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princessbrunette · 2 months

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HOLD ME, KISS ME ♡

♪ the little dippers — forever ♪

WANTED: JOHN BOOKER ROUTLEDGE - SUSPECTED MURDER - $1000 REWARD - DANGEROUS! IF SPOTTED DO NOT APPROACH!

pairing: outlaw!johnb + sheltered!reader ⋆₊⊹♡

synopsis: your wishes come true when a beautiful boy is found sleeping peacefully in your barn. much to his surprise, you don’t care about who he is or what he has or hasn’t done — you just want to ensure he stays forever.

cw: mentions of prayer, religion and god (for plot purpose) reader has two parents, western!au, innocence kink, slight manipulation, mentions of crime, breeding kink, smut ♡

“Please deliver me a man, save me from this loneliness. Make him kind, and strong, and handsome. I vow to make him the happiest man alive.”

Your forehead rests against your clasped hands where you kneel beside your bed, speaking out loud as there was no one else to speak to. Your parents had gone on a trip for two weeks, leaving you in charge of the farmhouse all by your lonesome.

Isolated didn’t feel like the correct term. You were grateful, happy to live off the fat of your father’s land in the middle of nowhere, but sometimes you wished you had someone to share it with. Someone your own age who was there to see you. You had become the perfect host, thrilled when your parents would bring home guests once in a blue moon. You’d tie ribbons in your hair and pick the perfect dress and set the table like your mother taught you. You often imagined setting the table for a family of your own.

Your own farm house. The thought sent you off to sleep each night, walking through the home in your mind as if it were really real, feeling the creaking of the painted wooden porch beneath your feet as you enter, the distant cooing of your baby being comforted by your husband in the next room. White shabby-chic panels across the walls with oak furniture and knitted throw pillows and lots and lots of warm light. The kitchen table would have the perfect lace floral embroidered table cloth draped across it which you’d serve the heartiest dinners on each night. The babies room would be painted mint green, no— maybe pastel yellow, with handmade toys and a music box that played your song and oh, the master bedroom… where you and your husband rest your head would be flooded with natural light. A haven. All yours.

The details to the decoration often changed, new inspiration plucked from the papers that father would bring home and new favourite colours integrating themselves into your home plans but one thing remained the same each time. Your husband. He never had a face, but it wasn’t important. He was warm, strong without having to prove just how macho he was, kind— you could feel his love from the next room on. That was all you really wanted. You could forget the house, forget the land, live in a barn for all you care — you just wanted to experience a love like the ones in the fairytale books stacked high in your room.

It had been a week already of this routine you’d grown used to. You wake up, feed yourself and then the chickens, come inside, clean yourself and then the house, paint, crotchet or read — however the mood takes you, eat lunch, tend to the crops, brush the horses, maybe milk a cow, come inside and cook dinner, bathe, think about your dream husband and grind your wet messy cunt into a pillow, feel guilty, beg for forgiveness and then sleep. It was an easy life, and you couldn’t complain— but you couldn’t help feel the world had more to offer.

Your mother often told you that gifts from above come when you least expect it, you just had to keep your eyes open. You always wondered how one might find these gifts with no idea where to look.

Your gift arrived bright and early the next morning.

Well, not technically as early as it should have been, infact you probably nearly missed it. The roosters calls at 6AM each morning, but on that very day you had decided to sleep in. A few hours wouldn’t kill them, you think as you pull a plush white pillow to lay over your ear— it’s not like the chickens would starve.

At 11:45AM, you stumble bare foot onto the grass outside, setting out on your walk to the barn a little way up the land. Your pert nipples harden, awakened by the cool morning breeze as the thin white fabric of your nightdress blows in the wind. With the sunlight shining directly on it, it was sure to be totally and utterly see through— and you suppose that was one upside to living in the middle of nowhere, yards upon yards from civilisation. No one would see you. Sigh.

You feed the chickens, totally blind before it even occurs to you that anything might be astray. Infact, you don’t even seem to notice that the barn door was left ajar, as opposed to how you usually leave it bolted by a wooden slab to prevent the animals from wandering off or being massacred by foxes. You suppose that’s the price you pay for sleeping in, you live in dreamworld for the next few hours.

The Earth seems to stop turning for a moment when you see him.

You’re more curious than anything, wide eyed, holding your breath as to be totally silent despite having been humming and speaking to the chickens only a moment prior. You tiptoe through the hay, shards of straw sprouting between your painted toes and pin-needling your sole as you draw closer to the man. A fallen angel, your first thought.

He’s half curled up onto his side in the hay behind the stable for your white pony. He has thick-ish arms crossed over his chest, his hat laying over his face seeming to be serving as a purpose to block out the light. You figure as you hadn’t woken up him before, a closer inspection couldn’t hurt. Unhurriedly, you sink down into a squat beside him, knees pointed upwards and feet taking your balance. A real man, in your barn? It couldn’t be. You chew on your bottom lip, goggle-eyed and inquisitive as you cautiously lift the hat away from his face.

He doesn’t wake and you’re for some reason thankful. It gives you time to observe him, the breath all but knocked from your body as you take in just how beautiful he is. He was perfect, and just like what you were hoping for when you wished to be delivered a husband.

Dark eyelashes kissing at the rim of his closed eyes, pale lips and freckles, sunkissed across his nose. Your eyes trail over and across him, now with his face in mind taking in account what he looks like as a whole. You were still in disbelief, a real man sleeping in your barn. But then again, as your eyes skim lower and you notice the blood seeping through his shirt over his stomach — you wonder if he was sleeping. Surely he wasn’t dead? Only God could be so cruel to deliver you the perfect man without a pulse.

So, you press two cold fingers to his neck, searching for the rhythmic beats signifying life. As soon as you do so, the man jolts awake — wide brown eyes meeting yours.

“Jesus.”

This is where the stare off commences— you were sat in a squat giving him a straight shot up your night dress with dome like eyes and parted lips, observing him like he was some sort of alien life form that had happened upon your barn infront of your very eyes. Your chest rises and falls, and his gender fails to betray him as his eyes fall there for a moment, subconsciously noticing the way your bare tits strain against the thin fabric with each exhale. Somewhere in the back of his mind he can’t help but acknowledge that you’re a pretty thing, totally his type. In any other scenario, he might’ve seen you at a local tavern and introduced himself, getting you tipsy and loose, making you giggle beneath his soft gaze and coarse hands in some dimly lit booth before realising he’s far too respectful to take advantage of you like that.

With his eyes open, the picture is complete — and he truly is as beautiful as you thought. He had a puppy like quality to his eyes, they were big and brown but from the sunlight streaming in you could see specks of orange which intrigues you. You wish to look closer, but you feel it’s not the time. His adam’s apple bobs with a thick swallow and he tears his eyes away from yours to look around, still disorientated from sleep. He touches his wound with gentle fingers and he winces, going to push himself up on his elbows.

You open your mouth to speak but he beats you to it, warm deep voice raspy from rest as he dives into a sequence of begging.

“Does anyone know I’m in here?”

“No, I—”

“Okay, that’s— okay, please — hey, please don’t tell anyone. I won’t lie to you, I’m in a little bit of trouble with the law, nothing super bad I swear just — I needed somewhere safe to sleep so I ended up here. Didn’t take anything and uh— and I’ll be out of your hair now that I’m up.” He rambles, continually glancing at the barn doors, expecting Sheriff Shoupe to bust them down and take him in at any moments notice. You say nothing for a moment and he pushes himself to his feet, eyes squeezing shut at the soreness of his injury. “Think it’s easiest if I just—”

He cuts himself off this time, because you slip your hand into his— stopping him from going anywhere. His eyebrows jump up and he freezes on the spot, staring down at your doe eyes with a wide and confused gaze of his own.

“…Hi?”

“You just got here? Why’d you have to go?” You sound sad, and he actually can’t believe what he’s hearing. Not only did he break into your barn, on private land — but he’d totally overstayed his non-existent welcome, and now you didn’t want him to leave?

“P—pardon me? Ma’am?” He tries to be respectful, when what he really wants to ask is along the lines of ‘What the fuck?’.

You scramble to stand up and he helps you using the hand that you’re grasping. “Well, you won’t get far with a wound like that. It could get infected. Maybe you could come inside, let me dress it. You can refuel… maybe stay a few days?” The last part sounds wrong coming from your mouth. He’s a stranger for goodness sake— everything your parents had taught you about safety went against this and plus you were practically begging. You might have been embarrassed, if there wasn’t such a nagging feeling in your stomach telling you that this was meant to be.

He scoffs out a chuckle, because he thinks there’s no way you’re serious— but when he sees your wide eyes bouncing between his own, searching for something he couldn’t quite put a finger on— he realises you’re being completely genuine and his expression melts into a more worried gaze, shuffling a little closer on his feet.

“Look, I really appreciate your hospitality, but you have done more than enough, really. Just the fact you didn’t have the sheriff busting in to drag me away is something I will be very grateful for. Believe me. But I can’t drag you into this. Anyway, don’t you have family? That you live with?”

You sigh, looking down at your intertwined hands that you had yet to release, staring as if you were trying to memorise the feeling of a man’s touch incase you really couldn’t convince him to stay.

“Well yes, but they’re on a trip you see — and they’re going to be away for another week and I’m not sure how much more I can take. I’m awfully lonely, and I know you’re a stranger and all but I could really use the extra set of hands… plus it’s the least you could do… for breaking in…” You feel you’re pushing it with that last part, but decide to proceed with it anyway, any means necessary to get him to stay. He bites his bottom lip in thought as you stare up through your lashes and he thinks screw it. He’s sure you’re not setting him up, a little thing like you would be far too weak to pull that off.

“Okay, I… don’t see why not then.” He doesn’t sound certain, but you make such a good offer he’d be a fool not to accept. He bends down and swoops his hat off the floor, holding it to his chest and you take his hand once more, guiding him out of the barn.

He presses his lips together in an awkward smile at the way you confidently lead him, almost having to break into a jog to match your eager pace. Once nearing the house, you tell him your name and he nods — taking in the scenery.

You’re sitting him down in the living room before he can blink, and he takes in the setting around him. A real cozy place, a family home for sure — with a pale blue couch, a scratchy patchwork blanket draped over the back and floral cushions. There’s photos of you in multiple spots around the room, an only child — he gathers. The main photo sits on the mantelpiece, framed, a set of parents curtaining your smiling face in the image. You seem to be a few years younger, fuller in the face, still cute as a button.

He doesn’t quite realise you’d gone anywhere until you’re returning — the contents of an old first aid box rumbling in your grip. You give him a reassuring smile and lower to kneel by his feet, opening up the container and fishing around for some cotton pads.

“Do you have a name, mister?”

He clears his throat, trying to gage your reaction once he speaks, attempting to work out if the name rings any bells. “Uh, yeah. John B. John B. Routledge. You might’ve… actually heard of me. If you have, uh— I’m sorry.”

You don’t seem to react in any kind of alarming way, a smile grazing your face as you pour rubbing alcohol onto a soft white pad.

“Heard of you how? Are you famous?”

“…You’ve never seen those big ‘Wanted’ posters up in town? Kinda got my picture up on one of them.”

You peel up his shirt revealing tanned, toned skin and a wound that had crusted over with blood. You press the pad to it and he winces, knuckles turning white in his lap and head lulling back against the seat for a moment.

“Sorry.” You furrow your brows apologetically before continuing to mop up all the dried blood. “Oh, and I’m not allowed up in town. Not by myself anyway. So, I don’t keep up to date with all that… stuff.” You pull away, rifling through the box for another clean pad. He nods, eyes jumping to look at his wound and then back to you, watching your face for any discomfort regarding his presence. Oddly, there was none. If it wasn’t clear before, it’s wildly apparent now that you’ve truly been sheltered your whole life. There was this innocence you carried that was hard to come by, a lack of judgement that was sweet but made him worry for you slightly. You were lucky he had a good heart.

“That’s… probably for the best, actually. You know, they like to tell lies. I’m being falsely accused.” He speaks a little slower, and enunciates the last part as if you might not understand, and as expected— you hang onto every word, lips a little parted and wide eyed. It’s pretty cute, albeit inappropriate considering he’s a stranger.

As he speaks, you wrap his wound, pressing the sticky part down onto his skin before gently pressing the cotton covering his injury. “Well I’m really sorry about that John B. You don’t have to worry about that anymore.” You chirp, before leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss over the dressing, pulling back to offer him a sweet smile. The lines on John B’s forehead smooth out, his concerned expression melting into his own gentle smile of disbelief.

He wonders what the odds are that he’d stumbled upon a real life angel. Well, it was that — or you wanted to chop his body into tiny pieces whilst he slept and add it to your cauldron. He couldn’t quite figure it out yet, but you were pretty — and he was a total loverboy, so stupidly he was willing to take that risk.

He pulls his shirt back down over his now dressed wound and you begin to clear your things back into the first aid box.

“Is there anything I can do for you? Like, anything you need help with around here?” He offers and you look up at him, brows furrowing with adoration.

“Goodness, no— I couldn’t ask that of you.”

“Said you needed an extra pair of hands earlier.” He challenges with a smile.

“I only said that to get you to come inside. With your injury, I couldn’t possibly put you to work.”

He scrunches his face a little with a half scoff, half smile and shrugs one shoulder. “Please, this thing? It barely even stings. Come oooon.” He croons with a smirk, and you really feel the full effects of his charm now— the warm timbre of his voice headed straight to your clit giving it a heartbeat of its own.

“Fine.” It comes out airy with a giddy smile and you take his hand yet again, almost getting distracted by the coarseness against your palm, the sight of bulging veins along the backs of them.

Your bare feet are treading lightly over soft wood chip once more as you lead him toward the destroyed fence round the left side perimeter of the farm.

“So… I suppose you could carry all the planks back from the fence that fell down in that awful storm last week. I was gonna wait for my daddy to get home to get him to do it ‘cus I’m much too weak for something like that.” You point, and John B’s brown fluffy head follows your finger to the destination at hand. He nods, a doable task.

“Well a girl like you shouldn’t be lifting a finger anyway.” He turns his head back to face you with a smile, eyes squinted in the sun. He looks radiant, no sign of pain anymore and you look down at your night gown, scrunching it in your clammy hands with an uncontrollable grin at the floor, harbouring such an innocent crush on the boy already that you didn’t know what to do with yourself.

His gaze stays on you for a tick whilst you step quietly and he speaks up again, tilting his head a little inquisitively. “I really, really hope this doesn’t sound rude… ‘cus I don’t mean to be. But… are you not… married?” He trails off, thinking of all the times he’s been walloped round the head in taverns for asking questions of a similar nature. Your smile doesn’t go away, your gentle nature not retiring for a moment.

“Oh no, no. I don’t meet boys often. Thats why I’m happy you came!” You chirp, hand reaching out to softly squeeze his arm. “Can be like husband and wife whilst you stay round.”

He just laughs in response. Not necessarily in a mean way, but the same way you laugh when a child tells you they’re going to be an astronaut when they grow up.

The brutal beating of the sun does nothing to stop the honest work you’d put the self proclaimed outlaw up to, he seems to be deep in thought often — carrying the planks to and fro. You slip inside for a while to change into something more appropriate, a sweet and floral sundress that ties up at the straps and hugs you in a more womanly way. You’d rubbed your lips together as you fixed your hair in the mirror before bringing him a sandwich in the early afternoon. “You are adorable.” He grins when you do so, and it wasn’t quite the reaction you’d hoped for on your dress but it still made you warm in the face. He simply brought out a true primal bodily reaction from you— that’s why you’d skipped the panties under your dress. He was making you excited and slippery down there and you just didn’t see the point. You stay out for hours at a time to chat with him. Your affections grow.

John B. Routledge finally returns back to the house when he’s all finished and you let him lay down for a nap on your couch, finally getting some real rest in. Whilst he does so, you spend hours preparing a hearty meal — the type you reserve for when mama and papa have guests round. As the pie browns off just a moment longer in the oven, you come to the man’s side, kneeling beside him and stroking his fluffy hair back.

“I made dinner. Sure you’re really hungry.” You whisper and his eyes flutter once more, the arms that were crossed over his chest stretching out as he wakes. You sit back to give him space, and when he opens his eyes you’re there with a smile — the orange beam of sunset haloing your head. Something about an angel drafts through his mind once more and he stretches.

“Oh boy, I slept longer than I was meant to huh?” He sits up and you shrug, leading him through to the kitchen where you’d laid the round table. Steaming seasoned vegetables in a bowl, freshly picked by you. Warm bread, baked and scored by you with flowers the centrepiece of the table. A jug of gravy there too. There’s a tray of mashed potatoes waiting, creamy and delicious looking. Routledges stomach audibly growls and he chuckles at this as he sits down, taking in the scenery you’d laid out. “You… have spoiled me. All this for someone who breaks into your barn?” He chuckles as he lowers himself into the seat.

You follow him round the table with a giddy smile. “Told you I like havin’ guests.” You perch your bottom on his leg, an arm wrapped around his neck as your feet swing. It felt right. You’d always wanted to sit with a man this way, you’d seen it before in the picture shows. Man and wife, domestic bliss. His brows jump up and he clears his throat awkwardly.

“Oh… sweetheart, you shouldn’t do that. I am a— a stranger, after all.” He tries to do the responsible thing, even though there was something about your innocent brashness that was turning him on beyond belief. Your eyebrows knit in the centre, a line between them and your bottom lip seems to have doubled in size from how it pushes out.

“But I like you?” You mewl, rejected. It all seems so simple to you, which is probably feels super unfair. No one had taught you how to address men because you were so sheltered, and now it was giving you all of these complicated feelings that John B would have to deal with.

“And I like you — a whole bunch. You know I’m super grateful for you taking me in and… all that good stuff. But sitting right here is gonna… make me excited. Because I’m a guy. Go ahead and hop off for me.” He taps your lower back gently and you huff, feeling upset and rejected about the whole thing. His eyes are all wide and hopeful as he stares at you, like he wanted to make sure you were okay. The way he handles you so sweetly made your stomach stir despite your current mope.

You drag your feet to the oven comically and he stifles a chuckle at how dramatic you were, despite his sympathy. You place your hands into oven gloves and take out the pie— perfect and golden. You walk it to the table and John B sits up a little straighter, eyes darting between you and the food.

“Did this all by yourself? You have got a real knack for cooking. Should put you on the TV.” He grins, switching on the charm to attempt to loosen up your silent sulk. You nod, eyes casted down childishly and he reaches out to touch your arm. “Thank you, pretty girl.”

A small smile slips out, and he flickers his eyes over to the heart shape you’d scored onto the pie, his own lips twitching up into a smirk. “That for me?”

“Maybe.”

“Hmm.”

You end up giggling, his smile too infectious and your bad moment is all forgotten as you serve him a slice, plating up for him and then yourself before you eat. John B digs in ravenously, it’s almost erotic — the way he’s groaning at how good it all tastes, gravy dripping from his lips as he licks more off his fingers. He was clearly less proper-mannered than you, but you liked that. Table manners were for boring old people anyway. Maybe everything about him got you going, but you had to really concentrate on getting some food inside you instead of just watching the show of eating he was putting on.

Once you’re finished, and he’s finishing up on his third helping — you let your giggles die down from the wild goose chase story he relayed for you, one where he of course wound up the hero which only made your heart beat harder for him. Your socked foot begins to prod at his ankle, sliding up his leg until it rests in his lap. He doesn’t seem to mind, the food having lowered his guard just that bit as he leans back in his chair, undoing his belt. He adjusts his hips on the seat as he does so and your thighs clench.

“So what did you think?” You ask, though you think it’s clear that he liked the meal from the empty plates and unbuckled belt. He lets out a long satisfied sigh, gazing at you for a moment with a kind smile.

“I think, whoever gets to marry you is a lucky son of a bitch.” He presses his lips together, almost like he was disappointed about the idea of you with another. You blink, the hands resting beneath your chin dreamily slowly falling to play with eachother on the table.

“Why not you, John B?” You question sadly, giving him those eyes again. The ones that tug on his heart and made him wanna give you everything and anything you ask for. He lifts a napkin, bringing it to his mouth as he shakes his head dismissively, closing his eyes with a frown.

“Mm—mm.” The tissue fabric muffles the sound. “You don’t wanna marry me, believe me — okay, I’m an outlaw. Your parents would never in a billion years accept me. Anyway you… you deserve someone less rough and tumble, you know? Like a prince from a storybook. A bubblewrap life. Not… whatever this is.” He gestures to himself, more so the browned blood stain on his shirt.

You sigh, determined. “My parents would understand. They’re — they’re generous people.”

“Really? ‘Cus they don’t even let you leave the house.” He quips quickly in response, smirking at your naivety and you fall silent for a moment. His face flattens just a tad from guilt. You were far too soft for that kind of tone.

When you look up at him again, your face is more solemn — wide eyes searching his for a shred of understanding. “You don’t understand, John B. There are actual scary, dangerous men out there that would take me and do terrible things to me.”

The outlaw leans his elbows on the table, his lips stretched into an amused smile at the irony. There wasn’t an inkling of threat about the gesture, pure amusement coursing through the energy between you from his side alone. “And how do you know I’m not one of those scary, dangerous men. Hm?” His voice is warm, it seems to rumble straight from his chest. You release a shaky sigh.

“Well you haven’t hurt me yet?” Your voice lilts out, and you engage in a long stare off. There’s a different kind of tension in the air now, it’s hot and feels heavy on you. It oozes into the nooks and crannies of your balmy skin and slithers between your thighs. You can’t take the heat and you stand, beginning to bring his dishes to the sink to wash. It’s quiet for a while, John B watching you with this thoughtful and almost knowing smile as you tidy up around him. Even he couldn’t run from how good ‘domestic bliss’ felt.

You let yourself indulge in the fantasy too. Wife cleans up, husband sits behind at the table and sips at the drink she poured him. You wanted nothing more than to experience this everyday, and your heart sinks sadly at the fact that this will probably be the last. You lose yourself to thoughts and daydreams as you scrub away, to the point you nearly don’t hear him stand up, slowly walking to lean against the sink beside you.

You smile at him politely as he eyes you, and return your gaze to the plate in your hand. You mustn’t dwell. He moves, and soon he’s behind you, a hand resting against the sink beside your hip, head craning round to look at you from the other side. “You’re really serious about this husband and wife thing, aren’t you?”

“Very serious, sir.” You bat your lashes at him earnestly and his cock stirs in his pants at the title, unexpected but not unwelcomed. Bless your heart, you were only being courteous. He presses his lips together in thought and the side of your face warms with his slow exhale. Turning your body, you face him fully now. “I just think it was divine intervention that you wound up in my barn. You’re like an angel sent to take away my loneliness.” You’re shy, a little bashful about your beliefs and without thinking he cups your cheek in reassurance, thumb swiping slowly over the skin.

His eyes take in your every detail, and your lips part with a wobbly breath, nervous. “May I kiss you, John B?” You address, just as his thumb strokes the delicate skin below your eye. He grins, slightly amused by your formality and simply nods his head.

You stand on tip toes to reach him, socked feet almost knocking at his boots as your body presses to his, lips meeting. You’re a little messy, inexperienced— which comes as no surprise to the boy as he tilts his head, welcoming your mouth at another angle and taking control in order to guide you. You’re mostly a quick learner, slowing your pace to something much more sultry and he nearly can’t contain his excitement. He wants to be a gentleman, but as soon as he introduces his tongue — you lose composure, needy and all but panting into his mouth right then and there in the kitchen. He pulls away and breaks the string of saliva that connects your lips with his thumb, stroking it over your moist bottom lip as you stare at him readily.

He tilts his head, eyes wide and almost innocent as he gestures away. “You… want me to show you what husbands do with their wives?”

You nod so hard your eyes nearly roll back like one of those baby-dolls.

John B is the one to take your hand this time, leading you slowly and carefully through the house. You partially think he’s giving himself time to rethink what he’s about to do, but from the way your pussy is drooling into your panties — it feels set in stone. He finally reaches your bedroom and you watch his head move left and right as he takes it in, cheek lifting with a smile at the China dolls on the wall and the frilly white bedsheets. It’s clear your room hasn’t changed since you were a little girl. The sun is just starting to disappear behind your lace curtains and he switches on the lamp, sitting you down.

The man joins you, easing himself down at your side and cupping your cheek as he begins to kiss you again. He takes it slow, but the passion and need only grows as the splayed hand on your back begins to slide upwards until its cupping the back of your head and he’s beginning to slowly lower you to lie down like you’re made of glass.

Naturally you shuffle up the bed and he follows, hovering over you and leading with his tongue this time — the wet muscles wrapping around eachother languidly making you moan, legs falling wider apart.

“I wanna make you feel really good, okay? That okay with you?” He asks gently and you nod, sucking in a breath. You’d waited for something like this since you knew what pleasure was, craved the touch of a man with strong coarse hands and a wet mouth. Routledges thumbs swipe across your tits through your dress, massaging them until your nipples were poking painfully through the fabric as he burrows into your neck, licking and sucking.

Your whole body feels like it’s on fire as he tugs gently at your dress, eyes meeting yours once more.

“Let’s get this off, yeah?”

He tugs the garment up and over, puffing out his cheeks as he blows air out his mouth, brows raised at the sight of your naked body. You look so soft, so pliable beneath him. He was already hard just from kissing you, but this made him feel like he might combust. “Took your underwear off?” He smirks, pressing kisses to your stomach and between your tits before bringing his face up to eye level with you, same kind but teasing smile on his face. “Have you been needing me aaall day? Hm?”

You turn your head to the side, flustered and clammy with a whine— eyes screwed shut. He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Oh, now you’re shy?”

“No, s’just — when you speak like that— n’say stuff like that… makes me hurt…” You’re breathless, hips twitching and bucking slightly as he grins, pearly whites showing.

“Aw.” Is all he manages before continuing his descent down.

He’s a real tease, spending an ungodly amount of time on your tits— sucking, licking and biting your nipples until you’re arched off the bed, teary eyed and wincing from sensitivity. It’s then, and only then he starts to kiss lower, pushing himself down your pristine sheets until he’s settling between your legs, gently easing your ankles upwards so that your knees faced the sky, your cunt fluttering and open right infront of his face.

“Well she’s very pretty.” He smiles up at you, thumbs coming up to spread you. He leans in slowly, hot breath fanning over your heat before he simply presses the softest kiss to your clit. He draws back again as you whimper, running the pads of his thumbs up along your spread folds. “Hear that? So wet, pretty girl.” He marvels in a whisper.

“Just want you to make it better.” You mewl and he nods slowly in understanding, tongue swiping over his lips as he observes you.

“That I can definitely do.” He confirms before leaning in, licking and sucking at your clit as his thumb automatically rolls downwards to massage your hole. You gasp, knees shooting up towards your chest as he eats you, similarly to the pure fervour and passion he only recently devoured the meal you cooked for him. You wondered how any appetite remained.

When he sinks his middle finger inside you, your stomach tenses — a high pitched noise of relief and utter devastation leaving you. You had no idea how badly you’d craved fullness to this very moment, and you weren’t even halfway there. He’s smiling against you, glancing up as you flutter around his single digit and make plenty of noise for him. “Yeah? Think you’ve really been needing some of that, little girl.” He nearly laughs at your extreme reaction. He had to admit, it was fun doing this with someone so inexperienced. Everything to you seemed like the best thing ever.

He eats and eats away, proving himself to have quite the monstrous appetite for your slick . Your feet rest on his shoulders at one point, lost in pleasure as you whine and writhe and to keep you out of the way, the outlaw pushes your legs up and pins them there, nose deep in your gloss.

“Feels too good— feels— hurts!” You cry, because you don’t know how to put that you’re simply aching to cum.

“Doesn’t hurt, sweet girl. Just let it happen.” He corrects in that low reverberation that you’ve grown to love. After a series of ‘Uh’ and ‘Mm’s, you feel yourself hitting that peak — the one you usually reach all over the soft cotton of your pillow, but ten times the strength.

As soon as he senses this happening, he doubles down and continues repeating the same action with his mouth over and over until you’re squealing and pushing him away, curling into a ball as your completion dribbles out of your quivering hole.

He grins, real proud of himself as he pushes up on his hands to near you, gently shushing you the same way you would to soothe a baby to sleep. “I know, that was a lot huh?” He coo’s, rubbing your back with his warm hand as you suffer the aftershocks, clenching and whimpering, a smaller clammy hand reaching out to his shirt to grab a fist of it.

He forces you softly onto your back, stroking a hand over your warm forehead. For someone so convinced the two of you shouldn’t be together, he sure did look at you like you were his entire world. By the gaze shared, you would never know the two of you only met that morning.

“What now, hm?” He smiles, quiet. You open your mouth to speak, and your voice rasps from the loud and explosive release that had you calling out.

“Wanna… make you feel as good as you made me feel, John B.”

He licks his lips, thinking over it. If it wasn’t already clear, his dick was throbbing in his pants just from pleasing you— and had you wanted to end things there he would be sure to take a trip to the bathroom to finish in his hand. Maybe swipe a pair of your underwear from the basin for inspiration, but that made his stomach tense with guilt.

“Think I can manage that, yeah.” He nods before reaching slowly for his belt. “Sure?”

“Mhm.”

“Good, good.”

His belt is still undone from after dinner so he slides the snakey leather from its loops with one hand, the act more attractive than you anticipated which made you clench once more with need. He sits on the edge of the bed and you usher up beside him, pressing your naked body to him and ghosting your drooly lips over his jaw line as he sighs, working his length out of his pants.

“Oh my.” You breathe, as soon as you look down. Now you hadn’t had much experience in dealing with the male anatomy, clearly — but you knew for certain John B had to be miles larger than the average man. His cock stood tall, straight — slightly mauve towards the tip with a beautiful blue vein drifting down his shaft like a river on a mountain. His balls sat beneath, heavy and pink — inviting in a way that made your mouth water primally.

“Yeah? This is… what m’working with.” He chuckles, sounding a little nervous.

“How do I…” You mutter after a moment and he’s quick to take your hand, pressing your fingers so that it forms a cup and bringing it to your mouth.

“You wanna spit for me, pretty? Right here.” He encourages and whilst you don’t understand, you do as he wishes, letting a bubbly glob of saliva drool out into the cupped crevice of your hand. You look up at him with wide unsure eyes, searching for praise or reassurance that you’d done as he asked. He presses his lips together at the sweet and submissive expression, shifting his hips a tad in excitement. “Mm, fuck.” He punctuates with an airy chuckle, ticking his head in a single shake.

He brings your hand down and begins to smear it all over himself, releasing a shaky exhale as he does so. “So, uh… you’re gonna wanna move your hand. Just like this.” He sighs as he works your hand up and down his shaft, slowly jerking him off. Your eyes flicker between his face and pretty dick to make sure you were doing it right. As you do so, he presses a lingering kiss to your lips, muttering a “So sweet, bubba.” Against your mouth.

This only encourages you to gain confidence, doing whatever feels right. You twist your hand— squeezing just a tad harder towards the tip as that seemed to be what made him release that heavenly groan, jaw constantly agape as he watches your hand.

“Theeere you go sweetheart. Easy right? Like milking a cow.” He kisses your temple briskly once more before his eyes screw shut, chest heaving with quicker breaths. You get carried away, fascinated by the pearly precum that seeps from his slit as you work him with your hand and following your own judgment you lean down. You figure if he used his mouth on you, you could return the favour.

His eyes open with a loud shudder when you tentatively wrap your plush lips around his tip, working your hand up and down to try and squeeze more of the interesting salty flavour from him. You let out a long drawn out moan of your own as you feel your clit throbbing with desire, liberating his precum from your mouth to let it dribble back down his shaft in messy bubbles.

He winces, placing a hand on your shoulder and removing you with such an abrupt speed that you nearly flew off the side of the bed. You sit up straight, slick mouth pouting as your eyes flicker between his, worrying that you’d done something wrong. There’s a second of just looking at eachother, before you stumble over some words.

“S—Sorry. Did I hurt—”

“No, no God no. I uh— I just wasn’t sure if I should make a mess all over that pretty face just yet.” His wide eyed expression melts into a reassuring smile, thumb rising to swipe lovingly at your cheek. You lick your lips, savouring the taste of him and nod — not quite sure where to go from there.

Your silence makes him question, and he eyes you. “Is there… anything in particular you want now?”

You think, blinking your doll-like eyelashes off into the distance before nodding once more— pushing off away from him and scurrying to the head of the bed where you lay yourself gently on the pillows.

“Hm?” He follows up in confusion, craning his neck round to watch you.

“Would… like a baby now, please.” You spread your legs a little, shy and bashful in your request like you wasn’t sure if you’d asked impolitely. His face falls as he stares at you for a moment before closing his eyes, rubbing over his face with an exasperated chuckle, elbows on his knees.

As you stare at him with with an upset little pout, already ashamed by your forwardness. “Like husband and wife?” You try to justify and he sighs out his nose, turning his body fully to you.

“Oh sweet girl.” He tugs you gently lower toward him by your hips, rubbing his thumbs at your waist. “We just met.”

You launch into full fledged begging, whiny and high pitched with tears threatening to dive over their trough. “I’ll make you so happy John B, I’ll make all your problems go away and you won’t have to run anymore. Please?” You were deadset on this man giving you your dream life, and you’d officially pushed shame to the side in order to get this. His brow is permanently creased, staring with those big wide puppy dog eyes, continually stroking your skin in hopes to calm you.

“Are you… sure that’s what you want? You’re still young. So much time for all that.”

“Just want it now. I’d never be lonely again.” You sound defeated, staring down away from him now. He felt bad, he’d always hated disappointing people. Once upon a time he was a fixer, always running to his friends aid to make their problems go away. That urge never died, just burned low and quiet like an old candle flame. He wanted to make your problems go away too.

“Okay.” He presses his lips together. “I’ll give you what you want, sweetheart.”

He watches your devastated expression lift into a radiant grin, and it was like watching the sun appear from behind a grey cloud after weeks of downcast weather. “Yeah?” You chirp toothily as he crawls over you, leaking tip grazing your tummy and then your folds as he buries his face into your neck.

“Uh-huh.”

When he pushes his tip inside, John B says a prayer for the first time in his life.

He’d never really followed any religion. His father had been the type to say it was all a bunch of ‘Mumbo jumbo’ and that he should believe in the human psyche instead, or something like that. But as your wet folds swallow him and you release that high pitched mewl at the inevitable stretch — he finds himself asking God — please, please don’t let me knock this young girl up.

There’s a warm blanket of chills that cover his spine as he slowly sheathes inside of you, feeling like he was pushing deeper and deeper into a black hole that would selfishly keep sucking him inside for the rest of his life. It felt too good, calming — like falling asleep. He was euphoric.

“So — so big inside me!” Your cry knocks him out of his thoughts and he kisses your shoulder before looking down to watch himself push in all the way to the hilt.

“Feel okay, gorgeous?”

You nod, a pained whine falling from you as you dig your nails into his skin, walls fluttering around him like they were constantly trying to accommodate for this thickness. “Fuck.” He groans, before sliding back a little and starting to thrust. Yeah, he wasn’t gonna last too long— he needed to get to work on you fast.

As he gently fucks into you, your plush tits recoil with the movement and he can’t close his mouth, sounds and sighs leaving him without permission. A hand slides between the two of you, the other pulling his shirt up to grip between his teeth— giving himself a better view of the way he strokes at your clit — your legs being spread exposing it, making it easier for him.

You clench, and shudder — that sweet face contorting with each time his tip ever so slightly grazes your cervix, careful not to bruise it. You really were beautiful, that type of homely beauty he’d thought of marrying in his lonely nights of travelling through desert and grass. The type of girl you work for, the type that deserves spoiling, princess treatment. The more he fucks, the more he’s convincing himself that impregnating you might not be the most awful thing after all. Why should he chase away security?

Your fingertips grace his chest, and he takes your hand — pinning it to the bed as your fingers intertwine, using the grip to aid his rolling thrusts— speeding up the pace and force now he knew you could take it like a champ. His mouth opens to speak, and his shirt drops out of it.

“Taking me real good baby. You like getting fucked, don’t you?” He coo’s and you can only nod, tears gathering in the corner of your eyes before rolling down to your temples. Poor thing, lost for words.

There’s a wet slapping sound with each thrust, your cunt equally gushing as it was thirsty — hungrily welcoming each inch of his, and even demanding more by locking your ankles around his lower back. Perhaps you did it for comfort, or perhaps because you suspected a hesitance, the threat of him pulling out last minute too much for your baby-crazed brain.

“Jesus. Sweet little puppy.” He breathes like it’s a revelation beneath your ear, the curly tuft of hair above his shaft tickling you as he continues to rub your clit.

“S’gonna happen again, John B. The big feeling.” You strain, eyes clamped shut and sniffling— too overwhelmed by your impending orgasm. He kisses each eye lid and watches you closely, experiencing you unfold once more.

“Thats my good girl. Let me have it, pup. Gimme a good one.”

You’re an explosion of whimpers and moans, thrashing under his firm grip once more— and he’s not sure when your orgasm ends, if it even ends at all— he doesn’t care, the release pushing him close to his own. He speeds up his pace, hand that was at your clit now wrapping around your lower back, forearm pushing your lower half up and against him, forcing you to just keep taking him.

He was like a beast from a fairytale book, fucking wildly into you with a primal determination that had you struggling to breathe. You’re crying now, full out crying because it’s just so much. There’s still one last thing you require, and only he can give you it.

“You wanna make me daddy, huh?” He demands, that gentleness in his voice gone. It’s nearly unrecognisable from him, and you preen beneath the rough touch.

“Mhm!”

“Words.” He barks. He didn’t mean to be mean, he just got a little bossy when he was close. You’d come to learn that.

“Please give me a baby. Please just — make you a daddy! Need it!” You’re squealing, voice shaking from the hard ‘plap plap plap’ of his balls slapping against you. You feel you might pass out if this goes on much longer.

He releases with a long groan, lips dropping to the centre of your chest and back arching upwards. You register his sounds before you feel it, hot slimy ropes of him— shooting up inside you, warming your walls. You moan too, because it feels so good to be full. It feels right, like this was what had been missing after all.

Everything is a blur for the next few minutes. It’s like you black out a little, because maybe you forgot to be breathing like you should have been. You briefly recall John B scooping you up and helping you through that, ignoring the gooey seed dripping from you to cradle you like a baby, humming a calm “Breathe, sweetheart. In and out. With me, c’mon.” Your gentle boy was back, and through your haze you smile.

Once you’re tucked at his side beneath a soft cotton blanket, his hand stroking over your head after cleaning you up, a whispered conversation ensues.

“Do you really like me John B? Like, you really think I’m beautiful?” You inquire, gazing up at him with stuck together black eyelashes. The question was so innocent, yet he could tell it was so meaningful.

His expression doesnt falter, a gentle smile sat comfortably on his lips as he continues to pet you. “Baby, I think you’re the ponds swan. Just… gotta get to know you a little better, okay? ‘Specially if I really did put a baby in you.” Only then his smile falters, brows knitting as the reality sets in. Oh Lord.

“Okay.” Your eyes flutter closed, happy to leave it at that, happy to fall asleep right by his side under his watchful eye. It was unnerving how safe a lonely girl could feel with a stranger.

“Okay. Good girl. It’ll be okay. We’ll figure it out.” He quietly reassures, watching you drift off. He’s not sure if he’s trying to dispel your fears, or his own.

#outlaw!johnb #john b fic 🎀

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unholyhelbig · 18 days

Note

I just want to say I'm already hooked on the beast you made me. I can't wait for the next chapter!

Center picture Cred: Jadiakallisti

Title: The Beast You've Made of Me [Part 2/7]

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff x Wanda Maximoff

Wordcount: 5151

Summary: When reader wakes up in her own grave, she's suddenly aware of a past that spans lifetimes, but she's not the only one. Two Avengers are tasked with keeping readers past a secret, or at the very least, controlled.

Warnings: Blood, fatal injuries, animal bones, mentions of death, containment, and horrible grammar because I don't proofread

[a/n: Thank you all for the overwelming support on the first chapter! I truly didn't expect that much reception. I'm going to be traveling for the next week so the next chapter might be delayed a bit]

Main Masterlist | Read my stuff on AO3 | Leave Requests

1917, Rural Pennsylvania

A sweeping river cut through the patch of sweetgrass on the south side of the farm. It emitted a gurgling sound that often soothed your nerves. There was a rocky clearing sandwiched between the tree line and the plain of grass that had become a perfect spot for you to settle in and read the hard-covered books you’d gotten from the corner store.

Your father would bring back any book you requested from the city during his travels. You devoured them faster than he could provide them and had read ‘Eight Cousins’ ,Lousia May Alcott’s foray into the adventures thirteen-year-old Rose, enough to nearly tear the pages from the binding.

The book itself held the clean honeyed scent of the earth, of the secluded spot that you called your own. Your muscles would thrum from loading the bales of hay into your fathers ford. Your fingers were calloused, and dirt caked around your ankle in a dark ring. All of that vanished when you cracked open the book about a girl that was so much like yourself.

It was easy to lose yourself in the paragraphs, the hum of the river sometimes lulling you to sleep. Your mother would pack you a sandwich on warm, hand-kneaded bread, usually some salted meat and mayonnaise. She’d pack sweet tea and send you on your way, knowing that you wouldn’t return to the house until you saw a flicker of a firefly.

Today, you’d fallen asleep under the sun. The book was discarded, and your forearm draped across your eyes. It was easy to drift, and easier still to dream about leaving the small dairy farm for something bigger- the very city that your father would return from with new literature and arts, and spices that made your mouth buzz with flavor.

You were in a haze when the ear-piercing scream cut through the air as if it were a natural solid. Your ears pinched at the sound, heels digging into the coarse sandy shore. Maybe it was a dream. It could have been an animal that had sunk its pointed teeth into the artery of another.

So, you waited, panting with your heart in your chest and the corner of the book barely lapped by the muddied water. And there was this sound. It was no fox caught in a trap or bovine tangled up in the barbed wire fence around the property- no, this was familiar. This was your sister.

Helena was quiet, often described as demure and borderline submissive. Despite being younger than yourself she carried a certain poise about her. Mother would often boast about how she would have no trouble finding a husband, how the boys already fawned over the child of hers that was not feral and unkempt.

Her cry was the loudest you had ever heard her and it had you on your feet, scrambling up the bank. Once past your small world of wonder, you were greeted with an endless sea of sweetgrass that was waist high in some areas.

A warm breeze created waves against the landscape, the farmhouse a small speck among the expanse of land. Your head was spinning, it was hard to track exactly where it had come from. It took another cracking screech to set you North.

Your legs pumped until you were consumed in a blind speed. You’d been renowned for your quickness, for your dedication to get from point A to point B. The kids in your town often joked that you were steadier than a steed. Not only were you the fastest in the class, but the fastest in the county according to some. Still- only a child of fifteen, and no man would want to wed someone with speed. It wasn’t a practical skill.

There was a pit deep in your stomach whirled, instinct knowing precisely where Helena was yowling from.

Jorge had gotten there at the same time you did; his brow was leaking with sweat and he panted against the hot air that surrounded you both. Your older brother was tall and lanky, serpent-like with beady black eyes and pitch hair to match your father’s. His shirt hung low against his midsection, his skin pale despite his hours in the sun working the fields.

“Stay back, y/n.” He demanded sharply.

The old well was a mere foot in front of you both but neither made the effort to move forward. The aged wooden plank that covered the stone shaft had been splintered through the middle, worn from age and weather.

Helena’s soft cries echoed up. When your father had first acquired the property, the previous owners explained that it had been boarded up after of the bulls had fallen down and snapped it’s neck. It was too large to pull out and they left it to starve and then rot.

Your father never let any of his children peer down into the well. You wondered if something had pulled Helena here, or if she had simply forgotten of it’s existence. Jorge dropped down to his knees and did a cautious crawl as if his own two feet couldn’t’ hold him anymore.

You saw the exact moment his skin became waxier, almost a gray porcelain paleness that had a green tint. He was swallowing too much, his white shirt coated in the red clay dirt.

“What?” You asked, voice breaking “What is it?”

“Go get Mama.”

It would have been easy to listen to your brother. He was the man of the house when your father wasn’t there but with him pleading for your mother, for an adult, you got a rancid taste in your mouth.

Against your better judgement you edged close enough to the abandoned well. The sun was setting in a fire-filled orange haze with enough color and angle to get a good view of the bottom; a slosh of fallen grass and rainwater, and muck, and yes; the bones of a beast once left to decay and rot in its own silence.

Your sister was wedged within the ribcage of the befallen bull, almost as if she replaced the beating heart that stopped pulsing long ago. Her hands gripped at the sun-bleached bone, knuckles nearly the same color.

It took you a moment to make out the slick, and the red that stemmed from the center of her stomach. The head of the bull had shattered under her weight, all expect the stretching length of it’s curved horn. That was wedged through her abdomen, surrounded in a vibrant rose red that puddled and had already coated her hands.

Prints from her struggle were against the limestone edges of the well. Her eyes pleaded up at you; your kind and caring, and animal-loving sister was trapped inside the remains of one. You fought back the urge to vomit, the rash thought that if the bone ripping through her flesh didn’t kill her, then infection would.

“Y/n get mama!” Jorge hissed again, and this time you didn’t hesitate. You nearly tripped over your own boots with the fever it took to back away from the scene, the metallic scent of blood mixing deliciously with the turn of rotted soil.

You had never run so fast in your life.

Wanda Maximoff had never felt the cold that wormed its way to her bones before. It was the type of cold that almost wasn’t, a stinging, horrible feeling that had her startled from the folded metal chair. It collapsed within itself as the blinked the wine-dark color from her eyes.

She stumbled backward, only to be brought back to the starkness of the room by a soft grip on her elbow. Wanda allowed herself to be held, if not for stability but for comfort. Steve Rodgers had a welcoming hand on the small of her back, the other steadying her.

He was a solid force, and her reaction stirred him.

“Fuck,” the expletive fell from her lips, “Jesus Christ.”

There was quietness to the room in the aftershock of the fallen chair. It was nicer than a standard holding cell. The walls were cream colored, triple enforced to keep people like you inside. There was a bed bolted to the wall, a bunk that was almost like a summer camp endeavor.

A charged glass wall was blocking you from the rest of the world. It was seemingly unbreakable, and in this moment, so were you. Wanda didn’t want to test the glass, nor did she know how to make sense of the memories- your memories- that had flooded every inch of her body.

You were asleep, chest rising and falling at a normal pace, as if none of what Wanda had just seen was flitting around your mind. Soft snores pushed past your lips, one arm hanging over the side of the bed while the other followed the flow of your breathing as it rested on your chest.

Wanda didn’t understand the secrecy and the precaution that surrounded you. The Avengers compound was a constant ebb and flow of different heroes, Inhumans and mutants. What made you so different? What made you an 0-8-4?

It was a term that Natasha had used only once that was usually attached to objects, not a person. It was an object of unknown origin and in that case, it was a power-filled object from space. Space. She’d been through different dimensions, but that, for some reason, struck her as terrifying.

0-8-4’s were never brought here, but then again, they’d never been alive either. Steve had told her that your energy signal was off the charts, and that they wanted her to dig around your head. Something that she denied doing at first. It was an invasion of privacy.

But, there was a certain pleading within Captain America’s eyes that scared Wanda more than the personal rules she set for herself when it came to her power. What she had seen, what she had felt was barely scraping the surface of what your mind contained. She wasn’t keen on pushing past that barrier for the conclusion of that story. Was it even yours?

“What? Wanda, what is it?”

“I… I don’t” She shook her head, eyes hardening as she stared into Steve’s “Where did you find her?”

He hesitated to answer, his eyebrows furrowing before he looked away from the witches’ prying eyes. She’d been part of this team for years now and they were still reluctant with what they were willing to share. Wanda clenched her jaw, then unclenched it before her stare flashed back to your resting form.

There was a small frown that creased your features. You looked so… harmless. You had shifted, folded into yourself as if you were scratching the surface of what flashed before her. Your arm was folded under your head, knees flush to your chest. A small, beautiful whimper escaped you.

“She’s in distress, Steve.”

“Discomfort, more like. It’s better for all of us that she stays in there for right now. The last thing we want to do is harm anyone but if that requires some temporary-“

“Imprisonment?”

“Containment.” He said firmly, eyes hard. Wanda crossed her arms over her chest but stayed silent, letting him continue. She was sure she wouldn’t have been asked if not for her ability to worm her way into minds, to rearrange things. “What did you see?”

“A memory, one that can’t possibly be hers. The timeline doesn’t fit, this is a woman in her mid-twenties and who I saw was barely a teenager on a farmstead. To experience that much tragedy, that much fear and heartache.”

She started to pace, trying to not only work through her own thoughts, but yours as well. It could have been a story, and she was convinced of the fact save for the vividness. There was the feeling of grass tickling her arms and the sharp, undeniable stench of blood.

“Her younger sister died, fell through some rotted wood and fell to her death.” Wanda’s fingers pressed against the edge of her hairline. “She could have lived, but I have my doubts.”

He lifted a perfectly sculpted brow at her. His expression betrayed his compassion towards you, his stance uncomfortable with the topic. While the revelation was heartbreaking it hardly made you extraordinary. They’d all lost people, none had stirred Wanda as you did.

Wanda’s stare found his after darting to you once more, “Steve, I have the sinking feeling that what I saw was only scratching the surface. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of memories that were pressing in on all sides.”

The sensation of being observed is what pulled you from your fitful sleep. Exhaustion had washed over you like a tidal wave, all at once and leaving your mouth dry like a spoonful of salt. There was a stiffness that rivaled that of the grave you’d crawled out of, and you hoped that it was all a dream.

You were in your bed, in your apartment, after having one too many drinks. It was a horrible stretching nightmare that had plunged you into one sea of darkness from another. But even you weren’t that naïve.

Just as you felt a stranger’s eyes on you now, you had felt the dirt under your nails, the cold sodium-filled takeout as you attempted to chew it. More than anything, you remembered the burning feeling of the Black Widow pressed fully against your back, bending you over Jenn’s kitchen counter.

“I would prefer if you kept the feeling of my wife’s body against yours out of your mind.”

You shot up with a dizzying amount of quickness, heart suddenly in your chest. There was an imbalance to the bed that you were laying on. It was smaller than your own and unfamiliar. The room was stark white. It hurt your eyes and you had to blink the color away. You pressed the heels of your palms close to your eyes.

It felt as if you were locked in a glass shower with an audience and stage lights. The more you looked, the more you realized it was a room, something with no personal effects but a bed and a dimmer switch that you itched to utilize.

A pitcher of water was on an end table. It wasn’t color exactly, but it was more than the rest of your surroundings. Possibly with the worst manners you’d ever exhibited, you drank straight from the pitcher, not remembering the last time you had a drink. Suddenly, you were parched enough to soak your collar.

Despite your audience, you continued until you felt your stomach protest. You used the back of your hand to wipe away the moisture, black dirt was smeared across your skin. It was then, and only then, that you forced yourself to look past the walls of your prison, your enclosure.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” The woman said, walking close to the glass. You could see her clearly now, there was an heir of recognition about her, in the same way that there had been with the Black Widow.

“You were in my head.”

“For a while. It’s my job. But your thoughts are also deafening.”

“Sorry,”

This woman was intoxicating. Alluring and beautiful in her presence. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, a pair of sweatpants and t-shirt hugging her form. You weren’t positive what time it was- what day it was- but it could be late into the night. She looked like she was roused from sleep, and a part of you felt guilty for the fact.

“Don’t apologize, sweetie.” Her voice was much more tender than it had been a few moments ago. “You can’t control being brought back from the dead. A lot of trauma comes with that.”

You stood shakily and walked closer to the glass. They’d taken your shoes and the tile under your feet was frigid. You crossed your arms over your chest and shivered into yourself. You didn’t want to think about the fact that they had undressed you, probably taken your clothes for testing. Instead they left you in a blue set of scrubs.

You averted your stare from your own reflection, not willing or ready to look too hard. You’d much rather look at this stranger, your heart not slowing, your head pounding. Nothing but a simple pane of glass separated you.

“And I was brought back from the dead, wasn’t I? That wasn’t a fucked-up dream where I got hit by a car and then poof God, if there is one, decided that me of all people was worth bringing back.”

She lilted her head, quirked an amusing brow at you. A chill flushed down your spine and seemed to fizzle out at your toes. This woman was gorgeous and terrifying and made you want to squirm. But if this was prison, you had to assert dominance. Right? That’s what Wentworth taught you.

This cell didn’t look or feel like Wentworth, and this Warden had an amused smile tacked to her lips like she had heard your every thought. And she had. At least you assumed that she did. She’d mentioned her wife earlier, and the woman’s body against your own was plaguing you like a runaway freight train.

When she didn’t say anything, you clawed to fill the silence “I want to talk to Bruce.”

“Bruce? Honey, he’s off world.”

“Off… world.” You laughed, softly at first but then almost manically, tears forming in your eyes that you wiped away with your cold fingers. “No, no, that’s really cool. I worked a 9-5 and now I can’t talk to Bruce because he’s in Outer Space.”

“Maybe not outer space, maybe another dimension.”

You leveled her with a humorless glare. She had both of her hands up as if she wanted to comfort you, or the caged animal you had become. You had to give her credit, she seemed just as horrified as you were. She offered up a dim, faltering smile.

There wasn’t a way for you to process this in a gentle manner, there was no one to guide you through it other than Jenn. She’d done this before, lived a whole life that was flipped upside-down and she’d come out on the other side. It was the uncertainty that scared the hell out of you.

“You were in my head earlier,” You stopped suddenly, pressing your fingers against the glass. The woman didn’t flinch. Your frantic breath fogged with each exhalation. “Do you know why I came back?”

She shook her head, “No. Do you remember what you were dreaming about?”

“No.” A weak chuckle, you let your hands drop. “At least we’re on the same page.”

The nurse they allowed to enter through the side of the containment unit took cautious steps towards you that made your chest ache. All your life, people had said how welcoming and kind you were; how they were never afraid to come to you with their worries. It had bothered you before the incident, before your death, but now you missed seeing the stare of those who didn’t harbor any fear.

She was small, a mouse of a thing that had pale blonde hair and startling blue eyes. Her name tag read Julia. Your mind rushed with the paths she’d taken to this place. She must be interning here, much too young to hold a classification herself.

Your finger twitched on your knee, palm sweaty. It’s heat radiated through the thin blue fabric of the pants they’d provided you with. You hated needles, always had. But, you struggled to stay still and the effect that had on poor nurse Julia was making you fidget more.

There was a scent about her. It was under the layers of hairspray, nail polish, and shea butter. It was a sweet metal that made your stomach swirl. Was it her sweat? You’d never smelt anything past walking by the bomb that was the boys locker room, and it certainly had never been this tantalizing before.

Your eyes met hers, crystal blue and uncertain. “You’ll just feel a little pinch”

This is when you pulled your gaze back and instead focused on the cream colored walls. There was no problem with needles, you’d dutifully sit for your flu shots, but something about the sharp edge pushing through a layer of skin and fat before hitting your vein made you nauseous.

“We just need enough to run a few tests.” Julia soothed.

She was a normal nurse in that one, small way. Your mind was itching, blood seeming to congeal. It refused to cooperate and her burning touch was all but dominant against your skin. You both waited for the small tube to fill with black liquid.

Finally, you felt her press the gauze against the crook of your arm and withdraw the needle. Another small pinch and then a massive relief. Her smell hung around you and filled the room. There was an undeniable urge to sink your teeth into her. To taste her.

You’d stopped the elevator just hours before to assess your penchant for brain consumption, but this wasn’t that. This was an intoxicating pull. This was animalistic, the same rush of emotion that had flooded you without prompting during your earlier conversation.

Julia squeezed your shoulder calmly, not entirely over her own reservations, but on the penance that she was a nurse and this was her job. You kept yourself rooted to the bed, fingers digging into the wood. She left the room and you could hear the compressed lock reseal you inside, breathing a sigh of relief.

That sweet odor lingered, and your reaction to it scared you more than anything. The wood beneath your fingertips splintered, and suddenly that anger, that fear, rolled away to shock. That wasn’t… normal. None of this was normal, but you weren’t exactly picked first in sports either.

You were a middle kid, a I guess I wouldn’t mind having you on my team kid. Suddenly your fingers were cutting through wood like it was butter. You let out an indignant squeak and shifted the blanket until the slashes were covered.

“Is everything alright?”

Wanda, you had learned that her name was Wanda, occupied her usual spot in front of the window. A slick sweat covered your forehead. She was holding a small tray that had a steaming bowl of soup and a delicious hunk of French bread.

“I figured you were hungry,” She lifted her chin towards the panel next to your door. “May I?”

“I’m at your mercy.”

And you were, truly. You hadn’t seen anyone but her since you’d woken up. There were shadows of others, people that made the pit in the center of your stomach grow three sizes. You knew exactly what they were doing, you watched enough true crime with Jennifer to know.

Here was this beautiful and powerful woman offering you food and words of comfort, and you allowed yourself to fall for all of it. Listlessly. Because what did you have to lose? You’d already died, and the thought of putting your family through the heartache of resurrection and then possibly enough committal to the ground was too much.

So, let her Stockholm syndrome you. The food smelled divine.

Wanda didn’t hold the same fear that Julia had. In fact, once the compression of air signified that it was okay for her to enter, she did so without hesitation. She set the food down on the equally dull side table and lowered herself onto the corner of the bed, making herself at home.

She’d changed into a pair of jeans, a simple t-shirt that had the outline of SHIELD on its sleeve. You frowned, for a company that does everything in its power to keep itself hidden, they sure loved that stupid bird so much.

“Go on, sweetie. You can eat.”

Wanda had a command about her that made you fold and listen despite any reservations. You took up a spot on the far end of the bed and shoveled the first spoonful into your mouth. An explosion of heady flavors coated your tongue, coaxing a low moan from your lips.

Blush rushed to your cheeks at the spark in the set of stormy eyes that watched you like a hawk. You rushed to break the tension. “So, what’s the plan here? Run a bunch of tests and keep me locked up?”

“Somewhat.” She paused, carefully thinking of her next words. “Y/n, I have the ability to get inside the psyche. Not only can I read every thought, every action, but I can control them too. It’s not something I like to do, nor something I want to. Not without permission.”

You frowned again. You certainly hadn’t given her permission to enter your mind before, and she tensed at the realization. But, you took another bite of soup and swallowed down the spiced broth. What’s done was done. You didn’t expect her to ask, much less admit to her wrongdoing.

“I prefer to ask. Can you tell me what you do for work?”

“Paralegal, the bar seemed like too much stress. But I’m good at my job. I was good at my job before a car turned me into sidewalk art.”

“Right, and your family, what about them?”

There was no desire to think of them and their perfect lives that you’d shattered with your death. Your mother used to sit in the tepid air on the porch swing, downing a glass of wine before she turned to you with tears in her eyes. She’d urge you to be careful working in the city. She’d plead for you to come home. More than anything, she’d utter the phrase a mother should never outlive her daughter.

“My mother is a seventh grade biology teacher and my father runs a painting business that’s been operating my whole life. They’re not very exciting people. They must be worried sick about me.”

Wanda nodded, “Any siblings?”

“Not anymore.”

She stilled at your words and didn’t pry. You were well aware of the fact that she could push through your deflections and learn the information that she wanted to know. But, you respected that she didn’t. Instead, she stared at you, and you stared right back, suddenly not hungry.

Wanda was someone that you felt the need to open-up to. Unlike the brief encounter you had had with her wife. Not that you let that word stick with you, not in the same way that her touch did. Again, you had to push the thoughts to the back of your mind, even if Wanda wasn’t prying.

Instead, she placed a warm hand on your thigh, sending a wave of shivers through your body. You suppressed a whimper at the sudden contact.

“I had a brother named Pietro. He was fast, unnaturally so. Neither of us ever wanted to be heroes, we didn’t think about the future like that. So, when the Avengers, these so-called saviors of the world, recruited us, we knew about the dangers. But it still shocked me when he died. He was my brother. He wasn’t supposed to be fragile like that.”

You stared at her with an amount of tenderness in your eyes that she wasn’t used to from the others. They cared, sure, but in the way that a co-worker would care enough to purchase cut flowers and a ‘sorry for your loss’ card. You were different.

“They’re our protectors.” You swallowed hard, mouth dry “when something drastic happens, it doesn’t seem real.”

“It still doesn’t.”

There was a lapse of silence that pushed memories in your direction. The burning cold weather on the day your own brother had died. You remember the scream that died in your throat and the way you’d knelt in the cracked snow until you couldn’t’ feel your legs or your fingers. It took an EMT with a heated blanket and a horror story about hypothermia to pull you to your feet.

“Jonathan.” You whispered.

She let out a questioning hum, pulling her feet from the floor and making herself more comfortable on the less-than-comfortable bed. “Your brother?”

“My older brother. I followed him around like a lost puppy, but he never complained. He was a hockey player and a damn good one too. He’d use the lake behind our house in Jersey to practice and one winter the ice broke underneath him. He drowned, and I was too weak to save him.”

Wanda let out a shuddered breath. You couldn’t read her facial expression. It was a mix of confusion, or sadness, but not pity and that was something you appreciated. You’d had enough pity, just as your family had enough grief without you adding to it.

She opened her mouth to reply, but both of you were startled when three quick knocks shattered the silence. The Black Widow, Natasha Romanoff, stood on the other side. She showed no interest in breeching the containment unit. Instead, she leveled her wife with a dark stare and held up a folded piece of paper.

“Excuse me,” Wanda whispered, giving your leg a settling squeeze.

She left the plate and exited the holding cell. Her words were muffled, but those unripe green eyes that Natasha possessed kept flicking to you nervously. She too, didn’t’ show pity. It was interest and if you were being honest, you thought you saw the smallest spark of fear.

Wanda took the paper from her wife, squinted at something you couldn’t’ see. You felt like you were at a parent teacher conference, just out of bounds of hearing but you could see their body language; the way that Natasha itched to move closer to Wanda, the fingers that the taller woman pressed to her lips, thumb creasing the paper.

Finally, Wanda turned back towards the glass. Natasha met your stare without issue, hitting the intercom on the other side of the cell. It was her who spoke, her raspy voice falling from the speaker.

“In the spirit of transparency, we want to be honest with you about your blood results.”

You stood from the bed, moving to one side of the barrier. They were intimidating like that, standing shoulder to shoulder with a natural beauty. It made you want to shrink. If not for the paper in their hands you would have curled into yourself at the sight.

“Don’t tell me I’m dying.”

“No, honey.” Wanda shook her head, “Quite the opposite, you’re getting stronger.”

“I don’t understand.”

Natasha lifted an eyebrow and pressed the paper against the glass so you could read it. None of it made sense, it was lines of DNA that looked like musical notes. You shook your head, giving her a confused look.

Natasha scoffed, peeling the paper from the surface of glass. Wanda bit her thumbnail nervously. “According to these…You’re Asgardian, Kitten.”

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husbandhoshi · 3 months

Text

TO GROW LOVE (AND EAT IT TO THE CORE)

pairing: mingyu x gn!reader wc: 8.1k summary: your whole life, you've only wanted one thing. then you meet mingyu. suddenly you want too much, and you wish the summer never ended. notes: farmer!au, established relationship, angst/hurt/a little comfort

this is a birthday fic for my one and only cat @wuahae ! yes this is about half a year late but what can i say. all good things come with time. thank you for being so kind, funny, and thoughtful (and patient)! not a day goes by where i’m not thankful for our friendship :)

and a million thanks to hana @wqnwoos and jackie @97-liners for helping me with edits. literally you guys are insane writers and i will never stop looking up to you.

i. strawberries (the summer we were young)

When a strawberry is ripe, the seeds push out from the heart of the fruit, as if it's bursting from the inside out.

This is one of the few and only things you've learned by living in Seogwipo, where strawberry season comes like a supernova. The May sun, full and heavy, peels into summer, and the roadside farms open their doors, trying to catch stray vacationers from Jeju City on the other side of the island.

That being said, there are approximately two things to do here. One of them is farm. The other is pretend like you have a life, which is your childhood friend Yizhuo's favorite thing to do when she's back from university on summer break.

Today, this involved convincing her ritzy, too-good Seoul friends that they're missing out on this side of Jeju. (Missing out on what? You're not sure. Perhaps the chipped paint of the mural walls, or the endless flat-topped stretches of seagrass. Yizhuo isn't fooling anyone, but you've always liked stretching your legs out in the bed of her pick-up, even on the long drive to nowhere.)

Unsurprisingly, her friends quickly came to the same conclusion. Just one look at your local strawberry patch, with none of the glamour of the bloated tourist traps in the city, and they decided they'd rather spend the afternoon at the beach.

It was then, between the fragaria blooms, when you met Mingyu. He asked for your name, and the rest was history. Yizhuo and co. scattered like the grasping hands of an overripe dandelion and you learned that he was, one, the newly-graduated son of a pair of local farmers, and two, very, very attractive. Almost too much so, especially for a place like this.

Now he holds up a berry, a bright red murder between his fingers, and tells you to try it.

"You must be delusional if you think i'm taking food from a stranger," you laugh, perched on the fence bordering the field. It sprawls before you, melon stripes on the sunbaked ground.

"No, my name is Mingyu," he replies. "No idea who delusional is." His smile, all bright lip and snaggletooth, tears into the scarlet belly of a newly picked strawberry.

"We all know what happened to Persephone."

"Well, if the underworld was a strawberry patch, I wouldn't mind being stuck there for all of eternity."

"What're you picking all these for, anyway?" you ask, watching Mingyu struggle with his too-big straw hat between the vines. His woven basket bleeds over with little berries.

"Jam. I make it on the very first day of every summer."

"Why?"

"You ask a lot of questions for someone who trespassed on my farm. You're cute, but I won't let you off easy."

He laughs at how you balk, clearly red-handed. You're not sure how to tell him you don't think you were supposed to be here either. You don't do things like sit in the back of trucks, trespass, or talk to pretty farmer boys who take a fancy to you, but it's the summer before you graduate and you're not even sure how long you'll have to continue making bad decisions.

"Are you gonna take my first-born now?" you joke instead. The daylight runs down the rim of Mingyu's hat, trickles down his brow, and you wish you could pour the image of him into a jar and keep it forever.

"No, but I will invite you in for some fresh jam on toast. I baked a loaf this morning." and when you say nothing, he continues. "The strawberries are only good once a year. It's the best you'll ever have. Promise."

It's a whine and a half, and somehow you convince yourself this will be the last bad decision you'll make. You've been here long enough to know that good things don't come twice in Seogwipo, and he is unlikely to be an exception.

Yizhuo blows up your phone, you tie the gingham apron around Mingyu's tiny waist, and the basket turns to blood in the saucepan.

Mingyu is right. Love comes to you in that kitchen, high and red like the sun, and the jam never tastes as good as it does that summer.

ii. watermelon (hollowed out, like a magic trick)

"A good watermelon sounds like a heartbeat."

You watch Mingyu heave the fruit, small and striped, out of his grocery bag. It joins the array of egg sandwiches and banana milks you picked up from the store together earlier. (There should have been chocolate Pepero too, but you split the box on the walk).

You're on a picnic, sprawled out on the outcropping overlooking the water. The path up is basically right behind your house, but you had never cared to visit. It had always been the local makeout spot, a schlocky teen crawl for those with nothing better to do, and yet, with Mingyu stretched out beside you, it seems newer. More exciting.

You're still just friends, or at least that's what you told Yizhuo. But ever since you sat on Mingyu's kitchen counter and ate from his jam-covered spatula, you don't think you've gone a week without seeing him. It's been almost two months, which seems so long and yet not long enough—he makes it easy to be greedy.

"See?" He thumps the watermelon with the heel of his palm. "Try it."

You already went through this entire charade at the grocery store, right in front of all the local aunties, but you indulge him. There's little point to triple checking if it's still ripe, but you think he just likes hitting it.

"It sounds good," you say. "But how are we even gonna eat it? We don't have a knife."

"Watch this." Mingyu procures a coin from his pocket. "You didn't learn this in elementary school? I feel like everyone was doing it."

"Here?" you ask, incredulous.

"Yeah, here. I grew up here too, you know."

He holds the edge of the coin to the skin and slams his palm into it once more, so that it lodges itself into the rind, and begins dragging it around the fruit. You start to wonder if he bought the watermelon just to show you a party trick—not that you mind, though. The strain of his biceps peeks through his rolled up white tee, and you remember why he was able to stop you with just one look back when you first met.

"No way." The watermelon is so ripe, it bleeds around the incision. "I feel like I know everyone here. And I definitely would have remembered you."

"I was probably, like, two grades above you," he replies. "And my parents shipped me off to live with my cousins after elementary school. They said I should get out of Seogwipo and experience the real world."

"Good call. There's nothing here." You watch Mingyu spin the melon over to cut through the other side. The coin catches the sunlight, and it looks like gold. "I wish I left for university. The one here is so small."

"Really?" He pauses to show you his handiwork. The two melon halves roll over on their backs, their cut edge cruel and jagged. "Cool, huh?"

"Impressive," you say. "Honestly. I really didn't think that would work."

"I didn't either when I first saw someone do it. But I’ll try anything once," he replies, ripping open the packaging of the plastic spoon from the bag. "I can't believe you don't like it here."

"You do?"

"Yeah. A lot." He shoves the spoon in his mouth, and you watch the watermelon juice pool around his lips. "I missed home. The trees and the tall grass and the ocean. All the fruits. Everything. I learned to ride a bike, right down there by the water."

"Hm." He passes you the spoon. You don't want to hog it, so you carve out a piece bigger than you need. "Are you gonna work at the farm?"

"Maybe. Haven't decided yet," he says. "I think I want to be here, though. Maybe do something with food, but I want to be home."

"That's funny, because I think I’ve always wanted to live a different life. Or at least one somewhere else."

"You want to go to law school, right?"

"Yeah." Mingyu is right. The watermelon is all sugar, and you would almost feel guilty for eating it if it wasn't technically good for you. "I’ve always wanted to be a lawyer. It's something about the people watching, I think."

"That’s really cool," Mingyu says, mouth full but no less sincere. It's then that you notice your shoulders are almost touching, and your heart crawls back up to your mouth. "You know what you want. I admire that."

He makes it sound like a compliment, but you're sure it's a curse.

You think of your parents. There's a permanent wrinkle ironed into their foreheads, the paper crease of expectations and high standards. It's not that they didn't care, but their kind of care was a humbled sort, made heavy by a hard life. It didn't help that your big sister Seohyun went straight from Yonsei to work a big tech job in San Francisco and never once looked back.

But you can't blame any of them—wanting has always been a hereditary failing. Sometimes Yizhuo will catch you frowning at nothing, and then you remember that life isn't a performance and every day ends at the same time no matter how hard you work. But you don't know how to tell her that the only thing you can do sometimes is want, because otherwise you wouldn't really have much at all.

It seems like the exact opposite of how Mingyu lives—everything about him seems to pass like the seasons. Maybe that's why you can't seem to get enough of each other.

"Thank you. Really." You dig the spoon into your half of the melon. There isn't much left. "You're way too nice to me."

"It’s not hard to be," he laughs. "Maybe you're just too hard on yourself."

You're losing track of the distance between the two of you. You can almost feel the heat playing off his skin.

"Maybe."

It's then, under the veil of summer, where you meet Mingyu's gaze and, finally, things seem close to simple.

All you know are his eyes, heavy with sun, and then the slow, slow move of his lips against yours. He tastes like August, long and sweet, and for once you know what it's like to not only want, but to have, and to have again.

The ocean sings on the horizon, and the watermelon bellies weep.

iii. adzuki beans (or, the blood of a headless taiyaki)

Mingyu eats taiyaki headfirst because he says it hurts less.

"That makes no sense," you tell him, your pinkies linked. You never really liked holding hands, but yours fits so perfectly in Mingyu's and there's some girlish, childlike shine to it when you watch his finger search for yours after just a moment separated.

"What do you mean."

He breaks your gaze to eye a red bean taiyaki, like an unwilling predator sizing up their prey. It's the lamest, most embarrassing iteration of National Geographic you've ever seen, and yet you cannot find any fiber within yourself not deeply in love with the lion.

Fall is a forgiving place for your relationship to settle. You're now a senior at university and he's started his gap year. Gap implies he's in the middle of something, but in true Mingyu fashion, he leaves it up to fate, or chance, or something not nearly as kind (whim).

"Taiyaki isn't alive. And why would you want to pretend it is? Eating gummy bears would become an extinction event."

"It kind of is." He holds out the tail end of the taiyaki, the pastry almost explicitly flayed open, in front of you to eat. "Why does the Haribo bear have a face? Why do the gummy bears live in a gummy forest?"

"Great, so now I can’t even enjoy gummy bears without feeling like a serial killer?"

You dig your pointer into his shoulders, broad from all the time he spends on the farm. To think that his hands, big and weathered, were made to pick berries (and now wrap around your pinky finger) is bruising, if not ridiculously funny.

"It's a crime of passion. Gummy passion. Prosecute that."

He kisses your cheek and your heart almost squeezes into two.

The terrible thing about being with Mingyu is how seemingly endless his affection is. Now he's feeding you in public and buying the two of you matching socks (cat and dog, to be exact), although you'll admit it's a little charming, even if the neighbors do gossip.

He's sweet, too sweet, and his kisses stick to the back of your throat.

But you can't be fooled. There's an unsaid violence to the way Mingyu loves. (The meticulous spiral of the peel he carves when you ask for him to cut you an apple. The grind, decisive and cruel, of a knife against a cutting board. A pair of canines against your neck, your jaw.)

Even now, he bites the head off another unwitting taiyaki before stuffing it back in the bag.

"We're still splitsing, right?" he says, with perhaps 1% of his mouth available for speaking and the other 99% murder machine.

Splits, he always says before you share food. You never had the heart to tell him that it's in the same family as mines or sharesies or takebacks—silly childhood relics, ones that no one uses anymore because they don't mean anything.

This time, you don't hear him because you're thinking about the law school fair you went to before Mingyu picked you up. The future is so close, it scares you. A year from now, what ground would you be standing on? Would it smell like this—the peat, the thread-spool fields, the balm of the ocean? Would you still have Mingyu's finger wrapped round yours?

"Have you decided if you're staying at the farm?" you ask.

"Not really." He uses the back of his hand to wipe off his chin. "If my sister decides to take over, I’m actually kinda thinking of going to pastry school instead of getting a masters."

Mingyu had been toying with the idea for some time after you had talked about it on the outlook. It started off as a joke (September; a galette), then a what if (October; green tea mochi), and now it sits at a kinda.

"Kinda?"

The word gathers speed in the pachinko machine of your mind. You never liked being a kinda person. For Mingyu, it seems like a luxury of a word, but for you, it's really just another thing to hide behind. Kinda talented, kinda ambitious, kinda just there. You're always one foot in, one foot out of something better.

"Yeah, kinda. Why?"

"I dunno. What if we both end up leaving?"

"Maybe. You still want to, right?"

You would be lying if you said you didn't—it's what you always wanted. Seogwipo has been a sun-rot, too-small crutch for you, but you would also be lying if you said you weren't terrified that you'd eventually come back, limping like some doomed Icarus, unable to truly make it in the real world.

Then you think of the pockmarked farmland beside your home, lacy with the fall harvest. Even now, you can trace the endless blue of the coastline all the way there, cut through all the maybes and just let the sound of the ocean fold you into sleep like you were a child again. You wonder if Seohyun, all the way on the other side of the world, ever misses it.

"I’m not sure," you say, because, as much as you don't like it, it's the only answer you have.

"It's ok. You'll figure it out. You always do." He squeezes your cheeks together between his thumb and index, laughing at how they pillow out underneath his fingers. "Screw pastry school. I could come with you. Who else would keep you fed?"

Mingyu's complete and unfounded belief in you makes you feel something close to betrayal. How could he say any of that? With what proof? Only someone like Mingyu would be able to hold the wrinkled fruit of your unremarkable life between his palms and see something better than that. Maybe it's because he grew up on a farm. Either that, or he already cares for you too much, too painfully.

Secrets are easy to keep when they look like yours. At least here, in the pit of your stomach, you can keep count, take attendance of them, all your tittering, small anxieties. Some days it feels like your ribs are pressing out, but it's better than cutting everything loose to spill out over what little you do have control over.

You can handle a little pressure. You have to.

What concerns you is the hand Mingyu's got across your chest. With one look, he just might gut you. A twist of the heart-knife, and all those carefully wound insides carved out in an instant—maybe he'd pity you, but worse than that, he'd likely be disappointed.

For you, expectation has always stood taller than shame, and the idea that he sees something past you makes you want to run away.

"I could be a house husband," he says as easily as ever. "You'll be off saving the world, arguing with whoever, and I'll be there to run you a bath afterwards."

"Let's not get too ahead of ourselves," you reply, binding up the strange, hollow feeling in your stomach with a laugh.

There's a scared little girl hiding inside you, and whether Mingyu sees her or not hurts the same. A spade is a spade. You can only pretend so long.

You look at the taiyaki floating in their wax paper bag, blinded and wrought open by the same grin that now peels you down, and you're not hungry anymore.

iv. winter pears (rotten, outside your parents' house)

Mingyu's family loves Christmas.

You think it's because of the pear trees they have in the front yard. They stand bravely before the house, all emerald ash and wisdom in the December freeze. Run your palms over the knobs and it's like you can see into a sleepy visage of simpler days past. (Below its heart, carved: 1982, the year the farm was bought. Along the tangle of the roots: gyu waz here, in an unsure, childish scrawl.)

Winter comes to the countryside crawling on its hands and knees. On days it doesn't snow, there's a mist, boggy and clingy. You've come to realize the cold is more of a threat than a promise, and so the pear trees still bear fruit; the silvery branches hang heavy, faithful.

The first day of December, Mingyu's parents had tasked the two of you with decorating the farmhouse, a duty you took very seriously. You wrapped Mingyu up in string lights and watched him blink in and out like your own personal firefly.

It wasn't until you watched the rafters, the barn doors, the joyous vault of the ceiling all glow, like a spectacular firework, that you finally started to understand why Mingyu was so into the holidays.

It was in the yellow blush of the string lights that you had your first pear from the tree, which Mingyu insisted was a holiday tradition. We make poached pears, he said, mid-bite. You simmer the pear in syrup until it gets so soft, you can cut into it with a fork. Just like butter.

That same night, he kissed you, mouth hot and trembling and tasting of honey, and pressed you against the bark so hard, you could feel the grit of its veins against your skin.

You think December became your favorite month, and pears your favorite fruit.

So much so, that for the entire month, you try to put away your worries about law school applications to celebrate with Mingyu and his family.

You learn his mom makes the best hot chocolate (a cinnamon stick and a dogged devotion to the whisk), and that Mingyu has no clue on God's green earth how to ice skate. (He careens right into your chest the first time. You spend the next hour with him attached to you like a backpack—he manages to find the most impractical ways to do anything, which you somehow admire the most). On Sundays, Yizhuo ditches her Seoul friends and instead accompanies you to the mall two towns over, where she watches you compare different ties and watches and collagen creams as you decide on gifts for his family. (Lilac is so last year, she'd say, stirring the straw of a watered-down milk tea.)

It's not until the weekend before Christmas when you realize just how serious things have gotten. Your feet understand the meander of the dirt path to the farmhouse, your bones the scent of the yellow-skinned apple, the faded wildflowers. Your palms crave the plush of the rug they have in front of the fireplace. Hell, you can't even eat soondubu without thinking of the kind Mingyu's dad makes, with extra anchovies and green onion.

You don't think about what this means. There are ten days left in December and love poured from a full cup never seems to run out.

"Please let me carry some of those," Mingyu wheedles. "Oh my god. I'm like the worst boyfriend in the world."

"No, you are not." you make your way up to his doorstep, taking care to one-two step over the stray roots of one of the pear trees. It's second nature to you by now. "The moment I hand you a box, you are gonna start trying to figure out what it is."

He harumphs and plucks the big one off the top anyway, the one he knows you can't reach. "I didn't even know you were getting us gifts. You didn't have to."

"It's the least I could do. Who shows up to a holiday dinner emptyhanded?" You stop at the front door. "And stop shaking it," you laugh, using the tip of your boot to nudge his shin.

"Okay. Okay," he says, saccharine, adoring, before grabbing the doorknob. "Ready? Are you nervous? You shouldn't be nervous, right? It's not fancy or anything, if you were worried about that."

And that's the thing that wedges itself between your ribs. Mingyu and his whole family are like this. They love and worry and love again; it presses deep into you, fills you, and overflows.

So here you are, standing in your nicest dress and balancing a stack of gifts you hope will amount to something, never enough but something, to repay the people who you feel have loved you more than you deserve. It's all you really have. You do your best, and yet you know when that door opens, it'll all be washed away in a high-tide flurry of hugs and laughter and the familiar press of Bobpul's wet nose against your leg. They're just those kinds of people—they would be just as happy if you didn't bring anything at all, and somehow that makes you feel even more guilty.

"No, no," you wave him off. "I’m fine. Excited."

When Mingyu opens the door, everything goes just as you expected. His sister takes your coat, your gifts are whisked away to the tree (Aji has already figured out which one is his), and his parents descend upon you in a choking swell of warmth and charity.

We baked some fresh bread for your parents (—Thank you so much, but you really shouldn't have.). You look so beautiful in that color (—No, no, you flatter me too much.). Mingyu better be taking good care of you (—He is. He really, really is.).

The kitchen is gauzy with cinnamon, anise. They must be making their famous poached pears, which Mingyu remarks on, just like clockwork.

Dinner passes the same way. It bubbles over with affection, and you feel swallowed by an impossible yearning. This—a full table and a hand to hold underneath it—did you deserve this? And could you keep it?

For an instant, you picture yourself, years later, at this same seat. Mingyu would be fussing over the rice cakes, his apron still gingham because it reminds him of the day you two met. His parents, grayer but no less happy, bickering over the shade of tinsel on the tree. And the dogs, coiled at your feet like they are now. The vision laps at your bones like you're a raft in a storm.

You're pulled back into the moment when Mingyu squeezes your hand, grounding and insistent. "Mom asked how school was going. I told her I think you're basically the smartest person I know, and I’m pretty sure you're getting into whatever law school you want."

Mingyu's parents laugh, and they cut through their pears.

"Oh, sorry," you say. "Um."

Clink. Knife meets flesh, meets porcelain. Your cheeks are hot. You wanted to talk about anything other than yourself tonight. Clink.

"The top programs are a reach, but it'd be nice." clink. "I just want to get in somewhere."

"They’re all so far away," Mingyu's mom remarks. "So grown up. Any school will be lucky to have you. You'll get into all of them."

Clink.

"Or maybe you can stay here." You watch the prongs of Mingyu's father's fork disappear into the pear. "Keep us old folk company."

"No, no, I think Mingyu should take notes and get off his lazy ass," his sister says, teasing. "Going back to the city will be good for him."

"So you can, what, burn down the kitchen again?" Mingyu grumbles, and the whole table seems to boil over with laughter.

"We’re kidding," his mom tells you. "No matter where you go, I’m sure you'll do great. We can even throw you a party at the end of the year. For graduating."

Clink. Clink.

There's a horrible uneasiness writhing around in your stomach. It's pear and syrup and clove and a blackness, an anxious, selfish one that sucks up all the generosity of the evening and turns it into shame.

Mingyu's mom is talking about throwing you a graduation party, something you didn't even think to do for yourself, and here you are, thinking about the shaking moment you open your rejection letters and the lonely path you'll draw on your way back home.

It's ok. They missed out, Mingyu would say, pouring you a consolation drink, and then it would be over. You'd go home and sit on your bed and the trifold piece of paper would go round and round your head like it was in a washing machine.

Your heart, an inventory of tasks and goals and tally marks. Things you've taken and things you've owed. It's a soft, boneless excuse. Be grateful. Give them that, at least.

Clink.

Dessert ends before you can tell his family not to get their hopes up. Mingyu's mom sends you off with your loaf of bread and a kiss on the cheek, and the moment is gone.

"Gyu," you call out on the steps in front of the house.

There are words at the seam of your lips. You want to tell him you're sorry for worrying so much. For making the whole dinner about you and then very possibly having nothing to show for it when it matters. For the heaviness in your chest. Your cowardice. But none of it comes out.

Instead you watch Mingyu pull at the leaves of a pear tree, watching the frost-filigree they get at the end of the season. He looks over his shoulder and smiles at you, as if he's on the hazy cover of a magazine. His eyes bend so wonderfully at the corners when he looks at you, and it breaks your heart.

"You had fun, right?" he asks. "My parents like you a lot, you know. I think they really do."

But that's the problem, you want to say. You all do, and I have no idea why.

Some of the pears are beginning to rot now. You watch one drop off the vine, and it caves to the pavement like it was made of nothing at all.

v. wild barley (grows like weeds)

In March, you play house.

Your parents leave on a two week trip to see relatives, and Mingyu takes it upon himself to make sure you survive.

It's a kind, blinding charade.

(7 am, breakfast. You usually don't even eat breakfast, but you wake up to doenjang and a smile, one that presses itself to yours until you're wearing it on the long walk to school.)

(4 pm, the stretch between lunch and dinner. You're muddling through another useless club meeting when Mingyu sends you a picture of him in your mom's apron, making kimchi. Kiss the chef, he texts you. You promise to, over and over and over.)

It's good until it isn't.

That isn't to say that it's Mingyu's fault. In fact, it's never really Mingyu's fault, and that's the worst thing about your relationship. Sometimes you wish he was worse just so there was someone else to blame.

(1 am, a fridge-cold glass of water and a hand on the column of your spine. Can't sleep? He asks. Just had a weird dream, you say.

It's a lie. You're a liar.

You miss your parents and the first wave of acceptance letters comes out in two days. You're not like him. Sleep has never been a cure for the exhaustion you're feeling, and you have no way of telling him that however warm the bed is won't fix that.)

It's on a Thursday afternoon when you open your mailbox and see the tiny, thin envelope that you've been expecting for the past week. You don't need to open it to know what it says, and yet you do it anyway.

The sun is white, a ghost in the spring sky. The ocean bleeds into the overcast, the curly barley stands tall around your feet, and you let the worst letter you've gotten in your life fall upon your shoulders, word by terrible word.

Then you close it, pinching the seam shut, and draw up your brave face. Nothing left to do but be brave. You're convinced you've used up all the sadness in your relationship—spend in pennies and the well still runs dry. Mingyu will cup your cheek and call you darling, pouring into your emptying basin, holey and broken.

You see him now through the kitchen window, Venus in his clamshell of a kitchen. Galbijjim day, he had said this morning. Now, he waves at you, glittery with recognition.

Your throat feels like crumpled paper.

Mingyu smiles at you, hazy through the glass. Your cheeks hurt and your mouth is paper mache, but you smile back anyway.

///

The letters come one after another.

You know what the envelopes hold and yet you keep opening them. The little folder you keep stashed in your bottom drawer gets fatter every passing day because you can't help but revisit your misery, almost as if you need to remind yourself it exists.

Mingyu is none the wiser. Today he decides he'll put off pastry school for one more year. "It doesn't feel like the right time," he says, rolling a log of burdock kimbap up. "You know what I mean?"

No, you don't. You never really do.

You do know, however, that it would feel really fucking bad that, come the end of the year, to have nothing. All your friends would be going somewhere—even Yizhuo opened her acceptance to an MFA program in Shanghai yesterday—and you would be here, still, feet firmly planted in the muddy Jeju dirt like they always had been.

"Hey, don't look so disappointed." he jokes. "Don't tell me you're already trying to get rid of me."

You're not, you really aren't. But part of you wonders if it's just a race to the bottom. If you got rid of him before he decided he wanted to get rid of you, maybe it would hurt a lot less. One less letter for the folder.

"Never. But imagine if you picked up a French accent at pastry school. Then I’d consider it. Maybe."

You watch his knife rock back and forth on the cutting board as he cuts the kimbap.

"Some for you. And more for me," he says, in what you can only describe as someone attempting to speak French when they've never heard it before. "Unless you want more, mon cherie."

He brings the plates to the table, his grin nothing short of dizzying.

"I’m irresistible, huh? Still wanna leave me now?"

"You're gonna have to try a little harder than that, I think."

The words roll off your tongue, easily, traitorously.

You watch the kimbap disappear off of Mingyu's plate.

Going, going, gone.

///

Seogwipo is always dark at night, only kept alive by the glow of the moonlit sea.

You can't sleep. Again. And so you sit out on the steps in front of your house, letting the twilight wrap around you like a blanket.

You got your last letter back earlier today. You held your breath and tore it open like you would a birthday card with money in it.

Waitlisted.

It was surely better than a rejection, but some naive, child-eyed part of you thought that if you had just closed your eyes and hoped hard enough, things would work out the way you had planned. Tragically, it wasn't enough this time. You wanted and wanted and you thought maybe that would mean you'd come close to deserving it.

Your parents called today. After managing to sideline the issue of basically the rest of your entire life, they had finally cut through your sad little charade. No good news yet, huh?

No, but—

It was always like that with you. No, but it's not as bad as you think. No, but give me a chance. No, but I’m trying. I've been trying.

You wish things didn't come out of you so complicated. That you could be like Seohyun, who could go through school with her eyes closed and still graduate at the top of her class. Instead, you parade around your little failures, trying to convince people it all could mean something only if they squinted. See? It isn't so bad.

You think you're past the point of crying about it. Your stomach hurts, you're cold, and most of all, you just want to go back to bed. Plus, although Mingyu sleeps like a log, you think he's developed a sixth sense for whenever you get up too early.

Time to be brave, you've been telling yourself, although you don't know who you're pretending for anymore.

So you nudge the front door open—it's so old, it wails if you come at it with any more force—and, to your surprise, see the light above the kitchen sink turned on.

It's not very bright, but it's enough to make out Mingyu's broad silhouette, back turned to you as he makes a cup of tea. He's humming one of his made-up songs.

"Mingyu?"

"There you are," he says, turning around. "Just came out to check on you. And make you some tea."

The kettle whizzes. Your gut twists.

You still haven't said anything to Mingyu. To manage your own disappointment was one thing—you don't think you could handle another person's. And yet when he stands there, Pororo mug between his huge hands, you feel as if you are holding a knife, big and guilty and bloody.

"I-I'm fine, Gyu. Honest." you watch his expression flicker, unreadable in the persimmon lamplight. "Sorry you had to come out. It's chilly out here."

"You know, you can tell me what's going on. I won't judge."

No, no, no. This is the last conversation you wanted to have, with the last person you wanted to have it with.

You feel feverish. You think your hands are shaking.

"Mingyu, I swear—"

"Whatever it is, we can fix it. I know we can."

That almost makes you want to laugh if you didn't want to cry so bad. Of fucking course he would say that. Mingyu, who treats life like it's the watermelon trick he showed you on the outlook, wants to put a bandaid on this whole thing, as if that could come close to fixing it.

He'd tell you to curl up on the couch with a bad movie while he orders takeout. Kiss you on the top of the head. It's ok, baby. Just another bad day for the person who has the worst luck in the world. Another lump of problems for him to try and make better. If he isn't sick of you now, he sure would be soon enough.

"It’s okay," you say, steeling your voice. "It really isn't a big deal. Let's just go back to sleep."

You try to walk away, but the hardness in Mingyu's eyes roots you down to the tile.

"Stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Pushing me away," he swallows. "Like you always do. I know something's going on."

"I’m not, i just—"

"You just what? You can't help it?"

"No, I—"

"Because you like to know that you can? That you can say whatever and then watch me come back?" A fragmented, heavy silence thrums between you. He's looking at you like he's daring you to say something, anything. His gaze is black. "What am I good for if you can't tell me anything?"

There's that familiar, stinging pressure behind your eyes. You think you're crying, but you're not sure. Maybe you've been crying this whole time.

"Fine," you bite. Your blood feels like hot metal. "You really wanna know? I didn't get into law school. There. Happy now?"

Mingyu looks stung.

"W-why didn't you tell me?"

Because I thought you would stop loving me. I thought you would have finally had enough.

"Because it's not all about you, Mingyu."

The words, selfish and damning, burn your tongue. Mingyu is right. This is what you always do. You fuck up and then make everyone else hurt for it.

"I'm sorry," Mingyu says. His voice doesn't sound like his. Instead, the words seem to hang in the air, trembling and holding their breath, waiting for an apology you can't give yet. "I shouldn't have—"

"It's ok." You swallow hard, and it hurts. "Let's just go back to bed."

It's getting colder and colder. You think there's a little hole in your sock, right above the cat's whiskers.

Mingyu doesn't reach for you as he passes to get to the hallway. Maybe he doesn't know how to anymore.

The Pororo cup is left abandoned on the counter. You walk over and read the label on the tea bag—barley, because you have class tomorrow morning.

You pick it up, let the ceramic buzz between your hands with whatever warmth it has left, and hold it to your lips.

It's cold now, but all you can think to do is drink it. Erase all the evidence that tonight ever happened, and maybe it'll be nothing more than a bad dream in the morning.

There's honey at the bottom of the cup. It sears the back of your throat, but you drink until there's nothing left.

vi. the peach blossoms (without fail, bloom every August. I miss you.)

You broke up the next day.

Even now, you remember what happened. You had woken up early that morning to make your own breakfast because you couldn't allow Mingyu to give you any more of himself. Your hands could only hold, shatter, so much.

"Mingyu, I think we should...." You looked at the zigzags of jam on your toast, angry and uneven. "I think we should stop seeing each other. For now," you had added, as if that made anything better at all.

Somehow that seemed more merciful at the time. Really, you think it just showed your cowardice. If you were going to break his heart, you might as well have gone all the way the first time.

Maybe it was a good thing that Mingyu saw right through you. He always did.

"So that's it, huh? You're just gonna give up on us?"

"No, I just...need some time."

"How long?" he asked. "Be honest with me. Because you know I’ll wait."

"I don't know." You couldn't meet his gaze. His eyes reached and reached over that kitchen table and you denied him even that.

"Don't you always know?" he asked, pitifully, desperately. "Don't you want this to work?"

And you did. In fact, you don't think you had ever wanted anything more, and it was that that scared you. You had already lost law school—you couldn't let the only other thing in your life let you go. So you pulled the trigger first.

"We should just end things. I'm sorry. I can't give you what you need."

He packed his bag within the hour, and you think everything, from then on, froze inside you. You didn't move from your seat until your parents came home from the airport later that day and asked why there were two plates of toast still on the table.

You think you knew, someplace, inevitably, this would happen. You, who only knew hunger, had reached deep inside Mingyu and rooted out a love you didn't think you were worthy of having. And yet you still ate from the vine, bite after guilty bite, until you couldn't take any more. The only time he asked you for anything at all, you couldn't give it to him—such was the irony of your relationship.

Maybe you were doomed the moment the first strawberry hit your tongue, just like you had said, all that time ago.

About a month later, you got another letter in the mail. Chungnam National University Law School, it read. This one was fat, in one of those brown envelopes lined with bubble wrap. Somehow, miraculously, that position on the waitlist had turned into an acceptance. You held the package to your chest and cried, loud and with abandon, as if taking a deep breath after almost drowning.

Ironically, the first person you wanted to tell was Mingyu. But the good news you needed to save your relationship came too little, too late. Perhaps that meant it had no legs to stand on in the first place, but that didn't stop you from missing it. Instead, you told Yizhuo, and she drove you to Jeju City and treated you to dinner. "You should just call him," she had said. "Hey, don't look at me like that. He'd probably pick up on the first ring."

The city is swathed in August's crimson summer—peach season. The narrow streets are lined with peach trees, the fruits glowing like fat drops of sunlight. All you do these days is plan for your eventual move to Daejeon and the start of a life that seems newer and shinier than your own. But surrounded by the cicada song, the velvet treeline, the rain-soaked asphalt, somehow you think you're going to miss Seogwipo more than you think.

(Fickle, fickle heart. You always needed things to be taken away to really be able to appreciate them. Somehow, all that wanting had boiled down to something more satisfying, more filling.)

You wonder how Mingyu is. Now that you think about it, he seems just as much a part of Seogwipo as the farm he lives on. It was only last summer when you had first met him in the field, set on fire by the strawberry harvest. You think about him now, peddling around that ridiculous wicker basket to make jam. Maybe talking to another pretty girl, someone as naive, cruel as you had been.

Not long ago, you considered calling him to apologize, but that'd just be another thing to be selfish about. A little time and some warm weather, and I’m calling to finally wash my hands of you. That's what it would sound like, no matter what you said. Still, it didn't stop you from thinking of him, every flower, every season.

"You know, I always wanted to grow peach trees. But I think we've always been a pear kind of family."

Mingyu. If a voice could cut through air, it'd be his.

You whip around, half-believing you're hearing things. Certainly that would be easier, but you're learning that there are some things you can't run from.

And like a picture, Mingyu stands tall, golden, framed by the peach blossoms. Not a thing about him has changed. Not even the way he looks at you.

"Mingyu," you breathe. Unfortunately, none of the times you replayed your last conversation with him help you come up with something to say, because in none of them did you anticipate him coming back. "W-what are you doing here?"

"I live here, silly."

"No way," you reply, scrambling. "Crazy, because I live here too."

You both laugh nervously, a silly, bubbly thing, but you feel like you're going to throw up. It's only now that you realize you're kind of on the walk to his place. Seogwipo has never had places to hide.

"I...um." You try and disentangle the guilt from the nostalgia from the scent of the peaches and the warmth on his face. They all look the same. You missed him. "I got into law school. In Daejeon."

"I heard," he says. "Not surprised at all. I always knew you would."

"Thank you. I mean it." The cicadas buzz around you, as if they know they have an important silence to fill. "You're staying in town, right?"

"Actually, I decided to apply to culinary school. It finally felt right, you know? I'm leaving at the end of the summer, but it's just in Jeju City. I couldn't leave the island."

"Thank goodness. I don't know if you could tell, but I kind of always hoped you would. I don't think I’ve ever eaten better food." Your voice wobbles, but it gets there. "You'll do amazing."

Then time stretches and forces you to recognize, reckon with, the moment you're in. You wonder if he feels the same way you do—bruised, overripe. If there's still a space in his heart for you.

Deep breath. Life only gives you so many chances.

"Mingyu, I’m sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't make us work. You deserved better." Saying it feels like peeling the skin of your heart back. There's still a palpable distance between the two of you—you think that had always been there—but it feels more comfortable in a way it never did before.

"Don’t apologize," he says, easily, as he always does. Everything seems to flow off him like water, and you think that's the part of him you loved the most because it was the one thing you couldn't touch. "We loved each other. I think that much was true."

A jasmine breeze curls through the trees, sending the blossoms fluttering around you like ink in water. The very first time you met Mingyu, you thought the image of him, haloed with the sunset, was the one you wanted to keep forever. And yet, somehow, you don't think you'll ever forget the way he looks right now.

"Will you ever come back to Seogwipo?" you ask.

"I was gonna ask you the same thing—you were always the one who wanted to get out of here." He grins, ear to ear. "Of course I'm coming back. There's nowhere I'd rather be."

"Yeah. I think I know what you mean."

The sea, the clay dirt, Mingyu. Even yourself, clumsy and care-worn. You think, somewhere along the line, you forgot how to love. But you're learning—one step at a time.

"Friends," you say. "Let's be friends. If you'll let me."

"Thought you would never ask. Gladly. Always." The space between you seizes, like it's holding in a breath. Maybe one day, you'll think of closing it once more, but you like where you stand now. You can admire him better from a distance, without your fingerprints all over him. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, something he does before he gets ready to leave. But before he does—"I'll see you soon, okay? You better come back. Promise me."

For the first time, you see the honesty in his eyes and you really, truly believe him.

"Promise."

The Seogwipo sun is high and red in the sky when you wave Mingyu goodbye. It feels like you're coming to an end of a long summer, but you're not afraid. You watch the wind dance through the peach blossoms, their branches never searching, never wanting, and you finally feel as if you've arrived home.

#literally on my hands and knees begging for the tags to work #mine #mingyu #mingyu x reader #mingyu x you #mingyu angst #seventeen angst #mingyu imagines

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badjokesbyjeff · 1 year

Text

An Australian Army Recruit sends home a letter...

Dear Ma & Pa,

I am well. Hope youse are too. Tell me big brothers Doug and Phil that the Army is better than workin’ on the farm - tell them to get in quick smart before the jobs are all gone! I wuz a bit slow in settling down at first, because ya don’t hafta get outta bed until 6 am. But I like sleeping in now, cuz all ya gotta do before brekky is make ya bed and shine ya boots and clean ya uniform. No cows to milk, no calves to feed, no feed to stack - nothin’!! Ya haz gotta shower though, but its not so bad, coz there’s lotsa hot water and even a light to see what ya doing!

At brekky ya get cereal, fruit and eggs but there’s no kangaroo steaks or possum stew like wot Mum makes. You don’t get fed again until noon and by that time all the city boys are dead because we’ve been on a ’route march’ - geez its only just like walking to the windmill in the back paddock!!

This one will kill me brothers Doug and Phil with laughter. I keep getting medals for shootin’ - dunno why. The bullseye is as big as a possum’s bum and it don’t move and it’s not firing back at ya like the Johnsons did when our big scrubber bull got into their prize cows before the Ekka last year! All ya gotta do is make yourself comfortable and hit the target! You don’t even load your own cartridges, they comes in lil' boxes, and ya don’t have to steady yourself against the rollbar of the roo shooting truck when you reload!

Sometimes ya gotta wrestle with the city boys and I gotta be real careful coz they break easy - it’s not like fighting with Doug and Phil and Jack and Boori and Steve and Muzza all at once like we do at home after the muster.

Turns out I’m not a bad boxer either and it looks like I’m the best the platoon’s got, and I’ve only been beaten by this one bloke from the Engineers - he’s 6 foot 5 and 15 stone and three pick handles across the shoulders and as ya know I’m only 5 foot 7 and eight stone wringin’ wet, but I fought him till the other blokes carried me off to the boozer.

I can’t complain about the Army - tell the boys to get in quick before word gets around how good it is.

Your loving daughter,

Patricia

#funny #jokes #humor #lol #comedy

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astralnymphh · 3 months

Note

Domestic!Ellie is my addiction.

I need more. You don’t understand. It’s not a want!? It’s a DESIRE A NEEDDDDD!!!!!! Just reading the hc’s, how sweet and soft she is under it all.

When she’s herself again, that goofy dorky nerd we all know her to beeee!!! AGHHH!!!

- 🩵

i see more domestic!farm!ellie than i do domestic!jackson!ellie, and i think the latter needs to be discussed more.

no cuz farm!ellie— as I've definitely claimed before, is very husband coded. on the other hand, a more early–lover, girlfriend who takes care of the child u got knocked up with. which is literally dina, but, i guess if ur' not obliged to the thought of getting knocked up in the first place; gamer dad. i grew up with one, not like he was present 24/7, but like.. ellie? same font alternate story. i also hc ellie does best with boys, idk. just feel it. okay, maybe cause of jj.

stopp staying over at ellie's place for the night n' you bring the lil' guy over swaddled to your chest— legit, sowing two steps upon her doorstep, darkening it, not even getting the chance to knock, nay cast breath over it, and it's swung open and the bundle of wrathful joy nearing the age of two once strapped to you is now ecstatically babbling in your auburnettes arms. tis' fucking magic; how whenever ellie comes in contact with that baby, skies are rainbow–painted and mourning doves are entrancing the whole of jackson with a birdsong. how ur sweet boy, blood of your blood and bone of your bone, weeps gutty murder in the hold of yours truly— but dries of cheek and whorls of smile with ellie, is unfathomable.

"heyy dude, hows my favorite lil' guy in the world doing?" baby–talks ellie, so ooey and cooey as she bounces at the knee, blocking the doorway, "whos' ready to watch mom play the turning? i know mama is, i know you aree." you are but a fragment to her now, a forgotten shadow at her door. that sounds grim but take it literally. she like, literally forgets to kiss you at the door sometimes.

"ellie." comically, you tap your foot, faking a downturned pout left to dry without her kisses, and the cruel wintry air.

snapping her fern eyes up, she jerks a dumbfounded visage— and an even dumber query, "what?"

"my kiss?"

"oh, right.. um," her face relaxes and turns lily–white of innocence, shooting scattered glances at the child as she slants her weight over to you, "hey babe." extending graceful as a swans neck yet devoting you only a measly peck on the mouth measured lesser than a second before she slunk her body back and spun inside, rambling chin–tucked to that child, "ellies' got a new record i think you'll really like.."

lips still baked to a dry, you stare in catatonic quiescence at the eclipsed circle of pale lamp–light streaking around her bun as she paces away from you. step, by step, by hurried step, eager to spill attention with the full force of her coos amusing the easy–to–please mind, garbiling a possible bravo! or huzah!— until nightfall would whistle through the crickets and quiet him to sleep. leaving you, an even larger, tatted up baby now whiny for your attention.

need to see angelgbc photos of jackson!ellie holding jj now

#ellie williams #⤹𓍢ִ໋aestras asks #ellie williams x reader #ellie tlou #ellie williams fluff #domestic!ellie #jackson!ellie #lesbian #sapphic #ellie x reader #ellie williams x fem!reader #ellie williams fic #ellie williams fanfic #ellie williams fanfiction #ellie williams x y/n #ellie williams blurb #ellie williams drabble #ellie williams concept #⋆ .🩵 anon

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mtmpossession · 4 months

Text

A New Perspective: Part I

The sun had just set over the horizon, casting a warm glow across the rolling hills of the family farm in Texas. Douglas, a sturdy man in his early fifties, stood outside the old barn, gazing out at the fields with a mixture of pride and weariness. He was a homespun man, with a short beard that highlighted the strength of his jawline. His broad shoulders were testament to a lifetime of hard work, both as a fire protection specialist and as a farmer.

Joseph, on the other hand, was a young man in his late twenties, with an athletic build and lean muscles that were honed from years of working out and modeling. He was dressed impeccably in a crisp white shirt and dark jeans, his brown hair styled to perfection. His stubble, however, betrayed the fact that he hadn't shaved in a few days. Joseph was an adventurer, always eager to explore the world and experience new things. He was bisexual, something he had confessed to his father years ago, which had only served to further strain their already tenuous relationship.

As Joseph stepped out of the car and approached his father, he couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness. They had barely spoken in over a year, and now they were meeting under such tense circumstances. Douglas's disapproval of Joseph's lifestyle choice, coupled with his father's insistence that he abandon his modeling career and join the family business, had only served to drive them further apart.

Douglas, on the other hand, was filled with a mixture of anger and disappointment. He loved his son dearly, but he couldn't help but feel that Joseph was wasting his life chasing after meaningless fame and fortune. He wanted Joseph to embrace their family's blue-collar roots and work alongside him at the fire protection business and on the farm.

"Hello, Joseph," Douglas said, his tone formal and distant. "It's good to see you again."

"Likewise, Dad," Joseph replied, his voice equally guarded. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of hurt as he looked at his father. The last time they had seen each other, they had argued heatedly about Joseph's life choices. He wished things could be different, but it seemed like their relationship was beyond repair.

The two men stood in an awkward silence, neither knowing what to say. The tension was palpable. Douglas cleared his throat and glanced at his watch. "Well, I should get started on dinner," he said finally. "Why don't you come inside and help me?"

Joseph hesitated, uncertain whether his father meant it as an invitation to mend fences or just a request for assistance. After a moment's consideration, he decided to accept the offer. "Sure," he said, following his father into the house. The kitchen was warm and welcoming, with a large wooden table and cozy decorations that spoke of years of family gatherings.

As they worked side by side, chopping vegetables and seasoning meat, the silence between them seemed less oppressive. Douglas glanced at his son out of the corner of his eye, noticing the way he moved with confidence and ease. It was hard for Douglas to believe that this was the same boy who had once been so uncertain of himself. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of pride, despite the tension that still lingered between them.

Meanwhile, Joseph found himself thinking about the years they had spent apart. He remembered the days when they would work together on the farm, laughing and sharing stories. He wondered if they could ever find a way back to that place of mutual understanding and respect.

As they ate their dinner, they continued to engage in small talk, discussing the latest sports news and local politics. It was a far cry from their previous arguments about Joseph's career choices, and Douglas found himself enjoying the easy banter between them. He couldn't help but notice how well his son looked, dressed in his crisp white shirt and jeans. There was a confidence about him that hadn't been there before.

Joseph, too, was relieved to be able to talk about something other than the elephant in the room. He had missed his father's company and the sense of belonging that came with being part of this family. He knew that they had differences, but he hoped that they could find some common ground.

As the evening wore on, however, their conversation began to take a familiar turn. Douglas started to question Joseph's choices once again, and Joseph found himself growing defensive. Before they knew it, they were once again arguing heatedly. "You never understood me, Dad," Joseph exclaimed, his voice rising. "You just want me to be this version of yourself, but I'm not you!"

Douglas's face flushed with anger. "Of course I understand you, Joseph! I just want you to have a stable future, one that doesn't involve chasing after fleeting fame and fortune!" he retorted. "You could be doing so much more with your life than strutting around in front of cameras!"

Joseph felt a stab of pain as his father spoke. He knew that Douglas meant well, but he couldn't help feeling like he was being suffocated by his father's expectations. "You don't get it, Dad," he said, his voice trembling. "I'm not you. I don't want your life. I want my own."

Douglas looked away, unable to meet his son's eyes. He knew that he had been harsh, but he couldn't help feeling a desperate need to protect Joseph from what he saw as a reckless path. He wished he could understand why Joseph was so determined to pursue a career in modeling, when there were so many other options available to him.

Joseph retreated to his room, feeling a familiar mix of anger, frustration, and sadness. He knew that he and his father had always been different, but he had hoped that they could find some common ground. Instead, they seemed to be further apart than ever. He tossed and turned in bed, unable to sleep, his mind filled with thoughts of his father and their strained relationship.

Douglas, too, lay awake, staring up at the ceiling. He couldn't shake the image of Joseph's face as he had argued with him. He knew that he had been harsh, but he couldn't help feeling a desperate need to protect his son from what he saw as a reckless path. He wished he could understand why Joseph was so determined to pursue a career in modeling, when there were so many other options available to him.

As the hours ticked by, Douglas found himself growing more and more restless. He couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to step into Joseph's shoes, even for just a day. To experience the world through his son's eyes, to understand the motivations that drove him. Perhaps then, he thought, he could find a way to bridge the gap between them.

Joseph, on the other hand, spent the remainder of the night tossing and turning in bed. He couldn't shake the image of his father's disappointment and the weight of their strained relationship. He felt as though they were speaking two different languages. Perhaps if he could understand where his father was coming from, they could find a way to reach a common ground.

After they fall asleep, a sudden thunder storm arises. Lightning flashes across the sky, illuminating the room in brief flashes of blue and white. The wind howls, battering the windows and causing the house to creak and groan. In the midst of the storm, there is a strange, inexplicable feeling in the air. As if the universe itself is conspiring to bring about a change.

The next morning, Joseph awakens with a start. He feels... different. His body is heavier, his movements slower. As he sits up in bed, he realizes with a jolt that he is no longer in his own body. He is in his father's body!

Douglas, too, wakes up with a start. He feels... light, almost ethereal. His movements are quick and graceful. As he swings his legs over the side of the bed, he realizes with a gasp that he is not in his own body. He is in Joseph's body!

He rushes over to the mirror, hardly able to believe what he sees. The face that stares back at him is not his own. It is young, vibrant, and unmistakably his son's. He touches his cheek, feeling the smoothness of his skin, and then runs his fingers through his silky hair. This is a dream, he tells himself, but it feels so real.

As he steps out of his room, he sees Joseph standing in the hallway, looking equally confused. His father's body feels strange, yet familiar. He tries to speak, but no words come out. He gestures for his father to follow him, and they proceed to the kitchen.

To be continued...

#male possession #male tf #male body swap #gay possession #bodyswapper #body switch #body swap #body possession #jock #male transformation #male takeover #possession #dad and son

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ghouljams · 26 days

Note

I come bearing an angsty thought at this late hour! (Because it's like 2am here but I feel the need to share my sad with someone and you're my unwilling sacrifice of the day)

Anyway, I was thinking about how since Simon has experience as a butcher before he joined the service, in his cowboy era he would probably be more than happy to volunteer for butchering duty when someone brings something back from a hunt or one of the animals is slaughtered for dinner. So, it's the first time he's doing it since joining Price on the farm, probably has Goose chatting with him as he works since she's not squeamish when it comes to skinning an animal, and everything is going well.

But then, Simon goes to hang some of the meat up on a meat hook and it's like everything comes to a screeching halt. His whole body locks up, and although he logically knows that he's not in any danger and he's done this hundreds of times before, he hasn't touched a meat hook since Roba... The hook is swaying slightly in the wind, and it looks so, so sharp, and just thinking about how easily it can tear through skin and muscle-

Goose probably needs to go get Price, because Simon is not okay.

Oooh, I love hurting the boy. Early-ish days, the first time Ghost needed to butcher anything at the farm.

"Usually we send bucks to the butcher," you tell him, "but we've got set-up for dressings at least."

"Field dressed it, just need a clean space and some decent knives," Ghost supplies, hauling the buck out of the truck bed and over his shoulder. He doesn't need to, could always pull the truck around properly, but he likes the way your eyes follow the flex of his muscles. It's not a far walk, and he can shoulder 200 pounds easy.

You're all sweet smiles and laughter, asking for the worst deer blind jokes of the day; Ghost doesn't know how you can be so... yourself. You pull the cellar doors open, easing each one to the ground and giving Ghost the heads up to watch his height on the way down. Ghost keeps his eyes on the steps, careful to keep the buck from scraping the low clearance as you click on the lights. He glances around the old storm cellar when he gets his feet on the dirt. It's cool, good for storage, there are already cans lining the shelves along the walls. There's a table in the middle, butcher block. Ghost smiles to himself.

"Whose kit?" He asks, dropping the deer on the table.

"My uncle's," You toss it over your shoulder, moving towards the back, "he was the butcher of the family, Daddy's a good hunter but he sure as shit ain't cutting into that with anything stronger than a steak knife."

Ghost chuckles, tugging his own hunting knife from his belt. "Not for everyone," He calls back, "but better than 'aving someone else take the best pieces."

"Says the man giving away backstraps," You grumble. Ghost shakes his head, he hopes you never let that go. Sweet thing. Some day he'd work up the nerve to propose, find some reason to give you that was better than just himself.

"I'm not 'earing you complain about that, am I?" He jokes, glancing back over his shoulder, watches you give a sharp tug at a ceiling beam and rip down a hook. It hangs in the air, curving its horrible point back towards the heavy chain that holds it in place, the metal black with dried blood. Ghost's breath catches in his chest, his vision narrowing onto a singular point.

"Get away from that," Ghost tells you, his voice short, his eyes darting over the metal. You say something a thousand miles away, and wrap your hand around the hook. Ghost's breath bursts out of him like a gag, heaving out of his chest, his ribs throbbing with the memory of hanging. It's like he can't get enough air it, it all comes out too quickly, and the whole room smells like iron. Iron and dirt. You hold your hand over the point, speaking again, gibberish, garbled nonsense, your accent is too close to a memory he wants to scrub himself clean of. It's when you press your fingers against the mean edge of the hook that he really finds it in himself to move.

He's too sure that you're going to spear yourself, that your stigmata might mirror his own, holes punched in your body from the same terrible instrument.

Ghost's hand grabs your arm and rips you away from the meat hook, his breath coming fast and wild. He can see it, he can see the way it would happen, he can feel the blood under his nails. The process of being lifted like meat onto the hook, the blinding pain of the sharp tip piercing through layers of fat and muscle, the curve of it forcing its way through his body and around his ribs. He can still feel the metal under his hands, the links of chain that he tried to pull himself off of. He can feel each slippery, blood soaked, attempt to free himself.

He can see the way he'd lift you onto the hook, can feel the weight of you under his hand, the way you struggle against his bruising grip, the thump of your hand against his chest. He could add another scar to your body, inflict it on you himself, you could match, you could hate him, you could know, and he could save you the way he couldn't save himself. He could hurt you. Does he want to hurt you? Why does he want to hurt you? He doesn't. He does. He doesn't. He's-

You grab either side of his face and drag him to look at you. Ghost feels like his eyes might vibrate out of his skull, his vision blurring, aching with the lack of focus as it darts to and fro. "What has five toes and isn't your foot?" You ask him.

Ghost's brain grinds to a halt. What? What are you asking him? What does that have to do with-

"My foot," You finish, giving him a little shake. Something bursts out of Ghost that isn't pain or shock. He barks out a laugh, the tension in his muscles squeezing it out of him. It bubbles up from his chest and boils over, his body shaking with the release of it. His breath is quick still, something tightening in his core that doubles him over and forces his hands onto his knees as his laughter gives way to shaking sobs. There are no tears, he can't feel any tears, can't feel much of anything.

He can hear his heart racing, his blood rushing in his ears, as he stares at the dirt floor. No blood, no wounds, no bodies. He grabs his chest, feels the joined skin over his heart, the cold beat of it, dry. Your feet move like you're going to leave. He grabs you again, swallows down the beg for forgiveness, and instead squeezes your hand tight.

"I'm gonna go get Daddy," You tell him quick.

"Don't." Ghost tells you, trying to stifle his breathing, trying to reign in the heaving of his chest.

You sound apologetic when you touch his cheek and tell him, "I have to."

He knows you do. Ghost squeezes his eyes shut, feels your hand slip from his grip. He's never going to be as strong as he needs to be, is he?

#cod x reader #simon ghost riley #cod x oc #simon ghost riley x reader #x oc #ghost mw2 #x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley #simon riley x reader #ghost cod #mw2 ghost #cowboy au #oc: goose #tw panic attack #tw violence #ghost the intrusive thoughts are not genuine wants baby #goosey would understand

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turtletaubwrites · 13 days

Text

Numbers Game ~ Part 11

Pairings: Cross Guild x Fem!Reader

Numbers Game Masterlist

Word Count: 4176

Ao3 Link

Summary: Another night with the Cross Guild reminds you of all the reasons why you should feel afraid, and all the reasons why you don't. Mihawk and Crocodile discuss your professional responsibilities.

Author's Note: I don't think my brain is attached to my body when I write about these bad men 🤷🏼‍♀️

Rating/Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, 18+ ONLY, MDNI, AFAB!Reader, She/Her Pronouns for Reader, Reader-Insert, Swearing, Smut, Manipulation, Humiliation, Pet Names, Power Imbalance, Blood and Violence, Cross Guild boys are VILLAINS, Possessive Behavior, Dom Mihawk, Teasing, Threats, Arguing, Daddy Kink, PIV Sex, Unprotected Sex (be safe out there!), Creampie, Overstimulation, Hair-Pulling, Degradation, Orgasm Control, Choking

The smile that broke across your face sent chills over your skin, even under the dangerous hands that gripped you on either side.

Buggy’s smile grew impossibly wide, his eyes flaring when he saw how he’d affected you. He looked truly happy for the first time in days as he leaned closer, reaching a gloved hand toward yours. Faded red lips parted, but his words died in his throat when a golden hook wrapped around it.

“I said we’ll try not to hurt you,” Crocodile rasped, yanking his hook just slightly until Buggy gulped, his wide eyes reflecting that menacing face. “Don’t get handsy with our girl when you smell like trash.”

“You got it, boss. I’ll go take a shower!”

Buggy’s head floated up while he nodded, freeing himself from the deadly hook. He flew toward the door, leaving a floating hand to wave for a moment before he was gone.

“That’s not what I– fucking clown,” Crocodile grumbled, his hand still gripped around your neck while you held your breath to keep from laughing.

“He really is a fool, isn’t he,” Mihawk wondered aloud, swirling the wine in his glass while his free hand released your fingers. He touched your knee, the gesture innocent, until the pads of his fingers teased circles around your skin. “How’s my little bloodhound, hm?”

“Blood–”

“Yes, darling,” he hurried, handing you your own glass to sip. “You did well with our wine tasting the other night, and today you told me that I smell like– what was it… dirt, but sour?”

You coughed as wine burned down your throat, and Crocodile patted your back a bit too hard while he chuckled softly.

“I’m not offended,” the swordsman teased, grabbing your chin to pull you his way. Those piercing eyes scraped your skin until he gave a small smile. “I surveyed the local soil this morning to determine the best crops for the area. It’s decent, but a bit acidic, hence the sour smell.”

Unable to comprehend anything he’d said, you couldn’t stop your lips from parting, your brows from creasing, or your whole face from looking stupid while you tried to translate his words.

“You like to garden,” Crocodile asked, that deep voice soft with surprise.

“I took up farming during my stay on Kuraigana,” Mihawk cleared his throat, releasing your flustered face while he took a sip of that potent wine. “It's a very productive hobby.”

“I’m sure it is. I bet that blade of yours works wonders on those stubborn weeds.”

The larger man’s taunt sped your pulse. You wanted to be as far away as possible if these two ex-warlords ever fought.

“I am capable of killing plenty of things without dirtying Yoru. Just be sure to keep your dry skin away from my vegetables,” Mihawk scoffed, taking another long sip as Crocodile let out a hearty laugh.

After a few moments of what couldn't be sulking, Mihawk sighed, returning his attention to you.

“How are you feeling, pet? Did mean ol’ Crocodile rough you up too much earlier? Did he ruin that sweet, little cunt of yours?”

His fingers slid up your thigh, pushing the hem of your dress higher while he checked in.

“Go easy on her.”

That warning growl stilled Mihawk's hand for just a moment before he let out a piercing laugh.

“Says the man I had to rein in earlier. Did you end up tearing her pretty pussy to shreds anyway? Before our little treasure even picks a safe word?”

“Watch your—“

“I have a safe word,” you chirped, interrupting Crocodile for the second time today. They were both quiet, the silence making you itch.

“Why didn’t you tell us,” he questioned, those large fingers kneading your neck and shoulders.

“Well, you didn’t ask, and I didn’t think…”

“You didn’t think what, exactly,” Mihawk cut in, a dangerous tease in his words. “Didn’t think that two ex-warlords would care at all if their favorite toy got broken beyond repair?”

He kissed your cheek then, squeezing your thigh while he poured more of that wicked voice in your ear.

“Don’t worry, pet, I’ll break you as many times as I please. But if you don’t take good care of my things, we’ll have a very different kind of punishment.”

“You know we’ll take care of you,” Crocodile rasped, the cold metal of his hook smoothing over your cheek. “Tell us your word, but promise you’ll only use it when you need it, sweetheart. You know how I feel about liars.”

“I p-promise. It’s ‘hopscotch.”

“Perfect,” Mihawk nibbled on your ear before pulling away. “Now we can have some real fun.”

A cheerful tune came whistling through the door before it burst open. Buggy gleamed under the light in a set of red pajamas, his long blue hair braided over his shoulder leaving a damp stain against that clean fabric.

He’d donned a light version of his circus makeup, and it hurt your heart to think of how long it might be before you saw him without it again.

“This clown is as clean as a whistle,” Buggy announced, winking at you while he dragged the velvet chair as close as possible. He plopped himself down, laying his legs across the coffee table to wiggle his blue-painted toes in front of your knees.

You shoved a knuckle between your teeth after a snort slipped out of you, and Buggy sent a floating hand to tug gently on your earlobe. Your cheeks burned, and you had to close your eyes.

The past few days had ripped you away, and you’d been feeling frustrated before then.

But Buggy could always make you laugh.

“It's been a long day,” Mihawk drawled, ignoring the barefoot clown as he looked over your head at Crocodile. “I think I’ll help our little rabbit tuck in for the night. Come along, pet.”

He stood gracefully, and you took his offered hand, not knowing what he was truly offering.

“I’ll join you shortly,” Crocodile said after a pause, eyeing the swordsman as he carried you toward the door.

“I’ll come–”

Glancing back, you saw that golden hook catch Buggy’s braid, forcing him to turn away from you.

“We don’t need you waiting by the door tonight,” the larger man chuckled, his deep voice following you through the air into the hallway.

Mihawk’s hands felt electric as he held you, the chaste touch somehow tearing through your body.

How can he make every little thing feel so fucking filthy?

He hummed to himself as if he’d heard your thought, carrying you into Crocodile’s suite. You spun while he hung up his fancy coat, noting all the changes the suite had gone through since this morning, only stopping to watch Mihawk pull a few items from a wardrobe that hadn’t been there before.

“Join me for a shower,” he asked lightly, tapping your nose. “I couldn’t bear to make my pet sleep with the scent of sour dirt tonight.”

“Okay,” you coughed to hide a laugh, still not sure how to act around this stoic man who didn’t seem so stoic around you.

Deadly hands undressed you, tracing your skin softly, just enough to make you sigh. Standing on that fluffy bath mat again with his nude body so close had you curling your toes, and you couldn't look away while he started the water.

“Here, darling,” he ordered, handing you a shower cap before brushing a few strands from your face. “It would be a shame to dull this pretty hair by overwashing it. Do you think those high society clients would still respect my little rabbit if she’s not as shiny as she was?”

“I don’t–”

Cruel fingers fisted into your hair, stretching your neck to the side while his tongue teased along that vulnerable flesh. You moaned as you clung to his sides, trying to stay on your feet while he guided toward the shower. He released you, his harsh grip followed with a gentle touch as he helped you put the cap on, tucking stray strands inside.

Mihawk pulled you under that perfectly hot water, making your eyes roll back as he began to wash your skin. No touch was overtly sexual, but each one was sensual, leaving your body tingling, muscles relaxing under his attention.

You’d almost forgotten what he’d been talking about.

“What will they think of their perfect numbers girl now that she’s my filthy pet? The Cross Guild’s pretty little slut?”

Blinking a few times to get your heavy lidded eyes to work, you found him waiting for you. Watching him spread suds across his unreal body almost took your mind away again.

“Some of them will judge me,” you started, meeting his searing gaze through the steam. “They’ll think I’m stupid, or crazy, or a whore.”

“Maybe all three,” he mused. You cut him off before the next words could leave his lips.

“Most of them will be jealous.”

His lips quirked just slightly, and he pulled you under the water again, leaving a wet kiss on your lips as the soap rinsed away.

“Why would they be jealous of you, Y/N,” he rasped when he wrapped a warm towel around you. Your name on his lips sent fear through your veins, making you question your answer, but you knew you could never lie to him.

“I think they’re just as bored as I was, if not more. That’s why it’s so easy to convince them to throw money at ridiculous things. Why they all have stupid, petty skeletons in their closets. They’re boring people with boring lives, and they would kill for a little adventure, if they weren’t such fucking cowards. So instead of living, they just pay an obscene amount of berry to rub shoulders with little danger now and then.”

You ended your rant with a shrug, hanging the towel up to dry while the swordsman studied your every movement.

He left you in silence again, handing you a white linen top while you tried not to burn to ash under his molten gaze. Thankfully, you got you got distracted by watching him pull on burgundy pajama pants, the silky fabric doing nothing to dull the gleam of his still bare chest.

“Is this yours,” you asked, finally pulling the white fabric over your head. It felt very piratey, and you tugged at the laces to close the wide gap over your chest, bouncing on your toes while you looked at your reflection. He wrapped himself around your back, meeting your eyes in the mirror.

“It is. Let’s–”

“I didn’t think you owned any shirts.”

Your eyes went wide as the words left your lips, adrenaline buzzing through you at the feel of his fingers pressing into your skin.

“I’m sorry, I–”

“You are a brave little rabbit, aren’t you,” he whispered, kissing your temple before leading you by the hand. “Let’s get some rest. You’ve got a party to plan tomorrow.”

“Oh,” you nodded, watching him pull the blankets aside for you to climb onto the massive bed. He smirked as he joined you, his heat giving you chills when he pulled your back against his chest. His breath tickled your neck, and you melted into him as his deep hum vibrated through you.

Each touch was gentle, almost lazy, as if those strong fingers were writing a lullaby on your skin. There was no push, just a soft pull toward relaxation, a call to join him in sleep.

Yet whimpers fell from your lips, your body writhing against his until he let out a low chuckle, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

“Is there something you need, rabbit?”

That voice sent your eyes rolling back, the hidden promise and threat in his words adding to the need dripping between your legs. He traced his nails along your thigh, and you moaned just from the feel of him that close.

“Mm, what’s this,” he taunted as his fingers dragged through all that slick. Your back arched, his featherlight touch over where you ached for him forcing a whine from you. “So desperate for me. And I thought you’d be too sore. Or are you that much of a cockslut, Y/N?”

He blocked your greedy hand from reaching back for him, digging those just-gentle fingers into your arm while you whined.

“Use your words,” he chided, clicking his tongue. “Does my precious little whore want to get fucked?”

Legs shaking as you whimpered, your needy “yes” was barely audible. Your next breath came in a gasp as Mihawk shifted, wrapping his arm underneath you. It curled around you until his fingers gripped your throat, forcing you back against his chest.

“I didn’t fucking hear you, slut,” he growled as he pressed his silk covered cock against your ass. “Be a good pet, and beg for what you want.”

“Please, fuck me, sir–”

Your strained plea ended with a moan, Mihawk’s free hand pushing that silk out of the way. He choked you harder when he entered you, before wrapping his free hand around your hip to attack your clit.

“Mihawk…”

“Such a lovely whore, screaming my name so well.”

His vicious praise, his calculated thrusts, and his wicked fingers around your throat sent you into chaos, spasming in his arms. He loosened the pressure on your neck as you came down, but kept everything else going. You twitched as he played with your clit, the pleasure almost too much before he slowed all of his movements.

“I understand why you want Crocodile,” the swordsman drawled, giving you just enough pleasure to make you whimper. “I saw how quickly you gave in this morning. You enjoyed being punished.”

“Mhm,” you admitted, moaning when he rewarded you with another squeeze to your throat.

“And somehow, that fool clown makes you laugh so much that you keep putting yourself in harm's way for him. But if all you want is a floating cock, I’ve got plenty of toys you can fuck without all that risk,” he chuckled as your body tensed. Then he gave you what you needed, hitting against that perfect spot inside you over and over until you forgot everything but him.

“That’s alright, little rabbit. I intend to remain your favorite.”

“What…” you breathed out, almost lost again.

“Shh, darling, you know how well I can read you. Mm, how’s that, pet,” he checked in.

“You feel so good.”

“You know I can make you feel good. So good that your body will crave my touch, even when your other lovers make you scream.”

One more thrust, one more touch of those fingers, and you would be screaming for him again.

Instead, you almost sobbed as he went still.

“But you’ll have to earn it. Be a good little rabbit for me, or I might even keep the others from offering relief,” he threatened in your ear. You could feel his cock pulsing inside you, and you fought the urge to fuck yourself onto him.

“How many hours… How many days could you take it, hm? Maybe we should test it out, just to be sure.”

“N-no, please, sir.”

“Mm, such a well-mannered pet you are. Keep begging.”

You did.

You kept begging, even as your voice struggled through his choking grasp, and through the next orgasm he ripped from you.

“My hungry, little vixen,” he purred, kicking off that burgundy silk as he rolled you onto your stomach. He forced a pillow beneath your hips before his thrusts went mean. Your fingers twisted into the sheets, the overwhelm still too delicious for you to care. His breath against your hair made your eyes roll white as he propped himself up over your back.

“Do you want to be a good pet for me,” he teased, his own voice finally straining.

“Yes,” you whined, almost there again, your body nearly done. A small part of you heard the door open, but the rest of you shattered at Mihawk's next words, and his harsh fingers ripping into your hair.

“Then take my come, you filthy slut… Mm, such a pretty whore, milking my cock on command. Fuck...”

Mihawk’s moans were just as intoxicating as his evil words, and you became nothing but pleasure with the pain. Your toes curled as hot ropes of come filled you, but he didn’t stop. He kept fucking his come into you, grunting softly while you whimpered beneath him, drool staining your lips.

“That’s enough.”

Your body tightened at Crocodile’s low voice, making the swordsman’s cock twitch inside you, until you were gasping and squirming again.

“You should be proud, Crocodile,” he teased, kissing down your back as he pulled out of you. He helped you roll over, smirking while he spread you open, showing off his work that was dripping slowly through your folds. “Our numbers girl is so obedient.”

“You’re not a whore, Y/N.”

Blinking up at that scarred face, you couldn’t fight the hazy fog of confusion while your body still twitched.

“Don’t be so pedantic,” Mihawk scoffed, kissing along your jaw. “She wanted to be our whore, didn’t you, Y/N? Go ahead and tell your daddy what a cockslut you–”

“Enough.”

The command stopped your breath, and the shift in Mihawk’s body made your blood run cold.

Fuck, please don’t fight.

Your golden-eyed lover sat up, but kept a possessive hand on your thigh, fingers smearing his pleasure down your skin.

“If I had known you weren’t good at sharing toys–”

“Y/N has other uses. If you can’t treat her as anything but a whore, then we should–”

Mihawk stood, his nude form facing off with Crocodile at the foot of the bed while you held your breath.

“We should what? Let the poor thing suffer all alone with her dainty fingers every night? I’m sure she'd prefer being our whore over that. And why the sudden morality, Crocodile,” Mihawk challenged, sauntering toward the wall to lean uncomfortably close to Yoru. “Did you find religion in that hungry cunt this morning?”

You sat up, clutching at the loose, linen shirt to cover your chest, ignoring the sticky mess between your thighs. Crocodile cracked his neck, pale eyes flicking toward your movement.

“We promised that she’d be our girl, and that we’d take care of her. She’s got more talents than that, and I won’t have you treating her like some cheap whore to toss out when you’re bored.”

Even naked, Mihawk was frightening, danger like lightning under his skin, ready to strike at any moment. He let out another sharp laugh, rolling his eyes.

“It’s just a word, Crocodile, I’d never toss out our little treasure. I’m surprised at what a prude you are,” he chuckled, moving toward you, but still not far enough from his sword for your liking. “Did you like it when I called you that, Y/N? Did you enjoy getting fucked like a whore?”

A tiny, pathetic sound left your throat, and his satisfied look made you shiver before you glanced up at Crocodile's unreadable face.

“Answer him, sweetheart,” his gravelly voice coaxed, nodding at your choked out “yes.” He turned back to the smug swordsman, taking a single step, his long legs bringing him too close.

“Y/N’s our numbers girl, our financial advisor, and she’ll need to be taken seriously if this guild is gonna make any berry. If you disrespect her in front of anyone besides me or the clown, we will have a problem.”

“There it is,” Mihawk smirked, his chin lifting even higher as he returned the larger man’s glare. “Our overgrown lizard didn’t fall in love after all. I wonder how many people you’d whore her out to if it’d net you more ber—”

Your scream felt quiet compared to the clash of hook against sword.

The ex-warlords seethed, sword cleaving through empty air as flesh turned to sand, their venomous words lost to your ears while you struggled to move.

You wanted to run, to hide, to beg them to stop fighting over you.

They’re not fighting over me. They’re fighting for control.

That thought slowed your breathing, fear growing sickly sweet in your gut. Even with all the danger, you had started to feel safe, a naïve part of you had believed all their promises.

But what if I stop being useful?

The door cracked open, panicked blue eyes watching the first slow tears fall down your frozen cheeks. Until warm fingers wiped them away.

The noise of the fight still echoed through the room, but your mind was gone from it as two disembodied hands held you under your arms, lifting you into the air. Buggy nodded reassuringly as he floated you toward him, shouldering the door open for you to fit through. His handless arms were outstretched, waiting to catch you, but his hands almost dropped you when the door slammed shut.

Sand had hit the door, shifting into that daunting form. Crocodile’s breathing was heavy as he scowled down at you.

“Where were you off to, little rabbit,” came Mihawk’s taunting voice, breathing against the back of your neck.

“I’m sorry," you stuttered, quivering in the air, "I wasn’t–”

“It’s my fault, I was taking her! She looked scared, that’s all, Y/N didn’t ask–”

Crocodile opened the door, dragging Buggy inside by his braid, bringing the clown within reach.

So you reached for him.

“Buggy…” you gave one quiet sob, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. You breathed him in as he returned his hands, holding you close.

The embrace lasted longer than you thought it would, and you melted into him, until anxiety hit. Opening your eyes, you caught Crocodile watching you, touching your damp cheek with a finger while he shook his head.

“Didn’t mean to scare ya, sweetheart. I promised we’d take care of you, alright?”

You nodded over Buggy’s shoulder, his own breathing ragged as he pressed you against his chest. Your other lover came into view, standing close to his recent opponent while he trailed gentle fingers through your hair.

“Don’t fret, darling, I just like to play. You know I’ll protect what’s mine,” he promised, his head tilting when you nodded for him.

The four of you stayed like that, your heart the only thing that seemed to move. Buggy held you tight, while Mihawk and Crocodile stared down into your wide eyes.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Mihawk finally broke the spell, guiding Buggy to carry you to the bathroom, cleaning up the mess between your thighs. He didn’t even tease you, just kissed your forehead when he checked in. “Will you feel safer if the clown stays with us tonight?”

It felt like a dangerous question, but you were too tired to lie.

“Yes.”

Buggy’s surprised hum made your eyes flutter closed, until you were set down on that huge bed. Crocodile kissed your temple while Buggy slid in on your other side, with Mihawk wrapping his arm around the clown to reach you. You were curled against Buggy’s chest, and with Crocodile wrapped around your back, you were embraced by three ex-warlords all at once.

The blanket was replaced with a sheet, but even then, you wondered if you’d wake up on fire from the heat of all their bodies.

The giggle that escaped your lips at that thought shocked you, and brought soft noises from your three lovers. Buggy kissed your hair, Mihawk’s fingers traced a few slow circles along your side, while Crocodile’s deep voice rolled over you.

“Feeling alright, sweet girl?”

That slowly shrinking part of your brain tried to convince you that you should be terrified. That tonight was more proof of the danger you’re in. That you should run for your life, run away from the Cross Guild at the first chance you got.

But being held like this, feeling their warmth, and melting into the intoxicating scent of all three of them made your fear fade into nothing.

“I feel good,” you confessed, letting yourself drift into dreams, with three living anchors to guide your way.

“Mm, pretty…”

“Bugs,” you sighed, shifting beneath the press of heat around you. Buggy groaned as he rutted against your thigh, but you couldn’t writhe under the weight of so many arms.

“I wonder what clowns dream of to get their dicks so hard. It has to be our little rabbit.”

Mihawk’s hand had trailed down your side, brushing against that hard length. You were wide awake now, but still trapped, Crocodile’s low chuckle sending shivers over your skin while Buggy woke with a yelp.

“Good morning! I’ll just–” Buggy choked out, body tensing as he looked back and forth between the other men. He tried to float away, but his head got yanked back, his braid caught beneath your shoulder, and Mihawk’s arm that was wrapped around him squeezed tighter until he stilled.

“I don’t believe this clown asked for permission to rub his cock all over our little rabbit, did he?”

“No, he didn’t.”

Likes, comments, and reblogs bring me much ✨dopamine✨ thank you!!

a/n: Lol, sorry about Buggy getting his braid caught 3 times in this chapter. I had super long hair for years (lower back to mid thigh), and used to get stuck everywhere 😅 Poor Buggy, our lil clown is trapped again

Part 12

Operation Olive Branch has compiled a working spreadsheet of ways to help families fleeing from the genocide in Palestine. If you enjoyed this fic, and are able, please click the link to find a list of GoFundMe's, as well as other ways to help.

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the-soliloquies-of-sadists · 7 months

Text

#375

“Hey shithead, get over here. I got some news…. You look like shit. Come here. Kneel. Reach in and take out my dick. I’ve got to take a piss. Drink up and listen. A buyer put in an offer, and it was accepted. You’ve been sold. I wasn’t expecting for a chunky slave to sell after only one day of showing, but that big truck driver made a full offer. He’ll be back later on tonight. He made some demands….

“He wants you cleaned up on the outside and loaded up with loads from many men on the inside. I’ll bring the hose around in a bit. Sir Hank will be down in a bit to bring you some soap. He’s also going to make that cage permanent, by riveting it on. Your dick will be useless going forward.

“Do you remember how many men unloaded in your cunt so far this morning?... Four? Good. Hank and I will each provide one. With you off the market, it’ll be difficult to get men in here just for a fuck.

“I called a buddy. You’re not his type, but he’ll bring his slave and fuck him instead. When he’s ready to nut he’ll just shove it into you. Or maybe he’ll use a condom with his own slave and then squeeze the load into you.

“Oh wait a minute…. Let me see…. There’s one… two…. There are a couple of used condoms in the trash can here.

“Bend over and lean against the wall. Present your cunt. I have no idea how long these loads have been here, whose load is in them, or even if they were used on you or the slave that was in here last. You are getting their spooge contents now…. Damn, you have one hell of a gape, which should make the squeezing in of the loads easy.

“That truck driver has one of the biggest dicks I have ever seen. He’s great to work with. Prompt payments. And most of all he seems to want the fat slaves, or the weird ones. He’s an intermediary for several buyers out west. You’ll probably end up on this pig farm where you will be force fed until you bulk up, and then installed in a pig pen with other real pigs. Castration is most likely. Not just the balls but your shaft too.

“There, both loads are in you…. Oh, I missed this condom here…. I didn’t realize that our clients used so many rubbers. I guess it makes sense.

“The other possible buyer that trucker uses is in Oregon. He’s one of those militia types, but one who likes fat fags chained up in his basement. Don’t know that much about him other than he’s a sadistic bastard.

“There! Three anonymous loads in your cunt. Get ready, this will probably be my last time for me to breed you.

“Jesus! He stretched you out. All these loads are making this one loose sloppy hole…. This isn’t going to work. Clamp down then spin around.

“Get me off with your toilet mouth…. You look grossed out. That’s the cum stew from your cunt. Clean me off before you get me off.

“That’s it. Don’t fucking gag. This is your life now. Good boy. You are an ass eating, piss drinking, cum dump slave. Whoever you wind up with, they are going to do way worse nasty stuff to you. This is what you do. This is what you are.

“I’m going to miss your tongue. That’s what made you sellable. Does it ever feel good on my dick! Work it! Fuck! I’m going to cum in no time. Keep licking my balls when I go in deep. When I tell you, spin around so I can dump in your cunt.

“I wish all slaves could have a tongue like yours. When you eat my shitter, it really makes my hole quiver. I don’t know what you do back there, but man does it feel good. You always gave me your eagerness to please, and you do so no matter how shitty you were being treated. That’s so hard to find in slaves.

“I’m getting close. I’m getting close. Now! Give me that cunt!

“Urg! Uh! Uh! Ahhh! Jesus! Fuck! Damn slave. I gave you a large load to add to the stew you have brewing….

“Clamp down then clean me off…. There you go. Fuck that was hot. There’s some sludge in my pubes; get that…. I have to piss again.

“Ahhh! When I’m done stand up….

“…Slave, I am going to miss you. You know, if we were in a different situation, I would put you on a diet and a rigorous exercise regimen. I would have you as my boy.

“Don’t tell anybody what I’m about to do. Don’t pull away; I want to kiss you….

“…Like that. Now you treat your new owners the way you have treated me. If you are lucky, they won’t torture you too much. I wish you the best.”

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grimesgirll · 2 months

Text

you look forward to your car rides with rick.

you love your group too but sometimes a long car ride helps you unwind and recharge when your social battery is low and you just need to stare out the window at some grassy hills. besides, most days rick let you choose the soundtrack for your drive so you could DJ.

the only cds you'd had when you met up with the group were your signed cds that you couldn't part with: your parents' favorite foreigner album and taylor swift's sophomore album. after playing those albums front to back and hearing "double vision" one too many times enough to nearly ruin the song for you - and rick too probably - you set out to find some new tunes. you and daryl came back from a record store with a crate of old cds - it was a shame that you couldn't preserve the records but you had yet to run into a working record player that was worth your time. nonetheless, you found fleetwood mac albums, soft rock compilations, and music to mellow your trips.

you were itching to see him today. you’d been preoccupied mass producing buckwheat cereal and it was never a good time with him. you lavished the opportunity to spend time alone with the perpetually preoccupied rick grimes.

rick is waiting for you when you climb into the car. hickory curls frame his face which is sunburnt from all the time spent outside finishing up the harvest.

“hey,” you greet, pulling the car shut and shifting into your seat.

“hey there.” the sheriff farmer replies gruffly, hands already tensed and gripping the steering wheel.

you don’t need to ask what’s wrong because you already know: carl.

you love the boy but he wasn’t playing the part of the pacifist farm boy rick wanted him to. you don’t blame either of them. rick was right to rein carl in after he fired on that boy from woodbury as he surrendered.

that shook you up a bit too, but you remembered that carl was young and after weeks of planting, it won’t hurt to let the boy kill a walker or two on fence duty. there’s at least no reason for rick to give him shit about it.

rick’s so pent up though. it could be not just carl but the young infant going through the four month sleep regression.

settling judith for the night seemed to be a never ending battle, every battle a losing battle. you’d managed to take the little girl off of rick’s hands so he could sleep but she rarely went down for you either anymore. the baby that was once happy to fall asleep in your arms before bed was now fighting bedtime with everything she had.

your leader was saddled with stress. you can see it in the white of his knuckles against the steering wheel and how he doesn’t say anything before starting the car and pulling out of the prison, the gate being pulled behind your car by glenn and daryl.

almost forgetting to put in the new cd in your lap, your eyes are glued to the steering wheel. navigating whatever you have with rick is treacherous when just the sight of his taut hands has your breath picking up.

the two of you had no opportunity to get away lately. it’s not like you’re going to pester rick or jump him in the fields.

you’d already heard a, “later, sweetheart” earlier this week and it made you want to curl up into a ball.

waving the cd so rick can see, you ask if he likes the eagles. he shrugs. not much of a response.

“i’m gonna pop this in,” you inform him and lean over slightly to eject the cd currently residing in the media console - one of daryl’s buffalo springfield cds - to slide in an eagles’ greatest hits album.

he doesn’t pay much attention, just keeps his attention on the road and his knuckles wrapped around the steering wheel.

the sound of a guitar transitions you into the first song, which you think is aptly named. “take it easy” is exactly what rick should do but the song doesn’t seem to lighten his mood.

you two sit in silence. this isn’t unusual for you guys. sometimes you go quiet on parts of the drive.

rick breaks the silence.

“you like older stuff?”

i like older, rugged, handsome ex-cops with hands that can-

“i like all kinds of stuff.”

the older man laughs. “just wouldn’t have pegged you for an eagles girl.”

“it’s dad rock. don’t you like it?” you ask, catching his blue eyed gaze.

he slouches his shoulders. “they’re not bad. i would’ve liked if you put on that fleetwood mac cd a bit more.”

you grin. “i’ll remember to put their greatest hits cd on next.”

what you should be doing is reaching back to grab the cd booklet from the backseat but you’re fixated on rick. he’s driving, hyper focused on being aware of his surroundings again so he doesn’t notice the path your eyes take from his hands on the wheel to his pants. he doesn’t see your eyes cloud with thoughts of you two.

“pull over.”

“what?” rick questions, shooting you a skeptical look. “why?”

“i really have to go number one.”

he scoffs. “that’s why you wanna stop?” he shakes his head at you. you’re always asking him to stop on the side of the road for you to pee or find a dilapidated bathroom to go in. “next time, you gotta go before we leave.”

you nod, working overtime to conceal the early signs of victory on your lips. rick heeds your request and pulls into a rest stop parking lot, telling you to make it quick.

“be right back!” you chirp and use the bushes behind a gazebo to maintain your angle - and actually empty your bladder.

then you’re hopping back into the car and pressing the passenger side button to lock all of the doors. your hand stops rick’s when he goes to start the car, using the other to unbuckle his seatbelt. you’re in his lap by the time you’ve gotten his seat reclined by pushing down the lever.

the dark haired man is chiding your name. “what are you doin’?”

“helping you relax.”

“we gotta get on with our run.”

“i think you having fun is a bit more important.” you argue as you undo his belt. “why don’t you just relax?” you smile at him while you turn up the music slightly.

the sheriff rasps your name. “we have to stay vigilant.”

you send him a look that his him straining in his baby blue boxers. “rick, the doors are locked. we’ll hear a walker if they come up and we can drive away. just trust me and relax.”

it’s hard to argue when you’re tugging down his waistband, hands finding him and fondling him until the only sounds coming out of his mouth are pants.

opening up nice and wide, you slip him into your mouth. you smile when your tongue on the side of his length is met with a breathy moan.

one of rick’s hands are on the back of the center console and the other is pressed against the driver’s side door. between you wandering up and down his shaft with your tongue, he feels cornered. even more so when you take the opportunity to guide his hands to your hair.

it takes a few minutes but rick is no longer preoccupied with scanning the perimeter or heavy under the worry you could always sense under his skin, distracted by the curve of your ass. just leaning with his head back, basking in the soft rock playing and the woman so keen on relieving the pressure that weighed down on his reddened shoulders.

“such a good girl,” he’s gasping.

you move faster. suction your lips a little tighter. you haven’t been fooling around with rick for long but one thing is true without a doubt for him; he’s long and thick. you still haven’t mastered what must be some kind of witchcraft to fit all of him down your throat without gagging, but rick doesn’t care. as long as his dick in your mouth, he’s not complaining. especially not when you look up at him with his cock halfway down your throat.

success bubbles in your core and even with rick stuffed down your throat, you’re beaming. you’ve managed to get him to sit back and take a moment to enjoy himself - to enjoy you.

but you realize that your work is far from done when your favorite farmer cums down your throat, relishing the moment despite his still rock solid cock. he pulls your mouth off of him after you swallow, seemingly relishing the sight of you, lips in a pout in his lap.

“it’s your turn,” rick growls before fervidly dragging you to the backseat to pin your hips down and return the favor.

#rick grimes #rick grimes x reader #rick grimes imagine #twd imagine #twd smut #rick grimes smut #the walking dead #reader insert #still getting the hang of writing smut #not beta read #established relationship #ricky dicky doo da grimes #rick x reader #grimesgirll #blowy #prison era #mild taylor swift reference

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yeosbbm · 7 months

Text

All cuz of peaches.

Smut | MDNI

starring: ranch cowboy! mingi x ex city girl! reader

genre: country, strangers to fuckers, porn with barely any plot 😭

summary: after becoming bored with the city you moved into your friends seonghwa and soobin’s peach farm in the countryside, however a lust filled attraction towards your neighbor Song Mingi down the hill has filled your thoughts. after letting your horniness get the best of you, he decides to give you what you want.

warnings/prevs: Readers a pervert..Mingi likes it though, Masturbation, Unprotected piv, Breeding, One case of impact play, Begging, Cunnilingus, Fingering, Sweet talk/names (if I’m missing anything else let me know).

A/N: Y’all honestly this work is more experimental and based off of a thought I’ve had if anything so this work may be off the wall and a bit…😭 but enjoy if you do ! Push it pt.2 soon to be released !!

Adjusting to country life wasn’t easy but it was definitely enriching. You moved into a peach farm and ranch with your buddies who’ve owned it since last summer. Soobin and Seonghwa. You decided that life in the city was monotonous and you couldn’t handle the cold, loud and superficial ambience of it all. So one day, you packed your things and decided to move in with them. The past 5 months have been easy so far, all you really do is pitch in with the farm animals and collect the peaches when it’s in season. Since living here, your mind feels so much clearer.

However, there is one thing that has been consuming your thoughts. You three’s neighbor Song Mingi. His farm and woodshed was down the hill from your trio. His presence wasn’t new to you because he was friends with Hwa and Soob, but your attraction towards him makes everyday you see him feel new. He comes by you and the boys house and farm all the time to trade goods or to just hangout for drinks.

And he’s referred to you with the same name since you’ve moved in. “City Girl.” Obvious cause for the nickname but you’re shocked he’d have it stuck for so long.

You couldn’t deny the want for this man. He was so handsome and had a resounding appeal. Even though he had this magnetism that drew you in further and further; you couldn’t bring yourself to talk to him one on one. You felt you could only talk to him when he’s invited in by Hwa or you 3 are invited over to his ranch.

Soon you planned to go for it and invite him over yourself. But you had things to do until then….

You went out to the peach trees and began disposing of the ones who ripened too fast and became rotting mounds of peach flesh. You dumped them into the compost bin and then got ready to pick as many peaches as your crate could take for today. You picked and picked while the crate was finally halfway filled with them. However something caught your eye.

Today, Mingi was out in his own field. His hat still on but flannel unbuttoned, while his jeans hung low on his hips letting you see [almost] intimate parts of him. Your eyes are caught on his body, you can’t even view the vegetation and and lush field scenery behind him. He continues to dig his produce from his garden, piercing the fertile soil with his shovel…

You were beginning to get hot and bothered by the sight. His sun kissed tan and sweat sheened body moving in ways that make you feel aroused. The way his pants are hanging by his hips, you imagine him pulling them down and exposing his cock. You imagine the size…you imagine his large tall body over you while making you take all his inches.

Despite your conscious yelling no, you sit by the peach tree you were picking at and brought your hand to your cunt. You begin with soft presses and teases before adding circles to your clit. Your breathing is unsteady, you can’t help yourself..

The thoughts begin to be more vivid..his thrust, his voice talking you through the whole ordeal…how his hard working hands adorned with long fingers would feel pressing and curling against your walls. Your fingers are quick on your clit and your final thought brings you over the edge..the idea of him breeding you full. You cum and get your breathing and thoughts back on track.

What the fuck did I just do.

The realization rushes over you and the shock of you being this down bad sinks in. You adjust yourself and grab the crate of peaches you picked and made your way back home.

It was the next day and since Seonghwa and Soobin had to leave for a produce market deal you decided to be productive. You washed and peeled all the peaches you got from the day before, cleaned up the house, fed the chickens and took the goat out the stable to go feed and roam in the pasture until evening.

After all the hard work you wanted to do something simple for yourself and something out of your hard work. A peach cobbler. You baked it for an hour and took it out to see it with a beautiful crispy brown crust and perfectly soft baked peaches underneath. The only problem was that Seonghwa and Soobin left so you’re stuck here to enjoy it by yourself.

However you remember, Mingi is just down the hill. You put on a form fitting flannel and a nice skirt and shoes and lock up the ranch before you head by Mingis ranch house to asks if he’d like to indulge in the pie with you. Luckily, his woodshed was open and he was organizing his logs of wood and his tools.

“Hey Mingi !” He looks up from his tasks and his eyes lock on you like a target. He immediately stops what he’s doing and straightens himself as he stands. You fully walk in and close the woodshed door to get rid of the beaming hot sun.

“Hey city girl, what do you need.” He will never let the nickname go you think to yourself.

“Well I made a pie earlier and it’s still nice and fresh and I wanted to know if you wanted to come over and have a slice.” You’ve never really interacted with Mingi one on one, the nerves and his stare makes you bite your lip.

“Really.” Mingi is starting to eye you and look you up and down.

“Of course really, Soobin and Seonghwa aren’t here so who else will I share with.”

He begins walking towards you. “That’s all you want from me?” You look around and begin to notice how his own shirt was gone and belt was unbuckled. “Yea..just wanted to know...” Your eyes struggle to not stray from his face and drift down how torso. He gets closer, you can smell his cologne and musk from working in the heat. “You sure there’s nothing else you want…some sweet little secret you’re keeping from me.”

Mingi corners you in the woodshed. You’re backed up against a wooden table he made himself. He rubs his hands on the top of your thighs, he looks like he’s about to eat you alive. He whispers. “I know what you did yesterday…it was quite the show,,” He knows. He knows that you laid there and touched yourself to the sight of him. You couldn’t even look him in the eye.

“What do you want me to do to you city girl..”. Mingi slowly unbuttons the fitted flannel you have on. “Touch me,, I want you to touch me.” The way you seem desperate for him makes him lose patience and rip the shirt apart, causing some buttons to pop out. He removes your bra with one hand alone and as soon as your tits are free he brings one in his mouth. Sucking and nipping at them while pawing you everywhere else.

He finally backs away and sees your tits glistening and nipples hardened. He groans at the sight and practical rips your skirt and panties away. He parts your legs and sees your aching cunt wet with arousal waiting for him. He cups his hand and places it over your heat and licks the shell of your ear, before he says “Look at all this sweetness you’ve left for me darling.” Your body is crumbling, you just want him to touch you already. “Min put your fingers inside.” Mingi tilts his head and gives a sly smile.

“Tsk tsk tsk..you city girls always forget your manners..” You can’t with the games and formalities. You begin to whine “Mingi stop playing around.. fuck me.” Mingi slaps the inside of your thigh causing you to moan in both pain and arousal. “Let’s try that again but with some country charm.” He shoved two of his long fingers in your cunt making your hips lift a bit and a moan leave your lips. His fingers are filling you good, but he won’t move or curl them causing you to be limited in your pleasure.

“I’m not moving a damn thing until you ask me nicely.” Your eyes are watering, how are you being edged but you haven’t even reached the brink of cumming yet. You toss your pride away, “ Min I need your fingers so bad please fuck me with them please.”

“Mmm I’d make you say more but let me spoil the city girl for saying please.” He begins pumping his fingers in you and curling them at the right gummy spot. Soon his fingers speed up and he slips another in, making you moan and drool on display for him. “Mm baby’s so full with my hands alone.” You whine yes yes yes’s and can’t turn away from watching his fingers wet with your slick slide in and out.

He feels your cunt twitch and clench, he can see that you’re already close, he pulls his fingers out. You’re snapped back into reality and already on the verge of begging for his fingers back. He slides down his jeans and frees his cock from his boxers. He pumps his dick a few times before laying you back. He takes your legs and bends them to where you cunt is fully exposed. He takes a small lick and then deep dives in tonguing your heat and playing quickly with your clit.

Your legs are beginning to shake. He’s lapping at your cunt and making quick turns to suck and bring his tongue around your clit. “You taste better than any peach you’ve picked.” You couldn’t even properly register the compliment from how fucked out you were. He takes a few more minutes eating your pussy like a starved man before he comes back up to kiss you.

After his lips finally split from yours in a deep muted voice he asks, “You’ve got a rubber ?” You shake your head no but you refuse to let this fantasy go unfinished. “I’m clean, I’m on the pill…just breed me I don’t care I just want your cock.” Mingi just can’t resist you in the state you’re in, he kisses your forehead before he lines his cock to your entrance and rams it in.

One of your legs are wrapped around his waist while the other is hiked up against his shoulder. Your cunt feels so full, but there’s barely any pain despite being split open. The pleasure rolls up from your cunt up into your lower abdomen. Mingi can’t deny how he feels either, the pressure of your walls clamping on his dick has him in a whirlwind of ecstasy.

He can barely control himself, his cock is just drilling you and you can’t do anything but take it and soak it all in. “Min it’s so good, don’t stop.” Mingi cracks a quick smirk before rolling his hips to make the thrust more deeper and intense. “Oh yea ?…is it what you pictured…is it better than fucking yourself with your fingers ?.”

Soon he only holds on to your calves and raises them but slows down his thrust, despite slowing down, his thrust seem harsh and as if his dick just reached a new space in you. “Show me…show me how you touched yourself when watching me.” You weakly bring your hand to your clit and begin pressing quick circles on it until your hips start to stutter and lift. “Finish on me city girl, get me all wet.” He hits you with one last deep thrust.

You cum all over his cock and as soon as you do he spurts his hot seed throughout your walls. You’re both panting messes and mingi sits you up. He passes his water flask to you and watches as you drink in a hurry from exhaustion caused thirst. When you pass it back he takes a swig from it himself.

He holds you and gets a rag wiping off your sweat, kissing you on top of your head and massaging your shoulder blades.

“Let’s go eat that peach cobbler you were talking about.”

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