coffee at midnight -> John "Soap" MacTavish x f!reader [series]
Military consumes your private time - to the point that you pretty much can't live without it. All of the boys from Task Force 141 are just like brothers, not only best friends – you know that you can trust them with your whole heart.
Somehow, one of them manages to steal it completely, and that's on Johnny MacTavish. Over months, you learn that's harder and harder to ignore that burning feeling in your heart.
gorgeous -> Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!reader [series]
You're a vet with a pretty simple life.
One day though, things changes, when a big guy with a skull mask enters your clinic with a small, ginger kitten in his hands.
pictures in frames, kisses on cheeks -> John Price x f!reader [small series]
You have a simple routine. You drive your kid to his school, you work, you go back home with your kid. Nothing too fancy, but it's life as a single mom.
The moment John Price shows up in your neighborhood, the routine crumbles apart.
or: single mom x price
Planned (not in specific order):
new year's day -> John "Soap" MacTavish x gn!reader [oneshot]
message in a bottle -> Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x f!reader [series]
untitled fake!dating -> John "Soap" MacTavish x f!reader
untitled higher!ranked reader -> Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!reader
untitled fake dating -> Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x f!reader
Finished:
delicate -> Simon "Ghost" Riley x gn!reader [oneshot]
because of you -> Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x gn!reader [oneshot]
silver and gold -> John "Soap" MacTavish x f!reader [oneshot]
the love we have -> Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x gn!reader [oneshot]
blood on my shirt, rose in my hand -> Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!reader [oneshot]
how you get the girl -> Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x f!reader [oneshot]
halfway through his list of reasons he's toying worh himself through his pants, stroking and moving it, showing off the outline. his other hand is over your shoulder, gently brushing fingertips over your tit.
"you know i'm huge, right?" he says. "Pornstar big."
"Shut up."
"i'm serious. im massive." "touch it and see."
when you go to reach, he's pushing down his pants to give you a proper handful of the biggest cock you've ever seen-
︵ ೀ mdni. satoru finds your secret sketchbook full of him and in a haste to explain yourself, he offers to be the nude model for your assignment ( artist!reader x sports!satoru / college au / wc 5.7 k )
︵ ೀ series. part one / part two
satoru finds your sketchbook on the library table, left behind in the rush to make it to class on time. he almost doesn't open it—almost. but his name catches his eye, written in pencil at the corner of a page peeking out, and curiosity wins.
the first few pages are normal. simple shapes, little notes about elbows and shoulders, the kind of boring practice sketches he has seen you do countless times. he almost closes it, kind of bored. but he keeps flipping, and then he stops.
it's him. there's no mistaking it.
his jaw, drawn in a few quick lines. the way his head tilts when he's only half listening to someone talk. his eyes are on the next page, his sunglasses pushed up into his hair the way it sometimes is. you got the little crease at the corner of his eye right, the one that shows up right before he laughs.
he turns the page again. his hands this time. three different versions, like you couldn't decide which one you liked best. then his shoulders. the curve of his neck. a quick sketch of him stretching after practice, his shirt riding up a little at his side.
he keeps flipping. faster now. and then there's a full body drawing. him, shirtless, soft shading along his stomach and chest. his hipbones. the dip of his waist. it's not messy or rushed. it's careful. like you spent real time thinking about where the light would hit him and where the shadows would fall.
satoru sits down on the edge of the table, the sketchbook open in his lap, and stares at it for a second too long. he's not sure what he's feeling. he's used to people looking at him. he's not used to being looked at like this—slow, careful, like every detail actually mattered to the person drawing it.
he's so caught up in it that he doesn't even hear you walking up until you're right next to him, out of breath and a little panicked.
"satoru, have you seen my—"
you stop talking. your eyes drop to his hands, to the sketchbook open on his knees, to the exact page he's on—the shirtless one—and your face goes white for a second before turning bright red.
"oh my god."
he looks up at you, a grin already pulling at his mouth. "you draw me?"
"give it back." you reach for it, but he just lifts it out of your reach, way too entertained by this.
"wait, wait, wait." he flips back a page, holding it up. "are these abs? i don't think i actually have abs like this."
"satoru—"
"i mean, kind of," he says, grinning even wider, "but you really went all in here. there's shading. you gave me a six pack i don't fully have."
you try to grab it again. he holds it just out of reach again, smiling down at you.
"you drew my hands three times. why does a hand need three tries."
"because hands are hard, okay? that's not weird, hands are literally one of the hardest things to draw, ask anyone—"
"never said it was weird." he finally lowers the sketchbook, though he doesn't hand it back yet. he just looks at you for a second—your face completely red, your arms crossed tight like you're trying to disappear. "it's flattering."
you groan and cover your face with both hands. "it's for class. i'm not being weird about it."
"didn't say that either." his smile softens a little, more curious now than teasing. "but seriously. why me?"
you peek at him through your fingers, like maybe if you don't fully participate in this conversation it'll just end on its own. "we started a new unit," you mumble. "figure drawing. like, anatomy, proportions, the whole body. they bring in models for class and it's just—it's so awkward, satoru. you're sitting there for three hours trying to draw a person you've never even talked to."
"so you draw me instead."
"my professor said it's easier when you draw someone you actually know," you say quickly, like talking fast will make this less embarrassing. "like, it helps to already be familiar with the person. and you're a sports major, you're literally built like the examples in our textbook, so i thought... i don't know. it made sense."
"so you thought, 'oh wait. i've got a pretty handsome friend. i'll draw him.'"
"i did not think about it like that."
"you basically did."
but he's not really laughing at you. there's something kind of warm in the way he's looking at you now, the sketchbook still resting on his knee like he's in no rush to give it back. "you know," he says, his voice a little quieter now, "you could've just asked me."
"i didn't want to make it weird."
he raises an eyebrow. "weirder than it already is?"
you groan and bury your face in your hands again. "stop it."
he chuckles, finally closing the sketchbook but still not handing it back, just holding it loosely against his chest like he's claimed it now. "so what's the assignment actually for? like what's due."
you hesitate. this is the part you really didn't want to get into. "it's, um. it's a full figure study. like, a finished piece, not just sketches."
"okay. so like what you already drew?"
"kind of. except—" you stop, feeling your face heat up all over again.
"except what?"
you sigh, giving up on hiding it. "it has to be a nude study. that's the whole point of the unit. like, the body without clothes, the way the muscles and proportions actually work without fabric getting in the way."
his eyebrows go up, surprised, but he doesn't say anything teasing this time, just listens.
"and everyone else in class already has their reference done," you continue, the words spilling out faster now that you've started. "they've all been going to the model sessions for weeks. i missed like three of them and now i'm behind. i don't have anything to actually work from, and it's due monday, and i don't know what i'm gonna do."
he's quiet for a second, turning the sketchbook over in his hands like he's thinking. then he shrugs, easy, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "so draw me."
you blink at him. "what?"
"draw me," he says again, like he's repeating himself for someone a little slow. "for the assignment."
"satoru, i don't think you understand what i just said—"
"i understood it fine." he leans back against the table, arms crossed now, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "you need a body to draw. i have a body. solves your problem."
"that's not— you don't have to do that."
"you didn't ask. i offered."
"satoru."
"what? you already drew me shirtless without even asking," he points out, smirking. "feels like i should at least get a say in it this time."
your mouth opens and then closes again, no actual argument coming to mind.
"so," he says, holding the sketchbook out to you now, finally, "when do you want me."
you stare at him for a long moment, waiting for the joke to land, for him to laugh and say he's kidding. it doesn't come. he just watches you, sketchbook held out between you, patient in a way that's almost worse than if he were still teasing.
"you're serious," you finally say.
"dead serious." he wiggles the sketchbook a little, like he's reminding you it's still there, still yours to take. "i mean, unless you don't want it to be me. i get it if that's weird."
"it's not that i don't want it to be you," you say quickly, before you can think better of it, and then immediately wish you could take the sentence back the second you hear how it sounds out loud.
his grin widens. "oh?"
"shut up. you know what i mean." you finally take the sketchbook from him, hugging it to your chest like it might protect you from the rest of this conversation. "i just don't want you to feel like you have to. it's a big ask."
"could just say thank you, you know." he checks his phone, then looks back up at you. "okay, so. when's good. you said it's due monday?"
your stomach does something complicated at the thought of this actually happening, of him actually meaning it. "i mean—if you're really down, friday night could work. gives me the whole weekend after to finish the piece."
"friday night works. come by my dorm, like, eight?" he says it so casually, like he's inviting you over for a movie and not offering to sit there while you draw every inch of him. "more privacy than the studio anyway. don't gotta worry about randos walking in."
"right." your voice comes out a little higher than you mean it to. "yeah. that makes sense."
"bring your stuff. pencils, whatever you need." he's already turning to go, slinging his bag over one shoulder, looking far too unbothered for someone who just volunteered for this. then he glances back at you, smirk creeping in again ""and hey—make sure you get the good angles. i have a reputation to maintain."
"i make no promises."
he laughs at that, walking backward a few steps before finally turning around fully and heading off down the hall, leaving you standing there with your sketchbook clutched to your chest and friday suddenly feeling very, very far away and not far away at all.
︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵
you knock on his door right at eight, sketchbook tucked under your arm. when the door swings open, you almost forget how to speak entirely.
he's standing there in nothing but a towel slung low around his hips, hair still damp and pushed back messily from the shower, a few stray drops sliding down the side of his neck. he looks completely unbothered by it, leaning one arm against the doorframe like he just answered the door for a pizza delivery and not for you.
"hey," he says, grinning at the way your eyes immediately snap up to his face. "you're early. or i'm late. one of those."
"you said eight," you manage, voice coming out a little strangled.
"yeah, and it's eight." he steps back to let you in, completely at ease, while you do your absolute best not to stare at the water still tracking down his collarbone. "wanted to shower first. figured you'd want clean reference material, not sweaty me."
"right. that's—considerate." your face is heating up fast, and you hate how obvious it probably is.
he notices, of course he notices, smirk pulling wider as he shuts the door behind you. "you're already red and i haven't even dropped the towel yet."
"i'm not red."
"you're very red." he says it gently, almost fond, like he's enjoying this a little too much. "relax. you're gonna see me naked in like, five minutes anyway. no point getting shy now."
"that's—that doesn't make it less weird, satoru, that makes it more—" you cut yourself off, setting your bag down on his desk a little too forcefully, mostly to give your hands something to do that isn't fidgeting.
he just laughs, clearly enjoying every second of your suffering. "you're the one who's been secretly sketching me for who knows how long without even telling me. i'm just catching up to the project at this point."
you need something to say, anything, because the silence stretching between you feels too loud, too charged, like it's just waiting for you to do something stupid like keep staring at him. "so, um." you clear your throat, eyes darting anywhere that isn't directly at the towel. "how was practice?"
he glances at you over his shoulder, clearly clocking the fact that you're filling dead air for the sake of filling it, but he humors you anyway, padding over to the little kitchenette tucked in the corner of his dorm. "long. coach had us running rounds for like two hours straight. my legs are gonna hate me tomorrow."
"sounds rough."
"it was fine." he pulls a shaker bottle down from a shelf, dumping in a scoop of protein powder with one hand while the other holds the towel in place at his hip. "you get used to it after a while. body adjusts."
"right. makes sense." you nod way too many times for someone agreeing with such a simple statement, perching yourself on the edge of his desk chair, flipping your sketchbook open.
he adds water, screws the lid on, and shakes it, the muscles in his forearm shifting in a way you absolutely do not need to notice right now and notice anyway. then he tips his head back and drinks, and you watch—you can't help it, your eyes just go there on their own—the long line of his throat moving as he swallows, a bead of water from his still-damp hair sliding down the side of his neck and disappearing somewhere past his collarbone.
you realize you're staring a full two seconds too late.
"you're staring," he says, lowering the bottle, that slow grin spreading across his face like he's been waiting for an excuse to call it out.
"what?" your voice comes out a little too fast.
"you heard me." he sets the shaker down on the counter, leaning back against it. "staring. at me. just now."
"i wasn't staring," you say, way too quickly, your face heating up all over again as you fumble to look anywhere else—the ceiling, the floor, the stack of textbooks on his desk, anywhere that isn't him.
"you were so staring." he pushes off the counter, walking closer with that unhurried way he moves, like he has all the time in the world and fully intends to use it to torture you. "it's fine. i get it. i'm a lot to take in."
"oh my god."
"i'm just messing with you." he laughs. "relax. you look like you're about to pass out."
"I'm fine."
"uh huh." he doesn't push it further. he turns and heads toward the open space near his window, where the evening light is still soft and golden enough. he glances back at you over his shoulder. "okay. so how do you want me. like, pose-wise."
"oh—right." you fumble for your sketchbook, flipping it open to a blank page, grateful for something to focus on besides the fact that he's still only in a towel. "um. standing's probably easiest to start. maybe just—natural. however you'd normally stand."
"natural how. like this?" he straightens up, shoulders back, doing this exaggerated, stiff superhero pose that's clearly meant to make you laugh.
it works. a small laugh escapes you despite everything. "no, not like that. just—relaxed. like you're not thinking about it."
"hard to not think about it when you're staring at me with a pencil." but he loosens up anyway, settling his weight onto one leg, one hand coming up to rest at the back of his neck. "this work?"
your pencil is already moving before you fully register deciding to start. "yeah. that's—that's good. don't move."
"wasn't planning to." his voice has dropped a little, quieter now, watching you work. "you gonna tell me when the towel needs to come off, or am i supposed to guess."
your pencil stutters against the page. "right. um. whenever you're ready, i guess. it's—it's for the assignment, so."
"so professional," he says, the corner of his mouth twitching like he's fighting back a grin. "okay. you ready?"
"yeah." you swallow, gripping your pencil a little too tight. "ready."
he reaches up and tugs the knot of the towel loose, and it drops to the floor without any of the fanfare your racing heart seems to think the moment deserves. he doesn't flinch, doesn't make a big show of it—just steps back into the same easy stance from before, one hand resting at the back of his neck, weight settled onto one leg, completely at home in his own skin in a way that makes your nerves feel almost silly by comparison.
you keep your eyes on the page for a long moment before you let yourself actually look, telling yourself it's just reference, just anatomy, just the same thing you'd be doing with any model in class.
but it doesn't feel like just anatomy. it feels like every line of him is something you've already know from the sketches you didn't think anyone would see, except now the soft pencil shading has nothing on the real thing—the actual shape of his shoulders, the dip of muscle along his stomach, the lean lines of him standing there like an italian renaissance sculpture.
and god, he's better than you imagined. better than he looked in your head late at night when you couldn't sleep, which—not that you dream about him, obviously, that would be ridiculous, that's not a thing that happens—but if you did, hypothetically, this would still somehow be better than that.
it's almost unfair, really. the way his body looks like it was carved out of stone, like michelangelo himself spent way too long getting the proportions exactly right—shoulders broad and strong, the muscle down his arms, the curve where his waist narrows into his hips.
it's the kind of body you'd expect to see behind glass in a museum somewhere, with a little plaque underneath, except this version breathes and makes dumb jokes.
you let your eyes trace lower, the way you would with any reference, you tell yourself, purely for the sake of the assignment. his cock rests heavy between his thighs, thick and full, and bigger than you thought it would be (not that you'd ever thought about his dick, obviously, that's not a thing you do.)
the head shows a soft flush where it brushes against his leg, and the fair hair trails down from his navel and gathers in pale curls at the base. the sharp v of his hips frames it all in clean lines that make your fingers itch to draw every shadow and curve.
"you still with me?" he says, a little amused, like he's clocked exactly how long you've been staring without actually drawing anything.
"yeah—sorry, yeah." you blink, snapping your eyes back up to his face, pencil finally moving again.
"should i have, like, shaved or something?"
your face goes instantly red all over again. "what? no—it's fine. you're fine. it's not—that's not a thing you need to worry about."
"figured i'd ask." he shrugs. "usually i shave when i've got a girl coming over, but i was running late today, so."
"oh my god." you cover your face with one hand, pencil still somehow managing to keep moving against the page with the other. "i did not need to know that."
"only wanted to clear the air."
you peek at him through your fingers, deciding two can play this game. "so what you're telling me is you haven't had anyone over in a while, huh?"
a short surprised laugh, like he wasn't expecting you to fight back. "wow. okay. didn't think you had it in you. but—i mean, i have someone over now."
"to draw you. that's different."
"you're still seeing my dick or whatever."
"that's not the same thing and you know it."
"feels pretty similar from where i'm standing."
"so, the other girls sit across the room admiring you for twenty minutes with a sketchbook before anything happens? is that what you're telling me?"
"oh, so you're admiring me."
"that's not what i—i meant artistically."
"sure you did."
"i hate you."
"just so you know—they're not usually sitting across the room admiring me for twenty minutes. they're usually under me about thirty seconds after they walk through the door."
"oh my god, satoru."
after another ten minutes or so, your pencil finally slows, then stops altogether, hovering over the last few finishing strokes before you sit back to actually look at what you've got. it's good. better than good—the proportions feel right in a way they never quite did with the strangers from class, like having an actual person in front of you instead of just a body made all the difference.
"okay," you say, clearing your throat. "i think i've got what i need. you can relax."
"oh thank god." he drops the pose immediately, shoulders slumping, rolling his neck out with an exaggerated groan like he's been holding some kind of intense athletic stance this whole time and not just standing there looking effortlessly good. "puhhh. finally. you have no idea how hard it is to stand still that long."
"you literally do athletic training for two hours a day."
"that's different, that's moving. this was just—" he shakes out his arms, grabbing the towel off the floor and wrapping it back around his waist, "—standing there being stared at. way more exhausting than it sounds."
"you're so dramatic."
"i'm a very dedicated model, is what i am." he flops down onto the edge of his bed, finally looking properly relaxed for the first time all evening, then immediately perks back up, craning his neck toward your sketchbook. "okay, lemme see it."
you instinctively pull the book a little closer to your chest. "it's not done done. it's just the reference sketch."
"i don't care, i wanna see." he's already getting up, padding over. "c'mon. i posed for, like, twenty minutes straight. i've earned a peek."
"fine. but you can't make fun of it." you hold the sketchbook out, a little reluctant, watching his face carefully as he leans over to look.
he goes quiet for a second, which is rare enough on its own that you almost want to comment on it. his eyes move slowly over the page, taking in the lines of his own shoulders, the careful shading along his stomach, his easy stance you'd worked so hard to get right.
"huh," he says finally.
"what? is it bad?"
"no, it's—" he tilts his head. "it's really good, actually. like, you made me look good good. not just accurate good."
"that's literally just what you look like."
"i don't know, i feel like you're being generous with the shoulders." but he's smiling now, something a little softer underneath the teasing, still looking at the drawing instead of you. "you're actually talented. like, properly. i wasn't expecting it to be this good."
"you say that like you thought i was bad."
"i didn't know what to expect! you draw secret abs sketches of your friends, forgive me for having questions about your technical skill." but he says it gently, nudging your shoulder with his again, and when he finally looks up at you there's something warm in his expression that wasn't quite there before, something that makes your stomach flip a little. "seriously, though. this is really good. you should be proud of it."
"thanks," you say, feeling a little warm under the actual sincerity of it, fumbling slightly for something to do with your hands besides just standing there basking in gojo satoru's approval like it means something. "i mean, it's still rough. i've gotta clean it up before monday."
"still." he's still looking at it, then glances up at you with a grin starting to spread. "can i take a picture of it?"
"what? why?"
"i don't know, for personal use." he's already reaching for his phone on the nightstand. "this might genuinely be the most insane nude i could ever send to a girl. like, nobody's topping that."
"satoru, oh my god, no." you yank the sketchbook back against your chest, half laughing despite yourself. "you are not sending this to anyone."
"think about it though. any other guy sends a regular picture, basic, boring, zero creativity behind it. i send this and i'm instantly the most romantic man alive." he's grinning, clearly enjoying how flustered you've gotten all over again. "it's basically a love letter. you put thought into this."
"it's an anatomy assignment."
"a very thoughtful anatomy assignment." he reaches for the sketchbook again, more playful than serious about actually taking it. "c'mon, one picture. i won't even send it to anyone. probably."
you let him, mostly because you know arguing further is a losing battle, and he snaps a quick picture before setting his phone back down, looking entirely too pleased with himself about the whole thing.
"okay," he says, dropping back down onto the edge of the bed. "anything else you need from me? more poses, weird angles, you want me to flex my biceps?"
"no, it's fine." you start gathering your things. "i think i stressed you out enough for one night."
"you didn't stress me out." he watches you for a second, head tilted, clearly not buying the way you said that. "spill it."
"what?"
"you've got a face. the 'i want to say something but i'm not gonna' face." he leans back on his hands. "what is it."
you hesitate, fingers tightening slightly around your pencil case. "i mean—maybe we could do one more pose? like, a different angle or something. just so i actually have options when i sit down to finish it properly. i don't wanna hand in the first thing i drew if there's something better i could've gotten."
he blinks, then grins, already pushing himself back up off the bed. "yeah. sure. why not." he rolls his shoulders out, stepping back toward the open space by the window. "you're the artist. tell me where you want me this time."
he settles into the chair this time, leaning back with his head tipped against the top of it, one leg stretched out, the whole thing far more relaxed than the standing pose from before. one hand comes to rest loosely in his lap, fingers resting near his cock without much thought behind it.
"oh, this is way better. way less work than standing there like a statue." he glances down at where his hand landed, a flicker of realization crossing his face, and he laughs a little, shifting like he's about to move it. "oh—sorry, that's just habit. didn't even think about where i put my hand."
"no, it's—" you hesitate, voice catching, face going hot all over again. "it's, um—it's fine. really. genuinely fine. do whatever's, uh—whatever's comfortable for you. i'm not—this isn't a big deal."
he looks at you for a second, like he's checking you actually mean it, then shrugs, settling back into exactly the same position, hand staying right where it was. "okay. if you're sure. i'll stay like this, then."
your pencil is already moving, eyes flicking between him and the page. it takes you a few minutes to notice that he's stopped looking out at nothing and started watching you instead, head tilted slightly against the back of the chair.
"what?"
"nothing." but he doesn't stop watching you. there's something almost soft about the way he's looking at you now, the corner of his mouth pulled into a small smile, like he's caught himself thinking something he wasn't planning on. "you get this face when you're drawing. all scrunched up and serious."
"i do not."
"you so do. little furrow right here." he reaches up, tapping a finger lightly between his own eyebrows to demonstrate, careful not to actually shift out of the pose. "it's kind of cute."
your pencil stutters against the page. "don't move," you mutter, mostly to give yourself something to say that isn't reacting to that.
"i'm not moving."
he settles back again, and keeps watching you. his cock twitches once under his hand where it rests in his lap. he feels the slow thickening start before he can stop it. oh fuck. the words stay stuck in his throat but they echo in his head as he presses his fingers down a little harder. he tries to hold the growing length discreetly against his thigh but it is no use. another twitch makes the head nudge up against his palm.
your pencil pauses on the page. you see it. the subtle flex of his fingers. the unmistakable twitch that makes his cock strain despite the way he tries to keep it down. heat spreads low in your stomach and between your legs so fast it leaves you dizzy.
"sorry about that," he mutters. the flush on his neck deepens and his hand stays pressed over the twitching length like he can will it back down. but it twitches again anyway. slow and heavy and impossible to ignore. "long day, i guess. lot on my mind."
you swallow. "it's fine."
"i don't know, i normally kind of—wind down at night. on my own. you know. guess my body didn't get the memo that tonight's schedule looked a little different."
"oh! uh—i can go," you blurt out, already half reaching for your bag, face burning. "like, seriously, if you need a few minutes or—whatever, i don't want to make this weirder than it already is—"
"no, no, you don't have to go." he sits up a little. "it'll pass. it's fine. i'm fine."
"are you sure? because i really don't mind waiting outside, or coming back tomorrow, or—"
"i'm sure." he gives you a small, almost sheepish smile, the most genuinely embarrassed you think you've ever seen him. "just finish your drawing. i swear i'm not gonna combust."
"okay." you sink back down slowly, still not entirely convinced, sketchbook settling back into your lap. "if you're sure."
"i'm sure." he resettles into the chair, head tipping back again, doing his best to look casual about it even though his ears are still a little red. "c'mon. let's just—finish this. pretend it's a normal tuesday."
"it's friday."
"pretend it's a normal friday, then. work with me here."
you pick your pencil back up, trying to focus on the page instead of the very obvious tension radiating off him from across the room. for a minute or two it almost works, both of you pretending pretty hard that everything's fine.
the quiet stretches between you. you try to keep drawing but your focus slips every time he shifts in the chair. his hand presses down harder in his lap. he is trying to push his cock fully flat against his thigh now. his breathing turns heavy and uneven like he cannot quite catch it. you hear every inhale, every slow exhale. he is getting so worked up just from sitting there while you look at him. his cock under his palm thickens and twitches against his fingers no matter how he tries to hold it still.
then his fingers move slower. deliberate. he touches himself a little. just the barest drag of his thumb along the side like he is checking how hard he is getting. it twitches again under the touch. bigger this time. he presses down quick to try and calm it but it does not help. his breath catches on a low sound he does not quite manage to swallow.
your pencil stops moving. heat floods through you so fast your face burns.
"okay," he says, dragging a hand down his face. "okay, i think i actually need a few minutes this time."
"oh god, yes, okay." you're already on your feet, sketchbook nearly sliding off your lap in your rush. "i'll just—i'll wait outside, or—"
"you can stay." he says it quickly, almost too quickly, like it surprises even him. "i mean—if you want. it won't take long."
"satoru."
"what? i'm just saying, you don't have to leave the building over this."
"i'm not waiting in here while you—"
he does not look away from you as his hand slides back down between his legs. he is already painfully hard. his cock stands thick and flushed in his palm, the head dark and wet at the tip. he wraps his fingers around the length and strokes once slow and tight like he has been holding back for too long.
"i think i like it when you watch," he almost moans.
"i'm gonna—" you don't even finish the sentence, just grab your bag and bolt for the door, nearly tripping over your own backpack strap on the way. "air. i need air. i'll be right back."
"wait! you don't have to run—"
but the door already slams shut behind you, and you stand in the hallway for a solid ten seconds just catching your breath, face burning, heart absolutely pounding, before you let yourself slide down against the wall and bury your face in your hands.
you stay quiet. your breathing slows but your heart does not. then you hear it, muffled through the door. the low rough sound of his voice. a groan, and the wet sound of skin moving on skin. another sound comes through, sharper this time, and a low fuck.
you press your thighs together where you sit on the floor. the noises do not stop. they get a little louder like he has stopped holding back now that you are gone. you can picture it perfectly, his hand moving fast on his thick cock. another groan filters through the door and your body reacts hard, heat flooding between your legs.
you sit there against the wall, staring blankly at the hallway carpet while your brain refuses to move away from his door and not listen to his moans and groans anymore.
how. how are you supposed to look him in the eye after this. how are you supposed to sit across from him in the dining hall next week, or wave at him across campus, or exist in the same general vicinity as gojo satoru ever again without your whole face just instantly catching fire.
you bury your face deeper into your hands, groaning quietly to yourself. it was one thing when it was just sketches. it was even survivable when he found the sketchbook, mortifying as that had been. but this. this is a whole new tier of humiliation you didn't know existed until tonight.
you're going to have to transfer schools. change your name. move to another country, probably. there's no version of monday where you walk into the dining hall and he's there and you don't immediately die on the spot.
somewhere behind the door, things have gone quiet.
you really, really don't want to think about what that means.
next chapter ->
note: please do not ask for updates or comment "next part?" or something like that. if there is an update, i will post it. ppl who continue to demand updates will be blocked.
i appreciate your comments and love hearing your thoughts on the story, but demands for updates make me anxious. have a good day everyone ♡
One night stand Gaz that you met in Italy who speaks perfect Italian and you think is a local until he shows up around your neighbourhood in London (you only ever spoke to him in shitty Italian which he indulged in because you said you wanted to practice, and which you must have really needed because you clearly didn’t listen to any of the things he rasped in your ear while bottomed out in your cunt about following you home and making you his)
"you've broken a lot of rules, price" because they're seeing the same girl and Simon was supposed to get Fridays but just found out Price has her stashed up north in a safe house of his
honestly the idea that ghost would fight price over anything is insane, but more specifically that ghost would be against killing shepherd?? he demanded a tactical strike on Graves TO HIS FACE. youre telling me ghost draws the line at extrajudicialy murdering a general he already dislikes? ridiculous
anyway ghost vs price makes no sense to me. “you’ve broken a lot of rules, price” sorry were you not all members of the international war crimes and murder squad?
anyway ghost vs price makes no sense to me. “you’ve broken a lot of rules, price” sorry were you not all members of the international war crimes and murder squad?
18+ | dubcon. size difference. bully!dom and the crybaby!sub he kidnaps. bullying. rough sex. painful sex. size difference. loss of virginity.
You like to think you would know better than to follow a strange man home from the bar—
(or you should, at least. plenty of self-proclaimed girls-girls on tiktok, with nude matte lipstick and adidas snapbacks, have thoroughly educated you about the horrors of going home with men from the bar—if you're too drunk to drive, then you're too drunk to consent, bestie—)
but three—maybe six, seven (you lost count after they all started tasting the same)—sour cherry margaritas later, all of that tiktok wisdom promptly goes out the window when a big man with a terrible attitude (mean, really—he's so fucking mean; calling you stupid and dumb and who let you come here alone, baby? where are your fuckin' parents) crowds you against the peeling wall outside of the washrooms, hand heavy, hot, on your thigh, thick, veiny forearm braced against the wall above your head, each move sending a rainshower of flaking paint down over you, and asks you to come home with him.
Well—
Asking is a bit generous when what he really does is press his knuckle against the gusset of your panties and bear his teeth at the dampness he feels, barking out something that sounds less like a please do this and more like an or else. A you're coming with me—now (or else). And, as his fingers slide against the pretty silk of your panties, a bitten out: been needin' to sink my cock into somethin' sweet all week.
And it would be hot if you were in bed, reading the words in the soft blue light of your Kindle, but the way he says it sounds too ominous. Too dangerous. Like a boxer in desperate need of exercising his anger out on a punching bag—or your dad when things didn't go his way and you knew his fist was three seconds away from being buried into the cheap drywall of your apartment. Something angry. Writ in fury.
He says i need your pussy the same way people say i need to fuckin' punch somethin'.
But it's only when he's shoving you against the wall of his condo—a place much nicer than the dilapidated basement with nothing except a dirty mattress covered in suspicious stains you'd expected—that it occurs to you that you've never actually said yes. Don't even really remember him asking for consent at all during the short walk (or pull, rather: as soon as he seemed to make up his mind that he'd much rather be spending his time bullying his cock into your pussy instead of bullying you for your terrible choices outside of a bathroom that reeked of old vomit, cigarettes, and stale piss, he'd dragged you out of the bodega) to his car, parked illegally outside. Or at all during the short drive to his condo where he'd spent the time with his hand buried between your thighs, toying with your swollen clit through the lace of your panties, and you—mortifyingly enough—seemed to oscillate between drunk, slurred moans and openly weeping about your shitty night after being stood up by a tinder hookup, of all things—
You scored this really great job, you remember babbling out as he sinks his teeth into your neck—the pinching, awful sort of pain makes you gasp, makes you try to pull away, but there's nowhere to go when he's stupidly big, and his bicep alone is probably wider than your head. Trapped between the wall and a thick body; his knee kicking out until your thighs spread over the top of his—the width making your hips ache from the stretch, and you have to wonder how thigh-riding could ever be a real thing outside of smutty romance novels when you're already getting a cramp by just this much.
And he's just as mean then (did i ask? shut up and spread your legs wider for me—) as he is now (gettin' fuckin' snot all over my scrubs, crybaby), but the sight of his pristine condo cuts through the haze of too many bad decisions in one night, and it's only when you're thrown on a bed, but can still see your panties on the floor in the hallway (right next to the crumpled pile of your clothes, his trousers), does everything start to feel a little too real. Like something you might regret later. A bad decision playing out in real time—
But he's not stopping. And you can't stop panting his name long enough to say no.
Everything condensed into some amalgamation of panic and want: like being seconds from a disaster you know is going to happen, but you can't stop watching it unfold. Except your car crash is the sight of a cock being pulled out of black boxers—a cock that looks nothing like they do in porn: it's too thick, too heavy. It droops, hanging between his thighs when he lets go of it to wrench your clenched thighs apart until your hips ache anew, and it feels like your pelvis is about to be snapped.
Pre-cum beads at the tip of his fat, engorged head—the ugliest shade of purple you've ever seen, like a bruise; like something made to hurt, to ache—and dribbles down between your knees in a long, milky strand.
Everything inside of you seems to recoil at the sight of it—of that thing, that hideous monstrosity—dangling between his thighs. A warble echoes in the quiet room, sounds like a hurt mouse, and it's only in the twitch of his jaw, the slow tilt at the corner of his mouth, lips pulling up into a crooked smirk, do you realise the noise from you.
But beyond the queasy horror, the dread, is the stark realisation that, as he grips the base and shuffles forward to crowd you against pillows that have no business being so soft and comfortable in comparison the horrorshow oozing thick, milky droplets of cum, he's actually going to try to stick that thing inside of you. And, like he knows what is about to form on your numb lips, he bends down, taking your mouth in a blistering kiss—one that's more of an eating, a devouring: all teeth and tongue and deep, throaty growls used against you in a way that hurts more than it soothes—swallowing your protests as easy as he had the tentative i, i don't know that spilled out after he asked if your cunt was ready for him before dragging you into the bedroom.
Ignored—like everything else from the moment you caught that dark, brooding stare from the table near the entrance when you stood up on fawnlike legs, half-hoping to hobble into the bathroom and drown the embarrassment of being stood up by a man who spent the last week wearing you down until you said yes in the grey-tinged toilet water. Ignored, like the nervous looks you sent over your shoulder when you caught him downing his drink in a quick, heavy swallow—the shift of his throat, the flex of muscles working; shadows under his adams apple bobbing under the gauzy, warm glow of golden lights—with his eyes wide open, something that made your mouth go dry, your stomach churn; like watching a predator gulp down a torn off piece of meat. Predatory. The unease that skirted like a knife along the insides of your belly when he brought the glass down, cleared his throat, and stood up—all without taking those dark, piercing eyes off of you once. Ignored, like the stutter in your step when your body tried to react to two different instincts at once: stay put and run.
(that, too, ignored.)
It's on the tip of your tongue—both his teeth and the word wait—but he scrapes it off as easily as he parts your thighs, wedging the thick spread of his waist between when you try to snap them shut.
It feels like being pried open. Held down. You spare a silent thought, a keening apology, to all of the poor butterflies whose wings you pinched between clumsy, chubby fingers—too busy marveling at the beauty of their patterns to notice the way they flailed and kicked, unable to escape the grubby hand of a child, innocently unaware of its own cruelty, as he bears down above you, wrenching you open further. Trying to squeeze inside a space too small for him to fit.
But something has to give.
And as his cockhead bumps against your spread cunt—bruisingly hard, notching against you in a way that hurts—you know, without a doubt, that it'll be you.
(and really—how could it not be when he has almost double the muscle, the strength, behind his insistent pushes than you, with your comically small hands against the broad stretch of his chest, do with yours.)
It's a battering ram to a paper door, and you feel the give like a pop. A sharp, sudden ache in the pit of your belly as that fat, oozing head catches on the sensitive rim of your unfathomably wet hole, sinking in until the tip disappears inside of you. The glands swallowed by your swollen folds.
It's almost too horrifying to look at, and nothing at all like the porn in you've seen—zoomed in images of smooth, pale cocks; a soft, wet cunt stretching around it—or the things you've thought about. Imagined. a hard, heavy thing inside of you, thicker than the width of your finger. Longer, too. A fullness.
That's how it's always described, isn't it? Something filling. didn't know how empty i was until he was inside of me, filling me up... A delicious stretch. A good sort of hurt.
You don't feel empty at all when he grunts, pushing just that much more of his cock inside of you. You feel—
Like an open wound. Something ripped open. Torn flesh. It hurts too much for you to think about anything except the ache of it. That terrible, too full feeling in the pit of your stomach as he keeps working his hips in these insistent, merciless rolls. Breath humid, too warm on your cheeks, your temple, as he bears down over you, grunting all these ugly, awful things out between clenched teeth—things like fuck, you're too tight, gonna strangle my cock, loosen up, that's it, just like that, let me in, you know you want it, baby; gotta break in this baby cunt, don't i? never had a cock this big, huh? cunts too small for my cock, but you're gonna take it anyway, aren't you? gonna take all of it. every fuckin' inch. but i haven't even popped my fuckin' head in yet. yeah, keep crying, honey: i wanna see all those pretty fuckin' tears—
He's unrelenting. Won't give any quarter, any respite—even when you're whimpering for mercy, begging him to stop because it hurts, Brendan, it hurts so much, but you can tell from the way his eyes seem to spark in the midnight black of the room that he likes that. Likes knowing he's hurting you on the stretch of his cock. Bears down on you harder for it, giving you all of his weight until you're crushed into the mattress, smothered beneath his bulk. Everything narrowed down to the ache between your thighs, where all that you are is just a too sore, too small cunt being pried open by something as thick, as big, as your wrist.
His hands slide beneath your knees, pulling them open further before he drags them up. It changes the angle. Let's him sink just a little deeper—like a knife cutting through tendon, muscle. A white hot, pulsing pain that gets worse when he bends down, forcing your knees against your shoulders, drilling into the wide, spread split of your bared, aching cunt—seething against your jaw, let me in, fucking... let me in—until something breaks. Something gives way, and then he's sinking deeper on a low, throaty groan, pushing until his balls slap against the curve of your ass, and—
"there we go—balls deep in crybaby's pretty little pussy, huh?"
—the look on face, something hungry and primal, an animal, eclipsed in the heavy, heady greed of a man, shifts. morphs. Something like shock, like surprise, flickers across his expression, shuddering over the pointed slope of his nose, the harsh, tense line of his lips, still twisted in mocking amusement. A lock of hair falls limp across his forehead, shaken loose from the slicked back style he'd worn it in when he leans back on his haunches, lifting off of your body. He tips his chin down at the same time your reeling mind catches up with the tickle sliding down the crease of your ass.
His jaw clenches tight. A muscle jumps, ticking beneath his skin as he looks—keeps looking: dark, lidded eyes locked on the spot where he's buried inside of you, drilling into the sight where you split around the thick of him; your swollen, puffy lips stretched obscenely around his cock as buries to the hilt inside of you, grinding his hips in this heavy, aching rolls until the base of his cock is swallowed up by you, leaving nothing visible except a messy spill of wry curls sticking to your folds, dusting across your mound.
He grunts again. something dark, biting. A low, snarl that makes the nape of your neck prickle—
"Poor baby," he rasps, sounding angry. Aounding savage. Beastly. His hips work, then; jerking in tight, choppy pumps. Grinding the head of his cock into you, bullying it into something just behind your navel that pulses, aching like fingers pressed into a fresh bruise. A bone-deep hurt. A pain that makes you keen, vision blurring around the edges until he's just a smeared, hazy shadow snarling down at you.
And it's only when the pain tips into too much, when the eight (maybe mine) sour cherry margaritas catch up to you in a dizzying rush, tipping the world into a haze of drunken delirium, that you think—maybe—you made a mistake. That you might have bitten off more than you can chew.
But as the sob builds in the back of your throat, a wailing cry drumming against the walls of its esophageal prison, you catch the predatory glint of teeth before he bends down, dragging them over the skin of your jaw, scraping against flesh.
A dangerous shadow crests over the smooth topography of his face; a dawning—a dark glint, something hungry, full of flint—just before he reels back, sliding out of your sore cunt until only the fat head keeps you stretched open.
His fingers dig into your calves tight before he adjusts his hold, pinning your knee to the broad expanse of his warm, sweat-slicked chest. Letting the other slide down your leg, trailing across the back of your knee, tickling soft, sensitive skin with the scrape of a dry knuckle—his eyes, that single strand of oiled hair cutting across one of them, devouring everything in his slow, careful journey—before dragging them over your thigh, and falling, finally, to your sore, hot cunt.
Rough, calloused fingers scrape across your folds, sliding from your throbbing clit to your swollen, taut rim stretched around the thick of him, pausing there as your breath hitches in the back of your throat. Caught between a whimper and a plea when he presses down on tender flesh, letting out a deep groan when your hole clenches tight around his head, squeezing. Flexing. Somehow so fucking eager despite the pain, the burn of being forced open so wide around something so unforgiving. Just as hungry when the muscles in his stomach tense, shifting under the milky spill of moonlight through the open window. The bulk of him, the sheer expanse, doing strange things to your head, to that sore, bruised spot behind your navel. A pull; this grabbing, greedy thing—
"Fuck," he grunts, jaw ticking again as he slides his finger over your clit, feeling the flutter, the pulsing twitch of your cunt around him. His stomach shifting again; muscles flexing. It's the only warning you get before he rocks forward, sinking that fat, thick cock back into your cunt—like a knife sliding to the hilt, knicking bone. "No wonder your cunts so goddamn tight—"
It's mean, the way he says it. A cruel line slanting over his lips, teeth gleaming in the pale glow. Twisted, goading, and—
Surprised, maybe. but just for a moment. A brief second—and then he's grinning, wolfish and mean, pressing into you with his teeth bared and his muscles straining.
"Never had a cock this big before, huh, crybaby?" huh? go on, then, go on and cry about it—
And you do.
You wake up in an unfamiliar bed, nestled in thick cotton sheets that smell of sweat, sex, and loam. And beneath that, something deep, masculine—charred oakmoss, crushed black pepper, smoked leather, vetiver, damp moss, and suede—and dizzyingly familiar.
The night before is tangled in your periphery like a bad dream—your panties laying in the hallway. Clothes a discarded heap over his floor.
The him in question buzzing in the back of your head like a distant memory, a throb. Something sticky and wet between your thighs. Cum, you think. Cum, and—
It's smeared across his sheets: a deep, dark red stain the same colour as sour cherries. Fitting, you think, since that's what they call it, right? What the older man you'd been talking to for a few days called it, when you told him.
gonna let me pop that cherry, babygirl?
It was gross then, and it's gross now, thinking about it—feeling it. The ache between your thighs, in the core of you. Sore, sensitive. Hurting—like something was popped, split open. Or wrenched, more like. Pried. forced. But—
not really.
The slickness, too—which, you suppose, is more cum than blood because he didn't use a condom; didn't even bring it up—is gross. Uncomfortable. Too—too wet. Too sticky. Too...full. The sensation when you sit up, move, and can feel it dribble out—oozing—is somehow worse than the pain. The embarrassment of losing your virginity to a stranger. Then being stood up by the man who was supposed to do it instead. Then being one at your age. Caring, even, because it's just a social construct. An immaterial thing. Pointless and stupid and—
and real.
Very real. You're sitting in the aftermath of a bad choice (of another bad choice). Can feel it smeared over your thighs. Across the sheets. And there's so much of it that it makes you a little sick to look at because he didn't just pop it, did he? No he—
He butchered it.
It's stupid. You're alone in a bed with blood sheets and cum-stained thighs—feeling like a child pretending to be an adult. Thirteen going on thirty except the man waiting to catch you when you stumble in heels that don't fit isn't Mark Ruffalo but—
a stranger.
His name is drenched in sour cherry margaritas. Park, you think, feeling your head pulse. Your stomach churn. Park, he'd said. Just Park. A man who was mean, and rude, and didn't bother pretending like he was going to wait for a yes. A man who took. Takes—
You shiver, teeth chattering. Wishing suddenly you were in your own bed. But you blame it on the chill creeping in through the window where dawn waits; a bleak smear of soft lavender and turpentine across a pale blue sky. In the hazy yellow of mid-morning—early still, your alarm hasn't gone off yet—the penthouse looks bigger than it did last night. Sleek and modern. Parquet floors in a dark, rich brown. Cream coloured walls. The sparse furniture is practical. The epitome of a rich man's bachelor pad.
And with your discount panties and chipped nail polish, you realise, suddenly, that you don't belong. Don't fit. Not here—where Pittsburgh is greener than you've ever seen it, more lush and vibrant and full of trees than it is where your single bedroom apartment is cradled between crumbling bricks and dilapidated storefronts. It's a jarring dichotomy—one you want nothing more than to run from.
And so you do.
Twisting out of the cotton sheets without looking back. Hand bracing against the sleek end table as you stand, glancing around at the rest of the bedroom now that you can see it clearer in the mid-morning spill of a hazy sunrise.
All dressed up in—in Anthropologie Home, something in the back of your head fills in. Five hundred dollars for eight pieces of wood that barely reach your knees. The rest of the catalogue is already branded in your head because you baulked at the price tag of the Isla Fluted Wood collection when you saw it. Twenty four hundred (a piece) for the three dressers he has lining the walls. A two thousand dollar rug. Two hundred dollar curtains.
(three grand for the bed he fucked you in. two hundred just for the sheets you stained with blood. another three for the bedding.)
It makes you a little sick, stomach churning. Pinching in nausea. Discomfort. A feeling that grows worse when you stand on shaking legs, wincing on that first step—half from an ache in your belly, and the rest from the feel of unpolished toes touching the too soft area rug beneath your cold feet.
There's a sharp pain—one that feels too much like an open wound.
you're torn, you think, and fight the urge to reach down to feel, press shaking fingers to ripped skin. Soothe the sting. The bonedeep ache that blooms when you move. Fighting the thickening sense of shame, regret (really—how could you be so stupid?) when you hobble on sore thighs, desperate to escape. To leave—
unnoticed.
because you're not sure what you'd even say to him. thanks? how could you? your shame sits in your throat, a burning lump of coal that you can't seem to swallow around.
you're an adult—more of an adult now your friends back home might joke—and you made you a choice. A dumb one. It was just—stress, you think. Moving to a different state to finish school, struggling through the motions of keeping your head above water. And then—
got laid last weekend. kinda sucked, but whatever. he was hot.
your old coworkers at the cafe you worked part-time—only twenty and somehow more adult than you ever felt—brought it up. it like, totally helps destress, yknow? and maybe you were a little lonely. A little scared of the city you were dropped into and told to survive—somehow. Loneliness and stress and embarrassment curdling in your belly until you downloaded tinder. who cares, you thought. who fucking cares.
It doesn't matter. It's just sex. just—de-stressing. A one-night stand. A mistake.
You're already over it, aren't you?
But you still think you'd break down and cry if you saw him—if he saw you like this. Sore and sorrowful. Mouth pinched tight, jaw clenched. The worry in your eyes that if you unhinged it for just a second, you'd throw up all over his expensive rug.
You're spared the experience, slumping against the wall when you hear the hum of the shower. Light spills out beneath one of the doors you missed in the hallway, painting it a soft, gold glow. Your panties sit in the middle, illuminated by the light.
A furious pulse behind your navel kicks up when you bend down to swipe them off the floor. Holding your breath as you gingerly pull them on over sweat-slicked, cum-stained, blood-smeared skin. Gross. But—
but not.
Because you think you liked it last night. When the muscles in his arms began to twitch, when he bore down over you with a sweaty, flushed face, lips turned up into a snarl, and growled m'gonna fuckin' cum, gonna cum in this pussy, fuckin'—beg me not to cum inside your pussy, crybaby, beg me not to knock you up—
You didn't even think about that. The man you were supposed to meet wanted to do the same, didn't he? gonna pop that cherry and cum inside that sweet little cunt. but it was just—just play. He'd sent you his test results, co-signed by a colleague he worked with. clean bill of health, baby. Then, a day before he was supposed to show: you shouldn't let dirty old men fuck you bare, sweetheart. i'll bring condoms.
With a stranger’s cum leaking into the gusset of your panties, belly—and cunt—aching like an open wound, you wish, suddenly, that he'd actually shown up. That your night was spent being pampered, like a goddamn princess by daddy—gonna spoil my sugarbaby rotten, instead of being ripped apart by an animal.
One you hope never to see again as you grab your purse off the ledge above a glass partition separating the mudroom from the kitchen, and make a hurried escape out of his penthouse.
(but life has a way of snapping its jaws around what you wish for until what you get leaks down its maw instead—)
The clock reads half-past five when you slip your phone out of your bag to call a taxi.
You have a few notifications from tinder. A message. A new match. A superlike. hey gorgeous, how you doin'? but nothing from the man who stood you up.
But—
whatever, right? It's not like it matters anymore. It's just a boxed ticked off your list, and another that'll be checked in three and half hours. A few more down the line—student loans starting to be paid off (by yourself, even if the goal of meeting the man from tinder was to snag a sugardaddy who’d pay for your things instead), buy cute furniture from somewhere that isn't Walmart or Ikea, move out of your shithole apartment and into somewhere nice. it doesn't matter. You’ll do it all on your own.
You delete tinder just as the taxi turns the corner, meandering past the silent street where the bodega sits, quiet and lifeless, in the pale, lazy dawn of downtown Pittsburgh.
next time you date, you think, breathing through the ache in your stomach, between your thighs; you'll meet someone at work instead. Face to face. No chance of being stood up again.
Or going home with the wrong man.
The orthopedic ward is strangely quiet.
A fact you'd noticed when they first brought you down, dressed in a new, starched pair of blue scrubs. shiny badge gleaming in the fluorescent light—a new hire. The hospital's own orthopedic technologist. But it's not your place, really, to question why everyone seems so subdued. So hushed.
Not yet, anyway. Not when you're only an hour into your new job and about to meet the orthopedic surgeon you'll be working closely with. A man who, from the wayward glances and barely concealed grimaces from the other staff, doesn't seem like a man you want to piss off.
but—
It'll be fine.
The mistake from last night has been washed down the rusting drain of your shower, leaving nothing behind by an ache and a squirming sense of regret—and elation. Despite the experience, fucking—or maybe just fucking Park—was good for you. A first step into getting over your hangups and finally dipping your toes into the adult world (one that want confined to a college dorm, a college classroom, tests, and boys with too much body axe and don't waste it on one of these losers, baby, save it for someone who matters). With your new job, one that promises to finally let you start paying off your student loans, you could, maybe, breathe for the first time in four years.
Despite it all, despite the mix-up, things were starting to look up—
(something you wish you did, too;)
—but you don't see the broad chest, the flash of blue, until it's too late, and you end up nose-first into a man who is technically your boss. Meeting on a blinding pain rocketing through your skull—a yelp, a grunt (a low, biting Jesus Christ—) in lieu of a handshake. Greetings exchanged in another curse, a flurry of motion, and the sickening feeling of something hot, sticky dripping down your nostrils and onto starched blue—
bleeding on the man too—as if you haven't lost enough blood in the last twenty-four hours. A thrum of morbid humour making you huff on a reedy giggle, sticky and wet.
"s'rry," you slur, eyes stinging. Flooding with tears. "m's'rry—"
Another curse is bitten out into your crown. A weight—warm and firm—encases the scruff of your neck, forcing your head down. Blunt, rough fingers pinch the bridge of your nose. The pressure soothing the ache between your eyes as unseen hands grab at you—
"doesn't feel broken—despite your attempt otherwise. But c'mon. Let's get you checked out—"
You really can't handle this. The twofold embarrassment. The double hit—
but you're pulled into a room before you can make another escape. Pressed into a firm, broad chest. Protests shushed when they spill out of your sticky, blood stained lips. Things like why are you touching me like this, and hey, wait drowned in the thick, iron tang of blood. Humiliation, too, because where do you even begin trying to salvage some face after this?
A fireable offense, you're sure—for being a goddamn idiot. Left floundering, crying in front of your boss, as he dabs tissue around your nose. Prodding at sore flesh. You can't even look up, can't even begin to fathom what you're supposed to say—
"Well, you sure like making an impression, don't you, crybaby?"
crybaby. Every muscle in your body pulls tight. Only one man has called you that more times in less than twenty-four hours than anyone else in your whole life. Through the buzz of motion (are you okay? what happened? do you need anything, Dr Park—) the sound of his clicks into place. The words rough—even now, in the middle of a hospital. Goading. lemme see the damage, crybaby, c'mon—
You pry your sticky lashes open, glance up, silently hoping that you're wrong. That men in Pittsburgh are just mean. Rude. Like manhandling and calling weeping, terrified girls crybaby—
Up close, under the glaring, fluorescent lights, he's ridiculously intimidating. Broad. boxy. Utterly void of all warmth. They called him the shark when you asked about him. When you scanned your badge for the first time and turned to the woman leading you to the ward and said:
hey, what's he like?
and she blinked. who? oh, you mean Park the shark?
You can see it. The arrowhead shape of his nose. The list of his eyes—dark, gleaming; slightly beady under the cheap spill of the harsh light. His mouth, too—
cruel. flat.
His eyes narrow, lips slanting into something that might be derision, but skirts closer to sadism. A wicked sort of amusement at your expense. At meeting you here.
and—
and a hunger—
one you try not to think about.
"Couldn't just leave your blood smeared all over my cock and my sheets, huh? Had to get it all over my scrubs, too, didn't you?"
bold way to stake your claim, crybaby—
You flinch. "wh—what? i don't—" a nightmare, maybe. A dream. You reach down to pinch yourself. He scoffs when he sees it. Rolls his eyes.
"Oh, you're wide awake, don't worry. Cryin' all over yourself—" he leans in, then, and to anyone else looking, they'd just assume he was looking for damage. Assessing. Watching you with a clinical keenness and not the devastating hunger, the anger, draped over his brow that only you can see. Can feel. His fury simmering in the air until you can taste it, wet pennies, in the back of your throat. "Just like you were crying all over my cock last night."
and then you ran away. The accusation sits in the air, heavy and inescapable. You're not sure how to answer it. How to justify what you did, or why, even, you feel the need to.
"I'm—I, I thought you'd want me to be gone when you got up," you lie. Partly. A half-truth that makes him scoff. "I didn't know—"
"Took you home, didn't I?" he sneers—like it means something. "Took you home, fucked you, popped—"
You're tired of that phrase. "Don't!" your hand snaps up, lashing across his mouth, eyes-wide. burning with tears. "That's not—don't say that."
He growls against your hand—the only warning you get before his teeth sink into the meat of your palm. Words slurring around through his teeth: "I took you home, fucked your cunt—" he says fucked, but it sounds like punched. Ruined. "And you were gone when I got outta the shower, weren't you? I didn't say you could leave."
You're not sure what to say to that. What could be said. So you stay silent, unsure. Still sore and bruised and—
Bleeding on him. Your fingers, sticky with your blood, leave smears across his sharp cheekbones. His jaw. A tick throbbing beneath the tip of your finger as he bites down on your flesh again, and you know he's holding back, tempering himself. Can feel it, too.
Your flesh pulls between his teeth when you pry your hand off his maw, smarting from the bite marks he left buried in the meat of your palm. more blood, you note, staring down at the vessels he split, the way the bead up, pooling beneath your skin. Fingers, tacky with drying blood, fold over the impression of his teeth, snapping it shut in your fist.
he watches through heavy, angry eyes; gaze volleying between the trickle of dried blood smeared over your nose and lips, and the tight ball of your fist in your lap. Lips tugging into a quiet smirk. A little tip of his stained maw—more of that mordant amusement; the gaping grin of a saw-tooth shark.
"It wasn't supposed to be you," you murmur, feeling mean. Miserable. "I was supposed to meet—"
The list of his mouth flattens into a scowl. "I know—" the look on his face—the flash of irritation, the slip and fall of that cruel amusement—is almost worth the flash of blood-stained teeth, the biting squeeze of his hands—one still wrapped around your nape, the other squeezing the meat of your thigh. but it's waylaid by the slant of his mouth pressing hot, hungry, against yours. An eating more than a kiss—a punch with teeth and tongue instead of bone and cartilage; bruising. Claiming. It hurts—disturbs the sting in your nose, the cut in your nostrils.
Your fingers dig into the thick, hard stretch of his shoulders, pushing. A whimpering, wet stop spilling out against his canines; a noise he groans into, greedy.
hungry.
Something that glues in the black of his eyes when he pulls back, digging the pointed tip of his nose into the sore bridge of yours. A cruel, merciless tease. A punishment, maybe; for leaving him. Denying him—
"I know," he huffs against your kiss-bitten lips, eyes lidded. Heavy. Blunt nails digging into your flesh. Another hurt to add to the growing pile. "I know. But that doesn't matter, does it?"
It's only in that bold, raw growl that rattles your teeth that you realise the severity of what you got yourself into. A foreshadow in the smouldering heat of his heat gaze. The pinch of his fingers burrowing into your skin, possessive; a portend. Bruises in tender meat, spackled under your skin like loose tea leaves.
You could reach down, touch the flesh that aches, clutched in his knifelike hands; read it—fingers pressed against braille. Divining tasseography: the madness of his design, crushed into ash, laid bare as it smears across the palm of your hand.
But you don't.
Not yet.
The worry will come later—when you feel pieces of yourself, your resolve, being scraped off, stuck under his blunt nails. Dragged away. Tossed. Sloughed off in chunks, in pieces, because what you'll learn, what you'll always know, is that Park is not so much a man made to put things back together again, but rather one who perfected the art of taking them apart. Knows, intimately, how everything fits. So much so that reassembling the pieces is second nature to him—
Second. But never first.
No. First is a butcher who knows nothing of romance except the sweet whisper of knife kissing skin. A cartographer who knows the world, knows people, only in bisecting lines; cut marks buried in meat and bone.
You're not an exception to the rule—not even close—but you make him want to dip his fingers into topography all the same.
And—
You said you'd date a coworker, didn't you? And from the look in his eye—rapacious, brutal; wanting—you doubt you’d ever get a chance with anyone else, anyway.
A fact, a new truism born from history you can discern, that he reinforces when he leans in, mouthing along your neck, lapping at the blood drying on your chin, and growls:
