#think of it like getting off a ride that simply keeps going in circles

[the-empress-7]

[insomniadreamzz]

Little brat

G!P Jinx x Fem!Reader

Mentions of G!P, pegging, overstimulation, smut, sub!Jinx, dom!Reader

Little whines filled up the room as you painfully slow stroked Jinx‘s cock as she was tied on her own chair.

„What? The oh so brave and master criminal can’t form words? Why are this cute.“ You teased her, looking into her glowing pink eyes which were filled with lust. „S-shut up…“ She managed to say in between her soft whining, hips buckling up into your touch as she wanted more.

„Now don’t be so bratty, you know this won’t take you anywhere.“ You said, letting go of her cock as you just slowly circled the tip of her cock with your finger, making her twitch. „You will regret this…“ She groaned, her face all red. Jinx wasn’t the one to give in that quickly, she always wanted to be the one in control but this time you were in charge and you loved it.

„Are you sure? I think you will regret being a brat to me.“ You answered, wrapping your fingers around her cock again, gently stroking up and down, making her moan softly. „Be a good girl for me yea? Let me make you cum.“ You cooed, placing a kiss only on her cheek, knowing she craved your lips on hers but you didn’t give her that satisfaction yet. Your movements became faster, jerking her off as a louder whine left her lips, jerking her hips up as she came, making you smile in satisfaction but you were far from done with her. „Good girl…“ You said, looking at her and she looked away from you, embarrassed how much of control you had. „Y-Yea now remove those ties.“ She demnadend but you shook your head as you stood up and took off your clothes, exposing yourself fully to her. „No.“ You simply said before straddling her, your arms around her neck.

„What are you doing?“ Jinx asked but her facial expression showed you she wanted more just like you. She just didn’t want to give in to you.

„Making you cum again, what else? You think I don’t want to get off as well?“ Your hand gently caressed her cheek before you adjusted yourself, making her cock slip inside of your already wet cunt, making you moan softly at the good feeling and so did Jinx.

She wished she could touch you, trying to get rid of the ties but you made sure they weren’t easy to get lose so only a frustrated groan escaped her lips, all the squirming not helping her to get free.

Both of your hands are placed on her shoulders now as you moved, using her like a toy, she wasn’t able to move, to touch you. Actually not able to do anything but sit there, letting you fuck her. Both of you moaned as you slid up and down on her cock, seeing in her facial expression that her wall was breaking. She couldn’t keep her bratty behavior or she will really not get what she wanted so Jinx finally gave in, begging now for you to kiss her. „Hnngh! P-Please…please kiss me. I need to-…ah-…I need to feel you more.“ She whined in between her moaning, making you grab her face. „That’s my good girl…“ You whispered, your lips close to hers as you did before closing the gap between you two and finally kissing her.

She kissed you back, her tongue immediately moving inside your mouth and you let her kiss you passionately, sharing muffled moans into the kiss as you kept on moving your hips. „Mhh…I am close…p-please get off.“ Jinx whimpered but you didn’t plan to get off her, you wanted her to cum inside of you. You shut her up by kissing her more, your tongue’s fighting for dominance and when you sped up your movements she just couldn’t hold it anymore, reaching her orgasm as she came, filling you up with her cum, the warm feeling of her cum inside you made you cum as well, moaning iut loudly as your lips part, only being connected by a string of saliva, your walls clenching around her, riding out your orgasm.

„Fuck!…“ Her lips searched yours again and you welcomed the kiss, whining a little when Jinx bit down your lower lip, making it bleed a little, her tongue running along your lower lip to lick it up.

You still weren’t done with her. Jinx was too exhausted to process what you did next, removing the ties and dragging her to the bed and making her lay down on her stomach. She was too weak to even defend herself. „What are you doing…“ Was the only thing she could say in between her soft panting. Little did she know that you planned to use a toy on her, already having your strap on. „Only teaching you a little lesson…“ You said as you lifted her hips, making her go on all fours.

Her eyes widened as she let out a little higher pitched moan when you slid the toy inside of her, grabbing the bed sheets so tight she almost ripped them. „Fuuuuck…baby please…I can’t-…“ Jinx sentence got cut off by a gasp, followed by another moan as you thrusted inside of her, the tip of her cock rubbing against the sheets which made her hard again, feeling painful pleasure of being overstimulated. Your hands on her hips to keep her up as you enjoyed the view of Jinx being a whiny mess under you, her toes curling up at the intense feeling she didn’t expect at all.

„Are you gonna be a good girl for me now?“ You teased with a lustful voice but Jinx refused to answer, making you give her ass a hard slap, making her whine. „Hng! Fuck! Yes…yes I am your good girl…I am your little good slut ugh!“ She groaned, your hips moving faster and harder as she gave in to you and finally said those words, her sensitive cock still rubbing against the sheets with every thrust of you until she came a third time, her cock twitching as she came on the sheets, creating a mess but you didn’t care. Her sweet whimpering noises making you feel satisfied as you pulled out of her, letting her collapse on the bed as her body twitched from overstimulation, panting heavily. The view of her beautiful sweaty body did things to you but you weren’t so mean and won’t let her go a fourth time, knowing your own limits as well.

You laid down beside Jinx, cradling her into your arms as you made her head rest on your exposed chest. You loved cuddling with her after sex, just laying there skin on skin as you caressed her body. „I love you.“ You mentioned, making Jinx smile as she nuzzled more into you. „I love you too…you really did me good…“ She whispered before placing little pecks on your skin. You just knew she loved being controlled but she would never admit it. Until today.

[sweetiecutie]

Warnings: NSFW, mdni, fem! reader, smut, blowjob, fingering, proofread but I’m dyslexic so may be mistakes

Omg omg omg imagine being König’s little passengers princess🩷🩷

König is undeniably a big man, so he obviously needs a big car. I think he owns a SUV - pretty and, most importantly, spacious car. It allows him to slouch comfortably in driver’s seat and not sit all crouched down like in most cars, his knees don’t bump in the panel beneath the steering wheel but placed comfortably as they should.

Needless to say that his car is filled with your stuff: numerous lipglosses in the glove compartment, your scarves and shawls laying on the panel behind backseats, small pillow along with fluffy blanket are always in the backseat in case you feel tired and want to lay down. König even found some of your jewelry in the cup holder once!

And he’s such a gentleman! You’re simply not allowed to open the door by yourself! Why would you do that, if you have him?! König will always hold the door open for you, helping you get in and out of the seat, making sure that your dress or coat won’t get stuck clasped by the car door. He’s such a sweetheart, I can’t🥺

You often go for rides together. König is a neat and careful driver - he got his license when he was 18 and since then only got one fine for parking in wrong place. You go to different places - locations with beautiful landscapes not far from your place, going to visit his relatives in another city or just night rides around the Vienna. A lot of dear moments between you two happened in his car - your first kiss, numerous deep talks and countless make out sessions in the backseat which ended up with König absolutely fucking your brains out.

But sometimes long car rides can be hard for you. A few hours on the way, you start feeling uncomfortable. Your booty starts feeling sore from long sitting, lower back aching from awkward angle, feet swelling from lack of muscle movements. And you start whining. About how you’re tired, how sore your whole body is, that you need to use a restroom or that you’re hungry. König coos at your pouting face, glancing at you apologetically, right hand coming to your thigh to rub soothing circles on your soft skin to make you feel slightest bit better, promising to pull off at the next gas station.

König would do anything to soothe his whiny little princess. And if it means getting under her skirt in a middle of the ride and stuffing her pretty pussy full with his fingers - he’ll gladly do it. He’s never said that, but König loves loves loves fingering you while driving. Yes, it distracts him from the road, but the cute little sounds you make while your legs close around his wrist in overstimulation as he mercilessly keeps pumping two fingers in and out of that drooling cunny, thumb pressing tight circles against that needy clit.

During especially long rides, when you’re bored out of your mind and music on the radio makes you feel sick, you find a better way of busying yourself.

One of your nimble hands comes to rest on König’s meaty thing, rubbing strong muscle affectionately. He doesn’t pay much attention to that since you do it all the time, only smiling softly to himself at your touch. Slowly you make your way higher and higher, getting dangerously close to man’s crotch. “Y/n, I’m driving” König would always say in a strict voice, eyebrows furrowing slightly as he keeps his eyes trained on the road ahead. “Yeah, but it’s a highway, you just need to go straight” you discard his complains lightheartedly, already undoing the button and zipper of his jeans.

Soon your mouth is filled up with his throbbing cock, drool running down thick shaft to his balls and you suck and lick on sensitive length, paying extra attention to his leaking tip. König groans and moans above you, thrusting his hips up occasionally, making you choke and gag on his huge dick, tears running down your flushed cheeks. He rests one hand on the back of your head, guiding you gently up and down at the pace that he likes and holding you in place when he shoots a thick load of his cum down your throat so you swallow every single drop of it. And make sure to clean him up with that filthy little mouth after that, he’s driving, after all!

Likes, reblogs and comments are highly appreciated! Give writers feedback, we live for that<3

[luvismenu]

> motive — pt.5 ,, index ! nsfw

. . brother's bestfriend!jungkook au . .

wc: 4.6k+

warnings: banter, teasing, lots of cursing ofc, kissing, some oral (fem recieving), fingering, clit play, he's kinda aggresive, jungkook being a dick in the end, cliffhanger-ish?

jeon jungkook is so fucking stubborn.

once he sets his mind on something, there’s no going back. if he thinks something might hurt someone, he won’t ever risk it. he doesn’t change his mind, doesn’t budge, doesn’t care how annoying it is. he’ll stick to his decision no matter what.

it’s a stupid habit, but he’s always been like this. and honestly, you’re starting to think he always will be.

you’ve known that ever since the bike incident from when you were kids. it was your brother’s bicycle. you really liked it, and you wanted to ride it secretly because you knew jimin wouldn't let you. you begged jungkook to let you, but he refused. your brother had told him, very seriously, that it would break his heart if you fell and got hurt. and, of course, jungkook listened. he took your brother’s words like gospel and never let you touch the bike.

it didn’t matter that you cried about it. even though he looked a little guilty seeing you bawling your eyes out, he still wouldn’t budge. your brother’s feelings came first, even if you were sitting there heartbroken.

and that was when you were four, and they were nine

jungkook never told you why he didn't let you touch your brother's bike either. you only know about this because jimin told you when you grew up. which really pissed you off.

maybe it’s a silly thing to still think about, but it’s just so annoying that he hasn’t changed. he’s always been like this— choosing what’s “right” even if it makes you mad.

sure, he’s not your best friend, but that doesn’t mean you both didn’t grow up together. you were always there, tagging along, watching him and jimin get into all kinds of trouble. and your brother always found ways to keep you quiet, too.

“jungkook, let's carry her on the way home.”

“jungkook, give her your candy so she won’t tell mom and dad.”

and it worked.

every time.

it was fun, you won’t lie. making them beg you not to rat them out, holding it over their heads. oh, it was so fucking fun.

it’s still almost the same, you know all your brother’s secrets, and by extension, jungkook’s. growing up with them, you picked up more than they ever wanted you to. and, well, why wouldn’t you use that information to your advantage? sometimes for fun, sometimes to get what you want.

and what did mufasa say? it’s the mother fucking circle of life.

“saw that you were with taehyung a few days ago,” jimin says casually as he pulls on his jacket.

you’re stretched out on the couch, scrolling through your phone. you’ve been debating whether or not to text jungkook, but you don’t want to look desperate. still, your fingers keep itching to type something.

your brothers words make you pause, but you don’t look up. instead, you respond simply, “yeah.”

“why?” he asks, his voice closer now. you glance up to find him standing right behind you, staring down.

you shrug, keeping your eyes glued to your phone. “just because.”

and then, without warning, he snatches the phone from your hands, holding it high above his head. you gasp, jumping up immediately.

“oh, you son of a—”

“careful,” he interrupts with a smug grin, “we share the same mother.”

you glare, crossing your arms. “give me my phone back.”

“answer me properly,” he counters. “do you like taehyung?”

your face scrunches in immediate disgust. “no! he just wanted to meet up and talk. you know, because he helped me with my projects back in middle school, and we were kinda like friends.” you emphasize the words as you uncross your arms, as if reminding him.

jimin sighs and finally lowers your phone, which you snatch back with lightning speed.

“okay,” he relents, “just don’t get too close to him.”

“why?” you deadpan, raising a brow. “because he’s a model too, and you’ve got some secret rivalry with him?”

“because he hurt my best friend,” jimin snaps, his tone sharp, “and i don’t want to think about it.”

you shut your mouth, his words leaving no room for argument. the silence between you grows thick for a moment.

then, finally, you speak up. “whatever. i’m going to watch a movie. don’t disturb me.”

“i won’t, cuz i’m going out,” jimin says, grabbing his car keys from the table.

“with?” you ask, eyeing him suspiciously.

“your mo— wait, shit, we have the same mom,” he mutters, catching himself, and you scrunch your nose in disgust but can’t help the small smile that slips out.

“your crazy model friends?” you fold your arms again,tilting your head.

“yes, my crazy, stupid, but rich model friends,” he grins smugly, “just like me.”

you roll your eyes and turn around, flopping back onto the couch dramatically.

“oh, and jungkook’s coming over,” he says as he heads for the door.

your ears perk up immediately, and you shoot up, blurting, “why?”

“it’s the weekend. he’s gonna sleep over,” jimin replies casually, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. and to be fair, it kind of is— jungkook crashing at your place is pretty routine. but the thing is, he’s always here for jimin, not you. all you and jungkook do is bicker whenever he’s around.

“but you’re going out,” you frown, watching him open the door.

“bro, this is my house, i’m coming back of course. don’t worry,” he says, rolling his eyes like you’re being ridiculous.

“but i don’t—”

“shush,” he cuts you off, stepping outside. “i am gonna be late because of you. take care of the house and don’t fight with jungkook.”

before you can argue back, he’s out the door, slamming it shut behind him.

you stare at the door for a moment, then slump back onto the couch, muttering to yourself.

“yeah, like that’s fucking possible.”

it doesn’t take long for jungkook to show up. the front door swings open casually, and he walks in like he owns the place, not even sparing you a glance. he heads straight for the kitchen, opening the fridge and grabbing a bottle of water, chugging it down like he just ran a marathon.

must’ve worked out.

you hear his footsteps as he walks into the living room, where you’re sprawled out on the couch, pretending to ignore him. well, pretending to mind your own business, at least.

your eyes flick to him briefly, and yep, there he is— in those stupidly attractive gray sweatpants and a black compression shirt that clings a little too well to his body. if you look at him for too long, you’re pretty sure you’ll do something you’ll regret.

nope. not worth it. you’re supposed to be mad at him.

what is annoying, though, is how quiet he has been ever since that conversation with him a few days ago. jungkook isn’t supposed to be quiet around you. if anyone gets to ignore anyone here, it’s you.

selfish? maybe. but it’s just you and him.

it is what it is.

“get up,” he says, standing right beside the couch where your legs are sprawled out. “i need to sit.”

you glance at him briefly and then smile. “there’s plenty of space,” you say, your voice sickly sweet. “outside. in the garbage bin.” your smile drops as you finish the sentence, and his frown deepens, his brows pulling together in a way that— unfortunately, makes him look even better.

even hotter.

“i wanna watch the movie too,” he says, ignoring your jab.

“too fucking bad,” you retort, keeping your eyes on the tv.

the notebook plays on the screen, and for a second, you think of how much you and jimin love this movie and how you all used to watch this movie when you were younger (but old enough to watch it). jungkook always sat through it with the two of you, even though you know it’s not his thing.

“i just came back from the gym,” he starts, his voice edged with frustration. “i could use some rest.”

“go to the other room, then. use the bed to res— hey!”

you’re cut off mid-sentence as he grabs your legs, effortlessly lifting them up. before you can protest, he flips them off the couch, forcing you to sit up as he plops himself down beside you.

he leans back, completely unfazed, and looks at the screen. “thanks,” he says smugly.

“fuck face,” you mutter under your breath, glaring at him.

your hands itch to smack the smirk off his face, but you just huff and turn back to the movie, crossing your arms in annoyance.

you grab your phone, your fingers moving quickly as you text yumi because you genuinely have no idea what to do or say right now.

you: how can this mfker sit here and act like nothing happened!?

yumi <3: he's at yours!?!?

you: yeah, sleepover

yumi <3: where's ur bro

you: out

yumi <3: so u're alone tg 😈

you: help me bae. he's acting like i didn't literally say that i fucking want him?? what do i do

yumi <3: what u always do babe ,, provoke him.

you glance over at jungkook, still seated on the couch, his eyes glued to the screen. his jaw is clenched slightly, and your gaze trails down his arm, taking in his tattoos, the way his biceps flex subtly as he rests his hand on his thigh. and that’s when an idea hits you.

without a word, you get up and walk to your room. you don’t notice it, but his eyes flick to you as you leave. his gaze lingers for a second, curious, but he quickly forces himself to look back at the screen.

in your room, you swap your pants for a pair of shorts— really short shorts. short enough to reveal your thigh tattoo.

you glance at yourself in the mirror and adjust them slightly, smirking to yourself.

with newfound confidence, you stride back into the living room. jungkook is still on the couch, his attention glued to the movie. he doesn’t even glance your way when you enter— typical.

you catch sight of the clutter on the glass table in front of him: bowls and empty cups.

perfect.

you move around the couch approach the table from the other side so he can see the tattoo and start tidying up, picking up the bowls one by one, moving slowly, purposefully. you stretch your leg just slightly as you reach for the furthest one, your thigh tattoo now fully visible.

jungkook notices. and oh, you can tell by the quick flick of his eyes, the way his jaw tightens for just a second. but he doesn’t say a word, keeping his gaze locked on the screen like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

you hold back a frustrated sigh, heading to the kitchen to put the bowls away. when you return, he’s still pretending not to notice you, still sitting there as if nothing’s changed.

so fucking stubborn. for what, though?

you stop and take a deep breath, deciding to try again. this time, you walk directly in front of the tv, deliberately blocking his view as you pretend to move things around the room.

he frowns almost immediately. “move out of the fucking way,” he says, voice sharp and annoyed.

“can’t,” you say, keeping your tone light and casual. “i’m busy doing something.”

you cross the room again, back and forth, shifting random items like it’s the most important task right now.

“do it later,” he snaps, the irritation growing in his voice. “i’m watching this,, aren’t i?”

you scoff, turning on your heel to face him. “so fucking what? you’ve seen this movie like, a hundred times!”

he stares up at you, still frowning. “what the fuck do you want?” his tone is calm, too calm, but there’s an edge to it that makes your stomach flip.

you cross your arms, glaring at him. “you know what i want.”

he raises an eyebrow, his jaw clenching as he leans back into the couch. “do i?”

“yes,” you snap as you glare down at him. “don't act stupid, jungkook. you know exactly what the fuck i want.”

he exhales sharply through his nose, running a hand through his dark hair. “i don't know what the fuck you're talking about so just fucking say it.”

you scoff, your brows furrowing deeper. “i did say it. you’re the one pretending like it didn’t happen, like i didn’t tell you—”

“because you don’t mean it,” he cuts you off, his voice low but steady.

you take a step back, stunned for a moment. “what?”

he leans forward now, resting his palms on his knees, his gaze boring into yours. “you’re just doing this to fuck with me, to get a reaction. and congrats, you fucking got one. are you happy now?”

your throat tightens, but you refuse to let him see how much his words sting. “you think i didn’t mean it?”

he doesn’t answer immediately, just stares at you, like he’s trying to read your mind.

“if i didn’t mean it,” you say, your voice softer now, “then why would i keep doing this? why the fuck would i care?”

“because you like attention, don't you?” he shoots back, his words sharper than you expected. “taehyung, me, whoever gives it to you.”

your jaw drops, anger and disbelief flooding you. “you’re such a fuckin—”

“don’t,” he cuts you off again, standing up now, towering over you. “don’t act like i’m the bad guy here. you’re the one who started this.”

you stare up at him, your chest rising and falling as frustration bubbles over. but you recover quickly, masking the storm inside you with a smirk. tilting your head slightly, you ask, “started what exactly?” your tone is light, almost mocking, daring him to say it out loud.

jungkook’s jaw tightens, his gaze locked on yours. he doesn’t back down, but he doesn’t answer immediately either, like he’s weighing his next move. you can see it— the slight flare of his nostrils, the clench of his fists at his sides.

“don’t play with me, ___.” he finally says, his voice low and rough.

your smirk widens, pushing him further. “am i really? becuz all i see is you getting worked up over nothing.”

“nothing?” he scoffs, stepping closer, closing the already minimal distance between you. “you’ve been pushing me, fucking testing me? what the fuck is that about?”

you hold your ground, refusing to back away. “and? what are you gonna do about it, jungkook? keep avoiding it like you always do?”

he lets out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair. “avoiding it? you’re fucking crazy. you think this is easy for me?”

“what’s not easy?” you press more, losing patience, your voice softening slightly. “tell me, jeon jungkook. what’s so hard for you?”

his eyes darken, his emotions clear on his face. “stop, ___.” he pauses. “stop pushing me before i—” he cuts himself off, shaking his head like he’s trying to regain control.

you feel your breath catch at his words, your heart pounding, but you don’t let it show. instead, you tilt your chin up, whispering, “no.. you need to stop fighting it, jungkook.” you lean in closer, your eyes never leaving his. “it's just you and me right now.”

for a moment, neither of you moves. the tension between you is palpable, electric, like something is about to snap. and this time, you’re not sure if you want to continue pushing him.

“shut the fuck up,” jungkook leans down, his breathe getting heavier

you smirk a little, whispering back, “fucking make me.”

and then suddenly he’s holding your jaw in his big, tattooed palm, his lips sear against yours kissing you with passion that you’ve always wanted to feel.

jungkook's hand tightens around your jaw as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with a desperate hunger. you moan into his mouth as he pulls you against his body, his other hand wrapping around your waist.

breaking away for a ragged gasp, jungkook lifts you effortlessly into his arms, kissing you again. you wrap your arms around his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair. he puts you down gently on the couch where he'd been sitting moments before. though there's nothing gentle about the way his hands roam over your curves, hiking your shirt up a little.

jungkook pulls back just enough to glare down at you, his breaths ragged, his jaw clenched. his dark eyes bore into yours.

"i hate you," he grits out. his hand grips your thigh, sliding up to press firmly against your skin, sending shivers through your body.

your lips curl into a smirk, your breath hitching as his grip tightens. “do you?” you whisper, your voice teasing, daring him to keep going.

his fingers dig into your thigh, his gaze flickering to your lips before meeting your eyes again. “yeah, cuz you're so fucking annoying. i hate you so fucking much,” he mutters, leaning down to press his lips against your neck, kissing and biting on your sensitive skin.

a soft moan escapes you, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt as you arch into him. “yeah?” you breathe out, your smirk deepening. “i like knowing i get to you.”

his eyes snap to yours, his jaw tightening as he pulls your shorts down in one swift motion, revealing him your bare pussy. “so fucking bratty,” he mutters.

your breath hitches, your chest rising and falling as his fingers trace over the tattoo etched into your thigh, the one he gave you, the one that still turns him on whenever he thinks about how you teased him during the session.

you and your fucking mouth. he thinks.

his lips hover over your skin, his gaze fixed on the inked design before he lowers his head. his soft lips press against your hip, right where the tattoo starts.

his voice is quieter now, softer as he looks up at you. “does it still hurt?”

“so much,” you whisper, your voice shaky, but it’s clear your meaning has nothing to do with pain.

a smirk tugs at his lips, his eyes dark with intent as he begins kissing along the tattoo, lower and lower. each press of his lips sends a shiver through your body.

his hands grip your thighs firmly, holding you in place as his mouth continues its path, exploring every inch of your skin, lingering on the spots that make you squirm, but not touching the place you desparately need him to.

“you’re so quiet now, ___,” he murmurs against your thigh, his lips brushing over your skin. “what happened to that smart mouth of yours?”

you bite your lip, trying to hold back a sound. “fuck off,” you breathe out, your words make his smirk grow wider.

his hands grip your thighs, holding you open as his head moves fully between them. his eyes lock onto your bare pussy, and he curses under his breath.

he leans in, his tongue sliding in a long, slow stride over your folds, making your eyes flutter shut. a soft, needy moan escapes your lips, your body already trembling like you’ve been waiting for this moment forever.

because, well, you have.

his tongue moves through your folds with such a delicious rhythm, licking every inch of you. your breathing grows heavier with each stroke, his mouth exploring you like he’s memorizing every reaction.

when his tongue finds your clit, he flicks it expertly, a few quick strokes before sucking on it. the sensation sends a jolt of pleasure through you, your mind spiraling into a haze.

“fuck,” you whisper, barely able to form words as his mouth works wonders on you.

he doesn’t stop. his tongue continues to explore you, his lips wrapping around your clit again while his hand comes up to join the mix. two fingers slide over your slick folds before finding your clit, rubbing it in perfect rhythm with his tongue. when his mouth moves lower, licking at your entrance, your thighs quiver, and a sharp moan slips past your lips.

“this what you wanted?” he rasps, his voice rough as he glances up at you, his fingers still circling your clit. your back arches instinctively, your body responding to his touch, and you squirm under him, unable to keep still.

when you don’t answer fast enough, his hand lifts slightly before coming down with a sharp slap to your pussy. the sting makes you whimper, your eyes shooting open as he smirks.

“what’s wrong?” he taunts, his fingers rubbing over your folds soothingly. “for someone who bitches about everything, you're so fucking quiet now.”

he presses two fingers against your entrance, teasing you, his movements deliberate as your body tenses.

“wanna cum on my fingers?” he asks, his tone low, his thumb still rubbing lazy circles on your clit.

“y-yes,” you stammer, your voice shaky but desperate. “fuck yes, wanna cum on your fingers,” you moan, your body arching when you feel his fingers slide in.

“shit, look at you,” he groans, his voice rough as his fingers curl inside you, hitting the perfect spot. “dripping so good for me,”

your moan spills out involuntarily, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. your hand reaches out instinctively, gripping his that’s still holding your thigh, your touch shaky but needy.

his fingers pump in and out of you, his thumb pressing against your clit in perfect rhythm. the wet sounds of your pussy, with your breathless moans, echo in the room mixed with the movie still playing in the background; filling his head with even more desire. his eyes flicker down to the visible bulge in his sweatpants, hard and straining against the fabric as he takes in the sight of you.

“fuck,” he mutters under his breath, almost to himself, his movements never faltering. watching you like this; squirming, moaning, completely falling apart— does something to him he can’t ignore. he never thought it would actually come to this.

but he can’t deny it. he’s thought about it. more times than he’d ever admit. even when he tried to push those thoughts away, when he tried to convince himself it was wrong to see you like this, he could never stop. every time you provoked him, every time you pushed his buttons, it only made him think about it more.

and now? now he’s fucking gone. he loves this. he loves having you squirm beneath him.

“f-fuck, j-jungkook, so good!” you cry out, your voice trembling as your back arches off the couch. your brows pinch together, your lips parted, your entire body trembling under his touch. your eyes flutter shut, so close to rolling back, completely lost in the overwhelming sensation he’s giving you.

“yeah?” he breathes, his tone low and wrecked. “you look so fucking pretty like this, so fucking beautiful..” his pace quickens, his fingers pumping deeper, harder, pushing you closer and closer.

“that’s it, just like that,” he coaxes, as his fingers continue working inside you. his thumb presses firmly against your clit, circling it with just the right amount of pressure, driving you even closer to your release.

your breathing turns ragged, your body trembling beneath his touch as the heat coils tighter in your core. “j-jungkook, i’m gonna—”

“do it,” he murmurs, his gaze locked on your face, watching every expression, every twitch. “fucking cum for me,”

your body tenses, back arching. your walls clench around his fingers as your orgasm washes over you, waves of pleasure crashing through every nerve. you grip his wrist tightly, probably marking him, your thighs trembling as you ride out the high.

he slows his movements, letting you catch your breath, but he doesn’t pull away. instead, he watches you, his eyes dark and full of something you can’t quite place. he gently slips his fingers out, glistening with your release, and you watch, dazed, with your half-open eyes, as he brings them to his lips.

“fuck,” he mutters, licking his fingers clean, his tongue swirling around them as if savoring every taste of you. his gaze meets yours, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “you taste fucking divine.”

“jungkook,” you whisper, your voice shaky but soft, not entirely sure what to say.

but.. before you can say anything, your phone starts ringing. both of your heads snap to the table where it’s vibrating.

the contact name reads “hater,” which you both know means jimin.

your eyes flick to jungkook. his expression shifts, and his hands, which were so close to touching you again, retreat. he steps back, leaving you frowning and still catching your breath.

“shit…” he mutters, standing up quickly, like he's guilty. you push yourself up too, sitting on the couch, not caring about the mess or the fact that you're still half-naked.

“are you fucking serious right now?” you snap, your voice dripping with frustration.

he sighs deeply, rubbing a hand over his face. “just fucking pick it up.”

you scoff but grab your phone anyway, answering it and immediately putting it on speaker.

“what the fuck do you want?” you hiss.

“woah, who hurt you dumbass?” jimin’s voice is light, teasing.

you roll your eyes as jungkook silently fixes his clothes, avoiding your gaze.

“what is it?” you ask, your tone sharper than you intended.

“tell jungkook i’ll be late,” jimin says casually. “i texted him, but he wasn’t answering.”

jungkook looks around, realizing he left his phone on the kitchen counter earlier.

“is that all, brother?” you say, your voice dripping with fake sweetness, emphasizing the last word

“yeah, sister,” jimin replies mockingly, playing along. “go to sleep, it’s late, and don’t worry about jungkook.”

“care about your stupid model friends instead,” you mutter and hang up before he can say more.

jungkook exhales heavily, picking up your shorts from the floor. he places them gently on your lap, covering you, though he avoids looking at you entirely.

“what now? you’re just going to do nothing?” you demand, your voice rising with frustration.

“shut up, ___,” he says, his tone low. “we went too far. we need to stop. it’s better that we—”

“don’t tell me to shut it!” you snap, your voice breaking slightly. “you liked it just as much as i did! and—” you point at his pants, your eyes narrowing. “you’re still fucking hard, so don’t act like it didn’t mean anything.”

he groans, pressing his palm to his face. “just fucking get dressed. go to sleep.” he sighs. “we’re done here. don’t ever bring this up again.”

his words feel like a slap to the face.

“you’re just gonna walk away?” you askbut he doesn’t respond.

jungkook grabs his phone from the kitchen, heading for the front door.

“where are you even going?” you demand, anger and hurt swirling in your chest.

“out. need to cool off,” he says without looking back and walks out, the door shutting behind him.

you sit there, staring at the door.

this hurts. so. fucking. much.

what the fuck is his problem?

you want to scream, to fight, to get some kind of answer out of him, but he’s gone.

this was not okay. you can't forgive him. too fucking far.

you fucking hate jungkook.

note: wait ngl lmao i think i had a little too much fun w this ,, even though i was crying & trying to make the smut part even better 🥴

no series taglist !!

💌 permanent taglist: @annyeongbitch7 @internetrando64 @jkvias @lovieku @deluluisdasolulu @ddanasjk @onlyforyoukook @diamondjeon @nnybtitts08 @lil0u0 @butnotmontana @fr0ggieth1nk @minimoninini @whoa-jo @lola75111 @jaytheatiny @iswearimover5feetall @rispwr @genevieveeeee

@134340-kr @mar-lo-pap @fluttershypoo @kyuupii @https-mei @elinaki92 @jungkookmyoneandonlybaby @hoseokteardrop @winterbeartaehyungbestboy @jaykay-world @jmscaffeine @libra04 @beigerin @nikidream24 @svnbangtansworld @mimi1097 @kookoo-kachoo @junecat18 @iheartchanelle @rrosiitas @jjeonjjk7 @remgeolli @ty-moy-ya-tvoy @rpwprpwprpwprw

[cherrye]

hello! can i please request thigh riding with akaashi? he just keeps praising you and encouraging you to get off on his thigh so sweetly :(

bare thighs (s)

akaashi keiji x f!reader

cw: thigh riding, slight dacryphilia, praise, akaashi is a tease, very minor hair pulling

a/n: i hope you like it anon (and the rest of u readers hihi) !!

“you got it, baby. feels good, huh?”

good was an understatement. your brain is turning into mush as you cant your hips on his bare thigh, savoring the drag of your clit and his warm hands gripping your hips. it’s crazy how by simply riding his thigh, you can barely think and process anything aside from him and how good he makes you feel.

“look at me, y/n. don’t you think i deserve to see your pretty face while you use me to get off?” keiji teases, the corner of his lips curling up at your flushed face and droopy eyes barely making contact with his.

he thinks you’re so adorable like this — he can’t help but flex his thigh and push your hips down to pull a string of whimpers out of you. you’re shaking in his grasp, allowing him to take control of your pace.

“i think we can go faster, baby. you’re so beautiful when you’re feeling good.”

you’re babbling nonsense at this point, crying out to him and clawing at his shoulders at the onslaught of pleasure you’re receiving. and you’re so close now, the taste of your orgasm lingering on the tip of your tongue.

“c’mon baby, give it to me. be a good girl and make a mess on my thighs.”

his hands start exploring every inch of your body as your hips start to move even faster, goosebumps trailing after his fingers. you moan even louder when keiji starts to lick and suck at your tits, his free hand traveling down your body to circle at your clit.

“‘s too m-much, keiji… wanna cum!” tears start pooling at the corner of your eyes, drool slipping down the corner of your lips, and fingers pulling his hair. he’s groaning into your chest, fingers speeding up and lips moving to mark your bare neck.

“i know, baby..” he coos. “c’mon, you can let go. we aren’t done here anyways.”

likes and reblogs are appreciated!

[oh-babylove]

~7k. copia/f!reader. explicit. established relationship, smut, filth and fluff. copia does date night, and you show him your appreciation-- it's only fair. mdni.

thanks to @copia for showing me how to put images in a grid-- top right image by instagram user susitse.art. @enjoy-my-swearing and @photiniainsummer, this one's for you. <3

when the red comes over you - ao3

rhrn spoilers. blowjobs, masturbation, dirty talk, light degradation, a small piece of light cum kink, a touch of hanky-panky in public, some thigh riding, face-fucking, fluff, tw: references to past sexual assault/dubious consent/sexual trauma

You’re holding the same pole on the subway car as Copia, his gloved hand over yours, swaying with him, forced into his space by the crowd. It gives you an excuse to stand close to him, in the circle of his scent like cold smoke. You're not complaining– well, not much. Keeping your balance is a bit of a challenge– you aren't used to doing this in heels, even these modest Cuban heels. Riding the subway truly is riding, the rhythmic thrum of the rails swaying up your body, through the balls of your feet. Riding the train feels like riding a living thing.

“I like this,” you say, as if coming to a decision.

“Hnn?” Copia replies, raising an eyebrow as he looks down at you.

“Riding the train. I like it.” You lean in to murmur in his ear, not that you have far to go. It’s a matter of tilting your head until you can feel the warmth of his skin against your cheek. “But I’d like riding you even more.” It’s just the kind of cheesy nonsense that you’re both into.

Your body keeps brushing against his– a particularly hard bump has your belly pressed against his erection, and his choked-off gasp scores a direct hit to your brain stem, bypassing your ears, cinching something tight around your diaphragm. His hand tightens on your hip, possessive. Holding you up, keeping your balance.

“You little minx,” he hisses, frustrated--with a ragged edge of delight. “You wait till I get you home.”

“You caint blame that on me, now, that was the train,” you say, but you're close to laughing, yourself. You can hear your accent getting thicker, but damned if you can stop it. Besides, Copia loves it, loves ruffling your feathers enough that he can get you to slide back into that slurring hillfolk drawl. Someday he might even make you less self-conscious about it. 

Truth be told, you’ve been practically vibrating since before you left the apartment, restless and swollen between the legs, a low-grade ache that Copia has not been helpful with.

(The apartment. Your apartment. Yours, plural, now, you think. You’d never been a co-religionist of his, and he’d had a toothbrush at your place for a long time. Then a drawer in your dresser. Then he’d brought over his best frying pan, his best chef knife– simply because he couldn’t stand it, gattina, you cook with that? And now there’s as many of his books as yours on the shelves– shelves you put up with your own hands while he did ‘the heavy lookin’ on.’ His name isn’t on the lease, but he paid the rent for the next two months anyway. In full.

When you tried to fight him on it, he’d just shrugged. “Babydoll, I’ve been here more nights than I haven’t for the last four months, this is just… ehh, consider it backdated, yeah?” He’d kissed your forehead. “We can do half each after that. If you haven’t gotten sick of your dirty old man by then.”

It was hard to argue with that.

Copia kept his room at the Ministry, even after his… promotion. His term as Imperator, he’d decided, would be more hands off. You’d talked about it a little. Mostly in bed, sweaty and spent and a little sticky. “Mister Psaltarian is more than capable of running most of it. The administrative things. I’m better with the ghouls, I think, but there’s Kevin, and Ashley, they have it well in hand. I want the new guy to– to be able to be his own man, yeah? I’ll show him the ropes, of course, answer any questions he has, but he doesn’t need me looking over his shoulder all the damn time.”

The new guy. Hell of a way to refer to his long-lost brother. “And you ain’t ready to be around him twenty-four seven just yet.”

“...And that. Yes.” He was quiet for a moment. “You’re too perceptive, gattina. Keep it up and I’ll have to fuck you again, till you don’t think so good.”

“So… you sayin’ you gone fuck my brains out? Say, you ever notice that your man Psaltarian loses his train of thought whenever Kevin comes into the room?”

“That’s it, back in the handcuffs with you. And remember, you brought this on yourself.”)

As ever, he’d insisted on doing your makeup. (It should have been your first clue that you were in for it.) It only makes sense-- he’s better at it than you’ve ever been, and he loves doing it. You love it, too, if you’re honest. He had to take his gloves off for it, to hold your chin firmly and keep you in place. It was terribly intimate, his breath ghosting over your lips, the skin of his hand against your cheek. His quiet, gentle command held something still in the center of you, made it sing like a struck tuning fork– a calm vibration that sank into your bones. The cool brush of the eyeliner on the delicate skin of your eyelids. How meticulous he’d been, how precise. That calm focus he brings to everything that he cares about. How his whole being focused on that point, painting cat eyes sharp enough to kill a man.

Your lipstick had been worse, barely holding your mouth open, the brush sliding over the curve of your cupid’s bow, stretching out your lower lip ever so slightly. You hadn’t even known they’d made brushes for lipstick. Copia has taught you so many things.

Copia knows just what shades of red match your skin tone, knows just how to bring out the color of your eyes. He knows, too, the best cut of a dress to accentuate your figure, to flatter your curves. This one was lovely, shaping your breasts, with a little bit of flare to the skirt. He bought you this dress, these heels. This lingerie. He’s taught you how to fasten a silk stocking to a garter belt, that the underwear goes on over the garters, not underneath.

He’d taken the liberty of fastening your stockings tonight. “So the back seam is straight, gattina. I know it’s tricky to get right on your own, yes? Let me help.” His hands, his clever fingers, so high up on your thighs, his face level with your pussy.

“Oh yeah, sweetness, you're helping something, alright,” you choked out, a little strangled. 

He must have seen how wet you were already, if the self-satisfied hum he made behind you was any indication. He bit the crease of your ass, just lightly, making a goofy little rawr noise that made you actually giggle.

Embarrassing, the noises he gets out of you.

“You shaved,” he said, and it was supremely gratifying to hear him a little hoarse, himself. 

“Did you wanna do that, too?”

“Hnn. We’d miss our reservation.” He wasn't moving from his place on his knees behind you. “Miss the show.”

“Sound like you're enjoying this show purt’ well,” you said, but you thought it best to step into your underwear, anyway. 

Pain shared is pain lessened, isn't it?

…He didn't need to know that you only kept them on for a couple of minutes, just until you used the bathroom one last time on the way out the door.

You almost never know in advance where exactly Copia will take you when it's his turn to plan date night- generally your only clue is what clothing he picks out for you, how he does your makeup, if makeup is required. You've ranged over the city hitting up obscure museums before, taken tours in the underbelly of the public transportation system, gone to aviaries and magic shops and tiny greenhouses.

(You like to think you hold your own. Dive bars and twenty four hour diners, sidewalk art festivals and night markets, one memorable instance of a graffiti lesson– that had been an unexpected delight. 

Your man can be blisteringly uncool sometimes– most of the time, even– but there's no snobbery in him. No fear, either, not in the way most people are afraid: of embarrassing themselves, saying the wrong thing, of looking like a jackass. He hadn't been good at it, but he threw himself into the attempt wholeheartedly, listened to the man in the baggy jeans with the paint-stained fingers explain technique and theory and the history of the medium with total attention and enthusiasm. 

Never will you reach the bottom of him. His openness and his generosity and his good, good heart.)

Dinner and a show is almost a little pedestrian, for him, but there's comfort in the classics. A bar paneled in blond wood and washed in warm light, specializing in rare vinyls piped in on a very serious sound system as much as the cocktails. 

He’d been very good, kept his knee between yours, but otherwise, hadn’t even tried to put a hand up your skirt– a rarity, with him.  His eyes told a different story, watching you with obvious, predatory hunger. The second time you caught him ogling your cleavage he leaned into it, dragging his eyes salaciously down your body with enough force that you nearly felt his gloves snagging on your skin.

The cheeky motherfucker actually licked his lips at you.

You barked out your unlovely laugh, and the way he grinned took the sting out of the sharp glances cast your way– the aim was to listen to the obscure bossa nova, not to your fellow patrons. Your face was hot. “Ah, gattina, you cannot blame a man for looking. Not when you are as ravishing as that.” It wasn’t helping the heat in your face.

A glance at the mirror over the bar, old and pitted and a little smoky, the perfect self-aware touch of authenticity. You’d never have recognized the woman looking back, not when you first met Copia, this exquisite creature with perfect makeup. Sharp. Sexy. 

You don’t hate it.

“...Y’outdid yourself,” you said, slow. You didn’t look real to yourself, this absolute pinnacle of femininity. Copia’s gaze softened, warmed, less the slavering predator and more– a naked adoration that was hard to look at.

(Of course, neither expression was comparable to the first time he’d put you in an exquisitely tailored three-piece suit. You’d thought the man was going to pass out from how quickly his blood rushed south– but that’s a story for another day.)

He crowded your space, just this side of indecent, his knee halfway between your thighs. Copia fed you little morsels from his own fork of– whatever this was. A vaguely mediterranean inspired amuse-bouche. He took his time with it, making you duck your head while the cool tines slid against your lower lip. You kept his eyes for it, moving slow, relishing the way his mouth hung open. 

It’s a little much, in public, truly.

You weren’t even sure what you were eating, something perfectly balanced with rich cream, phyllo dough, an acidic tang. Spanakopita when it’s got a Michelin star or two, you thought. Copia’s little shudder at your groan of appreciation didn’t escape your notice, but you managed to keep the smugness out of your expression with truly heroic effort. 

From there, it was a short taxi ride with his gloved hand heavy on your knee, Copia keeping up a stream of polite chatter that you barely heard a word of. He’d gotten box seats in a lovely little jewel box of a theatre, for a revival of a classic two-man existential tragicomedy starring a couple of aging comedic actors known for their roles in a cultural zeitgeist film from around the turn of the last century.

It was a good effort, all told, and the actors weren’t bad– they had a chemistry borne out of twenty years of friendship that’s impossible to replicate. But Copia proved that he’s a true and faithful servant of the Devil somewhere around the start of the second act, when he peeled a glove off with his teeth.

Your chest went tight.

No wonder he wanted box seats, you thought, as he settled his hand back on your knee. Like it belonged there, like he had perfect possession of it, every right to edge just under the hem of your skirt. 

(His hands-- you love his hands. He’s self-conscious about the hair on the back of them, the dusting of freckles. Large and well-made and skilled, seeing them is like sharing a secret. A gift. He’s squeamish about textures, too sensitive, the slightest scrape will make him shudder-- and not in a fun way. Sandpaper would be torture. Anything gelatinous is right out. You get used to the constant grime and the vague awareness of filth you get on your hands, living in a city. It’s not so bad, for you, you invest in hand sanitizer and don’t touch your face. It’s the price you pay for living in a place with something like a subway, where things pulse and hum and never truly sleep, to be a microbe in the gut of this beast of a city, to be a tiny cog in the great machine.

You love it here. You didn’t think you would. Hell, you didn’t think you could. “It’s growing on me,” you told Copia one day, cool as you like, as if you weren’t giving anything away. “A little.”

“You have no talent for bullshit, babydoll,” he said, both dry and terribly fond.)

All of your awareness focused on the soft warmth of him enveloping your knee, the rough scrape of his calluses on the inside of your thigh– a new sensation, he’s taken the acoustic guitar back up recently. Not moving, just–holding. 

You kept your eyes forward, and your breathing even.

His thumb slid over your kneecap, absentmindedly tracing little circles. Your legs fell open a little wider, just so your thighs weren’t touching. You were terribly, achingly aware of the air on your cunt.

A soft stroke back and forth, a gesture that could have been reflexive, thoughtless– if it wasn’t for the beatific expression on his face, his eyes forward and too-innocent. It would have been more convincing if he hadn’t been inching his slow way upwards, featherlight touches, tracing up and back down, up and back down. Just a millimeter higher each time. An agonizingly slow drag, a glacial pace.

Your grip tightened on the armrest. 

Copia leaned forward, his breath in your ear. “Why, gattina,” he purred. “I do not think you are even paying attention to the play.”

“You are,” you managed, “a real sunnavbitch, you know it?”

He only chuckled low, and ran his touch to the top of your thigh. The side of his hand brushed up against your wet cunt and you both gasped.

“You little slut,” he hissed, with obvious pride. “So eager for me already.”

He dragged the very tip of one finger up between your lips, so slick it was almost frictionless, pulling away just before he could touch your clit. You took a ragged breath that was nearly a whine, bereft at the loss of his touch. You felt your cunt clench over nothing, an involuntary contraction. 

Copia hummed in mock-sympathy, and took mercy on you, cupping your whole cunt with his broad hand, steady and even pressure that was nowhere near enough, but at least took a little of the edge off. 

His middle finger slid naturally between your labia majora, and settled there, his fingertip crooked so he could just barely feel the inside of you.

The bastard stayed that way for the rest of the performance, sometimes giving you a gentle squeeze, sometimes pulling away to slide his fingertip back up to circle your clit. Just often enough to keep your attention focused where he wanted.

Evil, evil man.

Copia retracted his hand before the lights went up, giving you one final squeeze. He kept your eyes as he brought his hand up to his face, inhaled deeply, and surreptitiously licked his palm before fitting his hand back into his glove for the applause.

“Play weren’t that bad,” you said, weakly. “No call to do- alla that.”

“Oh? Didn’t you tell me you had a crush on the– which was it, the one with the dark hair– as a little girl? You want to wait around, go to the stage door, get an autograph?” All innocence, all the accommodating boyfriend.

“I revise my previous opinion. You are the Lebron James of being a sunnavabitch.” Despite your discomfort in heels, you couldn’t drag him to the train home fast enough.

So now, here you are. You shiver a little, in this hot and humid subway car, remembering. You bite your lip and can taste the wax of your lipstick.

Copia sees it, of course he does, how your eyes go just a little glazed. He smirks a terribly self-satisfied smirk. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“Oh, this’d cost you at least a dollar. Maybe five nintey-nine.”

“Inflation is just outrageous these days. Highway robbery. I’m shocked.”

“Not yet, you aren’t.”

“You are talking a big game, babydoll. Be careful, I think, ehh-- your mouth is writing checks your ass can’t cash.” His hand heavy on your hip, almost indecent. His boot between your shoes, the sweet curve of his thigh displacing your skirt. He’s so close, so warm and solid. The train is packed, but he’s all you can see, all you can feel. His breath in your ear, pitched low. “Your pussy can’t cash.”

It’s all you can do to keep yourself from grinding on his thigh in the middle of the train. “Sweetness,” you croak out. “We’re in public.”

He leans back, conciliatory. Terribly smug. The world fades back in. You catch a teenager in a hoodie smirking at the two of you, a direct and uncomfortable gaze that feels more taboo in this city than even the way your hips keep shifting, restless. You feel almost drunk, stepping into the warmth of his body and his hard cock between your hip and your belly, a little vindictive, relishing his frustrated little grunt in your ear. 

“Two more stops, gattina,” he murmurs, as much for his benefit as yours. You see his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “We can make it.”

“Mm-hmm,” you manage. 

He drags you roughly by your elbow off the train, in a way that has your fellow passengers actually making a faint murmur of disapproval at the way he growls. He might be leaving a bruise on your arm. Can’t be helped. You’re laughing up the stairs, your heels loud on the concrete and metal, giddy, just this side of hysterical. 

He’s clumsy with the keys when you get to your apartment building, following you up the stairs so he can look up your skirt. “Can’t believe– I watched you put those on.” 

“You just mad you didn’t get to watch me take ‘em off.”

He’s on your neck like a lamprey when you get to your door, and now it’s your turn to be clumsy while you paw through your purse, his hot wet mouth insistent, just under your ear, his teeth grazing your skin. His hands firm on your breasts, pushing the neckline of your dress down so he can fill his hands with them, gripping almost hard enough to hurt. He’s trapping you against the door, grinding into your ass while you fumble with the lock.

“What’re you– you tryna fuck me in the hallway?” you gasp. He’s reaching up your skirt now, his bare palm at the top of your stocking. When did he take his gloves off?

“I will,” he growls, “if you don’t hurry the fuck up.”

You somehow make it in the door without breaking the key off in the lock, and you give him just enough time to slide the bolt home before you’re shoving him onto the couch. You’re in his lap just as quick, your mouth on his, nearly biting him as he laughs into your mouth. Christ, you didn’t even get out of your heels. 

He’s warm under you, solid muscle under a sweet softness around the middle, and you can’t unbutton his shirt fast enough. His tongue in your mouth is making you clumsy, making it hard to keep track of how buttons work, shorting out basic motor functions. When you make it, you groan at his fur under your palms, and then he shoves his thigh between your legs and you whine when you grind your wet cunt against it. You have to break off from his mouth for it, clinging to his shoulders.

Your lipstick is all over Copia’s face. He’s grinning, rapt, delighted, impossibly fond. The man’s face is so pink it looks like he’s been slapped around. “Good, eh?” He pushes his thigh forward again, his hand up your dress and on your ass. “You like that?” He’s pulling you into it, making you drag your cunt over his tight jeans. The seam running down the front of his thigh hits your clit and you gasp. “So fucking desperate you need to hump my leg, filthy little thing.”

You roll against him once or twice more, because he’s right, it feels so good, those long runner’s thighs, the coiled power of him. That hard muscle and rough fabric against you, his body between your knees, so warm and familiar and beloved.

But his smirk is just a little too smug for your taste, so you have to make yourself stop before you fall too deep into a rhythm. Even if you actually hurt with being so turned on for so long. You get his shirt the rest of the way open, have to bend your head to suck a nipple into your mouth– the terrible brand over his heart level with your eyes– and bite. It’s not hard, but it does raise his back off the couch, and distract him from you eeling down between his legs to kneel on the floor.

“Oh, fuck,” he says, looking down at you, knowing (some of) what you have in mind.

Your hand is on his belt buckle, and the sheer Pavlovian reaction you have to the sound of undoing it with one hand forces you to press your cheek to his thigh and focus on your breathing for a moment.

You laugh, shaky. You left an actual wet spot on his jeans.

Copia’s hand is in your hair, fingernails running along your scalp, soothing, grounding you. “Baby?” he asks. “Babydoll, are you alright? We don’t have to–”

“No.” You catch your breath, look back up at him, and his mismatched eyes go from soft and sweet to almost afraid, when he sees your expression. The hunger there– you could eat him alive. “No, I was just– too turned on, for a second.”

“Oh.” He pets at you again, then his smile turns predatory as he sweeps your hair up in one hand and pulls tight. “Then why don’t you get to sucking my cock, puttana?” 

Just for that, you lean up and bite at his belly, the sweet furry softness just below his navel. You laugh with a mouthful of his flesh at his yelp, how it turns into a groan as you unzip his jeans and take him in hand. 

It isn’t as if you aren’t intimately (haha) familiar with his dick, but it’s always nice to see. You’d called it pretty, the first time you’d slept with him, and it really is an accurate description. (It had been emotional for a great many reasons, but that had touched him in ways he still couldn’t articulate.) Silky soft skin over the hard length of him, his head already shiny with precum. It’s the same color as his lips, under the paint.

“You see what you do to me, gattina?” he murmurs above you. “You wreck me. You’ve ruined me– or at least these pants.”

“It’ll come out in the wash,” you say, and take him into your mouth, slow suction, tasting salt. He fills your mouth, fills your hand, blood-warm and firm in your grip. You watch his eyes when you start to suck him down, loving, as you always do, how in that first moment he looks at you, whimpers at you, like you're breaking his heart. 

You hear the dry click of him swallowing as you pull the soft skin of his cock further towards your mouth, your grip twisting, the slow churn of it. How his veins give under your lips, under your hand. It doesn’t take long to get him slick, the thick ridge of the underside of him heavy on your tongue. The musk of him fills your whole senses, thick and animal and a little gross.

His hips shift, and before you have to pull yourself off of him to tell him to talk, he’s doing what you want. “Look at you,” he breathes, reverent. “You’re so good at this, fucking made for this,” a twitch upwards, a movement too small to be called a thrust, “aren’t you? Born for this, your god made you to suck my cock. My perfect– ohh– perfect little cocksucker. Want it so bad, don’t you?”

His hand is heavy on the back of your skull, pushing you down with that even, steady pressure just how he likes. How you both like. “Don’t worry. I’ll give it to you, give you what you want.” He’s not choking you with it, you have plenty of room to work with your hand. Still, as you take him down further, swallowing around the thick length of him, you feel hot tears running down your cheeks, sheer dumb animal reaction. You slip your other hand to cradle his slick balls, rolling them gently, the weight of them a little cooler than the rest of his body. He makes a strangled noise, an “Ohh fuck, baby, babydoll, so good for me, so good to me, fuck, fuck–!” 

His stutter and his loss of control are just too much, finally, you feel the air of the apartment cool at the top of your slick thighs, your swollen cunt, and you have to do something about it. You take your hand from his balls and slide it up your skirt, slowly enough to feel your silk stockings under your fingertips, slow enough that Copia catches it.

Just as you register how fucking wet you are, his eyes go wide and his hips shudder, the smooth hot head of his cock hitting the back of your throat. 

Your grip tightens on the base of his cock, a warning. You freeze, staring blank and unseeing at his soft belly, before looking up at him imploringly. “Okay,” he says, gentling you like a frightened horse. His big hand moving in your hair. “Okay. But baby,” he's nearly whining as you slowly suckle on the head of him, faint living salt in your mouth, “I know you want it, you’re too fucking good at that to not want it, I. Ohhh.” His hand grips tight in your hair as you swallow around him, thick and hot on your tongue. “Oh, fuck.”

You’re finding your pace on his cock again, a little faster, your hands working in time on his cock, on your clit. Freshly shaved like this, you’re fantastically, impossibly slippery. “Ohh, fuck. Oh, sweet Satan. Oh my dear Lord Below.” Copia absolutely doesn’t know what he’s saying, he so rarely gets outright religious on you. It’s an unspoken courtesy you’ve extended to each other, so to hear him break it sends a smug little charge through you. You whimper a little around his cock, give yourself a little more pressure on your clit. He can’t keep still, not all the way, even though you know he’s trying, making little aborted movements of his hips.

Copia swallows. It’s remarkable how you can see him trying to pull himself together. “Knew you loved this,” he says, his voice creaking. “Can’t be that good at something if you don’t love it. Didn’t know you loved it this much, gattina.” A little more pressure on the back of your skull, his nails scraping your scalp. He isn’t exactly holding you down, but he isn’t letting you pull off, either. “Never had my cock sucked this good, never even had a man suck my cock this good, thought I liked that better, before you came along. Had so many people suck this cock–” and that hurts, a hot bolt of pain and arousal that hits your heart and your clit at the same time. Your pace falters, and it must show, because Copia slows as well.

It’s a sore spot. You know that his own inverted form of celibacy in the Ministry included a certain implied… availability that could be, charitably, unpleasant for him at times. Clergy take no wives, no husbands, but give themselves freely to their congregation. You haven’t pushed him on the things that happened to him, he usually insists it was fine, expected, normal– but you generally have to go for a long walk and break something after you talk about it. You know, too, that he had positive experiences there, genuinely caring relationships. It doesn’t exactly help matters that your own knowledge of partnered sex, before Copia, falls radically short of the mean for someone in your age group.

All of that goes through your head in a flash, and he knows it, he can read you so well, even between one stroke of his cock and the next. “Only– didn’t know you’d have a natural talent at this.” Petting at you, soothing, his thumb moving tender on your cheekbone. “Remember, how I had to teach you how to kiss, those hours in the park.” You make a noise on him, not sure if this is helping. “Loved that, babydoll, loved doing that with you, teaching you, drove me wild.” He’s murmuring low to you, his voice a little rough, a little too exposed. “But I– I was ready for you to bite it off, the first time you went down.” 

Awkward thing, laughing with a mouth full of dick. But he keeps going. “I didn’t know, my baby. I didn’t know how it could feel. Didn’t know how good it could be.” He twitches in your mouth, in time with a tiny movement of his hips, so warm and alive in you. “Taught you how to kiss, but babylove, I swear I felt like a virgin when you took me to bed.” His voice is low and wrecked for different reasons than it was before, and oh no, his eyes are wet.

You let go of him, turn your head to wipe your mouth on your shoulder, quick and perfunctory. You can't take your eyes from him. "Sug," you say, unsure how to continue, the twisting in your chest too much for words, beyond anything you could articulate with language. Your knees creak a little as you start to get up, to do what you don't know. Kiss him or touch him or say something, anything, to the way he's looking at you. 

Copia pushes you back down, his hand heavy at the back of your neck. His thumb slots right at the base of your skull, right where he likes to keep it when he kisses you. “No, no, you’re too good at this, I wouldn’t interrupt an artist.” Back in some semblance of control. “You’re too good, you make me feel too good, show me. Will you--? Please, baby, will you show me how it can be good--?"

"Well," you say, pumping slow at his cock. "I can try." You press a tiny kiss to the head of him, too sweet for the situation, relishing the way he shivers. You take him in, how his hair is a disaster, sticking up in the back, his shirt open, your makeup smeared all over his face, his body, the parts of his thighs that you can reach. His pupils are blown wide, his eyes a little glazed, his lips swollen from the way you kissed them and the way he's bitten them. He's wrecked, and he's yours. 

You love him. With all your heart, all your mind, and, you're afraid, all your soul. It hurts to look at him, you think he might sear your eyes right out of your skull. 

You close your eyes against it, at how it stings, and nuzzle into the silky skin of his cock. Copia's belly is soft, warm, furred, delightfully sticky under your touch, as you run your hand up the front of him, up until you're cupping the sweet curve of his pectoral, until you can feel the cruel scar of his branding under the pads of your fingers. You trace over it, mapping the vector of those interlocking sixes. You feel his pulse under your palm, under your lips. You drag your mouth back and forth, just to feel the soft, delicately crenelated skin, the coolness of his flesh here soothing your feverishness. 

Copia makes a tiny wounded noise as his hand presses over yours. As if he could press his heart into your hand. He’s better at language than you’ve ever been, but you can see it falter and fail for him. All you know how to do is– action. It feels inadequate, somehow.

Your dear man. He sees you, and raises your hand to press a kiss to your knuckles in a courtly gesture. It should be absurd, with you on your knees for him, with the delicate skin of his cock against your mouth. Somehow, it isn’t, the alchemy of his tenderness conveying exactly what he means. What you mean, with the most vulnerable part of him between your teeth. “D’you want me to take you to bed, babydoll?”

“No,” you say, pulling off of him long enough to murmur it against his slick head. “Later, maybe. If you’re up to it. Right now, I want–” It’s easier to wrap your lips around him again, to tell him that way. You’re more eloquent with your mouth this way than you ever were with language.

“Alright,” he says, almost a gasp, as he returns your hand to you. “Touch yourself for me?” Almost pleading. As if your pleasure were a favor to bestow on him. “I want– wanna see you get off, my baby, wanna see how much you love doing this. So fucking hot–” His voice breaks off into a whine as you pull him further into your mouth. 

His big hand on your head, stroking your hair back, so sweetly. “Do you want me to be a little mean? I know you like that.” 

You moan around his cock in an unmistakable affirmative, rut a little harder into your hand, plead with your eyes. 

Copia’s smile turns sharp, wicked. “My perfect little cocksucker.” The deep affection in his voice belies the words. “Perfect little cumslut.” Your hand is already back between your legs, and you might– might– be moving your hips a little more theatrically than strictly necessary. 

He holds the back of your neck, the base of your skull, his grip tight. Just this side of painful. “You know how to tap out. How to get me to stop.” He pushes you down on him as he tilts his hips up to you, not quite cutting off your air. “But you’re not gonna do that, are you?��� 

Copia licks his lips. He looks feverish, making shallow little thrusts into your mouth. “No, you. Ohh, you like this too much.” He’s so careful, even like this, testing just how hard he can thrust, finding your limit and pushing just past it before backing down. It makes you moan, makes you shiver, makes your hand speed up on your cunt in time with the way he’s pushing into your throat.

“Cruel to me,” he croons, as he uses your mouth. “Keeping that sweet little pussy from me.” He’s panting. “I can hear it, hear how wet you are.” As he says it, you realize you can, too, the wet noise in counterpoint to the sound of you working his cock. “M’gonna make you pay for it. Hope you’re ready, gonna eat you out till m’hard again.” He’s got both hands on your head now, and he’s too far into you for you to use your hand on him.

“You’ll. Hnn. You’ll need me to, to eat you out. Make you cum on my face.” If it weren’t for the sheer adoration in his eyes, this would be brutal, the way he’s pushing into your throat. The speed of your hand on your clit. Moving with him, point and counterpoint. “Fuck, I’m gonna wreck it, gonna split your pretty little cunt open– I’ll last longer, after I cum down your throat.” You whine around his cock, your cunt clenching on nothing, shivering against your hand.

Copia sounds like he’s in pain. It feels like he can’t stop himself, the way his hips are working. “Gattina,” he whines, helplessly. “Can’t– can’t last much longer, you looking at me like that.” You can feel him trembling under your touch. “D’you. You want it?” Movements a little more shallow, holding himself in check. “You want this cum in your mouth?” A rough, jagged thrust. “Little slut–!” he hisses, and he’s not quite too far gone to grin in smug delight at the way you moan in reaction. 

“Gonna cum like this?” he croons, taunting. His white eye bores into you, too bright, and he looks crazed. Deranged. It’s almost frightening, the way you can’t look away from it. Your eyes burn, hot tears on your cheeks, and you couldn’t stop rubbing your cunt if you tried. The way he’s watching you, the way he sees just how turned on you are by him using you like this. Like it’s shameful. “From me fucking your slut mouth like a little cocksleeve.” His voice is creaking, nearly out of control. “You want this cum? You want it? Hmm?”

You’re hanging on by a thread, your nerves strung out like piano wire, helpless before him. Your jaw hurts, his hand so tight in your hair. “Then take it.” He’s beckoning you over the edge, chanting, rapt. “Take it, take my cum, take my fucking cum–” he rasps, knowing exactly what will set you off, will snap the bright line of you.

You see his smile as you break, whining around his cock. How he lights up at it, overjoyed, crooked and tender. You hold his eyes the whole time, giving him as much of it as you can, letting him see all of it, the shining abyssal affection that crashes through your body for him, catching your nerve endings like fire through tinfoil. 

“Ohh–! Precious,” he says, almost crying, “my precious girl, my baby, my–” his voice breaks on your name, the syllables like a song, like a prayer, like something more than holy, like the shahada, like the shema, like it's the last thing that he knows. You never knew your name until he held it in his mouth like this, at the uttermost end of himself. He’s flooding over your tongue, slick and bitter. Like the first jet from the fountain in school, sun-warmed metal, iron from the earth, living water. 

His cock jumps in your mouth, and you’re shaking, trembling through your aftershocks and his as you swallow all of him, pull all of him into you, watching his eyes and his blissed out expression until his voice does– something wrecked. “You–!” he gasps, delighted. “C’mere, come up here, you’re too– too far away–” he’s pulling at you, babbling, delirious, so soft now. 

Copia’s pulling you up, into his arms, his lap, too quick for you to wipe his cum and your spit from your mouth. “Dunno if I like it, you that far away, wanna feel your pretty little body when you cum, you–” And then he’s kissing on you, shivering, laughing, little pecks along your jawline till he reaches your mouth. He makes a deep, appreciative groan when he tastes himself on your lips. He pulls back to look at you, almost scandalized in delight. 

You have to laugh at him. For once you can’t be bothered to be self-conscious about it. “Oh, I do like that,” he murmurs, almost to himself, before he dives back in, like he has to get all of it. You’re still shaky, a fine shiver all down your spine. He’s almost clumsy, licking into your mouth, a real rarity for him. You try not to feel too smug about it.

You can’t stop smiling, when you finally get your mouth back. “Acceptable, then?”

“So good. Every time, I can’t believe–” he’s nuzzling at you, his nose against yours, totally uninhibited in his affection. “So perfect, so sweet, love you so much, thank you, thank you, baby–” Nonsense babble. Incoherently effusive. He scoops your legs across his lap and runs his hands over all of your skin that he can reach. “Perfetta…sei perfetta. Angioletto,” he murmurs, and you shiver. You haven’t heard that one in a while. “Angioletto mio,” he’s saying, into your hair, your skin, and it’s rare that you blow him all the way back to Italian. “Sei tutto ciò che voglio del Paradiso.” You’re a little too fucked-out to parse that all the way, but it still snags in your heart a little.

(He knows, usually, how you still aren’t used to being loved on this much. You know he restrains himself, tries not to overwhelm you. It breaks your heart, sometimes, when you see him hold himself back, even as his consideration makes you warm.) 

Now, though, it’s good. It’s perfect. His pants are half off, his dick out, ridiculous. You think you might have snapped a garter, and you definitely put ladders in these stockings. You couldn’t give less of a shit. You loop your arms around his shoulders and bury your face in his neck, letting out a deep, contented sigh.

Copia’s still petting you– appropriate enough. You feel like a cat in a sunbeam, even supremely disheveled like this.

He squeezes you lightly, again, and makes a little noise in the back of his throat. “The, enh– the talking. It wasn’t too much?” Like he’s shy, all of a sudden.

“Noo!” You have to pull back to look up at him. “No, holy shit, sweetness, it was inspired. Even for you! Hot damn, baby. ‘Cocksleeve,’ where did that come from?” 

“Ehh– a couple of times, there, I’m, ah. Not even sure I remember what I was saying.” Is he blushing? It’s adorable.

“No, it was great. I’d tell you if it weren’t, honeybunch.” You lean your head back against him, boneless and warm all the way through. “Naw, this was awesome. Ten outta ten, go Team Us.” You hold up your hand for a high-five, and your sweet man, he’ll never leave you hanging– the slap rings loud through your living room. 

He tilts his head back onto the couch, looking up at the Devil’s Ivy crawling over your bookshelves. “Although,” he says, slow, considering. “I do seem to recall that I promised you I was gonna make you cum on my face.”

“And split my pussy open,” you remind him. “Or was you writing checks your dick can’t cash?”

“Babydoll, don’t you know by now?” He’s turning back to look at you, his mismatched eyes full of predatory adulation. “The Devil always keeps his promises.”

[h0t-m0m-luver69]

"I'd never pass this up"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~You and the pro!hero Hawks are known for being late everywhere you are invited. You guys would always blame traffic, but it was simply Keigo's inability to keep his hands off you.

"You're the prettiest little thing I've ever seen." He says, peeking innocently at you through the shower curtain

"Stop being a creep, Kei, Either come in or start getting dressed, We have to go soon."

"oh baby~ you know I'd never pass up showering with you."

He got in faster than you anticipated, feeling the sudden rush of cold air from him opening the shower curtain sent a chill up your spine, leaving your nipples hard.

"Well, aren't you excited to see me?" he says as he peppers kisses on your neck and shoulders.

"k-kei please we really d-don't have time for this~" But you want this, you always do. You're wet just feeling his soft, plush lips on your skin.

With your back pressed onto his muscled torso, He gently drags his fingers up and down your torso, teasing you, waiting to hear your sweet moans of approval, trailing his hands all the way down to your soaking wet pussy. "If you wanted to go so badly why are you so wet f'me huh?" He slowly ran his fingers over your clit as he ran his free hand up to your throat.

He grips your throat slightly, enough to make your breath hitch, using his grip on your neck he tilts your head back just enough to meet your lips with a sloppy kiss. He loves feeling you come undone under his hands.

You feel like you're going crazy while he rubs small lazy circles on your sensitive clit. He knows how bad you want it, your hips buck to get more friction. "fuckkk kei~ please I need more~" You feel as he smiles softly onto your temple, kissing you gently. "come on pretty girl, I know you can take it."

"Please kei I can't take it, I need more~ please"

"Okay honey~ only because my pretty girl asked so nicely" He places you onto the wall, tits squished, your legs spread, and your back arched.

He lines up his dick with your wet entrance, sliding in so slow and good, you feel every vein. Your insides have his dick memorized, you squeeze down on him slightly from the friction of his size.

"h-ha~ fuck pretty girl, you're so tight" He bottoms out almost immediately, how could he not? You're all he ever wants, all he ever craves.

You feel his big hands grip your hips for something to steady his vigorous pumps into your delicious pussy. He could die like this seeing your beautiful face as you take every single inch of him.

"Kei I'm gonna fucking cum~ pleasee, just like that" No matter how much he loves seeing your ass jiggle from the thrusts he really needs to see your face when you cum on his dick. It does something for him to see how fucked out he can get you.

He pulls out of you and turns you around to face him. "Can I baby?" You nod weakly having been deprived of your release. He picks you up, legs wrapped around his torso as he puts your back gently on the wall. He lifts you off enough to let you slip him back into you.

"Oh fuckk~ Kei I don't think I can last like this.."

"I'm close too honey~ I just really need to see your face when you cum on me"

He hooks your legs on his arms, spreading you out more, your legs fall off his forearms as he pounds you against the wall whispering sweet nothings into your ear, driving you closer to the edge

"Kei you feel so good~ soo deeep~ FUCKKK" You feel your clit rub onto his pelvis making your eyes roll to the back of your head. Your words drive Keigo absolutely insane.

"I~I'm gonna cum baby"

You whisper into his ear "Please cum in me~ I need you to cum in me so badly honey"

You feel his abs tighten up as he begins to shoot white ropes of cum into your sweet soft insides. Letting out small whines as you both ride out your highs together, He stays inside you for a while as you both catch your breaths, smiling against his shoulder as he plants small kisses on the top of your head.

"I love you so much y'know"

"I love you too honey"

He pulls out and slowly puts you down, holding you as you get used to the feeling of the floor and your legs shaking a little from your orgasm. He places you into the water to let the warm water ground you more.

"Here lemme shampoo your hair"

Your back is pressed onto his torso as he rubs shampoo onto your scalp. He loves to take care of you after, doing your hair and scrubbing your back. He lets you help him too, usually holding you as you shampoo his head because of the slight height difference.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So how did we like it?? It's my first story!!! I wanted to try writing because why not, anywhoo thank you for reading! Feel free to give feedback! love ya lots 💞

[astrolynnworld]

under the table 2

pairing: bf! matt sturniolo x reader

summary: after a finished date with a horny matthew. he takes you back to your spot with a new goal

warnings: smut! switch matt, language, daddy kink, lots of oral, lots of pet names, praise, breeding.

a/n: this isn’t the story i ran the poll for, i just thought i would finish this series before i get to that story

word count: 1,201

after dinner, matt pays the bill and guides me out the restaurant.

“get in the car.” matt speaks while holding the door open for me

i quickly obey. matt then closes the car door and walks back to the drivers side.

“you drive me so crazy. you don’t even understand” he says while getting comfortable in the drivers seat

he turns on the car and starts the drive to my house since his brothers were probably home.

the car ride is filled with a comfortable silence while the weeknd plays in the background

that is until we are stopped at a railroad, waiting for the train to pass.

“fuck can this train go by any faster” the boy says anxiously as he craves to get back to my house

“you know we don’t HAVE to wait til we get home right?” i say while gently rubbing on his chest

he looks at me with his gentle glare trying to hint at a “if you want too, we could” vibe

i take this and start palming him through his pants. he adjusts his body in an angle for me to get better access

the railway gates start to rise as the train has finished passing. but this doesn’t stop me from touching the horny boy

“y/n i need to focus now, just wait til we get back to your place” matt speaks in a whisper

“would you really want that.. or would you rather me do this“ i say as i pull out his cock and start jerking it with my bare hands

“y/n..” he tries to speak

i lower my mouth onto the head of his cock and start circling the tip with my tongue

“fuck y/n- you’re gonna distract me” he says as he tries to keep his focus on the road

this doesn’t stop me. i continue to bob my head up his down on his cock at a pace that i knew would tease him the most.

“y- y/n” he begs

i now notice that he’s pulling into my street. i pull of and tuck him back into his pants.

he doesn’t say a word to me. he just turns into my driveway as if he’s in a rush.

he climbs out the car and comes around to my side of the car, to which he grabs me out and puts me on his shoulders.

“matt!! what are you doing!” i ask the hasty boy

he doesn’t say nothing, just grabs the house keys out my back pocket and guys me inside the house.

he lifts me all the way upstairs to my bedroom and tosses me on the bed

“strip.” says a firm matthew

i take off my shirt and pants.

“everything.” matthew says

leading me to further take off my bra and underwear

“good girl.”

“now get on your knees in front of me” he continues

i do as im told.

“take off my pants.” matt states

i slide matthew out of his tight jeans that compress the bulge sitting behind his pants.

he slides down his boxers, allowing his hard cock to spring up from the sudden freedom

“do i have permission to use your throat baby?” he asks

i simply nod my hand looking up at him with puppy dog eyes.

“i need words princess” he responds to my acknowledgement

“yes daddy” i reply

and with that. he grabs my head and forces his cock inside my tight throat

“fuck your mouth is so warm” he praises

he uses my head like a fleshlight and continues to pound into my mouth.

i close my eyes tight as i try to fight back tears from the choking and gagging that comes of his dick forcing itself in my mouth.

“you’re doing so good for me princess. fuck” he expresses while resuming to fuck my throat

“i can’t. i don’t think im gonna last.”

he further pounds into my throat with a few more thrusts until i feel his cum slide down my throat.

“are you okay baby?” he checks in as he pulls out and bends down to my face

i nod my head as i catch my breath.

“i’m gonna make it up to you princess. get on the bed.” he voices

i climb on the bed and lay on my back.

matt climbs on top of me and kisses my ears and neck all the way down to my princess part.

“you’re so wet baby. fuck i need to taste you” he says before flatten his tongue on my vagina

he continues to lick and slurp up any juices that were produced from my hole.

“you taste so fucking good sweetheart” he says from in between my legs

“don’t stop baby please” i whine as the cold air replaces his heat

he puts his tongue back on my vagina and continues to lick and slurp. i grab his head and push him further into me.

he continues faster and i’m left with no choice but to arch back into his head, i lose grip of his head as i feel my orgasm approaching.

he stops.

“fuck i need to feel you cum around my cock” matthew says while getting up from his position to slide his dick in me

“matthew. please don’t go soft on me. i can take it” i beg

“you’re gonna regret saying that angel”

he slides is cock in without giving me time to adjust. he just starts pounding into me like an animal.

“ugh matt. fuck- fuck fuck fuck” i scream out not being able to control my volume

“whats my name?” he says in a demanding tone

“daddy” i blurt out in a whimper

“say it again”

“fuc- daddy. you feel so good daddy” i repeat

“and who do you belong too?” he says while picking up the pace

i can’t even think right now. my brain is going fuzzy from the feeling of him in my guts.

“who do you belong too?” he repeats while putting his and on my throat and squeezing gently

“you. daddy.” i say out loud in a choked whimper

“say it again.” he continues

“you daddy. only you, i belong to you” i whine

“fuck you look so hot under me like this”

i feel the knot in my stomach growing as i close my eyes to focus on the sensation

“are you gonna cum for me baby?”

“yes daddy. can i cum for you please?” i ask while arching my back as the knot in my stomach starts to untie

“of course you can baby. cum for daddy. cum for daddy like the good girl you are” he says while continuing to deepen in me at a rapid rate

“fuck daddy oh my goddd.” i say as i let out my orgasm

he starts to slow down but not stop as he lets me ride out my high.

“you’re so fucking sexy y/n” he says

i don’t respond as i continue to let my mind fog up.

“here let me go run you a nice bath sweetheart” he says as he pulls out

i nod my head in acknowledgement as he laughs at the sight of his brain dead twinkie.

———————————————————————

a/n: thank you guys for reading 😝 let me know your thoughts

[callahanisms]

an experiment

the title is not related to this in any form. i just wanted to write something quickly for miguel. let’s just say i’m experimenting with some things. if anyone’s interested in like a fic, i’d be happy to write one.

anyways back on my spider-man stuff.

for the last seven years on your earth, you’ve been the one and only spider-man. well not exactly spider-man or spider-woman. you were known by the moniker of spiderling. you didn’t really have a name when you started so the press gave one for you.

was it sort of juvenile? yes. but in all fairness, you were still a kid when you first became spiderling. late teens sure, but you were still a kid. and still hurting.

you were a master of the mystic arts first. something happened though. magic became almost inaccessible after a fight with a multiversal entity. the universe was at stake and you performed some risky magic to save it. at a cost.

you still had a little magic left, enough to perform a binding spell or leave magic circle traps. and it helps that slowly but surely, you’re regaining the magic you lost. especially since many of the villains you face, even as spiderling, have a penchant for magic and magical artifacts.

what you were not expecting was for your day to be interrupted with the sudden news that someone had broken into an office building. without being seen.

upon arriving to the scene, you were very surprised to find a villain that was...not yours.

they were confused, but wreaking havoc with civilians in the crossfire was not the way to go.

in the midst of your battle, your body literally slammed into someone that came out of nowhere. and he was most certainly not from your universe.

“watch it pal!”

“you watch it!”

“you literally came from nowhere!”

before he can argue back, you gave chase to the new villain. you had more pressing matters compared to that of a man that came from nowhere.

and it seemed that he was following after you.

neither of you could catch the villain, who was constantly glitching out. clearly something was going on, something greater and beyond your own universe.

the mysterious spider-man was keen on catching them, so you studied their pathways and predicted where they would go. you laid a simple magic circle trap and waited for the villain to step through.

everything was easy after that. a magical barrier, the sprinkle of magic that disappeared into the air, and a villain knocked out. safe from harming others. and even themself.

“that was...a lot easier than i thought.”

“it’s better to think about tactics.”

when you finally laid eyes upon the mysterious spider-man, you jaw almost dropped. almost. you had appearances to keep up.

he was pretty tall. and muscular. the suit certainly didn’t leave much room for the imagination.

you couldn’t be thinking those things! who even gawks at a random spider-man that literally appeared out of thin air.

you don’t say anything to him and simply leave, letting him deal with whatever the villain was. it was clear that must’ve been why he appeared out of nowhere. something in your gut told you.

two weeks later, you got a visit from the mysterious spider-man.

he was just in your apartment! how did he get in? better not to ask questions.

you had just come back from your local bakery, goods in hand, and with plenty of freebies being the neighborhood spider person.

“(y/n), right?”

it was too late. you had already taken your mask off. and you simply blinked at him. “get out-”

he tosses you something and you catch it. a bracelet? “put it on. you’ve been recruited.”

“recruited? recruited for what? and why should i put this on?”

“come see for yourself first.”

if you were going to step through a portal, you might as well bring your baked snacks along for the ride.

where you arrived was...well, to say you were in awe with the place would be the understatement of the century.

spider people upon spider people. you had theorized ideas of meeting other people from different multiverses. but you didn’t think it could actually be achievable until now.

a lot of people stopped your guide to ask who the newbie was. from the conversations you picked out his name. miguel.

eventually his mask faded(?) away to reveal a...very stunning man. perhaps one of the most stunning men you’ve ever seen? even if he did look tired. but hey, who didn’t have a thing for men that looked like they worked overtime constantly?

“wait so...why do you want me to join this...spider society?” you ask before taking a bite into your baked good. you didn’t have lunch today.

“essentially? to keep the multiverse from collapsing. we have...run into a few of your own villains. the ones that use magic.” he says. “there are more like them. and for the most part, we have a lack of...magic expertise.”

“oh. so you want me to join to be that expertise?”

“precisely. besides, you already have experience with the multiverse.”

“and how do you even know that?”

his stoicism breaks with the slight curve of his lip, almost like a smirk. you could feel your heart begin to beat a little faster. “lyla.”

“on it.” the hologram pulled up...everything on you.

in fact, you wanted to faint seeing everything. even some embarrassing moments. “that umm...that wasn’t actually me.” you respond to his raised eyebrows at the scene.

“that’s not it. this one is.” lyla pulls up a video. “you defeated a multiversal creature. in fact, we presume there are more of them. they may be some kind of organization.”

“our job is to preserve the multiverse. and considering you have the most experience with this unknown entity, we need you.”

“perhaps need is a stretch. i thought you’d want me, y’know.” you joked. “because no one really wants me.”

“that’s not funny.”

“it’s funny to me.” you finish your food. “is the multiverse really at stake?”

“possibly. the point is that we keep it at a place where it isn’t.” he crosses his arms across his chest. “so, will you join us?”

you ponder for a bit before answering. “i have nothing better to do. sure.”

“good, good.” he almost smiles. he feels the muscles twitch but maintains his composure. “you have crumbs on your face.” he points to the correlating spot on his face to yours.

“oh.” you feel your cheeks grow warm with embarrassment as you brush them off.

“you still have some.”

you kept missing the spot, frustrating miguel just a little bit.

“here let me.”

his hand brushes against your skin and is gentle as he brushes the remaining crumbs off. normally you weren’t such a messy eater but you also usually didn’t eat in a universe you didn’t belong in.

his touch is gentle in comparison to his appearance. everything about him screams danger and pain. but it was, in fact, the opposite of that.

“next time eat in the cafeteria.” he says.

[edelfie]

#𝓣𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘! this means war.

while you are off doing your own thing, being controversial and whatnot, a certain pest in your side seems to be buzzing about. unfortunately for her though, she’ll have to try a little harder to keep up with you.

or, lia loses her mind a little

POST CREDITS! —

As far as Lia is concerned, you are nothing more than an obstacle in her way. Sure, a persistently irritating obstacle, but a measly one nonetheless. Whatever game you were trying to get at wouldn't work on her.

She really shouldn't be wasting her energy on you anyways. She already has everything she wants: the best job in the world, all the money a girl could dream of, and her fiancé. Keyword: hers. Perhaps she is a bit territorial, but isn't it natural for any girl to be with their things?

Following their heated argument though, she isn't so certain where she stands with the man in question. She knew her words were hurtful the moment her fingers flung across the screen, and she won't fawn and play innocent knowing that was exactly why she sent them in the first place. It's just...so hard to communicate her emotions to Atsumu when he takes everything she says or does as a joke.

It's funny. Everyone in her life has expressed their own feelings about the constant push and pull of their relationship. Years of infrequent dating and uncertain feelings culminating into a very real, very permanent engagement was not how she envisioned their relationship ending. Because while Lia thinks she loves Atsumu, she knows he's difficult to be with.

When they were younger and had just started dated, she gave him the benefit of the doubt more often than not. That he was simply "like that", constantly riding on the brink and not giving a damn about what others thought about him. And to a degree, she found him aspirational for that and even wanted to replicate him in that sense.

That was, until, it started affecting her work. She began losing brand deals and sponsorships because the boy she was dating couldn't behave himself for the two hours he was in public. It was ridiculous! At times, it felt like she wasn't his girlfriend, but his mother, his publicist, and his manager all in one. And maybe that does make her selfish for not going to his games, but when does she get to be selfish in their relationship?

She feels the most empowered, the most authentic, the most selfish every time she calls it off. She gets to enjoy her freedom, then watch as Atsumu comes crawling back to her. Sometimes he outright says he'll change (he doesn't usually), or he'll demand that she "match his effort" (she won't). Maybe it's antithetical to some, but for Lia it just makes sense.

So despite dating Atsumu Miya being equivalent to forcing a square into a circle, Lia would rather die than let anyone take him away from her.

NOTES! —

Sorry for the smaller chapter today! I just couldn’t think of a way to fluff it up that wouldn’t already be included in future chapters. If I do get any ideas though, I’ll be sure to update this and post a notif. Also, Lia isn't meant to be like a token "mean girl", she's very flawed and human and that's a result of her environment. She is still bitchy of course, but not evil. Anyways, today’s fundraiser is to help the Liberty Lancers Marching Band purchase new uniforms! While it may seem miniscule compared to other "issues", as someone who's partner marches and has come to love band themselves, having new uniforms would mean the world for these students. You can click here to donate or read more on their story.

In other news, I am back from my (tiny) break! Though I’ll admit, I didn’t use that time wisely to plan ahead for my next releases LOL. I had fun though!

I presented my speech in class on Tuesday, which wasn’t as scary as I thought but I’m still glad it’s over LMAO. After that I went to the gym to work out for about 30 mins, before heading home to go on a date. We walked around downtown and went bowling, to which he absolutely wiped the floor with me I fear. And then today in one of my classes we had a rock, paper, scissors tournament (gotta love college LOL) and…I WON! We did it a few times but I just kept winning or getting very close, so I was named the RPS champion ^-^

PREV + MASTERLIST + NEXT

© all rights reserved—edelfie (2024) // do not plagiarize, modify, copy, use, translate, or repost my work on other sites without permission

[queen-haq]

Fic: Grudgingly Yours, Part 12

Grudgingly Yours, Part 12

Summary: You are a general surgeon, working in a hospital that’s slowly sucking the life out of you when one day you’re given the offer of a lifetime.

A.K.A  - An arranged marriage fic :)

Pairing: Billy Russo x You

Rating: R

Masterlist (contains links to my other stories and this one)

Chapter 12

You were seething with anger. So frustrated, you wanted to scream with rage. How dare Billy do this? How dare he fucking threaten you? And on top of that, he hurt Calvin – did he really think that would score him points? Was he really that stupid?

“Stop dragging your feet.”  Billy ordered from the other side of the room, packing your clothes into your suitcase. The entitlement in his voice was so infuriating, you picked up the closest pillow to you and threw it at him. As soon as it struck his back, he turned around. For a second he simply stared at you, and fear trickled down your spine. This was a man who kidnapped your friend and tortured him. He had you cuffed and bound a few minutes earlier. As much as you prided yourself in being strong and resourceful, he was an actual soldier, a psychopath and rich. He could kill you in a fit of rage and suffer no consequences.  

Then he smirked, his handsome face breaking into a magnetic smile while he retrieved the pillow from the ground. “If it’s a fight you’re looking for, I’ll give you one when we get home.”

His friendly demeanor did nothing to alleviate your anxiety.

Throwing the pillow back onto the bed, he turned around and continued to pack your things.

Half an hour later all of your stuff was packed into a suitcase which Billy was carrying to the elevator. “Rest of your things?” he prodded.

“Storage.”

“We can get it tomorrow.”

You didn’t respond.

The elevator ride felt distinctly uncomfortable, with Billy’s eyes on you the entire time. His gaze felt intrusive, like he was trying to crack through your brain and see every running thought inside your head. You tried ignoring him but it seemed to make no difference.

When you both reached the underground parking lot, you headed towards your car. “I’ll meet you there.”

“Nice try.” He gripped your elbow, maneuvering your body towards the guest parking spots. Once he reached the Wraith, he opened the trunk and stuffed your things inside before pulling open the passenger side door open. “Get in.”

You eyed him suspiciously. “I need my car.”

“We can pick it up tomorrow.”

The bastard had an answer for everything. Fuck him. Angrily you slid inside, wishing you could at least have the satisfaction of slamming his door shut. He closed the door and circled the car to get in. Defiantly you opened the door on your side and slammed it hard.

“Feel better?” he asked, sliding in next to you.

“Fuck off.”

There was his smirk again, goading you, but you chose to ignore it.

This was the first time you were in his car, sitting beside him while he drove. He was a smooth driver, expertly gliding his way through traffic like he did everything else. Prick.

“Where’s Calvin?” you asked.

“He’s fine.”

“You need to let him go.”

“I will,” he replied, nonchalant. “As soon as you keep your end of the deal.”

“I’m already moving back in. What else do you want?”

“A guarantee that you won’t bolt.”

“You’re the one who runs, not me,” you retaliated.

“I’m here now.”

You scoffed, shaking your head at his audacity.

 “So are you gonna co-operate?”

“I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“There’s always a choice. You’re smart enough to make the right one.”

“I wish I killed you before.” You expected him to snark back or maybe ignore your hostile words. Instead he smiled, a tender, affectionate smile that made your heart skip a beat because it caught you completely unaware.

“You’ll get lots more chances now. Promise.”

Your eyes locked with his, and for a second the world stopped. You forgot how exhilarating his attention could be, making you feel like you were the only person in the world who mattered to him. You were special, you were important, and just as quickly, he would turn on you and throw you aside. Irritated with yourself, you glanced out the window.

Minutes passed before he spoke again. “He’s a decent scammer. Not great, but good enough to fool a lot of people.”

You scowled. “What are you talking about?”

“Your buddy, Calvin. He’s ripped off a lot of people with some kind of Ponzi scheme.”

You recalled the portfolio Calvin shared with you, how the returns on investments seemed too good to be true. Fuck. Even though there was nothing to arouse your suspicions at the time, a part of you had known something was wrong. But there was no way you were going to admit that to Billy. “Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

“I had someone look into him.”

“And I’m supposed to believe you?”

“Want to see what the investigator dug up?”

“Not interested.”

He cocked his eyebrow at you. “Scared to find out the truth about fuckboy?”

“Don’t act like you were punishing him for being a swindler.”

The car came to a stop at a red light, he turned towards you. “I don’t give a fuck about that. He is where he is because he touched you. He. Touched. You. After I warned him not to. And he will pay for that. How much depends on you.”

“Don’t you dare! I’m not responsible for this, you are! You’re the fucking psychopath. You don’t get to put this on me.”

Swallowing the angry lump in your throat, you stared straight ahead. But he didn’t. You felt his eyes digging into you until a car honked from behind. That seemed to snap Billy out of his daze and he started driving again.

The rest of the ride was spent in silence, with you contemplating Billy’s murder.

***

It was strange to be back in the penthouse that had been your home for a short time. Everything looked the same yet it all felt different. Tainted. You knew you’d have to return eventually because Alistair was an asshole and would make you, but you purposely avoided thinking about living with Billy again. A part of you had hoped he’d avoid you after humiliating the way he had, but you should’ve known that wouldn’t be his way. He liked playing with your emotions, softening you up before going in for the kill, and tonight was the beginning of the same cycle. All the bullshit he spewed was intended to make you feel something for him again but he’d made a big mistake in underestimating you. Because you felt nothing for him anymore. Nothing. And that wasn’t going to change, no matter how much he tried to manipulate you or threaten you with Calvin.

The lights turned on automatically as you entered your bedroom. Anita must have cleaned it after you left, because it was perfectly pristine. As Billy brushed past you carrying your luggage, your body stiffened. Everything about him felt obtrusive and too close. He was back in your life, in your head, in your room, and now in your things as he started to unpack your luggage.

“Stop touching my stuff,” you snapped, grabbing the skirts he was holding in his hand.

“I’m trying to help.”

“I don’t need your fucking help.” You stormed over to the walk-in closet and started hanging the clothes up.

“Fine. Then I’ll go make dinner.”

“Hope you choke on it and die.”

That elicited a full-fledged chuckle from him, which agitated you more. At least you’d get some satisfaction from pissing him off but he seemed determined not to be provoked. Jackass. Over the next hour while you put away your things, your brain spun with anxiety. You didn’t do well with uncertainty. You were a problem solver and that’s how you got through life. Anticipate. Plan. Execute. Except there was no way for you to anticipate the curveball Billy threw at you. You were prepared for Alistair, but not Billy. And now you had to find a way out of this situation. Not to mention rescue Calvin too. Fuck. You needed to know details, exactly what Billy had planned and then find a way to get through it.

“Dinner’s ready.”

Hearing his voice calling from the kitchen, you made your way to the ensuite bathroom. You took your time in freshening up, washing all the make-up from your face. You stared at your reflection in the mirror, once again pondering Billy’s sick mind. Did he really expect you to play along? Was he so used to women being doormats that he honestly thought you would just roll over and give into him? It was obvious he had no idea who you were. And all signs pointed to him being exactly like his grandfather, a rich, entitled bigot who got off on controlling you. Well, fuck that.

After changing into an extra baggy lounge set that did a remarkable job of making you look dowdy, you sauntered over to the kitchen. What you found there was a complete surprise. The small table was adorned with fresh flowers, your favourite bottle of wine, and candle lights. He had also plated the pasta, which looked unbelievably good, and was already seated and waiting for you. What the fuck? Did he think the two of you were going to have a romantic meal together?

“Seriously?” Your eyes narrowed onto him, shaking your head. “This isn’t a fucking date.”

He looked unmoved by your lack of enthusiasm. “Doesn’t mean we can’t eat.” He stood up to pull your chair back. “Sit.”

“Are you asking me or ordering me?”

He cocked his eyebrow. “Does it matter?”

“You’re unfucking believable.” Refusing to give into him, you walked to the table but ignored the seat he held out for you. Instead, you took another empty seat.

He smiled, and started pouring you a glass of wine. When he tried to hand it to you, you stared back at him defiantly. “Not in the mood.”

“It’s your favourite.”

“Not anymore. You’ve ruined it.”

He smirked. “Fine. More for me then.” Deliberately making a show of enjoying the wine, he held your gaze.

“Tell me what I have to do to get Calvin away from you.”

There was that dark glint in his eyes again, the one reminding you of who Billy truly was. “Let’s have dinner first.”

“I’m not eating with you.”

“If you want to save Calvin, you will.”

You shook your head. “That’s how it’s gonna be from now on, isn’t it? You think this is how you’ll control me. You’re exactly like Alistair.”

“I’m nothing like him.” Jaw clenched, eyes darkened with anger, he moved towards you. A part of you was glad for striking him where it hurt but you didn’t like the closing distance between you two. Especially when he sat next to you.

You didn’t like his proximity, the way his body was turned to you. You were the sole focus of his attention and it made you uncomfortable, reminding you of how easily he played you in the past.

“I don’t want to control you.”

The softness in his voice was a ruse, you reminded yourself.

“That’s not what this is about,” Billy continued.

“What is it gonna take for you to let him go?”

He paused a few seconds before answering. “This. I want this. Dinner. The two of us. Every night.”

“Why? What are you hoping to get out of it?”

“I just want to have dinner with you. That’s all.”

“But it won’t stop at dinner, will it?” You sent him a bitter smile. “How long before I have to fuck you?”

“You’re the one who keeps bringing up sex.” He smirked. “Do you want to fuck me?”

“Go to hell!” His eyes wandered over your face, like he was memorizing every inch of you – and it made your heart beat faster. Immediately you chastised yourself. “How long do I have to suffer these dinners with you?”

“Three months.”

You scoffed. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

He shrugged his shoulders. Throwing one arm around the back of your chair, he leaned in. “This is what I want. Three months. After that, I’ll let him go.”

“You’re gonna hold him hostage until then?”

“Don’t worry about him. He’s being looked after.”

“I’m supposed to take your word for that? How do I know you haven’t killed him already?”

“I haven’t. But if you want proof, I can show you.”

Your face twisted with disgust. “You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?”

He didn’t respond, still peering at you closely. When his fingers slowly smoothed over the loose strand of your hair, you steeled yourself to his touch. “That’s not why I’m doing this.” There was longing in his gaze, his voice hoarse with emotion.

It was incredible how convincing he could be but you saw him for what he was – a manipulator.

You touched his hand to brush him away but the instant you made physical contact; sparks flowed through your veins. You withdrew immediately. “Then tell me why.”

A heavy sigh escaped him, he finally leaned back against his chair and you breathed a sigh of relief. “I love you. And I want you to love me back.”

The sheer audacity of his response, how he casually stated his intention – it was so flabbergasting that you couldn’t help but laugh. You laughed and laughed, while he simply studied you with a serious expression on his face. And when you struggled to catch your breath from laughing so hard, he handed you the glass of wine from earlier. This time you took it, your throat parched, and swallowed most of it in a big gulp.

“Easy there.”

You put down the glass. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You wanted the truth.”

“Oh, I know.” You gave him a condescending smile. “So I fall in love with you in this pipe dream of yours, and then what? You dump me? Humiliate me again? This time in front of dear old Gramps and the whole family?” Your smile stiffened. “Is that the plan, Billy?”

His voice was sincere, regret looming over his face. “I’m sorry about what I said to you at the wedding.”

“Nothing you said or did was a surprise. It’s what I expected from you.” It wasn’t true, he shattered you that night and made you doubt yourself – but you would never admit that to him. You stood up, casting him a snide glance. “You want me to be your puppet? Fine. I will. Because you’re holding someone I care about hostage. But don’t think for a second I’ll buy your bullshit act. I know you. I see you.” You bent forward so that you were at his height, staring into his eyes directly. “And I’ll never love you.”

Grabbing the bottle of wine, you turned your back on him and sashayed back to your room.

A/N - Sorry about the long wait, lovely readers. With the holidays and me getting into another fandom, I was a little negligent towards GY. But I'm back now :) Hope you enjoyed the chapter. And, as always, comments are loved and cherished :)

[writefightandflightclub]

Ride or Die (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader): Chapter Five (of 11 - COMPLETED SERIES)

Series summary: Together, you and Santiago have been “soldiers” then “friends” then “lovers”; but will you ever figure out what comes next, especially when Santiago can’t (or won’t) stop running? 

Genre: a LOT of angst, some smut, best friends to… lovers?

Warnings: see collated series warnings, here. Please note this series is 18+. Minors / ageless blogs interacting will be blocked.

Series info: this is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are written and queued. Posting schedule is here (includes series master list). 

Author’s note: This is SO VERY ANGST. More angst than any other chapter so far. STRAP IN GIRLIES (GN). I'd love it if you feel like sharing what you think - your feedback means the world to me. ILY :-* Reblogs, comments, and asks are literal power-ups in my day and I appreciate every single one!

Word count: 8.3k for this part. 

Tag list info: will reblog separately tagging those on taglist. You can request to be added to taglist if you are 18+. Send me an ask, please, so I can keep track :)

You’re spiralling. 

You’re pissed off and you’re hurt and you’re somehow still horny as hell (somehow, perhaps even more horny since Santiago helped you out in that very particular way of his). You feel all in a tizz, like you don’t know which way is up; but even so, you’re pretty sure you’ve simply been going around in circles, and it’s dizzying. Santiago makes it easy to do that when you follow his lead, after all – all the more reason that you’d had to get out finally, all those months ago. 

Safe to say, you’re a little bit worked up. Too many thoughts are racing through your head. Resentment that he could get you all riled up like that, have you come undone, and then straight up deny you. Like it was some power play all along and that all he wanted was the satisfaction. On the other hand, a dreadful longing spikes at the thought that maybe he really did just want to protect himself, because he wouldn’t know how to find his way out this time if he got lost in you all over again. 

The main thing you’re feeling though – a bitter shard of pain stabbing through any sense of pleasure you may be left with - is a singular fear. 

What if he really doesn’t want you anymore? 

He wants you, yes, on some level. His admissions in the kitchen about wanting to kiss you confirmed that much. But his desire for you had always felt like an unstoppable force. Like something he couldn’t help or hope to control. Like a raging fire. He had told you that he loved you, wanted you, needed you, all those months ago. And while you are sure that remains true at least in part, you are terrified that all you leaving had achieved was to teach him how to live without you. And, contrary to that, his touch had simply confirmed how hopelessly consumed by him you still are, all your progress - moving on and rebuilding and forgetting - unravelled in mere moments by his fingers. 

You resent that too. His power over you, when you always prided yourself on being strong – needing no-one. You have never liked to feel like the one who is compromised, in any situation. You always prefer to be the hunter as, that way, you’re not the one who gets hurt. But Santiago? Santiago is lethal, and he has always known your weak spots.  

Maybe that’s why you had stormed angrily to your room, subduing your heavy footsteps reluctantly, only for the sake of your dear buddies sleeping soundly in their beds. Maybe that’s why you had hastily cleaned up, throwing on some fresh clothes from your case – a low cut top and some obscenely tight jeans. A splash of perfume. Some lipstick. All in the hopes of heading out to the local bar and searching for the kind of late-night attention which feels in your control. Seeking a desire which feels manageable. Trivial almost, instead of the kind which burns. 

Part of you – a small part of you, at least - recognises you’re being ridiculous, irrational, reactive, even as you zip on your boots. But there is another part of you that simply can’t stay here in this house with him a moment longer, feeling like he doesn’t want you the way you want him. 

You feel like, while you’ve been breaking apart for all these months, he was healing. It’s cruel maybe, that you would wish for his desire to burn him as much as it has a hold over you – but perhaps you’re not perfect. Perhaps you’re only human. 

Whatever. It doesn’t all need to make sense right now. Your head’s all over the place. You’re not really thinking straight at all. You don’t know whether you want to cry or scream or get your brains fucked out (or maybe all of the above - not in that order). And so, you’re definitely not thinking when you throw open the door to the bathroom, recalling that you’d left your necklace on the counter. If you were -thinking- perhaps you would have heard the rushing of the water. Perhaps you would have heard the muffled, bitten back groans emanating from the shower cubicle. 

Fuck. 

If you weren’t thinking straight before, every thought falls right out of your head altogether when you swing open that door. Namely, when you see Santiago, his body slanted into the wall as he palms his thick, straining length in something of a frenzy. 

You should retreat, probably. In fact, yeah. That's exactly what you should do. But, the sight of him there arrests you, and you can’t help but devour every detail of him. Your eyes skim over him only fleetingly, and yet your memory of his body fills in the gaps, meaning you’re able to see far more of him than you could otherwise in the split second your eyes rove over him. 

He is stripped down, his body curled into the tiled wall, his forehead and one shoulder bracing himself as the stream of water thunders down on the back of his neck and his broad, lightly muscled shoulders. 

His thighs are slightly spread and his full glutes are clenching as he fucks his hard, veined cock into the circle of his left hand, squeezing tight and showing no mercy, his pace relentless. 

From the way his nipples are pebbled and the way you observe the tightness of the muscles coiling in his back, you can guess that the water is cold. Perhaps, that he had attempted to cool off after what had happened downstairs, seemingly to no avail. His need is heavy and urgent and burdening his hand, the veins popping in his slick forearm as water sluices over every contour of him and still, his want is evidently raging. 

The most important detail of all, however, is that his eyes are closed, droplets of water beading in his long lashes, and a wracked moan sounding from around his own fingers as he shoves them over his tongue. 

Fuck. 

He’s licking them clean. He’s tasting you. Tasting your juices from his fingers and pumping himself raw from the thought of it. 

Holy shit. 

He wants you. 

You see it now, clear as day. He wants you to the point of desperation. Helplessness. To the point of coming undone with his need for you. His want rages even beneath the stream of a cold shower, taken in hopes of subduing himself. He works himself urgently in his fist, in hopes of finding his release. You find him here, like this. 

Unfinished. 

You can see it much more clearly now. You see how he wants you. You see what you do to him. What you still do to him. 

You see now that saying no to you likely took every scrap of control he had, and now that is gone, there is nothing left for him but you. 

As you enter, Santiago hears the door creak open – you weren’t exactly sneaking- and he immediately tilts his body to the wall. It’s automatic - showing his ass rather than his dick in his hand, likely in case one of the boys had just walked in on him. But, when he sees it’s you stood there, all slack-jawed and honey-eyed, he foregoes the need to hide. He turns towards you instead, his length twitching as it grows even more rigid and more ruddy at the sight of you. Santiago’s eyes hooded and desolate with want as he looks you up and down in your ridiculous, come-fuck-me clothes. 

Santiago knows fine well that you only wear red when you want to be shown a good time. You feel like a flare, on display, and maybe you’d feel stupid -like scrubbing this red paint from your mouth – if his need was not blatantly on display too. If his predicament did not seem even more dire than yours. 

Finally, though, as you look and he lets you, you register the intrusion, and with a series of stunted vowel noises which barely make it past your teeth, you are dragging your eyes away from his. Your legs like jelly and skin flushed beneath your tight clothes, you are clasping the door handle and turning on your heel. Your only objective is to make it out of there, even if you turn to vapour in the hallway after the fact. 

“Where the fuck are you going?” Santiago asks gruffly, and you are not sure what he means. Not sure whether he means to ask where you’re headed out to so late, or to inquire why in the hell you’re leaving the room now that you’re here, but God, you’re not sure anymore that you could answer either question in any way that would make the slightest bit of sense. 

You’re just not thinking straight. Can you be blamed? Look at him. Look at this, all for you. 

So, you freeze, breath held in your lungs as you grip the handle – your back to him, and about to swing the door open to hasten your exit. Instead, though, against every shred of good sense you have, you push the door closed, ever so gently, with you still on the inside. You turn, preposterously slowly back towards him, and when the sight of him stood there, wet and dripping, face all stern and languidly palming himself in the circle of his hand hits you, you flatten your back to the panelled door. Truth is, your legs feel so weak that you could barely stand without it. 

And, as if that wasn’t quite answer enough, Santiago continues to look at you insistently. 

Well? The quirk of his thick brow seems to enquire. Where the fuck are you going? 

Your voice comes out all breath. “Nowhere.” 

You’re going fucking nowhere, apparently. Only ever around and around in circles with Santiago “Pope” Garcia – but suddenly, you could care less.  

Your eyes lock then, and it takes less than moments for him to be on you, his wet hands fisting everywhere - in your hair and your clothes - and dragging your mouth onto his in a sudden, consuming crush. Your hands snake into his hair, squeezing cool shocks down your forearms as you wring rivulets of water from his grizzled curls, grabbing handfuls of the length at his crown to pull him deeper into you, his tongue hot and supple and buried in your mouth. Your top sticks to you, wet and sodden in all the places he has grabbed up handfuls of your flesh, or pressed his hot body flush against you. 

He drives you back, into the door and the awkward mess of towels hanging there on hooks. 

“Fuck,” he bites off into your mouth, and you surge forward with this barrelling want, walking him backward and slamming him against the cool tiles with a thwap and enough force that he grunts. Still, it barely slows him down at all, his hands all over you and his kisses still devouring, ripping the air from your mouth. 

There is no romance in this, you think. Only need, raw and animal, and you are surprised that you show enough restraint not to tear each other down to the floor and go at it right on the tiles. Still, you barely show any more restraint than that. 

“Shit. Fuck. Turn around. Turn around,” Santiago rasps, entirely wrecked already, barely able to get the words past his mouth. His cock looks almost painfully hard, and entirely insistent against your ass as he spins you and roughly bends you over the counter, pots of toothbrushes knocked into the sink and soap rolling who knows who cares where. 

“You want this?” he asks as he presses you into position, little precision or ceremony in it – just a rough, raw urgency, entirely untamed. 

You can see yourself reflected in the mirror above the sink, blurry and steamy and bent over, and that’s exactly how it feels. Everything; blurry and steamy and close and tight. He’s as hard as the cool marble surface digging painfully into your hips, and you’re as hot as steam and as wet and slick as this mirror and you’re melding into one another – not single bodies anymore but shapes and a mood and a feeling, and there is nothing else. 

“Princesa?” Santiago pleads, even as he tugs your jeans down over your ass, removing the bare minimum of clothing to give him access where he needs, the garment still tight and unforgiving around your thighs, not allowing you to move  - barely at all. “You need me?”

“Yes. Fuck me. Need you,” you beg, and you hear him spit unceremoniously into his hand -not that he’d need it- and slather it all over his length, groaning as he makes contact with his sensitive, needy dick as though he might spill over his knuckles with the anticipation of stuffing you full alone. 

Still, he holds on -by a thread – and your eyes roll back into your head as you finally feel the blunt tip of him notch clumsily at your need-swollen entrance. 

Then – ohhhhhh- then, there is the dull ache shortly after as the girth of him pushes through your wanting folds. You grunt at the initial stretch as he works himself inside of you, but pinned between the counter and his surging hips there is nowhere for you to go, and his need sinks into you inch by inch until he fills you all the way. 

You succumb to your ragged breaths and mewl for him, you arms practically giving way beneath you as you press them into the cool surface to keep you standing. He fills you, and God, you’ve missed this. Have missed how full you feel with him inside of you - in every sense of the word. The way his hands grip your hips in that specific spot he likes. 

You have missed his girth. Could swear you can feel every inch of him pressing outward against the tight grip of your heat as he fucks his cock into your hole, bottoming out with a delicious, wracked, stuttering moan, the sound alone causing pleasure to bloom around the drag of him deep inside you. 

Still, despite this fullness - you also feel the give of your walls to him, your slick and eager heat actively suckering him in. He stutters his hips as you clamp tightly around him and then, so help you, he finally begins to move. 

Jesus, this feels even better than his fingers, even better than you remember, and you relish every moment as he fucks into you, bareback and desperate, your pleasure coiling up impossibly quick as the straining mass of him works you open, hitting all of your sweet spots. Your legs tremble beneath you with adrenaline and want, and you feel Santiago’s thighs flush against the back of your legs, his hips snapping against the cushion of your ass as the counter edge bites painfully into your hinged hips. 

He's not taking his time with you. Not teasing or planning or thinking. You can tell by the undone grunts and groans he’s submitting to you already, that -for once- he is far too consumed by his own need to contemplate yours. Can tell by the sloppy pace of his thrusts and the lack of attention to your clit or your breasts or anything else but filling you - his hands fisting in the meat of your hips as he takes what he needs, gives what you crave – that he’s not even trying to make you come… but goddamn it if he isn’t going to get you there all the same. 

Soon too. 

God, the head of him is rubbing exactly where you need, and you can’t remember the last time you felt this good with a dick inside you. Your cunt is primed for him, still sensitive from where his fingers fucked you open and it isn’t going to take you long at all to reach your peak. 

Even without seeing him properly, in the misted-up mirror, you can tell that Santiago is going feral behind you. Filling you deeply and haphazardly, his fingers leaving imprints on your skin. 

You hear a snarl, and see a pearly flash of teeth as his lip curls up from how good you’re making him feel. 

“Fuucckk,” he groans, his head tipped back now, that pretty chin pointing up to the sky and his mouth dropping open – you can vaguely see in the mirror

His broad hand smooths firmly down the middle of your back and over your ass - grabbing handfuls of you- before he retraces his path, sliding his hand up between your shoulder blades and winding his hand in your hair, grabbing and pulling until your spine is curled back for him like a bow, your ass arced up and allowing him a deeper angle of penetration which sends tingles all the way to the tips of your toes when he hits just right. 

You practically yowl for him, your whole body trembling and shaking, sweat trickling down the centre of your cleavage as the layers you did not have time to dispense of overheat your skin. As your clit is nudged into the lip of the counter in a way that shouldn’t work for you, probably, but totally does, the intermittent slap of Santiago’s hips against you providing a pleasing rhythm. 

It’s uncomfortable, and hot, and cramped, and in some ways painful to be rammed up against the surface like this, but you wouldn’t tell him to stop for the world. You wouldn’t tell him to stop because the way he’s taking you feels divine, Santiago burying his want for you as deep as it will go, releasing his punctuated, abortive gusts of breath in time with his thrusts.

You feel drips land on the small of your back, and whether its water cascading from his dampened curls or beads of sweat from the exertion rolling down his temples you do not know or care. 

You only know that you want more. 

Determined as ever, you plant your hands firmly on the counter as he fucks you near boneless, driving through your hips until you meet his thrusts, working him up higher, finding the angle which hits just right and-

“Unnnngggg.” A whimper falls from his pretty mouth and his thrusts are suddenly far more shallow, slow, nudging against your nervy, sensitive entrance. His breaths are coming in deeper, heavy gusts now and you might be afraid that he was about to stop - if you weren’t so sure that he was, in fact, gearing up. 

“Santiago,” you complain as he blunts the sharp edge of your precipice with the break in rhythm. You urge him to give you more, and he uncurls his fingers from your hair and adjusts position. 

Obligingly, he wraps his stronger arm around your chest to guide you closer to standing, pressing his chest to your back, his head hooking over your shoulder. And, with his other arm, he reaches forward towards the steamed mirror, using his palm to clear a window from the condensation. 

“I wanna see you,” he rasps, a hoarse, gritty whisper in the shell of your ear. “Wanna watch you.” 

God, it’s too much. The way his arm is wrapped around your front, strong and yet tender as his forearm braces across your chest and his fingers dance tenderly over your jaw. The wracked, undone voice of him, whisper soft. The contrast between this and the certainty of his thrusts as he finds a new rhythm. As you find a new rhythm together, entirely in sync. 

Slowly, so slowly, he draws out of you, ensuring you can feel every single inch of him, the tantalising drag of him through your folds making your quiver. Then, he snaps back into you all at once, so suddenly shoving himself up into you, balls slapping against your ass, each repetition of this pattern building you up. God, you want him to spill himself inside you, and you think vaguely that it is the only thing which could quench you. 

It is your undoing when his eyes find yours in the mirror, and this all becomes real. No longer fantasy like your unreliable recollections of him all these months. No longer shapeless, tangled, blurry bodies, but now so very suddenly, you are looking at you and him, with all that means. 

The look in his eyes gives form to this act, as though the love settled in them is the very thing giving form to the way he fills you. He is at once stern - his brow burdened, heavy-lidded with need, his eyes sunk into a pit of desire - yet soft. His strong nose is crushed up against you as his lips caress your neck. His eyes dance over your face, taking you in as you languish up against him. 

His eyes are molten when they find you again, dancing with a soft, subtle heat not unlike firelight, long lashes fluttering in disbelief at the sight of you. At the feel of you wrapped around him. No longer just a body or some carnal need, shapeless and intangible. 

Instead, Santiago and you, and your bodies moving as one. 

His soft lips and rasp of stubble break from the column of your neck as his thrusts become sloppy, and you feel his hot breaths come thick and fast against your skin now. 

He missed you.

He missed you, and this is what he’d meant. Had meant he needed to feel you wrapped around his dick. Moaning his name. Needed to see you being his. Missed you being his. God, you missed that too, in so many ways. 

A moan rips through you as you approach your peak, and you plead profusely with him. 

“Don’t stop. Santi. Please.” 

You don’t ever want him to stop. 

As you clamp down on him, your fluttering core wrings his own orgasm from him too, and then he’s pulsing his load into you, thick and warm and abundant, his thighs quaking against yours and his arms gripping on to you more tightly – this time for purchase – as though this might be the time his knees finally buckle if he doesn’t hold on to you. 

You can feel his racing heartbeat hammer from his chest to yours as he holds you flush to him. Can feel his mouth suck at the column of your neck, his tongue sliding along your pulse point and tasting your perfume. 

You come down from your high, thrumming with it. Wet and messy between your legs as Santi drags his softening dick out of you, letting your juices and his seed slip down your inner thighs. 

You feel good. Blissed out. But, as ever, with you and Santiago, there’s always a catch. The joy is immense, but, guaranteed that one of you - if not both - will find a way to ensure it is short-lived. 

Indeed. All too soon, you begin to feel that creeping sense of regret hollow-out your stomach. 

You can see it on his face too. The uncertainty. The lack of understanding of what this all means. About what to do next. It is evident from the way he so quickly moves away from you, picking up his shorts and t-shirt and covering up his body. Similarly, you hike up your jeans without even cleaning up, and as much as you might have hoped for a joyful, intimate moment, you know that it’s already too late for that. The moment that the insecurity, doubt and uncertainty had crept in on each of your faces it had become self-reinforcing. A spiral. Running in circles. 

“Shit,” you sound out, in a clear peal of regret, planting a hand over your face in distress - despite everything. 

“Sounds about right,” Santiago agrees in a monotone, brows drawn down and his gaze fixing on a spot of tile, unable to look you in the eye, despite having been buried inside you only moments ago. 

“No,” you stress, bringing a second hand to your face. There’s something else. Something that makes you feel stupid and sick. “I…. I mean, shit. I changed my birth control up and I… I mean we…” Santiago snaps his eyes back up to you now, alright. You curse when you note the writhing of his taut jaw, set and a little annoyed. Your softly puffed expletive which follows is contrite, but it doesn’t help. 

It’s not like you -or him- to make a mistake like that. And yet, you had all the same. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” 

You bristle at his harsh, accusatory tone. How quickly things sour. “It’s not like you checked!” It is his turn to bristle now, and so you opt to be harsher still. “Besides, I didn’t exactly think you were going to be quite so quick on the trigger, Santi.”

He narrows his eyes at you, his riposte about his stamina not even required. He got you off, didn’t he? So, your attempted distraction is futile, as he manages to stay alarmingly on topic. You fold your arms across your chest as he steps towards you, feeling on the back-foot as his flattened palm nags through the air to punctuate his words. “It didn’t occur to you to mention that before we fucked?” 

“I forgot. I switched up my method and I’m not technically covered yet. It’s marginal, you know. Most likely fine. I mean, what’s another 24 hours? Besides, I didn’t exactly plan on this, did I?” 

He scoffs, then he purses his mouth until much of the colour drains from his lips. “Oh yeah. Sure you didn’t.” 

You raise your eyebrows, and jut a hip out to the side for good measure. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

Santiago shakes his head softly. Plants his hands on his wide hips, making himself larger. You don’t shrink back from him, but you note it. “For real?” He flashes his line of teeth now, a lopsided, disbelieving lilt of his lips – no happiness in it. Not at all. “I know you love to pretend like I’m the bad guy, right? That serves your narrative or whatever? Bullshit, honey. You knew exactly what you were doing tonight.” You snort out a huff of air through your nose, your look all steel as you prepare to deny his claims. You falter though, with his next words. “I can’t get off without you, Santiago?” he mimics, and your comeback dies on your lips. “You wanna put this all on me now? Believe me, I gave it everything I had to stay out of-“

“-My vagina? Yeah, great job, Pope.” You throw your hands up in the air and they slump right back down again. “You’ve had everything up in there except your damn tongue.”

“Let’s go then, sweetie,” he challenges, nodding to the rear of you, his voice taut rather than inviting. “Hop up on the counter and spread your legs, I’ll make it 3 for 3.”

It’s unfamiliar to you, this tone of his. It makes your heartbeat rage. You swear you can even feel the pulse of it in your tongue. “Fuck. Whatever. I’m not having this conversation with you.” Your adrenaline spikes at the prospect of another argument and you turn on your heel, looking for an exit. 

However, before you can retreat, Santiago’s broad palm contacts your arm to stop you – open hand, no force applied – and you turn your head over your shoulder. “At least tell me you’re going to take care of this,” he bites off, with a clear attempt to restrain his aggravation, expression sullen. 

“Of course I am.”

“How?” 

You think. “I’ll go to the pharmacy in the morning. I’ll deal with it.” You pump your brows emphatically. “Okay?” 

You shrug his hand off of you then with apparent disdain for his touch, and in spite of his (relative) tolerance of your acerbic tone, that is apparently the move which fractures his composure. “You know what actually blows my mind? The way you can be nice to me just long enough to get yours. Pretty fucking convenient.” 

You feel your face twist with the weight of a sour expression, mirroring his. “Why are you always like this?” You don’t wait to hear his answer, the adrenalin propelling you away, down the hall and closer to your room, but his footfalls follow closely behind you, hot on your heels. Your voice is a whispered hiss, as, somewhere in the back of your mind, you are vaguely aware of the need to keep it down – the other boys are lights out by now. “Why can you never just fuck me and be happy about it, huh?” You spin to face him, chest to chest and facing off. 

“I knew this was a fucking mistake.” 

Your pulse is in your throat. “Right. Maybe it was. That’s all I ever was to you, I guess.” 

Your voices raise, slowly creeping up in volume as you each get lost in this intimate bubble of angst. Of resentment. On some level, you know you could stop now - before it gets worse and you say things you will only regret (or worse, hear things you’ll wish you hadn’t). You know that you should stop, but it feels… oddly necessary. 

Like it’s inevitable. Like you’ve been waiting all this time to fuck and fight because it’s all you know how to do with him anymore. At least, it’s all you know how to do when loving him heart and soul seems off the table. 

The space your bodies create is tight, leaning into each other’s circle of personal space. 

Santiago’s fingers bridge like a claw and he taps them against his own chest, his eyes needling you like he could sew this up once and for all. Tie off all those loose threads of blame which sit frayed between you. He’s angry. Angry and riled and pissed and even so, there is still this eerie sense of calm about him. 

You’ve seen him really let loose. You’ve seen him kill, for Christ’s sake, and yet he’s still measured and restrained in the face of you. That should make it easier to bear the brunt of his sharp edges, but that’s not quite so. There’s something about the precision of his anger when it’s focussed on you. The fact it feels so considered, so targeted only makes it cut deeper. “You know what? I’m tired as shit of always being the fucking bad guy here. You wanna get into it, huh?” His voice breaks now, splitting like shrapnel, lodging in your chest. “I told you I love you and you fucking left me.” 

“That’s fucking bullshit!”  

He’s not happy that you said that. He rocks from foot to foot like he’s priming for something. Scoops a hand over his jaw, around his taut mouth. You’re close enough to hear it rasp, the fleck of his stubble bristling against his palm. “Oh, it’s bullshit?”

Your voice comes out hot now, your words bitten off between your teeth, flecks of spit cast from your mouth. “Yes! Because if I hadn’t left you never would have told me! You told me because I left you! You told me to fucking punish me. To try and drag me back in.” 

“Wow. Jesus fucking...” He laughs, but it is a cold, brief sound. “That’s fucking rich, cariño.” His eyes glint like knife licks, and he plants his hand indignantly against his chest, jutting up his chin. Puffing up his chest and making his body all angles. Protecting himself. “That’s really what you think of me, huh?” You try to look away from him, but his eyes chase you for an answer. 

Is it? Is that what you genuinely think of your best friend? Is that what you think he’s done to you? Tried to do? 

If so, no wonder you’re so fucking angry. No wonder your body is trembling with it. 

But the truth is, when pushed on it, you have no intelligible retort you can form. No evidence you can offer. So, instead, in your panic over losing ground, you opt to minimise. You throw your hand up dismissively and you turn on your heel, stomping towards your door at the end of the hall. “Fuck this.”

This time, his footsteps do not follow, even if you can still feel his eyes boring into your back. You think that might even be the end of things, until…

“No,” he sounds. A forceful, robust note which fills the whole hallway. A command to wait. This isn’t over. 

With you and him, it’s never going to be over, is it? 

You turn towards him and he is fixed in position, stance set wide and chin dipped down, eyes blackened half moons as he looks at you. “Just let me get this straight. If I’m the one who drags you back in? What the shit do you call what you just did?”

You scoff. “You were a very willing participant, Pope. Or, I dunno. Why don’t you just consider it payback for all the times you fucked me around?” 

He’s biting words back as he listens to you now. You can see them, in the tilt of his head and the flare of his nostrils. In the flip and curl of his tongue settled around his upper lip, dragging back and forth just below his filtrum. “Revenge, then? Really? Is that what this weekend has been about for you? You really that vindictive?”

“No. Don’t be ridiculous.” You dismiss him again, as though not one of his complaints about you can possibly be valid. Or, rather, revealing you are currently unwilling to admit it even if they are. After all, you’re as stubborn as he is. Each of you trying so desperately to palm off the blame for how fucked up this became. 

Santiago paces towards you then, footfalls rhythmic and steady as he swallows the space between you in the hall. “Jesus. You don’t even give a shit, do you? Think I deserve to have my heart crushed into fucking dust?” 

Hot, angry tears spike at the corner of your eyes as you spit your words, jabbing his shoulder with your pointer finger. “Like you give a shit that I left?” 

His dense brows draw down, his whole face a grimace, his voice practically booming throughout the hallway, close enough that the sound of it rumbles in your chest. “I don’t know how else I can say it. I never wanted to lose you.”

“Yeah? Well you never fucking had to!”

Santiago is the one who turns from you now, pacing back in a loop, both hands lifting and dragging backward through his grizzled curls, flattening them to his head in disbelief. He rounds back to you, spittle glistening on his lower lip from his tirade. He’s waving his arms now, everything being thrown upward just like the hideous lurch in your stomach. “You’re the one who ran from this!”

Well, that’s the biggest pile of shit you ever heard. You fold your arms to your chest, becoming guarded and taut where he becomes more frenzied. “Oh ho ho,” you scoff. “Now that’s a grade A delusion, right there.” He mumbles something under his breath, shaking his head from side to side in a long, disbelieving drag. In denial. Still. “You’ve been running, Santiago. You’ve done nothing but run from this. Even the whole time I was right next to you. Especially then.”

He steps towards you, driving your body back into the door without making a scrap of contact with you. From the force of him alone. He leans his face in real close, his movements disconcertingly slow - cautious and deliberate. It’s not threatening – you don’t feel physically unsafe at all - but you can tell from the flare of his nostrils and that gunpowder glint in his eye that while his movements may be constrained, he’s still arming himself with a coming barrage. 

You flatten yourself – your back to the shut paneled door-  and Santiago lifts his hand, reaching up to you. Pincering your chin deceptively tenderly between his thumb and forefinger, making sure you look at him. “Right. And you’ve been so perfect, huh?” His eyes needle you, making it impossible for you to wheedle out of this one. To dismiss him. He’s making sure you take at least some accountability for your part in this. “Fucking other guys to get back at me? Insisting we keep it a secret? Pissing off to another fucking continent, two days early, by the way, before we’d even put things right?” You break eye contact, your vision of him blurred by wilful tears. He releases your chin from his grip then, but the space between you remains tight. Close, even as you feel a million miles from him. “Christ - it’s like you never fucking wanted this to work. Never believed I was worth it. How am I supposed to work with that?”

Hot, spiking tears spill over onto your cheeks. You scrub them away with a flattened palm but it still doesn’t slow them down. 

“Please,” you beg limply, shaking your head from side to side. You want him to stop this. You just want this to be over. 

“I was never the guy someone would bring home to their mama, was I? Too fucked up and too broken for that? Hands too bloody, right, to be good enough for you?” You balk audibly in protest at his words, but even so, it sends a hot flash of heat to your cheeks. 

Is there some truth in it? 

Had you been afraid of what he’d done, even though the blood on his hands matches yours? Or… maybe because of it? 

Your lower lip begins to tremble as the ire in Santiago’s eyes burns you, hot like coals. But he has more to say. “I get it. It’s easier to blame me for everything that got fucked up, right?” He beats his palm emphatically against his chest and flattens it there. “I’m hardly a fucking Saint, I’ll admit that much. But do you honestly think that I ever wanted to hurt you? That this doesn’t fucking hurt me?” 

No. You want to say “no”. No. That’s not what you believe at all, but instead the words that find their way out are cruel and petty. “Well you did. You hurt me!” 

You wish you could get rid of it, this anger in your chest. You only want to love him… but you tried that, and since it didn’t work, it somehow feels like the anger is all you have left to fill this hole in your middle.

His eyes tighten, and Santiago jabs his finger back and forth, his voice hoarse as he pushes the words out from the pit of his chest. “It never mattered, what I did or didn’t do. It was never going to be good enough for you.” 

“That’s not true. At all!” You spit back. “It’s you who thought that. Not me. Not me. You wouldn’t even fucking try.”  

Santiago scrubs a tear away from his own cheek now. His voice creaks and cracks apart. “I tried. I did. But you only want me under certain conditions right. If I quit. If I get out. Maybe if I’m someone fucking else.”

“That’s not fair, that’s not how it is. For fuck’s sake, Santi.”

You are both entirely undone now with this ugly rage, tears wetting your cheeks, and this resentment and blame twisting your words and your faces into something unrecognisable. 

That makes it all the worse when Frankie’s torso pokes out of his door in the hallway. You know that the two of you are not yourselves. Frankie’s face twists with disappointment and concern in equal measure, and you fold your arms across your chest defensively, feeling embarrassed that he is seeing you this way. At your worst. Why do you and Santiago always seem to bring out the worst in each other? You’d swear blind to anyone that he’s the best person you know. 

“Guys. What the fuck?” Frankie ventures. His voice is grogged by sleep, and you get the feeling he would step out into the hall if he wasn’t entirely nude behind the door frame. 

Feeling suddenly ashamed, with the contrasting softness of Frankie’s eyes on yours, you feel the urge to run from yourself and what you’ve become, all twisted up like this. You push past Santiago in the hallway, storming down the stairs as tears now cascade freely down your cheeks. You don’t even make an attempt to mop them up now, letting them course down and drip from the point of your chin. 

Then, with an aggravated sigh, Santiago follows you too, in pursuit, despite Frankie’s barked pleas that he “leave it alone, cabrón”. 

You push out of the threshold and into the night, the cooler air a welcome relief. You pace away from the house, wanting to leave it, to leave him entirely, but your body will not let you. Will not carry you far enough away, and your steps quickly run out of steam. 

When Santiago finds you, you are stood with your back to him, looking out towards the white crash of waves. He comes and stands next to you, hands gently clenched by his sides. 

“Look,” he begins, staring out at the expanse of water. You feel your anger cresting and with it comes a wave of sadness. “I love you. But maybe you’re right. Maybe… we’re not good for each other. Maybe we just… can’t make each other happy.” 

You shake your head softly. Tip your eyes to the sky to stave off yet more tears. “I just wish we’d never changed things.” You wish more than anything that you could simply swallow it. Go back to how things were before. 

“Don’t,” Santi implores, turning to you with his hands cupped as though in offering, soft and haphazard and trying to catch on your elbow, your shoulder, your hand. “Don’t say that. Please. No matter how fucked this got… You’re the best thing I ever-” 

But, your anger is not done. Your palms raise in the air, forming a barrier between your bodies - a defence against his brutal love - and you snatch yourself away from him. Your voice is once again harsh as it rings in accusation, words tearing from your lips like bullets. “-Let go?”

There is a beat. 

“Seriously. You’re gonna stand there and tell me I could I have fucking stopped you?” 

You raise your palms and plant them to your face, splayed fingers tugging in disbelief from your temples, sliding down to your mouth - drawing your cheeks into a grimace. You look at him and his face is once again taut with blame. His mouth a thin, downturned line. But even now….. Somehow, even now, you want to kiss him. Want to kiss him until he is soft again, like you know he can be. 

Why would he never turn soft for you - not all the way? Soft in your arms? Why would he never? 

He shifts his weight from foot-to-foot under your scrutiny. He sees the anger melt away from your face, but his is not done. “I mean, fuck. What do you want from me, huh? You want me to come with you? Just drop everything?” 

“Just stop, Santi,” you plead, weakly, but there’s no way he heard you over his own tirade.

“My whole career. This shit I’ve got going on with Lorea. Pick-up and move here? Huh? Tell me? What do you want from me?” 

You fold your arms across your chest, closing yourself off to him. “Please, just drop it.” 

“You want me to have dinners with you and your family on Sundays? Take the nephews to the playpark, huh?” 

He won’t stop. He won’t stop talking, stop pushing you, and you can’t take it. You’re going to snap. 

“Go fucking grocery shopping? And get married and have babies and-?” 

“Yes!” you finally yell, your whole body craning forward as you fire your answer out through your throat, the word coming out scuffed and sudden; but nothing if not truthful. Your eyes go wide, quivering with tears as well as the shock of your revelation. The shock of revealing something you can barely even admit to yourself. 

That is what you want. With him. 

Santiago is evidently as shocked as you are too. Stunned into silence, in fact. He takes a perceptible step back from you, punching out a breath like he’s just been struck with a body shot. All the tension drops from his limbs, and his arms flop uselessly to his sides.

But, instead of backtracking, from somewhere, somehow, you finally find the courage to stand in your truth. “Yes,” you say shakily. “I want that, you asshole.” And, at those words, you interpret the most repulsive thing you’ve seen in his eyes all night. Pity. “And you, meanwhile? You’d rather get shot in the guts than do that with me, wouldn’t you? Something so mundane as being happy? Something so fucking worthless as loving me?” You tear your head away from him, whip your gaze away as you cannot bear to look at him. Cannot bear to see your true wants rejected. With a final question, you stab your pointer finger against your sternum with enough force that it hurts. “I’m not a mission, so I’m not worth it right? Not important?”

He shoves his hands in his back pockets, his gaze dropping to the floor, to a neutral spot between you. His voice all but cracks apart, small and broken. “I told you that I love you.” 

“That wasn’t enough!” You bite your words off before you can even think, and his eyes snap back up to yours then. Wounded. Glassy. You regret the words as soon as you have spoken them, but it is far too late to recall them now. You can see that they cut him - and you can even understand why they would hurt. What an awful thing to have said, you think; that his love wasn’t enough. 

It was everything. 

Everything. 

Wasn’t it? 

Even so, here you stand, still waiting and hoping that he can offer you something more than that alone. A solution, perhaps. A way to fix this. 

Instead though, Santiago simply nods slowly. Contemplatively. In resignation. He stands eerily still. Eerily quiet. Entirely stoic. “Right. Well.” His hand rasps back and forth over his stubble, and his voice is entirely sunken. Defeated. He’s a soldier. Your friend. Your lover. But most of all, now he’s someone who appears to have stopped fighting for you. He looks you in the eye, all of his anger dissipated. Voice scrubbed clean and entirely dispassionate. “That’s too bad then. Because I don’t have anything else I can give you.”

He turns from you now, and you grab onto his arm. “Believe me. The only thing I ever wanted from you… With you, was a future, Santiago.”  

It breaks your heart when he quietly, slowly extricates his arm from your grasp, slipping through your fingers like fine sands. Did you really think that you could do that? That you could keep on pushing him, without eventually pushing him away? 

A divot notches in his brow. “Mmm-hmm. Well I guess we fucked any shot at that now, didn’t we?” 

You search his ashen eyes - almost in desperation - for some of that all too familiar fire. For any sort of spark for you. 

Godammit, as soon as the anger has gone, you want it back. You want something; only because it seems a damn sight better than nothing at all. 

You can’t handle it - the thought that any future with him is being taken off of the table once and for all. You know - if you step back from this - that you’ve been far from perfect. That you’ve been bitter, volatile, reactive. Maybe even cruel, at times. You know, in truth, that you shouldn’t be so hung up on the past -on what happened all those months ago and beyond- but it’s the only thing Santiago has ever given you to dwell on. How were you supposed to move on, when he’s never been able to look ahead with you?

Still, all of a sudden, being faced with any and all possibilities of a future with him being ripped away from you, it is all you want to talk about. The past and your grievances and the blame now seem wholly irrelevant. You feel bile rise into your mouth. “Listen. It doesn’t matter. None of that matters. Just… How do we get past this, Santiago? That’s what matters.”

He stops, halting his retreat back to the house. He turns, slowly. And, Santiago takes your hands into each of his. Looks at you solemnly, as your eyes flit over his face in doubt and fear and regret. He bundles your hands up together, sandwiching them together between his warm, steady palms and he gives them a squeeze - full of finality. “Maybe… Maybe we don’t,” he sounds, flatly, voice scrubbed clean of emotion. And, the only thing worse than hearing his words out loud, is that he looks like he believes them. 

For once, Santiago “Pope” Garcia seems cold, and it hurts more than any of his fire has ever burnt you. Maybe the anger, horrible as it feels, is better. Because it is better than nothing. Better than losing him altogether. 

After all, what is it that happens when the fire goes out? 

Well, you suddenly feel like you’re about to find out. 

You suddenly feel like it’s truly about to be over. 

And so, you clasp your hands over your mouth and you sob, fleeing towards the interior of the house, because you have no place else left to run but away from him.

[linkemon]

Bokuto Koutaro headcanons

Friendly reminder that English is not my first language. You can check my Masterlists both in English and Polish here. Consider supporting me on Ko-fi.

Other headcanons from this series can be found here.

• A relationship with Bokuto would be like a carousel. You feel like you're turning the wheel and you're accelerating but you don't quite realize that you're speeding up at that particular moment or that the fun ride has just ended.

• Bokuto has a wide circle of friends. His colorful personality attracts many people. That's why I think you would meet almost immediately after you went to Fukurodani. You'd be in first grade and he'd be a grade or two higher. You'd probably be standing with one of his mutual friends and he'd want to talk to him as he passed by. You wouldn't know yet what awaits you.

• When Koutaro falls in love, there is no mercy. You will know that he is in love with you. He will not leave any room for guesses and will make hearty eyes all the way. He himself would often recall your meeting as love at first sight but it would only be his point of view. Your infatuation would only come with time.

• You would get stuck in his head and he would think about you instead of focusing on volleyball during training. He would talk about you to Akaashi. [Reader] did this, did that and yesterday... Thi reminds me of [Reader]... I'd like to see [Reader] more often, do you think they finished school already... Just go on a date with her - Akaashi would finally say as a tired friend, to which Bokuto would say his idea is brilliant.

• Straightforward to a fault, he would come to you with this idea right away. In addition, you would be sitting surrounded by your friends during a break. You can bet people will be gossiping about it for the next week. It's not every day that a Fukurodani ace asks someone out on a date. However, it won't be any malicious gossip, the students will simply be curious about your relationship.

• You would agree to go out with him partially out of pressure because of his public confession. However, you would fall in love with the persistence with which Bokuto would strive for you. You would be incredibly spoiled. Koutaro would move incredibly nonchalantly through the phases of your relationship. Holding hands? Kiss on the cheek? A real kiss? You wouldn't even notice when it all happened because it all came as naturally as breathing.

• His moods are something you would have to deal with. You would officially gain him along with that one major flaw that would now become your problem. Are you not at the match? He probably won't give the 200% he would give if he were completely happy. It would get to the point where the coach would keep you on video camera during his worst slumps just to get him out of them. You do what you got to do to win I guess... Over time, Koutaro would start to explain to himself that he had to play well so that he could brag to you later, even if you couldn't attend some of the matches.

• Be ready for the frequent and loud: Hey, hey, hey, [Reader]! Your boyfriend has a loud voice and you won't silence him no matter how hard you try.

• You call him the baby owl. He loves it. He also has a lot of cute nicknames for you, the sweetness of which will rotten the teeth of many people around you.

• He has done many stupid things to show off to you throughout his life. Even as he grew older, it didn't change.

• His international volleyball career would be a bit of a problem. This would be the one big bone of contention between the two of you over the years. To such an extent that you would go through a breakup because of it. But not for long. Bokuto would miss an important match and come to you to apologize. Effusive and with great pomp, as he is. Flowers, glitter, serenade under the window and all that.

• After this situation, he would try anything so that you could travel the world with him. Fortunately, he came far enough in volleyball quickly so he's able to dictate the terms of his work. I think you would have to be able to work remotely for this to make sense. And if you didn't feel like working at all, he wouldn't blame you either.

• He would plan your engagement very quickly. Would he do it right after the Japan national team match, in front of all the fans and TV? Of course he would, because why not? You better agree, otherwise it would be a bit of a shame...

[respectthepetty]

Addicted Heroin (Th) Cut Scenes and Colors - Episode 3

I've been reporting on the missing scenes from YouTube's version of Addicted Heroin [first, second], so although I felt petty because Only and Tiger were missing from the third episode, I put my pettiness aside to write about this week's missing scenes.

But first, let me squeal about colors because now that Hero and Pop spent time together outside of their school uniforms and work uniforms, it was clear they are a Blue Boy and a Green Guy. Hero even has a blue bike!

And the universe is on their side because when they went to buy shirts, blue and green were the only options.

And even when Pop's dad told them to take showers, they were handed a blue and green towel with the change of clothes.

Which brings me to the first cut scene:

We see Hero and Pop actually take showers, but Pop keeps on his pants, which makes Hero question him about why because Hero thinks wearing clothes while bathing is odd and is all for showing off his goods. Hero thinks Pop is just shy about what the pants are hiding, but instead of Pop responding to that comment, he simply tells Hero to put his pants back on (he doesn't).

Which brings me back to the colors with Pop in his green shirt that says something about a person losing themselves and Hero wearing Pop's shirt that has green writing across the chest and seems to be for a detergent because it says it can quickly get rid of stains. For a Green Guy who is falling for Hero and getting rid of stains, the shirts are telling.

But now for the second cut scene:

Hero takes his (ex?) girlfriend to a hotel even though she wanted to stay at his aunt's house. He refuses because he doesn't want to disrespect his aunt by bringing a girl into the house, and because she is under eighteen, he had to sign for the room.

She starts looking through his bag and sees the notebook where he practices handwriting. She asks why he is doing it and who is teaching him. When Hero says Pop, she gets upset. She thinks Pop is only being nice because Hero is rich, but Hero says Pop isn't like that.

And that's when she figures out that Pop doesn't know Hero is rich. She tells Pop that in order for her to keep it a secret, he has to stay over for the night because he was planning on going home and leaving her there alone.

As they lay in bed, she tries to sex up Hero by circling her hand around his chest and slowly moving it down, but then Hero, who isn't even fully paying attention, brings up Pop out of nowhere, and homegirl is not pleased! The mood is ruined, and she goes to sleep upset.

So it's even funnier that we keep learning throughout the episode that Hero's mind is always thinking about sex (not very Blue Boy behavior!).

Which brings us the third cut scene:

So this is where even I got a bit confused. This is what I know and what we were shown in the edited version - Hero misses school because he goes to see his (ex?) girlfriend, and Green Guy Pop misses him so much that he actually uses a blue pen, which only Hero has been shown to use.

Then after arguing with his (ex?) girlfriend, Hero rides away only to crash and end up at Pop's house with a moon cake, which causes Pop to look at him like he wants to eats more than the moon cake.

And there is no missing scene in between! Not even in the unedited version! We have no idea how Hero ended up there or when he got the moon cake or anything! Is this moment even real or is Hero still laying on the ground dreaming all of this?

He doesn't seem to be because Hero and Pop go outside so Pop can get the full moon cake experience under the full moon, yet it's raining, so they can't see the moon.

But while they are standing outside, Hero thinks about what his (ex?) girlfriend screamed when they were arguing and decides to confess to Pop that he is rich. But Pop doesn't believe him already knew and punches him for lying.

This is the third time we have been shown that Pop isn't weak and can overtake Hero. Hero even states that to his (ex?) girlfriend when they are in the hotel, so if this Green Guy from the very beginning of the show is Pop, I'm sure he is going to knock Hero out when they get out of that water.

But right now, we end the episode with Pop sleeping in his green bed while Hero thinks about kissing him.

Because apparently we have new scenes:

One of the missing scenes in the second episode was Hero and Pop drinking during the shift and talking about their parents, BUT those scenes did NOT include the ones shown in this episode where Hero tells Pop that he doesn't really talk about his feelings or family with people especially other guys.

And we also learn that Pop responded with the following:

So apparently the gay romance started last week, but we didn't know it started last week until this week through flashbacks and the people who aren't watching the unedited version have no idea what those scenes are actually about or when they happened.

Is the company trying to tank its own show with these odd editing choices because it's actually pretty good? This is so strange!

Bonus, because we all deserve it:

The plushie sunflower that Pop got is a rainbow flower, but the shot only featured the green and blue petals.

And Mork put a rainbow flower on Day's shoes in Last Twilight, so let's hope this is the new symbol for the BL boys.

Finally, the show has little figurines of the characters for sale, and the boxes and the bases for the models are color-coded.

God, I am not your strongest solider, so I'm going to need you to tell these companies to stop selling color-coded merchandise. My bank account doesn't appreciate me acting like I have McDonald's money.

[exo-raskreia]

hi as a jjk fan, do you have any issues with the writing from gege? if so, what do you think are wasted potential in terms of characters, bonds. i think that there is lack of emotional impact or expansion fo characters sometimes. for instance animes like mha have alot of meaningful character arcs and backstories. It's a bit hard to express how I feel becuase jjk is an amazing story but i am just a bit disappointed of the wasted potential with female characters and like shoko and utahime. and the world building. yes i am fellow gojohime shipper ;).

(Oncoming long RANT 😅)

If you ride on Gege's coattails, this may not be for you.

I actually do have issues with Gege's writing, so I agree with you. JJK has an interesting premise with hidden lore & I would recommend it to anyone wanting to get into, or already into, anime/manga, but it could be so much better if Gege just cared enough (which I sometimes feel like he doesn't? It just feels like he wants to hurry up & finish it so he can start on his idol manga... 💀). He skips so much, it honestly feels like he's going off a checklist, especially in the latest arc.

Compared to other battle shounens, namely Naruto, Fairy Tail, MHA, & even Gintama, JJK is severely lacking in several areas. It's unfortunate because the premise & characters are full of potential.

I will go over some of the issues. A lot of these were obvious from the start but they've only gotten worse over time.

• The fast pacing (speed running at this point). It's battle after battle, no downtime, big arc right after big arc, etc. Us readers & the characters themselves barely have time to process things before he moves on to the next thing. He skips so many things, so much happens off-screen/off-panel (can't forget how he skipped Yaga's fight with Gakuganji that lead to his death, skipped Gojo's entire month after his unsealing then "kills" him off-panel a few chapters later, I could go on...)

• The lack of character emotions, development, backstories, etc. We barely know anything about the characters, like their hobbies & interests? (This is why I have a hard time making up headcanons & potentially writing a fic for our ship... How can I keep them in character when I barely know stuff about them? 😮‍💨). We barely see any of them training (training arcs/chapters are typical for battle shounens); the Tokyo students preparing for the Goodwill Event would have been a fitting time to showcase this, for example. There's little to no mourning shown for character deaths (like Yaga? Nanami? Mai? Mechamaru?).

Yuta has such a cool CT & we didn't get to see how he discovered it & all. Like, come on 😔. Also, it would've been nice to see the Goodwill Event from his first year when he beat the Kyoto students, especially Todo... (Gege simply tells us about it. Like he tends to do for a lot of things 🙄).

Gege could've done more build-up to Gojo's sealing in Shibuya by showing his upbringing & development from his arrogant teen self (tho already having shown hints of caring for others & not liking the higher-ups) to the sensei who loves his students & strives for a better Jujutsu society. His past arc should've been longer imo. Needed more slice of life & character interactions, bonding. Heck, Toji should've gotten his whole backstory there too before he died. More build-up to Gojo's "death" too, as Gege skipped that whole month after his unsealing 😒...

• While on the subject, the lack of character interactions, bonding. We haven't seen most characters interact with each other despite being in the same circles, vicinity. Tokyo & Kyoto students, GjHm with them, Gojo & his colleagues (esp more Uta), the Zenin clan (like, wish we could've seen how GjHm interacted with Naoya. Imagine the drama 😫), Gojo & his elusive clan, I could go on... Would've loved to see Gojo interact with Kashimo, Higuruma, Choso... 😮‍💨

As such, several have died & we never saw them interact with certain others nor even know much about them 😑... The emotional impact of character deaths & bonding would be higher if only Gege cared enough to flesh out his characters more... (At least the Phantom Parade mobile game is giving us some much-needed slice of life content. Wish Mappa would give us some OVA's like that too...)

• Lack of world building. Once again, so much we don't know, such as the clans, especially Gojo's. Apparently, they're still alive, yet we haven't seen them?

Are they not fighters, then? Nothing from them on their clan head's sealing/unsealing/"death". The Zenin Clan debuted & got killed off soon after. Other clans irrelevant. Jujutsu sorcery primarily exists in Japan so other than Miguel, goodbye to the potential of any foreign sorcerers making their appearance...

• Female cast. It's crazy how they were once praised for their potential but now... Now, all they've got is just your typical battle shounen treatment 😒. While Gege has shown he cares little for all his characters (lol), it does seem like the female characters have suffered a bit more from his writing. They've either died (like Mai off-screen? Yuki, the only female Special Grade, had one fight & died?), become powerless (Miwa, thru an off-screen Binding Vow revealed many chapters later? Seriously?), lack screentime (the Kyoto girls? Shoko, the only one who can use RCT on others & closest friend to Gojo?!), or simply haven't done a whole lot, especially compared to the male characters. For some or most, it's a mixture of all these 💀 (like Tsumiki).

Nobara is the main girl & yet her role ended about halfway thru the series. Can't believe Gege did that to her, despite her potential & competence to be the FL of a battle shounen (poor Yuuji still thinks of her. And we don't even know what Gojo thought about her demise? 😮‍💨). Maki seems to have it better, yet some could argue she's just Toji 2.0/female Toji. Unfortunately, I thought about Toji when she was fighting Sukuna; I was like, "If Sukuna's this impressed by her, imagine Toji with his higher experience?" I doubt that's what Gege would want us to think when Maki's shining (or does he? 🤨😒).

• Don't even get me started on Utahime. She's the main teacher of Kyoto, loved by all her students according to Gege, yet we don't get to see it? She's barely relevant? Imagine what she felt as her students kept on dying or becoming unable to fight. Thru her character, such as during her investigation of Kyoto for the traitor, we could've gotten some great insight into how things are over there? We don't even know what the Kyoto school looks like 💀.

Her scar has several implications & yet we don't know how she got it? How has she dealt with being a scarred woman in Jujutsu society, especially considering Momo's words about such a thing during the Goodwill Event? Utahime could be a great role model to the girls, especially Maki now, & yet... 😮‍💨 (I'm telling you, she should've been the main adult female of the series, just like Gojo's the main adult male)

She's one of Gojo's friends, has known him for 10+ years, & is one of his few most trusted allies, yet we haven't seen how they got to this point? Their comedic interactions make us wonder how they built that deep trust. I NEED to know what happened between them during the timeskip!!! 😫

Her CT buffs herself & others. Why has she not been a part of any on-screen fight prior to the Shinjuku Showdown? There were a couple instances where we almost saw her in action & yet... Why did Gege gatekeep her CT for so long? To showcase her CT for the first time for Gojo & Gojo ONLY. He's insane. They can't beat the package deal allegations. So, does this have any meaning? Can we hope for more-

• I sometimes wonder if JJK would be better as a seinen like I once heard he intended for it to be... There are definitely elements of that... How much darker could the story get, since sometimes Gege pushes the boundaries of Shounen Jump (I know he wants to, lol)... How much more fleshed out could it be if he was writing it the way he wanted to originally (supposedly he never intended for a school setting but was forced by his previous editor?)... Maybe we could even get a Tokyo Ghoul:re style chapter with GjHm during the timeskip if y'all know what I mean-

So, to sum up: JJK is interesting & I would recommend it, but there's a whole lot of wasted character potential, terrible pacing, & lack of interactions, development, & world building. There's so much we don't know & Gege wants to end it already? He's sitting on a gold mine & yet... 😑😒

No idea how things will end but I can at least hope for an open ending that leaves us with some hopeful possibilities... Uh, right?

Also... GOJO WILL RISE ✊️

[bullet-prooflove]

Weak: Alexander 'Tig' Trager x Reader (feat: Clay Morrow)

Tagging: @proceduralpassion @crazy4chickennuggets @callsignartemis @kmc1989 @mortal--soul @yourwinchesterbros @buddinglinguist @spookyboogyuniverse @nessamc @anime-weeb-4-life @redpoodlern @ravencrow83 @nu1freakshow @@oureternalbond  @the-wandering-lunatic @lexondeck @keyweegirlie @theplacewhereallthedemonsgo @poppyrose33 @belovedbastardremus @trublu2u @thebaileybugle @spngingerbread21 @@the-person-in-the-circle @thanossexual

It’s the vote over Cara Cara that makes Clay realise that you’re a threat. It’s the first time in years that Tig has voted in the opposite direction to him, and it makes Clay stand up and take notice.

He knows that Tig has been fucking you, he hasn’t taken much interest in it, he never does when it comes to Tig’s conquests. His Tiggy is a magpie, he sees something shiny, he taps it and then moves on to the next thing. He’s not the type to get pussy whipped, he’s dependable that way. That is, until he isn’t.

Clay starts to look into you after that. He thinks you must be some premium fucking pussy to keep Tig on the hook. However, the more he discovers the more he doesn’t get it, because you are just so normal. You aren’t a porn actress like he originally thought, you don’t have a great ass or huge tits. You aren’t even much to look at.

It’s only when he sees the two of you interacting that something clicks in his brain. When Tig kisses you, it’s soft, his thumb caressing the blush of your cheek, those rings of his contrasting against your skin. There’s a tenderness in it and Clay fucking hates it. His Sergeant at Arms is a rabid dog on a leash, when he lets him off, he expects him to go feral.

Clay decides to fuck it up.

He wants to break the hold you have on his Sergeant in Arms. He wants the other man violent, reckless, untamed. He needs the other man at his worst. The more blood thirsty the better.

He picks a night when he knows Tig’s going to be at the clubhouse and he stages a little private party. He picks a couple girls, ones that are just Tig’s type and he pays them to do whatever the fuck the other man wants. In his heart he knows that Tig’s still the same deprived son of a bitch he’s always been.

When the blonde climbs in his lap, Tig isn’t having any of it. Six months ago, he would have given her the ride of her life, he would have fucked her until she didn’t know which was up, instead he simply leaves.

Clay feels like he doesn’t even know the other man anymore.

It’s clear you’re a bigger influence than Clay realised. Tig’s become a different person since he’s taken up with you and Clay can’t have that. He needs him unhinged; he needs him loyal. He needs to destroy the other man so badly that there’s no coming back from the darkness.

In short, Clay needs to get rid of you and he realises that Amir Ghazeni is the solution to the problem because the disappearance of both his brothers ties directly back to you.  

Clay remembers that visit up to Stockton four years ago, the one where Otto had asked him to get rid of a 22. and a shiny new red convertible registered to Omar Ghazeni. Nothing, related to the club, he’d assured him. One of Luann’s girls had had a problem with a Persian and taken care of it herself, Clay didn’t have to worry about the body but the car, it was distinctive. In exchange Otto had done a couple of favours for him, that had added a few more years to his sentence. Luann loved that girl like a daughter, and Otto would do anything for Luann. It’s not a leap to guess that that girl is you.

Clay has no doubt that Tig killed Kia. Jax had tasked him with cutting him loose after all that drama at the torture porn studio and he guessed that Kia must have said something Tig didn’t agree with because the next thing they know, the club are getting questioned about the younger Ghazeni’s fire engine red jacket floating in the docks.

He tries to confirm a couple of details with Otto but the other man is tight lipped. He thinks that maybe Luann wasn’t the only one, who saw you as more than just an employee. He discovers that you’ve been putting money in Otto’s commissary since Luann had been killed, and that you’ve been visiting him in prison as often as you can.

He meets with the remaining Ghazeni in secret. He keeps Tig out of it. After all he doesn’t want Amir coming after the club, just you. The terms are this, Amir can do whatever the fuck he wants with you, Clay doesn’t give a shit about the details, so long as your body ends up on Tig’s doorstep. That’s all he asks.

It goes wrong from the very fucking beginning because Clay doesn’t count on three things, the fact you carry a 9 Mil., that Tig has been teaching you how to shoot and that Jax is with you at the time.  

When the Persians try to snatch you up, you’re finishing up a meeting with Nero Padilla about expanding into the escort business. Clay’s made sure that Tig is as far away as possible, he has him up in Bakersfield, checking in with Packer about a nasty spot of business regarding some ex-cult members. What he didn’t factor in was Jax attending the meeting on behalf of the club, because Jax didn’t tell him. He’d kept his cards close to his chest because he didn’t know how viable to deal would be.

It ends up with three dead Persians, one of which Jax recognises from the torture studio leading them straight back to Amir Ghazeni. The whole fucking story plays out around the table that evening, when Tig, for the first time in his life comes clean about the whole fucking thing. He tells his brothers about what happened to you, about Omar’s death when he came for you a second time, about the video and how he lost his fucking shit when Kia rubbed his face in it.

Strip me of my rank, he tells them, take my kutte, but don’t tell me that any one of you wouldn’t have done the same thing if it was someone you loved.

In the end Tig loses his position but keeps the kutte because there isn’t a soul in the room other than Clay that can begrudge his actions. Of course, the story endears you to them even more. Prior to this you were just a business partner and the girl that they knew Tig was fucking.

Now he’s telling everyone you’re his old lady, that he’s killed for you. It makes you part of the family and just like that you have the protection of the club.

It infuriates Clay but he’s sure that none of this shit can lead back to him because they’ve already found Amir Ghazeni on his yacht with a bullet in his head.

Clay doesn’t realise that they’ve taken a vote until two days later. He’s done a lot of dirty shit up until this point, the waters are so muddied that even he can’t tell what’s in the name of the club or for himself.

When he comes to table that night, he sees Jax sitting in his seat at the head of it, the gavel grasped firmly in his hand. He recognises the hardened expressions on each of his brothers faces as they march in, one after the other.  

It’s Tig he looks to, the one he’s always been able to turn to in his time of need. There’s murder in those vivid blue eyes of his, he runs his tongue along his bottom lip as if he can already taste Clay’s blood in his mouth because he knows what he’s done, what he tried to do.

It’s Otto that blew him up. Otto that heard about what almost happened to you and put the pieces of his last conversation with Clay together. Otto, who summoned Tig and Jax to Stockton.

They find the recording on Amir’s yacht, the one that the Persian had made of the conversation between the two of them. Bobby thinks he was planning to use it as leverage in case the rest of the MC ever found out it was him that had taken you. The worst part Jax tells him is that he knew what Amir would do to you, that he looked at your history and decided to play it out all over again, that he told Amir to leave your body on another brother’s doorstep.

There isn’t a person in the room who doesn’t understand the implications of that, of what that level of brutalisation would do to another man, to someone that Clay was supposed to care about.

“For what?” Jax asks him. “What the fuck was all of this for?”

Clay turns his head to Tig and meets his gaze. There’s a moment of understanding between the two of them before he says.

“She makes you weak brother.”

“No.” Tig responds, shaking his head. “She makes me human.”

Clay throws back his head and laughs.

“Pussy can’t give you redemption Tiggy, you know that.”

It ends with Clay kneeling over an open grave on the outskirts of Charming, staring into the depths of the soil below him.

“Any last words?” Tig asks him as he jams the barrel into the back of Clay’s skull.

“She’s not right for you Tig, you know it and I know it…”

Tig pulls the trigger, splattering Clay’s brains into the earth before his body tips forward landing in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the hole. He stares down at the man he’s served for the majority of his adult life and wonders when the presidency started to twist him, when the power sunk it’s claws into his skin and shredded his soul.

“He’s wrong you know?” Jax says as Tig passes the gun to him. “She’s good for you.”

“I know.” Tig tells him, his gaze shifting back to the mass of flesh and bones in the depths of that hole. “That’s why he tried to take her away from me.”

“Go home.” Jax tells him, his gloved hand clasping Tig’s shoulder and squeezing tightly. “Tell your girl she can sleep easy tonight.”

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