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skzdarlings · 2 months

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bodyguard: the first guard | part one | chan/reader

masterlist.

(part one of the previous story.)

part one | part two | part three | tba

( read on AO3 )

A sequel to the Bodyguard. Miroh's daughter is assigned a bodyguard of her own. The past is confronted when old friendships and new enemies are pushed to the brink.

pairing: bang chan/reader content info: sequel to the bodyguard (felix/reader). this is a new reader perspective. please note this story will contain a great deal of physical violence, some committed against the reader and some committed by her. this will include fighting, training, torture, and parental abuse. there will also be explicit sexual content. chapter word count: 7500 words.

enjoy <3

B E F O R E

Felix takes his place in formation. He is the youngest in the youth regiment at only ten years old, but he is no less competent. They all belong to the same special-ops program, a group of specially selected children raised for armed service. They are in the employ of Mister Miroh – and he says they will save the world.

The world is full of shadows, dank black holes and grimy stains so embedded that no regular agent can scrub them out. The young subjects of the soldier program are not regular agents. Their existence is their mission.

Felix has no life outside of the house of Miroh.

He stands straight. He looks forward. His feet are the appropriate width apart and his hands are folded behind his back. He holds this position as the trainers scour the lined formation, studying the young soldiers and reprimanding any flaw.

They need the best soldier for this mission. This is the most important assignment the regiment will ever receive. Felix has trained his whole life for this.

“Miroh has many enemies,” speaks the head trainer. It is a familiar speech, more important now than ever. “But our target is his local rival. This enemy family has been a corrupting force for generations, taking through inheritance what it has not earned. Miroh is not like The Enemy. Miroh is a solider like you. He came from nothing, fought for scraps, and built his own business one brick at a time. He understands the world and he will fix it through you. You will be his hands in the places he cannot reach. Your role is an honourable one.”

A trainer passes Felix. Felix straightens his spine that last infinitesimal degree. They touch his shoulder but do not reprimand him. It makes his pulse hammer with anticipation.

Felix is one of the best. There is a possibility they will pick him, if only because the actual best has a habit of—

“Oh, cheer up, mate,” Chris’s voice comes from a few rows back. “You know what they say: all work and no play makes—”

He is interrupted by a whoosh of air, probably a trainer punching him in the stomach. Felix closes his eyes so he does not wince.

“Bang Christopher Chan,” the head trainer says, his voice booming across the facility floor. “Step forward.”

Felix hears a frustrated sigh, then Chris stomps through the lines to reach the front row. Everyone looks at him.

He is an unassuming character. Not very tall but deceptively strong. Curly black hair and dimpled cheeks. Felix remembers that smile, the lilting and friendly, “Call me Chris,” when Felix was just six years old and first thrown into the regiment.

Bang “Call Me Chris” Chan is the best soldier here. Or he would be, if he did not hate the honour.

Even now he is glaring. Like the rest of them, he is dressed in combat clothes, the pitch black of Miroh. Unlike the rest of them, he stands with a lazy hunch in his shoulders. His dark hair is dishevelled and he scowls like a petulant teenager. He is thirteen going on fourteen but he is far from a normal teenage boy. Even compared to the rest of them, Chris is something special.

“Bang Chan,” the head trainer says. “You have been chosen for this assignment. Congratulations.”

Felix is not surprised. When Chris is forced to apply himself, it is abundantly clear he is the best soldier in the program by a huge margin. Felix is also not surprised when Chris responds with his usual verve and ire.

“Yeah, uh, you can go ahead and shove your congratulations up your ass, mate,” Chris says. He crosses his arms stubbornly. “Even if we kill this guy, do you really expect us to believe that’s the end of it? You’re putting us in the middle of a fight we didn’t start.”

He addresses the soldiers behind him just as much as the trainer. He even glances at Felix who glares back at him, unimpressed with the rebellious dramatics. Chris never learns. He gets more chances than the rest of them because he is so good. If he wanted, he could be unstoppable. He could use his strengths for good.

Instead, he just looks at the trainer and shakes his head.

“Nah,” Chris says. “You started this fight. I’m not ending it.”

A few of the adult guards move towards him. The gathered soldiers take a collective breath, watching with anticipation. It is common knowledge that thirteen year old Bang Chan can take a regular adult guard in a matter of seconds. When it comes to Chris, the question is not who will win, but will he fight at all?

He stands there like he has no intention of fighting. But before anyone can grab him, the door opens.

Miroh enters.

The room is so tense and silent, his footsteps reverberate like thunder. Miroh is every inch a soldier even in his blazer and tie. He walks with purpose, his face intent.

Walking behind him, keeping decent pace despite her smaller frame, is his daughter.

Miroh is a fighter who does not believe in unearned inheritance, so his daughter is trainee soldier like the rest of them. She is the same age as Chris. She trains with the regiment, one of the better agents, but she was not in contention for this particular job. People have tried to kill The Enemy before and it did not work, resulting in the death of innocents. Miroh wants a strong heir and he is not above putting her through the same grueling regime as the rest of them, but he will not recklessly risk her life.

It is fair to Felix. Miroh’s world makes sense. He believes in it. He believes in him.

So he is rapt as Miroh approaches.

The adult guards fall back and the young soldiers stand at attention. Miroh’s jaw is set with grim determination. He stares at Chris.

Chris drops his crossed arms. He is smart enough not to run his mouth at Miroh directly, but his frustration is clearly simmering beneath the surface. His fingers curl and uncurl in little fists.

Miroh stands in front of him. He speaks loud enough to address the entire room.

“I do not begrudge your desire for information,” Miroh says. “You’re soldiers, not animals. I acknowledge that you wish to know about the long-term goals for this company. But that is not your job or your purpose. This business is deliberately compartmentalized so if one cog in the machine fails, the apparatus does not cease to function. The results of your missions speak for themselves. What we’re doing is good work. That is all that matters.”

“Says you,” Chris blurts. Even he looks surprised by his own retort, though he does not take it back. He looks Miroh in the eye.

Miroh looks back. Then he reaches into the holster beneath his long coat and draws a gun. It is smooth, second-nature. Miroh is used to getting his hands dirty. His steady hand points the gun at Chris.

The trigger has not been pulled but the trainers already flinch. They know Chris is the best and they have worked hard to shape him, even if his stubborn mind is not molded as easily as his body.

Chris, himself, does not flinch. He stares down the barrel, unrelenting.

“You don’t want to do that.”

The soft interjection makes everyone pause. Heads turn and eyes dart, everyone’s attention transferring to the thirteen year old girl in the shadows.

Miroh does not lower the gun but he looks at his daughter. Chris looks at her too. Felix is not sure who is more bewildered.

The girl, herself, is calm. She has indubitably mastered a stoic countenance, not a hint of emotion anywhere on her young face.

“He’s the First Guard,” she states simply. “This is not worth killing him over.”

The First Guard. The other kids in the regiment sometimes call Chris that, though he doesn’t like it so it is usually behind his back. Chris does not like that he has been singled out. Chris does not like anything about the program.

This is Miroh’s second attempt at the youth soldier program. The operation raises soldiers from childhood to fight, to withstand pain, to feel no fear. This training is supplemented with medical treatments, hormonal injections that are only effective if administered in the crucial developmental years of childhood. It aids in building a body for soldiership, to take a hit just a little harder than most.

Chris is the only survivor from the first round of injections. He survived every test that followed. He is stronger for it, even stronger than the rest of them. He is a singular asset. He will never be replicated.

Thanks to The Enemy, none of them will ever be replicated. The Enemy recently attempted to recruit Miroh’s developers and killed them when he did not succeed. Detailed knowledge of the treatment died with them.

Miroh can never accomplish anything with his enemy on perpetual offense. Felix knows the stories like the rest of them, the generations of corruption wrought by a single wealthy family with its iron fist wrapped around the country’s throat. Miroh wants to free them. Felix knows if they kill this one man, if the household is left to rot in the hands of its weak successor, then Miroh can finally set everyone free.

It is a noble honour.

Chris does not see it that way. He never has. Maybe it is different for him, having watched those other children die. Felix understands it was a sacrifice, but a necessary one. The Enemy cannot be killed by a regular soldier. So many more innocents will die if he is left unchecked. Surely that is worth the price of a few soldiers. Wars have casualties. It will be worth it.

It has to be worth it.

Bang Chan, the First Guard – call me Chris – takes a deep breath. It sounds frustrated. He glares at Miroh’s daughter who is unaffected.

Felix looks between them. Then his gaze lands on another soldier in the formation. Seo Changbin is in the first row, a boy one year older than Felix. Not the best soldier, not second best, but not the worst. His most notable trait is his humour and his friendship with Miroh’s daughter. They are close – at least as close as anyone can be down here.

Changbin is looking at her right now, his gaze searing with intensity. Their eyes meet briefly and he shakes his head, a small motion, just enough for her to see. Despite his clear warning to stop, she is not dissuaded from addressing her father.

“With all due respect, sir,” she says to Miroh, “Eliminating Bang Chan would be a mistake. He’s the best soldier in the operation.”

“The best,” Miroh says. He presses the barrel of the gun against Chris’s forehead. Chris goes tense and everyone takes a breath.

His daughter is still unmoved. She is a quiet character in general. Felix has barely heard her speak never mind argue. She keeps her head down and goes about her work obediently. She is a good daughter and a better soldier.

Maybe that is why Miroh hesitates.

“He is not the best if this is how he conducts himself,” Miroh says.

“Father, aren’t you the best at what you do?” she asks without hesitation. “Surely a proper soldier like you should be able to control a little boy. Are you saying you are not capable of that task? It takes no skill to shoot a teenager. What message do you send to the rest of us if you have to resort to desperate measures to keep your own army in line?”

The silence is deafening. Even with a gun plastered to his forehead, a little dimple of amusement pops in Chris’s cheek. Changbin exhales. Felix is sick of standing still but he holds his form despite the growing tension.

The seconds feel like hours. Eventually, Miroh lowers the gun.

“Guards,” he says. The adult guards are immediately at his side. “My daughter has faith in our order. I would be remiss as a father to fail her.” He looks down at Chris and speaks with a snarl in his upper lip, “Let us all try our best to succeed.”

Miroh snaps his fingers and points at Chris. The guards swarm him, two of them taking an arm each. At least Chris is smart enough not to struggle. He is an indomitable force but he does not have an army at his call. He lets himself be seized.

“Take him to the Cell,” Miroh says.

An instinctive hiss leaves the mouths of a few soldiers. They have all been trained to withstand various degrees of torture, but the Cell is one of the worst. Even Felix shudders at the mention of it. It is a small windowless room buried deep in the bunker of the training facility, a small prison cell with no light and no warmth. Everyone has taken a turn in isolation, camped on the hard ground in the damp and cold and dark. Down there, minutes feel like days, days like years. At least literal torture causes sensation. The Cell is a great black nothing.

Chris does not argue, knowing it would be useless, but he does glare at Miroh as he is hauled away.

“Take her too,” Miroh says.

With a snap of his fingers, two more guards surface and grab his daughter. Her stoic expression finally fractures, true surprise bursting on her face.

“Me?” she asks.

“As my daughter, your perspective is acknowledged and appreciated,” he says. “As a soldier, you need to remember your place. Throw them in together. Double the people, double the time.”

Felix would not want to be shoved in that tiny space with another person. Certainly not if the trade was double the duration.

But then, Felix does not like company. He does not understand the exhausted look on Changbin’s face. Changbin isn’t being punished, so why would he feel anything?

Felix watches. He holds his form even where others begin to wane.

The guards and their prisoners leave. The door closes and Miroh looks over the regiment.

“Who’s the second best?” Miroh asks.

There is a beat of silence, the scene settling. The trainer finally clears his throat and looks down at his papers.

“Lee Felix Yongbok,” he says in that booming voice. Felix’s heart soars just as high. “Step forward.”

Felix marches forward, keeps his eyes ahead. Miroh approaches him. Felix does not flinch, not even when Miroh circles him like prey.

“He’s young,” Miroh says. “What do you have to say for yourself, boy?”

“I want to do good,” Felix answers. “I’m ready.”

They put a gun in his hand and a beanie on his head. He enters the world looking like a normal ten year old boy.

He puts a bullet in the head of The Enemy.

He suspects one day he will be back for the son and granddaughter.

He hopes it will be soon.

P R E S E N T D A Y

Despite your father’s remarkable propensity for making you feel like a child, you are a grown adult. You are intelligent and conniving and dangerously competent. In some ways, having been raised like a soldier beneath his merciless iron fist, you are more steadfast, more severe. Your life is carved into his, your fates tethered as one to his success. You are your father’s daughter, a Miroh, irrevocably a product of his upbringing.

You do not show weakness. You do not throw tantrums. You might spend twenty minutes in the lobby bathroom, splashing cold water on your face, and you might spend another five minutes shining your shirt buttons, then ten more folding and re-folding the lapel of your long coat – but walking into his office almost forty minutes late is not the same thing as throwing a tantrum.

You think you’re composed until you walk through that door, then the week’s anxieties expand in the cage of your chest. You are capable but you are not stupid. Miroh might be your father but he is a totalitarian man of influence and it would be foolish not to be wary of his power.

You are more apprehensive than you appear, but you march in there like a soldier, shoulders back and head high. You inherited your father’s marble expressions and stone stature. No one would ever guess your palms were so clammy, your neck hot and damp with sweat.

“I’m here,” you say by way of greeting. You are not characters to indulge in artificial small talk. There is no affection here and pretending otherwise is a waste of everyone’s time.

“I won’t bother with pre-amble,” he says, predictably. ”You know why you’re here.”

“I do,” you say. “And I don’t agree with it.”

“I know you don’t.”

The argument ends just like that. You knew it was a dead-end protestation before you opened your mouth, but you had to say something. You are adamantly opposed to your father’s latest imposition.

A personal, twenty-four hour bodyguard. For you.

The decision was not made lightly. Your father’s business rival perished just under a month ago, the bloody circumstances extreme and mysterious. Until Miroh can ascertain what truly transpired at that house on that fateful night, then he cannot be too careful when it comes to guarding his own legacy.

Your father is a military tactician and business man. He is in the habit of bracing for every eventuality with a detached, pragmatic determination. Of course he wants you watched. This bodyguard assignment is imperative in protecting his house.

“I have a security team,” you say.

“They are insufficient,” he replies.

“I trained them myself.”

“They are too numerous.”

“I’ll cut down the roster.”

“Rotations open vulnerabilities.”

“And who’s to replace them?” Your patience snaps. “One of your dogs?”

“You are also one of my dogs,” he says, voice soft for such a venomous retort. It stings like a slash across your chest. “I would not disparage them.”

“Oh, of course, my apology.” You speak with the same false gentility. “What a thoughtful master you are.”

“I must be,” he says, “because the dogs still come when I call.”

There is so much contempt in his voice. He looks at you with more hatred than he ever directed to his worst enemy. It makes you want to leap across this room and throttle him with your bare hands, like you can shake the animosity right out of him.

You are too old to feel like a little girl on the verge of tears, demanding to know why her father does not love her. You have long since accepted there is no easy answer to that question. You would say that Miroh is simply not capable of love but you know that is not true. He can love. He just doesn’t love you.

You are the perfect heir, his exact replica in ability and countenance, but it is not enough. It will never be enough. No matter what you do, no matter how faithfully you obey him. You have bloodied your hands in the shadows while he takes the public credit. You have helped build the reputation of the family name. You have given him everything.

He rewards you with this.

You are not stupid. Regardless of his excuses, he does not want you under surveillance for your protection. You both know your personal training puts you leagues ahead of the overwhelming majority of agents. Your security team is a superfluous accessory as is.

Miroh has just witnessed the collapse of a previously impenetrable legacy. This does not put him at ease. The battle technician accounts for every possible manoeuvre. You know he foresees his own downfall just as easily as he sees his success. Unseated before his time, reputation annihilated, replaced by someone as savage and persistent as him.

A bodyguard will not protect you from the world. It will protect Miroh from you.

For all your inner turmoil, you are a steadfast rock, standing across your father in his office and exchanging a knowing glance. You are just like him. Of course he is scared of you. Of course he hates you. Of course he needs you.

The feeling is devastatingly mutual.

“Who is it?” you ask, calmly.

“Agent Slump, step forward,” your father calls one of the guards posted at the back wall. “This is your new bodyguard officer. He will accompany you at all times, day and night, including your office hours and service train—”

The agent steps forward as your father speaks. You draw your gun out of your chest holster and shoot when the man steps into your periphery. It blows through his shoulder and knocks him down, all in a piercing shriek that reverberates around the small room. The other guards flinch in the ringing aftermath.

You look at your father and re-holster your gun. You lay the lapel of your long coat back over your chest.

“He leaves something to be desired,” you say. “I would have thought you learned your lesson with these undertrained toy soldiers. Maybe a better bodyguard would have kept your wife alive.”

Your own mother died during complications in childbirth. Miroh remarried a few years later, a woman he genuinely seemed to cherish, a woman who was killed in retaliation for a deal gone sour. Nothing fills your father with more righteous fury than the mention of her. Miroh loved her almost as much as he hates you.

You know better than to retaliate with such childish rejoinders, but you want to hit him where it hurts, see something real on that stoic face. It garners you a flicker of rage, bathed in all that loathing, and it makes you smile.

“Let me know if you can find a competent replacement,” you say. “Until then, I have work to do.”

You turn heel and march to the door. The guards move out of your way despite lack of command. They have never respected you the way they respect your father, but they do fear you and it works the same way.

You are dressed for the office but after an unproductive hour spent stewing in agitation, you give up. The head of your security team accompanies you across town to the primary training facilities. Hidden in plain site, here Miroh has trained and developed some of his most deadly assets.

You are one of those assets. You spent your childhood in this facility, training among an elite selection of children, raised for the purpose of violence and victory. It was a unique program. It has never been revived, the medicant administered to the children lost and yet to be replicated.

You are one of the few still living.

Your training was relatively more lax. As Miroh’s daughter, the trainers could not let you die. But neither he nor they had qualms with letting you suffer. Miroh never admonished them and you never complained, at the time naively thinking that if you could prove yourself then he would care about you.

A foolish aspiration long since abandoned.

But the training has served you well over the years. It certainly comes in handy when you need to fucking punch something.

Your security team is comprised of regular soldiers so it does not take much to best them in a fight. The exertion is nonetheless liberating. You have always felt more at ease in action than behind a desk. Combat clothes are less stifling than formalwear. There is a reason Miroh never paraded you at parties the way his late enemy did with his late daughter. Your place is in a fight and always has been.

After a few rounds in the ring, you stop to rest. Your team knows when to leave you alone to brood. You lay back on the mat, flat in the ring.

There is a moment, as often passes, where you question your entire life. It has been a long, vicious fight, clawing your way to your position, that the road back out seems like an impossibly arduous task. Too much has happened, too much pain and loss. It has to mean something.

You cannot surrender now. The very thought has you reeling, physically painful to even consider.

This is where you belong. It is an irrevocable truth. You are a Miroh.

“Yah, murder princess,” comes a voice and the thud of booted steps. “Just three rounds? Tsk. You’re getting soft.”

You roll over, grinning even though you know better. You look up at Changbin who is dressed in similar fatigues, his bulky arms crossed over his broad chest, his dark bangs brushing his smirking face.

“I was waiting for a real fight,” you reply. “Looks like I’m still waiting.”

He barks out a laugh.

Changbin is one of the few survivors of your father’s special-ops program. Unlike others who were imported from your father’s overseas operations, Changbin was raised right here alongside you. You do not even remember meeting him; he has just always been there.

He is a few years younger but he always held your attention, both because of his skill and his ability to retain a sense of humour. It was an often sought breath of relief in the conditions of your training.

You look at Changbin now, grinning and more jovial than someone like him should be. It is a testament to his resolute strength that he can hold a dual personality inside him. He has always been that way. He can flip between a stoic soldier and goofy guy in the blink of an eye. It is part of the reason you have never let yourself entirely trust him. Though you are fond of him, he is like you: just a little too good at what he does.

“Haha, the princess thinks she’s a comedian now,” Changbin says. He nudges you with the tip of his boot. “If you want to make me laugh, you should try fighting.”

“Oh, I see.” You cannot help but rise to his bait, like always. He is a perpetual little brother even though he is not your real brother and certainly not little anymore.

You swipe at him and he jumps back. Just like that, the pair of you fall into a long practiced dance.

It is not the gentle footwork of a real dance, but a violent collision and parry of limbs. It is just as musical and in sync, and somehow almost as tender. You know each other’s weaknesses as well as strengths. You know how to beat each other and how to prolong surrender, where to give advantage so the other can continue. You used to fight until the trainers called a tie, saving you both from selection for the loser’s punishment. To everyone else, it looked like a fight. To you, it was a conversation and consolation. Even if you had been in solitude for weeks, in that moment you were not alone.

Changbin reads you now, in every swipe and jump and dodge. In your matching black clothes and matching strength you collide and converse. Your frustration strains in every vein and his enquires are plain in the deliberate pause of his complicated steps.

“Daddy problems, ah, murder princess?” he asks, grinning.

He catches your fist before it collides with that smirk, twisting your wrist so you are forced to follow with a heavy drop. You roll together, a back and forth until you individually spring to your feet and face each other. You wait for the next move with equal calculation.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” you say, batting a hit.

“Really?” he asks. “Because there are rumours in the pig pen that the general was looking for a big strong soldier to protect his little princess.”

He lets you clock his jaw but it is a satisfying smack nonetheless. A drop of aggravation is wrung out with your sweat. You wipe your brow.

“There was a change of plans,” you say.

Changbin laughs. He is loud, always so loud for someone who can be so stealthy.

“Of course!” he shouts. “Keeping the doctors busy today, are you?”

He really knows you too well. It is mutual. You side-step a movement and body-check him.

“Guess that’s what the general gets for choosing from the pig pen,” you say. You infuse your father’s title with all the sardonic venom it deserves and pig pen with the same playful mockery as always.

“Don’t be jealous,” Changbin teases right back, catching your taunt as easily as he catches your punch. “If you keep practicing, one day you might be almost as good as me.” He has been making the same wisecrack for years, laughing to himself every single time.

“Funny,” you say dryly.

“I am the best,” he continues to tease, embellishing his movements with an unnecessarily dramatic flair. “I’m sure that’s why the general doesn’t want me on bodyguard duty, right? I need a real job, not protecting the princess.”

There are a few rapid-fire moves, too taxing for speech. Then you manage, “Right.” You take his offered opening and catch the back of his knee with yours. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with your probation after the last field mission.”

You expect to take him down but you do not expect the weight of his crash. It is not like Changbin to fully collapse under you, almost like he was truly surprised.

You are just as dazed by the impact. You loom over him, staring bemusedly, like you have no idea how he got on the floor.

It is not like Changbin to take a hit so personally. Of all your father’s soldiers, he was always the best at shrugging off his individuality in favour of a mission. He does not tend to dwell on his losses anymore than he lingers in his victories. The past is a heavy thing to carry into battle. He knows to leave it behind. There is always another job around the corner.

“You’re not still upset about that?” you ask.

The mission was shortly before the enemy’s downfall. Years ago, one of your father’s child soldiers betrayed an operation. Lee Felix switched sides and the enemy did not let your father forget it. But Miroh is an ever-calculating general who knows which battles are worth fighting. After one failed attempt at seizing the enemy’s daughter, he waited until the enemy came to him instead.

When he finally did, you caught him. You sent Changbin after his daughter and waited for the enemy’s imminent surrender. He retracted his operation but Felix, that loose canon of a traitor-turned-bodyguard, fucked the Mirohs a second time and disappeared with her. They all died a week later.

Changbin was noticeably uneasy after the job, but you did not think much of it. You were not worried about Changbin taking the mission too personally. Yes, Felix was a former soldier in this regiment, but Changbin is not sentimental. You chalked up his despondency to his loss. It is not like him to let a target slip through his fingers.

“Upset,” Changbin says. “Me?”

You know him too well. The joking tone is diminished, buried beneath the weight of his gloom. He tries to smile but it does not fit on his face, too big and too wide of a grin.

You tip your head, your regard scrutinous. You have no idea how to talk to him with real depth. You look at each other and understand it, but vocalizing it is another matter entirely.

Like he can read your thoughts, his face scrunches up and he says, “Yah, you, cut that out!” He shoves you as he gets to his feet, both of you stumbling. “I’m fine,” he says. “Come on, hit me again.”

You are certainly better at conversing that way.

You take a starting stance but you are interrupted when someone from your security team whistles. It is a warning whistle, the sharp tone a code for the arrival of your father.

You and Changbin straighten, turning to watch as Miroh approaches with a flank of armed guards behind him. They are all dressed for combat in their black uniforms and black masks. The half-mask is regulation for all field agents. It covers the bottom half of the face and serves as protection in the event of smoke from explosions or exposure to noxious aerosols and gasses.

It also undoubtedly turns a human soldier into a less-than-human figure. It obscures features, faces, flaws.

Sharp eyes stare at you, every face uniform and expressionless. There are half a dozen of them. Your father’s usual security detail trails behind them. Your security team eyes them in turn. The whole room feels like a pot about to boil over.

“What is this?” you demand.

“This is my adherence to our agreement,” your father says.

“Our agreement?” you ask.

“Yes.” He stops in the middle of the room, standing straight and steady. He looks at ease, like he barges in here with a small army every day. “You tasked me to find a competent replacement bodyguard,” he says. “So here is how this will go: whichever agent can beat you in a fight, right here, right now, will be your new bodyguard. If you defeat them all, I will drop the issue and leave the matter of your personal security to you.”

You look at his soldiers then at him. You force yourself to composure. It is not like you to instigate so much confrontation. You prefer to keep your head down and get the job done. Your father does not love you but he knows your work is reliable. Usually that is enough.

This entire escapade with the enemy has unravelled everyone. The house of Miroh should be more stable than ever, your father taking over assets left behind by the enemy, but the whole world feels changed. It is off its axis. You feel unsteady, your body braced for attack with no reprieve. You feel like you are looking at the world through someone else’s eyes. Everything feels wrong.

In difficult times, you fall back on training and soldier instinct. You are a battle technician, just as competent as your father. He is not going to drop the issue and this is a fair compromise. You can fight these guards. Half a dozen well-trained field agents is a handful but not impossible. Your body is built to be a little faster, a little stronger, to take a hit harder.

“Fine,” you say, a single grating syllable. You bite the word. Through clenched teeth, you add, “Let’s do this.”

You and Changbin exchange a look. He reflects your confusion, knowing you can easily take these guards, knowing Miroh knows that too. It makes you feel even more uneasy. Your father must be planning something but you do not know what. But you cannot control him. You can only control yourself. You can fight these guys. You can win.

You take a swig of water then stretch. The first guard takes a position in the fighting ring. You brace yourselves with a starting stance, measuring the other.

You wait, sweat dripping down your brow. You feel their eyes on you, every soldier, your father, your friend. Changbin stands off to the side, sitting in shadows.

It is where your kind belongs. You are not regular soldiers.

The fight begins and you take him down swiftly. Your game with Changbin was just that, a game. This is real. This is a battle. This is what your body was made to do.

One by one, you take out the agents. They charge at you, they swing at you, they even try to taunt you. You deflect it all. Your fist connects with a temple, your foot their knee. You pop joints and flip soldiers and springboard back to action.

You are getting tired by the last soldier but you do not let it show. You sweat profusely, breathing hard, but you run at him and take him down. Your bodies are a swirl of limbs and powerful movements. Then he is on the ground, groaning, and you are rising, victorious.

“Well?” you say. You cannot help but grin, elated from the sheer exertion of exercise, and proud of your triumph. There is a small, stupid part of you that hopes underneath everything, your father is proud too. That he must relent and admit you are good.

Miroh just stands there, unmoving and unaffected. It dims your smile, frustration returning. It simmers hot beneath your skin. It distracts you.

Pain explodes in your left cheek, so sharp and searing it turns the world dark for half a second. You see lightning flashes as you stumble, falling onto your side. There is another guard in front of you, one you did not even see enter the room. Did he drop down from the ceiling?

He is a blurry shape. You blink the stars out of your eyes, holding your throbbing head until clarity returns.

Then your stomach drops.

It is not a guard looming over you. He wears the same black combat uniform and the same half-mask, but everything about him is different, everything from his build to his stance to the ice cold slash of his dark eyes. Emotionless. Empty.

“Ah, I see,” you say, a breathless slur of words. You cannot stop your voice from shaking. “The First Guard. I should have known.”

There are only two living soldiers who can fight at your level. The only two survivors of your father’s special-ops program. One of them is Seo Changbin.

The other is Bang Christopher Chan.

He stands over you in his combat gear, unflinching and barely human. Even without the mask, you doubt you would see any humanity. There is not a single shred of the boy he once was. Chan was a problem for Miroh, once. That was a very long time ago.

That boy, Chris, is dead. He has been dead for years. The soldier in front of you is someone – something – else.

You get to your feet, slowly and shakily. He watches you. He does not speak and he barely blinks, his gaze a meticulous perusal, his body braced for anything.

Chan has the bloodiest, dirtiest hands of them all. He does your father’s worst missions, assignments with details that even you are barred from knowing. He is terrifyingly efficient, deadlier than any weapon in Miroh’s arsenal, and that is saying something because it is a substantial arsenal.

Your own hands are dirty but it is nothing in comparison. He is fast, he is deadly, and he feels nothing. He looks at you like a machine scans a calculation. A broken bone here, a fracture there. You are certain he is already picturing a hundred different ways to contort your broken body.

“Right,” you say.

You are a strategist. You know how to fight. You know when not to fight. But it is like instinct. You look at him and something says fight him.

You feel your father’s eyes on you. You are not sure who is teaching who a lesson.

You take a swing at Chan. He dodges it. He swings too, faster, but you anticipate it. You tuck and roll, moving faster than you have ever moved in your life. You are seldom pushed to the brink of your abilities like this. Even half your skillset is double what most adversaries possess.

But Chan is too much. You spend the fight on constant defense, blocking swing after swing, hit after hit. You take advantage of the smallest opening and crack your fist on his chest, only to realize he deliberately opened himself to it. He grabs your wrist and twists you around before you can retaliate. You are not used to such brute strength. You follow his twisting to prevent a sprain or fracture, which he anticipates. He grabs you by the throat and yanks you into him, right off your feet.

You choke, blue swarming your rapidly blurring vision. He slams you down on the ground, further disorienting you, still clutching your neck.

You dive somewhere deep inside your head. You collect yourself as per your training, then swing your knee up between his legs. It does not fully incapacitate him but it does discombobulate him. He lets go of your throat and you slide between his legs, jumping up behind him. He turns just in time to take a kick to the stomach, blasting him backwards to the end of the ring. He prevents a worse fall by forcing himself down on one knee.

You take the second he is down to catch your breath. You try to calculate your next move but your adrenaline is dwindling. Hopelessness settles in your chest. You cannot win this fight. At best, you can prolong it, but—

For the second time, you are blind-sided by pain. It shatters down the right side of your body, a winded shove that blows right through you. But it is not Chan. Chan is still getting to his feet.

You look up only for Changbin to bring his fist down in your face. It knocks you off your feet and you land with a heavy thud. Your heart races inside your aching chest.

You have never fought Changbin like this.

“What are you doing?” you hiss when he grabs you by the neck and drags you onto your feet. You come to your senses and fight back, but you are hurt and tired and he has been recuperating.

He punches you clear across the jaw and knocks you down again. The world tilts sideways, spotted with black and blue. Changbin drops on top of you. You cannot even wrestle him, so disoriented. He gets you flat on your front and pins you down.

Then he takes a second to whisper in your ear, “Stop fighting me, murder princess. Who do you want as a bodyguard? Me or that thing?”

If you were not so tired, you might have laughed.

Your life is so backwards. Changbin is helping you by beating the shit out of you. But it is undoubtedly helpful. He is right. If Chan beat you, then Chan would be your bodyguard. Your father would win. He would have one of his agents glued to your side. An agent you would never be able to shake no matter what you did.

But it is not Chan over you. It is your friend. Someone from the same shadows as you. Someone your father was not anticipating.

Changbin grabs you by the neck and yanks you up. You look at your father with blood dribbling out of your mouth.

“I win,” Changbin says.

Your father does not look happy. That should upset you. You and Miroh are bound as one.

But it gives you a thrill. His abomination of a soldier looms to the side, still staring at you, like he expects the fight to continue any second. You suppose Chan’s life is one big fight and always has been.

It doesn’t have to be that way for you, you think to yourself, a dangerous thought, one conjured by the feeling of your only friend holding you in his arms. It looks like a death grip to anyone else, purely technical, but you feel it, the way he cups your injuries carefully despite his bulk and power.

Miroh is scared. He is getting desperate. He wants you brought to heel. In doing so, he is only stoking your resentment.

That pot starts to boil over.

“Well?” you say, in a voice as rough as gravel.

“Yes,” your father says with a petty little snarl. “I suppose you have won, haven’t you?”

Changbin helps you off the ground. You suffer through your pains. You can feign steadiness for another minute, for long enough to retaliate.

You climb out of the ring. You pass the other injured guards. You walk right up to your father.

Miroh stares at you. You have identical glares, measuring each other. Two soldiers with the same fire in their blood.

You punch him. It is a nice sharp shot across the face, using all the strength you have left. You are one of the best. Despite your injuries, it is still one fucking hell of a punch.

Miroh falls back in an undignified sprawl, hitting the hard ground with a painful thud. He is good but he is not you. A fall like that would not have broken your bones the way it clearly fractures his arm.

“Until next time, father,” you say.

You step over him. His security team immediately surrounds him, helping him up. Your team comes to your aid as well. Changbin follows too, coming right up to your side. He grabs your arm and slings it around his shoulder, taking the brunt of your weight seconds before you would have collapsed.

You look back over your shoulder. The injured guards are tending their wounds. Chan is looming in the background like a living shadow. Miroh is clutching his arm and staring at you with fury pouring out of him. You walk away, smiling despite your injuries.

Your father should know better than to hit you.

You always hit back.

#bang chan x reader #chan x reader #bang chan x you #chan x you #bang chan fanfiction #bang chan smut #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #stray kids fanfiction #skz fanfiction #skz x you #stray kids x you

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darklydeliciousdesires · 4 months

Text

Say it Dirty - An Alfie Solomons/Reader One Shot Story.

For my babes @cillmequick and @zablife. Enjoy!

Words - 1,467

Warnings - Smut below the cut, minors DNI!

Alfie. One could never use the word tall to describe the gangster rum distiller of Camden town, but suffice to say, he is big. He takes up space. He has presence. Alfie is so wide in both physical width and the enormity of his personality, he fills whatever room he happens to be within.

Everything about Alfie is imposing. That is why you fell for him in the first place. What gets your blood tingling with desire the most, though...

“Next lad!”

Oh, that enormous voice. He doesn’t shout often, but when he does, it sends your knees to jelly.

“Next lad!”

He’s handing out the weekly wages, the precise count out of pounds, shillings and pence into a small paper envelope, handing them to each of his employees for their, ahem, “baking” endeavours. The smell of the rum within the large casks fills your nose as you walk past them down in the dingy distillery, moving past the line and entering Alfie’s office.

“Bear with me, sweetheart.” He doesn’t even need to look up from his desk to know you’ve arrived. He can smell the sweet notes of your perfume in a sea of rum and sweaty men a mile off. “Just gotta get these fellas paid, innit.”

You perch on the edge of his desk, his hand moving to stroke your thigh fleetingly. “Next lad!” God, you’ll melt off the edge of the desk if you’re not careful. “Is there a fuckin’ reason you’re gorping, boy?”

“Um, n-no, Mr. Solomons.”

Alfie lowers his spectacles, raising his eyebrows. “You seriously comin’ in here for your pay, and giving me missus the once over with your beady little eyes while you’re here, eh? Nah, son. Off you fuck, while you still have them legs to carry ya. Just know, though. If I ever see you lookin’ at her like that again, yeah, it’ll be the last fuckin’ time you have eyes, mate.”

The young man takes his wages with a stiff gulp. “S-s-sorry, Mr. Solomons.”

“Ain’t me you was lookin’ at like a slab of meat.” He folds his arms, jerking his head in your direction, a smile spreading beneath his beard. “Apology should be directed at me wife, really.”

“I apologise, Mrs. Solomons.” He’s steadier when talking to you, wringing his cap between his hands nervously all the same.

Alfie studies you, watching you nod. “Alright, fuck off outta here. Next lad!” He scurries from the office, your husband continuing to hand out each wage envelope and mark it off with a pencil strike in the ledger. With the last lad paid, he stands, moving before you.

“Now, how about I take my little turtle dove out for a bit of nosh, yeah?” Well, that’s the sole reason you came to meet him from work, after all. He goes for a quick wash and to change his shirt before you leave, yet when he returns, he finds you not quite as ready to leave as he is.

The double take at seeing you sitting atop his desk naked is priceless, eyes touring your bare curves with much interest. “My darlin’, I dunno what kind of fuckin’ restaurant you think we’re going to, right, but it ain’t the kind where the customers sit about naked.”

“Can’t help it,” you purr, pulling him close, hands smoothing over his fresh shirt. “See it’s when you raise your voice, Alfie, when you get defensive of me, too. It does things to me, that voice of yours.”

He looks quietly thrilled at that. You don’t quite know how one can raise an eyebrow with cocky intent, but Alfie nails it every time. “Yeah, that right, love? You like the sound of my voice? Why don’t you sit on my cock while I talk to you, then?”

Grasping his shirt, you pull him close. “That’s exactly what I had in mind, Alf.”

Your lips meet in a slow tempest, all heat and honey, his hands beginning to glide where his eyes have already roamed, touring your bare flesh keenly. When his mouth follows, you whimper, each kiss sinking into your skin, the soft of his beard coaxing tickles over your flesh. Hot hands adorned in cool gold knead at your thighs, fingers slipping between.

The sweet sting of him toying with your clit radiates, little pricks of pleasure trickling down your spine, puddling at those clever fingers, his teeth sharp at your neck. “Always did love my hands, didn’t ya, dove?”

You hum in appreciative response against his tongue, mouths locked, those fingers you do indeed love so much thrusting within. He opens you, pushing greedily, his raspy chuckle low and self-satisfied at each little mewl that pours from your mouth like wine, your cunt clenching around each rotation as he roots those thick digits, so inordinately deep.

“Fuck, get in the chair,” you pant, hands moving to slide his braces down, undoing his trousers. “I need to ride you. Now.”

He chuckles, his thumb rolling over your clit sending sparks to skitter wildly. “Ain’t half a demanding little mare tonight, aint’cha?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, Alfie letting his trousers and undergarments fall to pool at his ankles, sitting down in the chair and guiding you astride him. “But then I always did know what’s good for me.” Taking him, you squeeze the thick of his rigidity, pushing him to your glistening opening and dropping down until you’re full.

You can feel every inch of him pressing your soft walls, thick and heavy, his hand weaving into your hair and pulling until you arch for him, bending like a crescent moon. “Fuckin’ ‘ell, look at that body bow for me. Can’t wait to watch these pretty little tits bounce while you ride me, darlin’.”

His mouth devours you, nipples sucked and bitten, his free hand grasping your hip as you begin to roll against him, his girth sending sensations to flutter up your spine, fizzing like champagne bubbles, the hint of teeth upon the peak of your nipple sending glimmers to join them. “Ain’t even half started properly yet, and this sweet little cunt is like a fuckin’ lake. Yeah, look at you. So fucking pretty for me, ain’t ya? So pretty and sweet, split open on me.”

His words mist hot beneath your skin, rising like steam, the torrent of seductive filth unabating. “Think I could have you like this on me for hours, and I wouldn’t get tired of watching you gripping tight on my cock. And you would, wouldn’t ya? Yeah, you’d keep giving, my beautiful, cock hungry little doe.”

His thumb stretches, and it sends a rain of pleasure pelting through you when he brings it to your clit, circling, your bundle twitching against the stroke, your toes gripping on the floorboards beneath as you begin to ride him with more determination. “That’s it, sweet. Show me how much you love this cock.”

The moan seeps from your lips, sweet and slow, like thick syrup, the clasp of your cunt tight upon him, the sound of him punching into the very wet of you lewd, mixing with the slap of your arse smacking hard against his solid thighs. It’s a symphony of utter sin, his groans adding delicious baritone, your tits bouncing, his hands moving to clutch them as his tongue swipes your cleavage.

His touch has lightning forking from nerve to nerve, your ministrations greedy in desperate need to come around him, wet his cock further with the dew of your orgasm, your hands fisting tight in his hair, a shift of his hips sending him deeper into the flutter of your cunt.

You sob his name, and he pushes even deeper, so heavy and overwhelming within you. “Come on, my beautiful little darlin’. Come pretty for me on this cock.”

Oh, how you do, the pleasure burning neon through your nerves, a sky of colours painted over you as it topples you completely. The scream it pulls from you has him twitching, and he becomes caught in the tide of it, cock pressed filthily deep into the rhythmic clasping of you, spilling hard, everything tense undoing and softening to fluid bliss. You both swim in it, adrift on the endless ocean, panting against one another.

“Fuck, that worked up a right appetite,” he finally breaths, kissing your neck as you roll your eyes.

“Do you ever cease thinking about your stomach?”

He chuckles, low and dirty. “Yeah. I often think about how good me wifey feels when she fucks me like she just did. And you can count on it, treacle, that I’ll be thinkin’ about it for the rest of the night an’ all.”

The way he keeps stealing heated glances at you all the way through dinner, you’re left in little doubt of that, too.

#alfie solomons fanfiction #alfie solomons smut #alfie solomons x reader #alfie aolomons x you #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders fic #alfie solomons fic #alfie solomons fanfic #alfie solomons imagine #tom hardy #tom hardy fanfiction #tom hardy smut

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driaswrld · 6 months

Text

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

LADY DRIA WRITES . . . ˚ ༘ *

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

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

CHAPTER TWO. . . ˚ ༘ *

GRAPE FLAVORED.

Sleep eludes you tonight.

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

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

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

—but you miss him.

Embarrassingly so.

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

You miss Satoru — your best friend, your person.

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

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

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

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

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

—not until two nights ago, that is.

Two nights ago when he reappeared.

“Your highness?”

Dearest gentle reader,

in these delicate matters

of love and longing—

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

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

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

“You often take late strolls, your grace?”

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

( right, this encounter is improper. )

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

“Dear God, I hope not.”

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

So far, and yet so close.

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

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

As if he hadn't left you.

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

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

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

( have you been happy away from me? )

“Did you read my letters?”

—often we forget

just how greedy

the heart can be.

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

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

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

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

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

“Suguru. . .”

It reminds you too much of your childhood.

Often you would chase after Satoru and Suguru.

Always both, never one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suguru wished he had stayed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

( and yet. )

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

( duty came first. )

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

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

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

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

Does he love her?

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

“I’m here.”

And you believed him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beloved reader,

I fear I must also

impart the knowledge—

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

—that there are always

three sides to a story.

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

You are not worthy of her.

Morning gives way to the first of three hunting days.

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

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

“Have you and Suguru finally fought?”

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

“I’ve no idea what you mean, mother.”

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

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

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

Neither would concede to the other.

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

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

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

This isn't about a rattle, is it?

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

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

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

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

Satoru Gojo is many things.

Selfish, spoiled, strong. Greedy even.

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

But when it comes to you. . .

Doting reader,

our beloved Prince Satoru

has yet to realize—

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

As if love can be akin to fleeting favor.

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

Satoru is many things.

But not blind.

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

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

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

And yet. . .

—that love is not

a war you march into

of your own accord.

He’s selfish.

“Have you asked her what she wants?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I never touched her.”

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

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

“I can't tell her.”

“You must.”

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

In the same way his father did his mother?

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

He’d prefer you hate him altogether.

“Are you happy with father?”

Darling reader,

perhaps love

only visits the fearless.

“Your father is a good man.”

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

“My lady?”

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

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

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

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

You're hiding. Or at least trying to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Devoted reader,

our protagonist

has a pattern of

terrible judgement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Faithful reader,

it matters.

Too much.

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

“I was called?”

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

“I’m sorry—” “Grape juice—”

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

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

Only for a moment.

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

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

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

( you should've stayed in bed tonight. )

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

Grape juice was his drink of choice.

And then it became yours.

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

Is Suguru going to magically appear too?

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

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

Silk.

( what's his problem with the gloves? )

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Satoru!” You scold.

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

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

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

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

( why did you run away from me? )

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

( why didn't you give chase? )

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

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

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

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

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

He's not how he was in your youth.

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps, silken gloves suit you, my lady.

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

“Are you—”

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

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

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

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

( you’re thinking too much, name. )

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

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

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

“What were you going to say?”

You swallow, hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grape flavored and starving.

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

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

He stops.

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

He’s made a mistake. A foolish one.

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

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

“We should stop.”

Darling reader,

we all know

how the saying goes. . .

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

( why won't you look at me? )

It makes Satoru hate himself more.

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

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

He sputters.

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

“Princess—”

“No.”

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

( it’s about the three of you. )

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

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

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

. . . it's all downhill

from the first kiss.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because he knows—

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

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

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

He wants you.

“Say it.”

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

“I can't.”

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

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

Ever since you were children.

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

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

“Why won't you fight for me, Satoru?”

Satoru Gojo is many things.

Selfish, spoiled, strong. Greedy even.

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

But when it comes to you. . .

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

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

Sorry, I'm paralyzed in love with you.

He’s not asking you to stay.

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

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

“I’m the Prince, for fucks sake!”

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

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

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

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

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

The Prince.

Not your Prince.

( does a heart make noise when it shatters? )

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

He’s selfish. He knows that.

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

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

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

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

Satoru is left behind.

You never win love, you earn it.

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

( before he knew he loved you. )

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#⋆ 🪷 A ROYAL AFFAIR ! ˚ ༘ *#👑 TSCC — series.#★ driaswrld #jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo x reader #geto x reader #satosugu x reader #satoru gojo x reader #suguru geto x reader #geto suguru x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk fic

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summer-princess · 3 months

Text

Far From Angry: Hardersson x Reader (Part 2)

Summary: You meet a stranger and her girlfriend at a bar. Things escalate quickly. 🔞Smut. Mdni.🔞 Pairing: Hardersson x Reader Warnings: Threesome, fingering, strap-ons, dirty talk Disclaimer: Obviously fiction. Words: 2806 Notes: Thanks to @acornsquish for pointing out a little error in the previous part! Read Pt. 1 here

“I think she needs your cock, Magda.”

Magda turned her attention to you, raising her sculpted eyebrows.

“Is that true, baby? You need my cock?”

You nodded, eyes pleading as you looked back at her. You could see her tongue as she spoke, the same one that had just nearly brought you over the edge, flicking across her lower lip as she considered the situation, imagining the gorgeous sight that would be you, impaled on her cock, taking everything she wanted to give you.

Pernille, still seated beside you, leaned down to press a kiss to your lips. The older woman’s mouth, tender and dirty at the same time, was enough to distract you while Magda crossed the room, opening a drawer and pulling out a thick beige toy and the corresponding harness. As Pernille devoured your mouth, one of her hands splayed possessively across your chest, her girlfriend stepped into the harness, tightening the cinches.

“Don’t worry, lovely,” cooed Pernille, pulling back only millimeters to whisper against your skin, your hips rocking of their own accord against the air between your legs, your need for more beyond obvious.

“Don’t worry. Magda’s going to fill you up.”

They didn’t notice the way your eyes widened until Magda was back on the bed, Pernille pulling away from your head so that you could see her partner, hand stroking erotically up and down the sizeable strap between her legs, covering it with lube.

“What’s wrong, pretty thing?”

Pernille looked down at you, concern clouding the arousal in her eyes.

“I… It…”

Your eyes were locked on the strap hanging between Magda’s legs, a good inch longer and at least a half of a finger-width thicker than anything you’d taken in the past. You were pretty sure you could take it, but the task still felt more than a little daunting.

Luckily, Pernille was once again able to easily interpret your fragmented thoughts, realization hitting as she followed your gaze.

“Oh, baby,” she cooed soothingly, her thumb still rubbing circles around your swollen clit. “Don’t worry, we’ll help you take it. Would it help if you took my fingers first?”

Scarlet, you nodded, the sweetness saturating her voice somehow making the words even filthier.

“Mmm,” she groaned, exchanging a hungry grin with Magda, one that made you shudder.

“Even after Magda licked you so nicely, you still need more before you’re ready to take her. That’s okay, pretty girl, just keep your legs open for me.”

You whined, the idea of closing your legs all but unimaginable.

Settling herself between your thighs, Pernille took a moment to appreciate the sight before her. If she’d thought you looked pretty back in the bar, that was nothing compared to how you looked now, pussy glistening with your own arousal, legs spread shamelessly wide. Swiping two fingers through your arousal, gathering it on her fingers to ease their entry, Pernille pressed her digits against your tight opening, working her way in past the second knuckle. She grunted softly as your heat welcomed her inside, beginning to move her fingers before you were even able to register fully that she had entered you.

You moaned as the older woman buried her fingers inside your pussy and began to gently fuck you open, the slight stretch intensifying your pleasure. Pernille’s fingers were thin and nimble, able to locate your most sensitive spots with very little effort. The blonde smirked, taking note of your happy little whimpers as her fingers worked in and out, each thrust a little deeper, bringing you closer and closer to being able to take Magda comfortably.

“Taking her fingers so well,” Magda praised you, settling in to lie beside you where Pernille had been moments earlier, strap hanging from her hips, awaiting its chance to be used. Beads of sweat formed on your forehead as you turned your head towards her voice. Her breasts were tantalizingly close to you and, without stopping to think about what you were doing, you closed your lips around the nearest nipple. Sloppily, the peak stubbornly refusing to stay still as she sucked in a sharp breath, you mouthed at Magda’s nipples, your tongue swirling patternless motions across the sensitive flesh. With a groan, she tangled her hand in your hair and used it to pull you closer, keeping your mouth on her chest.

“Fuck,” came Pernille’s voice from between your legs where, in the midst of your distraction, she had managed to slip a third finger inside of you.

“Babe, she’s clenching around my fingers. I think she likes it when you pull her hair.”

These women were going to drive you insane, you thought to yourself as Magda grinned, confirming Pernille’s theory with a sharp tug to your hair, pricks of pain throbbing in your scalp and making you moan into her skin, cunt locking down around Pernille’s fingers as they curled, stroking your sensitive walls, stretching you out.

You had no idea how long you lay there, rocking back against Pernille’s fingers as she worked them deeper and deeper, stretching you out, your lips locked around Magda’s nipples. The rhythm was both arousing and comforting, and you whined at the loss when Pernille, deeming you sufficiently prepared, slid her fingers free.

The loss of Magda’s breasts under your tongue was nearly as distressing, and the older woman made sure to press a comforting kiss to your swollen lips before she switched her position.

“Don’t you worry, I’m gonna fuck you now, pretty girl,” said Magda soothingly, taking Pernille’s place between your legs and rubbing the blunt head of her strap against your soaked pussy. You whined, nodding desperately- after taking Pernille’s fingers, you felt so empty, and all you wanted now was to be filled by them again.

“So eager,” she crooned, holding your hips still as she slid inside, inch by inch.

The toy was still a bit of a tight fit, and you had to suck in a quick breath as it stretched you out, your soaking cunt stretching to take it. Pernille patted you gently, encouragingly, on your side as she watched, enraptured. Her fingers, still wet with your arousal, prodded at your lips. Indulgently, grateful for the distraction, you opened your mouth wide and let the other slip them inside, immediately beginning to work them with your tongue, sucking them as you would a cock while Magda continued to move until she was fully seated inside your cunt.

“Good job,” Magda crooned, rewarding you with a gentle rub to your swollen clit. It had taken every ounce of self control she possessed to not start thrusting as soon as she had worked herself inside, wanting desperately to see how your hole contracted around her cock. Her gentle flicks to your bundle of nerves made you whine around Pernille’s fingers in your mouth, eyelashes fluttering.

She only started thrusting once you wriggled on her cock, wordlessly pleading for her to take you. She rocked her hips gently, and the wrecked noise you made, barely audible in the face of Pernille fucking the remnants of your own arousal into your throat, could have almost made her come on the spot.

“Fuck,” cursed Magda as you clenched around her strap, trying to pull her further in.

“Fuck, she’s still so tight.”

“She can take it,” said Pernille as if you weren’t even there, fingers still fucking the taste of your own pussy down your throat, relishing the little whines that managed to escape around her digits to fill the bedroom.

“You should have felt how her cunt was begging while I was fucking her with my fingers. She has such a slutty little pussy, Mags, she needs you to fuck it. Don’t you, honey?”

You nodded desperately, trying to make your agreement clear despite the fact that Pernille’s fingers were still pressed between your lips. The message must have been received, because the next thing you knew, Magda was dragging her cock carefully back, then rolling her hips and thrusting forward, the toy attached to her hips spearing your needy cunt and wrenching another muffled moan from between your lips.

Her first few thrusts were experimental, but as she locked her eyes on the enticing sight of the beige strap emerging from your cunt, covered with your juices, she couldn’t help herself.

“Good girl,” praised Magda, thrusts speeding up as you whined in pleasure. “Taking it so good, baby.”

“So filthy,” added Pernille, pressing another open-mouthed kiss to your neck. “Such a dirty girl, letting Magda fill you up with her cock. Our dirty girl.”

The words made you flush even deeper, but they also filled you with a sense of pride- when you had first seen the strap on, you had been apprehensive, but now the toy was slamming in and out of you at a moderate pace, the older woman claiming your pussy for her own.

“Please,” you whimpered as Pernille finally freed her fingers from your throat. “Need it harder.”

Magda seemed all too happy to oblige, if the low moan that came from between her lips was any indication. You hadn’t quite picked up on it yet, but the strap she was using to fuck you included a vibrator, one which was steadily buzzing against her clit, spurring her onwards.

“Oh,” said Pernille. “She needs it harder, Magda. She needs you to fuck her even harder, she’s that desperate.”

Magda chuckled.

“Hmm,” she murmured, thrusts tapering off as she pretended to consider your desperate plea. You locked your eyes on hers, pupils blown wide in desperation. When she resumed her motion, surrendering quickly enough to keep you from getting fussy, you kept your gaze locked on her body.

The older woman looked like a goddess, muscles rippling as she thrust into you. Her blue eyes were dark as she glanced back and forth between you, tits bouncing with the motion of her thrusts, and Pernille, who had started rubbing neat circles on her own swollen clit.

“Turn over.”

The sudden command had barely registered in your mind before she repeated it, combined with another little slap to your thigh. You obeyed, Magda pulling out momentarily so you could go to your hands and knees before thrusting back into your needy pussy, gripping your hips hard enough that you knew there would be a bruise in the morning.

You realized why you were in this new position when you caught sight of Pernille, leaning against the headboard with a pillow behind her back, legs spread.

“Gonna use your mouth on me like a good girl?”

Her accent was stronger as she bit back a moan, the sight of your flushed face and swollen lips adding to her arousal.

In response, you dove in without hesitation, finding her clit and flicking your tongue, lavishing the swollen bud with attention. One of her hands tangled in your hair, tugging at it as she guided you, hips jutting up into your touch. You tried to pay attention to what made her grip tighten, muscles seizing up in pleasure, wanting to make her feel just as good as you felt.

You lost yourself in the pleasurable rhythm, Magda’s thrusts deep inside your cunt and her fingers rubbing your clit as you devoured Pernille’s wetness. You were surrounded by her, her muscular thighs on either side of your face, your breaths restricted by her pussy against your mouth.

Not that you minded.

You could feel yourself drawing closer to your peak as you lapped at Pernille, unaware of anything outside the taste of the older woman’s pussy on your talented tongue and the way her swollen clit twitched against it, the sounds of her moans harmonizing with your own, and with the sound of Magda’s hips slapping against yours as she drove her strap deeper and deeper inside your welcoming cunt.

“You getting close, honey?”

Magda’s tone was sweet even as her thrusts retained their rhythm, deep and long and all-consuming. You couldn’t tell if she was talking to you or Pernille, but your head rocked up and down anyway, your nose bumping against Pernille’s clit as you nodded desperately.

“Yes! Fuck!”

“What do you say?”

The hand holding you between spread legs now jerked you upward, forcing you to look at Pernille as she spoke, harsher than the sugary sweet tone her partner’s words had held before. When you didn’t answer, only moaning as Magda’s thrusts brought you right to the edge of the cliff, her other hand reached out and grabbed your chin, squeezing it tightly.

“What do good girls say,” she asked. “When they need to come?”

“Please,” you whined, licking the taste of Pernille off your lips as you struggled to hold back the tide, threatening to break the levees at any instant. “Please, let me come! I need to come!”

“What do you think, Magda? Should we let her come?”

Magda’s fingers, still rubbing maddening circles over your swollen clit, didn’t pause as she considered. You were nearly insensible on your hands and knees, bundle of nerves twitching beneath her touch as you tried desperately to hold back your orgasm, wanting to wait until you were granted permission.

“Mm, fuck. I think she needs it, baby. Don’t you? I mean, the way this cunt is clamped on my cock I’d be surprised if she lasted another thirty seconds.”

As soon as Pernille released your chin, pausing to consider Magda’s opinion, it gave you free reign to continue licking at her, straining to try and reach the same spots that had made her moan the loudest.

It was the pleasure building in her own core more than anything that made the decision for the lighter blonde as she admired the sight of you, licking at her like a starving woman.

“Okay then. Come for us, like the desperate little thing that you are.”

Permission granted, your body wasted no time before seizing up in orgasm, the powerful waves of pleasure slamming into like a truck. You cried out, some combination of the two women’s names and nonsensical gibberish falling from between your swollen lips.

As you crashed over the edge, the ecstatic moans were lost in Pernille’s pussy as she spasmed, coming apart against your tongue. You lapped desperately at her, trying to gather as much of her flavor on your tongue as you could while Magda’s hips continued to thrust into your needy pussy.

The older woman’s movements were almost involuntary as she rode out her own orgasm, the sight of her girlfriend coming on your tongue combined with the low buzzing of the attached vibrator finally enough to send her over the edge. The continued movement of the strap dragging along your sensitive walls extended your own climax, your brain unable to focus on anything except the pleasure in between your legs, how Pernille’s hips were still moving, covering your face in her slick. The hand not grasping your leg tightly enough to bruise continued drawing erratic circles on your abused clit.

After a blissful eternity, your pleased whimpers turned to whines of discomfort, nerves overstimulated with how hard you’d come. With a chuckle and a pat to your flank that made you wonder, just for a moment, if you were truly that tired, Magda slid her strap out of your sopping pussy, quickly unbuckling her harness and setting both toys aside to be seen to later. Pernille’s soft hands stroked through hair, messy from where she’d tugged on it, and pulled the covers over the two of you.

With Pernille silent and Magda slipping quietly from the room, presumably on a quest for a warm washcloth or a bottle of water, the heavy realization dawned on you- now that you were done, they would probably send you packing.

The thought of walking home in the dark, especially with how warm and cozy you felt in Magda and Pernille’s bed, made you want to cry, but there was no point in prolonging the inevitable.

“Hey,” said Pernille, reaching out for you as you started to push the covers off of yourself, swinging one leg over the side of the bed and leaving it hovering an inch above the floor. “Where are you going?”

“H-Home?”

“No, you’re not. Stay here tonight,” said Magda as she re-entered the room, and your fucked-out pussy twitched in interest at the tone, one which demanded acquiescence. Not that you were going to protest. Obediently, gratefully, you flopped back onto the pillows and accepted the water bottle that she offered, taking two long sips.

Magda climbed back into the bed and, their bodies warm on either side of you, you let yourself sink into the pillows. One of the women chuckled quietly, but you didn’t care which or why.

All you cared about was drifting off to sleep, snuggled in between the pair.

#woso #woso x reader #fc bayern frauen x reader #hardersson #hardersson x reader #magdalena eriksson x reader #magdalena eriksson x pernille harder x reader #pernille harder x reader #magdalena eriksson #pernille harder #woso smut #woso fanfics #woso community #woso imagine

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noneorother · 22 days

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The art director & the Good Omens book cover tier list of doom, part 1

part 1 l part 2

This is going to have to be a multi-part series because there are *checks notes* 64 different covers that I've found so far.

I am your resident Art Director/Good Omens enthusiast, and welcome to my completely meta-free book cover tier list. Listen, making a book cover is HARD. I should know. But while we salute these artists for their hard work and time, I think we can all admit that once in a while, the vision is just not on. And on very rare occasions, publishers seemed to have managed to commission the cover art directly from hell... 1. The original UK cover

Ahh, the standard by which all shall be judged. We're starting off with a nice & easy cover, with adorable woodcuts of Aziraphale and Crowley flanking a custom Good Omens font! While I have to take a few points off for the terrible kerning of the word "GoOD", the blockprint vibes and general bitchiness of Aziraphale's teeny weeny wittle face, along with the sick colour palette puts the orignial in my good graces. Tier: Great

2. The duelling US covers

Progress! Hail to the designer who figured out trying to make "GoOD" and "OMeNs" fit the same width was a fool's errand, and even managed to IMPROVE on the original handmade title by adding a little halo and devil's tale to the design. Aziraphale and Crowley are facing each other, while also managing to serve absolute cunt. Aziraphale is wearing EIGHTIES SNEAKERS. Crowley's little snake boots have HEELS. They've managed to keep the woodcut vibes and colour simplicity, while balancing out the full title of the book. Both authors get to trade off on who's name comes first! Dare I say, this is a work of genius. I could dock some points for Crowley's sad bat wings growing out of his right clavicle, but who am I to question greatness.

Tier: Blessed by God Herself

3. The Halo Master Chief(?) cover

How the mighty have fallen... As a Canadian child, I was subjected to maybe the most horrifying ad in existence by the War Amps warning children about machine safety. This cover is the paper embodiment of that ad. I am confused by the purple haze. I am frightened by the seeming ethereal flatness of Adam and Dog. I am strangely aroused by Aziraphale's eyebrows, and intensely saddened by the terrible outline/drop shadow they had to inflict on the type to fit "Pratchett" in that god awful space. Tier: WTF

4. Germany, Ein Gutes Omen covers

This cover inexplicably exists in two colour ways: red and teal. I put the audiobook cover here so you could experience the full illustration, and also how fucked up it is that they cropped the book version to include three horse-people of the apocalypse, but cut off DEATH on the regular cover. Points must be given for drawing a pretty slick Bentley, but I think we have to take even more points away for turning Crowley into a Ray Charles/Mike Wazowski hybrid. The ducks are nice. Tier: Not so Good (Omens)

5. Germany, Ein Gutes Omen covers continued

I don't know if the German designer of this cover *knew* that they were using western yeehaw cowboy woodblock letters when they made this cover, but judging by how they spaced the rest of the text at the bottom, THEY DID NOT CARE. And that seems to be a running theme for this one. We get kind of a duality thing going on with the black and pink background, but it just seems like somebody whispered the general themes of Good Omens into a jar, and threw it down a well, and this poor chap came along and picked it up. The baffling choice to align every piece of text on the cover *except* Neil Gaiman's name which is right aligned and rotated 90 degrees (not even real vertical type) will haunt my dreams, I think.

Tier: Bad

6. US, UK The Traffic Jam cover

For the love of Good Omens, WHY. I can think of so many more interesting symbols to put on the cover of this book than the ODEGRA SIGIL TRAFFIC JAM. Props for keeping the good colours and type, but like, I think this cover was secretly designed by @amtrak-official, or someone who just really, really likes public works. Tier: Does the Job

7. France, De bons présages cover

Leave it to France to make sure people know that Aziraphale and Crowley fuck severely. While I can't condone leaving out half the title of the book (and thinking a red carpenter's square counts as decoration), I can begrudgingly acknowledge that Ron Pearlman and Benedict Cumberbatch's love child is excellent Crowley casting. I think I give this a solid dark academia/10. Tier: Good (Omens)

8. France, De bons présages covers continued

Just imagine with me, if you will, the absolutely hilarious reality that this cover posits: Good Omens is exactly the same in every respect, but Crowley drives a pink 1950s convertible. Why do all of the colours on this cover look like they've been pre-digested? Why are the font choices and placement so bafflingly bad. My face is the demon's face holding that car. I feel his pain.

Tier: WTF

9. France, De bons présages covers continued

Minus points for not managing to write the full title of the book once again. I don't know what it is with the French. They seem pretty set on Good Omens being demonic. While I do appreciate a good Bosch-style demon party, the dude in the middle confounds me. All-caps Museo Sans that isn't even *centred* in the frame is just so lazy. I am le tired. Tier: Bad

10. France, De bons présages covers continued

Uhh. The font. The font is okay.... I think? Yeah. The font and kerning are. Okay. OHHH GOD I LOOKED DOWN BELOW THE TEXT WHYYYY. Tier: WTF

END of round one. I need a nap.

#good omens 2 #good omens fandom #good omens #art director talks good omens #tier list #cover art #aziraphale and crowley #aziraphale x crowley #book cover #go s2 #gomens #good omens analysis

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tallprinxess · 9 months

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Depressed & needy Geto. +18

content: ¿cnc? smut, downgrading, bit of bdsm and spanking, <3 all tht fun stuff! 『my first time writing, this has been in my drafts for months(;_;)』. ꨄ reposts r rlly appreciated ꨄ

Geto returned from one of his 'mission’ feeling down, thinking he has no control or power over anything.. until he remembers he has you.

his mind and thoughts were elsewhere, he didn't think to go out of his way to call or see you. such an insignificant monkey wasting his time. 'why bother with her?" he thought to himself that morning.

on the other hand, you didn't even think too much into the amount of time he hadn't called you for. maybe he was just way more busy than usual. so you carried on w/ yourself that day, walking down the strip mall with some friends, you catch a glimpse of a familiar figure across the street.. Geto talking to a brown haired girl. confused.. staring at him, jealousy flickers across your face before your friends rushed you off into a store w/ them..

‘wonder if he saw me..' you thought to yourself..

course he saw you. he wasn't expecting to. he didn’t.. want to…

CREAK

later that night you swiftly turn your head to face your apartment window. breaking your thoughts as someone creeps in, immediately recognizing the figure.

"G-geto?" you questioned, eyebrow slightly raised looking at him stepping through your window unannounced. he was dressed in a grey tee casual black pants and a belt..? he doesn't usually wear belts.

"a-ah, scared me..” you sighed, rubbing the remaining cream into your thigh.

“Seriously you can't keep popping into my window like that, Geto. you don’t even text or-" before you could finish, a big strong hand slowly covered your mouth, the width of it reaching from one side of your soft jaw to the other, clamping w/ a grip.

"talk 't much." Geto sighed, his voice low.

your body tensed a bit, slowly looking back up at him. as he gives no time to react, pulling you up off your bed by the small of your jaw, his grip demanding. forced to meet his tall figure. dark purple eyes that lazily bore into yours as your gaze flickered across his darken features, long loose hair framing his face. emotions evident in his eyes.

"take off 'ur clothes fa me, pretty ." he interrupted in a low, deep tone as his rough hand slowly moved from your mouth, brushing his thumb over your plump bottom lip.

"Geto.." you barely breath out. “t—take off my clothes?..i don't under-"

‘HHHhh’ Geto sighed loudly, yanking his hand from your face. now rubbing his fingers over his eyes, frustration evident as he spoke.

"-didn't fucken stutter bro. you heard me." he spat back, still rubbing his eyes. clearly he didn't have his emotions in check. there was no room for arguing here, its not like you never gotten naked for him before. with slow shaky hands, you slid your pj shorts off, letting them hit on the floor then slowly pulling the bottom of your white pj top up-

“tsk.” Geto groaned, clicking his tongue reaching for the middle of your top ripping the fabric and binds in one motion. you invariably jerk away, covering up but that swiftly changes as he grasp your wrist. lifting his grey tee w/ the other hand biting it up as he grabs his belt gripping and yanking it off. what’s he gonna do w/ the belt?

“wanna see this pretty little body squirming under me.” he mumbles, his big hand still on your wrist bringing it to your back, forcing you onto your bed face first as he ties your small wrists together with his belt… oh.. that’s why he wore a belt, jus for you <3.

looking back at him as he binds your arms “ok ok, look g-geto.. you can talk to me. something is clearly wrong with yo—”

“EEKK-”

“i said you talk to much…like it better when those noises come out.” you couldn’t even process his words as another slap to the same cheek comes to your ass. “MMMHH” bitting the bed, your back jerks a deeper arch.

you can’t think to breath when he sends another slap to the soft flesh of your ass, griping and kneading into it. your pretty little head jolting up then back into your bed, bitting your sheets. the skin of your ass hot and red from his hand prints.

“fuckkk babygirl, wet already for me? put that arch higher. lemme see it.” Geto groans, griping your other cheek, lifting your ass higher then spreading your wet folds apart w/ his thick fingers. “ha.. if i would ‘ave known you were such a slut for a lil bit of spanking, trust i would have been fuckin done it.” he mumbles still spreading you open, looking at the pink he was finna fuck into. he was so right, yea, something was definitely wrong w/ him but.. shit.. this was turning you on sooo much. tilting your head back a little to meet his gaze, lashes trickled with tiny tears. his eyes looking from your pussy to you. he couldn’t help but grin.

“oh come on, don’t look at me like that love. you wanna make me feel better, hm? you wanna make me happy right?” he asked still kneading into your soft red cheek, that cute ass grin on his face that he knows will get you to do anything for him. you nod of course.. fuck, he just looked so needy and alone. he looked back to your wet cunt, still spreading your folds.

“Good girl.” he purred.

“ion think you need prepping. i mean, you know my shape and size yes?” Geto simply said, pulling his pants down bitting the bottom of his tee, pulling it up again. clearly he was trying to convince himself because you were always tight, especially when he couldn’t come see you for days. but today he didn’t care about your comfort, you were going to ultimately enjoy that dick like you always do.

“a—ah.. geto wait you can’t jus—ahhhh~” your mouth melted into a ‘0’ shape as he slowly slid his fat tip into your tight, gummy walls. his hand gripping the hot flesh of your ass. you were expecting him to fuck right into you but no. he wanted to take his time, to see his shit going in and out.

“fuckkkkkk~” Geto moaned as he stroked into you, head tilting up, his purple eyes rolling back. “yea, missed this pussy right here. shit got me feeling better already.” he barely mumbled out as his strokes got deeper, he fuckin loved watching his length disappear and reappear from inside you. coated in cream already. your walls slowly adjusting to his size again but your brain couldn’t. since your hands were still tied to the back with his belt, you were forced to take his length in full with nothing to grab or hold. moans and gasp rolling off you lips. the only thing you could do was push at his lower belly, hoping that could at least give you some room to move but baby that only made it worst.

“oh uh uh,” Geto breathes, shaking his head slightly then griping your bound wrists with one hand. “you gon take what i give. no runnin.” now pulling at your wrist, leaning back some as he fucked deeper inside. FAP FAP the noises your cunt was making for him bro... those sweet wet scrunching sounds… your ass bounced and recoiled off his pelvis, stretched out juices connecting the two of you. “f-fuck baby you’re so deep, Ahhh~” you whined, throwing ur head back lookin him in his narrow eyes. his shit was deep, hitting that spot he hadn’t hit in days.

“mhm, jus like that babygirl. take it. make me feel better.” he mumbled, bitting his lip.

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wip · 1 year

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is there any possibility of keeping the legacy editor as an option? for content creators, the new editor completely ruins the quality of our gifs/edits/art and it's really frustrated to be forced into using an editor that's going to kill the quality of the creations that we spend time perfecting.

Answer: Hello, @junghaesin!

Thanks for writing in. And thank you to everyone else who has shared similar feedback.

So, tl;dr—this is actually a blog theme issue. Your theme is not showing images in posts created by the new editor as you expect.

GIFs uploaded via the legacy editor or the new editor are actually processed the same way. There is no difference in bit depth or in resolution. You can see this by looking at your posts inside the Tumblr dashboard instead (e.g. instead of yourblog.tumblr.com/post/id, go to tumblr.com/yourblog/id).

The reason why you see a quality difference is because posts created by the new editor are treated as text posts by older blog themes. Themes often add padding around all the content of a text post—including any images that appear in it. If your theme presents posts as 540px wide, then in a text post, with that additional padding, the available space for your images is actually less than 540px. As a result, the browser will scale your images down to fit, and when this happens, image quality takes a hit.

The solution—update to a more modern, up-to-date theme, like Vision or Stereo. Theme developer @eggdesign also built a theme template that works with new posts, that you can build on top of! These modern themes apply padding only to text blocks rather than the whole post, so image blocks receive no padding and are served at their full 540px width, just like the Dashboard. From what we’ve seen, this fixes all of the issues about perceived GIF quality on blogs.

We know. Changing your theme is a lot of work. In the near future, we’re looking into ways to make this transition easier—for example, helping you identify themes that work well with new posts in the Theme Garden. But working with new posts is the way forward—the new posts use a format that opens up a lot of opportunities in the future.

Why can’t you add post types to posts from the new editor? Why not serve new posts as photo posts instead of text posts?

The new editor uses a new post format, called Neue Post Format (NPF). NPF has given us a huge boost in flexibility when it comes to what content can be in posts—remember the time when you couldn’t even upload images to reblogs? Or how old chat and quote posts magically change authors? NPF helped us fix both of these things. It removed constraints—including post types, which limit each post to one specific type of content.

But existing blog themes still need to be able to display these posts. Because NPF posts can include media anywhere (while most of the old post types have a rigid structure for media), it was safest for us to categorize NPF posts as the least constrained post type—text posts. It’s the best we can do to make these posts backward-compatible with existing blog themes.

In lieu of post types, we’ve added an {NPF} theme variable per post that custom themes can leverage. Theme developers must update their themes to take advantage of this new data to retain full control of the HTML output of posts.

You can read more about these decisions, and the Neue Post Format specification, here and here.

Thanks for your feedback, and keep it coming!

With love,

—The Tumblr WIP Team

#feature #legacy editor #your suggestions

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multifan2022 · 7 months

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Fearless 6

PART 1 PART 5

Masterlist

"The first thing you will learn today is how to shoot a gun. The second thing is how to win a fight." Your voice rang out through the shooting range, as Four passed guns out to each person. You caught the way Tris tried desperately to make eye contact with him. Trying to not feel satisfaction when he didn't look her way. "Thankfully, if you are here, you already know how to get on and off a moving train, so I don't need to teach you that."

Christina chuckled a little before looking your way, "Can you teach us the tuck and roll? It was flawless." You blushed slightly at the praise, something you weren't use to. You nodded and laughed a little "You will all develop your own way of getting on and off without completely fucking yourself up over time. IF you pass, so stay focused."

"Initiation is divided into three stages. We will measure your progress and rank you according to your performance in each stage. The stages are not weighed equally in determining your final rank, so it is possible, though difficult, to drastically improve your rank over time."

You watch Four as he stops behind Peter, a gun in his own hand, the same one everyone in the room is holding. "We believe that preparation eradicates cowardice, which we define as the failure to act in the midst of fear," says Four. "Therefore each stage of initiation is intended to prepare you in a different way. The first stage is primarily physical; the second, primarily emotional; the third, primarily mental."

"But what..." Peter yawns through his words. "What does firing a gun have to do with...bravery?" Four flips the gun in his hand, presses the barrel to Peter's forehead, and clicks a bullet into place. Peter freezes with his lips parted, the yawn dead in his mouth. "Wake. Up," Four snaps. "You are holding a loaded gun, you idiot. Act like it."

He lowers the gun. Once the immediate threat is gone, Peter's green eyes harden. You dont even try to hold in the laughter that bursts from your lips at his face. You were sure if the gun had been pressed any longer he would've shit himself. You only laugh harder when his cheeks turn bright red.

"To answer your question...you are far less likely to soil your pants and cry for your mother if you are prepared to defend yourself." Four stops walking at the end of the row and turns on his heel. "This is also information you may need later in stage one. So, watch Y/n." When he turns back to you, he winks before walking to lean against the wall next too you.

You face the wall with the targets on it—one square of plywood with three red circles on it. You stand perpendicular to the target with your feet roughly shoulder width apart. Holding the gun in both hands, and fires.

The bang is so loud it should hurt your ears but they are dead to the noise now. "For a right handed shooter, the left hand holds the forestock, elbow pointing down. The right hand holds the grip, elbow pointing out, but not exaggerated." You explain while demonstrating what you mean.

You turn and fire a few more times, each time just making the hole at the center bigger. All their heads crane to look at your target, most in awe, while Peter just looks more pissed. "Its your turn, Four and I will be around to fix stances and answer questions... As long as they arent stupid." You say looking directly at Peter and then with a small smile at Christina.

Watching Tris try to shoot is.. painful. She has almost emptied the clip and hasn't hit the target once. While you're in a terrific mood (wonder why) you know she will grate against that. As you walk towards them you hear Will, the Erudite boy speaking too her. "Statistically speaking,you should have hit the target at least once by now, even by accident." He is blond, with shaggy hair and a crease between his eyebrows.

Hes struggling enough as is, he doesn't need to be correcting anyone. "Is that so?" You say sarcastically as you step between them. You lean to the side and look at his target, which he has only hit once. Looking back to him you try to keep your voice flat, it doesn't work but you tried. "Maybe you should worry about your own target kid.."

His ears turn pink on the egdes before he turns back, Tris shoots one last time catching the end of the target.. Barley.

She turns back to him with a smug look on her face, "Guess I got it". You scoff but before you can speak Will says "So you see, I'm right. The stats don't lie." Again you scoff, this time rubbing the muscle that connects your shoulder to your neck.

"Will.. Sweetheart... Your Erudite is showing.. Tuck it away for me quick yeah?" You say before turning your back to him and clapping your hands together once. "Tris.. You hit the target once.. Barley hit the target once.. If that was a person it would barely qualify as a flesh wound. Depending on how big their clothes are it wouldn't even be a flesh wound.. Do NOT get cocky. Do something half ass right because your angry does not mean anything."

Walking away from the two you can feel her eyes on you. When you look ahead Four is staring back at her, you roll your eyes before addressing the group. "In the field, the chances that you will be angry are slim. It is more likely that you will be scared, nervous or anxious. None of that should matter as a Dauntless. Your bravery and courage should overshadow everything. So when you do something in anger and it somehow comes out correct, don't take it seriously."

"Take it seriously when you can pick up any weapon and use it as an extension of yourself. Guns, swords, bow staff.. A metal pipe you find laying around, you need to be able to pack everything besides your job and your life away." You look around refusing to look at Four again, when you see that they all have finished the ammo that has been provided you dismiss them for lunch.

You take your lunch break in Toris chair, the stinging sensation of your new tattoo present as the ink sinks around your thigh. Tori chuckles and rolls her eyes as you roll to your stomach to get it finished. Some would be ashamed, laying here in your underwear but not you. The finger bruises on your thigh bring you nothing but joy.

"So.. you and Four still going with this whole friends with benefits thing?" Tori asked while lining everything up. When the buzzing restarted it stung a little more than normal, due to the tenderness of your flesh. You nod and close your eyes allowing yourself a small moment of peace before having to deal with Eric who you know will be at training.

"I dont see why you two dont just admit you have feelings for each other and get together. Spare us all the long drawn out drama." You smile at Toris bluntness, she always has such a way with her words.

"My feelings aren't the only ones in this scenario, we both know Four doesn't like me like that. I'm just enjoying it while it lasts." You wait while Tori wipes your leg down, before standing up and handing you the shorts that will now be covering very little of your legs.

Tori looks at you incredulously "That boy has just as many feelings for you as you do him. Your both stupid. But I will be here, the ever wise old lady to hold your hands through whatever drama you both cause."

You laugh again, feeling free for the first time in a week. The feeling is fleeting though as Tori opens her mouth and asks "How is Tris?" Your face falls and you sigh loudly, "Shes making it hard. She cant walk one line, one minute shes practically hiding behind the others begging to not be seen. Then the next shes in Fours face yelling. She cant shoot but when she clipped the edge of the target she acted like she got a bullseye first shot. I don't know how to deal with her if I'm honest. Im not Tori Wu."

The dark haired woman in front of you steps up and cups your cheeks. "You are strong Y/n, you can do this. You have too. I don't know what but something is happening, you need to be prepared for it."

After answering a few more of her questions, all about the new girl you tell her you need to go. Really you needed to go ten minutes ago, but who's counting??

When you step into the gym you take a breath to apologize for being late. But when you see Four pressed up behind Tris, his fingers pressed against her stomach as he 'instructs' her you stay quiet. Instead just making your way through the punching bags watching. Stopping only to correct Al's stance, without touching him, before walking away.

Your showing your weakness by caring so much for him. That voice crows in your head as you keep walking. At this point you've been there a half an hour and Four hasn't noticed. When you stop next to Christina you can feel Tris's eyes burning into the back of your head. "You're doing everything right besides how you're making a fist."

Christina stops looking down at her hands before releasing her fingers and looking back at you. You smile and congratulate her in your head, if shes silent that means shes learning. Just as you hold your hand up to show her how you want her to do it you hear Tris mumble 'How many ways are there to make a fist?'

Taking a calming breath you slip into work mode. The mode that sets you apart from the others, the one with no feelings, no worries. Just a solid perfect work ethic. "Your wrapping your thumb around the end of your hand leaving it straight when it should be down. Wrapped over the first knuckle of your pointer finger."

Showing her what you mean, you watch her do it and see the annoyed look on her face. You laugh a little before continuing "I know its uncomfortable, but I promise dislocating or breaking your thumb is a lot worse. Plus once it becomes a habit you wont even think about it." You catch a few other students fixing their mistakes around you, which is encouraging.

"Next your stance is pretty good, but I prefer having a more solid base. You stand squarely facing your target, then drop the foot on your dominant side back and out to an angle, 30 maybe 40 degrees. You should keep your feet a comfortable distance apart, but the exact difference is a matter of personal preference. Some people are taller and can keep their legs further apart like myself. But your on the shorter side so you'll want to be closer."

The entire time you speak to her you show her with your body how to move. That small voice in the back of your mind is screaming about how you can teach without touching them. How that means Four wanted to touch her, he never touches people. You keep talking over it, trying to be the perfect teacher. Trying to show yourself why you are here.

"Now the last and most fun part." By this point over half the class is listening to you. Four has stopped walking around and is just watching you teach, but you're studiously ignoring him.

"The first thing to remember is that the punch should go straight forward, rather than out to the side. The idea is to send your fist out and bring it right back to its original position, with as little extraneous motion as possible.If you flare your arm out, like in the movies, your target will have plenty of time to avoid or block the strike—and you're going to leave yourself wide open to getting a punch in your own face."

"The full punch motion stems from turning your hips." After demonstrating again you watch as Christina does it, smiling at her and offering her a high five. You turn to watch the others and feel pride bloom in your chest as they all start performing the task correctly.

"Good job Tina.. Peter, Al and Will.. You are all doing well. Keep it up, that's how we work our way up the board." You saw the shock on everyone's face as you congratulated Peter, but you needed to be as unbiased in the 'classroom' as you could. If he failed it wasn't going to be said that you had it out for him.

You were not going to tarnish your reputation, because of some spoiled brat whose parents told him he was better than others. He would fuck up, and you would be there to catch him. But until then you have to do your best to treat everyone equally. Even Tris.

After ten more minutes you dismiss them for the night. Reminding them when they need to be in their dorms and not to go out without someone. You make your way out in front of the group, still trying to avoid what is sure to be an awkward conversation with Four.

@coolestgirlhere @everydayisordinary @hannahbeezz @cat-lockwood @parkmiraesworld @leclerc13

Boring part, sorry guys! Ill try harder on the next chapter!

#tobias eaton x reader #four eaton #four x reader #divergent #divergent fanfiction #tobias eaton

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rebelwithoutabroom · 1 month

Note

hiyaaa can i ask for your top 5 dream outfits? 🎤 🎤

OOOH ANON I AM SMOOCHING YOU RIGHT NOW: #1 spain outfit:

like. just look at him. he looks so good in blue, i love the combo of black&white/blue and all the layering. the hair was just perfect FLOOF, he's serving jawline and I'm eating it up

#2: pizza stream

again. HE LOOKS SO GOOD IN BLUE. i have a special place in my heart for the techno beanie and this is just mwahh perfect. he's so boyfriend.

#3: corpse husband hoodie

be still my heart. the DRURLS peeking out. the beanie matching the hoodie. how BROAD he looks. his little face. i need to smooch him (Ik these are not from the same day but idc. also my biggest regret not getting corpses hoodie back then. rip me)

#4: sooners outfit

no notes. red looks so good on him. 10/10

#5: the droncert fit

guys. guys. youll never understand the psychosis over this one. the little red zippies in his pants. the width of his shoulders, the chain peeking out. flawless. gorgeous. i need to motorboat the dritties

HONORABLE MENTION

the eyepatch + mask combo. he was so baby here. drim my drimm

#taizi answers #im sawry this is so long i just have OPINIONS #dwt #dreamblr

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ataraxiaspainting · 4 months

Text

Banquet of Massacre.

Yan Geto x F Reader.

Synopsis: The days are blending into each other, and you just want some sort of change. But soon, you realize you have to be far more careful about what you wish for.

Warnings: Yandere themes, kidnapping, not SFW implications, takes place five or so years before JJK 0, and violence.

Continuation of Presentiment of Massacre.

Word Count: 800.

*~*~*~*

The green obi gently tightening with each passing second stops at your words, but after a chuckle resumes, the slight anger in Geto’s voice is smaller than the width of a hair.

He continues with the loose, wide red sodes. You focus so much on your anxiety, about what the rest of your life will be, that you don’t notice the small golden details of koi on the red sleeves. You don’t even pay attention to the silk that ties your wrists together, a consequence of you attempting to squirm your way out of dinner again. Not that dinner was anything special this evening.

“You know,” His voice rises and falls like the wind. “Perhaps there are some things you shouldn’t say to the only reason you are still alive.”

With that, he pulls, much harder than before, on the ends of the sash, causing you to gasp for air for a moment or two.

“I could still feed you to one of my curses you know, or all of them at the same time, they would love to get a taste of you.”

At your desperate whines, as you attempt to claw at the ceiling with restrained hands, he lets go, and with his action, your vision blurs no longer.

He spins you around and he licks his lips.

“I-I’m sorry, Master Geto.” You might be uncertain if you mean your apology, but perhaps Geto has the answer.

Just as you are not sure if Geto forgives you, but he knows the answer for sure.

The woman sitting next to both of you on the floor holds a golden hairpin in her ragged, scarred hands. She holds the hairpin just like she held the underlayer, obi string, socks, obi, and sash. She held and currently holds them all so delicately because she did not want to lose her hands. She was your handmaiden, according to Geto, and although the two of you had never exchanged words, you knew her first name was Sookee, but her last name was of no relevance if it even existed.

Even though she was around your age, Sookee looked much older than she was because of her premature wrinkles and little white hairs sticking out of her bangs, clear signs of all the stress Geto and the rest of the people here put her through. She was an indentured servant of sorts, from what you were told, and she, like you, is often tormented by the people who live here.

You feel bad for her, whenever you hear her screams and cries, whenever she trips and breaks a porcelain teapot and gets beaten for it, or when she is too late to dress you for supper, which always causes Geto to summon a curse that is so ugly and follows her for the rest of the day and makes crude comments toward her.

There was one time that it actually bit her, and after an hour’s worth of begging, Sookee earned the right to bandage herself up.

“Monkey,” The word is bitter on his tongue and lingers in the air for far longer than either Sookee or you would have liked. “Pin.”

Although you sympathize with Sookee, your instinct urges you to prioritize your well-being before her.

“Since you are so ungrateful for the life I have given you, maybe it would be better to make you like Sookee. Would you like that, princess? To be lesser than a pauper?”

You deeply repent for uttering a single word, which emerges from your lips with complete despair. Meanwhile, Geto wears a smile as he delicately places the luxurious golden hairpin, worth more than your two kidneys combined, into your hair. With a dismissive gesture and a piercing look, he sends Sookee away, and she quietly shuts the door behind her.

You don’t stop him from pushing you onto the bed, large enough for at least five people to rest on, because really is there anything you can do? “You’re so pretty. The loveliest one, the only one worthy of what I am about to do.”

You are trapped here, forever bound by him. The door is guarded by a terrifying curse that ensures your confinement, although Geto's power makes it unnecessary. You find yourself in this place, adorned in the kimono he compelled you to wear, lying in his bed, with the makeup Sookee was forced to apply on you. And here you are, hearing his whispered words of affection as he lies upon you.

“Since you are so ungrateful for what you already have, I will give you more and more, my love, until you regret ever wishing for a life outside of this one.”

#aya abstractions #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere geto #yandere jujutsu kaisen x reader #yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere jjk #yandere jjk x reader #jjk x reader #yandere geto x reader #yandere suguru #yandere suguru geto

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monsterloverwriting · 1 year

Text

Beast of the forest

So often did you hear of the beast yet see nothing that it became all too easy to think of him as nothing more than a story meant to keep children out of the forest at night. But you were no child and the call of the cool forest air on your skin was too great on this hot night.

It was like a voice beckoning you to the forest edge, something sweet and deep in the pit of you that needed to be in with the trees on this hot night the slight sheen of sweat on your skin already starting to cool with the night air. A deep breath, in and out, as you watched the forest edge all of the stories come to mind as you stood watching, waiting, listening.

A great beast that would steal people away into the forest with no explanation or warning. A beast that was impossibly large if the teeth marks on bones left by the forest edge were anything to go off of. You let out a sigh, it was ridiculous to think that something like that could exist. It was like saying that Santa Clause was real, both were stories made up to scare children. The inexplicable calling to the forest had to be something to do with the fact that your AC was broken and it felt like it was boiling inside your small house. The night air within the trees would be the perfect reprieve.

Before you knew it you were in the thick of the trees deeper in the forest than you could ever remember being during the day. When had you stepped in? How long have you been walking? Why did you feel so fuzzy all over? It almost felt like you were high as you walked through the forest, stepping over fallen trees and through foliage like you knew the way, like you were on a laid out path you'd been on a thousand times before. Finally you made it to a clearing and stopped at the edge appreciating the beauty of the small patch of land feeling so much better here, like you were meant to be in this clearing. A small sigh left your lips as you stepped one foot in letting the cool forest air rush over your bare arms drying the last bits of sweat that hung stubbornly to you. The moon was high in the sky as you walked to the center of the clearing, your fingers running over the tips of the tall grass. You enjoyed the way it felt, the way the grass tickled at your fingertips, everything feeling heightened in senses as you slowly found yourself in the center of the clearing looking directly up to the sky reveling in the way the air and grass felt against your skin.

In your state you almost didn't hear the small snapping of a twig on the side of the clearing as you slowly bent to take off your shoes wanting desperately to feel the hard ground between your toes. When the snapping got closer you looked up, trying to see through the thick branches, what was out there? Slowly you felt your limbs get heavier, the feeling of being high getting stronger as a sweet scent filled your nostrils.

“Finally. I was wondering if you’d ever answer the call.” A smooth deep voice nearly sang from the darkness. Your attention snapped away from the sensation of the grass to the voice as a mountain of a creature walked into the light of the clearing. In your fuzzy brain the only thing that instantly went through your mind was, big.

Big seemed to be an understatement when it came to describe this beast. He towered over your frame as you stood frozen, his height was amazing and it was comparable to his muscles, making his arms seem to be the same width as your waist. He stalked toward you, his steps causing slight tremors as he got closer and closer to you. Finally he stopped in front of you looking down as he slowly reached a hand that was easily the size of your face and gently caressed your cheek, a small smile playing at his lips, a glint of sharp teeth visible as his lips parted.

“I’ve called so many times yet you remain so stubborn, I should teach you it's rude to make me wait.” He hummed, fingers slowly trailing down your cheek to gently wrap around your throat. With each touch, the fuzzy feeling grew more heightened, in the back part of your mind you were sure something was affecting you to feel like this, this wasn’t normal. You were face to face with the beast of the forest, his impossible size making you seem like a doll to be played with and the only thing at the forefront of your mind was how much you needed him to touch you more.

“So much wasted time, but now you’re mine.” His voice was sweet, like a song you would hear in your dreams. You let out a small moan as his grip tightened around your throat for a brief second squeezing the sides in a delicious way making your head swim. He slowly released you stepping back, unthinking you followed the path of his hand instantly missing the connection.

“What a good pet you’ll be now that you’re under my spell.” Before you could think about what he was saying you were pushed to the ground. His massive size pinning you the weight almost suffocating as the sweet smell filled you again and you went nearly brainless as he began running his hand under your thin tank top. A sound of ripping fabric and you were laying in the broken remnants of your shirt bare from the waist up he glanced down at you with a smirk, teeth glinting as he moved down, cupping one of your breasts in his hand tweaking the nipple harshly between his claws as he nipped at the other with sharp fangs. The moan that escaped your mouth was entirely involuntary as you arched into his harsh touch, hips rutting up to meet his body begging for some kind of friction.

“Good girl. You want me. You didn’t know it before but I've been watching you at the edge of my forest, watching as you denied my existence loud enough for me to hear. Watching as you teased yourself when you thought you were alone. I’ve been waiting so long to see you like this, under me.” He nearly growled as he moved up your body, grinding his hips down hard against you forcing you to feel how hard he was for you under the thin cloth he wore.

“Now you’re mine and I am going to make sure you never forget it.” He growled against your throat, sharp teeth nipping just below the shell of your ear. At the same time you moaned he ripped your shorts and panties away from you like they were paper throwing the shreds behind him as he moved one clawed hand down your body to your already soaking cunt.

You moaned, eyes closing, when he found your clit, slowly circling it with the pad of one clawed finger. He looked down at you thoroughly enjoying how pliant his pheromones had made you. You were putty in his hands and he planned to use you thoroughly tonight and every night after. As you squirmed under him, hips following the pattern of his ministrations against your clit moaning, he took this chance to force his tongue into your mouth.

“Mmph”

It was the only thing you could muster as he kissed you with more passion than you’d felt with all of your past lovers combined. He held you close fingers moving to start fucking into you slowly, first just one finger, gently trying to get a feel of how tight you were, his mouth swallowing each moan you let out as he added a second finger starting to stretch you, searching for the little spot to make you cum on his hand. When he did find it, your shuddering breath against his lips made him bite down on your bottom lip pulling it in his sharp teeth as he began pressing, rubbing, massaging that perfect bundle of nerves, his thumb reaching up, pressing harshly against your clit.

You screamed your release against his finger, grinding down onto them, forcing his fingers deeper in you as you squeezed around them arching to press your sensitive nipples against his chest needing as much of him touching you as possible. You heard him moan into your neck as he stroked you through your orgasm until you started to squirm against the ministrations.

A long whine left your throat as he pulled away from you leaving you feeling too naked, too bare on the hard ground.

“Shhh Kitten, I’m not done with you yet.” He huffed as he ripped at the fabric around his waist. He let out a long groan at his cock finally being free from the loose garment, his hand going to wrap around himself and stroke as he looked down at you. You leaned up on your elbows looking at the thick appendage, tongue darting out to wet your dry lips. It was massive, the length of your forearm with thick veins decorating it making it seem that much more erotic, the flared tip alone the size of your fist, the large knot swelling at the base made your mouth water obscenely as you looked up at him.

“You will take it all,” He growled, pushing you back down to the ground. One hand collecting both of your hands to pull them above your head pinning them there as his other hand went to your ankle placing it on his shoulder as he lined the tip up to your achingly empty pussy. He moved to straddle the leg that wasn’t on his shoulder, pinning it as well, trapping you under him as he pushed into you stopping once he had the head in to let out a long drawn out moan.

“So fucking tight.” He ground out, forcing himself to be still for a moment to let you adjust. Your whine of protest at the stillness of the intrusion had him pushing into you further, the stretch deliciously painful as he did his best to keep himself in control.

“Fuck, that's right Kitten, moan. Let me know how much you love the way my cock fills you. Ruins you for everyone else.” He purred, leaning down to plant harsh kisses against your neck moving deeper into you. The stretch and feeling of him inside of you on top of the already fuzzy feeling heightening everything around you was too much as you came again around him, pulling him even deeper to the edge of his knot feeling it hit against the edge of your already stretched cunt.

“Fuck!” He roared before biting down on your shoulder causing you to arch into him even more desperate for the friction of his body against yours. Needing everything he would give you. He pinned you down starting to rut into you, his knot hitting you slowly starting to sink in. You cried out at the stretch unsure if it was more painful or pleasure either way you wanted it, needed it in you.

“More, more, more, more.” It was all you could say as you did your best to match his rut, hips moving desperately against him.

“That’s right Kitten, you want my knot, want me to fuck you into oblivion, breed you. Keep you.” He moaned against your shoulder tongue slowly lapping at the punctures his sharp teeth had made. He finally pushed into you, his knot swelling, holding him to you as he howled his release into you, rutting hard into you hitting your cervix again and again. You came around him at the feeling of him feeling you so completely, screaming with him.

“Good girl.” He cooed softly into your hair as he moved the two of you so you were laying against his chest, blissed out, stuck to him by his knot. He drew lazy patterns in your back with one tip of his claw making you shiver slightly in the cool air. Before his knot even began to release you fell asleep against his chest nuzzling against him.

“Good girl (Y/N) good girl.” He whispered into your hair, picking you up to carry you deeper into the forest to his home. Now your home as well. He’d make sure you’re comfortable, in the morning he’d let you know his name, let you think he was learning yours for the first time. And he would keep you.

#monster fucker #monster lover #monster smut #mdni #slight breeding kink #monster in the forest #writing #smut #First bit on here #yandere behavior #illuded mind altering

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