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ja3yun · 3 days ago

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On the Roof || S.JY

stranger!jake x fem!reader warnings: smut (mdni), unprotected sex, oral (f.rec), cream pie, fingering, marking and biting, sex with a stranger, weirdly fluffy, petnames (princess, baby), mentions of bad relationships with parents, alcohol, comforting, do not have sex with strangers you meet on a roof, not proofread, anything else lmk! w.c: 9.7k synopsis: when you stumble across a boy on your apartment rooftop, you can't help but invite him to stay. a/n: hi! it's me. this is my first work back and honestly, it's not great but i just needed to get back in the swing of things so please be kind. I missed you guys a lot and the time away was exactly what i needed. thank you all for understanding, and i love you unconditionally!

The winter air tickles your senses as you push open the large, unfairly heavy door to your complex’s rooftop. It might be bitter, but it’s welcomed - your body creating unnecessary heat from both the walk up the three flights of stairs and the discomfort of your day.

Your shift was hard, too hard. Considering it’s a brand new year, you had stupidly thought that people would be a lot nicer to public service workers, yet you were proven wrong. With countless patients’ loved ones screaming down the phone to you, doctors barking demands at you because they see you as lesser than them, and not to mention the one man who decided that spitting in your face was a rational reaction to you politely telling him that he can’t see his grandmother who was in the middle of an operation.

Safe to say, you’ve had better shifts as a hospital receptionist.

But there was always one place you could count on to take a deep breath and reset. The rooftop. It’s quiet, overlooks the city, and helps you put into perspective that murder is not the answer to your life problems. But sometimes, God, you wish it was…

Gravel crunches beneath your feet as you make your way to the chairs you so perfectly placed underneath the solar-charged fairy lights, which hang half-arsed off the unused 1990 aerials. It’s not really how you would like to decorate the place, if you had it your way, you would have it looking reminiscent of the rooftop from Wish You, the same one you committed to memory as Lee Sang kissed In Soo for the first time. But since you’re not even supposed to have access to this part of the building, you’ll count the pathetic attempt at creating sanctuary as a win.

The lights guide you to your seat when you see a figure hunched over, one hand holding a beer and the other holding his head. This is not what you were expecting to see. No one comes up here, not past 10pm anyway. There is one neighbour who occupies the premises when he needs a smoke without his wife knowing, but he works the night shift. So this person is new.

“Um,” you begin, clearing your throat ever so softly to alert them of your presence without giving them an acute heart attack. “Hi?”

Their head jolts up from their hand, eyes wide and face shocked. Clearly, they didn’t expect to have company tonight either.

You focus on the figure in front of you – a boy, no older than yourself – scrutinising his features with a careful eye. As a woman, being vigilant around unfamiliar men has become second nature, an unfortunately ingrained habit of self-preservation you have mastered since before you can remember. So, your mind ticks through the usual checklist: is there a need to run? Are your shoulders getting that deep tingle that crawls up to your jaw? Is your gut making you want to vomit? None of those alarm bells ring. Instead, you’re met with something else entirely - uncertainty, maybe even sympathy.

The boy seems…fine, at least on the surface. No initial gut-wrenching unease claws at your insides. Emboldened by the absence of any red flags, you take another ginger step closer, studying him in detail.

His large, tired brown eyes peer out from behind thick-rimmed glasses, the weight of exhaustion evident. The glasses sit securely on his pretty thick nose. His lips, naturally full and a muted pink, are set in a neutral line, though the light could be softening their actual colour - it’s hard to tell beneath the hood’s shadow. Greasy, near-black hair clings to his forehead, unkempt but thick.

His outfit doesn’t fare much better to be honest; a mishmash of layers that hints at desperation more than deliberation. Faded grey jeans hang loose and crinkled, clearly worn more than once without a wash. Over a white t-shirt sits a black hoodie, topped off with a jacket far too big for him, the kind of size that suggests it doesn’t belong to him at all. The entire image strikes you in a way that leaves concern pricking all over your chest.

Steeling yourself, you step closer again, your voice soft but firm. “Are you okay?” The question is sincere, meant to come across as a kind gesture - like when you let a cat sniff around your hand before you just go in for the pet. Your eyes meet his, offering as much warmth as you can muster. There’s something about the way he sits, cold and crumpled, that pulls at your humanity.

At first, his expression flickers, betraying something fragile beneath the surface. But it doesn’t last. In an instant, his jaw sets, and his shoulders square in a defensive shift. His cheeks hollow as his tongue presses against them, words unspoken but clearly brewing. The moment hangs in the air, heavy and awkward.

It’s as if your simple question has poked at a bruise, tender and raw. You’ve touched something buried, and for reasons you can’t yet work out, his reaction irks you. Of all things to take issue with, why this? What on earth had he expected - for you not to ask a very valid question? Perhaps it’s the day you’ve had that’s caused the unnecessary offence on your behalf.

He averts his gaze, the connection between you severed. Instead, he tips back the beer bottle in his hand, his focus shifting to the cityscape below. The quiet glug of liquid slipping down his throat is the only response you get, and it grates against the care you offered.

A flicker of irritation sparks within you. Perhaps it’s the brush-off, or maybe it’s the contradiction in his actions. He’s sitting here in your space, looking like the embodiment of a cry for help, yet recoils at the smallest act of kindness. Still, you don’t back down. Instead, you shift your weight and tilt your head, keeping your tone neutral but unwavering.

“Fine, If you don’t want to talk, that’s sound,” you say, folding your arms against the cold. “But sitting out here, looking like the world’s chewed you up and spat you out…people are going to ask questions like ‘are you okay’ or ‘what’s the matter’. Just saying.” You huff out and follow his gaze to the city. People are having a much better day than you out there, and envy jabs at you.

For a moment, you think he’ll continue ignoring you; his shoulders remain tense, his grip on the bottle firm. But then he sighs, the sound long and weary, like air escaping a deflating balloon, one being pinched and controlled. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough, a surprising Australian accent whistling through the wind.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, though the words lack conviction. His eyes remain fixed on the horizon, steadfastly avoiding yours.

“You’re a terrible liar,” you counter, letting a small, dry smile tug at your lips. “And you’re also not allowed up here.”

A tense silence follows, broken only by the chug of a train in the far distance. It’s not exactly comfortable, but neither is it unbearable. You find yourself wondering who he is and what’s brought him to this specific rooftop.

“You can’t get up here unless you’re a tenant,” you blurt out, trying to get any morsel of information from him. You figure the quicker you find out what he’s doing here, the quicker you can find a solution for him to leave and then have your safe space back to yourself. You might have sympathy for him, clearly having a hard time of life, but so are you - and your comfort outweighs a total stranger who can’t even bother to look your way.

“Okay,” he says bored, sipping his beer again.

“That’s your invitation to either tell me that you moved in recently, or, your queue to leave because you’re trespassing.”

“Invitation declined.”

He is so rude, you think to yourself, though you wonder whether you should just call him out for it and at least gain some reaction for him.

Instead, you park yourself in the seat next to him, huffing as you drop down. “Well I’m not leaving until you do,” you state matter-of-factly, attempting to not let his presence ruin your mood even further. You suppose, if he sits and shuts up, you can at least pretend he isn’t here invading your space.

Though technically, you’re invading his, but you get the idea.

The boy side-eyes you, a small, angry smirk etching onto his cold rosey face. “Yeah? Well, you’re gonna be here for a long fucking time.” He spits his words out, frustration laced within each syllable, though you can tell it’s not directed towards you. The boy is so far in his own head that you begin to realise that any discontentment he might have has less to do with you and your presence, and more to do with the reason he’s hibernating on your rooftop.

So, you sit back, and leave him be. To be honest, you’ve dealt with far worse and crabbier people today, in comparison, this boy is like rainbows and kittens.

Closing your eyes, you let the white noise of the night take over you, infiltrating all your tension and disdain towards the day, and settling you into a comfortable silence. The fairy lights above add a serene atmosphere that you crave after work, the faint lights providing some fake warmth. They were not easy to get up there, but a few falls and tangles later, you realised that all the scrapes and twirls were worth it.

The hooded boy beside you peaks over, finally taking you in as more than an inconvenience. He notices how you breathe in deep, exhaling with a sigh of relief and a cloud of warmth that combats the freezing air.

It doesn’t take him a minute to realise that you’ve had a bad day too, and a pang of guilt hits him. He’s being unfair to you when you probably just want to relax under the night sky and here he is taking up space.

He takes up too much space.

Reaching down at his feet, he picks up a bottle of beer from his case, the clinking not even disturbing your quest for serenity. He pokes your thigh with the bottom of the bottle, gaining your attention. When your eyes meet once again, there’s a sorrowful look on his face, the alcohol a form of apology for being an arsehole. It’s an apology you’ll gladly accept.

“You look like you could use it,” he murmurs, offering a tight smile as he waits for you to take the brown glass bottle.

You wrap your hand around the base and lift it up in thanks. “I could use ten sambucas and a pint of tequila to wash them down,” you snort out a sarcastic chuckle, beginning to unscrew the cap. You need to thank whatever genius decided that bottle openers were too much hassle and gave people a much easier and more practical way to open a bottle of beer. You hope they’re having a good night.

The boy lets out a laugh, short but genuine, raising his own bottle to his lips. “That bad, huh?” he asks, voice muffled slightly by the glass.

“It gets like that,” you shrug, taking a long pull from the bottle, barely savouring the taste, routing around for the effects of calmness that it will bring rather than its pallet. “Comes with working in a hospital.”

He raises an eyebrow, curiosity momentarily overriding his gloom “Nurse?”

“Receptionist.” You correct him, hissing out as you absorb the alcohol. Beer is not your favourite taste, a Sex on the Beach is much more appealing, but you would down a tank of gasoline if it meant you could get rid of this stress.

He sucks in an empathetic breath, whistling low as he leans back against the seat. “Yeah, you need a gun, not alcohol.”

The comment catches you off guard, and for the first time in what feels like weeks, you laugh - really laugh. It bursts out of you, raw and unrestrained, carrying away the weight of the day. Life isn’t inherently awful, but it’s lonely sometimes. Working back shift in the hospital makes it hard to keep friends or any semblance of a social life. The most interaction you get that isn’t disgruntled patients or angry phone calls is on twitter with your online friends, but even then, it’s a rise-and-repeat conversation cycle of ‘for real’ and ‘same’ replies to posts you make about Jang Kyungho when no one is looking.

Not exactly the deep human connection that people need.

So this, being able to laugh and have a bit of understanding for even a second, is comforting. It almost makes you feel bad for cursing the boy out in your head.

Smiling, you extend a hand to him, “Y/N.”

He hesitates for a fraction of a second before taking it. “Jaeyun,” he replies, offering you a smile in return. It’s faint but sincere, a crack in the armour he’s wearing so tightly.

As he grips your hand in his, you feel the ice-coldness on his skin, a clear indicator that he has been up here for quite some time. Or at least out in the open air. It only makes you more intrigued - and with him being a little slither more open with you, you decide to take the nugget and run with it.

So you talk, and talk, and talk. It feels like forever but it’s actually only two hours. Not a lot is said, but you learn some things about him; hobbies, interests, friends, his favourite TV shows and Films. All surface-level stuff, yet it feels like you’re speaking to an old friend. He learns about you too - the same stuff, with added anecdotes about working in a hospital.

But there is one thing that you are dying to know.

“So,” you begin, twisting your patio chair to face him fully, the legs scraping along the asphalt of the roof. “You can guess I’m here after a bad shift…why are you here?” Your face is expectant, waiting for an answer while you drink your beer.

But Jaeyun’s face is overcome with a flash of rage, partly due to your question, but more the fact that your question made him think about the reason he is here. Though, as quickly as his face shows agitation, it dissipates just as fast. Instead, he opts for an obtuse response. “Just wanted to enjoy the view. That’s all.”

“Couldn’t do that from your own building, no?” you tease lightly, humour softening the prodding tone. But your persistence nudges too close to something real. “Oh... did your girlfriend kick you out?” The words tumble out before you can stop them, too sharp and intrusive.

Unfortunately, it’s a habit of yours to be so nosey that it comes off inconsiderate or produces ill-timed questions. In this instance, it’s both.

His grip tightens on the neck of the bottle. The knuckles whiten, the tension visible. For a moment, he studies the label, reading the same ingredients over and over as if they hold the secret to life's greatest mystery - what happened on that fishing trip in Gavin and Stacey.

“My parents did. Yeah.” His confession is sharp, devoid of emotion

Your stomach drops. “Oh...” It’s all you manage, guilt prickling at the edges of your thoughts. You’re so stupid for poking Y/N! You inwardly scold yourself. Obviously, this issue is so much bigger than you can process. Still, your mouth will continue to flap around.

“Yep.” He pops the p with bitter precision, his tone teetering on the edge of sarcasm. “Apparently, I need to ‘get my act together.’” He says with accompanying quotation marks from his fingers.

“As in?”

“As in I need to be their perfect little boy and follow in my brother’s footsteps - be a lawyer.” The words fall flat, heavy with resentment.

Nodding along, the pieces form enough for you to make your own solid conclusions. “And I guess you don’t want that?”

“Fuck no.” Jaeyun scoffs out a bitter laugh. “I’m more likely to need a lawyer than be one.”

“Ohhh a bad boy huh?” you wiggle your brows, trying to interject some semblance of humour into the moment while sussing him out, to lighten his load even just a smidge. You can’t begin to imagine what his parents said or did to him once he rejected their concept of a perfect life, and you don’t really want him to dwell on it right now either.

He laughs despite himself, a quiet sound that momentarily lightens his expression. “Maybe.” It’s a noncommittal answer, but he seems content to let you spin your own version of events.

Honestly, he is not bad in any shape or form. But when he says he would need a lawyer rather than being one, he means that that career is so absurd that even a goody too shoes like him is more likely to get in trouble before he stands in a suit.

He just wants to live his life without this great expectation, without people demanding he ‘do better’ when he knows he is doing just fine; he’s in a great University, studying music and production, and has a decent part-time job at the record store, which isn’t loads of money, but enough for him to pay his mum and dad digs and still have a life outside their constraints. He’s doing fine, or so he believes.

But fine isn’t enough for his parents. Their love towards their own son is tied to the weight of their expectations, ones he can’t - or won’t - carry.

“So they just…kicked you out?” you ask carefully, noting the sorrow in his features as he turns the events of the past few months in his head. Sympathy creeps back into your chest, any lingering annoyance dissipating along with the last sips of your beer.

“Yeah,” he confirms, sighing and shrugging. “It’s fine.”

“Are you staying with friends or…” You don’t finish the question because you’re scared of the answer; the dishevelled clothes and hair are enough to semi-confirm.

Jaeyun looks up, his gaze catching the glimmer of the fairy lights, their soft glow reflected in his dark irises. “I was, until a few days ago. You can only couch-hop for so long before people start to feel like you’re intruding.”

He holds no malice towards his friends, no bitterness in his tone, and honestly, his best friend Sunghoon said he could stay for as long as it took him to save up for an apartment of his own. But he doesn’t want to take advantage of his kindness, the boy already doing more for him than most would have. Even Jay, his other friend, offered to loan him the money for the first month's rent on a flat uptown.

But Jaeyun’s pride wouldn’t allow him to take advantage of their kindness. He would manage on his own, no matter how hard it got.

Seeing the pity in your eyes, he waves his hand to brush off your concern. “It’s fine, I’ve scraped up enough money to get rent now. I just need to find a place,” he smiles softly, appreciative of your sympathy even if he doesn’t want it. “I’ll be fine. I’m going looking tomorrow.”

There’s a sense of relief that his words bring you. Although his predicament isn’t ideal right now, it looks like it could be on the turnaround, and for that, you’re thankful.

“If it’s only for one night, do you want my couch?” The offer spills out before you can stop it, surprising even yourself.

Jaeyun laughs heartedly, eyebrows knitting in disbelief and amusement. “You’re fucking stupid.”

��Huh?!” you exclaim in shock. It’s not really the response you were expecting. A yes? Sure. A no? Absolutely. But an insult to punctuate your act of kindness was a curveball.

Sitting up straight, he places his beer on the ground, an amused smile softening his features. “I’m a random man you’ve known for a couple of hours. I could do anything to you in your own home, and you don’t seem the slightest bit worried about that.”

Okay, maybe he has a massive point. You don’t know him and he could literally attack you at any moment. And considering earlier you had to assess him before approaching, it shows that you do have the common sense not to let him stay with you.

But he poses no threat, none whatsoever. He’s just a boy in a fucked up situation, and your kind heart can’t see him freeze; god knows how many nights he’s been out. He’s already reminiscent of Jack Dawson turning into a block of iced body parts.

“Well, you won’t right?” You throw the question back to him. “I mean, to be honest, I’ve let men in my bed for a lot less than a tiny conversation and a beer.”

As soon as the words tumble out of your mouth, your cheeks flush to match his cold ones, neck tingling in embarrassment. You’ve just confessed that your standards are abysmally low - you’ve slept with men who didn’t even have the decency to buy you a drink nevermind learn your name.

Jaeyun stifles a laugh, rubbing at his eye. “For your pride, I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.” The smile on his face is so beautiful that you’re caught off guard a little. Now you wish he was one of the men you let roll around on top of you for a compliment and a ride home.

His expression shifts, returning to a more serious note, though the smile lingers. “Seriously, Y/N. Thank you for the offer, but I only have” - he glances at his watch - “six hours before sunrise anyway.”

“Seriously, it’s no trouble-”

“I’m serious too,” he interrupts gently, slouching back into his seat. “You should go in. It’s cold, and after the day you’ve had, you need sleep.”

“I-”

“Y/N.” His tone is firm but not unkind. “I’m fine. Go. I’ll see you around, yeah?”

His refusal stings in a strange way, the rejection of your kindness more personal than it should feel. But you know better than to argue with someone so resolute. It never ends well. So, with a resigned nod, you down the last of your beer and stand.

“Okay,” you reply, setting the empty bottle aside. “I’m in 4A if you change your mind. I can grab some blankets? Pillows?”

Jaeyun places a hand over his heart, a soft smile gracing his lips. “Thank you, Y/N. Truly. But I promise I’ll survive.”

And so, you leave him there, your heart tugging at you to insist, to argue, to make him take shelter in your tiny flat. But your feet keep moving, respecting his wishes.

As you reach the door, you glance back one last time, the words caught in your throat. You just hope he’ll be okay.

_____

The rain lashes, jolting you awake. It’s not the pretty white noise rain that you enjoy, it sounds like hundreds of tiny little pebbles being pelted at your window. Strange. It was forecast as clear skies until at least Tuesday.

You blink groggily, groaning at the interruption. You can’t have been asleep for more than two hours - if that. Begrudged, you turn your back to the outside, shielding yourself from the rain that cannot attack you. Yet, an unsettling feeling stews in the bottom of your stomach, the kind that makes your heart beat faster and your mouth gain moisture.

It’s not uncommon for you to have random spouts of anxiety, all your life you’ve suffered from it, but this isn’t your typical ‘my brain is going to bring up that one time I peed myself in primary 2 and had to be sent home’ anxiety. This is something more.

Fuck.

Jaeyun.

The thought hits you like a bolt of lightning and your body moves before your mind can catch up. You fling off your pastel pink duvet, slide your feet into your beloved fuzzy slippers, and throw on a housecoat to cover your half-naked form. If you had the right mindset and not half asleep and half in panic, you would have grabbed a rain jacket and some trainers instead.

Thought, without thinking about your own state, the chilly air cuts at your skin as you make your way to the roof. The rain, now mixed with hail, pelts down hard, each sting enhancing your concern. Your eyes roam around near the seated area, one of your hands shielding your eyes from the brutal hailstones, each one nipping your hand in anger.

"Jaeyun?" you shout, your voice cutting through the storm, only to be drowned out by the constant rain. You get closer to the seats and see nothing. Panic overwhelms you, hot and stifling. "Are you still here?"

As you spin around, your eyes finally land on him. He’s slumped up against the rooftop enclosure which acts as a headboard to an uncomfortable concrete bed. His jacket and hoodie are doing as much to protect him as a candyfloss blanket, each soaked through and clinging to his skin. How can he sleep like this? It makes you wonder if he lied about just how long he had stopped couch-crashing and living out in the open.

Quickly, you drop to your knees beside him, ignoring the puddle that entrenchs your legs, and place your hand on his shoulder as you shake him awake. “Jaeyun?” you bellow, loud enough for him to startle awake and instantly put a guard up.

“Huh?” he mumbles, voice thick with confusion.

“Come on, I’m not leaving you up here,” you inform. This time, it isn’t a question but a demand. You have too much compassion to willingly leave him up here any longer.

Jaeyun’s eyes squint through his water-splattered glasses as he takes in your figure. “Y/N? What the fuck are you doing? You’re soaked,” he states the obvious, yet oblivious to his own state. “Go back inside.”

“Not without you,” you fire back. “Grab your things.”

“But-”

“Either that or I stay up here with you,” you cut him off, voice firm though only kindness shines through.

You can see the conflict in his face, his concern for your drenched state outweighing his stubbornness. He sighs, defeated, and finally nods. “Fine.”

If there is one thing Jaeyun hates to be is a burden, but it seems no matter what happens, he will inconvenience you in some way - might as well choose the drier option.

Standing upright, you extend a hand, offering him some help up, but he refuses. Instead, he grabs the duffle beside him and clumsily gets up, following you down and into your apartment.

As soon as he walks into the warmth, his bones leap with excitement and his shoulders relax in contentment. You flick on the lights which allows him a better view of your personal space. And it is exactly how he imagined it.

Your walls are covered in art and photos of you and your friends, lyric posters from bands he has never even heard of, and a shrine to TO1 in the corner. It’s cosy, lived in, and he feels a massive pang of envy.

“You can use my shower,” you say while subconsciously tidying up, removing the cups and wine glasses that have piled on the coffee table. “Luckily for you, I like wearing guy’s clothes on my period so I’ll see what I can find to fit you.”

“Seriously, Y/N. I’ll just, dry off with a towel or something, No Stress.” He doesn’t like the fuss but he can’t deny he doesn’t feel a little fuzzy as you make space for him.

Scoffing, you turn around with a perplexed look on your face. “A towel? Jaeyun, you’re soaked to the bone. You need a shower and then you can have a towel, okay?”

A grateful grin adorns the boy’s face as he takes his shoes off. “Okay. Thank you, Y/N. Seriously.” Jaeyun nods, clutching his damp duffle as he trudges towards the bathroom.

You point out the way, adding a quick, “Towels are on the rack, and there’s shampoo, soap, and more in there. Just use whatever you need, okay?”

With another muttered thank you, he waddles to your bathroom, suddenly enthralled with how the night has panned out. It’s been a while since he had a decent shower, and the ones in the Uni’s lockeroom are made more for a quick wash down than a deep cleanse.

As he disappears into the bathroom, you let out a sigh, glancing around your apartment. It isn’t a mess by your standards, but you suddenly feel self-conscious about the clutter. Usually, when people are up, it’s those who are either only making their way to your bedroom or those who do not care and have known you long enough to understand that you like a bit of mess.

A messy home is a home loved.

The sound of running water echoes from the bathroom, and you take the moment to rummage through your wardrobe. You pull out a pair of joggies and an oversized hoodie that has seen you coming every cycle for the past three years. You can’t get much more comfort than these. They’ll be a bit loose on his slim frame, but they’re warm and dry.

Speaking of which, you glance down at your own rain-soaked state, grimacing. The slippers squelch faintly with each step, and the damp housecoat clings unpleasantly to your skin. Without hesitation, you pull out a baggy t-shirt and some old pyjama shorts, slipping into them after quickly drying off your hair with a towel that’s close by. It’s not inherently clean, but it serves its purpose, so that’s good for now.

Satisfied, you place the clothes Jaeyun will borrow on the sofa before heading to the kitchen. The kettle hums to life as the storm outside continues its symphony, the hail getting more dangerous and cutthroat. A hot cup of tea feels like just the thing to chase away the chill, after all, there’s little problems in life that a good cuppa can’t fix.

Just as you reach for the tea bags, the creak of the bathroom door pulls your attention.

Jaeyun steps out, his damp hair falling messily over his forehead, droplets of water glistening on his skin. A towel sits promiscuously low on his hips, and despite yourself, your gaze trails downward. The delicate silver chain around his neck catches the light, the cross pendant resting at eye level with his pretty brown nipples. Your eyes wander further, taking in the faint definition of his toned abs, the subtle dip hinting at a v-line. And his cock is outlined perfectly to give you an idea of his size and width but you can tell it still doesn’t do him justice.

You realise with a jolt that your mouth is slightly open, and the train of your thoughts is taking a decidedly inappropriate detour. Heat rushes to your cheeks as your mind conjures up scenarios you’d never admit aloud. A pang of guilt follows swiftly - this boy has been through hell, and he’s come to you for solace, not to be gawked at.

“Sorry,” Jaeyun says, breaking the spell. His voice is soft, a mix of embarrassment and strange pride, as he catches your lingering stare. “I’ll get dressed. I just…didn’t know where the clothes were.”

“Oh!” You clear your throat and nod toward the sofa, purposefully keeping your gaze above his shoulders. “Yep, just there. Help yourself. I think they’ll fit.”

As he moves to retrieve the clothes, you busy yourself with literally anything else - studying the ceiling, adjusting the kettle, anything to avoid the moment and stop trying to catch glimpses of his cock.

You don’t hear the rustling of clothes though, instead, you just hear yourself breathing, which piques your interest. Why isn’t he changing?

Subtly, your eyes glance over to him and then you see it, the look on his face as he stares at the clothes. You’ve had that look before too, the one that comes with the mixed feelings of disbelief, shame, sadness, hope, and every other conflicting emotion that arises when you’re down and out.

“Thanks,” he whispers, “For all of this.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” you reply, taking a few small steps forward. But Jaeyun shakes his head, his eyes fixed on the floor.

“No, really,” he insists. “I…I don’t think I’ve met someone as kind as you in a long time.” His voice breaks on the last word, and he quickly looks away, ashamed of the vulnerability slipping through.

He has his friends, they are kind and generous much like yourself, but being kicked out of his own family has also shown him the darkest parts of humanity, the ones that he doesn’t let others know that he’s experienced. Truthfully, he’s just a scared boy who needs his family.

The admission punches through your chest, leaving no room for hesitation. You glide over to him as your arms wrap gently around his shoulders.

If a cuppa can fix most things, a hug can fix them all.

At first, he stiffens, unsure how to respond, but then he relaxes, his head lowering slightly against you.

“It’s okay,” you murmur softly. “You’re going to be okay. Maybe not right now, but soon.”

Jaeyun’s arms tentatively come up to return the embrace, and for a moment, the storm outside fades into irrelevance. His eyes close and for a change, he believes that it will be fine. This moment isn’t going to last forever, once the morning blooms, he’ll be out of your life and trying to get back on his feet, but he’s thankful for the reassurance and hope right now.

Pulling back slightly, his arms still lingering around you. His eyes, uncertain and yearning, flicker between your face and your lips. Then, without a second thought, he leans in and presses his lips to yours - a fleeting, hesitant kiss that seems to catch even him off guard.

His lips retract from yours as he draws back, his face flushed with embarrassment and horror. “Sorry,” he mumbles, his voice barely above a whisper. Why the fuck would he kiss you without consent when you’ve been so kind towards him? He thinks. His hand twitches at his side, as though unsure whether to retreat or reach out again. “I didn’t mean to-”

“Would it make you feel better?” you interrupt gently, your voice soft but steady.

His brows furrow, confusion flickering across his features. “What?”

“Would it make you feel better?” you repeat, tilting your head slightly. There’s no judgment in your tone, no hesitation. “To kiss me?”

“Really, no, it’s okay-”

This time, you close the distance, your lips capturing his before he can finish the sentence. It’s slow, deliberate, a kiss that tells him you’re here for him despite still being strangers. His initial surprise melts into something deeper, something warmer, as he responds cautiously at first, then with more certainty.

It actually is making him feel better, the human connection, it’s nature's balm.

So he follows your lead, his arms tightening around your waist, holding you impossibly close as his hands splay over your back, covering most of the surface. The way his plump lips move against yours is magnetic, sucking and pulling you into his world. You’ve been kissed more times than you can count - shamelessly to say - but his mouth feels a little different; a little less icky than the others and a lot more like they’re meant to be on yours.

With that feeling charging your bloodstream, your hands fly up to his damp hair, craving to have him on each of your senses. You can’t get enough of him, his taste of beer from the numerous bottles he downed on the roof, the touch of his silky locks that are in need of a haircut, his scent of your strawberry milk body wash mixing in with his own musk, how he sounds when he growls into your mouth, showcasing that he’s just as desperate as you are for this.

You need him…

Swiftly, your hands trail from his head, down his neck, your nails lightly scratching down his collarbones until you reach the veins just above where you were unabashedly looking not 10 minutes ago.

Jaeyun pushes your ass against the sofa, bucking up into you, hips deliciously working to place your hand on his cock. God, it feels beautiful, even with the fluffy barrier.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he moans deeply into your mouth, passing the need from himself into you. Your hand grips his covered shaft as you palm him teasingly. “Don’t do this if you don’t want to.”

Honestly, he doesn’t want to say anything that will make this stop, his body pulsing with the desire to have you wrapped around him. But he also believes in consent, and while you both might be horny-induced 22-year-olds, you’re also strangers.

Shaking your head adamantly, you grip his dick harder, smiling at the whimper it draws from him. “I want this, Jaeyun.”

“I suppose, men have been in your bed for a lot less, right?” he chuckles into your mouth. And while it could come across as an insult to some - that he’s essentially throwing back your own slut-shaming dialogue from earlier - you feel no degradation or malice behind his words. You can tell he’s playful, under all the dreary circumstances. He’s a boy who has light and laughter built into his DNA.

Maybe it’s delusion, maybe it’s a soul connection, or maybe it’s the fact that you need to bounce on his cock within the next five minutes or you’ll perish that’s clouding your judgment.

Either one, you let it slide.

So, playfully, you slap his chest and break the kiss. “Keep talking and you won’t get the chance to see my bedroom.”

“That’s okay, I can fuck you here,” he replies quick-witted, suddenly hoisting you up on the back of the couch, the wood and material digging into your ass not uncomfortably.

You laugh and so does he, looking into each other’s eyes, and it all feels so right.

Bringing your hand up to his face, you push his hair off of his forehead and reveal his eyes - the light from your living room dancing in his pupils, much like how they had been on the rooftop, but this time, there is an abundance of happiness that adds to the shine.

“You’re so pretty,” you confess, that no-filter brain coming into full effect once again. Granted, a much better consequence of it.

A faint, rose blush crawls across the apples of his cheeks and the tip of his nose, a bashful grin on his mouth. “Thank you. Personally, I think you’re prettier so…”

“Guess we can be pretty together, huh?”

“Pretty good together you mean?”

Another laugh jumps out of you and you cup both his cheeks, the warmth of them comforting and worth cherishing. You peck his nose. “I should have known a pretty boy like you would be a charmer.”

He shrugs, kissing your nose back, not bothering to rebut. Instead, his hands guide your legs to wrap around him, hands finding your ass, and he lifts you up. You can’t ignore his cock now semi-hard pressing into you as he bounces you into a comfortable position.

Securing yourself, you circle your arms across his shoulders and kiss him once again, letting him lead you down your hallway, anticipation and greed passing through your breaths and tongues.

“Which one?” he pants out, squeezing your ass as he does so.

“This one on the right,” you point half-arsed, too lost in the moment to give it a full thought.

Awkwardly due to your wriggling body, Jaeyun opens the door, trying to view a path to which he can reach your bed without falling over your clutter. Shoes and more lay abandoned over your carpet, creating an obstacle, but one he refuses to lose.

Jaeyun finally reaches your queen-sized bed and gently places you down, his cock pressing into you even more.

It’s only then that he realises that along the way from your living room to your bedroom, his towel has fallen down, leaving his exposed cock rubbing against the fabric of shorts. “Jesus fucking christ.”

You look at him and see the pleasure on his face, biting his lips as his eyebrows knit together, rubbing against you again. It makes you giggle, you don’t know why, but he just brings it out of you.

The sound from your lips draws his attention back. “What?” he breathes out heavily, cock thumping with need as he humps you again.

“Maybe you should be inside of me while you thrust - kinda how this whole sex thing works,” you playfully jab, biting your lips together to stop from laughing. But he laughs for you, resting his forehead on your chest and shaking his head in amusement.

“Shut up, I’m just excited.”

“I can see that, yeah.”

It’s easy with him, you’re noticing, like you’ve somehow been in a relationship for years and you’ve just come home from a couples date with your married friends, two bottles of red wine consumed, and adoration palpable in the air. You have two dogs, maybe three if you can get your way, and you are the annoying pair that people hate to hang out with because your love for one another never dwindled, not even after all those years.

Maybe you shouldn’t be fantasising about a life with this random man you met on a roof, but that’s where your brain immediately goes each time you banter or giggle with one another.

He’s different.

Jaeyun stands up, letting you see his cock as he pumps it gently, getting it to full mass. The fact that it’s standing at 5 inches already and still growing causes an ache in your stomach. Fuck, it’s going to feel so good inside of you, your walls are already leaking out for it, staining your pyjama shorts.

His hands grip your shorts and peel them off, hurriedly throwing them on the floor, only adding to the chaos. Your legs instinctively spread and the juices from your excitement gleam in the moonlight, looking like a ripe fruit just ready to be devoured.

And devoured it will be.

Hoisting you down, Jaeyun positions you at the end of the bed until your ass is almost hanging off, kneeling down between your thighs. Not exactly how you thought the turn of events was going, but you are the furthest from mad at it.

“You look so fucking delicious, Y/N.” Jaeyun’s comment makes you feel exposed but not in a bad way, yet, you still want to hide from him. As your legs try to close, he places his large hands on your thighs, shaking his head. “No, princess, the only way you're shutting your legs right now is if you’re clamping my head between them.”

“Jaeyun…” you whine, both at the petname and his breath ghosting over your hardened clit, making it weep again - much to Jaeyun’s delight.

“I know, princess. You need it, huh?” Jaeyun whispers, kissing up your inner thigh and around the area you crave him most.

The heat in the room is electric, any cold you both felt from the rain now disappeared from your bones and replaced with scorching intensity. Your hips follow the blow of his breath in search of connection but he simply places a chaste kiss on your clit before pulling away, a smirk on his face as he sees you whimper and squeak.

“You make the prettiest noises when you’re desperate, Y/N,” he gloats, though it’s prideful and not arrogant. He means it, and that’s why he keeps teasing you softly, puckering at your folds and giving you just enough to have you humping the air and arching into him.

“I’m never letting you use my shower again,” you laugh in discontentment, your arm flying across your face as you hide in the comfort of your bicep.

Jaeyun huffs a laugh, echoing your own amusement before he speaks. “I know, I’m being so mean considering you’ve been so kind, huh? You’re just so cute when you’re like this.”

“I’m about to become a bitch if you don’t do something,” you warn lightly, peaking down to look at him under your arm.

“Well, I better get to it then right?”

And with that, his thick tongue stripes up your folds, gathering and savouring your wetness. Your back arches off the bed and pushes just enough onto him that his nose catches your clit. “Fuck!” you bellow.

The tip of his tongue searches for your nub, and once it hits the spot and your hands fly to his hair, his lips suction around it, almost making out with it.

He’s not real you think to yourself. You can’t help the jealousy that rises inside of you as your brain works overtime to imagine just how many girls he has had to go down on for him to be this good at eating you out. If there was ever such a thing as a pussy eating contest, you know he would win hands down because he’s already got you chanting his name, punctuated by profanities.

“Right there, Jaeyun…fuck…”

His pride swells and he grows more confident, tongue flicking quickly over your button as he drools over your cunt. It’s safe to say that Jaeyun loves pussy. If he could have it morning, noon, and night, and elevensies, he would without hesitation. Especially yours. The taste of your tang and sweetness is enough to put him in a frenzy, long forgetting about his aching cock and focusing solely on drinking you up.

He humps the air though, as he always does, resembling a dog in heat as he slabbers and grunts into your cunt. He nibbles at your clit and soothes it with his wet muscle, a smile plastered on his face with each movement - your noises urging him on.

He brings his middle and ring finger to your pulsating hole as it clenches around nothing, deciding to give you some more relief. As he plunges in, you scream out in joy, an open-mouthed smile on your face as coherent words get lost in your throat. You clearly don’t get eaten out as often as you deserve, and that just spurs Jaeyun on more to be the best you’ve ever had.

“So wet for me, princess. Taste so fucking good I want to be here for hours.”

And while that sounds nice in theory, you need him inside of you now. His fingers, thick and beautiful, are nice for now, but that 6-inch, throbbing cock is calling your name. So, you pull him away much to your pussy’s weeping plea for him to keep going, his mouth covered in your slick which is perhaps the most beautiful sight you have ever seen - and you’ve seen the Northern Lights on a crisp autumn morning.

His fingers never stop though, just curling inside of you slowly, beckoning your climax still. “What’s wrong?” he asks, concern weaving in his tone.

Sitting up on your elbows, you smile and pant, trying to maintain a steady voice while the tip of his fingers presses against your soft spot inside, jaw slacking each time he holds it for a little longer. “I need your cock so back, Jaeyun. I’m so serious.” The words are desperate and real, shamelessly desperate.

“You sure you don’t want to cum right now? I can do it.” It’s not like he can’t make you cum over and over again anyway.

Shaking your head, you sit up, hunching over to cup his face. “Please. I really need you to fuck me.”

A primal desire flickers past Jaeyun’s eyes and a quick nod tells you that he needs it too. His cock jumping for joy at the thought of being enveloped in your tight cunt. So, he withdraws his fingers and licks them clean, pulling on a show as his tongue weaves through his digits, wide eyes looking up at you with sheer longing. It stirs something inside of you, something that suddenly makes you want to grow a cock and have him choke on it.

But you quickly shake those thoughts, pulling him up by his hair and kissing him deeply. His tongue now tastes of you and you are so glad you love sweet juices and decided that for the past three weeks, cranberry spritz has been your favourite.

Jaeyun makes quick hands of stripping you of your t-shirt, leaving you both naked and clawing at one another.

“You got condoms?” he asks between kisses, trailing down your neck as his hands grip your hips so tightly that the skin turns white.

But you don’t want that. You want to feel him. Raw and unfiltered. Is it stupid? Of course, it is. But some would say letting him inside your home never mind inside your body is already wreckless, so, what’s another reckless abandonment on your list tonight?

“No. No condom, please,” you mumble against his hair as you kiss the top of his head, your conditioner filling your senses.

Jaeyun freezes his mouth and darts up, eyes seeking yours to make sure he heard you right. “Huh?”

“No condom. I’m on the pill,” you stroke his cheek tenderly, “Please, Jaeyun. Do this with me just once, yeah?”

For some reason, that ‘just once’ pangs in the boy’s chest and he hates the feeling more than anything. He doesn’t want this to be once, he wants this to be again, and again, and then some more. Jaeyun isn’t one to believe in fate but considering he chose your flat complex rooftop out of all the others in the city, and it decided to pour down - even though it’s been dry for the past two weeks - which led to you coming to get him and practically drag him into your home; he would say that doesn’t happen by chance.

Although, instead of getting in his head, he agrees, lust overpowering his responsibility to be safe. “I want it too, so fucking badly,” he leans down, rubbing his leaking cock on your slit, mouth moving to your ear. “I can’t wait to cum inside you, fill you up and make you suck me in.”

Does he know where this confidence came from? Perhaps it was the way you whispered into the air his name over and over again how good you felt while he ate your pretty little cunt, or maybe it's the fact that if this is your only time under him, he will damn make sure you’re thinking about him for the rest of your life.

The heels of your feet move with his ass as he gyrates his hips, allowing his cock to snag on your clit and elicit a hiss from both of you. Your lips messily leave open-mouth kisses over any skin that you can reach; his neck, cheek, lips, forehead, all of it, the feeling of his glistening skin on your lips addicting.

“Please, Jaeyun. Fuck me. Right. Now.”

Your pleading snaps him into full throttle, his hand guiding his cock to your entrance, his bell expanding and contracting as he slips inside of you. Your groans of pleasure harmonise in the winter night, both your bodies connecting fully as he bottoms out slowly, balls meeting your ass as he pushes in to the hilt.

“Holy shit,” he whispers, burying his face in your neck, and you lock him in there, fisting his hair and bucking your hips for friction. He fills you up so good you wonder why humans are born empty and not with a permanent cock up their pussy.

You never want him to leave.

“Move, Yunnie, please.” The tone of your voice doesn’t carry much conviction but portrays your desperation for him. The nickname falling off your cock-drunk tongue much to his happiness. If anyone ever calls him Yunnie again, and it overtakes the way you whimper it out, he will commit murder. Only you can call him that, call him whatever you want, call him by his name, ever again.

Obeying your wishes, he begins to pull back his hips and move them painfully slow back into you, feeling each bump of your walls and how they meld perfectly with the veins of his fat cock.

While he loves savouring the moment of you taking him in, feeling how your hole adapts to his girth and length, creating way just for him. “Faster, Yunnie. God, please.”

“Asking God to help get what you want is crazy considering it’s me you should be begging,” he chuckles, never increasing his pace.

“Shut up, please,” you whine out, grabbing his ass and trying to physically move him to speed up.

“You can ask me to shut up but not beg me to move faster?” he tuts, going even slower, “C’mon, princess. Ask me nicely.”

You want to slap him, a dry laugh coming from your throat as you fight between your pride - telling you never to do as a man says - and your need for him to start jackhammering into you.

Well, you suppose you can let your pride have a night off for a chance.

“Jaeyun, please, move faster. I’m begging you. Fuck me faster and harder.”

Those sweet yet filthy words send Jaeyun into orbit, and he grants your prayers. With his hands pushing down your hips, he begins to thrust with ferocity, the tip of his cock not punching into your cervix. It’s much more delicious than you ever could have imagined, the way he snaps into your cunt with no restraint, your pussy taking a beating in the best way possible.

This is heaven.

“Yes, Jaeyun! Yes! Don’t fucking stop, please.”

And stop he does not. In fact, he lifts your legs over his shoulders and folds you in half, the new angle somehow reaching so deep you can feel him poking your stomach. You have never felt this good in your life. A cock has never made your brain turn to mush or made your hands literally peel the skin from your partner’s back before, yet here you are, chanting incoherent words into his ear and clawing up his shoulder blades.

“Fuck, you feel so fucking good, princess. Taking my cock so well.” Jaeyun breathes into your neck, nipping at your skin and he marks you right back. His praise makes you smile, kissing all over his face in appreciation for the pleasure he is giving you right now. “Such a good girl, Y/N.”

You could cum that minute, and he feels how you clench around him, sucking him in further, making him tip his head back and move even faster. He wants you to cum together, and with how good your pussy feels, he isn’t far from it.

“You sure you want me to cum inside?” he asks again, trying to gauge whether you could have changed your mind. But you grip his hair and stare into his eyes.

“If you don’t, I’ll kick you out back into the rain.”

Jaeyun laughs. Hard. Your threat is meaningless because you clearly would never leave him out there again to drown in the winter hail, but it does get your point across. You don’t just want his cum, you need it. And luckily for you, he is happy to oblige.

So, with your consent, he works on getting you both to the edge, his right hand coming down to your clit and rubbing it in smooth circles, a juxtaposition to his harsh thrusts. And you begin to see stars, constellations, as you arch your back and wriggle under him. The coil in your tummy burns with the insatiable pull.

“I’m cumming! Yunnie, I’m cumming,” you warn, happiness filtering the air as you buck your hips and match the rhythm of his shaft penetrating you. “Cum with me. Please, baby.”

Baby

His balls tighten at the petname and groans loudly. “Call me that again.”

“Baby, cum inside me,” you repeat within a moan, forcing your eyes open to lock onto his. “Cum with me.”

And just like that, with the final clench of your walls around him, he spurts his white seed inside of you, a primal roar escaping his lips as each rope coats your canal. You cum with him, his name falling from your lips over and over again as you chant out in hymn.

“Squeeze it, princess. Take it all like you want.” He validates you without ridicule, a grin of glee etching onto his face as his body shakes with the euphoria he feels. You were right, cumming inside of you is much better than a condom.

After a while, both your hearts begin to slow down and his body collapses onto yours. His lips lazily kiss your sweaty skin on the top of your breast, your fingers threading through his now dry hair, the only wetness coming from persperation. Its intimate, despite the newness of the situation, and you can’t help but plaster a smile on your face.

It feels so right.

And you’re not the only one who believes so.

Jaeyun gathers some strength to lean on his arm, cupping your face as he strokes your cheek. “Can I be honest?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t want this to be a one-time thing.” His voice is wavering due to exhaustion, but it’s overshadowed by sincerity.

Placing your hand over his, you titter slightly, the sound making Jaeyun’s stomach knot and cock pulse inside you once again. “You mean having sex or staying in my house and abusing my shower privileges?”

“Both.” He murmurs earnestly, pinching your cheek. “I also want you to abuse my shower…when I get one.” The last part of that sentence falters slightly, his voice dipping as if suddenly comping back into his reality.

But you won’t let him dwell in it. Instead, you reach up to kiss him gently, lips expressing the reassurance you worry your words might not. And it seems to do the trick because, in an instant, he’s kissing you back with passion, taking each swipe of your tongue against his as confirmation that you want to have this again and see where it goes.

It could lead to nothing but it could lead to everything.

And he needs to find out.

#enhypen smut #enha smut #jake smut #aj writes #jake x reader #jaeyun smut #jaeyun x reader #enha x reader #enhypen x reader

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burningembers91 · 2 days ago

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The Beginning of Something Beautiful - Hwang In-Ho x Fem!Reader (NSFW)

Follow up piece to: The Girl Next Door Kimchi Stew

Synopsis: When Hawng In-Ho's past is revealed, he must decide whether to continue living with his demons, or run towards the light.

Warnings: mentions of deceased wife, sexual content, 18+ only!

It’ll get easier over time. That’s what Hwang In-Ho had been told countless times by friends, family and even strangers after the death of his wife. He hadn’t believed them at first, hadn’t wanted to think of a world without her. But lately, he’d started to understand what they meant. Yes, the pain was still there, and maybe it always would be, but each day he found it a little easier to get out of bed. He’d started making friends at work, had begun exercising again and taking runs through the park he’d spent so long looking at from his apartment window. He was learning to laugh more, to smile at the small things and to find beauty in the everyday. He was slowly letting himself open up to you, showing you small snippets of the man he’d once been; the man who liked to tell jokes, who loved vintage cars, and who got overly competitive when it came to board games. He still hadn’t opened up about his past, but he was showing the man he truly was, not the grumpy hermit who shut himself away from the world.

In-Ho was still an enigma, some kind of handsome riddle you hadn’t been able to solve yet. He was spending more and more time at your apartment but stopped coming over under the guise of fixing things. He started to come over just to hang out, to watch TV or to go for a walk. He’d even invited you over to his apartment. The once bare room was now full of furniture, the walls repainted and decked out with paintings and prints. He’d cooked for you, proving himself to be an excellent chef. There were so many things still unspoken between you, but you were happy.

You could still hear him crying through the thin walls though, could still hear the turmoil he faced when the lights went out. You’d sworn you’d heard him say your name at times, his strangled groans as he fought with himself between his lust for you and his undying devotion to the woman he’d married. He was finding it harder to resist you, falling into an anguished cycle of dreaming about your touch, and punishing himself for thinking about another woman. You had slotted so nicely into his new life, the woman who had brought him back from the dead. He wanted to repay you for everything you’d done for him, but how could he when you didn’t know how much you’d saved him?

He was stacking shelves at work when you arrived, basket in hand as you did your weekly shop. You both smiled when you saw each other, In-Ho offering a small wave as he added another loaf of bread to the shelf. “Poor man,” an old lady tutted next to you. “Such a shame.” “I’m sorry?” you asked, looking at the wizened figure next to you, her head shaking as she watched In-Ho. “His wife died,” she explained, “liver failure. Killed her and their baby. It almost killed him.” You stared open-mouthed as she walked off, leaving you shellshocked. If it was true, it would explain so much about the man you’d come to care for so deeply. You had to force your feet to move you around the store, filling your basket in sickening silence as your mind reeled.

You couldn’t bring yourself to ask In-Ho about it, to ask whether his family had been so cruelly taken from him. it just wasn’t something you could casually slide into a conversation. You found it hard to concentrate at your next dinner, trying and failing to feign laughter at a story you hadn’t even heard him telling. All you could you see was a man whose family had been ripped from him. You wanted to hold his hand, to tell him everything would be ok. You’d spent so long thinking about whether your relationship would become something more than a friendship, and now you understood why it hadn’t.

Hwang In-Ho sensed the change in you, saw the pity in your eyes. Someone must have told you, must have tipped you off about his broken past. He knew it was Mrs Park. That old bat had never been able to resist gossip. He didn’t want to lose you, didn't want to risk you pulling away. he knew he needed to tell you about his past, knew he needed to come clean before you heard anything else. Every day he was finding it harder to remain alone. He was beginning to see a future with you, to see something other than the crushing loneliness he had resigned himself to.

Catching you one night as you entered your apartment, he invited you over for dinner. “You know about my… my wife,” he said, and he watched your eyes plummet to the floor. “Yes, sorry,” you admitted, “it was Mrs Park. You know what she’s like. Can’t resist a bit of gossip.” “I want to explain. There are things…” he didn’t know how to finish the sentence, didn’t know how to encompass his feelings into words. “Please join me for dinner,” he whispered. He hoped the desperation in his voice hadn’t been apparent. He didn’t want you to pity him, he’d spent enough time pitying himself. “Ok,” you smiled, “I’ll see you later.”

When you arrived that evening, In-Ho could feel his hands shaking. He’d prepared a feast, his small apartment filled with the scent of cooking and pine scented candles. You were so beautiful in your burgundy dress, clutching a bottle of wine in your hand as you entered. The dynamic had changed between the two of you yet again, and he was hoping tonight he could steer it in a more positive direction. He’d spent many a sleepless night wrestling with himself. He would always love his wife, but he couldn’t deny the life he wanted with you; the life he hoped you wanted to.

You drank wine, and ate dinner, and laughed as you both relaxed. He’d filled out over the last few months, his taut muscles visible through the fabric of his shirt. His smile and his eyes were a little brighter, and you found yourself getting lost in him as he told you story after story. “I’ve been so alone for such a long time,” he confessed. “I punished myself for something that wasn’t my fault.” He looked you dead in the eyes as he spoke the next words. “I love my wife, very much.” “I know you do,” you smiled sadly. You braced yourself for what was coming next, for the heartbreaking crush of rejection. “But… these last few months, they have meant more to me than you will ever know.” He downed the last of his wine for Dutch courage before continuing. “You have brought me so much joy, you’ve given me a reason to get out of bed every day. I had to keep finding reasons to see you, I had to keep pretending things in your apartment were broken because I didn’t know how else to tell you that I liked your company.” You laughed, your eyes glistening as you watch In-Ho expose his vulnerability. “I love my wife,” he repeated, “but you, I have feelings for you. Feelings I never thought I would feel again. I don’t want to deny myself happiness anymore. My family isn’t coming back, but I would be a fool if I didn’t try and make the best of my life. I’d like to try doing that with you, if you want me.”

Taking a deep breath, you braced your hands on the table. Tears streamed down both of your faces, both of you finding the courage to take the next step. “Yes,” you whispered, your voice hoarse with tears. “Yes, I’d like that.” In-Ho laughed, a sound that came from deep within his belly. He stood, pulling you from your chair and into his chest. He smelled of fresh shampoo and cologne, his breath warm on your face as you looked into other’s eyes. Brushing your lips against his, you couldn’t deny the electricity between you. it had been bubbling for so long, from the moment you had turned up soaking wet on his doorstep. Your lips met once more, harder this time, more sure of yourselves. His hands snaked up your shoulders, his fingers coming to rest on the back your next. You tasted like Merlot and shea butter, and In-Ho couldn’t deny himself anymore.

He made love to you on his sofa, your bodies pressed together on the tiny 2-seater. Every atom of his body burned for you, your moans spurring him on as he explored you. He’d spent so many nights wondering how it would feel to be inside you, but nothing compared to the reality. You were so soft, so warm, and you fit so perfectly against him. It was like you had been made just for him. He held you as the sun came up, his fingers tracing sweet, delicate circles over your nipples. You could taste yourself on his tongue, your body still tingling from the pleasure he’d inflicted. You didn’t want to part, didn’t want to head back to the emptiness of your apartment, but you had to get to work. “When can I see you again?” He asked, pulling you in for one last kiss. “Tonight?” you smiled, brushing the tip of your nose against his as you leaned further into his arms. “I’ll be counting down the minutes,” he whispered, watching you disappear into your apartment.

For the first time in over three years, In-Ho felt weightless. He whistled as he showered, hummed to the radio as he prepared breakfast. He’d taken a huge step last night, one he never thought he’d be ready for. He heart would always hold love for his wife and child, but now it had space for you too.

#squid game #squid game 2 #squid game x reader #front man #the frontman #hwang in ho x reader #hwang in ho smut #hwang in ho #lee byung hun #squid game smut #squid game fanfic

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tokoyamisstuff · 2 days ago

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Voice of Treason

Squid Game S2 Spoilers ahead!

A/N: just a lil' drabble written on my phone, but this man got a chokehold on me so I needed to get it out of my system

A bloodcurling scream echoed through the hallways as you witness player 390's lifeless body drop to the ground.

You didn't even know his real name.

Both you and 456 had been forced on your knees, wailing on the ground as you mourned the death of your allies, well aware your own demise was imminent.

This whole ordeal was futile from the start, but you had decided that you'd follow this reckless fool to the grave rather than dying for the sick entertainment of a rich elite without even putting up a fight.

"Where is 001? What did you do to him, you bastard?!"

In-ho's face dropped behind the angular plastic of his mask, taken aback by your worry for him despite of your own hopeless situation. "Why do you care?" the distorted voice spoke callous despite his inner turmoil. "The man you got to know is long dead."

You collapse at this revelation and you let out heartbroken sobs, hugging your belly as if to cling to the last thing that kept you from spiraling into despair.

Gi-hun observed your interaction with great pity. It was understandable to develop feelings for another while trapped in such an insane life-and-death situation, especially since 001 had been especially protective of you due to your circumstance.

But player 456 that has become a mentor towards you had warned you several times to not give in to this irrational sentiment, reminding you that the man you fell for had an expecting wife waiting for him back home.

"Take them away" he orders his henchmen, withdrawing the gun before tearing his eyes away from you. "The game needs to continue."

"Take him" the man dressed in all-black ordered his henchmen, gesturing towards player 001 before busying himself with you again. "The game needs to continue."

Gi-hun's pleads to spare you if not for the unborn child's sake went on deaf ears as a bag was put over his head and he was dragged away.

The Frontman lifted his gun again, the shaking of his hand barely noticeable as the barrel stroke almost gently across your cheek, a black trail of gunpowder trailing his movement. With one swift movement he put it underneath your chin, forcing you to look up to him one final time.

In a last act of resistance you spat at the man's feet, your relentless glare imbued with hatred as it bore into his skull. "You're a monster!"

"I know."

And yet he couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger.

While you assumed sadistic glee as his motivator, In-ho was shocked with himself, caught in a labyrinth of his own mind. After a while of letting those conflicting emotions ravage his heart, he withdrew his weapon, signalizing the guard behind you to knock you out before sending a bullet straight to his head.

What he plans to do cannot allow any witnesses, even among his own ranks.

*~´*~´*~´*

God knows how much time had passed since then, but when you finally regained consciousness, only one question was burning urgently:

Why are you still alive?

You jolted up in a rush of adrenaline, scanning the unfamiliar room you were brought to. The interior was almost completely dipped in pitch black, even the furniture was no exception.

A new game, maybe?

Eventually your eyes caught the silhouette lurking in a corner of the room, leaned over in a huge armchair. That damned mask of his did nothing to hide the piercing glare you could feel underneath.

Feeling your rapid breaths and how your body started to tremble uncontrollably, panic threatened to consume your every sense.

Your mind was invaded with countless horrid scenarios to why a deranged man like him would take you back to - as it appeared - his private bedchamber.

The sheer sight of him was a nightmare, but seeing him approaching you with firm, deliberate steps shook you to the core. He pries off one of his gloves, laying them on the nightstand besides you with his whole demeanour perfectly composed.

A violent tremor jolts through your body as he reached out for you, however he merely places his hand onto your belly, unable to hold back a muffled gasp as he feels it kick beneath his palm.

"I had a doctor check on you while you were unconscious" he disclosed as if it was some sort of generous act. "The baby is perfectly fine. A little fighter, like it's mother."

It was meant to be a placating gesture but it had the complete opposite effect on you, not daring to guess the reason for his sudden interest.

Your face contorts in disgust and you shuffle away from his touch, pulling your knees to your chest and wrap the blanket over your belly, as if to shield it from this homicidal maniac. "Why- What do you want from me, you fucking lunatic?!"

There was a while of strained silence between your question and his answer.

"I told you to stay back, you foolish girl" he sighed, striping the hood from his head but his hand hesitated on the buckle of his mask. "But you insisted on joining this pathetic revolt."

The moment he unveiled his face your world scattered for the second time today, as you were confronted with the face of a dead man - at least the one you had mourned and wept for just shortly before.

Oh just seconds ago your greatest wish was to be able to see him one last time, to confess the things you had preserved until it felt like you'd burst with that secret admiration for him.

Right now however it was like staring straight into the abyss.

He forced his lips into a crooked bow, that fake excuse of a smile you had always thought to be remnant of the hardships he had to endure. But now you saw it - or rather him - for what it truly was.

This couldn't be real. It mustn't be real.

You replayed those words in your head over and over again, but they morphed into a nonsensical jumble, blurring with the overwhelming torment of confusion and betrayal.

He gazed at you with bated breath as he awaited your reaction, desperate to find any hint, at least a glimmer of affection in your features.

"Young-il?" you stammered with a meek, broken voice that buried him underneath a wave of shame he wasn't aware he could still feel.

He shakes his head. "No. My real name is Hwang In-ho...I'm sorry."

You knew the whole time, didnt you?

Something about him was off from the very start. The way he carried himself seemed to robotic, as if he was merely playing a role. Deep down you had always wondered about how his story never fully added up, so many times you ignored any suspicious behavior of his out of some twisted dependency.

And ever since you personally witnessed how he snapped the other contestant's neck without any remorse you had a plaqueing feeling that he wasn't who he claimed to be.

There was a wordless aggreement to keep quiet about this particular incident, due to your egoistical necessity of his protection.

That's when it dawned on you - he had already pulled you down to his level, made you his accomplice through your silence. And even now, all this time not even a single thought about the fate of your comrades had crossed your mind until now.

He only barely outranks you in selfish cruelty.

"Was-" you choke on a sob, feeling his thumb tenderly wipe away your tears just to be replaced with new ones. "Was it all a lie?"

"Not everything." In-ho spoke with a hint of melancholy in his bearing. "I did have an ill wife, back when I first participated. You remind me of her a lot actually...strong-willed and yet gentle." There was an undeniable reverence in his tone and the way his hand was still gracing your cheek. "I participated and won just for her...but when I returned, she was already gone."

You were torn between the seething anger and an irrational urge to comfort this grief-strickened man, in your shock the severity of his words not leaving you unscathed. "That- that still doesn't excuse a single one of your actions!" Refusing to give in you spat venom at him either way, reminding yourself the aching of your heart should be nothing but newfound hatred for the man.

"I'm aware" The Frontman neither aggrees nor denies your accusations, as it doesnt't matter to him at all. His voice is unbearably cold, the softness of his in it you were used to now replaced by a sharp edge. "I don't expect anything...no understanding or even acceptance. But i cant- won't let you go."

You could see it in his eyes that his stoic facade was crumbling, he was teetering on the brink of a bottomless pit, begging for a lifeline, needing for your presence to save him from the darkness within.

"I wanted to help you become the winner." In-ho takes a hold of your hands, squeezing them ever so slightly in the naive hope to convince you of his pure intentions. "That wasn't my plan initially, but I decided to risk it all to keep you safe. I swear I will protect you and our child, no matter what."

Our child. Such a small word yet such a huge impact. The implication sent a shiver down your spine, understanding it was like swallowing shards of glass.

In-Ho leans his forehead against yours, his own eyes glistening with usnhed tears. "You're my redemption, my salvation..." He trails off, suddenly grabbing the back of your neck, pulling your lips to crash over his. It was a searing kiss, one that demanded surrender, that commanded obedience, a vow to keep you at his side whether you want it or not.

You writhe against his hold as he cradles you in his arms, but his embrace is like a steel vice, suffocating and unyielding just as his love.

"I couldn't save her..." he rasps in a hoarse whisper, every syllable laced with utter determination. "Allow me to at least save you."

#squid game #hwang in ho x reader #young il #player 001 #frontman #fanfiction #writing #reader insert #hwang in ho #young il x reader #player 001 x reader #the frontman x reader

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wildeoscars · 16 hours ago

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Excerpts from 20 Questions: Eric Bogosian

Playboy, July 1991

The raging monologist who gave us “talk radio” raps about street life, horny guys and the redemptive joys of gardening.

Playboy: Your characters plead, cajole, threaten, offer skewed insights, and exhibit paranoia. Is your stage act a cry for help?

Bogosian: I need to solve my own personal problems. I know nowhere to look other than to myself, so I look at my own questionable traits. And then I personify them in a character. Early in my career, I spent a lot of time on things that had to do with sex, because I wanted to have better relationships with women. FunHouse was about pure, unadulterated fear, because at that point, I was just freaked out. My wife, Joann, and I were impoverished; we lived in this tiny apartment. Drinking in America, written when I became more successful, was about a hunger for power and success. Sex, Drugs, Rock & Roll asks, How do you live when all you know how to do is party?

Playboy: You honed your performance style in New York’s downtown art scene. Was it easier and cheaper than enrolling in drama school?

Bogosian: The downtown scene allowed me to walk out on stage every night and say and do whatever I wanted. I would go out and insult the shit out of the audience. There were nights when I took all my clothes off. I had fights with the audience. The best thing about the scene was that we were making our work and having a good time entertaining one another. I would perform in front of audiences that were guaranteed smart and hip. They didn’t care whether or not I was doing something right, like some acting teacher had taught me. They would tell me whether or not they got it. I was performing loud, nasty, insulting stuff.

Playboy: Does The Stud, your monolog about one man’s extraordinary endowment, reflect your own desire for a larger penis?

Bogosian: I was taking a pee one day and I looked down and wished I had an eight-inch dick. You’re going to quote me on that. Don’t quote me on that. It’s part of men’s fascination with themselves. I wanted to take something out of the back room of male mentality and stick it right out in front of everybody. The Stud is one of my oldest pieces. Doing things about giant dicks is not that far out at the moment. There are probably twenty comics out there doing dick things. But when I started ten years ago, it was extremely embarrassing for men in the audience; they’d sit there with their hands folded over their crotches, not laughing, and the women would be laughing their guts out and the men would be getting angry. I thought it was great stuff going on between people in the theater.

Playboy: Horny guys populate your monologs. Do you claim special knowledge of America’s testosterone level?

Bogosian: I’m very average in what I want. And my desires point me towards centerfold models as the ultimate, the ultimate, the ultimate. The ultimate accomplishment in my sexual life would be to ball a centerfold model. For a pretty girl with large breasts to be the object of delight to millions of red-blooded American men is perfectly normal. Nothing wrong with that. Guys get horny and need to focus on something. Large breasts are great. A large breast is a lovely thing at a particular moment. But as I become old and wise, I think the really important thing is being oriented towards something and understanding that you don’t necessarily have to have the thing to enjoy the thing. I happen to be in love with a woman who has medium-sized breasts.

Playboy: You are synonymous with the downtown New York scene. Do you dream crossover dreams?

Bogosian: At this time, I don’t think I’m going to show up as some kind of box office attraction. But you never know. I’d like to be a star. There’s always the challenge, especially when you’re surrounded by agents and producers, to see if you can really catch the gold ring. Can I fill Madison Square Garden? Can I go on Johnny and do a killer five minutes? I can’t imagine getting on Letterman, people would watch and say they knew what I was doing: This guy plays thugs from New Jersey and subway panhandlers. They wouldn’t see the irony; it would be like I’m just making cruel fun on these guys. I need an audience to be with me for a little while.

Playboy: You’ve bought a house in New Jersey. Will crab grass begin to crop up in your monologs?

Bogosian: It has already. I did a monolog called Normal Guy. I like gardening a lot. Gardening gets me real mellow. I grow twenty-five kinds of vegetables, and when I’m lucky, like last summer, a lot of things come up very nicely. I grow lettuce and beets and carrots and different varieties of cucumbers. I grow different varieties of corn and tomatoes and squash and pumpkins and peppers and okra and all kinds of neat stuff. And early in August, you get to a point where everything you’re eating that night at dinner was grown in your own garden. That’s nice. However, when you garden, you find out that in order to get your vegetables to look good, you have to kill everything within a hundred yards: animals, plants, and little insects. And you realize that after you do all that, you still end up with this gnarled little carrot. Then you go to the supermarket and you get this perfect carrot and you wonder, What are they killing to make these?

Playboy: One of your characters defines being civilized as sitting on a couch with a babe, watching TV, eating clam dip on a ripple potato chip, smoking joints, snorting coke–and swilling bourbon, beer and champagne. What’s your vision of the civilized life?

Bogosian: In New Jersey, we have a fireplace and we’re very, very civilized. I’m sitting on the couch and the fire is going and snow is falling outside and I’m reading a pulp novel by Stephen King. Being over thirty-five, there’s no question that there is a vibe in me that’s moving toward a Stratolounger with a bowl of potato chips and a cable TV with a channel selector. I will fight that tooth and nail. It scares me. I like middle-class life. I don’t think it’s a sin to be middle class. I don’t have to be mainstream to be comfortable. I’ve spent time with Frank Zappa, and he has a very normal, middle-class existence. He’s a daddy and has a whole family and they have pizza for lunch and they have pets and it’s a very normal life. But he’s not mainstream and never will be.

#eric bogosian #Armenian chameleon

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munson-blurbs · 14 hours ago

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18+ only, minors DNI

Based on yet another glorious conversation with @chatteringfox

Argyle can't wait to call you his wife. He doesn't believe in the antiquated notion of the "ball and chain" and certainly can't understand why other guys wear the title of "husband" like it's a burden to bear.

He starts calling you his wife from the moment you accept his proposal.

When you're cooking dinner, he snakes his arms around your waist, hugging you from behind. "How's my wife doing today, huh?"

When you're getting dressed up for a date night, he wolf-whistles from the bedroom doorway. "Goddamn, I've got the prettiest wife."

He does it even when you're not around. He turns down a smoke session with the other cooks as he leaves work. "Nah, man. Gotta get home to the wife."

But the best is when he's inside of you, strong hands gripping your hips, his head buried in the crook of your neck. His hair is tied back to keep it out of his face. You always tell him you don't mind, that you love when it's all loose and splayed down his muscular back, but he insists on pulling it back.

"Only wanna focus on you, princesa. Don't wanna think about anything else."

You feel the sweat from his forehead on your cheek as he murmurs in your ear now.

"Mi esposa," he pants, pressing a kiss along your jawline. "Mine. All mine. Solo te necesito a ti para toda mi vida."

Yeah, Argyle's down bad for you. His wife. And he won't let anyone forget it--especially you.

#argyle stranger things #argyle smut #argyle imagine #argyle x y/n #argyle #argyle x female reader #argyle x fem!reader #argyle x reader #argyle x you #stranger things #stranger things fanfic #fanfic #argyle fanfic #smut

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jetblack4realz · 24 hours ago

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damn bars - yellowstone boys

how the yellowstone boys react to you getting hit on at the bar

kayce, rip, ryan, carter

word count total: 3.9k

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kayce dutton:

you had gone out to the bar for one reason and one reason only: to dance.

you and kayce loved to dance, but you didn't get many opportunities to. so, when one night john took tate for a sleepover, winking at you as he pulled the boy away, you decided to get out there and swing away like you were teenagers again. you grabbed beth and rip to come too, knowing they'd appreciate getting out even if they didn't dance - would rip ever dance? probably not.

it was fun for the first little bit, all the good swing songs playing as he twirled you around the wooden dance floor. you pulled out old tricks he forgot you knew and he twisted and flipped you into cool routines you forgot he knew. when you decided to take a break, kayce heading to the bathroom while you ordered a drink, you just knew something was going to happen.

but, you ordered anyways, eyes on where beth was shaking her ass away to the fun country music playing and where rip was watching her with the fondest smile you'd ever seen from him.

the bartender slid you your drink. you smiled. "thank you."

he nodded at you, walking down the bar to attend to another customer as you leaned your back against the counter, eyes back to your sister-in-law.

"you've really been busting a move out there."

you turned to see a man, taller than you but definitely shorter than kayce, bigger, with a brown hat and black boots. he wasn't necessarily attractive and there was just something about him that made you want to scrunch your nose, so you did.

"yep," you hummed, sipping on your whiskey.

"you've only had the one partner. i'm sure i could show you some moves if you're looking for a new one," he said, glancing to the side as a smile pulled up one side of his mouth. "i don't see him here anymore."

"he'll be back," you told him, setting your drink down and looking him over again. "and even if i was looking for another partner, you don't look like much of a dancer, buddy."

he knitted his brows at that, looking down at you with a curious smirk on his lips. "spicy. i like that."

you wanted to throw up.

"don't call me that," you said. "that was gross."

"oh come on, darling," he said, shifting so he was more in your view. "just one dance? he'll never even know, he ain't here."

"he is." you held up your ring finger, flashing the rock that was your wedding band at him. "i ain't going with you buddy."

and that was when he grabbed you, hand on your hip as he pulled you into him. he smelled like bad beer, cheap cologne, and straight b.o. you instantly pushed away even as he held you tighter, speaking now: "one dance, baby. life is too short to only dance with one man the rest of it."

"life's too short to dance with ugly men," you retorted, scrunching your nose again as you finally, very forcefully pushed him away from you, backing towards where you knew rip was last standing. except he wasn't there.

you looked at the dance floor and your mind was blown. of course the one time rip wheeler decides to take to the dance floor was when you were actively being harassed at the bar.

the guy didn't like your answer and stepped towards you, mouth open to say something before another figure stepped in front of you, one you knew very well. especially since you'd picked out his shirt. you breathed a breath of relief as he glanced back at you, checking you were okay before returning a much more menacing gaze to your advancer.

"i don't know what you've said or done thus far, but the way my wife is lookin at you doesn't look very good for you," kayce said, his eyes turned in a glare as he stepped towards him.

"look, man, all i wanted was a dance, not anything more-"

"a dance is still too much to ask for, especially when she's already said no," kayce said sternly. "leave. now."

"what, like the whole-"

"i'd really love a reason to punch you and if you keep talking you're gonna be giving me one," kayce warned, but the guy didn't get it apparently because he kept going.

"hey, man i didn't do anything-"

kayce looked back at you. "he touch you?"

the moments between you nodding and kayce full on clocking the guy in the jaw went by in literally the blink of an eye. the man stumbled back and kayce swung again, effectively knocking him to the floor. he kicked him then, the man folding in half with a groan. kayce moved to do it again when you grabbed his arm.

"baby, let's just get out of here," you told him. "i don't need you getting in trouble."

"i'm the livestock commissioner, i'll be fine," he said.

"well, then, just..." you moved around him to where the dude was sprawled on the ground, looking up at your husband in fear as some blood tricked from a cut in his lip and also between his teeth. everyone in this town knew kayce dutton could throw a punch.

you stomped on his hand then, hard, earning a shout and an instant recoil. you could've sworn you felt a crunch under the heel of your boot when you did.

"so you can't grab any other girls anytime soon," you said before turning on your heel and grabbing your husband, who looked like he was chomping at the bit to get back to pummeling him. "c'mon, baby."

but, tonight was supposed to be fun. when you pulled him out the front door for some fresh air and maybe to bar hop, you thought to remind him of that. you turned to him with a smile, hand cupping his face just below his jaw. "c'mere, cowboy." you kissed him slowly, his hands falling to your waist almost instantly as he folded to your touch, returning the kiss eagerly.

when you pulled back, he kept you close, kissing you again.

"thank you," you breathed out when you finally broke again, smiling up at him. "i can always count on your mean right hook to get me out of any bad situation."

"i practice it just for that," he said quietly, pecking your lips again.

you laughed lightly. "seriously, thank you though," you said, wrapping your arms around his middle as you relaxed in his hold. "for saving me."

"i'll always save you," he promised, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "and i'm never going to the bathroom while we're out again."

rip wheeler:

to get rip to go out was a chore. it usually took some promising of later nightly activities and some chanting and begging from the wranglers too. and when you finally got him there, he wasn't exactly interactive, mostly just watching you dance and getting you the appropriate amount of refills to keep you semi-aware.

aware for situations like this.

you were dancing the night away with teeter, hands in the air as you laughed and jumped and twirled with your favorite of the cowboys, glancing up at rip regularly to shoot him a wink or shout something about how great his ass looked in those jeans, when suddenly you felt hands on your waist.

you spun around, brows shot straight up as you swatted this strange, tall and skinny man who oddly reminded you of a drugged out, dark haired jimmy, man away from you, stepping back and bumping into teeter. "damn you're ballsy, dude," you said. he stepped back to you, his hands landing on your waist again, fingers brushing over the waistband of your jeans as teeter grabbed your shoulders and helped you shuffle away. "seriously, get off!"

"hey, come back here, baby-"

it was instinctive, really. your father had taught you how to throw a proper punch and rip had taught you the best places to throw it, and well, the first one that came to mind was the throat.

he staggered back with a choked breath, hand rising to his jugular as he stared at you with wide eyes. "you crazy bitch!"

"did you seriously just call me the bitch?" you said, stepping towards him now with your hand balled into a fist.

but, before you could throw another punch and before the psycho dude could fully recover, rip was now in the picture. two extremely well-placed punches sent the creep into the surrounding crowd. no one did or said anything for a few moments, everyone having seen him grab you and insinuating exactly who rip was in this situation.

he turned back to you, grabbing your hand tightly and sending a look teeter's way that had her collecting the rest of the wranglers, who had all suddenly appeared at your side.

"let's go," he said strictly.

"can we go to another bar?" you asked as he dragged you out of the facility and towards the truck. he let out a short laugh.

"there's no way in hell i'm letting you back into another bar anytime soon," he said. "if another psychotic bastard thinks he can put his hands on you i can't promise that i wouldn't kill him right then. it took a lot of restraint not to keep going in there, baby."

"rip, come on, let's have fun tonight - woah!"

and suddenly you were thrown over his shoulder in a fireman carry. he barely even stopped to do it, just scooping you up and continuing on to where he'd parked the truck.

"nope," he said. "and anyways, there's other ways to have fun." he pulled the door open and set you on the passenger seat with a smirk. "you have a couple promises to fulfill for even dragging me here in the first place."

"damn," you mumbled as he gave you a quick kiss, shutting the door and crossing to the other side. as he got in and buckled, you looked over at him with a bit of a dopey smile on your lips. "have i told you i love you recently?"

"i'm sure you have, baby, but i'm happy to hear it again," he told you, smiling your way as he started the truck up.

"well, i do love you. and thank you. that sucked."

"and it ain't ever gonna happen again on my watch," he promised. "he really just snuck up on you there."

"literally crazy."

ryan:

you weren't much of a games girl, which everyone thought was weird given the man you were with. but, you were content to watch, to sit at the bar conversing with the wranglers who weren't involved in the game of pool or dancing, and to watch colby crash and burn as he approached girls again and again.

that last one was your favorite activity.

every now and again you would wander back over to where ryan was playing lloyd or jake, cheer him on, give him a quick kiss, and then return to the designated spot colby kept coming back to after another failed attempt at wooing a tourist.

the tourists were funny too. you could always tell which ones had just bought their hats and boots before or even while they were in montana just to blend in. some of the girls were wearing such california things you wondered if they were wanting to blend in at all, which the answer was no. colby, and plenty of other cowboys, liked the tourists. or at least, for a quick one.

you were watching him with a grin as he stumbled on his words with a pretty brunette, sipping on your drink casually. he was using his hands to emphasize something and she did not seem like she was interested in that something at all. you giggled to yourself.

"you like people watching?"

you glanced to your side to see a shorter man with spiky blond hair at your side. this guy didn't even take a try at a hat, sticking it with bright and shiny new black tecovas with a pointed toe and a snakeskin design that was so opposite of what you were used to.

you didn't think you'd ever been turned off more by a boot.

"yeah, i do," you nodded, looking back at where colby was actively losing his chosen girl's attention. "it's entertaining."

"it is," he agreed, taking the seat next to you. "you from around here?"

for some reason, you laughed. you guessed it was because he was so obviously not from here that for him to ask you if you were was just funny to you. "yep. you ever heard of the yellowstone dutton ranch?"

"it got anything to do with the park?" he asked.

you laughed again before taking a sip of your drink. "no. around here, when people talk about the yellowstone, they're talking about the 800,000 acre cattle ranch just outside of town owned by the livestock commissioner and the oldest family in montana."

he seemed shocked, but he tried to get through it, continuing his little q&a. "you're from there?"

"it's my family that owns it," you answered easily.

"and what's it like owning 800,000 acres of some of the most coveted land in america?" he asked, tilting his head at you. if you hadn't before, you definitely piqued his interest now.

you shrugged. "it's a lot of work, but it's worth it. it's beautiful."

"lonely, though, i bet," he said, and that made you laugh again. wow, he really tried that one.

"no, actually," you told him. "need a good amount of people to run that ranch. don't get too much time to yourself."

"do you want time to yourself?" he asked.

"i'm good with what i've got, thank you," you told him. you looked over at where ryan had caught sight of your predicament and was making his way over to you. you stood, shooting the man at your right a polite smile. "one of the cowboys we've got is particularly attractive. i'm entertained enough, don't you worry about me."

he saw ryan then and stood as well. "i wouldn't say he's particularly attractive. you could do better."

"are you suggesting yourself?" you asked with a laugh, holding an arm out to wrap around ryan's waist as he came to your side, pressing a kiss to the side of your head before eying the man in front of y'all. "sorry, pal. you may be decently cute, but you ain't no cowboy. if you're looking to get lucky in this town it'd do you good to remember that. shoot for your own kind."

the man looked up at ryan. "you her cowboy?"

"damn straight," ryan answered. "you better take that advice. a lot of the cowgirls you'll see around here anyways are taken, you're asking for a fight talking to 'em. you're just lucky she played nice. it's the only reason i am too." ryan nodded, tilting his hat at the man before stepping away and bringing you with him. "best of luck. just not with my girl."

he took you back to the pool table with him where lloyd was laughing at the sight of you. he pressed another kiss to your head.

"did you really have to call him cute?" he asked you.

"decently cute," you reminded with a shake of your head. "i called you particularly attractive, which is an understatement. i just didn't wanna shake the guy's confidence down too much. those boots are doin that enough for him."

ryan laughed. "damn tourists."

carter:

nearly everything carter did reminded beth of how rip was at that age. and nearly everything you did as you consistently visited reminded her of how she was at that age.

it had her worried and excited.

"don't break his heart," she told you one day, cornering you after lunch. "i've been there, i've done that, it's terrible for everyone involved. save yourself the trouble and just snag him now, you know you want him and he wants you. just date, okay? and don't be a bitch later."

the words shocked you, but definitely kicked you into gear. carter was shier than you ever were, awfully polite and gentlemanly as beth had trained him to be, and so you were the one to get him into going to the bar.

"will we even get served here?" he asked, holding your hand as you led him in.

"hell yeah we will," you answered, smiling back at him as you approached the bar. you were quick to pull out your id - a fake one, but one nonetheless - and slide it to the bartender. "an old fashioned please."

"what about me?" carter whispered.

you laughed lightly. "just get your id out, darlin'."

confused but obedient, he pulled out his wallet and was surprised to see a new driver's license in the clear slot he usually kept his in. one that said he was 21.

he held it up as he cleared his throat, catching the bartender's attention. "make that two." he looked back at you. "these any good?"

"i think so," you answered with a shrug. "you ever have bourbon before, or just beer?"

"just beer," he nodded.

"well, hopefully you'll like it," you said with a shrug. "i've seen your dad make them back at the ranch. i'm sure you'll like them."

"oh, he's not my dad," he corrected as the bartender slid them over to y'all.

you furrowed your brows. "really? you look exactly alike."

it was as he was taking his first swig of his drink that you felt someone slide between you and the person sitting next to you, their arm settling on the counter in front of you. you looked up, brows raised as you found a man, definitely in his late 30s, in a nicer shirt than this bar deserved, brand new boots, and what looked to be a cross between dress pants and jeans. interesting.

"can i help you?" you asked, his positioning crowding you into your seat even though you didn't move much. this was your bubble, he was the one who had to get out of it.

"just wondering if you had anyone paying for this drink," he said, his hand now on your whiskey as you narrowed your eyes.

carter moved sharply to stand, but settled when you set a hand on his knee, thumb rubbing circles into his jeans. you offered the guy a very thin, very fake smile.

"that's a nice shirt," you said, earning a wider smile from the man. "where'd you get it?" he almost went to answer, but you continued, your next few sentences stringing together in almost one breath.

"oh, well, i bet you don't know since your wife bought it for you. or - is it ex-wife, now? i don't see a ring, but i definitely see that faded tan line from it being there for years and recently taken off. probably because of a very similar situation we find ourselves in now. your wife is at home, with the kids, waiting for you to take her out to a dinner that will never happen because you're here, scoping out for the youngest woman you can find to sloppily sleep with in the back of your brand new honda civic that you convinced yourself and that girl was some new sports car because it's a 'newer model'."

already, he was in shock, staring at you with a scared kind of wonder that for some reason made you so proud.

you continued. "so, either you're here trying to do that again behind your wife's back, or she's already divorced you, which for her sake i hope is the case, because you seem like a pathetic piece of shit who blames his infidelity on being overworked and undersupported when really you're just a pedophiliac horndog who doesn't understand what the word 'no' means."

you took your drink back from him, taking a sip from it as you watched his expression change between shocked, offended, confused, and embarrassed.

"and yes," you added, "i do have someone to pay for my drink."

he gaped at you as you turned away from him, hand still on carter's knee as you grinned into your glass, sipping from it again. he glanced behind you at carter and you knew he wanted to exclaim how carter was a boy and he was a man, but didn't because he didn't know what else you would say.

"you psycho bitch," he muttered. "all i did was offer to pay for your drink."

"yeah, well i'm quite obviously young enough to be the daughter you had when you accidentally knocked up the drum major when you were a junior, so it's still kind of disgusting," you told him, rolling your eyes. "especially when it's so easy to see that the man i'm sitting next to is my boyfriend, or at the very least, someone else who is paying for my drink because we got them to us at the exact same time and my hand is on his knee. so fuck off, dickwad."

and he did, scoffing as he left. carter turned to look at you with wide eyes before he breathed out a laugh.

"you're my favorite person ever," he said. you smiled at him, shrugging lightly.

"i was trained by the best," you hummed.

he smiled at that before giving you a curious look, tilting his head at you. "so, i'm your boyfriend?"

"i'm hoping," you said, smiling back. "i mean, i really like you, and i think you like me. beth told me to get on with it already because why waste time, hence why we're here. i can call you my boyfriend, right?"

"yeah, yeah you can," he said, nodding as he breathed out a laugh.

you were beaming, maybe even blushing as you glanced away for a few moments before continuing conversation. "how's your drink?"

"surprisingly good," he answered. "you have good taste."

your smile softened a bit as you looked at him, nodding slowly. "yeah, i do." you finished your drink in one swig, setting the glass on the counter. "hey, do you wanna get out of here?"

"but, we just got here," he said, furrowing his brows.

"well, i just have this feeling more situations are going to arise that will either warrant me coming up with more speeches like that or you punching a guy square in the nose, and i'm not in the mood for either," you answered, standing and pulling your wallet from your bag.

"hey, no, i pay," he said. he tossed a ten and a twenty on the counter, his hand going to your lower back as he followed you out of the bar.

"hey carter?" you asked as he opened the passenger door to the truck, holding your hand to help you up. he smiled up at you.

"yeah?"

you reached forward, taking his face in your hand and pressing your lips to his gently. he froze for a minute, but stepped forward to reach you better and deepened the kiss as best he knew how, his hands on your waist as he pulled you closer to him.

when you pulled away, he was grinning, "damn."

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

thanks for reading! leave a request in the comments or message me privately! i love writing, so if you've got an idea you need fleshed out on paper i'd love to be the one to do that for you

masterlist!!

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yellowocaballero · 2 days ago

Note

a while back you mentioned having written ~40k of a steven moon knight fic as well as some of a frenchie fic? i was just wondering if those would ever be posted/shared or if they will stay in google docs superhell forever (also love your work!! your star wars swap au i particularly enjoyed as well as the tma evilcon + associated fics) best of days to you !!

Look at this evilcon fan over here. Deep fucking cut.

Ah, yes I have. The 40k fic was written for Marvel Trumps Hate, and I didn't post it due to some vaguely complicated but not altogether important reasons. The Frenchie fic was the unfortunate victim towards me very abruptly falling out of MK, lmfao. I think all of my fandoms have The One Abandoned Fic that I was working on when I just Got Over the fandom (Human Relations sequel, so cruelly abandoned....).

Kind of a shame, since the Frenchie fic was not bad and just got kinda roadblocked at the end. I've tossed around maybe finishing it when MKS2 comes out and I inevitably get sucked back in. I don't want to post the MTH fic on AO3 right now (maybe in the future when MKS2 comes out and I get sucked back in etc) but there's honestly no reason not to show you...I think...looking back over this, I think I may have decided that the fic's sense of humor was just too insane. It's very.......uh.....

Uh, ok, just between you and me and other people reading this then. It's a fic about a normal guy who thinks that schizophrenia makes you immortal and autism gives you superpowers.

I'll put it in a follow-up post. In the meantime here's the first few scenes from the Frenchie fic. I really do wanna finish this one day....

“A phone call?”

The jackal barked in elderly confusion.

Steven leaned back in his chair, scratching his stubble. Jake was insisting that they experiment with facial hair and it was best to let him have these little victories. “Well, under the human American law each citizen is entitled to a phone call if they get arrested. That’s probably what he means.” The jackal barked dismissively. “Have you tried telling him that?” The jackal barked again, aggravated. “I see. Quite a pickle. Well, I don’t see any harm in giving him the call. We’d have to warn him that this is a faux legal system and that he’s not entitled to any lawyers, but perhaps he could tell his wife he won’t be home for dinner? That would be nice.”

The jackal growled.

“We could be nice,” Steven said reproachfully.

The jackal barked again.

“If you really think about it, nothing’s stopping us. Masters of our own fates and whatnot, right? Well - yes, yes, I know the gods are the masters of our fates, that’s not quite - look, sir, there’s no point in worrying a man’s wife unnecessarily, is there? How would your wife feel if you disappeared off the mortal plane?” The jackal hung its head, and Steven sighed as he stood up. “I’ll lend him my mobile.” The courthouse only had landlines, and even then that was iffy. Magical ancient Egyptian constructs still struggled with 4G. “But if he messes about with my Twitter then we’re adding another thousand years onto his sentence.”

Situations like this were why Steven still showed up to work. This zoo often struggled at little things like this without him. The place had gone to the jackals while he was gone - literally, they had taken over many administrative positions - and it would take months just to clean up the wreckage. Steven didn’t mind - nothing made him happier than a good little routine. Ten to two, that was his preference. Downright inhumane to make a man work any longer than four hours a day. He had even scheduled a deli or restaurant to visit for lunch each day of the week. And Marc and Jake were not allowed. Steven only zone. A man’s office was his castle. Besides - if they knew what he got up to all day they might complain about it.

The two were deeply asleep - Jake because he found Steven’s entire life dull as dirt and Marc because all of the mandated socialization they were doing lately really took it out of him. Steven found it delightful. Jake’s friends were really nice once you got to know them, and you could reliably get a pained expression out of any of them once you told them so. Marc found their whole thing exhausting and if Jake wasn’t entertained he wanted to die, so around noon the two slept like Alexander the Great’s mummy. Might as well build them little tombs. That was cute. Steven knew exactly what his own tomb would look like. He was practically a pharaoh and everything - maybe Khonshu would make sure he got one? No, Khonshu didn’t care about them nearly that much. Boy, but wouldn’t that be nice.

He gave the Bast statue guarding the elevator its usual nose pat, he smiled and waved at the lumbering shabtis, and he stopped and said his usual ‘hello how are you how’s Nephthys Osiris talking to you again yet’ to the Set statue as the jackal gave him the stink eye for holding them up. Kindness was key, Mr. Jackal. Steven believed in positive Steven-god relations. He lived in hope that the other gods would model good behavior for Khonshu and eventually sway him into becoming less of a dick.

The ibis perched adorably in a little booth checked his identity as it picked up a little visitor’s badge with his beak and dropped it into Steven’s outstretched hand. It pecked at the computer keyboard a few times, accomplishing nothing other than mangling the G and H keys, and a series of papers ground out of the ancient fax machine. Steven cautiously reached over and fetched the papers, scanning them. They were details of the prisoner’s case, which made Steven feel a bit like one of the Forbidden Lawyers. The jackal led him down the winding paths of the jail as Steven fumbled in his pocket for his glasses, squinting down at the pages.

“Well, this doesn’t seem too nasty,” Steven announced. “I’m sure we can get this sorted out. Certainly not a problem for our Jake, eh?” He looked at the jackal out of the corner of his eye. “Eh?” The jackal did not respond. “Right?”

Steven made the executive decision that this was a bureaucratic issue and therefore not a Marc or Jake issue. They’d just over-involve themselves and pretend they knew anything about the fake legal system. Marc and Jake were like baby brothers playing video games with you on an unplugged controller. They needed to feel like they were doing something or they’d throw a hissy fit.

The jackal didn’t have to stop and point out the prisoner. Steven could hear him from all the way down the hall: empathetic, pointed, and incessant French patter. The man sounded like he was arguing against a parking ticket, which displayed a disappointing lack of cognizance as to the severity of his situation and the high likelihood that he was about to experience extrajudicial horrors beyond his imagining.

Poor guy. Imagine being from France.

For the first time in Steven’s life his shaky French that he could not actually remember learning but that Marc and Jake did not know actually came in handy. As he got closer he could more or less puzzle out what the fast talking man was saying to the two unamused and unswayed jackals. Could the jackals speak French? It had to be some magic thing. The only animals around here who could actually talk to the humans and explain to them what was happening were the baboons, and they were never polite about it.

“ - one little call! That is it! I will never darken your doorstep again, I swear it. One phone call - and, maybe, letting me go! We can talk about it, let’s talk about it! You and I, we are reasonable men - jackal, I am a reasonable man and you are a reasonable jackal - unless you are a woman? Are you a woman? You are still a jackal at any rate. You are a very reasonable gendered jackal, and I am innocent of all crimes - and even if you are a nongendered jackal, I do not judge, I have friends of all kinds - if you give me one phone call I may call one of my friends and he can help, I am certain he is friends with very many of you people -”

The man cut off the second Steven walked into view of his cell. The cells were very basic, with only a cot and a toilet and one wall of metal bars. He was standing up against the bars, fighting with the two unamused jackals standing against the cement wall in the hallway. The man’s head jolted away from the jackals and fixed on Steven, forgetting his captive audience entirely. His slicked back hair was frayed and mussed, gelled strands sticking up every which way, and his blonde mustache twitching in surprise as his eyes widened.

Steven was sympathetic. Human prisoners were always shocked to find a real bloke around the place.

He waved a bit awkwardly, his reading glasses flopping in the air. In shaky and awkward French, he said, “Bonjour! My name is Steven Grant. And you are…” He shoved his glasses on, squinting down at the intake form. “Jean-Paul Duchamp?” He pronounced it ‘Jean Paul Dew-Champ’, and judging from the man’s twitch he had mangled it. Oh well. “Right. Do not worry, everything will be fine. You wanted a phone call? I have a phone for you.”

The man stared at him. Steven silently suffered this. He knew he was attractive.

Finally, the man said in accented but thankfully perfect English, “I have changed my mind. May I speak with you in private, Monsieur Grant?”

The three jackals barked simultaneously. Steven rolled his eyes. Honestly! He knew he was the Avatar of Khonshu now, they didn’t need to be like that! “I don’t think that’s allowed. For security reasons and all. Not that there’s anything you could possibly do to me.” A grizzled jackal with one eye barked. “Emotional - hey! I would have you know that my Myers Briggs said I was the resilient type!” Steven considered the matter for a second. “Oh, but I did have a bad horoscope today. Maybe you’re onto something. Do we have any augurers on staff?”

“Excuse me,” Jean-Paul butted in, increasingly wild eyed, “Do you care to explain what is going on, Monsieur Grant? Because the only explanation I’ve received so far was from paperwork on papyrus and a rude baboon.”

Why was he saying his name like that? The French were so weird. Steven leaned down slightly to whisper in the nearest jackal’s ear. “And he must have been really bad if a French guy is calling him rude.” The jackals cackled. Jean-Paul’s eye twitched. “Never fear, Mr. Duchamp. I’m sure we can get this whole thing sorted out before supper. Let’s review the details of your case, shall we?”

“What case?”

“Oh, you’re in an ancient Egyptian courthouse for ancient Egyptian crimes,” Steven said vaguely, sliding on his reading glasses and flipping through the pages again. “Yes, the Egyptian gods are real, no they are not aliens, you better believe in ghost stories Ms. Swan you’re in one, etcetera. Alright, alright…I see…ah! There we are! Charged as accessory to one count of tomb raiding…oh, just a little asterisk here, let’s see what that’s all about…you stole from a children’s hospital!?”

“I did not know that is what we were doing!” Jean-Paul cried. “Someone tells me to fly a medical helicopter, I do not ask questions! If I made a habit of interrogating every one of my clients I would not have a great deal of clients, monsieur!”

“Organs from a -”

“It is called professionalism!”

“It’s called evil!” Steven said, appalled. The jackals barked in agreement. “I have to say, Mr. Duchamp -”

“It’s doo-shamp. And John-Paul. Mon frere.”

Oh wow, oh no, sorry for the French microaggression. Honestly. “If it wasn’t for the fact that you betrayed your clients the second you discovered what they were stealing and refused to pilot them away you would be facing the same punishment they are. It’s quite karmic. Do you know what Egyptian canopic jars are used for?” Jean-Paul looked a little queasy. “Exactly. Do you still want that phone call, Mr. Duchamp? You’ll receive your sentence from Thoth with or without it.”

“Then why give it to me?” Jean-Paul asked waspishly.

Steven shrugged. “I wouldn’t want your husband to worry.”

“Rest assured, I am quite single.” Jean-Paul stuck his hand out through the bars. “Give it here.”

Steven pulled up the phone function on his mobile and passed it to Jean-Paul, ignoring his thoughtful expression. He tried to convey ‘mess with my phone and I’ll mess with you’ through rigorous eyebrow tilting, but he knew he was very bad at it.

Jean-Paul stepped back, swiping on the mobile. It did not look like he was punching in a number. Steven abruptly became anxious that he was snooping on Steven’s mobile. He had remembered to delete his text history with Layla, right? Right?!

He typed something on it before looking up, holding it up oddly to show Steven the screen before passing it back to him. “I changed my mind. No need for a call. Thank you for lending me your phone, monsieur, but it was unnecessary.”

The screen was open to the notes app. Steven abruptly felt like they were passing notes in class. Except not quite, because Steven was the Avatar of an Egyptian god and the other party was in jail for magic crimes. The note read -

marc what is the plan

Oh. Oh!

Steven looked up, and now he could clearly read the man’s irritated ‘why are you looking surprised, this is a matter of utmost secrecy’ eyebrow twitch. “Goodness, I’m so sorry. The egg is really on my face here, I’m so embarrassed.” He looked down at the jackal next to him, who twitched its ears attentively. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. It seems -”

Steven stopped short.

This man knew Marc. He now knew Steven. Marc really, really, really hated it when this happened.

Marc had spent the vast majority of his life masking. His family had been big believers in the ‘never talk about it and pretend it doesn’t exist’ school of mental illness, which had resulted in a great deal of very terrible problems. Marc did not learn from any of these problems and continued to hide the DID from everybody he had ever met up to and including his own wife for a depressing yet impressive length of time. Steven hadn’t really agreed with the wife decision, because it was a slightly huge aspect of their lives that was very much Layla’s business, but Marc believed in privacy. Steven couldn’t fault him for that.

It wasn’t anybody’s business if Marc didn’t want it to be their business and they were not Marc’s actual wife. Jake spouted off about shame and internalized ableism, which was undoubtedly true, but nobody was really entitled to his health information. He had the right to self-disclose when he wanted and to who he wanted. Steven only wished that this reasonable desire did not lead to sitcom-esque hijinks as they all switched mustaches and pretended to be each other. Sometimes literally. Jake had his whims.

Marc wouldn’t want this random pilot knowing personal stuff about him. He was probably just some colleague he had worked with one time and never saw again. And Steven was very dedicated to helping Marc and making his life easier, just like Marc was dedicated to helping Steven and making his life harder. Jake was dedicated to being a bully.

Being involuntarily outed was traumatic for Marc. The last time it happened he fell asleep for four weeks and plunged Steven into a Jake induced nightmare. What if he went back to sleep? What if he never woke up this time? What if he left Steven alone with Jake forever? He couldn’t take that chance.

Marc didn’t have to find out about any of this. No point in stressing him out over nothing.

In a stunning show of cunning, cleverness, and subtlety, Steven looked down at the jackal next to him. “Actually, can I talk with Mr. Duchamp in private? There’s some things we need to discuss.” The jackal asked what. “Human things.” The jackal asked why it had to be private. “They’re private human things.” Steven paused a beat. “Like periods. We’re going to talk about our periods.”

The jackals knew enough about humans to know that periods were private human things and not enough to know that cisgender men did not get periods. They gave him dubious looks anyway, but when Steven mimed yanking a crescent knife from his chest they obligingly filed out. The grizzled one-eyed jackal turned around and gave John-Paul a gimlet ‘I’m watching you’ eye, but John-Paul just sniffed and looked above it all. French people sure were good at looking snooty.

The second the jackals turned the corner and disappeared from sight Steven took a deep breath and changed.

He straightened, folding his expression into a deep scowl. He tilted his head forward in Marc’s faux intimidating fashion and affected Marc’s terrible Chicago accent - which was just as fake as Steven’s very real to him British accent, thank you very much! Jean-Paul straightened too, eyes widening again.

“What the hell?” Steven demanded. Ugh. It was hell on the throat to talk like this. “How did you even get yourself into this mess?”

“Me? I am the one in the mess?” Jean-Paul stabbed a finger at Steven, who scowled deeper. “What was that? What is this? Why are you working for an ancient Egyptian courthouse under a false identity?”

“It’s a long story,” Steven snapped. It was really easy to avoid questions as Marc. You just had to be mean. “And it’s none of your business.”

“At this point I think it is very much my business! Jesus, Marc!” Jean-Paul exhaled deeply, rubbing his forehead in a forcible attempt at zen. “What is this, some sort of op? Are you undercover?”

“I said it was none of your business!”

“This is why you don’t run the ops,” Jean-Paul said. Steven was offended on Marc’s behalf. “I am impressed at your acting skills but not at your subtlety.”

“The usual, then,” Steven said wryly. “I’m impressed with your talent at getting arrested.”

“I get it, I get it. Marc Spector twenty, Jean-Paul fifteen. I swear, Marc, only you would get yourself in these predicaments.”

“You’re the one in the predicament. I’m doing fine.”

“My predicament is your predicament.” Why would that be true? He said it so casually, as if it was a given fact. Quite presumptuous of him, in Steven’s opinion. “At least now I don’t have to waste a hope and a prayer that you would pick up your phone this time. How are you going to get me out of this one? They have a giant baboon! Have you seen the baboon!”

“The baboon’s very understanding about my medical needs, so watch it.” Wait - had he wanted to spend his one phone call on Marc? Why? They were talented, cool, and altruistic, but… “Look, I’ll do what I can. But the gods aren’t exactly easy to argue with. I’ve tried to get them to overturn a sentence before and it failed miserably.”

“That’s the first time I’ve heard my friend try to do things the legal way.” Jean-Paul folded his arms. “Just bust me out. Isn’t that more your style?”

What a suck-up. Marc didn’t have friends. Steven smiled anyway, brittle and thin. “Don’t worry, Jean-Paul. I’ll do everything I can to help you. Just please try and understand the position I’m in.”

Jean-Paul stared at him. Steven forced himself to look the other man in the eyes even though it made him uncomfortable. Marc always stared down people he didn’t trust.

“So, uh,” Steven said, “I better call the jackals back -”

“Please admit you do not know who I am.”

Steven froze. He opened his mouth, then closed it.

Jean-Paul sighed. He kneaded his forehead again, shoulders slumped, but something about the gesture had changed. My predicament is your predicament - what did that mean? “Why didn’t you say - non, non, you would have no reason. Marc, please listen to me.” He looked solidly at Steven, and Steven found himself looking away. “It’s Frenchie. I’m your friend. We met in Afghanistan and we’ve worked together ever since. You’re having another amnesiac episode. This happens to you sometimes and it is nothing to worry about. Do you believe me about this?”

Steven opened his mouth. He closed it.

He couldn’t help it - he hunched his shoulders, clutching at his sleeve and drawing away. “I don’t have friends. You’re lying.”

“Call up Layla and ask,” Jean-Paul said. His voice was even and steady, and it struck Steven oddly. The man was literally in a jail cell about to be Egyptian tortured and he was comforting Steven? Looking out for him in a mental health episode? Did the world contain two Lukes? “Do you know Layla? Your wife? Now there’s a thief for you. I am but a humble pilot in comparison.”

That cinched it. Marc would never tell anybody he didn’t trust about Layla. Much less about what Layla really did for a living.

But Marc didn’t trust anybody. Marc wasn’t supposed to trust anybody. That was Marc’s whole thing. He only trusted Steven and Layla. He only trusted Steven and Layla and - Frenchie? What kind of nickname was that? That was so stupid.

Marc was really bad at naming things. Movie poster, pilfered ID. Frenchie. Jeez.

Steven put it down. He let his shoulders hunch back into their natural slouch, bent his voice back towards its natural tilt, and dropped the mean expression. Despite himself, he groaned.

“Marc’s going to kill me!” Steven wailed. “He’s going to go to sleep again and leave me with Jake!”

Jean-Paul recoiled, surprise turning into shock. Wow, wow, big surprise. Marc or Jake’s friends freaking out over Steven. Stop the presses.

“He’s gonna blame me for this, you know,” Steven cried. Not whined. Nope. “This is why he doesn’t trust me with anything. As if it’s my fault that his friends keep getting arrested? Maybe I should get a little more recognition for being the only one without delinquent friends. Honestly, I don’t know why we can’t keep better company sometimes. A book club? A Dungeons and Dragons group? Anybody who doesn’t punch people for a living? Is that too much to ask?”

“Hm,” Jean-Paul said. “Your dissociative episodes have grown stranger.”

“What were they like in the military?” Steven asked, morbidly curious. “Marc didn’t even mention amnesia episodes. He can be right frustrating, you know.”

Slowly and carefully, Jean-Paul said, “Do you remember the manic episodes?”

“We’re bipolar?” Steven asked blankly.

“That is what I thought. I do not think I was correct.”

Wait. “Did you think Jake was a manic episode?”

“Jake?”

“The other one,” Steven said helpfully.

“Ah. Yes, I think so.” Jean-Paul paused - not as if he was uncertain, but as if he wasn’t sure how the words would be received. “I understand DID is a very difficult disorder.”

Something tugged at the back of Steven’s mind, then yanked. Steven felt himself fall backwards, and something else surged in him -

Frenchie stood in front of Marc, right in every way, wrong only in the eyes - only in the way he was looking at Marc -

Cautiously, he said, “Steven? You look dazed.”

Dazed. That was what he’d always call it. Whenever Marc zoned out and left his body, whenever Frenchie caught him wandering listlessly around camp with no memory of having even left bed - you look dazed, Marc -

“Do you ever get tired of your front row seat?” Marc asked hoarsely.

But Frenchie just smiled - a little cockily, a little kindly. “The view is quite good.”

Marc couldn’t do this. He never could, he could never do anything - but he couldn’t do this. Humiliation crushed him, Frenchie’s affection and acceptance its strange shadow. The shadow was worse than the weight. It was the shadow he couldn’t handle. He couldn’t handle this.

He turned on his heel and left, leaving Frenchie alone in the cell with no promise of rescue and no aid given, and he found himself walking faster until he turned the corner. The jackals were still huddled like a football team growling thoughtfully at each other, and they perked up when they recognized Marc. He ignored them, walking through the crowd until they leapt away.

Marc’s walk turned into a run. A drum beat rocked his head, pushing hard at his heart. The beat threw him forward, turning his run into a sprint down the winding cement halls. His desperation reached out and thought of a word, and once he thought it he just couldn’t stop.

Jake. Jake. Jake! Jake, I can’t do it again - Jake - !

Marc woke up face first in Jessica Jones’ hair clutching a bottle of Jack.

He yelped, jerking away automatically and falling off the couch with a heavy jolt. The bottle jumped out of its hands, landing on the stained wood coffee table with a heavy thump and rolling against a bulwark of beer bottles.

Marc bolted upright, ignoring his pounding head to take inventory of his surroundings. He relaxed the second he registered where he was. Heroes For Hire apartment. Morning. Luke Cage was passed out in an armchair, sawing wood. Colleen’s bra was draped across the back of a couch. Did these people do anything other than party?

Jessica flopped over, squinting blearily at him in the morning light. Cars honked outside and traffic blared, the sound cutting harshly into his throbbing head. Jessica waved a hand limply at him. She mumbled something that Marc could somehow translate into ‘what’s your problem?’.

Nothing. No problem. Not right now, not here. Marc climbed back onto the couch, pushing Jessica aside to reclaim his spot. Amazingly, they were barely even cuddling - their couch was one of those IKEA types that you could just keep adding onto, it was fucking ginormous. He left the bottle of Jack on the table, whiskey slowly sloshing in the glass. Jessica went back to sleep immediately, her warm breaths pressed against his back.

The sunlight faded into night, then nothing.

“ - and that’s why I wouldn’t fuck Mr. Fantastic unless Sue Storm was watching.”

Marc bolted upright.

“I left Frenchie in prison!” Marc cried.

“Man, what kind of weird dreams are you having?” Danny asked. Marc could hear his voice from behind the couch, accompanied by the rattle of silverware and the hefty scent of bacon. “I can interpret it for you if you want. The prison’s probably a metaphor for -”

“Your psyche,” Colleen intoned.

“That’s a bit on the nose, don’t you think?” Luke said.

Marc rolled off the couch again, slouching his way to the breakfast table and collapsing in his chair. Somebody put a bowl of cereal in front of him and began shoving it in his mouth. Everybody went back to ignoring him and resumed their conversation about the most fuckable superheroes.

“Monica Rambeau at the top,” Misty said, for what sounded like the five hundredth time. “Very top. Except my girlfriend.”

“I’m the last heir of a samurai clan, not a superhero.”

“Very top. Monica Rambeau.”

“Do you think the Avengers have these conversations about us?” Danny asked Luke. “Like, they have to, right? I don’t think they’re above it.”

“They have mimosa brunches. Man, you know they do. I don’t want to know what the hell they say about me.”

“One time Hawkeye flirted with me and I snapped his bow over my knee,” Jessica reported. “It’s about controlling the narrative, Luke.” Marc’s hand reached out and swiped bacon off her plate, cramming it into his mouth. “Watch it, asshole!”

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Luke told him, half-amused. “Who do we got today?” Marc glared at him balefully, but he held up the ASL finger sign ‘M’ anyway. “Good to see you, Marc. You’re the early bird, huh?”

“Jake was complaining about you yesterday,” Jessica told him gleefully, as if she was snitching on her classmate to the teacher for saying the b word. “He told us all about your intimacy issues. Is it true that you yearn for acceptance, yet are terrified of receiving it?”

“And why,” Marc gritted out between clenched teeth, holding his spoon at a vicious angle, “is Jake always telling you my goddamn business?”

“He likes to vent.”

“Then tell him to shut up next time.”

Misty scraped up eggs with her knife primly. “Five times a day seven days a week. Never listens.”

“Five people live in this apartment, there is no such thing as your own business,” Colleen said, dead-eyed. “I haven’t had privacy in a year.”

“It’s not that different from the monastery,” Danny said philosophically. “Smaller, though.”

“Drunker?” Misty asked.

“Not really.”

“Damn. Guess you had to do something without television.”

Marc’s grip on his spoon tightened so hard that his bones creaked. “Then you can just go tell Jake -”

Tell me yourself.

“Shut up, Jake! You can all tell Jake that next time he decides to overshare -” Hissy fit ten minutes after waking up, new record. “I wouldn’t throw a hissy fit if you stopped doing shit just to piss me off!” You are an egomaniac. “That is so rich.”

“Still weird,” Misty decreed.

“Yeah, still weird,” Colleen said.

Luke cut into his hash brown. “I’m just glad that they’re all talking again.”

“Totally glad that Jake’s back to his healthy, regular state of talking to himself,” Colleen said. “Maybe soon he’ll become normal and only serial kill on weekends.”

“I know none of you care about my personal drama,” Jake said flatly, “but would a little respect be so outta line for youse?” Jessica mumbled something around her egg. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, woman, have some self-respect.”

“Steven and I were talking about going to the zoo and looking at the sloths,” Danny said brightly. “Do you still want to do that? I want to see them so bad. All we have back home are sloth bears but I don’t think they’re the same animal.”

“Sloth bears?” Misty asked.

“They mostly eat termites and ants, really,” Steven told her, “not nearly as scary as you’re imagining. Quite adorable. But nothing really beats sloths on the cuteness factor.”

“Steven! Good to catch you. When do you want to go to the zoo?”

“Oh, boy, maybe Sunday? Do we have anything on Sunday?”

I was going to get drunk.

Same.

“Looks like Sunday’s free!” Steven paused a beat, a smile fixed on his face. “You know, fellas, I can’t help but feel as if we’ve forgotten something.”

We forget stuff incessantly, Marc said, tired. Frenchie was always dragging me out of bars I didn’t remember walking inside.

There’s an alternate explanation for that one.

See, that’s what I thought, but Frenchie never thought so.

“Frenchie!” Steven cried. He jerked onto his feet, sending his plate rattling. “We left Frenchie in prison!”

Danny reached out and patted Steven on the forearm. “It’s okay, Steven. It was just a dream. The French can’t hurt you.”

“Not if they’re in prison, anyway,” Misty said.

Luke, the only one who ever remotely was on topic, put down his fork and looked at Steven. “Who’s Frenchie? Since when do you know other people?”

“He’s my best friend,” Marc said. He scrambled away from the table, faintly registering that he was wearing Jake’s outfit. He and Steven had their own changes of clothes in the guest bedroom, he’d have to take a minute and change. They hated wearing each other’s clothing. It felt so invasive. Jake hated polyester, Marc hated wool, and Steven hated layers in non-freezing temperatures. “Damn it, what kind of friend am I!”

Jessica squinted at him, sipping her orange juice. “Wait, you have other friends? I thought we were your only friends.”

“He’s my friend, not Jake’s. You’re Jake’s friends.”

“I’m not Jake’s friend,” Misty said.

“Jake’s my friend but I don’t like him,” Colleen said.

“Jake’s my friend and I like him,” Danny said eagerly.

“No comment,” Luke said.

But Jessica just continued squinting at him - as if she could read something between their three faces, unremarkable individually but painting a clear picture together. “This is what stressed you out so bad yesterday, yeah?” Marc shoved the chair back into the table, averting his eyes. “Why don’t I come with you? Like, buffer zone?”

A part of Marc did want her to come. He didn’t know if that part was Jake or Steven or himself. He never knew where to put himself anymore, how to partition out his life into the good and bad. How to fit together Jake and Layla, how to give Steven the reins on the courthouse work, how to fit into the Heroes For Hire in a space carved for Jake yet welcoming of anybody.

It was so easy. It scared Marc.

“I can handle my own army buddy,” Marc said gruffly. He bent down and kissed Jessica on the cheek. “I’ll call.”

Marc swept out the door, ignoring Jessica calling “You better!” behind him.

#my writing #my asks #so much of the fun of the frenchie fic was marc x HFH dynamics it was so good #and frenchie himself ended up being such an interesting character. what an ass.#trivia: i wrote this THEN l2urh when i got writer's block #and frenchie's thing there was honestly just a speedrun of his arc here.#'steven's based off layla but jake's based off frenchie' was the most based decision

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nymphmia · 16 hours ago

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Hold my wedding ring in your mouth while you suck me. Let it inspire you to push yourself further than any wife would ever go. Take me deeper. Sacrifice your own comfort to show me it turns you on to be THAT girl. Not the girl who thinks it’s slutty to say “daddy” while sucking her boyfriend. Sucking your boyfriend doesn’t make you a slut, you’re supposed to suck your boyfriend. A slut sucks another woman’s man just because she can. Because it gives her a feeling of power over that other woman. Gives younger, tighter, better pussy than she ever could. Fill your mouth with married cum, stolen from another woman, and spit it all back into the palm of my hand so we can view that disrespected ring covered in cum and the spit of a young trollop. Watch how smoothly that ring slides over my finger, and with a cute smile tugging at the corners of your glazed lips, open your mouth and tilt your head up to me while I pour the remaining contents of my hand back into your warm mouth, feeding my baby bird her reward. In your softest, most feminine and sultry voice, tell me how happy it makes you to meet me like this, getting all of my cum while that dumb bitch thinks I’m working. Embrace what it really means to be a slut.

ᛝ꣑ৎ‎

Corrupting older men's marriages turns me on so damn much *//* It's so wrong but it feels so good...

I love being a dirty little secret ♡

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xxangel-eyesxx · 21 hours ago

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Sucking married men is my favorite thing to do🎀

#dumb slvt #dumb wh0re #older man younger woman #breeding k1nk #daddy’s babygirl #submisive and breedable #cheating kink #cnc free use #cnc somno #free use kink

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quintessenceofdust88 · 2 days ago

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Are you still taking requests? If so, then will you please do 46 and Bathena?

Hello anon! Sorry it took me this long to get to this, but yes, I was absolutely still taking kiss scene requests when you sent this, and it'll be my pleasure to do n. 46 (out of envy/jealousy) for Bathena. I really cracked my head bc I didn't want to do something obvious, so I chose to go with light-hearted and fluffy! If you want sth a little more possessive, like I did for Bucktommy, feel free to send me another ask and I'll write sth else, bc there can never be enough Bathena out there ♥ Anyway, I do hope you like it! ♥♥♥

Bobby Nash is a wise man; therefore, he is very well aware of the fact that he married a goddess, and not just because of her name. Athena is the most stunning woman he knows, able to look good even in her police uniform.

After six years of marriage, he's used to seeing other men pay attention to her. He has to admit that, on some level, he even likes it, because when they ogle too obviously, he wraps his hand around her waist and presses a kiss to her cheek, as if to say 'That's right, she picked me, sucker, go cry home about it'.

So, no, Bobby doesn't consider himself a particularly jealous guy, Petty, maybe, but not jealous. He's used to sharing his wife's attention.

But not with a puppy.

The thing is, it's not even their puppy, it's May's. She was feeling lonely in her apartment and decided a Shetland Sheepdog would be the perfect solution. And then promptly went on a trip with a few of her college friends and oh so sweetly asked if the two of them could dog sit. And Athena loves the furry bastard. To the point where Bobby came home from a 48-hour shift and she barely raised her eyes from him to say hello. "Hey, honey", she says distractedly, looking at him from over her shoulder before turning back to the puppy, who's wagging its ridiculous fluffy tail over her lap. "'Who's Athena's good boy? You're Athena's good boy!'" Bobby doesn't pout, thank you very much, because he is a grown man, a fire captain, and a happily married man who doesn't mind that his wife is playing with a puppy, but...

"I used to be Athena's good boy" He grumbles under his breath, and Athena turns to him fully this time, one of her eyebrows raised in an amused arc. "Excuse me?" She asks, amusement clear in her voice, and Bobby stops midway to their bedroom, his arms crossed over his chest (and he's still not pouting).

"I'm just saying" He shrugs, and Athena can't help but laugh. "I used to get more than a 'hey, honey' when I got home"

"Well, have you wagged your tail this cutely, or licked my face recently?" Athena teases, and it's Bobby's turn to raise an eyebrow.

He marches over to the couch, taking her hand and pulling her up. Then, he presses his lips against hers, kissing her deeply, his hands holding her waist firmly.

"There, how's that for a lick?" He asks, and then, just to be a bastard, does lick her face, which earns him a startled laugh and a slap on his shoulder. "You're so silly" She tells him, and Bobby smirks. The puppy barks from the couch, his tail still wagging, and it's clear he wants to join on the fun. "Nuh uh, furball, I've got the lady's attention now" Bobby tells him, and steals one more peck against Athena's lips. She rolls her eyes at him. "It's time to feed him" She tells him, and then playfully shoves him towards the bedroom. "Go change for dinner, and once he's asleep, I'll show that you're still my favorite boy in this house"

Bobby knows she's teasing, but he can't help and feel a wave of triumph. Before going to the bedroom, he presses a kiss to her smooth neck skin.

"I might just wag my tail at you if you play your cards right"

There you have it, a veeery silly jealous fic, anon! I hope you like it, but again, if you had sth totally different in mind, pls let me know! Thank you so much for the ask!

#bathena #bobby nash #athena grant #and a puppy #jealous bobby #but in the silliest way possible #fluff #sometimes i think i'm funny #kiss game #gabby writes

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maleficient · 3 days ago

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hi hii, can i get a sceanrio for reader who is hashirama's (whos out of town for whatever reason) wife with madara and tobirama who collectively decide to fuck her together and share her for the time being (maybe dubcon, like reader doesnt straight up agree but ends up sumbiting to them and lowkey enjoys it) haha sorry if its too much, hope you have a nice day

💋 dark/yandere account; and thanks, you too :), sixth post. be safe.

threesome ; mentions of cheat ; tobirama x reader x madara ; +18 ; smut ; for obvious reasons mdni

;;;

At one point, you were still sobbing pathetically as you drank the tea Tobirama had passed you to soothe your hangover.

And then… well, you don’t know how it happened.

Well, you do know the problem is that you got drunk the night before, and for some reason you told your marital problems to your brother-in-law and your husband’s friend.

You moaned, feeling your legs shaking violently.

You knew this was wrong. Very wrong. You were married; you had a husband. So why did you allow it?

You choked on your brother-in-law Tobirama’s long cock as your husband’s best friend kept pushing his thick, fat cock into your sweet spot.

“That’s it…” Tobirama gasped as he carelessly wiped your tears away with one hand and held your hair in a messy bun with the other. “It’s foolish for my brother to not treat you like this.”

Madara’s large, strong hands gripped your hips tightly as he continued to thrust into your tight, wet core. You were close to your orgasm, but guilt was still eating away at you from within. Madara, it seemed, sensed your guilty emotions because in the next moment you felt a hard spank that made you jump and moan in surprise and tighten like a tourniquet around him. “Don’t you dare feel bad when the idiot cheats on you with that woman from the Uzumaki clan.” He growled; it could easily be deduced that he was upset with you for feeling guilty, but he was actually upset with your feelings of guilt.

From his point of view, if your husband didn’t respect you, you didn’t have to respect him. Madara panted as he shifted positions carelessly so he could hit your G-spot relentlessly. You moaned at the mixed emotions, causing Tobirama to throw his head back in ecstasy at the vibrations you caused on his cock. You knew your ‘husband’ had agreed to marriage with you as an agreement.

He didn’t love you. His heart belonged to another woman. You felt suffocated in your marriage.

So you sought solace with the people closest to you at the time. But you never thought you would end up in this obscene situation.

Your body — though sore — gladly accepted the stimulations it only received once on your honeymoon. It had been three years since your wedding.

You pulled away from Tobirama’s cock with a loud sucking sound so you could lick the drool and precum-covered tip, earning a satisfied grunt from the white-haired man.

“Do you want to cum, pretty thing?” Madara asked you in an angry voice. You only managed to moan out a hoarse “yes” as you continued to suck Tobirama’s cock like a desperate whore.

You could feel Madara’s body was shaking with desire. He was holding back, you realized. Didn’t he want to hurt you?

“Shit— if you were my woman, I wouldn’t stop fucking you.”

You moaned as you felt Madara’s cock rearrange your tiny insides; your pussy tightened as you felt him push even deeper. His thrusts became harder and faster; he was pulling out almost completely, only to slam back in his long, thick length, making you gasp.

Both men were taking you to that paradise of lust and pleasure, taking you away from your pitiful reality. Your blissful orgasm was getting closer, leaving you helpless against the intense emotions and sensations he was leaving in its wake.

Tobirama growled, not wanting you to forget to please him. His hands guided your head so that his cock was buried in your throat again as Madara lowered his hand, running over the soft skin of your stomach and belly, finally burying his calloused fingers in your pussy, finding your clit with relative ease.

You nearly choked on Tobirama’s cock. The quick, merciless circling strokes around your clit had you whimpering around your brother-in-law’s cock. Your cries, muffled by the cock in your throat, were like music to the two men.

Your spine arched, your breasts brushing against the sheets as your nipples touched the fabric, adding more stimulation, your ass rising upwards as your entire world exploded in that searing pleasure. Your eyebrows furrowed in utter ecstasy as you heard Tobirama let out a loud gasp before cumming in your throat without warning, nearly choking on his thick, somewhat bitter seed.

Almost as an apology, he gently pushed you away from his still somewhat hard cock that was glistening with your drool around it. You managed to see in the midst of your pleasure how a vein throbbed as some precum oozed out. You were getting horny just by seeing that. Madara's pace became wild as he was close to his climax, making you see stars from the roughness of his movements. Not even in your wildest dreams did you think you would enjoy being treated like a sex doll.

Your pussy enjoyed the overstimulation before Madara painted your velvet walls with his white fluids. Madara growled deeply as his balls emptied deep inside you.

Madara's hand that had been masturbating your pearl slid lazily down your spine, making you sigh.

The gasps of the three of you were the only thing heard in the room. You didn't know how to feel at the end of all this.

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tankgotstuckinthecircusgate · 5 months ago

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i know that when carlo suddenly decided that he needs to marry guy made a whole list in his head n like had a deadlines n shit. like it was some kind of a task he needed to do

#whole fkin campaign. idk still not sure how it was but man was in his peacock era for sure #n it's like i need to find a wife i need to make it in 2 (or whatever) months etc etc #but its like a bg task n he didn't speak bout it w others. like he just said that he needs to marry #also idk if i mentioned this but i wrote lauretta/carlo first meet long ago n she was w her fiance #i just listened to “pretty music” again sorry. i like that uh governor or tf this character is #changes his behaviour from one woman to another so real. n that fkin “but im a lucky guy who gets to dance w u”#and “since u know what i need i'll even take your lead” <- fr like im sure lauretta screwed him for several times #just to see if he's really serious good old manipulations w men nothing new nothing superstitious #upd. he probably made a mind budget for this (i mean finding a wife)#n bout lauretta screwing carlo its like in this ukranian song Ти ж мене пiдманула ти ж мене пiдвела #but since he's a strategist he's patient (like i wanted to accent this quality sm i wrote #that carlo started thinkin bout taking moretti's place back in 1932)#anyway. “Challenge accepted” situation and idk fr for some reason when it's carlo eddie lauretta it's always bout playing #so lauretta started playing n he entered this play too. i don't even think he was exactly mad (maybe only for the 1st time)#at this point i have a clear image of how they met n their first dates (cringe word) n how he proposed #ie how it started how it ended. ending was fast i believe (deadline is approaching 🤯)#what was in between i don't exactly know but i wondered just now if he also screwed lauretta (i think yes)#bc i don't knooowwww frrr all this is so bout playing to me #but bout ending its like. boss fight (<- sex) game credits (<- marriage) ((speedrun))#also i was thinkin if he even ever met lauretta's parents (i always thought that no but idk)#can imagine lauretta calling carlo a good friend. i also hm ok #i started to write a comic like a month ago just bout falcone polycule n it starts w #carlo who says that he finally needs to get married n lauretta's mother askin (in a pushing way) why #her n her fiance still aren't married like girl tf. she jinxed it i guess #upd. carlo/lauretta is funny in my head bc right before marriage he did fell in love lauretta didn't but guy's profitable we'll take him👍#she did only after marriage i think bc it was the time when u can finally relief bc it's over #u don't need to think bout no yes no no yes yes will it work or won't etc #woman was able to fucking chill at last. she got the money sorry i mean the man #he's not runnin away let's finally look who the fuck is even this man. why he won't shut up bout astronomy can i get a divorce <- jk #but yeah “я тобi брехала” is so lauretta right after marriage to me (“i dont even know the color of ur hair”)

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chuluoyi · 8 months ago

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✎ baby to the rescue

- gojo satoru x reader

in which gojo recruits your baby son to “save” you from a credit card salesman

genre: immense fluff !! baby gojo and dad!gojo shenanigans~

note: based on this and this reel. with this i hereby declare that anything past chapter 235 is null and void HAHA anyway, i truly want to post remarried empress au by this week but since 261 leaks hurt me so much, i need more fluff so have to postpone it to next week :') tagging @karikari19hikariiii <3

a part of gojo's love entries

general masterlist

Your husband Gojo Satoru... is handsome as hell, which means your baby son is also undeniably good-looking.

"Why do you pout at me?" Satoru poked his squirming baby's cheek while pursing his lips too. "C'mon, smile! That auntie is smiling at you!"

Everyone who passed by them in Shinjuku shopping district turned heads to admire him and his pumpkin just a little longer, and Satoru visibly enjoyed the attention. He smiled back at them, occasionally winking even.

If only they knew how pretty his wife was too...

Wait, no! On second thought, if they know how hot you are, there will be problems!

You had left him to go to the nearest pharmacy to restock some things, while Satoru decided to entertain his baby in the toy section. He basked in the starry-eyed looks people were giving him... until he heard some strange sounds and turned to his baby boy—

—who was chewing the beak of a duck toy with all his might. Satoru was mortified.

"—! Let that go! Your mama will beat me if she sees you eating this!"

Your baby paid him no mind though, desperately pushing the duck into his mouth. Satoru sat him on one of the empty racks and began the tug of war—

"Let go!" he reprimanded. "You're so naughty, gods—!"

Some people were now openly giggling at both of them. His son tried to resist by rolling, and Satoru clicked his tongue. He then yanked the toy away until his baby finally let it go, sniffling sadly that his papa wouldn't let him have the duck.

"Oh, you..." he picked him up again and consoled the pumpkin. "You can't do that, you hear? First, it's not clean. Second, mama will grow two heads to chew you and me both, understand?"

No, your son totally didn't understand a thing. Satoru sighed, seeing his little blue eyes welling up with tears. He ruffled his head and pulled him close. "There, there... I'll get you ice cream, okay? Now let's go."

Satoru was determined to turn his son back into a smiling, happy baby. But just as he was about to head towards the ice cream parlor, he encountered the most unbelievable sight—

"Miss! I guarantee you'll love this credit card features!"

You. That was clearly you, and a salesman (or a bozo, in Satoru's eyes) was trying to bother you.

You raised an eyebrow. "Uh, no— thank you—"

Yet the bozo was still persistent, like the pesky fly he was. "You can use it to pay for your monthly beauty treatments! Someone as pretty as you..." He eyed you from head to toe, blinking suggestively. "Oh my! Your skin is flawless! You have to maintain it this way! I can also give you recommendations for—"

You were wearing a flare dress that made you look so young and petite, and obviously, Satoru too was lusting after you. And true, your skin was smooth like a soft serve of mochi, but still!

You are meant for him and his eyes only! Oho, this bozo would get heavenly punishment.

He had to get to you somehow, but this was public space and if he cooked up some sort of shenanigan, you would put him in sex ban. I can't have that! so Satoru wracked his brain to think of another way...

Once again, his gaze fell on his now calm baby, who was also looking at his mama over there with utter curiosity. And an idea immediately popped up in his mind.

"Hey, kiddo, look at that, a bad man is trying to take your mama," Satoru nudged him as if trying to egg him on. "We can't let that happen. Will you help me to save her, hmm?"

"Mama..." your baby looked back at him so innocently before smiling. "Mamaaa!"

"Good boy." Gods, his baby was so adorable, he almost felt bad for doing this but...

Swallowing his guilt, thinking he would make it up later, he pinched his son's butt a little too firmly—

"WAAAA!" and suddenly, the little boy burst into tears, and even Satoru was surprised by the sheer volume of his wail.

The sudden inconsolable sound of your baby sent you scrambling in panic, your eyes wildly searching for him, completely disregarding the credit card man. "My baby!"

"Eh?" the credit card man was visibly surprised. "Oh... so, you're married...?"

You immediately made your way towards Satoru and snatched your baby from him, hugging him tightly. "Oh, there, there... What happened to you?" you shot your husband a distaste look as your son kept wailing. "Satoru, why is he crying?"

He nonchalantly shrugged. "Maybe missing his mama? Dunno~"

By now, you had completely forgotten the credit card bozo, but he still looked at the three of you in mild surprise. Satoru took this chance to approach him and whisper in his ear:

"You see, my wife doesn't need your credit card," he whistled. "My cards or lumpsum money will do more than enough."

After seeing how pale the bozo looked, Satoru chuckled darkly... before leading you and your son away from the crowd, with one arm possessively around your waist.

Epilogue

"I'm sorry— I'm sorry, okay!?"

Satoru looked down at his son in utter hopelessness, as the little boy refused to be held by him, looking at him with teary, resentful eyes, and backing away from him in his playpen.

Can babies hold a grudge? Satoru didn't know, but his son definitely was not happy with him, and he couldn't think of any other explanation other than his sin against him back this afternoon.

"I've bought you mochi ice cream!" he opened his palm to reveal the treat. "Don't you want some? Papa will give you some, yeah?"

Baby looked skeptical now, and at that moment, he resembled you so much—accusing eyes, pursed lips, exactly like the expression you would pull when you were unsure of what Satoru might do next. He almost chuckled at the resemblance, feeling giddy.

"C'mon, forgive me, yeah?" he patted his son's little beanie and offered his hand for him to take, eyes crinkling in fondness. "Now, here comes your treat, come closer?"

Your baby crawled closer, seemingly accepting him, and Satoru was all smiles, until—

Whack!

It happened in a flash. He could have avoided it, but he was too taken aback. The pain exploded in his jaw, so intense that he grunted loudly.

"What the—?! You... you—! You kicked me— in the face!"

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ceilidho · 2 months ago

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Buttermilk

It doesn't take long to settle into the rhythm of your new summer job. Or: the babysitter x single dad au

Part 3 | masterlist

It’s not unusual for someone to mistake you for the baby’s mama.

How could someone not, at least for a moment? When you take the baby to the grocery store, older people gush over him babbling in his stroller, eager to shower him with compliments in baby-talk or tell you how much you resemble the little tyke. After hearing the same comment for the umpteenth time, you tire of correcting people by saying you’re the babysitter only to watch their face fall, somewhat mortified and feeling as though their comment should’ve been directed to the baby’s actual mother. Which isn’t you.

It’s less typical for someone to mistake you for John’s wife, though that does happen from time to time.

You’ve become a fixture around the neighbourhood since John hired you at the beginning of the summer, and over the weeks, the other nannies and the stay-at-home moms have started to gradually warm up to you. Before long, you’re being invited on coffee runs and playdates with some of the other women, always careful to ask for John’s permission before bringing his baby into a stranger’s house.

“Just text me the address and their names,” he requests while you stand awkwardly in front of him, John sitting on the bed to finish buttoning up his shirt and fixing his watch around his wrist. You would’ve been fine standing on the other side of the door while he finished changing, but he insisted on inviting you in.

“I will,” you promise, nodding along with his words.

“And call me if you don’t feel comfortable. I’ll come get the two of you right away if you need me.”

You swallow. Nod again.

The first time you take the baby for a playdate with a couple of the moms from the park, one catches you in the act of texting John the address of the house as he requested. “Hubby wants to know where you are, huh?”

“Oh,” you choke out, face heating up. “He’s not—”

“Not a control freak, I know. They’re all like that.” Her smile is ebullient, rolling her eyes like you’re in on a joke together when you most assuredly are not. “Why don’t you share your location with him? Mine’s the same way. Here—I’ll show you how.”

She takes your phone and tap-taps something and suddenly you see it in the notifications of your conversation with John. If you bite your lip instead of correcting her assumption about the nature of your and John’s relationship, that’s for you and you alone to know. Your rationale is that any explanation will just make things tense; it’s not like you haven’t seen it happen before.

It’s far more concerning when John doesn’t correct those assumptions. Particularly when you’re standing right next to him.

Like at the local water park on a particularly hot weekend, wading in the kiddy pool with the baby nestled tight against your chest in his little swim trunks and floppy hat only for an employee to ask John if his wife would like something to drink.

“Iced coffee, love?” John asks, taking your stupefied silence as a yes. “Nothing for me, mate. Cheers.”

Your head spins like a top on that thought until a good while later. The server hands you a glass of iced coffee with condensation already dripping down the sides and John thanks him for you, taking the baby from you and pulling you to his side. You drink your coffee quietly with your thigh flush with his under the water, gripping the glass harder when his free hand squeezes around your waist, laughing at something another parent said to him.

It’s so over for you. There’s no coming back from this.

The sight of someone of John’s size, a bulky, military man with arms of pure steel dusted with dark hairs, cradling a tiny, chubby baby with a thatch of similar dark hair on his head and big cheeks and roly poly arms unlocks something primal in you. An old, buried need.

In the family changing room, you stand under an ice cold shower until it breaks the fever slowly consuming you. All you can do is hope it takes.

In the evening, you sit out on the porch with John at the back of the house until the crickets swell with song, the moon a half-crescent in the sky. A cool breeze makes your shoulders lift a little, huddling into your body to keep warm.

It’s hard to keep your eyes on the view in front of you and off the man sitting beside you when they want so badly to be running over him. He’s changed out of his work clothes into a soft pair of sweatpants and an old threadbare shirt, the sage green fabric faded after years of being run through the washing machine. It clings to his biceps and the soft pudge of his stomach, a layer of fat over the hard muscle beneath.

A cigarette dangles from his fingers, thick wrist perched on the arm of the adirondack chair. Every so often he lifts it to his lips for a puff, always breathing out in the opposite direction from you. Considerate of your health, at least, if not his own.

“Cold, sweetheart?” he asks before ashing his cigarette, and your bottom lip purses when you turn your head to look at him because you thought you were doing a good job suppressing your shivers.

You stare at him, confused. He cocks an eyebrow at your questioning stare and deliberately glances down, waiting until you notice the way your nipples are protruding through your white tank top. You forgot that you’d taken your bra off earlier for a bit of relief and hadn’t yet had a chance to put it back on.

“Oh my god,” you squeak, crossing your arms to hide as much as possible, humiliation flooding through you. “I’m so sorry—that’s so—I-I’m so sorry.”

John makes a rough sound when he rises to his feet, knees cracking as he does. “S’alright, hun. Lemme get you something to put on.”

The screen door creaks when he goes back inside briefly to fetch something only to come back a few seconds later with a big, cotton sweater that reeks of him. It looks well loved, some remnant of his younger years, and even from a distance, you can smell the distinct smoky aroma clinging to the fabric.

When he kneels in front of you, you nearly go cross-eyed at the realisation that even on his knees, he’s as tall as you. The bulk of his waist forces your legs to spread around him.

“C’mon, arms up,” John commands, barely waiting until you’ve raised your arms above your head before helping guide your head and arms into the right holes.

Dragging the sweater down the way he does forces it to rub over your nipples, sending a shock through you. If you had any less self-control, your teeth might actually chatter together.

“There we go,” he says, fluffing out the sweater around your waist before resting his hands on the tops of your thighs, the gesture coming so naturally to him that you doubt he’s even noticed the placement of his hands. “Much better. That’ll warm you up.”

He isn't wrong. You’ve already worked up a sweat.

Late night rain.

It comes down in buckets, a dark slate rapping hard against the window pane. A bolt of lightning flickers across the horizon off in the distance. White striations across an otherwise dark sky. About thirty seconds later, thunder rumbles.

You peek from between the blinds, chewing your lip nervously. You’ve never driven in rain this bad, but with supper done and the dishes washed, there’s no excuse for you to stay any longer. Still, the rain comes down so heavily that despite your timidity, you briefly contemplate asking John if you can stay a little longer. At least until it lets up a bit; until your headlights won’t blind you reflecting off the puddles on the drive home.

Someone else pulls the blinds further apart.

“There’s no way in hell you’re going out in that,” John says from behind you, practically growling his words. Daring you to contradict him.

You glance over your shoulder to find him right there at your back, staring out the window. He’s so close that you can smell the red sauce on his flannel from dinner and make out the flecks of grey in his beard that are almost masked by the darker hairs.

“It’s not…that bad…”

“Sweetheart, don’t piss me off,” he warns.

The blinds shuttle back together with a clatter when you finally let go of them.

“I could—I could take the couch,” you offer.

“Sweetheart,” John sighs, looking down at you meaningfully.

“What?” you ask, confused.

“I’m not gonna take the big, comfy bed and leave you with the couch.” When you open your mouth to protest, he cuts you off. “And don’t even try arguing. I won’t hear it.”

There’s not much you can say to dissuade him after that. The furrow of his brow lets you know he’s made up his mind; no ifs, ands, or buts. Besides, there’s a not-so-secret part of you that’s relieved that you don’t have to drive home in this weather. You’re an average driver on a good day. You don’t need your last moments before shuffling off this mortal coil to involve hydroplaning on the highway before ramming into the guardrail.

John gives you a shirt of his to change into for after your shower, which you spend far too long in, scrubbing your body with his shower gel and quivering under the warm water. When you pull it on, you bring the collar up to your nose to smell. The same patent smoky scent, musky like ambergris and leather. Intoxicating. It makes the blood rush through your ear like a conch shell, the ocean swirling behind your eardrum.

You hadn’t asked for underwear, content at first to keep on the same pair, but after your shower, you cringe at the thought of putting your day-old panties back on. Besides, his shirt is long enough to cover anything indecent.

He sits on the edge of the bed when you come out, the concern on his brow melting away at the sight of you.

“Practically a dress on you, isn’t it?” John says, voice a little wondrous. His eyes drag over you, tip to toe.

You fiddle with the ends of it. “…Are you sure you want me to take the bed?”

“Wouldn’t be fair. It’s yours for the night.” His lips quirk up at the corners when you frown. “Don’t worry about me—I’ve slept in worse places before.”

“Like where?” you ask dubiously.

“Tents. Abandoned buildings. Shacks. In the back of a moving van a few times. You wouldn’t believe half the places we used to make camp. Definitely no place for pretty girls like you.”

His condescending tone vaguely annoys you, but it’s hard to dig into your irritation when he thumbs the edge of the shirt you’re wearing and you realise that he’s just a few raised inches away from noticing that you don’t have any panties on. You should’ve just put your old ones back on, but it’s far too late now.

You clear your throat instead. “We could…um…we could share.”

You don’t know what possesses you to offer to share the bed, but the words are already gone, out of your mouth and in the air. John cocks an eyebrow.

“Unless you don’t want to,” you amend.

“Don’t know about that, sweetheart,” he rasps. “…I snore like a bear.”

“That’s okay. I’m a pretty deep sleeper.”

John scrutinises you a bit longer, looking for any sign of hesitancy. You know he’d squash your offer in a second if he found any wariness in your gaze.

“Alright,” he finally concedes, letting go of your shirt and slapping his thighs. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you when you wake up and can’t fall back asleep because of my snoring.”

After his shower, during which you lie on your side facing away from the bathroom door, stomach fraught with nerves as you consider the fact that he’s naked in the ensuite, you hear him come out and rummage around in the dresser for a change of clothes. You lie beside him with your stomach twisted in knots, your hands shoved under the pillow and staring resolutely at the wall.

The appropriateness of sleeping in the same bed beside your boss isn't lost on you, but you're too far into this now.

The bed dips when he settles onto the other side, and the sudden absence of light when he switches the bedside lamp off nearly makes you cheep.

He breathes heavily, you notice, particularly when he finally falls asleep. It’s a deep, rumbling sound—not entirely unlike a bear, though you can’t really confirm that for certain seeing as how you’ve never slept beside a bear before.

Those are the thoughts that would signal the approach of sleep if you weren’t soon to be engulfed by it.

Sometime in the middle of the night, you wake up to a rough hand stroking your back leisurely. There’s a hard chest under you, your cheek propped up on a pillowy pec that rises and falls with his breaths. Sleep bobs around in you like a toulouse decanter. You struggle to keep an eye open, certain that there’s something you need to tend to, but then his hand slides down your back again to curve over your rump and sleep drags you back down.

You wake up again to your breath wafting back into your mouth, your face shoved into the crook of a man’s neck. Humid, hot. You’re lipping at the skin of his neck, little tongue darting out to lap up a bead of sweat, salty on your tongue.

Your cunt pulses against his leg, toes curling when John drags his hand up your thigh and hitches it higher up around his waist.

“Baby?” he groans, his voice still rusty from sleep. The sound is a rough burr up your spine.

“Sorry,” you whisper. “Couldn’ get comfy.”

“You hot?” he asks.

The denial on the tip of your tongue slips back down your throat when he plants his foot on the bed and draws his leg up, pressing the meat of his thigh into your throbbing sex.

“Here, lemme help you—” he groans, reaching down to ruck up your shirt, dragging it up over your breasts and helping manoeuvre your arms out of the holes. It gets tossed off the bed onto the floor.

Now your breasts are flat on his chest, smushed against his ribcage. It registers somewhere in the back of your head as inappropriate, but sleep pushes that thought away, focusing instead on the discomfort of moving around when you just want to settle back down and go back to bed.

It must be the heat making you act this way.

“Shit—sorry, sweetheart,” he apologizes, shifting under you. “M’hot too.”

He plants a hand on your ass and heaves you up his chest, giving him enough room to wiggle out of his boxers. It pushes your breasts right into his face, your nipples mere inches from his mouth. When his tongue pokes out to wet his upper lip, it nicks your pebbled nipple.

A hard length presses against your butt when you’re slid back down, the tip wet when it catches against your skin.

“Jus’ ignore it, sweetie,” John mumbles, petting a hand down your back.

You lie like that for a while, splayed over his body. Want simmering just under your skin. Flustered and exhausted all at once, sleep-drained; not a drop of strength in your muscles.

The heat is just—

Scorching. Dizzying. You feel featherbrained, slipping in and out of sleep, biting off the whimpers that threaten to crawl up your throat when John tucks his hands into the crevice of your thighs to wrench them apart, spreading them around his hips again.

Distantly, you remember that the man under you is at least twenty years your senior. Your employer at that. A man now palming your butt, sinking his fingers into the flesh and rumbling low in his throat.

It’s wrong—flagrantly wrong. You know that you should say something, that you should get up and tell him that you’re going to sleep on the couch instead. But your tongue is too thick for your mouth. And your thoughts are a sticky paste. The pulse between your thighs empties out all the common sense from your head.

His palms are slick on your skin.

Your breathing grows shallow when a hard length suddenly pushes between your thighs as well.

When the mushroomed head nudges at your opening, you flinch, heart thumping ferociously against your chest.

“John—John—” you breathe, panicked. As if to warn him. As if he weren’t planting both feet on the bed and lifting his hips.

As if it wasn’t his hands, warm on your waist, dragging you down onto the shaft spearing into you.

Your blood is molten hot in your veins. Sticky hands and sticky fingers curl into his chest hair. Your head thumps against his pecs, too weak to hold it up, lipping at the damp skin of his chest.

“It hurts—” you bleat, tears pricking at the backs of your eyes.

“I know, baby, I know,” John pants. He draws his hips back just to press forward again, deeper this time. Filling you up more than before. “I’m sorry, baby—I can’t, it’s just…too good. Shit.”

Resolve in tatters. Shattered like his willpower, like his determination not to fuck the girl twenty years his junior sleeping beside him in his bed.

His hips pump up into yours, bouncing you in his lap. Each thrust plunging his cock deeper into your pussy. It’d be painful if you weren’t so wet, but you’re dripping, arousal making you leak around his shaft and slickening his way.

Sleep still rattles around in your brain, but not even the fog of sleep can shake the ever intensifying realisation that you’re fucking your boss. No two ways around it—breasts naked against his hirsute chest; pussy wet and stuffed to the hilt with a big dick. Knocked senseless by it.

The veins of his cock drag over the viscid walls of your cunt with every thrust. He must like the involuntary noises you make because he loses his rhythm when you cry out, growling out a string of unintelligible curses. His body feels bigger like this somehow, biceps and forearms bulging where they’re wrapped around your waist, hips forcing your legs to spread wide around him, the ache sinking deep into your muscle, into your bones.

When you look up at him, his eyes are more hooded than usual, the blue of his irises so dark that they’re almost black.

“Such a good girl,” he grunts, big arms like steel bands around your waist, holding you tight to his chest so you have nowhere to run. “Jus’ let…jus’ let daddy come and—oh Christ, fuck, fuck…—jus’ lemme come and we’ll go back to bed, okay, sweetie?”

“I’m gonna…” you pant, trailing off when he gets a little rough, pumping harder up into you. The sound of your pussy squelching around his length makes your eyes roll back, mouth hanging open.

“Yeah, yeah, you—you come too, baby. Jus’ need to take the edge off, both of us.”

You squeal when he reaches a hand down to dig his fingers into your butt cheek and it makes you tense up, walls tightening around his dick. One well-placed swat hard enough to make the flesh of your ass jiggle and you come, clenching up so tight that his next few thrusts are slowed by your spasming walls, forcing him to really cram his cock into your hole.

“Christ, that’s cute,” John growls, his pupils blown out.

It hurts to come that hard; makes your belly cramp up and everything. Whatever gibberish spills from your mouth gets lost in the aftermath.

That’s when the temperature goes from hot to blistering. The muscles of his thighs tense, straining with his impending release. Even his grip around your waist gets tighter, his self-control steamrolled under his approaching climax, oblivious to the way you squeal and squirm when it threads the delicate needle of being too much.

“Sorry, baby,” he apologises, voice treading gravel. “M’gonna mess your pussy up a bit—”

“Wait—wait—” you gasp, trying fruitlessly to lift yourself up, his arms keeping you pinned tight to his chest. “You’re gonna—John, you’re gonna come inside me—”

His hips thrust up hard at your words, one last rough pump that has him digging his heels into the mattress and clenching his jaw, the veins in his neck protruding. You feel it flood inside you, hot spurts of cum right up against your womb. He curses when he comes, eyelids sliding shut, lost in the sensation of emptying himself into you.

A few last, punishing thrusts that make your teeth clack together. More heat spurting into you. A murmured oh fuck before his legs slide back down the bed, spreading out over the mattress.

The blanket is somewhere at the foot of the bed, all scrunched up and nearly dangling off the edge. You only start to shiver when the sweat on your back finally begins to cool.

When he pulls you off his cock, you whimper, a hot flash snaking through you. Oh Christ did he plug you up good. Stringy, viscous cum leaks from your hole, leaving a little puddle on his thigh when you slide off his chest and to the side a bit.

“Oh baby,” he tuts softly, reaching between your legs to feel where you’re wet and a little swollen. “Sorry, sweetheart…wanna get cleaned up?”

“No…” you rasp, so dazed that you can’t even lift your cheek off his chest.

Exhaustion has never ridden you this hard before, but considering the circumstances…—perhaps you’re lucky to be conscious at all, is all you mean. There’s not a chance of you having enough energy to do anything as rigorous as showering though.

“Okay, baby. Little kiss?” John asks in a murmur, lifting your head up by your chin and swooping down for a kiss. Not even giving you enough time to process his words before his mouth is on yours.

His lips glide slick against yours, tongue slipping into your mouth like he needs a good, deep kiss to ground him. A wet twisting of tongues; a thick finger stroking up your neck. He can’t stop touching you. Running a hand up your spine and curving it back down over your ass. Featherlight touches meant to calm you down. His kisses grow sticky, lingering; each one almost the last until he pulls you in for another.

“Go back to sleep, okay?” John says, still speaking low enough to push you back under. He smooths his hand down your back again.

You fall back asleep with a load in your belly and your head in a tizzy. The you of tomorrow is going to have a lot to contend with from the you of tonight.

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