissed, still clutching your ruined top. “Are you serious right now? My top just ripped open in the middle of the paddock, and I was about two seconds away from flashing half the grid!”

Kimi tilted his head, his smirk deepening. “I mean… I wouldn’t complain.”

You groaned. “Kimi.”

He chuckled, finally standing up and pulling his team shirt over his head. “Relax, amore. Here.” He dangled it in front of you, but when you reached for it, he tugged it just out of reach, his boyish grin never fading.

You glared. “Kimi, give me the damn shirt.”

“What’s the rush? It’s just us here.” He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. “Unless… you want me to help you put it on?”

Your face burned. “Oh my God, you’re the worst.”

"What?" He exclaimed, "I've seen you in less, you know."

"Oh my gosh! Shut up," you look away, now blushing even more.

He finally handed it over, laughing as you snatched it and turned away to pull it on. His shirt was oversized on you, the fabric soft and smelling like him.

"Drop your smile, this isn't a joking matter," you huff.

"I don't know, amore... this is pretty funny to me," he grins.

Just as you sighed in relief, thinking you had escaped disaster, the worst possible voice rang out from behind you.

“What the bloody hell is going on here?”

You froze. Kimi’s gaze flicked past you, his body stiffening slightly. You turned slowly to face your father, who was standing at the entrance of the room, eyes narrowed and arms crossed.

His gaze flicked to your oversized shirt, then to Kimi, then back to you. The realization dawned quickly.

“You— him—” Your dad's face turned an alarming shade of red. “You’re dating Antonelli?”

Kimi doesn't move but he does gently grab your hand with his, likely trying to comfort you.

You winced. “Okay, first of all, let’s not have an aneurysm about it—”

“Oh, I’ll have an aneurysm if I damn well please!” he snapped. “You are my daughter, and you are not dating a Mercedes driver—especially not behind my back!”

Kimi, to his credit, stayed calm, his usual cool demeanor unfazed. “With all due respect, sir, I don’t think your daughter needs your permission to date me. In ogni caso, sono innamorato di lei,” he cracks a tiny smile, eyes soft and glancing at you.

Christian gaped at him. “With all due— Are you serious? Do you even know who I am?”

“Yes, not that it matters,” Kimi said smoothly.

You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing. Your dad looked like he was going to pass out and he looked back and forth between you two.

“This is unacceptable,” he declared. “You’re getting out of that shirt right now.”

“Yeah, not happening,” you shot back. “Unless you’d rather me walk around half-naked?”

Christian spluttered, trying to think something to say.

Finally, he groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “We are not done discussing this. Find something else to wear.”

“Oh, I figured,” you said, rolling your eyes.

He stormed off, still muttering under his breath, while Kimi turned to you with an amused smirk. “So… do I get to keep my girlfriend, or do I need to prepare for war?”

You sighed dramatically. “It’s Christian Horner. It’s always a war.”

Kimi chuckled, slipping an arm around your waist. “Don't worry, mi amore, I'd win a war for you.”

Later that evening, after the chaos had settled and your father had stormed off to complain to someone else, you found yourself tucked away in Kimi’s motorhome.

You greatly enjoyed the quiet moments like this, there weren't many times when the opportunity came about.

You sat between Kimi’s legs on the couch still wrapped in his oversized Mercedes shirt, your back pressed against his chest. Some random movie playing in the background.

His fingers traced lazy circles on your exposed thigh, the fabric having ridden up as you curled into him.

“I think my dad’s going to try and have you exiled,” you murmured, tilting your head back against his shoulder with a small smile.

Kimi chuckled, his breath warm against your neck. “He can try.” His lips brushed against the sensitive skin just below your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You let out a slow breath, your hand reaching up to tangle in his hair as he pressed another lingering kiss against your neck. His hands, warm and soft, slid up your sides, just barely ghosting over your ribs, making you squirm and laugh.

“Kimi,” you warned, but there was no real bite to it.

He hummed, his grip tightening slightly as he turned you around in his lap, his blue eyes dark with amusement. “You’re still wearing my shirt,” he whispered, his fingers playing with the hem.

“Well, you did give it to me.” You shrug, wrapping your arms around his neck.

His lips curled into a smirk of his own. “Mmm. I did. But now I’m wondering if I should’ve asked for something in return. And I think it would look better on the floor.”

You gasp, "Kimi! You naughty boy," you lightly slap his arm. You rolled your eyes playfully, “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

You didn’t have a comeback for that, not when he leaned in and kissed you, stealing the air from your lungs. You comb you hands through his fluffy hair and he lets out a content sigh.

His hands wandered, exploring, teasing, until you were practically melting against him.

By the time you pulled back, your cheeks were flushed and lips a little more plumped and Kimi looked entirely too pleased with himself.

“Your dad is going to kill me,” he mused, brushing his thumb over your kiss-swollen lips. This was his favorite look of yours.

You grinned, breathless. “Not if I kill him first.”

Kimi laughed lightly, pulling you in again. “I like the way you think, mi amore.”

#ria writes 🦢#kimi antonelli #andrea kimi antonelli #kimi antonelli x reader #kimi antonelli x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 x you #kimi antonelli one shot #kimi antonelli fluff #kimi antonelli fic #kimi antonelli imagine #mercedes #mercedes x reader #f1 rookies #kimi antonelli x fem!reader #andrea kimi antonelli x reader #christian horner

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fayerie · 16 days ago

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How one piece men cuddle with you ( Zoro , Luffy , Sanji , Ace , Shanks , Law , Sabo )

Zoro isn’t the cuddly type at all — at least, not consciously. He doesn��t initiate affection, and if you ask, he’ll grunt and roll his eye. But when you’re sleeping or hurt, he pulls you close like it’s instinct. He’s warm and steady, one arm heavy over your waist, his chest firm against your back. He doesn’t say anything, but his breath in your hair is steady and grounding (if you ignore the strong smell of booze). If you shift or try to leave, he tightens his grip just slightly — like his body is guarding yours even in sleep. He might wake up just enough to mumble, "Tch… stay. You’re warm."

Luffy cuddles like a human octopus. He has zero concept of personal space and doesn’t think twice about draping his entire body over you — legs, arms, head on your stomach, everything. He beams, sighs happily, and falls asleep within seconds. If you try to move, he clings even tighter. His hold isn’t possessive — just full of trust and comfort. To him, you’re both his favorite blanket and his favorite person. "You feel nice~. Don’t move!" he whines, snuggling even closer. Cuddling with Luffy feels like pure joy — chaotic, warm, and utterly free.

Sanji treats cuddling like both an art and an honor. Ever the gentleman, he always asks first—"Would mademoiselle like to be held?"—and when you say yes, he melts into you like you’re his entire world. He wraps his arms around your waist from behind, nestling his face in your neck, whispering sweet nothings and complimenting the softness of your skin, the scent of your hair. His touch is affectionate but intentional, fingers lightly tracing your arms or thighs. He’ll sigh dreamily and murmur, "I could die happy like this..." Just beware: if it’s your first time cuddling, you might feel a faint trail of blood dripping from his nose onto your shoulder.

Ace is naturally warm — physically and emotionally. Cuddling with him is like curling into a sunbeam, especially comforting in winter. He tends to sprawl out when he sleeps, but the moment he senses you nearby, he pulls you against his chest, arms locking around you like a heated safety net. His heartbeat is strong, grounding. He might kiss the top of your head or nuzzle into your hair while murmuring, "Don’t go far..." He clings like someone who knows the ache of losing people. With Ace, cuddling is heat and closeness wrapped around a desperate kind of love he struggles to say out loud.

Shanks cuddles like a man who rarely gets the chance — but treasures it when he does. He’s a sprawler, always ending up with you tucked under one arm, his lone hand running lazy, soothing circles along your back. When he’s tipsy, he’ll pull you into his lap, resting his forehead against yours, whispering half-serious lines like, "This makes a man wonder what he’s really chasing." Then he’ll laugh low in your ear — the kind of laugh that makes your heart twist. His cuddle style is warm, teasing, magnetic — but when the world falls quiet, there’s real weight in the way he holds you. You’re the one thing that softens his storm.

Law is stiff about physical affection — at first. He’ll sit beside you for hours without touching you unless you initiate it. But once you do, he exhales like he’s surrendering and mutters something about how “this is inefficient sleeping,” before pulling you onto his chest like it’s no big deal. His heartbeat betrays him — fast the first time, but steadying as he gets used to your weight. He’ll absentmindedly rub your back while reading or thinking, quiet and still. Law doesn’t talk much during cuddles, but the intimacy is unmistakable — measured, deliberate, and deeply comforting. If you fall asleep there, he won’t move a muscle. He’ll just whisper, "Idiot..." softly, not unkindly — wondering how he ended up this far in.

Sabo cuddles with the care of someone who treasures soft things because he’s lost them before. He always pulls you into his arms like he’s protecting you from a world that’s far too cruel. He’s the kind to stroke your hair, kiss your temple, and ask if you’re okay even when you’re just resting. His body is relaxed, his tone gentle, and you can feel how tightly he tucks you in — as if keeping you safe with just his embrace. "You’re everything to me," he’ll say into your skin, even if you’re half-asleep.

Cuddling with Sabo feels like being chosen — over and over again, whereas his Den Den Mushi could never be chosen, as the “Peree-peree” sound continues uselessly in the background.

#one piece #one piece men #zoro #luffy #sanji #fire fist ace #shanks #trafalgar law #sabo #roronoa zoro #monkey d. luffy #portgas d ace x reader #trafalgar d law x reader #shanks x reader #one piece x reader #riiee!writes

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lvrclerc · 1 month ago

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✶ STRANGER, DANGER AND VANILLA SWIRL

summary: the night you met franco colapinto involved stealing, melted ben & jerry's, blunt honesty, and kissing a complete stranger, because you were pretty sure you were never going to see him again. except, by morning, you do see him again, and he looks way more familiar this time around.

F1 MASTERLIST | FC43 MASTERLIST

pairing: franco colapinto x journalist!f!reader wc: 6.5K cw: meet-cute, tooth-rotting fluff, stealing, reader doesn't know anything about f1, like one suggestive joke, slightly ooc franco note: requested here! i think you healed my writer's block with this request actually because it was so much fun to write, and it's been a whileeee since i had fun writing. hope u like it <3

BEING A JOURNALISM major wanting to step into the world of sports implicitly meant that one had to possess few unofficial prerequisites: unwavering neutrality for the times the players you so heavily supported got royally screwed over by the game, a rabid competitive edge for the mere opportunity to write half a column in an outdated magazine because you topped the class, mastering the ability of a poker face when thrown in a den of sexist, castrated cats—not to confuse with lions.

Nowhere on that imaginary list was lying with practiced ease. And yet, as the last student in your year without an internship for the final semester, you’d reached an inevitable conclusion: desperate times called for desperate measures. What harm could one tiny fabrication really do?

Staring at the empty white of your document screen-burning your already hyperventilating computer, the title blinked at you smugly as if it knew better: INNOVATIVE F1 QUESTIONS FOR DRIVERS AND STAFF. See? That one little white lie was already taking you places, as you’d somehow landed an internship at a motorsport-based social media company.

Your only problem was that you didn’t know a single thing about Formula One, or motorsports, or racing. At all.

The ad popped up as you were wasting away your time on social media, a pathetically common occurrence when procrastinating for your finals. It was a golden opportunity, you weren’t dumb enough to let it slide— they were looking for temporary staff to help cover the Imola race, whatever that was, and you were looking for anything that might convince the administration that your academic year hadn’t been a total joke. Unfortunately, you were dumb enough to believe it could actually work.

They were sending you, along with a small team, to interview drivers and staff alike. Being the intern, and supposedly in training, meaning expandable, you’d been put in charge of coming up with questions—original ones, at that: no ‘What’s your favorite track?’ nonsense, they precised.

You learned the difference between the Driver’s Championship and the Constructors Championship yesterday. You usually covered hockey, the NHL, a real punch-in-the-face sport. There was no way you could go beyond asking them what shade of tires they were using unless they decided to do a 180° and start racing on ice.

So here you were, in your rented Italian apartment with decaying paint, a squeaky couch, and the muffled chorus of your snoring colleagues. Your laptop screen buzzed diml,y and the void of your thoughts stared back at you as the clock crept dangerously close to one in the morning. Ten sentences, that was the goal: ten measly, coherent, original questions. The cursor blinked at you like it could see right through your sad attempt at powering through your lie. You rubbed your eyes with the back of your hand, your body aching for sleep, but you couldn’t allow yourself the sweet deliverance of unconsciousness until you’d typed something. Tiredness, you told yourself with misplaced pride, was not an option.

However, ice cream was.

Five minutes later, you were half-dressed for crime in an old hoodie three times too big for you, sleep shorts honoring the adjective, and the great fashionability of flip-flops with sports socks, slipping out the front door with the grace of a goblin. The streets were mostly quiet, save for the occasional whir of a moped in the silence, and you could feel the cooling asphalt beneath the plastic sole of your shoes. The flickering fluorescent glow of the 24-hour convenience store, growing more intense the longer you walked, called to you.

You didn’t know what you were looking for exactly, whether it be comfort, an escape from racing cars and your withering GPA, or a much-needed sugar rush, but you were pretty sure it came in pint form.

You entered the store under the obnoxious screech of a bell. It didn’t seem to faze the cashier, who was fully slumped behind the counter, head tipped back in a mouth-breathing slumber. If someone walked in to rob the place, you had a feeling they wouldn’t be met with much resistance apart from the occasional belted note from the ambient europop.

Tempting.

You shuffled further inside, wandering among the empty aisles in search of the frozen section, and physically recoiling when the temperature dropped a certain amount of degrees as you reached it. The freezers hissed and cracked, the strip lights illuminating the stacks of sad frozen meals and desserts. You dragged your feet along the tiles, arms wrapped around yourself, eyeing the glistening line of tubs in front of you. You needed something sweet, vaguely comforting.

Your heart finally settled on the Ben & Jerry’s Half-Baked pint, your favorite and, as fate would have it, the last one left. You smiled to yourself, already imagining the therapy-like comfort of vanilla, brownie chunks and cookie dough it would bring you. You reached out for it.

But so did someone else, and your fingers brushed.

You flinched, instinctively yanking your hand back a little too dramatically. You hadn’t even heard him walk up, he just appeared at your side in a strange warmth, his palm colliding with yours on its way to reenact the world's least romantic meet-cute.

Your eyes finally snapped to the intruder. He looked just as startled, if more amused, brows lifted in mild apology. He was tall, a good fifteen centimeters above you, and his tousled dark curls were half-hidden by the hood pulled over them, accentuating the drowsiness in the darkness of his eyes. The sleeves of his hoodie were pushed halfway up on his forearms, and a slight redness flushed his cheeks, which might have been from the cold or eventually the awkwardness of this exact moment.

“Sorry,” he said, an accent you couldn’t quite place swirling around the words. “Didn’t see you there. Didn’t expect someone to also be craving ice cream this late, either.” He offered you a lazy grin, and your stomach did something deeply irrational. He was objectively good-looking, for a stranger.

“You’re alright, don’t worry,” you answered, voice light but guarded. You were tired, unarmed, which weren’t ideal conditions to spar with a man, even though you wouldn’t expect someone who looked like he belonged in a mildly expensive cologne ad to come to fists in the middle of a convenience store.

His eyes dropped to the pint of ice cream, still sitting in the open freezer. “Half-Baked, huh?” he asked. “Strong choice.”

“It’s the best one,” you shrugged.

He tilted his head, as if considering. “Eh… debatable.”

Nonchalance thrown aside, and any desire of survival with it, your jaw detached from your body along with your carefulness. Debatable? “I won’t even dignify this slander with an answer.”

“It’s not my favorite,” he answers, looking far too entertained. “But I respect it. Like… top five material.”

“Top five? You’re insane.”

The smile he already wore on his lips widened and—great—now, he was laughing. The disbelieving sound pleasantly echoed around the quiet store and empty aisles, leading you to cross your arms on your chest as if the gesture could protect you from the charming presence of the stranger.

Somehow, the pint was still sitting between you, dangerously unclaimed.

“Soooo,” you dragged off, cutting the brown-haired man short in his semi-mockery. “By that logic, you wouldn’t mind letting me have it.”

His head tipped back just slightly, studying the flickering lights as if wisdom might descend on him and save him from this moral dilemma. “No,” he ends up saying after agonizing seconds. “I want that one.”

“You don’t even like it.” You stared at him, incredulous.

“I do,” he countered. “It’s just… not my favorite.”

You groaned,dragging a hand down your face. Frustration rose through you like molten lava, enough to make the frozen rows next to you melt. “Listen,” you start, as calm as you could muster, “I had a shitty day. I’m having an even shittier evening. If you had even an ounce of decency in your body, you’d let me walk out of here with my favorite ice cream and my last shred of will to live.”

You reached for the tub. You weren’t even surprised that his hand followed, yet you had to fight the urge to scream. Now, your fingertips were dueling on the cardboard.

“Big talk about dignity from someone wearing flip-flops with socks,” the stranger retorts, that shit-eating grin growing wider by the minute.

This time, you were actually offended. It was one in the morning, you were getting a subjective necessity, not walking the Met Gala. The fact that he, out of all people, had the nerve to make fashion commentary in his wrinkled basketball shorts and downright ancient sneakers was next-level ridiculous. “Oh, please,” you snapped. “Big talk from someone trying to steal ice cream he doesn’t even believe in.”

“Oh, so we’re believing in ice cream, now?”

You stab your finger in his chest. “This is about morals.”

“Right,” he hums, nodding. “You’re the one trying to emotionally blackmail me with your tragic backstory.”

The daggers you were trying to stare at him with didn’t seem to reach his back nor his smugness. The two of you were still standing in the middle of the aisle, each with a hand on the poor tub of Half Baked. The bright, white lights above you were becoming more overwhelming the longer you spent underneath them.

“So we’re really doing this?” you asked. “Neither of us is backing off?”

The stranger leaned closer, and the slow movement had you pausing at the soft delicateness of his features. The maddening smirk tugging at the corner of his lips sobered you instantly. “You’re admitting defeat?”

You scoffed, inching your grip tighter on the ice cream. “In your dreams, maybe.”

He held your gaze for a long moment, amused and searching, before finally tilting his head with a tired sigh, giving the impression he was oh so generously offering the solution for world peace. “... We could share it.”

You frowned in confusion. He rolled his eyes, gesturing toward the pint with a nod. “There are plastic spoons near the register. We could do split custody— ten bites each, top.”

“There’s literally other ice cream. Like, so much,” you said, gesturing vaguely to the frozen aisles around you. You paused, then added with a pointed look, “Also, I don’t know you?”

“Well, I’m Franco Colapinto,” he replied with a lopsided grin.

He laughed. It was an easy sound, coming out low and deep from his chest that rumbled more than it echoed. It sent an involuntary flutter up your spine, which you firmly blamed on your lack of sleep and not the stupidly attractive curve of his lips.

The name tickled something in the back of your brain. It was somewhat familiar, even though you couldn’t quite pinpoint in what way. Frankly, you were too tired and too emotionally invested in your current argument to attempt to dig deeper in the drowsiness of your memories. “I’m Y/N Y/L/N,” you said cautiously, unsure of the reason why you were even entertaining him.

His smile widened. “Great. Now we’re not strangers anymore.”

“That’s… not how it works.”

“Sure it is,” Franco nodded, serious. “I know your name. You know mine. We’ve shared an argument, introductions… that’s practically a friendship. What’s an ice cream after that?”

Your eyebrows shot up to high heavens, though your mouth still tugged up at the corner in the semblance of a disbelieving smile. This entire interaction felt like a fever dream, and Franco Colapinto might have been the strangest man you'd ever met, which explained why the two of you now stood side-by-side at the front of the convenience store, facing the soundly snoring clerk, both patting down your respective pockets.

A curse escaped you when you hit the bottom seam of your hoodie pocket and found nothing: no wallter, no leftover coins, not even a crumpled receipt. Nothing. Franco glanced over, two pathetic white plastic spoons in hand, with his brows raised in a silent question.

“Uh…” you started, wincing. “I may, or may not, have… forgotten my wallet. In my apartment.”

One second passed. Another. Before you knew it, Franco was trying his very best, which was to say, not at all, to hide his snorting. He was doing so openly, no longer bothering to attempt to cover his amusement. His shoulders shook with the force of i,t and the only thing you could do was stare at him, dead-eyed.

“Oh my God, good thing we decided to share, huh?” the brown-haired man managed through a laugh. “Just imagine if you were alone in there, broke as hell.”

You threw your very empty hands in the air. “You act like you’re about to save the day!”

“I am,” Franco taunted, a mock heroicness in his voice as he patted his shorts’ pockets with an exaggerated flourish, only for the performance to crumble when his face fell. He patted again, and again. “Oh shit.”

Words couldn’t possibly be put on the satisfaction rising inside you. You crossed your arms, a smugness usually unknown to you dripping from every word. “Don��t say it.”

“I left my wallet in my hotel room,” he said anyway, sheepishly.

You both stood in front of the counter, spoons in hand, and the pint of Ben and Jerry’s still clutched protectively between you. The soft buzz of a fluorescent light filled the awkward silence as you stared each other down, unsure how to proceed.

“Well…,” Franco started eventually, voice dropping low, almost conspiratorial. “He is asleep.”

As if in agreement, the clerk let out a snore, louder than the others.

You turned to him comically slow. The idea, which settled comfortably among your thoughts earlier, came back full force as you waited for him to explain his own thinking process.

Franco shrugged with one shoulder. “We could just— take it? I could always come pack and pay tomorrow.”

“That is literally stealing.”

“You were thinking it too,” he pointed out.

“I was not!”

“You definitely were.”

“I thought about it,” you corrected, “but I never said it out loud, which makes me the moral compass in this situation.”

“You and your morals,” he laughed, only to promptly try to hide with a small cough, throwing a quick look at the clerk.

You stared at him. Condensation was gathering between your fingers, seeping into your skin, and truth be told, your eyelids were growing too heavy for your own good, and a pitifully blank document was still waiting for you in your crumbling rental. You didn’t have enough faith in yourself, nor enough patience, to go back and get your wallet. Frankly, you doubted Franco was any more motivated. ”You’re really gonna come back and pay?” you asked, hesitant.

“Promise,” and the glint behind the depth of his eyes looked sincere enough for you to believe him.

He slipped the pint from your hands, balancing the two spoons in the other, and nudged the door open with his shoulder. The bell above it gave a lazy jingle at the movement, echoing in the stillness around you.

“C’mon,” he called with a wink, casual as anything. “Let’s go be criminals.”

Against all logic, reason and legality, you did. Your steps were slow and sure, forming an unspoken pact in their trajectory.

At least, they would have been if the clerk hadn’t stirred at that exact moment.

A low rustle could be heard from behind you, followed by a sleepy grunt and the unmistakable sound of someone shifting behind the counter. A groggy mutter in Italian filled the air, low and accusatory. Your Italian was rusty at best, but you were pretty sure it wasn’t anything kind or a wish for a good night. Judging by Franco’s face, he seemed to have caught enough of what the man said to make him pause. He turned to you slowly, lips parted. Your eyes widened in a silent question to which he didn’t answer.

In that moment, frozen in amber, you saw your entire career flash in front of your eyes. Your major, thrown away in flashes of red and blue.

You mouthed one word: Run.

“Wait, are you serious—?”

You were already gone.

You bolted out of the door, Franco hot on your heels, the bell above you clanging in metallic indignation. The hoarse complaints of the clerk faded to background noises, swallowed by the wild slap of your flip-flops against the cobblestones. The wind tore through the loose strands of your hair as street lights passed by in a delirious blur. Franco’s breathless laugh reverberated against stone walls, so reckless and uncontainable it made you laugh too, even as you sprinted around a corner, then another, burying yourself further into a maze of sleepy streets you had no idea how to escape from. Finally, the knotted gravel gave way, spitting you both into the hush of a small, empty park.

You collapsed onto the nearest bench, doubled over, panting and wiping the sweat beading on your forehead. Franco was quick to drop beside you, clutching the pint of Ben and Jerry’s to his chest. “Okay,” he gasped, grinning widely through labored breathing. “I think we’re in the clear.”

You chortled, a deeply unattractive sound of such magnitude it turned into a cough. You buried your face in your hand to try to stifle it, just like the growing grin thinning your lips. “Oh my god,” you managed to say, strangled with disbelief. “I’m going to get arrested. I’m going to get fired. I’m going to get banned from Italy for stealing.”

“It doesn’t sound like you believe in Half Baked anymore,” Franco teased, leaning back. You elbowed him with a groan.

In the comfortable silence, broken by giggles every now and then, the brown-haired man ended up prying the lid off the ice cream you so valiantly fought for with a triumphant flourish, which you fondly rolled your eyes at. You both stared down the pint, impatient to dive into your prized possession.

Soup.

The only word that could be used for what was once ice cream was soup. A sad, goopy mess of once-frozen chocolate and vanilla now swirled lazily in the container, brownie bits drifting. The heat of your argument, during which you left the freezer door open, along with the sprint across town, had completely melted it.

There was an awkward pause as you stared at the liquid. “Well,” Franco started, “can it be considered as a milkshake?”

You glanced his way and as soon as your eyes met, you couldn’t hope to hold the pretense of seriousness. Another snort escaped you and morphed into a loud, unstoppable laugh that you were sure the neighboring houses could complain about. Franco stared at you, a glimmer of wonder in the dark of his irises, before following suit until you were both wiping at the corners of your eyes, entirely done with the ridiculousness you managed to bury yourselves into.

“Criminal masterminds, truly,” you managed to wheeze out. “We really took that long to make up our minds?”

Franco offered you a spoon between two laughs. “After you, partner in crime.”

You took it, and for a split second your fingers brushed against the others’, making you pause just enough to see his smile twist into something reserved for the depth of the night. You felt a familiar warmth tighten your face, yet tried not to pay it too much mind as you plunged it into the puddle. You took a bite. The taste and consistency were objectively disappointing.

Still, cold sugar was cold sugar, and it was perfect.

You passed the pint back and forth, settling comfortably deeper into the bench, still warm from the remnants of the day, as the quiet of the very first hours of the morning wrapped around you like a blanket shared at a sleepover—something uniquely yours. The adrenaline faded slowly, making way for gentler words and inflections of voice, as well as the stunning realization the stars above you shone a little brighter than they did before.

Topics went and passed easily. You found out Franco Colapinto was an easy man to talk to: he was laid-back and attentive, slipping subtle jokes and flirtations in-between sentences you could almost miss if he wasn’t looking at you the way he did. You would huff at his attempts, but never quite push him away.

You conversed about every insignificant detail of your lives. The horrible state of your rental apartment and your colleague Maggie’s incurable snoring problem as well as the catastrophic, overpriced pizza you ordered on your first night here. Franco went on about his incredibly passionate vendetta against decaf coffee. Along the way, you learned he wasn’t Italian—well, only by his father—and that the interesting swirl of his tongue around words was Argentinian, that his favorite movie was Interstellar. You told him you never watched it. He berated you for half an hour.

In an interesting turn of event, the conversation drifted toward fashion. “Wait,” you interrupted with a mouthful of ice cream, pointing your spoon at him. “You’re not allowed to judge my flip-flops ever again.”

“The whole combo is a crime against fashion,” he answered, without missing a beat. “Even in the dead of the night.”

You rolled your eyes at him for what felt like the hundredth time tonight, yet none of them had contained any animosity. The spoon clinked against the nearly empty tub as you scooped again. “Well, can’t blame me. This night’s been… weird. The whole day, actually.”

Franco’s gaze turned toward you, not quite literally, as his eyes hadn’t left you ever since you sat down. “You said you were having a shitty day earlier.” A simple affirmation, to which you nodded without much thought. It was true. “Why?” he asked.

You hadn’t noticed how close you had physically gotten until your head dropped backward to face the sky, only to meet Franco’s arm replacing the wooden edge of the bench. He had an arm around your seat, you were tucked to his side, and the balm of his presence enveloped you whole. It eased you into confession with a compassionate simplicity.

“Because I’m a fraud,” you admitted, not without the addition of a largely over-dramatic sigh.

His eyebrows lifted in surprise, but he didn’t interrupt. The inevitable sign that you had to explain the pathetic situation your hubris had gotten you entangled in.

“I… sort of, maybe, eventually bluffed my way into an internship with a motorsports media company,” you explained. The second his lips parted in surprise, embarrassment pooled hot in your chest. It might have been the first time you were ashamed of your actions. “Do you know anything about F1?” you blurted, hoping to get ahead of it.

Franco stared at you for several seconds, facial traits comically deprived of any expression. “Not at all,” he deadpanned. “Apparently, they race cars?”

You debated whether to laugh or groan. He was teasing, and it was working— you chuckled against his shoulder as your head dropped to the side. “Me neither! I didn’t expect to do something useful during this internship, so I thought one little lie couldn’t hurt!” you exclaimed. “Now they have me interviewing drivers and staff with ‘innovative’ questions before the race. Innovative. The only team I knew of was Alpine because I liked the blue and pink combo. I thought they were winning the championship!”

Franco choked mid ice cream bite, halfway through a laugh.

“And apparently they’re swapping drivers left and right?” you pressed on, waving your hands around. “How does swapping drivers midseason make sense? It can’t be efficient. It sounds more like a swinger scandal than a strategy!”

The longer you spiraled, the more Franco’s features disappeared in the dark of his hoodie, the shoulder you were lying on shaking in what looked suspiciously like a laugh. When he finally emerged at the end of your rant, he threw his head back, no longer concealing his giggling. He finally calmed under the stern look you gave him.

“Well,” he said, voice hoarse and warm, “maybe don’t say all that to their faces.”

“I’m not going to!” you scoffed. “I’m already one imaginary question away from losing my job and my opportunity at graduation and humiliating myself on the paddock.”

The arm Franco had around the bench was now resting on your shoulders, pulling you further—if discreetly—closer to him. “What type of questions did you have in mind?”

You listed out the sad sentences you’d typed and deleted in your document, and the brown-haired man next to you could only answer with a few snickers here and there through every few words. You shot him a raised eyebrow, daring him to do better, and that was all he needed: your voices echoed across the empty park as the night stretched thin and silver around you. He navigated you through the strange language of Formula One with ease, translating jargon you’d only ever skimmed past into something that made sense. Focus on their personality, make it human, he insisted. You reminded him that you didn’t even know most of their names.

Still, it spiraled— like it often did with him, you’d grown to notice. From brainstorming about questions on the ethics of DRS to what races they put on to hype themselves up, you found yourselves answering the questions instead of directing them. The topic of who would survive the longest in a zombie apocalypse came up, and your restricted knowledge of the sport only made the conversation more ridiculous by the minute. You threw out the name of George Russell. Franco had tears of laughter in his eyes.

“You know a lot for someone who supposedly doesn’t know anything about F1,” you noted

He gave you a one-shouldered shrug, accompanied by a smile. “Just picked stuff up. My entourage is really into motorsports.” Then, as if confessing a secret, he leaned into your space, his voice dropping levels to lower down to a whisper. “And I enjoy helping pretty girls.”

Your laugh came out in a breath at the comment, yet something in the air had inevitably shifted—slightly, but there nonetheless. The quiet amusement between you faded into silence, which only left the distant hum of the waking city and the occasional buzz of a street lamp above the park as a soundtrack. The ice cream pint was empty. The sky was lazily painting itself pastel.

Franco was close, so much you could feel the heat of his breath sweeping over your lips, the intoxicating depth of his perfume engulfing you whole. Your knees were brushing hesitantly against each other, your body pressed to his side like gravity kept inexplicably pulling you in, deciding what you wanted before your mind could catch up with the situation. The shadows of the rising light painted his face a sharp golden. His eyes were on yours. They never left.

Were you really about to kiss a man you had known for no more than five hours? You weren’t sure, but Franco didn’t seem to be pulling away. Neither were you.

“¿Vas a besarme?” he murmured, barely above a whisper, his pupils dilated and trained on the curve of your mouth.

You didn’t know what it meant and truthfully, you couldn’t care less. You didn’t want to ruin whatever it was with overthinking, and logic had been left in aisle seven the second you accepted to share that damned ice cream. All you could really tell was that your heart beat loud in your chest, from nerves and anticipation alike, and he was just there. Waiting.

Screw it.

You pulled him in.

It was heated, reckless, and you abandoned yourself into it, leaving caution thrown to the wind. His lips met yours halfway between a laugh and sigh and you swore you’d felt him smirking against your lips before you opened your mouth, giving him the access you both hopelessly desired. Franco kissed the way he talked: smooth, disarming, anticipating your every move with a hand on the dip of your waist and guessing what you liked, gauging your reactions by swallowing every exhale he could tease out of you. He tasted like vanilla, like bad decisions, like everything you could have possibly wanted in the span of a night. Your hands curled in the fabric of his hoodie, his fingers brushed along your jaw, and for a brief, dizzying second, it felt like the spark of something unexpected.

But when you finally pulled away, breathless and flushed, the first ray of sunlight brushed your features at the same spot his fingers caressed.

“I… We should go,” you managed to breathe out.

He nodded, the shadow of a smile thinning the pink of his lips. The silken chill of dawn crept through your hoodie as you both stood up, exchanging awkward sentences you barely registered amidst the buzz of your brain. Franco kissed your cheek, uncharacteristically gentle. “See you soon.”

You grinned because it was the polite thing to do, not because you believed him. No one ever really meant that. See you soon was only the prettier version of a goodbye, which is where you were leaving him. Overwhelmingly bittersweet, contrasting with the empty ice cream tub in his hand.

You walked back to your crumbling Italian apartment, trying not to turn around—the scent of his perfume on the hood of your sweater and the lingering taste of him on your lips made the task remarkably more difficult than you thought it would be. The air seemed to smell like vanilla swirl. A smile stuck to your face like melted chocolate.

By the time your fingers hit the keyboard, the questions you both brainstormed spilled easily onto the page along with the few terms and techniques Franco had clarified for you. You didn’t even reread them, you just wrote until the sun was fully filtering through the blinds and your colleagues had gotten up to make coffee. Maggie asked you where you went—apparently, your little escapade had woken her up as you left. You didn’t tell her about Franco, nor did you tell any of them.

After all, you didn’t expect to see him again.

Which is why you wholeheartedly believed he was a hallucination when you bumped into him on the paddock later that afternoon.

The day had been a confusing series of events. Your all-nighter, no matter how pleasant, had taken a lot of energy out of you, and was the reason you spent your morning alternating between getting ready and ten-minute naps, much to the team’s dismay. Even in the burning afternoon sun hovering above the Imola track’s paddock, you weren’t quite awake enough, and carbureted solely on your third can of Redbull—the iron grip you had on it threatened to split the metal in half.

They had sent you and Maggie, your unofficial camera woman, in search of the Mercedes hospitality to find the infamous George Russell that wouldn’t survive a zombie apocalypse according to Franco. The memory took your attention off your surroundings for a single second, pulling a chuckle out of you.

The impact jolted through your shoulder, nearly knocking you off balance.

You stumbled back a step, hands fumbling to protect the expensive media badge swinging from your lanyard. The paddock was alive with voices, soon-to-be rolling wheels—and you were about to become very acquainted with its asphalt.

The same hands that tripped you were the ones that caught you. You were about to curse out whoever had the audacity of being so inconsiderate, but stopped as the words were about to leave your mouth. “Careful there, partner in crime,” came an amused voice, with an overly familiar vocal timbre.

Your gaze shot up.

The brown curls, hair damp with heat, were the first thing to come out of the tired blur hindering your vision. Then was the infuriating smirk you had grown accustomed with, only to make way for the delicate traits of his eyes. The pink and blue racing suit was last, with white letters and sponsors across his chest. Alpine.

Your stomach dropped. “... Franco?” You were not sure if you were asking for him or accusing him.

He helped you up, detaching you from the grip of his arms only to face you with a proud smile. One you were itching to slap off his face. “Told you I’d see you soon,” he commented. Soon was an understatement—you had kissed him mere hours ago.

“You— You told me you didn’t know anything about F1.”

Franco hummed in agreement.

“You’re an F1 driver. For Alpine.”

“Maybe.”

Your jaw slackened. Franco Colapinto’s name had sounded familiar for very good reasons that were included in the hundreds of articles you went through, you realized, along with the mortifying understanding that you had openly called his team’s strategy a swinger scandal. Still, the words that left your mouth weren’t apologetic, and not even close to a stutter.

Instead, you stabbed a finger in his chest. “You lied to me!”

Franco arched an eyebrow, his gaze going from the nail you had buried in the softness of his suit to your offended expression. “Ah, I thought you wouldn’t be the one telling me off about one little omission.”

The callback to your late-night admission caused heat to flare up your cheeks, which seemed to greatly please him. He continued, his smug smile not faltering a tiny bit. “So… are you going to interview me here or…?”

“No,” you answered, words sharp and eyes narrowed. “We’re actually here for George Russell, so if you’ll exc—”

“Ohhh,” Franco cut in. “The zombie apocalypse non-survivor. That George Russell.”

You opened your mouth—ready to deny, deflect, eventually flee from the most delirious situation known to mankind—but Maggie appeared beside you, making her presence known with an obnoxious cough and eyes darting between you and Franco. “I’m sorry to interrupt whatever that is,” she starts, “but do you guys know each other?”

“No,” you blurted.

“Yes,” Franco said at the same time.

Maggie narrowed her eyes, flicking from the F1 driver to you. “Ooookay, because if you did it would be amazing on camera, with this whole…,” she made a vague hand gesture, “chemistry and all.”

“There’s no chemistry,” you insisted, silently pleading with her.

“There isn’t? I thought we had at least some, after everything,” Franco countered, not even bothering to hide his glee.

And before you could try to snark back with something, anything, that could save this interaction from the clout-chasing endeavors of your colleagues, Maggie was already pulling her phone out from her back pocket. “That’s great! I’ll tell the team we’re bumping Russell up,” she chirped, already sliding away and ordering the second half of your group around.

You slowly turned back to Franco, mouth agape in disbelief. The silence between you was thick, filled with lingering memories and entirely too proud on his end. His arms were crossed on his chest, and his cheeks tinted a light shade of pink.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” you muttered, running a hand through your hair.

Feigning ignorance, Franco threw a grin your way. “Come on. If your first interview is with me, it’ll be easier. We already practiced, remember?”

He seemed to revel in your squirming. You remembered alright. You recalled the warmth of his arm around your shoulders, the roughness of his hands threading through your hair, and the icy aftertaste his lips left on yours that no coffee, as strong as you could possibly make it, could wipe out. It was all too vivid in your mind, despite the drowsiness. It lingered, stubborn, just like him.

Franco didn’t need to be made aware of that, he already looked too pleased with himself. “Yeah, when you lied about not knowing anything about motorsports.”

“And you lied about knowing F1 for your internship,” he fired back. “It feels like fate, doesn’t it?”

You let out a slow, dramatic sigh, pinching your nose bridge. “It feels like an addition to my headache.”

He studied you. There was a difference in the light of day, switching perspectives on what happened when the blanket of nighttime wrapped around people, but his eyes seemed to strip off all those artifices bare. The chatter around you narrowed down to white noise as he took a step forward, shrinking the comfortable gap you had installed.

“Interview me,” Franco breathed, eyes boring into yours, “and I’ll make it up to you for messing with your schedule, and for our questionable first meeting.”

You scoffed at him, but taking a step back was a thought too far removed from you. You basked in the heated air, whether it be from the sun or the man in front of you, much to your own incomprehension. “And how would you make it up to me, Franco?”

Franco’s lips curved slow and deliberate. “With a date.”

“A date?” Your heart paused, catching up with his words before your brain could.

“Yeah. A real one, this time. No heist.” Obviously, that was too normal a sentence for him, because he added almost immediately, “unless you’re into that. Then there will be a heist. Again.”

You punched his shoulder, albeit with not much conviction behind it, which made him chuckle, the sound pooling like liquid sunlight on your skin.

A date. Franco Colapinto was definitely the strangest, and boldest, man you had ever met in your entire life. You would be lying to yourself if you even attempted to deny the fluttering of your chest when the idea crossed your mind. “No stealing,” you affirmed, steadier than you expected yourself to be.

A visible weight seemed to have been taken off his shoulders as he answered. “Promise,” and the glint behind his eyes had a whole other shade, this time around.

Just as you were about to respond—with what, you didn’t know yet—Maggie’s voice cut through the bubble Franco and you had carefully stepped in. All of a sudden, the overwhelming presence of other journalists, staff members, commentators and fans were noticeable enough to break the moment you both became engulfed in.

“You two ready to set up the interview?”

Franco didn’t move. He glanced in your direction, waiting.

Taking a chance on a man you had met in the dead of the night over stolen ice cream and fake identities was a dubious decision, at best. Kissing that same stranger on a park bench like a hormonal teenager, even more so. Every instinct, every rational thought was screaming in bright, flashing red to turn around from this uncharted territory.

And yet—

“Yeah, we’re ready. Just… give us a second.”

Franco flashed you a smile, shameless, just as bright as the midday sun washing over you, and somehow, impossibly, it made your heart ache. Not from regret, but from the terrifying thrill of wanting more of it.

It was probably a terrible idea, but so were all the ones that led you here. Look how far they’d gotten you.

What was one more?

©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

#franco colapinto #franco colapinto x reader #franco colapinto x you #fc43 #fc43 x reader #fc43 x you #f1 #formula one #formula 1 #f1 x reader #formula one x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 x you #franco colapinto imagine #franco colapinto fic #franco colapinto fluff #franco colapinto fanfic

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riddlesrizzler · 3 months ago

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Sigma Nu's Sweetheart

summary: A diamond in a house full of snakes. characters: frat boy! mattheo. frat sweetheart! reader. frat boy! slytherins warnings: mentions of alcohol and making pledges do things (not hazing) word count: 2.3k

They called it the Snake House, though its real name-Sigma Nu-was etched in fading silver above the wrought iron gates that led to the manor. Hidden behind ivy-draped columns and shrouded by ancient oaks, the fraternity estate stood on the edge of campus like a secret too dangerous to be kept in daylight. No one quite remembered when Sigma Nu had been founded-some whispered it was pre-dating the university itself, rooted in ancient rites and blood oaths sworn beneath crescent moons. But in the present, it was feared, admired, and envied in equal measure.

The president of Sigma Nu was Mattheo Riddle, a name spoken with the kind of reverence reserved for legends and tyrants. Sharp of tongue and sharper of mind, Mattheo ruled the fraternity not with brutish dominance, but with a silken charisma that wrapped itself around you like a noose. He was all marble and firelight: smooth, cold, untouchable on the outside, yet flickering with something volatile beneath the surface.

His second-in-command, Theodore Nott, was the shadow behind the throne. Where Mattheo set the tone, Theo enforced it. He was quieter, more calculated, with a gaze like cut glass and a voice you only heard when he needed to remind someone of their place. The brothers called him “The Watcher”-not because he hovered, but because he saw everything.

The rest of the inner circle rotated like planets in their orbit.

Lorenzo Berkshire, with his floppy brown hair and wicked grin, handled social affairs-if such a title could be applied to the lavish masquerades and forbidden midnight galas he orchestrated. Enzo was charm incarnate, hiding razor-sharp instincts behind a glass of wine and a well-tailored coat. People underestimated him. That was their first mistake.

Draco Malfoy, heir to a crumbling aristocracy, served as treasurer. But that role was a formality. Draco was the gatekeeper to the legacy. His family had once poured obscene amounts of money into Sigma Nu, and though the vaults ran thinner now, his word still carried the weight of dynasties. Cold and calculating, Draco rarely spoke unless it was to remind others they weren’t worth speaking to.

Then there was Blaise Zabini, the strategist. He didn’t run the meetings or throw the parties. He played the long game-the one that was always three moves ahead. A cigarette always rested between his fingers, and secrets curled around him like smoke. Blaise’s role wasn’t official. It didn’t have to be. In Sigma Nu, knowledge was currency, and he was the quiet king of the underground economy.

Together, they formed the serpent’s head.

The house itself was a relic from another time. Stained-glass windows filtered the sunlight into eerie patterns on mahogany floors. The walls were lined with portraits of brothers past-men with hollow eyes and stories that had been scrubbed from official records. A grand staircase, rumored to creak only when someone lied in its presence, split the mansion in two. The basement was off-limits, except for the highest-ranking members. What happened down there was never spoken of, but the muffled echoes that sometimes rose through the vents kept the rumors alive.

Rituals were everything in Sigma Nu. Pledging wasn't just about endurance-it was a test of will, of loyalty, of how far you were willing to crawl for power. And once you were in, you were in. There was no leaving. Not really. Former brothers found themselves mysteriously blacklisted, their futures erased with quiet efficiency. No one crossed the Snake House without bleeding for it.

Yet every year, the line to rush snaked down the cobblestone path, filled with students desperate to touch even the hem of that forbidden tapestry. Power, after all, is seductive. And Mattheo Riddle’s Sigma Nu had power in spades.

But inside those ivy-covered walls, something was shifting. There were murmurs of a fracture in the hierarchy. An outsider watching too closely. A secret the founders had buried that might be clawing its way back to the surface.

And at the center of it all: Mattheo, with a hand on the throne and another on the throttle.

But between the echoes of old secrets and the weight of a legacy stitched in silence, she was the unexpected constant-soft in a world that was anything but. While Mattheo navigated the shifting loyalties and unspoken rules of the house, she remained untouched by the storm, yet always in its eye. She didn’t need a title to hold power; she had something rarer. Influence, without force. Presence, without demand. And though the throne was his to claim, she was the one they all moved around-the one they’d protect without question, even as the walls whispered of betrayal and the past threatened to rise. Because to the outside world, she was just the Diamond of Alpha Delta Pi. But to them… she was the heart of Sigma Nu.

The Snake House had never known softness before she arrived. But now, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon wafted through the halls before chapter meetings, and there were always cookies cooling on the kitchen counter beside the whiskey bottles. Her laugh echoed down the staircase, light and melodic, blending strangely well with the heavy bass of party nights and the creak of ancient floorboards.

She wasn't just a sweetheart by title-she was the heartbeat of the fraternity.

Every Friday, three pledges showed up at her off-campus cottage, armed with mops and laundry detergent, ready to clean top to bottom without question. It had become a tradition-Sigma Nu took care of her. Always. It was Theo’s rule. But it was Mattheo’s order.

The pledges were already working by the time the rest of the world stirred. One was sweeping under the island. Another was wiping down cabinets. A third was sorting her laundry into color-coded piles on the dining room table.

“Don’t forget the lavender dryer sheets,” she reminded one of them sweetly, not looking up from her dough.

“Yes, ma’am,” the pledge muttered, blushing.

“You didn’t have to come clean.” She looked over her shoulder at him, a smudge of flour on her cheek.

“I wanted to.” Mattheo walked in, groggy but sharp-eyed, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“You send pledges to clean my own house every week. My landlord thinks I have a personal cleaning service." She giggled.

“You basically do,” he said, flicking his lighter closed. “You bake banana bread and let Theo cry on your couch. You’ve earned it.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m right,” he replied, and stepped forward, gently swiping the flour from her cheek with his thumb. “You spoil us. Let us return the favor.”

She looked at him for a long moment, eyes searching.

“You don’t have to keep proving things to me, Mattheo.”

He met her gaze, unwavering. “I’m not. I’m proving it to everyone else.”

At parties, she didn’t need to lift a finger. A pledge carried her drink. Another held her coat. If she looked even slightly tired, someone found her a seat. When she danced, people made room.

The party pulsed like a living thing-booming bass, laughter slurred into inside jokes, the thick haze of too much beer and too little inhibition. Lights blinked across the walls, casting silvers and greens on the sweaty crowd packed into the house’s main room.

Then she walked in.

The chatter didn’t stop-but it shifted. Heads turned. A few of the brothers straightened up. Pledges scrambled to make space near the drinks table. And at the edge of the chaos, Mattheo Riddle watched her with a smirk wrapped around the mouth of his beer bottle.

Diamond House perfection. The only sweetheart Sigma Nu would ever need.

She made her way toward the kitchen, exchanging soft smiles and cheek kisses, until one of the guys shouted, “Sweetheart’s here!”

Cheers erupted like a spell had been cast.

Mattheo didn’t move. Just leaned back against the doorway, letting his eyes follow her every step. When a freshman tried handing her a half-full drink, Mattheo’s voice cut sharp and smooth across the room.

“She only drinks vodka cran, dumbass.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to.

The pledge blinked, nodded quickly, and disappeared.

She found Mattheo seconds later, a lazy smile tugging at her lips. “You’re going to scare off all the new members.”

“Good.” He looked down at her. “They were getting too bold.”

“You’re acting like I’m made of glass.”

He tilted his head, that smirk deepening. “Nah. Diamonds are tougher than glass.”

She arched a brow. “So I’m tough?”

“You’re dangerous.” His voice dipped, low and dry. “I’ve seen more than a few guys fall stupid over you in five seconds flat.”

“And you?” she asked sweetly. “Still standing?”

Mattheo took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving hers. “Barely.”

When she walked into a tailgate wrapped in an oversized Sigma Nu hoodie-Draco’s once, Blaise’s the next, Enzo’s after that-everyone knew it was only borrowed until Mattheo noticed she was cold and quietly handed her his.

He always did.

The wind whipped around the tailgate like it had something to prove. She stood on her tiptoes, scanning the crowd, the hem of her Sigma Nu hoodie fluttering. Not hers, technically-Mattheo’s. Still smelled like smoke and spice and something she couldn’t name.

He appeared behind her like a shadow.

“Cold again?”

“You have a sixth sense for it.”

“No.” He leaned close, lips brushing her ear. “I just know you.”

She turned with a grin, poking his chest. “So, what’s the plan, President? Going to assign a pledge to hold my hand all day too?”

“Don’t tempt me.” His eyes flickered over her, playful. “I’d make it a rotating shift.”

She laughed, full and bright.

“I could carry my own books, you know.”

“And ruin our entire pledging system?” he asked, mock serious. “What would the freshmen do without you assigning them smoothie runs and study session alarms?”

“You love it.”

Mattheo didn’t deny it.

Instead, he stepped back and tossed her his scarf. “Put that on.”

“Possessive much?”

“Practical,” he said with a wink. “And if anyone asks-tell them it’s house policy.”

Mattheo Riddle didn’t smile easily. But he watched her like she hung the stars. Protective wasn’t the right word-it was something fiercer, deeper. He knew the sound of her footsteps before she even knocked. He knew how she took her tea, what time her classes ended, what books were stacked in her bag on any given day.

And when he wasn’t sitting at the head of the chapter table, you could find him leaning against the counter while she stirred brownie batter, sleeves pushed up, hoodie half-swallowed by her frame. She was always cooking for them-baking too-and she stayed through every meeting, sitting on the arm of Mattheo’s chair like she belonged there.

Because she did.

Theo might’ve been vice president, but she was Mattheo’s right hand. She helped organize formals, charity auctions, service hours, and pledge retreats. The boys listened when she spoke-not because they were told to, but because they wanted to.

She had that kind of presence. Gentle, golden. The kind of energy that softened even the sharpest of them.

Draco, for all his cold poise, once spent an hour carving roses out of apples because she needed garnishes for a spring brunch. Enzo stopped calling other girls “gorgeous” in her presence out of some misplaced loyalty. Blaise-usually detached and unreadable-offered up his rare, real smiles only when she sat beside him, asking how his day had been like she meant it.

She wasn’t just a name on the sweetheart paddle or a girl in the stands. She was the heartbeat of the house-the reason the boys cleaned up before chapter meetings, the reason pledges learned to bake banana bread from scratch, the reason the Snake House didn’t feel like just a frat, but like something closer to home.

She made it feel like something worth protecting.

The brothers would say it, loud and proud, beers raised and sloshing at tailgates- “She’s ours.”

She showed up early to help decorate before parties. She stayed late to clean. She knew all their birthdays, their favorite meals, their secret fears. When Enzo got sick, she made him soup from scratch and handwrote the recipe card so he could brag about it. When Theo failed a midterm, she sat up with him until 3 a.m., mapping out a study plan like his future depended on it.

Draco, who rarely showed softness, once told her, “If I ever get married, it’s because you raised the bar so high I finally found someone who reminded me of you.”

Blaise swore she brought peace into every room she walked into. Lorenzo called her their “lucky charm.” The pledges called her ma’am-but with awe, not obligation.

She wasn’t perfect. But she was real. She laughed too hard. She danced barefoot in the house like she didn’t care who saw. She left behind hair ties, lip balm, and the scent of vanilla in every room. And when the world got too loud, she leaned into chaos with a smile like she’d tamed fire.

And Mattheo?

Mattheo watched it all from the edge. Quiet. Unshakable. Unclaimed but not untouched.

She wore his hoodies, and he never asked for them back. He let her take the best seat at every party, made the boys swap their plans if she needed help, silenced a room with just a glance if anyone dared say her name wrong.

He never said it-not out loud. Never told her that she made the world easier to stand in. Never admitted that he memorized her favorite flowers or that he checked if her porch light was on after every party.

She might’ve worn Diamond blue, but she was etched into Sigma Nu like a secret kept under lock and key.

And Mattheo Riddle didn’t share secrets.

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straylightdream · 4 months ago

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limbo

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: yoon jeonghan x afb.reader, choi seungcheol x afb.reader

when things fall apart he’s the one that always puts them back together.

𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬: coming soon

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞(𝐬): roommates to lovers, hurt/comfort, angst, and more angst romance, smut

𝐚𝐮(𝐬): college au, nonidol

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5k and counting

𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: asshole!seungcheol, he’s honestly a dick here, but he is trying to be better, insinuating that mc is passed around with her roommates, jealous seungcheol, mentions of protective/jealous jeonghan, jeonghan is quite literally the best boy here, lots of hurt and emotions in this one. best boy roommate joshua.

𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: unprotected sex, soft sweet vanilla sex, heated make out session, body worship, marking, showering together, cum play, creampie, breast play, p in v intercourse, cock warming?, nicknames: darling (hers), hannie, baby (his)

𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: 18+ nsfw

𝐚𝐧: this is technically part two to desperate measures a Seungcheol story. You can read this as a one shot tho.

🎧: limbo - keshi | hell/heaven - keshi | understand - keshi | beside you - keshi

if you would like to be tagged please fill out this form.

- PREVIEW -

Jeonghan knows you like the back of his hand. Since the moment he met you he’s understood you like no one else. He can tell when you’re happy by the way your eyes light up. He can tell when you’re sad, even when you’re trying to pretend you aren’t.

Coming home from school he can immediately tell that something is off. He saw Seungcheol before he headed out. Seungcheol seemed more moody than normal. Joshua seems lost in his own world working on a song for his music production class.

The moment you walk out of your room dressed in a hoodie and pajama pants Jeonghan knows something is wrong. There is a look of sadness behind your eyes.

His eyes stay focused on you as he watches you walk off into the small kitchen. He drops his book bag by the door and follows you. He stops to lean against the door frame. He clears his throat, capturing your attention.

“Darling?”

Turning to face him, you don’t bother trying to put on a fake smile. His stomach drops at the sight of your watery eyes.

You feel dumb. Why are you sad that sex with Seungcheol did lead to some romantic gestures? You don’t even have that strong of feelings for him.

“Hi, Hannie.” Your voice sounds meek.

“What’s wrong?” He steps closer to you.

“Nothing.” It’s a lie and you both know it.

The closer Jeonghan gets to you he notices something on your skin. He takes a slow deep breath realizing the mark that painting the skin on your delicate neck is a hickey. He knows logically that mark could have only been given to you by two men. One being Mingyu, the frat boy he knows has been pursuing you. Or the second option, the one that will make him mad, it’s from Seungcheol.

“What happened to your neck?” He’s trying to stay calm. He has no right to fully fly off the handle unless you didn’t want them to mark you. You aren’t Jeonghan’s by any means, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t wish you were.

“Jeonghan it’s nothing.” You sigh, reaching up to cover the mark.

“Was it Mingyu?”

“Hannie.” You step away from the counter. It’s clear you’re trying to get away from this conversation. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

#svthub #thediamondlifenetwork #keopihausnet #mansaenetwork #seventeen smut #Jeonghan smut #yoon Jeonghan smut #Jeonghan x reader #yoon Jeonghan x reader #Seungcheol x reader #scoups x reader #seungcheol angst #dreamie writes #seventeen x reader

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cannibalspicnic · 1 year ago

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I keep coming back to this moment in the season finale.

The way Armand looks at Daniel after Daniel gleefully torpedoes his 77 year marriage sticks with me. Armand is super powerful, over 500 years old, and his life has just been destroyed by a rude upstart little human. You'd expect some kind of rage to be bubbling over here, and yet the desperate look Armand gives Daniel feels more like sadness mixed with betrayal.

But betrayal doesn't make sense. UNLESS Daniel's not just an upstart little human to him. If what Armand is actually experiencing is a man he loves and who once loved him hurting him beyond measure and gloating about it. If Armand loves Daniel but gave him up for his own sake, only to have Daniel take from him the only love he has left, then the sadness and betrayal on Armand's face in this moment looking at Daniel makes perfect sense. Even if Daniel doesn't even realize the full extent of what he's done and who he's done it to.

And knowing Assad is the #1 Devil's Minion enjoyer...like whatever happens in the script, I think he's bringing DM into his performance and it's beautiful.

#iwtv spoilers #armandaniel #armand #daniel molloy #queen of the damned #assad zaman #eric bogosian #interview with the vampire #iwtv #my gif #tin hat thoughts #old man yaoi #devil's minion

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artist-issues · 5 months ago

Note

You don't believe in love. You believe in people SUPRESSING a part of themselves, not caring how much it ACHES for them to do so. You are objectively wrong, and you do NOT belong on Tumblr. Any arguement you try to come up with against this is pointless.

You are NOT a real Christian.

People “suppress” parts of themselves all the time—for love. If by “suppress,” you mean, “I don’t choose to identify with everything I feel.” I feel like screaming at my mom when she hurts me. But I love her, so I’m not going to say, “gotta be true to myself, gotta live what I feel.” Many people feel like alcohol is what they need and without it, who are they? Many people even feel like depression is “a part of who they are,” so they don’t give it up.

Don’t you understand? What makes something I feel fall under the category of “who I am?” Because not all feelings are good, and most of them aren’t even rooted in reality.

Your feelings lie to you all the time. Right before death after years of dementia or a terminal illness, a person can suddenly become more alert and energized than they’ve been since the start of their illness. They get up, talk, and their feelings tell them that they’re better. And the reality is they’ve never been closer to death, and they’re dead moments later. It’s called “terminal lucidity,” and it’s been happening since humanity’s earliest history. And it’s just one example of your feelings lying about what’s real.

So how can you tell if the things you feel are a part of who you are, or a cancer you need to cut out of yourself because it’s hurting the “real” you? That’s what you’re calling “suppression,” and yeah, it aches, but letting it grow and calling it “part of yourself” is worse.

Figure out what standard you measure “who I am” by.

A Christian measures it by Christ. Who He says you are, not what you feel you are. After all, He calls us to die to ourselves. What did you think that meant?

And a Christian measures everything by what Christ says. That’s how I know “the heart is deceitful and desperately wicked.” It’s how I know you’re right; I don’t belong on tumblr. I don’t belong on this corrupt planet anymore: “If you were of the world, the world would love its own; but you are not of the world, for I have chosen you out of the world; this is why the world hates you.” And it’s how I know what real love is, and it’s Him. He invented it, He gets to define it.

And that’s the point of this argument. To get it out in front of people that Jesus is the Way, the Truth, and the Life, and nobody has a restored relationship with God, nobody can be their “true-selves” unless they die to their old-corrupt self and come to God through Jesus Christ.

So thanks for giving me the opportunity to answer and get that out in front of people again.

#Christianity #LGBTQ+#christ #asked #answered #inclusivity #love #real self #Jesus

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dissociativewriter · 3 months ago

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Sylus Boyfriend Headcanons

- We see it in-game, but he constantly has Mephisto tracking you, whether you like it or not. (It’s not stalking if you love him, right?)

- “Actions speak louder than words.” He might not say ‘I love you’ outright very often but everything he does screams it

“Here, sweetie.” He stood beside you, hands in his pockets, an awkward position for anyone who didn’t carry the confidence he did.

“What’s this?” You look up at him then down at the bowl of fruit, brows pinched, fingers poised over the keyboard.

“You’ve been sat in front of the computer for four hours doing reports. If you won’t take a break, you should at least have some sustenance, kitten. Or would you prefer a bowl of milk?” he smirked, tapping his finger against his temple.

- is very attentive (in general to his surroundings but specifically to you). He can tell when you’re sad, uncomfortable, or angry and tries to help as best he can

- he’s not really sure how to give comfort, but he usually just holds you and strokes your hair

- if someone else is making you uncomfortable, best believe he’s gonna say “sweetie, let’s go” with a hand on your lower back and giving a death glare to the other person

- Never calls you by your name, always a pet name like sweetie, kitten, or beloved (He called you by your name once and you panicked thinking he was breaking up with you) (he was asking what you wanted for dinner)

- always keeps a hand on you, whether it’s on your lower back, thigh, waist, or (his favorite) simply holding your hand in his

- he’s good at reading when it’s not the time to tease you and instead be supportive or comforting

- his teasing might seem a lot sometimes, but he is always so careful to make sure he’s not blatantly mean to you and know he’s just bantering. He’ll look at you like you hung the stars, and he wants you to know how highly he thinks of you

- is possessive of you but doesn’t get very jealous

- respects and encourages your independence and goals

- although it may seem contradictory to your independence, he really just wants to take care of you. Keep you close by, feed you, love you, protect you. He’d never force you into anything or isolate you

- a KING of consent! He will never do anything that involves you without your explicit permission unless it’s a desperate measure. He may be vague sometimes, but he always makes sure you’re aware of what you’re getting into. He’s prepared to step in at any moment if you need him, though he really likes to sit back and watch you shine

- doesn’t like to show you his insecurities and always hides them behind that smirk. If you look into his eyes, though, it’s not difficult to tell what he’s feeling

- EYE CONTACT! This man loves it! He’s constantly looking into your eyes, a soft smile forming when you turn away, flustered. Even if you’re not near him or looking at him, as long as you’re in the same room, you can feel his eyes on you

- Always wants you to set the pace. He may have a dominating personality, but he always wants to make sure you’re comfortable

- he’s really just a nerd who doesn’t know how to give or receive love but is trying his best for you

comments and reblogs appreciated! <3

masterlist

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formulafanfics13 · 8 days ago

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The Podium Princess - MV1, PG10, LN4, LH44, CL16, OP81 🔥

masterlist

Request

They called her the trophy. Not to her face, no one was that bold, but behind closed doors, in locker rooms and paddocks, in late-night strategy meetings when the real prize had already been won. Not points. Not podiums. Her.

She wasn't a model. Wasn't PR. Wasn't on payroll or affiliated with any team. No last name in the paddock. No title. Just her. Always in the right place at the right time. Always watching. Always waiting.

There were rumours. That Toto had hired her. That Christian had tried to. That she'd once broken Max in two and left Lando shaking. That Lewis kissed her ankle after Japan '21 and whispered something in her ear that made her cry, and still came first the next weekend.

She never spoke publicly. Never posted. Never smiled for the cameras. But after every race, every time the confetti hit the air, she was already waiting. The three podium finishers. Gold, silver, bronze. First, second, third.

They knew what came next.

She was the reward. The ritual. The tradition unspoken but carved into the sport. And every man on the grid wanted to earn her.

She was already waiting in the suite. Monza's podium had ended hours ago. Champagne sprayed, interviews given, suits half-unzipped and post-race high still vibrating in the air. The hotel room, booked before the race even started, was lit with soft amber lighting. Warm. Clean. No cameras.

And she was on her knees. Naked. Waiting. The door opened. Max stepped in first. Always. His footsteps were slow, measured. Calm fury. Gold medal draped around his neck, champagne still lingering on his throat, jaw clenched.

He didn't say hello. He never did. He just walked to her, grabbed her chin, and tilted her head up. "You watched?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Who did you want to win?"

"I I wanted you to-"

"Good."

He dropped his hand. Unzipped. Let his race suit hang at his waist as he stared down at her. Cold eyes. Hot rage. "You'll thank me later for making sure they didn't get first."

She didn't ask who they was. Because Charles and Lando were behind him.

Charles closed the door gently. Shrugged off his jacket. Smiled. Soft and unbothered. Lando was already panting. Hands in his curls, pacing like he couldn't wait another second. Silver medal hanging crooked against his chest.

"You looked so pretty in the paddock," Charles murmured. "You wear that dress for us?"

She nodded. "For the podium."

"Our podium," Max snapped.

"Only ours," Lando added quickly.

She tried to speak again, but Max stepped forward and grabbed her hair. "No talking unless we tell you."

She whimpered.

Charles walked behind her and trailed his fingers down her spine. "You're shaking already, bébé. You want us that bad?"

"She's wet already," Lando said, crouching in front of her. His fingers dipped between her thighs without permission. "Fuck. She's dripping."

"Because she knows what she's here for," Max growled.

"She's a toy," Charles said softly. "Not a girl. A reward."

Lando moaned. "She's our reward."

Max grabbed her by the throat and pushed her down. "Open your mouth."

She did. Fast. Eager.

"God, she's trained," Charles muttered.

Max shoved his cock past her lips without hesitation. "Not gentle," he snapped. "She doesn't deserve gentle. Not after watching them on the podium too."

Tears welled in her eyes as Max fucked her mouth, fast, deep. His hand never left her hair. Her throat burned. Her hands shook. She moaned around him like she liked it.

Behind her, Charles was spreading her knees wider. "She's shaking," he said. "Look at her, Max. She's falling apart already."

Lando sat on the bed, stroking himself slowly, watching them with glazed eyes. "Can I have her mouth next?" he asked, desperate.

"You can have whatever's left of her," Max grunted.

He pulled out, her spit glistening on his cock. Her jaw ached. Her eyes were already ruined.

"Up," Charles said. "Hands on the bed."

She obeyed. Still silent. Still their toy.

Lando moved behind her, guiding himself into her mouth with shaky fingers. "God-fuck-she missed me."

Max stood behind her now, staring down at her ass, the way her body trembled. "She's not ready for both."

"She'll take it," Charles said calmly, dragging a hand through her hair. "She always does."

Max pushed inside. No warning. No gentleness. She screamed around Lando's cock. She was full. Too full. One in her mouth. One in her cunt. Body caught between them, stretched and used.

Charles sat beside her head, petting her hair. "That's it, sweetheart. Let the podium take its prize."

"She's mine," Max growled.

"She's ours," Lando gasped, fucking her mouth harder.

"Don't come yet," Charles said softly. "She hasn't even begged."

Max slapped her ass. "Beg."

She moaned. Tried. Choked.

"Beg."

She sobbed. "Please-use me-need you-want to be-your prize-your toy-please-please-"

"That's a good girl," Charles whispered.

They fucked her harder. Tears ran down her face. Her body shook. They didn't stop. Because she was theirs. And they had earned her.

She didn't know how long she'd been on her knees. Couldn't remember how many times she'd moaned, how many times Lando had kissed her cheek and whispered "good girl" while fucking her throat like he couldn't breathe without it. Her body was shaking. Fucked open from behind, stuffed full in the front. Every nerve fried.

But it wasn't over. Not even close. Because Max, still behind her, still deep inside her, pulled out just long enough to grab his phone from the bedside table. And pressed record. "Keep her still," he snapped at Charles.

Charles leaned forward immediately, one hand in her hair, the other around her waist. "Open your mouth wider," he whispered against her ear. "Max wants a good shot."

She tried. Gagged. Lando groaned. "Fuck, that's it. You're so fucking pretty like this."

Max stepped back, phone tilted slightly down. The screen lit her up. On all fours. Face soaked. Lips wrapped around Lando's cock. Ass red. Pussy dripping. Her whole body shaking like a ruined toy. And that's what Max wanted to remember.

He circled them, slow, camera rolling. "Look at her," he muttered. "Taking it like she was made for this. Like her only purpose is to be fucked by the podium."

"She's better than a trophy," Lando said, fucking her mouth deeper. "Trophies don't cry."

"She lives to cry for us," Charles added, kissing her neck.

She moaned around Lando's cock, a wet, broken sound.

Max reached around, spread her ass with one hand, filmed her pussy stretched open, slick and swollen. "Say it," he growled. "Tell the camera whose you are."

She choked. Could barely breathe.

Charles whispered in her ear again. "Go on, ma belle. Tell him. Say you belong to the winners."

She sobbed. "I-belong-to the podium-only-the podium-please-"

Max groaned. "Fuck, she's perfect."

He tossed the phone on the bed, still recording, still angled perfectly, and slammed back into her. She screamed. The force knocked her forward, throat tightening around Lando's cock. Lando let out a strangled moan, both hands gripping her hair now.

Charles slid in front of her again. "Too much?"

She shook her head, tears spilling.

"Good," he said, kissing her forehead.

Max was relentless. Deep, brutal thrusts. Skin slapping. Filthy sounds echoing in the room. "Gonna come in her," he grunted. "She'll feel it for days."

"Not until I do," Lando panted.

"She'll take both," Charles murmured. "She always does."

Lando came first. Deep. Loud. Hands fisting in her hair. She gagged as he spilled down her throat. He moaned her name. Said "thank you" like she was something holy.

Then Max. He didn't warn her. Just shoved in harder, filled her up, grabbed the phone again to record her shaking body as he came. Pressed the lens to her back, her ass, the mess dripping out of her. "She's mine," he said.

And Charles? Charles pulled her up by the throat, kissed her mouth full of Lando's come, then whispered in French, something filthy, something possessive, and came all over her chest, groaning as she collapsed in his arms.

The three of them stood there. Breathless. Spent. She was twitching on the bed. Mouth open. Eyes half-closed. Body leaking from both ends. The phone was still recording. And Max was still smiling. "Podium earned."

Japan was quiet. Until it wasn't. The hotel suite had been prepared hours before the checkered flag. Same champagne chilling in the bucket. Same lighting. Same velvet chair in the corner for watching. Same bed in the middle of the room. And her. Already on her knees.

Hair brushed. Skin lotioned. Collar on. Nothing else. Her body was still sore from Monza. Still marked from Charles' teeth, from Max's fingers. Her throat had healed. Her thighs hadn't.

But she was here. Because they'd won her. Again. Max entered first. As always. He didn't greet her. He never did. Just walked straight to her, gripped her jaw, tilted her face up to inspect her. "You missed me?"

She nodded, lips parted.

"Show me."

She leaned in and kissed the tip of his cock through his race suit. Once. Twice. Reverent.

He smiled. Cold. "Good girl."

Then Lewis walked in. And everything changed. Because Lewis wasn't Max. He didn't need to speak first. He just walked to the window, took off his jewelry slowly, placed it on the dresser one piece at a time. Watched her reflection in the glass. "She looks nervous," he said calmly.

"She should be," Max replied, already undoing his zipper. "She's got a lot to take tonight."

Then Pierre. Bronze. Third. First time on the right side of this room. He stopped at the door like he'd walked into a dream. "Fuck," he whispered.

She turned her head, eyes locking with his. Wide. Wet. Waiting.

"She's beautiful," he breathed. "You weren't exaggerating."

"She's better than beautiful," Max said, walking behind her. "She's obedient."

Pierre stepped closer. Crouched in front of her. Reached out, hesitated. "Can I-?"

"She's yours," Lewis said, finally turning around. "For the night, she belongs to us."

Pierre's hand touched her face. Soft. Awestruck. "She's warm," he whispered.

Lewis moved behind her. "She's always warm for winners."

Max was already stroking himself. "Let's show him how it works."

They guided her to the bed. Pierre sat at the edge. She crawled between his legs like instinct. Mouth open. Max climbed behind her, spreading her thighs wide. Lewis stayed by the dresser. Watching. Unbuttoning his shirt with slow precision.

"Go ahead," Max told Pierre. "She'll take you."

Pierre moaned the moment she wrapped her lips around him. "Jesus Christ."

"She's good," Max said, lining himself up. "But she cries better."

And then he was inside her. Rough. Deep. Immediate. She gagged around Pierre's cock. Her knees buckled.

Lewis walked to the side of the bed and leaned down. "Don't stop."

Her eyes were already wet. Pierre had his hands in her hair. "She's- fuck- she's tight."

"She's always tight," Max groaned, thrusting harder. "I ruin her and she still grips like it's her first time."

"She's making noise," Lewis said, kneeling beside her. "Open wider."

She tried. Moaned. Shook. "Good girl."

Max grabbed her hips and pulled her back harder. "She'll come just from being used like this. Watch."

Pierre looked like he couldn't breathe. "She's taking both of us..."

"She can take three," Lewis murmured. "Kiss her."

Pierre leaned in, kissed her mouth between thrusts. "You're so fucking good."

Max was panting now. "Touch her clit."

Lewis reached down, found her swollen bud, and rubbed slow circles. She screamed.

Pierre moaned. "She's gonna-fuck-"

"She's allowed," Lewis said. "Let her come for us."

She came hard. Loud. Her whole body trembling as Max didn't stop. As Pierre fucked her throat like it was the only place he wanted to live. As Lewis kept his finger on her clit until her hips jerked from the overstimulation.

And still, none of them stopped. Because the podium never finishes first. She wasn't speaking anymore. Not because she wasn't allowed. But because she couldn't. Her voice had cracked an hour ago.

Her mouth was raw from Lando. Her cunt was swollen from Max. Her whole body was shaking, red, marked, pulsing with every heartbeat. And she was still taking them. Because it was Suzuka. And the podium hadn't finished.

Pierre had just come in her mouth. Soft moans. Apologetic hands. A trembling thank you like he didn't know what else to say.

Max had pulled out mid-fuck just to smear himself across her back, panting curses in Dutch, promising to do it harder next time.

But Lewis? Lewis hadn't even started yet. He stood by the bed like a king waiting for silence. Shirtless. Calm. Gold chain still hanging against his chest. His hand stroked his cock slowly, not because he needed to, but because he liked making her wait.

Pierre sat back in the velvet chair, legs spread, shirt undone. Watching her like art. "She's perfect," he whispered. "You were right."

"She's not perfect," Max muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed, still breathing hard. "She's ours."

Lewis finally spoke. "Lift her."

Max grabbed her under the arms. Pierre moved to help, hands gentle even as she whimpered. They laid her flat across the bed. Back arched. Arms above her head. Legs trembling, spread.

Lewis stepped between them. Looked down. "Been a while, huh?" he murmured, rubbing her clit with two fingers. "Last time was Spa. You remember?"

She nodded. Barely.

He slid two fingers in. She cried out. "So tight," he said. "Still greedy after all that cock."

Then, without warning, he pushed in. All of him. She screamed.

Lewis didn't flinch. Didn't slow. "Deep breath, baby."

He started to fuck her slow. Deep. Deliberate.

Max stroked her cheek, watching her cry. "She loves it."

"She was made for it," Lewis said, thrusting harder. "A hole for winners."

Pierre swallowed hard. "Can I... try her again?"

Max laughed. "Not like that."

Lewis grinned, pulled out. "Flip her."

They moved her like a doll. Onto her stomach. Ass up. Face pressed into the sheets.

"Ever done both at once?" Pierre asked.

Max smiled. "Of course."

Lewis got on the bed behind her. Lined up again. "Hold her mouth open," he said.

Pierre moved in front. Palmed her cheek. "You ready?"

She nodded.

"Good girl."

And then, both.

Lewis pushed into her cunt. Pierre pushed into her mouth. She choked. Moaned. Cried. Her body shuddered.

"Holy fuck," Pierre gasped. "She's, Jesus-"

Lewis grabbed her hips. "Take it."

Max stood behind them, filming again. "Look at this fucking mess," he muttered. "All for us."

Pierre fucked her mouth faster. Lewis hit deeper. Harder. She came again, screaming around Pierre's cock.

"God- she's coming again-"

"Let her," Lewis growled.

She collapsed. Legs shaking. Body twitching. And Lewis didn't stop.

"Gonna come in her," he said. "She needs to feel it."

Pierre moaned. "Me too- fuck- I'm-" He spilled in her mouth. Groaned like he couldn't believe it. "She swallowed-fuck-thank you-thank you-"

Lewis came inside her seconds later. Gripped her hips like he was claiming her. "Stuffed," he whispered. "You're full, baby."

She moaned into the sheets. Boneless. Gone. And the podium? Satisfied. For now.

She was already panting when the door closed.

Qatar heat still clung to her skin, sweat slick between her thighs. The podium had finished late, media delayed them, the champagne sticky on their suits, but the minute the suite door shut, everything changed.

Lando threw his medal on the floor. Oscar locked the door.

Lewis didn't speak. He just walked to her, slow, controlled, and touched her chin. "You look nervous."

"I-I'm okay," she whispered.

He tilted her face up. "You remember what happens when you lie to me?"

She swallowed.

Oscar sat on the edge of the bed. "She's shaking."

Lando was already shirtless, pacing like a tiger. "She knows what's coming."

Lewis smirked. "Then let's get started."

She was naked in minutes. Bent over the bed, arms stretched forward, thighs open. Lando already between them, two fingers buried in her soaked pussy, grinning like it was Christmas. "She missed me," he muttered. "She's soaking."

"Because she's ours now," Oscar said, sliding behind her, kissing her spine. "She knows who she belongs to."

Lewis sat in the chair. Watching. Palming himself through his trousers. Calm. Calculating. "She's been good," he said. "Let her come once."

Lando immediately curled his fingers up. Oscar pressed against her from behind, whispering filth in her ear. "Come for the podium, baby."

She did. Hard. Loud. Her knees buckled. Her voice broke. And then, the tone shifted.

Lewis stood. Walked behind her. Touched the small of her back. "You ready for more?" he asked.

She nodded. He kissed her temple. "Good. Because tonight, we're using your ass."

She froze.

Lando moaned under his breath. "Holy shit, are we really?"

"She's ready," Lewis said. "We've trained her. She's taken us all. It's time."

Oscar kissed her shoulder. "You trust us, don't you?"

She whimpered. "Yes."

"Then breathe," Lewis whispered. "And stay still."

They took their time. Not out of kindness, out of intention. Oscar was the first to prepare her. Lube. Two fingers at first. Then three. Slow, slow, slow. She cried into the sheets, thighs shaking.

Lewis whispered by her ear. "Don't hold your breath, baby."

She exhaled.

Oscar twisted his fingers. "She's so tight."

"She's never been taken there," Lando said, climbing on the bed beside her. "Let me have her mouth."

"Take it," Lewis said. "She can multitask."

She opened for Lando automatically, gagging around him as Oscar worked deeper behind her. And Lewis? Lewis knelt beside the bed, fingers stroking her spine. "Good girl. Keep breathing."

She moaned around Lando's cock.

Oscar pulled his fingers out. "She's ready."

And then Oscar pushed in. Her body arched. She screamed around Lando.

Lewis held her down. "Shh," he soothed. "You're okay. Just breathe. That's it. Let it burn."

Oscar didn't stop. Thrust deeper. Slower. "She's fucking incredible," he muttered. "She's squeezing so tight."

Lando fucked her throat harder, watching her tears spill. "She's crying."

"She's allowed," Lewis said. "She's being broken in."

Oscar groaned. "She's taking all of me- fuck-"

Lewis leaned in and kissed her lips, just beside where Lando's cock split them open. "You're perfect," he whispered. "Our little slut."

Oscar's pace picked up. Lando came in her mouth, deep, loud, moaning her name. Then Lewis climbed on the bed behind Oscar. "Move," he ordered.

Oscar pulled out, just long enough for Lewis to shove in, harder. She screamed again. Her whole body writhed, shaking violently.

Lewis grabbed her throat. "Breathe."

She gasped. Choked. Came again, ruined. Lewis didn't stop.

"Now you belong to all of us," he growled.

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sniktbaby · 29 days ago

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bury me 'till i confess

summary: you are the dom to logan's sub <3

warnings: "good boy", edging, ab riding, teeny bit of nippleplay, masturbation (f), tiny hint of choking, dirty talk, riding, logan is NEEDY, handjob, light bdsm, creampie

word count: 3k

author's note: this might be my favourite one so far! i just love the idea of logan (especially worstie) being a whiny and whimpering mess. also credit to the og gif maker for the banner!

Logan is used to being the dominant one in the bedroom. He likes it that way. He likes to feel in charge, knowing he’s the one responsible for providing pleasure and pain as he thrusts his cock into whatever tight hole has been offered up to him.

But then he met you, and all of that changed.

You boss Logan around like you own him – and fuck, do you ever. Logan would eat from a fucking dog bowl if you asked him to.

You sit on top of Logan, rubbing your wet pussy over his abs as he writhes and whimpers beneath you, his coarse stomach hair brushing up against your swollen folds so sweetly. You’ve tied him up using silk wraps, his wrists and ankles bound to the bed frame. Logan could easily break free from them, but he doesn’t, desperate to prove to you how much of a good boy he is.

You hold his large cock in your hand as you jerk him off behind you, slowly, not enough to provide him the relief he wants. You have him exactly where you want him. Needy, begging, crying out for you like you’re his salvation.

He hates it…he loves it.

Logan is stretched out beneath you, completely at your mercy, every second feeling like heaven wrapped in agony. His wrists burn from tugging against the silk restraints – not because he wants to get free, because he could easily do that if he really wanted to, but because he’s getting desperate. He wants to grab your hips, slam you down on top of him, and take you the way he wants to. But no…he can’t move an inch unless you allow it.

Your slick heat teases his stomach as you roll your hips, just enough to make him groan, not enough to do anything real. The scent of your arousal fills the air, thick and sweet, and he wants to bury his face between your thighs so bad it hurts.

You lean forward, your hair cascading over one shoulder as you smirk down at him, your eyes gleaming with amusement and something darker – possession.

“You’re such a mess, Logan,” you murmur, your voice low and sultry as you trail a fingernail down his chest. “All tied up…all mine.” You shift slightly, letting the broad head of his cock brush against your entrance, just barely sinking down before lifting yourself back up again, teasing him mercilessly. “Tell me how much you want me.”

You’re killing him. Every word you say drips straight into his veins like fire, and he doesn’t know if he’s going to beg or just break apart entirely.

“I–I want you. Fuck, I need you…” His voice cracks, rough and raw, like sandpaper dragged across skin. It shames him how desperate he sounds, how much he gives himself away – but you already know. You always know, the way he’s nothing more than clay in your hands. That’s what makes it worse. There’s nowhere for him to hide from you, not when you see right through him like glass.

“Please…” The word drags out. He hates it as it leaves his lips. “Don’t tease me, doll. Just…take me already.”

A slow, wicked smile spreads across your lips – one that promises power and punishment in equal measure. You love this moment, the point where Logan finally surrenders his pride and begs. It’s intoxicating. Delicious.

“You say please so beautifully, Logan,” you whisper, leaning down and close until your breath ghosts over his ear, sending a shiver down his spine. “But you know the rules, my wolf. You don’t get to ask nicely and expect rewards.”

With deliberate cruelty, you lift yourself higher, slipping the tip of him inside of your warmth only to pull away again, leaving him shaking beneath you.

The tease of your heat gone cold again nearly guts him. He jerks against the bindings, growling – no, whimpering – as his body screams for more. For you. His jaw clenches hard, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the ache blooming in his core and the cruel smirk on your pretty mouth.

“You’re killin’ me here, baby.” He forces the words out between ragged breaths, trying to keep some edge, some bite – but it comes out soft. Broken. A man who's already yours ten times over. “I let ya tie me up, didn’t I? Ain’t that enough for ya?”

You laugh – low and throaty, velvet against steel. It’s a sound filled with satisfaction, with triumph. Oh, you know exactly what you’re doing to him. Know the power you wield over your big, broken wolf.

“Enough?” you repeat, rocking your hips just enough to press the swollen head of his cock against your opening once more, your slick heat pulsing around him for a heartbeat before you pull away again. “You giving yourself to me? Yes…that’s beautiful. But submission isn’t a one-time payment, darling.”

Your nails trail down his chest, rolling your fingers around his hard nipples. “It’s a lifestyle. A habit.”

Habit. The constant hunger clawing at his insides whenever you’re near – love, lust, addiction. You’re the only dose that keeps him from falling apart.

Logan tries to glare at you. Tries to show you that he isn’t completely lost to this madness – but the look comes out wrong, and you chuckle again, that same maddening sound, like you can read every filthy thought running through his head.

“You’re fuckin’ ruthless, ya know that?” he mutters.

Your nails hit just right, tweaking his nipples, and he bucks up against the hold you’ve got on him. Weak, he curses himself. Pathetic.

Your grin widens, sharp and predatory, like a fox closing in on wounded prey. You thrive on his frustration, his helplessness – it feeds something deep inside of you, something dark and always hungry.

You lean in close again, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as your hand slides lower, skimming over the prominent vein decorating his pelvis.

“Ruthless?” you purr, nibbling gently on his earlobe before tracing the curve of his neck with your tongue. “No, darling…ruthless would be making you watch while I touch myself on your lap and not letting you lay a finger on me. Ruthless would be walking out of that door and leaving you hanging, tied up and aching all night.”

You pause, shifting your weight just enough to rub your wet cunt over the length of him.

You’re going to be the death of him. He can hear it in your voice, that dangerous lilt that says you’re about to push him even further – and Logan doesn’t know if he has the strength left to take it. What good is his strength anyways? The adamantium metal coated to his bones, caged up inside his useless arms, locked tight above his head like the good little prisoner you made him.

He arches up as you drag yourself along him, a growl bubbling up in his throat – but it dies quickly, turning into a choked moan that he wishes you hadn’t heard. But you heard it. You hear everything, see everything, own everything.

“If you walked out now,” Logan rasps, voice hoarse and shaky, “I’d lose my damn mind, baby…”

Your breathing stills for a moment, your expression shifting – not softened – but sharpened, as though he has said something too true, too raw to ignore completely. You stare down at him, your eyes burning with something possessive and feral. “Do you trust me, Logan?”

Your voice is quieter now, stripped of its earlier mockery, replaced instead with quiet intensity. One hand cups his face, your thumb grazing over his cheekbone, grounding him – and grounding yourself. “Not because you have to. Not because I told you to. But because you want to.”

You lower yourself slightly, just enough so the head of his cock presses firmly against your entrance again, but you don’t sink down yet.

The question hits him hard. Trust. Christ. Logan hasn’t trusted anyone in a long time – not fully, not since everything went sideways and he spent more years fighting than living. But here you are, sitting atop him like a queen on a throne, asking him to give you something he didn’t think he had left to give.

Logan leans into your caress. “Yeah…” He breathes it out like a confession.

Something flickers in your gaze – almost vulnerable, though you’d never admit it. You exhale sharply, pressing your forehead briefly against his before pulling back, your grip tightening possessively on his jaw.

“Good boy,” you murmur, husky with approval. Then, without warning, you sink down onto him in a smooth motion, taking him deep inside you with a satisfied gasp. Your hands brace against his chest as you begin to ride him, each roll of your hips designed to unravel him completely.

Goddamn – the sudden squeeze punches the air right out of his lungs. No warm up, no easing into it – just you taking what you want, claiming him whole. His vision whites out for a second, muscles locking up so tight he swears he can hear the bedframe groan beneath your bodies. Every nerve is lit up like a goddamn fireworks display, sparks shooting down his spine, pooling hot and heavy in his cock.

Each rise and fall of your hips is calculated, brutal in its precision, hitting spots inside you that make you shudder just as much as they wreck him. He can’t tear his eyes away from where you’re joined, watching you slide up and down his length, over and over, slick and obscene, the sound alone enough to drive him feral.

You ride him hard and fast, your nails digging into his pecs as you chase your own pleasure, using him like he was made for this very purpose. And maybe he was – maybe this is what Logan was always meant for, to be spread open and claimed by you, owned so thoroughly that he forgets everything but the feeling of you surrounding him.

Your head tips back, hair spilling over your shoulders as you lose yourself in the sensations, in the stretch and drag of his cock inside you, the perfect friction building higher and higher. You grind down hard, taking him impossibly deeper, and a broken moan tears from your throat – a sound of pure, unadulterated bliss.

Fuck – he can’t breathe. Can’t think. All he can do is feel, every nerve alight with the slide of your body against his. You’re riding him like a wild thing, untamed and unrestrained, and he’s loving every goddamn second of it.

Your nails dig into his flesh, marking him as yours – not that he needed the reminder. The way you take him, use him, it’s like you’re carving your name into his soul. When you throw your head back, lost in ecstasy, it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

You reach down between your bodies, your fingers finding your clit, circling the sensitive bud in tight, frantic strokes. The added stimulation sends shockwaves through you, your walls fluttering around him as you near your peak.

“Look at me,” you demand, voice strained but still dominant. “Watch me come on your cock.”

His eyes snap to yours at your command, pupils blown wide with desire. He drinks in every detail – the flush spreading across your cheeks, the sheen of sweat on your brow, the parted lips and heavy-lidded stare. You’re a vision, a goddess, and he’s just lucky enough to be the altar you’ve chosen to worship upon.

Your climax crashes over you, your back arching as you cry out in ecstasy. Your inner walls clamp down on him, rippling along his length as you ride out the intense waves of pleasure. You grind down hard, taking him as deep as physically possible, prolonging your orgasm.

The sight of you lost in pleasure, the feel of your cunt squeezing him so tight it borders on painful – it’s overwhelming. His entire body tenses, every muscle coiled and ready to snap as he fights the urge to follow you over the edge.

But he won’t. Not yet. Not until you tell him he can.

Because despite the ache in his balls and the fire coursing through his veins, there’s something else driving him. Something stronger than mere physical need. It’s the desire to please you, to prove himself worthy of the gift you’ve given him.

You collapse forward as the aftershocks begin to fade, bracing your hands on his chest. Your breathing is ragged, skin flushed and dewy with exertion. You stay draped over him for a long moment, basking in the afterglow.

When you finally lift your head, your expression is softer than he’s ever seen it – almost tender, though you’d probably deny it if he called you out.

“You did well, pet,” you murmur, stroking his hair almost gently. “Kept yourself in check, even when I know it must have been torture.”

A wicked glint returns to your eyes as you roll your hips forward, grinding against him. “I guess I should reward you.”

Your praise washes over him like sunlight after a storm, warming parts of him he didn’t know were cold. He leans into your touch, seeking more of that tenderness, even as his body screams for release. “Thank you,” he manages to choke out.

When you start moving again, slow and sensual, Logan groans low in his throat. The friction is maddening, pushing him closer and closer to the edge. “Baby…please…” He doesn’t care how pathetic he sounds.

You smile then, and it transforms your face entirely. Gone is the calculating seductress, the ruthless dominatrix – what remains is the woman who holds his heart in the palm of her hand.

“Shhh…” you coo, leaning down to brush your lips against his in a kiss that’s surprisingly sweet. “Let me take care of you.”

And with that, you begin to move in earnest, setting a steady rhythm that drives him toward oblivion. Your hand wraps around his throat, applying just enough pressure to remind him who is in charge as you bring him closer and closer to the brink.

Your lips taste like forgiveness, acceptance. It settles something deep within him – the restless beast that’s been snarling and pacing for far too long. At this moment, everything else falls away. The scars, the memories, the endless battle against his own nature…none of it matters. Only you.

But as you work him over, bringing him to dizzying new heights, there’s a part of him that craves more. More connection, more closeness. He wants to hold you, to feel your skin against his without barriers or restraints.

“Undo the silk,” he pleads, meeting your gaze. “Wanna touch you…hold you. Please, baby.”

For a moment, you freeze, your expression unreadable. It’s clear his request goes far beyond simple physical intimacy – it’s vulnerability, trust. Of something deeper than the games you usually play.

Slowly, you nod. You reach up, loosening the silk binds, releasing his wrists. The instant his hands are free, they’re on you, roaming over every inch of skin he can reach. He pulls you down against him, relishing the feel of your weight, the warmth of your body pressed flush to his.

Logan buries his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in, your scent filling his lungs. His arms tighten around you, holding on for dear life, as if you might disappear if he lets go. Your name is a prayer on his lips, whispered into your skin like a secret. He starts to move, thrusting slow and deep, savouring every sensation.

You cling to him just as tightly, your arms winding around his shoulders as you begin to rock against him. There’s a tenderness to your movements now, a softness that wasn’t there before. It’s as if the removal of the binds has allowed you both to shed another layer, to bare yourselves in a way that goes beyond physical.

You kiss him then, pouring everything you can’t say into the press of your lips against his. When you finally break apart, you rest your forehead against his. “That’s it, baby…” you murmur, your voice low and encouraging.

Fuck. You haven’t called him ‘baby’ in…Logan doesn’t know how long. Too long. It sends a shiver racing down his spine, setting his nerves alight like livewires. He loses himself in the slide of your bodies. His big hands map the curves of your back, your hips, committing every dip and swell to memory.

He can feel the coil of tension building low in his gut, winding tighter with each roll of your hips. It’s different this time, slower, sweeter. “Please…”

Logan’s desperate plea makes your stomach flip. You grip his shoulders tighter, your nails leaving crescent moons in his skin as you pick up the pace. “Yes, Logan,” you breathe against his lips, your voice thick with arousal and something softer. One hand slides between you, fingertips brushing feather-light over his solid ab muscles before dipping lower to tease at the base of his cock with each upward thrust. “Come for me.”

That whisper-soft touch is Logan’s undoing. His hips stutter wildly, losing rhythm as white-hot pleasure detonates through his veins. He buries his face against your collarbone to muffle the animalistic noise tearing from his throat as he spills inside you, shaking apart in your arms like he’s never known release before this moment.

Even as the tremors subside, he clings to you desperately, panting against your damp skin. Words fail him – all he can do is press clumsy kisses along your shoulder, your neck, wherever his lips can reach, hoping you understand the depth of what he can’t articulate.

You run your fingers through his sweat-dampened hair as he comes down from his high. For once, you don’t immediately pull away. You linger, tracing idle patterns across his back while his heartbeat steadies against your chest. “There you go,” you murmur, voice unusually quiet. “My good boy.”

Those three words send another tremor through him, undoing him in ways dirty talk or rough handling never could. He lifts his head just enough to meet your gaze, his own hazel-greens bright. Logan swallows hard, throat working around emotions too big to name. Slowly, he brings one large hand up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over the delicate bone.

“Yours,” he rasps, the single syllable carrying the weight of a thousand confessions.

Always yours.

#hugh jackman #logan howlett #logan howlett smut #logan howlett oneshot #logan howlett x you #wolverine smut #wolverine x you #logan howlett fic #logan wolverine #wolverine x reader #mine

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callmedaleelah · 4 months ago

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safe word ft. fushiguro toji x reader

warnings : 18+ minors dni, smut, spanking (punishment), daddy kink, age gap (reader is younger), overstimulation, use of safeword, aftercare, crying, begging, pet names (baby, sweetheart), soft!dom toji, guilt and comfort, a bit of angst but ends soft, reader is exhausted and hasn’t eaten, mentions of food, slightly toxic but we love a man who makes it right. please read responsibly!

you’re already feeling the ache deep in your bones when toji pulls up to the curb, the exhaustion from back-to-back lectures weighing heavy on your shoulders. the moment you slide into the passenger seat, though, you can tell something’s off. his jaw is tight, hands gripping the steering wheel a bit too hard, and that green-eyed glare flicks to you—sharp enough to cut through steel.

“what’s wrong?” you ask, voice soft, careful.

toji’s tongue clicks, a humorless chuckle leaving his lips. “really, sweetheart?” he hums, voice all smooth danger. “giggling all pretty for some guy, lettin’ him touch you right in front of me?”

oh. your stomach drops. it was just a quick chat with your classmate—going over the lecture slides before toji arrived. harmless, you thought. but the way he’s looking at you now, dark and unamused, has heat crawling up your neck.

“i-it’s not—” you try, but toji’s already pulling out of the parking lot, one hand settling heavy and possessive on your thigh.

“save it,” he grunts. “we’ll talk at home.”

it’s all a blur, really, how you ended up draped over his lap with your hips lifted, cheek pressed into the mattress, fingers tangled in the sheets. all you know is that toji saw—saw the way you giggled at something your classmate said, how that guy’s hand lingered a little too long on your arm. and you didn’t mean to, didn’t think anything of it until you caught the glint in toji’s eyes from the driver’s seat, jaw clenched, knuckles white around the steering wheel.

“count,” he says, voice smooth and unbothered, one large palm resting heavy on the curve of your ass. the other keeps your waist pinned, firm and possessive, holding you right where he wants you. “unless you wanna make it more than twenty.”

your breath stutters, face already warm. “t-twenty?” you echo, eyes wide and watery.

“what, think you don’t deserve it?” toji chuckles, the sound dark and condescending. “after lettin’ that guy get all touchy with you? lettin’ him see what’s mine?” his fingers squeeze your hip, sending a shiver down your spine. “c’mon, baby. be a good girl and count for me.”

the first swat lands hard, the sting immediate and sharp, and your breath catches on a broken gasp.

“o-one—”

another, harder this time, right over the same spot, makes you whine, toes curling.

“t-two—”

he builds a steady rhythm, every swat perfectly measured, just enough to leave your thighs trembling and your voice a wreck of hiccuped breaths and broken numbers. by seven, the tears start slipping free, hot tracks down your cheeks, vision blurring. your hips twitch instinctively, legs shifting with every sharp swat that lands, but toji’s hold is iron-tight, unyielding.

by ten, you’re sobbing—no, wailing, hands fisting the sheets so hard your knuckles ache, words slurred and desperate. “’m s-sorry,” you hiccup, voice high and breathless. “p-please, ‘m sorry—ah, toji—”

his hand rubs slow circles over the fresh sting, soothing for just a second before delivering another sharp smack, making you jolt with a choked sob. “oh, you’re sorry now, huh?” he drawls, mock-sweet. “weren’t so sorry when you were all giggles and smiles for that guy.”

“didn’t—didn’t mean to,” you cry, voice cracking, vision swimming with tears. your thighs are shaking, heart pounding so hard it echoes in your ears, and god, the sting is relentless, hot and aching and too much. “p-please, daddy—can’t—”

“oh, you can’t?” he coos, all faux sympathy, his palm massaging over the heated skin just to make you squirm. “poor baby, s’it too much for you?”

you nod frantically, the movement making more tears slip down, lip wobbling as you gasp out a broken, “y-yes—can’t—i can’t—”

but toji only chuckles, fingers sliding slow and taunting over your thighs. “too bad,” he hums, tapping the side of your hip. “still owe me seven more.”

your breath catches on a sob, shoulders trembling with the force of it. “no—please,” you beg, voice a wreck of hiccups and tears, legs kicking weakly against the mattress. “please, daddy—won’t do it again, promise—”

“oh, i know you won’t,” toji croons, low and dark. “not after this, huh?”

you can’t even form words by the time he reaches twenty, throat raw from crying, body limp and shivering in his hold. your sobs have melted into soft, hiccuping whimpers, tears slipping freely down your cheeks, cheeks hot and blotchy with the effort of it. every inch of you feels overheated, sensitive, the ache deep and pulsing.

toji’s palm smooths over the burning skin, gentle now, his voice a low rumble in your ear. “there we go,” he murmurs, almost soothing. “all done now, baby. you did so good for me.”

you sniffle, cheek sticky with tears, body still trembling with little aftershocks. it’s not until his fingers brush your cheek, wiping away the tear tracks, that you realize you’re mumbling something, soft and broken.

“g-gingerbread,” you whisper, voice barely a breath.

and toji freezes, fingers stilling immediately, the shift in him instant. “oh, baby,” he breathes, guilt lacing every word as he gathers you up into his arms, turning you so carefully to cradle you against his chest. “oh, sweetheart—why didn’t you say sooner?”

you’re still hiccuping, face tucked into his neck, fingers clinging to the fabric of his shirt. “tr-tried,” you sniffle, voice small. “tried—couldn’t—”

toji curses under his breath, hands sliding gentle over your sides, your back, anywhere he can reach to soothe the tremors. “shh, it’s okay,” he croons, pressing soft kisses to your temple. “it’s okay, baby. ‘m so sorry, shouldn’t’ve—fuck, didn’t mean to push you that far.”

he shifts, laying you carefully on your stomach across the bed, one palm rubbing soothing circles into your lower back while the other strokes slow through your hair. you melt into it, eyes fluttering shut despite the dull ache radiating through you, the exhaustion sinking in heavy now that the adrenaline is fading.

“just rest,” toji murmurs, guilt thick in his tone. “i’ll be right back, yeah? gotta get you somethin’ to eat—left you too long without a meal, didn’t i?”

you hum, soft and barely there, eyes already fluttering shut. and toji brushes another kiss over your temple, lingering for just a second before slipping out to the kitchen.

despite everything, you can’t help the way your chest aches, not from the sting but from the guilt in his voice, the way his hands were so soft, so careful once he realized. and when he comes back, tray balanced and expression so heartbreakingly gentle, you know you’re already forgiven, safe and warm in the arms of the man who holds you like something precious.

this is my first time writing something spicy and i don’t think i’m confident with it but i can’t let this sit in my drafts any longer 😭😭

#daleelah writings 🐭#jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x y/n #toji fushigro x reader #toji x you #toji x reader #toji fushiguro #jjk smut

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caligulagrey · 2 months ago

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EVERYBODY HERE WANTS YOU

genre: angst (?) + fluff | pairings: congressman!bucky x fem!reader

word count: 2.5k

warnings: use of y/n (im sorry its only twice i gagged writing it 💔🥀), slight mention of alcohol,

notes: guys ive been running on 3 hours of sleep for the past 2 days but i feel perfectly fine is bad 💔💔 also if there are spelling or grammar mistakes pls ignore it i was writing this at 2am

ALSO TYSM FOR 200 FOLLOWERS I LOVE YALL SM 🩷🩷

there was absolutely no denying that he was the most attractive man in this room. sure, there are many other attractive men in the room, but most of them have tried to win you over with their money.

“you could live the dream with me.”

“you could have anything you wanted if you let me take you out.”

you had several people approach you to ask your name or number, but it was always a no. you didn’t know them, but they couldn’t compare to the man upstairs. and you didn’t know him either.

you watched him be approached by women of all sorts. a pang of envy rang through your body as you saw them walk up the stairs to him, a smile that could light up the whole room.

the way one brushed his arm lightly, or another was giggling softly with every word he spoke. goodness, were they desperate. but so were you.

you mainly walked around the elegant gala with a furrow in your brows and a glass of champagne in hand, unentertained with the boistful and cloying conversation. it was like this man encapsulated your entire being just by the way he just.. stood there.

he looked over everyone with narrowed eyes and a slight tug on the corner of his mouth. so slight, no one could have noticed it unless they were staring at him as much as you were.

the taste of the champagne you were taking a sip of seemed to die shortly on your tongue after you made eye contact with him. it seemed to have happened so fast that time felt slow, and suddenly you felt way hotter in your dress.

his brooding eyes seem to have shifted when it happened, the slight tug on his lip faltering as he looked at you. it was as though strong men turn weak and feel small under his gaze, because that’s exactly how you felt.

you knew you should look away, but why should you? the way he did make you feel small made him so much more appealing. he wasn’t looking away from you either. any other time you would have thought this kind of eye contact was unnecessary and excessive, but with him, it feels right.

his gaze seemed to have turned scrutinizing, head tilted as if he was examining you. the only thing you could hear was your heavy breathing and heart pounding in your ears. your stance shifted as you took another sip of your champagne, eyes never leaving him once.

all of your senses were heightened as you shared the moment with this man from a distance, and you genuinely thought about approaching him. what could go wrong? he wasn’t looking at you the way he is for no reason.

you felt yourself take a step before a strong hand grabbed your arm, softly pulling you back to where you were and forcing your eyes away from the mysterious man.

“sorry to have to grab you, ma’am but, i just want you to know that i think you’re absolutely gorgeous.” a man remarks, a gruff chuckle leaving his mouth as he releases your arm, his voice and stance calm and measured.

he’s sweet. you would have let him buy you a drink or take you out any other time if it wasn’t for the man upstairs. he’s shifted your perspective on how you see people, and you’ve never had a conversation before. imagine what it would be like if you did.

the man that approached you seemed to have caught on that you were uninterested, and let out an awkward chuckle as he scratches the back of his neck.

“im sorry, i know i came off a little strong. im not trying to get your number or buy you a drink or anything, unless you’re okay with that. i just couldn’t sit any longer without telling you.”

“no, im sorry. that’s sweet of you, i would love a drink.” you nod, completely disregarding your predetermined thoughts and glass of champagne in your hands.

“perfect.” he smiles, offering his arm to you as you loop your own in his, leading you over to the bar area.

before he’s out of sight, you look back upstairs to where the man was, yet he was no where to be found. you were hoping that he saw the whole interaction you just had. you were really hoping he would come over and sweep you off your feet and-

“what are you drinking tonight?” the man from earlier asks, shortly calling over the bartender with a practiced wave of his hand, as if this is something he does everyday.

“a white wine would be great.” you reply, your fingers instinctively going to mess with the necklace that laid comfortably on your collarbone.

he nods, ordering your wine and a neat whiskey for himself. sooner or later, he starts going on about the company he runs and how much money he makes. nevermind. maybe you should’ve just ignored him. you’re barely listening, but decide to throw in a few “wows” and “mhms” to seem like you are.

the drinks finally arrive and you occupy yourself with drinking your wine as he continues to talk about his company. you can’t bare yourself to look at him, his ego would likely be spilling out of every hole on his face. so you look away to the bar, the walls adorned with bottles of whiskey and wine on the walls on brightly lit shelves.

it’s tempting to walk away, just excuse yourself to the bathroom and slip out of the building completely. you don’t get much of a second to think when you hear a voice cut into the conversation, one that could relate to the same things the other one was blabbing about for eternity.

“mind if i borrow her for a second?” the voice questioned, making you furrow your eyebrows. why would someone want to borrow you?

at this point, it felt tiring to talk to men like the ones you thought he was going to be. you turned around with an expecting look on your face, yet that look quickly shifts into one of surprise.

it was none other than the man from upstairs. so he *did* see the whole interaction and come over. and you’re definitely near jumping into his arms and letting him sweep you away.

“yeah, i kinda do min-“

“i dont! it was lovely to meet you, sir.” you interrupt, a smile on your face as you quickly drink the rest of your wine and stand from your seat, smoothing your dress and joining your knight in shining armor.

he leads you outside into a dimly lit alley, the new york lights mixed with the moonlight able to light the path. the wind sifts through your hair, the breeze hitting your skin just enough to cool you down from how warm you felt.

he eventually comes to a stop, turning to face you. the first few moments you share were silent, but nowhere near awkward. you take in the uncanny comfort of being in the alley, taking in the soft, ambient sounds of nature mixing with life. all the while you could feel his eyes on yours the entire time.

“so, what brings you here? i take it you’re not one for parties like those.” his voice cuts into your thoughts, eyes meeting his once again.

“im not. im here as a plus one for a friend of mine.” you reply, trying to tame the hair that blew freely in the passing wind.

“you weren’t with a friend when i saw you inside, though?”

when you were invited by your friend to come to this, you were reluctant to say the least. he was right, you aren’t typically one for parties like this. in fact, you aren’t one for parties at all.

when she finally convinced you, you made yourself build up the courage to purchase a dress, put it on, and actually walk out the house with it on. as you’re in the back of an uber to the location, you get a text from your friend that she suddenly can’t come.

when i say your heart dropped, it dropped all the way to the floor of the car. why would she just cancel on you like that, knowing you didn’t even want to go in the first place? and you couldnt tell your uber to turn around, so you might as well go in.

“she couldn’t make it, unfortunately.” you put simply, a look on your face that obviously shows you’re unhappy that she couldn’t make it.

he only hums and nods, eyes scanning your face as be tries to figure out which part of your face he wants to look at.

“so then, what brings you here? you dont peg me as a guy to be at one of these.” you say to fill the silence, fixing your hair and folding your arms across your chest.

“i know. i didnt peg myself to be at one of these either but, i have to be. im a congressman.” he states, grinning slightly at the title.

that gave you a huge surprise. him? a congressman? and you are with him? this can’t be real.

“oh, wow. i had absolutely no idea.” you shake your head, eyes slightly widened as your arms drop back to your side.

“thats surprising. i take it you’re new here?” he asks, tilting his head slightly at your statement. he figured most in the state know who he is, given his rocky relationship with the local news stations.

“i am. i moved here two or three weeks ago with my friend that was supposed to be here.”

“i see. are you here for a new start or are you just here to seduce me?” he asks teasingly, a slight grin on his lips as he crosses his arms.

“i don’t know, is it working?” you tease back, copying his stance and tilting your head slightly.

“it is.” he scoffs, shaking his head and looking down for a moment, his tongue poking the inside of his mouth.

you can’t describe how and why you’re acting like this right now. its barely anything but it feels like so much when you’re with him. maybe its the banter going on, so friendly yet so flirty. or maybe its the fact that you’re happy- no, ecstatic that your friend didn’t show up. you can thank her with an invitation to the wedding, i guess.

the tinge of yellow from the brooklyn street lights illuminate his face, making his features appear even more attractive than inside. his slicked back hair and scruffy beard, paired with his sharp, steel blue eyes. and theres no way you could forget that smile of his. the smile thats in between a smirk and an actual smile. the one that made you fold on the inside when you first saw it a few minutes ago.

but you? oh, you.

from the moment you walked in the room, he knew you had to be the one. from the way you walked in looking so timid but held a certain confidence because you know you look good.

he was looking for you all night, whenever you weren’t in the same place as the last time he saw you, he immediately scanned the room to find you. and once you locked eyes with him, he swears he could have just swept you off of your feet then and there.

so when he saw you be approached be another man and then go with him, he knew he had to do something. i mean, he’s watched you be approached by snooty men all night and you turn them down, but this one you say yes to? he needs to know whats so special about him that caught your eye.

he walked down from his place upstairs and made his way through the bustling crowd of people, eventually finding his way to the bar area. when he saw you uninterested in the mans conversation, he couldn’t help but feel relieved. he could come in and be the one that saves you from this walking billboard.

and when you happily accept to go with him and he sees that smile on your face, he knows he has a chance and he can’t lose it. he leads you outside to the alleyway, taking in the calm of the usually busy new york city streets.

once he can finally see you with no one else in the background, he could’ve fallen in love on the spot. his eyes never leave yours as you take in your surroundings, the wind sifting through your hair and making you look like an angel on earth. the light perfectly captures your features; your eyes shimmering and lips looking ever so sweet.

he looked down at your body, and he is not one to stare, but he just couldn’t tear his eyes away from you. the way your dress fit perfectly to your curves and made you resemble a greek goddess. he’s never felt this way before, especially to a women he just met. and he hopes he wont have to.

“so then, your girlfriend must be happy. having a nice congressman as her lover.” you finally break the brief silence, knowing he doesn’t have a girlfriend but wanting to test the waters.

“i don’t have one.” he tsks, knowing the game you’re trying to play and shifting slightly so he is closer to you.

“oh, what a shame.” you frown untruthfully.

“is it?” he asks, a slight furrow in his eyebrow, paired with a soft smirk.

goodness, you feel weak in the knees. like he just looks so good right now you could eat him.

“i guess it’s not.” you reply, placing a hand on one of your hips as you copy his movement from earlier, slightly shifting your position so you were closer to him. “so then maybe should do my research on you since i assume you’re pretty popular, considering you’re a congressman.”

“why do research when i’m right here? plus, i think you’ll be better off not hearing what he internet has to say about me.” he raises an eyebrow, shrugging as he adds the last part.

its true, most people don’t want an ex super soldier as a congressman, but he’s changed, and took the steps to earn his place. sure, he may not be a great politician. but who cares? he’s got the spot and he’s gonna keep it until he cant!

“you’re so right. but i think i have to know your name first.” you joke, raising an eyebrow at him as you look at him. “and also ask me out.”

“my name is bucky. and i think i need to know your name first before i ask you out.” he introduces himself, the name being quite suiting for him. a gravely name for a gravely man.

“my name is y/n.”

“okay then, y/n. dinner at my place tomorrow?”

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