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depravitycentral · 1 month ago

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Demon Slayer Dick Headcannons (ft. the Hashira)

Tw: yandere, mentions of kidnapping, breeding, cumplay kinda, fem reader, MDNI

Featuring: Giyuu Tomioka, Kyojuro Rengoku, Tengen Uzui, Sanemi Shinazugawa, Obanai Iguro, Gyomei Himejima

It’s pretty – a pale color and perfectly smooth, feeling almost virginal with how perfectly unmarked it is. And of course, it is virginal – that much will become uncomfortably obvious the first time you touch him, Giyuu letting out a near pained grunt after a mere thirty seconds as his orgasm washes over him, embarrassment settling in his stomach because oh god, you must think he’s pathetic now.

Giyuu’s never been one for masturbation, and so the skin on his cock is genuinely extremely sensitive, having had very, very little experience being touched. Just a brush of your finger against his length makes him sputter a bit, Adam’s apple bobbing harshly as he gulps, embarrassment starting to creep up his spine because god, something so small shouldn’t feel so good, especially when it’s just over his robes, not even skin-to-skin contact. He’s bucking his hips at the smallest touch of your thumb against his tip, something like a whimper escaping him when you kitten lick at his base, peppering kisses up the length until you suckle at his tip and see the way his eyes roll back.

When he gets hard he gets rather embarrassed, always trying his best to be subtle about it and not draw attention to it, but the way he cowers over and tries to cover his groin with anything nearby is not nearly as smooth as he’d hope, his cheeks flushed ever so slightly pink over the bridge of his nose.

(And of course, the staring – eyes drilling holes into your body, trying desperately to not ogle at your clothed breasts or the sway of your hips, though he can’t resists a few glances that you’ll almost certainly notice.)

His balls are ever so slightly smaller than expected, not enough to be noticeable at first glance, but they easily fit together in your palm, the area sensitive enough to make him tear up a bit, biting his lip and trying to worm out of your grasp. But don’t be fooled – he likes it, something vaguely sounding like a whine slipping from his lips when you retract your hand, and if he’s especially needy for your attention and touch, he’ll even physically grab your hand and put it back, sucking in a breath and forcing his body to relax.

He's generally very quiet when he’s orgasming, the only visual cue being the way his face twists up into something entirely unexpected from the stoic, emotionless Hashira – he’s gasping, eyes fluttering closed and his eyebrows screwing together.

His body shakes, his abs visibly clenching and unclenching, his thighs flexing and his hips bucking in small, almost imperceptible thrusts, as if his body’s unsure of whether he wants to run away from the pleasure or get closer, impossibly close to have more and more of you. His cum doesn’t taste too bad – a neutral, musky flavor, though luckily without too much saltiness or bitterness.

This is great news for you, because while Giyuu won’t admit it, the feeling of your mouth on his cock has his whole body going slack, his vision becoming a bit splotchy because the sensation of something so warm and wet moving against him has every rational thought leaving his brain.

He’s normally not very adventurous or expressive in bed, trying hard to not turn you off and struggling to become relaxed enough to actually enjoy it, but something about the sight of you on your knees, looking up at him while his cock appears and disappears past your lips has him losing all control, a small moan of your name falling from him while he lightly thrusts his hips, not caring if he looks pathetic or depraved. Not when you’re mouthing at him, drool spilling from the corner of your lips, tongue prodding at his slit and suckling on his tip, as if you’re trying to coax the cum out of him. His cum is runny, and tends to stain things.

(Something alarming when you realize just how many of your clothing items have very, very similar mystery stains.)

He’s not picky about where he finishes, feeling grateful that you’re touching him at all, really, but if he had to choose, he’d pick inside of you because it just feels more intimate that way. It feels right, primal even, and he’ll often have to take a few minutes between rounds simply because his orgasms crash through him with such intensity that he can’t form a coherent thought for a few moments afterwards.

His favorite way for you to touch him is when you’re straddling him, riding him and pressing your hands against his chest for leverage. He generally likes positions where you’re in control more, finding himself enjoying the passive, observing role while you take the lead.

(It bruises his pride a bit to confess it, but there’s something so, so very arousing about the idea of being a mere object and tool for your pleasure. And when you’re scooping your hips atop him, grinding and bouncing on him like he’s nothing more than a toy to get off with, Giyuu finds his breath gets heavy, his palms sweaty, every clap of your ass against his thighs bringing him closer and closer to his inevitable orgasm.)

He likes the way you can make the pace and angle exactly what you need, the way he can feel every inch of your cunt sucking him in, and of course the visual. The way you look at him with sultry, pleasure-filled eyes, your lips parted in that pretty ‘o’ shape that he sees when he closes his eyes at night. He has a perfect view of his cock appearing and disappearing inside of you, his skin glistening with your slick and a pretty little ring of white sitting against the coarse black hair of his pelvis.

His hands will grip onto your hips tightly, almost too tight, the only way he can anchor himself in the moment, living and tangible proof that you’re really here with him, touching him, wanting him, and he’s gripping onto you as if he’s afraid it’s all still just a fantasy.

But you’ll see the way his eyes are constantly darting to your bouncing chest, unblinking and fascinated as he watches your nipples grow hard, the plap plap noise of your skin smacking against your ribcage making him practically drool.

(His grows even redder if you grab his hands and use them to cup your breasts, telling him in a breathy, slurred voice to touch me, please Giyuu then you’ll be taken aback by the way he immediately squeezes and gropes, kneading and pinching at your nipples with a voracity that makes your hips stutter. And when he leans in to kiss you, his tongue immediately pushing past your lips and tracing your teeth, just know that it’s a matter of time before his orgasm hits. A matter of seconds, really.)

He likes the intimacy, and how he can feel even more connected and close to you, all the while seeing the way his cock makes you feel.

It’s a solid five inches with average girth, a few thick veins decorating the underside of his length. Kyojuro’s average in nearly every way, with the stark exception being his stamina.

His refractory period is nearly non-existant – he seems to be always hard in your presence, always sporting at least a semi any time he catches a whiff of your scent or hears even the echo of your voice. And it’s obvious, too, in his uniform – there’s always a tent of some sort in his pants, and the truly unfortunate thing is that Kyojuro doesn’t seem to care. He’s not making any effort to hide it when it’s just the two of you, even subconsciously moving his haori back and jutting his hips out ever so slightly so that you’ll notice and perhaps even be enticed by what you’re seeing.

He’s not especially meticulous about grooming himself, feeling that sex should be natural and as you are. To shave would be removing a part of his authentic self, and so there’s always a rather thick bush of dark, curly hairs sitting at the base of his cock, brushing against your clit and making you squirm when he’s got you settled on his lap, warming him while he cuddles you and presses kisses against every inch of your skin he can reach.

(This of course also extends to you – he prefers you don’t shave or wax, and once you’re trapped under his roof he simply won’t let you, denying you access to anything sharp enough to cut. And he’ll make his appreciation for your natural body very, very obvious, even going so far as to bury his nose into your hair, inhaling deeply and sighing when he’s knelt between your legs, letting your scent engulf him as he licks his lips and dives into your cunt.)

He’s decently sensitive, always letting out these pleasured little sighs, a boyish grin sitting on his face every time you touch him because oh, isn’t this heaven, feeling your pretty lips and fingers and cunt on him, just as he’s so longed for?

His cum is warm. Like, unnervingly warm – he’s always running a few degrees warmer than you it seems, every cuddle and press of his body against your own feeling startingly hot, and when his cum lands on your skin it’ll feel like fire. Not painful, but right on the edge of it. It’s thick, too, having the consistency of melted ice cream and leaving a sort of residue on your skin that he’ll gladly lick off of you.

(Cuteness aggression tends to affront him after he’s orgasmed, still out of breath and staring down at your disheveled, messy state underneath him, his cum staining your skin and sweat lining your brow.)

His stamina is off the charts, capable of fucking you for hours on end and holding off his orgasm if he concentrates hard enough. However, his refractory period is also quite short, leading to him instead preferring to come multiple times and not edge himself as strongly, thinking that the act of orgasming for you is proof of how deeply he’s attracted to you, how strongly your touch and words and presence affect him.

And he’ll make you very aware of when he’s orgasming, too – he’s loud, groaning your name and all sorts of praises, that same breathless laughter falling from his lips as he buries his face against the crook of your neck, fingertips pressing against your skin so hard that bruises form the next morning.

(Which he’s inconsolable about, really, the next morning fussing over you and promising to never do it again, only to get lost in the pleasure a few nights later and leave you with fresh bruises. He’ll always beg you to scratch down his back as he thrusts into you as repayment, eyes rolling to the back of his head at the pain-tinged pleasure, proudly wearing your scratches as a badge of love. He’ll even brag to Tengen about it, proudly proclaiming that he’s able to pleasure you so well that you simply must mark him as yours.)

His favorite way for you to touch him is when he’s fucking you in a deep, intimate mating press. He likes the fact that he can get as deep as physically possible in this position, always angling his hips to brush against the front of your walls and against that spongey spot that makes you whine his name, the sound making his head spin and his tongue coming out to lick at his lips.

He loves feeling the way you clench down onto him, the grip you leave on him almost making it hard to pull out and push back in, and idea of you never wanting him to leave you only furthering his thrusts, becoming faster and more bruising.

He’ll have you hold one of your knees against your chest, the other tangled in his hair while he supports himself on his elbow, holding your other leg up while his other hand permanently rests against your clit, drawing circles and tracing the kanji of his name over and over again. The sound of his hips and balls clapping against your ass encourages him to move faster too, and the sight of your breasts bouncing and jiggling underneath him makes his head dip, enveloping a nipple in his mouth and sucking.

(Sucking hard enough to leave you squirming, almost as if he’s expecting something to come out – the mere thought makes him groan, teeth lightly nibbling at your skin and his hips stuttering ever so slightly.)

He just thinks the positions blends the perfect mix of intimacy, eye contact, physical touch, and pleasure, and this is his go-to position that he’ll always default to any time the two of you are naked with one another.

You can request something else, asking him with a sultry hand on his chest to take you from the back or let you ride him, but you’ll always find yourself eventually back up in this position, his sweaty chest brushing against your nipples as he moans and begs for you to tell him you love him.

It’s a girthy six inches, with a near comically large, bulbous tip. It’s the kind of cock that makes you immediately freeze, simultaneously intimidated and immediately salivating, and he knows it. He’s a fan of all things extravagant, and this certainly extends to his cock – there’s a rather obnoxious piercing sitting right underneath his tip, the small metal ball framing an acidy green gem that manages to brush against your g-spot perfectly when he’s got you bent over.

It’s a pretty pink color when he’s flaccid, but when he grows hard it turns to a deep near fuchsia color, never quite making it above the ninety degree mark because it’s simply too heavy. He takes great care in grooming himself, always making sure that he’s impeccably trimmed and clean. He likes to leave the dark pubic hairs in interesting designs and patterns, all sorts of shapes gracing his navel.

(He loves when you trace a fingers along the perimeter of the hair, his skin erupting into goosebumps at the feeling, his cock stirring to life because the tasing sensation is simply too much for him.)

He even takes the time to very carefully trim up his balls, wanting to make sure that everything is pristine and perfect when you touch him – he wants you to be impressed, after all, and he waits with baited breath the first time you see him nude, eyes watching your each and every expression because he wants to see exactly what you’re thinking and feeling.

(This happens every time he’s naked before you, even if it’s the hundredth time – he’ll even ask if you like what you see? Maybe you should taste it, too, to get the full picture.)

His cum is thick and tends to stay where it lands, often not dripping and instead just drying against your skin or lips or shirt or panties, wherever he feels the urge to finish. And he likes to mix it up – his favorite places are of course inside of you, your face, and your ass, but he’s game to try anything you’d like.

He likes to finish inside you when he’s feeling especially worn down or overwhelmed by his job, clutching onto you and groaning in your ear as he pushes himself as deeply as possibly and letting go, filling you with so much that it leaks out of you even with his cock still plugging you up.

He likes to finish on your face, too, because it’s just so dirty and taboo and you look so naughty when you’re looking up at him with your tongue lolled out, a flare of possessiveness and adrenaline making him feverishly fist his cock mere inches from your face, groaning out an uneven take it as he lands spurt after spurt in stripes across your face.

And of course, your ass – he loves to watch the fat bounce back against him as he fucks you, smacking at it and grabbing it in fistfuls, spreading your cheeks apart to get a better view of his cock fucking into you. And seeing it stained with his cum, even a bit dribbling down and settling into the folds and pockets of your cunt makes him whistle, giving himself just a few more strokes to ensure he’s given you every drop he can.

He’s loud when he’s finishing, always narrating what it feels like, groaning your name and even breathlessly laughing, still partially in awe because he’s fantasized about fucking you for so damn long, and you’re even better than he’d been hoping for. He also tends to thrust throughout the entirety of his orgasms, going even harder and faster, losing control for a few seconds because the pleasure is blinding him and driving him to fuck into you harder, faster, deeper, anything to prolong the pleasure your body is giving him.

His favorite way for you to touch his cock is when you’re giving him head while he reciprocates, in a somewhat modified 69 position. However, unlike the traditional, Tengen prefers to be on top of you – he likes the way he can hold onto your thighs, keeping you perfectly spread for him so that you can’t close him out or run when he gets you closer and closer.

Besides, the way he can (very) carefully thrust lightly down your throat from the angle gets his ears ringing, the sense of dominance he feels over you making him drool against your clit. He likes the depth he can get, and although he’s conscious of choking you, the small gagging noises you make when he goes just a hair too deep have precum dribbling against your tongue, his cock pulsing against your lips.

His favorite sexual experiences are when you’re both getting something out of it, and so he’s a big fan of pleasuring you simultaneously. But with this position he gets the most control, able to tease you and nose at your clit all the while letting his own pleasure steadily build.

And when he comes, something about the physical position makes him feel like he’s genuinely coming down your throat, cum settling against your uvula and dripping down your throat. It’s romantic, he thinks, and when your hands come up to grasp onto his thighs Tengen feels shivers roll down his spine because oh, you’re just so fucking cute.

He likes it, and when you pull off to take a small break, stroking at his cock, he likes when you run his tip along the outline of your lips, your cheeks, you jaw and collarbone, even your nipples if you can maneuver it. It makes him groan, licking long, flat stripes against your hole, a thumb working diligently, frantically at your clit because you’re getting him so very close and he needs you to come before he does.

It’s just a guilty pleasure of his, and while he won’t often request it, it’s his go-to when he’s been away from you for long missions, desperate to kiss you and taste you.

(And due to his near non-existent refractory period, it’s the warm up to fucking you good and proper.)

Sanemi’s overall thoroughly average in terms of length and girth, but the thing that sets him apart is how genuinely heavy his cock is. When you’re holding it in your palms, it weighs against your skin, feeling thick and intimidating, throbbing hard enough for you to feel. He’s got no experience before you, and when you first slowly exhale and marvel at his sheer weight, he grows embarrassed, terrified that you don’t like what you’re seeing.

(He won’t explicitly ask you if there’s something wrong with it, but he’s carefully watching your reactions, holding his breath and managing to mutter out a quit staring just to simply end the insecurity swimming in his chest.)

He’s scared that you’re disappointed, cheeks tinging pink and struggling to look you in the eye, but he’s putty in your hands the moment your skin touches his. When he’s got you bent over, hands groping and grabbing at every inch of your body that he can reach, you can feel how heavy he is inside of you, too – it’s impossible to ignore the way he’s bullying into you, stretching you and feeling like he’s practically in your throat with how overwhelming the sensation is.

Matching his length, a pair of sensitive balls sit firmly underneath his base, always a rosy pink color and twitching alongside his length when he’s especially hard. They’re extremely sensitive, however, and while Sanemi will never, ever tell you to stop touching him, you’ll see the way he clenches his fist and squeezes his eyes shut when you play with them just a hair too hard, the strained groan that falls from his lips sounding more pained than he wants it to.

He likes it though – you just have to be gentle, and if you really want to see him melt, gently suck on one and let your tongue loll around it like some sort of musky candy – it makes his cheeks go red, his lip stuck between his teeth and his hips twitching because oh fuck you look so damn good drooling all over him like that.

His cum is hot, and there’s a lot. He’s pent up – he doesn’t masturbate often, instead letting all the rage and irritation fester and channeling it into swinging his sword. And so, each time you touch him, Sanemi has so much to give you that it inevitably ends up leaking out of you.

If you’re on your knees for him, all pretty and staring up at him through doe-eyed lashes with pouty lips, he’s coming down your throat, grasping onto your hair and simply keeping you there, cum spilling out from the sides of your mouth because there’s simply too much and you can’t swallow quickly enough to keep up.

When he’s folding you into a mating press, mouth hot at your ear as he gasps and groans and growls, when he eventually calls out what vaguely sounds like your name in a slurred frenzy along with fuck and yes yes yes, he’s coming so much that it physically forces him out of your cunt, the sheer volume filling you up so well that there’s not even room for him.

And Sanemi absolutely loves to see you covered in it, too – he never suggests the idea because he doesn’t want it to feel disrespectful, but he absolutely loves to finish on your face. There’s something about the way you look underneath him, with your tongue lolling out and your palms pressing against his thighs as if bracing yourself that gets him throwing his head back, his orgasm ripping through him with enough force to leave his knees almost collapsing underneath him.

(And if you were to lick your lips and then reach out to lick him clean of every last drop? Well, please don’t say anything about the way he whimpers, a few sad, pathetic little spurts of cum ooze out, a last ditch attempt to give you absolutely everything he can.)

He’s a dribbler, cum oozing from the tip in a steady stream that never seems to end, and when he’s coming he always blindly reaches out to grab something to ground him. More often than not it’s you that he’s clutching onto, his grip tight enough to leave slight bruises (that he will feel incredibly guilty for the next morning). It’s to ground him, to remind him that you’re real, that you’re with him, that you’re not merely a figment of his imagination or some poor, pathetic stand-in that he can fuck and desperately pretend is you.

His favorite way for you to touch him is when you’re seated on his lap, straddling him with nothing separating you. He loves fucking you, of course, something primal and animalistic in him satisfied with the knowledge that he’s claiming you from the inside out, but there’s something equally pleasurable – if not more so – about the intimacy of simply holding you and feeling your cunt slowly and steadily grind against him.

He wants both of you completely nude, your tits pressing against his chest and your lips attached to his and he slowly guides your hips, a hand clutching at either side as he brings you forward and back, the wetness of your folds coating him in a thick layer of you and letting him slide easier.

It’s heaven to him – the perfect vantage point, though he’s much too embarrassed to admit why. Truthfully, it’s because the position almost feels like you’re holding him – he’ll often just wrap his arms around your waist, pulling you as tightly against him as possible, listening to your heartbeat and trying to match the rhythm of his breathing with yours.

Often, if he’s feeling particularly vulnerable or if he’s just returned from a long, grueling mission, he’ll slip a nipple into his mouth, gently suckling and biting, closing his eyes and focusing on the way that you’re so very warm and soft in his arms.

It’s comfort thing, more than anything else, as if being with you in such a raw, intimate way means that he’s safe, comfortable, loved and wanted. It’s sappy and he’d rather die than admit it, but you’ll notice the way his eyes grow red, tears prickling at the corners because it just feels so damn good to hold you like this.

He’s a bit shorter than average, coming in just slightly under five inches, but Obanai has a pretty significant girth – significant enough to get you gasping the first time he fucks you, the feeling of being so stretched out leaving you gasping for air.

You’ll always be able to tell when he’s close to coming because everything literally throbs – you can feel him pulsing inside of you, the sensation making you squirm because it’s so very arousing but so very weird against your walls. And it’s a constant, too – from the moment he gets hard, it’s constantly pulsing against your palm, his cheeks bright red and embarrassment running through him but he just can’t stop, too turned on by the sight and smell and taste of you, and his body is betraying that.

He’s pale everywhere on his body, delicate skin that’s shockingly soft and so, so very sensitive – one touch against his chest gets him shivering, every nerve in his body feeling on fire because all he can focus on is the fact that you’re willingly touching him and you’re so much softer than he’s imagined.

(And he’s extensively imagined. Frequently.)

His cock is pale, too, with hardly any color differentiation from base to tip. As he gets near his orgasm, the tip turns a pinkish color, the blood rushing in and leaving him dizzy, and his entire navel area turns a pink color too. He’s pale enough that if you try hard enough you can even see a few of the near-surface veins dipping down under the tuft of dark hair on his navel. And it’s a rare occurrence that Obanai shaves – it’s not for lack of trying, but rather that he’s simply worried that he’ll look strange without the hair to cover himself, worried that you won’t like what you’ll see if you can see the entire expanse of him.

(He’s insecure that he’s not perfect enough for you – that his cock is too small or his balls are shaped strangely, and a single compliment about it from you will have him going wide-eyed, swallowed hard and a large, insistent glob of pre-cum oozing from his tip because oh god, do you really mean it?)

His cum is watery and, quite frankly, doesn’t taste great. It’s remarkably bitter – your face screws up the first time it lands on your tongue, the sight making Obanai shrivel up in embarrassment, mortified that you’ll no longer want to touch him.

(He immediately tries to change his diet to almost exclusively foods he thinks will make him taste better, even swallowing his pride and approaching Tengen about it, embarrassment making it difficult to spit out the words.)

He’s a shooter, the arc looking truly pornographic because he tends to throw his head back when he’s coming, eyes squeezed tightly shut and almost a grimace overcoming his features, all while hips jut out and cum practically pours out of him. He prefers finishing on your stomach, simply because there’s something about the sight of you stained white that makes his possessiveness flare up. If it’s a particularly powerful orgasm (as they all are, when you’re the one touching him), he’ll be out of breath, cheeks still flushed pink as he hovers over you, mesmerized and letting his thumb dip into the cum, smearing it across your skin.

He likes it best when the two of you finish at the same time – simultaneous orgasms, if only because Obanai knows that as you get closer you tend to reach out and grab for whatever is nearest to you, and he’ll purposefully maneuver himself so that you’re clutching onto him, the sight of you moaning for him and shaking hurtling him towards his own orgasm.

(He’ll often scoop up a bit of his own cum and your slick, mixing them together with his fingers, swallowing heavily and letting his finger brush against his tongue, eyes rolling to the back of his head because the taste of you together is making his cock throb again, slowly rising up to ninety degrees, desperate to give you more more more.)

His favorite way for you to touch him is a slow, intimate handjob. He’s typically a little bit harsh when he’s touching himself, his tugs leaving his arm sore, his fingers clutched so tightly around his shaft that it’s nearly suffocating. And yet, when it’s your fingers wrapped around him, Obanai finds that there’s something indescribably sensual and passionate about the soft, slow strokes you give him. The softness of your fingers combined with the way you carefully, almost hesistantly grip him leaves his head spinning, the pleasure somehow feeling much more acute despite the lessened stimulation.

He likes the way your thumb comes up often to brush over slit, collected the precum and letting it guide your hand up and down, up and down, his toes curling and his fists clenching because you’re being such a damn tease, making his hips buck up over and over.

And there’s something about the eye contact that gets him panting – the attention leaves him squirming as you let your eyes rest on him, the intensity making every brush of your fingers against his sensitive skin amplify a thousand times.

He wants you to talk to him, to let your voice get all low, to call him all sorts of possessive petnames that only fluster him more, a pointed thrust against your fist with each name. My pretty boy is his favorite, even as embarrassing as it is, and if you lean in and kiss along his collarbone and jaw, complimenting him about his looks, his ability to care for you, how he makes you feel he’s immediately gasping, abs clenching wildly and his balls visibly clenching as he paints your hand white with cum, the liquidy consistency making it run down your knuckles like rivers, dripping down onto your thighs and making Obanai suck in a breath because fuck fuck fuck you’re still going and it’s so sensitive, too sensitive but he doesn’t want you to ever ever stop-

He wants to feel cared for, wanted, loved, and even something as simply as you jerking him off with a few well-timed flutter of your lashes and purred words leave him putty in your hands.

It’s big and Gyomei knows it. Easily a solid seven inches and thick enough to leave your fingers barely touching when you wrap them around his girth, even when he’s not fully hard. The skin is slightly tanner than the rest of him, with his tip flushing into an even darker shade matching the two low, heavy balls that sit snugly underneath his shaft, hefty enough to feel substantial in your palms as you cup and squeeze at them.

Tufts of dark hair decorate his navel, the curls thick and almost coarse, tickling your nose as you take him down your throat and tickling your clit as you oh so slowly inch your way down on his lap. Even the sight of him flaccid makes you suck in a sharp breath, nerves starting to eat away at you because there’s absolutely no fucking way it’s fitting inside of you. It just looks too heavy and big and full, veins protruding along the sides in enough detail that you can practically see them pulsing.

And really, your fears aren’t unwarranted – Gyomei can feel the movement with every step he takes, the sensation of his cock brushing against his undergarments and his balls pressed against his thigh always leaving him slightly uncomfortable, always consciously aware of the feeling. (He’s extremely grateful for the loose nature of the Demon Slayer Corps uniform pants – otherwise, the bulge would be unbearably visible, even when he’s completely soft.)

All things considered, it takes Gyomei a long time to orgasm. He’s not terribly sensitive (not for a lack of experience – he has none, he’s just genuinely not the type to immediately buck his hips and gasp at the slightest bit of stimulation), but finds that steady, consistent pleasure is the golden ticket to finding his high.

Specifically, pleasure that involves a lot of lubricant: spit, slick, hell, even blood when you’re on your period and needing something to help relieve the pressure. He likes how smooth it all is – the slick schluck schluck sound of him rolling his hips into yours makes his knees weak, the wet feeling of your cunt clenching down on him enough to get him groaning lowly and grasping onto your hips hard enough to almost leave bruises. He’ll refuse to fuck you until you’re absolutely dripping, wet to the point of insanity because he’s been fingering you for what feels like hours and you can’t handle the teasing anymore.

It’s only then, after he’s brought you to your high some three times with his tongue and the pads of his index fingers that he’ll finally, finally press inside, moving slowly and chanting what sounds like prayers intermixed with your name under his breath, almost as if you’re some god he’s thanking over and over for the feeling of you.

It takes him a while to get off, but there’ll be a few signs that he’s getting close – his thrusts turn from deep, slow, almost tentative, to quicker and more clipped, the actions somehow feeling needier and more desperate because he’s holding you in place and his breath is stuttered as he gasps and exhales, pleasure hitting him like a tidal wave and sending his eyes rolling back.

He produces an almost obscene amount of cum with every orgasm, ropes spilling out in long, rather impressive spurts. It’s thick, almost viscous, leaving a residue against your skin that he’ll oftentimes idly rub at when he’s pulled you against his chest, cock still nestled inside you as tears flow down his cheeks from the intensity of it all. It’s bitter, almost earthy, and while Gyomei doesn’t expect you to swallow, you’ll be earned with the smallest, quietest little whimper once he hears you audibly gulping.

His favorite way for you to touch his cock is when you’re simply riding him. There’s something about the way you grip him in this position that makes his toes curl, his voice getting a hair deeper because it just feels too good. He likes the way you control the pace – sex feels better to him when you feel good, and having you dictate the speed, angle, and depth gives Gyomei an insight into exactly what you like.

(And he’s committing every detail to memory – the sounds you’re making, the way your nails bite into his chest as you steady yourself, the way your ass bounces against his thighs over and over, the tensing of your legs as his tip brushes against that spot that makes you gasp and moan his name…)

He likes the way he can feel more of you in this position, too – the curve of your ass pressing against his balls, the slight pressure pinching and giving him just the slightest bit of pain that makes blood rush south, cock throbbing inside of you because god he wants you to go even harder.

He can feel your stomach pressed against his navel when you lean forward in this position, your muscles growing tired and starting to give out, the softness of your skin against the overly sensitive area right above his shaft making him grasp onto your hips and thrust upwards, meeting you halfway and mumbling out your name as you whine.

It just feels more intimate this way – like you’re using him, like his body is just a tool for your pleasure. And really, that’s exactly how Gyomei sees it – his cock is your cock, and he’ll thank the heavens each and every time you so much as look at it.

#yandere kny #yandere demon slayer #yandere ds #yandere kimetsu no yaiba #kny smut #yandere kny smut #_kny #_giyuu tomioka #_kyojuro rengoku #_tengen uzui #_sanemi shinazugawa #_obanai iguro #_gyomei himejima #_lee rambles

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xazse · 5 months ago

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new to your account but I've been reading you works ALL DAY. Can I req a wanderer/scaramouche x fem reader fic, reader was being attacked by hillicurls in the rain, scaramouche helps reader and let's you into the tent hes staying in.. because rain lol. Anyways he's h0rny and expecting repayment for saving you. He's very rough w reader lol. Sorry if this sounds stupid, I've never made a req before.

LOST?

Synopsis: When you’re saved by a man in inazuma attire you can’t help but be interested in his offer.

Notes: THANK YOU FOR BINGEING MY WORKS IT MEANS A LOT!! Also it’s not stupid at all you explained it perfectly! I HOPE YOU ENJOY<33 plus I decided to turn this into a little ficlet it’s such a good prompt thank ya.

Pairings: Scaramouche x Fem!reader

Warnings: Scummy!Scaramouche + bargains + smut + armlocking + female reader

Slimy, that’s exactly how you feel right now, these damn hillicurls have been following you for god knows how long. You’d thought the rain would’ve rid them of your scent but they’re extremely president, especially the Mitachurl.

You could easily take them down but not when they’re in a group like that, something’s making them group together in larger packs than before.

All you can do is run as fast as you can through this thick mud while they gain on you., you’re such an idiot for taking this request from the guild, they even warned you but you just had to be cock. You’re so deep in thought that you don’t see it: a hole in the ground, you’re tripping and falling stomach down onto the ground. The monsters run with this opportunity and you’re being pulled by your ankle into the air.

Quickly taking out your pole-arm from it’s confines, you strike the arm that grabbed you, the monster wretches in pain and drops you flat on your ass but that makes space for the others to start tearing at you it’s not before you see a bloom of air that the monsters suddenly aren’t in front of you anymore?

Looking to where it came from you see a man looking in your direction with the utmost disappointment and disgust on his face.

“You couldn’t handle a couple of lackeys? Why were you bestowed a vision then?”

“It’s kinda hard when it’s a group of them.” You deadpan

“Am I sensing attitude? From your savior at that.” He continues “I didn’t have to come to your screams, I could’ve let you die.”

“Screams? Whom?” You glance down at your body, you’re extremely dirty and the rain is only getting heavier.

“Thank you though, I appreciate the help.”

You stand carefully as much as the slippery ground will allow you.

He watches as you make your way to wherever, you only get five steps away before slipping on your ass. You’re being picked up by your armpits: such a small man has the strength to lift you like you weigh nothing?

“You can come to my little hideout, it’s dry and I can provide you with other clothing” he doesn’t allow you to answer, he’s already slinging your arm around his shoulder and taking you. You can only whisper another thank you.

As he takes you, you’re quick to see how pretty he is, there’s no imperfections in his face, it’s as smooth and pale as the day he was born most likely.

He looks at you, caught staring at him you quickly snap forward. He scoffs.

His tent is pretty spacious definitely fits holding up to three people, it feels much better to be in a warmer place than the cold hard rain. You realize after a few minutes inside that your clothes are sticking to you, you want out so badly.

“Could I have those clothes you mentioned?”

He raises his brow, dick.

“Please.”

“Of course you can.” There’s a smug smile on his face whilst he says that, he rummages around in a chest before throwing a large shirt your way and some equally big pants, you won’t ask why he has clothing that doesn’t look like it fits him.

You’re about to lift up your shirt before you realize that this is a man, a man you don’t know no less, he’s staring at you with a bored expression.

He meets your eye and gets the memo to turn around.

At least he’s respectful.

You lift the soggy shirt over your head, it hits the ground with a splat. Your bra is soaked as well, as much as you’d like to keep it on it has to come off, you reach around and to unclip it at least you try to, finding that it doesn’t budge. A few more frustrating attempts you cave and ask the man.

“Hey, uhm-“

“Scaramouche.”

“Scaramouche- could you help me for a moment?” You give him your permission to look and he makes his way over to a kneeling you. He seems confused but you guide him to unlock the tricky thing and with that it comes off, you catch your boobs and cover yourself.

Scaramouche thinks you have a nice back, and he liked helping you with that little bit. He doesn’t engage in conversation with women expect for the lumine woman, this is rare.

He also feels weird, weirdly uncomfortable, glancing down he can see he’s actually fully hard. Curse these male bodies and their weird maley functions. Why is something as small as this making his pants tighter and his cock throb. He thinks a little more, why does he feel uncomfortable in fact he feels owed?

You do someone a favor aren’t they supposed to do one for you as well? That’s how human customs are as far as he’s concerned. He’s now sometimes glancing at you: you’re working to get your pants off.

“I can feel your stare, what?” You question while looking at him in your panties at least they didn’t get wet.

“mm, nothing important, seeing as how you were in that type of weather you were doing some kind of mission? Request? So I’m gonna put two and two together and say you don’t have any mora on you.”

He continues

“There’s no possible way for you to pay me money wise-“

You interrupt him: “you didn’t save me out of the kindness of your own heart?”

“What- no? Of course not” he chuckles at that inquiry.

“Okayyy… what is it that you want?”

He doesn’t even have to say it, his eyes are already roaming your body.

“I’ve always been curious about you women and how you work.” he removes his hat and relaxes his body a little on the futon.

You women? He talks funny but besides that is he expecting you to give him your body? Having sex with a stranger isn’t on your bingo card.

But you also like being dealt wild cards, he isn’t ugly by any means. Your eyes slide to where he’s relaxed and see he isn’t afraid to hide how hard he is, heat rises within in your body: he’s hard because of you.

When the words “yes” had came out of your mouth he was fast to pin you down, using his rough grip to have you face down and ass up.

His hands are clumsy but that’s because he’s so eager to see all of you on display, when he’s face to face with your cunt he loses all body function, he’s quiet as he pokes and prods at your wetfolds, he’s so amazed that every time he licks his fingers clean that dipping right back in your wet hole produces even more slick.

He loves this, he takes his cock out of its tight confines. It’s leaking and a cute pink color. He doesn’t let you admire it for long, he needs to be buried in you immediately and that he does.

He lines his weeping tip up with your hole, the stretch of him is uncomfortable but definitely not unwarranted.

A screamish moan slips from your lips, he slammed his entire cock right to the hilt and holds himself there.

“Feels- oh..” he locks your arms behind your back, then you feel his cock leaving your sensitive walls just to feel him slam down inside you all over again. He fucking dies for the view, your pretty ass is bouncing right off his abdomen like it’s stuck in a loop.

“Ah..fuck- please slow-“ it’s so hard to talk coherently, it’s also getting hard for you to think.

As fast as he’s going your nipples are following, you know they’re gonna be incredibly sensitive to the touch, but it feels so good in the moment, that paired with his cock moving alongside your gummy walls is a killer combo. You’re being used like a mere sex toy.

You don’t comprehend that you’re convulsing and squeezing his cock, it’s not until he moans and laughs at how fast he’s made you cum that you realize.

For his first time too? He’s swooning and already praising himself.

You grip the tent floor in an effort to get away from the overstimulation but he’s pulling you right back on his thick cock.

Scaramouche is infatuated, his balls are heavy and dripping with your slick, you’ve got the audacity to run from him? He’s loving your pussy and you want to deny him of it? He just can’t have that!

He’s gonna milk you dry and after he’s done with that he’s gonna make sure to take care of himself.

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sturnioz · 5 months ago

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Wait guys.. I had to put it here cause I have no one else to share this with but IMAGINE shy!reader getting a drink from her friend and doesn’t know its drugged so she gets insanely down bad for fratboy!chris and he knows better than to take advantage of her so he takes her to his room to sober her up with water and puts her to sleep and as he’s about to go back to the party she grabs his wrist and mumbles an ‘i love you, be safe’ and he’s all confused.

kinda changed this req up a little to fit their story, hope you dont mind <3

you hardly ever drink at frat parties — maybe just one here and there — but you prefer to keep it minimal, all thanks to chris who likes to ruin your fun (actually, you prefer not to drink, but sometimes you like blaming him just to see the look on his face when you do). but tonight, however, you decide to let yourself loose and have a few with your friend, and now a strange feeling envelops you.

a warm, fuzzy sensation spreads through your limbs, but it's quickly overshadowed by rising nausea and spinning dizziness. you stumble through the busy frat house, packed with rowdy students and faces you barely recognise. your friend reaches out to steady you, her voice laced with concern, but a strangled noise escapes your throat as you weakly push her away.

you legs feel like jelly, unsteady beneath you, as you navigate through the crowd, ignoring her drunken pleas to stay close. with each unbalanced step you take, the world around you blurs, and the energy of the frat house feels unbelievably overwhelming.

it all comes crashing down when you catch sight of chris in the kitchen, his confident grin lighting up the room as he hands something discreetly to some student, giving them a sly wink as he takes their money. a knot tightens in your stomach, and you wobble in his direction, your vision blurring and head spinning as the tears of frustration well in your eyes, a mix of confusion of not knowing what's going on and the overwhelming feelings.

chris double takes when he notice you — hearing you crash into someone accidentally, the sharp words of an annoyed stranger cutting through the noise as you babble your apologies, your slurred speech punctuated by a hiccup. without a second thought for the person he was dealing to, chris swoops in front of you, his hands gripping your cheeks, forcing you to meet his intense stare.

"fuck did you do? huh?" he immediately asks, his voice low and fierce, jaw clenched tightly. his eyebrows knit together as he studies your face, taking in the way your pupils are dilated, and a scoff escapes his lips. "you... y'took somethin', kid? you fuckin' serious?"

"n-noo, didn't," you slur your words, shaking your head quickly, the motion making the room spin even more as the rest of your words come out in a jumbled rush. "didn't.. i swear — prommm'se. dunno w'as happenin'."

"you.. you didn't take anythin'?" chris asks in disbelief, blinking at you as you nod your head again, letting out a gargled whine, your hands reaching out to grip his arms as your balance wavers.

instinctively, he shifts his hands from your cheeks to your waist, steadying yourself against him, and you can feel the warmth of his body through the fabric of your clothes, offering the slightest of comforts.

he prods his cheek with his tongue, clearly trying to process the situation as his brow furrows deeper, "right, right.. so uh, how are you fuckin' drugged, kid?"

"didnt take anythin'!!" you slur out again, the panic rising in your chest. tears brim in your eyes as strange sensations rush through your body, a disorientating mix of hot and cold. you hate how your brain feels all out of whack. "all — all i 'ad was a drink, and—"

"a drink?" chris cuts you off sharply. "who gave you the drink?"

"m'friend got it from another guy.." you blink repeatedly, trying to clear the blurriness that clouds your vision. "don' feeeel good, chris."

an almost frightening smile stretches across chris' lips as the realisation of what's happening hits him. anger simmers just beneath the surface, and he nods slowly, his eyes scanning the party like a predator with its prey.

his nostrils flare as he takes in the chaotic scene, his jaw locked. with a sharp sniff, he scrunches up his nose, grabbing a bottle of water from the refrigerator before wrapping his arm around your waist, guiding your sluggish body out of the kitchen and up the staircase to his room.

he carefully sits you down on the edge of the bed, and without a word, he unscrews the cap off the water bottle, bringing it to your lips. you sip slowly, the cool liquid soothing your dry throat, each swallow a small relief against the nausea.

"gonna... gonna need you to drink this f'me, yeah? all of it — make y'feel better, kid. promise."

"where.. you going?" you ask, your voice trembling slightly as you frown, water droplets trickling own your chin. your hands curl around his wrist, gripping tightly in fear that he would disappear.

"m'gonna go find out who's been fuckin' with the drinks, kid. gonna... gonna teach 'em not to.. to fuck around, y'know?" chris tells you, a slight scary edge to his tone that makes your frown deepen. "doin' this to keep you safe, bun."

"safe?" you murmur softly, and chris nods his head firmly. "'kay... safe." you reluctantly release his wrist, sinking down deeper into the plush pillows, hoping the comforting softness will help calm the raging storm in your head. "m'love yo.. b'safe."

"what?" chris blinks, his brows knitting together in confusion and disbelief as he stares down at you. he pulls a face, unsure if he's heard you correctly, and shakes his head with a loud, incredulous scoff.

his heart thrums uncomfortably in his chest, and he bites down hard on his cheek as he hesitantly tugs the blanket up to your shoulders, making sure you're warm and comfortable before he scratches his slightly stubbled jaw, lips pursed deep in thought as he steps backwards, giving you one last look over before leaving the bedroom, ensuring that the door is shut, searching for his frat brothers — searching for matt.

#ᯓ꒰asks꒱#ᯓ꒰anon꒱#☆ fratboy!chris #☆ shy!reader #★ ⋮ sturniolo hours !#★ ⋮ matt hours !

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wendsky · 4 months ago

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I just wanted to start off with saying how much I love your writing !! you do such a great job with showing what's happening and I'm never confused on what's happening or who's talking (I have the second issue often lol) anyways if you do requests I do have one !! Y/N transfers to Nevermore because of bullies and at some point comes in some sort of physical contact with Wednesday where she gets a vision of you being bullied. Wednesday becomes kinda protective over you the way she is with Eugene and Pugsley, but Y/N's relationship with Wednesday developes into something more. sorry for such a long message and again loving what you're doing !!

thank you for your kind words and of course!

protected

wednesday addams x !witch!fem!reader

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The swirling shadows of Nevermore Academy were a far cry from your previous school, where you had endured the relentless torment of bullies. You had hoped that the new environment would be a sanctuary, a place where you could finally breathe and be yourself. But the anxiety that gripped your chest told you that change didn’t come without its challenges.

As you walked through the stone archways of the academy, you took in the gothic architecture that surrounded you—towering spires, iron chandeliers, and dark wood accents. The students that roamed the halls were unlike any you’d encountered before, with their eclectic styles and unapologetic personalities. For the first time, you felt a flicker of hope. But that flicker quickly dimmed when you heard the whispers.

“Look at her,” one girl sneered, her voice dripping with contempt. “Another weirdo trying to fit in.”

You kept your head down, trying to ignore the cruel laughter that followed you as you made your way to your first class. You had thought you left the bullying behind, but the stares and whispered comments followed you like a shadow.

The first week passed in a blur of classes and isolation. You kept to yourself, determined not to give anyone a reason to target you further. That resolve was put to the test during lunch one day. As you sat at a table in the corner of the cafeteria, trying to enjoy your meal in peace, you felt a sharp shove from behind.

“Oops! Didn’t see you there, loser!” a girl with vibrant purple hair sneered as she walked past, causing you to spill your drink all over yourself. The laughter from her group echoed in your ears as they made their way to the main table, where the more popular students gathered.

Embarrassment flushed your cheeks, and you tried to clean yourself up with a napkin, your hands trembling. You hated feeling weak, hated that they still had power over you. Just as you thought you’d disappear into the floor, a shadow fell over you.

“What’s wrong, Y/N? Did you spill your drink? Or are you just that clumsy?” The voice was low and smooth, tinged with an unsettling calmness that sent a chill down your spine. You looked up to see Wednesday Addams standing there, her expression unreadable.

You blinked, startled by her sudden presence. “I—um, it was an accident,” you managed to stammer, avoiding her piercing gaze.

“Accidents happen, but that wasn’t an accident. It was intentional,” she said, her dark eyes narrowing. You couldn’t tell if she was angry or simply observing.

“I can handle it,” you replied, the instinct to defend yourself kicking in despite your embarrassment.

“Clearly,” she said dryly, and you could almost hear the sarcasm in her tone. “Are you always this brave, or is it just for show?”

“Whatever,” you muttered, your face hot. You hated that she saw you like this—weak and embarrassed.

“Don’t bother. They’re not worth your time,” she replied, her voice steady. She touched your shoulder and for a moment, went still. As if nothing happened, with a swift motion, she turned to leave, her raven-black hair swaying behind her as she walked away.

The next incident came unexpectedly. You were in the library, trying to focus on your studies when you overheard the same group of girls from lunch laughing and whispering nearby. You tried to block them out, but their words cut through the air like daggers.

“Have you seen her? She thinks she’s so special just because she’s here,” one girl said.

“Yeah, as if we need more freaks around here,” another chimed in.

You clenched your fists, your heart racing as you felt the familiar wave of panic wash over you. Why did they have to make everything so difficult? Just as you were about to storm out of the library, you felt a hand on your shoulder.

You turned to see Wednesday standing beside you, her expression uncharacteristically serious. “Stay,” she commanded softly, her voice laced with an urgency that surprised you.

“What?” you asked, bewildered.

“Stay. I want to see how they handle this,” she said, glancing toward the group with a predatory gaze. You hesitated but nodded, curiosity getting the better of you.

As you watched, Wednesday approached the girls, her presence commanding their attention. “Why don’t you say that to her face?” she asked, her tone calm yet filled with an underlying menace.

The girls froze, the laughter dying on their lips. They exchanged nervous glances, the bravado fading as they met Wednesday’s unwavering gaze.

“Uh, we were just joking,” one girl stammered, shifting uncomfortably.

“Jokes aren’t meant to hurt,” Wednesday replied, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “If you have something to say, be brave enough to say it to her.”

You felt your heart race as the girls shifted uneasily, their earlier confidence shattered under Wednesday’s intense scrutiny. They muttered something unintelligible before quickly gathering their things and leaving the library.

You turned to Wednesday, astonished. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Actually, I did,” she replied, her expression softening slightly. “You shouldn’t have to tolerate their cruelty.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As the days passed, you noticed a shift in Wednesday’s behavior toward you. It was subtle but undeniable. She began to appear at random moments—sitting nearby in classes, leaning against the wall while you walked to lunch, or simply observing from a distance. At first, you found it unnerving. Why was she watching you? Did she pity you, or was she just curious?

But as the bullying incidents continued, you found solace in her presence. Wednesday’s protective nature began to emerge, mirroring the way she defended her friends, like Eugene and Pugsley. It made you feel… safe. You still faced harassment, but it was less frequent, and you began to believe that maybe, just maybe, you could find a place at Nevermore.

The third incident happened in the hallway. You were on your way to class when you overheard a group of students mocking you again. “Look at her, always alone. What a loser,” one of them laughed.

You took a deep breath, preparing to ignore them, but suddenly, a figure stepped in front of you. It was Wednesday, her dark dress billowing slightly as she stood her ground, her eyes cold and unforgiving.

“Is there a problem here?” she asked, her voice low, but the intensity in her gaze was unmistakable.

The students faltered, caught off guard by her sudden appearance. “We were just—” one of them started, but Wednesday interrupted.

“Just what? Making fun of someone who’s already struggling? How brave of you,” she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

With that, she turned to you, her eyes softening for the first time. “Ignore them. They’re insignificant.”

You blinked, your heart pounding in your chest as you took in her fierce protection. It was a feeling you hadn’t experienced in a long time, and it made your heart swell.

“Thank you,” you managed to whisper, and for a moment, you thought you saw the corner of Wednesday’s mouth twitch in a ghost of a smile.

The more time you spent together, the more your feelings began to shift. There was something intoxicating about Wednesday—the way she moved, the way she spoke with such conviction and intelligence. You found yourself looking forward to her presence, her shadow becoming a constant comfort amidst the chaos of Nevermore.

One day, while working on a school project in the library, you accidentally brushed your fingers against hers while reaching for a book. The contact was electric, sending a jolt of warmth through your body. You froze, meeting her gaze, your heart racing as you realized how close you had become.

“Y/N,” she said, her voice low and steady. “Are you afraid of me?”

You shook your head, the words tumbling out before you could think. “No. I’m… intrigued. You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met.”

She seemed to consider your words, her dark eyes searching yours. “I suppose I’m not.”

With a sudden confidence, you leaned closer, your heart pounding in your chest. “Why do you protect me?”

“Because you’re worth protecting,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, but the weight of her words hung in the air like a spell.

The moment stretched between you, filled with unspoken emotions and possibilities. You wanted to reach out, to close the distance, but the moment was fragile.

“Do you want to be friends?” you asked, your voice trembling slightly.

“Friends,” Wednesday repeated, her brow furrowing slightly as she considered the term. “I suppose that would be acceptable.”

As the weeks turned into months, your bond with Wednesday deepened. You shared secrets in the dark corners of the library, and her dry humor slowly chipped away at the walls you had built around your heart. There were moments when her fingers would brush against yours, lingering just a heartbeat longer, and you felt a thrill that was both exciting and terrifying.

But as your friendship grew, so did your feelings. You found yourself daydreaming about her—wondering what it would be like to hold her hand, to share whispered secrets late at night. You caught her watching you more often, and each time your eyes met, it felt like a silent understanding passed between you.

One afternoon, you found yourselves alone in the courtyard, the sun casting a warm glow over everything. You were sitting on a bench, reading, when Wednesday approached, her expression thoughtful.

“Y/N,” she said softly, her tone serious. “I need to talk to you.”

You looked up, meeting her intense gaze. “What is it?”

“Do you believe in destiny?” she asked, her voice almost hesitant.

You frowned, taken aback by her sudden vulnerability. “I suppose… it depends on what you mean.”

“I believe that certain people are meant to cross paths,” she continued, her dark eyes searching yours. “And I believe that you were meant to be here.”

Your heart raced as her words sank in. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she said, taking a deep breath, “that I’ve never cared about anyone the way I care about you. You’re… different. You make me feel things I don’t understand.”

You felt your cheeks flush as you processed her words. “I feel the same way, Wednesday.”

She stepped closer, her gaze unwavering. “Then let’s stop pretending. We can be more than friends, if you want.”

You nodded, unable to speak as you felt tears prick your eyes. In that moment, you realized how far you had come. You had gone from being a scared girl, bullied and alone, to standing here with someone who saw you for who you truly were.

And then she was there, her lips brushing against yours—a soft, tentative kiss that quickly turned into something more passionate. You melted against her, wrapping your arms around her waist as you kissed her back, your heart soaring with a mixture of joy and relief.

When you pulled away, both of you breathless, Wednesday looked at you with an intensity that made your heart race. “This changes everything,” she said, her voice low and serious.

“Yes,” you agreed, smiling through your tears. “For the better.”

And as you stood there together, the shadows of Nevermore seemed a little less daunting, the future a little more promising. In Wednesday’s presence, you felt like you could finally be yourself, free from the burdens of the past. You were no longer alone, and that made all the difference.

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zweigsangel · 6 months ago

Text

pairing: older!rafe x spoiled!kook!reader warnings: smut, age gap (18&22), pet names, p in v, unprotected sex, rough sex and more. word count: 2720

this is so long i’m sorryyyy, but i’m kinda proud of how it turned out so hope you enjoy !

you were a spoiled little brat. always demanding and getting what you wanted. your tantrums were a familiar scene, a tool you wielded expertly against your parents. and they always seemed to work, every. single. time. luxury bags, designer costumes, the latest dresses — you had everything that other girls could only dream of having. your life was perfect; boys were at your feet, a lot of girlfriends, parties every night, and you were the star of the show. what else could someone expect from an eighteen-year-old kook?

“there’s going to be a party tonight,” one of your girlfriends exclaimed. it was a lazy afternoon, and you were surrounded by the luxurious comforts of your backyard. a few of your friends were splashing around in the pool, their laughter mingling with the sound of water lapping against the tiles. others, like you, were stretched out on the sun loungers, basking in the warm sun. the air was filled with the scent of sunscreen and the distant aroma of blooming flowers.

“and it’s not just any party,” she continued, her eyes wide with excitement. “there will be older guys there! you know, past their teen years.” those words captured your interest, pulling your attention away from the magazine you were pretending to read. you lowered your sunglasses just a bit, the world tinted slightly less dark. your yellow bikini contrasted beautifully with your sun-kissed skin, making you look like a radiant summer icon.

“really?” you asked, propping yourself up on your elbows. your friend nodded enthusiastically, her smile as bright as the sun overhead. at that moment, a collective buzz of excitement spread among you all. you started squealing, chatting animatedly, voices overlapping. you were discussing the perfect outfits and how to make the most striking impression at the party.

and, wow, you definitely did. that evening, you decided on a daring little black dress, strapless and shimmering with countless sequins that caught the light with every step you took. it was the kind of dress that demanded attention, hugging your body in all the right places, emphasizing your curves. the neckline plunged just enough to be provocative, hinting at the possibility of revealing a bit more if you moved the wrong way. it was also undeniably short, so much so that if you bent over even slightly, there was the risk of revealing the delicate lace of your panties. as you slipped into a pair of sky-high heels, you knew you were ready to captivate the room.

the lights — pink, blue, and red — created a kaleidoscope of colors that blurred your vision as you danced with your friends. the pulsing beats of the music drove you, your hips swaying rhythmically, your hands gliding over your chest, and your head tilted back, lost in the moment.

“i’m going to get something to drink,” you shouted to your friends, your voice barely cutting through the pulsating music. making your way through the crowd, you arrived at the bar and leaned your elbows on the countertop, its cool surface contrasting with the warmth of your skin. your fingers drummed impatiently as your eyes roamed the room.

then, your eyes caught sight of someone who instantly commanded your attention. standing across the room was a guy — no, a man — who you clearly knew. it was rafe cameron, a well-known kook, and undeniably one of the most influential. you’d always found him irresistibly attractive. as you watched him, you couldn’t help but notice the way his white shirt was unbuttoned just enough to tease a glimpse of his sculpted chest, the fabric hugging his broad shoulders and lean torso perfectly.

his dark pants emphasized his athletic physique, fitting snugly yet elegantly. his face was a captivating blend of sharp and soft features — a strong jawline that, high cheekbones, and a pair of eyes that seemed to smolder with an intense, piercing gaze. his hair was casually tousled, a style that gave him an effortlessly cool demeanor. as he laughed at something one of his friends said, his lips curved into a smile that revealed a row of perfectly white teeth.

you found yourself licking your lips unconsciously, drawn to the scene before you. after receiving your drink from the bartender, you straightened up and began to walk toward him.

“hi!” you said with an innocent smile as you leaned casually against rafe’s well-defined bicep. tilting your head up, you met his gaze. rafe looked down at you, a playful smirk playing on his lips. “what’s up, kid? i think you’re too young to be here,” he teased, just loud enough to be heard over the music. his breath was warm against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. he chuckled, the sound deep and resonant, as he turned back to his friends.

your smile faltered, replaced by a pout. you pulled your arm away from his bicep. “i’m not a kid. i’m eighteen!” you protested, crossing your arms over your chest in a defensive gesture. rafe shrugged nonchalantly, his casual dismissal only fueling your indignation. “yeah, and i’m almost 23, so kid,” he said, his tone light and teasing as he waved you off dismissively.

your eyebrows knitted together. how dare he talk to you like that? you turned on your heels, clicking sharply against the floor as you made your way back to your friends. your face was flushed, a mix of embarrassment and annoyance coloring your cheeks.

but if rafe thought you had already given up, well, he was dead wrong. as he turned back around, he found himself staring into your doe eyes, which were locked onto him. you blinked slowly, your long lashes brushing against your cheeks as you bit your lower lip.

even as you danced, you made sure rafe noticed you. the music seemed to pulse through your veins, guiding the sway of your hips and the fluid movements of your body, drawing attention to the curve of your waist and the smooth line of your legs. your eyes would occasionally flicker in his direction, making sure he knew exactly who you were performing for. you ran your hands through your hair, letting it fall around your shoulders in a cascade, framing your face perfectly.

and he watched you, chuckling and shaking his head as he took in how desperate you seemed. each flicker of your eyelashes and every provocative movement only seemed to amuse him more. his amusement was evident in the way his eyes crinkled at the corners and the barely-contained smile that tugged at his lips.

and then, poof, he was gone. “he’s probably gone off to jerk off thinking about you,” one of your friends said with a playful nudge, and you couldn’t help but smirk at the joke.

but your life continued as usual: shopping, beach days, pool parties, and constant social outings. it was the routine of a spoiled kook who had been accustomed to such luxury since childhood.

yet, rafe occasionally slipped into your thoughts. sometimes you'd find your mind drifting back to that encounter. you couldn’t help but think about him, especially the way he dismissed you with that amused smile. you found yourself imagining what it would be like to get under his skin, to turn the tables and make him crave your attention. the fantasy of him needing you, added an intriguing layer to your otherwise glamorous life, turning a fleeting moment into an obsession you couldn’t quite shake.

but when your parents told you it was time to start working, it felt like your life shattered into a thousand pieces. the carefree days of endless leisure and indulgence seemed to vanish in an instant, replaced by the looming specter of responsibility.

“work? no, daddy, i can't work! come on!” you protested, jumping up from the couch where you’d been lounging, utterly shocked to hear such a word coming out of your father’s mouth. “sweetheart, you're getting older. you need to start. it’s nothing strenuous, you can handle it,” he said, his tone calm but firm, as if he’d anticipated your reaction.

you rolled your eyes dramatically, shaking your head in disbelief. “mommy, tell him something,” you pleaded, turning to your mother for support. her face softened, but her resolve matched your father’s. “sweetie, your father is right. it’s time for you to start doing something meaningful with your life.”

“ugh! this is so unfair!” you exclaimed, storming out of the living room, your frustration bubbling over. “serving food and drinks at the golf club, what a thrill!” you continued, your voice dripping with sarcasm, even as you were already halfway down the hall. the very idea of work felt like a massive disruption to the perfect world you had always known.

so, the next day, you arrived at the golf club grounds dressed in a crisp white polo top and a lace-trimmed skirt that fluttered lightly in the gentle breeze. you chewed your gum with an exaggerated pop, twirling a lock of your hair around your finger as your eyes were glued to your phone. leaning casually against the cart brimming with food and drinks, you barely noticed the lush green expanse of the golf course stretching out before you or the players attempting to perfect their swings. your thoughts were miles away, already in the comfort of your backyard pool.

“hey kid, can i get a bottle of water?” a voice broke through your reverie, jolting you back to the present. you sighed audibly, a trace of annoyance evident as you reluctantly tore your gaze from the phone screen and looked up. your eyes widened slightly when you recognized rafe cameron standing there, his tall frame outlined against the bright sun. he was dressed in casual golf attire: a pair of dark athletic shorts and a fitted polo shirt that hugged his frame. the shirt was a rich shade of blue that contrasted sharply with his tanned skin. he was watching you with a raised eyebrow, his golf club draped over his shoulder, a subtle challenge in his posture.

for a moment, you froze, the gum stalling in your mouth, your fingers still entwined in your hair. his presence was unexpected, and it took a beat for you to recover from the surprise. “well?” he prompted, his tone a mix of impatience and amusement.

you quickly straightened up, smoothing out the non-existent wrinkles on your skirt. “yes. yes, sorry.” you murmured, flustered, as you hurriedly moved behind the cart. your fingers fumbled slightly as you grabbed a bottle of water, the cool condensation a stark contrast to the warmth of your hand. as you handed it over, his long fingers brushed against yours ever so slightly, a fleeting touch that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine.

rafe took the bottle, a small smirk playing on his lips as he noticed your reaction. “thanks,” he said, his voice a low murmur that seemed to linger in the air. for a brief moment, your eyes met, and the world around you seemed to fade, leaving just the two of you standing there, the quiet tension palpable. then, as quickly as it had come, the moment passed, and he turned away, leaving you standing by the cart, your heart beating just a little faster than before.

and so it was that you began to love going there every morning. what had started as just a shitty job quickly turned into something else entirely. each day, your skirts grew shorter, the hemlines creeping higher to show off more of your legs, and sometimes, when you bent down just right, a glimpse of your panties would peek out. your tops became more revealing too, plunging necklines that barely contained your chest, with half-exposed cleavage and the faint outline of your nipples visible through the thin fabric.

you’d wear sunglasses, but they were never really meant to hide your eyes. instead, you’d let them slide down to the tip of your nose, giving you a perfect view of the course while still maintaining an air of disinterest. in your mouth, a lollipop, the bright candy swirling slowly between your lips as you licked it. you knew exactly what you were doing, and you were enjoying every minute of it.

rafe observed every little detail, his eyes catching the deliberate way you acted. he was well aware that every gesture was calculated to get his attention. the others noticed it too, their comments cutting through the atmosphere with lines like, “man, why don’t you just go for it?” he’d shake his head, trying to ignore their jabs, but inside he was a mess. you were younger than him, yet the way you acted around him seemed to defy that boundary.

each night, when he returned home, he would retreat to his room or the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind him. he would free his aching erection, his mind consumed by thoughts of you. he’d stroke himself, imagining you acting like a total slut just for him. he knew it was all wrong, utterly wrong, but the fantasy consumed him entirely. no one could ever discover the depths of his obsession, the way his desire twisted his thoughts.

and one day, he could no longer contain himself. after everyone else had left, only the two of you remained. he seized your arm with a firm grip, dragging you forcefully toward the locker room. “what the fuck!” you shouted in surprise, but he didn’t acknowledge your outburst. without a word, he yanked open the door of the nearest bathroom and shoved you against the wall, shutting the door behind him with a harsh click. his voice, a low and menacing whisper, cut through the tense silence as he muttered, “you little slut, you’re finally gonna get what you want.” his fingers fumbled with his pants and boxers, pulling them down in a swift, determined motion.

he moved your soaked panties to the side and slid his throbbing cock inside of you in one powerful motion. rafe lifted your legs, wrapping them around his hips, as one hand slipped underneath your thigh, providing support and the other encircled your neck. your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling and gripping as your body arched in pleasure. loud moans and gasps filled the little bathroom.

“you’re so tight— fuck.” his voice was ragged, filled with primal desire as he whispered in your ear, his words sending a jolt of anticipation through your body. the heat of his breath against your skin made you tremble, your senses heightening with each passing moment. your eyes closed in bliss, head falling back in surrender to the pleasure that consumed you. his hand gripped your chin. "you couldn't wait, could you? to be filled by my cock," he taunted, a smirk playing on his lips as he felt you nod eagerly, a silent affirmation of your longing. "i want words, kid," he demanded, his breath warm against your flushed skin. "yes, shit—yes," you moaned out, your body responding instinctively to his touch, your walls tightening around him.

"acting like a whore just f’me. cum, baby," he grunted. with each thrust, his cock was sliding in and your pussy with a quickened pace, creating a symphony of skin slapping against skin, the little space filled with the sound of it. your skirt was hiked up to your hips, fully exposed to him, while your hands gripped his shoulders tightly as you pulled at his shirt, overcome by the intensity of the moment.

with a guttural groan, he released himself inside you, his body tensing with the force of his release. you reached your orgasm too, your back arched in ecstasy as waves of pleasure washed over you. the air was thick with the scent of sex and sweat as you both rode the waves of climax together.

he lowered you, placing one hand on your hip as he noticed the trembling of your legs. his other hand gently caressed your cheek, streaked with mascara that had smudged from tears. "see you tomorrow, kid," he murmured, his voice rough and gravelly. then he turned and walked out of the bathroom, the door clicking softly behind him. left alone, you stood there, a faint, satisfied smile spreading across your lips, swollen and red.

you had finally gotten what you wanted.

#outer banks #obx #rafe cameron #rafe obx #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron one shot #rafe cameron thoughts #smut #18+ mdni

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bxnnybimbeax · 8 months ago

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thinking about.. best friend!satoru gojo who immediately answers when you come calling

bestie!gojo who not-so-secretly, secretly has feelings for you

bestie!gojo who knows everything there is to know about you. Your oh-so wonderful taste in partners… Your likes and dislikes, hobbies, career plans, plans for the future.. anything and everything. Even if you do or don’t exactly tell him

bestie!gojo who drops everything that he’s doing to come see you, when hearing your incoherent sentences of something along the lines of, “…. dumped boyfriend… cheated..”

bestie!gojo who comforts you in your time of need. Listening to all your rants about your ex-boyfriend, supplying you with whatever he thinks would cheer you up, offering you comforting words instead of solutions.

What a great best friend to have!! Right..?

“I hate him so much! What a no good bitch ass womanizer!!” You exclaimed in a fit of rage, scrolling through the posts of the woman who, your ex cheated on you with, as satoru tiredly sighs.

“What does she have that I don’t-“ and before you could continue on, you get cut off by your best friend, Satoru. “Absolutely nothing, sweetheart. You should know your worth by now. It’s not something you have or ‘don’t have,’ it’s the simple minded mentality of… What’s his name again?— Doesn’t matter, He’s too simple minded to know the true worth of what he has in front of him.” He tangibly states, as if it was the most well-known fact in the world.

You attempted to up at him through your clouded vision, blinking away tears that spilled like waterfalls. Taking glances between Satoru, and the images on your phone, you stay silent as he studies you, pools of cool colored diamond eyes staring into yours, hoping to see any slight change of positivity.

He sighs again, taking a seat on your bed as he snatches your phone away from you, and before you could protest, he cuts you off once again… by pulling you close, into a hug. Instinctively, you wrap your arms around him, as you let out all your pent up feelings. Sobbing into his chest, as he soothes circles into your back, not caring that you mess up whatever designer shirt he’s wearing.

Satoru’s heart breaks hearing you hurt, he wants nothing more than to ruin whoever was the cause of your problems. But right now, he’s more focused on you.

Satoru hushes your cries, wiping away the salty crystalline off your face as he speaks up, “Oh baby, don’t waste your tears on him. He has no idea what he’s missing out on. Don’t waste your energy on a leech that only takes from you, and never gives. Your deserve someone who reciprocates your feelings, and so much more.” He admitted in a dulcet tone, giving feathery caresses to the side of your face, as he placed a sparse kiss to the side of your temple.

“Cheer up, theses plenty of people who would give the world and die for your affection.” He states in a much more cheerful and playful tone, making you laugh in response to his exaggerated claim.

…

best friend! Satoru who stays with you, through the night. Comforting and creating a much more positive atmosphere to the contrasted gloomy mood

best friend! Satoru who maybe, you don’t see as just a friend anymore..?

A/N: Whats goody gangy. ☝🏾🤓 Sorry I was gone for 5 months I was going thru it with some bitch ass nigga I dumped, which is kinda what I based this fic off of, except no boy bsf I’m in love with to comfort me.💔 He made me delete tumblr so I couldn’t write 😞 I still kept on reading tho 😈

Not proof read btw, bc I’m high as a mf, writing with dyslexia. And it’s late a night, idk if it’s gonna be late when I post this tho😛

If y’all sent a request, resend it plssss. 🙏🏾 I need inspo mookies, and if you have a request feel free to send one in. Msg me abt wtv, and lmk if I can improve on anything

Thanks lovies take care and, hope y’all enjoyed!! 🩷

-bxnnybimbeax

#jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #jjk satoru #gojo jjk #jjk gojo #jujitsu kaisen gojo #jjk oneshot #jujutsu kaisen satoru #jjk fluff #jjk headcanons #gojo x reader #satoru x you #gojo x you #satoru x reader #reqs open #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you

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iwaasfairy · 1 year ago

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┌─ “ ! „ SPARKSTONE

tw. blood kink, noncon, pain play, lashing/whipping, toji’s foul n mean, degradation, prostitution, daddy kink, kinda size kink as always w me heheghe wordcount. 4.6k

a/n. thank you a million to the loveliest friends who always keep me goin when i'm having a hard timEEE rhi, wil and dymmiEE thanK YOU SO SO MUCH FOR betaing ily so much ♡ i hope i did the big man justice he is so yucky n i love it,, also extra shOutout n love dym bc she gave me the vision i saw i came i had to have it so !! iLY ILY ILY

fushiguro toji x fem!reader

If you know one thing from your years hiding in the shadows of the more powerful, it’s that danger has a taste. It sticks to your skin, longing for an opening. And tightens around your organs as you swallow it down, setting your hairs on end. Instinctually, humans know danger when they sense it, and by that same measure, they’re usually smart enough to hide before they get found. You might be simple prey in the eyes of the strong, but you hate the feeling deeply, and avoid it where you can.

You’re always aware of eyes that trail you, and you can smell it in the air.

The burgundy walls and nice chandelier bloom like a flower when it gets dark out. It fits the business. Like moths to a flame, that warmth lures men with a promise of a warm body and expert secrecy, and usually that’s plenty. Luckily for you, most of them leave before their wives start to wonder, which means you don’t have to deal with the drunk and impatient by the time you come in for a shift by early morning. Your days are easy, if you pretend you don’t know what types of people stumble home from their rooms in the seedier back of the building. Smelling of booze and body fluids and most of all, sex. That’s how it is.

Sorcerers are people too, by your cousin’s words. He’s not wrong. By the types of people that come in and out of the doors day and night, he made a smart investment starting this place a few years ago, and you’re grateful to get to work here. There’s no place for small-fry cursed energy users out in the daylight— and you’re not exactly dying to lay your life down for others in the first place. It’s this, or even less savory jobs for those people like you, who see things that others don’t. You’re more than happy with a simple life sitting behind the front desk, and going home to crash before the grosser individuals have a chance to harass you.

Which is why your skin itches a bit when the soft cling of the bell sounds so late it’s early. You’ve barely had enough time to open the doors. For not the first time, there’s a soft buzz of a warning sign that greets you as you sigh. Isn’t 5 in the morning a little early for even the more degenerate types? You get up to hang your jacket in the back room as you hear heavy steps make it into the foyer, and swallow. The slight pulling of cold under your skin has your lips pressed tight, swallowing. They don’t ring the bell, don’t yell or break things, don’t even talk. But they also don’t turn to leave.

So you smooth your hands down your pants, and eventually walk back to your spot behind the counter. It’s still dark out, still has the uncomfortable pressure that lingers as you cast a quick glance around the room.

And all you see is eyes that pull a cold shiver up your spine so quick it freezes you in place. The dark figure is splayed out with his arms over one of the couches, but those sharp eyes don’t move an inch from you when you meet them. Narrowed in their cold, metal blue darkness, and all-consuming. The man is not young, not old - but definitely older than you, scarred and quiet, and you can’t help it- when that foul, dangerous taste wells up in your mouth in the form of saliva.

After only a few seconds, you grab the phone and ring a number one, taking it off the horn for your own safety. It rings as the man gets up with a sigh and walks towards you, only leaving the space of the desk between you two. There's a soft mumble on the other side of the call, but because the horn is pressed to your desk, you can’t make out exactly what’s said before the customer - you assume he’s a customer, judging by the foul sort of stench of death that follows him around - clears his voice.

Only a sorcerer can have that sort of smell, and no sorcerer would enter here if not out for one thing. You don’t normally do intake, you realize as your hand trembles just slightly. You leave the horn of the phone for a pen instead, and try to rid your throat of the thick block that pushes on your windpipe. “Welcome. How can I help you?”

The man’s hair is messy, lazy, much like his clothing is; and he takes a moment to look around before his eyes flick to the stack of notes before you, the phone, and then you again. “Ah, uhm. Are there rooms open this late? Or early, I guess.” He ends up saying, a bored sort of lilt to his deep voice. You can’t even meet his eyes, but you can feel the painfully intense stare that doesn’t move from you again as you put on your best smile.

“There- should be, yes. Hmm, let’s see. Do you have a preferred girl you’d like to see here today?” Your hand only stops shaking when you press the tip of the pen to paper, if only to give your hand something to do as you quickly flick between the pages of the book.

“Not really.” He runs his hand under his nose, before leaning both forearms onto the desk and invading your space too much. You barely resist the urge to jerk back entirely, and feel the heat travel between you two. See, you were never able to fight curses. But you did always have a good nose, and his presence is like maggots crawling around under your skin. It’s unbearable. Your lids flutter as you stop flicking, and just focus on not throwing up entirely. Every part of him stinks of rot, oozing danger enough to suffocate you.

You simply pick one of the names at random, and start digging through the shelf for the correct key as fast as you can. Your heart hammers in your chest like that of a hummingbird, and is almost loud enough to keep you from hearing him when he speaks again. You can’t quite bear to meet his gaze, but one look up at his mouth reveals a tiny sort of curl to his lips that’s just as upsetting as the stench that swirls around the room. Everything feels wrong, and you want to stop yourself from hurling your guts out over the table. The man taps his finger on the counter a few times. “Are you new?”

Your head shakes faster than you can think about the answer. It wouldn’t be of any use lying anyway. For some reason, you feel like he’d be able to see right through you. When you finally find the right key, you feel like a weight lifts from your chest, and you slide it across the stone towards him. “I always work the morning shift, I don’t do nights.”

“Hm.” He doesn’t need to say anything else. Only when you slide the paper form across the table too, do you notice the call has disconnected - you’re not sure for how long - and you manage to force your eyes up to face him for just long enough not to seem impolite. But your blood still feels uncomfortable and itchy, even when he slowly picks up the pen and starts writing his name down at the top of the form. After a few seconds, he clicks the pen to his chin, and looks down at you with a coy smile as he straightens up. “Actually, what about you? You’re a skittish, little thing, and I have a bit of a hunger for something light and fresh today— I had the longest night ever.”

His scar pulls when the smile gets a bit more predatory, and you feel pinned in place like an insect under a magnifying glass when he aims the pen at you. “Looks like you’re a good listener, sweet girl.”

“I- I-” you start, stepping back until your back hits the wall and even then, there’s not nearly enough space between you and him, “I just work as a receptionist. I don’t do-” You might puke after all. Those eyes only seem to get wider when your bottom lip wobbles, and you feel the sick sense of glee he gets rather than see it. You don’t think -no, you know- you couldn’t take him in a fight, but still your fists ball up tight.

The lift dings though, to your relief, and a familiar face rushes out to give you an up and down. Your cousin’s got a bed head, deep grooves under his eyes as he jogs up beside you. “What the hell, you’re fine! When you didn’t respond on the phone I thought something might’ve happened to you.” You can’t say anything back, but you’re so glad to see him your mouth drops open and a little whimper comes out of your throat despite yourself. The young man frowns, before glancing to his side and - pauses. You can’t exactly place the expression he gets, but he must feel what you’re still feeling laced in the air, because he blinks a few times before taking a step back. “What’s this?”

“I was just telling him I’m- o-only a front desk worker,” you start, shuffling uncomfortably when those steely eyes find your body, giving you an awfully unsubtle once over. Pig. He doesn’t even bother to hide the way he’s undressing you with his eyes. Your cousin thankfully hums in agreement, and crosses his arms over his chest. “So-”

The brazen noiret doesn’t hesitate to nod though. And the confident tone from earlier doesn’t waver a bit. It’s like he’s barely inconvenienced by your statement at all. Like you’re playing hard to get. You’re not. "That's fine by me. But I’m going to be the exception.” Under his sloppy clothing, there’s no doubt he’s fit. He’s tall, and obviously wired with thick muscle that makes his shirt cling to his biceps, even more when he crosses over the furniture to reach a hand out to you, and make your shivers so much worse. “Come, little deer. I’m gonna have some fun with you.”

Your cousin places a hand on the other man’s shoulder though. “She’s not that kind of employee, sir. I’m gonna have to ask you to leave, or else-”

“Or else what?” You swear you can feel a pin drop when his eyes finally move away from you, now at the other man. Your heart still beats wildly. “How about this, huh. You let me play with your little friend here, and I’ll decide not to kill you, her and then everyone in here for making my long night even longer.” He doesn’t even have to straighten up for you to feel like he means it. Even without flashing a weapon, or pulling out some fancy cursed technique, do you feel the increase in thick waves of tension; drowning you in that same, rotting stench of incoming disaster. You can’t ignore it, can’t do anything but gasp shallow, little breaths when he does round on your family, squaring up to him.

Though they’re both about as tall, the stranger’s built like a brick wall. He must know that, because he laughs. “I’ll be very nice to her, don’t worry.” His eyes tell everyone daring to take a peek that he doesn’t mean it, but at least you don’t flinch when he looks at you this time. Ah, that’s right. You really do hate sorcerers. The black haired man walks past to come grab your arm, and tosses the key you provided him earlier high into the air before catching it. It instantly is too tight, and hurts. You plant your heels into the floor, hang back with your whole body. You want to scream. Your other hand claws at his strong palm -wrung like a vice around your wrist- and you start to whimper.

“N-wait, let me go. I don’t work here like that, I- leave me alone, let me go!” You get pulled along anyway, like you’re a toddler throwing a tantrum; he yanks you with barely any effort and sends you stumbling behind him. “No, I don’t want- aniki! Aniki, tell him- I’m not- I’m not for sale.” Hair whips around as you try to plead with the man left standing in the lobby, but though he looks guilt-stricken and apologetic, he doesn’t move from his spot. You don’t have a say in the way the man dressed in all black drags you behind, even when you try to make yourself dead weight and stop him. “No, no, no, wait, please! Kou aniki! Kou~ help me!”

You get it.

“Let me go! Let me go, pl-please! Hck.” Your voice breaks when wetness spills down to your hot cheeks. Really, you do get it. But the lamb still spooks when presented with the gun, even if it doesn’t run.

You’re sat on the edge of the bed as tears run down your cheeks and drip off your nose.

You can’t imagine it makes for a very appealing sight, but whether it’s indifference or sexual gratification, it’s clear your grief doesn’t matter to him. Toji, he said his name is, but you only know that ‘so you can cry it later’. It makes you sick - the sight of him makes you want to dig your nails into your own palms until you bleed. This is how it is for the weak everywhere, right? Sit and wait to die. As the cold embraces your body again, you sniffle, but wipe the tears away. You’re not a fan of waiting.

If he’s going to do it, better do it quick. Before you decide to start biting anyway. The dim lighting of the reddish room doesn’t do anything to warm the mood except make you even more aware of him as he kicks off sandals, slowly, demanding attention. He stares you down like a predator keeps an eye on his prey. The scent is still suffocating, but there’s a more alarming feeling blanketing your senses now. You’re scared. There’s nothing you can do about it, it’s in the goosebumps on your skin as he walks closer, and you scoot back onto the soft mattress to avert your eyes to yourself.

You’d rather go out kicking and screaming- but with your fear ran so high, you settle for the second best thing. “So, you’re not going to kill everyone, but just me, huh?” He’s taking off his belt as you ball your hands in the fabric, and force yourself to watch him under heavy lashes, with as much hatred as you can. “You like that? Scaring girls half your size?” You’re not sure either why you’re running your mouth. It must be the high of incoming death. “Does that make you feel powerful?” He doesn’t even pause, and pulls his shirt over his head to drop it aside too, then licks his lips.

After a slight moment of silence, he just shrugs. “Yeah. It does.” You scramble back until you reach the head of the bed, and pull your knees to your body. And the man crawls closer anyway, reaching to grab one of your ankles and drag you back. You don’t know why you’re struggling. It’d be easier if you laid down and died. As if reading your mind, he chuckles as he yanks you down until you’re spread out on your back, and pins you in place beneath his heavy body. “Don’t be so frightened. I’m not actually going to kill you.” He pushes over you, and makes sure you’re nose to nose when he talks next, basically drooling as you try to escape from him. “Just going to hurt you pretty bad. Don’t you like that?”

You struggle against him, but it’s not enough. He ties your hands to the bed painfully tight, letting the frayed edge of the rope burn into your skin each time you move- and proceeds to cut your clothes off with the knife that was hidden in his waistband. The torturous pace at which he does everything is almost worse, setting your entire body on end with anticipation. You thrash against him as he places a thigh either side of your body, and grabs your face in a large, rough hand. Once again you feel reminded that you’re really nothing in the face of someone more powerful. It’s frustrating. It’s annoying, and hurtful, and a migraine starts gnawing at your head as you glare up at him. And he almost pouts at you in mockery. “It’s cute that you’re trying so hard. You can cry, you know?” He leans in to lick along the shell of your ear down to your neck. “It’s going to happen sooner or later anyway. Why deny yourself?”

The hot touch of his tongue sears into your skin like it’s poison. You try to pull your wrists loose again, to no avail. The skin just feels achy and burning. “That’s really what you want to do, right? Cry for mommy and daddy to save you?” When he pushes back up to your mouth, laying his filthy lips on you again, you’re quicker than you think - and actually manage to bite him. It’s not enough to cause much damage before he jerks back, clenching one hand over your mouth to shut you up. But he runs a thumb along his bottom lip, and slowly starts grinning. Blood glitters on that finger before he licks it away, and raises his dark eyebrows at you. “Aren’t you brave…”

Before you have time to prepare yourself, that heavy palm meets your cheek, stinging it all over and rushing blood to the surface — it’s hard enough to pull real tears out of you, and your nose to start running as you bury your face into your arm. The sting spreads under the surface like fire. The low chuckle he lets out is mean and predatory, definitely when he takes that as an opening to start groping you through your bra, and soon that’s shoved up too to let him pet all over you. “Good. I don’t have to feel bad about all this, then.”

“Mh- hck-,” you whimper, trying to ignore the painful tugs he gives your nipples, pinching you. It still sends heat to your belly, and somehow that’s the most embarrassing thing of all. You hate him. More than anyone. “I-”

“Don’t say you’re sorry. I won’t believe you anyway.” He quickly whispers back, leaning in to force his mouth to yours and kiss you, tongue pushing against your teeth until you give in. He tastes like blood. His own, from the cut that’s not yet closed up; and he kisses like he’s trying to consume you. Rough hands knead and toy with your tits until you start squirming, before they glide down and make enough space to peel your panties down your thighs torturously slow. “Ahh, you look good like this. So pretty. Stay there.” He chuckles to himself as he gets up and you whine, not for him, but more his dragging it out. It’s not like you have a choice about staying…

When he comes back to you, something cold makes you jerk your eyes open. It’s something long and capped metal at the end, not sharp enough to stab you clean through— but it’s still hard and sharp and anxiety has you freezing below him. “Wh- what, what are you-” Would anyone even come help if you screamed?

Toji slaps the thing into his palm a few times, before those mean eyes glide over you, and you find yourself crossing your legs tight to protect your most sensitive areas instinctively. The sound of the metal whipping through the air is more than enough to put fear into you. Your lip trembles when he gets back onto the bed, and mirth plays in his eyes. “This is going to hurt.” Then he whips his hand down and instantly, your eyes shoot open with pain. Blood splatters as he cuts you open, each impact leaving a cut and nasty thumping that will make a bruise, telltale sign of a cursed tool.

“Ack- no, no- please stop! Stop, stop, please! Please, it hurts! It hurts!” Your eyes clench shut, but tears well up and come out anyway, making tracks down your cheeks. It stings so bad, and after even just a few lashings, you can’t stand it. Everything’s glowing and burning, hot all over as your knees knock together. Another whip has you trying to pull your arms out harder, to no avail. You don’t want to look, but the pain in your hands tells you that the heat running down your arm must be blood. Didn’t he say he wasn’t going to kill you? “Please, please, Toji. I’ll do anything! Anything, please- j-just no more.”

“I refuse.”

“Please~” you sob, only opening your eyes to see how he stands bent over you with his tongue caught between his teeth, head tilted in curiosity like a dog. The whip is dripping red, hot blood down onto his hands, and though it seems impossible to have so much blood coating everything- it’s yours, right? He stays quiet for a moment or two, and the thick tears wobble over your vision. “Please, I don’t want to die. Please. Please. I’m -” your throat closes up when he leans his heavy weight down over you and hovers his lips over your mouth, “I’m beg-begging you.” One hand comes up to grab your face, and he buries his nose into your throat, where a wet tongue starts swiping along your skin.

The soft groan he lets out is foul, coming back up with his mouth full of your blood, and he grins. “Keep going. Beg like a good girl~” Then he dips down, forcing his tongue and the coppery, familiar taste into your mouth, melting his lips to yours as he hums. His strong chest meets your naked, pitiful form as one hand comes down to yank your leg up around him, and the kissing gets more distracting, warmer, deeper — you want him to stay just like this. “Keep talking,” he whispers again, lower this time, and when you’re opening your eyes his stained hands are back to kneading your tits. “You’re sort of cute covered like this, whining like a baby. C’mon.”

Red’s covering everything. Every cut on your body is searing and tight and painful, and he’s pushing his thumbs along the closing wounds as if he’s trying to leak every last drop out of you; but you can’t really feel it. It must be adrenaline you feel coursing through your veins like a drug, goading your heart into pumping so hard you can see it bounce through the skin. “Pl-please.” Your chest rattles, as he watches you. As he degrades you, lifting both your legs up to your chest to spread you for him. “Please, Toji. Please f-fuck me instead. I w- need you to.” He takes the knife used to cut off your clothes, and ever so slowly drags it along the supple inside of your thighs.

And though you jerk, and your jaw clenches while tears fall, you can’t help it. You’re shaking your head, but your pussy clenches around nothing. “Please, please, need you. I’m sorry, I want- I want it. I wan’it… daddy.” Despite the short inhale he takes, sharp eyes pinning you beneath him like the crying mess you are, it’s not his reaction that has you blushing, heat filling your entire face with that cottony feeling. You’re so fucking weak. It’s pathetic.

“Hah,” he snorts when watching you wiggle and cry, presenting your wet, little hole to him, “whiny brat.” His hand lands onto your pussy and it makes you jerk again, squirming against his strong grip, before he turns his palm to grind into your clit and his fingers teasing into the soft folds. The wet squelching doesn’t stop the stinging tingling down your entire body, but - it’s also so unfair. You can feel yourself drip as his thick fingers slide in and out of you again and again, pushing into your plush walls just right. “Call out for daddy, go on.” You don’t want to know how much of it is blood, or how much is your own body betraying you.

You don’t see when he takes off his boxers, now finally as naked as you are - but you do see it when he starts rubbing the head of his heavy cock over your slicked up slit, catching your clit every once in a while. He cocks one brow at you at your silence, and softly hums a deep, raspy breath. You really are weak. “Daddy, daddy, please- pl-hck- please put it in, I’m losing my mind.”

“Seems like it,” he mumbles back, a cocky grin reappearing right before he grabs himself by the base and leads his fat cock inside you with no further warning. He’s too big as soon as he shoves himself inside halfway, grabbing your hair as you wiggle against him. The other half is forced deeper as his cock bumps your walls, makes your pussy drool and clench, and your mouth hangs open as you try to keep from screaming. Your back lifts off the bed a few times, legs opening wider to make room for his thick thighs as he bottoms out and stretches you too thin. “That’s a nice noise.” He’s laughing.

You can’t relate. Your entire body feels wound too tight, legs locking around his glutes in the naïve hope for some reprieve— before he pulls back and holds himself above you. Scared pecs and arms flex when he pulls all the way out, only to thrust back in too deep and have you choking on it. It’s hitting so deep it leaves you speechless. “Make it again,” he gloats as he chuckles into your face, before kissing you again, and this time he bites your lip, hard enough to taste copper. Oh, fuck. You cling onto the ropes for dear life with your numb fingers, and try to wrap your legs back around him with a choked whimper; but you can’t.

You’re shaking, and your pussy’s clenching and sucking around him hard each time his hips meet yours and heavy balls smack against your ass. You feel like he’s going to fuck you through the wall. Drool’s mixed with the blood you swallow, letting his tongue melt to yours, and make you even more needy for air. Each pump inside you gushes more slick out of your cunt, lewd noises and ‘pap’s filling the room along with his grunts. And you only pull away to gasp, and get pulled down onto him again and again. “Daddy, daddy, I’m- gonna- cum.”

And he plants a hand on your throat to squeeze until your eyes cross, free hand going to hold your shivering thighs in place as he buries his cock deep into your plush walls. “Dumb, dumb girl- I don’t need- ugh- you to tell me that.” You’re folded double entirely as he keeps the rhythm entirely ruthless, and your belly starts tightening under your body jerks shut around him, crying out. You can’t even feel your hands anymore, and your breathing’s so shallow and confused you’re lightheaded. Your toes curl so hard you feel like you’ll pass out, but Toji doesn’t stop. Not even when hot ropes of cum fill the heat of your spasming pussy up and spill out— he doesn’t even slow.

#kinktober #toji x reader #fushiguro toji x reader #toji smut #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #tw.dark content #tw.lashing #tw.noncon #tw.blood #tw.marking #tw.daddy kink

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boofeine · 1 month ago

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New Year's Kiss

pairing: seventeen x reader

genre: headcanons, suggestive

warnings: mdni, kissing, nothing much... it's kinda fluff

a/n: happy new year!!! wishing a wonderful 2025 ahead for you, and i hope all of your resolutions come to reality <3

tags: @huen1ngk4i @aaniag @svteensworld @kooqitas @unlikelysublimekryptonite @kwannibalism

seungcheol runs to a taxi with your hands together, trying to hide from the sudden hard snow. you both sit breathless in the back seat, the air cold and funny as you both giggle around. the tip of your nose pinky that seungcheol finds cute and your plumpy lips way too tempting. "you look so cute" he suddenly bursts out, his palms hugged on gloves cagging your cheeks on an attempt to arm your face; but it just affects your stomach instead, the little butterflies as he stares your eyes and then your mouth. "can i kiss you?" he asks. your mouths connecting with the muffled cheers from outside telling you it's a new year ahead.

jeonghan has been flirting with you shamelessly for hours now. you know, you know this, you watch this happen with your group of friends a lot, you were just never the chosen one. he keeps teasing you, saying absurds and laughing later, you're actually getting frustrated... that's until you know it's a real thing. "thought new years would be a good place to start" he says when the clock is approaching midnight. you ask confused what he means, and he simply adds, "i really like you, would you let me kiss you?" and when the kiss is said and done, jeonghan stares into your eyes and asks you out.

joshua is sweet like the gentleman he is. he hugs you softly, wishing you a happy new year, his smile making his bambi eyes tiny, making it hard not to feel a little in love. he stays in your embrace, a kiss to the top of your head "happy new year, yn-ie" he says, and you reply with your cheeks aching from so much happiness. he breaks the silence after a few minutes "can i make a wish for this year?" he says and you nod on his chest "i hope i get a kiss from you" he concludes. you swallow dry, finally looking up at him "you have to wish something else" you were a little mean, you think, because his whole face twists but you're fast to add "because this one is already coming true" you say coming closer as your lips finally fits together with a air of relief.

jun sees you laying on the door frame by yourself. people are starting to run around, screaming it's close to midnight. you stay there watching the commotion with a vision of the outside, that you don't even realize jun joining you. his low tone catching your attention when he starts to count down as everyone does. you look up smiling to him as he does the same for you, his sight moving up and then back to your face. as you follow his eyes, you can see the mistletoe just above you two on the frame, you can feel your face flushing when he shoots "i guess you own me a kiss" his steps coming closer, the fireworks exploding outside, not even close to your heartbeat as your lips touches his.

soonyoung pulls you up on his arms with a tight hug while the fireworks explode around you. you both smile happily as he twirls you around on his arms, greeting you the new year with warmth and so much happiness. everything happens too fast, your kiss on his cheeks getting on the side of his lips before he drops you down, and everything stops around you, the pinning stare as you both lean to a real kiss this time around.

wonwoo just bumps on you in the middle of the party chaos. that being the first time you two make yourselves known on the place. you stop, greating each other warmly, completely forgetting new year is soon and you both should probably go find your friends and family before midnight. you just keep chatting and updating each other of how your lives are going, the kiss happening so suddenly and naturally. the fireworks startling you both as you just giggles on each others mouths, accepting the new start.

jihoon hates to make you sad, and he knows that chosing to stay alone at home on new years is one way to do it. he stares at the snow going down his window, reminiscing the call that happened just a few minutes ago, with you, and how he wanted to say he was sorry. the bell suddenly rings, and jihoon comes to open the door, with your figure right in front of his eyes, wet hair from the rain as you embrace him in a big hug. "i wouldn't spend new years with anyone else" you say, your lips coming together with his and passion as the clock hits midnight.

seokmin was wanting this for a while now but never was able to gather enough courage. and when he finally does, it's not in the greatest scenario, but he wouldn't lose that one last hope. the loude music and chatting echoes in the room as you both dance beside each other. he suddenly comes closer "can i kiss you when the new year turn" he shouts, and you wonder if you heard it wrong around all that noise. the sudden confection making you flush. your head screams YES!! but you're unable to word it out. but when midnight comes, he will know your answer with your lips pressed on his own.

mingyu is just as clumsy as you. your ways of greeting each other happy new year all over the place. you laugh together when you almost bump heads before the hug fit. the smiles dying down when your heads move to the side together, both with the same idea of landing a sweet cheek kiss that turns into a peck when you reach each other's lips instead. your eyes go big, and your body stiffs, but none of you pull out as you relax on his embrace and just kiss.

minghao is one of those people that you meet without warning, he's a friend of a friend of yours that came along for the year turn. it's been a few hours of conversation, but you're sure he'll be someone to keep for the next year. you can already tell honesty is his cup of tea, and he proves you right when he openly tells you how beautiful and easy to talk you are. "that's been actually the best conversation i've had in ages" he concludes and you want to die in shyness, you feel little butterflies in your stomach and the way his perfect shaped lips move when he's talking makes you want to try it. you go silent and he askes... as he is, you answer honestly "i was just wondering how your lips might taste", "you can try it out" he says and your lips meets more times than the whole year throughout this night, making it not different on midnight.

seungkwan promises to take you home after the new years party you both were. it's just on the door of your apartment that he makes out with you in the back of his car. it comes at a surprise how into it you are and how his hands hug you perfectly as he kisses you. the hot air around you both blurrying the windows as you just see the smug flashing lights from the fireworks that announce you it's a new year. "Happy new years, yn-ie" he says, caressing your cheeks as if you haven't kissed as you were hungry for it minutes before. — (edited from ripe clementines :D)

vernon had joked about it, how "funny" it would be if you get too tipsy on new years and ended up kissing each other. you laugh it out but he looked a bit too serious to be kidding. new years came and none of you were nearly drunk. just chatting and gaming until midnight. when it's close, vernon comes to you "turns out we are not tipsy nor kissing" he plays and you think 'what a shame', either way it's not from neither of your personalities ending up on this scenario. you decide to be bold and reply "is being drunk a requirement?", "to kiss me?" he asks, cleaning nonexistent dust from the tip of his nose while you just hum, looking up at him. "you can kiss me if that's what you asking" he's smiling but you're serious, coming to peck his lips before giving a real kiss that is very much welcomed. as the last seconds of the day ends, another year being gone, you think 'what a happy new year'.

chan spends new years with you every year since you were teens. he's someone you know from a family friend with yours, you both kinda grew with each other in small gatherings like this. night felt particularly different this time around, he grew a lot and suddenly talks and acts like a man, but jokes like a kid as always, has you laughing from literally anything he says. for chan, he knows his ways, he has a eye on you since forever and he finally sees a chance that he wouldn't waste. gathering all the courage to ask you out, he's surprisingly met with your lips on his. you just kiss and say nothing as he melts, feeling like he's in a dream... he will take it as a yes. maybe that's the magic of a new year.

#was wannabelife #seventeen #fanfic #svt scenarios #svt x reader #seventeen scenarios #svt headcanons #svt fanfic #svt fluff #seventeen fluff #seventeen headcanons #seventeen smut #svt smut

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megwritesriddles · 3 months ago

Text

Just Can't Hide it ༊*·˚

18+ MDNI !!!

Pairing: Mike Schmidt x Fem! Reader / You

Summary: Kinktober 2024 Day 20 - Premature Ejaculation. Mike is determined to ask Reader to be his girlfriend, Reader is determined to have sex. Mike can't quite keep up with his own desires, but is happy to compensate.

Tags: Premature ejaculation, Unprotected sex, Oral sex (f receiving), Cum-eating, Workplace sex, Over a desk, Coworkers, Getting together, New relationship, Fluff, Not canon complaint (no evil animatronics).

Word count: 2.8k

all fandom masterlist | fnaf masterlist | read it on ao3

Authors note: This is a part two to Call Me (Anytime!), I had one request for it and I kinda thought it fit this prompt so I did it!! This can be read alone though!! It's short and sweet because... well... you know... lol!! Hope you like it anyway mwah ( ◕◡◕)っ ♡

PART 1 HERE !!

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Mike was running late to work. He was furious with himself for letting it get to this, but it turns out he had severely underestimated how time-consuming it would be to buy flowers. The last time he’d bought flowers, for his mother’s funeral, he had just been trying to get it all over with as soon as possible. This was different. He stood in the surprisingly vast flower section of the supermarket, just staring at all of the various options. His eyes had immediately drifted to the more decadent assortments, but he had also quickly come to realise how expensive flowers were. As much as his bank account wanted him to, he couldn’t get you any of the cheapest bouquets, you were worth so much more to him than that, worth more than even the most expensive assortment of perfectly organised roses in the store. Yet, he had to stay realistic, he had himself and Abby to feed until the next payday. He browsed the mid-priced bouquets, even asking the store assistant for help. He’d been an entirely uninterested teenage boy who had offered no help whatsoever. Eventually, Mike realised the time, you would be sitting at work waiting for him to arrive and he was stuck umming and ahhing over some flowers. He settled on a bouquet in your favourite colour, praying you’d like them, and checked out at the self-checkout to save time.

You were pissed. Mike always lets you know when he is going to be late and why. Even at times when you felt he would have been perfectly justified not to tell you, such as the time last year that Abby was rushed to hospital with a high fever, he had texted you. Yet, you heard nothing. Usually, you might give him the benefit of the doubt, but the telltale sting of rejection is creeping up on you. His lack of communication left you feeling rejected, especially after the nature of the last conversation the two of you had together. When he finally burst into the building, carrying his backpack oddly in his arms, you were feeling huffy. He reaches the security office and grins at you lopsidedly. It takes a lot of effort not to smile back, finding his expression incredibly endearing despite yourself.

“You finally showed up then?” you frown, tilting your chin up haughtily. You didn’t know why you were acting like this, you knew Mike, he’d have a reason, but you couldn’t seem to stop yourself. You felt vulnerable. Mike's face falls a little.

“I’m sorry, I have a reason, I promise! I-“ he starts. You keep frowning. You’d had a vision of how this night would go, and it was no longer going that way. It wasn’t his fault, you had never shared your plans, but you still felt… bad. You would’ve arrived at work after him like usual, and you would have gone over to sit on his lap instead of your own chair, preventing him from starting his rounds. You would have teased and toyed with him until he gave in and bent you over the desk like you (and he) had been wanting for so long. But now, the whole thing was messed up. You watch with feigned disinterest as he unzips his backpack. “Here, f-for you,” he smiles nervously, gently extracting the bouquet from his bag and holding it out to you. Your expression melts instantly. A bouquet in your favourite colour, no man had ever been so thoughtful for you before. You take them from him, sniffing the sweet floral scent, your nose brushing the silky petals.

“Oh Mike…” you sigh, all your previous tension and upset disappearing. He blushes, staring down at where you sit as you inhale the scent of the flowers. He takes a deep breath, summoning all the courage he has.

“I would… I would really like it if you would… uh… be my girlfriend?” he stammers out, immediately cursing himself for his phrasing. That hadn’t come out like he’d practised in the bathroom mirror earlier this evening. “I-I mean… only if you want to, of course, but I would be so happy if–”

“Yes,” you respond, smiling up at him, the lower half of your face still behind the bouquet. He stares at you, momentarily dumbstruck, mouth slightly ajar. Then his expression transforms, he grins wide and slightly crooked with excitement.

“You will?” he exhales.

“I will, come here,” you gently place down the bouquet on the security desk, still wrapped in its paper. You stand and open your arms for him, he’s immediately surging forward into your embrace. He needs this like he needs air. He can’t remember the last time he embraced someone who wasn’t family, and even then, if Abby wasn’t counted, it must have been at least years. It would have felt good if it was anyone, but it was you. The object of all his desires and adoration, the most beautiful woman in the world, his closest friend. He wraps his arms tight around your middle, lifting you ever-so-slightly into the air as he embraces you. This makes you giggle a little, your arms settling around his neck. He places you back down and looks at you, deep into your eyes. He’s never felt so overjoyed in his life. His girlfriend. He can barely process it, but you’re right there, smiling sweetly, the corners of your eyes crinkling in the way he adores.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers in awe. You just blush a little and shrug him off.

“Says you,” you huff, smiling more as he pulls you even closer.

“You think I’m beautiful?” he chuckles. “You must just be seeing your reflection in my eyes,” you laugh softly, staring into his eyes, certainly not paying any attention to the impression of yourself in them. You lean forward and press your lips to his. His eyes slip shut immediately, as do yours. His hands settle on your waist, kissing you back a little tentatively. It’s been a long time, and he doesn’t dare to mess it up, but he needs it more than anything. You take the lead, feeling his nerves, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling yourself closer. Softly, you toy with the hair at the nape of his neck, enjoying the way he keens into it. You’re like a dream to him, the best dream he’s ever had, completely blissful and unhaunted by the past. He gently drags his tongue along your bottom lip and you part them in response. He hums, carefully letting his tongue explore your mouth, all his movements soft and controlled. “You’re perfect, you taste perfect, sweet,” he mumbles between kisses, his hands sliding up and down your body, getting to know every outline.

“Imagine how I might taste elsewhere,” you whisper against his lips, instantly shifting the mood, grinning when he chokes out a moan. He’s certainly imagining it now, his hands tightening on you.

“Fuck,” he grunts, his cock hardening rapidly in his jeans. “Don’t say stuff like that, I’m a desperate guy,” he laughs lowly, trying to sound jokey, but meaning it completely. With you so close and beautiful and best of all willing, he’s having a hard time holding it together.

“Take me then,” you whisper, excited that things are finally going as you planned, even though becoming Mike’s girlfriend had turned out to be a rather nice diversion. He groans, leaning in to kiss your neck.

“Are you sure?” he questions shakily as you push his hoodie off of his shoulders.

“So sure, this is what I want, and I know you want it too,” you murmur, leaning your head back so he can kiss under your jaw, sucking softly. You hope he’s leaving marks. The two of you pull away from one another briefly to shed your clothes. A coating of pink dusts the tips of Mike’s ears and you can tell he’s a little insecure, but you find him unbelievably sexy. He’s broad and muscular in the arms, with a bit of softness around his belly and, not to mention, incredibly well-endowed. He stands at full attention, twitching and leaking pre-cum as he watches your body be revealed to him. Every insecurity that might have existed in the back of your mind is gone as soon as his eyes are on you, drinking you in like you’re a piece of art. He exhales needily, moving toward you.

“You look unbelievable, fuck, I need you bad,” he chuckles deeply, one hand coming to gently cup your breast, the other sliding behind you onto your ass. He closes his eyes, trembling slightly in excitement. He can’t believe that he’s being blessed with this, there were no words in all of language to explain how grateful he was. He nuzzles into your neck, inhaling your scent. “You are a dream,” he promises against your skin. You giggle softly. His hands massage you for a moment, drinking in your form and presence. You definitely shouldn’t be doing this at work, but the door is closed, and no one ever comes here. Neither of you was stopping in any case. You move out of his arms and he groans in protest but quickly recovers when he sees you bending yourself over the desk. You gently move the keyboard and bouquet out of the way, lying yourself on the cool surface, tipping your ass into the air. “Oh God, yes,” he whispers huskily, stepping behind you. His cock rests heavily on your ass and he shivers at the sight of it. He can’t wait to sink into you, he needs it bad and based on how wet you look, you do too. He smooths his hands up and down the curve of your back for a while, taking a deep breath to ground himself. “Can I? Please?” he sighs, squeezing your hips and tugging you a little closer. You wiggle your ass enticingly, making him bite his lip.

“Fuck me, Mike,” you purr, making him moan a little. He’s so weak for you, completely overwhelmed by your presence. He slowly eases himself into your welcoming heat, letting out a groan between his gritted teeth at the way you squeeze around him. He can barely think, his mind clouded and spinning from the sensation. He remains still, unable to move out of fear of immediately falling apart. You’re so warm and tight and God… he’s never felt so good in his life. His cock twitches inside you as you beg him to start moving, but he can’t do it, he knows what will happen the second he does. He doesn’t want to disappoint you, but he’s unsure what to do now. Even the action of pulling out would make him come, the feeling of your walls sliding over him- Fuck. He’s so unbelievably close, biting down on his lip so hard he draws a little blood. Peripherally, he can hear you pleading with him, clearly even getting a little confused. You move, only trying to turn your head to look at him, but the shifting of your body against him has him falling apart. He chokes out a moan, grabbing your hips and slamming fully into you, making you squeak in surprise.

“Fuck! Fuck! Oh God,” he wails, his head dipping forward to rest between your shoulder blades as he empties his cum into you in several thick spurts. Your mouth forms a surprised ‘o’ shape, realising he’s already coming. You lie there, waiting it out as he comes down. You’re surprised by just how much he pumps into you, it becomes abundantly clear how little he’d been joking when he called himself desperate. “I’m so sorry, so sorry, you felt too good, I couldn’t help it,” he sobs, kissing over the back of your shoulders as he twitches a final few times. “I’m so sorry baby,”

“It’s okay,” you sigh, leaning your cheek on the desk. While part of you is undeniably a little disappointed, you also feel a little flattered by how quickly you had him falling apart. You feel him slowly and carefully withdraw himself from you, hissing with sensitivity. He kisses down your spine, making his way down your body so that he has time to catch his breath properly. You try to stand yourself up, but feel a firm hand on your back, pushing you back down. You gasp in surprise and confusion, trying your best to look over your shoulder. Mike kneels between your legs, watching in awe as his seed is slowly beginning to dribble out of you. He groans at the sight.

“You are breathtaking, I can’t believe you’re my girlfriend now,” he breathes. “Can I clean up the mess I made?” he asks quietly, smiling when he spots you clenching around nothing, making a little more of his cum trickle out of you.

“Yeah,” you breathe, relaxing against the table. “Please do,” He leans forward, taking a second to smell the pure sex radiating off of you. That smell was way more delightful to him than it should have been. He then licks a broad stripe up your folds, gathering your mixed essences on his tongue. He takes a deep satisfaction from the mixture of both of your flavours, moaning softly. Another lick, then another, then another. He forgot how much he loved to do this, not having had the chance for so, so long. And you taste better than anyone he’s ever had before, even when mixed with him. Your little moans and gasps drive him insane, pushing him to keep going. He begins to devour you with intent, lapping and suckling in patterned succession, drinking you up completely. His taste fades away, leaving only your own increasing arousal, which is impossibly even more addictive. You grip aimlessly at the surface of the desk as he pleasures you, your eyes rolling back each time he sucks your clit between his lips. He’s incredibly good at this, more so than you expected, which makes you excited for when he will finally have the patience to show off his other skills. He shakes his head, nuzzling closer and flicking his tongue back and forth over your clit with gusto. He grips your ass, spreading you open so he can press his face completely into you. He groans and hums against you, making desperate sounds that prove how much he’s enjoying this. Your moans grow more and more loud and frequent. Slightly, you rock back against his face, he moves perfectly in tandem with you, barely taking a breath, desperate to bring you there. He gives a particularly well-timed suck to your clit and you’re done for. With a loud cry of his name, you fall apart, your body tensing and trembling as you see stars. Your mouth falls open as you ride out the shocks going through your body, only heightened by his tongue still gently caressing your most sensitive spot. You twitch and your hips buck and he happily takes it all.

“So sweet, you taste so good,” he mumbles against you, the vibrations making you whimper. He eagerly licks up your release and finally withdraws, smoothing his hands over your ass where he spots some finger indents before letting go. You slowly turn around, your movements still a little shaky. He stands, smiling sheepishly, the passion now subsiding into embarrassment once more at his earlier speedy performance. “I’m really sorry about that… it’s been so long and you’re… you and–”

“Hey, it’s alright, at least you didn’t leave me hanging,” you assure, reaching up to wipe his glistening chin. He blushes but relishes your tender touch.

“I would never do that,” he promises seriously, and he means it. He loves the thought of getting you off almost more than he likes the idea of getting off himself. Though, ideally in future, like tonight, he could have his cake and eat it too. Literally. He pulls you into an embrace, which you immediately reciprocate, the action like a balm to his soul. “You’re perfect, everything about you,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your neck.

“You too,” you sigh happily.

“Even though I have no control over myself?” he laughs self-deprecatingly.

“Even so,” you agree with a soft giggle. “I was kinda flattered, honestly,”

“Thank God for that,” he hums, rubbing your back and holding you close. After a while, the two of you part long enough to redress. He helps you to zip up your jeans while you pull your shirt over his head. His hoodie ends up on you, but he says nothing about it, smiling fondly. The two of you cuddle up on the small ratty couch in the corner of the security room after filling a mug with water to rest your bouquet in. He spoons you from behind like he promised he would, his head tucked against your shoulder, arm lovingly around your waist. At that moment, everything feels alright in the world. Mike finally has you in his arms, as his girlfriend, and nothing has ever felt better.

Neither of you do a single second of work that night, but really, who will ever know?

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

hey you! want to get tagged in my work when it comes out? click here! (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

xoxoxo

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poisonousrain222 · 4 months ago

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cold hands.

sandor clegane x lannister!reader

warnings: violence (one slap in the face from ser meryn), joffrey being joffrey, horrible comfort from sandor but it’s kinda a sweet moment

disclaimer: reader is the daughter of tywin. story is written in third-person pov. inspired by that scene in which sandor gives sansa his cloak but pshhht

1.3k words

Slap.

Ser Meryn’s armored glove clanked as it struck her cheek with full force, whipping her head to the side and causing her to stumble.

The girl’s vision blurred and her eyes began to water, as pain radiated through her face and embarassment coursed through her. She mentally fought to keep her composure, determined not to let her humiliation show. She clenched her jaw, forcing back the tears that threatened to spill, even as she felt blood run down her ruined cheek.

With every ounce of willpower she possessed, she kept her gaze steady on the ground, refusing to give Joffrey the satisfaction of seeing her break.

“She still doesn’t look very remorseful, don’t you think, Ser Meryn?”, Joffrey taunted, a cruel smirk twisting his features.

She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for another blow. In her tense focus, she didn’t hear the massive doors of the throne room creak open.

The expected blow never came. Reluctantly, she fluttered her eyelids open.

“What in the Seven gods are you doing?”, a voice boomed through the hall.

The woman turned, a wave of relief washing over her as she recognized the familiar voice. Her tense shoulders relaxed slightly and a glimmer of hope sparked in her eyes. Tyrion. Despite the throbbing pain in her cheek, she felt a surge of hope knowing that her brother had arrived, as he strode purposefully towards her, Ser Bronn following closely at his heels.

“First your own lady and now your aunt?”, Tyrion spat, his face contorted with rage. His grey eyes glared at Joffrey, burning with a mix of disgust and fury. “Pray tell, your Grace, what grievous offense has warranted such treatment?” Tyrion’s voice dripped with sarcasm, his gaze sweeping across the room, taking in the silent knights who stood by, complicit in their inaction.

Joffrey straightened, his chin jutting out defiantly. “She disrespected the king! I have every right to punish insolence as I see fit.”

Tyrion’s laugh was sharp and humorless. “Ah yes, the divine right of kings to beat defenseless women. How could I forget?”

He moved closer to stand beside his sister, while keeping his gaze fixed on Joffrey. “Tell me, nephew, does it make you feel powerful? To strike someone who can’t strike back?”

The young king’s face flushed red with anger. “You cannot speak to me like that!”

“I speak to you as someone who should know better”, Tyrion retorted, his voice now low and dangerous. “As someone who is supposed to protect his subjects, not terrorize them. Especially not his own family.”

Joffrey’s face contorted with a mix of fury and confusion, clearly unused to being challenged so directly. His eyes darted between Tyrion and his aunt, searching for a way to reassert his authority. Before he could respond, Tyrion already continued speaking.

“Clegane”, he addressed the Hound, sworn shield of the king. “Escort the lady to her chambers.”

The large man nodded curtly and strode from his position beside the throne, swiftly approaching the woman. He marched past her, his heavy footsteps echoing through the throne room and didn't slow or turn, clearly expecting her to follow without a word. The lady, her head still bowed, hesitated for a moment before falling into step behind him.

The Hound’s pace was brisk, and she found herself having to quicken her steps to keep up with his long strides. She kept her eyes fixed on the ground, watching the hem of his cloak sway with each step, too stubborn to look up and meet the curious or shocked gazes of those they passed.

As soon, as the heavy doors fell shut, she noticed his pace slowing ever so slightly.

“You really gotta learn when it’s smarter to just shut your mouth, girl”, he grumbled and glanced at her from over his shoulder. The sight of her was almost pitiful, her bruised face a stark contrast to her usual composed appearance.

Though, this wasn’t the first time she has been ‘disciplined’ for questioning or disrespecting various lords and ladies. It wasn’t well-kept information – everyone knew. The Hound already has been witness of her inability to hold her tongue multiple times and how it had Lord Tywin fuming. One could only imagine she hadn’t been much different in her childhood.

Her eyes lifted slightly, but not quite high enough to meet his face. His brutal honesty shouldn’t be surprising, yet it still caught her off-guard. And she certainly wasn’t in the mood for lectures as of now.

“I will not allow them the satisfaction.” She spoke with unwavering determination, proving once again that her spirit could not be broken so easily.

Quicker than she had expected from a man of his size, he spun around and grabbed hold of her upper arm roughly, his fingers completely closing around it. “Then you’re fucking stupid”, he growled.

Her eyes widened at his unexpected movement and she felt frozen in place, trapped by his grip and the intensity of his stare. Her lips parted to defend herself against his crude insult, but he interrupted her before she could even begin. “If it wasn’t for your brother, the king would’ve had you beaten senseless.”

The smallest flicker of horror flashed across her face, but the Hound betrayed not a single hint of empathy, his features as hard and cold as stone. She blinked and averted her gaze in defiance, frowning at the floor instead. Her chest ached with the urge to cry and scream at him, but an overwhelming exhaustion was consuming her and weighing her down. Her bones felt heavy and every beat of her heart sent waves of pain through her throbbing cheek.

“I shall survive”, she mumbled quietly and attempted to rip her arm out of his grasp – with no success. His strong hand remained effortlessly unmovable. Her gaze snapped up, hard eyes meeting even harder ones.

Instead of answering, he only shook his head in disregard of her obstinance and released her from his grip. The memory of his harsh touch still lingered on her skin.

She expected him to turn away and resume their walk through the halls. Instead, he shot her one last unreadable glance and reached into a pocket beneath his armor. The girl watched with a mix of curiosity and defiance, as he pulled out a washed-out white cloth.

Her gaze, now filled with only confusion, shot back to his face. His eyes didn’t meet hers, as they were fixated on her cheek.

“Don’t move”, he grumbled and brought the cloth up to her face with his overly large hand to dab the blood away, oddly gentle. The proximity made her feel even smaller than usually in his presence.

Her first instinct was to back away, to avoid his touch — yet she didn’t. She obeyed and stayed still, though she didn’t fully understand why. She knew this man to be a cold-blooded murderer, killing gladly and even for his own satisfaction. Yet now, this very same man was cleaning her wound, being even careful not to cause her more pain than neccessary. The hands, which only brought harm and death, were now offering this unexpected gentleness.

It was both perplexing and oddly comforting, it made her feel intrigued in a way she was unfamiliar with.

A sudden sting shot through her face and the girl flinched, to which the Hound only murmured something about her overreacting. His free hand roughly cupped her jawline and turned it to the side to grant him better access to the fresh scratches.

When he deemed his work to be done, he took a step back. His expression was as unwelcoming as always. Before she could thank him, he shoved the cloth into her chest carelessly. “Keep it.”

Without another glance, he swiftly turned around and continued their original way with fast strides, his cloak swaying behind him. The girl, standing dumb-foundedly in the halls for a moment, quickly snapped out of her thoughts and hurried after him.

A man more confusing than him was simply impossible, she thought and looked down at the bloodied piece of fabric in her hands.

likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! support content creators <3

#sandor x reader #sandor clegane x reader #game of thrones x reader

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wileys-russo · 11 months ago

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r is a (new) worker in a cafe leah is a regular in. one day leah comes in with a few friends and some fans rush towards them trying to take photos or autographs. eventually the pile of people just kinda grow and block the entry . r sees this and shoos the group of people off for blocking the entrance. and leah is just there standing with that signature smirk admiring this girl who she's never seen before that's just saved her and her friends some time when leah is ordering she talks to r, thanking them for shooing the people off. (+ some teasing and friendly banter and stuff ) they have a small talk before leah's order comes in and she goes back to the table her and her friends in. before leah and her friends leave the musters up the courage to talk to you one more time, asking for your name, your number anything she could use to know you better. r teases leah and says something like "if i call you am i gonna just be 'one of your girls'?" something among those lines. sorry if this is a bit boring but i tried. i love your work btw keep it up!! you're doing amazing🙏

no p2 to this! just a cute little blurb one of your girls II l.williamson

"-and obviously you know how this works?" evelyn, your new boss, chuckled as she patted the top of the large espresso machine. "i certainly hope so." you grinned toothily, the older girl still walking you through it all quickly anyway.

"well, thats the tour over then. jobs yours!"

you survived your first few days unscathed, your work ethic and natural confident charm had you well liked among your coworkers and earned you regular hours as customers were showering your coffee with compliments.

the small cafe wasn't overly busy of an afternoon so you found yourself rostered mostly on mornings which you didn't mind, happy to start around five if it meant you could be home not long after lunch time and have the rest of your day as your own.

being one of the only cafe's on the street meant you had a large handful of repeat customers, and with your memory one of your best assets you knew most if not all of their orders off by heart by the end of your first week.

which is why your curiosity was peaked one morning when a group of girls you hadn't seen before came bundling in around seven in the morning, all in matching uniforms you assumed they were on a team of sorts but sports had never been of a great interest to you.

when your friends and peers were running around kicking a football or playing tag you had your head buried in a book or challenging someone to a card game, you were quite introverted until your teenage years and it wasn't until you left school all together that you came completely out of your shell.

as they all took turns ordering you clocked that there was a handful of different nationalities among them, australian, irish, british and something european you couldn't quite place.

they were all friendly enough though, two of them a blonde and a brunette leaning against the counter speaking with you as you made their coffees with a smile, all ordered at once under the same name.

"so which one of you is katie?" you questioned with a quirk of your eyebrow, the brunette sending you a grin. "that would be me, haven't seen you round here before though. you new?" katie questioned, irish accent thick and the grin never dropping from her face.

"could say that. been here a little over a week though and never seen any of you." you smiled back, leaning your head back a little as you frothed the milk and moved the wand out, hot steam flooding your vision.

"ahh see this is our regular spot but we've been jetsettin. famous footballers and all that!" katie winked as you hummed and the blonde beside her rolled her eyes.

"ignore her, if her head and her ego get any bigger she won't fit through the door!" the blonde nodded behind her as you laughed and katie pushed her.

"ah shove off russo. see ya round then new kid!" katie winked again, grabbing one tray of drinks as the blonde grabbed the other and sent you a smile, the other girls following out after them.

surviving the morning rush not long after you were taking a well earned break and sipping at a coffee of your own though you stood as a group of teenagers burst inside, their chatter filling the previously quiet room.

plastering a smile on your face you slipped your coffee beneath the counter and readied yourself to take their orders. as they rattled them off almost all at the same time you did your best to put them through, only missing two as you read them back.

half the group taking a seat a few of the girls hovered by the machine as you moved to start their order, your coworker dipping out back to toast the sandwiches ordered alongside the drinks.

"do you ever get arsenal players in here?" one of them asked as you gave her an odd look. "i don't really watch sports much, sorry." you shrugged honestly, that answer seeming to displease her as she frowned.

"like arsenal women, the football team? any of these girls?" you flinched back a little as another one of them shoved a phone in your face, eyes narrowing as they roamed the team photo in front of you, recognizing a few of the girls with katie this morning.

though sensing maybe there was something a little off with the request, you again shrugged. "don't really remember sorry, we get a lot of people in here, especially on a tuesday morning." you smiled politely as again the girls frowned, turning away from you as you focused on filling their order.

"all done!" you smiled as you slipped the last coffee into the tray, rolling your eyes as they grabbed them and gave you a weird look, hurrying over to their table.

it wasn't hard to know you'd been mentioned once or twice in their conversation as heads frequently turned to glance at you and you pretended not to notice, suddenly feeling like you were back in high school again.

you perked up as the bell for the door rang and a new group entered, but your eyes flickered over to the girls already sat down, recognizing one of your new customers to be in the same uniform as katie and her friends.

sure enough the moment the girls noticed they were up to their feet, crowding around the footballer who smiled politely and took a few photos, but you could see in her eyes that her smile never made it all the way there.

it would seem word traveled fast as within a couple of minutes a second group of teenagers appeared and you watched the blondes polite smile turn to a frown and though you couldn't hear what she was saying, you could see it wasn't being listened to.

brushing your hands off on your apron you hurried around the counter and toward the front door. "hey! if you're not a current customer, out." you warned sternly, raising your voice at the group and nodding for the blonde footballer to step inside.

"i said current." you repeated, blocking the second group of teenagers from entering as the blonde and her friends made their way to the counter. "our friends are in there, we're with them." one of the girls pointed out.

"your friends were just leaving, since their drinks and food are finished." you nodded to the empty plates and discarded takeaway cups sat on the table they'd abandoned.

"you can't kick us out." the girl from earlier frowned with a scoff. "i'm not kicking you out, but we have every right to deny service to people who don't know how to act with respect." you raised an eyebrow.

"and harassing footballers who are just trying to get a coffee doesn't sound very respectful, does it? they're humans too, so how about giving them a little privacy. feel free not to come back!" you nodded for them to move on after that, ignoring the insults thrown your way as you closed the door and headed for the counter, your coworker already taking their orders.

"nicely done, talk about an attitude problem." the girl chuckled as she handed you the order slip, sending you a wink and ducking out back as you sighed with relief it didn't seem you'd be getting in any sort of trouble.

"hey, thank you for that." you looked up to meet a confident smile and a set of bright blue eyes looking back at you. "no problem, but does that happen a lot?" you asked with concern. "more than i want. especially in the last year since the euros!" the blonde sighed with a slight chuckle.

"not a big sports fan, you might need to elaborate on that." you admitted with a smile, the blonde raising an eyebrow with a surprised look. "you don't know who i am?" she questioned but seeing the look on your own face she clearly rethought it.

"jesus that sounded self-absorbed. let me try again, i'm leah!" she held her hand out with a grin, you shook it and introduced yourself back.

"so, you're new around here right? i come at least four times a week with the girls normally and i've not seen you. i'd have remembered!" leah leaned against the counter, confident smile plastered back on her face again.

"seems to be the common theme. let me guess, you've been out of town jetsetting?" you chuckled as leah gave you an odd look. "some of your teammates were here this morning, katie said the same thing." you revealed as leah hummed thoughtfully.

"also seemed to like to think of herself as a big famous footballer, but she wasn't shocked i didn't know her though." you teased as leah playfully rolled her eyes.

"how about i take you for dinner as an apology?" leah asked somewhat hopefully, even surprising herself with the forwardness of her request. "so i can be one of your adoring fangirls? thats cute. but i don't date customers, leah." you smiled, sliding over the tray of coffees

"did you see me order these? they're not under my name, technically i'm not a customer." the blonde smiled charmingly and you shook your head amused at her persistence.

"mm you're drinking them here though? customer." you smiled back, nodding to her friends who were already sat down at a table eating food.

"it was nice to meet you leah, i'm sure i'll see you around."

turns out, it was a lot sooner than you thought.

that afternoon to be exact as you were out walking your best friends dog, having agreed to babysit her precious fur baby while she was away at a wedding for a few days.

you watched with an amused smile as bear raced after his ball, laughing as he nearly fell over his paws, the poor puppy growing at a rate which he couldn't seem to keep up with.

you jumped in surprise as suddenly a dog sprinted through your legs in a flash of tan fur, taking off after bear as you heard a groan behind you. "bella! come here, sit, stay, heel! oh fuck whats the word again?" you looked up to see a flash of blonde dart past you next.

"bear!" you whistled noticing the new dog sniffing him curiously, the chocolate labs head whipping toward you as you whistled again and he took off toward you, the new dog following eagerly after him.

as bear dropped in a sit by your feet you squatted down and carefully grabbed the new dogs collar, the owner racing over toward you as you checked the tag, bella.

"well aren't you lovely." you smiled, scratching behind her ears as she licked your hand making you laugh. "bella! we do not lick strangers its impolite." you looked up with a smile which was wiped away as bella's owner looked down.

"wow are you stalking me? crazy fangirl." leah tutted with a smirk as she clipped bella's leash back on and you scoffed. "i'm sure you'd like to think so, but i haven't even given you enough thought to google your last name." you hit back as she gasped and held a hand to her chest, bear running off again as bella tried to follow with a whine.

"my poor ego, that hurt." leah sighed with a shake of her head as bear returned, dropping his ball at your feet as you clipped his own leash back and slipped the ball into your pocket.

"i'm sure it'll recover when the next adoring fan asks you for a selfie. maybe next time i'll leave you to the wolves and just do my job." you smiled, starting to walk off as leah was quick to fall into step with you.

"you mean you're not a security guard?" leah spoke with mock surprise as you hummed. "only a lowly barista." you pouted sarcastically, bear and bella also walking in step.

"might be in the wrong profession, you're proper scary." leah smirked poking at your arm as you pushed her gently, not missing the sarcasm in her tone at the obvious height difference between you both, the blonde easily two heads taller.

"didn't see you complaining about the coffee so i don't think i've missed my calling." you laughed as leah shook her head. "wouldn't know, i had the hot chocolate. not the best i've had!" the blonde shrugged as you scoffed.

"well if you can run on a football pitch like you can run your mouth i'm sure you're just as famous and successful as you think you are." you hit back though the smile on your face betrayed the false offence in your tone.

"oh even more so! best in the world." leah stated dead seriously as you both exchanged a glance and her face broke into a grin, bumping her shoulder into yours.

"well. we're not in your workplace so i'm not a customer, can i take you to dinner? i'd ask you out for coffee but i don't drink it and i'm sure you think you're just as good at making it as i know i am at football." leah smirked and despite the cockiness you could see just a flicker of nerves in her eyes as you both stopped walking for a moment.

"are all footballers this insufferably self absorbed?" you questioned with a raised eyebrow. "only the really really talented ones." leah grinned cheekily, beanie sitting lopsided on top of her head as you smiled.

"fine, dinner. so i guess i have to give you my number then lily." you pulled your phone from your pocket. "leah." the blonde corrected as you exchanged numbers.

"oh was it? just such a forgettable name and face." you shrugged, both of your walking resuming as leah hummed. "cute." the blonde retorted with a smirk and a shake of her head.

"i am. and by the end of dinner maybe i'll have humbled you just enough that i might tolerate a second date with...sorry was it lucy? layla? luna?" you pondered with a frown as leah shoved you with a grin.

"leah."

#woso #woso community #woso x reader #leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso blurbs #engwnt

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simpjaes · 5 months ago

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I've always had this idea in my mind that jake is very confident until he's faced with someone who can fight back. If you respond to his flirting with heavier flirting he'll just blush and go silent. I think a lot of people write him as very dommy but I think your fics fit my vision of what I think he's like. Like, he has bursts of confidence but he's actually pretty whiny bordering in pathetic LOL but I think that makes him even hotter... down bad jake you are everything.

oh my god yeah like, imagine Jake at some random college party. He's feeling the vibe, the buzz is making his confidence skyrocket, and even tho he's a top-of-the-class smarty pants who everyone thinks is a loser, that doesn't stop him from approaching you.

His sly words mean nothing. You've heard it all before. In fact, you've heard smoother words but the thing is, they came from less smart, less handsome men so...following up with your own cheeky words just to see him blush and buckle at it? What a fucking treat.

You'd play with him all night too. Passing "accidental" touches with eye contact too long for him to actually think it was an accident. Encouragement for him to keep matching your energy, really, but you snuff his confidence out so much. You're so...like your personality completely overshadows whatever confidence he has.

It would absolutely end with you making the move, asking to go home with him. He'd be too excited to agree, and fumble everything he says and does up until his front door. You don't mind the fumbling, because you know it's just because he really, really doesn't wanna fuck this up. "You know-" You whisper, stepping to close and nuzzling right against his ear as he struggles to get the key to his front door in his lock. "Maybe I like it when you're acting like a total loser." He'd lend an awkward chuckle before tumbling into his front door with you, hoping you don't comment on his lame ass posters and just take your clothes off. You do comment on his posters, but also, you do take off your clothes as well. So quickly that he doesn't even fucking hear you mock him. it's kinda cute, actually, with the way he does his best. You can't help liking the guys who fumble, because they really try to keep the mood going. And fuck, you always get the best orgasms when a guy is a fucking try hard.

#ask #anon #jake smut #enhypen smut

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100vern · 1 year ago

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the very last thing i decide | pjm

(or, the one in which a love exists that's easy and instinctual as much as it is painful and self-destructive.)

✘ PAIRING jimin x f. reader ✘ SUMMARY you learn what it means to love with blood on your hands. ✘ GENRE hitman/assassin au; angst, smut ✘ RATING explicit. minors dni. ✘ WARNINGS they are both hitmen (hitpeople?) so there's all the content that goes along with that: violence, death, mentions of blood (a lot) and weapons, murder, but no explicit gore. everyone is morally grey at best and downright psychotic at worst (especially yoongi). reader gets stabbed. no one knows how to be a functional human being. swearing, smoking, light smut (penetrative & oral sex), miscommunication and unrequited love but not really, i drop a classic tumblr meme in a line of dialogue. ambiguous/hopeful ending!! some of the themes here are kinda heavy and i am not entirely sure how to tag them so if you have any questions pls don’t hesitate to ask! ✘ WORDCOUNT 12k ✘ LISTEN TO manchester orchestra - telepath ✘ THANK YOU i cannot remember everyone i’ve showed this to over the years. @the-boy-meets-evil for looking this over and brainstorming with me today. @hot-soop for always being a help. @effortandmore because you told me an embarrassingly long time ago this was worth finishing. and i’m pretty sure i also sent this to @jihopesjoint at some point too. i did a quick edit of this on my own, but after nearly three years i just wanted it posted and out of my wips so i'm sure i missed things. pls ignore them. ✘ AUTHOR'S NOTE fic drops two days in a row?? who am i?? i started this in may 2021 and it was supposed to be a simple pegging fic. i abandoned it bc i was convinced no one would want to read it. between today and yesterday i have written thousands of words and made it across the finish line. i hope you like it. the violence is a metaphor for love or whatever.

[37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA]

Jimin’s hair had been red the first time he met you.

How fitting, he thinks, considering he’s currently bleeding out on a table.

Well, there’s still a bit of fight left in him. He hasn’t lost consciousness yet, which he assumes is a good sign; he can still hear Hoseok barking out orders quite clearly. The edges of his vision are fuzzy and the pain in his abdomen is sharp and unrelenting, but he still has enough brain power left to wish he’d died instead.

Because you’d saved his life. And now he’s further indebted to you.

(Jimin never leaves a debt unpaid, but he’s not sure how to make even on something like this.)

Jungkook and Taehyung are fetching supplies faster than Hoseok can ask for them. Two pairs of frazzled, spaced-out eyes. Four sets of trembling limbs. Namjoon’s wearing burn marks into the floor, his cuticles bloody and nearly worried to the bone since he can’t keep them out of his mouth.

And then there’s you.

Sitting cross-legged in a chair as you scroll through your phone. Jimin’s blood is still drying on your hands, leaving smears as you drag your thumb back and forth across the screen, and this doesn’t seem to faze you one bit.

Behind you, Yoongi takes a seat at the piano and starts playing Toccata and Fugue in D minor, and Jimin simply cannot die like this. He can’t die on a wooden table in a room with a piano on which Min Yoongi is playing Baroque organ pieces.

“What is this, a fucking funeral?” Hoseok snaps, though there’s a desperation creeping into his tone that Jimin does not like, does not want to hear. “Cut it out, Yoongi.”

Said man staunchly ignores the doctor, transitioning flawlessly into the fugue. Jimin barely hears the tinkle of your laughter but he hears it all the same, and he wants to pretend it doesn’t calm him, bring him back down to earth when he starts drifting too far away. But you do, and it does, and all he can think about is: will you miss him if he dies? Will it take you long to wash his blood from your hands?

Hoseok’s absolutely incensed, pushed to the limits of his stress at the thought of not being able to save Jimin’s life, and Jimin appreciates this, really, but not when Hoseok pushes two gloved fingers deep into the wound in his stomach so hard all he can do is cry. “Yoongi—”

You snort. You don’t even look up from your phone.

Namjoon, for all his leadership and stoicism and poise under pressure, is just as frantic and panicked as the rest. It’s not everyday one of his people is inches from death ten feet away from him. Most people usually die in the shadows. Kim Namjoon has faced down death more times than most, yet watching the life slowly fade from Jimin’s eyes is too much even for him. “Yoongi, please—”

But the fugue keeps going, tempo change after tempo change, the two pillars of this organization spiraling completely by the time the coda starts, unfocused and sweating and praying. To gods they don’t believe in, to hope, to chance—whatever and whoever might be listening. Jimin usually loves hearing Yoongi play. It’s the only thing that humanizes him, and Jimin had spent so many restless nights shoulder to shoulder with him on that exact bench in the blue hours of the early morning, hypnotized by the way the older man’s knobby fingers moved across the keys.

This is it, he thinks.

Jimin’s going to die with Toccata and Fugue in D minor playing in the background.

He’s imagined his death so many times. Stupid not to in this line of work. Violent, quick and painless, in his sleep, drawn out and gory, a message. And in all of those scenarios, it’s either jarringly silent or there’s someone screaming. Usually him, sounding much like he is now, two fingers stuck in his gut. In all of those scenarios, Min Yoongi is never playing Bach as everything fades to black.

You sigh. “Shut the fuck up, Yoongi,” you say, your tone as blasé and inconvenienced as ever.

Shocked at your audacity, one of Yoongi’s fingers slips and hits the wrong key, something dissonant and metallic as it rings out. But the music stops all the same, the silence nearly giving Jimin whiplash. Now he can hear the clinkof Hoseok’s tools, the squelching of his wound, Jungkook’s desperate pleading for him to just be alright, please God, just hang on. He wants the music back. He doesn’t want Jungkook’s crying to be the last thing he hears. Doesn’t want the sound of his own organs imprinted into his memory.

“What’d you say?” Yoongi asks, because no one talks to him that way. They wouldn’t dare. Most people try not to talk to him at all.

But you do.

And, inexplicably, Yoongi listens.

You roll your eyes. “You go deaf in your old age? I said shut the fuck up. Hoseok’s two knuckles deep in Jimin’s fucking stomach and you’re over there having your little Amadeus moment.”

He bristles. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” Yoongi repeats, and Jimin can’t see him, but he knows his eyes are narrowed, lips pulled back in a snarl, fists clenched at his side.

“Oh, princess,” you coo, and Yoongi’s fury is palpable, permeates every inch of this place, overrides all the fear and anguish. “I’m talking to you, baby. I know Jiminie’s busy trying not to die and that’s stressful for all of us, but please do try to keep up.”

Jimin hears the flick of Yoongi’s switchblade. Then he hears him say, “Please let me fucking kill her,” in that lazy Daegu drawl of his, like forming full words are beneath him. Not worth the effort when they’re directed at you.

Still seated, you uncross your legs and, through blurred vision, Jimin watches you grab Yoongi by his belt loops to tug him closer, grab the wrist that holds his knife and press it to your own throat. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Yoongi. Be a good boy and make it hurt.”

Jungkook’s near hysterics at Jimin’s side. “What the fuck is wrong with you two? He’s dying!”

Jimin tries to say I’m not, Kookie, I’m okay but the pressure on his abdomen is too intense. He can barely breathe, and Hoseok’s still digging around, still looking for that stupid fucking bullet, had to do something and do it quick so there’d been very little anesthetic and finesse, and he’s silently screaming for someone to just comfort Jungkook, tell him everything’s going to be okay, but instead—

“Serves him right for being a fucking idiot,” you say, words muffled by the knife still pressed to your throat. “What a painful, permanentlesson in not forgetting your fucking vest.”

“Stop it!” Jungkook sobs, fingers ghosting along Jimin’s matted fringe.

Yoongi’s still scowling. “Just say the word, Joon-ah. I’ll make it quick.”

You actually laugh at that. The kind of full-belly laugh Jimin would kill to be able to produce. “You wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid.”

Someone snarls. Probably Yoongi. “You’d look so good gutted on the floor like a fish,” he replies, and if Jimin knows him at all, he knows he’s got that dreamy, faraway look in his eyes. The one he always gets when he’s about to kill—the one that makes him so unhinged and dangerous. “Left there to bleed out and die all alone like the trash you are.”

No one’s survived that look before, but you just grin, as if being on the receiving end of it is nothing more than another simple inconvenience. “Do it, then,” you prompt. “You’re so big and bad, yet here you are, waiting for Namjoon’s permission like some kind of pathetic fucking dog.”

“I’m no one’s dog.”

Your eyes slowly flick over to Namjoon. “No?” you ask, smile widening as Jimin watches you drag your heeled foot up the inside of Yoongi’s calf, his thigh, stiletto coming to rest in the center of his sternum. “That’s a shame, princess. That pretty neck of yours was just made for a collar.”

There’s no doubt in Jimin’s mind now that he actually died back in that penthouse and is now residing in whatever level of hell is watching you give his associate a semi despite him being a millisecond away from murdering you.

Yoongi would do it, too. No hesitation. You’ve been on his shit list for as long as Jimin can remember, and you’ve been daring him to put his money where his mouth is and just kill you already for just as long.

Taehyung groans. “Can you two just fuck already so the rest of us can be spared of this?”

You click your tongue, tone melting like butter. You’re fond of Taehyung, soft on him. “No can do, angel. Yoongi here knows I only have eyes for our Jiminie, and god does that hurt his little feelings.”

Your wicked smile gives away nothing—whether you’re telling a bold truth or just unnecessarily needling Yoongi further—but Jimin’s caught off guard and chokes on your words nonetheless.

Hoseok’s forceps still digging around in his stomach, there’s a quiet hurrah of triumph as he finally locates the bullet. Jimin feels nothing as he retrieves it and plucks it out, a reverberated clank! as he drops it into a kidney dish, your words the anesthetic he’s needed as they play on a loop in his head.

When he finally blacks out, either from the pain or the adrenaline or both, it’s your face that greets him. He never gets the chance to tell you why he forgot his vest.

[64.1466° N, 21.9426° W | Reykjavík, ICELAND]

Jimin’s hair is blue when it happens the first time.

It’s November. Namjoon has sent the two of you to Reykjavik and it’s dark all the time, the midnight hue of his hair blending into the impenetrable nighttime that surrounds you. Jimin works best like this—out of sight, part of the shadows. He’s light on his feet, lithe in ways no one else is, not even you, and he’s impossible to anticipate under the cover of darkness.

That’s why Jimin always takes care of the appetizers.

It’s your job to clean up the main course.

The two of you are two halves of the same lethal coin, working together flawlessly after years of carefully honed practice. Jimin slams an unsuspecting man’s head into a wall and you’re right behind him to put a bullet in it.

It’s just how it goes.

And he trusts you. He has to, otherwise he would’ve gotten taken out years ago. You’re not always in his line of sight, but he always feels you, senses your movements before you’re even on your feet. The times it’s gone wrong—and it’s gone wrong so many fucking times, despite how cautious and skilled the two of you are—you’re always right there to catch him before he even hits the ground. Just like a ghost, as if your only purpose in life is keeping Jimin safe and alive.

(It isn’t, but it sure feels that way.)

Tonight it’s another hit carried out in an overpriced penthouse overlooking the northern shore. You’re in and out, don’t waste a second more than you need to. Jimin doesn’t spare a glance at the carnage left behind. Nothing he hasn’t seen a hundred times before. All blood bleeds the same, but he still wonders, foolishly, if his looks different to you. If it feels wrong when it stains your hands and seeps into your clothes.

Jimin has never been covered in your blood before, but he likes to think it would.

The two of you don’t speak until you’re in the quiet safety of yet another hotel room, chain lock thrown across the door, deadbolt secured. A small arsenal of weapons is retrieved from ankles and waistbands and cleaned and packed away meticulously. Jimin’s the one who makes the call to Namjoon, tells him in code that the job’s done. You’ve barely broken a sweat, but under the fluorescent light of the bathroom, Jimin can see a small smattering of blood just along your temple when he closes the distance between you.

Someone else’s, of course.

Anyone who made you bleed your own blood wouldn’t be a quick, clean kill. Jimin would make sure of that.

There’s less to be done about the half-inch scar in the hollow of your throat—a pearlescent reminder of the twin scar he has just below his navel; a callback to the day your devilish mouth said the words Jimin can’t stop thinking about.

“No can do, angel. Yoongi here knows I only have eyes for our Jiminie.”

Maybe it’s stupidity. Maybe it’s the feral, years-long build up that’s been simmering between the two of you—low enough to keep warm, contained enough to never evolve into a rapid boil. Maybe Jimin’s just finally desperate enough to go seeking out answers to questions he’s far too scared to put a voice to.

(Really, Jimin knows it’s adrenaline. Nothing more than chemicals. The two of you high on it, heads floating above the clouds. Powerless; or, at the very least, indifferent to stop the very clear path that’s unfolding on the ground below.)

But, god, he needs to know.

Needs answers.

Needs to know if there’s even a chance you feel it, too: the magnetic ebb and flow the two of you have been dancing around for years. If you see how fondly he looks at you. If you have any idea how easy it is for him to get lost in you. If you know he’d let someone put a bullet between his eyes before he placed his life in the hands of anyone else.

Jimin knows he loves you. He’s known it for a long time, just like he knows all those other things that are second nature to him. Loving you is easy and instinctual as much as it is painful and self-destructive.

At least that’s what he’d thought. Until your devilish mouth said those devilish words and sent him into a tailspin he’s yet to recover from.

You have to feel it. God, can’t you? The way the air crackles between you. The way his skin ignites with a simple look from you. The trembling of his fingers at his sides, desperate to just reach out and touch you—fingers that have been bathed in blood, that have taken life. Fingers that now just want to graze softly across your cheekbones, catch on your bottom lip. Fingers that want to hand you the world on a silver platter. Jimin would do anything for you, give you whatever you wanted. You wouldn’t even have to ask.

Can’t you feel that?

He needs to know.

Jimin is composed, elegant. He kills with grace and still maintains as much of his softness as he can. Isn’t ruled by emotion the way Yoongi and Jungkook are. But now, as he teeters on the edge of the unknown, all he wants to do is jump. Wants to buck all his training, all his resolve and forethought, and jump.

“Did you mean it?” he asks, voice thick. Fingers curl into the expensive silk of his shirt just so they have something to do—something to keep them from reaching out and touching you. “Back in Seoul.”

You’re the smartest person Jimin knows. When you ask, “Did I mean what, Chim?” he knows you’re fucking with him. Dragging this out. You know exactly what he’s asking and he knows you’ll never give anything away so easily.

“What you said to Taehyung,” he answers.

You tsk, eyebrows raising in intrigue. As much as Jimin trusts you, as well as you know him, know all those dirty, dirty secrets he’d never tell anyone else, he’s never been so bold with you. “That those long fingers of his would look good wrapped around my throat? Yeah, I meant that.”

Jimin’s jaw clenches at your taunt. “Don’t play games with me.”

A smirk graces your lips. “Trust me, sweetheart,” you say, voice sickly-sweet as the affection starts popping at the last seams holding him together, “if I wanted to play with you, there’s nothing you could do to stop it.”

With Jimin pressed into the wall behind you, you turn to meet his eye in the mirror. Another smile, teeth bared as you run your tongue across your lips, and this one is his undoing. Makes his cock twitch in his dress pants. Makes him bold. “Do you want to, then?” He takes a step forward—close enough to smell the gunpowder stuck to your clothes, your hair. Close enough for the sulfur and metal to sting his nostrils each time he breathes you in. “Do you want to play with me?”

You love Jimin. Maybe it’s a trauma bond or the implicit, unwavering trust the two of you have in one another, but you know you love him limitlessly. But you also know you can’t love him the way he loves you, the way he deserves to be loved by someone, which is why your mask slips as you say, “I can’t give you what you want, Jimin.”

You try to make him understand that. Really, you do—because Jimin is the smartest person you know, and you know he’s thought about every possible consequence down to the most minute detail and has decided this is worth it anyway. You want to believe in something the way Jimin believes in you, even though he’s wrong. You want something worth throwing all of this away for.

Maybe it’s Jimin, maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just been so fucking long since someone has looked at you with any gentleness in their eyes at all that when Jimin meets your gaze and says, “I don’t want anything more than you’re willing to give,” you take his hand and jump, too.

And there’s nothing gentle about the first time.

It’s all raw, urgent need, Jimin trying desperately to convince himself it’s more than it is while you convince yourself it’s less.

It’s the two of you finally giving up and giving in, letting yourselves be pulled taut by that invisible string tying you together.

It’s Jimin’s sharp intake of breath when you fully step out of your clothes, the sight rendering him immobile. Whatever plans he’d had before seeing the curves of your body, all the scars from years of working by his side, the mottled yellow-greens and purples from the bruises lining your skin—he has no plans now. Can barely think. Wouldn’t be able to tear his eyes away from you with a gun to his head.

It’s the final bricks of the wall he’d built around himself—around his heart, around all those words and feelings he’d never put a voice to—crumbling into ash at his feet. Now he knows he can’t go back. Can’t return to a reality where this isn’t his truth. Where there’s no you and him, him and you. Where it’s just a physical exchange, a give-and-take, tit for tat.

And god, he knows he shouldn’t think like this; knows he’s keeping the truth buried somewhere deep behind lock and key.

…But now that he knows how it feels to move inside you, what else is he supposed to do?

You’re everywhere. Clenched around him. Your taste on his tongue. The feel of you on the pads of his fingers. The smell of you making a mockery of all logical thought. No—no, he can’t do a goddamn thing to stop the avalanche now it’s started.

“Fuck,” he whines, fingers digging into your hips. The soft skin he finds purchase in such a contrast from your hardened exterior, but Jimin knows. He knows you, knows the person behind the mask, sees straight through you each time it slips.

What stared back at him had always been just out of reach.

Taunting him.

Screaming come and get me, come make me yours, come and fucking take what you want.

Until now.

Now it’s tangible. Now it’s breathy, fractured moans that echo off tile walls. Now it’s the sound of his name thatleaves your lips like a prayer. Now it’s the sheen of sweat that covers both of you. Now it’s nails scraping down his back, tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.

(And Jimin won’t tell you this, but those red welts are proof that this is real, this happened, and later on when he’s alone, when his mind is working overtime, he’ll look at them and he’ll smile. Because they’re real. Because this happened.)

Now, it’s the way blue becomes his favorite color. Because he can see his reflection in the mirror as he unravels and comes to his own demise as he spills inside of you; can see the fluorescent lights reflecting off the hue of his hair.

Jimin’s hair is blue when he realizes he’s in love with you.

[34.6037° S, 58.3816° W | Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA]

Jimin is blond when Namjoon sends you to South America.

The details had been scarce: a diplomatic advisor with a rap sheet of human rights violations that have been continuously swept under the rug and his equally-corrupt lawyer. A candid photograph paperclipped to another manila folder, Namjoon a fan of all those old cliches. Likes being a little cheeky that way when he can get away with it, because god knows he can’t get away with much, doesn’t have much of a sense of humor.

It’s a simple job. You and Jimin will have it dealt with in a matter of hours. Less if you’re lucky and the universe is agreeable. But the humidity sticks to your skin, has sweat seeping into your clothes and rolling down your temples, and if there’s one thing you can’t stand it’s the heat. Makes it hard to think. And Namjoon—Namjoon, who makes sure all of his agents want for nothing—is a cheap bastard. Rarely approves nice lodging, says it’s too risky despite your arguments to the contrary, that people don’t care what you do when you have money, so you’re stuck in some shithole motel room with an aircon unit that keeps blowing out stale, warm air.

And maybe you shouldn’t, maybe you should be more cognizant of Jimin and all his feelings, but it’s fucking hot, so you peel your shirt over your head and undo the button of your pants. Sit on the edge of the bed and try to think about anything other than the temperature, how it’s starting to prick uncomfortably at your skin.

Jimin clears his throat, keeps his eyes glued to the disgusting carpet. “Got a text from Seokjin-ssi,” he says, words strained. “Looks like they’ll be solo jobs.”

You groan. Leave it to Seokjin to change the plan at the last minute. “Tell Kim Seokjin he’s a useless piece of shit.”

“Done. Anything else?”

“Tell Kim Namjoon if he ever sends us to South America in the summer again I’ll kill him myself.”

Jimin has a laugh like an anodyne. A laugh that takes all those broken, bleeding parts of you and soothes over them like a balm. “Seokjin-ssi says he’s not passing along that particular message.”

“Tell him he’s a bitch, then.”

“He’ll kill me if I say that.”

“He hasn’t done field work in years and he’s probably too vitamin D deficient to leave the basement. He couldn’t even kill a fucking rat.”

There’s another laugh. More forced, less tinkling. You recognize it right away, the sound of anxiety. Solo jobs aren’t common for the two of you. For Yoongi and Taehyung, sure, but not you and Jimin. You’re a team for a reason, and though you’re more than capable of getting this done and out of the way, it doesn’t feel right. Settles in your gut like something rotten, knowing you’ll be without Jimin.

And you know he’s thinking it, too. How he turns the burner over and over in his hands, as if there’s some combination of words he can send back to Seoul to get Seokjin and Namjoon to reconsider. Plans don’t change often; not like this, anyway. These have been declared solos for a reason, and that’s a thought you can’t linger on too long.

“Are they leaving it up to us?” Jimin nods, still not meeting your eye. “Do you have a preference?”

He shrugs, tossing the phone on the small table in the corner. Nothing else to be done. “Not really. What do you think?”

“Nah, don’t care, either. Just toss me one.”

Santiago Aguirre… 47 years old… Resides in a high-rise luxury apartment in Retiro…

Your eyes skim the file, study the black and white photograph of the lawyer. Read over the list of all his high-profile, degenerate clients and all their high-profile crimes. You read about the previous attempts on his life, the seemingly never-ending list of people who want him dead. Your eyes go back to his photograph, frowning at the smug look on his face. What stares back at you is a man who thinks he’s invincible, who thinks a penthouse apartment on the top floor and a security team in the lobby means he’s impervious to harm. A man who has made money off people just like him: dirty, corrupt, hands stained red.

“Okay?” Jimin asks, looking up from his own file.

He’s so striking. So safe. And you know what he’s done, giving you the hit he thinks is easier, willing to risk himself on a solo mission to ensure you make it out. There’s no guarantees in this line of work, in life in general, but Jimin’s brand of selfless love is certainly one.

So you just nod, knowing someone slimy like this can quickly go sideways, and decide you can do the same.

“I’m gonna get ready,” you say. “The plan is the same as all the other solo jobs. Get in, get it done, get out as quickly as possible. Lay low. Don’t come straight back here.”

Jimin rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Anything else?”

You exhale. Try to quiet the nerves roiling in your stomach. Barely resist the urge to press a lingering kiss to Jimin’s forehead before you swallow hard and say, “Yeah. Stay alive.”

It comes out more like a plea.

—

You’re good at your job.

Rarely feel much guilt over it, either, which—well, you’re not sure what that means. That something is permanently broken in your psyche, probably. Being able to take life so easily and without remorse. It’s not natural.

Kim Namjoon is a man who plays God, is the one who decides who gets to live and who has to die. His word is the only law you adhere to. And that’s… that’s something. Makes it less burdensome, takes some weight off, because Kim Namjoon wouldn’t accept a morally-ambiguous job. He wouldn’t ask you to put your life on the line for some petty bullshit.

This is how you’ve lived for the last four years. Four years of blindly following Namjoon’s word, of being a good little soldier and doing whatever is asked of you. Four years of being responsible for not only your own life, but Jimin’s as well, just as he is for yours. Four years that have served you well, all things considered.

Until now.

Something about this job hits you hard. Doesn’t settle quite as quickly as the ones that have come before. For the first time, you’d looked down at the lifeless body at your feet and couldn’t stop the trembling, could barely quell the nausea. Thought what the fuck am I doing, what kind of life is this for the first time. Thought back to that day four years ago when Kim Namjoon saved your life and offered you a job and wondered, for the first time, what would’ve happened if you’d said no.

Now, as you suck on a cigarette, legs dangling off the roof of a building looking not far from collapse, a new thought:

Would Namjoon let you go if you asked?

He’s taken care of you. For four years you’ve wanted for nothing. Have socked away more money than you’ll ever be able to spend, even if you live to a thousand. You could go anywhere, become anyone, and no one would suspect a thing. There’d just be you and a million lifetimes’ worth of transgressions, alone under the weight of all that burden; alone, except for all the ghosts that come to greet you every time you close your eyes.

Doesn’t matter. Namjoon might be willing to let you go, give you the chance to salvage something from this life in the name of normalcy, but Yoongi would gladly put a bullet in your head before he let you disappear with all his secrets.

Doesn’t matter.

You stub out the cigarette and put the butt in your pocket. Make your way down to the street. Stay under the shadows—just visible enough to redirect any suspicion shot your way. You pretend to take a call, flawless Argentinian Spanish falling from your lips as you tell the imaginary person on the other end all about your fucked up day at work. How your manager never gets off your ass, doesn’t trust you, thinks you’re too fucking stupid to run a simple executable.

No one spares you a second glance.

Not here, on this nondescript street in a nondescript Argentinian neighborhood, and not when you stumble into the tiny lobby of your shithole motel. The poor kid behind the desk doesn’t even glance up, just mutters a good evening, miss under his breath that you return in a voice far too high-pitched to be your own.

Better to be seen and be unremarkable than draw attention to yourself trying to stay invisible, you figure.

The cameras in the stairwell are broken so you take the steps two at a time. Pull the room key from its place inside your boot, happy to no longer have it digging into your skin. Pause just long enough to make sure you don’t hear anything on the other side of the door before you’re unlocking it with your free hand wrapped around the trigger of your gun.

It’s empty.

Of course it is.

Jimin stashed the burner in a place no one but you would think to look. You text one simple word to Seokjin—Hey!—and you get two in return: Who’s this?

You know who it is, you fucking dickhead.

It takes a few seconds, but the reply is a simple—

Sorry.

Then you toss aside the phone and float in the darkness of the room. There’s nothing to do but wait, because you don’t dare to do anything alone. There’s sweat and blood and fuck knows what else stuck to your skin, your hair, but you can’t risk taking a shower. Can’t risk the water dampening your senses. Can’t risk being cornered in a moldy bathroom, only one way out. Can’t risk doing anything alone. Can’t take a fucking shower.

It’s this thought, more than anything else, that has your body flushing with rage.

What kind of life is this?

Namjoon had never mentioned repaying your debt. He’d never insinuated you owed him anything at all for saving your life, but you know something like that never comes for free. Namjoon doesn’t do anything just because. Has no goodness in his heart to do anything in the name of it. Watching Jimin nearly die in front of him had been the exception to his usual nature; a rare slip-up by an otherwise detached, uncaring man.

Still, whatever you owe him has surely been repaid by now. Tenfold, if the bloodstains along your collar are anything to go by.

It’s time for Namjoon to let you go.

—

Something is wrong.

Two hours have ticked by and there’s no word from Jimin. No word from Namjoon or Seokjin, either, which is the only reason you’re still in this nauseating motel room and not out on the streets searching for him. Solo jobs don’t go like this. The two of you are always in and out, tragically efficient. Back to where you started and then back on a plane, nothing left behind except a singular bullet hole and another fragmented piece of your conscience.

You’ve had a lot of jobs go wrong, but never two hours.

You’re about three minutes from coming out of your skin. Sick to your stomach with worry, anxiety weighing you down like an anchor. You wouldn’t be able to go out searching for Jimin like this even if you could, and there’s no point in dwelling on that, examining it further. All you can do is wait.

It’s another hour before you hear the click of the lock. You’re nearly on your knees in relief, but you stay rooted to the flimsy mattress. Try not to think about how you’ll have to sleep on it, even though you’ll be up half the night with residual worry. All those lingering ghosts.

Jimin doesn’t say anything, so neither do you.

[55.6761° N, 12.5683° E | Copenhagen, DENMARK]

Jimin’s hair is orange when you go to Copenhagen.

Not for a job, just to breathe. You wanted to see the city at Christmastime; Jimin’s never been.

You crack a joke. Point out buildings of similar color, have him stand in front of one as you take a picture. Everyone smiles when they pass the two of you on the street, Jimin’s eyes fond even though he rolls them as you pose him how you want. Still stands against an apricot-colored wall and flashes a smile and a peace sign, cheeks pink from the cold. Does a good job of pretending the two of you aren’t here just for fun, that this is something more.

It’s not.

The two of you fucked in a hotel room in Reykjavik and haven’t spoken a word of it since.

You nearly lost your mind over him in Buenos Aires and haven’t spoken a word of that, either.

Instead, his hand finds yours as the two of you walk around Tivoli Gardens. You marvel at the lights and Jimin marvels at you. You share mulled wine and spiced doughnuts. Jimin tries to drag you on the swings but you plant your feet and refuse, laughing through your refusals. As dangerous as your lives are, motion sickness might be the most. He gets his revenge and poses you in front of a giant nutcracker, then again in front of one of the endless Christmas trees.

Jimin pays for the two of you to decorate honey cakes. You’re surrounded by families with shrieking children and palpable adoration, and it’s all you can do not to wonder if anyone you’ve taken out had ever had something like this. Something that makes your soul warm; something that still lingers in your bones years later.

The two of you take a selfie when it starts to snow. It stings when you have no one to send it to, so it just lives in your phone. Maybe it’s enough.

On another day, Jimin holds your hand through Torvehallerne. This time you marvel at him while he marvels at all the food, eyes wide each time he turns to ask if he should buy something. You always say yes and he always shares, and it’s all you can do not to think about why you don’t have to budget yourselves. Why you’re able to walk through the market and buy whatever you want; how you could buy every item for sale and it wouldn’t make a dent.

(You pick up small trinkets for Taehyung and Jungkook. Not because you want to, but because it feels nicer than remembering that you have no one to buy gifts for. Not really. Not anymore.)

Jimin wants to ice skate, so you do. He holds your hand then, too. More out of necessity than anything else, and he has none of his usual grace. Someone hands you a free cup of hot chocolate, just because. Jimin pouts and then it’s his hot chocolate. It’s all you can do not to kiss away the whipped cream on the corner of his mouth.

Back in your lavish hotel, after countless days have blurred together and Jimin’s fresh from a shower, skin flushed, you finally ask yourself if it’s worth putting up such a fight. If it’s really all that bad to care for Jimin and be cared for in return. If it’s all that bad to be someone else, just for a little while: someone with a normal life who makes a normal living and has a normal capability to love. Someone who isn’t damaged beyond repair.

That will never be you. Not fully, and certainly not in this lifetime, but maybe it could be, a little.

“Jimin,” you say, because you need to try. Jimin loves you in ways you’ll never understand, and you want to be better for him. “We should talk.”

Your voice is small and hesitant, and Jimin hates it. Sees trouble where there’s only vulnerability, so he misreads. Shakes his head. Takes a risk and stands between your legs at the edge of the bed—yours, because there’s two—as he tilts your head back, thumbs pressing into the contours of your cheeks. The scar still sits in the hollow of your throat, and that version of you feels so far away. That life feels so far away.

There’s no violence here. There’s no blood, no fugues. There’s just you and Jimin, whose voice is small like yours when he shakes his head and says, “You should kiss me instead.”

The second time is nothing like the first.

Jimin moves delicately. Feels like silk lace, tastes like spun sugar. Moves both his mouth and his body fluidly, no hesitation, yet he still takes his time. Still pauses to look at you with endless devotion; with awed reverence. Makes a map of your body and marks all his favorite places with his lips.

“Tell me what you want,” he says. Speaks the words against the skin just beneath your ear. “Anything. I’ll give you whatever you want, just have to ask.”

What you want isn’t tangible, isn’t possible, so you stay quiet. Thread your fingers through Jimin’s hair, gasp when he mouths along the column of your throat. Jimin reserves all his softness for you. Bathes you in it. Would kill anyone to keep it that way.

So you say, “Want your mouth,” and let slip a quiet moan when he gives you what you’ve asked for. When he situates himself between your thighs and sucks and licks until you’re writhing, making a mess, grasping fruitlessly at the sheets, his hair, his shoulders, only calming when his hands find yours and your fingers interlock.

Jimin mouths at you until you’re trembling. Until you’re needy and desperate, hips moving on their own, fucking yourself against his face. Until nothing exists except the heat in your belly, the stars behind your eyelids, the heady, fucked-out sound of Jimin’s voice as he talks you through it, murmurs praise against your cunt.

Jimin mouths at you until you forget.

This isn’t your life. This is not something you can have.

But, in the grand scheme of things, what does it matter? You’ve made peace with death, and there’s only one of two ways it’s going to come for you in the end: by Namjoon’s hand or someone else’s. So what does it matter?

This time, Jimin fucks you slow. Kisses you with your taste still in his mouth. Thumbs over a hardened nipple just to see what earns him a reaction, and what you truly want is more time—something else that’s impossible.

Jimin’s hair is orange when you think you might be in love with him.

[ 48.8566° N, 2.3522° E | Paris, FRANCE ]

Jimin’s hair is pink when—

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the toilet.

Soaks a washcloth in warm water. Wrings it out. Stands in front of you, and there’s water dripping onto the floor and Jimin doesn’t care, doesn’t seem to see anything in this moment except for you, your hands covered in someone else’s blood, and he reaches out, gently grabs your wrist. Palm up. Someone else’s blood. Everything smells like copper and iron. Looks too surreal beneath the fluorescent lights of this hotel bathroom for your mind to make sense of it.

There is care in the way Jimin cleans your hands. There is tenderness in the way he both refuses to see what you really are and the way he’s the only one to ever see you so entirely, when you look down at the blood he’s washing away and all you can see is stigmata. When all you see is sin.

“I know you don’t love me,” he says, and there is a conviction in his words that stuns you into silence. “Not the way I love you, anyway.”

That tenderness is still there as he says this. As he presses the wet fabric into the meat of your palm, wipes the stains away, and the warmth is as calming as it is undeserved. It feels like something forbidden. It feels like salvation and condemnation all at once, like whatever sick depravity permeates you is contagious, will take over Jimin, too, just from touching you.

Jimin is close enough to reach out and touch. Close enough to see the violence that he exists in alongside you: the rips in his clothes, the scars that decorate his skin. Close enough to know he smells sickly-sweet, just like death. Your hand shakes as it reaches for him and never follows through. Doesn’t want to contaminate him.

“I do,” you finally say. Whatever is in your voice is not conviction. “I can’t.” You suck in a breath, try to steady your breathing. This is where it all comes crashing down, you think, because in all the years you’ve done Namjoon’s bidding, you’ve never cried. You can take life so freely and without thought, but you cannot love Jimin. “Someone like me isn’t capable of it.”

Jimin pauses, the washcloth stuck in the space between your ring and middle fingers. “And who is someone like you?”

Water is still dripping to the floor. Serosanguineous: blood tainting something untouched. Not something one thing or another but both, watery-pink. Looks like Jimin’s hair. “I’ve killed a lot of people,” you answer. “More than I can count. More than I can name. More than the ones that come to haunt me at night.” Your free hand moves to your chest, covers your heart. “There’s nothing here, Jimin. I’m not sure there ever was.”

The washcloth drops to the floor, and all that blood belonging to a man whose name you never bothered to learn before you put a bullet between his eyes finds a new place to rest. “I think,” he begins, clasping your unclean hand in his own, voice dropping to a whisper, “you forget, sometimes.” You gasp as he places your palm to his cheek, drags it across his face, smears a stranger’s blood across his skin. “That we’re the same.”

Jimin is always overwhelming, but the love he has for you is even more so. It consumes you entirely, embeds itself beneath your skin, makes a home, would tear you apart, body and soul, to return to him.

[ 47.4979° N, 19.0402° E | Budapest, HUNGARY ]

Jimin’s hair is lavender when it all goes to shit.

“You’re being followed.”

Seokjin’s voice is garbled through the earpiece, tinny and metallic, and you roll your eyes. Some things don’t need to be said, because you’ve known someone was following you for the last three blocks. Average height, black peacoat, close-cropped haircut. Not the kind of person that’d stand out here, and that’s exactly why you’d sent Jimin in the other direction.

“No shit,” you respond in Hungarian, because you already know the man following you doesn’t speak or understand it. “Give me somewhere to go.”

It takes Seokjin a few moments to run the translation. “There’s a side street up on your right,” he answers. “It’s tight, but there’s an alleyway at the end. You can buy some time if you’re quick.”

“Where’s Jimin?”

You pass a vendor selling lángos and duck into the street behind the stall. Just as Seokjin had said, there’s a small alleyway up on the left, and your footfall is near-silent as you break into a sprint to reach it. “Safe,” is all Seokjin says.

You take a second to steady your breathing, knowing you’re good on time—the man following you was close enough to know where you’d turned, but, if you’re lucky, not much after that. That plays on a loop: if you’re lucky, if you’re lucky, if you’re lucky. What is luck, what does it look like, in a life left entirely to chance? In a life with no guarantees?

You tuck yourself away, focus on Seokjin’s metallic breaths. Think about his basement in Seoul, why he’s in it. Ask, “What happened in Addis Ababa?” because it feels important to know.

There’s not much you know about Seokjin’s life. Whatever happened in Ethiopia had been before your time, reduced to hushed whispers and gossip fodder after your arrival. No one spoke of it, Seokjin especially, but every now and then something would slip in the same way weeds grow in sidewalk cracks.

A job gone wrong. A bombing at the consulate with Seokjin inside.

His reply is simple, words spoken carefully: “I loved someone once, too.”

He can’t see it, but you nod nonetheless; an answer that doesn’t require a response, because you know. It’s enough to fill in the rest. What Seokjin’s trauma looks like. Why he doesn’t do field work anymore. Why he prefers the solitude of the basement, rarely a sound beyond the electric thrum of the server racks.

Who had gone in to retrieve him, and why Yoongi has the scar over his eye.

“You loved someone,” you conclude, “and he would’ve been willing to die for you.”

“Yes,” Seokjin says, and it’s like the word’s been punched out of him. Sounds like something repressed, something left to rot in the darkest corner of the world.

Love, to Seokjin, looks and sounds the same as death.

“I think most people spend their entire lives searching for a love like that,” he continues, and if you could see him you think he might look dazed, off-kilter. You think he might be an avatar. Seokjin is prying his ribcage apart, unwrapping the barbed wire from his heart, saying I once was in love and this is all I know of it. “But, to me, in this life, it’s a prison. Once someone is willing to die for you, how do you keep them alive? How do you—I kissed that skin. I worshiped it. I pressed my lips to it with whatever softness was left in me. How do you look at that same skin and know you’re the reason it’s mangled?” He exhales, all tremor. “You can’t. You can’t.”

You know this all too well. You know what it feels like to look at Jimin and know, intrinsically and subconsciously, that you wouldn’t even hesitate. You’d take and give life to keep him alive and safe. You know that when you exit this world at someone else’s hand his face is the last thing you want to see.

You know it’s a liability.

You know it’s a target painted on your back. Between your eyes.

You know there’s nothing left to say, that this particular conversation has run its course. The two of you sit in an amicable silence, and you hope Seokjin can hear the life that surrounds you, however mundane. Hope he can hear the lángos vendor trying to hawk his goods; hope he can hear a city 8,000 kilometers away; hope he can hear these regular, everyday people going about their lives and remember there’s hope beyond his four walls.

I think you’d like it here, you think, but you don’t dare to say it aloud.

Time passes in a meaningless blur. Could be minutes, could be hours. No one’s come to kill you, so you reckon you’ve long since been in the clear. And maybe it speaks to Seokjin’s idea that love is a prison, because you know something’s happened to Jimin long before Seokjin speaks it into existence.

You’re up and out of the alleyway before you’re told to move. Have no idea where you’re going, but you’re racing through the streets of Budapest with a panic you haven’t ever felt in your life. Feels like quicksand; feels like molasses; feels like you have to wade through all the blood you’ve spilled, now congealed, to get to him.

“Where am I going?” you demand. Your lungs are on fire. In the split-second of silence it becomes a desperate scream. “Seokjin, tell me where the fuck I’m going!”

“The—fuck, the wa-warehouse up on your right.” You can’t think about why he’s crying. “I don’t—I don’t know wha-what’s there, you need to be careful. Please, you have to—”

Twenty seconds and you’ll be there, you’ll be with Jimin, you just need to keep running. You need to keep your head on straight. Remember your training. Remember you’ve built a life in a viper pit.

A man in a uniform is unloading a shipment around the back of the building. Faces away from you, bent at the waist. Takes very little effort to smash his head into the stone exterior and knock him unconscious, pocket his badge. You can’t get stupid now. Tell Seokjin to make sure all the cameras are cut, ask what floor when you shut yourself inside the freight elevator, unwilling to take the stairs and run into anyone who might be waiting. All the way to the top, he says, so all the way to the top you go.

—

Over the course of your life, you’ve made peace with death. Have stared it in the eye more times than you can count. Have dealt it out, evaded it, shook its hand.

You are wholly unprepared for the sight that greets you.

Red. Everything is red—the walls, the floor, what used to be a beautiful parquet pattern in the wood. In the center of the room: two bodies, maybe three. Not much that’d be able to identify them beyond a pile of teeth, no saying whose is whose. Slaughterhouse scraps.

And this is not—Jimin doesn’t work this way. Isn’t his MO. Jimin’s kills are elegant and neat, topped with a bow. What you see before you is ultraviolence. It is unhinged, it is fury, it is a complete loss of control. It’s what love looks like to Jimin, because he sits at the very edge of a rotted chair, legs crossed. Face streaked with blood, clothes covered in it.

“Jimin,” you say, because what else is there?

He tilts his head to the side, smirks a little, looks at you beneath his lashes. Eyes that used to find you across a room and calm you. Eyes that have locked onto you in the throes of pleasure. Eyes you’ve seen yourself reflected in, bathed in love and adoration.

Eyes that now contain nothing.

“Jimin, what the fuck happened?”

He removes his gloves with his teeth and doesn’t flinch away from the taste of iron. “They said they hurt you,” he states simply, “so I did what needed to be done.”

“What—” Nausea claws at your throat; for the first time, it’s all too much. This isn’t Jimin. This isn’t your Jimin, who smiled as you posed him against apricot walls in Copenhagen, who took a bullet to the stomach to protect you and never, ever told you. This is not the Jimin who wasted the last of his goodwill on loving you. “What did you do?” you whisper.

He rises to full height and it makes you flinch. You are scared of Jimin for the first time in your life: scared of who he is in this moment, what he’s capable of. And he sees it, lets that brand of anguish overtake him. Reaches for you before he decides against it and lets his hand drop to his side. Says, “I would never hurt you,” as if the words could brand themselves into your skin so you’d never forget.

“No, you’d just—” You squeeze your eyes shut. Don’t think about how one of the men nearly embedded into the floor was the one trailing you earlier.

Instead, you think about Seokjin: Once someone is willing to die for you, how do you keep them alive? You think about: How do you look at that same skin and know you’re the reason it’s mangled? You think about: In this life, it’s a prison.

You drop to your knees. Let the blood seep through your clothes and into your skin, undeserving of shying away from it.

Namjoon should’ve let you go.

You think about the men in front of you. Who they were, who they loved. The grief all of this is going to leave behind, and it becomes impossible to breathe. You grasp at your throat, think about all the times you’ve been strangled and who’d been there to cut the rope. There is no limit to Jimin’s devotion, and you understand now, how it drove Yoongi to madness. How he loved someone so much he would’ve retrieved their corpse from a building and how that same person can no longer bear to look at the damage they’d caused.

“This isn’t love, Jimin,” you choke out.

He stands in front of you. Stigmata. You’re worshiping at the altar of some kind of devil. At least his hands are clean when he places his fingers beneath your chin, forces you to look up at him. “What is it, then?”

“Destruction.”

A quiet huff of cruel laughter. “See, this is the difference between me and you, darling.” He takes back his hand, runs it through his blood-streaked hair, and your chin sags to your chest without his support. “Because I already knew that. Because I have destroyed myself every single day loving you.” He squats down, eye-level, and he says, “I need you to listen to me when I say this, sweetheart: you do not love me the way I love you, because I would do worse. When it comes to you, there is nothing on this earth I would not destroy to keep you safe.”

He clears his throat. Collects whatever’s in his mouth and spits onto one of the bodies. “If this is enough to have you tucking your fucking tail between your legs, then go, because this doesn’t even scratch the fucking surface.”

You can’t bring yourself to say anything, and sometimes that says it all.

Jimin presses a kiss to the top of your head. Makes a call. Cleaners will be here soon, he says, better get going.

You watch him go.

[ 37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA ]

Jimin’s hair is black when Namjoon calls the meeting.

He takes the seat across from Namjoon’s desk because they don’t meet like this often. Assignments are usually manila folders slipped under doors, hushed whispers in hallways confirmed with a nod or a text on a burner phone. Assignments are not last-minute assemblies in conference rooms and offices.

But the way Namjoon is looking at him, with his clenched jaw and a gaze that’s meant to look barbed to anyone who doesn’t actually know him—Jimin doesn’t need to ask what this is about.

Had he bothered to look, he would’ve known by the way you stood in the far corner of the room, face obscured by the mid-afternoon shadows. Yoongi’s close to you, for some reason: dressed head to toe in black, perched on a lateral file cabinet, using a metal corner to sharpen his switchblade. Just like a harbinger of death. Some sort of fucked up omen, a warning that’s come too late.

Didn’t I tell you this would end badly, he hears Yoongi taunt in his head. This is what happens when you lay with trash.

Easy for Yoongi to say when he doesn’t know what it means to be cared for by you. Doesn’t know how it feels to give in to the freefall and plummet at your feet, stripped back and laid bare. Doesn’t know how it feels to kiss secrets into your skin like constellations, to map his tongue along every unspoken confession.

Easy for Yoongi to say, because he doesn’t have to survive the aftermath. Doesn’t have to feel the heartbreak, the agony of having you and watching as you slip through his fingers. Yoongi doesn’t have to struggle just to breathe, doesn’t have to endure the nights staring at the ceiling, watching as the daylight creeps into the corners of his vision. Doesn’t have to watch you looking so unaffected.

“Jimin.” Namjoon’s tone is flat, needlelike.

Behind him, Yoongi chuckles lowly. “What?” Jimin asks, his gaze trained on the painting behind Namjoon’s head. Looks like one he’d seen in Berlin, the time the two of you had gone just because and spent an afternoon ducking in and out of museums to escape the rain.

When he closes his eyes, he still sees the raindrops stuck to your eyelashes. The beads of water rolling off the sleeves of your leather jacket. How blinding your smile had been. The laughter in your voice as you ordered beer after beer after beer for the two of you in flawless Berlinisch. A brief, fleeting glimpse at normalcy. At the kind of life the two of you could have if you were just… different. Lived different lives. Were different people.

“You’ve gotten sloppy.”

Namjoon’s words are a cold bucket of water. Snap him back to reality, yank him back to the present where he’s forced to leave those river-lined streets behind. You’re silent and Yoongi’s still snorting laughter. “Okay,” is all Jimin can bring himself to say.

Jin had gotten sloppy once, too, and Namjoon stuck him down in the basement to work logistics. Might not be so bad, Jimin reckons. He’d be away from you, spared of this fucking misery. “So you know that’s unacceptable.”

Jimin just shrugs, resigned to his fate, whatever it may be. “I’m reassigning the both of you,” Namjoon continues. “You’ll both have new partners for your next assignments, since you clearly can no longer be trusted together.”

“Who?” Jimin manages to choke out.

Namjoon raises an eyebrow, clearly having expected an argument. “You’re being sent to Shanghai with Jungkook. You,” he says, turning his attention to you, “are going to Moscow with Taehyung.”

She’s fond of Taehyung, Jimin wants to say. But you’d been fond of him too, once upon a time, and that’d only ended in heartbreak, so who fucking cares.

They’re cruel, the tricks Jimin’s mind plays on him. How he convinces himself you look pained. How his fingers wring together at the thought of entrusting his life in the hands of someone else, someone new. At your life being just as at stake; at Taehyung being tasked with keeping you alive. Would you die for him, too, the way you’d always told Jimin you would for him? Would Taehyung take a bullet to the stomach to keep you safe the way Jimin had?

Even more cruel is the way you scoff, pushing yourself off of the wall as you fold your arms across your chest and say, “That’s bullshit, Kim Namjoon.”

No one talks to Namjoon that way except you.

Yoongi’s knife stops twirling. Just like a bird sensing a storm, senses on high-alert as he flicks his gaze over to you. “I’m sorry?” Namjoon says. “What part of Jimin losing his mind and nearly outing all of us seems like bullshit to you?”

“Hm, let me think,” you retort, a manicured finger tapping against the hollow of your cheek. “The part where you’re reassigning me for someone else’s mistake?”

Which part was the mistake? Jimin wants to ask. Needs to know how much you regret. Was sleeping with you the mistake? Falling in love with you? Getting too caught up in all these daydreams and letting reality get away from him?

“This organization is more important than Park Jimin getting his goddamn dick wet,” Namjoon snaps. “Keeping all of you safe—keeping you alive—is more—”

You scoff. Take an entire container of gasoline and pour it right on top of Namjoon’s flammable ire. “Then perhaps you’d be so kind as to explain to me why Min fucking Yoongi can fuck damn near everyone in this establishment, yet I have to sit here and listen to your goddamn mouth—”

Jimin doesn’t think Yoongi even knows his arm is moving.

There’d just been the trading of barbed words. His own name being spoken into the ether. Yoongi’s arm moving away from his body, switchblade clasped tightly between his fingers as he plunges it into your flesh.

Jimin watches it puncture your arm in slow motion. Feels the bile in his throat, the heat in his belly. Looks first at Namjoon whose jaw has gone slack, skin pale, as he stammers over words that won’t come. Then he looks at Yoongi—expects to find shock or guilt but finds only a muted disinterest and flared nostrils.

Finally, he looks at you. Watches the white cotton sleeve of your shirt slowly turn red and sticky-wet. Watches as your lips move around syllables and vowels and consonants Jimin can’t decipher.

“—fucking piece of shit, this is my favorite shirt! I’ll never get all this goddamn blood out of it—”

Jimin thinks he hears Yoongi say you deserve it. But Jimin isn’t really thinking much as he clambers out of his chair and moves in Yoongi’s direction. Doesn’t think at all as he lets instinct take over, lets adrenaline steer him headfirst into yet another bad idea.

He’s always known there’d come a day he’d be face-to-face with the sight of your blood. Had always known it’d come from someone else’s hand. Had always promised himself that hurting you would be the last thing anyone ever did.

Jimin has his fingers wrapped around Yoongi’s throat and he finally understands it—the joy Yoongi finds in taking life.

“What’s the matter, Jimin-ah?” Yoongi taunts. Jimin tightens his grip. Suddenly hates that fucking scar across Yoongi’s eye. “You’re never on clean-up duty. Always make your girlfriend do the dirty work. Finally grew some fucking balls, huh?”

“Fuck you,” Jimin says stupidly. Can’t think of anything more to say. Not that he needs to. Wrapping your hands around someone’s throat sends enough of a message, he thinks.

Namjoon’s still tongue-tied as you yank Yoongi’s blade from your arm, immediately pressing your other hand over the wound to stem the bleeding. The sight of your blood is making Jimin dizzy; the smell of the iron hanging in the air. All he wants to do is choke the life out of the man in front of him, but more than that, he just wants to hold your hand. Wants to comfort you, even though he knows you don’t need it. Not from him, not from anyone, but he still wants to. Wants to press his lips to the sweat at your brow.

And Yoongi can see it, too, because he starts laughing. It’s an odd, fractured noise. Jimin isn’t sure if he’s ever heard him laugh before, decides he also hates the way it sounds. Feels all wrong watching it leave his crooked smirk. Makes Jimin’s stomach plummet to the ground.

“Oh, you’re fucked, aren’t you?” Yoongi teases around Jimin’s slackened grip. “You weren’t just fucking her, you’re in love with her.”

Weird how Jimin is the one with his hands around someone’s neck and feels like he’s the one suffocating.

[ 31.2304° N, 121.4737° E | Shanghai, CHINA ]

Jimin watches the life drain from an innocent woman’s face and feels nothing.

Jimin watches Jungkook cut a man down and feels even less.

When it’s over, he cleans up wordlessly and doesn’t eat for three days.

[ 37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA ]

Jimin’s hair has faded to brown by the time he returns from Shanghai.

The more complicated job had gone to you and Taehyung. Jimin had tried not to take it personally. The Russian hits are always unnecessarily violent and Jungkook still isn’t fully trained. There’s still a phantom pain in Jimin’s stomach that warns him of the consequences of taking on more than he can chew. So, sure, Shanghai had gone fine, but his mind had been nearly 7,000 kilometers away the entire time.

Good thing he’d returned to Seoul unscathed, too, because he’s sure Namjoon would’ve eliminated him without a moment’s hesitation if he’d fucked up again.

But Shanghai had only served to prove the leader right. Jimin can’t work with you anymore. Can’t focus, can’t stomach the violence, can’t keep his goddamn head on straight.

He sighs as he glances at Jungkook to his right. Jimin had watched him murder two men in cold blood not even thirty-six hours ago and now he’s doe-eyed and sucking down his third banana milk of the morning. It really makes his head spin, being paired with this grown-up infant of a man now instead of you, but for all of Jungkook’s apparent shortcomings, he’d kept Jimin alive. He isn’t dead.

And then you walk in with Taehyung and he wishes he was.

Because you’re laughing and Taehyung’s got his arm slung around your shoulder and you look happy. It’s the kind of happiness that should be contagious, bloom warmth in his chest, but it doesn’t. It just takes the last frayed strand of hope he has and sets flame to it.

You don’t look like you miss Jimin at all. Don’t look like you’ve lost sleep or skipped meals.

“Didn’t take you long, did it?” Jimin says, because he’s wounded and lashing out. Not because he means it.

You must know he doesn’t, too, because you don’t react. “Watch your mouth, Park Jimin,” Taehyung warns, because he doesn’t know, and this only sets Jimin off more. You don’t need defending. Or had you, and Jimin had simply thought it wasn’t his place to provide it? That you wouldn’t want it?

“Or what, Kim Taehyung?”

Taehyung is cherubic. It’s part of his charm, one of many reasons why he’s so effective. If you’re looking to die, you look for the guy who looks like Yoongi, not the one who smiles wide and warm like Taehyung. So when he sets his jaw and pokes his tongue into his cheek and says, “Or I’ll cut your fucking head off, you stupid fuck,” your attention is finally piqued.

“I’m so sick of this,” Jungkook wails, banana milk tossed carelessly in the trash. “All of you need to get your fucking shit together!”

Taehyung rolls his eyes at the same time you pretend to inspect your nails. “Is that why you’re so temperamental, Chim?” Taehyung prods, looking every bit the pretentious, murderous angel he is. “Because you got sent to China on a babysitting mission while the grownups did real work?”

“Fuck you,” Jungkook snaps, rising to full height. “I’m not a fucking child.”

“Oh? Could’ve fooled me.” Taehyung’s words are razor-sharp and smell like kerosene. “Tell me, then: were you on babysitting duty? Had to look after our precious little Jiminie while he nursed his broken heart?”

You sigh, full of faux-exasperation, and place a gentle hand on Taehyung’s forearm. Dig your nails in just enough to be a warning, and if Jimin hadn’t been looking he’d miss it: the way Taehyung deflates instantly, anger dissipating like smoke, back in control. Just because you’d touched him. Just because you were there. Jimin knows that touch, how it feels to be under your control, and it makes his chest ache. Makes everything feel like it’s sitting wrong in his stomach, and he’s either going to be sick all over Namjoon’s overpriced fucking rug or wrap his hands around Taehyung’s throat the way he’d done to Yoongi.

He’s out of his goddamned mind; he feels untethered. Helpless. Like it was always going to end like this, and maybe Jimin knew that and had just ignored it. Maybe now he’s paying the price—maybe he’s finally found something he can’t afford.

Jungkook’s still going off, nasty gaze set on Taehyung because he’s the only one playing along. They’re exchanging words Jimin can’t make heads nor tails of. Words he doesn’t care about. Words that ring empty and hollow because they sound nothing like the way you say his name. Shapeless, unlike the way your lips move around those syllables.

“Jimin,” you say, the sound finally registering and bringing him back down to earth. All he can do is stare. “Can we talk?” Taehyung and Jungkook are still trading barbs.

Wonders how he got here. Looks around the room and wonders if each and every one of them is destined for this same fate, this madness. Wants to tell you why he forgot his vest, why he was three hours late in Argentina. Wants to grovel and beg and leave this place and never look back.

More than anything, he wants to know what it feels like to actually be human.

So he shakes his head. Tries not to be haunted by the way your face falls at the rejection.

There is a scar on his abdomen and a scar on your arm that both tell the same story. There is a man in the basement who is in love with a man above ground and is too weighed down by guilt to do anything about it. There is a man here who plays god, has soldiers to do his bidding, and there is very little here that Jimin has only for himself.

The two of you will have that conversation, but he needs to be human, first.

[ 34.6901° N, 135.1956° E | Kobe, JAPAN ]

This is a waste of your fucking time.

Whatever Namjoon had thought would be here doesn’t seem to exist. Yoongi can barely tolerate you on a good day, threatens to stick a dagger in your neck at least twice an hour, but the more time the two of you waste chasing ghosts, the closer he comes to unraveling entirely.

“Stop fucking staring at me,” he snaps, blowing the smoke of his cigarette right in your face.

You tut. “But you’re so beautiful, Yoongi, I just can’t help it.”

He digs his switchblade from his boot. Makes a show of flipping it open. “I can cut your fuckin’ eyes out of your skull,” he intones. “Maybe that’ll help.”

In your ear, Jimin’s laughter rings like crystal.

Ricochets off of all the corners of Seokjin’s basement, makes the echo sound warped through the earpiece. “Please tell Yoongi-ssi to keep an eye on the man with the shaved head. In front of him, roughly sixty degrees to his right.”

You relay the message. Watch as Yoongi transforms—sharpened gaze, rigid posture, disappears into the shadows. More apex predator than man. “And me?” you ask.

“Backup,” comes Seokjin’s voice. “We haven’t found your mark yet.”

You hum. Pick up the cigarette Yoongi left behind and stick it between your lips. Smoke it nearly to the filter. “You got it, boss,” you tease, just because it flusters him.

“I’m—that’s not—knock it off.”

Exhale. Stub out the cigarette. Butt in your pocket. “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Jimin says, and his voice is soft, sounds like spun sugar. “Stay alive, all right?”

Jimin’s hair isn’t dyed at all.

if you've read this far: thank you so, so much! i am more appreciative than i can put into words. this is very different from what i typically write, but i hope you enjoyed it nonetheless.

i would love to hear your thoughts if you have any. <3

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