#and after knowing the twist you look at these and your heart breaks
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Cool girl
ghoap x female reader / 18+ warning: the boys are foul - could be considered dub con / part one / part two
Two (three) can play at that game.
"When you're done being a brat, call us."
You decide within a week, that you're very much not done being a brat.
And you're very much done with them.
Fuck them, you coach yourself in the mirror as you fix your makeup. Fuck them both. And her, whoever she is, though you know she doesn't deserve your wrath. She probably has no idea the tangled web she's walked into, she's the one stuck in the trap, now.
The doorbell rings, and you check your reflection one more time, satisfied with your dress, the way it gathers across your breasts, how it flatters your shape. It's a tad short, there's a bit of cleavage, little pieces that make it more than perfect. Something about this style, the way it fits, always drove the boys nuts, so it should be more than good enough for your date.
Fuck them.
You bring him to the dive. It's a safe choice, the bartender knows you, pays attention. You feel safe here, familiar. It's a great option for a first date.
And because you're a cool girl, you don't know how to play pool.
Of course, he's happy to teach you.
You start with a tequila. It scalds on the way down and settles like fire, but it takes the edge off. One turns to two, and it's enough to get you closer, allowing him to rest his hand on your knee at the bar, allowing him to keep a hand at the small of your back as he guides you to the finally empty pool table.
He's handsy, and normally, you'd be a little put off.
But not tonight.
"Okay, it's simple. You use the white ball to break." He lines up your shot for you, folding you into place, bending forward, hand brushing against your thigh as he leans beside you.
You intentionally short the shot, barely breaking the triangle of balls free. He chuckles. "Not bad for a first go."
"What do I get if I win?" Your smile is shy, and it's only half forced. You do like this guy, he's very nice, very attractive. Tall with a strong jawline, kind eyes. His fingers find yours, and his touch is gentle, patient.
"A kiss?" He ventures, testing the waters. You nod.
"Sure thing."
You're halfway through the game when the energy in the bar shifts. It's like everyone freezes, a collective whoosh of air washing through the bodies hunched over at the bar, loitering on the walls, perched on the wrought iron chairs out back.
The regulars look at one another and then return to studying the TV, or each other, their half empty drinks.
You don't need to look, to know.
You can feel them.
Apparently, so can your date.
"Don't look, but there are two guys staring at you, across the bar." You bat your eyelashes.
"Who?" It's innocent, this kind of play. Playing dumb. It's pure, until your chin turns over your shoulder and find them, white knuckled and focused, Johnny alight with anger, Simon stoic as ever. Sadness, and rage, roar inside your head, and you force yourself to look them in their eyes. Force yourself to be brave.
After a second, you turn away and into your date. He pulls you closer, palm resting on your lower back, mouth dangerously close above your ear. "Are they bothering you?" What a nice guy.
"No." You assuage immediately. You know what would happen, if he tried to be your knight in shining armor. You know how it would end.
With blood. Broken bones. And tears.
"Let's keep playing." You suggest. "Will you show me how to hold the stick?" Your teeth hold onto the last syllable, hand wrapping around the polished length of the wood, slowly moving it up and down. Your heart pounds, but a thrill rushes through you at the same time. Fuck them. Your date raises an eyebrow, mouth cocking into a sly smile, and nods.
After your third drink, you can't delay using the bathroom anymore. Skin tingling from all the places his hands have traversed, you're dizzy with the pulse of power, the high of your performance. It's wrong, and twisted but...
they deserve it. They deserve worse.
"I'll be right back." You promise, tracing a fingernail down his arm. "Get another round?" He trots off, eager to please.
The chairs scrape as soon as you turn into the dingy hallway, and their shadows fill the air, sucking it dry. You resist the urge to turn, palm flat against the swinging door of the toilets.
"What are ye doin'?" Johnny rages, and you turn to mouth off, only to jerk backwards at the realization of how close he is. You can count the flecks of gold around his irises, see the shimmer of cerulean blue. Simon stands at his back, a wall blocking out the rest of the hall, hiding you from view.
"I'm on a date." Simon laughs.
"You call this little show a date, sweetheart? Is that what you think that is?"
"Not sure you'd know what I'm like on a date since you never took me on one." You spit, and Johnny goes rigid, muscles hardening.
"Not sure that little boy would know the first thing about handlin' ye."
"Handling me?" The squeak your voice makes is embarrassing and incredulous at the same time. "Handle me? You think I need handling? I'm a full grown woman. I don't need-" He presses closer, close enough you can smell him, and your mouth drops open when he pushes you against the wall, cock hard under his jeans. "J-johnny."
"Aye, we think ye need handlin'. Ye're only supposed to be handled by us. Not by some sad wank who cannae stop droolin' like a dog."
"Stop." The resolve in your voice wavers, your resistance cracking and crumbling as Simon appears beside him, mouth pressing to your ear.
"You think that boy has a fat cock to feed you, sweet girl? Think he knows how-" One of them cups you between your legs over the fabric of your dress, palm grinding against your clit, and you grit your teeth against the friction, the moan it tries to pull from your throat. "to take care of this pussy?"
"She's high maintenance, ye know." Johnny snickers, lips dotting your cheek, down to your neck. He cups a fistful of your breast, thumb stroking where your nipple strains beneath your bra. "Ye think he'll be able to make ye gush for him? Make ye cum on his cock?" You're boiling, anger and desire feeding twin flames, trying to sputter out a response.
"What's going on here?" Your date practically shouts from the edge of the hallway, and Simon's grin turns feral. Predatory.
Fear strikes, and turns you cold.
"D-don't." You try to implore.
"Are you okay?" Your poor date catches your gaze, and you try to will him away with your eyes.
"Leave him alone." You plead.
"Fuck off mate. This is between us and our girl. Ye're done here."
"Excuse me?" He steps closer, and Simon pushes off the wall. Desperate, you latch onto his forearm.
"Simon, please. He's not-"
"He said you're done here." Simon snarls. "Run along like a good boy."
"Fuck you." He postures, and you shake your head frantically, trying to step out between them. Johnny doesn't budge, keeping you half pinned against the wall.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you? Maybe you'd like to watch us fuck her, after we make you beg for it. After we stretched out your neglected little hole." Johnny laughs, a cackle full of crow, smart and mischievous, and you nearly faint. Your date looks sick.
He takes one look at you, another look at the boys... and then flees. Johnny whistles. "Coward."
When they both turn back...
you burst into tears.
#lmaoooo#peaches writes#ghoap x reader#its a milkmaid dress for sure#simon riley x reader#john mactavish x reader#unedited
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Don't Kill My Vibe
Title: Don’t Kill My Vibe
Rating: Explicit, 18+, Minors - DNI
Pairing: Clark Kent x BestFriend!Black!Fem!Reader
Word Count: 2.7K
Summary: You help Clark ease the pain of his broken heart.
Warnings: mention of a breakup, recreational drug use (marijuana), friends-to-lovers trope, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected p-in-v sex, creampie, mention of bodily fluids
A/N: This is an AU where Clark Kent is not superpowered and Superman does not exist. Unbeta’d, we die like people who tried their best.
Dividers by me
Support/Reblog banner by me
Cover Art by me
My Masterlist
It wasn’t the first time Clark asked to try some bud, but it was the most pathetic. His gorgeous blue eyes were puffy from crying over that woman. As much as you wanted to say, “I told you so," you didn’t want him to feel any worse about the failed relationship with his reporter beau, Lois Lane.
And yet again, you think to yourself, ‘Fuck Lois Lane’.
When he showed up at your place an hour ago in sweatpants, sneakers, and a button-up pullover, you were surprised to see he opted for something other than his normal flannel and jeans. His hair was mussed, and he avoided eye contact with you. Something was wrong.
You dragged him into your apartment, turning down your Spotify playlist on the Bluetooth speakers so you could talk over the mellow tunes. While you flopped down on your couch, Clark sat down slowly and sighed.
You were already elevated, having taken a couple of puffs from your blue and red glass bowl earlier, so you were struggling to pay attention to everything he was saying. You tried to put on your “I’m not high” face and nod enough, saying “Oh wow” occasionally. But, in actuality, your eyes were as red as the Devil’s dick, and Clark wasn’t stupid.
His eyes looked from yours to the tray on the coffee table that held your various assortments of smoking apparatus, grinder, lighter, and stash box. Leaning forward so his elbows rested on his knees, he motioned his chin toward everything and said, “I know you’ve said no a million times, but I could use an escape. And before you say no again, know I’ve tried all the tricks in the book to get over somebody, and nothing is working.”
“I have a feeling there’s another thing you haven’t tried either, but whatever,” you rattled on, waving off his confused expression. “Fine. It should be illegal for you to use those puppy eyes when asking me for something, by the way.”
So here you are, preparing a strawberry cone for you and Clark to share. You were always weird about people using your favorite bowl. You also figure that for a first-timer, it would be the easiest for him to start with. Twisting the end after filling the cone, you reach for the lighter and ashtray.
“First things first,” you purr, using your phone to turn the music up. “Now, watch what I do. I’m going to draw the smoke into my mouth and then hold it for a few seconds, or as long as I can, before blowing it back out. Ready?”
Clark nods as he turns toward you, tucking one leg under the other. Now that you have his full attention, you suddenly feel flustered. Casting your eyes downward, you take the cone into your mouth and light the end. You inhale deeply and take it out of your mouth. Savoring the citrus flavor of the strain, your tongue licks your lips, and you exhale.
You close your eyes and take a few breaths. After a moment, you hear Clark’s voice breaking through your haze: “Everything good?”
Your eyes pop open, and just like nothing happened, you perk up. Handing him the cone, you blink as he holds it like someone who has never smoked. You’ve known Clark long enough that you have a suspicion that is probably true for him.
He’s polite, almost to a fault. He screams Boy Scout, altar boy, and ‘promise ring’ all at the same time. What can you say? Clark was a good boy. And you were getting him high. You little devil!
Clark takes a short pull from the pink-colored joint and manages to hold it for about two seconds, then attempts to exhale. A small plume escapes his mouth, he inhales sharply and has a coughing fit. You take the joint back before he drops it and sit it in the ashtray.
Rubbing his back, you try to talk him through catching his breath. You grab your water bottle and hold the straw to his mouth when he nods his thanks. He sips the water, then clears his throat loudly, burping up a bit of smoke. He laughs quickly as he sees it exit his mouth, reminding you of a little surprised dragon.
“That was fun,” he sputters, his voice deeper than usual.
“It gets easier, Clark. Trust me, coughing is normal. And most of the time, coughing gets you higher,” you laugh, picking up the joint to take another hit.
You inhale, exhaling into the air, and hold it out for Clark to take again. He sips from your water bottle and gives it to you in exchange for the joint.
Holding it between two fingers, he brings it to his lips. You watch his mouth curl around the tip, and your brain conjures up the vision of what else that boy’s mouth can do. He takes the joint out of his mouth, holding his breath for a few seconds, then blows it out slowly. He gives it back to you and leans back against the couch.
“I don’t think I feel any different yet. How long does it take to kick in?” he asks, crossing his arms and pouting.
It being his first time, he is completely unaware that he is already high. His body language is different; Clark Kent doesn’t slouch even a little. He also certainly doesn’t fidget; his hands suddenly become very interested in the material of his pullover.
“You’ll feel it sooner than you think,” you mumble, the joint between your lips as you speak.
Twenty minutes later, Clark tells you exactly what the last straw was that ended his relationship with Lois. He pauses to take a hit, handing it back to you as he exhales. “But it was always whatever she wanted. I treat her like a queen. And she goes and blows Jimmy-fucking-Olsen. Then she lies about it after Jimmy comes clean to me. I…,” he trails off, looking over at you and shaking his head as he laughs.
“What?” you question when you realize he stops talking.
“Nothing. I just… I think I’m high,” he giggles, the corners of his eyes wrinkling when he smiles at you.
“Besides being high, can you describe how you feel?” You press, wanting to know just how high he is.
“I feel lighter. Clear…er? Is it clearer or more clear? Whatever. I think I also just figured out how I want to finish that article on The Wayne Foundation,” he explains, leaning back so he is lying on his back with his head on your lap. “Is this ok? Your lap looked so comfortable,” he wonders aloud, looking up at you.
That’s when you realize three fundamental truths at the same time.
1. Clark is single.
2. Clark is literally in your lap.
3. The crush you have on Clark is swiftly turning into lustful infatuation.
Bringing yourself back to the present, you smile at him and say, “Yeah, of course it’s ok.” You focus on the heat radiating from your best friend as he makes himself comfortable so close to your thirsty pussy.
“You are the best,” he replies, closing his eyes as your hand finds its way into his curls.
“This cool?” you dare, hoping that you can continue to push the boundary between friendship and something more.
As if the groan from the back of his throat wasn’t enough, he voices his satisfaction. “More than cool. I love having my hair played with. Feel free to go to town on me.”
Oh, the importance of phrasing.
This man is not going to make it easy on you.
You’re explaining to Clark about that episode of Bob’s Burgers where Bob and Linda accidentally get high after eating cookies laced with marijuana at their accountant’s office. “So, anyway. Bob, Linda, and the accountant build a pillow fort from the cushions on his couch, and somehow it makes them feel safer which I get because pillow forts were the height of safety when we were kids. And sometimes, people feel safer thinking about the simplicity of their childhood,” you rattle on, leaning forward to grab your water bottle and forgetting about Clark’s head, which is still very much in your lap.
An oomph is spoken into your boobs, and you shoot straight up to a standing position and knock Clark off your lap and onto the floor.
“Shit!” he cries from his spot on the floor.
“Fuck, Clark! I’m so sorry! Are you ok?” You cringe, your hand touching your forehead as you watch him pull himself up.
“Hey, hey. It’s cool, I’m fine,” he reassures, his hand grabbing yours to take it away from your face. With the other hand, he grabs your chin between his thumb and forefinger. Tilting your head up, he smiles and counters, “Are you ok?”
Yeah. Fine. My tits were just thrust into your face for a bit there. Oh, and you have no idea that I like you. And that pesky curl is falling into your pretty eyes again. And your handsome face is close enough to-
One second, you’re staring at his smile; the next second, you’re attacking his mouth with yours. His lips are just as pillowy and soft as they look. At first, the kiss is timid. Surprise gives way to need as he deepens the kiss. His tongue seeks solace as it slides against the seam of your lips. Granting him entry, he licks into your mouth like an explorer discovering new lands.
His hands find their way to your hips, bringing you impossibly close. He feasts on every whimper that leaves you, peppering in some moans of his own. This is the kiss of a man waiting for a moment like this. At least, that’s how it feels.
Begrudgingly, you slowly break away from Clark. His kiss-swollen pink lips beg to be reunited with yours, but you must prove this is real. You look up into his dilated eyes, noting how blue is almost completely taken over by black.
You open your mouth to speak, but Clark beats you to it.
“Unless you are about to tell me you don’t want this, please just kiss me again,” he breathes, resting his forehead against yours. “I don’t know what’s more intoxicating. This drug or having you so close to me.”
Instead of worrying about what this means, you throw caution to the wind. Tilting your head, you slot your lips with his, devouring the subtle whimper that escapes him. From nervous to commanding, you feel Clark’s demeanor change as his hands wander over your body.
He picks you up by the waist, your legs instinctually wrapping around him. With you in his arms, he walks blindly to your bedroom. Once he lays you down, he covers your body with his. The hard length against your mound gives you pause, but you quickly recover as you angle your hips to meet his.
Clark breaks the kiss to sit up and remove his pullover and shirt. A pink hue dusts his cheeks as he watches you scan his torso while you bite your lip. Leaning down, he tugs at the hem of your shirt, wanting you to get rid of it.
You oblige, now topless in front of your best friend for the first time. You don’t have time to freak out over that information because Clark hooks his fingers in your leggings, his eyes begging for permission. You raise your hips, and he pulls them down your legs along with your underwear.
You sit up as he chucks his sweatpants, his heavy erection now visible. Your first thought is, “Now that is a pretty dick.”
“Thank you,” he says, a smirk playing on his lips.
“I said that out loud, didn’t I?” You wonder aloud, already knowing the answer.
Clark smiles, nodding at you before coaxing you to lay back. He sinks between your legs, holding them open to kiss your thighs. He teases you a bit, licking and nipping at your mound and outer labia until you wiggle your hips and whine.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Patience, please,” he cautions, shaking his head at you. He winks at you, diving fully into your snatch and sucking your clit between his lips.
You throw your head back in ecstasy as his tongue slides over your swollen button. Humming while sucking on your nub is a fucking power move, and your hands tangle in his hair. You dig your heels into his back as he laps up the juices that accumulate at your entrance. Looking down at him as he worships at the altar of your body, you are taken aback as he peeks up at you over your mound.
With your eyes locked on each other, he watches as he tips you right over the edge. He groans into your pussy, his mouth and chin soaked, as your walls contract around nothing. The euphoria of being high mixes with the joy of being with someone new for the first time.
But this isn’t just anybody; this was your best friend. Warmth and comfort exist between you, allowing you to feel safe enough to fall and that Clark will catch you.
You come down as he plants a kiss on your mound, grazing his lips up your tummy. When he is back above your face, he runs the tip of his dick across your wet folds. He maintains eye contact while he slides in for the first time.
Once he is fully seated inside you, he lets you adjust to his size before he withdraws slightly and thrusts forward. The wet squelch of your pussy and the smack of your bodies against one another are music to your ears. Clark’s grunts as he fucks into you only fuel your impending second climax.
“Fuck, you feel so good. Too good. Not going to last long,” he warns, sitting up on his knees as his hands go to your waist. Throwing his head back, he growls and picks up the pace, using your body like his personal fucktoy.
Your back arches as he repeatedly hits that hidden bundle of nerves. A searing fire erupts in your belly as your cunt clamps down on his dick, spasming and coating it with your cream.
“Good girl! That’s it. Fucking come for me, just like that,” he encourages. “Oh, shit. I’m right fucking behind you. Fuck, fuck, fuuuuuuuuuck.”
You lock your legs around his waist, keeping him right where he is as his dick spasms and fills you to the brim. Your hands smooth down his big chest, feeling the muscles ripple as he comes down from what is probably the most intense orgasm he has ever felt. He stills soon enough, breathing back to normal as his softening length slips from you.
Flopping down next to you, Clark wraps an arm around you. You curl into his side, an arm across his stomach, and a leg thrown over his. Contented silence fills the room as you both take in this unforeseen turn of events.
Clark’s hand makes idle patterns on your back as you lay on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. You close your eyes for only a moment, missing Clark smiling at you. He gives you a quick peck on the top of your head, causing you to tilt your head to meet his eyes.
“You hungry?” you guess, feeling a bit peckish yourself.
“Yes!” he exclaims.
“Good. I know a great place down the street that makes the best samosas. Does Indian food sound good?” you ask, already tasting the rich spices of the food.
“Sounds perfect,” he says, picking up his arm to let you get up from the bed to grab your phone, watching your hips sway as you walk out to the other room.
Once back in bed, you order various dishes for the both of you. While you wait for the food, you pass a joint back and forth and steal a kiss or two. You decide there is plenty of time for you and Clark to talk. There is no use in killing the vibe for heavy stuff.
With the way Clark is looking at you, there’s not much to talk about anyway.
🍃The End🍃
A/N: I would love to know what you think!!! Feedback is appreciated!
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Happy Audio Drama Sunday!! When I was a non-teacher adult I thought to myself, surely as a child I exaggerated the desperate need for summer break. Now that I am a teacher adult, I can admit that I was. Wrong. I need a break, but luckily I have time for this.
Here's what I listened to this week!
@ourstoriedinsight's season finale was this week and wow. Wow. The way this show so effortlessly dances on ideas of trust, truth, and ethics while telling a story of four (five? Sir George count?) ridiculous and reluctant heroes who have only a dead friend in common is staggering. This episode especially, as you can see how they really drew together against (and then with) Sage. I love them, your honor. And I would also let Rain be my lawyer. Everyone listen to Our Storied Insight.
Jeez louise @camlannpod, can you give a girl a break? I am so glad Gwaine’s okay, and I’m fascinated by the mistrust Peredur has for him, even after they tried to track him over hill and dale. And I am SO worried about what's about to happen next. I wonder what Dai's going to do about it. I wonder if he'll do anything (please, Dai, do something).
This week's episode of Josie’s Lonely Hearts Club had me rolling. Look, I knew the title going in ("It's French for A Horny Party") and I still cackled when the line appeared in the episode. Josie, I hope you continue changing for the better. Also it inspired me to make beans and rice for dinner and that was a wild success.
When Karim Kronfli showed up at the beginning of the season of Among the Stars and Bones, I was excited, but holy heck. The performances in this show. Oh, right, and the twist at the end--you know, I really should have expected things to get a million times worse, based on how last season went, but this is a MILLION times worse. How are they gonna get out of this one folks???
@keepitsteadypod KEEP IT STEADY IS BACK KEEP IT STEADY MY BELOVED. Things are REALLY going places between Zach and Gabe now and neither of them know it. I love high schoolers, they're so dumb. Admit you like each other, dummies. Shoutout to our great good school nurse trying to fight for kids, and I thought the reveal about Zach's past was remarkably done. I love this show.
In relistening news, Life with Althaar again (what's up, @geminicollisionworks!). I rarely relisten to shows, but this one is worth my while every time. Listen to Life with Althaar, a silly space sitcom that gets Not So Silly when the story decides to commit to the bit. Althaar, I would die for you.
Inn Between is truckin right along with 5.9 this week, which I found absolutely delicious to watch the actors bring to life. It’ll be outdone only by the episode next week. In zombie news, boy oh boy, this week we're doing some recording for The Dead that I'm very worried about but ready for the challenge of. It involves directing singers in a language I do not speak! Lol pray for me. If I can make it til school ends, maybe I'll have some other news as well! Keep a weather eye out.
Hey, want to help me satiate my sudden summer cravings for fun drinks? Buy me a ko-fi!
See y'all next week!
#audio drama sunday#audio fiction#audio drama#fiction podcast#freaking podcasts#josie's lonely hearts club#camlann#our storied insight#among the stars and bones#keep it steady podcast#life with althaar
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Peter Cushing in Fear in the Night (1972)
#peter cushing#horroredit#fear in the night#hammer horror#70s horror#jimmy sangster#mine#my gifs#he doesn't have lots of screentime but he still infiltrated my brain#adore his little mannerisms here which creep you out on a first watch#and after knowing the twist you look at these and your heart breaks#also WHY is his name michael carmichael. who was in charge of this#and there's a huge ass painting of him in full headmaster uniform that just hangs there#AND he's randomly married to joan collins. what is going on#good picture well done
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One better (Patreon)
#Doodles#SCII#Helix#ZEX#Blood#I knew going into this and it was still so distressing :'0#Who needs plot twists when you can create such an intense sense of Dread#Probably doesn't help that I read this At Night In the Dark lol - actual shivers#Gods this was a hard scene to read - there have been several instances of my face hurting from furrowing my brow so hard haha#The way that ''Doctor'' is written is So skillful - I'm so impressed by everyone's prose and quirks and syntax!#Not to mention when he breaks character in a later scene to apologize for taking a bit to move the scene along haha <3 Play!!#It really does speak to just how much skill and effort is put into everything <3 It's so well done all the way around!!#Anyway to the actual scene at hand lol ow :') Drawing blood is always fun but I wish it wasn't his ;u;#Ugh the way he takes the surgeries is so well written - fear of course but a kind of stoic suffering as much as he's able to -#Until it comes to his eye#Ugh the /break/ of it all he goes from so eloquent - almost snarky and silly! Still trying to find an out make peace do /something/#It all goes completely out the window he's so /reduced/ and nothing hurts worse than that ughughugh#For all his intelligence and wit and prior successes and charm and just - everything that makes him /him/ to be dissolved into abject fear#It's so sad ;; And so well done <3#And he still holds enough of himself to know what he'd be losing wegh it's so sad!! He's so defined by his vision as most VUX are it's fjdsl#Zelnick is already gone by this point but I wanted to throw him in for extra sad flavour :')#Plus - I've mentioned his post-Op was one of the ones from the gallery that Actively kills me every time I look at it#Can you imagine my heartbreak to find out that he didn't have his Captain to comfort him after this in actuality? That he was fully alone?#''Are we home? Is it over?'' ''N...not yet'' - The Absolute Devastation of realizing that Never Was not really#Just tear my heart out why don't you ugh I'm fully bleeding out 💔#That last one is actually meant to be Max but it's open to interpretation :)#I think it's such a waste that his eye was just disposed of! Someone else could've used that (lol)#I do think there's something to the idea of seeing what used to be a part of your body elsewhere - like the Leftovers!#Even just keeping as a memento tho - a trophy - insult to injury but literally#Just points to no one being special and nothing being sacred I suppose
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++ 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐘
[summary] wrio’s spouse winds up in prison. special treatment ensues.
[cws] gender neutral reader. fluff.
“What you did was incredibly stupid.”
“I’d like to think it was very brave, actually.” You quip back, lips pursed as you turn up your chin. “You should be proud of me, really.”
“I should be proud that you got yourself thrown in prison?” You don’t have to look up to know that Wriothesley is sporting an incredulous expression. “Did they knock your head around a bit before bringing you down here?”
“You’re acting like I murdered someone.” You finally meet his gaze, and you resist the urge to sink down into your seat at the clear disapproval in his eyes. “All I did was—”
“Break into the Opera Epiclese and destroy government property.”
“That’s such a trumped-up charge!” You huff and roughly cross your arms over your chest, eyes narrowing as you think back on the charges that had been slapped down onto you by that damned archon. “You trip in the dark and accidentally fall into the oratrice and all of a sudden you’re a criminal. Hmph!”
“Yeah, exactly. It also doesn’t help that you broke in—”
“—I left my bracelet in there after the trial! Was I just supposed to leave it behind and potentially lose it forever? The condition of the lost and found in that place is downright terrible—the guards pocket all the good stuff.”
“You could have bought another one.”
“Not like this one.” You look down to the gray bracelet encircling your wrist, and a warmth spreads in your chest as you gently twist it around, finger rubbing over the messily written engraving on the inside of it. “This was a gift.”
“Hardly.” He sighs, and your eyes flick up to watch as he runs his hands through his already messy hair. “It’s just scrap metal I bent up and welded because I couldn’t buy you proper jewelry back when I was a prisoner.” It’s his turn to look at the bracelet.
“You were so creative back then.” You smile a bit wider. “I remember you used to have something new made every time I came to visit you. What was that one thing you made? The one that we painted together?”
“The ballerina music box.” He groaned, looking a bit embarrassed, and you snapped your fingers.
“The ballerina music box!” The ballerina was a bit oddly shaped, and the box had sharp corners on one side and rounded on the other, and the song the box played was distorted and sounded more creepy than relaxing due to some disfigured cogs, but you loved it nonetheless, and had even sobbed in thanks when he had first presented the gift to you. “I love that little box.”
“It looks like a child made it.”
“A child in the throes of eleazar, yes,” you nod, and his mouth opens a bit in surprise before he huffs out a laugh. “But I still love it… because you made it.” You give him a sweet smile, and you can see him soften up before your very own eyes; broad shoulders losing that rigidness, lids lowering, crease between his dark, thick brows disappearing.
“You’re tryin’ to butter me up.”
“Mhm,” you nod. “Is it working?”
“Not at all, jailbird.” He gives you a smile of his own, and despite the clear sarcasm in it, you can’t help the little flutter your heart does at the sight. “No special treatment for you.” So he says, yet he had placed a cup of tea down for you the moment you were brought to his office, and had even tried to inconspicuously nudge the basket of cookies in your direction, pretending not to notice when you reached for one. “Spouse or not.”
“What a mean man.” You slouch down in your seat. “I treasure the gifts that my lovely, amazing, strong, handsome, and so so so incredibly smart husband gives me and what do I get in return? A criminal record and unfair treatment! I’m suing the entire nation the moment I’m free!”
“Yeah, yeah,” he waves his hand in the air as if fanning away the conversation, and now it’s your turn to huff. “For the few days that you’re here, you’ll be working directly with me in exchange for coupons.” He takes a slow sip of his tea, adams apple bobbing as he swallows, before gently setting the cup back down onto its small plate. “I’ll make your first job real easy to get you in the swing of things.”
“How kind of you.”
He just barely contains an amused smile. “Very. Now…” He shifts in his seat. “Give me a kiss.”
“I’m married, Your Grace.”
“I’m sure your husband won’t mind. Kiss. Now.” He taps a finger against his lips, and after a moment you stand up and round his desk, hands finding his shoulders as you bend at the waist so your noses brush.
“My husband is a very good fighter, by the way. When he finds out you twisted his spouses’s arm like this, he’ll pummel you.”
“I can handle him.” A hand snags you by the waist, forcing you down into his lap, and you only have time to let out a quiet yelp before Wriothesley’s lips are on yours. The kiss is slow, sensual, and it brings a warmth to your cheeks and covers you with a bashful cloak when he pulls back to let his eyes roam over your face. “I’ve gotta say… your husband is a real lucky guy to snatch up someone as cute as you.”
“Hmph. Seems like you’re trying to butter me up now.”
“Is it working?” He presses his face into your neck, his lips pulling into a smile against your skin, and you have to fight back one of your own.
“Not at all, jailbird.”
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tw for angst + you're mommaguro | part two
"I hear mommy crying every night." Megumi's little voice spoke up as he and Toji stood in line at the grocery store after he picked his son up from your studio apartment that wasn't far from his school.
Toji's eyes shifted down to the little boy who looked so much like him, feeling his heart twist at the thought of you so torn up over it all.
Once everything was on the belt and his wallet was pulled out, Toji looked at his son with a soft expression, unsure what to say or how to explain to him that he was the reason for it all.
Toji tried to be the best husband and father, but it seemed his family's shortcomings didn't cultivate a good childhood for him to learn how to be the man you needed him to be, and that killed him.
He followed his nature unknowingly, ruining his relationship with you, and now he was struggling with how to reply to the bomb that was dropped on him in a public place.
Being only eight years old, Megumi was attuned to his surroundings and had a sharp eye when it came to stuff like that with you, all in all, he's a momma boy, and seeing you like that hurts his little heart.
You always waited until he was asleep, or so you thought before breaking down into a fit of tears and not letting your weathering storm get him wet as well.
It's only been less than a year since the divorce and you still spent your time healing from it and the loss of the man you learned to love despite the sharp edges he still held up in defense even though you were the only person who was never against him, always for though.
Toji's scars were too deep to heal fully and even though you tried to bandage him it held up for a little until it didn't. "How about we go back and see mommy for a little bit? That would make her happy."
Seeing Megumi's face light up knowing he would see you again made his heart ache with jealousy.
You've always been the default parent even though Toji tried to help his best, it seemed his son really didn't care for him, just his momma.
Twenty minutes later Toji stood at your door knocking on it as Megumi held the bags hearing you shuffle and sniffle as you came closer to open the door seeing your ex-husband and son holding a few bags that were filled with all your favorites.
"Momma!" Megumi cried as he dropped his sack to wrap his arms around your legs hugging you tightly as you looked at him then Toji who shrugged wanting to reach out to comfort you, instead another voice came from behind you, a very familiar one too, his co-workers.
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✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。i know you still think about the times we had
synopsis. satoru will always comes when you call him, he just never thought you’d stop calling
— word count. 5.2k (where did i go wrong)
— contents. college au, rich boy! gojo, break ups and make ups <3, it’s the cliche trope where the rich guy’s parent forces you to leave him aka gojo’s father is the villain, angst with a happy ending—i don’t want my cause of death to be angry rb! gojo stans, emo gojo ft. marvin’s room (iykyk), cliche rain scene—this fic is so cliche i’m sorry, reader is gn! but gojo is mentioned to like pics of girls on instagram (he was being petty)
— notes. well, it finally happened. the long awaited break up. this one’s for you niku 🤞🏽 AND DABITEE ANON
you open the door when satoru knocks—just barely, though. it’s just enough to hand him the bag with the remaining things he’s left at your apartment. it feels familiar, being here, but it feels so different too. it’s always been happy knocking on your door—he never thought he’d dread letting his knuckles meet the cool wood. it’s like taking the last bite of something sweet when you’re too full. when the sugar is too decadent on your tongue and your head spins and your stomach twists and it’s too much even though it used to be so good.
it’s too much being here. it’s too much trying to meet your gaze and get nothing in return. it’s too much being handed back that sweater he basically let you keep. and yet, it’s good to see you. he wants nothing more than to be here with you, wherever you are, even if you don’t want him to stay.
“that should be everything,” you murmur, still looking down. “let me know if there’s anything missing.”
satoru would never tell you if there’s something missing. he’d never come back and demand back something he gave you, he doesn’t think he could ever take back something he gave you—being handed back his heart after pressing it to your palms is hard enough. but then again, maybe he should look for small things you probably missed. just so he can come back. just so he can see you—how else will he see you now?
“no, it’s alright,” he says quietly. he doesn’t miss the way you quickly let go as soon as his hands grab the bag, almost like you’re being careful enough not to let your fingers meet each other. “you can uh…you can just keep them. or…throw them out if you don’t want them,” he mumbles.
you nod, standing there silently. it’s quiet, and then it’s quiet some more. and finally, you look up at him for the first time since he got here, staring at him a little expectantly. oh, right. now would be the part where he leaves.
“can i…can i just know why?” he croaks. fuck. he’s not supposed to cry. you ripped his heart out and threw it at his feet, you didn’t even care to hand it to him even after you tore every artery apart. but he sniffles anyway, lips wobbling as he stares at you. “why are you leaving me?”
your fingers twitch, like you itch to reach over and wipe that tear that rolls down his cheek. in the end, you cross your arms instead. “i already told you, satoru—”
“that’s bullshit,” he clicks his teeth, shaking his head as he stares at you frustratedly, “you gave me some bullshit reason.”
satoru has worked so hard to be here—to be with you. hadn’t he done enough? hadn’t he told you about himself, things he didn’t want to? hadn’t he tried to become something, someone more than just a guy swimming in trust funds? hadn’t he worked for your attention, waited outside classes and walked opposite directions in the hall with you just to seem dedicated? fuck, he even burned his hand trying to learn how to make pancakes to impress you, let the maids laugh at him as he twisted the stove the wrong way to try and turn it on.
why wasn’t it enough? what more could he give you than everything? how can the guy who has everything not have enough to give? he doesn’t understand.
“satoru, we weren’t gonna work,” you pinch your nose—it’s like you’re the one who doesn’t understand why he’s being like this. “the sooner you accept that the more hurt you’re saving the both of us—”
“we were working just fine,” he says exasperatedly. it’s like you insist he’s crazy when he’s nothing but sane. like he’s trying to tell you the sky is blue, and you’re refusing to believe it’s anything other than green. it’s clear. it’s practically a fact. you were doing just fine—why don’t you see that? “we were happy,” he takes a step forward and cups your cheeks, pressing his forehead to yours, “was it someone? did they tell you something? just tell me who, baby—i’ll fix it. i’ll put them in their place, okay? no one can bother you if i get them to leave you alone—”
“then you leave me alone,” you whisper. he stills. you pull away from his hands. “sator—gojo. please just leave me alone. it’s better that way.”
you close the door, and he stands there. numb. maybe a little shocked. entirely ruined.
gojo. he laughs quietly after a moment at that—it’s a laugh meant for men who’ve lost the last thread to sanity. gojo. it’s like a slap in the face, being called the name he worked so hard to get you to drop. it took him weeks—months, even, to convince you to call him satoru. then he upgraded to toru. then it was baby. sometimes you teased him and called him pumpkin—he called you peaches in return. when you introduced him, you called him your boyfriend.
not anymore. now he’s back to gojo—that god-forsaken name with everything but what he really wants attached to it. his grandfather’s legacy. his future. business deals. fancy invites. more money than he knows what to do with. the name gojo comes with everything but you.
but he had you for a bit, didn’t he? when he was just satoru—but now he’s gojo again, and you’re gone. the only sign of you left is in the faint traces of your perfume in the sweaters you’ve returned.
and satoru still isn’t sure what brought the break up on. he thinks it’s the part that stings the most—when everything seems perfect one second, and then it’s not. had he not tried enough? maybe he was too much. maybe he didn’t understand you the way you needed him to. maybe he was too overbearing. maybe he asked for too much too fast.
he’s not sure. he tried asking when you broke it off—you only shook your head and said it wasn’t going to work out between the two of you, that it was a mistake to try at all. mistake? how could you call this a mistake? things were so perfect, weren’t they?
satoru doesn’t think there was even one second he wasn’t smiling when he was with you, and he used to think the same was true for you too. had you been faking it this long? or was it real at one point—had he really failed you so badly, seen past you so blindly that he didn’t notice when your smiles stopped reaching your eyes?
it’s too late, he figures. you and satoru are broken up.
you ask him to come over one morning, and he does—because he always comes when you call. he brings your coffee order from that cafe you like, the one you don’t go to often because the coffee is more overpriced than any other coffee shop you’ve ever seen. he’s grinning when you open the door, leans in to kiss your lips excitedly. you turn your head then, and his lips meet your cheeks instead—he supposes he should’ve known it at that moment. he should’ve seen that your lips weren’t smiling. your eyes were tired, a little red. you were hugging yourself in that way you do when you’re nervous. you didn’t let him kiss your lips, you made him kiss your cheek.
and then you sat him down on that worn-down couch of yours, took off that bracelet his mother gave him to gift you on your anniversary, and pressed it to his palm as you said we should break up. break up. you wanted to leave him—and satoru didn’t understand, still doesn’t understand.
he’s tried for so long, replayed the last month of your relationship in his head over and over and fucking over. you always smiled. you kissed him first. you held his hand, and even squeezed. you asked to see him. you laughed when he was around. you said i love you. you were happy. but then you weren’t—when did you stop being happy? and how could you have stopped feeling it with him?
—————
breaking up with satoru is the hardest thing you’ve ever done. how long can people live without the sun? you think not longer than a few minutes—that’s what it feels like without satoru’s warmth, anyway.
gojo satoru has always smiled as long as he’s been with you. he smiled smugly on your first meet, smiled bitterly after every rejection, smiled in pure glee when you finally said yes, and smiled like his fingertips could touch the sky every time he saw you after that.
satoru has never looked sad for long in your presence—you have that effect on him, you make his lips curl and his eyes brighten in that way that they deserve to shine. but for the first time ever, his eyes dim with you around, his lips curl into a frown at your words, and he cries for you. his eyes glisten with tears instead of wonder, and you think for a moment that you might be making a mistake.
but then you remember that this is for the best—that if you really love gojo satoru, you’ll let him go instead of clipping his wings.
“he’s picked up his things,” you speak quietly into the phone. you don’t sniffle even as you desperately need to—it’s the last bit of control you have left, and you intend to keep it. “i won’t be seeing him again.”
“good,” his father speaks, “that’s good to hear.”
satoru’s father is a cold man, you learn that on the first meet. he doesn’t look at his wife with a soft look that tells you there’s any love built between the decades of marriage, and he doesn’t look at his only son with any affection for the boy he raised. instead, he stares at satoru like any businessman would an opportunity—with a calculating gaze that tries to work out the best course of action for the most profit.
satoru is young, but he’s charming and conniving and knows how to get what he wants when he wants—he’s quick on his feet and rarely lets himself get cornered into a wall. in the last three generations of the family business, no heir has shown as much promise as gojo satoru. that’s what his father tells you, anyway. you believe him—satoru is smart and knows how to play his cards right, you won’t deny that. his future is set to be comfortable, and he’s never known anything outside of that, never built any other plans for himself.
you can’t rip that away from him—not for your own sake, not for your own happiness.
“you promised you wouldn’t freeze his trust funds once i ended things,” you remind him, “and that he’d keep his inheritance.” somehow, because the world grants you this one favor, your voice doesn’t shake—it’s steady and firm as it reminds the stone-cold man at the end of the line of your agreement—and he offers a slow chuckle that makes your jaw clench.
“yes, i do recall,” he hums, “i’m glad we could come to agree. you understand, don’t you? it is my job as his father to do what’s best for him.”
you know what he’s saying—what that means. you’re not what’s best for him. maybe he’s right—maybe satoru needs someone who’s equally as promising to build a successful company into even more success. maybe he needs someone who can take him out for a change to those fancy places he takes you every few weeks. maybe he needs someone who’s heard of half the brands he wears and doesn’t scold him to turn the lights off so the electricity bill isn’t high. maybe he needs someone who can keep up with everything that gojo satoru is—and that someone is not you, no matter how deeply you love him.
“—the offer still stands, should you change your mind. i’m willing to compensate you for the trouble this must all be.”
your lips curl into a scowl at his words. that’s the thing about rich people, you think—money is always enough to sugarcoat everything. why worry about the dead grass in your lawn when you can paint it green? but you don’t leave satoru for extra cash on your hands—nothing can be worth auctioning off the only man who’s ever made you feel anything. you leave satoru because he deserves to continue living comfortably, to make a name for himself that isn’t just a ghost of his father’s. if that means being cut from the corner of the picture, you’re willing to pick up the scissors yourself.
“no thanks,” you hiss, “i don’t need the money.”
“i would disagree,” his father sneers, “but suit yourself.”
the line ends, and for good this time, satoru is no longer yours. was he ever to begin with?
—————
you try to forget your ex-boyfriend—keyword, try. every hour of your life consists of you using your burner account to refresh his instagram page to see if he’s posted anything new. you unfollow satoru from every social media platform the same day he picks up his belongings—you know he’s noticed within the first thirty minutes because all of his pictures with you are gone, just like all your pictures with him.
in what you assume is an attempt to be petty, he likes every picture of every girl he sees, and he even blocks you on twitter—you know he picks twitter because twitter is the only social media that blatantly states you’re blocked. but then you’re unblocked in two days, and you know he must be missing you now that the initial anger is faded.
it makes you laugh a little, even through your tears. satoru is not satoru without petty fits of emotion, and you can’t bring yourself to be mad, not when it’s your fault he’s hurting like this. he’s extra sad today, you gather—if the way marvin’s room is posted to his instagram story on a blank screen is of any hint. it makes you scoff in amusement that in true gojo satoru fashion, he’s effectively told all eight-thousand-something of his followers he’s pathetically in his feelings.
you scroll through suguru’s story, too—he didn’t unfollow you even after satoru temporarily blocked you, but you figure suguru is the only person satoru really has. you shouldn’t keep yourself close to him, not when it could hurt satoru more, so you remove him too.
suguru is, as always, drinking at some fancy party with obnoxiously rich college students who have not a care in the world for midterms around the corner. who needs to pass when you’re swimming in money whether or not you have a degree? the first thing you learn about the rich is that most of them are only at college for the experience—they don’t see college as the stepping stone to better opportunities, there’s nothing education could offer that trust funds already don’t. but satoru attends college for himself—he enjoys business classes, you learn, and especially finance ones. for someone who spends money so carelessly, he understands it particularly well.
there’s no sign of satoru at whatever party it is suguru is at, there’s no trace of strikingly bright white strands anywhere in any corners—you do see naoya in a corner, though, and you crinkle your nose in distaste. if satoru were here, he’d say something bitterly under his breath about the asshole, and you would giggle. but satoru is not here, and even naoya the women-hating jackass makes you miss your obnoxiously whiny ex-boyfriend.
everything reminds you of satoru. that bear he won you at the fair (after maybe six tries) by your pillows, those polaroids at your desk that you can’t bring yourself to take down, that sticky note on your fridge he left promising to replace the creamer he finished (he’s replaced it more times than he’s needed to by now), that extra big blanket you keep on the couch because the old one barely covered his legs, that pair of silly matching mugs you both had for coffee in the mornings.
every corner of your apartment has something that reminds you that satoru was here, that he was yours, that for a short while, he was the best thing you ever had. it’s your fault, you think—that satoru and you are here in this mess in the first place. he’s always looked at life through a hopeful lens. having everything does that to you, makes you ignorant to the misfortunes of the world, makes you think everything is within the realm of your reach. you, on the other hand, knew this was bound to happen. the two of you together is like hot oil and cool water—what feels like sparks is just the oil shooting out to burn you. you should’ve known this would have never lasted.
in a way, you think you did. it’s why you hated him so fiercely at first—maybe deep down, you always knew you wanted him, that he would never be yours. maybe that’s why you were so adamant about rejecting him, that even when he was clearly trying, it would never be enough. satoru has always been enough, has always been what everyone has wanted—you’re not so sure you can say the same for yourself.
you love gojo satoru. he loves you too—he falls first, and you think maybe, he might have fallen harder too. no one loves like satoru. they say if you press coal hard enough, it turns to diamonds—you think if you gave satoru coal, he would hand you back the sun and all of her stars. it’s just the kind of guy he is, the one that turns everything dull into something bright and warm and worth it. you wish you didn’t have to break his heart, you wish you could’ve walked out of this the only one hurt. but maybe, at the very least, if you break him good enough that he hates you, he’ll move on quicker, maybe have something to look forward to while you continue to work your way up and cheer him on.
before you can refresh suguru’s page one more time to stalk his story, you’re pulled from your thoughts as someone knocks on your door—correction: pounds on your door. you jolt on your couch, standing up and making your way to the front door quickly and looking through the peephole.
satoru. of course.
he’s soaked to the bone—it’s raining outside, and of course, just as on brand as always, he must’ve rushed here without an umbrella.
you shouldn’t open it.
but you can’t just leave him in the rain, can you? but he’s not your problem anymore, you agreed to leave him, didn’t you? but how could he not be your problem when he’s all you think about? but this could cause him trouble if his father found out he was here, right? but can you really leave someone, ex-boyfriend or not, in the pouring rain? you can’t be that cruel can you?
before you can make up your mind, he speaks up, “i know you’re standing there. open the door,” he demands.
“satoru, go home,” you sigh, head pressing against the surface that separates you, “don’t make this anymore difficult than it has to be.”
“if it’s difficult, that means you don’t really want to do this,” he argues. he’s still as good as ever at sweet talk, still as persistent and charming as ever at getting what he wants. “please,” he croaks, “just let me in.”
you know it means more than one thing. you know it means more than just your home. but you shouldn’t, you can’t let him know why you did all this—how can you protect someone from something if they don’t let you? satoru would never let you if he knew, and that’s why you can’t let him know.
“satoru, if you don’t leave…i’ll…i’ll call the cops,” you warn.
“no you won’t,” he says instantly. “i’m not leaving until you open the door. and if i get sick, i’ll send you my bill for the emergency room visit.”
“you’re not going to the emergency room for a common cold, you idiot,” you scoff.
the rain doesn’t slow—in fact, you can hear thunder. satoru is still stubbornly outside, knocking away.
“i’ll start screaming,” he insists, “your neighbors will complain for noise again. do you want to be kicked out of this apartment? just let your cold, wet, heartbroken ex-boyfriend in if you have a heart.”
and because you are, and always will be, weak to the charms of gojo satoru, you open that damned door—even though you shouldn’t, even though you can’t, even though you said you would never again. but you do. because it’s satoru, and he always comes when you call, and you’ll always let him in when he’s here.
“you don’t come to your ex’s house less than one week after the break up,” you sigh once you open the door. he takes a step in, shutting the door behind him.
“why did you leave me?” he asks.
“satoru, you can’t keep bringing this up—”
“why? just tell me why.”
“i don’t have to—”
“tell me why and i’ll stop bothering you. i just need to know why,” he insists.
and then you break.
you’re only human. you’ve lost the man you’ve given everything to for over a year in the span of one week. you’ll never see his lovely mother again who spoiled you rotten, you’ll never hang out out with his funny best friend who treats you like family, and you’ll never be enough for gojo satoru, the rich, loud, sheltered, obnoxious, handsome jackass you met and had to do a project with and accidentally fucked over and over again until you fell in love.
so you shove his chest, once, then twice, then a third time, each time getting weaker and weaker than the last as tears slip down your cheeks as you simply break down. “just leave, satoru,” you sob, “why can’t you just leave? why do you keep coming back?”
you hate seeing him here. you want him gone. you never want to see him again. you hope he never leaves. you’re glad to see him. you hope this isn’t the last time. you hate that he seems to not be getting enough sleep. his eyes are hollow. he must not be eating properly. he probably hasn’t attended class. he has a quiz next week. he most likely forgot about that. his clothes are wrinkly. he definitely hasn’t showered in days.
“last month you said i was it for you,” he glares at you, his eyes red and swollen and every shade of heartbreak. you miss when they were blue—that beautiful, bright, perfect shade of blue. “last week you said we were a mistake. what the fuck do you mean, huh? what are you playing at?”
“you can realize a lot in a month—”
“not enough to erase over a year,” his voice booms. it makes you flinch and hug yourself tightly. tears slide down your cheeks, your vision is blurry. this might be the last time you see satoru, and even if he’s angry, you want to remember the curves of his features. so you wipe them away. they keep coming back. “so tell me,” he clenches his jaw, “did you string me along for a year or did something happen last week that you’re not telling me?”
“i realized you were bad for me,” you say quietly.
satoru stares at you. it’s a piercing gaze—his eyes are electrically blue and his lashes are unfairly long and every time he stares at you, you think he almost sees into your soul. they’re tired—there are purplish bags under them on that pale skin of his, and the whites of his eyes are concerningly bloodshot. he stares, and stares, and for a second, you think you’ll die like this. watching him stare at you as your heart bleeds out.
“i spent weeks,” his voice shakes, “i waited outside your class. i followed you to the next one. i memorized your fucking schedule.”
“satoru, you need to leave—”
“and then you fucked me and left every morning like i was nothing,” he glares, sniffling. you don’t know where the rain drops on his face start and where the teardrops end. “and then i begged you for a chance—begged. i burned my hand, got laughed at by the maids to learn how to make those stupid fucking pancakes for you.”
“i didn’t ask you to—”
“it took you two months to call me baby for the first time. did you know that? i waited two months to hear that. i thought it was the best two months i ever waited.”
“satoru,” you plead.
you’ve given up on trying to wipe away the tears—he’s given up on crying altogether. you’ve never seen him so hollow, so dead in the eyes and so, so tired.
satoru has never gotten tired—not when he’s fighting for you.
“and then you kept pushing me away, acting like i was some shallow guy who wanted to get in your pants and leave cause i had some money to my name. i took you everywhere, introduced you proudly, let everyone say what they wanted to say about me because i loved you, and…and i thought you loved me too,” he shakes his head.
his voice breaks, and god, so does your heart right along with it.
“i do love you,” you admit it before you realize what you’re saying.
“then why did you fucking leave me?” his voice is loud.
satoru never yells, not at you. his voice is always gentle, patient, like he worships the ground you walk on, like he’ll get on his knees if you ask him too. satoru never yells—but he does tonight.
“because i had to,” you sob, fingers digging into your temples as you shake. the words spill from your lips faster than the tears, like a swarm of angry bees, one following after the other. “or you’d lose everything. the trust funds, the inheritance, the company. i couldn’t let that happen to you—not for me,” you whisper.
it feels like defeat—in the end, you couldn’t keep satoru, and you couldn’t leave him either. you couldn’t love him like you wanted, and you couldn’t let him go like you should have. what else is there left to fuck up? what more can you ruin in less than a week? the bees feel like maggots in your mouth, swarming a dead carcass.
“so you left me because my old man threatened you with my trust funds?” he asks in disbelief. you think something in satoru dies at that—something in his shoulders falls and his eyes almost seem gray.
satoru gets his blue eyes from his mother—they’re bright and kind and deeper than the ocean. but unlike the ocean, they’re not scary to fall into, to lose yourself in no matter how far you are from shore. his father’s eyes are gray—cold and blank and not laced with a single hint of emotion.
you can’t help but think that blue suits satoru so much better than gray ever could.
“it wasn’t just that,” you shake your head, “that’s not fair, satoru. what was i supposed to do? know you were about to lose everything and stay?”
“you could have talked to me before you decided for me,” he hisses, “what do you want me to say? thank you? thank you for breaking my heart? thank you for making me feel like a worthless piece of shit who wasted a year for someone who didn’t seem to care? thank you for walking out on me?”
“you know i’d have stayed if i could,” you argue, voice breaking.
“then why didn’t you? why the fuck didn’t you?”
“because i couldn’t!”
“you could!” he screams—you realize, for the first time in your life, you hate when satoru screams. he never screams. “all my life, that old man has been making decisions for me. satoru, wear this. satoru, go here. satoru, don’t do that. satoru, put that away. satoru, stay away from them. satoru, come with me. that’s all he’s ever fucking done—make every choice for me. and now…now you’re just like him,” he breathes, lips wobbling as he stares at you with hurt.
it’s like that for a bit—you stare at him as he crumbles, and he stares at you like he doesn't know you anymore. you don’t know who leans in first, if it’s your hand or his face, but one second you’re feet apart, and the next second his face is cradled in your hands, thumbs swiping away at his tears. you catch them, one by one, waiting to wipe them away no matter how fast they come. because satoru always comes when you call, and you’ll always be there for him to find you.
“i don’t want to leave,” you mumble, “i never do. you are it for me, i meant that, you know. who else will melt extra chocolate in my hot chocolate?”
“then don’t leave,” he begs, voice cracking, “i don’t want you to. i’ll handle that old geezer—my grandfather will knock some sense into him. fuck, suguru and i can even hide his body, it’s fine. just don’t leave, okay?”
you let out a watery chuckle, pinching his cheek as you shake your head. “i don’t know if i’m worth homicide, satoru.”
“i think you’re wrong,” he huffs, “you’re wrong about a lot of things, you know. so wrong.”
“i never said i was perfect,” you pout.
he buries his head into your neck, clinging to you tightly—you cling back, because nothing is as safe as satoru’s arms. you’d melt into his skin if you could, live in that spot right where his heart is so you can make sure it’s always beating.
“you’re still perfect,” he mumbles, “but you’re always mean to me. this was the worst you’ve ever been.”
“i’m sorry,” you murmur, slipping your fingers into his hair—it’s still wet, you realize. he’s soaked, and he could catch a cold but you don’t care. satoru is back. he’s here in your run-down apartment with the mugs and the blanket and that toothbrush you forgot to return and that pair of socks you found in your drawer. satoru is finally home. “i’ll never leave you again.”
“promise?”
“yeah. as long as you don’t block me on twitter again.”
“you deserved that.”
“and for the love of god, toru, delete that marvin’s room story. that was so dumb.”
“are you stalking me?” he pulls away with a grin, making you glare with a huff. he chuckles, kisses your forehead as he murmurs, “missed me that bad, huh? yeah, i would too.”
“well, obviously not enough to post marvin’s room on my story.”
“you can’t be mean to me after you broke my heart!” he whines.
yeah, you think, satoru is home. he’s still that loud, obnoxious, pestering brat that he always was—and he’s still the only love you’ve ever known.
“i love you,” you press your forehead to his, kissing him slowly. you want to kiss him harder, you want to kiss him desperately like you’ll never kiss him again. like you lost him and miraculously got him back. like you’ll never see the sun again without him.
but there’s time for that—lots of it, in fact. because satoru is home.
“i love you too,” he whispers, “wanna shower with me? if you really love me, you would.”
read the makeup sex sequel ;) MINORS DO NOT INTERACT
if this fic was a person i would want it dead.
#teepods.writings#fics.#rich boy! au#gojo x reader#gojo x you#gojo angst#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen x you#jujutsu kaisen angst#jjk x reader#jjk x you#jjk angst#gojo satoru x reader#gojo satoru x you#gojo satoru angst
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thinking about arguing with husband!gojo. it’s funny because he’s the strongest sorcerer alive with several other, more wicked enemies harboring one sided hate for him, yet he’s anxiously glancing at you every now and then as you hiss at him. you’re the only one who can make him doubt his strength.
he usually finds you cute when you’re mad, but right now he doesn’t really appreciate the way your face is scrunched up and how you’re yelling at him.
it’s not his fault. he thinks you’re being so dramatic.
“you’re laughing at me,” you deadpan. “why do you never take things i say seriously?”
“because i honestly don’t think it’s that serious,” he fires back, and your eyes narrow. oh, fuck.
arguing with your husband is never fun. it’s probably because the both of you are stubborn; you’re stubborn because you’re simply right all the time, and satoru’s stubborn because if you’re not right, then he is.
you pause for just a second, but it’s enough to sprout a moment of extreme tension between you and your husband.
“right,” you scoff after you inhale sharply. “you just don’t care, do you?”
“don’t fucking say that,” satoru snaps. “i do care. that’s why i’m here.”
it takes everything in you to not shoot him another death glare. “so i should be thankful for the bare minimum?”
satoru blinks. he would’ve flinched, but he refuses to let you have that sort of power over him. “i’m not giving the bare minimum.”
“yes you are,” you argue back, voice straining as you swallow a lump of anger down the back of your throat.
the both of you are still. it feels like an eternity passes before the anger in you wanes. you’re exhausted and this fight with satoru is surely going to make the both of you upset enough to not talk for the rest of the night.
“i’m sorry that i’m not good enough,” satoru says, breaking the silence. you’ve never heard his voice so small, so pathetic—he’s never, ever shown you this side of him, and you’re starting to feel that dreading pit of guilt tug at your gut.
“that’s not what i meant,” you force yourself to say, sighing.
“but that’s what you’re thinking,” satoru mumbles. he avoids looking at your face.
“no it’s not,” you deny. “it’s never been about that.”
satoru gives you a wary look. “then what is it about? because i’ve done everything i can.”
“everything? really?” you sneer. “do you even love me anymore?”
silence. satoru swears he can hear your heart break.
“baby, don’t say that,” he groans, “c’mon, we were ten points away from three stars. that’s a single plate—one you didn’t turn in because you somehow forgot how to dash!”
you whip around to glower at satoru, your face twisting into an offended expression. “you set the kitchen on fire! how could i do something like serving a dish if the kitchen is on fire?!”
“baby, it’s the same button that it always has been this entire game!” he whines. “and you set the kitchen on fire! you keep forgetting to take the rice off the stove!”
you sigh exasperatedly, crossing your arms to act like some sort of shield between you and satoru’s (truthful) words.
“but you don’t chop up your stupid fish!” you protest. “so i end up doing five things at once!”
satoru opens his mouth to speak, but he knows you’re in the right. he opts to click his tongue instead.
“and every time i asked for help,” you add, frowning, “you just kept bringing out more of the dumbass cucumbers! we don’t have counter space for that!!!”
“that’s for prep to maximize our sushi making! throw it on the floor!”
“are you kidding me? that’s so unsanitary!”
“it’s a game!”
you’re both panting by the end of the fight. you’re biting down on your inner cheek and satoru is scratching the nape of his neck awkwardly.
“… sorry,” he mumbles. “i won’t bring out cucumbers anymore. and i’m also sorry for being mean about you not knowing how to dash.”
“good,” you huff. “‘cause i was seriously not gonna play anymore.”
“and…?” he prods, nudging you in your ribs. you can tell what he wants just by the sound of his voice.
“and i’m sorry for getting mad at you even though you’re doing you’re best at carrying me in this game…” you murmur, rolling your eyes.
satoru’s face brightens and he places a wet kiss on your cheek. “you’re forgiven.”
“love you, dummy.”
“love you too, baby.”
“no more cucumbers unless the ticket calls for them,” you remind him pointedly.
“yes, chef!”
#satoru gojo#gojo satoru x reader#gojou satoru x reader#gojou satoru x you#jjk x reader#jujutsu kaisen#jjk x you#jujutsu kaisen x reader#gojo x reader
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[tentacle] The monster under the shower
tentacle!monster x human!Reader
Good to know: slightly dub-con
Summary: The resort is full of surprises.
White puffs of steam follow your way out of the cabin until you close the wooden door with a soft click. Your grip on the white towel around your body tightens as you look around. The pool is calm but busy, not far from where you are standing. Humans and monsters enjoy the pleasant water of the pools while others lay on their towels or chairs, sunbathing. The sun is bright and warm at the top of the clear blue sky, and despite the hot temperature, you feel almost cold after spending a few minutes in the sauna. A thin layer of sweat shines on your heated skin.
Soon, you tear your gaze away from the others to make your way to the small stalls of showers at the back. As you step into one of them, you let the thin curtain separate you from the outside world. The towel gets loose around your body, and you hang it over the white-tiled wall.
Pouring some soap into your hands, you start lathering yourself up, covering your body in small bubbles. You rub the citrus-smelling lotion over your skin, rubbing your muscles and washing away the sweat and sand. Your hair sticks to your back in wet strands. Drops of water run down your face, cooling you down after being under the sun and in the sauna most of the day.
You keep your eyes closed as you slowly relax with a hum in your throat. Your fingers brush through your hair, drawing small circles on your skin to massage your scalp. Small goosebumps run over your body at the feeling.
The quiet melody coming from your closed lips soon gets interrupted by the sudden noise at your feet. A frown tugs your brows together as you look down. You feel the still running water washing away the shampoo from the top of your head. The foam follows the line of your spine. The sound comes from the drain. It gets louder and louder until the metallic noise stops, and you meet silence.
"Okay," you hum, unsure. You will inform someone about the noise later.
Just as you look down again, something black emerges from the drain. Your heart jumps up to your throat, and you are ready to grab your towel and leave as fast as you can when the thing shoots out and curls around your ankles. The thick tentacle slams against your skin, keeping you in place. The sudden force is almost enough to make you lose your balance.
"Fuck!" You cry out, trying to shake off the thing, but it only tightens around you. "Hey!" You gasp out again, bracing yourself against the wall when your legs part without your consent. It creeps up on your legs, not letting you move even for an inch. The thing is soft and slimy on your wet skin. As it moves, it feels like a gentle caress.
"It's enough!" You break the silence again. "Let me go!"
To be honest, you are more annoyed than afraid. You know the reputation of the resort. Things can happen here. That's why people come here in the first place.
Despite your attempts to get free from the monster, you feel yourself getting wetter with every centimeter as the tentacles slip closer and closer to your center. You can feel the tips grazing your folds. One of them rubs your clit while the other teases your center.
Gasping, you tug on your leg again, but this time, you try to find a more comfortable position. Annoyance still bubbles in your chest, but the desire in your lower stomach is stronger. You feel the familiar cramp of need jerking your muscles with anticipation. Every flick on your clit radiates through your nerve, running up your spine and twisting your world. The tentacle on your other leg is at your entrance, teasing but never pushing into you.
"What are you waiting for?" You grunt, groaning. Impatience shimmers in your voice which soon turns into a startled scream. The thing does as you want. It pushes inside you, stretching you out and filling you up. Your breath gets stuck in your lungs, and the rings of the curtain pop under the tug as you try to stay on your feet. The fabric barely hides you anymore, but this is the last thing you worry about. The tentacles wrap tighter around your legs, leaving red marks on your skin. Meanwhile, your pussy is still fucked and filled. Loud grunts and moans escape your lips with every thrust. The forceful motions burn your walls and push you higher and higher. Stars dance behind your eyelids whenever you blink. Your cunt throbs with pleasure. It sears through your veins. Your orgasm is fast and ravishing. The tentacles fucking your pussy and teasing your clit are the only things that keep you from falling. Your walls flutter and pulse as you make a mess on the already slimy limb.
When you win back your senses, the tentacles are already gone, and the water is still running, drumming on your sensitive skin. Your legs shake, and you need a few minutes to wash yourself down again and wrap the towel around your body. Your heart still throbs in your throat, and for a second, you aren't even sure if you only imagined the whole thing or it really happened.
When you pull the curtain out of the way, the young woman who greeted you at the reception when you arrived a few days ago is a few meters away from you with fresh towels in her arms and a knowing smirk on her face.
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#monster boyfriend#monster romance#monster x reader#monster x human#monster smut#tentacle monster#tentacle smut#tentacle boyfriend#monsterfucker#mirage resort#kinktober 2023
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breaking up with rafe cameron (it lasts a day) !
your phone was blowing up furiously with notifications you didn't have to look at to know who it was. another text from your recently self-proclaimed ex-boyfriend pinged again.
'Where are you'
'Answer me.'
'I'm coming to your house'
'We're going to talk about this'
swiping off the messages from your lock screen and angrily flipping over your phone, you sat up in bed where you'd been sulking and threw off the covers.
he'd really hurt your feelings this time, off and gone doing god knows what (selling w barry) for days, usually without a single text. when you did finally get to see him, he had the audacity to be tense and mean towards you.
everyone knows about rafe's short temper, but you're the one who had to deal with it. after so much of letting him take it out on you - especially recently - and not having a spare second to love on your boyfriend, you'd had enough and stopped hanging around his house. shortly after, ending it through a single text.
the sound of his truck swerving into your driveway had you furrowing your brows and pouting, stomping down the stairs to lock the front door. as you reach out the twist the knob, it swings open and you're left stumbling back.
his mere presence towering over you wipes your confidence to say anything. forcing himself inside, he shuts the door behind him and inches closer to you - like a predator to their prey.
"you gonna explain, or what?" he asks, tauntingly slow as he looks down at you and your glossy eyes, trying to contain his anger.
"we're done, rafe. that's what," you push out, though admittedly failing at trying to stand your ground. with him here in front of you, what could you possibly have been so upset about? your memory fails you the longer you keep his intense gaze.
he scoffs and shakes his head, exhaling sharply through his nose to physically release his rage - though his jaw is still firmly clenched. "that's fuckin' rich."
"i'm serious. you're— you're never here. i'm all by myself at your house all the time. i just.. it's so lonely." after finally finding your words and letting them out, the both of you seem to relax a bit.
"baby, i— listen, i'm workin' a business now, okay? i got my own money, i'm.. providing. for you." he explains in a hurry, trying to hide how desperately he needs you back.
"i don't need any of that, rafe. i just want to be around you." your voice starts to trail off towards the end, partly because of the vulnerability but mostly because of his possible reaction.
as he runs his hands over his face to ease the tension between his brows, he lets out a sigh and stays silent for a moment.
"don't fucking scare me like that. you can just tell me this shit, don't have to go starting a bunch of nonsense." the words are followed by his hands dropping to his side, looking down at you more hurt than mad.
it has your heart melting and your head nodding before looking down, letting out a bold but harmless mumble. "still mad at you though.."
the arm hooking around the back of your neck tugs you into his chest, free hand messily working through your hair to pull you firmer against him. his lips plant possessively on the crown of your head before murmuring, "jesus christ."
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Batboys as things that go bump in the night
So what if he’s not human?
Pairings: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne x fem!reader
Contains: Monsterfucking. Dubcon. Unprotected piv sex in Dick’s, Jason’s, and Damian’s. Blood in Bruce’s. Somnophilia and light breeding kink in Dick’s. Knotting in Jason’s. Oral sex (f!receiving) in Tim’s. Degradation in Damian’s.
Notes: 18+ or you’ll be blocked. Happy Halloweekend angels!
BRUCE WAYNE 🦇
A loner. A constant shadow over Gotham. A collector of all things macabre. And now, he has his sights set on you. You’re a pretty thing, dressed in all black at a late-autumn gala, and you can feel the intensity of his gaze on you even when your back is turned.
So it’s no surprise that, when you tempt fate by rounding a corner into a deserted hallway, you are not alone.
Stepping out of the shadows, Bruce’s hand clamps around one side of your throat, leaving just one side—the side of your pulse—exposed for his lips. He kisses you there far more than he kisses your lips, nibbling and suckling the soft flesh over your pulse. Your heart beats faster and faster as your knees go weak, but his arm tightens around you.
“I have you, darling,” he husks. His skin is cold against yours, but perhaps that’s because the all-consuming presence of a man like this makes your blood run hot.
His other hand comes up to cup your flushed cheek, thumb dragging along the shape of your face as if he’s trying to memorize you.
“So warm. Such soft skin,” he murmurs, bending his head low and kissing your neck. “Such a beautiful creature.”
Something twists in your stomach when he says that—creature. An instinct tells you to run, but you quickly realize that the look in his eyes has you completely enthralled. He’s watching you with purpose, always keeping your eyes locked as if looking away from you will break the spell he has you under.
“I have to taste you,” he whispers, voice raw with a strain whose source you cannot place. He inhales deeply and lets out a low, feral noise before you feel a twinned shock of pain that makes you gasp: blood rushes to your neck and spills from your broken skin onto his waiting tongue, which greedily laps at the sweet nectar he just stole.
DICK GRAYSON 🦇
You never remember what happened the morning after your nights with your blue-eyed visitor in black, but you can’t stop the way your body aches for the mysterious stranger. At first, you thought he was a dream, but even you know that your unconscious can’t conjure up something as beautiful as him.
He wakes you by laying on top of you, pushing his hot-as-Hell flesh against yours. You didn’t go to sleep naked, but you’re naked now; your clothes are gone, but you’re covered with him, his mouth latched onto one of your nipples, one of his hands painfully squeezing the other, and his red-tipped cock already bullying its way into your slick folds.
It hurts, but the ache is so dizzying that you can’t bring yourself to care, especially when you’re aware that you won’t remember this by morning anyway. You feel as if you’re being burned alive and made new in just the way he wants you. And that feels good, doesn’t it? Why else would you have woken up with your pussy soaking wet?
He picks his head up just enough to watch you watch him while his tongue traces the outer edge of your areola and flicks your nipple in slow strokes, teasing it into hardness with just the tip of his tongue. He’s kneeling between your legs, and his free hand slides down to gently stroke your belly—which is when you notice that his fingers, like his cock, are tipped with blood-red skin.
Then comes his dark murmur, “Let me fill you, pretty thing. Let me give you a little gift to help you remember me.”
Your breath catches and, once again, he latches on—teeth first, this time.
At the same time, he thrusts into you, cock heavy and fire-hot, searing your skin and all but tearing you open while you keen and grasp at him, fingernails scraping down his back. His warmth is inescapable as he thrusts into you with inhuman force.
And you swear that, when he comes, filling you with his infernal seed, you catch a glimpse of a ruby glimmer in his once-blue eyes.
JASON TODD 🦇
Honestly, you handled finding out that your boyfriend is a werewolf remarkably well. But because you’re a human, he has one rule: no knotting. That is, until an October full moon has him more feral than usual, trapped in a rut that he’s powerless to fight against.
Jason has you hiked up against his chest, barely balanced on his thick thighs with your panties shoved aside. One finger is pressed firmly against your clit, the claws that come with his half-transformed state lightly grazing your sensitive skin. He’s already buried inside of you, thrusting so shallowly that he may as well be humping your innermost walls.
“Oh, fuck,” he groans, dropping his head onto your shoulder. His skin rages with heat while his muscles tremble, lips mouthing along any inch of your skin that he can reach. Head heavy on your shoulder, he rasps out broken sentences, each cut off by animalistic whimpers and whines. “God, fuck— I can’t— I shouldn’t— You’re—”
You have one hand tangled in his hair, thumbing the soft black-and-white fur that crawls up along his hybrid ears. His cock, impossibly thick already, stretches you even more open than you already were, and you throw your head back to let out a moan of mixed pleasure-pain.
“Fuck,” he whispers, because he feels it too. “Baby, I’m— It’s—”
“Let it,” you gasp, feeling lightheaded with the pain of Jason filling you so completely, cockhead swelling so full that he couldn’t pull out even if he wanted to. “Please, please, Jason, I need it.”
All that gets you is another guttural groan from him, a sound as close to a howl as he can make without being fully transformed. Still swelling, his cock is thick, heavy, hot—pulsing inside of you, begging to stay there, to fill you, to mark and mate with you. You can’t imagine what it must look like, but you know that the feeling is divine: this oneness, this wholeness, is something you’ve never felt before. It’s almost enough to dull how much your pussy aches.
“Jason,” you moan, tears filling your eyes.
“I know,” he soothes, trying to stay sturdy and stable for you even though his whole body is trembling. “Fuck, it— Baby, you feel so good. Such a good fucking girl, letting me mate with you. Gonna make you feel amazing, I promise.”
TIM DRAKE 🦇
“Stay still,” Tim teases, clawed fingers clamping down on your hip. “Or no rewards.”
Your back is pressed against the chilly, damp wall of the bat cave, and your clothes are shreds around your feet. You know this is all your fault, that you should have avoided the man who has only made his obsession with you painfully clear. As soon as the half-dragon spotted you—his treasure, his paramour, his little human love—he pounced.
Half changed with pewter green scales climbing up his skin and pupils narrowed into reptilian slits, Tim wastes no time in turning your clothes into ribbons of fabric in effort to get to you.
And then he drops to his knees, burying his face in between your legs.
The forked tongue laves up and down the folds of your pussy, skirting along the outside of your sopping hole until you’re shuddering, clinging to him. His hand digs in harder, talons piercing the soft skin of your ass, scaly palm forcing your cunt against his mouth until you feel the sting of sharpened teeth against your mound.
Even though his teeth sting your pulsing flesh, even though his licks are too fast to be completely pleasurable, you feel yourself grow slick around his tongue. Your head falls back against the wall and you begin to pant, heart beating so fast that you start to feel faint, teetering on the edge of consciousness.
His forked tongue reaches impossibly deep within you. The fleshy muscle feels wrong but also so good, skin fading from soft pink to greenish-black, its texture rough and bumpy, stimulating you from more directions than you have ever felt at once.
He licks all the way to your cervix—a thing no mere mortal man could ever do to you—greedily biting, sucking, and growling against your throbbing, abused pussy until finally you come with a pitiful, worn-out scream.
You feel his ice-cold lips pull into a smile as he breathes, “Good human. Now give me another—or three more. Maybe five.”
DAMIAN WAYNE 🦇
You go to the guardian of an ancient library for help but, poor you, the sphinx’s riddles prove too challenging for you. In accordance with the legends, you expect to be smited on the spot, or at least banished, but instead—the sphinx shifts to his human form and decides that you are his.
How lucky it is that Damian decides he likes you enough to keep you captive instead of simply killing you as punishment. How lucky it is that he is clever enough to find a use for your frail human form. How lucky it is that he doesn’t find mating with you as repulsive as he originally thought.
“At least work for it,” he drawls, stifling a yawn while he leans back on the emerald-green settee. His arms are spread, powerful shoulders and biceps making him look even bigger than he already is. No, he never touches you—that would be demeaning—but he does offer you the privilege of riding his cock until you make yourself come.
You close your eyes and drive your hips forward and down, trying to strike the spot inside you that only he can reach. No sooner than your eyes flutter closed, though, he snaps his fingers in front of you.
“Look at me, pet.” His head rests on the back of the chair, lips parted with every breath that makes his chest slowly rise and fall. His face looks warm and you wonder what it might feel like to kiss those plush lips—but you’re also coherent enough to realize that he’s measuring his breaths on purpose.
You’re getting to him. You think. You hope. Maybe if you please him, he’ll let you go.
He shifts his hips up and you cry out, nearly losing your balance on his powerful thighs, but a warm hand suddenly cups your ass to drag you back into place. He leans forward, stomach flexing, and murmurs in your ear, “Can’t even do this without help, can you? Useless little human.”
#batman x reader#bruce wayne x reader#dick grayson x reader#nightwing x reader#jason todd x reader#red hood x reader#tim drake x reader#damian wayne x reader#🌸— mine.#🌸— bruce wayne.#🌸— dick grayson.#🌸— jason todd.#🌸— tim drake.#🌸— damian wayne.#🌕— dark content.
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Light On- single mom/neighbor fic
Simon Riley/female reader
Prompt: 1 of 2 for sickfics / requested by multiple
I’m going to need a raincheck for dinner tonight.
Simon frowns at his phone. You’re bailing? You seemed excited about it when he asked earlier in the week, offering to take you and Emmaline down the street to the little café on the corner for dinner. It had taken him days to work up the courage, needlessly pushed on by Johnny’s ‘encouragement’ relentless text messages filled with date ideas, and bad pick-up lines.
Still, you had said yes. Had asked if meant Emma too, and he took secret pleasure in the way you seemed so relieved when he tilted his head and told you, of course.
Okay. Is everything alright? He fires back immediately, wondering if the crying that he’s been hearing on and off all morning has anything to do with you backing out.
I’m not feeling great, and neither is Emma. I think we’re coming down with something. Coming down with something, like you’re sick? You’re sick? Anxiety twists in the pit of his stomach, worrying curling his fingers into a fist with a clench.
Alright. Let me know if you need anything? He waits for a text back, an answer of some kind, an assurance that you’ll seek him out if you need help or need anything.
It never comes.
Six hours later, Simon is at your door.
He has grit his teeth through the day, paced around his own flat endlessly, tried everything he could think of to distract himself. Every time he heard Emmaline wail, his stomach flipped, worry, fear, breaking down his logical sense, the analytical part of his brain until he was standing in front of your door, waiting for the inevitable click of the handle.
When it comes, and you’re standing on the other side, his heart sinks.
He should have come over soon.
“Hey, sweetheart.” He says it as softly as he can, a newfound pitch of his voice that seems to only be reserved for you, trying to allay the panic that has started to form as ice inside his chest.
“Sorry about the noise.” You croak, and he smothers his wince. You sound awful, voice nearly gone, like your throat has been rubbed raw with sandpaper. Emmaline is clad only in a diaper, and when he looks closer, he can see the stain of what he thinks must be her vomit on your shirt. Over your shoulder, dirty bottles, dishes lay stacked next to the sink, a laundry basket with a mountain of baby clothes piled high sits on the table.
“Can I help-“ You sway, arm tightening around the baby, and he doesn’t think, doesn’t stop himself, he just moves.“Alright,” He murmurs, wrapping an arm around you, supporting both you and Emmaline by shifting you into his side, one hand against Emma’s back. She feels warm, but not nearly as hot as you, and panic tries to bubble up his throat again at the blaring heat that’s coming from your skin. “I’ve got you.”
“Sorry, ‘m a little dizzy.”
“It’s okay.” He keeps you close, turning you back through the door. Emma makes scratchy, unhappy noises, and he rubs his thumb against her skin. “Shhh. I know, I know. You’re okay.” You lean into him harder, and he accommodates it, moving the two of you towards the couch. “I know, you’re not feeling too good are you?” He says to Emma after he gets you down on the couch, hands now around her back, waiting for a sign of permission from you to lift her.
“She can go down. If you-“ Your breath gets caught in your chest, and you curl forward, his hand going to your shoulder, your body shaking with a cough. “If you want to try.” You whisper once you recover, brows knitted together in misery, and he cradles her, rocking her back and forth, mimicking your usual movements.
“You stay right here.” He nods to the couch, using a fraction of the voice he uses on Johnny, and you immediately nod, eyes shuttering closed with a slow blink. “Just rest.”
Emmaline is still crying when he opens the door to her room, the first he’s seen it, pale green walls and dark wood crib, small rocker in the corner next to a changing table. It’s a comforting space, decorated and cared for with love, and for a moment, his mind wanders to an image of you, painting the walls with a swollen belly, or curled in the plush rocker, reading a book to Emmaline, still nestled inside you. He wasn’t there for it, but he just knows you were so beautiful, the kind of glow that would have stopped him in the street. You still stop him in the street.
Emma wails, bringing him back to reality with a softer cry than earlier, and he keeps her close to his chest, murmuring low and soft. “Shhh. You’re alright, baby girl. You’re okay.” He continues the rocking side to side thing you usually do in a standing position, mumbling things to her, stroking his fingers down her cheek, her forehead, bouncing and swaying at the same. “Are you not feeling too good? Is that what’s got you all upset? Yeah. I get kind of grumpy when I don’t feel good either.” He coos, little lashes slowly blinking up at him, transfixed on his face during his stream of chatter until they begin to slip shut, her mouth still hanging half open. He holds his breath, staring in astonishment at her sleeping face, half shocked, half ridiculously pleased.
“Have you taken anything?” He barely sits on your ottoman, leaning over to get a better look at you, uncomfortable with the way your eyes seem glazed over, how slow they are to react. Maybe you need to go to the hospital?
“Some naproxen, a bit ago.” You look exhausted, eyelids heavy, and he can’t stop himself from pressing the back of his hand to your forehead.
“You’re really warm, sweetheart. Do you need a doctor?” Tell me what to do, he wants to beg. Tell me how to help.
“No, jus’ sleep.” A confused look flickers across your face. “Oh my god, did you…” you swallow a cough, his hand sliding down to cup your shoulder, thumb soft against your dirty t shirt. “did you get her down?” He nods, slowly, fighting the small grin that tugs at his lips.
“Wow.” You breathe, and your hand drags up your chest to where his still sits on your arm, fingers intertwining in his with a small squeeze. “You really are our hero.” He smiles at you, because how can he not, heart warm and full in his chest, the feeling something he hasn’t experienced in a long, long time.
There’s a moment, a second extended into a minute, maybe an hour, he’s not sure, where you don’t look away from him. Where you look at him, really look at him, and see him, see his twice broken nose, the scar on his cheek, the one above his eyebrow. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t try to hide or look away, just holds himself still, staring down at you on the couch, sweat dotting your forehead and neck, still beautiful with your fever parched skin and tired eyes.
“Simon.” You whisper, and he thinks, maybe… he’s supposed to kiss you right now. That if he were braver, if Johnny were here to egg him on, if he felt like it wasn’t taking advantage of your weakened state… he might. But instead-
“Why don’t you close your eyes, love. Try to get some rest. I’ll stay. See if I can get some of these dishes done. I can get her if she gets up.”
“You don’t have-“
“I know.” He soothes. “I know I don’t, but I’m here. Let me help.” Let me help you. Let me be here.
You take a deep breath, as deep as you can manage, and then your voice is light, but so sweet, and so, so trusting when you say;
“Okay, Simon.”
#peaches writes#light on#simon riley x reader#simon ghost riley#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley
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Hail to the Chief
Lando Norris x First Daughter of the US!Reader
Summary: in which Lando doesn’t realize exactly who he took back to his hotel room after the Miami Grand Prix (and almost causes an international incident in the process)
You stir awake, blinking slowly while you take in the unfamiliar surroundings. The sheets rustle as you stretch, a pleased smile spreading across your face. Strong arms tighten around your waist, and you glance over your shoulder to see Lando gazing at you with warm eyes.
“Good morning, beautiful,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss your bare shoulder.
You hum in contentment, snuggling back against his muscular chest. The sunlight streams in through the curtains, casting the hotel room in a cozy glow. Clothes are strewn across the floor, reminders of your passionate night together after meeting at the club.
Lando’s hand trails up your side, his touch leaving goosebumps in its wake. You shiver as his lips find the sensitive spot behind your ear, his breath hot.
“Ready for round two?” He whispers, his voice husky.
You twist in his arms to face him, locking your legs with his beneath the sheets. “I thought you’d never ask,” you purr, capturing his mouth in a deep kiss.
Just as things start heating up, loud banging erupts from the suite’s door. You break apart, startled. Lando frowns.
“Housekeeping?” You ask in confusion. More pounding follows, furious and insistent.
“I don’t think so,” Lando says warily.
Before either of you can react, the door crashes open, wood splintering. Men in dark suits pour into the suite, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. You yelp, grabbing the sheet to your chest. Lando scrambles upright, shock written across his handsome face.
“What the hell?” He exclaims.
The men converge on the bed in a swarm. Two sequester you, gently steering you away. The others tackle Lando, shoving him to the floor.
“Don’t fight it,” one orders as Lando struggles. He pins Lando’s arms behind his back.
“Get off me!” Lando shouts, face smushed into the carpet. “What is this?”
You know exactly what this is. Your security detail, come to collect you after last night’s escape. Panic rises in your throat.
“Please, don’t hurt him,” you beg the agents holding you.
Their grips remain firm but nonviolent. One talks rapidly into his earpiece, confirming the situation is handled. The apparent leader of the group stands over Lando, who glares up at him defiantly.
“Apologies for the intrusion,” the man states gruffly. “But you’re coming with us.”
Two agents haul Lando to his feet. He stands there in only his boxers, completely perplexed. You bite your lip, shot through with guilt. This is all because of you.
The agent in charge approaches you next, his gaze softening slightly. “Time to go home, ma’am. Your father is waiting.”
Lando’s head whips toward you so fast it must give him whiplash. “Ma’am? Your father?” His face goes ashen with dawning comprehension that there’s more to you than meets the eye. You wince, knowing there’s no way out of this now.
The agents begin herding you and Lando at a brisk pace through the ravaged hotel room door. Lando cranes his neck, trying to look at you.
“Y/N, what the hell is going on?” He hisses, stumbling along in the grip of two agents. “Who are you?”
You open your mouth, an apology on your lips. Before you can speak, the lead agent interjects sharply.
“She’s the First Daughter of the United States, son. And you’re in deep shit.”
Lando pales. “The President’s-”
“That’s right,” the man confirms. “And he’s mighty unhappy you took certain liberties with his little girl.”
Lando gulps audibly. Your heart twists with regret, seeing him so distraught. But the agents allow no further discussion, marching you both through the hotel’s back corridors. In minutes, you’re bundled into a black SUV with tinted windows. Tires screech as your motorcade peels away, sirens blaring.
You reach for Lando’s hand, relief flooding you when he doesn’t pull away. “I’m so sorry,” you whisper earnestly. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
He searches your face, brow furrowed. But his fingers tighten around yours. “It’s okay. Just tell me what’s going on. Please.”
You nod, knowing you owe him an explanation. But before you can speak, the SUV rolls to a stop on an empty airport tarmac. A sleek private plane awaits, engines rumbling. The agents hurry you both up the stairs into the lavish cabin.
Once settled inside, the lead agent fixes Lando with a solemn look. “We’re taking you straight to DC. The President wants to have a word with you both.”
Lando gulps again. You squeeze his hand, offering a reassuring smile.
“Don’t worry. My dad’s just a little … overprotective sometimes.”
You nestle close to Lando as the jet taxis down the runway, hoping to provide some comfort. But he sits rigidly, face pale.
“Hey,” you say softly, “It’s going to be okay.”
Lando turns to you with wide, frightened eyes. “Okay? Your dad is the President! And I … I ...” He gestures helplessly at you, at a loss for words.
“Deflowered his only daughter?” You supply with a teasing grin.
Lando gulps loudly. “Oh god. He’s going to kill me, isn’t he? I’m a dead man. They’ll waterboard me or worse.”
You have to laugh at his flustered expression. “Relax, it won’t be that bad.”
“Easy for you to say,” Lando grumbles. “You’re not the one who’s gonna get shipped off to some CIA black site never to be heard from again.”
“Oh come on, he won’t go that far.”
Lando turns to you with wide, frightened eyes. “Are you sure? I’ve heard stories about shady government stuff. Secret torture chambers under the White House. Experimental poisons. Attack eagles trained to go for the jugular.”
You stare at him blankly for a moment before stating in a deadpan voice, “The eagles prefer to go for the liver actually. More tender that way.”
Lando lets out a whimper, his face draining of color. “Oh god, you’re serious?” He squeaks. “I knew it, I’m never getting out of this alive!”
You can’t keep a straight face any longer and burst out laughing. “Lando, relax! I’m just messing with you. There are no attack eagles or secret torture chambers.”
You take his hand and kiss his cheek reassuringly. “It’s going to be fine, I promise. My dad will probably just want to have a talk with you. That’s all.”
Lando still looks uncertain, but manages a shaky nod. “If you say so. But I think I’ll say a prayer or two just in case. Please tell me your old man doesn’t have a shotgun.”
“No shotguns,” you confirm, patting Lando’s knee. “But the Secret Service on the other hand ...”
Lando’s eyes widen in renewed fear. He clasps his hands together dramatically and looks upward. “Dear spirit of Ayrton Senna, please protect me from the wrath of the President and his highly trained special agents. I know not what awaits me in Washington, but I beg you to guard me from grievous bodily harm ...”
***
The plane touches down at Andrews Air Force Base, and you and Lando are swiftly escorted from the plane into an armored SUV. Lando fidgets nervously in his seat during the short drive through the capital, hands clasped tightly in his lap.
“It’s going to be okay,” you murmur, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. He attempts a weak smile in return.
All too soon, the SUV pulls up to the White House. You and Lando are ushered quickly inside by Secret Service agents, bypassing security checks. As you walk briskly through the historic halls, Lando gapes at the lavish architecture and priceless artwork adorning the walls.
“This is unreal,” he whispers. You give his hand an encouraging squeeze.
At last you arrive outside the Oval Office. The agents pause, stone-faced, before opening the tall wooden doors. Your stomach flip-flops with nerves as you enter behind them.
There, seated at the Resolute Desk, is your father — the President of the United States. He rises as you approach, his face impassive. You offer a timid smile.
“Hi, Daddy.”
Your father’s stern expression instantly melts. He circles the desk and pulls you into a warm embrace.
“There’s my little girl,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “You had me so worried.”
Guilt gnaws at you. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t you worry about that now. I’m just glad you’re safe.” He pauses, then adds, “Though if you really wanted an F1 driver, why couldn’t it have been that nice American boy Logan Sargeant? Now there’s an upstanding young patriot.”
Your father holds you by the shoulders, surveying you with concern. Seeing that you’re unharmed, his gaze shifts to Lando hovering awkwardly behind you. Your father’s eyes harden, his jaw setting. Lando audibly gulps.
Stepping between them, you take a deep breath. “Daddy, this is Lando. The man I was with last night.”
You lace your fingers through Lando’s in a show of solidarity. Your father’s piercing stare makes him fidget.
“Lando Norris,” your father states coldly. “Formula 1 driver. British national. Born and raised in Bristol, England. Competes for McLaren Racing. Net worth of $30 million USD. Had unauthorized relations with my daughter approximately ...” He glances at his watch, “ ... twelve hours ago.”
Lando pales under your father’s recitation of his biography and recent activities. You shoot your dad a pleading look.
“Go easy on him, okay?”
Your father’s face softens slightly at your words. He beckons for Lando to step forward.
“Son, you have exactly one minute to explain yourself before I set the full force of the United States government on you for defiling my princess. And believe me when I say there are dark places in this world where no one will ever find you again.”
Lando looks ready to pass out. He glances at you in panic, mouth opening and closing soundlessly. You give his hand an encouraging squeeze, signaling for him to speak.
“I-I’m so sorry, Mr. President,” Lando stammers. “Obviously I didn’t know who Y/N was when we met last night. But I care about her a lot, truly, and I would never intentionally do anything to hurt her. I have nothing but respect for her and for you, sir.”
He straightens his shoulders, gaining confidence. “I understand I made a mistake, and I take full responsibility. But I promise, my intentions are honorable. If you’ll permit it, I’d like to properly court Y/N with your blessing.”
Your father studies Lando for a long moment, face unreadable. The tension in the room is stifling. Finally, he cracks a wry smile.
“Very well. You’ve got spunk, kid, I’ll give you that. And clearly my daughter sees something in you worth all this trouble. But understand this—” Your father leans in, eyes flashing. “You’ve got one shot to prove yourself worthy of her. Mess it up, and you’ll be scrubbing toilets in Guantanamo Bay for the rest of your short, miserable life. Are we clear?”
Lando audibly gulps again. “C-crystal clear, sir.”
“Good.” Your father claps Lando on the shoulder firmly enough to make him wince. Then he turns to you, expression softening.
“I’m not happy you were out all night without security, young lady. You’ll be grounded for two weeks. No cell phone, no social media, and no racing events.” You open your mouth to protest, but your father silences you with a raised hand. “However, in light of the circumstances, we’ll reduce it to one week. Consider yourself lucky.”
You sigh but don’t argue. Your father pulls you in for one more hug. “I’m glad you’re alright, sweetpea. Now run along back to the residence while I have a few more words with your new suitor here.”
You give Lando an encouraging smile as you exit the Oval Office. The last thing you see before the door shuts is your father clapping a hand on Lando’s shoulder again, steering him toward the Roosevelt Desk. “Have a seat, son. We’ve got lots to discuss ...”
Lando perches anxiously on the edge of the chair across from your father at the Roosevelt Desk.
“First things first,” your dad begins. “I expect you to treat my daughter with the utmost respect. No staying out all night and no unsavory activities. You will be a gentleman at all times. Understood?”
“Yes sir,” Lando says quickly.
“Second, you are not to distract her from her studies. Y/N is on track to graduate top of her class at Georgetown and I won’t have anyone jeopardizing that.”
Lando nods. “Of course not, her education comes first.”
“Good,” your father says gruffly. “Third rule: you will check in with me weekly to provide updates on where you are taking her and what you are doing. And know that my security team will be monitoring your activities closely as well.”
Gulping, Lando agrees to the terms. Your father continues laying down the law for several more minutes, covering everything from curfews to social media posts to PDA.
“And if at any point I decide you are no longer an appropriate suitor for my daughter, you will end the relationship immediately and without argument. Is that clear?”
“Crystal clear, Mr. President,” Lando says quickly. “You have my word I intend to do right by Y/N.”
Your father studies him a moment longer before cracking a wry smile. “Well, you’ve got guts at least, son. Most boys your age would’ve wet themselves by now. I suppose I can give you a chance. But remember, one toe out of line and ...”
He makes a slicing motion across his throat. Lando audibly gulps.
“Yes sir! I understand completely.”
“Good man,” your father says, standing to clap Lando on the back. “Now let’s get you out of here before you really do pass out ...”
***
After the whirlwind events of the day, Lando is given a plush guest suite in the White House residence to spend the night. He collapses onto the king-sized four poster bed, emotionally exhausted.
Just this morning he woke up with the President’s daughter in his arms. Now he’s been threatened within an inch of his life by the leader of the free world. What a wild rollercoaster of a day.
A soft knock at the door makes Lando jump. Before he can respond, you slip inside, closing the door quietly behind you.
“Y/N!” Lando exclaims in a loud whisper. “What are you doing here?”
You smile mischievously, walking over to sit beside him on the bed. “What does it look like? I missed you.”
Lando’s eyes dart around the room, half expecting your father to burst out of the closet. “Are you crazy? If we get caught together your dad will annihilate me!”
You wave a hand dismissively. “Oh relax, no one patrols the residential wing’s hallways at night. We’re completely alone.” Leaning in, you brush your lips teasingly along his jaw. “Now where were we this morning before we were so rudely interrupted?”
Lando can’t restrain a small groan of desire, but retains the presence of mind to gently halt your roaming hands. “Y/N, we can’t. You heard your father’s rules.”
You make a face. “Come on, live a little! He won’t know as long as we’re discreet.”
Biting his lip, Lando wavers. Having you here, so warm and willing in his arms, is incredibly tempting. And technically the President had only forbidden unauthorized nighttime activities outside of the White House ...
Sensing his hesitation, you straddle his lap and cup his face in your hands. “I want this, Lando,” you murmur sincerely before kissing him deeply.
That does it. Lando kisses you back hungrily, pulling you flush against him. You let out a delighted hum, fingers spearing into his curls. Within moments you’re both stripped down to your underwear, hands greedily exploring.
But as things heat up, Lando abruptly breaks the kiss, eyes wide. “Did you hear that?” He whispers.
You still, listening closely. “Hear what?”
“I thought I heard something in the hall.”
You grin teasingly. “You’re being paranoid.” But you indulge him and climb off so he can check, wrapping yourself in a sheet.
Lando cracks the door open slowly, peering out. Seeing nothing, he lets out a breath and returns to the bed.
“Okay, false alarm. Now, where were-”
His words cut off with a yelp as you pounce, pinning him beneath you. Laughing, you silence any further protest with your lips. Soon Lando is kissing you fiercely once more, hands roaming your body.
Just as he’s unclasping your bra, Lando breaks the kiss again. “Wait, did you lock the door?”
You huff in feigned annoyance. “Of course I did!”
But Lando is already slithering out from under you to double check. You flop back against the pillows with a sigh.
“Lando, would you relax? No one is coming.” You give him your best pleading look. “Now come back to bed and finish what you started, handsome.”
That seems to do the trick. With one final glance at the locked door, Lando grins and rejoins you. His warm hands and mouth resume their sensual exploration.
You’re both completely lost in each other when suddenly the door handle rattles.
“Someone’s coming!” Lando whispers in alarm.
He hurriedly gathers up the sheets around you just as the door swings open to reveal a Secret Service agent.
“Oh, uh, hello?” Lando says, trying to sound casual despite being shirtless and flushed.
You hold perfectly still under the sheet, heart hammering.
The agent surveys the room suspiciously. “Thought I heard voices. Everything alright in here, Mr. Norris?”
“Yep, all good!” Lando says with forced cheer. “Just chatting on the phone. With my … mum. In England. Time zones, you know.”
The agent clearly doesn’t seem convinced, his gaze raking over the disheveled bed. But after a long pause he simply says “Very well. Have a good night, sir.”
Lando sighs in relief as the door shuts. After a moment, you peek your head out from under the sheet.
“That was close!”
Lando flops back onto the bed, laughing. “No kidding! I thought we were busted for sure.”
Tilting his chin up, you give Lando a slow, sensual kiss. “Now then, I believe you still have some unfinished business to attend to, Mr. Norris ...”
Lando searches your face then grins sheepishly, pulling you into his arms. “You’re absolutely incorrigible. Come here.”
***
For your first official date night, Lando takes you out for dinner in The Inn at Little Washington. You emerge from your room in a stunning silky dress, hair and makeup impeccable.
Lando’s eyes widen and he lets out an appreciative whistle. “Wow. You look incredible.”
He pulls you in for a quick kiss, careful not to smudge your lipstick. Just then, your Secret Service detail emerges, dressed in their standard crisp black suits and sunglasses.
The lead agent addresses Lando gruffly. “Alright, here’s the deal. We’ll be accompanying you tonight, but our goal is to stay invisible. Don’t acknowledge us, don’t make eye contact, just pretend we’re not there.”
Lando nods, looking uncertain. With their massive builds and conspicuous attire, ignoring the agents doesn’t seem likely. But he decides to just go with it.
At the restaurant, the hostess seats you and Lando at a cozy table for two. As promised, your detail blends into the background, taking up positions around the dining room. Lando tries his best not to glance nervously at the two imposing figures lurking near the entrance.
After you order, Lando reaches across the table to take your hand. “You really do look stunning tonight,” he says softly. “I’m the luckiest guy in the world.”
You blush prettily. “Smooth talker. You don’t look so bad yourself.”
Lando grins. Just then, the sommelier arrives to present the wine list. As he’s rattling off descriptions of merlots and cabernets, you notice Lando’s gaze drift over the sommelier’s shoulder to where two of your agents are posted nearby. You squeeze Lando’s hand to get his attention back.
“Uh, sorry, what was that last one?” Lando asks, snapping his focus back to the confused sommelier.
Once you’ve ordered wine and appetizers, the conversation flows smoothly. Lando has almost forgotten about your not-so-invisible security until the entrees arrive. The waiter sets down your plates with a flourish.
As he pivots to leave, he collides directly with the broad chest of one of your agents, nearly upending the tray of food.
“Oh! Pardon me, sir,” the waiter stammers. The agent, true to his training, ignores the flustered waiter and remains statue-still.
Lando has to fake a coughing fit to disguise his laugh. You cover your mouth delicately, eyes sparkling with amusement. So much for blending seamlessly into the environment.
As dinner progresses, Lando finds his gaze drawn again and again to your hulking shadows scattered around the restaurant. He watches one agent accidentally block a busboy trying to clear a nearby table. Another nearly takes out a hovering food runner as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. It’s like seeing massive, well-dressed bulls in a china shop.
When the check comes, Lando signs quickly then leans toward you conspiratorially. “Have I mentioned how incredibly normal this dinner has been? Just two totally regular people on a date without armed guards watching our every move.”
You have to smother your giggles behind your hand. “Oh yes, completely low-key. I forgot the agents were even here!”
As you exit the restaurant hand-in-hand, Lando murmurs under his breath, “Nothing to see here, just a guy and his girlfriend trailed by four gigantic men in black ...”
You dissolve into laughter, drawing confused looks from passersby. Lando grins and pulls you close. Invisible security or not, it was a perfect first official date. And as your convoy of not-so-covert agents escorts you safely home, he’s already planning many more to come.
***
A few months later, you join Lando at Circuit of the Americas in Austin for the United States Grand Prix. As you walk hand-in-hand through the paddock, Lando smiles and waves at the fans calling his name from behind the fences.
Up ahead, a large group of people round the corner. Their eyes light up when they see you both.
“Here we go,” Lando murmurs, dropping your hand to sign autographs and pose for selfies.
But as the group draws near, you realize they aren’t fans — it’s the Governor of Texas and his entourage.
“Y/N!” the Governor booms jovially, arms open wide. Behind him are several legislators, donors, and a gaggle of reporters. “What a wonderful surprise!”
He engulfs you in a bear hug before holding you at arm’s length. “Don’t you look lovely! How’s your father doing? I just spoke to him last week about the education bill.”
Lando stands by awkwardly as you’re enveloped into the group. You glance at him apologetically while greeting each person.
“Daddy’s doing well, thanks for asking! Keeping busy as always.”
“I’ll bet!” the Governor chuckles. He turns to holler at one of his aides. “Hey Jim, tell the White House we said hello to his beautiful daughter, would ya?”
The reporters surge forward eagerly, microphones extended. “Y/N, what brings you to Austin this weekend?”
You gesture to Lando. “I’m here supporting my boyfriend, Lando. He’s racing for McLaren.”
All eyes turn to Lando curiously. Flashing cameras make him squint. The Governor grabs his hand in an enthusiastic shake.
“Lando, eh? Good to meet you!” Without waiting for a response, he turns back to you. “Y/N, your father briefed me on the proposals to increase Pell Grant funding. Seems like an excellent plan ...”
As the Governor launches into policy discussion, Lando shifts awkwardly on his feet. You keep one eye on him while politely engaging with each person. More politicians approach to lobby you about your dad’s agenda.
“Your father’s infrastructure bill was brilliant!” One praises. “Make sure to tell him he’s got my full support.”
You smile. “I’ll let him know. I know he appreciates your vote.”
One donor pipes up excitedly. “I’ll be holding a high-dollar fundraiser next month in Dallas. Your attendance would mean so much ...”
You tactfully deflect, making no commitments. The reporters pepper you with questions about your studies at Georgetown and future political aspirations. You give diplomatic answers about focusing on the present while the Governor boasts of your potential.
“Y/N here is gonna be President herself one day!” He winks conspiratorially. “I’m calling it now, folks.”
Mercifully, an aide reminds the Governor he’s late for a meeting. As the group prepares to move on, he pumps your hand enthusiastically.
“It was fantastic to see you, Y/N. Tell your old man I said hello! Keep up the good work in school.” He spares a departing nod at Lando. “Nice meeting you, son.”
And with that, the entourage sweeps away. You let out a breath, turning to Lando. “I’m so sorry about that. I didn’t expect the Governor to be here.”
But Lando just stares after the departing politicians, looking slightly stunned. “I mean … I knew your dad was the President. But I guess it didn’t totally sink in until just now ...”
He runs a hand through his curls. “It’s like you’re royalty or something. Paparazzi, donors, governors … you’re a big deal, Y/N.”
You bite your lip. “Not by choice. I know the attention is weird, but I promise I’m still just me.” You take his hand, gazing at him earnestly. “None of those people determine our relationship. Only we do.”
Lando searches your face, then smiles. “You’re right. It’s just … surreal sometimes. But it doesn’t change how I feel or that I want to make this work.”
He squeezes your hand. You grin, feeling a rush of affection. Standing on tiptoe, you give him a lingering kiss. Around you, cameras flash as photographers snap the moment.
Lando chuckles as you break apart. “I’d better get used to that too, huh?”
“Comes with the territory,” you laugh. Taking his arm, you continue through the paddock. “Now come on. Let’s go watch qualifying before more politicians ambush us!”
***
The cheers of the crowd are deafening as Lando crosses the finish line in first place, finally claiming his first ever Formula 1 victory. You’re jumping up and down in the McLaren garage, absolutely elated for your boyfriend.
In the frenzy of celebrations after the race, you and Lando manage to slip away from the crowds and teams back to his hotel suite to continue the festivities in private. As soon as the door shuts behind you, Lando whoops and sweeps you up in his arms, spinning you around.
“I did it, baby! I finally did it!”
You grin, happiness bubbling up inside you. “I’m so proud of you! I knew this day would come.”
Setting you down, Lando crashes his lips to yours in a fierce, passionate kiss. You wrap your arms around his neck, feeling like you might burst from joy.
Eventually you break apart, both flushed and beaming. Lando brushes his thumb over your cheek tenderly.
“I couldn’t have done this without your support, Y/N. You being here to share this means everything to me.”
You place your hand over his heart. “Wild horses couldn’t have kept me away. I’ll always be your biggest fan.”
Lando’s eyes darken and he pulls you in for another searing kiss. Your heartbeat quickens as his hands trail down your back, fumbling for the zipper on your dress. Blindly you shuffle toward the bed, leaving a trail of clothes behind you.
Things are just starting to really heat up when suddenly the hotel room door bursts open. Your Secret Service detail comes pouring in, guns drawn.
“HANDS IN THE AIR!” An agent bellows. “Ma’am, are you alright?”
“Whoa whoa whoa!” Lando yelps, grabbing frantically for a sheet to cover you both. “She’s fine! We’re just … celebrating!”
The agents quickly assess the situation. Their leader clears his throat, lowering his weapon.
“Apologies for the intrusion. Your smart watch alerted us to an elevated heart rate indicating potential distress. We believed you were in danger.”
You close your eyes, mortified heat flooding your cheeks. “Oh my god. It’s fine, everything’s fine! You all can go now.”
The agents shuffle out, mumbling apologies. Lando collapses back on the bed, absolutely hysterical with laughter. You smack his shoulder, which only makes him laugh harder.
“It’s not funny!” You exclaim, covering your flaming face.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Lando gasps through his giggles. “It’s just — their faces! And then when they saw us ...” He dissolves into another fit.
Despite your embarrassment, his laughter proves contagious. Soon you’re both wiping away tears, sides aching.
Finally calming down, Lando strokes your hair back from your face affectionately. “Well, that’s one way to kill the mood.”
You groan, rolling your eyes. “No kidding. We desperately need to tweak the sensitivity on this watch.”
“Maybe we could take it off temporarily?” Lando suggests with a playful waggle of his eyebrows.
You shake your head. “I wish, but this watch has saved my life before. I can’t take it off.”
Lando’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “Really? What happened?”
You absently toy with the watch on your wrist. “About two years ago I was out shopping and some guys tried to grab me. If I hadn’t been wearing this watch with its location tracker, my detail might not have found me in time.”
You shudder at the memory. Lando takes your hand, face filled with concern.
“That’s awful, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
You offer a reassuring smile. “It worked out okay. So as annoying as it can be, it’s staying on 24/7 for my safety.”
Lando nods seriously. “Of course. I would never want to jeopardize your security just for some fun.” He kisses your temple. “I guess we’ll just have to get creative when it comes to celebrating in private from now on.”
You grin mischievously. “Oh, I’m sure we’ll figure something out.”
***
“So Lando, I gotta ask — how are things going with Y/N?” Max Fewtrell asks with a smirk through the webcam.
You feel your cheeks flush from where you’re sitting on the couch off-camera as Lando grins sheepishly. “Things are going great, thanks for asking.”
The chat explodes with messages.
Is she there?
We want to meet her!
Max chuckles at the chat’s reaction. “Sounds like the fans want you to bring Y/N on stream, what do you think?”
Lando looks over at you. “I mean, if you’re up for it they’d love to meet you.”
You hesitate, suddenly feeling shy at the thought of going on Lando’s stream. But the encouraging look on his face gives you courage. “I guess I can say a quick hello,” you say, walking over.
As you enter the frame, Max suddenly starts blasting “Hail to the Chief,” causing you to jump.
“Oh my god Max, really?” You groan, though you can’t help but laugh.
“I had to!” Max cackles. “The First Daughter deserves a proper entrance.”
Lando playfully rolls his eyes and pulls you into his lap. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from the memes.”
You smile, leaning into Lando as you glance at the rapidly moving chat. Most of the messages are incredibly positive — welcoming you and talking about what a cute couple you and Lando are.
“Hi everyone!” You say with a small wave. “I’m Y/N, nice to meet you all.”
“She’s just a normal girl who happens to have the most powerful man in the world wrapped around her finger,” Lando jokes, kissing your temple.
You grin up at him then turn back to the webcam. “I guess our relationship can look pretty weird from the outside. But Lando makes me really happy, and I hope we have your support.”
The chat floods with heart emotes and messages gushing about young love.
Max smiles. “You two are adorable. But inquiring minds want to know — how did you meet?”
You and Lando share a knowing look. “Well...” he draws out. “We actually met in Miami during the Grand Prix last year.”
“Oooh an international romance!” Max teases.
You poke Lando playfully in the side. “What he’s leaving out is that we met at a club. I was there on a rare night out and he came over to ask me to dance.”
“Is that so?” Max grins.
“Hey now, no need for the details,” Lando says, tickling your sides as you squirm and laugh.
The chat is begging for the full story, so you decide to give it to them. “Okay, okay! So we danced all night and really hit it off. Then the next morning ...”
You trail off, trying not to giggle as Lando shakes his head. “Do we really need to tell them about the next morning?”
Yes! The chat unanimously agrees.
You pat Lando’s cheek. “It’s okay honey, I’ll protect you from the memes this time.”
Clearing your throat, you continue. “So the next morning, after a night of … fun, my secret service detail may have burst into Lando’s hotel room to bring me back home.”
Max bursts out laughing. “No way! Lando, you absolute madman.”
“It wasn’t my fault!” Lando exclaims, though he’s laughing too. “How was I supposed to know who she was?”
Max snorts. “I mean, who doesn’t recognize America’s Sweetheart?”
Lando smirks. “I’m British! And I was a bit distracted by her other, uh, assets.”
“Lando!” You swat his chest playfully as he cracks up, the chat going crazy over his flirtatious teasing.
“Anyway,” you go on. “I had to explain to my security team that I was fine and we were just hanging out. But of course they still dragged both of us back to the White House so Lando could meet my father.”
Max is wheezing. “No way, they took you to meet the President after an one night stand?”
Lando covers his reddening face. “It was mortifying. I was stumbling around half asleep still in last night’s clothes, reeking of vodka and bad decisions.”
You kiss his cheek, patting his leg consolingly. “Aww babe, you did great. My dad said he admired your composure given the circumstances.”
Lando peeks out from behind his hands. “Really?”
“Really,” you confirm. “He could tell how much you cared about me and that you weren’t just fooling around. And obviously he was right, since here we are a year later and happier than ever.”
Lando smiles softly, pulling you in for a sweet kiss. “Yeah, here we are.”
The chat has switched to mostly heart eye and aww emojis, gushing about you two being relationship goals.
You turn back to the camera a bit bashfully. “So yeah, that’s the story of how we met. Not exactly a fairytale beginning but ...”
You trail off as Lando reaches out to tilt your chin towards him, looking into your eyes earnestly. “It was the start of my fairytale,” he says softly.
Your heart flutters at his words. You lean in and kiss him tenderly. For a moment, it feels like you and Lando are the only two people in the world.
When you finally break apart, you rest your forehead against his. “You’re my fairytale too,” you whisper.
Lando’s eyes are full of love and wonder, as if he can’t believe how lucky he is to have found you.
“Awww!” Max interrupts your intimate moment. “You two are just too cute. The chat is loving this!”
You glance over to see the chat flooded with positive messages about your relationship. Smiling shyly, you take Lando’s hand and lace your fingers together.
“I’d say this turned out to be a pretty good stream, wouldn’t you?” Lando asks, grinning.
You laugh, giving his hand a squeeze. “Definitely one of your best.”
#f1 imagine#f1#f1 fic#f1 fanfic#f1 fanfiction#f1 x reader#f1 x you#lando norris#ln4#lando norris imagine#lando norris x reader#lando norris x you#lando norris fic#lando norris fluff#lando norris fanfic#lando norris blurb#f1 fluff#f1 blurb#f1 one shot#f1 x y/n#f1 drabble#f1 fandom#f1blr#f1 x female reader#lando norris x female reader#lando norris x y/n#mclaren#lando norris one shot#lando norris drabble
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i will hold on to you for as long as you let me — megumi fushiguro x mom!reader, satoru gojo x reader
a/n: sorryyy the fushiguro-gojo family dynamic was rotting my brain and i needed this out of my system. LOTS of projection of my fear of growing up in this one soz. this was fully meant to be a drabble and it just kept going idk
wc: 3.1k
angst/fluff. mom!reader has a lot of bittersweet thoughts about megumi growing up and satoru is there to comfort <3 lots of parentheses and lots of repetition
you put on a brave face all day. all week, even. despite the burn in your chest that engulfed your lungs and squeezed unrelentingly. despite the tears that burned the corners of your eyes delicately balancing on the your waterline, one blink away from breaking the surface density and opening the floodgates to pour down your cheeks. despite the non-stop ache of your stomach, churning what you ate every day but still holding the same emptiness as anxiety consumed you.
megumi didn’t pack much, he never held on to many things to begin with. (you always prayed for that to change, for his comfort your home. you prayed he would see it as his own, as well). he neatly folded his clothes into his suitcases and stacked his hangers on top. he purchased a new sheet set for his bed in the dormitory because the one he was used to was much bigger, much softer.
he packed most of his books, carefully picking out the ones that tugged at the nostalgic parts of him, frayed along the edges after many years of re-reading, as well the ones that still had vibrant covers and stiff spines he hoped to finish. you noticed the leather journal he kept tied together– the ink-blotted pages bursting at the seams –sitting on the shelf before he tucked it into his box of personal belongings. it was his third one since living with you, all filled to every last page and used beyond ruin. the rest were hidden between his headboard and the wall. you pretended not to know, after stumbling upon them while changing his sheets.
closing the door to your home felt eerily empty. it looked the same as every day. the couch was cleaned and the floors swept. dishes rinsed and promptly put away. but with your lingering gaze your mind fixated on the dining table set for four, two adult pairs of shoes at the door, one pink backpack slumped on the hook of the closet door with an empty space below. your chest twisted at the lack of clutter, though it’d been like that for some time, with tsumiki and megumi growing older and cleaning up after themselves properly like you taught them. like you wanted. the pride you initially felt with those memories of parenting were becoming eclipsed with resentment and despair.
the ride to school was quick and familiar, megumi knew well what he was getting into after visiting there to train. satoru liked to call them little getaways from megumi’s civilian life, claiming he wasted too much time around non-sorcerers when he could be on missions with his ever-loving benefactor instead.
satoru, who was whining while he laid himself across the three seats in the back of your car. you’d banished him there for such a special occasion, and he threatened to transport himself to the school alone. an empty threat, at best. he didn’t want to miss this.
megumi had sparred with the older students and found himself thrown around the field many times already. he knew his way to the infirmary by heart, he knew where gojo tucked away his most powerful curse-imbued weapons (that were supposed to be under the surveillance of higher ups), and knew what letter-number combination granted him the ginger chips nobody else seemed to like.
you were glad he was comfortable. you were glad he would fall into routine easily after the repeated trips to jujutsu high and developing a rapport with his upperclassmen. you’d waited for the day that he’d truly be part of the jujutsu world and welcomed into a better suited environment for people like him. and you knew he would be great, he already possessed an incredible technique and wielded it like he’d been fine-tuning it since birth. far ahead from most kids his age, you were proud.
still, your gut was sinking, sinking, sinking into the floor with each passing second.
megumi picked his room in one of the far-away corners of the boys dormitory, leaving inumaki and panda heartbroken (panda said he would find a way to organize sleepover. megumi said he would drop out before that happened. inumaki cried– no, wailed at the rejection). yuuta fell into step with you, slipping one of the boxes out of your hands and insisting on helping instead. it was sweet, if it didn’t feel like he was ripping precious time away from you.
but you smiled, and granted his wish. megumi wasn’t complaining, he liked yuuta more than the others. it was a good chance for them to talk more. all of this, a chance, a new chapter, the rest of his life. the thoughts weighed on your shoulders with a disgusting strain traveling to your fingertips.
you were painfully aware you were in your own head, doing this all to yourself. he wasn’t going away, you would still be seeing him, more than you used to when he went to his other schools. he would always be here.
satoru found you in your classroom, while you were organizing the stationary with an unnaturally stiff composure. your arms were tense, he could see the muscles constantly flexing with each of your movements.
your jaw was clenching and unclenching again. you made a point not to look outside, where the second-years were training brashly after successfully moving their things back into their dorms. you made a point not to meet satoru’s dangerous stare as he shut the door to your classroom, as if it granted any privacy with the seven large windows running along the wall that showcased the hallway.
“what are you doing all by yourself, beautiful?” his tone was soft and inviting, begging you to open up and let yourself fall against the cushion of his words.
“um,” you exhaled, voice shaky. you scrunched your face to break apart the tension that had hardened your expression. “i figured i would get a few things ready for tomorrow.”
it took satoru’s long legs two-and-a-half strides to meet you at your desk, where you gently shut the drawer. there were a handful of dated photographs in there, signed with his name and the chicken scratch of two children.
“it’s all ready, baby. we did that last week.”
(correction: you did it. he tagged along for the shopping trip).
“there’s just… a few things...” you mumbled, not finding the strength to finish your own sentence.
satoru gently placed his hand on your shoulder, emitting inhuman warmth that spread across your skin. you leaned into him as he dragged his hand down your arm and intertwined your fingers with the care of handling fine china. his presence brought you solace, effortlessly bringing the walls down that you desperately wanted to wait until you got home to break.
he kissed the back of your hand and rubbed the skin. “you know you’re going to see him every day, right?”
it was embarrassing how well satoru knew you, knew your thought process like it was an extension of his own. he knew your doubts and insecurities, your fears and desires. he could predict the words before they came from your mouth, more in tune with the way you spoke than his mother tongue.
“mhm.”
“you know we’re going to be the ones chaperoning his missions, right?”
you closed your eyes and looked away. “i know.”
“do you remember when he said he’d like to go home some weekends, and have dinner?”
“he said that to be nice.”
“when has he ever been nice?”
you opened your eyes to glare at him, though he was right. megumi was not nice. he was polite. he was too self-aware for his own good, too perceptive of others and their emotions. in all the time that you’d known him, raised him, he made himself smaller for the convenience of others. he walked on his tiptoes for a year and a half so no one else would wake up because of him. he made his own breakfast and bit back his tears when he burned himself. he didn’t ask for things or food and didn’t offer his input unless asked directly. for some time, he was a ghost in his own home.
it seemed as soon as the bits of his shell started to break off, he was being swept away from you by the jujutsu world, leaving you with looming fears that consumed your mind and disrupted your sleep for weeks.
satoru smiled, though it was weighed down with your sadness. “hey, he’s not going anywhere, you know that. just because you’re not driving him home everyday doesn’t mean he’s gone.”
it’s funny, it’s nearly the same speech he gave you when tsumiki started middle school. and when megumi followed those same steps.
tsumiki didn’t make it this far, though.
the thought makes your lip wobble again, and you bite it back pathetically.
“i know. i know that. it’s just that…” your voice cracked, and you shoved your head in your hands. your palms squeezed your eyes in a desperate attempt to stop the already-flowing tears. “he’s not my little boy anymore.”
satoru’s soothing hands pull you into a tight hug, and you don’t have it in you yet to move your hands from your face. his embrace makes you sob harder, louder as all your emotions from the last week begin to pour out at once. his chest rumbled with your cries, and he tucked you further under his arms as if to shield you from what was making you hurt so much. it was all you.
“baby…” he chuckled, without a hint mirth or mockery. he squeezed you with compassion and adoration. “you know that’s not true. he’s still pretty short, he’s got another growth spurt coming.”
a small laugh slipped through, but was quickly drowned out by your cries.
“he’ll be okay. he’s still here.”
he was so, so warm. he gently began to rock back and forth with you, the heels of your shoes gently clicking on the tile floor. a small hiccup erupted from you as you found the strength to wrap your arms around him, burying your face into his chest. the familiar thrum of his heartbeat welcomed you.
“i know, i’m sorry. i know he’s not leaving, or anything… i just… i thought i was ready.” you blubbered into his button-up. surely, there’d be two wet spots where your eyes were when you pulled away.
he swayed side to side with you, staring at the blackboard ahead of him. he nestled his chin on the top of your head, wondering if you could hear the cracks tearing through his heart. “it’s okay if you’re not ready. but you’re treating this like it's goodbye.”
“but what if we don’t get a goodbye?”
“okay, you really are overthinking this,” he pulled away from your embrace, your fingers still digging into the material of his shirt. he brushed away the hair covering your eyes, stuck to your skin by the wetness of your cheeks. streaks ran through your foundation and the corners of your eyes were smudged. “there you are. so pretty.”
it was silly how he believed he could make things better like that. it was silly that he was a little bit right.
“don’t think for a second i’ll let megumi be sent on a mission he can’t handle. he’s going to be fine.”
satoru’s love ran deep. for you, for megumi, for all his students. he fought curses everyday for you, rotted himself with his technique and stitched himself back up in a moment’s notice to fight for you. to come home to you. all of humanity be damned, those closest to him were the ones he fought for, and he would do everything in his power to preserve their lives.
he already towed the line with the higher-ups and their conservative rules and regulations, but he would tear them down if you asked. for megumi, he’d fight tooth and nail to see that he wasn’t being sent off on a mission ill-prepared. under his watch, things would be different for his students.
you nodded meekly, wiping away your tears with one hand. “i hate when you’re right, toru. it’s really annoying.”
he smoothed down your hair and grinned. “i know, just let me have this one, though.”
his sweet murmurs filled your ears, along with the gentle shuffling of your clothes as you made yourself presentable again. you balled up your sleeves and patted the corners of your eyes gently, and he straightened out the hem of your shirt. it was wrinkled, a reminder of how harshly you clung to him.
you smiled at the water stains on his shirt now, and he claimed it was in need of dry cleaning anyway.
neither of you noticed the eyes of megumi and yuuta, both stuck in place at the very corner of the windows leading to the hallway. they had training staffs with them, megumi’s grip becoming tighter as he watched you wipe your eyes and knock your head into satoru’s chest lazily. your shoulders low, clearly drained from the amount you cried.
yuuta was frozen, eyes flickering from you to megumi repeatedly. he found his courage in placing a hand on his shoulder, a feather-light grip. “hey, let’s go through the east wing. i’m pretty sure it’s faster that way.”
it wasn’t. but megumi nodded anyway, begrudgingly tearing his gaze from you and turning around with yuuta.
you stared down the red light of the intersection with a blank face, blank mind. letting it all out of your system had successfully flushed out your emotions, taking the rest of your energy along with it. the car was painfully quiet, but no part of you wanted to listen to anything.
satoru was whisked away by yaga, being delivered another mission he swore would take less than a day. ‘less than twelve hours’, he promised to be back for megumi’s first day. he would make it.
it was dark, and you milked all the time you could on school grounds. speaking with yaga and shoko, running through the still-developing information of missions to be sent on. cleaning the classrooms. the lockers. stocking the teachers lounge. dusting the armory. before you knew it the curfew ushered the students into their dorms.
a ringtone broke through your thoughts, making you jump. though the tune was soft, the sudden intrusion made it much more shrill. you fumbled with your phone in the passenger seat, seeing megumi’s contact on the screen.
“hello?”
“hey, mom?”
it took everything you had left not to gawk. he said it before, sparingly in desperation for comfort. his voice was quiet, a near-whisper despite the fact he was alone in his dorm. like he was nervous.
“yes, megumi?”
“um… are you home?”
you wondered if he forgot something. “no, i’m still driving. are you okay?”
“i’m fine, i just… can’t sleep, i guess…” he trailed off, hoping for you to fill in the gap.
“oh. okay. did you take–“
“do you think you could pick me up?” he interrupted. “and i just stay home tonight? you could drive me in the morning.”
you were quick to dissolve into a smile, pointed at the streetlamp on the sidewalk. sadness struck your eyes but you were too occupied by the warmth of his question to feel it.
“yeah. i can be back there in a few minutes, just let me turn around.”
“thanks.”
he didn’t hang up. neither did you. the silence lived on for a few seconds.
“mom?”
“yeah?”
“… gojo’s on a mission, right?”
you laughed, your hand sliding across the steering wheel as you reouted back to the school. “yeah, megs, he’ll be gone tonight.”
“he’s back tomorrow?”
“yeah, we can leave before he gets home.”
“thanks.”
bonus:
satoru tiptoed through the entrance of your home, brushing his blindfold over his hair and peeling it off his head. he hung it up with his keys, lax arms nearly missing the hook on the closet door meant for him. it was beyond late, and he was tired, but he was home like he said he would be.
he bent down to tie his shoes, buffering momentarily as he caught a glance of well-worn sneakers at the front door. they were as clean as they could be, though scuffed rubber turning gray and the laces becoming frayed where they were tightened most.
satoru made a grunt in acknowledgement to no one but himself, as he tossed his shoes down. he glanced around the living space, cautiously bringing himself to each room with a curious itch to scratch. a third pair of shoes. both backpacks on the door. dishes for two placed on the drying rack.
he was expertly quiet by nature, but found himself avoiding the squeaky floorboards on the stairs and all the way to the hallway. he was greeted with a blue sign, corners covered with dog stickers. the frilly handwriting of tsumiki warding off unwanted visitors with the phrase: “megumi’s room. keep out!!”
the door opened quietly, satoru pushing it open to the limit and stopping before it would let out an ungodly squeak. he insisted on never getting it fixed, knowing it bothered megumi.
megumi had his face shoved in his pillow, a desperate attempt to block out any light creeping through the crack of his bedroom door or the streetlamp just outside the window. he was always a light sleeper, always on edge, sleeping with his back to the wall so if something barged in the night he was ready. it was horrible he thought that way, you always said.
his duvet covers were black and white plaid, per his request three years ago when he begged to be free of the puppy sheets. still, he seemed small, curled up in a ball. his face was released of the usual tension and his light breathing filled the room. for a moment, he was little again.
satoru smiled, taking a step back and closing the door gently.
#spleen writes#jjk fluff#jjk x reader#jjk angst#satoru gojo x reader#gojo x reader#jjk satoru gojo#gojo satoru x reader#satoru gojo fluff#megumi fushiguro x reader#megumi fushiguro x mom!reader#jjk gojo#jjk megumi#jjk megumi fushiguro#megumi fluff#mom!reader#satoru gojo fic#fushiguro x reader#megumi x reader
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Shattered Glass 18+
(Gif: leopardmuffinxo)
Astarion x f!reader
Summary: Astarion finally makes do on a promise.
This is part 2 of Secluded Evening. (Could be read as a stand alone)
Warnings: Smut, MDNI, oral fem receiving, PnV sex, unprotected sex, biting (of course) Astarion being a lovesick fool
Word count: 2.6k
Astarion threw another log on the fire; a flurry of embers took flight, dancing in the cold night air. The rest of the camp had already settled in their tents. You were nestled between his knees about five feet away from the flames. A throw blanket cascaded down your shoulders—a notebook on your lap.
He studies the rapid strokes of your hand from over your shoulder. The rough lines of charcoal were blooming into an identical copy of Laz'eal. Astarion pulled a strand of hair away from your eyes and began to weave your locks into a simple braid. He doesn't have a hair tie, and knowing you, you've lost yours. So, he twists the pieces, and once done let's go, kissing the crown of your head.
You barely acknowledge him, and when you suddenly shove the pencil over your shoulder, Astarion chuckles, taking it from you. He watches you begin smudging the charcoal with the pad of your finger. You're adorable when your art consumes you. Every time, it captivates Astarion.
This was how most of your nights were spent. Not always precisely like this; sometimes Astarion brought a book, and sometimes your hand got too sore to draw, so Astarion read to you as you curled on his lap. But as long as it was spent in each other's company neither of you cared much for the activity.
Astarion adored these nights the most, primarily because he could feast his eyes on your beauty without you shying away or throwing a stupid joke at him to break the tension. You were perfect in every way, and when he opened his heart briefly and confessed the broken pieces of himself and the motivations that led him to you. All you did was look at him with unspoken love and hugged him.
Your relationship became something more after that. Sex was not what drew the two of you together. For the first time in 200 years, Astarion had someone he trusted with his every sense of the word. Someone who wanted more than his body and showed their love for him without words. Someone he wanted to spend every moment of his life with despite the fear that thought causes him.
Astarion thinks he loves you but can't find the words when his mouth opens. He's always struggled with expressing his true feelings, but he wants to try with you. He wants to bear his heart to you and show you all that you mean to him. And with all the trust you and Astarion have established, one thing has become a very big problem.
You have begun to treat Astarion like glass, as if one sexual touch will break him. And frankly, it's pissing him off. Astarion finally has complete control over his body and a partner who he trusts. A partner that can bring him to his knees with a simple giggle and to put it bluntly, gods you were fucking sexy.
He's frustrated, horny, and has no idea how to ask for anything he wants. And for fucks sake, if he wakes from a meditation to have you grinding against his erection again, he just might explode.
In his frustrated musing, he didn't notice that you had placed your sketch pad away. He only noticed when you cupped his jaw and moved his eyes to meet yours. "What are you thinking about, handsome?"
It takes a moment for Astarion to collect himself as he stares at your soft smile. "I was thinking it's about time we get you, my sweet, to bed," he pecks your lips before grabbing your wrist and entwining your fingers. You nod and press a gentle kiss to his knuckles.
Astarion holds the flap open, and you duck inside. Kicking your pants off and into the corner, you unceremoniously plop down into the pile of cushions. You began sharing a tent in the shadow curse lands. Astarion found out pretty early on that nightmares of Cazador were less likely when you were in his arms. And thankfully, you slept better, too.
You prop yourself on your elbows and silently watch Astarion move about the small space, removing his outer clothing. He seemed to be stalling, almost like he was silently debating with himself. Astarion is in his underwear when he seems to come to a conclusion. He takes a deep breath and moves towards you. Kneeling by your feet, you watch as Astarion hesitates, his hand resting softly on your shin. Hesitation is soon replaced with a devilish smirk that stretches across his lips.
"Whatcha thinking about pretty boy?"
Astarion doesn't say anything, just slowly begins to crawl up your body before capturing you in a breathtaking kiss. His knee is between your legs; your hands are around his neck, pulling him flush against your body. You sigh softly into his mouth, moving your hands to caress his cheekbone.
He tongues the seam of your lips, and you are quick to gasp, giving him access to lick deeper. Astarion's hands are caressing up and down your curves, cupping your breast and tugging the metal bars of your nipple rings. His mouth moves to your throat, sucking hard at your jugular.
"W-wait!" You choke out, causing the elf above you to freeze. He's quick to remove himself from you, putting some distance between your bodies.
"Shit, did…did I do something wrong?" Astarion's voice cracks; you've never heard him so unsure of himself. You pant hard but are quick to sit up and fall into Astarion's lap, his arms instinctually wrapping around your waist.
"No, gods no," you sigh, cupping his jaw and pressing your forehead against his. The tension in Astarion's shoulders drops, and he squeezes you a bit harder.
"Then what is it, my sweet?"
That has you pausing to figure out the best way to say this. "What was your plan?" Shit, that didn't sound good
"My plan! Are you serious?" He's already pulling away, shutting off completely when you pull him back tightly.
"No! Th-that's fuck, that's not what I meant, Star," at least he's not trying to run, but he's as stiff as ever. "Astarion, I will be as blunt as possible because I care about you. Were you trying to have sex with me because you felt obligated?"
This isn't what Astarion expected you to say because he can't mask the look of surprise. He opens his mouth to speak before clamping it shut. He does this twice more, but you don't rush him, you push stray curls behind his ear and wait.
"No." His voice is small. He clears his throat before speaking again, stronger this time. "No, I want this, and I would appreciate you stop treating me like fucking glass."
“What?”
You're flipped over, and suddenly, on your back, Astarion's body pressed closely against yours. He ruts against you. His cock was hard, feeling painfully constricted in his underwear. "I appreciate your patience with me, darling, but I need to clarify one thing to you right now."
Astarion licks a long stripe up your collarbone, ending just under your ear. You moan softly, trying desperately to roll your hips up into Astarion. "I have never wanted someone more than I wanted you. So, if it's okay with you, my sweet, I'm going to take the rest of our clothes off, and you're going to finally let me feast upon the sweetness between your legs."
You whine and buck, trying to get anything from Astarion's unmoving body. "Tsk, no, no, my sweet. Use your words." He purred, nipping your ear.
"Please! Yes! Oh gods, Astarion,"
Once the words leave your lips, you're tearing at each other's clothes in desperation. After you are both fully undressed, Astarion shoves you back onto the cushions. You expect him to pounce but he hovers staring down at your naked body.
Astarion's deft fingers grab your foot, and he presses a soft kiss to your inner ankle. A pang of heat flared through your lower abdomen. He kisses up to the top of your calf before giving a playful bite. You release a soft yelp, and Astarions lavishes the bite with his tongue. He slowly moves up to your inner thigh, leaving various bruises in his wake.
You're gasping as he ghosted over the spot you wanted him most. His breath fans over your dripping cunt, and you swear he's about to give you what you want. Then he kisses you. Just one small peck on the public area just above your clit, before he retreats. You cry, and one of your hands card into Astarion's white locks.
“No! Please!”
He begins the same slow ascent up your other leg, paying just as much attention. "Now, as much as I love those beautiful noises you make for me. Remember that our camp members are trying to sleep; you can be a good girl for me, right?" He gazes up between your parted legs, and you nod and swear if he asked at this moment, you would have given him anything.
"I thought so," Astarion purred before licking up the entire length of your pussy. You moan out and swiftly clap your hand over your mouth. Then suddenly Astarion is a man starved.
His hand grips the underside of your thighs hard and pulls you down the bed as close as physically possible. He sucks, and licks, piercing his tongue sloppily at your dripping cunt, and you're a mess of pleasure. Your grind against Astarion's face, his nose rubbing beautifully against your clit. If it weren't for Astarion's hands keeping your thighs parted, you probably would be crushing his head in your desperation.
A low groan rumbles from Astarion's chest, and he focuses his attention, sucking tightly on the bundle of nerves. He slips his first and middle finger into your cunt and curls up, causing you to gasp for air.
"S-star…oh gods!" You cried, and he was ruthless with his assault. Astarion pumped his fingers quickly, the sloppy sounds of his mouth mixed with your muffled moan. Your stomach was coiling with pleasure, and you were embarrassed with how fast Astarion was picking you apart. "I'm close." you whimper, rolling your hips against his face.
Astarion, after a moment, releases your clit. Still pumping you with his fingers, he looks up at you, chin glistening with your arousal, a smug grin lazily plaster on his lips. "Come for me, love, be a good girl."
With the last few slips of his fingers, the coil snaps, and you're falling apart. Eyes unfocused, muscled tight, the silent gasp of ecstasy stuck in your throat. Astarion watches in amazement and arousal as you come apart so thoroughly with just his mouth and fingers. His cock is aching pre, now dribbling down the shaft.
Once your orgasm slows, you feel the immense need for more. And with Astarion still nestled between your legs, it has you moving without thought. You push Astarion back and plant yourself on his lap. You mash your mouth against him, chasing the taste of yourself on his tongue.
Astarion groans and cups the back of your head, deepening the kiss. Your palms roam down his chest, smoothing down his abs until you come to his neglected cock. It's swollen and red, and when you grip it softly, Astarions hisses into your mouth, bucking into your palm.
Smearing the pre-come around, you slowly work your hand up and down Astarion's dick in long, languid strokes. His eyes glaze over, and he moans, head dropping to your shoulder. Astarion's cold hands fondled your breast, and he leaned down to suck one of your nipples into his mouth. He pulls the metal piercing softly with his teeth.
You whine and tug on a fist full of Astarion's hair, rubbing your thumb over the head of his cock. "Fuck, darling." Astarion moans, moving to give your other breast equal attention. Your positive marks will be littering your body for days following. And the thought alone causes you to clench your thighs.
You pump your hand faster, and Astarion meets everyone with thrusts of his hips. He claims your lips again in a sloppy dance of wet tongues. Then suddenly Astarion stills your hand.
"If you keep this up, I'm not going to last much longer." Astarion's pants, nudging your nose with his.
"Isn't that kinda the point, handsome?"
"Not if I want to come apart feeling you clenching around me," Astarion's voice is breathless, and you moan at the thought. He kisses your cheek, then your jaw. Trailing his way to your neck. "Would you like that, my sweet,"
Whatever power you had over Astarion had just turned to dust. You bite your lip and nod quickly, letting Astarion push you on to your back. You part your hips, and Astarion slots right in.
"Words, my love. You do know how much I love your voice." Such a fucking tease.
Linking your arms around his neck, you pull him down, hitching one of your legs over Astarion's hips. "Please…I need you to fuck me."
"Shit…" Astarion groans. Taking himself in hand, he smears his dick with your arousal before filling you agonizing inch by inch.
The two of you let out a collective cry of pleasure, and you feel complete. Astarion pulls out and slams his hips back, ripping the oxygen from your lungs, and sets a steady pace. You clutch at his shoulders, digging your nails into exposed skin. The slick sounds of Astarions pumping in and out of you were depraved and did nothing but fill your lower abdomen with molten lava. Astarion wholly consumed your senses.
The coolness of his lips left lingering kisses on your arched neck. The smell of bergamot and rosemary flooded your nose with each shaky inhale. The saltiness of any skin you could taste. It was too much and not enough all at once.
The scrape of Astarion's fangs graze his favorite feeding spot, and you grab the back of his head. "Yes! P-please…" and soon, the icy pierce of his teeth is followed by the cool tingle of pleasure that flows through your body.
Astarion grunts as soon as the blood touches his tongue. He ruts faster against you, grinding you into the blankets. He has to clamp a hand over your mouth to keep your voice from waking the whole camp.
But what can you do? Nothing. Not when his other hand begins to roll your clit in tight circles matching his thrusts. Your hands trail down his back, legs hooking tightly around his torso. The angle of your hips changes, and Astarion is pounding into the spot that has you seeing stars. You're close, and you try to say so, but Astarion hand is still tight around your mouth.
After a last mouthful of blood, Astarions peppers kisses over the bite. "I know, my sweet, I'm…fuck I'm close to."
His fingers are rubbing your clit faster, and his hips aren't letting up the brutal pace. Your legs are quaking, and you feel like you might faint. You clench tightly around him, and then you fall apart. Suddenly, Astarion's hand is gone, and his tongue is in your mouth, capturing every whimper of pleasure you give. And with a few more swallow sloppy thrusts, Astarion falls over the edge with you, filling you with his spent.
Astarion continue to languidly kiss you, both hands cupping your face like you are the most precious creature on the plane. He barely grinds his hips, feeling the last of your orgasms fade until you are both too sensitive.
And it's like someone cut the puppet strings. Astarion falls limply onto you, blanketing your body with his. You comb softly through his hair, gently pulling out any knots. Astarion kisses your shoulder before rolling off of you.
It is silent for a while as you stare into each other's eyes. Astarions is the first to speak. "I love you," His words were barely above the whisper, and if you weren't staring intently at the man, you might have missed it.
You're speechless. Were you dreaming?
"I still believe you deserve more than the broken man before you. But you've chosen me, and I have felt true happiness for the first time since waking up in my grave. And well-"
You don't give him a moment to finish before you're in his lap and tackling him into an embrace. "I love you, Astarion."
The dopey grin on his face has you breaking into your own. You press your forehead to his, and he hugs you tightly. You don't know what tomorrow brings. But being here, seeing Astarion's smile, and knowing he loves you just as much as you love him. It feels like you can do anything.
Okay, friends, this was just so fun to write. Let me know what ya thought. I swear all the love and support I've received from my last few posts have been so amazing. I'm so excited to show you more!!!
If you liked this, maybe you'll like one of these?
Happy Birthday (fluffy)
Reoccurring Nightmares (hurt/comfort)
Tag list?: @heartfully10
#astarion x reader#astarion x tav#astarion#bg3#reader insert#astarion ancunin#astarion imagine#bg3 astarion#astarion smut#smut
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