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fayes-fics · 8 months

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A Beneficial Arrangement

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: A marriage pact with a Viscount. What could possibly go wrong?

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, oral sex (m to f), loss of virginity, vaginal sex. Bickering, developing relationship.

Word Count: 6.1 k

Authors Note: Unbetaed. Anon request fill from HERE (Anthony and a headstrong independent reader make an unconventional marriage pact). Sorry it's taken so long to write this, but I hope you enjoy! <3

It’s a dreary, rather ordinary Tuesday in spring when your life takes a turn.

“The Viscount is in want of a wife.”

That statement is all you hear as you walk past the drawing room where your mother is taking tea with her good friend, the dowager Viscountess Bridgerton.

“My eldest needs a husband,” your mother responds, offering you as if merely chattel; bile rises indignantly as she does so. “But I fear she is far too outspoken to be a suitable Viscountess.”

You sigh in relief, ear pressed to the closed door now.

“Oh, believe me, nothing would be a better match for my darling Anthony than someone who will challenge him, stand up to him,” Violet peals a knowing laugh. “We should arrange a meeting.”

——

3 days later.

He assesses you with a cool eye as your gaze drifts briefly over to both of your mothers, watching expectantly from a nearby table in the tea shop.

“You should know I will only be taking a wife to fulfil my societal duty,” he sniffs airly. “However, I do not expect you to produce an heir. The title may pass to my younger brothers; they are more inclined to form romantic attachments than I. Their offspring can inherit this title; it feels like a curse anyhow,” he adds quieter, his tone mildly embittered.

“Well, on your attitude to marriage, I can wholeheartedly agree,” you state, stirring your tea primly. “I do not wish to be shackled. I wish to remain free. I shall marry, as there is no other path available to me, but I do not plan nor do I ever want to be someone's wife.” You utter the word with disdain as if it is toxic.

His admittedly very handsome face transforms into one of surprise, a faint dot of colour on his cheeks as he peers at you as if assessing you in a new light.

“What?” You frown at him, his silent stare becoming too heavy to bear as his interest and engagement intensify.

“You are the first woman I have ever met who shares my outlook,” he confesses, seemingly caught off-guard. “It is so utterly refreshing… and, frankly, novel.” He pauses to pass his fingers slowly over his lips in a way that makes your stomach swoop, even if you refuse to acknowledge such even to yourself. “I do believe we should meet again to discuss this further,” he concludes.

And thus, you find yourself with the suit of one Viscount Anthony Bridgerton, both of your mothers overjoyed at the prospect.

——

9 days later.

“If I must marry, you are the most tolerable woman I have met, I must concede,” he states nonchalantly as you meet to promenade.

It’s quite an opening line for only your third meeting, even for someone as renownedly blunt as the Viscount.

“And a good afternoon to you too, Viscount Bridgerton,” you drawl pointedly with a raised eyebrow, subtly hinting how his greeting may have been lacking.

He chuckles, a flash of what looks like admiration in his dark eyes.

“As such,” he continues, “I would not be averse to a martial arrangement with you. An agreement, a pact if you will, based on our mutual understanding of what we both want from such an endeavour.”

The speed and pragmatism of his apparent proposal do not surprise you in the least. In fact, you are actually grateful for the lack of ceremony around it. If you must marry, you prefer it be swift.

“Did you mean what you said last week? In the tearoom?” You quiz as you begin to walk shoulder to shoulder through Hyde Park, the early summer air heavy with the scent of roses.

“Every word,” he replies solemnly.

“Then, I suppose this is a beneficial arrangement for me too,” you shrug as if agreeing about the weather, not the very course of your future. But there is something about this man that feels inevitable, fateful, but not in a way you dread. Also, his face is so very pleasing. If you must indeed marry, at least the view across the dinner table will be nice.

“Then it is decided,” he nods decisively, a brusque smile passing over his lips. “I so greatly appreciate your candidness with regard to this matter. It makes the whole business so much easier to deal with.”

He offers a hand to shake, and you take it, bemused, shaking on the deal, pretending this mere touch doesn't make every butterfly in your stomach roar to life.

“I shall make the arrangements swiftly,” he states, again with a short smile and nod.

You are married within three weeks.

——

6 weeks later.

‘‘What on earth is this?” he practically spits as he rounds the corner of Bridgerton House onto the back lawn.

“What does it look like?” you sass, tearing the netted visor from your face.

“It looks an awful lot like my wife is fencing,” his reply dripping with conceited judgement.

“Well, I’m glad to know you do not need glasses, husband,” you respond dryly, nodding to accept the excuses of the butler you were sparring with, who suddenly seems very keen to scurry away now the Viscount has arrived.

“Perkins, do not think this has gone unnoticed,” Anthony calls pointedly after the retreating man.

“Leave him alone!” you bark, taking your husband aback with your ferocity, him turning to you and almost gaping in surprise. “Perkins must do my bidding as lady of the house, and I told him to fence with me,” you elucidate, keen that the innocent party not suffer any consequences for your decision.

“Women do not fence,” he sniffs, changing the subject somewhat.

“This one does,” you riposte, spearing your epee tip into the grass to remove the suede gloves.

“It is unbecoming of a Viscountess,” he adds almost haughtily.

“Good thing such matters hold no truck with me,” you shrug, knowing you are likely provoking him.

To hell with what is appropriate for a titled lady. The title, and all of its stifling rules and expectations, is the very last reason you married the man standing before you. No, the reason is far, far more simultaneously complex and simple than that. He excites you—in ways you don't even want to admit to yourself.

It’s not something you would divulge to anyone, but arguing with your new husband has become your new favourite pastime. On the rare occasions you see him, that is. Since your wedding day, you have mostly been ships passing at the dinner table; otherwise, your lives have been very separate. At night, his rooms are at the other end of the long hallway from yours, and his days are apparently filled with business obligations. While the utter freedom to fill your days as you wish has been a blessing, it’s also been perhaps a touch lonely.

When you do see Anthony, you invariably end up clashing about something. And, well, it’s often the highlight of your week. A thrill zipping down your spine as you do so. The only person you have met who can keep up with your verbal sparring. It makes you excited, breathless, dizzy, a fizz low in your belly that feels entirely beguiling. Today is no different; you feel that same sensation as he stares at you, arms crossed, exasperated.

“Well, if you insist upon this rebellious pastime,’ he sighs after a few beats, snatching your epee, “the least you can do is improve your grip,” he grouses, rolling his eyes.

You startle as he crowds into your back, a warm hand wrapping around yours as he passes you the blade and demonstrates a different way to wield it that you concede feels better. The spike of victory in your bloodstream from winning the argument morphs into something entirely different as he stands behind you, his breath tickling your ear and the tendrils of your hair as he provides instruction.

You try to take the details on board, but your thoughts scatter with his overwhelming proximity. How have you never noticed the stirring amber notes of his cologne before? Or how very broad his chest is compared to his slim hips? Perhaps because this is the closest you have ever been, his body heat seeping into your spine, your heart fluttering hard against your ribs. You can’t decide if this effect your husband can have on you is the best or the worst thing. Somehow, it feels like both.

——

1 month later.

You are both relieved to avoid most of the season on the pretence of being on honeymoon, but inevitably, the time comes when you must debut as a married couple. Speculation about you growing ever since Lady Whistledown breathlessly reported your nuptials, a nearly unknown minor Ton member rapidly snaring the most eligible of perenially eligible bachelors.

So when you enter your first ball as Viscountess Bridgerton, all eyes are upon you. You feel mildly uncomfortable bedecked in jewels and a heavy silk dress, but know refinement is of importance at events such as these. You just cannot wait to get home and get out of them. This will never be your preferred milieu, a sentiment you apparently share with your husband—underneath his calm, unruffled exterior, you sense his dampened disquiet.

“Smile politely, nod in acknowledgement, but don't engage for any longer than necessary,” he counsels under his breath as an inevitable hush falls over the room when your arrival is announced. You are grateful for his steadfast support, his arm looped reassuringly through yours as you follow his advice, knowing he has navigated these waters much more than you have needed to. “The best thing to do is seem frightfully ordinary,” he explains quietly as you complete a circuit of the room. “They are ravenous for gossip; if none is to be had, their preoccupation will swiftly wane.”

Indeed, the initial excitement about your appearance soon dies down as other, perhaps more flamboyant, guests arrive. People approach expressing surprise about your union, but once he economically explains you just knew you were right for each other, they often quickly move on, seeming almost disappointed at the lack of apparent scandal.

As the evening progresses, you school your tongue at some of the barbs you overhear, more out of a wish to be left alone rather than any adherence to social rules. Most of the things that appear to preoccupy the Ton you have little patience for. As Anthony spends some time with business acquaintances, you eventually find yourself in the company of the female members of his family, whom you are quickly becoming very fond of with every passing day in their company. Particularly his benevolent mother and headstrong sister, Eloise. In fact, the latter is the primary witness to the flare of your true nature, fatigue overriding your ability to remain silent.

Cressida Cowper is being particularly venomous about a mutual acquaintance. Eloise is quick with her witty tongue in reply, and you cannot stop yourself from piling on your scorn as well.

“Perhaps if the braiding of your hair were less painful, it would allow you greater empathy,” you retort before you can stop yourself.

Eloise’s responding guffaw sprays lemonade all over Cressida, whose shocked mien is the last thing you see before she turns heel to attend to her ruined dress in private.

“That was sensational!” Eloise wheezes in awe as she blots the remnants of her beverage from her chin.

You sigh.

“It was unwise,” you correct, knowing you have probably just made an enemy of one of the worst gossips of the Ton.

“It was wholly accurate and justified,” a cool, authoritative voice cuts in, and you look up to find your husband before you, a rapt glint in his eye that makes your lungs feel tight. It appears he may have also been witness to the moment.

Eloise’s eyes briefly ping-pong between the two of you, and then she loops an arm into the crook of Anthony’s as you continue to gaze at each other, cataloguing something new about each other that you mutually admire.

“I like her,” Eloise nods at you. “Excellent choice of wife, brother,” she grins.

It breaks the spell between you but seems to further ingratiate you with at least one member of his family. And that makes you feel light as air in a way you don't fully understand.

——

2 months later.

Funnily enough, it’s another random Tuesday when your life takes a complete turn. Yet again, you find yourself in another heated debate with your husband of barely twelve weeks. This time while sojourning at your country estate, Aubrey Hall.

“Must you?” Anthony gripes, standing up from his desk and rounding towards where you stand.

“Must I what? Speak my mind?” you bite back, hands on your hips.

“Be so damn argumentative,” he expounds, hands also on hips, chest heaving a little, “urghh, you are so aggravating!”

“Same!” You shoot back. “I have never met a man quite as disagreeable as you,” you add, not realising as you argue that you have taken steps closer and are now huffing irritated breaths close to each other's faces.

“Why did you agree to marry me then?” he snarls, his gaze suddenly fixated on your bottom lip, unbeknownst to you, it’s glistening and swollen from biting in irritation at his demeanour.

“Right now, I have no earthly idea,” you volley in return, but your pounding heart gives away the real reason. No one makes you feel quite as alive as Anthony, even when he is driving you up the wall, like right now. “Why did you agree to marry me, seeing as I am so very ‘aggravating’?” you spit, parroting the word back at him.

His stare blisters as he draws himself to full height right before you.

“We made a pact,” he huffs, “this is duty, nothing more.”

But the way he breathes and holds himself speaks to something else. A war in his body and mind. The maelstrom in his eyes belying his words… and then it hits you. So singular it knocks the wind from your lungs. This is desire. He wants you. In all the ways a man can want a woman.

And damn it all to hell if you don’t feel precisely the same.

“For me as well,” your tart, mendacious reply is bitter on your tongue.

The tension in the air is taut like a cord, ready to snap. You both toe to toe, noses almost touching, laboured breaths as you stare each other down like some game to see who will capitulate first.

“I do believe we are at an impasse… wife,” the last word dripping with disdain, but he is leaning closer than he ever has, his lips fractional inches from yours.

“It would appear so…,” you concur, “…husband,” you roll the last word slowly, lingering on the end of the first syllable as if it is both a treat and a bitter pill on your tongue.

“I have been raised a gentleman,” he hisses, “but there are times that you test my resolve.”

“I do nothing of the sort!” you decry, knowing you are lying even to yourself now. Somedays lately, you live to simply push his buttons, just to see what he will do. “And resolve of what? To not be a good husband? Because I can tell you, forthright, you are doing a wonderful job of being a terrible husband,” you goad, knowing you are poking the proverbial beast now.

“I give you a wonderful home to run as you please, I give you the freedom to pursue whatever pastimes you wish, I let you speak your mind. As Viscountess, the world is yours. What else could you possibly want in a husband? I do not ask you to do things, wifely things, that I could,” he warns, his voice buzzing low. “I could demand you submit to my will; it is my right,” he growls.

A flame behind your ribs catches fire, even as your eyes flash indignant.

“You do not wish for that sort of wife; you told me as much yourself.” It’s a heated whisper, much breathier than you mean it to be.

“A man can change his mind,” he gravels, “same as a woman can change hers if she wishes.”

“What made you change your mind?”

He fixes you with a hypnotic, weighted stare.

“You.”

The way that one word drips from his lips tilts your whole existence. It’s so loaded you don’t know what to say. Unmoored, your system awash with chemicals, your mind flooding with images of sketches you have seen of men and women together. Of what the marital act can entail. It’s something you believed would not ever be a part of your marriage, your life, even, but now….

Now your handsome husband is staring at you, ragged breaths, face wild, telling you he has changed his mind. Maybe he wants that sort of marriage, that sort of union. Something gallops hard in your chest as he steps away, as if wrongly intuiting you are about to turn down his suit, and something bubbles up from deep inside you.

“Do not dare,” you growl.

His mouth falls open in shock.

“Do not tease me so and leave me wanting,” you continue with a boldness and timbre you barely recognise as your own. “‘Tis crueller to build false hope than to take what you want,” you sniff and stare him down, so wholly decisive in your intentions and desires. If this is the nudge he needs, you’ll give it.

“You want me to exercise my conjugal rights?” he falters, appearing utterly stunned.

You don’t answer; just do one thing, your heart pounding loudly in your ears. You close the last few inches and press your lips to his.

They are soft and plush against yours, making your insides warm and glowing. Then, Anthony makes a noise in the back of his throat, and suddenly, he is kissing you back. So ferociously, you squeak into his mouth as he opens your lips and slides his tongue over yours, his strong arms pulling you into an embrace so you are enveloped by his warm body.

Good lord.

You feel like you are drowning in him as he grabs your jaw, directing the kiss, turning it into something wholly other. Your lips move endlessly together as you both greedily take from the other for what seems like ages. When you pull apart, you are both heaving breaths and staring at each other, almost confused.

“Don’t you dare do that again,” you snarl, wanting to rip every item of clothing from your body and his.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he responds airily.

And then you crash into each other again. Drinking desperately from each other's mouths, powerless to resist whatever flame draws you together.

He walks you backwards as your tongues tangle, and you startle slightly as your bottom hits his imposing desk. Hands loop around your thighs, and he hoists you into the surface, never breaking the intoxicating kiss.

He tries to step between your legs, but your column dress is too tight to allow it. You attempt to wiggle the hem upwards as you kiss, then, with a frustrated grunt, he bats your hands away and, using a strength that shocks you, rips the silk material asunder from the hem to your hip.

“I loved this dress!” you decry over his lips, unwilling to admit you’d destroy every single dress you own if he just kept kissing you like this.

“I’ll buy you another,” he dismisses, pushing your thighs wide with his hands. “I’ll buy you as many as you want.”

“You had better,” you challenge, scarcely able to believe you even have the wherewithal to debate with him, especially as this is the first time a man has ever touched your bare leg.

He pulls back from the kiss to stare intently into your eyes as his fingertips trace from your kneecap up the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. You don’t mean to, but you tremble, having never been touched this way before. You gasp as his palm cups the apex of your thighs, his hand feeling so warm through the thin silk protecting your modesty, his fingers swirling circles over your patch of hair as the heel of his palm presses against your slit.

“I can feel your heat,” he hisses.

You can barely process what is happening, your body rioting as he touches and teases you, staring you down. Instinctively, you reach for the tiny buttons at your hip, but your hands fall away as he flicks his middle finger downwards and catches a nub that makes your body buck.

“Anthony,” it falls from your lips unbidden with a halting breath. It may well be the first time you have uttered his first name in his presence.

He groans at the sound. “Please, always say my name like that,” he pleads through gritted teeth.

So you repeat it, the same intonation, even as that finger drags slowly up and down over the swollen pearl between your legs, undone by how good it feels.

“Are you chaste?” he inquires; it’s not judgemental in tone, just pure curiosity, his ministrations lighter.

“Yes,” you admit quietly, “but I do know of the marital act”, you add, wanting him to know you are not entirely innocent.

“Hmm,” he hums, looking at once thoughtful and blistering, his finger moving more insistently again, “I am glad to hear it. Then you shall not be entirely shocked by what is about to happen?”

“So… we are to undertake it? The act?” you stutter, his finger making you feel so good you have to bite your lip.

But he doesn’t answer your question directly.

“Wife, how attached are you to these undergarments?” his tone almost idle, cocking his head to the side as his gaze lingers over them.

You shrug practically. “I have many exactly the same.”

Then, you gasp loudly as the sound of silk tearing fills the room. You are quaking as the warm air of his study swirls around your exposed, damp slit. He shocks you by dropping to his knees before you. Pushing your thighs wide on his desk and looking up at you with burningly intense eyes, he presses his face to your flesh, inhaling deeply, his nose buried in your pubic hair before his tongue peeks out and nudges the swollen nub he was teasing through the silk.

Your mouth drops open, and something inhuman escapes your lungs. Then he does it again, this time enclosing the whole area between his lips and sucking hard on your flesh, tongue curling and ploughing into your folds. The heat, the suction, the muscular swipe of his tongue feels so good your mind blanks out, a tremor in your splayed thighs that he holds forcibly open with warm hands. He keeps doing so for a few moments as your fingernails curl hard into the edge of his desk, scarcely able to do anything but writhe and gently moan. IIdly you think upon all of your curious research, never once had you heard of or read about a man doing as he is now, placing his head between his wife’s thighs and sniffing, drinking from her body.

“You are plenty ready for me, wife,” he huffs, his warm breath tickling your responsive folds, little ripples of pleasure deep inside scattering your thoughts. “Are you averse to me taking you right here?” he waves a hand nonchalantly at his large, imposing carved wooden desk.

“I… I rather thought su-such things could only ha-happen in a bed,” you confess stiltedly, a quiver in your voice.

He smirks up from between your thighs, turning his head to kiss the fragile skin there. “Oh, no, wife. We can fuck anywhere we please…” he pauses and looks sincere, “however, should you prefer a bed…”

“Here is fine,” you rush out, so very keen to have your husband make a woman of you. As if leaving this room may break the spell you are under. Location be damned. You just want to know him. He smirks again, placing a final quick kiss on your flesh, looking very pleased at your response.

“I wholeheartedly concur,” he rumbles as he hoists himself back up to stand, stepping inwards to rock his clothed pelvis against your pulsing nub. There is something hot and swollen in his trousers now, and you realise this must be his member.

“Show it to me,” you enthuse, nodding at the insistent bulge.

“So very impatient all of a sudden, wife,” he scolds with a bemused chuckle, grabbing your wrist and guiding your hand over the bump. It feels so hot and steely even through the fabric. “Unbutton me,” he orders casually, pointing to the fastening at his hip.

Exuberantly, you undo them quickly, keen to see if his member matches the sketches you have viewed. As the front of his trousers falls away, he quickly pushes down his white underwear. There, nestled in a thatch of dark hair at the base, is your husband's cock. Your eyes widen at the sight. It seems more considerable than the drawings you have seen, and you are temporarily taken aback by how red and almost angry it looks at the tip.

“Go ahead, touch it,” Anthony encourages, and with a slight tremble in your fingers, you reach forward and make contact with him.

“Oh!” you exclaim without thought, “it’s so soft, your skin, and so hot!”

He chuckles warmly at your assessment. “Indeed,” he huffs as you wrap your hand instinctively around it, feeling its weight and mass in your palm.

“This will not fit inside me, surely?” you blurt out.

“It will, I promise,” his tone mellow, tinged with understanding even as his breath staccatos when you start to move your hand, the instinct to rub inexplicable, but seemingly precisely what he wants. “Yes, perfect,” he rasps, eyes closing and tongue peaking out to lick his lips.

The odd mix of total honesty and soft appreciation between you as you acquaint yourselves with each other's bodies seems very apt, as if this is the only way such a development would ever transpire. And you realise, as you cradle his most intimate parts, that you trust this man with your very being. Despite your bickering, there is a thread of mutual respect under it that makes you feel safe, seen, and known in a way that no other person has.

“Take me now, husband,” you rattle through your teeth, watching a bead of something sticky form at the tip of his cock as you squeeze him in hypnotic, repetitive motions. The sight makes something in your body turn to fiery liquid, wanting him and that substance inside yourself in a way that doesn't make logical sense.

He growls at your words, grabbing your hand away from his cock and bringing it to his mouth, kissing the back of your knuckles as your eyes lock, a chaste, almost romantic interlude.

But then his hands grab your hips and haul you almost roughly to the very edge of the desk, your torn dress framing your splayed thighs, his trousers around his ankles as he takes his cock in hand and rubs the tip over your folds of flesh in a way that makes you moan under your breath.

“Are you certain?” he checks, even as he pants anticipatorily.

“God, yes,” you confirm, craving him in a way you have never felt about anything before. An urgent hook tugging deep inside your loins, calling to him like a siren song.

“Watch,” he murmurs darkly, his other hand rounding the back of your neck so your gaze is tilted down to where his cock nudges your opening.

So you do, as does he. Stare down to where your body meet, hissing loudly as his tip slips inside your soaked channel. Your eyes want to roll back at the sheer overwhelming sensation of it, but equally, it's such an enthralling sight that you can’t look away.

He moans loudly, lewdly, decadently as he pushes further into your heat, pausing to readjust your legs wider and tilt your pelvis more open.

“This next part may hurt, darling,” he whispers quietly, the first time he has ever used such an affectionate term for you, making your heart race.

“It's alright,” you reassure mutely in return, “I have heard as such.”

The hand around the back of your neck slides gently until he tilts your chin up to meet his tender gaze.

“You are quite the woman,” he says, almost reverential, as he leans in and captures your lips in a sweet, soft kiss.

The movement propels his cock deeper into your body, and you cry out into his open mouth at a stab of sharp pain inside.

“That's it done,” he mutters reassuringly into your lips as you whimper gently.

He stills as you adjust to the girth, the heat, and feeling so very filled.

“More…” falls from your mouth spontaneously, the want rising, hungry for a need to be met, a thirst slaked, unlike anything you have experienced.

The smile that breaks out over his face makes your nipples pebble hard in your stays, and he slides deeper as you cling to him, exhaling unevenly as he keeps sinking further into your pussy, pushing you open. Just when you think you cannot take more, he stops, and you feel his body pressing wholly against yours.

You stare at each other, eyes wild and wide, unable to form words but knowing instinctually how good this feels for both of you. He looks untamed, something urgent rippling in his being. And without breaking the gaze, he pulls his hips back until just the head of his cock is inside you, then ploughs back in, in one determined, decisive stroke.

You don't stop the decadent noise that escapes your lungs, your toes curling into the soles of your feet at how wonderful and all-encompassing that feels. Same as you don't miss the victorious smirk on his face at your reaction.

Then it’s a hungry blur of movement as your hands grab his biceps through his clothing, clinging on for dear life as he proceeds to move just like that first thrust. Over and over. Building in pace and with increasing intensity, him sensing your need for such things.

“Anthony…” his name spills over your lips again, and the impact on him is nothing short of extraordinary.

His hands clamp vicelike to your hips, branding heatedly over your skin through your dress, straining the tendons of your inner thighs as he pushes your legs open impossibly wide, his pelvis crashing into yours in a way you are certain may leave bruises. And what shocks you most is just how much you want it. Want him to leave signs of his presence, want to look in the mirror and see the outline of his digits in the globes of your bottom.

He moans your name, hot and desperate, into your ear, his pace never wavering, a drop of sweat forming on his forehead that you can't look away from when he pulls back to tilt your heads together.

“I want to see,” you stumble out, pantingly, as he takes you harder.

“See what?” he sounds almost winded, his thrusts still spearing his cock into your body.

“See you entering me,” you huff into his cheek.

His responding noise is feral and has every inch of your body alight. He bows his spine outward so your bodies only touch where you are joined, and his hand feels heated and heavy on the back of your neck as you tilt your chin down to take in the sight.

His cock, rigid and huge, ploughing repeatedly into your body, shining with a slick substance you can only assume is from within you, the sight making you shudder, but not with anything approaching disgust. It’s something primal. A need to chase a conclusion, the power of the vivid tableau burned into your retinas.

“Don't stop, please don't stop,” you petition, looking back up to his face, your hands sliding up and down his torso now, raking urgent fingernails over his clothing.

He swears, and his lips are back on yours, searing and demanding. This feels like a frantic wave you are riding together, a trickle of moisture running down your spine as you start to push your hips forward as much as you can, meeting his thrusts halfway.

“You are fucking perfect,” he snarls over your tongue, and you couldn't agree more.

Time seems elastic as he lowers you so your back rests on the piles of no doubt important paperwork, not that he pays it any mind, him hunched over you, pulling your hips out over the edge now, the range of motion it allows him making you gasp. He is taking you without mercy now, breath hot on your throat as he moans your name, his hand squirrelling between your bodies and making your vision dance with dots as he passes a slightly calloused tip over your clit.

“Come for me,” he breathes, the request both hopeful and commanding.

“What does that mean?” your question puffed into his lush hairline.

“Oh my darling, just you wait,” his voice dripping with promise even as your skin feels like it wants to vibrate off your very bones as his fingers and cock take you somewhere you never envision. An ecstasy both outside but rooted deep in your being.

He murmurs encouragingly as you struggle for air, your lungs burning, scarcely remembering to breathe, skating some kind of precipice that feels dangerous and addictive. Then, with a flick of his thumb and a gentle bite of your earlobe, you fall into an abyss. Everything all at once quiet and loud, eyes screwed shut as colours burst behind them, and every fibre of your being seems to snap and break, rearranging in a mind-shattering way. Your pussy convulsing hard around his cock that now seems impossibly large.

Then, with a deep booming cry, you feel him lance deeper than ever, his whole body tensing and jerking. A warmth spreads inside, and you vaguely realise he is reaching completion, spilling his seed inside you. For what seems like ages, your mind and body float somewhere, utterly sated, suddenly understanding why this act can be so all-consuming and there is so much written of it.

When your mind returns to the room, you are panting into each other's necks, both breathlessly stunned at how animalistic your first intimacy was. Somehow, your antagonistic chemistry transmuting into an explosive, consuming passion.

“We are going to bed right now,” his tone wrecked, rough, so damn irresistible you want to bite his flesh, even while you still recover from what transpired. Fires stoked again just by those seven words.

He pulls up his trousers haphazardly, picks you up bridal-style, and sweeps you out of his office and up the grand staircase, ignoring the shocked looks of staff at your torn dress and his roughly pulled clothing.

“We are not to be disturbed,” he barks at his valet, who blanches and leaves the room as Anthony practically throws you onto his imposing four-poster bed. Then, as you lay there, he strips naked before you, and you want to nuzzle every inch of his toned, magnificent body.

___

It’s three days before you reemerge from what is now your joint bedroom. From that day on, you are never without your husband for more than two days; such is your magnetic need for each other. And when your belly swells with the first of your many children, he confesses his ardent, undying love for you, you returning the sentiment instantly, having felt the same for what seems like forever.

A hurried, naive pact between two proud, independent souls becoming something wholly other—a loving, passionate marriage of equals. You still squabble with unerring frequency, but now it ends in lovemaking, the intensity sweeping you both into an ephemeral bliss.

A beneficial arrangement indeed.

Anthony taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @panhoeofmanyfandoms @delehosies @m-rae23 @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @jeanfreau @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @vane28282 @kisskissshutmydoor

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star-girl69 · 4 months

Text

Better Than Revenge

Clarisse La Rue x Fem!AphroditeCabin!Reader

—-

sypnosis: more jealous clarisse and this time she gets to be insane about it (I Can See You coded tbh)

a/n: soft clarisse MOVE OVER insane clarisse hiiiiiii ….anyways i hope you all enjoy!!

Better Then Revenge - Taylor Swift

warnings: possessive clarisse pleek i want you i need you, violence, swearing, punching lol, men, allusions to sex and this is just pretty suggestive, tell me if i missed anything!!

—-

The anniversary of Mr. D being sentenced to a life at Camp Half Blood has become his birthday over the years.

Of course, his children use that as an excuse to throw a rowdy party disguised as a simple bonfire.

Chiron turns a blind eye, as long as everyone swears to not give him any alcohol, and there’s still a modicum of responsibility among the camp population.

It’s one of the highlights of the summer, the heat from the fire, the dark night lit only by Selene, where it feels like you can do anything and get away with it.

It’s your first with Clarisse, and by the way she’s looking at you right now, you’re probably not gonna last more than an hour before you get dragged somewhere to make out. Which is not what you want.

You’re already in your outfit, the jean shorts you know she likes, the low-cut top you know she likes, leaning over in front of the mirror as you do your lipstick.

“Do you have something you want to say?”

Clarisse usually sits with you as you get ready for something, since you shamelessly take longer than her. She always calls you her prettiest girl, then expects you not to live up to it?

She doesn’t rush you. She’s never impatient. She just likes watching you, and it’s fun to put on a show.

She always looks at you, but something about the look in her eyes tonight is especially… feral.

“What’d you mean?” she says, smirking and leaning back on her elbows.

The Aphrodite cabin is a particular swirl of activity, but your little corner is just you and her. She refused to wear anything but her camp t-shirt and a pair of jeans, of course, but she looks good in anything.

“You’re looking at me like you want to pounce.”

“Took you this long to pick up on that?”

You laugh, bending over to grab a jewelry box that lives at the foot of your floor length mirror.

“Baby, let’s just stay back,” she groans.

“This is our first time going together, though. I want to go.”

“And I want to kiss you until we both pass out.”

“Oh, how romantic,” you whisper, holding earrings up to your ear. The dangly pearls look best. Some sort of dangerous thought slithers into your mind, and you turn around to face her with a slow smile.

“Oh, Gods. What?”

“If you can go an entire hour without kissing me…”

She looks up at you like you’ve just called her the worst warrior at camp.

“Then we’ll leave as soon as the hours up, and do whatever you want. But if you can’t, then we get to stay until I say so.”

She smirks. The only thing she loves more than you is competition, a challenge. You watch her eyes light up.

“I can do an hour.”

“Oh, really?”

“I have amazing self-control, actually.”

“Oh, really?” you repeat, drawing out the word.

“Really,” she says, rolling her eyes and mocking you.

She’s sitting on the edge of your bed, leaning back on her palms now, watching you as you step forward.

“Really,” she says again.

But her smile fades as you place your hands on her shoulders, her hands coming to your waist as you place yourself right down on her lap. She lies down and let’s you straddle her, tracing her lips with your pointer finger.

It’s so startlingly silent and tense, she can hear your breath, you can hear hers.

You squeeze her face in your hands. “Well, time to go!” you announce, climbing off of her.

“You’re a demon,” she hisses. “A witch.”

“I’m a daughter of Aphrodite,” you roll your eyes. “I prefer to be called a seductress.”

—-

The party is already buzzing when you get there, night just falling and the fire blazing high.

You wave to a few of your friends, dragging Clarisse by the hand as you lead her to the best group of chairs and benches, not too close and not too far from the fire. All of the camp counselors and the people around your age are there, drinking punch and talking amongst themselves.

You greet your half sister and head counselor of the Aphrodite cabin, Phoebe, with a kiss and a hug.

“You look so pretty, Y/N,” she smiles. “I love the pearls.”

“Thank you,” you gush. You look up to Phoebe more than you would like to admit. One day you hope to take her position, and it wouldn’t hurt to make a good impression now. “You look gorgeous.”

Clarisse’s hand falls from yours and she pushes you forward to the empty seat next to Phoebe.

You look behind you. She gives you a look that says “Are you dumb? Talk to her.”

You’re always so close to Clarisse, but she goes and sits nexts to a few of her siblings on top of a picnic table 5 feet away.

You hum and start talking to Phoebe about a few of the new arrivals about camp- you both agree one of the new boys is a son of Aphrodite, before Phoebe looks past you and cringes.

“One of the other new kids is staring at you.”

You risk a small glance.

There’s nothing special about him. Pale skin, brown hair and brown eyes. He’s not your type, to say the least, especially when you steal a look at Clarisse and find she’s already looking at you-

You stomach flips.

She taps her wrist as if there was a watch there.

“Almost halfway,” she mouths, smiling brightly.

You look pointedly back at Phoebe.

“He’s eh,” you shrug.

“If he doesn’t stop staring at us I’m gonna go insane.”

“Is he really staring?” you ask.

“Yeah. I think he thinks he’s flirting, or something? I don’t know.”

You shrug. He probably knows you’re dating Clarisse, and if he doesn’t, he probably will soon.

She bumps your shoulder.

“Any updates with Clarisse?”

You smile, playing with your fingers.

“No, not really. We’re still happy. Actually, we’re having a contest right now. If she can resist kiss me for an hour, then we’ll leave. But if she can’t, then we get to stay at the party all night.”

“Ooh, that’s evil,” she teases.

“I know, I’m having so much fun.”

You both laugh, and Phoebe opens her mouth just to close it. She fakes dropping something to lean closer to you.

“He’s coming over here.”

“Oh, Gods,” you mutter.

“Hey, ladies,” he says. His voice is deep and scratchy, like he just smoked an entire pack of cigarettes. “How y’all doin’ tonight? Enjoying the party?”

You have to stifle a laugh. Phoebe was one of the cabin leaders who helped organize the party.

“Havin’ fun,” you smile awkwardly. He stares so intensely into your eyes you have to breathe out not to laugh.

“Good, good. Either of you know where the punch station is?”

“Oh, yeah, sure, it’s right by the Apollo cabin,” Phoebe points.

He follows her finger. “Great, thanks.”

He looks at you and winks. “See you around.”

Both you and Phoebe dissolve into a fit of giggles.

—-

You make your way over to Clarisse after a second, sitting down next to her on the table. You hug your knees to your chest from where they sit on the actual bench.

“‘M cold,” you moan, rubbing your knees.

Her siblings, Carrie and Nelson are now distracted by Phoebe’s animated talking, leaving the two of you.

She wraps her arm around your shoulder, letting you lean against her.

“You wore those shorts,” she says.

“For you.”

“Oh, you’re so mean.”

“Before the challenge. And I think you mean ‘thanks for trying to make me happy, Y/N.’”

Clarisse laughs.

“Okay, pretty thing,” she mutters. “That’s what I meant.”

“Right,” you mutter, pushing yourself further against her. It’s better here, closer to the fire, but there’s still this chill in your bones.

“Stop being so close to me,” Clar mutters.

You turn to her.

“What did you just say to me?”

“It’s almost irresistible to kiss you,” she whispers. “I’m not allowed to kiss your forehead, am I?”

You put your face into her warm neck.

“Is that kissing me?” you whisper, your lips brushing her skin.

“Shut up,” she mumbles, pushing you away from her. “You’re not distracting me. I’m not losing this. One hour, then we’re going back to my cabin and staying there for a long time.”

You smile, lifting your face up from her neck to stare in her eyes. She smiles softly back at you.

“Did you see me turn around and bend over to fix my shoes?”

Her eyes blaze.

“Should have guessed that was on purpose. What’d you call yourself? A seductress? I agree.”

You smile, wrapping your arms around yourself, deciding you’ll be nice and give her a few minutes reprieve. Ares kids are always so warm, and even just being pressed slightly against her is nice.

Someone places a jacket over your shoulders. You smile, turning to Clarisse, not remembering if she had a jacket on. Did she bring one for you?

“Clar, I-”

She’s not looking at you at all. She’s staring off towards the fire, holding your hand, and you know she didn’t just give you this jacket.

Harry walks around the table, smiling.

“Looks better on you then it did me,” he says, awkwardly. “You looked cold, so…” he laughs.

Clarisse finally realizes that he’s talking to the two of you, or well, you.

“Huh?” she says, giving him a bored look. Immediately slipping back into her mean girl persona, even though she was just blushing with your face in her neck five seconds ago.

She looks at you at the corner of her eye.

You’re sitting there, frozen with his jacket over your shoulders.

“Uh…” you say, stupidly, because your mind is literally empty. What are you even supposed to do in this situation?

Clarisse grabs at the black jacket.

“She looked cold,” he says.

She finally realizes what happened.

“So, you’re hitting on my girlfriend? Right next to me?”

His smile falls. “Y-your friend, yeah-”

She rips the jacket off of you and throws it at him.

“Girlfriend,” she hisses.

“It’s not my fault,” he says, scrambling to catch his jacket, getting defensive now. He knows he fucked up, his pride is hurt. “You weren’t even touching, and she was, like, shivering-”

She stands up, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt.

“Hey, hey, Clarisse,” her sister Carrie says. “What’s going on?”

Clarisse glares at him. He starts sputtering incoherently.

Carrie raises an eyebrow towards you.

“He gave me his jacket,” you mumble, still feeling a little dazed. “Clar, c’mon, let him go.”

Carrie takes a step back. “Oh, ‘kay. I don’t care if she beats him up then,” she laughs.

“It looked like they were friends!” Harry shouts, pushing Clarisse back.

She punches him in the face.

“Clarisse!” you yell, jumping down from the table. “Don’t you dare!” you grab her arm, she’s fuming, rearing to punch him again.

A crowd has formed around you.

Harry groans and holds his bleeding nose.

“You fucking bitch,” he mutters.

“Clarisse. Clarisse, please, let’s go. Let’s just go.”

“You weren’t even that hot anyway,” he hisses.

“Don’t fucking talk about her!” she yells, jumping forward to punch him again-

“Clarisse!” you shout, not wanting her to get in trouble but you’re a second too late. Her fist flies into his cheek, but he’s prepared this time, so he takes it and counters with his own punch.

Your heart squeezes, but she blocks it, and both of their respective siblings finally jump in to hold them back.

“Oh, Gods,” you mumble, staring at his blood on the ground. At least it’s not hers. “Carrie!” you shout, giving her a pleasing look, and she nods.

“C’mon, Clarisse,” she says. “You’re very strong and tough, stop beating up the twig whose got no chance.”

It takes three of her siblings to corner her against the picnic bench.

“Giving her your fucking jacket, I should kill you!” she shouts, thrashing against her siblings hold. “She’s mine, dumbass, we’re always around each other, did you not notice?!”

“Clarisse- stop!” Carrie grunts, putting everything she has into holding her back.

“Go fuck yourself,” he groans, finally having enough common sense to cup his nose and walk away, the groups of people parting for him.

You stand there, shocked. Phoebe comes next to you.

“Oh, I love this night,” she sighs. You shoot her an unimpressed look.

After he’s gone, her siblings let a fighting Clarisse out of their holds, and she scans the crowd, but Harry really has disappeared. Her eyes find yours immediately.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, marching towards you and immediately pressing her lips against yours.

Pride is her fatal flaw. And when her ego is wounded, especially when it comes to you, she feels an inherent need to try and get it back.

She can’t beat up Harry, but showing everyone you’re hers is what you guessed she would do next.

She grabs you by the neck, the other arm wrapping around your waist, bringing you two closer together. You’re touching everywhere, kissing her is like touching her electric spear, and she finally pulls away slowly.

She can’t say that she loves you, so she just kisses your temple instead, wrapping her arm back around your shoulder.

As much as you hate violence, that was the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

—-

Clarisse drags you off to her cabin.

“Oh, fuck,” she mumbles, opening the door.

“What?” you whisper, squeezing her hand.

“The contest. We should have stayed-”

You snort. “Who gives a fuck about the contest? I’ve been swayed. Let’s go make out.”

She seems a little shocked, extremely excited, and starts ushering you towards the ladder of the loft.

“Well, who am I to deny you,” she says, holding your ass as you ascend.

“Also, stop punching people.”

“That’s where I deny you.”

You make it to the top, her hands on your waist as she follows you. She’s always touching you, like she’s addicted to you. You pretend, but you’re so in love with her you genuinely think you’re gonna fall over just thinking about her sometimes.

“Clarisse, seriously. You’re gonna get in trouble one day, and-”

She spins you around and throws you back on your bed. You yelp as she climbs on top of you.

“No. Kiss now, lecture later.”

You protest, but she shuts you up by smashing her lips into yours. It’s rough, you did tease her all night, all teeth and the sounds of your roaring heartbeats.

She starts kissing down your neck, your dig your hands into your curls.

“‘She’s mine’?” you say after a second, referencing her anger-haze of a rant.

“Yes,” she says. Softly, but not sheepishly. She says it confident and proud. “You are.”

“I am,” you mutter back, having a feeling she’s gonna leave hickey’s all over you.

You do your best to flip her over, but she’s all muscle and it’s hard, so she ends up grabbing your hips and helping you.

“What?” she gasps, confused at the change of position. Not that she’s complaining, though.

“You did lose the challenge,” you tease.

She doesn’t like to admit she lost.

You hover your lips right above hers.

“Say it.”

Her fingers dig into your hips.

“I lost,” she grits. “You won.”

“I did,” you mumble, lips grazing yours, but you’re getting bored and you want to kiss her just as bad.

And you do, your hands on her face, her fingers starting to slip under your shirt. She mumbles against your lips.

“Fuck, this is so much better than revenge.”

—-

(i’m actually the funniest person alive if you couldn’t tell)

—-

clarisse: oh, so you think i cant take care of my girlfriend? because we’re not close enough? because you think she’s cold? well guess what. now i’m never letting her out of my sight again, fuckfaces

y/n: FUCK YES i mean noooooooo noooooo that’s horrible omggg

—-

taglist:

@lvrue @t-wylia @laughingcheese037 @kroumi @urdeadpoet @colezb @rey26 @harmzilla @elliewilliamsbae @amberfreemansburntface @kyuupidwrites @neverwaakeme-up @shark1008 @liballer @heyimadison @nvirskies @pnsteblnme

@jazhandzzz @urbisexualfriend

#clarisse la rue #clarisse la rue x reader #clarisse la rue x y/n #clarisse la rue x you #pjo tv show #pjo x reader

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un-lawliet · 10 months

Text

“He Knows”

— in which you’re avoiding Gojo and he wants you to tell him why.

(or i’m coping with rejection rn pls god help me)

“You’re avoiding me.”

“Huh?!” You jump back, almost dropping your pen as you turn to see frowning Gojo Satoru staring down at you expectingly, the usually relaxed demeanour he wore crumbling in the slight dip in his brow.

It wasn’t a question, Gojo stated it as fact, and if you looked hard enough, the downwards tilt of his lips could tell you about his complete (and utter) disapproval in his conclusion.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

You were running, sprinting even away from your problems.

Avoid, avoid avoid.

You refused to let it come to this, cornered in a library with Gojo Satoru, a man you definitely were not avoiding, nope not at all.

“You.” Gojo leans down, capturing your eyes in his, “Are avoiding me.”

And you’re leaning back, in your seat, away from him. Attempting to create any distance between the pair of you, unable to stand the giddy rush of joy that the proximity generated.

A moment passed.

And then another.

And deep down you pleaded, with conviction similar to that of a desperate man crying out for God, that the floor would fall in, taking you with it and allowing you some leeway to escape.

Gojo cocks his head, blue eyes scanning your panicked face before he sighs and stands back up again, resuming his position of elevation before you.

“Why?” His voice lacked the sentiment of interrogation, he couldn’t find in himself to dwindle on anger, he missed you and he selfishly wanted you to know it, to feel guilt in your mistreatment.

“Gojo.” You started, moving your eyes away from his face to glare at the book your reading instead.

Were you sweating? You felt like you were. Oh God.

Jujutsu sorcerers were not supposed to fall for another, it was an unspoken rule shared between sorcerers.

An unspoken rule that constantly plagued your thoughts when you were near Gojo. And so, you decided confidently to yourself that you could easily get over this silly personal flaw. Surely it would be easy.

But Gojo isn’t an easy man, and falling out of love with him followed that damn trend.

At every turn of your head, your gaze found his, longing for him to catch your eyes and reassure you with his presence, boisterous, like how he handles everything. And at night, when you tossed and turned, the cruel Summer heat forcing you to wither in your bed, you wondered if he could ever dream of you like how you longed for him.

It was pathetic really.

And so yes maybe you were avoiding him.

But you were doing it with good intentions!

You weren’t about to burden him with your childish wish for his unreturned feelings. Not in this world, under these circumstances, not when he was already holding the weight of being the strongest.

“Is there something bothering ya?” Gojo paused, “Cause y’know you only have t’ ask, and I could take care of it.”

And you wanted to cry.

Because Gojo Satoru is loud, and unabashedly himself, but he cares in silence, through actions hidden behind a loud laugh and a cocky grin.

“No, no it’s nothing really.” You had to do something, to say anything.

“Nothing? I haven’t seen you in days Y/N.”

“I’ve just been busy…” You mumble, fidgeting awkwardly in your chair.

“Oh yea? With what? Reading?” Gojo scoffed, his shoulders dropping in poorly hidden exasperation.

Your cheeks burned as you nodded, unable to form words, “And missions too I guess.”

“I asked Yaga, you haven’t been on a mission since September.”

Fuck.

“Preparations for missions then.” You cringed at yourself, lowering your head in the shame of being caught in your own shitty lie.

“Come on Y/N cut the bullshit.” Gojo all but whines, “I know somethings off, I know you.” You look at him then, his shoulder slumped, and face pouting, and you felt horrible.

“It’s really nothing Gojo I swear.”

“See there!” Gojo jumped, his eyes wide with determination, a look you only ever see on him in the middle of a mission. “You called me Gojo, you never do that, it’s Satoru to you, just Satoru.”

“You’re upset because I’m not calling you by your first name?” You asked, unable to break eye contact with him.

“You use to call me Satoru.” He huffs, crossing his arms.

You had to get out of there, the fact that your confession was all but resting on your tongue scared you beyond words, and you moved to pick up your stuff.

Then you felt his hand touch yours and your froze.

“What’s going on inside that head of your Y/N.” He was so close, so, so close. You could feel the warmth of his chest that was almost pressed against your arm, “Please.”

And you crumbled, because your weak and you could never escape the way you felt when he was near you, how you could barley hold yourself back from leaning into his chest and breathing in his scent.

“Satoru.” You whispered, your confession hushed, your head down and eyes closed, “I think I like you.”

And silence.

Silence.

Silence

And you were running walking away, avoid, avoid, avoid, your feet moving fast, abandoning the books you had brought because oh my god you had just told Satoru Gojo that you liked him and that was stupid, you’re stupid, everything was stupid and-

You were pulled back into him, effortlessly turned around so that your face was in his chest, the sound of his chuckling encasing your shameful state.

“The fuck are you laughing for?” You protested, unsuccessfully trying to wriggle your way out of his embrace, his arms circling you close.

“You’re pretty when you’re embarrassed y’know?”

And you had to hold yourself back from punching him right then and there, because of course Satoru Gojo knew you liked him, of course he was teasing you.

Nothing can escape those damn eyes, and he’s smarter than he lets on.

“You’re such an asshole I hope you know that, as soon as I leave this room I am never speaking to-’

Your rambles were cut short when you felt a tiny kiss on your forehead, and you finally looked at him fully, only to see the softest expression on his face as he looked down at you.

“I think I like you too Y/N.” He winked, his hand tracing the indent of your spine as he pulled you back into a hug, rocking you gently.

And you hugged him back, finally allowing yourself the closure you had dreamed of for months.

End.

feel free to leave a request !!

masterlist here <3

( authors note: do we all wanna hear a mini rant about how the girl i fucking adore just got a boyfriend and my heart is in SHAMBLES- anyway i wrote this to cope pls enjoy,,, i love u thank u for reading have a great day <3 )

#gojo x reader #gojo satoru #jjk gojo #gojo satoru x reader #jjk leaks #hurt/comfort #soft gojo

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hxltic · 1 year

Text

“YOU’VE NEVER SQUIRTED?” KENMA

part 1 | part 2

It was actually a really awkward conversation in the kitchen of his apartment. The fresh toast sizzled against your fingers as you removed it from the toaster, the sun shined bright through his black curtains without quit, and because it was in his disposition to be up ungodly hours, you incorrectly assumed he’d hibernate in his room so you planned to head to your friend’s house for breakfast in a full face and clothes you never wore. Or technically, a full face and clothes you only wore out to places you cared about. Otherwise, you didn’t really dress to impress.

500 FOLLOWERS?!

Footsteps sounded from afar and you retrieved the jelly from the fridge mindlessly.

“Where we going?”

Kenma taunted from his seat found on the island stool. You assumed he’d just woken up, accompanied with doing his daily hygiene because his soft voice still had the slightest rasp to it.

“We?” You jokingly snapped back. Kenma scoffed lightheartedly at you. The refrigerator door closed with a slight push, and Kenma sighed to where he could ask again. Some almost fully black stands came to fall in front of his face as he leaned forward on the cold, stone counter and his hair was pulled into a small ponytail, nothing left of the noticeable blonde but disproportional ends that fall into his large hoodie.

“Where are you going?”

You grab the plate but forget the juice for the morning. Back you go to the fridge almost in a rush.

“I’m going to a friend’s for breakfast, it’s this party thing she hosts every year,” you explain. “Almost like a friendsgiving. She takes it suuuuper serious.”

The juice is in one hand, a random cup in another. You twist around to pour the liquid on the island instead of the main countertop so you could engage in quick conversation with Kenma. As he got older he’s become more expressive and outgoing, just willingly reserved. He has, however, become a handful; and having lived with him, you’ve seen him take shots like a champ. You see his aloofness dissolve, his eyebrow coming up the slightest bit.

“And you’re eating breakfast before going to eat breakfast?” He slowed the pace of his words around the end of the sentence like he was judging you.

“I have to eat in the morning still, or I’ll pass out before I even get there Kenma! I’m kinda a little late though so you can heckle me when I get back.”

“Uhuh…”

Kenma hummed in response with an inconspicuous smirk on his face. You wouldn’t have even seen it if it weren’t for you waiting to see his reaction of your flawless vocabulary. He was however, changing his position to leaning back in the chair, already staring you incredulously. It was somewhat close to a manspread, his hands were tucked into the hoodie pockets, and the sight was way too much for you to handle this early in the morning.

So, you turned around to tend to your idle plate with jelly-less toast on it. You didn’t like Kenma specifically, persay, you would’ve liked it if any boy looked at you like that. Yeah. Don’t think too much about it.

Anyway, with the slide of a drawer you withdrew the knife and got to work. Unbeknownst to you, Kenma had not taken his eyes off your body. Your hair was still slightly wet but it made it easier for you to style. It was up. The backless halter top you wore was connected only by a string at your nape, and it left skin between that and your skinny jeans that fell down to your open toe, clear strap heels. You were dressed perfect for the summer occasion of a girls day out. And he was absolutely sulking in it.

“You look good.”

You hate the slight pause in your actions. You hate the way you had to question if he was talking to you or not, even if you were the only one in the house. You hate that you refuse to turn around to him. You hate the giddy smile that decorated your face. You hate that you had to cover up how everything you hated affected you, so you say “Thank you; flatter me more.”

He just outwardly chuckled, and ended with a “Maybe.” He starts again, “Hey is this who you were on the phone with last night? Who’s at the party I mean.”

“Hm?” Your chin did lead over your shoulder at this. “Yes actually, I’m surprised I’m up as early as I am considering she kept me up all night.” You resume.

“Tell her I said she should break up with him.”

You agree, “I will; she definitely needs to hear it.”

…

Suddenly, you snap your head back around quick enough to give you whiplash. You don’t get embarrassed easily, but you had to be blushing like a bitch.

This time Kenma’s smirk was very noticeable. You blink warily at him.

“Ken… how much did you hear?” Your voice was soft with curiosity mixed and thrown into fear. He just shrugged casually and quickly switched to an innocent façade. One thing you learned about him over the years: he has a badass poker face. And he’s a dick.

Such a dick, in fact, that after reassuring “I wasn’t eavesdropping so I didn’t hear much,” he let you take deep breaths of relief and turn back around to lather your second piece of toast. You felt the golden, low, cat-like eyes burning through the back of your head—so with indecision and obscurity—you looked over your shoulder again. He wore a shit eating grin.

You pointed the butterknife at him accusingly.

“You fucking liar! You heard all of it!!”

Kenma just smiled menacingly.

“I did hear all of it actually; but pushing that aside, why do I feel like I’ve never heard you say some of the words you said?” He tilts his head to the side, completely dismissing you.

“Kenma!?”

“Say pussy.”

This made you stop. You found him unbelievable, and you’d never admit what hearing him say pussy does to your mind, but his head was sideways in pure amusement like he was waiting on you to do it.

“Kenma. What.”

“Say it.”

You just stared at each other.

“Pussy,” you finally repeated. After lingering in the air a bit Kenma’s eyes went wide and he threw his head back to diminish into laughter.

“Kenmaaa.” You groaned loudly. He only laughed harder. “What all did you hear? Seriously!”

He calmed down to just a grin and ushered you to be as well with the palm of his hand.

“Okay okay—mainly the part where she explains how she hates the guy because she feels like he ignores her and has never made her cum—plus some other stuff, blah blah, that’s basically it,” He rambles.

It was your turn for your eyes to run wide, so in astonishment that your body couldn’t even address the other words that rolled out his mouth so easy. “I don’t want basically, I want all of it,” you declare.

“There’s not much more unless you’re including all the other dumb shit he did? Like how he told his friends she did something even if she didn’t, and she felt invalidated about it. I have amazing input on these types of situations by the way.”

Kenma was saying all this without any negative emotion, relaying it to you with normalcy. “The only thing after that was about yourself.”

You roll your eyes, but bingo. So he did hear it. He heard what you didn’t want him to. Your face may have dropped a tiny bit.

“…What was it? About how…I have—“

“—never squirted?” He finishes. Your chest tightened a little, and your face was red with what was anger transforming into something else. His ordinary apathetic gaze was locked on yours for a tiny moment, so you made it your responsibility to look away and grab your food.

“Gotta go now, I’m already late.” You swiftly unhooked the keys from the wall and opened the door. It wasn’t his fault he heard (because to be honest you two weren’t the quietest last night during your girl talk), but just now the fact that he knew upset you. Your best friend made it seem so easy, like she does it all the time, and it just made you seem like you were missing out how she explained it.

However, on your way out, Kenma did call for you from the kitchen. “Not everyone can do it,” He said. It was reassurance, you assume, but it didn’t really come off as such. He then says (more to himself you also assume), “Not everyone can make you do it either.”

This sat with you the whole breakfast/brunch party, champagne being passed around like candy but nothing could stop you from thinking about it. Of course it being a whole room of the closest friends, she re-explained last night’s gossip, the effects hitting you again as your friends chimed in on the situation. Was it really as good as they say?

——•——

You unlocked the house door, the apartment dim and quiet. It was around four now, you weren’t completely sober, and your heels clacked along the tile.

Dropping your arm to sit your purse on the counter and hang the keys, you undo a single strap and slip the shoes off. You carry them in your hand for the journey to your room.

Of course before you can reach your door, there’s Kenma’s slightly cracked open one to remind you of what he said. Not everyone can make you do it either.

What does that even mean; can’t you do it alone? Do you need someone else for it?

You weren’t dumb and at least knew what he was implying. It was an offer. Or maybe it wasn’t, and you’re just horny. Either way you find yourself stopped in front of the entrance to his room. You don’t bother to knock, it falls open with a slight push of your free hand.

Kenma resides at his setup, on his phone, the mic wrapped around his neck. The few moving lights in his room softly radiated from his pc, making him appear to be different strong shades of red and orange depending on when you looked. He didn’t seem to be streaming. Or he could be—he isn’t the nicest to his viewers.

He casts you a glance past his hair but dismisses your presence. You don’t really ever come into his room except to just grab something and go, usually a hair product.

You take a few steps inside. Then, you leisurely drop the heels at his bedside so he finally acknowledges your company.

“Ken?” Your delicate voice breaks the silence of the outside, completely unsure if there was music running through his headphones.

He clicks his phone off so you have his full attention.

“What’s up? How was it?”

You continued taking slow steps forward, with only one thing on your mind. And it wasn’t the party. “It was okay.”

Kenma surveys how you have yet to halt, inching closer and closer to him. It only took a slight examination of your face to see the solemnity. Blankness. He stands up from his seat and removes the headset from himself in concern before you can get any closer.

“You sure? You don’t look—“

“—Kenma. What did you say earlier?” You whisper. He was now directly in front of you.

He pauses for a second and his face converts to disbelief. “Are we still talking about the squirt thing?” He smiles mischievously, “I was just letting you know not to worry about it so much.”

You hate that word. It’s so gross sounding, so vulgar. But you can’t bring yourself to get him to stop saying it.

“Well I have been, so what happens now?” You peer strangely at each other, both acutely aware of where this was going.

“And you’re coming to me for this, why?” The ravenette taunts. He knew exactly why you were in his room right now, the curiosity having ate away at you all day. Like an itch that won’t go. You’ve gotta give in if this’ll go anywhere.

“Well you seem to know a lot about it…” you fumble with your bracelet nervously. You’ve gotten this far. “Could you…maybe help me?”

Kenma makes no sudden movements. He scans you suspiciously. A slight flush of red may have spread across your cheeks, but the darkness around you was protective. Hearing it actually come out of your mouth was a whole different story than imagining it.

“You want me to make you squirt?” He confirmed.

You may have physically cringed at that sentence because his hands find his sweat pockets in a ‘you said it not me’ manner.

“Yes.”

He scanned you again for good measure.

“Alright.”

With this he turned on his heel, stepped away, and sat in his gaming chair again. You stood there blankly, unaware of what to do. “Come here.”

You follow him to his setup. He sighs because he could see how uncomfortable you were.

“What usually do you do to get off?” He questions. He twists you around by your hips, your back facing him.

“Uh…It’s just kinda alone in my room I guess. I use my fingers usually.” You tried to keep your voice low enough to cure your embarrassment. Kenma, however, seemed to be doing this with ease. In fact, as he was asking you questions, he massaged your hips and waist soothingly.

“Is that it? You don’t watch or think about anything?”

You turn your head, “No. Am I supposed to?”

“I mean it’s not mandatory but you gotta think about something.”

“Whatever. Jeez, Kenma just say you think about me already.” You quip. Whatever he was doing was working, you were loosening up.

“Only when I’m about to cum. How do you like to be talked to?”

What?

You weren’t even going to ask about it. It was probably a joke anyway.

A moment of processing silence passed. “I don’t really know how I like to be talked to. Guys have tried to praise or degrade me but it never worked, so I just assumed I didn’t like the talk at all.”

He tugs on the shirt string at your neck. He watches you tense up at the action, so he rubs your trap in slow, circular motions instead. “If I say I like to be praised, all they do is say ‘good girl’ over and over. Gets kinda boring you know?” Is this you venting to Kenma about your boring sex life? Of course. You mess with your nails as you face away from him. Not for long though, because he turns you around.

“This is what I meant by not everyone can make you do it. Only you can guarantee yourself the highest pleasure 100% of the time,” Kenma drags you by your belt loops so you fall into the chair against him, “and me.”

He was so close now, your knees sliding under the chair arm. His breath could be felt on your skin and his hands were still pawing at your waist to glide up your back. You couldn’t bring yourself to put your full weight on him. However, he pulls you down anyway, and manually places your hands along his clothed chest so you could calm down. That was all he wanted from you right now. To relax and to take deep breaths.

“Warnings would be great Ken.”

“Yeah, but you said you don’t like to talk.��

“I don’t.”

“So should I warn you about how hard you make me dressed up like that?”

You moderately gasped at the comment placed right into your collarbone. You pressed down a tiny bit farther to see if you could feel it. You could. His breath fanned against your body and airy kisses lead.

You wonder where all of Kenma’s shyness over the years went because now you would never have guessed him to be like this. The friction fuels him to push you more.

Kenma could go on and on about these random intrusive thoughts he only gets at night—the only time where you seem to engulf his brain. Living with you over the years has been fine with zero temptation, but recently, it’s been like a hormone specifically for you snapped in his body. He feels the way you roll your hips the smallest bit for yourself. You liked the talk, just not the guys.

Soft fingers pull on a single string near your hair, releasing your breasts from the top as the fabric folded downwards between the two of you.

©️ hxltic

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welcometowhore-rrorville · 10 months

Text

𝒦𝒾𝓁𝓁𝑒𝓇 𝐼𝓃 𝐵𝑒𝒹

Featuring: Michael Myers, Jason Voorhees, Bo Sinclair, Vincent Sinclair

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: nsfw, mdni, smutty headcanons, virginity mention, dirty talk, rough sex, just general nasty things

Michael Myers

Let’s be honest—this man was a virgin before you showed up

He was in a mental institution from a young age—not exactly the best place to fuck

Still, that certainly didn’t stop him

He picked up on what to do fast—it’s not all that difficult

Still, he definitely focused on himself

Whether or not you came was not his problem

You have to take matters into your own hands when it comes to that, using your fingers to work at your clit

Most of the time your body is jostled around to much to do so

He’s not gentle

Whatsoever

Things will be broken

The bed?

A bone?

Who knows

You have so so many marks

Bruises

Cuts

You always look like you fell through a wood chipper

It’s not like you could reason with him, though

“Hey, can you, I don’t know, be gentle for once and not fuck me against a countertop?”

Yea, that would go over well

He gets. . . better. . . eventually

Still mostly selfish

But may rub against your clit as he’s pounding into you

By accident?

Unclear

Expect to walk with a permanent limp

RIP

Definitely into knife-play

So many shredded clothes

C’mon, what’d you expect?

The mask stays on during sex

Obviously

If he’s super comfortable he might pull it up enough to bite you

But don’t expect to catch a glimpse of his face

After-care? What’s that?

You clean yourself up 99% of the time

The only time he’s ever done anything was when you passed out during sex and woke up in your bed

Other than that, you don’t expect him to provide any cuddles

He doesn’t even sleep in the same bed at night

Jason Voorhees

Tries his best to be so so so gentle with you

Also a virgin before you showed up

Not many people were lining up to fuck an undead monster haunting a summer camp

He’s. . . big. . . everywhere

It takes a while before you’re even able to take him properly

It’s not that you were unprepared, but at the slightest flinch of your face Jason would pause and refuse to touch you again for hours

You made sure to explain that you were fine and that you weren’t made of glass

But he was still petrified of hurting you

Still, when he finally calms enough to fully fuck you one night, you’re seeing stars

He’s slow and cautious, but eventually something lights a fire within him

Rubs his masked face into your neck apologetically as he rams into you

When you’re walking funny the next day he carries you everywhere

You don’t blame him for getting carried away sometimes, and even enjoy a little roughness more-often-than-not

He tries his best with after-care but is pretty clueless as what to do with you

When you’re exhausted and curled in on yourself he thinks he’s permanently hurt you

You tell him gently to run you a bath

Will attach himself to your hip and snuggle you until one of you is forced to get up

Nestles his masked nose against any marks he may have caused, letting out a low whimper

You run your hand down his back

“I’m okay. You didn’t hurt me. I’m okay.”

Tries to make your pleasure his number one priority

Will listen intently as you bashfully explain what you want and like

Does as told

He’s a little rough, massive fingers toying with your clit hard enough to have you wincing

But eventually he gets the hang of it

Refuses to cum until you have

Even when you’re giving him head, he always has to be touching you in some way, getting you off just as much as your getting him off

Sometimes he can’t help himself and cums before you, only to let out a low whine of disappointment, like he was ashamed of himself

You’re never far behind, anyways

One of the most selfless lovers you’ve ever had

The fact he doesn't speak doesn't even cross your mind

He gets his points across fine with his actions and occasional low rumbles

And you were never much for dirty talk, anyway

Bo Sinclair

He’s a wild-card

Some days he’s feeling generous enough to nestle his head between your legs, other days he’s got you gagging on his dick until can’t breathe

You’re unsure of what impacts his attitude, every night getting ready to expect something different

You supposed he had a lot of things happen in life, you couldn’t blame him for being a little hot-and-cold about things

Regardless of what’s happening, he’s got a lot to say about it

If he’s not growling in your ear, teasing you with dirty words as he rams into you, then he’s moaning loudly against your lips or neck

You don’t think he’s ever quiet for more than a few seconds

What he says varies, too

Some days it’s nothing but praise

“Whatta good girl you are. C’mon, sweetheart. You can do it. Almost there—there it is, darlin’. Don’t you look like a beauty chokin’ on my cock?”

“That’s it, beautiful. Keep sayin’ my name. Feel good, huh? Don’t close those pretty lips of yours. I wanna hear ya when I fuck ya.”

Other days he’s grabbing your ass harshly, scolding you for muffling your moans against his neck

“The fuck you think you’re doin’? You’re nothin’ but a whore, don’t try ‘nd be bashful now.”

“What a slut. Look how wet you are for me. Gettin’ off on the thought of me fuckin’ you, bitch?”

It’s enough to give you whiplash

Still, you can’t complain that it’s boring

And it’s not like you don’t get your own enjoyment out of it

Whether or not he lingers after he fucks you depends on nothing in particular

Sometimes he’ll pull you close and press a kiss to your forehead, mumbling praises in your ear as he caresses your body

Other times he’ll put his boxers back on and rest against the door frame, just staring at you as you clean yourself up

He never leaves without making sure you’re alright, though

No matter how rough he was with you he gently traces over your body, making sure nothing hurt to bad

Then he’s back to his cocky self, trying to pretend he didn’t just treat you like a princess

There’s always marks littering your neck and shoulders

The sight of them is enough to let any tourists know to fuck off

You tried to cover them once with a high collared shirt but it only ended with more hickies and bite marks, this time high enough on your neck that even a turtle neck couldn’t hide them

He’s possessive, always having an arm or hand around you when talking to strangers that come by

He’ll, even around his own brothers he’s like that

He’s always smacking your ass or planting a kiss to your lips, leaving you to yelp in surprise

This man has a breeding kink

That’s just the facts

The thing is, the idea of having a kid makes him gag

He’s not a fan of the little gremlins

But something about you—thighs wrapped around his hips as he cums into you—the fullness of your cunt—the slight bulge of your belly—always gets him going

Maybe it’s the distant idea of raising a half-normal family for once

For now, you stay on birth control

Vincent Sinclair

He’s extremely introverted and self-conscious

You have to be the one to initiate most things

Even then he’s unsure of himself

He’s afraid he’ll scare you somehow

The first time you two are intimate it’s simply soft touches, your lips trailing over his skin as your hands stroke at his dick

It’s not sex

It’s too soft for that

You hated to use the word love-making, but you supposed that’s what it was

After his confidence is built up enough to take control, he catches on fast

He has a niche for precise finger-work, given his work as a sculptor, and has you cumming on his hands more times than you can count

He keeps his mask on 99% of the time

You don’t force him to do otherwise

It’s his comfort object

As long as he’s happy, you’re happy

Still, there are times where he pulls it off, only to hide himself between your legs

The first time he ate you out, he insisted upon a blanket draped over your bottom half, but he’s past that now, knelt down in front of you, fingers clutched against your thighs as he pushes his tongue further inside of you

You make sure to praise him every time he makes you feel good—wanting him to know it was him getting you off

It definitely helped his self-esteem

He’s still distant when others are around, but you’ve gotten to the point where you can sit in his lap and play with his hair while Bo lounges on the couch

Bo still gives you two playful taunts, but he’s just happy his brother found someone

Though he really needs to invest in some ear-muffs if you keep up with the moaning at god-knows-how-late-at-night

*cough* waxplay *cough*

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slttygeto · 9 months

Text

CURSING MY NAME, WISHING I STAYED.

જ⁀➴ synopsis: you never got the chance to say goodbye to each other in 2007, you never thought you needed to. ten years later, you are still unable to find the right words as you stand in front of his lifeless body. if suguru geto was truly dead, who was the man standing in front you almost a year later?

જ⁀➴ content warning: angst, hurt/no comfort, manga spoilers, slapping and choking.

જ⁀➴ word count: 1,4k

જ⁀➴ note: this was requested about a year ago and I only got the chance to work on it today. enjoy :)!

You never associate Suguru with spring, despite it being such a lovely season, you remember it being the one season where he decided he needed to pull away. It was subtle, but you could feel it. He ate less, spoke less, he didn’t want to hang out as usual. You didn’t go on missions anymore, but you tried to be present. Even when summer came around and all hell broke loose.

You associate Suguru with autumn. Satoru doesn’t say a single word when you say it loud, when you tell him that that the orange leaves falling down and painting the road remind you of your past lover, how your love for him felt that way when he left—fragile, easily crushed. But Satoru would beg to differ. He could see it in your eyes, how they refuse to meet his when Yaga brings up the man’s name. It hurts to lose a best friend, but it hurts even more when you have a best friend and a lover in the same person.

Ten years later on Christmas Eve, Satoru has to put his best friend to rest. He doesn’t need to call you or tell you where he is, you just know. You show up as Suguru is taking his last breath and you stand there, unmoving. Your love for Suguru didn’t feel like autumn anymore. The tears running down your face were warm, and your chin was quivering as you let out a pathetic sob.

“I’m sorry.” What was Suguru apologizing for? For killing people or for betraying the people he loved the most? You couldn’t bring yourself to say anything, didn’t even bother to wipe the tears blurring your vision. You just stared at him, how a smile was dancing on his lips as he saw the two people he loved the most standing in front of him.

“Perhaps in another life,” Suguru’s voice is quiet, and you seem to take notice of how pale he looks. “I am who you’ve always wanted me to be.”

You wanted him to be many things, but it seemed unfair for him. If Suguru was truly unhappy while in Jujutsu high, then maybe you were never meant to be together. If he couldn’t wear a heartfelt smile in this world, then perhaps destiny played its cards wrong. If you were never able to keep Suguru around, then Suguru was never yours to keep in the first place.

You watch as the life slowly fades out of his body, and Satoru turns away from the corpse of his best as you kneel down in front of it and hold his lifeless body in your arms, the heart wrenching sobs that you let out force the strongest sorcerer to stand behind you and place a hand on your shoulder.

“It’s time to go.”

“You’re late, (name).” You never associated Suguru with autumn after his death. In fact, no season could do your past lover justice. Yet the person standing in front of you reminded you of winter—cold, mean and lifeless.

Why was Suguru standing in front of you?

You and Satoru are unmoving as the familiar body of your best friend and lover approaches the two of you. You don’t speak, your lips are frozen as you stare in shock at the same person whom you’ve been mourning his death for the past twelve months.

Geto Suguru passed away on December 24th. You’ve been mourning his absence for almost a year—so who was this person standing in front of you?

“I don’t remember you being this quiet, my love.” The pet name sent shivers down your spine, and you watched as the hand of your past lover reached towards your face to hold it. You craved this, to be held by him again after so long, to feel the warmth of the one person who promised you a lifetime of happiness—only to break that promise so soon. You pull away harshly when the tip of his fingers touches your cheek, and Geto Suguru seems to find your hesitance extremely funny.

“Who are you?” You step back towards Gojo, and you don’t need to look his way to know that he was just as taken aback as you were. Wide blue eyes staring in shock at his best friend—his one and only. It was sad that Geto Suguru (while he was still alive) was your enemy for longer than he was a loved one or a best friend.

“Geto Suguru of course.” Liar.

“My six eyes…” Satoru starts, and your heart breaks at how panicked he sounds. “My six eyes are telling me that you are Geto Suguru.”

But he wasn’t Suguru. This wasn’t the man you fell for, nor the man you fought last year. You refused to believe that he somehow came back to life. Not when you kneeled in front of his corpse and held him in your arms.

“But my soul knows otherwise! So hurry up and tell us, who the hell are you?!”

It’s a gut wrenching feeling as you watch the man in front of you open up Geto’s head and toy with it as he wished. He lets out an ugly laugh, one that doesn’t match Suguru’s beauty.

“It’s a cursed technique that allows me to hop between bodies by switching brains. Of course, it lets me use the innate techniques within the body, I coveted his cursed manipulation and these exact circumstances.” His eyes then land on you and a sinister smile is dancing on his lips.

“You,” he starts, taking one step forward towards you. “As pathetic as you seem in this man’s memories, begged Gojo Satoru and Shoko Ieiri to not get rid of Geto Suguru’s body, am I right?”

As pathetic as you seem in this man’s memories.

You didn’t know what to react to first. His words felt like a thousand burning knives, each one stabbing you from a different side. You fight back the urge to jump on him, you know you’re at disadvantage because Satoru was bound to this prison realm.

“I did.” Your response is short and quick, and the man in front of you chuckles at how dry you sound.

“He loves you a lot, you know?” Kenjaku pauses for a second, and the time he takes before continuing makes you feel as though he was mocking you. “Always wished he could trade places with the strongest sorcerer. You two were close, it always nagged him.”

This wasn’t true. This could never be true because Satoru and Suguru were closer than ever. You don’t remember a single instance where you felt as though Suguru was jealous of his best friend. This man was trying to shatter you in hopes of trapping you the same way he trapped Gojo Satoru.

“How are you gonna let yourself get used like this, huh?” Satoru sounds enraged. “Tell me, Suguru!”

You are just as shocked as Kenjaku when his neck twists, a sign of resistance when hearing Satoru’s loud yell. It was almost as if he heard him and wanted to wake up, to free himself of the man who was using his body to toy with the feelings of his loved ones. He then laughs, and again it sounds evil as he shakes his head in disbelief.

“Ha! No way! This is a first for me,” his eyes then fall on your frozen figure and by the look on his face, he was up to no good.

His hand makes its way towards you and wraps around your neck, you get that his intention was to choke you. But when his hand refuses to squeeze around your neck, the look on his face turns into an annoyed one. Kenjaku couldn’t hurt you, Suguru didn’t let him.

Unfortunately, he still had more control than the original soul occupying the body and his hand manages to grab your neck and push you up against the wall, knocking the wind out of your chest.

“You’re getting in the way.” No matter how hard Gojo tried to shift the attention back on him, Kenjaku seemed to want to get rid of you and as fast as possible. You find yourself thrown next to Satoru, tied up in similar bounds.

“Goodnight, my love.” His hand caresses your cheek, and you’re forced to feel his cold touch against your skin. You hear a smack and your cheek stings, teary eyes forced to stare into his cold ones when he roughly grabs your jaw.

“Let us meet in the new world.”

2023 ; all works belong to @ slttygeto. do not repost my works on any other platofrm.

#moon's works #jujutsu geto #geto suguru #geto x reader #geto x you #getou suguru x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk geto #jjk x reader #jjk angst #jjk season 2 #jjk spoilers

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arkhammaid · 3 months

Text

— ˚₊‧⁺˖THE LIGHTNING ON TRACK | THE GRID'S REACTION

fandom. formula one & mcu

about. the grid reacts to the news!

content warnings. some drivers are acting like assholes, some cursewords, 23!grid

notes. have another reaction chapter hehe

daniel ricciardo Guys

Guys wake up

IT'S IMPORTANT

lando norris ???

daniel it's 5am, why are you spamming rn

carlos sainz It's summer break, why can't you all shut up for once

daniel ricciardo Did no one see the news? Stark is coming to F1

carlos sainz To a race?

daniel ricciardo No you shithead, he's making a team

charles leclerc !!!!

lando norris at this point you'll never win monaco (because once stark joins, there no longer will BE monaco) charles leclerc Fuck you, nowins

daniel ricciardo This is serious... Tony fucking Stark wants to create an F1 team for the next season. @/max verstappen your winning streak will be over

charles leclerc Next season??? I thought for 26?

lewis hamilton Of course he would do that

charles leclerc Lewis, explain?? daniel ricciardo Yeah Lewis, please explain?

lewis hamilton Did any of you ever meet Tony? He will probably see the next season as test for the 2026 season. To train his mechanics and engineers and go all out. I bet many are saying it's a waste of money

carlos sainz It is a waste of money.

daniel ricciardo Yeah, they do. Reactions vary but 'experts' are saying that Tony is just wasting his time and should properly prepare for 26

lewis hamilton Knowing him, he already has a fully built car for 2026 and it's a beast.

fernando alonso Only the best for his daughter!

charles leclerc What. lando norris wdym his daughter??

george russell Why are you all awake at this bloody hour?

kevin magnussen Read the room. Everyone is in schock.

sergio perez Stupid. She will fail like every woman in motorsport with a rich father. Too dramatic.

lando norris i'm still confused???

oscar piastri Tony Stark has three children. Harley Keener-Stark, Y/n L/n-Stark, Peter Parker-Stark. Y/n is his only biological child and currently racing in Formula 3. She won Formula 4 last year.

charles leclerc I thought he only had sons?? When did Y/n appear? oscar piastri She 'appeared' the first time in January this year as Tony's daughter, no one knew before. lando norris how did you know? oscar piastri Google exists.

carlos sainz So daddy's money... great.

max verstappen I swear to god I will leave this chat the next time you all decide to fucking gossip at 6am like old women

daniel ricciardo It's important news!

max verstappen No it's not. Stark will be in F1 for a few years maximum and then leave again. It will pass

daniel ricciardo @/lewis hamilton you here? Don't you have anything else to add??

Fine, I'll guess I just ask the rest of the grid, you fucking bore.

daniel ricciardo @/everyone wakey wakey, it's time to wake up and talk!

mick schumacher Daniel? What's up?

george russell Ignore him. He has been annoying us because Tony Stark is coming to F1 and no one really cares. charles leclerc Lies and slander! I care!! lando norris yeah! me as well, idk what you're yapping abt

carlos sainz It's bullshit.

arthur leclerc Why do I have a bad feeling about Monaco...

ollie bearman THAT'S WHAT I'VE BEEN THINKING bianca bustamante It will be something for sure

lance stroll Well, I'm just happy to see another friendly face at the paddock :)

carlos sainz Of course you know Stark.

lance stroll You're just jealous esteban ocon As am I??? I'm your best friend AND MY BEST FRIEND HAS THE POTENTIAL OF KNOWING SPIDER-MAN???? AND YOU DIDN'T TELL ME???????

daniel ricciardo I want everyone who knows anything related to Stark to immediately share with us because Lewis is ignoring me and I need to know. The only info we have right now, is that Stark will make a F1 team and that's it. I refuse to believe that's it. So, @/mick schumacher @/lance stroll spill the beans.

mick schumacher He didn't say anything last time I saw him, so I can't help you much.

lance stroll I know nothing, ask my dad.

daniel ricciardo I don't believe you.

pato o'ward If they say they don't know anything, then they don't? I don't know what's the problem, just wait for the next press release

max verstappen Do you even know Daniel. He's unable to wait for gossip. And he classifies this as gossip

daniel ricciardo Gee, thanks, feeling the love here

nico hülkenberg I wake up to 100+ notifications, why are you all like this?

kevin magnussen They're all idiots.

kevin magnussen @/tony stark could you please speed up with the press release? Daniel is setting all grid chats on fire and it's not funny anymore.

y/n stark ha, weak ass bitch kevin magnussen Watch your mouth missy

tony stark Should I tag Seb in a Tweet to announce it?

peter stark do it y/n stark do it harley stark do it

pepper potts-stark Don't do it. We will proceed with the plan. No matter how annoying the people in your private life are.

kevin magnussen Yes, ma'am, sorry for asking.

sebastian vettel I deserve more than a Tweet at 10am.

y/n stark speak your truth king peter stark sorry for suggesting otherwise (@/yn stark stop being such an attention seeker, we all know seb loves charles the most) y/n stark but charles is not here rn is he?

daniel ricciardo @/kevin magnussen EXPLAIN YOURSELF?!

carlos sainz What is going on now...

charles leclerc KMAG FOR STARK???? I didn't put this on my bingo card, now I lost 100 bucks. Fuck you Kevin

arthur leclerc Pay up bitch

oscar piastri Well done, man

nico hülkenberg And so he leaves he burning, ever sinking ship... the true hero- sorry, I meant coward

daniel ricciardo @/kevin magnussen I KNOW YOU'RE ONLINE YOU COWARD, COME HERE

I just want to talk to you

kevin magnussen No.

*kevin magnussen has left the chat*

fernando alonso There is your answer

several people are typing...

taglist. @lilypadlover , @adorablezhui , @peqch-pie , @keyz-writes , @obsidianjewel, @themercyverse , @lem-hhn , @akiraquote , @kiiyoooo , @nichmeddar , @nothingfuninthislife , @minkyungseokie , @fionaschicken , @lyrasconstellation , @spideybv28 , @keii134 , @starssfall , @tpwkstiles, @fangirl-dot-com , @nichmeddar , @lady-laura-speaks , @nikfigueiredo , @hinamesgigantica , @brakingboundaries , @almostjollypizza , @yoremins , @raizelchrysanderoctavius , @celesteblack08 , @watermelon-sugars-things , @lighttsoutlewis , @radiantdanvers , @vellicora, @sterredem , @hiireadstuff , @jolixtreesunn , @mypage-myfandoms , @nelly187 @greeneyesandsunshine , @fulla02 , @welovediaaxx , @whyamireadingthis , @67-angelofthelordme-67 , @blueberry64857959 , @winchesterwife27 , @six-call , @skywalker1dream , @mellowarcadefun , @cherry-piee , @peterholland04 , @motorsportloverf1 , @renarots , @msbyjackal , @woozarts , @leclucklerc , @yl90

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ARKHAM MAID 2024

#f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 smau #f1 social media au #f1 scenario #f1 x female reader #f1 female driver #fem!driver #female driver #kevin magnussen x reader #tony stark x reader #peter parker x reader #harley keener x reader #sebastian vettel x reader #f1 imagine #— ˚₊‧⁺˖ creations #— ˚₊‧⁺˖ lightning on track

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littlestarlightseverywhere · 3 months

Text

Do Your Worst

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel’s lover is having a hard time, but no amount of acting out can push him away

Warnings: mentions of violence (torture)

Notes: Sorry for the silence, I’ve been having terrible writer’s block but I think I did okay with this one!

Image Credit: Pinterest

Today was rubbish. Probably one of her worst days yet.

It had been exactly two months since Hybern captured her from Azriel’s post and took her to their war camp deep in the Spring Court’s woods. Exactly two months since she’d been tortured for information she’d die before giving up. Exactly two months since she’d made peace with her death. Rhys couldn’t track her immediately, Mor and Feyre’s searches came up empty each time, and even Azriel’s shadows couldn’t pick up a clue. Azriel had driven himself mad, downright insane, trying to find her. Each day he spent every waking hour looking for clues, scouring the forests for her scent, and each day he returned to bed with nothing to show for it. It took Amren and Nesta a month to finally locate her. In that month she laid cut and bruised, chained to a wooden post like an animal, struck, cut, and burnt for every question she refused to answer. They left her in the middle of that camp, exposed to the heat of the day, the cold of the night, the rain, the wind, and the thunder. They made her into a spectacle.

She only thought of her family, her Azriel, the entire time. My Azriel, she’d think each time they brutalized her. My Azriel, my Azriel, my Azriel. Rhys collapsed when she allowed him into her mind after they brought her home. He would never forgive himself for sending her on that mission, nor would he ever show his brother what she’d shown him, for Azriel very well would have sent Prythian to immediate war.

And while the cuts, bruises, burns, and broken bones would heal completely, the skin of her back would forever be changed, marred with angry, raised scars from a heavy leather whip. She could barely walk.

The first time Azriel saw the lashes on her back, he was helping her undress the night she returned home. Each movement caused her to cry out in pain. She tried to bite her lip, clench her fist, grip Azriel’s arm, tried anything to keep from crying, but nothing helped– the pain was too much. It would’ve been a mercy from the Mother to fall apart, limb by limb, bone by bone, instead.

Azriel had seen all the other scars when Madja was working on her; those alone made him sick and wild with a hideous rage, potent enough to crumble the mountains surrounding the city into nothing more than powder on the ground. The lashes on her back– the thought of some wretched male stripping her and lashing a whip over her soft, warm skin in the mud and rocks– filled him with a fury so intense, so horrid, he could’ve wrapped his bare arms around the sun and pulled it down to earth. Set everything on fire.

That very night, with names in his ear courtesy of the shadows and Cassian and Rhys positioned at her door, Azriel made each of those names pay. He was back by sunrise, tucked into bed beside her, wing draped over her restless body, and she was none the wiser.

“You’re killing it,” Madja’s appointed physical therapist, Jarrah, encouraged as he watched her do her exercises. He was tall and muscled with glittering, golden-brown skin, looking ever the Summer Court high fae that he was.

“It’s killing me,” she ground the words out, mincing each syllable as they passed through her teeth. Pain gripped her legs, lower back, and upper arms like a vise as she fought to complete a rep, the movements squeezing every last bit of energy out of her and collecting on the mat below in puddles of sweat. “I can’t do it, Jarrah.”

“You can and you will,” he squared his shoulders at her, smile fading as he willed her to find her strength again. In recovery, he’d taught her, there were good days and there bad days– healing was not a linear process.

Some days she did well in physical therapy and pushed herself– the pain only meant she was getting stronger. Azriel would be absolutely beside himself with pride and their friends echoed as much.

Other days, her body seemed to give out in protest, the pain too unbearable, and she’d wonder if she’d ever be the same again. Azriel would encourage her– she knew it wasn’t pity– but she couldn’t stand it all the same. She’d collapse onto the floor against her will during physical therapy, shoving Jarrah away with shame when he’d tried to help her up each time. Sometimes, she’d wake up in the dead of night, clammy, and nauseous from a nightmare that felt more and more real each time she had one. Azriel held her to his body whenever she’d jostle awake, heaving and shaking, stroking his warm hands up and down her arms. Other nights he held her hair back as she retched her dinner into the toilet, panting and crying silent tears.

“To expect linearity is to set yourself up for failure,” Jarrah lectured during their very first session when all she wanted to do was get to the hard stuff, to prove that she was alright– that she was still whole. Jarrah did not mind her bad days, but something died within her every time she left training without making any notable progress– every time her body failed her when her mind seemed to be giving its all.

From the moment they started their session this morning, Jarrah noted her body was fatigued and her mind was somewhere else. Oh dear.

“We can take a break–”

“No!” She buckled down and held her position, determined to prove to herself that even on her worst days she could succeed. It was the most enthusiastic response Jarrah had gotten all session from her so he allowed it. He watched her body tremble from the strain, the sweat bead at her temples, the fatigue in her eyes as she fought the pain in her spine.

Her body could not bear it anymore. She felt her traitorous legs give out beneath her and the ground came up faster than she could register, faster than Jarrah could react. A strangled cry crawled from her throat as she collapsed and her body trembled in a pain her mind could barely process.

“Fuck,” a familiar voice rang out from the gym’s entrance and Azriel ran in. Just great. What was he even doing here? After the first training appointment in which Azriel could barely keep himself from choking out Jarrah and coddling her, he agreed to not interrupt her sessions thereafter. His disregard for their agreement made her feel so small.

“Fuck,” Jarrah echoed. He was at her side in two steps, arms outstretched to help her up, but she scooted away as fast as her leadened arms would allow, turning her face away in shame.

“Don’t touch me!” She croaked.

Jarrah stopped himself by the time Azriel was at her side, crouching beside her and taking up what felt like all of the oxygen in her space. Breathe, she tried to remind herself but with Azriel hovering and Jarrah a foot away, both watching her crumpled pathetically on the mats, she couldn’t.

“Are you alright?”

“Get her some water!”

“That’s enough for today, let’s get you some food.”

“... My love?”

Azriel’s soft voice pierced through her terrible thoughts. She felt his strong hands reach under her armpits to help her up but she pushed against his biceps, swatting him off in a desperate attempt to move away. But the pain made her so dizzy, it was difficult to create any real distance.

“Don’t!” she cried out, for it was all she could do, and Azriel dropped his hands immediately. “I can get up on my own.”

Azriel didn’t move. Jarrah placed a comforting hand on Azriel’s shoulder. “We should give her some space.”

Azriel clenched his jaw but it didn’t stop the twitching of his upper lip. He stood abruptly, swiveling on his heels so his face was only mere inches from Jarrah’s, who’d since quickly retracted his hand to himself. To his credit, he kept his shoulders square, but even he wasn’t immune to the pure threat in the Shadowsinger’s glare.

“My mate is in pain, she can’t even stand up, and you want to leave her like this?” He growled.

Anger grappled her lungs, stealing whatever air she’d managed to collect. That was the problem. “I can stand up, Azriel. I’m not made of glass.”

It took her a few minutes, but she did it. She first rotated her hips so she was on her hands and knees. With one foot underneath her, she pushed herself up, trembling, sighing, moaning as her body resisted the upward movement, but she finally stood.

Azriel clenched his hands at his sides to anchor himself back, to resist from helping her. He knew she was capable of doing anything, that she didn’t really need him. Part of the reason he was so hesitant to pursue her all those years ago was because she was so independent that it intimidated him. Azriel wasn’t sure what he brought to the table, what he could do better that she already did for herself, how he would fit into the life she’d built for herself.

But that didn’t change the fact that he would still do anything for her. It didn’t take away that primal need to protect her. He tried his best not to suffocate her but sometimes he couldn’t help his instincts when his love for her outweighed everything else.

She allowed Azriel to link his arm with hers as she waved goodbye to Jarrah, silently apologizing for Azriel’s outburst.

“Let’s get you something to eat, yeah?” His voice was soft as he led her out of the gym and to the townhouse’s sunlit sitting room. “You did so good today, love.”

“I’m not hungry.” Was all she replied. She couldn’t stomach anything after such a rubbish session. Fear that she would never be the same ever again set in, but nobody would understand. No one could even fathom what it would do to her if she couldn’t keep doing her job, going on these missions, protecting this city. If she was relegated to a desk for the rest of her life, she’d have lost everything she’s ever worked for.

“Sure you are. At least something small to keep the medicine down.”

Madja had her on a cocktail of herbs and elixirs– something for the pain, something for the scars, probably something for how fucked her mind had become– she couldn’t keep track. Azriel kept track for her. She swallowed the pills and the bitters he gave her and allowed him to rub the salve into her scars before bed. Whatever. This was life now– being shoddily held together by some combination of antibiotics, gauze, and ointments.

She shook her head in defiance and Azriel sighed, stopping her just before the doorway to the living room where the rest of their friends sat. She was so stubborn– if she didn’t want to do something, no one could get her to do it. It was a quality he admired but also a quality that drove him downright mad at times like this.

“What’s bothering you?”

“You mean besides healing at a snail’s pace and sitting on my ass all day in this house while everyone else goes to work– fulfills some sort of purpose? I’m doing just great.” The smile did not reach her eyes.

Azriel tilted his head as if to say No, really. I know there’s something else. He could read her like a damn book– it had always been that way.

She hesitated for a moment before confessing, “I don’t know if I’ll be the same ever again.”

Azriel’s face softened at the anxiety that weighed on her shoulders so heavily they sagged.

“Of course you will, love. It’s only a matter of time.”

“It’s been two months and I can’t even climb the stairs without needing a break. My body hurts by the time I go to bed. I can still feel my back– the scars–” the words caught in her throat and she quickly cut herself off before she choked on them, unable to talk too much about it without feeling her body and mind repulse.

“Come here,” Azriel wrapped his strong arms around her frame and pulled her into his body so close their hearts beat in sync before each other as if in private conversation. “The physical training, the medicines, the therapist, you’ve got it all going on. No one here is working harder than you right now.”

“But what if it isn’t enough,” she mumbled into his chest, a single hot tear catching on the fabric of his sweater. She turned her face into his chest to wipe the tear away completely and Azriel’s heart broke for her. He wished he could reach into her chest and pull out the pain with his bare hands, fly with it to Ramiel and drop it at the peaks where it could never find its way back to her ever again. “You know better than anyone, you could do everything right and it still wouldn’t matter. I just need to get better. Be myself again.”

“I will love you no matter what happens. Even if you are never the same, I will still love you. This changes nothing.”

She pushed him away abruptly, hastily wiping away tears as if Azriel couldn’t see them. He didn’t get it. This wasn’t about him, about him loving her. This was her life. If she couldn’t get back to who she was, fill the roles she’d spent her whole life caring about, where would she stand among her family? Where would she stand in this life? In this world?

“But it changes everything for me,” her eyebrows furrowed incredulously. “I want my body back, my mind back. Thanks for letting me know you’d still love me if I were to be this fucked up forever, but that’s literally the last thing on my mind right now, Azriel. I don’t want to be fucked up forever, I want to get better, and I need you to want that for me too.”

Azriel tried to find the right words, stuttering in his search to say the right thing. He didn’t mean it like that. He only ever wanted the best for her– would kill for her to have what’s best for her. “I-I didn’t mean–”

“No, I’m sure you didn’t.” She huffed, storming past him into the sitting room. Instant guilt flooded her as soon as she left him. Azriel helped however he could. Perhaps it wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t put himself in her shoes in this very situation, but he’d gone through something traumatic too, and Azriel definitely knew a thing or two about helplessness. Still, she felt so alone. Azriel tried, but he wouldn’t understand what it was like to be a woman tortured in a camp full of males. What that took from her. She wouldn’t explain it.

Azriel watched her storm off, feeling as if he was failing her all over again. Every night, he watched the dullness in her eyes grow as he handed her the medicines. When she laid down in their bed with practiced monotony so he could rub the salve into the scars stretched across her back, he bit the inside of his cheeks to keep from crying. They were nasty things, raised and swollen with blood and she flinched every time he touched them, as if he were delivering the lashings all over again. She was hurting and he felt so helpless. He vowed to always protect her and take away her pains but he could do neither of those things and the thought of it ate him alive everyday. Only the Mother knew the true lengths he’d go to for her. That man would do anything.

In the sitting room, Azriel brought her a sandwich that he put together in the kitchen. Nuala and Cerridwen insisted that would make it, but he politely refused. He wanted to be the one to do it.

“Az, I told you I’m not hungry,” She murmured as he handed her the plate.

“You need to eat something if you want to keep the medicines down,” He reasoned again.

“I know what Madja said, I was there,” She snarked, crossing her arms. She was so tired of people telling her what to do. Jarrah telling her what exercises to do, Madja telling her what medicines to take, Rhys telling her that she shouldn’t try to work again so soon, Feyre telling her she should take more walks, Cassian telling her to drink less wine, Azriel forcing her to eat more food.

“Okay, darling,” He placed the plate on the table when she wouldn’t take it from him.

“Turkey and swiss, okay!” Cassian peeked at the sandwich, nudging her arm. “And he cut it in half too.”

“Just the way she likes it. In half though, not diagonal– too much crust in one bite if it's cut diagonal,” Azriel smiled from where he sat across the table from them. She could have cried at the sight of him, at the love in his eyes, in his voice. Words were never his strong suit but Azriel more than made up for it in acts of service. This was how he showed his love. This was him reaching his hand out, begging for her to take it, to let him in. To let him help.

And she didn’t know why she had such a hard time letting him in. She didn’t want to seem incapable of anything, and letting herself fall apart the way Azriel would allow her to terrified her. She’d never fallen apart before. She didn’t know how she could do it without completely tearing herself and every past wound open again. It broke her heart to watch his smile falter when she didn’t reach for the plate.

“I’m going to bed,” she stood up as quickly as her body would allow and left the room. It was too much. Azriel’s disappointment, everyone’s expectations, watching her, studying her, readying themselves to be there for her if she did explode. She never needed this much attention in the past– to receive so much of it all of a sudden made her feel like she was made of porcelain and everyone was expecting her to shatter at any moment. She could hardly breathe in that room and needed to get out before something within her cracked further.

The stairs loomed before her, mocking with how many there were. Grabbing the bannister until her knuckles paled, she hoisted herself up one step at a time, maneuvering her body so that her entire weight wouldn’t be on one leg for too long.

Nesta appeared behind her, climbing the steps she’d taken over the course of minutes in just mere seconds, with a stack of books in one arm and a handful of her gown in the other. Nesta stopped a couple steps ahead, turning around and looking down at her through long eyelashes.

“Well this is pathetic,” Nesta snorted.

“Fuck off,” she meant to sneer, but it came out in a breathless huff instead. Pathetic indeed.

Nesta let her skirts fall from her right arm as she extended it toward her.

“I don’t need your help.”

“You definitely do.”

“Don’t you have those smutty little novels to get back to?”

“Shut the fuck up and take my arm, or bust your ass on these stairs, I don’t care.”

Begrudgingly, she took Nesta’s arm. Neither of them spoke, but Nesta patiently guided her up the stairs, supporting her where she needed it. Out of the entire Inner Circle, she got along the most with Nesta. Their conversations usually followed a very similar pattern as this one did, but only because they each saw a little piece of themselves in the other, even if they never mentioned it.

“Heard you being a bitch downstairs,” Nesta finally spoke when they cleared the last stair and stood at the landing so she could catch her breath.

She couldn’t find it within herself to take offense. “I love him more than I’ve ever loved anything or anyone. I don’t know why I do this,” she confessed. She didn’t need to explain further. Nesta automatically understood. When they locked eyes, that silent comprehension flowed between them again and for the first time since arriving back home from the war camp, she felt relief. The kind of relief that made your heart beat out of your chest and go a little dizzy. The kind of relief that came from being completely understood without having to spend the energy trying to put the thoughts and feelings into comprehensible words.

“I know. It’s not your fault.” The words fell softly from Nesta’s lips. It was the last thing she said before she led her to the library. They sat in arm chairs across the fireplace and read for hours in each others’ company. No one came looking for her. No one tried to force a plate of food down her throat. No one wanted her to do those stupid mobility stretches. Nobody was asking her if she was okay. It was everything she needed. So why did she still feel restless, like something was missing?

Azriel.

She left the library after she’d calmed down. In the quiet, amongst the books, when she thought that was all she needed, she felt misery instead. She needed Azriel. She wanted to lay in bed with him forever, feel his skin on hers forever, stay in his warmth forever, feel their heartbeats sing side by side forever. Azriel forever. Nothing else would compare.

When she reached their room, it was empty. Disappointment flooded her chest, but she knew Azriel was giving her space. As she moved closer to the bed, she found a new plate of food waiting beside a note. A remade sandwich, cut down the middle as always.

Your favorite. Was all the note said.

Indeed it was. She polished off the sandwich in a matter of minutes, as ravenous as she was. Actually, she was hungry when Azriel first offered one to her in the sitting room, but she was too stubborn to take it then.

The bath towel beside the note on the bed was warm to the touch. From the soft sound of trickling water in the bathing room, she knew he’d run her a bath. The air above the tub smelled of sandalwood– his scent. As she stripped off her clothes and lowered herself into the warm water, the scent encompassed her as if he was in the room with her right then, waiting to join her.

Surely, an hour or two must have passed. Her eyes pried open, the water and soap around her body in the tub still warm and feathery like a winter duvet. She didn’t know when she’d fallen asleep, only that it was the best sleep she’d gotten these past two months. For the first time since coming home, she slept with no nightmares and no nausea to rouse her from rest. She didn’t even dream. She simply passed out.

When she finally left the bathroom, her body wrapped in the towel he’d warmed for her, she found Azriel sitting on the bed with a book nestled in his large hands. As she stepped through the doorway of the bathing room, he looked up, smiling softly. Pure love shone in his eyes like a beacon, flashing and blinking in the darkness that war camp left her in.

At the sight of his soft smile, the gentleness of his features, the relaxed sag of his shoulders, she felt something break.

Sensing a shift in her demeanor, he lowered the book, eyebrows knitting together.

"What's wrong?"

Those two damned words. She bit the inside of her cheek, walking weakly to Azriel's side of the bed. He placed his book on the nightstand and sat up straighter, anticipating her next move.

She climbed into his lap, straddling his hips, and laid her upper body against his torso, nuzzling her face into the crook of his neck. Her arms wrapped around his body tightly, breathing him in like he was the oxygen she lived off of. Anything else, anything that was not Azriel, and she could just die right there.

He brought his arms around her tightly, heart sinking when he felt her hot tears on his neck. She did not shake. She did not sob. He only felt the wetness on his skin and the erratic heaving of her chest against his as she fought to regulate her breathing.

He did not say anything else. He held her, unmoving except to rub her back or run his hand over the back of her head, smoothing her hair. His other hand held the back of one of her thighs to keep her in place as she grew increasingly limp in his arms.

"I've been such a wretch." Her voice was heavy and filled with sorrow. "I've been such a wretch to you. I'm sorry Az."

"Oh my love," He held her as close as he could, willing her to feel the love he held for her in his chest. His love for her ran everywhere his blood did, from his toes to the top of his head, every day and every second, his astonishment of her coursed his body like an electrical current keeping him alive. Without her, there was no pulse.

"How do you put up with me?" He felt her wipe her nose on his shoulder and he couldn't help the smile on his lips.

"Because I love you, and I know your anger has nothing to do with me."

"But you should not have to put up with it."

"I will put up with anything when it comes to you. You don’t ever have to worry about that when it’s you and I,” He pulled her back so he could look into her eyes. “You went through something horrible. You’re going to need time to work through it all, but I will be here for every moment of it. I’m sorry if I’ve been suffocating you, darling. I only do it because I can’t help it. When I see you hurting I wish I could take all of it from you and put it in me.”

“I never want you to hurt,” she told him earnestly. The thought of him going through what she did filled her with rage so sudden and consuming she couldn’t begin to imagine what Azriel felt when they finally found her at the camp.

“I could never when I have you looking out for me,” He smiled that cheeky, boyish smile that came out so rarely.

“I’ve just been having so many bad days. I should be happy that I’m back home, that I’m safe now. I don’t know why I’m feeling like this, and it comes out at the wrong times in the wrong ways. But I don’t know what I’d do without you, Az.”

“Even on your worst days, you’re the best of us. So do your worst. I can handle it."

The disbelief in her eyes melted away when he cradled her head, smiling earnestly– and gods, she wished she could commission Feyre to paint him like this– a man smitten. With all the tonics and creams Madja had forced on her, she had a sneaking suspicion that none of them would truly heal her. They helped the symptoms, but never the cause. She’d accepted that it would take a damn miracle to heal the cause. And here Azriel was, pleading and lovely, looking like her damn miracle.

She let him undo the towel from around her body and lay her into the soft covers, warm from where he sat while she was in the bath. Turning over, Azriel smoothed the salve over her scars as he did every night. But for the first time in months, she finally replied to his attempts at starting conversation as he worked. For the first time in months, she laughed genuine laughs that felt only slightly foreign– much like old friends– in her throat. For the first time in months, as he tenderly slicked Madja’s balm over her scars, praying to the Mother for her health over each one he touched, she did not flinch.

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norrizzandpia · 7 months

Note

Hello I hope you’re doing well🥰

I was wondering if you could give us something super fluffy where fem reader is driving lando to the airport and he keeps telling her to focus on the road as he didn’t notice she’s trying to hold her tears bec of how much she’ll miss him. then he comforts her and gives her a big bear hug before he leaves.

Thanks in advance!!!

Plz bc this is so cute omfg

I’m Sorry To Go (LN4)

Summary: She’s not quite ready to have him leave just yet.

Warnings: arguably the cutest thing ive ever written

Y/n took a deep breath in the bathroom as she prepared to drive her boyfriend to the airport. Knowing he would be gone for a month, her emotions ran wild. He had been home for the past few weeks for summer break, time she cherished immensely as they never got truly uninterrupted time together, and, now, he was packing up his bags to leave her once more. It felt as if time had gone faster over their quiet time and she was left to watch it pass by, arriving painfully at the stop where he got off.

Nonetheless, she knew she had to be strong for him, understanding if she broke down he would too and that would be detrimental for the both of them. So, she cleaned her face up, residual tears and slightly smeared makeup being wiped away, and walked out of the small room.

There she found Lando, with his suitcase in hand, waiting by the door. The sight almost had her in a fit of more tears, but she swallowed them begrudgingly.

“Ready to go?” He asked, smiling at her as if this wasn’t heartbreaking.

Her silent nod and quick movement around him to walk through the door had his eyebrows quirk up. She had been quiet all morning, something that was unusual for the girl he loved. He didn’t want to push it, force her over the edge when it was clear something was bothering her, but he didn’t want to leave her like this.

However, he didn’t want to leave her at all.

Though, as sickening as it was, he forced himself to get in the car and pull up directions to the airport he was flying out of. Her knuckles gripped the steering wheel tightly as he started to make light conversation and the GPS spouted off upcoming turns she had to take.

“What do you think you’ll for the rest of the day, baby?” He asked, his hand on her thigh as he looked out the window.

The longest beat of silence filled the air as she tried to rid her throat of all tears or signs of her dismay. Clearing her throat subtly, she quivered, “I don’t know, maybe stay in and order food.”

He chuckled, “My love, we have food at the house. We just went to the store yesterday.”

Another prolonged quiet went by before Y/n’s voice broke as she whispered, “I don’t feel like cooking.”

His head whipped around at the sound of her broken words and the sight of her crying in the driver’s seat made his heart clench. Tears silently streamed down her face as she glanced down at the directions, trying so hard to get him to where he needed to be on time.

“Y/n…” Lando whispered before running his thumb over her thigh and coaxing, “Pull over, baby.”

Her eyes refused to look at him as she put on her blinker and changed lanes as to veer off toward the side of the road. When she reached it and parked, Lando’s hand came up to gently move her arms off the steering wheel. He leaned over the center console and pulled her into him, his arms circling her body in a protective manner.

He kissed the side of her head as she began to cry into his shoulder, his hands rubbing up and down her back as he whispered, “What’s wrong?”

She sniffled before brokenly saying, “I don’t want you to leave.”

His eyes watered at her statement, hands abruptly stopping on her back before resuming once it sunk in.

He squeezed her tightly, kissing her again, “I don’t want to leave either.”

Her response was immediate, “Then don’t.”

He laughed lightly, pulling her head back slightly so he could cradle her face in his hands, “You know I have to, love. Trust me, this hurts as much as it does you, but it will go by fast and then I’ll be right back here with you.”

She shook her head, fresh tears falling down her face, “But, it won’t. It won’t go by fast, Lan. Things don’t go by fast when you’re not there.”

He nodded in understanding, kissing her forehead and nose before responding, “Well, it will end eventually and then I’ll be here with you. Baby, the time will pass and I will come back to you. I always will.”

She nodded gently, looking up at him once his words really hit her, “You’ll always come back to me?”

He smiled and kissed her on the lips with newfound adoration and love, “I promise I always will.”

And as they sat together in the small car on the side of the road, wrapped up in the other as forever promises were made, Y/n knew she would hold onto that promised until he proposed.

Which was two years later.

#f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 x reader #mclaren #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando norris fanfic #lando norris fluff #lando norris imagines #lando norris fic #lando norris x you #lando norris edit #lando norris #lando norris fanfiction #lando norris smut

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parkerslatte · 5 months

Note

14 and 45 with azriel and it’s really fluffy! Thanks and congratulations 🎉🎉

A/N: tysm for your request! I hope you enjoy :)

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Drunken Kisses

Azriel x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: none

Summary: It is Azriel’s birthday and Y/N originally wouldn’t be able to spend the day with him. The Inner Circle take him to Rita’s and he gets extremely drunk and Y/N surprises him.

A Court of Thorns and Roses Masterlist

3000 Follower Celebration

•••

Azriel rarely got drunk, at least to the point of losing control of his body. He didn’t mind getting tipsy from time to time but he could simply have a good time being surrounded by his family. However as Cassian placed another drink in front of him, one that would surely tip him over that edge of being drunk to the point of memory loss, Azriel missed the one person who should have been sitting by his side.

“Where is Y/N?” Azriel slurred as he sipped his drink. “It’s my birthday, she should be here.”

Amused looks were passed throughout the Inner Circle as Azriel pouted. Y/N had been away at the Summer Court for nearly two months now but Azriel felt like it had been a lot longer. From the moment Y/N went away, Azriel missed her. Ever since the two had gotten together nearly ten years ago, they hadn’t spent too much time apart.

“I miss her so much,” he whined. “She has never been gone this long before.”

“She’s only been gone two months Az,” Cassian said. “I thought you were meant to be the patient one.”

“I am,” Azriel protested. “But I miss her.” Azriel finished his drink. There was a silent communication within the group to not give the shadowsinger another drink.

Cassian clapped a hand on Azriel’s shoulder. “It’s your birthday, put a smile on your face!”

Azriel shook his head. “I’ll only put a smile on my face if Y/N sits next to me right now.”

Azriel folded his arms across his chest. His heart hurt from being away from Y/N. When Rhys had sent her to the Summer Court, he begged him to go with her. Rhys refused, Azriel had his own work that he needed to focus on. The day Y/N left, Azriel was the one to bring her to the Summer Court. As soon as they arrived, Azriel refused to let go of her. His arms remained around her waist as he buried his head into the crook of her neck.

“Please come back with me,” Azriel mumbled into her hair.

Y/N hugged him tighter. “I can’t, my love. I have to do my job. I wish I could.”

“I will miss you,” Azriel said, resting his forehead against hers.

“I will miss you too,” Y/N said, pressing a kiss against his lips.

Azriel was ripped out of his own memory as he felt someone sit next to him. He took no interest in who it was as he stared at the empty glass in front of him. Azriel never thought it was possible to miss someone this much. The constant pain in his chest from their separation was something he never wished to experience again.

“Az, there’s someone who is trying to get your attention,” Feyre said, looking between the shadowsinger and the new presence that had joined their table.

“I’m not interested,” Azriel grumbled. “If it’s not Y/N, then I don’t care.”

“Then maybe you should actually look for yourself, brother,” Cassian replied.

As Azriel finally raised his gaze from the empty glass he looked at each face of his family who were simply staring at him in amusement. His gaze drifted around the circle until they landed on the one person he had been talking about all night.

A goofy smile appeared on Azriel’s face as he looked at Y/N. “You’re here!”

Y/N smiled at her mate, as he reached out to her. She simply moved until she was close enough for him to pull her onto his lap.

“I missed you so much, my love,” Y/N mumbled, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Happy birthday.”

Azriel’s head nuzzled into her neck as he breathed in her scent. “I love you. Don’t ever leave again.” His words were slurred and quiet.

With one hand, Y/N ran her fingers through his hair and with her other hand she gently stroked his cheek.

“When did you get back, Y/N?” Feyre asked, sipping her drink.

“Only an hour ago,” Y/N responded. “I asked Rhys where all of you were.”

Azriel hugged Y/N closer to him and began to press small kisses against her neck. Y/N simply smiled.

“Can we go home?” Azriel asked, his lips grazing her ear. “I wanna kiss you so badly. I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” Y/N replied, pressing a kiss against his forehead.

Once she pulled away, Azriel pouted. “I wanted to kiss your lips.”

From beside Azriel and Y/N, Cassian laughed. “It’d be best to take him home, Y/N. He’s been like this all night.”

Azriel hand caresses Y/N’s thigh as he begins to pepper kisses across her jaw, completely ignoring Cassian. Y/N intertwined their fingers and squeezed his hand gently.

“Let’s go home,” Azriel begged.

Y/N turned back to him and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. Azriel practically melted. His mind was solely focussed on Y/N. As her lips pulled away from his, Azriel whined.

“Come on, let’s go,” Y/N said, slipping from his lap.

Azriel jumped up from his seat, swaying on his feet as the room spun around him.

“Good luck, Y/N,” Cassian commented.

Y/N shoved him playfully as she walked past him. “I will see you all tomorrow.”

“Not likely,” Cassian said. “You’ve been gone two months, I’m sure Azriel will keep you within your bed all day tomorrow.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “I’ll see you all whenever then.”

Azriel gripped onto her hand and tugged her to him. Y/N waved back at her family before being pulled out into the night air. There weren’t many people on the streets, many being home or in the many different bars and pubs in Velaris.

The couple hadn’t even made it far enough away for the music to be completely inaudible before Azriel pulled Y/N into his arms. Y/N let out a noise of surprise before wrapping her arms around him.

“I missed you so much, Y/N,” Azriel muttered. His wings encased the two of them, giving them more privacy. “It- it hurts to be away from you.”

Y/N pulled away from the hug and cupped his cheeks. His hazel eyes bore into hers. “It hurt me too, Az. I thought about you every single day.”

“I felt it,” Azriel said, placing a hand over his heart. “I felt all the love you would send my way.”

Y/N rested her forehead against his. “Well I needed to remind you how loved you are.”

A large smile spread across his face before he was surging forward and captured her lips with his own. In his drunken state, he stumbled as he threw himself off balance. Pulling away with a laugh, Y/N rested her hands on his shoulders. “Let’s get back home. We can do all the kissing you want.”

Azriel’s face brightened. “Really? What about anything else?” Y/N rolled her eyes at her insatiable mate. “We can focus on that tomorrow and when you are sober.”

Azriel huffed. “Fine.”

Y/N giggled and wrapped him in one final hug. Azriel had never felt such love before and as soon as he met Y/N, he never wanted to live in a world without it. Every single touch sent his senses into overdrive. He was normally one who could control his emotions well but he could never control them around Y/N. She could always tell exactly what he was feeling at any point. To Azriel, Y/N was his home. Wherever she was, it was where he wanted to be.

“Your hugs feel like home,” Azriel said. “You feel like home.”

Y/N only held onto him tighter, a feeling of warmth coursing down the bond and Azriel smiled. I deserve this, Azriel thought. I really deserve this.

“I know you said that I feel like home,” Y/N began, “but can we go to our actual home? It is getting quite cold out and we can go and cosy up by the fire and you will get all of the kisses you want.”

Azriel pulled away and smiled. The smile only Y/N saw. “Then let’s go home, I only wish to be with you all night.”

Y/N pecked his lips. “Happy birthday, Az.”

“You are the greatest gift I have ever received,” Azriel responded, intertwining their fingers together.

#acotar x reader #acotar #azriel fluff #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #azriel x reader #a court of thorns and roses

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iamnotoriginalphil · 6 months

Text

Sharing (Melissa Schemmenti x f!Reader)

Synopsis: Melissa takes matters into her own hands when you're cold

Words: 2.1k

Warnings: mentions of alcohol, fluff

You sat huddled on the chair, arms curling around your body. You shivered, a biting wind seeking out your skin with its teeth bared. A laugh went up, loud enough to steal your attention from the woman you’d been watching behind the grill.

You hadn’t expected for the night to be as cold as it was. The forecast had suggested it would be balmy, not chilly, summer still supposedly on the air. Turns out, it was stepping aside in favour of fall’s time to shine.

Jacob was trying to juggle, almost managing it. The glare of the setting sun had you blinking, turning away from him. Barbra, sitting beside you, tutted, shaking her head.

“That boy is asking for an injury,” you said, pulling your legs up until you could wrap your arms around your knees.

She hummed in agreement. The glass of wine in her hand was slowly disappearing, your beer following suit. The glass was cold against your fingertips, another shiver going through you. You turned your eyes back to the grill, finding green eyes already on you.

You gave a small smile to Melissa, half hidden behind your beer. Her own smile was secretive and yet it was the only thing that was warming you. Your arms tightened around your legs, wishing it was her between them, her body warming yours.

Whatever was going on between the two of you was still new, still delicate. Nothing had been declared, no feelings spoken of, but lingering glances kept catching and she’d softened towards in a way you knew was a privilege to experience. Her touch lingered, the brush of fingers sending butterflies erupting in your stomach and electricity shooting over your skin.

At some point she’d begun to take up more of your field of vision and you found it hard to look away.

She looked down, flipping the burgers she was busy with. It was odd, the way she’d invited some of the teachers over for a barbecue. She was fiercely protective of her own privacy, refusing to open her home more than she had to. But then, you supposed, the only teacher gathered in her backyard that hadn’t been invited over before was Gregory and he was hardly one to pry. Or gossip.

You shivered again, pressing your legs tighter to your body. Your thin t-shirt was losing the battle against the cool wind. Summer was long gone if the goosebumps on your arms were any indication.

“Didn’t you bring a coat?” Melissa asked, placing down a plateful of burgers in front of you.

“I thought it was going to be warmer,” you said with a small shrug, “I’m fine.”

She scoffed but didn’t argue with you, returning to the grill. You watched her walking away, eyes sliding down her body, mouth growing dry at the sway of her hips. She must have known you’d be watching, an extra sway there just for you. Her eyes met yours when she turned, those lips curling up in a way that had grown so familiar to you. Soft and knowing, fond and yet behind it something that told you how much she enjoyed being so obviously admired. You could stare at her all day, just watching her, so enchanted by everything she did.

“Burgers?” Gregory asked, wandering over to the table.

“Don’t tell me you don’t like burgers,” Melissa said, already sounding disappointed.

“Nah, burgers are fine,” he said, picking one up. He passed it over to Janine before taking his own, sitting at the table with you.

Jacob fumbled his juggling balls onto the table. One rolled towards you until you flicked it back. It spun away from him, flying off into the grass somewhere. He ran after it, apologising to Melissa as she watched him looking less than impressed. Your giggles did not go unnoticed by her. Barbra made a small noise beside you, stealing your attention.

“What?” you asked.

“That woman looks at you like you hung the moon for her,” she said.

“What? No she doesn’t.” You shook your head, not wanting to admit to what was going on before it even began to get going, “she looks at me like a normal person.”

“Girl, if you don’t see it you need to get your eyes checked,” she replied.

You shook your head again, looking away from her. Melissa caught your eye again, tilting her head in question. You shook your head again, this time in answer, telling her not to worry. She quirked an eyebrow and you gave her a small smile, resting your chin on top of your knees, just gazing at her.

“Grubs up,” Melissa announced.

She grinned as she took her seat beside you, the place that was always reserved for her. The others knew. If they so much as tried to take her place they’d have to fear for their lives. Or at least for their windscreens. You turned to watch her settle in her seat, the young ones scrabbling for food. You laughed, soft and fond. Melissa was looking at you like you’d done something miraculous.

Her hand reached out, landing on your arm before she hissed and retracted it.

“Fuck, hon, you’re freezing,” she said.

“Really I’m fine,” you said.

“No you’re not,” she said, standing, grabbing your arm to haul you to your feet, “come with me.”

She didn’t let you go until you were halfway up the stairs and it was clear you were going to continue following her. Inside, it was definitely warmer, no wind to cut through your cotton shirt. But still, you shivered.

She pushed the door to her bedroom open. You paused in the entrance, not sure if she was okay with you following her. There was nothing that was more of an inner sanctum than her bedroom, the epicentre of her home and her heart. Well, no, okay, the epicentre was her kitchen, but this was intimate in a whole other way.

Her bed was made, a green comforter over the entire thing. It was neat, expect for one chair that seemed to have clothes flung over it, rejected or dirty you couldn’t tell. You smiled, looking at the picture on her bedside table, turned towards the pillow. Her family, right there where she could see them. It was so perfectly her.

“Oi, you coming in or are you going to keep hovering there all night?”

She was standing in front of another open door, racks of clothes hanging in front of her. You stepped inside, feet sinking into the plush carpet. She held out a hand to you and you went to her, a moth to the flame. Her fingers trailed down the exposed skin of your arm.

“You shoulda said something,” she berated, flicking through the clothes on the hangers, “you coulda told me you were cold.”

“I would have survived,” you replied softly.

Her head snapped around to you. Anger simmered beneath the surface but it was softened by the obvious care that motivated it. You reached out, fingers brushing the back of her hand. She inhaled sharply.

“I don’t want you to ever feel uncomfortable here, hon,” she said, “next time just tell me, okay?”

“Okay,” you whispered.

She pulled a sweatshirt out of her closet, soft and gray, and with the Eagles emblazoned over the front. Passing it over, you were engulfed in her scent. Your eyes sought out hers, finding them watching you already, a little frustrated at you but clearly humouring you.

You pulled it on, covering your arms. You shivered again, this time not from the cold but from the realisation that the soft material brushing your skin had been pressed against her skin at one point.

“Thank you,” you said.

Her hands reached out, tugging the two sides together, stepping into your space. Slowly, she began to zip you up, the knuckles of her fingers gently brushing against your front. You looked up, finding her watching you, eyes smouldering. Your cheeks heated and she softly chuckled.

“There ya go, sweetheart,” she murmured.

The way she was looking at you was intoxicating. It was so soft, so heartbreakingly fond, like you were answering all of her dreams. You couldn’t stop yourself, reaching out to her, hands finding her hips as you needed to touch her. Her mouth fell open, stealing the attention of her lips.

When you’d considered your first kiss with Melissa, it wasn’t with the rest of your colleagues sitting in her backyard as you were hidden up in her bedroom. It wasn’t coming after she’d dressed you in her clothes. It wasn’t after causing her to worry about your well-being.

And yet you couldn’t stop yourself from turning this into the moment.

The first brush of lips was hesitant, as if asking her if it was okay. Her hand was still holding on to the zip of the jacket, caught between your bodies, but she was tugging on it until you were shuffling closer. Her lips pressed against yours harder and you sighed into her mouth.

She was everywhere, her scent wrapping around you. The taste of her was making your head spin, something sweet clinging to her tongue that might have just been nothing but a taste uniquely her own. You pressed closer, wanting to feel every part of her against you.

She mumbled something against your lips before kissing you deeper. Your hands slid around, grasping her ass. Her own hand tugged down on the zipper again, slipping inside the jacket, seeking out your warming skin. You whined, arching into her touch.

After so much time, so much build up, this was almost more than you could handle. It was blowing every fantasy out of the water, so much more than you could have dreamed. She was pressing into you, warm and soft and supple curves under your hands until your head spun. You wanted her in every way possible.

“We should…” she murmured, drawing back just enough for her eyes to rove over your face, before she kissed you again, unable to hold herself back.

Your back was pushed against the wall beside the closet door. Her hands pushed the sweatshirt from your shoulders. Fingers tugged at the bottom of your shirt, running over skin, making you shudder. You squeezed her ass, pulling her closer, wanting every inch of her against every inch of you.

The way your name sounded as a breathy moan from her lips sent fire through your veins. Your hips rolled towards her, her hands skating up your sides, pushing your shirt up. She had you pinned to the wall, hands touching, lips exploring, tongue tasting. You were turning into a puddle of want against her body.

“Hey, are you guys coming back? Because we are demolishing this food. Good job, Melissa.”

“No,” you mumbled against her lips, not wanting the interruption to stop you from giving in to the lust turning your heady fuzzy.

“There’s gonna be nothing left for you to eat,” she said, drawing back, refusing to let you pull her back in.

“I can eat later,” you replied, squeezing her ass.

“I’ve been slaving away all night to cook for you and you don’t even want it?” She raised an eyebrow at you.

“I can’t win here, can I?”

She gave a short peck to your lips, a chaste kiss that only made you want more.

“Not even a little bit,” she said.

She ducked down, snagging up the sweatshirt again. You sighed, letting her dress you once again, her fingers still zipping it up in a way that made your mouth dry and knees weak. She tilted your chin up, thumb brushing over your lower lip.

“You’ll do,” she said.

“Can I stay after the others have left?” you asked, following her out of the room.

She paused on the stair below you, making her have to look up at you. You lent forward, both hands cupping her cheeks, not able to stop yourself from placing another kiss on her lips.

“You better, hon,” she said, “or I’ll be disappointed.”

“Can’t have that,” you murmured.

She tugged you down the rest of the stairs. You pulled the sleeved of her sweatshirt over your hands. Subtly, you pressed your nose to the soft gray material, breathing in the scent of Melissa. She pushed you down into your seat again, both hands on your shoulders, giving an extra squeeze before she took her own seat.

You kept sharing secret looks and sweet smiles with Melissa for the rest of the night.

#melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti imagine #melissa schemmenti

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