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tonycries · 5 months ago

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The Way You Kiss Me - G.S.

Synopsis. The four times Satoru tries really hard not to kiss you - his best friend’s pretty younger sister. And the one time he doesn’t.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! Suguru’s sister! reader, childhood enemies to lovers, PINING Satoru, like really really disgustingly down bad, creampíe, oral (fem receiving), pússytalking, needy JEALOUS! Satoru, running away from it, spítting, punching is Suguru’s love language, mentions of aIcohol, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 7.4k (That’s wild)

A/N. BOO! Surprise upload. This was so fun to write omg.

“You sure this is how the grown-ups get married?”

“Duh, I know everything.”

“Nuh uh, Toru.”

“Yuh uh!”

The first time Gojo Satoru kissed you was underneath that dingy playground slide that the two of you always raced to after elementary school.

Usually, your older brother, Suguru, would walk home alongside you two - but this time, he’d just so happened to have been held back for throwing paper planes at the teacher that day.

A sign from the universe, Satoru internally celebrated, something he’d learned from those sappy romance novels his mother left lying around the house. No matter that he was the one that made those planes.

You were six back then, standing in front of a determined Satoru - reaching up on his tip-toes, face pink, smelling of those cheap strawberry lollipops he’d sneak into class and taunt you with. At the much older and wiser age of seven, he’d insisted on being the first one to lean in.

Just barely even grazing your dramatically puckered lips before-

Satoru learned two things that fateful afternoon:

Even as a seven-year-old, Suguru’s punches really hurt.

Never mess with you. Anyone but you.

Life only seemed to go downhill from there - because that last lesson was proving to be hard along the years. Really. Fucking. Hard.

Little did Satoru know that this would be the start of some strange, unpredictable little dance of push and pull. No, you definitely weren’t his wife. Nor were you exactly best friends - not really, that spot was reserved for your brother. But you didn’t think you could ever be just that either.

And the punch that’d knocked his wobbly tooth out onto the playground floor that day was a painful reminder that whatever that was - whatever weird thoughts he had later in middle school about how you’d tasted like candy - didn’t matter. No matter how part some tucked-away little part of him wanted it to.

Hell, eleven years later and Satoru still can’t walk around that familiar block without feeling slightly queasy. Which is why, after that failed first kiss, he knew there wouldn’t be a second.

Instead, he settles back to teasing your pouty self, pushing all your buttons, tugging on those cute dresses you wore. Face burning so strangely with- humiliation? when you bickered right back, calling his haircut a “tragic attempt at modern art.”

“So you’re saying I look like art?” A gangly, now-seventeen Satoru blocks the bustling high school hallway, ignoring the bell. Grin only growing at your frustrated huff, he half-jokes, “Aww, if you’re that soft on me, sweetheart, maybe we should go to prom tog-”

You slam your locker, effectively shutting both it and Satoru at the same time. “I’d rather go with Yaga.”

“...you would not.”

“Would to.”

“Would not.”

“Would to.”

“Would- Sugu–!”

And all Suguru can do is wrap two hands around his neck, mock-choking himself, wondering if it was really too late to embrace a quiet life as a monk. “You’ll both be MLA cited in my farewell note.”

He was used to it, though, forced to watch all this chaos since quickly mending his friendship with Satoru over ice cream the day after the punch. Convinced that this was some punishment for a past life’s misdeed.

With a squawk of protest, Satoru’s turning back to you, eyes crinkling with a hint of mischief you knew too well, “Would not.”

Your face burns, “Would to, Toru.”

You didn’t go with Yaga. but Satoru didn’t exactly count that as a win in his books, either, because you did show up that night hanging off the arm of some jerk from the football team.

And there you were, all dolled up - which he very objectively noted - way too prettily for some bastard like him. Stars in your eyes, and everything he couldn’t have in that smile.

Everything.

Way too gorgeous, even when he finds you sitting outside the gymnasium later on in the night. Too busy bawling your mascara off to even throw out your usual greeting insult his way. Murmuring out wetly about “that asshole” and how he humiliated you by stranding you in the middle of the dance floor for someone else.

“Well, he was a jerk anyway. Even Yaga would’ve been better, hell, I-” Satoru stops short to his horror at the way you only cry harder.

Way too irresistible, especially as his body moves before his mind - holding out an open hand before he knows it. “I’m a much better dancer than him and you.” And oh Satoru will forever remember the way his heart lurches as you blink your teary eyes up in confusion, “Well, aren’t ya gonna take up the challenge?”

Weirdly, it wasn’t weird at all.

If anything, you had to hold back your laughter the entire time at the way the great “campus sweetheart” Gojo Satoru was so on edge.

Just a friend comforting a friend, right?

So why was he avoiding your gaze with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, summer blue eyes pointedly trained right over your head. That pretty pink blush dusting his cheeks reflecting the hands hovering in midair over your waist. So close - and yet, fear in each and every turn and swirl.

Yours were searing into his broad shoulders as you tried to guide him to the muffled music from inside. And shit.

That night ended with a second kiss.

You don’t know who leaned in first, just that Satoru’s soft lips were just fleeting on your glossy ones - barely even a touch. And that shit shit shit- this was Satoru. This was you.

Everything.

But it seems that every time Satoru was about to kiss you dangerously close to the way some tiny, forbidden part of his heart wanted to - the universe throws an obstacle at him. An obstacle that was six feet and named “Suguru”, currently running at break-neck speed out of the gym.

“MOVE YOUR ASSES!” he cackles, “THE FOOTBALL TEAM ISN’T TOO HAPPY ABOUT ME BREAKING THEIR STAR PLAYER’S NOSE.”

And not a word is uttered about the kiss as the three of you speed out of the school parking lot in Suguru’s busted-up black hellcat, the wind mussing up the hairstyle that took Satoru over two hours to perfect. Sneaking in glances at the sight of you singing along at the top of your lungs to some overplayed pop song on the radio.

He learns another two things that night:

Apparently, Suguru’s right hook still really fucking hurt. And thank god for tonight’s casualties of noses, because it was a wonder that he didn’t look too hard at how close Satoru was with you.

He didn’t…dislike the feeling of your lips on his. And judging by the way you meet his eyes in the rearview mirror - you didn’t either.

It’s mainly that last one that makes him gulp.

Neither of you remember the third kiss - though, Satoru’s sure that at least 80% of Shoko’s instagram followers did.

According to a very hungover Shoko, and the many, many forms of documentation, it had happened on the New Year’s eve during your third year in university. In which you were much more used to the raging parties that would be hosted at Suguru’s apartment, and only slightly less intimidated by them.

“And you’re a lightweight too, dumbass. You were gone.” Shoko sighs from across the café table, eye bags deeper than the last time he’d seen her. “Like gone gone.”

God, what a way to start the year.

Satoru bites back a remark about how “gone” Shoko herself had been. Sitting up straight in his seat, regret immediately hitting his senses faster than the guilty throbbing at his temples. He winces, managing out a semi-disbelieving groan of, “Gone gone?”

And she’s only nodding wearily, subconsciously tapping out the rest of her cigarette ashes onto his untouched plate of sweet pastries.

“I’m talking dancing on expensive coffee tables and fighting to stop you from giving everyone there a strip show.” She cracks a smirk through a waft of smoke, “Though, she would’ve loved that I’m sure.”

“Har har har, you’d make even Nanami laugh with that one.”

“Eugh, gross.” Shoko taps through her phone briefly, swirling it around to show Satoru a few pictures that definitely gave him a mini-heart attack at 8:57 in the morning. “You look like you’re about to pen really bad poetry.”

And perhaps this was Shoko’s plan all along - to shock Satoru to the core hard enough that she can note it down as one of her sketchy psychological experiments.

But he knew. Could feel it in the hazy fragments of memories - or, at the very least, in that entire highlight that Nanamin had oh-so-conveniently put up on Instagram titled, “Blackmail.”

You knew.

You’d kissed him back.

“I don’t have a-.” you slur, stumbling ever-so-slightly as you try to meet Satoru’s glassy eyes. Because shit the years have had him shooting up faster than you could look up. “-a New Year’s kiss, y’know.”

You were older - more gorgeous, if that was even possible now. That tight dress hugging your body so unfairly in a way that had him forgetting you were his best friend’s sister.

The one person in this whole world that he couldn’t have.

But Satoru leans in closer, more because he wants to than anything - he could pick out your voice anywhere let alone over the thumping music currently filling his crowded living room. Lips loose as he tries to play up the cool-guy facade he’s been dubbed with since freshman year, “Hah, loser. Because I do.”

“Where?”

At this, Satoru is stumped - damn, you were good.

“Not- uh here?” If he was in any clearer state of mind, he’d have been embarrassed at the way his voice cracks so traitorously as your unsteady hands pull him in closer by his overpriced button-up.

Your body was flush against his now, so addictive. Gaze half-lidded and flickering between the sliver of milky skin exposed on his chest - from that impromptu striptease he’d almost started earlier - and the blue eyes that were currently locked you. You whisper a strained, “Liar.”

Close - too close. So dangerously close.

He breathes out against your lips, the smell of booze and you so heady in his mind. And the heavy words falling from his lips sound like lies, even to him. “Not.”

“Toru?” you hum, a sound that has him gasping. “Shut up.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And there went your New Year’s kisses. At exactly 11:37PM, if the photos were anything to go by.

And holy shit were there many. All of which showed your arms looped around Satoru’s neck, crashing his lips to yours. His own, resting against your waist, a scandalously red blush - whether from the alcohol or you - adorning his cheeks. Looking more blissed out than he ever remembers feeling.

“I’m a dead man, Shoko.”

There’s a lengthy silence, leaving Satoru stewing in thoughts of how Suguru would react once he finds out. And whether or not he’d be able to rise from the dead just to see how pretty you’d look at his funeral.

Morbid thoughts broken only by Shoko’s cough, “Hey, can I keep your eyes for experimentation if he actually catches you?”

Subtly, he sends himself those photos from last night.

Luckily for Satoru’s eyes, they never ended up being donated towards Shoko’s questionable contributions to the world of medicine.

And by some grace of the gods above, Suguru never mentioned a word about the kiss that would’ve inevitably made its way to him. Or maybe it was because Satoru stole his phone until he managed to pester Nanami just enough to take down that highlight. But, semantics.

His heart, however, might as well have been part of some experiment.

Because it’s been working overdrive since that night - mind reliving that moment over and over and over and- shit, he’s fucked. So, so fucked.

Fucked enough that it took Satoru months just to muster up to even look in your pretty eyes once more, unless he wanted to get lost in them forever. Fucked enough that he dared to wonder again and again when there might be a fourth kiss - if there would be a fourth kiss.

He just never thought it would happen the way it did - with you, standing outside his front door.

“I’m sorry, Toru.” you mumble, “It’s just- I think we both need to grow up.”

You’ve freshly graduated now, looking more and more irresistible each time he sees you - even when you’re looking at him like that.

Rolling his eyes, “Ha, is this another way of saying you want my secret to getting taller? Because the first thing is to-”

“I’m serious, Satoru.”

And oh how he wished you’d say something - anything - else right now. Call him anything but that. Maybe even throw an insult his way, tell him those new sunglasses look ugly, or about how you got that internship he would’ve died for.

Satoru manages to choke out a heavy, “I don’t understand.” But that uncomfortable coil of something curling at the pit of his stomach said otherwise. And it causes him to finally breathe out a hesitant, “Maybe you’re right.”

As if that was all the answer you needed, you’re stepping out of the front door. Slow, and deliberate like you were giving him another chance - a thousand more. Sighing out a defeated, “It’s been years.” It has. “And we’re just running in circles.” You have. “I’m starting to think this is just some game to you.” It wasn’t.

“Wait!” he grasps your hand - soft. The look in your eyes even softer as you turn around to face his desperate face. “Please, sweetheart.”

Satoru doesn’t even know what words he wants to say - let alone whether they’d come out of his heavy mouth.

So, instead, he’s crashing them into yours.

Brief. Fleeting. Like each one before this. Too addictive, too short, that he thinks he’s almost imagining it as you pull away gently, until he sees that look in your eyes.

“Toru, I have a date.”

The fourth kiss.

Satoru’s letting go of you like it burned - and, truly, it felt like some deep, dark part of him was burning down right now. “Great.” That should be hm that should be him that should be- “I’m…happy for you.”

And the last.

He fucked up.

He really, really fucked up.

That first date turned into a second. The second into a third. And unfortunately for Gojo, eventually, you were nearing your one-year anniversary with that asshat you’d met during the early days of your internship.

He’d seen the man himself once, briefly at another one of Suguru’s famous parties. Ducking out of sight before he could be introduced, yet long enough to know that he wasn’t as tall, or as handsome, or as absolutely fucking hilarious.

What did he have that Satoru didn’t?

The answer to that, Satoru’s reminded of every time he’s causing ruckus over at Suguru’s apartment, and sees you walking out of your room, tittering on the phone to none other than your boyfriend. So gorgeous. So not his.

You, that loser had you.

“If you sigh again I swear I’m shoving this popcorn up your a-”

“It’s a sad movie, Suguru!” he defends, draped across your couch at another one of those movie nights you loved to organize. As usual, there was the popcorn, the god-awful movie (if Satoru picks it), and the arguments. The only thing missing, however, was you. Ugh, something about an “anniversary” and a “seafood date”. Seriously, it’s not like you even enjoyed that new seafood restaurant in town, and he’s sure that bastard didn’t know-

“Satoru.” his best friend’s deadpan voice cuts through his little reverie. “We’re watching Mean Girls.”

And he’s barely even opening his mouth to snark back before-

SLAM!

Suguru pauses the movie almost immediately, turning to the direction of the front door. “Uh oh.”

And lo and behold - there was you in all your pissed off, beautiful glory. Throwing your keys on the table, your fiery glare passes over the two men as you stomp to your bedroom.

“Seafood wasn’t that good, sweetheart?” Satoru calls out behind you, eyes sweeping down your figure. Heart stuttering in his chest when you turn around with your fists clenched, lower lip wobbling in a way that Satoru would both kill whoever made you feel this way and die to be on the other side of those daggers in your eye.

Sniffing out an icy, “Fuck off, loser and loserette.”

Then in a whirlwind of rage, you’re gone - your bedroom door slamming only slightly more gently than you’d done with the front door. Leaving a deafening silence, and Satoru whining, “Why am I the loserette?”

“Deserved.” Suguru shrugs. Warily eyeing your door, as if it was about to pounce at any given second, “Let her cool down before you give her an aneurysm at least.” Unpausing the television, propping his feet back up, “S’enough having to deal with you on top of a boyfriend like that.”

And that has Satoru perking up in interest - both figuratively, and literally as he snatches the remote and pauses the movie. “Wait wait wait what-” Holding it way out of Suguru’s reach, “What do you mean a ‘boyfriend like that’?”

Scoffing, “Funny. Now give me back the remote.”

A beat of silence passes. One. Two.

Only then does it dawn on Suguru that this might just not be some strange prank to stroke Satoru’s ego, and he was actually more serious than he’d ever seen him. Damn.

“Bro, have you really never met the guy or something? He’s a complete tool. I don’t know what happened, but this breakup was a long time coming.”

Satoru blinks, feeling a red hot surge of anger. “What? Seriously? Why didn’t you do anything about it?”

“You think I didn’t try?” he sighs, running a hand through his hair at the other’s uncharacteristic silence. “Hah, and just imagine, the man was talking about marriage, too. As if.”

And suddenly, Satoru’s hit with an image of you walking down the aisle. Not something he was a stranger to, but it still takes him aback. The sway of the fabric beneath his fingers, your lips against his. Hell, in that split-second he even dreams up how Nanamin would be crying very reluctant tears of joy.

Everything. Everything that wasn’t his.

His fist tightens around the remote, until he could hear the cracking of plastic. Mind whirling with the thought of you and him and you. How he wished it was him and you. “I would’ve been better.”

Oh.

Shit.

“I- fuck this. Suguru, since elementary school I…”

And, well, Satoru’s so busy putting that extra physics seminar he took in university to work - trying to calculate the odds of surviving a jump out of this seven-storey window - that he almost misses Suguru’s low hum, a distant, almost barely-audible little interruption, “Well duh.”

“Hold on.” he’s snatching away the remote that had somehow slithered its way into the other’s hands once again. Ignoring his best friend’s croak of protests to pause in the middle of Regina George being hit by the bus - which, he felt was strangely enviable right now. “That was- what? YOU KNOW?”

“Huh? Even my parents know, the only one that doesn’t is her.”

“...”

Satoru didn’t know how Suguru seemed so calm, but he felt like he was about to spontaneously combust. Heart stuttering in his chest as he sideglances at your firmly shut door - like he was just waiting for you to jump out and tell him this was some elaborate prank.

Begging for you to come - it would’ve hurt less.

But you don’t.

Fuck.

And the only response he gets is a low whistle, before a phone is being shoved in his face - flashlight illuminating that crimson blush. “Damn, the great Gojo Satoru speechless? The groupchat is gonna love this, might even send it to my sister, y’know.”

He didn’t care - didn’t give a shit if this video made rounds to Gakuganji himself. Only one thought racing through his mind right now.

“But why aren’t you punching me like in elementary school?”

And Satoru knows he’s smart - intelligent even. Hell, he was the valedictorian, the youngest employee to claw their way up to being on the board of directors. But he’s never felt more stupid when Suguru breathes out a bewildered, “Dude. That was for blaming me for the paper planes.”

“Oh.”

Then the movie is unpaused.

---

The last time you kissed Gojo Satoru was at the doorstep to that overpriced penthouse of his, exactly a year ago today.

The last time you saw Gojo Satoru was just a few hours ago, lounging around your living room like he owned it. Honestly, he might as well have been part of the furniture at this point - like some expensive, fluffy couch. One that prattled on about your “dumbass boyfriend” and god-knows-what else to rile you up just for the fun of it.

Which is why it was odd to step out of your bedroom - eyes just a bit puffy, throat still tight - to a suspiciously quiet hallway.

The lights were turned off, nothing but the pouring rain sounding from outside, television paused on some rerun of The Princess Diaries. Damn, you told those idiots not to start that one without you.

“Sugu?” you call, finding his bedroom empty. “Thought tonight was movie night?” Padding across the empty apartment, contemplating whether or not to get your phone and call him when-

Ding!

Ah, there.

You roll your eyes as you head towards the front door, ready to give Suguru a piece of his mind for going out at this ungodly hour and forgetting his key. Seriously, what if you opened the door and he was hurt, or worse, or…

Satoru.

Speaking a mile a minute.

Satoru.

“-florist was closed and the store clerk looked at me like I was crazy but I got this for-” he pauses abruptly, as if realizing something with a jolt. “-you.”

“You- what-” you don’t know where to look - at the drenched, disheveled Satoru filling your doorframe - rain in his hair, curtaining his frantic eyes, drenching his snug t-shirt. Or at the obscenely large bouquet of cheap strawberry lollipops being placed gently into your arms.

What follows was an electric silence - and you have half the mind to tease Satoru for finally shutting the fuck up for once in his life.

But, no. Instead, you eye the way he stands stubbornly at the doorway, fists clenched, blue eyes locked so intensely on yours that it was like they burned.

Face flushed a familiar pretty pink that makes you realize that shit, he might be taller, voice deeper, broad shoulders tight against his t-shirt - but this was still the same boy that cried when you stole his favorite Digimon card in middle school. The same one that kissed you underneath a dingy slide, smelling of strawberry lollipops.

It’s the steady tap! tap! tap! of the water droplets from his hair that have you tearing your traitorous eyes from his see-through white t-shirt.

Guess you’ve both done some growing up since then.

“You loser.”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

The pink wrapping of the bouquet rustles as your grip tightens. “He proposed to me today, y’know.” and yet, your quiet, even voice was the only thing ringing in Satoru’s ears. He jolts, as if some visceral, primal part of himself had been poked awake. Breathing heavy, fists clenching until he could feel the neat indents of his fingernails on his palm. Of course. He’s late. He’s late he’s late he’s late-

That is, until you’re plowing on, “I said no.”

“Huh?”

You think back to the stuffy restaurant, the man sitting from across from you - how wrong it felt. And all it took were those four words for you to realize that. “I said no.”

Satoru snaps his head up, stepping close - so close. Voice strained like he wasn’t asking - begging. Praying, “Why?”

“We…” you raise a brow at the way Satoru flinches as you trail off. So desperate. A smirk makes its way onto your face, “...we haven’t divorced yet, right?”

And then you’re kissing him - or maybe he’s kissing you.

Fuck, you don’t know - nor do you really care right now. Not when Satoru’s got his lips crashing against yours for the fifth time in your life, kissing you like it would be the last. Big arms dipping down to your waist, pulling you so tight against his muscled frame that he had half the mind to wonder whether it hurt.

“Love this. Love the way you kiss me- fuck-” he’s spitting against your lips, kicking the door shut behind him. “Oh- would ya get mad if I-” he tries to get out through kisses. Only to suck on your pretty lips with a pained grunt. “If I-” Again and again, like it killed him to part. “-hah- celebrated right now?”

“Yes.” You’re letting the bouquet fall to the foor, white-knuckling that useless, drenched excuse of a shirt. “Now kiss me properly, Toru.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Such a sloppy mix of teeth and hands and him. Shoving a knee between your legs, making up for years and years of late nights with nothing but his fist and the pretty thought of you.

“Yeah, that’s it, sweetheart.” Satoru breathes out, as your urgent fingers that dispose of his shirt, feeling the gorgeous dips and curves of years of hard work to impress you. “Suck on m’tongue pretty- fuck-” His own fisting your shirt, pulling. Ripping.

“Toru!”

“I want you.” He’s letting the poor, tattered pieces drop in a pile on the floor, trailing a hand between your damp thighs before he can stop himself. “Oh how I’ve wanted you. And I don’t care if I have to buy fifty new outfits to make up for it.”

And it’s the feeling of his long index stroking up your sopping slit through your shorts that has you pulling away with a gasp. Delicate little strings of saliva snapping from Satoru’s kiss-bitten lips. “If we continue like this…” your voice wavers as he presses hot kisses along your collarbone. “-my brother’s gonna walk in.”

“...wouldn’t wanna relive that playground kiss, huh?”

It’s all he says before picking you up so easily, hands resting on your ass. Giving a playful spank ass you wrap your legs around his toned waist.

And it’s sloppy.

Both his lips still hotly on yours and the way he’s stumbling urgently to your room through pure muscle memory. Pulling away only when you’re all splayed out so prettily for him on your mattress.

“Blue?” he breathes, pulling your shorts off. And it comes out strained - like the very sight of your panties - all soaked and flimsy with your slick - has whatever’s remaining of Satoru’s sanity flying out the window. “Blue? Oh, you’ve gotta have planned this, you little minx.” his hot breath hits your cunt as he shifts down the bed, tongue drawing languid, wet little circles on your inner thigh. “Because don’t tell me this was all for him?”

It was coincidence - or maybe fate - but that doesn’t stop you from giving Satoru a slow, teasing nod. Muttering out, “So what if it was?”

The only answer you get is thumb hooked around your shorts, pulling it just enough so that your brother’s best friend can spy your pretty pussy.

“Well then.” he chuckles at the way you jump when his fingertip just barely grazes your clit. “Guess I jus’ hafta prove m’better.”

A low groan is falling from his lips as soon as they meet your puffy ones, giving your pretty clit a chaste peck. Lingering long enough that he’s sure your sweet sweet juices cover his mouth.

And oh Satoru’s sure he’ll never forget the way your jaw falls slack, glassy eyes following his every move as he runs his tongue along his glossy lips. Savoring your candied taste, “Never kissed you like this before, huh?”

Fuck, you’re sweeter than he’s imagined.

You whine desperately, something that has him smirking smugly, “Hah, what? Cat got your tongue?”

“You’re better when you shut up.” It’s all you can do to buck your hips into Satoru’s pretty face - not that you had to, because one taste of your dripping cunt and he was addicted. Surging forwards until he was nose-deep, locking your ankles around his head with a firm yank.

And you can’t lie - maybe you’ve imagined this exact scene a few times before on those lonely nights. But you just never expected Satoru to be so depraved. Desperate.

“Ngh- fuck, Toru-” you reach a hand down to thread your fingers through his hair, tugging his face up. But Satoru doesn’t stop - not even for a second. Tongue still dipping to spread your swollen folds with his tongue, looking you right in the eyes as he murmurs a strangled, “Mhm?”

“Thought you were gonna prove you’re better, hm?”

So goading. So like you.

At this, Satoru pulls back ever-so-slightly to laugh - laugh. His plump, glistening lips curling into a humorless little grin, “Oh I will.” Thumb circling your throbbing clit. Just dragging your twitching body across the silky sheets close to his, one hand pinning your hips down. Hard. “I will.”

Loving his new favorite place between your legs one hand toys with your clit, quick, messy little patterns. Tongue even more so.

“Not just better.” he grunts, “Gonna make you cum so much harder, too.” Having your thighs shake with each word hissed out into your cunt, each turn of his deft fingers. “Till I’m the only thing on your mind. Me.”

And it’s all you can do to let out choked up groans of his name, back arching off the plush mattress to let him make out with your cunt deeper. Sloppier. So, so starved with the way he’s speeding up, tongue dragging across your walls. In and out in and out in and-

“Fuck! Hngh-” you angle his head - and he lets you. “There- Toru-”

Honestly, you didn’t even have to tell Satoru - he could feel it. Could feel it in the way your plushy walls are squeezing his hot tongue so harsh, until it was almost difficult to fuck your pussy so sloppily. In the way you’re letting out such delicious whines each time he grazes against those sweet spots.

“There? Hah- I know.” he pulls away to muse, and your cute, disappointed whine goes straight to his already rock-hard cock. “Did he?”

He didn’t. And you’re shaking your head so pathetically - in a way you’d be embarrassed about usually.

But that’s the last thing you’re thinking bout because you feel it - the cold, sinful feeling of Satoru spitting on your filthy cunt. Once. Twice. Blue eyes widening in delight at the way the mess of spit and slick drip down your slit.

“Cute.” his tongue smoothes over the slutty pool, and the only thing your delirious brain can make out now is a low moan of, “So? Who’s better?”

It’s all you can do to choke out a broken little, “T-T-” Face burning at the way he was so clearly enjoying your struggle. And, well, no matter painfully hard it made his dick - he had to go just a bit easy on his girl, right?

“Shhhh, s’alright.” you flinch as he shoves two absolutely drenched fingers into your mouth, making so much more of a mess of it than necessary. Drinking in your cute gags, “I was asking her.” He’s making your head spin with the way he’s speeding up. “N’ she’s hah- very talkative.” Words muffled, and slurring together - like he was drunk off of you and your cunt. “Let’s hear what she has to ngh- say, huh?”

And with that, he’s alternating between lapping at your clit and squeezing into your sloppy entrance - like he couldn’t - didn’t - want to make up his mind. Oh, with your teary mewls strangled, the sound of Satoru making out with cunt is so loud. The squelches so obscene.

“Fuuuuck.” he drawls. “Louder than I thought. I think she says I’m better, don’t you think?”

You angle your head just right to catch the way his jaw grinds deeper into you, eating you out like his last meal. Your slick drooling down his chin so sinfully.

“Ngh- fuck fuck fuck- ngh-” your yelps are dreamy, feeling like you were losing your mind with the way he was stretching you out.

Like you were about to snap. Any second now.

But Satoru’s only increasing his movements, drawing out your little moans. “And I think she’s saying…” Getting sloppier. More erratic - and it didn’t matter if his fingers were cramping up now, cock aching with the need to be inside you. “-that she’s about to cum.”

You do - so hard and loud - both you and your cunt.

You’re shaking, all but gushing all over Satoru’s mouth, tight pussy squeezing his tongue so hard. Barely even realizing the searing grip you’ve got on his hair as you drag your sloppy pussy all over his mouth.

But Satoru doesn’t mind - he gladly welcomes it, in fact. Tonguefucking your snug cunt senselessly, letting you chase your high as roughly as you wanted. Over and over.

Even when you’re vision isn’t as spotty as before, even when nothing’s coming out of your mouth but little whimpers. Your breathing dying down until all that rings in your barely-lucid mind were those obscene noises of Satoru’s lips all on yours.

“T-Toru-” you whine, big fat tears pricking at your hazy eyes. “M’so sensitive.”

And of course this is Satoru, the same boy who’s been pushing your buttons for years just to giggle at your adorable reactions. Which is why he grins against your twitching cunt, “So?”

It takes everything in you to raise your head off the pillow that just seemed to be swallowing you whole, and even more to shoot Satoru a half-hearted glare. “So m’gonna ngh- assume you’re jus’ a pussy with a s-smaller dick than-”

You don’t get to finish your sentence - he doesn’t let you. Because Satoru’s fumbling with his belt, peeling off those still-drenched pants just enough for you to admire his clothed erection.

And, shit, admittedly you expected him to have a big dick - having been subjected to way too much locker room talk with your brother - but this was ridiculous.

“What? Too big?” He flashes you that infuriating grin. Palming his rock-hard cock through his boxers at the way your beautiful eyes trace the outline of his cock, all swollen and big. So intimidatingly big. “Damn, sweetheart, if I knew that this was how I’d get that feisty lil’ mouth of yours to shut up then I’d have done it a lot sooner.”

And you don’t even know if you’re breathing, the pads of your fingers dancing along his bulge. Tracing those prominent veins. Thumbing that little damp spot at his fat head. “You wouldn’t have.”

He hisses as your soft hands dip into the hem of his underwear. Voice cracking slightly, “I wouldn’t.”

Then you’re gasping - in sync with Satoru’s low moan - as you finally let him spring free. Thick cock hitting his sculpted abs, red tip smearing precum in a lewd little pool. Weeping and so so angry at the sight of you.

At the heavenly feeling of your thumb teasing under his sensitive slit, “Oh, shit.”

He’s throwing his head back when you give an experimental pump, all the way from his pretty tip to the tufts fo white at his hilt. Fist gliding all over the thumping veins. Bucking his hips up like such a slut into your touch.

“O-oh fuck.” he cracks an eye open at the way your hand looked so small compared to his dick, how well you were taking care of him. “Been ngh- dreaming of this since I learned what handjobs were, y’know? Hah- shit- ya gotta stop before I fuckin’ pass out.”

And Satoru thinks he could cum right then and there at the way you’re bringing your soaked index up to your mouth. Batting your lashes as you suck on them with a lewd pop! “From jus’ that?”

“You have no idea.”

That’s all it takes for Satoru to throw your still-quivering thighs over his shoulders, effectively shutting up whatever tease is on the tip of your sharp tongue by kissing your swollen folds with his fat head. Giving it one, long drag.

Your mouth is sagging open at the slow, torturous teasing. The sheer anticipation that had your mouth running, “S-so much for ah- jus’ being ‘friends’, huh?”

“Oh, sweetheart.” And you’re flinching from Satoru’s deep, dark tone. The way he’s bracing his fingers so bruisingly on your hips, reeling all the way back till his tip was just kissing your hole. “We stopped being friends the day you married me on that playground.”

And then he’s slamming in - pushing past that first, feeble ring of resistance, gummy walls stretching out so perfectly for him. As if he fit right in - and he tells you that. Pants it into your open mouth a little over fifteen times, in fact.

“Shiiiit, look at you.” he can’t tear his eyes away from the side of your lips stretching so wide to try and milk him. Sloppy entrance stretching out like magic. “S’like you’re made for me, huh? This pussy is made f’me?”

“Ngh- fuck, Toru! S’too big-” you keen, feet flattening on the mattress. As if to escape. To maybe fucking breathe.

Not even half-way in yet, but aleady torn between pushing away and sinking yourself down on his swollen cock for more more more-

“Don’t you dare run away.” he warns, looking up at you through his long lashes. “I’ve waited too long for this. N’ you’re not taking this pretty pussy away any time soon.” Inch by fucking inch. Grinding in short, sharps jabs - no rhythm of rhyme, like they were genuinely out of control. “Way too f-fuckin’-” All the way until your puffy folds was meeting his hilt. Finally. All the way in. “-long.”

And once Satoru had you split apart on his dick - had those tears rolling down your cheeks, cunt swallowing him so sluttily - it’s like something snaps.

Because he doesn’t waste a second - he’s already wasted almost two decades, anyway - filling you up with his mean hips. Not fucking easing you into it because you always did bring out that part of him, the part that him looping two strong arms around your waist. Pulling.

“Oh- f-fuck c’mere.” Satoru gasps, pressing your body so crushingly against his. Kissing your shaky shoulers, your sweaty forehead, the gentleness so contrasting to his hips.“God I’ve missed out- fuck fuck fuck-”

You’ve never seen the great Gojo Satoru - campus sex symbol - so uncomposed. Eyes half-lidded, just boring into yours, mouth slack in a soft oh! as he drags his cock all over inside your gummy walls. And the sight is so heavenly that you make the mistake the mistake of cracking a minute smile.

Just barely curling your lips before - “Don’t smile at me like that.” He’s dipping down a hand to roll your ravaged clit between two bullying fingers. “Fuck, she’s gonna be the death of me. Right?”

You keen at the- stimulation? The strech? The sheer embarrassment as you realize that Satou’s still talking to your sloppy pussy? Nodding so mockingly up at you as he plows on, “Mhm, she says you needa be ngh- knocked down a god, you’re tight- peg or two. So- get- ready-”

He’s using this as an excuse to sit up on his knees, dragging you onto his lap so easily like some ragdoll.

“That’s more like it.”

You’re sliding deeper down his painfully hard cock - all the way till his heavy balls rest beneath your ass, clit rubbing against his pelvis every time he bounces you like some slut.

Deep. Ruthless.

“Keep your eyes open, sweetheart.” He chuckles, and you’re screwing open your eyes that you don’t even remember shutting. Trying so hard to stop crying out at the feeling of the curve of his dick massaging your walls. “Ya gotta hngh- see the o-only one who’d fuckin’ you properly, right?”

You squeal when he’s taking your clit captive once more. Finger quick, deft. “Y-yes.”

But that wasn’t enough for Satoru - it might as well never be. Because he’s only ramming his hips up further. Like he’s pushing into your stomach, your lungs, all the way into your cockdrunk brain. Fat head alternating between kissing your poor, abused cervix and all those sweet spots he’d mapped out with his tongue.

“Sounded unsure to me.” he’s pouty against your hardened nipples bouncing enticingly in his face. Fingers quirking faster on your clit, “Maybe I should ngh- stop then?”

“No!” Your hips stutter against Satoru’s. Nails clawing down the sculpted panes of his shoulders, leaving red angry marks for him to take as a sign tomorrow morning that no, it wasn’t just one of his dreams this time. “No no no- m’sure. You’re the only one makin’ me feel this way.”

You can feel the way he’s twitching wildly at your words, dick thumping harder inside your sensitive cunt.

He punctures each word with a heavy, calculated thrust. Hand stretching and squeezing open your cunt from behind to let him slide impossibly deeper. “Hmmm, I’m not convinced.”

Your stupid mouth is only capable of letting out broken, choked-up little moans of his name, ankles locking around those dimples at the end of his spine. “S’you–”

“Still not convinced.”

But he’s still speeding up his movements, just dragging you up and down his cock. “Who else made you hah- feel this good?” Sure to claim you from the inside out - to leave marks everywhere. Heavy balls on your ass, weeping tip on your cervix, lips bruised as you whimper at his murmured, “That ex of yours?” Biting down your neck, “That barista that always flirts with you?” Pulling away only to breathe into your lips, “Who?”

“ I- fuck it’s only you, Toru.”

“Sound convincing to you?” Satoru hums down at your cunt, biting his lower lip at the way you were milking him so good. Your slick soaking him all the way down to his balls - so needy in a way he never thought he’d see. “Yeah-” be breathes, nosing at your neck. “She agrees- fuck does this tight lil’ pussy of yours agree.” A few tears, a few gorgeous marks down his back, and he was finally convinced. “You’re mine.”

You don’t even realize it when you’re cumming, and Satoru doesn’t either.

Both of you too caught up in each other to recognize that familiar, white-hot pleasure running down your spine - all the way down to where he was so mercilessly buried in your cunt.

And you’re well into the blood roaring deafeningly in your ears, the sight of Satoru - all wrecked - blurring as he fucks his hips up. Harsh. Eyes rolling to the back of his head as he paints your quivering walls white.

Cumming and cumming so hard that you can feel his seed dribbling down your thighs, making such a mess all over Satoru’s lap. Your poor, overfilled cunt soon bloated and unable to keep up with it.

“Toru–” you whine, like a prayer. Milking the fucking soul out of him while he gently paws at your messy hair.

“Shhh, I know I know, sweetheart.” Such a stark contrast to the way he was filling you up like his favorite sex toy. Not even bothering to move anymore, one hand on your hip, moving your limp body up and down his sensitive cock to fuck it deeper. The other still playing with your clit, “S’alright, my girl”

Satoru’s hands never leave you, and he prays that now that he got a taste - well, you better be alright with them not leaving you for as long as he lives.

“As long as you live, huh?” you chuckle groggily, a noise so dreamy that Satoru can’t even be mad that he said it out loud. “And all that riling me up these years. Do you have a degradation kink or something?”

“Well, only one way to find out~”

“Oh shut up you-”

SLAM!

“Yooo, I bought dinner from that- WHAT THE FUCK?”

There were only two more lessons to be learned:

Always lock the door. Always. And in case you don’t, a bouquet of lollipops will do the trick to a Suguru reeling from the newest addition to the family.

Cheap takeout tastes better with an apologetic Suguru, and an ice pack to his cheek - and you to kiss it better.

A/N. Can you tell I kept listening to that one Artemas song while writing this?

Plagiarism not authorized.

#gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #tonywrites

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soobnny · 5 months ago

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dating him | hwang hyunjin

❝ i’ve never seen anything quite like you, my love ❞

hopeless romantic hwang hyunjin

love is beautiful and brilliant hwang hyunjin

yall cannot convince me that he isn’t the BIGGEST lover

romance is in his blood

he is so fascinated by it

so, for that reason, i feel like dating him would be like the love you read about or watch in movies

bc hyunjin would b the type to consume so much of romantic media

it’s where he learned everything from

wow what a dream

he strikes me as the type to fall in love with every little thing too

his eyes is just a lens of romance

and it’s set on YOU

every single love language he has it .. but here are some specifics

love language #1 gift giving

hyunjin is a traveler okay

and in every trip, he always has something to give you

keychains, t-shirts, bags, jewelry, stickers, refrigerator magnets, pins, you name it

even u have to remind him not to go all out sometimes

bc when that boy splurges, he SPENDS

esp for u ? he would spoil u in a heartbeat

he always makes sure he leaves a day of his travels dedicated to u and thinking about u

on that note, he tends to buy u guys matching items

matching phone cases, matching rings, matching scrunchie

whatever u can get that’s matching

he WILL get it

it excites him too

he loves being able to tell the world how in love he is

wait side note

whenever he’s traveling, he’s always just instinctively thinking about you

he buys this bagel for breakfast, oh ???? like hey guys yn loves bagels too

and the boys r like WE KNOWWWW 😭

everything is about u quite literally

ok continuing on

and he gifts u his art too

his art is very important to him

and he has found lately, u are the one person littering his sketch books

oh he’s down bad

i think for ur anniversary, he’d paint the constellations of how the stars looked that night and aligned perfectly

or his favorite picture of you

down bad that he also buys u a shit ton of dresses

and lingerie ………….

look he knows his fashion

he knows what looks great

u can’t blame him for buying what he knows will look so pretty on you

(he’d probably give u his card one time and say “go crazy” like wow he’s packed)

#2 quality time

i think his favorite dates would also be expensive

he just can’t help himself

BUT u know he has a sweet spot for self care dates too

spa days are very important to him

loves being able to relax and unwind with u

he especially loves when u play with his hair and when u paint his nails

one time, u caught him stealing one of your nail polishes

would also be the type to bring some bit of you in his travels

like ur perfume or ur shampoo

anything that’ll remind him of u

tho ur scent is his favorite

hence why he goes for perfumes or soap or shampoos bc u feel closer to him this way

he just loves being with u even if both of u are doing nothing

just like that bruno major song

conversations where u lose track of time

conversations as in talking shit about the people you hate together

😭😭😭😭

i think he’d want to paint with u

he’d be so shy to ask you too

just simple things

that cute date idea where you swap paintings every 5 mins or something

when u showed him that tiktok, he jumped in excitement

he wanted to do it right away

he prepares everything

he has both ur paintings framed in his room

it’s his most prized posession

oh, and he always invites u to game nights with the boys

he is SO competitive at monopoly

he couldn’t give two shits about other games

u don’t know why he gets so worked up with monopoly

“SEUNGMIN DONT DO IT SEUNGMIN!!!!”

it’s actually rly funny

he would be the type to take revenge

“you’re gonna regret buying a house there”

would cheer if his friends go to jail in the game or if they go bankrupt

doesn’t even try to hide it

and if he’s playing as the banker, he’d slip in extra bills for you

#3 words of affirmation

tho usually said when he thinks u’re asleep

he’s thankful that u take care of him when he forgets to

esp when he’s so immersed in his art

he whispers words of love

like poets and authors in books

he is just so full of love i can’t say it enough

physical touch except instead of touch, he loves kissing you

LIPS AND NECK ESPECIALLY

those are his top 2

he uses tongue 😕 sorry to break it to u

and he also leaves hickeys

so don’t run out of concealer okay!!!!!!! bc he tends to leave like a lot

before i end

here r some more dates he loves

botanical gardens

he’d pick a flower and place it behind your ear

now it’s his lockscreen

sunday markets

he loves the domesticity of shopping together

he buys u lots of flowers

every single type

u think he’s given u all types already

there is never a day where ur apartment doesn’t have flowers in a vase

bc as soon as the first sign of death arrives, he’s off to buy u new ones

he strikes me as the type to also go all out for valentines

hyunjin would send u mounts of chocolates and flowers

take u out to the fanciest date

u get to try new food and cuisines bc of him!

might even buy plane tickets so u two could travel together

maaaaaaaan just treasure everything

a love like hyunjin’s is hard to come by

note. credits to user @.luvknow for the layout of this post! let me know what you think! please discuss these with me i’m crazy

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mikuyuuss · 10 months ago

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Thanks for tagging me soda!

I tag @tanjir0se and @scrimblyscrorblo and anyone else interested

Making a tag game cause I can

Rules: post 4 fictional characters you relate to and assume something about the person you reblogged from based on their characters

No pressure tag! @sidneyoftheblackwoods @mqstermindswift @stars-and-birds @zenilvar @forever-chained-to-myself @themidnightarcher @skeelly @thepencilsnameissteve @thislove-taylorsversion @thislifeissweeterthanfiction @swiftieannah @a-pessimistic-swiftie @catastrxblues @jellycanon @what-about-wendy and anyone else who wants to join<3

#tag game #ask game #I lowkey kin mitsuri for uuuh reasons 🗿 while im not as obsessed with romance her whole arc is pretty much relatable to me #self love and the need for validation #love for cute things and coincidentally I actually had a pink and green phase when I was a teen #and we are both geminis 🗿#as for shinobu we are almost the same height and have anger issues #so i relate and symathize to her alot #shes physically weak in the similar way that im also not every physically fit and we both have older sisters #as for fischl from genshin its the tendency for escapism and lonely childhood we also share the same bday #and then theres jesse im not sure why hes here maybe cuz we both got final girl energy jk prolly our struggle for our passion in arts #and something abt his vulnerability is so oddly relatable #Also special mention for Abed from community and Giyuu ofc #I would have put Abed except fischl covers it already #and for giyuu its mostly about the problems I faced for my lack of social skills but I like to think im slowly moving past that #and theres too many kny characters in this post already lol #tr

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bixels · 9 months ago

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Taking the current topic as an excuse to ask you to tell me all the reasons you love Rarijack. Your art for the ship is so sweet and intimate I'd love to hear any in depth thoughts you have.

Breathes in.

I think what makes their dynamic really strong is that they have opposing personalities but aligned values. It's deeper than just "opposites attract." Rarity's fancy, prissy, and femme while Applejack's modest, rough, and "masculine." But both value hard work (to the point of being workaholics), their families (both have guardianship over their little sisters), running successful businesses, and eventually each other. Their relationship can be boiled down to, "Despite our differences/disagreements, I still like you because we value the same things."

We see their relationship develop so much. In the first season, they can't stop bickering about surface-level differences. By season four, they still bicker, but will mend their relationship because they can't help but do nice things for each other. In Trade Ya, they start off arguing over personality differences (Applejack likes old junk and Rarity likes useless crap). Then they pivot and start arguing that they value their relationship more than the other. In the end, they mend things by sacrificing their needs and buying each other a gift. Even if they don't understand it, they know it'd make the other happy. And that's all that really matters. It's a genuinely sweet moment that shows how arguing can be healthy and necessary for relationships to strengthen.

We even see them dropping their hang-ups about each others' personalities. In Made in Manehattan, when Rarity runs off in dramatics about someone's fashion, AJ doesn't roll her eyes or scoff, she smiles. Oftentimes, their conflicts are very common domestic conflicts romantic couples face. Applejack's Day Off is about a woman's inability to balance work and life and find time to properly spend with her partner, causing her partner to feel neglected.

By season seven, they're actively participating in each others' interests. Any problems or conflicts that arise are dealt with, and they come out the other end stronger and closer. In Honest Apple, AJ pretty much spells out why their relationship works so well: even though she doesn't understand fashion, she can recognize and appreciate how much work it takes and wants to respect that. When she realizes her mistake in the episode, AJ goes above and beyond to fix things and apologize to Rarity. They care about each other so much.

The two go out of their way, sacrificing their personal desires and beliefs and doing things they normally wouldn't, to make the other happy. That's just love.

There's Simple Ways, where AJ gets stuck in an unwanted love triangle between Rarity and her hipster crush. And her frustration and anger can be so easily interpreted as AJ finding herself in a terrible position; the girl she loves wants another man, and that man wants her.

I dunno. I've always had a preference for opposites attract ships, but Rarijack's stuck with me like a brain worm because they have the perfect chemistry. The way they show they care, or do things for each other, I've always read it as the truest representation of romance in the show.

#rarijack #i refuse to be embarrased by how much i know about this damn pony show #this is part of the reason why i never bought into appledash unfortunately. their values aren't aligned #rd lies a lot and often for very self serving reasons #and she distances herself from her family because they're. cringe? overbearing? her parents are very loving and supportive #meanwhile aj's. whole fucking thing. is honesty and family #ask me #anon #this is why it's still a little baffling they aren't canon #we got SO much real development with so much potential subtext #and it never really crossed the finish line #i dunno every time they do something to show they care i'm reminded of myself and my partner too #whenever i see something that's inconvenient or complicated or against my personality (adhd haver) but i know it'd make my #boyfriend happy. i do it anyways. and i always think to myself “wow. that's what love is. that's what it feels like”

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frenchkisstheabyss · 2 months ago

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♰ ₥ØĐɆⱤ₦ ĐɆ₥Ø₦₴ ♰

♰ Pairing: slasher!yunho x chubby!fem!slasher fucker!reader

♰ Genre: smut/dark romance/horror

♰ Summary: With a ruthless, brutal killer on the loose the safe thing to do would be to stay as far away from dangerous men as possible. But you've never been the kind of girl to play it safe and when danger comes in the form of a man like Yunho, how's a girl to stay away?

♰ Word Count: 3.4k-ish

♰ Warnings: Yunho's a literal serial killer, neither of you die but someone does, sorta vivid description of a limb being chopped off, voyeruism in a way, slasher fetish, sadism, masochism, dom daddy Yunho, choking, restriction of movement, a lil nipple play, penetrative sex, sex covered in blood, dirty talk, scratching, hickeys, other forms of marking, creampie, manhandling, pet names (baby, princess, good girl), you're both kinda psychos...obviously.

♰ A/N: I'd like to say, "Oh, I wrote this because Halloween is coming up!" but, no, I didn't. I'm just a slasher fucker, okay? A part of this was inspired by one of my favorite horror movies and if you can guess it then let's get married. Love you forever.

On a side note, thank you @dawn-iscozy for suggesting Yunho for this. I didn't regret that decision for a solitary minute.

There’s a killer on the loose. A brutal, wicked man who stalks the night preying upon unsuspecting victims. Some say he only goes after those he perceives as having done something wrong. His own perverse way of balancing the scales, righting the wrongs that the cops don’t have the balls to fix.

Others say it doesn’t matter who you are or what you do. Your chances of being butchered are all the same, sinner or saint. One thing’s for sure, once he has his sights set on you not even god himself can save you from the fate that awaits. You’re gone in the blink of an eye, never to be seen again. At least not in one piece.

You’ve heard the warnings a thousand times over but none of them struck fear into your heart. On the contrary, you have quite the erotic fascination with his art as he calls it in the letters he leaves behind. There’s something about what he does that taps into a fetish for danger that you dare not tell another living soul about. You want to play with fire, scorch the tips of your fingers in his flames. That’s how you ended up here, straddling the lap of a man who claims to be the killer your sick little heart yearns for.

You met at a club. The kind where people go to indulge their wildest fantasies, no matter how depraved. You were wandering around alone in a tight latex mini dress that fit the richness of your curves like a glove. You had your hair pinned up the way you do now, waterfalls of curls spilling down to frame your face. Expertly applied black lipstick adorned your kissable lips, drawing men in enough that they’d lose their minds thinking of all the things that pretty mouth could do. The man beneath you was among them.

He spotted you from across the room, your figure bathed in red neon light as you sat at the bar plotting your next move. You let him buy you a few drinks, loosening you both up enough that secrets began to spill as freely as the vodka in your glass. “I wanna know if I tell you a secret, will you keep it?” the dark haired man whispered in your ear, a hand hovering dangerously close to your inner thigh. You swore that you would, hand over your heart. And that’s when he confessed. Your clear fascination with the man known as the Seoul Slasher had prompted him to reveal himself to you.

You couldn’t believe it. A real live serial killer, an absolute monster, so hypnotized by you he was nearly drooling down your cleavage. Going against every self preservation tactic they taught you in school, you invited him back to your place for a bit of fun. An offer he excitedly accepted. For a man whose entire modus operandi is control, he was more than happy to relinquish it to you. In no time you had him spread out on your bed, arms and legs handcuffed to the bed frame.

The entire room’s dark save for the flickering wicks of a few candles sprinkled about the room. You run a hand down his bare chest, sharp nails nicking at his tattooed flesh. He hisses at the sting, grinding his hips up against your core to add some pleasure to the pain.

You let out a giggle, fingers teasing the waist of his pants, “Tell me how you did it.” You flash your doe eyes, tightening your plush thighs around his hips.

“How’d I do what?” he asks, far too preoccupied with your body to hone in on your words.

“Those last two guys you killed. I wanna know every gory detail. You can tell me while I ride your cock.”

Your words certainly aren’t falling on deaf ears. He heard you loud and clear. He takes a calculated pause before providing you with a less than satisfying answer. “I used a butcher knife. Chopped them up real easy. Some of my best work I’d say.”

“Oh” you pout, shoulders dropping. You fold your arms across your chest, your disappointment hanging heavy in the air. “You really shouldn’t lie, you know? It’s a nasty habit.”

“Lie?” he scoffs, a nervous smile creeping across his face. His deception has failed and he doesn’t have enough brain cells to save this sinking ship. “I’m not lying, babe. I’m telling you. I used a butcher knife.”

You point an accusatory finger at him, applying pressure right between his eyes. “Dirty, dirty, liar” you sing, “You aren’t the Seoul Slasher.”

“And how would you know?” he asks, unjustly offended at the fact that you aren’t stupid enough to buy his bullshit.

You lean in close, the warm flames of the candles reflecting in your eyes like hellfire. “Because I’m already fucking him and he’s not too happy about you going around pretending to be him. It’s just bad manners.”

His smile grows more strained, his nervous laughter tickling the tip of your nose. He can’t tell if you’re serious or not but this is getting a little weird. Even for him. You watch him for a moment before erupting in soft, sweet laughter that mocks him. Reaching underneath your pillow you pull out a gag and shove it right into his mouth, shutting him up for the first time tonight.

“Baby, I’m done playing now!” you call out like a housewife announcing that dinner’s ready.

You sit back up, climbing off of him, and skip your way over to the dresser on the other side of the room. You hop up, feet giddily swinging back and forth to the tune of heavy footsteps descending the hallway. The man’s eyes dart over to the closed bedroom door, his heart thumping out of his chest. You can make out a few muffled protests but you dare not take it out. There’s nothing he can say that interests you now. Not that it ever did.

When your best friend first told you that a guy at the club was going around claiming to be the Slasher, you couldn’t believe your ears. Especially not when the real one was sleeping peacefully beside you. Further investigation proved that your best friend had been telling the truth so he had to be dealt with. Then another popped up and another. This one will make for the 4th and you must admit, as annoying as identity theft is for your boyfriend, you get a kick out of luring them here.

They always start out so cocky but once the gag’s in and those footsteps come, getting closer and closer at an agonizing pace, they’re not so confident anymore. At first they freeze up just like the corpse they’re soon to be. The shock does need a few seconds to set in. And then they panic, screaming through the gag and tugging at their bindings, their bodies writhing like a fish out of water. This one’s no different than the others. You can guess his next move like a film you’ve watched a dozen times and all of it’s in vain.

Sweat slicks his brow as the door creaks open and your face lights up like the Fourth of July. You breathe a sigh of relief. There he is. You’ve only been apart for hours but it feels like an eternity. A tall figure steps out of the shadows into the candlelight, revealing a handsome man in tailored black pants and a black button up you pressed yourself. His sleeves are rolled up, tucked just below the elbow where a pair of long black latex gloves begin. He spares the unfortunate soul strapped to the bed a passing glance before approaching you. He leans forward, palms flat on the dresser, caging you in.

“Did I do okay?” you question innocently, always hungry for the praise he never fails to feed you.

Yunho nods, gloved fingers stroking your soft cheek, “Oh, my good girl. You did more than okay. What would I do without you?”

Taking your chin between his thumb and pointer finger, he tilts your head up, capturing your lips in a kiss that would soak your panties if you were wearing any. He takes a deep breath as he pulls away, not wanting to but knowing that time is of the essence.

“Did he touch you?” Yunho’s jaw tenses, gloved hands flexing to warm up for the night’s events.

You peek around him to check in on the dark haired man. His face is wet with tears and he’s sobbing all over your new gag. You pray he hasn’t pissed himself. You’re not in the mood to have to buy a new mattress again.

You look back to your boyfriend and nod. “In the car he put his hand on my thigh.”

“Thank you for telling me, baby,” Yunho says, kissing you on the forehead. He turns around, eyes darkening as he approaches the foot of the bed. “I’ll start with his hands.”

Kneeling down, he slides a large case from underneath the bed and pops it open to reveal his tools. The spread is a pristine assortment of autopsy tools, not a lowly butcher knife in sight. He delicately runs his fingers over them, settling on the fine toothed bone saw. Your gaze never leaves him as he rounds the bed, aligning the sharp teeth of the saw with what you’ve come to know as the ulna. The bone right on his inner forearm.

Yunho grinds the saw against it and the man’s arm tears open, tattered pieces of flesh splintering off to the side as he carves his way through tough tendons. Blood gushes from the man’s arm, drenching the brand new sheets in a river of crimson. Yunho’s movements are precise and purposeful. The saw taps bone as the body below him convulses violently, the pain beyond anything you can imagine or ever care to.

Your boyfriend pauses, glancing over at you, and you know it’s about that time. You open one of the drawers beside you, fishing out your phone and a pair of over ear headphones. You sync them up, hitting play on your favorite song, and smile lovingly back at him.

He can’t be as brutal when he knows you’re listening. It’s one of few things about his profession he’s never quite been able to bring himself to expose you to. Even with the man’s cries muffled, being dismantled brings sounds out of someone that could give the most vile person nightmares. You can watch all you want but you won’t hear them.

It’d be easy to say that you weren’t like this before you met him. You were a sweet, delicate flower and this charming psychopath came along, corrupting your young soul. But a girl doesn’t get wet watching her boyfriend dismember people because she had her purity corrupted.

You were never innocent, you’d simply presented yourself as such. Yunho just freed you from the prison of feeling guilty about what got you off. Power. Not being at the mercy of anyone. Yunho treats you like a princess. You’re never left wanting for anything. Your every desire is satisfied. So what if your Prince Charming comes with a body count? Nobody’s perfect.

Yunho makes quick work of the body. After the slice to his second arm the man’s already at death’s door and the severing of his knees puts the final nail in the coffin. Yunho tosses the body parts to the ground like the limbs of an old doll. Breathless and blood soaked as he licks splatters of scarlet from his lip, he goes in for another cut.

You’re the only other thing he looks at like he does his work. The excitement of the kill is borderline orgasmic, dopamine coursing through his veins with every gruesome cut. Once he starts he has to keep going, chasing his high until it’s finished and the body’s nothing more than scattered pieces of an impossible puzzle.

Shoving the torso to the floor, he steps back to catch his breath, waving to get your attention. You slip your headphones off, setting them down to navigate the landmine of limbs and entrails to reach your love.

“You need some water, Yunie?” you ask, throwing your arms around him. The blood weighing down his clothes sticks to your arms, cool against your skin. It used to feel a bit strange but after a few times you’ve come to find it refreshing like a cool shower on a hot day.

Yunho shakes his head, a dazed look in his eyes. Usually the adrenaline begins to die down after that final cut but it’s only getting more intense. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he salivates over you like a man on the brink of starvation. “No, I need you. Right now.”

His lips crash into yours at a thousand miles per hour and you don’t even attempt to stop him. Why would you? Bloody gloves cling to your dress, stripping you of the material. You rip his shirt open, sending buttons raining down onto the slippery hardwood floor. Yunho’s hands ravenously explore your body as you rid him of his pants, painting your plush figure in blood like a canvas.

Attempting to feast upon your body through gloves is as close to torture as he’s ever come so he tears them off, groaning in delight as his bare hands sink into your pillowy ass. He picks you up, tossing you back on the bed, your breasts bouncing marvelously as you land.

You grin watching your boyfriend stare down at you like an absolute animal. His body’s everything dreams are made of, his flawless, rigid cock already leaking in anticipation. You spread your thighs, teasing him with the arousal dripping from your entrance. Bringing two fingers between your legs, you stroke them between your lips, spreading yourself open for him.

“You want it?” you moan, back arching as you pinch your sensitive clit.

Yunho positions himself between your legs, palming his cock above a pussy that’s clenching wildly at the ghost of what could be. He places a hand on your thigh, admiring the view. You in a sea of blood toying with yourself for his pleasure. What a sight to behold.

“You aren’t teasing me are you?” he asks, gripping your thigh tighter. His voice is low and rough, feral in every way.

You bring your slick fingers up to the head of his cock, coating it on your juices. “And what if I am?”

You motion to get up, your brain set on tasting his cock on your tongue, but Yunho’s quicker than you, grabbing your wrists and pinning your arms over your head. His free hand wraps around your neck, the veins of his arms pulsing as he applies the right amount of pressure to leave you breathless but not in pain.

“Do you want it?” He bumps his cock against your slit, missing on purpose to drag it between your folds. Your body shudders as much as it can with his full weight on you.

“Mmhmm” you hum, knowing he won’t hurt you but loving that you’re completely at his mercy.

“You know that’s not enough, baby” he smiles, squeezing your throat tighter, “I need to hear it, princess. Tell me you want it. Beg for daddy’s cock.”

He presses his throbbing tip to your entrance but this time he arches into you, giving you the head and nothing more. The stretch of that alone is disorienting, a wave of heat rushing through you. Releasing his hold on your throat, he brings his lips to yours, parting them to taste the desperate pleas that spill out.

“I want you to fuck me, Yunie. I’m so needy for your cock. I have been all night” you whine and his tongue traces your lips. You taste delicious. He inches into you, feeding you a little more then stopping. A little more then stopping. And your body jumps with every motion, pitiful sounds pouring from your lips onto his.

“Fuck me” you beg, an undeniable brokeness in your tone, “Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck…” Your voice trails off, eyes rolling back as he bottoms out. He lifts off of you, still holding your arms in place above your head, and thrusts into you ever so gently. You clamp down around him tightly enough that it’s hard to move, your pussy's too needy to let go.

Yunho grins, cupping one of your breasts, “I didn’t know watching me kill got you so hot. You’re sick, you know that?” He pinches your nipple harshly and you squeal, twisting in his hold.

“I know” you moan, blowing him a kiss, “But so are you.”

“Fuck, I love you” he growls, pulling you under with another dizzying kiss.

His thrusts grow harsher, your warm, spongy walls drawing him in impossibly deeper. His fingers knead the tender flesh of your breast as he brings his tongue down to soak your bud in equal parts blood and spit. Taking the bud between his teeth, he wraps his lip around it, suckling at it without losing his rhythm between your legs.

“Yunie. So good. So, mmph, aah…” you’re moaning but he gives one particularly hard thrust to your cunt, knocking the words right out of your mouth.

You want to touch him so badly. To dig your nails into his back while he fucks into you. To run your fingers through his hair, tugging at the deep brown strands as his tongue swirls around your bud.

“Touch” you pout, wiggling your hands.

Yunho pops your bud free of his lips, licking his way up your breasts, across your heated skin, along your neck, until you’re eye to eye. “Use your words, baby. Tell me what you want.”

“Wanna touch you. Please, daddy” you plead. You’re so helpless. So beautiful.

Yunho watches you squirm, feigning indecision. After an agonizingly long contemplation, he turns your arms loose, the redness on your wrists marking where he held you. Your hands are drawn to him like magnets, scouring every inch of him they can reach just to feel him.

Your nails find his back, digging into the flesh. Yunho buries his face in your neck, moaning at the sensation. “Harder” he whispers, fingers knotting in the sheets beneath you. You dig your nails in deeper, breaking skin, and he’s on the edge of a whimper, the sensation nearly too much for him.

Slipping an arm around your back, he keeps you flush against him, sinking into you over and over. Your mouth falls open, eyes squeezed closed. You’re saying something but nothing’s coming out. Only whines and moans, the occasional fractured piece of his name.

There’s no bracing yourself for a cock this long and thick. You just have to take it, let it destroy every bit of you until there’s nothing left. A sense of euphoria surges through you and your legs instinctively lock around his waist.

“That’s it” he coos, fawning over the string of hickeys he’s left on your neck, “Be a good girl and cum for me.” Yunho grabs for your wrists one last time, locking them above your head. He pounds into you so hard the bed creaks, maybe even moves a few inches. “I wanna feel you gushing around this cock.”

Suddenly your breath hitches and your body feels weightless. It’s as if you’re floating above yourself. Watching this gorgeous man fuck you into the mattress like his own personal whore. And you are. You’re more than happy to be. Your senses come back to you in a rush of ecstasy and you’re trembling, crying out as you do exactly as he said. Creaming, gushing, dripping down his length.

Yunho pulls back, kneeling between your legs to drag his cock out and glide it back in. He goes all starry eyed at the sight of his cock glistening in your cum and soon he’s spilling inside of you. Your needy walls milking his cock of the warm, white liquid that overflows from your delicious pussy.

His hand comes down on your plush belly, enjoying its softness as he feeds you those last few strokes. You’re still moaning weakly when he finishes, laying back on the bed and pulling you on top of him.

Curled up safe and warm in his arms, you bask in the afterglow, thoughts of the man your boyfriend dismantled little more than a distant thought now. But ultimately it’s difficult to ignore. Especially when your eyes drift up and you notice something dangling in the corner of your eye.

“Yunie” you say, lightly petting his shoulder.

Yunho strokes your hair, looking down at you lovingly, “Yes, baby?”

“I think his hand’s still attached to the handcuff.”

#ateez x reader #ateez x you #ateez x female reader #ateez smut #yunho x you #yunho x reader #yunho smut #chubby reader #plus size reader #ateez au

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mingi-s-dimples · 3 months ago

Text

Crave me - yunho

pairing: bf!yunho x gf fem!reader

rating: 18+, bdsm

genre: romance, bdsm, filthy smut (mdni ty)

summary: The bratty attitude you had with him didn't last long.. as he leaves his patience at the table and destroys you.

WC: 3.5k

warnings: rough/strict dom!yunho, bratty sub fem!reader, bdsm, choking, neck kink, sucking, blowjob, making out, tying up, pet names (darling, babe, love, pretty boy, sweetie, sweetheart), degradation kink (slut, cumslut, whore), praise kink, slapping/spanking, both vaginal and anal, use of bdsm attire (cuffs, blindfold, rope), use of toys (vibrator), sense deprivation (blindfold), little bit of hand kink, punishing, edging, creampie, ruined orgasms, multiple rounds, deals (but Yunho feels cocky and he said fuck the deal), cum cum cum a lot of cummm, squirting, mentions of safe word but never used (reader is a brat), cum eating, big dick!yunho, overstim, backshots, unprotected (REMEMBER TO WRAP UP IRL !), completely consesual !, for sure forgot something.

Author's Note: SO ! When I first started writing this fic, several day ago, I didn't intend to make it this.. filthy. But.. my lovely bestie rated the roughness in the other 3 fics I have posted an average of 8.sth/10 and I took that as a CHALLENGE. Hope you like it, Lis, love you sweetie. Another small note: WHY AREN'T THERE MORE BDSM FICS OUT THERE HELLO? I'M A SUCKER FOR THEM !

Update, Lis: okay, even though i saw some paragraphs before this was published, i was still taken off guard by this. i’m taking back my words, roughness level 10/10, WHEN I TELL YOU I HAD TO TAKE A BREAK AND BREATHE. seriously i love this fic sm and bia you are so talented, you never fail to amaze me❤️❤️ please keep going with your work, i love youu<3 ( i’m still waiting for a demon joong fic 👹👹👹 ) - my answer: the demon joong fic is alr in my drafts, halfway done.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction & does not represent in any way the reality of the member.

The grand dining hall was a symphony of opulence and elegance, its high vaulted ceilings adorned with intricate plasterwork and crystal chandeliers casting a warm, golden glow over the scene. Rich tapestries hung from the walls, their deep hues of burgundy and gold complementing the polished mahogany of the round, small dining tables. As the guests settled into their seats, the gentle strains of a string quartet drifted through the air, mingling with the soft clinking of fine glasses and the murmur of animated conversation.

At one end of the table you were sitting at, the host, Park Seonghwa raised his glass in a toast, his voice resonant and filled with the gravitas of tradition. Across from him, Hongjoong's laughter rang out, light and melodious, adding a delicate counterpoint to the music. The aroma of roasted meats and rich sauces wafted from the platters being served, each dish a masterpiece of culinary art. Conversations flowed like the wine, moving from the latest societal gossip to philosophical musings, as the guests, dressed in their finest evening attire, engaged in a dance of words and wit.

In this setting, every detail was meticulously curated to create an atmosphere of refined luxury and cultural sophistication. Yet, beneath the surface of this carefully constructed elegance, the undercurrents of intrigue and hidden agendas were beginning to stir, promising that the evening's conviviality was only the prelude to a much deeper story.

You, a renowed and well known supermodel, were sitting right next to your husband, Jeong Yunho. He was the CEO of the agency you were modelling at.

The thing is... besides the lovey-dovey side you and Yunho always showed to the other guests and your friends, for example Seonghwa, Hongjoong and the others, the two of you had... another side to your relationship.

Your intimate relationship dynamic was quite.. the opposite of what you were showing. From light forehead kisses, hand holding and warm hugs and kisses... to cuffs, blindfolds and degradation. No one knew the real you when in private, and it made the whole thing way better.

*several minutes later*

"Ooookay, should I ask the chef to bring us some desserts? I think the dinner went really well!" Hongjoong said smiling, watching each of his guests contently. He then hovered his eyes over the whole venue, you could see the happiness flooding over him. It was the ending dinner for a really important business plan that came to a final success.

While the others were happily celebrating with the host, you and Yunho were giving each other some stares. One of the things you loved the most to do was to annoy your man. Why? Cause you knew he'd destroy you the same night. You were never allowed to do things on your own, without his permission. Things such as touching him in public, deny his own touching, dress how you'd like without his approval, because he was really jealous of needy and hungry eyes that always wanted you. Everyone had envy for him, because you were the most beautiful model in your country, the agency itself was the best one, too. But tonight.. you decided to do.. everything that annoyed him and drove him insane. You first started with a.. really nice outfit, you'd say. It was halfway see-through, high heels and silver, bold jewelry completing the look. You were wearing two pieces, a short but flowy black skirt and a white, almost translucent shirt, an elegant one. Your hair was straightened, flowing beautifully on your bare back, as the shirt you were wearing only covered your chest. A silver chain was connecting two pieces of fabric on your back, making you flinch with every slight touch, because of the sheer coldness.

"Darling.. did I ever approve of... this outfit?" Yunho whispered, one of his hands going on your thigh. You tried to deny his touch, moving his hand away, but he only dug his nails deeper into your leg. You flinched, looking at him in the eyes, with an almost innocent look.

"Oh babe... don't you like it? Damn.. I thought it looked really nice" you said sheepishly, smiling at him.

"I didn't say I don't like it but... didn't we agree that these types of visible outfits are... only for me to see, hm?" he whispered and approached your neck with his lips, slightly biting it.

"Babe.. there's people around us. What would they think of you, seeing you kissing me like that?" you said, trying to get a reaction out of him but to your surprise, he remained calm and content, biting you harder.

"Do I look like I give a fuck? You did it to yourself, love. This is the first strike of tonight.. be careful for the rest of the time. I don't feel like destroying your beautiful body when we get back in the room." Yunho said, going in for a soft kiss on your lips.

"We'll see about that, babe." you said and got up from your seat, searching with your eyes the champagne bar.

Someone came behind your back. Of course, it was Yunho, all touchy on your bare waist, as the shirt you were wearing was pretty.. short.

"Babe.. I almost forgot" he mumbled.

"What did I tell you about denying my hand, hm?" his hands hovering your back, one of them on your ass and one on the nape of your neck, slightly squeezing it. "Hm? what did I tell you, mind sharing me your reason?"

"You told me that I should... never move your hand away from myself.." you said turning around to face him. "But... what's entirely wrong with it.. pretty boy? Don't you like it when I tease you..?" you said and gave him a kiss, your hands traveling from his neck to his collarbones, then from his chest to his belt, tugging at it for a second.

"This is.." he whispered. "Strike two.. my love." One more and we're out of here.. remember the rule?" he squeezed your ass, looking right into your eyes, seeing how eager you were to fuck him right there.

Several minutes pass and you were back to your table, sitting next to each other. He effortlessly pulled your seat closer to his, making you gulp at his power and speed. Looking him in the eyes you started being all touchy with him. Started from his hands, feeling up his slender and long fingers, then to his biceps. You stayed like that for a long minute, with your head resting on his shoulder, then one of your hands went straight for his crotch, no warning.

"Yunho, everything good? Why did you flinch, is it too cold here?" Seonghwa asked, confused.

"Ah yes, everything is fine, don't worry about it" he said smiling, squeezing your thigh, his hand going to your pussy, rubbing circles through your panties from under your skirt.

"Babe... that's strike three, if you ask me." he said and patted you on your thigh, to make you look at him. He then looked around for the exit doors and excused himself, taking your hand into his.

"Joong, we'll be back, I need to take care of something at the agency" Yunho said and then dragged you out.

And as the two of you got out the doors, there was a long empty hall, no one was there. He slammed you to the wall, one of his hands on your throat and one lifting you up. He was going towards the elevator.

"Nh- babe, where are we going? you said through the kisses.

"Just upstairs, I reserved a room for us right here. I didn't think we'd need it but... you wanted to be a little slut so it serves us good. Aren't you my little whore, hm? All down for me, I saw you eye fucking me when you were getting champagne. You wanted me to fuck you dumb tonight, mm? he said while going in the elevator.

"What did you want me to do babe, hm? Did you miss my slaps and my cuffs? You little slut, you'll see what will happen if you're being a brat with me again" and right as he said this, he held you close as he opened the door with the keycard. He closed it and he dropped you on your bed.

Some meters from the king sized bed there was a small bag, and you knew so well what there was... cuffs, blindfolds, ropes.. everything you could think of as a sub. And yes.. the relationship between you and your husband, in private, was a dom/sub one. You found out that you were both into bdsm a while ago, when Yunho didn't resist anymore and tried something new on you. You loved it and... it became a really often practice.

"Love, spread out, now." he said as he went back to get something from the bag.

You were still dressed and he was too. But you could feel yourself leaking right on the bed. You knew you left a wet spot on the dark sheets, something that turned your man on even more.

"Told you to spread the fuck out, you brat. When did you get so naughty, hm? Want me to put you in your place? he said as he spread your legs out, tying them to the bed frame. You still had your clothes on, but the skirt was lifted up and the blouse was all messed up. He ripped of your panties and threw them on the floor.

You tried to say something but didn't have time to react. He went back to the bag and took out some cuffs, then got on the bed, his crotch, still dressed, rubbing on your folds. You could feel his bulge getting bigger, his pants getting thighter as he went further to tie your hands to the headboard.

"For all of what you did tonight.. babe, you'll get punished, you know that, right? he said as he hovered his hand over your throat and collarbones. "Stay still, I'll tie a sheer blindfold to your eyes. I want you to still be able to distinguish how I destroy your little and pretty pussy."

"Yuyu.. please. Fuck me." you pleaded, trying to look him in the eyes. Whenever he tied a blindfold on your eyes.. it turned you on so bad. You couldn't properly see what was happening nor what he was doing, preparing what to do to you.. but it was thrilling.

"Hmm... what should I start with.. pretty slut, mm? Should I just edge you until you can't take it anymore and cum out of overstimulation and exhaustion, should I make you cry and not let you cum the whole night? Should I.... fuck you and deny your orgasm how you denied my hand? Tell me, sweetheart. I need words, not muffled sounds." he confidently said, giving you a smirk and his right hand going right to your blouse, easily unbuttoning it and throwing it away on the floor.

He hastly gets rid of your bra, his groping entirely unhelpful. Large hands, slender fingers roaming your body, sliding over your nipples, pressing and nibbling at them, cupping your breasts and hoisting your legs up and around his waist. Him, still clothed, you.. only with your skirt on, if that's even important.

"Fuck, Yuyu —" you gasp when he sucks a dark bruise into the skin of your neck, while one of his hands went to his shirt. He slowly unbuttoned it, then went for his pants. He undid them halfway and pushed towards you, getting a soft moan out of your slowly rising chest, heavy breathing from all the manhandling he did on you. He was taking his time. He absolutely loved seeing you begging for his cock, squirming and moving against his crotch in wish of friction. But.. Yunho left all his patience at the door.

"Babe, how did you get me this mad, hm? Did you even think about the consequences, you little slut? If that's what you wanted.. I'll destroy you, sweetheart."

Two of his fingers trace your hole before sinking into you, curling to find the right spot. All you can do is arch your back, your moans and cries soon muffled by one of his hands, as he chokes you.

"Is this what you wanted? rile me up so I'd fuck you hard tonight? all you needed to do is ask, sweetie." Yunho said, curling his fingers right into your sweet spot, receiving some loud moans from you.

You could ask and he'd give you the moon if he could. But he was a completely different person in bed. There's something about him taking you like this, almost feral, that makes your toes curl.. could it be his fingers and how he curls them in you so good that he makes you shiver and cum, maybe squirt all over the place? would it be... his cock and how deep you feel it in you, scared that he might destroy your insides?

He fucks his fingers into you sloppily, scissoring you open with little to no care if it hurts or not. It was clear that he only had one goal in sight, and that being stretching you out just enough to be able to take his cock.

It only takes a few more strokes before he's satisfied, the blunt head of his dick prodding at your entrance, getting loud whimpers from you.

"Use the safe word if it's too much" he said and started pounding into you, making your hands rocket to the headboard, holding on for dear life. It's the only warning he gives you but.. it's enough to get an understanding on how pissed he was. He was holding so thight onto your thighs, them around his waist, that you knew you'd have bruises the next day.

"So fucking tiny" he grunts as he watches you struggle to adjust to his size "Such a whore for my cock, mhm? You take it so well... even if it destroys you. Be my cumslut, won't you? I'll edge you until you can't take it anymore."

"Y-yunho !" you shouted as he used a vibrator on your clit, arching your back at the sensation. The puffed bud he was stimulating made you feel like you'd already come, but something else happend. Your walls clenched on his cock, receiving a low grunt and as he slowed down his thrusts, he watched you contently at how you squirted all over him and the bed.

"Oh wow, already? Lucky this is the only thing I'm letting you do, you little slut" he said as he thrusted even deeper, harder, sloppier into you.

"Babe, n-no don't do th-that I might c-cum" you said as he was giving you another round of circles on your clit, feeling how overstimulated you were.

"Nope, I won't let you" he said as he stopped, pulling out of you, your hole clenching on nothing.

He started rubbing his length lazily, looking at you squirming right in front of him. You wanted to be fucked dumb, until you couldn't walk anymore. But that wasn't his plan for tonight.

"Let's make a deal. If you make me cum only with your mouth, no hands and no sucking. Just touching, licking and nibbling, I'll let you cum. Otherwise, you'll get slapped and fucked... not in your little aching pussy, but deep down in your cute and red ass, until you cry. What do you say, babe, a pretty good deal, I'd say?" he said as he uncuffed your hands, lifting you on your knees.

The thing is... you weren't quite.. on your knees. You were spread out, your aching hole rubbing on the wet and sloppy linen underneath you. You started humping it slowly, not knowing if you were allowed to, but he somehow didn't mind it. He knew you weren't able to cum only from humping on a cloth so he let you do your thing.

"Now.. be my little cumslut and get on licking." he said guiding your head to his dick, throbbing on your lips. You had your hands cuffed at your back, not being able to move them. You started kissing, nibling at the tip, getting some nice groans out of him. Then you started licking the slit, putting pressure with your tongue and licking his length all down to the base of it. The circles you always make on the tip get him from being silent to being louder, as the sloppy sounds of your tongue turns him on more.

"Yes, just like that, sweetie. A liiiittle bit more and you're getting me closer."

You started nibbling, almost like sucking on his tip.

"Yuh, mhm. Go on, make me cum, you little whore" he said as his breath started getting faster, heavier, your licks getting sloppier as he tried so hard not to cum but... you did the deal. He came all over your face, as you were not allowed to suck it.

"Good girl, such a good girl you are" he said as he wiped off his load from your face with one hand and with the other one opening your mouth, his thumb on your bottom lip. He let his cum drip onto your tongue, signaling you by raising his brows to swallow. You did as he wanted, soon sucking his fingers to get every drop of his load.

"Y'know babe.. I kinda changed my mind in between your little nibbles." he said as he turned you over, on your belly, one of his hands on the back of your throat. "You're gonna take me so well, I will make sure of it." he said as two of his fingers went in your other hole, no warnings. You moaned at the feeling of his fingers curling up inside you. The same as before, his goal was to make your hole be able to engulf his length, but this time his goal was to bottom down entirely.

"Thought you could just leave me like that?" he wraps a hand around your waist, the other one on your neck, "leave me high and dry without any repercussions? You're lucky I'll keep my promise and let you cum so... cum, you little slut." as he started pounding heavily and deeply into you.

The hand he had on your waist goes to your pussy, curling them inside you and rubbing your clit.

You shake your head at his words, the coil in your tummy tightening with every word he hisses into your ear, wetness dripping down his balls and coating them as he pounds into your ass.

Yunho could feel you clenching around his cock, knows you're close by the familiar rhythm and your muffled whines rising in pitch. He removes his thight hold on your neck, letting you turn your head around, gasping for air.

"'m so close, fuck, yunho, gonna cum —"

Your entire body tenses then slumps down against the mattress, only held up by his strong arm around your waist. Yunho fucks you through your orgasm, through the oversensitivity and the chants of your little whimpers and words.

"too much, 's too much, please, s-stop" but you never use your safe word. You whine and you cry until your limp body is pushed over the edge again, eyes rolling back while you cream his cock, the 2nd time in a short time.

"c-can't," you whimper weakly, "please cum, please — Yunho, please-"

You're begging him so sweetly, voice cracking and body at his mercy. Yunho's hips stutter and his load spills deep inside of you. Your knees buckle under his waist and you whine when the two of you stumble back, his arms wrapped around your chest, all touchy on your breasts.

"You're gonna take my cum all, you little whore. Remember what I said, being my cumslut? Now, take it" he said as he continued pounding into you, getting you over the edge. He didn't lie when he said he'd destroy you, your knees trembling as he closed the gap between the two of you. He then pulled out, pumping his length and his other hand going to your clit over your thigh, sending you shivers down your spine as you squirt once again for the night, now your body being only handled by the hand he used on you.

"What a good whore I have, mm" he mumbled as he came on your back, slowing down his pumps as he slowly puts you down on the mattress.

"See babe? What happens if you're a fucking brat?" he said as he undid the blindfold, looking at your teary eyes.

"What, by the look you have, you want more, you little slut? Is that right?" he said as he slapped your ass.

"Don't worry, I wasn't even close to being done tonight, turn around, I want you to see me fucking you this time."

#ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #smut fic #ateez fic #ateez #ateez smut #ateez x y/n #fanfic #smut #yunho x y/n #yunho x reader #ateez yunho #yunho smut #bd/sm kink #bd/sm brat #dom/sub #cumslvt #whor3 #so hot 🔥🔥🔥

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weirdkpopgirl · 5 months ago

Text

Type of Boyfriends | Dream Headcanon #15

Headcanon: Type of Boyfriends

Genre: Fluff, a little angsty in some parts

Warnings: light mentions of anxiety and feeling insecure

Word Count: ~2.7k

Author's Note: I was actually planning on writing something for Haechan today. But I had the content for this headcanon pre-planned for quite some time now, so I just thought it would be good to actually write it. Also, I haven't been making a lot of group posts lately—so this is me making up for it lol. I know this idea isn't super original, but I wanted to make my version of it. I'm sorry if the scenarios are written badly, but I still thank you for reading ^ ^

~ ~ ~

mark

Mark is the type of boyfriend who feels like your best friend but with the added warmth of kisses and hugs. He loves taking you on spontaneous midnight drives, where carpool karaoke becomes your shared stage, belting out your favorite tunes together. Music is a big part of your relationship, with shared Spotify playlists that reflect your combined tastes and moments. Whenever you’re feeling down, he grabs his guitar and serenades you with Bruno Mars or Day6 songs, lifting your spirits with his husky yet gentle voice. He’s also the type of boyfriend who writes songs about you, with lyrics so touching they bring you to tears.

He’s the type of boyfriend who attempts to cook for you but ultimately results in a comedy of errors. But they always end in laughter as you step in to save the kitchen from further disaster. His cooking skills would likely improve over time, with your guidance. You’d patiently be teaching him the proper way to cut vegetables or how much seasoning should be put in a dish. But he’s the type of boyfriend to lose focus because he keeps getting distracted by how pretty you look. And then you’d blush profusely when you caught his gaze and scold him for not listening.

He’s the type of boyfriend to give you bone-crushing hugs whenever he finds something you did cute. He especially does this when you get annoyed at him for something, finding the furrow of your brows and pouty lips to be so adorable. He’s the type to go in for long kisses after being away from you for a long time. His career often keeps him away, leaving him longing for the moments he can be with you. He’s the type of boyfriend to give kisses that are so warm and tender, filled with a depth of emotion that speaks volumes about how much he cherishes you. Each kiss feels like a promise, a reassurance that no matter how far apart you are, his heart is always with you.

He’s the type of boyfriend who would geek out with you over shared interests, like Spiderman. Whether it's discussing the latest movie or comic book, these moments of shared enthusiasm bring you even closer. He’s the type of boyfriend who would watch k-dramas with you and enjoy ranting with you about the characters. These shared experiences, filled with laughter, debates, and discussions deepen your bond and create fond memories to look back on.

All in all, Mark is the type of boyfriend who is a unique blend of friendship, romance, and genuine affection that makes him the perfect partner, someone who brings joy, music, and a sense of adventure into your life.

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renjun

Renjun is the type of boyfriend to be motherly at times with how attentive and caring he is. He’s always looking after you in subtle ways, like telling you the weather beforehand so you know to wear a jacket before your date. When you share your insecurities with him, he responds by creating beautiful paintings or drawings of you, turning your worries into art. He's also the type to blush when you compliment him but cleverly turns the praise back on you, making you feel just as flustered.

He’s the type of boyfriend who loves planning and sharing things with you, like maintaining a shared Pinterest board of matching couple outfits you both should try. He’s the type to enjoy doing your skincare routines together during sleepovers, transforming these moments into intimate bonding experiences. He has a great sense of style and is the type of boyfriend who helps put together your outfits, and even learns how to style your hair to make sure you feel confident and beautiful. He’s also the type of boyfriend to patiently untangle your earphones when you get frustrated trying to do it yourself.

He’s the type of boyfriend to be deeply empathetic and share his concerns with you, valuing open communication in your relationship. He’s not afraid to show his emotions, and he tears up when he hears about your hard times, feeling your pain as his own. His thoughtful nature ensures you always feel understood and supported. When he’s the one dealing with hardships, he appreciates you just being there to hug him and talk him through his thoughts. No matter what’s troubling him, your presence alone makes him feel a little better.

He’s the type of boyfriend who may not be as physically affectionate as the other members. Though he doesn't kiss you often, it’s always behind closed doors when he does. Similar to Mark, he’s the type of boyfriend whose kisses are long, deep, and sincere, filled with unspoken affection and love. But he’s also the type of boyfriend to surprise you with pecks to the lips when he finds you cute.

Ultimately, Renjun is the type of boyfriend who truly cares for you in every way, creating a relationship built on mutual respect, understanding, and deep emotional connection. He doesn’t need to say anything for you to know how much he loves you, you can just feel it whenever you look at him.

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Jeno is the type of boyfriend who is the perfect balance between a strong, masculine presence and a soft, affectionate soul in your relationship. He’s the type to exude a protective aura that envelops you where you go. When you're out together, his hand naturally finds its place on your back or waist, ensuring your safety and comfort. He's attentive to small details like positioning you on his left side, away from the street, and readily offering his jacket when the weather turns chilly. These gestures not only showcase his protective instincts but also his possessive side, reminding you and others that you’re his.

He’s the type of boyfriend to keep you on your toes with how affectionate he can be. You never truly know what to expect from him. Sometimes, he surprises you with kisses so deeply passionate that they leave you breathless. Yet, in quieter moments, he transforms into a cuddly sweetheart, speaking in an endearing aegyo voice that melts your heart. His spontaneity and ability to switch between these sides of himself add excitement and tenderness to your relationship.

He’s the type of boyfriend who enjoys taking you on hiking dates, emphasizing how it’s good for your health. However, if you get tired by the end of it, he's quick to offer you a piggyback ride on the journey back, effortlessly blending his strength with his nurturing nature. He’s also the type of boyfriend to surprise you by cleaning the apartment and preparing a warm meal for you after a long day of school or work. His thoughtfulness shines through in these acts of service, making you feel cherished and loved in practical ways.

He’s the type of boyfriend to be a compassionate listener who values your thoughts and feelings deeply. When you share your concerns or discuss something that's bothering you, he listens intently, his touch gentle as he traces comforting patterns on your hand. His ability to offer silent support and understanding strengthens your bond, creating a safe space where you can be vulnerable and open with each other.

In essence, Jeno is the type of boyfriend who is a partner that fills your life with love and security. Being with him will make you feel like you’re stuck in the honeymoon phase forever.

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haechan

Haechan is the type of boyfriend who thrives on affection, often expressing his neediness in the sweetest ways. He’s the type to never let you leave without a goodbye kiss, ensuring every parting moment is filled with warmth and connection. Whether in public or private, he shamelessly snuggles into you, finding comfort and security in your presence. He is the type to be playfully insistent on using pet names like "baby," "sunflower," or "handsome." He brightens up when you call him by his nickname "Hyuck," revealing his softer, more vulnerable side that's reserved just for you.

He’s the type of boyfriend to enjoy teasing and banter, but knows when to set aside the jokes and be serious, especially when it matters the most to you. He’s the type to notice if something is upsetting you, even in a group of people. And he’d go out of his way to check on you to make sure everything was okay. He’s also the type of boyfriend to playfully beg you to cook his favorite dishes like kimchi jjigae, which you almost always give in to.

He’s the type of boyfriend who includes you in his world, whether it’s letting you sit in his lap while he games on his PC or charming you with aegyo when he wants a kiss. Even during your toughest moments, his infectious humor never fails to make you laugh or smile. But on a more serious side, he’s the type of boyfriend who gets overwhelmed by how strong his feelings are for you. Just thinking about how much he loves you is enough to make him tear up.

At the end of the day, Haechan is the type of boyfriend who is not afraid to be playful, and affectionate, and show how deep his feelings are for you. His ability to balance lighthearted moments with genuine sincerity makes every day with him an adventure filled with laughter, love, and heartfelt connections.

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jaemin

Jaemin is the type of boyfriend who is a walking green flag, embodying all the qualities of a loving and considerate partner. He never holds back his affection, constantly showering you with hugs and kisses, and always maintaining some form of physical connection, whether it’s hand-holding or resting a hand on your knee. He’s the type of boyfriend to send daily texts to check up on you if he’s at work, showing his continuous care and concern for your well-being. He’s also the type to scold you for skipping meals or getting sick, even when he does the same sometimes.

He’s the type of boyfriend to shamelessly flirt with you, making you blush with his playful comments and cheeky smirks when he catches you staring at him from across the room. He’s the type to talk about your future together during cuddle sessions, sharing your dreams of getting married and having kids. Beyond physical touches and sweet words, he’s the type of boyfriend who loves to cook for you whenever he can, and he gets equally happy when you cook for him, appreciating every gesture of care you show.

He’s the type of boyfriend who is generally easygoing, though he has his moments of jealousy. He gets laughably envious when you give more attention to his cats than him or when you rave about how Jeno looked on stage. These moments of jealousy are never overbearing but rather endearing, showing how much he values your attention and affection. And he loves that you always reassure him that your heart belongs to him.

He’s the type of boyfriend to take countless photos of you on your dates. Even if you don’t love having your photo taken, he just can’t resist capturing your beauty. Besides, he insists it's for the memories to look back on when you two are old and fray. He’s the type to have his phone gallery filled with pictures of you, and he proudly shows them to his members from time to time. While you could point out all your flaws in one picture, Jaemin never even looked at them. No matter how insecure you might be, he’s the type of boyfriend to make you feel pretty.

Simply put, Jaemin is the type of boyfriend who is practically perfect with his unwavering support and daily reminders of his love. Being in a relationship with him is nurturing, fun, and filled with dreams for the future.

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chenle

Chenle is the type of boyfriend who can be really annoying at times, but you can’t help but love him for it. He loves to joke around and make you laugh, especially when you're feeling down. When he does something that annoys you, he’s quick to make it up with a lot of hugs, using affection to win you over. Most of the time, you end up giving into his silliness and laughing with him.

He’s the type of boyfriend to buy gifts for you quite often, something you kind of had to get used to. He’s the type to surprise you with things he’s seen you admiring online or at a store. Even if you scold him for not saving his money or spending it more wisely, Chenle insists that as your boyfriend, it’s part of his job to spoil you.

He’s also the type of boyfriend to share his passions with you, whether it’s taking you to see a Warrior’s game or having you watch and cheer him on as he plays basketball. His excitement for these activities becomes even more meaningful when you join in, creating shared experiences that deepen your bond. He’s also the type of boyfriend who enjoys traveling and exploring new places with you. He loves taking you out, whether it’s to explore the rural areas of Korea to eat gukbap or book a surprise trip to Shanghai. His spontaneous nature keeps your relationship exciting and full of adventure, with each trip creating cherished memories.

He’s the type of boyfriend who regularly gushes to you about how cute the members are, but gets all shy when you also call him cute. He’s also the type to feel a little betrayed when his dog, Daegal, likes you more than him. However, he can never be sulky for long because he can’t really blame her. And he admires how you always make sure his daughter runs back into his arms.

Altogether, Chenle is the type of boyfriend to keep your life vibrant and full of love with his playfulness, generosity, and genuine care. Although he drives you crazy at times, he teaches you how to have fun and live in the present.

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jisung

Jisung is the type of boyfriend who is super shy in the beginning but gradually becomes more comfortable and open with time. He’s the type to hide behind your back or bury his face in your shirt when he gets embarrassed about something. He’s the type of boyfriend who also loves being taller than you, not in a teasing way, but because it makes him feel more protective. He secretly loves it when you compare the size of your hands, although he blushes every time you do it.

He’s the type of boyfriend to ramble about his curiosity and interests to you. He enjoys talking about the wonders of space and aliens, letting you into his fascinating world of thoughts. He also loves talking about things like MBTI with you and finds joy in learning about yourselves together. Sometimes, he even rants about his debates with Chenle, showcasing his playful and thoughtful side.

He’s also the type of boyfriend to have a lot of serious conversations with you, usually reserved for late nights. He’s the type to lay his head in your lap as he shares what is on his mind. The gentle stroking of your fingers through his hair helps him feel calm and at ease. Sometimes he doesn't even need to say anything, for your open arms provide all the comfort he needs. He’s the type of boyfriend who loves when you hug him, often calming down when anxious thoughts run through his head. Cuddles are even better, especially when you get to fall asleep in each other’s arms, feeling completely safe and loved.

He’s the type of boyfriend who can be quite sentimental, especially when he’s on tour. He misses you deeply and has been known to cry when he thinks about how much he misses you. These moments highlight his deep emotional connection and attachment to you. He’s also the type to feel incredibly touched when you do simple things like cooking for him or surprising him with bunggeobang on a cold day, appreciating the warmth and love you bring into his life.

Over time, Jisung is the type of boyfriend you can build a deep, emotionally mature relationship. Even if he might be the youngest in his group, his maturity shines when he’s with you. He evolves into a loving and thoughtful boyfriend who cherishes every moment with you.

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previous masterlist -> current masterlist

#nct dream #nctzen #kpop #czennie #nct dream imagines #nct dream fluff #nct dream scenarios #nct dream headcanons #nct dream x reader #7dream #7dream headcanons #7dream scenarios #mark #renjun #jeno #haechan #jaemin #chenle #jisung

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pandora-writes-one-piece · 29 days ago

Note

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!! 🥳🎈🎂🎁

“What if I kissed you right now? Would you stop me?" with Kid (fem!reader, NSFW) pretty please? <3

Hello, anon! Thank you for the birthday wishes (it feels weird still thanking birthday wishes when it's been more than a month!). Thank you so much for your request, it turned out to be one of my favourites! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writting it!

Art: Here; Artist: @wesaier (pleeeease follow, such amazing art!)

Reverence 🔞

Word Count: 6302

Tags: Fem!Reader; Alternate Universe - Modern Setting; Kid has both arms; Posessive!Kid; Soft!Kid; Reverent!Kid; Fluff and Romance; Love Confessions; Body Worship; Just Worship in general; NSFW; MDNI; Fingering; Vaginal Penetration; Oops, no protection (wrap it up, peeps);

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Summary: You and Kid are neighbours and very good friends. You flirt a lot, all in good fun, obviously, and he makes fun of every single one of your loser dates. When the last date goes south and you call Kid for help, will your relationship blosom into something else?

|Masterlist|

The clock’s nearly at the hour, but you're almost ready anyway, just some finishing touches on your hair and makeup, and you'll be done. “I look hot.” You say as a pep talk to your reflection and do a little twirl. Hot dress, nice makeup, perfect hair, you're ready for a nice date in town.

And you're more than ready for it to end up with a nice, hot lay. Third-date rule be damned to hell. You've been in the longest dry spell since forever, and your toys aren't quite cutting it at the moment, but the dating scene isn't really offering the best choice of male specimens around. Maybe this time you'll get lucky.

Just as the clock turns to the hour, the doorbell rings. You give yourself one last nod before heading out of the bathroom and opening the door with a bright smile. One that immediately falls at the sight that greets you.

“Kid?”

“Well, well, well. Look at ye, all dolled up for a night in town? Another one of yer charity cases ye insist on callin’ dates?”

A twitch of a smile tugs at the corner of your lips, but you don't fully smile, instead you cock your head to the side and place a hand on your hip. “Hey, at least I get out of the house, you big hermit.”

You’ve known Kid for almost a year, since you moved into the building. He looks menacing and gruff with all his ear piercings, huge size, and spiky red hair, but you suspect he's a big softie on the inside. You and he flirt and banter like there's no tomorrow and, admittedly, he's been the star of a few of your fantasies, but neither of you has decided to take things further. Perhaps because living in the same building has every chance of making it awkward if things go wrong. Still, you're good friends.

He owns a mechanic’s garage and has saved your ass more times than you can count. Be it because of car troubles, leaking faucets, or visiting snakes - yes, that’s happened. He’s always there for you, and he’s the first person you go to when you’re in trouble. You have thought of him with more fondness than you would for a normal friend, but just like you two never pushed the limits of your friendship for sex, you wouldn’t even consider bending them for romantic involvement.

“What are ye yappin’ about? I just got in! Been working till now.”

He moves past you and makes himself comfortable on your couch, manspreading while you search around for the perfect pair of heels to complement your dress.

“All work and no play, Kid? No wonder you're no fun. Hey, do these work?” You strut around in the highest pair of heels you own, ones that make your legs go on for days. Kid's eyes follow you around as he focuses on your shoes, then his eyes follow your legs, bum - you give him a few poses so he can judge - chest, and finally settles on your face. His eyes seem darker, and there's no hint of his usual smirk on his lips.

Clearing his throat, he averts his gaze with just the barest flush on his cheeks. “They work alright. Maybe too good.” He mutters. “Who’s the asshole?” Kid checks his watch and grins. “He's already ten minutes late, are you sure he's worth it? Don't even put up the effort.”

“Maybe he got lost?” You try, with a heavy sigh. It’s a setup date. A work friend's cousin or something like that. He's hot, and today that's all that really matters.

“Aye, aye. Ye do know how to pick’em. Ye always choose the random losers to go out on dates.” He lets out a loud, barking laugh. “I told ye before, I’ll say it again: ye don’t need to leave the building if ye want company. I’m right here, lass.”

His cocky smirk is endearing, and that familiar warmth that comes from his flirting and all the attention he spares you always manages to make you smile like a silly little girl, but just before you manage to answer him, the doorbell rings again

“Oh, it's him. Kid, get out.” Kid sighs and gets up, standing behind you with an intimidating stance as you open the door. “Hi! I was afraid you weren't going to show up.” You try to lighten the mood with a small giggle, and Kid mutters something behind you. Your date smiles widely, barely notices Kid, and openly stares at you, taking you in head to toe.

“Well, the photo my cousin showed does not do you justice. Had I known, I would've come faster.” Oh, God. Is he really going to be just another asshole? You can already feel it.

Kid growls behind you and steps out of your apartment, making sure your date acknowledges his presence now, but you continue speaking, trying to defuse the situation. “This is my friend, Kid. He was just leaving.” You emphasise the last words and raise your brows at Kid, who merely grunts. “Shall we go?”

“Oi, lass, better take a coat, no?” Kid’s scowl deepens as he gives you another once-over, clearly catching all the ogling your date is giving you.

“Don't worry, friend, I'll make sure she stays warm.”

And before Kid says - or does - anything to your date before it even has the chance to start, you push him down the hallway so he can go to his house. “Bye, Kid. Don't wait up.”

-*-

The date sucks. Your date is obnoxious, self-centred, arrogant, and a downright prick. By dessert, you're dying to go home. His conversations are dull, and he barely lets you speak, instead filling every opportunity with something remarkable about himself.

Plus, he makes you split the bill.

When you make it outside the restaurant, he sets his hand on your lower back, and you warm a bit, thinking he's about to pull you close and trade places with you, obeying the sidewalk rule like a gentleman. Instead, the prick gropes your ass.

“Can you just take me home?” You grunt, clearly over this date, so he leads you to his car.

-*-

Kid keeps tossing and turning in his bed. He needs to sleep. He has to get up early in the morning. But you're still not home. He doesn't mean to pry, but he always hears the soft clicks of your heels in the hallway and the setting of your lock in place when you enter your home. Only when he hears those sounds can he rest at ease. If not, he keeps wondering if you're alright, if you're hurt, if your prick of a date tried something, or worse… if you actually liked him and he's going to have to get used to seeing you with some other man who’s not him.

A heavy sigh parts his lips, and he's wondering if he'll be able to get up in the morning if he indulges in a few glasses of scotch. He's considering taking his chances when his phone rings. It's you. Kid’s heart skips a beat, his head immediately considering all the possible wrong things that may have happened as he presses the green button to take your call.

“Lass?”

“Kid, thank God you're awake. My date's car broke down. Can you come and… fix it?”

What the fuck?

“No! It's almost midnight, I'm not going there to fix his car so ye two can get laid. Grab a cab!”

He's actually pissed you called just for that. Like he gives two shits about helping the asshole get laid. With you!

“Kid… please, can you come?” Except there's something else in your voice, a vulnerability he's never heard before, almost as if you're scared of something, on edge.

Has the bastard done something to you?

“Send me yer location. Now.” He gets dressed in the blink of an eye, packing his pocket knife before leaving the house.

-*-

You're so cold. No, that's putting it lightly, it literally feels like you're stranded in the North Pole. You should've just brought a jacket like Kid said. But then again, how could you have guessed you'd be standing in the gusting wind with nothing but your skimpy dress on? You were supposed to be inside a restaurant, then the car, and then, if everything went well, your house and your bed.

But now, your date is inside the car with a bloody - probably broken - nose, cursing you, and you're outside with your pepper spray ready in hand in case the asshole tries anything else.

After what feels like forever, you hear the loud rumbling of Kid's motorcycle and let out the biggest sigh of relief ever. Seconds later the headlights of his Harley Davidson shine on the curb and he stops the bike in front of you. As soon as he steps out and removes his helmet, his usual scowl turns into a full frown, teeth baring as he glances from you, to your hand, and to your prick of a date. Without a word, he removes his leather jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, helping you pass your arms through the sleeves. While he's zipping it up, he growls. “What the fuck happened?”

Still shivering, you sigh into the warmth of the jacket, inhaling Kid's familiar scent: metal, gasoline, and something musky that feels like home. Then you shrug and pout. “He got handsy. I don't like liberties, so I punched him.”

You can see Kid fighting off an amused smirk. “Ye broke his nose?”

“Just a little.” You whine.

Kid looks at you, chin up and a full smirk on his lips now. Then he pats your head. “That's my girl.”

Just on cue, the asshole opens up his car door, and Kid grins at the sight. The prick’s eyes are already darkening with bruises, his nose looks crooked, and there are blood splatters all over him.

“You the mechanic? Figured.” He scoffs. “Fix my car, then! I want to get out of here and away from that crazy bitch.”

You flinch and shake your head. That was a wrong move. If he thinks you're crazy, he's about to get a dose of Eustass Kid he won't forget.

“Kid, there’s no need to hurt him anymore. I don’t want him to call the cops.”

Kid chuckles low, reaches into his pocket, and takes out his trusted pocket knife, twirling it in his hand like a toy. “Listen here, buddy.” Kid pins the man to his car with a mere look. The poor bloke nearly trips over his feet just to gain some distance. “When ye get home tonight, yer going to say a little prayer to whatever angel’s watchin’ over you, because if the lady - not a crazy bitch, ye asshole - didn't tell me not to hurt ye, ye’d leave here with a lot more than just a broken nose.” Kid laughs some more as he pulls back. “But I'll fix yer car, I'll fix it up real good.”

Popping the hood open, Kid starts cutting wires with his knife. You don't know shit about mechanics, but you’re pretty sure that cutting those wires isn’t going to make the car start.

“Hey, hey! What are you doing? You're not fixing it!”

“No?” Kid closes the hood, drags the pocket knife along the side of the car, and slashes two tires. “Oops. Maybe I'm just not a very good mechanic.” Kid rounds the car and slashes the other two tires, stopping in front of the prick again. “But I'm not that bad. I'm goin’ to give ya two options, ye arse. One, ye stay in yer car ‘till mornin’ and try to get a tow to collect this piece of junk. Two, ye start walkin’ and pray you reach town by mornin’.”

“What?” The man asks, eyes wide and scared.

“Oh, the important part. I'll be callin’ every shop around so they can refuse ye service, but they only open in the mornin’. So if ye want yer car fixed, better start walkin’ and pray ye reach a shop before I call ‘em.”

“But, but… we're in the middle of nowhere! It'll take all night to get to town!” He whines, a trickle of blood still dripping from his crooked nose. “And I'm hurt!”

Kid leans in, his scowling face almost on top of the asshole, and you revel at the way he cowers in fear. “Should've thought of that before ye groped a feel, aye, bastard?” Then Kid pulls his fist back, and the man screams, but Kid just laughs at his cowardice, turns his back to him, and pockets his knife. “I'd start walkin’ if I were ye.”

You smirk as you hear the car lock and watch your failed date’s retreating form.

“Thanks, Kid.” Your words are a mere mumble. You don't really want to admit that you should've just stayed home, like Kid told you to. But he merely grunts as he walks to his bike, plucking his helmet from the handlebars and placing it over your head with a soft pat.

“Aye, lass.” His thick fingers reach beneath the helmet, grazing your skin as he fastens the strap tightly to fit your smaller head. The fierceness of his bronze gaze as he stares through the open visor makes you shiver for reasons that have nothing to do with the cold. With another grunt and a muffled curse, he hooks two fingers under the helmet and pulls you close, making you stumble and face him with wide-open eyes. “No more asshole dates. Got it?” His gaze burns into yours, and you nod just before he slams your visor down and lets go of the helmet. “Let's get out of here.”

As soon as he turns on the bike, revving the engine, you feel hot tears stream down your cheeks. You were acting tough and badass, but things could've gone terribly wrong tonight. You could've frozen instead of punching him; he could've manhandled you and forced you into whatever he wanted; instead of a bruised up ego, you could've ended up much worse. Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, you can’t seem to keep the tears away.

No one will see you cry anyway.

So you wrap your arms tight around Kid, your knees pressing into his sides as you fix your feet on the pegs. You're safe now. Kid has always brought you a sense of safety, even though you never really needed it before. That's why you called him tonight, not because he's a mechanic, but because you needed him. Not even to take care of the guy - you certainly did that - but just knowing he would come if you asked… that's everything.

The ride is long until you get home, so you can cry it all out now. He won't notice.

Except he does notice, because his big hand wraps around your knee, squeezing tightly and caressing it after. The soft gesture only makes you sob harder, so you hold him even tighter.

You notice his heavy scowl when he tilts his head back. “Ye alright there, lass?” You try to speak, but if you open your mouth, you know that you'll only sob, so you just squeeze him tighter. Kid grunts and, after a moment, he slows down the bike and turns onto a smaller road, driving you to a secluded clearing surrounded by trees.

As soon as the bike stops, you scramble to get off, unzip the jacket, leaving it open and fumble with the helmet strap, your fingers shaking like leaves. “Oi, oi, calm down, lass.” His fingers move swiftly as he helps you unstrap the helmet and sets it on the handlebars. “What's wrong?”

You shake your head, swallowing tears and wiping your face clean. Kid reaches out, hand in the air as he tries to cup your cheek, but you take a step back and bite your lower lip, stifling another sob. “I’m fine.” You mutter without meeting his gaze. Your voice wavers on the words, and you sound weak. “It’s nothing. I don’t need coddling.”

Kid scoffs slightly, his eyebrow raising as he takes a step back, giving you the space you clearly need. “Yer shakin’ like a damned leaf. Don’t need to act tough. It’s just me here.” The softness beneath his rough tone makes you want to cry harder, so you just nod. “Yer tough as steel, lass, I know that. But even steel gets bent now and then. And it's okay.”

Another tear escapes your eyes, and you swipe the sleeve of Kid’s jacket against your face, angrily, your shoulders squaring as you raise your chin, a humourless laugh escaping your lips, even though your eyes don’t meet his. “I guess I should’ve listened to you, huh? You kept telling me not to bother with random losers who don’t deserve me… and yet… I didn't listen.”

Your words carry all the weight of the world in them. Unspoken possibilities of ignored ‘what ifs’. If you had listened to Kid, would you feel less vulnerable? If you hadn’t dressed so provocatively, would the asshole still have tried something?

“Don’t go there, lass. Ye don’t gotta blame yerself for the actions of an arse.” His fingers inch forward, flexing and grasping at the air, like he wants to hold you or comfort you. Like he means to put your broken pieces back together so he can fix you. “Ye didn’t do anythin’ wrong.”

“But what if I did?” You ask, exasperated, arms stretching wide as a hiccup fights its way up your throat. “He said so himself: ‘why are you denying me when you’re dressed like a slut? It’s like you’re asking for it!’ So what if I was? Asking for it? What if I had dressed–..”

“No!” Kid walks forward, his hands cupping your face so you finally look at him. “Ye weren’t asking for anythin’. If he can’t keep it in his pants, that’s on him. Not ye.” Kid nearly growls, you can almost feel the anger seething through his pores. It’s almost as if he’s weighing getting back on the bike and finding your date to hurt him.

You step back, breaking contact again. “But what if I froze, Kid? What if I didn’t have it in me to punch him? To push him? It all happened so fast… I could’ve done something different, I–...”

“Ye did what ye had to do. Yer strong as fuck, and ye showed him that. I don’t think that nose is ever gonna heal straight.” Kid cocks his head and shoves your shoulder playfully, trying to distract you. “Ye got a mean hook.”

A semblance of a laugh leaves your lips, and you turn your hand into a fist, swinging it in the air. “Yeah, I know. I locked it all the way back like this, and then… Bam! Right on the nose!” You swing straight for Kid, trying to alleviate the tension.

He barks a laugh and grabs your wrist mid-air, stopping your swing. “So strong, lass. If I were a fly, I’d be dead right now.” You chuckle, and some of the dread from before leaves your chest. Kid’s eyes fall on your bruised knuckles, and they soften. “It was a shite situation ye were put in. It was not yer fault. There was nothin’ ye could’ve done different, got it?” He gently kisses your knuckles before caressing them with his thumb.

“I just… I… God, this is so stupid.” You let out a frustrated sigh. “I’m lonely, Kid. It’s stupid, and I know it. I don’t need a man to be fulfilled, but I am. I’m lonely.” Shaking your head, you remove your hand from his grip and hide your face in your hands.

“Lonely?” Kid repeats your words, his voice rougher again. “What do ye mean? Ye got me, aye?”

Your laugh strikes suddenly, mirthful at first, then simmering down to a resigned smile. “That’s what you said. You told me I didn’t even need to leave the building if I wanted company.”

He smirks and takes a step closer to you. “Exactly. But I didn’t mean it like ye don’t deserve the world, lass. I meant it like… like I can be the one to give ye that world, if ye let me.” His cheeks flush a bit red, his voice is still rough, but his eyes are filled with gentleness.

Your gaze meets his again, and you blink several times. He’s looking at you like nothing else matters in the world. Almost as if you and he are the only important thing happening right now and you have the distinct feeling that if there were a war raging around you, you would still be the only thing that mattered to him.

“Tell me, lass. What if I kissed ye right now, hm?” His hands grab yours, his calloused thumb tracing circles on your knuckles. “Would ye stop me?”

What?

Your chest heaves with heavy breaths as your heart hammers away. You don’t want to stop him at all. You want him. You’ve wanted him for a while, and your tired brain tells you that maybe that’s why none of your dates worked. Because, unconsciously, they were not the ones your heart and body craved.

Your eyes soften as you take another step closer to Kid. “Why don’t you give it a try?” The whispered words are a promise of compliance, and Kid lets out a shaky growl before leaning down and taking your lips in his. His hand finds your neck, and he entwines his fingers through your locks, his mouth claiming yours as his other hand finds your waist and pulls you closer.

You sigh into the kiss, clenching his shirt with your hands, moulding yourself into his body like he’s your lifeline. This is all you’ve ever wanted, and you can’t even begin to fathom why you thought this was crossing a line.

Breathless, you both pull back while Kid’s hands cup your cheeks, his gaze never leaving yours. “Kid… I want more.” You plead, your nails digging into his muscular chest.

“Ye sure, lass?” The roughness in his voice tells you he’s as overwhelmed as you are. “Because if I start, I’m not gonna want to stop.”

The words make your stomach flip, and you grin, grabbing his shirt and pulling him closer to you. “I don’t want you to stop.” Then his lips are on yours again. The kiss is more urgent, fiery, and hungry. His hands roam your sides, settling on your hips and pulling you impossibly closer. He pulls back a smidge, breaths still mingling as he kisses his way down your jawline, his hand settling on your neck and tilting it to the side for better access.

“All this time watchin’ ye leave the apartment to go on dates with losers.” Kid nibbles your neck and sucks, pulling a mewl from your lips. “Knowin’ they’d never treat ye right, like ye deserve. None of them knew what a gem ye are.” Another lick and bite on the curve of your neck makes you gasp and roll your eyes, your arms wandering up and holding Kid by his neck.

With a quick pull, Kid lifts you off the ground, and you wrap your legs around his waist, feeling your dress ride up with the action, not caring one bit. He backtracks you to the bike and sets you sideways on the seat. As you fix your stare on his fiery eyes, all you can see is hunger and devotion, and that sends a thrill through your spine.

“I only want you, Kid.” You pull him down again, allowing him to take your tongue in his with languid strokes of passion. His fingers trace your collarbone and slither beneath the jacket to your shoulders. With a tug, he pulls the jacket off, and you shimmy out of the fabric, leaving your arms bare for him to caress.

“Damn right. I know how to treat ye right. Ye’ll see. Fuckin’ losers. Night after night, agonisin’ when ye’d choose one to be yer boyfriend.” He growls near your ear, his fingers never stopping their silent worship on your body, lighting fires with each stroke and igniting a heat between your thighs that starts to demand attention. He pulls back for a moment, placing his thumb and forefinger on your chin, tilting it up so you can meet his eyes through the fog of desire that clouds them.

“Five.”

“What?” You ask, still dazed, your body tingling from all the kisses and touches he’s laying on you.

“I watched ye go out with five losers this month alone.” Five? You can barely remember three, that’s how unmemorable they were. Kid leans in, brushing your ear with his lips, his other hand travelling to your nipple and toying with it through the fabric, making you suck in a breath. “That’s how many times ye’ll come for me tonight, lass. To make sure ye forget those losers.”

Five times?

“Kid, I–...” You begin, but he cuts your rambling with another soul-shattering kiss, his hands plucking your breast from the confines of your skimpy dress and fully groping it. Instinctively, you buck your hips against him, trying to grind him or feel some friction, anything.

“Calm down, lass. We have plenty of time. I’m not gonna rush anythin’. I told ye, I’m gonna treat ye right.” He lowers his lips, tracing a line of kisses from your neck to your collarbone, and then he takes your nipple into his mouth, sucking and twirling it against his teeth, pulling a deep moan from your lips. “Fuck, ye sound better than I ever imagined.”

Kid lets go of you and climbs onto the seat of the bike. You’re about to turn to him, but he turns you around, making you face the handles of the bike, your back flush against his chest. Then he spreads your legs open, placing them over his thighs. You shiver when the cold wind hits your sensitive spot, your panties already soaked through. “Lean back, lass.”

Breathing faster and faster from anticipation, you melt against him, feeling his taut muscles ripple against your back. Your dress has ridden all the way to your hips, baring your legs to him and leaving you exposed. Kid uses one hand to tease your nipple while still kissing your neck and the curve of your shoulder. Then his other hand, traces the inside of your thigh, creeping closer to your core, making you gasp and hold your breath in want and need.

“Kid!” Your plea is evident, but you know he’s going to take his time with you. Everything about the situation has you on edge already. The powerful feel of his bike beneath you, his strong muscular frame enveloping you, his fingers hovering just near your entrance.

“So perfect, look at ye. See how well ye fit against me? Like ye were made just for me?” His fingers trace your slit over the panties, testing and teasing. “See? All wet and ready for what I have to give to ye. I can be all ye ever want, lass. Just let me.”

“Yes, Kid, please. I want you to.” His scent is intoxicating. It clings to you like a second skin, enveloping you in safety, warmth, and so much desire.

With a desperate grunt, Kid shifts your panties and plunges one digit inside your slit, turning your plea into a wanton moan as you arch your back, your hands finding purchase against his muscular thighs.

“So wet for me. Look at ye. I want to hear you scream my name, lass. Every time I make you come, yer gonna scream my name. Yer mine now. I’m never gonna let ye go.” He inserts another finger, his palm stroking and pressing your clit, and damn it if you’re not just there at the edge, ready to come undone for him. “It’s like I’ve known yer body all my life. I know how to make ye feel good, aye?”

“Yes, Kid, yes!” Your head lolls back as you mewl, his ministrations making your head spin, turning you into a puddle of mush. With a few more strokes, he pushes you over and you gasp out his name, blinding pleasure coursing through your veins, turning your vision white.

“That’s one.” He whispers against your ear, and then he doesn’t relent, his fingers keep pulling pleasure, pressing on your G-spot with his rough fingertips, turning the smaller waves of dissipating pleasure into something else, something more.

“Oh, God! Oh, God!” You start chanting as a surge of bliss travels up your spine, tingling, igniting, burning.

“Wrong name, lass.”

“Kid! Kid!” You scream as your release topples over the previous one, briefer but more pleasurable.

“Two.” Kid removes his fingers from your core, leaving you panting for air as you lie, burning against him, all the previous cold of the night vanishing from your thoughts. He gets up from the bike, unbuckling his belt and taking out his massive cock. Instinctively, you bite your lower lip. It’s been a while since you’ve had anything real down there, and he’s bigger than your average toy.

“Satisfied?” He asks with a grin.

“I’m sure I will be.” You answer him back, earning a barking laugh.

“Turn on the seat, lass.” You do as he says, and Kid sits back down where he was, pulling your legs over his so you wrap them around his waist. “I hope ye don’t love yer panties too much.” You don’t even have time to question his sentence when he rips your panties off of you, making you gasp as another surge of heat courses through you. “Fuck, yer so perfect.”

You sigh and let your fingers trace the muscles of his abs over his shirt. Then your hand goes lower as you take his pulsating, veiny cock in your hands. You can’t help but lick your lips at the sight. Kid grunts and lets you pump him a few times until a bit of pre-cum starts leaking through the top.

“Aye, aye, enough, lass. Tonight’s about yer pleasure.” Kid gently removes your hand from his cock as he takes your lips in another fiery kiss, bringing you closer to him until you can feel him pressed against your thigh. “I’ve wanted ye since I saw ye. Since the day I helped ye move yer things into yer flat, I knew ye were the one for me.”

You can see the truthfulness in his eyes, his expression softer than you’ve ever seen in him. His fingers trace every curve of your face and jaw, and his eyes follow, as if he’s memorising all of you, soaking you in. His lips go in after, kissing you, worshipping every inch of you like a revered acolyte.

“Yer all I’ve ever wanted. Yer too perfect.” His hands find purchase under your thighs as he pulls you into him, sinking slowly into you. The stretch of his cock inside of you stings and burns, so you wrap yourself tighter around him, your face buried in the crook of his neck as his hands snake up your spine, cradling your neck. “There ye go. Slowly, we got time, lass. I’ve been dreamin’ of this since we met.”

He keeps pushing slowly into you until he’s fully sheathed. You take small breaths to accommodate him, but the sting of the stretch is long gone. The burn that you’re met with demands something very different now. “Show me, Kid. Show me how much we belong together.” You whisper into his ear, and then leave a trail of kisses down to his lips, shifting your hips slightly, showing him you’re ready.

“Ye have no idea what ye do to me. Ye drive me wild.” He leans his forehead against yours and starts to thrust lazily into you. You can feel every vein, every ridge of his cock touching your walls, rubbing them, igniting flames of pleasure inside you.

“Kid…” You moan out his name, pleasure mounting already as every thrust hits a perfect spot.

“Took me long enough to say it, lass. Took me too long. I didn’t know if ye wanted me back. Thought I was friend-zoned. Fuck, yer tight.” You thread your fingers through his hair, every movement making you dizzier as he keeps kissing your body, touching every curve and dip as if he’s committing all of you to his touch, to his memory.

“I can’t fuckin’ believe this is happenin’. I’m afraid I’ll wake up alone again in my bed.” Kid grunts and thrusts a bit harder, making you topple over the edge you’ve been playing at with a loud cry of his name. Your walls squeeze him tighter as your bliss washes through you in waves. “Three. Fuck.”

The chill of the night has nothing on both of you. You can feel little droplets of sweat running down your spine, and Kid’s forehead is damp with effort.

“Yer mine now. Tell me ye’ll no longer go after fuckin’ losers. Say ye’ll want only me.” You nod, back arching into him, seeking more pleasure as his reverent touches and devoted words wrap a fog of lust and love around you. You feel overwhelmed with emotion. You had no idea that Kid felt like this over you. “I need to hear it, lass.” He seems desperate to know you want him, so you force a thought to materialise in the form of words.

“I’m yours, all yours. Forever, Kid.” That snaps something in him, and he wraps your waist, both feet planted firmly on the ground to keep steady. With a flick of his wrist, he turns on the bike and revs the engine, making it vibrate and purr under you, adding another layer of stimulation to your already stimulated self. With two harsh thrusts - a contrast to his steady, languid previous ones - you shatter again with another long cry of his name.

“Four. One more, lass. We’ll take this one together, aye?” You can barely think straight. Every nerve is tingling with pleasure, every bone is quivering with want, and every muscle is aching with release.

“Kid… Kid…” You can barely utter a single word. Kid kisses your forehead softly, his hand pressing gentle circles on your back before he revs the engine again. You moan and clutch his shirt, barely able to stand straight as his thrusts become faster, harder, and more relentless.

“I’ll be all ye’ve ever wanted, all ye’ve ever needed. I’ll make ye feel good every day, ye’ll never feel lonely with me, lass. Yer mine, all mine, aye?” You nod once more as he guides your body back, and you feel the cold metal of the bike against your spine. The new angle makes him repeatedly hit your G-spot, and you know you’ll unravel fast.

“Kid, I’m gonna come.” You manage to breathe out between pants and moans, and you have no idea how much strength you still have left. Though Kid seems to have stamina that goes on for days, you’re already feeling overstimulated.

His thrusts are more erratic, his breath coming in short puffs of air. “Aye, aye, lass. I’m right there with ye.” And as you arch your back against the motorcycle, already losing yourself to a wave of ecstasy, Kid leans forward, letting out a primal grunt against your ear, and unloading his seed inside you, filling you up as your eyes water with bliss.

The gentle purr of the bike beneath you and the harsh breaths leaving your lips are the only things disturbing the silence of the night. Threading your fingers through Kid’s hair, you can’t stop smiling, even though your muscles are already aching and complaining.

He’s still inside you when he raises his head, wicked grin in place and a slight flush to his cheeks. “See how much fun we could’ve been having, lass?” You let out a loud laugh, and he grumbles against your neck, pulling out with a groan. “Want to get me goin’ again? Don’t laugh like that while I’m balls deep. All that tightenin’ gets me wild.”

He keeps kissing your neck and collarbone softly as you laugh, his hands gently massaging your thighs.

“I didn’t know, Kid.” You whisper, your back still pressed against the motorcycle, feeling empowered by the machine beneath you and the man above you instead of feeling trapped. “I had no idea you felt like this, you never said anything.”

“I know. I should’ve said it.” His groan vibrates against your chest. “Maybe it would've saved me the trouble of seein’ ye with assholes.”

“Yes, Kid. It really would. I didn’t want to ruin our friendship, even though I thought about it.”

Kid lifts himself up and you use his shoulders to return to a seated position as he adjusts the straps of your dress. “Ye have? Ye thought about us?” You nod. “Doin’ this?”

You chuckle as you’re assaulted by a lone shiver. Now that you both have stopped, you’re getting cold. “Not exactly this. I don’t think you ever pulled five orgasms out of me in my fantasies.”

Kid’s wicked grin brings you another kind of shiver, but this one has nothing to do with the cold. “Lass, ye’ve been selling yerself short in yer fantasies. Five is just the warm-up.”

As you laugh into his fiery kiss, his hands pull you closer to him, claiming you, worshipping you. And despite the shitty beginning of a shitty night, you couldn’t have asked for a better ending. Turns out, you really didn’t need to leave the apartment.

But as Kid revs the engine of his Harley again, you realise you’re glad you did.

Tag List: @rosidaze @beachaddict48 @armiliadawn @jintaka-hane @sprinkklz @baby5555 @hopelesslover06 @mars-mizuko @sleepykittycx @nerium-lil @eustasscapitankid @ren-ni @jqperi @lycoriskalmia @walmartmihawk

#one piece #one piece x reader #x reader #reader insert #alternate universe #modern day au #eustass captain kid #eustass kid x reader #eustass x reader #eustass kid #kid x reader #kid x you #you x kid #reader x kid

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pparacxosm · 2 months ago

Text

uta hagen

(divorced!art donaldson x reader; tw divorce obviously; tw sporadic mentions of violent or otherwise shitty partners; that sounds intense but this is actually a fun time i swear; cw a little smut; as a treat; tw ironic intimacy; kaz write a normal romance where one or both people aren't hypercritical of the other challenge ((impossible)); tw group therapy; tw condensing of tashi duncan's character for narrative reasons but i hope you know me well enough by now to know where my heart lies; whoever came up with the art donaldson calvin klein campaign headcanon i owe you a kidney; tw exploiting therapeutic exercises for sexual tension lol; tw hamfisted closure; raymond carver easter egg for all who have the eyes to see)

Before anything happens, Art Donaldson is just another guy in the “Learning to Let the Ex Go” group therapy session you signed up for.

It occurs to you, pretty quickly, that Art Donaldson has zero intention of letting his ex go. Dr Harper has this question he asks all the newcomers.

You’re having circle time with a bunch of adults on a Friday afternoon. So that look of longsuffering on the new guy's face isn’t particularly remarkable. You note a few furtive whispers and glances his way. But then this sad little workshop is mostly comprised of weepy middleaged women. They, too, kicked up a ruckus when that silver fox with the Harley—Rick—deigned to grace the room with his impossible biceps for a single, cigarettescented session two weeks ago.

What you’re saying is you know he’s handsome.

And, anyway, you’d never hold anything against your motley crew. Agnes invited you to her neighbourhood book club. Padma brings little clingwrapped trays of desserts every other week. These are your gal pals. Your bereaved bosom buddies. You wouldn’t begrudge them their eye candy.

Dr Harper says, “So,” and claps his hands the way he starts every session, narrowing his eyes with that scarily sentimental smile and sweeping his gaze around the circle. He makes a point to make eye contact with every single person for two whole seconds, as though he knows something you don’t. Then, “As you can see, we are not as few as we once were.”

He tends to speak in that meandering sort of way. He makes a flourishing gesture with his clipboard, as if setting a stage, and says,

“If you wouldn’t mind introducing yourself, and letting us know…” He pauses for effect. He tends to do that, too. “… Why can’t you let your ex go?”

You do the guy the favour of not laving him in that expectant stare people seem to love doing here. You fiddle with your fingers and listen to the uneasy knell of his sneakers against the linoleum. The stilted whine of his little plastic foldout chair. You cast him a glance as stands. He’s sort of tall, but not imposing. His fingers fidget at his sides like he’s awaiting a time bomb.

When he speaks, he looks so upset you’d think he’s getting a root canal. “Uh, hi. I’m Art, uh… just Art.”

And, at the time, you think this is kind of strange.

The next week, when Dr Harper brings a purple tennis racket with Just Art’s face on the front to get him to sign it for his daughter—which you already think is unprofessional and a bit presumptuous, considering how few people actually return for a second session, and how fascinatingly tortured he looked all throughout the first—you will think oh. And then his whole humble kicked puppy thing will feel a little annoying. But that’s besides the point.

On that first day, while he’s standing there awkwardly, and every shriek of his shoes against the ground is making him wince like he’s sporting stab wounds, and he keeps casting very conspicuous glances at the clock, Dr Harper asks why can’t you let your ex go?

And the thing about that question is it’s mostly rhetorical. Sure, it’s supposed to make you think. But the ultimate unearthing there is of the truth that there is no real reason. And such is the first step to selfactualising change and so on and so forth. You get it.

There’s a couple answers you come to expect. The notably lachrymose will get to weeping straight away. Because I’m pathetic! you remember someone wailing, which made you feel like a bit of a sadist, just sitting there and watching. You’re pretty sure you’d said a less than kind, I don’t fucking know, on your first day, but you’ve grown since then, and you appreciate Dr Harper’s abiding effusiveness despite that.

But Just Art releases a contrite sort of exhale and says, “Because I still love her.”

Which—okay—strikes you as a bit overkill.

A tissue discreetly finds his palm, but he only rumples it into a ball.

Dr Harper nods sagely, leaning back in his seat, steepling his fingers under his chin.

“Go on,” he prompts in that gentle, needling way he does.

You don’t Google him. You don’t really need to. Dr Harper keeps intentionally-unintentionally peppering sporadic little pearls of information about him into conversation like some sort of bizarre BINGO game.

Like—for example—when he’s passing out little notepads and outlining your task of writing unflinchingly honest farewell letters to your exes, he tacks on, “—it’ll be tough, but it’s no Wimbledon, am I right, Donaldson?”

And Just Art’s ears will turn a dazzling shade of crimson.

You file these little tidings away in some less important corner of your mind, passively constructing a criminal profile.

Padma brings her son to a session, which you’re pretty sure she’s not allowed to do. Luckily, the kid doesn’t internalise any of Padma’s scathing anecdotes about his father because he’s too busy marvelling at his own freshly signed Art Donaldson racket.

There seems to be a new racket to sign every week.

You doubt people actually give this much of a shit about tennis. But—anyway—you suppose if fucking Michael Cera rocked up and joined the circle, everyone would be hauling a Superbad poster out from some dusty corner, too. Such is the nature of celebrity.

Dr Harper, for one, appreciates the effervescence. He seems to think the mere presence of a famous athlete will motivate everyone in the room to face with renewed fervour their own pathetic little romantic quagmires.

Well, it’s that, or a strange personal infatuation he houses with the guy. Probably both.

You don’t Google him. You don’t Google him, nor his conceivably equally famous exwife. You don’t need to. Dr Harper seems to think it necessary to give you all regular progress reports on that whole imbroglio.

You know there’s news—perhaps unfortunate news—by the colour of Dr Harper’s voice when he says, haltingly, “And Art… how have you been doing?”

By the severity with which Dr Harper nods as Art reads his letter. (“Tashi,” he begins, and one of those not so furtive whispers ricochets around the room, another tissue in his hand; you think it’s Agnes who’s slipping them).

By the abject enthusiasm with which Dr Harper declares what real progress Art is making. Like he’s one of those zoo animals being parallelreared with a human child, and he’s starting to glean the art of speech without being prompted.

This is all saying something, for whom you know to be an already colourful, severe, enthusiastic Dr Harper.

What you gather is a vague impression that Art’s exwife tortured him psychologically by wielding his body and tennis career as serrated edges by which to flay their marriage intricately, slowly. And then there’s something about her repeatedly sleeping with his exbestfriend? Which—big whoop. Eleanor’s boyfriend tried to kill her, which you feel is a marginally more exceptional love story.

A month in, you realise what’s really bothering you is the untruth.

Art Donaldson has zero intention of letting his ex go. He still loves her. He opened with that.

He reads his letter (that reads a lot more like a draft for vow renewals) aloud to the room. Everyone looks at him with these misty eyes like he’s just chainsawed his chest open and wrested his heart from his arteries while simultaneously reciting Sappho.

Which is to say—and you’re no doctor, but—what fucking progress?

You don’t think you’re the patron saint of therapy or anything. But you’ve paid decent money to be here, and you’ve spent more afternoons than you’d stomach admitting on guided meditation. You’re doing The Work, as they say.

You get it; you do. Losing a relationship can feel like a death. Losing yours certainly felt like the Sun had imploded. But Eleanor—you’ll mention again—could be dead. Your jaded inner voice struggles to identify with this probably deplorably wealthy Adonis who can't seem to cut the racket strings.

So you think it’s a little irresponsible to glorify the abject pining of this crestfallen man. All flaxenhaired and broadshouldered like Prince Charming lamenting bedside of Sleeping Beauty.

This is a class about severance.

Art Donaldson seems to weave himself inextricably around something. The love of his wife, sure, that’s obvious enough. But there’s something. Something. Something very sad, sure, but not sad in the way you’re all so sad around here. A different kind of sad.

You’re trying to figure it out.

So you spend some time doing that. Trying to figure him out. You expect to start to hate him the more you stare. The more you note the weird slope of his nose, his selfdeprecating laughter.

But you don’t.

In fact, you find it delightfully, uncomfortably strange. He carries himself like an interloper to despair. Not like he thinks he’s above it necessarily—you’d thought that (reproachfully) for a while—rather like sadness is one of many things stored at the other side of the city, and he keeps missing the train.

Like these brilliant sorrowers are deigning to include him in their orbit, even though he doesn’t belong. If he remains silent, maybe they won’t notice that he’s not one of them. Better yet, conceivably, he’ll actually belong one day.

That’s what it’s like. Like he’s striving for sorrow. Like he’s working with something worse than sorrow and is saying, you know what? I’d rather take the sorrow.

In the exercise you’re doing this week, you’re supposed to personage your ex and act out your final argument. Take your scene partner’s hands and look into their eyes and everything. Dr Harper makes a big deal about how he's not trying to trigger anyone's relationship trauma, but that feels like a lie. You can’t imagine a productive reason to make a bunch of lonely, divorced adults hold hands in a cruel parody of their last brush with fleshdeep connection.

And anyway, fuck this shit.

That doesn’t mean you won’t communicate circles around it. You’re doing The Work, after all.

But fuck it hard.

His hands sort of swallow yours. They are warm and calloused and a little sweaty.

You were, at first, excited by the idea of this proximity. Excited in the way a cultural anthropologist would be, at the prospect of conducting participant research. But now you’re here. Sitting at the edges of your little plastic foldout chairs. Your knees between his. And his fingers are curled pretty firmly around yours. He looks about as comfortable as a grade schooler called to the chalkboard. And you’re the one who’s been sitting around observing him from a distance and gleaning your data and passing your judgement all this time, but it is he who makes—and holds—eyecontact.

His eyes are dusky and intent—molten navy—like he’s seeing past your skin and bone. And you are less than pleased by this subversion.

So when he shifts and his knee brushes your outer thigh, a potent shock of heat resounding through the denim, and he clears his throat and mumbles, “Sorry,” you say,

“You could back up a bit.”

His expression falters. You must admit, there is something alluring in his being disappointed by your little rejection. Anyone looking at it from the outside would find the whole thing pretty ludicrous. That you could say no, that he would even ask.

Dr Harper comes up and puts his hands atop both your heads, which feels more than a little patronising. He squats to be eye level between the two of you and whispers, “Do you know why I paired you two together?”

For a moment, you almost roll your eyes. When all is said and done, and the skull speaks and the bell tolls, your primary takeaway from your time Learning to Let the Ex Go is that Dr Harper has a spectacular penchant for assigning meaning where there is absolutely none.

If he paired you with Art based on eyelash hue, would he come up with some reason for that? Probably, you think.

But what he says next manages to throw you.

“You two…” he begins, pausing for effect. Because, of course. And Art shifts his weight uncomfortably, quite literally wincing as he accidentally bumps your knee again. He glances fleetingly in your direction, ears gone florid, but you have little time to delight in this before Dr Harper stands up straight again and delivers his verdict, “… have the same problem.”

You make a face like you have just seen a lizard eat a bird.

And fucking Art, of all people, has this look in his eyes, this look that’s almost hopeful. Like some explanation is finally to be offered for what the hell is wrong with you.

And you don’t care for that shit. At all.

You bark out a laugh. “I don’t think so.”

Which is, of course, when Dr Harper’s gaze sharpens like a scalpel and locks on you, like you’ve said exactly what he predicted you would say.

Which you care for even less.

He doesn’t look smug. Not exactly. He doesn’t even look vindicated. The only way to describe that look on his face is total delight. Cat with the canary in his maw.

Art seems very committed to staring at the ground, now. Trying, perhaps, to evade something of a brewing storm. You’re tempted to reach up and flick his head for his cowardice, but his hands are—very tightly, now, you’ll note—still holding yours.

“You two are both at mercy to judgement,” Dr Harper declares, and he’s still got your head in his palm like a basketball, and all that selfregulatory yoga feels fucking useless right about now.

You shift to look up at him better. “I’m not at mercy to judgement,” you inform him as calmly as you are able, and maybe you’re disproving his point in this moment by being so affected by this analysis, but you sincerely believe that you’re generally pretty hardwearing.

Dr Harper pauses for effect. “You are at mercy to your own judgement...” Another pause. And you’re about to tell him that—nice fucking try, but—you’re actually a remarkably selfassured person who rarely, if ever, gives yourself to negative selftalk. But then, “... Of others.”

And now it occurs to you that the fucking room has gone silent. And you feel like your eyes have all but crossed in simmering anger. Because—okay—everyone here is crazy, and miserable, and a little fucking pathetic, but you’ve prided yourself on being the least crazy one here.

And fuck.

Fuck if you’re not proving his point right now.

When you open your mouth to argue—because you are going to disagree, if only for the sake of disagreeing—Art Donaldson’s fingers screw up firmer around yours, like he’s some sort of sentient lie detector, and you’re about to ask him where the fuck he gets off, but Dr Harper isn’t done.

He turns, now, to Art.

“And you…” he says. You’re getting seasick with all the pausing. “Donaldson. You’re at mercy to others’ judgements of you, my man.”

So Art, you see out of the corner of your eye, looks like he’d rather debone himself than be sitting here.

And fine.

Okay.

Let’s all agree that that much is true. That Art Donaldson lives and dies by the judgement of others, and you live and die in the name of it. Fine.

Even so, you can’t help but think that these are directly antithetical problems to have.

And, in practice, if you’re a callous shrew, and he’s an open wound, you’ll probably kill him. Or something.

But now Dr Harper’s pushing your heads together like a ref before a rugby match. And he crouches down again. And Art’s nose brushes yours, and your lash swipes his cheek, and you can smell the coffee Dr Harper was just drinking.

And he says, “Let. First serve.”

Then he stands again and pats Art’s shoulder like they’re old friends, and gives a wink to the room at large.

He saunters away. Art looks like someone is pointing a gun to his head. But really it’s just your—heartlessly selfrighteous, apparently—forehead still against his. His skin is feverwarm.

You pull away.

Of course no one takes the exercise seriously.

In its defense, you think, there’s very little that goes down in this room that can be veritably labelled a ‘serious’ event. Most of it—the guided meditations, the writing exercises, Dr Harper’s entire vibe—feels like you happened to miss some crazy event that tore reality asunder and tipped you over into a sadistically tragicomedic alternate universe.

But if you all were to sincerely sit here, knees to knees with mourning strangers, and concretise this litany of other strangers who have wounded you all irrevocably in different ways—shit—Harper’d be sitting with a fetid heap of weeping corses.

So—well.

Eleanor’s chasing Ally around the hall with a her fingers hoisting an invisible shiv yelling, I love you, I love you, you bitch. Which is certainly one way to contend with a murderous exlover, you guess.

Padma and Colin are treating this as a gossip session. You can tell because you can hear that delighted peal of laughter she emits whenever someone interjects one of her—deeply engrossing, by the way—caustic vignettes about her exhusband with a little observational jab at the guy.

Most people are laughing. Or making fun. You catch fleeting dregs of remarkably hilarious conversation from all angles and are reminded why you keep coming back here.

The only person, however, who seems to have really taken Dr Harper’s thought experiment to the harp of his heart—much to your horror—is Art Donaldson.

He sets his elbows on his knees and leans forward. You get a waft of him. Something acerbic like citrus, and maybe pine. He blinks up at you with this almost regrettable intensity. Like he’s about to tell you that he has to pull your teeth. But he’s not thrilled about it. You’re still deciding if you’re flattered by the notion. He’s looking at you like he’s trying to glean the pattern of your sinew with his eyes alone.

“I’ll be you,” he says, his voice low and soft. And there’s a hoarse quality to it, like he’s just run up a staircase.

You’re suddenly very aware of all the noise around the two of you. The laughter, the bedlam. Something faintly percussive.

His thumbs swipe over your knuckles, which you’re hoping is an absent thing.

You blink. Your face is overcast with a less than kind, more than unimpressed glower.

“You’re serious?” you deadpan.

He looks serious as the end times. His fingers twitch around yours. You feel his knuckles like piano keys against your palm.

Dr Harper has essentially told this man that you have something he doesn’t. Something he needs. And now—with a tenacity you can only imagine churns through his bones by rote—he seems determined to find it.

He’s gripping your hands like you’re the fucking racket.

He leans down further, elbows pressing into his thighs, and his face gets alarmingly close to your fingers. A whisper of heat against your nailbeds.

When his tongue dips out to swipe the chapped coral edge of his upper lip, you nearly flinch, because you think that wet will touch you. But it doesn’t.

He peers up at you intently. You see the way his throat shifts under his wan skin as he swallows.

“I’m as serious as you want me to be,” he says. He is absurdly sincere, but also something else.

Your brows twitch, and you frown, because you are now realising that, even after several weeks of careful observation, you do not have even a remote understanding of this man to speak of. You feel like an academic whose thesis has just been rejected, and now they’re back to square one of some miserable odyssey. Moreover, this is all just unutterably ridiculous, so you sigh and roll your eyes and shift in your seat, your knee knocking against his inner thigh.

“Fine,” you say, “You be me.”

Art’s face is set in what you first think is determination, but are incredibly unnerved to discover is him getting into character. He’s trying to emulate that vaguely bitter perennial scowl of yours. He looks like a bitch—which means he’s pretty fucking dead on.

You’re almost impressed.

Of course, he still looks sad. There’s a vulnerability his mimicry cannot conceal. But you think he’s finding something cathartic in wearing the hue of your passive vitriol.

You tell him to express a perfectly reasonable grievance to you—and you yourself are now rolling your shoulders and slinking into the ethos of a gaslighting asshole—like how you never wash the dishes. Like, ever.

He clears his throat.

“You never do the dishes.”

You swallow.

“Right…” you murmur.

You’re still a little facetious about this whole thing, but there is that intensity in his gaze that wrests you into the moment like a fervid point of gravity.

“Well, now I—as my ex—would probably tell you—” You roll your eyes again, but now it is at the memory you’re unsheathing. “—oh, you’re being dramatic. I was just about to do them. Why are you always on my ass?”

And Art’s nose wrinkles, like the memory is offensive to him, too.

He looks you over like a sawbones trying to determine a patient’s symptoms. Mapping out the incision.

“Then I—you—would say…” He’s speaking really slowly, too. Like he’s giving you the chance to object where you see fit, on grounds of mischaracterisation. “I would say that you always say you’re going to do all kinds of things. But you never actually do them.”

“Exactly!” you blurt, kneejerk. But then you catch yourself. Flex your fingers a bit in his. Clear your throat and put on your best impression of a total dolt again. “Okay—oh, maybe you’re too busy focusing on the little stuff I don’t do to recognise the large sacrifices I make for our relationship.”

He scoffs.

It’s your scoff. A facsimile of that incredulous ire you seem to always be evincing. It’s deeply disturbing.

“What sacrifices?” You can’t tell who’s asking.

“W—” You falter. Swallow. It takes you a moment—like you’re emerging from deep water—to answer, as your ex, “Well, I moved here, didn’t I? Packed up all my shit and left my friends, my family, fucking everything. To be with you.”

“I didn’t ask you to move.”

“You didn’t,” you confirm quickly. And you can’t tell who’s saying that, either. But you put on the voice again, and say, “You didn’t. But I still did it for you. And I don’t think you’ve ever said thank you. Or sorry.”

A beat.

Your hands go slack in his. You sigh. “You never say sorry.”

Art’s eyes search you like a probe.

Your shoulders are stonerigid and the blood is rushing like torrent through your ears because—somehow—this feels uncomfortably like a fight. Like that fight. And your body seems keen on adjusting the scoreboard accordingly.

His thumbs rub your knuckles again, in a way that feels a lot less idle this time.

“I’m still not going to say sorry,” he guesses with a marginal tentativeness, but a general certainty in his assessment.

You swallow again. “Yeah,” you rasp, “You’re not.”

It occurs to you that this exercise is a little like immolation.

He’s supposed to be acting like you. But he’s acting like you at your worst, and doing so—to his credit—a little more accurately than you’d like to admit.

It strikes you as unfair. And excoriating. And you picture yourself tackling Dr Harper to the ground and choking him out.

And then Art says, “We’ve been having this fight for…?”

“Two months,” you mumble. You’re not even doing the voice anymore.

Art clicks his teeth, a sentimental crease at the corner of his eye. “I think we should break up.”

You sigh. “Yeah, probably.”

“It’ll be really hard for me.”

A guess again, but then you’re here. Doing The Work. Holding hands and roleplaying. It’s not inconceivable that you didn’t take the breakup exceptionally.

Your lip twitches. “You’ll survive.”

He pushes off his elbows and sits up straight, his knees sidling fully around your thighs, now unashamed. He gives you a look. A different one. His mouth purses to the side in some alloy of pensive amusement, a dimple delved into his cheek. His gaze coruscates with a deep cornflower intrigue.

“I think I will, actually,” he says finally.

And he has the nerve to smile. Revoltingly soft and sympathetic.

He gives your hands a parting squeeze before dropping them in your lap, his chair scraping loud the linoleum as he backs off.

You call your ex that night.

“Hey, listen,” you say, “Sorry.”

Dr Harper’s probably somewhere creaming his pants so fervently as to have rendered himself numb in a state of gleeful stupor.

“Hey,” husks your ex—who, for his flaws, has always been more magnanimous than you—before chuckling, “No worries.” You can hear that easy smile of a life unburdened by you in his voice.

Which is fine.

“How are you?” he asks then, “You good? You surviving?”

You smile wryly. You feel like you’ve been flogged by four consecutive eighteenwheelers. “I think I will, actually.”

You Google Art Donaldson.

You’re having a drink with Eleanor and Ally and Colin and a few others from the group, and you’re basically shitting all over the whole programme in a very hush-hush sort of way because you all know what an Opportunity For Growth this has been, when Art walks into the bar and spots your table and nods at the whole gang. The mood quickly shifts. Excitement, sure, but a collective wordless agreement that the lighthearted gossip between real friends ends here. You feel bad. It’s not his fault.

Art slides into your booth with beer floats and greets Colin, who’s looking at him with a senex’s disdain because he was just telling you all how he’s thinking of getting hair plugs. Again, not Art’s fault.

Art’s in camouflage, with his baseball hat and T-shirt, which you think is unnecessary because—again—you’re still quite certain no one gives enough of a shit about tennis as to recognise him in a bar.

When he slides into the booth—into the space between you and Colin—he’s careful to leave a distance between the two of you. Which you only really notice at all because you’re acutely aware of exactly how much space occupies the expanse between the two of you at any given instance.

A bunch of people at the table are already looking at him like he’s some sort of foreign dignitary.

You don’t think athletes are necessarily charming by nature, and you refuse to give Art Donaldson that kind of credit, but he doesn’t have to try very hard to make himself agreeable to everyone.

He buys a round for the whole group. He asks after jobs, and the state of marriage, and family, and life. He seems sincere enough.

You all start chatting about the various horrific relationships that lead you here, as though they were all particularly uninteresting ham and cheese sandwiches. Colin’s exfiancée diagnosed with early onset dementia. Ally’s exgirlfriend developing a heroin habit. You’ve all jabbed and scrutinised these woes to deflated nothingness, by now. None of it hurts anymore. Is that the whole point? You still don’t know.

No one knows by what fancy Dr Harper pushes you all about in his great cosmic dance of personal selfimprovement.

You do know that Art remains quiet. Generally inconspicuous, but then you’re you, so you’re paying attention. And you don’t think he should get to sit there like an archaeologist recording the fossils of your collective melancholy, as though his own warm and living bones are out of the question.

Maybe you all can pull up the People.com article, A Comprehensive Timeline of Art and Tashi Donaldson’s Perfect Relationship and Messy Divorce, and have it contribute to the conversation.

Eleanor’s telling a story about the time her ex wrested her from bed and lobbed her out of the house at 2 AM in midwinter.

“And we lived in Duluth,” Eleanor’s saying, and she’s laughing in that disconcertingly manic way she does when she shares these things. “And I sleep halfnaked, so I’m fighting frostbite, and I’m just totally mortified that one of my neighbours will see me.”

“There’s nothing embarrassing about being halfnaked,” Ally shrugs.

And then you say, “Ha, yeah, I mean Art would know.”

Art—who, until now, looked like he was studiously contemplating the meniscus of his beer, or the grain of the table—flicks his gaze up to you.

You snort. “What, I’m supposed to act like everyone here hasn’t seen you oiled up and smouldering to the camera for Calvin Klein?”

A brief hush descends upon the table like a falling guillotine.

Then, laughter.

Eleanor snorts her gin and soda with such force that she coughs for a solid minute afterwards. There’s tears in her eyes and Colin is laughing at her and Ally is laughing at them both. And Art looks as embarrassed as a woman strewn porchside in her panties in midwinter in Duluth.

And—okay.

You were trying to be tongueincheek about it. But his discomfort levels are seemingly off the charts. He doesn’t know how to react and it makes him unhappy. Clearly, ten and something years of public scrutiny—and, in your defense, actually doing that photoshoot—have not prepared him for this moment.

You lean forward and awkwardly bump his fist with yours. “Hey, I’m kidding.”

But you’re not, because it was technically true.

“I thought it was artistic,” says Ally.

Eleanor, still crying laughing, “What, the fullpage spread of him fully waxed and laid out on a clay court surrounded by Great Danes?”

“Someone paid attention,” Colin chuckles, and Eleanor erupts into vibrant giggles again. Colin gives Art a courtesy clap on the shoulder before saying to Ally, “Maybe I’m old fashioned, but a Billboard of a guy wearing whities so tightie you can see his dickprint isn’t exactly Starry Night. But maybe I don’t get it.”

“You don’t have to worry too much about that. The art has to get you,” Ally says, pointing at him with a fry. Ally studied theatre. “I mean, we are the most complicated machinery in our lives. You have to take yourself seriously to do something like that.”

Everyone’s looking at Art like he’s some kind of colourful textbook.

It’s not often people sit beside a guy of whom they can confidently guess the naked physique.

And maybe you’re thinking that, too; you brought it up, after all. His arms look strong in his T-shirt sleeves. Not, like, bodybuilder strong. But lean and cut. And there’s a sort of animal grace to his movements. Like a fox, or something. Even as his ears burn a practically neon shade of carmine in the dim lighting.

He clears his throat. “I doubt anyone took that seriously,” he says dryly, the corner of his mouth ruefully, if hardly, upturned.

Eleanor shoves Ally playfully, swiping her tears away in a blissful mascara smear. “My God Al, will you stop scaring him with your Uta Hagen spiel?”

The conversation meanders to other topics. Fringe stuff, briefly, like the societal implications of male sexuality and modern advertising. But then things branch off entirely—The Fast and the Furious franchise, artificial intelligence, Colin’s stepson’s career aspirations of becoming a TikTok street interviewer. Et cetera.

You hope Art isn’t looking at you when you chance a glance his way, but when have you ever been so lucky?

So he’s looking at you. He looks at you like he’s taking inventory of you at your expense. He gives a slow blink, an almost imperceptible smile, then he lifts his beer towards you and takes a swig.

At the end of the night, he asks for your number, which feels like a boot to the loins. Not because it’s profoundly unbelievable. Maybe a little surprising, but, if anything, it’s the conclusion you’ve halfanticipated all night. That’s the way he’s been looking at you, at least. It’s just the finality of it all.

But what are you gonna say? No?

You call him that night.

“Hey, listen,” you say, “Sorry.”

God, what have they done to you?

Art, on the other end of the line, presumably lounging in his stately mansion, remains cautiously silent. You sigh like you’re losing something here.

“I hope I didn’t upset you,” you say, but realise your tone is too grudging, so you adjust, “I got awkward, I was trying to be funny. Which we both know by now that I’m not. I’m just a bitch. So, I just wanted to say… you obviously look fucking amazing. And your shoot was great. Everyone can see that.”

You swallow the dryness in your throat.

Art makes his own pained noise across the receiver. “Everyone?” he groans, and you cannot tell if you’re imagining the fleeting hue of amusement you discern there. “Please no.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say here.”

“You called me,” he scoffs. It’s a good scoff, if such a thing can be said. But he still sounds pretty incredulous with you, and not in a way that says he thinks you a moral paragon. You think he thinks you’re a bit of a monster. Which doesn’t offend you, actually. “To apologise.”

“And I did!”

“Okay?”

A silence befalls you like a yawning maw, stretching out. He could hang up on you. He doesn’t.

“Look, you can internalise the things I say at your own risk,” you say.

“You’re telling me.”

“But it was a nice photoshoot. And, you know… pretty hot and stuff, which I guess was the intended purpose.”

You feel like a corpse whose arteries are being drained of blood and filled with embalming fluid.

“Pretty hot and stuff?” he echoes. You roll your eyes.

If you’re lucky, he’s tipsy, because you guys didn’t only indulge in beer floats. So, maybe—by God’s impossible mercy—he’ll have forgotten this conversation in the morning.

“I—” you hesitate, adding a small laugh, kind of hoarse, kind of unconvincing. “I—honestly—I can’t stop watching it.”

It’s not a joke, you both realise.

His voice drops an octave. “Really?”

And—fuck. Fuck, right? But you’ve made it this far.

“Really.”

You feel his eyes on you, not Tashi. Harper has you all thronged around a burn barrel in the community centre parking lot at 8 PM on a Wednesday. Scintillating honeygold flames lick at the night and shadow his face at pretty angles. And he’s reading his letter—that letter—and looking at you.

That’s bad.

This is supposed to be a cathartic and utterly sexless exercise in closure.

But you feel like a filthy fraud.

You’re crossing your arms, and blinking off the flameheat, and pretending not to stare at the scarp of his Adam’s apple and his tendons working beneath the skin of his hands.

He clears his throat, and his lips are moving like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Tashi,” he starts.

Her name, when he says it, still sounds like a tender orison. But last time he’d been reciting this thing, his eyes had been all flushed, raw, and misty, his voice abraded at its edges. Now—well—Agnes hasn’t slipped him a tissue in weeks.

“I still love— do we have to do this again? Can’t I just throw it in?”

The group sputters into giggles. You don’t know who brought the sweet Moscato.

Dr Harper pinches his nosebridge like an enervated preschool teacher. You think he, of all people, ought to be pleased—and you suspect he furtively is, but doesn’t want to discourage your good spirits with his approval—because, as much as you’re loathed to acknowledge it, all his forcible, unwelcome attempts at conjuring vulnerability amongst the lot of you have actually kind of worked.

The fire warms your brows to dampness, the saccharine acidity of the spirit seeping through your flesh and sweltering the rest of you. You should’ve worn a thinner sweater.

“Art,” says Dr Harper, “Your feelings are valid. Even—” The group interjects with a smattering of jeers, a slurred, densetongued amalgam of fuck you! and get a life, Harper! and other stuff to that effect. “—even your reluctance.”

The flames thrash deep indigo and copper. No one can quit laughing.

Dr Harper continues, “But the whole point of the exercise is—”

“Come on, Doc, we’re still pretending these exercises have points?” someone heckles.

“We’re still calling these exercises?” says someone else.

“Hurry up and cry already, Donaldson, I got work tomorrow.”

“Alright, alright,” Art raises a hand and everyone wanes to a simmer of firewarm drunken murmurs as though he’s some sort of Biblical king.

You roll your eyes, but you keep thinking of Great Danes on tennis courts and tightiewhities.

Everyone cheers like this is fucking Madison Square Garden when Art holds his hand out for the bottle, teeth scintillating in the pyreglow with a wry slanting smile.

He takes a long, healthy swig. You think you hear someone whistle. His lips gleam with moisture when they pop off the glass bottlemouth.

“You wanna see me cry?” he grins, eminently rueful and amused and resigned, all at once.

And everyone hurrahs and hollers and maybe some people even bark. He’s being pushed around affectionately from all angles. His gaze is sharp and garlanded by flames and trained on you. You raise your brows at him wryly, perhaps a little dubious, before lifting your hands and joining in the applause.

He clears his throat and sweeps his tongue over his upper lip and flicks the paper out like a Shakespearean scroll.

“Tashi,” he starts again.

You watch the fire lave and singe and swallow all your bitter, pathetic epistles.

Tashi.

I still love you. I’m still sorry. For something, or everything. For anything, really. It’s mostly okay, but it’s worse at night. And on weekends, and with Lily, and when the microwave starts making that shitty sound that you hated.

I miss you deep in my bones. I—

The flames scorch his words to flickering cinders.

You look at him, and he looks at you, and his bottom lashes glisten with tears. But he’s grinning widely. He’s laughing. He’s laughing a lot. Padma sings ‘Auld Lang Syne’, for some reason.

The goodbyes are a little maudlin, but sincere.

It’s time for you to all go home and actually get over your exes, which feels a bit jilting.

Art walks you to your car, and you let him, and you even let him get in your car, which is probably not a good idea. But it’s the end of the stupid workshop and you want to spend more time together. There, you can admit it.

You even say it out loud.

“I’m gonna miss this corny bullshit.”

“Yeah, me too,” he says, a little more quiet.

When the middle backseat belt buckle is digging sharply into your hip, and he’s got you pinned beneath him, and his hands are everywhere—seriously, it seems he was just waiting for your permission, because he’s squeezing all the flesh he can reach, slipping his hands under your shirt, between your thighs, just absolutely no decorum on this guy—you think to yourself, this motherfucker.

A spherule of spearmint gum slips from his mouth and into yours.

You’d thought, too, that he’d be more deft with this. And he is, but he’s also very clunky. Maybe because your car’s quite small. He’s not huge, but he is still fairly tall and broad and trying to fit himself between your thighs while covering you with his body in this small space, so it’s a bit chaotic. You don’t really mind.

And—yes—you have thought about it.

There’s a shot of him, in the Calvin Klein campaign, sprawled across the court in greyscale, his hand resting on his middle, his other arm above his head.

You know they edit those photos. That there’s some kid, fresh out of graphic design school, rubbing one out while airbrushing these halfnaked men to oblivion. But you now see—feel, more than see, really; there’s a streetlight nearby, but it’s blown, so you’re all touch—that such satin cannot be contrived. He really is that smooth. There’s not a bit of fat on him, but he’s oddly liquidfeeling, skin sloughing off like cream.

He’s always looked almost uncomfortably boyish to you. But you’re realising now that there’s an abrasiveness to his haggard breathing, and that potent, vaguely olid, mannish fume to his skin.

It's really doing it for you.

In that shot, he was lying right beside the polyethylene net and the sun was beaming down, searing alabaster, through the lattice, at an angle that splayed shadows all across him. The lines warping over the slopes of his body.

You feel the phantom crisscross of those shadows between your thighs now.

His eyes are still a little wet. He tells you he’s wanted to do this since he saw you giving him the jettatura while he was signing that racket for Harper's daughter. He also tells you he bets you’ve wanted to do this since you saw him in tightiewhities lying under a tennis net.

Can he be your tennis net?

You don’t even know what that means.

You laugh a little, but then he slips a finger inside you and latches his mouth to your pulse, and it is hot as magma, and you forget all about Great Danes and apologies and fires.

You would think they do some computer magic to make the cocks look bigger in those things, too.

They don’t.

To be fair, he doesn’t have some kind of doubletake worthy, John Holmes ordeal or anything, in the pictures. But the slope beneath the cotton, the bend of his hips like the handle of a water pitcher, all that pearlescent skin—so what if your saliva gathered on your tongue as you leaned in (way too closely) toward your laptop screen?

You feel especially shameless now as he slides into you.

Sure, the buckle is a bitch and the seatleather’s sort of chafing your ass and your elbow’s in a cup holder. But you take furtive pleasure in thinking that some people’s fantasies about him probably go like this.

The softest thing is his hand cupping the back of your neck, dragging your head up. It’s a weird contrast to the way his dick is pumping erratically in and out of you. Like he’s trying to control himself, maybe add a little romance.

You keep your eyes open to watch the way his body moves. Fuck it, you wanna see what all the fuss is about.

The talented Mr Ripley whose volleys (and probably orgasms) are intensive, frenetic affairs of selfpersuasion. Unless, of course, he’s fucking the random, judgy woman he met in a group therapy session. In this particular case—though laboured all the same—he comes harder and slower and you hear his panting groans in your ear as you shudder through your own pleasure.

He pulls your hips closer and empties himself in you and you rub yourself against him and you try to keep your eyes open, but, ultimately, you concede that you can only experience this pleasure in the dark.

You keep feeling his muscles work beneath your hands, though.

Dr Harper strongly recommends that you two not start seeing each other. He does just about everything but get on his knees and beg. And even that he nearly does. He reminds you that, on your Vision Tree, you mapped yourself single for at least the next two years.

But Art says he’s had enough of other people saying what’s good for him.

And your Vision Tree also forecasted you taking up jogging, which—come on.

#challengers #art donaldson #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson angst #art donaldson fluff #art donaldson smut #the art donaldson calvin klein campaign is canon to me #challengers fic #uta hagen was team tashi #dr harper is his own trigger warning #i am actually an artashi divorce denier #but i was too compelled by this idea #tightiewhities #tag yourself i’m eleanor trauma dumping on a fun night out

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biolumien · 5 months ago

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Might I say that the Hoshina x Painter! reader was a brush stroke of genius. It's superb so if its possible, I'd like to request a part two?

Maybe Hoshina gets to go out on a date. And of course, the recruits quickly finding out about this and they sort of try to spy on them while they go about their day. Up to you really. I just live for the concept, and I defo want to see how things play out. Especially since their worlds are so far apart from each other.

He probably doesn't know the first thing about art. And Reader probably knows nothing of Kaijus. Let alone swordsmanship or martial arts. And the sudden match made between them is sure to make rapid news around Tachikawa base because, 'Ayo that's our Vice Captain with the famous painter who just so happened to paint his portrait a few days ago?' AKAKHSKNS such an endearing concept.

notes: insanely good pun. i hope this is okay! part 2 of this fic.

the second stroke

soshiro hoshina x gn!reader no warnings apply, i think! let me know, though. word count: 1306

talking to hoshina was–awkward. or so you thought, at least. you couldn’t exchange many words following the panel, apart from saying hi–hoshina had immediately gotten swarmed with questions–what was the relationship between the two of you? what was the meaning behind what you’d said? so you’d managed to find him in the aftermath, pulled him aside and made tentative plans to meet up in the coming days.

you stopped having dreams of your mysterious muse altogether at this point. once in awhile, you thought you might have felt the faint whisper of warmth, the ghosting touch of lips brushed against the side of your face. that had to have been real, right? but the fact that you couldn’t remember your dreams now–if you even had them at all, worried you more th an you’d like to admit.

you’d agreed on a date in a discrete location–but despite that, you held a pretty large parasol in the park, with loose-fitting clothes to disguise the bulk of your figure.

“so it’s true, then?” hoshina asks as the two of you wander the park, past some shady trees. “that’s… i mean, it’s… pretty… ha, i mean, that kind of stuff comes out of a romance novel, no?”

you like the way the sunlight dapples across his hair, dances across the bridge of his nose. your fingers itch to paint, to scrape a palette knife across a stretch of canvas.

“it sounds far fetched to me, too,” you mumble, spinning the straw of your drink. “that i would dream of a man from a past life–who… happens to be you. happened. to be you. also in a past life. and i think… well, i–i think we were lovers? or-or something like that.”

“lovers,” hoshina echoes.

he pauses.

your face feels hot.

“it’s stupid,” you mumble. “i know. i know it is.”

“it’s not,” hoshina says. “i mean–i’m not… a believer. in most of that kind of stuff, but. you painted me.” he laughs. “that’s gotta be proof of something bigger than the both of us. i don’t know if i should be happy or sad that it’s real. like–”

he flexes his hands.

“do you get what i mean? like–like… i’ve been telling myself that-that… i was doing everything within my power–to be the way i was, and then… if there really is some kind of divine providence, pulling us together–some red string of fate, the kind that bonds lovers together–how am i so sure that a god didn’t just decide the limits of my capabilities? i’m not sure… how to feel about it.”

you ponder his words.

“fighting kaiju is… a completely new world, compared to me,” you say. “but i’m sure even if it–even if it was divine providence, you’re doing something only you can do. and–and i think that’s wonderful.”

hoshina’s eyes soften.

“wonderful?” he murmurs.

“yeah,” you say. “someone–not just someone, but… we’re all… relying on you. that’s something i could never imagine.”

“i mean–” hoshina laughs, brushing a hand across the back of his neck. “i couldn’t imagine painting the way you do. that seems so overwhelming–to conjure things from your imagination and deliver them to the page.”

you shake your head.

“it’s a bit of that, but it’s not completely from my imagination. i do a lot of portraits–with real models, things like that,” you mumble, your face flushing a little bit at his words. “it’s… mm. a complicated progress, but it’s not nearly as physically intensive as you fighting kaiju. i-i read a bit. from some of your press interviews.”

“oh?” hoshina’s eyes widen, and he laughs. “that’s–well, i didn’t… most of those were just–scripted.”

“my press interviews are, too,” you say.

hoshina’s lips quirk up.

“i guess we’re kind of the same, yeah?” hoshina says, nudging you slightly, his hand reaching out to cross the gap between the two of you–of you. he doesn’t intrude further though, even as he crosses the gap—seemingly shy and nervous, worried and careful not to do more until you were okay with it.

you relax your stance a little, and his hand brushes against yours.

“i guess so,” you say, blinking up at him. your face feels hot.

you don’t know whether the fluttering in your heart is from you or if it’s from that whisper of a past life, the repeated lines of affection–that it should feel this easy to fall for hoshina, because some version of you did, a stranger-yet-familiar-yet-familiar. hoshina’s expression is somehow fond, and he leans closer before–

he suddenly perks up, his head whirling around, checking the surroundings.

“what’s–” you start, but hoshina raises a hand, glancing at you before raising a finger to his lips. you fall silent, your heart pounding against your throat.

“come out,” hoshina says sharply. “you guys aren’t subtle at all. you’re lucky that kaiju are so stupid.”

from behind one of the trees, several people come skulking out with lowered heads, as if they were scolded toddlers.

“i told you this was a bad idea,” says a boy with mint green hair, elbowing a taller, older man. the man hangs his head, recoiling dramatically at the boy’s touch. “you can’t get past hoshina at all.”

“in my defense,” the man says apologetically, remorsefully, “i was just curious where he was going… it’s not often he takes days off. you know this.”

“i warned you,” says a woman with her hair drawn up in a tall ponytail. her voice is quiet, but she’s striking–and you wonder what kind of charcoal you might use to sketch out the sharp lines of her face–and then you realize you’ve seen her face scattered across billboards. mina ashiro?

“i love this bit you guys do,” hoshina laughs, archly, “where you talk like i’m not even here. come on. if you want to–hey, put that–put that down. don’t–”

mina lowers her phone as hoshina blurts it out, her face bemused.

“sorry,” mina says. “force of habit. i keep an album of every moment where you let your goody facade drop. do you want to see?” she looks at you, holding out her phone. “i have some where he’s asle–” “not on the first date,” hoshina says, his voice pitching higher.

“first date?” the man’s eyes widen. “captain hoshina, you’re on a date? with that artist? the one who drew you?”

your eyes scan between him and hoshina.

“yes,” hoshina says tersely. “is it that weird?”

“no,” the man says. “just–you don’t seem like the romantic… type?”

“i’m not,” hoshina says.

you feel something like cold ice seize your throat.

“but i… i want to try,” hoshina amends, and his hand reaches out for yours, a grasping thread of intent. you entangle your fingers in his, and the weight of his hands feels right. like a preordained fate–you were always meant to find each other, and the weight and feel of his fingers entangling yours, his knuckles tightening as if he was afraid to see you disappear–

that was right.

“if we’re really bonded by fate, anyway,” hoshina says, glancing at you–and your heart seizes in your throat, caught by how earnest he seems– “i want to see it to the end.”

your face heats up.

“it was–it was just a painting,” you mumble.

“a really good painting,” hoshina adds, and he laughs.

“you guys are cute,” mina says. “but you’re grossing me out. just a little.”

her face is impassive, but the corners of her lips quirk up a little as she says the words.

“oh, how it hurts,” hoshina says dramatically, pulling you closer to him, “to have stirred the ice-cold heart of mina ashiro so.”

and your face flushes again, brighter, but you cling tightly to hoshina like a lifeline, and wonder what shade of red you might use to carve out the feeling of love in your chest.

#kaiju no 8 #soshiro hoshina #soshiro hoshina x reader #hoshina soshiro x reader #kaiju no 8 x reader #x reader #kn8 x reader

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