ᯓ★ “dude wtf?”
⋆˚꩜｡ pairing : fem!reader x dark!JJ MAYBANK.
⋆˚꩜｡ synopsis : this req 🫶. ꒰ wc .ᐟ 2.7k ꒱
⋆˚꩜｡ warnings : groping from john b, jealous and possesive!jj, mean!jj ( very mean ), degradation, elicitation to smut post fic, threats, yelling, mentions of alcohol, punching lol, excessive swearing, guilt tripping, light slapping, aggression; that sorta jazz.
“ john b, what’re you doin’ man?” you giggle, feeling the brunette’s supple digits tracing up your thighs, starting to dip their fingertips into your skin. you can tell it’s john b — or maybe it’s pope — given the lack of callouses scattering his palms, even if they are a little rough. his voice gives it away too, lacking that giddy childishness the blonde always carries around wit him; if you could only open your eyes and not feel the world spinning, maybe you just visually verify it.
thing is, it’s sorta hard to do that given just how drunk you are. it’s the yearly bonfire, meaning everyone from every nook and cranny of the island comes from the island — you wouldn’t even be surprised if barry was wondering around somewhere, calling rafe ‘country cluhhh’ while doing lines of coke. there’s one person that’s noticeably missing, however: your boyfriend, jj. maybe that’s why his best friend’s inching closer to you on the floor where your leaning against the wooden log kie’s sat chatting on the other end with who knows — you’re unprotected by jj’s utter possessiveness.
“jus’ checking out what jj’s always on about. ‘s nothin’, don’t worry.” you can hear john b’s smirk. maybe it’s because you’re just letting it happen, maybe it’s because you’re so reactive with each small touch from his fingers — i mean, why would you not; it’s not like he’s actually groping you, he’s just skimming over your skin.
you feel a hand snake behind your back, and a leg press against your thigh. his palm’s still kneading into your flesh, starting to sneak his way higher and teasing the hem of your shorts as his other pulls you closer. your head lolls to the side, resting against the fabric of his shirt that smells to similarly to jj, yet so different. if only jj was here.
“okayyy.”
you feel the pad of a finger tip push into your side, feather light, testing. you giggle instinctively, undoubtedly the gentle prodding tickles you over anything else. he adds another few fingers, sliding them around and poking into you to pull out more of those little laughs. damn, jj was right: you sound like heaven had sex with stars and made weird cosmological angel babies. ok, he didn’t say cosmological — big words confuse him, shown by at least half of the conversations he has with pope — but space babies sounds wayyy worse.
maybe that isn’t what anyone should be focusing on, given how dangerously close john b’s fingers are starting to creep closer upwards, and his unsubtle shifts beside you.
“you like that?” he asks, a low sort of grumbly laugh leaving his lips as you open your line of vision — meeting his own in an intimate feeling eye contact moment. it makes your skin ripple all over, but not necessarily in the way that it does with jj; you always feel comfortable, secure with him. with the brunette beside you? it’s hard to describe, but it’s not the same. “it tickles.”
a smirk places itself over john b’s usually friendly face, looking more like he’s leering then anything else. in any case, your heavy eyelids start to shut, shutting off your line of vision to the boy and the general rest of the party — drowsiness and alcohol mixing pleasantly in your veins. you can still hear the smugness in his voice through, there’s no doubt about it: “i bet it does—“
“ow, shit—“ the warmth surrounding suddenly vanishes as the brunette’s yanked up by his shirt and a set of clenched fists, right off his feet. your forced to look — you’ve got to, however little you actually want to — and there, before you, is the muscular build, golden blonde boy who you would recognise anywhere; his best friend would too, apparently: “jj, what the fuck?”
“the fuck are you doin’, bro?” your boy friend retaliates, his voice vicious and harsh as he tugs the other closer.
“get your dirty, fucking hands off of her. feelin’ up my girl like she’s yours to fuckin’ touch? you got me fucked up. get the fuck off of her dude, or i swear ima kill you ‘n’ the rest of your dumbass chickens,” he threatens, half snarls, eyes so full of rage he looks manic. people around start noting the situatio turning their heads to nose on the situation; pope’s among them, trying to step in and bring a voice of reasoning to the conversation. “jj—“
there’s no point in even trying — everyone around knows his attempts are futile — but at least now he can’t be held accountable for trying, right? he’s instantly cut off before he can so much as take another step, and jj doesn’t even look at him when he’s barking back in responce. “shut the fuck up pope. you wouldn’t get it— imagine if he tried to fuck cleo? you’d fuckin’ smash his fuckass face in.”
“jj—?! he wasn’t feelin’ me up—“ you squeak from your position on the floor, suddenly feeling all the more sober from the scene unfolding. “princess, he was drawing fucking shapes on your stomach. he guy was kneading at your thighs like— like he owns them, like he deserves t’be touchin’ ‘em. nah, your thighs are fuckin’ mine—“
jj’s hand balls, tightly. so fucking tightly that little half-moons are left under his skin.
time freezes — the mix of the crowd all around the pogues, the alcohol still coursing through your veins, and the raw rage so obvious behind your boyfriend’s eyes, and now the fist that’s cocked back ready to strike.
everything explodes lmost instantly when that fist connects with a jaw. john b’s jaw. his best friend’s jaw.
spit flies from his mouth. john b’s head goes momentarily limp. the people around you all surge forward, shouting and pushing and testing just how far they can move closer. jj tugs him closer, getting up in his face to connect his knuckles to john b’s face at least one more time before getting pulled off of him. curses spill from both boys mouths, just as pope and kie and sarah go to relinquish john b from jj’s grasp. it’s no use, he’s seemingly so overcome with his fit of fury that he’s still aching to land another hit over the other boys face.
“jj—!!” you squeal, scrambling from the dirty floor to try and pull off the blonde from john b, stumbling slightly from just how much you’ve drank. another punch lands on john b, this time on his cheek, this time with his rings digging in and leaving a deep shape over his flesh. the crowd roars — seemingly utterly enthralled by the scene unfolding in front of them — and pope’s voice goes almost inaudible against the sheer volume of eveyone else. “jj!! c’mon man!”
“fuck,” he curses, finally getting yanked off from the other boy and staggering back. he makes sure to throw john b into the ground, adding insult to injury to where his skin’s already growing pink from the recent contact, and spitting right by his supposed best friend’s face. “stupid piece of shit.”
the crowd’s still yelling — half trying to egg him on to land another couple hits on the brunette, the other half simply joining in on the chaos — because what else are they meant to do? your boyfriend scans at the people still closing in, more then half too drunk to fully realise what’s going on — before his ocean-blue eyes land on you, his feet instinctively striding towards your cowering frame. his hand then painfully latches into your wrist. “let’s go. we’re goin’—“
“jayj, you’re hurtin’ me—“ you whine, complaining about the vice-like grip he’s got around the bone. fuck it hurts, so bad you don’t even register how the distance between yourself and the crowd behind you grows larger, more obvious, the fervent cheers of people witnessing the event falling behind you. jj drags you somewhere, behind a wall, close to the bathrooms, right by that old bench you once saw john b and sarah making out at.
“good.”
“jj, c’mon—“ you pout, trying to drunkenly tug your arm back. shit, wrong move: jj suddenly turns to face you, his eyes still wide with fury, his fingers digging into your skin, his chest rising and falling at an unprecedented pace. “you fuckin’ let him.”
“what??”
“you shoulda seen your face: so fuckin’ smug. so happy. is one dick not enough f’you, huh princess? d’you not love me anymore or somethin’? d’you also think you can jus’ like, throw me away ‘n’ discard me like ‘m a used up beer or somethin’? you actually think anyone’s gonna love you as much as i do? fuck,”
“jj, no it’s not like that—“ “it’s not?”
“then what the fuck was that? the touchin’, the smiles, dude, you were literally giggling at him.”
“im drunk,”
“oh your drunk, are you, baby? fuck, wow, that really changes everythin’,” “get on your knees, cupcake.”
“what?”
“knees. now.”
it’s nothing more then a command, and you have no choice but to fall to your knees in front of him, the hem of your skirt getting covered in dust and dirt from the ground. you stare up at jj, your bottom lip quivering.
he sighs, a hand running through his blonde strands of hair and over his face — leaving defined lines of red streaking across his face — before slumping down on the bench. he looks down at you, tongue darting out and toying with the corner of his lips, legs manspreading like the flood of people aren’t still roaring back at the bonfire.
he extends his hand out, his index and middle fingers motioning for you to shuffle closer. “c’mere..”
accepting the invitation, you scoot closer, deciding to slot perfectly between his thighs, fingers twiddling with themselves in your lap as you wait for jj’s next muttered words.
he smiles at the obedience you’ve so easily handed to him, the look behind his ocean-blue eyes shifting from their previous rage to something softer, more internally passive and satisfied. his head quirks to the side — sun-damaged strands of hair falling out of their place — his fingers wrapping around your chin to gently pull you closer.
“look at you, my lil’ princess. ain’t that right? so pretty. all f’me, right?” his digits trace the underside of your jaw, his rings pressing into flesh and making you shiver from the temperature difference. you know he knows what he’s doing: why else would he be smirking so hard? “runnin’ your pretty mouth ‘n’ flirtin’ with my friends? nah nah nah, i ain’t havin’ that.”
a sharp, prickling pain shoots across your cheek: a slap.
it’s fleeting, the immediate sharp stab at your flesh — brief, and not yet harsh enough to sting deeply. in it’s wake, it carries a flash of surprise and a subtle reminder of a presence or emotion that pushes right up against that unsaid boundary that speaks volumes.
“ow, jj!! that hurt!!” you whine, your own hand coming to massage the area. it had been so sudden you couldn't have predicted it even if you could see into the future. equally, it was so tender you’re not sure if it would even count as a slap. his digits move back across your skin, chasing away your hand as he thumbs gently over the areas of your flesh he knows must be stinging; as much as you try to fight the urge, you lean into the saccharine gesture.
“my bad babygirl, lemmie try again.”
another slap, this time to your other cheek. it’s still small, still mild, still calculated, but a soft squeak escapes your lips and water wells your eyes, already starting to push against the dams of your waterlines. pain sears across your skin, shutting your vision as your lids press together.
“whatcha think of that one, huh? still gonna use that pretty mouth t’spread excuses or what?” jj scoffs above you, his tone so intoxicatingly condescending it’s hard to believe he loves you. but he always insists it, so it has to be true, right? he flexes his calloused digits over the fleshly stinging cheek, mimicking what he’d done with the other.
he chuckles over you, smirking at the single line of tears starting to stream down your face, leaning forwards slightly to caress your flesh back to health. or at least, that’s what you think; however his following, just as patronising words lead you in another direction. “one more, jus’ f’good luck, right?”
his final — or what he’s claiming to be his final — lands with a sharper edge, rehashing the prickles that had just died down over your cheek. it’s a sudden burst of pressure, a crack against skin that sets in stone what jj feels has no need to be said. the sting lasts longer, a reminder of the anger he’d taken out so viciously on john b.
“why’re you cryin’ babygirl? didn’t hurt that bad did it?” he coos, properly cradling the sides of your face in his palms. the pads of his thumbs skate over your undereyes, collecting the salty tears that had escaped your eyes and smearing them.
you sniffle, fluttering your gaze open and hazily peering up at the blonde above you. he looks so pretty from this view, the light from the distant bonfire still finding a way to illuminate half of his face — stripes of orange and deep yellows flickering across his face, revealing his smirk in full resolution — while the other glimmers with the darkness of the night, scattered lights from the moon and stars playing over his skin. “sorta did, jayj.”
“my bad. jus’ got so mad, y’know? ain’t pretty seein’ your girl ‘n’ your best friend almost fuckin’,” he kisses his teeth, pressing his palms slightly harder into your face.
“we weren’t fuckin’ jay,” you insist, eyes growin wide and pupils engulfing your irises at the mere thought. the blonde scoffs above you once again, toying at the corner of his lip with his tongue, once again. his head tilts, and his ocean-blue eyes squint slightly, almost challenging you: “looked like it.”
“ ‘m sorry jj,” you mutter, trying to avoid any further confrontation — or any extra slaps — and instead leaning into the warmth emanating from his palms. your lids shut, a soft comfort spreading through out your chest as you allow the blonde to thumb over the stings and pricks. you stay like this for a while: listening to the noise of the party, kooks and pogues alike now over the fight between jj and john b; catching the scent of beer, burning wood, and sea salt carrying in the wind; and locked in place by the mix of your boyfriend's hands and gaze.
“ ‘s okay baby. don’t worry, jus’ don’t do it again, aight? we clear on the rules? c’mon stop cryin’, you’re good,” he croons, his voice feather-light like a breeze rustling leaves, soothing away any of the fear, anxiety, hurt that could possibly be lingering around.
he tilts your head up, intentionally getting your eyes to open by a sliver — his features prettier than ever, still glowing with the combined light of the moon and the bonfire — before removing his palms entirely. he could’ve predicted your bottom lip jutting out, and the small furrowing between your brows from a mile away, and he's prepared for it too. he pats his hand twice over his thigh, right by your head, leaning back against the bench to give you enough space. “c’mon, princess. get on pap j’s lap.”
without a second thought, you drunkenly stumble to your feet and place yourself over your boyfriend — adjusting yourself accordingly to fit in just the right spot, able to nuzzle at just the right area of his neck — and melting against him as his muscular hands wrap themselves around your waist, your thighs, and ass. his smirk returns, his lips pressing into every inch of skin he can reach and his breath hot against you.
“atta girl. so perfect, all f’me.”
ᯓ★ a / n : # rather late but at least it’s here ? planning on writing the ex!jj fic tmr guysss.
ᝰ.ᐟ divider cred : @enchanthings .
ᝰ.ᐟ dark taglist : comment or ask via my request box to be added 🫶🫶.
