This Just In

the way nick is such a pretty crier

when my favorite writers respond to my asks/reqs

Husband!Simon Riley that doesn’t wear chapstick unless you kiss him. preferably, you’d be wearing the chapstick - don’t worry, if you’re not he carries a spare in his back pocket, just put some on, lovie

Husband!Simon Riley that lets you paint his nails. he likes a simple clear coat, or a matt black, but he prefers a color that matches your eyes. despite his precision with handling guns and knives, his hands get a little shaky when he paints your nails. he silently psychs himself out because he doesn’t want to mess up

Husband!Simon Riley that stops by your favorite fast food place after a grocery run so you can have a little treat. he has your go-to order in his notes app and under your contact information. plays dumb when you get excited, “S’nothing special, just eat.”

❝honeymoon❞

V. sins of the mother.

parts: previously plot: alfred finds yours and bruce's old yearbook. you reminisce on how you lost him... and how he came back to you all those years later. pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: arranged marriage, friends to enemies to (fake) lovers, implied history between reader and bruce, LOTS of angst, eventual fluff, TW for depictions of brief physical child abuse (specifically to the reader), sorry but your fictional mom SUCKS, sweet ending though. words: 3.5k. a/n: I apologize to any british readers for inaccuracies with the whole yearbook thing. from what I gather, the american concept of yearbooks has gotten popular in the uk in the last 14-ish years but if it doesn't make sense, I'm hiding behind the fact that it's a posh boarding school and also- *runs away before I can think of a better excuse*

The rapping at your door is too gentle to be Bruce, and you're proven right when Alfred peeks into your room, "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

Bruce's guest room had steadily become your home over the course of your engagement. You still had your own place, paying the rent in case all of this fell through in one fell swoop (and it would, you couldn't escape the nagging feeling that it would), but you found yourself feeling some semblance of ownership over the tower. You hadn't even gotten the chance to put your desk up before Bruce was offering you his study—his father's study. He insisted it was because you were CEO, like his father. You dared to think it was because he was starting to see you as family.

The tower felt even more yours when Alfred stopped by like this, checking in on you, making sure you wanted him here. You set the papers in your lap to the side with a tired smile, "What's up, Alfred?"

It turns out he was hiding something behind the door. At first, you think it's a folder, perhaps some work that Bruce needed you to do for the company or some files Alfred kept from his time managing Wayne Enterprises. But when he comes round to your bedside, you realize it's a photo album. A yearbook, to be exact.

The green leather is embellished with the sparkling emblem of Silverstone Academy. It makes your heart jump up into your throat, "Where... where'd you find that?"

"After Bruce graduated, he had me put all of his old yearbooks away in storage. Kept this one, though. Would you like to see?" He turns the book to you with a well-meaning smile, and whether he notices your discomfort and chooses to ignore it is... debatable.

Still, your hands reach for it.

The spine crackles, unopened for many years by the looks of it. You thumb through the pages, flipping past pictures of the palatial school grounds and fellow classmates in freshly-pressed regalia. You're about to turn the page on the extracurriculars when Alfred places a hand on the page to stop you, pointing to a rather large group photo, "This was Bruce's favorite, if I recall."

There are rows of you, each one standing on the bleachers of a court, all of you awkward and fourteen and just wanting the whole thing over with. And then there, amongst the rows of smiling teenagers, is Bruce and you.

"Eyes front, students! I will not say this again. We want to look good for our parents, yes? We want them to see how smart and well-behaved you are, yes? Okay, then. Eyes forward. Shoulders back. Smiles on! This is your last chance. There will be no retakes!" Is what your headmaster probably said, but you were far too distracted by Bruce's fingers tugging on the tail of your un-tucked shirt to know for sure.

You bat away his hand but can't suppress the giggle that bubbles out of you. One of your classmates turns to glare, but the heat of it doesn't reach you when Bruce is whispering, "Last one to dining hall does the loser's chores."

"I'm faster than you and you know it."

"Hey, I beat Wilbur in the race on Saturday."

"That's cause Wilbur hit puberty and can't control his body anymore."

Your headmaster's shrill call draws your attention forward, "And three, two..."

You turn and smile. You feel Bruce's eyes still on you. Just as the shutter goes off, Bruce tugs your hand instead. And, even with all your teenage obstinacy wanting to make him work for your attention, make him fight for it, you can't help it.

You turn to look at him and the flash goes off.

"I remember being quite upset with this one," Alfred disperses your memory, gently calling you back to the present, "Bruce always hated taking pictures, but pictures were all I had of him while he was away. But... can't really hate that smile he's giving you, can I?"

You feel breathless at the image of younger Bruce and the look of... adoration he wears. Everyone else is focused on the camera, some eyes closed and some smiles skewed, but Bruce is focused on you and you him. Like you are the only two people in the world. Arguing over chores and who's faster than who. Like best friends.

You don't realize you're holding your breath until your body takes in one big deep inhale for you, "He wouldn't stop bothering me."

"It's funny how we couldn't get you two to talk to each other when you first met, and then years later you were inseparable."

You remembered that. Barely in second grade and being touted around by your parents at galas. You remembered Bruce hiding behind his mother's dress, and your mother guiding you by the scruff to say hello, "British boarding school will do that to you."

Alfred snorts, "I think he just liked that someone was treating him like a person."

You glance up at Alfred's soft expression, fatherly and proud. You've never seen him look any other way with Bruce. "Will you be Bruce's best man?"

Alfred seems to startle at that question, "Oh... well, he hasn't asked, but I suppose I will. Not sure who else he'd ask."

"I don't think he'd want to," you admit, and Alfred looks confused, "ask anyone else, I mean. You're it for him."

Bruce looks just like how you remember his father, but sometimes, when the light hits Alfred's eyes just right (that same color you've come to love and mourn), you think Bruce looks just like him too. You supposed they were always meant to be family, in that inexplicable way.

Alfred watches you for a moment, struck by your statement, and then softens like the teddy bear you know him to be. "And you as well. I'm glad you both found your way back to each other."

You can tell he means it in the heartwarming way, the way you meant it, but it doesn't fill you with warmth. There are no fuzzy feelings in your stomach. There is a whirlpool.

This time, there is no doubt Alfred senses your discomfort. He seizes up. He goes to say something, something no doubt kind and thoughtful, but you beat him to the punch, "Can I keep this? I want to... show it to Bruce later, maybe. Might make him laugh."

Alfred stops in his tracks. Then, as if used to such stonewalling, stands to his full height and begins his trek back to your bedroom door, "'Course you can. I'll see you in the morning. Goodnight."

He waits for your affirmative, then shuts the door behind him.

july, seventeen years ago.

The banging on your door fills you with dread the second you recognize it for what it is.

You are tangled in sheets and limbs—warm limbs, arms and legs and hands wrapped around your body in the witching hour—while the heavy oak door of your dorm room shakes with each knock. You don't know how long they've been knocking, but you fear you have very little time left to answer before you end up in worse trouble than you seemingly already are.

You shove at Bruce and he flounders, half-asleep. He almost doesn't want to let you go until he becomes aware of the banging on the door himself and presses his back to the wall behind your bed, "He snitched."

"He wouldn't! Coulson would never," you grumble, pulling on a hoodie discarded on the floor, too tired to recognize it as Bruce's, "just... get under the bed."

He does as he's told, though he looks rather peeved to do so. You grab the back of your desk chair and twist it out from beneath the door knob, and almost immediately it is thrown open by the headmaster.

Your first feeling is shock. Your second feeling is, undoubtedly, ice cold fear. You never thought you and Bruce would get away with this forever, but to be caught by the headmaster is... way worse than you could've imagined.

Headmaster Collins was a spidery man. What he lacked in muscle, he made up for in menace. His features were all gaunt and shadowy in the dark of your room, and with only the light from the hallway to capture his silhouette.

Before you can speak, he raises a single finger to cut you off, "I will discuss you blocking doors later. You have a guest."

You frown. "I..." You stammer. Even with your hand caught in the cookie jar, you don't yet want to give yourself away. Maybe he had no idea it was Bruce that kept sneaking into your dorm. Perhaps Coulson hadn't divulged that much. You and Bruce had paid him in many ways to keep that part secret above all.

You just make out the narrowing of the headmaster's eyes, "Your mother. She flew in from Gotham. She says she's worried about you."

Your stomach drops. Perhaps Bruce being found under your bed would've been better.

To the headmaster's chagrin, you corral him back out into the hall and shut the door behind you, "What? I wasn't... she didn't..."

"She failed to let us know either. I only received the call minutes ago when she arrived outside. We don't want to keep her waiting, do we?" Now, in the light of the hallway, Headmaster Collins loses some of that menace. He almost looks... just as concerned as you.

He leads you to the library in complete silence.

When you push open one of the double doors, you see there are a few candles lit, the rest of the lights dimmed low, and your mother standing with her back to you in the center of the room.

She doesn't turn around until you hear the door click shut behind you and, just like that, the headmaster has left you to fend for yourself.

Everyone always said you looked just like her. A spitting image, and one day, "if you're lucky", you'd grow up to be just as powerful. As the eldest of your siblings, it was unavoidable. Your fate had been sealed long before you were born.

She opens her mouth to speak and whether out of fear or anger, your next words come tumbling out before she can, "I already know what you're going to say."

She clasps her lips together. Then, after a moment, smiles down at you, "Well, that saves me some breath. Tell me, darling mine: what was I going to say?"

"That you know why I told you so late. And that you're angry with me for not running it by you sooner... so you could be in control of it."

"I was angry eight hours ago. Not anymore. It was almost clever of you."

Almost. A smarter, more clever you wouldn't have run it by her at all. You would've quietly disappeared off to the Waynes' vacation house in Barcelona and, inevitably, when you got the call, you'd have told your mother you wouldn't be back for the rest of summer break.

But she had her claws in you, and try as you might to defy her, you always felt those fingers curling around your conscience, drawing out of you what little truth you aimed to keep to yourself.

"So you flew all this way to yell at me?"

"To join you."

You blanch. "You... can't." There is nothing else you can say. No argument, no temper tantrum. Nothing.

But your mother is smart. The plane ride over would have given her ample time to cancel her duties for the next six weeks, offload them onto someone else because what was more important than joining the future heir of Wayne Enterprises on a summer abroad in Spain? Most people on the board would kill for that kind of opportunity. That kind of favoritism.

She's smart too in that it's only her. You imagined your siblings had been left to the nannies, and if Bruce questioned her presence, she could argue that leaving Alfred to chaperone two teenagers all by himself would be just cruel. Her presence wouldn't tip the scales too far into dangerous territory. In fact, it would be nothing if not practical.

She takes a step toward you, then another, and then another until she is looming over you. Half her face is lit by the fireplace roaring in the corner of the room, casting a shadow on the other side. Like this, she no longer looks like you. She looks something far colder, "You didn't think I'd let you run off to another country and ruin this for our family, did you?"

"What? Wh... ruin what? Bruce is my boyfriend."

"Your boyfriend is Bruce Wayne. There is a very real difference."

You feel your eyebrow twitch at that, "What's your point?"

But your attitude is nasty. Far too nasty for a child. The residual sting of her hand colliding with your cheek nearly sends you back into a chair but you manage to catch yourself after a few steps, staring at the rug beneath you in disbelief.

"My point is," her attitude is much harsher, and as you wipe away the bit of spit that dribbled down your lip, she blocks your view once more, "he is not just another boy, a peer, a boyfriend. Bruce is the heir to the company, and unlike his father, he has no foresight. Under him, this company will crumble. His family's legacy will cease to exist. That is why I am here, darling mine. Why you exist. Legacies must be upheld."

You hiss in pain when she takes you by the chin and forces you to look her dead on. At this angle, you can see her whole face lit up by the fire. Through gritted teeth, you whisper in horror, "What are you asking me?"

"I'm telling you that I'm coming along, or you will not go at all."

Your heart breaks a little more than it already has. This is what you'd thought of all week, what kept you up at night and got you up in the morning. And now your mother was going to ruin it all. A tear slips down your cheek and over your mother's fingers, and she releases you to wipe her hand clean, "Please."

"You would only find some way to make him hate you, and all my hard work for the past twenty-five years would be all for naught."

"Mom."

"I've already let the butler know."

"Please let me have this."

"Tell me you understand." You remain silent, teeth almost chattering from the chill her voice gives you. Her eyes harden, "Tell me you understand why I let you have him at all."

"He's my friend."

"He's your future. Tell me." Another tear rolls down your cheek. Your mother grabs you by the arm and pulls you to her, shaking you as more tears fall. You're doing your damnedest not to sob but you're failing spectacularly, "Tell me!"

"He's my future." You gasp out.

"And why do I allow you to be friends with him?"

"Because..." You blubber, fiercely wiping away the tears, "...to uphold our family legacy."

"And?"

"To keep you on his good side."

"Keep us," she taps your chin with her finger, making you flinch, "us, darling mine. Wayne Enterprises will end with him, but it'll begin again with us. With you. Say it."

"With me."

"So we'll go together. And you will do anything he tells you to. And you will make him very happy because he is not your friend. He is our ticket to owning Gotham City."

You would've done anything Bruce asked of you because you loved him, because you trusted him. The way your mother talked about what he might ask of you made you feel sick to your stomach. She shakes you again, expecting you to say it back.

Your lips part to release a shaky exhale meant to be a word, but behind your mother, you stare past the cracked library door and into the eyes of your best friend. The only word you can get out is, "Bruce?"

Your mother drops you completely. She swings around but the door is shutting before she can catch a glimpse, and you're shoving her out of your way before he can get too far.

You throw the door open and find him rushing back down the hall, a flummoxed headmaster lingering by as you run after Bruce. You shout his name but he doesn't slow for you at all, even as your voice echoes off the old school halls. "Bruce! Bruce, please! Let me explain."

It takes more energy than you have in you to catch up with him, but you eventually slide to a stop in front of him, stopping him before he could ascend the stairs and return to the dorm rooms. You expect to see anger clear on his face, or sadness, betrayal even. Instead, he is cold. He looks right through you.

The emptiness of which he looks at you catches you completely off guard. Anger, you could stomach. But this?

"How much did you hear?"

Those eyes that used to look at you so sweetly hold nothing in them at all. He stares you down as if you should already know.

When he tries to side-step you for the stairs, you grasp desperately for his hand but he yanks away from you like you've burned him, sending you collapsing to your knees against the bottom step, "Bruce, please... I don't feel that way about you. I've never felt that way about you. You... you're my best friend. This is exactly why I shouldn't have told her about the trip, I should've just kept my mouth shut-"

"What trip?"

You look up at him and see a wave of something sharp cross his face before smoothing back over completely. Your mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. He sees the question in you, the thing you fear to ask when it hits you.

Bruce turns his face away from you, "I'll see you in September."

You sit on those steps until sunrise.

The elevator stutters to a stop at cave level, letting you out into Bruce's sanctuary. He's standing at his desk and staring at you, as if he had expected Alfred instead.

"Hey," you start, timidly approaching him with yearbook in hand, "Are you busy?"

He watches you get closer and slowly shakes his head, eyes falling to the book clutched to your chest. They widen some with recognition, a cloudy look overtaking them once you're within arm's length of him. You set the book down on his desk, careful not to disrupt his work. You go to flip open the cover but his hand comes down on the Silverstone emblem, forcing you to draw back your hand in surprise, "Where'd you get this?"

"Alfred kept it." At that, Bruce groans. You gnaw on the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

You watch as he slides the book closer to himself, nudging away the files he'd been poring over before you'd arrived, making quiet noises of recognition here and there. When he inevitably lands on the class picture Alfred had shown you, he hesitates. You wait for him to say something, anything, but after a moment of silence, he presses on.

It isn't until he gets to the individual headshots from that year that you notice something odd. On your page, where your headshot and name should be, is a hole cut into the paper. Your heart sinks.

Your mind goes for the worst thing first (that perhaps he had hated you so much that putting away the yearbooks wasn't enough, that he had to cut you out of them too), but Bruce simply traces the neatly cut edges where your face should be.

Then he flips to the page where his picture should be, and his picture is cut out in the same fashion.

You look to Bruce for answers, but his expression is... guarded. He almost looks like he doesn't want to entertain it, almost looks like he's about to tell you to leave him to his work for the rest of the night.

Instead, he pushes the book back to you, "I kept yours in my wallet. I was going to give you mine."

You don't know what to say first, but it finds you in the lull in conversation, "You were going to?"

Bruce's mouth twists in discomfort, still not looking at you. He reaches over and shuts the cover to the book, "I thought... you might tease me about it." For a brief second, he looks at you, "Dunno where they are now."

That brief second is, of course, his tell. It was a shame. Bruce had become such a good liar since he left you on those stairs. He had to have been to get where he is now. And yet, you know in an instant that he's not being honest with you. It feels good this time.

#YOU KNOW WHAT THEY SAY ABOUT LOSERBOYS. . .

ʚɞ summary. jjk men as different types of losers with a girlfriend who's way out of their league! but never fear, they have a few tricks up their sleeves yet. . . ft. gojo, geto, toji, choso + sukuna.

warnings. fem!reader, penetration (p in v), fingering, squirting, oral (f receiving), doggystyle, semi-public sex in geto's, virginity loss + premature ejac in choso's, drug use in sukuna's, 18+ minors dni.

a/n. 500 followers special post <3 i cant thank you all enough. ughhh i love u sm. enjoy cuties!!!

SATORU GOJO — THE DIGIMON NERD!

your boyfriend satoru gojo is absolutely, undeniably, irrevocably obsessed with all things digimon.

his entire room is brimming with posters, heinously overpriced collectable toys, you name it. hell, even his bedcovers are digimon themed (and he won't change them no matter how many times you ask, either.)

to make matters worse, it's all he talks about, too. at any given moment he finds manages to find some way to connect anything in his direct line of sight to digimon; and once he starts ranting about it, it's practically impossible to get him to stop.

so, with all of these incriminating facts piling up about just how much of a loser your boyfriend is, you might be left wondering… why exactly are you still with him?

and well, the answer to that is much simpler than you'd expect — satoru gojo is a god in the sheets. and no, that's not an exaggeration.

when you first started dating, you assumed he would be mediocre at best, and that you'd probably have to teach him a few things here and there. because a man so painfully nerdy couldn't possibly know how to satisfy you from the get-go, right?

wrong.

despite previously confiding in you that he was a virgin before you went any further than making out, satoru appeared to know exactly what he was doing once he got you in his bed after a few weeks of dating.

you hadn't been too into it at first, purely due to the fact you were seemingly about to have sex with him for the first time sprawled atop his digimon bedsheets.

i mean, talk about a turn-off, huh?

but you quickly forgot about such insignificant details like that once the two of you started to venture past kissing, satoru's eager hands roaming all over your body with a level of excitement you'd only ever seen on him before when he was gushing about an upcoming digimon game.

and after he'd stripped you of your clothes? all bets were off.

"s-shit. so pretty, baby," satoru groaned as he buried his face between the valley of your breasts, licking and sucking at every patch of supple skin he could reach in the process. "so soft."

"toruuu," you mewled out, running a hand through his messy white locks and lightly scratching his scalp with your recently manicured nails as a form of silent encouragement. "feels good."

satoru visibly preens under your praising words, his face lighting up like a kid on christmas morning as he pops one of your nipples into his mouth, suckling on the perked bud like a newborn.

this gets you to release a moan, the sound so hot and so real, unlike the overdramatic sounds satoru had heard on the various porn videos he'd watched before to practise for this moment.

and the effect it had on him was clear.

within moments, your boyfriend's pretty face was buried between your legs, his tongue just ruthless as it lapped and slurped at your sopping folds. he didn't have a technique, really. he was just hungry. hungry for you (and your sweet cunt.)

"ah! s-slow down, toru— fuck!" you cried helplessly, your thighs clamping shut around his head as he continued to vigorously devour you. he found your clit so inhumanly fast, and his hot mouth was latched on to the puffy little bud like his life depended on it.

"sorry, sweet girl, can't." satoru whined quietly against your flesh, his voice muffled between each desperate lick of his tongue. "tastes too good."

you can't remember the last time a partner ate you out this good. most of your previous flings didn't even like doing it at all — maybe even considered it a chore. but not satoru gojo.

maybe loserboys just do it best after all.

he had you falling apart in record time, your orgasm washing over you like a tidal wave as your entire body convulsed against the sheets. you vaguely registered satoru talking you through it somewhere nearby, but your vision was too pleasantly hazy to make him out.

"you're so fuckin' sexy when you cum. god, i need to be inside you." satoru groaned wantonly, hastily shoving his sweatpants down his hips in one swift movement and revealing his considerably tented boxers, already darkened with a patch of pre-cum.

wait, hold on a minute...

"you have digimon boxers too? seriously, sato— oh."

oh, indeed.

satoru grinned smugly, both rows of his pearly whites on full display as he observed the way your words trailed off when he shucked his boxers and allowed his throbbing, obscenely long cock to slap against his stomach.

"ready, baby?" he chuckled pridefully, pumping his leaking dick with his fist a few times just to see the way your widened eyes followed the movement. "for your next orgasm, i wanna make you squirt."

SUGURU GETO — THE SCHOOL LIBRARIAN!

no one knew quite how it had happened — how you, the popular captain of the cheerleading team, ended up dating suguru geto, the quiet school librarian who spent most of his time meticulously organizing bookshelves.

but however it may have come to pass, being with suguru has changed your life for the better (in multiple ways). he's sweet, considerate, and despite how much he enjoys ranting about vintage russian literature, still makes an effort to be interested in your hobbies too.

oh, and also, he's the best lay you've ever had.

you wouldn't know it by looking at him; the reserved boy who always wears knitted sweaters and a pair of dark-framed glasses, but saying suguru geto knows a thing or two about how to pleasure another person would be a severe understatement.

and that's why he currently has you splayed across one of the desks at the very back of the library, legs spread wide and cheerleading skirt bunched up above your waist while he fingers you like a damn expert.

"you like that, baby?" suguru coos as he brushes some sweaty hair behind your ear with his free hand, the other still occupied with being knuckles-deep inside your dripping cunt.

"y-yeahh, sugu." you keen in response, hips weakly bucking up into his hand in search of more friction. you always got like this after a long cheerleading practise, body tightly wound up and in need of release which your boyfriend was more than happy to supply.

suguru smiles at this, his lips pulling up in a way that makes him look like the cat who got the canary as he continues to thrust his fingers up into your gummy walls, effortlessly locating that sweet, spongy spot deep inside of you.

"a-ah! right there. right theree." you cry softly, gripping onto the edges of the wooden desk for dear life as he pleasures you like it's his only purpose in life, your entire body jostling with the sheer force of each of his movements.

he chuckles deeply at your wantonness, the way his thumb gently caresses your flushed cheek creating an ironic contrast to the way his fingers pick up in pace, curling in a way he knows will drive you crazy. "mhm. right here, pretty?"

a strangled squeal escapes your lips as the tips of his digits rub against your sensitive g spot, your hips now moving more desperately against his hand as if you're not even in control of them anymore. "yes, yes, yes!"

it's not long before you're falling apart, spraying the entire desk with your translucent juices while your boyfriend croons sweet praises against the shell of your ear and tenderly strokes through the back of your hair.

"now. . . are you going to be good girl and keep quiet for me?" suguru purrs in that deep, velvety tone of his as he unbuckles his belt while admiring your fucked-out expression. "can't have anyone else hearing your pretty moans while i'm pounding you into the bookshelf, hmm?"

it never fails to surprise you how quickly he can switch up, from kind and encouraging to firm and demanding in a matter of moments. however, it doesn't bother you in the slightest — in fact, you can't help but adore how much it keeps you on your toes.

however, it goes without saying that you don't keep very quiet at all once suguru is mercilessly shoving his thick cock into your quivering pussy from behind, squashing your face against the spines of the books in front of you with each rough thrust.

shaking his head fondly, suguru ends up having to clamp a hand over your mouth in an attempt to muffle your obscenely loud sounds just in case any other students happen to stumble into the library.

maybe the old saying was right after all; it's always the quietest boys who make you scream the loudest.

TOJI FUSHIGURO — THE JOBLESS BUM!

technically, toji fushiguro can't even be classified as a loserboy anymore. after all, he's a fully grown man now (but still has nothing to show for it.)

he's more than a decade older than you and yet somehow you're the one in the relationship who's employed; if he wasn't dating you, he probably wouldn't even be able to afford food for himself, as pathetic as that sounds.

not to mention, he definitely didn't think things through when choosing to date you of all people. saying you're out of his league would be a severe understatement — you're young, pretty, resourceful, and you love buying things for yourself that he could never even dream of affording.

it seems like every week you have a new designer bag, dress or pair of shoes. and as much as he enjoys seeing you model them for him, it makes him feel like a piece of shit because he can't offer to foot the bill for you like a good boyfriend should.

so, he has to find other ways to keep you satisfied that don't involve necklaces that cost more money than he's ever laid eyes on in his entire life.

which is how we arrive at the one thing toji fushiguro is unarguably good at: fucking.

not making love, but fucking. (not to say that he doesn't love you, because of course he does! he just also loves to fuck you like he hates you.)

so that's how you find yourself face down ass up on his bed once again, your brand new fancy dress carelessly shoved up to give your boyfriend easier access to your pretty pussy.

he always eats you out like it's the last time he'll ever get to, and maybe for him, it feels like it is. because deep down, he's convinced soon enough you'll realize what a damn loser he is and ditch him for someone with more going for them.

"mmf... so good, toji." you sigh hazily, eyes half-lidded as you succumb to the pleasure he's giving you. toji thinks you always moan so sweetly for him; it'll be a shame if anyone else ever gets to hear it — but he'd be naïve to believe that you'll stick with him forever when you could do infinitely better.

once you reach your inevitable release, you slowly blink at him over your shoulder and ask to return the favour like you always do. but he simply waves you off, grumbling his usual excuse that "you do enough work as it is" and distracting you by rubbing his pudgy cockhead along your folds.

you keen, but reach behind you to gently halt his movements, whispering out a quiet but sincere "i love you. you know that, right?" fuck. how do you always manage to read him so well? it's like you knew exactly what was going through his head and what he needed to hear, too.

toji grunts out some non-committal answer, not willing to let on just how much hearing those words from you affects him. he can tell you mean it, which works to ease his doubts somewhat — but they still linger in the back of his mind.

shaking the thoughts off, he starts to ease himself into your sopping entrance inch by inch, focusing on the heavenly feel of your warm, tight little cunt around him rather than these pesky feelings.

"well, maybe y'shouldn't," toji mutters gruffly as he pulls himself all the way out, only to thrust harshly back in and earn a yelp from your lips in response. "you deserve a lot better than me, dollface."

"well— ah! — i don't want anyone other than you, toji," you huff out, digging your fingers into the softness of the pillow to keep yourself grounded as he starts to pound into you. "and i don't care if you don't have a job. i still love you anyway."

he releases a sound somewhere between a moan and a growl at your words, his speed quickly becoming as ruthless as usual. it's not his fault, really; he just can't hold himself back once he gets inside you. "shit— baby, you can't just say stuff like that." he rasps out.

"why not? it's true." you counter breathlessly.

and it is. because no matter how much of a loser your boyfriend may be, you love him to pieces. oh, and not to mention, you doubt you could find anyone else who fucks you even half as good as he does.

this point is only proved when you both reach your climaxes in record time, collapsing together in a sweaty and sated heap atop the sheets. and with toji's goopy cum slowly drooling out of your abused cunt and his burly arms wrapping around your waist, you think there's nowhere else you'd rather be than in the warm embrace of your loser.

CHOSO KAMO — THE SCIENCE TUTOR!

you first met choso kamo when he was hired by your rich parents to become your science tutor. it was the class you struggled with the most, the one that was ruining your set of perfect grades. and they just couldn't have that!

unfortunately, it didn't quite go the way they expected.

because when you opened the door to be greeted by the sight of the pretty boy standing before you — all fiddly hands, messy black pigtails and dark eyes staring down at his chunky boots, you knew you just had to have him.

and have him you did.

the two of you have been dating for a few weeks now, but to your surprise, choso hasn't tried to initiate anything with you past kissing. i mean, you knew he was a little shy, but you figured he'd be eager to get into your pants given the way he looks at you when he thinks you aren't paying attention.

when you finally decide to ask him about it, his cheeks flush an adorable shade of pink, and he blinks owlishly at you for a good few moments before he manages to gather the courage to stammer out a reply. "i-i haven't... i've never—"

"—oh. i get it. are you a virgin, cho?"

choso nods almost shamefully, nervously tugging at the sleeves of his shirt as he avoids making direct eye contact with you. the reason he hasn't tried going all the way with you isn't for the lack of desire to, but rather because he fears he won't be good enough for you.

i mean, you're you. so... pretty, perfect and undoubtedly an expert at this sort of thing. whereas choso's never even touched another person before. what if you're put off by his inexperience? or worse, what if you break up with him because of it?

"hey. calm down, baby," you coo softly, reaching out to take both of his clammy hands in yours and giving them a comforting squeeze. "i don't care if you've never had sex before."

choso's eyes widen comically at this, his head snapping back up to check your expression for any sign of deception. but when he doesn't find any, his shoulders sag slightly in relief and he releases a breath he didn't realize he had been holding since this conversation began. "o-oh, okay. that's good."

you smile warmly, running the tips of your fingers over his sweaty palms and admiring the way goosebumps visibly start rising just below the sleeves of his shirt as a result. "if you don't wanna go that far yet, we don't have—"

"no!" choso practically yelps, the blush spreading down his pale neck as he realizes just how desperate he must sound. god, he's such a loser. he has no idea why you even like him, but he isn't about to start complaining anytime soon. "i-i wanna go that far today. with you."

your oversensitive boyfriend ends up cumming twice from just your hand; once from a single press of your thumb against his leaking tip, the other from just a few pumps of your fist. he apologizes profusely each time even though you repeatedly assure him that it was supposed to happen.

it takes you a while to fully sink down onto his lap, the size of his cock just monstrous compared to the rest of his fairly scrawny body. you guess that old saying about quiet boys having the biggest dicks does has some truth to it after all.

choso lets out a strangled mewl once your hips become flush with his, and it isn't long before he's rutting up into you like an animal in heat, as if he isn't even in control of his own body's movements anymore.

the first time he orgasms, he fills your little pussy to the brim with so much of his milky cum that a lot of it leaks out and coats his girthy base in a lewd, glossy ring. but the second, third and fourth times he orgasms? he's shooting blanks.

he's so overstimulated by now that his cock is aching almost painfully, but he can't stop yet — because he still hasn't managed to make you reach even a single climax of your own because he keeps cumming after just a few thrusts into your snug cunt.

eventually, with you guiding him how to hold your hips and bounce your pliant body on his lap just right, you end up falling apart on top of him. choso finds the mere sight so beautiful that it somehow manages to make his needy cock harden inside of you all over again.

and when he whimpers out "can you do that for me again, pretty girl? please?" you realize that maybe dating a loserboy was the best possible choice you could've made.

RYOMEN SUKUNA — THE DEADBEAT STONER!

ryomen sukuna is the biggest loser you've ever met. (and he's also your boyfriend.)

it happened quite unconventionally — when you met him, he was a drug dealer, and your relationship began with you occasionally buying weed from him. but over time, it turned into 'a plug and his favourite customer who frequently hookup together at his shitty apartment.'

and while he may have a pretty pathetic lifestyle, there's no denying how attractive this man is, with his messy pink hair and strangely alluring dark tattoos. oh, and his dick game? legendary.

you could never quite stop yourself from falling back into his bed over and over again, until the walls of your pussy probably remembered the outline of every curve and vein of his cock from the amount of times it had been in there.

eventually, the two of you decided to make it official. sukuna actually ended up quitting his job as a plug so he could spend more time with you, though that doesn't mean he quit the drugs, of course.

he's smoking a joint right now as he watches you grind against his lap, his crimson gaze half-lidded as the pleasant high washes over him. his burly arms are resting leisurely behind his head, visibly not giving a damn about helping you out.

"ryooo," you huff with a pout pushing at your lower lip, your weak hips unable to build up enough friction to make yourself feel pleasurable on your own. you've lost track of what round this is by now, but your body is definitely too exhausted to properly bounce on his cock right now. "help me. please?"

sukuna huffs deeply as if this is the most inconvenienced he's been all day, but nevertheless wraps a lazy hand around the side of your hip to guide you up and down his length. "tch. damn girl, can't even ride me right. should see if one of my old customers can do better."

"you dick!" you gasp dramatically, clutching a hand over your heart in a display of theatrical betrayal. you move to pull yourself off of his lap, but his strong hand effortlessly keeps you anchored in place.

"calm down, baby," sukuna grumbles with a roll of his eyes, but his upper lip twitches slightly in subtle amusement that you know him too well to miss. "y'know i'm just kidding. none of 'em could take me better than you do."

at this, you smile a little, not resisting when he starts to guide your body into a steady rhythm again. sukuna always tends to accidentally say sweet things to you when he's high and then proceeds to deny them the next morning — tonight is clearly no exception.

"yeah, yeahhh," he groans as you start to move on your own at the pace he set, throwing his head back in bliss from both the drugs and the feel of your heavenly cunt dragging up and down against his cock. "jus' like that, pretty."

it's not long before you're both falling apart for the umpteenth time tonight, and sukuna puts out the shrivelled up blunt on the bedside table before carelessly tossing the rolled paper over his shoulder and flipping your spent body around so you're splayed beneath him.

"weed has a shitty aftertaste," he mutters under his breath, easily spreading your still-trembling legs and making room for himself between them as he looks up at you with a wicked grin. "needa wash my mouth out with somethin' sweet."

ryomen sukuna may be a complete loser, but you'll be damned if dating him doesn't have its perks.

© 2024 SUGOROO. please don't copy or translate any of my works without my explicit permission. all rights are reserved to me.

LIKES AND REBLOGS APPRECIATED!

alicent

Tryst ⥃ Aemond Targaryen

Summary: Aemond walks in on his newly wedded wife changing, surely she is not as temperate as her father when she catches him eyeing her, is she?

Warnings: 18+ mdni! Smut, p in v, kind of enemies to lovers, VELARYON READER!!, reader has silver hair, virging!reader, fingering, reader is angry lol, breeding, lots of scratching and biting, porn no plot! English isn’t my first language<3

Word count: 2.7k+

A/n: I missed my pwp era so here is a short rough smut with our prince Aemond! Missed being unhinged, so here is a fiery reader who is just as crazy as Aemond🤭 Reblogs & comments are always appreciated!💕

Marrying Daemon’s oldest daughter was not something Aemond could ever imagine, especially since it was his uncle’s idea to offer your hand in marriage; perhaps you were too much of a rebel to be kept on Dragonstone.

He remembers how much you glared at him the day he and his family came to that old wet castle to visit you and your family, and to settle for an agreement so the qualms between the families would vanish — or at least try to make amends somehow.

What he did not expect was for you to be utterly disgusted and angry at him, to the point when he had to show others you were officially courting, you did not even spare him a glance.

He despises you just as much if not more.

But he does not know why he is walking towards your chambers after the supper which you left in a really angry manner, leaving everyone stunned but him. 

It is late as he walks through the dimly lit hallways of the Red Keep, an hour or two before the dead of the night, and his intentions are not clear enough to see why he is taking routes to where your chambers are. If only he knew why, he would try to avoid it at all costs.

He walks with his hands held behind him, chin up with his good eye scanning every tapestry on the wall, every knight who moves past him, in hopes of finding an answer for his intentions.

Your chambers are not much far from his, it would be too scandalous for husband and wife to be sleeping in different rooms, especially since your marriage happens to be the talk of every gathering and whispers of the court — not to anyone’s surprise, Daemon’s oldest daughter and Aemond Targaryen are a match of flames, burning each other until there is nothing but ashes — but you do not care if you are the subject of laughter among these lowly lords and ladies.

Aemond sighs, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his sleeves, trying to keep himself grounded as he walks towards the hallway that ends with a door to your room. He narrows his eye when he finds your knights nowhere to be seen, assuming you must have dismissed them yourself.

He reaches to knock on your door, taking in a deep breath to calm himself down before he rests his hand on the door, watching it slowly crack open. Why would you leave your door unguarded and open? Were you waiting for someone? Were you waiting for him?

With a curious look, he slowly pushes the door open, not wishing to startle you even though he could care less if you jump and scream out of fear, but he gives you this one privilege at least. He winces when the door makes a cracking sound, but he relaxes when he does not hear a sound of displeasure or concern coming from inside — in fact, the low humming catches him by surprise, making his ears perk at the sweet sound of melody filling your room.

When he has the door open enough to peek inside the room, he is taken aback by seeing you slowly disrobing, dropping layer after layer of your clothing on the ground, revealing your bare back to him. 

His lips part in shock, sighing as he takes the newly exposed skin in, watching you drop your clothes on the ground, walking around your nightshift to grab your hairbrush.

Aemond is lost; seeing his wife mildly nude for the first time since he said his vows was something he did not really think about. Every thought he has had about you was always filled with anger, rage, and hatred, but deep inside, he could feel his feelings bubbling with anticipation for something far beyond whatever he had already experienced.

And now, seeing you brush your silver locks with grace makes his chest tighten, but your bare back has his mind turn cloudy and sinful, leaving him breathless as he feels his leather pants tighten.

Subconsciously, he pushes the door open a bit more forcefully than he intended to, making a loud crying sound. He freezes, his eye widening when you scream and turn around, throwing the brush at his face, but he dodges in time, watching in horror as the brush flies to the hallway.

“What is your fucking business here?” You yell at him, reaching for one of your jewelry boxes, holding it up to threaten him with another attack, “Speak, now!”

“I…I—fucking gods, woman!”

He says it with gritted teeth, moving his head quickly when you throw the box at him, hitting the door as he closes it so none of your belongings get lost.

“Were you watching me?” You ask, laughing in disbelief as you walk quickly to grab the nearest book on your desk, throwing at him again, “I reckoned your brother was the pervert one, but it appears it runs in the family!”

“Stop this madness!” He yells back, shielding his face with his arms as the book comes close to hit him in the cheek, “I was not watching, do not think yourself so appealing—“

“You do not find your wife appealing?” You point the candle holder you grab in the blink of an eye towards Aemond, narrowing your eyes at him as you take a step closer, “You come into my room, watching me peel off my clothes until I am naked just to say you do not find me appealing?”

“I did not say that, wife—“ he holds his hands up, slowly backing away from you, his back hitting the wall with a soft ‘thud’ before he resumes talking, “I was merely disagreeing about how I am of a sick mind, I am not, I wished to talk to you—“

“Nonsense!” You step closer, holding the sharp candle holder in his direction, “You said it, I heard it with my own ears! I despise you for being here, for being my husband, for trying to break me while it is you who does not wish to warm my bed.”

“Drop that thing, wife,” he sighs, gently trying to reach and grab it from you but you take a step back suddenly, glaring at him, “Don’t force me to come here and take it from you.”

“I would like to see you try, husband,” Venom drips from your words while you stare daggers at him, your grip tightening around the candle holder “Get out of my room!”

“You are my wife, I will do as I please,” his tone matches yours as he stares back at you, his eye darkening at the sight of your chest visible underneath your thin nightshift, “If I wish to stay here, I will—“

“Get. Out!” 

Before you are given the chance to throw what you are holding at him, Aemond grabs you by your wrist, pulling you closer as he switches your positions and pushes you against the wall; one knee between your legs and both of his hands pinning your wrists to the wall with one next to your head and the other above it.

“Why must you be so difficult?” He whispers, his nostrils flaring as he glares down at you, his fingers tightening around your wrists until you whimper and drop the candle holder, chest heaving as you look up at him.

“I am a reflection of how you treat me,” you spit the words out, craning your neck to lean closer to him, your nose brushing against his, “I despise you for the air you breathe, for the wine you drink—“

“And you do believe that I don’t seeth every time I am reminded that you are my wife?” He pushes his nose against yours forcefully, keeping your head locked against his and the wall with his forehead on yours, his hot breath mingling with your quick panting, “I wish to tear through everything that reminds me of you and your father—“

“Then do, coward,” you cut him off, your eyes falling down to his pink lips, wiggling against his hold, trying to free yourself, “Make me hate you more than I already do.”

And he does; his lips meet yours in a searing kiss, knocking the breath out of your lungs as he lets go of one of your wrists to pull you in closer by your waist, his nails digging into your flesh.

Your hand goes to his soft silky hair, pulling on the hair tie roughly as you kiss him back, threading your fingers through his locks, tugging at the root of his hair while he bites down your lips, freeing your other wrist too.

Aemond’s hand comes up to cradle your jaw, his tongue pushing past your lips so he can taste you thoroughly. He bucks his knee to your clothed core, encouraging you to go ahead and take your fill, rock your hatred into oblivion.

You whine as you slowly grind down on him, your lips falling apart as you break the kiss to gasp for air, your hand tugging at his hair while your other hand goes to his doublet, undoing it quickly while your hips pick up the pace.

“Go on, wife,” he whispers, hand letting go of your jaw before he reaches down to rub your heat over your underwear, letting out a shaky sigh when he finds a wet spot on the fabric, “So much for hating me, your cunt is betraying you.”

“Fuck you—“

“Fuck me indeed,” he pushes your underwear aside, swiping his fingers through your wet folds, enjoying the broken whine you let out.

He leans down, prepping kisses and bites along your neck, sinking his teeth a bit too hard when you push his doublet down and dig your nails in his pecks. Aemond’s thumb circles your pearl, making you tremble under his touch as he makes your essence drip on your inner thighs.

You throw your head back when he gently prods your entrance with one finger, easing the digit inside your warm walls with ease because of your wetness. He hums against your collarbone, enjoying how slowly you are losing yourself in the feeling of being wrapped in his arms — although the scratches you are leaving on his chest through his undershirt are the opposite of what he thinks.

He adds another finger, scissoring you open as he pumps his finger in and out of you, going in knuckles deep while he curves his digits, enjoying how your face twists with pleasure and a fit of anger that fuels because of how it is him who is giving you this pleasure.

“I need more,” you whine, one hand coming down to rest against his wrist, keeping his hand there as he thrusts his fingers faster, the lewd sound of squelching echoing in the room.

“I will give you more,” he goes faster when he notices how your eyes drop shut and your legs start to shake around his hand, your walls gripping his fingers for dear life, “I will make you fall in love with me.”

“Impossible,” you gasp, toes curling as you shake and peak around his fingers, throwing your head back against the wall while you gush and release all over his hand, “You are unlovable.”

“As I said before…” he whispers before he pulls his fingers out, wiping your wetness on your nightshift before he grabs the side of the fabric and tears it in half, leaving your body bare to his eye, “Your body betrays you, wife.”

You look at him in shock, covering your breasts with your arms, but Aemond has none of it; he slaps your arms away, taking off his undershirt, revealing his smooth chest before he grabs you by the nape and pulls you in for another kiss.

Your lips crash into each other, your hands tugging and pulling on the other’s hair while Aemond leads you to the bed, nearly tripping over the pile of clothes. 

He drops you on the bed, quickly crawling on top of you to meet you halfway for another passionate kiss, his hips pressing against the side of your hip before you spread your legs for him, pulling him even closer.

You reach between your bodies to palm the growing tent in his pants, squeezing and relishing in the sound he makes in your mouth before you urge him to push his pants and breeches down enough to free his cock.

You loathe how pretty he is, how pretty his cock is. You despise him for being the definition of Targaryen beauty, but now, the man you hate the most, the man who you have the spiteful pleasure of calling your husband, is about to take you for the first time.

He knows, of course he knows, because the queen would never choose anything less than a noble lady for her precious son; so he goes gently after he strokes his length a few times, pumping it to full hardness. He guides the red weeping head of his dick to your entrance, pushing in slowly, his hands going to your hips as he sits up on his knees so he can watch as he breaches past your muscles, the tip of his cock disappearing inside you.

You writhe beneath him, fisting the bed sheets as you nod and wait for him to go all the way in, pushing you to your limits as the stretch begins to be a bit painful, but he brings your hands to his chest, urging you to scratch him as hard as you wish when you feel any discomfort.

Aemond thrusts himself inside you completely, groaning at the tight feeling of your cunt gripping him like a vice, holding onto him until he has carved the shape of his cock within your walls.

He drops forward, holding himself up by his hands on each side of your face before he starts hammering himself inside you, making you gasp and moan incoherent words underneath him — the princeling in him only lasted for a few minutes, and now, he is just the Aemond who finds you annoying and miserable, fucking you as you are; the wife he hates, the woman he craves.

The rise and fall of your chest grows faster, and you wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, fingers leaving red angry marks all over his shoulder blades and back while you lock your legs around his slim waist, keeping him caged against you.

There are no words exchanged, there is no need to when both of you are moaning and groaning at the feeling, biting each other until there are visible signs of your tryst for the court to see on the next morrow.

He feels your walls clenching around his girth, bringing both his and your high closer. One of his hands reaches down, circling your nub so you fall over the edge of bliss, euphoria rushing through your body.

He follows closely, hammering his cock deep inside you until he buries himself into you and paints your walls with his seed, his eye wide open as he stares down at you, lips parted and pupil blown.

He pulls out of you after his body stops shaking, dropping down on the bed next to you as he tries to catch his breath, his arm lying limp on top of your body.

You feel his cum dribbling out of you, alerting you of what you have done. Suddenly, a wave of hatred crashes into your head, and you turn your head to look at his peaceful face before you start shoving him down your bed.

“Get out, arsehol!” You pull the covers on you, keeping them secure against your chest as you try to shove him down on the floor, “Get out of my room!”

“Easy, woman,” he throws his hands up in defeat, fixing his pants before he grabs his undershirt and puts it on, “I do not intend to stay here longer than needed.”

“I hate you,” you say, pushing him out of the door with force, frowning when he laughs into your face but you do not wait for him to reply before you slam the door shut.

But you hear him from the other side of the door.

“Mutual feelings, wife.”

had a thought & put pen to paper :3