#then...I will be in some trouble if I ever take it up in earnest | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

writerpeach · 28 days ago

Text

Provocation

ITZY Shin Yuna x m!reader

15k words

“That’s not true,” Yuna argues, arms folded as if this is the most ludicrous thing she's had to explain. "Despite what everyone thinks, I don't sleep around. Maybe a few guys on the weekends, but during the week? I like to have a one-guy policy."

You don't believe her one bit—but you'll play along. "Just one guy? That's it?"

Yuna shrugs her shoulders. "Of course. One guy at a time. One guy on Monday—maybe Tuesday. And Wednesday. That's it."

"That's three, Yuna," you laugh, shifting in your seat to face her a bit more. She takes a sip of her drink, stirring it around before bringing it back up to her pouty, red lips—the ones that cause nothing but trouble.

"Exactly. A different guy each day of the week. I don't think that's a lot. If anything, Yeji gets around way more than me."

Now you know she's lying.

The way you can tell is when her lips move. That's the telltale sign. When a word slips out between them, you always know the words will be objectively false.

Because this is Shin Yuna, the girl who flaunts every facet of her beauty like it's her job. This is the girl who wears skirts short enough to flash the entire bar a glimpse of her perfect little ass. The one who always leaves the house wearing a bra on purpose, her top always sheer enough to show the shape of her perky breasts. The same girl who would give head to a random guy just because he asked for a stick of gum.

"Yeji? Are we talking about the same girl?" you question, doubting that girl would even have a quarter the sex that Yuna has in one night. Yeji's definitely attractive, but reserved and soft spoken—nothing like the track record Yuna has.

"Hey, don't get it twisted," Yuna protests, nearly spilling some drink when she sets her glass down. "Yeji isn't some innocent church girl. She's a lot hornier than people think. Almost too much. As much as she acts all pure and sweet and innocent, she's a freak."

You'd say you believe her, except it's Yuna—so it's not probable in the slightest. "Right. She's totally a freak and you're an absolute saint."

"Glad we're on the same page." Yuna grins, stealing your drink to take a sip without even asking, leaving those red lips staining the rim of the glass. "She's more insatiable than me."

"I think you've had a little too much to drink, Yuna.”

Yuna ignores you entirely. "I mean it—that girl is probably getting dicked down as we speak. Or if she isn't, then she's got a new vibrator that's getting the job done, watching some of the most depraved porn out there. That girl is obsessed."

"Obsessed with dick or obsessed with porn?"

"Both. You can't imagine some of the toys she has hidden."

Yuna keeps speaking, but she could say anything at this point, and you know there wouldn’t be an ounce of truth in it. She's gotten more than a couple drinks deep now. And her tight skirt rides up, each not-so-subtle movement revealing more thigh as she shifts, not even the slightest concerned who can see underneath.

"If she's a freak, what the hell does that make you, then?" you ask in all earnest, trying to change the subject, because Yuna clearly can't be trusted around alcohol. This girl and oversharing go together far too well.

"Me? Oh, I'm the best fuck of your life—the one who will choke on your cock like a goddamn whore and let you blow your load all over my pretty face."

You don’t even look at her when you reply. "Forget I ever asked."

"But you did ask. And now you're going to take me home so I can demonstrate exactly what I do to those poor, pathetic boys every weekend."

"Absolutely not. I don't recall making an invitation."

"Do I need one? Doesn't feel like it," Yuna asks, with a quick tilt of her head. "Doesn't daddy wanna spend all night fucking this tight little pussy?"

You nearly vomit hearing Yuna's poor attempt at seduction. "Stop it. Please, for the love of god, don't ever call me that again."

She simply laughs it off, leaning close as she rests a hand on your thigh, those nimble little fingers giving a good squeeze, when it wanders just a little too high.

"Come on," she insists. "The second you’ve got your cock inside me, you know there won't be any pulling out. Daddy won't be able to control himself."

"I'm leaving you here. Take a cab if you have to," you warn, standing up from the barstool without even the slightest look back in her direction.

Yuna sighs. “Okay, fine,” she says as she grabs your wrist, keeping you from going very far. "I won't call you that anymore. Just take me home and fuck my brains out. Please?"

That voice, the desperation, it's hard to resist. Not to mention the pleading look, those big, round eyes staring, and when your focus falls down her shirt, barely even a shirt, the curves on this girl she dares to flaunt in your face. Yuna wants you to know that you'd be a fool to turn her down.

"What's in it for me? Aren't there plenty of guys lining up for a chance to fuck you here?"

"This place is boring—and none of them can handle me."

You're not even sure you can handle this girl and her attitude, but when Yuna stares like that, this longing look that begs for attention—it's difficult to say no. "Are you saying that just because you want a ride home?"

"It's a reason, yes." She can't hold back the smile, no matter how hard she tries. "You take me home, and then I'll suck your cock until your legs give out. Won't you help this poor, helpless little slut?"

Against your better judgment, there’s this temptation you can’t ignore. A devil resting on your shoulder, and on the other side, also a devil in the form of Shin Yuna herself. You can’t refuse that smile, those batting eyelashes, or those eyes without a hint of innocence in them. You’re already a lost cause.

Yuna can’t help but smirk, seeing her prey lured in with such ease as she grabs her coat, one hand slipping in yours, and not even needing a response when the both of you know where this is heading. "No more daddy—that's a promise."

You don’t believe that for a second, but you also don't care one bit as you head out, Yuna clinging to your arm on the way to the parking lot.

And this might be your biggest mistake yet.

Neither of you even make it out of the parking garage to your apartment. Yuna has you backed up against the cold, concrete wall, in a dark corner that she swears doesn't have a camera—but even if it does, who fucking cares when the sight of her on her knees takes precedence, getting your cock wet between her lips as fast as possible.

And the sound of her greedy slurps echo off those same walls, somehow a thousand times louder than usual.

"You know my apartment is right up there," you manage to say in between gasping breaths. Yuna's barely listening, staring straight into your eyes, with her cheeks hollowed to no end and every inch of your cock taken down so easily. She spits over your length a few more times, spreading it along your hard shaft before her lips swallow you whole, not breaking her gaze once for even a single breath.

With another loud, sloppy suck with those red lips around the tip of your shaft, that's the only time she answers, a small pop filling the air when she backs off, stroking you slowly with her fist.

"That's two floors up. Why wait, when I can just suck your cock here? That elevator takes ages." she argues innocently, running her tongue underneath that most sensitive area of your shaft. "Unless you really want me to stop—"

"N-no. Fuck, no. Don't you fucking dare."

"That's what I thought,” Yuna replies, and she has no intention to, burying her nose in your abdomen with every last inch consumed by her warm throat. And her wet mouth gets so noisy, so starved, these desperate slurps that could probably be heard all the way to the top floor of the parking garage.

It's so completely Yuna: her lack of restraint, the enthusiasm as she bobs her head in a blur without any sign of a gag reflex. The way her lips tighten around your shaft and stay there for an eternity without pulling off even for a second, like she needs your cock down her throat for survival. It’s goddamn relentless.

“God, Yuna, this fucking mouth—" you curse under your breath and place a hand on her head for guidance, wondering how the fuck Yuna manages to take so much at once while looking so beautiful at the same time. It's her lips wrapped around every inch, the way she stares into you, her lipstick all smeared along the base of your shaft with a fresh layer of spit glistening along the length of it. "Why the hell is your mouth so good at this?”

It's a compliment that's only going to feed that inflated ego, as if that's even possible at this point. But you can't hold back the praise, when her lips feel this incredible, wrapped so tight with all the warm, wet suction you can handle, taking you back into the deep end of her throat like nothing.

"I’ve told you…” Yuna starts with this smug little grin as she draws out every reaction she can out of your features with a messy kiss to your swollen cockhead. "Suck enough dick, and you have it down to a science. Nobody gives head better than me. Not Yeji, not a single person you've met."

Can’t say you find any fault with that, for once. The rare occasion when Yuna speaks the truth, with how good her mouth feels on you, slurping away to get these groans spilling that reinforces her point. How could anybody come close?

“Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Too late,” she says, with her playful little chuckle when you escape from the heat of her mouth. She continues to pump her fingers along every spit-soaked inch that sets you on edge, slowing down only so she can drag it out, savor the look of desperation etched across your face. Then she’s right back down, lips flush to your base in no time.

“Shit, those fucking lips feel so good. Who knew you had any other skill other than being an obnoxious fucking brat.”

Yuna doesn't even fight you for that one, giving your length a sloppy kiss, before sliding her mouth down to latch around your balls and suck hard. A tight fist strokes quicker than before, twisting so perfectly while her mouth is occupied, a motion that makes you completely unable to hold back the strangled noises that she gets off on.

It all feels too good, with her full attention devoted to your aching cock that throbs in her fingers, these lewd slurps of your sensitive balls that drive you towards the edge faster when her mouth gets all hot and wet around you.

“F-fuck, fuck, Yuna—“

It’s so clear, the sheer enjoyment written across Yuna's features when she pops off your balls with a loud, wet pop. and then gets your cock right back in her mouth where it belongs.

There’s no stopping her this time—not when she gets a good grip on your thighs for support, so she can slobber on your cock with reckless abandon. A fucking shameless display, saliva dripping down her chin, a messy string that connects from her lip to the tip of your swollen cockhead while she takes you straight into the back of her throat, again, and again, not taking a breath unless she absolutely needs to.

And then she’s jerking your cock right in front of her face.

“Almost ready to cum for me, aren’t you? Don't you wanna fucking finish all over my pretty face? Don't you like how nice it looks when I'm covered in your thick load?"

Fuck, do you ever—and it doesn't help when Yuna tightens her grip and gives these rapid strokes that have your head spinning. All you can do is watch as she furiously jerks your cock straight towards her gorgeous face, tongue out so eagerly as she awaits every bit you're ready to release.

When it hits, the first explosive burst shoots across her forehead, streaking right over her hair. The rest follows, finding a place splattering all across her face. All over those open pouty lips—hot, sticky spurts that Yuna catches with her tongue as each shot paints a different spot of her features, the excess dribbling down her chin.

Yuna laughs through it, trying not to close her eyes so she can watch you unload all over her features, a mess that has no end in sight. More hits her cheek, a nice shot across her nose as your cock pulsates in her tight fist, and the hot spurts continue to paint her in white streaks across her flawless face. A final few bursts land across her open mouth, a taste that gets her smiling so wide through a cum-stained mess.

"Fucking christ, Yuna," you exhale, out of breath as the high lingers.

Yuna lets your throbbing cock rest gently against her cheek, your orgasm slow to subside. Even when every last drop is wrung from the tip, she refuses to take her mouth off you, sucking your shaft clean with a few long slurps and flicks of her tongue that make you nearly collapse.

"Just look at all that fucking cum. I'm covered in it, like a good little slut should be," she marvels, staring at the exhaustion plastered across your face. "Bet that felt good, huh? God, there's like a week's worth of cum here. All milked out of your thick fucking cock."

And Yuna has never looked better.

"H-hold on, I'll get something to clean that up—"

Yuna gets to her feet, stepping in to shut down the idea before you can finish. "No need. I'll keep it on until we get to your apartment. Plus, I look the prettiest when I'm dripping with your cum."

It's insane—the words this girl will casually throw out in public, and how she wants to spend the entire elevator ride looking like that. Even if it's late enough that hardly anybody uses this elevator, there's always a chance you could run into someone who lives here. But saying no to this girl was never an option, already heading back the direction of the elevator without giving much a chance to argue, much less a chance to slip your pants back on.

Shin Yuna is quite possibly the worst influence—and yet, here you are.

Once she's all cleaned up, it's just pure unadulterated lust, from both ends as you find a spot on the couch to crash into with Yuna straddling you. Not an ounce of innocence in the kiss. Nothing but hot breath and moans, not even a second to break for air. The alcohol, the ride back here, the blowjob in the goddamn parking garage, you can't even contain yourself anymore. You let this girl get to you in the best of ways and give into this sinful temptation with an absolute desire to ruin her.

Yuna groans as you plant these rough, messy kisses along her neck—god, she tastes so good, like strawberries and sin and everything you're addicted to. She writhes under you, fingers tangled through your hair and you're not leaving your lips off her for a single second.

"Keep doing that, please, f-fuck," Yuna pleads, and you flip her around effortlessly to do so, her tight little body flat on her back underneath you. You leave these marks all down her neck—sucking hard on that sensitive skin so easy to bruise, and sinking your teeth in at every opportunity. All these whimpers fill your ears and the louder they are, the harder you bite, the rougher your kisses grow.

This relentless assault leaves her breathless, an abrupt change from the usual confidence and arrogance that defines her. Right here, under you like this, Yuna makes it so easy to have her body entirely at your mercy—even more when you strip her shirt off and toss it aside, revealing those breasts fully to the chilly air. You barely have time to admire the sight of them before your mouth moves to devour the newly exposed flesh.

"You have no idea all the things I want to do to you, Yuna," you growl as you take a nipple between your lips, a sharp suck and a light nibble that makes her squirm even harder against the couch cushions.

"Like what? Tell me everything you want to do to me, d-daddy—"

You glare up, eyeing her intently and there's this sudden moment of silence while you refuse to get your mouth back onto her tits.

"S-sorry, it just slipped," she says with this unabashed laughter, her apology as believable as anything else that escapes from those pretty lips. "Every guy I fuck loves hearing that. Force of habit."

"Don't make me leave you on this couch alone, Shin Yuna. Because I'll fucking do it, no hesitation."

"You'll never hear it again, I promise. Never, ever—now come on, back to what you were doing."

You raise a suspicious brow for a moment, but then it's back to your ravenous mouth focusing all over her chest, kissing up all over when you alternate between them. She loves it too—every hot and heavy kiss, every time you lick right at her most sensitive spots, latching onto her stiff nipples and sucking so hard. Yuna grips tightly at the back of your head, her fingers deep in those locks while you devour her tits and enjoy the softness of them against your face, skin flushed when you switch to the other breast.

And god, this sound that escapes her throat—when you travel down her body and kiss her abdomen, these soft little kisses that make her sigh harder and squirm more, getting lower and lower until the fabric of her skirt blocks your progression. It's this whimper from her lips when you swipe your tongue right above her belly button, a slow drag that tastes as much of her as possible.

"Skirt on or off? Your pick." You kiss at the top of her thighs, waiting eagerly for an answer as you toy around with the zipper.

"Whatever d—" she stops herself halfway. "You want. Whatever you want. On. Just fuck me with it on—can't wait, need you between my thighs already."

Can't say you're disappointed in the decision—pushing her skirt up her thighs to reveal that pretty purple lace that contrasts her pale thighs. But before you have the chance to put her out of her misery, you get a little more comfortable, stripping down to nothing but your boxers while Yuna bites her bottom lip and watches in silence. She keeps staring, wide eyes filled with anticipation as she catches the slightest glimpse of the way you're hard for her already.

"See something you like?" you ask her, Yuna shifting underneath with her skirt neatly bunched up her waist.

"No, not a single thing," she answers, unable to hide her laughter for a second.

"Good, then I guess I can just go jerk off in my room or something," you tease, about to remove yourself from the couch until her hands lock tight around your shoulders, keeping you planted there.

"Shut the fuck up and eat me out. Can't wait a second more, ruin me with that amazing tongue of yours."

"Not even a please?"

"Absolutely not," Yuna insists, growing more impatient by the second. But it's a good thing you're generous—and more than raring to get between her thighs as much as she needs you to.

She can hardly contain the noise when you grab the waistband of her panties and drag them down those long legs, Yuna lifting up just slightly to help guide them off. And when they slide past her feet, you don't hesitate one bit, spreading her thighs apart just to admire the sight—exposing her glistening wet cunt in all its glory.

"See something you like?" Yuna echoes your own question right back, flashing a smirk which only fades when you respond with a brief flick of your tongue.

"Yeah, a perfect place to dump a huge load of cum," you remark back, licking a long stripe up her wet slit before ending in a gentle suck of her clit. "God, you're so fucking wet, Yuna. Dripping like crazy down here."

"Who's fucking fault is that?"

"Not mine. You're the one who begged me to take you home because you were too scared to find a stranger in the bar to fuck."

The first few long licks do the rest of the talking for you as you bury your head deep between her spread thighs, tongue exploring her deliciously wet pussy. So sweet on your lips the more you taste, a suck of her clit every now and again, these unimpeded moans that can’t help spring free from her lips.

"F-fuck, oh my fucking—first off, I did not beg. Second, don't pretend like you wouldn't fuck me if I found someone better," Yuna manages to get out mid-way through an absolutely filthy groan, grabbing fistfuls of your hair to push your face against her pussy.

"You're saying you could find someone better than me? In that shitty little dive bar?"

"S-shut up. Your ego's fucking broken," she argues between her desperate moans. You roll your eyes at her and get back to work—watching the way Yuna attempts to cover up her mouth with the palm of her hand.

"Is that why you're struggling so much not to moan for me? You think any of those drunk idiots at the bar could do what I do to this pretty little pussy?" You're so determined to see her at a loss for words, lapping away at her clit, but that's all this girl brings out of you. It's difficult to play the nice guy when all her lips do is incite a response out of you like this.

"You talk t-too much. Shut up and eat my cunt, so I can cum on your face already."

That you can do—more than happily. With a hand against her abdomen, Yuna's being pinned to the cushions as your tongue lashes away at her delicious folds to really lap up all her sweetness. It's addictive, the way you suck and lick away, from her swollen clit, right down to the bottom of her glistening wet slit, this intense groan tearing right through her as she locks eyes to watch you devour her cunt.

"Forgot how fucking good you taste—god, you taste fucking amazing.”

“You forgot? Nobody forgets how good I taste. Not when you're addicted to eating my pussy as much as you are—"

That's a ridiculous enough statement to ignore, but you also can't bear the idea of stopping what you're doing, with your tongue exploring in slow, steady laps of every delicious morsel. Not when the sweet taste of Yuna fills your mouth and threatens to drown out everything else you feel, because she's so damn wet. It's the way your head is trapped between her thighs, keeping you right where she wants, smothering your face with her dripping cunt and forcing your tongue as deep as it can possibly reach.

"Fucking shit—your mouth, that's so good, god. Fuck, fuck, y-you're gonna make me fucking cum! Don't stop—"

Like you could ever. Not when you have Yuna writhing against the cushions, watching the way her features contort into absolute bliss with just a harsh suck of her clit.

Her mouth hangs open, head thrown back and the lewd, whiny little moans that you're so familiar with come right out. There's a rhythm of breathing that follows—heavy and erratic the more you try to break this girl. She struggles to even control herself when all she's reduced to is a soaking mess in front of your eyes, grinding against your face, needing to cum more than her next breath.

And that's the perfect opportunity to deny her what she wants so desperately. A split-second pause, watching the lust transform into absolute desperation.

"N-no, please," she protests, urgency in her voice the second she feels your tongue stop.

"Something wrong?"

"You ass—don't fucking stop. I said not to stop!"

That's enough incentive to get back to it, fingers plunging right inside that wet heat to give your mouth a much-needed rest. Which only gives you these drawn-out moans, and fuck—there's not a single thing tighter than Yuna. Two fingers sink in with such ease, so wet, so warm, just taking whatever you'll give her at this rate. Nice and slow at first, so you can admire her reaction as you curl them inside, reaching spots that make her back arch right off the couch.

"P-please, I'm so fucking close, fuck—"

Now she's begging, needing release at a level that's quite rare to see from Yuna. You pick up the pace, plunging those digits deep inside her sopping wet walls, hitting that same spot that makes her hips jolt so violently.

"Is this what you needed? Come on, I know you're right fucking there. Fucking cum, Yuna. Cum like the needy little slut you are."

You're not sure if it's the words that do her in, or the merciless assault of your fingers—both together is what gets the job done, the constant wet squelch that echoes with every furious plunge deep into her slick warmth. It's unmistakable when her cunt gushes around your thrusting fingers—spraying all over your hand, the couch, and god knows what else is just destroyed at this point.

Yuna turns into a relentless, gushing mess, until she grabs your wrist to keep those fingers moving, filling the air with an even more delicious series of sobs.

Beautiful doesn’t begin to describe it when her body spasms the more you pump into this sensitive little cunt. Your fingers are so drenched, with the juices that spill like a fountain, these choked moans that escape with every thrust. And when that begging for more turns into pleading to stop, you're not interested in withdrawal, not until you wring a second orgasm out, a third, however many it takes for her to finally tap out.

"S-stop, you're gonna fucking kill me, stop—god, it's just too much," she cries out, every ounce of strength left in her failing. Only do you pull out when Yuna forces your arm away, thighs still quivering in the aftermath as you get a good look of the damage done. Flat on her back, she can hardly move on her own. A mess all along her creamy thighs, along the couch, and who knows where else.

"My poor couch."

"Your poor couch? What about my poor fucking pussy? Look at what you fucking did, I came like five fucking times—"

Even in the aftermath of an intense, messy climax, Yuna can’t help being Yuna.

"I didn't hear any complaints when you were squirting all over me,” you say, and bring your wet fingers to your lips to suck the delicious taste off.

"Because your fucking fingers felt so fucking good, you asshole—" Yuna's so worn out, completely unable to do anything but just revel in the mess she's made.

"You're welcome."

"That wasn't a thank you—oh my fucking god, look at my skirt, you fuck," Yuna groans, eyes shifting to the state bunched up above her waist.

"This is your fault, don't even start."

"Because you fucking made me ruin it, this is like a $300 skirt!"

"My condolences," you say, without a hint of guilt, the damage to her skirt not even the least of your concerns. Especially when you unzip it to slide it right down her slim figure—revealing every inch of her gorgeous body naked for you to drink in. "Excuse me, princess. However can I make it up to you?"

"Don't fucking call me that," she snaps, and even in her weakened state she's not any easier to deal with. "I'm too tired to ride you right now, so you're just going to have to fuck me until my legs don't work."

"Still not hearing a please," you remind her, slipping out of your boxers at last, your stiff cock finally freed after seeing Yuna's naked frame laid out so perfectly.

"You can take your please and shove it right up your fucking ass. I'm not saying it."

"Fucking brat," you curse, grabbing her waist to position Yuna right where you want her. "I'll do all the damn work then—you're not going anywhere but into this couch."

"Good, about fucking time."

When she's finally done complaining, her gaze falls back to your rock hard cock aimed at her soaking entrance. You shift forward, a hand on her slender waist for support, the head of your shaft nudging her wet cunt.

"Come on then, I haven't got all night—are you gonna fuck me, or just stare?"

"Yes you do. What the fuck else are you gonna do? Go fuck somebody else you won't even remember the next morning?" Angling yourself just right, you don’t waste a second longer to slide inside, right up to the hilt—feeling that tight, heavenly cunt consume every inch.

"My fucking god, Yuna—"

She's never felt more incredible, or so goddamn tight, impossibly wet, warm—every sensation just overwhelming, getting used to it all over like it's the first time inside her. A feeling that doesn't disappear, even before you move one bit, with these beautiful legs spread wide apart as they'll go.

"Forgot how tight my little pussy was, huh?" she taunts, loving the groans that it pulls from your mouth. "You haven't changed at all. Still have that same cute little face you get when you've got your cock inside me. My pussy just ruins every other girl for you, doesn't it?"

"Too tight, god—why are you so fucking tight? Greedy slut gets pounded by twelve guys a week and still this tight? Fuck—"

"Less talking and more fucking. Move your hips—fuck me like the filthy little whore I am, come on."

Your only response is to get your hands right on both sides of Yuna's tiny waist, sliding outside with just the tip of your cock remaining, before slamming your entire shaft to fill her again. The first thrusts alone have her clutching the couch cushions to brace for more, each one a little rougher, a little deeper, the walls of her cunt clenching so hard the more of your throbbing shaft fills her.

"Don’t hold back. I wanna feel every inch of that thick fucking cock in my wet little cunt," Yuna breathes out with this demand in her voice. "Come on, harder—ruin my poor little pussy, f-fuck."

"That's the fucking plan." All this tension you've built up between each other has reached its boiling point, the frustration, the annoyance, all coming out here and now. Because once Yuna is under you like this, everything changes, your hips pulling back only to shove in again, a relentless rhythm on repeat.

"Better be. Why do you even need other girls when my perfect little pussy is always here waiting for your cock? You already have a pretty fucktoy to use, don't you—"

"Yuna, stop fucking talking already," you groan with no patience for anymore of her rambling. "Your schedule is a little booked up right now, in case you haven't noticed."

That's when your thrusts hit without holding back, hard enough to get a reprieve from that bratty attitude—watching her pretty features contort as you keep drilling inside that intoxicating heat. Not letting up once, the sound of her slick pussy soaking every inch of your shaft with every slam fills the room, barely audible over the sound of her loud moans. And that tightness, god—it’s unfathomable, unforgettable, each delicious clench driving your hips so you’ll feel more of it.

"Then I'll fucking clear my schedule. As long as you promise to fuck me like this—I'll put you in my calendar every fucking day."

That's not exactly the solution, and you can't imagine being with Yuna day in and day out, even if that comes with the prospect of having access to this pretty, warm little wet hole whenever you feel like. No, not worth the hassle—maybe for a weekend, but beyond that you'd go insane.

"Once a week is enough. Maybe twice if you can keep your fucking attitude in check."

"You love my attitude. Just like the rest of this body that you can't keep your hands off."

She has a point—a painfully accurate one, but not one that you're willing to admit when you keep trying to silence Yuna with these violent slams that have your balls ready to unload sooner rather than later. Her tight cunt drives you absolutely wild, almost distracting enough from that infuriating mouth of hers.

But even more distracting is the look in her face while you fuck her, and you can't resist staring with every thrust as she continues to keep those legs parted just for you. That's until they wrap tightly around your waist, the heels of her bare feet digging into your lower back, forcing you deeper into this perfect tight body.

"What the fuck are you—"

Yuna's light giggle interrupts your question, the look in her eyes almost enough of an answer on its own. "Just making sure you're not thinking about pulling out. Want every drop you have. Fucking dump it in me."

"God, will you shut up," you groan, face burying into the crook of Yuna's neck, unable to take another second of her mouth running while your hips keep up this unforgiving pace. This tightness, this wetness, it's more than you can handle, using her cunt to fuck every bit of annoyance building inside from what feels like forever.

"I'll shut up when you cum inside me. It's been way too fucking long since you finished inside me, since I've heard you moan when your balls empty. Does every girl you fuck let you finish like this? Bet none of them do."

You're not even interested in playing this game with her, not when she has you so close already, your pistoning hips driven by such immense desire to flood Yuna's dripping cunt. She's even clenching harder than usual with those slim legs locked so tight, a grip you can't possibly slip from no matter how much you tried. Not that you even would.

Thrust after merciless thrust, you keep your lips sealed to her neck, sucking so hard like it's the only thing to keep you anchored. All you can do is keep moaning in her ear, keep hammering her greedy little cunt, faster and faster—

"I'm about to fucking cum, Y-Yuna—"

The words leave your mouth right before you've reached your limit. Your mind's elsewhere, not even in control, as your balls tighten and every muscle in your body tenses. Not even a word on her end, like Yuna was waiting for this moment the entire night. There's just hot breath on her neck, your cock pounding so hard into this soaked pussy, every pump taking you further past the point of no return—until that first surge shoots deep inside her wet walls.

A hot, sticky load floods right into her pussy in a violent throb of bursts, pumping one spurt after the other deep as possible. Yuna wraps her legs tighter with each, keeping you buried completely while everything unloads inside her. Everything goes blank, losing track of how many shots fill her tight cunt, a complete blur while your hips move on repeat, fucking it all deeper into her slick warmth.

"F-fuck, there's so much," Yuna groans, struggling to find the words, feeling every ounce of your hot load spill inside, threatening to overflow before you even finish.

You just continue to drive into her without mercy, until your body begins to give out, sweat dripping all along her pale frame underneath. By the time you're done, you’ve collapsed into the comfort of Yuna's neck, planting gentle kisses along the marks you've left behind while you ride out the high. She stays quiet for a moment—no taunting, no attitude, letting your still throbbing cock rest inside her with your thick load slowly seeping out.

It's the most deserved orgasm you've had in a while, you think. Putting up with Yuna—just to unload everything you have inside, where it belongs. All her annoying remarks, that shameless, filthy fucking mouth all seem to fade into obscurity after everything. For a few seconds, there's bliss. A quiet bliss.

Bliss that doesn't last very long at all.

"Did that feel good? Emptying your big, heavy balls inside me?" Yuna asks you, resting her long arms around your body. It's almost calming, the light scratches down your back that lull you into a state of relaxation. Something you didn't think was possible with this girl.

"Y-yeah," you breathe out against her neck, struggling to catch your breath as you linger in the warmth of her tight pussy that can’t stop clenching for more. "I came inside you, now get off me—"

"Never, you're still fucking hard. My legs still work, and I haven't even gotten to ride you yet," she reminds you, staring straight into your eyes with her legs staying perfectly in place. "That load was just an appetizer—daddy."

You groan—louder than ever before, but not in pleasure.

"What the fuck did I tell you about calling me that?"

Yuna shifts beneath, legs relaxing enough to release the hold—allowing you to slide your cock free from the overwhelming heat.

"What's the matter, a nice, thick creampie in my tight cunt isn't enough for me to call you whatever I please?"

You're ignoring her, in as many ways as you can when you move your gaze between her thighs to admire the sight—the beautiful mess that's dripping from her pussy, so full of your hot cum. "Go home, Yuna. If that's what's you're going to keep doing, then we're fucking done here."

"You're no fun. It's after midnight, you're not going to send a little innocent girl like me out alone like this, are you?"

Again, you ignore her, standing up from the couch in complete disarray and making a path to the bathroom instead. "I need a shower, but you can sleep on this couch you've defiled for all I care. Please be gone in the morning."

It's a bit heartless, you know, but Yuna brings out this part in you that rarely sees the light of day, when she refuses to listen. Even more so when her footsteps follow closely behind, her petite naked frame and that mess between her legs still dripping without any ounce of shame.

"God, you're such a mood killer," Yuna sighs, grabbing your wrist to pull your attention her way. "I'll stop fucking teasing you. I'll stop calling you daddy, you big fucking baby. Just let me shower with you. Please? I won't even talk. I promise."

That's a hard one to trust, given her track record. But she sounds far too exhausted to even try any tricks, pleading so hard to convince you to let her share your bed tonight. And it's hard to turn down that pout, those bright, widened eyes that stare you into submission.

"Fine. Not a single word in the shower. And if you call me that even once, Yuna, I'm never shoving my cock in you ever again. Do you understand?"

"Of course. Swear it on my life. Promise. Never ever ever—that's it."

And just like that, this look in her eyes when she steps inside the shower after you suggests she'll live up to that word. You'll see. If anything, seeing her naked under the hot steam is enough to commit to whatever terms you've created. A selfish, yet regrettable decision.

A nice, relaxing shower where this brat doesn't utter a single sound, not a single dirty comment—that's better than anything in your wildest dreams.

Things move to the bedroom, as they usually do with Yuna. The two of you are completely devoid of any clothing, because modesty with her around simply doesn't exist. She slides into the spot beside you, resting her head on your chest, delicate fingers in a relaxed grip around the length of your shaft. And you’re happy to do nothing but watch the smile on her face while she gives these magical strokes, not nearly enough pleasure to take things any further.

"Whenever you're ready to put this big thing back inside me, let me know," Yuna says as casually as possible—as casual as someone can get while palming their hand around your cock.

But you're hesitant to leave this moment—her body curled so perfectly against yours, to the point where you can almost tolerate her. Almost. That being the important thing in all this.

"I already filled you twice today. Not enough for one night?"

"Never enough," she insists, giving a firm squeeze that makes you reluctantly agree. "Plus, you haven't filled my ass, and we both know what a huge fan I am of that.”

"Obsessed is more the right word. You might be more into me fucking your ass than I am, and that's saying something. Like, I could live inside there."

She giggles, her delicate little fingers tracing down your shaft while she keeps stroking. "Can you blame me when I have an ass like this? You should be the one begging me instead of the other way around."

"I'd never beg you for anything, Yuna. You're a pretty girl with a nice ass who spreads their legs on command, I don't need much more than that from you."

Yuna responds with a tug at your balls, almost painful in nature to get a point across. "Tell me that again when you want to bury your face in my ass. See if that's true then. Let's see how long you last without getting to eat my ass."

"Okay, okay—point taken."

"Not everybody gets to tongue my ass. It's a privilege."

"So lucky, my life is complete now that Shin Yuna allows me the honor of worshiping her ass."

That makes her squeeze your cock all too hard in this agonizingly slow stroke. "My ass is fucking amazing. The only word for it, and it deserves some appreciation. I don't even let anyone else but you fuck me there."

"Why do I not believe that?"

Yuna drops a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your chest. "You don't have to believe it. I'll let half a dozen guys all have turns fucking me at once—until they cum inside me or on my face. Nobody but you gets the luxury of pounding my ass though."

“I’m touched.”

"You should be. Every guy I fuck should be on their knees, begging me for the slightest chance to worship my body, especially my ass."

Nobody has confidence like Yuna does, even if it's wildly inflated. As much as her very presence annoys you, it’s hard to say you could survive long without that tight ass. Whether it’s bouncing on your cock, your face, or just existing in front of your hips to have a handprint against it. That doesn't mean you'd ever drop to your knees and grovel for her, but there's no denying how much power that ass has.

"Nobody has a better ass than you, Yuna. Not even Yeji. There. Is that what you wanted to hear?" She laughs—this sinister laugh, while squeezing your cock in her tight little hand, nodding all excitedly in agreement. You know it's going to go to her head, but the alternative is much worse. "Good, now can you just jerk me off in peace?"

“Fine,” she says, with a defeated sigh. “If that's what you want. I won't make another sound. You can just relax. Pretend I'm not here. I'll just keep jerking off this nice, thick cock until you cum again."

"Now you're getting it."

You close your eyes and appreciate the silence, knowing this might be the only time when Yuna doesn't find some excuse to run her mouth. Her hands keep busy, and god, are her hands just heaven when she's so slow and focused. The one time she doesn't say a fucking word, just pumping your cock until you're ready to explode all over her.

You don't even remember falling asleep. The last thing you remember is Yuna straddling you, riding with all the energy in the world despite her earlier exhaustion. Hair draped over her face as she bounced up and down, hips so frantic and needy, groaning while you slipped a finger to toy with her ass. And then it's all a blur. Sweet, uninterrupted slumber, and that's how you ended up like this.

But now, Yuna isn't anywhere to be seen. And you're not sure if that's a good thing or not. So, rather reluctantly, you rise from the comfort of your bed, grab a fresh pair of boxers, a clean shirt, and stumble right into the kitchen for some semblance of routine.

The smell of coffee lingers in the air, a normally welcome start to the day. This time it's different—it's burnt. Far from the rich aroma of a good cup, the one you've brewed on your expensive coffee machine you imported just months ago. Something's amiss.

There's the culprit. Yuna is standing there, fiddling around with the machine like the controls are in a different language. She's dressed at least, kind of, barefoot in what appears to be your shirt, white and loose fitting, barely covering her delicious bare ass when she's bent over trying to figure out the buttons.

"Morning," Yuna says over her shoulder, as if completely oblivious to the damage she's caused. "Think your coffee machine is broken."

"Did you break it?"

She takes a good hard look at the machine, as if in disbelief, before turning back around. "No, not a chance. It was like this when I got here."

"Yuna, did you break my fucking coffee machine?" you ask again, in dire need of the very thing she's about to deprive you of.

"What did I just say? It's not broken. Look, if you press this button it comes out with this weird looking water and if you do this—fuck."

This is unbelievable. As if you needed another reason to kick her out the second you're awake, because you know first hand that Yuna should never be allowed in a kitchen. Any kitchen. Not after the burnt chocolate incident.

"Let me handle this. Before you destroy my kitchen too."

"Hey, rude—I was just trying to be helpful. But you have some weird fucking coffee maker that you need a PhD in three different languages to understand."

She takes a step back, sighing in defeat as you take over and deal with the chaos left behind. "This is why I don't have company in the morning. A pretty girl comes over and immediately tries to burn my entire place to the ground."

There's this surprised gasp that escapes from her lips as you start everything over from scratch, dumping out whatever awful concoction that was brewing earlier.

"Wait, pretty? You think I'm pretty?"

"That's what you're focusing on right now? You really are insufferable," you mutter, with Yuna's eyes fixating on you while she just beams at the compliment. A few adjustments here and there, a fresh pour of water, and the aroma of fresh coffee starts to linger, slowly clearing up the disaster zone Yuna has left behind.

"You didn't answer my question."

You have nothing in you but an eye roll.

"Yes. You're very pretty," you finally relent, pulling down two mugs from the cabinet above. "I could do worse than waking up to that in my bed. With my ruined coffee machine."

"Hey, it's not ruined, you jerk. It's working now, isn't it?"

For now. Not the point you want to argue about right now, because you need caffeine in your system more than you ever have. At least you can enjoy a proper cup on the balcony with Yuna, even if that means putting up with her presence. Which maybe isn't as bad as you once thought, given the eye candy alone makes it slightly tolerable.

Days pass. Uneventful, mostly, without anything much but the occasional lewd text from Yuna at random points throughout the day. Which you'll admit, is preferable to her showing up at your place unannounced, because you think getting off to the nudes she sends without having to hear her whining in person is a much better alternative.

It's the weekend, and you don't have anything planned that doesn't involve sleeping it all away. An hour at the gym, maybe. Catching up on laundry, cooking yourself a nice dinner—trying that new bottle of wine that's been sitting in your cabinet untouched for months.

But you’ll never get to any of that.

"Guess who?"

That’s all Yuna says before forcing her way into the apartment, like she's already expecting to be let in without a second thought. This bright, happy smile on her lips, strutting into the living room in a small little crop top, and these ridiculous white shorts that are tighter than they have any right to be. "I know you missed me. So I'm here to return your shirt. I washed it. Or the dry cleaning people washed it. Doesn't matter."

"Thanks. Just leave it on the counter, and then you can leave."

Yuna frowns, far more offended by this suggestion than any other you've laid out for her. "But you missed me, haven't you? So I'm going to stay for a couple of days, and you're just going to have to suck it up."

So much for peace and quiet.

“Absolutely the hell not. Don't you have your own apartment to wreck? You're not staying here."

"Why not?" she asks, tossing your shirt on the counter, just like you said. But just as quickly, she takes a seat on the couch and makes herself entirely too comfortable. "My place is a fucking mess, and I'd rather have some company. Plus, you have that really nice bed that's a thousand times more comfortable than anything I own."

"You're not staying," you reiterate. "Why are you even here? Did you just get done with a dick appointment, so you're coming here now? This isn't a hotel."

Yuna stretches out on the couch, not bothered in the slightest. "No. I haven't been fucked in three days. How crazy is that? We need to catch up, so I figured I would stay with you—"

"We? Try again. I'm sure there's a gangbang going down somewhere, or an orgy you can crash. I am not letting you stay."

"What, is having me in your life such a terrible fate that you'll die if you don't have a moment's peace? A hot girl on your couch and the first thing you think of is getting rid of her?"

"That's exactly right. I have things to do today. important things. Things that don't involve babysitting you."

Yuna cocks her head at you, wide-eyed. "What could you possibly have to do today that's more important than this ass? Huh? Name one thing."

This girl is the definition of exhausting. Trying to tear your attention away from her brazen attitude is harder than it should be, with her figure slumped against the back of the sofa—arms spread wide and long legs extended so invitingly. That top riding higher and higher each time she so much as breathes, offering a full view of her toned abdomen. You can't find the strength or motivation to fight this, when Yuna looks the way she does. And you're certainly no stranger to sleeping with her.

"I don't have to explain myself to you. There are a thousand things more important than giving you attention. Now get off my couch and go find someone else to annoy."

The demand only earns a childish scoff, Yuna folding her arms across her chest. "Oh come on—look, I'll be good. I'll sleep on the couch, I'll cook you breakfast and dinner and clean whatever the hell I mess up. I won't bother you. Promise."

"You're not stepping foot in my kitchen after you almost broke my coffee maker."

"Almost. Keyword, almost," Yuna adds, barely getting to the end of her sentence before standing up and making her way across the living room to your side. "If I can't cook or clean or do anything, how do you suggest I pay you back for letting me stay here, hmm?"

You clench your fists so hard while exhaling, staring daggers into this psuedo-innocent expression that doesn't have any weight behind it. Knowing damn well what those gears turning in her head have planned.

"Don’t worry, you're not staying here. So there's no need to pay me back." A simple rejection doesn't seem to deter her. It never does.

She’s no stranger to the word no, but it doesn’t stop her from taking another step forward. And another one, closing the distance between, almost as a test to see how far she can go before the resistance starts. Then she steps back. Only to spin around, those tempting hips and ass pressing right into the crotch of your sweatpants, using the armchair nearby like support to push a little harder.

And when she's looking like that, the way Yuna throws that devilish look over her bare shoulder while wiggling her ass is such an easy sell, a perfect visual that causes blood to rush down towards your cock. "If you prefer, I could just pull them right off…"

Somewhere deep inside, you want this—to give up this charade and indulge yourself in every inch of her. In that ass you have memorized to every detail, in that perfect fucking cunt that's yours to taste anytime you please. But the second you give in, there's no turning back.

Because you can't keep pretending that you can control yourself around this girl. Every shred of composure you try to have is fleeting when Yuna's there offering herself up on a platter.

"Do you know how long it's been since I've had someone spank my ass? Two weeks? Maybe even three. Nobody hits harder than those big, strong hands. Nobody can put me in my place like you do. And I've been such a bad, bad girl.”

Staring at the view presented before you, your knees feel a little weak. The things you want to do to this bratty little tease are practically limitless, sending your imagination racing when you follow the curve of her hips. Because maybe it’s about time she got what she deserves. All those handprints, her sensitive flesh just bruised by your palm, the sight of her bent over and spanked relentlessly—maybe her punishment is your reward.

It's inevitable at this point. And the worst part is, Yuna knows this all too well.

"What are you waiting for? Spank my ass, make it yours. Make it hurt so good. Please."

That please is what does you in. Because you can picture it now, feeling the supple skin of her ass bounce under every smack of your hand, and that high pitched yelp tearing through her throat the second you really put power behind each strike.

It doesn't help those goddamn skintight shorts that hug her ass, a perfect invitation to have your way.

You sigh under your breath. Because you’ll fold like always, giving in to those desperate pleas. If only to satisfy the lust that builds for Yuna’s tight body. The way your cock will feel buried inside her ass, while you get so rough fucking her. Until she can barely stand on her own two feet anymore.

Fuck. She knows she's already won.

"Fine. You fucking brat. But not here, not on the couch. I'll need a drink for this."

With a final look at her—looking like sin and sex on two legs, you drag her towards the kitchen to look for the strongest thing you have, looking past the bottle of wine that will have to wait. Yuna waits silently by the counter, with that same knowing look in her eye. A look that has no chance to fade even once you pop open a bottle of something to help wash the regret down.

"God, you're going to regret wearing those shorts," you tell her, not bothering with a glass and taking a huge swig straight from the bottle. And then another.

"I don’t regret a single thing in my life. Now where's mine?" Yuna asks, pout on her lips as she ignores the fact that those shorts are coming off the first chance you get.

"You're annoying enough sober—you don't get shit until I've had enough to tolerate you."

She giggles. Which at this point is more infuriating than cute. "So never?"

Yuna watches the bottle return to your lips for another long sip. You don't even deny that—instead, your eyes are glued to her shapely figure while you wait for the alcohol to kick in.

"Give me your belt.”

You slam the bottle down and stare straight ahead at the puzzled look on Yuna's face—but there's no objection. Instead, she complies and unfastens the clasp before sliding the white leather strip right out and handing it over without asking a thing.

And that's when you do the honors. Unfastening the front button of those ridiculous shorts and tugging the zipper down. Her shorts are so impossibly tight that even after all that, they still take a little extra strength to tug down past the full curve of her ass. But you do manage to peel them down, staring at the tiny scrap of blue cotton and lace that hardly covers a damn thing—what those shorts are concealing beneath, this small string nestled just between her smooth, bare asscheeks.

“Surprised you even wore panties at all today.”

“I wore them so you’d rip them off me. It’s no fun if I don’t make you earn it first.”

That cocky little smirk doesn’t falter—not until you grab her ass like it belongs to you, fingers digging in deep, rough enough to make her squirm. Yuna wants to be manhandled, you know that already, so you squeeze harder, spread her wide and knead every inch, marveling at how much of her there is to take.

Her thong barely counts as anything, just a bright blue string that disappears between her cheeks. It's the only thing standing between you and burying deep inside.

"Fuck, I can't wait to feel your hands hurting this ass so fucking hard," Yuna groans, rolling her hips back into your grip.

You don't respond—because now you've got your teeth hooked into the flimsy fabric of her thong. One swift tug downward snaps the thin fabric and tears right through so you can get right to that incredible ass of hers. No sooner have the scraps of her panties fallen to the kitchen floor before you've got a solid grip on each bare cheek, sinking your teeth in just enough to mark her pale flesh.

Laughing under your breath as you run fingertips across those creamy cheeks, you shake your head in disbelief. "You think I'm going to be using my hands?" you ask while picking up her discarded belt, an almost forgotten strip of leather until this exact moment.

Yuna looks back over her shoulder with the biggest grin.

"We're doing this my way.”

Dropping your sweatpants right around your ankles for some relief, she can't help but stare at your bulge. And a smile perks up on her lips the instant she catches sight of the leather belt in your tight fist. Surprisingly, Yuna stays silent, even as you test the belt out between the palm of your hand, the crack of leather echoing around the kitchen. "You wanna get spanked? Then you're gonna get spanked. Bad girls don't get a say in this."

"Can't wait," she responds, not obedient, but almost daring as her hands clutch tight to the kitchen counter to brace for the first impact. Neither can you.

"Eyes forward then, slut," you demand, running the leather down her skin, tracing along every curve until she has no choice but to face away. Before any warning, the satisfying crack of leather connects right against her bare ass, ripping a startled yelp from those bratty lips. A strike so forceful it jolts her body forward and leaves a light imprint on her delicate flesh.

It puts a smile on your face when you get the same reaction. Another sharp crack cuts through the silence, right against the flesh of her ass with even much force. Another welt, another moan, as this bright red mark begins to form as the color spreads across her flesh. "M-more, please—that stings so fucking good. F-fuck, more."

The next smack sends her hips slamming back into the counter, another strangled noise coming from her mouth right as you hit her harder without thinking. “If it's too much, speak up."

But the noise she makes is barely coherent. All you can see is the look of excitement on her face as you deliver more stinging slaps to her same cheek, over and over until you've had enough—only switching to the other for an identical treatment and marking the unblemished skin just the same.

"N-never. I love the pain, love the feeling of this belt on my ass—please keep going." Even with the crack in her voice, the smack of leather against bare skin overshadows her cries while you up the ante and show no mercy.

Over and over with these slaps all over her cheeks, fueled by frustration with Yuna yelping each time you send the belt flying into that sore, marked skin. But she still grinds her hips back at you for more, eager for any ounce of pleasure, and every ounce of pain that comes alongside.

The entire time Yuna stays bent over, loud gasps and pathetic whines for another while these harsh spanks rain down so she can feel the sting that lingers right after. Hard enough to leave her speechless and biting back to not beg you for even worse. She grips the countertop like she'll simply fall over if she doesn't. And after a well-timed hit, you force a break that she doesn't ask for—a moment to collect herself and catch her bearings. A moment to admire the redness that's not going away anytime soon.

"Still want more?" you ask her with a tug at her hair, the belt grazing her tender skin.

"M-more. Give me everything you fucking have," she can barely breathe out between whimpers, gripping even tighter onto the kitchen counter, so that your next hit to that reddened ass leaves behind an unmistakable imprint on those plump cheeks. "Fucking make it hurt, don't treat me like I can't take it. Harder."

You can certainly oblige her. Harder is exactly what you'll do—each vicious snap of the belt a little more relentless, no pauses between several loud cracks against that aching flesh, causing the most delectable noise as Yuna gasps every single time. Even as you step back, inspecting the artwork you've left on her backside, Yuna is far from satisfied. "I said to fucking make it hurt. But you're holding back on me, stop doing that."

Oh, let her fucking complain. Even with a burning sting on her ass, Yuna can't help but provoke you a bit further, with your grip in her hair tightening. But those slaps only come faster—each vicious hit with the leather cracks over her raw ass, moans muffled as her cheek gets pressed right up against the cold countertop.

The belt swings wide again, hitting both cheeks at once and making them jiggle, the redness across Yuna's round little ass making a stark contrast against the pure, porcelain skin. And she hears it first before feeling it.

Another cry of ecstasy that escapes her throat right as the belt brings about more stinging slaps, until you let the folded length of her own belt linger in the air, so she doesn't even know when the next swing will happen. You love nothing more than watching her body tense up—every single nerve on edge knowing another hard smack will come her way the second she even breathes, her reddened ass ready to receive whatever you have left in store for it.

"Like doesn't begin to describe it. I'm fucking crazy for it," she gasps out, when the belt stays far enough away that you give her some sense of relief—until it brushes over the sore, sensitive skin, making the softest touch seem worse than an outright strike. Then it cracks over her cheeks in succession, her thighs clenching together as she takes it.

"My god, nobody has an ass like this, Shin Yuna. Nobody. Especially now with all these pretty little marks, and those noises you make when I spank you, I could listen to those all fucking day."

You put the belt down and stroke over the red welts from where you may have gone just a little too far, not that Yuna would ever object. She glances back over her shoulder with the biggest smile, even through the tears staining her cheeks.

"That’s as much as you deserve, you desperate little slut.”

Up her body you wander, pulling her upright and stripping her of that small crop top so your hands have better access. Then straight into the clasp of her bra, cupping her tits once you’ve freed them, kneading with a little force the way you know Yuna loves.

"I can handle so much more than this, I swear. I could take so much more," Yuna insists with another cute sniffle. The problem is, you know she can. All you have to do is glance between her thighs, and the mess on the tiles tells you enough.

"I know you can," you breathe in her ear, hand trailing up around her throat until your fingers close tightly around it. Yuna lets out this short and sweet moan in your grasp when you apply more pressure. “But you got what you want. Now it’s my fucking turn.”

Yuna drips at the thought. There's no sense in resisting her, no point in pretending this wasn't inevitable from the moment she had herself bent over with those tight fucking shorts. You'll give into everything she wants despite pretending to do the opposite.

"What's that fucking word you keep calling me?" you ask her, the grip around her neck making her thighs clench even harder this time. "Go on."

"D-daddy. That's it. But you said never to—"

"Doesn't apply here. One time, this one time, use it. Use it while I'm shoving my cock in your needy little asshole, understand?"

"Yes—I fucking understand. Y-yes, daddy. Just this once."

A quick release of her throat so Yuna can turn her body in your direction, the tears in those alluring eyes yet to dry up. Your free hand palms over her ass once again, getting a nice, possessive squeeze as a reward for everything she's endured already.

"My ass fucking hurts," she says, laughing it off between shaky breaths and the occasional sniffle. "G-god, this belt fucking hurt more than your hand ever could."

"Are you complaining or bragging?" you ask as your lips meet, hot breath against one another as her slender fingers grasp against the hem of your shirt, up and off within seconds so she can slide her fingers up and down your bare chest.

"What do you think?"

Your boxers come off last, not even hitting the ground before Yuna is stroking your stiff cock with this playful expression on her features. Then it's in her grip the entire time you walk her down the hallway and into the bedroom. As expected, she can't keep her hands off of you for more than a second, right up to when the bed frame hits the back of her knees and the only option is falling back onto the mattress.

"God, Yuna, the things I'm going to do to you—the ways I'll ruin you." With her legs spread wide, and thighs glistening with arousal, you get to indulge in the view while Yuna plays with her clit in lazy, drawn-out circles.

“Need you in my ass, daddy—need it now. Isn't that clear?" Oh, how unexpected that she’s going to abuse the permission of that one single word.

"I can assure you the feeling is mutual," you insist, and join her on the edge of the mattress, taking her hips and flipping her over until she's lying right on her stomach with that sore, marked ass up on display, raised up off the mattress.

She props herself up on her elbows so she’s in position, right in the center of the bed. The sight is perfection—this shameless, insatiable fucktoy, sprawled across your bed with her legs parted, knees sunk into the bed, ready and waiting for you.

Just as she opens her mouth to say something, you bury your face into those pillowy cheeks, the tip of your tongue swirling against her tight fucking asshole.

"F-fuuuck, it's been so long since I've had your tongue in my ass, daddy," Yuna moans, your spit lubricating her puckered hole all over, the softness of her cheeks pressing deep against your face as she tries to grind back. You shove your tongue deeper, tasting, savoring everything—eating her ass like it's the only reason you let her stay here tonight. The reason why you even opened the front door.

There's nothing better than the unfiltered moans while you plunge your tongue deep into the depths of her asshole, face first against it and greedy, spreading her wide apart while you slip in, those cries of pleasure getting higher.

You taste—no, you devour her, tongue exploring, thrusting in and out of that tight little ring that clenches around each swipe. This delicious tongue-fuck that gets better the more desperate Yuna sounds, writhing around your sheets and pushing back, all in hopes to keep your mouth where it belongs.

"This ass belongs to me," you remind her, a harsh slap on the still reddened flesh to make the pleasure even better.

Yuna spreads her cheeks wider so you can plunge as deep as possible, so you can hear her delicious moans as your spit covers her glistening hole. One long, sloppy lick in and out, tongue so deep in her asshole that all she can do is whimper helplessly for more.

"D-don't act like you didn't miss this," she says, still as cocky as ever through a breathless groan of satisfaction. Your tongue teases one last time, a thumb replacing it to press into the ring of muscle that's already relaxed, seeing how easy it is to sink into.

She’s more than ready, but you need one more taste before grabbing the lube so you can slide a wet digit right inside the puckered hole of Yuna's ass—fingering her the same way you've done countless times already.

She's tight, of course, that’s a given, but even as a finger curls inside, this grip around your finger won’t begin to compare once your cock is in the same place. Two fingers is the limit, plunging them deep enough to stretch Yuna just enough so your cock will slide right in. "Only I get to fucking pound your asshole, yeah?"

"O-oh fuck, it's only you, daddy. Nobody else, nobody but you, I promise—your cock in my ass, right where it belongs. J-just you."

Your fingers finally pop out, and instead the slick, swollen head of your cock is pushing into the tightest, most inviting hole—one long, deep thrust right up until the base, so her asshole can swallow every last inch in a single motion.

Yuna clutches the sheets so tight, arching her back to push that ass up into the air. She's so tight that you can't even fathom it, this delicious clench around everything stuffed to the hilt—and there's nothing like this. Nobody gets this privilege, you believe. Nobody gets to indulge in the luxury of fucking Yuna's perfect, tight little asshole. Not a single person but you gets to make her moan quite this way.

"Stop wasting time and fuck my ass. Pound me, p-please. Don't make me fucking beg."

So much for savoring any of it. You sink your fingers right into her ridiculous hips, gripping her harder than usual to drag her backwards onto your cock. Hard enough to force this groan out of her—so needy and pathetic in the midst when your hips meet her bare ass. A brief moment to take it all in, before sliding almost entirely back and rocking forward with full force.

"Oh my fucking god—my ass feels so full, shit—"

She's barely breathing between words, and you don't intend on helping her out in that regard at all when you're too busy staring at her red, tender cheeks, loving how they jiggle with every rock of your hips.

“Did you expect anything else?" you ask while giving her a good, harsh slap to that same spot where red is still clear as can be. With such a good view, it's impossible to do anything other than drive deep and begin pounding her mercilessly. "A pathetic fucking slut like you deserves nothing but a rough fuck. And that's what you're gonna get."

Yuna does little but spew moans and throw her head back when your cock buries deep in her ass. This tightness never gets old, your hips on a mission to bury in her and hit all the places Yuna loves, enough to get her drooling all over your pillows. But her asshole—as snug, warm, and irresistible as it is, you can’t fathom how hard she squeezes every time you drill forward, showing no signs of restraint.

"S-so good," she lets out through short gasps, her face buried in the pillows and her teeth biting your sheets hard. “Love when you treat me like a fucking toy, daddy—"

"Yuna, that's exactly what you are," you tell her while you're so deep in her ass it's almost overwhelming. "So tight, I'll never stop pounding you, fuck. Tightest little hole I've ever fucked."

Yuna glances over her shoulder, while you get a good, tight grip on her hair and tug so she clenches harder, with every stroke balls fucking deep—as rough as you think she needs it. Even as the sound of your cock reaming her ass echoes throughout the entire room, nothing could possibly be enough.

Your unrelenting, deep thrusts into Yuna's asshole cause the whole damn bed to creak from the violent force of your strokes, pulling her hair harder for that extra roughness she loves.

No break, not the slightest pause until you absolutely have to—because you could do this all day and not grow tired of the way Yuna moans or how her cheeks bounce when you slam into them. Those cheeks that you get a tight handful of—palms full, and dig your fingers in for some leverage while your thrusts turn animalistic, barely in control at this point.

But Yuna can take it, you can see it in that fucked out expression. The pleasure written all over her features while her mouth falls open as you show her no mercy—spreading her ass just so you can marvel at your cock hammering in and out, stretched out so wide around you.

"So good, g-god, so deep, love how deep your cock goes," Yuna can barely get out, like it takes all the energy out of her. You know you're not anywhere near wearing her out, not while watching your dick destroy her asshole.

"Not enough?"

“N-not even fucking close. Give me all you've got, come on," she pleads for in this broken, muffled whine with her face shoved so far against your sheets she can barely breathe.

Another deep thrust, enough force behind that slams the bed against the wall, loud enough to compete with the sound of her ass slapping against your hips. And when you draw back again, you grab her delicate little wrists, pulling her arms behind her back and using them as leverage—so Yuna can't do anything at all but let her asshole get wrecked.

"More, more—keep fucking pounding my tight ass, come on. D-don't stop, daddy. You know I'm fucking addicted to this fat cock," Yuna pleads so pathetically, immobile and helpless, taking whatever comes next with her arms hostage and your cock impaling her to the hilt.

Your hips do exactly that. Fucking her ass in quick strokes until all she does is cry out for you to destroy her, and then some. Yuna takes everything, the groans and yelps when you give no chance for recovery, the thrusts so deep and noises more depraved by the second. Her wrists pinned by the small of her back so she doesn't even have the chance of touching her swollen clit.

"That cock in my ass feels so fucking amazing. Oh my fucking god, fuck me, fuck my asshole as deep as possible."

When you yank her body back, your hands stay locked around her wrists with enough force for her to gasp. But you’re too busy pummeling her ass to even get a word out—too focused on that impossible tightness wrapped around your cock, the perfect grip around every inch like it's trying to force you to cum.

"Better get used to this, slut. My cock is going to keep wrecking your tight little ass over and over again for the next two days. And maybe even longer if you really deserve it."

Her wrists go free, only for your hands to find her delicious hips again, slamming back in and using all the momentum to crash into Yuna as hard as your body can muster—until she's pinned flat onto your mattress, trapped right under you without a single break between the thrusts that hit at a different angle.

With your legs spread on either side of her, your torso stays flat against her naked back, keeping your weight right down over her small frame. The bed shakes each time you enter the deepest parts of her ass, every single stroke her greedy hole swallows up and demands even more than you can possibly offer.

"That's it, j-just like that. Just keep fucking my ass, love the way that you ruin it—"

"Yuna—" You bring a harsh smack down across her reddened, sore cheek to really punctuate each thrust. "You think I wouldn’t when your ass is squeezing my cock so fucking good?"

Every bit of movement between the two of you happens right where your skin is pressed against hers—sweat on her body indistinguishable from the sweat on yours. Hands around her hips so you can keep a nice, possessive grip while you relentlessly drive forward to pound her body into your mattress, no chance of lasting much longer now. Not with the way you're drilling her, no chance at all.

And yet, you can't tear your eyes away from how her ass looks getting pounded, bouncing every time your hips make contact with the reddened cheeks of her ass.

"If you fuck me any harder, you might actually break this bed," Yuna gasps out, laughter still coming to her lips despite how ruined and breathless she is. That sounds like a good option, if you can’t help it, no matter how rough you need to be with her. Yuna is beyond that—insatiable and incapable of getting satisfied for very long at all, the way most people would.

But that doesn't mean you won't give your all for this performance. So you get back on your knees, getting each hand full of Yuna's plump ass, sinking your fingertips as much as humanly possible to watch your cock destroy this perfect girl.

"Then I'll keep going, until we've destroyed my entire goddamn bedroom. That's how much I love pounding your ass."

She just giggles until a moan replaces it, lost in all these noises. You won't stop, not if your legs give out from exhaustion. Every hard and deep thrust has your eyes fixed upon where your hips meet those decadent cheeks. With Yuna face down on her stomach, there’s no better view to watch how well your cock stretches her hole open.

"You're getting there, I can feel it," she taunts. You hate that you can’t even see her face, but you know she’s grinning. Smug little brat. "Go ahead, fill this tight, little asshole. Use it until you cum."

And she just gets you so riled up, that it's inevitable, as soon as those words leave Yuna's mouth. "I cannot believe I went this long without my cock inside you. When you say it out loud, it just sounds—"

"Crazy? Come on. I know it drove you crazy. The only time you're actually fucking happy is when this big dick is buried in my ass. Not just inside some random girl who's not me, or a warm mouth who's not mine."

God, do you hate when she's right. Hate it with every fiber of your being, but you don't even have time to think about anything else, because these soft cheeks you're palming so hard is the thing that's about to break you first. That same voice that you can't stand on most days, is what helps you unravel—what brings you to that delirious edge and drives your hips with full force for these last few deep thrusts that rattle the bed.

You start to lose full control, snapping your hips a little too fast, once, twice—before finally bottoming out with her name on your lips and erupting deep inside her ass. It's unstoppable, filling her with your thick, messy release in each deep throb when your cock pumps Yuna full, her asshole accepting it with each final burst of tightness.

"There you go, fucking cum in my ass," Yuna moans out as those harsh clenches milk everything out of you. You ride that high for as long as possible, each furious thrust pumping your seed deep inside, each hammering her body into the mattress—again and again until your balls have nothing left.

Even after then, your hips don’t cease, fucking the rest of your load deeper inside her tight, filled hole. You can already see your release trickling out, her ass stuffed too full and overflowing with your cum already. "F-fuck, there's so fucking much, it's so thick—oh my god, daddy came so much…”

Yuna sighs out into the silence, while you're left holding those sore cheeks to catch your breath. Both of you struggling to recover.

"That's like, several days worth of cum in your ass," you say, dragging your spent cock out of her to get a good look, holding her cheeks spread apart as it flows in a thick mess between her thighs. Your fingers slide right into that gaping, ruined asshole, pushing back whatever cum threatens to drip out.

"Jesus, Yuna. Look at how much is spilling out. Was worried I actually broke you there for a moment when you're this tight."

"Nope. Still perfect. And it's still not enough," Yuna says, insatiable as ever. Only then do you start to peel yourself off of her, her worn-out body a complete sweat-covered mess.

“Too bad. You fucking drained me dry, you greedy slut."

Yuna laughs, and when she rolls over on her back to face you, she's the image of perfection: hair matted all against her forehead with sweat, makeup a bit smeared, her lips and cheeks redder than usual—ruined but still absolutely stunning.

“Like you could ever run out. Not when I'm around…”

Yuna shifts right in front of you until she's directly in front of your gaze and kneeling between your legs. She smiles up at you and her mouth gets right back on your throbbing, sensitive cockhead. Each obscene slurp makes it a little harder to convince yourself that she shouldn't be staying for the weekend, because you might not ever let her leave. While not a day goes by without you hating her guts, not a day goes by without wanting to pin her up against a wall and fuck her senseless.

Her mouth slides deep, cleaning off everything, and her lips, her tongue running against the slit, and the cute expression the whole time, god—this girl is going to be the death of you.

She drags her tongue in slow, gentle swipes around the head, sucking every single drop clean and looking for more. There's not a single bit of reluctance—her wet mouth eagerly cleaning up your shaft in long strokes. Then she slides both hands around your hips and shoves you back, knocking you off balance until you hit the mattress. Yuna doesn’t give you a second to recover, already between your legs again.

Now you're the helpless one, that hot little mouth working to fit the entire thick length down her throat. You don't even care about the overstimulation, not with this view of Yuna bobbing her head, those lips sealed tight.

"Fuck, you’re crazy—“ you let out, running fingers through her messy hair, while Yuna ignores you and devours your spent cock, balls deep down her throat until she gags the slightest bit.

"You love it, though. Because it means you’re gonna fuck me harder now.”

Maybe you do regret ever opening the door for her and letting her inside your apartment to ruin her. Or maybe you're the one ruined instead. You're not entirely sure at this point.

"You're gonna have to wait, not everything is at full capacity yet." Yuna cocks her head to the side, stopping her full strokes so she can crawl up and get comfortable on top of you, until you're face to face, inches apart.

"Daddy got too worn out pounding my ass? Is that my fault?"

All you have the energy for is to brush away strands of her disheveled hair out of the way, so you can stare at her gorgeous face. "Yes. And you can stop calling me that. One time thing, remember?"

Yuna giggles. "No—one time won't be enough. You know I like saying it."

You can’t even hide the sigh that escapes. But you should have known better, you suppose, for letting the floodgates open and allowing her that one time. Now you'll never hear the end of it, and it's going to be rolling off her lips the next time she begs you to fuck her again.

"You'll never listen to anything I say ever, will you?"

You already know the answer to that. But you’ll still indulge in her lips, this unexpected soft kiss after all the roughness. After all the debauchery of tonight, it’s what you both need.

"Definitely not," Yuna replies, eyes wide and bright. “You’re just gonna have to find a way to shut me up—daddy."

You hate that word with a passion, you'd hate it if you were to hear anyone else say it to you—but for some reason, hearing that coming from those pouty lips, you hate even more that you might grow to love it the same amount. "You get to stay the weekend, and not a minute longer. Got it?"

There's this knowing glint in her eyes, all too confident that you'll break and think otherwise. "Don't be so sure about that. After one more night, you'll be begging me to stay an entire month. Begging me."

A roll of your eyes, and a laugh that’s far too loud escapes, because in truth, she's most certainly right. It's this push and pull between wanting her far away and wanting her around more than ever.

"Yuna, don't push your fucking luck," you warn, the last remnants of trying to distract from the truth.

"It's a little late for that, don't you think? I've pushed far past my limit. Might as well just start moving my things here."

That's a step too far. You'll fuck her brains out as many times as she needs, you'll even allow her to sleep in your bed for as many nights as she wants. This is already too domestic for your liking, but the thought of her staying here without giving you a moment's break? You'd rather perish.

"Absolutely fucking not. Don't even joke about that, Yuna."

"I was kidding," she insists, playing with the locks of your hair, not bothered at all by the agony on your face. "I'm here to get dicked down, that's it. I don't need to take over your whole apartment just to make sure my asshole is stretched."

"Jesus, Yuna. Why the fuck are you so—"

"Insatiable? Hot? Good at deepthroating you until you explode down my throat? Because it's fun to see you get so flustered, daddy."

Another one slips past her lips. You're just going to have to live with it at this point, she's so obsessed getting a reaction out of you, and you make it so easy for her. "Fuck off, I do not get flustered. And you need to stop saying that."

"No fucking chance. I'm going to call you that every single time you pound me. I'm going to scream it while you shove my face into your pillows and fuck the shit out of me, while you fold me up and choke me, get me on my knees and gag me until I'm drooling—"

"Yuna, I am not fucking you for at least another hour. Maybe even two."

"That's fine. We don't have to fuck at all, because my ass still fucking hurts,” she says, letting out a noise somewhere near a giggle and a sigh all at once. “I'm going to feel those welts you left on me forever, that belt made my ass so fucking sore that I'm surprised I can even walk. Just thinking about it makes me fucking drip—“

"Could you be any bigger of a slut than you already are?"

Yuna shakes her head, this soft smile as if your insults only spur her on, as they seem to do. "Never. Not even if I tried."

#yuna smut #itzy smut #girl group smut #reader insert #kpop smut #male reader #reader x idol

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vamplvs · 28 days ago

Note

the thought of john walker getting beaten into submission (willingly), being disciplined, and then being tenderly taken care of afterwards is what keeps me going tbh

ATTITUDE CHECK

INCLUDES -> john walker x fem!reader WARNINGS -> smut 18+, kinda brat!john, choking, 'ma'am' but only for like 1 second, praise kink, light begging, some denial/edging WORD COUNT -> 2.4k

NOTES -> and yeah! you get it! also i love writing mildly questionable and emotionally stunted john so here you go <3

imagine getting into a petty argument with john and all of a sudden you're backing him up into a corner, and something just switches in his brain. his back is against a wall and you're just so close to him—close enough to kiss him, close enough that one of your thighs is nearly pressed between his, close enough that you could wrap a hand around his neck and he'd collapse to his knees.

imagine him spending the next two weeks having a major internal crisis about it. he thinks about the way your hand pushed against his chest, knocking him back just enough that he's off balance. he thinks about the smug grin on your face when he finally shuts up. and god, he thinks about how much he wants you to do all that again.

only issue? he can't bring it up, not to you.

being the poor communicator he is, he does everything in his power to rile you up again. he makes snide remarks, pins you mercilessly during training, takes risks he knows will piss you off.

it isn't until nearly a month has gone by that he finally gets what he wants.

the two of you end up sparring after a mission—at bucky's request because, in his words, "walker needs to be taken down a peg, and you need to work your shit out."

john's fighting style is painfully military—precise, clean, and predictable. but yours? you have no problem fighting dirty, slinging insults at him, and taking cheap shots. and he lets you have it.

despite it all, he manages to get you pinned beneath him like it's nothing, and man, does that set you off in some type of way. you're practically buzzing beneath him, rage trapped like lightning in a bottle—dangerous and volatile and exactly the thing that has him grinning.

you growl for him to get off of you, flexing and bucking beneath him.

"you got it, come on," he mutters back, loosening his hold just enough for you to get out. you take the opportunity to reel back, slamming the back of your head into his. "what the fuck!"

he's off you in an instant, cradling his nose and stumbling away. pain blooms from his nose, so much so that he doesn't realize you're already up and behind him. while he's disoriented, you take a swing at him, and another. and so on until he finally starts blocking your blows in earnest. you've pushed him to the defensive, and he's buzzing from the adrenaline.

in one swift movement, you have him knocked onto the ground, knocking the air from his lungs. your legs are locked around his hips, with one of his hands trapped beneath him and the other twisted uncomfortably at his side by one of your hands. but it's your other hand on his neck that's causing him the most trouble, really. it presses in at the sides, cutting off his air flow just enough that it sends any logical thinking so far out the window he's not sure it'll ever come back.

it's not a hold he's trapped in, far from it. he's stronger than you are by leagues and getting out from under you should be no problem at all. yet he stays on the ground, staring up at you with wide eyes and parted lips.

there's a tension in the air, electric with some unspoken thing you've just realized about him. the way your eyes light up with a cruel kind of glee gives you away—and him, by extension.

"you like this, don't you?" and it's a damn good thing you're sitting still on top of him, otherwise you'd realize just how right you are. he pants below you, torn between denial and confirmation. you just watch as thoughts half form in his head only to be abandoned seconds later. "c'mon, walker, you like this. be honest, baby."

"sh-shit."

"is that why you've been such a bitch lately? want me to fix your attitude?"

john really can't be blamed for the low sound that rumbles from his throat when your hand tightens minutely around his neck. and you certainly don't hear him hurling accusations when your face moves inches from his own.

your thumb moves up from his neck, pressing against his jaw to turn his head. and he does so without any resistance. his eyes are locked on your face, taking everything in—the way your gaze wanders from his lips to his neck, the curl of your lip when you catch him staring, all of it.

he surges forward, kissing you, all teeth and bite. and you reciprocate readily. his hands are out of your hold with little effort—an abrupt reminder of just how strong he really is—and they wrap around your hips, just shy of too tight. his hips move against your ass slowly, tentatively, like he's trying to keep you from noticing. not that it works.

"walker," you mutter against his lips, but he only responds by pulling you in for another kiss, messy and desperate. "john," and this time your voice is more forceful, enough to make him pull back. his lips are spit-slick and parted, breath coming fast in little puffs. he looks at you like you've hung the sun in the sky. "we can't do this here."

he groans, head thudding back against the floor. "fine."

"what, you want me to fuck you stupid in the shared training space?"

john's silence speaks volumes—even more than the flush that's spread down to his neck. it makes you laugh, and that only makes him go redder.

"c'mon," you stand, putting a hand out to pull him up. john misses the contact of your body over his immediately, but he takes your hand anyways.

it takes everything in him to keep his hands off you as you drag him down the halls of the tower. he follows after you like a dog, still breathing hard and trying desperately to ignore the ache between his legs. but he thinks about pinning you to a wall, if only to get you pissed off at him again. he thinks about how you'd call him on it immediately, how you'd tell him to stop showing off, how it wouldn't phase you in the slightest. it's criminal how well you can read him, really.

before he can let that train of thought go any farther, you're shoving him into your room and back onto the bed. he lands with a grunt when the back of his knees hit the bed, and you find yourself between his legs.

"you sure know how to treat a guy," he says with a snarky smile, one that screams of self-satisfaction. you return his smile with a far more gentle one, fingers running through his hair. every touch is tender, and it leaves walker shaken, unsteady. "what, you pussy out or-?"

at that, you tug hard on his hair, forcing his head back to look up at you. it sends a sting through his scalp and heat through the rest of him. he shivers as you lean down, eyes wide with that same unspoken electricity.

"watch your mouth, john," you hiss, face mere inches from his own.

"yes, ma'am," he replies, trying to maintain that same egotism and sardonic tone, but it falls flat, even to his own ears. his voice is uneven, heady, already wrecked and you haven't even touched him.

"you look good like this," you mutter, more to yourself than john, but he reacts all the same. it's the quiet huff of breath, the way his hands drift from the sheets to your hips, the pink of his ears spreading to his cheeks. "you like that too, huh? like being told you're pretty, baby?"

that's how john finds himself laying back on your bed with you straddling his hips. he's still in his briefs, and fuck, he's never been harder in his life. you press open mouthed kisses to his neck, biting and sucking every time he dares even twitch. when he wakes up tomorrow, he's sure that there will be a myriad of purple-red marks decorating his skin. the thought alone has his hips bucking into you with a groan.

you lift yourself off him before he can get even an ounce of friction. "nuh-uh, not until i say so."

"f-fuck, c'mon," he growls, hands hovering just over your hips. he could flip you so easily, take you right now. it'd be so good, getting you to beg for him.

with a saccharine smile, you pull his hands away and pin them to the pillows by his head. "keep your hands here," your voice is too sweet, a thinly veiled threat. a command disguising itself as a request.

the arch of your brow breaks his resolve, and he lets out a shuddering breath.

"good," you mutter against his neck, nosing against his jaw once again.

by the time you're satisfied with the bruises littering his skin, john is shaky and oversensitive. every bite you leave has him arching into you, like there's a trail of fire you leave behind. he burns where you touch him—whether that's because of the flush that's spread down to his chest or the heat of your hands, he isn't sure.

maybe it's the way your ass is pressed against his cock, and the growing wet spot on the front of his briefs.

"let me fuck you already," he manages past another low groan.

"is that any way to ask for what you want?" you reply, grinding back onto him.

"o-oh, shit." his hands fly back to your hips, holding them still as his hips stutter against you almost mindlessly.

"john," your tone is a warning. in the back of his mind, he knows that. but he doesn't focus on your words until your fingers are wrapped around his neck, pressing just hard enough. "ask nicely."

you punctuate each word with a squeeze, leaving him feeling almost high from how bad he wants it.

"i'm not gonna beg," he huffs, voice strained by your hand.

"yes, you are." you say it with a smug smile, like you know something he doesn't. and then you lean in to whisper in his ear. "you like being told what to do. i know you get off on it. so come on, ask nicely."

and if you hear the way his breath hitches when you say it, you don't show any indication.

"you want to be good, don't you?"

the teasing tone of your voice is gone now, replaced instead with something lower, sharper. something that has his head going fuzzy.

"please," he says through gritted teeth.

"please, what?"

the room is suddenly too hot, or maybe he is. he can't tell anymore, not with your hand on his throat and the puffs of your breath on the shell of his ear.

"please let me fuck you." he says it quietly, but it seems good enough for you.

"that wasn't so hard, was it?" your teasing tone is back, and it only makes him hotter.

before he can get another word in, you're reaching below the waistband of his briefs to wrap your hand around his cock.

john can't be blamed for the near-whine he lets out when you stroke him, or the way his back arches into the touch.

"yeah? that feel good?"

he just groans your name in response.

when you finally sink down on him, he swears his vision almost goes out. you're slow, steady, and he just shakes beneath you, hands still tight on your hips.

"shit, you're tight," he groans, eyes unfocused as he looks at you.

there's something about the part of your lips, the way your nails dig in just a little where you've used your hand to balance yourself against his stomach, and the twitch of your hand against his neck. whatever it is, it makes his hips jerk.

"go on, baby, fuck me," you say, moving your hand from his neck to his hair and pulling.

his hips snap up into yours again and again, until his mind is hazy with pleasure. he's unbelievably sensitive to everything you do. your nails raking down his chest leave him gasping and shuddering, and your hand tugging at his hair has him whining, hardly even able to focus his eyes on you at all.

"so good, feels so good." even your praise leaves him hot and tightly wound, a growing heat in his lower belly.

"y-yeah, fuck, please-" his voice breaks around a high moan of your name.

"gonna come, baby?"

he nods frantically, blond hair falling into his face and sticking to his forehead.

"not until i do," you say in that same heavy tone, and he nearly screams.

he shakes beneath you, holding off as best he can while you ride him. his entire body shudders every time you gasp and tighten around him, and fuck, he's close. he's so close he can practically taste it. but you keep going in a maddening rhythm without a care.

"doing so good for me." your eyes are locked on his when you near moan it, heavy with want. "'m close."

and that sends something through him, a wave of heat like lightning up his spine.

"f-fuck, want it-" he gasps, "g'nna make you feel good."

his voice cracks when you tighten around him, and this time he's sure his vision goes white. there's a small, frenzied moment where his entire body goes taut, on an edge he can't seem to get off of.

and then pleasure floods his body in a rush as his cock pulses inside you, a litany of praise falling from his lips.

"yes, yeah, 's so good, thank you-"

he barely feels you collapse on top of him, too focused on the oversensitivity of having to pull out of you.

it takes him a few moments to land back in his body, head practically spinning.

but when he does, your fingers are carding through his hair again. the touch is almost reverent.

"doing okay?" you ask, voice hardly above a whisper.

"yeah." christ, his voice is fucked. and maybe it's just the afterglow, but john's mouth is moving faster than his mind is. "needed that."

you laugh lightly next to him, but there isn't any heat behind it. not like there was before. "yeah, i figured." he wraps a careful arm around you—still shaking slightly. "you can just ask next time, y'know."

"huh?" next time? you want to do this again?

"you don't have to be a dick to get me to do all this." you pull up from where you're laying on his chest to look him in the eye. "i care about you. if this is what you need, then i'll do it."

then your hand his tightening in his hair all over again, and he hisses. "plus, it's hot."

he snorts, and you let go of his hair. "yeah, whatever." his face is far too red for the feigned indifference he tries to pull off.

#john walker x reader #john walker smut #marvel x reader #marvel smut #thunderbolts x reader #thunderbolts smut #john walker headcanons #marvel headcanons #thunderbolts headcanons #mcu x reader #mcu smut

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wildsaltair · 8 months ago

Text

Tender Fires

Pairing: Maximus Decimus Meridius x reader

Rating: T (hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, with a few hints of spice)

Word Count: 6.4k

Tag List: @enjisbf, @nasatshirts, @empressenchanted, @streets-in-paradise, @xiscamoony, @aelondrias

Author’s Note: I'm back with another Maximus fic! This is actually part of a larger narrative in which Maximus escapes the execution attempt and ends up at reader's farm, where she tends his wounds and they fall in love but have to fight their feelings because he intends to leave to keep her safe. As always, this fic is written from the deepest longings of my lovestruck heart, and I hope that love is obvious :) Thank y'all so much for your kind words about the last fic, and I hope you enjoy this one!!

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“You’re up late.”

At your words, Maximus turns his head to look at you, and a soft smile crosses his lips. His features are etched in shadow, flickering with the dancing firelight.

He’s seated in front of your kitchen fire, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, gazing deep into the flames as if searching for some hidden meaning within. You would never have known he was in here if you had not been awakened by the loud cracks of thunder outside and come in search of the warmth of the fire.

An autumn storm, a midnight fire, and the most captivating man you have ever known, dressed only in his plain white sleeping tunic. It seems like a combination intended to lure you into trouble.

As you move to sit in the chair beside him, he looks back into the hearth, a smile still tugging at the corner of his lips. “I have stayed awake staring at many fires in my life,” he tells you quietly, his voice deep and thoughtful.

Out of the corner of your eye, you risk a glance at him, looking for the scar on his ribs. He has been with you for a little more than two weeks now, helping you with odd jobs around the farm as his strength returns. His wounds, though still vulnerable, have healed quickly, and you are relieved to see no signs of further injury on the parts of his skin that you can see.

“As have I,” you reply, eyes still lingering on him. “Though for me, it has always been the same fire. This one.”

He hums in response, nodding slightly. You have never sat by this fire together at night, and you are bewitched by the way the light dances over him, makes his golden skin shimmer. The lines of his arms and shoulders are limned in shadow, the firelight flickering on his handsome features.

You are overcome with a desire to put your hands on him, to feel the heat of his skin and the strength of his body, but you cast your gaze on the fireplace instead.

“I envy you that,” he answers softly, after a short reflection. He glances up at you, studying you intently. “A home fire, always burning in the same place.”

The meaning of his words is not lost on you.

Every day, the thought of him leaving you is more painful. At the moment, as you sit close enough to listen to him breathing, the thought is unbearable. Your home is his home now, and you long — more than you have ever longed for anything — for him to realize that he belongs here.

His shadowed eyes search yours a moment more, then return to gazing at the flames.

You take a deep, steadying breath to calm yourself. Your hands are trembling, and you smooth them over your skirt, hoping he does not notice how nervous you are from this simple interaction.

“Tea?” you ask quickly, pushing yourself to stand and get a bit of space between the two of you.

He glances up again, and your heart clenches at the gentleness in his expression. He nods. “Thank you.”

Have his eyes ever seemed so wide, so earnest? Are you imagining the way his gaze lingers on you, drinking in every detail of the way you move?

You can feel the tension in the room thickening, your own heart beating faster as you fill the kettle with water and set the tea leaves to brewing. Somehow, sharing space with this man is so much more intimate at night, with a storm raging outside and a warm fire bringing extra heat to the atmosphere.

Even more astonishing to you is the fact that you are not afraid of this powerful soldier. He is strong enough to do anything he wishes to you, to take whatever he obviously wants. But even now, standing here in your night shift, with your hair and your defenses down, you have no fear of him.

If anything, you wish he would initiate a touch, a kiss, anything that would lead to the passion that has been haunting your dreams every night.

Such as your dream last night. You can still feel the sensation of your body thoroughly tangled with his, your limbs entwined, his hands pulling your skirt up to your waist. Your cheeks burn when you remember all the places he kissed in your dream, all the places he touched and explored and pleasured. Such thoughts make you ache all over again, especially now that you are standing so close to him.

A blinding crack of lightning, followed by the roar of thunder, pulls you from the dream-memory of his mouth hot on your throat.

To distract yourself from such dangerous thoughts, you ramble on the first topic you can think of. “My father used to tell me stories beside this fire,” you announce as you hang the kettle over the fire and settle back into the chair beside him. You don’t dare meet his eyes, even as a smile crosses your lips at the memory. “I always begged him to tell me ghost stories even though they frightened me.”

He tilts his head to the side to look at you curiously, a smile of his own playing at his lips. “What kind of ghosts do you have in these parts?” he asks, leaning on one arm of the chair to look at you more squarely.

Somehow, having his full attention focused on you is unnerving, undoing, arousing. You can hardly find the words to speak.

His eyes are still on your face as you feel a deep blush burning in your cheeks. You hope he will attribute it to the warmth of the fire, not your intense reaction to the way he gazes at you. If he only knew how much more heated you are by his presence.

“My favorite is the Howling Woman,” you blurt out, glad that your voice is not as unsteady as you feared. “She wears all gray, with her head covered. She’s been seen in these mountains for decades.”

He does not interrupt you, but your breath catches as his gaze wanders across your face. An absent smile is still on his lips, and he seems to be content to simply watch you, to let his eyes trace the lines of your face, your neck, your hair where it tumbles over your shoulders. His gaze is searching, admiring.

How will you find the strength to hide your desire when one look from him could bring you to your knees?

Clenching your jaw and willing the kettle to boil faster, you continue your story determinedly. “They say she was the wife of a farmer who was killed after being thrown from his horse. She found him with his neck broken.” You pause, still breathless from the effects of his undivided attention. “She went mad and drowned her own children. When she came to her senses and realized what she had done, she walked into the wilderness to die.”

You wait for him to interject, to ask some clarifying question or comment, but he does not. He is still leaning on the arm of his chair, his dark eyes captivated by the sight of you in the firelight. You can almost sense the way he is actively preventing himself from letting his gaze wander further down — where your shift does little to hide the shape of your figure.

But somehow, his watchfulness is not an act of seduction. He seems genuinely swept up in your story, spellbound by the sound of your voice. He listens to you intently, curiously, and waits for you to continue.

“But to punish her for her crime,” you continue, blushing even harder, “the gods cursed her to wander these mountains and valleys for eternity, never able to die and meet her family in the afterlife.”

It is the sound of your voice, you realize now. His gaze wanders over your features slowly, as if measuring them, but his silence persists the longer you speak. It is as if he cannot bring himself to interrupt you, so captivated as he is by your voice.

“She still walks at night,” you finish, finally allowing yourself to look deep into his eyes. There seems to be no end to them, no way to pull yourself out of the gaze that holds you captive. “She wanders, calling and wailing and howling.”

He swallows hard, licks his lips, though you guess he does so unconsciously. A shiver runs up your spine, and not from your ghost story.

You lean forward, just an inch or so, to finish the story. “They say you can hear her best on a night like this,” you whisper, and the silence between you is so concentrated that you feel you might choke on it.

His gaze flits down to your lips for a moment, and in this flickering firelight, surrounded by warmth and desire, you think he may kiss you.

The silence is broken by a loud crack of thunder outside, one that makes you jump at its suddenness. You both look away, realizing how intently you have been gazing at one another for an inexcusably long amount of time.

The tea in the kettle is boiling at last, and, glad for the distraction, you lean forward to take it off the fire. Your two cups are sitting on the table beside you, and you fill both before handing one to him. He nods his thanks, and the two of you sit quietly for a few moments, looking deep into the firelight.

He is the one who finally breaks the silence. “Do you believe in ghosts?” he asks softly, with that pleasant raspy quality you have come to recognize in him at night.

You smile and lean back in your chair to sip at your tea. “Of course,” you confirm lightly. “Don’t you?”

His expression grows quizzical, and he doesn’t lift his eyes away from the fire. He takes a sip of his tea, thinks for a long time before answering. You are more than content to sit in silence with him, but he finally comes to an answer.

“No,” he tells you quietly, still mesmerized by the dancing flames. Eerie shadows prance over his fine features. “Spirits do not wander the earth after death. They go to the afterlife.”

His voice is calm and even, but resolute, assured. You have talked so little with him about such things, and you cannot deny your curiosity at learning more about what he believes.

“How do you know?” you press, unconsciously leaning toward him.

He does not move for a moment, just grips his cup tighter and sharpens his gaze at the fire. “I have seen enough death to feel certain of it,” he declares, then turns his head to look into your eyes again. “If ghosts could exist,” he tells you softly, gently, “then I would be haunted by them every moment.”

Your heart aches for him now, for the pain and grief he carries with him always. His life has been difficult, laden with the weight of many lives and much responsibility. Even in a peaceful haven like your home, he is ever followed by the burdens of his past, no matter how much comfort and peace you have offered him.

“Perhaps they do not wish to speak to you,” you suggest, tilting your head to show that you are teasing him. “Perhaps you do not know all there is to know in the world.”

His haunted expression softens as he looks at you, taking in the meaning of your words. As before, his soft smile smoothes the lines in his face, lifts a bit of the weariness etched into his features. You can’t help wondering if he realizes your effect on him, if he craves these moments of tranquility and comfort as much as you do.

“I am sure of that,” he tells you in a low voice, and your heart turns over at the simple passion in his eyes.

You lapse into silence once again, each of you drinking your tea and losing yourself in thought. Your own ponderings are of him, wondering what he is thinking. He has seemed burdened ever since you found him sitting by the fire, and you long to know what worries him.

If he only knew how your heart leaps at the sight of him, how you long to cradle his face in your hands, to kiss him until all his burdens are lifted, until all he knows is this deep, all-consuming love that has swept over your heart like an autumn storm.

The thunder continues to roll outside, the rain pelting your roof relentlessly, but the warmth of the fire and the pleasant constancy of his presence is comforting.

You do not press him for several long minutes, letting him mull over his worries in silence until both of you have finished your tea. When you set your two empty cups on the table beside you, you finally decide to inquire, pushing your chair a few inches nearer to him and leaning on one arm of the chair so you can look into his eyes more closely.

“What troubles you?” you ask softly, and he finally lifts his head, dark eyes burning into yours with all the intensity of the hearth fire.

His voice is hardly more than a whisper when he replies, “Ghosts.”

“Memories?” you ask, entranced by the way he slowly leans forward, closing the distance between the two of you one inch at a time. Your skin suddenly burns, aching for a touch, one simple touch, that will answer your constant longing for his hands on you.

After a moment of hesitation, in which he seems to ponder the consequences of what he wants, he finally lifts one hand and trails his fingertips down the side of your face.

“Shadows of things I do not understand,” he murmurs absently, and he traces the line of your jaw with fingers so gentle you cannot imagine them ever wielding a sword.

He gazes at you more openly now, his eyes traveling down to your lips as his thumb brushes over them. You suppress a shudder at the contact, and he strokes your lips a few times, transfixed by the sight, before sliding the backs of his knuckles down the column of your throat.

Stars in the heavens, if he only knew how your body is aching for him, how you respond to the slightest touch he gives you.

You finally find your voice to speak. “Is it your men?” you ask softly, as if the room has suddenly been overtaken by a spell.

He sighs, brow furrowed deeply in thought. “They were not my men,” he replies at last, still stroking his fingers down your neck. “Not the ones who betrayed me. My men were loyal, courageous.” His voice is thick with sorrow, and you sense that recalling this memory is painful for him. “They were my brothers,” he half-whispers. “They would have risen up in rebellion if they had known.”

Your heart aches again at the sadness in his voice, the sadness he works so hard to disguise throughout the day. Somehow, in the darkness, in the stillness of nighttime, he seems more vulnerable.

“Why does the Emperor want you dead so badly?” you finally venture to ask.

His hand stills on your neck, eyes not quite focused on your face. He seems to be traveling back in time in his mind, and he draws a deep breath as he thinks. Almost as if he does not realize what he is doing, his hand wanders to the base of your neck, absently stroking the sensitive skin there.

It’s all you can do to hold still, to keep from betraying how perfectly wonderful his touch is to you.

His voice is low and measured when he answers your question. “I once received favor that he believed should have been his.” He pauses, then raises his eyes to meet yours meaningfully. “By his own father.”

His words take you aback, and you know he must notice your wide-eyed stare. “Marcus Aurelius?” you squawk in disbelief. “You knew the great Emperor?”

“Yes,” he replies, his face softening into a smile at the memory. You are shocked by the revelation, but his fond smile warms your heart after seeing his heavily burdened expression a moment ago.

He presses on, though his hand is now running softly over your shoulder, skimming over the top of your thin shift. “I was young when he took me under his wing,” he explains, eyes tracing the path his hand is making on your shoulder. “I had won some small battles, and he saw in me potential for greater things. He made me what I am today.”

He strokes your shoulder once, gently, then removes his hand, as though he cannot trust himself to keep touching you there. Again lifting his deep blue eyes to meet your gaze, he looks at you so tenderly, so affectionately, as he raises the same hand to tuck your hair behind your ear.

You want to melt, to close your eyes and sigh in pleasure at his simple touch, but you fight for your composure. “He must have been a great man,” you manage instead, meaning every word.

“He was the greatest man I have ever known,” he murmurs, stroking his fingers through your hair at your temple now. “He is the closest thing to a father that I ever knew.”

You have noticed how the man is drawn to your hair whenever you leave it down. He seems fascinated with it, with the way it cascades through his fingers when he cards them through it. His attentions are so gentle, so unobtrusive, as if he is unable to keep himself from simply admiring your beauty in this soft firelight.

“And that is why the Emperor envies you,” you observe to keep from losing your breath.

“Yes,” he answers quietly, his voice hardly above a whisper. “He believed that his father wanted to pass on his power to me.”

You nearly startle in surprise at his words. Not only the commander of the northern armies, not only a confidante of Marcus Aurelius, but the rightful future emperor himself?

You almost feel dizzy, though you’re not sure if it is from the shocking news or the way his fingers keep brushing your temple as he plays with your hair. “Did he?” you prompt him breathlessly, genuinely curious.

He ponders for several long moments, letting your hair stream between his fingers. You are entranced simply by looking at his features — his dark eyelashes, his sharp nose, the gentle creases by his mouth. He is so exquisitely lovely to you, so unaware of how deeply he affects you.

“I do not know,” he finally admits, tracing the side of your face before letting his hand fall back into his lap again. “He never told me.”

His words silence some of the shock you were feeling at wondering if you were in the presence of a man who was supposed to have ruled Rome. The thought of this man, this humble, honest, unpretentious warrior, ruling such a corrupt and conniving empire is almost unthinkable.

You are struck by the absence of his touch, and he seems hesitant to initiate any more contact now that he realizes how close he has drawn to you. He’s still watching you carefully, as if gauging your reaction to his touches, but you cannot resist reaching out to him now.

Your fingers seek out the necklace that hangs down to his chest, a simple cord bearing two wolf’s teeth on the end. You have never asked him about its origin. You handle it carefully, and the man barely breathes as your hand hovers over his chest.

“What would you have done if all this had never happened?” you ask softly, caught in the intimacy of this quiet moment. “Would you have been a soldier all your life?”

Your question is a heavy one, full of unspoken desire and curiosity. You can tell he senses that desire by the way his dark eyes burn into yours, by the way his chest rises and falls more quickly, as if you are taking his breath away just by touching his necklace.

He thinks for a few moments, still gazing deep into your eyes. “I always imagined I would die in battle,” he tells you, a hint of sorrow in his voice. “There seemed no other fate in store for me.”

Your heart tightens, and you let go of your loose grip on his necklace. Suddenly, all you want to do is touch him, to make contact with his body somehow. His words have struck a chord in your heart, reminding you how grateful you are that this world-weary soldier has come to your home, to your hearth, instead of falling on a battlefield hundreds of miles away.

With your pulse racing, you press your hand flat against his chest, splaying your fingers over his heart. Even through the fabric of his nightshirt, you can feel his heart pounding like a war drum, perfectly in rhythm with your own.

Oh, how you long to press your heart against his, to be wrapped up in his arms, so thoroughly tangled with his body that you cannot tell where you begin and he ends.

His breath comes more quickly now, his lips parted and his eyes scorching yours with a hunger that stirs your blood.

“But,” he begins in a hoarse whisper, his gaze flickering down to your lips and then back up, “I did imagine, sometimes…” He pauses, licks his lips again, takes a slow breath, “that if I did have a chance to grow old… I might…”

He halts again, his voice dying in his throat. You press your palm more firmly against his chest, and his heart skips a beat beneath your hand. You can feel his skin burning hot under his shirt.

“Tell me,” you whisper, and a look of unadulterated desire flashes across his face.

He leans close to you, close enough that his breath skims over your lips. “That I might one day have a home,” he breathes. “A family.” He sighs softly, the longing in his voice especially evident. “A life of peace always seemed… unlikely.”

The hesitation in his words is palpable, and suddenly his own larger hand is covering yours, pressing it tight against his chest. You realize that he is relishing your touch the way you relished his a moment ago.

After holding your hand against his heart a moment longer, he grasps your hand in his, lifts it to his lips. Your own heart skips a beat now, when he presses a slow, languid kiss to the back of your hand.

“And now?” you whisper, breathless and tingling with need.

He breathes against your hand, slowly and calmly. “Now,” he echoes, his voice rumbling in your bones. “Now a life of peace seems impossible.”

No. No, he cannot mean that. He cannot still mean to leave you when his gentle eyes speak of the passion he holds for you.

“It does not have to be,” you insist, lifting your free hand to touch the side of his face. He actually sighs at your touch, his eyes fluttering closed. His lips are slightly parted, and it takes all your willpower not to lean forward and kiss him until he can breathe nothing but your name.

His eyes remain closed when he responds, your hand still cradled in his. “To believe otherwise would be foolish,” he tells you, though his voice is anything but resolute. “Dangerous.”

You stroke the side of his face tenderly, enraptured by the way he reacts to your touch. He seems so relaxed, so overwhelmed when you caress him gently. The thought suddenly strikes you that this man has probably never been touched this way — not as light as a feather, with such love and affection that he can feel it beating in rhythm with his heart.

When you brush your fingertips down his neck, over the sensitive skin of his throat, he makes a sound so soft, so unguarded, that you nearly come undone for him right there.

“Are you not well acquainted with danger?” you whisper, leaning in closer to him. He opens his eyes when he feels you drawing nearer, and his fathomless eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

You want him to stay. You want him to love you as you so desperately love him. You want him to never stop looking at you the way he is now.

And when you press your hand flat against the side of his neck, your gaze fluttering over every perfect feature of his face, his soul opens to you, and you see all the love you bear for him reflected deep in his own eyes.

“Yes,” he breathes, and he leans forward to close the few inches that separate your lips from his.

The first sensation that strikes you is his blood pulsing in his neck, hammering against your hand as you caress him. His own hand tangles in your hair, holding you in place while he presses his lips against yours.

There is no hesitation in this kiss, no second-guessing or reluctance. His lips move against yours in a rhythm so natural that you wonder if he has imagined this as many times as you have.

He tilts his head slightly to the side, drowning in your kiss like a dying man seeking air. You can feel the breath knocked out of your lungs, so unaccustomed to any attention as passionate as this. The man lifts his other hand to cradle your jaw, still kissing your lips, gently but insistently, over and over and over.

This is what heaven must be like, you realize distantly when his tongue slides against yours, every inch of your skin tingling in response. His undivided attention, his unashamed desire for you is so arousing, so delightful in every way.

You can feel your cheeks burning, your skin heating up, the longer his hands linger on your face and neck. His fingers stroke your jaw, and his other hand grips your hair just hard enough to hold you in place. He is still reveling in your kiss, still using his lips and tongue to draw out the softest moan you have ever made in your life.

As soon as he hears it, he moves his lips to press against the corner of your mouth, much as he did the first time he kissed you in the barn. He trails his lips down your jaw, peppering kisses on every inch of skin he passes.

Thoroughly excited by his kisses and touches, your mind is all too eager to provide any number of tempting images. When he dips his head to one side, lips touching the place where your jaw meets your neck, all you can imagine is the careful way he would undress you, lay you down, and make love to you, slowly and gently but passionately.

He drags his lips down your neck, his curious tongue coaxing another soft sound from you. Again, your mind flashes to all the ways he might use his tongue on you, all the places he could seek out and tease until you are so dizzy with pleasure that all you can say is his name, over and over.

Another press of his tongue, and it takes all your strength not to beg him to take you right here. You can imagine it so easily, the way he would grip your waist, your hips, the way you would wrap yourself around him and touch every inch of his bare skin if he would only give you the chance.

What would you not give to see him shudder in pleasure, to throw his head back and hold you tight as you cling to him and make him feel the same thing he ignites in you?

It’s at that moment that he whispers your name, tenderly, reverently, like a prayer, against the soft column of your throat. Your whole body shudders in response, your hands tightening where they have landed on his broad shoulders, and he finally fulfills what you have been aching for.

One strong arm wraps around your waist, the other around your upper back, and in the space of a breath the man has pulled you against him, leaning you to the side so that you are cradled in his arms across his lap.

You are suddenly very aware of how thin your shift is, of the way he must be able to feel every curve of your body pressed against him. His fingers are gentle where they wrap around your waist, and you feel with heightened awareness all the strength of his own body, all his powerful muscles and vigorous energy.

All you can do is sigh in pleasure as he keeps his head buried in your neck, still kissing your sensitive skin as though he cannot get enough of you.

You can barely take a breath, so overcome with the multitude of sensations he ignites in you. His hand flexes against your waist, and you respond in kind with your fingers digging into his back.

You have the distinct impression that the man is having to physically restrain himself from going further, that all he wants to do right now is yank open your shift and kiss his way down your bare body. As irresistible as that thought is, you let him take the lead, and he chooses to simply kiss you rather than ravish you.

He is a noble man, a man of honor, and though your body is aching for him to truly make you his, you take pleasure in his self-control, his respect for you.

His fervent kisses to your neck finally slow, and he breathes against your skin as though trying to memorize you. When he nuzzles his face against your neck, all you can do is close your eyes in absolute ecstasy. One of your hands finds its way into his hair, and it’s his turn to shiver with pleasure, pulling you even closer against his body and resting his lips against the curve of your neck.

He goes still in your arms when you stroke his hair, slowly and tenderly with your fingertips. Again, you are struck by his reactions to your gentle touches, by the way he melts into your arms as though overpowered.

Several long moments are spent in that position, with you cradled against his chest, his face against your neck. You would be content to stay like this all night, just listening to him breathe, feeling his heart beating against your side.

But the moment passes, as all moments do. Another crack of thunder shakes the house, and you can’t help but jump a little in his arms.

As if pulled out of his daze, the man smiles softly against your neck, strokes your back soothingly in a way that only serves to make you arch your body against his. A moment later, he lifts his head from the crook of your shoulder, letting his face brush against yours as you disentangle yourselves.

Though you have just spent the last few moments passionately embracing and kissing, and though both of you are still flushed and breathless with exhilaration, the following moment is not awkward. You do not look at each other as you part, but you can sense your own relief and contentment in him.

You do not know what will come of this. You do not know if he will stay much longer. But in a moment like this, with your lips still swollen from his kiss and your skin still burning from his touch, you feel as though no heartbreak can be as vast as this perfect fulfillment you feel with him.

You stand slowly, glad that you are not as unsteady as you feel, and you lift the kettle off the fire just to have something to do. You can feel the man’s eyes on you, though he does not speak.

“It is a fierce storm tonight,” you comment, almost without realizing that you are speaking. The silence between you was comfortable, but you long to say something, to know that he is still at ease with you.

He takes his time in responding, especially since you have your back to him. “Yes,” he says simply, his voice deep and husky.

Stars, how you want to hear that voice in your ear, in your bed, murmuring to you while you both reach the height of your shared pleasure.

You swallow hard to banish your intrusive thoughts. You move to set the kettle down in your cabinet and scramble to think of something else to say. Rain continues to pound against your roof, sending a slight chill through the air despite the warmth of the fire.

“Will you be warm enough tonight?” you ask over your shoulder, still conscious of his eyes burning into your back.

Again, he takes his time answering. “Yes,” he finally replies. “Will you?”

You let the question hang, still standing with your back to him. You hope he can understand your wordless answer, especially after sharing such an intimate moment.

The only warmth I crave now is the heat of your body against mine.

Still trying to avoid meeting his eyes, you half-turn to pick up your two empty cups from the table. Doing so makes you lean against the side of the little square table, and you notice with great surprise that it does not tilt dangerously to the side as it has for the last several months.

The table legs are perfectly even now, and you suddenly raise your eyes to look at the man squarely. He is gazing at you with the oddest combination of expressions — desire, contentment, admiration, sorrow, longing, affection, and several others you cannot name.

“You fixed my table,” you observe, genuinely struck by the kindness of his simple gesture. You don’t know when he did it, but sometime in the last few days he must have noticed the unsteadiness and taken the time to fix it somehow.

He holds your gaze for a long moment, and a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “It needed fixing,” he replies simply.

Your heart leaps into your throat, though you can’t say quite why. Despite the fact that just a moment ago you were wrapped up in his arms, sighing while he covered your neck with kisses, you are much more affected by his modest demonstration of kindness — fixing something of yours that was broken.

“Thank you,” you tell him softly, returning his small smile with all the warmth blossoming in your heart.

You finish your task, setting the two cups in the cabinet to be washed tomorrow. The storm outside has quieted somewhat, but you can still hear the constant pounding of raindrops on the roof and walls.

Quiet thunder rolls in the distance as you turn to look at the man again. He is still seated, leaning forward with his knees on his elbows, gazing at you curiously.

This is what you want: this man in your home, always, sharing your fire, sharing your space, looking at you as if you hold his heart in your hands.

The words spill from your lips before you can consider them. “My father always told me that a storm can make a person change their mind about anything.” You hear the significance in your own words, and you press on anyway. “He said it’s in their nature to bring about transformation.”

The man’s darkened eyes do not leave yours for a moment, and you hold his gaze steadily, wanting him to hear your unspoken plea.

Stay with me. Let me love you as I do in my dreams.

His face does not betray any decision, but his gaze is tender, filled with a weary longing. His eyes explore each feature of your face as gently as his fingers did a few moments ago.

“Perhaps I will listen to it for awhile, then,” he murmurs, and your heart sighs.

All is not lost. You must simply wait.

As you start towards the doorway that leads to your bedroom, you pause beside his chair. The man is looking up at you with eyes that melt you to your very soul. Overcome with your affection for him, you lift one hand and stroke the side of his face, smiling down at him fondly.

“Goodnight, general,” you whisper, and your heart whispers, Beloved.

Before you can drop your hand, the man wraps his fingers around it and brings it to his lips. An unhurried kiss to the back of your hand, one that sends another shiver down your spine, and he releases you. His eyes burn into yours, intense, ardent, yearning.

“Goodnight,” he whispers, and your heart hears his whisper, Beloved, long after you have slipped into the next room.

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More of my fanfiction if you're so inclined :)

#this may or may not be the best standalone fic i've ever written #i forgot about it but it seemed appropriate for halloween hehe #in case anyone is wondering this is what is happening in my brain constantly #this is just the words version of it #maximus is ALWAYS on my mind #i am eternally longing for sweet moments like this #i swoon i yearn i melt i die #the thought of sharing a moment like this with him???#i go into cardiac arrest #i wrote this and it still makes me melt every time i reread it #because it's from the heart!!#this was written with all the love i bear for him!!!#welcome to this tiny glimpse into my heart and soul friends #enjoy the drama #and the love #and the spicy hints here and there hehehehe #oh maximus how i love you #how i would love you if given the chance #gladiator #maximus #maximus decimus meridius #gladiator 2000 #russell crowe #fanfiction #gladiator fanfiction #maximus x reader #maximus decimus meridius x reader #my fanfiction

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affableramen · 7 months ago

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suitable for: dottore, pantalone, ayato || geto suguru, sukuna, nanami kento || dr. ratio, sugilite, sunday, luocha

slight tsundere character x tsundere reader dynamics + any of your condescending/dominant aura favs

“I dislike it when people who have more power than others use it so bluntly to put them low. You’re disgusting.”

“Oh, you think so? Then why don’t you fight me now?” He throws your weapon to the ground near to your feet. “Don’t be a coward and fight me.”

Just when you grab the weapon he shoves you against the wall and steps back, as if giving you some space to think your strategy and prepare to strike (or defend).

“You are even more pathetic than me!” You raise your weapon, but your powers meet. The elemental energies of the both of you… too strong, too emotional… no, they’re rather filled with negative emotions. Your spirits meet and create a blast. The both of you fall back, yet he gets up sooner, faster that you and presses you against the wall, gripping your hands together.

“Someone’s walking on a thin ice. Don’t you know who you’re speaking to? You’re but a little annoying weakling, causing trouble here and there for me.” He presses his forefinger against your cheek. “A brat who gets on my nerves so frequently I lose my mind.”

You block a series or his merciless, furious attacks.

“Damn you! Do you even realise your place, you fool? I’m a gooddamn (—)! You should be bowing at my… mmm—” his lips close around yours, “…feet.”

The kiss is rough, dominating, but sweet at the same time. It is hot, but loving. The coldness is absent, leaving space for emotion, sacred tenderness and burning desire all at once to fit in one room. His grip closes ‘round your waist getly, you feel the heat spread through your body. You grip his hair, scratch his neck. You protest.

“Mmm!”

No… It’s not a protest. Before kissing him back you bite his lip. Painfully, but in a way that bluntly shows your earnestness. His voice breaks, he moans into the kiss, sensitive to your burning touch. Take his hair in your grip once again - and he’ll shatter into a million pieces.

“Fuck you”, you say but keep kissing him.

He moans and grunts against your lips, his tongue seeking entrance rudely, decisively, as if it’s the only time he can do that with you ever. He is so desperate, he fears, he is trembling.

“Look at yourself… swearing at a (harbinger/sorcerer/king of the curses/etc)”, still pinning you against the wall he almost tastes your flesh as his tongue smoothly runs down your chin, later - your neck. “Freaking gonna eat you.”

You grip his hair just firmer once he attacks your neck.

“You get me so worked up, and you barely even did anything, you little minx.”

“Do not kiss there - it’s embarrassing!” You shout at him but you do not mean it, no, not at all.

“Where should I kiss you then, hm? Tell me.”

His rings and gloves are cold to the touch, the metal grazing over your neck brings shivers down your spine. You’re speechless.

“Oh, baby….”

And just when his tongue stops licking your neck after you asked him, his hands slide to your hips.

“Mmm… Delectable”, he squeezes your butt, your eyes widen and you shake with irritation.

An instant pull on his hair signals for him to not go past the line. He unwillingly returns his hands to your waist and up, to your back.

“Sorry, I touched where I wasn't supposed to.”

“You idiot…”

He laughs bitterly and tastes the aftermath of your kiss on his lips. He wishes you would leave marks on his neck, but not this time, probably. You were too shy, too bashful, while he decided to take it all.

“Ahem…” he clears his throat, the affection almost completely vanishes into a professional look. A look of someone who is not entirely your friend. “Our fight isn't over. This isn't the end. The next time we meet, I will most certainly crush you.”

“Looking forward to it.”

“Be ready, little minx.”

When he leaves in the gloomy shadow of the dusk, you finally allow yourself to touch your own lips - where he was touching. How utterly pleasant and captivating. To consume you in one go, but leave a lingering feeling of gentleness and affection marked on your body and mind. Perhaps, the next time you fight, you won't let him go.

divider: @anitalenia

taglist: @silverstardream , @shirenui , @lavandulawrites , @orphic-musings , @sagyunaro , @mienroe , @minichampagne , @ichikai3 , @venicecherryblossom

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alittlebitofloveliness · 4 months ago

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Thick & Thin- 3 times Ponyboy knew something was wrong with Johnny +1 time Johnny knew something was wrong with Ponyboy

This fic is for the wonderful @trevination as a thank you for running the Valentines Gift Exchange. Thank you for all the work you did-it did not go unnoticed nor unapreciated. I apologize for any mistakes, I'll come back and edit before I post it on ao3

Also, I think its pretty obvious but just in case, in this fic

Darrel= Mr.Curtis, and Darry or Junior = Darry

Enjoy!

***********

***** ONE *********

She’s washing up the dinner dishes, staring out the front window and wondering how she'll be able to convince Sheila Lefaye to hire her to do her summer bookkeeping this year after the boys tore up her lawn, when she feels a tug on her blouse.

“Mom.”

Ponyboy is there, the red-brown hair he inherited from her dad sticking up every which way, his little feet bare and covered in dirt. He’s got grass stains on his knees, and sunshine on his neck, just like he was always meant to. Soda is all autumn leaves, and Darry was made for winter, but Pony’s only ever been a summer child.

She hums indulgently, scrubbing the casserole dish, frowning when she notices the new chip in the corner. She told Darrel three times to be careful taking it out of the oven, and clearly he hadn’t listened. At least now she knew why he’d been in such a rush to go out to walk the dog, though if he thought he was getting away with it that easy he had another think coming.

“Mom.”

Ponyboy tugs again, a little more insistently, looking up at her with wide, solemn green eyes. He’s an earnest little thing, always has been, the quietest of her brood, sometimes even quieter than Johnny.

“Just a second sweetheart.”

She crosses the kitchen in two quick steps, and wrenches open the sliding glass door.

“Darry Curtis Jr., if I see you flick that lighter at your brother one more time I’m takin’ it and you ain’t gettin’ it back!”

Her eldest grins, sheepish but not all apologetic, and pockets the offending item. Curse Darrel for giving him all his damn castoffs.

“Sorry mom!”

She gives him one last stern look and closes the door.

“Sorry honey,” she ruffles Ponyboy’s already mussed hair before she sticks her hands back in the dishwater, “what is it you wanted to tell me?”

She’s expecting him to ask for a cookie, or tell her for the third time tonight that he doesn’t want the tooth fairy to take Sodapop away. She’s not sure which of the boys had convinced him the tooth fairy was some sort of ruthless kidnapper, but she was going to have words with whoever it was once she figured it out. She’d yet to convince Ponyboy of Soda’s continued safety or the tooth fairy’s innocence, and the kid had been nearly apoplectic at bedtime for the past week. Soda hadn’t even lost the friggin’ wiggly tooth yet for god's sake!

But Pony doesn’t start crying about the tooth fairy. Instead, he glances over his shoulder, beckoning her closer.

She bends down, scooping him into her arms even though he’s almost six and is really getting too big for it. He leans in close and whispers.

“Somethin’s wrong with Johnny.”

“Oh,” Frowning, she props him on her hip and peers out the window at where the boys are all huddled in the back corner of the yard, no doubt getting into trouble and determined to hide it. Johnny is there, forever Soda and Steve’s shy, dark haired shadow, but he looks no worse for wear than he had at dinner, his mother’s handprint healing on his cheek, but otherwise unscathed. “Is he hurt?”

“No.”

“What’s wrong with him then?”

“I don’t know,” Pony’s voice is still soft.

“He looks okay to me.” She assures him, cradling him close and pressing a kiss to his temple, “but if he needs anything he knows he can always come to us.”

Pony isn’t soothed.

“Somethin’s wrong.” He insists, lip wobbling, “Somethin’s wrong with him.”

“Okay, it’s okay,” she tugs his head down to rest on her shoulder. He’s overtired, having spent a long day chasing the bigger boys around, and he’s always had an overactive imagination. She can hardly say she’s surprised at the meltdown. In fact, it’s long overdue, “what makes you say that?”

“He’s- he’s not playin’ right.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Pony sniffles, “he’s- somethin’s wrong.”

“Johnny’s fine, sweetheart. Look.” She points out the window, where the boys have moved on to tossing Darry’s football around, “He’s out there with your brothers and your other friends right now. Why don’t you go see for yourself?”

She puts him down, and he stares up at her balefully for a moment but totters down the step obediently, running over to the rest of the boys. She watches as Johnny breaks from the group to tug Pony next to him, always the first to include him, even though Darry and Soda are the first to protect him. She watches them for a moment, just to see, trying to parse out what might have set him off, but Johnny really does look fine, his usual quietly kind self.

She watches them play for a minute and goes back to the dishes, thinking that’s the end of it.

She couldn’t be more wrong.

When bedtime rolls around that night after Steve, Keith, and Johnny have all been sent home, Ponyboy turns into a terror of epic proportions. He wails. He screams. He slaps Darry when he tries to convince him to settle down for a bedtime story, and spends the whole time in time out crying that the tooth fairy is going to get Johnny and they have to go and save him. He’s absolutely inconsolable, and when eleven o’clock rolls around, Darrel offers to take him for a walk in the hopes the night air will calm him down, or at the very least that Darry and Soda can get some sleep.

It’s blissfully quiet once they leave. She sinks into the armchair with a book, but she’s not even halfway through her chapter when her husband returns with a quiet Ponyboy in tow, who's holding Johnny Cade’s hand tightly, and swaying on his feet.

She only has to share a look with her husband before she’s ushering both boys down the hall, handing Johnny a pair of Soda’s pajamas and dressing Pony herself, the six year old almost asleep on his feet after all his crying. He’s out completely by the time she’s tucked them both into Pony’s bed with kisses on their foreheads, closing the door quietly behind her.

“What happened?’ She asks, when she gets back to the living room, sinking into Darrel’s side on the couch. His arm comes around her automatically, and she leans into him, inhaling the scent of shaving cream and a mid afternoon slowdance.

“I found him sleeping in the lot,” Darrel’s voice carries the same anger that she feels everytime Andrew and Henrietta Cade’s son shows the consequences of their sorry excuse of parenting, “said they told him not to come back ‘till tomorrow.”

“This the first time?”

“He says so. I ain’t sure I believe him.”

“He ain’t going back tomorrow.” She vows, “I ain’t lettin’ him go back to get beat on and kicked out again.”

“Josie,” he sighs, weary and hopeless, two things he was never meant to be, “we can’t hold him here. We ain’t got no claim to him.”

“He’s more our son than theirs at this point!”

“I know,” Darrel’s voice is grave, and he’s as serious as he ever gets, “but the law won’t see it that way, and I don’t think Johnny will either.”

She can feel the tears welling, and he must see because he wraps his other arm around her too, holding her tightly. He’s never been able to stand her tears, and because of it she’s never been happier than in her life with him, but this is one pain he can’t heal, one she doesn’t think will ever stop hurting, the pain of a mother who can’t protect her child.

“He deserves so much better.”

“I know.” Darrel says, “I know.”

He holds her while she cries into his shirt. She allows herself three sobs before she pulls herself together, gently disentangling herself from his arms, and wiping at her eyes.

“C’mon, let’s go to bed. We can talk more about it in the morning.”

She pulls him to his feet, and he stretches, letting out a tired grunt as he follows her to their bedroom.

“At least Pony’s stopped crying.”

“He knew,” she murmurs, as she crawls under the covers and he hits the lamp, “He knew somethin’ was wrong with Johnny. I don’t know how, but he knew.”

Darrel doesn’t say anything. It’s not until he starts snoring lightly that she realizes it’s because he’s already asleep.

************ TWO ********************

It’s four years before it happens again, and by then she’s nearly forgotten about Ponyboy’s precocious six year old escapades, far too busy with keeping a rein on a growing number of preteen boys.

“Sodapop Curtis you get your ass in here right this instant!”

She knows he knows he’s in trouble, but he still can’t quite wipe the self satisfied smirk off his face as he dutifully swaggers inside, looking for all the world like the cat that caught the canary. Twelve years old now, with all of Darrel’s spirit and his own special flair for the dramatic, he’s one child she can never keep a handle on. Between him and Steve looking for trouble like a hornet for jam, Darry’s evasive nature, and Dally Winston’s everything, she swears she’ll go grey by fourty.

“Heya, mom,” Soda pulls a golden wrapped sweet from his pocket and presents it to her with a flourish, “you need help with something?”

In his carefully calculated maneuvering he’s managed to turn her sideways, half away from the door, and he’s all sweets and smiles, the picture of perfect innocence, capturing her attention like a fly in resin. That’s all well and good, but she married his father and raised him from the day he was born, so she’s wise to all his tricks. She gives him an unimpressed glare and looks where he clearly doesn’t want her to, at where his co-conspirators are attempting to sneak past the house.

“Steven Randle and Dallas Winston if you ain’t on this porch in five seconds you won’t like what happens next time you come to it!”

Behind her, Sodapop sighs.

Dally and Steve share a look before she starts counting back from five. A second later Steve is on her porch, looking longingly at where Dallas is tearing around the corner.

“He ain’t out of trouble,” she informs him, steering him into the house where he shuffles awkwardly to Soda’s side, “so don’t go thinkin’ he’s got the upper hand here.”

She goes quiet, arms folded over her chest. With these two, silence is the best way to make them squirm. Steve’s got a poker face to rival the big wigs, and Soda’s smile hasn’t dropped, dimples on full display, but the two of them smell like mischief and they’re scuffing guilt into her floor with every fidget of their feet.

“I got a real interestin’ call from your teacher today,” she drawls, when Soda starts glancing towards the door and Steve the open window, “and whaddya know, she said you weren’t in class when you was supposed to be. ‘Course, I told her she must be mistaken because my boys know better than to be skippin’ school when they know how I feel about that. Ain’t that right?”

“Sorry mom,” Soda schools his face into an appropriately contrite look for all of three seconds before his grin is back, “but listen’, me’n Stevie here had to skip class, else the substitute teacher woulda had a horrible day. It was civic duty see-”

“Quit tryin’ your silver tongued tricks on me, Sodapop Curtis. Your daddy’s charms don’t work on me and yours don’t neither.”

“Oh really?” A familiar set of arms snake around her waist. Soda’s grin widens, and Steve’s eyes crinkle at the corners, and she just knows Darrel must've tossed them a wink at him over her shoulder, “You married me didn’t you?I think that means my charms must work a little.”

“No,” She says, fighting a grin, “don’t mean nothin’.’

He spins her around, dropping a kiss on her lips, and she loses herself in him for a second, the way she always does, because he’d more than charmed her. From the second she met him he’d bewitched her, wholly and completely.

“This don’t mean you’re outta trouble!” She calls as Soda and Steve make their escape, hightailing it out the door, no doubt to chase down Dallas and whatever trouble he’d found while they were gone.

She sighs, relaxing back into Darrel’s embrace, letting her head loll against his shoulder.

“They been real bad today?”

“Skippin’ school again.”

He runs a hand over his face.

“I’ll talk to ‘em. If I can get Steve back on board the school train, Soda’ll follow suit.”

“I’ll talk to Dallas,” she offers, “Lord knows I’ll never get him on the straight and narrow, but I reckon I can get him as close as it’s possible for him to be.”

“Sounds like a plan,” he drops a kiss on her hair and releases her, “speakin’ of Dallas, where’d he and the rest of the hellions get to? Two outta seven is less than I’m usually greeted with.”

“Dally’s out causin’ trouble, I haven’t seen Keith since this mornin’, and Johnny’s out back with Pony, harassin’ the dog.”

“Junior?”

“He called and said he’s got some sort of pool party to go to with his football friends.”

“Pool party, huh?” Darrel grabs a bite of the leftover chicken she’s slicing, dodging as she swats at him, “Sounds fancy.”

“Don’t you dare say a word when he gets in.”

“Josie-”

“I mean it. He’s havin’ fun.”

“I’m worried about him,” Darrel confesses, and she can see it where he hides it behind the laugh lines at the corner of his eyes, “all those rich boys…they ain’t never gonna respect him. Not really.”

“He’s special our Darry,” she reminds him, “everyone knows it. Besides, that Paul boy’s been good to him, got the rest of the team on his side. I figure he’ll be alright, and we’ll be here if he isn’t.”

Darrel doesn’t look convinced.

“I just don’t want him to get hurt.”

“Oh my love,” she cups his cheek in one palm and stands on tiptoe to peck his mouth, “hurtin’ is part of life. But he’s gotta be able to risk his own hurts.”

Darrel sighs, but it’s fond now rather than worried.

“How did I wind up with someone so gorgeous and wise?”

“You’re lucky I like blue collar boys with smart mouths. Now, go shower ‘fore dinner is ready.”

He kisses her once more, firmly, and does as he’s bid, because they both know who runs this house and it sure as hell ain’t him.

She glances out the back door as she finishes up the salad, peeking at her youngest and his friend. Pony is waving a stick, trying to convince poor Stella to play fetch, but the old gal is going on thirteen, and seems far more interested in napping. Johnny’s laughing at him, tugging his cigarette away every time Pony makes a snatch at it. Good.

By the time Darrel’s reappeared with wet hair, she’s set the table and hollered out the door loud enough for the whole neighbourhood to know it’s dinnertime at the Curtis’ and pretty soon the house is bursting at the seams with sweaty preteen boys, all flushed faces and sunburned noses and golden youth.

Soda and Steve, knowing they’re still in shit, keep their heads down and eat quickly, but she collars them before they can slink away and parks them in front of the sink, Soda washing and Steve drying under Darrel’s careful surveillance. Johnny snickers at their predicament and takes his leave, while Pony disappears to his bedroom, and Dallas plunks himself down on the couch like he owns the place.

Well. That’s just not going to fly, now is it?

“Dallas Winston I know you ain’t sittin’ on my couch pretending like you didn’t run when I called you earlier.”

“You’re not my mom.” He says, as he so often does, fourteen and hardened, soft under the slightest hint of her glare and softer under her smile, even if he’d never admit it.

“Sure ain’t,” she agrees, “but you’re still gonna come out and help me with my gardening and you’re not gonna complain about it either.”

He heaves a theatrical sigh- to save face from who she’s not sure considering it’s just the two of them- and follows her outside to start digging weeds out of her flowerbeds.

She kneels down beside him and starts spreading mulch over the areas he’s finished. A few minutes pass relative silence, apart from Dally grumbling under his breath, and she’s just about to bring up school and why he’s skipping when Ponyboy sticks his head out the door.

“Mom? Can you come here a minute?”

“Sure.” She rises to her feet and dust her hands on her jeans, leaving Dally fighting with wild grass that’s taken root in her carrots.

“What’s wrong baby?” She pulls him to sit with her on the steps, and he rests his head against her shoulder, the silly, over greased hair that Soda taught him to style sticking to her arm thanks to the oppressive humidity.

Ponyboy is quiet for a second, a small crease forming on his forehead that only comes out when he’s troubled.

“I think there’s somethin’ wrong with Johnny.”

She’s reminded suddenly, of a night four years ago, when he wouldn’t stop screaming until they’d found Johnny alone in the lot, how he’d just seemed to know something was wrong.

For a second, not even the sticky humidity of mid June is enough to stop the chill that goes down her spine. There’s something to be said about old magics, the kind woven in friendships and twin souls. Mama always told her to listen when she found them, and she’s certainly listening to Ponyboy now.

Across the lawn, Dally has stiffened up, shoulders tensing even as he continues weeding like nothing happened. He’s got a soft spot for Johnny, she knows, just like she knows that whatever Pony has to say has the potential to ruin a lot of peoples days if they dared mess with Johnny Cade. She also knows that if Johnny’s hurt she won’t stop Dallas from whatever vengeance he decides is fair.

“Why’s that? Did he say somethin’?”

“He wouldn’t,” Pony dismisses with a wave of his hand, and, well, that’s probably true, “but I can tell.”

“Do you have any idea what might be wrong?”

“I think…” Pony hesitates, “well, don’t tell him I said anything, but he won second place at the science fair last week.”

“Did he?” She exclaims, proud and wondering how on earth she could have missed something like that, then remembers trying to convince Soda to hand in something, anything for that damn project had been like pulling teeth, and by the time the competition had come around she’d been all too glad to wash her hands of the whole thing.

“Yep,” Pony grins, proud, “it was really somethin’ too, most everyone said so, even Mr. Stevenson and he favours the soc kids somethin’ awful. Johnny’s supposed to move on to county level but they won’t let him ‘less he has someone to drive, and you knows his parents won’t. I think he’s kinda disappointed ‘bout it.”

“He wants to go?”

“Yeah,” Pony shrugs, “I think. He worked real hard on it.”

“What day is it?”

“What day is what?”

“The county science fair.”

“Oh. Next Wednesday.”

She was hoping to pick up a few hours doing cleaning at the golf course on Wednesday, but it looks like that will have to wait. Darrel did overtime on Saturday, so they should be okay for groceries as long as she finishes Sheila Lefaye’s bookkeeping by the end of the week and the snotty nosed bitch didn’t try and stiff her on their agreement.

“Okay,” she climbs to her feet, “do me a favour honey and go find Johnny for me. Dallas will go with you.”

“No I-”

“Dallas will go with you.” She repeats, cutting a glare at the blonde as he opens his mouth to protest, “unless he wants to do my weeding for the rest of the week. And then maybe when y’all get back I’ll have some chocolate cake ready.”

“Cake?” Pony’s eyes light up. Even Dallas looks suddenly a lot more inclined to do as he’s told.

“Only if you go find Johnny now and are quick about it.”

Pony doesn’t need to be told twice, dashing off immediately, swift as quicksilver. Dallas swears colourfully and chases after him, struggling to keep up.

She allows herself a self satisfied grin, and goes inside.

Steve’s just placing the last dish in the cupboard when she takes down her mixing bowl.

“Aw mom,” Soda immediately protests, “we just finished tidyin’ up!”

“Well,” she sighs, hiding a grin, “I suppose if you really don’t want cake I can keep from makin’ a mess again-”

“Cake?”

“I was gonna make some but since you’ve just finished tidyin’-”

“No, no, no, no, no,” Soda’s eyes have gone round as saucers, “I want cake, ignore me, I was bein’ stupid.”

“Go do your homework and I’ll consider sharin’ some with you then.” She measures out a cup of flour and pulls the cacao powder from the cupboard, “You too Steve.”

Sated by the promise of sugary goodness the two pull their books out without any of their usual protests. Maybe she should consider cake bribes more often.

“Cake, huh?” Darrel peeks over her shoulder a few minutes later, placing the dog’s leash back on its hook, “what’s the occasion?”

“Johnny won second place in the science fair last week.”

“Well hey, that’s great! How come he never said anything?”

“You know our Johnny,” she says, placing the pan in the oven, “quiet to a fault.”

His eyes go all sad for a minute. She gets it.

“I’m takin’ him to the county level on Wednesday.” She continues, before they can get bogged down in the tragedy of the boy who refuses to be saved.

His eyebrows pinch.

“There’s a thing of pork chops in the freezer, and I can stretch what we’ve got in the pantry,” she murmurs before he can say anything, glancing at the dining room to make sure Soda and Steve aren’t eavesdropping, “we’ve been pinched worse before and made it work. This is important.”

“Josie…”

“You know I’m right.”

“I know,” he sighs, wrapping his arms around her “I know. I just…”

He’s warm against her, this kind, loving man, who’d probably end up ditching his own work to bring Johnny to the fair if he knew how much it meant to him. She thinks about Sheila Lafaye and her castle on the west side, the husband she speaks of with barely disguised disdain, and knows she’d make penny meals for the rest of her life before she’d trade anything she has for that emptiness that pretends it’s love.

“Thick and thin,” she reminds him, the words a line from their wedding vows all those years ago, and she can feel him start to smile against her neck, “This week will just be a little thin.”

“Thick and thin.” He pulls away just enough to press a kiss to the tip of her nose, that carefree smile she fell in love with back on his face, and she knows he’s on board now, totally and completely, because their life together is an adventure and they make it through every time, through thick and thin.

The door bursts open then and Pony tumbles through, followed closely by Johnny, Dally, and Two-bit who seems to have a sixth sense for whenever she’s baking anything.

“Perfect timing boys,” she tells them, Darrel’s hands sliding off her waist as she turns to pull the cake out of the oven, “it’s just about done. Soda, would you set the table please.”

He jumps to obey as Steve packs away their schoolwork and the rest tumble into their seats, panting. They must have been racing to get to the porch first.

“Since I’m settin’ the table,” Soda starts and oh boy, she can tell just from his tone he’s about to try and sell her on something, “an’ cleaned up all nice after dinner, an’ am just a total and complete and total upstandin’ citizen, can I have Darry’s share of the cake since he isn’t here?”

“No,” she snorts, as Steve starts to protest that ‘he cleaned the kitchen too, asshole’, “Darry is havin’ Darry’s share of the cake.”

“But he ain’t here.”

“That’s what plastic wrap is for.”

“But-”

“Keep it up and you won’t like who gets your share.”

Dally, Johnny, and Two-bit all snort, and Soda drops into his seat mutinously.

“How come we’re havin’ cake anyway?” Steve wonders, as she pours cream into a bowl and starts whipping it, “It’s no one's birthday.”

“It’s because of me,” Two-bit says confidently, thirteen and pure mischief, puffing up to deliver some sort of speech, “‘cause I’m a hero. See, I was down at the dime store earlier today, and whaddya know but there’s this lovely box of playin’ cards, brand spanking new and abandoned just all alone on the shelf, all lonely lookin’. So I said to myself, ‘Two-bit, you’re a good guy, you wouldn’t leave those cards looking so sad and lonely all by themselves’, so I braced myself for a rescue mission see, because the store lady was just glarin’ at me, treatin’ me like a hoodlum, keeping those poor cards hostage, but she was no match for me and my cleverness. She turned her back to go after some ne’er do well trying to steal from her fine establishment- if you can imagine such a thing! And so, I took my chance, and liberated the cards in the way a knight of old would save a fair maiden from a castle, and was pursued by a most unscrupulous minion of the establishment for several blocks, who tried- and failed- to retake their prisoner.”

The boys and ever Darrel are all in stitches when he finishes his tale, pulling the aforementioned cards out of his pocket with a flourish and a grin like wildfire. She hides a smile of her own as she places the bowl of whipped cream down beside the cake on the table.

“We’re not celebratin’ your thieving Keith Mathews. This is Johnny’s cake.”

“Johnny’s?”

“Mine?”

“For winnin’ at the science fair last week. Congratulations honey.”

She passes him the first piece and he flushes all the way up to his hair, sending Ponyboy a glare that her youngest pointedly ignores.

“Thanks Mrs.C.”

“If I’d known him winnin’ was worth cake I'd've told you a week ago.” Soda says, stuffing half his own piece in his mouth in one go, and Steve nods in agreement, and then the table goes quiet, all of them too busy eating to talk.

Eventually they all disperse again, Two-bit and Dallas off to find a poker game to play, while Soda and Steve go out back for a smoke, and Johnny follows Ponyboy to the livingroom to have a hushed argument under the guise of watching TV.

“What time is the county science fair next week?” She asks when Johnny comes to say his goodbyes.

He goes six shades of red again, and sends a glance towards the living room that’s half gratitude and half disgruntlement before caving.

“Ten.”

“Where is it?”

“Town hall I think.”

“Perfect,” she smiles, “we’ll leave her at 9:30 then.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to.” She cuts him off firmly, “you worked hard, baby. You deserve to show that work off.”

He thanks her again, and says goodnight, a lightness in his step when he leaves that’s only obvious now because she hadn’t realized earlier that it wasn’t there to begin with. When she goes to collect the plates from the table, Ponyboy is staring at the closed door looking far too pleased with his meddling.

********* THREE ************

The next time it happens she knows better than to doubt him.

It’s a sunny morning in mid August, warm and sticky. Darrel has a rare Saturday off and she’s flipping pancakes at the stove, filled with wild strawberries she’d picked in the yard and froze during the spring, because Darrel likes the tartness of them better than store bought ones and there’s pretty much nothing in the world she wouldn’t do for him.

Ella Fitzgerald’s voice drifts from the radio, warm and syrupy even over the static, and Darrel turns it up as he enters the kitchen, pulling her into a dance position while she laughs and pushes at his chest.

“I’m makin’ food!”

“One dance,” he pleads.

“You want burned pancakes?”

“After then,” he barters, “c’mon, it ain’t often I get you all to myself.”

“The boys out?”

“Well. Two outta three. Darry’s still sleepin’.”

“It’s past twelve.”

“Teenagers, huh?” Darrel grins, for a second looking like a teenager himself, forever the boy she fell in love with, and she leans into him just a bit.

“Do you think maybe the reason he’s so tired is because he snuck out again last night?”

“Hm,” Darrel cocks his head, a tick all the boys have inherited from him, “probably. But maybe we should let him get away with it just this once.”

“‘Just this once’ he says for the fifth time.”

“There’s worse teenage rebellions. For example,” he grins wickedly, “he could be sellin’ grass under the bleachers.”

“I did that one time!”

“One whole summer more like.”

“Quit slanderin’ my good name.”

“Ain’t slander if it’s true.”

“S’not my fault popa had good flower.”

“It’s your fault you decided to sell it.”

“Shut up,” she says, but she’s laughing. She turns back to the stove, flipping a pancake onto the stack that reveals itself to be a bit more than golden brown, “see, look what you made me do now!”

“They look fine to me,” he snatches it off the pile and stuffs it into his mouth, before spitting it out just as quickly, “ack!”

“Careful, it’s hot.”

“I can see that, thanks,” he snipes acerbically, and she can’t stifle her snicker.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” he snarks, “some wife you are.”

“Hey, I’m the one makin’ you pancakes, ingrate.”

“Hmm, true.” He kisses her forehead on his way to set the table. With Darry asleep and Soda and Pony out- probably gone to the rodeo grounds if she had to guess- it’s just the two of them sat across from one another, coffee at her spot and tea at his, almost burnt pancakes and maple syrup between them.

It’s a little bit perfect. Too perfect. She should have known the peace wouldn’t last- it never did in the Curtis house.

She’s just lifting the second last bite of pancake to her mouth when the door bursts open, practically thrown off its hinges as it slams into the wall.

The scolding dies on her lips the second she sees Ponyboy’s chalk white face and wide, frightened eyes.

“Somethin’s wrong with Johnny,” he gasps, “he- he’s real sick or hurt or somethin’. I think- he needs help.”

She shares a look with Darrel for a half a second, understanding passing between them before she’s on her feet, following Pony out the door, heart in her throat. She knows without having to ask that Darrel’s staying behind to grab the first aid kit and boil water and whatever else he needs for his little nursing set up.

She’s never been good at the whole playing doctor thing. Thank god Darrel is.

Ponyboy is fast, faster than her by far nevermind that she used to win medals for cross country back in school and he’s only just turned thirteen, but he slows his pace just enough she can keep up.

He leads her down the street past the empty lot the boys play football at sometimes to the small copse of trees at the back, where Soda, Two-bit, and Johnny are… smoking and looking absolutely fine.

“Mom,” Pony stops her before she can ream him out for crying wolf, “please, just check his forehead before you say anything. He’s been weird all morning.”

Never let it be said that she’s a fool. Her mama told her to watch for little magics, and Pony has proven before he’s got a sixth sense for Johnny’s pain, and she won’t do him the disservice of doubting him again now.

Besides, Johnny's reaction when he sees her isn’t exactly the look of innocent and unbothered.

“Ponyboy!”Johnny looks about ready to kill him, jaw clenched and face flushed. He’s taller than Pony now by almost three inches, considering Pony hasn’t hit his growth spurt yet, and for a second he looks downright mean, “I told you to leave off! Why d’you have to go and be such a fucking tattle tale all the time?”

Pony flinches. Soda’s eyes nearly bug out of his head, and he stares at Johnny like he’s grown a second head, while Two’s eyebrows make a valiant effort to get lost in his hair. Josie knows why. It’s not uncommon exactly for Pony and Johnny to fight- Johnny will rise to Pony’s bait, and Pony can be a vindictive little thing when you push the right buttons- but it’s rare for either of them to ever sound so downright hateful, especially to one another.

“Don’t be stupid,” Pony snaps, “you wasn’t gonna say nothin’ but you’re dead on your feet and you've been warm since yesterday.”

“You promised you wouldn’t say anything!”

“That was yesterday!” Pony screams, eyes wild and crazed like some sort of animal, “And yesterday I didn’t spend ten minutes tryin’ to wake you up and another five after that tryin’ to make you remember where you were! You’re only still here because you’re too tired to walk to rodeo grounds, and too feverish for any of us to leave you by your lonesome, but the rest of you were too pussy to do anything about it!”

He directs the last bit at Soda and Two-bit, who are both suddenly very interested in their shoes.

Huh.

Now that she’s got a better look at him, the flush on Johnny’s olive toned cheeks might not be from anger the way she initially thought, and he’s sweating something fierce- though it might be due to the jacket he’s wearing.

“I’m fine!” Johnny insists, and she could just about cry looking at him, because when he turns his brown eyes on her he doesn’t look mad he looks terrified, “I’m fine.”

He curls in on himself a bit, hunching over a way that isn’t quite natural, his left arm held close to his body.

Wait a second.

Long sleeves. In August. How could she be so stupid?

“Hm,” She steps closer to him, raising her hand slowly, trying her hardest not to startle him but he still flinches slightly when she lays the back of her palm against his forehead.

He’s burning up.

“I’m fine,” he says again, but it just sounds like begging as he bats at her hands haphazardly, sick and near delirious and so, so afraid, “I’m fine.”

Carefully, she takes his hand and gently pushes up the sleeve of his jacket, holding on more tightly when he hisses and goes to pull away reflexively.

Whatever she expected, it wasn’t this. Oozing and smelly, under sloppily applied bandages, lies a strip of burned skin from his wrist all the way up his forearm, almost to his elbow, the skin tight and puffy around it.

Soda swears. Beside him, Two-bit stifles a gag.

“Oh honey…”

“It’s nothing,” Johnny’s voice shakes and he tries again to weakly pull away, “I'm fine, I promise.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Johnny.”

He sighs, and there’s eons of pain in that sound, a lifetime of weariness no fifteen year old should hold.

“Two days ago dad was beatin’ on me in the yard. He pushed me an’ I fell onto the burn barrel, and this happened. I tried to clean it best I could but it don’t act the same way a scrape does.”

‘It looks infected,” she says, forcing herself to keep her voice calm over the panic that crawling up her throat. She really is no doctor, but she knows infection is no joke, and he’s already got a fever, “but we’ll get you all fixed up.”

He doesn’t try to argue, which is more worrying than it ought to be. Johnny didn’t usually accept any sort of help this quick, especially when it came to injuries. She lets him go and he immediately pulls his sleeve back over the wound, shame wrapped around him tighter than the too small jacket, and she swears to herself the next time she sees Andrew Cade by his lonesome she’ll borrow Darrel’s hunting rifle from the shed and shoot him.

“Soda, run along home and tell your dad we’re on our way, alright?”

Soda looks torn for a second before she fixes him with a look and he nods, dashing off without another word.

“Keith, do me a favour and head to the rodeo grounds and let Dally know the goings on. Last thing I need is him ending up in county lockup today.”

“Must’ve missed it when I was hired as an errand boy!’ Two chirps, but his joke falls flat. He clears his throat, nods. “Don’t worry Mrs.C, I’m on it.”

“Thanks sweetheart.”

He nods and lopes off, casting a worried look over his shoulder, but he’s almost the oldest of them, just a year younger than Darry, and she’s the only one she’d trust to break this to Dally properly. He’s got tact, even if he pretends not to for a laugh sometimes, and he steps up when it matters, just like now.

“Let’s go then,” she jerks her head back towards the house, “as soon as we get in I’m getting you a big glass of ginger ale and you’re drinkin’ the whole thing while Darrel does his whole doctor routine and decides whether we need to take you to the hospital, savvy?”

“Yes ma’am,” Johnny sighs, half resigned and half petulant, but there’s a bit of a glow burning away the fear in his eyes, and she thinks everything might be alright.

She follows behind him as he dutifully starts trudging towards the house. Pony trudges along beside him, having turned into something of a kicked puppy after his outburst, and she’s just starting to wonder if maybe this spat of theirs might need some motherly interference to help it get resolved when Johnny ruffles Pony’s hair and throws his uninjured arm around his shoulders, tucking him into his side.

Pony hides a sniffle in Johnny’s shoulder and throws his own arm around Johnny’s waist, forgiven.

Despite herself, she smiles.

They’ll be alright.

******* PLUS ONE *******

Johnny always feels weird coming to the Curtis house nowadays.

There's an oddness to it, a blanket of stifling silence that hangs over the place despite the ever present noise of the gang, a choking smog that crawled into their throats and left him quiet, and Steve murmuring, and Darry yelling that much louder like if he tried hard enough he could drown out the roaring grief that deafened them.

Johnny wished he could tell him to save his breath. You can’t yell grief out of a suddenly shattered home anymore than you can wring love out of burned blankets, or keep happiness in a jar. Johnny knows. He’s tried every trick of an unloved creature and none of them ever worked.

He knows as soon as he steps over the threshold that today is one of the worse kinds of days in their strange new normal, an odd charade where they’re all playing the same characters but it’s like they all forgot their lines. Or maybe the lines are the same as they always were, but they’re all suddenly playing the wrong parts.

Darry’s frying eggs at the stove, toolbelt already tied on over his work clothes. Two-bit is lazing at the table, tossing bits of toast at Dally that the blonde is smacking away with increasing violence. Steve is watching coffee and watching Soda race from one end of the house to the other as he gets ready. Right now, his shirt is unbuttoned and he’s only wearing one sock, so Johnny figures he’ll have to get a ride with Two-bit to school because Soda and Steve will definitely be leaving late.

“Has anyone seen my nametag?” Soda hollers as Johnny grabs a slice of toast off what he assumes to be Steve’s abandoned plate and slides into a seat.

“You left it on your nightstand.” Dary yells at Soda’s retreating back, “Is Pony up yet?”

“No!”

“Jesus-” Darry runs a hand over his face, worry lines that weren’t there a few months ago etched deeply into his forehead. Even Mr.C never looked as tired as Darry does these days, “tell him to hurry up!”

Beside him, Dallas tenses, and Two-bit makes a truly horrendous joke that gets Darry’s incredulous glare fixed pointedly on him, and Johnny gets a sinking feeling this isn’t the first time today Darry has yelled for Pony to hurry up.

He slinks away from the table as quietly as he arrived, hoping to attract just as much notice- that is to say, none at all.

Each step down the hallway seems to take more effort, the not-quiet silence muffling his footfalls and making him feel like he’s fighting through clinging mud. By the time he reaches Ponyboy’s bedroom door, the noise from the kitchen seems as if it’s faded out completely.

He knocks softly.

“Ponyboy?”

No answer. He wasn’t really expecting one, but it makes him feel kind of sick all the same.

He pushes open the door and slips inside to see Ponyboy’s small frame burrowed under the blankets, staring blankly at the wall.

“Mornin’ Pony," he climbs up beside him, rubbing his back. Pony still doesn’t say anything. The only indication he gives that he even knows Johnny is there is pressing back into the touch the tiniest bit.

“It’s a school day, man,” Johnny’s never been one for talking, but his role in this new play requires a lot more of it than his old one. It’s uncomfortable but he’s getting used to it, talking for Pony the way Pony has always known how to talk for him, and on mornings like this, talking to him feels like the only thing he can do. He’s not sure why he’s convinced himself now that his words are the kind of medicine Pony needs, but it’s the kind of pretty lie that sounds better than the truth, which is that Ponyboy needs some type of health or medicine no one on their side of town could ever afford to give him.

It scares him, more than he wants to admit, this version of Ponyboy, the one who was zombielike on his best days, withdrawn and foggy eyed, who seemed to exist behind a thick wall of glass separating him from the rest of the world- and that was when he managed to move at all. Other days, like today, he would just stare at nothing for hours and hours and hours. Even when Darry made him move on these days, when he had to half carry him out to the car to go to school, Pony on these days wasn’t ever really present, never seemed to sbe able to escape whatever was keeping him a prisoner in his own head, held down under waves of grief that drained the life right out of him.

“There’s fried eggs on the stove,” Johny tries again, “normal colours this mornin’ though, sorry. I know you like the pink ones Soda makes.”

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

“One of those mornings, huh?” He sighs, giving up, “that’s alright, man, I get it. It’s tough. It’s really fuckin’ tough. I got you.”

He settles down a bit more, tossing one bent arm under his head, still rubbing Pony’’s back with the other.

Not even two minutes later footsteps stomp down the hallway, the cacophony of a Curtis brother argument reaching them before the guys themselves all but burst in.

“...he’’s goin’ to school, Soda. Ponyboy get up!”

Darry’s madder than a hornet looking for jam and finding vinegar. He’s hardened now, having lost his dreams and his youth and his parents in one fell swoop, and it’s turned him bitter and desperate, but that’s no excuse for the way he glares down at Ponyboy now, cold and worried but unflinching in his pursuit of doing what he thinks is expected instead of what Ponyboy so clearly needs.

And Johnny? Well, Johnny’s seen enough.

“Leave him be, Darry.”

Darry freezes. FOr a second he just blinks at him, disbelief written all over his face. It’s almost comical. In any other situation it would be.

“What?”

“You ain’t helpin’.” He gestures where Pony is still huddled under his blankets, staring blankly at the wall, the purple shadows under his eyes so dark they look like bruises. He’s so far from okay it’s nearly incomprehensible, “and he ain’t goin’ to school. Not today.”

“Now look Johnny, I know you’re buddies an’ all-”

“No.” Johnny cuts him off because he doesn’t get it. “Darry he ain’t going today. How’s he supposed to go to class when he can’t even get out of bed? You ain’t there, you don’t seen him, but it’s torture for him when you make him go on days like today. Ask Two or Steve. Everyone with eyes can see it.”

It feels wrong, talking about Pony like he isn’t right there, but he still doesn't give any indication he’s heard a thing, and Darry needs to hear this and hear it now. Pony’s been like this more and more often since the Curtis parents died, and if Johnny’s being honest with himself, it scared him half to death.

He knows it terrifies Darry too, that it's why he’s doing what he’s doing, but he's trying to help in the absolute worst way. Darry might be able to pretend everything is fine, has always been a superhero in his own right- Pony can’t, and it’s killing him to try.

Johnny just wonders how Darry can’t see that.

Luckily his words seem to land, and Darry flinches.

“I’ll stay with him while y’all go to work,” Johnny promises, more for Pony’s sake and his own than for theirs, “but he isn’t going to school today, Darry. I mean it.”

Darry’s face goes hard, but his eyes go sad, the picture of pure anguish. He has the look of his dad but when he’s upset he’s an almost perfect amalgamation of both his parents’ distress, from Mrs.Curtis’ tight frown on his thin lips, to Mr.Curtis’ furrowed eyebrows and hunched shoulders.

“I…yeah, okay. Just this once.” He crosses the room in two steps, leaning down to press a tender kiss to Pony’s hair, “love you, baby.”

He steps back, and clears his throat before ruffling Johnny’s hair, “Take good care of him, Johnnycake.”

“I will.”

Darry clears his throat, hesitates a moment, then decides against whatever it was he was going to say and takes his leave.

“Thank god,” Soda sags from where he’d been hovering in the doorway, “you’re a miracle worker Johnny, I swear, I tried everything to get him to listen but he’s just so fuckin’ stubborn.”

“Not that you’d know anything about that.”

Soda snorts. “Course not.”

A honk from outside interrupts before he can say anything else.

“Shit,” Soda cringes, already turning to leave, “I can’t be late again or my boss’ll kill me. Thanks again for stayin’ with him Johnny.”

“Anytime.” Johnny promises, but Soda’s already gone.

He listens to the crunch of tires on gravel as Steve hurtles out of the driveway and settles down with a sigh, tossing an arm over Pony and pulling him close.

“I mean it, man. I’ll be here anytime, through thick and thin. You’ll always have me.”

Pony doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. Johnny knows the feeling is mutual.

#the outsiders #ponyboy curtis #johnny cade #darry curtis #sodapop curtis #steve randle #two bit mathews #dallas winston #darrel curtis #mrs curtis #mr curtis

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lostinlovingrevery · 3 months ago

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Van's askbox open? Don't mind if I do. So in the comics, I forgot which one, they went into Logan's mind and open a door that said I think?Sexual Fantasy. It opened to a BDSM room with Emma Frost calling Logan a Dirty Little Boy with 4 others and a St Andrew cross in the background and some had impact play crops. And with the recent soft Sub. Logan, I believe that Logan wants to sub but that person has to really be soft and comforting and earnest for him to enter sub space. Like he yearns to feel safe enough to not be in control and be safe and valuable.

THAT IS WILDDDDDDDD

I went and looked up the page and its so ridiculous I couldn't help BUT LAUGH

EMMA FROST??? REALLY LOGAN? (I guess I can't blame him....IT SHOULD BE ME!!!!!1)

Lol everything in that room don't surprise me. Thats my mans <3

Also you're SO right. I think Logan would hold a lot of the dominant part in a bedroom as a form of self protection. Letting go of control like that makes him anxious, and trust already doesn't come easy for him!!!

Finding a partner (you) that he completely trusts was hard. Hed probably wouldn't give in right away!!! You both would have to be together, and explored some kinks/sexual fantasys for awhile. Don't get me wrong, i think Logan is a huge dom- but every body likes being treated like a pillow princess at SOME point, right?

youd have to display a phenomenal sense of safety and softness for him to ever want to show that part of him. A part he'd probably feel is weak, and you'd have to show him that being submissive, being soft, wanting a partner to take care of you in more ways than physically, sexually, and emotionally, is not weak!!! Trust is a big big play in this!

I'm not sure what would initiate that actual dom/sub dynamics. Maybe you've been playing around with alternating roles. Maybe you playfully tie his wrist together one night while riding him. Or you say something teasing- calling him naughty boy or something and it starts triggering that need to be taken care of- to be put in his place.

Now that I think about it, you'll probably be the one to suggest the role change. Maybe you noticed he's stressed, tell him to lie back and you'll take care of it. He has trouble letting go at first- but i think he'd eventually melt.

You're praising him and touching him all over so sweetly the first time. Giving him everything he wants and more.

but then as you continue exploring more in your future adventures, maybe sensory play- a little pain, and you realize how much he gets off on you being the boss. THAT'S when it escalates..... :)

It starts off with you gently scratching his skin. Makes him purr when you do that. Maybe you bite him a couple times- he really likes that. Then you tie him up- and he has to abide by your rules, no breaking the ropes to get what he wants (cause you both know he could). Anytime he behaves he's rewarded. You're pinching him, playing with his nipples, fondling his balls, never quite going to the source where he really he wants you but he behaves because he wants to be good for you.

Although NOW he's starting to understand why you get so squirmy with him....

Maybe it elevates to something more, blindfolds, wax play, smacking, using those whips, ball gags, You think of it- he'll be excited to do it!!!

Praise, degradation- I think he like a mix of both. Reward him with praise when he's good, call him a filthy slut when he's bad. He'll absolutely LOVE it.

Whether you too go farther is up to you...Cock rings, sex dungeons, pain play and more....

and of course- the aftercare is SO important!!

I actually have a draft/request for subby logan....

#logan howlett #wolverine #van rambles #logan howlett x you #wolverine x reader #logan howlett smut #vans daydreams #logan howlett x reader

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tacobacoyeet · 1 year ago

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knight in shining armor | benedict bridgerton x reader

a/n: my first bridgerton fic! and my first fic in quite a while- i'm sorry! i fear i have fallen in love with yet another fictional character. and his brothers. and his sisters. anyway... enjoy!

warnings: implied sexual harassment (first two paragraphs), benedict bridgerton being the man of my dreams

the gardens are a sanctuary from the noise and intensity of the ball, a place where you can catch your breath and gather your thoughts. the evening had started so beautifully, with chandeliers glittering like a thousand stars and the music swirling around you like a warm embrace. but then that lord—lord berbrooke—had cornered you, his breath reeking of brandy, his words slurred and inappropriate. his hands had roamed where they had no right to go, and his whispered suggestions had made your skin crawl. you managed to escape, but your heart is still pounding, and you can feel the prickling of tears threatening to spill over.

as you take deep breaths, trying to steady yourself, you hear the familiar sound of footsteps on the gravel path. you look up to see benedict bridgerton, your childhood best friend, approaching with a concerned expression on his face. his presence is a balm to your frayed nerves, and you feel a rush of relief.

“y/n,” he says softly, stopping a few feet away from you. “are you alright? i saw you run out and... i was worried.”

you nod, trying to muster a smile, but it wavers. “i am fine, benedict. i ust needed some air.”

he steps closer, his eyes scanning your face. “you do not look fine. what happened?”

you hesitate, not wanting to burden him with your troubles, but the earnest concern in his eyes breaks down your resolve. “it was lord berbrooke. he... he wouldn’t leave me alone.”

benedict’s expression darkens, his jaw tightening. “that bastard. my fist shall have a word with him.”

“no,” you say quickly, placing a hand on his arm. “please, do not. i just want to forget about it.”

his gaze softens, and he covers your hand with his own. “if that what you truly wish. but know that i am here for you. always.”

you feel a blush creeping up your cheeks at his touch, his words. benedict has always had that effect on you, ever since you were children. he’s always been your protector, your confidant. but recently, your feelings for him have grown more complex, more intense. you can’t help but wonder if he feels the same.

“thank you, benedict,” you say quietly. “you’re a good friend.”

he smiles, but there’s something in his eyes, something that makes your heart skip a beat. “i’d do anything for you, y/n. you know that.”

you look away, unable to hold his gaze, and he lets out a soft chuckle. “come, let’s walk. the gardens are beautiful tonight.”

he offers his arm, and you take it, feeling the warmth of his body through his coat. as you stroll through the moonlit paths, the tension in your chest begins to ease. benedict keeps up a steady stream of light-hearted conversation, his wit and charm never failing to make you smile.

eventually, you find yourselves at a secluded bench surrounded by fragrant roses. benedict guides you to sit down, and he takes a seat beside you, his knee brushing against yours. the proximity sends a shiver down your spine, and you wonder if he can hear the rapid beating of your heart.

“do you remember,” he begins, his voice soft and nostalgic, “when we used to play in these gardens as children? we’d pretend we were explorers in some far-off land.”

you laugh, the memory bringing a genuine smile to your face. “and you would always insist on being the brave knight, while i had to be the damsel in distress.”

he grins, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “well, i couldn’t let you face those imaginary dragons alone, could i?”

“no, you couldn’t,” you agree, feeling a warmth spread through you at the thought. “you’ve always been my protector, benedict.”

he looks at you then, really looks at you, and you feel like he’s seeing right into your soul.

your heart skips a beat. “benedict…? are you alright?”

benedict moves closer, his hand gently cupping your cheek. “you are so beautiful… an absolute masterpiece,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

your breath catches,cheeks turning a deep pink, and your heart feels like it might burst. “benedict, i...”

he looks to your lips, his face impossibly close, and then meets your eyes once again. you nod, ever so slighty… and without another word, he closes the distance between you, his lips capturing yours in a tender, passionate kiss. it’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of and more, his kiss conveying all the emotions you’ve both kept hidden for so long. it feels as if all of the flowers bloom, his kiss warming you to your very core.

you lose yourself in the moment, your arms wrapping around his neck as his hands hold you close. the world around you fades away, leaving only the two of you, connected in a way that feels utterly perfect.

the spell is broken by the sound of an angry shout nearby. “benedict!”

you pull back, your cheeks flushed, and turn to see anthony bridgerton standing a few feet away, his expression a mix of shock and disapproval.

“benedict, y/n,” anthony says, his voice stern. “what are you doing out here?”

benedict stands, pulling you up with him, his hand still holding yours. “anthony, we...”

you chime in nervously. “it is not what it looks like!”

anthony’s eyes narrow. “i do not care what it looks like. you know the rules, benedict. you know what this means.”

benedict takes a deep breath, his grip on your hand tightening. “what if i have wished to marry her all along?”

the words hang in the air, and you feel your breath catch in your throat. did he just say what you think he said?

anthony’s eyes widen, and he looks between the two of you. “you... you wish to marry her?”

benedict turns to you, his eyes soft and filled with a tenderness that makes your heart ache. “yes, anthony. i do. i’ve loved y/n for as long as i can remember.”

tears spring to your eyes, and you squeeze his hand. “benedict, i... i love you too.”

anthony looks at the two of you, his expression a mix of surprise and something else—something like approval. he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “well, i suppose there is nothing more to be said, then. if you both love each other, then you have my blessing.”

relief floods through you, and you throw your arms around benedict, feeling his arms wrap around you in return. “thank you, anthony,” you say, your voice choked with emotion.

benedict pulls back slightly, his hand cupping your cheek. “y/n, i have loved you since we were children, and i shall love you until my very last breath.”

“i love you forever, my dearest knight,” you reply, your heart bursting.

as you share another tender kiss, you know that this is just the beginning of a beautiful new chapter in your lives. the future may hold challenges, but with benedict by your side, you know you can face anything.

#a writes #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton fluff #benedict bridgerton smut #luke thompson #bridgerton #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton imagines

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techhiz · 5 months ago

Note

Can do resquest Tfa Jettwins with Femme jet cybertronian reader, Which where in the chapter "Where is your sting?", the reader is the conjux of both and on top of that she is waiting for a Sparkling, and let's say after the chapter Bumblebee tries to court her since he thinks she is single but she reveals that she is married

Wings of Devotion.

The sweltering atmosphere of the desert crackled with tension as the Autobots faced off against the Decepticons in their hunt for the elusive Decepticon fugitive, Wasp. Among the chaos, a particular femme stood out, her streamlined jet mode and powerful engines slicing through the air like a blade. She was none other than you, the conjux endura of the famed Jet Twins, Jetfire and Jetstorm.

You had joined the mission to lend aerial support alongside your bonded mechs, though your situation added an extra layer of caution. You were waiting for the arrival of your sparkling, an incredible gift for the growing family you and the twins had built amidst the chaos of war.

As the Autobots regrouped in the shadow of a craggy cliff, Jetfire hovered near you, his optics glowing with concern.

“Moya lyubov, are you sure you should be here?” he asked, his thick accent laced with worry. “You are… how do humans say? Fragile condition.”

Jetstorm zipped in beside his twin, his cheerful tone belying the seriousness in his optics.

“Yes! We do not want anything to happen to you or the sparkling!”

You placed a reassuring servo on both of their shoulders. “I’m fine, really. You know I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t feel up to it. Besides, you two need me. Who else is going to keep you out of trouble?”

The twins exchanged a sheepish glance before Jetfire smirked.

“She has a point, brother.”

Jetstorm nodded solemnly. “Yes. Trouble finds us, but you keep it away. That is why we love you!”

Their playful banter eased your nerves as the mission began in earnest.

The battle with Blackarachnia and her forces was more harrowing than you anticipated. You’d barely managed to evade her webs as she unleashed chaos among the Autobots. Your twins fought valiantly by your side, their combined efforts creating powerful blasts that sent the enemy scattering.

Despite their efforts to shield you, a near miss from Blackarachnia’s venomous stinger grazed your armor. You managed to hold your ground, but Jetfire and Jetstorm were immediately at your side, their protective instincts flaring.

“Are you hurt, lyubov?” Jetfire asked, scanning you for injuries.

“I’m fine,” you assured him, though your spark ached at the thought of how close the danger had been.

Jetstorm glared at the retreating Decepticons. “They will pay for even thinking about hurting you!”

With your combined efforts, the Autobots managed to fend off the Decepticons and secure the area.

Later, back at the base, the Autobots were regrouping and repairing their injuries. Bumblebee, as energetic and bold as ever, approached you with a charming grin.

“Hey, Y/N, I was thinking—” he began, rubbing the back of his helm. “Maybe we could, y’know, hang out sometime? Just the two of us.”

You tilted your helm, confusion flickering across your optics. “Hang out?”

Jetfire, who had just returned from a repair check, narrowed his optics at the yellow scout. “What is this?” he demanded, his tone icy.

Jetstorm wasn’t far behind, crossing his arms over his chassis. “Yes, what is this?”

Bumblebee blinked, clearly not realizing the territory he was stepping into. “Oh, uh, I just thought Y/N might wanna… you know… spend some time with someone not her overprotective brothers.”

You stifled a laugh, realizing Bumblebee’s misunderstanding. “Bee, they’re not my brothers.”

Bumblebee’s optics widened. “Wait, what?”

“They’re my conjux endurae,” you explained with a warm smile, reaching out to take both Jetfire and Jetstorm’s servos in yours. “I’m bonded to both of them.”

The scout’s jaw dropped. “Both?! Like… married married?!”

Jetfire smirked, pulling you closer. “Yes, married married.”

Jetstorm chuckled. “And we are expecting a sparkling, too.”

Bumblebee’s optics flickered in disbelief before he groaned and slapped his forehead. “Oh, Primus, I just tried to hit on a married femme. Ratchet’s never gonna let me live this down.”

You patted Bumblebee’s shoulder in consolation. “It’s okay, Bee. No harm done.”

Later that night, as the base settled into quiet, you and the twins retreated to a private corner to rest. Jetfire wrapped an arm around you, his spark humming in contentment as he rested his helm against yours.

“You were amazing today, moya lyubov,” he murmurer.

Jetstorm leaned in on your other side, his optics soft as he gazed at you. “Yes, but please do not scare us like that again.”

You chuckled softly, feeling the warmth of their sparks surrounding you. “I promise to be more careful. I couldn’t bear to leave either of you… or the sparkling.”

The three of you shared a quiet, intimate moment, your sparks syncing in perfect harmony as you prepared for the challenges to come.

Though the road ahead would be difficult, you knew that with Jetfire and Jetstorm by your side, there was nothing you couldn’t face.

#transformers #transformers x reader #techhiz work #tfa x reader #tfa jettwins

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nanaooyoo · 11 months ago

Text

nct dream ot7 scenario

request for: anon. They asked for a scenario where the dreamies have a kid say “you’re not my real mom” to their step mom. I tried to write a bunch of different family dynamics where a new woman comes into their life, some are happy some are a bit angsty. Hope you like it! Anyways enjoy ✨

warnings/headsup: fem reader • gender neutral for all the kids • jeno, haechan, jaemin, and chenle have fluffy endings • mark, renjun, and jisung have angsty endings • aged up nct dream or not you decide • mentions of pregnancy • allusions to bad parenting • dream are all good dads • 4.6k words total • 660 word average • open endings • light proofread

blended families: members x reader pt.I/I

Mark

Mark was shocked by what he had heard. In his mind, you and his stepchild got along well. Sure the relationship wasn’t perfect and there was definitely a long adjustment period, but that didn’t justify such harsh words over something so trivial. Ever since the divorce his oldest had become uncharacteristically snippy, moody, defiant even… He chocked it up to teenage hormones and the fact that his two youngest had spent much less time with their biological mother and were much more attached to you.

It was the weekend and he was double checking that all their bags were packed, furiously looking at his watch and his phone interchangeably, and anticipating his ex-wife’s arrival any minute. It was her designated time with them and his ex was probably already on her way to take them for the weekend, but you were struggling to get the two littlest ones dressed while also having a distracting back and forth with an already frustrated adolescent.

“I’m sorry but I just really don’t feel comfortable letting that happen” you said as they begged, pleaded, and attempted to negotiate throwing a party at Mark’s the following weekend while you two would be away. You weren’t one to raise your voice but you still had to be firm. Mark had already said no many times and all three kids knew that even if Mark could easily be swayed, when it came to things that could put someone in trouble; it was a no-go. You however, were always a little bit more understanding of the kids wanting to do fun things even if parents and step parents weren’t present. That still didn’t mean you would allow a teen to throw a party with a bunch of other high schoolers without any adult supervision. Mark climbed the stairs as he could hear the muffled grumbling of you two arguing while the other kids giggled and fidgeted and darted around the room.

“Seriously? You’re not even my real mom! Where do you get off telling me what I can and can’t do?” They yelled. You turned slowly to look at them a bit of hurt in your eyes, but mostly just shock. Even the hyperactive elementary schoolers stopped in their tracks. Instead of getting angry you just felt a bit sad, you just shook your head and went back to dressing the much calmer little ones. They looked as if they wanted to say something but didn’t have the vocabulary to.

Mark waltzed in at just the worst moment “___” Lee how could you say something like that? He asked in earnest.

They just mumbled some excuse about it being true, sinking into themselves seemingly surprised by their own words. Before their father could give them a stern talking to, the doorbell rang. You turned away a bit to wipe your slightly watery eyes without anyone noticing and stood up with a smile. “Alright everyone it’s time to go!” You said cheerily patting all three of their heads and ushering the kids down the stairs.

You and Mark exchanged a few pleasantries with Mark’s ex-wife and her boyfriend before loading all the belongings in the car and waving goodbye.

You rubbed Marks shoulder reassuringly. “It’s okay” you said “They regretted it once they said it… I could tell”. You really hoped that was true. Mark planted a quick kiss on your forehead before you reentered the house…

Renjun

Renjun did everything he could to get his kid on board with him dating again. It had been years since their mother passed away and he wanted to remember her but still move on in his own way. For him that was finding someone new. So far though, there had been no luck. Any time he had a date, mentioned a date, even insinuated that he liked someone that wasn’t them or their mother it did not go well with his only child. Dating with kids was hard enough but not even being able to introduce your kid to anyone was a whole different beast. The one time Renjun did try and introduce someone to them the relationship ended that night. Needless to say, he was nervous when he met you. He felt himself falling for you immediately. You were charming and kind, and your background in child psychology made you all the more appealing. You were so patient and understanding every time he had to reschedule plans due to his chaotic life especially when it came to his kid. Renjun had only felt this way once before, but now that she was gone he really imagined what it would be like to start over with you.

Tonight was maybe your fifth or sixth date and Renjun had proposed the idea of slowly working up to courage to introduce you to his child. You agreed and reassured him that he could take his time and that you were in no rush.

What you didn’t tell him was that you wanted to wait as long as possible for the kid to adjust before you were inserted into their life. He had called one day while he was at home to check in on you while you were sick in bed, and you overheard some snide remark being made in the background. Renjun had brushed it off just really hoping you didn’t hear anything but unfortunately you did.

“She’s an adult why are you even worried?” You heard “Mom would’ve never taken this much of your time-” “I’ll never call her mom you know… you can’t just expect me to be okay with you replacing-“ At the sound of that Renjun cut the call short telling you to feel better before hanging up.

The next day he arrived at your apartment with some lovingly homemade soup and some flowers he knew wouldn’t upset your allergies. He tried his best to apologize for the words that were said but you told him you didn’t hold it against him or them.

It took months of convincing before they finally agreed to meet you and a few years into your eventual marriage before they started to actually let their guard down around you a little bit. The first meeting went about as well as you’d expect there was some animosity, resistance and later on they denied that you had successfully made them laugh when Renjun brought it up. It was still taking some time and maybe they would never call you mom but you and Renjun didn’t want to force anything. It was an uphill battle you both were committed to take on together…

Jeno

“She’s not my mom though… She’s a step mom” they said. Jeno’s eyes went wide!

“No! She’s your mom, I mean mommy is also your mom but she’s never really been like- she’s still technically your mother but, I mean it’s complicated… It’s like- It’s like, um”… Jeno rambled nervously before he trailed off trying to explain to his toddler that the woman they had spent pretty much their entire existence with was in fact more of a mother than their “real” mother was. You covered your mouth and sucked in your lips as Jeno scrambled and the kid just kept on playing with their toys. “I’m really sorry, I don’t know why they just said that!”

All he had said to them was that him and “mom” (meaning you) were planning on what to order for dinner.

Jeno looked at you with frantic worry in his eyes and scooted a little closer to where you sat on the ground beside him and your child. “Are you okay why aren’t you saying anything?” He asked resting his hand on yours gently.

He noticed how your eyes welled up but he wasn’t expecting that they were actually welling up from laughter. You croaked and snorted in amusement and surprise before you could even fully process what had just happened. You laughed at the child’s blunt delivery and just silently went over to play with them some more. Jeno always looked so cute when he was stressed that you didn’t even have time to feel any negativity. In your eyes no matter what, no matter how old, your kid was always going to be your kid, and you really did consider them yours. The way they shot you an unassuming smile and raved to you about the palm sized toy car you had bought them for just some pocket change the other day melted away any worries. You ruffled their hair a bit and cleared your throat. “Well step mom wants to know what you want for dinner.”

Jeno watched in awe as you two chatted back and forth laughing and talking about various food options as if nothing had happened. “They’re not wrong…” you whispered to your husband with a small chuckle reminding him that it wasn’t an emotionally charged statement it was just the sort of matter of fact tone that was all too common in children (especially yours). “They must have inherited the sarcasm from you”. You spoke with glee reminding Jeno of his similarly blunt tone when delivering news or making quippy remarks. Your sense of humor made it near impossible to push your buttons so occasional sass and dry humor were nothing new to you. It’s something you found cute. You liked that your child had picked up Jeno’s realistic worldview but your silly laugh.

You were finally able to divert the conversation from which miniature race cars would qualify for the Grand Prix and back onto dinner.

You understood inherently that this was a conversation that would probably have to be had many more times again in the future and with many more people. You knew that you would eventually have to start adjusting and evolving the way you explained your familial situation to your child and the not so pretty parts about their upbringing before you arrived, but there was one thing you knew for certain, and that was that they would always be aware that no matter what they had two parents who loved them. You and Jeno would always be there, for the good, the bad, the ugly, and the awkward…

Haechan

Haechan always knew that combining two families would be difficult but he was determined to do it anyways. Two sets of parents, two sets of kids, and a whole lot of big personalities coming together was bound to create some drama, but Haechan was ready for it. Or so he thought!

“Are you sure a vacation is the best way to go about this right now Haechan?” You asked.

“It’s not a vacation! It’s a… it’s a well planned family trip!” Haechan replied, rifling through his closet for something to wear. “Besides, even if it was a vacation… which it’s not, it would still be a good bonding exercise.” We can just hang out at the beach and chill, the older ones can do their own thing and the little ones already have so much fun playing together. It’ll go great I promise. Haechan walked over to the edge of the bed where you were sitting and gave you a reassuring kiss on the forehead before going back to scanning all his clothes.

“I just don’t know about having them share a room, no matter how big it is, all three of them stuck together like that just feels like a disaster waiting to happen.” You sighed and laid back on the bed.

You and Haechan had been putting off planning a well deserved break for only god knows how long at this point! You had been dating for years and the idea of remarriage for both of you felt so far off in the moment. You had three kids in your previous marriage: two teenagers and one middle schooler. Haechan had two kids: one teenager and one in elementary school. For the most part, all of you got along well. You all got along well enough in fact that moving in under one roof didn’t seem so scary anymore. Still, you had searched high and low for your dream five bedroom home, saving up all you could working second jobs, and extra shifts like crazy. luckily Heachan was good with money and that dream finally became a reality. You were able to move into a space with a beautiful master bedroom for you and your partner, and four extra bedrooms for each kid. No one felt left out and everyone was happy!

Haechan thought you were crazy for insisting that the fact that the older kids had gotten along so well lately was because they had separate bedrooms. Each teenager had their own space and privacy and that to you made all the difference. Less grumpy attitudes at breakfast, less fights over what to watch on tv, no roasts thrown at each other that another couldn’t handle… it was great! They were even voluntarily hanging out with each other! You worried that if they were forced to spend time together that the magic might die a little and they would stop getting along. Haechan insisted that they were all mature enough to not start any petty drama on a family trip.

“Don’t worry sweetheart! It’ll all go fine!”

A couple weeks later you were all sidled up next to each other in the airport waiting for your boarding time. All three of your oldest were on their phones with their own headphones in, but every once in a while you could see them giggle at their screens and all lean over show each other things.

It gave you relief. Aside from the occasional “Y/N your kid keeps elbowing me”, and “Donghyuck your kid is kicking my feet”. It was alright.

Of course when you landed they all had the classic argument of “she’s not my mom she’s your mom, and he’s not my dad he’s your dad.” When it came to unpacking or doing chores but the spaciousness of the vacation house and the fact that the teens had their own bathroom felt amazing. The two youngest had been angels of course the whole way over, finally expending all their energy and climbing on Haechan like a jungle gym while he scoped out the fridge.

Sure it was annoying to deal with all the young people yelling, but so far it wasn’t so bad…

Jaemin

There was almost nothing Jaemin wasn’t willing to do for his kids. He was occasionally stern with them, a disciplinarian, but he was also just about the most fun father anyone could ever ask for, and he was even more fun once his children had aged into young adults!

He was the kind of dad that called in sick for his kids when they had forgotten to study for a test that day. He was the kind of dad that let them have ice cream for dinner just because he wanted ice cream for dinner. He was the kind of dad that waited until his kids were in their mid twenties (and absolutely begging him to spend time with people his own age) to ask out his workplace crush.

Watching his two kids navigate their way through the beginnings of adulthood unencumbered by the same sort of baggage that weighed on him, back when he was their age filled Jaemin with a complicated mix of emotions.

On one hand he was happy! When he was barely out of high school he had to beg a store clerk to let him get his deposit back on a rented prom tux and a corsage so he could scrounge up enough cash to support his newly pregnant girlfriend. At that age he was thinking about whether or not his parents would ground him for making them grandparents before he graduated college. Back then he was wondering if baby formula and diapers were really as expensive as everyone made them out to be. Thank god the most pressing financial matter on his oldest one’s mind at the moment was how many paychecks would equal a new gaming setup.

On the other hand however, Jaemin was quite a bit jealous… Every time his kids brought home a new partner of theirs, blew their allowance on something stupid, or just generally goofed off, he was reminded of just how much he felt like he missed out on. Jaemin had only ever been in one relationship and all that left him with was two kids and a world’s worth of baggage. Of course he loved his children, but he couldn’t lie. Watching them date around so easily while he had to settle down with the first girl he ever “slipped up” with didn’t always feel good. He wondered how their mother managed to co-parent and still move on with her life so smoothly for all these years. She had little to no trouble finding anyone, so why did he?

Well maybe the problem wasn’t simply finding somebody, but what to do after he had found them.

Jaemin still remembered the first day he had met you like it was yesterday. It was physics class third year of university and the very first day of the semester. You sat towards the back of the lecture hall, just a few seats in front of him and his group of friends. He sure as hell didn’t remember a single thing on the board in front of him but he did remember you. He remembered the guilt he felt for falling for you so soon after the mother of his children had broken up with him. He remembered the way you would nervously twirl your pencil in your hand, and chew the eraser to bits every time there was a pop quiz. He remembered the sheepish yet polite way you would ask him for notes. He remembered the smile you had on your face and the adorable way your eyes twinkled and the corners creased as you pointed to the picture glued to his phone of the two infants who shared his same face. You had raved about how cute they were, and Jaemin could still remember how he was tempted to lie and say they were his nieces/nephews but told the truth instead. Most importantly, he remembered the way your lips curled up and the gentle and warm tone of your voice as the words “makes sense, you seem like a good dad” escaped your lips. Oh the way his heart melted that very instant at hearing you say those words. They were the exact kind of validation he needed at that time and coming from a pretty girl like you made it all the more validating.

Now here he was, years and years later, checking you out from his cubicle as you worked at your desk. You were much more organized now than you were in school. Now Jaemin was the one continuously asking you for help and advice. The day his boss had introduced you two made his heart skip a beat and he could tell that you had immediately recognized him too! You even asked about his kids… could you be any more perfect?

If it wasn’t for one of his kids catching him stalking your social media he probably would have just let his crush on you fester without ever making a move.

“She seems cool, you two would probably get along.” They said nudging their dad’s shoulder and pointing to your profile up on his phone.

Jaemin just scoffed and cleared his throat, attempting to hide his embarrassment. “The only woman I get along with is your mom” he said looking away; guilt still bubbling inside him for some reason “well her and your grandma” he said…

“I don’t need a new mom, I already have one, but that doesn’t mean that you don’t need anyone. Look dad I like hanging out with you but it can’t just be the four of us forever”. His child said solemnly but still giving Jaemin an empathetic smile…

Chenle

Your whole body ached and you had never felt more tired, but you also felt a whole lot of relief. Chenle was perfectly on time, the delivery process had gone smoothly, and most importantly you had welcomed a beautiful baby into the world.

It was only Chenle’s child second but it was your very first, so you both had a lot to learn and many chances to grow with this new adorable addition to your family.

You could tell Chenle’s kid had mixed feelings about the pregnancy when you had told them. Of course you considered them your child too, but you both were still on a first name basis. Hearing a young person who lived in such close proximity to you call you “Y/N” was strange but you had… sort of, almost, kind of gotten used to it.

Chenle’s first kid had always wanted a sibling, but when it didn’t work out with his ex wife the idea seemed to become more of a thing of the distant past. That was the case, until he met you! Chenle almost instantly fell head over heels for you. It kind of scared you at first. You wondered why a guy like him, would be so into you but you gave him a chance and that might have become the best decision you ever made. He was kind, intelligent, full of energy and life, but laid back at the same time, and not to mention genuine. Almost to a fault Chenle was willing to tell you and anyone who would listen, how he was feeling and what he was thinking. What you had thought to be an act at first was really just the real him, unbothered by the little things in life and so happy to be surrounded by the people he cared about.

You always took the gentler approach when communicating with Chenle’s kid. Not only because it was just a part of your personality, but also because you purposefully walked on eggshells around them in certain situations to avoid imposing yourself. Chenle’s kid saw you more like a fun older friend who spent a lot of time with their dad than a mother, and eventually that stopped feeling so weird. Strangely enough, it made them more relaxed around you. Both you, and Chenle’s first were aware of the sometimes tepid nature of your relationship so it was important to keep things lighthearted when telling them about their brand new sibling. Their emotions were mixed but they still politely gave you a hug and they even warmed up to the idea a bit more (after you bribed them with some ice cream).

They were more than happy to help you pick swatches for the nursery and were over the moon when you convinced Chenle to let them have one of the bigger rooms in the house all to themself and move the baby into their old room. “A baby doesn’t need all this space anyway and ___ is getting older!” You said.

The day your water broke you practically thanked the heavens it happened so conveniently. It was the weekend and you were sitting at home freshly washed up and eating lunch at the kitchen island scrolling through your phone when it happened. You called Chenle who was already on his way home and his kid rushed down the stairs just in time to sit with you and make sure you were okay. You could see the excitement on their face as they tried to remain calm and not overwhelm you.

After being scooped up in the car, admitted to the maternity ward, and taking a few cute photos, you told Chenle to go invite his kid into the room. You felt so proud handing off the baby to them and even in your drowsy state you could tell they were emotional.

“I know it’s weird that I can’t bring myself to call you mom but I am definitely calling them my sibling” Chenle’s child said gently tickling the infants nose with the tip of their finger. It was awkward, but nothing you didn’t already know. Now you were aware for a fact that no matter what, this new baby had three people in their lives ready to love them unconditionally!

Jisung

“First of all, she’s not my mom let’s get one thing straight—”

Jisung’s kid had a temper like no other! He had no idea where they had gotten it from. It obviously wasn’t from him, it definitely wasn’t from his baby mama, and it certainly wasn’t from you!

Most of the time Jisung’s calm and quiet approach to parenting was really effective but when his child got worked up he never knew what to do. You and Jisung were both particularly mild mannered so it wasn’t in your nature to raise voices, or engage in an immature back and forth, but to an angsty teenager that just meant a free pass to throw fits. Whenever they got in one of their moods it seemed like they couldn’t help but just hurl insults at people, especially those closest to them. And their favorite insult of all? At least when it came to you; calling you anything but their mother.

No matter how long you had been around, how much time you had spent together, how much of a family you all thought you were. When it came down to the wire they knew the thing to say that would upset you the most. You hated that it worked, you hated that it was somehow both true and untrue, and you hated how it made Jisung feel. Even if he wasn’t in the room it would be hard to hear, but watching him in real time as his face dropped, the exasperated sigh he let out, the way he just held your hand and led you out of the room without a word, it was all just miserable.

Your fiancée sat on the living room couch with his head in his hand, the other tentatively caressing your knuckle with his thumb. He rubbed his temples and huffed out not knowing what to say. You watched as Jisung looked to the various venue pamphlets and florist business card strewn across the coffee table and then to the ring in his finger. He let out a strenuous breath through his nose and blinked a few times as the watery-ness in his eyes started to dissipate.

You spoke carefully squeezing Jisung’s hand and giving him a compassionate look. “Maybe we should just push the wedding ba—“

“No!” He responded before you could even finish your thought.

“I just mean, if things are to stressful right now it might not be a good idea, especially since it feels like things could potentially get worse…” you tried to choose your words carefully “maybe now’s just not the time”.

“Y/N how could you say that?”

“I’m not trying to hurt you I’m just thinking about what’s best for us, what’s best for everyone!”

“You’re what’s best for me right now!” He said without skipping a beat “I really can’t do any of this without you and I don’t want to push this back any further” he said “I just love you too much…”

You knew that Jisung’s words were true, and that he really truly felt them. You knew he was being genuine when he said that he loved you and that all these years together had made you a family but you also knew that to his kid, to your kid, that was only true when they were happy, and getting married, having a wedding? That could only make things ten times worse.

You two just looked at each other a little bit forlorn, completely forgetting what had sent the adolescent on a tirade in the first place. Jisung’s tired, pained, but still enamored expression when looking at you helped in the moment. Even if it really just was for that moment, things could always get better. Right?

Your fiancée planted a gentle string of kisses along your cheek and neck eventually landing on the corner of your lips and whispering a feeble “it’s going to be okay” in your ear…

-🍌🍶

#nct dream #nct dream x reader #nct dream fic #nct dream fluff #nct dream angst #nct dream reactions #nct dream scenarios #mark lee #huang renjun #lee jeno #na jaemin #lee donghyuck #lee haechan #zhong chenle #park jisung

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