#you can also become rich as fuck off of it and it’s not like he’d run out of ideas

[flyrobinflyy]

and if i say english major jason who writes books about all the adventures he’s gone on as robin/hood (obviously changes names) under some dumb alias then what

[hamsterclaw]

You end up being responsible for Jeon Jungkook, who's impulsive, annoying and in the habit of breaking the law. Unfortunately for you, he's also funny and sexy as fuck. There's no way this can end well, can it?

Pairing: Jungkook x f!reader

Genre: Crack, smut, rookie lawyer reader and criminal JK

Rating: 18+

Word count: 11k

Warnings: Sex, swearing, criminal activity, smoking

Present day

‘Who,’ breathes Gracie, your new client, ‘the fuck is that?’

You look in the direction she’s facing, and die inside, as the black custom Skyline glides to a smooth stop on the road, in front of you.

‘Uh, so I’ll call when I hear back about the patents,’ you say hurriedly, before….

Too late. 

The passenger door opens, and you hear Gracie gasp audibly as she sees the man in the driver’s seat.

His wavy dark hair almost covers his eyes. He rakes his tattooed hand through his hair casually, his silver piercings gleaming in the light from the streetlamps above you.

You get in before he can say anything, shutting the door firmly behind you. 

‘Just drive,’ you say, through gritted teeth.

‘Seatbelt,’ he reminds you, but he’s already pulling away from the curb.

You buckle up and stare out the window so you don’t have to look at his ridiculously pretty face.

‘Nice skirt,’ he says.

‘Don’t talk to me,’ you snap.

‘Fine,’ he says, just to annoy you.

He flicks the music on, and the interior of the car fills with the pulsing synth of the early 90s house that he’s been into lately.

He’s a good driver, you’ll give him that.

By the time he pulls into the underground car park of your building, your head is pounding from the loud music he’s played the entire journey home.

You know from experience that if you complain he’ll just turn it up louder.

‘Did you get into anything when I was with my client?’ you ask, because you have to.

The lying asshole has the audacity to give you an innocent look. It’s surprisingly effective, he was born with the wide eyes and pouty lips required to pull it off.

You remind yourself again that Jeon Jungkook is not to be trusted.

You raise an eyebrow, and wait.

Finally, he says, ‘Nothing.’

You harden your stare.

‘Nothing,’ he insists. 

He kills the engine and you both exit the car and head for the lifts.

He lives in the apartment next to yours, and the only reason a rich asshole like him is in your building is because his rich parents have paid for him to stay next to you, as his appointed guardian.

It’s an unconventional arrangement which he’d only agreed to because the alternative was jail time. 

You’d only agreed to it because his mother is your boss at the law firm you work at, and it’s not just that you need the job, but you’re also one step away from becoming an associate.

Jungkook holds the lift door open with a booted foot.

‘After you,’ he says.

‘The doors are automatic, you don’t have to hold them open,’ you point out.

You know he knows this.

Anyone who’s ever been in a lift knows it.

Jungkook admires himself in the lift mirrors. You look away, but not before he catches you looking at him.

‘Like what you see?’ he asks, voice velvety.

‘No,’ you say flatly, turning away.

He snickers softly but says nothing else.

You reach your floor and sigh with relief. 

Finally. 

It’s been a long day, and you can’t wait to go home and recharge in the solitude of your apartment.

You can already feel yourself sinking into the plushness of your new sofa after a hot shower. It’s Thursday, too, so there’s a new episode of your favourite drama being released today, and there’s leftovers in the fridge….

Jeon Jungkook’s annoying voice interrupts your daydream.

‘I have to go out again tonight,’ he tells you.

One stipulation his parents made to your unusual arrangement is that you have to accompany him whenever he leaves the apartment after dark.

‘Why?’ you ask, letting your irritation show in your tone.

‘I said I’d meet some guys,’ he says. He holds his hands up as you glare at him. ‘It’s for business.’

You’ve reached your door. You think longingly of your sofa and your drama, and stifle a sigh.

‘I just need a shower and to eat before we go,’ you say, resigned.

‘Fine. I’ll knock in an hour, ok?’ he says.

You don’t bother to respond.

By the time he knocks at your door, you’re out of your work clothes and in sweats and a hoodie.

At his surprised look you raise your eyebrows at him. 

‘Am I underdressed for your business meeting?’ you ask, like you care.

He rolls his eyes. ‘I just thought you only wore business pantsuits,’ he replies, smiling sweetly at you.

Your stomach growls. You’d spent too long in the shower and hadn’t had a chance to eat. It’d been worth it.

You ignore it and lock your apartment door.

‘I’m ready.’

Jungkook whistles the tune from a newish pop song as you head for the lifts.

He’s annoyingly melodic, and now the infectious tune’s in your head.

You focus on not humming along as you follow him to his car and get in the passenger seat.

‘Seatbelt,’ he says, and you roll your eyes.

‘Yes, mum.’ 

‘You look and act like you’re 14,’ Jungkook retorts, navigating out the car park.

‘Where are we going?’ you ask, looking out the window, ignoring his comment.

‘Verve,’ he replies, casual.

You sit up. ‘What?’

Verve is the newest, hottest restaurant in town. It opened a month ago, and it’s still impossible to get a table.

‘I can’t go there dressed like this!’

Jungkook shrugs. ‘No one asked you to get into your PJs.’

You’re livid. ‘You should have told me.’

Jungkook shrugs again. ‘You didn’t ask specifically.’

You have to sit on your hands to stop yourself from punching his smug, pretty face. You catch sight of yourself in the rearview mirror and whip the towelling headband you use when you wash your face off your head.

You seethe silently in the passenger seat until Jungkook turns to you. 

‘Stop breathing so angrily.’

‘I’m sorry my essential functions are expressing unacceptable emotions to you,’ you gripe. 

‘That’s not normal breathing,’ Jungkook argues.

There’s a few beats of silence, then Jungkook prods your side. 

‘Don’t hold your breath either.’

You suck in an irritated breath and try to moderate your tone. ‘In the future I’d appreciate some notice if we’re going anywhere with a dress code,’ you tell Jungkook.

‘Fine,’ Jungkook agrees. ‘I like short skirts, if I may express a preference.’

‘You. May. Not.’ You say, clipped.

He just laughs to himself as he reverses effortlessly into a slot on the street outside the restaurant.

‘These guys,’ he starts, then breaks off. ‘Are you wearing a bra?’

You cross your arms across your chest defensively. ‘Shut up.’

‘Your tits look great,’ Jungkook says. 

‘Shut up!’

Jungkook opens the door to Verve, and you wait nervously next to him.

You can feel eyes on you, as soft and snuggly as your hoodie and sweats are, they make you stand out in all the wrong ways in this place full of people in discreet labels.

You shuffle self-consciously as the host arrives and gives you a none-too-subtle once-over.

He opens his mouth, and Jungkook says, ‘We have a reservation at eight, Frederic said he’d block out the terrace for us.’

The whole demeanour of the host changes at Jungkook’s words. 

‘Of course. You must be Mr Jeon.’ 

You find yourself being ushered through the restaurant and up a back staircase to a huge terrace with heat lamps, a glass ceiling and Koi pond in the centre of the terrace. 

‘What the fuck,’ you mutter. 

Jungkook gives you his greasiest smile, and you glower at him in response.

The two men he’s here to meet are dressed like mafia consiglieres, and they, like the host, look at you doubtfully as you approach with Jungkook.

‘My lawyer,’ Jungkook says, not bothering to introduce you by name or with any accuracy.

You’re a lawyer, but not his lawyer, and you’re glad for it because you have no obligation to keep any of his assholery confidential.

The mafia guys eye you with renewed respect, and you keep quiet.

‘Before we start, can we order? My lawyer here skipped dinner,’ Jungkook says.

You’re so surprised at his thoughtful gesture you stare at him. 

He ignores you, already looking through the tablet one of the men has handed him. 

***

The buzzing of your phone is insistent and pervasive, pulling you further and further out of the warm cocoon of the best sleep you’ve had in a while.

You’re floating on clouds, weightless and boneless and warm and in the distance you can see an angel, smiling at you. He’s got dark hair, a physique sculpted by Italian masters, and a tattoo sleeve…

What the fuck!

You bolt upright and your phone falls off your pillow, clattering onto the floor.

You pick it up and accidentally answer, only to be greeted by the grinning ass face of one Jeon Jungkook.

It’s a video call, which means…. 

He can see you!

With a horrified yelp you toss the phone onto your bed.

‘I’ve already seen everything,’ he assures you, muffled on account of your phone being face down in your sheets. ‘Now you’re awake, can I come over?’

‘What do you want, Jeon Jungkook?’ you snap, pulling your covers up to your neck.

‘I want your opinion on something,’ he says.

‘What’s the magic word?’ you ask. 

‘I’ll tell my mum you’re associate material….’

‘Please, don’t act like I don’t deserve that position off my own back,’ you reply, bored. 

‘I’ll let you watch me work out shirtless at the gym,’ he offers.

‘Like you’re going to be able to resist posting a gym selfie later,’ you scoff. 

‘Please,’ he says. 

You sigh. ‘Fine. Give me five minutes to brush my teeth.’

‘Don’t feel you need to put anything on, over that silky pink thing you’re wearing,’ Jungkook tells you.

You hang up without taking the bait.

When he knocks at your door, you give him an assessing look. 

‘Does helping you involve anything illegal?’ you ask.

‘I have a date. You’re a woman,’ Jungkook says, adding ‘almost’ under his breath. 

You scowl at him. ‘Go on, keep insulting me, that’ll make me want to help you more.’

He holds out a mug. ‘I made you coffee.’

You look suspiciously at it. ‘Did you roofie this?’

Jungkook scoffs. ‘Please why wouldn’t I want you to remember the best sexual experience you’ll ever have.’

‘Get out of my apartment.’

‘No, please,’ he pleads, holding up his hands in surrender. ‘I need your advice on which set to wear.’

You realise he’s also holding a garment bag.

‘Fine,’ you say, waving a hand.

You sip your coffee. It’s surprisingly good, but you nearly choke on it when Jungkook slips his shirt over his head and starts unbuttoning his jeans.

‘Wait!’ you shriek. ‘What are you doing?’

He looks down at his beautiful naked torso, feigning confusion. You know he’s faking because of the smug smirk on his face.

‘I need to try them on so you know what they look like on me,’ he says, innocent.

‘There are two bedrooms in this apartment,’ you say, stern. ‘Use one of them to change. Do not come out until you are fully dressed.’

Jungkook pouts but still flexes a little as he struts past you. You pretend not to notice how his back muscles taper into his slender waist.

As he gets changed, you consider what you might want for breakfast. It’s Saturday, so the brunch place down the corner opens earlier. 

Shit! Saturday?

Jungkook mistakes the expression on your face as a reaction to his outfit rather than your own internal screaming.

‘Shit. I knew it. Too much?’ he asks, turning around so you can see how the rips running up the backs of his legs in the jeans he’s wearing go all the way up to the edges of his boxer briefs.

‘No, you look like a sexy whore,’ you say absently, scrolling your calendar.

You look up to see him frowning at you.

‘And yet, you’re not looking,’ he complains.

‘I have a date tonight too,’ you tell him.

He looks so surprised you toss a throw cushion at him.

‘Are you lying because you don’t want me to think you’re a sad workaholic who’s been chronically single since university?’ he asks, with such accuracy you throw another throw cushion at him.

You wonder if that’s why they’re called throw cushions.

‘It’s a blind date,’ you say. ‘My friend Hyunjin set it up. Also I don’t give a shit what you think, at least he’s not an ex-con.’

Jungkook looks hurt. ‘I’m not an ex-con either,’ he points out.

Which reminds you of your arrangement.

‘We can’t both go on dates tonight,’ you say. ‘I’ll cancel.’

‘What, so you can blame me for being single forever? No way. I’ll take care of it. Where’s your date?’

Jungkook pulls his phone out of the pocket of his almost jeans.

You tell him the name of the restaurant.

‘I’ll have my date there too,’ Jungkook decides. He flashes you a smarmy grin that makes you throw your last cushion at him.

He’s already heading out the door. ‘Pick you up later and we can go together,’ he says.

Your door closes behind him, then opens again almost immediately. 

‘By the way,’ he says, holding up a pair of your silk panties. ‘I’m borrowing these.’

You fumble for something else to throw at him but he’s already closed the door again.

His infuriating laughter echoes in your ears long after he’s gone.

***

Jungkook’s taunts sound in your head as you get ready for your date.

You gaze in the mirror at your reflection critically.

Is your dress too short? Are your shoulders weird looking? And what the hell is happening with your hair?

You remind yourself that you can’t go another year of being single at your family’s annual get-together. You can already hear your  Auntie Rina’s probing questions, your cousin Binna’s smug comments, your brother Jin’s increasingly acidic barbs to anyone who tries to criticise you.

Besides, it’d be nice to meet someone who’d care if you were sick or who’d come over to chase away a spider if it took up residence in your bathtub. 

You purse your lips for a coat of lip tint and put the wand back just in time before the familiar, side-of-fist banging on your door starts.

At least he’s consistent, you think ruefully to yourself as you yell, ‘Coming, keep all your clothes on!’ 

You pull on your coat and belt it snugly as you slip your shoes on.

You nearly get Jeon Jungkook’s fist in your face as you yank open the door.

You duck at the same time he startles and says ‘Shit, sorry!’

‘It’s fine,’ you say, hoisting your bag on your shoulder.

You turn to go and realise he’s still standing by your door, staring at you.

You’re conscious of your heels and bare legs and that you’re wearing more makeup than usual. 

‘Spare me whatever is about to come out of your mouth,’ you say, spiky.

You’re honestly one rude comment away from going back into your apartment and your cosy couch. You still haven’t caught up on your drama.

You head for the lifts without looking to see if he’s following.

***

Jungkook holds the door open for you at the restaurant your blind date picked.

‘Do you have a reservation?’ asks the hostess. 

You give her your date’s name and she beams at you. ‘Right over here, follow me.’

She leads you to a table where a man is already sitting waiting.

He stands as you approach, and holds his hand out.  ‘Jang Junwoo,’ he says.

You introduce yourself and notice he’s looking awkwardly over your shoulder.

You realise Jungkook’s still standing behind you. 

‘Can I get you something, Jungkook?’ you ask, teeth gritted.

‘Nope,’ he says, cheerfully. ‘I’m just waiting for you to move so I can take my seat.’

You realise with horror that he’s indicating the table right next to yours in this cosy restaurant.

‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ you say. 

Jungkook winks at you. ‘I hear the steak’s good.’

***

Jang Junwoo is kind of pretentious, you think, but then again a lot of these finance bros are. He spent a minute more than necessary pontificating over the wine’s bouquet, but he’s been polite enough to the waitress, and he has asked you a few questions about yourself.

Looks wise, he’s kind of your type, you think. He’s clean cut, tall and with a lean physique set off by his well-fitted shirt. He’s not got any visible tattoos or piercings, which is fine with you.

You’re not into that at all.

Beside you, Jungkook’s date, a petite bottle blonde in a low-cut dress with the best natural-looking cleavage you’ve seen laughs at one of his jokes.

She’s been laughing a lot, which is funny, because Jungkook’s really not that funny at all.

You realise Junwoo’s asked you a question.

‘I’m sorry,’ you apologise. ‘I missed what you said.’

‘He asked if you like to work out,’ Jungkook supplies helpfully from beside you, barely two feet away. 

He leans forward, and in a stage whisper, tells Junwoo, ‘I’ve never seen her in our gym.’

‘Stop eavesdropping on my date,’ you hiss. 

Jungkook continues, ‘But she looks good in athleisure.’

He smiles like he’s just helped you, and you turn pointedly away. 

‘I’m sorry,’ you apologise again to Junwoo. ‘I’m his court appointed guardian. It was this arrangement or prison, wasn’t it, Jungkook?’

Instead of looking put off, Jungkook’s date looks even more intrigued.

Junwoo, bemused, says, ‘Don’t worry about it. Should we get dessert?’

You split up with Jungkook after dinner when Junwoo suggests a nightcap at a bar nearby.

Jungkook assures you he’ll go straight home. 

Looking at the way he and his date are draped over each other, you don’t doubt it. Thankfully, your apartment building was built pre-war and the walls are decent quality.

Junwoo ushers you into the bar, and, alone together with him for the first time all night, you feel your self-consciousness return. 

You catch him looking at your thigh where your skirt’s ridden up and when he sees you’ve noticed, he smiles smoothly like it’s no big deal.

He orders another bottle of wine and you let him drink most of it because your tolerance is low.

His tendency towards pretentiousness is more pronounced when he’s tipsy, and it’s when he’s telling you about how you should try to experience genuine Lyonnaise cuisine that you decide you’ve had enough for now.

‘I should go,’ you say, smiling at him. ‘Thank you for a lovely evening.’

‘I’ll escort you home,’ he says. ‘It’s late.’

He pulls on his coat and offers his arm, and you take it because you’re three blocks away from home and you can walk it in under ten minutes.

When you reach your door, you turn and hold out your hand. 

‘Thanks again, Junwoo, it was really kind of you to walk me home.’

He takes your hand and shakes, but doesn’t let go.

‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’ he asks.

‘Not tonight,’ you say firmly, trying to pull your hand away. 

‘I paid for dinner, and drinks,’ he points out, like that’s going to convince you.

‘You insisted,’ you counter. ‘Anyway, good night.’

He’s about to say something else but you don’t hear it because the lift dings and the doors slide open, and Jungkook steps out. 

His shirt is half undone, and there’s a big-ass hickey on his neck, but you’ve never been so glad to see him. 

‘Ah Jungkook,’ you say. ‘Did you have a good night?’

Jungkook pauses in front of you and Junwoo, eyeing the way your hands are still entwined.

‘Yeah, I did. How about you?’ he asks. 

‘We’re doing great, bro,’ Junwoo says.

‘Yeah?’ Jungkook asks, eyes on you. 

You swallow your pride. ‘Not great, JK.’

‘Yeah,’ Jungkook agrees. He makes eye contact with Junwoo. ‘You should get going, bro.’

Junwoo’s hand tightens around yours. ‘Yeah, bro?’

Jungkook shrugs. ‘You know why she’s my court appointed guardian? I’m not going back to Cheonan.’

At the mention of the notorious maximum security prison, Junwoo’s eyebrows rise. 

He squeezes your hand again, hard, then lets you go.

Jungkook stares at him the whole way as he leaves.

As soon as the lift doors close behind Junwoo, you sigh and slump against your door. 

‘Thanks, Jungkook.’

‘No worries,’ Jungkook says. He runs a hand through his dishevelled hair. ‘Guess my date went better than yours, huh?’

‘I shouldn’t have let that asshole pay. I knew he’d take it as an invitation,’ you say, ruefully. 

Jungkook looks at you. ‘Is that what he said? What an asshole. Jangmi told me not to expect anything.’

You look pointedly at the hickey on his neck, and he laughs but doesn’t say anything else.

You fish your keys out of your bag. ‘Anyway, thanks. Your timing was pretty good.’

‘Yeah I waited in the car outside for you and saw you guys arrive,’ Jungkook says.

You stare at him. ‘What?’

‘Wanted to make sure you got home ok,’ Jungkook says, yawning.

He’s already heading to his own apartment.

‘Hey,’ you call. ‘I didn’t know you were in Cheonan.’

Jungkook laughs. ‘Youth detention centre, not the prison. Spent four months there when I was 14.’

He’s reached his own door. 

‘Good night, Y/N. You looked really pretty tonight.’

He smiles at you crookedly and goes inside.

***

Six months earlier

You have no idea why you’ve been summoned to Jeon Mido’s office, and waiting outside in her secretary’s workspace isn’t helping your nerves.

You’ve been working for Albion for two years, and in that time you’ve never met her. 

Why would you?

She’s one of the founding partners of Albion, the biggest law firm in the city, and you’re a relative newbie hired straight out of law school two years ago. 

You’ve never had cause to venture beyond the tenth floor of this Albion-owned building, and now you’re in the penthouse.

The doors open, and Jeon Mido steps out.

‘Ms L/N,’ she says. ‘Please, come in.’

You take a seat in front of her sleek modern desk and wait.

‘Park Sejun tells me you worked extremely hard on your last case,’ she says, gazing at you. There’s a shrewdness in her eyes that reminds you that she built this law firm from nothing, despite her soft demeanour.

‘Thank you,’ you say.

‘You did an excellent job.’

You thank her again, wondering where she’s going with this. Is she about to dismiss you? Surely Park Sejun could have done that for her.

You haven’t done anything to warrant a promotion.

‘I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here,’ Jeon Mido says. 

She sets her hands on her desk gracefully. 

‘I heard what you said about the defendant on your last case. He has a record, he’s been in and out of trouble since he was a teenager. Our client was the plaintiff and you did enough to ensure the win but you didn’t go for the jugular like some of your colleagues would have.’

You get a sinking feeling. Is this why you’re being fired? Because you didn’t completely annihilate your opponent?

She seems to be waiting for a response, so you compose your thoughts.

‘I knew we had enough to win,’ you say carefully. ‘I didn’t want to waste my efforts completely destroying the defendant’s credibility when his only mistake was that he relied on his staff instead of verifying things for himself.’

‘That’s not what you said, though,’ she prompts.

You think frantically but can’t remember anything you said that would have stood out, particularly. 

You sigh. If you’re going to get fired, you might as well come clean.

‘My brother Jin got in trouble when we were teenagers,’ you say. ‘He got mixed up with a gang and he was too naive to get out before the gang leader got busted.’

You’ll spare her the details. ‘Anyway, he’s got a criminal record now, and because of it he can’t get a ‘respectable’ job. He couldn’t be a lawyer like me and he’d be a hell of a lot better, if I’m being honest.’

You shrug. ‘He made a mistake but he’s still the best person I know. I guess the defendant reminded me of him.’

Jeon Mido’s looking closely at you, but hasn’t said anything. 

‘Thank you for hiring me,’ you say. ‘If you want my resignation —-‘

‘You’re mistaken,’ Jeon Mido says, finally. ‘I don’t want to dismiss you. I wanted to ask for your help.’

Which was how you ended up in a coffee shop with Jeon Mido, waiting nervously to meet her son.

Jeon Jungkook.

She’d filled you in on the details. He was her younger son, and he’d been in and out of trouble with the law since his teenage years for various things. Fighting, stealing cars, and even, hilariously, once for posing as a valet at a high society event and parking all the cars at the foot of Mount Samo for the illegal drag racers to take their pick. 

After his most recent infraction she and her husband had sat down with Jungkook and given him an ultimatum to clean up his act or be cut off from his family’s fortune. 

You were to be an additional factor to tip the scales in his favour. 

Her proposition that you be Jungkook’s unofficial guardian and try to keep him out of trouble had sounded ludicrous at first, you were barely responsible enough to look after yourself. You certainly weren’t responsible enough to become a glorified babysitter to a grown man with a history of getting his own way. 

The only reason you hadn’t disagreed to this insane-sounding plan outright was that Jeon Mido had built the very building you worked in, from the ground up, off her own intelligence, strength and force of will, at a time when successful self-made women in South Korea were virtually unheard of. 

Additionally, Jungkook had agreed to meet you so he must be somewhat willing to comply with his parents’ ultimatum. 

You’d been expecting a degree of charm and good looks in her son, Jeon Mido was an attractive woman, but you still had to stop yourself from staring when Jeon Jungkook arrived.

Tall, broad-shouldered and built like an athlete, he’d smiled at you and offered his hand, and you’d shook it praying your own weren’t clammy with nervousness.

He was so good looking he made you want to throw up.

If this was what a life of crime made Jeon Jungkook look like, it certainly suited him.

He flicked his tongue out over his lip ring, dark eyes on you, and you wondered what that tongue would feel like on your skin.

Fuck. 

Fuck.

You were fucked from the moment you saw him, and it was only much later that you realised how bad the damage was.

It’d started off innocently enough. He’d moved into the apartment next to yours.

You’d hung out together a bit to get to know each other, and that first week had been fine.

Then he’d said, casually, one evening, that he was popping out for a cigarette, and he’d be back in fifteen minutes.

It was three frantic days before you found him, in some seedy pool hall, drunk and blazed with a new tattoo and the keys to a Maserati he didn’t own in his front jeans pocket.

He’d made you fish the keys out yourself, and he’d giggled like a schoolgirl the entire time.

After that, you’d been more insistent about sticking to the stipulations his parents had laid out, and had accompanied him everytime he left the apartment after dark.

You’d realised what a mistake that was when he offered to buy you brunch and paid all in unmarked bills out of a duffel bag filled with stacks of cash. 

Jeon Jungkook didn’t confine his criminal activity to night times.

Fuck that shit.

Then there was that time he’d offered to pick you up from work in a new car you’d assumed was his parents’. The penny had only dropped when the police sirens had sounded behind you and you’d asked, nervously, if he should pull over.

Jungkook had taken one look in the rearview mirror, and said, dismissively, ‘It’s only one patrol car. I can lose them, easily.’

He’d proceeded to do just that in a high-speed car chase in a stolen car that spanned the busiest road in the city.

It’s the first and only time you’ve been on the seven o’clock news. 

On the plus, you’d found out that he really was as good a driver as he’d claimed. 

You’d gone to see Jeon Mido in her office as soon as your legs stopped feeling like jelly, ready to apologise and say you weren’t able to do the job you’d agreed to do.

To your surprise, she’d just encouraged you to carry on.

For his part, Jungkook’s always treated you with an irreverent kind of tolerance. He’s annoying as hell and you’ve learned not to trust most of what he says, but for all his sexual innuendo around you, he’s never once crossed the line you’d drawn in the sand at the beginning. 

He’s danced along it a few times, though.

By the time you’re six months into your year-long arrangement, you’ve reached an uneasy stalemate with Jungkook. 

Sometimes, you almost like the guy. 

Annoyingly, he’s also stayed as hot as the day you met him.

***

Present day

You haven’t seen Jungkook in a few days, so you text him to check on him.

You’re already trying to remember how to get to the strip club you found him in the last time he went missing when he texts back. 

Jungkook: I’m dying

He’s fucked with you enough times that you’re not all that concerned yet.

Y/N: Yeah? How?

Jungkook: The plague

You consider this as you plate your lunch. You lift a forkful of greens to your lips, then hesitate, and sigh.

Five minutes later you’re knocking at his door. 

He answers so quickly you wonder if he was waiting on the other side of it.

He does look like hell, to be fair. 

His nose and eyes are red, and he looks pale under his golden tan. He’s wrapped up in a duvet from chin to feet. 

‘I’m dying,’ he tells you, melodramatic as fuck.

‘Do you have a cold.’

‘It’s way worse than a cold,’ he insists.

You shake your head, but he does look worse than you’ve ever seen him.

You sigh. ‘When did you last eat?’

Jungkook’s already looking at you so hopefully you haven’t the heart to say anything as you turn back around and let him into your apartment.

‘Try not to infect me,’ you tell him, as you lay a place setting in front of him at your kitchen island.

Jungkook replies, ‘I got my regular tests done last week, all negative.’

You look at him in disgust. ‘With your cold, asshole.’

He leers at you, but it lacks his usual panache.

You serve out the food and sit down opposite him to eat.

‘I always use condoms, anyway,’ he says, after a moment. He winks at you, but it’s still half-hearted. 

You pass him a glass of water.

‘Drop the sex pest act for a few minutes,’ you advise him, helpfully. ‘No one’s fucking anyone in the state you’re in, anyway.’ 

He looks at you, and you can almost see him clicking through the repertoire of innuendoes he has in his head.

Finally, he says, ‘Thanks for this. It’s delicious.’

You tilt your head, pretending to be confused. 

‘Did you just say something without sexual connotations, Jeon Jungkook?’

His smile is crooked.

‘Don’t worry, I’m still thinking sexual things about you in my head,’ he assures you.

You laugh. ‘Shut up and eat.’

***

Jungkook starts to look a bit less like death warmed over after he’s eaten, but the clingy asshole’s parked himself on your sofa and shows no sign of moving.

You shrug and put on the TV. At least if he’s with you, there’s less chance of him being in that strip club where there’s no parking outside. What a ballache that had been.

You put on the latest episode of your drama and he perks up. 

‘I haven’t seen this episode yet,’ he tells you. 

His duvet’s slipped lower, and you’ve yet to see anything but his skin.

‘Please tell me you’re dressed under there,’ you say, warningly. 

‘Yeah but I can take it all off,’ Jungkook offers.

You don’t dignify that with a response, just pass him some flu meds and a bottle of kombucha and settle in to watch the show.

After the episode ends he still shows no sign of moving, so you put on a movie and pass him some snacks.

By the time the movie ends it’s dark, and when he asks you what you want for dinner you let him order takeout for both of you.

You eat sitting alongside each other on the couch as the next movie plays.

After a while you realise he’s fallen asleep, and that this is the most male company you’ve had in a while, and that you don’t hate it.

You don’t hate him.

In fact, in the dim light from the TV and with his mouth closed and his hair rumpled over his relaxed sleeping face, he looks….. 

Tempting.

Like the boyfriend you could have if you could ever get over yourself enough to date someone seriously.

For some reason that makes you feel a little sad.

That you’re so starved for male company you’re longing after your neighbour who’s only hanging out with you because you’ve made an arrangement with his parents. 

If you’re being honest with yourself, he’d probably have never shown an interest in you otherwise.

You pull the duvet over his shoulder, switch off the TV and top up his water and meds before heading to bed.

***

The banging on your door startles you and your elbow jostles the glass on the edge of your kitchen counter. It drops to the floor and shatters, and you think dryly that it’s a metaphor for how close you are to the edge of killing Jeon fucking Jungkook.

You yank open the door with a scowl.

‘Yes, Jeon Jungkook?’ 

He looks a little edgy himself. ‘I want to show you something.’

‘Is it your dick?’ you ask, tiredly, letting him in.

‘Always, but it’s something different today.’

You glance at the clock. It’s six in the evening. 

‘Watch out,’ you say, as he passes the kitchen. ‘I dropped a glass.’

He doesn’t even blink. 

There’s a nervous energy about him today, he looks like he’s buzzing out of his skin.

You follow him warily to the window that overlooks the street behind your building.

‘Are we looking out for the police?’ you ask, in a dramatic whisper.

He gives you a half-smile. ‘There were two plainclothes cops staking out the place all of last week. I think they’re dealing out of apartment 4B.’

You stare at him. ‘Are you serious?’

He scoffs. ‘How do you not notice these things?’

‘I never really have to worry about the police coming for me,’ you say, straightfaced.

‘Sucks to be you,’ he says, without his usual conviction.

He reaches down towards his jeans and your scowl returns. ‘Jungkook, I really don’t want to see your dick.’

‘Stop lying,’ he says, but what he takes out is a small black rectangular plastic object.

It’s about the size of half of his outstretched palm. 

You wonder where he’s going with this. 

He says, ‘Look.’

You both watch as a man in a business suit pulls up to a parking spot on the street, gets out and locks his car. The headlights flash, twice.

He heads into the apartment building opposite yours.

As soon as he’s out of sight, Jungkook hands you the tiny black rectangle. 

‘Press the button.’

You press the small grey button, and to your surprise, the car headlights flash again.

The car’s unlocked.

‘What the—-‘ 

‘It’s a car key cloning device,’ Jungkook says. 

He takes it back from you.

‘All I have to do is press it at the same time as the person locking the car presses their own key, and it clones the signal.’

He says, with more than a hint of wistfulness, ‘I could steal any car on this street.’

You’re shaking your head. ‘Where did you get this?’

‘I made it,’ he tells you. ‘I didn’t invent the tech, my friend did, but I made this.’

His eyes meet yours. 

‘Can you keep it?’

His words hang in the air between you. 

He mistakes your silence for hesitance. 

‘I just — ‘

He clears his throat and starts again. There’s pleading in his voice, a wild kind of spark in his eyes.

‘Can you keep it? I don’t want it to be this easy to steal a car tonight.’

You swallow past the lump in your throat. He’s never asked for your help like this before.

He usually goes ahead with whatever impulse he has and you’re stuck playing catch up.

Today, he’s given you a head start.

You take the device from him and stick it in your bra.

‘Don’t try to seduce me to get it back,’ you warn.

He’s already eyeing up your tits. 

He clears his throat again. 

‘Actually, I’m surprised you managed to fit it in there. Are you on your period? Your tits look huge.’

As usual, you don’t deign to respond.

‘I was going to make dinner,’ you say. ‘Do you want some?’

‘You can cook me dinner,’ he agrees, like he’s doing you a favour. 

‘But wait. Let me clean up that glass first,’ he says.

‘It’s fine,’ you say. 

He stops you. ‘Nah. Look at your hands.’

You hold a hand out, palm up, and he traces a callused finger along your life line.

Warmth unfurls along your skin, following the path of his finger.

You look up to see him looking at you, heat in his eyes. 

Your heart pounds, slow, and his tongue flicks along his lower lip.

When he speaks, his voice has dropped, low.

‘You’ve probably never even changed the oil in your car,’ he says, but he sounds affectionate, almost.

‘I wouldn’t want you to cut yourself.’

He smiles, and lets go of your hand. 

Your skin feels like it’s crackling with electricity from his touch, and god help you, you want more.

You don’t trust yourself to speak.

Jungkook says, very quietly, ‘You’re doing something for me, let me do this for you.’

Your eyes meet again, and you find your voice. 

‘The oven needs a clean, too, if you’re offering.’

He laughs, and just like that, whatever that moment was, ends.

‘I’ll clean your oven,’ he says, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.  ‘Put a bun in it too.’

‘You’re disgusting,’ you complain, trying to punch him, but he’s already too far away.

***

You’re balancing on the back of the couch on your tip toes, trying to reach the lamp shade so you can change the blown lightbulb in your hanging lights, when the now familiar banging starts on your door.

You turn too quickly, lose your balance and fall headlong onto the floor. 

The resulting crash against the parquet flooring is all the louder because Jungkook’s stopped banging on your door.

You roll onto your back, groaning a little as the wrist you held out to protect your face flares with pain.

Jungkook’s started banging again, and your phone, out of reach on the coffee table, starts ringing.

You can just about make out his name on the screen, and the ridiculous selfie he took of himself shirtless that he put in as his profile on your phone.

All the racket is enough to make you sit up and hobble to the door.

‘Shit, are you ok? I heard a crash,’ says Jungkook, wide-eyed.

‘I’m not good with blood,’ he warns, but he’s checking you over gently anyway.

‘What was so urgent you needed to bang on my door?’ you ask, grumpy.

He presses your sore wrist, gently, and you wince.

‘I got pizza and wanted to know if you wanted some,’ he says. He ushers you to your couch. 

‘I’m getting ice,’ he calls over his shoulder.

‘You could have texted to ask if I wanted pizza,’ you call after him.

He emerges with a bag of frozen peas you didn’t know you had.

‘But then I wouldn’t get to see your face,’ he protests. ‘Also, you never answer my video calls, not since I saw you in your underwear that time.’

You don’t bother correcting him. 

He wraps the peas in a towel and passes the bundle to you. 

‘Your wrist looks bad, you should get it checked out,’ he advises. 

You grimace. ‘I have a case coming up,’ you tell him.

‘Just tell them it was a sex injury,’ Jungkook suggests, helpfully. He offers you a hand to get up. ‘Come on, I’ll take you to the hospital to get checked out.’

‘Fine,’ you say. ‘Grab the pizza.’

***

You’re waiting to see the doctor with Jungkook and trying to ignore the fact that he’s pulled a burner phone out of his back pocket.

He glances around furtively and you’re craning your neck to look at the screen when your name is called.

The doctor who’s said your name looks at Jungkook. 

‘Mr Jeon,’ she says. ‘What is it this time? Another broken metacarpal from fighting?’

Jungkook’s face creases into a smile and you can almost hear the adoring sighing of men and women around the room.

‘Dr Lim,’ he says. ‘You know I don’t break my hand anymore since I started winning all the time.’

You gag at his corniness, but Dr Lim just smiles back. 

‘Well, you’re always welcome to get checked out for any injuries,’ she says. ‘You have my number.’

‘Did you save it on your burner?’ you ask loudly, but they both ignore you.

By the time you’ve had an X-ray and been told your wrist is just sprained, not broken, you’ve heard enough of Jungkook’s smarmy flirting that your ears are burning.

‘Yeah, I’m still going to the gym every day,’ you mimic, flexing your bicep as you get into Jungkook’s car. ‘Want to feel?’

Jungkook rolls his eyes. ‘I don’t talk like that.’

You give him your sleaziest grin. ‘Wow you have your name embroidered on your white coat? Amazing!’

Jungkook starts the car. ‘Still don’t talk like that,’ he mutters.

‘Yeah, let me take you for a spin in my Skyline sometime,’ you say, puffing out your chest and deepening your voice.

‘Seatbelt,’ Jungkook says. 

When you reach for the seatbelt and wince because you forgot about your wrist, he sighs.

You press back into the seat, startled, as he leans over you to fasten your seatbelt for you.

He pauses with his face directly in front of yours. 

He’s so close you can feel his breath on your cheek.

He leans forward and kisses you. 

It’s a peck, and over before you know it, but it’s enough to shut you up.

‘Stop being cute,’ he says. ‘Or I’ll kiss you again.’

He throws the car into gear.

‘Besides,’ he adds. ‘The only woman I’ve tried to impress with this car is you.’

You’re staring at him, still trying to process, when he adds, thoughtfully, ‘then again, I haven’t had this car very long….’

***

You’re trying to get your suitcase down from on top of your wardrobe when there’s a blur of movement in the periphery of your vision. 

You scream and hightail it off the ladder you’re on.

The spider you saw stops right above the corner of the ceiling where your suitcase is.

You’ve already dialled Jungkook without even thinking about it.

He answers with a lazy, drawled, ‘yo’, but his tone sharpens quickly when he hears your voice and panicked breathing.

‘Jungkook. There’s a spider holding my suitcase hostage,’ you whisper, dread in your voice.

‘Why are you whispering?’ Jungkook asks. You can hear the amusement in his voice, and for once you don’t care that he’s laughing at you.

You fight to regulate your volume. ‘It might hear me and attack,’ you say. 

It seems completely reasonable to you.

Jungkook laughs so loudly you have to hold the phone away from your ear. 

‘What does he want with your suitcase?’ Jungkook asks, when he’s re-composed himself enough to speak. 

He’s definitely laughing at you rather than with you, but you’ll take any amount of taunting if he deals with the spider for you. 

‘Please,’ you plead, ‘can you get rid of it.’

Jungkook yawns. ‘Ok. But don’t expect me to put on a shirt.���

A moment later he’s in your apartment, looking up at the ceiling at the spider.

‘Just grab the suitcase please,’ you say. ‘The spider can have this room from now on.’

Jungkook snorts. 

He grabs the suitcase and places it next to you, then, before you can work out what he’s going to do, he taps on the wall next to the spider and it runs down to the floor.

You scream and jump into his arms.

He really did come over bare-chested, the asshole, and the sweatpants he’s barely wearing are low on his hips, so it’s a little more indecent than you’d like, but there’s no fucking way you’re sharing the floor with a spider that can run faster than you.

Automatically, like he’s done this a lot, Jungkook’s big hand reaches down to support your ass. 

He’s still laughing. ‘Is this like, do you want to see my cat, but it’s a spider instead?’ 

You ignore his taunts and bury your face in his shoulder.

His laughter fades. 

‘Shit. Are you crying? Listen, don’t worry. I’ll get rid of it, ok?’

You’re too scared to look at the floor. 

‘You don’t even know where it is now,’ you sob.

‘I know exactly where that fucker is,’ Jungkook assures you. 

He’s probably lying but you don’t want to check for yourself.

He deposits you onto the bed and tries to peel your legs off his waist. 

‘As much as I want to fuck you, let me deal with this spider first, ok?’

At his words, you loosen your legs from around him and he pats your thigh. 

‘Stop crying. Stay here and I’ll get rid of it,’ he promises.

It’s several long minutes and muttered curses later before he returns, a little sweaty but with a glass of water for you.

He hands it to you and brushes your hair back from your face as you drink.

‘I didn’t know you were that scared of spiders,’ he says. His tone is gentler than you’ve ever heard it.

‘They bite,’ you say. 

‘They bite—-‘ Jungkook trails off, shaking his head.

Jungkook sits next to you on the bed. ‘I’m sorry I laughed at you.’

‘It’s ok,’ you say. You swipe at your tearstained face. ‘Did you get it?’

‘Promise I did,’ Jungkook says. ‘Cross my heart. That fucker isn’t bothering you again.’

‘Where did you put him?’ you ask. ‘In the bin?’

‘Nah. Chucked him out the window,’ Jungkook says. ‘Fuck Spiderman.’

‘Fuck Spiderman,’ you echo.

‘Listen, if you have a spider problem again just call me, ok? Or you can text if you’re worried the spider’s going to hear you. I’ll take care of it.’

Jungkook grins. ‘I won’t put a shirt on either.’

He leans back onto his forearms, and the way his abs stand out make you feel pretty tingly, you’re not going to lie.

‘I don’t mind you staring,’ he tells you. ‘I know I look good.’

You roll your eyes, but he’s been so decent about helping you that you’ll let him have that.

‘What’s the suitcase for, anyway?’ he asks.

You sigh. ‘It’s my annual family get together this Saturday,’ you tell him. ‘My entire extended family go to this beach house and we have dinner together and hang out. It’s been a thing since I was a kid.’

‘Sounds nice,’ he says, but his tone is incredulous.

‘It is nice,’ you say. You smile a little. ‘My grandma cooks and my brother Jin goes fishing and I have so many little cousins now.’

You get up. ‘Of course, there’s the usual round of relatives asking ‘why aren’t you settled down and having babies?’ And my cousin Binna’s a pain, but it’s only once a year.’

‘It’s too bad Junwoo was such an ass,’ you say. ‘I was hoping if I came with a date this year that it’d take some of the pressure off.’

‘I can help,’ Jungkook says.

‘For the last time, Jungkook,’ you say, ‘we are not having a baby together.’

‘Firstly,’ Jungkook says, ‘our baby would be so good looking. But that’s not what I meant.’

He looks tentative for the first time since you met him.

‘I can go with you, if you want.’

***

Your suitcase is by the door, ready to go.

You’re waiting for Jungkook to come by so you can leave together for your family retreat.

You’re not sure what to expect, if you’re being honest. It had felt like a good idea having Jungkook come with you at the time. After all, with the amount of time you’ve spent together over the last few months, he knows recent you as well as anyone.

He’d promised on pain of death and dismemberment that he would refrain from excessive sexual innuendo in front of your elders, but that was all you’d managed to get out of him.

You’re almost afraid to look at him when he knocks on your door.

You start from his feet, in the boots he’s favoured lately, to jeans with no visible rips that you can see in the front, to his fly which is done completely up, to his belt and then a white wife-beater over which he’s layered a black shirt.

When you get to his face he’s smirking at you. 

‘Spent a long time checking out my dick,’ he comments.

‘Just checking your fly was done up,’ you say, semi-truthfully.

He lifts your suitcase for you.

At your expression he says, ‘Don’t worry, you can pay me back by giving me a blow job whilst I’m driving us to the coast.’

‘Sounds dangerous,’ you reply.

‘Jagiya,’ he says, smarmy, ‘Danger is my middle name.’

‘Don’t ever call me that again,’ you threaten.

‘Princess?’ he wonders.

‘Shut up and drive, Jeon Jungkook.’

***

Jungkook’s driving is so steady that you fall asleep and wake only when he stops for petrol.

You look around, disoriented, and see him looking at you through the glass of the rear passenger window.

He opens the door. ‘Want anything from the shop?’

You yawn. ‘No thanks.’

When he gets back in the car, you say, ‘Hey, let me know what I owe you for gas.’

He snorts as he drives out of the petrol station. ‘You know my family owns the biggest manufacturing company in Busan, right?’

You shrug. ‘Money ain’t everything.’

He nods. ‘Yeah, money ain’t everything, if you’re just normal rich. I’m fuck you and all your ancestors rich.’

You say, lightly, ‘I’m never paying my share of takeout again.’

He laughs. ‘That’s what I like about you. You don’t give a shit.’

‘That’s not true,’ you protest. ‘How many people would have chased you across town to track you down when you stole that French ambassador’s diplomatic car?’

He’s quiet. 

The road stretches out in front of you.

‘I’m seeing someone, you know,’ he says.

‘What?’ you scoff. ‘Who’s dating you?’

‘Not like that,’ he tells you. He glances at you in the rearview. 

‘I don’t want you to have to be a crutch for me forever.’

Now it’s your turn to be quiet. 

Since that time when Jungkook came over to hand over his key fob cloning device, he’s dropped various things over at your apartment for various periods of time.

A pen drive.

The keys to his Skyline.

His burner phone.

Once, a black jewelled thong, but you think he was just fucking with you that time.

You cleared a drawer in your hall table for him, and things appear and disappear.

He doesn’t always talk about it, not like that first time. 

‘I’m glad you’re working on it,’ you say, sincerely.

You lean back in your seat. ‘You know you can always drop stuff off in the drawer if you need to.’

‘Oh in the drawer?’ he says, feigning surprise. ‘What about your spare room wardrobe? I left weed and maybe a couple of stacks in there.’

‘Fucking hell,’ you grumble, ‘No wonder all my linens smell like a college dorm.’

You’re both smiling.

‘Thanks for helping me out with this,’ you say. ‘I appreciate it.’

‘How come you couldn’t get one of those Yonsei dipshits to take you?’

You roll your eyes. ‘Firstly, you asshole, I went to SNU.’

Jungkook snickers.

‘Secondly, sad as it is, you’re the only man I’ve spent any time with lately.’

‘That’s what I mean,’ he says. ‘You’re hot, you put up with a lot of shit and you have an ass that won’t quit. How come you’re not dating anyone?’

You look out the window. ‘You’re right, I’m such a catch, why am I single?’

Jungkook asks, ‘Are you really bad in bed?’

You’d laugh if the turn of conversation wasn’t so depressing.

‘Yeah. I’m really bad.’

‘I wouldn’t mind if you were a pillow princess with me,’ Jungkook says. You think he means it as a compliment.

You say, just to move the conversation on, ‘Did you bring any snacks?’

‘Yeah,’ Jungkook says. He reaches into the center console and tosses you a pack of corn chips. ‘Please feed me too.’

You spend the rest of the drive placing corn chips into Jeon Jungkook’s filthy but admittedly beautiful mouth.

***

You and Jungkook are one of the first to arrive at the beach house. Your parents and Jin are already there. 

You’re worried Jungkook might be nervous about meeting your parents, but he surprises you again.

Once introduced, he chats easily with your dad about cars, and you can tell from your dad’s reactions that he likes Jungkook.

Jin nudges you as you follow your parents and Jungkook into the house.

‘Binna’s going to be all over him,’ he says.

Your cousin is beautiful, sexy and could flirt with a rock.

You shrug. ‘Don’t worry, Jinnie. You’re still the prettiest around.’

Jin says, crossly, ‘I wasn’t worried about that.’

You’re both distracted by the arrival of your cousin and her children.

The minivan pulls up almost to the entrance of the beach house, and your cousin Daeun jumps out.

‘Dasom superglued her hand to Jinah’s face,’ she announces grimly. 

She hands you baby Taehyun. ‘Can you watch the baby? I’m taking them to the drugstore to see if they can give us anything to get this shit off.’

‘Mama said a bad word,’ chants Dasom. 

‘I’ll drive you,’ volunteers Jin.

He ushers Daeun and the girls into his car. 

You look for someone to help.

‘Need a hand?’ Jungkook asks, popping up from behind you.

You huff. ‘Can you sort this car out?’

Jungkook appraises the minivan in silence for a moment.

‘Yeah,’ Jungkook replies, serious. ‘It probably won’t sell for much as it is. I’ll have to take it apart to sell it for parts.’

You glare at him. ‘I meant park it, Jungkook, not sell it on the stolen cars black market.’

Jungkook laughs incredulously. ‘Stolen cars black market? What even is that? Have you learnt nothing from the last year?’

Taehyun, in your arms, giggles along with Jungkook. 

You can’t believe you’re being ridiculed simultaneously by both a baby and the grown-ass man you’re babysitting.

Jungkook’s still chuckling to himself as he maneuvres the minivan expertly into the space beside his car.

You can see him through the window, the asshole.

***

Jin hadn’t been wrong about Binna being interested in Jungkook. To be fair, even happily married Daeun had given him a second look.

Even your conservative grandmother had looked past all his visible tattoos and piercings and declared him a good boy.

You’re pretending not to notice as Binna, sitting on the other side of Jungkook at the dinner table, leans into Jungkook’s arm as she reaches for the green beans.

Your Auntie Rina fixes you with a look. 

‘I’m so glad you finally found a man,’ she says. ‘We were so worried you’d be single forever.’

Beside you, Jungkook stiffens. 

‘I wasn’t worried,’ says your mother from opposite Jungkook. ‘Better no man than the wrong man.’

‘It’s true,’ sniffs Auntie Rina. ‘Who was that awful boyfriend of yours who kept asking if you really wanted more helpings? As though there’s anything wrong with your weight…’

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. She isn’t saying anything she hasn’t said before, to be fair.

Jungkook, beside you, nudges his full glass of soju towards you. 

‘Is your car the 2019 model outside?’ he asks your aunt. ‘I know a man who can fix it for you.’

‘Fix it?’ Auntie Rina asks.

‘Yeah. Looks like it has a flat tire,’ Jungkook says, wide-eyed, all innocence. 

Your eyes meet his, and you choke back a laugh. 

As soon as the conversation moves on you turn to Jungkook. ‘Does it really have a flat tire?’ you ask, under your breath.

Jungkook leans so close his lips brush your ear, making your skin prickle. 

‘I’ll make sure it does,’ he promises. 

After dinner, you excuse yourself to get some air and find Jungkook sitting on the steps leading down to the sand, behind the house smoking a cigarette.

You sit next to him. 

‘Thank you,’ you tell him. ‘I hope this isn’t too awful.’

He just smiles, exhales. 

‘I’m enjoying it,’ he says simply.

There’s a breeze blowing in from the sea, ruffling his hair. 

He’s so pretty like this you’d take a picture if you weren’t worried he’d never let you hear the end of it.

Jungkook reaches out, curls a finger in a lock of your hair.

He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t get a chance to.

You lean forward, close your eyes and kiss him.

It’s short and it’s lovely. 

You start to pull away, but he cups the side of your face and kisses you back.

His lips are soft, and he kisses you slow, like he wants to learn the shape of your lips with his own.

He hums, deep in his chest, as his lips meet yours. 

For all the crass sexual comments he’s made to you over the last year, Jeon Jungkook’s kisses are undemanding, sweet.

When he pulls away, you’re both breathless.

His cigarette glows on the step next to him, forgotten.

‘I knew I’d like kissing you,’ he tells you. 

You look down at his hand, somehow entwined with yours.

‘Are you holding my hand?’ you ask.

‘Yeah. You’re a little sweaty but I don’t mind,’ he tells you.

He laughs when you try to pull away. 

‘Do you want to come to my room?’ you ask.

He hesitates. 

‘I’d like to, but you know, I’m really good at fucking, are you going to be able to keep your voice down?’

‘Shut up, I’ve changed my mind,’ you say, getting up.

He tugs you back down. ‘Hey.’

He waits until you’re looking at him.

‘If you really want me there, I’d love to go to your room,’ he tells you.

For once, he sounds completely serious.

‘Yeah. Come.’

***

You’d been a bit worried it might be awkward, but true to form, Jungkook jumps into your bed and pats the covers like he’s the one inviting you into your own bed.

‘It’s my bed,’ you grumble, but he just laughs. 

He kisses you again, his mouth warm over yours. He tastes like the soju he’d been drinking, and he hums when you part your lips to taste more of him.

His tongue licks into your mouth, and when you run your hands over his shoulders he slips his shirt over his head. 

He stops you when your hands go to the hem of your top to do the same.

‘Can I?’ he asks.

You nod, and raise your arms to help.

‘Fuck,’ he murmurs. He’s staring at your breasts. ‘I’m going to need to cum on your tits as my last dying wish.’

‘Jeon Jungkook, shut the fuck up.’

‘Screaming my name already,’ he teases, but he starts kissing down the curve of your neck and the whine that falls from your lips is involuntary.

He hums approvingly as your arms tighten around his shoulders.

He dips his head between your breasts and then nips over the curve of your left breast.

He reaches around your back to unhook your bra, waits until you nod to undo it. 

‘Pretty,’ he says, then he’s sucking a hickey into your skin, laving with his tongue when you whine in protest.

He’s hard. You can feel him even through the layers of clothing as he grinds his hips on yours.

You tuck the tips of your fingers into the waistband of his jeans and tug. He kisses you again, then pushes up onto his knees on your bed.

He unbuttons, slips his jeans down, and holy fuck, it’s not like you haven’t seen him in his boxer briefs before, but it’s a whole different ball game when he’s looking down at you, heat in his eyes and his dick so hard your mouth waters at the sight of it.

No pun intended.

Jungkook pushes your hands away when they go to your own waistband.

 ‘Let me do it,’ he says. 

He tugs your jeans down over your ass and thighs.

‘Fuck,’ he breathes. ‘These silky panties look even better on you.’

You press a hand over his open mouth.

‘Shut up and fuck me,’ you say. 

You trail your hand over the length of him in his briefs, and then he’s moving fast, fumbling with his jeans.

He pulls out a strip of condoms and catches your eye.

You giggle at how ridiculous he looks, and a moment later, he’s laughing too.

‘How many times —‘

You’re cut off by his mouth on yours.

‘Many. I’ll fuck you as many times as you want,’ he tells you, breath hot on your cheek.

He nudges your thigh with his. ‘Spread.’

He fits himself between your legs and kisses you again. 

The blunt head of him nudges you, and you don’t realise you’re holding your breath until he’s in you all the way and you’re dizzy with pleasure.

He buries his head in your neck. 

‘Fuck. You feel so fucking good,’ he groans.

He moves, a slow stroke that makes you arch into him.

You moan his name, and he moves again, rocking his hips against yours, deep, hard.

You close your eyes but realise what a mistake that was when you open them again and see how beautiful Jeon Jungkook looks when he’s fucking you.

He hooks a forearm around your thighs and drags you to the edge of the bed so he can stand and fuck you.

Fuck, how have you never realised how strong he is?

He smirks at you, and you’d want to slap it off his face except he’s doing something with his hips now that’s making the pleasure spiral and you’re two short steps from —-

He lowers his mouth to yours again and then you’re coming, legs wrapped around his hips, his chest flattening yours, his sweat all over you. 

He murmurs what sounds like approval as he fucks you through it.

You gasp his name and he groans, fucking you harder, speeding up and then slowing until he comes, buried deep inside you.

He pulls out, yanks off the condom with a whine and ties it off, dropping it on the floor carelessly. He collapses down next to you, panting. 

For a moment you’re both quiet.

Then he says, ‘Shit. That was way better than jerking off with those panties I stole.’

You slap him on the chest. ‘Shut up, asshole.’

‘Stop flirting with me. I need a minute before we can go again.’

Jungkook grins at you but he’s still got an arm around your hips and his thigh slotted between yours so you can’t be too mad.

***

You wake up to bright sunshine right in your face even though you drew the drapes last night before you went to bed because Jeon Jungkook is halfway in your open window.

You sit up, confused as hell. 

‘What the fuck—‘

You can’t work out if he’s coming or going.

You get your answer then he drops into your room with a thud.

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Forgot to slash those tires last night.’

‘You didn’t?!’

‘Keep your voice down,’ he advises. ‘We don’t want her to know it was me.’

You’re speechless.

‘Did you seriously just —‘

‘Don’t finish your question so I don’t have to answer it,’ Jungkook tells you.

He’s getting undressed again, kicking off his shoes, staring hard at your bare chest half covered by the duvet.

He jumps back into bed with you and you greet him with another kiss.

His hand trails over the curve of your breasts.

‘Let’s not talk about it again,’ you say.

‘Yeah,’ he agrees.

‘Do you want to come on my tits?’

Jungkook groans. ‘Fuck, yeah.’

***

You’re back at home in your apartment unpacking when the familiar banging on your door starts.

You yank the door open. ‘You literally just left, Jeon Jungkook,’ you complain, before you realise he’s not alone.

Jeon Mido, Jungkook’s mother and your boss, is standing outside your door and you’ve still got sand in your hair from fucking Jungkook on the beach before you left the beach house. 

Jungkook adjusts the collar of his shirt in a vain attempt to hide the hickey you gave him.

‘I’m sorry,’ you apologise. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’

Jeon Mido smiles graciously at you. 

‘Jungkook tells me he met your parents over the weekend,’ she says.

‘They liked him a lot,’ you tell her, wondering where she’s going with this.

She nods. ‘Good. I thought maybe you’d like to come to dinner with us tomorrow night. My husband would love to meet you.’

You’re so surprised you can’t do anything but accept.

Jeon Mido smiles at you and takes her leave.

You turn to Jungkook. ‘What was that?’

Jungkook shrugs, shaking sand out of his jeans pockets. 

‘She’s always said she wants to meet my girlfriends.’

He’s not looking at you directly, and the tips of his ears are red.

‘What?’

‘I don’t know,’ he says, finally.  ‘I’ve never had a girl I’m dating meet my parents before.’

‘We’re not dating!’ 

He’s looking at you now. ‘Aren’t we?’

The way he’s looking at you gives you pause.

‘We see each other every day. We hang out at each others’ places. You help me with my problems and I help you with yours. I’ve met your family.’

He smiles. ‘And you’re the most fucking amazing girl I’ve ever met.’

You stare at him.

‘Unless,’ he continues, ‘you just want to be fuck buddies. I’m down with that too.’

He looks like he’s about to turn away so you grab his arm and tug him towards you. 

‘Ok, Jeon Jungkook, I’ll date you,’ you say.

He nods. ‘I thought so.’

He leans down so you can kiss the smug smirk off his face.

©hamsterclaw 2024

With thanks to bloviating-vy for introducing me to the phrase 'fuck you rich' and the works of Smashy for the immortal phrase 'Yonsei dipshits'.

[stllmnstr]

champagne problems: part one

pairing: jake sim x f reader

genre: enemies to lovers, rich kids au, fake dating au, college au, angst, fluff

part one word count: 15.6k

part one warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, family drama, a fatal case of second son syndrome

soundtrack: boom - dpr live / bad idea! - girl in red / blood on the floor - kuiper / calico - dpr ian / comme de garçons (like the boys) - rina sawayama / lust - chase atlantic

note: another reupload!! hope this hopeless romantic college boyfriend jake hits just as good the second time around. happy reading ♡

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The second son of a wealthy family, Jake Sim has gotten used to always standing in the shadow of his older brother. From grades to girls to talks of becoming future CEO of the Sim Corporation, he’s no stranger to coming in second place. So when an opportunity arises for Jake to finally have the one thing his brother can’t and best him once and for all, he knows he’d be a fool not to take it.

There are only two problems. The first is that the thing his brother wants so badly isn’t a thing at all. It’s you, semi-estranged daughter of the Sims’ closest and most long-standing business partner.

The second is that Jake Sim can’t fucking stand you.

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Fingers wrapping around the stem of your wine glass, you sigh. Punctuality may have been a steep order for someone who you suspect is running dangerously low on both common sense and regard for others, but twenty minutes? Really?

Your eyes land on the obnoxiously ornate grandfather clock next to the hostess stand. In a restaurant with ceilings so high you can barely see them and a carefully curated ambience that practically screams old money, it blends right in. It also gives you an updated timeframe on your would-be date’s tardiness. 

Scratch that – thirty minutes. 

Pulling out your phone, the absence of any new notifications is almost as annoying as whatever threadbare excuse you’re sure your date will offer you when he arrives. Glancing at the door, it remains devoid of any new patrons. Or perhaps rather if he arrives. 

You’re running near empty on both pinot noir and patience, and you use the distraction of your phone to make you seem a little less pathetic. As if this entire restaurant isn’t already privy to the fact that you’re actively being stood up. 

Well, you think wryly, at least you look good doing it. The off white ensemble you selected for the evening is Chanel, and vintage, at that. Usually you wouldn’t pull out all the stops like this for something as flimsy as a first date, but men like James Sim have an eye for this kind of thing. 

Four years your senior, he’s already carving out a name for himself at twenty-five. You suppose it is a little less impressive, though, when the name he was born with already carries a legacy of its own in the business world you usually do your very best to stay out of. Rumor has it he’s already a shoo-in for the next CEO of his father’s company. When nepotism is that blatant, you can’t do much but scoff and raise a glass to it. 

Scrambling for something to do to make your wasted time pass a bit quicker, you search up the social media profile of your would-be date. Honestly, you doubt you would learn anything more substantial about him if he actually bothered to show up than you will from scanning over his feed. In your experience, men like that tend to make up for their success on paper by lacking an actual personality and any sort of self-awareness. 

Gym selfie. Scroll. Gym selfie from a slightly different angle. Scroll. Dog photo. Pausing, you suppress a small smile. The dog in the picture is pretty cute, if nothing else. Zooming in slightly, your eyes crinkle at the way the dog’s tongue lolls out of its open mouth in a grin. Well, at least he’s got that going for him, you suppose. A cute dog is enough to bump any guy’s ranking up a few points in your book. 

If James Sim is nothing but a sum of his social media profile, it’s not like you expected anything else. After all, this is the heir to the Sim Corporation, a golden boy that was born with a crown on his head and a gold spoon in his mouth. Everything he’s earned has been laid out for him in painstakingly placed steps. His entire life has been guided by a heavy hand and the knowledge that he would one day inherit everything that makes his family worth knowing. 

You probably wouldn’t be too concerned with showing up to first dates on time, either. Especially since you doubt he’s ever been denied a second. 

Tonight is nothing but a blip on a radar, you’re sure. Something for a secretary to schedule and him to notice a day or five late. Maybe if you’re lucky, someone on his team will send a consolatory bouquet once he does realize the mistake. He is still building his reputation, after all, and you could use a fresh set of flowers for your apartment. 

With another slightly pitiful sigh and a final swig of wine, your glass is empty and your optimism is shot. A second glance at the clock says that thirty-eight minutes have now elapsed since your scheduled meeting time. And in your opinion, that’s thirty-nine too late for a first date. 

Retrieving your coat from the back of your chair, you figure tonight will be remembered as nothing but a waste of a good outfit. Besides, you suppose forty minutes of aimless scrolling is ultimately less painful than the inevitable headache this date surely would have been had he bothered to actually show up. 

Suddenly, you frown. You won’t complain if this date never actually happens, but you may end up with a slight problem. Although you haven’t been on the best of terms with your mother in a long time, tonight was meant to be the final bullet point on a list of favors you owe her. 

As you pull your coat on, you consider the best way to frame the events of the evening. Lean into the whole ‘getting stood up’ thing in an effort to earn some sympathy points? Lay out the facts in their most basic form, timestamps included? Emphasize the fact that you waited long past the obligatory twenty minutes for him to actually show up? Or leave your message chain as it currently is, tell her nothing at all, and let her assume what she wants?

They’re all equally iffy, you think. Risky in their own regard. 

Signing your name at the bottom of the check, you scribble in a generous tip for the waitress who did her best to check on you often without making it obvious that she knew you were expecting company that never arrived, expertly skirting that line between overbearing and empathetic. At least someone will go home happy, you think, adding an extra zero for good measure. 

Exiting the restaurant, you decide to make it two people. James Sim may be a hotshot at his father’s company, but you’ll be damned before you let him ruin your evening. Before you order the Uber back to your place, you add an extra stop at your favorite sushi place. Takeout in the comfort of your own home will certainly be easier to enjoy than whatever Michelin-Star concoction you would have ordered here anyway, eaten in small bites between forced conversation topics, awkward pauses, and too long sips of wine. 

And an hour later, you’re polishing off the last piece of an absolutely divine rainbow roll, wearing nothing but silk pajamas and a face mask, with old reruns of your favorite show playing on the TV when James Sim finally glances down at the Rolex on his wrist. He’s finally arrived at the tail end of a meeting that’s running so far behind schedule he has half a mind to just walk out of it. He would, too, if his father wouldn’t actually threaten his life for it. 

It’s late, James realizes. Stupid late. So late that he won’t have the time or energy to do anything but pass out by the time he gets home, which really sucks, because he was genuinely looking forward to his date tonight–

“Fuck.”

All he can do is curse, even as the shocked faces of a concerning number of top executives turn to look at him all at the same time. 

…

Jake Sim is about to fail his econ midterm. 

It will be at least a week before grades are released, but he already knows it. He can already feel it in the way the questions start to swim in his mind, making less and less sense the more he turns them over, in the way his gut fills with dread as the minute hand of the clock at the front of the lecture hall ticks closer and closer to the testing time limit. 

And it wouldn’t be that bad, if it weren’t his second time repeating this course. 

Oh, his father is going to have an absolute field day with this one. Jake can practically hear it now. 

“You failed your midterm? After already failing this course twice? You know, James was actually the top scoring student in his economic section. Dr. Jeong still mentions his term paper every time I see him at the university…”

And that’s if he’s in a good mood. Or rather, if things at the company are going well. Jake doesn’t even want to consider the comments he’ll be on the receiving end of if the news of his failure finds his father already agitated. 

Exhaling, he gives his exam one final once-over, scanning for completion more than accuracy. His brain is so fried that he knows it’s of little use to him now. For his own sake, the best thing to do at this point is turn his test in and send a silent prayer to whoever might be listening on his way out the door. 

Leaving the lecture hall behind him, Jake puts his phone out of airplane mode and frowns at the two notifications that pop up on his screen. The first is a missed call from his brother, and the second is a message from the same sender, requesting that he give him a call when he has the chance. 

Considering that it’s neither his birthday nor a major holiday, Jake is more than a little confused. Regardless, he honors the request, pressing his phone to his ear as he begins the walk back to his apartment. Although it’s significantly less spacious than his childhood home, he finds it far more welcoming in more ways than one. 

The outgoing call rings once, twice, three times. Jake is about to be annoyed at the missed connection, but his brother answers in the moments just before he’s sent to voicemail.

“Hey, Jake.” Shocking. He actually bothered to check the caller ID. 

“Hey.” Jake’s voice is careful, guarded. It’s not like his personal life is of any importance to his older brother, but he’s not in the mood to answer any questions. He won’t give James any reasons to ask. “I saw your message.”

“Right.” Jake can hear the shuffle of other voices, scattered movements coming from the other line. James sounds busy. Just like always. Usually, that would usually mean he’s distracted. But Jake has the odd feeling that he has his brother’s undivided attention when James adds, “I have a favor to ask you.”

Immediately, Jake’s stomach drops. There are very few things in this world that are not within James Sim’s grasp, and even less that are within Jake’s, relatively speaking. Whatever it is, he must be desperate, if he’s willing to enlist the help of his little brother. 

“Okay.” Jake’s voice betrays none of his sudden anxieties. “What is it?”

At least James spares him the agony of suspense. “You know ___, right?”

Jake frowns. Sure, he knows of you. Just like he has a vague idea of every one of his family’s business partners and their immediate kin. Particularly the ones that are the same age as him and attend the same university. But it’s not like he’s close with you, not like he’s ever had an actual conversation of any substance with you. 

Especially since the minimal interactions the two of you have had did not leave Jake wanting more. The only child of parents whose last name is on the front of the most successful law firm within a thousand mile radius, you strike him as everything he’d expect you to be. 

Spoiled. Entitled. Vapid. Out of touch with any version of reality that doesn’t consist of you getting everything you want at the exact moment you want it. He supposes it’s a bit like the pot calling the kettle black, considering his own upbringing, but he’d like to think that he’s earned what he’s been given, at least partially. Especially since most of it has been his brother’s hand-me-downs.  And it’s not like his father has ever been in the habit of doing him any favors that don’t come wrapped in criticism, comparison, and disdain.

Although rumor does have it you and your mother haven’t been on speaking terms since you left for university, Jake imagines it’s probably because you wanted to bring the limited edition Versace to campus with you, and she insisted it would be safer at home. 

Oh, well. Whatever designer dispute happened between you and your mother is no skin off his back. Jake has his own problems to worry about. 

One of them being his brother’s question that still lingers on the other line. 

Weighing responses in his head, Jake finally settles on, “I guess.” It’s his best attempt at being noncommittal. 

Unfortunately, it doesn’t do anything to dissuade his brother. “Do you have her number by chance? My secretary should have taken it down, but she can’t find it anywhere.”

Jake balks, footsteps faltering. An equally distracted student walking behind him nearly stumbles right into his back. Wordlessly, Jake sends them an apologetic look before clarifying, “Her number? Like, her personal phone number?”

“What other kind of number is there?” And there’s the James that Jake knows. Annoyed at the perceived incompetencies of his younger brother, just as always. 

Suddenly, Jake’s patience is running short too. James is the one asking for a favor and still has the gall to be annoyed with him. Typical. Jake’s words are clipped when he says, “No, I don’t have ___’s phone number.” 

Jake expects that to be the end of it, but his brother won’t let it go so easily. 

“Seriously? Don’t you two go to the same school?”

Jake rolls his eyes. “Right, because I have the entire student body on speed dial.”

There’s a pause on the other end. Jake half expects his brother to just hang up on him. After all, he’s never been able to take what he gets, to swallow what he dishes out. 

What Jake does not expect, however, is the way James sounds so tentative when he speaks again.  “Well…”

“Well what?” Patience already running thin, it’s all he can do not to snap. 

“Do you think you could get it for me?”

Jake must be dreaming. This must be a post-exam punishment, a hallucination brought on by over exerting his brain too far for too long. “Do I think I could get ___’s phone number for you?” he repeats flatly. 

“Is there an echo in here?” Asshole. At least he’s consistent. 

“Just an echo chamber,” Jake mutters away from the receiver. 

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” Jake stops for a moment to fiddle with his keyring as he walks up the stairs to his apartment. “No, I can’t get her phone number for you.” 

“Why not?”

The key won’t line up quite right. Jake tries again, frustration seeping through. “Because I have better things to do than run stupid errands for you. Why don’t you drive here and get it yourself?”

“Trust me, if I thought she’d give it to me, I’d be there in an hour.”

The lock on his door finally clicks open, and Jake all but throws his bag down after kicking off his shoes. “And what the hell makes you think she’d give it to me?”

“Well, you didn’t accidentally stand her up, for one.” James doesn’t sound embarrassed by it. Just matter-of-fact. Like a date is nothing but a business deal. Something to be rescheduled and redone if negotiations go sour the first time around. 

It is enough to stir up some of Jake’s curiosity, though. “You went on a date with ___?” He supposes it makes sense. Even if the rumor mill and its rumblings about your rocky relationship with your mother ring true, you’re still your parents’ daughter. Still a perfect match on paper for the future CEO of the Sim Corporation. The king of a company and princess of a law firm. It’s a match made in heaven, he thinks ruefully. 

“No, I didn’t. That’s kind of the whole point here.”

“Whatever.” Jake still doesn’t see what the hell he has to do with all this. “Why don’t you just look up her parents’ number in the company database and get it from them?”

Jake can practically feel his brother’s exasperation through the phone. “Right, because that would go over really well. Hi there," he imitates. “I’d like to make your daughter the mother of my future children. Care to pass along her phone number so I can get started on that?”

Jake suppresses a wince. “Jesus. I see why she stood you up.”

“She didn’t. I stood her up,” James clarifies. “On accident.”

Semantics. And not ones that Jake is interested in. “Either way. I’m not getting her number for you.”

“Yeah?” Jake is unsettled by the way there’s still no trace of defeat in his brother’s voice. There’s something almost sinister when he suddenly switches topics. “How are classes going?”

Jake’s lips pull into a taut line, disaster of an econ midterm still fresh on his mind. “Fine.”

“Really? Even econ? Third time’s the charm and all that?” Well, at least his brother can be counted on to consistently be an asshole.

“Why do you care?” The only thing Jake wants to do is end this call and crawl into bed for a well-deserved afternoon nap. Let his subconscious spare him from thoughts of his older brother and econ and you for at least a little bit. 

James has other plans. “You must have taken the midterm recently, right?” Jake’s silence is confirmation enough. “You know, the only thing Dr. Jeong weighs more heavily than the midterm is the final paper at the end of the semester.”

A minute ago, Jake thought you were the last thing he wanted to talk about. The sudden shift in direction in this conversation is starting to prove him wrong. If there’s one thing Jake would rather discuss even less than his older brother’s dating life, it’s school. “What does that have to do with a–”

“And I think I still have my copy of the paper that earned me the top score in my entire section.” The smugness is practically palpable. “I might have to do some digging, but I’m sure it’s in my old files somewhere.”

Jake rolls his eyes, wishes the immediate comparison weren’t the first thing to rise to the forefront of his mind. Wishes it didn’t find him so lacking. Wishes it wasn’t narrated in the voice of his disappointed father. “If you’re trying to gloat, it’s n–”

“I’m trying to strike a deal. Jesus, no wonder you’re on track to be a super senior getting a business degree.”

“This is my third year,” Jake defends indignantly. 

“And your third attempt at econ, which I passed in my first year.” He sounds like he’s settling a little too well into the CEO role when he proposes, “I’m trying to make it your last attempt.” 

Jake would be lying if he said his curiosity weren’t piqued, even just slightly. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, little brother, that my term paper, my notes, all of it, are yours.” It sounds too good to be true. It has to be too good to be true. James is a lot of things, but generous and helpful are very rarely any of them. “As soon as you get me ___’s number.” And there it is. 

Jake hangs up without bothering to dignify that with a response and hopes it sends a strong enough signal of his refusal. Then, he falls into his bed face-first with a groan. 

And a week later, when his econ midterm results are finally posted, the first thing Jake does is let his head fall on his desk with an alarmingly loud thud that has Jay poking his head in the door to make sure everything’s okay. The second thing he does, a solid twenty minutes later, is send his older brother a text. 

Jake [7:21pm]: You better start digging through those old files. 

…

All things considered, you’re easier to track down than Jake expects. The university campus is big, and judging from the way he can’t remember ever seeing you in a class, the two of you don’t share a major. But the similarities in your social status mean you’re bound to run in some of the same circles, and Jake is able to use this to his advantage. 

Ultimately, it takes very little digging on his part. First, he mentions your name to Jay in the middle of an upper body superset in the university gym. Jay frowns, setting the weights back on the rack. 

“That name sounds familiar. I think maybe Heeseung knows her?”

That tidbit takes him to Wednesday night, which always finds Jake in the library at a statistics study group Heeseung also makes a habit of attending. On their way out for the evening, Jake stops him by the door. 

“___?” Heeseung pauses for a moment in contemplation. “I’m pretty sure she’s friends with Sunghoon.”

And the third piece of the puzzle proves a bit more difficult to click into place. Sunghoon is harder for Jake to find, at least in a way that comes across naturally. Much like yours, Park Sunghoon is a name Jake hears in passing more than anything. He’s a friend of friends, a mutual acquaintance that Jake has never really had a conversation with and certainly doesn’t know well enough to interrogate for your phone number. 

But his most recent midterm score is still looming over his head, and the thought of retaking econ again is so nightmarish it sends a shiver down his spine  every time he considers it. At this point, there isn’t much Jake wouldn’t put on the line to pass the damn class. Including his pride, apparently. 

So when Jake hears from Jay who hears from Heeseung that Sunghoon will probably be at the party Epsilon Nu Eta is throwing this Friday night, he starts to formulate a plan. 

And he starts to regret said plan less than twenty-four hours later when he finds himself on the doorstep of a frat party. A frat party. He can’t remember the last time he came to one of these things. At twenty-one, he already feels geriatric as he tugs self-consciously at the sleeves of the plan black long sleeve he put on for the occasion. Something that will hopefully hide the questionable stains he’ll inevitably leave with. 

Entering through the front door with hinges that don’t align quite right, Jake has one mission in mind: find Park Sunghoon. Find him and somehow convince him to pass along your number. There’s a fine line to be walked there, Jake thinks. If he comes across as too eager, it will just be creepy. Nonchalance is the name of the game, but he’s never been good at keeping his cards close to his chest. 

For Jake, it’s a tall order, which means the only detour he’ll allow himself is grabbing a cup of lukewarm beer from the kitchen before he sets out looking for Sunghoon. The alcohol is an effort to break the barrier of his inhibitions more than anything. To make what he’s about to do feel a little less painful. 

Making his way out of the kitchen, Jake wanders aimlessly for a few minutes. He doesn’t know much about Sunghoon, other than the fact that he competes for your university’s figure skating team and is undeniably handsome. A good-looking figure skater, Jake thinks as he turns down yet another crowded hallway, narrowly avoiding spilling his drink. Where would one of those be hiding? 

He spends a few more awkward minutes asking around to no avail. Just when he’s on the verge of saying fuck it and making some sort of sacrifice to the econ gods instead, Jake bumps into the man of the hour on his way to the bathroom. 

In the chaos, Jake doesn’t recognize him until it’s almost too late. “Hey,” Jake calls out, bladder all but forgotten for now. He’s trying to fake an air of coolness when he adds, “Sunghoon, right?”

“Yeah.” Jake thanks his lucky stars that Sunghoon must be at least two drinks in, because he doesn’t seem weirded out at all by the sudden question from a near stranger. 

“I’m Jake.” He reaches his arm out for a handshake. Blinking, Sunghoon just stares at his outstretched hand as long, awkward moments bleed into each other. Eventually, Jake just lets it fall back to his side. “I’m, uh, in a statistics class with Heeseung.”

“Right on,” Sunghoon nods, still unsure if this conversation has a point to it. Luckily, the pleasant haze clouding his thoughts means he doesn’t mind too much either way. 

Jake figures there’s no point in dragging this out by exchanging more pleasantries, and he has the feeling Sunghoon might start forgetting his own name, much less yours, if he lets this continue for too long. 

“Listen,” Jake starts, trying to sound as not creepy as possible. “I heard that you know ___ pretty well.”

Sunghoon just shrugs. Jake can’t tell if he’s succeeded. “You could say that.”

“I know this is a strange request, but, uh,” Jake scratches the side of his head, “is there any chance I could get her number? I promise not to do anything weird.” Word vomiting, the extra details are spilling out before he can stop them. “It’s not even for me, actually–”

Sunghoon spares him the rest of a rambling explanation. “Sorry, bud. No can do.”

Jake’s stomach tightens in panic. He really, really just needs your phone number. It has him forgetting his earlier inhibitions, throwing caution to the wind even if he’s making a bit of a fool of himself in the process. “It’s for something important, actually. I’m kind of desperate–”

Sunghoon just puts a consolatory hand on Jake’s shoulder, interrupting his train of thought. “Look, man, it’s nothing against you personally, but I have literally never met you in my life. Besides, if I gave out ___’s number to every random guy that asked, I’m pretty sure she’d shave my head.” Sunghoon leans in close, like he’s about to share a secret. Jake’s nose twists at the scent of alcohol on his breath. “And between you and me, I don’t think I could pull off being bald.” 

Jake kind of begs to differ, but that’s neither here nor there. He opens his mouth to plead his case again, but Sunghoon doesn’t even let him get a word out. 

“Sorry, man, but I really can’t help you.” Pausing for a moment, he considers. “You said your name was Jacob, though, right?” He doesn’t pause long enough for Jake to correct him. “I could ask her if she’s cool with giving you her number–”

“Whose number are you giving out?” And if Jake thought this conversation wasn’t enough of a train wreck already, trust the timing of your entrance to be more disastrous than divine. 

Eyes turning to you and your sudden intrusion on the conversation, Jake’s mind goes blank for a minute.  And yeah, he kinda gets why his brother’s so hellbent on having a second chance at your time. Dressed in all black, your hair is loose around your face. Even though it likely costs more than most people’s monthly paycheck, there’s nothing inherently special about what you’re wearing. Still, Jake is finding it exceedingly difficult to look away. 

It’s something in your aura, he thinks. In the way you carry yourself. Something that money can’t buy. Something that makes his gaze want to linger. 

“___!” Sunghoon grins, wrapping an arm around your shoulder, wobbling slightly. You jostle at the sudden impact, inching away from where the contents of his cup slosh dangerously close to the rim. “What a coincidence. We were just talking about you.”

Your brow creases in confusion. Jake tracks the miniscule movement with parted lips. 

“You were?”

“Yeah,” Sunghoon confirms, just at the same moment Jake shakes his head, “No.”

Turning your mildly concerned gaze away from your friend, you glance at Jake for the first time. Brow furrowing further, you cock your head to the side as your lips part in partial recognition. He looks oddly familiar, but you can’t quite place him. “Do I know you?”

“No.” Jake shakes his head again, a little too fervently. “I don’t think we’ve ever met. At least not properly.”

It’s an odd way of putting it. You’re about to ask him to clarify when Sunghoon cuts in, clearing up the confusion for you. “It’s Jacob,” he says, as if that should mean anything to you. Turning back to the boy across from him, he adds, “Jacob Sim, right?”

And that clicks things into place.  

“Sim?” you echo, realization dawning on your features.

“Yep,” Sunghoon confirms. 

Across from you, Jake says nothing. He doesn’t think he could if he wanted to. In fact, he’s pretty sure his life is flashing before his eyes. 

“Sim,” you repeat one final time, jaw ticking in agitation as everything starts to settle. “I do know you.”

“Oh, really?” Sunghoon asks at your side, oblivious to the way your tone betrays obvious animosity. A distaste so palpable Jake can practically feel it radiating off of you. Turning back to Jake, he’s apologetic. “Sorry, Jacob. I guess I could have given you her number, then.” Sunghoon smiles sheepishly, as if he hasn’t just made things a million times worse. “My bad.”

Jake’s eyes widen in horror as he scrambles for some sort of defense, an explanation that will dig him out of this rapidly deepening hole, but you beat him to it. 

“My number?” The look you give him has a concerning amount of venom in it. “Seriously? God, why are all you Sim men so obsessed with me?”

“That’s not–” 

“First your brother views my LinkedIn profile twenty-three times after standing me up, and now you’re harassing my friends for my phone number?”

“Hold on. I’m not harassing anyone–”

“No,” Sunghoon agrees, nodding diplomatically. “Jacob was perfectly pleasant–”

“It’s Jake, actually.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, just Jake.”

“Sorry,” Sunghoon apologizes. Turning to you, he tries mediating again. “Well, like I said, just Jake was perfectly pleasant–”

“I don’t care how pleasant he is.” Your glare somehow becomes icier. “Leave me alone, and tell your dickhead brother to do the same.” Muttering to yourself more than anything, you add, “The last thing I need right now is you practically stalking me–”

“Stalking you?” Jake flounders, an edge of annoyance creeping into his tone. He’s not surprised to learn that you really do think the world revolves around you, but really? Stalking?  “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s not like I’m enjoying this interaction any more than you are.”

You don’t back down, crossing your arms over your chest. The movement has Sunghoon teetering dangerously where he leans on you, but you pay him no mind, attention focused solely on the man in front of you. “Then why do you want my phone number so bad?”

“Like I was trying to say earlier when you wouldn’t let me get a word out sideways,” Jake bites, “it’s not for me. I made a deal with someone, and I told them I’d give them your number.”

Your gaze narrows. “Who?”

“What?”

“Who did you make a deal with?”

Jake hesitates, knowing how the truth will sound. Screw it – a lie would likely be just as damning. Still, it takes him another pregnant pause to eventually admit, “... My brother.”

Scoffing in disbelief, you double down on your ire. “Absolutely not.” Shaking Sunghoon off your shoulder, you turn to leave, dragging him with you. Jake’s eyes close; he can’t bear to watch his last chance at passing this semester leave him in the dust.  

So much so that he pleads again, “Wait, ___. Please.” Jake is begging now, and he feels a little pathetic for it. Still, he can’t help the way desperation drives him to continue. “You can block him for all I care. I can’t explain everything, but my life is quite literally in your hands right now. I just need–”

“No.” The single syllable vibrates with finality. “Do I have to spell it for you? N-” you bite, enunciating so sharply Jake thinks you might draw blood. “O. No. I’m not giving my number to you or your flake of  a brother or anyone else that so much as looks like they might have the name Sim.”

God, is the only think Jake can think as he miserably watches your retreating figure, Sunghoon stumbling along  as you drag him with you. I am so fucked. 

…

When Sunghoon finally emerges from your guest bedroom an hour before noon the next day, it’s to ask if you’d be kind enough to spare him some Advil. Even with a bad case of bedhead and the aftermath of overconsumption, he still manages to look good, albeit a little lifeless. 

“I’ll do you one better,” you tell him, but reach for the small white bottle anyway, shaking out a few tablets and offering them to your best friend along with a glass of cold water.

“Bagels and coffee?” Sunghoon asks over the rim of his glass, with a little more alertness in his eyes than there was moments before. 

“Bagels and coffee,” you confirm. A tried and true hangover cure, if there ever was one. And even though your head is feeling nice and clear, thanks to your trusty two drink limit that has yet to fail you, the local cafe a block from your apartment is very rarely something you turn down. 

Thirty minutes later and a change of clothes later, the two of you are trading gossip and stealing bites of each other’s orders when the other person isn’t looking at the table in the back corner of the cafe. Sunghoon is just about to stuff another piece of your bagel in his mouth when he notices yet another notification light up the screen of your phone. 

Sunghoon nods towards where it rests on the table, bagel suddenly forgotten. “Is that your mom again?”

“Yep.” Your lips stretch thin. You don’t even need to glance down at your phone to confirm. She’s been blowing up your notifications all weekend.  “She’s been on my ass about the upcoming fundraiser event for days now. And reminding me about the utmost importance of bringing an appropriate plus-one.”

Across from you, Sunghoon straightens his shoulders. “I suppose it is about time I bust out the trusty old prom suit again.”

You sigh, sending your half-eaten bagel a forlorn glance. “I wish. She told me if I ever bring you again, I lose half my trust fund.”

“What?” Sunghoon looks affronted. “Why?”

You level him with a look. “Does soap ring a bell?”

Sunghoon splutters in indignation. “That was one time,” he defends. “And anyone would have thought those were edible! They were shaped like candies, and they were on a platter–”

“Soap presentation aside, I don’t think that excuse will work on her.” The dejection in your voice is apparent. “Besides, she’s already made it very clear that you’re explicitly forbidden from attending any future family events as my plus-one.”

“Whatever,” Sunghoon grumbles. “Keep all your stupid inedible soaps.” Pausing for a moment, he realizes that still leaves a giant question hanging in the air. “Who are you gonna bring, then? You know, it kind of is too bad your date with Sim number one didn’t pan out.”

You shrug, pointedly ignoring the way your phone screen lights up yet again. It really is a bit of a shame James turned out to be an unreliable flake. One that still hasn’t bothered to apologize to you or even give any sort of indication that he remembered your scheduled date. Still, you can’t think of anyone that would earn your mother’s approval faster. “I’ll probably just fake a stomach flu.” After all, you’re kind of out of options. “I thought about asking Jungwon, but he’s got stuff going on for his internship that night. A big economics conference or something.”

“Speaking of economics,” Sunghoon leans in conspiratorially. “I think I might have some intel on our new friend from last night.”

“How was economics the segue you went with? We were literally just talking about his older brother.” Giving him a look of disbelief, you add, “And what about that interaction gave you the impression that we’re friends?”

“Whatever,” Sunghoon brushes you off before he continues, “Anyway, I heard from Heeseung who heard from Jay that apparently little Sim is hot garbage at economics. Rumor has it he’s already failed the class twice and is on track to do it again.”

You’re not sure why he’s deemed this information relevant to you, but you’d be lying if you said it weren’t a little amusing. 

“Really? Jungwon’s taking it now too, and he said that he sleeps through half the lectures and is still pulling an A.”

Sunghoon rolls his eyes. “Well, we can’t all be prodigies.”

Your lips flatten. “Pretty sure you don’t have to be a prodigy to not fail an entry level course three times.”

“Hey, cut him some slack,” Sunghoon argues. “He’s only failed it twice as of now.”

You scoff, entirely uninterested in the gory details of Jake Sim’s academic failures. “Whatever.”

“Either way,” Sunghoon says, “Jay told Heeseung who told me that’s why he’s so desperate for your number.” Confusion makes itself known on your features. You still don’t see the connection until Sunghoon adds, “Apparently he made some sort of deal with his brother that if he gets him your phone number, he’ll help him pass econ.”

A beat of silence passes between you. The barista at the counter calls out a customer’s name. It’s all you can do to not let your jaw physically drop open, mostly because–

“That is probably the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard in my life.” Glaring at Sunghoon, you can’t believe the theatrics of it all. “How many times have I told you to stop believing everything Heeseung says?”

“Technically, Jay said it,” Sunghoon corrects. “And I don’t know... It kind of makes sense when you think about it.”

You beg to differ. “It absolutely does not. What is this, middle school? Are we passing notes behind the teacher’s back and making our friends ask our crushes if they like us back?” It’s ridiculous. Absolutely, utterly ridiculous. 

There is no way. Absolutely no way that James Sim, heir to a multimillion dollar company, is wasting his time giving his little brother an economics cheat sheet in exchange for your phone number. 

Sunghoon raises his hands in mock surrender. “Don’t shoot the messenger. I just thought you might be curious.”

And you hate to admit it, but you kind of are. Even though every ounce of logic you’ve accumulated in twenty-one years of life tells you that Heeseung is a notorious gossip whose stories are just as much fiction as reality and your best friend is no better. Even though the whole thing makes absolutely no sense at all. 

Even though you repeat it to yourself over and over for the rest of the day, that damn curiosity is still there. Pestering you and disturbing your sleep and leaving you wondering if maybe, just maybe, some things are entirely too ridiculous to be anything but true. 

…

On Wednesday night, Jake and Heeseung are in the middle of a particularly brutal probability set when a sudden shadow looms over their favorite corner table on the third floor of the library. 

Glancing up, Jake finds Heeseung’s gaze already trained somewhere over his shoulder. Jake can’t quite tell if the look on his face is confusion or terror. 

“Mind if I join?” The request comes from behind him, posed in an oddly familiar voice. Heeseung is nodding in agreement before Jake has the chance to so much as turn around and identify the intruder. 

All is revealed soon enough, though, when you slide down into the seat next to him, ignoring the way Heeseung scrambles to move his things and make room for you in the seat next to him. Instead, you busy yourself with setting your bag on the floor and pulling out your laptop. 

It’s all Jake can do to stare at you blankly. This evening, you’ve traded the all black outfit from the other night’s party for something a bit more casual, something comfortable that blends in better to the background of a university library. The sudden proximity also means that the scent of your perfume is quick to waft over towards him. 

Jake does his best to hold his breath before his brain can trick him into thinking he likes it. 

“Stop looking at me like that.” A bold request for someone who just hijacked a study session and sat down with no explanation, but Jake wouldn’t expect anything less from you. 

“Like what?” The words are out before he gives them permission. Across the table, Heeseung is staring too, but all three of you know the command isn’t for him. 

“I don’t know.” Glancing at the battery bar hovering just above empty, you dig around in your bag for a moment for your laptop charger. Jake notes that you still have yet to look at him. Instead, you begin to busy yourself with typing something on your computer. “Just stop it.”

He hopes you can feel the way his eyes burn holes into the side of your head as his blank stare shifts into a glare. 

Heeseung glances between the two of you. His outburst is sudden. “Oh! I just remembered.” He hits his head for good measure. The acting is wasted on this audience, though. Neither of you pay him any mind or even bother to glance in his direction. “I have to go, uh…” he trails off, finishing lamely with a rather flat, “somewhere else.”

“Great.” Your eyes don’t leave your screen, fingers still flying on your keyboard. “See you later.”

As Heeseung scrambles to pack up his unfinished statistics homework and high tail it out of the library, the air that has suddenly become stifling, Jake glances down at where your fingers are still moving. 

Distractedly, he wonders how you can type so fast with nails that long, how you never seem to need the backspace key. How none of the pastel pink that coats your fingernails seems to be so much as chipped. A projection of perfection, he thinks, down to every last detail.  

Moments pass, neither of you saying anything.

You still haven’t looked at him by the time you do eventually break the impasse. “I heard you suck at econ.”

And Jake actually cannot believe you. “Did you seriously hunt me down just to rub it in?”

“Rub it in?” That at least earns him some of your attention, even if it is just a brief, confused glance as your fingers pause in their typing. “It’s not like I’m the reason you can’t pass.”

“Believe it or not, you quite literally are.”

You sigh, removing your hands from your keyboard entirely. Then, before he can blink, you spin your entire body in your chair, eyes, shoulders, and knees all directly trained on him. Jake can’t help the way he flinches back a few inches at the sudden change in pace. 

“Look,” you start. He can already tell by the way you wrap the single syllable sound in patronization that he’s not going to appreciate whatever you’re about to say. “I can tell that you’re not used to, like, having conversations with people, but usually what happens is you give someone enough information so that they know what you’re talking about.” He’s right. 

And he’s quick to defend himself. “Maybe I could, if you’d let me get three words out without interr–”

But you’ve moved on already. “Is the whole ‘deal with your brother’ thing true?”

Jake lets the silence linger for a moment, looking at you in disbelief. “You literally just proved my point.”

You roll your eyes. “I knew what you were going to say, so I sped things along. Now answer my question.” You lay it out for him again. This time, even more directly. “Did you try to get my number because of some deal you made with your brother?”

He’s not sure why it sounds so ridiculous, narrated back to him in your voice. It’s not like it was a brilliant, foolproof plan to begin with, but the way you present it has him feeling about five inches tall. 

“I…”

“It’s a yes or no question.” You really don’t beat around the bush, he thinks. 

“Yes, okay?”

Looking behind you, you suddenly lean in a little closer. It’s all Jake can do not to flinch back again. Bringing your hand up to cup your mouth, it’s like you’re about to divulge a terrible secret when you whisper, “You’re that bad at econ?”

Jake just sighs. “Worse, probably.”

Frowning, you pull back a few inches. “Aren’t you a business major? Isn’t econ, like, pretty important for you?” If he were thinking clearly, Jake might wonder how you know that. But that only thing his mind has space for right now is annoyance. At you, at this exchange, at the way you so easily pick through his flaws and seem to have no problem laying them bare at his feet like he doesn't already know them intimately.

“Yeah, well, it’s not like I got any say in my major,” Jake counters. He might have more patience for this conversation if he were having it with anyone but you, if you weren’t throwing his own insecurities back in his face with every follow-up question.

At that, something flickers through your eyes. Sympathy, maybe. “Fair enough.” Whatever it is, it’s gone before he can identify it. And it’s not enough to make you pull your punches. “Still though, that’s probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” Jake doesn’t need the reminder. “Just get a tutor like everyone else.”

The thing is, Jake has thought about it. On more than one occasion. He’s even gotten so far as filling out the university tutor request form. He just could never quite bring himself to complete the ‘Name’ field without all of the potential consequences forcing him to hit backspace. 

He might not be his brother, but he’s not stupid enough to think that his family would ever be okay with the Sim name anywhere near a tutor form. He tells you as much. “And listen to my dad tell me how much of a disappointment I am for not being able to even take a class on my own?” Jake laughs humorlessly. “No thanks.”

A beat passes. Two. You’re not done yet, but you at least have the decency to sound a little apologetic, a little tentative when you say, “Not to kick you while you’re down or anything, but I mean, that has to be better than failing twice.”

Jake just shakes his head. “You don’t know my father.”

You shrug but don’t press the matter further. Truth be told, you don’t know his father, but you do know fathers like him. You have one of your own. The third floor of the library doesn’t seem like the place for that conversation, though, even if you’ve already uncovered more than your fair share of each other’s secrets in the last ten minutes. “I guess not.”

…

Your phone is buzzing far too incessantly for a Saturday morning, much less this early on a Saturday morning. Internally, you curse Friday night you, who forgot to switch it into do not disturb before falling asleep. Face still buried in your pillow, you reach around your nightstand blindly with the intention of remedying that particular mistake and enjoying a few more moments of peace.

Before you can make good on your plan, you make the fatal mistake of reading the message preview before silencing your phone. And suddenly, to your neverending annoyance, you’re wide awake. 

Mom [7:36 am]: Looking forward to seeing you next Saturday at the fundraiser. 

Mom [7:37 am]: I also noticed that you haven’t indicated who you’ll be bringing yet. Please fill out the RSVP form when you have a moment. 

Mom [7:45 am]: James Sim hasn’t RSVP’d yet. Are you bringing him? You should invite him if you haven’t already.

Mom [7:53 am]: I also never heard the update after your date a few weeks ago. Hoping no news is good news. I just spoke with his father the other day, and it sounds like he’s doing great things over at their company. 

Mom [8:01 am]: I also heard that he volunteered a few summers ago rebuilding turtle habitats. Wow! I think you two would get along very well.

Groaning, you flip your phone back over. That about sums up how well she knows her only daughter, you think ruefully. If she thought wooing you with turtles was a good idea, she must have forgotten that you’ve had a lingering phobia of the freaky little reptiles since your friend from elementary school had a pet turtle that bit your finger when you were at her house. 

Besides, you have serious doubts that’s actually how James Sim spent his last summer in university. 

If memories from your social media scrolling serve correctly, rebuilding turtle habitats was code for partying on a yacht for a month straight. You don’t care how he spends his free time, but the way he already has your mother wrapped around his stupid finger is enough to annoy any lingering sleepiness out of your system. 

Whatever. James Sim’s white lies are the least of your concerns now, and they certainly won’t solve your problems. If anything, you’re starting to regret not telling your mother anything about your failed attempt at a first date with him. Now, trying to explain that disaster of an evening would only sound like an excuse at best and a flimsy lie at worst. 

And even if she did believe you, you still have the glaring issue of next Saturday and your lack of a pre-approved plus-one.

With one final groan, you pull your blanket over your face, trying and failing to banish any thoughts of your mother, James Sim, and the certain disaster next weekend will be. 

Despite your best efforts, your worries linger. They follow you into Sunday; they start to make you desperate on Monday. With a diminishing handful of days left until the fundraiser, your anxiety only surges. 

By the time Wednesday rolls around, you’re so stressed out that you can barely force your eyes to focus on the nearly blank Word document in front of you, all of the legalese and case details you can usually sort through in your sleep jumbling into one incomprehensible blob. 

Halfway through your third reread of a paragraph that details the basics of copyright law, it strikes you. The seedling of an idea so utterly ridiculous it just might be your saving grace.  

Your mother probably, definitely, couldn’t care less about James Sim’s so-called affinity for wildlife rescue. No, the only thing that makes him an appropriate candidate in her eyes for this Saturday has nothing to do with his personality at all. 

It’s his name that she likes. His family name specifically. 

In the middle of your favorite cafe, it hits you. The seedling of an idea sprouts roots, begins to bloom. 

If one Sim is good enough to be your plus-one, then surely the other one would be too. 

And you know exactly where he’ll be tonight. Glancing down at the time on your phone, you force your brain to think. Now, all you need is a plan. A way to convince him. Something he can’t refuse.  

Closing the lid of your laptop, you smile. You know exactly what it is he wants. 

Before you leave the cafe, you send a quick message to a friend. Set your plan in place so that the details are polished, irrefutable when you present it to him.

And then you set out for the university library. 

When you find Jake and Heeseung sitting at the same exact table on the third floor of the library, Heeseung doesn’t even bother to stick around for the customary greetings. Instead, he takes one single look at you before offering another flimsy excuse about having somewhere to be. Or maybe something to do. You can’t remember, and it doesn’t really matter. 

After all, the only reason you’re here is because–

“I have a way for you to pass econ.” Sliding into the seat next to Jake, the same one you sat in last time, you don’t waste any time before divulging the reason for your presence. 

If Jake is startled, he doesn’t show it. Statistics homework forgotten on the table, the only thing you see on his face is pure, obvious relief as his shoulders relax. 

“Thank god.” Reaching for his phone, he unlocks it, tapping and swiping until he’s ready to enter a new contact. “Give me your number, and I’ll–”

You shake your head, interrupting his train of thoughts. The way you smile makes him suddenly uneasy. He thought this was over, but now he’s not so sure. You confirm his fears when you say, “A different way.”

Now Jake just looks exasperated. If you keep up this habit, he’s about to start failing statistics too. Never mind the fact that he got his hopes up for what he is sure will turn out to be a giant pile of nothing. Still, he humors you. “What do you mean, a different way?”

“I mean,” you start, folding your hands across your lap. Jake has the distinct impression that you’re trying your best to be as convincing as possible. If nothing else, it does pique his curiosity. He’s never seen you be anything but annoyed or uninterested. It’s an interesting change of pace.“I have a friend who’s also taking econ right now and hasn’t scored below a 98 on a single assignment.” Jesus, Jake thinks. Must be nice. 

And then you drop the bomb on him. “He said he’s more than willing to tutor you. For money, of course.” you specify, moving on so quickly he hardly has the chance to process what you’re saying. “And it’s not like you can’t afford it, but I’ll split the cost with you. For the principle of it all.” There’s a beat of silence as what you’ve just said settles into the air. “Oh,” you add, remembering the most important detail. “And he’ll be discreet. Under the table tutoring, if you will. No chance of word getting back to Daddy Sim.” 

You do your best to give him your most trustworthy smile. Jake just stares back at you, mildly horrified.

When he finally speaks again, it’s to say, “... Please, and I mean this with every single bone in my body, please never refer to my father like that again.”

Not even bothering to look sheepish, the only agreement you offer is a mock salute. 

Your poor taste in nicknames aside, it does seem like a pretty sweet deal from where Jake is sitting. He cannot fail economics again, and getting a tutor would mean that his brother couldn’t hold his success over his head, couldn’t claim to be the sole reason for it. And a discreet tutor would be even better. Not going through the official university system would mean a much lower chance of his father ever finding out he got some help along the way.

All things considered, and very much to his surprise, Jake is having a hard time seeing any downsides. 

He goes through the list again. First, he gets to pass economics. Second, he doesn’t have to deal with his older brother in the process. Third, he gets a tutor that won’t pop up on his father’s radar, and all Jake has to do in return is–

Wait.

“Hold on a minute.” There’s an unmistakable edge of suspicion in Jake’s voice. There’s no way you went out of your way to find him a tutor, to help pay for it, without getting something in return. The wheels in his mind are starting to spin when he asks, “What’s in it for you?”

Next to him, you smile. It’s small, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d think you almost look nervous. “It’s just a small favor, really.” The expression on your face is not reassuring in the slightest. Still, you insist, “It’ll be easy, I promise. Just a few hours of your time at most.”

Jake knows better than to agree without details. And especially to anything you’re proposing. He’s already preparing to kiss his dreams of passing econ goodbye when he asks slowly,“What is it?”

You sigh, pretenses dropping. If you’re going to convince him now, you might as well do it with honesty. “That annual charity fundraiser event my parents throw. Your parents are usually there, I think. I don’t know if you’ve ever gone?”

Jake shrugs, frowning as he tries to remember. He’s not entirely sure either. After a while, fundraisers and events and family obligations all start to blur together. Although the name does ring a bell, albeit a distant, faint one. 

“Anyway,” you continue, “my mother is insistent that I bring a date. Someone she considers appropriate company. You know, runs in the same circles and comes from what she would consider a good family.” Jake nods. He does know exactly what you mean. Picking up on his agreement, you add with a twinge of hopefulness, “Like I said, it would be easy. Especially for you, since you’re used to this kind of stuff. I wouldn’t have to train you–”

That has Jake rolling his eyes. “Let me guess. I get a treat for rolling over?”

The ice in your glare is half hearted. “You know what I mean. There are certain…” You weigh your words carefully. “expectations at these things.” Pausing for a moment, you add, “What I’m trying to say is that I don’t think you’ll eat the soap, even if it’s candy shaped and on a platter.”

If you were trying to clarify your point, you did a terrible job. Jake’s brow pulls downwards in confusion. “Is that supposed to be some kind of metaphor?”

“Unfortunately not.” You shake your head, but don’t explain any further. Sunghoon’s mishaps are not the point of this conversation. A mutually beneficial deal is. Which is why you ask him, “So, what do you say? Are you in or not?”

Is he? Jake says nothing, considering. Mentally, he goes through the list of pros and cons. Pros, he thinks. I get to finally pass econ, and I get to do it without my brother. He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, gaze tracking the movement as you nervously bite at your lower lip. Also, I get to show up at an event with the girl he’s been trying to get for weeks now. 

He’d be lying if that didn't spark a certain warm feeling in his chest, if it didn’t inspire a sudden bout of preemptive vindication. But there are other things to consider.

Cons, he continues internally. I have to spend an entire evening at an event hosted by your family and make them believe you don’t annoy the ever-loving shit out of me.

Weighing his options, Jake has one more question. “How long would it be?” he asks, and you try to stifle a grin, as if he’s already told you yes. 

“The event is technically four hours,” you say carefully, “but I’m sure we could manage to sneak out after a solid two and a half.”

Jake nods, thinking it over a moment longer. 

“Okay,” he finally breathes, hoping this isn’t some kind of terrible, elaborate trick, that he isn’t about to sign his life away on a dotted line. 

For econ, he thinks. For what’s left of his struggling GPA. He can manage a single night at a mind-numbingly boring high society function. Even if it’s with you. “I’m in.”

And it feels a bit strange, he has to admit, as he watches you type your contact information into his contact list. It feels odd to have your number in his phone with no intention of passing it on. To know that he’s the one who will be using it to confirm the details of this Saturday. To know that his brother will be none the wiser and not at all closer to having any kind of access to you.  

And if that strange surge of smugness makes another sudden appearance, well, Jake just figures that no one ever has to know about it. 

…

Frowning, you give yourself another once over in the full length mirror that sits next to your vanity. A shimmering, pale gold, the evening gown that flows over your figure was hand-selected by you for this very event. For some reason, you’re having a hard time rediscovering the magic you’d felt trying it on in the showroom here in the soft, ambient light of your bedroom. 

Objectively, you’re sure you must look good. The compliments the store attendants had given you were more than just customary, and gold has always been your color. Still, a slew of sudden uncertainties simmer in your gut. Is the slight sparkle too garish? Does the gold wash you out? Your worries feel too big for your bedroom, at too stark an opposition with the peaceful ambience as soft, instrumental music plays from your speaker.

But this particular Saturday evening has its ways of making you feel jumbled where you’d typically be steadfast. Insecure where you’d usually find confidence.  

It’s true that your mother has always had a critical eye, and especially where you’re concerned. If you were to search deep enough, however, you’d find that she’s not the person you’re most concerned about making a lasting impression on tonight. 

With no small effort, you resist the urge to smooth out invisible wrinkles in the bodice of your dress. A nervous habit more than anything, it’s only exacerbated by the way your phone is still devoid of notifications. The clock on your nightstand is a reminder that your date for the evening should be here any minute, should be sending a message as confirmation of his arrival at your apartment. But your phone is still silent, even as the hour of the fundraiser draws nearer and nearer. 

Maybe this was a terrible mistake, you think, a new bout of uncertainties beginning to brew. It shouldn't be a surprise, really. Trust him to be just as flakey as his brother, with absolutely no regard for previous commitments or anyone else’s time. It’s just your luck that you get stood up again, this time by the other Sim. 

You're in the middle of disguising your fears and distracting yourself by cursing him and his future bloodline when your phone finally pings with an incoming notification. Well, you think, grabbing your coat, feeling a bit ridiculous for the slight overreaction, you’ll have to look into removing generational curses when you have the time.

For now, you settle with pulling on your heels for the evening, ignoring the way you feel a bit wobbly despite the fact that you’ve walked in far worse. Locking your apartment behind you and striking a slightly unsteady pace towards the elevator down the hall, you whisper a silent plea that tonight isn’t as much of a disaster as you’re afraid it could be. 

You watch as the numbers on the elevator screen tick lower and lower, a swirling mix of dread and excitement starting to swim in your stomach. When you finally reach the first floor, you’re surprised to see a familiar face waiting for you in the lobby. Something in you softens, albeit just slightly. You’d incorrectly assumed he would just wait for you in the comfort of his car and spent the whole ride down preparing to awkwardly check license plates in the near dark till you found the right one. 

An overwhelming sense of  self-consciousness returns to you under the brightness of the lobby lights. Unconsciously, you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, wondering how long it will take him to notice you as you begin to walk towards him. You’ve only made it a few steps when it strikes you that he’s already distracted by something else. 

Across the lobby, Jake Sim is engaged in a conversation with your doorman. One that looks slightly heated, by your judgment. 

As you get closer, their words become more audible. 

“Like I just told you,” The exasperation in your date’s voice is apparent. “I’m here to see ___.”

And you really should make your presence known, should step in and divert the brewing argument, especially since you seem to be the subject of it. 

But then you look at Jake. Really look at him. 

Realistically, you knew he would come well-dressed. That had been a big part of your reason for choosing him. The Sunghoon soap fiasco aside, you already knew Jake Sim wasn’t someone who needed you to put together a PowerPoint presentation on formal event dress code. He didn’t need you to explain the concept of complementary colors or the advantages of getting a suit tailored. Didn’t need you to explain that Converse were not an appropriate show or that no, a bolo tie is not acceptable attire. 

Up until now, you were grateful for his pre existing knowledge. It saved you a lot of time and effort that you could use to focus on other things, like getting ready yourself. But it also meant that you were entirely unprepared to see him like this. 

Eyes scanning him again, the immaculate fit of his suit is undeniable, as is the way his dark hair is perfectly mussed. It’s styled enough to avoid withering comments from elderly attendees who have the habit of asking how people see with their hair covering their eyes. But it’s also messy in a way that looks intentional, in a way that makes you want to run your fingers through it, tug at it just a little, just to tease. 

It’s not just that he’s dressed well, though, despite the fact that he undeniably is. 

No, what has you freezing in your footsteps is the fact that Jake looks good. 

“And like I just told you, you’re not on her guest list. So I’m sorry, sir.” There is not a single trace of apology in your doorman’s voice. “But I’m afraid I can’t let you up. You’ll have to contact her and ask her to add you to her guest list.” You’re not sure how he manages to do it without losing any professionality, but your doorman makes it very clear that he thinks that will happen just as soon as hell freezes over. 

Jake’s shoulders tense in visible frustration. You have to suppress an actual sigh at the way fabric stretches over the muscle there. “Again, I’m not asking you to. Could you please just let her know that I’m here? She’s not answering her messages–”

“How odd.” The sarcasm is unmistakable. 

Getting a little desperate, Jake ignores the slight and continues anyway. “And we’re on a bit of a time crunch, so–”

From here, you can see the way his features start to twist in panic. It’s sobering enough to snap you out of your trance.

Cutting in, you make your presence known. “It’s okay,” you tell your doorman first. “I know him.” Then, you turn to Jake, putting on an award-worthy performance of false nonchalance when you explain, “Sorry I didn’t respond to your message. I was just on my way down.”

You watch as some of the tension drains from his features. “That’s alright,” Jake concedes easily. “I just wanted to make sure we weren’t late.”

A funny feeling, a new one, stirs again. Something in you softens. “I appreciate that.” 

You can’t help the way you take another look at him. At his suit, his hair, his face. At him, at all of it. 

Mistaking your gaze for scrutiny, he asks, a bit self-consciously, “What do you think? Will your mother approve?”

She will. There’s no doubt in your mind. But you’re not looking at him through her eyes when you tell him, “Yeah, you look good. Really good.”

The last part probably wasn’t necessary, but the way he flushes makes it almost worth it. Casting your eyes downward in an effort to hide a smile, you notice a detail that you missed earlier. 

Jewelry. Gold jewelry. A handful of rings on his fingers and a delicate bracelet on his left wrist.  

Suddenly, his message from last night makes a little more sense.

Jake [9:02 pm]: What color is your dress for tomorrow?

You [9:08 pm]: Gold. Don’t worry about trying to match. A black suit will be just fine. 

Now, you’re grateful he didn’t fully listen to you, touched that he even bothered to ask.  

Across from you, Jake is suddenly having a bit of a hard time breathing. The earlier near-fiasco with your doorman all but forgotten, you’re still admiring his bracelet as his eyes scan the length of you, throat bobbing by the time his gaze makes its way back up to your face. 

“You, uh,” he coughs. “You look nice too.”

“Thank you.” You miss the way his gaze wanders, can’t seem to find a place to land that won’t dust the tops of his cheekbones an even deeper shade of crimson. “I’ve been looking forward to wearing this dress forever.”

And it is a nice dress, Jake thinks, but he’s not sure how to tell you that’s not what he meant. 

Eyes finally landing on your feet, or rather, on the stilettos you’re wearing, he frowns. “I had to park kind of far away.” Meeting your gaze, he adds, “Why don’t you wait here? I’ll pull the car around front.”

“Okay.” Something in you melts a bit at his consideration, at the fact that he even noticed. “Thank you.”

And it is nice, you think, to not be beginning the evening with your feet already sore. To have someone pick up on the little things, even if he’s being compensated for it in the form of half-price tutoring.

Sliding into the passenger seat, you try not to sigh like a lovesick schoolgirl when he opens the door for you, when he puts his hand on the back of your seat as he reverses the car out of its parking spot. Get it together, you think. You’ve turned up your nose at far more obvious attempts at wooing you, and it’s not like Jake is here with you out of his own volition. The thought is surprisingly disappointing, as he adjusts the stereo, soft music filling the silence.

The drive passes like that, in a quiet that’s only uncomfortable if you look at it too close. Eventually, the soft melodies filtering through the stereo become a pleasant sort of background noise as you watch the world blur outside the window. 

It would be smart, probably, to sort out your story for the evening and put together something coherent for when the two of you are inevitably asked invasive questions, but you can’t bring yourself to be the one to disturb the peace. 

So when you arrive at the fundraiser a handful of minutes later, you just have to hope that the image the two of you strike together will be enough to stave off any unwanted questions for the time being. 

Again, Jake opens your car door for you, offers a steadying hand as you step out of it. And when he gives you his arm as you enter through the front door of the venue, you take it, wrapping your fingers around his elbow. Pausing just outside the entrance, you watch as he takes a deep breath.  

“Ready?” You’re not sure if you’re asking him or yourself. 

Jake answers for the both of you. “Let’s do this.”

Walking through the lobby, you hand your jackets to the coat check attendant before entering the ballroom where the fundraiser is held. Despite your general distaste for this evening and everything it entails – you sneak a glance at your partner in crime. Well, mostly everything – you can’t help but admire the space around you.

Decorated immaculately down to every last element, your mother truly doesn’t spare any expense or detail when it comes to throwing parties. And like always, she somehow manages to have a sharp eye on everything and everyone, no matter how chaotic or busy. You’ve hardly taken two steps inside the ballroom when she finds you, approaches you will all the grace of a panther stalking its prey. 

Pulling you in for a quick hug, the warm greeting she gives you is more for the benefit of onlookers than for you. And it forces you to remove your hand from Jake’s arm.

Looking over your shoulder, her voice is sickeningly saccharine. “And this must be James,” she beams, making eye contact with the wrong brother. Directing her attention to him, she gushes, “My daughter has told me wonderful things about you.”

Your eyebrows raise in disbelief. Jake stifles a laugh, expertly turns it into a cough. 

Really? You think. She did all that digging on James’ so-called turtle philanthropy but never bothered to pull up a picture of the guy? And you mean, standard genetic similarities aside, it’s not like the two of them look that much alike.

“Actually, mom,” you spare him the expense of having to correct her mistake, “this is Jake Sim. James’ brother. We go to school together.”

“Oh,” her eyebrows fall at the slip, no doubt an unforgivable social faux pas in her mind. “You never filled out the RSVP form, sweetie,” she somehow makes the term of endearment sound like a curse, “so I wasn’t sure who you’d be bringing.” Trust her to find a way to make her mistake your fault. 

Turning back to your date, she tries to remedy her mistake. “Jake, then.” She offers him a smile so forced you’re surprised her cheeks aren’t aching. Looking back at you, she fishes, “And he’s your…?”

Her dangling bait goes untouched. “He’s my plus-one.” It’s an intentional choice of words on your part. In your mind, it’s a neutral enough term that will hopefully let you navigate the evening without too many rumors or invasive questions about your personal life from people you only speak to out of reluctant obligation.  

Jake is less used to the way your mother tends to poke and prod, the way she likes to examine the superficial details of your life with a microscope and make sure she can frame them in a way that will be pleasing for public perception. The way she doesn’t ask about your love life because it’s of any genuine interest to her, but because she wants sole control of the rumor mill’s production. 

Next to you, he stiffens, feels as though he’s already failed some kind of test he didn’t know he was taking, wasn’t given any materials to study for. 

There’s a lot to be said, probably, about the way you pick up on his discomfort so easily. The way your hand returns to the crook of his elbow wordlessly and gives a single, gentle squeeze. Reassuring him, putting his nerves at ease, as you begin to navigate your way out of this conversation. 

“We’d better find our seats,” you tell your mother. The only reason Jake can identify the icy edge hiding in the superficial sweetness of your voice is because he’s been on the receiving end of it. On multiple occasions. Directed at someone else, he finds it almost amusing. “Wouldn't want to miss anything.”

“Of course,” your mother concedes, but there’s an undertone there. Jake can tell that there’s a war being waged here, battles and skirmishes in subtext and stilted pauses. He’s no stranger to the way high society likes to wrap up insults in niceties and skirt around delicate topics, but his own family has never been anything but blunt when it comes to their distaste for him and his choices. 

He’s still not entirely sure what he just witnessed, but you’re dragging him by his arm to find your assigned table before he can sort through the offending slights and put on armor that may be of any use to you. 

Carefully arranged, the maze of tables is easy enough to navigate. Each seat has a white place card in front of it, embossed with a shimmery golden script that matches your dress and holds the name of the guest who’s been assigned to sit there. 

You drag Jake past a flurry of names and attendees he half recognizes, stopping only to grab two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter, handing one to Jake before you continue on your mission. After another minute of searching, you find your name at a table a few rows out from the far wall. Rolling your eyes, you can practically hear your mother’s reasoning: Not too close to the wall. Wouldn’t want people thinking I’m trying to hide her. But certainly not anywhere near the center of the room, in case she falls into that pesky habit of being an awful embarrassment.  

Standing behind your chair, your eyes find the place card stationed in front of the seat next to yours at the same time Jake’s do. 

“Oh my god.” The exasperation is apparent, even though your words are barely audible where you mutter them under your breath. 

Because of course this hasn’t already been enough of a train wreck. Because of course the place card next to yours doesn’t have Jake’s name on it. Nope, embossed in the same shimmery gold is the name of another person entirely. 

James Sim. 

You turn to your date, apologetic. “God, I’m sorry. I really didn’t fill out the RSVP form, but I didn’t think she’d just assume…”

“It’s okay.” Jake gives you some grace. “Really, it wouldn’t be the first time.” And all things considered, he kind of is in his brother’s seat tonight. Attending an event that’s better suited for the future head of the company than his forgotten younger brother. Accompanying the girl that public opinion surely dictates would be a better match for him. 

Still, you frown. Reaching for the small clutch that sits against your hip, you rummage for a moment before pulling out a black permanent marker. 

Jake glances at you sideways.Your bag of the evening is tiny, barely even big enough to hold your phone. He’s surprised you managed to fit the marker in there, much less prioritize it enough to bring it with you. “You carry that thing around with you all the time?”

You shrug. “Never know when you’ll need to do some DIY vandalism.”

It would be a lie if he said something in him doesn’t soften, just a bit, when he watches you reach for the place card in front of his seat and put a giant, bold X over his brother’s name. 

Your handwriting is no match for the computer-generated script, but Jake still likes the place card a little better when you’re done with it, likes the way his name looks next to yours when you set it back on the table, alterations completed. 

“There,” you say, looking entirely too satisfied with your handiwork. “All better.” This time, you slide down into your seat before Jake has the chance to pull it out for you. Turning to him as he tentatively takes the seat next to you, he finds a small frown on your lips. “Wait,” you pause, realization written across your features. “Your brother isn’t coming, right?”

Jake shakes his head. “I mean, I don’t know for sure, but I doubt it. He has no reason to come. My parents are on a business trip, so they won’t be here either. And that also probably means he’s more swamped than usual at the office.”

Nodding, you take a sip of champagne. “Good.” Pausing, your lips quirk. “Although it would be kind of funny if he–”

“I think you’re in my seat.” The sudden interruption is flat, leaves no room for arguments. 

Startled, the two of you spin in your chairs. 

James Sim, despite his brother’s predictions, is in fact not otherwise occupied at his office. Instead, he stands directly behind his younger sibling, strikes an imposing figure where his shadow blocks the chandelier light behind him and extends over his brother and his altered place card. 

Eyes flaming, he looks at where his name has been crossed out. Replaced. 

Next to Jake, you remain silent, figure that you’ll let Jake handle this one the way he let you handle your mother. Far be it from you to step in on a family matter.

But then you notice the way Jake shrinks a little in his seat, hides a little further in his brother’s shadow. Reaches for the place card like he wishes he could take it back.

Sliding your gaze back to your least favorite Sim sibling, your voice is even, albeit icy, when you point out the obvious, “It’s not actually. Can’t you read?” Jake’s hand stops in its tracks, falls back to his lap.

A quick look your way is the only indication James even hears you. Instead, he continues his one-sided conversation with his brother, a barely controlled sort of fury crossing over his expression. “Hm,” he muses, glancing between the two of you. “Sure seems like you two are awfully close.” Casting an accusatory glare at Jake, he adds, “That’s funny. I could have sworn you said you barely knew her.”

Her. You’re sitting right there, and you don’t even get a name. 

It doesn’t go unnoticed by Jake either. And it turns out to be just what he needs to find his voice. You’re almost proud of the sarcasm he manages to muster when he counters, “Yeah, well, this funny thing happens when you spend time together. You actually get to know each other.” Straightening his spine, there’s an unmistakable edge in his voice when he adds, “You know, when you actually bother to show up, that is.”

You hide a laugh behind your hand, albeit not very well. Glancing at Jake, a feeling swells in your chest that you can only identify as pride. You didn’t know he had it in him. 

Reassessing his strategy, James turns to you, forcing a nonchalance that is entirely contradicted by the way his cheeks are rapidly reddening. “Actually, ___,” he tries, acting as if the last thirty seconds faded out of existence at his will. “I was hoping to speak to you about something. I’d love to get you a drink if you–”

“Actually,” Jake cuts in, doubling down. “We already have drinks.” Behind you on the table, the two near full glasses of champagne are undeniable evidence. The laugh that spills out of you this time is impossible to hide. Yeah, you decide, between the two of them, you definitely hate James more. Entirely amused, the only thing you wish you had is a bowl of popcorn as you root for the underdog. Not that he needs it. Much to your satisfaction, he’s been landing his punches well. 

The giggle dies on your lips, though, when you feel the warmth of another hand suddenly cover the top of yours where it rests on your thigh. Gaze flaming, James follows the movement. Startled, your eyes fly to Jake. The only view you’re offered is of his profile as he keeps his gaze trained on his brother, the challenge in his features unmistakable. 

The only consolation he offers for your sudden shock is a small, reassuring squeeze against your knuckles. 

And then he says, “And I’d like to keep my girlfriend right here, actually.” At that, he does finally turn to you, eyes pleading, gaze imploring when he seeks your permission. Even though they’re performative in nature, his words aren’t solely for James’ benefit. “If that’s alright with you, that is.”

Girlfriend.

You were perfectly happy in the role of the observer, but now Jake has dragged you into the spotlight. Even though it pains you, you know you can’t leave him hanging. Not when that would mean a sure victory for his dickhead of a brother. 

Girlfriend. The word echoes in your head, has you feeling dizzy.

“Of course,” you return hollowly, barely recognizing the sound of your own voice over the sudden rushing in your ears. “Boyfriend.”

When you smile at him, you make sure it looks sickeningly sweet enough to deter James. Your eyes, however, flash with a warning only Jake can read. 

“You’re dating?” James can’t hide his shock, and his outrage is just as obvious. 

“Yep,” Jake passes you a panicked look. But you don’t need it, don’t need his convincing. You’ve already dug yourself a deep enough hole. Trying to climb out now would only mean everything crumbles. 

“Sure are,” you confirm with a tight smile. Turning back to Jake, you add, “Actually, sweetie, I need to talk to you about, uh…” you scramble for a moment. Finish vaguely with, “that thing.” 

“Right.” Jake picks up on the threat in your eyes seamlessly, knows there’s only one acceptable response. “That thing,” he echoes. 

“Yeah, so,” you turn back to James, barely acknowledging him as you start to stand. “We’re gonna step out for a minute.”

Jake is all but putty in your hands as you switch the positioning of your grip so that the hand that was resting on yours is now encased firmly between your fingers. 

“See you later,” are Jake’s breathless parting words to his brother. 

“Hopefully not, though,” you alter. 

And then you’re dragging him back through the crowd towards the exit, and it’s all Jake can do to not run into the other guests or knock over the delicately balanced trays of hors d’oeuvres waiters carry throughout the room. He’s at your mercy all the way through the double doors of the ballroom, and you pause only briefly to determine which hallway is less likely to have people in it before deciding on the one to the right, towing him along behind you.

Once you’re far enough away from unwanted eyes and ears, you start wiggling every door knob you come across, growing visibly more frustrated until you finally find an unlocked one. Huffing, you push Jake into the spare storage closet first. Following him in, you close the door behind you. 

The sudden change in space puts you in close proximity. Your nose is only a handful of inches away from his when you start laying out accusations. 

“What the hell?” With the same hand than just dragged him on a half marathon, you shove at his chest. “Boyfriend?” You have half a mind to grab the broom standing next to you and start whacking him with it. 

“I’m sorry!” Jake holds his hands up defensively. He doesn’t miss the way you’re eyeing every cleaning tool around you, no doubt deciding which would make the most effective weapon. “I panicked, okay? I just hate that smug little look he gets on his face–”

“Well you’re about to be seeing ‘that smug little look’ a lot more once he calls your bluff!” you half-shout, trying to convey your anger without alerting anyone to your presence.“The timeline barely lines up to begin with. It’s only been what, a few weeks since I was supposed to go on a date with him? And that’s not to mention the fact that there won’t be anyone to corroborate our story, because we don’t spend any time together, since, y’know, we’re not dating.”

Jake begs to differ. You’ve invaded more than one of his Wednesday night statistics study sessions. 

But before he can point this out, you’re continuing. “Which means you’re gonna have to come up with some sort of believable explanation for why we break up after, like, three days.”

“Ugh.” Jake drags an open palm down his face. He hates to admit it, but you do have a point there. 

Fingers running through his hair, his sudden stress is apparent. And you’re not trying to send him to an early grave, but would it have killed him to think before he spoke? Consider the consequences of starting the exact kind of rumor you’ve been hoping to dodge all evening? You get that his brother is not exactly an easy person to get along with, but was the short-lived victory really worth the potential fallout? 

Across from you, Jake seems to be having the same realizations. A million thoughts whirring through his brain, he’s not sure where to place his focus. 

After a moment, he settles on optimism. “Look, I think it will be fine.” The more he thinks about it, the more he convinces himself he believes it. “James has been up to his ass in company stuff since the second he graduated, so it’s not like he has extra time to check up on us or anything.” And even if he did, James would have no way of knowing who to ask. Jake has the sneaking suspicion his older brother couldn’t name a single one of his friends if his life depended on it. He would have no idea who to track down to corroborate your so-called romance. 

“We won’t have to do anything,” Jake reasons. “I’ll just mention you in passing for the next few weeks if he happens to ask.” Even that should be simple enough. After all, Jake seriously doubts he will. “And by the time the holidays roll around, I can just say things fizzled naturally.” Easy. Simple. Uncomplicated. Mutual, and your pride and his both remain intact. “No big deal.” 

Across from him, you weigh his words. It makes sense, yes, but there’s something starting to swirl in your gut that you don’t like. It feels a little too much like dread, like trepidation. Jake can read all of the uncertainty written across your face when you tell him, “I still don’t like it. My mother and your brother were both here tonight and already got different stories from us. This could get messy really quickly. I mean, what if our families start talking–”

“They won’t.” Jake shakes his head. “Your mom thinks I’m just a plus-one, and when my name comes up in James and my father’s conversations, it isn’t to discuss the ins and outs of my dating life.” Of this, at least, Jake is sure. His father couldn’t care less who he dates, as long as it’s not a liability to him, to the company. “Besides, we're university students.” Jake tries to lighten the mood, clear some of the tension. “Twenty-one and immature and all that.” For a moment, Jake imagines what life would feel like if that’s truly all he was, if that’s the only thing he got to be. No added pressure of a notorious last name and a reputation to maintain. Tucking that thought to the back of his mind, he decides he’ll mourn it later. “A short-lived relationship with a story that doesn’t quite add up is practically a right of passage. Not something to be suspicious of.” 

You remain silent for a moment, but your hand doesn’t get any closer to the broom.

“Okay.” Some of the tension seeps out of your shoulders as you turn his reasoning over in your brain, nodding as his logic starts to piece together. “Okay,” you reiterate. You still don’t like it, but he’s right about one thing: it is the best option you have. 

After all, there’s no way in hell you’re about to go tell your mother that your plus-one is actually your secret boyfriend, and you hate to admit it, but James’ little smirk is incredibly agitating. And it will all blow over, you’re sure. Like Jake said, James and your mother have no real reason to talk, and if Jake is convinced that his brother won’t be spreading this particular rumor, you’ll just have to believe him for the time being. 

Letting him out of the closet first, you only imitate hitting him upside the back of the head once before you catch up to him, linking arms again before reentering the ballroom. 

As the evening goes on, your worry starts to subside. Thankfully, every other part of the night goes perfectly to plan, even if you do have to force yourself to laugh a little too hard at one of Jake’s awful jokes when you catch James watching the two of you. The second glass of champagne you down helps, if nothing else. 

Exactly as you predicted, after two and a half hours have passed, you and Jake are sneaking out the back exit, tiptoeing to his car as the fourth speaker of the evening continues their droning speech inside the event. Your mother is none the wiser to your early departure, and you hope it’s the first in a series of victories for the evening. 

When Jake drops you off just outside the front doors of your apartment building, his smile is almost reassuring enough to put that lingering sense of unease to rest where it still sits in your gut. 

Makeup removed, hair washed, and evening gown traded for pajamas, sleep is slow to find you a handful of hours later. Eventually, though, it does, and your rest is undisturbed, dreamless. 

…

The next morning, with nothing but the pastel tones of sunrise and the sound of his brewing coffee maker to keep him company, Jake Sim stares at the message on his phone in abject horror. 

Mom [7:32 am]: I can’t believe I had to find out from your brother! Family dinner next weekend at our place. Bring your girlfriend. :) 

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PART TWO IS UP AND LINKED ON MY MASTERLIST!

note: thank you for reading!! this is the version I had saved in my docs and it should be identical to what was posted before but in case there are any slight differences, that's why. I also sometimes make the fatal mistake of doing small grammatical edits in tumblr itself, so please excuse any minor errors as I didn't do a read through this time around. as always, I love to hear any thoughts you may have!

[joyful-enchantress]

Spring Heat (18+) | Loki x Fem!Reader

banner created by the amazing @springdandelixn

A/N: You help your husband through his yearly heat, which is part of the Jotun mating cycle. He's afraid he might hurt you, but you are determined to stay... I wrote this for @springdandelixn and her Double-Trouble Sleepover! Congratulations, Beanie, my love! I hope you enjoy this little fic that I put together for you 🖤

Genre/Warnings: Jotun mating cycle AU, smut (18+), rough sex, choking, dubcon? (everything is consensual but Loki is not entirely in control of himself), language, light angst, fluff too, filth with feeling, established relationship

Word Count: 3182

The sights and sounds of springtime were all around you as you strolled through the palace grounds —

The busy twittering of birds as they searched for food and fought over tree branches on which to build their nests.

The chattering of squirrels and rabbits and other small animals as they came out of hiding to begin a new season of life.

The rich shade of green returning to the grass in the meadow, speckled with pops of color where wildflowers were beginning to bloom.

Speaking of blooming flowers -- the palace gardens were thriving, and in the next couple of weeks were sure to become a spectacle of color, ranging from delicate pastel hues to bright, vibrant tones. Just in time for the Spring Festival that would be held at the end of the month.

Yes, spring was upon you. Your favorite season. It meant warmer temperatures and sunshine and new life.

But despite all the bright cheerfulness that spring brought with it, for your husband, Loki, it also brought with it a certain darkness.

His heat.

Loki was of Jotun blood; a Frost Giant. And with that heritage came certain Jotun traits, some more easily embraced than others. One such trait that your husband found more loathsome than the rest was the Jotun mating cycle.

Each year since his body matured, around the time of the Spring Equinox, Loki would find himself at the mercy of his primal instincts. Unable to control his animalistic urges to mate, he’d lock himself in his chambers until it would pass.

That is, until you had something to say about it.

When you learned of the agony he endured — both physically and emotionally — locked in his chambers for anywhere from one week to one month until his heat cycle passed, you couldn’t bear it. You had to do something to help, if you could.

You remembered the conversation you’d had with him well. It was shortly after your wedding…

————

“Loki, isn’t there anything that would make it easier to endure? Or at least make it come to an end more quickly? I can’t imagine a week of that, let alone a month.”

“Unfortunately, no, darling. There isn’t really anything that can be safely done to help it. The healers can give me an elixir that will suppress it, but I can’t take it every year, or it would lose its effectiveness. And besides, a heat the year after a suppressed heat is always more intense and agonizing.”

Your eyebrow cocked, looking at him with curiosity. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience…?”

He took a deep breath before answering, “Yes, I’ve taken suppressants occasionally in the past. The temptation of a year of reprieve was too great for me to resist at times. But I always found that the following year’s heat was far worse than what is typical. More desperation, more madness, more… pain.”

Your heart broke for him in that moment.

“Why does it last so long, Loki?”

He gave a mirthless chuckle. “It lasts as long as it takes for one of two things to happen. Either it quite literally burns its way out of my system, like a fever that takes weeks to break. Or…”

His voice trailed off, and he looked off into the distance, as if he was searching for his thought amongst the forests and rolling hills.

“Or…?” You gently encouraged him to continue.

Loki let out an exasperated sigh and quietly admitted, “Or… I mate. Breed. Fuck.”

Something about the way he enunciated the hard ‘k’, his Adam’s apple bobbing sinfully as the sound clicked in his throat, had your core throbbing with need and a wave of hot arousal unfolding over your body.

You blinked a few times as you contemplated what he said. “Well that seems easy enough,” you replied cooly, as if you were discussing the weather.

“What…?” He looked at you, perplexed.

“If having a good fuck will bring your agony to an end, then that seems like an easy solution to me. I can help you with that —”

“NO!” His rich baritone voice boomed as it cut you off, dripping with authority, anger, and — was that fear? “You don’t understand, my love. I am not myself when this happens. I lose myself, I lose control. I no longer am capable of keeping up the Asgardian façade; my Jotun form takes over and I am overcome with the primal desire to mate. I lose all regard for decency, I become… a monster. I am a monster.”

“Loki…” you reached a hand up to caress the side of his stupidly beautiful face, running your thumb soothingly along his sharp cheekbone and slotting your palm against his chiseled jaw, which was tightly clenched. A sign of his distress. “I love you, Loki. Let me help you through this.”

“I love you too, darling. More than my life itself. Which is exactly why I can’t let you do this.” He wrapped his large hand around the back of yours and turned his head to the side to tenderly kiss your palm. “It isn’t safe. I could hurt you. Badly.”

“I trust you, Loki. I trust you with my life, no matter what physical form you assume.” The next words you uttered came to you as easily as breathing, “I want to do this. Please. Use me. Use my body to sate your desires and end your own suffering.”

His emerald eyes widened at your words, most likely shocked at how brazen and self-assured they were. But swirling behind the shock was something else. Reverence. Trepidation. And lust.

He slowly swallowed, gathering himself together and collecting his thoughts after you scrambled them with your salacious plea.

“Alright then, darling.” He cautiously relented, his eyes boring into yours, searching for any sign that you were having second thoughts or hints of doubt. “Come springtime, when my next heat cycle is upon me, I’ll let you help me. I’ll let you be the balm that soothes my burning, searing ache.”

————

And now, spring was upon you. And any day now, it would be time to make good on your promise to him. For better or worse. You suddenly had a renewed appreciation for the words you spoke in your wedding vows to him, just 8 months ago.

Loki has been warning you for the past few days that his heat is imminent, and could take over at any time. He could feel it; all the warning signs were there. The restlessness. The irritability. The discomfort. Crawling under his skin like an itch he can't scratch. Until it makes him snap.

Each and every time, he asked if you were still sure. He reminded you that you could change your mind, that he didn't expect you to do this. That he'd never expect you to do this. It was entirely your choice.

And each and every time, you stood firm in your decision. You wanted to help him. You would do this.

The sun was beginning to set on your evening stroll, so you altered your route so that it would lead you back towards the private chambers that you shared with Loki. As you approached the hallway which led to your shared door, you could feel a distinct, unseasonal chill in the air.

Was this it? Was tonight the night?

Once you reached the ornate wooden door, you noticed a thin blanket of frost coating the edges of it, as if, behind the door, was the force of winter itself, its icy chill seeping through the gaps between the door and the frame.

You reflected for a moment on the irony that all this frost and chill was the result of something called a heat, and you couldn't help but chuckle to yourself.

But then you remembered that not just fire, but ice, too, can burn.

A shiver rolled down your spine, and the cold seeping through the doorframe wasn't entirely to blame.

You took a moment to gather your courage, reminding yourself that this was Loki. Your husband. Your one true love.

You could do this.

You softly knocked, each tap of your knuckles against the cold wood sending a jolt of bravery through you.

"Loki... can I come in?"

"Pet..." The voice that answered you was familiar, but more... ragged. It was deeper, if that was even possible, and assumed a huskiness that made your usually gentle husband sound nothing short of feral.

It sent a surge of hot, wet arousal through you, which pooled between your thighs.

"I'm here, Loki..." you whispered like a prayer. "Let me help you."

"This is your last chance, pet," he warned. "You can still change your mind. But the moment you open the door, I'm afraid there will be no going back."

Good thing you had no plans of going back.

You opened the door and stepped into your chambers; after ensuring the door was closed and locked, you took a deep breath. This was it.

As you turned around, you came face to face with your husband.

Except he wasn't quite the Loki you knew. For one thing, he was taller. Much taller. At least 8 feet tall. You briefly wondered how you'd be able to take him in this form. His usually porcelain skin was replaced with a brilliant cerulean, and across every bit of blue that your hungry eyes could find, were ridges that swept across his skin in bold strokes and delicate lines, forming intricate patterns that you longed to trace with your fingers. As your eyes settled on his face, you found some familiarity there. You recognized the bone structure and the shape of his nose, the curve of his lips; the luscious raven locks that framed his angular face were unchanged. But in place of the emerald orbs that you knew and loved were two glistening rubies, staring at you with an intensity that could only be described as ferocious.

He was beautiful. Flawless. You saw no monster before you. Only your husband. Showing you a side of himself that he has kept hidden from you. Until now.

You broke the silence first, and simply muttered, "I love you, and I am here. Use me."

And that was all the permission he needed.

He closed the distance between you impossibly fast, like a predator stalking its prey, and wrapped an icy hand around your throat, squeezing firmly, the coldness stinging like pins and needles against your skin.

His lips met yours with an urgency that you hadn't experienced before; any hint of gentleness was gone and in its place a brutal clash of tongues and teeth as he claimed your mouth, a throaty growl slipping past his lips as he basked in the taste of you on his tongue.

Fear crept up your spine for the first time since you entered, and you brought your small hands up to claw at his wrist, a desperate attempt to let him know that you needed a break; you needed to breathe.

Something within him seemed to get the message, because he peeled his mouth away from yours and released your throat, repurposing his hand to wrap around your midsection and toss you unceremoniously onto the large bed in the center of the room.

You had to admit that part of you enjoyed the way he was manhandling you.

He wasted no time freeing himself from his garments and strode towards the bed, where he situated himself over you, caging in your small frame like a hungry animal about to enjoy the spoils of its hunt.

You gulped at the sight of his enormous cock, as it bobbed angrily against his stomach, covered in the same ridges that decorated the rest of his body, the tip weeping with the evidence of his primal desire. For you.

"These pretty silks have got to go," he rasped against your ear, his breath somehow both hot and cold.

He roughly grabbed the fine fabric and you winced as you heard him rip it to shreds as easily as if your dress was made of flower petals from the garden.

Within seconds, you were bare before him, and his ravenous gaze lazily roamed over your body, savoring every dip and every curve like the sight of you alone could sate him.

Even though that couldn't be further from the truth.

When he decided that his eyes had had their fill, he brought two fingers up to prod against your lips, his gaze meeting yours, daring you to defy him.

But you didn't dare.

You submissively parted your lips and wrapped your mouth around his fingers, astonished at how much your mouth had to stretch just to accommodate them. A wicked smile tugged at his lips as your tongue danced over his digits, preparing them for exploration of another warm, wet hole.

A gasp escaped your lips as his fingers were abruptly pulled from your mouth and pushed inside your weeping cunt. They pumped and stretched you almost as much as his normal cock would, and you shuddered at the thought of what was to come.

The nerves melted away though, as his thumb found your clit and worked the sensitive nub in sweeping circles, pleasure taking over your senses and lulling you into a state of calm.

"Loki..." you whispered softly between your whimpers and pants.

He growled in response, withdrawing his fingers from your soaked pussy and wrapping his hand around your thigh, forcing your legs open as wide as they would go.

Before you had a chance to adjust to the new position, his huge cock was at your slick entrance and he thrust forward, forcing as much of himself inside you as he could, his girth stretching your walls and the tip pushing against your cervix. The sudden intrusion took your breath away, and the stinging pain you felt caused unshed tears to well in your eyes. The coldness of his skin only heightened the sensations, forcing your mouth open in a silent scream as he claimed you.

You loved him. You wanted this. You silently reminded yourself as a large blue hand found your throat once again and wrapped around tightly.

A feral moan left his lips as he began to rut into you roughly. Pushing himself in as far as your body would allow. Over and over. Chasing his own pleasure without regard for your own.

"So warm... So tight... You take me so well, pet." He grunted between thrusts. "You're mine."

You couldn't help the fresh pool of arousal that gushed between your legs in response to his words. Even as he wrecked your body and used it like a toy, you loved nothing more than being his.

His rhythm became sloppy and you knew he was close.

With a wild growl, he pulled out of you and violently flipped you over onto your stomach. You were thankful you were on the mattress and not on the floor in that moment.

His large hands dug into your hips, pulling them upwards and angling you so that he could sink himself once again into your tight cunt. You turned your head to the side, gasping for air between shameless moans as he pounded into you from behind like an animal.

It didn't take long for him to reach his peak; he let out a primal roar as he came, pumping you full of his seed. You felt it leaking out of you, dripping down your inner thighs as he continued to shallowly thrust into you while he rode out his high.

And that was the last thing you remembered before darkness blurred the edges of your vision and you succumbed to exhaustion, your body limp and spent.

--

Later, when you came to, you wiggled your fingers and toes first and slowly worked your way to moving each limb, assessing the soreness. There was an undeniable ache, but nothing you couldn't manage. You sat up in the bed and looked around the room, searching for Loki. Your eyes settled upon his familiar Asgardian form, huddled on the chair in the corner, as if he was putting as much distance as possible between the two of you without leaving you alone. His eyes were red, but not because of his Jotun blood. Because he had been crying.

"Loki, what's wrong?!" you frantically asked.

When he realized you were awake, he rushed to your side. "What's wrong? Love, look at what I've done to you!" He gestured to your body, to the bruises on your inner thighs, your hips, your wrists, your neck. He pointed to the mess between your thighs, to the bit of blood that was on the sheets between your legs. "I'm a monster. A vile, disgusting creature. I should have never let you do this!"

He looked away from you, ashamed.

You reached for his hand, in an effort to reassure him. "Loki, I wanted this. I wanted to help you. I insisted." Your thumb stroked the back of his hand in soothing circles, willing him to believe that you were okay. "And look! It worked. Your heat lasted only a few hours instead of weeks!"

"But at what cost?" He muttered, without meeting your gaze.

"I am your wife. We are a team, in everything. I vowed to be there for you and to love you no matter what, for better or for worse. A few bruises and some soreness are a small price to pay once a year if it means my husband isn't in agony for weeks at a time."

He sheepishly met your gaze then, peering up at you from under his eyelashes.

"I don't deserve you," he whispered softly.

"Yes you do. Because you are the most amazing person I know," you smiled easily as you said it. "Now, I did say we are a team, so if you're done sulking, I do believe it is your turn to do your part. Don't you have some magic healing powers that could soothe some of my aches, or am I misremembering?"

Now it was his turn to smile at you. He got to work straight away, a blanket of green seidr engulfing your body and buzzing through you, soothing away the worst of your residual pain. Then he spent the day spoiling you, running you a hot bath with your favorite rose scented bath oil, pampering you with a massage, and waiting on you hand and foot.

"Darling?"

"Yes, Loki?"

A wolfish grin crept across his lips. "When you've had a day or two to recover, I intend to make last night up to you, tenfold. To drown you in so much pleasure that the only word you'll remember is my name as it falls from your lips like a mantra."

You met his grin with your own cheeky smile. "And I intend to hold you to that, Laufeyson."

His lips met yours, then, in a passionate kiss; one that conveyed all the love and adoration he held for you. Your lover. Your husband. Your everything.

Spring was definitely your favorite season.

--

--

Tagging some lovely people who might be interested. No worries though if not, of course! @lokisgoodgirl @muddyorbsblr @mochie85 @cheekyscamp @give-me-a-moose @sarahscribbles @gigglingtigger @ladyofthestayingpower @mischief2sarawr @holymultiplefandomsbatman @wheredafandomat @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @loopsreacts @maple-seed @fictive-sl0th @coldnique @thomase1 @peachyjinx @superficialdomina @peaches1958 @evelyn-kingsley @simplyholl @tallseaweed @cake-writes @tripleyeeet @lokiandbuckysdoll @vbecker10 @lovelysizzlingbluebird

[wwasted]

on this Halloween i bring u this thought: figure skater gale au 🧎🏼‍♀️

Rich, pair figure skater Gale whose family moved to Wisconsin to further his skating career. Marge is his partner. He’s a bit of an ice princess (stoic, bitchy, very blunt) and dating his equally rich quarterback boyfriend. The boyfriend is a total self obsessed douche but they’re both dedicated to their sports so he never gets mad at Gale when Gale has to cancel or doesn’t text. He also makes his parents happy, because of his equal status and they’ve always been weird about him being gay so he figures why the fuck not. He keeps him around, even if the sex is shit.

Enter John. He’s a troublemaking burn out who has absolutely no interest in college, which is funny because he’s constantly hanging around their local college. And that’s only because his best friend Curt attends and someone has to save his ass from the rich pricks and nerds. they’re always at parties and hotboxing Curt’s dormroom (is Curt fucking the RA so he looks the other way? Probably) It’s hard not to be bitter when the whole town wrote him off before he even had the chance because of who his old man is, so he takes a special kind of pleasure in fucking with them and showing that he can be even worse.

They are absolute opposites in every way, and yet they can’t stay away from each other. They love arguing despite the fact that they shouldn’t even talk to each other because they’re in such different circles. Gale is constantly playing the “I’m better than you and you should be thankful I even look at you” card which backfires because it just makes John wanna hold him down and fuck him until he’s begging. Eventually the arguing becomes foreplay and the foreplay turns into them actually hatefucking. And he’s still definitely dating the douche quarterback, but honestly that just makes it hotter for both of them. The sneaking around, the fights in public where everyone thinks they hate each other, but secretly they’ll meet up in the some bedroom or bathroom of whatever house party they’re at and John will fuck Gale until he cries with a hand over his mouth because it turns out you never learn volume control when you don’t typically have a reason to moan or be loud.

(When Gale would have sex with his boyfriend, he would just lay there and get lost in his head, he’d go over the routines with Marge he wanted to improve, what assignments he had for class, he viewed it as his down time where he could get some mental housekeeping done. At least then they both got something out of it. Either way, he never got the urge to moan or make a single sound. And he often had the excuse of needing to be quiet so it worked anyway. The first time Bucky fucks Gale, he’s honestly expecting the same situation but thank fuck their first time manages to be somewhere they have time and is fairly private bc Gale is LOUD. At first Bucky thinks that he’s just faking it, and honestly gets kind of pissed, so he starts going deeper, harder, handling him rougher. But that just makes the noises and moans coming out of Gale even louder, more unhinged, his nails embedding themselves in John’s back and ass and he’s definitely going to end up with scars if they keep doing this. And he really fucking hopes they do. Gale sounds like he’s dying for John’s cock when he comes. He hasn’t even heard some of those noises in porn. Bucky never shuts up about it. Gale gets even bitchier when he’s embarrassed. It’s an endless feedback loop that leads to a lot of rough dirty sex.)

They get off on talking shit about each other to other people and seeing if it ends up getting to the other person. And if it does, repeating what was said during sex. “I wonder what everyone will think when they find out that you love being on your knees for me, since ya know, I’m such worthless trash” “begging for me? But I thought you wouldn’t touch me with a 10 foot pole since the frost would make your dick fall off” It becomes a thing. Until it doesn’t. Because at some point the hate fucking turns into deep emotional fucking where it’s pretty obvious they’re in love with each other. Instead of it being hot to sneak around on Gale’s idiot boyfriend, John wants to beat the shit out of him every time he sees him. Wants to tell him that he’ll never have Gale like John does. And when some guy or girl inevitably talks about how hot John is while Gale is within hearing distance, he wants to brag about how John would never touch them when he has Gale. So something has to give. Gale’s rich friends are shocked and appalled when they find out he’s dating Bucky. It’s honestly kind of a mini scandal at the college. Gale Cleven and John Egan? Unheard of.

But even when they’re in love and they’re dating, Gale is so bitchy. All the time. Constantly threatening Bucky that he won’t put out ever again bc Bucky didn’t respond to a text fast enough (the irony is not lost him) constantly smacking his hand away and turning his head when John tries to kiss him. Total brat. And John loves it. Is obsessed with it. The meaner Gale is to him, the harder he gets. And while Gale may be bitchy, all it takes is a few “princess” or “c’mon doll” in that voice and a hand sliding up under his shirt for Gale to cave and allow Bucky to touch him again.

They do have their sweet moments, especially after sex. if John fucks him just right, it’s like his brain reboots itself and he forgets that he’s supposed to be prickly. He’ll lay his head on John’s chest and shove his face into his neck and nuzzle. He’ll place soft kisses anywhere he can reach. He’ll say I love you while his fingers are tangled in John’s hair.

John loves that version of him just as much as the bitchy one. In fact, John would happily spend the rest of his life thawing his ice princess, just to let him refreeze and start all over.

Thots?

[livelaughlovesubs]

oooh jjk men with a masc, androgynous gf who wears their clothes bfkwbfkwen

OHHH SOUNDS GREAT but there are so many Jjk men, so I won’t list all of them. Feel free to request for more after the first of June

Jjk x androgyn/ masc leaning reader

Features: gojo, Geto, Choso, Nanami, Toji

So to get this straight, I think most of them wouldn’t mind you stealing their clothes, as long as you do give it back someday. But Gojo? He’s filthy rich anyway, he doesn’t give a damn. Keep them if you want, he can just buy new ones. Heck, he might even start matching the clothes he buys with your style! An indirect way of gifting you new things. If you confronted him about it, he’d just say he changed styles. This is surprisingly considerate of him, isn’t it? Well to be honest, he just likes the thought of you wearing things he brought. Or basically bathing in his property (money). Also if you likes it, he’d definitely support you.

Geto had a short period where he was pretty broke, after he quit his career as a sorcerer. (My headcanon at least) This led to him only borrowing his clothes to you. He’s not being petty or something, cuz he has money now. It has just become a habit. Anyway his closet has many traditional clothes, but also comfortable street wears. Most of it is black though, so if you like other colours too.. Welp. And he wears a lot of baggy pants, so if you are not as tall as him, they might not fit. I think he’d find it quite endearing if you dressed up in the same theme as him, or tried his clothes on like you were shopping for new ones.

Choso only has that one outfit. Don’t take it away from him pls. (Sorry not sorry). But let’s assume he has more or whatever. Literally would not care unless there aren’t any clothes left for him. Then he’d mention it to you, about how if you don’t bring them back he won’t go out anymore. Up until that point though, yea, he wouldn’t mind. That guy’s chill with you stealing them. To be honest he isn’t that knowledgeable about society’s norms for genders. So if you are a woman, dressing very masculine or tomboyish, he’s not think anything about it. The same other way around. Bro’s been locked up for so long, as if he knows anything about ‘how to be a REAL girl’, or ‘how to be an Alpha sigma male’.

Nanami would actually be annoyed at times, cuz he put them away so clean-ly, folding and storing them away with order. Then you just make a mess, take it all out and throw it onto the bed or over a chair after you are done. He wouldn’t mind it too much anymore if you put everything back onto their previous place. But he didn’t gave you permission to use his clothes, did he? (he never told you to stop neither.) In my humble opinion, I imagine he’d teach you how to dress clean, in case you didn’t know. Like tying a tie in ten different ways, or what shoes fits which dress shirt. Otherwise he’s all about ‘do what you want, I literally don’t care as long as you don’t disrupt me’.

Same as Choso, but without plausible excuses, Toji also only has one outfit that he wears everyday. He literally got those 3 dollar flats at a second hand shop or stole them. His only excuse is his wife died, him being homeless and broke are not good reasons. Anyway, if this man did own a few more shirts and pants, he’d say something along the lines of, “take them off, they aren’t yours,” or, “the fuck are you doing???” Though like, if you said no and that you want to keep wearing it, he would grimace but not stress it further. As long as you won’t steal them and keep his clothes for yourself, he needs them too. Sometimes it would remind him of some past memories, and he won’t be able to hold back a soft smile.

[inkyquince]

Ripped Corset and Scattered Pearls

Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader

Arthur Morgan is just trying to steer himself right in the world, raising money and being some sort of a good man. It's just harder, with so many lonely nights when surrounded by couples among the camp and the communities. His iron will is shaken upon just seeing someone so tasty to him, just a rich little miss, escorted by her bodyguards through the dusty streets of St. Denis.

The sight of her nourishes him, and that's all he needs, until one of Dutch's plans give him an opening to take her away, to keep her for him

cw. noncon turned dubcon. stalking. voyeurism. low honor arthur morgan. possessive and obsessive arthur. kidnapping.

notes. 12.5k words. This was a commission by Red, thank you for your patience and hoped you enjoyed it!!

There were a few truths about the life that Arthur Morgan had chosen to live. One truth was that it was going to always be hard, gritty and your ass is going to always be a bit sore from the saddle. Another was that your horse is your life. That beauty goes down, and you can kiss your dwindling chances to live goodbye, especially on the road. 

But the one that Arthur kept close to his heart, was the truth that good women were rare, a pretty woman was rarer. So, like John did Abigail, like Dutch did Molly and Sean… Somewhat did with Karen, Arthur promised himself that if he found the one, he would never let her go, not again. Everything else be damned. 

The life they all led was lonely, despite the gang’s closeness. It was something about going back to his own tent after a long day, and hearing the sounds of love making next door in Dutch’s tent was excruciating. The thought of jerking his cock desperately flitted in and out of his mind, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. One, because being caught would be… Embarrassing, but also because… He struggled to think up the perfect daydream to fuck his fist to. Once upon a time, he’d think about Mary, and the sweet life they would share together. Think about their first night between them, sweet kisses and slow, but as time passed, it just felt sadder and sadder each night he imagined it. He had to stop at one point, frowning up at his tent as cum cooled on his belly. It never felt as good as just imagining some faceless woman, riding his ruddy cock, moaning as he jerked his erection. 

He had started to pay for whores in bars too. Fleeting fucks or slightly calloused hands fondling at his cock as he leaned back in the bath. It had become a need, something to ease the growing loneliness at the back of his heart, craving…. Craving something that no paid prostitute, nightly jerk off session, or singing along to Javier’s guitar with the others in the evening, could ever placate. The craving to share his little alcove, to let Jack have a little cousin, to be fussed over and his face sat on by a perfect little pussy. Arthur just wants someone with him. In this new fantasy, they’d never fight like Abigail and John. He wouldn’t ignore her, like Dutch did Molly. They’d be with each other and it would be natural. Perfect pairs for each other, meant to grow old together. 

It was this fantasy that was playing in his head, as he, John, Sean, and Charles headed into Saint Denis, needing to be away from Camp for a while and John had some things to pick up that could only be found in the hellish city that felt too claustrophobic and tight. Arthur lingered on the daydream of soft hands against his aching shoulders, almost able to hear the swish of a dress as the chatter of the men was drowned out by the bustle of the city. The others split off, letting Arthur know that they should meet back up at the bar at dusk and Arthur watched them go, his hand still slowly stroking along the horse’s neck as she huffed and shook her head. 

There was usually quite a lot to do in Saint Denis, but not a lot of the real time killers were running right now, like the play, or hitting the Bastille Saloon. Instead, he started to mindlessly amble, just taking in the sights, even if he wasn’t… A big fan of the sights. The city had accidentally become a symbol of everything he wanted to get away from, what the gang wanted to get away from. Big ole city you could get lost in, cluttered with people and law men. 

This thinking did nothing but sour his mood, Arthur’s lips having pulled down into a frown. Instead, he got one of his cigarette packs out to light one up, taking a moment to squint at the cigarette card before shrugging and discarding it. His eyes, shadowed by his hat, finally focused on a saloon, seemingly a bit more empty on the busy day. Might as well enjoy a full meal and a good drink before continuing on his amble through the city. As he approached the stairs leading up, the wind blew, and the doors swung open before he got to them. The breeze carried the lovely, angelic scent of expensive perfume. But he was used to the overpriced musk that drenched elderly ladies with rows of pearls that seemed to choke them. This was something softer, sweeter, natural. He knew what it smelled like, he just had to remember. It brought memories of dusk falling over meadows with the humid air settling into something in between warm and cold, something perfect. 

With one foot on the first step, he looked up, two big burly fuckers pushing through and past him, revolvers in their belts and rifles slung across their backs. But as they shoved him aside, off the step, to make space, they parted, and showed… 

You. 

John would have called you a rich bitch with diamonds in her pussy. Dutch would have called you a mark. Charles would have said you looked quite nice. 

Arthur thought you were the most perfect woman he had ever seen. Soft lace gloves holding the parasol perched on your shoulder, protecting you from the heat beating down. Your dress didn’t have the bustle the older ladies dragged around behind them, but still had that classy material…. The one that crinkles when you walk, swishing just above the ground. Tight corset, the skirt falling naturally over your legs as you gratefully accepted the hand of one of your… Bodyguards(?) that helped you walk down the steps. 

Your eyes briefly met his, framed by your pretty eyelashes, a small bit of sweat from the hot day trickling down your throat. His eyes slid from yours, to follow it down until it vanished into your clothing. Your lips curved into a small smile but you didn’t say anything, instead flanked by your bodyguards down the street, passersby being scared into skittering to the side. Arthur watched you go, cigarette sitting static on his bottom lip, until he remembered. 

Bluebells. You smelled like bluebells on a Midsummer’s Eve. 

Little Lady Bluebell. 

Arthur’s lips twitched with humour and headed into the saloon, the soft scent of the little blue flower lingering on his clothes from the short brush with the pretty little thing of his dreams. 

You were the highlight of his daydreams for a while, but in all of them, he was a gentleman, someone of value, and you were… More than delighted to hitch those skirts up and let him finger you, sweet breasts pressing against his arm. It always left him feeling like a filthy man, rubbing the back of his knuckles against his bristly chin, cum staining his rough fingers. Arthur was more amused than disgusted with himself. A bit surprised he could cum like he was a younger man again, with just a pretty face of a girl that just gave him a glimpse. If he was a hopeless romantic (he was) that had enough time and money (he didn’t), he’d go back every day to maybe catch another glimpse, maybe get you to lose the security to ask you for a drink and be a gentleman. 

Arthur was happy to just have you as a daydream, a wish that could never come true. Well, not happy, but he’d be… Fine. You were something he could have for himself as he did his dirty jobs, robbed, killed, intimidated, everything. A fantasy that was waiting back at his bed, someone that washed the blood from his hands, kissed his gunpowder streaked knuckles, washed his hair and lay with him every night. Sometimes he went through the motions of cleaning himself up, only somewhat listening to the camp around him, instead imagining you, maybe even in your underclothes, sitting on his knee and nosing along his jaw. The most perfect thing. 

Weeks had passed, with spring melting into summer, crickets scream-chirping each night and the sun seemed to beat down with a new intensity that was aimed directly at him. As if laughing. Burn, Arthur Morgan, burn. 

What’s worse is that Dutch was up to something. His usual cool, relaxed gait when he was still searching his brilliant brain for ideas to up their wealth was gone. Instead he had begun to stay up longer at night, pouring over papers in his tent, snapping at Molly to stop bothering him. Everytime Arthur swung by, his tobacco stained teeth would glint dully in the light as he looked up at him. 

“This’ll be a fun one, my boy. Going to fill our pockets but not as easy as just pulling your gun and demanding the money.” Arthur quietly disagreed that robbing was that easy, but nothing was going to dull Dutch’s shine right now, so he just waited, going into town, selling pelts, robbing stagecoaches, until one morning. 

The sun was beating down, sweat slowly rolling down his neck, staining his shirt collar. He was already feeling too sticky and warm, flies buzzing around his horse’s head as they made their way with some of the gang. Dutch led them down a thin, narrow, worn path that Arthur had never noticed before. Dutch was giving him and John the rundown of his plan, which did shape up to the usual, let-him-speak-shut-your-mouth schtick. At least Hosea said it with longer, nicer words. Arthur stretched a bit, enjoying the shade of the leaves as they made their way.. 

It was a long ride, or at least felt like it. 

The downy trees slowly gave way to a large plantation, a building  similar to the Braithwaite Manor in its size and grandeur. No wonder Dutch was practically serenading the weeds at the camp for weeks. Arthur vaguely knew that their great wagon leader found some rich guy with a transportation problem and gussied himself up to be some sort of man of repute who could help out with anything. 

Ill-repute maybe but anything for those extra few coins in the box.  

Dutch already slipped into his southern devilish charm voice as soon as the group got past the gates, closer to the house, idly chatting to one of the hands that started walking with them, the rifle slung across his back glinting in the sun. Arthur only half listened, his eyes idly watching the nearby lake, the light glinting off the water. Pretty. 

The manor wasn’t even that much cooler on the inside than the outside. At least the watered down drinks they were offered weren't half bad. 

But as Arthur raised the fancy glass to his lips, he froze up. Floral. Fresh. Something was carrying on the breeze, through the house. Bluebells. 

Saliva pooled on his tongue, as he dragged the tip over his canine, pressing hard into the organ, as if trying to pierce the flesh. Just a coincidence. Maybe the lady of the house favoured them in those annoyingly tall vases around the house. 

It wasn’t. 

The master of the house was downright gleeful to introduce the apple of his eye when you came down the stairs. Your dress was switched out for a pretty blouse and skirt, swishing over your heeled boots, but instead of matching Miss Grimshaw in the austerity of the outfit, you looked… Delicate. The pearls resting on your collarbone glint in the natural light. You looked like if spring herself slipped down from the heavens and took a seat on the… Chaise… Lounge… Thing. Pretty and flowy with eyes that were doe-like and that held… No recognition for him. He wouldn’t care if some prissied bitch didn’t recognise him after a meeting, but he wanted you to. Let those eyes light up in remembrance, maybe even give him a smile, extend those pretty gloved fingers for him to kiss on the knuckles. 

He was just lucky no one saw him staring. The conversation was about moving a shit ton amount of bonds on a certain night, along with the family’s greatest treasure, to the next town over. Some ruffians have their eye on it or something. Dutch’s pleased smirk was mistaken as something more wholesome. Figuring out the logistics would usually have Arthur’s attention, just so he can figure out his part in the upcoming plan, but you were a magnet. Cleavage just peeking out of the blouse, your finery not a demand to be seen as more, more of a fact. You were more. And even as Arthur was quietly counting your eyelashes, it felt like he was doing something that he wasn’t allowed to do, not by any human law. 

Thank god he was a criminal. 

His cock was sore from all the stroking that night. Dutch promised the family that they would stay near the estate in order to be on hand at any time. Finally some privacy for him to properly see to himself, massaging his balls as his rough thumb dragged over his leaking head, struggling to not cum just yet. He can just see himself tucking his fingers down the front of your corset, pulling it down to free those pretty little tits. Arthur could just envision it, your dress pulled down to just underneath your breasts, the cute little sleeves trapping your arms against your sides. Your dress pulled up to reveal those pretty stockinged knees, all the while your cunt was stuffed full of his cock. 

He’d bet anything that little Miss Bluebells was a tight little virgin. Daddy wouldn’t let you scamper anywhere without those bodyguards, so unless you were giving it up to them, you were ripe for him to take it from you. 

Normally the afterglow of an orgasm had him taste the bitterness of his reality curdle the pleasure still settling in his stomach. But he knew Dutch’s plan. The glow never faded, not this time. 

It was simple really. Get paid to escort an understated but tasteful carriage, filled with bonds and something near and dear to the family over to… Nowhere. It will never arrive, the insides gutted out like a deer carcass, free of everything that could get them just a few extra shiny dollars. Hell, they would even sell off the horses. 

Arthur was thinking he could lure you out of that house. A slipped note, to come alone, and you can get your family’s riches back. Then, who knows. 

He doesn’t know when the longing in his chest turned into something darker, hungrier. You barely looked at him, even if you spoke sweetly when you two did share words, but he wanted you. You were it. Maybe he was going crazy, but it was hard to deny himself when your floral perfume was still staining his skin.

The days seemed to drag in a sweaty haze of over planning and bulk buying bullets, checking the horses’ hooves just in case. The smell of your perfume was almost sickly to him. Sweat running down his neck, the overwhelming scent of overripe fruit and scorched, browned grass too much for him. An addictive sort of sweet, nauseating, as if it's turned rancid from being apart too long. Fruit in the bowl that’s not been checked everyday. 

It was worth going back to the plantation. If caught he can just say that he was set on special security a few days before, but there was no hassle. He got to watch from his horse as you read by the lake, and sometimes lifted those skirts and dipped your feet in. The cigarette smoke curled over his face as his teeth dug into the paper just enough to leave a deep dent, imagining what it would be like to nip and bite along your graceful neck. Arthur doubts you’ve ever gotten anything more than an awed kiss on your ring or maybe an affectionate kiss on the cheek from family. Unless you were secretly allowing your ever present bodyguards to trade kisses with you, using too much tongue and sinking their fingers into you. Arthur scowled at that, biting down further on his cigarette as he adjusted his binoculars. It didn’t soothe him that they just seemed fond of you and nothing more, not when you were… You. A fine whiskey to an alcoholic, meant to be savoured on his tongue, smooth going down. Arthur knew that if he was one of your bodyguards, it would only take a glimpse of your perfect collarbones and something in him would snap. He took a moment to enjoy the daydream, being trusted so near you, so much so that no one would care when he went up the stairs to your room, and fucked you in your childhood bedroom, made properly into a woman under his rough hands and drooling cock. 

Best of all, your family would cast you out once you were found to be pregnant. You wouldn’t rat him out, would you? Not that it would matter. Thrown out, and all you could do was crawl to him, and let him put a scratched up ring on your finger.

 Arthur’s eyes slowly watched a guard take notice of him, tilting his head, as he ruminated on stripping you of all your finery, and selling all the dresses and jewels off. He raised his hand in greeting as the other man scrutinised him, exhaling some of his cigarette smoke and imaging your pretty flushed face as he kept you naked, promising you daily that your new clothes should be coming in any time now while getting to openly eye your cunt. The plantation guard started making his way over and Arthur decided against any sort of conversation, not while his cock was hard in his trousers and the image of you, shy and bare, was suspended in his mind, like those painted glass windows of the Virgin Mary in church. Luckily the man just stopped in his tracks and watched him ride off, unwilling to kick up a fuss. 

Arthur was thankful that Dutch hadn’t sprung this job on them a month ago. He wouldn’t have been able to get through the nights if he had to wait that long. Would have fucked up the plan somehow, no doubt. Stealing you right out of your sheets in the middle of the night most probably. 

But the day came. After so long, it was here. 

Riding alongside the carriage, he ignored the excited twitches from Sean, Dutch’s smug smirk as he glanced back at the gang, and even Bill’s complaining about the sun beating down his sweat soaked shirt. The driver seemed to enjoy the company, chatting with the ever affable Dutch as they made their way further and further away from the estate, and deeper into the sheltered, untamed land yet to be conquered. Arthur had hoped to see you before they set off, but he only got a rudimentary glance around the grounds and up at the balconies before he got an elbow in the side and an annoyed glance. No matter. He knew you’d be easily lured out by the promise of helping your family. 

The ambush was quick, easy, fucking child’s play. The driver, the poor man, had looked under his seat to grab a flask to share around, when Dutch caught Sean’s eye. The deafening, wet crack sounded as the boy swung his gun immediately down on the driver’s head, letting the man crumple. 

Dutch immediately lunged over to take hold of the reins, yanking the horses to the side, down and off the beaten path. Bill hung around on the road to look out for other riders down the path before following the others down into the trees, almost chuckling to himself. 

“Dutch, if this ain’t the easiest fuckin’ payday, I don’t know nothing.” 

Dutch just smirked to himself, swinging down from his horse. 

“Sean, bring the horses to Hosea, going to be worth a pretty penny.” He patted one of the pure white horses’ hindquarters as he swaggered his way towards the door of the carriage. 

There was a bit of movement from within. Arthur and Dutch both froze up for just a second before unholstering their guns, Bill needing a moment before he yanked his rifle from his shoulder. 

There was a beat of silence. 

“... Maybe the-” Sean began when the carriage door burst open. 

A big burly fucker came through, already swinging. His knuckles connected with Arthur’s cheek, sending both men sprawling down to the ground. His ear was ringing from where the punch landed, and the two of them started to wrestle on the ground. Gunshots rang out, first from the carriage, then from Bill and Dutch. 

Arthur felt blood swell in his mouth, but he just swallowed it down, lunging forward to smash his own face against the other man’s, breaking his nose instantly. He howled in pain, and stumbled back, trying to get away from the outlaw, but Sean’s hand was faster than his legs. Two gunshots rang out, and blood bloomed from the two holes in the fucker’s arm and trousers, the bullets having ripped through his thigh and shoulder. 

“Fuck… Fuckers… They’ll fucking hang you for this.” He wheezed, mud covering his face along with his blood, still alive.

Bill yanked Arthur to his feet, bruised and bloodied, but not as bad as the other man. 

“Shit. Aren’t they…?” Sean looked up at Dutch, from where the two men were holding the second one down. 

They are. They’re your bodyguards. But that means… 

Arthur made sure to step on his attacker, on the way to look into the carriage. Ducking his head in, suddenly surrounded by plush seats and pretty interior wallpaper, he held his breath, in either trepidation… Or excitement. 

And there you were. 

Tucked into the corner, face flushed with fear, clinging to your skirts. Frightened. Petrified like a little mouse. 

“Y-You…” You whispered. 

Arthur smiled. 

Then he reached inside and ripped you out of your seat. 

“Well, shit!” Dutch exclaimed as Arthur hauled you out of the carriage, holding you securely in his big arms as your two bodyguards kicked up a weak struggle again. “... The little princess is their nearest and dearest treasure? Well, that’s adorable.” 

He laughed and Bill grumbled. 

“So, does this mean that they don’t have any fuckin’ money in there?” 

“The bonds.” Your second bodyguard wheezed out. 

Arthur finally paid proper attention to him, always quietly dismissing him before. The younger of the two, a bit broader, and still putting up a valiant fucking fight despite the bruises littering his face and then blood oozing from his shin. 

“D-Don’t hurt her. There’s a box of bonds under the s-seat!” 

“Looks like someone’s got a crush.” Dutch snorted softly but stepped towards the carriage to root around inside. 

The blood soaking Arthur’s mouth soured on his tongue. Fucker. 

“My jewellery!” You suddenly said, tense in his arms. Warm. Soft. But tense. “That should fetch you around $200!” 

“You’re shitting me, girly.” Bill whistled through his teeth. 

Arthur disliked the way Sean’s eyes were suddenly pinned to the brooch by your breast, the gems glittering in the dappled light. 

“I’ll sort it.” He grumbled, trudging towards one of the trees and dumping you on the ground. 

Stripping you of your fineries was a fucking rush. His hands dragging over your pretty dress, unhooking the brooch, tilting your face to slip the earrings out, taking every ring from your pretty fingers. The only moment he paused, was to take the pearls from you. The beads of white splayed across your collarbones always had his stomach tightening. 

“They’re real.” You whispered, low, and he blinked at you. “They’re… They’re individually knotted, see? Means they’re real, so if it snaps, they won’t all scatter.” 

You had taken his pause as doubt. Silly, sweet thing. He watched your throat bob as you swallowed nervously. He could always give you-

“C’mon Morgan, don’t let her twist you around her little finger.” Dutch called.

Oh, but he already was. From head to toe, he belonged to you. But, he had a job to do. So he carefully slipped the pearls from your throat, his rough thumbs dragging over the sensitive skin. Arthur pocketed all of your little niceties, before slipping a length of rope from his satchel. Your doe eyes widened at it but it seemed that you were more of a deer than you realised, freezing instead of running. Not that it would have done anything. He was a hunter. 

He tied your wrists behind your back before binding your ankles, making sure to rip the stockings enough to catch a glimpse of skin. Before too long, your two loyal dogs were dragged over, bound with rope and gagged. 

Dutch sorted through the haul, satisfied smirk settling on his lips as he fiddled with your jewellery. 

“Good payout from this one, boys.” He finally announced, tucking it all into the satchel by his side. “All we have to do is deal with these three, and then we’re home free.” 

“I’ll do it.” Arthur immediately spoke up, arms crossed firmly over his chest. 

The older man eyed him closely, rolling his thick cigar between his thumb and forefinger. The way he scrutinised him made Arthur feel like Dutch could see into his heart, his head, to see exactly what he wanted, what he wanted more than the money. Everything else faded away as Sean snickered and Bill grumbled. Finally, the older man smirked. 

“Go ahead, Arthur.” He said, slow, as if measuring out his words intentionally. 

Permission. 

Arthur stood, stock still, as the others saddled up and took off, one by one, Dutch waiting to go last to shoot him a wink. The moment he disappeared through the trees, he exhaled slowly. He felt excitement build in his stomach, his cock rousing oh so slowing, just from breathing in the nature around him… And the bluebells. 

“Just let us go.” The older bodyguard spat out his gag and demanded, through a mouthful of blood. Someone had stemmed the bleeding so he’d have some time to go get some help and survive. Maybe. “We can make our own way back. You don’t gotta kill us.” 

Arthur stepped closer, gait slow and relaxed before picking up the sodden gag and ramming it back into the bodyguard’s bloodied mouth. He could feel the man’s front tooth break against his knuckles as he yanked his hand free. 

“Just shut it.” Arthur grumbled, looking at the grazed skin of his hand. 

Before too long, his gaze was back on you. You weren’t gagged, nor as thoroughly tied up as your two loyal dogs. He hadn’t wanted to hurt you by making the ropes too tight, but also… Easier to get them off this way. 

“I ain’t gonna hurt you.” He finally said, and saw your entire body tense up in fear. 

He wanted to do the opposite of hurting you. He wanted to free you. 

Arthur saw the two bodyguards start to try and fight their bindings as he got closer to you, taking you by your bound ankles and dragging you away from the tree the three of you were leaning against. Not exactly a four poster bed with nice blankets, but the grass was soft. You started to wriggle, making soft, cute noises behind that gag. Gripping your knees, he spread them enough to settle in between. Not going to yank up your skirts yet. 

“Relax, sweetheart.” He murmured, taking a moment to squeeze your sides. “I’m gonna be a gentleman about this.”  

You gave the most adorable little terrified whine. He could almost mistake it for a sigh of pleasure, and he couldn’t wait to hear more. 

Ignoring the muffled protests from the two bodyguards, the younger one almost frantic in his objections, Arthur stroked over your sides before reaching up to fiddle with the neckline of your dress. His rough fingers weren’t nimble, not like Javier’s, at least not with the dainty little buttons and fine drawstrings. But, despite your wriggling and soft pleas, he managed to get your cute little blouse open… With the knife he kept by his thigh. A quick slice opened it right up, showing off the overbust corset you wore. Soft, cream coloured thing, cupping your bosom in such a tantalising way. Arthur was transfixed by the way your breasts heaved with every shaking breath, nearly slipping free to let him see those pretty nipples. 

You gave another sweet little whine and Arthur dragged the flat of his tongue over one of his canines. He wanted to hear your words, no matter if you were going to beg, scream, plead. It didn’t matter. Because eventually, you’d be moaning for him. You’re going to want more and more of him. He shifts his weight and leans forward to drag the piece of fabric from your mouth, noticing how dry and chapped your pretty lips had gotten. 

“Please-” You immediately whispered, once your mouth was freed. You quickly darted your tongue out, just to wet your bottom lip but his blue-green eyes snagged onto the movement. “Please, don’t-” 

“Hush.” Arthur pressed his coarse thumb against your lips. “Been wanting to make this good for you, don’t make me wanna take that back if you start kicking up a fuss.” 

Your eyes slowly widened in realisation as he leaned away, dragging your blouse down your arms and fully away from your torso. This quiet, tall, man who your father had assured you was trustworthy, had not only planned the robbery… But this. With you. You felt tears beginning to well up in your eyes, and Arthur was too busy fighting with your corset to notice. 

It was just a light corset, from the softness of your stomach, reaching up to gently cradle your breasts, but it was like trying to get off a full body chastity belt. The drawstrings on the back were tightly knotted, and even when he turned you on your side to try and free them, they were just too fucking complicated to untie. He turned you on your back again with a grunt.

With a low sigh, Arthur took up his knife again, rubbing the blade against his dusty trousers. You blinked your wet eyes, terrified but too frozen to start begging again. You could almost feel the blade sinking into your belly, cutting you open even if he didn’t mean to. You weren’t put at ease by his easy, small smile, nor his large hand resting on your side to keep you from squirming.

“Don’t worry, pretty thing. I know my way around a knife well enough.” 

Arthur slid the knife underneath the first string of your corset and swiftly jerked his blade upwards, cutting it open and loosening the garment. He could vaguely hear one of the bodyguards shout through his gag and wriggle helplessly, but most of his attention was taken by the first reveal of your skin. With a sense of awe, he stroked his rough thumb against the flesh, feeling you shiver between his thighs. Have you ever been touched like this? Worshipped? Did you even know all the ways a woman could be held and caressed and fucked?

Suddenly feeling like a parched man who had a single drop of water, he was ravenous for more, more of you. Forgoing his careful cutting, he laid the smooth side of the blade against your spine, and wrenched the serrated edge of it through the intricate laces. You gave a cute little squeal of terror at the feeling, but Arthur was true to his word. He didn’t even nick your back with his knife. 

He gripped your sides and pushed you onto your back and wrestled the tattered remains of your ripped corset off you, flinging the garment to the side, into the mud. Your chest was finally freed for him. 

Fuck. 

Fuck, you were perfect. The prettiest tits he’d ever laid eyes on. Arthur had been with a fair few women, but fuck. Cute breasts, with your softened nipples hardening in the air. His cock strained against his trousers. He felt like he was a young man again, excitement brewing in his gut to a disgusting degree. 

Slap! 

You cried out softly as his gloved hand left a red mark against the side of your chest, watching it jiggle from the smack. 

“Sorry.” Arthur gave a crooked smile. “Couldn’t help myself.” 

Neither could the young buck apparently. His eyes widened and stared at your tits, perky nips all stiff, begging to be sucked. He could imagine ruining you with babies, one always on your breast, feeding, and then he’d get his own turn, getting to drink his fill as you whispered to save some for your children. His balls throbbed. 

“D’aw, look at that.” He gripped your chin with his filthy, dirty fingers, smearing some mud on you, and pulled your face to look at the boy. “Aren’t you glad I got to you first? He was going to creep in and fuck you on your nice sheets, you can tell.” 

He loved the look of bewilderment on your face, at the thought of one of the men you trusted would look at you like that. You whimpered and Arthur cooed at you, trailing his fingertips across your cheek, just to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. He leaned down and breathed in your scent, just below your ear. Bluebells. Fear. God, you were delicious. He never took stock in scaring his lovers, but you… You made him feel somehow bigger than you than he already was. Like a bad man. 

You couldn’t take the look in your bodyguard’s eyes anymore, a split between horror and arousal. It felt like a betrayal of the safety his eyes once promised you. But when you pulled away from looking at him, you were cheek to cheek with the brute, the brute whose entire body enveloped you. His skin was rough, stubbly, hot. Sweaty. His clothed chest against your bare one, his deep breaths against your ear making the hair on your arms and neck stand up. He smelt… Your thighs shook a bit. Different. He smelt different, different to any man you’d met before. You were used to perfumed gentlemen, clad in cologne and the pomade they put in their hair. He smelt of none of that. Leather, gun oil, like horsehair, like sweat. Like a deep musk seeping from his skin. Like… Like a man. 

You felt his chapped lips breath against your cheek before pressing against it more firmly. A kiss. Your breath caught in your throat. Again… Another kiss, against your cheek, against your jaw and then he paused, mouth nearly touching yours. You could already taste the whiskey on his breath. 

Arthur crashed his lips against yours, losing his control at the last moment. He guessed he should have treated it like a kiss at the altar, a kiss of marriage, but he couldn’t, he had spent too long thinking about it, jerking his cock as he pressed two fingers against his lips, lost in the dreams of your desperate kisses as you humped his cock. Fuck. His lips had just barely touched yours, tasting you, when he slipped his tongue in, dragging it along your teeth before pressing further. He couldn’t stop his own breathless moan, his cock jutting right where your cunt was hidden, beneath your skirts. God, you tasted… So good. Sweet, with a hint of blood. You must have been biting your cheek, or your tongue. You were wound so tight, like a spring, and he couldn’t wait to hear what noises you would make for him. 

You whined into his mouth, the alcohol on his tongue, the cigarette taste dripping into yours, the blood that was no doubt from the fist fight earlier, your bitten cheek stinging as his tongue dragged against it. You could hear one of your bodyguards shout against his gag, probably for the brute to stop, but you both ignored him. You were a realist. Your breasts were free, he was kissing you and you could feel his… His thing pressing against your private place. You knew what he wanted. Your mother had warned you at a young age what men want; you knew why you had bodyguards. 

Arthur pulled away, a long bridge of spit connecting both of your bottom lips, only to gently split when he got further away. He wasted no time, ducking his head to drop equally wet kisses to your hard nipples, giving one sharp suck. You gasped softly, biting down on your bottom lip to stifle the noise, not wanting to excite him further. He spent some time just kissing and sucking at them, rolling the nipple along his teeth and tongue, tugging with his head every now and then just to make you repeat the sound that got his cock throbbing something unbearable. 

Straightening back up, he shucked his belt free and fought to get his trousers open. His erection strained against the fabric and he already knew that his long johns would be stained from the precum that had been seeping freely from his cockhead. It only happened with you, not even with Mary, back when she was Mary Gillis who was so sweet on him, before she was a Linton and only came to him when she needed something. Arthur chased the thought away from this moment, not wanting to be thinking of another woman when one so perfect lay half naked before him. 

Yanking down his trousers and tucking his long johns below his balls, you finally got a good look at the monster you would be dealing with. You fell completely silent, no more whimpers or whines, just staring at his dusky cock, the head a deep, angry red, with a droplet of… Something hanging off the tip. While you fell silent, your bodyguards were shocked back into speech once more, shouting through their gags, the younger one wrestling at his restraints and smacking the back of his head against the tree in frustration. Stupid boy looked like he was about to cry. 

Now, Arthur had a plan, well, an old plan. What he had wanted to, when he lured you out of the house, told you that you could get your family’s riches back, then trapped you in the abandoned house he had found in the forest. Well, it was abandoned after he left a bullet between a hermit’s eyes, but hey, he washed the blood out of the floors so you wouldn’t be forced to see that. He’d treat it like your wedding night. Suck at your clit and finger you until you came and then fuck you, like a good Christian man. Then he’d show you all the ways to make a man feel good, all the ways a woman could cum. 

But fuck, it was hard sticking to the plan right now. 

Kissing it goodbye, he gripped your soft sides and dragged you down, letting the dirt get into your hair. Your doe-eyes were still staring at his cock, the way it was just too fat to stand all the way up. God, he just needed to cum. Then he can carry you off and do this properly. 

“Listen,” Arthur went back to dragging his thumb over the curve of your breasts before gently flicking a wetted nipple. His dark eyes glinted underneath the shadow of his hat. “I’m real sorry about your nice pearls, ma’am.” 

You tore your gaze away from the fat monster resting against your sternum. 

“E-Excuse me?” You managed, blinking up at him. 

“That nice pearl necklace.” He repeated, lips quirked like he was letting you in on a private joke. “Was thinkin’ that I give you another one. To show how sorry I am we had to take all ya nice things.” 

You started getting a bad feeling. 

“No, no, that’s okay, sir, please-” His thumb covered your bottom lip before you could say another word. His cock throbbed. Arthur liked that you called him sir. 

“Hush. Ain’t no trouble for the prettiest thing I ever seen.” His smile was sharp. 

Arthur lowered himself just a bit more, nearly sitting on your belly, but now his cock lay squarely between your breasts, the precum rolling down, onto your skin. Fuck, the sight already did things to him. Cupping your breasts, he made sure to give your abused buds another pinch before pressing them firmly together, encasing his cock in soft, warm flesh. Fuck. Just needed one more thing. 

He used his thumbs to part the flesh covering his cockhead, revealing the drooling thing, and spat down onto it, enjoying your squeak of surprise that trailed off into a whine. Sounded like you liked it, deep down. He hoped you did, it would open up the future to talking you into doing everything a good church wife would never dream of doing, and what wives in love do with gusto and throaty moans. 

Lost in the thought of you mouthing at his ballsack, he began to thrust his cock between your tits, aided by the spit lubricating the skin and his erection. You gasped softly as it roughly moved against your skin, the head bumping against your collarbones every time he drove himself to the base. Wet skin against skin, it made a soft slapping sound as he thrust himself between your breasts. It was obscene, it was dirty. Your mother had talked about the ravages of man, the vicar at church had warned against sins of the flesh, but not even overhearing dirty jokes between your bodyguards would ever had you imaging this, a man, a brute, with a monster between his legs and a dizzying musk using your breasts to… To relieve himself. It should disgust you, being used by someone who was no better than a rutting farm animal, who ripped you free of your jewels and clothes, but you were all too aware that between your thighs, there was something warm growing. You felt too sweaty, as if it wasn’t just the sun beating down on you that had you shivering and short of breath. You were sticky between the thighs, the same way you got when you watched Elijah, your older bodyguard, wet his forearms in the lake before heading to you, when you thought about some of the rambles your vicar would go on about. He had a vivid imagination as he ranted about the lows men and women would sink to, rutting at each other in the street, unwed and open to be seen. 

Like you are now. 

The thought had a gasp slipping past your lips and the brute’s eyes flicked to yours, hazy and dark and blown so wide that they looked almost entirely black. Whatever he saw in yours must have been too much for him.

Arthur’s fingernails bit into your soft skin as he gritted his teeth, fighting back his pleasure, but he couldn’t. It had been too long with just his hand and used prostitutes. You were soft and looking up at him like… Like that. With your big eyes filling with heat as he fucked your tits. He was dirtying you. 

His breath caught in his throat and his hips stuttered in their thrusts. Cum splattered against your skin, Arthur quickly gripping the base of his cock, aiming to spread his heavy load across your shoulders and throat. You gasped in shock, a fat drop of his release splashing against your bottom lip. You couldn’t stop your tongue slipping out to lick it up, even as your stomach flipped in disgust of your own actions. 

“There you go, missy.” Arthur finally managed to say, throaty and low. “A pearl necklace, good as new.”

You could barely comprehend his words, feeling dazed from being used, from the taste of his cum, as small as it was, flooding your tongue. Maybe you didn’t notice, or maybe you didn’t care, when Arthur pushed himself off of you, instead settling himself between your legs, your skirt bunching up just a bit. 

You were only brought back to the moment when you noticed he wasn’t moving, his cock still half hard. He was just kneeling there, breathing hard, his fingers gently stroking your stockinged shin. His tongue darted out, swiping against his bottom lip before retreating back. After a moment he groaned. 

“Fuck. I ain’t a monster, miss.” He muttered, just for you and him. “I was going to wait, treat you real nice, make sure you felt all wedded before I…” 

Your stomach tightened. This man, this man who walked into your home, politely taking his hat off when your father talked to him, looked awkward and too small for the armchair he had picked to sit in, someone who your guards had noticed riding along the borders of the estate, had planned this. 

He was going to do this, even if you hadn’t been in the carriage. Shock prickled at your skin, your lungs feeling too big for your body. Yet your thighs felt sticky, and… And the place between them felt warm. 

“But I can't.” Arthur finally admitted after a pause. “But I’ll make it good.” 

The promise made your heart thud hard in your chest, hammering against your ribcage as if it was fighting to get out, to get away, but your legs were slowly relaxing into the dirt, allowing him to manhandle them, pushing your skirt up more, to your knees, up, up, up until-

He gave a low whistle, taking in the soft flesh of your legs, your stockings held up by your garters. Arthur takes a moment to admire them, how they squish the soft skin of your thighs so tantalisingly.

 "You know, I've heard that it's customary for the groom to take these off with his teeth." Arthur murmured, slightly hoarse, as his thumb slipped underneath the fabric, just to ping it against your flesh with a smirk. 

He didn't wait for any acknowledgement, as he ducked his head down, pulling your skirt down, over his head with a self indulgent chuckle. You squirmed and tried to kick, as his stubbled cheek scratched your sensitive skin. You couldn’t help it, it tickled and you had to fight back a giggle, a part of you still too aware of the two men staring at the display, one cursing and trying to fight his binds, the other one defeated and shoulders hunched. What would they think if you started giggling, squirming as this brute, ducked underneath your skirt, was trying to get your garters off. Would they believe that you, god forbid, was enjoying this? Enjoyed the way he had handled you, groped you, sucked and… And pleasured himself with your chest? What would they say to your family- Oh! 

One garter gave way, and Arthur emerged, victorious with it clenched between his teeth. He tucked it into his pocket before peeling your skirt back up, one stocking already bunching around your knee, the other still held tight by the garter. He liked the image. Made you somehow more debauched in his eyes. So perfect for him. He’d like to imagine in another life you wouldn’t belong to your family, instead being a girl at the saloon, or working at one of the farms. You’d still smell of bluebells, but you would have seen him. Actually seen him, as a man, instead of the help your father paid for. Your bodyguards wouldn’t be there, and all your father could do was threaten him with a shotgun, but you’d still meet him in the trees, pulling up your skirts to let him fuck into you, whining his name as you bounced. You’d be happy to marry him, because your life was routine, slow, and he wasn’t. You’d live with him in his tent, and unlike Molly and Abigail, you’d be happy. Never ignored, gossiping with the other girls, looking so pretty in your underclothes when you do the laundry, your nipples showing through the fabric, and slapping Javier when he flirted with you, reminding him you were good as married. Dancing with him at the campfire, playing with Jack, trying to hide your giggles as you two overheard Dutch and Molly going at it, only to do the same, moaning to each other softly, privately. Being so sweet to everyone but refusing to let anyone but Arthur treat you in a husbandly way. Kissing his bloodied knuckles, massaging his back and cheekily patting his ass after a long ride. 

It would have been perfect. But it didn’t matter, because in the end, he’s got you now anyway. 

Finally his gaze rises to your unmentionables, the fabric looking soft and nearly see through. Whenever he saw the other girls’ undergarments drying at camp, they looked comfy but not enticing. You could be wearing his own long johns and he’d still think you’re the most fuckable creature on God’s green earth. He’d have killed to see you swimming in your under-things when he had been watching you from his horse just a week ago. You would have looked practically naked and snapped his control completely, stealing you away the moment you climbed out from the water.

He slipped the fabric down, revealing your gorgeous peach of a cunt to him. A precious thatch of hair just above it, but the best part… The lips of your kitty. Wet. Glistening in the setting sun.

You shook beneath him. 

“Sir…” You finally uttered, naked except for your mismatched stockings, and your slip having been bunched above your private place and below your belly button. “I… Please…” 

But you didn’t know what you were begging for. Anyone could ride by, see this man towering over you, almost completely bare, and see two lovers needing to touch each other, as long as they didn’t look slightly beyond to the two tied up men, shouting again and fighting against the ropes that bound them. You felt warm and flushed, as if with a fever, sweaty between your thighs and at your temples. You were never so aware of your breasts before, with his white liquid staining them, nipples sucked and still wet. You felt like… Like some sort of whore. And for a terrifying moment, you could only think that if all the women who worked the night and the saloon felt this way, you’d have happily joined them, wearing next to nothing and being desired. You felt disgusted with yourself, with the man who thought he could take from you freely like this, just because he wanted to. 

So you were at an impasse with yourself, as Arthur reached down and slowly jerked his cock, squeezing the head so that precum would gently ooze from the slit. You didn’t fight as he spread your thighs, nor when he ducked his head, a part of you wondering if he was going to breathe in your scent again, like he did at the side of your neck. You felt him inhale deeply and then-

You arched your back with a whorish moan, shaking your head as if in disbelief. You could hear a faint despairing moan of your own name, but everything else trickled away, like water poured on drying watercolours. 

All there was was his tongue on you, focusing on something that made you wriggle and cry out, jutting your hips into his face. You could feel him chuckle against you, one of his large hands cupping the outside of your thigh to keep you steady.

Arthur loved that you had never been tasted down here. You were a bucker, just like his favourite horse that he kept away from camp, safe in the stables to prevent any remarks from Javier or Bill. The treatment you were going to get. You worked your lower half to practically fuck his face with your pussy, any attention on your clit making you go to pieces. God, have you ever touched yourself? Did you even know that you could have spent your night, laying on your bed and rubbing at your cunt and cumming your brains out? Would that have helped him lure you away? Such a repressed little rich girl, rubbing at her kitty and needing a big cock to ride on, willingly following him, someone who promised to give her a real fuck. 

But no, this was better. Untouched, already so wet that your slick was trickling down your thighs and his chin, the heady taste dominating his mouth so wonderfully. Better than any drink he’d ever had. 

He kissed and licked until you were practically sobbing, switching between begging for more and wishing for him to stop, it was too much. You just needed another nudge. So he slowly parted his lips and sucked your clit into his mouth, encompassing it in a wet heat, tongue rubbing on the sensitive little bundle of nerves. 

You squealed, loud and unabashed, your back arching as something was pulled from you, something deep in your stomach unravelling until you could do nothing but weakly buck. The heat had ebbed away, your private place wet, and not just from his saliva. 

“Good girl,” You heard him murmur against your thigh, lips wet as they kissed the skin. “I think I’ll make a proper squirter out of you yet. You seem the type.” 

You didn’t know what he even meant, so lost in the aftershocks of the sensation. Arthur wiped his mouth with the back of his hand then licked the remaining juices from it, not wanting anything to go to waste. 

He knew you were more than ready. Your hole was so wet, so pliant from his tongue and your orgasm that you were no doubt more than prepared to take his cock. God could come down and punish him, the Devil could come up and drag him down, but he would fight to fuck you before either could stop him.

Jerking his cock a few times to full hardness once more, he let you just lie in your bliss, dazed from pleasure before he nudged your clit again, this time with his cockhead. He wasn’t making it a secret of what he wanted next. Arthur slowly just swiped it through your folds, your wetness gathering around the head and slipping down his shaft. The muffled shouts from the tied up men grew in volume again, but he couldn’t care anymore. You were relaxed and open to him, and they were restrained to a tree and probably harder than they had ever been in their life. Not his problem, and not yours either by the end of the day. 

“Relax for me, girl.” He slowly began to press in. Arthur was vaguely amused that he was using the same phrases he had for his horse on you, but it was working. “All ready for me, aren’t you, sweet thing?” 

You gave a soft moan as his cockhead was fully encompassed by your warmth, the sensation of it parting your walls making you so incredibly dizzy with… With… Something. Pleasure. Pleasure you never even tasted before. But it also stung, being split apart like this, by something so big, so hot. Your breath caught in your chest, and you struggled to breath out, making a choked noise. It made his cock twitch inside of you. 

“Breath, missy, breath.” He whispered against your cheek, enveloping your body with his again. “There you go, letting me in so easily. So easy for me.” 

You groaned, your legs pressing tightly against his sides, using your knees to try and urge him deeper. You could feel his chest rumble with a chuckle as he pushed in further and further, your wetness slipping down his balls and your thighs. It did hurt, it stung, but your body moved on its own, needing to feel more of him as tears pricked at your eyes. 

“Yes, that’s good.” Arthur chuckled. “Tighten your knees, like you’re riding a horse. Much better. Taking me so well.” 

A breath escaped your lips so quickly, a mixture of a laugh and a sigh as you felt him bury himself to the hilt, his balls pressing against your privates. He groaned deeply, feeling you soft, snug cunt wrap around him so well, fluttering as his cock throbbed. Fuck. He hoped you bled a bit. Not a lot, but enough to prove that he stole your virginity, that even if one of those bastards got loose and shot him through the head, they couldn’t take this away. You’d remember your first orgasm, at his tongue, and of his fat cock and the little trickle of blood seeping down his erection. 

He couldn’t wait any longer. You whined at his hips slowly starting to rock, and gave a strangled gasp the moment he gave up any semblance of gentility and instead began to rut into you, each thrust harder than the last. His cockhead pounded into you, ruthlessly hitting your cervix as Arthur groaned, low and deep, the type that reverberated deliciously. Everything about him filled you up. You could taste his skin against your tongue; his scent having traces of his cock, from when he fucked it between your tits. His moans filled your ears, and his cock overwhelmed your cunt completely. He was just so big, his arms wrapping around you easily, his chest broader than yours, his erection ruthlessly splitting you open. 

You both could hear the faint resumed shouts from the guards, probably death threats and promises of what would happen the moment they got free, that he’ll be dead within the day no matter what. It all just faded away. None of it could surpass the haven of combined moans, the smell of sex slipping between your two bodies, skin against skin, pleasure throbbing in your veins, under your skin, even as Arthur roughly gripped your hair and forced your mouth against his in another kiss. 

The loud slap of his body against yours, his balls throbbing against the lips of your cunt, his tongue pressing against yours, insisting on mixing your blood together, his hand, stealing under his own body to grope at your chest. He encompassed you, and your whimpers of pain from the merciless insertion into you was turning into whines and moans, noises only a whore could make when being used by this thug, their attacker. Good girls were supposed to scream and kick and hope a gentleman comes along to apprehend the savage who would dare to take a lady of good repute in such a manner. No one warned you that this man, this man who smelt of sweat and gun oil and unwashed skin, could make you lose yourself this easily, with just a few licks of his tongue and setting a ruinous pace into your unprotected cunt. 

Your eyes shot open at the thought, now too aware of what he would want to do. To you, not just to you, but in you. His last… Release had dried on your collarbones, now flaking off with every rub of his clothed chest against your bare one.

“S-Sir,” You hiccuped out, tears of past pain, pleasure and worry creeping to your eyes again. But to Arthur? The shine of your eyes made him feel intoxicated. “Please, don’t- Not inside. Not in there.” 

You really should have kept your sweet mouth shut, Arthur thought in a haze, your words doing nothing but making him even harder. Of course you didn’t know all the filthy words you needed to use to get him to understand. Which he did, but it wasn’t going to stop him from breeding your tight little cunt anyway. It almost made him smile to himself, imagining your mother sitting with you on the bed, chalk in hand as she spelt out all the important words for you to know in order to fuck a man. Cum and cunt, and cock and-

“Not inside!” You hiccuped again, gripping his shoulders tighter, a tear slipping free and wetting your lips.”I can’t- It won’t-” 

Arthur reached up and gripped your chin, making sure you were looking him in the eye. 

“You can and it will.” He breathed out, the smell of cigarettes and whiskey fanning over you, giving you a second hand buzz. “Daddy won’t ever know, if that’s why you’re so worried.” 

Your voice was lost, too busy moaning and shaking in his arms, the heat from your lower stomach slowly unravelling again, like a spool of thread slipping loose from your fingers and spilling its guts. Your legs began to kick involuntarily, unable to take another dose of pleasure, the toes of your shoes digging into the wet earth. 

His cock couldn’t handle the way you were tightening around him, and he could do nothing but speed up, tucking his face into your neck and grunting loudly. You were just too hot, too snug around him, you looked more beautiful than anything he’d ever seen in his life as the sun slowly set on your pleasured face, lips bitten and swollen from kissing. 

Arthur slammed all the way into you with a groan. He came, came so hard as if a large weight was lifted from him as he emptied himself deep inside of you. He stayed there for a while, feeling you slump down, drained after the first two orgasms of your life. You would be dazed for a while longer, so he should shake off his lethargy, the instinct to grab a smoke and roll over next to you. He couldn’t take the risk of the bodyguards getting free at last, or anyone else trotting along this path. Or you shaking off the afterglow of sex and deciding that this was going to be a one time thing. 

Pulling his trousers back up, Arthur tucked his cock away before half heartedly dressing you, doing enough to cover your bare pussy and tits, but leaving most of your lovely dress in tatters on the ground, soaked in cum and blood. He grinned. Your family would have no doubt of what had happened to their most prized treasure. His now. 

With a furtive glance over at the two bound men, he noticed with satisfaction one was still half hard. The other had a big wet patch on his trousers and looked away in shame. Stupid kid. The older one, with his erection flagging slowly, began to shift and strain again, his wrists bloodied with rope burn and his face burnt from the sun. Arthur hoisted you up onto his horse which had spent the last half hour chewing sleepily on grass and trying to eat the younger man’s hat. He made sure he still had his share of the loot to deliver to the camp later. You barely managed a coherent objection when he tugged you against his stomach, making sure you wouldn’t slip from the saddle.

With a click of his tongue, he urged his horse forward, into the trees, leaving the shouts of the guards behind, as you slumped against him. Arthur held you close, carefully manoeuvring through the thicket, only taking his eyes off the road to bow his head and breath in the faint perfume of bluebells, underneath the smell of sex. 

Epilogue: 

From a young age, you had been promised to a nice gentleman’s son. Their family lived in town. They weren’t as wealthy as your own kin. They weren’t as highly regarded. But over a game of cards and a few drinks of very fine whiskey, your father clapped his new friend on the back and talked about his drunken desire for their children to be joined in matrimony. Even when he sobered up, he held firm. 

You met your fiance a fair few times. You were just a bit taller than him, so he would start to wear heeled boots and your ones were packed away. He was about four years your senior, but had yet to grow out of the sweet awkwardness of being a young man, at least around you. He was nice. Complimented your mother. Trotted after your father. Gawked at you. 

“He was looking into your eyes.” One of your maids whispered as she did your hair for the night. “Such a sweet boy, he was so besotted at dinner.” 

He wasn’t. You knew he was staring at your chest. It made you feel dirty, knowing that he barely listened to what you said, and focused on every glimpse of skin, like a salivating dog. But you knew your father wouldn’t take your side in this. If anything, he’d give a hoot of laughter and say your fiance was paying you a compliment. 

So you said nothing.  Time passed and you got taller than him. He started growing a weak moustache. It tickled when he kissed your hand. 

Your father had hired your body guards after you left the house one night, to sneak into town. You didn’t get very far. Your maid woke him up and you were brought back. She stopped talking to you about your fiance’s sweet nature after that. 

But Thomas and Elijah were nice. Sometimes you’d spend more time with Elijah in one day than you would do with your father in a month. Thomas was just a farmhand that was thought to be loyal enough to be trained up with Elijah. They went everywhere you did. You preferred them over your Mother’s dogs. 

You remember the day you met Arthur. The day, not him, even as he recalled it, murmuring against your hair about how you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, the only thing he could ever want. You wish you could be that poetic about it. 

The day prior, a maid had let it slip that your fiance had a certain reputation around some of the unsavoury businesses around town. You lied to your Mother about going to meet a friend and rode in. Elijah was wary and Thomas had begun to sweat after you mentioned to them where exactly you wanted them to take you. They didn’t want to. But you knew how to get your way. 

It wasn’t heart breaking, getting to hear what your future husband was doing. A whore house frequenter, gambler, and it seems he wasn’t much good at either of those activities. By the time you couldn’t hear anymore, you were embarrassed on his behalf. On the way out, you overheard Thomas mumbling something about how it seems like your marriage bed is going to be deeply miserable and Elijah smacked the back of his head. He obviously didn’t mean for you to overhear, but you did. 

Then Arthur was there. You stepped out, into the sun, passed by a bulky man, who towered over you. You might have even looked at him. You don’t know. 

Then you went home. 

 You always thought about what Thomas said. Your marriage bed being a miserable one.You were a virgin of course, up until the day Arthur finally “married” you. The only man you’ve been with was Arthur. Before him, you wondered about your fiance having the reputation of being bad in bed. Almost like you were trying to appease yourself, you tried to reason that you probably wouldn’t even know what bad sex would be like, since you never had it before. Maybe it would be good to you, a virgin, and bad to the… Women of the Night. 

You never wondered, not with Arthur. Fuck, if someone told you that Arthur was bad at sex, you’d shrug anyway. 

The way he sucked your clit like he was a man parched, had you seeing stars. His thick fingers roughly spread you, letting your slick coat your thighs, the way they hungrily dig into your mouth afterwards. His fat cock, laying against your belly, nearly reaching your belly button before he pressed it inside of you. You loved it all. 

You felt like a whore. You were never so aware of your cunt, even when your mother sat you down and explained what you would be expected to do for your wedding night. It had been a few weeks away and she would never know that you would be gone that week and would have first hand experience about what a man would feel like. Now, after Arthur raped you of your virginity, and took you home, you were nothing but aware of it. Your clit throbbing gently. Your soaked peach of a cunt. Your hole, always aching, almost like phantom pain, too aware that there wasn’t a fat cock nestled inside. You were aware of your breasts. Arthur had ruined your corsets, and never deemed to go and get you more. Most days you didn’t even wear a full dress anymore, just in an underdress, with your puffy nipples poking through. Almost daily Arthur would get distracted by them and start mouthing away at the poor things through the fabric. 

You wondered if this is what those women, those prostitutes, felt like. Slowly rubbing your hands over your slightly swollen belly, you felt strangely light. No corsets, no tight dresses. Just the underdress, with your stockings sometimes. No underwear. You never delighted in being naked, but now you feel constricted when dressed. 

The bed under you shifted as Arthur sat up, his broad, tanned back covered in fresh scratches as he stretched. 

“Gotta head to the camp today. Dutch is getting real antsy again.” He said, before glancing over his shoulder at you. 

His hard eyes were trained on your face, your own eyes, before greedily skittering down to your naked breasts, your stomach,  lingering on your glistening cunt before he finished it off with a loving look at your ankles. Arthur really liked your ankles. 

“Will you be gone long?” You mumbled, feeling your cunt throb. 

“Not too long, darlin’.” He leaned back down, elbow against the bed, to slowly nose up your throat before pressing a kiss against your lips. 

So gentle. Gentle and loving. Not like during sex. It was like when he got his hands on you again, he mentally went back to the first time he got to have you. Rough, and dirty and good. Sex was always like that, even when he took you to a cabin he probably removed the owners from. You’d still fight tooth and nail, and he’d still indulge in you. You can’t remember when you couldn’t hide how good it felt anymore. 

The daughter of a rich man shouldn’t be moaning like a whore on the cock of the man who kidnapped her, but it wasn’t like you were fooling him anyway, not with how your cunt adored him from the moment he fucked you open. It welcomed him in, even when you didn’t. 

And now here you two were. Addicted to each other, with you playing the barely clothed housewife to the man that stole you. At least your husband was no doubt a better fuck that your fiance had ever been. As Arthur ducked his head to tongue one of your nipples into his hot, wet mouth, you gazed at your wedding ring on your finger, carding itself through his dusty blond hair. The slightly raised scar on your ring finger was more striking than any engagement ring your fiance had gifted you. 

Arthur had given it to you just after he rode off, leaving your body guards in the dust, and spent hours on horseback, getting further and further away. No one stopped him, even with the half naked woman on the back. He barely got the door open to your new home, when he was on you again, desperately tasting your skin and sinking two fingers deep inside of your dirty, cum filled cunt. It was only when he pressed back inside of you with a low moan, did he raise your filthy fingers to his mouth, to kiss over and over again, before singling out your ring finger on your right hand and pressing the digit into his mouth, against his tongue. The warm, wet of his mouth had disgusted you, but your fighting was cut short when he suddenly clamped his teeth down on the finger. It was painful, the way he bit down, to the point you were crying and firmly believed that he had reached the bone. 

Every day, he opened it back up, biting down on the barely scabbed over wound, until it finally scarred. It looked like a ring too. Your wedding ring. Forever in your skin. 

Sometimes you compared Arthur to the boy you barely knew as your fiance. 

He was bigger. Bulkier. His stubble grew in evenly, unlike the other man’s spotty moustache. Arthur didn’t seem to have time for the women of the night, you could tell by the way he greedily buried himself inside of you every time he came home. Arthur was… Twice your age? Maybe a bit more. You liked it. He knew the way to touch you till you came around his fingers. You doubted your fiance would have been able to do so. Arthur was poorer. He was an outlaw. He killed people. 

It made you wonder sometimes. As Arthur’s tongue released your nipple and his kisses pressed over your stomach, down to your cunt, you struggled to maintain your train of thought. Especially the way he would fixate on your clit, already puffy and sore, and suck on the poor thing until you came directly on his chin, soaking his beard. 

You caught back a hold of your thought, even when Arthur seemed very intent on making you as empty headed as he could. 

You wondered, when Arthur would inevitably be killed, or captured and sent to jail, would your fiance do the gentlemanly thing and still marry you. You, whose cunt was still full of a dead man’s cum, with his ring around your finger. You wondered if he’d take in any kids Arthur gave you. 

You wondered if you could survive without him, now that he had shown you exactly what you needed, even if you didn’t know it at the time. 

As Arthur hungrily pressed a kiss to your ankle and hooked them over his shoulders, to sink into your hungry cunt, you hoped your fiance would eventually marry you, if the man bullying his cock inside of you would ever leave you. 

The thought of Arthur’s bastards being legitimised and getting to inherit their grandfather’s estate made you smile. Smile, until you gasped and whined, your husband’s lips sucking a hungry mark into your throat, as he bottomed out inside of you. 

To be honest, you hoped Arthur lived forever. He was your husband, but the little things he did always meant so much to you. Little things that mattered. Kept you safe. Cooked for you. Whispered in your ear that your eyes were beautiful, and then would compliment your tits. Come home and run his hands over your sides and kiss your shoulders and murmur that you should stop outshining the sun, or he’d never leave the house again. Oh, and he was the only one who loved and complimented your bluebell perfume. 

[redr0sewrites]

I’m obsessed with your hazbin stuff rn it’s incredible

idk how much you could write for this but you write a bit about sub vox after you finish fucking him. so basically just vox aftercare. I don’t think he’d be super into non-sexual touch but I think while in subspace/while coming out of it he would be super clingy and touchy.

I’ve been thinking about taking care of a fucked out vox for a while and I’m obsessed with the image.

thank you in advance and have a nice day <33

YESSSSS!!!! im a huge sucker for aftercare ♥️

🥀Cw: fluff, aftercare, mentions of smut but nothing explicit, bathing

listen, no matter what type of sex yall are having, whether its rough and fast or slow and soft, vox always ends up exhausted

after subbing vox is always clingier than usual, but he's also a lot more emotional than usual

wipe off his tears, wait for him to calm down and just let him cling to you before even starting the aftercare process

vox just needs to be held for a few minutes as he slowly begins to become slightly coherent

i don't see him as the type to want to talk much after sex, he'll mumble a little request or an "i love you" here and there but thats about it

vox pretty much melts into your touch, and he wants you to take care of him

he very rarely feels taken care of, and hes so stressed out most of the time that it just feels very foreign to him

when it comes to actually cleaning up after sex, vox is normally still too deep into subspace to do much

hes always overstimulated, and will def glitch out when you wipe off his thighs and clean him up

vox loves the intimacy of just laying back while you wash the slick off his thighs with a warm towel, pressing soft kisses to his screen and praising him as he comes out of subspace

he needs your praise and reassurance, especially when you were rough or mean to him

he'll try to be nonchalant and ask you if you really meant all the degrading things you said, but you can tell that vox's genuinely insecure about what you think of him

praise him and tell him you're so proud of him, tell him how he took you so well and how he's your good bot

vox is too incoherent and embarassed to reply but he clings a little closer to you and his screen flushes to a warmer pink

a lot of the time vox's claws will rip up the sheets and blankets, he feels bad about it but he can't control it in the moment so he'll try to help you out with setting the bed even though his legs are shaking and he's still barely coherent

PLEASE just shush him and tell him you can handle it, then run him a warm bath

considering vox is rich af ur bathtub is def big enough for the both of you, and he enjoys just laying with you in the warm water

he likes to admire all the marks you give him in the mirror, he adores seeing the hickeys and scratches on his skin

like i said he's not much of a talker after sex but he doesn't mind listening

he'll play with your fingers or trail his hand up and down your arm as you talk to him about your day

when you're both all cleaned up and relaxed, i think he'd (secretly) like it if you dressed him

theres something so intimate about you buttoning up his night shirt, giggling and pressing kisses to his screen as he pouts at you

vox pulls you on top of him when you guys are cuddling so that he can wrap his arms around you!

by this point he's def more coherent and out of subspace so he's not as clingy, but still wants your touch (if that makes sense lmao)

like he's too prideful to cling to you or ask you to hold him but really wants to be held

he'll pout when you spoon him but the fact that he practically melts into your touch betrays his true feelings

vox sleeps like the dead after being fucked and mornings after sex are the few mornings he actually sleeps in

overall, post sex vox is a side thats much softer than usual, and truly shows how much he loves and trusts you

pushing through these long ass work days yall- tmrws my last day so i'll be posting more next week!!!!!!! i need to write more fluffy stuff w vox its come to my attention that i literally only write nsfw for him 😭

[turbulentscrawl]

can we get norton with modern reader? :3

You sure can! I find these pretty easy to do

-He’s another one who doesn’t give much of a damn, initially. Aside from possibly being a bit bitter over how nice your clothes are in comparison to his (and potentially assuming you’re someone well-off, regardless of whether you are or not), Norton’s opinion of you isn’t informed much by your origins. He’s much more concerned about whether you can make yourself useful in matches.

-There’s a decent chance he doesn’t like that phone of yours, though. The light gives away your position, and unless you brought earbuds along he thinks it’s loud as fuck for such a small thing. And why is so much of future music you play so obnoxious? Guess people of your time left their good taste in the past.

-Being from our modern world, you’re likely better informed about various mental disorders than some of the others in the manor. Even some peripheral knowledge would make you better equipped to handle Norton’s personality flips, and maybe even become something of an advocate for him. One of the biggest hurdles Norton faces in the manor is simply other people not stepping off when he tells them to. They don’t grasp that he’s afraid of hurting them, that he’s looking out for them when he isolates. So, if you’ve got some knowledge or experience and can help convince people to give him his space when he needs it, his opinion of you improves rapidly.

-Norton also doesn’t like to owe people. If the above happens in any capacity? Well, you looked out for him, so now he has to look out for you. Mostly in matches, but if someone gets out of hand mouthing off to you in the manor, he’ll step in then too. You should be prepared for him to keep score, though, and for him to make it known if it turns into you owing him.

-Don’t worry, he’s not some creep. Mostly he’ll start asking to swipe bits of food off your plate at mealtimes. Your future-food is very rich…but good. This much seasoning was hard to come by for him. (I feel like this poor guy would get sick off a baconator, but it wouldn’t stop him from wanting another.) After long enough, he’ll also start asking you to teach him about any labor-based skills you have. Or just general academics, even. Norton’s always looking for ways to self-improve.

-Eventually, your technology will grow on him a bit. Don’t get him wrong, he’s a little angry, a little jealous when you tell him about technological advancements in your time. If he’d been born then, maybe life wouldn’t have been so hard. Maybe he wouldn’t be hacking up his lungs at all hours of the day…. But he swallows that negativity down and starts devising little plans for that phone of yours to help during matches.

-Another way Norton tries to look out for you is by introducing you to his level of technology. Which is…not much at all. You know, maybe you have a thing for vintage and antique, maybe the manor seemed charming to you at first…but Norton knows it will wear off eventually, and then you’ll just feel homesick and vulnerable. The best way he can help you combat that is to make sure you have independence. Home is where you feel safe, and the first step of that is being able to take care of yourself.

-Have you got an inhaler? Please give this man a puff or two, the only reason Black Lung hasn’t killed him is because the manor won’t let it.

[abiiors]

𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚠𝚘 — 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎

✧ — 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

✮ a/n: icymi this series takes place a little bit before keep your enemies closer. it's only loosely based on the the actual accurate timeline of events from 2012/13

✮ cw: cheating, being sad and stressed, yelling, fighting

✮ wc: 2k

juliette has always been the muse, max the artist. 

she has her moments, here or there—times when she ‘helps’ max with the songs (which is mostly just him asking what tempo she likes best out of two or three options and her picking one based on vibes alone.) and sure, some of the songs she has liked have gone on to become moderate hits for the band, but juliette secretly suspects max only asks her opinion to include her in things. 

mostly he just leaves her alone to sit in quiet corners of recording studios while he and his band create a ruckus.

juliette is happy though, quietly supporting. she loves max. she imagines she’ll marry him someday. “when the band takes off” is what he always says to her in the quiet moments of the night, traces a ring around her finger. it’s then that her stomach feels funny, maybe it’s the butterflies? she does love him…

sitting quietly in a corner of the studio is exactly what she’s doing when her phone buzzes, rapidly, one text after the other incoming. she frowns; who’s texting her so frantically in the middle of the day? has she accidentally missed her shift at the local hmv? juliette straightens and checks her phone. 

her nose wrinkles in disgust—for one, it’s ethan davies, max’s bandmate whom she rather despises. and also, why the fuck is he texting her when he’s in the next room over? but curiosity takes over her and she swipes the text thread open.

there’s not much in there—just a plain happy birthday message to him from four months ago followed by his ‘ty’. and then there are the messages from today. a series of photo featuring max…

juliette’s heart drops in her stomach. 

it’s max, her max, half-naked on the sofa of some house party with an equally half-naked girl on his lap. his hand is on her waist, his mouth around her boob that’s falling out of her tank top. judging by the dermal bandage on his arm, it had to be exactly two weeks ago when he’d gotten his latest tattoo. 

nausea brews in her gut, but juliette can’t look away. it’s like she’s spellbound and held in a trance, some unknown entity forcing her to swipe onto the next photo.

it’s much of the same really—max with his hands down the girl’s pants, shooting her a smug smile. he looks fucked up, he has to be, she thinks, to fingerbang someone when there are obviously people around him. ethan, for sure, since he seems to have taken these photos. 

she’s sure she’s about to be sick all over the floor. 

a second later, a white-face max bursts into the room, followed by ethan who seems to have a fresh split lip. 

“baby, i—” he starts, chokes, takes a step forward. juliette springs up. 

three years she’s been with him, more than that really if she wants to count the months she’s spent having a crush on him. three years and now when she looks at him, all she sees is a pathetic little man. 

juliette picks up the first thing she sees, a water bottle, and chucks it at max as hard as she can. it hits him square in the stomach and knocks the wind out of him as he falls down to his knees, clutching his middle. she feels a smidge of satisfaction. 

“what the fuck is wrong with you?!” he yells, still on the floor. ethan simply watches the exchange wide-eyed. 

“with me? oh, that’s rich!”

“they weren’t supposed to be sent to you,” ethan chimes in, and juliette shoots him a glare so dirty that he’d be dead on spot if looks could kill. 

she wishes they could. she wishes she could murder max and ethan in cold blood. 

“babe, please—”

“you’re dead to me,” juliette snaps. 

there are tears spilling down her cheeks, angry tears and sad tears, tears of pure frustration and disgust and everything in between. for all intents and purposes, her voice should be wobbly and weak, and yet it surprises her how determined she sounds. it surprises her how quickly she manages to gather her belongings, how quickly she turns and storms out the door. 

gone within the blink of an eye, just like her three year long relationship.

in the weeks that follow, max sends her a hundred different flowers—sunflowers (that she’s allergic to) and roses (that come with a horrid artificial smell clinging to them). he calls her a dozen times and sends her a dozen pathetic begging messages until she blocks him (and ethan—a wonderful byproduct).

she even considers deleting his number. but there’s a little traitorous part of her brain that has it memorised. in spite of everything. 

in the weeks that follow she moves in with a friend.

carly is a bright ray of sunshine—crazy hair and red nails and brilliantly coloured graphic t-shirts seem to be 90% of her wardrobe. and even in the middle of all the bleakness, she brings some warmth to juliette's life. 

carly’s the first housemate she’s ever had that’s not max. carly also seems to know a thousand different indie musicians that keep coming over or inviting her to their shows. 

juliette doesn’t mind it as much. she’s used to this particular kind of hustle—at least that aspect of familiarity hasn’t been snatched from her. besides, living with carly has kept max away. she suspects carly scares him a little, that’s why he chooses to stay away. 

she's is a good friend to juliette though, she lets her throw herself a pity party in bed for the first few weeks, only forcing her into showers when she starts reeking of sweat. juliette is grateful for her. but even her patience runs thin soon enough.

“alright that’s it,” carly bursts into her room one afternoon while juliette is busy deleting photos of her and max off her phone. “the pity party ends today.”

“but—”

“no!”

juliette huffs at her but sits up in bed. she’s in three day old pyjamas, her hair is a greasy mess from not being washed for at least a week, and frankly she stinks. it’s mortifying. maybe carly is right…

“i’m seeing this guy, adam,” carly smiles wide and juliette feels a pang in her chest. has she ever looked like that while talking about max? “his band has a show tonight—”

“i’m done with band guys.”

“jules!” carly holds up her hand. jules… it startles her, no one’s ever called her that. max only ever called her babe or baby or juliette if they were in a fight. but jules… that’s new. it holds no memories for her. juliette holds it close to her and repeats it to herself until it starts sounding like a real name. 

jules. she could be a jules. 

carly, unaware of this little epiphany, continues talking. “they’re good, jules, trust me! and i’m not saying that just because i’m seeing him, they really are good. you’ll have fun.”

she mulls the thought over in her head. the one thing she remembers fondly from her now ruined relationship with max is the shows. the being backstage and seeing the inner workings of everything. she misses being at the barricade and getting to scream the songs at the top of her lungs. 

“i don’t want to go just to meet someone.” she chews on a hangnail.

“you don’t have to,” carly promises. “it will just be a good time.”

“just a good time,” she mumbles to herself. carly looks at her with hope written all over her face. and she’s been such a good friend to her, juliette doesn’t particularly feel like letting her down. 

“okay,” she says quietly, smiling when carly cheers. 

it’ll be good, she tells herself. she needs to get out of the house sooner or later anyway.

it feels exactly how she remembers it. juliette loves the energy backstage, loves to see the different guitars strewn about carelessly and people hurrying around, loves watching artists shooting the shit and smoking up before shows.

there are occasionally ones that are uptight and nervous about going on stage—she loves watching them especially. how they come alive in front of the crowd and under the stage lights. 

carly lets go of her hand when she spots a guy; adam, juliette guesses. a second later it’s confirmed when carly hugs him tightly and kisses him for a good thirty seconds. juliette looks away, awkward and out of place. 

“i brought a friend,” she announces, pointing to juliette and suddenly everyone’s eyes are on her. 

“hi,” she says, a little shy. adam, to her relief, looks equally shy and quiet. 

“new fans?” a voice makes her head turn. it’s a tall man, taller than adam and twirling drumsticks between his fingers like it’s second nature to him. 

“george,” he turns to her and sticks his hand out. juliette takes it. 

“jules,” she says, her voice a little unsure. jules. it fits better somehow now that she’s said it out loud. 

“are you a fan, jules?” he grins at her, an easy-going smile that instantly puts her at ease too. maybe carly was right. maybe they are good. george certainly feels nothing like max’s friends. 

stop. she scolds herself. she’s not allowed to think of max tonight. 

“are you putting her on the spot, george?” a new voice comes from behind george. her ears perk up instantly. the voice sounds…familiar somehow. 

“hi,” the man appears from behind george, smoking the last dregs of a cigarette. he stops right in front of her. juliette tries not to stare so blatantly, but it’s not easy when he’s so obviously attractive. 

his hair is curly, huge, half-falling in his eyes, eyes that are framed with the longest lashes she’s ever seen (unfair!). he’s also a good couple inches taller than her. juliette refuses to look any lower than his face though. for one, his shirt is entirely unbuttoned. and his jeans are quite low-waist. (not that she hasn’t stolen a couple sneaky glances, especially at the tattoos)

“jules, was it?” he nudges her a little and jules comes back to earth.

“yes, hi!” she says, suddenly chipper. from behind him, carly waggles her brows at her. 

“i’m matty.” he holds out his hand much like george had, and when jules takes it, it feels warm around hers, it sends tingles down her spine. 

“are you seeing us for the first time?” matty asks, still holding her hand, not that jules minds it very much. she nods. 

“we’ll have to make an impression then,” he smiles, just the right amount of cocky. jules almost blushes. 

“i guess you’ll have to,” she tucks her hair behind her ear. “although i don’t think that should be too much work? my friend was raving about you,” she points at carly. matty doesn’t look. 

“is that right?”

jules nods, barely holding back a grin. 

“i’ll be more interested in what you think though.”

this time it’s her turn to lean in a little, turn her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “is that right?”

when had she learned to flirt with someone within minutes of meeting them? especially weeks after her breakup?!

matty’s about to say something when someone interrupts him, tells him they have to go up in five. another man who’s just as tall as george, except he has a buzzcut and a sparse beard. (jesus how tall is everyone?!)

matty winces apologetically and finally lets go of her hand. 

“stay after the show, yeah?” he asks, hope written so clear all over his face. jules smiles.

“only if you impress me.”

matty laughs, a sound that lingers around her, right before he disappears behind a throng of people.

jules scrunches her eyes shut and then makes her way to the wings.

the show is the best thing she’s ever seen, matty is the best thing she’s ever seen—better than max could ever be. he smiles at her so many times too, winks like a proper rockstar and basks in the attention of all the girls at the barricade. jules watches him until she can no longer stand it. 

it’s like watching max. sure matty's infinitely better, but the similarities make it hard to just stand there and enjoy the show and dance like carly is next to her.  

anything to do with max is not something she can stand right now. 

so right before the last song, she hugs carly and makes an excuse. carly’s having too much fun to stop and have a chat, not that jules wants her to. 

she looks at matty one last time, at the way he stomach flexes when he hits a high note. then she turns before the regret can set in, before she can think about the hope on his face when he'd asked her to stay.

no matter how much she wants to, jules doesn’t stay after the show.

[gffa]

You start Omniscient Reader’s Viewpoint with an intriguing concept. A webnovel about “Three Ways To Survive in the Apocalypse” that this shy nerd has been reading for 10 years and is the only one who has been reading it, is ending, and he’s kind of sad about it, because he’s loved it for so long, he’s tried recommending it others, but got shut down because nobody believed he wasn’t the author trying to promote himself, so he just gave up, he doesn’t really have goals in life, he doesn’t interact well with others, he’s socially awkward and quiet, he defines himself as having a “reader’s life”, someone who just observes the story, but then suddenly THE EVENTS OF THE NOVEL ARE REAL. The apocalypse is happening around him and everyone is freaking the fuck out and he is as well, like, what in the actual fuck, but he knows a few things to expect because he’s read all 3k+ chapters of the webnovel and you can see him start to piece things together when monsters are suddenly attacking and they’re being forced to kill each other and he manages to find a way out, with as little bloodshed as he can. You understand the shape of this 550 chapter story, you understand that it’s like ten novels worth of story, you understand that Kim Dokja is going to slowly become the protagonist of the story, even though the story already has a protagonist and you can feel his presence looming over the story and terrifying DKJ, they can’t meet yet, he’d be crushed by this guy, it’d ruin everything. But WHOOPS he does meet the protagonist of the story and gets hung out by his neck over the crumbling edge of a broken bridge and he has to scramble to desperately lie to the protagonist because he can’t reveal how he got his knowledge of the events that are unfolding around him or even let on that he’s aware of the protagonist’s story. He gets himself thrown off the side into a sea-monster’s mouth and told to survive if he really is worth saving and you understand the shape of this story.  You see the early events that will shape Kim Dokja into becoming his own protagonist, getting him slowly out of the “reader” role.  He uses his knowledge of the apocalypse to obtain the special magical items he needs and avoid pitfalls that would have hindered him later and makes deals that will benefit him the entire way.  You see the shape of the story unfolding. You go through a brief timeskip, he’s gotten stronger, he’s used his knowledge to become faster and more powerful than most around him.  You see him join a group of other survivors and have to go fight a bunch of monsters, including a major Tier 7 Demon, which he defeats with forewarned knowledge, and he is steadily growing UNHINGED while he does it, like this boy isn’t so much off his rocker as he is using it for kindling, he just casually slices up the Tier 7 Demon, but, h-hey, aren’t you going to finish it off? everyone else asks.

All right, you understand he’s kind of a little more unhinged a little sooner than you were expecting, but it’s not that--

..........uh oh, you think. Turns out, because Demons are subordinates of Demon Kings, if you kill one, you get cursed to witness something truly horrible, and, sure enough, cowardly rich business man type steps in to steal the kill and oh shit okay--

And you realize, ohhhhhh, oh shit KDJ probably did this on purpose, knowing business man would steal the kill, because the start of this sub-arc had him saying that he wasn’t as nice as he appeared and he wasn’t just here to save people, and also you realize he maybe wanted to punish that guy for the shit he’d pulled on someone KDJ liked and-- And then, after all this shit goes down, KDJ is just like:

And you realize he’s already there, he’s already this unhinged and dangerous and scheming, he still thinks of himself as a “reader”, but he’s weaponizing that position and you have NO idea what kind of batshit antics he’s going to pull out of his ass next and-- And you realize YOU ARE ONLY ON CHAPTER 22 AND YOU WONDER WHAT IN THE UNHOLY FUCK IS GOING TO BE IN THE OTHER 530 CHAPTERS IF WE’RE ALREADY THIS FAR ALONG. Anyway, please read Omniscient Reader’s Viewpoint with me, it’s completely out of its mind in the best way, and you can start with the webtoon, it’s super pretty and the translation is very smooth, and come yell, “WHAT THE FUCK??” at every new batshit event this story is throwing at me.

[reconstructwriter]

So I Finally Finished Attack of the Clones

...for the very first time. When did this movie come out again? I am late, is there still room on this bandwagon? Anyway more thought vomiting on this movie...

Sith Pattern: I do appreciate that Palpatine is old, rich, white male fascist. Dooku is old, rich, white male fascist. Anakin shakes things up a bit by starting out young and poor but he’ll get there and has the rest down. Meanwhile our heroes are Padme Amidala, Mace Windu, Yoda, Bail, etc. Would have loved for George Lucas’ original casting of Obi Wan to have gone through! This does make Mirror!verses and morality flip AU's very weird because the Galaxy is being saved from aliens by three white guys? Unfortunate implications aside I can suspend a lot of disbelief about laser-swords and magic IN SPACE but I gotta draw the line somewhere.

Anakin’s attachment: Is well-shown here with convenient comparison to Cleigg – her husband and her son, the two who should love Shmi the most. At her funeral Cleigg is all ‘you’re in a better place. Thank you for the time we had,’ vs Anakin’s ‘I wasn’t strong enough to save you, I won’t fail again’ and ‘I miss you’. Exact opposites. Cleigg was entirely focused on Shmi while Anakin was focused on himself.

Also Anakin’s focus kinda screwed up Obi Wan’s mission when he wasted precious moments FINDING Anakin to get his galactically-important message through.

Mace Windu Not Killing Dooku: Shatterpoint, along with some fanfics, has Mace beating himself up for not ending the war by killing Dooku but my man you’re too hard on yourself! You only killed Jango when he decided to fuck around and find out with you in the death arena. Dooku did not fuck around and find out so your only chance would’ve been to throw away all your Jedi morals and stab him in the back! Thus risking becoming Darth Tyrannus 2.0 and screwing the galaxy.

Jango why did you fuck around and find out? I get Mace held a laser sword to your throat and you had a working jetpack going into the arena…but that arena is No Man’s Land. Even if Galidraan was canon you could’ve stayed back and taken pot shots.

The scene with Boba giving one last keldabe kiss to his father’s helmet is heartbreaking! Ouch!!!

Padme: So I kinda get being willing to confess her terrible taste in men on Space Fantasy Death Row. She doesn’t want to live a lie and is straight up expecting to die so what does it matter if she confesses? And then she does live so consequence time! Still feels like she’s ignoring the genocide – or George Lucas is ignoring the obvious implications. Genocide does work for foreshadowing Jedi genocide and Nazi comparisons (boy howdy does it!!!). But murdering every single member of an entire tribe down to the babes in arms doesn’t work for ‘Anakin doesn’t Fall here, he just dips his toe in the Dark’.

Padme otherwise doesn’t seem too terribly out of character throughout. She stands her ground against Anakin and where she does give in – rescuing Shmi – or chooses to go after Obi Wan? Well both did do her immensely big favors it’d be weirder if she brushed them off. Plus, rescuing both comes with additional benefits – no assassin will look for her on Tattooine (it worked before) and Obi Wan’s rescue could offer the opportunity to discuss peace with the Separatists before war happened.

And it did – in the cut scene :P

Dual with Dooku: So Anakin did put his duty first when Padme fell in the (barren, sans enemies) sand with an ally but damn if his attachment to her wasn’t still affecting him. The hot-headed idiotic attack was the worst possible timing! Why does everyone beat Mace up (including the man himself) for not killing Dooku but give Anakin a pass when he had every chance of ending the war Right There if he’d been able to keep his head on straight for two minutes.

The End: As with the first movie, we end with Mace and Yoda clearly knowing what the Sith are doing, though they're split with Mace believing Dooku while Yoda thinks its a trick. And I think they’re both right because I read somewhere Dooku and Palpatine were hoping to sow doubt between the Jedi and the Senate but also was telling the truth – from a certain point of view. Anyway, they aren't oblivious. Yoda straight up says the Shroud of the Dark Side has Fallen.

The last scene really drives that home! How the beginning of the war is the beginning of the Empire. The war kills the Republic and this is repeatedly smacked into our brains with the imagery of Palpatine standing at the head of everyone else, the most powerful Supreme Chancellor ever as the army of white-clad troopers marches out into the galaxy below him. The Destroyers lift off. The Empire’s freaking theme music plays.

Overall the movie had its high points and stinkers but that was a damn fine end!

[blondeboyfriend]

𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝟐 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐍𝐈

« Devotional 1 [ PAIRING ] DIO x f!reader x Hol Horse [ AUTHOR'S NOTE ] Dio using his fangs to pull corks out of wine bottles comes from this. Also I kinda amped up the silliness which I apologize for. I couldn't help it. Drunk!DIO is just too much fun to indulge in. [ SYNOPSIS ] The return of Hol Horse. [ WORD COUNT ] 4.3k [ CONTENT ] Canon AU, POV switching, alcohol, dubcon (power imbalance, everyone's drunk), threesome (mmf), nipple play, oral sex (m + f receiving), anal sex (m receiving), voyeurism, sadomasochism, handjob, gun play, objectification, degradation (Dio gets degraded), some D/s elements, biting, marking, pet names (pet, darlin', sweetheart), orgasm control, impact play, not beta read.

You hadn’t thought much about Hol Horse since your previous tryst. While it was exciting and memorable, you occupied yourself with other things. You didn’t want to get attached to the hitman. Loving Dio was bad enough. Why let another reprehensible man into your life? You didn’t need to shoulder that weight.

You found that tending to the mansion’s lush gardens was a worthy task, one that filled you with pride. Your favorite time to garden was in the evening, when the sun wasn’t as cruel. You enjoyed the pinkish-orange hue that overtook the sky as the gloaming inched closer. Everything looked that much more beautiful when bathed in a blushing glow. You felt safe, at ease, like nothing could go wrong if your hands were plunged in rich, fertile soil.

That’s why it was such a shock to hear Pet Shop’s foreboding shriek as you deadheaded some carmine-colored poppies. You dropped your shears and looked around, seeing no one.

“Call off that damn bird!” You heard a familiar voice yell.

You finally spotted the panicked hawk, swooping around menacingly. You hoped he had refrained from bombarding Hol Horse with icicles.

“The fuck is he doing here?” You asked.

You stumbled to your feet and tried to make yourself visible, attempting to wave Pet Shop down like he was a vicious airplane.

“It’s fine!” You shouted, suddenly feeling foolish. “Can he even understand me?” You wondered out loud. “I mean, he seems pretty smart…”

You shook your head and decided not to think too hard about it. The sudden absence of Pet Shop’s shrill cries of alarm was enough to quell your nerves.

“One second,” you said as you struggled to open the gate, a task you had never attempted yourself.

“Take your time, darlin’.”

After about a minute of struggling you finally managed to get the gate open.

“Sorry,” you panted, wiping the sweat from your brow. “Usually someone else does that.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” Hol Horse said kindly.

His gaze was full of dreamy longing. You wondered if he looked at his numerous girlfriends this way.

“So… Can I… help you? Do you need something?”

He adjusted his hat and shook the starry-eyed look off his face.

“Lord Dio asked me to come. He said it’s important.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Important?”

You knew Hol Horse wasn’t here on “business” so to speak. Whether he knew that or not was another thing, but you were quick to catch onto Dio’s will. The vampire tried to be as opaque as possible with his true desires, only revealing information when he felt it was beneficial. But the more time you spent around him, the easier he was to read.

“His words, not mine.”

“Alright,” you sighed. “I’m sure he’s lurking around somewhere.”

You led Hol Horse into the mansion and set out to find Dio. You vaguely recalled him mentioning that he’d be in his study if you needed him. Most of the search was spent in silence, excluding your annoyed sighs when you’d fail to find your lover. There was no hint of him in the study and no one else in the mansion seemed to have kept tabs on him.

“This happens,” you muttered, wandering through the art gallery. “I’m sorry this has become such an ordeal.”

“It’s no trouble at all. To be honest I’d be perfectly happy if we never find him.”

You turned around and looked at Hol Horse with disgust.

“I didn’t mean it like that! I—C’mon, sweetheart, you think I wanna be here?” He pulled out his pack of cigarettes and lit one. “I’m pretty sure I won’t be leaving this place alive.”

“Don’t be fucking dramatic.”

You strode into the chapel and scanned the room, seeing nothing.

“I’m not being dramatic. You gotta know what he’s capable of.”

“I know,” you moaned. “I’m aware and I don’t care.”

Hol Horse was aghast. “Well I do! My head’s on the chopping block, not yours.” He took a hit off his cigarette and flicked the ash to the floor.

“He’s not going to kill you for fuck’s sake. I’m pretty sure he wants you to top him.”

“What the hell does that mean? Top him? He wan—” Hol Horse paused, seemingly realizing what you meant. “Oh, you’re kiddin’ me.”

You walked by the lectern and noticed an empty bottle of wine leaning against the foot of it. Dio must have been in here at some point.

“That can’t be it.”

You ignored the hitman’s panicked realization, instead focusing on the faint groaning and labored breathing emanating from the altar. You spotted another bottle of wine, this one half-full.

“I’d rather have him kill me, if that’s the case.”

“I think I heard something.”

You crept closer to the altar, looking around the large, ornate table it sat on. You glanced underneath and saw nothing but darkness.

“Never mind,” you sighed, walking away. “He might be—WHAT THE FUCK?!”

You stared down and saw a pale hand wrapped around your ankle, cold fingers digging into your flesh. Instinctively you stomped on it. Hol Horse ran to your side, drawing Emperor and aiming at the hand now feebly clutching your leg. You heard what you could only describe as a pathetic hiss.

“Dio?”

“How could you do this to me? After I, Dio, have done so much for you.”

“Are you crying?” You asked, squatting down to get a better look at the tragic heap at your feet.

“No!” He barked.

Hol Horse withdrew his stand and took a few steps back. He took a final drag off his cigarette and let the butt fall to the floor. He crushed the smoldering cherry with his heel.

“Did I hurt you?” You cooed, rubbing his cold hand.

“Maybe.”

Dio was a mess. His blonde hair hung in his face, cascading down his shoulders. The whites of his eyes were red rimmed and kohl smudged. All he had on were a pair of chartreuse silk shorts that barely covered his ass and a turquoise knit sock on his left foot for some inexplicable reason.

You stroked his chilled face, trying not to reveal the pity you felt for him.

“I’m sorry.”

He grumbled something indecipherable.

“… Uh. Hol Horse is here.”

Dio’s eyes briefly widened before he recomposed himself. He stood up with no problems. But swayed a little once on his feet, like a skyscraper drifting on a windy day.

“Hol Horse,” he bellowed.

Hol Horse straightened his posture, a minor attempt at looking more robust. “Yes, Lord Dio. You said you needed to see me.”

Dio shifted his gaze to you.

“Did I say that?” The vampire hissed under his breath.

Dio’s eyebrows were furrowed, ripe with frustration. You could have sworn he was pouting, a common occurrence when he’d get drunk alone.

“I asked you a question, pet.”

“I never heard you say that.”

The three of you stood in silence, the only sound emanating from a ticking clock. Hol Horse’s anxiety sucked the air out of the room regardless of his brave facade. Dio held his palm to his forehead. He looked like a postmodern version of a Rodin statue.

“I remember now,” he said quietly. “Hol Horse, I need you—”

“You what?” Hol Horse blurted out.

Dio dropped his hand and glared at the hitman.

“Don’t speak out of turn,” Dio slurred. “I need you to…. Ugh.” The vampire groaned in frustration. “I need you to…”

You rubbed Dio’s back while he tried to find his words.

“Why don’t we have him come back another time?” You said softly.

“Tch. No,” the vampire growled. His gaze darted around the floor, sighing in relief when he saw the half-full bottle of wine. “He came all this way.”

“I’m actually not staying too far from here—”

“Quiet!” Dio snatched the bottle of wine off the floor. “We’re going to make it worth his while.”

“C—could y’all not talk about me like I’m not in the room?” Hol Horse laughed.

“My apologies,” Dio said, eyeing the label of the wine bottle. “You should stay though. Have some wine.” He handed the bottle to the hitman. “It’s a dry port, imported from Póvoa de Varzim.”

Hol Horse held the bottle like it was a grenade missing a pin.

“I’m not much of a drinker.”

Dio clenched his fists like an immature child not getting his way.

“Did I ask if you were much of a drinker, Hol Horse? Pet,” he said, snapping his fingers at you. “Did I, Dio, say that?”

“Don’t treat me like a dog, you drunk ass.”

“I can’t win with either of you, can I?!” He cried out before snatching the bottle back from Hol Horse.

He used his fang to pull the cork out of the bottle. He yanked it off his tooth and threw it across the room. He took an oblivion seeking gulp. A trickle of the crimson liquid dribbled down from his mouth, collecting near his collarbones.

“Hol Horse!” He announced, wiping his wine-stained lips. “I’m done playing games. Come here closer.”

Hol Horse went to grab the bottle from Dio, but was denied.

“No. Get on your knees and open your mouth.”

Hol Horse frowned, but obeyed. The hitman opened his mouth and looked up at the vampire. Dio gave him a sick smirk before pouring a steady stream of wine into Hol Horse’s mouth. Part of you expected him to choke on it, but he swallowed it like a professional.

“Good boy,” Dio purred, patting Hol Horse on the head. “Hmph. Take your stupid hat off.” The vampire unceremoniously knocked Hol Horse’s cowboy hat off.

“Can we at least drink out of glasses?” You asked.

“Do you think they drank out of glasses during the Bacchanalia?”

“The what?” Hol Horse asked.

He got on Hol Horse’s level so he could stare into the hitman’s eyes.

“The Bacchanalia, Hol Horse! The Roman festival dedicated to Bacchus.”

“I’m not much into history, Lord Dio.”

Dio looked thoroughly distressed. He gazed up at you expectantly.

“You know what I’m talking about, right?”

“Yeah, I know. Lots of hedonism… And other shit.”

Dio got to his feet and grabbed ahold of your shoulders, his face mere inches from yours. You could smell the sweet aroma of port on his breath.

“It wasn’t just hedonism, my pet. You’re selling it short. It was sheer ecstasy. A celebration of the flesh and its wonders.”

You frowned. “Didn’t maenads eat people in a drunken frenzy and uproot trees with their bare hands?”

“Maenads are Greek, you swine. I’m talking about Roman mythology. You’re thinking of bacchae.” Dio groaned. “Euripides did write about them ripping men limb from limb, but I don’t recall them eating anyone. Though that would be very intriguing.”

“Ar—are you going to eat me?” Hol Horse asked.

“Just your ass,” the vampire said matter-of-factly. Suddenly his face lit up. “Wait, yes! I did ask you here.” Dio smirked again, corners of his lips curling up. He stepped towards the hitman, his footsteps nearly silent against the cold, marble floor. “On your feet,” he said softly.

Hol Horse stood up with trepidation. Dio tucked a lock of the hitman’s sandy blonde hair behind his ear.

“I wanted to apologize for how I left things between us last time.”

“Really?”

“No. But I didn’t get to have as much fun with you as I wanted. Isn’t that right, pet?”

You nodded. Dio expressed his disappointment to you a multitude of times. Usually after he fucked you into a coma-like state and felt comfortable enough to be vulnerable around you.

“I—I,” Hol Horse stammered.

Dio wrapped his arms around the hitman and clung to him like a sloth.

“Come on. You can’t deny my charm.”

“He definitely can, Dio. Don’t be weird.”

You stepped closer to the two men. Dio buried his face into Hol Horse’s neck. Hol Horse swallowed hard and reluctantly patted the vampire’s muscled back.

“At least help me finish this bottle of wine. It’d be a shame to waste it.”

“That would be your own fault for throwing the cork across the room,” you snarked.

“I’m five seconds from killing you.”

You sighed. “Is that my cue to leave?”

“No!” Hol Horse blurted out. “I mean, no. You should, uh, stay! Please stay.”

“He’s right. It’s no fun without you,” Dio relented.

You decided to stay, not only for Hol Horse’s best interests but also because you wouldn’t mind fucking around with him again. The three of you moved to Dio’s bedroom and finished off the bottle of port. You were all sprawled out on the vampire’s bed in your underwear, clothes in little piles on the floor. You and Hol Horse were already riddled with bite marks because Dio simply couldn’t keep his hands off the two of you, interrupting conversation by biting your shoulder or your neck. Never hard, just enough to remind you he was there. The poor thing had little interest or ability to maintain a conversation.

“That’s actually pretty admirable of you,” you said, stroking Dio’s head as it rested in your lap. “I feel like most men would take advantage of a woman in that situation.”

“I respect women, that’s why.”

“I respect women too,” Dio murmured.

“You kill 99% of the women that come across you, honey.”

“What about you? You’re alive. And I’ve fucked at least four women without killing them for the record.”

“That’s not impressive, and you know that,” you chastised.

Dio pouted. He knew you were right, but he’d never admit it.

You reached for the bottle resting on the nightstand only to realize it was empty. You frowned, but knew opening another bottle would be asking for trouble. Dio noticed your expression and sat up.

“Should I get another?”

“No,” you said.

“Yes,” Hol Horse answered at the same time.

Dio got up from the bed and skulked around until he found a bottle of vintage merlot amongst his various treasures. He again pulled the cork out of the bottle with his teeth and hurled it across the room. You stifled a laugh. He took a sip from the bottle before handing it off to Hol Horse who mirrored Dio. The hitman held out the bottle to you, but you shook your head.

“You’re no fun,” Dio slurred.

The vampire groaned and draped himself over you. His body was so cold up against yours, but you welcomed it. The port wine left you warm and tingly. Dio nuzzled his head into your neck before pressing his lips to it. He began to suck on it and his teeth lightly grazed the skin. He pinched your nipple between his fingernails and you winced, but welcomed the stinging pain.

“Don’t be a stranger, cowboy.” You cringed internally at your drunken term of endearment. You made a mental note not to say anything else along those lines.

Hol Horse obliged and crawled over to you on his hands and knees. He flicked his tongue against your nipple and sucked on your breast. You placed your hand on the base of his skull and held it close to your chest. He swirled his tongue around your nipple. Dio rubbed your clit through your underwear, an act that made you slightly uneasy because of his pointed, claw-like nails. Your body tensed up with every swipe of his finger.

Dio smiled against your neck. “Nervous?” He asked.

“Maybe. It feels good though,” you replied.

He applied more pressure to your clit and a whine freed itself from the depths of your throat. You twirled a lock of Hol Horse’s hair as he continued to suck on your breast. You thought about pulling on it, but refrained. You wanted to be kinder to the hitman; you felt obligated to spoil him.

You clenched your jaw and felt as if you were ascending, surrounded by blonde angels.

“Could one of you please, uh.” Hol Horse said, his breath hot against your nipple. “Could one of you touch my cock or somethin’?” He sounded almost pained as he asked the question, like he was embarrassed to desire you and Dio’s touch.

You decided to take the lead, gently pushing Dio away from you. Hol Horse got off his hands and rested on his knees. You pulled down his boxers, revealing his semi-hard cock. It was just as big as you remembered it, long and on the thinner side with not a vein in sight. You stroked it, biting down on your bottom lip as you watched the tension melt away from his body.

“Squeeze it tighter,” Dio heckled.

You didn’t bother responding to him, instead directing all your attention on Hol Horse. You cunt throbbed as you gazed at his face as it contorted with pleasure. Dio reached for the bottle of merlot and took a sizable gulp. He came closer to Hol Horse and grabbed the back of his head.

“Tip your head back and prepare to swallow.”

The hitman heeded Dio’s instructions and graciously accepted the wine pouring into his mouth. Dio’s coordination was nothing to write home about; the wine ended up on Hol Horse’s chest and ultimately the vampire’s bedding (something he would deeply regret in the morning).

You rubbed the tip of Hol Horse’s cock, running the pad of your finger along the slit. Droplets of precum seeped out of his cocktip.

Dio took another sip from the bottle of wine and placed it on the floor. He cupped the hitman’s face in his hands and kissed him deeply. Hol Horse looked momentarily surprised before succumbing to Dio’s alluring nature. He bucked his hips against your hands, thrusting his cock deeper into your grasp.

“Aw, do you need to fuck something?” You teased, squeezing the length of it.

He broke the kiss and mumbled a quick, “Yes.”

Dio jumped at the opportunity to bottom for the hitman. It was almost as if he immediately appeared in front of Hol Horse, naked on his hands and knees.

“Did you use your fucking stand?” You asked.

He smiled, and said nothing.

Hol Horse stroked his cock slapped it against Dio’s taint. You took a seat in front of Dio and gaped at the sensuous sight. The hitman rubbed Dio’s sumptuous ass and gave it a hard smack. He teased Dio’s hole with the tip of his cock, slowly pushing it inside.

“Anytime now,” Dio ordered.

Hol Horse furrowed his brow and slammed his cock into Dio’s ass.

“Fuck!”

“Lord Dio, I—I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to hur—”

Dio groaned. “Shut up. Pet, grab the lube.”

You shook your head at their stupidity and grabbed the lube Dio kept in his nightstand. You handed it to Hol Horse who coated his cock in with the silicon-based lubricant. You sat back and watched as the hitman eased his cock back into Dio.

“Is that better?” Hol Horse asked nervously.

“If you’re going to talk, Hol Horse, at least degrade me. Your pitiful attempts at comforting me are boring.”

Hol Horse breathed in deep and exhaled slowly. You watched eagerly, desperate to know what curses would fall from the hitman’s lips.

“You’re the one that hasn’t shut up once tonight,” Hol Horse growled before shoving Dio’s head into the mattress. “You oughta keep quiet and let me use you like the worthless slut you are.”

“Yeah! That’s what I’m talking about,” Dio called out, his voice muffled by the sheets. “Tell me this is the only thing I’m good for.”

“I don’t know why you keep flapping your jaws, I thought I told you to keep quiet.”

“Say it or I’ll kill you,” Dio growled.

“The only reason something as wretched and disgusting as you exists is so people have something to abuse.”

“Nngh, no abuse,” Dio said, lifting his head slightly.

The hitman apologized, not knowing of Dio’s dreadful childhood. You ruffed the vampire’s hair lovingly, a small consolation.

Hol Horse continued to drive his cock into Dio’s ass, groaning as he bottomed out. You relished in the symphony of gasps and moans coming from the two men. The hitman’s balls clapped up against Dio, each occurrence eliciting a breathy whine from the vampire. Hol Horse reached around Dio and grabbed his neck, forcing him to crane his head back.

“Fucking you is like fucking a whore.”

“I’m not averse to you paying me for this, if that’s your thing.”

Hol Horse let go and pushed Dio’s head back into the mattress. You felt like you were going to implode with pleasure. Seeing the two of them fucking each other was driving you wild.

“Point your gun at him,” you said while you took off your underwear.

Hol Horse summoned his stand and pointed it at the back of Dio’s head. Dio dug his fingers into the mattress in ecstasy as the barrel pressed against his skull. You spread your folds and dipped your fingers inside your cunt.

“Is your finger on the trigger?” You purred, rubbing your clit.

Hol Horse grinned. “You know it is.”

You squealed with delight and continued to play with your cunt, coating your fingers with your arousal. You made eye contact with the hitman while you sucked your fingers clean. You knew he wanted you.

Dio looked up, face still half-buried in his bed.

“Let me eat your cunt,” he moaned, words nearly intelligible.

You grabbed the hair on top of his head and lifted his body up, making him get back on all fours. You placed your hand under his chin and lifted it so his vermillion eyes would meet your gaze. He stuck out his tongue and you brought his head to your cunt. He teased your clit with the tip of his tongue. You tossed your head back and hummed happily as he serviced you. Hol Horse’s thrusts shoved Dio’s head against your body. With each thrust the vampire grunted as he sucked on your arousal soaked folds.

“That feels so good,” you groaned.

Dio’s oral abilities never ceased to amaze you. It was like his mouth was made to be buried in someone’s cunt. His soft lips and long tongue were blessings.

“Fuck,” you whined. “This absolutely is the only thing you’re good for.”

Dio let out a delighted moan. He arched his back and took a more active role as Hol Horse’s fucked him.

“Oh shit,” the hitman groaned. He now lacked the concentration to maintain his stand.

You felt your body growing warmer by the second, heat radiating from your core. You braced yourself against Dio while your strength withered away.

“I—I’m close,” you moaned.

Dio showed your cunt no mercy as he sucked on your clit. Your breathing lost all rhythm, instead becoming labored, quiet gasps with some moans sprinkled in between. You fell back, your body hitting the mattress with a thud. You caught your breath and smiled, utterly satisfied.

“Suck my cock n—no—now,” Dio stuttered.

Hol Horse helped him onto his knees and the vampire reached out to you. You couldn’t even dream of denying him. You crawled a short distance to him and wrapped your lips around his aching cock. You savored the sweet precum that trickled from the tip, focusing on the slit of his cock. His moans grew louder and louder, definitely audible to anyone that happened to pass by his chambers. He was becoming undone. Hol Horse continued to pound his cock into the vampire’s tight hole, his eyes locked shut.

You looked up and watched as Dio demanded Hol Horse to open them and kiss him as he came. The hitman obeyed and shared a sloppy, drunken kiss with the vampire.

It didn’t take long for a deluge of cum to erupt from Dio’s throbbing cock. You swallowed every drop, gulping it down ecstatically. You loved when Dio filled your mouth with his cum.

“I, fuck, think I’m getting there too,’ Hol Horse said. His voice was pained.

Dio pulled Hol Horse’s cock out of him, his expression hinting at a devious plan.

“Lay on your back.”

Hol Horse did as he was told and stroked his cock, longing for it to be deep in Dio’s ass again. Dio got on top of him and guided it back inside. The vampire bounced up and down on the hitman’s cock with a disturbing half-smile on his face.

“D—Dio, I—”

“Is that how a weakling like you is supposed to address me?”

“Lord Dio, I don’t think I can hold it in.”

“Oh, my dear Hol Horse, but you must.”

“Please. I—”

“If you want it that bad, you must beg for it.”

You watched, completely entertained by Dio’s cruelty.

“Please let me come, Lord Dio. I’ll do anything.”

Hol Horse continued to thrust against Dio, the two men finding a rough rhythm.

“And what would that be?” Dio asked, his tone tranquil and deliberate.

“I’ll be your slave. You can use me whenever you want. I don’t care. Just let me come.”

“My slave, hm? Can I hold you to that?”

“Ye—yes. Yes. Yes,” Hol Horse babbled.

“You want to fill me with your cum that bad”

The hitman nodded. “Want you so bad.”

“Should I let him come, pet?”

“Oh yeah,” you said, anticipating the rapturous sounds of Hol Horse’s orgasm.

Dio leaned over and put his hands on Hol Horse’s shoulders.

“Come, slave. Come for your master.”

Hol Horse barely let Dio finish his sentence before he filled the vampire with his milky white cum. You watched as it leaked from Dio’s hole. You were amazed by the amount that the hitman pumped inside the vampire.

Dio sighed happily and rolled off of Hol Horse, cum still leaking out of his ass. Hol Horse looked mildly terrified because of the promise he made to his new master.

“Bath?” You asked, getting up off the bed.

“Yes,” Dio said, holding out his hand.

You helped him to his feet, letting him rest his head on top of yours.

“I guess I’ll head out then,” Hol Horse said softly.

“Don’t be an idiot. You’re coming with us,” Dio yawned.

You smiled and beckoned for Hol Horse to follow. The hitman appeared reluctant, but ultimately decided to join you. He believed that a relaxing bath was the perfect moment to renegotiate the verbal contract he had just entered with the vampire.

[do-i-look-like-a-doctor]

Gojo headcanons bc ive got too much time on my hands

bro ate chalk as a kid and ive got proof

look at his kid self for a sec, he’s got a grown out buzzcut and the blue eyed stare. thats a chalk eater

you can’t convince me he’s a good swimmer

he’s lanky and tall, bro gets swept away the min he is near the ocean. he’s built to be shark food, sorry luv

the cloth he wears to cover his eyes is raggedy as hell

let me explain. he wears it constantly both in and out of battle, he wears it in any weather, and let’s be real he’s so odd that he probs sleeps in it sometimes

this leads me to believe that even tho he almost never gets hurt during a fight the blood and grime gets all up in the cloth

no amount of Tide or even acid could get rid of the STENCH that mask holds

it smells like ten cans of bounce that ass. one whiff could, quite literally, kill an old man

he’s a chronic podcast listener

tried to become one of those skater kids, failed miserably. geto never let him live it down

i think he’d make a great partner but if you listen to Hozier he will cause a scene

basically what im saying is he’s jealous of Hozier

Gojo knows that no matter how strong he is he will NEVER compare to that man’s vocals/lyrics and what they do to you

que Gojo trying to sing your fav Hozier song(s) but he can’t match the pitch which sends you into cardiac arrest

other than that he’s a pretty good singer, could probs serenade you to sleep

you know how everyone has an irrational fear? yuh his is birds

you ever see him interact with one in a normal way?

you see a bird, he sees a sack of organs with hollow bones that sore through the sky and sometimes they can talk

he pisses his pants when he sees a macaw

he’s a rich bitch and it’s a problem. not cuz he’s an ass abt it but bc he spoils the hell out of the teens

we know he would buy Megumi anything in the world but Yuuji and Nobara get the same treatment

he saw Yuuji’s orphaned ass and immediately transferred HUNDREDS to Yuuji’s bank acc

ain’t no student of his gonna be broke, that’s for sure

probs carries around pics of Megumi from when the teen was a kid

some are cute such as Megumi at the beach or having a fun at the zoo. others are of Megumi fighting for his life

i feel that when Yuuji entered the equation he also started taking pics of him during cute, fun, or important moments

very much sentimental older brother energy

whenever Gojo gets sick or injured he either becomes a massive baby or denies it until he’s dead

depends on the problem tbh. if he’s got a head cold he needs to be hospitalized but if he got his legs cut off he’d ignore it for weeks

you know how most men’s body wash or shampoo is named in, what’s considered, “masculine scents”

like redwood, campfire smoke, whiskey, fucking piss water

yuh he’s not a fan

i don’t think he’d really like those scents. in his mind, why does smelling like burnt coal or salt = masculine?

he probs just grabs whatever he likes, maybe orange scented stuff or even subtle vanilla

whatever cologne he wears tho is fucking delicious. you smell it and immediately your knees give out

i think if you gave him a huff of old spice tho he’d just disintegrate

im thinking of his general hygiene now, he has a solid routine

it’s not a million steps, probs just good quality face wash, serums, and moisturizer

that being said he suffered horrific back acne as a kid. dont ask how I know this, i will eat you alive

he looks and acts flawless but we know the truth. he sucks at card games

Yuuji’s biggest flex is he beat Gojo at go-fish 28 times in a row

he says calabunga and not a single person can stand it

that’s it for now, i’ll probs add more headcanons later

thanks for coming to my ted talk, i hope this post finds you before Sukuna does

(this is all mildly unedited, soz for mistakes)

[enluv]

000: dead man’s grove – hoon’s close friends

scroll below the read more for details about the characters !

MASTERLIST OR PINKERTON FREAKS - (y/n’s intro)

SUNGHOON: (debatably) the funniest person you’ll ever meet, avid pokemon go player and insists it hasn’t died because he meets new people on it all the time! failing miserably to get through his final year of college but fuck it he’s made it this long he just needs a few more months till graduation. he’s the dude that always has his tweets go viral by accident just because people are like this is kinda controversial and I’ve always wanted to say it but didn’t wanna get canceled but now that he’s said it I can agree! read: funny loser but people love him!

JAY: touch his shit and you’re dead (figuratively he’d never kill anyone…) anyways he’s a pretty cool guy, hates that his coworker is inheriting the store he works at but whatever he’s fine it’s fine he’s not mad and didn’t want the store anyways like 🙄 also a pothead but more tolerable than our other one, has a semi decent doing youtube and tiktok where he posts guitar covers! read: wanted to inherit the record store and will bite your hand off if you touch his guitar he’s so serious.

JAKE: trust fund baby (?), but also on track to becoming a swimming star seeing as he’s the most anticipated swimmer of the season, already scouted by like ten different teams and refuses to pick one because he’s scared of them all, in turn this makes him hide more since they follow him around a lot, avid twitter user! read: rich kid swimmer jake 😻

JUNGWON: broke college student fighting for his life everytime he clocks into his job at Dunkin’ Donuts, hates working there but needs the money since he can’t get it from jake anymore (smh), he’s actually the funniest character but don’t tell any of the others that or they’ll throw a fit (his words), read: broke dunkin worker

NI-KI: runs a twitter meme account by accident - one day he just started gaining followers and now he has his own fandom called nikinators or kens (he likes to mess with barbs because he says he’s the more famous nicki), works at a grocery store and thinks it’s the best job in the world, he’s also in college but he’s a freshman so he’s just trying to get by this year! read: the actual funniest of the group and has a cult following to prove i

TGOY TAGLIST! - @odxrilove @kjrcrz @captivq @chaerybae @xiaoderrrr @mrchweeee @aerivrs @yunjinsbbg @meiinumaki @enhastolemyheart @teddywonss @enhaz1 @i-yeseo @stilesks @soobsnow @haechan-nahceah @wonhoonsluv @ice-dandan20 @rshmra @nhularin @binchanluvrr @fakeuwus @sunghoonluva @enha-cafe @maybee-may @stariszn @alanniys @yannew @ilovewonyo @moonlighthoon @mykalon @flwrshee @byunrieu @stealanity @luvistqrzzz @manooffline @malarign @haechansbbg @lemons4u @sngvhs @spilled-coffee-cup @hoonvrs - bold can’t be tagged!

— taglist is open - please send an ask or dm to be added!

[bunnyanqel]

Like A Virgin (1)

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5]

Summary: Eddie's almost fifty and, unfortunately, still a virgin. His options have dwindled, his chances missed, so he relies on one last option—an escort. But what starts off as a simple ‘get it over with and done’ kind of thing derails into the most mind-blowing and soul-connecting night of his life.

Conent: NSFW, 18+, MDNI, dirty talk, smut, shameless smut, loss of virginity, first kiss, first times, oral sex, cunnilingus, hand jobs, come as lube, come swallowing, praise kink, dacryphilia, crying, virgin eddie munson, escort services, older man/younger woman, gentle female dominant, enthusiastic consent, safe sex, brief mentions of child abuse, brief mentions of bullying, big dick eddie munson, overstimulation, touch-starvation, submissive eddie munson

｡ﾟﾟ･｡･ﾟﾟ｡ ﾟ。 also on AO3 ! 　ﾟ･｡･ﾟ

Eddie was a virgin.

Which wouldn’t have been that surprising—or embarrassing—if it wasn’t for the fact he was forty-eight, almost forty-nine. At twenty, it hadn’t seemed like a big deal, but at forty-eight? His tune changed.

A desire to not die a virgin—because that was his path, if it kept up—was what propelled him to make an appointment and led him to this crummy motel off of a desolate stretch of highway thirty minutes outside Hawkins, where no one knew him and he knew no one.

As he sat, his thoughts drifted to how he ended up in this situation. All of his life, he’d been labelled a freak, branded a failure from the minute he was born, so he’d simply become that. Become the failure devil-worshiping freak everyone thought he was. He hadn’t realized that, even after he’d managed to graduate by the skin of his teeth, the label would make it impossible to form any lasting connections, let alone get close enough to a woman to lose his virginity.

So here he was, sitting in a crappy motel room, waiting for the escort to show up, feeling like a pathetic loser. But he was at the end of his rope, desperate. Any attempts at dating had been sour in his younger years, and now that he was older, any excitement had shriveled in the face of overwhelming mortification.

Fucking forty-eight and still haven’t been kissed even, he chastised himself, even though he knew theoretically there was nothing with it. Everyone had their own pace for mile stones, and who cared if his were about twenty years late? Him apparently. A lot.

Three strong knocks on the door had him rising, had him crossing the scant space and easing the door open slowly. Trepidation pounded through his head at the glimpse of a young woman standing there, pretty, rich ebony skin and a curly pixie-cut.

“Eddie?” she said slowly, her Southern accent thick. She sounded like she was straight out of a cowboy movie with the strength of her twang. “Eddie Munson?”

He steeled himself, gathered every single ounce of courage, and pulled the door open wide. His breath caught in his throat at the woman in front of him—curvaceous, tits almost nonexistent, with an array of freckles or moles dotting her cherubic face, and the largest soft-brown eyes he’d ever seen.

When he imagined an escort, he’d thought of movie models in teeny-tiny scraps of dresses and sky-high heels, sultry eyes and big red lips. Instead this woman was wearing yoga pants and an over-sized ISU T-shirt underneath an equally baggy unzipped hoodie. She looked…normal, like a neighbor, the cute girl-next-door.

And entirely, ridiculously fuckable.

“I’m Savannah. Can I come in, sweetheart?” Her voice was pure molasses, washing over him like a decadent caramel, and he backed up to let her in scrabbling. Without missing a beat, she briskly walked in, and he caught a whiff of coconut oil, cocoa butter lotion. Sweet, like a damned dessert he wanted to sink his teeth into.

He hesitantly closed the door behind her and stayed in his corner, just watching her with undoubtedly rounded eyes. Taking in the swell of her hip, the way her yoga pants molded to the bouncy ass that jiggled as she walked.

“You seem nervous, sweetheart. This your first time?”

It took entirely too long to realize she was talking to him and even longer to reply, to unseal his dry lips with his tongue and ignore the pang of arousal that cut through him when her gaze dipped to his mouth.

“Uh-huh,” he managed to croak.

She set her small purse down and pulled her hoodie off, her back muscles shifting beneath her T-shirt. The edges of a tattoo peeked out of the collar of her shirt, teasing.

After a minute, she turned to him. “You seem…awful nervous.” A pause. “Even for a first timer,” she added as her keen, sharp eyes scanned him, an assessing look that made his cock throb and gut tighten.

“I’m gonna ask you a question, m’kay?” Before he could reply or lie, she pressed on in that calm, self-assured manner of hers. “Are you a virgin, Eddie?”

Heat suffused his face, burned the back of his neck, as he stood in his little corner, heart pounding in his ribcage like it was trying to escape. He hunched his shoulders, trying to shrink back, wondering if it was obvious in his demeanor.

She cocked her head and stared back at him, those keenness softening to something remarkably close to compassion. “S’okay if you are, sweetheart.” Her approach was slow as though he was a wounded animal that might bolt at any minute.

Which was fair, since he was contemplating running out the door and forgetting this entire interaction with a bottle of tequila.

His throat tightened. “H-how’d…I mean, if I was, which isn’t saying I am—how can you tell?” he asked quietly, watching as she came closer and closer still, until the tips of their shoes touched. His heart was sledgehammering in his chest, blood pounding and roaring in his ears as she closed that tiny fraction of distance between them.

“Sweetheart, I’ve been doing this long ’nough to sniff it out.”

“Fucking bloodhound,” he muttered before he could think better of it and stilled, unsure if she’d take it as an insult. His stomach tightened at the idea of offending her and running her off, and he felt slightly sick.

She tipped her head back and let out a loud cackle. “Why don’t you tell me a little more about yourself, Mr. Munson?”

Mr. Munson conjured images of Wayne, and he shuddered at the idea of being mistaken for him. Especially right now.

Without looking at her, he said, “Eddie’s fine.”

“Okay, Eddie, tell me why you hired me tonight.” Savannah plopped down on the bed with complete ease, legs splayed, and the movement bounced her tiny tits, drawing his eye to the way her puffy, hard nipples poked through the fabric.

He couldn’t stop staring.

She wasn’t—she wasn’t wearing a bra. Underneath that over-sized T-shirt were her bare tits, which left him wondering if she was even wearing panties. Was she naked beneath those yoga pants? The idea was heady and heated his blood like a shot of straight tequila.

“Eddie,” she purred in a low, rasp of a voice, smoky, “my eyes are up here. You can see them and even touch them tonight if you tell me why you ordered me tonight.” She shifted, jiggling, and it was a reflex to reach out and squeeze his cock, to adjust himself, but her expression turned hungry. The brown of her eyes had turned dark, her pupils eclipsing the color almost entirely.

“I…uh,” he croaked when he tore his eyes away from her breasts—her bare breasts, his mind reminded him in big neon signage—to look into her face. Between the big eyes framed by thickets of black eyelashes, the crooked button nose with the piercing, and her big, pouty lips, she looked like a wet dream.

And she wanted to hear about why he’d ordered her.

Shit.

He dampened his lips and tried hard to ignore the thrum of rushing, aroused blood in his ears. “I was—uh, how do I put this?”

It had been difficult enough living through his isolated teen years, even more difficult to say it out loud. To put all of his shortcomings to voice.

“I…was a freak,” he admitted quietly. Still am, he wanted to add but refrained. “I was a loser and a freak and—and a failure, or so everyone told me the minute I was old enough to understand words. So I became the freak, the loser, the failure because what else could I do? By the time I realized I was so much more…” He laughed dryly, the sound scraping his throat raw on the way out. His sinuses stung unexpectedly and heat bloomed behind his eyes. “…It was too late.”

“Too late?” Savannah prompted softly, her voice low. Her eyes glittered in the lamplight, sympathetic and soft, and it was a punch to the sternum.

“Too late for any woman to want me. When you grow up building an armor, sometimes you become the armor, and by the time you realize it…” He swallowed back the rest of his words and offered a careless shrug, forcing indifference. Heat filled his cheeks, crept along the back of his neck, squeezed his throat in a vice-grip. The familiar chill of defeat twisted inside of him, making a home alongside the embarrassment and longing.

Pathetic. He was pathetic. Forty-eight years old and still wailing about being a virgin, about the way he was treated—

“Thank you for sharing that with me.” She slid off the bed with ease, walking closer like a specter, her movement slow and effortless. Like she was comfortable in her skin. “For what it’s worth, I think it’s their loss. Those women who turned you down.”

He clenched his jaw against the unwelcome curiosity, the fragile hope that perked its head up at her soft words. “Why?”

She was in front of him, so close he could feel the heat of her skin, and she tilted her head back so he could meet her eyes. Those dark, glittering eyes that were shining with a mixture of compassion and understanding and feral hunger. “Because when I look at you, I see a kind man who had a hard start in life and had to protect himself. I see a man who wants to take his own sexuality into his hands and that’s downright sexy.”

He didn’t reply. Couldn’t. There were no words in his mind as he stared down at her. What could one say in this scenario anyone? Thank you for finding my forty-eight-year-old ass being a virgin sexy?

“So I know you’re a virgin, but what’s the farthest you’ve gone?” she asked as she slowly, oh so slowly, painstakingly slowly, rested a hand on his chest. Just her fingertips, barely a touch, but it was enough to send his blood racing like she’d grabbed his dick.

Heat filled his face, burning-hot, as he stared at her fingers right above his nipple, feeling the pounding of his racing heart no doubt. Her long nails were painted black and the lacquer was chipped in a few places, and he could see the natural nail beneath. Those nails looked like they’d be heaven scratching at his back or maybe running over his scalp.

“Eddie-baby.” Her knee knocked his, nudged his leg away so she could slot her thigh between his. The heat through her yoga pants was heavenly, and more heavenly was the pressure against his filled, throbbing cock. His breath stuttered in his throat as she pressed him for information, her voice husky and firm. “Need you with me. Tell me: have you kissed anyone before?”

He seriously contemplated just not answering but realized quickly there was no point in being coy about his experience—or lack there of.

Letting his head fall back against the wall and ignoring the quick sharp stab of pain, he reluctantly replied, “No.”

“Have you done anything?”

From anyone else, it would’ve sounded incredulous, maybe even mocking depending on who was saying it, but she sounded only curious.

When he peeked at her, her expression was calm, impassive, save for those shining, near-black eyes, filled with warmth and a softness he didn’t think he’d ever had directed at him.

“I…” he rasped, his voice thick and slow, tongue heavy in his mouth, “…haven’t.” A heartbeat, his tongue wetting his dry lips. “At all. Nothing.”

Savannah didn’t reply for a long time, simply stood there with him, her hand still covering his heart, her face angled down.

“You poor thing,” she murmured finally, her words soft, striking a chord somewhere in the pit of his tense, churning belly. Her voice was low and seductive, weakening his knees just enough that he had to lean against the wall to stay upright. “Poor baby hasn’t even been kissed.”

Suddenly, she was against him, her breasts mashed to his chest, her fingers finding the neckline of his T-shirt. Suddenly, she was on her tip toes, reaching for him, her eyes hungry and bedroom-y. Suddenly, she was all he could feel and smell, that intoxicating aroma of hers clouding his air supply.

“Can I kiss you, Eddie-baby? Want me to be your first kiss?” she whispered gently, cajoling, and he fucking whimpered as his cock throbbed painfully at her words, at her sultry tone, the invitation.

“P-please,” he rasped, uncaring of how pathetic and needy and wet he sounded, “please, k-kiss me. I want it. Need it.”

And so she did.