#tryst x reader

[stargainer11]

LATE NIGHT SHIFT

Pairing: Tryst x reader

Tags: porn with plot, gentle sex, piv sex, slight aftercare, slight angst, mild fluff, post canon I GUESS (cause we will never know what happened next), injuries

"The young people today seem to be growing up slowly. I don't know why. Maybe they don't need to grow up before their time. One of my good friends got married and had a child at the age of 18, and was ordained as a Baptist minister. Maybe it's for the best, but they'll have a wild youth."

This was Tryst's opinion about his two new acquaintances, schoolgirls, with whom he engaged in illegal small-time business, if I may say so, even though he was barely older and certainly not more responsible than they were.He tried not to tell you anything, putting too much emphasis on the secrecy of this matter. And other things such as the sale of pills.

"If I tell you, they'll arrest you for counterfeiting if the FBI or some other shit comes after me." He told you. "No, it's better for you not to know, it's safer."

"Who needs you, like they don't have other things to do than catch schoolgirls and their dealers." You replied, laughing.

One night, you were sitting at your computer when you felt a vibration on your desk. It was your phone, and the screen displayed a combination of numbers that you didn't recognize. You stared at the phone for a moment before answering the call. However, you didn't say anything; instead, you remained silent, and there was a deathly silence on the other end of the line for the first two seconds, accompanied by a distinctive crackling sound.

"Hello?" came a hesitant voice.

A little earlier, Tryst was driving down an empty road that was wet from a recent cold rain, aggressively banging on the steering wheel with his cast on his finger, while checking the rear-view mirror to see if anyone was following him. His adrenaline had subsided a bit, and he was feeling sleepy, so he opened the window a little to let the cold night air keep him awake. He turned off the highway and parked on the side of the road. He opened the glove compartment and took out a spare flip phone, almost blindly dialing your phone number as the light from the headlights barely illuminated the interior.

He saw that you had answered the call and put the phone to his ear.

– Hello – He said.

– Who is this?

– This is Tryst, listen I don’t have much time. I’m in trouble, I’m in a huge trouble.

– What happened to you again?

– Wait don’t interrupt. One person, let’s say, wants to kill me. – He glanced at the bag filled with pills next to him.

But I won’t tell you anything else, in case we’re being listened to.

"We're not being tapped, Tryst, you're calling me from another phone.

– In general, being a good guy who won't disappear without an explanation, I'll tell you everything, but only in person, so write down the address and come.

Tryst dictated the address and was the first to hang up, saying finally, "only you will leave later." After that, he sat in place for about a minute, and then released the clutch and drove back onto the freeway.

He drove to a crossroads and turned north toward the edge of another state. At the edge he stopped in front of an agricultural cooperative. He went inside and bought a couple of veterinary supplies because he was sure he would need them. Cotton,

adhesive tape, gauze, a bottle of peroxide, paid and left.

Got back in the car, started the engine, sat for a while looking at the mirror

rear view of the pharmacy. As if thinking, not forgetting anything, although

it was not so, and he did not need much. He put his fingers under the seat of the car and for some reason again touched the bag with money, then with pills, all in place. Then he drove out of the parking lot and headed towards the city, trying not to exceed the speed. Not far from the bay with a sharp rocky shore stood a small motel, where as he knew it was possible to pay in cash as in the good old days.

When he saw a parking lot near a large hypermarket, he drove into the back, where the yellowish lights of the giant signs couldn't reach, so that his car wouldn't be visible.

He got out of the car and assessed the distance he would have to walk on foot. The small, dark motel building was within his sight, which was a good sign.

Tryst looked around, leaning against the car door. He then lowered his head to his chest and stood in that position for a minute. Finally straightened up, slammed the door and moved down the street.

You weren't particularly worried about him, you were sure that Tryst was in a little trouble and it was a waste of time to be so worried, probably now you were just shaking your head condescendingly, feeling a feeling similar to that of a parent who gets a call about his child's behavior from school, but not in any way worried. He told you about his plans in case some town officer took him on, he said you shouldn't go home under any circumstances, someone might be waiting for you there, or they might catch you when you leave through the back door. He told you all this with a touch of humor, as if he couldn't believe that he might have crossed someone important. So you halfheartedly threw your house keys and wallet into your bag, took your car keys and went outside, thinking that you should have insisted that the meeting take place at your house, and not in the hell knows where.

Tryst paid for the room, put the key in his pocket, went up the stairs and walked along the corridor of the old hotel. Dead silence. The darkness. He found his room, inserted the key in the lock, entered and locked the door behind him. Streetlights leaked light through the tulle curtains. He put his bag on the bed, went back to the door, and turned on the light above it. An old-fashioned switch with a button in the middle. Early 20th-century oak furniture. Brown walls. A standard, cheap bedspread.

Tryst stood at the sink, washing his face with water that drained into the sink with a pale pink tint.

When the car's headlights cut through the darkness, he looked through the gap between the curtains and tried to see who had arrived.

You closed the car door and walked calmly towards the motel. After the long drive, your curiosity had faded, and you were no longer particularly interested in finding out who had arrived.

You headed towards the reception desk.

The receptionist, an elderly and frail man who was reading a magazine, stood up from his chair when he saw you.

–Good evening, ma'am.

–There's one guy is waiting for me, so please tell me what room the man who checked in about an hour ago, maybe a little less, is staying in. He has dyed blond hair.

You weren't sure what kind of ID Tryst had shown.

–I'm sorry, but I can't disclose information about our guests.

–Yes, you can.

–Ma'am, I've already told you...

Before the man could say anything else, you saw Tryst standing at the top of the stairs, waving at you. Without saying a word, you rushed towards him, but he turned around and walked towards his room without waiting for you, forcing you to follow him. Only in the dark hallway did he stop and turn towards you, opening his arms for a hug.

–What the hell is going on here?

You didn’t hug him back, and he simply stepped back and took the key out of his pocket. He turned the key and opened the door.

–Come in. – He turned on the light and waved you inside.

– I would conclude that you're on the run, but you haven't gone that far. What's the matter, who are you crossing? I swear, if it's about your friends again, then...– You didn't finish when he turned to you.

–You look even worse than usual, did someone punch you?

–You're very quick on the uptake. You're probably interested in the details, right?

– No, I'm not interested, I was just passing by, so I decided to drop by to say hi.

He smiled.

–Sit down.– You sat on the bed.

–I've decided to go into hiding until things are settled.

–What needs to be settled?

– Well, I pissed off a guy because he thinks I cheated on him, but I didn't. – He raised his voice, as if he was convinced that you didn't believe him enough. – And now he wants to kill me. Or maybe he doesn't, but I don't want to take any chances. By the way, were you followed?

– No, Tryst, I wasn't followed, and I'm starting to get nervous about what's going on.

–That's why I take care of you and don't get you into trouble. And by the way, it's my friends, and it's all because of one of them. Well, I'm blaming him.

– I wouldn't have agreed to anything shady if you'd suggested it.

–That's what I thought once.

–You're not me.

–That's true.

–And your nose is broken.

You reached out to touch his face, but you didn't.

–Are you serious? I didn't noticed.

You didn't say anything,

–I'm fucking with you, I noticed that.

– Thank you, Tryst, I understand. Can I help you?

– I don't know, can you?

– Probably.

Now he was sitting on the toilet. looking at you. The whites of his eyes turned red, and under the bright white light reflected from the tiles on the bathroom walls, bags under his eyes were visible well.

– Come on, take a risk. You looked at him in silence, pinched his bridge of the nose between your palms, and pressed hard on the uneven area. Tryst cried out and groaned, doubling over.

– Fuck. Fuck that was...

– It hurts, I know, well done. You soaked a piece of cotton with peroxide, tilted his head back, and pushed the cotton inside to stop the bleeding.

Tryst looked at you from under half-closed eyelids. You noticed his gaze and kissed his forehead. Then you paused for a moment and kissed him on the lips, lightly, not hard.

– Is that all? – He smiled and leaned closer to you, standing up slightly. You put your hands on his shoulders, pushing him back down, and pressed your lips against his.

His kiss was insistent, as if he had been waiting for a long time. His arms wrapped around you, and you responded to the kiss by bending over, barely able to stand, until you gave in and landed on his lap. His lips moved down your jawline, then to your neck, and he still held your forearms tightly, as if afraid that you would leave.

–You want more than just a kiss, don't you?

–And you?

–Not in the bathroom.

You both stood up almost at the same time and awkwardly made your way to the room, still randomly touching each other with your lips. You helped him take off his shirt and threw it somewhere. You pushed him slightly, but it was enough for him to fall onto the bed, pull himself up, and lean back against the headboard. You leaned down from above and continued the kiss, hovering over him like you were about to fall, resting one hand on the bed and the other on his torso, and when you shifted most of your weight onto his rib, he coughed and tensed.

–Easy, I've been hit there too

–Battle scars, huh?

–More like intentional harm to health. – He said. And you gently ran your fingertips over the place that stood out as a faint yellowish-purple bruise on his skin, which stretched over his ribs. Returning to his neck, you bit down on the spot just above his collarbone, leaving a mark. He leaned forward, breathing in slightly. You continued your trail of kisses down to his chest, reaching his nipple and biting it lightly, while your other hand reached down to unbutton his pants. Tryst made a small sound, almost like a quiet gasp.

—Maybe you will...– he sighed when he felt your hands wrap around his cock. – will you move faster?

–Why would I? – You smiled, a little teasingly.

He arched slightly and you heard a sound like a whimper.

–Please. – He said on an exhale. It didn't sound so much desperate as just polite, as if he didn't want to ruin an intimate moment, but he didn't know for sure how long you were going to delay. You raised your eyebrows and smiled at that.

–My God.– you said, your breath warm on his neck.

The room was dimly lit, and the shadows on the wall formed strange shapes. It was very quiet, with no sound coming from outside, and the only sound in the room was the sound of his ragged breathing.

You wrapped your hands around his cock and quickened your movements. He threw his head back and moaned softly. The symphony of soft, chaotic sounds and body movements created an intimate atmosphere, and you were already soaked through.

– Did you bring a condom?

–Look in my jacket.

You wiped your hand on the blanket, stood up, and walked over to the jacket lying on the floor. The outer pockets were empty. Tryst stared at you, frowning.

–There’s one in the inside pocket.

You dug around a little more and eventually found what you were looking for. You climbed back onto the bed and kissed him on the lips again.

–Missed me? – He smiled.

You slowly hooked your fingers under the edges of your underwear and pulled them down, leaving you in just your t-shirt. You swung your leg over and leaned over Tryst, resting your elbows on either side of his head, your eyes met, and you looked at his red lips, swollen from kissing, as he ran his tongue over them. The moment seemed very long, and he was already taking air into his lungs when you finally sank down onto his cock. He made a hissing sound and leaned forward, gently placing his hands on your hips to support you.

You set a steady pace, sinking down onto him again and again. He wanted to say something, but he didn't have enough air or strength. There was nothing to say.

Usually, Tryst was more talkative and active, but he was probably tired from the events of the previous evening. You ran your nails across his stomach, causing him to tense up and let out a shaky moan. His body was writhing beneath you, his hips thrusting up in a chaotic motion, stimulating all the nerve endings you needed. You pressed your nails into his skin, and the pleasure intensified as you picked up the pace. Tryst's legs tensed even more as you maintained the rhythm.

–Good, good, that’s good. – he whispered quickly, trying his best not to make any noise. You threw your head back and closed your eyes.

–Yes, that’s good.

You placed your hand on the side of his neck, stroking and running your palm over his torso. With one hand, you pinched his nipple. Tryst let out a whimper. You resumed kissing and nibbling on his neck and torso, taking every ounce of pleasure you could. His body reacted quickly, actively giving in to your caresses, and his breath was taken away by the tenderness of the moment. His lips were filled with sighs and soft moans, interspersed with incoherent, unintelligible words spoken lazily and without much desire to be heard.

When you lowered yourself particularly sharply, he squeezed your hand that was resting on the bed.

– M'close, M'close – he repeated it a few more times before you felt him come, biting his hand to keep from making a sound, and now he was really moaning. You kept it a little quieter, your orgasm coming on a little more slowly, more languidly, definitely not like the "wave" feeling, it was something else. You were warm and you were there, kissing him and holding his hand, the mix of physical and emotional sensations creating a giant volcano simmering somewhere in your chest. You felt his cum filling the condom, and in an attempt to catch up with your own pleasure, you speeded up, sinking down on him again and again. You missed the moment when his grip on your hips tightened, his body tensed, and he began to writhe more intensely. He tried to say something like "hey, hey, wait, slow down" in a voice that trembled with tension, but he couldn't form the words. He tried to say something else, but he couldn't.

That sound made your orgasm hit you more abruptly than you expected. You stayed there, throbbing like a pump and breathing heavily. He was breathing even harder. You slowly got up and were surprised to see that he was still hard.

– You're something else. – You said.

- No, you're something else, my dear, and you haven't stopped for a second.

–I'll help you.– You said and took off the condom, throwing it aside. It slapped against the carpeting of the floor.

Tryst winced at the temperature contrast.

–And what are you...

–Like I said, I'm going to finish what I started.

You spread his legs and ran your tongue from the base to the tip. He threw his head back, hitting the headboard. You took his cock into your mouth and quickened your pace. He moaned, his eyes fixed on you with a look of intense focus. You increased the speed and heard something that sounded like "I'm already..." You pulled away and replaced your mouth with your hand, pumping him as hard as you could. Soon he was practically doubled over, his abdominal muscles contracting and white streaks of cum splattered his stomach. You lay down next to him and ran your hand through his hair. He closed his eyes and finally relaxed. Your hearts were still racing, and you could feel the sweat on your forehead, making you feel hot. He raised himself up on weak elbows, leaning over you and holding your head with both hands. He touched his forehead to yours and kissed you on the lips.

–Thank you for coming, I appreciate it. I know I don't talk much and all that, but you know, business and all that stuff.

– I love you too. Now get up.

– What? Why?

– We're all sweaty, and I don't want to sleep like this.

You pushed him away, stood up on slightly shaky legs, and was about to walk away, but then you turned around and held out your hand.

– You're coming too.

He looked at you for a few seconds, his expression showing no emotion, and you felt like he was daydreaming, looking at you but not seeing you. His blue eyes stood out against the redness of his sleep-deprived eyes. Then he shrugged his shoulders, as if he were shivering.

–Okay.

You were lying in complete darkness, the only light coming from the vape that Tryst was still smoking. You were lying in silence, and the light from the car headlights in the distance illuminated the room for a fraction of a second, revealing the intricate cracks in the ceiling.

He turned towards you, and the scent of sex faded from the room, replaced by a subtle aroma of hotel soap mixed with the usual body odor. You were almost asleep when you heard him calling your name.

– What are you thinking about?

– Nothing.

– That doesn’t happen.

– You better tell me what you’re thinking about.

– I don’t know, I don’t want to think about anything right now, everything’s been bad lately.

You turned to him and your faces were an inch apart.

– You know it’s going to get better.

– This doesn’t usually get better.

You ran your hand through his hair, pushing it away from his face.

– You’ll figure something out. You can count on me.

– I know I can.

You ran your hand over his cheek and left a light kiss on his lips. He moved closer to you, placing his hand on your waist and resting his forehead against yours.

– I also know that I love you.

– I love you too.

You felt something wet under your hand, but you didn't say anything. Instead, you tightened your grip on his waist and buried your fingers in his hair, continuing your lazy movements until you fell asleep, feeling his body gradually relax.

[babybluebex]

fuck em all but us pt.1 | tryst (fakes) x fem!reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: part 1 of 2! before shit got fucked with zoe and becca, tryst was your best friend. despite highs and lows, will-theys and won't-theys, you were each other's ride or dies, and it felt like nothing could jeopardize that. standing by each other's side for every little moment, you grew up together, and despite always wanting to be more, you were happy with what you got. the weird kids always find each other, y'know? wc 7.5k title stolen from watermelon by john + jane q. public 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: tryst (fakes, 2022) x fem!reader 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: SPOILERS FOR FAKES! angst out the ass here folks, underage drinking/drug use/smoking (none depicted but is discussed)(like honestly look at the source material, it's gonna come up), of-age drinking/drug use/smoking, mentions of addiction/dependency issues, discussions of mental health and manic episodes, mentions of sex (but none actually depicted— sorry! that's for part two wink wink), mentions of condom usage (and the consequences if not used)(again look at the source material tryst is canonically a father) 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: prepared for this to get like 5 notes but whatever. think of this as like the prologue to the show, showing how reader and tryst met and became friends, which then will inform part 2, which will highlight parts of the show. i had a lot of fun writing this, and what i've written of part 2 so far is a lot of fun as well eek!! also major thanks to @mustyrosewater who helped me brainstorm some finer details, and @thekid-ofsteel who answered every single canada question that i, as an ignorant american, needed answered <3 hope you enjoy, follow @babybluebex-writes to be notified whenever i post a new fic!!

10 years before shit got fucked: weird kids find each other. That’s how you always described the way that you and Tryst met. You went to the same high school in West Vancouver, right after you moved there, a lowly little grade nine kid who was a hint too shy and a hint too black-sheep to have any real hope of making friends. Even before your family moved from Victoria, you knew that high school was gonna suck for you, and the new locale didn’t give you much more hope, but then you met Tryst. 

He was weird too. He was older than you, on his way out as a senior, but you had shop class together and, as it always happened, the two weird kids were made to be partners. The teacher called his name in the roll— “Smith comma Trystan”— and he halfheartedly mumbled “Just Tryst”, then added under his breath “Just like last year…” You remembered back then, he styled his hair in a sorta sideswept 5-years-too-late Justin Beiber type situation, and he always wore chipped green nail polish, but, that first day, he said he liked your Twilight t-shirt and smacked the side of his head when he forgot your name, and he endeared himself to you. 

That year went far better than you could have imagined, all thanks to Tryst. You called each other your Ride or Dies, and you fully meant it. You had never had a friend as good as him— he was goofy and silly, eccentric and loud, but when you would call him in tears, he would shush you softly and sweetly and go “Hey, it’s okay. You wanna come over? I just got the new Mortal Kombat DLC, you wanna come watch me eat shit?” And you always did, sitting on the edge of his bed and wallowing in your sadness as he played his game and made you feel better, just by being there. If watching him fail didn’t work, he’d borrow the car keys from his mom on account of “We need snacks” (you’re so certain Miss Smith thought you two were constantly smoking up in his room, which wasn’t a totally inaccurate statement— perhaps there was a side of bong rips with watching his character get their spine ripped out) and take you out. 

His favorite spot was at the top of a hill that overlooked the bay, quiet and serene, and you would sit on the roof of his car and talk. You and Tryst could talk for hours, and often did, about everything and nothing, serious and not. Some of your favorite memories with him were on that roof at night, admitting things to him that you never would have said to anyone else. You had a joke— if the thing you were about to say could possibly be met with judgement, you would say “Immunity Necklace” like from Survivor, and you’d be safe from judgement from the other. You and Tryst Immunity Necklace’d each other constantly on that car roof, even if it really didn’t warrant it: “Immunity Necklace, I’m worried about my pre-cal test tomorrow.” or "Immunity Necklace, you smell like weed."

Sometimes, though, the Immunity Necklace was completely necessary. Your high school had big three events throughout the year, Homecoming in the fall, the Winter Formal just before Christmas, and prom in the spring. Tryst had taken you to the Homecoming bonfire, but not the dance because “Dances are for nerds and lame-os, and that’s not us”, but you knew that Tryst had brought you out to the overlook that night to ask you to be his date to the Winter Formal. There was just one problem with that. “Alright, Immunity Necklace,” Tryst had chuckled, only half his heart in it. You mimed putting the necklace over your head, not a necessary part of the joke but done when the mood needed lightening, and Tryst sighed. “I, um… I need a date for the dance next week. I was gonna ask Sarah, but she already has a date, so that’s…”

The mere mention of Sarah made venom pop in your mouth; you hated her. She was perfect, an everything type of girl, pretty and sweet, and even though she was nice, she had caught Tryst’s attention instead of you. You couldn’t decide if your jealousy was crush-related or borne simply out of a different girl having your best friend’s attention, but you kept that to yourself. “But, um, I was wondering—”

You sighed, dropping your hands from around your ‘necklace’. “Tryst,” you started. “I… Agh, fuck. Someone else already asked me.” 

“Who?” Tryst was hardly ever serious, not exactly the low voice and furrowed eyebrows type of guy, but he was in that moment, and he asked, “Who asked you? You didn’t even tell me you were seeing anyone.” 

“I-I’m not,” you started, unsure why you felt like you had to clear your name. “But… It’s, um… Alex. From my pre-cal class. He’s been tutoring me, and we’ve been getting along, but we’re not dating, but, um, he asked me a few days ago.” 

“Alex?” Tryst scoffed. “Like, with the…?” He flapped his hands above his head, an obvious allusion to Alex’s fauxhawk hairstyle, and you nodded. “Dude. Ew. He smells like lobster. Are you kiddin’ me? And you said yes?” 

“He does not smell like lobster!” you laughed, shoving Tryst’s shoulder. “And yes, I said yes! I mean, if I had known you wanted to ask me, I would’ve said no, but, like… I didn’t know! I thought for sure you and Sarah were gonna—”

“Nah,” Tryst said, shaking his head. “Someone got to her first too.” He was smiling, but you could tell he was harboring a sadness, a disappointment, and it hurt your heart to know that you contributed to that.

If you were in a movie, one of the ones you and Tryst liked to rent to make fun of and throw popcorn at the TV when the inevitable love story happened, this would be where you leaned over and kissed him. You had thought about it, of course, but Tryst never gave you any indication that he liked you like that, so you clammed up. “Shit,” you whispered, opting instead to take his hand and rub your thumb along his. “Sorry, buddy. That sucks.” 

“Eh, it is what it is,” he said. “But without her, and without you, I don’t know who I’m meant to go with.”

“Can’t you go by yourself?” you asked. “Or, like, not go at all? Back at Homecoming, you said dances were for dorks or whatever.”

“Well, yeah,” Tryst said. “But I was just… I don’t know. I graduate in the spring. I wanted to maybe do the whole high school thing the right way before I leave.” 

You didn’t see Tryst at the Winter Formal the next weekend. You had texted him a picture of you in your dress, and he opened the message immediately but didn’t respond to it. In fact, he only responded to it towards the close of the night, when Alex the Lobster-Scented Wonder (Tryst was right, the dude did smell a little like shellfish) had you in the backseat of his dad’s car. It wasn’t the optimal way to lose your virginity, and you had started to hopefully imagine that you’d open your eyes and be looking at big blues as it happened, but whatever. Everyone’s cherry had to get popped at some point, and that was yours. Tryst’s text just said u look like a million bucks :)

He didn’t make the same mistake twice, though. He seemed to give up on the Sarah fantasy, because he asked you to prom the first day back from holiday break. It wasn’t a grand event, sitting at your designated lunch spot, under the bleachers at the soccer practice field, cross-legged as you stole his carrots and he ate your peanut butter crackers, and he said, “Got a date to prom yet?” 

“Um, considering it’s January and prom isn’t until April, I’d say no,” you laughed. “Why, do you?”

“Depends how you answer,” Tryst said, wiping the crumbs off his hands. “How ‘bout it?” 

You still don’t think your parents or his mom were fully convinced you weren’t dating back then. Prom night started fun, pictures at a park close to your overlook, constantly fixing his hair in the wind of an approaching thunderstorm, going to dinner; a group of kids from your school were at the same restaurant in their little prom-caravan, but you liked it far better just you and him alone. Getting to the event, though, made your palms go clammy, and you bit the inside of your lip, and thankfully, your best friend noticed. “Do you not wanna go in?” he asked. 

“I-I do,” you said. “Just… S’alot of people. B-But you’re a senior, this is the last time you’ll be able to, we should—”

“Stop that,” Tryst told you gently, taking your hand in his. You were no stranger to Tryst grabbing your hand, especially when he could tell you were on the precipice of a spiral, but this was nice, sweet; it felt different, his thumb dragging soothingly on the back of your hand. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve never been to this thing before; honestly, my heart won’t be broken if we skip. I mean, we skip shop together all the time, let’s just skip prom too.” 

Tears started to well in your eyes, and Tryst was quick to grab the handkerchief from his suit pocket and dab under your eyes. “Dude, you spent so long doing that, don’t fuck it up,” he chuckled softly. “I feel like I make fun of you a lot, but, really, you look fuckin’ gorgeous tonight.”

“Thanks,” you sniffled. “You clean up pretty good there yourself, T.”

“Aw, shucks,” Tryst said. “How about this? We leave this place, run back by my house, I can grab my bong and my fake, we go get some booze, head to the overlook. How does that sound?” 

You laughed. “Worst Shining spinoff ever,” you said, and Tryst smiled, his cheeks going pink. And that’s just what you did. He got you a change of clothes while he was inside, and you laid your head in his lap as you sat on top of the car, surrounded completely by him, his warmth, his smell, his adoration, him. You loved the feeling of that. You moved yourself to look up at him, his eyes fixated on the skyline on the other side of the bay, and you whispered his name. 

“I love you,” you told him softly, and he looked down at you and smiled warmly. 

“I love you too,” Tryst told you, his hand coming to caress your hair. “Fuck, this fall’s gonna suck.” 

“Why?” you asked. “I mean, you’ll be here, won’t you?” The way he bit his lip and looked away from you told you everything. “Won’t you? Tryst? Where are you going?”

Tryst swallowed thickly. “I got accepted to university,” he started. “I, uh, got the letter last week… I had applied way back in September, when I had no friends, no reason to stay in West Van, I was hoping that they, like, forgot about me…”

“Tryst?” you started, sitting up. “Where are you going?”

“—They’re offering me a scholarship, I can’t say no—” 

“Tryst!” you sobbed against your will. Your throat felt tight, your chest on fire. The fact he wasn’t coming right out with it made your stomach lurch. Somewhere in America? Further? 

“U-Toronto,” he whispered finally. You felt like you had been punched square in the chest, struggling to catch a breath. Not America, but still nearly across the country, two-thousand miles away. It sucked to live in a different neighborhood than him, you weren’t sure you’d survive with him so far away, in a different city, a different province, nearly a different country; he might as well have been going to uni on the moon. “They-They’ve got a good business school—”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you cried. “When were you planning on telling me this?” 

“I…” Tryst sighed. “Soon. I promise. I was gonna tell you at my grad dinner next weekend, but… Fuck, you gave me those eyes just now, said you loved me, I-I couldn’t keep it from you a second longer.” 

“Christ, you were gonna wait another full week?” you squeaked. Your throat felt tight, and your eyes burned with tears. 

“I just couldn’t break your heart like that,” Tryst told you. “‘Cause I knew you’d be upset, I knew it would hurt you, I couldn’t do that to you.” 

“I am upset,” you gasped. “T, I don’t have any other friends! With you gone, I won’t have anyone!”

“What about the dude who took you to Winter Formal?” Tryst asked. “Alex or whatever?”

“As if I wanna hang out with him,” you sniffled. “He hasn’t spoken a word to me outside of tutoring since then.”

“You never told me that,” Tryst said carefully. “Did something happen?”

You sighed. “I mean, yes,” you started. “N-Nothing bad, don’t flip out, but, like, yeah, something did happen… We, um, we fucked in his car, the night of the formal. And he hasn’t spoken to me since, if it isn’t about math class.” 

Tryst was quiet for a minute. He picked at his green nail polish on his thumb, and he finally mumbled, “You never told me that either. Was it… Was it your first time?” 

Your lip wobbled, and you nodded slowly. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Tryst deflate with a sigh, and you added, “I-It’s not like I’m in love with him. I wasn’t then, and I’m not now, but, like... What did I do wrong?” 

In an instant, his arms were around you, pulling you into his body. You cried into his neck, clutching at the back of his shirt, and, even though you knew you’d see him throughout the summer, this hug felt like your last. You wanted to memorize the way his warm body felt against yours, his strong arms circling you and holding you tightly, his hand rubbing your back. Before you could stop it, whispers tumbled from your mouth, right into his ear: “I wish it had been you.” 

You know that he heard you, his hand pausing on your back for one imperceptible second in reaction, but he whispered “Say that again?” 

You shook your head, terrified that his reaction was going to be one of rejection. “I-I didn’t mean it like that—”

“Just say it again,” Tryst whispered. He moved away just an inch, just enough to look him in his eyes— big, blue with a ring of green closest to his pupil, the ones you had wished in that moment were the ones over you, turned hyper-blue with incoming tears— and he said, “Baby, please, just tell it to me again.” 

“I wish it had been you,” you repeated meekly. He had never called you baby before; he wasn’t really the type to do little petnames, or at least you didn't think he was. 

“No Immunity Necklace?” Tryst pressed. “No shit, seriously? You wish it was me that had taken your virginity?” 

“Y-Yes?” you mumbled. “I-I don’t know, Tryst, I’m, like, spiraling right now, I’m fucking heartbroken a-and, fuck, I don’t know. Back when it was happening, I remember thinking about you, b-but not like that! Just, like, I don’t know what I mean!” But you knew exactly what you meant: you were absolutely in love with him, and maybe you had been since the first day in shop class, when he called you the wrong name and you corrected him and he smacked the side of his head and smiled and apologized. 

Carefully, Tryst put his arm around your shoulders, tugging you in tight, and he landed a soft, barely-there, kiss on your forehead. It wasn’t even really a kiss, just nestling his mouth into your temple for a moment, and he whispered, “I meant it just now, when I said I love you too. You’re my best fucking friend in the whole world. I’d be stupid not to love you.”

You sighed. “But not like that?” you asked. You knew where the conversation was going, and a lump formed in your throat.

“Exactly like that,” Tryst whispered to you. “You remember how I was pissed when Alex asked you to formal? I was jealous. I hated the idea that you were giving any guy other than me attention.” Thunder rumbled in the dark sky above you, and Tryst squeezed your arm. “I never thought I’d get to tell you this, so I kept it to myself, but…”

You pressed your head into his shoulder and sobbed. “I don’t want you to go!” 

But go he did. He graduated, had a part-time job at the mall over the summer, but all too soon, he was helping his mom pack up a moving truck to drive 40 hours away for university. You helped him box up the necessary stuff from his room, trying to keep your sadness at bay. It seemed as if your shared confessions the night of prom were forgotten, but you knew it was out of necessity on both of your parts— you were still in school, and a long-distance relationship of that sort wasn’t bound to work out. Both of you had come to the same, independent conclusion: “friends who wished they were more” was better than “lovers who ended up losing each other”. You had hugged him in his driveway and, even though you knew you’d see him again during holiday breaks, it wouldn’t be the same. “Who am I supposed to sit with at lunch?” you whimpered with a watery chuckle, and Tryst’s arms went tighter around you. 

“You’re the best girl in the world,” Tryst told you. “You’ll find a ton of other friends now that I’m not there to stink up the place.” 

“At least you don’t smell like lobster,” you sniffled.

“I love you so much, dork.” 

You texted constantly. You were worried that the conversations would eventually peter off, until you were just some figment from his past, but that never happened. He kept you up to date on everything— people you didn’t know, parties in places you had never heard of before, presentations for his business classes, what the dining hall served for dinner, everything. You didn’t have nearly as much to report back to him, but he gobbled up every bit you gave him. It almost felt like he had never left. 

You were the first person he told when he got his first girlfriend, and your heart cracked as he talked about her. She was everything to him, and for a guy who didn’t date up until then, it was significant for him, but your conversations about her were laced with an uneasiness on both ends. You wished you were her, and he did too, and you both knew it. That relationship didn’t last very long, just from the new year into the end of term, her saying something about not wanting to be “tied down” over the summer. He didn’t seem too broken up about it over the phone, and, when you went to the airport with his mom to pick him up, he was so cheery. There were some things about him that had changed that he hadn’t expressed over the phone— he did his hair differently now, off of his face, and his nails were painted black and not green, and a burgeoning facial hair situation that you told him did not look great, but it was your same boy, his little patch of acne on the tip of his nose and those gorgeous blue eyes. You ran to each other in that airport terminal, and he scooped you up in his arms and hugged you so tight, you felt like you almost couldn’t breathe. You had seen him at Christmas (but not Spring Break; he had stayed in Toronto that week, to rest up before finals), but that was months ago. This was now, and Tryst was home for the summer.

But back at home, in the comfort of his room, he cried about that girl. It was a totally dickish thing she had done to him, and you didn’t know how else to soothe him other than letting him cry it out. “Hey, I got my driver’s last week,” you told him, smoothing his tears off of his reddened cheeks. “Fuckin’ finally. You wanna go get slushies? Maybe a good cherry will get you to forget her for a second.” That afternoon, you found yourselves on top of your car for a change, at your same outlook— you never went if he wasn’t with you. You had missed Tryst, and he missed you. But neither of you dared talk about your conversation, now a year old. It was unspoken, so unspoken that you truly weren’t sure if it still applied, if he still loved you or not. 

As the years passed, you were still firmly each other’s best friends, but you could hear a friend group forming for him, the same few names popping up every so often. It warmed your heart, even if you lied to him that the same was happening for you. He had more girlfriends after the first one, and even though he never explicitly told you that he was having sex with them, you just knew.

One night, you were upset about something (looking back, you couldn’t remember what, so obviously it wasn’t that important, or maybe the ensuing conversation overshadowed every memory of the incident) and had called him to whine about it. It took him a second to answer, and, when he did, he seemed a little out of breath. “Hey,” he said quickly. “I’m busy right now, but I do wanna talk. Gimme, like, 20 minutes?” You weren’t sure if he knew that you heard the girl on the other side telling him to get off the phone and to come back and fuck her, but your stomach curdled. You agreed to him, but didn’t call back that night, even though he tried to. The next time you talked, you lied and said you had fallen asleep and, even though his voice seemed skeptical, he took your word on it. 

You finished school right around the time Tryst dropped out of university. He was in his third year, nearly finished, but he decided it just wasn’t for him anymore. You were confused by it— he loved his classes, so where did this come from?— but he assured you, along with his family, his mom and gaggle of brothers and sisters all older than him and spread across the country, that he knew what he was doing. Within weeks, he had moved back to West Van, and you grinned every time your phone lit up with his name. Just like old times; he was outside your house, waiting to pick you up and take you to the overlook. 

When you went to a local community college that fall, he stayed by your side, and you by his. Life felt good with him around, and you almost forgot about the brief awkwardness while he was at university. But you never truly forgot, especially once Tryst started dealing. It didn’t surprise you, exactly; he was a good entrepreneur and extremely charismatic, especially as he got older. Getting into his 20s, he seemed to gain some sort of confidence that made him nearly unrecognizable to the kid you met, but he wasn’t a kid anymore— he was a man, and his newfound general attractiveness only served to make your skinny love worse. And the worst part was, Tryst knew he was hot now, and he used it to his advantage. He had consistent customers, and a steady stream of them, but your jealousy grew every time you were witness to a pretty girl flashing him a smile. No! Where were they when he was awkward and weird in high school, acne and MySpace hair and cracking voice? You loved him back then, they didn’t get to reap the benefits of him now. That wasn’t fair. 

A year and a half before shit got fucked, Sarah made her return. Tryst told you immediately that he had seen her again, sold her a little bit of molly earlier that night and got to talk to her, a sort of off-handed “ghost from the past” type thing, and he had flopped onto your couch and scooped your cat into his arms. You had lived by yourself for a little bit by then, and Tryst would come crash at yours frequently enough so that he didn’t have to technically lie and say he still lived with his mom. “She’s gotten really pretty,” Tryst said, half to your cat, whom he called Tiny Homie, and half to you. 

“Yeah, well, so have you,” you chuckled. “Who knew people get more attractive once they’re out of high school?” 

“It’s a crazy notion,” Tryst agreed. He thought for a second, scratching behind Tiny Homie’s ears, and he softly added, “You think I have a chance with her?”

“Sarah?” you asked, and you shrugged. “I mean, who knows? Does she know you had a crush on her back then?” 

“I don’t think so,” Tryst replied. “But, like… It’s been forever since I’ve had a girlfriend. And also, I just sold shit to her, it’s not like she begged me to dick her down or anything.”

“If she did, would you be game?” you asked. “Like, if she were to text you right now, like ‘Oh, Tryst, I love you, come fuck me into the ground’, what would you say?” 

“First of all, she wouldn’t confess her undying love to me in this scenario,” Tryst started, and you groaned. “But also… I don‘t know. I’d want you to be okay with it.” 

“Me?” you asked. “Why? Am I fucking her too?”

“No,” Tryst said, squeezing his eyes shut. The bell on Tiny Homie’s collar tinkled as he jumped away from Tryst, and he scooted himself to lay on your couch, feet up on your cushions, even though you had told him a million times not to do that. “Just, like… I know you have a history with her. One that’s maybe not great. I want you to like whoever I’m with, y’know?”

“I like her,” you started flatly, carefully— too much emotion, and Tryst would know you’re lying through your teeth. It was a petty vendetta to still hold against someone almost 9 years later, but that didn’t stop you.

“Not in high school, you didn’t,” Tryst countered. 

“Well, no,” you tried again. “‘Cause I thought she was stealing you from me or whatever. But I’m not an insecure 15 year old anymore, I can handle you potentially being all moony-eyed over a girl. Just like you’re fine with me dating dudes who are patently not you.”

Tryst sat up in one motion, like Dracula rising from his coffin. “Dating?” he repeated. “Who?” 

“Maybe dating’s a strong word,” you admitted. “I‘ve been on a few dates with this one guy I met at work.”

“You guys fuck?” Tryst asked, cocking an eyebrow at you. 

“What are you, the guardian of my vagina?” you scoffed. “I don’t ask where your dick has been, keep your nose outta my puss.” 

Tryst narrowed his eyes. “An oddly gatekeep-y answer,” he said liltingly, like it was a riddle. “You told me when you fucked that guy in, what turned out to be, his mom’s bed—”

“Which was disturbing.”

“And the dude who you said smelled like soup—”

“He totally did, too.” 

“You’ve got a thing for dudes who smell like food,” Tryst mused. “I mean, that fuckin’ Alex weirdo when you were in grade nine and now Soup Guy? What do I have to do, stuff my pockets with ravioli?”

“Stop it, I’ll moan,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes. 

“Are you fucking this guy you’re seeing now?” Tryst asked again. “I won’t stop until you tell me.”

“Fine, yes!” you finally said. “We’re fucking, Jesus Christ.”

Tryst was quiet for a moment, grabbing one of your throw pillows and holding it to his chest as he laid back down, dangling his head off the sofa. “Is he any good?” he asked. 

“Why, are you jealous?” you asked. “I get to fuck a hot guy who’s good in bed, and you don’t?”

“Oh, yeah,” Tryst laughed. “Yeah, it’s definitely that. I miss the strong, warm embrace of a man— No, you dipshit! I just wanna make sure he’s treating you okay, that’s all.” 

“You gonna crack some skulls if he’s not?” you asked, and Tryst’s immediate nod sent shivers down your spine. He had always been protective over you, and you loved him for it. You just wish he was protective over you in a more serious way, in a Girlfriend-Boyfriend type way. 

“Of course I will,” Tryst said. “I’ll kill him. Don’t think I won’t.” 

“I don’t doubt it,” you mumbled under your breath. Your phone buzzed on the table next to you at that moment, and you sighed as you saw his name, Zach, light up your screen. Zach was… Fine. Met at work, went to dinner, fucked a few times. You definitely didn’t see anything long-term with him, and you knew he was on the same page, but the sudden text of what # apt r u i can’t remember made your stomach burn. “Time to go, T.”

“Agh, what?” Tryst groaned. “I just got here, I was gonna shower!” 

“You should’ve done that instead of grilling me about my love life,” you told him, tossing him his worn black messenger bag. “Zach’s on his way up.”

“Ooh, Zach!” Tryst grinned. “I receive the pleasure of meeting thine suitor, fair lady?”

“Shut up!” you laughed, shooting off a quick text to Zach with your apartment number. “Unless you wanna join in on whatever the fuck we’re about to do, get to steppin’.” 

“As much as I’d love to know what Zach’s packin’ down there,” Tryst started, and you wrinkled your nose at him. “I’d rather live in ignorant bliss. Text me when you’re done with this sin fest, I can grab a pizza on the way back.” 

“Wait,” you started, reaching for your wallet and shelling out a few 20 dollar bills to toss his way. “Pizza, and stop by the smoke shop and get me a new vape; it’s so dead, it tastes like I’m smoking an email.” 

“What flavor?” Tryst asked, taking your money and thumbing through it, counting it up. He got real serious when he was dealing with money too, intent on making sure he had a good count on it— his eyebrows, the same dark as his hair was back then, furrowed, a crease in his forehead came out. He meant business, and you liked it. You especially liked the way his hands moved with money— something about the sound of the paper against his skin made your nerves light on fire. You often found yourself fantasizing about his hands, his palms warm and soft, his fingers always a little red and dry from the perpetual cold. He didn’t wear nail polish anymore, and you missed that. “Hello? Flavor, please?”

You snapped out of staring at his hands, and the brief fantasy of how they’d feel cupping your tits. “I’m thinking,” you mumbled, trying to explain your journey to space. “Just, like, I don’t know, blue razz or whatever.”

Tryst made a fake-gagging noise. “Christ, woman, grow up,” he chuckled. “I’m getting you an adult flavor, for adults.”

“Cotton candy?” you clarified. 

“You bet your sweet ass,” Tryst nodded, shoving the money in his pocket. “Pepperoni?” 

“Sure,” you shrugged. “Oh, and get me a bottle of nail polish. Bright green.”

“For why?” Tryst asked, shoving his shoes onto his feet. “You just got your nails done.” 

“Not for me,” you said. “I’m gonna paint your nails later. Remember back when you used to do that?” 

Tryst laughed lightly. “I do,” he said. He seemed hazy for a moment, reminiscing, and he added, “Maybe not my fingers, but I’ll let you at my toes.” 

“Oh, goody,” you sighed. “Tryst’s feet, sign me up.” 

A heavy knock landed at your front door, and you rose from your seat to give Tryst a tight hug goodbye. You always hugged goodbye. Maybe it was an escape for both of you, pretending you lived in a world where it was perfectly normal to press your bodies against each other. Maybe it was an ultra-affectionate friendship thing. Either way, a hug was always in order. “Have fun,” Tryst told you. “Use a condom. And, hey—” He tugged out of the hug for just a second to look you in your eyes, the blues with a ring of green boring into your soul, and he said, “If that dickhead tries anything, call me and I’ll come take care of him. Okay?” 

“He’s not gonna…” you started, but quickly trailed off when you realized Tryst was dead serious. Always protective, your best friend was. “Sure thing. Will do.” 

Tryst landed a kiss on your forehead, and he went to the door, throwing it open. “Ah!” he smiled, and turned back to you. “Your suitor awaits, madam!”

“Get the fuck out!” you laughed. Tryst slid by Zach with a quick “Sup, bro”, some mannish greeting that girls could never get away with, and Zach furrowed his eyebrows at Tryst’s departing form before he stepped into the apartment. 

“We need to talk.”

When Tryst got back later that night, he let himself in with the key that you had made him to find you on the couch, crying. Before he could rant and rave too much about if Zach had done anything to you, you quickly calmed him down, telling him that Zach hadn’t hurt you, only broke up with you. Tryst was confused— “I didn’t think you liked him that much?”— and you lied and mumbled something about “Yeah, I was just tryin’ to downplay it”, but the truth was what hurt: Zach was convinced down to his bones that you were cheating on him with Tryst. In his mind, he couldn’t fathom why Tryst was always around, why you were so close to him if you weren’t fucking. 

But you couldn’t tell Tryst that. He would hate himself if he knew he was the root cause of that. In fact, that’s what your past few boyfriends all said to you— Tryst was more than a friend, had to be, what other explanation was there? The Mom’s Bed Guy, Soup Guy, and now Zach. Once is a mistake, twice is a coincidence, three times…? Tryst would never forgive himself if he knew he was the reason for your string of failures. That night, you ate your pepperoni pizza, and Tryst let you paint his fingernails green. 

3 months later, shit started to get fucked, and it all started with Sarah. Fucking Sarah. 

Like, literally, the trouble began with fucking Sarah. Or, rather, the fact that Tryst had begun fucking Sarah. You knew it was happening, and you definitely didn’t cry about it on a regular basis, but you were happy for them. Tryst clarified to you that they were not dating, only sleeping together, some sorta FWB-type thing— “Nobody can replace my favorite girl,” he assured you with a hug. “Only that you won’t let me fuck you.” Only because you aren’t asking, you had wanted to respond, but you kept it to yourself. You knew about it the moment it started, and you were with Tryst the exact moment it ended. 

When he got the text from her, he threw up. You didn’t understand at first what was going on, what the fuck was the matter, but Tryst pushed his phone into your grip with shaking hands as he gagged over your kitchen sink. I’m pregnant. It’s yours. Can we talk? You felt sick yourself; you knew you weren’t kids anymore— hell, Tryst was nearing his 26th birthday, that’s firmly Not A Kid status— but this was a whole different level of adult that you weren’t sure he was ready for. He was happy bouncing around jobs and shitty entrepreneur deals, selling drugs and coming up with get-rich-quick schemes that never worked. Fatherhood wasn’t on the table for him, and you had known it for years. He had told you as much, during your own scare a few years ago. As you two sat together on your bathroom floor, letting the test cook, you had confessed that you didn’t want this potential life— “Immunity Necklace… I’m not meant to be a mom.” —and he agreed. “Immunity Necklace; nobody needs me as their dad,” he had said “I’d be such a shitty dad, and I also don’t wanna be responsible for something else like that… Think I’d fuck them up too bad. I’ll stick with being Tiny Homie’s adoptive, deadbeat father.” Your test had thankfully come up negative, but the picture that Sarah attached to her text message told a different story. 

To his credit, Tryst stepped up. Or, at least, he tried to. He wanted to be there for her, help her out, but Sarah wasn’t on the same page. She rejected nearly every olive branch he extended, and it tore him up. He tried to give her money, but she said her parents were helping out; he offered to drive her to doctors’ appointments, and she declined. The only thing she seemed willing to do was bring him to an ultrasound appointment, and let him have the scans of his daughter. The night that happened, he had sat on your bed, backed into the corner of the wall, just staring at the grey blob on the scan. He had tried to point things out to you that he had had pointed out to him by the doctor, alleged fingers and foreheads, and you tried to see it, but you just couldn’t. He wanted to name her Emma, and thankfully Sarah agreed to that. It was in the spring when Tryst got the call from Sarah that Emma was on her way, but she told him to stay home— it would probably be a long labor, since it was her first baby, and she didn’t want him hanging around the hospital for no reason. 

You had never seen Tryst truly snap before then. He had lashed out before, sure, said and done things that he later apologized for, but that night made you feel sick. You just couldn’t help him, and had to sit and watch as he threw his phone at the wall in anger, cursed Sarah’s name to hell and back. He grabbed his car keys, and you finally had to intervene— “Trystan, please calm down, I don’t want you to leave right now”, and his hyper-blue eyes spilled tears at his full name— but it didn’t work. He came back in the early hours of the morning, obviously drunk based on the smell of him, likely high too, based on the everything else, but now with the yellowest-blond hair you had ever seen. “Gotta be a different guy now,” he reasoned out with a slur, slumping down onto your bed. “Gotta be a man, gotta be a dad. Can’t be old me, gotta be new me.” He fell asleep next to you, his arm sloppily around your waist, and you cried silently into his chest. When he woke up hungover the next morning, bemoaning his regret for the manic hair change, he only had one text on his phone: a picture of a wrinkly little newborn and “Emma Louise, born 4:44 AM, six pounds.” He called her his angel.

The immediate next weeks were hellish. Every day felt like a time loop— Tryst waking up in your bed, hungover and sad, calling Sarah to ask to see Emma, being rejected, getting pissed, drinking because he was pissed, being pissed that he was drinking, over and over. She never let him see her, with the exception of one time. You hadn’t gone with him— it didn’t feel appropriate— but he gleefully showed you pictures. He looked good. Happy. His tiny daughter in his grip, the picture he showed you conveyed a million words, and you felt a tug in your tummy that made you land a gentle kiss on his cheek. “Look at you,” you whispered. “God, Tryst, you’re a dad. You’ve got a kid. I never thought I’d see the day…”

“And to think, I got onto your ass about using condoms,” he chuckled softly. His cheek was flushing pink right where you kissed him, and you smiled. He gazed at the picture on his phone of him and Emma, and he sniffled back tears. “Who woulda thought someone as ugly and fucked up as me could make something so fucking gorgeous? Like, look at that baby, she could be one of those Gerber models or whatever.” 

“You’re not ugly,” you told him softly. You couldn’t even focus on adding anything about the baby model thing. “And you’re not fucked up.” 

“My manic episode and the hair bleach would say otherwise,” Tryst chuckled lightly, and you furrowed your eyebrows. “I, uh… The night Emma was born, that bender I went on, it got back to my mom and she forced me to go see someone… I mean, it makes sense that I’m bipolar, my dad was too apparently, but I…” He trailed off, his eyes falling away from the picture. “Do you think I gave Emma that shit too?” 

“I don’t think so,” you told him quickly; one crisis at a time. “But, hey, don’t worry about that. You’re not fucked up, not even a little bit. And I mean it, you’re not ugly either.”

“Got a big-ass nose,” he mumbled. “I look like I’m wearing a plague mask half the time.” 

“Stop it,” you frowned. 

“My eyes are too far apart—”

“Tryst.”

“My hair looks and feels like hay—”

“Tryst, knock it off,” you sighed. “I think you’re handsome. Okay? Is that acceptable? Everyone thinks you’re chopped, except for me?” 

Tryst looked over at you affectionately, adoringly, and he put his arms around you, nuzzling his head into your shoulder. “That works,” he whispered. “Everyone except for you… You’re always my exception.”

And, God, how you wish you could have been more. 

[tjwritesfanfics]

Richard Harmon Masterlist 🔪

Main Masterlist

MINORS DON'T INTERACT ON NSFW THINGS

*The WIP projects are subject to changing titles or may not be written. If I decided to give up on a story idea, I will ask the writers of the fandom if they will want it. First come first serve when it comes to that. I write for the people (and honestly a little praise but shh) so stories that get shown the most excitement may be written faster*

🔥NSFW 🌻Fluff 💔Angst

Erik Campbell (Final Destination: Bloodlines) 🩸

🩵Going to lose you 💔

Your dreams seem to be more against you than you thought. Fem!Reader

🩵Not going to lose you 💔🌻

Your dreams seem to be more against you than you thought, but you weren't going to let it come true. Fem!Reader

🩵Tattoo Rings 🌻 (WIP)

You liked shiny things, but you'd marry him with tattoo rings. Fem!Reader

🩵Heads Carolina 🌻(WIP)

Erik and his friends went out for a drink, but their usual bar was closed for the night. Thankfully they found another bar close by, and it was karaoke night no less. It's also where a girl and her friends had the bar in the palm of their hands. Country Fan!Fem!Reader

🩵Do-si-do 🌻 (WIP)

Erik and his girlfriend go on their first date. Country Fan!Fem!Reader

Tryst (Fakes) 🦆

🩵Little Duckie 🔥🌻💔 (WIP)

Tryst tries his hardest. He really does. And he bought a limited-edition golden duck plushie for his daughter to prove it. It just needed a few stitches after a rough night. Just like his heart. Fem!Reader

🩵No Touching 🔥 (WIP)

Tryst loves bringing you to work with him, honestly it’s great for sales, but when one guy gets a bit too touchy… Well Tryst is only a man after all. Male!Reader

John Murphy (The 100) 🪳

🩵I (think I) can't stand you 🔥 (WIP)

John couldn't stand you. You were loud, in his face, and didn't know how to take a hint, but when you start distant yourself, he doesn't know how to feel about it. And then he sees you with Jasper and he REALLY doesn't know how to feel about it. Fem!Reader

🩵Saudade 🌻🔥💔 (WIP)

Saudade (n.) A nostalgic longing to be near again to something or someone that is distant, or that has been loved and then lost; "the love that remains" Fem!Reader - Slow Burn - Will be in chapters

Alex Wright (Grave Encounters 2) 📹

🩵Pretty Little Thing 🔥 (WIP)

You’d seen him in film class and sure he was cute but seeing him in that dress was doing something to you. Male!Reader

[roguerambles]

Minos, Rhadamanthus, and Aeacus: "Lord Zeus, you repeatedly broke your marriage vows, having numerous affairs, including with your son's wife--"

Ares: "Wait, what?!"

Hera: "I FUCKING KNEW IT--"

Zeus: "...."

Reader: "Oh, great--"

Hades: *sips wine*

Ares: "You've been fucking my FATHER?!"

Reader: "I don't know what you're yelling at me for, you've been bedding Aphrodite our entire marriage!"

Aphrodite: "I'd rather not be involved in this, thank you--"

Hermes: "I think it's a little late for that, don't you?"

Ares: "THAT'S NOT THE SAME--"

Reader: "HOW IN THE UNDERWORLD IS IT NOT--?"

Minos: "....if we could perhaps focus on--"

Courtroom full of yelling Gods: "NOT NOW."

Zeus: "....I'm going to Tartarus, aren't I?"

Hades: *sips wine*

[sprytesukii]

thinking about oliver leaving beard burn against your neck because he’s so fixated on the vulnerability that lies at your throat — like prey submitting to their demise, oliver likes it when you bare yourself to him and only him.

[writing-good-vibes]

Bestie! Can I please have number 4 from the steamy prompts for your valentine's day drabbles? I'm thinking an expansion on or a similar scenario to the thing with the waitress in Dirty Domestic Bliss. Definitely a post-Michael!Corey but you can decide if you want it to be cunningmyers!Corey or a distinct iteration. Thank you, happy Valentine's Day! <3

bestie, thank you for the req !! ahh the way i'm kinda kicking my legs, twirling my hair that you brought up dirty domestic bliss 😈 it's not necessary to read that story first, but this is the (un)official sequel. i hope you enjoy because this spiralled !! 💗

WARNING for corey x f!reader, smut, flirting, a tiny little bit of angst because i couldn't resist, and the fact this is technically set in the cunningmyers au (but michael only makes an appearance emotionally lol). 2.5K word count.

🍓very cute divider by @/animatedglittergraphics-n-more 🍓

taglist: @ethanhoewke @voxmortuus (just let me know if you want to be added or removed !!)

You finish wiping down the counter after a very, very busy night. Valentine's day always brings in more customers, even to the roadside diner you have no hope of leaving anytime soon.

You're on shift for the next four hours alone, but you're thankful that it should be a quieter from now on, with most couples heading back home to relieve their babysitters or to make the most of the rest of their night in the comfort of their own beds. All that remain are stragglers and harmless ne'er-do-wells who have nowhere better to be at this hour.

Around 1 am, you hear the bell over the door jingle and you look up from the counter to see a young man walking in.

If anyone saw the intensity of your doubletake, you would have been mortified.

He sits at a booth towards the back of the diner, but in clear view of the door. He's polite when you go over to take his extensive order -- a coffee with creamer and sugar, a club sandwich, side of fries, a plate of bacon and eggs, with hash browns if you have any -- and thanks you earnestly when you bring out his food.

He keeps to himself, and you'd almost be able to forget he was there while you served the couple of other patrons, if it weren't for how striking he was. Dark hair, tousled but naturally curly, and even darker eyes. Eyes that look almost black even under the harsh halogen lights. He holds his cutlery tightly with broad, bruised hands.

He ate like he was starving; you'd seen plenty of men with eyes bigger than their stomachs, but he seemingly wasn't one of them. All of his plates are cleaned when you take them back to the kitchen.

The reserved atmosphere between you makes you question if this is really the same guy. He has to be, right? The possibility of someone else like him was slim to none, with his curly hair that you desperately want to pull on again, his broad, handsome features that you could stare at forever and never get bored of, and his Levi's jeans that hug him in all the right places.

Returning to his table, you ask, "Can I tempt you with dessert?"

"I think you can. What would you recommend?"

"The cheesecake is my favourite, but I'm biased because I make the strawberry drizzle for it." You lean your hip against his table,

"Strawberry? I normally pick chocolate."

"We have a great chocolate cake too?" you suggest instead.

"No, let's try strawberry. I'll have a slice of cheesecake, please."

"Sure thing," you smile. When you turn back to the counter, you glance over your shoulder, catch him watching you. The sway of your hips is unintentional, should anyone ask.

You draw a few love hearts in strawberry sauce around the edge of the plate. There's something wrong with me, you think, but you don't get a new plate.

He turns the plate slowly once you put it down in front of him, considers each strawberry heart. Then his eyes turn up to you, and it's almost like those strawberry hearts are reflected in his dark, dangerous eyes. "Would you sit with me? Please?"

"I'm working," you smile, but still you linger at his table, waiting for him to convince you.

"I'm sure they won't mind," he says, nodding towards the other weary patrons, nursing steaming coffees, filling in crosswords with blotchy pens, or reading the sports pages.

No one gave you a second glance as you slid into the booth across from him.

You watch while he eats, his pretty pink lips closing around each bite. There's a comfortable silence between one, one that you could get entirely used to, if given the chance.

"It's nice to see you again," he smiles around the food in his mouth. You'd rather get used to his voice though.

Breaking into a grin, "I thought it was you!"

"I've been thinking about you," he half-drawls "Every day since I last saw you."

The last time you saw him was a couple of months ago -- six, maybe? -- sat at what might of been this very same booth. He was just as bruised and timelessly rugged as he is now, and you remembered him being with a another man -- older, more weathered, but rugged in the same sort of way. This guy, your guy, had ordered for the both of them, and seemed relieved to find his companion where he left him after your back alley escapade.

"This is really good," he compliments. "And it's your favourite, right? Have some," He offers you a piece of cheesecake on his fork, smeared with extra strawberry sauce that had dripped down onto the plate.

You open your mouth, lips closing around the fork just where his lips -- his soft, pink lips -- had been, and take the bite from him. You chew slowly. Even without the strawberry sauce you labour over making in the kitchen, the cheesecake really is good.

He watches you closely, and you find that you don't mind at all. He's not like other men, whose stares bore into you because they want to take something from you. No, no he looks at you like he wants you to take something from him.

The palm of his heavy-knuckled hand, the one that isn't still holding his fork, feels rough against your skin when he catches your chin; the pad of his thumb is slightly weathered when he swipes it over the corner of your mouth, catching a stray spot of strawberry drizzle. Pulling his hand back, you watch him -- his eye contact never wavering -- as he sucks his thumb into his mouth, licking it clean.

"When do you get off?" His question catches you off-guard, startling you from your fleeting thoughts of his lips and tongue and hands.

"Um," you try and remember your shift. "4 am." You glance at the clock on the wall and silent curse. Still two hours to go and there's no way he's going to wait for you, why would he? This perfect stranger with his split knuckles and pretty lips and --

"I think you deserve a break, don't you?"

You don't think this is like last time. This won't a quick smoke break endeavour. "I still have --," you're about to gesture at the other customers, but when you turn around, you find the diner empty. You hadn't even noticed them leave, you'd been so caught up with...

Shit. "I don't even know your name."

"Corey," he answers, and his accent swells stronger on his name than you'd noticed during the rest of your conversation.

You give your own name in return, giggling because you can't quite believe any of this is real. Because a beautiful boy walked into your diner and made you fall for him, and you never even thought to tell him your name.

Corey stands from the booth, not quiet as smoothly as you think he might of wanted to because his hip catches on the edge of the table. You're not surprised, he's built like a bull, all broad shoulders, broad hips, broad hands that trailing along the table top as he walks past. Even so, he wanders to the door, flips the open sign to closed and twists the lock.

The backroom is pretty small, the table has been wobbly for as long as you've been working there and no doubt for longer, and you distantly register that you never closed the door behind you, so you have a mostly-clear view into the diner, all the way to the locked front door, but you don't really have time to think about any of that. The only thought your mind can conjure up is please!

Corey is somewhere under your sunshine-yellow skirt, there's a sharp sting at your hip when he snaps the elastic of your panties against your skin, then his teeth biting so gently at the flesh of your thighs that they could be kisses instead. Desperate to see his face, you pull your skirt up to your waist and moan involuntarily at the sight of him, flushed and focused, between your legs.

His eyes glint impossibly dark, pupils blown wide, and he doesn't stop look at you. Reaching down, you twist your fingers through his tangle of curls, making him moan into your heat.

When he kisses you, he tastes just like you remembered, like cigarettes and something distinctly boyish, but now he has the sweetness of strawberries on his lips, like chapstick, and on his tongue there's the heady taste of your own arousal.

Corey's cock is pretty and pink just like the rest of him. (How can even his cock be pretty?) Grazing your entrance slowly, you angle your hips to encourage him, tightening your legs around his hips to pull him in.

"Is this okay?" he asks, tip pushing just enough to make you clench on him. His rumbling voice right by your ear makes you shiver, with anticipation, with need, with downright desperation.

"I've been thinking about you too," you say in lieu of any other answer. "Every night since I last saw you. Wanting to see you so bad."

Sinking it your wetness, Corey groans, sounding almost surprised. You clench around him to draw out the sound, louder and longer, until he makes himself pull back out, only so he can thrust back into you. The table rocks beneath you precariously, Corey's thrusts making it shudder an inch across the bubbling lino.

Corey's as good as you expected and even better; he's heavy on top of you, covering your torso with his, until there's nothing between you. His smell all around you, and you hope it seeps into your skin, taints you forever with the smell of the storm that he carries with him. His lips pressing wet open-mouthed kisses anywhere he can reach, along the soft line of your jaw and scattered on your neck, trickling down, down, down as he unbuttons your yellow shirt.

And his pretty cock isn't just for show; heavy inside of you, coated in the wet mess between your legs, hitting just the right spot to make you squirm and clench and rock your hips up against Corey's, his auburnish hair providing the most delicious, burning friction on your clit.

The tinny radio in the main diner is barely audible in the break room over the sounds you both make. Every thrust drawing a breath, or a groan, or a moan. Corey starts low in his throat, a rasp of a groan always on his lips, until he gets closer, and high little breaths spill out of him like he's going to cry if he doesn't finish right now.

You pull up your panties and catch Corey following your hands along your curves. He seems... cuter, somehow. Before he was a powerhouse of confidence, every bit the All-American rogue you daydream about walking through your diner doors. But now he's more modest; bashful as he tucks himself away.

The shift in personality brings your confidence back, and as the endorphins hums pleasantly under your skin, you feel like you did back then; taking a chance on hoping a pretty boy might make out you by the dumpsters.

You smile slyly at him as you straighten out your uniform, lip caught between your teeth. There's a string of hickies around your collar, you can feel them already. You want to poke and prod at them to stop them fading.

"I gotta go," he mumbles, doing up his fly and buckling his tarnished-silver belt buckle.

There's a long pause between the two of you. Uncertainty.

"Sure," you say. You chew your lip as you head back out to the diner, with Corey following behind. "So, um... will I see you around again?"

Corey shrugs, seeming genuinely unsure, "Maybe, maybe not. We might have to leave soon or... I'll see."

You decide not to push him on it, and there's too many reasons, too many different situations and scenarios for you to even start speculating on what might make him so skittish about sticking around. The thought forces an ache through your chest anyway.

"Well," you force a smile. "Whenever you come back, I'll be here waiting with a slice of cheesecake for you."

His smile lights up his whole face, tugging up one corner of his mouth and then the other in a dimpled grin.

Corey pays in cash and another kiss, before walking out of your life as if he didn't just ruin it.

You could recognise him anywhere. Anywhere, any place, any time. You'd recognise Corey by the sound of his boots on the lino, or by the smell of his cigarette breath, by the accent that cradles his words, or by the bruises that paint storms across his sunset skin.

He walks through the door, bell jingling cheerily at his arrival, and sits at a booth towards the back of the diner, shrugging his leather jacket off.

It'd be embarrassing how much his reappearance disarms you, if your mind could think of anything other than how you need to keep your promise.

There's a plate in your hand, a slice of cheesecake covered in strawberry drizzle sits pretty in the centre. You hardly remember crossing the diner; Corey's dark eyes watch the way your sunshine-yellow uniform hugs your hips as you walk.

Sliding into his booth, you place the cheesecake in front of him and press a fork into his scarred palm.

Pretty pink lips pull up into a broad grin that he almost bites back before giving in; his smile is glorious on his bruised face. His knuckles are split. His throat is ringed with yellowing bruises that shift when he swallows.

Your hand finds his on the table top. "Welcome back."

He eats slowly, even though you can tell he's hungry. After this, you'll fix him all the food he wants, plates upon plates of it until you're sure he's happy and well-fed.

"You in town for long?" This time, goes unsaid.

Corey's smile falters, his dark eyes reminding you that you probably can't even begin to imagine what it is he does, and where he goes and how he lives his life outside of the witching hours you spend with him in your diner.

"Yeah," he says, boyish smile returning. "I think I am."

on the topic of restaurant sex, you should also read [warnings apply]:

good boy by ghost (@/ghostwriterforghosts). corey and reader go out for dinner and he is very, very fun to tease.

[throatofdelusionincarnate]

Feathered Trysts

Chapter 1: Once Upon a Time

This fairytale begins as all good fairytales do.

Once upon a time, there lived;

A Ruler who sought to be free

A King who refused to give up

A General whose loyalty damned him

A Sorcerer whose hunger couldn't be sated

All are bound by chains of feathers and gold.

Word Count - 3,863

Check out the content warnings please!

[gojonanami]

❝ 𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔 ! ❞

❝ THEY TOOK YOU. SO SATORU GOJO DID THE ONLY REASONABLE THING — HE TOOK THEIR LIVES ! ❞

✧ pairing: gojo satoru x sorcerer!reader

✧ summary: satoru gojo rarely loses his cool. except when it comes to you. so when you get taken and found hurt, he takes matters into his own hands to find out who did it and make them pay.

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut, canon compliant, feral gojo, acts of violence, reader gets kidnapped and attacked, gojo goes insane, gojo clan sucks, higher ups get asses best, yaga and Ijichi featured, dom!gojo, breeding kink, dirty talk, oral (f), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), creampie, implied multiple rounds, swearing,

✧ w/c: 8,446

The worst mistake Satoru Gojo ever made that morning was to get out of bed.

If he had just stayed in bed that morning, turned his cellphone on silent, and basked in the warmth of the soft comforter you had picked out (even as you balked at the exorbitant price) and especially in the warmth of your embrace — the one place where it felt as if it was okay to be himself, just him.

And now it was just him.

Because you were gone.

When his phone rang that morning, your lips had been against his, indulging in a lazy morning tryst because for once, Satoru had been off duty — or he was supposed to be off duty. Your gaze had been the ones to stir him from sleep, as even in the embrace of sleep he couldn’t resist you or your adoring eyes — the very same he held more precious than his own.

“I didn’t even say anything, how did you wake up?” And his lips curl at your slight frown, his fingers brushing over the curve of your cheek.

“Thought my pretty wife was admiring my beauty while I slept so I had to wake up to the same,” and he’s leaning over to press lazy kisses along your jaw.

“Did you just call yourself beautiful?” You snort, and he grins, before falling into a playful pout.

“My own wife doesn’t think her husband’s beautiful?” And you’re rolling your eyes, before rolling over on top of him, your body only covered by the black t-shirt you had stolen from him last night, a small groan as he felt your very bare thighs brush against his boxers.

You were a goddess — your smile ethereal in the sunlight streaming in from the window as you leaned over him, and he was willing to worship all his life at your altar, if you would only give him a brush of your lips.

“Of course I think you’re beautiful, I’m the one always saying that anyway,” your lips brush his chastely, far too quick and teasing, “I was just imagining what Nanami would say if he heard that,”

“Oh? And what’s that, sweetheart?”

“He would say the size of your ego is becoming a threat to Earth’s atmosphere,” and Satoru raises an eyebrow.

“And my darling wife would disagree, right?” and you look away, biting back a smile, “eh? You’d let him say such heinous things about me?”

“It’s not heinous if it’s true—“ you gasp, and he’s flipped you on your back, pressing his lips to yours to swallow your words, along with your giggles, as you break free, “Toru! Ah—“ and he nibbles at your neck, “hey!”

“You have to pay for the consequences of your actions, baby, what kind of sensei would I be?” And you’re rolling your eyes.

“I’m not your student, ngh,” you’re gasping as his teeth sinks into your neck, “if anything, I’m the one reigning you in,”

“Well then,” he chuckled in his words, as his fingers trace your jaw, “I’ll have to show you how far your student has come then,” and his lips only brush yours, when his phone rings.

“Baby,” you sigh, and he’s glancing at the phone, a sigh on his lips, as he reaches for the phone, sneaking a glance at you, before he picks up.

You press sweet kisses to his chest as you hear the faint murmur of Yaga’s voice through the phone, hearing reports of the special grades they’ve been tracking, “Old man, this is the first day off I’ve taken off in so looooong,” and he holds the phone away from his ear until Yaga’s screams fade, “fine, fine, send Ijichi,” he hangs up while Yaga was still mid-yell, tossing his phone on the bedside table with a sigh, “sweetheart,”

“I know,” you cup his cheek, his lips in a pout not made for the strongest sorcerer, but for your Satoru, “I’ll be here when you come back — waiting very impatiently,” and he chuckles, his lips finding yours.

“How’d I get so lucky to have such an understanding wife?” And your lips curl.

“You annoyed her into falling in love,” and he gapes at you as you giggle, until he’s got you pinned underneath him yet again, “what? It’s true!”

“Then I’ll have to annoy you some more, just to make sure,” and he’s finding you in another kiss, until his devilish fingers run down your sides, beginning their assault on the spots that made you laugh the most.

You pulled your lips from his, squealing, “Nooooo! Satoru, stop!” you tried to push him off from tickling you, but he was the strongest for a reason—a reason you usually were very grateful for, but not right now. And finally he relented, as you gasped and chuckled still, lips in the most adorable pout, “you’ll pay for that,”

“Oh really? How’s that, wifey?” and you kiss his lips chastely, barely a brush, as you cross your arms, fighting back a smile.

“That’s the only goodbye kiss you get,” and he gasps, clutching his chest dramatically, before that smirk of his returns, “and you try to steal one and I’m making you sleep on the couch,” And he pouts, before you press a longer kiss to his lips, “you’re lucky I love you,”

Satoru grinned, “I know.”’

Yeah, he should have never gotten out of bed.

“Where is she?” For once, Satoru’s words were devoid of humor, the laughter and happiness sapped from his very essence the moment he had heard. The moment he had felt your cursed energy waver. All this time, Satoru’s eyes had been focused on the outline of your soul, no matter where he was, because you were always the one thing he wanted to come home to — that he needed to.

“I don’t know Satoru, that’s why I had called you,” Yaga runs his fingers through his hair, “goddamnit,” he swore, scrubbing a hand down his face, “the mission came from the higher ups, they wouldn’t give me the specifics, but they said it was confidential—“

“I don’t care for the details right now, do we know anything about where she is?” Satoru keeps his words carefully measured, muscles wound taut, the only thing keeping him from using blue to destroy Jujutsu Tech in one fell swoop was the thought of you, “did she tell you anything else—“

And Ijichi bursts in, brow furrowed, “Gojo, we have a lead.”

~~~

Was this how it would end?

You knew it was in your fate to die, eventually. A wretched cycle that all of you were forced to live. An endless baton pass that always ended with the last runner dying — nothing but a pile of corpses left behind and to look back on.

And it would almost be a relief, a blessing to finally be done — if it wasn’t for Satoru.

You knew he would blame himself for this. He always blamed himself. Blamed himself when he couldn’t beat Toji. Blamed himself when he couldn’t save Riko. Blamed himself when he couldn’t save Geto. Because he was the strongest, and that meant he should be able to solve everyone’s problems — do everything no one else can do, be everywhere at once, and never fail.

Never. And yet, that’s not what the sleepless nights he spent working told you. It only told you that jujutsu would take everything from him, if he let it, and he would let it, if only that meant he could do more good.

And he was so good. Even if he didn’t see it — you could almost feel the lingering warmth of his embrace this morning, the wide grin on his lips as he peppered kisses down your neck, and the soft gaze of blues made of affection just for you — you would always see it for him.

You don’t see the curse coming, your vision blurred from the last strike. The crack of your bones barely registers in your ears, the curse presses you into the wall, claws pressed to your throat, drawing blood to run down your neck.

“Now, now, we can’t kill her, at least not yet,” a voice calls out, “we were given strict orders to wait,”

The curse’s growl reverberated across your skin, a desperate growl deep in its chest, the string of control being pulled taut, as its black nails dig deeper into your side, until it dropped you onto the ground like a rag doll.

Your body ached only for moments before it was chased away by numbness. And you could only wonder if this was how they felt? Riko, Haibara, Geto, all the others you watched die — was this the pain they felt? The ache of muscles that they could no longer feel, the sticky wetness of blood that seeped from their unknowing bodies, and the cold thst crept up from the tips of your toes.

You wanted it to stop. You wanted to stop. But each time you felt the tug of the other side, you couldn’t let go. You couldn’t. Not when Satoru needed you.

Your eyes burn with tears. And you needed him.

~~~

“Where is she?” The same question was ringing in Satoru’s head over and over since he had heard.

Candle wicks trembled with fear, casting shadows on the wall that shivered in the presence of the man before them. The papered panels was all that stood between him and these old men — the very same that played with the lives of many day in and day out. It would be far too easy to kill them all — in fact, it would barely take any effort at all with his cursed technique.

But he wouldn’t allow them the warm embrace of an instant death.

“Such insolence — how dare you enter this place and speak—“

“You ought to be thanking me,” his power sparked in the glint of his eyes, the glow of the lit wicks catching in the hard blues, “for not bashing your skulls in and ripping your hearts from your chests from the moment I entered,”

A silence swept over the room, another voice speaking, “Gojo—“

“The next words out of your mouth better be an answer because I don’t want to ask again,” his voice fills the silence in the room, only broken by the sounds of the candles crackle, “where is she?”

“We cannot disclose where—“ there’s a loud crack, the splintering of wood and the wet squelch of flesh and blood, and a cold breeze swept through the room, the candles going out.

Satoru’s fingers dug into the soft flesh of his neck, forcing the broken floorboards digging into his wrinkled skin, “I said I want an answer, do you think I would think twice about killing any of you?”

There’s a pause and the silence is only filled by the sound of gore dripping down the paper screens and hitting the floor.

“The only reason I haven’t yet was there was no point to it — no meaning,” and he could see you this morning, his lips curled for you, a strangled choking noise leaving his throat as the pads of his fingers squeezed around his neck, “but now I have every reason to, so tell me before I lose my patience,”

A silence fills the room again, until one of them speaks, “Let him go, and we’ll tell you.”

~~~

“Who do you work for?” the words come out strangled, your fingers bunching up your soaked fabric and pressing it to the gash on your stomach, “why did you bring me here?” You force yourself not to give them the satisfaction of a flinch.

“Do you really think it would be that simple to get me to reveal the reason, jujutsu sorcerer?” you hear a distant laugh, “we have our reasons, isn’t that simple enough? Or rather—”

His footsteps clapped against the floor, your head wrenched upwards, as a small yelp escapes your lips, “does it matter when you’re going to die either way?”

And you grit your teeth, before spitting on his face, half blood, half saliva, “At least I don’t have to live a life as pathetic as yours,” his fingers squeeze at your chin, your jaw aching under his grasp.

“Pathetic?” He wipes his face with the sleeve of his shirt before, throwing you to the floor, body screaming in pain, but you refuse to show weakness, even as tears burn at your tear ducts, “And yet, I’m not the one bloodied and battered and two inches from death, bitch,” he scoffs, muttering, “I can see why they ordered us to kill you now, who would want someone like you around?”

“Now I’m listening, who gave you those orders?” Another voice says from behind him. The man freezes, while you lift your head, a small smile on your lips, “are you hard of hearing or just plain stupid? Well, I don’t really need to even ask that, do I?”

He was shrouded in shadow, but you didn’t need to see him to know it was him — especially as he tugged his blindfold down with two fingers, blue eyes devoid of any humor or joy, and instead only with hatred.

“Satoru Gojo,” the voice left the man’s lips slowly, but before he could react, the special grade curse that had held you was barreling towards him in a moment, before Satoru held it at bay with his infinity, the other curses following suit — how many did this curse user have in the room with him? Three? No more like five or six, but even so — you scoffed under your breath, it wouldn’t matter, “No, you idiots! Don’t—”

And in a moment, they are eviscerated — held back by his infinity, deep seeded growls and roars leaving their lips, “c’mon now, is this the best you can do? I was expecting more from those bold enough to take my wife, but I guess I expected too much,” he sighs, before he lifts one hand, “Cursed Technique Amplification, Blue,”

You barely can make out the screams from one another, the splatter of their essence raining down from above, until you hear footsteps rushing towards you, and you’re hauled to your feet, pressed against the cursed user, his hand around your neck.

“One more move, and I break her neck,” Satoru landed below with ease, his gaze raised until he met yours, and you saw it soften for you — a silent question of ‘are you okay?’ and your nod and a forced smile that told him you were okay enough.

“You can try,” his words were slow and measured, just as his steps towards you were, “but I don’t think you understand who you are dealing with,”

He tensed, fingers digging into your neck, “I know perfectly well who you are, Satoru Gojo, and I am not afraid to die by your hand for this,”

Satoru’s lips curled, “I wasn’t talking about me,”

The kidnapper’s eyes narrowed, “What?”

And you jabbed at his knee, the bone splintering under your force, but you barely hear the snap or his scream because of the blood roaring in your ears. You don’t spare a second before slamming your other hand into his head, nose breaking from your fist, blood splattering across your arm. You ready yourself for another move, before you felt him ripped away from you, a strong arm around you to steady you.

“It’s okay, I got you, sweetheart, it’s okay,” Satoru murmured, soft words meant to soothe you, as his body envelops your tense muscles, until you finally relax into his arms. Your eyes burned with tears, as you looked up at him, before your eyes slid to the kidnapper, Satoru’s hand around his throat.

“I knew you’d come for me, Toru,” you whispered, grasping onto the front of his jacket, “I knew you would,”

“I always will,” and his eyes turned to the man, voice even, “should I kill him once I’m done questioning him?”

You know he means it.

“I don’t know,” you reply, fingers curling as you pressed your face against his chest, “but I don’t want you to have blood on your hands, not for me,”

“It wouldn’t be for you. It would be for me,” he says softly, “but we can discuss it later,” and then others began to flood the scene, the sights and sounds feeling distant as your eyes drooped with exhaustion.

“Satoru, I’m—“ your voice broke, “I really tried—“

“Shh, you did great,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your head, as you finally succumbed to exhaustion, slumping over in his arms, “I’ll handle the rest.”

~~~

“You all must be wondering why I called this meeting,” Satoru said, standing at the head of the Gojo clan’s meeting room. It had been long since he had stood as the head, but far too short for his liking. He had discarded this part of his life as soon as he could, joining Jujutsu Tech without a second of hesitation, and continued to run the operations of his clan as an adult, behind the scenes.

But it seems he was too lax.

It had been a few weeks since the incident. You were asleep for a good day in and out while Shoko worked on you. She came out of your room, pulling off the surgical cap off her head, and Satoru got to his feet, as Shoko removed her gloves and mask, “She’s fine, Satoru,” and he sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“How bad was it?” he asks, and she tilts her head, hands slipping into her pockets.

“Are you asking that to know how badly she was injured or so you can do worse to whoever did this?” Satoru shrugs, lips parting and she holds up a hand, “never mind, the less I know, the better,” she grabs your file and opens it, “most of her injuries related to cursed technique burn out — it seems whoever took her used curse spirits to attack her, she mentioned when she was conscious briefly that they didn’t control the curses, but they seemed to be able to work with them somehow,”

“More intelligent curses have been appearing since Yuji became Sukuna’s vessel,” Satoru murmured, but this wasn’t related to the asparagus special grade or volcano head. It was separate — it was personal.

“But all of this to take a first grade sorcerer, why?” and he shakes his head.

“It wasn’t for her — it was for me,” and that’s why they hadn’t killed you, “is she awake?”

Shoko sighed, “She should be waking up in a bit. She didn’t need much aside from some RCT treatment and stitches for the wounds she sustained,” she places a hand on his shoulder, “go see her, and try not to murder anyone until she wakes up,” she turns to leave, heels clicking.

“Wait,” Satoru stops her, and she pauses, “I need a favor.”

~~~

Satoru never liked hospitals. He hadn’t spent much time in them for actual injuries, because of his abilities. However, he spent far too much time inside medical facilities for the Gojo clan’s required medical check-ups. It was to ensure the future head’s health, he was told, but really, it was an excuse to make sure their cash cow would still give them milk.

Because that’s all he ever was — a pawn.

But he had long shed that role, tossed it from the board, when he had left for Jujutsu Tech. But even so, he lingered outside your room, some things still stuck. Especially when he had new memories — of seeing his comrades dead bodies laid on cold metal slabs.

And would you have been another if he hadn’t made it in time?

Satoru shakes his head of his thoughts, and opens the door. You were still asleep. Tucked into the hospital bed, you looked so small somehow, fragile — two things he never saw you as. How could he have? When you were the one on his first day to greet him and then slap him when he had something pretentious or childish (neither of you remembered but you had insisted it was one or the other).

And he had never let you go after that. But now…he couldn’t even hold you.

The sharp beeps of the machine monitoring your vitals, connected by the tubes and wires that ran all over your body. He reaches for his blindfold so he can look at you, really look at you, but he can’t. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails digging into the soft of his palms,

But you were alive. You were alive. You were alive.

That’s what he had to tell himself as he drew closer to your side — no matter how you looked now, you were okay. And that’s what was most important.

“Are you going to brood by my bedside all day?” his gaze snaps to you, your eyes fluttering open still, still drooping and exhausted, but a soft smile on your lips, “Because hospitals are depressing enough, Toru,”

He chuckles, forcing his tears back and his voice to be event, “Sorry, sweetheart, I forgot to pull out the stops for you this time,” and his fingers find yours, lacing as they always did, but they felt so cold, “next time I’ll bring confetti, balloons, streamers, and I’ll serenade you even—”

You snort, “You may be the best at everything, but I know you’ll sing offkey on purpose just to piss off Shoko or anyone else that visits me,” and he laughs shakily, a sigh stuck in his throat.

He presses his forehead to yours, “I love you, so much, y’know that, yeah?”

“I love you too, so much, Toru,” you cup his cheeks, turning your head to press your lips to his hand, “thank you for saving me,”

“You saved yourself, I just cleaned up a little,” his lips find yours in a soft kiss, and your brow furrowed, “what? Are my kissing skills that bad?”

You roll your eyes, “No, but are you okay?” and he scoffs softly, shaking his head.

“You’re the one who got kidnapped and hurt, and you’re asking me if I’m—”

“Satoru, you asked me if you should murder that guy,” you tilted your head, “I know you’re not against killing if it’s necessary or deserved, but the way you said it, I got worried,”

“I’m fine, I just—” he cut off, “I just need to figure out who did this,” you squeeze his hand, “I have to,”

“Satoru—“

“I know you’re okay, but you don’t know how afraid I was that you wouldn’t be—“ he cuts off, “and it’s not just that,” his fingers curl around yours tighter, “it’s not just us we’ll have to worry about in the future. We’re already a family, but what will happen if someone targets you and our future kids?” He takes a shaky breath at the thought,

“I have to make an example.”

Your gaze grows sad, pressing a kiss to his lips, if only to ground him for a moment, “I know,” but you frown all the same, “but promise me, you won’t do anything stupid, ok?”

But he was far from stupid — but the people before him were as close as anyone could get.

“You all are aware of my wife’s attack a few weeks ago,” he said in measured words, swallowing the lump in his throat, “I’m here to tell you that she has succumbed to her wounds,” his voice wavered, breaking, “she’s gone,”

There were whispers and murmurs that swept over the room, all were silenced by the lift of a hand — one of the Gojo Clan elders, the geezer leader as he liked to call him.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Satoru,” he said, lips twisted in a fake frown, “we heard that your beloved wife passed from her injuries a week ago,”

“And yet, I see you’ve brought someone for me to meet,” his eyes slide to the woman dressed for a wedding rather than a meeting, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

The woman’s painted lips kept in a neutral expression, her body so rigid he could have mistaken her as a statue if not for his six eyes, and her eyes refused to meet his.

“Satoru, I understand you are mourning, but we have to think of the future of the Gojo clan, and our future place in the Jujutsu world is only as secure as the next heir—“

“And so you thought to disrespect my wife by trying to marry your choice?” but their brows furrow as he begins to laugh, one that sends shivers down their backs.

The elders all gape at him, sharing looks, before turning back to him as his laughter finally settles into a quiet chuckle, “Satoru, what is this?”

“It’s funny that you ever thought I’d fall for this bullshit,” he pulls off his sunglasses, cerulean eyes gleaming in the low light, “did you know my wife was never supposed to be sent on this mission? Or rather, there were no reports of cursed spirits in the area, but yet, orders came for her to report to where she was,”

A hush falls over the group, “And why are you telling us this?”

“Because I think you all have forgotten your place,” in a blink, he’s grasping the neck of the elder, the very same man who had taken him away from his parents at the age of two to ensure his training was done properly, “I am the strongest, not the Gojo clan. I’m the only Gojo needed for the clan to be prosperous,”

“You insolent child—“ Satoru squeezes around his neck, gasps and whimpers clawing their way out from his grip, veins bulging as he tried and failed to pull Satoru’s hands off. He had even let the old man penetrate his infinity and all he had managed was a scratch or two.

“You should be careful when you’re talking to the ‘child’ who has your life in his hands,” and he grows silent, “now, to get back to the point, where did those orders come from?”

A quiet washed over the room, the only sounds were the shaky gasps of the elder in his hand, “W-what are—“

“I had a chat with the higher ups — those rotten old geezers may not like me, but I know they like all their limbs intact,” he drops the elder and twists his arm behind his back, wrenching back until he heard a cracking noise, “and they told me the orders came from the Gojo clan, and I wondered why would my own clan send the wife of the head off to be executed,”

“Satoru—“ one of the elders spoke, and he tilted his head.

“If you want him to die, your excuses will only make this go faster,” and his mouth shuts, “I’ll take your silence as a confirmation that all of you had a hand in this,” he sighs, removing his sunglasses, running his fingers through his hair, “man, I’ve had conspiracies against me, but I never guessed you’d target the one person I value above everything else. But I knew you would fail her little test,”

He’s met with furrowed brows and gritted teeth, the elder looking up at him in fear, “W-what?”

“You see if I had it my way, I would have killed you all, no questions asked,” his fingers close over the top of his head, wrenching him backwards to meet his gaze, “But my wife, my very much alive wife,” he adds, with a glance to the woman looking increasingly faint with each second that passes, “she would want me to see if you’d come clean about the plan and whether some of you were innocent,” his lips curl, “but she doesn’t know the bloody history of the Gojo clan like we do,” and his fingers dig into the flesh of the elder, “so what’s a few more bloodstains?”

He tears off his head, screams ringing out as a rush of scarlet paints the walls, splattering across the other elders. The woman offered to be his wife rings over the others, her shrill shriek piercing their eardrums. It’s a dull thud as the lifeless corpse falls to the floor, as Satoru wiped the blood from his cheek, a cock of his head and eyes flashing with anger.

“You can’t do this! You—“ Satoru’s fist connects with his face, blood flooding his features.

“I can, because I’ve decided the Gojo clan needs to get rid of the tumors that infect it, and besides,” his body crumples to the floor as his foot slams into their stomach, a sick, wet noise that draws gasps and open mouthed silent screams from the others, “what are you going to do about it?”

“Please, please, she’s alive—” one of them begged, all of them falling to their knees, wrinkled faces contorted in fear, blown out eyes and faces wet with tears only making them more ugly than he thought was possible — he really couldn’t end up like these geezers, “we only wanted what was best—we wanted the next head of the clan to be even more powerful than you are—”

He laughs, not an ounce of mirth or levity, shivers running down the spines of the others who watched, as he stepped over the body of the elder, lips twisted into a wide grin, “And there’s your mistake,”

He loomed over the one who spoke, shadow cast over him, as his fingers curled around his arm, before breaking it off, spurts of blood splattering on his clothes, mixing with the other — some of it flecked across his face.

Satoru wiped his face with his forearm, tilting his head. He knew they were begging and pleading — lips moving, words forming, but it all fell on deaf ears. After all they had never bothered to listen to any sorcerer before, did they? Suguru’s face came to mind — flashes of the spring he would never get back — so why should he listen to theirs?

“You were too busy worrying about the next head, when you should’ve been worried about the current one.”

~~~~

You were asleep.

Moonlight gave way to your features in the pitch black room, your soft breaths warming his fingers that ran over your cheek. Shoko had discharged you yesterday, and he had brought you home — but even now with you home, he couldn’t sleep. It felt as if you’d disappear the moment he took his eyes off you, slipping from his grasp just as you almost did.

But you didn’t. You’re here.

It was the same words you had whispered to him every night when he had curled up beside you, “I’m not going anywhere, I’m here, aren’t I?”

But you could disappear.

You could if he wasn’t there with you — if he wasn’t fast enough. Because he couldn’t be everywhere at once, not even the strongest could accomplish that. But he wanted to keep you safe all the same. Would it be selfish to lock you up? Hide you away somewhere others could never find you? Keep you hidden if only to keep you safe.

But you never would be safe, not while you were with him.

“Toru?” Your voice breaks him from his thoughts, eyes fluttering open to meet his as your fingers reach for his cheek, “is that blood?”

And he’s pinned your hands in a blink of an eye, quickly and quietly, “it’s not mine,” his gaze glows in the dark, catching the moonlight streaming in, and he’s leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Toru, what happened?” And he kisses along your cheekbones, your jaw, your nose, your chin, “Satoru—“

“I killed them,” his fingers trace the folds of the satin robe he had helped you into, brushing against the bandages that hid your wounds from his sight, but he could see them all the same, “the people who did this,”

Your brow furrows, “Toru, what do you mean the people who—“

“Why do you stay with me?” He leans down to find your lips in a bruising kiss, lips sliding against yours as his fingers undo the knot of your robe, letting the fabric fall away from your bare body.

“What—“ his lips part from yours, strings of spit connecting your mouths.

“Why do you stay with me when I’m a monster?” and your eyes soften.

“You’re not—“ and he’s cutting you off with another kiss, as your hands struggle under his grip, the other grazing down your side, finding the swell of your hip only to squeeze.

“I’m the perfect weapon,” he kisses down the side of your neck, teeth grazing against your soft flesh harshly, drawing a gasp from your lips, “I could have killed them all, because I know they all knew—“

“Knew what?”

“My clan elders — they wanted to have you die on a mission, they wanted to stage it, so they could have me marry who they wanted,” he pauses, drawing a finger down the valley of your breasts, “create a perfect heir,”

“Satoru—“

He kisses you again, swallowing your words along with your thoughts, parting only to speak, “so I killed them, I didn’t use my cursed technique, I wanted them to feel the pain they gave you, wanted them to feel a fraction of what you did,”

You can’t find a second to speak, his fingers now sliding up your bare leg, as he presses himself closer, erection against your inner thigh, “Toru, you didn’t have to put yourself through that—“

“I wanted to,” he parts your thighs easily, large palm spread against your inner thigh, fingers toying with the edge of your panties, “wanted to tear them to shreds for what they did to you — and what they wanted to do—”

“I’m okay, Satoru, I’m—” a bitter laugh leaves his throat, as his fingers find your bandages again.

“Do you call coming home half dead okay now by jujutsu sorcerer standards?” he shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair, “I told you after Suguru that I would fix this rotten jujutsu world,” he presses kisses up your thigh, “and their deaths did fix one thing — no sorcerer will touch you or our future children again, especially when they speak to the woman the clan wanted to marry off to when your body wasn’t even cold yet,”

“You left her,” and he nods, eyes unable to meet yours.

“I only killed the elders I gathered, anyone else was spared — they didn’t dig their own graves,” his hand loosens around your wrists and you reach for his cheek, cupping his cheek, despite the blood, “I don’t regret it, I’d kill anyone who hurts you, but I didn’t want you to see me like this,”

“Like what?”

“Like a monster,” and you click your tongue, his eyes flitting to yours.

“You’re my Satoru, not a monster, you did what you did to protect me, protect our family,” you murmur, “that’s just about the most Satoru thing you could do,”

“But—“

“And if you are deemed a monster anyway?” You lean up, fingers smearing the blood against your own cheek, “then I’ll just become a monster with you,”

He crashes into you with a kiss, cupping your cheeks, as his tongue slips into your mouth, “can you really be a monster, sweetheart?”

He drags his lips down your neck, his teeth grazing your soft flesh along the hollow of your throat, “T-Toru—“ and his lips find the swell of your breasts, his tongue dragging over your pert nipple, while his fingers hook into the elastic of your panties, snapping it against your skin, “y’know I can be, I would be, for you,”

He peers up through half lidded eyelids, his thumb drags down your puffy bottom lip, “I can’t imagine someone so sweet like you as one,” he murmurs, as he pulls back, lips slick with spit, as he drags his fingers toying with the soaked fabric of your panties, “and I wouldn’t want to drag you down with me,”

Your fingers reach forward, propping yourself up on your other arm, “Drag me or not,” you cup his chin, “you’re stuck with me,”

“Can we make it a binding vow?” you roll your eyes, and his lips curl for the first time since he’s got here, “c’mon sweets, I have to get my reassurance somehow,”

You hold up the giant rock on your finger, the very diamond you had told Satoru was too much, “this wasn’t enough—” the last word is a bite back gasp, as he noses at the drenched crotch of your underwear, a deep inhale that has you squirming, “No, Toru—” but he’s pinned your thighs down, prying them open, as he gazes up at you.

“Uh-uh, princess, I don’t remember saying you could move, especially when you could reopen your wounds,” his nose bumps against your clothed clit, a wicked smile as he drags his tongue over the already wet fabric, “you still haven’t seen how much of a monster I can be.”

~~~

“Ngh, Toru, can’t, I can’t—” but you can — you know you can from the heat building in your sloppy cunt under already soaked through sheets, and he knows too well you can too, from the way your pussy flutters around his three fingers, knuckle deep as they piston in and out, while his mouth toys with your abused clit, “please—”

You lost track of how many times you had orgasmed — his fingers, his mouth, and sometimes both — he had pulled each one after the other, allowing small reprieves, only to bury himself back in. He had even had you ride his face at one point, and you were sure he’d suffocate under your drenched cunt, until he flipped you on your back again.

“Please what, sweets?” he slows his fingers, curling them a certain way that makes your lips fall open, “you’ll have to use your words,” he pulls back.

Chest heaving, chin glistening with your release, his tongue cleaned his lips off before he wiped the rest off, before pressing open mouthed kisses to your inner thighs. And soon enough, his fingers were sinking back into your messy pussy, splitting you open with his thick fingers.

“Didn’t you say you wanted this, sweetheart?” his words cut through the wet squelch of his digits fucking you open, “wanted to drag you down with you, wanted this—” and he sucks hard at your clit, tongue flicking over it, making your back arch, “wanted me to drag you down with me,” and he punctuates it with a thrust of his fingers, brushing against a spot that has you seeing spots, “gotta make good on your promise, and I have to erase all the pain they gave you,”

And you barely manage to latch onto the desperation in his voice, the way the facade flickers.

He fucks you ever so slightly deeper, and you cum hard, tearing through you as your body tenses, pleasure washing over you as it did every single other time, melding into the others, “Good girl,” he murmurs, as he works his fingers through your orgasm, the slick noises becoming white noise, until he finally pulls the digits from inside you.

Your eyes flutter open to the sight of him licking his digits clean one by one of your cum, his lips curled in a soft smile as they meet your gaze, his hand sliding up your thigh gently as it quaked, the very same fingers he had used to murder the people that hurt you, were so gentle when it was you — he was always so gentle when it was you.

But never himself.

You reach up for him, palm cupping his cheek, while the other finds his bare shoulder — clothes long discarded, “I love you,” and the cracks spread, spider webbing from the epicenter, “you know that right?”

His words seem caught in the back of his throat, “Even now?”

“Especially now,” and he’s pressing you against the mattress again, your thighs folded against your chest, legs slung over his shoulders, “you saved me,”

His gaze softened, “you saved me first,” and again and again, he couldn’t count the number of times you did, by just existing, pressing a kiss to the side of your thigh, “but if I’m too late next time?”

“You can’t be everywhere,” your fingers lace with his, “and I just need you,” and still in this situation, his ego can inflate at your praise — nosing at your thigh, a deep inhale, before dragging his tongue up the side of your leg, “only you.”

He drags his weeping erection over your soaked folds, leaking tip teasing your slit while he watched his pre mix with yours, “Think you need more than just me,” and when he lets the tip sink into you, your lips part with his name, just as your walls part for him, “want something else, wifey?”

“You’re the worst,” you look up at him, lips curling despite your pout, your fingers grasping at the sheets under you, as your cunt tries to swallow him whole, “Toru, how long are you going to tease me for?”

And he’s pulling out only to draw a groan from your lips, “If you’re such a monster, thought you could take it—“ and your hand reaches for him, tugging him close by his neck.

“I swear to god, if you don’t fuck me right now—“

He grins, “If you insist,”

Fuck.

He sinks into you all at once, all too fast and all too slow, balls deep as he bottoms out inside you, your walls fluttering only to pull him deeper, “fuck,” your head falls back as his tip brushes against your cervix, “too fucking big, I swear if you rip my stitches open—”

“You don’t think I cleared this before I decided to do this, baby?” He grunts, glancing down to see how your messy hole stretched open as he sunk into you, “can’t believe anyone thought I’d fuck anyone but you — you’re the only one for me, sweetheart,”

You couldn’t help but notice his eyes flicker to your pussy stuffed full with his huge dick, “You talking to me or my cunt—“ and he begins to fuck you, remark undercut by the moan that he pulled from your lips, “f-fucker—“

“That’s exactly what you wanted, isn’t it sweetheart?” the lewd sounds of skin slapping together filled the room, his soft grunts and your moans, “wanted me to fuck you open, yeah?” and he wanted this, needed this after this week — it had been too long since he felt you under him like this — real and alive, his name leaving your swollen, kiss bitten lips.

And you needed it just the same — needed his fingers to dig into the softness of your thighs, needed the way only he could fill every inch of you, needed the soft murmurs of how good you felt, how much he loved you.

“Fuck, Toru, so fast,” you whine, but how could slow down he when you felt so good — so wet and warm, you had joked he could cum just looking at you alone barely a fist around his dick, but it was true — and being inside you just made him unravel completely, all sense of himself lost and drowning in just you, “hngh, it’s so deep,” you babble, tears burning at the corners of your eyes.

“That’s right, sweetheart, gonna fuck you deep, gotta make sure you feel it don’t I?” he coos, and his hand snakes between your thighs, pressing his palm to the bulge in your stomach, making you gasp as your walls clench around him, drawing a grunt from his lips, “that’s it, good girl,”

You keen at his praise, the wet squelch of your cunt around his cock ringing in your ears, balls slapping against your pussy with a rhythm that echoes in your head, as your body arches into him, needing him deeper, harder, faster. He’s nearly rutting into you, his thrusts growing shallow as you clamp down on him, achingly close.

“Those old fucking geezers don’t know what they were talking about—“ he grunts, running his mouth all the same even as he sunk impossibly fucking deeper, “don’t know this is the only cunt I’d ever breed. The only one I’d ever breed. The only one I can. Know why?” And you only can whimper, as his fingers rub against your clit, “because this is the only one made for my cum,”

And his words push you over the edge, cumming hard and fast, head lolling back, as his tip bullies your womb, as he fucks you hard over and over through your orgasm, sending pleasure ripping up your spine. Satoru groans as he feels you spasm, soaking in him in your juices, as he watches a white ring of your cum form around the base of his dick, dripping onto the clean sheets with the evidence of your arousal.

He can’t hold back.

He rails into you, a moan of your name falling past your lips making you pull him close, shifting your legs around his back just so he can sink into you even a centimeter deeper—

“Fuck, g’nna cum,” he’s meeting your glazed over eyes, knowing “gonna fill you up, yeah? Get you nice and round with my baby,” he groans at the thought, the image of you carrying his kid, stomach swollen as you grow his child, “and they’ll know, all of them, that you’re the only one I’d cum in,” and he’s so close, dick twitching as your arms around his neck tug him close.

“Cum in me, Toru, give me our baby,” and that’s it, he’s spilling inside you, spurting his hot release inside, again and again, as he fucks it deeper, filling you up.

“That’s it, take every drop,” he’s relentless, until he finally eases from you, his release trickling out. A soft sigh parts your lips that grows into a sharp gasp as he’s already flipping you over onto your stomach.

“Toru—” you whine.

“Aw did you think we were done sweetheart?” a pillow cushions your still bandaged stomach, placed underneath to support you, a shudder down your body as he rubs his cock against you, as he leans down, hot words murmured against your ear with a grin, before he sinks back into you with one thrust, stuffing his spilling cum back inside, “One thing about monsters are that we also have monstrous stamina.”

~~~

It was early, but Satoru was already awake.

He always had trouble sleeping, but now? His eyes found your sleeping form beside him, under the covers and safe, just as he had left you that morning. He didn’t know if he’d ever sleep more than three hours now. He brushed the back of his knuckles over your cheek, but you needed sleep — one of three things you never could live without (food and himself being the other two). And you definitely needed it now, after he had kept you up — nearly all night.

You shifted in your sleep, revealing several blooming hickies and love bites he had littered your body with, lips curling at the sight, as he pulled the blanket back up around you.

He was selfish — he should have divorced you the moment he had gotten you back. Let you leave because it was the right thing to do — to let you live a life safe without him. But he couldn’t — because he couldn’t imagine waking another morning, spending another day without knowing where you were, how you were doing.

It was selfish. But you let him be — especially when it came to you.

And his phone vibrates on the nightstand, whirring again and again, as he picks it up with a sigh, Yaga’s name flashing on the display. He takes one last glance at you before slipping from bed, stepping into the living room.

“Sensei! To what—“ he hardly gets a word out before screams fill his ears. He rubs his chin, it was too early for this.

He makes out the words — Gojo clan, dead, scandal, murder (wasn’t sure if he meant if he was going to murder Gojo or he meant what happened to the elders).

“It was a clan dispute, there was no need to tell you,”

Satoru held the phone away from his ear, Yaga’s yelling told him everything he needed to know, “Yeah, yeah, I know, the higher ups know — or they probably do by now,” he almost chuckles at the thought, and how he would love to do the same to them — knuckles white as he grips his phone — love to make them feel the same pain the sorcerers cared nothing for felt, make them—

Arms curl around him from behind and he knows it’s you, his body relaxing into your touch with practiced ease, your face buried in his back. His fingers relax, finding yours, tracing over the back, as he lifts one hand to his lips.

—But it wasn’t the time for that.

“Fine, fine, no need to have a heart attack, old man — I’ll talk to them tomorrow,” Yaga was still speaking until Satoru hung up, turning to face yoy, your eyes half closed as his fingers found your cheek, “what are you doing awake, sweets?”

His lips curl as you lean into his touch, “you weren’t next to me when I woke up,” you murmur, nose brushing against his fingers as your eyes flutter open and closed, “how am I supposed to sleep when my pretty husband isn’t next to me?”

“Just pretty?” and you snort, as his arm sneaks around your waist, pulling you to his chest, your head right over his heart, a content sigh on your lips.

“Are you ever serious?”

“Always,” and you smile up at him, chin resting against him, “what is it? Do I got something on my face?”

“You think our baby will have your pretty face?” You hum, and his gaze softens at the thought, “I hope so,”

He grins, “You do huh? And here I thought my ego didn’t need more stroking,”

“It doesn’t, but my husband deserves every bit of praise he gets — because he doesn’t get enough,” you kiss him softly, nose bumping against his.

“You planning on showering me with your praise, sweetheart?” And your lips finds his again.

“Always,” and he’s leading you back towards the bedroom, “where are you—“ you squeal as he scoops you up into his arms and carries you back to bed, gently placing you down, a grin on his lips.

He drags his thumb down your kiss ruined lips, “Do you think I’m gonna let you leave this bed without breeding you right?” He clicks his tongue, “I’m far from done with you, wifey,”

You’re so beautiful, hair spread on the pillow like a halo, “So we’re not leaving until I’m pregnant?” Your fingers brush against his cheek, “we might be here a while,”

Satoru wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

He kisses you again, long and languid, “There’s nothing I want more than to stay in bed with you.”

✧ a/n: sorry i've been gone for a bit!! i got super busy with work and got hella writer's block and right when i was feeling ready to write-- i got sick. but i'm doing much better now!!

✧ taglist: @arrivedercis, @ssetsuka, @ch3rryistheg, @satorusmochis, @sunarins-bae, @blindbabycadder , @yihona-san06 , @dantaku , @archieballs , @ceruleansol , @mqcht , @xxemmarldxx , @chiyokoemilia , @theshylittleelfgirl , @rroseselavyyy , @out4thenight , @jatyes , @unreliablefangs , @sleazymac-n-cheesy , @celestialseasart , @minsified , @akemfs , @ranatherealestsigma , @zherryxtar , @virtualangelllllll , @itsmebien , @difluenza , @rougebrainsludge , @mochigod , @euphorism , @vii-is-free , @elliesndg , @beneaththelamina , @monarch-of-anime-simping , @hhimetsu , @simply-a-s1mp , @jennieclips , @svt-backup , @angelbunsx , @duhhitsmiranda , @satowooo , @fushitoru , @lesaurita , @briluvslee , @gojo-gets-me-wetter , @catsgomurp , @pinkyvomit , @hyori2 , @wakashudou , @celestialgojo , @sxnkuna, @nakariabnrb, @dazailover1900, @hanlay, @being-me-is-not-a-sin, @kxouri, @forest-fruits-jam, @spider-fan72, @strawmariee

[bitterrfruit]

southpaw [ii]

boxer!Ghost x reader cw: dubcon. lots of blood if the pics didn't make that obvious. 18+ mdni here's part 2 to my boxer ghost fic. this one is feral. sorry [masterlist]

Your communications with Simon following the frightening tryst in his sitting room had been few and far between. 

After he had abandoned you throbbing and empty and you plummeted back to earth, you swiftly left. He had called you a spiteful little shit when you stormed out of his flat in a huff, with just a shred of caustic humour in his tone that belied his bitterness. 

When your wits — with the force of a kick to the belly — had returned to you in the taxi home, you had told yourself that was that. You’d block his number and you’d kick the revoltingly crude and violent stranger out of your life. Reduce him to a foul memory. 

But as you went to check your phone, looking at the six exchanged messages between yourself and his unsaved number, you faltered. A failure of your self-assertion. Instead you dumped your phone in your bag and glowered out of the window for the duration of the drive home, sucking on your vitriolic arousal like a sour drop. 

You resentfully returned to your quotidian routine the next morning. Catching the subway to work and back, slogging through the Monday at your desk while sorely trying to distract yourself from the residual sensation of his fingertips in your slit. You stared into the voids between the pixels of your monitor, offering one-word answers when any of your coworkers addressed you — so vacant throughout the day that your manager had to check in with you, and you dismissed your fugue as a mere headache. 

Your phone didn’t go off once that workday — no text from a friend, nor a relative, not even spam. Only whilst packed in the train car on the way home, sardine-squished between people taller than you, did your phone buzz in your pocket. 

A text from the number you failed to block. 

Can still smell your cunt on me. 

Mortified, you immediately tucked the phone to your hips and shut the app, hoping the people pressed against you couldn’t read the message that just mired your phone screen. 

The follow up appeared as a banner. 

Making me hungry. 

Your cheeks burned hot and you bit down on nothing, too humiliated to return to the app and reply to his filth. You stuffed your phone in your pocket for the remainder of the sticky train ride, and only reopened it once you had arrived back home and locked your front door behind you. 

You hammered out a reply with splenetic fingers as you took off your coat. You’re a degenerate. 

His answer came quickly. Still grumpy?

Stop messaging me. 

The bouncing ellipses of his typed reply appeared and vanished a number of times, and you scolded yourself for attentively awaiting the answer you had expressly refused. When no reply came, your chest became heavy. 

And it remained heavy, for the next two days, while your phone stayed as empty and dry as you were. Every time you picked it up you felt the flutter behind your ribs, the briefly lifted spirits as you silently hoped for a text from him. Maybe even a missed call. And every time it was blank, you felt your stomach sink. Stupid, for you had all but told him to fuck off. Perhaps you simply wanted him to persist. To insist. 

In your capricious impatience you even typed out a few messages to him, but your shame ensured that they remained unsent. 

You could have just apologised. 

Didn’t think you’d give up that easily. 

I didn’t mean never message me again. 

On Wednesday evening, after work, you returned to the bar you had met him at. Maybe he’d be there, waiting for you, hoping you’d return so that he could accost you. You even planned for it, practised your spiteful response for when you found him there — you’d ignore him for a bit, to make him squirm, to force him to make the first move. Maybe you’d even pretend to have forgotten his name. 

When he wasn’t there, you bitterly paid for your own drink and went home after only one. 

You gave up hope as another sluggish day came and went, arriving home to your empty apartment and getting ready for bed far earlier than you normally would. Washed your face and brushed your teeth before nine-thirty. 

You simply couldn’t face the indignity of reaching out to him. Not after setting your own boundary and he had aberrantly obliged it. 

Once it hit ten you tucked yourself into bed under your winter-weight duvet, forced shut your eyes as you resisted the urge to check your phone before going to sleep. 

And just as a groggy, heat-dizzied slumber began to suck you in, hallucinations of his mammoth hand kneading between your thighs, you heard your phone vibrate loudly atop the wooden surface of your nightstand. Its bluish glow illuminated your dark bedroom for a few seconds before it dimmed again. 

Instantly awake and buzzing with adrenaline you reached to check, snatching your phone from its resting place and glaring bright-eyed at the screen. Probably just an email. Maybe a text from your coworker. Or a pop-up ad for UberEats. 

Fight tomorrow at 8. 

It wasn’t even an invitation. He was just informing you, and even that was a generous presumption. Maybe he was arrogant enough to assume you’d be there without an overt expression of his desire to see you. 

Your seat is by the ring. 

Bastard, you thought. Almost blurted it aloud. You chewed your lip. You knew you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t. 

It took you a few attempts to conjure up a response. You typed some out and then swiftly deleted them. 

Eventually, you landed on; You rly think i’m going to come and watch?

Wouldn’t have got you a seat if i didn’t. 

You scoffed at your screen. Why should i?

Still wound up, are you?

The prick. Wtf does that mean?

All grouchy i left you high and dry?

You didn’t notice your thighs grinding together. No. You're a dickhead and i can’t believe i went out with you.

Quit bitching, jesus. Then, a follow up; You’ll get what you want after.  

Your better conscience told you to slam down the phone and abandon the conversation and the fling in its entirety. Unbridled asshole that he was. Instead you held your thumbnail between jittery teeth and rubbed your toes together. 

Who are you fighting? You asked, ungracefully changing the subject. 

Does it matter?

You bit your lip. Not interested in watching you lose. 

I won’t. 

His arrogance made you snort. How do you know?

Got a prize to fight for. 

His charm was shallow and crude, skirting a charade, and yet it unleashed a swarm of butterflies in your chest. Funneled a loathsome heat into a pool between your legs. 

You knew what he thought his prize might be. He hadn’t been shy about it, had he? He plainly believed he could win your cunt as easily as he could a championship belt. 

What’s that? You texted back, after a deliberate delay, wondering whether he’d follow up the text with something more explicit. 

You tell me. 

Dumped the burden on you to be the vulgar one. Not your strong suit, so you decided to attempt to emasculate him. As if such a thing were possible. 

Hm. The other guy might fight to win it too. 

The typing bubbles of his reply came and went for a minute. Wouldn’t put it past him. 

You know him? 

Mate. 

You’re fighting your mate? 

Yep. n I’ll beat him like last time. 

You couldn’t explain the blooming heat in your belly at the prospect of watching him beat and be beaten by someone like him, big and heavy, just as ribald. You imagined a rivalry, all in good fun, until it wasn’t. You imagined they’d be looser with their fists, less mindful of the rules, when it was only their mate at the receiving end of the blow. You wonder if his opponent knows about you. What he might have told him. 

And if you don’t? 

There was no sense in your question, and no vindictiveness in your doubt. Maybe you just wanted him to express some possessiveness. To double down on his certainty. To claim ownership. 

You nearly smacked yourself as the notion smeared its way through your head. 

He’ll be a lucky man.

Not even a lick territorial. You chose not to dissect your lack of disappointment. 

You didn’t reply to his final message, fingers too busy pinching at the angry clit under your knickers, hoping the castigation would settle the lust that throbbed in your temples — you knew it wouldn’t, but the compulsion to alleviate the burning in its nexus puppeteered your arm as though on strings. 

Didn’t let yourself come, though. His ragged words wended about in your head, leaden and demanding. You can wait, like me.

Trudging through the Friday was infinitely more gruelling than any of the days prior. Tumescent anticipation churned in the pit of your stomach, every waking minute. You could not focus on a single task beyond the picking of your fingernails and crossing of your legs. Busied yourself with regular trips to the bathroom, to wipe away the distracting wetness that puddled in your core every time you reread the (not even that sexual) messages in your phone. 

When a colleague glibly asked you what your Friday night plans were, you lied. Night in, probably. You told yourself that you hadn’t yet decided whether you would attend. A smarter girl would avoid it like the plague. 

You knew yourself better than that. 

Despite his lack of contact, you still tortured yourself under the shower after work. Scrubbed clean every mound and every crevice, re-shaved the same areas you tended to until they were raw, left a fruity-sweet hair mask in your locks for long enough that the tresses imbibed the scent. Smeared your body in your caramel-macadamia body lotion, brushed through your lashes a coating of mascara, painted on a layer of rosy-pink lip-gloss. 

You excavated your entire closet in the hunt for the right kind of outfit; you wanted to look pretty, but not like an overdressed deer in headlights. Like a cool-girl who knew how boxing works (you didn’t), but not like you were trying too hard. Settled for a miniskirt and a graphic tee, boots and stockings to keep you warm. You hadn’t forgotten his refusal of them the last time, but it was a cold and windy evening, and he could fuck himself. 

As the time passed seven and you still hadn’t heard from him, just as you began to wonder whether he had given up on you all together — he finally texted you. 

The only content of his message was the address of the venue, with no frills nor any sly attempts to provoke you. Simply the name of the arena and the street it was on. Knowing you’d need a drink, or two, or three — you plugged the location into Uber and booked a ride instead of driving yourself, and it was a ten minute trip through the dark sleet. 

The arena, so he called it, was barely an established venue — some kind of run-down community centre with layers of faded and peeling posters glued to its grimy brick walls, windows of steel-meshed glass and a single street light hanging over the push-door entrance. 

You carried your heart in your teeth. It evidently would not be a televised fight, like you had wistfully imagined. What kind of back alley shithole–

The resentful thought was knocked out of you along with the wind in your lungs as a shoulder collided with you — a pair of men with their hands in the pockets of their puffers steamrolled past you, noisy raillery as they went through the entrance. 

Attendees of the fight, you supposed – hoped – because you elected to follow them, with no other recourse, head held low under the hood of your jacket to avoid the rain. 

You elbowed the glass swinging door when the men in front of you didn’t hold it for you, and immediately you heard the rowdy din of a crowd elsewhere in the building, muffled by walls or floors. The interior was brutally bright, beaming fluorescent bars hung ungracefully from the ceiling, their glow bouncing off the painted white cinderblock of the walls and onto the peeling grey linoleum. 

Some kind of club or gym, you ascertained – peering down the halls and into doors, you spotted weights and bars, foam mats, black-and-red punching bags hanging from chains. 

You were suddenly fraught with the same discomfiture that simmered whenever you were somewhere you didn’t belong. You followed the men through another set of doors, and down a long flight of stairs — the light of the fluorescents gradually grew dimmer as you descended into the darkness, where the hammering of an unruly crowd only became louder. The walls were unpainted in the subterranean floor of the building, and instead gave way to raw cement. At the base of the stairs was a small queue that disappeared around a corner, and you self-consciously stood behind the pair of men you had stalked there. 

Uncertainty roiled in your stomach, suddenly feeling as though you had made a terrible mistake — the basement was dark, and loud, and it struck you that the only voices you heard were male. You should have had a drink before you left. And just as you anxiously considered turning around, three more babbling men piled in behind you, sandwiching you between the groups of them, conspicuously alone. 

As the line moved forward, it became clear that the queue was held up by bouncer, and you were next up. A tall man with thick arms, disconcertingly vascular, sinewy neck as thick as a buffalo’s — you wondered if he was a fighter himself, moonlighting as security for the fight. 

“This in’t a nightclub, pet,” he informed you roughly, and as though only just noticing the solitary woman in front of them, you abruptly felt the attention of the men behind you on your back. 

Sure as shit isn’t, you thought to say, but nervousness held your tongue. 

“I’m — yeah, um, I’m here to watch the fight,” you simpered, swallowing after you spoke. 

He let out a huff of laughter at that, and you noticed him catch the eye of the attendees behind you. “Got a ticket, then?”

You gritted your teeth, chewing back curses as you realised the bastard hadn’t even given you one, let alone notified you ahead of time that they would be checking for them. 

Adjusting your fists in the pockets of your puffer coat, you shuffled awkwardly on your feet. “I was invited.” 

“Yeah?” He probed amusedly, “by who?” 

“Simon—” you blurted, cutting yourself off upon realising you didn’t even know the man’s surname. “He’s — um, he’s fighting.” 

The bouncer chortled raucously at that. “Riley?” He laughed, “fuckin’ hell. Alright then. Go on.” 

His tone made your knuckles turn white. What was so funny? “Thanks,” you murmured. 

“Good luck,” he jeered after you, and before you were compelled to ask for what, he was already conversing with the men behind you. 

There was a short and narrow corridor of cement and dim yellow lights around the corner, old posters tacked to the walls, and the commotion of the crowd made your ears reel as it bounced off the concrete. The air was heavy and hot, dense with smoke and body heat, and you suddenly felt too warm for your puffer. You shucked it from your shoulders as you reached the end of the tunnel, sucking down a deep breath as you were birthed right into the snake pit. 

The room within was far larger than you would have believed possible, concrete ceilings high enough that they faded into the darkness. The crowd was deep, droning, perhaps three- or four-hundred strong. All seated in or standing around their rows of plastic chairs, bottles of beer and cigarettes in hand. 

You held your breath as you charily scanned the cement cavern, absorbing all the details you could fit in your congested mind, and wondering if you might see Simon lurking somewhere, waiting for you. But the space swam in shadows, barely lit by the odd crimson lightbulb hung on long wires from the ceiling; the audience’s faces only illuminated by the floodlights that hung in the centre of the atrium – blindingly bright and stark cold, they hammered down on the square ring underneath.

There, you caught sight of him. His back to you, standing in the corner and leaning on the ropes, shoving the end of an unbranded drink bottle into his mouth. You knew it was him by the buzzed auric hair that cladded his skull, the still staggering breadth of his titanic shoulders, the inky scratchings of his tattoos that sheathed his left arm and crept across his chuck to lick his neck. 

You found something of a fissure between the drunken spectators, so you gawkliy weaseled yourself through the braying men on your way to the seat you hoped had indeed been saved for you. 

And as though he had scented you on your approach, Simon’s head perked and turned over his shoulder, and his beady eyes immediately fastened on you. A rakish grin stretched in his lips as you came to a stop by the ropes – thankfully unimpeded – and he turned his gargantuan body to face you fully. 

You hadn’t yet seen him without a shirt on, and the gauzy disbelief was plastered across your face at the sight of him up close. Cumbersome muscles wrapped his ironclad form like the overworked meat of a bull, almost doughy with the lard layer of a well-fed man. His chest was stocky and broad, alabaster skin smeared with freckles and grisly mauve scars, hirsute with a coating of wheaten curls. 

He crouched down with spread knees to get a shred closer to your height, the stage of the ring a good metre off the ground. He wrapped his thick fists around the ropes, and peered at you through them as though behind bars. You tried not to glance down the leg of his shorts that hung loose from his thighs. 

“Look at you,” he crooned, toothy and oozing satisfaction. “Didn’t think you’d show up, pretty.” 

Your stomach went all tight when he called you that. “Didn’t you?” 

“Thought I was a dickhead,” he derided, a breathy chuckle at the memory of your churlish insult. 

“You are.” 

He tilted his head, no argument. “Just came to watch me lose, eh?” 

You cracked a smile at that, and his gratification at your capitulating scorn practically dripped from him. Sick of your bitching, so he said. 

“Yep,” you said, through a simper. 

He looked over his shoulder, then briefly leaned to the side – he pointed behind him with his thumb. “There’s your winner, then.” 

In the far corner, you saw his opponent. 

Not quite as tall but somehow heavier, so laden with muscle that he looked encumbered by it – but he couldn’t have been, not given how he bounced on the balls of his feet like he weighed a hundred kilos less, shanks turning carved and solid with every hop. He shook out the hocks of his arms, contorting his neck to stretch out the tight meat. 

The man wore an unkempt mohawk down the crest of his skull, shaven sides a few weeks grown-out, mottled by the little pink knicks of healed scars. His carved cheeks were coated in a poorly kempt stubble, brows pulled together in concentration, a deep crease between them. 

You froze when he noticed you staring – snagged your probing eyes with a tumid smirk – and cold embarrassment ran down your spine. 

You quickly looked back at Simon, who was all but chortling at you.  

“Not as pretty as me, is he.” 

You couldn’t think of a witty riposte before your mouth began to speak – almost formed the words just as pretty – but you at least had the sense not to inspirit him. “That’s your friend?”

He shrugged facetiously. “Wouldn’t go that far.” 

In the nebulous vacuum of the atrium you heard a bell chime, three sharp dings, and the already tumultuous crowd erupted into an uproar that made you wince. Time to fight. He glanced over his shoulder, kept a few short moments to bid you farewell before he turned into the bout. 

“Do I get a kiss for luck?” He goaded, and you could tell by the mordant tone in his throat he expected you to say no. 

And you did. Gave him an unflinching shake of your head and a pert smile. “You haven’t earned one.” 

He grinned wide at that, barbed and cocksure, as he stuffed a rubbery black mouthguard into his mouth and clacked it into place over his teeth with his thumbs. There was something rabid in his eyes, stark-black and puncturing, edacious at the challenge you had given him and rearing red-hot to fight for you. To earn his prize. 

Your stomach knotted up at the thought, and it made you a little queasy. 

He had already demonstrated an effrontery in his nature, forcibly indulging you with a hand over your mouth and fingers between your legs – an act he decided he didn’t need to earn. He just did. 

You couldn’t help but envisage what he might feel emboldened to do once he believed that he had earned it. What prizes he’d purloin from you. 

You hurriedly swung your head around to find yourself a seat. An empty chair – thank god – wedged between two bulky strangers, one in a suit and the other in a wifebeater. No indication that it was for you, specifically, but you elected to claim it. It was a good spot, too. Right in the middle, not at a corner. The men beside you paid no mind to you, eyes (and likely wallets) rapt in the fight. 

The two bulls in the ring turned to face each other, bouncing heavy on their feet, shaking out every meaty limb and rolling their ox shoulders. Adrenaline thrummed in your chest and sat high and humid on the back of your neck – the kind of heady anxiousness that felt like a hunk of steak between your teeth, one you weren’t allowed to bite into.  

An announcer stood in the centre of the ring, microphone in hand, a snaking wire hanging out of its base and coiling across the foam floor. He opened with gentlemen – the lack of a preceding ladies felt pointed and offputting – and his spiel lacked the dramatic flair you had seen once or twice in a televised match. 

No, instead, he bellowed gruesome statistics into the mic with no polish or class, and your mind went fuzzy as you absorbed it. 

Fighting out of Glasgow and still a little wet behind the ears. Record of 33 wins and 1 loss. 21 wins by way of knockout. Weighing in at 109kg. 1.88 metres tall. In the blue corner, slipperiest cunt alive – Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish. 

In the red corner, a fucking ugly Mancunian with 41 wins, 3 draws, and 4 losses. 37 knockouts. 113kg. 1.97 metres tall. Deadliest southpaw this side of the Pennines – Simon ‘The Ghost’ Riley.

They smile at each other, frothing at the mouth and manic in the eyes, mouthguards making their lips all puffy and dumb. Even quantified, their magnitude is challenging to fathom. You can almost feel the ground vibrate as they jounce on the foamy canvas, watching their heavy muscles jiggle and tighten with each movement.  

Final decider of the trilogy. One win each. Odds are in the Ghost’s favour tonight – old dog with old tricks – four-to-six. Glaswegian underdog odds at six-to-five. Get your wagers in. 

There was something decidedly boorish about the way the announcer roared into the mic, the scathing badinage he spewed towards the two fighters had you believing he must have known them personally. There was nothing legitimate about any of it, when you came to think of it – a considerable griminess sunk heavy in the air and filled up your nose, and you didn’t know how you hadn’t noticed it earlier. 

The frigid realisation rinsed you like cold water, when the announcer stood between them and they raised their fists – ungloved. Wrapped only in tape, a few thick layers over their knuckles, but not remotely thick enough to protect their own bones, let alone their opponent’s. 

Simon invited you to a fucking bareknuckle. You weren’t there to watch a boxing match, you were there to watch bloodsport. 

Suddenly, the knot in your guts wrenched a lot tighter. The label of deadliest carried the weight of feasibility, however horrific the notion was for you to swallow. Distended dread simmered in your stomach and singed your throat.

So why were you on the edge of your seat? 

The dings of the bell made you jump, and the announcer hopped out of the ring as though fleeing from an unspent grenade. No referee. 

The two beasts faced down in earnest, smiles fading – though their impressions remained – huffing and bobbing their heads as though about to charge, loose fists hung in the air close to their faces, heavy cocks bouncing around in their polyester shorts. They were mirror images of each other, minor differences in stature notwithstanding – Simon in his sinistral stance, leading with his left, Johnny with his right. 

They circled each other like sharks, dithering about when to throw the first blow – you saw their mouths move as though speaking to one another, but you couldn’t hear it over the racket of the audience. 

Then, in a blink, Simon jettisoned a fist with such speed and barbarity it blurred through the air, and the smack of its collision cut through the uproar of the crowd – parried, by Johnny’s rigid forearm, and in the flurry Johnny had thrown a retaliatory roundhouse to his adversary’s ribs. 

You winced at every impact as though you could feel the strike on your own skin — they were so fucking brutal with each other, not dampened by even an ounce of concern nor a drop of reservation. No, they bulleted fist after fist, and the blunt smacks of knuckles beating thick meat made your teeth chatter with every collision. 

Round one was over as soon as it had started — three harsh dings of the bell, and then carnivores pulled away from each other, lumbering to their corners and grabbing their drink bottles. 

Simon was already dripping with sweat; he was glossy with it as though freshly showered, it beaded along his brow and traveled in rivulets down his back. His chest hounded with each haggard breath, he wiped his nose with his forearm and met your eye. 

You shrunk a little under his stare, because it didn’t look like him. Not to say you were exceedingly familiar with his face — only the third date, after all – but there was something potently unhuman in him. A reflection of some omophagous barbarian, a minotaur in both stature and constitution. 

He gave you no acknowledgement beyond a blink. He turned his back to you without so much of a nod, shaking himself out like a wet dog. His ferine mind was utterly ensnared by the hunt, you could see it on him, his eyes bulged with it. All red and frayed around the edges. 

Three dings. Round two. 

Their blood-hungry ferocity did not hamper, their vigour to remain at each other’s throats seemingly inexhaustible – the sheer violence made your eyes go glassy, delirious in morbid shock, unable to look away and yet unable to watch too attentively. Knuckles to cheekbones, to ribs, to ears; a volley of savage strikes that seemed aimless and unending, until–

Johnny’s gauzed fist slammed into Simon’s jaw, a blow that he almost followed to the ground, and hot red blood rained out from the site of impact. Splattered carmine in a fan across the grey canvas mat. Simon let out a currish snarl as he turned his head to shake out the blow, and the audience erupted into a deafening furore. Betters on the underdog especially jubilant, you supposed. 

The bells dinged. Round ended. 

When Simon turned to return to his corner and you got a glance of him, nausea climbed foamy up your throat. Blood cascaded from a deep split in his top lip, saturating his chin in bright-red that oozed down his neck and chest, pooling between his pectorals. Looked as if he had been down on all fours, tearing raw meat off the bones of a fresh catch with his teeth, letting the mess plaster him in his ravening. 

You couldn’t look away from him. Something purely eolithic, primitive, animal, simmered in the back of your head, sent leery little shivers down the nape of your neck, coiled up tight between your legs. Why was your mouth watering? 

“That oughtta hurt y’old bastard,” called Johnny from the far corner, voice plush with pride, beaming with it. “Maybe ah’ll win the prize, after all.” 

Your fingernails nearly tore ladders in your stockings. Was he talking about you? 

Simon’s head rocked back from his shoulders, and he cracked a smile, stretching the deep rupture in his lip. Riled. Pumped so full of epinephrine and testosterone that he hardly flinched. He turned back in. Ready to combust. 

The instant the bells chimed – round three – he charged. Hooked a colossal leg around the back of his opponent’s knee, and they were quickly down and knotted on the mat.

You knew vaguely that boxing was fists only – nothing below the belt, no holds – and yet, they wrestled around on the floor like it were a different sport entirely, flinging punches and elbows and hooks from prone positions, growling like skirmishing bears in the frenzy.

A few flips of heavy bodies and Simon had Johnny flat on his back, leviathan knees either side of his hips. Simon curled forward, then, pinning Johnny down with entangled arms – and ran his mouth and nose down the length of his opponent’s neck, smearing a painting of fresh blood over his sweat-soaked skin. Johnny bucked and kicked in an almost pitiful effort to free himself, but in so doing only had more of Simon’s blood slathered across his collar; some on his cheek, some in his mouth. 

You were by turn muddled and revolted by the roiling heat in your core at the sight – repugnant, you thought, unjustifiable– 

WIth a hard buck the Glaswegian broke himself free, and with a twist, managed to land an elbow into the side of Simon’s head, a hard crunch of bone on bone. 

Simon was inexplicably unruffled, his injurious grin almost pleased at the challenge – but with a rapid bludgeon square in Johnny’s nose, he finished the fight, and that was that. Johnny’s head ricocheted off the foam, and still twisted up with his rival, blinked dimly at the ceiling. 

You didn’t even know the man, and you felt pity for him hard and cold in your chest – always sympathised with the underdog, couldn’t help it. He lay there with his hands on his chest as Simon pushed himself to stand, towering over his victim, rolling out his shoulders after the exertion. In the pandemonium the announcer thundered out the count to ten, and when Johnny only rolled onto his side to let the blood of his broken nose pour from his mouth and not down his throat, the count concluded with a deafening knockout. 

If you thought the spectators were loud before, now you knew the true meaning of the word – chaotic uproar that shook the walls of the building, the triumphant howling of those who had bet on the southpaw almost as strident as the upheaval of the ones that bet on the wrong dog. You stood up to hesitantly applaud alongside the men beside you, only fearful that if you remained seated you’d get swallowed up by the stampede. 

In the uproar Simon turned pointedly to face you, his savage eyes riveted to yours – and, like that, the rest of the building sloughed away. It was only him, the fleshy beast, and you, glossy-eyed in his crosshairs. 

There was a weight in how he looked at you, something foregone, a fate already decided on your behalf. You felt it tugging you downward, hanging from your neck, and you could only stand there and wait for it to happen. 

He won. 

You couldn’t put up much of a fuss, after that. He hopped out of the ring once the show had ended, landing on the hard ground beneath with a thud. His eyes were peeled, his pupils pin-pricked, honed in, and you could only hold your breath as he paraded towards you. 

He reached out to take your jaw in his bloody hands, thumb and fingers dimpling your cheeks as he yanked you into a revolting, blood-soaked kiss - his lips were pillowy, wet with sweat and smeared in hot blood, and you could taste the briny metal in your mouth. Tasted like butter and corroded iron. It was awkward too to kiss him over his mouthguard, cumbrous in his mouth, you could feel its rubber on your bottom lip when he sucked it between his teeth. 

You wrestled him on instinct, smacking him on the chest to deter him, and your palm was instantly clammy with his sweat. There were people, men, surrounding you on all sides – spectating, jeering, hollering at the show the boxer was putting on for them. It made you shrivel in humiliation, and it only made Simon chortle. 

He burrowed under his lips with his free fingers as he separated from you – your jaw still in hand – hooking his fingernails into his mouthguard and unsealing it from his teeth with a pop. He pulled it out of his mouth with a repulsive slurp, dragging gooey bands of blood and saliva along with it that clung to his bottom lip. 

He grinned at you, then, and slick red filled every gap in his teeth, pooled at the corners of his mouth like a fucking rabid dog, and you could see the dark exposed flesh between the split in his lip. It made you shiver. It made your chest hot. 

He wiped away the blood he left on your mouth with a thumb. “Where’s my prize, pretty.” 

There was little you could do as he ferried you through the dissipating crowd, patting you on the bottom like he was guiding a cow, and you felt him huffing hot air down the back of your neck. 

When you initially hesitated to go anywhere with him, as he was, he threatened to throw you over his shoulder instead. And that, somehow, would have been even more mortifying than being publicly carted off to be victory-fucked by the champion, so you swallowed your pride and walked instead. 

Walking, if you could call it that – he was at your heels, practically driving you for the entire distance from the ring to an inconspicuous corridor at the quiet end of the atrium, out of sight and in the shadows. He all but pushed you there, nudging behind you if you walked too slowly, giving you a smack to coax you forward. Not the same entrance you had arrived through, but your frenetic thoughts hadn’t quite grasped that yet. 

“In ‘ere,” he instructed flatly, hooking a finger into the collar of your t-shirt to stop you from walking onwards. 

A door with a window at eye-height, steel-meshed glass that did not obscure anything behind it.

“What’s in there?” You asked quietly, perhaps stupidly, because he let out a huff of laughter at the question. 

“What d’you think,” was all he said, and your stomach dropped. 

You opened it with shaky fingers and shuffled inside. More gym, by the looks, though the room was dim and expansive; more empty boxing rings – practice rings, you supposed – punching bags and gloves hanging from walls, and the entire floor of the room padded in black rubber. 

It dawned on you, then, with a hot flush down your spine. “We’re - we’re not going back to yours?”

He was pressing behind you by the time you finished the question, nudging you deeper into the room, and he already had his sticky hands bunching up the bottom of your t-shirt. “Not waiting that long.”

Your lungs shrunk, suddenly too small to suck in a deep breath, so you sipped at the air like it was liquid; he flayed off your t-shirt in one go, forcing your arms up into the air to pull it from your head. Your hairs stood on end as he dropped it to the mat – the air was dusty and cool but were blistering hot to the touch, blood simmering in your veins. He could probably see it, rising blush-red in the back of your neck, sweaty at the nape. 

He huffed approvingly, and you winced when he snapped the band of your bra against your back. He hunched over your shoulder, looking down your chest – his humid arms hooked under yours, pumped up and vascular after their carnage, and seized your breast in a monstrous hand. He kneaded it roughly through the cup for his own gratification – paid no care to the chirp of pain that jumped from your throat at the needless strength of his grip, the firm core of your breast aching in the vice. 

“Nice little bra,” he grumbled. “Put it on just f’me, eh?”

You only panted, bashfully avoiding a real answer. Because, you did. You knew exactly where this night was headed, what you girded yourself for – you just didn’t expect that it would happen here, like this, while he was soaked in sweat and blood and ripe with lust worked up in the fight. 

“Knew you were a slut,” he said, under his breath, mouth and nose pushing into the crook of your shoulder and getting a good sniff. “Mh. Moment I saw ya.” 

You reeled at the denigration, so acrid it made you shiver. Praise webbed in his repugnant words, though — he said it hungrily, exuberantly, exalting you for it. Made your guts go all twisty. Made fluid heat sink downwards and pool in your core. 

His blood was viscid and icky on your skin, smeared up your shoulder — he was unperturbed by his injury, almost excited to get you covered in it, to mark you with it like a pack animal. 

“I’m not,” you breathed, no real defense, and he chuckled at that. 

“Yeah, y’are. Just picky, eh?” He crooned. “Made me fuckin’ work for it, didn’t ya?”

He unclasped your bra with deft fingers, and it came loose with a pop. As though he had made some unspoken command, you shimmied your straps down your shoulders for him, and let it fall from your arms. 

He took you by the hips and spun you to face him. Shark eyes sunk instantly to your tits when they bounced with the motion, and a pleased curl tugged in his lips.

“Mh, look a’ that,” he murmured to himself, thumbing your pebbled nipple and chuckling breathily when you squeaked at his pinch.

His heavy hand slid then your shoulder, giving you a downward nudge. 

“Knees, pretty,” he grunted dryly. “Suck it for a bit.” 

Your fingers went cold, blinking up at him as though feigning innocence might appeal to his human instincts. His face was stony, and the needle-sized holes of his pupils gave you no sympathy nor patience. Refusal crossed your mind, a gust of air, fleeting and skittish—

A transient thought, really, because there was no refusing him, and the thought of daring to frightened you more than the thought of a sweaty cock in your throat. 

Your eyes travelled the length of his torso as you awkwardly lowered yourself to your knees. Sweat pooled in the pit between his pectorals, sticky with congealing blood that clumped in the sedges of his chest hair. A thick and ungroomed blanket of straw curls trailed down from his navel, over the slight chub of his lower stomach, primordial padding over the rigid abdominals underneath. Met with the satin polyester waistband of his red-and-black shorts, loose on his thighs – the sheeny fabric strained where his cock hung heavy, and you could see every ridge of vein and head through the satin. 

You swallowed, and he huffed impatiently. 

With a wrapped hand he yanked down the front of his shorts – no briefs underneath — he unsheathed his cock with a fist around his base and narrowly missed hitting you in the nose with it. You concealed a grimace at the sight of it, inches from your face – it was ugly, burly, mauve at the smooth head, ruddy foreskin pulled back by his fist. Roped with plum veins that webbed under the rubicund skin, shuddering with heat.  

More frighteningly, though, was its magnitude – fucking prodigious thing, fat from base to tip, thick like a log and so long it made you dizzy with dread to even consider taking it in your mouth, let alone in the cunt that tightened up at the thought. 

You shouldn’t have been shocked, really – anything smaller would have looked disproportionate to the behemothic size of him. And yet, alarm was bright and hot in your face, and your throat dried up as you looked at it for too long. 

Simon chuffed, amused. Ego stroked. He fixed a hand to the back of your head, and a breath lodged your throat.

“Not gonna suck itself,” he growled, lightly slapping his cock against your cheek. “Open up.”

You drew in a shaky breath, resting a flat hand on his hip to balance yourself, and curled your trembling fingers around his shaft. Fist now free from carrying the weight of it, he combed his thick fingers through your hair at the crown of your head — not to encourage, only for a better grip. 

With parted lips you leaned forward, jutting out a wet tongue and running it from halfway up his shaft, along the ridge, to the underside of his head, and he let out a grunting sigh that made your nerves spark and your head spin. 

After another lick and a tug on the back of your head, you finally summoned the bravery to open your mouth — unhinged your jaw to allow his cock to fit, and it jerked in your mouth when you wrapped your lips around it. 

It was salty and sticky with sweat, fetid with the musk of riled up testosterone. You might have found it unpleasant if you weren’t dazed by your own concupiscence, molten lust roiling in your belly and turning the flavour of him into a sapid aphrodisiac. Your eyes fluttered shut as you tried to inch it deeper into your mouth, but the enormous pressure of the back of your tongue made you gag loudly around it. 

“Bit big for that little mouth, eh?” He preened hoarsely, but he took no pity. The hand on the back of your head was unforgiving and coaxed you forward with a nudge. “Easy. Wider. Careful with those teeth.”

Your eyes began to water as he stuffed himself deeper, driving you by the skull, until the thick head of his cock plugged the back of your throat and you could no longer breathe through your nose. You could only hold on to the air already in your lungs, wrenching shut your eyes as he drove his hips slowly forward, cockhead against your tonsils. 

“Mh,” he groaned, “tight little throat. Might park up in here.”

You blinked up at him when he said that, eyes wide and wet with strained tears as you silently pleaded with him through your clumped lashes. 

“Oh, girl, you wouldn’t like that would you?” He jeered, grinning at the terror printed on your face, “you want me in your cunt, eh?”

A whimper got stuck in your chest when the tip of his cock hit the flat wall at the very back of your throat, and your heart rate began to decelerate with the lack of oxygen in your blood. Chest ached with the need to breathe. 

“Poor girl,” he mumbled lowly, hand lodged at the back of your head and not allowing you to reel away. Cold horror rinsed you at the rigidity of his grip, a reminder of his strength, a hint at the sadism that bubbled under the surface of his skin. He wouldn’t let you breathe. “Neglected little cunt, I bet. She hungry, eh?” 

Your vision began to double, black spots around your periphery as you choked on him — you wondered if your cheeks were turning blue, and you wondered if he enjoyed the sight. 

“Can’t breathe, pretty?” He said, as you put both fists on his hips, shoving with all of your might — his massive hands kept your head utterly still, right where he wanted it. “‘M only halfway in and you’re choking. Not used to this eh?” 

He finally pulled his pelvis back, releasing the suction in your throat and forcing you to gag, and you were at last able to breathe — you heaved deep a breath through your runny nose, and the rush of oxygen made your head spin. He grunted as he raked out his cock from your mouth entirely, and it dropped heavy once it pulled out from between your lips. A long string of gooey saliva drooled from your mouth, and suddenly your entire head felt empty and hollow. 

You sniffed, wiping your nose and wet cheeks with your palms, your tears scarcely abating. A thick finger hooked under your chin and hinged up your head on your neck, forcing you to look at him. 

“None o’ that,” he growled, rubbing an errant tear away with the pad of his thumb. “Don’t want tears.”

“Sorry,” you squeaked on instinct, fearful of reproach, and a satisfied smile cracked briefly in his lips. 

He stepped around you, then, circling you like a vulture before looming behind you, and you remained dead still on your knees. A harsh hand fitted at the back of your neck and abruptly shoved you forward — you bleated as you tipped over and landed on your palms, on all fours on the padded floor. 

The ground vibrated under you as you heard him drop to his knees behind you, heart in your throat. “Gotta get a look at my prize.” 

He lifted up the back of your miniskirt, holding it against your lower back — before you heard him growl indignantly, and your skin prickled up. 

“The fuck’d I tell you about stockings,” he snarled, the indignant anger rumbling in his throat made your teeth chatter. He swiftly had his paws on your ass, fingers clawing up the stretchy nylon into fists and immediately tearing the thin fabric along the seam that flossed you with a shrill zip. “Just get in the fuckin’ way.” 

“I’m sorry,” you whimpered. You were appalled by your own obsequiousness – your lust rendered you sycophantic, grovelling, too eager to please. 

He let out a low huff of laughter. “Mh, all sweet now, aren’t ya?”

You felt his thumb wedge itself in the cleft of your ass, over the fabric of your knickers – you squeaked and tensed up when he pressed against your asshole, and he chuckled to himself. He dragged it down to the dip of your cunt, and he exhaled hoarsely. 

“Messy little thing,” he grumbled, hooking his thumb under your gusset and dipping between your folds, and you caught your tongue in your teeth. “Barely touched you and y’already ruined your knickers.” 

The rich pride in his voice made you melt, a potent inebriant that made your mind go foggy and your tongue wet. 

“Waited for me, did ya?” He asked huskily, heavy breathing growing more laboured with each inhale. You nodded obediently. “D’you stick your fingers in y’self while you waited?”

“No,” you breathed, eyes on the mat underneath you, though they fluttered shut when the tip of his thumb grazed your clitoris, pointedly declining it too much attention. 

“No?” He badgered, incredulously, you could hear the toothy grin through his voice. “Not even one?” 

“I didn’t,” you insisted weakly, shaking your head. 

“Haven’t come in a while then, have ya?” 

“I haven’t,” you promised. 

He grunted in approval, and his hands slid to the waist of your skirt. “No wonder y’been so bitchy,” he grumbled. “All worked up and fuckin’ grumpy.” 

He jerked down your bottoms with enough force that you heard seams popping, and you yelped – he shucked them down your thighs with little grace, and you fell flat on your belly as he straightened out your legs to tear them off entirely. 

“Just need a good fuck to sweeten y’up, eh?” He gibed, hooking both mammoth hands into your waist and hoisting your hips upward, propping you up on your knees. 

He hunched over the back of you, then, and you felt his cock rest heavy on your rear. He fixed a hand to the nape of your neck, resting a portion of his weight (you were sure that any more would snap your spine under his hand) to pin you down. 

“Don’t you?” He pressed, hucking up a lump of blood-drenched spit into the fingertips of his left hand, and he reached back to smear the emulsion against your already sodden cunt. 

“Yeah,” you chirped as he pushed a wide finger into your hole, voice high-pitched and laboured under his restraint. 

The girth of one rough finger was already enough to sting, even with the amount of slick that had saturated you – you shivered in dread at the weight of his cock against the crease of your ass, at the thought of your neglected cunt having to tear itself in half to just to fit him. 

And then he pushed another finger in, and your vision went blurry. 

“Gorgeous little cunt,” he hummed to himself. “Nice n’ wet. Must be aching, mh?” 

Restless, his fingers slipped out from you and he straightened his back, holding his cock and smacking it against your asshole, and your whole body went stiff. 

To your dizzying relief he instead dragged his blunt head down the cleft of you, nestling in the slick folds of your pussy – he offered you no time to gird yourself, bucking his hips forward and stuffing his cock deep into your cunt whether you liked it or not. 

A pained shriek erupted from your chest as he drove into you, cockhead ramming into the plug of your womb with a force that winded you, the girth nearly ripping the thin skin of your entrance as it bulldozed itself to the root. Turned quarry in the shock you jerked underneath him to unskewer yourself, wriggling eagerly to slither free. 

“Get back ‘ere,” he grunted disapprovingly, yanking you back and hoisting your hips back up. He snatched your clawing hand by the wrist, twisted it behind your back and pinned it to the arch in your spine. “Too late to run away now, pretty.” 

He wrestled you until you stilled underneath him, and you whimpered as he coiled back his hips and proffered you a very fleeting reprieve. 

“S’that hurt, mh?” He queried wretchedly, and you squeezed shut your eyes as you nodded your head. He pushed into you again, only slightly slower, and you could only whine underneath him. 

“Yes, fuck–” you sobbed, seeing stars in the struggle. “It hurts–”

He hummed, almost cooing at you. “Won’t hurt for long, love.” 

With his non-restraining hand embedded in the flesh of your ass, he rocked into you again, and you nearly bit your tongue off. Your body was as stiff as a board, every muscle tensed to brace yourself for each thrust – and each push stung, a shooting pain that bulleted up your spine every time he hit the deepest part of you. You could only squeak and hiccup and wriggle when he allowed you, but he kept you firm to the floor. 

Only when his rhythm steadied, and he let out low groans of satisfaction into your back, did your bones begin to loosen. The sharp pain abated into a swollen pleasure as your walls gripped and fluttered around his cock, each rut driving you deeper into the padded floor. 

“Mh,” he crooned, when your yelps softened into fluid whining. “Tha’s it. Just needed to stretch ‘er out a bit.”

You felt hot dribbles on your back, rilled up your spine and dripped onto the mat – his blood, leaking from the still fresh split in his lip, you heard him lick his teeth. It should have disturbed you, his iron-reeking blood drooling onto your bare skin, smeared around by the arm against your back. Instead it made you dizzy with some feral, animalistic lechery.

It made the air smell like rust and sex, and you felt like a rabbit caught in the wolf’s maw. You wondered if he’d sink his teeth into you. You couldn’t ignore the thought of his blood and his spit being fucked into the deep ridges of your cunt. Maybe the mucosa of your pussy would imbibe it and his impression would be permanently embedded in the sticky depths of you. 

“Fuckin’ perfect cunt,” he groaned, speeched slurred by his own intoxicant pleasure. He lifted a kneeling leg and planted his foot flat on the floor to drive himself deeper, greedy hands burrowing into the flesh of your hips as he speared himself into you. “Kept it nice and tight for me, didn’t ya?” 

You nodded winsomely, cheek smushed against the mat underneath you, panting out whines that left humid fog on the rubber. 

He snorted, then spat, and you felt a wad of warm saliva land directly on your puckered hole. It twitched on reflex, and you sucked a sharp gust of air between your teeth — he rubbed your other hole with the pad of his thumb, gradually increasing the pressure, coaxing it to loosen for him. 

“Pretty little asshole, too,” he mumbled gruffly, a growl in his throat that made your hairs stand on end and your body turn rigid. “Y’ever had something in here, girl?” 

You whimpered, heart racing with such ferocity it made your temples throb and your eyes sore. 

“No, I—” You chirped through a held breath, interrupted by a buck of his hips and a pounding into your cervix. “I h-haven’t.”

He exhaled, deep and throaty. “We’ll ‘ave to change that.”

A squeak lept from your throat when his thick thumb pushed through the clenching entrance, constricting around his knuckle as he stretched it open, until his palm was flush with your rump. 

“Mh — fuck. Be a shame to neglect a cute little hole like this, eh?” 

You expected it to hurt, braced yourself for the sting — but in your fuck-drunk stupor you let him in with a comfortable ease, and it felt good. 

A winded whine seeped out from your chest as you took what he gave you, a renewed surge of heat and slick flooded into your cunt and dribbled down your leg. 

“Like that, do ya?” He purred, tugging at the thumb inside you and pushing it in again with the rhythm of his ruts. “All your little holes stuffed?”

You babbled like an idiot, whining and squeaking as he savagely fucked into you with a bestial vigour. Yes, yes, please, yes—

His pace only hardened as he chased his release, panting like a dog and dripping his blood and sweat down your spine. Your knees began to ache under the weight of him, rocking forward with every thrust, grinding against the concrete under the thin rubber. 

“Mh — perfect little thing — takin’ my cock like a fucking angel, eh? Fuckin’ made for it, just for me, just for me to fuck proper—”

His ravening tirade turned you to pudding, rugged voice breaking with the fury of his pleasure, bullying your cunt as deep as you’d take him. 

“Shit—” He grunted through teeth, leaning his full weight into you and making your eyes water with the strain on your neck. He chased a few hard ruts, blunt head shoved hard against your cushiony cervix as his cock jerked inside you. “Agh — fuckin’ Christ—”

You gasped in shock when you felt his come pump into you, pressure building against your womb as he filled you up so full you worried you’d pop. 

“Simon—” You squeaked on instinct, unsure if out of maligned pleasure or the brief flash to reality that slapped you in the face — he fucked you without protection. 

“Yeah, pretty thing—” he puffed deeply, sinking down onto your back as his fervour was drained out of him and into your pulsing cunt.

With that, reality flitted away as fast as it appeared. 

A mournful sigh escaped you when he slipped his cock out of your pussy, his warm come quickly drooling out of your hole once it was no longer plugged; it ran down your thighs and dribbled onto the mat beneath you. He plucked his thumb from your pinched hole and rested himself on your rear. You felt immediately and woefully hollow, holes shuddering around nothing so eagerly they ached. 

“Simon,” you whinged, repeating his name, with your motivation utterly eluding you. 

“You’ll get yours, girl,” he growled breathlessly, come-sated sweetness gone as it came. “One fuckin’ second.”

Something abominable had slithered into your mind and taken root, you thought. The vitriol in his words should have made you bristle, but it only made you needier. Maybe it spoke to a recondite self-loathing buried so deep in your soul you had never touched it, let alone acknowledged it. Maybe you just liked the way his harsh voice went all gravelly when he snarled at you. 

You yipped as he suddenly grabbed you by the hips, his recovery brief, and you were flipped unceremoniously. Landed on your back with a thud, limbs flailing in the blur — he grabbed you by the ankle and dragged your body towards him, held your legs open where he was kneeled between them. 

He caught your eye, then; beady, shark-like, a glint of insatiable hunger that reflected in the pools of black. The split in his lip had reopened in his fervour, and his blood oozed fresh and red down his chin, into his teeth. Didn’t hamper him, though – he burrowed his gluttonous fingers into your hips and lifted your lower half off the floor. 

A yelp of disbelief jumped from your throat as he hitched your thighs over his shoulders, pelvis in the air while your head remained balanced on the mat. Only on your back, glancing briefly around the room, were you suddenly reminded of where you were. 

Fucking the southpaw on the floor, in the middle of a somewhat public gym – you could still hear the murmurings of the audience still in the building, and only then noticed that Simon had left the door to the quiet room ajar. 

“Wai– wait, wait– Simon–” You stammered, watching as he licked the blood from his teeth, wolf-eyes peering at you from over your mound. 

Figures that he didn’t care to listen. He buried his mouth in your cunt with the ferocity of a starved animal, flat tongue smearing over your slit for a taste, before he suctioned your clitoris into his mouth as though he might drink an orgasm out of you. 

Not remotely put off by the surfeit of his come that still leaked from you, nor by the open wound in his mouth that weeped blood into your cunt, amalgamating with your fluids and his into some abhorrent concoction of lust and violence. No, in fact, he ate you with such a hunger that he must have been deliriously relishing in the debauchery of it all.  You felt the emulsion drool down the valleys of your groin, glossy red beads trailing down your belly and between your breasts in rivulets. You felt it drip from your neck, into your hair. 

“Ah – fuck–” You whined helplessly, arching your spine, heels inadvertently slamming into the meat of his back. 

He groaned into your cunt as he sucked your clit between his teeth, seemingly fighting the urge to bite, and the vibrations of his low voice made a shudder wrack you from your skull to the soles of your feet. His grasp of your hips was harsh, thumbs burrowing into the tender pits of flesh behind the bone, and it only made the surging pleasure in your core even more voltaic. 

More than a week since the last time you came, and that was at the plastic hand of a shitty bullet vibrator you got for free with a magazine; a climax so unsatisfying and meaningless it left you feeling emptier than you did beforehand. A week since he had brought you so close with his vindictive fingers, and a week of trying to recreate the feeling of his with your own, only to be sorely disappointed every time you tried. Worked up and grumpy, so he said–

It didn’t take him long to bring you to the same point he left you, burning and twitching and squealing under his touch – but this time had you seeing stars, had you bucking into his head like you might suffocate him with your pussy. You were sure he’d be pleased if you did, because he didn’t once come up for air. Kept your clit in his bloody mouth, under his lapping tongue with a consistency of pace and pressure that made your ears ring. 

But, you could still hear the creak of a hinge. 

Feel the vibrations of footsteps across the floor. 

Your eyes shot open and you wrenched your neck to look towards the door – an enormously painful angle to have your spine at – and there stood a silhouette of a man, lumbering unfazed into the room. 

“Simon!” You shrieked, kicking his back and writhing in his grip in desperate effort to stop him or break yourself free. A fool’s errand, really. There was no escaping him once he had you in his snare. “Stop, stop – Simon – there’s someone, ah–”

Mortified horror rinsed over you, molten hot, as the man continued his approach, and Simon did not relent. Persisted in laving your clit with unfettered voracity and only reinforcing his grip of your pelvis to keep you still, ruthless fingers implicitly chastising you for making a fuss.  

Only when the voyeur was a few feet from you could you determine who it was – vision significantly impeded by the angle of your head, you only saw him upside down– 

It was Simon’s opponent. 

Johnny. 

He looked down at you with lidded eyes, piercing blue even in the dark. Still in his boxer shorts, shirtless, sculpted muscles of his shoulders and arms carved out by the dim light seeping out from the door behind him. Dabbed under his nose with a blood-soaked towel, before his hand dropped to his side. Even in the darkness you could see the pitch in his shorts. 

Your hackles were raised but your panic was forcibly smothered by your blinding pleasure; incoherent whines and pleas leaping from your throat as you felt your smouldering core unwillingly tighten up, ready to burst despite your humiliation under the eyes of a spectator.  

“Simon – fuck, please, stop – he’s, ah – you’re gonna–”

You were a spluttering mess by the time you were swallowed by the tsunami of your orgasm, so forceful that you suddenly lost the ability to breathe – it ravaged through you in waves that made you buck and wail like he was truly sinking his teeth into your flesh. He might as well have been, with how sensitive your pebbled clit was under his unceasing tongue, all puffy and shuddering after its beating. 

You whined desperately as the shattering climax abated, leaving your muscles frail and your bones all floppy, and any fight within you turned to milk and trickled out of you, buttery and soft. Johnny only watched attentively, and you would have shrivelled up with ignominy if all vitality hadn’t been drained from your body and into Simon’s mouth. 

He finally peeled his lips from you, licking them as though having eaten a succulent meal, and he dropped you from his mouth. Lowered your hips so that your buttocks rested on his lap, legs wrapped around his torso. You could only lie there, utterly breathless, turning your head away from both of them as though that meant they couldn’t see you. 

Simon gave you two reassuring pats on the thigh, wiped his mouth with his other forearm and smeared blood and come through the auburn arm hair that coated it. 

“Tha’ better, pretty?” He purred huskily, thumb grazing your skin. “Better be all nice n’ sweet, now, eh?” 

Johnny lets out a grunt, petulant disappointment in his throat. “So that’s what ye broke my fucken’ nose for.” 

Simon snorted vindictively. “I wasn’t losin’.” 

“S’not fair,” Johnny grumbled. “If I knew that was the prize I woulda snapped yer fucken’ neck.” 

The unbridled violence in the way they spoke to one another made you sweat – laden with something morbid, a perverted hunger woven between every word, oozed from the two of them like tar. 

“Easy, boy,” the southpaw chided roughly. “You’ll talk yourself into another concussion.” 

“Psh,” his opponent retorted. “Yer just worried I’ll clatter ye now that I know the stakes.” 

Simon let out a hoarse huff of laughter at that, unimpressed. Turned to look down at you, wide hand heavy on your lower belly, and he grazed your bullied clit with his thumb. You twitched with the shock, blinking distraught at him through wet lashes. 

“Kid wants a rematch,” he grunted. “What y’reckon, pretty?”

idk guys. don't judge me. i was ovulating while writing this and it has been the kind fugue state where i need skin between my teeth. i hope someone gets what i mean by that

[vrystalius]

Yearning and crushing.

What do they act like when they are utterly in love and yearning for you?

Pairing: Astarion, Gale, Zevlor, Rolan, x gn!Tav!reader

Summary: During the early stages of your misadventure, he cannot help himself but never stop yearning for you.

Genre: Fluff, lime (does anyone use lime and lemons anymore?)

Words: 2.3k

Note: I’m hosting a small event over at my blog. Check it out if you’re interested <3 I’m choosing four participating users at random to receive a personalised letter from their fav char<33 All of this is happening in act 1 btw.

Astarion Ancunín // The Pale Elf

Yearning scale: 8/10

He denied himself the pleasure of thinking about you in a romantic way other than to use you to get protection, power and a willing source of absolutely delicious blood. Really falling for you would be very stupid and have no benefit, really. Astarion never viewed himself as someone who deserved love, especially yours.

But during every battle Astarion’s concentration began to waver more and more. His eyes scan the area in panic until he finally spots you somewhere, being very occupied by trying to finish off the gnoll growling at you. He knows you’re capable defending yourself and finishing off some enemies and it is a delight to watch you fight, but that caused him to miss more and more, with both daggers and his crossbow.

You notice how his whole face lights up whenever you saunter over to him to do some small talk after a long day. His eyes look much softer and his smile becomes less guarded, less planned. It was adorable but you never mentioned it to him, or else you might never see that off-guard smile again.

At first you were adorned by Astarion and showered in flirts and compliments to love-bomb you and bind you to him, something he has done wo many countless times, but slowly he feels himself regretting playing up his flirtatious persona. He thinks you might not like him anymore when he stops with the over-the-top flirts, the nightly trysts and most importantly, the sex.

But deep down he was hoping and praying you’ll still like him for him.

Slowly, Astarion will insist on staying close with you no matter what. The group splits up to explore a cave efficiently? He is definitely sticking by your side. You’re heading to the Emerald Grove to stock on some food for tonight? Don’t mind him tagging along, he just needs a couple of healing potions. You’re injured and need healing? Out of the way Shadowheart, he got this with some alcohol and bandages.

“I’m sure you wont mind taking me with you to that grove again, I wanted to talk to that Tiefling by the forge. I’m thinking about asking very nicely to have a little taste of his blood… But I won’t if you get jealous easily, my darling.”

Astarion quietly yearns for you. He knows how to (mostly) control himself and his tongue around you to not accidentally start coughing up the butterflies terrorising his stomach by praising, flirting, teasing you, doing everything to try and make you like him by any means, even if he has to play a persona.

He has to let out this pent up love for you somewhere, so in the evenings he’ll retreat and quietly stich up his clothes that were torn during the day, check his daggers for sharpness but then also open up the hidden notebook he stashed away under his pillow and sketch a little. Mostly you, really, in all kinds of poses and situations.

He never sexualised you in any way, simply sketching you in almost domestic situations from his view; the way your face lights up in delight when Scratch brings you another drool-drenched sandal, your face scrunched together in disgust after tasting one of Auntie Ethel’s mold pies on accident or you just relaxing after a hard day. Astarion quietly admired you from his tent as his pen works against the paper. He’s not really talented in it but it’s a nice way to unwind. He is praying though that the dog never gets the bright idea to steal his notebook and drop it into your lap or he will beg Shadowheart to cast moonbeam and incinerate him.

Gale Dekarios // The Wizard of Waterdeep

Yearning scale: The ultimate yearner ™/10

Let’s be honest, Gale is not very subtle with his yearning although the wizard thinks he is being very smooth with it.

Before having the moment with you in the weave where your minds interlinked, where you imagined kissing him, first carefully, then passionately and with vigour so shamelessly while he stands there rooted in place, trying not to explode (literally), Gale has been dreamily watching you.

He wasn’t even sure why he fell in love with you or how exactly it happened, Gale had a dream about you with him in his wizard tower in Waterdeep, not exactly using his desk the way it is intended to be used. He woke up with the orb flickering in his chest and a all too familiar warmth spreading through his lower abdomen.

With every artefact you sacrifice to him and with every minute you listen to his boasting and rambling, Gale stopped fighting the feelings that were growing inside him every day and accepted that yes, he did just fall in love with the stranger that pulled him through a portal, fed him boots without hesitating and never seriously judged him for his poor decisions. He hasn’t met anyone besides Tara that was very judging.

He can’t act on his feelings yet, though. Gale can’t even let his mind slip for a moment and let the sweet, sweet thought of your lips pressed against his, your tongues dancing with each other, his hands feeling up your waist to pull you closer and closer as if trying to absorb you. He gets ripped out of these fantasies by a sharp pain in his chest and the all too familiar feeling of the orb becoming restless.

It physically hurts him to yearn for you. The orb is like a handcrafted punishment by his goddess Mystra, which it is, but not in the way she probably intended.

His way to painlessly express his admiration for you is mostly by talking; he rants and over-explains the littlest things that can sometimes accidentally come off as condescending, but you were always interested for whatever reason, even if he just listed all the different types of elementals and all the kinds he has met himself before.

But Gale also very openly expresses how highly he thinks of you. You always heard cheers like “A perfect hit!” or “You are doing absolutely amazing!” from the half dead and bloodied wizard that is surrounded by goblins but still thought about praising your skills. Sometimes his mouth worker faster than his brain and he’d accidentally compliment your very natural musk or point out how beautifully shiny your unwashed hair has gotten. It was probably meant to be a compliment.

Oh, it was starting to become a torture. Gale wakes up in the middle of the night after a blissful dream of strolling through the markets of Waterdeep together, playfully arguing who gets to cool what tonight, worrying about nothing other than to remember get Tara’s favourite treat. Rolling over in his bed he could feel his chest tighten, his hand instinctively gripping his nightshirt, trying to soothe the orb by touching it. He tried to take a deep breath, his fingers spreading out over his chest slowly.

His eyes fluttered shut and his lip quivered slightly as his other arm began to move to wrap around his own body. The wizard rolled over onto his side to stare at the tent wall, his own arms hugging himself, trying to make a fraction of his fantasies about you come true. But Gale would never allow to even properly think about asking to spend the night with him; it would be selfish to do so.

Zevlor // Leader of the Tieflings // Exiled Hellrider

Yearning scale: 6/10

It was probably wrong to feel the way he was feeling. You defended the grove and the refugees against goblins without questions and weren’t even disappointed about not getting a reward. You walked around and talked to the Tieflings, setting some dispute between three siblings, saved Arabella from the mad druid and offered to kill the goblin leaders for them.

Zevlor tried to push away the racing heart that seemed to flare up every time you showed more and more simple kindness for his people and others. He justified it to himself that the fluttery feeling in his chest and the warmth spreading embarrassingly fast on his face is just his gratitude manifesting in other ways, but during the small celebrating party you allowed to be held at your camp and after too many cups of vinegar for wine, it all dawned on him.

“Go, enjoy yourself. You’ve earned it. Don’t spend all your time on me, I’m sure many here would want to have a word with you instead.”

He admires your courage and selflessness, but his feelings reach far beyond that. To be able to share a cup with you was incredibly flattering but also a little selfish, he thought. You are quite popular in camp and Zevlor can’t deny the looks the other companions give you, so he tries to shoo you away and enjoy yourself. Having your attention all to himself, somewhere in private and in a situation that isn’t stressed by looming fights and threats would be an absolute dream.

A dream he didn’t allow himself to realise.

Besides, he’s an older, Hellrider-exiled Tiefling and an Oathbreaker Paladin with a group of refugee kin to look after and lead to Baldur’s Gate. Zevlor is barely able to love himself, how in the world are you supposed to be able to love him? Surely you deserve to be with someone more deserving of your love and devotion.

Even despite barely interacting with you, it was difficult for him to part from you and your troupe but there was a city for him to safely escort the refugees to. Duty calls and so does the road.

For now, Zevlor will just silently dream about you at night and think about your whereabouts during the day. He didn’t allow himself to get distracted too easily but during every small moment of respite his eyes would briefly close and his mind slowly travelled to you. He always wondered where you are right now, what you are doing. How far along have you come in your journey? Last he heard Halsin joined you on your quest for a cure against a tadpole.

He secretly wonders if you are still wearing the Hellrider Gloves he had given you as a thanks after redeeming Kagha and buying them more time to pack in the druid grove. It’s a childish thought but Zevlor really hoped that they serve you as well as they once served him and keep you safe. And maybe you think of him when you look at them.

For now, Zevlor has to focus on getting his caravan to Baldur’s Gate safely. The apparently cursed and so called “Shadow Lands” are the only way. Hopefully he can get them through in one piece.

Rolan // Wizard’s apprentice

Yearning scale: 8/10

Oh he has got a big, fat crush. Or at least that is what Cal and Lia have been teasing him about for the past days, hours and minutes. Ever since you stepped into the dispute the three had about whether they should leave the grove or not, Rolan has been more squishy and distracted.

He keeps seeing you around the grove, talking the Tieflings there and listening to what they have to say, trade with that druid merchant before heading over to Dammon to buy some new armour for you or your companions after the plates broke down. Rolan’s eyes would be scanning your whole body from the position he was standing, trying to see through your clothes and armour to check for injuries.

He knew you are an adventurer of some sort, talking to Ethel about something in your head and stocking up on a lot of healing potions. If not for you fighting through goblins Rolan would’ve used Thunderwave to send those scum to the afterlife. So he greatly appreciates your efforts and all it must take to finish them off.

His eyes would sparkle every time you even briefly passed him. You didn’t even had to look at him and he would feel his tail wagging embarrassingly fast behind himself as he tried to avoid his sibling’s knowing glances and how they 100% know what was going on.

Rolan doesn’t really understand himself and why his brilliant mind decided to choose you to pine on. You, someone he will leave behind and probably never see again. You, who only interacted with him a few fleeting times. You, with that heroic attitude and need to fix everything, you with that stupid smile you gave that woman Ethel, you simply existing. He felt childish for feeling like this.

He knew you’d make short work of the goblins and their leaders but his heart still managed to flutter in admiration after finding out what you managed to do. The wizard prepared his stupid party-trick spell until you got back to the grove, trying to cast the beautiful spell he had been casting since childhood over and over until it was perfect. Performing it in front of you asked for a bottle of wine or three to get some courage.

After bowing and getting some applause from you, Rolan’s eyes still stuck to you well after you gave your compliments and departed. He couldn’t help himself but feel jealous of that vampire in the corner, the purple wizard in the other and literally everyone else that breathed near you. Everyone wanted to have a piece of you— of course. You’re the hero of the party.

Rolan wanted to hog your time and attention to himself, though. He wants to sit down with you and for once just listen to you talk instead of him doing some boasting. It doesn’t matter what you were talking about, he wants to listen and watch your lips move, maybe fantasise about leaning in closer and sharing a kiss.

But alas, there’s an apprenticeship for him to attend in Baldur’s Gate. The road was calling and he had to move on with his travels. It doesn’t mean you left his mind though, every moment he did not spend checking up on Lia or Cal, getting into an argument with one of the kids or whatever, he spend daydreaming about you.

Maybe you’ll see each other again under better circumstances. He really hopes so.

💠

Author’s note. Thank you for reading!

I wanted to write a request I swear but my hands moved on their own and wrote something that has been on my brain for like a week or so :,) Forgive me lmao. I’ll be answering asks and requests soon tho!

Check out my personalised letters event <33

Make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough!!

Take care of yourselves <33 You are loved.

[wonbloom]

diet pepsi

pairing: bffsbrother!heeseung x fem!reader

summary: “losing all my innocence in the backseat” or bffsbrother!heeseung takes your virginity in the backseat of his car!! this is inspired by diet pepsi by addison rae lolz

warnings: smut!!! 18+ only mdni, pinv, loss of virginity, fingering, heeseung & reader being horny asf for eachother, mentions of alcohol, swearing, intentional lowercase, pls lmk if i’m missing anything!!

word count: 2k+

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“are you gonna fucking do something?” you whine, squeezing your thighs around heeseung’s head.

he’s been lazily placing kisses along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs for the last few minutes, leaving the area slightly sticky and moist with his saliva.

you can hear him chuckling into your skin and you roll your eyes, your head falling back and thudding against the condensation covered window behind you. the position isn’t exactly comfortable; with the inner handle of the backseat door digging into your shoulder blade and the leather of heeseung’s car seats sticking to your exposed ass, only covered by the skimpy thong you’d picked out for this evening. your denim skirt lies abandoned in the footwell of the passenger seat alongside heeseung’s tshirt, tossed away carelessly where the tryst had began.

you’re awoken from your thoughts by heeseung nipping at your skin lightly, it’s not enough to truly hurt but it pulls you from your sweaty daze enough to look down at his smirking face. he moves away from his position so close to your core and notes the pout on your face. he’s quick to sit up and pull you into his jean clad lap, large hands immediately reaching for the meat of your ass.

“didn’t anyone teach you that patience is a virtue baby?” heeseung whispers into your ear, his tongue laving out towards your earlobe. “i’m gonna give you what you want, don’t worry. i just want to take my time with you.”

even though the arrogance in heeseung’s words make you clench your teeth, you can’t deny the way you’re dripping into the seat of your panties, and it’s no doubt that heeseung can feel it too.

heeseung connects his lips with yours for what feels like the millionth time in the past thirty minutes and you can’t help but moan into his mouth, he tastes bitter like the cheap beer you watched him knock back with the rest of his friends and it’s intoxicating. you’re slowly rolling your hips into his, careful with not wanting to seem too desperate. all thoughts of which leave your mind when heeseung grunts and rolls up into you, hands grabbing at your hips appreciatively.

when heeseung pulls away, his gaze stays on your face, seemingly scrutinising your every feature and it makes you flush - suddenly shy under his watchful eyes.

“i’m so fucked,” he breathes out, his forehead falling forward and knocking into yours dully.

your hands grab greedily at his exposed chest, he’s been working out recently and you can tell.

you place your lips against his lightly and speak, “that’s sort of what i was hoping to be.”

heeseung giggles at your words, head lifting up and his hand coming alongside to trace your jaw.

“yeah? you think you’re ready?”

“if me dripping onto your jeans wasn’t enough of an answer then yes. yes i am,” you tease, glancing down to the dark patch now staining the front of heeseung’s jeans.

heeseung joins you in glancing down at the mess, his head quickly jolting back up as he groans.

“you’re sure you’ve never done this before?”

“positive,” you chirp, punctuating your statement with another grind down into heeseung’s prominent bulge.

he places both his hands on your waist to steady you, “if your carry on i’m going to bust in my pants”

you let out an airy laugh in response, “where’s the sex god heeseung i was promised?”

your words seem to light a fire in heeseung as he’s quick to flip your position, holding his hand behind your head as he lies you down across the backseats, hovering over you with a mischievous smirk across his face.

“don’t get cocky baby,” he smiles sweetly, fingers sliding into the sides of your underwear, sliding them down your legs slowly. heeseung doesn’t hide the awed expression on his face as he notes the large wet spot, pocketing your panties into the back of his jeans.

you bring your foot up to poke at his toned stomach and jeer, “perv.”

heeseung grabs you by the ankle and manoeuvres himself between your legs, forcing you to cross them behind his back. he swipes a finger through your wetness, causing you to whimper loudly and watch with glossy eyes as he brings the finger up to his mouth, licking up your juices.

“you love it.” he decides.

instead of fighting back this time, you muster up your best whine and lift your hips up, hoping to entice heeseung into finally gracing your pussy with some attention.

“needy needy baby,” heeseung tuts, his hand so close to where you need him the most. “but you’re so pretty,” he hums. “i guess i’ll give you what you want.”

heeseung plunges two long fingers into your core, pushing in and out slowly as his thumb moves to you with your clit. he continues his ministrations until you’re whimpering and grinding up into his touch, and when heeseung looks down to your flushed face, sweat making your baby hairs stick down to your forehead and eyes wide and glossy, he thinks he’s never seen something so beautiful.

even though your climax is approaching, you can’t help but want more. heeseung stalls as one of your hands reaches down from his chest and grips onto his flexing wrist.

“i want to come when your dick is inside of me,” you admit somewhat shyly.

heeseung pulls his hand out of you slowly and scoffs, “seriously what virgin says stuff like that!”

he’s fast to suck your juices from his fingers and reach for the zipper of his jeans, you can see his hardness straining against the material, making you squirm in anticipation. before heeseung shimmys down his boxers he stills, looking to you.

“you’ve seen a dick before right?”

his words shock you into a small giggle, “yeah, i mean i gave jake a handjob at the movie theatre that one time.”

heeseung looks slightly mortified at the mention of one of his closest friends, “sim keeping it classy i see.”

“and taking my virginity in the back your car is the epitome of class i guess?” you bite back, flicking at heeseung’s chest.

“shut up,” heeseung rolls his eyes, moving quickly to pull his hard cock out of his boxers, silencing you from whatever quip was going to fall from your mouth next.

your breath hitches slightly at the sight of the sheer size of him, “fuck.”

“not so cocky now baby, huh?” heeseung smirks, guiding his cock down to glide between your messy folds.

everytime his tip catches against your clit you both groan into each others mouths, kissing sloppily as heeseung works you up even further.

heeseung’s free hand moves to fondle your tits over the thin tank still adorning your chest, now damp from the perspiration covering your body.

a grind up of your hips causes heeseung’s tip to catch onto your entrance and he whines into your mouth.

“please hee,” you pull back, hands threading into his sweaty hair, “i’m ready.”

heeseung nods at your words and comes down to press a light kiss on your forehead, “okay baby.”

“let me know if it hurts and i’ll stop, okay?” heeseung pushes the tip in further, looking down into your eyes for confirmation and when you nod he carries on.

the sting is noticeable but overpowered by the pleasure, your senses overwhelmed by everything heeseung.

“still okay baby?” heeseung asks, peppering your neck with kisses, leaning down to suck at your exposed cleavage.

“so so good” you moan, grinding up the last little bit so you’re full of him.

you seem to simultaneously let out sighs of relief, which causes you to both giggle.

“you feel so fucking good.” he says earnestly, rocking into you slowly as he begins to find a rhythm.

you shy under heeseung’s words, not used to having the sole attention of the guy you’ve crushed on for the most part of your life.

“you can go faster y’know?” you tease, trying to gain back some of your confidence. “i’m not gonna break.”

heeseung smiles at your usual cocky demeanour returning and decides to listen to your whining, spewing up his slow thrusts into a steady and powerful pattern.

your whimpers grow louder as soon heeseung’s groans as the sounds of sweaty skin slapping fills the car, your hand reaching to card through the short hairs at the back of heeseung’s neck and you have half the mind to hope that no one has wandered far enough from the house party you were in attendance of, because if the fogged you windows weren’t enough evidence then the noise and movement from the car would certainly be enough evidence to alert people of the activities occurring in lee heeseung’s car.

“oh fuck! hee,” you whine as heeseung hits a spot inside you that you weren’t even sure existed.

heeseung notes your reaction and continues his pace until you’re sure you’re seeing stars.

“touch yourself baby,” heeseung orders, grunting in delight as your small hand reaches down to play with your clit.

“i’m so fucking close, please hee,” you cry out, your pleasure heightened by the added stimulation from your fingers.

“i know baby, keep going for me im almost there,” heeseung’s voice is dripping with sex and the squelching noises that emanate from between you are nothing short of obscene, but the only thing on heeseung’s mind is you you you.

heeseung’s vision is slightly obscured by his dripping fringe falling into his eyes, but there’s no way he’s stopping now to move it out of his way, not when he can tell you’re both so close to ecstasy.

you’re free hand that was resting on the back of heeseung’s head moves forward to brush his fringe out of the way, and upon your eyes locking after a gesture that felt all to intimate even during this situation, heeseung’s thrusts become erratic, signaling his incoming climax.

“fuck!” heeseung exclaims, pushing your fingers that were playing with your clit away in favour of his own, drawing tight circles on your clit, that paired with his powerful thrusts throw you over the edge just as heeseung’s pace turns sloppy, quicking pulling out in favour of spurting his cum over your soft stomach. even though you were left clenching over nothing, your body still aches with satisfaction.

heeseung looks sheepishly down at the mess he made on you and quickly apologises, reaching for his shirt to wipe up his drying cum.

looking back to you, heeseung catches you dipping your middle finger into his essence and plunging it into your mouth.

“yum.” you wink.

“dirty,” heeseung jests, “i love it.”

now clean of heeseung’s come you sit up, and lean onto his still shirtless and heaving chest.

“you’ve corrupted me,” you jibe, pulling on a lock of his hair. “stolen my innocence.”

at your words heeseung scoffs, “i’d hardly call you innocent.”

before heeseung’s lips can touch yours, a knock on the window behind you startles you both. heeseung is quick to hide your body behind his to provide you some decency as he rolls down the window.

sunghoon, another one of heeseung’s friends peers in and drunkenly yells.

“your little sister is looking for you! something about not being able to find her friend.”

at his words you tense up and look to heeseung who is trying to hold back his laugh.

“sure buddy, i’ll be back in a minute,” heeseung turns to you with a shit eating grin on his face, not missing how sunghoon murmurs to himself as he walks away.

“smells like fucking sex in there.”

you can’t help but burst into laughter with him.

“we’re so fucked.” you decide.

“we’re so fucked.” he confirms, leaning down to press his lips into yours.

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a/n: AHHHH!!!! this is my first piece of writing that i’ve published on here so i’m very nervous!! it’s also so horny so excuse that lolll i’d be very grateful for any and all feed back so pls reblog comment or send me an ask!!

alsooo feel free to send me any enha thoughts in my ask box as i’m a new writer on here!!

tysm for reading !!!

lux xoxo

[babybluebex]

richard harmon masterlist

༻ erik campbell (final destination: bloodlines, 2025)

drink the honey: in visiting your friends' bar, you happen to meet his older brother, aka the guy who pierced your ears forever ago. cue a lesson in grief and exactly what can be pierced and where, as well as a night you won't soon be forgetting. (smut)

exile: coming soon! (angst)

༻ tryst (fakes, 2022)

fuck em all but us, part one: before shit got fucked with zoe and becca, tryst was your best friend. despite highs and lows, will-theys and won't-theys, you were each other's ride or dies, and it felt like nothing could jeopardize that. standing by each other's side for every little moment, you grew up together, and despite always wanting to be more, you were happy with what you got. the weird kids always find each other, y'know? (angst)

fuck em all but us, part two: coming soon! (smut)

[tjwritesfanfics]

Hello y'all!

My name is TJ! I write for whatever fandom I am into in the moment. No pressure! No muss!

I'm 27 years old and use she/him pronouns.

(Banner credit to cafekitsune)

MASTERLISTS

MINORS DON'T INTERACT ON NSFW THINGS

🩵BTS Masterlist

🩵Every Universe Masterlist (Matthew Gray Gubler Stories)

🩵Criminal Minds Masterlist

🩵Other MGG Characters Masterlist

🩵Every Universe NSFW Masterlist 🔥

🩵Richard Harmon Masterlist

🩵Opinions on Richard Harmon Characters

Serial Killer MGG Moodboards

Franklin from Beginner's Luck

Mok from Magic Valley

Joe Joe from RV

Joe Harper from Band of Robbers

Raymond Wadsword ft Becca Thompson from Suburban Gothic

Chip Taylor from 68 Kill

Runner of the RP accounts:

@redbull-gave-me-wings (Tryst from Fakes)

@thebetterblakesibling (Octavia Blake from The 100)

[yungistiny]

rage mode

[ J. Yunho ]

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summary: in which yunho’s roommate likes to test his patience

warning: pissed off yunho, brat reader, slight audophilia, wooyoung is a little perv, slight choking, spanking, unprotected sex

pairing: gamer yunho x afab reader

genre: smut

word count: 2.2k

part two

masterlist

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

“Damn it, y/n, stop fucking killing me!”

Yunho’s voice sounded beyond annoyed, borderline completely pissed off. You could hear it in the way there was a slight growl undertone in his deep, tired voice. It was well past midnight, himself and his two roommates along with some of their friends had been playing this new online co op game for the last… 4…. 5 hours? Honestly, Yunho had lost track of the time.

“That’s what you get for getting me killed earlier.” Y/N replied back, her voice filled with amusement and dripping with pettiness. Yunho had half a mind to pause the game, march across the hall to her bedroom and unplug her pc. She had been nonstop killing him for the last hour or so and Yunho was starting to reach his breaking point.

“It’s not fucking funny, y/n! And it wasn’t my fault you and Wooyoung are using the same character.” Yunho snapped into his headset. He had even told his two roommates that choosing the same character to play as would be confusing for everyone and a bad idea. Did they listen? Of fucking course they didn’t. “Y/N, I swear to god!” He growled, avoiding just being shot once again.

“Swear to god,” Yunho could practically hear the smirk she had as y/n teased him, sniping his player with quick precision, a frustrated snarl echoing in her ears from her headset as Yunho was clearly pissed. “what would your mother say?”

“Could you two like… I don’t care, fuck and shut up already?” Jongho was tired of their back and forth bickering. He could practically feel the tension between the two and he was three blocks away in his own apartment.

Yunho and Y/N both shut up, their silence suddenly very loud and noticeable. “Well that shut them the fuck up.” Wooyoung was snickering, San and Jongho both joining him. Both his roommates probably thought Wooyoung was oblivious to their little tryst they had going on but their walls were thin and y/n was very vocal.

“It’s after 2:00 am, I promised Seonghwa I’d meet him for lunch tomorrow.” Y/N was lying straight through her teeth but the guys were none the wiser as she left the game. Yunho sighed in relief to not have her constantly up his ass, actually being able to try and explore the new game and have fun without getting killed every few minutes.

Yunho was so focused in the game now he didn’t see y/n open her bedroom door across the hall, he himself had left his bedroom door open. Y/N glanced down the hall towards Wooyoung’s, his door was shut and she could hear him yelling at Jongho over something in the game. Dropping to her knees, y/n smirked, biting her bottom lip as she crawled quietly across the carpeted floor into Yunho’s room.

She paused a second, taking in his big frame in sitting slightly hunched over in his gaming chair, completely focused on the game, the clicking of the keyboard and mouse loud. The only thing he had on clothing wise was a pair of baggy gray sweatpants. His headset sat atop his messy dyed dirty blonde hair.

Yunho couldn’t hear her movements over Wooyoung and Jongho now the ones arguing in the game through his headset, but he certainly felt her when she brushed against his leg, crawling under his desk. He looked down at her as the game was on the load screen, y/n peeking up at him now between his legs. “What are you doing?” He mouthed so the others wouldn’t hear over the headset.

Y/N only smirked at him. This was payback for not only getting her killed in the game but how he left her edged and on the brink of orgasm the day before. They had gotten into an argument in the living room, something about someone going into Yunho’s room and turning off his pc while he had a game paused.

An argument that eventually lead to Yunho having y/n bent over the couch, a hand gripping her hair, head pulled back as he was hitting it from behind, the lewd noises loud, echoing in the apartment along with y/n loud cries and moans mixed with Yunho’s filthy words.

“You do that shit on purpose, don’t you?” His hand came down hard on her ass causing y/n to jolt forward and giving Yunho the perfect opportunity to grip her waist and yank her back, dick thrusting all the way back inside her aching, edged cunt. “Fucking brat.”

His hand was tangled back in her hair, yanking her up, y/n back against his chest just as keys could be heard at the front door. Yunho had pulled out of her and darted to his room, trying not to trip over his own feet. Y/N had snatched her discarded clothes up and darted to her own room just before Wooyoung walked through the door.

Yunho clenched his jaw as y/n glided her hands up his legs, fingers grazing his bellybutton before dipping into the waistband of his pants and pulling them back just enough to be able to pull his hardening dick free.

His dick always betrayed him when it came to her. “This is what you get for leaving me to finish myself yesterday.” She wrapped her hand around him, working a steady rhythm up and down his length until Yunho had to bite his lip to keep from moaning, his dick now fully hard and aching to be buried inside her, mouth, pussy, he wasn’t picky.

“Dude, you good?” Jongho asked when a deep moan escaped Yunho, echoing in his friend’s ears through their headsets when y/n tongue started licking at his tip, hand still jerking him, thumb tracing a prominent vein that had Yunho almost whimpering.

“I…. I yeah… I just stubbed my toe under…. my desk.” It was a terrible lie and it wouldn’t be a good enough excuse to cover up the almost growl that left him when y/n removed her hand to bring his entire length into her mouth, his tip hitting the back of her throat and causing her to gag at the fullness and stretch.

“Ok, what the hell?” This time it was San who called him out. Yunho switched his movements from the mouse to the keyboard, using one hand to continue playing while reaching down to tangle his other hand into y/n hair, gripping it and gaining control, making her slow down the sudden messy, gagging, bob of her head on his dick. “Wooyoung, you just ran right into that fucking sniper!” Yunho ignored San, heart racing, that familiar tightness in his stomach growing.

How Yunho managed to play with one hand y/n had no idea but then again, he was annoyingly good at everything. She could feel he was close, his dick twitching against her tongue as he continued to move her head, fucking her mouth at a steady pace as he continued playing the game. He was biting his bottom lip so hard to keep from making anymore noise, it would be suspicious if he just muted his mic, his friends are nosy and would ask questions.

Suddenly, a loud “FUCK!” left Jongho when his player was killed, loud enough to muffle the deep moan that left Yunho as he came, y/n swallowing every last drop of his release, tears slightly forming at the crease of her eyes due to Yunho pushing her head down as far as he could get her, y/n nose pressed against pelvis.

Yunho released the grip he had on her, his hand moving to cover his mouth as his breathing came out in shallow pants. Y/N gasped for her own breath, wiping at her face before crawling up into Yunho’s lap. He had to mute his mic then. “Are you fucking serious right now? Wooyoung is literally down the hall, my door is open and…”

“Shut up.” Y/N rolled her eyes at him because she honestly just didn’t give a shit anymore. They’d been sneaking around for over two months now and she was tired. So what if their friends found out? The worst they’d do is tease them before finding something else to throw dumb jokes at. “Besides…” she smirked, reaching without Yunho seeing her to unmute his mic. “you’re already getting hard again.”

If Yunho would just look at his computer screen he’d notice the way his friends players were no longer moving. If he wasn’t so distracted by the taste of himself lingering on y/n tongue as she kissed him, he probably would of noticed how Wooyoung, San and Jongho had all grown dead silent through his headset.

“Wait…” Yunho pulled his headset off, carelessly placing it onto his desk, pausing his game. He’d tell the guys he had to use the bathroom or something, whatever. He’d make something up. “Take this off.” He was pulling at y/n shirt, helping her take it off, tossing it behind him somewhere on the floor in his room.

Of course she had no fucking bra on, Yunho dove in, arms wrapping around her, helping y/n to get some friction through her pajama shorts against his dick as he pulled one of her nipples into his mouth.

“No teasing, you did enough of that yesterday.” Y/N pulled at his hair, yanking his head back, Yunho’s lips so plump, face flushed, ears red. “Just fuck me.” Yunho was so lost in her, the mere thought of having his dick buried inside her that he completely forgot his door was open, still no idea that his mic was not on mute.

“Look at you” Yunho was smirking now, hands gripping her waist to hold her still. “so desperate for my dick you almost got us caught.”

Almost? Y/N refrained from smirking back at his cluelessness, instead putting on her best pleading face, lips pouting, moaning his name as she could feel him, hard, pressing against her aching cunt through the silky lilac fabric of her shorts. “Come on, please…” She barely ever begged but she was damn horny. Another reason why she liked to push his buttons, angry Yunho was a complete turn on for her.

Yunho let her go, nodding his head at her as y/n was quick to crawl off his lap and remove her shorts, him lifting his hips in his chair just enough to give space to shove his sweatpants on down his legs, kicking them under his desk. “Ride me.” Yunho’s voice dropped, so deep it had y/n clenching around nothing as he guided her back to straddling him.

Yunho gripped a hand against one of the little arms of his gaming chair to help steady them as y/n own hands pulled herself up using his shoulder for leverage, Yunho’s other hand reaching to help guide his dick into her, moans leaving them both as he filled her to the hilt. Both of Yunho’s hands went to grip at her hips, y/n own going to tug at his hair, the other around his throat.

“Why are we still listening?” San exclaimed over his headset. The lewd noises echoing in their ears from Yunho’s end made it very clear what was going on. “Because it’s fucking hot.” Wooyoung stated, practically whimpering towards the noises of his roommates.

“Wooyoung, you fucking freak.” Jongho teased him before clearing his throat as a rather loud moan escaped Yunho, y/n name on his lips. “Dude, go do something! They’re your roommates.” He could go and tell them to shut the fuck up. The sound of them together a little too hot for all three of them listening. They all had a boner.

“Fuck…. you always feel me up so…. good….” Y/N was a gasping, crying mess. Legs shaking, breathless. She could feel her orgasm ready to burst with every touch of Yunho’s dick hitting her g spot. Her stomach was in knots, eyes practically crossed as he held her arms behind her, using his knees as leverage to pound into her from where she straddled him in his gaming chair.

Yunho was close too, thrusting sloppy and fast, kissing at any part of her skin he could reach from his position. “So fucking good….. so fucking good for me…” he was mumbling, moaning, whining against her throat.

“Mine.” He pulled back, smirking, pupils blown. “My brat.” Two more deep thrusts and y/n was coming with his name a scream ringing from her lips. Four more thrusts and Yunho was coming, filling her so fucking full his legs shook.

They both yelled, Yunho groaning when he broke the fall as their movements caused the chair to rock off balance, plummeting them both to the floor. Yunho’s arms were wrapped tightly around y/n, dick sliding out of her as she slipped up his body. Both of them were panting, breathless, both from post orgasm and the fall.

“Holy shit…” Wooyoung was standing in the doorway, gaze dark as he had been watching them from Yunho’s open bedroom door. It’s not like he meant to, he was gonna knock on Yunho’s door but then… well… he couldn’t fucking look away. His roommates were so fucking hot together. He knew they had to of noticed the prominent hard bulge in his loose black pajama pants.

“You guys want a third?”

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note: am I putting together a gamer yunho full story? well yes!

tag list: @autieofthevalley @hannahlilibet411 @lovinjjong @wisejudgedragonhairdo @soupbinlily @georgeanabanana @yunyuniverse @minkioswoo @ateezswonderland @thuyting @hum4n-e4ter @atinyyuyu @zerefdragn33l

[muntitled]

Work In Progress

Pairing: Gwi-nam x fem!reader

Summary: Gwinam learns you never know how much you love something until lose it…

Warnings: God Complex!Gwinam, Dark!fic, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, Shy!reader, Bullying, Unrequited Love, Toxic Relationship, Jealousy, Madonna whore complex, Narcissism, Weaponizing!Cheongsan (sorry boo), Public sex, Unprotected Sex, Oral Sex, Underage Sex (technically), Masturbation Fem!rec, Dom/Sub, God Kink?, DUB/CON, humming, Spitting, Extreme Degradation, Mentions of Rape, Dacryphillia, Humping,Choking, Gagging, Subspace, Slapping, Sadism, Masochism, Breeding Kink,

A/n: You might recognize this fic if you've read my other stuff but it's because I rewrote it for another character cus no one was really checking for Gwinam like that. Kdrama fics are quite niche.

I'm not responsible for the media you consume

You have made peace with the incomparable fact, long ago, that if God existed then he was far too busy to attend to you. There is just too much going on all at once: Smartphones are threatening devolution. The planet is on the edge of a burning match. There are bigger things than this.

Still, swirling in the depths of your stomach is the incriminating need to cry, and pray, and perhaps maybe even touch yourself, too.

Your moral compass is a work in progress.

It had a knack for getting nefariously cloudy, especially when he entered the mix…

Gwinam's eyes are blown into saucers as he looks down at you. He is utterly restless, not knowing what to do with himself, when you took so much of him, so well. His satisfaction has you fighting the urge to hum and moan around the head of his cock.

Despite all this, you are clearly aware of the fact that you should not be enjoying this at all. Not one bit.

For starters, your knees are cutting into gravel, your shirt is unbuttoned because Gwinam was like a moth to a fucking flame when it came to your ample breasts and his hand was locked tightly in your kinky curls, forcing his cock even further down his throat.

You clench your toes, trying not to gag.

"Fuck, you're taking me so well," Gwinam got exceedingly verbal during most of your secret trysts. With his slurred speech, the boy could murmur every curse, praise and degradation under the sun.

"Such a good fucking slut," but the invisible word always hung heavy between you two. A word you always wanted to hear him say…

Mine. Mine. Mine.

He had always, and would always fail to claim you, in any capacity, even under the spell of sexual intoxication.

"What they don't understand… Is that I'm actually a really nice guy." Gwinam begins that weird quirk where he speaks to himself while he uses your body for his own pleasure. You were made to question whether you were his therapist or his whore. You love it though.

Every habit or quirk of his was indiscriminately locked away in a safe and buried in the depths of your consciousness.

"I'm really-" You slide your tongue along his shaft, ripping a hoarse groan from his chest and momentarily stumping his verbal momentum.

"What no one seems to understand, is that… I'm a… fair fucking guy, too." Feeling himself get too close, Gwinam eases his cock fully out of your mouth, languidly stroking himself but still assuming a firm grip on your hair. He is operating on that very specific plain of narcissism that

was special to Gwinam. He is aware of your presence, physically, but his words are spoken into the open air, like you are an inanimate object. A glorified fleshlight.

"And that fucking Jinsu," He punctuates his sentence with an incredulous laugh- it blossoms across his usually stoic visage, raising his buttercup cheekbones towards his smiling eyes. All you can do is sit back on your haunches, lift the sleeve of your fitted school jersey to wipe away the excess saliva. You remain kneeled in front of him, knowing he has yet to finish.

As he talks, a slow feeling of admiration seeps into the pit of your stomach which is utterly pathetic, given that your feelings will not ever be reciprocated.

"They wanna make me seem like a murderer-" he exclaims, "Me?! It's not my fault he tried to kill himself,” He laughs incredulously. His smile is utterly dazzling in the unambiguous morning glow, with his rugged hair messy just how you like it. You recognize his black undershirt as the same shirt he might've worn yesterday, and the day before that, and perhaps even the day before that. His school shirt was wrinkled and unkempt and his shoes had seen far better days - even better years.

Brewing inside you is the need to take care of him. You knew the rest of the student body viewed Gwinam as an earth-dwelling parasite. Something that is only capable of thinking within the capacity of its own survival. Something that takes, and takes, and takes. But how could he know anything different? You suspected that his home life was built on the foundation of survival, on needing to be the loudest, and proudest, and baddest of them all.

"What the fuck are you doing?" The sharpness of his words slice through your thoughts, bringing you back to the lot behind the science block. The sound of students trickling in for their morning classes filled your ears but Gwinam's gaze was placed firmly on something below his exposed cock. Throughout this mindless tirade, your hand had taken to rubbing soft, comforting circles against his leg, quite literally on its own accord. Gwinam is bent over, head tilted as he watches you questioningly. You rip your hand away, embarrassed by the weird show of affection. Seconds stretch to a minute, and your stomach sinks as time passes.

Gwinam, eventually dismisses you, as he always does. He shakes his head and resumes his stroking. "Whatever," He says, tilting your own head back and lining your mouth with the head of his cock once more. His visage darkens into a cruel sadistic grin. "Tell me you want me to come in your mouth."

Almost insitinvely, you did as he ordered, and like clockwork, he groaned and cursed and emptied himself inside your mouth. You swallowed his cum, wondering if he knew how deeply and truly your admiration actually was. There is a moment, perhaps imagined, after he's finished, when the aftershocks are still running rampant through his body, in which his fingers gripping your hair, rub along the side of your soft, supple cheek. It stays there for longer than necessary, leaving bits and pieces of your composure scattered in its wake.

Gwinam straightens his posture, stuffing his flaccid cock back into his pants before making himself as presentable as the student body knows him to be (which admittedly is not a lot).

Before he turns to walk away, he leaves you stranded on a glacier with his ice cold words cutting deep into your beating heart.

"Tell anyone about this-"

"And I'm dead," You interject, "I know."

And with that, you pull your ruffled collar over your lint-free school jersey and check your reflection on your phone to assess the damage Gwinam and his iron grip might have left. You needn't wait for an extension on the conversation because your job here was done, (pun so malevolently intended). As far as Gwinam is concerned, you are an easy conduit to release his frustrations because your unpopularity makes you so incredibly inconspicuous. You blend into any given crowd at any given moment, your name seldom reaching the heights of ridicule among his group because you are so forgettable… There had been no reason to point out your flaws, not because you did not have any, but because you were simply invisible.

It is particularly strange to have any social interaction beyond the bounds of forced proximity through group projects and class discussions… so Cheongsan gifting you even a sliver of attention had been violently unorthodox. So unorthodox in fact, you failed to look up from the weathered pages of your novel when his gentle voice wafted in your direction. It was second period, English, your teacher was running late and while the class descended into mayhem you decided to read.

"I don't know if you're aware of this but…" Cheongsan leans over your desk, a deep shadow over the pages alerting you to his presence, "They both die at the end."

It was incredibly rare that Cheongsan, who sat at the desk directly in front of you, ever felt the need to strike up conversation that was not purely academic. So naturally, you peer up at him with shocked, questioning eyes.

"Sorry?"

"Y-Your book," He stutters, suddenly overcome by a wave of embarrassment even though there was nothing at all to be embarrassed about… he turns his chair slightly in your direction, his eyes darting to the door and the empty teacher's seat before meeting yours once more.

"'They Both Die At The End. The title of the book you're reading."

"Oh…" You affirm, rocking your head back and forth, "You were making a joke?"

"Nah," Cheongsan waves a large hand in dismissal, "The only thing I made was a fool of myself." You're not sure when it happens but you feel the lower half of your face melting into what you suspect is a smile. You can feel your shoulders relaxing and your novel lowering imperceptibly, to see more of him.

"Work on your delivery next time and maybe we'll be getting somewhere."

"You know- I swear I had a pair of balls before the start of this conversation," He purses his lips and clasps his hands on his lap in a dramatic display, "Now I'm not quite sure where they went."

Gwinam's feet pass over the threshold as soon as the sound of your laughter rushes past him. It is almost charming in its familiarity but incredibly curious in its rarity. He can't recall ever seeing you with your head thrown back while the instinctive sound of amusement races through your throat. He does not know he's staring until someone in his friend group shoves past him, to get to their own seats.

His eyes remain on you as he makes his way to his desk, hoping, perhaps, that you would turn your head infinitesimally, in acknowledgement of his presence in the row of desks to your right. You do nothing of the sort and it not only fills him with a weird sort of dissatisfaction but it bubbles into full blown vexation when he realises who is capturing your attention so viscerally.

Gwinam has never prided himself on his patience or tolerance. Overthinking being something he lived without. Most of his actions were spurred from things he felt in the now, and he was really fucking uncomfortable with what was happening now.

Perhaps if he…

"You didn't let me know we were having a picnic," The sound of a chair scraping against the tiles had both you and Cheongsan rallying into silence. Gwinam appears at your side, pushing the chair against yours so he, too, sits facing Cheongsan. Cheongsan who suddenly appears incredibly uneasy. Gone is the comfortable atmosphere cooked by easy and amicable conversation. Gwinam injecting himself into your little bubble created a suddenly charged and suffocating atmosphere. You cannot keep your hardened eyes off Cheongsan as Gwinam lowers himself to his chair, legs spread as he slouches down, like he always does.

"Don't stop now," He exclaims, completely oblivious to the fact that your Science teacher might walk in at any minute. "What were we talking about?" Your heart wrestles in your chest as you see him turn to address you in your periphery. His slouching puts him a level lower than you but it does nothing to lessen his intimidation. "Maybe I should ask, Cheongsan? What were you guys talking about?" There is not a trace of friendliness present in Gwinam's tone, in fact it's the very opposite. Your nerves, swelling with anxiety, only escalates into full on panic when you feel him place a large hand on your skirt under the table.

Cheongsan's voice is low and his eyes are trained on the floor, "Books-" Gwinam cuts him off with fervour.

"Books! How interesting!" The hyperbolic wonder in his tone is utterly rude and unbecoming, but still you refuse to look at him. "And tell me, Cheongsan… how many books have you read so far?"

It is then that Gwinam's once stationary hand begins the faintest trace of movement. He begins slow and tame, his callouses barely registering on the soft fabric of your chequered school skirt until his fingers prod the lining of your skirt…

your breath hitches in your throat.

Never had Gwinam ever felt the desire to touch you. Not in the way he made you touch him. It was made explicitly clear that only he would benefit from your secret rendezvous' and so you were left to deal with your aching cunt alone, with the image of the face he made when he came, still burned into your mind. It had never been about you.

"A couple," Says Cheongsan, fighting to show this bully that he was affected by his intimidation. If only he knew that with every advance Gwinam's palm made, you simply were not there.

"A couple books?" Asks Gwinam for clarity. He remains lax and languid on the inside, but the nature of his wandering hand underneath the desk tells a new story. He finally slips under your skirt. His palm connects with the softness of your thighs and he seems utterly pleased by it

His hand is immediately restless to explore how far you would let him go. Which isn't very far.

Not at all.

If he thought he could suddenly touch you after myriad occasions of using you like a discarded toy… he had another thing coming.

The tips of Gwinam's fingers make gradually increasing strokes along your thigh until his fingers prod the stretch marks on your inner thigh. It is there when you stop him, clenching your legs together, blocking his hand from any further movement.

Gwinam's voice is strained as he says, "And you like reading, Cheongsan?"

Sensing something brewing between the two of you - your withdrawn, hazy gaze, staring directly through him and Gwinam's overabundance in questions, has Cheongsan reeling backwards.

"I asked you a question, Cheongsan."

"I like reading."

"Good! That's really good!" Quite suddenly, Gwinam tilts the ends of his half-moon nails into your thigh, forcing them to weaken and unclamp. Before you're even able to think, his palm is cupping your cunt through your panties- forcing an indecent yelp from your throat which you quickly (and very badly) disguise as a cough.

Gwinam is utterly pleased while he continues mindlessly stroking your cunt. Not for the purpose of any glorious stimulation it seems. His hand is just there to show you (and perhaps maybe himself) that he has access to the most private part of you. That thought alone has an unforeseen and sudden wave of lust coursing through his veins and surging straight to his hardened cock. He thinks of all the things he could have done to you but failed to do. He thinks about how, up until this point, he had ever been satisfied with using your mouth alone, not when he was denying himself the softness of your pussy all along. He felt angry with himself, for being so fucking stupid, he is angry at Cheongsan for seeing whatever it is he saw in you, way before he did and, possibly most harrowing of all is the fact that he is angry with you. And he can't help but be angry at you. How easily you whore yourself out to any and every man. If this thing with Cheongsan had gone far enough, would you venture as far as to suck his cock in deserted sectors of the schoolyard? Had you even fucked Cheongsan before?

You bite down on your lower lip as your head bows to your book once more. The words blend into one another, and all you can feel is a rise in temperature and Gwinam's suddenly restless fingers, pressing rudely against your clit - or the sole purpose of ripping an orgasm out of you right then and there, at the very back of an unsupervised classroom, with Cheongsan still very much a part of the conversation.

"You've got so many books to read in your lifetime," Says Gwinam. He sits up slowly, likely spurred on by the dampness seeping through your panties.

"Don't cut your life short by trying to entertain other people's girlfriends, okay?"

Your skin feels like you are bathing in magma and you hope Cheongsan could not see the slight tremor on your hand as you gripped the sides of your book with more force than necessary. His words, however - they have you shifting forward and widening your legs minutely. You crave for nothing more than to roll your hips in tandem with the circles he's pressing against your clit.

"Understood?"

Your orgasm is dangerously close, with the promise of sheer, disgusting shame and embarrassment if he continues. You feel Cheongsan give you one final look, perhaps pleading for an interjection of denial at some point but you've taken to bouncing your knee under the table, hoping the vibrations might create enough friction to aide Gwinam's hands. He is keeping you trapped in a space of wanting. So much so, that this almost feels like a punishment.

Once Cheongsan is turned back around and facing the front of the class, Gwinam lowers his lips to your ears. You're so completely stimulated, even the warmth of his breath as you fight the urge to hump into his hand like a naughty little thing until you make a mess all over his hand.

"You're such a fucking slut, you know that?" Your book drops to your desk - muffled by the sounds of the classroom cacophony.

"Fuck," You whisper to yourself, blinking your eyes shut, fighting to ward off the need but to no avail. His fingers are long and limber, and they have you nearly cumming right there, in front of your entire fucking class. Had it not been for Mr Lee's haphazard arrival into the class, and the swift removal of Gwinam's fingers from between your legs… you might truly have become the slut he so often labeled you as.

Instead of moving to his designated seat, Gwinam lifts the same hand that has previously been in between your legs, right into the air.

"What?" Asks Mr Lee, his voice as lacklustre as his appearance.

"Can we go? We were excused by the Principal to assist Mrs-"

"Fine, fine," Says Mr Lee with a wave of dismissal before turning his attention to the rest of the class. "The rest of you, open your textbooks to page 56."

Gwinam's hand is clamped around your forearm, already leading you swiftly out the door in a long and wide stride. Had it been any other teacher at all, they might have recognized this for what it so clearly was.

"Here," you have barely made it fully into the girl's bathroom before Gwinam is stuffing his fingers down your throat, making you gag and yelp at the sudden intrusion. "Tell me how good you taste." He doesn't even bother to make sure you're truly left alone in the bathroom before pushing your front against the bathroom counter.

"Answer me when I'm talking to you," He forces his fingers deeper down your throat, causing you to cough and gag around them. You're supposed to be afraid because you've never seen him like this. Gwinam is always a ball of energy between trysts, but it's usually an energy he can somewhat contain.

You don't know what to do with him, not when he's watching you choke on his fingers through the mirror, while his other hand fondles at your breasts and rips your bra down until your nipples are poking through your school shirt.

The figure in the mirror distorts as your eyes begin to water. Thick beads of water grow pregnant at the ends of your eyes before rolling down the side of your face.

"My girl," Gwinam presses his face into your hair, breathing you in, pressing his front against your back. His hard cock in unmistakable through his pants, "My messy little girl,"

You finally moan candidly around his fingers, your fingers gripping the countertops while your hips buck into nothingness. Your eyes plead with him in the mirror, hoping they relay how utterly useless with lust you have become. It would not take hard work to cum, you're sure one more flick against your material-clad nipples might send you over the edge.

"Fuck, why didn't I think of this sooner," This is all new, even for the two of you.

"Spread your legs." He commands, even though his feet are already kicking them apart. "Come here," you break eye contact in the mirror to face the boy behind you.

Gwinam removes his fingers sitting in your mouth, leaving a trail of unbreakable saliva in its wake before replacing it with a long and messy kiss- one that has his tongue forcing itself inside.

Gwinam weaponizes your distraction to slide your panties to the side with one hand and rub your clit with his other, spit-coated hand.

You break away from the kiss, neck craning back and mouth hanging open while your eyebrows dissolve into crescents. You cannot look away from him, as you hump his hand.

"You wanna cum?" You nod enthusiastically. "And what if I told you, you can't cum until I've cum? Hm? What then?" His words have you mewling from the sheer pleasure they bring and your orgasm threatens to snap once more.

"Fuck," He hisses, feeling unable to remove his hand from your wet cunt but needing to, in order to undo his belt and pull his aching cock out. "Don't you dare fucking touch yourself," He says in a deadly quiet voice before bringing his hand up to your mouth. "Spit." You don't ever think of disobeying him, not when you're swimming so deeply in your subspace, not when he's the one to bring you here.

Gwinam collects every bit of saliva you offer him before coating his cock in the stuff.

Deciding not to waste anymore time, Gwinam does what his body is screaming for him to do: he bends you over the bathroom counter and pushes cock right through your slippery folds. It's tense and painful and your voice is hoarse from doing all that screaming but the sudden contact strokes a deeply sated part inside yourself. His curved and pretty cock ram your insides with reckless abandon, all while he delivers harsh and sharp slaps against your cheek. Gwinam keeps a firm grip on your throat. His mouth is inches away from you while his hips rut into yours. His words are being delivered through clenched teeth.

"You think you're so fucking cute, huh? You think you can walk around fucking any guy who even looks at you, huh!?" It doesn't even register that Gwinam wrongfully suspects that there had been something between Cheongsan and you, but you keep your mouth shut. For all his indifference in the past, this is how you would make him pay.

"Oh~ Fuck." His cock bruises your cervix, leaving Gwinam balls deep and feral inside you. "Fucking Cheongsan?! You wanna give what's mine, to fucking Cheongsan?!" It's utterly depraved and animalistic and it has your orgasm cresting. "What would Cheongsan think? If he saw me raping you in the bathroom like this? What would he think? Would he still want your slutty pussy knowing I've been inside it? Knowing that I've cum inside you and completely ruined you for anyone else,"

"You…" The tears threaten to spill, "it's only ever been you, Gwinam- oh my God! I'm so fucking close!" You fight down tears as the lava begins to bubble at the pit of your stomach.

"S-Say it again. Tell me you want me!" He exclaims, "Tell me you fucking need me."

"I fucking need you, Oh my God" You push your hips back to meet his thrusts.

His voice wavers after your confession. His strokes becoming sloppy, "F-Fuck! I am your God, baby. You need me so fucking badly…" He nods to himself while his heavy cock finds purchase in a specific clump of sensitive tissue inside your cunt. It has you clamping your own mouth shut, your elbows falling to the counter with your ass sticks out towards him, only allowing him better excess.

"I need you," You agree, swallowing a ball of saliva as you nod towards him through the mirror, "I need your cum inside me."

"Yeah-," Gwinam says, "M'gonna fucking breed your pussy right here, in the school bathrooms- fuck!" His grip on your throat grows tighter until you're wholeheartedly cut off from your air supply. You hump his cock until you feel it twitch inside you.

"Fuck! You're fucking making me cum you stupid slut!" You feel his hot cum spurting inside your walls, triggering your own orgasm that has you gripping his cock like a vice. "Oh fuck- you're fucking milking my cock, baby. Fucking take it." His hips stutter against yours until you've completely drained him of his cum. A sharp tremor settles over your bones and you gasp in vague increments, waiting for the overwhelming state of euphoria to subside… but it never does.

The weight of what you had done comes crashing back down but you are unable to feel anything besides an immense wave of satisfaction at having your deepest need satiated.

"I think I nearly killed Cheongsan today." His voice is a hoarse echo within the school bathrooms.

"There is no Cheongsan," You say, watching him through the mirror, "In my whole world, there is only ever you."

And a part of him believes you but he refuses to affirm something as emotionally stifling as that. Instead, Gwinam's eyes flutter shut as his nose finds your hair once more. His cock is still buried inside you, and you hiss as he moves his hips slowly, almost insitinvely. He loves being so wholly enveloped by you. He loves feeling you everywhere.

[agreeewrites]

Best Friends Brother pt. 2 | C.W. ⋆✮⋆˙

feat. Charlie Weasley x fem!reader

SUMMARY: Months have passed since you met (ie shagged and definitely didn't fall in love with) Charlie Weasley. And when Molly invites you to the Burrow for Christmas, your best friends Fred and George assure you that Charlie will not be in attendance. Spoiler alert: They are wrong.

CW: MDNI 18+, lots of christmas fluff and smut, Charlie being a shameless flirt, pining, brat tamer and primal!charlie if you squint, dirty talk, p in v, oral (f receiving), this is so tooth-rotting I cannot

AN: Charlie might be my favorite weasley to write for. and the implications of brat taming and primal play have my mind reeeeeeling

part one | masterlist

“So what are you doing for Christmas, deary?” Mrs. Weasley asked, stirring a sugar lump into her tea. You were squeezed beside Fred into a booth at tea shop in Diagon Alley, having run into your best friends and their mother while Christmas shopping. Molly insisted you join them for a rejuvenating cuppa, and you weren't one to refuse an earl grey.

“Oh, nothing really. Probably watch some corny films and get take away,” you replied, nibbling on the edge of a croissant.

“What?!” She gasped, so loud the neighboring tables turned to see what the fuss what about.

Fred and George pulled an identical grimace.

“Unacceptable!” She cried, dropping her spoon with a clatter. “Why on earth didn't you tell me she was spending Christmas alone?!” She whacked George on the arm and kicked Fred in the shin under the table.

“We didn't know!” They whined in unison, rubbing their injuries.

“Oh, Mrs. Weasley, it really isn't a big deal—”

“Not a big deal! Dear, it's Christmas!” She reached across the table and took your hands, squeezing hard and holding your eye. “You will spend it with us at the Burrow, alright?”

Your heart stopped, your tongue going thick. “Oh, I-uh—”

“Charlie will be in Romania,” Fred hissed to you from the corner of his mouth. “Just say yes, or she’ll skin us.”

Charlie. Best friends brother, dragon wrangler, and the best lay you'd ever had in your life. It had been three months since your tryst in the storage room, and the hours of effortless conversation that came after, and you'd thought of him every day since.

You'd exchanged a few letters over the months, pleasantries and some light flirting on Charlie's part. He'd even sent you a few shed scales from your favorite dragon species, the Welsh Green, but beyond that, nothing had transpired.

He lived on Romania, after all. And his work was his life. You just had a bit of fun together, a few hours of fantasy, nothing more. But no matter how many times you repeated that like mantra, you still found yourself unable to move on.

“I hope you know, love, I will not accept 'no' as an answer,” Molly said, pining you with a stern glare.

“Well, thank you, Mrs. Weasley. I’m very grateful for the invitation, and I'd love to spend the holidays with your family,” you said, offering as genuine a smile you could muster despite your trepidation, and Molly beamed at you, already running through her plans for you all.

Fred slung an arm around your shoulders, jostling you with his excitement. “Yes! You're gonna love it.”

You were grateful, and you were eager to have a real Christmas with a family you adored, but it still felt…odd. You'd be spending the holidays with Charlie's family, but not Charlie.

You weren't sure if you were relieved or disappointed but…either way you were spending Christmas at the Weasley’s.

The Burrow and it's residents welcomed you with open arms. The sprawling home was decorated floor to rafter in homemade garland and candles, with decorated trees in every room, branches heavy with ornaments and paper chains.

Harry, Hermione, and Fleur were also staying over the holidays, and Ginny was beside herself with excitement that you were joining as well, pulling you in for a crushing hug that squeezed the last of bits of anxiety from your heart. Percy and Bill helped with your things, and the twins were quick to get a drink in your hand while everyone chatted excitedly over one another.

It was warm and merry, and you couldn't believe you almost missed this because of a stupid, little crush.

After about an hour of conversation, you noticed Ginny start to fidget under Harry’s arm, glancing at the location clock by the stairs every few minutes. The hand with Charlie's name remained firmly at ‘work’, while the rest piled into ‘home’.

You exhaled, fighting the nerves reknitting themselves in your stomach.

“Oi, twitchy,” Fred bumped your shoulder, drawing your attention back to the conversation. “What's on your mind—”

The floo station suddenly flared to life, verdant green light blasting through the room as the flames roared. Everyone yelped and scurried back, well, besides Ginny, and when the flames died the next instant, you realized why.

Charlie Weasley stood at the center of the fireplace, a bag over his shoulder and a smug smile on his face.

Your stomach turned inside out.

Merlin, how had he gotten even more handsome? His hair was a slightly longer, his beard thicker to ward off the biting, Romanian cold. He wore a heavy coat and cargo pants, leather boots still packed with melting snow.

“Charles!” Molly shrieked, throwing herself at her second oldest son and pulling him into a bone-crushing hug.

“Charlie!” Everyone cried, rushing to greet him while you tiptoed the opposite way, meaning to escape into the hall so you could collect yourself.

“Ah, ah,” George said, catching your wrist, grinning. “You don't want to do that,” he teased.

“And why not?” You huffed.

“Better to play it cool,” he winked, and you stuck your tongue out at him.

He was right, though. You would only survive this if you played it cool. Pretended everything was normal, that you hadn't been pining for this man for weeks on end, that the thought of spending Christmas with Charlie didn't make your heart flutter with excitement.

“But the clock!” Arthur laughed, finally wrangling Molly away so he could hug his son.

“Asked Ginevra to enchant it,” Charlie said, hugging his father with one arm and bundling his little sister into his opposite side, dropping a kiss on top of her head. “Seems she did well.”

“It is not to be tampered with!” Molly crowed, wiping tears from her cheeks.

“Alright, alright. I'll fix it,” Charlie chuckled, withdrawing his wand from his belt and muttering a reversal spell. The clock hand whirred around the face, confused, before it finally settled on ‘home’ with everyone else.

Charlie made his way around the room, hugging everyone and chatting until finally, he reached George, who you were attempting to hide behind.

Charlie pulled him into a bear hug, clapping him on the back. “She knows I can see her, right?” He murmured to George, just loud enough to be sure you also heard him.

Your cheeks warmed, your stomach falling through the floor.

George scoffed. “Stop checkin’ out my girlfriend, mate.”

Charlie grinned, shoving George to the side, perhaps a little harder than necessary. “Dream on, Georgie,” he chuckled, eyes shining with amusement. He finally turned to you, his expression softening. “Happy Christmas, y/n,” he said, approaching slowly, the heavy plod of his boots matching the jump of your heart.

“Happy Christmas, Charlie,” you replied, playing coy and reaching up to brush some snow from his wide shoulder. “How's my Welsh Green?” you asked.

Charlie smirked, his eyes sweeping over your face, down your neck, before flicking back to your eyes. “She nearly took my head off this morning when I tried to give her breakfast.”

“My kind of girl.” You felt your skin prickle under his attention, but you held your composure.

“Mine too,” he purred, lowering his voice. Heat curled low in your stomach, remembering the way his voice pitched and deepened while you—good god, you were losing your mind.

“Time for supper!” Molly called over the dull roar of conversation, and you slipped away from Charlie to follow the twins into the dining room, desperate for a breath that wasn’t sweetened by his cologne.

Dinner went by in a blur of food and activity, Charlie sat by Arthur at the head while you were sequestered to the other side with the twins. After eating, Charlie slipped away to shower, and you joined everyone else back in the living room for board games and music.

You were wrapped up in a game of Scrabble with Hermoine and Ginny when Charlie re-emerged, his hair damp and slicked back, dressed in flannel pajama pants and a black t-shirt. Your mouth dried, your pussy fluttering at the mental image of him in the shower moments before.

His eyes found you across the room, his tongue darting out to wet his lips while they swept over you, taking in the House crewneck and pj shorts you’d changed into. You turned back the game to hide your face, swallowing the lump in your throat.

A moment passed, then Charlie turned to join Bill, Percy, and Arthur in the study, casting you another glance over his shoulder before disappearing.

A few more hours rolled by, and one by one, everyone went to bed besides the older men in the study. Molly set you up on the couch, apologizing profusely for the lack of space, but you waved her off, happy to curl up by the fire and read the book Percy lent you.

You settled in with a blanket over your lap, a book in one hand, cup of tea in the other. Soon though, exhaustion began to tug at you, and your eyes started to flutter closed, the warmth of the room and the chaos of the day taking its toll as you slipped into unconsciousness.

Distantly, you felt someone take the book from your hand, the empty tea cup from your lap, and you swam back to wakefulness, lifting your head.

“Just me, love,” a voice said, soft and male, and you immediately recognized it as Charlie’s.

You blinked open your eyes, finding him sticking a playing card in your book to hold your page. “Oh, what are you doin’?” you mumbled, rubbing a knuckle in your eye.

“Are you sleeping down here?” he asked, crouching in front of you, brow lightly creased. He smelled like woodsmoke and cinnamon, and you had to remind your sleep-addled mind that you could not just melt into his arms like softened candle wax.

You nodded. “Guest beds are full. But it’s okay, m’comfy.” You snuggled back down on to the couch, pulling the blanket up to your chin.

“I don’t think so. C’mon, you can take my bed.”

You shook your head, grumbling an unintelligible protest into the pillow as sleep crept back in on you.

Suddenly, you were moving, the couch falling away.

“I’m not letting you sleep on the sodding couch,” Charlie grumbled, curling you into his chest. You gave half a thought to try and free yourself, to put up some sort of fight, but his heartbeat was right against your ear, reverberating in the barrel of his chest, and you just couldn’t bring yourself to move away.

He carried you up a few flights of stairs and down a hallway, nudging open a bedroom door with his foot, careful to walk you through without bumping against anything. He set you down on his bed and tucked you under the thick duvet. The smell of him wrapped around you, clean and warm and Charlie, and you moaned in contentment, too tired to stop yourself.

Every one of your cells had missed him.

He pressed a light-as-air kiss to your temple before pulling away. You reached out to catch his hand, surprising him.

“Where are you gonna sleep?” You asked, voice muffled by his pillow.

“I’ll find somewhere,” he murmured, rubbing your knuckles with his thumb. “Used to sleeping in strange places.”

You must have pulled some kind of face, your filter nonexistent in your sleepy state, because he leaned back down to you, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Better stop with that pout, sweetheart. You’ve got me strung out on the gallows,” he warned, a teasing lilt to his voice.

“M’not doing anything,” you teased back, peeking open your eyes to look at him.

“I’m trying to behave this time,” he chuckled, crossing his heart. “You deserve to be properly courted.”

A yawn stole the snarky quip from your tongue. “If you insist,” you sigh, eyes fluttering closed again.

“I do. Now, get some sleep,” he whispered, but you were already gone.

The following morning, you trudged down the stairs at an egregious hour, the incessant, jovial chatter of the Weasley's impossible to sleep through.

You found them all in the kitchen, steam from the kettle floating through the air, chased by the scent of cinnamon and syrup.

“There she is! The dead walks the earth! Now go bloody change!” Arthur shouted, shoving a rumpled but bright-eyed looking Charlie out from the crowd around the kitchen island.

“Huh?” You looked between the twins and Arthur, but Charlie slung an arm over your shoulder, tugging you into his side.

“I've been summoned to the Ministry for an update on a particularly nasty Horntail,” he said, then leaned in a little closer. “And Happy Christmas Eve, darling,” he whispered.

“Happy Christmas Eve—sorry, what does that have to do with me?” You asked, your brain catching up to the situation.

“The sap refused to risk waking you up to change into his suit,” George supplied. "So they're running late."

“Why would you—”

“Ignore them, you can sleep as long as you like,” he murmured to you.

“Charlie!” You hissed. “You should have woken me up!”

“Over my dead body, love.”

“Charles! Now!” Molly shouted, rattling the rafters.

“Fine, fine.” He reluctantly pulled away from you and bound up the stairs.

“Good morning,” Fred said, beaming at your scowl.

“Morning people, are we?” You asked, accepting a cup of coffee from George.

“No,” Ron argued, his head pillowed by his arms on the table.

Fifteen minutes later, the clop of heavy boots coming down the stairs drew everyone's attention away from their breakfast.

Charlie came around the bend, dressed in a simple, espresso colored suit with a black wool coat, a leather bag slung over his shoulder. His hair was pushed back, brushed and tidy, and silver jewelry shined from his pierced ears and ringed hands.

You nearly choked on your eggs, and Fred clapped a hand on your back.

Everyone wolf whistled and jeered, not used to seeing their rakish brother dressed to the nines. Charlie waved them off with a soft smile, leaning over you to grab a cinnamon roll. His freshly applied cologne wafted over you, spicy and warm, and all other thoughts vacated your head.

Arthur grabbed him by the arm. “Yes, yes. You're very handsome, you are my son after all. Let's go.”

“Wish us luck!” Charlie called, allowing an impatient Arthur to drag him towards the floo station. In a burst of green, they were gone.

“Are all mornings this chaotic?” You asked no one in particular.

“Yes,” they all replied in a unison, and you grinned.

You could get used to a little chaos.

The day passed in a whirlwind of preparation, with you spending most of it with Molly in the kitchen or decorating with the twins.

Once that was finished, you'd gotten ready in Charlie's room, dressing in a white sweater dress and black stockings, your hair loose and makeup light.

You couldn't help but wonder what Charlie would think of it as you evaluated yourself in the mirror. You felt his absence like an ache in your side, and found your gaze wandering back to the floo station all day.

About an hour before dinner, green flames finally erupted in the fireplace. Everyone dropped what they were doing and rushed over, eager to hear about how it went at the Ministry.

You'd gathered from the twins that the fate of the Horntail hung in the balance after it destroyed a flock of sheep in Western Scotland. Charlie, along with several other Dragonologists, had been fighting for it’s life for months.

The flames extinguished, revealing Arthur and Charlie. Arthur was beaming, an arm around his son, while Charlie looked exhausted.

“Oh, thank goodness. Just in time!” Molly cried, throwing her arms around her husband.

“How'd it go?” Everyone asked at once, following Charlie as he stalked into the living room and dropped heavily onto the couch.

Charlie pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes shut against the racket.

“Our son was incredible, Molly. You should have seen him. Every question, he beat away like a bludger. It was masterful,” Arthur gushed, still grinning.

You watched Charlie warily. He certainly wasn't acting like it had gone well.

Bill, seeming as concerned as you, poured a glass of whiskey and passed it to his younger brother. Charlie swallowed the amber drink in one go, not even bothering to open his eyes.

“So, is the Horntail safe?” Ginny asked, sitting tentatively beside her brother on the couch.

“For now,” Charlie muttered, finally picking his head up and opening his eyes. “They want to reevaluate in six months.”

“But that's good, isn't it?” Harry asked.

Charlie nodded. “I suppose.”

You could feel the hurt and anger radiating off of him despite his efforts at composure. The resolution clearly wasn't good enough for him, and you understood why.

You resisted the urge to sit by him, to fuss over him like his family was doing. It seemed to only drive him deeper into himself. He didn't need to hear that it was a good thing, a victory, because it wasn't. It shouldn't be a debate in the first place.

Christmas Eve dinner passed with the expected chaos, and Charlie seemed to cheer a bit after a good meal, a few laughs, and another whiskey. But you could still detect a heaviness around his shoulders. You felt it as keenly as if it was your own burden.

After dinner, everyone moved back into the living room, but you followed Charlie into the now abandoned kitchen, the wreckage of the meal evident on every surface.

You leaned against the entry way, watching as he fiddled with random things, looking for a way to distract himself. “Hey,” you murmured, drawing his attention from the mugs he was straightening.

He gave you a tired smile. “Hi, love. How was your day?” He asked, moving towards you. He'd ditched his blazer and dress shirt before dinner, leaving him in his dark trousers and a white t-shirt, his muscles straining against the fabric.

“It was good. Made some cookies, strung some lights. We missed you, though.”

He braced a hand on the wall beside your head, leaning closer. “We?” He asked, raising a brow.

Merlin, his bicep was the size of your head.

You shrugged, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Me, mostly.”

The corner of his mouth lifted, freckles crinkling around his eyes. “I missed you too. Would have much rather been here to help out. I make a mean gingerbread.”

“I bet you do," you replied sincerely, watching the way his shoulders start to ease down. “I’m sorry about the Horntail,” you said, a little quieter. “But I'm glad you bought it a little more time.”

Charlie sighed, picking at a flake of paint on the wall. “I am too. Just wish I didn't have to do it at all. He doesn't deserve to be executed just for feeding himself.”

“I know. But I'm glad he has you to speak for him.”

Charlie searched your face, his eyes melting with blatant affection. Your heart tripped over itself, drumming hard under your skin.

He glanced up and you followed his gaze, finding a sprig of mistletoe hanging just above your heads. You hadn't noticed it before, but you supposed that was the beauty of mistletoe: it was always where you least expected it.

His eyes flicked back down to you, molten chocolate, and your thoughts turned to static. He reached up to cup your face, far more timid than you've come to expect from him, and tilted your head up towards his.

“Can't believe I haven't told you how beautiful you look yet,” he said, his other hand sliding around your waist to draw you closer. “A Christmas wish come true.”

You smiled, feeling like marshmallow over an open flame. “A Christmas wish?” You prodded, batting your lashes at him as heat spilled through you.

“Too cheesy?” He asked, bumping his nose against yours, your faces so close you could almost feel his smirk.

“The perfect amount,” you murmured, your lips grazing his.

Charlie closed the final millimeter, pressing your bodies together in a slow, sipping kiss. Every neuron in your body lit up, reaching towards him as you curled your fingers into his shirt, deepening the kiss. His tongue caressed the seam of your mouth and you parted for him, letting him delve further and taste you.

He loosed a low groan, his grip tightening as he backed you against the wall. He licked into your mouth, stoking the fire simmering under your skin.

“Hey, y/n—merlin, in the middle of the kitchen? Really?”

You and Charlie sprang apart, finding Fred with a hand clapped over his eyes, a cheeky grin on his face.

“So sorry for interrupting. Though, lucky it was me and not mum,” he teased, dropping his hand. But his smile quickly fell too when Charlie advanced on him, swinging an arm out in an attempt to grab him. Fred ducked to the left and bolted back into the living room, leaving Charlie laughing and shaking his head.

“Well, that's fantastic,” you huffed, pressing a hand to your sternum to quell your pounding heart.

“I can't say they'll be all that surprised.” Charlie cupped your face again, drawing you up for a quick peck. “I haven't shut up about you since we met.”

You're soul lifted out of your body. “You—r-really?”

He smiled, pulling you in for a hug, his big arms wrapped around your head and shoulders. “Really, love. You've got me wrapped around your little finger,” he said, his voice muffled by your hair.

“I thought I was going mad, I…I couldn't stop thinking about you,” you admitted, exhaling in relief. You hugged him around the waist, sliding your hands under his shirt just to feel his skin against yours.

You felt him stiffen at your admission, before the tension dissolved from his muscles completely. “Maybe we're both a little mad, then,” he chuckled.

“We should get back to the party before they start to miss us,” you said after a few moments of quiet, though all you wanted to do was drag him up to his room and show him just how mad you were for him. But you were a guest, and you needed a moment to get your thoughts in order.

It seemed Charlie had made up his mind about what he wanted, but you hadn't even begun to let yourself consider something real with Charlie Weasley. It seemed like too lofty a hope, an impossibility.

Your heart screamed ‘yes’ but your mind demanded a rationalization, a plan. Whatever you felt for him was intense, but you would hate to rush into something and ruin what you knew could be amazing.

Well, rush into something any more than your already had.

You realized he was studying you like your thoughts were written across your skin. “Baby, look at me,” he said, turning your face back up to his. “I know we started off on an…unorthodox foot. But that wasn't just a hook up and you and I both know it.” He leaned his forehead against yours. “There’s something more between us.”

“I feel it too,” you admitted. “But I've never…” you trailed off, unable to articulate the tumbling thoughts in your mind.

“Me neither, to be honest. I feel like I've been struck by lightning,” he said, breathless, a slight nervous tremble in his voice.

You nodded, reassured that he was feeling the same, vaguely crazed way you were.

“Trust yourself, y/n,” he said, releasing you from the hug and offering you his hand. “Overthinking is the thief of joy.”

“Get out of my brain,” you huffed in mock annoyance, smiling as you twined your fingers with his.

The rest of the evening passed in a rose colored blur, with cookies and games and storytelling. Charlie never strayed far from your side, though you kept any physical affection to a minimum. But based on the knowing looks from Arthur and Molly, and the teasing smirks and jabs from his siblings, they were definitely on to you two.

After the clock struck midnight, Molly demanded everyone go off to bed so Father Christmas would have no interruptions. You were all plenty old enough to know there was no such thing, but it still made you feel a giddy thrill of excitement. That glimmer of Christmas magic you never grow out of.

Charlie offered you his hand at the base of the stairs, a mischievous sort of smile on his face, and you accepted with a raised eyebrow. He led you up the stairs and opened the door to his room with a flourish.

You nearly toppled over when you walked in. It was completely transformed from this morning. Gone were the normal decorations and his dark duvet, replaced instead with a winter forest wonderland.

His bedspread was a deep forest green, with white throw pillows and silver trim, and a stuffed reindeer waited patiently for you on the pillow, floppy and velveteen. In the corner stood a flocked tree, decorated with pine cones and strung cranberries, and little animal ornaments carved from wood. The fire roared merrily in the fireplace, the mantle above it strewn with wild garland and rosemary. Two stockings hung above the flame, each of your names embroidered on them in silver and gold.

You whirled around to look at Charlie, who was smiling down at you, a slight flush to his freckled cheeks.

“When the hell did you have time to do this?” You asked, breathless and overwhelmed. No one has ever done something so special for you before.

“While you were wrapped up in Wizards Chess with Ron.” He snaked his arms around you, dropping a kiss to your furrowed brow.

“Charlie, this is—” emotion clogged your throat. “T-this is the m-most amazing thing—”

“Oh, baby,” he cooed, shushing you with a peck to your lips. “Spoiling you on Christmas feels like the least I can do to show you how much you mean to me. How badly I want this.”

“This?” You ask, sliding your hands up his broad chest. You expected to feel butterflies, but instead a warm blanket of peace settled over you, an understanding that this is exactly how it was meant to go. That here, with him, in the earliest hours of Christmas morning, was exactly where you belonged.

“Us,” he murmured, glancing at the stockings over the mantle, then back down to you, his dark eyes practically glowing with affection. “If that's what you want too.”

“Even with me here in London?” You asked, fiddling with his collar to hide the shaking in your fingers.

“We'll figure it out. You can come visit me as often as you like. And I can come back here a few times a month.” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your cheek, moving down your neck like he just couldn't hold himself back anymore. “I have a cabin.” Kiss. “In the forest.” Kiss. “With a big fireplace.” Kiss. “And a soaking tub.” Kiss. “And I can cook.” Kiss. “And have a giant bed—”

“Charlie!” You giggled, tugging on his hair so he lifted his head and you could kiss him properly, melting under the eagerness of his mouth, the joy in his kiss.

He scooped you up, wrapping your legs around his waist. He crossed the room without breaking the kiss, sinking down onto the edge of the bed with you straddling him. The heat of your bodies pressed together was enough to have your pussy tingling, your breath labored.

“I wanna go where you go,” you breathed, breaking the kiss to appease your burning lungs. “I want to be with you.”

He responded with another fervid kiss, open-mouthed and hungry, and you let yourself get swept away in the riptide that was Charlie Weasley. Wild, impulsive, but so sincere, so lion-hearted and good. You weren't sure you'd ever get enough of him.

He seemed just as desperate for you, tugging his shirt over his head and letting your hands finally wander the full expanse of his body without barriers. You pushed him back onto the bed so you could really take him in, his big hands resting heavily on your thighs. He was broad and sturdy, his chest and arms corded with hard earned muscle, the tanned skin littered with freckles and silvery scars.

You nearly started drooling.

In a fluid motion, you tugged your sweater dress over your head, leaving you in nothing but your Christmas underwear set and black stockings. The set was black mesh, decorated with mistletoe and holly berries. You had bought in Hogsmeade on the off chance Charlie made an appearance, and it was worth the steep price to see his soul ascend as he took you in.

“Merlin’s fucking—” he didn't even finish the sentence, instead pulling you down onto his chest for another scalding kiss, his calloused hands wandering up your thighs and over your hips, smoothing over the curve of your rib cage and around the plane of your back. His tongue slid into your mouth, twining with yours. You could taste the whiskey he'd been drinking, tinged with cigar smoke and gingerbread, and you moaned at the decadence of him.

One of his hands slid around to cup the nape of your neck, the other bracketing across your lower back to press your hips flush to his. You ground down onto him, unable to ignore the thrumming between your legs any longer. You both groaned at the new friction, his hips lifting to press more firmly against you.

“Just so you know,” he gruffed as you kissed down his neck, licking a long stripe over his Adam’s apple, feeling his stubble under your tongue. “I put a silencing charm on the room.”

“Very presumptuous of you,” you teased, sucking at his pulse just hard enough to leave a faint bruise, but nothing too obvious.

His hips rolled against yours, coaxing a breathy moan from your lips. “Part of my training includes being prepared for any situation,” he countered, his voice strained with desire as you rocked against him.

“Uh-huh. And what else were you trained to do?” You asked, freezing in place to watch him squirm.

A wicked smirk crossed his face and suddenly you were moving, flipped beneath his body faster than you could blink. “How to tame brats,” he growled against your ear, and a shiver rolled down your spine.

He shifted down your body, kissing and licking along the swell of your breasts before unlatching your bra and tossing in across the room. He took both your tits in his hands, nuzzling the soft flesh before laving his tongue across both nipples, making you lift off the bed with a gasp of pleasure.

“It's not fair that you get to walk around with these all the time. Too fucking perfect,” he said, his voice muffled by your skin.

You almost said that they were his. That the only thing that wasn't fair was how quickly he'd stolen your heart. But you bit your tongue, moaning under his ministrations instead.

He sucked a pearled nipple into his mouth, flicking his tongue over it before grazing his teeth against it, his fingers pinching and rolling the other until your eyes crossed, desire pooling between your legs.

“Can take my time with you now,” he hummed, pulling back to pepper kisses across your chest. “Take care of my girl properly.”

My girl. Your head spun, your heart swelling with elation. You never thought this would happen for you, the perpetually single girl who never found someone you genuinely connected with. But Charlie was like a comet tearing through your life, turning every one of your assumptions about love upside down.

He drew you back from your thoughts with a bite under your left breast. “Come back to me, baby. No more overthinking.”

“It’s good thoughts this time,” you said, running your fingers through his ginger hair and scratching along his scalp as he soothed the mark with his tongue.

He looked up at you, a pleased smirk on his face. “Thinking about that soaking tub, huh?”

You pulled his hair, giggling at his antics while he moved further down your body. “Among other things—shit, Charlie,” you whined when his tongue dragged over the soaked gusset of your panties, scalding hot and firm.

He pulled them to the side, gliding his tongue through your slick folds and wrapping his lips around your clit, lashing it with the tip of his tongue. Pleasure coursed through you, your eyes rolling back in your skull as you cried out.

He hummed against you, moving back down to lap at your entrance with long, messy strokes. He was practically grinding his face against you, savoring you like you were the finest meal he'd ever had. He was so enraptured in pleasuring you that he was moaning right along with you, making your clit vibrate and walls flutter.

“Saints, I missed you,” he said, giving your clit and open mouthed kiss before sucking the sensitive bud between his teeth.

You couldn't even begin to formulate words, completely lost in his feasting, your body fizzing with delight and pleasure. It felt like you were high, your muscles languid, bones rubbery.

“Not thinking anymore, are we?” He teased, nipping at the soft skin of your inner thigh.

You whimpered and shook your head, raising your hips to chase after his mouth.

“Good girl.” he purred, rewarding you by latching back onto your clit, his middle finger easing inside your greedy channel.

You cried out, clenching around his finger as he pushed you closer to the edge, your listless haze making way for bright, desperate pleasure. You bucked your hips against his mouth, his tongue flattening against your clit as his inserted a second finger, stretching you. The sounds were damn near sinful, lewd and sloppy as he worked your pussy into submission, molding you like a sculptor with wet clay.

“Fuck, Charlie. M’gonna come,” you whined, tangling your fingers in his hair to keep him in that perfect spot.

He curled his fingers inside of you and your vision whited out, your orgasm ripping through you, body and soul. You screamed, spine arching off the bed as wave after wave of burning ecstasy rolled through you, his tongue and fingers not letting up for a second as you convulsed.

“That's it, honey. Just like that, let it all go,” he cooed, kitten-licking your clit as you started to come down, his fingers continuing to gently massage your spasming walls. “Try to relax, love. I know it's a lot, but just relax f’me. You're doing so well.”

You sank back into the mattress, breathing labored as he soothed your quivering pussy with gentle touches. “Charlie,” you moaned, your body finally settling and cycling from overstimulation to rebuilding pleasure. “Feels s’good.”

He nuzzled your clit, kissing over your slit, the top of your mound, your inner thighs. “I live to serve,” he said, withdrawing his fingers and sucking them clean. “And if I have to live my life in service to this perfect little cunt, so be it.” As if to punctuate his point, he laved his tongue through you again and you keened, nearly jumping away at the intensity.

You shook you head, tugging him up by the hair. “Need you to fuck me, Charlie. Please?”

He grinned, kissing his way back up your body until he caught your lips once more, the taste of you mixing with him in a way that pleased some possessive part of your brain. You deepened the kiss, licking into his mouth for more.

He pressed his body against yours, the weight of him warm and comforting as you savored one another. You trailed your hands over his back, feeling some of the ridges and scars stretched across the ropes of muscle. He guided one of your legs up over his hip, angling your bodies together like a puzzle piece.

You basked in the simmering kiss for a moment longer before need began to claw at your insides, your hips pressing up against his once more.

“Charlie, please,” you sighed into his mouth, dragging your nails down his back. “Don't make me beg.”

“But you sound so sweet, all breathy and desperate,” he cooed, pecking your lips a final time before moving off the bed. He slid your panties down your legs, tossing them aside with your other clothes, then removed his trousers and boxers, that gorgeous, rosy cock slapping up against his stomach.

He climbed back onto the bed and spread your thighs, kneading the flesh at your hip while he ran the rigid head of his cock through your drooling pussy.

“My sweet girl wants to get fucked, hm?” he said, his voice rough as he used his cock to massage your puffy clit. “Let me hear you ask one more time, honey. Sounds so pretty.”

“Please fuck me, baby. Please,” you whimpered, fisting the sheets on either side of you.

He notched his cock at your entrance, hissing through his teeth as your pussy opened effortlessly for him. “That's it, lovey. Fuck, your little pussy is so tight f’me,” he groaned as your walls clenched around him, coaxing him deeper. You could tell he was fighting the urge to bottom out in one thrust, the muscles in his arms and shoulders taught and trembling, chest heaving and jaw a little slack.

You reached for him, the feeling so intense you needed an anchor. He leaned forward, knowing what you craved, and let you wrap your arms around him and bury your face into his neck.

He rubbed soothing circles on your thigh, his other hand sliding around your back to hold you against him. “Too much, baby?” He asked, pausing his slow penetration.

“Too good,” you whimpered, digging your nails into his shoulders.

He nodded, loosing a breath as you clenched around him. “Feel like your squeezing my heart,” he groaned, and you could feel it racing just beneath his skin, frantic as yours.

“Keep going, Charlie. Please,” you begged, tilting your pelvis so he sank a little deeper.

He eased you back onto the bed, still holding you close. “Good girl, takin’ me so well. Just relax, honey. Just feel me,” he soothed as he pushed the rest of the way in, his cockhead nudging your cervix and stretching your walls just enough. Not sensing any discomfort from you, he started rolling his hips back and forth in fluid strokes, kissing your skin wherever he could reach.

Pleasure spread through your body like ink through water, coloring every sensation, every thought. You loosened your grip on him, opening yourself up to his unhurried affection as he fucked you slowly, letting you adjust to the onslaught of sensation.

“You're so pretty like this, so fucking perfect.” He mouthed at your throat, your head tilting back with a cry as he increased his pace, ecstasy dancing along your skin. “All mine to love on, yeah? You all mine, baby?”

You bobbed your head, already cockdrunk and blissed out, your body submitting completely to him. “Yes, fuck, yes. All yours,” you whimpered, that knot in your lower stomach starting to tighten.

“Fuck yes, my good girl.” He leaned down and caught your lips in a searing kiss, a growl rumbling through his chest as he fucked you harder, driving his cock in and out of your sopping cunt with powerful strokes. “And I'm yours, baby. All fucking yours.” He murmured against your mouth and you grinned, feeling your heart give a discordant thump of elation.

He leaned back to fuck you deeper, one hand tangling with both of yours and pining your arms over your head, the other sliding down to rub tight circles over your clit. You stretched out for him, arching your breasts up to his hungry gaze as he railed you, merciless and claiming.

“Saints, you look so fucking sexy. Gonna come for me, love? Mark this cock as yours?”

You let out a scream as a second orgasm was wrenched from your body, the tension unraveling all at once in a torrent of bliss. You clamped hard around him, feeling his cock swell, then buck as his own release crashed over him, your name coming out like roar.

You clung to one another, his hips still rolling into yours as your walls milked him dry, wringing every drop of pleasure from one another until you crashed back to earth as one.

After catching your breath for a moment, he lifted off of you, hands skimming over your face, your body. “Merlin, I’m sorry, baby. I really didn't mean to be that rough, are you okay? Did I hurt—”

You silenced him with a kiss, pulling his body back down onto yours. “Was perfect,” you mumbled against his lips and he smiled.

“You were perfect,” he corrected, pecking kisses all over your cheeks and forehead. “Can’t get enough of you.”

You giggled, squirming as his hands tickled along your sensitive skin.

“Can I take you for a real date tomorrow? I don't know if anything will be open, but I refuse to go another day without—”

“Charlie,” you shushed, cupping his bearded cheek. “You can take me to the kitchen and call it a first date. I don't care about some made-up fucking rules. I just want to be with you.”

He grinned, giving you a quick, toothy kiss. “Then how about I clean you up, make some mulled wine with this expensive shit I brought back from Romania, and we cuddle by the fire? Call that our first date, and next year we can celebrate our one year anniversary on Christmas.”

You pushed against his chest, laughing at his dramatics, but secretly hoping that would be the case. “It better be a hell of mulled wine then,” you teased.

“Oh, it will be. Romanians don't fuck around when it comes to their booze. Now, open those gorgeous legs for me.”

“Charles Septimus Weasley! Get up!” Ginny shouted through the door, banging her fist on the wood. “You cannot sleep in on Christmas!”

“Septimus?” You groaned, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

Charlie had his head buried in your neck, heavy limbs thrown over your body. He was warm as a furnace, and the still crackling fire didn't help matters.

“Sod off!” he barked back, nuzzling closer and tightening his hold around you. You glanced at the clock, and after your prolonged first date, you'd only gotten a few scant hours of sleep.

“Fine! Then I'll throw whatever's in this fancy little box in the fire!”

Charlie was up in a flash, tugging on pants and wrenching open the door, but Ginny was already gone.

He sighed, grabbed something from the hall, then swung the door shut. He looked ready to dive back into bed, but you were already up, pulling on a pair of his boxers.

He froze in place, a feral sort of glint in his eye, forgetting entirely about the package in his hands. When you went to grab it, he lifted it high above his head, well out of your reach.

“Charlie!” You pouted, trying in vain to pull his arm down. He still hadn't taken his eyes off of your body. “You really want me to make a bad impression on your parents for our first Christmas?” You snapped, fighting the smile rising on your face.

“Just do a little spin for me,” he said, twirling a finger around.

“Charlie!”

“Fine, fine. Here,” he chuckled, handing you a pair of pajamas with your name embroidered on them. They were red and green, with white stripes and gold thread, the material thick and warm.

You loved them already.

The two of you quickly got dressed and hurried downstairs, finding everyone else already piled into the living room, also dressed in matching pj's.

“Ah, the lovebirds finally make their appearance!” Bill teased from the big arm chair, Fleur cuddled into his side.

Charlie flipped him off, ignoring the squawk of disapproval form his mother.

“Come, come!” Molly grabbed you and plunked you down on the last free space on the couch, and George passed you a steaming mug of hot chocolate.

George leaned in and muttered, “It's no mulled wine, but—”

Charlie whacked the back of his head. “Quiet, you,” he warned.

“Charles, if I have to speak to you again!” Molly shouted.

“Alright, alright! Let's get this show on the road,” Arthur said, shooing his son away so they could distribute the clumsily wrapped boxes under the tree.

Charlie plopped onto the floor between your knees, his hands coming up to absently massage your right foot. Your whole body tingled at the contact, your heart still tight with joy.

Could this really be your life?

Arthur passed out gifts, and you ended up with a pile of three at your feet. A flat, rectangular box, a heavy, square box, and one small enough to fit in your hand, wrapped in green and gold ribbon.

They went around one by one, opening gifts. Charlie received a new pair of steel-toed boots, enchanted to prevent the Romanian cold from creeping in, and an expensive looking bottle of gin, courtesy of his big brother.

After him, it was finally your turn. Your heart thudded from the attention, and you started unwrapping the larger present with trembling fingers. You tore off the paper and opened the white box underneath it, finding a knitted sweater with your initial on the front. Your throat pinched shut, tears burning behind your eyes as you traced your fingers over it.

“You're part of the family now, love,” Molly said, smiling warmly at you as you wiped away a tear with the back of your hand.

“Thank you,” you sniffled, laughing at yourself, and Charlie gave your ankle a reassuring squeeze, pressing a kiss to your knee.

The next present was from Fred and George, a stack of books you'd been eyeballing the last time the three of you went to Flourish and Blotts, and you pulled them in for a group hug.

Finally, it came down to the last present. The tension pulled taut as a bowstring when Charlie turned towards you, propped up on one knee, presenting the small box.

“I know how this looks,” he murmured, glancing down at himself. “But I promise I'm not that insane.”

You giggled nervously, taking the present from his hand and trying to ignore that his entire family was watching you. You tried to focus on Charlie, the rise and fall of his shoulders, the lock of copper hair hanging over his brow, and blocked the others out.

Carefully, you undid the ribbon and tore off the paper, revealing a black, dragon-leather box. Charlie gave you an encouraging nod, noticing the way you hesitated, and you cracked open the lid.

Inside was a golden necklace with a Welsh Green dragon scale pendant sitting on a velvet cushion. It was the most stunning shade of emerald you'd ever seen, reflecting beautifully in the candlelight, shifting blue, then pearlescent, and back to green. It was breathtaking, and you fought back the tears gathering on your lower lashes so you could continue to gaze at it.

“Charlie, this is—” emotion stole your words, and all you could do was throw your arms around him and bury your face into his shoulder.

“I hope you love it, darling. Had it made just for you,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Here, let me put it on you.”

You nodded, sitting up and trying to wipe your tears before his family could see what a mess you were, but when you looked around, you saw half of them crying too.

Molly blew you a kiss, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, and you nearly lost it again.

Charlie gently took the box from your hands and walked around behind the couch. His cool fingers grazed the sides of your throat and the weight of the pendant settled against your clavicle. A moment later, your heard the clasp click, and felt the warm brush of his lips on the back on your neck.

You fondled the pendant with your fingers, the metal already warming against your heated skin, the scale heavy and smooth. Charlie came back around to the front, eyes lighting up at the sight of your smile.

“Merry Christmas, my love,” he hummed, wiping a tear from your cheek with his thumb.

You grabbed his collar and pulled him in for a kiss. “Merry Christmas, Charlie.”

Thank you so much for reading!! (and if you have anything you'd like to read for Charlie, my asks are open!)