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Excessive Force : Tom Ludlow x Fem Nurse Reader (COLLAB W/ THE INCREDIBLE @johnwickb1tsch) - Chapter One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen

TW: nsfw, violence, angst

“What–”

“The fuck you think you’re doing, McCauley?”

The cop on the stool–who is clearly drunk–turns his attention to Tom towering behind you. “Just enjoying the view, Ludz. She’s got great tits.”

He’s clearly stupid too.

A second passes that feels like an eternity, before Tom bursts into action, knocking the asshole off the barstool with one punch. There’s a wave of outcry through the crowd, but before anyone can do anything, Ludlow has the guy up by the collar and is marching him out of the bar. You watch through the dimmed front windows, barely able to see past the crowd, as there’s more of a scuffle between the two on the sidewalk. It doesn’t last long at all–Ludlow hits the guy like a hurricane, knocking him down flat, before stalking away back inside.

“Sorry about that asshole,” says Tom, barely broken a sweat, though you can’t help but notice his knuckles are torn. “Are you ok?”

“I’m fine,” you sigh, reaching for his hand. “Let’s go get you patched up.” Surely he has a first aid kit in his car.

However, he can tell something has changed. He turns your gaze up to his with a hand on your cheek, searching your eyes. “What’s wrong? What did he say to you? Swear to god, I’ll fucking kill him.”

You grab onto his arm before this high strung man can march back outside and finish the job, if the idiot has not yet cleared out.

“He said you’re married,” you inform him, doing your own search of his soul as you drop this bomb.

“What?” He seems genuinely confused.

“He said I should be careful, or I’ll end up like your wife?”

Tom shakes his head with a growl. “Fucking asshole. No, I’m not married, sweetheart, I promise you.”

“Then…?” It’s only getting louder in the bar as the night goes on, and you can barely hear each other now. It’s not the best place to have a serious conversation, and maybe he senses that you’re not going to enjoy yourself again until that conversation is had. You’re not the type to take a don’t worry about it at face value.

Tom sighs, throws some money down on the bar and lifts you down off your stool. “Come on.”

The ease with which he manhandles you is almost more intoxicating than the vodka you’ve just consumed.

He almost tries to carry you out of the damn bar, but you protest against that vehemently.

You spill out onto the sidewalk, and find the asshole has indeed made himself scarce. There’s a dark stain on the concrete that might be a little splatter of blood. You decide to ignore it.

“I’m guessing you want me to take you home?” It squeezes your heart, how disappointed he sounds, but you nod anyway. You walk back to his car in silence, only broken when you thank him softly for opening the door for you.

He starts the Charger’s engine, the thing growling to life like a beast of the jungle. His expression matches the sound of the car, thunderous and maybe a little feral. You don’t prod him as he drives, waiting. He knows very well what you want to know. It takes the whole journey home and him parking on the street before he’s willing to open his mouth again, and even then it’s begrudgingly.

He turns towards you in the seat, taking your little hand in his. He’s very interested in your silver rings, and you think you just might die from the suspense.

If this man is married, you are swearing off the dumber sex forever.

“I was married,” he finally begins. “She died of a blood clot in her brain. She was with another man, and he just dumped her on the sidewalk in front of the hospital where you work, like she was a sack of garbage. She died alone, and I’ve never been able to find out who the fucker was that treated her like that.”

You know your eyes are the size of half dollars by the time he finishes his tale. You think you might recognize this story, told by the nurses in the trauma center from a few years back. “What was her name?”

“Cheryl.”

“Fuck. I…heard about that, from the other nurses. God, Tom, I’m so sorry.”

At least you know he’s not lying.

He just nods, but he won’t look at you, and it chews your heart up. Finally you reach for him, physically turning his gaze back to yours. His eyes in that moment are black pits of despair, and a part of you is sorry for ever asking, even though you had every right to know.

“Come upstairs with me,” you say. “I’ll patch up your hand.”

He looks down at his excoriated knuckles, grins, shakes off that abused puppy dog look. You can tell he’s about as good with emotions as you are, which is going to be a match made in hell, but it doesn’t really matter right now when you want him so bad you can taste it.

“Alright, I guess if you’re gonna force me.”

“Nurse’s orders. Come on.”

“Bossy. I like it.” You roll your eyes, but utterly fail at suppressing a grin. You had to hand it to him. He knew how to lighten the mood from misery to humor in two seconds. You suppose that came with his occupation. Otherwise, you’d go mad.

He trails behind you, your tall shadow, letting you lead the way through the security door and up the stairs. When you let him into your tiny one bedroom apartment he smiles, looking around with the curious eyes of a detective. You're sure after five seconds he could describe the scene with 99 percent accuracy, down to the colors of the tapestry hanging above your blue couch, and how many house plants you managed to cram in the one good window in the kitchen.

“Have a seat,” you invite, waving towards the couch while you go to get your medical kit.

He perches himself on the edge of the couch, almost awkwardly. It's kind of cute, and something you don’t expect from this brutish man.

“The couch doesn’t bite,” you tell him, setting your little first aid bag on the stand and then taking his hand rather boldly in your own.

“Sorry, feel like I’m gonna ruin your cute place with my man smell, or something.”

You giggle, resisting the urge to tell him that if he wants to rub against everything in here like a cat in heat and leave it smelling just like him, you won’t mind it at all.

His woodsy spice would pair nicely with your patchouli-lavender candles and sandalwood incense.

“You’ve broken your knuckles a lot,” you inform him absentmindedly while cleaning his fist. You can tell by how prominent they are, how the ones in his left hand-his dominant hand-are bigger than the ones in his right. You’d hate to be on the receiving end of this fist when he’s mad.

“Yeah?” While you dote on his hand, wrapping and cleaning, his heavy attention is fully on you, and it would make you blush and squirm if you weren’t so focused on patching him up.

“How many fights have you been in?”

“I lost count. You?”

You scoff. “Hey, I actually have been in one fight.”

He gives a little whistle. “I was actually expecting that number to be higher, feisty girl.”

“Nah.”

“Okay, so who’d you fight on the school playground?”

You roll your eyes. “It was an ex.” You know you should learn to think before you speak, because fuck if that doesn’t open up a whole other can of worms when you watch those huge knuckles flex white while the rest of him visibly tenses.

“He beat you up?” His voice is low, quiet, it makes you want to turn the convo back around into playful territory again.

“Yeah.” You try to smile, play off the tension. “And I hit him with a flower pot.”

“What’s his name?”

It’s a horrible mistake to ever make direct eye contact with Tom, but especially in this circumstance. Even though his orbs are as black as the consuming ocean, the color of anger in them is vibrant and burning.

“It was a long time ago. Back in Kansas.”

He uses his other big hand to cup your cheek, run a calloused thumb over your bottom lip. “I’m gonna find out who he is whether you like it or not, honey.”

A cold steel spike of adrenaline straightens your spine when you understand his implication. “Tom, he lives in Kansas.”

“That’s the problem.”

You blink at him stupidly. “What?”

“That he lives.”

You would roll your eyes and swat his hand away and tell him to get real because you’ve heard all this shit before from other men who thought they were valiant, vengeful knights in armor. So, yeah, you would just brush him off with a scoff, but you have this feeling—and maybe it’s because of what happened at the bar or maybe it’s because of him “arresting” Julian or maybe it’s because of his terrifying tenacious persistence—that Tom will actually find him and wreck his shit.

The idea should not turn you on. It really fucking shouldn’t. And, since his knuckles are bandaged and you need to cut some of this tension and the alcohol still buzzes pleasantly in your veins, you lean up and distract him with a little wet kiss.

His eyes get softer for you, which is a mini power trip of its own, and he hazards a smile again. “Alright, alright. You fixed me, now I’m gonna fix you.”

You’re confused for a minute until he scoops an arm behind your knees and drapes your legs over his lap, settling back into the cushions.

The hem of your dress rides up over your thighs again, giving him a little peek of the cute, perpetually damp panties, before you can wiggle your legs shut and tug the fabric back down.

He adjusts you, asks if you’re comfortable while propping your knees on a pillow and turning sideways.

“I’m-yeah, I'm comfy. What’re you doing, Tom?”

“I’m gonna give you that massage I promised.”

Deja Vu. Two massages in one month from a hot doctor and a cop? You feel like an absolute little whore. “Wait, Tom, you don’t have to-“

He silences you with his mouth over yours, swallows the nervous words and turns them into a sweet moan. God, this man can kiss. You’ve never considered yourself unintelligent, but his lips make you absolutely stupid.

He untangles your hands from his hair, because apparently they ended up there somehow, sets them in your lap, and pulls away with a little trail of saliva. “Settle down,” he murmurs, guiding you back onto the throw pillows. “I’ve got you.”

“Really, you don’t,” you try with halfhearted sincerity.

“You know,” he says, making you jump when he engulfs your right foot in his hand. “My aunt, she had a chihuahua.”

“Yeah? Okay? Was it cute?”

His fingers press deep into your arch, and it’s actually really pleasant. The muscles in your foot, overworked and underpaid, sing for his hands as they knead the ache out.

You debate whether or not to tell him he’s better at this than an actual doctor who studies human anatomy, but he already looks like his ego has grown impossibly bigger throughout the night, so maybe you’ll save the praises for later when his dick is inside of your weeping, furious cunt.

“She was. You remind me of her.”

“I remind you. Of a chihuahua?” You feel the tension in your body fade while he works. “Okay, that actually feels really fucking good.”

“You do. Tiny, nippy, sweet once you warm up to someone. Adorable.” He knuckles your heel and you sigh in pleasure, pressing back into his hand.

“I’m gonna pretend you’re complimenting me just because of this amazing foot rub.”

“Well, I’ve already told you how smart and great you are, and I’ve already told you how pretty you are, so the only two things left, obviously, are either comparing you to a chihuahua or telling you how sexy you look in this dress and how hard it’s been not to rip it in half the entire night.”

You swallow your nerves and your rationality. “So, do it.” Then, you rethink, because this dress was thirty damn dollars and you like it. “Okay, maybe just take it off.”

This is when he offers you the most infuriating smirk in the history of mankind. “Maybe when I get up there…”

Waiting doesn't feel like a valid option, because you're pretty sure you’re on the brink of self-combustion. His hands on your feet are heaven, and he’s even moved those strong hands up to your calves, and you just wish he would keep going until he could find for himself exactly the damage he’s wreaked on your panties this whole time.

You collapse back on the arm of the couch dramatically, fighting not to squirm in the grip of your pent up desire. “Tom Ludlow,” you grouse, “I think you might be an evil man.”

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, lifts your ankle up to kiss and graze with that rough, tickling stubble, makes you giggle, then turns the laugh into a groan while his tongue travels the length of your calf, right up to the bend in your knee.

“Fucking shit.” It’s more your cunt talking than you, now, while he nibbles and kisses supple flesh. It's such a strange spot, one that you never thought could be erogenous in any way. And he finds so many of those tender slices of you with his mouth and hands that you’re sure by the end of it—panting and teary eyed and already asking please—it’s just the proverbial Tom Ludlow effect.

His hands move up your calves, thighs, skip the important stuff, which you curse at him for, a mean protest that he subdues by tugging your dress up and kissing your pantyline.

“You always give massages with your mouth?”

You don’t know how it’s possible, but that smirk just gets wickeder. “You need me that bad, baby?”

He would fucking make you tell him about it.

Not sure who you’re more annoyed with, him or yourself, you look away, huffing under your breath.

“Oh, no pouting, beautiful, a man can only take so much.” Suddenly he has grabbed you up, dragging you across the couch so that you are laying on top of him. All this happens in the blink of an eye–you’re not proud of the girlish yip that escapes you.

It only seems to spur him on, his mouth finding yours in one of those toe-curling, brain-melting kisses. “I am trying to prove to you that I’m a nice guy, remember?”

“Hmm,” you say cheekily, feigning amnesia. He is so broad and solid beneath you, that you just might pass out. “Seems unlikely. Your kisses are very nice though.”

“Oh?” He kisses your forehead, cheeks, the bridge of your nose, makes you laugh and bury your head into his neck where he uses the new found position to kiss your hair.

You have to chastise him a little bit when he pulls you up by your hips so his mouth can pepper kisses on your throat and shoulders, not because you don’t love being handled like that stuffed bunny you won, but more because you love it a little bit too much, and a girl could really get used to this.

“S’wrong, thought you liked my kisses?” He licks at the hollow of your throat, presses that knife of a grin to your jugular and sucks.

You have so much you could say, and all of it is lost in the wet, heated sin of this moment. You should be frightened of how preoccupied you are with everything that is Tom—the delicious, dark cologne, the solid weight, the burning, roaming, calloused hands—except you don’t have enough sense to be scared because he’s suckling your neck and teasing your dress higher and higher and higher until his fingertips graze the bottom of your ass and you make a pathetic sound with a bonus hip thrust just to add to the humiliation.

He pushes open your thighs just a tiny bit. “You want me to touch you?” He asks, tickling down the crease of your butt, so fucking close to where you need him.

“I can’t-yes. Yes. Touch me.”

His thumbs run the tops of your inner thighs, and you press down for more, absolutely positive you’re whining like that chihuahua he mentioned earlier.

“Here?” He asks, and the humor in his voice makes your bare toes curl against his calves.

“Maybe here?” He tries, smoothing the pantyline that covers the very start of your puffy cunt. “Oh, you’re soaked under here, huh?”

“Tom. Please. Fuck.”

“I bet.” He covers the center of you completely with three fingers. “I bet I could fit right in - nice and tight and comfy.”

You grind down onto his hand. “Yeah, yeah, do that.”

You let out an exasperated cry when he retreats from your center, moving to trace the lacy edge of your panties on your butt cheek, slipping his fingertip just inside the seam. Even that is enough to make you writhe against him; the impressive (perhaps even intimidating) bulge in his pants beneath you is driving you equally mad.

You decide to take matters into your own shaking hands, sitting up to straddle him, reaching for his belt, the buckle jangling beneath your fingers. You’ve never met a man who could resist it, once his dick was out.

But he outmaneuvers you in that too, pushing your hands away to wrench the leather free of its loops. The resulting crack raises every little hair on your body; yet you don’t have the sense to be terribly afraid.

Either that, or…you trust this man.

“So I’ve been thinking, about you, and Dr. Bitch, and what exactly about him might have appealed to you.”

Nevermind the fact that Julian is a handsome, successful doctor…You’re smart enough not to say this aloud.

He reaches around you, securing your hands behind your back with a loop of the belt. “And I think what you want, Miss Tough Girl, is someone to take charge for you, just for a little while.” He adds another loop. “Someone you trust.” He lifts one of those perfect eyebrows, and something crucial inside you just melts. His voice softens. “Is this ok?”

He can probably tell by your body language alone—the cant of your hips, the flushing goosebumps dimpling your flesh, the little choked sounds of anticipation while he tightens his belt around your wrists—that this is more than okay, but that’s not good enough for him, so he cradles your cheek and runs his thumb over your lips while leaving one hand secured around the unfinished cinch of his belt. You reach out to kiss his fingertip, suck and taste as much as he’ll let you before he takes it away. “Is it okay, baby?”

“Yeah.”

“Is it what you want?” You have never felt so seen in your life as in this moment, with this man’s penetrating dark eyes looking straight into your soul.

You realize you do trust Officer Tom Ludlow implicitly, not to hurt you physically, at least. You do not feel any of the uneasy trepidation you’d experienced with Dr. Julian, only a burning desire that, if not satisfied, will surely eat you alive.

Licking your lips, trembling like a newborn fawn, you slowly nod.

“You know you’re safe with me?”

You nod again, and fuck if his wicked smile does not melt all the rest of your doubts, your inhibitions, and your sanity. He is so handsome it hurts, and you know it’s stupid, but you want to give him everything.

He seals the deal with an expertly executed cinch of that belt, and fuck if it doesn’t echo something inside your heart falling into place for this man.

“Good. Now come back here, I like you laying on top of me with all these luscious curves of yours.” He guides you back down on top of him, and you swear this man is going to fry some crucial wires in your brain, and turn you into a vegetable. You are doubly certain of this, when he catches your mouth with his, working you over with those plush lips in a way that absolutely makes you see stars. By the time he is done with you, he’s turned you into a quivering, needy mess on top of him, and you can tell he’s loving every minute of it.

Really, you’re easy to please after a lifetime of being touch starved and mostly void of the basic pleasures of human softness, so his everywhere hands and hungry mouth and bulky warmth are more than enough to drive you up the fucking wall, but then he adds those little coos of reassurance—the hushed repetition of “you’re safe, pretty girl”, “I got you”—and just absolutely destroys you.

For most men the position he has you in would be a problem, but his arms are so long he can easily reach his intended prize–or grab two handfuls of it, squeezing the globes of your ass with a groan of appreciation.

“Finally, I get some payback for the torture you put me through, having to watch you in your cute fucking scrubs but you wouldn’t let me touch you.”

“I’m sorry I wouldn’t let you feel me up at work?” There’s no real venom in your words as you fire back–how the tables have turned.

“You’re going to be.” You can just hear the grin in his voice, and that alone is enough to make you squirm against him, burying your face in the bend of his neck. You kiss the column of his throat, sucking at his pulse; you feel the rumble of approval from deep in his chest, more than hear it.

His big hands slide up your back, under your dress, kneading the tension and ache out and in all at the same time, and there is something maddening about this man’s touch that makes you feel uncharacteristically small, and vulnerable. When at last his hand rubs down, into the back of your panties, you think you just might die. The tip of his middle finger tests your weeping hole, just barely pressing in. Before you can even think to whine about it, his mouth is covering yours, swallowing your cries and your curses as he only slides into the first knuckle, teasing you with slow circles.

While he plays with your insides, his mouth does equal damage to your lips. Fast learner that he is, he’s come to find that if he just sucks and licks and nips your top lip swollen without really kissing you it makes you clamp and pulse rhythmically and desperately on his long digit.

You unstick your mouth from his to plead your case, because if you don’t get more you’re going to fucking die, and he follows your lips with his teeth.

“Wai-“ takes you back into a slow, awful, soaked kiss that sets every piece of you on fire, sizzles the skin and fat and meat off your body to leave only exposed nerve endings.

Reasoning turns to begging fairly quickly when he finally lets you talk. “Want your fingers on my clit, please.”

He hums and pushes sweaty hair behind your ear. “Just my fingers? Not my tongue?”

“No no no yes that’s better ok-“

“Shh.” He gives you a tiny peck, nuzzles his nose against yours, inspires a strangled gurgle of frustration.

You're about to press the issue, but then he’s on top of you with your body pressed tight into the couch cushions.

He really does dwarf you, gets concerned about his full weight and keeping it off your lungs. Unfortunately-fortunately-the position his caution inspires puts his mouth in line with your chest.

Your chest, with which you so masterfully distracted him into missing his last shot in the shooting gallery.

You just know he’s thinking about that, as he glares down at your breasts as though they’d talked back to him. “I should cite these,” he says between planting open mouthed kisses to your cleavage, “for Reckless Endangerment.” He sucks at your tender flesh, hard enough that you know there will be a purple mark.

“I can’t help it that you looked,” you protest, arching against him. Here you are with your hands bound behind your back, with the cheek to talk back to this big, bad man pinning you down with his delicious weight–you must be missing some crucial wrinkle in your brain just for risk assessment.

He just clicks his tongue in answer. “Please keep talking back to me, sweet girl, it’s giving me ideas.”

Said ideas seem to include nibbling at your nipple through the thin satin of your bra, sending a jolt of longing straight to your already agonizingly aching cunt. “Please,” you beg, on the edge of losing your mind to this man’s touch.

“I could spend all day giving these attention,” he tells you, ignoring your begging, flicking a path of saliva over the fabric covering your tits, landing a wide kiss on your other hardened bud while his thumb tweaks the tip of the last.

You wish you could grind into the solid mass of him, but his weight pins your hips still, and this inspires a little feral growl that is, apparently, hilarious judging by his responding laugh.

“That so?” He asks, finally giving you a proper hard suck that puts little teardrops in your lashes and conjures a strangled scream. “Didn’t think it through, huh?”

“I hate you. You expect me to be able to think right now?”

“Yeah. Maybe that’s not fair,” he agrees with a wicked curl of lips.

You think that maybe, just maybe, he might take some mercy on you, as he begins to move down your body. His long fingers hook in your panties, drawing them down your legs as slow as is humanly possible. You hold your breath, determined not to make the slightest sound of complaint, because if you do you just know he will punish you somehow.

With your ruffly skirt up around your waist he stares down at you, long enough that you almost wish you could cover yourself. Yet when his dark eyes roll up to meet yours, the intensity in his gaze makes your needy cunt clench so hard it borders on pain. “So fucking beautiful.” Suddenly it’s as though he is the one who cannot wait, scooping under your hips with his strong arms, holding you down with his big hand spread over your belly as his tongue dips into your center.

This is how you die.

From pure pleasure, and if he did not restrain you, you would have arched off of the couch as he laps at your clit, driving you wild with pointed licks and wide strokes of his tongue. He does not tease you with a single finger, gifting you two thick digits as deep inside you as he can reach, your needy cunt clenching fiercely upon him. It makes him groan, and he slides his fingers in and out of your velvety wet warmth as he takes you to heaven with his lush mouth. You fight not to crush his head with your thighs, your hips canted desperately as you strain for release.

“Oh, god, Tom…” You don’t know how you manage to form even that much of a coherent thought. The deep grumble of his approval vibrates against your pussy, straight to your womb, and you feel the tightening coil of pleasure tensing in your loins. It’s ridiculous, how fucking grateful you are that he doesnt tease you any longer, his clever, furious tongue shoving you over the edge of oblivion into a place of ecstasy that lasts for just a few, perfect, seconds. You’re not proud, but you scream nearly at the top of your lungs as it washes through you.

You’re afraid he’s going to think you’re a spazz, because there are tears in your eyes, and you literally cannot remember the last time anyone took such good care of you. Jesus fucking Christ. Do you say that? To this man, who was so generous to you, but is so fucking full of himself? He already knows he holds the keys to your castle. Does he have to have access to the inner sanctum too?

“My pretty girl,” he coaxes you with a kiss to your inner thigh, bringing you down so sweetly with his fingers still stretching you inside. “You taste so good, I could eat you for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.” Just hearing it makes your pussy flutter around his fingers, and he smiles to himself, bestowing your clit with one last lazy lick.

“Fuck. Tom!” You're not sure if you’re begging, or protesting, at this point.

When he slides out of you, you feel almost unbearably bereft of him, too empty for words, only able to watch with a lazy gaze as he sucks your glistening cum off his fingers.

Those damp fingers flick some tears off your face. “You alright?”

You try a little timid smile. “Yeah, I’m great.”

“Good, cuz I might have to make you cum again just to see that pretty look on your face.”

You squirm in either protest or agreement, unsure if your body can handle more so soon. It would be kind of like going from 0 to 100. Plus, your hands are going a little numb underneath you.

He must sense your hesitation, great detective that he is, and helps you sit up.

“Why don’t you lay on your belly? Let me put a pillow under your hips?”

Even though your body is thoroughly stimulated, it bristles at the idea of him inside of you. The idea of getting him closer, of having more of him is intoxicating, enthralling.

He pulls your bottom lip from the sharp grip of your teeth, and kisses the sting away. “C’mon, I know you can give me more than that, beautiful.”

You don’t know why you feel so embarrassed asking for this, but your eyes can’t focus on his own when you open your mouth. “Are you—can you be inside of me?”

“Ass up and I’ll think about it.”

And you do—you do end up with your ass in the air, dress pooled around your hips, cool air licking at your soaked cunt that you didn’t realize would be so open for his viewing pleasure.

You squirm, huff, make him laugh. He kisses the hill of your bottom and gives the crease of your thigh a little singing slap.

“Ow,” you whine, attempting to slide away from his fingers. He settles you back into place with a tug on the belt around your wrists and then kisses the little raw red mark left from his hand.

“Let’s take a vacation so I can spend it sucking on this pretty pussy.” He flicks his tongue over the plumped back of your cunt.

“Tommmm.” Frustrated. Because he promised—okay, he said maybe—he would fuck you if you got into this vulnerable position, and instead he’s just teasing you with his tongue again, cleaning up all that sensitive sticky flesh and coaxing you back into a needy little creature.

You hear blessed fabric being pulled and shifted, the telltale sign of his beautiful cock springing free, and this has never happened to you before, but when you look back at him, your mouth actually waters. He’s perfect. Dark, plush hair, florid, plump tip with just a tiny bead of cum dolloped on top that you desperately want to lick into your mouth. The tops of his thighs are bulky and lined with muscle. He’s thick and slim in the right places, eats his goddamn wheaties, that’s for sure, and you want to taste every inch of that tight olive skin.

He pets the length of his shaft with his thumb, grips the head, and smiles at the probably stupid little look of awe on your face. “You good?”

Spectacular. Goddamn fantastic. “Take the rest of your clothes off. Let me see you.” You don’t even care that you’re basically begging at this point. Anything to see him, feel him sliding inside your deprived, clenching cunt. Anything for him.

His smile does not waver, as his hands go to the buttons of his shirt. He is not shy about laying himself bare, but then, why would he be? He’s the most gorgeous specimen of male beauty you’ve ever seen. You make a small sound, when all his clothes are in a pile on the floor, and his broad chest is on full display.

You cannot stop staring.

His smile widens a little, though there is a softness in his eyes for you that melts you even more as he lets you stare at the beautiful length of him. All you can really do is look at him, so much so that it strains your neck and makes the space between your shoulder blades ache.

He takes that wonderful appendage between his legs and presses the bulk of it inside your pussy lips, grinding the head against your clit and getting the whole thing nice and soaked in preparation. “You know,” he grunts, “when I first saw you in that waiting room, I thought you were beautiful.”

His sweet words contrast so beautifully with the filthy slipping tease of his cock, and you could cum from the combination, but you’d much rather do that with him stretching you open and pounding into your desperate pussy. “Tom, want you.” You take a ragged breath when he presses his tip more firmly against your clit.

“You got me, baby,” he soothes, steadying the thrum of your hips with his sure grip.

He’s so close to sinking inside you, splitting you open, filling you in a way that’s surely. going to ruin you for any other man. You sob into the pillows, hands knuckled tight around the thick leather of his belt when his head presses against your gasping entrance.

“Please please please.” You’re not even sure if you’re begging aloud or if your voice is even coherent at this point. All you know is Tom, and he’s all you want to know.

He sinks into you, deeper than his fingers and tongue, deeper than anything you’ve ever experienced. You feel more whole, in this moment, than you have in a very long time with him nudged up against your cervix, with his warm hips pressing into your ass. Maybe you never realized just how empty you were up until now.

He doesn’t sound much better off than you do, and you can tell by the tightening of his thigh muscles he’s trying to give it to you slow and deep, just like you told him on the phone, instead of fucking into you like a depraved animal.

You giggle when he curses, using this new found position to wiggle your hips and push him deeper, wrenching sharp groans from the both of you.

“Jesus, fuck.” He spreads you open so that he can watch himself sink in and out, see your overfilled cunt milk him slowly. “I knew you’d feel like heaven,” he growls. “Do you have any idea how insane you’ve been making me?”

When he reaches to touch your clit with his thick cock filling you to the brim, your smug laughter dies on your lips, replaced by a hedonistic moan, a sound you hardly recognize as coming from your own mouth.

“Yeah?” he says, as though you’ve said something actually intelligible. “Is that good, baby? You like my fingers while I fuck you with this big cock?” The panting strain in this steadfast man’s voice, who is usually so in control, is as maddening as all the rest. That this man goes to pieces for you is as intoxicating as it is seemingly unbelievable.

“Yes,” is all you can manage, your face pressed into the cushions of the couch, your hips straining for him even though it must be physically impossible for you to take any more. After the fury of your first orgasm, you don’t know how it’s possible that your body could deliver again, but by some miracle you feel it filling the cradle of your hips, the clench and burn of your nerves desperate to immolate themselves again.

You have a feeling this miracle has a name, and it is Tom Ludlow.

“You gonna cum again for me, pretty girl?”

You absolutely are.

You answer him with a fierce squeeze that makes him curse again. You feel him trembling behind you, fighting not to drive himself inside you with total abandon. You decide that you want that. You want to feel him come undone, to fuck you the way he wants to. For once you’re not afraid. You want to give him everything.

“Harder,” you pant. “It’s ok. Take me. I want you.” He stutters in his rhythm behind you, as though just the thought is almost enough to drive him over.

“You sure, baby girl?” His big hand makes a soothing circle over the globe of your ass. It makes you purr like a cat, and you know you are utterly lost to this man.

“Yes.”

He gives a tiny thrust, hitting just right, pinching your clit at the same time, taunting. “You positive?”

“Fuck you, Tom. Just fuck me. Please.”

And he does. Not only understands the assignment, but goes above and beyond to achieve it. Your first orgasm on his cock is white hot, back arching, lip splitting. You think for a second you might pass out, like when you’re laughing too hard or stand up too fast, but he’s still drilling away. Rubbing diligently with three disperse fingers, staying right there despite having to fight against his own girth getting in the way and the absolutely slippery soaked mess between your bodies.

“There you go,” he praises, “you deserve it, honey. Take it all.” His words are broken, voice evident with the threat of his own release.

You’re an absolute mess, wracked with sobs, clawing at the skin of your own back. He tugs you back, because you’re trying to unconsciously get away from the overwhelming stimulation, absolutely painfully and pleasurably fucking cock drunk. The sole focus of your body is where you are joined with Tom, where he is doing exactly what you asked.

He leans over you so that his scratchy five o clock shadow presses into the crook of your shoulder and makes a shiver curl down your spine. He’s not doing it because he’s tired, he’s doing it so he can talk to you, whisper in your ear and lick your throat and take you deeper.

“One more, baby girl. Can you do that for me? Love feeling you cum on my cock. Could stay inside you for hours, sweet girl, give me another one.”

Filthy words whispered so lovingly against your skin–who knew it could work out for you, for once, to be a people pleaser? That is, if this doesn’t kill you. But God, what a way to go. You have reached a point of euphoria and overstimulation where you are practically hovering outside your own body, watching yourself with a birds eye view as Tom absolutely rails you from behind. Defying your own expectation and hell, maybe even anatomical possibility, that scintillating pleasure explodes and spreads through your loins. You cry out into the couch, partly for happiness and in part for mercy. It’s all so much and you’ve never felt anything like it in your life.

“That’s my girl,” rasps Tom from above you. “So perfect. So good for me, giving me everything I want.” His thrusts become longer, more erratic, his tip bumping your cervix before withdrawing almost completely, then slamming back inside you again. You can hardly control your own body at this point, your every muscle trembling with the intensity of it all. “Love the way you take me. Want me to fill you up, beautiful?”

If you had a brain cell left in your body, you might have found this amusing. The unflappable Tom Ludlow, babbling, for you? But somehow, at the the same time, amidst the desperate bump and grind of this carnal dance between you–it’s also impossibly sweet. Without a grain of shame left to your name, you beg for it. “Yes, I want you. Give me what’s mine, baby.”

With a groan that rattles you to the marrow of your bones Tom’s hips snap and lock against you, filling you with the hot rush of his seed. You cry out with him, meeting him as he spasms against you.

The world has taken on a hazy, golden edged focus. You are vaguely aware of deft fingers on your wrists, the belt loosening behind you. “You ok, baby?” He rubs your wrists, kissing the reddened skin.

“Yes.” You laugh, a sound of dazed joy. “More than ok. Jesus fucking christ, Tom.”

He collapses on the couch beside you with a knowing smile, pulling you into his arms, where you both rest in a breathless heap.

“Fuck,” he says softly, kissing the crown of your messy hair.

“What?” You ask.

“We’re gonna have to get Plan B.”

“I’m–” You are still trying to catch your breath, your face buried in his broad chest. “On birth control.”

“Sorry, I should have asked.” he kisses your hair again. “Just wanted inside you so bad.”

You giggle for a little bit, and he laughs with you. For a minute, that’s all the both of you can do. It’s the after euphoria, that pleasant droopy high. “Oh, how terrible of you, Tom.”

“We should get you cleaned up,” he suggests, making no move to untangle himself from you.

“Mm, yeah,” you agree, also not moving at all.

The temptation of sleep looms closer and closer while you’re wrapped up in Tom, and you know you have to go to the bathroom because UTIs are never pleasant, but the thought of getting up almost makes you want to cry. Maybe Tom Ludlow knows more about female anatomy than you would give him credit for, though, and it makes you admire him even more. “Hey,” he says in a sleepy voice, rubbing your side. “C’mon. I’ll be right here waiting.”

He helps you stand, kisses your tummy, and then waits patiently to pull you back into his arms where everything is golden and warm and safe. You kiss his cheek, and he chuckles. “Me too, honey.”

You fall asleep in his arms, and you’ve never, ever felt more safe.

#tom ludlow x reader #keanuverse fic #keanuverse

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piratecaptainscaptainpirates · 3 days

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One thing I most mourn about not getting a third season, and one of the things I love imagining and writing about, is figuring out how Ed and Stede will adjust to making a long-term relationship work. They've got such a strong foundation! But they have lingering issues to unpack.

I know they're going to be very successful, because mutual love and respect go such a long way! But every couple will need to communicate and compromise, and I think there are a few things they do that genuinely will annoy and hurt each other until they figure them out. Some unsorted thoughts:

Stede is so, so patient and good with Ed when Ed's panicking, but he can push what he's feeling aside to focus on Ed entirely. Take their little argument in s2e7 - Stede was very clearly hurt when Ed said "last night was a mistake," and though we know Ed was panicking and what he was trying to say was more like "I need something tangible to blame my feelings on right now because I'm scared you'll choose piracy over me," Stede doesn't know that. There's potential for Stede to let things said in the heat of the moment fester instead of just telling Ed that something hurt him.

Ed is often very direct and clear with communicating what he wants and needs to Stede, and Stede's very bad for giving mixed signals when he's feeling conflicted. Talking about running away to China is a prime example - Stede's body language was screaming "I don't think that's a good idea," but he said "yes" with his mouth. There's room for miscommunication.

On a similar note, Stede isn't always good at articulating his wants and needs, and I think Ed could very easily get frustrated by that when they have situations like Stede telling him that no, no, it's fine, they don't have to paint the living room blue, and then they get home and Stede starts moping about getting a different color of paint.

Ed is a very, very competent person. He's very used to things coming easily to him, and because of this, he's a one-plan kinda guy. He gives up very easily when things don't go to plan. He is going to have a full-on panic attack, crying breakdown when he tries to fix a section of roof and it caves in.

Ed strikes me as a stress-cleaner. Stede is absolutely the type of person who NEEDS to have quiet wind-down time after 9 p.m. Their worst arguments will be because Ed absolutely has to "deep-clean the entire fucking house at eleven at night with the world's loudest trash bin, Edward!"

Stede's self-esteem is so shitty that, while he loves compliments and affection, it's probably going to hurt Ed's feelings when he keeps saying mean things about his appearance, skills, and personality no matter how much Ed reassures him. Like, does he not believe Ed?

Ed's going to have this bit where every time Stede leaves him alone in the house for more than five minutes at a time he's going to pout and be all "I thought you left me again" in a bid to get extra cuddles and attention. Stede hates this bit

#ofmd #our flag means death

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love-kurdt · 2 days

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Swooping, Sloping, Cursive Letters: 31

word count: 447

PLEASE READ THIS IS ME TRYING FIRST, AS THIS STORY RELIES HEAVILY UPON THE CONTEXT OF TIMT

October 11, 1989

Dear Will,

Let me catch you up on what’s been going on. I’m writing a book! I’m calling it The Wanderer for now, but I’m planning to change the title once an official manuscript is completed and I have more of an idea as to where the series is gonna go (I intend to make it a trilogy). I should probably mention that I made the protagonist a gay male, and I hope that it’ll end up turning into something for young queer fantasy readers to connect and relate to.

Since I write better at night and can’t really fall asleep before five in the morning anymore, I’m practically nocturnal. I can’t tell yet if it’s a good or bad thing, because on one hand, my writing is flourishing like you wouldn’t believe, but on the other, I’m not really going to many of my classes. Don’t get me wrong, I’m doing well with all my coursework, but the attendance policy is three absences per semester for a three day a week class. I’ve already exceeded most of those limits within the first month, but I’m hoping maybe my professors will understand, because I’m doing what’s otherwise being asked of me.

On another note, I’m officially a party person! Craziness. Remember the time when I actually judged you for drinking? That was funny. Because I’ve discovered that I have a particular affinity for tequila and whiskey. “Particular affinity”-- who the fuck am I? God, I sound awfully pretentious.

I’ve gone to a pretty high number of parties since I got here (enough that I lost count). I am a fucking party animal. For example, last month, I stood at the counter during a random frat house party and tried every single type of alcohol available until I couldn’t feel my face! I was wasted. So wasted that the next morning, I woke up and— noticing our naked forms in the same bed, curled up into each other— realized that Elvis and I slept together. Elvis as in my roommate. I lost my virginity to Elvis Presley. Well, Kuiken. Same thing. I want to laugh, but I’m actually kind of crying right now, because I’d always thought I’d give my virginity to you. And I don’t even remember how it happened or how it felt, and I just want to disappear.

Lucas said you guys talk regularly, and that you’re doing well… with whatever you’re doing. He still won’t tell me much at all. But I take the slightest bit of comfort in knowing you’re okay, even if I’m not in your life anymore. I still love you. I hope you know that.

Love,

Mike

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#byler #byler fanfic #byler fic #byler tumblr #mike wheeler #will byers #will x mike #mike x will #stranger things #stranger things fic

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oftenwantedafton · 1 day

Text

begin again | springtrap x female reader

words | 2.6k

cw | mature rating, body horror

ao3 link

You enter the barn with a mixture of trepidation and excitement.

The owner of the property you’re invited to leads you through the clouds of dust stirred up as you enter the building, the disturbed particles flickering like chips of mica in the slanting rays of the afternoon sun filtering through the doorway of the rotting structure. The entire farm has the same feeling of neglect, of demands that can no longer be met, as wilted as the elderly man that lumbers along in an arthritic kind of manner, joints undoubtedly aching as badly as the support beams of the building you’re now standing inside. He’s weathered, his body clearly failing, but his eyes are sharp and his voice is still strong and resonant as he gestures to something large covered with a tarp just ahead of you. To a casual onlooker their guess might have been an automobile or a piece of farm equipment tucked beneath that material, but you’re no casual onlooker. You know exactly what you’re looking for, and you think maybe, just maybe, this man has somehow stumbled upon it through some random happenstance, some chance encounter.

“It’s there. Go on, have a look, missy.”

You stiffen at this term of address but choose to ignore it, stepping forward and letting your fingers grasp the edge of the blue covering. It’s as battered and filthy as everything else around here, and you wonder if the item it’s shielding can really be in much better condition.

You hold your breath and pull. Pull and pull and pull, because there is a lot to expose, thrusting the tarp aside and finally exhaling when you catch sight of the seven foot long object. Yes, it is what you’ve been seeking and yes, it is in terrible condition. But it can be fixed. You know how.

“Uglier than sin, that,” the man mutters, pacing around a little to ease up his stiffening joints. “Grandson was proud as anything lugging that here. Tried to tell him it wasn’t worth—” He abruptly clamps his mouth shut. He’s not about to admit what he has in storage has little monetary value.

“It’s an original. One of the actual originals,” you murmur appreciatively, taking in the sight of it from all angles. A lot of damage on the left side. It will take months to repair. Your favorite type of project.

“‘Told ya. Came from that accursed restaurant, just like I said on the phone.”

You finish surveying the object and turn to face the farmer. “How much are you asking?”

The elderly man’s bushy white eyebrows lower as his eyes narrow shrewdly, trying to estimate how much he can price gouge. His gaze flicks down to your shoes, then over to your handbag. Designer originals, or knockoffs? He’s looking into your eyes now, sucking in a whistling rasp of air. “It’s going to cost a bit, missy. Being so rare and all. An original, like you said.”

Perhaps you should have omitted voicing that information out loud. Too late now, though, isn’t it? You’re about to find out just how much that slip up will cost you. “How much?” You repeat again.

“Ten grand.”

You bark a laugh. “Extortion. No deal.”

“Eight,” he counters.

“Seven and a half. Cash. Final offer.”

The man scowls but nods.

“How did you get it in here, anyway?”

“Grandson and his buddies used the tractor.”

“I’ll tip them an extra five hundred if they help load it onto the truck. I can call for help, but it will save me some time.”

“I’m sure he’ll oblige. He’s up at the house.” The man begins to turn away, then pauses, glancing back at you. “I went to that place, you know. The pizzeria. Years ago, back when it was open. Met the owner. Had that same look in his eye as you. That raw hunger. He didn’t come to a good end, as I understand. You might want to take caution before you end up the same as him.”

“Noted,” you say, digging a paper envelope out of your purse and counting out the bills. There are still plenty leftover. $10k wouldn’t have been a bad amount to pay in all honesty. But why not barter? The repairs will be costly.

The man scowls and then turns away again, beginning the painful journey back to the farmhouse.

You think you’ve gotten the better end of the deal.

***

Thirty years have passed.

He doesn’t know this number, precisely, because that stretch of years has altered his composition. He is neither dead nor alive, neither human nor machine. There is no name for what he has evolved into because nothing like him has ever existed before. He is new, yet old. Eternal.

Over time the joints have become locked in place, rusted and frozen. The stagnant air of the abandoned pizzeria permeates the holes in the ripped costume, but cannot inflate the withered lungs within. Back when he had been closer to human, there had still been a sense of taste, a bitter metallic mixture of his own blood and the internal components of the suit combining where they had pierced his jaw. He cannot speak; has not made a sound for a long time. Punctured airways, slipping past his trachea and dipping between ribs, have made this feat impossible. His imprisoned body has been folded in on itself in the most unnatural of ways, shoved inside a vent, trapping him in what could be considered part of the building’s circulatory system, if such a thing could exist, not unlike a clot trapped inside a blood vessel, comprised not of clotting particles and protein threads but steel and plastic, wiring and circuitry, fur and felt and the unsavory desicated corpse of the establishment’s owner deep within, entombed, mummy-like.

This is how he is when he is found, pored over like an old, broken toy rediscovered, temporarily reigniting a sense of wonder that had once existed. For a moment, the yellow rabbit has meaning again. He is extracted and shipped to a barn, then covered with a tarpaulin, waiting for the highest bidder, for someone to make use of him again.

Waiting, perhaps, for you.

The giant rabbit has no way of knowing that he’s been purchased by someone who is expert on animatronic engineering, someone intent on keeping him, allowing him to narrowly avoid the fate of being put on display in a gruesome sort of museum commemorating not the memories of a place meant to bring happiness, but the secret terror that has instead endured. That place will still undoubtedly become a reality but he will never be a part of it, thanks to your intervention.

He does not feel the first sets of hands that manipulate him, roughly dragging him from his confinement; has no conscious awareness he has even shifted locations immediately. It is not until weeks later when he begins to return to himself, slowly drip feeding alertness into whatever this new creature he has become is. These hands on him now—your hands—are gentle and careful. They card carefully though the rotting fur and dance softly over the gaping holes, cautious about touching the exposed alloys and electronics within.

His restoration begins with a passive range of motion performed on his still locked up joints not so unlike the farmer who had sold him. You test each extremity, deciding what can be salvaged and what rusted parts must be replaced. You have apparently decided to work from the bottom up, beginning with the overly large, almost comical feet before reaching his legs.

You speak to him as you perform each task, your voice soothing like water moving over pebbles in a brook, a gentle murmuring sort of sound. He finds himself missing that noise when you are not present, forced to wait on the work table until you return each day.

Once you’ve finished with his lower extremities, your path diverts from his torso to manage his arms, repeating the same process as before. He is curious who you are; how you come to be so intimately acquainted with the workings of an animatronic suit. Grudgingly impressed with how brave you are when encountering the bits of decayed flesh plastered on bone during the excavation process, leaving these parts as intact and unscathed as possible, carefully continuing to focus on the synthetic pieces of the mascot.

Now that all four of his limbs are accounted for, it is time to shift attention to the large chest piece. This process alone takes a great deal of time. The bulk of the suit, and the failed springlocks that had doomed the human within, lie in this cavity. It is a tricky business to move those unrelenting claws that resemble human ribs, extracting damaged components and replacing them with new technology. The safety devices that should have protected his comparatively fragile body had not kept it from injury, but instead done quite the opposite, the dangerous internal workings of the mascot lodging in and merging with their victim.

When this job is finally completed, days or weeks or months later—he still cannot accurately say, his sense of time still distorted in this odd sort of half reality he occupies now—it is time for the work on the headpiece to begin.

His own eyes have been destroyed, but the animatronic’s have not, and it is on these you devote yourself to next. It is a startling thing for you both when they flare to life again, a dull silver glow that becomes brighter and brighter, like the headlights of an oncoming vehicle approaching on a lonely stretch of road at night. He can see your face, peering at him as you lean over, pupils following the surprised flutter of lashes as if they are a penlight being shown during a physical exam in a physician’s office. He tracks your movements and they become smoother beats, the delays imperceptible now. You smile and he feels something in that gesture. He’s pleased you, the science project you’ve been working on proving to be a success.

A memory stirs. His eldest with a school project for the science fair. Seventh or eighth grade. Struggling for a topic. He’s inherited none of his father’s penchance for engineering. Harbors no passion for the sciences. Perhaps this has evolved from his father’s growing lack of time and interest invested in his own family, his attention increasingly focused on the business he manages, the mechanical creations taking precedent over his own flesh and blood ones. It would have, perhaps, been a chance for him to bond more with the boy, but instead he’d been ignored, the rift between them widening further still. It would be much, much worse later, when he’d inadvertently caused the death of his baby brother.

But that was all in the past now. All of his children are gone, and he is gone, too, but not quite in the same manner. He shuts the memories away again, sliding the drawer of that mental filing cabinet closed and locking it tight.

***

You do not return the next day, or the one after that. You are gone for a long while, and it is alarming. He is still immobile, still unable to move at will, save for his eyes, which cannot see much more than the ceiling tiles above him. He rages internally against his body, but it is futile. He has no control, until he is given it; until you restore it to him. There is renewed anger, an emotion he’d felt so often as a human.

There are new visitors to the room he dwells in, and they are not kind like you.

They do not handle him with care like you do. There is no reverence, no respect. He is manipulated to the point of being broken, both the remains of his human body and the recently repaired animatronic one. There is pain, when limbs are twisted backwards and he’s heaved onto the floor, and this sensation, while unpleasant, means that he is, in some manner, becoming more alive. He holds onto that feeling, mentally envisioning gritting teeth, fingers tightening. He will not let go.

You finally return, discovering him like this, a crumpled, broken mess on the floor. Your delicate surgeries undone, your progress trampled. You do not speak, remaining silent, like he is. You have to find others to help you move him back into position, lying supine on the work surface. He hears mutters about time wasted, mockery over your dedication, comparing you to Frankenstein with his freakish creation. The anger flares anew and he is glad when they are gone.

Tears begin dropping between the rabbit’s teeth, sliding past his own. It is likely only his imagination that he can taste that salted liquid, but he savors that moisture, the first he’s known in so long. Finally you speak, asking forgiveness for being away. He has never been one to forgive or forget, but he finds it in himself to grant you mercy.

You begin again.

You work long hours. So long that eventually one evening you fall asleep right there beside him, head pillowed on one arm, the circuit board you’d finished soldering waiting to be placed resting on his torso. He listens to the sound of your breathing, the steady in and out, and he wonders if you are dreaming.

***

Your attention is now directed to his throat, to the severed vocal chords and collapsed cartilage. Even after the voice box is installed, there is still the matter of his jaw to be addressed. This is where the man trapped within is most visible, through the gaps of the teeth in the headpiece, to the human set fixed inside, gaping in some silent eternal torment.

“How do I…” you wonder aloud, and indeed, how do you solve this problem? You cannot remove the headpiece because of the way it is attached, mascot welded to skeleton. Yet you cannot access the interior through such a narrow gap in the character’s mouth. Elsewhere you had been able to work around such fusions. But here, you have no such space. Your fingers rest along the rabbit’s jaw. So close. You’re so close to completing the restoration process.

***

You have no way of knowing how it feels, to have your fingers rake across the new golden fur you’ve gifted. He shouldn’t be able to feel that, and yet he is, and it shocks him how vibrantly pleasurable it is. As adoring as a lover’s caress. Pride in what you’ve achieved, affection for what you’ve salvaged. He’s baffled by it, unable to fathom why you would ever find something as wretched as himself deserving of such feelings, and yet here you are, lavishing it upon him. He feels your hand resting somewhere above where his human heart resides, cold, unfeeling thing though it had been, and he wills that dried husk of an organ to beat once again. When you rest your face against it, he imagines his lungs inflating once more, lifting your head gently. He longs to settle one steel encased hand in your hair, but he still cannot move of his own free will. There is something lacking. Some final, missing piece of the puzzle that eludes you both.

“I tried. I’m sorry. I don’t know how,” you whisper. Your nose touches his. Your breath creeps in through the rabbit’s mouth, easing past the trapped man’s stretched maw. There is no blue fairy to make the artificial creature come to life. There is just you, this woman, working so diligently, so desperately.

Who are you? The yellow rabbit wonders, again, and again.

Your lips brush the corner of the mascot’s mouth before you straighten. A spark of heat. The sluggish flutter of dried valves. The creature gasps and a fresh burst of air fills it. A series of taps as the fingers of one hand move against the metal work surface. Your eyes, wide and full of wonder, as he reaches for you.

#springtrap x you #springtrap x reader #springtrap #divider @saradikagraphics

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theragamuffininitiative · 5 months

Note

Okay tell me ALL about your fairy tale retelling WIP, I am most curious!!

hi hi hi!

Brief lil disclaimer here: I wrote this story as my nanowrimo project back in erm 2021 and have barely looked at it since. (working on that!) Everything I am about to say is based on my memory of how the story was working at the time and a couple glances at my documents tonight - and if I say something in this post that I like better than what I originally had, I will run with it. XD

Right then!

Tsarevitch Ivan, the Firebird, and the Gray Wolf is a Russian fairytale classified as a 550 on the ATU folklore index (a fact I sprinkle in not to be pretentious but bc I recently discovered the index and it is fascinating). This basically means the story revolves around catching a mystical bird, sometimes a phoenix, and involves a princess, usually a horse, and some supernatural animal helper. In my retelling, I also take from the Grimm Brothers' The Golden Bird version.

As you know, I fell into the intrigue of this tale when visiting an art museum displaying Vasnetsov's A Knight at the Crossroads, which is a reference to this tale. Now, Vasnetsov also painted Tsarevitch Ivan on a Gray Wolf:

And it's just so????!

In my retelling of this fairytale, our hero is a bit of a simple boy. He is content with simple things and a simple life after his near-death at a young age to a mysterious wasting disease spreading across the land - a madness that robs the infected of sleep and appetite until they go insane. The only cure is the fruit of an equally mysterious tree. Ivan fears his healing may have not been complete, for he has not felt the need for sleep or food the way he ought to ever since.

When fruit begins to disappear from the closely protected tree, the threat of losing the cure drives Ivan into action. An enchantment of sleep shields the thief from being captured. Here, Ivan's curse is a boon, as he alone sees a great golden bird steal the fruit. Although a great company set out to capture the bird, Ivan becomes separated from them and lost. At an ancient crossroads that promises death in every direction, he meets the Wolf, the instrument of the crossroads' doom. When the Wolf unexpectedly takes Ivan to find his missing companions, they discover the whole company has fallen to the madness - Ivan's brother among them.

It is no disease, but a curse.

Ivan, now with the Wolf, seeks aid from his best friend, the Princess Evolett, who was to be wed to the prince of the neighboring country and seal a treaty of peace between them. But all is not as it seems in these foreign lands, and Ivan must work with the Wolf to capture the golden bird, protect the fruit tree, rescue Evolett, heal the madness, prevent war between the two kingdoms, and defeat a dark enchantment for good - if the Wolf, the madness, or a multitude of other enemies don't kill him first... [ramble continued below the cut]

I love, love, love playing around with the fairytale motifs in this story.

For example, the original fairytale has a very episodic, repetitive sort of scavenger hunt that Ivan is forced into. I messed with it a lot to give the different elements their own, interconnected importance: the tree is a magical cure, the bird has magical elements of its own, the golden cage from some versions of the tale is a metaphor for the princess's imprisonment, the inns are not merely symbolism for laziness but traps laid by a powerful enemy to serve a dark purpose, and nothing is as it would seem - least of all Ivan or the Wolf.

The characteristics for Ivan specifically came to me while watching Mal in the first season of Netflix's Shadow and Bone.

I really love Mal's stubborn tenacity, fierce loyalty, and simplistic personal goals in the face of all the complexity and conniving of everything around him. Since this fairytale showcases a "simpleton" character, I wanted to show that character at their very best.

Also! I love writing Ivan and the Wolf. Ivan's plucky, irreverent sense of humor set against the Wolf's stoic, utterly dry and cold attitude is so much fun to play with. 👏

(tried to credit the images by link, not sure if that worked)

Excerpt from Ivan meeting the Wolf:

Then the wolf made a guttural, whining sound from the back of its throat, a sound which rolled forward out of its mouth and formed into four distinct words. "Will you kill me?" Ivan stared at it. Having never met a wolf before, he couldn’t say with absolute authority that they did not speak, but he also thought that if they had, someone might have mentioned it to him once upon a time. This one, however, most assuredly had spoken. He supposed he should have asked it to repeat itself, or even agreed with the sentiment and at once lifted his weapon. Instead, he considered the question posed to him. "I don't think so," he said in the end. "Not unless I have to.” He didn’t add that this was because he didn’t think he could beat the wolf if he tried. There was something else at work here, as he had feared, and he needed to find out what the game was. In his head, he noted that this creature was not merely a wolf, but the Wolf. The wolf made another noise, and this sounded like a quiet, “Ah, then.” “What will you do if I come down?” Ivan ventured to ask. The Wolf blinked lazily. “I have deprived you of your mount,” it stated. “I have come to take you where you must go.” That didn’t sound promising, although slightly better than admitting it wanted to gobble him up. “Are you fae?” Ivan called to it. He felt he remembered something from his father’s stories that the fae had to answer truthfully the questions you asked them directly. “I am not.” Enchanted or a liar, then. A wolf given the tongue of man. It also seemed to think something like a man, though its tone was distant and cold. “How can I trust you?” he asked it. The Wolf stared at him, not responding, and cocked its head. So maybe not the thinking of a man. Maybe the concept of trust was foreign to it still. He tried something less abstract. “Are you going to attack me?” “That is not my purpose,” said the Wolf. “There is an inn, a long distance from here. You have strayed from the path and it took me some time to find you, but I can lead you there, through ways horse hooves cannot tread, before the Wood grows dark.” “Is leading me to the inn your purpose?” “It is.” “Why?” The Wolf had to think about this, and Ivan thought again that it didn’t seem to be comfortable with questions that involved reasoning beyond cold facts. “The crossroads demand a price from everyone who passes through them. The price is set by your choice and you have chosen. Now I will take you where your path leads.”

Yes, I'll take "uneasy partnerships founded on enmity but sealed in friendship" for $500, thank you.

A messy music playlist I haven't touched since NaNo writing: here It's a story of family, loyalty, honor, and simple truths more powerful than any deep enchantment. 🥺😭

Excited to write Evolett more, she is a spitfire and impressed by no one (even when probably she should be, for her own good lol). Ivan's father was an adventurer in his own day, and I love writing little nods to his offstage capers - there's an invisibility cloak!

Ivan's brother is kind of a jerk. 🙈 But hey, still family. And he's less of a jerk than the guys in the old fairytale ok. 😅 Probably.

Ok, I feel like that's a pretty boring ramble, but I have tried to type this up about five different times so here we are! I have shed tears over Ivan and the Wolf, and lived in the nonsense from the random old woman running the dilapidated inn next to the one that breathes enchantment, and sketched out the borderlines between kingdoms and the unseen shadowy arm reaching across borders to ensnare them all, and written a lot of dog jokes. I love this one, I can't wait to get back into it. 😊

Thank you for asking and letting me ramble! 💛

#i have tried to type this up like five times #and it's been one of those weeks where i'm just constantly falling asleep #so we compromise and i stayed up so i will be falling asleep all day tomorrow at work instead lol #thanks for the ask!#kanerallels #wip: the madness and the golden bird

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aro-culture-is · 1 year

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quick note - this blog is gonna be sparse again for at least this week. trying new medications and tbh initial side effects are not super pleasant + actual effects build up. as a result: currently as if unmedicated for mental health, with anxiety+ side effect, extra fatigue, dizziness, and fatigue. it's uh, sure something.

totally recognize that most of y'all know we're absent at times due to health things, just wanted to give a heads up that this one is at least anticipated.

#fun fact sometimes condensing meds just means poorer treatment of some conditions #this is a re-expansion + new thing #so that instead of poorly treating my mental health and using an unusually high dose SNRI for another (physical) condition #i will hopefully both be in less pain AND not depressed af AND also have an appetite again #i doubt i will be lucky and not have a fucked stomach due to meds but one can hope that an appetite will allow me to eat foods that upset #my stomach a lot less #my health is forever a massive balancing act #every time a medical thing is like 'so what meds do u take' i'm like here i wrote it down for u #and they're like 'oh. ooookay. let me just...' *five minutes of typing and clicking later*#'so! what did you come in for again? uhuh. you said you experience pain daily? with your chronic pain thing? hm. have you tried yoga?'#/gen #like. straight up every time i say 'i am in pain all the time due to fibromyalgia' they are like 'ooh studies say regular exercise helps'#and like. theoretically yes! but also. i would be lying if i said the fibromyalgia studies i've skimmed don't set off general 'bad science'#alarm bells in my brain #like... cool you performed a fibromyalgia study with... all male lab rats? mhmm? so are you aware fibromyalgia appears to occur #overwhelmingly in women? like. data seems to suggest between 70-85%?#(not that the data can't still indicate things but it certainly makes male rats a poor choice of model for tests on it)#also just... idk i've looked at some metaanalysis and been like 'okay cool theory and for all i know about human bio or bio in general that #sounds more or less correct BUT. you never discussed that one study on this subject that did NOT support your conclusion.#and that's 1) interesting when it was the most diverse group of subjects and the exceptions often teach just as much as the 'rule'#2) just shitty science. tell me how your theory is still credible when some evidence doesn't fit the model.#like... 'given that all other studies were primarily conducted on white american women in their 30s to 40s it is possible that this model #only explains (the early effects of fibro since that's a typical onset period) / (a possible genetic link primarily found in white women) /#(a possible sign of bias in diagnosis that demonstrates the possibility that there are different causes) / combinations of all of those #like... idk a paper that just throws out things that don't support it is a pretty big red flag #it doesn't mean the conclusion is entirely incorrect but it is often important to understand the context in which it applies #like... it's very easy to jump to an incorrect conclusion if you used something in the wrong context #ie: thumbs up is a good job / positive thing in a lot of western civilizations. teenage kee once went to china and discovered it to be #neutral to offensive in many areas outside of major tourist locations that were used to it #anyways i gotta sleep

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butrememberthesong · 2 months

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i have so many thoughts on the squid entity and i cannot share them with either of my Thoughts People so. skip the tags if you are avoiding endgame spoilers.

#type: thoughts #i saw a post about morally gray characters and like #it's a very complex Guy. but from #tav: aria #'s pov it's both less complex and more complex #and im chewing on their dynamic again #she feels responsible for how everything ends. she can't stand him. he's familiar and almost comforting by the end. the silence is deafenin #she tried to kill it. it manipulated and lied to her at every opportunity. she mabipulated and lied back. it held a whole ass person captiv #for an indefinite amount of time.#like this is not a healthy dynamic. but she has so much regret about how things end #AND THEY WERE BOTH BEING MANIPULATED BY THE BRAIN.#<- critical To Her. bc the brain brought them to the end. thru him. so how much of a victim was he. in her mind she drove him back to the #brain in the end out of his own complete lack of options. to the one thing he wanted to escape. and In Her Mind #she did so by Not Being Willing to sacrifice #ch: orpheus #when presented with impossible odds. she looked for alternatives she *tried*#but when #ch: the emperor #is the one she has to sacrifice when facing impossible odds (the wrath of a would-be god vs the wrath of a would-be god)#it's 'i have to'. BEFORE SHE EVEN KNOWS HOW MUCH LYING ITS BEEN DOING.#(which Actually made her trust it less than she ends up trusting it but #anyway.)#i think its genuinely top five regrets from the entire adventure. its moonrise/yanna/him. shes a little messed up #tav: beithir #playing the role of her ansur it makes everything so much more complicated for her #bc in my canon. when it reacts negatively to Bronze Dragon Bestie it loses some Points.#and then when she finds out *why*. its a very mixed bag. bc on the one hand how could you ever but on the other #i know Exactly how. and that horrifies her.#bg3 spoilers #woetp: fiddlehead soup

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roll4sleightofhand · 1 year

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i log on to tumblr dot com, i rapidly reblog 15 posts from my for you page in a sleep deprived stupor, and then i hit the fucking hay. it’s time to unconsiois babes i really put in the work today

#bren’s nonsense #i tried retyping uncoscioss like five times and gave up #having fake nails on makes me typing skills so bad and by hod sometimes i font have the energy to fix it #anyways i love you goodnighttttt

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atrwriting · 6 months

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kisses and other sweet things — billy the kid x cowgirl!reader

ok… i couldn’t help myself lol

also side note i don’t remember what scene this gif was from but i feel like his turned on look and look of disgust/confusion is the same — like if i hadn’t watched the show i’d be like “did he just see a pretty girl walk in?? or did someone just threaten him?? both??? hopefully both???”

but like also if he looked at me like that…,,,… melting. on the spot.

as always, warnings: smuuuuut, dom!billy, brat!reader, i don’t know if you can call it non-con but just to be safe im going to put that, p in v sex, oral, spitting in mouth (yeah i went there sue me), tears, biting, cums inside of reader (they didn’t have condoms in his time but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t use them!!!!)

also don’t sue me i don’t know if they had running water (sinks, baths, etc) but also the real billy the kid didn’t look this fine so we’re making it up as we go and going with the flow

ENOUGH TALK — here’s kisses and other sweet things…

you had been working with a crew for some time now, and as you all struggled to keep a cash flow — you had to turn to other things.

like joining forces with another crew.

the idea of joining a crew wasn’t what unsettled you — what unsettled you was being the only woman with a gun with even more men.

it’s just for one job, y’all, they had said. just this one.

one job turned into two. then that turned into three. four, five, six — and suddenly you knew everyone’s back story, drink of choice, and their type when it came to women of the night.

your first crew never asked how you felt, but you also never told them. they were all — including you — in it for the money. at the end of the day, it was all about what you had in your pockets. there was no time for quelling the simple worries, like they’d call the ones in your head.

at the end of the day — you had been doing this a long time. you had taken care of yourself up until this point, and you would continue to do so. didn’t matter who you were working with — you’d get it done.

after a day of success, everyone wanted to blow off steam. you all had found a boarding house for the night where the alcohol ran deep and there was two or three pretty women for each cattle rustler in your large group. you stayed behind a bit to drink with them, but once they started eyeing the women — you knew it was time to go.

sleeping with any of the men you worked with was also a bad idea. you couldn’t afford them seeing you as anything less than someone quick with a draw — and you worried a night of meaningless sex would ruin that.

you would never take the chance.

“have your fun, boys,” you chuckled. “you deserve it.”

“won’t stay a little longer, sweetheart?” your leader asked as a girl licked at his neck.

“another time — bath’s calling my name.”

a few pleasantries were thrown over shoulders, and you returned them. you made your quick escape up the stairway and into the shared washroom between three or four bedrooms. you knew your party had rented those rooms for the evening, so you were very excited to be able to have the bath to yourself for a little bit longer than usual.

you filled the tub with scalding hot water. the steam from the water and the whisky in your stomach made you hazy, but you welcomed it. who knew when you’d have until you had this sort of luxury or privacy again — you weren’t going to waste the chance.

the bath was quite large — fit for two or three people. you stayed on one edge as you washed your dirty skin. you were about to relax against the back when the doorknob began to turn.

you immediately snatched your gun and pointed it at the door.

“shit — sorry.”

it was the bonney kid.

he was holding a towel in his hand and was naked from the waist up. a scared look on his face was present as he tried to avert his eyes.

you put down the gun and raised an eyebrow, waiting for his next move.

“just came to wash up,” he spoke.

you knew he couldn’t see anything from where he stood, and you knew he wouldn’t be able to see below the water’s surface with the bubbles. you could tell him to fuck off — but being mean to some of these assholes sometimes proved to be worse than just swallowing your pride and being nice. you didn’t know billy very well — and you weren’t about to find out while you were naked if he was an asshole or not.

“i’m going to be a bit,” you spoke. “i don’t mind if you come in.”

he looked at you uneasily before nodded curtly, lips parting. you closed your eyes and leaned back against the tub, letting your eyes drift closed. you heard the water running and the sound of soap being scrubbed onto skin, and felt better. the next sound you heard was a razor being pulled out and your eye drifted open.

he was shaving.

he kept his gaze on himself in the mirror as he spoke. “surprised the kid can shave?”

you smiled. “never thought you were a kid from how you were with a gun.”

that made him smile. “never seen a women like you with a gun before.”

you hummed in response, not exactly sure how to respond.

“come up here to escape?”

that made you laugh. you couldn’t help but let your gaze fall on his reflection in the mirror. his eyes were trained on his skin as he let the blade slide down his neck and pull up loose hairs. your mind was hazy with drink and heat, which made you forget to respond.

“some people would say it’s rude to stare, sweetheart.”

you laughed at that — he had you there.

“and some people would say it’s rude to intrude on a woman’s bath,” you countered.

he smiled, but kept his eyes off you. you’d like to think it was out of respect. “…and would you?”

“not with you,” you offered. “you’re the only one who hasn’t tried to make a pass at me.”

“not hard to believe,” he spoke. “downstairs they’ve got a running bet to see who will be the first with you.”

you scoffed. “in their dreams.”

billy didn’t respond. he was almost done with shaving. he was washing more of his upper arms in the sink, and you suddenly felt bad. you were only taking this long because you thought everyone would be preoccupied with the downstairs activities, and because you couldn’t exactly exit with him standing there — able to see you.

“i can leave if you want to wash,” you spoke.

“water will be cold,” he responded. “‘s fine — i’ll wait the hour.”

you weren’t sure why — but that made you feel bad.

“you could join me.”

you weren’t sure what brought that on, and you knew you’d probably regret it later. however, billy’s eyes drifted up the length of the mirror to the edge where you knew he could see the tub, to your eyes. you weren’t sure how you looked — but you knew your curls were piled on top of your head and you looked sleepy. relaxed, even. peaceful.

“i don’t think you mean that, sweetheart.”

you hummed. “you don’t have to. just thought i’d offer.”

he appeared to sigh, and that’s when you thought he would leave — but he didn’t.

instead, he locked the door.

“should’ve done that in the first place,” he spoke before coming towards the tub to unlace his pants.

you turned your head away from him and let out a small giggle, shielding your gaze from his naked form. “how would we have gotten so well acquainted then, mr. bonney?”

you heard him find the other side of the tub where he sat back against. you let your eye line find in front of you and your jaw almost dropped at the sight. billy appeared to struggle to get comfortable as he sank into the warmth of the tub. the water line came up to right under his chest, showing off all of his perfect and trim muscles. with billy’s arms stretched out around the edge of the tub… you got the perfect view of the stretched muscles of his biceps.

“do i need to remind you about staring?” he asked.

you weren’t sure if he was joking — but he was right. if you wanted respect, you had to give it, too.

but you couldn’t deny just how handsome he was.

“sorry,” you said with a coy smile, and let your head fall back against the tub again.

you could hear water slightly splashing from the other side of the tub. billy had extended his legs so they were brushing yours slightly, and you shivered at the thought.

“can you…” he began. “can you get my back?”

you lifted your head and smiled. i can do all that and more if you asked, you thought.

“sure,” you said with a simple smile.

billy turned around and handed you the soap. there were a few cuts and bruises littered on his back, and you tried to be as careful with them as possible. you started on his neck, working the soap and the sponge against his muscles.

he hummed in response. you could’ve died at the thought of the big, bad billy the kid keening into your touch because you were massaging his muscles just right.

“that feels good,” he spoke. “talented fingers i suppose.”

you laughed lightly at that. you kept the sponge on his shoulders, and then worked down towards the expansion of his shoulder blades. it was scary to see such a broad man before you as you were so bare, but also the look of him was so enticing. you drew rough circles on his skin and worked your way down to the middle of his back.

“that’s good,” he replied. “thank you, darlin’.”

you went to hand the sponge back to him, but he turned around in place instead. the tops of your breasts were showing and you knew he could see the wildness in your eyes.

“how’d a sweet thing like you end up with us?” he asked, eyes searching yours for the answer.

“maybe i’m just the only one who knows how to handle you boys,” you spoke, trying to be coy. “actually… one of them i grew up with. we’ve always worked together, but that’s as far as it’s ever gone.”

“and what would he say if he knew if you were in here with me?” he asked.

you scrunched your eyebrows at him. “wouldn’t be his business. he’s also got a pretty blonde in his lap tonight. change of pace from his usual red head.”

“and he missed a chance to get to see you like this?” he asked, tucking a curl behind your ear.

“is his loss your gain, mr. bonney?” you asked, a smile drifting onto your face.

that was bold. you knew it. you could feel it.

“i think you’d have to ask the pretty miss before me,” he responded, inching his face closer. “she’d be mighty sweet if she let me kiss her.”

“she’s pretty pissed you haven’t already.”

he stared at you for a few minutes with his plump and pink lips parted in such a way where you knew thoughts were running behind his pretty eyes. he dipped his forehead towards yours as the intensity of the situation mixed with the hot steam around you and the liquor inside both of you. he dipped his chin once, and caught your waiting lips with ease.

his lips were dry and cracked against yours, but you loved it. billy was the type of man that was hard and worked even harder, and every bit of him reflected that. his dark curls were twirling around his hairline, mixing with sweat and soapy water. you wanted to brush them back, hop in his lap, and kiss him until there was more water on the floor than in the tub.

but you couldn’t — not yet.

billy’s lips folded between yours as if he was just happy to be here — with you. the feeling was intoxicating as there was nothing like sharing intimacy with a sweet man in the comfort of hot water. you couldn’t help yourself in that moment — you brought your hand up to cup the side of his face, and he sucked in a sharp breath in response.

“you can touch me, you know,” you whispered.

“the things i want to do to you, darlin’…” he spoke, shaking his head and trying to catch his breath at the same time. “shouldn’t be wasted in a tub. let me take you back to your room.”

you both left the bathtub and tried your best to dry off as quickly as possible. it was almost hard to believe you were giggling with billy like innocents as you raced back to your room — hoping not to run into any more cowboys.

you immediately pushed him to sit down on the edge of the bed before you climbed into his lap. his thighs were strong and thick — the perfect foundation for a thing like you to hold yourself up enough to grab his cock in your hands, and swallow his moans through another kiss.

“tried not to stare in the bathtub, billy… but can you blame me?” you asked, breathless.

“noticed you starin’,” he grunted, running his calloused hands all over your body. “couldn’t help but stare back. needed to see where the trigger on you was.”

you squealed in delight at his dirty mouth before he threw you off his lap and rolled you over. he immediately started kissing down your body.

“i want you inside me, billy,” you whined. “not that.”

he worked his way back up to you before he caught you in another chaste kiss. against your lips, he spoke, “i’m a gentleman, sweetheart, first and foremost.”

“and what if a dirty little thing like me didn’t want a gentleman?”

he caught your chin in between his pointer finger and thumb and extended your neck ever so slightly. he looked down his nose at your pretty, flushed face. you smiled up at him as he scanned your face. “then i’d tell you — if i’ve got you all to myself, i’m going to do anything i want with that pretty little pussy. planned on tastin’ you, sweetheart — you got a problem with that?”

a wide grin spread across your face as your cheeks became rosier. “can’t say i can argue with you, then, cowboy.”

he pressed a heavy kiss to your lips, your cheek, one on the base of your neck — and then bit down hard on the skin of your shoulder. immediately, your hands came up to lay across his biceps before he began to suck on the spot, sending shock waves throughout your body. he withdrew from you and was in between your thighs in an instant.

he spread your legs and held them down in place. his tongue was strong and thick as it explored the places between your folds. you hoisted yourself onto your elbows so you could get a better look at the angel before you.

you watched as his eyes close as his tongue drew sloppy, wet circles around your clit. your teeth sank into your bottom lip as you watched him bring a hand up to his mouth, lubricate his fingers, and prod at your entrance. billy let out a throaty groan as his two fingers slipped in with ease, exploring for that one special spot.

he watched as your pussy swallowed his fingers, hoping to trap them inside of you. you were almost vibrating at how good it felt to have his fingers inside of you and his drier thumb deliver the most delicious bouts of friction and pressure to your clit.

“yes —“ you gasped, gazing at his fingers.

his eyes immediately flicked up to yours. “still got a problem with this, doll?”

you folded your lips into each other as you shook your head slowly, holding his gaze. you were biting back the moan as he curled your fingers inside of you.

“no, that’s not how this works,” he stated. “if i’m making you feel that good, i should get to hear those pretty moans, don’t you think?”

a deep crease was forming in your brow with the perfect combination of friction, lubrication, pressure, and rhythm you had ever felt. you wanted to respond to him, of course, but how could you?

“i gotta work for it, that it?” he grunted. “oh, sweet thing…”

he shoved a third finger inside of you and you gasped. you couldn’t help it. you fisted the sheets on either side of you and threw your head back in the air. his thumb was working long, drawn out circles on your sensitive clit as your hips bucked up to meet his movements.

“that’s what you needed, baby?” he asked. “break so easily. i’d fit another, but this pussy is so sweet and tight — can’t fit.”

you were practically whining at his words. he would switch between his tongue and thumb every few seconds to show you the type of variety that had your toes curling. his groans against your pussy were the added vibration that kept your hips moving to meet his face.

“tastes so fuckin’ sweet,” he grunted, his eyes closed. “can’t wait to stuff my cock in there.”

“don’t be mean to me, billy,” you gasped. “i want to feel your cock so bad, please…”

“no, baby,” he refused. “not until i make you feel good. you want my cock? yeah, well — you know what i want.”

you whined in frustration at his words — his words, the addition of what was making the heat and pressure build, and build, and build inside you until you were a sobbing mess on the bed.

“that’s it, sweetheart — give in,” he gasped. “i wanna know how good i’m making you feel.”

his voice was so husky it was taking over all of your senses. you hung onto every word as he led you closer and closer to what was your tipping point. he was stretching you so taut — like a string, ready to snap. when he suddenly pulled his hand away, you barely noticed it — until he replaced it with his cock.

you gasped at what came next.

first it was your legs — they immediately began to shake uncontrollably. the immense pressure started at your curled toes, your stretched feet, and worked its way up all the way to your shaking calves and thighs. the warmth coaxed your hips into a soft roll as you rode out your orgasm — blinded by the ecstasy of it all.

you immediately grabbed onto billy for dear life as all of your senses fucking swam. it was wave, after wave, after wave that hit you, arched your back towards the ceiling, and left you fucking breathless. your mouth fell open instantly, parted as whines and soft moans left and filled the open air of your bedroom.

and what did billy do? he grabbed you by the chin, still rutting his hips against yours, and spit in your fucking mouth.

“swallow,” he ordered, eyes boring down into yours.

you gasped as you understood his command, and like the good girl you were — you did as you were told.

“good girl,” he whispered from above you, stroking your chin.

you sucked in a sharp breath of air as you tried to regain your senses. you hoisted yourself back into your elbows, trying to focus — but it was just so hard. your pussy was so, so sensitive and it was like billy’s cock knew exactly out how to drag out your orgasm. you glanced up at billy, and realized your vision was blurry. shattered, fucked out beyond belief — you realized there were tears, literal tears in your eyes.

“no breaks for you, sweetheart,” he spoke, leaning over and holding your hips down. “need to make sure this pussy knows who she belongs to.”

your body refused to stop shaking — but it gave into every touch, caress, pull, and push from billy. you were his to use and you fucking relished in the feeling.

through your dark, thick, damp lashes, you glanced up at him. immediately, his bright, wild eyes connected with yours. there was no stopping the animal before you — not until he got his fix. the pure and pretty girl who always surprised the group with her skill was laying beneath him like a fucked out doll and he couldn’t get enough.

“please, billy,” you whined, biting down on your lip. “use my pussy just like that…”

“my fucking pussy,” he grunted.

“all yours, baby,” you gasped, laying victim to the curling warmth inside your womb once again. it was like an itch that needed to be scratched, and only billy could fix it. the idea of a second orgasm taunted you — teased you, until it was the only thing you could think about. you were close… so close… “billy, fuck — you’re going to make me — you’re gonna —“

“that’s it, baby, yeah —“ his thrusts were getting sloppier now as a light sheen of sweat lay across his forehead. the veins in his biceps and neck were protruding and his eyes were trained on your face. “bein’ so good f’me.”

“billy —“ you cried, tears coming to your eyes again. you reached for him, and brought him down to you. he held you by the back of the head and held your jaw in place with his thumb. through gritted teeth and wet eyes, you sobbed, “driving me fucking crazy.”

“yeah, yeah?” he taunted. “good. boutta make a mess of this fuckin’ pussy.”

with one last thrust, you curled into billy’s neck and cried. actually cried. he held you close to him as he continued to thrust inside of you — pressing fat, wet kisses to the side of your face. you were shaking in his hold, trying so desperately to hold onto reality — but it was slipping. it was slipping farther and farther away with every sweet word that billy ghosted over your ear.

“say you’re mine,” he ordered, with desperation in your voice. “say you’re mine, and i’ll cum.”

“i’m yours, billy,” you sobbed. “i’m yours. only yours.”

an animalistic groan left billy’s mouth as he tugged on your hair. he pulled your neck back and taut, shoving his face into the crook of your neck and biting down on your shoulder. his body pulsed one, two, three times as his orgasm overtook him and you. you were a weeping, crying mess and took everything that billy gave you.

he rut his cock into you a few more times as you both came down for your highs. billy was so commanding in bed — but after? nothing compared to how he was after. he pulled you into his lap, cock still inside you, and began peppering kisses all over your face. sweet nothings were whispered into your ear, but all you could do was whimper quietly in response. he laughed slightly in your ear, his breath ticking your sensitive skin, and dug his nose into your hairline.

“never getting rid of me now, sweet thing.”

- - -

would love to hear your thoughts :)

-L

#billy the kid 2022 #billy the kid x reader #billy the kid smut #billy the kid #william bonney smut #william h bonney x reader #william bonney #kid antrim #tom blyth #coriolanus snow #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus x you

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euphorajeon · 1 month

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trippin' over, gettin' lost on you | jjk (m)

— pairing: jk x f. reader

— genre: fluff, smut | college au, slight coffee shop au (?)

— word count: 12.4k

— warnings: pov change after the first part (its kinda obvious.. i hope), sleeveless jk, jealous jk, like really jealous, side character yoongi, cameo jimin and hoseok, they work tgt in a coffee shop, boxer!jk is back to his nature (he's boxing again, at last), cocky jk (but he's hot so its ok), usual banter between jk and oc, also banter between oc and jimin, mentions of cuts and bruises from boxing, references to the movie Real Steel, uhh what else i dont rmb anything else this thing is GIANT for me, smut in the form of: kissing, marking (hickeys), making out, an attempt at dirty talk, dry humping, cumming in pants, hint at unprotected penetrative sex at the end (don't do this!). [pls lmk if i missed smth]

— summary: a visit to the coffee shop you work at rewards jeongguk not only with a cup of coffee and a plate of brownie, but also with something else simmering deep in his veins. a challenge is issued, and all hell breaks loose.

— author's note: okay first of all full disclosure i started this in sept 2022 and just finished it today ^_^ i tried to edit it as best as i could, so if you see any mistakes, pls kindly... ignore... thank you... ^_^ that aside, i also feel the need to disclose that this is only my second time attempting to write smut so pls.. be kind.. hehe. okay! i hope you enjoy this absolute giant baby of mine!!

masterlist | boxer!gguk masterlist

There’s an advantage to knowing someone for years. Jeon Jeongguk can attest to this fact from first-hand experiences he’d had with you throughout the many years you both have known each other. He’s seen you cry after you almost drowned when you were ten and you’ve seen him throw up his breakfast after drinking skimmed milk when he was twelve, where both life-threatening experiences had been deemed not serious by young-you and young-Jeongguk who used both experiences as means to roast each other. (Though growing up, your hands automatically grabbed the whole milk carton when grocery shopping with him and he’s never let you go within a five-meter radius of a swimming pool without his supervision.)

Years of friendship with you has also given him the advantage of being familiar with your likes and dislikes, from trivial ones like how you don’t drink coffee because it upsets your stomach to more serious ones like the type of boys you would date in your teen years. He’s never had a problem with the former, instead using it as another mean to annoy you (“You can’t drink coffee? What are you? A child?”), but the latter had always bugged him for reasons unknown prior to his big epiphany a little over a year ago. (Spoiler alert: it was the first time he came home with piercings on his eyebrow and lower lip, when he tempted you into kissing him stupid.)

Now he’s confident that the type of a boy you’d date would be someone who is handsome, tall, has a great smile and tattooed bulging biceps on the side. Add a lip piercing (and a fake tongue one!) as well and he’s sure you’re never going to look at other boys ever again. If you do, well, he’d just make the piercing on his tongue a permanent one, even though that means he wouldn’t be able to kiss you for weeks after. But as said earlier, he’s confident that you only have eyes for him alone.

With that same confidence, Jeongguk struts through the glass door of the coffee shop you’re working at for the summer, going up to the counter with a grin painted on his features. Said grin goes unnoticed by you, though, as you’re busy taking the order of the person in front of him. His lips stay tilted upwards as he watches you work, writing the customer’s name on the cup with your big, round, cute handwriting. Only when you’re done taking the order and the customer’s cup has been given to your coworker do you notice his presence, eyes lighting up at the sight of him.

“Hi, what can I get you today?” you greet him in your customer-service voice and smile like you do any other customer that has come before him. Jeongguk gives you an amused smile, making you chuckle as you key in his order even before he says it himself. He eyes the small screen in front of him that displays his usual choice of beverage, making a sound to stop you from ringing him up.

“Actually,” he says when you hum in question, “could you add milk to that? Make it a latte?”

“You want a latte?” you emphasize the last word, making sure you didn’t hear him wrong. “Like, with milk and foam on top?”

“Uh-huh,” Jeongguk confirms, leaning his elbows on the counter to stare at you as you change his order from an americano to a latte. “Can I also order you on the side? Look too good not to be devoured,” he adds, a sleazy smirk on his lips.

You scrunch up your face at his innuendo, his words hard to believe when you’re wearing a murky brown apron and a matching cap on your head. “I’m adding a brownie,” you deadpan. “That would be seven dollars.”

“You don’t want anything?” Jeongguk asks as he straightens up, hand reaching for his wallet to take out his credit card. “No coffee though, babe.”

“Nope, I’m good,” you answer as you accept the card Jeongguk hands you, swiping it through the card reader. “Yoongi said I can try the new menu in large for free! I’m saving calories for that so no sugar allowed for now.”

His forehead creases upon hearing the new name. “Yoongi? Who’s Yoongi?”

“Him,” you tilt your head towards a mint-haired guy who’s busy making all the drinks, hands skillfully moving from one cup to another. It’s a wonder how he doesn’t spill even a drop of liquid. “I’ll introduce you later but now you have to move, there’s a line. Shoo.”

Jeongguk gives you a playful pout as a protest but complies with your request to move, sliding down to the pick up counter as you greet the next customer in line. There are two people lined up after him, barely a line like you made it sound like, but he figures because it’s an hour before closing that you consider any amount above one person a line. He also notices that you and the mint guy (Yoongi, was it?) are the only ones manning the counter, so it’s not like you have any spare time to deal with him given the amount of work that has to be done.

“An iced latte and brownie for Jeongguk!” Mint guy shouts as he slides the drink and dessert on the counter, lingering for a second when he sees Jeongguk’s hands reaching for his order. Mint guy’s gaze trails up his arms to his face, eyes meeting Jeongguk’s confused ones. Recognition bleeds into his cat-like eyes as his mouth forms into an O shape.

“Kiddo’s boyfriend?”

The low baritone of his voice is unexpected, though that’s not the only thing throwing Jeongguk for a loop. ‘Kiddo’? He has a nickname for you??

Mint guy—Yoongi!—doesn’t take his lack of response personally, instead opting to turn around and talk to you who have just finished taking orders from the customers. Jeongguk can’t hear what words you and Yoongi are throwing around, but from the way you glance at him, it looks like the mint-haired guy is just trying to confirm the answer to his two-worded question directed at Jeongguk earlier.

Your response to Yoongi’s inquiry makes the guy give you double pats on your cap-covered head, triggering a laugh to come out of both of you. While Yoongi’s laugh looks like he’s teasing you good-naturedly, yours looks like a shy one if the pink dusting your cheeks are any indication. It prompts a scowl to appear on Jeongguk’s handsome visage, furrowed brows and clenched jaw. It is not in your nature to get shy.

As much as he wants to stay rooted to the pick-up counter to keep you and Yoongi in his close watch, he has to move his ass somewhere less crowded to avoid getting eye-fucked by the girl next to him who has been staring at his tattoos for the past five minutes. Prior to dating you, anyone who displays interest in his tattoos would make pride swell in his chest, an ego-booster guaranteed to make his day a thousand times better. He used to subtly flex whenever he caught someone looking at his sleeve tattoos, an equally subtle wink on the side if that someone is a girl he found attractive. But after dating you, he realizes that the only attention he wants (and matters) is yours. Now anyone staring at his tattoos with the intention of flirting or getting in his pants just makes him shiver in disgust.

Though, in this particular instance, Jeongguk admits it’s his own fault by showing up to the coffee shop in a sleeveless shirt. It wasn’t intentional, he just grabbed anything within reach when he packed for the gym earlier in the day, but the way he left his hoodie in the car is definitely intentional. He thought he would give you a distraction surprise by baring his sleeve when you’re working, but you seemed unaffected even when he leaned on the counter to flex his muscles. Which is weird, considering you never missed any chance to ogle his inked bicep whenever he’s boxing.

As Jeongguk plops a small piece of brownie into his mouth, he just realizes that your roles are reversed now, with you doing your thing and him doing the staring. His eyes never leave your figure as you ring up three more customers since he sat down, transferring plastic cups onto Yoongi’s never-ending queue of orders. He watches as you take the last two cups by yourself, re-reading the order before moving to grab the ingredients needed for the drink. Your hands don’t work as fast as Yoongi’s, the muscle memory not yet settling in, but Jeongguk can tell that your help is appreciated by the way the mint guy smiles at you while patting your shoulder.

When the orders are all done, you go up to the glass door to flip the sign so it shows the Sorry, we’re closed! side. A glance at the clock tells him that it is thirty minutes until closing time, meaning thirty minutes until you can get out from behind the cashier and into his waiting arms. He hasn’t seen you all day today and all he wants to do is kiss you breathless the second you get rid of that horrendous apron and cap. Jeongguk starts counting down from the thirty-minute mark, hoping time would tick by faster.

Behind the counter, Yoongi is still busy making one more drink while refusing your offer to help. It’s weird seeing your kindness being offered to someone that isn’t him, but Jeongguk supposes this time it’s strictly work-related as he knows Yoongi has been making all the drinks (except the last two that you did) ever since he sat down with his order. Though, it seems like the drink in his hand is not an order at all, because he gives the plastic cup to you instead of putting it on the counter for a customer to take. There’s an almost childish grin on your face as you sip on the drink, eyes lighting up as you shoot Yoongi a thumbs up. After you exchange some more words with Yoongi, Jeongguk watches as you skip happily to his table with your drink in hand.

You place said drink next to his cup of latte on the table before your hand reaches for his drink to steal a sip. “I just have to clean up and wait for everyone to leave, then we’re good to go.” You steal two more sips of the latte just because you can.

“Okay, babe, but I still want my latte, you can put it down now,” Jeongguk chuckles, watching you do as he says with a guilty smile on your face. But then your hand takes the little spoon that came with the brownie to cut a sizable chunk from his half-eaten treat, quickly plopping it into your mouth. “Finish your brownie so I can take the plate away to wash it.”

“Are you just here to steal all of my food?” Jeongguk jokes, no menace behind his words as he reaches up to thumb away a stray piece of brownie from the corner of your lips. “And you said you didn’t want anything when I offered earlier.”

“I didn’t,” you confirm, “stealing from you is just too hard to resist.”

Jeongguk would’ve continued the banter if not for Yoongi calling your nickname from behind the counter, signalling for you to get back to your job.

“Boss calls,” you say, sneakily stuffing some more brownie into your mouth. “Should get back. Bye!”

“He’s your boss?” Jeongguk asks incredulously, glancing at the mint-haired guy who’s still busy moving around behind the counter. “That young guy is your boss??”

“Yeah, I’ll explain later,” you wave your hand dismissively, turning to leave. “Don’t steal my drink!”

In true Jeongguk fashion, of course he steals a sip from your drink. He does it just to be petty that you won’t explain anything about Yoongi, but he’s also curious what the new menu tastes like. He doesn’t remember seeing any banner for a new menu when he entered the shop earlier, so he’s guessing it hasn’t gone on sale yet.

He scrunches up his face the moment the drink touches his taste buds, tasting the bitterness of coffee among the layers of other flavors. It’s not as strong as the americano he usually has, but he can still feel it linger even after he swallowed the drink. Definitely not the type of drink you’d order on your own, though, so why were you so excited to try this new menu?

Looking around the shop, Jeongguk’s gaze falls on Yoongi. You did say he was your boss, didn’t you? Could it be that this free drink is just a plot to use you as a guinea pig for his experimental weird recipes, knowing that you can’t refuse your boss? Was that why he refused your help earlier? So he could make the drink taste as bizarre as it is right now?

His eyes continue following your and Yoongi’s figures behind the counter, squinting them in distaste whenever he sees you laughing at something the mint-haired guy said. Your smile, your lowered gaze, your shy demeanor, all remind him of a feeling he thought he had buried a long time ago—the same feeling he got whenever you got a boyfriend in your adolescent years. Suddenly, Jeongguk feels fifteen all over again—a clueless doe-eyed boy who donned t-shirts in every color of the rainbow every day of the week and strutted like he owned the school just so you can see that he was cool, only for you to deny him of a Sunday together.

Those years have become a core memory for him that it inspired him to get one of his tattoos: Rather be dead than cool, because he realized the way to your attention was not by being cool, it was by just being himself. (Yes, the ‘him’ who showed up unannounced at your doorstep after two years and ended the day with you on his lap stealing all the breath straight from his lungs.)

Anyways, all of that doesn’t matter because currently, your eyes are not on him but on your mint-haired boss who’s busy grinning while washing some equipment. Why are you both smiling so much around each other? Do you have some kind of inside joke that’s so funny you can’t stop laughing? What is so pleasing about Yoongi’s presence that you keep beaming at him?

Jeongguk chews the straw of your drink in anger, not realizing that he has inhaled almost half of the cup’s content despite claiming that he hates the taste. Sipping on your drink has become an afterthought as he was busy analyzing how wide your smiles are while working with Yoongi and how friendly the shoulder and head pats you give each other are. It’s sickening.

Eventually, everyone else in the coffee shop left and you’re in front of him once again to get rid of the brownie plate from his table, whining when you see the half-empty cup in Jeongguk’s hand even as you’re chewing the rest of his brownie in your mouth. Fair trade, he says as you walk away with the plate and spoon in hand.

Not even five minutes has passed since you left his table, yet Jeongguk feels tired of being patient, taking your and his coffee cups in each hand before coming up to the counter. It seems like Yoongi senses his presence, because he looks up from the calculator app on the tablet in front of him to give Jeongguk a curious glance. Their eyes meet for a split second before Jeongguk moves his gaze past Yoongi’s shoulder to you, who’s still busy wiping down the counter. A knowing smile curves on Yoongi’s lips.

“Hey, Kiddo,” Yoongi turns towards you, the nickname still irritating to Jeongguk’s ears. “I’ll finish closing up, you can go. Great work today.”

“No it’s okay, I can help you mop the floor after I’m finished with the counter.” You don’t even look up as you wave him off, oblivious to Jeongguk’s presence and his increasing impatience in front of your boss. He clears his throat comically loud, making you turn around to see a frown etched on your boyfriend’s face and Yoongi tilting his head towards him with a small, almost teasing smile on his face.

“Oh.” You pull your lips into a thin line. “Okay then. Sorry about him, Yoongi.”

“No worries, Kiddo.”

Yoongi’s nonchalant response is laced with a chuckle, which for some reason, upsets Jeongguk even more than the nickname he keeps calling you by. Is Yoongi not scared of him? Of his tattoos, of his muscles? Is he not intimidating? Can’t he feel the piercing stare Jeongguk keeps giving him ever since he walked into the coffee shop?

“You.” Your stern voice tears his hot gaze away from the mint-haired guy, whose focus is back on the calculator on his tablet to count the sales they made today. “I’ll clock out first then we can go. Please don’t do anything weird in the five minutes that I don’t have my eyes on you.”

Jeongguk follows your figure with his eyes until you disappear into the backroom, leaving him alone with Yoongi. Yoongi, the guy with the mint hair, whose surname he doesn’t even know, who is your boss that strangely have an endearing nickname for you. Things that stream steady questions into his head, about your initial meeting with Yoongi to the extent of your relationship with him. It’s the nickname he can’t seem to shake off of his mind, the way it rolls easily off Yoongi’s tongue, as if he’s been calling you that for years. Has he known you for years like Jeongguk has? Been through near-death experiences with you like Jeongguk has? Has he deserved the right to call you by a nickname like Jeongguk has?

“You can stop shooting daggers at my head, you know,” Yoongi’s low drawl almost makes Jeongguk think that he’s talking to himself, but the sentence is clearly directed at him. The older guy finally looks up from his tablet to look at Jeongguk in the eyes for longer than a second, no coffee orders to complete to interrupt their interaction this time. “Kiddo’s boyfriend, Jeongguk, right?”

As Jeongguk gives a nod to confirm Yoongi’s question, a hand is extended towards him to complete the introduction. “I’m Yoongi, Kiddo’s coworker-slash-boss.”

Jeongguk grips Yoongi’s hand with more strength than necessary, unintentionally flexing his muscles too. He thought that would be enough to tell Yoongi that Jeongguk is your boyfriend and he has no business being so friendly with you, but Yoongi only glances at his tattooed arm before letting go of his hand with a comment about how strong his grip is.

“Thanks, I do boxing,” Jeongguk mutters curtly, upset at the degree of nonchalance Yoongi is showing. He starts glancing at the door to the backroom where you currently are, wishing you would emerge right this second so he can go and doesn’t need to face Yoongi’s mint hair ever again.

“Yeah, Kiddo might have mentioned that a few times, just like she won’t shut up about your sleeve tattoos,” Yoongi says, going back to his tablet. “I used to box too, by the way.”

If you asked Jeongguk what Yoongi used to do, he wouldn’t be able to answer at all as he chooses to focus on the part where Yoongi said you won’t shut up about his sleeve tattoos and tune out the rest of his sentence. “My tattoos? What about them?”

“She said you have tons. Shoulder to fingertips. That’s how I recognized you when giving your order,” Yoongi answers lightly, which piqued Jeongguk’s interest even further. Wouldn’t it be fun to use this coworker-slash-boss of yours to get information about what you’ve been saying about him at work? What else does Yoongi know about him other than he does boxing and has a sleeve tattoo?

“Really? Does she gush about how hot they are to you, too?”

It’s not a question meant to be answered, its sole purpose to show off that you indeed gush to him about how hot his tattoos are. Though, if one thinks about it, why would Jeongguk need to boast to Yoongi about the compliments you give him about the strokes of ink on his arm? What business does Yoongi have knowing about it?

Yoongi seems to be unaware of Jeongguk’s inner dilemma as his face breaks out into a grin. “I think she’d be mad at me if I told you half the things she gushes to me about you.”

So you do gush about how hot his tattoos are to Yoongi. Interesting.

The fact that Yoongi insinuates there’s more to that is both endearing and terrifying to Jeongguk, because while he’s giddy that you talk about him with other people with so much enthusiasm, too much of it could end up in you sharing something about him that you should not have. Not to mention you’re sharing it with your boss, someone you should keep at an arm’s length when it comes to sharing about your significant others. One wrong move and he could use it against you.

Jeongguk is just about to ask Yoongi to elaborate further on his statement when you step out of the backroom, now out of the murky brown cap and apron and in a white t-shirt that looks like it belongs to Jeongguk. All thoughts of Yoongi knowing all sort of things about him evaporates right away, his mind focusing on how cute you look instead. If only Jeongguk doesn’t know basic human decency, he’d pull you by the waist to taste the mouth he’s been deprived of for the whole day, not giving an ounce of care about your boss watching the whole thing.

No, he’s a good boyfriend so he opts to pull you by the shoulders instead, letting your arms go around his waist before squeezing you in his arms. The kiss he drops on your cheek is chaste yet lingering, like he wants to let you know just how much he missed you. You tighten your arms around him in return, wordlessly saying the same thing back.

“Ready to go?” Jeongguk mumbles into your hair, not yet letting go of the hug.

“Ye—oh, wait!” You pull your face away from its initial position on Jeongguk’s chest. “You haven’t met Yoongi yet.”

“We did, Kiddo,” Yoongi waves you off. “You’re free to go. Your boyfriend here has been waiting long enough.”

“No,” you say, pulling away from Jeongguk’s hold. “I mean I haven’t introduced you two properly.” You gesture to the both of them back and forth as you say their names. “Yoongi, meet my boyfriend, Jeon Jeongguk. Jeongguk, meet my boss, Min Yoongi. His family owns this coffee shop.”

“That’s what you mean by proper?” Jeongguk says to you as he takes Yoongi’s hand for the second time that day, regular grip this time because you’re watching his every move like a hawk. “I didn’t know you own the shop. Nice place,” he nods to the older guy, releasing his hand.

“Thanks. It’s my dad’s, though. I just help from time to time,” Yoongi shrugs.

“You ‘just help from time to time’ but willing to dye your hair mint in honor of the new menu.” You nudge his elbow playfully. “Speaking of the new menu, did you finish the whole cup, Jeongguk? I’ve only had a few sips.” You frown as you bring the cup to your eye level, examining just how much of it is left. It’s an exaggeration, obviously, as the cup in your hand is still half-filled. But Jeongguk plays along, saying the reason why he inhaled your drink is because he’s tired from having just gone back from boxing.

“You have your own latte,” you point out, finally taking a much-deserved sip from your free drink. It still tastes okay, so you stop grilling Jeongguk about stealing your drink (even though you kinda stole his too, in the middle of your shift nonetheless.) “Oh, and did you know Yoongi also—”

Yoongi clears his throat loudly before you can finish your sentence. You look up from your drink, alarmed, afraid you might have said something wrong. Your eyes meet Yoongi’s and he gives you a tiny shake of his head, one Jeongguk doesn’t notice because he’s busy taking sips from his own cup of latte. (And because he’s more focused on you than Yoongi.)

“He knows, I told him I used to box too,” Yoongi says.

“You did? I didn’t catch it,” Jeongguk averts his eyes from you, turning to look at Yoongi. “Wanna have a match? I could use an opponent for my session tomorrow.”

“I said I used to, Kid,” Yoongi re-emphasizes on the two words. “I have a shoulder injury. It’s healing, but I still shouldn’t do too much to it.”

“Oh come on, I’ll go easy on you.”

“Jeongguk!” A slap lands on his bicep courtesy of you.

“What? He said it’s healing!”

It’s only now that Jeongguk witnesses the exchange between you and Yoongi using only your eyes, yours looking frantic while Yoongi’s looking as cool as a cucumber. Maybe he should dye his hair a shade of green resembling a cucumber rather than a mint.

After watching you and Yoongi have a silent conversation for a minute, Jeongguk lets out a sigh as he takes the final sip from his latte. “It’s okay, babe, I was just kidding. It’s fine if Yoongi doesn’t want to have a match with me.” He throws the empty cup into a trashcan nearby. “It just means that he backs down easily from a challenge.”

You physically face-palm at his sentence, missing the way Jeongguk throws a challenging smirk Yoongi’s way. The older doesn’t seem fazed at all, instead letting a small smirk take over his features as well. “That’s not a really nice thing to say to someone you’ve just met,” he drawls.

Jeongguk shrugs. “Just stating the truth.”

“Jeongguk, please stop,” you whine from behind your hands, still facepalming because you don’t want to become a witness in case this coffee shop becomes a crime scene.

“Alright, I’ll have a match with you,” Yoongi says finally, tone resolute. You peek out from the cocoon of your hands, glancing back and forth between your coworker-slash-boss and your boyfriend who are having a staring contest, both refusing to back down. “Tomorrow after my shift works? Kiddo here can take the same shift so she can watch us too.”

“Sure,” Jeongguk agrees without a pause. “It ends at three, right?”

“Yep.”

“Cool. See you then.”

Then Jeongguk puts his arm around your shoulders, pulling you away from the counter to finally go take you home as it’s the reason he came here in the first place. You hastily give your coworker a wave goodbye over your shoulder, getting a wave back accompanied with a laugh. Jeongguk uses the opportunity to steal yet another sip from your drink.

“Stop it! You’re gonna finish it all!”

“What even is it? It tastes really weird.” Jeongguk scrunches up his face.

“It’s mint mochaccino, you ass.” You pull the cup away from him, who chases the straw with his mouth while grinning wide. “Stop or I won’t kiss you until tomorrow morning.”

“Always withdrawing kisses when I need them the most,” he pouts, retreating from your drink to let you finally finish the cup yourself. “Can I kiss you in the car or should I wait until we get home?”

(Does not matter what you answer is, because he grips the back of your neck in the car to make out with you for five minutes, and then finish what he started in the safety of his room, under the blankets.)

“Are you sure you want to fight with Yoongi later?”

You and Jeongguk are back in his car, on the way to the coffee shop for you to start your shift and for Jeongguk to get his americano to kick off the day. His nod to your question is firm.

“Yeah. My coach said it’s good to train with an opponent sometimes.”

“You could’ve fought with your coach instead, then,” you point out.

“True, but—” Jeongguk tilts his head, sucking in a breath. “He’s the one who trained me, so he knows my fighting style and pattern. It’s good indeed, but it’s missing that element of fun.” He drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “Besides, I want to know what your Yoongi is made of.” He casts a glance at you to see your reaction.

“What ‘my’ Yoongi, what are you talking about …” You heave a sigh, massaging your temple. It’s not even 9 AM yet but you can already feel a headache coming. Sometimes you wonder why you’re willing to date this childhood friend of yours, knowing all of his flaws and bad habits like this. Though it’s given you the advantage of being able to read between the lines of his actions, often you wish he’d just say things outright without you having to dig it out of him.

“You know, the Yoongi you work with? The Yoongi who gives you head pats? The Yoongi who has a nickname for you?” Jeongguk’s tone gets more annoying near the end of his sentence, almost as if he’s trying to get a certain reaction out of you.

“The Yoongi who owns the cafe I work at, which is the sole source of income I have?” you reply instead, refusing to give in to Jeongguk’s silent provocation. “Also, the Yoongi who used to box. I think you should keep that in mind when you fight him later.”

“Yeah, yeah. Bet he wasn’t even that good.”

You manage to arrive at the cafe unscathed, only losing a tiny piece of sanity because your boyfriend couldn’t keep his mouth shut about Yoongi and his non-existent boxing skills (Jeongguk’s words, not yours.) It doesn’t help that the Yoongi in question is already standing behind the register, greeting you with a smile and throwing a lopsided smirk your boyfriend’s way. You don’t like the thick tension between them at all so you quickly slip into the backroom to let Jeongguk be a big boy for once and order his own americano for the day.

Stepping out of the backroom in your mandatory work apron and cap, you’re kind of relieved when you see the shop is still intact, not thrown upside down courtesy of your boyfriend and his inability to control his strength (and emotion) in the face of a threat (read: Yoongi.) Upon seeing you, Jeongguk pushes himself off the counter he’s leaning against before reaching for your waist despite your boss standing just a few feet away. The cup of americano on the counter tells you that you took too long in the breakroom, which if anyone asks, you’d justify with adjusting your work attire. In reality, you just don’t want to face your boyfriend and the sour look he has whenever he so much as glances at your boss.

“You can always cancel the fight with Yoongi, you know,” you murmur, biting your bottom lip in worry. “You could hurt him, he could hurt you … it’s not ideal.”

“Hmm.” Jeongguk purses his lips. “What’s not ideal is your boss having a nickname for you.” There he goes again, always having something to say about Yoongi. “Aside from it being highly unprofessional, it’s also inappropriate since you have a boyfriend and that is me. Jeon Jeongguk. I am your boyfriend.”

“Jeongguk, he knows,” you groan, fed up with the back-and-forth about this whole Yoongi thing. You don’t even know why your boyfriend is so threatened by the older guy when he’s a whole lifetime ahead of him. “It’s not even a nickname. You’re just seeing what you want to see.”

Jeongguk’s reply never makes it out of his mouth as he’s interrupted by Yoongi clearing his throat, making you both look at him tapping on his wrist to signal the time. It’s a reminder that you’re here to work, not to continue the argument that sparked in the car. Your boyfriend rolls his eyes at your boss, sharing a hard stare with him before deciding to do something one should not do in front of their boss: dip down to kiss you, using your surprised gasp as a way to slide his tongue inside your mouth. In the five seconds he manages to tangle his tongue with yours, you completely missed the sound of the glass doors opening and the low whistle that came after, along with Yoongi’s chuckle and greeting to the person who just came in.

Shoving Jeongguk away by your hand on his chest, you try to cover your burning face with your other hand as an attempt to save your dignity in front of Yoongi, though you doubt it’s working at all. Jeongguk licks his lips then winks at you, squeezing your waist in his grip before stepping back to grab his cup of americano, now full of condensation sliding off the plastic cup. He takes a sip to taste test before scrunching up his nose.

“Could’ve been better,” he sneers, making you glare. “Alright, I’ll let you get to work. See you later, babe.” Then, after a second, turns to Yoongi to add: “you too.”

When Jeongguk disappears into his car, you put your head in your hands and let out the loudest groan known to man. “I’m sorry, Yoongi.”

The mint-haired guy only gives you a gummy laugh, eyes turning into crescents as he shakes his head. “Your boyfriend is really something, Kiddo,” he muses. “A really … fun early morning entertainment, you could say.”

“Entertaining it was!” You hear the voice first before you see the person, the one who must’ve come in when you were rather preoccupied with your boyfriend. Park Jimin, your other coworker, slides behind the counter in a brown apron identical to yours and Yoongi’s, just minus the cap. Good, that means he doesn’t have a bad hair day today and can take the position at the register instead of you. You could use some more time to learn to make the drinks, anyway.

“Didn’t know you and your boyfriend were such exhibitionists, Kim,” Jimin taunts you, his eyebrows wiggling suggestively. “Although, if my boyfriend were that hot, I would have wanted to exhibit him too…” He purses his lips in an exaggerated manner of faux thinking, obviously trying to rile you up. “Lucky you, Kim.”

“Shut up, Park,” you seethe through your teeth, slapping him with a dish rag while he cackles happily. “We’re not exhibitionists. You just have terrible timing.”

“Oh, it was perfect I’d say, just in time to catch sight of his tongue going into your mouth—”

“JIMIN!”

When Jimin continues making fun of you by making gross kissing sounds, you turn to Yoongi for help. As the oldest amongst you three, he must have a sound solution to get Jimin to stop making those awful sounds and put you out of your misery. Although, your trust in him is probably misplaced as Yoongi just chuckles and tells you something your own mom would tell you whenever you’re telling on Jeongguk: “Just ignore him, Kiddo.” The sacred word of ignore. “Go prepare the breakfast pastries now.”

So much for sound solution.

You go about your shift as usual, with Jimin manning the register like you planned to. Time goes by quickly when you’re busy working (and when your coworker is Park Jimin) that you didn’t realize it’s almost time for your shift to end. You glance at the line in front of Jimin and see that there are still three more people he needs to serve, while you and Yoongi still have about five tickets to finish before you can clock out and leave. Scratch that, might be eight tickets to go considering the workers who have their shift after you aren’t here yet. It’s gonna be a while before you can see your boyfriend and be a witness to an unnecessary fight between him and Yoongi.

“Hey, Kim, where’s your boyfriend? Didn’t you say he was gonna pick you up from work?” Jimin nudges your elbow when he finishes taking one customer’s order, sliding a plastic cup into the queue in front of you. “I want to see just how hot he really is,” he continues while wiggling his eyebrows.

Before you can slap the guy with your dish rag again—it’s looking more like your weapon rather than a cleaning tool at this point—Yoongi pipes up from his position in front of the sink. “Just look for someone with a tattoo sleeve. He loves brandishing it.”

“Ooh, a hot guy with tattoos,” Jimin whistles. “Add some piercings and I might steal him away from you.”

“Jimin, quit drooling over my boyfriend,” you sigh, taking the next cup in line as your coworker turns back to the register. He’s already starting to greet the next customer when you decide to give him a taste of his own medicine, sliding next to him to brew the espresso needed for the order you’re making. “He has one on his lip, but he’s mine. Note that, Park,” you whisper to him while he’s keying in an order, earning a light chuckle from the man.

“He’s just messing with you, Kiddo, don’t mind him,” Yoongi chuckles from beside you, eyeing Jimin whose focus is currently on the cup he’s scribbling a customer’s name on. “He has his eyes set on someone else already.”

“Gossiping, aren’t we?” Jimin turns to you and Yoongi with a sleazy smile. “Careful now, unless you want Hoseok to know about your hot boyfriend too, Kim.” He gestures to the glass doors, where Hoseok from the next shift just walked through. He’s a great guy, but you’ve only shared a couple shifts with him, so you think you haven’t got to the point of sharing about significant others.

With the mention of Hoseok, you and Yoongi move to finish the orders you have left before handing over the shift to the aforementioned man. When all your orders are done and you’re ready to head to the backroom, you turn to ask Jimin to go with you only to find him still rooted in front of the register. “Jimin, you’re not going?”

“Oh, I’m actually covering for Eunbi.” Jimin shrugs, sliding a cup into Hoseok’s line of orders. “Go, Kim. Have fun with your boyfriend,” he grins, sending you a teasing wink.

Hoseok, a clueless witness, looks at the both of you with a scandalous stare. “What, what, what did I miss? Why are you winking like that, Park Jimin?” he says, urging Jimin to elaborate while pouring drinks into a plastic cup.

“You should ask her, Hobi,” Jimin snickers into his hand as he turns to greet a customer. Hoseok turns to you, his expression hopeful that you will shed light on the reason behind Jimin’s wink.

“My boyfriend is about to fight with our boss and I don’t know how to talk him out of it,” you say through your teeth, giving an overly-sweet smile to a confused Hoseok. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to meet him and make sure he’s not gonna bite Yoongi’s head off.”

“Bye, Kim,” Jimin sing-songs, waving his hand to you. “Say hi to your boyfriend for me!”

You’re already walking away, turning to tell Jimin off when you bump into Yoongi who’s just came out of the backroom, void of his work apron and ready to go. He grabs your shoulders to turn you around, pushing you into the backroom to prevent anymore banter between you and Jimin. “Let it go, Kiddo.”

In the backroom, you catch a text from Jeongguk saying that he’s already in the coffee shop, ready to go when you are. You emerge from the room after clocking out, moving your feet to the dining area of the cafe while waving to Jimin and Hoseok behind the counter. Scanning the room, you search for a familiar mop of black hair that belongs to your boyfriend.

It’s easy to spot Yoongi’s mint hair amongst the sea of other natural-colored hairs. What’s not easy is believing your eyes when you see the person sitting in front of Yoongi waving wildly at you, grinning like a mad man. It’s your boyfriend, the person you’re supposed to see after work, the person you’re supposed to supervise when he fights your boss later, alright, that part you know. The part that you don’t know and have a hard time believing is:

Jeongguk’s hair is mint.

Not black, not brown, not the experimental half-half he tried in high school. Mint.

The exact same shade as Yoongi’s.

It feels like you’re on autopilot when your feet carry you to their table, jaw on the floor while your eyes are stuck on Jeongguk’s freshly-dyed strands.

“Hi, babe,” your boyfriend has the audacity to say, lips stretching impossibly wider. He reaches up to run his fingers through his mint hair, an act so deliberate even Yoongi sighs at the sight of it, but it makes your heart skip a bit nonetheless. “Do you like my new hair?”

The light green strands previously tangled with his fingers fall back to cover his forehead and frame his face perfectly, the light hue somehow blending well with Jeongguk’s skin tone. It also accentuates his jaw more, making it appear sharper when the grin on his lips morphs into a smirk once he notices that you can’t stop staring. Oh, that smirk. Usually hot with his previously black hair, it is now lethal with his mint hair, toeing the line of playful and dangerous at the same time.

You want to scream at the obvious and cheesy question.

Yoongi, the third person who’s been watching the entire interaction unfold before his eyes, clears his throat. “If you’re done eye-fucking your boyfriend, can we go now? I have somewhere else to be after this.”

“Yoongi!” you whisper-shout, half scandalized, half disbelieving that your boss can say something so crude in the middle of his own buzzing coffee shop. Maybe he’s been hanging out with Park Jimin too much. (Or maybe he’s just sick of you drooling over your boyfriend time and time again … yeah, maybe that.)

“Can’t wait to lose to me, Min?” Jeongguk snickers, taking your hand in his as he follows Yoongi—who pointedly ignores his taunting question—towards the glass door of the coffee shop.

You catch Jimin’s eyes as you’re stepping out, his eyes rounding in surprise before a sly smile takes over his features. Have fun! he mouths, giving you a wink. Ugh, you’re gonna face a lot more questions the next time you have a shift together with him.

After another futile attempt at talking Jeongguk out of fighting with Yoongi, you’re seated where you usually are, on the sidelines of Jeongguk’s gym, this time with heightened anxiety out of fear that your boyfriend and your boss could hurt each other. You’re worried less about the physical part—boxing is a very physical sport, after all—and more about the mental part.

Boys are full of pride, full of ego. They pride themselves on their ability to box, delivering punch after punch until their knuckles bruise. They pride themselves on their muscles, bulging biceps that took years to build and maintain. They pride themselves on their strength, how they are able to hold you up against the wall when you’re busy sucking air off each other’s lungs.

Oh, and in case it’s not clear, by boys you mean Jeongguk.

You have a lot of faith in your boyfriend, of course, but knowing Yoongi’s boxing skills, no matter how long ago it was, the outcome of the fight today could just be the one that would hurt Jeongguk’s pride. The possibility of it happening is so high that you’re already preparing yourself for when Jeongguk comes back to you with his ego bruised. God, you can only hope Yoongi won’t hit too hard.

You’re too busy thinking of the many possible outcomes of this fight that you don’t realize when Jeongguk is back from putting his gloves on and warming up, now standing in front of you. “Wish me luck?” he says, along with a toothy grin your way.

“Yeah, good luck, Ggukie,” you reply, lacking your usual sarcastic bite. Jeongguk seems to pay no mind to it, though, ducking down to peck your lips before turning around to face his opponent for the day.

You catch Yoongi’s eyes when Jeongguk has his back to you, quickly mouthing don’t hurt him! to your boss, which he only responds with a smirk. All the blood drains from your face. Looks like your worries about someone getting his ego bruised won’t be just worries after all.

When the fight has started (Jeongguk’s coach started it—you’re grateful he’s there because then you don’t have to worry too much about Jeongguk and Yoongi beating each other to a pulp), you can’t help but watch. You just realize, in the years you’ve known Jeongguk and watched him box, you’ve never actually seen him fight anyone else other than his coach. He’s said before that he only took boxing as a way to work out, not to actually fight, so you guess that makes sense.

You don’t watch boxing matches a lot (actually, you don’t watch them at all), your only knowledge of boxing you get from watching Real Steel, a movie about boxing matches for robots, set in the far future when human boxing is not interesting anymore due to the limited brutality. You’re not sure how much information you retained from the movie, and how accurate they are, but you’re pretty sure you don’t need much boxing knowledge to know that right now, Yoongi is playing defensive while Jeongguk is playing offensive.

Alright, you admit, you have no idea if the terms you’re using are right, but it’s the simplest ones you can use to describe the sight in front of you. Since the start of the fight, Jeongguk has been throwing punches continuously, while Yoongi has had his gloved hands covering his face the entire time. Okay, not the entire time, but he’s only thrown one punch compared to Jeongguk’s one hundred ones.

As the fight goes on, Yoongi starts throwing punches here and there while still dodging Jeongguk’s aggressive fists. You’ve never seen Yoongi move this much in the entire time you’ve known him, and it surprises you how agile he is. The way he ducks under Jeongguk’s arm and throws him off balance is admirable, sometimes a little bit funny (just a bit, you promise) because it shows just how calm he is compared to Jeongguk’s aggressive, almost-angry boxing style.

When Jeongguk’s coach declares a break, your boyfriend walks back to you with his brows furrowed, tearing off one of his gloves so he can remove his mouth guard and grab his water bottle. After chugging down half of its content, Jeongguk heaves a frustrated sigh.

“I can’t grasp his fighting style,” he grumbles to himself. His eyes are set on Yoongi, who’s on the other side of the room, drinking from his own water bottle. “Who the fuck ducks all the time while boxing?”

“Maybe it’s because you keep throwing angry punches at him, babe,” you say, initially to keep his frustration at bay, but instead it makes him raise his eyebrow at you in a duh way. You backtrack immediately. “Okay, okay. But it’s just your first time fighting him, isn’t it? Be patient, Jeongguk, and maybe let up your punches a little bit?”

“Baby, it’s boxing,” he says exasperatedly. “Someone has to throw some punches.”

“I know, but you just seem so … angry. Yoongi’s only ducking to dodge that. I’m saying maybe you can tone it down so he could stop dodging, so then you can see his fighting style better.” You’re saying this while gripping his biceps, hoping your words can go through his seemingly-clouded mind. “When you see his fighting style, won’t it be easier to figure out a way you can beat him? Isn’t that what you taunted him with at the cafe?”

You know it’s not even remotely possible to learn one’s boxing style just from a single fight, let alone “figure out a way to beat him”. Somewhere in his fogged mind, you believe Jeongguk stores this fact as well, he’s just currently too deep in frustration to place it in the front of his mind. You’re not even sure your suggestion to learn Yoongi’s fighting style is registered well in his head, considering your boyfriend is now back to eyeing your boss with fire in his gaze.

“Jeongguk?” You give his shoulder a firm grip as he puts his mouth guard back on. “Tone it down. Yoongi could just be waiting to punch back. You don’t want that.”

Jeongguk parts ways with you with an absent-minded nod and two pats to your head with his heavy gloved-hand. On the other side of the room, Yoongi looks ready to go back into his fighting stance. You sigh internally. Jeongguk is so going to punch him aggressively, again.

The next thirty minutes of the fight goes like a blur in front of your eyes. Jeongguk throws a hook that Yoongi dodges, Yoongi retaliates with a jab to Jeongguk’s side which makes you wince, rinse and repeat. Maybe you’re wrong about your boyfriend for once, you think, seeing his calmer fighting style now. With the way he left your conversation minutes prior, you really thought he was gonna continue raining punches on any part of Yoongi’s body he could reach. You’re relieved that that’s not the case.

Although, perhaps your relief came too soon because a boxing match isn’t over until it’s over.

Watching Jeongguk fight with Yoongi is like watching a cartoon character with an energy meter atop his head, except for Jeongguk, it measures his patience instead. As the minutes went on, you feel like you could see the patience meter above his head depleting until it’s all gone, and that’s the moment he went back to his initial fighting style: aggressive and angry. You almost pull your hair out in frustration because you just know that this is what Yoongi has been waiting for ever since the fight started.

The next thing that happens reminds you a lot of one fighting scene in Real Steel, where Atom was waiting for his opponent to run out of energy so he can fight back. In the movie, Atom knocked the other robot down with a final uppercut, gaining him a win and advancing him to the next round. Well, uh, in this case, just replace Atom with Yoongi and the other robot with Jeongguk.

Yoongi’s clean uppercut wiped your boyfriend out, who’s now lying on the ground clutching his face—which you’re sure is beginning to swell right now. Despite already knocking Jeongguk down, Yoongi is still in his fighting stance, never lowering his guard even as Jeongguk’s coach counts to ten. Your boyfriend remains immobile, though, and the second the count is up you’re running towards Jeongguk’s limp body.

“Gguk, are you okay? Baby, look at me,” you say hurriedly as you try to pry his arms away from his face. He doesn’t budge, and for a second, you’re scared that Yoongi has maimed your boyfriend for life. “At least let me know you’re alive,” you continue when his silence becomes concerning.

“Hmmph,” Jeongguk grunts. You heave a huge sigh of relief.

“Okay, good.” You run your fingers through his sweaty hair, trying to offer some comfort even though you know he had this coming. Gigantic ego, big talk, cocky as shit? Yeah, you understand that Yoongi would want to knock him down a few pegs. But now is not the time to launch into an ‘I told you so’ spiel, not when Jeongguk is still freshly bruised—both his body and his ego.

So instead, you lash out at your boss.

“I told you not to hurt him, Yoongi,” you snap-slash-whine, a frown on your lips. You thought, as the oldest among all of you, Yoongi could be trusted to knock some sense into Jeongguk’s mind without physically hurting him like this. As it turns out, all boys are the same.

The older guy just shrugs. “Probably wouldn’t get my point across if he weren’t knocked down.” He shakes the sweat out of his hair as he starts taking off his boxing gloves. When he sees you’re not impressed, he chuckles. “Relax, Kiddo, I didn’t even hit him that hard. He’ll be okay.”

“Really, Yoongi?” You roll your eyes. “You gave my boyfriend an uppercut just to prove a point!”

Yoongi just continues laughing as he chugs from his water bottle. His nonchalance about this is starting to piss you off. Maybe it’s your turn to put on the boxing gloves and sock him in the face, give him a taste of his own medicine. You scoff to yourself, picturing your own body lying next to Jeongguk if you really did that.

“Just tell your boyfriend here that there’s no need to be jealous of me, Kiddo,” Yoongi says, picking up his bag. Just then, Jeongguk’s coach appears with an ice pack in his hand, offering it to you so you can place it against Jeongguk’s swollen jaw. Despite your attempt to coax him out of his arm cocoon, he still refuses to move.

“Yoongi, look at him, you really broke him.” You’re flat-out whining now, kicking your feet like a child. It doesn’t even occur to your mind that you’re all still in the middle of a public boxing gym, with other people around you, being witness to this ridiculous scene.

“Oh my God,” Yoongi laughs before crouching down at Jeongguk’s legs. “Hey, Jeongguk, you hear that? Your girlfriend is worried about you,” he says, nudging Jeongguk’s leg lightly. “She only has eyes for you and your tattoos, too, you don’t need to be jealous at all.” You smack him on the shoulder for that.

Jeongguk finally removes his arms from his face at Yoongi’s words, his doe eyes menacing. “Go away,” he grits out at the older male, his scratchy voice making him sound less threatening than he intended. Despite that, Yoongi still holds his hands up in surrender.

“I’m going, I’m going,” Yoongi relents, standing up while adjusting the hold he has on his bag. “Was gonna go anyway, I have a date to get ready for,” he throws a grin your way. “Alright, I’ll be going first. Take care of your boyfriend, Kiddo.”

Yoongi retreats with a wave towards you both.

Jeongguk lets out a groan, shifting your attention away from your boss who’s already backing his car out of the parking lot. “Quit your job tomorrow,” he says. “I hate your boss.”

“Stop moving around!”

“It hurts!”

You’re both back at Jeongguk’s house now, with you sitting atop his outstretched legs on the bed, attempting to take care of his battle wounds courtesy of his fight with Yoongi. Aside from the swollen jaw, Jeongguk has a cut on his eyebrow and a split bottom lip. For a boxing match, you’d say these are minor injuries—proving Yoongi’s words right, he didn’t hit Jeongguk that hard—but your boyfriend is acting like a baby. He keeps jerking his head away every time the alcohol swab comes in contact with either of his cuts, it irritates you to no end.

“You have a goddamn full sleeve of tattoo and a lip piercing, quit acting like this hurts more,” you hiss, pressing the cotton in your hand to the cut on his lip as Jeongguk hiss back in response.

“At least when I got my tattoos and piercing, the artist didn’t do it while yapping my ear off,” he lisps through the cotton. “What happened to the caring girlfriend at the gym? Did she go away too, alongside Yoongi?”

“Oh, shut up, if I yapped back there Yoongi would’ve stomped on your ego more than he already did, do you want that, Jeongguk? Huh?” Your words are harsh, but you try hard for your hands to be the opposite, gentle as they cover the cut on his eyebrow with a band-aid. Jeongguk’s forehead is still damp from his quick shower earlier, beads of mint clinging to his skin. He might look smoking hot with his newly dyed hair, but the way the color rubs off on anything is starting to get onto your nerves. You wipe lightly at the color to make sure the band-aid sticks to his skin and does not come off the second he jumps around again.

“My ego is fine, you don’t need to protect it like this,” Jeongguk grumbles, adjusting the ice pack he’s holding to his jaw as you press a new cotton ball on his lip, discarding the one stained crimson red to his bedside table. “Maybe if you care about me as much as you care about my ego, everything would’ve been better.”

The way he’s rambling like he got his sense knocked out of his head as well makes you roll your eyes to the back of your head. “Don’t test me, Jeon. If I didn’t care about you I wouldn’t be here sitting on your thighs patching your minuscule injuries like they’re fucking wounds from a war.”

“Maybe,” Jeongguk half-agrees, a pout on his lips. “But you haven’t kissed me even once ever since the fight ended. Do I not deserve a kiss because I lost? Do you not want to kiss me ever again because I can’t beat Yoongi in boxing? Do you think Yoongi is way better than me now? Do you want him to be your boyfriend instead of me?”

With every nonsensical question, his pout deepens, and his eyes droop to stare blankly at nothing.

“Hah, ‘my ego is fine’ my ass,” you mumble, mostly to yourself as you turn the gears in your head on how to stop the bleeding on Jeongguk’s lip. It keeps gushing out blood, and you can’t exactly stick a band-aid to it like you did his eyebrow. At last, you just hold a cotton ball against it and hope it stops bleeding soon.

“Yoongi was right, you know,” you say clearly now, the tumble of Yoongi’s name out of your lips making Jeongguk glance up and focus his sight on your face. “You don’t need to be jealous of him at all. Heck, you don’t need to be jealous of anyone, Jeongguk. I’m your girlfriend and will always stay your girlfriend, no matter what. You don’t need to beat anyone in boxing or dye your hair the exact same shade as anyone for me to stay. You, Jeon Jeongguk, are enough.”

Jeongguk’s eyes, gazing into yours, are glassy with unshed tears. You don’t know if they are there because he’s touched by your words or are leftovers from crying over his bruised ego from the fight with Yoongi. Either way, it throws you off balance. Next thing you know, you’re being tugged down by the nape for a kiss.

Jeongguk’s lips are warm, like usual, but the tinge of metal you taste on your tongue is making you worry. Before you lose yourself in his kiss, you pull away to thumb at his lip lightly, seeing streaks of red on your skin. You’re about to continue pressing the cotton ball in your hand to his lips and stop all forms of kissing immediately, but your boyfriend has a mind of his own as he instead sucks your thumb into his mouth, wrapping his lips around the digit delicately as he holds eye contact with you.

Gone is the trace of any tears from his eyes, now replaced by something you can only identify as lust. As flattered as you are that Jeongguk finds you desirable in your current situation, it also makes you confused. He’s hurt and the only thing in his mind is getting his dick wet? Unbelievable.

The ice-cold feeling on your waist tears your attention away from Jeongguk’s dark eyes as you yelp, hand instinctively prying the cold thing away. The ‘thing’ turns out to be his hand, which was previously holding the ice pack to his swollen jaw. He’s sneaked his fucking cold hand under your shirt to hold your waist when he should’ve kept holding the ice pack to his jaw—his swollen jaw!

Your boyfriend has a swollen jaw, a busted lip and a cut eyebrow. This is not the time to be screwing around.

Pulling away your thumb out of Jeongguk’s mouth at the speed of light, you attempt to climb off his lap, but he’s read your mind even before they are conjured up in your own brain. His hands are back on your waist—yes, the cold one too—and they hold you firm in place. The side of Jeongguk’s lips turn up into a sickeningly sweet smile, before he tugs your body towards his, making your hips come in contact with his crotch. He’s hard. Oh, fuck.

“You know, I never really understood why you’re so bratty whenever you’re horny and I can’t tend to you right away, but I think I get it now,” he says right by your ear, making a shiver run down your spine. “I’ve been trying to will away my boner ever since you sat on my lap, but your weight on it is so damn distracting, it’s hard.”

“So,” he punctuates the word with a kiss on your neck, “I started saying anything to get my mind off it, but the way you care for me just … turns me on even more, if that was even possible.” He noses his way down your throat, coming to a stop at your collarbone. “And then all that talk about how I am enough … holy shit, I lost it. All I could think about was how I want to kiss you and fuck you into next week on this very bed.”

You can barely hear the last few words Jeongguk is saying, because he’s mumbling them into your skin as he peppers kisses and nips there. His fingers are now pressing into your back, pulling you closer and closer to him until there is no space left between you. You crane your neck so he can have more room to splash reds and purples onto your skin, sighing to the top of his mint head.

“You know, for someone claiming to be horny, you’re doing a terrible job at dirty talk,” you jab at your boyfriend, earning you a bite on your neck and a tightened grip on your body, making you close your eyes with stuttered breath.

“Easy, babe,” Jeongguk chuckles. “You talk as if you won’t be a moaning mess by the end of this,” he continues with much confidence. “But also, my lip is still kinda bleeding and my sides are still throbbing from the bruises. Kinda debating should we continue or just go to sleep.”

“Jeon Jeongguk I swear to God if you leave me high and dry—”

“Maybe you should kiss them better,” he cuts you off with a suggestion, his lips still trailing butterfly kisses on your neck and collarbone. The hands still on your back sneakily climb up and up until they’re reaching for the clasp of your bra, easily opening it to free your breasts from its confines. Your sound of protest gets stuck in your throat as a strangled moan comes out instead when Jeongguk massages your breasts tenderly with his fingers.

“Maybe I would—fuck—if you get rid of your shirt,” you say, tugging on the offending piece of fabric still covering your boyfriend’s gorgeous body. It’s not fair that he’s got you half naked already and he’s still fully clothed.

Jeongguk parts himself from your body long enough to tug his t-shirt off from the back of his neck in one smooth motion, exposing the golden expanse of his skin to your hungry eyes. If you thought his mint hair was smoking hot with his shirt on, it’s literally burning a flame of desire deep in your belly with his shirt off. You’re tongue-tied as you marvel at the sight in front of you, you almost jump when your own shirt and bra are taken off your body.

Now both bare from the waist up, Jeongguk wastes no time leaning back in for a kiss on the mouth, this time open-mouthed so he can slide his tongue inside. You keen happily, slipping a sigh in between as he slowly lowers you to the bed. Jeongguk anchors his hands on your hips, teasing at the waistband of your sweatpants as he keeps your mouth busy with his own. In contrast, your hands are everywhere, from his broad shoulder to his firm back, from his bulging biceps to his rock-hard abs. You even tease your fingers past his waistband, grabbing onto his ass and squeezing, making him groan hotly into your mouth. It’s only when your fingers brush against his sides that he winces, reminding you of his earlier request.

“Flip around,” you whisper against his lips, “so I can kiss your bruises better.”

“Hmm?” Jeongguk hums, your words a murmur in his head. “But I like having you like this. Under me, naked, panting, wet,” he says, slipping his hand beyond your sweatpants to prove his words right—you’ve soaked through your panties. He drags a finger slowly up your center. You shudder.

“Yeah? I can be naked, panting, and wet on top of you as well.”

“Ooh, tempting.” Jeongguk licks his lips. He flicks your clit with a cheeky smile dancing on his lips, before settling his hands back on your waist. “Alright, I’ll flip over.”

The next second, you’re staring at him from up top, admiring how his mint hair looks against his dark grey bed sheets. Although, his hair is the least of your concern right now, as you’re tugged back down for another bruising kiss. Now that you’re on top, Jeongguk takes the opportunity to return the favor that is slipping his hand into your pants to squeeze your ass, but his version involves pulling your hips down while his thrusts up, creating a delicious friction between your body that makes you exhale a moan into his mouth.

You move away from his lips, down to his jaw where you take care to land a kiss light as a feather, before moving to his neck and collarbone where you have your own share of bites and licks. Aside from your infatuation with his tattoos and biceps, you actually have another one with his collarbone, this one you keep secret from him lest he goes around the house shirtless more often just to brandish his clavicle. But maybe he’s already noticed from the way you always make sure to cover that body part of his in blooms of red and purple, taking care to trace each and every bite mark slowly with the tip of your tongue.

While you’re busy with his collarbone, Jeongguk keeps dragging your crotch steadily over his, like he can’t get enough of the feeling and wants to keep chasing it. The delicious pressure on your center is a bit distracting, so you smooth your palm across his chest to pinch at his nipple in warning. Jeongguk lets out a broken whine from his throat.

“Stop humping into me, do you want to cream your pants?” you chide, fingers still giving tiny pinches to his nipple to keep him on his toes.

“Was trying to get you to cream your pants,” Jeongguk grins guiltily, his hips snapping up yet again to collide with yours. Even if you roll your eyes at his antics, you still continue your journey of kissing down his body, making sure to suck and lick on his sensitive nipples. You love the moans and groans that slip out of his throat every time you do things to his nipples. He likes it so much that his hips keep chanting up, searching for friction, that you have to pin them down so you can slide down to pepper kisses on his abs and waist.

Jeongguk works really hard to maintain the body he has, clearly evident in the eight pack he’s sporting on his stomach and the tiny, minuscule waist that’s way too slutty for a man to have. Sometimes you’re jealous of how nice his body looks, how firm it is to touch. You told him this one time, along with your regret that you couldn’t give him a similar experience, but he’d only laughed and said that admiring and appreciating him was enough, before proceeding to show you how he admires and appreciates your soft body (he kept biting into your inner thigh as he was eating you out, coaxing you into four orgasms back to back that day.)

And so, you admire his body by kissing the taut muscle one by one, tracing the lines outlining them with your hot tongue, caressing his bruised waist with the pillow of your lips and the feather of your touch. You know he’s hurt, but you can’t hold yourself from nipping on his slutty waist, gifting him another bruise that’s not a result of a punch. From the choked sob that rips out of his throat and the jump of his dick somewhere on your stomach, you take it he likes the bite.

“So,” you say as you mouth at the seam of his waistband, hand massaging his hard cock through his pants. “Do you want to cum in your pants, in my hand, in my mouth, or—?”

“Fuck, in you, please,” Jeongguk begs, eyes glassy from your ministrations. “But can we go back to dry humping for a while? Kinda like the friction on my sweatpants,” he breathes.

“Like this?” You move your hand up and down his cock, dragging the material of his sweatpants with it, paying special attention to the head. With every rub of the sweatpants against his head, a bead of precum comes out, with Jeongguk throwing his head back in silent pleasure. “Yeah, fuuck, that feels good.”

“But babe, want you, on top,” he demands, making grabby hands at you. “Was serious when I said I wanted you to cum first,” he continues, sighs in content when you oblige, resuming your position on top of him and lining your clothed crotch with his. He starts dragging your hips against his, building the pleasure up the faster he goes. “Want to fuck your swollen pussy, dripping with cum. Oh, I’ll slide right in, no problem, so wet, warm … fuuuck.”

The grip Jeongguk has on your hips is bruising, you have no choice but to let your body be manhandled by him. Slowly but surely, the band inside your stomach begins to tighten as your hold on his shoulders does as well. You’re so close, just one more move to tip you over the edge. When Jeongguk sucks one of your nipples into his mouth, the band inside you snaps and you come with a jerk of your hips and a whine from your throat.

Jeongguk slows down his move, taking care not to cum before being inside you, before stopping altogether and wrapping his arms around you to bring the both of you into a sitting position. Your limbs feel like jelly, still trying to come down from your high, when Jeongguk pecks your cheek before carefully lying you back down on the bed with your face down. He then maneuvers himself behind you, lifting your hips off the bed. You’re starting to have an idea what position he wants you in when he spreads your knees and slowly peels back your pants and panties to reveal your bare ass and pussy.

He takes his time caressing the globe of your ass, inching his fingers towards your pussy lips before spreading them apart, tearing a low whine from your chest. You guess he’s admiring the way cum still drips out of your cunt, because he’s silent, immobile for almost a minute.

“Gguk…” you whisper out. “You gonna fuck me or not?”

Jeongguk scrambles to get his pants off. “Fuck, yes, of course, baby, you just look so beautiful like this, I want to stare all day long,” he breathes, lining up his dick with your entrance.

God, I’m so thankful you’re mine, is his last warning before he slides home in one thrust.

Later, when you’re both freshly showered and cuddling on Jeongguk’s bed—with blue bed sheets this time, because you forced him to change the sheets as the grey ones smelled gross after your activities—you ask him a question.

“Are you still jealous of Yoongi?”

There’s a three second pause before Jeongguk’s answer comes. “Maybe a tiny bit,” he says, nearly connecting his thumb and forefinger together in a ‘tiny’ motion. “Of his boxing skills only. Amazing how he could still move like that with an injured shoulder. I want to be like that too.”

“You want to injure your shoulder?”

He gives you a flat look. You giggle.

“His shoulder is actually healed, you know, so he’s still actively boxing until now. He trains the boxing club at my campus whenever our coach can't, that’s where I know him from and how I’d gotten the job at his cafe.”

Jeongguk purses his lips. “So he lied to me.”

“Hmm,” you agree. “I figured it was to ‘teach you a lesson’, that’s why I asked him not to hurt you before your fight. Did you, though? Learn your lesson?”

“What? To not be jealous of him?”

You pinch his waist. “To knock your ego down a peg and stop feeling insecure whenever I interact with other men?”

“Baby, the guy had a nickname for you. My insecurities were valid!”

“You mean the ‘Kiddo’ one?” you ask. Jeongguk nods. “He calls Jimin Kiddo. He calls Eunbi Kiddo. He calls you Kiddo. He calls everyone younger than him, Kiddo.”

More silence ensues.

“So … my jealousy was for nothing?”

“Yes! What I’ve been saying!”

Jeongguk giggles. Then he kisses you. Then he giggles again, while still kissing you.

“How about an apology?” he offers.

“In what form?” you challenge.

“Round three?”

“No.”

Well, at least he’s not jealous anymore.

a/n: thank you for reading!! please let me know what you think of this, i literally almost cried in the process of writing it and when i finally finished it :') and yes this started because of that one mint jeongguk in memories 2020/2021, i think? the one with him in a black sleeveless and a pair of sunglasses, hahah. wish he'd dye his hair mint again (he looks rly good in it ugh)

→ request is open for my 1k folls celebration!

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whytheylosttheirminds · 1 month

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I Remember Everything - Rafe Cameron

(Prologue and Chapter 1)

Summary: You left the island two years ago, leaving the love of your life a shattered man in your wake. Now, when you return, you find the sweet boy you once loved has transformed into a monster of a man. How can you detangle the real Rafe from the terrible things he's done?

Timeline: begins toward the end of obx season 3 and is mostly canon.

Content: this story contains sexual content, alcohol and drug abuse, and brief mentions of violence. All chapters are 18+, minors do not interact!

Prologue

Before gold, before grams, before the gun, there was you. Back when there weren’t crosses to steal, lines to snort, cops to run from, there was you. Long summer nights on the Druthers, your mom blowing up your phone ‘cause you missed curfew again. Skipping class and riding to the beach on the back of his bike. All the way back to grade school, playing tag and pretending you were pirates. Then middle school, that kiss under the lifeguard tower, a first for both of you. In high school, the night you got back from the “character-building summer camp” you had been shipped off to and you shared your other first. When you were first together, it didn’t even hurt, but just felt like fucking finally.

He remembers it all, taking all of his strength to keep it stuffed under the surface. The coke, the violence, the drama he creates in his wake cover you up nicely, until those nights when he’s dead asleep and there you are again, leaving. When he wakes, it all comes back to him. How he sat on the curb and watched you go, bloody and hurt from the night that was your final straw. How he showed up on your doorstep the next day, like he was five-years-old again asking if you could come outside and play. How your mother told him you were gone and wouldn’t tell him where you went.

“Honey,” she said with something like pity in her voice, “Promise me, you’ll let her go, let her be happy.”

A promise he kept, until the day you rolled back into town with no warning. Your timing could not have been worse. After the summer from hell, the summer that made him a killer, he finally felt like he was in control. It wasn’t until he saw you, the only person in the world that ever really knew him, that he realized he had no idea who he was.

Chapter One

You clutched your phone tight, reading and rereading the message. One you used to get nearly every night but hadn’t seen in two long years.

party at cameron’s tonite !!

It was a group text, sent by the girl from your high school you bumped into in the grocery store earlier that day. You had been back on the island for all of an hour before inevitably seeing someone you knew. You tried to duck quickly into the cereal aisle, but she caught your eye before you could disappear, an action you were infamous for.

“Omg, we need to hang out soon!” She had said, before handing you her phone to put your new number in.

You smiled your fakest smile and said, “it’s a must!” You didn’t think either of you really meant it, but apparently she had.

There were eleven or twelve other numbers in the group text, none you had saved, but you assumed they were likely other people from your high school. She probably just added anyone in her contacts she could think of, not even stopping to realize she was inviting the Kook prince’s former princess to his party. Your relationship had been the stuff of legend on this island. Everyone had an opinion, you were practically a celebrity couple, and it was the biggest news on the island for months when you left, suddenly disappearing overnight. Some real shit must’ve gone down around here since then to make it such old news that this girl didn’t even think about it when adding you to this text.

Your heart pounding in your ears, you couldn’t believe it when you felt yourself typing out i’ll be there :)

You wore your hair down, the way you always used to have it in high school. After you left, you had cut it short, wanting to shed away as much of your old life as you could, but in the last few months you’d started to let it grow back. Now it flowed down to the middle of your back, tickling the skin of your shoulders where the thin spaghetti straps of the little dress you had on left them exposed. You let the front pieces fall around your face, a sort of curtain to keep an extra layer between you and the other partygoers.

You could not believe you were here. For real this time, not in a dream as you had been every night for two years, but really here.

As you walked down the gravel path, it all came rushing back. The smell of Rose’s garden, the distant sound of the ocean lapping against the shore, the low thud of the music echoing through the crisp evening air. How many times have you walked down this path? How many nights had you spent here, your senses filled with the glory of Tannyhill, the glory of him? And yet now it felt so heavy, the sights, sounds, smells of it all were nearly choking you. Tears welled in your eyes, but something kept your feet walking towards those grand front doors, towards him.

Four years earlier…

The glass panes of the front door are slightly blurred, only revealing the soft lighting of the grand entryway on the other side. You had crossed this threshold at least a thousand times in the ten years since your family moved to this island. Knocking felt strange, you felt so small standing here in the porch light, surrounded by moths and the thick coastal August air. An envelope, wrinkled from being opened and rifled through so many times, was clutched between your clammy hands.

A figure you couldn’t quite make out approached the door, and your heart pounded in your ears as you hoped desperately it would be him who opened the door. But it wasn’t.

“Oh, hey - I- hi, Mr. Cameron,” you stammered, ever intimidated by the island’s most powerful man.

“Y/N,” Ward nodded cordially. “It’s after 10pm.”

You smiled weakly, if you felt small before, you feel positively infantile now.

“I was just hoping I could see Rafe for like, just a second,” you pleaded, putting on your sweetest smile.

“He’s studying,” Ward said. “You can come back tomorrow. Goodnight.”

Before you could protest, the door was closed and the blurred figure retreated into the house.

Never one to give up, you stuffed the letter into the back pocket of your jeans, and stepped back from the porch, sizing up the massive house to see which rooms still had lights on. You knew the blueprint of this place by heart, checking off each family member mentally as you scanned their window for signs of life. Wheezie’s room? Dark. Sarah’s room? Dark. Rose and Ward’s room? Still lit. This would have to be a stealth mission.

You snuck around the side of the house and looked up at the last window on your list. To your excitement, the room was still lit. You saw a long shadow pass by the curtains, and you actually jumped a little from the thrill. After spending the longest summer of your life apart from the one person you wanted to spend it with, he was actually right there, just two stories off the ground.

You traveled 800 miles today, what was a few more feet? Blocking out the better judgment ringing in the back of your mind, you picked up a few pebbles from the rocky path that leads to the backyard, and started climbing the big tree that grew right up past Rafe’s balcony. How you were gonna get from the tree to the balcony? That was five-minutes-from-now-you’s problem. You chuckled to yourself as your body naturally found each branch and knot on the tree. You used to have competitions when you were kids to see who could climb this tree the fastest, and you beat Rafe everytime. You remembered the shocked look on his face the first time he saw you scurry up the tree, you were hoping for a similar level of approving surprise once you got where you were going.

Once you reached the branch directly across from Rafe’s balcony, you pulled one of the pebbles from your pocket and chucked it at his window as hard as you could.

“Shit,” you whisper-yelled as the throw fell short and the pebble dropped, loudly knocking into the first floor window below. You couldn’t afford another noise-causing miss, so you recalculated the throw and bit your lip as you lobbed the next pebble hard. It smacked into Rafe’s window with a loud TINK and you smiled in satisfaction. You waited a moment, then two, and still nothing. The shadowy figure did not return to the curtain. You only had one pebble left, and you had never been good at climbing back down this tree. Remembering the time you fell out of it onto the waiting Rafe below, and you both ended up needing stitches, your stomach twisted in fear. You took in a deep breath and held it, letting the last pebble fly. Another sharp TINK, and a moment of baited breath later, the tall shadow finally returned to the window.

Rafe opened the curtains harshly and you immediately broke into a wild smile. He looked so cute in his fitted gray t-shirt and plaid pajama pants, his normally gelled back her falling in messy pieces around his face. You held back a giggle, delighted by the completely confused look on his face as he searched out the window for the cause of the sound. He lifted the window open and examined the two pebbles that had fallen on the windowsill.

You took the opportunity to whisper a loud “psssst.” His face shot up in surprise and his eyes finally found you in the tree, just a few feet off of the balcony. Where you expected to see surprised delight on his face, you instead caught something cold and irritated.

“Y/N,” he whisper-called to you. “What are you doing?”

“I just got back, I wanted to see you!” You called to him, hoping his apparent anger was just in response to his own shock.

“I’m busy.” Rafe went to close the window and you felt your moment of opportunity slip away.

“Wait!” you stopped him. “Please don’t make me climb down. We both know it won’t end well.” You smiled a sweetly shy smile you hoped would melt his icy demeanor a bit.

He sighed and looked at you annoyed for a moment before climbing out the window, his height requiring him to duck low in order to make it through. He had grown even taller over the summer, he must have hit 6 foot by now, maybe more. Your stomach flipped as you watched his athletic frame emerge from his bedroom, now able to see how defined his arms looked in the moonlight. You’d always thought he was a cute boy, but the way he looked right now lit a fire in your belly. Then you realized what it was - while you were gone, the cute boy-next-door had become a man.

“Just reach over,” he directed you.

“I don’t think I can without falling,” you explained. “I think I’m gonna have to jump.”

“Are you stupid?” He scoffed humorlessly.

Your heart sank, the boy you left behind three months ago never would have called you stupid.

“It’ll be fine, you just have to catch me,” you explained.

He rolled his eyes and opened his arms, reaching them over the bannister of the balcony, “fine.”

The brief moment of joy you got from his submission faded fast as you made the mistake of looking down at the gap between the tree and the balcony.

“Actually…” you said, bravery fading.

“What, are you scared?” Rafe taunted.

“No!” you insisted. You smiled at him, suddenly feeling like the two of you were ten again and he was daring you to jump off the trampoline into the pool in your backyard.

Now or never. With a deep breath and a sharp yelp, you threw yourself out of the tree and towards his waiting arms on the balcony. As promised, he caught you, and pulled you quickly over the bannister. His arms wrapped around your waist, yours around his shoulders, he held you there just a few inches off the ground.

You flattened your hands against the taut muscles of his shoulders, delighting in the strong warmth of them. But before you could fully revel in the feeling of being in his arms, he released his grip on your waist and you dropped the final few inches to the ground. Rafe quickly stepped back, breaking the lock your arms had around his neck. Despite the southern summer heat, the air between you suddenly felt ice cold.

“Rafe,” you whispered, stepping towards him, but he only pulled further away.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said without even looking at you.

Rafe started back towards his window, and something gave you the feeling he was not going to invite you to follow him through it.

“I need to talk to you,” you started to explain.

Rafe whipped around to face you, the way he towered over you at his new height sending goosebumps down your spine.

“Why don’t you go talk to your new boyfriend instead?” He snapped.

You were so stunned that you let out a little laugh, which only made his furrowed brow scrunch even more in anger.

“What are you talking about?” You asked.

“I saw the pictures your camp was posting on their website all summer. I saw you wrapped around that douchebag.”

It took a moment of confused silence for you to realize what he was talking about, when it finally dawned on you, you laughed again. He turned from you and started heading towards the window again, but you caught his arm, your hand not able to fit even halfway around it.

“No, Rafe,” you explained, “That was just Andy, one of the other campers. We were doing a trust fall exercise. He dropped me like two seconds after that!”

Despite himself, Rafe turned to look at you, eyes examining you nervously.

“Are you ok?” He asked in a small voice, wishing desperately that he didn’t care.

You smiled softly, there he was - your boy.

“I’m fine,” you assured him, showing him the small scar on your wrist. “Just a little scrape.”

A moment passed, he avoided your eyes but allowed you to step closer, your hand sliding down his arm and slipping into his, his fingers reluctantly intertwining with yours. You knew exactly what words he was struggling to find, but decided to let him get there on his own.

Finally, “Why didn’t you answer my letters?”

Your other hand reached into your back pocket and pulled out the envelope you had tucked away. You held it out to him wordlessly. He took the letter and held it to the light coming from his room, examining it with a confused look. The envelope was addressed to him at Tannyhill, from you at camp. When he finally noticed the “return to sender” label, it all clicked.

“They kept getting returned to me, I don’t know why,” you said as you squeezed his hand. “I asked to use my phone to let you know but they wouldn’t let me. I almost just snuck out of camp and came home so I could explain it to you.”

“Your mom would’ve been so mad,” he said, finally, finally smiling at you.

“Then she would’ve just taken away my phone and we’d be back where we started,” You said. “There’s like twenty more letters like that. I don’t know why they never made it to you, it’s like someone was sabotaging me.”

Rafe seemed satisfied with your explanation and the remaining bit of anger on his face melted away completely. He stuffed the letter in his pocket and suddenly threw his arms around you, lifting you in the air as you yelped in surprise, giggling as he started planting sloppy kisses all over your face and neck.

“Shhh, baby, my parents will hear you,” he whispered. “They’ve got me locked in my tower because I failed my last quiz in this fucking summer school pre-calc class.”

“Rafe!” you said in mock-scandal. “Naughty language!”

“Oh, baby, I can say way naughtier things than that,” he growled in your ear, your cheeks now burning from real-scandal.

“C’mon,” he said, setting you down and grabbing your hand, to lead you to his still-open window.

He placed his large hand on the small of your back as he helped you through the window, climbing in after you and closing it slowly so as to not make a sound.

You and Rafe had done some more-than-kissing things before, but that was the night you gave yourselves to each other completely. He held you after, softly kissing the scar on your arm from when Andy had dropped you.

“Never gonna let that Andy asshole touch you again,” he said between kisses. “He can find his own girl, you’re mine.”

You giggled and he looked up at you in confusion.

“Rafe,” you were laughing hard now. “Andy’s gay.”

He broke into a bashful grin, a quick blush of embarrassment swept across his cheeks before he grew serious again and started kissing up your arm.

“I don’t care,” he said. “They should all know - all the Andys and Jakes and Chads and whoeverthefucks,” his kisses had reached your neck, “no guy is ever gonna get to touch you like me.” He pulled back and looked into your eyes with a sincerity that squeezed your heart. “Gonna love you forever. Gonna marry you, make you a mom. Never gonna spend three months, or even three fucking days away from you again. That what you want?”

“Yes,” you breathed, meaning it with your whole being.

“Good.”

Now…

The memories flooded your brain as you opened the door and stepped into the home you used to think would be yours someday. The party was swelling, the vibe feeling so familiar and so uncomfortable at the same time.

You made your way straight to the kitchen, desperately needing a drink. Every step you took sent a memory flashing through your thoughts like a shock to your brain. You passed the living room and saw movie-nights-turned-make-out-sessions on the couch, playing mario kart with Sarah and Wheezie while Rafe laughed at your hyper-competitiveness, prom pictures in front of the fireplace. You passed the dining room and saw the first family dinner you were invited to, how you made Ward laugh with a story about fishing your own dad used to tell, how Rafe squeezed your thigh under the table in pride. You entered the kitchen and saw the time you and Rafe set off the smoke alarm trying to make pancakes, the time he lifted you onto the counter and went down on you when his family was out of town. And then, standing by the keg, you saw the girl who invited you, clearly plastered already.

“Omg!” She yelled when she saw you.

Everyone else in the large kitchen turned and looked at you. It felt dramatic, but you could swear the whole room fell silent when they saw you, a comical record scratch playing in your head.

The girl who invited you ran over to you, beer sloshing over the side of her solo cup and onto her shirt.

“I can not believe you came,” she said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I completely forgot when I invited you, about, you know, you and-”

“Can I get one of those?” you cut her off quickly, gesturing towards her drink.

Before she could answer, a loud crash came from outside the kitchen’s open french doors. The heads that had all been watching you suddenly snapped toward the sound towards the crowded back yard. When the loud bellow of a man’s voice rang out, the people in the kitchen all ran towards the unfolding scene. You pushed through the crowd and out the doors, drawn inexplicably to the voice. Your heart dropped to your stomach when you realized why - it was Rafe.

There in the backyard, packed with drunk people and lit by string lights, Rafe stood with his fist clenched in the collar of some guy’s white button up, forcefully pulling the scared looking dude toward him while he yelled.

“I said none of that fucking cheap shit,” Rafe yelled at the guy you now realized was a cater-waiter.

“I’m sorry sir, I-” Rafe threw the man down and he fell back in the dirt.

“This isn’t some ghetto block party out in The Cut,” Rafe yelled. “Do you know who’s fucking house you’re at right now?”

The crowd around you watched, most smiling in support of the man they looked at like he was a rockstar. You cringed at the looks of admiration in their eyes and took Rafe in with your own.

He looked different, harder. His floppy blond locks had been shaved off, and he had traded old t-shirts and jeans for slacks and a polo. He was as tall and built as you remembered, but instead of it being endearing, it was just scary as he looked down at the poor server like he was gonna kill him.

Then he spat on him. He actually spat on another human being. It disgusted you in more ways than one, and you felt your heart breaking in your chest as you realized you had no idea who this man was. The boy who held you on that night four years ago and promised to be yours forever clearly didn’t live here anymore. You turned quickly and pushed back through the crowd, unable to watch another second of this sickening display of toxic masculinity.

Rafe glared down at the pogue-scum in the dirt below him, an eerily familiar feeling washed over him as something moved quickly in the corner of his eye. He turned at just the right moment to see a whip of long hair disappear through the crowd. But it wasn’t. It couldn’t possibly be. Surely, it was not you.

(chapter 2)

a/n: Hiiii this is the first fic I've posted in about 10 years!! Hope you enjoyed, forgive me if I'm rusty! More chapters to come :)

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starlostseungmin · 23 days

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husband!minho

✰ notes: third entry of my husband!skz series and as for who won the poll, it’s minho’s turn!! minor warning: sex is mentioned but nothing happened!! i hope you guys enjoy!! not proofread. DO NOT FORGET TO REBLOG, COMMENT AND LEAVE TAGS! thank you <33

ꔛ

Husband Minho who asked, “Will you be the mother of my three kids?” instead of “Will you marry me?” on one random afternoon when you were both playing with his cats at his parents’ house. It served as his proposal and gave you a jingle ball because he didn’t have a ring with him at that time.

Husband Minho who used to be a tsundere and nonchalant person but later changed into a fully affectionate bunny the moment he fell for you.

Husband Minho who got emotional during the wedding day but tried to hold his tears back since it was expected that his friends would tease him later. He gave up eventually and cried when you slow danced with him at the reception.

Husband Minho who teased you a lot but in a loving way. He tends to be a menace sometimes but it wasn’t bad. Your big baby just loves to play with you.

Husband Minho who pretends to be annoyed when you ask for a kiss but deep inside he wants to smother you with all the love you deserve. Eventually, he couldn’t keep it to himself so he cuddles you with lots and lots of kisses.

Husband Minho who spoils you with his five Michelin-star cooking skills and serves you high-quality food. He is the happiest when you compliment him and finish everything on your plate.

Husband Minho who loves to drag you along when he goes camping and offers to take care of everything while you rest. He’d only ask for minor tasks from you to help him.

Husband Minho who sends you weird selfies and cat pictures when you’re not together and says he misses you with the kids (his cats).

Husband Minho who listens to your worries and gives constructive criticisms but at the same time he comforts you with the things you need to feel better.

Husband Minho who loves to encourage you to do the things you want as long as it would benefit him and it’s not illegal. “The heart knows what it wants,” He said. “But let’s not go to jail shall we?”

Husband Minho who lets you burst out in anger while he stood there listening to everything. He’s not the type to baby you every time and will be civil when it comes to arguments knowing who is in the right and wrong.

Husband Minho who will never allow you to sleep unless everything is resolved. He’d be sorry if it was his fault and be the cutest baby bunny that you can’t resist to forgive. This comes along with cuddles and kisses or makeup sex (if you’re both into it).

Husband Minho whose love languages are acts of service, quality time, and words of affirmation.

Husband Minho whom you swoon to over and over because of how handsome and cute he is. Never a day you’d miss complimenting him by which he’ll be all red and mushy from being shy.

Husband Minho who got the interest of touching your butt out of his love and affection.

Husband Minho who lays on top of you when he sees you lying down on your shared bed the moment he gets home because he’s tired and your presence makes him feel relaxed and secure. He tends to bury his face in the crook of your neck.

Husband Minho who is loud and dramatic in the most precious way.

Husband Minho who never forgets important dates and will throw everything away just to spend time with you.

Husband Minho who acts like a mother especially when you get sick and is stubborn.

Husband Minho who is good with kids, and had asked you a few times if you want to have one with him but at the same time he doesn’t want to put pressure on your shoulders. He reassures that he can wait and doesn’t even mind if he spends his lifetime with you alone.

Husband Minho who feels appreciated and loved when you tell him about the things he means to you and how much you are head over heels for him.

Husband Minho who gets excited when you give him cat necessities. You wonder that he loves his cats more than you sometimes but he’d say you were equally receiving his love and affection.

Husband Minho who doesn’t always say he loves you but rather says that you are his getaway from everything. It’s you and him against the world, nothing could replace you as you are his happy place and favorite person. The one who comes second after his cats and knows his priorities but you get the privilege.

Husband Minho who loves you to the moon and back.

Husband Minho who treasures you the most and the one he’d put first before everything.

Husband Minho whom you’ll love for a lifetime, promised to never hurt, never leave, and never break his heart.

✰ taglist: @notastraykid , @ameliesaysshoo , @l3visbby , @reignessance , @lix-ables , @skzfelixlove , @rachabreathing , @hyunverse , @minluvly , @sleepyleeji , @starseungs , @midsoulz , @oddracha , @armystay89

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cursingtoji · 6 months

Text

ᥫ᭡ 𝐬𝐨... 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐰?

— where satoru comforts you after breaking up with toji

gojo being lowkey yandere, fem reader, toji is the ex, mentions of baby trapping, reader is older, gojo calls her senpai (almost as a mock), classroom smut, fingering, gojo has to wear a condom and he hates it, he’s also a bit pathetic and in love, reader is a bit of bitch. 4k (this was supposed to be drabble idk what happened)

“i know what you’re thinking” gojo’s voice breaks the silence in the classroom where you were supposed to be grading papers but instead has been looking through the window for god knows how long now.

the sudden appearing happens after gojo catches your lost gaze on the field some of his students were training at. he saw your profile looking down at your desk, then after a few minutes you looked through the window until your eyes set on gojo’s protégée and the son of the man that broke your heart.

“but if you keep doing that megumi will get creeped out by you” gojo simply manifested in your classroom as soon as he realized you would stay in trance not even noticing your fellow teacher staring back at you from below.

“whatever, he never liked me anyways” you brush off, then remember what he said before, “and what the hell makes you think you know what i’m thinking?”

“ah, you forgot? i have an eye or six for this sorta thing” he points to his blindfold.

“you saying you can read minds now, you freak?” your relationship with satoru always had that dynamic. toji usually got very annoyed whenever he was in the same room as the two of you, he tried to pull you away or make an excuse for you two to go back to his place. deep down you knew he felt some type of way whenever you and satoru banter like that.

“please you’re so transparent i wonder how megumi haven’t seen it yet, i'm concerned that he might need glasses…”

“just say what you wanna say, satoru.”

gojo, on the other hand, didn’t need an instinct to see how jealous and possessive toji could be when he was around. all that gojo needed to say was one word to trigger the old man.

“every time you see megumi you think about him, don’t you?” he takes a step in your direction while you sink in your chair looking away, “senpai.”

gojo never showed respect for anyone, he was scolded several times by yaga because of it, utahime tried to hit him whenever she could, demanding formal treatment since she was his upperclassmen. but you, for whatever reason he decided, was the only one he used that honorific with.

“he’s his kid, of course i’ll—“

“ever since i heard about your breakup you’ve been acting like everything is fine, except for when you see megumi, then you frown,” gojo extends his index and taps the space between your eyebrows “and your cursed energy increases” he then sits on your desk looking down at you, “don’t tell me megumi had anything to do with why toji—“

“of course not” you stop him, although megumi was never fond of you, you know he’s a good kid and wouldn’t try to get in the way of your relationship with his father. as far as you know, he’s not particularly close to his old man either. actually, anything related to toji — bets, races, you — is automatically disregarded by him.

“then you gotta stop looking at him like he did something, or before you realize your energy towards him will become hostile and i can’t let that happen” gojo’s tone became more severe, it’s one of those rare times where he drops the playful persona in order to get serious. truthfully, megumi did nothing, but you can't unsee toji when you look at him, especially after seeing what your ex-boyfriend used to look like in the old days when he showed you some photos. it never occurred to you before, since you barely saw megumi anyways, you're not his sensei and in your free time you were with toji so there wasn't much time to get to know megumi since they don’t live together since the boy was five. you suppose gojo is right, pushing your hurt feelings away only makes them come out stronger when you see anything that reminds you of toji.

“that’s not gonna happen, i have my energy under control” you cross your arms, feeling exposed under gojo’s gaze even through the mask.

he stays quiet for a second, then his annoying tone is back.

“what did you even see in him anyways? he’s definitely not a good guy.”

“that’s rude, toji is—“

“did you think you could change him or something?”

“i— no, why—“

“from what megumi said he was cheap as fuck so it was definitely not the money” he rubs his chin.

“gojo, i swear—“

“was it the sex?”

you widen your eyes and close your mouth, not having a simple answer for that.

“jackpot” satoru whispers.

“fuck off, satoru” you raise from your seat but he raises too, blocking your way and trapping you against the black board and his body.

“you stayed with that guy for years just for the sex?” he has a mocking tone that makes your blood boil.

“no! and that’s none of your goddamn business.”

“and you’ve broken up, what? two months ago? you’ve been all this time without sex?” you raise your hand ready to slap his face or punch his nose but he sees your movements faster and catches your wrist, “don’t be like that senpai, your energy is getting hostile again” he takes all the time in the world lowering his blindfold and letting his hair fall down while staring at you with those freaking blue eyes, “although, on second thought i think that might be mmm… sexual frustration? it’s a color i never seen in you before” he grabs your wrist firmly.

“you don’t know what you’re saying.”

“oh but i do, senpai. i’m just wondering how you haven’t downloaded a dating app or tried to rub one off yet” gojo knows exactly which buttons to press to make you wanna stab him, or worst, make you wanna fuck him.

gojo gets closer to your face, so close you can smell his aftershave, and just the realization that it’s a different scent from the one you were so used to makes your heart ache and your clit throb.

“or did you?” he’s fast, gojo catches your phone on top of the table putting it right in front of your face to unlock then moving away from you to check it, “definitely no dating apps” you yell his name and try to snatch your phone back but he puts infinity on and you can’t reach him, “browser history?”

“satoru, you have no right, gimme that” your face is hot with shame.

“nothing either, well i suppose your camera roll…”

“no!”

“aha” he deactivates the invisible shield and right when you think you can retrieve your phone he turns you around, holding your arms behind your back and pressing your back against his chest, “is that what you use to get off?” he puts the phone in front of you, it’s opened in the gallery, more specifically in a part filled with lewd videos and photos.

“not bad, you could make some cash outta this” gojo puts his chin on your shoulder, playing a video which clearly was filmed by toji, his dick is getting in and out of you from behind, he gets a close look with the phone, his glistening dick shining under the flashlight while your pussy stretches to accommodate him. you press your legs together remembering the feeling, you’re not even struggling to get out of gojo’s hold by the time the video ends.

“you don’t need to get off by yourself, you know?” he smells your hair and kisses your ear, “it’s not like we haven’t done it before.”

“that was forever ago” you reply, at the time you thought satoru was going to use that against you, just wait for an opportunity to drop that bomb on toji’s lap and proudly say he fucked his girlfriend before, but whatever image you had of him back then was proved wrong since no one knows about your little escape with gojo till this very day.

“and wasn’t it good? huh?” he presses, sucking the spot on your neck that has you throwing your head back.

“yeah, it was” you confess, too sensible from the light touches to rethink your answers.

“see? i can make you feel good so you don’t become a little monster” he trails his hand on your thigh, pushing your skirt up until he finds your underwear, playing with the hem to tease you then pressing a finger on your clit.

“so charitable of you” you mumble sarcastically.

“i would gladly do this favor to you” he replies in the same tone, “even though you still own me.”

“for what?!” you close your legs around his hand turning your head around to look him in the face, not even considering a world where satoru did you any favors.

“for raising your boyfriend’s son? you really think you would’ve had a sex life with an eight year old summoning pets around the house?” he raises an eyebrow.

“don’t pretend like you did that out of the goodness in your heart, if megumi didn’t have the ten shadows you wouldn’t have bat an eye if toji sold him to the zenin’s or whomever.”

“you sound just like him” gojo’s eyes get darker, now he has your clit slowly rolling between his thumb and index over your underwear.

“besides— hng i came in the picture years after you took megumi… so don’t blame me” you wiggle your ass on his crotch.

“a ‘thank you my favourite kohai’ wouldn’t hurt” you sincerely laugh at that, never thinking of satoru as your underclassmen since that fucking minx is everyone’s exception on their cursed technique due to how powerful he is, so him being below you somehow was never a posibility, at least not strength wide.

satoru pushes your underwear to the side, rubbing the wetness all over your pussy and teasing your entrance.

“five years” you murmur as he inserts a finger then pulls it back to join his middle one too and go back in.

“hm?” satoru gets quieter, after talking so much and having so many things to say you’re surprised he stayed silent for a whole minute.

“last time you fucked me, it was five years ago” you get comfortable on his hold, his leg is between yours, serving as support for you to lean on while he scissors you.

“that long huh…” he sounds… sad? no, maybe nostalgic.

“crazy, right? so much has—“ you sigh when he curls his fingers, “changed.”

satoru take a long sniff of your hair, keeping a pleasing rhythm with his hand, it feels like giving someone a massage. he could go crazy and have you stripped out of your uniform a while ago, fucked you on your desk and left after marking your body and giving your ass a mean slap.

he could still do that, but whatever feeling bloomed in his chest has him enjoying this moment with you in his hold, stroking your insides and smelling your shampoo while discreetly rocking his hips on your behind for some relief.

he almost feels sleepy, the relaxed state has his mind going other places. he thinks of a world where he can tease you under your uniform every other day, you would tell him the school is no such a place for that then the day ends and you go home with him, holding hands, and finally when you arrive home he gets to finish what he started. then, he cooks whatever quick meal he can find the ingredients for since he knows you don't like to cook, afterwards you fall asleep on his lap on the couch as he strokes your hair, your belly is full, your heart is warm, you feel loved and he feels—

“toru~” he comes out of the trance he fell at when you call for him, he thinks for a second you were calling his name cause you felt he was off, but in reality you were calling him cause you are getting close, “right there” your breathy moans makes gojo smile and kiss your temple.

“where? here?” he pretends to not know, when the truth is he never actually forgot after your first time together, “right here, senpai?”

“y-yeah” you throw your head back, shutting your eyes to give in to the orgasm. gojo looks down at your pretty face, he feels the urge to kiss you right now, but he wants you to ask for it first. your walls clench around his fingers, he strokes that spot sweetly, like he's caressing a pet.

which is an ironic comparison since he’s the one that would gladly accept being your pet.

when you open your eyes gojo is staring at you silently through half lid eyes, it is truly a shame that he keeps those hidden for so long.

“desk, now” you demand needly.

“yes ma'am” gojo picks you up easily, moving the papers on top of the table to the floor.

you immediately go for his belt, choosing not to comment on the wet spot on his pants.

you feel a pressure on your chin as he guides your head up to look at him.

“ask me” he pleads.

“for what?”

“for a kiss” you smile, looking at his lips and how inviting they look. you ponder if you should tease him for it, since he's been teasing you with words a lot today, but then you chose to comply, despite going through your phone without our permission and claiming your frustration comes from lack of dick, he's actually being good to you.

“gimme a kiss” you raise your chin higher, he gazes at your lips and eyes, looking for something other than lust, yet he gives in, sealing your lips with his trying to keep his mind away from thinking of the man that had your lips previous to him. and how dumb that motherfucker is to let you go.

gojo's lips are soft, he starts gently which feels foreign to you, but it doesn't take long before his hand presses your lower back, pulling you closer until his cock hits your clothed cunt. the warmth he feels is enough to relish the passion in him, he kisses you harder, tongue intruding your mouth like he's trying to devour you.

the wet kiss also awakens your urge for him, you pull his cock from his underwear in the tiny space between his and your crotch, the second it's out it's already against your folds, the leaking tip hot against your skin.

“nuh-uh you better have a rubber” you push your knee onto gojo’s pelvis when he starts to rub himself on you to spread your wetness on his shaft.

“did you make toji wear one too?” he raises a questionable eyebrow at you, willing to bet all his heritage on the answer.

“he had to earn that privilege” you reach for gojo’s wallet, not failing to notice the black cards and considerable amount of cash, “i don’t know what you do after 6 so…” you take the packs, ripping it open yourself and rolling on him. with a face and body like his you doubt gojo spends most nights by himself.

“unbelievable…”

“satoru” you warn stroking him slowly, “can i get another kiss?” you bat your lashes. gojo comes closer, his nose even touches yours, then you feel his hands on your waist, turning you around till your elbows and chest are against the table and your skirt is being flipped over, underwear pushed down.

“you have to earn it, senpai” he spits the words against your ear as he pushes his dick into you. until a few moments ago, satoru was composed, happy to accept whatever crumbles you chose to give him. you managed to trigger him by saying toji still had something he couldn't have.

he's still gonna go through this — that's how whipped he is for you — though now he’ll be less gentle.

his cockhead hits your spot, nothing accidental of course, satoru knows your spots like the back of his hand. you whine and arch your back, satoru pouts realizing he won't get to suck some hickeys on the skin of your back and shoulder, not now at least, but the night is young.

“c'mon satoru, don't be like that” you look over your shoulder, licking your lips at the sight of him sweaty, flushed and frowny.

the sound of his name in your voice makes him want to cum on the spot, he dips his head on your neck sighing, not stopping thrusting your behind. he wanted to feel you so badly, why the fuck did you make him wear a condom? he's clean, of course he is, he's gojo satoru for heaven's sake! even viruses are afraid of him.

or was it something else you feared?

“hey… you on the pill?” he lifts his head slightly, his voice still muffled by the material of your dress.

“you’re not fucking me raw, satoru.”

“just wondering… you said you didnt wear a condom with him, so what kept you from getting knocked up?” he wiggles his hand between you and the surface of your table till hes palming your belly.

“you keep bringing toji up a lot, obsessed much?” you tease him, avoiding the answer, gojo pinches your clit.

“please, he wishes. now tell me. iud? implant? injections?” you push him away turning around then pulling him back.

“okay, you clearly had sex ed classes, now shut up and fuck me right” gojo takes your leg and places on his shoulder, you bite your fist to contain your moan, the new position makes easier for him to nudge your clit with his pelvis.

“i could be fucking you better, you know how?” he bites the skin of your leg, not harshly but enough to make you yelp, he smiles, giving a particular hard thrust that makes your eyes roll.

“condom stay on, satoru, i can’t risk getting preg—“ you slap your mouth. satoru stops.

“you’re not… on anything?”

“listen you can’t tell anyone about this, okay?” you cover your face, “i had a pregnancy scare a few years ago so… gosh why am i even telling you this…”

“go on” gojo massages your thigh.

“toji got a vasectomy. birth control wasn’t working for me anymore and it was only a matter of time before— well it doesn't matter. you can see why you have to use it right?” you place your elbows on the table, sitting up enough to see the look on his face, it’s not what your expected to see.

satoru looks like a child that just found out where his parents keep all the sweets. he’s grinning, dick throbbing.

“yeah, i see now” he bends, holding your neck and kissing you, he makes the kiss feel like a ‘thank you for trusting me’ but if this was a cartoon his shadow would have horns and a pointy tail.

all he can think now is exactly how to make you his, he can sweet talk you into allowing him to hit it raw, promising to pull it out, then… whoopsie.

the new discovery gives him a different kind of stamina.

“don’t worry, your secret is safe with me” he kisses your cheek after leaving you breathless.

he plunges in and out, a rhythm that has you seeing stars. gojo craves you so much, he’s quite bothered by all the clothes and the need to keep it down, otherwise he would have torn your dress apart and have you screaming by now.

“fuck— keep doing that” you run your nails on his undercut, gojo mewls and take your other leg, pushing it further to go deeper. he sees the white ring around his cock, getting high on the sigh of it combined with your pussy illuminated by the natural light coming from the window behind him.

he wonders if toji ever fucked you in a classroom like this, then he shakes his head, not allowing the image to form in his mind, instead he focus on you, and how your pretty face contorts as your orgasm approaches once again.

“so fucking pretty” he whispers quietly.

you attempt to lower your legs. feeling it’s gonna be too much.

“nuh-uh keep them here” he pushes back, “so tight” he closes his eyes.

you’re a moaning mess at this point, almost forgetting where you are.

“that’s right, let it go baby” your legs shake as your orgasm hits you, satoru can see the shape of your cursed energy peaking then getting softer.

he fucks you a little more, trying not to think about the condom trapping his dream of knocking you up.

god, you would look so fucking gorgeous carrying his baby, all round up for him to showcase around. he would do anything for you, you wouldn’t have to lift a finger.

if only…

“fuck“ he fucks his load — into the condom unfortunately.

after the initial high goes away he starts to hear his students asking where he went and why he’s taking so long, “wait here, i’ll take you home.”

“you don’t have to” you smile, poking his cheek.

“oh i do, i’m not done with you” he takes your hand from his nape and gives it a kiss before pulling out and throwing that despicable rubber into the bin, making a mental note to empty that bin outside where the evidence of what happened between two teachers is not so easily discoverable.

you sit up adjusting your dress and looking around, “did you see my…”

“nope” gojo leaves the classroom pushing the material of your panties further into his pocket.

gojo had the weekend of his dreams, he convinced you to stay in his place that night and the next one too, he rubbed your sore legs after you came so much you were spasming then made you breakfast, it almost made him believe of a happy ending for the two of you.

a dream that was shattered when, a few days later you returned from a mission and stood by the entrance of the school kissing… toji.

gojo watches the scene from above, a frown on his face.

“yeah i was surprised too” he almost forgot that megumi was with him, “thought she finally created some sense” he confesses.

gojo doesn’t say anything, he watches silently as you tiptoe to kiss toji, the fucker doesn’t even hold you right, he keeps his hand in his pockets and lets you with all the effort.

“meet you in the classroom in five” gojo disappears from megumi’s sight.

on your way to report your mission to yaga you see satoru leaning against a tree. you say his name in a surprised manner, not having prepared what to tell him beforehand.

“listen, i— hm… i thought you should know that toji and i are back, so—”

“did you tell him?” his arms are crossed.

“about… us? of course not.”

“why? don’t you think he should know?” you hear the challenge in his tone.

“no, and you’re not gonna say a word to him either” you step closer to him, trying to look intimidating which can be difficult due to the height difference, “may i remind you that between the three of us there’s a teen boy who would not appreciate the drama.”

“look at you, using fushiguro as an scapegoat” he smiles at the look of anger forming on your features, “it’s fine, i’m just a bit surprised at how quick you were to go back to him, that’s all.”

“let’s be real, satoru. it’s not like you were going to take me on a date or anything” gojo pulls you by your wrist, your body hits his, the sudden proximity has your eyes widening, anyone could see you and take the wrong conclusion. i mean, it wouldn’t be wrong but you didn’t want any conclusions to be taken for that matter.

“this is not going to be the last time and i don’t give a damn if you’re dating him or married or widowed.”

“satoru!” you shout his name in a whisper, immediately rejecting the idea of becoming a widow.

“you can tell toji or not, i don’t mind fighting him” he pushes himself out of the tree and past you. megumi is grown now, of course he still needs a lot of coaching regarding his skills, but emotionally speaking, he’s been a grown up since he was six.

before going to his classroom as promised, he teleports himself to yours, picking up the bouquet he left at your desk then teleporting to the fountain across the campus where he rips the paper that holds the flowers together and lets it all fall into the water.

satoru watches it for a moment, hurt but still decided to go through with his plan.

he wonders what would you tell toji if you got pregnant, maybe you could convince him the child is his, a miracle. then when the kid comes out with white hair and blue eyes you’ll have no choice other than be with him, the father of your child, the man who truly loves you. gojo satoru.

#there’s no part 2 leave me alone #divider by @cafekitsune #gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo satoru #gojou satoru x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x you #toji x reader

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