#listen idk what counts as a trigger

[keravnous]

diet mountain dew; john wick/fem!reader (smut, 18+)

dating john wick - the playlist

The Boogeyman is out to get you. Little does he know, that you too are willing to do quite a bunch of things just to stay alive.

warnings: blood, guns, knives, injuries, physical violence/fighting, assassination attempt; dub-con, rough sex, unprotected sex, fingering, oral (female receiving), choking, dirty talk, spanking, a lot of manhandling bc for the love of god he doesn't know how to be soft anymore, gun kink, knife kink, size kink, strength kink, squirting, body worship if you blink, is this hate-fucking? idk; john has a horse cock change my mind; john is in his 50s, the reader is in her 20s; set somewhere after the series i guess? (I refuse to accept he's dead); problematic family relationship as a plot device; let's all collectively ignore the fact that he would actually never touch another woman or even dare to catch the smallest of feelings again; john gets off on the violence

word count: 10,6 k

thank you mel for a) listening to my ramblings and b) reading a good chunk of the first third of this dumpster fire and still going nuts about it, kissies and thank you v for listening to my keanu ramblings without losing faith in me

You wonder, if praying will help you. Probably not.

The sound of carnage, screams and gunshots in the hallway abruptly stops. You hear the assailant's heavy footsteps echoing off the floorboards outside of your hotel room mere seconds before the door bursts open, flies out of its hinges and rattles to the ground, wood creaking and breaking, splinters flying everywhere.

There had been a hit out on you for two days and every single soldier in your father's militia was ready to defend your life with their own.

Literally. You can tell by the man entering your suite.

You can tell by just how much he is covered in blood. You can tell by the way it drips down his forehead and how it soaks his white shirt - even the soles of his shoes creak with it. You can tell by the way he is totally and utterly drenched in red red red, and because you are certain it is not his.

They literally gave their life for you. The thought hits you like a blow to the head. People have died because of you. Fathers, brothers, sons. You recall your last conversation with your own father. They want us dead, they put out a contract on us - you had never seen him so nervous, so disheveled. What does that mean - his anxiety had been washing over you in seeping hot waves, sending cold shivers down your spine. It means, I need you out of the house - now.

Nausea bubbles in your stomach as the man now approaches you, casually strolls into the suite with his finger on the trigger of the gun dangling from his hand and you stare back at him - a deer in the headlights, frozen by fear in the eyes of its deadly predator. One of your father's men jumps from his cover, fires a shot and gets hit back with one straight between his eyes. It happens so quickly, that you can't turn your head away. You see the bullet piercing his forehead, blood splattering as soon as it exits the skull on the other side. His head flies back a little, and then his body goes limp, slack, as he falls to the ground with a heavy thud.

You want to scream. You want to vomit. You want to run. But there is nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide from him.

There's only one soldier left with you in the suite now and he is hiding around the corner, near the bathroom. The stranger - the assassin, the killer - does not lower the gun again, and does not let his eyes stray from you as he carefully enters the room. You feel terribly exposed, dressed only in your negligée, not daring to move.

Now, that the dim light of the suite's living room strikes his face, you can finally see him, see the man who has come to end you. He is older than you, maybe nearly twice your age, with dark hair and even darker eyes, matching his black suit. Lean and athletic, chest heaving slightly with physical exhaustion. The Boogeyman.

You do not know who or what you had expected, what cruel and dreadful images your brain had conjured up in the past 48 hours - 48 frightful hours of being moved around from hideout to hideout by your father's men, not staying in one place longer than necessary - but it certainly was not that. Not him. He is a lot more handsome than his reputation has led on. Seeing him on the subway around rush hour you would have never suspected him to be in this business. He looks nice. And that is exactly what makes him dangerous.

You have heard his name before. Echoing from the walls. Baba Yaga. Whispered with both: fear and respect. The Boogeyman. Blurted out: like a curse or like a blessing. Mister Wick: like redemption, like damnation. Jonathan, the king's son walking the earth as the devil.

John. The sound of his name is oddly human - disturbingly human - for someone looking as calm and collected, focused and concentrated as he does right now, while being drenched in blood and pointing a gun at you.

You must have said his name out loud, because his eyebrows twitch irritatedly, a movement so quick you barely missed it - must've sound desperate too, then.

Vision zeroing in on the barrel of his gun, your hands clutch the sofa's edge. There is so much adrenaline pumping through your veins right now that it freezes your limbs, has your ears ringing. The only thing responding to your brain fully are your eyes, and they snap away from the gun and over to the remaining soldier. It's a quick look, not even a second, but the hitman seems to recognize it and - with near inhumane speed - flicks his gun, and fires two shots. Blood splatters against the white door as the shots pin the soldier's body against it, and is it finally drops to the ground heavily it leaves a nasty trail, all wet and sticky and red.

Could be you.

You want to scream, but your body does not belong to you anymore, does not respond to your commands. It is a desperate, cruel sound that leaves your throat instead as you flinch with the sound of the gun being fired.

"Let's make this quick" his voice is gravelly and rough, like he has seen a thousand grim things and the pain of it has etched its way into his throat, left a nasty mark on every tone that ever dared to cross after.

That is when your fight or flight suddenly kicks in. Well, more specifically, it kicks in while he is speaking, as he starts to swap the empty clip of his gun.

He underestimates you. Everyone does. Your father, your brother. The countless men lying dead littered across the hotel's 25th floor. It will be his mistake.

You latch forward, grabbing the vase from the coffee table in front of you. The weight of it in your hand drags you down.

With all the strength you can muster, which is quite a lot considering the massive amounts of adrenaline that are currently amping up your body - you throw it at him. It connects with his forehead sharply; a deep, irritated noise bursting from his throat as it crashes, splinters and falls to the floor.

You are braver, braver than you should be as your assault does not end there, your body pushing you forward, leaping over the table and crashing into his broad shoulders.

I will not die today

Body ramming into his, he stumbles, as your fist connects with his chin. You have only been partially trained in hand-to-hand combat, after pleading your brother for months until he eventually gave in. Sadly, he wasn't nearly as thorough and honest with it as he was training his drug dealer and gun runners. But now, it is the only thing you can rely on.

There is nothing else; no one else left alive in that building who might be able to help you. It is up to you. So, you might as well try.

And Oh, does desperation fire up your blood.

I will not die today

The diversion does not last long and he - John John John only human only human only human - grabs you by you waist hard, fingers digging into your flesh and into the expensive silk, before he slams your body into the ground. All air leaves your lungs with a dull sound erupting from your chest, just as pain blooms around your ribs.

You cough and he looks down at you, confusion making his brows twitch, before cold-hearted determination takes over once more. John aims his gun at you once more, pulls back the hammer and you do not even think about it, your leg rising as you kick against his hand. The shot misses, buries itself deep into the expensive carpet a few inches next to your skull. You have no time to do either: panic or sigh in relief; instead, you deliver him a kick to his stomach, fighting yourself back onto your feet, punching him straight in the face.

John grunts and grabs your wrist, but you see it coming and throw yourself into his wide frame, wrapping your other arm around his back and thus hooking it underneath his right shoulder, dislocating his arm and preventing him from aiming his gun at you. You claw onto him as he twists your arm close to his stomach, while you wrap your legs around him, making it harder for John to shake you off.

I will not die today

You kick and dig the heel of your foot into his thighs and the back of his knees and he grunts and buckles a little, but turns wild and relentless quicker than you can blink, throws the two of you into the next wall. You gasp sharply as your back connects with the large mirror, splinters digging into your back - not deep enough to actually cut skin, but it stings nonetheless, the impact making you dizzy.

Sharp pain shoots through your back and your neck, but you are not willing to give up yet, as raw energy and rage and desperation surges through your body - one of your legs coming loose and your knee hitting his stomach repeatedly, making John grunt in pain and you use your momentum to dig your hand deep into his back, holding onto him and then swirling out of the deadlock he has got you in, jumping his back like a monkey.

His gun clatters to the ground and for a split second, the room falls silent. Then, roaring like an animal gone wild, he grabs your calves and slams his back into the nearest wall, has you screaming with the impact. You can feel blood pouring from your nose, feel it trickling down your lips.

I will not die today

John is stronger than you are, so so much stronger - the apex predator: all muscle, unbreakable focus and the sheer will to kill. But you are not only a little quicker; you also really want to stay alive. It is a force he rarely encounters. And quite frankly, it irritates him.

He may be older than you, taller than you and stronger than you but you have something he does not have: you actually still got something to lose.

And you fight like it, too. All scratches and sharp yells, as you punch and scrabble at his shoulders and tear at his tie, trying to strangle him with it. John is struggling against it, gasping for air and winding beneath your assault and then his grip around your claves grows hard like iron, seconds before he pulls - throws you over his head like you weigh nothing. You land on the expensive carpet with a heavy thud - groaning as you crash onto your side with sharp pain shooting through your shoulder, down your ribcage.

I will not die today

John sputters and stumbles forward, looking for his gun but you are quicker, kicking it away with your foot. It clatters back onto and slides over the wooden floorboards.

For a second you consider your choices, fighting yourself back onto your feet but John - a practiced and seasoned fighter - beats you to it and lands a blow to your upper back, sends you back down with him - a mess of sputtering saliva and painful groans. His body topples onto yours and he quickly rolls the two of you over the floor.

John is heavy and warm on top of you, as he keeps you in a tight headlock, your chest pressed to the floor and neck bend in a painful angle. He presses his strong forearm down onto your windpipe and you choke and cough, feet kicking, hands dragging across the wood, clawing at it feebly.

You can feel his breath on your cheek, hot and damp. You can feel his torso pressing against your back as he kneels behind you.

I will not die today

Mustering all your remaining strength, you trash against him, ramming your backside into his stomach. He grunts and for a split second, his grip loosens. It is all you need. Throwing your elbow back, you hit him in the chest and he caves in.

You cough, crawling forward and then scrambling back onto your feet, one of your negligée’s straps falling down your shoulder in the process. You hastily pull it back up, seconds before John launches a cascade of punches onto you.

A few of them hit you as you try to block them; dull pain igniting in your body, blooming in your face and arms. Your breath goes heavy as you stumble backwards. You cannot do this. There is no way. You just physically can't.

He is stronger. Taller. Heavier. Deadlier. Your body and every single muscle, bone, nerve in it aches and you wheeze but he is already onto you again, half-tackles you and grabs your waist, ready to smash you back onto the ground.

You cling onto him with all your remaining strength, struggling against his huge frame, wrapping your hands around his neck in an attempt to get him to stumble.

His hair tingles on your naked arms. Oh wait --

Tearing at his hair - which has him grunting in both, pain, and irritation at the unusual attempt - you clumsily pull yourself up onto his shoulders, cutting his face right above his eyebrow with your nails in the process until you finally wrap one leg around his throat and close it around there tightly, choking him. John tries to pull you off him and succeeds after quite the tussle, only to find your frame clinging to him, legs and arms wrapping around his body, hands scratching and feet kicking.

I will not fucking die today

In an attempt to either get rid of each other or submit the last blow, to finally kill the other, you two swirl through the room - a deadly dance of torn skin, smashed glass panes and mirrors, bruises and cuts. Somewhere in between kicks and punches, he managed to pick up his gun - and right now, you are mustering all of your exhausted strength to prevent the barrel from pressing against your skull.

Eventually, John crashes your bodies through a large wooden door, and is not quick enough - unable to stop his own oxe-like strength - to stop himself from stumbling into the room. The two of you only come a halt as his knees hit something soft and ironically that is what finally topples both of you over, landing onto the mattress of your bedroom with a soft thud and deep, exhausted grunts.

Your ears ring, and you are ready to lash out at him again despite the physical exhaustion, to strike him square across the face, as --

There is something hard pressing against your crotch.

The world falls silent.

No. No, there's no fucking way. It's got to bea hidden weapon. Must be.

But clearly, it is not. There, between your spread legs, his hard cock presses snugly against your panty-clad pussy.

And he just feels so huge - mouth-watering huge - that your body responds in its own way, hips snapping up, stuttering against the hard bulge. John lets go off a shaky, ragged breath, hand still clutching his gun. And you know, that this is your window.

Feeling the warmth that his body and his hard dick are radiating through his expensive suit, you roll your hips once - a languid, slow motion, rubbing your pussy over his bulge.

And he groans. A deep, primal sound that sounds a little coarse. John is looking at you, starring you down, but there is a shadow dancing over his eyes, turning his brown eyes into deep and dark, black pits that gives him away.

He is horny. The Boogeyman is fucking horny. You would laugh, if the realization wasn't knocking all air straight from your lungs. Because it just another reminder, proof of what he actually is: human.

And what a sight he is to see - eyes turning darker every second, his chest heaving with every breath and making it seem like his shirt is going to pop a button or two any second now, his cock prodding against its restraints and your clothed cunt.

It makes you want him. The thought leaves you dizzy, makes you gasp.

Apparently, that is all he needs to roll his hips back into yours. And that - that is just unfair. It's playing dirty. It's, it's -- His dick feels huge as it trails along your folds, has the muscles in your abdomen clenching.

"Fuck", you breathe, a little overwhelmed with and helpless at the sudden surge of lust that ignites your body, the wetness pooling between your legs.

John is not saying anything, just stares you down while he continues to slooowly roll his hips into yours, grinds his cock against your cunt. Your pelvis twitches upward as you start to meet his movements, and then you can hear it. He let's go of a deep breath, and it sounds like the faintest moan.

You need to hear more of that. You need more of him, your cunt aching and hole clenching around nothing already.

"John", and this time you say his name - consciously - it sounds a different way of desperate: your voice reduced to a small whisper, torn at the edges by a wanton whimper ripping from your throat.

If it throws him off-guard he does not show it, does not let you see it. Instead, he grabs your chin hard, gaze locking with yours. Dark pupils blown wide, swallowing the honey-brown of his eyes, and your breath hitches.

"Yeah?", he rasps, and it does not take more than one long look from you for him to lean in, to press his lips onto yours.

The kiss tastes of blood and adrenaline and doom, and you relish in it. Relishing the way his lips move against yours and his beard tickles a little, relishing how his tongue presses into your mouth. It feels like he is eating you whole, licking into your mouth, one hand dancing over your waist - featherlight, like he doesn't know how to touch a body without hurting someone, destroying someone.

I will not die today, motherfucker

Your whole body now sings with it, the security of an impending victory, as you roll your hips into his once more, your tongue now licking back into his mouth. For a second you think about how to strike again, now that he is seemingly distracted, but all will to fight leaves your body as one of his hands brushes over your knee, wanders further and eventually rests on your thigh.

The touch is electrifying and then his hand grows braver, his movements more certain, as he grabs your thigh, feels you up. It happens so suddenly, that you gasp into the kiss.

John parts from you, his lips a little plush already. "Oh God", you whisper as you stare Death Turned Human straight in the face, not a single thought remaining in your skull despite your lust.

He doesn't speak, as he gently let’s go off your leg and straightens back up and for a second you think he is going to hurt you, with the way his brows are furrowed - but he doesn't.

Instead, he moves in, right over your comparably tiny frame - a mountain of a man. John kneels above you, his weight pinning you down while he straddles your thighs and Jesus fucking Christ - what a sight he is to see.

Dark locks falling into his forehead, a little sticky with sweat and the bits of blood from the cut your nails gave him moments ago - right above his left eyebrow, still lazily trickling down into his lashes. His chest heaves with ragged breaths, as he hastily gets rid of his jacket, carelessly drops it to the ground. His black button-down clings to his muscular body underneath his waistcoat and his equally as muscular thighs pin you down to the bed, black fabric nearly tearing at the seams. And then there is his hard cock.

It looks as huge as it felt, with the way it bulges his pants, the outline of it clearly visible as it buckles proudly against its restraints. You are certain, you will not be able to close your hand around it fully - not a chance.

One of his hands - the one lacking a finger, which you only now notice and what sends shivers down your spine - wanders over your body, pulling your negligée down in the process, right tit spilling out of the soft silk. He immediately grabs it, cups it with his large hand and squeezes. You mewl, marveling at just how big his hand is, just as his whole body is in comparison to you. His fucked-up finger digs into the flesh, sending shivers down your spine.

John's hand gropes your tit, before he impatiently pulls the neckline down roughly. You sigh, arousal shooting down your spine and tingling in your lower belly, as two of his fingers nudge your nipple, pinch it.

He watches your face intently, as he continues to grope you, rolls your nipple between his fingers. You mewl, breath accelerating a little but it is just not enough and you buck your hips upwards. John grunts in, what you assume is an approving manner, and let's go off your tit, reaches to his belt at his loins.

Quickly pulling a knife from God-knows-where exactly, a sharp blade enters your vision.

You blink, panic seeping through your lust and your legs twitch a little with fear. If John notices it, he neither shows it nor does he say anything, just moves the knife closer to your body.

The blade shines in the dim light as it dances over your exposed thighs carefully, the metal cooly pressing against your skin, before he flicks it and cuts your negligée open. The thin, soft fabric cleanly cut in half it now lazily slides from your aching body, falls to its sides. Your chest heaves, shivers running down your arms and back.

It happens so quickly that you can only blink. As your brain finally catches up with your eyes, you come to realize that he is holding a real fucking tactical knife. You have thrown one once - they are sharp as hell and deadlier than a bullet. The sound of fabric tearing easily, like paper, proves your point.

And John's movements with the blade are so fast that your breath hitches, a little afraid he might cut you. But he does not, instead, he quickly pulls the torn silk off you and away from under you, carelessly tosses it into the dark of the room.

The edge of the blade dances over your skin and you do not dare to breathe, as he trails it up and down your curves, gently nudges your nipples. "I could kill you", he says calmly and then, in lightning speed, presses the blade into the crook of your neck. Your head sinks back into the mattress, in an instinct to flee the sharp edge.

All it does is to expose your neck further and something gleams in John's eyes, as he presses the sharp tip down slowly, carefully nudging your skin with it. The metal is cold and hard and sharp and your breath hitches. Just a little bit more and it might burst your skin, draw blood.

But, to your own confusion, you do not feel threatened anymore. Oddly enough, your nerves tingle with excitement. You blame it on the already high levels of adrenaline that still pump through your veins, rushing back and forth from your brain and your lungs, but a small voice inside of your head whisper gently, deviously, that you know That's not it. And he knows it, too.

It's in his eyes as well, the sheer excitement of it all, the fucked-up pleasure it evokes in the both of you lays heavy in the air.

It turns you fucking on. It turns you on, that the man who - minutes ago - tried you kill you and did hurt you very fucking badly in the process of it, now decides to let you live.

It turns you on, that you are at his mercy.

It turns you on, that he decided to spare you - just for now.

It turns you on, that these large and strong hands holding the knife have that sort of power over you. And thus, as the blade nudges your head back further, you moan.

"I could cut your throat", John's voice is heavy and thick with arousal and you can feel your heartbeat picking up, breath accelerating. His gaze drops down, watches the rapid rising and falling of your breasts hungrily, while another soft moan escapes from your lips.

"Don't", you breathe softly.

The knife practically burns on your skin, and you can feel arousal flooding your clothed pussy, rubbing your thighs together for any sort of friction. John can feel your squirming underneath him, but he can also see your eyes turning watery and dark with lust, pupils blown and a pretty pink spreading on your cheeks, your breath growing shallow. And he just really needs to fucking taste you right now.

As quickly as it appeared, the blade vanishes from your throat before he twirls the knife like the ruthless, reckless professional that he is, and buries it deep to the hilt in the mattress next to you. The sharp sound as it pierces the thick fabric has the hairs on your body standing up, goosebumps rolling over your skin.

"I'll do it later", he rumbles - casually, like he is talking about doing chores or picking up groceries - before hunching over you, grabbing your chin with his fucked-up hand, and kissing you again. His tongue immediately pushes into your mouth, like he is starving to taste you.

John eats you whole, with the way his lips move against yours. His hand cups your face, tongue licking into your mouth, toying with yours. His kiss steals your breath and you start to get dizzy with it, hips bucking. You can feel his lips curling up and then he parts from you, leaving you a gasping mess, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth.

"Let me touch you, John", you whisper, voice a little small because you do not know why you feel that way, and if he will even allow it. But you just need to feel him.

For a long moment his gaze dances over your face and something shifts behind his eyes, like a shadow gets lifted and then very quickly returns. Ultimately, he gives a court nod, so small you nearly miss it and gives you a little more room while straightening back up.

Carefully, as if not to spook him, you dart one hand out, place it on his chest. The muscle is firm underneath his suit and you run your hand along the lapel of his jacket, down and then back up, before it slips beneath it.

John's body radiates warmth under the black fabric of his shirt and your other hand comes up, before you shove the jacket off his shoulders and onto the floor next to the bed.

Your breath hitches.

He is wearing a holster, a reminder of his deadliness, of the gun laying somewhere next to you. Maybe, he sees the fear returning in your eyes, but he is quick to shrug the holster off, throws it into the dark where it clatters onto the wooden floor boards. What is left in front of you are broad shoulders and a muscular chest, the fabric nearly tearing at his movements.

As you run your hands over it, you cannot help yourself - you need to fucking feel him for real.

Quickly making work of his waistcoat and tie you toss both to the side carelessly, before your hands roam his broad chest. His button-down clings snugly against his upper body and you can feel the muscles work beneath the black fabric as your hands brush over them. You tug at the shirt, pulling its tails from his pants before hastily opening the first few buttons. The skin underneath is pale, littered by blue - red - black bruises, birthmarks scattered in between like stars. You pop open the rest of the buttons, greedy to touch him. And as the shirt falls to the sides your hands are already onto his chest, roaming over and admiring the muscular, defined canvas of strength, that violence has painted a pretty picture on.

John is watching you intently as you undress him and then explore his body, your pupils blown wide and dark, mouth agape a little. He is a little taken aback by it - by someone not seeing his body as the ultimate tool of death that it is, but as something else, that he cannot really pinpoint because he can't even look in the mirror without seeing destruction and decay. But the way your gaze wanders over his body, the way you touch him, is different from that and he has not felt anything like it in years.

And John wants. Carnal desire tugs at his brain, shoots arousal between his legs, makes his cock twitch and a low growl escaping his throat.

The sound gets you going: pushing yourself up with one hand, the other wrapping around his strong neck for leverage as you sit up, mouth immediately clutching to his throat. He tastes of sweat and after-shave - sharp and musky - and you run your tongue over his skin greedily, licking and sucking at the skin while your naked body presses against his.

It disarms him. The gentle touch that you put his body up to, while everything still aches from plowing through the better half of your father's militia and beating the hell out of you, confuses him. Your touch, your lips on his skin are soft and not aiming to hurt - instead, they grow more and more needy, wanton and hasty, as you lick over his bruised skin, tasting his sweat. Your hands over his abdomen caress his defined muscles, in awe of his utter strength, thumbs brushing through the soft and dark trail of hair leading beneath the waistband of his trousers. And all John can do, is watch, his gaze locking with yours as goosebumps erupt on his skin.

And you - oh you; your head swims with the way you turn this animal into a human again, unlock a different set of animalistic needs within him and hearing John's breath growing heavy really fucking does it for you, feeling his scarred and beaten-up skin underneath your hands, wrapping them around the deadly machine that is his body. It makes you want more.

Shedding his blood-stained shirt off of his shoulders, your hands roam over his upper back - feeling the scars there: of knives, larger and small ones and round ones of bullets that once pierced his skin. There is something else, a burn scar, in the shape of a cross and he hisses as your fingers brush over it, nails digging into the stunted skin.

It pulls John out of his stasis, reminds him of who he is and you can feel the air swinging with it seconds before he moves. His large hands wrap around your shoulders and then he pulls you off him, throws you back onto the mattress. You yelp, eyes growing wide as you watch his face as it turns from lightly dazed back to stern, wild, with his brows furrowed.

"That's enough", he says, voice coarse and it still feels like a small victory, even though he spreads your legs roughly, hands digging deep into your thighs - hard enough to bruise - before he kneels between them. He yanks your body forward at the back of your knees, watches your tits bounce and then leans in, his lips immediately attacking your throat, your neck.

His lips are surprisingly soft against your skin, his beard tickling a little as it brushes over your tits, your stomach, your thighs while his tongue licks fat stripes over your nipples and down down down your upper body, right to your navel. One of his hands creeps up your body once more and roughly cups your tit, squeezes, and gropes it, rolls your hardened nipple between his index and middle finger. His stunted ring-finger digs deep into your tit and you gasp, hips bucking. John's lips suck and nibble at your skin, before eventually ghosting over your pubic bone, teasing you before assaulting your thighs again, teeth biting down gently into the soft flesh. You gasp and moan while he gropes your body, inhales your scent - as you watch how his lips, tongue, and teeth dance over your thighs, moving closer to your cunt.

John finally, finally, puts his mouth onto your pussy, peppers open-mouthed kisses around your clit, before clothing his lips around it and sucking on it hard through your panties. Your hips buck as a high-pitched moan erupts from your throat, hands flying into his greying locks.

"Fuck", you whine, feeling fresh wetness flooding your folds, dampening the thin fabric further. John can see the outlines of your wet pussy pressing against your panties and parts from your clit momentarily, only to lick a fat stripe over your clothed cunt, watching it twitch.

"That's fucking pretty", he rasps, gaze locking with yours and you feel all air leaving your lungs. His eyes are so fucking dark, like gleaming black pits swallowing you whole, his breath a little flat with arousal.

You want him to fuck you. Really fuck you. To plow you open, rail you until you cannot sit nor walk. He is already so so close to you, but too far away at the same time. "Please", is all you manage to utter out. And it seems to be sufficient enough for him; seems to get across what you want, what you need.

John's fingers wrap around the front of your lace slip, tugging at the fabric - that rubs along your cunt at the sudden motion and has you gasping quietly - and then he pulls. The lace tears easily as he rips it apart, and cool air hits your wet and hot pussy, as he practically peels you out of your underwear, throws it to the side. The look on his face is wild and you can hear him taking a deep breath, smelling your arousal, before he spreads your folds apart with his thumbs, gaze wandering over your plump and flushed cunt.

Teasingly brushing over your clit with his thumb, John watches your reaction intently. And fuck, you do not disappoint. Throwing your head back, you moan, drawing in a deep breath through your opened mouth that heaves your chest, your eyelids fluttering.

You are dying for him to touch you and as he does, it feels like your body catches fire - lust washing away the dull pain in your limbs and near your ribs.

"Oh God", you breathe out as his thumb draws another wide and slow circle over your clit, your hands darting out and grabbing the sheets "Please."

And John complies, his thumb rubbing over your clit in a slow but steady rhythm.

Gasping, your hands clutch the sheets, knees darting away from each other, giving him more space. John accepts the invitation, grabs one thigh hard, fucked up ring-finger digging deep into your skin. His fingers move further, abandons your clit and dance over your folds, down to your hole. It flutters as two of his digits tease it, gently circling around it.

"Please", you whine once more, lifting your hips a little, a desperate noise leaving your throat. John smirks to himself, before pushing two of his fingers into you.

The stretch is sudden and bigger than expected and you moan coarsely, as he pushes his digits along your walls deeply and nestles them into your seeping hot cunt up to his knuckles. And Jesus, you feel so full already; your head swimming as you consider how big his cock must feel, then.

Your breath goes quick and shallowly as he starts to move them, and then he leans in. Nudges your clit with the tip of his tongue, licks over it.

You feel like combusting on the spot: your nerves tingling with arousal, your whole body still aching from the beating you gave each other earlier - the pain in your back blooming as you stretch it with your hips desperately shoving themselves near his touch - your pussy squeezing his fingers.

John pumps his thick fingers in and out of you, his tongue rubbing and circling your clit and soft, needy moans fall from your lips. Obscene, wet sounds fill the air, mingle with your moans and heavy breathing. His lips close in around your clit, sucking at it while his fingers rub along your spongy walls and your cunt squeezes them hard as fresh wetness floods your folds, your squirt wetting his beard and dripping down on the sheets below.

You can hear - feel - John humming against your pussy, peppering the wet skin with open mouthed kisses, licking over it, and tasting your slick.

You feel so fucking good - lust pulsating through your veins, loins on fire - and your head falls to the side, body rocking with sharp gasps and your mouth agape, eyelids fluttering as --

There's the gun. And the knife.

You could easily grab either one or the other next to you, pull the blade out of the matress or the hammer back; put a bullet right between his eyes or plow the blade deep deep into his skull. Killing the Boogeyman. Killing Baba Yaga.

That would do wonders to your family's business. It would emancipate you from it, you would be free. Free to rule.

"Thinking 'bout killing me?", John rumbles, tongue licking a fat stripe over your cunt, nudging your clit. Your gaze flickers back to him: hair a mess, eyes gleaming darkly, hands on your thighs to keep your legs spread. He does not look surprised. Neither does he look worried.

Realization hits you like a blow to the head: he is toying with you. Has been the whole fucking time. The wolf hunting the deer, running a few rounds through the woods to weaken it; its breath whistling with exhaustion, long legs buckling before it collapses - an easy kill. An easy kill for an old wolf, one, that can't quite handle a real hunt anymore.

But maybe, just maybe - judging from the look in his eyes - he got lost in his own game. Its reins slipped from his bloody hands, the wolf tumbling to the ground.

Looking back at him, your lips curl into a sweet smile. "Not anymore", your hand darts out, brushing the loose strands of dark hair from his face - the soft gesture leaving him visibly confused -, "John."

Two can play this game. And maybe, just maybe, the deer can tire the wolf out first.

Something gleams in John's eyes, dances over them like a shadow and he seems to accept the challenge - readying to tire you out - tongue licking over your clit once more, making you shiver and mewl, as he pulls his fingers out of your dripping hole. You feel empty and --

"Do you really think, you could kill me?", he rumbles, voice deep and rough around the edges, "Stupid slut."

And then, quicker than your brain can process it, his hand comes down on your dripping wet pussy.

Your breath hitches, topples over and leaves your throat as a raw, needy moan. Softly stinging pain blooms between your folds and sets your nerves on fire. Blame it on the bruises, blame it on the pain you both inflicted on each other moments ago, but: it riles you up. Mingles with your aching bones and aching cunt, has you arching your back.

"Y'really think you could kill me", he doesn't sound offended, not even amused - voice plain, like he is inquiring if you really believed the earth to be flat. Like you really are stupid.

And you start to feel stupid, too. There was never a chance. You never had a chance. Your death was sealed, determined the second John stepped into the hotel.

You were stupid to believe you could outrun or beat him. You are stupid. And John has every right to show you, teach you, punish you for it.

Giving your cunt another firm slap, John watches your hips twitch, hears your pussy squelching and soft moans falling from your lips. "Shit", you sigh and he slaps your wet pussy once more, feels your slick folds wetting the palm of his hand.

"D'you like that, girl?", and as your only response are wanton gasps falling from your mouth John chuckles deeply, gives your pulsating cunt another two firm slaps. Seeing how he is pulling you apart, how good he makes you feel really seems to do it for him, gets him quite talkative.

"Uh-huh", you make dumbly, quite illiterate, watching him stroking your flushed, hot cunt with two of his fingers. Shivers run down your spine.

And then he leans back in, licks a fat stripe over your sensitive, flushed cunt, from the hole up to the clit.

You squirm, mewl as his beard brushes over your overstimulated skin, leaving a slight burn that mingles deliciously with a fresh wave of arousal that floods your body scalp to toes.

The muscles in your abdomen clench as two of his fingers circle your fluttering hole and then push in, rubbing along your plush walls agonizingly slowly and you can feel yourself tightening around it. Your juices squelch from your cunt as you squirt against his tongue and your slick runs down your folds, wets his fingers and palm while his tongue laps at your pussy, tasting your sweetness.

John pushes is fingers deeper as you moan and sigh, hands fisting his hair and hips moving against his tongue, his digits thrusting into you.

"Oh god", you huff as his lips close in around your clit, sucking on it and the tip of his tongue flicking against it occasionally.

Another wave of fresh wetness floods your cunt as you squirt once more, wetting the sheets below, your slick running down John's wrist.

John parts from your clit, nudges it with his tongue, his beard glistening with your juices.

"Yeah, that's fucking it", another one of his thick fingers pumps itself into your tight little hole and his other hand - also slick with your juices - grabs your thigh, "That's a good girl."

You feel so full, your spine feels like it's on fire and your brain tingles with it, sends wave of pleasure down down down your body; muscles in your loins clenching, chest heaving. It becomes all too much as he leans back in, rubs his tongue over your clit, lips sucking and teasing your folds.

The slight burn of John's beard tickling your plush, hot cunt. His fingers working your open and stretching your tight little hole open far and wide, obscene squelching sounds filling the air as he works you open, brushing against your g-spot occasionally and making you see stars.

But it's too little. It's just not enough.

"Fuck", you whine as John's thick fingers brush over your g-spot with quite some force, tongue lapping at your seeping cunt, "Shit, please. Please, just fuck me, please!"

You can feel him grinning against your wet cunt, beard a little sticky with your juices, letting go of your pussy with an obscene pop. "Yeah", he licks his lips, tastes you on his tongue, "D'you want my cock?"

And that - that might be what makes you lose your mind. Because yes. Yes, you do.

You have been craving to touch it, to feel it since it had pressed against your clothed pussy earlier. Thus, all dignity leaves your body with one, clean whine that breaks free from your throat.

"Yes, fuck - oh god, John", you brabble, legs falling apart further, inviting him in, his digits sinking deeper into your soaking wet hole, "Shit, please fuck me, John - please, please, please --"

Pleas are still falling from your lips like a chant, as a surprising noise breaks the silence, so strangely beautiful that it has you nearly shuddering: John is laughing. It's a nice baritone sound, and the fine lines around his eyes crinkle with it - it's so beautiful, that it drowns the world out. You watch him in awe, as he shakes his head, avoids your gaze.

"Jesus. Look at you", he huffs, voice dripping thickly with amusement, "If you need it that badly--"

Straightening back up and kneeling between your legs, John slips his fingers from your cunt and makes quick work of his belt, trousers, and boxers. The second he frees is cock, you start to drool like a fucking pavlovian-dog.

His dick is so fucking huge. It is nicely curved and cut, the bulbous pink head glistening with pre-cum and a thick, pumping vein at the bottom that rakes from the base to the tip, as it rests between trimmed, dark pubic hair. His cock bobs against his abdomen as it bounces free, smears the pre-cum along the pale skin, twitches at the sudden contact. And Jesus fucking Christ, you just want to fucking touch it, feel its velvety skin in your palm. But you just know that you won't even be able to wrap your hand around its base fully, it's impossible, it--

"I-it won't fit", you whisper, a little taken aback by his sheer size.

"Oh, I'll make it fit, baby."

John takes his cock in one hand, thumb right beneath its head, and rubs it against your slit. And Jesus fucking Christ. Your hips snap up, meet his movements, and he grunts while he spreads his pre-cum along your cunt, gathers your slick. The thick head of his dick prods against your entrance and you take a deep breath, looking down between your legs. You watch how he slooowly pushes in and you gasp at the sudden intrusion, the delicious stretch making you moan.

His cock feels so fucking big, hot, and heavy, as he nestles the tip in, your hole clenching around it. John's brows furrow, and he doesn't wait long until he pushes his cock in further.

The thick base starts to stretch your slim rings of muscles, a sharp pain shooting through it. He can feel your hole protesting, can see you wincing. "Breathe, baby", he hums, "Let me do the rest."

His coarse voice mingles with his words and the waves of pleasure shooting through your body despite the dull pain, conjures up a pretty pretty image that floods your brain - there's sunlight everywhere, orange rays of it hitting a bed covered in white sheets, sweaty bodies on top of it; limbs entangled, hands intertwined with their golden rings shining brightly in the warm light, heavy breathing and sloppy kisses, and lazy thrusts as his cock fucks you awake. The thought makes you dizzy, your legs falling apart and hole fluttering open, inviting him in.

The slight burn leaves you a gasping, whimpering mess as he pushes himself in deep, nestles his huge cock in between your aching, hot, and tight walls.

And John feels like he is going to pass out. No blow to the head, no bullet to the chest, no knife to the stomach could ever make him feel as dizzy as the feeling of your hot cunt squeezing him does right now. His whole body is vibrating with want and lust and he just really hopes that you don't notice that he has gotten a little rusty. The thought quickly gets drowned-out as he looks down, where his thick cock practically splits you open, vanishes in your hole.

"Shit", he huffs out, places one large hand on your stomach and thrusts. Feeling himself moving inside of you has him moaning, gaze shooting up to you, meeting your eyes, as his hand presses down. "You feel me right here, baby?", he rasps and you nod, mouth agape by the sheer force of his thrust, tip of his cock prodding your cervix.

John can see his cock moving inside of you, the way your stomach bulges a little. He gets a little dizzy with, and then his eyes make the mistake of moving up to your face. And it takes a whole lot of fucking will-power of him to not just thrust and thrust and thrust and fuck you until you cry, bleed.

You are so fucking pretty. Mouth agape you watch how his cock vanishes between your legs, splits your cunt open, with his eyes heavy-lidded and cheeks flushed. Your lips are plush and red from his assault.

Your hands grip the sheets and your breasts heave with your deep breaths, that grow a little more flaccid. Next to you lays his gun, knife still buried into the mattress. His eyes drop to the weapons and his breath hitches. And for a split second, like a flash of light, he wonders what in God's name he's doing here. He is a professional. The Ballerina works like that. He doesn't.

A sweet, sweet noise rips him out of his thoughts. "J-john", you mewl, eyes still trained on his massive dick splitting you open, "I-it, it's --"

"Yeah?", he breathes, the sound all soft and careful around the edges.

"Heavy", you breathe.

"Does it hurt?", he kind of wants it to. Make you pay for what you did to him. He kind of doesn't want it to. Make you enjoy what he's got to give.

John realizes he is fucked.

You nod, head flying back into the cushions, while your brows dart together.

John's free hand flies to your clit, nudges it gently, before slowly rubbing wide circles over it. You gasp, as you feel fresh wetness flooding your cunt and dripping down your folds to where his cock splits your hole open, pools around it. He carefully pulls out a little and then pushes back in, assisted by your slick. The way you moan spurs him on and the circles on your clit grow faster and smaller.

Aching your back, you lean into the touch. "That's a good girl", he whispers, voice raw and coarse, dripping with lust and the exhaustion of holding back. John bottoms out, while continuing to rub your clit and he can feel your walls growing plush, your hole fluttering around his dick, relaxing with your hot, seeping cunt inviting him in. "Feels good?"

"Yeah, fuck", you feel like you are being split open, with his thick cock filling you to the brim and rubbing along your walls with every little movement, the thick head prodding gently against your cervix, "Shit, John."

It feels so fucking good, all thoughts being washed away from your brain as he starts to move carefully, thrusts into you once, twice. You moan, lips slightly parted, before your gaze flies to him.

And Fuck. John's chest is flushed a little, muscles of his abdomen flexing with every thrust while his gaze is trained down to where his cock fucks into you, brows darted together a little and his breathing audible.

"John?", you whisper, and his gaze immediately shoots up to you as your comparably tiny hand wraps around the wrist of his hand that is still rubbing your clit.

"Yeah?"

"Fuck me."

For a long moment, he just looks at you and you think - no, you are convinced - that you can see a glimpse of the human being he once was. Caring, sweet and gentle; as he seems to really take it into consideration if you are ready yet, if you know what you are begging for.

Apparently, he does deem you prepared enough, and the soft gaze gets replaced by a dark gleam as all gentleness vanishes from his face once more. Without a warning, John rolls his hips back only to thrust into you again, deep, and hard, immediately picking up a quick rhythm.

It comes as a genuine surprise to you and you gasp, mewling but it quickly feels just so fucking good, practically lights your body up and leaves every nerve-ending on fire, each thrust has you moaning loudly.

It spurs him on, makes him grunt and for a while, you both just watch him gliding in and out of your tight hole, with him feeling your muscles squeezing him and you feeling his cock stretching your open further and further. Your lips as slightly parted and his brows are furrowed as he rolls his hips into yours and you feel time getting lost on you, the only thing of importance remaining is the feeling of him filling you up. John's hands roam your body, wandering over your thighs and your stomach, your hips before angling your leg, pushing the heel of your foot on his shoulder, and grabbing your ankle with one hand, his dick slips into you even further, balls slapping against your ass heavily with each thrust.

You can tell that John has not fucked in a long, long time. It's not the way he does it - all fluid, languid thrust of his hips, muscles dancing under the soft skin. It's mostly the way he pants and grunts - sounds just as desperate as you feel. And still, he has the stamina of a racehorse.

You can feel that he wants to prove it, too, as his free hand grabs your thigh and hoists your other leg over his hip bone, practically pulling your lower half off the bed in the process. Your pelvis now clings to his, obscene sounds of his cock fucking into your wet pussy filling the air while he huffs with his thrusts, yet does not slow down.

The grip on both, your ankle and your thigh are hard, and you are certain his hands will leave a bruise but you just cannot bring yourself to care. Deep down you know, that someone will see them: your maids, your friends, your family.

But all thoughts, all worries get swapped from your brain as your gaze wanders up from where John's dick hammers into you steadily, rakes over his defined stomach and chest and finally, finally lands on his face.

He looks downright, utterly, and breathtakingly -- pornographic.

John's dark pupils blown wide gleaming with arousal, his cheeks are slightly blushed and a thin layer of sweat makes him glow in the dim light of the living room falling onto the bed. It surrounds him like a halo, a Saint of Death and Decay, with his dark hair falling into his forehead and onto his shoulders. He brushes it out of the way with his stunted hand, a ragged breath making his chest heave. There is still some of your slick wetting his beard.

You can't help your mind from going there, from wondering how different things could have been. What it would be like if you had met me in a bar instead of him entering your suite, leaving the hallway behind him looking like a slaughterhouse. Maybe he would have laughed at your jokes, in the dim light of your favorite bar in the city. Maybe he would have liked the same music as you do. Maybe, just maybe, he would have brought you home only to stay the night and fuck you until you would have lost your goddamn mind.

Your hand wanders down your body, strokes your waist and hip in the process, before it languidly drops between your spread legs, two fingers darting out and rubbing circles over your sensitive clit.

John moves quickly, his usual deadly precision shattering your peaceful fantasy, his hand ditching your thigh and closing in around your waist. "Don't you fuckin' touch yourself", he growls, and it's the first time you hear real, actual emotion dwelling in his throat - not his toneless, cold and mechanical rumble. He sounds pissed. Offended.

And the best part is: it seems to get him fucking going.

John leans in, your calf still resting on his shoulder and the slight pain of the stretch is delicious as he nearly folds your body in half. You can feel his dick sliding in even deeper into your hole and you gasp and whine, one hand coming up to dig into his biceps to just hold on. Hold on, while he pounds into you with perfectly angled, deep and strong thrusts, hitting your g-spot with every single one of them.

You know that the suite's door is in shambles, that anyone could walk in here and see you having your brains fucked out by the man who is here to kill you - but you don't care. Part of it is, because the gun is still resting next to your head on the sheets. You could just grab it and shoot anyone dead in heartbeat, whoever is trying to disturb the pleasure that shoots through your body.

But it is also him.

It's the way John is towering over you, back hunched, looking all wide and powerful and deadly, with the way he shields your body from view and harm as he thrusts into you. As he pushes all his rage, adrenaline, and strength into your tight hole, groans, and pants into your ear.

There is nothing you can do, despite holding onto him, nails digging into his back, clutching his broad shoulders, fingers running over his tattoos desperately. He is fucking the living daylight out of you, your body moving like a ragdoll underneath the mountain of muscles and strength. Your cunt is being split open by his cock, as you feel him hammering into you and you feel like you are going to lose your mind, panting and moaning with each of his thrusts.

"John, fuck", you moan sweetly, eyes rolling into your skull as he pounds into you, "You feel so fucking good, shit --"

"Yeah", he huffs, his forehead slowly sinking onto yours, "You too, baby."

You can see his eyelids fluttering, feel his upper body heaving beneath your hands, smell the blood on his skin, mingling with his musky scent. Blaming it on the sickening cocktail of hormones that is flooding both - your brain and your body - you lean in, your lips desperately smacking against his.

And Jesus Fucking Christ. Does John kiss you.

Kisses you like he is starving for it, licking back into your mouth - his body pressing yours into the mattress with his whole weight and muscle, while still thrusting into you.

Your hands tangle into his hair, tugging at it. John moans against your lips and your stomach flutters at the sound, and you want more. One hand moves to lay at the crook of his neck and your tongue presses against his, licking back into his mouth. Adding some force to his neck you invite John deeper into the kiss, and he follows suite, steals you the last bit of air your lungs were holding. Panting you part from him, thumb brushing over the crook of his neck.

Greedily breathing against his lips, you can't help yourself. You feel so alive and you want him to wreck you, to leave something behind that you will remember for every day your heart continues to beat. Greedily breathing against his lips, you can't help yourself but to whisper: "Harder."

John blinks, hips stuttering. And then, he grunts. His hand digs into your waist as he grabs you there, hold you in place will his hips rut into you. Picking up a near brutal rhythm, obscene sounds of your slick being pushed in and out and in out of your hole as he jackhammers into your g-spot, the bedframe rattling as John's thrusts pound it into the wall - leaving you a gasping and moaning mess. His belt clinks with his thrusts and you cling onto him, sharp whines escaping your throat.

"John John John", his name leaves your mouth like a mantra, sharp and high-pitched. His head falls forward, dark locks brushing over your cheek as his temple rests against yours and then you hear it.

John moans.

It's a deep, carnal sound. Your stomach flutters and lust shoots through your body at the noise, your tight cunt squeezing his thick cock as you squirt around his cock like a broken fucking hose, wetting his pubic hair. You can feel it rubbing along your wet folds, the sensation making you mewl, leaves your hips shuddering.

"Shit", you breathe, hands cradling his muscular back and then you can feel his dick twitching inside of you, accompanied by yet another one of his sweet, sweet moans, "Fuck, John--"

He raises his head and your gazes connect, before he leans in, presses his lips onto yours once more. The kiss is surprisingly soft and in stark contrast to the way he ruts and pounds into you and then he hits the spot once more and -

Everything goes white as your muscles clench and unclench suddenly, as you nearly scream against his lips; your hole practically milking his cock as you cum, pussy gushing and squirting around him like a broken hose.

John continues to fuck you through your orgasm and his heavy breathing reaches your ears through the cotton candy, that slowly wraps you in as everything turns light and bright. He moans deeply against your cheek as he comes, too - shoots hot ropes of cum into you and paints your walls with it.

His movements still as he buries himself deep into you, cock twitching with each thick rope of his cum and you can feel him fill you up, as his massive frame slowly sinks down onto you.

Your legs grow heavy and the stretch of your left leg is turning painful and you - a little clumsily - pull it away from his shoulder, stretch it out. Your limbs start to shake and you close your eyes, drawing in deep breaths through your nose.

The room is silent, the air heavy with the musky scent of sex.

Your chest still heaves with the remains of your orgasm, bliss still spreading in your brain and your veins, making you feel like you are flying. Your heart is still racing, as you feel him moving again.

Blinking up at him, you can see him grabbing the gun.

"Don't", you say softly, voice coarse from screaming your lungs out in pleasure just moments ago, "Please, don't." You are not ready to scream yet again. Not ready to scream in pain, instead of pleasure.

John does not reply. He pulls the hammer back, checks the chamber - all with one hand.

"Kill him instead, please."

He freezes, eyes locking with yours. "Who?", he sounds just as exhausted as you. The wolf, tired out. The deer, bleeding, limping.

Call it Post Nut Clarity, call it Finally Taking Your Future In Your Own Hands, call it Emancipating Yourself. Call it Having Wrapped A Deadly Assassin Around Your Pinky.

You were not safer here. You never were. Just more isolated. Easier to locate.

Easier to kill.

Realization hits you like a blow to the head, your vision swimming.

See? I will not die today.

"My father. Kill him."

#i'm back girlies #john wick smut #john wick x reader #john wick x you #john wick imagine #smut #my writing #keanu reeves #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves x you #keanu reeves smut

[elenalolls]

Matt (or chris) fic where the reader is like sooo distant that matt (or Chris) become desperate to know what's wrong? Like to the point where he's begging her.

"Please. I NEED to know what's wrong so I can fix it."

PLS 🤭🤭

I’ll Always Be There For You – (M.S.)

Pairing: Matt Sturniolo x Fem!Reader

Summary: When you begin to face problems, you distance yourself from the one person you know you could go to and he notices.

Word Count: 670+

Warning/s — OOC idk help / Nothing (???)

A/N: I dont think I followed this request fully soz, WHERE HES BEGGINGGG OH SO UR SICK.

You had no intention of putting up a wall between you and Matt. It didn’t serve any purposes and you knew that. You also knew talking about what was going on would help in a way. So why were you suddenly doing things different?

You weren’t sure yourself.

And you had thought you were doing a subtle job at doing so, until you apparently weren’t when you received a text saying ‘Unlock your door. Be there in fifteen, let’s talk about you.’

‘Let’s talk about you’, let’s! Or, we can talk about how many… insults were thrown at you a day, ultimately bringing your mood down for over a week. Just for being in a relationship with your boyfriend.

Upon reading that message, your eyebrows furrowed. You wanted to tell him no, that you weren’t able to hang out or talk. But as you reevaluated his message, you realized he had sent it almost ten minutes ago, earning a groan. You ran a hand through your hair as you slipped on your shoes. Quickly making your way into your living room and towards the front door, refraining from, yet again, letting out a noise of frustration when you heard a car, his car, pull into your driveway.

Accepting your defeat, you unlocked and opened the front door. Crossing your arms over your chest, waiting for him.

When his figure appears from around the corner, you still. “Hi,” you manage to say, your voice cracking in the process. Well! “I don’t know if I can talk for long, what happened—”

“Are you okay?” Matt interjected, his tone stern, completely ignoring what you had just said.

“I— What?” You stammered, tilting your head. “I’m fine, are you okay?”

“Don’t lie to me.” Quickly adding, “Please.”

As you locked eyes with him, you could sense his concern, and it triggered a pang of guilt within you. You’ve had this discussion before, coming up with a solution that did work for a while, until it didn’t. And as if he could see right through you, he spoke once more. “You can tell me, Y/N. Anything. You know that.”

Your shoulders slumped, “I know.”

“Then what’s wrong,” He softly spoke, gently grasping both your hands. Slowly guiding you backwards, allowing the two of you to enter your house. Releasing your hands momentarily, he turned around and securely shut the door, locking it.

As you continue to remain silent, he lowers his head so he’s eye-to-eye with you, his hands moving to your shoulders, “Please. I need to know in order to help, Y/N. Let me help you.”

Reluctantly, you give in. “If you say I’m being overdramatic—”

He chuckles, rolling his eyes. “I won’t, of course I won’t. You know I won’t.”

“Right,” you murmur, “I know I said I wouldn’t check my comments on anything, but I was curious. I saw what was being said about me, and it just, I don’t know.”

Matt’s expression softens even more (if possible), “You should’ve told me. I could’ve said something.”

You looked down, causing your hair to cascade over your shoulder. Seeing this, he raised his hand and gently tucked some of your hair behind your ear. With his hand now on your cheek, you fought the temptation to lean into his touch as you uttered your next words. “You have already and clearly, it didn’t matter. Listen, it’s fine, I’m fine. Like I said, it just put me in a mood for a couple days.”

“It’s not, though.” The boy mumbled, holding your gaze. “You shouldn’t be criticized for being with me, and I’m sorry. I’ll talk with Nick and Chris about it, we can say something about it again, yeah?”

You allowed a smile to slowly make its way onto you face, “Okay, yeah.”

As he embraces you, his hands gently encircle your waist, drawing you closer. Your arms instinctively find their place around his neck. “Do you want to stay? We can watch a movie or something.”

“I thought you said you couldn’t talk for long,” he muttered against your neck, laughing as you pulled away soon after. “I’m kidding, yes.”

DT(s) — @bellelovesmen, @agirlsrage ! ౨ৎ

#matt sturniolo #matt sturniolo x fem!reader #matt sturniolo x you #matt sturniolo x y/n #matt sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo angst #matt sturniolo fluff #fem!reader #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo triplets fanfic #sturniolo triplets matt sturniolo #matt sturniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo one shot #jilval #godspeed - frank ocean

[lunarw0rks]

Hiiiii❤️ I idk if this is a Drabble or a headcaon but here I go anyways😅 . Hear some context So you don’t think I’m some weirdo. So in the 2017 movie called the babysitter and this character Allison got shot in the b00b and she “omg he shot me in the b00b what kind of dçk shots a girl in the b00bs” (funny scene) so basically fem!reader with platonic!taskforce141. And there on a mission and suddenly they hear the same line on their coms and they’re like 😳

(feel free to ignore)

A/N: LMAO - I had to look up the scene for this as a reference. Just picturing Price's paternal disappointment when he realizes his team acts like a bunch of children. Sorry, this is rlly short!

Summary: Your attempt at comedic relief sets off a chain reaction of immaturity.

Warning(s): platonic!141, canon-typical mild injury, suggestive language, AFAB!Reader, no use of y/n

Word Count: 554

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ 141 MASTERLIST // have a request? ⋆ ⚘ 🕊 ˚✧ ₊˚ʚ ao3 ver. | PART TWO

No Filter // 141 Drabble

Compared to some of the other operations you’d done with them, this was a piece of cake. A simple infiltrate and exfil mission where you’d be clearing house in one of Hassan’s safehouses—a mere breadcrumb leading to the man himself.

Price thought it would go smoothest if everyone split up, but to keep within shouting distance. It was only a small facility, after all.

Being ambushed? Shot? That was not something you saw in the cards for today.

Luckily, you got a bullet in him before he had a chance to do worse. But here you were, slumped against the wall with all the air knocked out of your lungs.

“Heard the shots, Sergeant. You broken?”

Captain Price’s voice crackled through near instantly, the second he had pulled the trigger on you. Though it took a few seconds, you managed to recuperate, and asses the room in front of you. The man who shot you K.I.A, and you very fortunate.

You peered down at your chest; indeed not broken, but injured. The vest had absorbed the shot, causing a relieved sigh to escape your lips. Obviously, if you really had a bullet in your chest, you wouldn’t just be sitting there—but the adrenaline of escaping death eliminated any rationality.

You unbuttoned the first few buttons on your shirt, seeing a welt on your breast as if the man had his gaze set on them when he pulled the trigger. Still, with your hand on the button of your radio, you finally gave some sort of answer.

“Bastard shot me in the boobs.” It was a mumble, but there was no way in hell they didn’t hear that.

As you winced, you seemed to forget that the entire team was on the other line—probably way more concerned with your life than the health of your tits. “What kind of dick shoots a girl in the boobs?” You asked rhetorically, despite the astonished silence on the other line.

“You were shot in your…?” Gaz was the first to speak up, his tone practically painting the picture of his signature squint.

Before the next voice chimed in, you could swear you heard whoever it was stifling a laugh. “Thanks for that.” Soap chimed in, accent crackling against the static. His smirk was visible even if his words; the natural flirt in him coming out no matter what.

Ghost had remained silent, probably muting his comms so he didn’t have to listen to this. And Price? Oh, Price… He’s got his head in his hands with pure disappointment. How did this status update turn so unprofessional, so quickly?

“Wait, let me get this straight,” Soap comes in again, a smug sneer on his face. “He shot you on the—”

“Keep it tactical, Sergeant.” Price blurts, interrupting the immature banter daring to be further set in motion. He was fighting every urge to crack a smile at the pure ridiculousness, but his poker face and stern tone prevented it.

“Tactical or not, John, it’s a tough break.” Laswell comes in, your only saving grace against Price’s father-like disappointment. She was the last superior of yours you’d expected to find it humorous, but she did, nonetheless.

This would definitely be the source material for the next HR meeting, you could see it now.

#mw2 #mw2 fanfic #call of duty #simon riley #task force 141 #ghost mw2 #task force 141 x reader #task force 141 x y/n #captain john price #john price #kate laswell #kyle gaz garrick #soap mctavish

[nctstar]

poly! nct 127 ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ threesome ver.

hard dom members x sub reader

pairing: nct 127 x fem!reader

word count: 2.6k

genre: smut

warnings: sexual content so minors please dni! everything is consensual, hard dom members, heavy degradation and bsdm content (don't read if triggering), safeword discussed, oral (male and female receiving), rough penetrative sex (unprotected, please be safe irl), manhandling, hair pulling, painplay + impact play (whipping), face slapping + spanking, squirting, fingering, clitoral stimulation, double penetration (same hole), a lot of crying, begging, sexual punishment, daddy kink, kissing, anal (female receiving), multiple orgasms + overstimulation, intense orgasms, mentioning ex during sex, handjob, hand over mouth (female receiving), profanity, (everything is really messy idk how to write this so you hopefully get what i mean)

disclaimer: this is a fanfiction purely from my (filthy) imagination. I don't know the nct members and don't claim that they act like this in real life. I also do not condone any of the activity by any of the characters in this fic. everything is consensual and safewords/limits have been discussed prior to the scene - sex is only sex when it's fun for both parties, please keep this in mind <3

a/n: so um...here's this. I was running on matcha coffee 3 hours of sleep and 2 episodes of pretty little liars all before 9am yesterday when something in my body just felt COMPELLED to write this, so here it is :D also labyrinth ch 2 is COMINGG i just need time to write it in a good way, but i've planned the entire thing and am excited to see how it ends up. also, i've decided to make poly! nct a series, not quite sure if i'll keep the same pairings or how this will work but it won't only be smut, i plan to write lots of different types of scenarios for them. anyways, love you, bye for now xx

Mark & Taeyong ~ Thighs slipping against each other, water dripping down to your ankles as you stumbled towards Taeyong’s parted legs. “Bend over.” He commanded, but you felt the shove before you could, pushing you forward with a gasp. Mark’s open hand now pressing down on the shallow bend of your back, he toyed with the strings of your bikini bottom, chuckling darkly at your every whine. Taeyong grabbed your chin roughly, forcing your face inches away from his. You winched as his grip tightened, hard enough to leave bruises. “Fucking slut.” Your heart hammered as you felt the cold air hit your now bare core and ass, Mark squeezing the plush of your behind as he groaned in pleasure. “Fuck, she’s so sexy.” He drawled. The panic began to quicken, pouring down your veins like ice water when you felt the wood-hard bulb of his dick press against your exposed hole. Eyes watering, you begged, not quite sure what you were begging for. “Please, please, p-please…” Mark slapped your ass in response, the tears now rolling down your cheeks as you cried out. Your vision whitened, side of your face stinging as Taeyong slapped you, twice, the edges of his ring marking a spot underneath your cheekbones. “Bend the fuck over. All the way.” You nodded as you cried, shutting your eyes as you held your ankles and let your head hang down, the blood rush making you delirious.

The pain and pleasure made your legs tremble, losing control of your body, gripping until you felt the bony edges of your ankles, moans ripping themselves from your throat as Mark bottomed out. “So big, please…” You gasped, as if his cock choked you from the inside. You babbled apologies, shaking your head when you heard the sound of Taeyong’s zipper above Mark’s sloppy thrusts. “Please, n-no…no more, I can-nghh,” you trailed off, feeling your own release grease your inner thighs, shame pooling in the bottom of your stomach. “We’re not done here, slut. No safe word means you still want this. Stupid whore.” Taeyong groaned as he pumped himself to his full hardness, watching you shakily squat down to the cold tiles, listening for any signs of protest. You stayed quiet, heaving, a sudden urge to let go as your head throbbed from your last orgasm. You felt Mark wrap one arm around your lower stomach, pressing down hard and lifting you off the ground. You squealed, trying to push his arm away, the muscles bulging underneath his skin. “You’re too rough with m-me…” Your knees hit the cold tiles as Taeyong pushed his length into your mouth, another hand holding you in place and gripping your hair tight. “Can you cum like this? Hmm?” Your head spun, pussy throbbing from the humiliation, Mark’s legs now caging your body as you stared up at Taeyong, cock bruising the back of your throat. Your pleas were lost around his length as Mark began to press his fingertips into your scalp, making you sob. “What’s the matter? Too rough?” He teased, his laugh searing into your brain. You pressed your thighs together as something sent you over the edge, making you spray all over the tiles like a rabid animal. As you gasped for air, Taeyong kept thrusting in your mouth, groaning as he came, moonlight hitting the sheen on his skin as you swallowed every last drop.

Jaehyun & Johnny~ “Faster, sweetie.” His words dripped sticky like honey in the shell of your ear. Your legs wobbled, biting your lip so hard you tasted rusted metal. With Jaehyun’s semi-hard cock nestled inside of you, you tried to grind your hips quicker, earning a satisfied groan from Johnny. “Good girl.” You moaned in pleasure, shockwaves of euphoria running through your body, but moments later, Johnny gripped you around the waist, fingers digging harshly into the plush of your sides. “But not fast enough.” You whimpered, knowing what comes next. Jaehyun brought one arm up to wrap around your shoulders, pulling your face into the crook of his neck. As you shook your head, he shushed you quietly. “Wanna use your safe word?” You shook your head, and Jaehyun held you tighter against him, the fingers of his other hand travelling down to press down on your clit. “Such a nasty little doll for us to fuck.” You moaned when he sped up, tears flowing down your cheeks as you came. “So quick to cum too. Open.” You thought he meant open your eyes, so it took you by surprise when he pressed his fingers past your slightly parted lips, pressing down on your tongue until drool ran down your chin. “Silly girl.”

Your body jerked when you felt the thick tip of Johnny’s cock press against you. You gazed pleadingly at Jaehyun, as if to beg for mercy. “Can’t even use our cocks right. Gotta do all the work ourselves. Stupid girl.” You buried your face into Jaehyun as the heat of embarrassment blossomed across your face, but Johnny wasn’t having it. One quick wrap around his wrist and your head was yanked back, scalp burning from the impact, stray strands of hair falling limply across your face. “What do you say, hmm?” The stretch burned deliciously as he continued to push inside you, tucking himself right next to Jaehyun, so good you forgot how to breathe. “Mnghh, y-yes, s-so good, please, please, Daddy, l-love it, love being stuffed…” Your mouth slackened as an unexpected orgasm rendered you numb. When your senses returned, you felt Jaehyun grind his hips upwards in smooth, fluid, quick snaps, while Johnny pounded you from the back. You cried as you felt another orgasm be torn from you, piece by piece. “F-fuck, oh my god!” Johnny’s arms wrapped around your neck, your fingernails tearing at his biceps for air as you squirted hard over both of them. “Please, Daddy, can’t-“ As he released you, letting you fall onto Jaehyun’s toned torso, you cried, stuttering in between shaky breaths. “T-thank, you, thank you…”

Haechan & Taeil~ “It’s too big…” you whined, lube running down the crevices between your legs. Haechan shushed you, petting your hair. “You’re okay, kitty. Remember we use our words when we want to stop, hmm?” You nodded, remembering the safe word. You couldn’t lie – it felt equal parts weird and good. You felt Taeil lift you by your arms, letting you wrap your arms around him. “Mmm, Daddy…” you sighed as he sucked and nipped at your neck. The dildo continued to travel inside your ass, and Taeil whispered in your ear. “You’re gonna take it all, right? Like a good kitty.” You cried as the stretch started to make you force yourself off the dildo, but Taeil grabbed your thighs, pressing them against his so you couldn’t move. “Shhh…” he continued to kiss along the shell of your ear, while you protested. “Daddy, f-fuck, wait, it’s so b-big…” Haechan was relentless, and without warning, began to thrust it upwards. You felt like your entire world had been split into two, your stomach torn to shreds. “Oh my god!” you screamed. “H-Hyuckie!”

“Naughty kitty…you thought I hadn’t noticed that you were flirting with Mark today?” You cried, shaking your head as he continued his pace. Your heart pounded at the thought of him going faster, even though you knew you could stop him at any point. “Bad kitty.” He tutted. Taeil’s bulge grew underneath your pussy, and you made the mistake of glancing down. “Nasty kitty.” Haechan’s breath tickled the side of your neck, and your body started to shake in pleasure. “Hnghh…” Taeil laughed. “You’re soaking me, kitty. You’re really gonna cum from your punishment?” His teasing tone made you moan incessantly, and he grabbed your hand, shoving it under the waistband of his shorts. “Daddy first.” You nodded, stroking him under his pants as Haechan continued to fuck your ass with the dildo, groaning at your pornographic sounds. “What do you say, kitty?” You felt Taeil coat your hands with cum, and your legs shook. “H-Hyuckie, please, can I cum?” He stayed quiet, pressing the dildo fully inside you. You continued to beg as he pushed his cock inside you, sliding down Taeil’s body agonisingly. “Can’t, c-can’t hold it in, p-please…” Taeil pressed your face on his crotch while he chuckled. “What about me, honey?” With tears running down your face, you begged, “C-can I cum, Daddy…please – oh!” the breath left your lungs as Haechan yanked the dildo out, sheathing himself inside your ass. “Cum, kitty.” You stammered words of relief as you came the hardest you ever had, Haechan finishing all over the curves of your ass and lower back.

Jungwoo & Yuta~ You couldn’t see anything, but you knew it was him. You’d recognise his lips anywhere, tongue slithering up inside you like snakes. “J-Jungwoo.”

You heard the whip crack before you felt it, a diagonal line on your back, white-hot pain seeping into your body. You fought a sob as Jungwoo kissed your neck, the lips on your core still sucking and kissing your sensitive folds. “Wrong.”

He waited for you to give you the all-clear, to nod, letting him know you were still good to continue before he left your side, and it was silent again.

You yelped in surprise as you felt someone nip at your chest, one hand pressing your back to keep you still. You whimpered, the sudden jolts of pain making your body writhe under his arms. “Y-yuta.”

You were released immediately, but your breathing remained laboured. For a second you thought you were wrong again, and you held your breath, squeezing your eyes even though you were blindfolded. “Correct. Last one.” You felt your head be yanked back by your hair, making you yelp. “A-ah, it hurts…” You feel something rub against your lips, the shape and texture making you quickly realise it was a cock. You whimpered involuntarily, knowing this one would make or break this game. You swirled your tongue around the end, sucking on the tip, kissing blindly around the shaft, your lips meeting the softer skin of the balls as you did. “Jungwoo.” You continued kissing, sucking, bringing your hands up to cup his balls, and that’s when you heard him groan. “Fuck. So filthy, isn’t she, Yuta?”

He laughed, and you felt the air between your legs. He sucked your clit, making you moan onto Jungwoo’s length. “A-ah, feels good…” Yuta hummed into your core. “Filthy sluts like you…” he kissed you, “…deserve…” he swirled his tongue inside you, holding your knees down when they rebounded upwards to move away from his mouth, “to cum over, and over…” You came with a cry as he sucked relentlessly, but you were cut off by Jungwoo pushing his cock inside you, making you gag noisily. “If you like my cock so much, let me give it to you.” Dizzy with relief, Jungwoo lay you on your back, the sheets slipping against your bare skin as you slid your body upwards. Yuta held you down, pressing your stomach into the mattress, watching as your back arched off the sheets rhythmically, tits rolling with each movement. “S-so good, fuck, f-fuck…” Your legs felt like jelly as Jungwoo held your face in place, the new angle over you allowing him to thrust in your mouth, the weight of gravity making his cock heavier than usual. Balls slapping against your chin, you felt it bulge in your throat, wrapping your fingers around yourself to feel it slip in and out of you. He pulled out slowly, a slurry of coughs and moans filling the air as you felt yourself cum onto Yuta’s face, his fingers rubbing the inside of your knees to ground you. You babbled incoherently, not knowing whether you wanted Yuta to stop, for Jungwoo to leave. The tip of Jungwoo’s cock on your lips brought to back to Earth. “Give me a kiss.” You kissed him diligently. “Y-yes sir, love this c-cock so much…” He came all over your ruined face to finish the job, just as you felt Yuta press himself inside you, sensitive clit screaming from the stretch.

Doyoung & Jaehyun~ “Stop, s-stop…” Jaehyun halted his fingers as you shuffled your bare body on his satin pants, pressing your legs together to centre yourself in the midst of your post-orgasmic haze. “Already came.” Jaehyun leant his head over your shoulder, bringing your naked body closer to his. “I know, sweetie. Wanna see you make another mess…” He brought his hands closer to your core, watching and waiting for you to protest. You didn’t. You were watching Doyoung, watching the way his shirt hung off him desperately, inches of his body peeking out from under the fabric. “Like what you see?” You moaned unexpectedly when Jaehyun dug his fingers inside you, running his fingers across your spongy walls. “A-ah…” Your mouth hung open, the pleasure more intense than before. Doyoung walked across to tilt your chin upwards, wrapping his fingers around your jaw while his thumb ran across your swollen bottom lip. “What was that you said about your ex? How he made you finish so hard you had to throw away your sheets?” The implications of his words somehow made that knot in your stomach tighten, every stroke of Jaehyun’s fingers now bringing you to the edge of euphoria. “Answer me.” He squeezed your cheeks as you made guttural noises, your orgasm hitting you at once. Jaehyun sped up his fingers, not caring when he felt your insides grip him like a vice, as it begging him to slow down. The slap of his palm against your clit was brutal, and Doyoung pressed his open palm against your mouth. “If you’re not gonna answer me, then you don’t deserve to speak, whore.” Tears sprung to your eyes as you grabbed at Doyoung’s wrist, pleading. He watched you carefully. “Nod if you remember the signal that replaces the safeword.” You nodded eagerly, and he stepped closer to you, his other hand now pushing the back of your head into his palm, holding your head in place.

“Finish me off. Hurry up.” You grabbed at his pants, the silky fabric slipping away as you wrapped your hands around his length. He groaned, bringing your head to his stomach as he let go of your mouth, letting you breathe into his stomach. “Good girl. Stay quiet now.” You whimpered, losing count of the times you had already came. Jaehyun pulled his fingers out, pressing onto your clit now. You lifted your head off Doyoung. “Nghh, wait, not there…” Doyoung smacked your head in warning, making tears spring to your eyes. “This is why you haven’t squirted yet. We’re too nice to you. Always listening to you, treating you like a princess. When all you are is a dirty whore.” His words made the tears run down your face, but you were turned on more than ever. Jaehyun sucked at your neck aggressively, his voice deep and sonorous. “We’re not finished until you’ve squirted hard enough to ruin these pants. Then once again around my cock. And then around his.” You wailed, feeling your orgasm approach you in towering phases. “Ah, ah, feels w-weird, fuck, wait, I think I’m gon-“ You were cut off by Doyoung’s fingers, pressing inside you while Jaehyun drew circles on your clit. “Don’t fucking stop jerking me off. Don’t care if you’re cumming.” You threw your head back, quickening each flick of your wrist as you felt yourself reach your high, each cry more intense than the last. Legs shaking, you felt the wetness come out of you in quick bursts, fingers spreading it all over the three of you, through clothes and onto skin.  

#kpop #nct #nct fanfiction #kpop fanfiction #nct scenarios #nct fanfic #nct imagine #kpop imagine #nct 127 #nct smut #nct 127 smut #doyoung smut #johnny smut #mark smut #hard dom nct #dom nct #haechan smut #taeil smut #jungwoo smut #yuta smut #jaehyun smut #taeyong smut #dom taeyong #dom jaehyun #dom johnny #dom mark #dom haechan #dom taeil #dom doyoung #dom yuta

[no-droids]

Another Rough Day

gif credit @chrishemsworht

Part Twenty of the Rough Day Series

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 13.7K

Warnings: Angst, violence, canon-typical blood and gore, language, hurt/comfort

A/N: i wanna thank yall for sticking around during my hermit era, in the time ive been gone i am now officially a junior at a university majoring in aerospace and it’s a fuckin nightmare and i hate everything and god help us all literally kill me and I will be posting INCREDIBLY slowly because of that (I’m talkin weeks or months in between updates yall, im sorry I can’t dedicate more time to this but I am going to finish this fic within the next handful of chapters idk maybe 5 or 6 so you shouldn’t have to wait too too long).  As a heads up there will be hard angst as we enter the final arc, there will be hurt and it’ll get dark but everything is gonna turn out alright so thanks for sticking with me and continuing to stick with me. im sorry if you dont like it or your expectations were subverted or if this isn’t what you’d hoped it would be after following and waiting around for so long but this was planned a long time ago and it took me a good year or two to recognize that I started writing this fic for me and now I’m going to end it writing for me and I hope yall can respect that

ALSO I asked my best BEST FRIEND in the entire world @cptnbvcks to collaborate with me for this after we both took a very long break from creating and she drew some GORGEOUS artwork for this chapter so it will be posted at the end, everyone please go follow her and say hello

ps brittany girl you’re a fuckin menace i had to use my own two ears and listen to ethan literally say the words “the mandalorian cums, hard” what the fuck was that im actually suing

anyways chapter below the cut lets get serious yall

---

You take two of them down before they even realize they’re being attacked.

Your aim is as swift and steady as if Din were behind your shoulder right now, calmly pointing out which stationary tree to hit next in rapid succession.  You’re positioned perfectly at the bottom of the ramp to take full advantage of the ambush, the only thing running through your mind is strategy and the constant calculating of angles and ricochets.  The other three troopers are trapped inside the open Crest and you’re right next to a large boulder that you can step behind for cover, but it proves unnecessary as the rumors were apparently true.

They’re… awful.

Not a single blaster is even fired in your direction—you think you see maybe one panicked red shot bounce around in the hull, but that’s it.  The troopers fumble for their guns and trip over each other at the unexpected attack—a few scream like children through the modulators, but you’re temporarily deaf to anything besides the screech of your weapon hitting its target and the crumpling of armored bodies.

Later on, if someone were to ask you to describe exactly what happened—who died first, who ran for cover, who cried out for help—you don’t think you’d be able to.  You don’t even really feel like a person right now.  The entire thing is cold, robotic survival instinct, pure ruthlessness rising in your soul for the first time in your life.  It feels sick.  Wrong in your bones.  Born from preemptive defense in fear of your life, but that doesn’t mean you stop.  Not until all of them stop moving.

You empty the entire fucking canister for a handful of stormtroopers, firing plasma and char marks across every square inch of the pristine hull even after the last one drops.  Your heart is beating too fast, your finger keeps pulling the trigger multiple times even after the blaster clicks uselessly, completely empty and beeping a warning that it must’ve begun emitting ages ago.  Being out of ammo scares you—you suddenly feel vulnerable, even though the very far away logical part of your mind reminds you that they have to all be dead at this point and no physical threat was ever able to graze you.

Regardless, you quickly spin behind the boulder and grab another canister from your belt, giving it a spare check for leaks while the empty one slides and drops to the rocky ground.  It’s the first time you’ve ever had to reload this weapon instead of just pointing and shooting, but the mechanics are relatively simple and your brain makes up for your lack of coherent thoughts with lightning fast perception.  What's difficult is that your hands are starting to shake now that you’re not aiming, you’re not breathing correctly because you’re not really breathing at all.  You can’t tell the difference between the adrenaline-fueled dissociative silence that muffles everything around you or if it really is just that quiet now.  No more clatter of armor, no modulated voices or terrified screams.  No blasters, no footsteps along the ramp, no birds singing.

You quickly pause to lift your elbow and check the enormous eyes blinking up at you, tiny claws still holding tight to the fabric of your tunic and completely unharmed, and then you force yourself to move.  The blaster is held out in front of you while you walk forward and your finger rests on the trigger, begging to be pulled again.  It’s suspenseful and terrifying in a different way than before—now it’s less about psyching yourself up for confrontation and more about the fact that any sudden movement could mean your very swift end.

Silence.  Silence.  You’re numb and raw at the same time, walking up the ramp as your eyes fly everywhere, not even registering the blood or gore, just searching for movement.  You don’t know if you feel like a predator or prey, you’re that much more brutal and inhuman because of how fucking terrified you are.  You count four stormtroopers in the hull laying crumpled and still on the metal floor, but the one in the far corner only has blood on his shoulder.  You quickly swing the blaster around to remedy that, but then—

“P-Please don’t kill me!”

His words remind you of something.  Reality, maybe.  A world outside yourself and the kid’s survival, the living beings behind the bloody armor your enemies wear.

It’s a miracle your finger stays hovering over the trigger, and you watch him throw the blaster at your feet with a clang and scramble to show you his empty hands.  “Please don’t kill me, please don’t kill me—I’m not loyal to the Empire, I don’t want to be here, please, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die—”

Behind the mask, your expression furrows.  Stormtroopers are loyal to the bitter end, what is he saying?  They embrace their expendiality, it’s the only thing that makes them any sort of a real threat.  Kuiil told you horror stories about them during your childhood, the cloning facilities and the propaganda they’re force fed since infancy.  It’s nearly impossible to find one who hasn’t been raised from birth to serve the Empire, no matter how crumbled and trace its remaining authority may be.

No, this is a trap, it has to be.  Your expression twists with dread after hearing him speak, readjusting your aim with the blaster and preparing yourself for the years of nightmares that’ll follow—but then he cries out, “Wait!” and then removes his helmet with trembling hands.

You pause, staring down at him in shock.

It’s him, you recognize him immediately.  It’s the same face from a hologram puck you bore into your memory, spent multiple days staring at so you’d be able to spot him under any disguise or circumstances.  Oshua Ryler.  Your quarry, the fifth puck, the one Din was out Maker knows where searching for before this entire mess happened.  A stormtrooper?  His puck said nothing about the Empire, this doesn’t make any sense.  What is he doing here?  Stormtroopers don’t have pucks, they don’t have bounties or relatives or loved ones searching for them.  They’re brainwashed, replaceable, faceless soldiers in suits of armor and they don’t even have names.

“Please don’t kill me,” he begs again, staring at you with wide eyes even as he cowers.  “I have a family, I-I just want to go home, please—”

“Shut up.”  You can’t think straight with him crying like that and you’re wasting so much time just standing here trying to process when your brain had to literally shut itself down to even do the things you’ve already done.  You have to kill him and escape, you have to—you can’t trust this complication, not with the tiny claws currently digging into your back and reminding you of your purpose, but it was so much easier when he had on a helmet.  You hate looking at his face.  It’s going to haunt your dreams now, just like the man you stabbed on Corellia.

“Please don’t kill me—please don’t kill me,” he screws his eyes up and breathes over and over instead, and your stomach wrenches with disgust.  His posture and expression are so fucking pitiful, you can barely keep your eyes on him through the overwhelming nausea and aversion that climbs up your throat.  He’s with the Empire, and they’re looking for the baby.  You know what needs to be done.  Pull the trigger, just one small movement from you and it’ll be all over.  It would be the easiest thing in the world, it would be so easy.

But then instead, you ask, “Why are you a stormtrooper?”

“I’m n-not—I hate the Empire—”

“The Empire is ashes.”  You don’t know if you’re yelling or whispering with how much blood is roaring through your ears.  “They hold no power anymore.  Why are you with them?”

“Because the one thing they have left is money!”  The quarry shrills the words at you, ghostly pale to the point of turning green.  “Th-They buy troopers now—they opened up a whole new market for the smugglers, there’s a base nearby that’s used for training and…”  He stares wide eyed at you and gulps.  “C-Conditioning.”

Your brain is already going a trillion lightyears an hour and it doesn’t have the capacity to empathize or understand anything beyond the child’s survival and the relevant details right now.  “Were they expecting the baby?”

“W-What?”  He squeaks up at you.

“Was the bounty put out on you a trap set by the Empire?”  You ask him, lifting your free arm just enough to flash him the tiny child clinging to your side.  “He said they’re coming after the baby, so tell me if this was planned from the beginning.”

“Who is ‘he’?”  The stormtrooper asks, furrowing his eyebrows and looking around.  “What are you talki—”

“Tell me if the bounty on you was a trap to take this baby!”  You roar, your blaster shaking as you aim it down at him.  Your mind is acutely focused on the tiny claws hanging onto your tunic, the continued safety of the kid and the life or death situation facing him that you were given absolutely no information about.  “Now—”

“If it was I didn’t know!”  He quickly cries out, pleading with you and clamping his eyes shut in terror under the barrel sight.  “I don’t know anything about a b-baby, or a bounty!  They just put blasters in our hands and told us to search for a ship and to bring back anyone we find alive, I swear!”

You’re silent for a moment, biting your lip under the mask and caught halfway between discerning and stalling.  You could still kill him.  You should still kill him, time is ticking down and more troopers could be heading this way any second.

Shit.  “Who put the bounty out on you?”  You ask sharply.  It might not be a completely fair question, but he can’t exactly blame you for not feeling completely fair right now.

“I—I don’t know,” he gasps, clutching his bleeding shoulder.  “Could’ve been anyone—my mother, Cyra, o-or my dad, Obediah, or Thia, or Benja, or S—”

“Thia,” you interrupt his rambling, catching the slurred word and repeating it back to him.

“Yes!”  Oshua jerks his head up, tears and hope immediately filling his eyes at the sound of her name, “Yes, Thiadura Celi Ryler, that’s my sister!”

Maker, if he’s lying, then he’s fucking brilliant at it.  You look towards the cockpit of the ship, biting your lip under the mask.  Get to Nevarro, tell Karga and he’ll… something.  Din was cut off before he finished.  Help?  Know what to do?  You’re lost, but you have a clear directive and the precious seconds are sliding by.  The controls are right up there, two steps to the ladder and less than a minute until you’re rising into the atmosphere.

But then you think back to the terror in Din’s voice.  The blistering panic that made him speak faster and with more urgency than you’ve ever heard from him.  Get to Nevarro.  Tell Karga.  Get to Nevarro.  Tell Karga.

You look back at the quarry.  “How many of you are there?”

“At the base?  Around three hundred,” he immediately spills.  “Half of us are in the hole right now getting brainwashed, they do it in shifts, but they can be mobilized in a few hours.  There were a lot of bodies outside when we were ordered to split off, maybe a third of our squadron, but the rest were still shooting at whatever was—”

“So around a hundred left,”  You finish breathlessly, almost wanting him to speak faster and cut to the chase so you can calculate quicker.  “How many were dispatched on the search?”

“Uh, there were eight groups of five sent in each major direction,” he informs you, still trembling on the ground.  “Told us not to come back until we covered the entire sector.”

Of which, four you’ve already taken care of.  In other circumstances, you’d be nauseated at the thought, but right now, it’s just another number to subtract, just more panicked math in Din’s frightening absence.  That leaves at least sixty troopers left wherever the base is, minimum, and likely a couple more hours before they’ve combed the sector.  If this wasn’t a preconceived trap purposefully set for the kid, then that means reinforcements haven’t arrived yet but likely will soon.  And if this is a base meant for training and conditioning, then that also means there’s a chance not all of them will be loyal yet.

You make the decision immediately.

“Okay,” you announce, clicking the blaster’s safety switch and holstering it, sounding lightyears more certain than you feel.  “Then you’re going to help me carry out a rescue mission, and I’ll take you back to your sister.”

“You…”  He looks uncertain, blinking at your blaster and slowly lowering his hands.  “You want to rescue the men?”

Ideally?  Sure.  Realistically?  You don’t say anything in response.  Instead, you kick his regulation firearm at your feet further away from the quarry just in case your judgment is flawed, and then turn around and grab one of the bodies behind you.

Your adrenaline is still blaring so fast that you only just barely note the severity of what you’ve just done and what you’re continuing to do.  The corpses aren’t real to you right now, they’re inanimate things that you need out of your ship before you can close the doors to it.  They are, however, heavy as fuck, but the only other adult here has a wound in his arm from the gun on your hip.  Regardless, you have experience with lifting dead weight without a big, strong, capable man to do it for you.

“Help me out here, kid,” you mutter over your shoulder, and in response, you feel his claws dig in and climb up just a little bit until he can peek out in front of you.  Thankfully, the burden is suddenly lifted and you can quickly slide the dead troopers down the ramp with ease.  It takes hardly any time at all—you just yank and haul and release and all four of them tumble the rest of the way all by themselves.

When you stand back up, Oshua hasn’t moved and he’s looking at you with a pale, queasy expression.  Glancing down, you see that your white robe is now stained with streaks and patches of rusty blood.  Instead of swallowing back bile at the sight and bolting to the shower to scrub off every last remaining trace, you breeze past it, noting nothing more than a change of color.  Dirtying your white, pristine clothing with the consequences of protecting this baby—you’d rather have blood-soaked fabric with an unharmed kid clinging to you than any other combination of those things.

“Can you make it up to the cockpit?”  You ask the quarry, kicking his rifle off the ship before closing the ramp and then gesturing up the ladder.  Your voice is calm and steady but your hands are beginning to shake again.  “I need as much information as possible about the base.”  You know that’s where Din is, judging from the wall of blaster screeches that drowned him out through the comm.  Logically, you know you could be headed right into a trap, and every instinct inside you wants to find safety, but… you just cannot imagine flying the ship away from this planet without Din onboard.  It isn’t fucking happening, you’ve made your choice.

Without waiting for a response, you climb the ladder and plop down in the pilot’s seat of the Crest.  While Oshua finds some way to clamber up the steps behind you in bulky stormtrooper armor with one good arm, you hold the kid closer on your lap and begin flight checking.  Din will be fucking furious, but the scolding you’ll be sure to get is the least of your worries right now.  Following his instructions and going back to Nevarro is just making shit infinitely more dangerous for him, turning what could be a potential rescue mission into an undeniable suicide mission.  Even if Karga somehow decides to send a few guild members along to infiltrate the base, it’ll be a war you want to avoid.

Besides.  What did you always tell him about running away from him, even when he instructs you to?

It’s just… not really your thing.

---

They’re everywhere.

They crawl like flies out of the base, and for every single body that falls, three more spill from the open doors.  Rapid fire plasma beams launch from the end of Din’s blaster, melting white armor with every twitch of his gloved finger.  Their aim is terrible, as is to be expected, but the sheer number of them more than makes up for it, as is by design.

Din’s heart pounds with exertion, his breath comes in ragged huffs through the modulator as his helmet identifies and isolates which body is closest to him, which body he needs to bring down next.  His blaster is so hot it nearly burns his hand, even through the thick gloves he wears.  When he runs out of ammo, he holsters the pistol and swings his rifle from around his shoulder, spinning to catch a handful of troopers behind him in the obliterating blast.

He’s not thinking much.  He can’t think, even though your safety and that of his son is currently dangling by a thread.  If he focuses on that, he’ll be dead before he can even picture your faces.  He just reacts, he maims and kills without a single thought in his mind.  Blood splatters, screams and sirens blare as he becomes surrounded by more and more troopers.  Din can hear the sound of plasma colliding and ricocheting off his armor; every single one of them is a potential injury he could currently have but might not even be able to feel right now.

His helmet starts beeping rapidly and he turns just enough to see, highlighted in bright red on the screen, two enormous artillery turrets slowly rising up out of the roof of the imperial base.  He feels a fierce flash of anger burn in his chest, it’s like a lightning strike to his veins.

Din needs to go.

And yet… if he was another man.  If he wasn’t a father, or a husband, if he had no family and no attachments like the creed declared he should, he would go.  With just a twitch of his fingers, he could be launching into the sky and retreating as far away from this battlefield as he could reasonably get.  He’s never been the type to run from a threat, but this isn’t just a threat.  Dozens of troopers are gaining on him, they’re trampling their own dead to get within range.  Plasma pings off his shoulder, another one hits his back as they flank from behind.  He can feel the heat through the sizzling beskar, he can see them surrounding him on all sides, and the propulsion trigger for his jetpack is right there under his wrist.

Din holds his ground and continues firing, he plants his feet firmly to the dirt with only one thought in his mind.

Run, sweet girl.  Run.

---

You type in commands to scan for Din’s signal, quickly locating it through the Crest’s computer onboard.  Not far from here, three minutes or less.  The ship rumbles to life beneath you, slowly lifting off the rocky ground and rotating in place as it hovers.  It’s not on autopilot but you feel like you are, you can barely feel your hands as they move the yoke forward and the Crest takes off in the direction of Din’s blinking frequency.

“Tell me about defenses,” you instruct Oshua, restlessly bouncing your leg while the baby coos.

“Two plasma turrets on top of the base,” the quarry quickly answers.  “There’s usually guards stationed around the perimeter, but everyone who’s capable will be outside right now.”

Your mouth twists downwards under the mask.  Blasters don’t scare you much from this high up, but Din’s armor doesn’t cover every inch of his body, he’s not completely invincible.  Doubt churns in your stomach, but you have to stay focused on one task at a time so you don’t get overwhelmed.  The turrets, then.  “Are they automatic?”

“Manual,” he corrects with a shake of his head.

“Radar?”

“Old.  Only engages above fifty meters.”

You eye your altitude and dip the Crest considerably, beginning to weave through the rocky canyons and dodging crumbling cliffs while you travel.  “What about ships?”

“None,” Oshua says, “except for a passenger shuttle used for transport.  TIEs are flown in the Vesta sector, this base is remote and used for basic training only.”

“Anything else?”  You ask, stomach twisting with the knowledge that barely four questions is all you’ve got.  You’re planning to drop into an imperial base to save the man you love and you can’t think of a single other question?  

The quarry shrugs, and your heart slams, does somersaults in your chest at the mere notion that you could fucking die here.  Today, in two minutes or less, you could die here.  The child in your lap looking over the ship’s front panel with a quiet determination in his eyes could die here.  Din could already be dead—that signal broadcasts his location to this computer regardless of whether he’s still breathing or not.  He could already be gone and you’d be flying the baby right into a trap without knowing any differently.

Whelp, you think while taking a deep breath, some strangely calm existential acceptance beginning to flood your soul.  If he isn’t dead, he will be soon if you don’t make it to him on time.

You immediately lift your wrist and speak into the communicator.  “Mando?”  You have no idea if he can hear you, but you need to try anyway.  Your voice is still firm, there’s a strength to it you don’t feel in your chest, but it certainly sounds convincing.  “I’m coming to get you.  Less than a minute to your location, do everything you can to get outside.  If you can’t, I’ll just… uh.  Try to figure something else out.”

That’s it.  That’s it, improvise until you don’t have to.  Even if you’re lacking confidence, you can at least scrounge up some conviction.  Your arms gain feeling again while you veer the Crest through the stony terrain, the familiar reverberations under your feet begin to fill your body with a powerful sense of purpose.  Your breaths begin to come steady, every falling rock you see through the transparisteel feels like it drops in slow motion, allowing you to evade them easily.  It would normally be stupidly dangerous to fly this low with so many unexpected obstacles and hazards narrowly missing the ship, but considering what you’re flying into, a few boulders seems comical.

“Where’s your helmet?”  Oshua asks out of nowhere, and for a second, you don’t think you heard him correctly.

But then it strikes you all at once what he’s attempting to imply, and the sheer lunacy of the thought is enough to make you laugh while you clutch the controls.  “I’m not a Mandalorian.”

“You wear the armor of one,” he points out… rather fairly, you have to admit.  “You cover your face like one.  You have a blaster that fires Philithiorium, a rare and expensive gas native to Mandalore’s stratosphere, and you’re a bounty hunter—”

“I’m not a Mandalorian.”  Your words are short and cutting, you have a daunting task to focus on and don’t feel like having small talk right now.  “I’m not a bounty hunter, either.”

But then again, Karga made you a member of the Guild, didn’t he?  He handed you Oshua’s puck and said this one is for you to find, and you are technically part of a Mandalorian clan.  All of this seems like it happened without your knowledge.  You may be marrying a Mandalorian, you may wear his armor and mother his child and shoot a blaster with his signet branded into it, but war isn’t in your blood.  This robe was a costume when you first made it, this armor was a relic that was restored as a hobby.  In a sense, it still feels that way.  The mask covering your face lended itself to a temporary surge of bravery earlier, but beyond that, the only thing that’s keeping you moving forward now is your family.  The man you love that may or may not be alive right now, the baby holding tight to your leg while the ship sways and weaves through the stony landscape.

Your eyes quickly flick down to the child in your lap, both of his three fingered hands clutching onto the stained fabric of your knee without moving a single inch.  He’d know, you tell yourself.  If his father is gone, he’d already know somehow.  Din is still alive, and he’s counting on you.

---

There’s too many for Din to handle.

They swarmed him, overpowered his endless artillery with massive numbers and there’s nothing he can do anymore.  The backs of his knees are kicked from behind and he slams down to the ground with a clatter, his sizzling hot blasters are ripped from him, and Din folds his hands calmly behind his back even as one of the stormtroopers barks out, “Binders,” to another one, who disappears quickly in response.  In the meantime, a few of them apparently decide to just attempt holding his arms in place, and their measly combined grip is almost enough to make him roll his eyes under the helmet.  These imperial soldiers are even more pitiful than they usually are, but his silent resolve to stall to ensure your escape is enough to keep him stationary and compliant for the time being.

Eventually, a few voices call out from beyond the crowd and there’s some movement from the back.  Dozens of troopers with their blasters all pointed at him begin to shuffle to make way, careful to keep their barrels aimed at him while a path slowly forms.  The crowd of white parts and a stormtrooper with a singular red pauldron on his right shoulder saunters confidently towards Din as he kneels on the ground.

An officer, he assumes.  Conveniently missing from the firefight, the scanner inside his helmet would’ve caught the change in color and Din would’ve made sure to kill him first.

“Well now, what do we have here?”  Comes his thin metallic voice through the tinny filter.  The officer studies him curiously for a few moments, before slowly looking down by his feet, reaching out one cheap, plastic covered foot to gently nudge the body of a dead trooper on the ground with a sigh.  “What a shame.”

Coward, he thinks, his lip curling with disgust under the helmet.

“This is an imperial training base,” he turns his attention back to Din to inform him when he doesn’t immediately respond, rather stupidly he might add.  “How were you able to find us?”

Silence.  The grip on hands held behind his back is even looser now.  He just tilts his chin up slightly in defiance, the scanner inside his helmet locating each weapon strapped to the man’s body and highlighting it red.  Small text boxes blink into existence under each one with a manufacturer and classification—a BlasTech E-11 rifle, a Merr-Sonn thermal detonator, a Kolvo vibroblade—and Din is severely unimpressed with the quality.  The detonator is the only weapon that even catches his eye, and that’s only because the chamber inside that houses the explosive baradium has a release mechanism that’s completely dead.  Useless, then.  Good to know.

After a long moment of quiet tension where Din refuses to speak and the officer continues to confidently scrutinize him, in some strange sort of silent battle of egos that only one seems to have a genuine interest in, another stormtrooper makes his way to the front, shoving past his fellow soldiers to address the superior in charge.

“Commander, we’ve sent out an alert for an intruder,” he tells him, slightly out of breath from running through the crowd in the lightweight armor.  Din wants to roll his eyes, but what he says next makes him snap to immediate attention.  “The fleet informed us that Moff Gideon is currently on route.”

Gideon.  The last time someone spoke that name, it was a quarry on Coruscant and you just barely managed to stop Din from suffocating the bastard for even saying it aloud before freezing him in carbonite.  It would’ve meant half the return on a hunt that lasted nearly a month but he saw red and his hand was crushing his windpipe before he realized what happened.  But he’s dead, Din thinks with a clenched jaw and fists tightening behind his back, he watched that TIE fighter explode and slam into the ground, crushing the man inside it.  The wreck was unsurvivable, he can’t be alive.

“For what?  This Mandalorian?”  The trooper in charge scoffs in response, and Din remains completely mute.

“Yes, sir,” the other one confirms.  “Orders were to capture him, alive.”

“Hm.”  The officer turns his attention back to him, less analyzing and more musing while he tilts his head.  “I see,” he eventually says, and he sounds like he’s grinning, before strolling slightly closer as Din stays completely still on his knees.  “He must want the beskar.  I’m sure it’s worth more than this entire battalion combined.”

All of a sudden, a gloved hand carelessly catches the rim of his helmet and tugs, and Din’s movement is explosive.  He launches off the ground, arms easily slipping from the pathetic grip they were being held in and his fist colliding with the side of the officer’s flimsy white helmet, the plastic making a deafening crack against his face.

Multiple hands immediately rush forward to grab him and yank him back down again while the commanding trooper stumbles backwards in shock, and Din amicably drops to his knees and folds his hands behind his back once more like nothing happened at all.

“Binders!”  A trooper behind him roars loudly once more, and a few men surrounding him begin trotting away this time.

The officer in red stands a few feet away from him now, grabbing his helmet and twisting it back to its proper position on his head where it was skewed.  There’s a shattered hole near his jaw where the material splintered and busted like the cheap piece of banthashit it is, and while he might normally feel pleased with himself for being able to see his skin peeking through, it just fills him with more righteous fury.  It’s such a punchable jaw.

After a few awkward moments of silence, the other one clears his throat and continues.  “He… has inquired about the location and status of a child that should be accompanying him.”

Din inhales deeply through his nose and grinds his teeth.  He wants to snap their necks one by one for even just mentioning his son, but there are just too many, more than even his whistling birds can neutralize.  Still, he gave you as much of a head start as physically possible.  You should be rising into the atmosphere right now, making the jump into hyperspace towards safety.  Karga will know what to do—he’ll protect his family, separate you and the boy so the threat is evenly dispersed instead of collected all in one place, and arm dozens of trained hunters to keep watch over you both individually.  It’s the best Din can do, and it’s the only thing keeping his knees planted on the ground and his body completely motionless while they continue speaking.

“We are combing the sector for a ship with as many men as we can afford to lose,” the trooper in red says, but his voice filter is shattered and now sounds like a puny little droid with a broken voice box, “but our numbers are unimpressive.  Assistance may be required.”

It’s too late, Din thinks, mouth twitching under the beskar with a satisfied smirk.  They’re wasting their time, looking for a ghost.  You’re both long gone by now.  They’ve got no idea you even exist—

“He also spoke of a girl.”

And then he feels his heart stop in his chest.  Every single cell in his body turns to fire, it’s a fucking miracle he doesn’t move a muscle in response.  His sweet girl, the one so far removed from the nightmare of the Empire that she made best friends with the orphans of it.  How the fuck did he know?  He shouldn’t even be breathing, let alone gathering information about you, how did he know?

But then Din thinks back, remembering your makeshift bed on the floor, your panicked eyes and heaving chest as the quarry taunted him with a sick little smile.  Who’s this, Mando?  She’s just darling, isn’t she?  Does Gideon know your crew has a lovely new addition?

“A girl?”

The trooper nods.  “Moff Gideon insisted that if the Mandalorian did not have a child with him, then a girl would likely be protecting him instead.”

He’s going to kill them, Din decides.  Every single one of these imperial pigs, every single soldier standing right now is a dead fucking man.  The blood pumping through his body suddenly turns to acid, deadly black hate poisoning his soul.  His heartbeat morphs into a war drum, the armor strapped to his limbs is the barrel of a gun.  He��s going to fucking kill them and leave an imperial base full of bodies to greet his old nemesis upon his return, and he’s going to enjoy every single second of it.

Except, then—

“Mando?”  The sweetest voice in existence suddenly crackles through the earpiece under his helmet.  “I’m coming to get you.  Less than a minute to your location, do everything you can to get outside.  If you can’t, I’ll just… uh.  Figure something else out.”

And, as Din kneels there in surrender, surrounded by a crowd of enemies he thought he destroyed long ago, all the anger—all the fury and defiance and murder surging through his veins—suddenly morphs to fear.

The emotion is so foreign and old to him, it feels like a face he barely recognizes and a name he can’t remember.  He’s panicked before.  He’s been in situations where a threat has made him blind with rage, he knows what it’s like to look death straight in the eyes and say that he’s busy and to come back another time.  This is different.  This is ice cold that freezes over beskar.

He can’t speak out loud to warn you—he can’t move his hands to press the button on the back of his helmet and allow him to talk without detection.  There’s plasma turrets on the roof of the base, he can see them right now.  The helmet’s scanners say they’re manned and engaged, and though he is outside and this is how you retrieved him before whenever he needed a quick escape, he has fifty fucking imperial blasters trained on him and you know absolutely nothing about this threat.  You’re flying right into a war zone and if either you or his son dies, he won’t ever be able to forgive himself.

Behind the helmet, his eyes fly to each and every trooper, wondering which blaster will be the one to do it.  Which weapon is going to be the one he can’t block in time when you descend, the one that’ll kill him right in front of you.  Which turret will be the one to obliterate the Crest with you and his son inside of it.

“Maker, where are those fucking binders—” he hears someone behind him snarl, but the white noise of pure terror roaring through his ears drowns them out.  His chest starts heaving against his will, sheer panic begins to blur his vision.  For the first time in his life, his armor feels too heavy, his lungs feel like one of these boulders are sitting on them instead of beskar.

All too soon, his helmet starts making a familiar sound that signals quietly in his ear, alerting him of an incoming ship, and the only thing he can physically do is count down the seconds to prepare himself for what is to come.

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two…

Like lightning, Din breaks the grip of multiple troopers and surges up, tackling the officer in red to the ground.  There’s a clatter as they both slam into the rocky floor, but in the ensuing scuffle, he easily snatches the thermal detonator from his side holster and holds it up for everyone to see, before pressing the red button on the front and hearing it begin to beep rapidly.

---

You’re right on time.

The Crest rises up through the rocky cliffs surrounding the base and you spot the turrets you were warned about.  Weapons controls are already engaged and you’re too low to be detected by radar—you fire once, twice, and blast both of them to smithereens from behind before they can even rotate around to target you.

Alarms start wailing but the guns are destroyed.  It’s not comforting, though; blasters won’t touch you up here, but that doesn’t mean they can’t fire at Din on the ground.  Your eyes dart across the sea of white, looking for a flash of silver anywhere, and then you spot him instantly in the chaos.

For some reason, the troopers in his vicinity all seem to be bolting away from him.  Their rifles are down, clutched in their hands while they nearly fall over each other to run away as fast as possible, and your heart soars when you spot his jetpack firing up.  Din launches into the sky while another trooper is revealed underneath him, seeming to juggle something in his hands and then throw it into the crowd of retreating soldiers, but the sight of the man you love rising into the air while a flurry of blaster shots from the far edges of the imperial structure follow him gives you the confidence to immediately turn the guns down towards the horde of troopers.

“Which ones are in charge?”  You ask Oshua breathlessly, who leans forward and points out the transparisteel.

“Red pauldrons—” he barely has time to say it before you aim and fire at one of the troopers wearing red that was closest to Din, the plasma beam launching from the Crest so powerful and devastating that it outright obliterates the surface he’s laying on.  Pieces of shattered armor fly and a smoking crater of rubble is all that’s left behind, but your mind is whirling and you’re already onto someone else wearing red at the edges of the complex, and then two more near the doors, and then another—

To their credit, you think the sixty or so soldiers in training seem to figure out that you’re not aiming into the enormous collection of them.  If you were, the damage would be catastrophic and spraying everywhere, but you’re precise and meticulous with your shots, and the only ones who are loyal enough to the cause to hold still and raise their blasters at the incoming threat tend to be the ones you need to mow down anyways.  The rest of them scatter in all directions, scrambling over each other to escape and then disappearing into the distant boulders surrounding the base—but you notice that not a single one of them runs back inside the safety of its open doors.

The hull dips with the weight of Din dropping in, and relief floods your soul even as you continue raining hell down on the superiors in charge.  Any flash of color you see is a target, your eyes lose focus of everything, your vision blurs and turns monochrome as you just search for red.

“Lift up!”  You hear Din’s voice roar from the hull.  You can hear his rifle unloading through the open door.  “Now!  We have to go now!”

You press the button to shut the hull door with Din inside and punch it, rising so fast that the shove of gravity makes it difficult to keep your head up.  Through the sudden surge of downward force, you just barely manage to raise your incredibly heavy arm to push the button that pressurizes the Crest and ignites the launch boosters, preparing the vessel for space travel.  Outside the transparisteel, the gray sky begins darkening as the atmosphere eventually disappears.  The ship’s engines roar, burning so much fuel at once that you’re actually accelerating through the climb, you’re boosting through the gradual ease of gravity as the planet’s curvature and glow becomes softer and softer below you.

As soon as the blackness of space begins to fill the windows, the slight subsiding of force allows you to plug in the coordinates for Nevarro with less difficulty, but you’re still moving, still rising, still escaping.  You can’t find it within yourself to slow down, but then something catches your attention.

Claws suddenly dig sharp into your thigh, sharp enough to sting and cause you to wince, and you look down to see that the kid has gone incredibly tense.  Deadly tense.  Your heart is still pounding even though you’re away from danger, you’ve got Din in the hull, everyone is safe, and yet—

It flickers into existence all at once.  One second it’s just space, just the endless depths of nothingness spread out for light years in front of you, and within the blink of an eye it’s suddenly there.

A star destroyer.

Your body freezes in horrified awe, having never seen a ship so fucking big in your entire life.  It looks like a massive satellite, the size of an enormous asteroid instantly appearing in your vision and dwarfing the vastness of space around it.  All the stars you used to dream about are suddenly blotted out within a fraction of a second, terror so immense seizes your soul that you stop thinking.  You stop calculating, you stop being yourself for a split second that lasts an entire lifetime.

Before you can move a single muscle, the computer beeps quickly and lurches the Crest into hyperspace.

---

The stars streak across the transparisteel like so many times before.  Utter silence nearly deafens you with how abrupt it is after so much noise, but the peace it used to bring does nothing to quell your fear.  Everything is the same as it always was, same bursts of light as you hurdle faster than it towards Nevarro, same quiet, same rumbling hum of the ship.  But now, everything has changed.

You hear the quarry next to you suddenly inhale and exhale loudly, and it shocks you a little bit, reminds you that there’s a person next to you and another is on your lap.  Other people exist outside of the vision of death that just flickered out of existence just as quickly as it appeared.  They’re breathing, Oshua is shakily unbuckling his seatbelt, life is continuing on in the quiet cockpit but you can’t seem to move like he is.  You can’t seem to breathe like he is.  It’s only when the baby slowly maneuvers himself around on your thigh and blinks up at you, placing a tiny hand on your stomach that you finally feel air enter your lungs.

After a moment, you reach down and click open your seatbelt with trembling fingers, scooping the kid up in your arms and slowly attempting to stand.  Everything feels wobbly and dreamlike, you have to brace yourself on the headrest to prevent yourself from falling back into the chair again.

“That was…” Ryler mutters, his voice sounding foggy and distant, “uh.  A close one.”

You look over at him, recognizing that he’s speaking but not quite able to understand the words right now.  Red catches in your vision, and you blink down at the way he’s clutching his left shoulder, the smear of blood darkening the white armor he’s wearing.  You blink a few more times at the sight of it, and though it feels like you normally would be sickened at the wound, somehow shocked out of your state of shock, it does nothing to you.  When you look back up at his face, his expression seems strangely grateful, even when it’s screwed up in what you know must be excruciating pain.    You did that, a quiet voice whispers in your mind, even though the rest of it seems incredibly blank.

Instead of responding, you stumble a few steps over to the ladder, spinning around and hesitating for a moment.  You’re severely lacking in coherent thought, but one thing seems to break through.  You’re not sure if you have enough coordination to do this safely right now.  However, when there’s movement in your peripheral and you look to see Oshua gently offering his right arm to you, seeming to understand you’d like to use both hands for this, you snap back to your senses just the slightest bit and hug the baby tighter to your chest.  Carefully, you begin making the slow climb down the ladder with the kid, still trembling with the aftershocks of adrenaline.  Your limbs feel extra heavy, but eventually the floor meets your feet.

Din is standing there when you slowly turn around, armor gleaming and still as a statue, but he has his back to you.  His helmet is tilted down at the ground, and when you follow his gaze, you’re met with the sight of the bloodstains of dragged bodies that leave dark red streaks all the way up the ramp.

You feel something this time.  It’s… cold.  A burning, searing cold that creeps into your skin.  Like your heart decides to pump nitrogen through your chest instead of warm blood.  You did that.

There’s a sudden urge inside of you to speak, to address him and inform him of your presence, tell him everything is okay, everything worked out, but you can’t find it in yourself to say a single word.  You can’t find a single word to say.  The kid twists as best he can in your clutch, his ears drag against your chest to greet his father, but for some reason, there’s still a strange sense of fear in your bones.  It’s enough to wake you up slightly, it’s enough to tell you it’s not over yet.  There’s a terror in your heart that hasn’t left since he first called over the comm and begged you to run, a crippling dread that you thought climaxed after seeing that star destroyer appear, but it’s somehow only increased after laying eyes on him like this.

You watch as his helmet turns, slowly meeting the pauldron on his shoulder, and for some reason, you feel yourself harden.  Your feet brace against the metal floor like this is another threat you have to face, you let its unyielding metallic strength transfer up through the souls of your boots to your heart in your chest.

But the second you hear cheap white armor clatter as the quarry steps down the ladder behind you, Din bursts into movement.  He suddenly spins and storms up to you in one single step while catching your holstered blaster on your hip.  It’s out and aimed in the blink of an eye, and it’s a miracle you remember how to speak before he remembers how to kill.

“Mando—” you warn, just in time for the quarry to land on the floor of the hull and turn around to reveal his face.

Din holds there for a second, his helmet locked on Oshua’s features.  His gloved fingers twitch wildly on the trigger of your gun held over your shoulder, like he has to remind himself multiple times not to.  You hear Oshua’s armor clack while he likely raises one good arm in surrender, but then Din’s helmet moves a fraction of a millimeter to your face and holds there.  He just stares down at you, and the air feels heavy, your body feels heavy, the feather light child in your arms feels heavy.

Slowly, he lowers his arm, lets it fall while he continues looking at you from behind the visor.  You look back at him, unblinking, unfeeling, and there’s a few seconds that last an utter eternity where nobody moves.  Nobody speaks, nothing happens, but then a soft coo comes from your arms before you can finally break eye contact, knowing there are still some things that need to be done.

You eventually turn around and lift your chin to address Oshua.

“You have to go into carbonite,” you inform him quietly.  Your voice sounds strange, like it’s coming from outside of yourself.  “We’re taking you to Nevarro, and then you’ll be transported to your home planet. When they unfreeze you, your sister will be there to collect you.”

He looks uncertain, one hand still raised while the other hangs uselessly at his side, and you don’t blame him.

But you also don’t feel like saying anymore, not unless he decides he doesn’t want to go in willingly.  Normally you might’ve tried to empathize, offer him further reassurance beyond just a couple short sentences, but you don’t.  Speaking feels difficult, thinking feels difficult.  You’re still in survival mode, not active but reactive.  There’s also no reason for you to lie to him about this, and you can see him glance at Din standing silently behind you, who hasn’t moved a muscle.

He eventually nods and you walk him over to the chamber without another word, watch him turn to face you as he backs into the opening while you reach up towards the control panel.

But then there’s a moment.  One where you hesitate slightly, one where your vision flashes back to the sight of those bloodstains on the floor, and that burning cold fills you again, so cold it feels completely numb.

“I’m… sorry,” you whisper quietly to him, though your voice sounds so empty.  There’s so much emotion that should be there but isn’t, so much regret and pain that should break through but can’t.  “I’m sorry I… killed your friends.”

Later, you’ll think about how you felt absolutely nothing saying it.  Your heart doesn’t constrict with remorse at the mere words leaving your mouth, guilt doesn’t flood into your soul, pain doesn’t wrack through your bones.  You could’ve been saying anything at all and nobody would be able to tell the difference.

He blinks at you, flicking his eyes between yours for a second or two, but then you press the proper button and watch the gas quickly freeze him where he stands.  He’ll be conscious the entire time, but Karga will send him to the correct location and you have no doubt that this elemental purgatory is leagues better than where he just escaped from.  It’s a benefit being the last quarry to be retrieved—he’ll only have to spend a few days trapped in here before being reunited with his family.

When that’s done and Oshua is a complete statue in front of you, bulky white armor now colored a dull metallic gray and frozen in time, you will yourself to finally turn around to face the enormous mountain of a presence behind you.  The baby gently reaches out for him, but Din doesn’t move from where he’s stood.  Your blaster is still clutched tightly in his hand, and he isn’t looking at you.

Slowly, you walk over and stop directly in front of him in the middle of the hull, blinking at him while the helmet subtly moves to lock onto your face.  The kid begins wiggling in your arms, making soft impatient noises while you both stand in complete silence across from each other.

After a few moments, you hear him flick your blaster’s safety on by his side and then toss it carelessly to the ground.  It skids along the floor, light enough to be mostly quiet.  Gloves reach out as he carefully takes the kid from you and settles him in the crook of one arm, and then he looks you up and down, still not saying anything.

Your eyes follow his movement, watching his arm slowly reaching out to you, and you think he’s going to cup your jaw, or brush your hair back.  Give you some sort of physical reassurance since he hasn’t spoken a single word of it.

Instead, Din suddenly grabs the armor clinging to your chest and starts ripping it off you with one hand.  It clangs to the floor so loudly in the silence of hyperspace, the kid’s ears twitch and flutter with each shattering bang.  You hold still while he does it, you barely respond except the unavoidable movement your body experiences as the pauldron is yanked from your shoulder and thrown against the ground.  The ammo belt is tugged over your head and hurled away, the thigh braces are snatched from your legs and they clang to the floor, and the pearly, opalescent fabric revealed underneath is stained in dead man’s blood, rusty and in such great quantities that it shows up as brown instead of red.

“Are you hurt?”

He sounds… dead.  So monotonic that you can’t possibly gauge his emotional state.  He doesn’t move.   His fists don’t clench, he says every single word like it means the same exact thing as the last.  If nothing at all was a person who could speak, they’d use his tone of voice.

“No,” you eventually whisper.

The helmet nods once, and then he spins around and walks away without anything else.  Without saying anything, without touching you, or double checking you for injuries in case you were lying.  You stand utterly still while Din climbs the ladder with the kid cradled in one arm, and you don’t even flinch when the door to the cockpit slides shut behind him.  You have no idea how long you stand there in the splitting silence afterwards, numb and unmoving.

You feel… nothing.  Absolutely nothing.

The hard defenses you strapped to yourself today to reconcile the things you had to do are still high and strong, guarding your soul even if he stripped away your physical armor.  Self preservation is still animating your body, and your facial expression barely changes.  Your first thought, as soon as you remember that you can have one, is that there are things that still need to be done.  Tasks to complete.

Alone, you shower the lingering traces of blood off your body, the normally clear and refreshing water running a sickly, toxic brown.  Alone, your stomach rolls and suddenly decides to empty itself of the very little that was in it as the scalding drops rain down over you—mostly liquid and bile that easily rinses down the drain.  The water is too warm, it beats down on you like blazing hot sand pelting your skin in the desert.  You feel like you did those first few months with Din, where the silence was suffocating, where you’d only interact with the baby if he was on a hunt or if you could tell he didn’t know how to calm him when he was fussy.  If you were in hyperspace, you usually spent time by yourself in the hull while he lived in the cockpit, and if he decided he needed to be in the hull for whatever reason, then you’d trade places with him.  It was… isolating.  Lonely by yourself.  The quiet used to haunt you before it became your cherished friend, but now it’s a betrayer, a ghost that whispers memories and nightmares in your ears.

When you finally finish rinsing the blood from your skin and get dressed, you see the sheets that used to make up your bed now have fried holes in them from your charred plasma marks, the inside of the hull is covered in them and the trails of dried blood where you dragged the bodies down the ramp.  Your armor is still strewn about the hull, the kid’s hovering shield lays dead in the corner.  Everything you meticulously cleaned and organized and collected and created, now the scene of a bloodbath.  One committed by your hand, your blaster still laying uselessly on the floor forever linked to this atrocity.

You spare a glance towards the ladder, but you don’t want to come face to face with Din yet.  You already knew he’d be furious, but… you had hoped that he’d at least…

What?  At least what?  Comfort you?  Coddle you after you deliberately ignored his instructions?  What exactly, in the past year or so of learning Din’s inner workings and intricacies, would ever give you the impression that he’d come give you a big hug after you purposefully defied him?  You flew the kid directly into an imperial base after being told to protect him, you ignored every order he gave to you in the moments he thought would be his last, and though you did it to save his life, you have a feeling that Din has never valued his life even a fraction of what you do.

The misery stabs at your soul, but your mind is finally beginning to process things logically.  He’s alive, the kid is alive, the quarry is secure, and you’re all onboard the safety of this ship hurtling through hyperspace where nobody, not even the Empire, can touch you.  You weighed the consequences before making your decision, you did what you had to do.  If he wants to be mad, then he can fucking well be mad and you’ll find some way to comfort yourself.  At least he’s here being mad, at least he’s alive and safe and breathing and mad, and your rare act of disobedience is to thank for that.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you realize it’s probably easier than it should be to reconcile the punishment.  Right now, you welcome the exclusion, the negativity and sorrow beating itself into your soul.  Four innocent people died today on this ship, gunned down under your blaster while they panicked and ran for cover.  You keep hearing their screams.

So you start to clean up the hull, needing another task to focus your thoughts on.  You work to erase every inch of the evidence of your deeds, make it disappear like the pool of blood Din once cleaned up while you were sleeping and never acknowledged again.  You only allow the bloodstains to fuck with your head for a single moment, and then you swallow back the nausea until you’re a blank slate again and sink to your knees with a rag in your hand.  After that, your vision stops focusing and it just becomes red contrasting against gunmetal gray, and you work tirelessly to get rid of all remaining traces of it.

Then you start on the blaster marks, you need them gone.  After a few informed attempts at mixing cleaning chemicals, you find one concoction that allows you to wipe them away like they’re nothing more than dirt that got tracked in.  The Crest’s oxygen recycling system works overdrive to constantly purify the air so you don’t get high or pass out, but your nose still stings.  It’s fine, it’s sterile, it burns a bit but it smells sharp and metallic and keeps you hyper focused on the task at hand.

After that’s done, you pick up the charred blankets and ball them up to throw into the trash vent.  You don’t feel anything as you do it.  You don’t think about how long it took you to collect these over months and months of being stuck on this ship, how comfortable they were when everything else was industrial and rigid, how many nights you spent with Din curled up in their softness while he breathed easy and warm.  Sheets are just luxuries, they can afford to be lost.

Next, you gather your armor and wipe it down with the rag, put it away along with your blaster.  The stained robe goes in the trash, along with the sheets and the blood soaked cloth you used to clean everything.  They’re all ruined, you’ll never be able to make them right again.

The hull is sparkling clean when you decide to take another shower.  Nothing on you is dirty except your hands, but you feel filthy.  Wrong, cold, numb, cold, stained, cold.

After scrubbing your skin raw under the water and changing clothes again, since you don’t really know what to do with yourself anymore, you slowly climb the ladder to the cockpit, keeping perfectly silent.  When you reach the upper platform and come face to face with the closed door, you can just barely hear Din’s whispered voice speaking quietly to the baby beyond it.

You raise your hand for a moment, hovering your knuckles over the metal, but then it eventually falls.  Instead, you look over and spot the corner, the same corner Din bunched himself into when he snapped at you for even suggesting going on a hunt with him, blew up at you for the mere notion of something happening like what happened today.  You back yourself into it in defeat and slowly sink down on the floor, resting your head against the metal and hugging your knees to your chest since you don’t have a tiny baby to take their place.

You can’t sleep.  You don’t even try, it’s pointless.  The concept feels foreign the longer you sit here by yourself.  You don’t hear Din or the baby anymore, but you feel… so fucking awful that it’s fitting that you don’t knock or go looking.  You don’t want to hold that sweet child with hands that were covered in blood just a few hours ago.  You killed more people than you can count on your fingers today, and of the ones who had done nothing wrong…  They screamed like younglings, ducked for cover and were able to fire off one single useless shot in the mayhem before you closed their eyes forever and left their bodies to rot in armor that wasn’t ever their choice to wear.

You didn’t know they were kidnapped and smuggled and forced into that situation.  You couldn’t have known, but that isn’t the point.  In this case, knowing doesn’t make one bit of difference.

You also can’t face Din yet, not like this.  You don’t want him to see you cowering, shattered with guilt over the decisions you made under pressure.  How will you ever get him to forgive you for not listening to him when you can’t even forgive yourself for the result of your choices?  Din is a hardened man who grew up in blasterfire and bloodshed, just because you love him doesn’t mean he’s going to magically become someone he isn’t.  You’re here letting guilt sink sharp claws into your chest over four dead men when he had a good fifty or more corpses scattered on the battlefield around him.  You decided to wear that armor, you decided to fly into an imperial base with the kid on your lap, and this is now your penance.  You’ll accept it with your back straight and your chin held high.

Figuratively, of course.  Physically, you’re smaller than you’ve ever been.  Crumpled up into a ball, taking up as little space as possible, curling up as tight as you can like an animal protecting all your vulnerable parts during a brutal attack.

So, since he isn’t here to comfort you himself, you just try to think about what he would tell you.  A long time ago, what would he tell you?

Din would tell you… that you killed someone.  Multiple people, this time.  He’d also tell you that it doesn’t matter what he tells you, what you could have reasonably foreseen or what you should have done.  The end result won’t change.  You own this now.  You’ll carry their deaths with you.

You take a few deep breaths, self-soothing with the undeniable truth that would be murmured matter of factly from his quiet voice.  He wouldn’t argue with you.  He wouldn’t deny the decisions you made or the consequences of them.  It happened, and at the end of the day, you either learn how to handle that, or you don’t.

And, for the four you did shoot, you were responsible for freeing ten times that amount.  You’re responsible for reuniting Oshua Ryler with his family, even if your place in yours is momentarily shunned.  You’d rather be out here alone than in there with the kid, wondering where his dad is or if he’s even still alive.  You rescued Din and now he gets to be here to shut this door on you, hold his son, and whisper calm reassurances to him.  If you listen really hard and imagine, you can pretend they’re for you, too.

That’s it.  Focus on them both, alive and well together.  Focus on the bodies wearing white armor that were moving, the ones that were bolting away from the imperial training base as fast as they could, free from the torture of imprisonment and conditioning.

Finally, you close your eyes and slip into unconsciousness.  It’s not a testament to your exhaustion, but rather just how long you’ve been left to sit here by yourself.  Hours, maybe.  Time is strange in hyperspace.

You dream of a faceless man ringing bells.

---

When you wake up, a small baby has been placed in your arms, and you’re being dragged into a strong, secure beskar hold on the floor.

“Din,” you suddenly lift your head as soon as you’re conscious and nearly bonk it into solid metal, apologies rising in your throat before you even remember where you are.  You did what needed to be done to keep your family alive and together and you’d do it a thousand times again if necessary, but that doesn’t mean you won’t apologize anyways.  After the deeds you’ve committed today, regret feels as natural on your lips as speaking your own name.  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I know you’re mad at me but I—”

“Shh,” he whispers, running his gloves through your hair.  He’s still wearing his helmet, he hasn’t taken anything off yet.  “Don’t say anything.  Just… stay here, stay right here with me.”

“I tried to save you,” you croak, tears instantly flooding your eyes.  You did save him.  You saved him and the baby and yourself but you’re so physically and emotionally exhausted that all you can recall is your intent.  “I tried.  Wasn’t gonna leave you there by yourself.  I tried to be brave, like you—y-you wouldn’t have left without me.”

His arms tighten around you, cradling you in such a strong embrace that you burrow into him, you find a place for your head on the hard metal strapped to him and bury yourself there, wishing that you had shovels of dirt being piled on you to justify the death you still feel staining your soul.  Your heart is starting to pound now that you’re remembering, your body is starting to shake with tremors of shock now that you’re aware of your own skin again.

“I was so sc-scared, Din, I didn’t—didn’t know what was happening,” you lament through watery eyes, gasping it out in hopes that it’ll relieve the slightest bit of the gut wrenching guilt just mercilessly crushing you.  It caught you before you could protect yourself against it, that armor you built around yourself isn’t on when you first wake up.  “I-I didn’t want to kill them, but they were already on the ship and y-you said—you said they were coming after the kid s-so I had to, I had to—”

“Stop,” Din whispers, voice so quiet that you can barely hear him.

“I-I cleaned up the blood,” you turn your face against the cold beskar to let all the positives you listed for yourself before scrape across your throat.  They don’t sound comforting anymore, they just sound like excuses.  “It’s gone, it’s like it never happened, everything is okay now, I got the quarry, I protected the baby, I saved a bunch of people, you’re both safe—”

“Stop,” he chokes out.  The modulator cuts off before you can hear his next breath, but you feel it shudder under your body.  “St-Stop it, please.”

Your eyes clench shut so tightly you feel like the streaking stars outside are behind them, tears drop down against his pauldron and you press your face tighter to it like it’s a wound, like the pressure will somehow ease the bleeding.

“Listen to me,” he says very quietly, and you instantly brace yourself.  The walls you just let down shoot right back up, your body physically tightens in preparation for another pain, another trauma, another scar you’ll carry, and you stop shaking.  You stop breathing, even when his hand comes up to ease your face away from his armor.

“You,” he whispers, holding your chin so you’re staring right at him, and your eyes flick fearfully in between his behind the visor, “are a sweet girl.”  Din’s leather thumb brushes along your skin, dragging over the tears below your puffy eyes.  “Not,” his voice catches, “a Mandalorian.”

Your heart goes cold.  Again, everything turns numb.  It doesn’t matter that you already said this yourself out loud earlier today.  It doesn’t matter that you acknowledged this fact, verbally insisted it more than once to hammer home the truth and felt some sense of comfort in it.  For some reason, hearing the words from his mouth is a fucking knife to your chest.

“I taught you how to fight, how to shoot a blaster,” he murmurs, thumb catching every single tear that continues to fall as he speaks.  “I taught you everything I know, everything that’s been taught to me.  I taught you how to defend yourself, how to protect yourself when you’re in danger.  I gave you your blaster, I gave you my armor, I gave you everything I could give you to keep you safe.  And when I thought you were ready, I let you loose on Sanctuary II.  Do you know why I did that?”  The helmet tips forward the slightest bit at the question, probing deep into the most shattered part of your heart.  “After all those months of fighting, and shooting, and training, do you know why I told you to run?”

You blink silently at him, a shaky breath quaking through you, and your expression wants to crumple under the reprimand.  You’re so fragile right now, taking hit after hit after hit to the softest parts inside you, and you want to just give up.  Let the guilt and remorse take you, let it wash you away.  But then, instead…

There’s a flicker of something inside you.  Something strong, endlessly strong, and it makes you want to revolt against what he’s saying.  It replaces the hurt and fear and desperation for comfort with a strange sense of insurgence, like it did earlier when you were hiding behind a boulder, cowering and trembling and not wanting to die.  You’re filled with a quiet urge to defend yourself in the face of this, stand up for yourself and refuse to be beaten down any longer.

“Because you needed to know how to escape danger,” he answers himself when you don’t.  “You needed to know how to disappear, how to outsmart any pursuer and find safety, even the trained ones.  Especially the trained ones.  Anything else was meant to be your last resort.  Not your choice.  Not something you chose.”

“I couldn’t leave you,” you admit to him quietly, voice shaky and tears still coming even as you try to speak up for yourself.  The regret you carry has nothing to do with this, and you decide right now that you won’t feel bad for saving him.  Your hurt comes from the meaningless things, the ones without any need whatsoever, not the necessary ones, and you tried.  You repeated his words to yourself over and over again, told yourself to run, told yourself to get to Nevarro, and it wasn’t going to happen.  “I couldn’t do it.  It wasn’t a choice.”

“It was,” he tells you.  He says it softly, whispers it like it’s the gentlest thing in the world, but the power and inherent distance of the armor strapped to his body finds its way into the words.  “And it was the wrong one.”

“What was I supposed to do?”  You ask, just a hint of that rebellion swimming to the surface now, rising out of the waves of self doubt, the one that feels like a spine growing in your back, an energy coursing through your veins that makes your heart start to beat faster.  Din’s hand slowly drops from your cheek but you don’t care.  “Was I supposed to run away and just let you die?”

“Yes.”  It’s quick and blunt and completely emotionless.  Delivered like a punch to the vulnerable parts of yourself he taught you how to protect, and the utter silence following this single word is comparable to the physical pain you learned to defend against.  It jabs hard against everything good and sweet and tender inside of you, and you’re left speechless even as he continues impassively.  “That’s exactly what you were supposed to do.”

It takes a second, but then that unfamiliar feeling suddenly surges up, breaches with the power of an entire ocean.  Your voices may be nothing more than whispers in the dark, you may be clinging to each other, holding each other with the softest, gentlest love in your hearts, but the strength of your conviction on this would rip metal apart.

“No.”  The word holds the might of your entire being, and it stands alone and defiant in the face of everything you fear, everything that threatens you, him, and this child.  Never.  You’ll die before that happens.  “I love you, and there’s nothing in this galaxy that would ever make me do that.  Not fear, not danger, not the Empire, nothing.  Not even you.”

Din stares at you.  His visor reflects your hardened expression back to you, the force in your soul and the purpose in your eyes, and you don’t even realize the gravity of what you just said because like your love for him, gravity is a constant.  It’s a fundamental truth cemented into the rules that govern your actions and it stays true no matter where you are, no matter what terror you face, or how scared you become.  You have him, you have this little boy in your arms, and if that’s all you have, then you have everything.

After an eternity of this, of feeling his eyes pierce deep into you from behind the helmet while you refuse to wither under his stare, you watch him slowly turn and look down, landing on the sleepy child tucked between you both.  He holds there for a long time, before finally whispering, so quiet that the modulator barely picks it up, “It was the wrong choice.”

You stay quiet.  It happened.  What’s done is done, you can’t change the past.  He can scold and reprimand you about this as much as he wants, but you did the right thing and that decision is the only reason he’s even here to be able to do so.  This exhausted child was reunited with his father because of your choices, and this exhausted father was reunited with his child.  You won’t argue anymore, but it’s a certitude that lives deep in your heart now, builds a home there right alongside the both of them.  Din eventually looks up, his eyes find yours again behind the visor, and his hand rises once more to gently cup your jaw.

“I… thought I’d enjoy seeing you in my armor,” Din finally whispers.  It’s not what you expected, but his voice sounds… weak.  Broken.  “You wore mine once before, and it was…”  He brushes his thumb along your cheek, and then his head shakes slightly, pushing the thought away.  “It wasn’t real.  It didn’t fit.  It dwarfed you, it made you look out of place, it made everything soft and innocent about you stand out.  I liked it because it wasn’t real.”

“Was it… really that bad?”  You whisper back, partially to ease the tension just slightly but quickly breaking eye contact with him when you realize it doesn’t land correctly, it just sounds self conscious and sad.  You try to find that conviction again, that strength and assurance that propped you up so sturdily before, but…  Not a Mandalorian, he’d said.  Of course not.  Of course not.

“It wasn’t the armor.”  Din gently tugs up on your face so that you look at him again.  “It was you covered in blood.  It was you purposefully putting yourself in danger.  You killed multiple armed soldiers of the Empire, you dragged their bodies off the ship.  And then you flew into an imperial base, where you killed the officers, too.  You…”  He shakes his head slowly at you while speaking, and although you can’t see his face, you don’t need to in order to hear the horror in his voice.   “You… collected a quarry… in the middle of a massacre, sweet girl.”

Not a Mandalorian.

“You don’t chase down bounties,” he tells you.  “You don’t fly into war zones.  You don’t kill imperials, you don’t collect quarries, you don’t sacrifice yourself, or our son, to save me.  You said you tried to be brave… like me.”  His fingers tighten against your cheek, he dips his helmet to make sure you understand.  “I’ll never ask you to be brave.  I’ll ask you to survive.”

“I’m… sorry,” you finally whisper, and his arm drops from your cheek to join the other in wrapping around you and holding tight.  They hug you and squeeze, encasing you and the baby in a beskar shield and staying there for a long time.  Long enough for you to tuck your head back into its proper place under his helmet, long enough to start to feel okay with the silence again.  It brutalized you the last time you were surrounded by it, it made you feel alone and desolate and barren inside.  You greet it warily now, settling into it for an unknown amount of time until it’s forgiven once more.

After a while, Din quietly breaks it.

“How many?”  He murmurs to you.  You already know exactly what he’s asking, there's no more clarification necessary on his behalf.

You slowly close your eyes and think back to the smoldering craters, the blood soaked ramp, the fear in Oshua Ryler’s eyes as he begged you not to kill him.

“That didn’t deserve it?”  You ask, clenching your eyes tighter at the memory.  “Four.”

And maybe, maybe six or eight months ago, you would’ve begged for some guidance on how to reconcile that.  Hell, maybe a few hours ago, you could’ve used his arms around you exactly like this, his low voice repeating the same things he’s already told you before, over and over again, if only for some semblance of stability when everything feels turbulent and uncertain.  You’ll never be able to change it, though.  This belongs to you now.

This time, all Din says is, “I’m sorry, too.”

And that covers everything.

The silence envelops you both again, but… there’s something else.  Something that still sits deep in your worries, an image that isn’t a scar of what’s happened but a dread of what’s to come.  You need to tell him.  You don’t feel like saying it, you don’t want to speak it aloud for fear of bringing it into existence, but you need to tell him.

“Din?”  You breathe out, and he makes a soft noise in his throat while cuddling you on the floor.  “I saw…,” you whisper, every word sitting tight and reluctant in your throat.  “Right when we made the jump, I was looking through the window and I-I saw…”

“A star destroyer.”  He says it like… like it’s the worst thing in the world and also completely expected at the same time.  He says it like he already knew, yet can’t even imagine.  You lean every bit of your weight against him since you can’t hold him in return, squish him as best you can against the small corner and curl up even tighter in his arms for comfort.

He takes a deep breath, a shuddery sound you don’t think you’ve ever heard him make before.  It holds untold anxiety, unsaid conflict, uncertain action, an unknown path forward.

“I don’t know what to do,” Din eventually whispers to himself, to you, to the baby in your arms.  His voice is barely a breath through the modulator, his fingers digging into your skin with how many emotions he’s repressing.  “What do I do?”

He sounds so distressed that you automatically feel your soul find the floor—instantly, you become steady and calm and you locate all that rationality that kept you going today.  All your worries still twist deep down, all the guilt and the turmoil wrestles with your soft, easy nature until you can only find bits and pieces of it in the most vulnerable places inside you, but if he’s struggling this terribly, then the least you can do is offer some good, true, unwavering faith in times of uncertainty.  You’re in hyperspace, everything worked out, and it’s going to stay that way for right now.  If he doesn’t know how to talk about it yet, then you trust him enough to wait for him.

“It’ll be okay,” you tell him with a newfound confidence and purpose, carefully easing the baby into one arm so that the other can find its way to the other side of his helmet and pull him closer.  Din tucks his head and allows you to brush your lips against the metal, whisper the words soft and steady to him.  “We’ll figure it out together.”

---

@cptnbvcks thank you so much for the incredible art!

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #mando x reader #mando x you #reader insert #fanfic #star wars #rough day #no-droids

[hoseoksluna]

BLUR | myg ft. jjk

pairing: boyfriend!yoongi x oc (feat. jungkook)

genre: smut

word count: 17k

summary: one encounter with both of the males heals you enough that you don't become anything but joy.

pinterest board: blur

warnings: dom/sub dynamics, marking, oral sex (f. receiving), fingering, cuckold kink, toying with the idea of polyamory, daddy kink, punishment, nipple play, oc gets triggered, face riding, ass play, male masturbation, multiple orgasms, use of butt plug, raw sex, cum eating, clit rubbing

note: i want to thank oc. i've always wanted to pinch jungkook's nose and i got to do that through her. LMFAOFSJLDKFS ANYWAYS—this is the LAST part of the steam series, whoop whoop. finally. this took me so fucking long to write and idk if it even makes sense, which is why i need you guys to let me know everything that you're thinking, feeling, hating, loving. I NEED IT. so pls, send me asks. spam me. thank you. ENJOY READINGGGGG. ₊˚⊹♡

A thin layer of sweat coats your hairline. And inside your skull, momentarily, there aren’t any thoughts—none, whatsoever. They have been swept aside as the feverish evening wind carries your boyfriend’s words through the aroused energy pulsating around your naked form. Around Jungkook’s, too. 

Yoongi is still the only one fully dressed. And, adamantly, he’s taken the role of a watcher, shifting the dynamic in such a frantic way that the sole impulse that you find opening within you like buds of tree flowers is to obey. To submit to the role, externalize one that will fit it. To play along like he did, when he caught onto your scheme. 

Even though you don’t know how to particularly go about it. 

And when Yoongi walks over to the armchair in his living room, plops down on it, angles his head slightly to look at you and waves a hand towards the couch across from him, inviting you to sit, your nescience claws at you. Brutally. 

You don’t know if there are any shadows thickening in his headspace because you deem there must be a reason behind his sudden decision to turn things around. He’s been okay with every practice done so far in the playtime—he validated all of them, was in charge the whole time until he gave that control over to Jungkook. You can’t help but worry if there perhaps isn’t a catch. 

And the lower your disquiet sinks inside your gut, the higher your distrust of yourself springs, lodging in your throat. You’re not sure anymore if you’re right about anything. What if there is something you’ve done that you completely overlooked in the middle of your pleasure? In the middle of Jungkook’s pleasure? 

Once you exchange a heavily-charged look with the puppy, you hope to find a hint in the tenderness of his eyes that would help you figure it out. Though, the more you deepen the scrutiny, the more you’re met with absolute blankness. 

He’s as clueless as you. 

Bewildered, mostly, that Yoongi let him have the upper hand. 

Your finger itches to hook around his, but you only angle your head in the direction of the living room, dubious to listen to your body, intentionally wary. You make the first move and you don’t sit down on the couch like Yoongi motioned you. No, you sink your knees into the space beside his on the armchair, the leather creaking beneath you. Wrap your arms around his shoulders. Study the depth of his gaze as he focuses it on your face, looking for the hint, for anything that would lead you to it. Bury your fingers into his night-tinged hair the way he likes it, the way you like to do it, too. Pull it a little to make known to him that you’re bubbling with uncertainty. 

Yoongi merely watches you, borrowing his friend’s stoicism. 

You click your tongue, disliking it. “Yoongi,” you drawl out, cupping the sides of his neck, willing his attention to be more of an intimate sort. Just you and him. You need to talk to him about this. Need a peace of mind in order for you to enjoy this. In order to please him in the process as well. 

He turns his head behind him, though. To check the whereabouts of his friend. And when you follow the same direction, you discover that his dining space is empty. 

You don’t detect any panic in you. Perhaps it’s due to the fact Jungkook never abandoned you before. Or perhaps you’ve healed to the point that it doesn’t bother you anymore, no matter who does it. And what’s more, you think he probably went to pee. 

With two fingers on his jaw, you turn his attention back to you. Leave them there. His lips curl up as he tries to purse them, his stoicism fragmenting. Eyes gentle, moonbeams swimming. The sight is so endearing to you that your own mouth mirrors his, butterflies awoken, fluttering their wings in your tummy. This is the man you love. This is the man that’s yours. Yours, only. And you’re alone, intimately, cordially. Just like before. 

“Is something the matter, honey?” He tips his chin, irises dilated and looking up at you. Latches his hands onto the fleshiness of your thighs, just below your hip bones. 

With your inhale of breath, you muster as much courage as you can. “Have I done something wrong?” 

Perplexity writes itself on his softened face. Could it be—

“No, why do you think that, hm?” He narrows his eyes at you playfully, tapping his fingers on the side of your hips. You exhale a breath that loosens your worry a little bit and your mouth rounds. He leans in to peck it. “You’ve been perfect.” 

Have you? You’re not so sure—on the contrary, what you’re sure of is the fact you can better yourself. You have to, in order to make your worries dissipate all the way. 

And you can fulfill that if you know what role to play. 

“Tell me what to do.” 

One corner of his mouth tugs ever so slightly to the side and one brow quirks in confusion. “You’re about to get eaten up. Enjoy it—that’s what you are to do.” 

You sigh, realizing you should’ve worded it better. That’s precisely what you want to do—enjoy it, but you can’t risk getting lost again. Can’t risk getting submerged. You need him to tell you who you are to be in this new dynamic he established and you don’t want to hear that you should be yourself. If you relax your boundaries, you’ll step into a dangerous territory—and you’ve been there before. 

So has he. 

“Yoongi, no, I meant—”

He squeezes your muscles. “Don’t be afraid. I’m here, you hear me?” he murmurs, one hand coming up to your hair and curling it behind your ear. And it’s these words that unwittingly, little by little, drive you to drop your own hand, your guard and your worries. The fact that he doesn’t even want to hear your better wording, too, because he understood you the first time. It guides you to think it’s not worth speaking out, not when he evidently knows better. 

And it feels nice. To have someone intelligent enough that they know. To have someone care enough that they don’t let you immerse yourself in doubts because they know the type of shit your thoughts consist of sometimes. He remembers everything you unraveled during the therapy sessions. And that feels nice. More than nice. 

Your mouth rounds again and you repeat it after him. To acknowledge yourself with it. To swallow it so it streams down your body, where its meaning can unfurl. “You’re here.” Your voice is subdued, unsure, the words foreign on your tongue. You knit your brows while you taste them, unable to identify the flavor. That is until you realize it could offend him. You relax your features right away. 

But Yoongi merely watches you with a sympathetic look, one that makes you feel terrible for reacting the way you did.

Not for long, though. 

“I know I’ve made a mistake in the past, but that’s not happening again. I’m not leaving you on your own this time,” he says and you realize that is precisely what you needed to hear, what your body needed to consume first in order to recognize the flavor of his reassurance. You caress his face in deep emotion and you try again. 

“You’re here.” It’s a mere silken sound for only the both of you to hear, but it matters—it’s enough, it’s perfect. In the distance, you hear a shuffling of feet in the kitchen, the song of the wind gaining momentum, inclining to listen to the expression of love between you—to be a witness of the right thing being done at last. And you can taste the sweetest wine of the ripest of grapes, spiced with the most vibrant of roses. You can taste home; his stability you can lean on. 

Yoongi smiles in your grasp, noting the way the words sounded different—more secure. The moonbeams liquify in his waterline. “That’s right. And because I’m here, I’m not letting history repeat itself.” He pinches your cheek, knocking your head back and forth with the well-meaning, ferocious movement. Erases completely the lingering presence of the guard and fears you’ve dropped. You laugh, softly, relieved—so fucking relieved. Joy fills your empty body, energizing you, roses rising in you. Your roses, the ones you know, fraternizing with the unknown flowers that Jungkook planted in you. And you discern that it’s you who’s in your comfort zone, in your safety zone. The males have stepped inside theirs and now you have. You inhale fresh air in your new lungs, exhale your relief. “Say it. So I know you understand.” 

“You’re here and you’re not letting history repeat itself.” Beautiful, beautiful words—beautiful consolation and kindness. A pillar of the most exceptional magnificence. Mentally, you rest against it, rest your enfeebled, exhausted body of all your needless worries and false thoughts. 

You didn’t do anything wrong. Didn’t make a mistake. Though, if it weren’t for the weak moment, you wouldn’t be here. Wouldn’t have gotten the comfort you didn’t know you needed.  

So peculiar, the newness. It dawns on you that it should’ve been like this in the beginning. Healthy conversations, reassurance. Why hadn’t you done this? Why did you jump headlong, bringing along such darkness of—

You close your eyes fleetingly to shut down those thoughts. Forgetting is taking place. Newness is here. Old is gone. Like the verity that he’s here, you repeat it to yourself again and again in your heart. You can’t change what’s happened. You can only move on with the eternal perception that you’ve changed, that you’ve learned. And that’s enough. 

You brush your thumb upon the column of his neck. Back and forth, like he did with your cheek. Thankful for him. “You’re here and you’re not letting history repeat itself.” 

Yoongi isn’t puzzled you whispered it to yourself again. In fact, he embraces it. Kisses you tenderly, deeply to seal those words. They spread roots in you. Rake through the earth so the roses, the flowers can grow healthily, happily, luminously. You feel them lean into the satin touch of the butterflies that elongate their dusty wings before they curl the membranes around their radiant petals, forming a protection circle.  A dose of healing you didn’t expect to receive. Not from him, not now—not now when you’re about to be eaten out by his friend. 

It’s so surreal to you. To feel protected like that. To feel safe. Safe to now roam freely in your undiscovered sexuality because you have someone to look out for you, to possibly guide you back if you lose your way. The stability that envelopes you—you can’t bear it; it’s too good to be true. And when you take a deep breath and those roses tremble with excitement in you, in the circle, there’s nothing left for you to do but to accept it because it’s so strong, because it’s unyielding. You couldn’t move it even if you tried. It won’t let you—it’s here to stay. Here to be alongside your boyfriend, protecting you as you venture out on your perverted adventure. 

You’ve worked hard to get to this point. And now you get to reap what you’ve sown. 

Yoongi grins after the long kiss, proudness emanating out of him and you feel like weeping. You’ve done the right thing, for the very first time. “That’s my good girl.” 

The praise does something to you. Stirs you violently, magnifies the intensity of the flapping of the butterfly wings in you. Sends back feeling to the ache between your legs, propped against the linen of Yoongi’s pants. Throbbing, slapping, memories of what has been done to your pussy—you’re a meadow of wildflowers and you’re ready to be pleasured again, however you register a matter that pulls you away from this notion for a moment. 

There’s no catch. 

Because Yoongi created a new realm for both you and Jungkook with his sense of safety and comfort, there’s nothing for you to fret about. There’s no role for you to play. And, furthermore, who you are meant to be upon this ground is who you’ve been throughout the whole trajectory of your relationship. 

A good girl. 

Only this time it’s entirely different. 

You didn’t want to be yourself because, if anything were to backfire, you thought you’d have the responsibility for it. In addition to that, you thought the normalcy of your sexual life was a no-gone zone for Jungkook, which is why you’ve been racking your brain, trying to come up with ways you could differ it, so Yoongi wouldn’t get jealous. 

But things changed so drastically that because Yoongi took control, now you don’t have to be in charge of that. You’re not the artist, you’re not choosing colors for the palette. Yoongi is. 

There’s still one more thing that doesn’t add up. And you voice it out. “If you’re not letting history repeat itself, though, why are you letting Jungkook be in control?” 

Yoongi grabs your hands and holds them. “I’m letting him be in control of how he does what I tell him to do. I’m in control of the whole situation, honey.” 

You suck in a breath. To protect himself, he won’t make the same mistake again; that’s just the person Yoongi is. He’s allowed Jungkook to have the freedom of a bird in the pleasure he wants you to receive from him, but he won’t hesitate to ensnare him if he runs up against something he doesn’t like.

You find that immensely, immensely attractive. 

Hot. 

The pillar of stability, the warmth of reassurance, the absolute fucking boss—that’s your man. You lid your eyes, swearing, leaning forward to suck onto his lip, kissing him with utter desperation and he lets you. Lets you kiss him. Lets you show him how much you liked that. Growls when your hand creeps to his neglected, clothed length and squeezes it. Hums when you feel him up until you find his tight balls. Responds to your touch—bucks his hips so you focus on them more and you go mad. Interminably, mad. 

And when you swirl your tongue around his, you feel a cold, wet hand on your back. 

The magnet to your madness. The healer stands by the side of the armchair with a dew-sprinkled face and there’s a feigned, playful jealousy that you feel when you regard him, for the only dew you want on his face is one that’s your own. He washed up in the bathroom—you reckon he did it to cool his desperation, to cool the sweat of arousal that lines his skin, much like yours. You note that it didn’t work, at least not fully, because when you roam your gaze down, you discover he’s still painfully hard. Much like your boyfriend. 

You wrap your hand around him and the forbidden, exhilarating feeling of having two cocks in your grasp is too brief for your liking because Jungkook pulls your hand away again. Holds it and leads you towards the couch. You frown at him with a puckish smile, but while he tugs you away, you steal a kiss from Yoongi. A hard, quick kiss that makes him twitch—something that you get to feel before Jungkook grabs you by your pits and throws you on the couch. 

You let out a string of giggles, loving the feeling of being manhandled; loving the feeling of Jungkook being in desperate need to eat you out. Your face heats up, your body following suit, the ache between your legs worsening. Yoongi smirks, validating your enjoyment and he adjusts in his seat, which you think is dismal. You don’t want him to be neglected. You want him to be pleasured, too.

The words tumble out of you before you can think them over. “Can you touch yourself for me, baby?” 

Yoongi licks his lips. Pauses before he responds. Tortures you like he tortured Jungkook. You spread your legs to provoke him, giving him a show of the shine on your folds. It’s enough for him to palm himself briefly, as if he lost control for a split second. He takes his hand away and places it back on the armrest. “I’ll consider it.” 

The boss at play. You swear, closing your legs to squeeze them, to give yourself some sort of relief from the ache you feel. Butterflies go rampant in your tummy, but despite the buzzing tension, you feel content, safe and utterly elated. Happy. 

You expect Jungkook to say something, though he merely props a knee on the leather of the couch and spreads your legs how he wants them. He doesn’t lift them, only parts them as far as they can go. You go to grab his length again because you feel a certain magnetic pulling to it, but he catches your hand in time. 

“Behave.” He presses your hand firmly to emphasize his scolding before he lets go. Such a stark contrast to the playtime of before. You remember how he wanted you to do the complete opposite. To misbehave. Your body heats up even more, the fire compulsing your hips to sway, asking for attention. 

Another set of words tumble out of you unwittingly and you place your hands under your thighs. “I’m sorry.” 

The surprise that floods Jungkook’s features is overwhelming to you and in response, you grin, coyly. He strokes the adorable fat of your cheek. “Good girl. That’s what I like to hear.” 

You purse your lips and before the fire of that praise can lick your whole body, Yoongi speaks up, too. “Good job, honey. You learned your lesson so well.” 

Shock comes first, then fire—vibrant blue fire that scorches you whole. You blush, deeply, squeezing the leather of the couch—the praise and the validation from both males so profuse, so profound that you can’t take it. You hide your widening grin beneath your palms. “Stop,” you drawl, the sound muffled and soft, even though you don’t want them to do anything of the sort. 

Jungkook coos, pulls your wrist away, uncovering your rosy, glowy face. Then, he pets your head, fingers sinking into your hair. He forces you to look at him, to see the smile of endearment that bathes his face in light, but he does it so gently that you purr, his hold so stimulating, so titillating—his countenance so lovely, so darkly angelic. Eyes crinkled but still round, still so tender. “Who taught you to have such good manners, huh?” 

You swipe your tongue along the top arc of your lip, his gaze flicks to it and and the answer thrums in your belly warmly like a sip of a good wine. It doesn’t unnerve you, doesn’t make you afraid. In fact, it’s so tranquil and so right that you relish every syllable. “Both of you did.” 

The rays from the light side penetrate the dark one and healing takes place. Healing that you never thought you’d ever be a witness to. You know that the act of forgetting was supposed to fully sink in all three of you, but your words diverged its path. You swallow warmth and you swallow relief, watch as Yoongi gets up from his seat and mirrors Jungkook’s position, one knee on the leather, hand under your jaw. A soft set of tears rush in at the attention and the realization of what’s actually happening, and when the healer sees them, he lets go of your hair and brushes his thumb across your brow, hand spread across the side of your face. You lean into his palm, so terribly emotional, and when Yoongi plants a delicate kiss on your cheek, your chin begins to quiver. He felt it, too. Felt the gravity of those words that now dulcify his intention to make things right this time. And he kisses you again, prolongs the peck, as if to thank you for your goodness. 

When Yoongi lifts his head and bores his mellow gaze into you, it is the same relief that you’ve swallowed that you see saturating his face in effulgence. At last, it has come for him, has come to live in him. At last, it’s here. 

You’ve done it, all three of you. Healed from the pain. 

Jungkook knits his brows at the sight of the first tear plopping down onto your skin as if it physically pained him to see you cry. And before you can register the movement, he swipes the liquid emotion away and kisses the residue of it, as if it were fate itself that wrote it was meant to pour down on the right side of your face—for Jungkook to collect, for it to seep into his fingerprint. 

So much love. The air is thick with it. Your lungs tremble as you take a deep breath. The wind billows in and out, but doesn’t carry it off—intertwines its translucent body with it instead, bringing in a fresh gust of briskness into the atmosphere. No more tears stream down your cheeks; you smile at both of the males—the healer and the boss. 

Yoongi remains standing beside you. Takes your hand in his. Says a myriad of silent words of great importance that you cannot decipher as he exchanges a look with Jungkook, who merely nods at them in plain understanding. You don’t have to wonder long what was behind it. Jungkook turns your jawline to him and kisses you softly. Doesn’t let go. Prolongs the kiss until he whimpers onto your mouth, softened, too, by the healing that occurred. No tongue, just the warmed silver of his lip ring, the smooth tenderness of his mouth and the most affectionate emotion exuded into the kiss. 

The pop of the withdrawal is all you hear. You keep your eyes closed. Feel him take that kiss onto your neck, your collarbone, to your sternum. Feel the tightening of your boyfriend’s grip around your hand as Jungkook drags his lips down your tummy, where the healing vibrates and he says hello to it with his tongue, makes it feel safe. Feel the tightening compulsion to watch him as he does it and you obey your body. 

Jungkook is kneeling before you. Brows furrowed, expression so terribly serious as he understands how significant this part of you is. Sinks his whimpers into your skin while he sucks it and it’s only when you run your fingers through his silky hair that he looks up at you. And the sight of his wet eyes breaks you. 

He’s as emotional as you. 

Your throat constricts. If it weren’t for him, none of this lively beauty would take place—and if it weren’t for Yoongi, too. It is their work of art and you’re the one doused in colors of most resplendence. And you tell them, your body urges you to, while you squeeze Yoongi’s hand and caress Jungkook’s hair. “I’m so grateful for you both.” 

The healer whimpers again, letting go of your skin, leaving behind a purple memory of this heartfelt loveliness. His tears don’t escape the confinement of his waterline—he blinks them away. Blinks them even more rapidly when Yoongi places a hand on Jungkook’s bare shoulder and he gapes at him in disbelief—in disbelief that his closest friend is touching him with such gentleness after everything. You don’t allow yourself to think of the past, of the last violent touch that you saw, but you can’t help the emotion rushing in your eyes. You let go of Yoongi’s hand to clasp the one on Jungkook’s shoulder, deepening the love. 

And you press a loud, exaggerated kiss on Jungkook’s forehead to make him laugh—like he did that one time by talking about his worm. To distract him, if there are perhaps any overbearing thoughts in his mind. 

Now his disbelief is directed towards you. Mouth parted, wrinkles between his brows. You burst into laughter and it triggers his. Yoongi’s, too. It’s your breasts that bounce now and none of the pairs of eyes flick to it, fixed still on the glamorous gracefulness that blossoms out from your face. Jungkook shakes his head, cheeks awash with redness, irises glinting with a spark you’ve never seen before, and you consider your job done. He tells you to lay back down, but his grin lingers. 

Yoongi takes your hand back in his and you perceive that he needs it, that he needs to hold you. You smile at him, fluttering your lashes, blowing him an air kiss, and he nudges his nose against yours to remind you to enjoy this. You begin to prepare yourself, taking a deep breath—

It hitches in your throat harshly. Jungkook kitten licks your clit with deep pressure, just once, lifting his head to watch your reaction. The reverberation of the pleasure causes you to moan and he smirks at you—what’s worse, he winks at you, so terribly smug that he coaxed such sound like that by one lick and it makes you tremble, needing more. He can see it, but he tortures you, keeping his hands on your thighs. 

And when Yoongi reaches behind himself and sinks your headband with yellow kitty ears into Jungkook’s hair, you’re done for. You must’ve left it there when you were doing your makeup. Jungkook doesn’t acknowledge it, however. Too drunk by his first proper taste of you to do so, glossy eyes transfixed by that flesh of yours. 

It suits him so well that you coo at him, grasping his neck to pull him back to your cunt, but he doesn’t let you. Your heart begins to thump with hard beats and you grow desperate, whining, looking at Yoongi to make him do something. 

He merely smiles at you. “Be patient.” 

At his words, Jungkook lifts your legs and begins to focus on the back of your thigh, marking it, groaning against your skin, inhaling your mango scent. He roams his tongue all over and you whine louder, finding it so unfair that you have to wait for it, that he reinforces your neediness by those hard kisses and sucks, by his sounds, breaths and control. You grind your hips, the ache between your legs made unbearable by your helplessness and Yoongi stops you by placing his hand on your lower belly. 

“Did I not tell you to be patient? Be good,” Yoongi scolds, lowly, rubbing the place in slow circles. Your whine is bratty, but you nod your head, pouting, halting all your movements, becoming still like the wind that has come to stay and observe the unfolding of your daydream. 

At your submission, Yoongi creeps a finger to your wet clit, testing you. Doesn’t do anything beyond that and once he sees you’re well-behaved, he plunges the same finger into your mouth, giving you a taste of Jungkook’s saliva. You mewl, sucking it. The healer watches the act in deep thought, your skin in his mouth, and you’re certain an idea flashes in his mind. 

Jungkook straightens to his full height, proving you right and the feeling is utterly gratifying. Reaches behind him and grabs the tall glass filled with water that you never noticed he put on the coffee table. Yoongi withdraws his digit and inspects his friend’s doing with curiosity. Jungkook takes a small sip of it without taking his gaze off of you, tips it to your mouth right after and you realize he did it more so it wouldn’t overflow, as you take a well-needed sip of your own, rather than to refresh himself. That is until he does something that completely shocks you, ripping away your delightful proudness of being proven right. 

It is something between a yelp and a moan when the coldness of the water drops onto the skin of your chest, scattering it with tiny, pellucid pearls that almost pool by your violent heart. The demo before the full game; your breathing gains as much speed as the throbbing in your clit. Jungkook inclines the glass again, holds it as a longer, thicker trail trickles down your body—from the middle of your breasts, across your tummy until it reaches your cunt. And the contact of the liquid with the hotness of your swollen seashell? You groan, rolling your body. So much that you slap your hands down on the leather, gripping it with all your might, needing something stable to hold onto, to release your pent-up desperation. 

Amused, Jungkook sets the glass down and kneels back down. Licks a long, torturous stripe from your clit up to those pearls, following the path he mapped out while zeroing his stare into yours. You part your mouth, your madness closing around you again, puffing out short breaths and subdued, desperate moans and when Jungkook closes his lips over your neck and begins to suck, you turn your head towards Yoongi and roll your eyes back. Struggle to keep them open as you feel that muscle of his tracing patterns on the sensitive skin and Yoongi knows. He knows how good it is for you and he kisses you like he means it, mimicking what his friend is doing around your tongue. 

Your sounds grow in volume. Your desperation, too, in intensity. 

“Please.” 

Jungkook emerges from your neck but wraps a hand around it, nonetheless. Is as close to you as your breath, his nose bumping into yours. He squeezes your column firmly before he curtly turns your jawline away from Yoongi. You wonder if he can feel your heartbeat under his forearm, if he can feel how desperate she is for him, too—in a way you don’t understand. “Please what?” 

He opens your mouth wider and spits. 

Shock comes first like a thunderbolt, spreading across your veins, paralyzing your body. Then it blurs into a tumultuous arousal that seizes you whole, that makes you beg for more. No one has ever spat in your mouth, not even Yoongi. You’ve never liked it in porn, but experiencing it first-hand gives it another meaning. The dominance, the absolute film of lustfulness caking his face, the estimable seriousness that wafts off of him. He’s turned you into a boneless putty, his putty, and you want him to do it again. 

“Spit in my mouth again, please—please.” 

Jungkook grunts. Shadows surround your vision as you narrow your eyes in sheer pleasure at his sound, biting your lip to cage in your worsening desire for him—but he saves your lip, pulls it away from your teeth and opens your mouth wide. You ogle him as he sloshes his saliva in his mouth above you before he taps your tongue, signalizing you to stick it out for him. Once you listen, he spits hard onto the muscle that waited for it. You moan, satisfied, swallowing it right away and showing him. 

He pokes his own tongue in his inner cheek, fire blazing in his as equally narrowed eyes, the act of spitting in your mouth making him beyond fucked out. You can sense it deep in your core and your obsession with it grows. 

“You’re filthy, but so good. It’s making me lose my fucking mind,” he says, hazily, fingers squeezing your throat for a heartbeat. The momentary lack of oxygen gives you a perfect demonstration of his words and the moans you let out are so breathy, so choked out that he takes your madness and makes it his own—loosening his grip and kissing you nastily, licking into your mouth, both hands traveling south to your breasts and kneading them harshly, pressing your nipples between his fingers. 

And when you utter the words rising vehemently in your throat, he takes the demonstration to otherworldly levels. “Thank you, Daddy.” 

Jungkook cocks his head at you and drags his teeth painfully across his bottom lip, swearing. His eyes darken, at last. Thrill sizzles beneath your skin and you feel an upsurge of adrenaline, the aftertaste of the title so sweet, so delicious on your tongue. “As if you didn’t deserve it already, I’m gonna take you to heaven for that.” 

You laugh softly, brushing your fingers through his hair, anticipation joining the adrenaline. “You like me calling you that?” 

He hums his agreement and you don’t feel Yoongi, you don’t even feel his hand; your vision, surroundings, persona blurring so rapidly. “Daddy’s gonna make you feel so good. All you have to do is come for him as many times as you can. Thank him that way. Is that clear?” 

You shiver at the use of third person. Never thought you’d find it as alluring as you do. Brush your thumb across his brow like he does it to you. He coos, kissing your hand, sinking his body lower. Touched by the gesture. “Yes, Daddy. That won’t be too difficult for me to do.”

Jungkook gives you a smile that envelops you in an aura, where it’s just you and him. You don’t have the brain cells, nor the will, the desire to stop it. “That’s a good girl. On her best behavior for us.” 

It wakes you up and the feeling of Yoongi’s grip on your hand returns, the circle of the aura withering. Disappointment descends in your gut, one that is soon forgotten when Jungkook sucks your clit into his mouth. 

The squeak you let out would be embarrassing if you weren’t so out of your mind, but the confidence it came out with, the seductiveness and beauty—Jungkook shows you how much he liked the sound by humming against your sensitivity, the appreciation smothering every fiber and nerve ending of your body, hoisting you up towards the canopy of clouds. He swirls his tongue around the flesh, sucking deeper before he opens his mouth wider and licks you all over, closing his eyes and moaning, reveling in the feeling of you, the scent of you and the warmth of you. He toys with your lips, chuckling in delight when he acknowledges himself with them, burying his mouth completely in them, kissing them, caressing them with the puffiness of his pillows. 

He’s pussydrunk—and the sight of it intoxicates you just the same. 

And then he pauses. Kisses your clit. The peck so ardently earnest that he sucks it in the process. Does it again and again until he tinges your femininity in the faintest, daintiest, most dreamiest tone of red, prettier than any flowers you’ve ever seen—so akin to the wash of color scattering along his cheekbones. Then, he rubs his face in you, vigorously, moaning against you so intensely that your sounds become one. 

Raising his head, features drenched in your dew—just like you wanted it—his chain taps your cunt in long staccatos. The pleasure is so dizzying, along with his looks, that you feebly jump at every contact. It reminds you, vividly, of the spanks you like so much. “Pussy so fucking wet and pretty for me. I’m gonna destroy you.” 

It’s only at this time that you hear Yoongi smug but quietly laugh. He draws close to your ear and his hardened breath steals your attention from his friend’s praise. “He makes me wanna taste you, too, and make you come repeatedly on my tongue. Fuck, honey. I want that so bad.” 

You mewl, about to burst at the seams, unable to take the double relish given to you from both men. Yoongi latches his mouth onto your neck, causing your eyes to roll back, and it sparks up some kind of competition in Jungkook, for when he dives back in—you scream. 

The flicks of his tongue are so brutal that your lungs heave. You take many breaths but you can’t catch them, the heat from Yoongi’s kisses and the rapidness of Jungkook’s movement numbing your body to the point that you’re rendered powerless. 

Jungkook alternates between fast flicks and long swipes from your entrance to your bundle of nerves, parting your lips so he can have easy access. And being spread like that, attended to by two males that you have strong attachment to, the kitty ears bobbing up and down as Jungkook devours you—your orgasm chases you down, the knot in your lower belly pulled so taut that it takes a mere heartbeat for it to snap completely. 

And when you come, Jungkook laps you up, grunting in insatiable need for more. Your body violently shudders, but he keeps going, widening his swirls of tongue around your clit before he rubs it with the tip of his nose and—

He begins to fuck you with his tongue. 

You don’t feel anything. Not your heartbeat, not your struggling lungs—just the hard jabs of his tongue inside your hole, pushing you closer and closer to paradise. Not heaven, you’ve been there, but to something beyond. A paradise of the warmest color and sunlight, swaying trees and a pool of the most refreshing water. 

And Yoongi’s noise of joy is the bird that flies past in that place, dipping to its reflection. “Daddy’s so good he’s giving it to you better than I ever did.”

It’s those words that make you come again. 

He laughs, fondles your nipples, holds you steady as Jungkook prolongs your orgasm by strenuously sucking your clit and you sob hard, tingling all over, senses gone, everything gone. You feel so lightweight, so airy, dopamine and oxytocin making your head all fucked up. Happy, satisfied. 

Jungkook withdraws, kissing your clit one last time, licking it slowly. “You came so hard for Daddy, well done,” he praises, mouth wet, face as colorful as the meadow of flowers in you, gleaming iridescently. “But I’m not done with you.” 

You moan, wanting more, badly. Take him by the neck with both hands and draw him closer to you, the chain stimulating your breasts. You kiss him hungrily and the taste of your dew causes you to let out such obscene sound that Jungkook and Yoongi growl simultaneously. Dulciness, with a hint of piquancy that makes you even hornier—the slipperiness of his mouth making it worse. “I want to ride your face. Please, please, let me.” 

Jungkook smiles at you, pecking your lips, faintly. Cocks his brow at Yoongi. “You’re gonna give the princess what she wants?” 

Your eyes follow the sharp line of his jaw and you bite your lip. Don’t think twice about taking that skin into your mouth, licking it over, watching as Jungkook closes his eyes at the contact. Musk, the forest, wood—you carry your still lingering hunger and unravel it upon the spot beneath that strong jaw, devouring that scent of his, aware of how his breath lodges in his throat. You mimic what he did to your clit there, enjoying every second of it, enjoying his reaction as he hums and thumbs your clit, waiting for Yoongi’s approval. 

And you quicken it by begging for it, squeaking little sounds, beckoned by that slow motion of his digit. “Please, Yoongi. I want it so bad.” 

Badly enough that you force your head away and look at him. As much as you thought there would be puzzlement to his face, what you detect is far more sinister. His smirking mouth tells you that he is simply pleased with the way you’re begging, with the way he gets to torture you. And not just you, but Jungkook as well. Ego high—his control at full play. You don’t blame him, not at all. It must be delicious to him in the middle of all this healing. 

“Ride him well, make me proud.” 

The joy springs in you so fast, but you don’t have the time to take in it. Yoongi gets up from the couch and you apprehend that you were very, very wrong. 

You haven’t healed to the point that it doesn’t bother you when Yoongi leaves. 

Your panic is so enormous that you rise, your movement so rigid that Jungkook stumbles, his arm quick to wrap around your chest, pulling you back onto the leather beside him. And you don’t see the twist of his brows, the deep clefts of his dimples while he scowles. No, you watch your boyfriend’s back as he makes his way to the dining table, your heart expanding in your throat. 

“Tell her at least where the fuck you’re going,” Jungkook grumbles, ever the healer who senses your emotions and the fact he stood up for you like this makes you mouth merely round, your otherwise triggered trauma unsettling the rest of your feelings. 

Yoongi returns a moment later with the butt plug and lube in his hand and with a solemnly guilty face. Kisses the top of your head in apology, but it’s not enough. Not when you can’t hear your heartbeat. Not when you can’t swallow. Not when your mind is so numbed by the recurring panic that you cannot even hear your mind. 

“Don’t do that to me,” you whisper, but the words are firm, piercingly sharp, important and gravely, so much that Jungkook, with sticky hands by his sides, stills next to you. 

Yoongi cups your chin, a dominant gesture, but you glare at him—masculine strength being the last thing you need right now. You may have foolishly thought your healing was complete and as much as it knifes you to be proven wrong, it’s the fact you expected more from him that hurts the most, especially after he promised you he’d be here. But maybe it’s foolish altogether, to be in hidden demand of him to tell you of his whereabouts, notably when you never voiced it out for him, not once during the therapy sessions, not once during the course of this perverted adventure—the matter of the gravity of your abandonment issues. 

You point your anger at yourself and fall to a dark, dark abyss. 

And you pushed yourself there on your own because you were incapable of reminding yourself of Yoongi’s reassurance, mind too blurred, too fucked out to remember. 

“I’m sorry, honey. I’m still here. I never left you.” 

You nod because he’s right. “I know now. I didn’t remind myself. It’s my fault.” It’s as much of a surprise to your ears as it is to Yoongi’s. He widens his eyes at your honesty before tenderness swims past. “I’m really sensitive right now.” 

Jungkook rubs circles on your back with his thumb and you welcome his touch, his warm energy.  

Yoongi caresses your face. “It’s okay, it’s not your fault. What we’re doing here is pretty overwhelming. But I’m here. I got you.” His words hold the same firmness that yours did and it’s difficult for you to grasp how they’re mending you, how they’re swooping that darkness in their arms and flinging it away from your reach. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Not one thing. Let me make it better for you, hm? You want me to make you feel better?” 

Emptiness plummets down your body, in place of the darkness and the anger, and the moonbeams in his eyes engulf it, filling it with its pale light. All you can do is nod, too weak to express any other form of affirmation. 

Yoongi kisses the place on your cheek beside your ear, slipping inside his words. “Good girl. The best. I’ll make you feel better. I’ll make you happy again, my love.” You sob at the pet name, at the tenderness, at the comforting feeling of Jungkook’s hand on your arm, pulling you back so you lean against his chest, participating in your healing. The round valley of his tattooed bicep nudges you in your cheek as he cages you in and you nuzzle your face into it, hooking both of your hands on his forearm. Musk, forest and wood suffusing your senses, along with a strong dose of safety. “That’s it, lean against him like that. Daddy will help you forget, too. Spread your legs for us.” 

You do as he says, needing what he’s promising you—needing it from them both. Maybe then, when it’s from such a vast source, will you get your full healing. 

Yoongi squirts a good amount of lube on his fingers, smearing it on your pussy. The coldness of it enlivens you and you lean your head back against the hardness of Jungkook’s chest, pressing your lips against his bulging muscles. And when Yoongi begins to massage your clit in slow circles, the healer tightens his hold around you, hand gripping your shoulders, the other one gliding down your tummy and staying there. Nipples pebbled against his forearm, breasts full and squished, your form safe, tucked, pleasured in the whole enormity that he is—you relax, giving yourself over to the delight of your boyfriend’s fingers. 

He sinks two of them inside you, stuffing you to the brim and pausing there. Jungkook sneaks his towards your bundle of nerves, resuming the circles, breaths hot against your scalp, gaining pleasure from pleasuring you, especially so when your healing is the primary goal behind it. 

And when Yoongi begins to fuck you, his hand drops from your shoulder and settles over your tit, pinching your nipple between the knuckles of his thumb and forefinger. You cry out and it drives your boyfriend to pump his digits harder—to the point that you can’t see the in and out motion, the pace so fast it becomes a blur. 

“Let go, honey, come on, let it go for us,” Yoongi murmurs, putting his whole body into his intention; you would move along with him, too, if Jungkook weren’t holding you so tightly. “You feel so good around my fingers. So tight, so wet. Such a good girl, getting what you deserve.” 

Jungkook quickens his circles, gruff groans muffled against your scalp. “You can do it, sweetheart. I know it feels good when we touch you like this.” 

Your body drips in sweat and only when Yoongi agrees, pistons his fingers faster into you do you fully let go. Your anger, your trauma, your darkness leaves you in the form of your dew and Yoongi collects it in his hand. Doesn’t stop fucking you, in fact encourages another one and you spill until your wetness overflows from his hand. Eyes rolling back, hips lifting, legs spreading even further apart. Both men praise you, but you can’t hear them—your senses silent. 

They come back to you when Yoongi licks his digits clean, swallowing your pain. Doesn’t waste time and turns you around, your sore, sensitive body colliding into Jungkook’s. And like him, he dives into your pussy, licking you clean, not having enough of your darkened taste. 

You’re so out of it that you can only focus on the brush of Jungkook’s hand down your hair and the overstimulation that seizes you, that you can’t do anything about other than take it. “Coming so well, so many times for us. You feel better?” 

You can’t answer his question, not when Yoongi begins to trace your tiny, virgin hole with his tongue, giving you a new kind of pleasure that you’ve never felt before. Your eyes whisk to the back of your head and Jungkook cradles it, understanding whooshing past his eyes—understanding that you can’t speak, not when you’re experiencing something so extensive. He smiles down at you, squishing your cheeks. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Fuck, you look so pretty.” 

Your choked out moans are enough of an affirmation for him. He coos. Then, a squirt of lube. A finger slowly going in. A gasp, a warm breath that Jungkook inhales, feeling it with you. The uncertainty in your eyes that he instantly smooths out. “You can take it. You’re such a good girl, why wouldn’t you be able to take it? Just relax. I got you.” He kisses your nose and you want to weep in joy, so overcome with it all. 

Per his reassurance, your round muscle relaxes and sucks him in. And when he begins to fuck you, you can’t contain your sounds. So lewd, so dirty, and Jungkook emboldens you by scrunching up his features, groaning with you, taking breaths with you. You give in, entirely, feel another orgasm coming, but Yoongi rips it away. Wants you to come around the thicker toy. 

The coldness of it makes you tremble, although the hunger both of the males awakened in you for it drives you to move your hips back, helping Yoongi insert it in. It takes a few tries, a few ins and outs before you welcome in it, before the fullness enthralls you so much that you become even needier, even more confident and seductive. 

Yoongi presents you to his friend, but each movement you make causes you to be more desperate than you’ve been the entire sultry night. Everything is heightened—every touch, every enjoyment of praise, every sliver of attention and all you want is to be fucked. Brutally, ravagedly fucked. 

To absorb the sight of you as you’re positioned on your hands and knees, Jungkook begins to make love on the skin of your behind with his tongue. You feel every word of apology compressed into it. For every bruise, for every red splodge, for every acute pain caused, no matter how much you enjoyed it in the moment. It’s just between you and him, shielded by the premise of desire stirred by your adorned tiny hole. And you keep it that way, whimpering for him sweetly, validating it for him. Tucking it safely into every chamber of your heart. 

Then, he strokes the flesh, replacing the bad memories with good ones—replacing the past with the present time. Lies down between your legs and pushes your hips down onto your face. 

And you ride him. His tongue, his nose. Fondle the kitty ears askew on his head. Let his moans envelop around those chambers of your heart, protecting them. Let his eyes seal your scorching, enchanting femininity with all its spirited confidence. And once he pacifies the grinding movement of your hips and takes control, palming your breasts, lips sucking your clit, tongue toying with it, you come in seconds that are not pathetic in nature, but outright exhilarating. 

You lean back against Yoongi, out of breath. He wraps his hand around your throat. “What do you want now, honey? You want to get fucked?” 

You hum, the idea clutching your body in tight excitement. “Yes. Badly. Please.” 

At your words, Jungkook begins to tug at his length and the needy movement reverberates throughout your entire body. You coo at him, enjoying the view and you get on your knees in front of the couch to watch him, inhaling his sounds like he did yours. 

“You want us to take turns? He stops, as if he was seconds away from coming, and you wrap your lips around him, letting him know how much you like the idea—at which he trembles, pulling you away. You grin at him in pure joy. “Like the sound of that?” 

“Fuck yes. Please. Both holes.”

Jungkook hisses, round, dark eyes rolling back for a split moment, losing himself—thumb swiping across your mouth once he comes back. “Daddy’s so fucking needy for you. Come here.” 

He manhandles you. Like a child he carries you to the dining space and bends you over the table. You turn your head to see where Yoongi is and he slowly swaggers towards you and Jungkook, popping his button open and pulling out his length. Tip red and painfully swollen, length long and hard—longer than you’ve ever seen it—balls tight. And when Jungkook begins to fuck you sluggishly with the butt plug, you grip the wood of the table with all your strength, fingertips white, and watch as it drives Yoongi to fuck his fist. 

The same fist he cups under your chin when he reaches you. “Spit.” 

And you do—at the same time that Jungkook forces out the silver toy, tongue immediately coming to whirl around the stretched muscle. Like before, as Jungkook fucks you there, Yoongi fucks his fist. The sounds that spill out of all three mouths are simultaneous, creating a harmony fitting just right for the paradise you find yourself in. It’s such a vigor that he eats your ass with—he does it much differently than Yoongi. Hungry and feral, he again buries his face in your ass, squeezing the flesh, before he drills the muscle with fast, strong jabs. You can’t see anything, the pleasure so intense, so darkly intense and heavily pressured that your vision remains perpetually in the back of your head. Your orgasm closes down upon you swiftly, at once, when he rubs your clit with all four fingers, not expecting it at all as no flashes danced across that night-doused canopy of nothingness before your eyes, no body heat nor pressure rose. Jungkook secures your release by slipping the butt plug back in, smacking his mouth in delight. You slump against the table, boneless. 

Jungkook takes your arms and pins them behind your back, angling the hot tip of his cock at your entrance. “You ready for this?” 

Your yes is but a tweet. 

Jungkook hums, breaths hard. “You want this cock?” 

This time, your yes is a louder screech, vibrating through the whole apartment. 

“Hm, I’m gonna stretch you out for him. Make your hole nice and big for all the cum we’ll dump you with. You’re gonna take it all like the good girl you are, aren’t you?” 

Both of your holes, your muscles, your organs clench at his words and you can’t halt the litany of vulgar words and agreement from pouring out. His grip around your intertwined forearms is deathly and when he fills you to the brim, tip kissing your cervix, walls stretching around his thick girth little by little and gives you a singular, hard stroke that shakes the table, you scream so loud that the sound echoes around the room, carrying it out into the feverish night. 

Your words are jumbled, a perfect mess, and it takes more than a few tries for you to get them out coherently. “You’re—you’re giving me all of it?” you ask, because if there’s more inches for you to take, you’ll die.  

Jungkook chuckles, darkly, lips at your ear, his body heat enveloping yours like a chunky blanket. Sneaks a hand to your hip bone. Sinks a little deeper until his pelvis touches yours, his heat spreading into all of your pores. You gasp. “I’m giving you every.” Thrust. “Fucking.” Thrust. “Inch.” Thrust. “And it’s all yours, sweetheart.”

You’re breathless, weak, and it’s a slow crescendo, the way he begins to roll his hips, the way he straightens and the fresh wind goes for the imprint of sweat of your and his origin on your back, cooling it, though he rips the briskness away almost instantaneously, repeating his hard stroke, the table banging against the wall. Doesn’t give you the time to prepare. 

“Can you take it?” he asks, along with that dark chuckle again. Your hands begins to tingle due to the way he’s gripping your wrists, your blood at a standstill. “Can you take us both, huh?” 

Brutal thrust. Just what you wanted. He takes you by the throat and presses you against his chest, kissing you with such vulgarity that you moan into his mouth, the fullness you feel only heightening it. He grinds in response, hands descending to your breasts, kneading them, pinching both of your nipples between his knuckles and thumbs. “Pretty fucking girl.”

You whine. 

He withdraws, then. Motions over to Yoongi. The loss disappoints you. 

A man of his word, Jungkook stretched you enough for Yoongi to easily slip inside you to the hilt. You expect him to give you a few strokes before giving you over to his friend, and you prop your hands on the table to ready yourself for it, for Yoongi’s hunger as he’s the only one who hasn’t felt any pleasure over the course of the adventure. 

But Yoongi only grips himself and pulls out. 

A thicker length. To the brim. A slender one. And they repeat it until all you can hear is the madness of their aroused laughter, their grunts and their pants. Hands all over you. The feeling is so overwhelming that everything becomes a blur. You don’t know whose hand is touching you, whose mouth is kissing you, whose cock is drilling you, senses ascending to a place beyond the paradise—

And then you feel both of their tips toying with your abused hole, acting, feignedly—drawing in and out, never fully penetrating. 

A short-lived moment that causes you to forget who you are. 

“Oh, god,” you drawl, slumping against the wood, helpless. They continue to take turns in fucking you fluidly, the symphony of your slick so loud, so filthy to your ears. You’re numb to the point that you don’t peep a sound, disoriented and so adrift in the place beyond paradise that they took you to. 

Jungkook takes control once he hears your call for help. Begins to piston his length inside you rapidly until stars take shape across your vision, wrapping a forearm around your neck similarly to the way he did in the middle of your healing, digging crescent moons into your shoulder. Stops your head from knocking back and forth furiously. You feel his sweat drip down his pelvis—and with each hard thrust, its pearls jump over to your skin, trickling down your trembling legs. The pressure in your core is but a heartbeat away from bursting. You sense it—and you sense it vehemently. 

“Are you gonna come around my cock or around his, hm? Whose is it gonna be, sweetheart?” 

Your body answers him for you, your walls tightening around him so resolutely that Jungkook stills, whimpering onto your neck. You come so hard that there is absolutely nothing else that you hear but that whiny sound—and all you can see is the stars gaining vibrant colors to their pointed shapes, various, various colors that blind you. Colors that, like you, get dumped with hot, ivory, thick cum. 

Your orgasm triggered his. 

You mewl like a little kitty cat, so pleased that he came in you, so pleased that you felt it, that you felt the twitching of his cock. Pleased that when you gape at him, you can see how spent he is, content and illuminated like those stars. 

You want to lick him up. You want to taste that glow on your tongue. 

His cum drips out of you when you turn around. Jungkook collects it with two of his fingers and pumps it back inside you. The look you give him is almost predatory, so awfully fierce that he grows faintly timid, post-nut clarity cocooning him in a soft aura, bringing his puppy nature back to him. 

You sit back down on the table and spread your legs for your boyfriend, but your gaze remains fixed on him. Blindly, you reach for Yoongi’s hand, drawing him closer, and he happily obliges your silent command. Lines himself up at your entrance and pumps Jungkook’s cum deeper into you. 

You let the puppy see the exhilaration springing up your body, tugging the corners of your mouth to each side. The glint in your eyes. The pure joy that you feel. Then, the falling of that expression as it blends into a depiction of your pleasure—furrowed brows, pout, narrowed lids. You don’t take your eyes off of him. Not even for a second. 

In fact, you curl your fingers in beckoning. And when he comes to you, you lick a stripe of the sweat coating his defined abdomen, tongue rolling around the valley of his hard muscle. Kiss the skin before you suck it into your mouth, moaning when Yoongi goes all in—fucking you with all of his energy. The taste of his glow only betters the experience, but you don’t think you can come again. You enjoy it, nonetheless. 

And when you turn your attention to your boyfriend, deeming he deserves it—Jungkook steals it in typical fashion. “Feels good?” Light, much bigger than yours, covering his eyes. You nod, humming, girlishly so—the sound pitched. “You’re gonna come again? For him?” 

You consider it an impossible task, but for him you’ll do anything. “I’ll try.” 

Jungkook makes a sound of approval, leans in and kisses you gently. Yoongi turns your chin to him and as soon as your lips touch his, you feel his cock twitch. Unlike Jungkook, he fucks you through his orgasm, groaning loudly into your mouth and you reach to the place, where you’re connected and squeeze his balls, wanting his cum, needing it.

And when Yoongi emerges from his bliss, he smiles at you, breathing out a soft laugh. Features relaxed, drowsy. You give him a smile, too, the same tiredness engulfing you. 

Slinking out of you, you discover he came so vastly that his male essence trickles out of you. You graze a finger across your slit and you gather so much of it that as you take your hand towards your mouth, it plops onto your stomach. You giggle, high on the hormones released through your body, high on the happy males watching you, high on life—high on rightness. The joy doesn’t even let you wrap your lips around your finger, adamant on showing them how well they gratified you by keeping them stretched in a dopey grin. 

They’re so endeared by you that the same expression graces their faces. Exchanging a single glance, they start at once—picking you up like a child. Yoongi by your legs, Jungkook by your pits and it’s him, the healer, who leads the way to the bathroom, walking backwards hurriedly. 

Though promptly, when putting you down, your legs are so sore, so weakened that if it weren’t for their arms, you’d fall onto the tiles. Giggles and obscenities are swallowed by the crooning sound of the streaming hot water in the shower and you sigh so deeply once it touches your skin. It alleviates the ache of your muscles, alleviates the throbbing memory of the last time you were under that burning cascade—especially when Yoongi twists your body, making you face Jungkook; especially when he says the words that quicken your heartbeat. 

“Wash her clean.” 

Making things right. Erasing that afternoon that ended in blood and bruises. 

The wet, puppy eyes you give to Jungkook are enough for him to do as Yoongi says, mirroring your mien, greatly affected by the permission, by the act of something so forbidden untangling its inextricable knot. It happened so suddenly that he doesn’t truly believe he’s allowed to do it, hands shaking by his sides, clenched into fists. It is only when Yoongi begins to shampoo your hair that he’s spurred to do something. 

And you help him. With a thudding heart and tight emotion lodged in your throat, you hand him your favorite almond-scented body wash. He doesn’t tear his gaze away from you when he spreads the aroma on your sternum. Doesn’t blink once, doesn’t let his eyes wander south to your body—as if it was sacred, as if it was not meant to be looked at with lust in this intimate scenario. 

And you don’t feel fire when the heat of his hands glides down your neck, your shoulders and your arms. You feel something else entirely, something you can’t really pinpoint. Something holy, something so immensely heavenly. Maybe it’s brought about by the fact that he doesn’t touch your intimate parts—not your breasts, not your vulva. The only time he comes near to it is when he leads you into his chest and carefully, while peeking down, tries to pull out the forgotten toy. You sense Yoongi’s hands on your backside, watching over, and the feeling of being rid of it is so uncomfortable that you cringe against his pec, squeezing him hard, hugging him with everything in you. Jungkook makes gentle sounds for you, encouraging you and it relaxes your body enough that it lets go of the toy. 

Grabbing your shoulders, he studies your emotions. Sees only your same old tiredness and he pecks you, descending onto the tiled floor to cleanse you of your stickiness. Isn’t grossed out by the male essence that isn’t his. Kisses your trembling muscles on the apex of your thigh. Cradles your foot, massages it. The other one, too. 

And when Yoongi rinses out your shampoo and the bubbles of your almond body wash, Jungkook tells him, gravely, “Wash her where she needs it.”

You’re so touched by the fact he doesn’t dare to lay a hand there in a non-sexual environment that it doesn’t leave any space for shock to come through. Your finger itches to hook around his, but you take one step further—you slide your hand into his. And like a child, you let yourself be washed in between your legs as Jungkook, like a father, watches over it. 

Once you’re clean, the males take their turns. You observe the bubbles, the white foam, their veined hands gliding along their glistening bodies and, alternating, you touch them, helping them in a way. Touch the love bruise upon Jungkook’s abdomen; touch the indistinct happy trail on Yoongi’s. Rinse them off. 

Needing to be held, you guide Jungkook’s hands to your waist and fold your arms around Yoongi’s shoulders, but both males think differently. Squishing you in the middle of them, they hug each other, each head buried in each crook of your neck. You feel their hearts beat as one and it nearly lulls you to sleep, its healing beauty soothing you to the point that your lids become heavier. And the three of you stand there, in a cozy, homely embrace, until coldness wraps around you, too. 

They let you do your thing on your own. 

Once you come out of the shower, Yoongi kisses you and asks you if he should bring you any clothes. You merely shake your head and he leaves it at that, following Jungkook out of the bathroom. 

You lather your body in your mango butter in your aloneness. Blowdry your hair. Do your skincare. Note that there aren’t any thoughts in your brain, just deep, content silence swimming around with happy hormones. You’re so grateful for it that you could weep. 

To bed, you wear your newest purchase. A pink lacy camisole with matching bodycon shorts. You slide your feet into your fluffy slippers and as you make your way into the living room, you hope with all your heart that Jungkook hasn’t left. You haven’t exchanged many words after the sex and because of that, you knife yourself with the expectation to find only Yoongi lounging around in the sitting area. 

Midwalk, you bind it all into a loose braid. Don’t use a tie to seal it. Merely flip your hair back—with the futile wish it would untangle. 

And it does when you find the males smoking on the balcony with the door wide open. Jungkook, fully dressed in the outfit he came in. Yoongi, wearing his pants. You let out a quiet breath of relief, stooping to the ground to pick up your robe and the cheese ball, a dreadful twinge in your lower body alarming you. And then, you notice that someone folded your little sheer outfit neatly on the chair. 

“I wasn’t able to touch her after you,” you hear Yoongi say, the wholeness of the starry night plating his low pitch. You still your breathing, the perplexity from his words forcing you to whisk your head in his direction. “All I saw was my shortcomings… and—and I didn’t know how to please her anymore because you showed her new things. I felt less than. Unable to be the right person for her sexually.” 

Your heart shrinks so much it pains you. Yoongi never told you these things during the therapy sessions. He mainly spoke about the sexual moments at the cabin, but never about the ones after, never about what truly bothered him on his healing journey. He bottled it up. Your throat fills with bile. 

“Has what we did tonight changed that?” Jungkook asks, shoulders tense. “We practically did the same things and she was more than pleased.” 

Your heart grows back to its full size at the positive mention of you. You rise to your full form, flinging the cheese ball into its empty bowl before folding your robe. Your ears perk in waiting for his answer. 

“I think so.” The bile sinks back down, along with the pain coated with sadness. “I also think we should do this again.” 

Your mind doesn’t allow your body to exult, knowing the reason why he said it. 

He wants to either finish the hidden healing or… check if it has come to an end. 

The tension doesn’t ease in Jungkook’s shoulders. “Only if you work hard and focus on her. I’m not consenting to this if you only touch her with me being present.”

Silence in your heart—a skipped beat. You don’t want to hear any more of that conversation. You put away your robe and grab the dishes, washing them in the sink. 

No matter how much dish soap you use, you can’t scrub away the healer’s magic off of your hands. It pelts under your skin, to and fro, over and over as you repeat his words in your mind. Gives strength to your fingers as you hold the unusually heavy plates and bowls, the tiredness a hefty burden on your shoulders, weighing you down. 

Such a good man. You’re so grateful to know such an extraordinary being like him. A good friend, the best you could wish for Yoongi. A good lover, too—

“I think it’s way bigger and deeper, this relationship and how I feel about it. I can’t help it—” Jungkook’s voice no longer a far-off murmuring, he halts his words at the sight of you. Calls your name. “I thought you were asleep already.” 

You turn off the tap water, ignoring the question in your body about the incomplete sentence he uttered while being under the impression you were beyond hearing distance. Think you’ve learned and come about plenty enough of things tonight. You want to go to bed. With both of them. 

You don’t say your reasoning behind why you’re here. Deem it’s pointless. “Let’s go to bed.” 

You reach out your hand for him, but it is only the wind that encases your palm. You drop it. 

A chaos of shoulds and desires swarms in him. You can see it, vividly. “I should go home.” 

You’re having your way, you don’t care. “No. Stay.” 

Jungkook calls your name again. Yoongi licks his lips, smiling, fondly. Walks towards you and grabs your hand, leading you towards the bedroom. The puppy stays fixed on his feet, not comprehending that you want him to sleep in Yoongi’s bed and not on the couch. 

You raise your hand again for him. “Come, you’re sleeping with us.” 

Jungkook has gone commando under his jeans. You eye the sliver of minimal hair on his pelvis and before you can ogle his worm, he cups himself. 

Unabashedly, you click your tongue in disappointment, even though the recollection of your private decision to have his boxers as a keepsake, approved by him, suffuses your exhausted body in delight. 

You get under the sheets, right in the middle, watching as Yoongi hands him his gray sweatpants to wear, holding your breath when Jungkook turns around and you gain a perfect view of his round, toned ass. 

You’re certain that man will be the death of you. 

Yoongi crawls into the bed, nuzzling into the crooks of your body that he knows well, cuddling to your arm. You hear him inhale the scent of your shampoo. “You smell so good.” 

You stroke his forearm with your fingernails, transfixed by the way the waistband of the forbidden pants hangs low on Jungkook’s hips, by his slow, seductive walk that you don’t particularly think he’s doing on purpose. That’s just what makes him him, which worsens it all. 

In similar fashion, he lays down beside you, but he doesn’t turn to his side as your boyfriend has done. No, like you, he rests on his back, hands by his body, touching you without meaning to. His warmth environs you, but you notice that a good half of his body isn’t covered by the sheets. You fix it right away, tucking him in—tucking the fabric right under his chin. 

He gives you a strange look that makes you giggle. “You want me to burn?” 

Oh, men and their body heat. You’ll never grow tired of it—it’ll forevermore fascinate you. 

You shush him. “Sleep.” Pinch his nose, deepening his funny scowl. “Goodnight, sweet dreams.” 

Yoongi begins to purr beside you and you know he’s halfway on his journey to dreamland. You lay back down, hip to hip with both males, hands on your tummy, your eyes languidly fluttering closed.

A hand on your thigh. You open them fleetingly, surprised at the contact, before they close on their own.

“I’ve missed his purring,” Jungkook whispers, thumb brushing across your smooth skin. Just once. “Haven’t heard it in a while. It’s better than brown noise.” 

You laugh, softly, agreeing with him in your heart. Submit to the call of your own dreamland and you turn to your side, facing Yoongi, propping the back of your hand under your chin. 

But then Jungkook folds into your form. 

Mirrors your position. Arm around you, hand relaxed on the mattress an inch away from your tummy. 

It makes you feel funny. It makes you wild, your body gaining the tiniest tendril of energy. You curse him, mentally, although you don’t mean a single word. 

You feel his gentle breath fanning the nape of your neck. Along with it arrives the need for him to touch you. You purse your lips, burying your head deeper into the pillow in effort to shake that off and focus on relaxing your body—

“Hyung?” 

He hums in response. You curse him, too. 

“She didn’t come when you fucked her.” 

Your eyes fly open. The audacity this man has—

Tense, tense nothingness. It thrums uncomfortably under your skin. 

“Lemme make it right.” 

Radio silence in your heart, its profound waves shaking through your entire body, tearing off its drowsiness. 

“Okay, Jungkookie.” 

Your gasp is so minimal, yet Jungkook feels it. He presses his palm against your stomach, pulling you closer to him. Yoongi turns to his other side, as if giving you the privacy for what Jungkook wants to do to you. 

Reposing halfway on his back, halfway on his side, he maneuvers your form to mirror his position. And for the longest time, you both just lay there while Jungkook brushes his fingers along your clothed body. Back and forth, in circles, in peculiar patterns that soothe you. You thought you’d fall asleep this way, but the touches keep your body awake, promising it things in a silent language that it so evidently wants. 

And it isn’t until Yoongi begins to snore that you perceive Jungkook waited until he entered his deep slumber. The breath you let out is loud, absorbed by your boyfriend’s much bigger ones, but it makes Jungkook hold your jaw steady as he draws his lips close to your ear. 

“I didn’t like that he used you,” he whispers and his words fill your body with something foreign, something that drives your brows to knit, your muscles to clench, for butterflies to stir awake, although you disagree with him. Yoongi didn’t use you. You don’t really think he did. When you motioned him to take his turn, you expected to come again, but your body was so spent that it wasn’t able to do so, which is completely okay in your opinion. “If I fuck a girl and I come first before she does, I don’t stop until she creams all around me. Even if it hurts.” 

You remember him pushing you away when you wanted to keep going after he orgasmed. “You don’t like to be overstimulated, though.”

He snickers again, softly and lowly. “And yet I don’t stop.” Both hands on your tummy, he glides them down, towards your hips, towards your thighs before he drags them back up. Lifts up your camisole this time around, getting a feel of your skin. Rubs circles. “I want to make you come like you deserved to. Can I?”

“I came a lot of times. I don’t know if I can.” 

Jungkook caresses your bottom lip with his thumb, angling your jaw towards him. “We can try and see if you can.” 

We. He kisses your cheek and you pout in his hand. Brain turned off, too numb by all the orgasms, the attention and the affection you’ve received, you take the other one and slide it beneath your shorts. Feel an onrush of freshness in your lungs when he whimpers at the contact of your lips with the pads of his fingers and you move your hips back against him, gaining another sound of similar nature that willingly tempts your madness to return to you. 

He’s hard. 

You grind your backside against his thick imprint, loving the feeling of it, loving the soft noises he makes as if he was trying to stifle them, but you were making it awfully difficult for him to do so. 

“Don’t do that or I’ll cum in Yoongi’s pants.” 

Your laugh is feral. Quiet, gentle. An oxymoron that could only belong to his name. To his art. The idea of him coming in your boyfriend’s pants drenches you and he gasps once he discovers it, teasing your entrance. 

“You want me to come like this?” he asks and you hum your agreement, his fingers ascending to your clit, stroking it in slow, slow circles. His breath hardens in tandem with yours and he swears. “But I don’t and you will listen to me.” 

He pulls out his hand and you whine, catching his wrist, bringing it back where it belongs. On your clothed, now swollen clit. You grind your hips with more fervor, just to work him up, just because you enjoy it and he fists the material of your shorts, stimulating you with the seam, dominating you through and through. 

You merely beam at him, illuminating the room, fisting his cock. “Don’t stretch out my new shorts.”

“Don’t provoke me and we’ll reach an understanding,” he retorts, swirling his tongue around the bone of your jaw before he kisses it. Responding to it, you grind your pelvis back, angling your hips so his cock fits just right in between your cheeks. He tuts in disapproval, shifts a little bit more to his side nonetheless, pulling you flush to his body. “No, other way sweetheart. Grind your pussy against it.” You try it, placing your hand on top of his, unsure and he helps you, guiding your hips with his, grinding upwards, as if he was fucking you. You mewl at the pleasure permeating your veins and with his free hand, he clamps your mouth shut. “Yes, that’s it.” He tightens his hold on your shorts, hoisting it higher. “Feels so good like this, doesn’t it?” You nod, your noises loud, only slightly muffled by his clammy hand. He shushes you, breath hot against your ear. “You gotta be quiet. We don’t wanna wake Yoongi up, do we?” You shake your head ‘no’, squeezing your hold on his hand. Jungkook lets go of your shorts and slides beneath them again, fingers spreading your new arousal on your clit. You squeak again, terribly sensitive and turned on, bound in his arms. “I told you to be quiet. Do you know what happens to girls who don’t listen?” 

You’re glad to hear he didn’t add “to me”, for some deranged reason and for that, you don’t peep a sound. 

“They get punished,” he answers for you and you can’t stop the moan from escaping your throat, the idea of getting punished by him again making you utterly, utterly delirious. 

He strains his fingers around your mouth until it hurts, but that’s not the reason why you draw it away. You do it so you can speak. “Teach me a lesson, please. I need it.” 

You wish you could see his reaction, but the darkness keeps it to itself. You can only hear the sharp inhale of breath he takes—and you can feel the twitch of his cock against you that divulges to you that he’s gone mad just the same. 

While silence takes place, he drags your shorts down to your thighs, the tight cotton preventing you from spreading your legs. He moves you so you lay on your back and from this position, you sense Yoongi’s body heat and the lift and fall of his chest, though he still remains facing you with his back. Jungkook lifts your camisole until your breasts are exposed. And then, he props the back of your head on his bicep, clamping your mouth back shut. He looks down at you and you can only slightly make out his features. The glint of his lip ring irradiates him. Mercifully. 

You want to kiss him so bad. 

“How does Yoongi punish you, hm?” 

The question shocks you, coaxes out a string of your arousal to drop down your clenched thighs. Whilst he waits for your answer, he grazes his palm down your sternum, your stomach, your mound. Leaves it there. 

It’s your body that responds out of its own will, not your brain. You can’t, for the life of you, think. He allows you to speak. “With his words. His cock. And… with pussy spanks.” 

Jungkook hums. Puts the covers out, revealing you to himself. “Show me how he spanks you.” Your hand trembles as he lifts it. He brushes his thumb across your knuckles while he places it on your cunt, taking control of that expression of nerves. Wraps the other hand around your throat. 

When your fingers collide with your clit, you hiss in sensitivity. Decide you will only show him this way. You can’t take any more. “Like this. Gently, but firmly. So it doesn’t hurt. He doesn’t like to cause me pain.” 

He exchanges your hand with his and spanks you. With bigger firmness than Yoongi ever used. You arch your back, not expecting it with your dumb brain. He pinches your right nipple between his knuckle and thumb, making you moan softly, not having enough and enveloping it with his mouth, sucking briefly before he swirls his tongue around the nub. Your wetness rushes out, along with your noises that you’re just so incapable of stopping. You grip his hair on the back of his head and in response he flicks the muscle. Your hips buck, asking for attention. 

Jungkook withdraws, stares you dead in the eye. “I’m punishing you for making a sound and yet you do as you please?” 

You swear, eyes wide. “I’m sorry.” 

He spanks your clit. “Sorry what?” 

Remembrance flashes through your mind. “I’m sorry, Daddy.” 

“Hm, that’s right.” He rubs your clit rapidly. Spanks it again. Your moans come out in strained breaths. “That was for the curse word. Say you’re sorry.”

But then, you can’t help but mewl at his fatherliness. “I’m sorry, Daddy.” 

He pecks you, deeply. For the title, for your good manners or perhaps to silence you—you don’t know. “How sorry?” 

His fingers find your clit again, strumming it, lips moving against you in a passionate kiss. Your brain malfunctions. “So sorry,” you whisper onto his mouth, gripping his hair.  

He spanks you, softly, for pleasure, then continues. “You won’t say it again?” 

“No.”

A sound of approval. “Good girl.” He sinks his middle finger inside you as far as your restrain allows him, fucking you slowly. The pressure of delight begins to build in you. “One more?” 

“Yes, please, Daddy.” 

Ring finger joins in, instantly. “Such a good girl. I love hearing you say that.” He jackhammers into you a few times before he stills, thumbing your clit. The fullness, the stimulation on your most needy part—it’s enough to make you come and you feel it chasing you again, nearing and nearing. “I want to fuck you like this with my fingers and have that toy on your clit. The one we used the last time. Keep the setting low, so it wouldn’t wake him up.” 

A curse word rises on your tongue, but with the last brain cell you have—you swallow it down. You’re tiptoeing before the edge, knot tight in your tummy, pressure so enormous, and you tell him. “I’m gonna come.” 

He lifts his thumb. “Hold it.” 

You panic, faintly, standing still before the edge, face to face with your orgasm, close, terribly close. “I can’t.” 

Jungkook shifts. “You will.” Bends you in half while keeping his fingers inside you, mouth latching onto your soaked cunt. 

Takes control of your orgasm as he begins to toy with it, building it little by little with sluggish circles on your clit with the tip of his tongue. Then, he wraps his lips around it, nibbling on it and resumes the movement of his fingers, fucking you steadily. 

The pleasure is so new, so different that you feel as though you’re levitating in heavenly places. You grind your hips against him, meeting him, but briefly. When he sucks your clit, he stills your motions and spreads shakes across your entire body. “Come for Daddy, sweetheart.” 

He flicks his tongue—and you do. You come so violently for him that you grip his hair with all your might, surprised that he isn’t wincing in pain. And he doesn’t stop. 

He keeps going until all that’s left of you is nothing but the cordiality of your high and those shudders, licking you up, devouring all that you’re giving him, wet fingers spread on the back of your thighs. 

Then, he sets your legs down, straddles you and kisses you nastily. Makes you taste yourself on his lips, on his tongue and he enjoys the principle of it all. Enjoys giving back to you what you leaked for him. “I could have you come on my tongue all night.” He pecks you, swirls his tongue around yours. “You kept quiet through it all. Good girl. You learn so well.” 

You’re speechless, satisfied, sensing something approaching you that you fail to understand. Something bigger than attachment, but smaller than feelings. Connected to his healing gift or perhaps invented from it. Something that’s smack dab in the middle, growing in you, and you submit to it, unafraid of it. 

A certain desire fraternizes with it. You push at his shoulder, wanting him on his back. As if he senses what it is, he stays put. Solid as a rock. In both ways. 

But you’ll have your own. 

You tug the waistband of Yoongi’s sweats down his hips and grasp him in your hand, spreading his thick arousal down his length. Jungkook’s breath shakes, but his words don’t. “When did I tell you you could do that?”

You grab him with both hands, squeezing him. He hisses, muscles bulging along his arms on either side of you. “I’m sorry, Daddy. Can I?”

He coos. “Only because you’re so well-mannered.” Nods at you. “Keep going. Make your Daddy feel good.” Your Daddy. The fire it sparks in you, you put its wholeness into your movement—jerking him off, twisting your wrists, using all of your strength. “Hands off.” He spits on his head, the trail long and delicious to your eyes and you’re quick, you’re desperate, to resume and make him come, ache pressing down on your pussy all over again. 

The slickness, his stifled noises, the snug warmth—you understand all of a sudden how he’s able to feel your pleasure because you’re experiencing it. You are pleasured because you’re pleasuring him. But still, you want more. You press him against your clit. “Fuck my hands like this, please.” 

He repositions your hands. Slides them lower on his length, so his tip can stimulate your bundle of nerves. And when he begins to thrust, you’re transfixed. 

By the roll of his hips, the clenching of his abdominal muscles, the evident delight overwhelming his body. You can’t take your eyes off of him. Especially not when he lets his guttural vocality loose. 

You smile. “You should be quiet.” 

He laughs down at you, softly. It vibrates in your core. He kisses you, humming into your mouth. “You’re right, but it feels so good like this. Doesn’t it feel good on your pussy?” 

You nod, biting his lip, angling your head and devouring his mouth, plagued by his arousal, by his pleasure, by his response to your little slyness. He fucks your hands faster, gliding across your clit, not lasting for a moment longer. He shoots out his hot cum onto your tummy, cock twitching in your hands, his noises muffled by your mouth. 

And he remains there. Even as he fingers you so fast that you come in seconds. Even as he takes those drenched digits, collects his male essence and plunges them into your mouth. “‘Atta girl. So good for me.” 

He cleans your folds and thighs with his tongue. Dresses you, like a child. Fixes your camisole. Puts the covers back on you and spoons you. 

Yoongi remains soundly asleep. You succumb to slumber faster than you came but before you do, it’s Jungkook’s words that lead you to that dreamland. “Goodnight, sweetheart. Sweet dreams.”

In the morning, you wake up first. And the sight you see is so profoundly beautiful that you take a moment to gape at it, folding it into your heart. 

Jungkook drools in his sleep. Celestial countenance, tousled hair in all directions, broad chest lifting and falling in absolute tranquility. He twists his features for a split second, as if he was dreaming about something uncomfortable and you’re so affected by it that you look away. 

Turn your gaze to your boyfriend instead. 

Still snoring, mouth parted. Ebony hair brushed back, exposing his forehead. The corners of his lips tug up and stay and you think angels must be playing with him in his dreams. You kiss his arm, crawling back, painfully, until your feet hit the floor. 

You take a long, long shower. Practice your gratitude, recollecting last night’s events and words spoken by Jungkook that weren’t as private as he thought. Hearing them, they were too fresh to be consumed, but now that you think about them—your own smile finds your lips and you agree with him in your heart. You can’t let him walk away after this. Can’t let him return to his normal life that exists without you, not when you’re something along the lines of attached to him. Hell, you can’t return to your own normal life without him. Without his touch, without his celestiality. Without his attentiveness and healing gift. 

This has to be a continuous relationship. 

Jungkook was the one who called it that way and it feels right. Even as you taste it on your tongue, it’s the most delicious thing you’ve ever swallowed. It fills your body with verve, one that you deem is essential at this point. One that you will need every single day from now on. 

You have to talk about this with Yoongi. The idea doesn’t scare you, despite the fact you can’t really picture his reaction. Can’t imagine which way it will gravitate towards—whether to light or to dark. You don’t mind at all, in fact you look forward to it and you wash your body with greater care than you ever handled it with before. 

With a face mask on, you take your cosmetic bag and do your makeup in the living room. The sunlight spills in, kissing your ebullient mien, and you imprint its red marks with a touch of blush across your cheeks, its lovely color with glitter on your eyelids and you finish the job with a few brushes of mascara upon your lashes and a singular swipe of a glimmering lip gloss on your lips. 

It is only then that Jungkook appears in front of you. 

“He still sleeps like a bear.” 

You’re so happy to see him that it manifests on your face. 

“Don’t try to wake him up or you’ll get eaten.” 

Placing your cosmetic bag on his lap, he sits beside you. “I wouldn’t dare.” Examines your face for a good moment. “Why are you putting this on? You don’t need it.” 

 “I enjoy it,” you say, watching fondly as he takes out each makeup product and scans them. Once he comes across your tiny tubes of glitter of various shades, light flickers in his eyes. Your heart does the same thing. And a somersault right after.

“You wear glitter?” 

You nod, a precious, girlish smile stretching your glossy mouth. “I’m wearing it right now.” You close your eyes for him, letting him see the small sparkles, resplendent of the sun. He praises you, the word ‘pretty’ embracing you tightly in all its snug simplicity, forcing your eyes open. A brighter spark shines in his irises. You brim with the yearning to doll up his eyes to match it and, having your way as always, you steal the tubes from him. “Which one do you want?” 

He doesn’t even fight you. As a matter of fact, he’s already decided. Doesn’t waste a second to reply. “The silver one.” 

Excitedly, you quiver all over. Dab the applicator on the back of your hand and lift your sight to catch him smiling cutely at you like the puppy he is. Your hand itches to ruffle his hair. Grab his cheek and bite into it. Go for his nose next. 

Whirling the pad of your finger on the splatter of glitter, you hover it above his lids. “Close your eyes.” 

He listens, immediately. You pat the imitation of his glint across that soft skin, but you focus on that beautiful, pouty smile of his. Think you’ll save his lips for last and savor them as you eat them. 

You swipe your finger for more and adorn his other eye. Take the rest and speckle it on the highest points of his cheekbones—this time with his attention all on you. 

You lean back to observe your artwork and find that something is missing. You know right away what it is. 

You dab the applicator on his cupid’s bow and drag it down his collarbones. Take care of that first before you move over to his lips. You blend it there with utmost care and he lets you, zeroining his gaze into yours. Deep, but gentle. Loving. 

To finish it, you kiss him. And it’s not because you were driven by your emotions or by that stare of his. You do it because you want to. Kiss him again, so the highlight is perfectly blended. 

He’s puzzled when you draw away, but you’re not unnerved by it. You’re firm and stable in your decisions, happy in the outcome, any hints of repercussions or doubts far, far away from you. In another world, in another galaxy. It has long forgotten your name and you’re glad for it. 

“We shouldn’t do this.” 

There he goes with ‘we’ again. It makes you weak. 

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” you say, soothingness coating your voice, penetrating his negative emotion to the point that he relaxes. Before he can say anything, you continue. “I heard what you said last night. To Yoongi. That this relationship is way bigger and deeper.” Surprise and timidity bleeds into the glitter on his face and he’s unable to look you in the eye. You grab his palm, holding it with both of your hands in your lap. “I agree with you. I feel it, too. This wasn’t just a one time thing. I don’t think it was ever meant to be just for one night.”

There’s rawness to your words that make him reciprocate your eye contact. He gnaws at his lips, as if to eat away his nerves. You squeeze his hand harder and are about to continue, but the creak on the hardwood floors stops you. 

Yoongi. With his wrinkled face and puffy, but awake eyes. In a pair of boxers and nothing else. You stand up to your feet, dropping Jungkook’s hand, and you go to meet him halfway, but you don’t make it far. The soreness between your legs won’t let you.

He grins at you, wrapping his arms around you. “Can’t walk?” His taunt is loving and scrunch your face at him. “Good morning, honey.” 

You kiss his bare chest. “Good morning.”

Yoongi moves over to Jungkook and places a hand on his shoulder. “Sleep well?” 

Wet softness in his eyes. “The best sleep of my life.” 

“So, I want two boyfriends.” 

While Yoongi made coffee for all three of you, you were more than happy to make breakfast. Scrambled eggs on avocado toast—one that Jungkook chokes on upon hearing your words and one that flings out of Yoongi’s mouth because he bursts into a violent laughter. 

You laugh along with him—so hard that tears well in your eyes, slapping your palm down repeatedly on the round wooden table. Yoongi mirrors your movement on Jungkook’s back as he fights for his life, red in the face, eyes wide. 

“What did you say?” the puppy croaks out, bewildered, letting go of his bread and you feel terribly bad for him, for shocking him so enormously. 

The decision came upon you suddenly while you cooked. Easy, smooth. Appeared on your heart that sprang it up to your mind. Gave it pros and cons—good friendship, good sex, good time; Yoongi might get jealous and/or possessive, nothing else. It made sense to you, grazed your attachment ever so sweetly. How else would you keep last night continuous? Even Yoongi went around the matter when he talked Jungkook’s head off, asking him if he’d been with other people after you. 

Boyfriend simply means that. No other people—just you and Yoongi. 

You weren’t going to keep it to yourself. Even if there was a risk of it going downhill. 

It’s not relief that you feel upon hearing Yoongi laugh—it’s a river of liberation, concocted with absolute joy, coursing in your bloodstream. He woke up in a good mood. Woke up happy. And you fold that fact into your heart, hoping it stays for a long time. 

“Eat your toast, silly,” you say, smiling, eyes crinkled. Take a bite of your own. Happy that Yoongi is happy, happy that you’re eating your favorite fruit, sitting again at the table with your two favorite people. “You heard me.”

“Oh, fuck,” is all Jungkook says, whisking his eyes to Yoongi, who’s chuckling, bending down to pick up the piece of toast he was in the middle of chewing. 

You look at him, too, waiting for his response. 

Yoongi brushes his hair back, a lazy smile on his mouth. “I think it’s a fantastic idea.” 

You grin so hard that your cheeks hurt. The river in you speeds its stream. “Thank you,” you exclaim, rubbing his arm, quivering with excitement. “I say we mess around and have a good time. We can go on dates.” 

Jungkook relaxes a little bit, furrowing his brows as he chews on his toast. 

“She wanted two cocks, don’t tell me you didn’t expect this,” Yoongi says to his friend, patting your thigh. “I did.” 

Perhaps that’s why he had such a hard time in all of this. He knew it was inevitable—and he worked his way through it until he ended here. Fine with it. Healed. 

“When did that happen?” you ask, sliding your hand down to his. 

“When I decided the first time I was gonna give it to you. Then, again when I promised you we were gonna make this work,” he says and you pout at him, so grateful, so touched. He squeezes your thigh, looking at Jungkook. “I can see your questions all over your face. Out with them.” 

Jungkook has finished his toast, brows still furrowed as he swallows. He leans back in his chair, manspreading, hands intertwining behind his head. Pokes a tongue in his cheek, smirking. “Don’t kill me for this, but,” he starts, showing his teeth. “Do I get to have her to myself? Without you? And vice versa?”

Your heart beats ferociously in your chest. Yoongi pauses for a moment, thinking about it. He let him do it last night, he let him have you to himself, though under different circumstances. You figure what Jungkook meant is whether he can fuck you without asking for permission and the idea exhilarates you. 

And the vice versa part. Jungkook is one sly—

“It won’t be instant, but we’ll work hard. Work our way through it until we’re all comfortable and happy,” Yoongi finally says and you kiss his hand.

You’re so overwhelmed with joy that your blood buzzes. 

Jungkook nods. “Of course, I understand.” 

“Is this something you want?” Yoongi directs the question at you and you nod. 

“Yes, once you’re ready.”

Silence settles like fine dust. You finish your toast quietly and as soon as you’re done, you deem Yoongi should know about what happened in the late hours. “We didn’t fuck last night. While you slept. It didn’t even cross my mind and I wouldn’t do it unless I had your… blessing.” 

Yoongi cackles at your choice of word. “Good girl,” he praises. “You’ll get your blessing soon. I promise.” 

You look at him for a long time and you wonder if there’s anything he wouldn’t do for you. 

“So, it’s settled, then,” Jungkook says and places a hand on the table, opens it for you. You grab it and he squeezes you. “Let’s celebrate.” 

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

BACK to masterlist / READ part one, READ part two, READ part three

#jungkook x oc #yoongi smut #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook smut #bts smut #bts imagine #jungkook imagine #jeon jungkook #bts scenarios #jungkook scenarios #jungkook fluff #btscreatorscorner #kpop smut #jungkook one shot #yoongi x oc #yoongi x reader #yoongi imagine

[lowkeychenle]

Is It Over Now? [ZCL/PJS] (M)

Description: Your relationship with Chenle is nothing but fight after fight. Amidst the toxicity, infidelity comes into play--except you're determined to one up him...but is it ever truly over?

A/N: this is inspired by Taylor Swift's Is It Over Now? and I highly recommend listening to it because omg...but also...keep in mind this poll and this poll determined the trajectory of this fic LOL

Genre: Smut/Angst

Content Warnings: This is very dirty idk y'all i'msosorry...but basically content warnings are infidelity (both reader & chenle, explicit on reader's part), some very crazy arguments (there are no physical fights but these can be triggering), explicit, unprotected sex, orgasm denial, use of pet names: baby, pretty girl, slut, whore (once maybe), and any variation of those. Buckle up y'all, this one is kinda crazy. Also kinda open ended sawry

Word Count: 11,198

Taglist: @nominsgirl @anthropologymajorkpopmultistan @chezziy

Pairing: Zhong Chenle x fem!Reader | Park Jisung x fem!Reader

Juliet's Masterlist | Tell me what you think? :)

You know exactly where everything went wrong.

It’s what led you to the current situation you’re in—on top of one of your boyfriend’s closest friends with his hands all over you. Anger burns in your bones, and if you were capable of it any longer, you’d be crushed to dust at this point.

The roll of your hips causes a curse to fall from Jisung’s mouth. He grips your ass, the rough fabric of your jeans catching on his nails. The man under you is just as pissed as you are, and some sick form of revenge clouds both of your brains. He sinks his teeth into your bottom and tugs. If you’d felt at all guilty when you started this, it’s long gone now.

At least you and Jisung won’t be caught together in public.

“He’s a fucking idiot,” Jisung hisses under his breath as you continue to grind on him.

You chuckle. “I know. It’s not the fucking first time either.”

He pulls away from you, eyebrows furrowed as he looks at you. The passion has all but melted from his face, but both of you are left panting.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he asks.

“I thought you knew.” The last thing you wanted was for this to be an emotional encounter, and if you let yourself think of how you trusted your boyfriend again after the first time he cheated, resentment will turn to pain. No. You fucking refuse.

“I would’ve told you,” Jisung continues, hand sliding up from your ass to the small of your back. “You really think I would’ve kept that from you?”

“All due respect, Jisung, but I’m not looking for a heart-to-heart right now.”

His jaw tightens, and the care resounds in his eyes, but he nods and reaches up to grip the back of your neck. He kisses you harder this time, his tongue dancing with yours as he starts unbuttoning your shirt. The fabric is silky against your skin, and feeling him so close to you has your fragmented heart racing in your chest and chills spiraling down your spine.

“Hurry up,” you tell him. “He’ll be home soon.”

In response, he tugs instead, and the remaining buttons pop open before he pushes your blouse off your shoulders. You have a clear view of the door this way, where you and Jisung sit at the edge of your bed. Climbing off his lap, you shuffle out of your jeans. You watch as Jisung takes his own off, the prominent bulge of his length straining against his boxers.

A swirl of doubt punches you in the gut, and for a moment, you’re winded. Does the hurt Chenle caused you justify this? Should you be choosing this route instead of just leaving?

“You can change your mind,” Jisung says, shuffling closer to the edge.

Snapping out of it, you shake your head and straddle his lap. His bottom lip is taken between his teeth as you grasp his length, freeing it from its confines. A haze takes over his eyes, his hips lifting into your fist.

You move your panties aside and line him up with your entrance. He inhales sharply.

“Fuck, hold on.” He grips your hips. “It might hurt if you don’t let me—”

“Promise you it can’t be any fucking worse than what I’m already going through.” You pause. “Condom? I’m clean and on birth control, so it’s up to you.”

“I’m clean, too.” He nods. “Raw is fine. Good.”

You laugh at the awkwardness, but begin your descent anyway. A moan gets caught in your throat as you struggle to fit him further. Your walls pulse around his cock, and an exhilarating adrenaline makes you feel higher than you’ve ever been. This life wasn’t what you imagined.

You never thought your boyfriend would be capable of sleeping with anyone else, and neither did you think you would be. Yet, here you are, following in Chenle’s footsteps. Jisung was probably a shitty move on your part. At least Chenle wasn’t fucking your friends, but you wanted to make sure he felt your pain—if he’ll even care at all.

Once he’s completely inside you, you grip onto his shoulders, your body trembling. To ease you, he reaches down and thumbs your clit. He kisses your neck, nudging one of your bra straps down your arm. You let out a sigh of pleasure, rolling your hips.

“Yeah, he’s fucking stupid.” Jisung hums into your skin, squeezing your ass. “You…fuck, you feel good.”

“Hope it was all worth it for him,” you mumble, slowly starting to lift your hips up.

He assists you in your pace, an arm around your waist to help. After a few moments, the awkward stretch becomes pleasure. You curse under your breath and pick up your pace, eyes rolling back as he thrusts up to match you.

Each movement of his is punctuated by short, low groans, and your entire being tingles from how deep he is inside you, how this is somehow a signal of your freedom. His tip presses against your cervix and you cry out.

Jisung slaps your ass, and the desperate tug inside you to speed up becomes too much to ignore. In your delirium, you almost miss Chenle standing in the doorway. Maybe you’re imagining it, but as you fuck yourself on Jisung’s cock, you stare right at him, a weak laugh escaping your lips.

You roughly tangle your fingers in Jisung’s hair—something you know drives Chenle crazy when you do it to him—and tug him up to kiss you, moving your hips faster. The other man’s presence just spurs you forward.

Jisung’s fingers connect with your clit again, and your broken moan and blurry vision almost make you miss the way Chenle’s jaw tightens. Your orgasm takes you by surprise, slamming you into a wall of pleasure as you spasm on top of Jisung. Right before your eyesight fails you completely, you see Chenle walk away.

Jisung spills inside you, coating your walls with white. You kiss him hard, panting as you lift yourself off him. He’s dazed, but eventually settles himself back in his boxers before getting up for his jeans. You redress, knowing full well Chenle’s waiting in the kitchen. It’ll most likely be an argument, but you can’t help the adrenaline flowing through your veins at the thought.

Jisung is still blissfully unaware Chenle’s in the house, so when he pulls you in for a kiss, you sigh. You grab his hand and lead him out of your bedroom, and the sight of the other man gripping the counter makes him freeze.

Chenle downs the rest of whatever’s in his cup—it’s safe to assume what the bronze liquid is as he swallows and cringes. He doesn’t look at either of you.

“You should go.” Glancing at Jisung, you catch the worried gleam in his gaze.

“Will you be okay?” he asks.

“The fuck does that mean?” Chenle snaps. “Get the fuck out, Jisung.”

“Call me if you need me.” Jisung hesitantly leaves your side, and once the door closes behind him, you slide your hands in the back pockets of your jeans.

“Really?” Chenle finally breaks the silence. “You could’ve picked anyone, and you fuck Jisung?”

“That’s what you’re mad about?” You snort and walk over to the fridge to grab a water bottle. Untwisting the cap, you turn back to Chenle, unaccustomed to his glare being directed at you. “What? It’s okay for you to fuck anyone you want, but when I do it, it’s wrong?”

“What the fuck are you talking about? I don’t fuck anyone but you.”

“You really think I didn’t see that?” You shake your head, anger bubbling in the pit of your stomach. “There were pictures, you dumbass. And now I can’t even act like I’m ignorant. I can’t act like you love me anymore, Chenle. Be serious right now.”

“Oh, right, because being seen with a girl has to mean I’m fucking her, yeah?” He runs his fingers through his hair. “You’re just insecure, (Y/N), and I can’t fucking help you with that. Did you think fucking Jisung would make me want you more? May as well add crazy to the list, too.”

Under different circumstances, you know those words would kill you. They’d be like bullets fragmenting in your heart, but today? For some reason, everything shut off. You don’t want him anymore, and your irritation sparks at the base of your spine.

“You putting this on me is fucking hilarious.” Your voice is sharp, and you hope you return his bullets as knives.

“We’re fucked.” He pours more liquor into his glass, a scowl on his face as he downs it. “Are you kidding me? I make a mistake one time, and you go out of your way to screw my friend? Did you think you could hurt me or something?”

“Don’t know.” You shrug.

“The sooner you admit we were over long before I ever slept with anyone else, the easier it’ll be for both of us. You’re being a child by inviting Jisung over here.” His grip on the counter tightens.

And just like that, something inside you snaps.

“You did this, Chenle. You fucked up, you ruined everything, you are a piece of shit.” You jab your finger in his direction. “At least I had the decency not to get caught in public. You don’t even care at all. Not even a little bit. And it’s so fucking frustrating because I do everything for you.”

“Bullshit,” he says.

“Was it over when you brought that girl here? Was it? Because you cried and begged for me to stay. You said it was a mistake, and you’d never be able to love anyone the same way you love me. You really think it was over, Chenle? Then what the fuck are you still doing here?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You fucking did it again!” you yell, hands tugging at your hair. “You want me to be the bad guy so bad, but all of this is on you. The blame is on you. You’re the one that can’t keep it in your pants. What are you searching all these beds for, huh? You want something better than me?”

“Fuck,” he shouts, hand swiping across the counter.

Time slows as his palm comes in contact with his glass, as he sends it flying into the cabinet, as it shatters beneath his force. How fucking ironic you relate to it.

Your chest heaves, your heart twisting harshly. How did you get here? How did love turn into something so fucking awful, you can’t stand looking at him? The silence is deafening after the shards scatter onto the floor.

The visceral reaction you get surprises even you. You tilt your head back, your body shaking with laughter.

“You’re so pathetic.” Tears well in your eyes, but the laughs cause you to run out of air. You grip onto the counter. “I fucking hate you. I hate you.”

“(Y/N), I’m—”

“Sorry?” Another bout of giggles passes through your lips. “I don’t care. Don’t you get that now? I hate you and I don’t fucking care what you have to say.”

“Baby, don’t—”

“You said it was over, Chenle. Is it over now? Because I’m done…I’m so done, and I don’t want to look at you anymore. Get the fuck out of my house, and I never want to see you again. I fucking mean it.”

“I’m sorry. Please don’t do this. She didn’t mean anything, and I know Jisung doesn’t mean anything to you, either.” He steps closer to you, glass crunching beneath his feet.

“Should’ve thought about that before you did it again. Leave.” After a few moments of him standing there like a statue, you shout, “Get the fuck out!”

Your throat is raw from yelling, and you’re halfway certain he’s not going to listen to you. He doesn’t usually, but as bad as your fights have gotten, they haven’t quite been this bad. With thousands of emotions written across his face like poetry, he brushes his shirt off and storms past you, slamming the door behind him without one glance back.

Your heart pounds in your chest, each thump hurting more than the last. Nausea takes you by storm, and you’d collapse if you weren’t leaning on the counter for support. You don’t even know who to call. Nobody you know takes care of you better than Chenle does after moments like these, and as your shortness of breath takes over full swing, you turn and sink down to the floor.

But the first step to quitting a drug is to stop supplying it to your bloodstream. To feel the numb of the high seeping away while the pain comes rushing back.

The tears you refused to allow earlier pour down your cheeks, and you drop your head back against the cupboard. Glass gleams next to you, twinkling innocently in the light of your kitchen. Through your blurry vision, it’s almost beautiful—an array of lights in the darkness that plagues your home.

When you grab your phone, you don’t know who’s number you call. You press it to your ear and pray it’s not Chenle.

“(Y/N)?” Jisung’s voice filters through immediately, and it makes your body wrack with another sob.

“Are you far?” you ask, voice thick and warbled.

“Not at all,” he offers instantly. “Do you want me to come back?”

You close your eyes and sniffle. “Please.”

“Okay, I’ll be there in five minutes. Are you okay?” The hint of panic laced in his tone has new tears forming.

“Don’t know.” You wipe your face. “I don’t fucking know.”

However long it takes him to get there, you’re unsure. The next thing you recall, Jisung crouches in front of you, eyes wide with concern. Guilt sinks into your stomach and twists it around, and you look up at him like he’s the key to making you feel better.

“I’m so sorry,” you breathe out. “I’m sorry, Sungie, I don’t know why I did that to you. To him. I—”

“Hey, don’t worry about that right now.” His deep voice resonates in your chest, and it works to calm you slightly. He cups your cheeks and guides you up to make eye contact. “Are you hurt? There’s glass everywhere.”

You shake your head. “He wouldn’t.”

“There are a whole lot of things I thought he wouldn’t do. I have to make sure. Can you stand? Let’s get you away from all this.” He leads you to your feet, bringing you into your bedroom.

A few moments of silence pass as he helps you into your bed.

“Just get some rest, okay?” he whispers, his hands cupping your face.

“Where are you going?” you ask. “Don’t go, please.” You hold onto his wrist as if that’ll keep him with you.

“I’m just gonna clean up your kitchen,” he replies. “I won’t leave unless you want me to.”

You take a deep breath. “Can you stay for a few more minutes? I don’t wanna be alone right now.”

“Whatever you need. I’m here for you.”

You scoot over and glance at the spot next to you, and he obliges with your request. Both of you slide beneath the covers, and you turn to face him before burying your head in his chest. He cradles you closer to him, his warmth calming you slowly.

“Is this okay?” he murmurs.

His heart thumps erratically in his chest as he holds you, but the sound still manages to soothe you.

“Yeah,” you tell him, shuffling closer. “Thank you.”

He hums in response and presses his lips gently against your hairline. There are so many things wrong with your situation and your life, but for once, you feel a real equilibrium. Despite the pain wrenching away at your heart from the weight of Chenle’s absence, you find that all over again with Jisung’s firm grip on you.

Usually, when you and Chenle get into your arguments, the longest he goes without contacting you is two days. You’re now bordering on three and a half weeks, and the thought of him still makes you sick to your stomach. You haven’t heard a single word from him. Hell, you wouldn’t even know if he’s alive.

Jisung has become more of a rock than anything else. He’s equally as disappointed in Chenle as you are at this point, but he makes it a point to stay with you as much as he can. Today, for example, things are quiet. Peaceful. Your few weeks with Jisung have been so…different. You and Chenle couldn’t go more than a few days without an explosive argument, and now you haven’t raised your voice in all this time.

Jisung is soft. Kind, even. He shows you the side of himself you wish Chenle could’ve been before your relationship blew up into smithereens.

Your head rests on his shoulder, his fingers playing with your hair while his eyes are engrossed by the television screen in front of you. The lights are off, the sky is dark, but the gentle blues and greens illuminate the softness of his features.

“Sungie,” you whisper in an attempt to garner his attention.

He turns to you, his eyebrows raised. “Hm?”

“Why are you doing this for me?” you ask. “He’s your best friend.”

“He was.” Jisung nods. “And it sucks. But I’m not going to be friends with someone who treats people who love them like shit. You deserve so much more than that, (Y/N), really. He—what he did was fucked up.”

“I did it, too.” You shrug, fighting the way tears threaten to form in your eyes.

He wets his lips. “Yeah, but only after he did it twice.”

“That makes it okay?”

“No.” Jisung looks down at his lap, his hands fidgeting. “No, it doesn’t. But you were hurting and you retaliated in a way you thought would hurt him back. I would’ve done the same thing in your position.”

“You seriously had no idea what he was doing?” you ask.

“I didn’t have a fucking clue. He knows I would’ve told you immediately.” He sighs.

“Do you care about me?” You tilt your head at him, scanning over his face for any indication of annoyance. Anything that might tip you off that he’ll get angry with you.

He blinks once, a miniscule smile pulling at his mouth. “Of course, I do. I’d do anything for you.”

“Anything?”

He nods.

“Will you…will you kiss me?”

His jaw drops as he flounders for something to say. “That…”

“I’ll be honest with you, Sungie. My relationship with Chenle has been fucked for a really long time. I can’t remember the last time I meant it when I told him I loved him. But…I do. Love him. Miss him. It hurts like hell knowing he’s probably okay right now, with some other girl like I never mattered to him.” You inhale deeply, and your exhale shakes. “He’s all I’ve ever known. I just…want to make sure I can feel. That he didn’t get to keep all of that when he left.”

“And kissing me will do what?” He taps his fingers on his thighs. “What if it just makes you want him more?”

“I can’t. Going back to him is…I can’t do it again. But I need to know I can still function if he’s not the one…” you trail off, deflating entirely. “Nevermind. I’m sorry I asked, okay? I’m being ridiculous.”

You avoid his gaze entirely, staring off in the opposite direction. With Chenle, every touch, every kiss, every intimate moment was a direct result of something negative. It didn’t start that way, but it sure ended up there. Your mouths only met in anger after spewing hate at each other, and you’re not sure what a real, loving kiss feels like anymore.

Jisung reaches up and cups your cheek, directing your gaze back to his. His eyes dip down toward your lips, and your breath catches in your chest. It’s been so long since your heart has fluttered, but he makes it look so damn easy.

“You sure?”

The TV is long forgotten as you nod, your anticipation growing as he draws nearer. You forget to breathe, and once his lips brush yours, you gasp.

You close the last of the distance, the idea of being so close to him—to someone motivating you further. Kissing Jisung is worlds different from kissing Chenle. From the tenderness of his touch to the shape of his lips, not a single thing about him is reminiscent of Chenle. For some reason, disappointment weighs heavily on your chest.

But being with him is better than being alone, and you can’t deny the attraction being there. You remember the way he felt inside you, how he reached spots you didn’t know existed. You tangle your fingers in his hair, groaning against him.

“Jisung.” It comes out more as a whimper than anything else, and he freezes.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath.

Without another moment of hesitation, you throw your leg over his lap and straddle him, slowly sinking down until you feel him pressed against you. He grasps onto the back of your shirt.

“Are you thinking about it, too?” you ask, leaning in to kiss along his neck.

He gulps, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I probably shouldn’t be.”

“Why not?” You lean back, placing your hands on his shoulders. “Is this weird for you?”

“Um.” He grips your thigh tightly, lips parting as he tries to think of what to say. “Not because of him, if that’s what you mean.”

Your chest tightens at the mention of Chenle, even without his name. Jisung agreed to be with you once, and you’re not sure if he was fueled by any attraction to you at all.

“All I’m saying is that I don’t want to push you into something you’re not ready for. When I tell you I don’t want to hurt you, I mean it.” He pauses, analyzing you. “C’mon, you’ve gotta know I want you.”

He pulls you closer to him, and your breath hitches when you feel how hard he is.

“I want you. But I need to be sure it’s really me you want.”

Your heart sinks. “Now you mean Chenle.”

“It’s not a bad thing, (Y/N). I get it. You’ve been through a lot with him and you have a bond I might not understand. That’s fine. But if we’re going to start something, it can’t be when you’re confused.” He runs his thumb along your bottom lip, unashamed as he stares at your mouth.

“I’m not confused, Sungie.” You shake your head. “I don’t want him anymore. When I said I was done, I meant it.”

“It’s okay either way. You were with him for a long time. It’s normal to hurt over stuff like this.” Jisung gives you a small smile.

“If you don’t want to right now, we can stop,” you tell him. “But it’s you I want. I promise.”

His fingers weave into your hair, inching you nearer to him. Right before your mouths meet, his gaze meets yours.

“I hope you know how many good things you deserve,” he mutters.

And then he kisses you, the softness of it taking you off guard. You melt into him, and despite hating how you notice the difference between him and Chenle again, you realize you might like this more than what you had before. It’s been so long since the person who was supposed to love you actually cared.

When his tongue meets yours, you sigh and hold onto him. He gets lost in you, hands gripping your hips to guide you back and forth on top of him. Even through layers of clothing, you feel how hard he is.

When a knock sounds on your door, you resolve to ignore it. You don’t care about whatever or whoever’s out there if you have Jisung. He tries to pull away, but you whine.

“Ignore it,” you tell him, your mouth still against his. “Ignore it. Please don’t stop.”

As soon as he kisses you again, a louder rapping noise follows, and you groan, dropping your head on his shoulder.

“You want me to get it?” he asks.

You shake your head, grumbling as you slide off his lap. “I got it.”

Without another word, you ignore the dampness between your legs and head over to your door with one last glance over your shoulder at Jisung. When you open it and see who’s standing outside, you recoil hard.

“What the hell are you doing here?” You’re not sure why you’re even entertaining this at all. Chenle stands before you, his eyebrows pinched together as he formulates his response. As to not alert Jisung of his presence, you keep your voice down.

“It’s been weeks and I haven’t heard from you.” He sighs. “I know we fought, but we never go this long without talking. I miss you.”

You don’t mean to laugh, but you do anyway. “You don’t miss me. I already told you we’re done. And I meant it this time, Chenle. You have to leave.”

“Why aren’t you letting me in?” He snorts. “Be fucking for real, we always end up right where we started. This time isn’t any different.”

“It is, though.” You pause, running your fingers through your hair. “I’m done. Honestly, if I never see you again, I’ll be better off.”

“You don’t really mean that.” He frowns.

“Yes, I do.”

“You can’t get mad at me for what I did when you did the exact same thing. We’ll call it even and start over.” Chenle stops, gaze mapping out every inch of you before he continues. “Why do you look like that?”

“Excuse me? Look like what?”

“Your face is all red, and your hair is messed up—” Whatever interrupts him has irritation creating a scowl on his face.

You’re only confused for a second before an arm wraps around your waist, fingers tapping against your hip. Heart twisting, you gape as you glance between Jisung and Chenle. Nerves eat away at you since you’re not sure what the latter will do, but you grasp onto Jisung’s wrist.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Chenle lets out a short chuckle, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re both fucking insane.”

His words alone are almost enough to make you want to remove yourself from Jisung’s hold, but you know you’re safest right where you’re at.

But seeing Chenle in front of you again for the first time in weeks has you yearning for him. To kiss him, to hear him laugh, to simply just have someone who loves you. You have to keep reminding yourself that he doesn’t. Love hasn’t been in the equation for much too long.

“Let her go.” Chenle practically stares into Jisung’s soul. “See if she still wants you when you’re not holding her away from me.”

Jisung tenses behind you, and the hesitation behind his touch leaving you can only mean one thing—he believes him. He’s worried what Chenle is saying is true. That you’ll never want him in the same way you want Chenle.

Chenle’s gaze, so painfully familiar, settles on yours. Your heart sinks into your stomach as you recognize what this is.

It’s the beginning of the cycle.

It’s how he tricks you into thinking he’ll be better for you.

In his eyes, he begs you to come back to him. He makes you think that maybe, just maybe, he’ll finally be what you’ve wanted him to be. What you needed him to be.

“C’mon, baby, we’ll forget this ever happened. I don’t blame you for being lonely and needing someone. He was just there. I know.”

Through your peripheral vision, you see Jisung’s fist clench at his side. The longer you stay silent, the more nervous the man behind you becomes. Your insides are at war. Not even ten minutes ago, you were sure you wanted Jisung. You had been reassuring him of that.

Now, seeing Chenle again for the first time in weeks, you’re practically weak in the knees. You want him, but not the man you’ve grown used to. You want who he used to be in the beginning—the person who loved you endlessly, who always put you first, who never went out of his way to hurt you in order to make you small enough to want him back.

No.

Because 491 days ago, he broke your heart for the first time. He was never going to admit to you what he did. Instead, he hid it, and the only reason you found out was through a text message that came through when he was showing you something on his phone.

You’re tired of it. Of being hurt and picking up shattered glass when he doesn’t want to be called out for his shitty actions.

“You’re wrong,” you mumble, terrified of the words leaving your mouth. After all, this means he’ll be gone for good. You won’t ever love him again. “Jisung wasn’t just there.”

Chenle recoils, narrowing his eyes. “Right. Because you’re suddenly in love with him, huh?”

“I care about him.” You reach back and grab his hand.

“If you pick him right now, you better be damn sure that’s what you want,” he snaps. “You’re making a huge fucking mistake, (Y/N). He’ll never be me.”

“That’s good. I don’t want him to be.” You shake your head. “I meant it when I said I was done.”

He runs his tongue over his teeth before glaring at Jisung. “You’re fucking dead to me. Some friend you are, trying to steal my fucking girl from me. That was your plan the whole time, wasn’t it? You were just waiting for the opportunity to swoop in and save the day.”

“You did this yourself,” Jisung replies. “She wouldn’t be with me if you were enough for her.”

Your chest tightens, preparing for Chenle to retaliate. You squeeze Jisung’s hand, and his thumb rubs over your knuckles. Over the course of your much too long relationship with Chenle, you quickly came to realize how close he and Jisung were. They were best friends, inseparable, really, and now the only thing stopping them from fighting is you. Right in the middle, you stand between them physically and metaphorically.

Instead, Chenle glances up to the ceiling, a laugh escaping him before he turns around without another word and disappears down the hallway. You slap your hand over your mouth when a shaky breath surpasses your lips, quickly reaching forward to shut the door. You lean against it for a moment, resting your forehead on the wood as Jisung stands silent behind you.

“Are you okay?” he whispers. “That was a lot.”

You don’t say anything. Between the way your heart beats at a hundred miles a minute, how your brain swirls, and how your stomach twists, the only thing you can do is suck in a loud, sharp inhale as you fight the urge to bawl your eyes out.

He moves closer to you, putting his hand on your shoulder. The touch sends a pang through your body, and you have to smack him away. Everything is so overwhelming, and knowing Chenle is gone for good is making you question every choice you’ve ever made leading up to this moment.

Once upon a time, you were convinced he was the love of your life. You were sure things were going to be perfect forever, but God, how far from the truth could you have been?

Jisung stays silent while you regain your composure. He waits patiently, but every little sound is amplified in your ears, so the creak of the wood beneath his feet as he rocks back and forth has everything crashing down around you.

You crumble, but somehow in the midst of it, Jisung’s arm wraps around your waist and tugs you close to him so you don’t fall. Fighting your tears, you clench your eyes shut. Over the years you spent with Chenle, you learned never to show how much something could hurt you. Showing emotion to anyone gives them the opportunity to hurt you, and Chenle took it one too many times.

“It’s okay,” Jisung whispers, sinking to the floor with you. “Tell me what you need. I’m here for you.”

You take a shuddering breath, but instead of saying anything, you turn and bury yourself in Jisung’s chest. His heart pounds in rhythm with yours, but he doesn’t seem outwardly anxious. He talks to you softly in an attempt to guide you. You don’t want to put this burden on him. Even then, all you can think about is Chenle, and how everything is over.

All the effort you put in to overcome the problems he created. Every argument you thought was worth it because maybe this one would lead somewhere. Maybe this breakdown would encourage him to change. Maybe this home you created for him would finally be enough.

It never was, and it never will be. How could it? He’s more interested in keeping you just to say he can. Chenle doesn’t love you, and you don’t love him. At least, you don’t think you do.

“I’m sorry,” you say to Jisung, shaking your head. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

“I know.” He cradles you to his chest. “I know. It’s okay, now. It’s all over.”

But for some reason, that alone hurts more than anything Chenle ever said to you.

More days pass. They turn into weeks, and you honestly start to feel like you’ll be okay. This morning especially when you wake up to the sensation of Jisung’s lips on your neck. He hums against your skin, tongue tracing over your pulse.

You’d been nervous to initiate anything with Jisung again, but last night, one thing led to another, and the two of you ended up in bed with your legs around his waist.

Jisung makes you feel safe. You’re not sure what about that makes you crave him so much, but you easily melt into his touch. Pressing yourself closer to his warmth, you run your fingers through his hair.

“How are you feeling?” His voice is deeper in the morning with a slight rasp to it.

“Never been better.” You’re not lying. Everything with him is peaceful.

His hand moves down your side to squeeze your hip, and further until he’s resting on your thigh.

“Sungie,” you mutter.

“Yeah?”

“If you want something, tell me. Teasing isn’t nice.” You put your hand on top of his.

He chuckles, nipping at the base of your neck. “Maybe I just like touching you.”

“There are innocent places to touch.” You move him toward the apex of your thighs, suppressing a shaky breath. “But let’s forget those exist.”

You feel his smirk on your skin, and when he brushes against your clit, you curse quietly. He hooks his ankle with yours to give himself better access, and he finds your entrance already wet.

“You sure it’s me who wanted it?” He tsks.

You open your mouth to respond, but he slides two of his long fingers inside you. A moan escapes instead, and you feel a rush of heat to your cheeks and between your legs. Your brain is still fogged with sleep, which must mean that’s part of why it feels so fucking good. You fall into the pleasure, gripping the sheets in front of you.

“Can’t think of anything else but you,” he whispers, pumping his hand at a steady pace. “How you sound, how you feel, how you taste. Just you.”

Your eyes clench shut as you relish in the way he makes you feel, his gentle movements making you need him that much more. Rocking your hips, you practically melt into him. Something about the early morning sun and still being tired from the night before has you getting closer and closer without much effort from either of you.

His lips brush your ear. “Feel good, baby?”

Your walls clamp down on him, and you let out a moan in response to his question. Butterflies swarm in your stomach, and while you’re desperate to finish, you also wouldn’t mind sitting here like this forever.

“Jisung,” you whine. “Please.”

He tilts your head back and kisses you hard, his thumb finding your clit as he continues. You cry out into his mouth, back arching at the pleasure swirling around you. Your insides twist and turn and you’re only half-sure you’ll ever come down from this.

Unfortunately for you, the high fades as he guides you through it. Once he pulls out of you, you turn to face him. He brings his fingers up to his mouth, cleaning your arousal off as his eyes flutter shut at your taste.

You push his shoulder until he’s flat on his back, and when you straddle his lap, he stares up at you in awe as the blanket falls from your shoulders. Reaching down, you line him up with your entrance. His lips part, and he sucks in a quick breath.

You sink down slowly, thighs shaking as you allow him to fill you. He curses, his nails digging into your hips. The more you take him, the tighter his grip on you becomes. You missed the feeling of this—of being full and seeing the pleasure you could cause someone else.

Once he’s completely buried inside you, he holds you down by your hips, eyebrows furrowed deeply.

“Don’t move yet,” he mutters, voice thick. “God, are you really gonna make me cum just like this?”

Jisung explores every inch of your body, his hands leaving your hips to squeeze your ass, tracing up until he finds your breasts. His thumbs rub against your nipples, and you jolt, doing your best to refrain from taking him the way you want.

“Can I move?” you ask breathlessly. “Please, Sungie.”

“Yeah.” He nods. “Of course, baby, show me how much you want me.”

You heat up at the sound of that, and when his grip loosens on you, you lift yourself up. The slow drag of him against your walls has you wanting to collapse already. He studies you closely, somewhat amused by your struggle to take him completely.

You move through your sensitivity, sinking back down and swiveling your hips. He thrusts up, and the tip of his cock hits your cervix. You whine, opting to continue your pace. As soon as he’s about to slide out of you, you allow him to fill you all over again.

He matches you, fucking up into you when you’ve already taken him halfway. Sounds of your arousal fill the room while he moves inside you, and he lifts his head to watch where he disappears in you.

You’re numbed by the pleasure, so much so that you’re barely able to hear the moans and quiet praises falling from his lips.

He squeezes your breasts, fingers tweaking your nipples. His eyes are everywhere, entranced by everything you are as you fuck yourself on his cock. A band starts to tighten in your stomach, but all you want is to make him feel good.

You grab one of his wrists, tugging down in the hopes he’ll get the idea. He places his palm flat on your stomach as he makes his way down slowly, slowly, smirking as you whine at him.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he groans, thumbing your clit in perfect circles.

Your pace falters as you feel the euphoria approaching, unable to keep up. He stops, cursing as you clench hard around him. You let out a frustrated moan but opt to keep bouncing on him through your sensitivity.

“Don’t stop,” he commands. “It’s gonna feel better if you keep going.”

“Jisung, please.” Your walls flutter around him, and when he returns to your sensitive bud, you both know it won’t take long at all.

Your orgasm slams into you, but you force yourself to keep moving. Curses leave your mouth in a string as the knot unravels faster than you thought possible. Your walls clench around him. The tremor in your thighs makes it hard to keep moving, but you refuse to stop until he’s done.

He sits up, pulling you flush against his chest as he thrusts up into you. You bury your head in his neck and hold onto him tightly, the cloud of pleasure enough to make you lightheaded.

Once he’s as deep as he can get, he moans and spills inside you. Both of you pant, sweat making your skin stick together. And then his lips are on yours, soft in contrast with all of the overwhelming feelings happening.

His nails gently drag along your spine as he kisses down your neck.

“(Y/N),” he says.

“Hm?” is all you can muster.

“I really, really like you. A lot.” His mouth brushes against your shoulder. “And…this was probably the worst time to say that. But it’s true.”

“I like you, too.”

He doesn’t see your smile, but you feel his.

“No matter what happens,” he says, inhaling deeply. “Just know I won’t let you down, okay?”

“I know, Sungie.” You wrap your arms around him and pull him closer, still attempting to calm down from your whirlwind. “I trust you.”

He flips you over, holding himself up on his elbows while he presses a gentle kiss to your lips. “Gonna clean you up, okay?”

You hum in response, letting out a sigh when he pulls out of you. Waiting for him to return, you don’t move a muscle, instead, closing your eyes and basking in the feeling of warmth he’s left all over your body.

He cleans up the mess between your legs with a towel, and then he’s climbing back into bed next to you. Tugging you close, he scans over your face.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Is it about him?” You force the words out, but the thought of Chenle at a time like this has your stomach twisting in unpleasant ways. It’s better for you when you just…don’t think of him at all. Only then are you able to completely enjoy your time with Jisung.

He chews on his bottom lip, nodding once. “Yeah.”

“Of course, you can. You just can’t get upset at my answers.”

“I won’t.” He pauses, taking a deep breath as he traces his finger down your arm. “Do you miss him?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug. “I mean, I guess a part of me does. But I don’t know if that’s me missing him or the craziness and the pain. Because after a while…”

He squeezes you reassuringly. “It’s okay.”

“After a while, the pain starts to…feel normal. Good, even. Like I trained myself to crave the dysfunctional shit we did. In my mind, I thought all couples fought the same way we did. And everyone says fighting is normal, and if you’re not, you don’t really care about the relationship. So, in some sick, twisted way, I saw those arguments as us just…loving each other. Loudly.”

“I’m sorry he did that to you,” Jisung replies. “It’s not right.”

“It wasn’t just him, Sungie. It was me, too. C’mon, I literally asked you to help me because I thought it would hurt him.” You laugh at yourself, but ultimately, the conversation tears the barely healed wound in your heart open all over again.

“Sounds like he pushed you there.”

“I still made that decision. I could’ve been the bigger person and kept my hands clean,” you explain.

“Do you regret it?” he asks, a genuine fear laced in his gaze. “Do you still want him?”

Your hesitation has his fear twisting into hurt, but his face doesn’t change. It’s just the emotions swirling in his brown eyes that give you any indication of his feelings.

“Listen to me,” you murmur, cupping his cheek and rubbing your thumb over his skin. “I don’t regret it. Do I wish we started this in a different way? Yeah, I do. But what’s done is done, and I don’t think it would change anything for me and him.”

He places his hand over yours. “I won’t pretend like I understand, because I’ve never been in that kind of situation before. I just can’t believe he would fucking do something like that. To you of all people.”

“Sungie, I’m not perfect.” You give him a tiny smile. “I’ve said and done things I shouldn’t have. Regardless of everything else, this was the ultimate betrayal, wasn’t it? He might have done it first, but I’m with you. It isn’t just sex.”

“This isn’t your fault.”

“Maybe not. But I don’t think it’s just his, either. We fell apart long before he ever cheated in the first place.” Tears well in your eyes, and you shake your head. “I don’t wanna talk about him anymore.”

He kisses your forehead, tugging you to his chest. “That’s okay. Let’s spend all day right here, okay?”

You nod. “I’d love that.”

Your first mistake of the day was leaving your house. You’re not sure what spurred you into going out to get takeout considering all of the leftovers you have in your fridge, but life is clearly too short to worry about semantics. Your sunglasses block the sun out of your eyes, and as you push the door to the restaurant open, you place them on top of your head instead.

You don’t notice at first. After all, you’re starving and Jisung is at his own house tonight, so the only thing you’re focused on is ordering your food so you can eat.

You tell the nice lady your order, and when you’re done, you feel eyes on you—a prickly feeling beginning at the base of your spine that slowly weaves its way up each vertebrae until you find yourself turning around against your will.

In an instant, your hunger is replaced with an ache that has your stomach twisting and curling. Chenle meets your gaze, sitting at the table in the far corner. Your lungs refuse to fill when you also recognize that he’s not alone. A girl sits across from him, and her back faces you. She seems too engrossed in the story she’s telling Chenle to realize he’s no longer listening to her. He’s honed in on you, on how stiff you’re standing at the mere sight of him.

You’re not with him anymore. Of course, he’s free to see any girl he wants now. Why are you so upset? You’ve got Jisung. There’s no need for you to feel this way, to feel how your heart beats painfully slow, threatening to stop altogether at the thought of his hands on her the same way he used to touch you.

At least you two aren’t together this time, right?

At least he’s not betraying your trust, your love, and your soul simply because he’s bored, right?

The lump in your throat is impossible to swallow past, and now all you want is to run home and never be seen again. Your appetite has diminished, and you feel yourself reverting back into who you were with him.

Whatever’s going on inside you is exactly the same as the two times you caught him while you were together.

You’re not over him. For some fucking reason, you still want him.

You curse under your breath, but you’re unable to pull your gaze away from his. Much to your surprise, he doesn’t look smug at all, but like he’s admiring you. As if he misses you, and whatever void he’s been trying to fill is just…perpetually empty.

The lady clearing her throat catches your attention. She hands you your bag, and you thank her and quickly depart the restaurant without a second glance at Chenle. While you refuse to let yourself cry, you can’t stop thinking about him even after you’ve been home for an hour. Your food remains untouched, and you pace around your kitchen like everything bad Chenle has ever done has dissipated into thin air.

You know exactly how this is going to play out. There’s no way in hell he’s not going to reach out to you, and you’re not strong enough to turn him away now. Even when you have Jisung, who has done nothing but be perfect to you, you just can’t fucking get out of this trap.

You should call Jisung. Tell him what happened and that you need him, but you don’t. There’s a sneaking suspicion that floods through your bones when you realize you don’t want to. Calling him means he’ll prevent you from talking to Chenle, and then Chenle will go back to whoever that girl is and do everything you like to her.

You curse under your breath, grasping onto the edge of the counter.

Will Jisung ever be enough for you?

Is peace…arbitrary? Redundant? Is it not what you want?

The whole time you were with Chenle, it’s what you craved. Stability, peace, love. Three things you never got, and now you have them. But it’s not the same with Jisung. You don’t want those things with anyone but Chenle, but at the same time, silence is unbearably loud. Louder than any of the times you’ve yelled at Chenle or vice versa.

In chaos, you flourish. Maybe…maybe, you’re unable to function without chaos. Perhaps that’s what keeps you alive, your gears turning, and your life harmonious.

How the fuck does that work? Is this all you’re good for?

Just like you predicted, a knock sounds at your door. With your palms sweating, you check through the peephole first, and your suspicions are confirmed. Chenle stands there, waiting for you to let him in.

You have two choices here.

You could ignore him. Leave him standing alone in your apartment complex’s hallway like the dumbass he is, floundering for your attention. You could choose Jisung, the peace and tranquility you know is suitable for the long term.

Or…

Or you could have him again. You could complete yourself in the only way you know how. Maybe the cycle will end this time. He’s been without you for so long, he might have learned his lesson.

It’s not even a fucking competition in your brain.

You unlock the door, confronting him face-to-face—alone—for the first time since you left him. Or made him leave, is more like it.

He doesn’t leave time for awkwardness or pleasantries. Instead, he launches himself forward, his hands cupping your cheeks as he smashes his lips to yours. In his grasp, you’re absolutely pliant, melting right into him just like you’ve done every other time before.

You moan into his mouth, fingers grasping at the fabric of his shirt. Too much time has passed already, so the last thing you want is to wait any more. The kiss is messy, rough in a way that has your teeth clashing together and tongues wrestling for dominance.

Jisung is great. Jisung is nice, but he’s not Chenle.

Chenle’s not scared of being rough, of the messiness you’ve craved without him.

“Hi, baby,” Chenle murmurs, pulling his shirt over his head before dipping back down to kiss along your neck. “I fucking missed you.”

You’re ashamed of how the feelings of uncertainty have turned into lust. It sends heat throughout your entire body, and you hate how damp you feel between your legs already.

“S’okay.” He nips against your pulse. “I know you missed me, too. Don’t waste that pretty little voice on words when I could make you moan instead.”

Much to his surprise, you push him back, chest heaving as you allow your gaze to rake over him. Unfortunately for you, you’ve never been attracted to anyone the way you are with Chenle. Even his mistreatment of you isn’t enough to make that fade.

Without hesitation, you pull your T-shirt off and toss it across the room. The next thing you know, he’s moving forward again, turning you around and pushing your stomach against the island. The chill has you pushing back against him, but it’s nothing compared to how hot every inch of your skin is.

“How many times?” he asks, grinding against your ass as he unbuttons your jeans and unzips them.

“What?” You’re unable to concentrate on anything except how close his fingers are to where you need them most.

He kisses your shoulder before nudging your bra strap down. Moving to the other, he repeats his action. “How many times have you fucked Jisung?”

“Chenle, I—”

“Don’t lie to me, slut. Tell me how many times you screwed my best friend.”

Your eyes nearly roll back. “Four. Five. I don’t know.”

“Are we fucking even now? That’s what you wanted, huh? A little bit of adventure because I fucked up?” His fingers close in around the sides of your neck. “You got it, baby. Don’t you ever…ever fuck him again, got it? Only I get you.”

You clench your thighs together, and a whimper gets caught in the back of your throat. At this point, you’d tell him anything to get him to touch you. And despite Jisung being the topic of conversation, he’s the last damn thing on your mind.

His breath fans across your ear, and through gritted teeth, he says, “If you want to cum tonight, you better fucking agree with me.”

“I won’t.” You quickly shake your head and force the words out through his grip on your throat. “Don’t want anyone else touching me but you.”

As a reward, his hand slips into your jeans. His fingertips connect with your clit through your panties, and your hips jolt.

“He can’t be doing a good job if you’re still so wet for me.” Chenle tsks. “I warned you he could never be me.”

You whine in response, grinding down onto his touch for more stimulation.

“What was it you said?” His circles on your bud are achingly slow.

“Chenle, please—”

“That’s not it.” He stops rubbing you, moving to take his hand out of your jeans.

“No, no.” You push his wrist down. “Fuck, I said I didn’t want him to be you. Please don’t stop.”

You feel his smirk against your skin as he returns to his slow, pleasure-filled torture. He rolls his hips, pressing his hard, straining cock against your ass. The counter digs almost uncomfortably into your midriff, but you couldn’t possibly care at a time like this. He leans back a bit to unclasp your bra, and while both of you are distracted with that, his hand moves inside your panties, tracing along your entrance before slowly sliding two fingers in.

You grip the edge of the counter, pushing back to tell him how much you need him. As soon as your bra falls to the floor, he’s pulling out of you, trailing his sticky fingers up your body until he reaches your breasts. He squeezes you, caging you in his grasp, his chest against your back as he uses your arousal to wet your nipples before he rubs his thumbs over them. 

Your back arches and your head falls back against him, quiet moans spilling from your lips at his slow pace. Every inch of you is on fire, and you crave him way too much for your own good.

“You’re so fucking pretty, baby,” he hums, and while his hands pleasure your tits, you can’t help but wish it was his mouth. His tongue is sinful, and you want all he has to offer.

When you rub your thighs together, you whine at the friction, your body sensitive from your need.

“Bet you just wanna be bent over and fucked like the little slut you are, huh?” He chuckles darkly. “I’m gonna fuck you so good, you’re gonna forget your own name.”

He pushes your jeans down your thighs, but doesn’t get them past your knees. His hand slides back into your panties, and two of his fingers are back inside you in record time. You sigh in relief, rocking against him to encourage him to hurry up.

This time, he moves fast, the palm of his hand hitting your throbbing clit with every thrust. You can’t contain your moans, grinding to get more stimulation on your bud.

Unfortunately for you, Chenle knows your body just as well as you do. Right when your walls start to clamp down as a warning sign of your impending orgasm, he removes his touch. You curse, whining like a child at the feeling of being left hanging.

He brings his hand up to your face. “Suck.”

You don’t hesitate. You take his fingers into your mouth, collecting your slick from them and swirling your tongue to make sure you get all of it. Hollowing your cheeks, you allow your eyes to roll back at the taste and how all it does is arouse you further. He slowly pulls them away from you, and an obscene pop follows.

“Did he make you this wet?” Chenle asks. “Tell me who’s better.”

“You,” you say quickly.

“Why?” he continues. “What did my slut learn after having her fun? Hm?”

“H-He’s too nice.” Your face burns, embarrassment creeping through every inch of your body. “Never like this for him.”

Chenle’s hand finds the middle of your shoulder blades and pushes you flat against the counter. You shiver in anticipation, pushing back against him. He rips your panties down, and a sharp slap on your ass has your hips jolting.

“Dripping like the little whore you are,” he scolds you, hitting the other cheek, too. “Gonna make a mess all over the kitchen, baby.”

“Lele, please—”

“Oh, now you wanna act like that, huh?” He unbuckles his belt, the metal clinking together. “You really think nicknames will make me go easy on you?”

“Don’t want you to,” you reply, letting your forehead drop against the granite.

He presses his fingertips against your clit, spreading your arousal around as he rubs fast circles. Your legs are weak and shaking, and your need for release and the arousal soaking your thighs only serve to add to your embarrassment.

“Such a pretty pussy.” He sucks in a deep breath. “No wonder he wanted to steal you from me.”

You arch your back to give him better access, moans spilling past your lips as you grind into his touch. “Chenle, please. Please let me cum. It feels so good.”

“You close?” He contemplates, his other hand massaging your ass.

“So fucking close,” you confirm. “Please.”

“Mm,” he murmurs, circling you faster. “You do sound fucking beautiful when you cum.”

For a moment, you believe he’ll actually let you finish. You build and build, hips frantically moving, but almost like he knows you’re one last rub away from shattering, he pulls away. Your whine turns into a loud moan when he slaps your clit hard.

“You don’t deserve it yet, baby. You don’t get to cum unless it’s on my cock. Understood?”

You're near tears at this point, panting in the aftermath of being denied your orgasm again. Chenle shuffles behind you, and the rest of his clothes hit the floor. He curses under his breath, and you close your eyes, imagining him with his fingers gripping his cock, unable to stop his hips from bucking into his fist.

“You won’t like what happens if you cum without permission, pretty girl.” He rubs the head of his cock along your folds to collect your arousal. “Soaking me already and I’m not even inside.”

He allows his tip to enter you just enough to begin a stretch. Your breath catches in your throat, and you try your best to stop yourself from pushing back until he’s all the way in.

The words escaping you are no longer coherent, but that seems to spur him forward more than anything else. He lands another smack on your ass, but before you even react to that, he thrusts himself in completely until his balls press against your clit.

Your eyes roll back as you let out an obscene, long moan. You move your hips to stimulate your throbbing bud, but he tightens his grip on you to keep you still. He pulls out slowly, lewd noises following.

“Hear that?” He lets out a breathy chuckle. “This pussy is mine. Fuck.”

“Only yours,” you agree.

When he starts thrusting, it wreaks havoc on your body. You're already seconds away from an orgasm considering how many you’ve been denied, but you do your best to listen to him. His skin slaps against yours as he quickens his pace to an almost impossible speed. You’re lost in bliss, walls pulsing around him. All you want is to finish, and hopefully he’ll allow it soon.

His moans mix with yours, and the longer the two of you are connected, the higher pitched his become. His nails dig into you while he pulls you back with every thrust forward. The tip of his cock slides right into your spot, and the entire world tilts on its axis.

You practically scream out a chorus of pleas, begging him to allow you to finish as his length rubs against your inner walls perfectly. The world around you becomes blurry, and you can’t be certain, but you’re pretty sure you’re fucking drooling.

“Do you deserve it?” He curses under his breath. “Answer me. Do you deserve to cum?”

You shake your head, brain too foggy to comprehend fully. “I need it. Please.”

He doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he reaches around your legs and finds your clit with ease. All it takes is a brush of his fingertips to have you catapulting into your orgasm. Your walls clamp down on him hard, and his rhythm is thrown off. He refuses to stop until you’re through it, thrusting through the tightness.

When he pulls out abruptly, you whine.

“On your knees.” He pants, pulling you up and turning you toward him. “Hurry the fuck up, slut. On your fucking knees and suck my cock.”

You don’t need any help dropping to the ground, your legs weak anyway. Glancing up at him, you waste no time in wrapping your hand around him. He twitches in your grasp, and instead of teasing him, you start taking him in your mouth. He’s heavy on your tongue, achingly hard, and cutting off your air supply the deeper you take him into your throat.

“Don’t stop, baby.” He gathers your hair up into a makeshift ponytail, guiding you along his cock.

You follow his commands, a surge of pride welling in your chest when his hips involuntarily thrust. Peering up at him through your lashes, you’re surprised to see his phone in his hand. He’s recording you. It does nothing but make you bob your head faster, desperate to please him.

“Fuck, my little slut sucks cock so good,” he hisses, throwing his head back. “Wanna cum all over your face.”

You moan, the vibration making him gasp. He yanks your head back.

“Open your mouth,” he commands.

You do as he says, and before he even has to tell you, you stroke him until strings of white shoot from his tip. He moans, tilting your head up by your chin to see you painted in his cum.

You use your tongue to catch what landed on your lips, awaiting his next request. His chest heaves as he stares at you. He swipes your cheek with his thumb, and you take the initiative of taking it into your mouth.

He tosses his phone on the counter, gently helping you to your feet. “You okay?” he asks, voice much softer.

You nod timidly, the cloud slowly lifting from your brain. “I’m okay.”

“Did I hurt you?” He grabs one of the dish towels on the counter and uses it to wipe the remainder of his release off your face.

“No.” You shake your head, confusion sinking in when he helps you remove your clothes all the way instead of redressing you.

“Good. Let’s go shower, baby. I’ll clean you up.”

Your heart twists in your chest, but you allow him to intertwine your fingers and lead you into the bathroom. You’ve missed him so much, and no matter how much you fought, it would always end like this—with some sort of sexual make up to let out pent up aggressions, and then he took such good care of you.

Why couldn’t he be like that all the time?

Once you're beneath the warm water, he pulls you to his chest, cradling the back of your head as he presses his lips gently on yours. For a moment, you forget the rest of the world. Finally, the puzzle feels as if it’s been pieced back together.

You pull away first, scanning over his face, noting how the water makes his hair stick flat to his forehead. Smiling, you run your fingers through it to push it back. He gulps, gaze softer than you’re used to as he holds you close.

“(Y/N), I’m…” He pauses. “I love you. Don’t leave me like that again.”

You don’t hesitate to nod. Cupping his cheek, you run your thumb along his skin. “I love you, too. I’m not going anywhere.”

Chenle washes your hair, gently lathers your body with soap, and presses soft kisses on your skin. These are the moments you miss. The ones where he shows you he loves you, that he cares. You want to live in these moments forever, but it’s normal that they don’t last.

All couples fight. All couples retaliate at each other.

The two of you aren’t above it, clearly, but the most important thing is that he’s here with you now…right?

It doesn’t matter if he’s strayed before. He always comes back to you.

This time will be different. You feel it in your bones.

Once you’re done in the shower, he helps dry you off and massages your shoulders. It doesn’t matter how much time passes—you’ll always be his. He takes care of you. He loves you.

When you’re completely dry, the two of you climb right into bed. He pulls you to him, kissing all over your face despite how clearly tired he is.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice strained. “For everything, (Y/N). We’re gonna be better this time. I promise.”

You’ve learned to be weary of his promises, but that doesn’t mean you don’t hope he means it.

“I’m sorry, too.” You kiss the base of his neck. “Fighting fire with fire is never the right answer.”

His breathing evens out before yours, and you stare up at your ceiling, deep in thought. Everything is overwhelming, but one thing settling inside you has your heart shattering just like the glass Chenle carelessly swiped off the counter.

You’re with Jisung. You told Jisung you wanted him, that you wanted to see where things went, but here you are, back with Chenle.

You’ve become everything you hated Chenle for being.

What the fuck do you tell Jisung?

#nct dream #chenle #zhong chenle #jisung #park jisung #nct #nct smut #jisung smut #chenle smut #nct dream smut #kpop smut #jisung x reader #chenle x reader #jisung scenarios #jisung imagines #chenle scenarios #chenle imagines

[stpvnd6794]

Headcannons for Yoon Bum, Feitan Portor, Illumi Zoldyck, and Tamaki Amajiki

⚠️ note: there is nsfw content, mentions of cnc, might be triggering to some!! ⚠️

Yoon Bum

sfw

- wants to be loved

- devoted, completely loyal

- will do ANYTHING asked of him

- cuddles

- obsessive, doesn’t know how to love correctly

- obsessed like STALKER LEVEL

- but it’s sweet in its own way.

- gets jealous when you talk about anyone

- OLIVE THEORY

- hes so sweet, will plump your pillow and shit like that

- loves it when you do little things

- like just scoot closer to him outta no where

- or lay your legs on him

- or play with his hair

- LORD man will get on him knees

- no, like.. seriously. he will

- and i have a feeling he’d love random kisses, albeit will be hella shy ab it

nsfw

- praise.

- complete bottom

- the only time he will dom is if you make him

- please reward him for everything

- GOOD BOY

- such a good boy

- so submissive

- will do everything asked of him

- so cute

- cums too fast

- thrusts inexperienced-ly

- the cutest doe eyes

- will kind of manipulate you to get his way

- :]

Feitan

sfw

- tsundere

- will tsk or tch at you for everything

- smiles just a little behind his scarf thing when he thinks you do something cute

- does the little things

- gets steals you something when he sees you eyeing it

- listening and remembering to the small things you talk about

- takes your plate to the kitchen with his when you’re both done with food

- takes bags from you when you’re holding something

- when you two walk together he’ll brush his hand against yours to see if you’ll get the hint

- things like that

- likes being the big spoon when cuddling or anything where he can hold you

- is utterly in love with you but denies it profusely

- his eyes soften just a little when he sees you

- when he wakes up in the morning, the first thing he does is pull you close(r) to him.

- or he’ll look for you if you’re not there. (and maybe panic a bit)

nsfw

- switch

- definitely dom leaning

- even when he’s bottoming he’s like dominant about it.

- HAIR PULLING

- he likes to be caressed and wants you to be sweet

- but don’t treat him like he’s fragile or made of glass

- throw in a little degrading every now and then

- bdsm

- will spank

- makes you get on your knees more often than not

- sometimes he’ll bend you over his, spank you and make you count, if you mess up he starts over again

- AFTERCARE BOSS

- so sweet afterwards

- will definitely cuddle you

- in the mornings he’s also very sweet. sometimes you’ll wake up to food or something if he’s in the mood or wakes up before you (he prob forced someone to cook tho, bc for some reason, i cant see him being able to cook 🤷‍♀️)

- :)

Illumi

sfw

- you’ll have to bare with him here

- very emotionally constipated

- does this adorable head tilt when he’s confused (literally a puppy, i like do think hes like a lab or smt idk)

- he’s not used to physical touch but will hold your pinky finger with his :]

- he also will do these domestic thing he probably learned from movies

- like touching you with his cold feet

- or covering you with a blanket when you fall asleep

- will stiffly pet your head/hair

- lets you braid his hair occasionally (wont admit it but he loves those claw clip thingys)

- if he’s really tired after a mission he’ll plop himself onto you and cuddle you

- don’t touch him too suddenly though, make sure he knows what you’re doing

- be soft and gentle with him but also don’t be afraid

- sometimes he’ll release some bloodlust or just try and scare you to make you think he’s bad or “a monster”

- has a hard time knowing that you actually love him

- and don’t want him for his family, power, status, money or- you get the idea

- does want children though so.

- like a family

- and that, to him, is like- 5 kids so.

- he is very stubborn so you’re gonna have to settle with like at least one child

nsfw

- BREEDING

- i’m telling you this dude could go on for HOURS

- and i don’t mean like 1 or 2

- I MEAN LIKE 8-9 hours

- definitely tries to impregnate you

- if you have female anatomy or are fertile

- if not then he is getting like a surrogate or something

- he needs heirs

- seems vanilla but is kinda kinky

- definitely does the choking or pain(cmon mans a sadist)

- i think he’s into like pervy stuff too

- def watches you when you think you’re alone

- whether thats like taking a shower, changing, masturbating, etc.

- literally doesn’t know what boundaries are

- he gets off on you not knowing he’s there

- i feel like he’s into somnophilia

- :3

Tamaki

sfw

- so sweet

- timid too

- the cutest

- his favorite cuddle position is like with you two curled up facing each other and your foreheads pressed together

- likes to just stare at you

- you make him blush a lot

- with anything

- say something, wink at him, check him out, hold his hand, play with his hair, kiss him on the cheek(or anywhere), etc.

- he’ll blush

- likes for you to lay on him, no matter your size.

- the weight on him gives him comfort

- like a weighted blanket or stuffed animal

- doesn’t take compliments too well

- usually just like shakes his head or looks conflicted

nsfw

- i don’t really think he’s comfortable with sex

- definitely on the asexual spectrum

- but i will say he does like intimacy and sensuality

- he just likes to be loved

- :>

(EDIT: WHY TF IS MY GRAMMAR SO BAD HELLO??)

#killing stalking #yoon bum #yoon bum x reader #killing stalking x reader #hxh #hunter x hunter #feitan #feitan portor #feitan portor x reader #illumi zoldyck #illumi zoldyck x reader #illumi x reader #hunter x hunter x reader #hunter hunter #feitan x reader #tamaki amajiki #amajiki tamaki #tamaki amajiki x reader #amajiki tamaki x reader #tamaki x reader #amajiki x reader #bnha #boku no hero #boku no hero academia #tamaki mha #mha x reader #suneater #suneater x reader #my hero #my hero academia

[simp4konig]

"Can't sleep?" König x Gender-neutral Reader

Word count: 3704

Having flashbacks about the battlefield and unable to fall asleep after an exceptionally draining mission, you go seek the comfort of your Colonel in the middle of the night.

*Slow burn

*ANGST!!💔... dw it gets wholesome at the end i promise ❤️

*Thanj you to Azzy!! (My No.1 Fan...🥹🫂💘) for this request !!!🙋🏼‍♀️💫💞💞✨Love u too🫶💕,, I kind of 🥺slightly🥺 maube a littke bit🥺🥺🥺went off prompt and König isnt affected by the mission per se BUT i have fulfilled the CUDDLING part!!! ☺️☺️pls dont show up to my fhome with pitchforks and torches im sry it just sorta happened ok😱

Also i rhink i have dementia bc I thought someone else rqsted König comfortinf rreader in a storm???😰😰Turns out nobody did so maybe i hallucinated it or smtj idk🤷🏼‍♀️Anyways I thought to merge these two ideas together so lmk what u think abt this lil (by "lil" i mean WAY too long🤪) drabble🙏💕

*Reader is pining for König

*Events loosely take place in the KönigxKing (as in, reader's call-sign is "King" storyline) mini-series. This serves as a slight backstory for King (reader). Again, this is by no means in any chronological order in relation to the series, so this can also be read as stand-alone! :)

*THANK YOU FOR 100+ FOLLOWERS!!!!!! 🥳🎉🎊✨🎇💖I SWEAR ONE IT LITERALLT FEELS LIKE MID-AUGUST WHEN I HAD LIKE 7 WHERE DID U ALL COME FEOM??????😰😰💘 IT MEANS SO MUCH FOR ME LIKE I CANR STRESS THIS ENOIGH BC IM SO HAPPG U GUYS THINK MEWORTHY ENOIGH OF YOUR PRECIOUS FOLLOW AND WANT TO READ MY WACK WORKS!!!!!!🤧🤧💖💖 LIKE??????? 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹THANK U THABK YOU RHABK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 🫶🥰🥰💖💖💖❤️💞💞💕💖💕💕💞

                                        ...

You couldn't sleep.

It was raining relentlessly outside, the pitter-patter of water droplets hitting your window. Storm clouds boomed loudly outside, and despite the blinds being pulled tightly shut, lightning occasionally flashed through the cracks, elongated shadows of buildings forming on the walls.

Counting down the seconds until you'd hear the rumbling thunder, it would only be a few kilometres away, and you'd shudder at the sound, shivering.

While tossing and turning in bed, you had kicked off your covers and were staring at the ceiling, still wide awake. Normally, a storm like this would be like a lullaby to your ears, yet now it did nothing in helping lull you to sleep.

Even if you wanted to sleep, how could you when those corpses haunted your nightmares?

Laying in bed, your mind replayed the same scenes like a movie reel, the same screams like a broken record:

Lifeless, unblinking eyes with mouths agape and an expression of fear permanently engraved on their pale faces; flies swarming in hordes to harvest the soft tissues of the irises and tongue, eating the human mush; limbs contorted in unnatural positions, arms and legs crushed by the force of detonated mines, bones broken under the weight.

Rumbling roaring of machine guns and the deafening explosions from hand grenades meant that the high-pitched ringing would drown out everybody's yelling, muffle all noise from your surroundings, and you'd only be pulled out of your daze when you'd find yourself stumbling on unstable ground, on bricks and cheap concrete that had all crumbled.

Bodies would drop so fast it'd take at least seconds for you to register whether it had been an enemy or an ally.

You'd pull the trigger, but seeing a bullet go through someone's forehead and the exaggerated shock stamped on their face — a permanent expression in their final seconds remaining forever in death — left you wondering why you would ever sign up willingly to do this.

Disorientated, you'd struggle to pull yourself together, would enter far too many close calls for a soldier to count, and would only get a grip once you saw a familiar face, a reminder that you weren't alone in the warzone.

Even now, the sonorous sound kept echoing in your head, and, if you listened closely, it resembled hundreds of hoarse shouts, so many people screaming at once in collective agony.

You flinched as a bolt of lightning suddenly struck the sky.

Sparing an absentminded glance at your digital alarm clock, your eyes widened slightly at the time: 1:56am.

Damn... you thought. ...it's that late already?

Drills would begin at 7 o'clock, and you had to have woken up at 6 to brush your teeth, get dressed, eat, and mentally prepare yourself for the day, so you kissed a good night's sleep goodbye, and accepted the telling off from your superiors the following morning for under-performing.

...Still, how could you sleep after what you had experienced? What you experienced and would continue experiencing?

Accepting high-pressure missions and a demanding workload once you had enlisted, you thought that your ability to keep calm under pressure and stay composed would mean that you would have been unaffected by the shooting by now, and be taking everything in your stride. Calm, composed, and unaffected, is what you had thought you'd be. Surely you'd be able capable enough to cope with it all?

Yet, you weren't any of those things. Never getting used to the stress that would persist even while on supposedly "low-intensity" extractions. You'd always be on edge, always recoiling at hands that would reach over to tap your back as encouragement or hold your shoulder in reassurance on base.

You believed you could never familiarise yourself with the panic and unpredictability of missions and being hyper-aware of something, anything, everything going wrong, with the adrenaline that would course through your body and take over your senses in times of fight or flight, with the nerves that would keep you on edge hours after landing safely on base.

But, most of all, with the nights you'd lay in bed, unable to fall asleep: nights like these, when every time you closed your eyes, you saw the eyes of dying comrades; when every time you walked along the corridors, imagined yourself diving across the floor and felt shattered shrapnel breaking under your feet; when every time you sat in an empty room, heard ear-piercing blasts and the ricochet of discarded shells just missing your head.

Whereas the other operators seemed to be completed unmoved by any of their deployments and would shrug their shoulders off of the events, the anxiety for you lingered, trauma deep within your soul consuming you whole.

How could you ever get over the fact that you were shooting real people? Losing real soldiers?

...Losing yourself along the way?

All this work took a toll on your psyche, but comparing yourself to the other soldiers made you feel like such a coward, and second-guess ever enlisting in the first place.

...Well, you did so because it had been your only option all things considered, but looking back on it, you thought that maybe it would have been better if you hadn't chosen anything at all.

Accepted the grave nature of your failures in life, the same life that would have had inevitably ended with you pre-maturely in a grave.

After all, you had no job prospects to look forward to, no dreams to strive for, no aspirations to achieve.

Failing your school exams time and time again until you had finally achieved a result that was good enough didn't earn you any security, as you weren't exactly employable with grades you had just barely managed to claw to even pass.

Really, it was hopeless. You were hopeless.

To say your family was disappointed in you would have been an understatement. Out of three children, you were labelled the disappointment child, the underachiever and failure.

Your two siblings worked as a lawyer and an engineer respectively, while you had never even been able to grasp the basics in education, never spoke with your teachers of anything other than the worrying results of your exams, never came home to share a thing with your parents you had accomplished with a smile of pride stretched on your young face like your siblings did.

Never. Because you weren't ever good enough.

At the dinner table, your siblings boasted of promotions and of revolutionary research, of trials and of successes, of their brilliant breakthroughs, as you sat on the side of the table, listening from the sidelines, excluded from all of the grandeur that you couldn't relate to.

Still, it was always better to keep your mouth shut than to make a dent in the conversation, further embarass yourself and prove how lowly you were, than to have so many pairs of pitying eyes talking down on you in patronising tones, of the subtle condolences from your parents and their regret with triumphant smirks and condescending attitude from your siblings.

In a last ditch effort to make your parents proud, you made the decision of joining the military. You were young and impressionable, under the impression that your parents would finally be impressed.

...Of course, they weren't. In fact, your decision made them even more disappointed, shaking their heads sympathetically with strained smiles stretched on their lips.

Maybe that was the reason you couldn't handle the pressure of the military, you thought. You were weak, incompetent. Pathetic.

Although no one told you explicitly or made you feel that way directly, somehow, you always had felt inferior. Somehow, you felt that no matter what you did, how much you did, how well you thought you did, you wouldn't ever come close to the others's level.

That, despite your effort and dedication, you would never be good enough. Would always be inferior no matter what, because you always had been and would always be so.

...Your Colonel never made you feel that way, though, and you never quite understood why.

After all, your interactions were few-far-and-inbetween. It made you wonder what made you feel this way, and what spark ignited the warmth you'd feel when he was around.

Although a man of few words, the words that he did say to you would matter, though. His praise, his acknowledgement, his always being there made you want to keep going and prove your worth to him.

It started off as sporadic encouragement:

Your skin glistening with sweat, an accented voice would say "Gute Arbeit," over your crumpled body on the gym mat.

Offering you a gloved hand, you grasped it gratefully, and he pulled your tired body with ease. "Good job, King."

A lopsided smile from you as you'd wipe the sweat from your forehead and brows after sparring with someone else, limp limbs barely keeping you standing. His eyes were betrayed no emotion under his veil, yet a thin-lipped grin was behind it.

"Thank— you— sir!" You'd manage to breathe out, still panting for breath. "I did— my best, but— I didn't win."

"That does not matter," he'd say, speaking in a tone you couldn't quite recognize. "Very good job. Keep it going. Soon, you'll be able to pin even me down."

You'd laugh weakly at his words, yet would immediately feel a surge of motivation to keep working hard, and would train up to the point of exhaustion behind closed doors. Thinking you'd be alone, you'd punch a dufflebag with grunts of effort, missing the tall silhouette observing you with crossed arms in the corner, satisfied.

Then, those became casual greetings;

"Guten Morgen, soldier. Nice day, ja?"

Turning around, you'd see your Colonel walking towards you, frame visible even from a distance.

You smile broadly, eyes crinkling up in genuine joy, before you caught yourself and coughed. "Y-yeah!"

"Always a nice day whenever you're around, sir," you'd tease, playfully winking at him as he approached you, yet you were yet to master it without blinking both eyes.

He'd chuckle heartily, flattered, then shook his head to hide how his face flushed under his veil, and held up a hand.

"Thank Gott I have you here. My day would have been ruined."

"Have a good day, sir!" You'd call after him brightly, and he'd turn around for a final time with a two-fingered salute. Strange, since he was your superior, not the other way around, but you shrugged this off as a friendly gesture.

Until it developed into a sort of mutual connection.

In your eyes, at least.

You didn't want to assume that you two were friends, as the man was way out of your league. Strong, muscular, and a disciplined soldier — a Colonel, no less — a man of influence.

Besides, he, conversing with the only-recently-recruit-turned-soldier that was the slowest to understand a joke, did not comprehend complicated terms, and was the least bright out of the entire faction was not something you wanted him to be associated as, didn't want to tarnish his reputation.

You reasoned that you didn't want to bring down the Colonel down to your low level, so you kept your relationship as just that; associates. Aquaintances. Nothing more, out of respect for your Colonel.

Little did you know, the Colonel had developed a soft spot for you.

It seemed as though the storm had gotten worse, as the rain was unrelenting, and the tapping on the glass increased with force. Booming thunderclouds made your room shake.

A sigh as you turned to your side again. 2:07am.

Your thoughts moved back to your Colonel, and you started missing him, longing for him. The warmth that radiated off him made you wish he'd take you in his arms, hold you close to his chest, and you suddenly felt so cold. So lonely and cold.

Maybe it was childish of you to be feeling this way — he was your superior, after all, and you had no reason to be so attached — yet your daily encounters made you gain feelings for the man. Made you feel things when he was around.

Somehow, he brought you security. Made you feel protected. Safe. Like you could always count on him for having your back.

Made you forget that you were so useless, and was the reason for the fuzzyness within your chest, the buzzing feeling you'd feel as you'd be grinning from ear to ear after speaking to him.

Made you feel like you weren't pathetic. Weren't a wasted wishing star. Instead, you were appreciated, seen, even.

You wanted to see him. You wanted to be with him.

...Would he want you, though?

No. Of course he wouldn't. You weren't good enough.

A deep sigh. 2:15, the digital alarm clock displayed.

...What if he actually did want you? Not even as a partner, but just to be around him? Breathe the same air as him? You thought you weren't worthy of his time, but maybe, just maybe he wouldn't see it as such a waste.

Another crash of lightning brought you to your senses.

Finally making up your mind, you huffed in exertion as you pushed yourself off your stiff mattress, not bothering to organize the mess of blankets on the floor.

Walking with certainty, before you realised it, you were at König's bedroom door. Standing behind the door, hand hesitatingly reaching for the handle, you bit your lip, confidence wavering.

Should you really go through with this right now? What if he was asleep at that moment and all you'd do is disrupt his slumber? It wouldn't be fair of you to disturb him so late in the night, especially when he had so many responsibilities.

Still, you inhaled deeply, and, as quietly as you could, knocked twice.

You almost jumped out of your skin at the familiar accented voice of your Colonel.

"Come in," he said hoarsely. His tone was almost warm, inviting, yet you shook your head at the idea, and pulled the handle.

Entering inside, you slowly closed the door behind you. When you turned around, König was sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, seemingly deep in thought. Wearing a tank top and cargo pants, his head was hung low, his veil hanging loosely over his head.

The blinds were drawn open to reveal the sky dominated by darkness, the grey curtain of monochrome on the nearest buildings cast down by the clouds, the raindrops that remained on the windows and the rhythmic echoes against the pavement as they dropped in syncopation.

The sight, his presence, were both so... relaxing. In a way, your anxiety was relieved by the tranquility of the scene, and it made you forget the internal turnoil you had been going through for the past few hours, made the tension in your body fade.

"Ah, King," his arms dropped to his sides and he raised his head to meet your eyes in the dark. "I had a feeling that it would be you."

You fidgeted nervously, not knowing what to do.

"Bitte, schön," he said, patting the empty space beside him on the mattress. "Please, sit down. I insist."

Slowly lowering yourself to his side, you sat at a reasonable distance away from him. With the both of you sat down, the size difference was still very noticable. His height made him hunch over you, and one of his thighs was like the two of yours combined.

So nervous, you didn't even notice how his back slumped so you'd be both at a similar level.

He cleared his throat. "What brings you here so late in the night?"

An awkward tug of your t-shirt collar.

"Can't sleep," you stated simply.

"I see." He was quiet for a few moments. Then: "And you decided that my room was the place to go?"

Your face heated up, and you averted your gaze. "Well, sir, it's j-ju—"

"—Nein," he cut you off, holding up a hand to stop you. "I have told you so many times not to call me that. Call me König."

"But— but you're my superior," you gasped, mouth agape. "You deserve to be addressed with respect! I couldn't possibly—"

The protest died on your lips again as the man shook his head, the loose material of his veil following his movements. "Nein. None of that matters. I want you to call me by my first name."

A heavy silence lingered over the two of you, words left unsaid by you both.

"So," König prompted, "what brings you here, King?"

Pausing to think over a pretence, the best you could come up with was: "The storm scared me."

"Ja?" Even with the fabric covering his face, you could almost see the skeptical smirk on his lips.

"A soldier like you afraid of loud clouds? Some rain?" He chuckled.

"Really, I'd have thought you better than that, King." If you didn't know him well enough, you'd have thought he was mocking you, yet despite the sarcasm his eyes held a genuine concern for you.

An bashful laugh escaped you as you rubbed your arm, nails slightly digging into your skin.

"Okay, tell me the truth, King," Leaning forward, his tone became serious. "I know for certain you aren't scared."

He searched for your eyes, yet you avoided his gaze.

"Something is troubling you. Is that it?" He cocked his head to the side, fabric falling loosely over his shoulder. "You can tell me, King. I am your superior, you know. You should tell me these things."

"Well... it's j-just—"

You bit your lip, willing the tears to stay in your eyes.

Don't cry. Don't you dare cry.

König watched you, patiently waiting for you to continue.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, vulnerability showing in your eyes. "—This recent mission, it was— it was really, really difficult. And I just..."

König shuffled towards you until your knees were almost touching, watching you intently. As your body trembled, a hand hovered in uncertainty by your shoulder.

Sniffling, you wiped the wetness on your face with your arm, voice breaking.

"I-I just think that I'm not strong. That I'm... weak. Not— not good enough to be working with people that are so much better. So much stronger—"

Your breath hitched in your throat, voice coming out in a broken sob. "—I-I mean— I'm so pathetic. I shouldn't be so... weak. I should — I should be better. Wh-why—"

Tears flowed freely down your face. "—Why can't I be better, König? Why am I so— so useless?"

Without saying anything, König wrapped his strong arms around your body and pulled you against his chest, pulled you close so you could let it all out. For a few moments, he let you cry, ever-so-gently stroking the back of your head, fingers running through your hair. Weeping into his chest, his steady breathing soothed you.

Once you recovered enough from your emotions, you pulled away, downcast. Face red and blotchy with tears, eyes puffy and pink from crying, lips quivering and voice hoarse, you felt so pathetic. So, so pathetic.

"F-fuck, s-si— König—" Trembling. "I'm so so sorry. I'm too emotional, please, I'm sor—"

"Nein." His tone was soft, yet firm. Definitive. "You have nothing to apologise for, King."

Both hands cupped the sides of your face, tentatively tilting your face upwards. His expression was forlorn, and you felt tears brimming in your eyelids again.

"...You're not weak. You're not pathetic. You're not useless. I see you always trying so hard, King, always giving it your all..."

He paused for a few moments, deliberating over how best to put his thoughts into words. "...Maybe... maybe your best isn't the best out of anyone's bests, but it's the effort that counts." He rubbed the back of his neck, then let out a mono-syllabic laugh. "Scheiße, did that make sense? Sorry— I'm not good with words—"

You glanced away. "—Hey," his hand reached to hold to side of your face. "Look at me, King."

"You're not weak, not pathetic, not useless," he repeated, voice wavering.

"You're none of those. You're better than you think you are. Your inner strength," a finger pointed at your chest, "your heart, it's so full of goodness. So full of so many good things that don't define you, but instead changed you for the better."

"Maybe... maybe you aren't the aren't the best, haven't been the best, or never will be the best, but it's not your fault. You try so hard, and the odds... the odds are stacked against you. And, sometimes... sometimes it's okay to not be the best. You don't have to be fearless, the strongest, perfect. You can just be... you."

His eyes were pleading in the dark. "Please don't doubt yourself. You're so— so much better than you imagine."

A shaky breath. "So much stronger than you tell yourself. I can promise you, you are your own person. Other people's successes don't define you."

König turned around to glance at his alarm. 2:36.

When he turned back, your face had slowly regained the colour on your cheeks, eyes sparkled, chest rose and fall at a steady pace. You said nothing, yet König knew you listened to every one of his words.

"Looks like it's too late for you to fall asleep in your own room," he whispered, gently caressing your face. "Stay here with me, King."

Eyes immediately widening in surprise, you were about to protest. "B-but— I couldn't possibly, König—"

That protest died on your lips as König's arms engulfed you again, and brought you down against his mattress so you were laying on his chest. Cocooned like a protective blanket over you, you didn't need him to say anything more. You felt so... safe. Loved.

The storm outside seemed to calm down, and lightning no longer crashed against the window. Rain faltered, and some clouds were separating in the darkness of the sky.

Before you knew it, your eyelids became heavy with drowsiness, feeling a wave of calm wash over you, cleansing away your sorrows.

Just before you fell asleep, you heard König say something in German, barely above a whisper, but you did not understand:

"Schlaf gut Schatz. Ich liebe dich."

...

I don't know who needed to hear that, or if anyone even did, but I stand by the words I wrote. Although you are reading this, and are likely a stranger, and I'll never face you in real life, I want you to know that you *are* good enough. And if it takes a person on the internet using a fictional character to tell you so, then so be it. You are still valid. 🫂

...

Note: i rhink some of the ppl that read my previous fics will be able to tell that i went tryhard mode on this one 💀💀

Its mostly bc im back in school and were going over all the stupid fancy shmancy literative devices and figurstive language (god why cant u call it literallt anything else i swear why does it have ro be so unnecessarily overcomplicated just call it sentence structures or writing techniques istg.man😭)so i unconsciously chanelled all of thise boring technicalities into this 😬

With me writing as a hobby you'd think I'd have the highest grades in English? No💔I wish LMAO

I NOW HAVE 130+ FOLLOWERS!!! Which is unbelievable if u wsk me bc etf why wre eo mwnt people following me i don't deserve this qt ALL 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 THANK YOU ALL 🥹🥹🥹🫶🫶🫶💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓

I still remember when @puff0o0⭐ began their self-aware au with König and Ghost qnd ive qlways veen cheerint for her from the sidelines ☺️☺️come to find out shes been mentioning ME in THEIR podts and writing on their blofs thwt my CoD blog is good and i.????😭😭😭cant????????😭😭😭😭😭 Literally -99999 damage and an ARROW 🏹 STRAIGHT thru the HEART 💘🥹 I LOVE U B (platonically ofc dw)😽💕💓💓❤️💞💞💕💞💕💞💞💞💕

#aking10592_ ≛彡 #könig #konig #könig cod #konig cod #könig call of duty #konig call of duty #könig mw2 #konig mw2 #könig mwii #konig mwii #könig modern warfare #konig modern warfare #könig x you #konig x you #könig x reader #konig x reader #könig x fem reader #konig x female reader #könig x male reader #konig x male reader #könig x gender neutral reader #könig x gn reader #konig x gn!reader #könig fanfiction #konig fanfiction #cod fanfiction #könig x king

[weird-obsessed-girl]

Harry dealing with abuse trauma/people finding out about Dursley’s treatment

Ok so I didn’t know exactly how to word this particular genre of Harry Potter fanfiction, but I have been reading some fanfics where either the teachers, Sirius or the golden trio find out that Harry has been abused by the Dursley’s and how Harry deals or heals from that trauma. #cupboardreveal

so therefore below is a list of fanfics that deal with this topic, this is pretty obvious but TW for child abuse, some of these I haven’t read yet so i don’t think any of them feature active abuse, more so past abuse.

All of these will be angst but many with a hopeful/happy ending. Organised by word count. If you would like some fic recs that don’t focus on Harrys abuse here’s the link to my master list Harry Potter Fic Rec (mostly Drarry)

How Each Weasley Found Out About The Dursleys - burnthebodiesandbedonewithit

What it says on the tin, Harry/Ginny (very light tho), protective Weasleys | G | 1k

Food For Thought - LoveHP

Snape notices some things throughout the years, have not read yet so IDK | T | 1.2k

Bottle It Up - mallfacee

Disabled Harry, Severitus, hurt/comfort, hiding medical issues, apart of a series | T | 2.1k

Aftermath - CreateImagineWrite

Post-final battle, Harry is dealing with trauma, Ron helps him and finds out, Trigger Warning for food issues and trauma responses | G | 3.1k

Disguised as something else - aloneintherain

Everybody lives, au war ends early, Wolfstar custody of Harry, hurt/comfort, THIS IS SO GOOD #cupboard reveal | T | 3.1k

Muggle Management - LadyWinterlight, NerdyKat

Hermione recognises the signs of abuse, part of a series, Hermione finessing the muggle system | G | 3.4K

Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell - IamShadow21

Not focused on past abuse but is mentioned, Ron and Harry friendship through the years | T | 3.7K

The Cupboard - GreenEyesGreySkies

Drarry, panic attack, harmless prank that turns out to not be so | T | 4K

Bruised Hearts and Painted Skin - mikimouze16

Lupin, McGonagall and Snape find out, therapy, depression | G | 4.4K

Cascade - taradiane

Drarry, post-Hogwarts, Harry has nightmares, discussion about the Dursleys | PG | 4.7k

Claustrophobic- Annie1025

Summer at Spinner’s End, sevitus, 5th year, hurt/comfort, panic attacks | T | 4.8k

Where the Sunbeams Start - zedpm

Sirius/Severus, Soulmate au which leads to Severus getting Sirius freed, then they adopt Harry! T | 7.1k

Locked Cupboards - Lomonaaeren

Redemption, Draco is assigned to guard Dudley, Dudley talks about their childhood | T | 7.2k

Darker Than You Think - Lomonaaeren

Drarry, Draco is very much a psycho, bent on revenge, dubious consent | M (definitely should be E) | 7.8k

Fac Mihi Viam - MistressKat

Canon divergence, Harry stays at Grimmauld Plac, abuse not necessarily discussed but implied, Wolfstar | T | 7.9k

The Uncle - copprbadge

Wolfstar, gangsters au, Remus saves Harry from Dursley’s | T | 7.9k

Tugging Sleeves - Windschild178

Harry isn’t responding to Rons letters, POV Ron, Ron to the rescue | G | 8.1k

Harry Potter And The Summer At Grimmauld Place - Silver_Queen_DoS

What it says on the tin, Sirius is free, home renovation, book 3 | G | 8.6k

Listen - Marchling

Need to sign into Ao3, Sirius spies on Dursleys, hurt/comfort, misunderstandings, reconciliation | T | 10.9k

Finite Incantatem - skullcandy11

Rogue spell hits Harry and reveals some truths, manipulative Dumbledore, Harry joins the dark side | T | 12.3k currently, ongoing

Scars - pheonixgirl26

Some Gryffindor’s see some of Harry’s scar, and decide to help | M | 12.5k

Timeshare - astolat

Honestly i have not read this yet but it looks promising, Harry is spending summer at the Dursleys and then the Malfoy’s | M | 14.1k

Seven Plus One - ABlackRaven

Sirius adopts Harry, 7 times Sirius is called uncle and 1 time he’s called dad, Peter caught, hurt/comfort | T | 15.4K

What’s Left Unsaid - angel74

Post-Order of the Phoenix, Hermione and Ron look into Harry’s life at the Dursley’s, angst, hurt/comfort | T | 16.1k

A Hero - Celebony

Dudley begins to see his family in a different light | T | 18.1k

The Lioness - Aya_Diefair

Molly becomes suspicious of Harry’s relatives, she visits them, BAMF Molly, Sirius is freed | G | 18.3k

That’s Your Punishment? - slytherclaw7

Molly actually asks Harry questions, this is definitely a fix-it fic, Sirius is freed, Peter is caught, Dumbledore bashing, Tonks family taking Harry in | IDK how fanfiction.net ratings work | 19k

Pinky Promise - etymolodrarry, huffinglepuff

Remus is observant, angst with happy ending, Dumbledore bashing, implied self harm, Wolfstar | T | 19.5k

Listen Now - mrsfizzle

Harry confides in Remus, hurt/comfort, Wolfstar adopts Harry, moving into Grimmauld | G | 21.2k

Conquering the Dark - noeon (noe)

Healer!Harry and neuromagic!Draco, both work together, unearths trauma | E | 23.7k

The Chamber of Secrets and Half the Adults are Idiots - Des98

Apart of a series, Drarry, Harry recognises Lucius’ treatment of Draco, fix-it, inter-house friendships | M | 42.8k

The Article - LeeASherlook

outed by the Daily Prophet (not in the gay sense), 6th year, Drarry friendship | T | 43k ongoing

Burnt - lastcrazyhorn

Disabled Harry, Slytherin!Harry, have not read so refer to tags | T | 104.9k

Memories and Dreams - paganaidd

Series, one part Dudley’s POV | T | 140.3k

Malfoy Family Values - belana, Merry1978

This only really mentions Harry’s mistreatment but i thought it is an interesting fic to possibly explore, Malfoys adopt little Harry | G | 141.7k

Stronger At the Broken Places - enigmaticblue

More so focus’ on Sirius’ trauma, but it’s a whole Wolfstar family affair | T | 174.9k

Digging for the Bones - paganaidd

Hogwarts starts screening students for abuse, Snape conducts Harry’s screening, Snape is Harry’s bio dad, Severitus | M | 212.2k

The secret language of plants - Endrina

Severus/Remus, Sev rescues toddler Harry, this is a series of Severus/Remus being Harry’s parents, pre-Hogwarts to post, future Drarry | rating varies | 373k

Innocent - MarauderLover7

Ok so this does not focus on Harry’s abuse but Sirius gets freed and raises Harry when he’s 8 | M | 487.5k

A Year Like None Other - aspeninthesunlight

Disability, slightly Severitus, 6th year, canon divergence, Snape forces Harry to read letter from Dursleys | T | 789.5k

#remus lupin #wolfstar #sirius black x remus lupin #sirius raising harry #severus snape #harry potter fic rec #harry potter fanfiction #Harry Potter #Harry Potter abuse #the dursleys #protective wealseys #drarry #drarry fic rec #bamf molly Weasley #bamf Ron Weasley #dumbledore bashing #severitus #the daily prophet

[whore4george]

Protective

Regina George x Janis Imi'ike

Word Count: 1k

Trigger Warning: bullying

Rating: G

Request:

my liege, i’m requesting regina/janis in an established relationship in their senior year. maybeee someone picks on janis and protective regina comes out!? idk i want all the fluff tho! thanks for writing btw you are awesome

Introduction | hoe4flo | thatfandomslut

After the whole Burn Book exposure, cliques seemed to fizzle out. However, many of those who were popular (such as the previous Plastics) did have some influence around the school. Fortunately, none of the Plastics did anything nasty with this influence like they might have the year prior. Everything had a positive shift, though. For example, Regina reconnected with Janis through Cady, and they hit it off. Over the second semester of their junior year, the two grew very close. Still, it wasn't until that summer that anything happened between the two. They were caught by Gretchen and Cady, who were coming over to drop off something they had borrowed. Imagine their surprise when they witnessed Janis and Regina kissing.

When school started back up again, it was a new era, and Regina was ready for it. She took Janis's hand as they walked into the school, and the world felt different. It was as if they stepped out of a portal and into a new North Shore High from a different universe. Or, multiverse, as Janis explained it having tried to convince Regina to watch Marvel with her. Regina declined the offer. The two were greeted by Cady and Gretchen (who may have been flirting the entire walk to homeroom) and then Karen and Damian who were talking about different summer bops they had listened to over the summer. Everything felt right, and Regina was living for it.

"I'll see you at lunch," Janis kissed Regina's cheek before she, Cady, and Damian walked to their separate homeroom. They had been stuck together again, a new and unbreakable trio. "So, what did you two do over the summer? Anything interesting happened on the days we did not hang out?" They had been together the majority of the summer. Cady had spent a lot of her summer making it up to Janis for the previous school year.

The two were about to respond when the morning announcements interrupted them. then the course of their discussion took a shift to something new. Which was a common occurrence with the three. After their period. Cady had walked Janis to the art room since it was on her way to her next period, dual credit math. She was taking all college dual credit classes since it was paid for by the school and gave her a head start at college. "Hey, art freak," a guy called over to Janis. Janis rolled her eyes at him, but that didn't stop him from making his way over. "Just so you know, you're art sucks and you're going to lose at this year's art show." He commented, flipping her off as he passed by. shouldering her as he did so.

This didn't phase Janis, but it did bother Cady. And after relentless worrisome inquiries, Janis had to calm Cady down and send her to class. Little did she know, Cady had automatically texted Gretchen about the incident. In return, it had made its way to Regina, who was not happy with the name the guy called her, his attitude towards her, or the middle finger he presented.

"Who was he?" Regina questioned as she approached Janis during lunch. She looked confused as she chewed the apple that she was eating. Damian looked between them, eating up whatever was going on. Cady looked sheepish as she sat down, Gretchen following her action. Karen just looked at Regina, oblivious to what was going on. "Who called you an art freak, flipped you off, and then decided to shoulder you when he was leaving? I'm going to give him a piece of my mind."

Janis narrowed her eyes over to Cady, who quickly looked away. Regina ignored this exchange as he stood up straight with her arms crossed. It was an action that told Janis she wasn't getting out of this. "Babe, we're art rivals. I'm really not even sure why he called me an art freak, he is, too. It was probably out of camaraderie or some shit." Regina raised her brows, signifying that she was still waiting for Janis's answer. "It was Ricky Vance," Janis muttered, looking at the table. Regina kissed her cheek before locating the boy in the lunch room.

It wasn't hard to find him since he always sat in the same spot. He was secluded, sketching something in his journal. Regina stepped up to him, causing him to look up in confusion. "You're calling Janis the art freak when you're sitting here alone, sketching, because you can't even make a friend?" Her voice caused everyone to look their way. "Look around, Ricky, no one likes you. You're an asshole who can't even draw very well. I can make a stick figure that looks better than that." Regina stated, causing the entire cafeteria to 'ooo' at her words. Regina took the pencil from his hand, snapping it before making her way back to Janis.

Janis looked over at Regina in awe over what had just happened. "I'm not going to lie. You being protective is very hot." Janis stated, smiling a bit as she pushed over the cheese fries she had grabbed for Regina. "I liked it." Janis kissed her, causing everyone at the table to groan in disgust. They were always flirting like this in front of their friends, who quite frankly, did not want to witness it. Regina and Janis pulled away with a small laugh before Janis took another bite of her apple.

"It's all in a day's work, babe." Regina winked over at Janis, no one protesting the little flirty quips as she ate some of her cheese fries. For the rest of lunch, Regina kept her eyes on Ricky, daring him to look over at them. Janis had a small smirk on her face at this action, allowing their knees to touch as she pretended to not be whipped for her protective girlfriend. But in all honesty, she enjoyed how protective and caring Regina was, and she wouldn't trade that side of Regina for the world.

#regina x janis #janis x regina #cady x gretchen #mean girls 2024 #mean girls

[our-destiny]

Not sure what to title this, but it's dark/yandere Bucky and a hint of pervert!Bucky. The ending is super rushed and as always this is super self indulgent and not well written <3 readers gender is not specified

Trigger warnings: Stalking, violence (not towards reader), killing, male masturbation, Buckys filthy thoughts, stealing, mention of reader masturbating, implied noncon at the end - if I missed anything please let me know

I am not responsible for the media you consume, read the warnings, minors dni

Want to read more of my work? Check out my Masterlist

Word count: 1378

. ☪︎* ☁︎. . * ✰ .· ☁︎ . *  ✯. ☪︎* ☁︎. . * ✰ .· ☁︎ .

Bucky, who's still getting used to the new world, the Winter Soldier progamming not quite gone yet, lost in this unfamiliar world until he meets you. He doesn't really understand social norms, so when he feels a need to protect you and be around you, he does just that.

He follows you around, not really trying to hide it, and stares at you openly from across the room.

He convinced Tony to put your room next to his (or changed rooms so he could be next to you idk) so he could always listen to you and make sure you're okay. He learns your schedule and follows it, always trailing behind you like your shadow.

In the morning he would let himself into your room. If you were still asleep he would sit and watch you, when you awoke and asked what the hell he was doing, he would just stare, saying nothing. After the first few times this happened you started locking your door at night, which did nothing because he would just break the lock. Though he stopped after Steve told him off for it, so now he just stands outside your door waiting for you. He'd wait for you to get ready before following walking with you to breakfast. When you sit down to eat he makes sure he's sitting next to you, kicking someone out of their seat if need be, and also makes sure no one else is sitting on the other side of you. When eating he still stares at you, only ever glancing away, almost as if you would disappear at any moment. He follows you around the rest of the day, joining you in the gym, following you when you go out to eat. He's always there, always watching.

When you go to your room, he leaves you be. Steve told him that you needed some privacy and alone time, so when you shut the door in his face he goes to his room next door. He's not too worried about you getting hurt since he can hear everything you're doing in there. If someone were to come over to your room, he would first lean against his door, listening to your conversation with them, holding his trusty gun ready to attack if they tried to hurt you. When they left he would calm down and open his door to check up on you, once he knows you're okay he'll go back into his room. However if you were to invite them into your room, he wouldn't allow that, immediately storming out of his room and into yours, ready to tell the other person to get the fuck out. You see he doesn't like leaving you alone, let alone leaving you alone with another person, he has to be next to you or at least have you in his sight. You can convince him to let them stay, as long as you also let him stay in your room to watch over you, but if you don't say anything he will demand they leave and will make it physical if he has to.

He doesn't like it when other people touch you or gets too close to you. After so long with Hydra he doesn't understand that touches can be friendly, anytime someone touches you he thinks they're out to hurt you. If anyone tries to touch you Bucky will stand between you two and glare at them until they either leave or back off. If someone does put their hand on you, even if it's just a friendly pat on the back, he'll almost break their wrist while getting them off of you.

Bucky does give you some personal space depending on where you are. If you're in a room that's not very crowded then he'll be further away, but if you're at a party or something else where there's a lot of people, he'll stand really close to you. Your back will be pressed against his chest and you can feel him breathing down your neck, you might as well be sitting in his lap because he's so close.

He doesn't talk much, either. Or at all actually. If he does speak it's probably to tell someone to go away or stop touching you. But he likes listening to you. Anything you say to him, or just say in general, he'll remember even if it seems like he's not listening.

He almost thinks of you as his handler. Like you own him or control him, or like he has some sort of duty to protect you and follow your commands. If you mention that someone was annoying you today, that night while you're sleeping he'll go and kill them for you. Bucky won't follow out every command you give him, there's stuff he won't budge on when it comes to your safety. Such as he won't stop following you, and he won't let anyone touch you. You could trick him to leave you alone if you tell him to wait somewhere and then make a run for it, but after a few minutes he'll start to worry that you're in danger and go find you. And he will find you, he's trained to track people down so you won't be away from him for long. Your safety comes above everything for him, including your word, so he won't let people touch you. No matter what you say. If someone tries to touch you, you can talk him out of hurting them or killing them, by just telling him to leave it be but he still won't let them lay a hand on you.

He's not completely honest with you. There's some stuff you don't know about, like how he kills anyone he deems a threat, and how he comes into your room at night, picks the lock if he has to, just to watch you sleep, and hear you breathe. There's something about how peaceful you look, how unaware you are when you sleep that he can't get enough of. Maybe it's just that he likes seeing you safe and comfortable, maybe he just likes the idea of him having your life in his hands, the choice of whether to be your protector or your abuser. Maybe he's just happy that he found a reason to live now, a person to take care of. Either way he sits and watches you sleep, like a loyal guard dog.

You also don't know how much of a pervert Bucky is. How he lets himself into your room when you're not there, lays on your bed, getting lost in your scent. He can't help but touch himself, to grind against the mattress imagining it was you underneath him, you he was thrusting his cock into, cuming on your sheets leaving a sticky residue. He pokes around and steals a few things to add to his collection, finding your underwear drawer and jerking off again with a pair pressed against his nose before stealing a few to use later. He's so horny for you whenever he's alone he can't stop thinking about your body, he cums at least five times a day now because of you. When he wakes up he immediately rubs one out, in the shower, when he goes to bed, anytime he's alone. Remember how I said he can hear everything you do when you're in your room? He can hear you masturbate, and touches himself to the sound of you, talking to you as if you could hear him. It takes all of his will power not to just take you whenever he pleases, he thinks about it though. When he watches you while you're asleep he thinks about just having a little taste, wondering if you'd wake up if he were to slip his cock into you. When you're in the gym he thinks about pulling down your workout pants and fucking you, doesn't matter if anyone else is there. When you eat breakfast he imagines fucking your face. He's just so horny for you.

Eventually he snaps, kidnapping you and locking you away in a cabin far into the woods, finally able to act out all of his desires and keep you safe by his side <3

. ☪︎* ☁︎. . * ✰ .· ☁︎ . *  ✯. ☪︎* ☁︎. . * ✰ .· ☁︎ .

Reblog to give me motivation to write more shit <33

#dark bucky barnes #yandere bucky x reader #yandere bucky barnes #yandere bucky #bucky barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky imagine #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #dark!bucky barnes x reader #dark bucky x you #yandere marvel #yandere mcu #dark marvel #dark mcu #bucky smut #yandere!bucky

[sherifftillman]

Happy to Help

Pairing: Keys x f!Reader Genre: smut (18+, minors DNI) Word count: 3.7k Summary: Forgetting you'd spoken to customer support from your favourite game leads to something getting sent to the wrong person. A/N: Listen, I know there's a set-up for potentially more. I would like to write potentially more. But nothing puts a writer off more than demands for a part 2, okay? For now, enjoy my first ever Keys fic. :)

Welcome to Free City Customer Support. We appreciate your patience. Connecting you to a member of our team…

Keys: Hi there! What seems to be the problem today?

You: hi, my screen is like. frozen dead. can't do anything, can't click anything. can't alt-tab out, can't ctrl-alt-delete. but i made a lot of progress between save points and idk if it can still be salvaged

Keys: Oof, yeah, that's the worst. Hopefully we can get you back up and running. Real quick, are you sure it's not your internet? I mean, you seem like you know your way around a computer, just worth double-checking, if it's your network then there's not a lot I can do.

You: yeah, sorry, should have added that. everything else that connects to my internet is working. i have an error message if that helps?

Keys: Yes! That's amazing! Can you send me it, please?

You: it says "error 72816: attempting patch repair"

You: there was a spinning buffering wheel in the corner but it gave up the ghost about twenty minutes ago.

Keys: Interesting. I don't remember making that error message, let alone what would trigger it. Are you sure that's what it says? No typos?

You: you wound me.

You: jk jk sorry this is a Very Professional Customer Support Exchange. no, definitely no typos.

Keys: Hahaha, don't worry, I've read far worse messages from people today, that made me laugh!

Keys: This is a little unorthodox but I'm wracking my brain here and I can't think of another solution. If I give you my work phone number, would you text me a photo of your screen?

Keys: Usually, I'd ask for an email of a screenshot, but, well…

You: yeah sure, whatever gets me out of this purgatory.

Keys: Super appreciate your patience here. My number is: 

Keys: [redacted]

Keys: Okay, got it, deleted the message with my number so it won't show up in chat history, in case you're wondering. Data protection and all.

You: the professional techie guy with the techie-ass nickname being cautious about cyber security? groundbreaking.

Keys: Haha! You got me there!

Keys: Oh! Wait! Are you registered as a beta tester?

You: no?? i didn't know that was a thing??

Keys: Yeah, all ours are internal and I don't recognise your username in our database, now that I've pulled it up. I think you must have just slipped through the cracks, let me look into the code of our new test area and see if I can boot you back out.

You: ooh, are you gonna come bursting in through my door with a swat team to erase my memory, too?

Keys: I'm just a "professional techie guy" here, not a Man In Black, haha. 

Keys: Hey, I see you!

Keys: In this code, I mean.

Keys: It's showing up that there's an unauthorized player.

Keys: That's what I meant.

You: well yeah, didn't think you were in my walls or anything

Keys: Just making sure! Didn't want you really thinking I was stalking you or anything.

Keys: Still don't remember making that error message, but that's another mystery, I guess.

You: ooh, maybe the game's becoming sentient and it's outgrowing us all!

Keys: There's that imagination again!

Keys: I'm gonna reset your position to your safehouse, hopefully also keeping your progress intact? If this doesn't work then a hard reboot is unfortunately the only other way.

You: you're a doll.

You: AHHHH IT WORKED I'M BACK AND I STILL GOT A SICK ASS BIKE WAITING FOR ME IN MY GARAGE

You: THANK YOU SO MUCH AHHHHHH

Keys: Pleasure's all mine, glad I could help. Please reach out if it happens again! Or if you have any other issues!

You: will do. so long, techie guy. thanks for everything!

Keys: Happy playing!

— — — —

It's been a relatively quiet Friday evening for you. Nobody's made any plans to go out, and you're unsure yourself whether you have the energy to. You've pretty much spent your whole day gaming, so you should probably fill your social battery a little, but do you really want to go to a bar by yourself?

You glance over at your phone and smirk at it. There is that guy you've been talking to… Maybe you'll send him something to spice the night up.

Once you've done your hair and make-up to add to the whole look, you find your cutest set of underwear, put it on and take a couple of selfies until there's one you're especially pleased with. Your muscle memory has you tapping three message contacts down, where he always is since you've been texting friends all day, and sending the photo on autopilot with the message: Hey, you.

You giggle with delight when your phone chimes almost immediately after - you've really got this guy whipped, huh - but are surprised to see you've apparently forgotten who else you texted today.

[8:23pm] Keys: OH

[8:23pm] Keys: OH NO

[8:23pm] Keys: I think

[8:23pm] Keys: You've sent this

[8:24pm] Keys: To the wrong person

[8:24pm] Keys: I'm so sorry I saw that!

[8:25pm] You: that's okay, i don't mind that you saw it. :)

[8:25pm] You: besides, burning the midnight oil, still being at your work phone?! don't they have out of hours customer service?

[8:29pm] Keys: I… Might have lied about this being my work phone. I normally have one, but it's getting fixed so I thought I would get away with saying it was a work line to help you out.

[8:30pm] You: and then i went and accidentally sent you an unsolicited lewd. sorry.

[8:36pm] Keys: It was just a shock, is all!

[8:38pm] You: well, since we're both here, and since you haven't deleted the photo yet despite how quickly you deleted your number from the chat log earlier, *and* how long it's taking you to reply, what do you think?

[8:40pm] Keys: Oh god, you're so right, I'm so sorry, I'll delete it now.

[8:40pm] You: don't!

[8:40pm] You: like i said, i want your feedback on it now.

[8:41pm] Keys: Oh! Well, it's very nice.

[8:41pm] You: nice?! ouuuuch.

[8:42pm] Keys: What do you mean? Nice is a compliment!

[8:43pm] You: yeah, from your grandma when you've given her a birthday card. c'mon, i can take it. tell me what you REALLY think. :)

[8:50pm] Keys: I… I think you're very attractive.

[8:51pm] You: there you go! it's super adorable that you're stammering over text, btw.

[9:01pm] Keys: [image attached]

[9:01pm] Keys: It felt weirdly unbalanced that you at least didn't know what I looked like, too.

[9:02pm] You: well damn, no wonder they call you keys, because you are just my *type!*

[9:02pm] You: get it?

[9:03pm] Keys: …That was cheesy as hell.

[9:03pm] Keys: But I like cheese :]

[9:03pm] You: oh yeah? give me your cheesiest pick-up line 

[9:13pm] Keys: Are you made of copper and tellurium? Because you're CuTe!

[9:13pm] You: i award that 🧀🧀🧀/5. you could be cheesier.

[9:19pm] Keys: Okay, fine.

[9:20pm] Keys: Are you Google? Because you have everything I'm searching for.

[9:22pm] You: 🧀🧀🧀🧀. are YOU google because i'm feeling lucky. ultimate cheese has no comeback. c'mon, you're so close.

[9:26pm] Keys: Oof, okay, give me a sec.

[9:28pm] Keys: Although really you should never use Google if you can help it, they already datamine so much information out of you that the less you use any Google product, the safer you are. I use DuckDuckGo myself, but you should really do your own research when it comes to cybersecurity rather than just blindly trust someone, even if they are a professional.

[9:28pm] You: keys.

[9:29pm] Keys: Right. Sorry.

[9:38pm] Keys: If you were a grade, you'd be A+, because I want to take you home and show you to my parents.

[9:39pm] You: okay, that wins. maximum cheese for keys 🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀

[9:39pm] You: next ranking category: 🌶️ 

[9:39pm] You: let's see what you got, hot stuff

[9:45pm] Keys: What?! I can't just send you stuff like that! That's so forward!

[9:46pm] You: keys you've seen my tits

[9:46pm] You: i think we're past that

[9:55pm] Keys: Accidentally!

[9:55pm] You: and all the time you spend scrolling back up to it is "accidental", too?

[9:56pm] Keys: …How could you tell?

[9:57pm] You: every now and then you take a little bit longer between messages. just assuming you're scrolling up lol

[9:56pm] You: like i keep saying. i don't mind at all. you don't have to be shy around me

[9:58pm] Keys: Well, since all my cards are apparently on the table so obviously…

[9:58pm] Keys: Do you work at Subway? Because you just gave me a foot-long.

[9:59pm] You: ????? talk about 0-60! also i think that deserves negative 🌶️ for the psychic damage it caused me to read

[10:00pm] Keys: You just turned my software into hardware.

[10:00pm] You: what happened to "that's so forward", eh?

[10:01pm] You: but, credit where it's due, 🌶️🌶️. normally a 🌶️ but from you it's like a 2.5/5

[10:01pm] Keys: Your outfit would look great on my bedroom floor.

[10:01pm] You: oh

[10:02pm] You: oh my god

[10:02pm] You: oh you sweet boy, you're googling them, aren't you

[10:02pm] You: or whatever you use instead

[10:04pm] Keys: Some of us need the extra help! We're not all as smooth as you.

[10:04pm] You: sure you are, baby, you just need to get comfortable

[10:05pm] Keys: But I'm already on my bed!

[10:05pm] You: not just in that way! try taking something off

[10:06pm] You: and then send me proof 😇

[10:11pm] Keys: [image attached]

[10:11pm] Keys: ;]

[10:12pm] You: taking off your glasses doesn't count, dork!

[10:12pm] Keys: [image attached]

[10:12pm] Keys: like this?

[10:13pm] You: holy fuck

[10:13pm] You: hi you're hot

[10:14pm] Keys: Hahaha, thank you? I still don't feel any more charismatic, though!

[10:15pm] You: well, going back to your line about being like a good grade you wanna take home… does that maybe mean you also want to pin me up on the fridge?

[10:18pm] Keys: Well, the fridge isn't very sturdy. I think I'd rather do that against the wall.

[10:18pm] You: okay now *that’s* hot

[10:18pm] You: and what would you do with me once you'd pinned me to the wall? 

[10:24pm] Keys: I'm not very good at all of the imaginative talk stuff that sounds sexy. Even using the word seems like the total opposite of what I'm trying to do.

[10:25pm] You: not at all, sometimes bluntness is the sexiest thing of all.

[10:29pm] Keys: Well, I'd really like to kiss you. All over, actually. 

[10:29pm] You: *all* over?

[10:31pm] Keys: Yeah. The way you were posing made your neck look amazing.

[10:32pm] Keys: Oh god, now I sound like a vampire

[10:34pm] You: i promise you don't, that was my intention when i took it lol. besides, vampires are sexy as hell. i'd love it if you kissed my neck

[10:34pm] You: would you touch me?

[10:35pm] Keys: Wouldn't I be holding you against the wall?

[10:36pm] You: true, but there's other ways. like, you could put your leg between mine to keep me in place

[10:37pm] You: mmm, and then i could grind against your thigh while you keep this little promise of kissing and touching me *all over*

[10:37pm] You: does that sound good?

[10:41pm] Keys: Oh god yes

[10:43pm] You: and then that leaves my hands free to touch you, too. i wanna play connect the dots with those cute little moles of yours

[10:47pm] Keys: Oh my god

[10:48pm] Keys: that made me want to trace them myself for some reason and that felt so good

[10:49pm] You: you're touching yourself AND not paying attention to grammar anymore? for lil ol' me?

[10:49pm] You: that deserves a reward, i think 

[10:51pm] You: [image attached]

[10:51pm] You: i seem to have lost my bra, come over and help me find it?

[10:58pm] Keys: holy shit 

[10:58pm] Keys: can i just say what i'm thinking and then you can tell me if i'm going to far 

[10:59pm] You: i think you mean *too, nerd boy, but yes, i'd love that

[11:06pm] Keys: sorry typing is getting difficult at the moment

[11:11pm] Keys: i want to hold them so bad. they look amazing, especially with your nipples so hard

[11:11pm] You: when you say typing is difficult, are you touching yourself right now?

[11:12pm] You: because now i'm playing with my nipples and wishing it was you

[11:13pm] You: tell me, baby. you want me to rub them? squeeze them? you wanna come over and suck on them?

[11:17pm] Keys: i want to feel them get hard. want to touch them while i kiss you

[11:17pm] You: attaboy! i knew you had it in you

[11:19pm] You: they're so sensitive now. and humping my pillow as if it’s your leg isn't enough, can i touch myself for you, please?

[11:23pm] Keys: oh god yes please do

[11:23pm] You: are you okay to call? i have a feeling both of us are getting preoccupied now

Your phone lights up with the name "Keys Freecity" and you immediately put it on speaker, letting the phone rest on your pillow next to you. "Well, hey there."

"Uh, hi." His voice is shaking and his breath is hitching.

"You know, you never told me if you were touching yourself or not," you point out.

"I - I am," he stammers out, and you purr back.

"God, I wish I was there to do that for you. Or at least to watch. I bet you look so fucking good right now. What are you thinking about, then, huh?"

"I was, uh… Thinking, about… The way you look up in those photos… And…" He falters out, but you hear the faintest groan, still.

"Aw, you want me to suck you off, baby?" You tease. "Thinking about me looking up at you? My lips wrapped around your cock? Mmm, I bet it's so big I can barely fit, huh?"

"I… I mean, it's not the sandwich I promised earlier, but… It's definitely bigger than… Average," Keys explains, and you don't hold back on the moan that hearing that news elicits from you.

You still laugh softly at his joke. "Yeah, I could tell, baby. Fuck, when are you coming over and splitting me in half already?"

"God, I wish I could," he replies in a strained voice. “Also, it’s really - hot when y- you call me that.”

"Yeah? And how do you like it, baby? You wanna fuck me on my back, so you can keep watching me as you play with me? Or you wanna be the one to lay there and take it while I bounce on your dick? Or d- do you wanna just - bend me over and - fuck me senseless, huh?" As you finally give into temptation, sliding your hand beneath your panties and finally giving your clit the attention it's been craving for far too long, your breath hitches and your voice gets weaker.

“Oh, god, I… All of it, god, please, I don’t care, just want you,” he groans through the phone.

“I want you too, baby, you sound so good,” you croon sultrily, rubbing yourself in faster, tighter circles. “Are you close, hm? Gonna cum for me? I wanna hear you get off so bad.”

“Wanna - wanna get off for yo- with you, want you, please,” he whines.

“Mmm, tell me one more time, baby. What are you thinking of now?” You ask as you sink a finger inside of you. “Thinking of fucking me, yet?”

“Mm - mm-hm,” Keys whimpers. “You - You on top of me, talking like that and - and riding me, treating my cock so good.”

“I’d treat you so good, baby," you groan, adding another finger. "And you'd fill me up, wouldn't you? Fuck me - oh, right there," you whine as you curl your fingers to hit just the right spot. "Oh god, Keys, need you inside me."

Something about you saying his name short-circuits his brain. You just about hear his strained string of moans and profanities through the phone, picturing in your head how that sweet face of his must look - eyes glassing over, lips slightly parted, chest heaving. Maybe you’d fuck him with his glasses on. Maybe they’d be clouded over, knocked askew on his face as you bounced up and down on his dick. “Did you just come for me, baby?” you coo, your shoulders tensing and toes curling as you feel your own release building.

"Mm-hm, yeah, made - made a real mess of myself, shit," he half-laughs with exhaustion.

“That’s my good boy,” you smile dazedly, your core convulsing around your fingers. "Want me to cum for you, too?"

"Oh, shit, you haven- where are my - God, fuck, yes, let me hear you s… Say my name," his voice shakes with the effort he's trying to exude confidence into his tone, betrayed by the immediate, "please," that rolls off his tongue.

Closing your eyes, imagining that look on his face again, pressing your phone flush against your ear as if it pulls him closer to you, you finally leg out an, "Oh, god, Keys!" before finally feeling yourself gush down your fingers, past your hand, even. Breathing heavily, you pant, "Shit, baby, I think you made me squirt."

"Is that a good thing?" he asks meekly.

"Very. You doing good, now?"

"Very!" He repeats back to you, breathlessly, making you laugh. "Sorry I was so… Pathetic, I guess. God," his voice muffles as though he's rubbing his face while he talks. "But it did sound like you were into it a little," he points out with a lilt in his voice.

You grin, "I sure did, but if you wanted to do it again, but more… Confidently, I'd be more than happy to do that again. If you wanted."

"I've never really done… Any of that before, like, at all," he starts, and you interrupt him with a laugh.

"Yeah, no shit, Mr Subway!"

"Ah, like I said, that's not entirely untrue," he laughs awkwardly. "But I've especially never done anything with a total stranger, much less someone I helped through work, um, they can't - you wo- please, don't -"

"You mean this isn't standard practice for Free City customer support?" You tease sarcastically, before adding in a serious tone, "I won't tell a soul. Besides, I like having you as my dirty little secret."

He chuckles, "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. Maybe the next time you're feeling up to it, we can video call."

"N-Next time?!"

You hurriedly add, "If you wanted, you sounded like you did, if this is the first and last, that's totally -"

"No! I mean, yeah! I mean… If that's… Cool," he stammers.

You smile, "It's very cool. Just gotta be a little more confident. Isn't there something you do when you need that extra boost? Like, surely in the game you gotta be a little more self-assured around trolls and hackers and shit, right?"

He groans, "I was hoping you wouldn't ask about that."

Grinning wickedly, you poke further. "Well, now I have to know. Who are you in the game? Have I ever seen you?"

"I… I play a cop," he admits, sounding as though he'd rather the ground swallowed him whole. "It's usually me and my buddy, and he's - he's a rabbit."

You light up. "Shut the fuck up, you're Dirty Stripper Cop?!"

"Oh god, the players call me that, too?! It's bad enough that Mouser does," he groans in despair.

"No, this is perfect. You just let me know when you’re ready to bring… Dirty Stripper Cop to our little talks, and I’ll be waiting,” you bite back a laugh as you repeat his character’s nickname in the hopes that he’ll still take your offer seriously.

A moment of silence exists between the two of you before he pipes up, “...And what if I still want to talk to you, without… All of this? I mean, if that’s all you want, then I guess, but… I dunno, you still seem really cool, and you made me laugh today, even at work when it felt weird in my cheeks to start smiling. But if this is all you want with -”

The rest of his words get drowned out as you move your phone away from its position to look at your dating app notifications. Keys has apparently not been your only option tonight. And you’ve never been one to commit. But something tells you that this was the best offer you’re getting. And the next one will be. As will the one after that, and that’s not even set in stone, yet. But you’re hoping to guarantee it.

As you return your headset to your ear, he’s still rambling. You cut him off with a simple, “Keys.” He shuts up quickly, and you continue, “I - I meant it. I wanna talk to you again. Maybe more than just this, I dunno, I’m bad at this sorta stuff. But… You’re cute. In more ways than one. And if you wanna keep talking, I’ll try. But that’s all I can promise.”

“That’s enough for me! I’ll, um, I’ll text you in the morning, then? Or is that too soon?”

“I honestly wish I could tell you,” you admit sadly. You hope it gets through to him that your reservations aren’t on his part.

Thankfully for you, he doesn’t seem so keen to give up. “Alright! Well, I suppose I got some cleaning up to do before I get some shut-eye. Um, so I’ll talk to you, tomorrow… At some point. Um, goodnight!”

“Goodnight, baby.”

#keys x reader #keys x you #keys imagine #walter keys mckey x reader #walter keys mckey x you #walter keys mckey imagine #keys free guy x reader #keys free guy x you #keys free guy imagine #*myfics #fic: keys

[idolatrybarbie]

odd couple

pairing: established francisco "frankie" morales x reader

word count: 2.5k

rating & summary: explicit, mdni! | frankie can't cook, to put it lightly.

tags: no trigger warnings needed for this one, porn with (little) plot, rated e like woah, frankie needs a win, very unedited as of initial posting, stubborn!frankie, premature ejaculation, handjobs, cumplay, overstimulation, sub!frankie moments, multiple orgasms, spit kink/drooling, #petnames4frankie, praise kink, slight dacryphilia, reader calls frankie "wet" in this idk that might not be your thing i guess. look man it's been a hard week.

notes: it's not wednesday and i am struggling a lil' bit (might make a personal life update soon idk ?) but i am being such a brave little toaster about it! writing this definitely made me feel better. when it comes to music, this weezer song is a little generic within their discography but whatever, i like it. hope you enjoy! also everyone go read @wannab-urs sub!max phillips fic because i say so and it's awesome.

You listen to Frankie move around the kitchen from your spot on the couch, trying your very best to ignore the occasional clang and clattering noise that flows out from the distant doorway. Tonight, he has taken on the task of making the two of you dinner. Or trying to, anyway. You don’t cook much either. Your job, like his, doesn’t lend much time to it. Takeout is more than often what’s on the menu—Burger King, of all things, is his favourite.

You know how to cook though. Every once in a while you have the spare time to whip together something truly delicious; slow-roasted pork belly, or maybe a nice pasta with garnish. Frankie doesn’t seem to know his ass from the oven.

The two of you have had this conversation hundreds of times. You stating that he can’t cook, and him pushing back, insisting that he can. Or he could, before the service stuck him with single meal MREs for a number of years and he lost most of the culinary knowledge given to him by various tías, his abuela, and of course Mrs. Morales herself.

His stubbornness spurs the occasional urge to throttle him. It’s fine you can’t cook, you always tell him. Not like he can’t still learn. Still, he insists, and insists on insisting on top of that.

Honestly, you couldn’t be more of opposites. Even excluding skills of domestic labour, he and you are a bit of an odd couple. Frankie’s an early mornings guy, always, while you enjoy a sleepy Sunday—or just about any day that ends in Y. He hates the horror movies you fawn over, while you can’t stand the nature documentaries and sappy celebrity biopics that he eats up year over year. Frankie is highly detail-oriented, the engineer instinct in him always angling towards rigid preparedness; you’re a bit more goal-focused, letting any plan morph and adjust according to the situation.

Another such cooking conversation had taken place on the drive home after declining Frankie’s offer of McDonald’s for the fourth night this week, and now here you are: listening to the man curse under his breath, muttering complaints from the kitchen as he tries his hand at homemade spaghetti.

The kitchen is silent for a moment. You go back to channel surfing, clicking past reruns of Golden Girls and M*A*S*H*. Stopping at a channel playing the cinematic masterpiece Grease 2, you focus your attention on the open doorway behind you again. It feels almost too quiet…

A string of hushed, panicked curses from Frankie confirms your suspicions. Getting off the couch, you use the soft overhead light to guide you through the dark apartment. Frankie is standing over the stove when you see him, quickly moving away and towards the sink. Water splashes into it, surely scalding as steam rises into the air. Or maybe that’s coming from his ears?

You clear your throat in the kitchen doorway, and Frankie turns to you. His face is slightly red, a silver pot held in his grip by the towel-covered handle.

“Is everything okay?” You already know the answer to that question—aggravation rolls off of him in waves, permeating the space between the two of you like a mirage in the Mojave Desert.

Frankie opens his mouth to respond, but the words never come. He does this a few times, wracking his brain for the proper way to put it as he parts and pleats his lips, living up to his call sign.

Eventually, he settles on, “No.”

He heaves a deep sigh, tossing the pot onto the counter. Getting a closer look at it, you see the charred spaghetti noodles stuck to the shiny bottom.

“Don’t, okay?” Frankie says before you look up again.

“What?”

“I know what you’re gonna say. I told you so, blah blah blah. I know. You’re right. I can’t fuckin’ cook.” The words are rushed, like he’s half-embarrassed to even say it.

You frown, reaching an open palm out to him as you shake your head. “That’s not what I was going to say.” You motion for him to come closer and he does, slipping into your arms as you hug at his tense shoulders. “It’s okay. You can take a class, or we can work on it together. I think that’d be kind of fun,” you say.

Picturing making something with Frankie—maybe bowties and broccoli, something simple—has you smiling into his shoulder. For his birthday last year you made red velvet cupcakes with sour cream frosting. The recipe is a little more complicated, but baking them with him this time is a pleasant idea. You already know he’s the type of person to lick the batter off the beater.

“I don’t want to do that to you,” he says.

You pull back from the hug to look at him, those big brown eyes of his crinkled at the far edges. “You’re not doing anything to me,” you say. “At least, not right now.”

A small smile comes to his face then, creeping and dopey before Frankie gives you a soft kiss at the tip of your nose.

“They should really give you a Netflix special or something,” he says.

“Thank you, thank you. I’ll be here all night,” you muse.

Still in your arms, Frankie glances over at the pot of blackened, noodle-shaped mush. “What are we gonna do for dinner?”

Right now, he’s in the closest proximity to you that he’s been all week. At least, while you’ve both been conscious. Work has you staying later and later at the office these days, while his shifts handling flight operations have him drained, in bed and fast asleep well before you even get home. Tonight is special even if it hasn’t gone the way either of you planned.

You hum, dipping your head to nose at the patchy beard along his jaw. “I’m thinking we skip dinner.”

“Come on, seriously,” Frankie says.

“I am serious.” Leaving a wet kiss on his cheek, you whisper, “Don’t you want your dessert, Francisco?”

A hum rumbles low in his chest. “Of course, but—”

“But nothing.” You move your left hand to cradle the side of his face, his skin smooth under your touch. He leans into its warmth. “I’m hungry.”

You know that he is too. At your words, Frankie practically jumps you, a kiss pressed to your lips hard before your brain can catch up with what’s happening. He holds you in his arms tight, like if he loosens his grip even a bit, you’ll float away. The pair of you move out of the kitchen and back into the living room, the horrible 80’s movie still dancing across the pixels of the TV.

Frankie falls onto his back, bouncing against the couch cushions. The remote is underneath him, the mute button conveniently hit upon his landing. The cheesy show tunes cut out immediately. You move to straddle him as he lays horizontal. Frankie cranes his neck a bit to watch you as you settle over the crotch of his sweatpants. He’s half hard under the fabric already.

Frankie pulls you down into another bruising kiss. You hunch over to meet his lips, his hands circling around your waist. You’ve decided to take the Frankie approach to tonight’s activities; cool and calculated in your plans and decisions on how this is going to go. Grinding your hips down, you watch his face carefully. He huffs out a breath, soft and peppery like the cinnamon gum he keeps in his car.

You reach between your bodies to feel him in his pants. Frankie kisses at your face, quick and sporadic as you palm at him. He moves to lift your shirt off your body and you let him, raising your arms to help him. He tosses the thing to the floor and lets his hands rove over your skin. Continuing your ministrations, you slip your hand beneath the elastic waistband of the grey sweats. Frankie has no underwear on, a pleasant surprise.

“Fuck,” he groans, nosing at your neck.

“What’s wrong, honey bun? Doesn’t that feel good?” you ask, slowly pulling your hand away.

“Yes, please. Do it again?” His voice strains deliciously, the muscles in his arms held taut.

Frankie relaxes only slightly when you return your palm to where he’s hot and achy, cock wet at the tip. You run your thumb along the head of his dick as he pushes his hips up into your touch. You slide the pad of your finger along his shaft, spreading the dampness.

“Aw baby, you’re already a little wet. Isn’t that sweet?”

You start to stroke him in earnest, the tight circle of your hand moving up and down his cock. The movement is a little dry, your skin dragging against the sensitive velvet of him. You push his shirt up his belly, pulling his pants to his knees easily. Then you spit into your palm, jerking him off easier this time.

“Fuck baby. Just like that,” Frankie pants. He’s moving his hips with your hand now, fucking up into it on every down stroke. With your free hand, you prod at the small dip at his hip, feeling the muscle tense beneath the skin.

“Bet you feel so good, baby. Nice and easy for me,” you coo.

“Don’t stop,” he whispers.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, honey.”

You twist your hand at the end of every movement upwards, fingers rubbing over Frankie’s tip as he leaks steadily onto himself. The glide is easy now, lubed with your saliva and his precum. The squelch makes your mouth water as you watch his cock disappear and reappear in the shadow of your fingers.

He puts one of his hands over yours, urging you to go faster. Your hands move together over Frankie’s dick, picking up the pace as the sticky noise turns into a slap with every thrust of his hips.

Frankie breaks pace, stuttering on a caught breath before he spills over your hand and onto his belly. You pause to watch his chest tense and then loosen, his eyes shut tight as he comes down. Raising your hand to your lips, you lick a bit of his cum from the edge of your fingers. It’s the first thing Frankie sees when he opens his eyes again, making him groan. The noise sounds almost painful.

“That was—”

“Amazing?” you supply.

Frankie wheezes a laugh. “Something like that.”

“What about a second helping?”

He furrows his brow, then looks down at his dick. It lays limp and spent on his stomach. “I don’t—”

“Please,” you implore oh-so-sweetly. Frankie sees big eyes batting at him, a twinkle of adoration. The intent behind it is a little more Kubrick, but he doesn’t know that yet.

He can’t say no to you, doesn’t want to anyway. Frankie nods, mumbling a yes at you. His cock twitches with interest when you drag a finger through the pool of cum on his belly and pop it in your mouth. You smile at Frankie as you take him in your hand, strokes slow as he hardens again.

Leaning into his body, you flick your tongue against the shell of his ear. “So, so wet honey. This all for me?”

“Yeah, shit—I can’t,” he mumbles.

“But it feels so good,” you say. “Wish you could see your cute little face. I love seeing you like this.”

Frankie’s face waivers between tightly wound and relaxed in pleasure. You’re using his own cum as lube now, hand practically sloshing across his cock. He tries to keep his eyes open, watching your movements as you sit patiently in his lap, jerking him off.

Your underwear is ruined, the cotton soaked through as you discreetly rock yourself against the rough seam of your pants. You’ll take care of yourself later. Right now, all of your attention is on Frankie. This reward is his punishment. It’s the slightest bit petty, but you can’t let his stubborn behaviour go quite yet. You aren’t an I told you so type of person, but this? This is perfect.

You stroke at him on autopilot, watching the middle distance between the fine thatch of hair at Frankie’s pelvis and his skin coated milky white. He comes with a flinch before you even realize, still moving as he hisses. He’s still hard when he’s done, solid under your touch, so you continue.

“You’re doing so good for me,” you say softly.

“Oh god,” he whines, eyes rolling back.

“Does it hurt baby?”

Frankie doesn’t speak, can’t, nodding frantically up at you.

“You want me to stop? All you have to do is tell me.”

He doesn’t—not with words or the shake of his head. He likes this, and both of you know it. Frankie gets off on the pain, a pleasure so hot that it burns; water blazing to the point that the sensation runs cold, delicate skin held close over a candle flame.

Frankie starts to squirm. You hold him down by the shoulder with your free hand, fingers spread over his overheated skin with a firm press. His whole body is sweaty, soaking a runway down the front top half of his t-shirt.

“Please, please, please.”

He breathes your name, barely getting the syllables past his lips. You never find out what he’s begging for. He probably doesn’t quite know either.

His dick and his mind can’t seem to agree on what they want. You watch this war play out, a losing battle. Every few seconds he presses his hips to the couch, trying to stay out of your reach. Then he slots his hips forward again, seeking out your hand directly.

Finally, Frankie seems to find his words. “Fuck, please. I can’t, I can’t. I’ve got no more, baby, please.”

“One more, honey. You can do that, can’t you? Just one.”

“Mm, shit. It’s—it hurts. It hurts,” he says.

“I know, baby. You’re so sweet for me, so good. I know you can do it,” you assure him.

Leaning down, you position your mouth over him. You let the spit sitting in your mouth pour past your lips, drooling onto his throbbing cock. The saliva slides down his length slowly as Frankie moans at the sensation.

The added slick makes everything wetter, truly soaking as you jerk him off faster. Frankie starts to babble nonsense between short, tripping moans. A split-second decision, you breathe hot air over the head of his dick. The slightest change in contact pulls his third orgasm of the night from him. Frankie cries, groaning loud as fat, wet tears roll down his cheeks. You hunch over him to give his face a kitten lick, collecting them with your tongue.

You let him go when he finishes coming, letting his dick flop against the plush of his tummy. Dragging your own shirt off the floor, you wipe at his skin and clean up your hands before tossing it back down.

Frankie finds the strength to tuck himself back into his sweatpants. He pulls at your elbow, sending you crashing gently into his side on the couch. It isn’t really big enough for the both of you to lay down. You squish yourself against his chest and shoulder, feeling his arm rest over the length of your back.

“How was that?” you ask after a while.

“A five course meal and then some,” he says. Frankie scoffs at himself, like he can’t believe what just happened. “Jesus Christ.”

You kiss his chest through his shirt, his body warm and solid against your cheek. “Nope, just me.”

#frankie morales #pedrostories #frankie morales fanfiction #triple frontier #*ww

[paddockbunny]

It wasn’t supposed to be like this - Part 2

Summary : You were married. You were supposed to be happily married to the man of your dreams and YET, you just cannot seem to quit Daniel f*cking Ricciardo, no matter how hard you seemed to try. Rating : 18+ Pairing : Daniel Ricciardo x Reader Word Count : 1,140 Trigger Warnings : cheating trope!!!! Discussion about sex

💞Authors Note: this might be waffling idk! Tell me if it’s rubbish 🙏🏼 also SONG INSPIRATION : El Tango de Roxanne - Moulin Rouge BROADWAY MUSICAL! Listen to Aaron Tviet’s voice in that and tell me it doesn’t do something to you!!!!!!

There’s something strange about sneaking into your own house as an adult. It’s hard to put into words but it feels so uneasy, so agitating and completely unnerving. And no matter how many times you found yourself doing it as of late, it never really got any better and you felt wracked with anxiety whenever you needed to behave like an unruly teenager and sneak into your own home.

Tonight was no different. The only change was your controlling, arrogant prick of a husband was still awake and very much ready to pick a fight.

“Where have you been?” Nico’s voice came bellowing as you stood at the bottom of your staircase to remove your shoes. His unexpectedly loud voice echoed around the place and it sent a sigh rumbling through your lips before you could stop it from happening. Why was he awake? Was he up waiting on you?

He was certainly angry that much was true.

Fucking prick.

God you hated him.

“We just ran over a little.” “A little?” His tone was utterly mocking and sarcastic. You couldn’t help but feel a little sick to your stomach at the way he was looking at you. “It’s 4:30 am.” He pointed out. “Yeah?” You looked at the gold Cartier watch that sat on your wrist and faked surprise. “Lost track of time” you state with a shrug and followed it up with; “Why are you still up?” “To make sure YOU, MY wife, came home!” He feigned worry. He was the furthest thing from worried you could get and the look upon his face - the one that usually made you feel very uneasy - was beginning to scare you. Nico’s voice was laced with pure warning. He wanted you to know you crossed the line and he was trying hard not too get into it in the small hours of the morning.

When you left Daniel (grudgingly) you had been praying the whole time that Nico would have been in bed and sound asleep. Since this thing with Daniel began you developed a habit of not only lying about where you were, but also where you would sleep after slinking home. You needed your time to process all of the emotions and hormones running rampant around your body. But there were also some nights that your temperature raised again at the sheer thought of the way Daniel had touched you, the way he had fucked you hard and mercilessly or the other times when it was slow, emotional, carnal. On those nights your hands wandered across your body and usually down into your panties to make yourself orgasm to the thought of a man who was certainly not your husband. You had zero shame about it. On some occasions you were surprised Nico hadn’t burst in the door upon hearing you and what you were up too. Poor bastard would have thought you were fantasising about him and all of his basic, bland skills in the bedroom.

Sadly, tonight the opportunity to do that was not an option. It was not one of those nights. After demanding you get upstairs and get into bed because - direct quote - “I’m so fucking furious with you that you need to just get into bed and go to sleep without arguing. This is getting ridiculous now. You’re not a teenager. Stop behaving like one.”

You were forced into sleeping beside your husband while he fell asleep and snored obnoxiously loudly. His slightly clammy arm was haphazardly swung over your chest and it felt like a dead weight. But then again, he was a dead weight in general really. You tried to ignore the twisting feeling your stomach was doing - the one that always seemed to appear whenever you had to be this close to him.

You met Nico when you were too young to know better. You started working at Sky Sports F1 as a runner the year after he became a regular presenter on the team. He took a shine to you almost instantly and the truth was you were bowled over by how handsome he was and the fact he had been a world champion in a sport you had grown up with but mostly because he paid you so much attention and made you feel like the only girl in the world. By summer break he managed to get you a promotion and celebrated by asking you to spend your summer with him in Monaco where put you in a position where you were so love bombed by him you slept with him almost immediately.

Back then, you didn’t realise how much he had used you and abused the power and wealth dynamics to get what he wanted, you into bed. Now, it turned your stomach to think how he manipulated you and then continued to manipulate you by giving you things that you probably wouldn’t have been able to get for yourself, within as little as 12 months. You ended up an on air journalist within a year of being at the station and it was all because Nico but he knew it and started to make sure you knew it too. It started in a lighthearted joking way but ended up how it was now, with him always borderline ready to argue with you.

You had no idea how you never wised up before it became too late. He proposed within 14 months of knowing you and the pair of you got married only 4 months later because he didn’t want to wait. You were only in your 20s. You were supposed to be out, living life, enjoying your success but instead, you were hounded constantly about giving up the same job he had gotten for you to impress you, so you could give him babies. But the babies never came because you refused to gave up your job and secretly kept taking your birth control. Five years passed since you married him and the only thing that has grown in your relationship was your hatred of him and his controlling, demanding behaviour.

It’s why, a year ago when at an end of season party Daniel randomly confessed he found you hot and wished you were single so he could have asked you out, you acted on pure instinct. You remembered having a huge argument with Nico just before leaving for the event so it was no surprise with how awful things were at home that you lost all sense of self control. You disappeared with Daniel, left Nico there alone and you had no remorse or regret when Daniel took you back to his hotel and fucked your brains out. And lying to your husband the next morning was easier than you ever thought it would be. A moment of madness would have exposed you. One singular moment would have been all it took to tell him. You were THAT cock drunk from Daniel’s magnificent cock that you would have risked everything then and there to expose your little fling. But then Daniel turned a one night stand into something more by asking you for a simple drink before he went back to Australia for winter break. Fucking you in the restaurant’s bathroom was not on the agenda but it was the hottest thing you had ever done. His hand covering your mouth to stop your moans from getting too loud. The burn of your thighs from trying to keep yourself up as you came. But most importantly, how you allowed him to release inside of you - something you never liked Nico doing.

And then it all seemed to spiral and snowball from there.

Sexting became the norm between the pair of you. Sending naughty (borderline offensively rude pictures) to each other whenever the need got too much and phone calls that consisted mainly of heavy breathing and stifled moans when the naughty pictures had their desired effect graduated into unashamed video chats. Those quickly evolved into booking random hotel rooms to fuck in without Nico - or whoever Daniel was “dating” at the time - finding out.

Except one day Nico would find out and you needed to be prepared for that.

Daniel needed to be prepared for that.

He needed to be sure that he really, truly did want you.

#Daniel Ricciardo #Daniel Ricciardo fanfic #Daniel Ricciardo imagine #daniel ricciardo one shots #daniel ricciardo fic #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #Daniel Ricciardo x reader #Daniel Ricciardo x you #Daniel Ricciardo x y/n #f1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 x y/n #f1 one shot #Daniel Ricciardo one shot

[littlelioncub43]

I Could Do This All Day

Summary: You've been dating Steve for a while, and you just want a little taste.

Pairing: Preserum!Steve Rogers x Fem!Reader

Word count: idk, I wrote this on my phone

Warnings: inexperienced!steve, virgin!steve, oral sex (m receiving), face fucking, cursing, sorta forced creampie so kinda dub-con but it's not that bad, I swear, reader sucks the life out of poor Stevie and he loves it.

A/N: I'm in a dick sucking mood, and all I can think about is cute, little, inexperienced preserum!Stevie. This wasn't supposed to be a drabble, but here we are!

You'd been going out for quite some time, much longer than any other relationship he's had. He'd taken you out to a local dance, held you close nearly all night. But he doesn't know exactly how you ended up here at his apartment, in his bed with your pretty lips wrapped around his dick. No one had ever touched him before, let alone used their mouth, but holy fuck, what ever you're doing with your mouth is making him see God.

He makes the mistake of opening his eyes only to find you staring up at him with a lustful expression that has his breathing quicken. You insisted on going slow, so you don't trigger an asthma attack or stop his poor weak heart. And at first that seemed like a good idea— but the slow drag of your tongue along the thick vein along the underside of his cock was starting to feel like torture.

"Oh, Jesus, please," he moans in a whiny voice, trying his best to keep his breathing under control while he fisted the sheets. The soothing strokes you give him along his inner thighs and narrow hips only excite him more. You swirl your tongue around his sensitive tip, groaning at the salty taste of his precum. When you give his head a good suck, Steve's hips thrust on instinct, earning a surprised gasp and a slight choke. "Fuck, m'sorry! Are you ok? I didn't mean to-"

"It's ok, Stevie," you smile and kiss his leaking tip, "I want you to do it again, can you do that for me, baby?"

Steve tosses his head back and rolls it side to side— you were trying to kill him, he was sure of it. He brings his eyes back to yours, noting the playful sparkle in them, before nodding. "Yeah, I can."

You hum and hold his gaze as you engulf his cock again. Your hands gathering his from the bedsheets to bring them to your head. Steve holds your head gently and waits for the go-ahead. When you give him a cheeky wink, Steve slowly inches his cock deeper into your mouth, inch by inch he watches himself disappear. His jaw drops wider and wider as he fills your throat, his eyes crossing slightly when he felt your nose nestling against his groin.

"O-Oh! Oh fuck!" He groans loudly, his hands gripping your hair harshly on their own, holding you in place for him. The sting at your scalp makes you moan around him, the vibration shakes Steve to the core. He shivers and trembles violently, fighting back the primal urges that threaten to overtake him. The way he reacts has you practically creaming in your panties. You hold him in your throat for a moment, then you suckle gently— and Steve is done for. "FUCKING HELL!"

His resolve breaks and soon he's pistoning in and out of your mouth as fast as his little body will let him. He holds your face while he fucks it, his knees bent and spread wide. You gasp and moan, his sudden roughness has your cunt fluttering and begging for attention, so you slide a hand to rub rough circles on your clit. You listen to your sweet, innocent boyfriend lose himself to ecstasy. Curses fly from his mouth, your name mixed with wanton begging for God, for more, for release filled his room.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" He cries as his back begins to arch, he can feel a tingling in his limbs as you suck harder and harder, your cheeks hallowed. "I'm gonna fucking cum! Fuck— I'm gonna cum!"

Steve pulls at your hair, trying to release his cock from your mouth, but you have other ideas. No, you wanted him to cum down your throat, you wanted to feel his hot load fill your mouth, taste his seed on your tongue— and you were going to be damned if you didn't get what you wanted.

"Sweetheart, please! Stop, I'm gonna–" he begs, his words dying on his tongue when you suck even harder, your free hand pulling his hips into your face eagerly. Oh. Oh. "Oh fuck, that's it, yes! I'm gonna cum—fuck, yes!"

Steve grows quiet as his high builds, his body feels like it's on fire and covered in ice all at once. His balls ache for release that's just moments away. He buries himself as deep as he could into your throat, and with a stuttering scream, shoots his load into your waiting heat. You gulp it down greedily, making sure not a drop is left.

He's so sensitive, he wants to cry, he can't believe that just happened. You're still cleaning his softening member with your tongue, and Steve's soul is slowly returning to his body. You release him with a slick 'pop!' and smile at him with swollen lips. He offers you a sloppy smile, petting your messy hair gently to smooth out the tangles he made.

"Are you ok?" You ask with a giggle at the dazed, dopey look in his eyes. He blushes with a nod, still catching his breath.

"Are you ok?" He asks breathlessly as you rest your head on his torso.

"Oh, I'm fantastic. I could do this all day."

I no longer have a taglist, so if you want to stay up-to-date on when I post, follow @littlelioncub-library

Dividers by the lovely @firefly-graphics 💖

#steve rogers x female reader #preserum!steve rogers #preserum steve rogers #pre serum steve #steve rogers smut #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fluff #steve x reader #steve rogers #chris evans fic #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans #captain america #little lion literature