#wild can do so much worse if she wants | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vibelladonna · 19 days ago

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✑ 𝒷𝓊𝓃𝓃𝓎 𝓈𝓊𝒾𝓉 𝜗𝜚 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒, 𝓈𝑜𝓁 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝑔𝑒𝑜

· ───────⋆⋅♤⋅⋆─────── ·

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Who doesn’t love a good bunny suit fanfic? This little piece was inspired by the incredible artwork of @alienfreak124. I’m always in awe of her creations—her OC is so cool! Honestly, every time I see her work, I wish I had the talent to draw. T-T Always wanted to see what my OC would look like in the Tkatb fandom.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions.

Also, I’ve been thinking about branching out into other fandoms—Creepypasta is definitely at the top of the list since it was such a huge part of my childhood. Ticci Toby has always been my favorite, and I’m super excited to dive into that world. I’m also considering Death Note and Black Butler, but who knows?

For now, I’m pretty set on exploring the creepy side first, especially with all the dark, twisted fandoms.

Anyway, I’ve got about three fics in the works for these lovely men—Crowe, Sol, and Geo. But it’s gonna be one day at a time because, let’s be real, I need to stop posting these things so damn late. College life is getting hectic, but I’m making it work, even if it means less sleep. Priorities, right?

· ───────⋆⋅♤⋅⋆─────── ·

✑ 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

You’re in your room, standing in front of the mirror, tugging at the hem of a plain black dress.

It’s simple, safe, and exactly the kind of outfit you’d usually wear to a small party. You tilt your head, trying to decide if “simple” is too boring. The party isn’t exactly a big deal—just a casual gathering—but there’s a nagging thought in the back of your mind:

Crowe’s going to be there.

Before you can overthink it, there’s a sudden knock at your door. “Hey! Open up!” Brittney’s voice is unmistakable—high-energy and impossible to ignore. You sigh, already knowing she’s about to upend whatever plans you’ve made for the evening.

When you open the door, Brittney bursts in like a hurricane, her arms overflowing with what looks like… fur? No, it’s worse. It’s a bunny costume—a black bodysuit with matching ears, thigh high socks, and heels so high they look like a twisted form of punishment.

“Oh no,” you say immediately, holding up your hands in protest. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on!” Brittney waves the outfit in front of you like it’s the Holy Grail. “It’s perfect! It’s fun, it’s flirty, and you’ll steal the spotlight! Imagine the look on everyone’s faces when you walk in wearing this. Especially Jericho.”

Your stomach flips at the mention of his name, but you shake your head. “There’s no way I’m wearing that. I’ll look ridiculous!”

“Ridiculous?” Brittney scoffs, planting her hands on her hips. “Please. You’ll look hot. Besides, when was the last time you did something bold? Live a little!” She leans in, grinning mischievously. “And, you know, like I said he might notice.”

You roll your eyes, before releasing a sigh, “Britt, I’m not trying to ‘steal the spotlight.’ I just want to blend in.”

“Blend in?” She gasps like you’ve just insulted her personally. “Blending in is for cowards. And you’re not a coward, are you?”

“...You’re guilt-tripping me.”

“Is it working?”

Unfortunately, yes. You stare at the bunny suit like it’s a wild animal that might bite you, but part of you can’t help wondering: What if Brittney’s right? What if Crowe actually notices?

“Fine,” you say, at last, snatching the costume from her hands. “But different heels and if I look stupid, I’m blaming you.”

Brittney claps her hands in triumph. “You’ll look amazing, trust me! Now, hurry up and get dressed—I need to see the final look.”

You sigh and shut the door, holding up the bunny suit with a mix of dread and curiosity.

This is either the best idea or the worst mistake.

The moment you step into the party, a hush falls over the room—or at least it feels like it. The warm glow of string lights strung across the ceiling doesn’t do much to soothe the nerves twisting in your stomach. You keep your head down, gripping a drink you barely remember picking up, and try to focus on anything other than the fact that you’re dressed like a bunny in a room full of people dressed... normally.

Brittney, of course, is loving every second of it. She’s practically glowing as she flits around the room, dropping comments like, “Isn’t she adorable?” and “Doesn’t she look amazing?” to anyone within earshot. You glare at her from across the room, but she just winks and mouths, “You’re welcome.”

You hover near the edge of the crowd, trying to blend into the background. It’s ironic, considering the ridiculous outfit, but you figure if you keep still enough, maybe no one will notice. That plan works for about five minutes—until you catch a familiar figure out of the corner of your eye.

Crowe.

He’s leaning against the wall near the bookshelf, casually sipping from a glass, his posture as effortlessly relaxed as ever. Even in the soft glow of the party lights, he’s sharp, dressed in his usual clean, put-together style that somehow manages to look both formal and casual at the same time. He always looks like he belongs on a magazine cover—button-up sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he listens to someone talk.

You freeze, torn between retreating to the nearest shadowy corner and pretending you haven’t seen him, or... well, doing something else. But then, as if sensing your eyes on him, Crowe looks up—and the moment his gaze lands on you, it’s like the rest of the party fades into the background.

You brace yourself, half-expecting him to laugh or make some snide remark. Instead, his eyebrows lift slightly, and the corner of his mouth quirks up into what might just be the faintest hint of a smirk. He takes another sip of his drink, sets the glass down, and begins making his way toward you.

Oh no.

Before you can figure out an escape route, he’s standing in front of you, tall and composed, with that cool, unreadable expression that makes your heart do ridiculous things.

His expression is calm and unreadable, but there’s a sharp glint in his eyes that immediately sets you on edge. The drink in your hand suddenly feels useless as you clutch it tightly, wishing you had anything to focus on besides the way Crowe’s gaze is very obviously trailing over your bunny suit. Slowly.

“Nice to see you decided to... dress up,” he says, his tone dripping with amusement as he comes to a stop in front of you. His eyes flicker from your bunny ears to the tights and back to your face, where your mortified expression only seems to fuel his teasing.

“This wasn’t my idea,” you say quickly, feeling the need to defend yourself. “Britt made me wear it. She said it’ll steal the spotlight or whatever…”

Crowe raises a brow, “Britney suggested this..?” then soft smile appears once again as he leans just slightly closer. “Oh, I believe you. But she didn’t make you come to me wearing it, did she?”

You sputter, your face heating up. “I didn’t come to you! You walked over here!”

“Did I?” he asks innocently, his smirk widening into something outright devilish. “Must’ve been the bunny ears. Hard to miss.”

You glare at him, your mind racing for some kind of witty comeback, but it’s hard to think when his gaze keeps darting to your legs, the curve of your waist, and then back to your face, like he’s deliberately making a show of it.

“Well,” he says after a beat, his tone maddeningly casual. “She wasn’t wrong.”

Your brain short-circuits. He did not just say that.

“Excuse me?”

“About the spotlight,” he clarifies, his smirk softening into something almost... fond. “You’ve certainly got everyone’s attention.”

You rolled your eyes, “I look ridiculous,” crossing your arms over your chest, turning your head away from his gaze.

It wasn’t long before you felt his finger under your chin to look at him once more, his deep blue eyes filled with warmth, “I wouldn’t say that now,” he counters smoothly. His voice drops a little lower, just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “Not that I’m complaining, of course. But I’m curious—how many people have tried their luck with you tonight?”

Your eyes widen. “W-what?”

You can’t decide whether to tell the truth to him or strangle him.

“Come on,” he says, his smirk turning positively wicked. “In that outfit? Like you said, half the room is staring. Though...” He leans in, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I doubt anyone else is appreciating it quite as much as I am.”

Your breath hitches, and you’re sure your face is about to burst into flames. “Crowe, you can’t just—”

“Say the truth?” he interrupts smoothly, stepping just close enough that you can catch the faint scent of his blueberry cologne. “Oh, I can. And I will.”

You open your mouth to argue, but before you can, Crowe’s gaze shifts, scanning the room. The teasing glint in his deep blue eyes is replaced with something sharper, almost protective, as he takes in the prying eyes of the other partygoers.

“It’s way too many people here,” Crowe mutters, his voice low enough that it feels like the words are meant only for him. Then he glances back at you, his eyes softening in a way that makes your breath hitch.

“Let’s leave.” He mumbled.

“What?”

“I said, let’s leave.” His hand brushes lightly against your elbow, the fleeting touch sending a spark up your arm. His gaze lingers on you, unreadable but heavy with something unspoken. “Unless you’d prefer to stay here and let everyone keep gawking at you like you’re... on display.”

Your eyes dart around the room, catching a few glimpses of the subtle but unmistakable stares in your direction. The air feels suffocating now, and the idea of staying in this crowded space seems unbearable. Still, you hesitate, caught off guard by the sheer intensity of his presence.

“Fine,” you say at last, forcing an air of nonchalance even as your pulse quickens. “But if you’re planning to tease me, I’m leaving the second you start.”

Crowe chuckles—a deep, smooth sound that does nothing to steady your nerves. “Don’t worry,” he says, his lips curving into a slow, knowing smirk as he places a hand lightly on the small of your back to guide you toward the door. “I’ll behave.”

You’re not entirely convinced, but before you can second-guess your decision, the two of you are stepping into the cool night air. The sharp contrast to the party’s stuffy warmth sends a shiver down your spine, but it’s not just the chill that has you trembling.

Crowe’s steps are deliberate, his presence magnetic as he walks you to his car. He unlocks the passenger door with a smooth motion, holding it open for you before rounding the car to slide into the driver’s seat. The quiet thud of the door closing feels heavier in the silence, the hum of the engine breaking the tension only slightly.

“Brittney’s going to wonder where I went,” you say softly, partly to yourself, as Crowe pulls out of the driveway.

“I’ll text her later,” he replies, his tone calm but firm. “She’ll survive.”

The car is dimly lit, the glow of passing streetlights casting fleeting shadows across his sharp features. You can feel his gaze flicking toward you every so often, lingering just long enough to make your skin tingle.

He doesn’t speak for a while, but the silence between you isn’t uncomfortable. It’s charged—like the air before a storm. You’re hyper-aware of every detail: the way his hands grip the steering wheel, the faint scent of his blueberry cologne filling the small space, the way his jaw tightens whenever you catch him sneaking glances.

“You shouldn’t let her talk you into things like that,” he says suddenly, his voice lower now, almost rough.

“Like what?” you ask, even though you know exactly what he means.

He glances at you briefly, his lips pressing into a thin line before his expression softens. “Like wearing something that makes every guy in the room look at you like they’ve forgotten how to think.”

The words are sharper than you expect, tinged with an edge of possessiveness that makes your breath catch.

“I thought you didn’t mind people staring,” you counter, trying to keep your voice steady.

“I don’t,” he says, his fingers tightening on the wheel. “Unless it’s you.”

The confession hangs in the air, heavy and electrifying. You look over at him, your heart pounding in your chest. There’s no teasing smirk now, no easy charm—just raw, unguarded honesty in his gaze as he pulls the car to a stop at the side of the road in the middle of nowhere.

He turns to face you fully, his expression unreadable but his eyes dark with something unmistakable.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, the words rough with restraint.

Your lips part, but no sound comes out. The heat in his gaze is overwhelming, and you feel pinned in place by the sheer intensity of it.

“I’ve been trying to keep my distance,” he continues, his tone rough and uneven now, “but seeing you tonight, dressed like that, letting everyone else see you like that…” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “It drove me crazy.”

The air in the car feels thick, charged with an unspoken tension that’s almost suffocating. Your pulse pounds in your ears, your breaths shallow as you sit still, unsure of what to say—or if there’s even anything you should say. The silence stretches out, heavy and electric, until Crowe shifts closer to you, his movements deliberate yet almost hesitant.

His hand rises, and for a moment, you think he might stop midway. But then his fingers gently brush against your cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The touch is light, almost feather-soft, yet it lingers—his fingertips trailing against your skin just long enough to leave a burning imprint.

“Please tell me to stop…” he murmurs, his voice deep and velvety, the faintest edge of uncertainty in his tone. “…before I do something I’ll regret.”

A shiver races up your spine at the feel of his touch, and the heat of his proximity makes it impossible to think straight. Your breath hitches, and you swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. You manage to meet his gaze, his eyes dark and searching, as though he’s looking for any sign of hesitation.

“And if I don’t want you to stop?” you whisper, your voice trembling but carrying a weight of undeniable desire.

His breath catches, his chest rising sharply as though you’ve just knocked the air out of him. His eyes widen, a flicker of disbelief flashing across his usually composed face. His lips parted slightly as if to speak, but no words came out. Instead, he tilts his head, studying you like he’s trying to convince himself he heard you correctly.

You don’t reply right away—words feel clumsy in the intensity of this moment. Crowe’s gaze still lingers on you, steady and deliberate, traveling down the length of your figure and then back up again. His deep blue eyes seem darker in the dim light, their usual warmth replaced by something unreadable, something that makes your pulse race. His soft smile was still there, faint but unshakable, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

Your breath catches, and for a second, all you can think is how badly you don’t want this moment to end. Then, before your mind has time to catch up, your body moves on instinct. Slowly, deliberately, you move your body forward—out of the passenger seat closing the distance between you and him.

His head tilts slightly as he watches you, his soft smile faltering, replaced by a soft gasp for just a heartbeat as you climb onto his lap. Your knees press into the seat on either side of him, the soft material of your tights brushing against his thighs as you warp your arms around his neck looking at him.

For a brief moment, neither of you speaks. The air feels heavy, charged with something neither of you can name. His reaction is filled with disbelief.He inhales quickly, his chest rising against yours, and his hands lift instinctively to your hips. His grip is firm yet hesitant, his fingers flexing slightly on the tight spandex of your bunny suitas though he’s testing the reality of the situation.

You’re glad you caught him like this—off-guard, unguarded. It’s rare to see him anything but happily composed, but now? Now, his usual teasing and confidence feels shaken, his calm veneer cracking just enough to let you peek underneath.

“Don’t regret this…” you whisper, your voice low and thick with emotion. “Please don’t stop, Jericho.”

The tension in his shoulders eases, but only slightly. His body remains taut beneath yours, every muscle coiled like a spring. His hands tighten against your hips as if anchoring himself—or maybe anchoring you. He leans forward, and the closeness is dizzying.

His breath fans against your neck, warm and teasing, and goosebumps rise across your skin in response. His hands shift from your hips, sliding upward in slow, deliberate movements that leave you breathless. His thumbs trace over your waist, the faintest pressure sparking heat in their wake. His fingers move higher, brushing against your sides, and you can’t stop the way your body responds, arching slightly into his touch.

Soon his lips hover near your ear, his voice low and husky, dripping with intent as he murmurs, “I won’t.”

May got a little carried away here…

✑ 𝓈𝑜𝓁

You don’t know how it happened.

So okay, you do know how it happened—you were dumb enough to bet against Hyugo. The guy might be obnoxious, loud, and silly as hell, but unfortunately, he’s also good at literally everything. Somehow, that fact slipped your mind when you let him talk you into betting on the last round of a stupid game at a party.

It was one of those chaotic, anything-goes types of games, the kind where people are shouting over each other, rules barely make sense, and luck has just as much sway as skill. You don’t even remember what it was called—something involving a blindfold, ping pong balls, and a lot of yelling. I’m kidding here…

All you know is that Hyugo had that stupid grin on his face, the one he always wears when he knows he’s about to win.

“Come on,” he’d said, his voice dripping with smugness as he leaned against the table. “You scared or something? What’s the worst that could happen?”

And like an idiot, you fell for it. “I’m not scared,” you shot back, crossing your arms. “You’re on.”

Big mistake.

Because five minutes later, you were standing there in stunned silence, staring at Hyugo’s triumphant face as he held up his winning ping pong ball like it was an Olympic gold medal.

“Wow, that was almost too easy!” he said, laughing as he clapped you on the shoulder. “You really thought you could beat me?.”

You scowled, already regretting your life choices. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. What do you want?”

His grin widened, and you instantly knew you were doomed. “Oh, don’t worry,” he said, his voice practically oozing with fake innocence. “It’s nothing crazy. Just a little outfit change for, let’s say... an hour?”

Your stomach dropped. “What kind of outfit change? I have a movie night at Sol’s place later,”

And now here you are, standing in Sol’s dimly lit studio apartment, wearing a bunny suit that makes you feel about three sizes too exposed and questioning every decision you’ve ever made.

How the tf did Hyugo knew your size anyway?

The small space smells like popcorn and energy drinks, and there’s a paused horror movie on the screen, but all of that pales in comparison to the look on Sol’s face.

He hasn’t stopped staring since you walked in.

The guy is sitting on his beat-up couch, one leg tucked under him, the TV remote hanging limp in his hand. His mouth is slightly open, and his face?

Bright red.

Like, glowing tomato-red, borderline matching the devil on the movie poster behind him.

“…What are you doing?” he finally chokes out, his voice cracking just enough to make you raise an eyebrow. He clears his throat and tries again, this time deeper: “I mean, what’s this?” He gestures vaguely at you, but his hand is shaking a little, so it’s not exactly smooth.

You cross your arms, trying to tug the hem of the crotch area down to show less skin, but there’s no saving it—it’s just too short. “Lost a bet to Hyugo from party earlier today,” you mumble, your voice flat, as if that explains everything.

Sol squints at you, the disbelief radiating off him in waves. “Hyugo made you do this?” His tone flips between outraged and incredulous. His eyes dart down to the whole getup— floppy bunny ears, the thigh-high socks, even a little button tie—and then snap back up so fast you think he might’ve given himself a neck cramp. “Ugh… He’s the worst sometimes.”

“Yeah, thanks for the groundbreaking insight,” you deadpan, shooting him a withering glare. “I figured that out the moment Hyugo handed me this thing.”

Sol drags a hand through his perpetually messy hair, clearly grappling with some kind of inner turmoil. “You didn’t have to wear it, though,” he mutters, his usual grumbly tone edged with something oddly defensive. “You could’ve just… I dunno, said no.”

You blink at him, unimpressed. “Oh, sure. And let Hyugo post that video of me tripping like an idiot in front of the entire campus? An excellent alternative, Sol. Really genius stuff.”

He makes a weird noise in his throat, half a groan, half something else, and he mutters, “Still better than this…” But his eyes betray him.

Because despite the whole “ugh, this is dumb” act, Sol keeps looking. Like, really looking. His gaze lingers on your bunny ears, the curve of the bodysuit, and the thigh-high socks that are making you wish the couch would swallow you whole. Every time his eyes travel down, they snap back up so fast you’d think he got whiplash.

“What’s your problem?” you snap, crossing your arms over your chest, mostly for your sanity. “You’re staring.”

“I’m not—” He cuts himself off, dragging his hand down his face with a groan. “Whatever. I’m not the one dressed like…” His words trail off as he waves vaguely in your direction, his ears reddening again as if even describing the outfit is too much for him.

You sigh and plop down on his old couch because there’s literally nowhere else to go in this shoebox of an apartment. As soon as you do, Sol freezes like you’ve just stepped on a landmine. His whole body stiffens, his hands gripping his knees, and you swear he stops breathing.

“Relax,” you say, kicking off your heels with a sigh. “It’s not like I want to be here in this dumb outfit either.”

“You don’t look unhappy,” he mutters, barely audible, but you catch it.

Your head snaps toward him, catching the faintest flicker of his eyes darting to your outfit before immediately locking onto the popcorn bowl on the coffee table like it’s his last lifeline. His face is ‘burning’, and it only gets worse when he realizes you caught him looking.

“Excuse me?” you ask, leaning in slightly because you can’t let him off the hook that easily.

“I didn’t—” His voice cracks, and he clears his throat so violently it’s almost painful. “I just meant—uh, never mind.” But his ears are practically glowing, and you can feel the tension radiating off him in waves.

“Sure, okay,” you say, sighing as you settle deeper into the couch, before you mention, “It’s not like you’ve been staring at me like a creep since I walked in or anything.”

“I wasn’t staring!” he blurts, far too defensively for someone who was. He drags a hand through his hair, the strands sticking up even more as he groans like he’s on the verge of losing it.

“Oh, you weren’t?” you tease, tilting your head. “Are you calling me a liar?”

He shifts uncomfortably, his eyes flicking to your legs for half a second before darting away. His hands curl into fists on his lap, and his breathing sounds... uneven.

Fast.

One second, you’re sitting on the couch, awkwardly avoiding his gaze, and the next, you’re swept up off the cushions. His arms slide under you, one wrapping around your back and the other hooking beneath your knees, lifting you effortlessly into a bridal carry.

“Sol!” you shriek, your hands instinctively grabbing onto his shoulders. “What are you—put me down!”

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he lowers himself back onto the couch, keeping you securely in his hold. Your legs dangle awkwardly over his arm, your heels threatening to slip off, and you’re acutely aware of how close your faces are now—his warm breath brushing against your skin, his sharp eyes fixed on yours.

“Relax,” he mutters, his tone gruff but oddly soft. “You were fidgeting too much. Thought you were about to hurt yourself or something.”

“Hurt what now?!” you snap, glaring at him even as your cheeks flush. “I wasn’t—Sol, that doesn’t even make sense. Let me go.”

“Not yet,” he says simply, his grip tightening slightly as if daring you to try and wriggle free.

You glare at him, but the heat of his gaze makes it hard to keep your composure. His eyes flicker down for a moment—trailing from your flushed face to the curve of your legs draped over his arm. He’s trying to play it cool, but the way his jaw clenches and his ears turn a faint shade of pink gives him away.

“Your legs are cold,” he murmurs after a beat, his voice quieter now.

“I wonder why,” you deadpan, trying to ignore the way your heart skips at the hint of concern in his tone.

His lips twitch a shadow of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “This outfit isn’t practical.”

“Well, I didn’t exactly pick it,” you grumble, squirming slightly in his hold.

“Stop moving,” he mutters, his voice dropping an octave. His hands shift slightly, one sliding along your back and the other brushing against your thigh as he adjusts his grip. The casual intimacy of it makes your face burn hotter.

“Sol...” you warn, your voice shaky.

But instead of answering, he leans back slightly, settling you more comfortably in his lap. The movement makes your head spin—partly from the sudden shift, but mostly because of how close he is now. You’re practically curled up against his chest, his arm still supporting your legs while his other hand rests firmly against your back.

And then he looks at you again. Really looks at you. His orange-red eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment, the teasing, grumbly version of Sol you’re used to is nowhere to be found. There’s something different in his expression now—something serious, almost vulnerable, and it steals the breath from your lungs.

“You should be more careful,” he murmurs, his fingers brushing lightly against your knee. His hands slide from your hips to your legs. “These heels could’ve hurt me,” His thumbs trace slow, deliberate circles along the tops of your thighs, sending shivers up your spine.

Your mouth opens to respond—maybe to defend yourself, maybe to yell at him, you’re not sure—but then his hands shift lower, skimming over the curve of your calves. He grabs one of your feet, his fingers curling around your ankle as he starts tugging off your shoe.

“Sol, I can do that myself—”

“N-No,” he practically begged. His cheeks are pink, his expression strained like he’s trying to keep it together. “Please, just let me.”

You’re too stunned to argue. He’s slow about it, almost hesitant, his calloused fingers brushing against your skin as he removes one shoe, then the other. When he’s done, he lets his hands linger for a moment, his thumbs brushing over your bare ankles.

His eyes flicker back up to yours, and there’s something desperate in his expression now like he’s holding himself back from doing something stupid. “Why do you always have to make this so hard?” he mutters, half to himself.

“I’m making 'it' hard?” you blurt, your voice shaky.

“You showed up like this,” he counters, his gaze sweeping over you again. “Looking like... this.”

He leans closer, so close you can feel the heat radiating off him. His hand slides up, tracing a line from your ankle to your knee, then up your thigh, stopping just shy of where the hem of the bunny suit begins. His knee presses a little closer, and you suck in a sharp breath.

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me right now?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your brain short-circuits. You don’t even know how to respond to that, especially not when his eyes are locked on yours like he’s waiting for an answer.

“Sol,” you finally manage, your voice barely audible. “You’re being weird.”

“I know,” he mutters, his lips twitching into a crooked, almost self-deprecating smile. “I’m always weird. But you make it worse.”

And with that, he dips his head lower, his breath ghosting over your lips like he’s daring you to stop him.

Please don’t make him stop…

✑ 𝑔𝑒𝑜

Geo hadn’t thought much about your text at first.

You were running late—what else was new? He was used to it by now. You’d told him to let himself in with the key under the mat since you were still getting ready, and, well, that’s what he did.

Your apartment was as familiar to him as ever: the faint smell of your scented candles. Geo plopped onto the couch, scrolling through his phone to kill time. After about ten minutes of waiting, he sighed loudly, tossing his phone onto the coffee table.

“Why do I let you do this to me?” he muttered, dragging himself to his feet. He made his way down the hall, the hardwood floor creaking faintly under his boots.

The door to your bedroom was cracked open, soft light spilling out into the hallway. He tapped lightly on the frame with his knuckles. “Hey, we’re gonna be late, y’know. What’s taking you so—”

He pushed the door open mid-sentence, stepping inside. And then he stopped.

His brain short-circuited.

There you were, standing in front of your full-length mirror, fiddling with a pair of floppy bunny ears.

A very, very skimpy bunny suit clung to you like a second skin, all shiny black fabric and sheer tights that showed just enough to drive someone insane. The plunging neckline, the dangerously high cut of the bodysuit, the tiny bowtie collar around your neck—it was absurd. Ridiculous. And yet somehow…

You looked stunning.

Geo froze in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His trademark sarcasm, his quick wit, his effortless aloof expression? Gone. His brain? Absolutely empty.

His mouth opened like he wanted to say something—anything—but no words came out.

You noticed him then, spinning around so fast that your bunny ears flopped dramatically to one side. “Geo!” you shrieked, your voice an octave higher than usual. “What the hell are you doing? I thought you were on the couch.”

“What am I doing?” he echoed, his voice cracking slightly as his eyes flicked over you, up and down, up and down, like he couldn’t stop himself. He quickly snapped his gaze upward, focusing on the very uninteresting ceiling. “What the hell are you wearing?”

You crossed your arms over your chest. “It’s for a charity event,” you muttered defensively. “Crowe asked me to help raise donations.”

Geo’s jaw clenched, his fingers twitching at his sides as he tried to keep his gaze anywhere but directly on you. His eyes betrayed him, though, darting back to your legs, your waist, your— “What kind of charity involves… that?” he asked, gesturing vaguely at your outfit like it was some kind of alien artifact.

You groaned, turning back to the mirror to adjust the bunny ears again. “It’s a themed event, okay? College students are more likely to donate if there’s… I don’t know, incentive?”

“Incentive…?” Geo repeated, “And Crowe ask you wear that? Crowe?” His tone was somewhere between disbelief and outrage. “What is wrong with him? Is he insane?”

“It’s not that bad,” you said defensively, though your voice wavered because, yeah, it was kind of bad. “It’s for a good cause!”

Geo crossed his arms, his lips pulling into a tight line. “No. Nope. Not happening. You’re not walking out of here dressed like that. I don’t care if it’s for world peace.”

You threw your hands up. “What are you, my dad? Relax, Geo. It’s fine.”

“Fine?” He frowns, irritated, his eyes accidentally drifting downward before snapping back up to your face. He looked like he wanted to sink into the floor. “You look like—you—ugh, never mind.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I look like what?”

“Forget it.” he sighed, his face turning an even deeper shade of red. “Just… just go change or something."

“I can’t!” you said, exasperated. “This is the whole point of the event!”

Geo groaned, dragging a hand down his face in pure exasperation. His usual sharp wit was dulled by whatever internal battle he was clearly losing. “Why do I have to be the one to see this? Literally anyone else would’ve been better. Anyone.”

You crossed your arms, giving him an incredulous look. “You’re the only one with a car who wasn’t busy,” you shot back, matter-of-fact as ever.

Geo huffed, throwing his hands up dramatically. “You should’ve just taken the bus, then!”

“And have creepy men ogling me the whole ride? Absolutely not,” you retorted, your tone sharp. “You’re a much better option. Like it or not.”

“Well,” he muttered, clearly flustered as his hand shot to the back of his neck, his eyes darting anywhere but at you, “I’m regretting it now.”

You sighed, turning back to the mirror and fiddling with the bunny ears again, your patience wearing thin. “Look, if it’s that big of a deal, just wait outside. I’ll be done in a sec—I just need to put on my shoes.”

For a moment, you thought he might actually listen. But then Geo took a step closer, his posture shifting. The embarrassment still lingered in his tense shoulders and flushed face, but there was something else now—something almost… resolute.

Before you could ask what he was doing, he reached out and grabbed your wrist, turning you around so fast you nearly stumbled.

“Geo?” you asked, startled by the sudden intensity in his gaze.

He didn’t answer. Instead, without missing a beat, he pushed you backward with a firm but careful hand, and your back hit the edge of your bed. You let out a startled gasp, barely managing to catch yourself as you propped up on your elbows.

“Hey! What the hell—”

You froze as Geo knelt in front of you, his hand gripping your ankle firmly but gently. His other hand reached out for your heels, which had been discarded nearby, and he snatched them up with a quick, fluid motion.

“You need to hurry up,” he grumbled, his voice low and laced with irritation as he slid the first heel onto your foot. His touch was surprisingly gentle, his fingers brushing against your sheer tights as he adjusted the strap. His face, however, was a different story—flushed red and rigid, like he was barely holding himself together. “So just—shut up and let me handle it.”

You blinked, your mouth opening to protest but no words coming out. Geo hadn’t spared you a glance, too focused on fastening the strap with a level of concentration that was almost comical.

“You’re—” you finally managed, but your voice wavered as his hands moved to your other foot.

“And you’re taking forever,” he shot back, not missing a beat. His grip on your ankle tightened slightly as he secured the second heel, his eyes resolutely fixed downward.

Is he blushing?

Your eyes narrowed, “You seem red there,” you teased, leaning back on your hands and watching him with a growing smirk. “What happened to all your sarcastic remarks, Mr. Smartass?”

“Shut up,” he muttered through clenched teeth, still not looking at you as he finished adjusting the second strap.

His fingers brushed against your ankle again, lingering just a second too long, and you swore you saw his ears turn even redder. Deciding to test your luck, you slowly crossed one leg over the other, making the movement deliberately graceful.

Geo’s aquamarine eyes flicked up instinctively at the shift in movement, and when he realized what he’d done, he snapped his gaze away so fast it was almost whiplash-inducing.

“Stop doing that,” he muttered, his voice lower now.

“Doing what?” you asked, feigning innocence as you tilted your head and batted your lashes at him.

“You know what,” Geo shot back, his jaw tightening as he focused way too hard on the buckle of your heel, his fingers fumbling slightly.

“Aw, is Geo embarrassed?” you teased, your voice dripping with playful mockery as you leaned forward slightly, one of your legs crossing just enough to invade his space. The toe of your heel pressed lightly against his chest, and you tilted your head, a mischievous grin tugging at your lips. “I didn’t think you’d get so flustered over a little outfit.”

Geo, ever the picture of calm composure, froze mid-motion. His hands, which had been casually adjusting the cuffs of his jacket a moment ago, were now completely still. For a second, it was like time itself had paused. Slowly—deliberately—his gaze lifted, locking with yours.

Fuck.

His aquamarine eyes, normally narrowed and calculating, were different now. They seemed darker, more intense, clouded with something you couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t annoyance, nor was it the usual stoic indifference he wore like armor. Whatever it was, it had you swallowing hard.

The teasing smirk on your face faltered just slightly as curiosity crept in. You tilted your head to the side, your lips parting faintly as you tried to read him, to figure out what was going on behind that icy stare. “Geo?” you prompted softly, your narrowed eyes searching his face.

Still, he didn’t look away. He couldn’t seem to.

It was unnerving—and kind of thrilling, if you were honest. Normally, a jab like that would earn you a dry, sarcastic retort, something sharp-edged that would put you right back in your place. But this time? Nothing. Whatever comeback he’d had locked and loaded vanished the second your teasing grin softened into something more uncertain.

The silence stretched, tension thickening between the two of you like a coiled spring. You couldn’t tell if it was your own heartbeat hammering in your chest or his, but the moment felt impossibly fragile.

“Seriously, say something,” you murmured, a hint of nervous laughter creeping into your tone. You pressed your foot just a little harder against his chest, trying to get any kind of reaction. “You’re starting to freak me out.”

His gaze flicked briefly to your leg—the curve of your calf, the ridiculous heel perched at the end of it—before snapping back to your face. “You shouldn’t play games you can’t win,” he said finally, his voice low and even.

Your breath caught for half a second. His hand moved, wrapping firmly around your ankle—not harshly, but with enough pressure to make your pulse skip a beat. With one smooth motion, he guided your leg away from his chest.

“You don’t get it,” he said suddenly, his voice quiet but firm, his tone a complete shift from his usual snark.

The intensity in his voice caught you off guard, and your expression faltered. “...Don’t get what?” you asked, your playful tone slipping into something more hesitant.

Geo’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white as if he were trying to hold something back. He stood abruptly, the sudden motion making you flinch slightly. His eyes immediately flickered with regret at your reaction, and he took a deep breath, trying to collect himself.

“Shit,” Geo muttered under his breath, running a hand through his already messy hair. His back was turned to you, but the stiffness in his posture betrayed his frustration. He exhaled sharply, shoulders rising and falling as though wrestling with something he couldn’t quite say.

“Geo…” you started softly, the sharp edge in your tone from earlier now replaced with concern.

“Don’t,” he cut you off, his voice strained and hoarse, like the words were being dragged out of him. “We’re not going to the charity event. You’re staying here. End of discussion.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “What?” you exclaimed, still perched on the edge of the bed. “You can’t just decide that for me!”

He turned to face you, amber eyes blazing with a mix of irritation and something you couldn’t quite place. “Watch me.”

Before you could react, Geo stalked toward your desk, snatched a hoodie draped over the chair, and swung it around your shoulders with surprising precision. His hands lingered just long enough to tug it snugly over your frame, the fabric swallowing the delicate silhouette of your bunny suit.

“You’re not going anywhere in that,” he said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. He stepped back slightly, his gaze flicking over you as though ensuring his makeshift cover-up was secure. “If Crowe wants donations that badly, he can wear the damn bunny suit.”

Your jaw dropped, words caught somewhere between outrage and disbelief. “Geo, you’re being absolutely insane!”

“Yeah, probably,” he admitted, flashing a grin that was more sharp edges than warmth. “But at least I’m not letting you walk into a room full of idiots who won’t be able to keep their eyes—or their thoughts—off you.”

Heat crept up your cheeks at his bluntness, and you folded your arms tightly across your chest. His words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding, and the tension between you grew like a palpable thing.

“You’re seriously overreacting,” you muttered, but your voice lacked its usual bite.

“Am I?” Geo shot back, stepping closer. His towering frame cast a shadow over you as his gaze locked onto yours, burning with an intensity that made your pulse quicken. His voice dropped, low and deliberate. “Do you even realize how—” He stopped abruptly, his jaw clenching as if swallowing the words was the only way to keep them from spilling out.

“Realize what?” you pressed, your own voice barely above a whisper now, caught somewhere between defiance and curiosity.

Geo’s eyes darted to the floor, then back to you, before he let out a low, frustrated growl. In one swift movement, he stepped forward, his hands gripping your shoulders as he pushed you gently but firmly down onto the bed.

“Geo, what the hell—”

Your protest was cut short as he followed, his weight settling over you in a way that was far from aggressive but left no room for escape. His arms slipped around you, pulling you into a tight embrace as his head dropped to your chest.

The world seemed to stop as you felt the warmth of his breath against your collarbone. He didn’t say a word, his face buried against you, his grip almost desperate.

You froze, your hands hovering uncertainly in the air. “Geo?” you murmured, your voice soft and unsure.

“Just… shut up for a second,” he muttered, his voice muffled against you. His tone was softer now, tinged with vulnerability that made your chest ache. “Let me have this.”

Your hands hesitated before they slowly lowered, one settling against his back, the other threading cautiously through his hair. His body tensed at first but then melted into yours, his hold tightening as if he were afraid you’d disappear.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he mumbled, his voice raw and unguarded. “And not in the way I’m used to handling.”

For a moment, neither of you moved, the weight of his words—and his closeness—stealing the air from the room. Whatever you were going to say died on your tongue as you let the moment stretch, the sound of his breathing steadying against you.

“Oh,” you said finally, your voice quieter now, “You’re not making any sense. We’re going to be late for the event,” you murmured, trying to keep your tone soft but firm.

“Good,” he muttered into your chest without lifting his head.

“Good?” you echoed, your brows furrowing. “Crowe’s going to kill us if we don’t show up. And you promised to drive me, remember?”

“I don’t care about Crowe or the stupid event right now,” he grumbled, his voice low and slightly muffled. “It’s not important.”

“Not important?” You leaned your head back against the bed in disbelief. “You’re acting like the world’s ending because of a bunny suit, Geo. What’s really going on?”

He finally lifted his head slightly, just enough to look at you. His amber eyes burned with an intensity that made your breath catch. “You still don’t get it, do you?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly, a mix of irritation and something deeper. “I don’t want anyone else looking at you the way I am right now.”

Your heart skipped a beat, his words sinking in and leaving you momentarily speechless. “Geo…” you started, but he didn’t give you a chance to finish.

Instead, his arms tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer as his lips brushed the curve of your neck. You tensed under his touch, your breath hitching as his teeth gently grazed your skin.

“Just give me five minutes,” he whispered, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. His lips pressed softly against the spot he’d just bitten, lingering for a moment before pulling back slightly. “Five minutes, and then I’ll get up, and we can go. Deal?”

You blinked, trying to process what just happened, your body feeling like it was on fire where his lips had been. “Geo, that’s not—”

“Five minutes,” he repeated, cutting you off. His tone was quieter this time, almost pleading as his eyes locked onto yours, filled with a vulnerability he rarely let you see. “Please.”

Wow. Five minutes it is then.

· ───────⋆⋅♤⋅⋆─────── ·

#the kid at the back x reader #the kid at the back vn #tkatb #solivan brugmansia #the kid at the back crowe #the kid at the back sol #tkatb crowe #tkatb sol #crowe ichabod #crowe x reader #sol x reader #sol brugmansia #jericho crowe ichabod #tkatb geo #geo oogami #tkatb vn

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hoseoksluna · 7 months ago

Text

A CELEBRATION OF 2K FOLLOWERS — PLEASANT, GOOD AND MERCIFUL | jjk

pairing: non-idol!boyfriend!jungkook x f. reader

genre: smut, angst, fluff — the whole package

word count: 8.9k

summary: jungkook wanted to make the night better for you—but what he didn't expect is that he would come across his true, unabashed self while doing so.

taglist: join | cp: wattpad, ao3

warnings: jungkook, physical violence, jungkook is wearing that mesh top and that exact outfit (god, help me) and he's horny (god, help me again), abandonment issues, dissociation, panic mode, fear, swear words, dom/sub dynamics, protected sex, oral sex (f. & m. receiving), deepthroat:), teasing, pda, jungkook smokes and jungkook uses his busan accent (you have been warned), religion, praying, anxiety, hyper-independence, trust issues, begging, a little bit of a praise kink — barely, cowgirl:).

note: because we hit 2k incredible followers, i prepared this for you, my babies. a full fucking package of drama, smut, angst and fluff—all from jungkook's own pov!!!!! this is all for you bc i love you sm. thank you, guys, so much for being here with me, sticking around and reading my stupid fics. enjoy this one shot and let me know what you think. i'm sending you so many kisses until you get sick of me. seriously. i won't stop. i love you. MWAHMWAHMWAHMWAHMHWA.

It is a lucid dream, really, the way the lustrous colors of the fireworks bloom across the charcoal sky. They intertwine with the darkened clouds, like vines of wild flowers, that try and fail to remain hidden and Jungkook thinks you burst with even richer, emotive colors.

With your kaleidoscopic glitter on the high points of your cheeks, and the tiny stars that you stuck on each arch of your brow.

He can feel the vibration of the deep bass, belonging to the music, coursing down your chest as he stands behind you, drifting his hands down the upper half of your body while the rest of the strangers are hypnotized by the rapper on stage that he has very little knowledge of. The reason why he paid for the tickets, pumped a full tank of gas, drove you all the way to the countryside outside of the normality of your daily life and never let go of your hand—despite the fact they grew uncomfortably clammy due to the stifling heat—was because you loved the man. The vulgar headliner, whose lyrics nearly made his eyes fall out of his sockets once he fully and consciously listened to the songs that you always sing when you do your makeup or hum at random times when you’re doing your own thing.

And what’s worse, it made his dick hard when he heard you scream out the swear words and the filthy imagery painted in the vivaciousness of the songs.

You, who scarcely cursed.

Who omitted the vulgarity when rapping along.

He doesn’t think he ever caught those words coming out of your mouth. Not even when he was balls-deep in you.

Multiple times.

It had only been four months ago when he found you and his long silent heart gained your voice. It was the sweetest, most languid sound that ever graced his ears and in an instant, you became a fleshly sanctuary of serenity. One he would find himself needing more often than he liked because the truth is—Jungkook doesn’t date.

He considers relationships an unnecessary house of pain. If he spends a long time there, he forgets what the outside world looks like. Forgets how to get home. Forgets the roads and the rules and moralities of life and society because, deep down, he lets go of himself for the girl.

He would kill a soul if she found herself needing it. Or at least destroy one so she would have a peace of mind.

Break hands and break noses of people who looked at her wrong.

That’s who he is and as much as he tried to change it, he failed every time. Failed like the clouds up above. His effort to stay hidden from you vanished into thin air because you would invariably find him and his heart would start praying with your voice. The pathetic thing would beg for mercy from the world. His knees would wobble and he’d let them sink right in front of you—all because of your deeply inert calmness and briskness that would, strangely, pour the nectar of mollification over his bloodstream.

And he gave in to you because you didn’t ask, nor expect, anything from him.

You didn’t do what the others did.

You were independent and so full of life, of a different world, one he wanted to take a peek inside.

And what he didn’t predict was that the road would be molded for his feet. And once he kissed you and learned the ins and outs of your intellect and the chambers of your heart, he still remembered the streets that line the outside world—its names, even. He remembered the address of his own apartment building, the number to his door and to the pass code.

And so did you.

You didn’t ask him to kill for you. And you didn’t ask him for tickets to see your favorite artists.

He did it because he unreservedly loved you.

And here you are, giggling, rubbing your little ass up against his groin and he detects happiness prickling his nerve endings. His hands are enveloped, snugly, as if no one was around and the artists traveled across the country for you, around your waist while your hands are up in the air, pointed fingers erect, dipping up and down to the rhythm of the music.

And what he could never predict, not even in a million years—he’s enjoying himself. Feels the traces of the same vibrations ricocheting off your back into his chest, where the song enlivens him.

He’s enjoying himself because you are enjoying yourself, brimming with elation and the radiance of your smile as you laugh, dance and scream out curse words that he’s equally enjoying hearing.

Jungkook makes a mental note to pull those sounds out of you later in the early hours.

And then you turn around, surprising him. You cup the side of his neck while you point that index finger in his face, screaming out the lyrics. And Jungkook regards it so overwhelming that he can only stare. Doesn’t know the lyrics to scream them back at you and make your experience better, but he’s learning them as he’s consuming them from you, his eyes tracing over each movement of your mouth that engraves them in his brain. He feels your hips moving under his palm at the bottom of your spine and when you roll your body forward, colliding into his like a star that meets its lover once only to never see it again, and brush your lips against his—he’s so horny and so in love with you that his eyes wet, his emotions rushing in and clouding his sight.

The background fades out, fully, into the charcoal of the night, the colored lights softening and it’s just you that is the distribution of incandescence for the people present—and for him. And then you go down, dragging your hands down his stomach and his thighs, only to spring right up, grab his hips and make that collision happen—against the laws of the universe.

A different star. A special one.

Out of his darkened peripheral view, he can sense the audience having a way better time than they did before you turned around to face him. But Jungkook doesn’t give a fuck.

Not when his cock is so tight in his pants.

Thankfully, you’re obscuring it with the shape of your delightful body. He thinks he’s going to run with you to his car, pump more adrenaline into your body, so you can refresh the drowsy grass with a pristine layer of dew through the sound of your laughter. He also wonders if you’re wet yourself underneath that gray dress of yours and just as he’s about to lean over and yell that question into your ear, you turn around and get ready for the next song.

And catch the glance of some guy to your right as you do. Jungkook grits his jaw because you linger for a second longer that he doesn’t particularly like.

A certain fever poisons his veins, but at the same time he feels the pinpricks of a cold sweat at the top of his spine. Who the fuck does he think he is, staring at his girl like that?

But when he follows that line of the half broken gaze, he finds the guy’s slender face scrunched up in disgust.

Oh, Jungkook might be ready to throw some hands and get him kicked out of this place, tell the cops it was all him so you can continue enjoying yourself in his arms. He’s seen some people sticking their tongues down their partner’s throat and he’s giving you a dirty look for dancing?

This can easily be his very last night alive.

Instinctively, Jungkook bunches up his fists and he’s ready to go after him, but you scream out and emit out your excitement, taking a deep breath to go absolutely mad as the rapper begins to perform the song that he’s heard you jamming out to the most. You take his hands, beaming at him from behind, and uncurl them on your tummy. Your glance was too brief and there’s still a furrow to his brows and now he worries you think he’s being a buzzkill. He doesn’t want to ruin the night for you, so he draws in closer to the crook of your neck and begins to dance, softly, with you. Your hands intertwine with his and you bang them in the air, jumping up and down at the bridge of the song that the headliner hypes up.

And then you’re singing in a different language and he’s done for, his heart tightening in his chest. The one he’s heard your mother talk in over the phone while you replied in English. Jungkook squeezes you so hard and you let him, your smile growing. Your voice is more throatier and low-pitched and Jungkook senses your foreignness swathing his cock and he knows there’s a bigger tent in his pants. He presses it against you, makes you feel it and you throw your delicious ass.

His eyes nearly go cross-eyed as he rolls them back, tilting his head. The wind sweeps across the sweat of his exposed forehead, sifting through his hair and he can’t wait any longer. Desire has overpowered the poison in his veins in such a mighty way and he begins to stand in the middle of a crossroad.

Wait forty five minutes until the rapper finishes the show and then get stuck in the crowd as everyone tries to leave at once.

Or wait two more minutes and then bolt to the car to fuck your brains out. There’s a higher chance you and him won’t be caught sinning in the backseat. It’s midnight and the villagers are asleep. And in the forty minutes, while everyone enjoys the last show, he can make you come so many times and ascertain that your experience will be heightened and ultimately better.

He’s also sure you’ll be able to hear him—if he leaves the window open a little bit.

He’s ready to turn you around, the decision throbbing in his sternum, but you make the move first. Swiveling on your feet, your body faces him, though your head doesn’t. Once again, he follows your gaze. You scowl at the guy, your brows knitting and your glossy mouth rounding before moving into the shape of the lyrics. You throw a dirty look his way one last time and Jungkook laughs in pride, his heart constricting in the love he bears for you, and he pulls you in, disposed to kiss you. You wrap your arms around his neck and open your mouth just as he kisses you—and it’s you who darts out their tongue, rolling it against his. Jungkook squeezes your bum, slapping it gently—and it’s simultaneous the way you and him both peek at the guy’s reaction.

The fucker is grinning.

You give him a vulgar gesture, the moonless blue light enveloping around your middle finger.

Jungkook laughs so hard that heads turn in his direction and he’s fucking delighted. You devour it with your mouth, sucking his lips so intensely that he stops breathing. He senses you sealing it in him and he can’t wait any longer.

He needs you and he tells you.

Breaking the lip lock, he peppers kisses on the sensitive spot behind your ear, wafting his hot breath there. He feels the gooseflesh on your arm right upon his ear, too, and electricity courses down his stomach. Fuck, he loves it so much. Thinks you’re so incredible and he wants to fuck that fact into your guts.

“Let’s get out of here. I want you,” he rasps, drifting his hand up your bum to the ends of your hair, bunching them in his fist. “I want to give you this dick. You deserve it.”

You suck in a harsh breath and withdraw to look at him. He bites his lip at the way his words painted a palette of such flushed beauty on your face, using colors this festival has never fucking seen. And his mouth ends rise in a prideful smile, not for his ability, but for your body. For the way it’s able to react to him so wonderfully.

And he blushes when you begin to mouth the lyrics again while dipping to the seat of the amphitheater and sliding his blazer over his shoulders.

He knows why you did that.

And you validate his knowledge when you take his hand and lead him away from the concert, keeping close to him just to be cautious.

You did it to camouflage the evidence of his arousal for you.

And when you walk by the guy, you let go of his hand. Throw both middle fingers in his face. “You wish you had someone to leave with, huh?”

The fucker puts his dirty hand on you, stopping you from walking away, and Jungkook doesn’t fucking hesitate. Like a bolt of lightning, he grabs his collar and fumes in his face.

“What makes you fucking think you can touch my girl, huh? Juk go sip na?” he snarls, shaking him, his Busan dialect impulsively spilling out, darkening his voice and the latter question—‘Do you want to die?’ He watches a tendril of challenge line his eyes with murkiness and what happens next is too fast.

Too fast for his liking.

Knuckles collide with his cheek and at the rapid, unexpected and jarring contact, his lip ring cuts his gums. Jungkook grunts at the twinge that overpowers the throbbing on the side of his face, metal percolating through the aftertaste in his mouth, but he doesn’t let go of the guy’s shirt. In fact, he tightens his hold. Seethes. Is about to push him off and leave before things get even uglier, but then he feels your hands on his back and his heart stops, your voice mute, despite the fact your whole face twists in fear and is smeared with harrowing emotions that he’s never seen on you. Shrinks at the sight of your wet, bulging eyes. Of one singular tear grazing your lower lashes in a caress before plopping onto the wildflower meadow of the glitter on your cheek.

“Get back,” he tells you, despite the swelling of his own emotions at your state of mind. But you don’t comply in time, unclench your fist and step back because far too soon, in the middle of the distraction, another collision bursts in this impenetrable darkness.

Falling into you or falling for you even deeper, he can’t tell the difference within the numbing pain and his temper coaxes his exceedingly too easy tears to blur his vision. You don’t topple back on your hands, for Jungkook catches you in time with a strength that you somehow help him remember that he possesses. From the force of the guy’s jab, he was only pushed into you, but it doesn’t diminish the grave mistake he made.

One he will pay for.

Straightening you, Jungkook guides you towards the edge of the amphitheater and you step back, at last, startled. Turning around, he swings his fist into the guy’s face and he whimpers like a little bitch.

One hit for your dignity.

A second one for your tears.

And the guy would’ve received a third and a fourth one had he not been held back by different pairs of arms all of a sudden. But he shakes them off. Pushes the guy back to his seat. He lands awkwardly on his tailbone with a hard thud and moans in pain. Suits him right for thinking he’s allowed to touch you, make you cry and remain unharmed.

Jungkook shakes his head, his chest rising with heavy breaths and numbing, adrenaline-infused fury. “Sit here and keep your fucking hands to yourself, gaesaekki. Who the fuck do you think you are, making my girl cry by hitting me?”

The music cuts out and the rapper hollers. Jungkook turns around and finds all of the attention of the audience and the headliner on him. Doesn’t want to put you on the spot like that, so he rolls his eyes in annoyance, finds your rounded ones and tips his chin further towards the exit, signaling to you to walk that way, so no one gets to look at you. You’re still standing by the edge of the amphitheater with your tear-stained cheeks and his heart aches, though once he sees that you’re covered by the shadows, he lifts a palm towards the stage and strides off, placing a hand on the small of your back and leading you towards the grassy hill.

People are fucking testing him and he’s not in the mood. Not in the slightest.

He’d go with his original plan—take your hand and run with you to his car, but he needs to cool off. His anger is sapping all the delight he gained from your microcosm of joy and he doesn’t want to ruin the night more than he already has. Jungkook curls an arm around your neck, tugging you flush to his side as you strut together with no one around. Lifts your chin so he can inspect how you’re feeling on your face.

Your cheeks are glimmering, damply, carmine in the yellow light, accompanied by the faint burn of the stars up above, but your eyes have lost their great spark and you’re no longer beaming. They trace over his deadened cheek and mouth and you whimper, stopping dead in your tracks and burying your face in his chest. You wrap your arms around his middle, a hand stroking his back—and Jungkook feels himself drifting to a state of coma. The rapper’s lines decline the harder you nuzzle your face in his mesh-clad pecs and he can’t move his own hands, can’t hug you back, his panic cascading down his sternum, which he senses your warm weight upon. A ringing noise fills his ears, but he can’t wilt. He has to put you first and make things right.

But his body doesn’t listen.

He wills strength into his muscles, lifting his head towards the unmerciful heavens and letting your voice sound out his prayer. You evidently need physical support and emotional reassurement and he can’t give that to you out of his own weakened will. Not when he needs it so despairingly and eminently because he’s hollowed out on the inside. Not when he can’t hear a damn thing owing to the ringing in his ears.

He can’t ask you for help, so he lets you pray through his heart to his father’s God.

But nothing happens.

Radio silence.

White noise.

A feeble, miniature whine loosens from him. He’s not sure if you heard it and he hopes you didn’t, and for that sole reason—he does the unthinkable.

He begins to pray with his own voice.

Because there’s nothing else to do.

Give me strength. To be there for her and not mess this up more than I already have. Fix me for her and help me make this night better for her.

The tiniest of lights against your face unbolts ajar in him, vines of the flowers of mitigation blooming from that sliver of open space—right into his arms that abruptly lift and wrap around your shoulders, pulling you as close as humanly possible.

The ringing lessens.

And then his lips move.

He kisses your forehead, dwelling there for a moment, basking in the fact that his prayer worked, and mentally, he ejects the trepidation and agitation away and out of his system, though the fear loiters in his ribcage. The fear that the mistake he made is unfixable. And there’s no thrumming of the bass to distract it.

What’s worse, his lower regions still ask for a release. He might not be as hard as he was, but the pressure of an ungratified arousal still palpitates in his groin. The unlit disorder of his feelings encourages the blood to pump his cock erect, slowly, and his breath quivers—as well as his body.

The shakes are back. He knows them, intimately, from his past relationships. Feels the long-gone ghost of abandonment catching up to him—and he fears, terribly, that you’ve somehow learned its ways and you’re about to use them on him because of the way he ruined your night. Cover him from head to toe until his mind numbs and he forgets, foolishly, the direction to his home.

To solitude.

He lets go of you and nudges you towards his car. Lets you walk the rest of the short way. But he notices that your forehead, the place he poured his frail love upon, is smudged with blots of blood, the little stars on the arches of your brows crooked and devalued. He’s barely able to get out a cigarette out of his pack and place it in the center of his parted lips, his heart cracking and turning painfully. Though, somehow he does it—he gnites it to life, takes a big drag and hides his hands behind his back. Hides his shakes away from you. Because it’s easier to ruin yourself than it is to give.

You don’t know about them. And in the four months he’s been dating you, he didn’t have a reason to tell you about them. Thought they were lost for all eternity, the tables turned—them forgetting about him.

But now he realizes how naive he was. Begs his shoulder to stop trembling from the impact of his deeply-embossed issues. Wishes they were as beautiful as you when you gaze back at him with the weight of your love and he feels it, swiveling to lean against the side of his car.

It’s a life jacket that straps him down. Abates his shakes. And he’s able to take another drag, pursing his lips in a small ‘O’ when he exhales the smoke, so it doesn’t get near you.

Your hands are behind your back, too. They support your tailbone against the solidness of the vehicle. It reminds him that he’s glad he hurt the guy, but now he wishes that you weren’t such a delicious brat because he could’ve made you happier and pinker with the amount of orgasms he would’ve given you. Would’ve driven you home and washed you clean. Would’ve made you a late night snack to bed and held you while you replayed the songs in your head.

Nevertheless, it’s him who needs to be held.

Foolish, his sensitivity. Another thing you don’t know about. And he’s not too sure, at this very moment, if he’s able to let you in this closely. Let you hold him and stop, ultimately, his shakes. The fear of possibly letting that happen, only to get left behind after, paralyzes him on the spot and even though he can’t breathe, he still manages to flick the ash off his cigarette and puff on it, desperately. Needs the smoke to hold him down, mollify the raging disorder in him—the macrocosm that is too gritty and stony for your delicate feet.

He allows a full, audible sigh to leave him and he hangs his head, but he shouldn’t have done that.

Because he divulged to you how fucked up he is.

You lift a hand to him. “Come here, Oppa.”

But he can’t. He can’t get close. His legs are numb and the thick-soled boots his feet are shod in are too heavy. His fear keeps them planted that safe distance apart. And Jungkook plays it cool. Licks his lips, lifts his head and sucks on his cigarette. Feels something dripping down his jaw and he wipes his hand on the bone. His cheeks hollow out and the smoke gets in his eyes, stinging them, blurring the spots of blood on his fingers

A different type of wetness coats them now.

“You wanna go home?” he asks, then cringes at his stupid words. The smoke makes zig zag patterns in the air as his hands shake harder. And then the breath he takes is too difficult. His chin wobbles, the tears rush in and he can’t stop it. “They’re still—” A soft sigh, a whimper. His breathing speeds up because it seems as though his lungs ask for too much air and he can’t inhale enough of it. The tears threaten to pour out and crown his fear. Ruin his life. But he keeps going as if nothing is happening. “Making hot dogs in that food stand over there. The night’s not over.”

And then he’s sobbing, sinking to his knees as his legs give out under all that weight of his issues compressing him. The cigarette burns on the concrete, as abandoned as he soon will be. And his hands feel the rough material of his jeans, needing something to bring him back to a painless reality. He’s tasting blood and the fumes of the smoke and then he sees your sneakers in front of his knees, the pink Calvin Klein shoes that he bought you last week, and he sits back, feels his head being lifted, feels himself being pushed to a point of absolute submission.

And that’s not something he’s able to stop either.

You sit down on his thighs, sinking your fingers behind his ears and into his hair, forcing him to look at you and he has to blink multiple times in order for his sight to clear up. Sees, while he whimpers pathetically, his bloodstained, fearful girl seeing him. The real him. The flawed, broken him.

“Gguk, Ggukie, what’s happening? Talk to me, baby, please.”

He only sobs. Can’t get a word out. Because you’re here and you’re going to leave him—now that you’ve seen that he’s not a half of the man you pertain him to be. That he’s weak, pathetic and emotional. That he has problems that he doesn’t like to talk about. Unresolved issues that will affect you and guide you out of his life.

You press him to your neck, holding him to you, and you shush him, gently, rocking him from side to side. Run your wet hand up his hair on the back of his head while the other one rubs large circles on his back. The light opens wider in him—and as he listens to the lullaby of your voice, it distracts him from the fear. It stills the ringing in his ears and blesses his arms with strength that he uses, without thinking, to wrap around you.

Something lukewarm plops onto the side of his aching cheek as he, little by little, calms down, and he realizes it’s your precious tears. The salt to his wound.

You’ve cried too much when you should’ve been laughing so hard that you’d be sick from it.

“What happened? Tell me.”

Your hand caresses his bad cheek, careful around the bump that your feather-light touch traces, and it’s how he finds out it’s even there. He finds out his bleeding is from his mouth because you wipe at it and clean your fingers on your dress. And then you’re back to stroking his hair, your long fingernails scratching, tenderly, his scalp, spreading alleviation down his body.

You’re patient and gentle, tolerant and kind, despite the fact you deserve an explanation and he’s unable to give it to you.

It’s what makes his rationality snap back to normalcy and he tugs your dress down, withdrawing from you and helping you stand to your feet. He’s here to make your night better, not unleash his problems at you. He takes your purse dangling from your hand, replacing it with his palm, and hauls you towards his car.

But you stay put and he bounces back to you as if he were on a leash.

And maybe he is—because you stayed at the horrendous scene of his worst. Bound to you in a way that he’s too drowsy to comprehend. Even his fear is tired, scurrying away to some shadowed corner of his soul, instead of attacking him and remaking the scene.

“Give me my purse back and let me buy you that hot dog,” you say, with a hint of a remarkable harshness that makes him submit to you on a higher level. Something positive that he can’t pinpoint breezes through his clavicles and he wipes his knuckles across his eyes, shyness encasing him like steel—like a shield, giving him the hope that maybe, just maybe, he can overcome this with you.

You didn’t leave. You didn’t disappear. You didn’t wrinkle your nose.

You held him. Cleaned the blood off his mouth. Put him, somehow, back together like a puzzle piece. Knew how to do it without needing to look at the full picture.

He hands you the chain strap of your purse—and it’s more of a symbol of his submission to you. Of the acquiescence and the meekness that you seeped into his pores by your touch. And, oddly, he feels whole.

His walls are broken down, but he feels whole. Confident, soft, and manly.

Because he has you and you’re here to take care of him.

You’re quick on your feet as you yank him by the two of his fingers. He follows behind you, but all he can look at is your pendulous, brown, leather purse, suspended from your small hand, and how that shift of the dynamic in yours and his relationship occurred by that exchange. How it’s felicitous, pretty and sturdy. How he can come back to it and remember it—if he ever wavers. Remember that it’s the cure to his shakes.

Letting himself be taken care of by you.

The festival has ended and the ladies at the food stand are packing up to leave. It overwhelms him how much time his issues have stolen, but when he watches you go from nice to bratty in a millisecond, convincing them to make that last hot dog from him because he feels faint and needs some greasy food in order to get home and they comply, his love for you rises sky-high. Your own expression of love for him tidies up the debris from his broken walls and he’s so warm all over that he feels as though he’ll explode.

You pay for the hot dog and leave a huge tip, thanking them with a smile that makes his heart quiver in a way that is pleasant, good and merciful. You hand it to him and it’s another exchange that wets his eyes, that makes him dip to your mouth and give you a chaste kiss that you more than deserve. You coo, deeply, into the kiss, and it’s a sound that he’s never heard from you. A dominant, prideful sound that stirs the butterflies in his stomach that carry your name on their wings to beat so ferociously that he can’t breathe.

In a different way now. Pleasant, good and merciful.

You walk away from the stand and sit with him on the sidewalk. Jungkook lets you have the first bite, sliding your leg over his as he holds the hot dog to your mouth. People are exiting the amphitheater in hefty crowds, but he doesn’t care. Can’t peel his eyes off of you as you open your mouth as wide as you can and take a big bite, whining and fanning your mouth due to how boiling hot it is. He can see the half chewed up sausage on your tongue and if he didn’t love you, he’d look away now, but he can’t because he does love you and your secret, indecent ways enthrall him enough that he can’t help but to kiss you again. Kiss the ketchup and mustard off of your upper lip. Clean you up like you cleaned up his debris. Blow on the sausage in your mouth a little to make you laugh and you do more than that. You chortle so hard that you nearly choke on it and he laughs, too, strangely.

Thinks the hot dog is the best one he has had in a long time solely because you had that first bite.

It fuels him with energy, yet he feels lightweight. Feels as though everything’s going to be okay, despite the fact those issues in him are a persisting threat and they can be triggered anytime. But something tells him you can handle it.

You weren’t afraid to throw your middle fingers in a guy’s face because he had a problem with your public display of affection. Weren’t afraid of Jungkook’s ugliness. Weren’t afraid to fight the ladies so you could fill up his stomach with his favorite food.

You can handle it.

It’s all he thinks about as he drives you to his apartment with his hand on your thigh.

And it’s all he thinks about when he kneels before you while he takes off your sneakers and lingers there, scattering kisses just below the hem of your dress. And you know where this is going because you pull him back by his hair and as he looks up at you like this, a peasant to a queen, his heart hammers so intensively that all he wants to do is cry while he makes love to you.

He came across his salvation—in the worst of it all.

“Let me clean you up,” you hush out, and Jungkook doesn’t understand because you already have. Internally. And outwardly all the same. He can’t postpone this any longer. He has to give back to you, give you his gratitude on a silver platter. He needs to do it because if he doesn’t, he’ll crumble.

“No,” he rasps in a whisper, closing his mouth over the inner of your thigh, placing a singular kiss there before he returns his gaze back to you. “Let me, please.”

Maybe you can see his desperation in the glossiness of his eyes and it awakens your pity for him, for in a blink you nod, and for the second time today—he doesn’t hesitate to do the next thing. He fists the fabric of your dress and yanks it up over your tummy, nuzzling his nose into your clothed mound. Pink, like your sneakers.

He inhales you. Inhales the beginning of your arousal—and the beginning of a brand new scene that will color his life in a soft manner.

Dragging the waistband of your panties down your legs, he tosses them on top of your shoes. Yearns for your legs to part your royalty for him and in order for that to happen, he carries you, bridal-style, over to the white of his bedding. Pretends it’s clouds that he’s laying you down upon because he’s about to make sure he’ll bring heaven down to you.

The heaven that helped him give back to you earlier in his worst.

He hooks his fingers under your socks and slides them off, one by one. Makes you sit up to rid you of your dress. Ruins your ponytail in the process, but he quickly fixes it by lugging your hair tie down your length, rubbing his blood away on your forehead with his saliva-coated thumb once he places you back down.

And it’s not an expression of his dominance, the way he disburdened you from the daytime. That has long ceased to exist in him since that exchange.

It’s an expression of his servitude to you.

Of his lessening and your heightening.

And it’s pleasant, good and merciful. It doesn’t feel as though he’s giving all of himself. On the contrary, it feels as though he has just discovered his true self.

He won’t forget the address of his home because he’s not staying over anywhere.

He is at home.

And your folds revealing your royalty as he spreads your legs is the feeling of homeliness. His mouth on your warm, swollen clit is the epitome of all domesticity and the only thing he can fear at this very moment is his future homesickness if he rips his mouth off your cunt.

And you getting wet so easily just from being taken care of like a queen confirms and validates all that he’s feeling.

And he lets you know.

Peasants are savages and he eats your pussy like it. Sucks on your clit with a verve that surprises him and makes his cock tight uncomfortably in his pants, especially when you make those deep, guttural noises of yours. You’re not the soft girl he knew that omitted swear words in her favorite filthy songs. You’re a vulgar woman, rolling her hips into his mouth as he lets you use his tongue.

And he stops—just to beg for those words.

“Let me hear you swear for me, please.”

You whimper, flopping into the mattress, only to raise your torso using your elbows. You grip the hair on the back of his neck and hump his mouth, but then you suck in a breath and draw back, sobered up all of a sudden.

“Does your lip hurt?” you ask, rounding your brows in pity and Jungkook’s heart quickens at the portrayal of your care towards him. His senses flick to that faint throbbing on the side of his pierced lip and he perceives that he forgot about his physical pain. His cheek throbs as well, but it’s all bearable.

You help him remember.

“It doesn’t hurt, baby.”

But the hand that gripped his hair slides over to his lip, caressing it with a thumb. “But it’s swollen. I don’t want to hurt you.”

He also remembers that he was bleeding from the same place and he checks your folds if he spattered them. With the same digit, he runs it over them, finding no taints of it. Sends a quick, internal thank you to God.

You’re pure—he doesn’t want to mar you.

“You’re not hurting me. You’re saving me,” he utters without a breath, the words more raw than anything he’s ever said to you, alongside his first, secretly sensitive I love you. And while he doesn’t let his lungs lift, you inhale all of the air for him, wafting it over him as you pout ever so slightly. And then you caress him—the good side of his face and he does something he’s never expected to do.

He invites you in.

Rests his head on the apex of your thigh while you continue to brush your hand in circles. Over his cheekbone, his temple, long strands of hair and ear. An ouroboros of love so unsullied and intact that the world’s upcoming destruction could never afflict it, never even come near it. Jungkook pushes your leg back and darts out his tongue. Mirrors your circles over your clit and the gentleness he uses to do it with pull such alluring moans from the bottom of your throat that he’s nearly at the peak of his own orgasm.

And it just makes him hungrier.

He turns you over to your side and closes that leg of yours over his head. Flattens his tongue over your clit and eats it like his life depends on it, one hand holding yours while the other slips to your heat, rubbing the hole until you go mad. And he’s not holding your hand to keep you bound. He’s holding your hand to keep his sanity and not come in his pants like a boy.

You move your hips so his fingers enter you and you scream out at the sudden fullness. Jungkook drips in sweat, your walls slowly stretching around him sending tingles down his spine, and he’s moaning when you fuck yourself on his digits.

It doesn’t take long for you to come.

It is the final piece to your own puzzle and your orgasm thunders through you, the swear words tumbling out of your mouth like refreshing raindrops. You interweave them into his name, adorning it, making it prettier, and Jungkook is so overwhelmed with pleasure that all he can do is suck on your clit until you convulse so hard that you can’t take it anymore.

You may have lost your spark earlier, but now that you’ve come so magnificently, you’ve become it. The star of light isn’t something that gets attached to your eyes whenever you’re happy anymore.

You’re the queen of all firelights and constellations.

He lets you lie on your side as he hauls himself up to face you. He touches your skin besprinkled with the beads of perspiration, kneading the fleshy parts and ending up at your neck. Your eyes are closed when he reposes his head on his pillow besides yours and he detects his pleasure creating a new kind of joy within him, one that etches a lopsided smile on his face.

You said the words for him while your orgasm coursed through your body. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Thank you,” he whispers against your lips, kissing you with a certain roughness that makes you whine and withdraw. You give him a playful dirty look, fragrant with your love, and Jungkook’s smile deepens.

“Gentle,” you reprimand, fluttering your eyes back shut. “Don’t be a masochist.”

He laughs through his nose, his heart constricting, and he kisses you with the gentleness you spoke of just to show you he can do it.

You hum in appreciation and Jungkook thinks this must be the best day of his life, despite all.

“There we go,” you praise, sleepily. “Gentle, so your boo-boo doesn’t hurt.”

He caresses your face in circles in your fashion, watches you visibly relax and your eyes close all the way, your eyelashes brushing against him. His sleep-kissed queen.

“You wanna sleep?” he asks, fondling the shell of your ear. He doesn’t mind if you’re too tired to take him; he’s willing to study the way your mouth parts and lets out long, restful breaths as you drift off to dreamland.

He thinks it would be an honor.

Everything had changed. The way he sees you, the way he loves you, the way he senses yours and his connection. The pupils of his eyes have been purified and he’s acknowledging himself with the ins and outs of his own relationship.

Everything is new.

You shake your head, humming out a sound of disagreement. “No, give me a second. You made me come really hard.”

He nods, even though you can’t see him, and he sifts his fingers through your hair. Trails his kisses from your cheek to your neck and shoulder, dwelling there as you recuperate from your intense orgasm.

And then you’re swinging your leg over and straddling him. Your lids are so heavy from your little eye-shut that he silently coos at you, but your tiredness doesn’t stop you from mouthing kisses down his mesh-clad chest. From unbuckling his belt and freeing him from his pants. The mesh shirt is the only thing you keep on him. You bunch up its hem in your fist, stabilize his cock with your other and you swallow him.

Not all the way, though.

You rid him of his sanity because you pop your mouth, over and over, on the tip of his manhood. He feels the sound deep in his groin, right beneath your hand, and his chest can’t help but to shudder with each suction, his face scrunching. He unabashedly whimpers for you and you like his noises so much that you give him what he never asked you for.

You do take him all the way.

And your throat is your scent floating through the air of yours and his home.

Heady, oriental and feminine.

You slobber all over him, running your tongue sideways upon the veins along his length and Jungkook slinks in and out of his conscience. The pleasure you’re blessing him with brings him to a rose garden when you gag around him. The pink petals tickle his stomach, encouraging his shudders, and all he sees is you in the middle of that garden. A mighty statue of its queen—with a mouthful of cock.

And then he has to physically pull you away from him because if he felt the tightness of your throat one more time, he’d be spurting ropes of cum down your esophagus.

You’re feral, staring him down with a maddened smile, returning to your original position on his hips. And as delighted as he is to have you be in charge, he remembers something.

He hasn’t put a condom on.

“Wait.”

Jungkook holds your waist as he rummages in his bedside table and once he finds the package he was looking for and rattles it, he finds it empty. Cold sweat trickles down the back of his neck, but he remembers something else as well.

“Did you not put it in your purse?” he asks, the scene where he hands you the last square of the rubber for you to keep in your purse in case you get in the mood during the festival shooting out before his eyes.

You nod. “Yeah, I think so. Can you go get it?”

He sits up with you and kisses you, gently, prolonging the kiss until you whine and he thinks twice before provoking you. He can’t help it—you just keep saving him.

Walking through your corridor, he sees your pink sneakers first, embellished with your panties of the same color. A smile tugs at the aching corner of his mouth, but he doesn’t mind. Thinks it heightens the experience. Bending to pick up your brown purse that he set beside your shoes, the time seems to slow down as he’s reminded of the exchange out there in the countryside. The shift of dynamics that liberated him. Jungkook grows emotional, his feelings liquifying and prickling his eyes.

And it’s automatic and absolutely instinctual—the way he dips his mouth and kisses the leather material.

Gently.

Opening it, he fishes out the white square and hangs your purse on the hook among his jackets. Gives it a long, meaningful look before he returns to you.

And you’re the one who wants to put it on him. You’re so diligent, tugging the peak of the rubber multiple times so you’re unequivocally certain that you did it right. And when you tug him, he whimpers so inferiorly that you emulate his hunger.

You depict it so eloquently when you fight through your residual overstimulation and sink down on him, little by little. And the more inches your walls squeeze around, the more his new role settles within him.

Peasant with his queen.

You ride him like it.

You bounce on him with such hard thuds that it provokes the pressure in his groin. His balls tighten so rapidly and the cinematic view of your breasts slapping against each other doesn’t really help slow down the incoming explosion of his orgasm. A glistening ring forms around his cock from your slick—and Jungkook genuinely considers, right here, right now, buying you a promise ring that will be an eternal reminder of this sublime salvation.

And you’re as aware of the shift as he is because once you reposition your weight onto your feet, you pin his hands back and use them as leverage. Intertwine your fingers with his. His vision gets filled with spots of white. You clamp down on him with each stroke and even though he can’t move, he feels unshackled. There’s no ending to his moans. He’s so close, the pressure deepens in his groin, and he needs one more thing.

One more thing and he’s done.

“Kiss me,” he rasps, and you slow down, crying out, your orgasm catching up to you just the same, but he needs your attention, so he begs. “Please, baby. Kiss me.”

Lowering yourself onto your knees, you lean forward. “Fuck, I love it when you beg. I’d give you anything you ever wanted.”

His stomach spasms. Your nipples sail over his chest and you shudder, the mesh fabric stimulating you, and then you’re swirling your tongue around the arc of his open mouth.

Teasing him, like the vulgar, bratty woman you are.

Extra careful around the lip ring and his swollen flesh, healing it in a way.

Jungkook whines your name. “Please.”

You kiss him just once, but he needs more. Lifts his head off the pillow, chasing your mouth. You begin to swirl your hips in circles on the tip of his cock, just like your tongue, and the intense pleasure he gets from it forces him to bang his head back.

You go for his neck. His collarbone. His nipple.

And Jungkook can’t hold back anymore.

His orgasm bursts in his groin and all the roses in the garden swell with freshness. He imagines he’s filling you up, instead of the condom and it elevates the momentous shocks of the explosion descending down all of his nerve endings. He hiccups and that’s it for you. You let go of his hands to massage your clit and you follow him out into that garden, his name and curse words trickling out of your mouth that lowers to his in a final, years-long kiss.

His last rope oozes out of him at the feeling of your soft, wary tongue and he wants to weep due to the density of your care. More shrubs of roses bloom around your statue in that garden—and once again, he can’t peel his eyes off of you.

Can’t stop brushing your hair back to see more of you. More of your rose-flushed complexion. More of the spark of your being that irradiates you from within. More of your care and love.

And you give it to him.

You wash out the dried blood on his face in the shower. Brush his teeth with extra care, which makes it more than difficult for him to stifle his tears. He lets you be a witness to his sensitivity and you welcome it, cradle it, hold him while the toothpaste foam numbs his achy lip. And it scares his fear away, most peculiarly.

You hold him in bed, too, amidst the crisp, flower-scented linen of his fresh bed sheets, and you apologize.

“I’m sorry for what happened tonight. If I hadn’t said a thing, you wouldn’t have ended up bruised and swollen,” you croak out, shifting the cold compress lower on his face, and you break into tears that trigger his. He had wished you weren’t a brat, but for a far different reason, and he tells you.

“It’s an honor to get punched in the face for you.” He smiles through his tears and you sigh, removing the cold compress. “But I did wish things ended differently. I wanted to fuck you in my car. Keep the window open so you would hear your favorite rapper. But if things went according to my plan, you wouldn’t have healed me.”

You sniffle, your eyes rounding at the onrush of your tender emotions, and Jungkook watches the waterfall of your tears. His own flows and mingles with yours, joining in unity.

“What happened to you when we left?” you ask and Jungkook knows he wouldn’t avoid this question for long. Deems you deserve to know because of all what you’ve done for him. And he readies himself, pausing before he bares himself, fully, to you.

“I got into panic mode because I blamed myself for ruining your night and…” he trails off, aware of the fact he needs to be more specific, and he takes a deep breath, wiping his tears with one hand before slapping it back on the duvet. “I have a constant fear that the people I care for will eventually leave me,” he explains and a wisp of pride envelops his bones for managing to get those words out for the first time in his life. You snuggle closer to his side, placing your head on his shoulder, and he gazes down at you. His fingers find your ear on their own and it comforts him enough, to touch you like that, that he’s able to continue. “I got left behind a lot of times in my past, which is why I swore off love. It just hurt too much and I stopped having the capacity for it. And when we left the concert, I thought you’d leave me, too, after what I’d done.”

You press the cold compress back to his cheek. “I could never leave you, you’re mine,” you whisper, and another stream of tears soaks through the dish towel wrapped around frozen vegetables. Jungkook doesn’t take your words for granted. He puts great meaning to them and hides them, safely, in his sternum. “And you didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t ruin my night. It was all me and for that I’m sorry.”

He squeezes your arm. “Don’t be sorry,” he says and means it. Lifts his head and plants a cold kiss to your lips.

Gentle.

“I love you, Ggukie. It’s me who should be fighting for you now.”

Jungkook laughs through his nose. “No, I’ll keep protecting my queen.” One more kiss, gentler. “I love you,” he adds and means it.

And he falls asleep like this. With you clinging to the side of his body while keeping the cold compress intact and unmoving with your forehead. One that he removes in the middle of the night and warms up the iciness of your skin by smothering it with his body heat.

Returns to the rose garden and gapes at the statue of you, hand in hand with you—as a changed person, a sensitive, flawed and submissive person that is loved and accepted.

Finds it hard to believe even in his dream.

And you’re there when he wakes up.

Drooling, indecent and vulgar as you are. And he wouldn’t want anyone else.

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan, @euphoricmyth, @jungkoock, @cinmmongirl, @hobiberrystuff, @kam9404.

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yeahxsurexokay13 · 9 months ago

Text

bragger, lando norris

summary: fans constantly tease yn for always bringing lando up and being a bit of a simp for her boyfriend - which only gets worse after his first f1 win - so she writes a song about how if they were her they'd do the same.

warnings: none i think??? but let me know if i missed any. the song mentioned is 'bragger' by kelsea ballerini!! (((:

IN HONOUR OF LANDO'S VERY FIRST WIN !! 🥇

y/n.updates

Liked by fan22 and 1.340 others

y/n.updates Y/n's interview with WIRED where she answers the web's most searched questions about her is now out! Go give it a watch 😄

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fan1 she looked painfully beautiful in this

fan2 how was lando in the answer for questions like 'does y/n speak spanish?' or 'is y/n a good singer?' lol

fan7 she said she didn't remember much from high school but knew some words lando had been taught by carlos sainz and that her boyfriend tells her she is... it kind of isn't that weird if u think about it haha

user1 The more I see of her, the more I like her

fan7 i spy with my little eye 1.6K people with no taste

fan3 interview was everything I hoped for and more! she's hilarious and relatable as always

fan4 new drinking game: take a shot every time she mentions lando

fan5 I've watched it like 5 times already lol

fan6 we need a tally for how many times Y/n drops 'Lando' in her interviews. can someone make that happen?

y/n.y/l

Liked by carlossainz55 and 1.890.321 others

y/n.y/l the vibe i bring to the function (ugly crying on facetime) !!! so incredibly happy for you @/landonorris. you did it 🧡🧡🧡

view all 3.501 comments

y/n.y/l also congrats @/oscarpiastri and everyone else at mclaren for an amazing race ((((:

oscarpiastri thank you Y/n! 🧡 ❤️ by author

landofan4 ok this is very cute and nice of her🥺🥺

fan1 ARE YOU STILL CRYING ? BECAUSE I AM DEFINITELY STILL CRYING

y/n.y/l started crying on lap 54 and haven't stopped since

fan2 new post from my fave lando norris fan account yay (also go lando!!!!!!)

user1 Well deserved 👏🏼👏🏼

landofan3 soy lago

y/n.y/l same

lnfour LFGGGG ❤️ by author

fan3 How many times do you think Y/n's going to mention Lando's win in the next week? Taking bets now

maxfewtrell It's the messy hair and smudged mascara for me

y/n.y/l knew i should've gone for the 'perfectly composed while crying' look instead 😔

landofan1 rip lando nowins: 2019-2024 ❤️ by author

landofan2 "you were scared? i wasn't. i was ok (laughs). thank you. i love you" lando 🥹🥹🥹

fan5 when did he say that? omg

landofan2 f1 posted a reel on their profile and you can hear him talking to her!

mclaren LANDO NORRIS IS A FORMULA 1 RACE WINNER 🏆

y/n.y/l I AM SO NOT CALM ABOUT THIS ??!!?

user2 i could've sworn i saw her at the race? why are they facetiming?

fan4 they could barely speak after the win tbh! this is probably a call in between interviews

user2 today's bottle smash hit different ❤️ by author

landonorris I've said this like a million times already today but I love you so much

y/n.y/l i love you i love you i love you i love you

y/n.y/l

Liked by pietra.pilao and 1.809.896 others

y/n.y/l if he was yours, you'd do the same without apologising... new single 'bragger' out now!!!! 💋💋

view all 3.890 comments

fan6 WHAT HAPPENED TO HWLLO ?? HOW ARE YIU ??

y/n.y/l 🫢🫢

fan1 "he's just too damn good not to mention" .....................i mean she is right we'll give that to her ❤️ by author

landofan1 USING THESE SPECIFIC PICS OF LANDO TO ANNOUNCE THE RELEASE OF A SINGLE ABOUT BRAGGING ABOUT HIM IS WILD !!!!

landofan5 that last video is doing things to me.........

landonorris i'm confused does anyone know who this is about?

y/n.y/l no idea 🤷🏽‍♀️ but let me know if you find out xx

landofan4 apparently about some guy named bob?? I'm not sure

fan8 HAHAHA I LOVE THEM

fan2 she really wanted to make sure she'd made her point clear with this dump omfg

fan3 her point: she has a hot bf and we don't

user1 Well played, Y/N. Well played. 🥸

fracisca.cgomes On repeat ❤️❤️

y/n.y/l lindaaaaaaa ❤️

landofan2 knowing all she's saying is about lando makes the song x1000 times better

fan7 so she saw the tweets... 😐

y/n.y/l i saw everything 👀 they were actually hard to miss hahaha

user2 "i understand why you would want him (i don't mind)" queen behaviour !!!!!! 👑👑

fan4 So this is how she gets back at us for all the teasing lol not complaining at all

landofan3 I can't believe this new song is actually inspired by the fans' teasing about Lando!!🤣

fan5 we joked, she delivered!!! bragger is actually a banger👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼

#singer!reader #social media au #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 smau #lando norris x reader #lando norris x y/n #lando norris smau

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allertonhoe · 13 days ago

Text

duking it out - rafe cameron (18+)

summary: when you almost get robbed after a night out, your best friend insists you learn some self-defence from her older brother, who happens to own a gym. you also can't stand each other, but what happens when the two of you are left to your own devices.

content warnings: original afab!reader, obx!universe, enemies to lovers, best friends brother, boxer!rafe, use of petnames (princess, baby), 18+ MDNI - smut, dom!rafe, dirty talk, fingering, spanking, unprotected p in v, minor use of restraint, mirror sex, reader hurts herself/blood tw, mentions of getting robbed/jumped (not by rafe lol), mentions of guns/pepper spray, angsty af

length: 4.2k words

"Will you at least promise me you'll consider it?"

"Sarah, no. I'm not-"

"You almost got mugged. It would give me some peace of mind." she disputes once again, looking at you wearily.

She wasn't exactly wrong. It was a few weeks back while you were walking through Figure 8 on your way home from another wild kegger on the beach. And in the early hours of the morning, the sun having barely risen, some masked Pogue took the opportunity to ambush you.

Luckily, you carried pepper spray on you for this specific reason, blasting it in the culprit's face and sprinting back to your place as fast as you could. But according to your best friend, you should be a bit more prepared if you ever ended up in worse circumstances, god forbid.

"Rafe!" she calls through the house, marching towards the kitchen without even checking to see if you were following. "Can you help me out with this?"

"What are you talking about?" he quizzes, scrunching his face in confusion.

"She doesn't think she needs to learn any self-defense." Sarah clarifies, earning a judgmental scoff from the older boy.

"That's fucking stupid." he corroborates, causing you to glare at him.

"Don't call me stupid." you pout, wishing your well-meaning best friend hadn't dragged her overbearing brother into another one of your predicaments.

Saying you and Rafe didn't get along was an understatement. You couldn't stand him. He was arrogant, and rude, and just completely unbearable. You didn't know how someone as kind and bubbly as Sarah was related to such a nightmare. And along with his dreadful personality, he had a bit of a bad reputation around the island.

Rumours swirled about how he'd been involved in shady business deals or that he was entangled with one of the island's most infamous and menacing gangs. Having gotten into his fair share of fights in high school, which led you back to why you were having this conversation in the first place.

"What? Would you rather I lied?" he taunts, unscrewing the cap of whatever sports drink he was holding and taking a sip.

"Enough." Sarah referees. "Besides, you told me you'd help."

"That was before I knew who it was." he antagonizes, not even sparing you a glance.

"Yeah. As much as I'd love an excuse to punch Rafe, I'll have to pass." you acknowledge in a rare moment of compromise.

"Didn't know you liked it rough," he insinuates, rolling your eyes at the innuendo.

"Please." Sarah turns back to you in a pleading manner. "Just some basic stuff. I just want to make sure you don't find yourself in a vulnerable situation again. I hate to agree with him, but it is stupid to turn down learning from, like, one of the best trainers on the island."

Rafe decided after high school that he'd channel his fury and aggressive energy into something more productive, opening his gym up a few years back. And unfortunately, you knew she was probably right. The boxing studio having become one of the hottest spots to work out in Figure 8.

"Don't look so excited, princess. A lot of girls would be jumping at the chance to get free coaching from me." he quips.

"You're not gonna drop this?" you purse your lips at Sarah, her agitation not easing at all. "Fine. Whatever."

"No, if we're doing this, we're doing it my way. My gym." Rafe interjects. "You're gonna be there tomorrow morning at 8. You're gonna come, you're gonna listen to what I tell you, and you're not gonna act like a brat because I'm doing this as a favor for Sarah. Got it?"

With a hesitant nod, the session was set for the next day to your contempt. You were met by the sound of grunts and rustling chains when you entered the facility, finding Rafe at the far side of the room battering a punching bag. Too focused to realize you'd walked in, giving you the opportunity to get a proper look at him.

He wore a fitted white tank and basketball shorts, his sun-kissed skin coated in a thin layer of sweat. His toned arms on full display for you to admire as they tensed every time he hit the cushioned equipment. His signature grimace settled on his features as he beat the hung-up gear like it was personal.

"Fuck," he curses, alarmed once he detected your presence. "Sorry. Have you been here long?" He shrugs off, going for a swig of water.

"Just a minute," you reveal, stepping further into the building, almost feeling as though you weren't supposed to be there.

"Is, uh, that what you're wearing, or were you gonna change?" he surveys, taking in the tight leggings and crop top that clung to you. You shook your head at his question, neither of you knowing how to proceed cordially.

"You don't have to do this, by the way," you mention, giving him one last out.

"Huh?"

"I get you're doing this for Sarah. I can tell her you did if you'd just rather I go..." you offer.

"What? Already trying to run?" he solicits, the typical friction between you arising once again. "I don't mind," he reinforces, relieving some of your apprehension.

He advised that you stretch a bit first, reluctantly following his lead as he got into what you were sure was his standard routine, somewhat hopeless yourself when it came to working out. An R&B track playing lightly over the speakers, filling the uncomfortable quiet that hung between you two.

You found yourself fixed on Rafe longer than usual, blaming it on the fact that you were trying to mimic his agile movements. There was no denying he was attractive, another trait you found particularly irritating, but seeing him in his element gave you a whole new perspective. He looked incredibly chiseled, a stark contrast to the usual sight of him in shirts that hid his arms, noticing how swole his biceps were with every flex of his.

Once you were finished warming up, he led you towards the practice ring that sat at the back of the gym. Tossing you a pair of boxing gloves and discarding his tank to the side prior to ushering you onto the canvas. Circling the perimeter like he was a shark targeting his prey.

"Are you gonna walk around and stare at me all day, or actually teach me something useful?" you sassed, making him to stop in his tracks with a hardened expression. "I don't have all day, Rafe."

"What happened again?"

"I was, uh, walking home from that party on the beach a few weeks back, and some kid jumped out at me on my way home and tried taking my shit." you recount, Rafe frowning at the story.

"Have you ever learned any self-defense?" he inquires.

"Yeah, I pepper sprayed him and ran the fuck home." you explain, making him snicker.

"And when you don't have that on you?"

"I don't know. My keys? A gun?"

"A gun?" he remarks, amused by your answer.

"Yeah. I could get one of those small ones."

"Sounds like a solid plan, princess."

"I swear, if you're just gonna piss me off-"

"I told you when we agreed to this you can't stand around and bitch at me the entire time." he recalls, not appearing too impressed.

"Then teach me something."

"Fine, let's work on your reaction time."

"My reaction time is fine. I did fight him off." you refute, tired of the constant belittling.

"And how big was this guy? Was he 6'5 and huge, or some shrimpy Pogue that wasn't much taller than you?" he challenges, startled at how accurate the latter description was of your attacker. "You might not get that lucky next time around."

You let him take over from there, watching as he continued walking around the platform menacingly, almost sizing you up in a way. Like you were playing a dangerous game of cat and mouse. Like there was a hint of something almost suggestive hanging in the air between you.

In any other scenario, you probably would've laughed at how he was stalking towards you. Abruptly diving out to snatch you from the side, making you whip around and instinctively throwing your hands in front of you. Not giving him a chance to grab you properly. Seeming satisfied with your efforts, he stepped back to the edge of the ring to launch into the next drill.

It all happened so fast. He rushed towards you from behind, your initial impulse being to turn and lunge the other way, not realizing your shoelace had untied. You were in the air for a few seconds, tripping face-first into the mats. An ache immediately rising as you peeled yourself off the floor, almost missing how Rafe was at your side without delay, concern etched on his features.

"Shit."

He scanned you for injuries, quick to fuss over your condition while you were just trying to adjust to his sudden worry towards you. As you caught your breath, it hitched again when he reached out and held your cheek. Growing nervous when you saw his focus drift to your mouth.

"You're bleeding..." he notes, his thumb swiping over your bottom lip. "Don't move."

He dashed over to snag the first-aid kit and hurried back over, chucking it on the ground beside you. Taking your wrists and unfastening the padded protection covering your fists, doing the same with the other. He searched through the small bag, ripping open an antiseptic wipe as he assessed the wound.

"Sit down." he requested, complying to his instruction since you didn't want to cause any more unnecessary chaos. "Does it hurt?"

"Uh, no..." you trail off.

"This might sting..." he tells you as he brought the damp cloth to the cut, instantly hissing at the tender sensation despite his warning. "Sorry," he murmurs remorsefully.

"Don't apologize. It was my fault."

"No, it wasn't. You tripped." he reassures dismissively, letting the conversation die rather than feud over it.

The dynamic between you and Rafe was contentious, the two of you always bickering and getting under each other's skin. However, that wasn't the energy you were feeling right now. If anything, it felt a bit charged. Not missing the way his devious smirk reemerged on his lips as he cleaned the gash, the prolonged silence only making you more uneasy.

"What?"

"Only you would manage to get hurt when I'm trying to teach you how to protect yourself." he patronizes, snickering to himself.

You tore yourself out of his grasp, touching the bloody spot and deciding you'd just handle it yourself in the bathroom. Not in the mood to deal with whatever mind games he was playing at. His reflexes were still quicker than yours as he blocked you from getting up.

"Stop being difficult and just let me," he asserts. Not anticipating for him to take your chin to halt your tantrum, his face just a few inches from yours. "Please."

His glance flickered between your eyes and mouth, noting a shift in his expression—one you'd never seen before. Keeping your own on anything but him, no longer able to trust yourself to not do something you know you'll regret. Finding yourself softening under his wary gaze, against your better judgment.

"Why are you helping me?" you finally decide to ask him, the question coming out almost sheepishly.

"Seriously?" he replies, almost seeming offended. "Other than the fact that I was genuinely trying to do you a favour and show you how to defend yourself, and you ended up with a busted lip instead? Maybe I'm just not as much of an asshole as you'd like to believe."

"Wow, and they say chivalry is dead." you feign, falling back into your usual banter.

"Would it really kill you to just be nice to me for a few minutes?" he comments sarcastically, not giving you much room to argue.

"Thanks, I guess." you concede, his signature grin reappearing.

"Sorry, I missed that." he exaggerates, turning his ear towards you to repeat yourself.

"You're such a pain in the ass." you grumble, crossing your arms. "Thank you."

He finished treating the wound, squeezing out some healing cream onto his finger and brushing it across the sensitive area. Your lips parting at the intimate gesture, your eyelids fluttering shut. Keeping them closed to avoid facing the bitter truth that you didn't totally hate being in this compromising position with Rafe.

"At least now you got some battle scars, so no more thugs will mess with you." he declares.

"You can't help yourself." you scold.

"What? I'm just fucking around." he averts, thrown off by your change in demeanor.

"That's the thing with you, Rafe. Do you take anything seriously?" you proclaim, jumping back to your feet and fiddling to shove the gloves back on.

"Yes?"

"You're stubborn and aggravating, and always fuckingaround. You definitely don't take me seriously-"

"What are you even talking about?"

"That's the whole reason I'm here, right? Another free pass so you can give me shit?" you blindly accuse, temper flaring.

"Fuck, do you ever shut up?" he seethes in frustration, caging you in against the ropes as he towered over your figure.

"Move," you demand, nudging the barrier he'd created around you.

"Calm down," he urges you, as if his domineering stance wasn't partially to blame for your distress.

"Rafe," you huff, trying to escape his scrutiny when he suddenly placed his hands on your shoulders and pinned you back.

"I said calm down." he reiterates.

His piercing glare acted like another physical restraint, simultaneously making you confront the conflicting desires you'd suppressed towards him for years. It was just the easier choice—not wanting to involve yourself with someone so unpredictable or cross the boundary that was your best friend's older brother.

"Why don't you think I take you seriously?" he investigates, surprised that was what he'd hung onto from your rant.

"Are you kidding me right now?" you counter. "You've never been nice to me since I became friends with Sarah."

"Only because you're a fucking know-it-all," he contends, recognizing the teasing in his voice. "Do you think I'd do this for any of the other clowns Sarah hangs around?"

You didn't know what to say to that, trying not to focus on certain details throughout the years. How he'd always been more impartial to you compared to the rest of the group you were usually with. Assuming the pleasantries he'd occasionally throw your way were just another attempt to get on your nerves.

"You make it so easy to rile you up, princess." he remarks, taking the large gloves that were acting like a barrier between you and slipping them off your hands. "And don't try to tell me you don't like it either."

"I... I don't." you falter.

He took your chin and turned you back towards him, but this time there was no reason for it—caressing your jaw and studying you like some priceless piece of art. It was unsettling, the speed at which he was able to switch from tough and threatening to gentle and vigilant. Knowing you'd never seen this side of him in all the years you'd known his sister.

"Try again." he mutters, not letting you get away so fast.

"I don't, Rafe." you insist, trying to keep your tone steady but still lacking conviction—just enough to give you away.

"Then why haven't you pushed me off yet?" he boasts.

"I-" you stutter, considering your next words carefully. "You still haven't taught me shit." you maintain, knowing your response was weak as it came out.

"What's got you so quiet, hm?" he interrogates, basking in your discomfort.

"You're insufferable, do you know that?"

"Maybe. But you still haven't moved."

That's when his lips grazed yours delicately, almost questioning if it was a hallucination. Only knowing it wasn't because of the dull ache from his direct contact on your fresh injury. His icy blue eyes meeting yours in challenge, as if he was daring you to take the inevitable next step. As if he was waiting for your permission.

It felt like you were hit by a tidal wave when you finally kissed him, the faint taste of blood reaching your senses but you were so absorbed by him to even care. Rafe using his tongue to soothe the ripped flesh as he slipped it into your mouth. All of your resistance towards him being disarmed as he kissed you like he'd been wanting to forever.

One of his hands snaked to the bottom of your scalp, threading through your hair; the other sliding to your lower back and pulling you against him. Cradling you to his large physique like he didn't want to let you stray too far, not that you wanted to. While his actions were just as meticulous as his teaching style had been earlier, his execution was still raw and impassioned.

"Are you gonna keep being difficult? Or are you gonna listen to me like a good girl?" he grills hoarsely.

"Are you gonna make it worth my while?" you retort smartly, not wanting to fully surrender control.

He just chuckled as he nestled his face into the crook of your neck, the sound making your stomach twist, something you weren't used to feeling in his presence. Extending your nape as he placed a sloppy peck on your skin, lingering to make sure he'd left a mark. The disdain you'd always held towards him now somehow coming off as charming.

"Relax," he cooed, squeezing your waist before yanking your top off.

He discarded the shirt elsewhere, kissing down your torso and along the waistband of your spandex. Hooking his thumbs into the stretchy fabric, peering up at you as he licked his lips, your heart racing in anticipation. Leaving you exposed and disheveled in the middle of the gym, resting on the ropes to find some sort of stability.

"Shit... Can't believe I've kept my hands to myself this long around you," he mused, skimming through your wetness.

"Please Rafe." you whisper, as if the hushed volume of your voice somehow made it all seem less legitimate.

"Can't hear you, princess." he goads, not tearing his gaze from you. You didn't want to give in to his endless provoking, but it was as if he was coaxing it right out of you.

"Rafe, please." you echo, anguish evident from your tone.

"That's it, baby..." he praises, letting two of his digits slip inside you without any warning. "You always this wet around me?"

You instantly melted into his touch, like you were a puppet and he knew the exact strings he needed to pull. Rafe taking advantage of your disoriented state and kissing you again fiercely, the hostility that had built over the years boiling over and getting channeled into your embrace. Grabbing your thigh and hooking it around his waist to give himself better access to you, bringing you into a deeper lust.

He added another finger, immediately giving away that your climax was close as you clenched around him. And then right when your pleasure was about to hit, he withdrew them. A choked whine leaving your throat as he brought them up to his mouth, not daring to tear his attention from you.

"What the fuck?" you protest breathlessly.

Without a word, he took your extended leg, scooping you up with ease and wrapping you around his frame. Bringing you to the middle of the ring and laying you on the ground, looming over you again as he stripped off his pants. Straddling your bottom half, leaving you dumbfounded by how big he was as he pumped himself a few times.

"Told you if you came here, we do this my way. Arms up," he instructs.

As you stretched them over your head, Rafe took both your wrists and held you down. Your heart racing when you realized what he was doing, squirming as you felt him drag himself between your puffy folds. Rocking against him to create any extra friction as he continued to tease you as much as he could, surely revenge for your coldness towards him over the years.

"What's wrong, baby?" he mocks. "Tell me what you want."

"Need you..." you divulge, being met with Rafe's condescending laugh at your pathetic plea.

"You've made that pretty obvious, but that's not gonna be enough right now." he specifies, knowing what he ultimately wanted to hear and too far gone to keep denying yourself of him.

"Please, Rafe. Need you to fuck me." you confess, shuddering when you felt his fat tip circle your core.

"You had a change of heart or something? Not used to you being so nice to me," he revels smugly. "But since you asked so nicely."

You gasped as he slowly buried himself into you, fluttering around him as soon as he sunk into you. Keeping his motions steady and unhurried on purpose, clearly holding back from outwardly demolishing you right away.

You were already close to your high from his initial build-up, falling back into your bliss as he picked up a consistent flow, trembling as he started playing with your swollen clit. The hand he'd bounded you with loosening the more he lost himself in the essence of you.

"Is that why you've always been such a brat? Wanted me to do something about it? Shut you up myself?" he spits.

You clutched his face as his lips found yours again, unable to conceal how enamored you'd become by him. Losing your composure as his hips snapped into you, gawking at how his cock disappeared with every plunge into you. His athletic figure overtaking you without difficulty, looking like he was some Adonis.

"Rafe, I-" you plead, too consumed to even tell him you were reaching your peak, not that he didn't pick up on it.

"Let it out," he grunts, his rhythm unrelentless.

Shockwaves surged through your system as you let out a loud cry, drenching him with your arousal. Rafe pecking across your collarbones and up your neck until he was back at your lips, swallowing every noise you made. The action much more tender than he'd been up until then.

"Turn over," he barks, barely straying from the kiss.

"W-what?" you stammer, still recovering from the first orgasm.

"You heard me. I'm not done with you yet." he reprimands, straightening his posture. "On your knees."

He nodded forward to emphasize his command, eagerly awaiting what he'd do next. Moaning when he pawed at your backside and yanked you closer, not refraining as his palm glided across the flesh. Only noticing that you were facing the row of mirrors that covered one of the walls as you peered up.

He started hammering into you from behind, his technique now rougher from his new angle. You soaked in his reflection, observing how his torso flexed with every thrust, only becoming more turned on by the lewd scene unfolding in the mirror. Drunk off the sensation of Rafe, already knowing this wouldn't be a one-time thing.

"I think I prefer you this way, princess." he purrs into your ear, smacking your ass one more time. "Too fucked out to open that big mouth of yours."

His movements got hastier, but he still managed to pound at angles he hadn't from your previous position. Gripping your waist roughly as he slammed into you, effortlessly hitting your g-spot with every grind of his hips. In disbelief that the man that was fucking you into oblivion was the same guy that you'd written off for so long.

"You gonna cum for me again?" he gloats, lowering his face to hover beside yours.

"Please, Rafe..." you beg, holding his piercing gaze in the mirror, his warmth radiating onto you.

"Who knew you were so damn polite?" he snides, striking your rear one last time. "Gonna let me ruin that pretty pussy?" he growls, mewling desperately at his filthy declaration.

With a few more pumps, he filled you with his own release, not stopping until he was fully satisfied. Coming undone again yourself as he pushed you back over your edge, the only sound filling the silent gym being heavy panting. Your head dropping in front of you as you caught your breath, whimpering when you felt him pull out.

Reality hit you like a ton of bricks as you finally registered what had just happened. Still clouded in your daze as he left featherlight pecks up your spine, doing your best to ignore the sweet gesture. Unsure how to even go forward, regret swiftly replacing your once insatiable hunger, blaming the moment on pure weakness.

"Hey," you hear Rafe utter, meeting his eyes through the reflection. "I can already see those cogs turning, baby..."

"I just..." you hesitate, trying to find the right thing to say when you'd barely processed what was going on.

"You just what, hm?" he drawls, turning your head towards him as he captured your lips with his.

"You're fucking trouble, Cameron." you mumble, giggling softly at the sudden turn of circumstances.

"What? You didn't enjoy your workout?" He implies shamelessly. "Don't act like you weren't into it. And don't think I'm letting you get away so easily either." He playfully accosts you, toppling onto his back and making you squeal as he pulled you back on top of him, passionately kissing you again.

note: suuper long, suuuper dirty 🤭 i wish i was exaggerating when i say ive been editing this for like a month omfg sos my brain is actually rotted lmao. hope you guys like it!! i'm trying to actually write more since i've been making a lot of short-form content sooo please be kind bc i'm still trying to find my bearings again lolol🙈

#also isn’t this the fucking cutest divider omg !!!#divider by thecutestgrotto #rafe cameron #rafe cameron obx #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron fanfic #obx rafe cameron #outer banks fanfic #obx smut #obx fanfic #rc

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