A Friendly Competition

a friendly competition ⭐️

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This whole Gervonta Davis shit is no surprise I went to high school with this clown and he literally punched my friend in the face because she was sitting in his seat. He’s violent! Smh and this girl is now saying he didn’t do anything smh so sad man.

white coded fics be like: “he runs his fingers through your long silky hair, massaging your scalp until you fall into a deep slumber”

my black ass, my head wrap, and my bonnet:

May I request  “you’re so warm.” “i hear you, but we really need to get up, love.” for the holiday celebration?

Side note: I’m new to your blog and I’m loving everything!

pairing: namor x queen!reader

warnings: eighteen+ content, they married so established relationship, mentions of trying to conceive, teasing, sexy fluff.

note: i had to rework the second line to fit more namor, i hope you don’t mind, lovey <3 but writing softness with this man makes me swoon for real.

translations: In yakunaj (my love), ko’olelo’ tortuosa (tortuous woman).

Biologically you know the logic of ocean creatures being cold blooded. The deeper you travel down the colder the temperature, the more the water feels like ice constricting your passages and tearing into your skin like knives. It’s why you can’t leave this cavern and visit his city without gearing up.

But Namor seems to defy all logic. All things you thought you knew about the world and what was biologically capable and taught in a textbook or lab. One of the many defying qualities of his: his warmth. The temperature of his body never wavering whether he was on the surface or in the depths of the sea.

It’s a warmth you love waking up to—pressed to your back or flush against your cheek as you cuddle into his chest.

His heat at your back feels better than any blanket that could possibly be woven. The heat engulfing you like a furnace, the cave a stinging cold contrast to the warmth his body provides in the bed; on your skin, lulling your limbs to stay close to him, to stay in bed.

“You’re so warm.” You hum, sleep still clinging to you, still wanting to be had. Your voice soft and groggy.

His smile presses into your cheek when he wraps his forearm more securely around you, pulling you closer, and pressing the softest kiss to your cheek. “Yes, I know.” He mumbles against your skin as he leaves a trail of kisses from your cheek, jawline, below it, and to the beginnings of your neck. “But we must get up. Our people are going to think all we do is lay with each other, doing nothing productive. It does not look good.”

“Didn’t Namora tell us to stay in bed until we have secured an heir?”

“Yes, In yakunaj. But–”

“Who are we to not listen to her demands? She is our people correct? Your second hand–your–” he cuts you off with his mouth. His lips capture yours in a silencing kiss, maneuvering your frame so he’s now lying chest to chest with you.

“I have pumped you full for days, In yakunaj. It will take. We must do other duties.” His thumb rubs along your jaw, amusement in the up turn of his lips.

“What’s one more try?” You know you’re playing dirty, know that the two of you really should stretch and do something other than bask in each other's warmth. But that can come later, right now you want to drown in the feel of his chest on top of yours, and his cock between your thighs. So you push your hips up and let them drag along his quickly hardening cock. The soft groan he lets out feeling like a victory. “K’uk’ulkan,” you moan against his mouth as you roll your hips once more—for good measure.

“Who knew I married such a ko'olelo' tortuosa,” he growls as he slots himself between your thighs and presses his mouth to yours; hard, teeth nipping at your bottom lip.

WHITENESS IN NAMOR POSTS

White ppl need to stop writing themselves into Namor posts. For fuck’s sake, why’d you always think you’re the standard for female desirability? And it’s so obvious you’re signalling whiteness. I see gifs of white women actors for smut posts, references to skin colour or hair texture, that scream whiteness. Ppl here have been calling this out constantly, but there’s no stopping you. Y’all do this with a character as political as Namor (like did you pay attention to the movie or are you just here to sexualise a Brown man?). It’s a particular kind of stomach-turning sexualising of Black and Brown men that white ppl do and that’s what this reminds me of. It’s left unsaid that POC women just aren’t good enough, attractive enough, sexy enough. I am exhausted by this bullshit.

As POC readers/writers we love ourselves some Namor smut too, but if even with a character like him, you write us out, idk what you do in fandoms that haven’t built an entire cultural politics centring POC ppl, like Black Panther has. Namor is Indigenous. Namor’s history is rooted in the violence of colonialism. Tenoch has been speaking out against erasing Black and Brown folk for years. And still, you white folks are here colonising the shit out of our fandoms as well?!

listen as a namor whore (namwhore?) i think that he loves marking you as his like man would go nuts with the hickeys and bruises (and bite marks too). on the off chance he lets you return the favor he’s surprised by how much he loves seeing the love bites and bruises on his own godly self >:)

pairing: namor x princess!reader

word count: 962

warnings: eighteen+ content, mentions of p in v but not shown, teasing, bites and marking, established forbidden relationship.

note: ok see i love this concept, this take, this thot!! but i fear he’s not completely into you returning the favor because for him it’d be more of a ‘i want everyone to see and be reminded who you worship to’. and i think he likes to stay looking proper to his people, but he does let you get away with bites left under the shorts!!

You were supposed to have left your room and met your mother and the council minutes ago—almost an hour ago you now see as the clock on your bedside reflects back to you in the mirror you’re standing at. Trying to right yourself back into looking presentable, kept, like you’re not running late because the man at the foot of your bed used his sweet siren song of pretty compliments, and words that had you out of your dress just as fast as his fingers had torn at the undergarments underneath it.

Leaving your balcony door open for him was seeming more and more like a curse than a blessing.

Letting him come and go as he pleased, when he cared to visit you after days of being MIA. Sometimes only noting his presence with a saltwater covered gift he’d leave at your doorway, when you’d stayed up as long as your body would allow to. As you waited to see if he would come to you; or when duties like council meetings and required dinners were demanded of you—events a Princess was supposedly meant to attend.

You’re surprised your mother hasn’t sent someone to fetch you. You expect it anytime now, ever the punctual woman your mother was. Being tardy was surely going to get you a stern look and deep questioning.

“Jats'uts,” he mumbles against your shoulder.

Beautiful.

Pretty.

Your heart soars, fingers only wavering a little as you do your best to right the necklaces adorning your neck. Your body having just been molded pudy in his hands mere seconds ago. Your thighs still sticky from having his mouth and cock between them. Your legs still feel that heady wobble from post orgasm. Your mind and body still coming off of that beautiful precipice of want and desire, of falling against his body like you couldn’t stand up straight, or function properly, without him being there to sink into—or onto on most nights.

You had told him how urgent it was that you make it to this meeting. How he needed to turn around and make his way back to his beloved ocean before someone saw him, and your mother had both of you locked away.

A threat he laughed at. A threat you knew meant nothing to someone as powerful as him; a God.

“If this were Talokan I’d make our people come to you. You’d never have to lift a finger, princess.”

Our people.

As if there were some alternate reality in which that could come to formation. Where the two of you would rule as equals and not something forbidden, and secretive.

There had been too much death and destruction on both sides, from both of your people, for either groups to be happy to be ruled by the both of you.

But the fantasy was nice to dream about—get lost in the idea of actually being able to flaunt your love instead of hiding it.

When his arm wraps around your waist your body works on instinct, on knowing the hands and warmth of the man that’s touching it. Guiding it into his chest to lean and rest against. His lips brushing at the side of your neck, mustache burning your skin.

“Or you could stay naked, spread out for me. Waiting for my return while I handled everything.”

“Mm.” You let your eyes close as you grin, “no responsibilities other than pleasing my king.”

“Precisely.” His teeth take a hold of your sensitive skin, his tongue following after the sting like a salve. Making your body tremble against him, a gasp falling from your lips. “You’d never want for anything. I would have it brought to you. Made for you. There’s nothing I wouldn’t give to you, princess.” His mouth repeats it’s actions against your neck, his hand creeping lower to the start of your thigh.

That ache between your legs quickly making a home once more at your swollen clit.

“K’uk’ulkan,” his name falls from your lips, practiced, known, worshiped—as you moan softly. As you let him suck and bite at your skin, letting his words coax you into that fantasy world you want so badly.

You don’t come back to reality until you feel his fingers start to pull up the bottom of your dress, the cool air against your damp underwear bringing you back down from that building high.

“Nononono,” you pull away from him. Untangling his arms from your body and sending him a scowl at the way he’s smirking at you. “I’m already late because of you!”

“My apologies, princess.” His hand waves towards the door, “don’t keep your people waiting any longer.”

“I won’t! You-” your quick movements stop abruptly when you see it, when the deep hue catches your eye in the mirror. And maybe it’s half your own fault for not stopping him, for once again falling victim to the hot-tease of manipulation of his beautiful words.

There’s words of anger and disbelief in the back of your throat, ready to come up and spill over at the man whose eyes are locked onto yours in the mirror. Who is still wearing that signature cool as can be expression, that you really want to slap off of him.

Your mother was going to kill you.

String you up as a pariah!

“My mother–”

“Will not be pleased, no.” He finishes for you. Steps back into that space behind you, returning his heat to your back. His thumb runs along the bruised area, eyes gleaming at his creation before flashing back to yours. “But now everyone will know you belong to someone.”

You belong to me.

Unspoken in words but not in the way he presses a kiss to the love mark, lips soft and endearingly sensual.