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rowarn · 1 year ago

Text

ENAMORED (m.)

soap mactavish / reader !

tags: established relationship, BIG dicked!soap, afab!gn!reader, virgin!soap, sub!reader

cw: loss of virginity, squirting, size difference, teasing, pet names, praise, wet&messy, missionary, mating press, cunnilingus, fingering, pussyjob, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, creampie

note: this is the fic from the pwp royale i posted recently! loss of virginity won so here's the result!!! MDNI.

; with a too-big-cock, he hasn't managed to lose his virginity yet. until he shares a sweet little moment with you, the love of his life ♡

5.7k words

Soap had been thinking about this for ages. He had been in positions like this before, without a doubt, with previous partners.

But there was something deep inside him that was breathless over the fact that it was you situated so cute in his lap, dressed all cozy in some clothes you had left over at his place from a previous night you had spent with him. You two had been dating for some time now but he had done his best to avoid being in this predicament because he was worried it would end the same as it had with everyone else.

Even though Soap was 28, charming and had a lot of luck scoring dates, he was still a virgin. It was the most embarrassing little fact about him. It wasn’t for lack of trying, of course. In fact, all his teammates in 141 were positive he’d gotten laid more times than he could count. But bringing a pretty thing home from a bar always ended the same for him – with them scurrying out of his door with their clothes bundled in their arms the second he pulled his dick out.

So to say Soap was nervous right about now was in understatement.

You were so warm against him, smelled so lovely that it made his heart flutter in his chest. Everything about you was so intoxicating that he was terrified this was going to end the same way it always had with other partners – with you becoming intimidated and fleeing with your tail tucked between your legs.

He was so enamored by you that he didn’t think he would be able to cope if you walked out on him like everyone else.

You pulled him out of his head when you cupped his stubbly cheeks, pulling him in for a deep kiss. His hands flexed against your hips, tugging you even closer on his lap. He was growing harder and harder underneath you and he silently prayed that you didn’t feel it.

Your hands trailed down to his chest, pressing your palms flat against the firmness there as you deepened the kiss. You sighed sweetly into his mouth, dipping your tongue in to taste him as he eagerly kissed you back. His hands weren’t idle either, going from squeezing your hips to kneading your thighs, bared from your shorts.

Suddenly, he pulled back, eyeing the string of spit that connected your lips before smiling at the way you were panting from a kiss.

“Can we do…more, Johnny?” you ask softly, rolling your thumb over the scar on his chin.

“Are you sure you want to?” he fires back, meeting your gaze under his lashes.

“Why wouldn’t I?” you smile, adjusting yourself in his lap and he has to fight to hold back the groan from how good the pressure feels even though he’s still confined to his jeans, “I love you. You love me. Of course I want you.”

The way you say it so simply and sweetly makes him smile. He suddenly takes hold of your chin and tugs you close so your forehead rests against his, “I’m not goin’ to lie, sweetheart. I…” he nervously cleared his throat, “I’m a big guy.”

You blink owlishly at him for a moment, “You mean like…”

Your hand slips further down his chest and he quickly intercepts it, taking your hand in his with a nod of his head. Your bottom lip finds its way between your teeth and he can see the way your pupils dilate.

“Okay…” you whisper, “You can just…work me open, yeah?”

His lashes flutter at those words, a groan getting caught in his chest. His hands find purchase on your waist, easily hoisting you up and tossing you onto the other end of the couch before crawling over you. He immediately begins kissing your neck and you eagerly let your head fall back so he can have more access. His chest is pressed against yours, pinning you down with his weight alone as his hands continue to caress your thighs which are splayed open around his hips.

His cock is painfully hard in his jeans, throbbing with need when he realizes you've started trembling under such simple touches. You lay there so sweetly underneath him, arms splayed on either side of your head letting him touch you and see you however he wants. Pliant.

“So sweet…” he coos, muffled with his lips pressed against your pulse point.

You sigh contentedly, heart hammering in your chest when his hands finally move north and start pushing your shirt up. Slowly, over your belly button, over your ribs, catching on the swell of your breasts before you lift your head and let him strip the material off. He tosses it somewhere in the living room but neither of you care where it lands.

“Shite…” he groans when he leans back on his heels, eyes landing on your bare breasts, “You’re somethin’ special.”

Before you have the chance to offer anything in reply, he's got his lips wrapped around one of your nipples. One hand supports his weight beside your body on the couch and the other carefully slips under the fabric of your panties. You eagerly spread your legs even more, anticipating his touch where you need him most but he doesn’t make any further movements.

His hand falls completely still, fingertips resting just above your clit, just the slightest twitch down and he would be touching the little bud.

His tongue eagerly swipes over the pebbled bud of your nipple that’s trapped in his hot mouth. You let out low sighs of pleasure, mindlessly arching your hips up in hopes to get him to move that damned hand lower — but he refuses, intent on teasing you with its presence so close to where you needed him.

He's got you wound taut, tense and aching for him. He dips down and you think he's going to give you what you want, but instead he uses two fingers to peel your folds apart. You feel like the air gets punched out of your lungs, thighs threatening to twitch closed but are blocked by his hulking form in between them. You can hear the sound of your folds parting, wet and sticky and it makes his cock fucking throb.

“You’re so wet, you hear that?” he teases, popping off your nipple with a crooked grin.

“Shut up,” you intend for it to come out biting but it comes out weak and soft, which only makes his grin broaden.

Your hole clenches pathetically around nothing, drooling and leaking into your panties. You feel like you could cum if so much as a breeze brushed over your clit. You've never been pushed so close to the edge from someone teasing you like this.

One of your hands finds purchase in his mohawk, tugging the short strands so he is forced to meet you in a heady kiss. You whimper into his mouth and his free hand cups and gropes your tits in his large hand, massaging the soft flesh as he eagerly kisses you back. As you kiss, you attempt to rut your hips up in hopes of getting him to slip between your folds and make you feel good, but it doesn’t work and he chuckles. It’s cute you think you can distract him like that.

The kiss is messy and sloppy, strings of spit connecting your lips when you finally part to take a breath. You look up at him with a dazed, heady look to your eyes that has him pecking your lips once again before descending back to your breasts. You cry out in surprise when you feel the nip of his teeth against the bud. As he tortures you with his mouth, he takes the chance to tug your shorts down your legs. You eagerly lift your hips to help him rid your body of the offending clothing, tossing them to get lost somewhere alongside your shirt.

Once you’re bare, you let your legs butterfly open, giving him a full view of your completely bare body.

You’re practically panting when his hand slinks down your body once again, parting your folds with that sticky sound that has heat flushing to your cheeks, much louder now that there’s no clothing blocking it. Soap’s eyes drop to your pussy, index and middle finger holding your labia apart so he can see how your clit throbs and your hole clenches pathetically around nothing, drooling down to the couch.

“So pretty,” he coos, wishing he could roll his thumb over that pretty little clit just to watch your body twitch from the pleasure but he’s on a miss.

He surges forward again to kiss you, soaking in your happy sigh at the little affection, but it doesn't last long before he's mouthing his way down your body — nipping and suckling at your skin as he makes his way further and further down.

His large, callused hands grip under your knees and pin you embarrassingly wide open with your knees to the couch. He kisses up your inner thigh and over your pelvis, stopping to press his lips against your hip bones before his tongue dips down and swipes over one of your labia.

Your taste lingers on his taste buds and he practically moans at the feeling. You gasp, hands flying to his mohawk when he gives the other side the same treatment, cleaning up your mess with his tongue.

You desperately attempt to rut your hips up, whining with your need to feel his touch properly where you need him but he backs off and waits for you to sink back into the cushions in defeat before pressing a kiss above your clit. His pretty, blue eyes watch every pout and furrow of your brows that crosses your face from his teasing.

He can tell you’re getting frustrated and needy – just the way he wants you. The fact you’re so pliant and at the mercy of whatever he’s willing to give you is intoxicating. You’re so sweet for him.

It feels like hours that he torments you, kissing around your thighs and lapping over your folds but never giving you what you actually need. He continues to clean up any mess without actually touching where you desire him most, simply savoring your juices on his tongue.

Your clit aches, twitching with need as it begs for just the slightest touch from him — something to put you out of your misery.

“Johnny…” you pathetically whimper, fisting his t-shirt, tugging him closer in hopes of getting him to give you what you want.

His long lashes flutter as he looks at you, “What is it, sweet one? Something you want?”

“Need,” you correct hastily with a tearful glare. He thinks it’s supposed to be intimidating but he only seems to find the display cute.

He laughs softly, a charming smile crossing his face as he looks completely endeared by you, “Need, huh? Are you always this needy?”

“Only for you, Johnny!” you whimper, moving your grip on his shirt to his hair again, hoping it’ll give you more leverage but he doesn’t budge.

He laughs softly, “That’s right, little one. Just for me.”

You feel so on edge, like he’s worked you up to an orgasm without ever actually touching you properly. He thumbs your folds apart, leaving the needy little bud open and exposed to his greedy gaze. You wish so badly he would just breathe against you so you could experience something more than this mind-numbing teasing your boyfriend has subjected you to. It’s pathetic, you realize, wishing for so much as a breath against your bud. But there’s just something about Johnny that always has you hanging on everything he does. You’re enamored, in love.

That thought has you whimpering, sinking back into the cushions of the couch.

“So sweet,” he coos dismissively, smile only widening as you tearfully glare at him.

His gaze darkens at the sound of a sob tearing through your chest and he bites his lower lip when his cock fucking throbs. He didn’t really think he’d be the type to enjoy seeing his partner cry and he’s not even sure he would be into it if it was anyone but you, but here he was.

Soap thinks you look so precious like this, defeated and waiting for his next move.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he commands suddenly, chastely kissing your navel when you finally meet his gaze, unfocused and tearful, “There you go, good. Don’t look away now, okay?”

You nod your head, finding yourself getting lost in his unwavering eye contact. His pretty blue eyes and long, soft eyelashes that you could simply marvel at for hours. He was so handsome and all yours and that alone made you even wetter. Your boyfriend was on top of you, giving his all in making you feel good.

As you're lost in thought and his eyes, his fingers finally dip down to where you need him most, pressing the pads of his digits against your clit. The little bud is so hard and sensitive that the small amount of stimulation has you toppling over the edge immediately.

Your eyes remain open and locked with Soaps as you cum with a weak cry of his name. His fingers gently circle your clit, sticky, wet circles over the bud to ease you through the high.

When you finally slump against the couch, thighs twitching against his sides through the aftershocks, he pulls back. Your eyes flutter closed, panting from the exertion of your orgasm. You’re practically boneless as Soap suddenly moves you trembling legs over his shoulders.

His gaze falls to your swollen, pulsing cunt. Your folds are covered in a slick film and he can still see the way your clit and hole throbs, drooling your cum messily with every clench. Your eyes flutter open, cheeks heating when you see how intently he’s staring at your pussy.

“Don’t stare…” you whine bashfully, voice dragging his gaze back to your face.

“Can’t help it,” he gives you a crooked grin, “You’re so pretty here.”

You whine at his response, kicking your foot against his back in retaliation.

Suddenly it's like all rational thought flies out of his head and he's pinning your knees to your chest.

You gasp at the change in position, “Johnny!”

He chuckles at the way you sound shy, as if he didn't just have you cumming underneath him a minute ago.

The feeling of his breath against your sensitive folds is enough to make your thighs twitch in his grasp. He makes a show, when he finds you looking down at him through your lashes with your chest rising and falling from how hard you're breathing, of letting his tongue fall from his mouth.

Slowly, he descends, sliding his tongue between your slick folds. You practically wail, your back bowing against the couch when his tongue swirls around your clit, suckling it into his mouth. Your head slams against the couch cushion as your eyes roll back in your head, your hands gripping at his mohawk as you wail his name.

“Johnny! Johnny! Johnny!” you squeal, legs kicking and flailing at the feeling of him eagerly slurping at your clit.

He backs off for a moment, releasing your bud with a lewd pop. You're panting and trembling, your knees still pressed against your chest, open and vulnerable for him. Your precious cunt is now coating in a slick film of your own cum and his spit.

“Keep yourself open for me,” he commends with a sharp look that makes you immediately do as you’re told. Your trembling fingers grip under your knees, hugging them to your chest.

He spreads your folds apart with his thumb before his mouth finds its place there again, eagerly slurping up your cunt with a moan. He desperately eats you, swirling his tongue over your clit and dipping it into your clenching cunt to taste your juices. He's messy and sloppy, drool and your cum dripping down his chin and neck.

You cry and tremble beneath the onslaught of his tongue, he introduces two fingers, swiping them against your drippy entrance. You barely even seem to notice, too distracted humping your clit against the flat of his tongue when he lays it flat out for you.

“Oh, Johnny!” you cry out, toes curling in your fuzzy socks the closer you get to your second orgasm, “Don't stop! Please, don't stop, Johnny!”

He moans against you, the sound and feeling of it sending you over the edge. When he feels your clit throb on his tongue, he finally slips those two fingers inside you. The feeling of suddenly being stretched and filled sends you flying even higher. Soap has to use his body to hold you down as you kick and squirm from the overstimulating pleasure of having his thick fingers crooking inside you, grinding against that gooey little spot.

“Johnny-!” you cut yourself off with a deep, long moan as you messily squirt all over the front of his shirt.

Johnny continues to grind the tips of his fingers into that tender little spot inside you until you simply can’t take it anymore and shove him off with a weak cry. Soap pops the cum covered fingers immediately into his mouth as he watches you twitch and tremble against the couch, tearfully staring up at him.

“Too much, sweetheart?” he asks, once he’s cleaned his fingers off.

You nod, taking a deep breath, “I-I’ve never…” you trail off and he quirks a brow.

“Never squirted?” he finishes and you nod, “Well, I’m honored then. I guess we’re even.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, finally uncurling yourself from your position with a weak grunt, opening your arms to pull him close to you, finding yourself needing his touch.

His cheeks heat up, realizing it’s time to finally tell you his little secret, “Well…it’s my first time.”

“Making someone squirt?” you offer him a soft smile but it quickly fades when he shakes his head.

“No, I mean…” he clears his throat, “I mean havin’ sex.”

Your eyes go wide, “Really? But you’re like…really good with your tongue.”

He chuckles softly, forehead falling against your chest, shaking his head, “No I’ve got a lot of experience in foreplay. It’s after that I’ve never gotten to.”

You sit up at that, shock apparent on your face, “You’re a virgin, Johnny?”

“Aye,” he solemnly nods, trying to hide the embarrassment that bubbles under the surface.

“But how?” you question, “You’ve dated a lot. You’re good looking and kind.”

He grins at your praise, “I told you, little one,” he sighs, figuring now would be a good time to properly warn you about what you’re getting into, “I’m a big guy. Most people get scared off.”

Your brows come together in confusion, “Really?”

He nods slowly, carefully watching your face for any signs of apprehension. But you only continue to look confused.

“Will you show me?” you finally ask.

“You want to see…?” he finds himself stumbling over your question, heart hammering in his chest when you eagerly nod your head.

Wordlessly he sits up on his knees, fingers fumbling with the button of his jeans. You can see the outline of his cock pressing against the material and he does look big but you want to see him completely.

He unzips his jeans and reaches inside, hissing at the feeling of his hand wrapped around his neglected length. He finally pulls his cock free, twitching at the feeling of the cool air against him. He’s been leaking precum profusely, incredibly turned on from making you cum twice.

“Johnny…” you whisper breathlessly, eyes wide as you stare at his length wrapped in his fist, “Holy shit.”

“I told you,” he smiles crookedly but deep down he’s nervous.

This is the moment that will make or break you. Either he finally gets to be with you, the person he wants to share his love with the most, or you give him that terrified look and go scampering away.

You reach out and knock his hand away, replacing his grip with your own. His breathing stutters when you give him a few, slow strokes. Your hand is so much smaller than his, unable to touch your fingers around the girth of him. The sight has him biting back a moan because fuck you’re so much smaller than him.

“You’re going to have to really prepare me, Johnny,” you playfully glare at him from under your lashes.

His brows shoot up in surprise, “You mean you…”

“I love you, Johnny,” you smile softly at him, “I want this with you. Just…take your time, okay?”

“Of course,” he swallows thickly, quickly batting your hand away and urging you to lay back once again.

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in for a kiss, “Let's go to the bedroom.”

“Yeah, yeah we-we can do that,” he stumbles over his words foolishly, making his ears burn red in a way he hopes you don’t actually notice.

After some stumbling and giggling, the two of you quickly find your way to his bedroom. After shutting the door, you crawl onto the bed, relaxing into the pillow, looking like his own little piece of heaven all naked on his sheets just for him.

He strips himself where he stands at the foot of the bed, tossing his shirt into the hamper in the corner before letting his jeans and boxers pool at his feet.

He’s on top of you before you know it, bringing you in for a kiss. As you eagerly spread your legs to accommodate his big frame, he reaches between your bodies and grips his cock again. Your entire body tenses up when you feel him pressing the tip against your folds.

“Johnny, no,” you whine, pressing against his chest, “Y-You’ll tear me open if you try to–”

“Not tryin’ to get it in, pretty baby,” he coos, “Jus’ trust me, yeah?”

You watch as he swipes the head through your folds, sliding the length between them, rutting his hips. You gasp as he grinds over your clit, making your whole body twitch from the stimulation. You’re still sensitive from the previous orgasms he had milked out of you.

Before long, he pauses.

“Look at that,” he grins, “That’s how deep I’ll be.”

You feel your cunt clench pathetically at the sight of his length resting over your pelvis. You know that when you take him all the way, he’s going to be prodding painfully at your cervix. But you know you’re going to love every second of it.

Not only is he long, his girth is amazing. You know it’s going to stretch you wide, you can practically feel the phantom burning feeling you know will accompany it. His cock is uncut, messily drooling all over your skin. The prettiest fucking cock you’ve ever seen and it makes your mouth water.

“Think you can take it?” he teases, playfully tapping the heavy length against your clit.

You whine and nod, “W-Want you to make me take it, Johnny.”

“Steamin’ bloody Jesus,” he chuckles softly, “Aye, we’ll make it fit, little one.”

Soap’s hand finds its way between your thighs again, two fingers prodding at your entrance as his other hand cups one of your breasts. You lay back in his pillows, staring up at him like he hung the moon and the stars as he stretches you open on those two digits.

You’re pillowy soft and wet inside, pretty cunt making sticky clicking sounds as he fucks you with them. Your cum coats his skin and a creamy mess begins to form at the last knuckle when he works that tender little spot up top.

Before long, he’s introducing a third finger. He slowly presses it in alongside the other two, stretching you open carefully and methodically until all three digits are pressed inside the tight clutch of your cunt.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he encourages, “Open up for me so I can give you my cock.”

You whine at that, “Want your cock, Johnny.”

He groans, pressing a kiss against your knee, “I know you do, sweet thing. Jus’ let me stretch you open for it, yeah?”

You nod and toss your head back, working your hips down against his fingers. He carefully fucks you with them, spreading them inside so you get used to the feeling of being stretched and filled for when the real thing is finally pressing inside.

Fuck, the thought makes his cock ache.

His thumb sneaks up and presses against your clit. The extra stimulation makes you clench around them like a vice and you moan so sweetly for him. He can’t wait to feel that around his heavy cock.

“Johnny, please!” you cry, “I want you already.”

“Fuck, alright, sweetheart,” he grunts, pulling his fingers from inside you with a wet sound.

He wraps those slick fingers around his length, smearing the mess across the soft skin. It’s embarrassingly desperate, the way he grips your hips and yanks you closer to him. You gasp at the forceful handling but quickly relax into the sheets when he leans down and kisses you again.

As you’re occupied with his lips and tongue, he grips the base of his length and carefully begins to prod at your entrance. You whimper into his mouth when he starts to press inside.

Just the tip of him is a lot to take and you can't help but wince when that fat head finally pops inside. Soap feels the way you jump and quickly pulls out, biting back a groan when he sees wet, sticky strings of your cum and his pre connecting his cock to your cunt.

He uses the head to circle your clit, making you sigh in pleasure before he’s pressing back inside. This time he, when the head pops inside, begins rolling your clit under his thumb to soothe the ache.

“Just relax,” he coos, slowly circling the bud as he sinks more and more of his length inside.

The stretch stings and he fills you up more than you’ve ever experienced before. He feels so heavy and hard inside you and his finger on your clit makes you reflexively clench and spasm around him. He moans at the feeling, pretty blue eyes rolling back as he feels half his cock being hugged.

Before long, he’s balls deep, deeper inside a cunt than he’s ever been in his life. Its euphoric for him. A painful ache settles in your stomach from how he’s prodding against your cervix. He stills, watching your furrowed brows as you get used to being stuffed full of his cock for the first time.

It dawns on him suddenly that he’s lost his virginity. To you. He’s got his fat cock buried in the one person he adores more than anything on this Earth.

He’s overcome with affection, surging forward to press his lips against yours. You whine when the angle change makes him press even deeper inside you but you kiss him back anyway.

He pulls back slowly, “Just relax,” he assures you again, “That was a lot, huh? You took me so well, pretty.”

After a few moments under his careful caresses and kisses, you relax into the bed. Blinking blearily up at him, you flex your hips and stir his cock inside. You whimper at the feeling and he slowly pulls back so only half his length is left inside.

“Pretty,” he mutters, “P-Pretty and fuckin’ wet.”

“Johnny…” you sigh sweetly, clutching at his sheets as he begins to fuck you in earnest.

Your tits bounce in time to his thrusts and he can’t take his eyes off them. He’s still a little shell-shocked from having you speared on his heavy, aching cock. He can’t believe he’s got the sweetest thing creaming around him, crying his name.

“Johnny!” you cry sharply, hands flying to cup your own tits.

Your eyes are wide, almost like you’re shocked, “What is it, pretty?” he asks, panting.

He watches in wonder as you toss your head back, squealing and trembling. You’re cumming, he realizes. Squeezing and clenching around his cock like a vice.

“Shite,” he moans, hands trembling as he grips your hips, helping you rut against him as you cum, “‘S it, ride it out for me. Cummin’ nice and hard, hm? Barely even did anything and you’re creamin’ all over me.”

You whimper, eyes rolling at his filthy words. You slowly sink back into the bed with a heavy sigh, heart racing as you stare up at him. Soap loves seeing you like this, covered in sweat and twitchy from how hard you came from nothing but his cock stuffed inside you.

“More, please, Johnny,” you whine, locking your ankles around his back, locking him against you, “I want more. Please make me cum again.”

He scoffs in disbelief, pressing his hands on either side of your head on the bed, “You just came and you want more?”

“Yes, please?” you ask softly, batting your lashes at him.

“Yeah, baby,” he whispers, slowly grinding his hips against you, making sure his pelvis grinds against your clit, “I’ll give you whatever you want. This cock’s all yours now, yeah?”

“Mhm,” you whimper, “All mine, Johnny. ‘S all mine. You’re all mine. L-Love you so much.”

“Fuck!” he growls, fisting his sheets as he works his hips faster and faster against you, “Love you too. Love you, love you, love you.”

He can’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed at his babbling. All he can do is work his hips against yours, listening to your pretty moans and the slick sounds of your pretty pussy being fucked.

Your back arches and you reach between your bodies to circle your clit with trembling fingers. His jaw drops at the sight. He never thought he would have the chance to see a sweet little thing like you working themself to orgasm on his cock like this before.

“Sweet baby,” he whines, sounding broken and completely broken, burying his face in your neck, “You’re so wet. You’re makin’ such a mess around me. Pretty cunt’s so wet.”

You sob at that, eyes rolling as you toss your head back. You can feel another orgasm brewing, heating your skin and making you tremble underneath your boyfriend's massive body.

“Johnny, please!” you wail, feet kicking against his back.

“What? What do you need?” he pants, drooling against your skin from where his face is still buried.

“Please!” you cry again, pressing against his shoulders to push him back.

He looks dazed, completely fucked out and stupid from having his cock fucked for the first time. You grab his hand and shove it between your thighs. He quickly picks up what you need and starts rubbing your clit.

“This what you needed?” he pants, “Needed me to play with this pretty clit so you can cum nice and hard again?”

You squeal, jaw falling open as you back bows off the bed. He moans at the feeling of you soaking him, gushing and squirting against his bare chest and all over his hand. His mouth practically waters at the thought of getting to taste you as you cum again.

“Already?” he gasps, “So fuckin’ sensitive, cummin’ so easily for me. Fuck, so good for me. I’m gonna cum, baby.”

You nod your head, still shaking from your orgasm, “F-Fill me up, Johnny. Please. Want you to cum inside!”

“Fuck, are you sure?” he gasps, leaning down to press his forehead against yours.

You nod your head, “Yes, need it, Johnny.”

He fists the sheets on either side of your head as his entire body begins to tremble. His hips lose their rhythm and with a few more, weak rabbiting thrusts, he’s cumming. He cries your name, rutting his hips against yours. The movement causes him to grind against your sensitive clit, making you whimper and twitch beneath him. He grinds painfully against your cervix from how deep he is but it’s worth it to see the pretty way he cums inside you. It's a hot, thick load that fills you up and oozes out the sides of his cock and drips down to the bed.

Afterwards, there’s a stillness that falls over the two of you. The only sound you can hear is the faint hum of the TV in the living room and the heavy panting between the two of you.

Soap can’t think of anything to say, all he can think is to lean down and press his lips against yours. He wraps his arms around your body, holding you close to him as you cling onto him, still trembling.

“Love you so much,” he whispers, muffled against your lips because he’s not willing to pull away.

“Johnny,” you whimper, “I love you.”

He smiles crookedly, pecking your nose and forehead over and over again before you’re giggling and pushing him away.

With his cock softened, he slowly and carefully pulls out of you, both of you wincing from how sensitive you are. Your thighs are still open and he watches as his cum oozes from your thoroughly abused cunt. His hand slides up your thigh, nearing your folds but you quickly slam your thighs shut, trapping his hand between them.

He looks up to find you glaring at him, “Don’t even think about it.”

He grins crookedly, shrugging his shoulders, “What’s the matter, baby? Don’t fancy a go again?”

“After that?” you cry, throwing your head back to laugh, “I’ve never cum so much in my life, Johnny!”

“Ah, you really know how to boost a man’s ego,” he chuckles, flopping onto the bed beside you.

He pulls you close, tucking you against his side, “Hard to believe that was your first time.”

“Aye,” he hums, kissing your temple, stroking your back slowly, “I’m glad it was you.”

“I am too, Johnny,” you snuggle close to him, kissing his bare chest.

There’s a quiet that falls over the two of you. Your breathing slowly begins to even out and he quickly realizes that you’ve fallen asleep. He hugs you closer, protective instincts urging him to keep you safe while you’re well-fucked and vulnerable like this in his arms.

His heart skips a beat when his gaze lands on his night table, remembering the ring he’s got hidden away within. He wonders when he’s going to grow the nerve to finally ask you to wear it.

DO NOT REDISTRBUTE, TRANSLATE, OR MODIFY. DO NOT RECOMMEND ON TIKTOK.

#john soap mactavish smut #john soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish smut #soap mactavish x reader #soap smut #soap x reader #cod smut #cod x reader

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nereidprinc3ss · 1 month ago

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do you believe me now? | 9

in which we find out how the morning after went for fem!reader. you finally share with spencer after unanticipated anxieties come up. you're continually shocked by his affection for you.

series masterlist

this series is 18+ (angst, fluff) warnings/tags: (preface none of the bad stuff is done by spencer) sexual harassment, slut shaming, non consensual voyeurism of sorts, blood + pain from losing virginity, talk of rape (nothing like that actually happens), implied nonspecific age gap (someone says he looks slightly older than you) non sexual nudity, showering together, intimacy, ewww being in love is embarrassing a/n: I honestly was not gonna post this today but I decided to bc it's just Tumblr its not that deep also you can probably tell I am just creating problems bc I don't wanna let go of them...... ik this is supposed to be a smutty series btw and trust good things come to those who wait!!!but anyways idk what I'm doing and I kinda hate this!! lolol!!!

Friday morning

The air is thick when you wake up—the angle of the sun through the window is lower than usual, and the binding weight of your limbs as you struggle to stretch in place all suggest that you’ve slept in.

But you don’t check the time quite yet—for a moment, you simply lie there, studying the pattern on your ceiling, downloading the events of the previous night.

Flashes of skin on skin, lips, breaths, whispers, promises. Phantom sensations.

Was it even real?

Your apartment is deafeningly silent, you realize. And you have that sinking sense, which you can’t quite explain but know to be true—that you are alone. Spencer is gone. You can’t feel him like you’d be able to if he were simply on the couch or in the kitchen. He’s definitely not in bed with you, and the sheets have long gone cold.

The truth of it renders about as slowly as your sluggish consciousness does, and you frown, not quite sure what to do with that information. Should you be angry? Should you cry?

Mostly you’re confused.

As soon as you sit up, sore thighs and abs and a strange ache between your legs confirm that last night was not a dream nor a figment of your imagination. You’ll figure out what to do about your twinging body in a moment—for now you rub your eyes and blindly reach for the bedside table, knocking several things to the ground in your quest for your phone.

It’s not there, you realize, once you actually try to use your eyes. It’s not in bed with you either as you pat the sheets, and it doesn’t materialize as you sit on your knees and shake out the comforter.

From this venture, however, you learn two things. First, Spencer must’ve taken it upon himself to get you dressed last night, which you have no recollection of, but you doubt you sleepwalked your way into underwear and a big t-shirt; and second—you bled.

It wasn’t something you were thinking about in the moment, but now, faced with all the evidence and none of the pleasure of last night’s activities, it’s jarring. A stark, unforgiving archipelago of red on a pristine sea of white.

People say, at its best, sex brings couples closer. Spencer once told you it could facilitate feelings of deeper connection. But here you are, no longer a virgin, and what do you have to show for it? A stronger bond with your boyfriend? He’s not even here.

All you have is this glaring red stain marring perfectly good sheets. It mocks you, like something you’ve dropped and can’t pick back up. You can’t think looking at it, and you need to think, and so in a fit of frustration you’re pulling the comforter onto the floor, leaning over your mattress and yanking the fitted sheet free. You ball it up in your hands, breathing heavily—and realize you bled through to the mattress.

Wonderful.

Spencer’s just at work, you tell yourself, grabbing the first pair of shorts you see and pulling them on before gathering the ruined sheet once more and stomping on aching legs through your apartment to the hallway, not even bothering with shoes. He can’t just play hooky because his clingy girlfriend lost her virginity and needs to be comforted like some previously celibate high school cheerleader.

But you miss him so much it’s making you angry, so much your eyes are stinging and welling with tears of frustration as you shove your bed linens down the trash chute at the end of your floor’s hallway. You’re supposed to be independent. That’s how you’ve always been. Since when does it bother you to wake up alone? It’s just sex. It’s not as big a deal for him as it is for you. Or for anyone. You’re the one overreacting, you’re the one who expects too much. He works for the FBI, for god’s sake. There are people dying, and here you are—

“What’chya got there?”

The gruff voice makes you jump, and you turn around just as the bundle is disappearing down into the hole in the wall. It’s your neighbor, Jerry—the one in the unit right next to you. You’re not happy to see him, especially like this. He’s got a blue 5 o’clock shadow despite the hour, and is clad in ill-fitting gray sweats and a pair of ratty slippers. His distended belly strains at the confines of an oil-stained white shirt, tied with a dingy checkered robe. You barely meet his drooping eyes before looking longingly back at your cracked door down the hall.

“Just… garbage.” You shift your weight, hiding a wince as you try to find a comfortable position to stand in. Jerry notices this, and you wish his eyes wouldn’t linger on your bare legs like that.

“Huh. Looks like someone had a late night.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s just noon and you’re still in your PJ’s.”

Disgusting. And who the fuck is he to judge? At least your pajamas are clean.

You shrug. “Yeah.”

He scratches his bald head.

“So that boy tired you out pretty good, huh?”

Your stomach drops. Your brain freezes.

When you don’t reply, he takes the liberty of continuing on.

“Saw him sneaking out of your apartment in the middle of the night. He looked a little older ’n you. You like ’em older?” His laugh is a cruel bark. “Yeah… He’s a lucky man. You know, it’s natural for a man to like a younger girl. Fresh meat, ’n all.” You try to speak and can only swallow a gag. Jerry adjusts his stance, hands in pockets like he’s telling you a local news story. “Heard some of it. Sounded like you were putting on quite the show. And sure, a young pretty thing like you? Hell, I would if I could. But I’ll tell you right now, you don’t wanna end up like my daughter. She wasn’t as pretty as you, but still—three kids with three men by the time she was 24. She should'a kept her damn legs closed. You know, she loved to cry rape, but you gotta ask yourself, if your legs are open all the damn time, what do you expect? Back in the day we all knew girls like that—” he bats the air dismissively. “Guess you can’t call ’em sluts anymore—they get what they’re asking for one way or another. See, I think everyone still knows it and they’re just too afraid to say it. So my advice: don’t let yourself get used up, you hear me? Not by men who are gonna ride you hard and put you away wet. So to speak. Men can smell a girl like that from a mile away, and they’ll take it as an open invitation. It’s just human nature.”

When he finally stops talking, the hallway fills with a vacuous silence. It makes your ears ring. Several moments pass, but you’re frozen. Your whole body feels intolerably hot but your blood is freezing. How are you supposed to react?

“Hello?” He says, voice loud enough to hurt your ears as it echoes.

Get out of here, your more rational self says to the rest of you, and you mumble something, you don’t even know what, excusing yourself to hurry on stiff legs back down the hall to your door.

Once inside, you do up every lock on your door, and face your apartment, shoulders tensed practically to your ears and fists clenched so tight your arms are trembling. On autopilot you look around for something to do, but there’s nothing. More importantly, nobody.

I’ll call Spencer. He’ll know what to do.

No, you won’t, your higher self reminds you. You lost your phone. And besides, it’s clearly not like he wanted to stick around last night. Maybe he doesn’t even like you anymore.

So you’re stuck here. Stranded. Sharks can smell blood.

Processing that information, you walk back to your bedroom and close the door behind you—before promptly sinking to the ground and burying your face in the duvet with a deep, silent sob.

That goes on for a few minutes until you realize you’re too achy and you can’t breathe and you’re forced onto your side, curling up in your blanket on the floor like it’s a nest and not a burial plot.

You shouldn’t get ahead of yourself. A relationship can’t implode twice in 24 hours. You don’t have your phone. Maybe he’s texted you.

But is that really all you’re worth? A text sent after the fact? He couldn’t sacrifice a few hours to sleep by your side? Couldn’t even wake you up to say goodbye? You think about the sweet things he’d said afterward—the way he held you, fingers dancing down your spine. Promises he made when you were half asleep in his arms, so sure he’d be there when you woke up.

Even fucking Jerry the neighbor—who you think might have just sexually harassed you in the hallway—said Spencer should’ve stuck around.

Fuck.

No, don’t think about that. It doesn’t even matter. They were just words.

Heard some of it. Sounded like you put on quite the show.

Your skin crawls and your stomach turns as you hold yourself tighter. Something that was supposed to be private and special—and some random man not only had a front row seat to your deflowering but felt comfortable talking about it with you. It feels like a violation. Like he crashed a really important party. If you had known you had an audience last night, you never would’ve done it.

The way he looked at you, tracing your legs with his eyes like he was touching you—

You scramble up from the floor and walk heavily on your knees to the dresser, digging up a pair of pajama pants and a hoodie. You should be showering, but you don’t want to deal with your body right now. You just want to hide.

Friday evening—present

After your conversation, Spencer seems eager to make sure the car ride to his apartment is not reminiscent of the car ride to yours last night—he holds your hand, resting in your lap, bringing your knuckles to his lips at a red light. Every few moments he glances over at you, maybe to appreciate the view (though you doubt it’s especially scenic at the moment) or perhaps to gauge your mood. The further away you get from your apartment building the better you feel, and you try to focus on that. Sure—maybe you had a shit day, but Spencer’s here now, and he didn’t leave you after all. In fact, since finding your phone, you’ve seen the series of very sweet and highly concerned messages he sent over the course of a few hours. They almost make your stomach hurt. It would’ve been really nice to have those earlier.

He doesn’t ask you any more of the hard questions, but you sense an inquisition in the works and getting closer with every curious glance he gives you. It’s like he’s unwrapping you, layer by layer, using his impressive cognitive faculties to drill through your skull into your brain and deeper still into your soul.

Back in his apartment you sit awkwardly on the bed. Last time you’d been here, things hadn’t gone so well for you.

The shower starts in the adjoined bathroom, and Spencer comes out a moment later, warm light seeping into the darkened bedroom. Purple and dark blue mixing with yellow, like a bruise.

“Hey. Water’s warm.”

You hum, smoothing the material of his neatly made bed with your palm and watching the way it flattens. That had been your doing. You may have thought he was on the verge of breaking up with you last time you slept here, but you didn’t want to leave his home a mess. Didn’t want to leave any evidence of your having been here.

A moment passes. You thumb at a thread and don’t look up.

Spencer crosses the space without a word and crouches in front of you, hands coming up to cup the back of your legs, running knee to ankle and up again.

“Can you tell me what’s going on? Please?” He asks softly. His voice wrings your heart out. Now that you’re in a completely different space, and you’re not so alone anymore, you’re struggling to sort out your feelings. It should be fine. You’re with Spencer. Presumably he still loves you.

And you still feel terrible.

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says, just as quietly.

Spencer doesn’t say anything else. I know you don’t want to—and yet. Your lips twist to the side. He’s persistent. Even in his kindness. It’s not the kind of care that falters or buckles when you try turning it away.

“My neighbor said he c—”

You’re forced to stop, frowning by how overcome you are. It shouldn’t be such a big deal. Worse things have happened to you.

“He said he could hear us. Last night.”

Spencer’s hands stop on your legs. You can’t meet his eyes. You’re afraid whatever you find there won’t be the right thing.

“He’s in the unit next to you?”

You nod. “We share a wall.”

There’s a moment’s hesitation and your stomach sinks. He doesn’t understand.

“What did he say?”

“Just… dumb shit,” you scoff, fiercely wiping away a stray tear. “He said he listened and it sounded like I was putting on quite the show. And then he—and then he told me not to let you… use me up, whatever that means. He called me fresh meat, and said I shouldn’t let you ride me hard and put me away wet, and bad things happen to sluts who can’t keep their legs closed.”

You finish with a sharp inhale, briefly leaning down and covering your face with your hands when you realize how upset you really are. You want to hide it.

A fraught moment passes. Spencer reaches for your hands, no doubt to try and pull them away from your face. You spare him the trouble, sitting up with a cavalier sniff before he can touch you and brushing your hair behind your ears.

His voice is uncomfortably quiet. You can’t look at him. “Baby…”

“Don’t. It’s fine. I only told you because you asked.”

It’s not his fault, but you’re mad at him anyway, and so you avoid eye-contact like it’s the plague. Maybe it’s just safe to be mad at him. Maybe he knows that.

Regardless, you’re not in the mood for coddling. It’s borderline repulsive—like trying to mix oil and water. Anything good slides right off of you because maybe you’re not designed to be able to absorb good things.

Nothing changes for a minute—and then he’s standing, offering you a moment alone as he goes to crank the shower off.

As soon as he’s gone all the air is vacuumed from your lungs and you crumple, heaving it back in silently as your head spins and your heart races. It’s like your mind is split in two—half is primal, overwhelming panic, and the other a cold observatory eye, full of disdain and scorn for what it deems a severe overreaction to a few nasty comments made hours ago. You’re so tangled up as you curl in on yourself on your side that you can’t even cry. You’re just trying to remember how to breathe, ignoring the crawling feeling up your spine and the tingling heat at the back of your neck. The shower stops on the downbeat of your staggered breath, and then it’s silent. He’ll come back at any minute and see what a mess you’ve become.

You’ve ruined everything. If only you could’ve kept it to yourself.

When Spencer reappears in the doorway, and sees you collapsed and curling like paper burnt at the edges, he’s quick to return to you.

“I’m sorry,” you manage, trying and failing to brush away hair from your cheek, which is wet—so you were crying—and Spencer shushes you, pushing it away for you as he kneels.

“Why are you apologizing?”

“I’m being dramatic, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Of course, at the end of that declaration, a sob wrenches its way from the depths of you, so bright and cleaving you half expect the smell of ozone to follow. You follow it with a blisteringly self-deprecating laugh.

“Don’t—don’t do that. Don’t minimize it.”

His hand is warm where it rests over your cheek, affectionate, but he sounds frustrated. You frown and sniffle.

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Tell me his name.”

It’s a quiet request, made as gently as his hand cards through the hair at your temple like it’s woven with fragile threads of gold.

“No, Spencer,” you beg, anxiety pooling in your gut and rising in your throat, “please, I don’t want to make it a thing, I don’t want you to talk to him. You’ll just make it worse, it’s fine.”

You look at him imploringly, eyes wide and still welling, hoping to god the gravity of your plead will sink in. His are a bed of coals—somewhere between furious and sympathetic, and you try to appeal to the sympathy.

“It is not fine. Saying sluts get what’s coming to them is not fine, that is a threat, and I’m not going to talk to him. I’m going to have him fucking arrested.”

You scoff.

“For talking to me? Yeah, good luck with that. Cops are really known for being helpful when it comes to sexual harassment.”

“Baby. Men who are comfortable violating your boundaries like that are exponentially more likely to commit an actual violent crime. That is not a safe person for you to be around.”

“He’s not gonna rape me, Spencer! He’s just a gross old man! This is why I didn’t want to tell you, because I knew you’d make it a bigger deal than it is! You did it last night and you’re doing it now—you think everyone is out to get me!”

To his credit, he doesn’t so much as raise his voice.

“Of course it’s a big deal. You’re upset.”

“Yeah, well, it’s my own fault.”

Maybe it’s the wrong thing to say. Spencer goes silent for a moment.

“It’s your fault?”

“Yes. It’s my fault because… because now everyone knows that I’m…”

His voice goes impossibly soft again. “Knows that you’re what?”

“I mean, what did I expect?” You sniffle. “It’s an apartment. If I didn’t want to deal with the consequences, I shouldn’t’ve done it.”

He says your name like it’s a ring he twists around his finger as he tries to think—to gather the right words.

“The consequences for having sex do not involve punishment or sexual harassment.”

“It’s the result of my actions, so—”

“No, it’s the result of your neighbor being disgusting. I don’t care what he heard, he doesn’t get to talk to you like that.”

“He—”

“If you heard something you weren’t supposed to hear would you bring it up to the person the next day?”

“Stop interrupting me,” you plead. Spencer looks like he has something to say to that, too, but he swallows it. You close your eyes and take a deep breath. “I… understand that he shouldn’t have said those things to me. But that doesn’t change the fact that he did, and it was really, really uncomfortable and I don’t wanna—I don’t wanna go back now. Maybe that’s dramatic, but…”

You trail off, studying the ceiling as a fresh wash of tears dampen your cheeks. Spencer’s hand slides down your waist as you wipe your face. “I don’t regret the fact that we slept together. I just regret everything that’s happened since, and if I didn’t do it last night, none of this would’ve happened. I feel like he ruined everything.”

The words end on another cry and you put your hand over your eyes like you could stop it all from coming out. You sniffle. Spencer is quiet for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he eventually whispers, his own voice threaded with emotion. “I…”

He sighs. You push your hair back and look at him.

“What?”

He studies you, chewing on his lip like a nervous tick you’ve never seen before. You sit up again, feet balanced on the edge of the bed frame. Spencer’s eyes remain stuck on you. Again, you ask, “What?”

“I didn’t think about it until you brought it up earlier, but—I did see someone. Him, I think, when I went out to my car to get my bag. He was smoking when I came out, and when I got back into the lobby he was waiting for the elevator. We took it up together, he—he said something to me, so I know he saw me going back to you. I don’t know why he made it sound like I left.”

You frown. “What did he say?”

Spencer hesitates.

“He asked if I had a long night. He was obviously commenting on the fact that I was basically half-dressed and getting an overnight bag from my car at one in the morning, so he could probably gather from context what was going on, but… my point is, he knew I came back and it seems like he was almost trying to make you think I didn’t. So for whatever reason, maybe he was lying about being able to hear you, too. Maybe he just wanted to make you uncomfortable.”

“That’s a long shot, Spencer.”

“I know, but… it’s not that long. He obviously gets off on it—and besides, he said you were putting on a show, but you weren’t… you weren’t loud, last night.”

Heats blossoms in your cheeks and you look down at your lap. “Thin walls.”

“Have you ever heard your neighbors before?”

You have to seriously think about it.

“I’ve heard them yelling…”

“Nothing else?”

Again, you consider it. The answer comes as a surprise.

“No.”

“Okay, so… does that maybe help a little bit? I really, really don’t want you to feel like last night was a mistake in any way, or let anyone ruin it for you.”

You breathe deeply. “I know. It… it kinda helps, yeah.”

His hands come to the top of your legs. There’s so much genuine care and concern in his eyes. “Yeah?”

Only when you nod does he relax some. His hands skim your thighs, and you set yours on top of his own. For a few breaths, it’s quiet. And then you laugh.

“What?” Spencer asks, a tentative smile curling his own lips like he doesn’t know if he should be concerned or participate in your mirth.

“I—I don’t know how to say it without being cheesy,” you admit, sniffling the last of your tears away and smiling softly down at him.

“I think you should say it.”

You link your fingers with his on your lap, watching the way they twine like it’s what they were meant to do.

“I was just thinking about how I had, like, the worst day ever. And how much worse it would’ve gotten if you didn’t show up when you did—I would’ve completely spiraled. But you did show up. And how easy it is to kind of compartmentalize, because I have you, and when I’m with you… nothing feels as hard. You make the bad things feel smaller, I guess.”

By the end, it got a lot more real than you’d intended, and your face feels warm, and your stomach is sort of floaty—but you don’t look away from Spencer. You hold his gaze, though it makes you a little nervous, because you want him to know you mean it.

He inhales, like he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t—only looks at you, like you’re beautiful and impossible and a defiance of everything he thought he knew, which was almost everything. To him, you’re expansive. A gorgeous anomaly.

And then he stands, holding his hands out for you. Without question you take them, and he pulls you to your feet, absorbing the momentum that threatens to topple you, and he wraps his arms around you tightly. So tight you have to laugh.

“I love you,” he says against your shoulder, one hand coming to cradle the back of your head.

Your humor softens, but doesn’t become inflexible—still tinges your words with the perfect amount of euphoria and relief. “I love you.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles, and your laughter flares again.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“But I’m grateful. I… I feel lucky.”

Always so earnest, so vulnerable, when you’re least expecting it—which should be always, you’re learning. You pull back to look up at him. You don’t want that concession to go unrewarded.

“Me too,” you say softly. He’s doing that fond thing with his eyes, where they’re all soft and it’s like he’s trying to take in every millimeter of your face. This time when he goes to touch your hair, you have the wherewithal to dodge it.

“You’re really brave for trying to touch my hair right now.”

“Why?” He asks, utterly bewildered, and the softness of the moment falls away easily, but not without leaving everything smudged and fuzzy around the edges. Everything is still okay. It’s still good.

“Because it’s dirty,” you laugh, dodging him again and eventually ducking from the circle of his arms entirely.

“Oh, your hair is dirty? Should we breakup?”

“Hm. I don’t really like when you take on that tone with me.” You’re still half-laughing, dipping and weaving past him toward the bathroom as he tries to get you in his arms again. And then you stop, toes just short of the tile.

“What is it?” He asks after another moment. You blink, looking at the shower head as it drips.

“Um—would it be okay if I had a five minute headstart in the shower?”

“Sure. Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine. I just… I need a minute.”

His hand skims your waist as he passes by you through the open door. “Okay. Why don’t you grab your stuff and I’ll get the water going again?”

Soon enough, you’re remembering how much better his water pressure is than yours as you stand under the torrent, eyes closed as if in prayer. You definitely could’ve stood to shower earlier in the day. But you had other concerns, earlier, and besides—you were afraid of what you might find.

And you were right to be. The sex was nice. The aftermath isn’t quite as pretty.

When Spencer taps on the bathroom door, you’re nervous.

“You can come in,” you call.

“You sure? If you want it all to yourself, that’s okay too.”

“No, no. It’s fine.”

The door creaks open, and gently clicks into place again, and fabric rustles as he undresses, and soon the shower curtain is sliding aside and he’s stepping in. Unsurprisingly, the space feels smaller with him in it—but not small in a bad way. It feels warmer. Again you’re awash in that safe feeling, which you didn’t realize you’d been missing so much today.

“Hi,” he smiles, a teasing sliver of what you know to be the most brilliant light in the world, and stunning like the rest of him as you watch the water begin to darken his hair.

“Hello.”

His smile flickers briefly wider like you’re his favorite thing and he just can’t contain his joy, and then it’s easing again, giving you a moment to catch your breath.

“Is it okay if I touch you?”

In this alien context the idea has your heart pounding—you don’t really understand the concept of casual nudity yet, but you know he’ll respect your earlier wishes to keep it chaste and so you nod.

Spencer doesn’t take you immediately in his arms like you’d expected—instead his hands find a rest at your collarbones and carefully push your wet hair back over your shoulders—but his eyes aren’t cast quite low enough to be indecent. They connect dots over your chest and neck, and he thumbs at one just over your pulse point.

“Oh, man,” he laughs, and you think you detect a hint of self-deprecation. “That’s… wow, I didn’t realize I… sorry. They don’t hurt, do they?”

It’s your turn to smile as he’s suddenly over-concerned.

“No, they don’t hurt.”

“Good.” He looks relieved, but it doesn’t last as his eyes trace lower—though you don’t sense any hunger in it. He’s just taking you in. “How about everywhere else?”

“Um… it’s not bad. Kind of, like… I don’t know. Sore. But it’s not bad.”

“Still?” He frowns, clearly unfazed by your evident embarrassment on the subject. You shrug and avert your eyes.

“It’s fine. it was worse earlier, so.”

That does not have the calming effect you’d intended.

“Worse? 1-10, how—”

“Spencer, it’s fine, I promise. It’s only when I—when I move certain ways, I notice. Honestly the… blood… was way more disconcerting to me.”

“Yeah, I saw your bed… sorry for ruining your sheets. I’ll buy you new ones.”

You shrug, watching the water run in rivulets down your arm and branch off into tributaries and waterfalls from your fingers. “You don’t have to do that. It was a collaborative effort.”

Normally this conversation would have you melting into an embarrassed puddle, but something about the tile cocoon of the shower, the humid fog, the proximity, feels safe. The white noise of water on porcelain, the warmth. You go to him at the same time as he comes to you—his arms around your waist, yours slung over his shoulders. Your eyes flutter shut. Falling asleep standing up has never seemed so plausible until now.

He presses a kiss to your head. You sigh.

“Ugh. I don’t want to deal with washing my hair.”

“I can do it,” Spencer immediately offers. You frown.

“I was—you don’t have to. I didn’t mean to make it sound like I was asking.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“It’s a process.”

“I understand.”

“You would have to do it exactly how I say.”

“I am willing to learn. I like taking care of you.”

You’re glad for the hot water, then, and as he washes your hair. You’re not sure if you’re crying at the tenderness of his touch, or the way he loves you like you’re easy to love. You’re too tired to explain it.

He doesn’t push you, because he never pushes you.

He just washes your hair.

#spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic

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jethrowest · 7 months ago

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let me see you stripped down to the bone…

- stripped by depeche mode

congratulations! you’ve been hired as homelander’s entire glam squad! what an opportunity! now let’s try real hard not to let the fumes get to you, okay?

pairing : homelander/afab reader

word count : 5.6k

warnings : homelander in and of himself, toxic workplace environment, something akin to stockholm syndrome, fingering, smut. 18+, mdni

special thanks to @blindmagdalena @sehtoast @homeb0ys and @clockworkzeppelin for letting me scream at you about this!

writing tag

gif credit

divider credit

Homelander is an asshole.

That doesn’t bother you much. You’ve dealt with plenty in this field, which means you’ve learned how to make life easier for all parties. That particular learning curve includes when to stand out and blend in, at times concurrently depending on what variety of asshole they happen to be.

As a whole, the makeup artists and hairstylists at Vought take care of The Seven and go where they’re needed. And as a cosmetologist, you were hired to provide both services for Homelander and Homelander only, which you consider to be one of the most prestigious stamps one could add to their professional passport.

Before you became official, you were colorfully threatened by a Ms. Ashley Barrett, who, after the fact, had no qualms throwing you into the lion’s den to figure your own shit out.

In no uncertain terms were you told that if you fucked any part of this up, your sparkling resume would look best as something to sit her smooth, bare ass on while getting fucked on top of her desk. No lube or protection. It would then be tossed exactly like her salad.

Not an image you could have ever predicted crossing your mind. Honestly, you should have stopped her right there and walked your happy little ass out of her office toward pastures that might have not been greener (you were being handsomely compensated), but certainly not as toxic. While the red flags were a color you couldn’t quite ignore, you were also curious about why they stood out so much more than they did regarding previous employers.

None of this is to say you live under a rock. Anyone who has access to the internet is ambushed daily by these Supes’ personal lives. Homelander’s track record as far as choice in partners went hadn’t been ideal, so you understand that made him less popular at the time. That of course has nothing to do with you or your capabilities.

You opt to wear gray-colored glasses, seeing everything with a neutral blend of black and white. As much as possible anyway.

Nevertheless, curiosity killed the cat. But hopefully not your career.

The first day was awkward to say the least. Immediately, you knew you weren’t going to like your coworkers.

Glints of sympathy changed how they perceived you. A target, whether they intended for this to happen or not, was nailed to your forehead, and it made them buzz around you like avid, greedy wasps keen on seeing how rapidly the honeybee will be brutalized. You didn’t much care for going cross-eyed while staring at that target whenever you crossed paths. They didn’t know you, yet because of who you were working under, deemed you helpless. They didn’t give you a chance to establish yourself before branding you a victim.

Why should you respect them?

Small talk wasn’t entertained either, as their judgment tarnished any future encounters. They ostracized you once you showed no interest in engaging with them. That didn’t disappoint you. You weren’t here to make friends.

You do wonder how those before you fared: if they were jaded when they arrived or if they couldn’t help but succumb to the pressures of being at the top rung of a very unstable albeit sought after ladder.

Ms. Barrett quickly introduced you to Homelander, her parting gift before leaving the two of you alone.

You weren’t completely nervous in his presence. He wasn’t any different to you than the other celebrities you’d worked on, except he could rip you in half like a piece of paper if he was so inclined. But he’s the hero of this country’s story, so really, you should have nothing to worry about.

His demeanor, you noted, suggested arrogance, annoyance, and boredom. All things you’re used to. So you offered your hand to shake, which he eyed with a slightly upturned nose before grabbing, told him it was a pleasure to meet him and got straight to business.

Looking back, he was clearly expecting more out of you. Maybe not a display as excessive as getting on your knees and professing your undying love, but close enough. Somewhere in the middle, perhaps.

Part of you believes he might have also counted on fear. To you, he’s not anything or anyone unknown. Another big name in a fancy suit with impossible demands.

You were given a routine to follow and products to use. You did as you were instructed and found the process to be simple and, as Homelander’s expression revealed, uninspiring.

While you were utilizing a face brush to apply powder, he must have decided he was done enduring your lack of enthusiasm, because he suddenly asked, “What are you wearing?”

You stopped for a split second, no longer than, and continued. “The name of my clothing designer, you mean?”

He scoffed, waving his gloved hand at you, almost knocking the applicator you held to the ground. “No, your perfume. What are the top notes?”

You laughed and that seemed to confuse him. “Why, you want a bottle?”

“I don’t like it.” He sniffed sharply and cleared his throat. “Smells like you should be on the corner selling your used body parts.”

Ding ding ding. Alarm bells and red flags galore. You enjoy a challenge, however, and are a bit of a masochist, so you persevere.

“Well, what doesn’t smell like a cheap hooker to you? I’ll start wearing that instead.”

He cocked a brow, studying you. Trying to figure out if you were being serious or mocking him.

“It’s your first day.” A warning. “Are you on your best behavior, or can you do better?” He leaned forward in his chair, forcing you backward. “You should be working harder to prove yourself. Prove your worth.” He sat back again and shrugged. “Or maybe you really are worth as much as that dumpster juice you doused yourself in.”

At this point, he more than likely envisioned your happy little ass getting offended and storming out of the room. Breaking down, sobbing. Questioning why he was being so rude. One of those or, better yet, a nifty combination.

You’ve heard worse, unfortunately for him. Not always directed at you, but that doesn’t matter. You can handle it.

“You’re absolutely right,” you stated calmly, folding your arms across your chest. He looked at you with pretentious, petulant intrigue. “It is my first day, and I want to make a good impression. Which is why I’m asking you what you would like me to wear so I can continue to keep that good impression intact and, as our professional relationship develops, stay on top of it.”

Homelander’s mouth twitched. He sighed deeply and slouched in his seat, staring at the wall to the left of him. Then he deigned to cast his gaze back at you, resting his cheek on his index and middle finger. He tapped the arm rest with his other hand.

“Ugh, fine. Whatever.” A pause followed that lasted longer than necessary. Were you meant to guess? “Just wear something, I dunno, less. If you would have done your homework like a good little peon, you’d know I have super senses. Highly developed. Can you even imagine what that entails?”

Finally, he freed the canvas you were nearly finished with, and you flicked the soft bristles across the bridge of his nose. You smiled, more to yourself than him.

Felt rather on the nose, as the saying goes.

He didn’t comment on your grin. You didn’t give him time to. But he did huff like you were being obtuse on purpose.

“I can try. And my imagination is giving me some less-than-ideal scenarios,” you replied. Another pause. At least he was letting you do your job again.

You don’t know what compelled you to keep going, but something about his lack of a real answer made you carry on. “Do you have a favorite flower or baked good? Maybe a spice?”

Homelander almost glared up at you. You say almost because, for whatever reason, it didn’t seem like he was directing that harshness at you, though former words and actions proved otherwise. Something inside, perhaps. Or outside of this enclosed space.

“I already told you what to wear. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

You took the hint and remained quiet the rest of your session. Soon, you were done.

As you were packing and tidying up your station, he took it upon himself to stand behind you. He lingered over your shoulder, watching the scene play out like he was director and star and you were barely an ant on the sidewalk he acknowledged before squashing.

The heat radiating off of him was impossible to dismiss, a wall of it barricading your backside. He clasped his fingers underneath his cape and inched closer. You thought he was as close to you as he could get without touching you. He was that warm.

When you glanced up, he was staring at you through the mirror. As absurd as it was, you managed to get chills. Goosebumps broke the surface of your skin.

“Fresh chocolate chip cookies. Straight out of the oven. Like mom used to make.” He flashed an unnerving smile before turning to exit.

From there on out, even after you bent to his will and found a gourmand scent that matched what he described, Homelander tested you. Your work ethic, clothing choice, eating habits, and most of all, patience.

Your parents would ask how you were liking your job, how it was working alongside the Supes- not to mention the most famous of all- and you’d lie through your teeth. You felt you had no choice, Ashley’s threat ringing in your ears.

Resume, bare ass, tossed salad...

Oh yeah, it’s going great! They’re all super flexible. I couldn’t be happier!

At least that pun made you feel a little better about hiding the shame of what you’ve allowed yourself to take on.

This was all in the first few weeks. It started to get a little easier after that, which is surprising considering more was added to your to-do list.

You should have moved on before starting. But, for whatever asinine reason, you didn’t.

Every time you go back to your apartment and assess your appearance in the bathroom mirror, you wonder who’s making who up here. He’s changing your looks more than you are his. You’re like his human doll.

You’ve put up with a lot over the years, but this takes the cake and shoves it in your face. As fucked as it is, the flavor is growing on you. Like a fungus. Growing, nonetheless.

You can’t stop thinking about him.

It’s innocent enough, you try convincing yourself. Making sure you have the right outfit laid out the night before, the right lunch (no onions or fish or anything “freaky”!), etc. He is your superior, after all. You shouldn’t be viewing him in any other light.

He’s the most frustrating aspect of your existence these days, but he’s also the one you’re around the most. His penchant for workplace gossip and how unintentionally funny he is tends to make him palatable, which has regrettably become an understatement.

Months go by. You’ve witnessed how alone he truly is. How he has nothing outside of performing his tricks on Vought’s all-encompassing stage. And when he begins asking for your input, starts doing things for you that are so blatant it’s perplexing, you find your stress and vexation melting into cumbersome fascination.

It’s embarrassing. You don’t have the courtesy of enough time to dwell on your feelings toward the situation either, from beginning to whatever end you might be met with. You suppose that could be beneficial in the long run.

It also hits you when you least expect it; when you really don’t want it to.

Your body doesn’t wait until you finally have a moment alone. It decides, while you’re helping Homelander with his skincare routine that he insisted upon because you know more than these vacuous corporate douche-bags, to heat up without warning and slither from your head to your heart until it grasps you unfairly between your legs.

You try not to step into momentary paralysis. You understand to what extent his powers reach. It’s not like he doesn’t go on and on about them. About himself.

Whatever he notices, it’s not right away. A palpable tension fills the air between the two of you eventually. But it takes a more significant amount of time than you would have anticipated to permeate the natural flow of things.

Fuck, you can’t even be safe inside here, where your thoughts, whatever they may be, are yours. You can’t even have yourself. He has every part of you, and you are willingly relinquishing that control.

Your evening, once you can have it, consists of combing over every decision you’ve made leading up to this strange, disorienting space you find yourself occupying. All it does is leave you exasperated in a much different way than before and with an unsettling observation (or hallucination):

Was that the tail end of the American flag outside your window?

You are unacceptably late.

Rushing around, you throw on the first top and bottoms you see from your closet and spritz some perfume on your neck and wrists. You don’t check your phone. You’re afraid of what will pop up on your screen. And, frankly, you don’t have the time.

Your only option for transportation is the subway, as you’re sure the special vehicle from Vought is long gone. Why would they wait for someone like you, even if you’re practically Homelander’s personal assistant? One of his only friends. You doubt he has more than Black Noir, and that isn’t as perfect as it appears to the casual viewer.

You dread what kind of explosion you’re without a doubt walking into once you show your miserable ass up. You’re going to smell like everyone on this train. He’s going to go ballistic.

The question remains: why are you continuing to put yourself through this? It’s not your circus, yet somehow, the monkeys have become your liability.

You know, deep down, what keeps you going back. It’s simply too ridiculous to admit aloud.

Making your way past security, hurriedly presenting your badge, you realize you forgot to brush your teeth, or at the very least, gargle some mouthwash. You thank your lucky stars when you open your purse to a pack of gum tucked away in one of the compartments.

It will have to do.

When you open the door to Homelander’s dressing room, you see a couple of employees standing near the counter where the bag of supplies has been opened and rifled through, looking like they might soil themselves, a frantic Ashley, and an extremely pissed off Homelander in the middle of it all.

Reflexively, you cringe. You attempt to wipe any trace from your features, but it’s too late. Ashley is glaring daggers at you and Homelander can hardly bring himself to look in your direction. The others don’t matter to you. They never did.

“I’m so sorry I’m late. I know there’s no excuse-”

“You’re goddamned right, there’s no excuse! I don’t give a shit if god and his whole fucking choir of angels came down from heaven and divinely called you to give them a makeover! What were you thinking?!”

You’re about to answer, though you comprehend her query is more or less rhetorical. She interrupts your slightly open mouth while gesturing wildly, proving your point.

“Oh, that’s right! You weren’t thinking at all, were you?! But I do believe you’ve thought long and hard about what’s at stake here. And you know damn well we at Vought don’t tolerate this kind of sloppy behavior. Not to mention the way you’re dressed! It’s adding insult to injury!” Her hand swipes at the air, the length of your outfit, and you glance down, recognizing how comically mismatched you are. Her correct observation affects you more than it would have months prior, stinging your ego- one of the many things that’s been shelved in order to accommodate the person who won’t even grace you with a glance.

A dramatic groan cuts short any further commentary from the redhead, perpetually stretched thin between her absurd duties.

“Jesus Christ, Ashley, why are your big fucking horse gums still flapping?” Homelander’s booming voice slices through your mind like a jarring, dense migraine. He pinches his brow between middle finger and thumb, eyes closed. “I want you and Tweedledee and Tweedledum t’get the fuck out. Now.”

Ashley is plainly dumbfounded, struggling to see where she went wrong (a pattern when it comes to dealing with the volatile leader of The Seven), mouth agape. She shakes her head. “But sir, are you-?”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about or doing. Clearly.”

Ms. Barrett turns a shade paler, staring at Homelander and blinking owlishly before snapping herself out of her stupor. She hurries her lackeys out of the room, shooing them along like a pair of misbehaving toddlers. She doesn’t give a final look, no further warning. She merely shuts the door behind her.

You also hear it lock.

What the hell does she think is going to happen?

You should have stopped this while you had the chance. You should have never taken this job. You should have stood up for yourself and walked out. You should have you should have you should-

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

His caustic tone sends shivers down your spine. It’s unlike anything you’ve heard come out of him. And you’ve heard enough.

Again, you open your mouth. It fills with blood, thick and metallic and more potent than the mint from your gum. You’re silenced by it.

He stalks toward you and grabs you hastily by the shoulders, swiveling you around so you’re face-to-face with the choices you’ve made. Your mirrored image is reflected back at you, exhausted and searching for any last shred of who you might be beneath his heavy palms.

“Look at yourself! Do you even recognize who’s staring back at you?” No.

“What kind of game are you playing, hmmm? Is this… humiliating spectacle you’re putting on for the money? Your pathetic career? Like it’s goddamned rocket science to pick up a can of hairspray and use it. Monkeys have hands.” He makes a noise that’s akin to a snorting horse, exhaling forcefully past his nostrils. “I mean, did you really think you could pull a fast one on me?” He clutches your jaw, squeezing it between middle and thumb. Every muscle in your body tenses, your heart picking up rhythm.

“Spit that fucking gum out. Don’t think I can’t hear you grinding it between your molars like a dumb animal. You aren’t a mama bird, are you? Y’don’t have cute little baby birds t’force-feed your regurgitated leftovers, do you? Eugh, gross.”

You take a deep breath and exhale through your nose. It presents you with a false sense of security. You do as you’re told, and it lands on the floor in front of your shoe, saliva dangling on a thread as withered as your sanity.

Suddenly fresh breath seems like the most insignificant issue, when Homelander himself once made it out to be something earth-shattering.

You’re such a fool.

He leans in and sniffs your throat. Your fingers lengthen and bend.

You’re so many things at once. Confused, angry, nervous, scared. And, to your dismay, warm. God you’re so fucking warm. He’s heating you up from the inside out. You clench your jaw, still held in place by a firm bind.

“Get rid of those ugly clothes. I don’t care what you have to do. I can’t stand the sight or smell of them.”

You shut your eyes. When you open them, all you see is red. The other emotions are smothered in favor of that brand of heat. What happens next is a blur. You temporarily leave yourself.

“Fine. Have it your way, Homelander. You always do.”

Breaking free of his fluctuating hold, you start tearing at what you’re wearing, tossing everything- including your bra and underwear- to the ground. Your shirt winds up with the gum sticking to its loose fabric. You even take your shoes and socks off, not paying any heed to where your belongings go. Just that they’re gone.

You don’t process the glaring fact that you made yourself naked in front of your boss. In front of the most powerful man this country, and possibly world, has known. You don’t care that things have escalated this far. That they shouldn’t have. They shouldn’t have. But guess what? They did. And these are the consequences you both have to deal with.

“You wanna know what game I’m playing?” You turn around, forcing him backward. “It’s funny, I thought you’d be able to answer that for me, considering all the hoops I’ve had to jump through to not only save my ass, but make sure you had someone to talk to at the end of the day! Who on your team can you say goes above and beyond like that for you?!” He blinks at you now, eyes wide. Features fall to the floor where your clothes reside. You have his full and undivided attention.

An impressively dangerous thing to have.

“What more do you want from me, Homelander? I practically live with you without any of the benefits that usually includes! You’re really going to stand here and berate me like I haven’t given you fucking everything you’ve ever asked me for? Because I made one mistake? I gave up my entire world, which I know doesn’t mean shit to you. But it does to me.”

You fold your arms over your chest. Nothing covers it. You have to know before you lose all dignity. So you ask once more, hoping it won’t get lost in this bizarre mess.

“What do you want from me?”

Nothing. He can’t stop staring at you. You aren’t aware enough to be ashamed, but you are aware enough to be upset.

His infuriating silence compels you to bend down and gather what was a barrier between the two of you. You are no longer needed if he can’t do what he does best, which is spout off, leaking bottled words everywhere like a broken faucet. It’s a pretty simple question, you think.

That’s when the glass behind you shatters.

You flinch, pause what you’re doing and slowly stand. Cautious in whatever your next approach will be.

Surveying the aftermath, you’re relieved to find that you’re far enough away from the mirror so no injuries were inflicted.

When you finally lock eyes with the source, you see red. The atmosphere surrounding you heaves like the distended belly of a rotting corpse; hisses like an overflowing tea kettle; pierces you like lightning.

Homelander’s expression is rigid. His jaw quivers. Irises are a bright, shining scarlet. If you try anything rash, you might be next. But, having been around him for so long, you’re more inclined to believe he’s having trouble processing his own emotions. And that might have been one of the only ways to release them.

You drop the top and pants you managed to reclaim. Your brain hasn’t fully recovered from the constant devastating hit it’s taken, so you don’t want to put a name to what’s pushing you forward. You don’t stop until you’re directly in his line of vision.

Swallowing, you carefully extend your hand. The ruby color begins to crumble and give way to the vast ocean you might have drowned in one too many times. You lost track, blocking what you could out. Too real and intimate to accept for a realm that thrives off of inauthenticity and misfortune.

Homelander inhales harshly and you retreat, pupils hooking themselves to his. Searching for any sign you shouldn’t be right where you are.

Of course there are several; unfortunately, you are currently blind to them. Blind to everything but him.

That’s how it’s been for awhile, hasn’t it?

He has a habit of not granting you the luxury of time.

Quickly, he snatches your wrist and brings your palm flat against his cheek. He exhales, eyelids fluttering, nuzzling into you.

It’s so simple, yet it disarms you in ways you aren’t accustomed to.

Homelander basks in this chaste display of affection, and so do you, in awe of how enraptured he appears. Soaking you inside of his pores.

In turn, your cognizance reappears. You nearly topple over, realization infiltrating every part of you.

You’re not wearing a stitch.

A knock at the door startles you both. You glance over in that general direction and hear from the other side, “You’re on in fifteen, Homelander, sir!”

Gazing back up at him, you witness that same fire expand at a rapid rate. You use your other hand to bring him back down to reality, to ground him. It rests against his chest, delving into and cracking his ribs, flaying him open.

What strikes you is how vigorously his heart is beating. How you can feel it through his uniform.

This is how much you affect him. (Can you fathom that you’re only privy to a fraction?) Having evidence of the tiniest reciprocation drains you of any unwanted discomfort.

His fury subsides. You breathe out. He does, too.

“Go sit in your chair. I came here to do my job, after all.” The tenderness with which you speak seems to ease him further, his shoulders deflating with each word.

That aside, you’re playing with a lit match. You’re unsure who’s going to set who ablaze, but you’re willing to go down with this entire building to find out.

He does as he’s told, watching you the whole way like a mutilated mixture of a snarling cornered animal and a man fervently in love. He almost trips into his seat, not an ounce of grace in his gait.

Sacrificing his entire image just to get a glimpse of you.

Whipping his cape to the side, he sinks into the cushion. You get things ready as you typically do, your movements a bit jittery from the adrenaline sending haphazard jolts to your limbs. Despite this, you’re focused. You are more focused than you remember ever being.

You work efficiently, keeping in mind the limit that’s been put on your time.

Homelander bores holes through you. He doesn’t need lasers for that. You’re exposed and vulnerable and he pries what he fostered apart until it’s distinguishable by no one else but him.

You relearn his perfectly manufactured features. Different lights shape shadows you either haven’t seen before or feigned ignorance of. You commit to memory how he looks, smells, feels, the side of your hand grazing his cheek and hanging on.

He’s invigorating, your excitement building to a crescendo you can’t neglect. The heat in your core disperses, most of it congregating low in your belly and behind your expanding rib cage. His pupils drink you in, urgently and violently.

Your arousal is heady. He licks his lips. A hint of a whine caresses your ears and it makes you dizzy.

How could you have ever denied yourself?

You decide to take further control, testing the waters to a greater extent.

It’s your turn to watch him the whole way down. You straddle him, easing yourself atop his taut thighs.

After a few moments of humoring yourself, of pretending to concentrate on your work, dusting his nose with powder, you straighten. Eye contact has not been severed.

You motion toward his hands, balled into tense, repressed fists at his sides.

“Take off your gloves.”

Initially, it feels like maybe you said the wrong thing, or said it the wrong way. He doesn’t budge. You’re patient, however, so you wait like you’ve always done, the warmth from your cunt mingling with the hardness beneath you. Your mouth waters.

At last, Homelander nods and removes his gloves, tugging on the index of each. He places them on the armrests and transfixes himself to you once more.

“Do you want to touch me?” you ask, voice and body staying impossibly still in spite of your nerves.

Immediately, he shakes his head, “Yes,” the first time he’s spoken since your outburst, and without hesitation, reaches for your chest. You close your eyes, falling into his snooping lifts and tugs and squeezes, giving yourself permission to become possessed by the inhibited imaginations of how selfish, how rapacious his touches might be. How smooth his bare hands are, how ardent each digit is.

Leaning into you, he sucks one nipple into his mouth and palms the other, moaning and vibrating against your flesh. He digs his fingers into the pliant softness of your hip, steadying you with disciplined pressure. You squirm, attuned to every minuscule shift.

The lit match is tilted toward you now, swift and stunning. Your fingers release the brush you’ve been holding. It aligns with the slit of the cushion, forgotten and purposeless.

You wrap your digits around the hand on your curves and guide him toward your throbbing center. He doesn’t fight you. Doesn’t stop your movements. Doesn’t scold or challenge you. Instead, he curls his fingers in a way that makes you unabashedly moan, cupping your folds and pinning his thumb to your clit, adapting to your anatomy.

Your wants.

It seems like breaking away from you is a daunting task, but he does for a moment, brow furrowed, more engrossed and invested than you’ve ever witnessed.

“Fuck.” The curse sounds downright edible, your new favorite flavor. Your name tumbles from his lips like he’s been practicing, a sweet, rich icing on top. You gasp, his tongue adhering to you again, swirling around your peak before lightly biting it.

Rocking your hips back and forth, side-to-side, you grind hard into his palm. He strokes you like he’s studied what pace you prefer, how much friction you crave. You’re so wet, even you’re thrown off by it.

Once he’s finished with your chest, he’s back against the seat, unable to peel his gaze from you. Your full, swollen, glistening breasts.

His mouth hangs open, obscene, desperate whimpers slipping from it. Pupils are like whirlpools that drive you under. Drive you mad.

Homelander adeptly slips two, three digits inside your sopping cunt, unrelenting in his intentions to make up for lost time. The voracity of his actions propels you forward, balancing against his chest. He grasps and pulls at your other hip, groaning loudly in your ear, confirming his approval of how close you are to him.

It’s still not enough.

Pulling you even tighter to his blinding sun of a body, he encloses his free arm around you and desperately bucks his waist. “I want… I want… I want…” he chants. Your nails drag up his neck and along his scalp, overwhelmed by his warmth, his scent, him. Your lips ghost the sliver of skin above his collar, making him growl.

You anticipate and dread and yearn for what’s been building for so long. You clench and release, clench and release, clench and release, body chanting with him.

You’re intuitively thankful for the chair’s sturdiness; however, if it would have collapsed, you’re honestly not sure you would have noticed. Or cared.

You hear him come first. Feel the temperature rise temporarily. It’s so sudden and all-consuming that you naturally follow, his name an instinct you can’t help but divulge. You haven’t come down from the turbulent emotions rushing through you earlier, and that combination catapults you over the edge.

Your orgasm draws more deliberate, vehement grunts and sighs of satisfaction from him, as if your pleasure is inexplicably the same or worth more than his.

You can’t crumple into a boneless heap like you want to. You just can’t. You have to look at him. Look at his bliss; the glazed, barren-yet-so-full-of-you expression, of what these months of working in close quarters have done to him.

What you uncover is not what you were picturing. There’s a mixture of that haze with something almost apologetic below the teeming surface. Clouds of red to skies of blue. Destructive in and of themselves.

Sliding his fingers from your wetness, he wraps his lips around each one that was inside of you and spreads them apart. Your slick sticks to his glossy skin and stretches between digits, a generous amount. You whimper at the loss- the emptying, hollow feeling- and watch, mesmerized and delirious as he savors you.

Swallowing you whole, Homelander sweeps his knuckles across the apple of your cheek and presses his lips hard against yours. He wastes no time inhaling your gasps and moans, licking your mouth and the faint taste of mint, stealing it from you. You ingest what you can of him as well, exploring what was open to you longer than you realized.

He then seizes your wrists. It’s a rough gesture that evaporates into gentle circles along your pulse points. Still, you know you’re going to bruise where he turned the key and locked you into place: wherever he is.

A visible sheen coats his lips.

“I want you to tell me I’m good. Great. The best.”

His breathing is labored. So is yours.

He kisses the inside of the wrist smeared with perfume, your fluids, his saliva; ends with your hand and rests his cheek against the slope of it.

“I want you to be mine. All mine. Mine alone.”

You’re shaking. He moves forward and pets your hair, twirls it; grabs your nape and holds his thumb to the front of your throat. Securing you. Keeping you there.

“You have to stay. Be mine and stay.”

You thrum with an ache he forced upon you. He’ll claim you were starving and he was the only one who could satiate.

You nod. You were never going to leave to begin with.

Homelander made you his. And you thanked him for it.

#homelander #homelander x reader #the boys #antony starr #my writing #let me see you stripped down to the bone #oneshot #god it feels so good getting this out #i’ve been going through a painful writer’s block so 🥹#thank you everyone who helped and anyone who reads #this is my first full-fledged homelander fic so i’m a bit nervous but! very excited 🖤#love you all 🥰

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jacevelaryonswife · 4 months ago

Text

Hiding all of our sins from the daylight | Part Two

pairing: jacaerys velaryon x reader

summary: Even if you were willing to forget what happened, when you saw the prince that morning you knew that your relationship would never be the same.

word count: 3.191

tags: slight angst and adult themes

masterlist — previous part

A bond germinated between the prince and you as the days went by. There was no sin in your conversations, but a servant could never be friends with a nobleman, and above all: a woman could never be friends with a man. Although you believed that the existing dynamics with Jacaerys Velaryon did not fit into any of the previous options. It was your duty to be available to the prince of Dragonstone for what he wanted, and at the time, he needed a thoughtful listener.

"I don't want to fill my mother's head with my worries, even though I know she would listen. She is the queen and we are at war, it’s not time for this," was his justification.

The trust between you has developed slowly.

How are you feeling? Do you want to say something? Do you need anything?

It was the questions that guided the days following the incident with the wine. Over time, the prince began to report his dissatisfaction with the black council, either because of the way the queen didn’t let him act or how the other lords did not respect her enough.

"I just want to be useful for her cause, but she sees me as an incapable little boy," he shouted one of the times that the queen did not allow him to guard with Vermax.

"The queen cares about your safety, my prince. She suffers enough from the death of Prince Lucerys, she doesn't want to risk your life.”

“I'm not going to die!”

"You can't guarantee that, my prince."

And despite sometimes regretting not being formal enough in your answers, the prince showed satisfaction in the sincerity of your words more than once. Obviously no mention of your conversations with him was made for the other girls, you found it too dangerous.

And if there was anything beneficial for you, it was the opening that Rhaenyra Targaryen's heir gave so that your thoughts and feelings were also exposed. Superficial at first, experimental, but that became more intimate over the weeks.

"I try to keep myself constantly busy to ease my concerns about the war, but it's not working as I would like. Every night before bed I think about the worst,” you confessed a day after dinner, during the hour of the bat.

“Me too.”

The conversations became routine during breakfast while you cleaned his chambers and after dinner when you helped him sleep. Secretly, those were your favorite moments throughout the day, although you didn't want to admit it for a while.

The only problem with intimacy was to make you forget your place.

Sometimes, almost, an unweighted response was almost directed to the prince. Other times the physical comfort seemed to extrapolate while you smoothed his dark curls, although he did not manifest discomfort. He never did, actually. Maybe that influenced your behavior around him, especially when he began to reciprocate the attempt of comfort, touching your hand with nothing but respect and delicacy, although firm enough to be felt while you confessed your fears to him.

It was dangerous to allow such closeness to the prince.

You were no stranger to the stories of servants who fell in love with their lords, reciprocated or platonic, it was not something you sought to fantasize, promising yourself that you would immediately move away in the first different twinge in your heart. Although, dealing with feelings was not that simple.

That night, the prince was enthusiastic about the diplomatic experience with the Freys, telling every detail of the conversation accurately. He seemed quite proud to be useful, even the frown present in his feature in the last few days had disappeared.

“When I was a child, Viserys told me the Iron Throne would be mine one day,” Jace commented with a rare smile these days.

"He told?" You asked, knowing very well that it was true.

"A long time ago, before his health got worse, I think I was six years old," he replied on the other side of the table, keeping his smile open.

"Have you ever imagined yourself there?" A silly question, you thought.

“Sometimes, especially before war. Now I feel like I'm cheating on my mother,” his face hardened softly as he looked down.

"You are the heir of the Queen, it is not wrong to imagine your future," you tried to comfort him with the obviousness of the situation, although you understood what was going on in the prince's head and heart.

“I know, but just seems wrong,” he countered, looking at you. “How about you?”

“Me?”

"Have you never imagined yourself being the Queen?"

That made you chuckle. "There is a barrier that people like me should not overcome, even in thoughts," you almost laughing at him.

"Please, everyone has thought about sitting on the iron throne," he leaned totally against the chair, watching you with frowning eyebrows and a smile on his lips. as he totally leaned against the chair.

"I never thought such a absurd," you reinforced.

"I doubt it, have you never thought about being a noblewoman?"

"Of course I thought! I would be pleased to be the ugly daughter that no lord wants to marry, so I could enjoy my position without having only my side a decrepit old man as lord husband. But the Queen? I've never dared so much."

He laughed loudly and his eyes almost closed. "Well, I think it's a good plan, but I believe you would be a fine Queen."

That took you by surprise.

The absurdity of the statement made your eyes widen and your cheeks warm up. "And you will be a fine King," you replied with a giggle, doing little of what he had said - even you believed faithfully in your own statement.

Suddenly, you felt his gaze endure on yours in a different, more intense way, as if... he was seeing you, totally seeing you.

And that made your heart warm.

No, no!

“I must go, my prince. It's late,” you stood up immediately. "Do you need anything?"

He took a while to respond, shaking his head negatively. "N-no, I don't," getting up to accompany you to the door. "Listen, I- I have to say something to you."

Your heart was beating faster than usual and continuing in the presence of the prince did not improve the situation. You didn't know why you felt so suddenly affected, but you imagined that it was the ideal time to reassess the proximity to him.

“I would like to thank you for the support in these weeks, for listening to me,” he said.

"You don't have to thank me, my prince, it's my duty," you exhibited a restrained smile, holding your hands in front of your body.

“I know it's just-“

The previous look that made your heart warm returned, however, more nervous, afraid as he approached you. His hands held your face gently, not giving you time to move away before he leaned over to touch your lips. You froze in place, not being able to move a single member, even after the prince had moved away with terror in his eyes.

"I... I'm sorry, I didn't want to disrespect you, I promise," he said in despair, faster than he intended. "This is not going to happen again, I-

"It won't," you said, heart almost coming out of the chest, "We can't do that, Jace, I'm your servant- that-"

"It was my fault, I'm the one who has to beg for your forgiveness, I dishonored you," he almost spoke too loudly, almost.

"You didn't dishonor me!" You exclaimed as if it were obvious. "But that can't happen again. You are the heir to the iron throne and I am just a servant of low birth, there is no hope for us," your voice almost failed.

When Jace's eyes found the ground, his posture changed, the nervousness turned into something you didn't know how to identify, even though your own anguish was still very vivid while your heart beat fast.

"It's unfair," was all he said when he looked at you again.

“Indeed.”

A squeeze formed in your chest every second that your eyes remained connected, along with a restlessness that you did not know resided in your body until now. No, no, no...

In a bold attitude, you held his hands, uncertain of what to say, uncertain of what to do and uncertain of what you felt for him. It wasn't possible. Nothing, not a single word came out of your mouth while your heart beat faster and faster.

You shouldn't, you knew that, but maybe... maybe...

It was your turn to approach him, cautiously, absorbed in the brown of his iris and the way he mirrored your look.

There was no hurry to meet your lips this time, nor does it take long to be reciprocated. It was the kind of affection that women should have only with their lords husbands in the intimacy of their chambers, not with the prince of the kingdom whom you served and could harm yourself if you were caught.

But it seemed so right.

Your heart pumped soft fire through your body as the kiss gained layers, encouraging you to intertwine your fingers with his. It was not lascivious or obscene, but it involved your body during the act and made you float in the sweetness of his lips before it came to an end mutually.

Your hand slid to the side of his flushed face, smoothing his cheek gently. Even though part of your mind dealt with the turbulence of the situation, the other was delighted with the fullness of serenity.

"I've never been with a woman," he murmured about your touch, reluctantly. "I never wanted to ruin a woman outside of marriage."

Oh. That took you by surprise.

In fact, that brought you to reality again, but without the previous panic.

"You did it right," you comforted him with a restrained smile, feeling nervous. "There is no shame in that."

"I know, but I don't feel secure thinking about it."

Honestly, you didn't know what to say, but you knew that that situation could take a dangerous turn if it were prolonged. He could not consider such an act even for a second, so you just said goodbye to him immediately.

"It's late, you should rest, my prince."

The storm in his eyes almost snatched you together, but there was still prudence in your mind. There was no dispute on his part, allowing you to be involved by the coldness of the corridors until your rooms shared with the other servants. Although sleep wrapped around your body quickly, the prince stole your dreams with memories of what had happened.

When the nightingale time came, his image seemed almost palpable to your eyes. All you could remember were the lips of the princes against yours, the proximity, the softness of his hand, the way he looked at you.

It was dangerous.

All that was dangerous.

Especially for you. Nurturing an additional affection for the prince of the kingdom was a path of no return for ordinary people. There was no hope for you. There was no future between you. He would marry a lady of a important family and have little princes while you would perform your duty serving the next royal generations.

Even if you were willing to forget what happened, when you saw Jace that morning you knew that your relationship would never be the same.

"Good morning, my prince," was all you said when you entered his chambers.

Judging by the way the prince's gaze found yours, you believed he thought the same. “Good morning,” he replied in front of the window.

You left the breakfast on the table and went to organize the luxurious bed - unkneading the sheets and squeezing the pillows without looking at him while doing your work. Even though it was a rational attitude, the smell that emanated from the fabric transported you directly to last night, to the warmth of his lips, to the comfort of your hands and to the soft fire that warmed your veins.

Suddenly, you found yourself wanting more.

The subtle spark quickly turned into a fire, making you want to dive into bed and be surrounded by his smell, wanting to be kissed again in a sweet way, wanting his body pressed above your...

Wanting to make love to him.

Seven hells. No, it couldn't be.

The realization of the fact clouded your mind.

You felt nothing but the burning between your thighs, not even the repetitive call of your name by the prince. You wanted it, you wanted it, you wanted it.

You shouldn't, you shouldn't, you shouldn't.

In all these years you have performed your duty to the kingdom without any ambitions. Now, you believe you deserve enjoying a great pleasure and a great sin.

That's when the hand on your shoulder along with a call brought you back to reality.

"Are you okay?" The prince asked behind you.

There was nowhere to escape. And honestly, you didn't want to.

Taking him by surprise, you held both sides of his face and leaned over to capture his lips in a sweeping and demanding kiss, contrasting with the softness of the night before. Jace immediately corresponded, tying your waist and bringing your body closer to his. There was no fear in the way your lips moved or with the lack of distance between your bodies, on the contrary, you deepened the kiss and wrapped a hand behind his neck, breaking any space between you.

He reciprocated the vigor with the same intensity, savoring your lips as if they were the only thing that lacked him in life, almost pulling the air out of your lungs. You felt surrounded by the dragon fire and silently prayed to the Mother for your body to burn.

“I dreamed with you all night,” he whispered close to your lips, holding you close.

“Me too,” you slitted the apple from his cheek with your thumb. His lips were red, swollen, shiny and so tempting...

When you were about to lean again, knocks echoed from the door and made you jump back immediately, resuming your attention to the bed while the prince went to the breakfast table.

It was the Queen herself, talking to the prince of Dragonstone at the same time that you made a greeting to her.

“I wish to speak alone with prince Jacaerys.”

No other command was needed. With one last greeting, you left Jacaerys' chambers with a racing heart and trembling steps, as if walking on embers. The consequences of your actions would be disastrous if discovered, you were not foolish, but you couldn't help but want more. And can't you help but think about how that happened?

When did such a feeling arise and develop?

It was the questioning that guided your rest of the morning, the whole afternoon and the beginning of the evening. The duties kept him away from you, fueling concerns about a possible worsening for the queen's cause. Because of that, you decided to occupy yourself in the only way you knew: working.

You swept, cleaned, aired and washed until you were tired and coughing because of the dust.

At the end of the additional service, you went to the rooms shared with the other girls to clean yourself and be presentable to him, hoping to be able to see him during dinner.

It was insane, you knew that, but you couldn't help it. You wanted it, despite what it would imply.

And when thinking about what to enjoy with the prince would result, you realized something too serious to be ignored. What if you generated a bastard? Oh gods. Where were you with your head? How did you consider losing your maidenhead with a prince of the kingdom? It would be a scandal! You would be ruined! The queen would send you away, maybe to Essos at worst.

Nothing was effective to keep those thoughts away from your head, especially when you held his dinner with trembling hands. Everything got worse when he offered you a wide smile when entering his rooms, making you freeze briefly before walking to the table and greeting you with a reverence.

“Good evening, my prince,” you forced yourself to say.

“Good evening, my lady,” he replied humorously. "I missed you."

No, no, no.

You smiled insecure and looked down, unable to answer back.

“What's wrong?” He asked when he went to your meeting.

What should you say?

“I can't do that,” you chose to be brutally honest. "I can't get pregnant, I can't have a-" you couldn't say such a word, not in front of him, and you prayed that he wouldn't feel offended.

Unfortunately, his jaw closed and the posture hardened. Heavens.

"... a bastard?" He asked in a strangled voice. "I would never impute such a burden to you."

Your heart squeezed while remaining silent, too nervous to say anything. He seemed angry, creating a fear in your mind about the dragon's fury.

“And I would never dishonor you,” he added, holding your hands as his brown eyes warmed up. But that was Jacaerys, your prince and your friend who would never hurt you.

“I know,” you agreed with a nod and intertwined your fingers with his, being able to breathe relieved at last.

"Are you hungry?"

"No, I'm fine," you assured him with a soft smile.

"Eat with me, I don't have a big appetite."

You knew how to identify an order when you heard it. Of all the sins done and thought of in the last hours, sharing the meal with a prince was not so excruciating.

Sitting in front of him, you took a piece of bread and soaked it in the mushroom broth, watching him drink a generous sip of mead. None of you said anything for a while, leaving the noise of the violent sea wind that crashed against the walls of the castle being the only sound so far.

"What are we going to do?" He just asked.

"I don't know," you replied sincerely. "I think we should go back our dynamics, we can't be more than we are," your voice was lower than usual.

“I like being with you,” he said.

“Me too, Jace, but there's no hope for us,” you held his hand. "This will only break our hearts."

Although painful, that was the only truth that existed. He would never be yours. He would never abandon his duty to the kingdom for you, the opposite was just daydreams and songs invented to make ordinary life less gray. You were and would continue to be a servant and Jacaerys Velaryon would be just a sweet memory of something that could never happen.

Because that was just the order of things.

——————————————————————————

taglist: @hxtd @fkanitta @ladyofvelaryon @llynx7 @briarrainsstuff @jhepolie @dani-says-stuff @vavafaure1994 @fallenangel161 @naive-daydreamer @uhnanix @yrcbhu5wdv

a note: I know it take a while, but I really put all my efforts in here!

#jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys velaryon x you #jacaerys velaryon masterlist #jacaerys targaryen #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys x you #house of the dragon #jacaerys #prince jacaerys

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leclerc-s · 8 months ago

Text

snow angel - track six

series masterlist // previous // next

liked by carlossainz55, landonorris, maggielindemann and others

maia_bennett and we don't talk shit about you on the internet...

tagged: landonorris, carlossainz55

view all comments

user1 oh my god is she for real?

landonorris pretty girl 🧡

↳ maia_bennett pretty boy 🧡

user2 this has got to be some sort of joke, right?

lilymhe lol.

↳ user3 this is the most threatening lol i've ever see. period and everything.

alex_albon LMFAOOOOOO

↳ user4 most unserious driver on the grid.

↳ user5 we don't talk about alex's chaos enough

francesca.cgomes see this caption would work if we didn't all know what carlos and lando did in the spanish media.

↳ user6 SPEAK THE TRUTH KIKA!!

user7 you've got to be fucking kidding me...

user8 oh no. honey this isn't the flex you think it is.

luisinhaoliveira99 oh sweetie...

user9 i pray you're ready for the shit storm that is about to hit you.

alex_albon LMFAOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

user has turned off comments

liked by luisinhaoliveira99, maxverstappen1, yukitsunoda0511 and others

rheareynolds "but for what it's worth, he's her problem now."

tagged: luisinhaoliveira99, maia_bennett, landonorris

user10 MOTHER!! MOTHER IS MOTHERING Y'ALL!!

user11 oh, she's so cunty and i love that.

lilymhe everyday i am grateful i live on the same earth as rhea reynolds.

↳ rheareynolds oh lily, you sure know how to make a girl blush.

luisinhaoliveira99 oh girl, i fucking love you.

↳ rheareynolds baby, i fucking love you 😘. no one show this to mick!

↳ mickschumacher this is a public instagram comment section...

↳ rheareynolds LOVE YOU TOO BABE 💙!

maxverstappen1 see, i can't tell if those are lyrics or someone told you that but either way, YOU ATE THAT SHIT UP!!

↳ rheareynolds why thank you maximilian.

↳ maxverstappen1 i'll let it slide, just this once.

georgerussell63 SHE CAME TO SERVE!!

↳ rheareynolds CHANNELED MY INNER RUSSELL GEORGE FOR THIS PHOTOSHOOT!!

francesca.cgomes ATE AND LEFT NO CRUMBS!

↳ rheareynolds I HAD THE BEST TEACHER!

user12 oh she's so unhinged and i fucking love that shit.

oscarpiastri i just heard the most unholy screech come from the dining hall. target has been reached.

↳ rheareynolds good. he deserves this and much worse.

logansargeant YES QUEEN!! SERVING CUNT!!

↳ rheareynolds LOGIE! THANK YOU! ❤️

yukitsunoda0511 my offer still stands.

↳ rheareynolds no yuki, you are not biting his ankles while pierre holds him down.

↳ pierregasly BOO!! LET US TAKE HIM DOWN!!!

maia_bennett real mature rhea. real mature.

↳ rheareynolds oh honey, we haven't even scratched the surface.

charles_leclerc THAT'S MY BESTIE!!

↳ rheareynolds what an iconic duo, regina george and lightning mcqueen.

alex_albon REGINA GEORGE CAME TO GAG LANDO NO WINS!

↳ rheareynolds albono, i think you gagged him even more with the no wins.

maxfretwell let be known that i had no idea what was going on. i just thought she was your best friend.

↳ rheareynolds no it's okay maxie, i don't blame you for having a shitty best friend.

pierre gasly added one person

kika gomes i can't believe i'm saying this but what the hell guys? why wasn't i added sooner??

rhea reynolds you're the only sane one.

lily muni he if the loser shows up with her can i fight him??

yuki tsunoda i'll help! daniel ricciardo you two are so violent.

esteban ocon when mick said lando had cheated on you with your childhood best friend, i didn't think he meant maia, who knew you two were together. and constantly hung out together with you two.

mick schumacher i told you guys it was bad!

oscar piastri ...

alex albon WHAT DO YOU KNOW PIASTRI?? oscar piastri she's been to every single race this year... the girl he showed up with in bahrain was a fake girlfriend. he's been dating her for months. oscar piastri and i learned that every time lando said he was hanging out with carlos, he was with her. don't ask how i learned.

rhea reynolds THAT MOTHER FUCKER!!

rhea reynolds oh he's fucking lucky i could go to jail for murder.

rhea reynolds i had a different song planned to be the next single but i changed my fucking mind. fuck lando norris, fuck carlos sainz, and fuck maia bennett. i hope they enjoy their little corner in hell.

lily muni he oh regina george has not come to play.

george russell i think you mean leighton murray did not come to play.

lewis hamilton i have you all muted for a reason but please, make him miserable. it's the least he deserves.

rhea reynolds oh my manager is about to be so pissed at me but what lewis hamilton says goes.

pierre gasly BURN THE BITCH RHEA!

yuki tsunoda I'M GOING TO HIS FUCKING ANKLES!

daniel ricciardo GET HIS FUCKING ASS!!

kika gomes YOU DESTROY THAT MAN RHEA!

logan sargeant WE WILL DESTROY HIS FUCKING PEACE!

lance stroll to quote yuki, "we ride at dawn fuckers"

logan sargeant SHE WENT STRAIGHT FOR THE JUGULAR!

alex albon i am in awe of you rhea reynolds.

lewis hamilton i think you've outdone yourself rhea.

lily muni he marry me. forget alex and mick. marry me.

kika gomes no! marry me! rhea reynolds fuck it, we'll marry each other. throuple all the way.

mick schumacher trust me. it gets worse.

charles leclerc HOW MUCH MORE WORSE COULD IT POSSIBLY GET?

mick schumacher think like dear john by taylor

lily muni he oh shit. it's that bad?

max verstappen WHATEVER I GET TO MAKE HIM FUCKING MISERABLE!

yuki tsunoda FUCK YEAH! I'M BITING ANKLES BITCHES

oscar piastri OSCAR PIASTRI REPORTING FOR DUTY!!

kika gomes that man will never know peace as long as we live

pierre gasly he hasn't known peace since december 2021

kika gomes good, then we're doing our job as her friends.

oscar piastri there is nothing i enjoy more than slowly torturing my teammate

daniel ricciardo chaotic aussies and mclaren. something they can never get away from.

logan sargeant listen, if we host a listening party, at the same time, in different garages. he can't really shit on any of us.

max verstappen so what you mean is, all of us play tummy hurts, on a loop to annoy him?

charles leclerc SIGN ME THE FUCK UP! ANYTHING TO ANNOY HIM AND HIS PARTNERS IN CRIME!

lance stroll I'M IN! FERNANDO'S IN TOO!!

rhea reynolds i seriously love you guys.

lily muni he rhea, baby, we love you too.

oscar piastri i enjoy chaos. we aren't quite at the love phase rhea.

rhea reynolds oh fuck you swimp.

logan sargeant SWIMP!!

oscar piastri OH FUCK OFF!

taglist: @emilyval @ihateyougunthersteiner @lesliiieeeee @33-81 @landonorizzz @yoremins @nikfigueiredo @badassturtle13 @cataf1 @silentreader128 @taylorsatl @alessioayla @greeneyesandsunshine @mrscharlesleclerc @sesamepancakes @localwhoore @vettelsebastianvettel @yourbane @nichmeddar @landossainz @cha-hot @ssararuffoni @cherry-piee @vroomvroommuppett @shineforever19 @kissesandmartinis @luckyladycreator2 @blushmimi @namgification @moonyzsworld @casperlikej @lilsiz @seesaw-it @aandreea2005 @asparklysoul @scarletwidow3000 @reader-22s-blog @cowboylikemets1989

not taggable: @wisteriafence @Pinksstrawberry

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¡leclerc-s speaks! no cause if there was no more drama there this story would end so much sooner and we don't want that yet.

¡disclaimer! this is in no way making assumptions about the people involved in this story, this is all fake. it is a fanfiction please don't take any of what is said seriously. this is all for entertainment purposes and as a creative outlet for me. enjoy!

#leclerc-s #snow angel series #f1 instagram au #f1 x oc #f1 oc #f1 smau #f1 social media au #f1 #formula one #f1 fic #formula 1 fic #f1 x female oc #lando norris x female oc #mick schumacher x female oc

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juiles · 7 months ago

Text

Hiding it: the aftermath.

Requested: yes

Summary: the aftermath of you not being medicated. the side effects hitting hard on all three of you.

Tags: fluff

Triggers: none!

Masterlist here.

Taglist here.

Requests here.

Part 1

When you woke up the next morning, it was to a searing pain in your shoulder and your knuckles. It took a few moments for you to realize where you were and a small moment of panic set in as you felt two pairs of arms wrapped around you gently. You tried to brush them off before gasping out in the shoot of severe pain radiating from your shoulder. A gasp that caused Natasha to shoot up from her sleep.

“Detka?” She asked her hands floating above your body as if not wanting to hurt you more but also wanting to help you in anyway she could. “What are you doing? You’re on bedrest from your shoulder injury.”

“I-I-I don’t know…” You muttered looking at the redhead confused. “You… you don’t like me… why am I in your bed?” Your question must have hurt Natasha because the flash of pure anguish in her eyes was noticed.

“Detka… we talked last night… you-you… what is happening?” Natasha asked, a look of pure confusion on her face. “Is this a side effect of your meds?”

Your eyes widened as flashes of last night came to you. “Oh fuck…” You muttered chewing on your lip. “You guys know…”

“We do but like we said last night darling, this doesn’t change how we feel about you. But we still have so much to make up to you for the last few days. We acted disgustingly.” You heard with the lilt of a soft sokovian accent, making you turn your head to face a sleepy looking Wanda. “Darling lay back down and I will go make your breakfast to take your meds with. Alright?”

You took a deep breath and looked down at your hands, more flashes of the previous night coming to you. “I didn’t hurt either of you did I?” The immediate response was a round of no’s. “Okay… I… I don’t know how to feel about you two right now… you really hurt me…”

“I know darling but you need to be taken care of and right now the safest place for you is with us so we know you are taking your meds and not stressing your shoulder. As soon as your healed you can go back to your room and never see us again if you want.” Natasha said with a tone of finality that made you nod and settle back down against Wanda. You were too tired to fight them at this moment anyways.

You felt her shift you gently over to be on Natasha as your eyes fluttered slowly. You felt yourself drift off again and before you knew it, Wanda was shaking you awake gently, a tray of food sitting on the bedside table. In her hands were a cup of 4 different pills and a bottle of water. You grimaced and buried yourself further into Natasha who chuckled soflty. “No detka… time to take your meds.”

“I’m to nauseous… I’ll just throw it up…” You muttered, hoping they took that at face value and allowed you to go back to sleep however it seemed to be your unlucky day.

“We did a little research last night darling. You’re nauseous because of withdrawal. You need to take your meds because itll help with it, I promise darling.” Wanda said, sitting on the bed beside you gently. You groaned and sniffled looking up at her with your classic puppy dog eyes that she usually gave into. “Nope. As much as I miss those adorable eyes of yours, you still have to take all these pills.

You groaned and shifted to be sitting more upright and sent a pouty glare at Wanda who smiled softly. Your eyes flittered down towards the small cup of pills as you sifted through them, unsure what the last one was. “Two painkillers, adhd meds and…?” You questioned looking up at the brunette sitting in front of you.

“Cho put you on some antibiotics as well for the infection in one of your cuts on your leg.” You nodded, holding your hand out for her to spill the pills into your open hand. After she did so, you tossed the pills into your open mouth then took the uncapped bottle and took a swig to swallow the pills making a face at the sour taste. You pushed the bottle back into Wandas hand with a small grunt. “Good job baby.”

You rolled your eyes and slouched back down, your body telling you, you had done enough for now. “We should try and shower later honey.” You scoffed with yet another roll of your eyes. You felt a surge of annoyance and anger roll through your body.

“You aren’t my parents. You are barely my girlfriends right now because I don’t know if you know this or not but you treated me like abslute crap the last week. You ignored me and then tried to fucking lecture me.” You said, tears of frustration threatening to roll out of your eyes. “I didn’t do anything wrong. We get put into deadly situations everyday and you two snapped at me over something that could have happened to anyone on the team. I’m sorry I’m not perfect enough-“ Your body finally couldn’t hold the sobs in anymore. “You really- fucking hurt me.” You said between sobs.

The two merely pulled you into their arms again and allowed you to sob to let out the emotions. “I hate this… I hate not having control of my fucking emotions…” You mumbled. “This is the worst…”

Wanda hummed, running her fingers through your hair which helped calm you down but also caused you to really settle into the fatigue you suddenly felt again. “Not yet darling… you need to eat something first or you will throw up.” Wanda said, holding out a piece of plain buttered toast. “Eat this then you can go to sleep alright?” You whined looking up at Natasha with your puppy dog eyes again.

“Oh wanda… maybe this one time she can skip it…” The redhead cooed, brushing hair out of your eyes. Wanda scoffed and shook her head.

“No absolutely not. Toast then you can sleep.” The brunette said causing you to pout again, your eyes welling up again. You shook your head looking back at the brunette sniffling. “Im sorry baby but it will help and you know it. Eat the toast then sleep.”

You opened your mouth to show you wanted to be fed. The witch helped you eat the toast before you curled back up into the assassin below you.

It was going to be a hard few days as your body readjusted to the meds but no matter how mean or grumpy you got, Natasha and Wanda took the abuse happily as it meant you were still alive and in their arms.

Taglist:

@asiangmrchk13 @boredandneedfanfics @mythixmagic @natashamaximoff-69 @grim-trans-witch

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xitsensunmoon · 2 years ago

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Biting the Hand That Feeds au FAQ (Vampires + donor au)

Any general content warnings for bhtf au?

Yes. A normal amount of fnaf warnings, a normal amount of vampire warnings. For someone who doesn't know I elaborate... For vampire stuff, the most obvious ones are blood, hypnosis, bites, and animalistic behaviour. Less obvious - slightly suggestive themes. For fnaf - fnaf's usual violence, dark themes, a drop of gore and murders. The lore is uh. Very dark. I will try to decrease the amount of all of the cruelty but man. People who know, know how hard it will be. But I will tag everything properly so don't worry.

Is there a fic for your au?

No. And currently, I'm not even planning on writing one.

How do I find the story?

For now, we have two comics that are directly connected and one that doesn't have a specific place in the story but is about canonical lore.

[ 1 ] - [ 2 ] - [ x ]

In future, we will have more and I probably absolutely will forget to update this post so I recommend checking the tags. Here's the tag list

Tip: don't click the tag. Tumblr hides half of the results. Type it in the blog's search instead :)

Are the comics the only canonical thing about au?

No! I answer asks and draw a lot of doodles with bhtf au all the time and 90% of them are canon. You can, yet again, find everything in the tag list linked in the previous question.

Can I draw/write fan stuff for your au?

Yes, please!! I'm always happy to see fanart and fan writings and literally everything that you do! Just tag me when you post and use a fanart or fanwriting tag for au specifically so I don't miss it!

Can you include my characters in your story?

No, unfortunately, I cannot. The story is already written and I don't have any "space" for background characters either. Maybe it will change but currently, things are like this.

I asked a question with an interaction with my characters and I never got an answer, why?

I don't accept such requests. I'm not ready to spend my time drawing other people's characters for free(if I personally don't want to, of course)

Is there any limit to how many questions I can ask?

No, not at all! You can ask all you want just please make sure your question wasn't answered before. There is a big possibility I will just simply delete it if it was answered beforehand many times. Check the ask tag for it.

What about limitations? Any boundaries?

Please no questions about tickling🧍‍♀️ I got so many of those it already makes me uncomfortable. And for some reason, a lot of people send asks that include violence towards my characters and while I don't really feel uncomfortable with this I just idk what to answer and why are you even doing this lmao

What questions I should avoid?

Well, not really avoid but I will mention it anyway.

The things I have planned to draw right now:

- Sun and Moon and y/n's first meeting

- The creation of Sun&Moon

- Why S&M are sensitive to light and darkness

- How they hunt

So no need to ask me about these. I will show it, I promise.

What about sexual themes?

I understand that I post a lot of suggestive stuff and it may appear I allow such a thing but no.

You can create content with it tho, I don't mind for the most part. Just be ready that I may not reblog it, as my Tumblr is a SFW place. It's always 50/50.

Romantic themes?

I do draw some kisses and cuddles when I feel like it and you of course can send ideas for cute interactions but in the story we're very far away from it lol.

My question gets ignored even though I followed everything that you mentioned here. Why?

Answered in main FAQ.

Can I share the ideas for your au with you?

YES!!! Yes, yes and yes! I'm very open to that, like yes! The only thing that I definitely want to mention - you should expect that I actually can take your ideas and use them. Some people are protective of their ideas so if you're like this you probably should not share them with me :)

The information that you're using for your au is wrong.

Happens sometimes yeah. I know nothing about any medical stuff for y/n so I usually improvise. After all it's an au about robotic vampires man, this information is absolutely wrong. But! You're free to drop feedback/constructive criticism in my inbox!

Will be updated later

#biting the hand that feeds au #bhtf au #my art #for pinned post

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hollyhomburg · 1 year ago

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Before I Leave You (Pt.62)

(Omegaverse au, Mafia au, Bts x Reader)

Summary: love becomes guilt, predator becomes prey, and Jin becomes...

Tags: Hospitals, medical talk, sicfic, seizures, angst, hurt/comfort, assassin! Jimin, implied autistic! jimin, meltdowns, settling, non-sexual biting, Mafia shit, murder, Dead bodies, Guns, violence, blood. everyone lives nobody dies, morality conversations, revenge, secrets

W/c: 10.9k

A/n: thank you to everyone who helped me make my birthday this year super special <3 im sorry if i was bad at thanking people publicly for their specific gifts <3 i figured that the next best way i could say thank you was to give you another chapter...be warned, this one ends on QUITE the cliffhanger....be warned

Previous part ~ Masterlist

The hospital is cold, maybe that’s just because of the first snow.

It gathers on the trees outside like a faint white outline where someone forgot to fill the image in. Cresting the shoulders of everyone who walks into the hospital and turning the streetlight into halos and the sky into one big white blanket. The whole world is a nest when the weather is like this. Maybe if the whole world was a nest, it would be enough to keep you all safe.

It’s useless to hope, as you wait with Jimin outside of Jungkook’s hospital room.

The hospital is a mess of glowing exit signs and endless beeping. A dull roar in your ears from coming down adrenaline and a telephone nearby blares. The scratchy intercom system overhead pages a doctor for a code red. Whatever that is. You sit and wait, worrying and picking at your nails, full of useless energy. There is nothing to do but wait until someone tells you if Jungkook’s alright.

You're not sure if he will be, this seizure was a bad one.

You and Jimin sit side by side, and you don’t talk. You don’t even touch. You don’t know what you prefer, the instant terror of the car bomb, or this slow terror. Slow terror feels like nails dragging down the back of your skull, like clothes that are two sizes too tight. A bad taste in your mouth, not blood and not soot either.

The relief of finding out that Jungkook wasn’t calling you because Moonbyul had done something to him was only temporary. instead of your packmate there was a stranger on the other end of the line.

He’d still been seizing when you’d got back to the coffee shop. Foreghein scents on him and a crowd of patrons and paramedics surround him. His eyes rolled back into his skull, on his side, blue lips and froth on the edge of his mouth. Luckily, someone in that coffee shop was a doctor, was able to keep him semi-comfortable but-

This seizure had lasted a long time. Too long. Jungkook has been a patient at most of the local hospitals before on account of how unpredictable his seizures are. He has directives as per Namjoon's guidance, in place since before they were even packmates. Anything more than 6 minutes needs an overnight stay and copious testing. This seizure had lasted almost 10. The longest he's had in years.

You'd watched horrified and all too familiar with it as they’d loaded your still twitching packmate into the red box. Unsympathetic paramedics unwilling to hear your pleas to just let Jimin ride with them to the hospital (he'd tailgated them the whole way) but even at the hospital you and Jimin still couldn’t see him. They whisked him right up for an MRI.

Maybe you’d be less unnerved if Jungkook had woken up, but he hasn’t yet.

They’re still running tests and keeping him under just to be sure. Not a medical coma, but the step below that. Something about Jungkook’s malfunctioned ocular nerve and not wanting to trigger more seizures with more stimuli until the lorazepam and half a dozen other medications have time to take effect.

Jimin is the one who okayed those. He signed those papers for medications as easily as if he were swiping his card or maybe firing a gun. You feel out of your depth here, even if Jimin is very used to this. It’s been a while. It’s not your fault the luck ran out. Maybe that’s why he’s angry, maybe that’s why he’s not touching you. You are at once, somewhere between a four-leaf clover and a bad luck charm. Intangible and unsure of your odds.

Maybe Jimin's not touching you because he hates you, maybe he hates you because you forced him to let you come with him. you'd have been by Jungkook's side while this happened if you hadn't. But Jimin might have died from the explosion then-

Jungkook might still die, you realize with a lurch. Jungkook might die because of the seizures and could die at any time really. It's so easy to forget. Maybe that's why Jimin's not touching you. Your thoughts rush over you, wave after wave.

But Jimin thinks you don’t deserve to be touched when he’s this angry. You’ve had a lifetime’s worth of an angry alpha touching you and he won’t be one of them. Won’t make you worse when you’re sitting small and fragile. Barely there, barely alive. No, he'll keep his shaking hands tightened to fists on his knees and his angry tongue locked behind pursed lips. touching you would be more for him than it is for you he's convinced.

Too close, they were too close today. Jimin promised you that he wouldn’t let them hurt you. He promised and he'd failed. you still have the gash on your chin.

His worry for Jungkook is another monster entirely, one that can't be made better with actions, that can't be fixed with his own two hands.

Yoongi and Tae are the first to arrive. Your mate’s hair is wet and tousled, in a pair of pajama pants on like he’d just been showering for the evening before he’d come. Tae is close behind, a pair of pink sweatpants poking out from below her long thick coat and her long nightdress tucked into the waistband. The same dress you cuddled up beneath this morning. It feels like a lifetime ago.

Yoongi holds your cheeks, searching your face. The words tumble from your lips, the first you and Jimin have said in what feels like hours.

“He was just- we were just getting the car and we thought he’d be fine for a second but then-” you feel like you’re going to be sick all over his shoes. In his hurry, Yoongi put on a pair of Tae’s Uggs, the platform ones. You don't know why your brain fixates on that.

“It’s not your fault,” is the first thing he says, although even he sounds unsure. You shouldn’t have left him alone are the words that he must be thinking, the words that no one’s saying.

(This is a lie. This is your brain making up the worst-case scenario and clinging to it. There is nothing anyone can do, no precautions that they can take that they already haven’t when it comes to Jungkook’s seizures. Yoongi just gets small and quiet whenever Jungkook is sick. Jungkook will always be sick, and this quiet devastation will always find your mate because he loves Jungkook so).

There is nothing to do but wait, even though waiting with them is better than waiting alone.

The people at the coffee shop said they saw jungkook lie down before he started seizing. That's the only way they were able to call you, because he'd had your contact open on his phone. He'd known he was about to have one and he'd tried to call you. He'd been afraid and alone and then he'd been nothing.

The movements of the hospital slosh the four of you like an unmoored boat while you wait. Every doctor coming closer prompts a turn of your head and pleading eyes. Hoping that they’re the ones that will relieve you of your misery. Your leg jumps up and down, jittery. Jimin by comparison is deathly still.

Yoongi goes up to the desk and Tae sits between you and Jimin, one hand a piece on either of your thighs. You lean into her and Jimin rests his cheek on her shoulder slowly. She holds around your shoulders, looking back and forth between the two of you. She doesn’t any anything.

Her fingers rub up and down your shoulder, feeling the crumbliness there. She picks her hand up, and you watch as she takes in the darkness. It's soot.

“It’s from the ambulance,” Jimin says before you can force your words to cooperate and lie.

Jin comes through with a flurry of his long felted coat, snow gathering on his wide shoulder. Holding his keys in his hand and almost dropping them when you stand to collide with him. He has just a choked-out "pup" for you but then there's the nurse, the one you've been waiting for. Telling you that Jungkook's fine- he's not awake yet- but that you can wait in his room with him until he does.

Jungkook doesn't have too many wires connected to him, nothing more than an electrode at his temple, one at his heart, and an IV in his wrist. His hospital gown is pulled down to his collarbones so that the electrodes don't pull, but his skin is absent of his usual healthy flush.

You wait, watching until you notice the rise and fall of his chest. Even and beautiful breath. Jungkook is alive, Jungkook is breathing of his own accord. You let out a single broken sob, but you're not the only one.

You watch Yoongi brush his hair back from his face, eyes glassy. Seokjin sits by his right side and tae takes the other. Jimin and you stand at the foot of his bed, just watching him. No one says anything. Every beep of the heart monitor is anticipated, every second more precious.

"There's nothing on his MRI that indicates any lasting brain damage from the seizure," the nurse states, fussing with Jungkook's IV. "but it will be hard to know until he wakes up. You might notice him unable to recognize you or speak for a few minutes- the location of the seizure may have affected his language and motor capabilities so-"

She continues to list his prognosis, but it's nothing you didn't know before. Every seizure has a risk of taking out part of Jungkook's faculties, his fine motor skills, and his speech. But a seizure has never damaged him beyond repair before. Tae takes one of Jungkook's hands from the bed and brings it to her face, trying to hide her tears but it's no use.

It’s startling, how much your body relaxes upon Namjoon’s presence, you feel the shift in the air before he enters the room. Nauseous one moment and then fine the next. He enters the room, hand skimming the top of your head and Yoongi's side as he be-lines it to Jungkook's chart.

His scent is so thick- comforting coffee even if it is a a little stale. You sway, and when he looks up, his eyes flicker from you and then the nurse.

Today is not the end of the world, even though it feels like it. It feels like it's ending every time Jungkook finds his way into a hospital bed, a good 3 or 4 times in a year. Honestly, they’ve been so quiet recently, so unnoticeable that they should have known a bigger one was building.

“Dr. Kim,” Jungkook’s nurse says, this is not Namjoon’s hospital, but he is on Jungkook’s file. This nurse looks at him and waits for his call. Namjoon flicks past one page on his chart and then another, pursing his lips.

“Why didn't Avery order a Ct? it’s not here.”

“The ct has already been run Dr. Kim, He put the order in 4 minutes ago” Namjoon hums, and you watch the clench of his jaw, the extra tight way he bites his cheek. And it’s then you realize oh, Namjoon is about to cry.

Yoongi gets to him before you do, Jungkook’s fingers twitch of their own accord against Namjoon’s wrist and Yoongi grips his shoulder. Namjoon looks back at him and at the same time, Jungkook opens his eyes blinking against the dim lights.

His words are all garbled for the first few seconds after a seizure, the Jumbled groan startling enough that you flinch. Yoongi backs up so that Jin and Namjoon can hold him down as he reaches blindly, startled and moving before his brain has a second to catch up.

"It's okay Jungkook, you had a seizure. You were out for a few hours, You're okay,"

"Come up slowly, don't try to sit up there you go."

Jungkook tries to get up and out of the bed but has to be held down by namjoon until his brain comes back online, he continues to speak garbled nonsense for a moment. Too loud, voice loud after so much quiet. It startles you; you take a step back.

And almost step right on Hobi’s shoes.

Hoseok is there, hand on the small of your back. Snowflakes that still haven’t melted in his hair. He doesn’t say hi to you, but his hand stays there. Pressed flat. He only has eyes for Jungkook. Jungkook relaxes, falling back on the bed, and gets one coherent syllable out and then another. It's their names-.

"Alpha- Joon- hughr-"

Jungkook pants, breathing heavily, and then his hand reaches up steadily, to touch the electrode on his head. Yoongi's hand closes around his just in case, but he doesn't rip it off.

Everyone waits with bated breath.

“You alright kookie?” Hoseok asks careful, with that same level of humor in his voice that you’ve come to need. His smile is as genuine as ever as he looks down a Jungkook in the hospital bed. Jungkook’s hand is tight around Namjoon’s as he stretches, muscles aching. He’s always so sore after a seizure. It's always so disorienting coming out of them like this.

Jungkook waits, testing out his words. “I feel like Like it got hit by a trucking fuck.”

He blinks, and the lights are turned low, but a breath passes and Tae laughs and so does Yoongi, and then everyone's laughing and sort of crying. Your knees go a little weak and you turn into hobi's chest hiding your tears.

Jungkook just blinks at the ceiling. “That wasn’t right.” But then everyone's smiling. Happy because he's talking, happy because it looks like the seizure didn't do any lasting damage. Jin rests his head on the coverlet and sighs a happy sound. All too relieved to hear Jungkook act something like himself. Wordlessly Jin brings Jungkook's wrist to his face, pressing his nose to his scent gland.

The hospital room isn’t big enough for all of you let alone when more staff enter the room along with someone who Namjoon must know, because she instantly starts listing off different medical jargon. Asking Jungkook how many fingers she's holding up, Namjoon's name, then testing his reflexes on his hands and toes. Stress tests and memory tests.

One moment you’re standing in the doorway and then the next you’re pressed to the wall between Tae, Jimin, and Hobi.

The hospital room isn’t big enough for all of you let alone when more staff enters the room along with someone whom Namjoon must know, because she instantly starts listing off different medical jargon and refers to him by name.

One moment you’re standing in the doorway and then the next you’re pressed to the wall between Tae, Jimin, and Hobi. Tae opens the door and gestures. You step out because it’s surely more important that Namjoon Jin and Yoongi get at Jungkook right now even if your heart clenches painfully at leaving Jungkook.

Jimin is still vibrating out of his skin, has been since Jungkook opened his eyes. But Tae tugs him in for a hug in the hallway. You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until you watch him hug her back. But Jungkook was Tae and Jimin’s packmate first. It’s no wonder that this has shocked them both closer, their fight forgotten.

Or mostly forgotten, you watch as Jimin wraps his arms around her slowly, like he's not sure he's allowed.

Hobi jogs you out of your starting, turning your face towards his and, looking at you intently. Eyes flickering down to your chin and then to your eyes. You forget what he’s looking at until his fingers skim below your lips and you feel pain.

You drag your arm across it and it leaves a small rusty trail in its wake on the sleeve of Tae's jacket, just another stain on it. Oh, you fell during the blast and banged your face, you'd almost forgotten.

“Tripped, banged my face on the sidewalk.” it's close enough to the truth that the lie goes unnoticed. Hobi makes a sound, holding your elbow. Squeezing it reassuringly.

“I’m gonna get some snacks from the vending machine, can I get you something?”

“Didn’t eat dinner” you say, staring down at Hobi’s red Converse. There are scuffs on the linoleum and a drop of blood someone must have missed. You wonder who it’s from, another person from the emergency room probably. “You sure Jin and Joon won’t be angry if my dinner is just sweets?”

Tae is close enough to overhear, and she rubs her cheek across the top of Jimin’s head, scenting him sweet (or trying to.) “Yeah- junk food isn’t exactly the most nutritious.”

You stumble, stepping close, swaying suddenly on your feet. Hobi catches you around the shoulders and for a second, you must look like the mirror image of Tae and Jimin.

Hobi's scent smarts with worry and he pushes you back, making you sit down. “They can live with it, she deserves a special treat. I’m getting you a Band-Aid.” Tae looks like she wants to argue with Hobi, then doesn’t.

Hobi gets Skittles and Peanut Eminem’s and two bags of funyuns that you pick apart while you wait for the doctors to be done. The colorful packages are scattered across your lap as he tilts your head to put the Band-Aid on your chin (gotten from a helpful nurse). Fingers that tenderly curve under the wide part of your jaw, drumming there.

Tae nibbles on a peach ring. Inside Jungkook's hospital room, it isn't quiet, but the four of you are silent with exhaustion listening in. Jin sounds relieved, and the low grumble from your mate sounds just as happy.

Jimin still isn’t speaking much, just pacing back and forth in front of Jungkook’s door. When you say you feel nauseous, Hobi gets up and gets you ginger ale too. You know there just isn’t much for him to do, alpha instincts and no omega to cool them but you. Hobi holds your hand, he doesn’t say that Jungkook’s going to be okay. He doesn’t say anything but.

“Which are your favorite?”

The back of Skittles jingles and he picks out all the green ones, lining up his pants in an orderly little row for you to grab when the ones you suck on go small enough.

You don't realize you're crying until he gets you a tissue, dabbing at your cheek. "There you go, Kookies gonna be fine. He's always fine." His voice goes slower, honeyed.

You rest your cheek on his shoulder, and he lets you. “You got a pair of headphones?” Your breath is shaky, and you think you might be shaking apart right now if it wasn’t for Hobi.

Namjoon stares at the packages for a second too long when he exits the door. His hair is pushed up like he’s run his fingers through it, but he doesn’t smell quite as worried as he did before. He looks at the package and you shrink underneath his disapproving stare.

He all but snaps his fingers, “Tae, would you please go get some real food.” Hobi does not flinch at Namjoon’s cross-tone, even as Tae shoots to her feet and chirps "Yes alpha!"

Hobi doesn’t do anything but stare Namjoon down, put a pink starburst on his tongue, slowly.

Jimin keeps pacing.

“We’re sleeping here tonight.” It’s not an order or a request- your pack alpha has decided that this is too great a danger to separate you so you won’t separate. Neither of you pipes up anything to the contrary, now is not the time for contrary voices.

Jimin is still pacing. Black leather shoes smoothed and silent, barely acknowledging the pack alpha.

He’s making you anxious, your scent sour even to your own nose as your eyes track him back and forth. Namjoon pulls you to your feet, hand lingering on the back of your neck. “Will you be okay in those clothes pup? Or should someone go home and get your things?”

You hear the request for what it is; Namjoon is asking you if you think the alphas need a nest to settle if you think they need a change of clothes and things that smell like pack tonight for sleep and safety. he's leaving this up to you.

Your hands stay buried in the pockets of Tae’s white floral jacket. Hoping he doesn’t notice the soot smudge on your shoulder. “It'll be fine just-” your eyes are half glassy, “are you sure Koo will be okay?”

The pack alpha pulls you to his front, and one of the nurses passing by gives you both a look, you have to get on your tippy toes to kiss him. "of course he's going to be, we're making sure of it" Namjoon promises.

"I meant like, without a nest."

Namjoon laughs, and you watch the stress melt off his shoulders. he turns, guiding you inside with a peculiar look over his shoulder at Hobi. “I’m sure he’d love it if you’d help him make one. he already wants to start"

Jungkook looks a little bit better, with less of a pale-yellow flush to his face and more of a healthy glow. pouting down at the blankets and complaining that they're too rough.

For someone who looks so physically well/muscles defined even when they’re not flexed, it’s always a bit startling to see him lying prone and exhausted, lights dim to avoid the risk of another seizure.

Tae comes back with some food, and you all eat in silence, white Styrofoam containers balanced across your knees. The faint crinkle and drag of plastic spoons scraping plastic bowls. Jungkook eats hospital food. Nibbles it, and doesn't throw it up. One of the side effects of the medication is nausea.

The only one not at ease is Jimin, who doesn’t eat, sitting tacitly in the corner watching each of you, getting up occasionally to pace. The pack let him work off his restless energy until it’s clear it’s making Jungkook restless too. Shifting and watching him. His request of, “Minnie will you come and sit by me?” goes unanswered as Jimin flexes his hands from open palm to open fist again and again.

Jungkook watches the jello in his plastic tray jiggle with the force of Jimin's pacing, back and forth. Back and forth. Tae sighs, and Yoongi stiffens.

He goes like that, pacing one two three steps just in front of Tae before turning. He falls apart like this until Jin steps up to intercept him, and Jimin rocks to a stop rather than crash into him. He’s put his hands on Jimin’s shoulders, fingers digging into the tense ball there. Moving quicker than any of you thought possible.

“Breathe.” Comes his terse request. A little broken, a little begging. But Jimin’s alpha will never willingly disobey an order from his pack omega, that’s what’s happening, isn’t it? Jimin’s alpha has taken over, took over the second he saw Jungkook lying between those two tables in the coffee shop. All instinct and no Jimin, all fear and pulse and get them safe get them home get them out.

But it’s like Jimin’s lungs are pried open from it. He gasps, and Jin pulls him in for a thorough scent mark, systematically dragging his teeth from ear to ear, hard enough to leave dull red lines in his wake. You watch Jimin’s eyes dilate and constrict, plush lips parting in a gasp. Looking at you.

Jin licks his teeth after, “There you go.” You don’t know if you’ve ever seen Jin settle Jimin or if you’ve ever seen him settle any of the alphas like this. Jimin asks for bites again and Jin obliges. Bending over him to drive his teeth, to nip Jimin's skin pink between his teeth. Bite after bite Jimin’s body relaxes inch by inch.

And so does the rest of the pack, underneath the covers, Jungkook shifts his hips, splaying them a little wider. Relaxing as Jimin goes boneless.

Jin’s voice is a dark croon, the tone he reserves only for Jimin and maybe Namjoon sometimes. He's a little firmer when the more dominant alphas need his touch. Jimin feels it as delicately as Yoongi's soothing thumb on the side of your thumb when Jin pinches his cheeks and shakes him a little bit.

“Now, do you want to tell Omega why you’re upset?”

“S’my fault” Jimin sways on his feet, closer to Jin’s touch than back again. a planet in orbit. the rest of the pack watched transfixed. You see Hoseok perk up slightly. “Wasn’t there.”

“Minnie, I know you,” Jin cups his cheek a little gentler. Fingers skimming stubble. “I know you,” Jin repeats, such an air of finality about it that you can’t doubt it to be true.

Jin could command the moon to shift its orbit and it would. “I know you’ll do whatever’s possible to protect the pack" Jimin's eyelashes flutter. "To your dying breath.”

“You don’t have to be so intense about it” Namjoon half snaps, any of them dying isn't what he wants to think about right now. But he's forgiven the second he realizes he's being too harsh, everyone’s a bit stressed right now.

Jin’s dark tone falls away as quick as it came, “But still- what happened with JK wasn’t your fault, isn’t that right kookie?”

Jungkook nods, eyes closed, licking his lips like he's tasting the settling in the air. “Not Jimin’s fault my brains fucked up, just how it is” Jin pecks Jimin’s head, pinning his blond hair flat. “See pup? Listen to the omega’s, You’re fine. Everyone's going to be fine."

Jin speaks the words so surely you almost believe it.

The hospital is a bit generous with the extra sleeping cots (Namjoon might have called his boss and asked him to pull privileges), and you get 3 that they roll up one on one side of Jungkook's hospital bed, and two more on the other side.

But you and Jin pile in just around him. Cuddled up close and scenting along his shoulders, sniffling and fluffing a few extra threadbare blankets around him in a makeshift nest, full of your jackets too.

You steal Tae's pants for the nest making, letting her untuck her nightdress and let it flutter around her. But when one of the nurses comes to the door Namjoon (panicked) throws himself across the exposed line of her honeyed thighs to conceal her nakedness. but she just giggles, she’s not some Victorian maiden full of virtue, but it makes Jungkook smile and scrunch his nose. and it feels like a win even if Namjoon's cheeks go bright red.

You cuddle up, trying fitfully to banish the medicinal scent by scenting him. It's sour and not all like him, but the medicine they give him for his seizures always makes him smell a little off for a few days. It’s no less distressing to you, but Jungkook just grins and tells the others to let you do what you need when you rest your body weight on top of him and stubbornly bury your face in his chest. His hand with the attached IV strewn across your back to cradle your ribs.

Before no time Jungkook is laughing and leaning into Yoongi’s stomach where he lies across the top of the bed. In no time he's taking a few bites of veggies and a few sips of water, eyes heavy. He is tried from the seizure and medication even if he puts on a brave face.

They’ll drag him into one more MRI in the morning just to be sure that nothing concerning has developed over time but until then, the beeping of Jungkook’s heart monitor is your lullaby. Every heartbeat is a new chance. You don't even mind the lumpy hospital pillow. The pack goes quiet when Jungkook's eyes flutter, when they shut and his breathing goes deep. yoongi puts his finger to his lips and jin shifts slowly, Jungkook's head resting on his thigh. your lovely packmate resting between jin's parted legs.

The rest of the pack falls like Domino’s once Jungkook's asleep. Hobi shucks off his jeans to be more comfortable and so does Yoongi. The room is full of heavy breaths and dreams waiting to swoop in. You struggle to settle until Hobi gives you one of his headphones, and you lie close to share them, one in each of your ears. he still has his sleepy time playlist, and it blocks out the sounds of the hospital. When Sleep takes you it's thankfully dreamless.

Somehow Hobi's hand finds your waist under the covers, bunching up and tangling in his sweatshirt. Clinging to you and holding on for dear life. His bare thighs between your thin leggings tangled up in the makeshift nest. Jin only glances at your particular closeness a few times.

Sleep evades jin until he gives up on it entirely. Nothing feels quite as good to Jin’s instincts as having all of his packmates sleeping in one room. Even if it's not quite good enough to get him to fall asleep himself. But still- Jin would rather they not be here; would rather they be in the nest at home.

That will have to wait until tomorrow.

The distant hum of the hospital and the sound of his dull typing fill the room. His work computer screen is the only light in the whole room besides the monitors. Jin's computer balanced on his back because Jin had to leave during a briefing on a low-level gang member and Koo said he didn’t mind being used as a computer rest so long as Jin kept running his hands through his hair. Jimin is curled up on the next nearest cot, within petting (and settling) distance if he should need it.

7 a.m.

A look at the clock says that the pack has 5 more hours until Jungkook is allowed to be discharged. Until then, Jin will get some work done and keep an eye on the rest. Namjoon sleeps by the door, he declined a cot on account of there not being enough room for the rest of them to sleep comfortably. Namjoon turns fitfully with every new person who walks by the door. He’s gone in and out of sleep a few times. If he flinches awake again, Jin will get him a cup of coffee.

Until then, there's paperwork and an endless array of evidence for Jin to examine.

There are documents he can look over again, the same ones, back and forth. There are about 300 crime scene photos for each murder that the family has committed in the last 6 months, it doesn’t hurt to skim them again and refresh his notes.

That boy from the coffee shop burned beyond recognition. A pair of 30 caliber bullets in his chest. One under his ribs the other in his head, evidence of deep lacerations and torture on his body, bitten tongue, and evidence of red paint under his fingernails. The only other bit of evidence.

The origin of these paint flecks have been a source of annoyance and frustration for jin and the rest of his coworkers. Maybe they're evidence from a third location between abduction and dumpsite? A bit of the killer's car scraped maybe? The paint was metallic, old-fashioned. After a few minutes, Jin moves on to other murders, other people who have lives and packs and dreams that the family extinguished.

Jin no longer spends hours looking at his picture. The one of Choi Beomgyu alive and grinning. He still gets weekly calls from his pack alpha, begging Jin for any updates and leads. Jin has stopped feeling guilty over being empty-handed.

Jin’s boss's crime scene photos are a little harder to look at if only because of the nausea that those photos bring. Although Jin has become so desensitized to them that his bloated face no longer makes his stomach swirl with revulsion. His missing hand, the torn stump of it induced post-mortem.

One burned and one drowned.

These two kills are by far the family's messiest and hastiest. Usually, they don't even find this much of the bodies. Just a few fragments of bone or a tooth in a pire. Most of the time people just disappear.

What did you know, he thinks, looking at the photograph of the boy and then his charred corpse, what did you know that you shouldn’t have? Why didn't they have time to properly make you disappear? Why couldn't they risk you talking?

It’s funny, out of all the evidence, he tries to look at your cookbook and the late Don and data’s autopsy reports the least. Their tox screen and that one page that might as well be your confession and Ahn Hyejin's (Jin compared the second handwriting to a sample they had on file and matched hers to it in about an hour). Their murder was a neat and tidy little thing, but it is the murder that got his boss killed so maybe Jin should treat it with more scrutiny.

But that’s so simple, it’s almost a wonder why such a slight thread of spider silk needed snipping. Or is Jin wrong and this is a thread that could send the whole thing crumbling down?

Jin’s not sure yet, but maybe after a few more hours of pouring over this, he will be.

It’s nearing 3 in the morning and Jin is still sifting through every little bit of information when a ding punctuates the quiet in the room. Jin panic smashes the mute button before any of his packmates stir.

A warm body away, Hobi lets out a particularly deep and easy breath, and Jin relaxes.

Jin’s first thought looking at the email, is that no one not directly connected to the bureau should be able to get ahold of his email address, let alone be able to send him anything.

The email doesn’t have a heading, and the email doesn’t even have a subject or a cc. Unlike half of Jin’s other correspondents to other people giving them guidelines and delegating tasks. It's only secure for him to look at these here because everyone’s eyes are closed.

On closer look, the sender is just a random email generated with an obscure amount of Xs. He hovers over it. Cursor blinking until he clicks it, he knows better than to click on the link without launching it on his firewall server but the contents of the email aren’t anything but a video and a short line of text.

Skip to 17:19:07 for the fun parts :)

The video isn’t infested with bugs planning on robbing his data and pilfering him for information. No, the data and danger is just right there when Jin skips ahead, Jin holds his breath as he watches the grainy imagery.

The security camera is an IPC-110 if the shitty quality is anything to judge by. Trust a parking garage to install the shittiest CCTV cameras on the market but still the blurry figures of two of Jin’s packmates is unmistakable as he watches. Jimin’s face terse and afraid, backing up against the wall and exchanging words.

The flash of light is so sudden it makes Jin flinch hard and Jungkook groans, before settling and smacking his lips. Jin hardly notices as he watches you and Jimin get thrown by the blast, tight nuckled watching Jimin tuck his body around you and shouting your name. Pauses the video just to look at Jimin's panic-stricken face. To see him yank you to your feet and put you in the car.

Jungkook makes another soft whine when Jin shifts him, jostling him “One second baby” Jin murmurs, putting his computer to the side. Your jacket is on the side of the nest, delicately folded into the border. Jin detangles it and brings it to his nose.

Fire, burning things, soot. The smell is unmistakable. If the timestamp is to be believed, this is the reason why you and Jimin weren’t at the coffee shop with Jungkook. Jin feels the last little bit of his frustration fade at this.

Oh, Minnie.

It’s no wonder why Jimin was too spooked to speak, why he’s been so laconic tonight. First you and then Jungkook so quick. The stress would have anyone shutting down, this is why Jin's smallest but strongest alpha was so quiet and afraid. Why he’d needed a bit of settling when usually he’s someone Jin can depend on during Jungkook’s seizures. One surprise is hard enough to handle.

Jin shifts his petting from Jungkook’s hair to Jimin’s, combing through his blond strands lovingly.

He rewinds the tape back to the beginning, as far back as it will go, and sets it to 3x speed. The first hour goes by in 5 minutes, The person on camera is in all black, but even in black and white Jin would know the kind of mask they wear. It's red at the top and a stunning grimace at the bottom.

He watches as someone slight and billowy, probably 5’7 in height- no 5’9- figure cuts through the cars, heading for Jimin’s like they know which one to go for. The CCTV footage doesn’t cut out at all. Usually, the family is better in concealing their crimes. Usually, they don’t even leave a hint of evidence.

Usually, they don't send the evidence to Jin.

Jin freezes the frame when the figure turns, with the mask fully facing the camera. It’s a traditional Korean mask, the same one Jin has seen photographed on the rest of the family. He drags up Google, doing a cursory search. The footage is in black and white but the images on file are all red and black.

He goes back to the first murder, those hands, the red paint chipped underneath fingernails and his breathing goes heavy.

He needs to go back to Beomgyu’s dumping site and see if there’s anything red, any other possible reason why he’d have that under his fingernails. Either that or this is all connected, and the same person who killed him is trying to kill you.

Jin's breath goes heavy when he thinks about what could have happened if Jimin hadn't been there.

Jin does not wake you and demand to know what happened, Jin keeps his breathing measured and shallow. Does not let his scent get sour enough to wake the others. Jin fully detangles himself from Jungkook and pauses to lean over you, thumb skimming the Band-Aid on your chin.

No one hurts his pack and gets away with it. No one.

He’ll think about what you know and why Jimin didn't tell him later. Poor thing was probably just too shocked to say anything. You might have convinced him that saying anything would have put Jungkook in distress. Jin's anger is a cool sort, it's not you that he's angry at.

It’s only 5 a.m. but Jin goes and gets a coffee anyways. When he gets back, he shoves it into Namjoon’s hands startling him awake. But one glance at the pack omega says that he means business. Shadowed face unreadable silhouetted against the bright and open hospital door.

“Get the doctor, we’re going home.”

~-~

You wake in the hospital bed, roused by Yoongi's gentle hand on your shoulder, feeling listless and sorer than ever with Hobi’s nose pressed to the nape of your neck and Jungkook at your front. You wonder when that started to feel normal. When Hobi cuddled you stopped feeling so forbidden.

you know that when you take off your clothes you'll find your front bruised from falling, that you'll find your body dinnged. you don't know what you'll say, how you'll excuse the marks away from them but in the meantime, you watch jungkook. get a washcloth from the bathroom and whipe his face for him, standing between his legs.

"do you want water? coffee? can i get you something before your MRI"

namjoon sighs heavy, "pup- he can't-"

jungkook leans into your hands, letting you drag the cloth over his face, it's as much grooming as you ever have, but jungkook just smiles up at you and shakes his head. "when we get home yeah?"

The golden light streams through the horizontal blinds and Jungkook shifts as he gets out of the hospital bed and into a wheelchair for his MRI, and you wait for him with the rest of the pack. Yoongi returns with bagels and coffee for everyone. The caffeine makes you all jittery.

After he's given a clean bill of health, Jungkook leaves the hospital under his own power, on his own two feet because he always needs that certainty. Declining the wheelchair that the staff offers because honestly, he’s fine, he'd run out of here if he didn't think namjoon would drag him right back inside.

You’re guided into Jimin’s car, Yoongi drives. Hobi is in the front, turning to look at you more than he should, asking you questions about what song you want to play. Really, it can go as loud as you want cuz Jungkook's in the other car. He asks too many for your brain to answer accurately. You're too tired too worn out too everything to answer.

But when you get home, there is even more movement too quick for your sleepy brain to comprehend. Jin has to go to work and so does Namjoon; something about a revision surgery that won’t take too much time and can't be rescheduled. He's barely changed and cleaned himself before he's heading out the door again. Definitely a bit too tired, but oh well.

But now at home, the rest of the pack has Jungkook well in hand and ready for a bit more babying. Jungkook will be fine by this evening. Is honestly fine now. Just a little tired of being poked and prodded and just needs to nest and rest.

Jin too seems distracted by something, checking his phone and kissing each of you on the forehead before he goes. You're tempted to whine and ask them to stay, if not for Jungkook then for you but before you can, Hobi grips both of your shoulders and tells Namjoon and Jin that he’s got it, and the moment gets stolen away from you.

“I’ll get your pajamas,” he says after the door thuds closed, while Jungkook says something to Yoongi. Noodle meows and darts around Tae's heels and Jimin carries Jungkook to the couch and gently, gently- sets him down. Your mate is distracted right now (as he should be) but that doesn’t mean Hobi can’t fill the gaps.

He thuds up the stairs, bare feet probably cold. The house is still cold from a night left empty even though Yoongi’s just turned the heat on.

Jimin gets a ding on his phone, standing up the second he’s seen it.

Unknown (9:18): I want to talk to you about a murder.

Unknown (9:18): One you might have a vested interest in.

The picture is grainy, but Jimin knows the faces of the two women like the back of his hand although Hyejin takes a few seconds of racking his brain to place. Jimin feels his blood cool to a simmer and the shaking in his hands stops. His phone dings a few more times, whoever's sending it through must be a fast texter, from a burner phone no doubt.

Unknown (9:19): Especially because of the sensitive nature of this, you understand why I’d want to meet in person.

Unknown (9:19): (See attached address)

Jimin's suspicions are immediately peaked, warning bells going off loud. But before he can do more than read over the messages again more come through.

Unknown (9:20): I’m willing to offer you 10x your normal rate for each kill. Two Mil upfront. And Three more when the hit is carried out. I understand how risky it is for you to even view these texts so here

Jimin watches the next notification from his bank account ding through and holds his breath.

Fuck, that's a lot of Zeros.

Unknown (9:20): As a show of my good faith in you. I'll see you in three hours. If not, enjoy the money.

Jimin holds onto the phone like it’s a lifeline, the black plastic case digging into his fingers. He knows it's stupid, he knows that it's dangerous, and a million other things but-

Jin's words ring in his ears. "I know you'll do whatever you have to do to protect the pack, until your dying breath."

The money means nothing to Jimin, he'd do this killing for free. Out of all the lives he's ever taken, this is the first one that maybe he's ever felt vindicated in. the first murder that he's ever truly wanted to commit.

He's gripping his phone so hard he doesn't move until you make a noise. And when he looks up at you, you have a glass of water in your hands, waiting there, watching him. There is still that fucking scrape on your chin. Jimin looks at it and his mind is made up. All of this karma has come due.

If Jimin's being honest with himself, it's not Moonbyul’s confrontation or her comments about you that had Jimin so bothered.

All that "you belong to me" kind of talk that bullshit alphas with something to prove say, like something out of a manhwa. If he's being honest, the thing that bothered him the most, that made him so very angry was how clearly you didn't want them, and how willing she was to ignore that.

He grins at you, tipping his head back and you think Jimin might look like more of a demon than a man.

“I have to go to work.”

“What?” Jungkook’s eyes go wide, and he reaches for Mini and tries to cling but Jimin steps away, sliding back on his still-warm shoes. “I thought you called out already?”

Jimin tugs on his coat, The one with the reinforcement in it, hard panels that flap just a little bit too stiffly. The shoulders that seem just a little too crisp.

"Sorry Koo it's an emergency."

You know just by looking at him that this isn’t for his other job. (You don’t think of bodyguarding as Jimin's real job, not when this one is so much more prescient and dangerous.) You follow him outside, the door closing with that same rusty jingle of the old doorknob.

“It’s not from her.” The words are quiet, stolen. The empty birdfeeder clangs in a sudden wind and you shiver, warm only for a few seconds without a jacket. Jimin’s hand skims your shoulder and he pushes at it, urging you to go back inside.

“It’s not just her who hires me, this isn’t related to her.” He lies effortlessly. Turning and making to walk away, you wrap your arms around him and almost make him fall down the stairs but he catches both of you, swaying at the bottom.

“Pup, you need to let me go,”

“No!” you cling to him stubbornly, “if I let you go something bad is going to happen!”

Jimin is so quiet you think you might not hear him. He stops struggling and trying to twist out of your arms for a second. “You’ve got to, I have to do this, please.” his tone is so calm, so gentle. Jimin is smiling down at you when you pull back to look up at him. He gently but forcefully separates you from him, hands holding yours and prying them apart.

“I’ve got too much to make up for. You have to let me do this.”

You have a bad feeling about this, your instincts that you should listen to. Walking into this so soon after Jungkook’s seizure. Is this punishment for leaving him? Jimin slips from between your hands. Walking to his car, and you feel a lurching in your gut like something terrible is about to happen.

You say nothing, watching him, heart beating quick. but you are powerless to stop him, powerless to keep him from leaving.

You wonder if this is how Yoongi felt, leaving them. Powerless.

“You'll come back? you've got to- you can't-" you can't leave us is what you want to say. Standing on the steps of the house, Jimin by his car.

"I'd never dream of leaving you." Jimin says, swearing it. And all the fight goes out of your sails.

"Be careful Minnie.”

He looks back at you, hair ruffled by the wind. All the snow from the night before has melted but the cold will stay.

“Always am.”

You nod, giving him permission and Jimin gets in his car. You return inside where it’s warmer. And Jimin turns it on, but before he has a chance to pull away from the curb, his phone lights up with another notification.

Unknown (9:27): Make sure to wear your mask.

~-~

The location on his phone is a lot more desolate in person, the scrub brush that’s that's grown in is thick enough to hide his car. Green by the river and poisoned into sticks here. Jimin parks far away among the maze of what must be four-wheeler tracks and walks in. mask on and gun at the ready.

The rusted metal of the industrial park rises out of the soil and the fog. It has to have been abandoned for years given how poor of a condition it's in. There are a few half-fallen-down buildings and one big complicated warehouse flanked on one side by a wide and slow-moving river. The soil smells strongly of gasoline and rust. The soil here is probably soaked through with it. Jimin wonders if would burn and catch fire if a spark was lit.

The traditional mask fits snugly on Jimin’s face, the hole at the mouth just large enough for him to not feel like he’s suffocating. Eye holes are wide enough to see and not block his peripheries.

The doors are cracked and nearly rusted shut with age but Jimin slides through a crack easily. He’s a whole hour early on purpose. This is all by design, every moment of this. Every second is orchestrated like a symphony;

Jimin is the violin, with high and pointed movements, drawing his weapon like a cymbal. The crunch of his boots on the floor the drums, every breath a crooning saxophone. His thoughts flute spiraling up like high delights. All of this builds to one big crescendo.

He doesn’t take out his phone to check the time. The upstairs is mostly unlit but Jimin doesn't use a light, just lets his eyes adjust. He waits, stalking quietly, completely silent in his movements.

Jimin is not nervous about this handoff, mostly, he’s just wondering who it is in the family that's finally betraying her. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t suspect that the conditions of this were a little too perfect. Money and all.

The main atrium of the industrial park is rusted up with age. Old metal shipping containers that used to hold smelting equipment or maybe molten metal long since rusted out even though the chains still hang from the ceiling. A suspended catwalk rings the room on all sides.

Jimin spends a few minutes casing the place, noting the exits, and the obvious places to hide. The old rusty fans at the apex of the roof turn and squeak softly from the wind outside. The whole place smells like chemicals and rust. It's all Jimin can do not to have a coughing fit.

It’s a wonder he doesn’t smell the blood sooner

(Trust me, I speak from experience. if you spend enough time around blood that's not your own, you’ll eventually be able to smell it. Even a drop in an empty room. like a hound the the hunt. You'll smell it.)

Jimin is almost done with logging the entrance and exits when he finds the body.

He rushes to their side, Jimin doesn’t recognize their face when he slides whats left of the traditional mask off their face, it's the same as his. Racking his brain to recognize the face but nothing. the masks is broken into pieces. A bullet between the eyes is a good shot.

Before Jimin can do anything, can decide if this is a setup or just a meet-up gone wrong, He hears footsteps behind him.

~-~

In the wake of Jin, Namjoon, and Jimin leaving, the rest of the pack is a bit forlorn. Jungkook is not so mobile, not so willing to make the trek upstairs. Worried about the stairs and any sudden seizures and all. But there is no shortage of cuddle spots on the ground floor, you've made many a nest in the living room before.

And besides, in such proximity to the kitchen, Jungkook can have all his treats this way.

Lately, it’s started to feel like the pack has several nests, the one upstairs, the nesting pod, and the one on the old grey couch when you shove all the pieces together. Yoongi indulges jungkook in half a bar of dark chocolate while you get some nesting materials. Blankets and your wet cheeks catching the dimmed lights.

You’re a little pouty and a lot quiet, and the others take note of it. Skimming comforting hands up and down your shoulders, always touching you like they’re making sure you’re there. They don't ask why you're upset at Jimin leaving. They don't have to wonder. you snap the blanket as you fluff it huffing.

Jungkook finds your angry nestmaking cute. he pulls you down on top of him nipping at your throat when you fuss a little too long. Testing out Jin's method of settling on you.

It’s surprising even to you when the action sparks tears in your eyes, the opposite he was hoping for. You rub at your wet eyes with a clenched fist stubbornly. It’s not even noon yet and you’re already crying. You're so exhausted by everything that’s happened in the last 24 hours, so tired. You can't be blamed for getting a little teary-eyed.

Tae reappears, freshly showered. Her shoulder-length hair already starting to dry. tilting your face up to her's and says "Oh my little dove-

She piles into the nest and upstairs you hear Hobi moving around. tae stradles jungkook's thighs and shifts the two of you, lying you all flat,

"Don’t worry about Minnie, he’s always had something to prove.” You rub at your tears stubbornly, sniffling and nodding. Jungkook threads his fingers through the back of your hair, a little indelicately. But he loves without boundaries, like a butterfly flapping its wings for the first time.

“But why-” your words are quiet but broken, “why does he always feel so-"

“Guilty?” Tae finishes for you, looking out the window in the direction that Jimin disappeared. Humming as she strips you of Hobi's sweatshirt.

Hobi appears at the bottom of the stairs smiling. "Are we talking about Jimin's guilt complex again?"

Your mate groans and finishes putting together a little snack board. "I swear we've probably had this discussion like- fucking 20 times?" Yoongi's not wrong.

You only get more teared-eyed, crying a little bratty, thumping weakly against jungkook's chest, he grabs your thigh and pulls you snug across his lap. "But why! Why does he feel like everything is his fault?"

Tae hides her sad smile behind a hand, and you're less upset looking at it. Calmed in a second, because they have talked about this you realize, everyone in the pack is well aware.

“I guess he feels guilty because," Tae sighs, "because he was so loved.” Tae's fingers dance along Jungkook's thigh, and you're all quiet. everyone is quiet when they hear tae talk about jimin. it's a little like listening to someone describe what it feels like listening to your favorite song for the first time, what it's like to taste your favorite food, the feeling of a first kiss.

Hobi comes close to tae, sets down a shirt and a pair of pants. "would you get them into this while i shower?" the curtains are drawn and hobi goes upstairs and Tae undresses you while she speaks. You're a doll, teary eyed and willing as she and Jungkook strip you and put you in clean clothes. You didn't realize how much you needed to not smell like hospital until it's done.

"The first love you lose always hurts you the most, whether that's romantic love or parental love doesn't really matters. Each person metabolizes it differently. Truthfully, I believe that Jimin lost love the first time and promised himself- never again."

Tae talks, playing with Jungkook’s hair. He pouts “he's never gonna lose us.” Tae hums, agreeing. But you can see in her eyes the sadness there. Wounds that might never heal and wanting that might never fade.

Yoongi sits down beside you and together, the three of you undress and dress Jungkook. He could probably do it himself just like you could, but he's a willing puppet, happy when Tae tickles his tummy and slides his shirt over his head.

A minute later, Hobi's back, wet head that drips onto your cheek when he leans over Jungkook's curled form to grab one of the grapes on the snack board that Yoongi made. And Tae stares off into space, thinking of Jimin, how they met and how they feel in love, everything between then and now.

Tae smiles just thinking of him. "i know that pup, he just- he can't let himself believe it no matter how much he wants too. It was really hard on him, how our parents treated us, Jimin has guilt built into him because they made him that way."

It's too simple of an explanation for what they went through. What does it mean to love a parent that hates you? Or at least to have a parent that does not strive to understand you. How many times did the words linger on Tae’s lips? Standing in the doorway wearing a little boy jersey and little boy clothes, listening to his mother talk about the things on the news.

Wondering, Mom, would you give up God for me?

Tae rests her cheek on her hand. Her nail polish has gotten all chipped, maybe she picked at it nervously while you were at the hospital. She has a habit of picking at it when she needs something for her hands to do.

“If Jimin had a religion- it would be love. And every time he feels even a little bit like he's not loving us the way he should, he beats himself up for it and guilts himself into loving harder, loving better. He considers a lack of love the greatest crime. So yeah, feeling guilty is par for the course."

Jungkook groans, tipping his head back against the sofa, “I’ve told him, I’ve told him a million times-“

“Doesn’t matter” Hobi interrupts, “he still hates it when he’s not there when you have a seizure. He's upset with himself, that's why he left. Giving him more love when he feels like he doesn't deserve it is like his worst nightmare.”

You think of the explosion. Of Jimin pining your body and putting himself between you and the blast. Maybe with Jimin it's so instinctual it's not even a conscious decision. You wonder if it ever gets easy, to make the decision to sacrifice yourself for the people you love. Does that make Mimin feel like he deserves them more? the sacrifice?

You don’t know if it would be as innate with you, You might have to think it through for a few seconds.

You don't like that. You don't like realizing that you'd need to think through it however briefly. You fear a world in which you don’t love him as much as he loves you, in which any of this isn’t reciprocal.

(But then again, most recipes have twice as much sugar as butter.)

You melt against Hobi’s side. “He shouldn’t,” you say, feeling useless, a little quieter, a little bit more upset. “He shouldn’t feel guilty, he loves us enough!” Tae’s hand rests on your ankle, and her laugh strikes high and sad.

Outside a mourning dove coos, a lonely soft sound.

“Trust me, I’ve been trying to love Jimin more than he loves me for my whole life. He wants to win the 'I love you more' debate every time.”

~-~

The Industrial Park is different than Jin remembers.

It rises a little more jagged against the surrounding area of 3-meter-high brush that disguises a network of other dilapidated sheds and half flooded buildings. Jin recites what he knows about this place; the facts.

An iron processing plant, decimated by the flood of a nearby river 2 dozen years ago and bought through a shell corporation. Vacant land with so many entrances and exits. A veritable hotbed and the perfect body dumping site. construction on a housing development delayed on account of how expensive the environmental clean up.

He scans the building for red paint.

He can be forgiven for not seeing Jimin’s car, parked on the fringes. The opposite side from where Jin came in because Jin had to stop at the office first. Jin can be forgiven for having his blinders on, so focused with single-minded intent that he misses some of the signs. The smell of gasoline drowns out Jimin's vanilla scent.

Jin sees the fresh footprints in the dirt and draws his weapon.

That's the whole reason why it took him so long to get here, (why Jimin got here first even though he left second) He couldn't just go into an unknown setting alone unarmed, he'd had to stop back at the office to grab his vest and his FBI-issued firearm, a standard-issue Glock 17. Forghein and unwelcomed in his hands.

Even Jin will admit that he’s not the best marksman, (Jin had barely passed his exam a few years back, and continually has to study and practice for his re-certification every 6 months.) Jin does not prefer to be armed. If he wasn’t alone, if he didn’t go by himself for this, He might not have brought his weapon at all.

Jin enters through the front door; the old hanger doors are already open. Feet crunching on the gravel. Jin can feel his heartbeat in his fingers, how hard he’s holding the gun, he’s never had to discharge it during a field excursion before. How unbecoming of a director, how green of him. He lacks this experience.

The tip of the weapon shakes because he's holding it so hard. Jin feels like he can feel the breath of unseen eyes on the back of his neck. Someone is here, he knows it.

Jin walks into the atrium, gun at the ready, turning the corner when he sees them.

One masked man is bending over another a body, already strewn across the floor and dead. the man's mask litters the floor in red shards. Jin sees the gun in the living man's hands, gloved, Jin snaps his hand up and aims before he can really take in the details of the scene.

“Stop! FBI! Put your hands where I can see them!”

The man at the other end of the room tilts his head and does not speak, red mask flashing in the half-light. There is a single breath where the man does not move, just looks at Jin with that tilted face. silent. But then he takes off, running like his life depends on it. bolting down a corridor and out of range of Jin’s accuracy on the best of days.

Jin fires a shot and misses. It hits the metal wall with a loud clink and a bright spark, ricocheting off into space.

Jin curses and takes off after the killer, skidding in the dust and bashing into the wall, gun banning against the door with a loud metallic clang as he slides through it, running from hall to hall trying to get a good shot.

Every time Jin crests a turn and tries to aim, the man rounds another, darting through the maze of hallways and shipping containers.

Jin has longer legs and is taller and faster than his target. He catches up to them by the stairs, the man turns and hesitates again. If Jin were less adrenaline high he might already realize they've tucked their gun away.

“Stop or I’ll shoot!”

The criminal bolts up the stairs and Jin goes too. Up and up and up onto the catwalk. Feet clangs against the metal, the suspended walkway sways under the force of their steps, The chains clanking.

And then, at the very end, he stops.

Jimin turns, casting one glance back at him. And hesitates, the mask catches the light again. And Jimin reaches up, about to take it off. The words, "Stop baby it's me." Already hovering on the edge of his lips.

He never gets the chance to say them. Jin’s finger finds the trigger, and the gun fires in a gorgeous explosion of gunpowder and force. Fire made small, and love made lethal.

Jimin hits the wall from the force of the bullet, hitting the latch at the back of his head.

The mask falls off.

~-~

Please Like, Comment, and Reblog <3 every word helps motivate me to write the next chapter!

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Notes:

Everybody lives nobody dies.

Let me repeat that again NOBODY DIES, no one, not even Jimin. He’s just gonna be a little bloody from this, that’s all, before you get angry and yell at me.

I could have made this more convoluted, but I decided not too because…I simply did not want to stage a chapter between this one and the next one.

Jimin’s autistic meltdowns look a whole lot like mine do, I know they’re not typically what other people associate with meltdowns. But going nonverbal and stimming with your body (pacing) is very on par with me.

I felt like we needed to see a little bit of the jinmin dynamic before you know…Jin shoots him, just for funsies. And to talk about how Jimin loves.

A lot of people expressed a desire for Jimin to have some sort of concenquence for the way he treated Tae when she came out, just the part where he needed space, and for him not helping the m/c when he could have. I think this is his penance for that, getting shot by Jin, getting betrayed- however unintentionally- by someone he loves is the justice for those moments. I’ve always been stalwart on the fact that the bily charecters act sort of terribly sometimes because real people act terribly too, they’re dynamic in the way that they love and handle their actions.

On the subject of like- who framed what and explaining the events of the chapter, moonbyul and Hyejin are orchestrating everything. They pay Jimin MOSTLY because they know how suspicious it is and are trying to do anything they can to expose Jin to him. The scene in the industrial park goes exactly the way they wanted it too…accept that Jimin will live. They didn’t count on Jin being a poor shot lol

They are trying not only to manipulate the m/c away from the pack, but destabilize them to try and make the m/c come to them. Having one packmate kill another is definitely they way they wanted to do this. They’d 1000% just kill everyone if they thought that would give them the m/c but they’re attempting to manipulate her into coming to them rather than just abducting her point blank.

Funnily enough this is one cannon-cannon event of bily like, Jin was always going to shoot Jimin. If you go back and forth in other chapters you can see that Jin is almost constantly touching Jimin’s shoulder. It’s up to you if you think that Jin’s bullet got close enough to Jimin’s heart to kill him or if by some luck he survived

That’s a lie I can’t lie to you guys he’s 1000% going to live through this I can’t keep secrets from you guys, no one dies in this story even if it seems like they might at times we only have one more almost death to get through.

I feel like this chapter had less flowery language than my usual ones in part because it’s got a bit from Jin’s pov and also because everyone is so scared and frozen through the whole thing.

I cannot even begin to tell you how much less stressful the next chapter of bily is than my life, like i would rather GET SHOT AGAIN then be where i currently am, with the same level of anxiety that i have.

i wish i had time to edit this more but alas! its only 2 hours until i'll post this and i'm just finishing it up.

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separatist-apologist · 16 days ago

Text

The Other Side Of The Apocalypse

What would you trade the pain for?

Summary: One last grand adventure. Rhysand had promised his father that after this final journey, he would take a wife and resign himself to inheriting his title. As it turned out, Rhysand had other plans, and so did the huntress he'd encountered in the village.

Note: Sending my love.

Read on AO3 ・Previous Chapter・Masterlist

Chapter 7/9: The Sunshine Of My Lifetime

Rhys couldn’t get the taste of Feyre out of his mouth.

He’d tried, scrubbing his teeth twice and rinsing his mouth with something minty first, before chugging a cup of wine. Still, the sweetness of her lingered, making each step toward the sixth court miserable. Rhys wanted to return to Dawn and stay for the rest of his life, ideally.

But Feyre had been the one to insist they leave, Cassian trailing just behind her. Rhys liked Cassian, trading barbs and jokes for the better part of the morning. And his presence kept Rhys from grilling Feyre about their shared kiss.

Had she done it on purpose?

Had she enjoyed herself?

Did she want to kiss him again?

Predictably, Feyre betrayed nothing, her face placid, blue eyes focused on the path before them. Thesan had taken them directly to the border with a casual remark about the tunnels between Dawn, Day, and Night closed for obvious reasons. Feyre had nodded sagely, but Rhys had no fucking idea what that mean. Closed for what obvious reason?

Cassian walked between the pair of them, talking about anything and everything while Feyre stared into the distance. The air had become warmer and more humid with each step they took toward the Day Court palace. They should have asked Thesan to winnow them straight to the door.

Did there need to be so many rocky hillsides? Did the sun need to be so unrelenting? The sky so cloudless?

“Tell me about Day Court,” Rhys said, trying to distract himself from how sweaty he was, and more so with how sweaty Feyre was. Tendrils of golden brown hair curled around her face while little beads of sweat slid down her neck, tracing a path he’d like to follow with his tongue.

“You mean Prythian’s best court?” Cassian asked, earning a dark look from Feyre. “Day Court is home of countless scholars and even more libraries. All the knowledge of our people is housed here. It was the first court to be subdued in the ah…curse. The rest fell like dominoes.” “What can I expect?” Rhys heard himself asking, eyes darting from the unending hillsides stretched before him and Feyre half hidden by Cassian’s bulk.

Cassian only shrugged, wings pulled tight. “I guess we’ll find out together.”

“Are you going to be helping?” Feyre snapped, wiping her brow on the back of her hand.

“Oh, I’ll leave that to you two humans,” Cassian replied with a grin. “I just need to speak with the prince.”

“The one who owes you money?”

“Lucien,” Cassian agreed, far more forthcoming than Feyre had ever been. “I haven’t seen him since the curse. I never thought I’d miss the bastard.”

“We just need to get in and get out,” Feyre said in that straightforward way of hers.

“Eager to see the Lord of Night?” Cassian questioned. “You’re on your own for that fight.”

“Tell me about him,” Rhys said quickly, earning an exasperated sigh from Feyre.

“He can’t—he’s bound by the magic of the curse,” she said as Cassian opened and closed his mouth wordlessly. “They aren’t supposed to help us.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t tag along, see you get to the final trial in one piece,” Cassian said. It was more than that, though. Cassian had a mate riding on the outcome of things, and Rhys didn’t think he’d leave until she was either freed, or they were all dead. He couldn’t help, but that didn’t mean he had to stand idly by, either.

He almost asked Cassian to just fly them there. Surely, with all those muscles, he could handle it. “There it is,” Feyre murmured, pointing at a blinding light in the distance. The palace, Rhys realized, with spires that seemed to touch the sun itself. The golden dome reflected the sunlight back at them, causing him to shield his eyes with his hands the closer they got.

Unlike the other courts, the Day Court palace was situated atop a winding hilltop they were forced to climb, overlooking what must have once been a bustling city. Where had everyone gone? Had they fled? He wanted to open the doors of the empty homes and try and make sense of it.

Feyre trailed ahead, her back to Rhys. It was a nightmare—he couldn’t focus on anything but the sway of her hips and the way her braid moved back and forth from her shoulder to her spine. Cassain hung back, his expression wary, nostrils flared.

“I’ll leave you here,” he murmured, not getting close to the entrance of the palace.

“What about the prince?”

“I’ll talk to him when this is all resolved,” Cassian said, wings flaring. Rhys started to ask what he knew, but Feyre had vanished within the palace and Rhys felt compelled to follow her. The air smelled salty both inside and outside the expansive, marble palace. Was it beautiful? Perhaps the most beautiful place he’d ever seen?

The temperature dropped considerably once they were out of the sun, offering immediate relief. He could have used some water, but all things considered, Rhys was feeling a lot better than he had a few moments earlier. He jogged after Feyre, who was all but sprinting through the palace.

“Where are you going?” he asked, reaching out for her arm. “I’ve been trying to talk to you all day.”

“Rhys,” she breathed, and was it his imagination or were her cheeks flushed? Eyes dark? Fuck, he wanted to kiss her. “We need to just…do this.”

“We do?” he gaped, mouth falling open.

Feyre exhaled, her breath sweet against his face. When had he gotten so close. “The trial. We need…Rhys…”

“Just one kiss,” he murmured, sliding his palm over her cheek. He was so close—his lips all but touching hers, when the sound of shoes on marble began to echo around them.

All of Prythian was conspiring against him, he thought as Feyre skittered back, hands balled to fists at her sides. With her back pressed to the wall, Feyre turned to the hall where the obvious High Lord approached. Rhys would have known him even without the obnoxious golden crown set atop his onyx hair.

“The human who has come to save my home,” he said, offering an outstretched hand to Rhys. He ignored Feyre entirely as if he didn’t see her, and though Rhys bristled that he was getting all the credit, he accepted the warm hand all the same. “Welcome to Rhodes.”

Rhys offered what he hoped was a charming smile, trying to match the man—male—before him.

“Helion Spell-Cleaver,” Feyre said smoothly, unbothered in a way Rhys could only ever hope to achieve. “I thought you were locked up.”

“Life finds a way,” he replied, not bothering to explain himself to either of them. “Where’s Cassian?”

“How do you know Cassian is here?”

Helion rolled golden eyes, turning to look wholly at Feyre. Rhys didn’t like the look on the fae males face—that unguarded lust, that open hunger. It didn’t help that Helion was, by far, the most beautiful man—male—they’d encountered thus far. It didn’t help that he wore a white piece of material wrapped around his waist and secured with a heavy, circular piece of gold shaped like the sun, an arm cuff, and some wrist braces and absolutely nothing else.

He might as well have been naked—Rhys could all but see the curve of his ass beneath the cloth.

“I can scent him,” Helion replied.

“You know why he didn’t come in.”

Helion sighed. “This may be my last opportunity. Ah, well. You’re here…where did you start?”

Feyre’s eyes flickered to Rhys before she looked back at Helion. “Spring.”

“Is my court all that’s left?”

“And night,” she murmured, her voice taking on a softer quality. “But the others are liberated.”

There was a question lingering that the male didn’t dare ask, though his expression seemed to burn with it. He merely shrugged his shoulders as if it didn’t matter, glancing at Rhys again. “It won’t be as easy to liberate my home.”

“Respectfully, we killed a dragon,” Rhys snapped, his temper getting the better of him. Helion was walking around, wasn’t he? How bad could it be? He just wanted to get things over with so he could corner Feyre somewhere and demand she talk to him about what had happened earlier.

We kissed!

Feyre glanced away, eyes lingering on the floor beneath them.

“Drinking the wine makes it worse,” Helion told her before gesturing for them both to follow. “The task itself is simple. Walk through the throne room and destroy the burning incense.” Rhys’ steps faltered. “That’s it?”

Surely there was more to it. Helion threw Rhys a smile that irritated him and nodded. “That’s it.”

“Why haven’t you done it, then?”

“Rhys,” Feyre hissed, clearly frustrated. Helion only chuckled, pulling open the double doors to his throne room. The smell was cloyingly sweet and strangely salty, choking Rhys’s lungs as he blinked away tears. Coughing, Rhys waved at the fog in front of his face. Was it poison, then? Something the fae could withstand but would kill himself and Feyre?

He turned around to step back in the hall, but the doors had swung shut behind him. Helion was sauntering toward the large, golden throne situated upon an elevated dais. The floor itself was littered with pillows and bodies…all of which were naked. Were they dead?

No, he realized as hands began gliding up torsos. It was…it was…

“Is this an orgy?” Rhys whispered, eyes massive.

“We just…we walk across…the room,” Feyre reminded him, her eyes strangely unfocused. Rhys couldn’t stop staring at her. She’d put on clean clothes made of fine, Dawn Court material—the flowing white pants hugged her hips and the pale pink top shifted and rustled with each breath, revealing little bits of her tanned torso. The little wisps of hair framed her beautiful face and when she looked up at him, Rhys was struck by just how much smaller than him she was.

How they might fit together.

“Feyre,” he murmured, walking toward her. They had a moment. It was strange how easy it was to forget what was happening in that cavernous room. The sunlight pouring through open windows illuminated her form, turning the dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose into a glowing constellation of stars.

Her lips parted, but no words escaped.

“You kissed me,” he reminded her, reaching for her face. Her skin was soft beneath his palm, and he could resist running his thumb over her plush lips. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Neither can I,” she admitted, sliding her fingers over his wrist to hold his hand in place. “But Rhys—”

“Let me just…” he lowered his face, waiting for the resistance to come. Feyre only tilted her chin toward him, her grip tightening.

“Just one,” she whispered.

“Just one,” he swore. There would be others when they finished their embarrassingly simple task. He’d kiss her for luck, they’d destroy the incense, and then he’d ask for a private room and see what he could get away with.

It was better than the first one. Perhaps because it lacked urgency, or simply because he knew she was seeing him. Really seeing him, touching him, offering herself to him. Rhys couldn’t help the groan that escaped him, teeth scraping her bottom lip. Feyre pressed closer, hand leaving his wrist to grip his shoulders. He was barely conscious of himself, especially when she sighed against his lips, nails digging through the fabric of his shirt.

Rhys hadn’t realized he’d hauled her up into the air until her legs wrapped around his waist, causing her body to rub against his erection. Fuck. In the list of things he hadn’t noticed, his rapidly hardening cock was one of them. The other was the room they were in slowly coming to life. The once lethargic bodies began to rouse themselves, touching and tasting without concern for who might be watching.

Rhys could relate to that. He was only peripherally aware of his surroundings, especially when Feyre’s tongue slid into his mouth. Mother above, but Rhys lost all sense of self at that moment. She tasted better than he’d dreamt, hazy and sweet in a dizzying concoction. Rhys needed…he needed more. He was desperate, quenching his thirst for the first time in his life.

She tugged at his hair, pulling his head back so she could all but devour him. Rhy’s knees shook, though he remained standing only through the grace of the gods above them.

“Walk, Rhys,” she pleaded, her voice breathless with arousal. That’s what she said. What he heard her say, however, was a different matter entirely.

Fuck me until I forget my name, Rhys.

He took a step, stopping when her thighs clenched around his middle. How was he supposed to do anything? All he could think about was the sweet taste of pear and lilac invading his senses and how her breasts kept rubbing against his chest.

“Not like this,” he whispered, well aware that he’d take her however she offered herself. Even here, in this place, surrounded by strangers that both watched and touched and tasted within inches of themselves.

“Stop talking,” Feyre replied, teeth grazing his bottom lip. Who was he to argue with her? After everything they’d been through and everything they’d seen, didn’t they deserve a chance to relax? To enjoy themselves after what felt like months of non-stop fighting and walking and faerie politics. He wasn’t convinced they’d survive, and worse still, was his fear that when it was over, she’d want nothing to do with him again.

He’d see her in the village, pass by without any recognition in her eyes. She’d find some other man, one who suited her better, and Rhys would spend the rest of his life like his father—mourning a woman he’d lost and punishing everyone around him for his misery.

His arm was wrapped around her waist, free hand gripping her hair tight enough he could feel the tension on her scalp. She couldn’t leave him. He simply wouldn’t allow it.

Their mouths collided in a symphony of pent-up need. Rhys groaned at the taste of her, sweet and heady just the way he remembered. Feyre was voracious, untethered from whatever restraint typically bound her. Raking her nails through his hair, Feyre gripped him just as tightly as he held her, holding him in place with each rough, frantic kiss.

They weren’t the only ones, though they were rapidly becoming one of the few left with their clothes on. Rhys was vaguely aware of what was happening around him, just as he was aware that he was still dressed even when he didn’t want to be.

Feyre, either, it seemed, given that she reached for the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head without a second thought. Rhys stared, momentarily blinded by her undergarments which she quickly removed as well. Feyre was there, in his arms, without a shirt. Rhys didn’t know how to act—sure, he’d seen other women without their clothes on.

He’d never seen this woman without a shirt, though. And right then, he may as well have never seen a pair of breasts in his life. They were perfect, deserving of poetry sonnets, of portraits hung in the palaces of kings, of the sort of worship he would never master. That didn’t stop him from walking six steps to the left toward an elevated platform where the High Lords throne sat. Helion was otherwise occupied by two males and a female perched rather neatly atop his face.

Rhys was jealous of the scene—he wanted Feyre on his face, too. He’d take whatever he could get, and right then what he’d managed was setting her atop the purple cushioned seat so he could fall to his knees before her as nothing more than her eager supplicant.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, chest flushed as it rose and fell rapidly. Feyre’s eyes, usually a pretty, starlit blue, were so dark they seemed black to him.

“What I should have done the day I met you,” he replied, well aware he had no authority to make her a princess anywhere but in his own life. Maybe that was enough? Worshiping only at her altar, restructuring his worldview so she was the most central star illuminating his otherwise dreary world.

It was a simple thing to unlace her boots and toss them behind him. Running his hands up her thighs, Rhys swore he felt heat emanating from just between. Maybe it was wishful thinking–he wouldn’t know until he got his hands and face between them. He hated those well-made pants, hated the way she knotted the laces at the waistband and how clumsy his large fingers felt trying to undo the knot. Feyre merely watched, tugging at her braided hair as if she were nervous.

He managed to undo the laces, relieved when she lifted her hips to help him shimmy her out of them. There she was, wholly naked, perched atop that throne with flushed cheeks and bitten lips. He didn’t know what to do, suddenly, his mind clouded by desire and indecision. What if she didn’t like whatever he did? What if she woke in the morning and changed her mind?

What if you overthink this and never get another change?

Rhys leaned up on his aching knees, ignoring his own discomfort to kiss her again.

And again.

He forgot he was wedged between her legs, so caught up in the taste of her mouth and how good her tongue felt stroking his own. He needed nothing more, he thought. Rhys’ mind couldn’t stay focused on his long term goals. Kissing her felt good and that was all that mattered. He had time, besides. They didn’t need to go anywhere else. There was no rush to the act, no great hurry. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he felt that wasn’t quite true.

He’d worry about it later. How often was the woman of his dreams splayed out naked before him? Rhys pulled away, breathless and desperate. Ignoring his aching cock rubbing against his own trousers, which suddenly felt uncomfortably tight. His indecision left him the moment his fingers grazed her exposed navel, tracing a few errant freckles dotted along her ribcage.

His hands found her breasts, teasing the peaked nipple with the rough padding of his thumbs. Feyre arched her neck upward, eyes fluttering shut. She liked that. Rhys felt the way a dog must when praised by its master—all he wanted was to please her. It felt instinctual, like his purpose and reasoning for being. Rhys dared to lower his mouth, taking that same nipple into his mouth. Feyre cried out softly, a mere whisper of pleasure that ignited an inferno within him. He forgot himself, trying to elicit that sound again. While his tongue worked, making promises he fully intended to keep, his fingers began to push apart her legs.

It was curiosity, truly, that made him want to touch her. He wanted to know if she was half as aroused as he was—if she felt the same way. Feyre was so guarded, so careful with her emotions and Rhys never quite knew where he stood with her. Her body wouldn’t lie, though—if she was aroused, he’d know.

Gliding his fingers through her cunt, he found a mess. He could have wept at how wet she was, how easily he slid right into her. Rhys wanted to abandon all logic, replace his fingers, and fuck her until the two of them passed out in a heap of sweaty limbs.

Maybe just a taste, he reasoned to himself. That was all he needed. It was a pretty lie bouncing around his skull, and the realization he’d lied to himself, however trivial, pulled him back to reality for just a moment.

The throne room had devolved into a mass of writhing bodies performing every sexual act imaginable. Twisting to look behind him, Rhys’ mouth fell open at the sight of all those entangled limbs. Never in his life had he seen anything like what was happening before him, the pure bacchanalian display momentarily stunning him.

He was supposed to be ending this—he remembered, now. The incense was still burning, still close enough that he could simply rise back to his feet and extinguish it. It would be so easy, too—but Rhys lacked the willpower. His mistake was looking back at Feyre, legs draped over each arm of the throne, displaying the prettiest cunt he’d ever seen.

Was he supposed to tell her no? Rhys would rather be trapped by the curse forever than have her think he was rejecting her. It wasn’t going anywhere, he repeated to himself as he trailed his tongue down the flat plain of her stomach. He’d already forgotten what it was—but he trusted he’d remember later—when it mattered.

All that mattered to him then was the woman in front of him. Something was happening to him—something that had never happened before. Warmth flooded down to his very marrow, his chest tight as he struggled to draw breath. He glanced up at Feyre and her midnight dark eyes and wondered if she knew what this feeling was.

He could guess, but if he sat back to untangle it, he’d ruin everything. She didn’t want to hear it—Rhys knew her well enough to know the unspoken truth between them, that there was only so much Feyre could handle at any given time. There, vulnerable and naked, eyes pleading with him to finish what they’d begun, Rhys didn’t dare say a word.

He merely pressed a kiss to her inner thigh, the realization clanging like a bell in his head.

I’m in love with you.

Two courts, he reminded himself, kissing the other leg while holding her gaze. They’d figure out how to undo the curse in Day, and move on to Night, and then…and then they’d be free. Forever changed by what they’d seen and lived through, bonded and connected just as surely as any chain between them, only this one seemed to be wrapped around his heart rather than his wrist. He needed her, and he didn’t believe she didn’t need him, even if she thought she could rely only on herself.

She’d gone to the ends of the earth for her sisters, had risked life and liberty to see them unshackled from whatever spell housed them. Rhys simply meant to be that for her. He’d make the same journey to save her, would give up everything for her if she asked. Already, on his knees before her, his queen, his goddess, his northernmost star, Rhys would have done anything she asked of him.

And more.

He was close to reciting poetry, which seemed a shame given Rhys didn’t know any poetry. He’d studied it, once, but he’d been too busy screwing around with his friends and his sword to commit any of it to memory. What a waste, he thought, gaze slipping to the wet, pink cunt before him. Feyre’s body deserved at least a ballad at the very least. A sonnet or two about her perfect form. Surely someone must have.

He’d kill them.

Feyre raked her fingers through his hair, pushing at his face gently, though he wished she’d be rough. Tell him what to do—that was her way, after all. It seemed uncharacteristic of her to leave the decision in his hands when Rhys had come to enjoy being bossed around by a woman not half his weight or height. Rhys smothered a smile and finished what Feyre had started.

It was magic moving them, and magic that made her taste like some sort of elixir that granted immortality. Rhys couldn’t stifle the moan that rose up threw his throat and seemed to echo louder than the music around them. Fuck. Was it just anticipation, or something else? He didn’t know—didn’t care. His tongue found her again, licking slowly up the length of her and back down. Feyre’s hair was falling from his clasp, longer than he remembered as the long, golden brown strands framed her flushed face. She seemed otherworldly to him, shimmering with the same need that he felt bubbling in his blood.

Rhys forgot how his knees were aching, the cold marble seeping through his trousers to lodge itself against his spine. For all he knew, they were floating in some ethereal plane, the only two people left in the world. This was what he’d been born to do, and it would take the very gods themselves to pull him off her.

Or Feyre herself.

She surged forward, pushing him back without any care or concern for his comfort. Rhys grinned, landing flat on his back not far from a writhing group of women moaning and touching in a display that ought to have fascinated him. Feyre, however, climbed atop him, straddling his waist with a sly smile on his face.

“You look tired,” she all but purred, pulling at his shirt. He was quick to help her, tossing it somewhere in the room before both her fingers and his went scrambling for the clasps on his trousers. It was erotic to watch her undo them, even as he gracelessly kicked himself out of his boots. She peered down at him, running her hand over his stomach with that same smile that made him feel out of his mind with lust.

“I wasn’t done,” he complained, afraid she was going to try and repay the favor. “I need you to come on my tongue.”

Feyre blinked, digesting his words before color stole over her chest and up her neck. Was this what embarrassed her? Absurd. Rhys reached for her before she could squirm away and with relatively little effort, positioned her over his face. Finally, a warrior's death, he thought to himself. With both arms wrapped around her to keep her from pulling away, Rhys went back to the feasting from before. She was dripping wet, making a mess of his face, and Rhys had never been happier.

He’d just assumed she’d ride his face—that was what he wanted, anyway. Her hips rolled over him as she sighed breathlessly just before she shifted. Rhys held tightener before his back arched off the cool, marble floor, just in time to realize Feyre was only readjusting so she could take his cock in her mouth.

Fuck.

The memory of his task slipped back to the forefront of his mind at the same time her soft tongue slid down the length of him. Who cared anymore? Rhys didn’t hate the fae like he once had, but right then, he didn’t care if they suffered under the same subjugation he’d promised to unravel. All he cared about was Feyre spread out over his face while she sucked him. Nothing else was important—nothing else mattered.

Rhys had time, for once, to do everything he wanted. It was tempting to lap at her frantically, to draw her upward just to prove he could, to know what she sounded like when she came. He had to force himself to slow down, to temper his excitement with the reminder that he had time. They had nowhere to be and nothing important to do.

That lasted for all of ten seconds. Feyre gagged as she tried to take more than half of him, the sound shooting straight to his balls. Forced to clench his cheeks to keep from coming prematurely, and desperate from excitement, Rhys redoubled his efforts over her cunt, tongue swirling and teasing her clit until Feyre’s rhythm faltered. Bolstered by his success and drunk off the knowledge she wanted him, Rhys continued licking and sucking at her clit until Feyre screamed. Her legs clamped around his head, keeping him in place while preventing him from taking a full breath of air. Rhys simply rode it out while taking her through her orgasm without stopping.

Feyre fell forward, cheek pressed to his thigh. “It’s not enough,” she moaned, echoing his own thoughts. Scrambling off him, Feyre tugged at his arm to pull him to his feet. He did as she demanded, wishing for some of his usual eloquence. He wanted to tell her he felt the same way, that his blood was thudding painfully in his chest.

“It’s magic,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. Rhys’s heart sank, his mind once again returning to the task at hand. She was looking at him, but he turned to look at the bowl of incense. He didn’t want to destroy it—was it so bad to be trapped here like this? Together?

It wasn’t real. Rhys found his pants laying in a heap and grabbed them as she tried to reach for his arm and pull him back.

It’s magic, it’s magic, it’s magic.

Not like this.

It was agony to leave here standing there, to feel her eyes burning against his back. Worse to pull those trousers over his raging erection while his blood thrummed, beating in time with her own heart. Rhys knew how he felt—the spell merely enhanced what was already there. Did she feel it? Or was she merely trapped? The thought ate at him, ravaging him until his heart felt like a ruined wasteland.

It was easy to get to the bowl of incense, and easier still to raise it over his head before throwing it to the ground. The little flame extinguished as the pottery shattered irrevocably, spilling sweetly scented oil all over his bare feet. The moaning and sounds of copulating slowed to halt as the music came to a grinding halt.

Rhys turned to find those once writhing masses slowly untangling themselves, blinking as though waking from a dream. Feyre was scrambling for something—his shirt, he realized, which engulfed her in the stained white fabric. She wasn’t looking at him, though her cheeks still bore the tell-tale flush.

No, Feyre was looking at a very naked Helion. “Lucien,” she said, the only person who spoke at that moment.

“Go,” Helion ordered and just like that, Feyre raced out of the room, leaving Rhys standing there feeling like a fool. She had his shirt, so Rhys couldn’t fully dress though it was better than Helion who didn’t seem to care at all. Rhys supposed if he looked as good as Helion did without clothes on, he’d strut around, too.

“Fifty years,” Helion said as Rhys joined him, Feyre’s clothes and their shoes all heaped in his arms. “I’ll need about that long to recover.”

“At least it wasn’t a dragon,” Rhys heard himself saying, barely aware of the conversation at all. He could still taste Feyre in his throat, could still feel the weight of her on his body. He would have liked those fifty years—nobility was for those with a moral sense of righteousness.

He simply didn’t want her to hate him.

Helion put a hand on Rhys’ bare shoulder, golden eyes filled with nothing but a mixture of relief and sadness. “I owe you everything. Tell me how I can repay you.”

“A room?” Rhys asked, at a loss for what this man could give him. All he wanted had left the room, another man’s name on her lips. For all he knew, Feyre loved that man, had been thinking only of him while Rhys touched her. Jealousy was an ugly emotion and as Helion walked him through the warm, sprawling palace, all Rhys could think about was Lucien.

Who was he? Why did she care? He remembered Cassian mentioning Lucien, the memory returning in a haze. Lucien was a faerie prince. How did he compete with that? Everyone they’d met had been impossibly beautiful and powerful, and for all he knew, Feyre had been silently trying to free the prince alongside her sisters.

Feyre was nowhere to be found. Helion promised to tell Feyre where he was when he saw her next, his face unreadable as he took one last look at Rhys before closing the door. Rhys wanted to smash the room to pieces. Petulantly, he wanted to leave Feyre to finish the task on her own. The thought of abandoning her made his chest ache and water prick at the corners of his eyes.

So she loved another man. That didn’t mean he didn’t still love her. He was simply disappointed that she might not want him back—that despite what he’d told himself in that throne room, he had been hoping she returned his feelings.

Rhys took time to bathe, pleased to find clothes laid out on the bed for him. He wasn’t alone, though Cassian was hardly the company he wanted right then. Sprawled out on his bed casually, his leathered armor swapped out for the same loose pants and shirt that Rhys had been given, Cassian seemed as irreverent as usual.

“Want to get a drink?”

“Make it a double,” Rhys said, returning the smile.

“I know just the place. This whole palace reeks,” Cassian said, wrinkling his nose. It was easy to like Cassian, perhaps because he seemed so very human—minus the wings on his back. His ears were rounded, his eyes a very normal hazel, and his face looked as if it belonged to a regular man rather than an immortal creature capable of ripping him apart with their bare hands. He didn’t doubt Cassian could if he wanted to. The glowing siphons on his person certainly suggested he commanded some sort of magic—Feyre had explained it all to him once, but Rhys didn’t remember.

He didn’t want to think about Feyre at the moment.

Cassian let Rhys dress, pointedly turning his back without leaving the room. “Where’s Fey?” he asked casually.

“With Lucien,” Rhys spat, his hatred irrational.

Cassian chuckled. “I’d say we should rescue her, but maybe she deserves whatever hell he’s currently giving her.”

Rhys bristled. “Why would he give her anything but his gratitude? She just rescued him—”

“You don’t know Lucien, but he can be…difficult…at times,” Cassian replied, running a hand through his shoulder length hair.

“How do they know each other?”

“I’ll let Feyre tell that story if she wants. Lucien hates humans, and well…Feyre doesn’t, obviously. So their friendship has always been interesting.”

Friendship. “Does she see him often?”

“Too often, I think, given he’s mated to her sister. I’m sure he’s waging war on Elain’s behalf, pissed they’ve been separated for so long.”

The knot that had settled in his stomach seemed to untangle. “Mated?”

“Married,” Cassian amended, tucking his wings tight against his back. “It's a similar principle.”

“Marriage implies choice,” Rhys heard himself saying, a frown stretched over his lips. “What if your mate wants to leave you?”

True anger seemed to shine on Cassian’s face before he banished it with a shake of his head. “You don’t understand. It’s…she’s half my soul. I could no sooner leave her than I could leave my own body.”

“Surely not all matches are happy.” It didn’t seem possible that fate could select people who got along flawlessly and created nothing but incandescently, happy pairs.

“They’re not,” Cassian agreed. “There are plenty of unhappy pairs—you have a choice to accept the bond. Lucien and Elain had a hard time of it—”

“Because he hates humans?” Rhys asked, piecing Feyre’s life together

Cassian chuckled. “Among other things. Lucien can be a real, arrogant bastard.”

“Feyre doesn’t have a mate?” Rhys asked suddenly, uninterested in the Day Court faerie prince and his love life. He recalled slaying Tamlin and the relationship that had existed between them. Had she dragged him into this to kill a mate she didn’t want?

“I’m sure she does,” Cassian replied as he stared studiously ahead. “Everyone does—even humans.”

Cassian didn’t need to explain to Rhys that if he had a mate, he wasn’t going to feel it the way the fae could. Feyre, too, would never know if he was hers. Would she always wonder given her sister's circumstances? Would it be enough?

Could he be enough? Feyre didn’t seem to hold any love for the culture or people, even if somehow she knew all of them by name. Maybe, once it was all done and she was certain of her sister's safety, she’d want a little peace. He could give her that. Hells, if she wanted he’d live in this land though preferably far from the sprawling palaces of the High Lords.

Rhys had two drinks with Cassian down in the emptied city—where was everyone? The winged male seemed in high spirits, grinning and laughing as he told story after story about battles Rhys wished he could have seen. He was jealous of Cassian’s long life and the things he’d seen, of the things he’d do before it was all over.

He had to half carry Cassian back to the palace, leaving him in a patch of grass beneath an olive tree. “This is perfect,” Cassian had mumbled, snoring before Rhys had taken more than three steps. Maybe he should have let himself get obliterated, too, but Rhys was hoping to talk to Feyre. He thought he might die if she decided she wanted to pretend nothing had happened between them.

He just needed to tell her how he felt, he decided. Fumbling for a light switch in the room he’d been given, Rhys decided he’d just tell her he was in love with her. He’d— “Feyre?”

He was drunker than he thought, because surely that wasn’t his Feyre, kneeling on the end of his bed in a nightdress so sheer, she may as well be wearing nothing at all. Her hair was unbound, the ends curling ever so slightly as they hung over her shoulders

Rhys turned to look over his shoulder, back down the dark hall he’d come from. Rubbing his eyes, he turned back to his room, certain he’d be alone.

She was still there, cheeks red, lips pink and swollen. Rhys closed the door softly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked, trying to project calm when his insides were turning over.

“Can you?” she replied, her sultry tone settling at the base of his cock. He hadn’t forgotten that she’d had her mouth on it, though right then his mouth began to replay the way her tongue had felt, how her lips had wrapped themselves around him. His stomach tightened from excitement. Please.

He shrugged. “Not really.”

Feyre uncurled her legs from beneath her body, bare toes touching the floor as she straightened herself. The little nightdress she wore was a joke—he could have shredded the delicate cloth with his teeth if he so chose to. And gods, did Rhys want to rip it ribbons with his teeth. Feyre was in charge, though, so he remained as still as he could manage while she sauntered forward. His eyes fell to the swing of her hips, visible beneath the cloth. The neckline scooped low enough that he could see the swell of her breasts while the hem just shimmed the uppermost part of her thighs.

He was dreaming. This wasn’t real. It was a fantasy.

“Neither can I,” she told him, pulling him closer by the laces on his trousers. Rhys had to remind himself to breathe.

“What are you doing?” he whispered, afraid he might ruin everything with that question. “Are you well?”

“I’m tired of pretending I don’t feel it, too,” she said, deftly pulling the strings until they were unknotted. “That I don’t want you.”

That may have been the most erotic thing that had happened to him all day. Rhys froze as she pushed his pants to his ankles, revealing his already rigid cock. “I didn’t get to finish,” she told him, sliding to her knees before him. Her fingertips skimmed over his thighs, drawing a shiver up his spine.

“Feyre,” he whispered, unsure what he planned to say. She ignored him, licking his shaft from root to tip while Rhys had to employ every ounce of his will to keep from falling to the ground in a boneless heap. His mind barely worked, though he had enough thought to gather up her hair and pull it off her face.

Feyre took him into his mouth, eyes pinned to his face. All the air available to him punched out of his lungs, leaving him gaping like a fish. He had to remind himself to take a breath, that passing out in front of her was unlikely to make her want to touch him again.

“You don’t—” The next slide of her mouth silenced him. She didn’t have to do this, but why was he trying to stop her? He wanted this so badly it made his teeth ache. Rhys wasn’t above begging, either. If she stopped, he thought he might die. He’d take her however he could get, though he was hoping he might manage to take a little more from her.

That he could give her something, too. Rhys wanted to take her out of her clothes, lay her out, and show her what he felt. He didn’t move, drinking her in as he fisted the soft strands of her hair between his trembling fingers. Right then, Rhys would have given anything for faerie powers—if only to tell her, mind to mind, all the things he wanted to do to her.

He groaned instead, spreading his legs wider as she worked him slowly. It was exquisite—better than anything he’d ever felt in his life. If he died right then, he could have died satisfied with his life. He couldn’t pretend Feyre on her knees before him didn’t please him immensely, especially after everything they’d shared together.

He wondered what she’d make of this if he could go back to when they met and smugly inform her that one day, she’d willingly take his cock in her mouth. Likely nothing pleasant—something that had an arrow pointed directly at his cock. He would have deserved it, too.

Release built along his spine, his arousal and desperation pushing him toward the edge far quicker than he wanted. He needed to draw things out—he needed to be inside her. Feyre moaned around his cock, convincing him she needed the same thing. Rhys reached for her and Ferye sprang up with far more athleticism than Rhys thought he possessed—his knees would never allowed for him to come up so quickly.

Their mouths collided, frenzied and hungry and oh, it felt good to know she felt the way he did. Rhys was unspooled and undone, desperate and dizzy as he tried to both get that stupid night dress over her head and walk toward the bed.

He’d once considered himself graceful, though not anymore. They collapsed in a heap of elbows and half-discarded clothes, unwilling to stop what they were doing for even a moment, and thank the gods for that. She was undressing him with clumsy fingers, though somehow managed to get him out of his shirt before he gave up and did what he’d wanted from the start—Rhys ripped the night dress from neck to hem in one solid, fluid move.

Gripping his waist with her thighs, Feyre flipped him to his back, fingernails digging in his bare chest. She was naked again, and oh, Rhys wished he could draw. He wanted to keep an image of her straddling him in his pocket, folded up for his eyes only. Maybe he’d ask when she wasn’t shimming down his body so she could rub her slick cunt against his throbbing cock.

“Fuck,” he whispered, the word pushed from his gut with the force of a punch. “Feyre, please.”

“Please, what?” she practically purred in response. Gods above and the hells below, she would be the cause of his early demise.

She just barely had the upper hand. Reaching for her waist, Rhys flipped her to her back so her hair became a halo around her beautiful face. “Please, Feyre, darling,” he breathed, pressing his mouth to the hollow of her neck, “make a mess of my cock.”

She exhaled, her eyes rolling upward which was all the permission Rhys needed. He didn’t wait, sliding himself wholly into her body while she was still catching her breath. Her eyes flew open, lips parting and in a moment of panic, Rhys kissed her. He’d just assumed he wasn’t her first, given how he’d found her and her general lack of concern regarding her nudity.

“Did I—”

“Big,” she managed, tightening herself around him. Pure, masculine pride warmed his gut, propelling him forward for that first, perfect thrust.

“Tell me you want this. That you want me,” he whispered, burying his face in her neck.

“I want you,” she replied, pulling at his hair so he had to face her. “I want this.”

Gods, he could have come from those words alone. Rhys had to squeeze his ass tight to keep himself from doing so, overwhelmed by the rush of emotion. He wanted to tell her everything—the things and people he loved tended to be taken from him. Or they left him, physically or emotionally. It was easier to be guarded, to place walls around his heart and play the irreverent rake.

There was risk to vulnerability. To admit to Feyre that he both wanted and needed her. It was on the tip of his tongue, telling her that he loved her, too. Rhys wanted to—he was afraid. So afraid she didn’t feel the same, that this was some fleeting amusement, a passing fancy. Better to just take what he could get for now. If that was all she ever gave him, that was better than nothing at all. Far more preferable than a life without knowing her. A life where they turned back to strangers.

“Come back to me,” Feyre whispered, pulling him from his thoughts. The blue of her eyes centered him, settling his fears. They were here, now, and that was enough. Pumping his hips, Rhys returned to kissing her, albeit messily given he was also trying to find her clit with his clumsy fingers.

He was hanging by a thread, just barely keeping himself together. Feyre moaned when he found what he was looking for, digging her nails into his shoulder while meeting him thrust for thrust. He could feel her own need, how she convulsed around him as her own kissing became slower, less focused.

“That’s it,” he whispered, picking up the pace. He was going to finish and she wouldn’t and what then? He simply no longer had control of his body—something deep in his gut was unspooling like thread, winding its way through him as it demanded more, more, more. He couldn’t stop himself even if he’d wanted to.

There was no skill to Feyre coming mere moments before he had—only luck. He wasn’t discounting it, grateful all the same as Rhys released himself with a guttural whimper that seemed to ignite the room in blinding starlight. There was none—just the same darkness, the same bed, the same ceiling and floor.

Heart pounding, Rhys was certain things must have changed. He felt changed, and so the rest of the world must be, too. Feyre reached for him, kissing one cheek, and then the other, before her fingers skimmed over his jaw.

“You were perfect,” he told her, catching the way her eyes widened. She blinked, eyes strangely glassy.

“You’ve always been perfect,” he added, just because he thought maybe she needed to hear someone tell her that. I love you! His mind screamed, though his lips refused to give them voice.

“So are you, Rhys,” she replied, pulling him back toward her. He let her push him to his back, making a mess of his abdomen as she slung her leg over his hips. “And I’m not done with you. Not yet.”

Not ever, he hoped.

#feysand

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satoruly · 10 months ago

Text

no matter what you say or what you do

the sweet normalcy right after a routine encounter. an implicit confession the two of you may not be ready to address.

tags&warnings. MDNI, drabble, implied fwb, suggestive, hints of sub!satoru bc it's what he deserves.

psa. i was so tempted to make this a pinning long shot, yall let me know what u think! mdni banner by @/cafekitsune

“when i’m alone i’d rather be with you.”

You washed your hands while he rambled on and on as his heartbeat settled down back to its normal rhythm. He had cemented himself in the middle of the bed, staying put right where you had rolled off him as he caught his breath. The puffs leaving his lips were a reminder of the breathy whimpers he let out when he was close.

The thought made you shudder, a small smirk on your face as you recalled your previous endeavours. His voice saturated with cheeriness was so unlike his desperate pleas — please, I need to be inside you, please — and needy moans. Not that you were complaining. You loved listening to him talk. The juxtaposition was funny though. The duality of this man only made him more lovable.

He was still talking even when you came back, rambling about his adventures with Shoko and Suguru while you were locked in the library finishing a paper. The rising and falling of his chest now even, it was a no-brainer for you to lay your head right on top of him, letting his arm wrap itself around your shoulders and pull you closer.

His skin was warm against your cheek, and though you preferred to be the one embracing him, being able to be up close enough to hear the thumping of his heart going up in speed was always worth it.

“And then Suguru had to buy me a coffee because he lost the bet!” He all but giggled, either happy at his friend’s misery or happy to have gotten a triple caramel frappe with extra whipped cream and sprinkles. You could never know.

“It was about time you won one of those.” You teased, chuckling as he made a sound of complaint followed by a lazy yawn. He pulled you closer and naturally, you let your leg rest over his abdomen.

He had changed into the pair of briefs you had tossed at him after cleaning him up, kissing his nose before heading to the bathroom to fix yourself up.

It had become a bit of a routine by now. After a stressful day, night or whichever excuse any of you could find, the two of you would get together to participate in what you branded as a ‘healthy coping mechanism’. One that 9 out of 10 orthodontists would recommend, but would be discredited by any decent therapist that gathered how the lines between platonic and the antonym of platonic were starting to blur.

“You’re always so mean to me.” He whined, nuzzling his cheek on top of your head as you chuckled, fingers tracing indistinguishable patterns on the planes of your shoulder blades. He sucked in a breath before mumbling an argument in his favour, seeing as you had found his statement anything but serious. “Like, you edged me eight times tonight.”

“Because you like it!”

“It’s still mean!”

Touche. It wasn’t the best defence he could’ve come up with but your laugh was contagious. It made him forget about his cheeks, now redder than ever, and indulge in your warmth against him.

If it was up to him, he would stay like this all day.

“You're a bad stress reliever.”

Letting his hand roam down your spine as his words kissed your ears, he hooked his pointer finger around the band of your underwear, pulling on the elastic and letting go, making you yelp in surprise.

He giggled at your reaction. Also at his own antics. No matter how many times he did it, you were always caught by surprise. He was sneaky at all times. When you weren’t expecting it, the prickling of the cloth against your skin, but also when you were expecting him to do something.

Still, though you shivered in response, a poorly hidden mischievous grin always grazed your lips in return

“You wouldn’t survive a day without me.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” he sighed in utter bliss. With you next to him, your skin on his skin. He liked to think that if it were up to you, you’d choose to stay like this too. “I wouldn’t.”

#🍒 — from the vault #🍒 — jjk's version #gojo x reader #gojo fluff #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jujuts kaisen x reader

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wonysugar · 1 year ago

Text

hate rodrigo (literally) | aeri uchinaga

a/n: this is not even a fic this is a tiny little one shot that i wrote yesterday night AT LIKE TWO AM due to thoughts we had in a discord server ahem anyways I FELL ASLEEP THO. soo have this now!!

genre : really bad crack smut like i genuinely have no idea how to describe this

word count : like 600 something?

tags : one shot, smut (obvs), crack, ptv mention, falling in reverse mention, olivia Rodrigo mention, mcr mention, taylor swift mention (sorry @pupyuj)

pairing : angsty!giselle x whitegirlmusic!femreader (I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO LABEL THISSFJEKF)

your music taste wasn’t something you particularly shared with people, but you didn’t hide it, either. to you, it was music, nothing more, nothing less.

however, one of your friends, aeri, took music very, very seriously, and it really showed. she had a certain aesthetic, she wore certain things and god, did she listen to certain music.

“no like i genuinely can’t grasp the fact that you unironically listen to olivia rodrigo?” she laughed, leaning back on her bed as you stared at her in disbelief.

“god aeri, some of her songs are good, you just haven’t tried them.” you snapped back, wearing a convinced smile as you proceed to jokingly hit her arm.

“okay, sure, whatever. but just imagine getting to know someone, going on dates with them, all the sha-bang. then, when it’s time to get down and freaky, they turn on their sex playlist and motherfucking driver’s license starts playing??”

she was basically cackling at that point and you couldn’t do anything to stop it. defending your cause seemed like it would’ve been difficult, with how far up her own ass she was.

“yeah, because that isn’t a sex song? olivia rodrigo doesn’t make fucking sex music?? try putting a falling in reverse song while you get naked, see how that works out for you.” you fight back.

“oh i don’t know about you, but i’d be soaked for sure. plus, anything would be better than hearing young adult women sing about their previous relationship like it was a war they fought in.” she kid, crossing her arms in victory, as if she even won the argument in the first place.

“i’m gonna make you swallow those words right back up, uchinaga.”

“try me, l/n.”

“f-fuck y/n, go- mmh- slower..”

so, it wasn’t supposed to happen this way!

it originally was just the both of you, taking turns and putting different songs on the bluetooth speaker and rating them based on ‘how wet it got you’.

turns out, while that was a theory stage, there seemed to be a practice one too, and you’ve been in it for the past 10 minutes now.

thrusting your fake cock in and out of her, paying no mind to the very loud, very obnoxious pierce the veil song that was playing in the background, you pinned her hands above her head. your pace increased with time, and the decibels of her voice increased with the pace.

“oh my god y/n pleasepleasepleasepleasee i’m s-so sorry i- fuck me- i didn’t mean-“ she cried, poor thing probably didn’t even realize that her black eyeliner was running all over her cheeks. her arms and legs wrapped around you,

“shut your fucking mouth and take it, you emo fucking cumslut.” you slammed your strap into her as she yelled out your name. while she was pleading and begging for something, you were on top of her perfect laying-in-mcr-bedsheets body.

she, herself, wasn’t aware of what she was begging for, her mind was completely blank. all she could think about was how good her pussy felt when you pounded it so violently, when you were being so aggressive with her that you just used her body however you wanted.

you thought that whole thing would be a one-time occurrence, but no, it happened a second time, when she said that taylor swift had mid music. was she doing it on purpose or something?

anyways,

yes, you fucked her with the 1989 album playing.

#smut #kpop gg #female reader #aespa smut #aespa #smut aespa #aespa giselle smut #aespa giselle #aespa giselle x reader #aeri uchinaga x female reader #aeri uchinaga #aeri my love #giselle smut #giselle #giselle x reader

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ayyyez · 2 years ago

Note

Can you mayhap do more goshiki and Tsuki headcanons? Maybe first date, first time, first kiss etc

A/N: oh yes more of the side haikyuu boys! sure thing!

TAGS: first kiss, making out, first date, first time mentions and descriptions but not explicit, mentions of foreplay but not explicit, headcanons, Tsukki being a little shit but also a secret simp, Goshiki being a loveable dork who sometimes gets a big head lol, undercut for length

CHARACTERS: Tsukishima Kei, Goshiki Tsutomu

TSUKISHIMA KEI

First and foremost, to date this guy you gotta be able to call him out on his shit because he NEEDS that.

Doesn't matter about personality in regards to being either shy/reserved and preferring to do it in private or being confident/ outspoken and doing it right there when its needed (or any combination of them) AS LONG AS IT HAPPENS! CALL HIM OUT!

It makes Tsukki respect you, listen to you (depends on the situation on whether he follows through on the change lol) and also is what makes him attracted to you in the first place.

See the thing is he wants to be seen so you calling him out leads to banter and banter leads to a familiar rapport and eventually one of you cracking (yes cracking because its a game of how long either of you can last without spilling your feelings!) and confessing.

Definitely a confess -> date -> kiss kinda guy but in saying that these things can totally all happen in the span of a week with him.

Once the balls rolling he moves FAST

Likes chill, casual dates and your first date is no different.

Something like a cafe, a lowkey restaurant to eat or even just going over each others houses for a study date.

Prefers being out of the eyes of the public.

Will also leave the control of the date (in general), including the venue, up to you (with those previous preferences as his contribution).

When it comes to telling you this though he's kind of jerky about it (to a strangers eye anyway) as Tch-ishima makes an appearence.

'Tch, we're just hanging out like usual.' and then will add 'Shouldn't a date be just us two and away from everyone else.' While internally he's just gunning for the date to be at home lol.

It also gives him ample opportunity to go in for that first kiss. Tsukki you sly guy!

Will never admit in a million years.

Feel free to try teasing and asking him about it though!

'So did just bring me back here to try and pull this huh?' Right after a kiss.

He'll just give you one of those smirks and poke your forehead.

'I don't know did I?'

Tries to act indifferent but you see that smirk soften ever so slightly into to a the hint of a real smile.

Psh what a dork. Forever the internal simp.

While he moves fast in terms of the from first date to first kiss scene the first time comes with a bit more time.

He's ever so patient with that kind of thing and doesn't really see the whole point of rushing in unprepared that leads to everyone having an awkward ehem unpleasant time.

Okay so maybe thats a bit of a mild—not fear exactly—it's definitely a bit of a concern though. So he keeps those kisses wanting and makeouts steamy but cuts them off Jussssst~ when they're about to get good.

It's not on purpose he's just got to stay in control ya'know?

He's not letting those floodgates open until you bring it up. Maybe a part of him wants you to beg a little. It's not a must of course! He's just not opposed to it.

This is the part where you can comply or give him a little smack upside the head to reground himself. It gets a smirk either way.

Either way the first time with Tsukki comes when you ask for more and you both agree to finally (your words not his) move forward. Tsukki is the kind of guy who has the patience to wait a lifetime. No qualms.

Once you've got him going though. He's like oh damn. This is something else. Even better than those makeout sessions!

A first time with Tsukki is a more drawn out first time. It's exploratory and sensory with lots of touching and not lots of talking (unless it's from you, it's okay to be a nervous talker - he's just only going to talk when necessary or to respond).

There's definitely communication for needs from him he's just not the type to have a chat during (at least in the first time and early days).

He also has a concentration frown and sometimes he's biting his lip so hard your afraid it's going to break and bleed. It's cute honestly.

Lots of foreplay before the main act. Lots of exploratory touching. There's no jumping in even though it's the first time. He takes his time and his patience can be frustrating at this point if you wanna just GO.

He can get a little teasing here. It's where he probably talks the most. 'Oh raring to go huh? Well lets just take our time.' Little shit lol.

Once you're doing it though he's actually pretty sweet. Making sure you're okay. You're comfortable. Expects the same from you too. It's an act of trust after all.

May confess a sweet thing or two during. Depends on how he's vibing. Feels a bit awkward about it afterwards but won't take it back. Just will tell you to shut up if you tease him about it.

Perfect time to make him blush. Yes he will get you water and help clean each other up and spoon you after if you are into that. It's good manners afterall.

GOSHIKI TSUTOMOU

Goshiki is a little sweetie okay and deserves someone who appreciates and respects him.

However much like Tsukki it's kind of the same where you have to be real with him and tell him when he's getting a too big head sometimes.

Definitely a friendship to lovers vibe or even a you respected me to call me out as an acquaintance then I fell in love with you and chased after you vibe (Goshiki being the chaser lol)

Goshiki is definitely a 'fall in love at first sight' kind of vibe. Like he doesn't actually but he thinks he does. He just gets swept up very easily by people who make a strong impact on him and runs with it.

Him chasing you can go two ways depending on the type of person you are and how you want this sweetie to react.

You could be the type to catch on to his very obvious crush on you. He's not stealthy about it to the point it's likely his whole team knows lmao and whats worse is he THINKS he's so clever, calm and collected about it but he's...the opposite lol.

Using this information you could do you both a favour and just confess to him first. Goshiki will become the most flustered mess you've ever seen.

He'll be bright red, shocked silent until he barely recovers, saying 'Haha of course you wanna date me!' while also internally is like Omg you want to date me!?

But you know him. You've learnt to read the doubt behind his eyes whenever such words leave his lips.

'Yeah I want to date you, so whats your answer?' You reiterate.

This throws him of balance again and he's spluttering because oh yeah this isn't one of his daydreams he has about being the best ace and getting his crush. This actually is his crush asking him out.

'Yes please.' He manages to get out. Ever so polite just as his parents taught him. It takes everything in you to keep your smile composed and not laugh at him. Adorable.

The OTHER WAY this could go if you're not one to ask someone out or if you just want to see what he'll do, is wait. He'll sit on his crush until he just sort of explodes.

It'll take awhile of him running over to you at every opportunity he gets, you can always count on it like clockwork.

Then one day he's not there? Nor the next or the next. You kind of get worried. You see a friend of his wave them over and begin to ask when you FINALLY see Goshiki come over.

he's redder than usual, frown on his face like he'd been....sulking? huh.

Wraps his hand around your wrist. 'Can we go?'

'okay?'

Tugs! Tugs you away somewhere a bit more secluded. Away from prying eyes.

You stand there and scan his expression. Still stuck in a sulky frown. Almost pouting? huh cute.

'Do you-' He stops looking down. 'Will you-' He stops again groaning. 'I'm the ace right?'

'Huh?' Okay major confusion. 'Yeah?'

'So that makes me pretty cool right?'

You frowned, scanning him up and down. Was Goshiki asking if you thought he was cool? With a sulky expression? Something had to be going on.

'Naturally.' You cleared your throat watching him smile. 'Whats going on?'

'Well since I'm the coolest guy you know it's your lucky day since I've got a question for you!'

And with that Goshiki went bright red and stumbled into asking you out in his own awkward, self concious way.

Very sweet when the two of you start dating. Always trying to show off for you and share volleyball with you but also shows that he makes you one of his priorities.

Heckin loves food so loves food dates especially to lowkey restaurants, loves showing off in this regard by showing you nice places but likes to be spoiled too so show him cool places.

A sucker for hand holding. Thinks its peak affection along with cheek kissing.

Takes him awhile to move up with physical affection because he combusts and gets anxious about it and his feelings. He's self concious from various complexes he's developed over time.

You probably have to initiate the first kiss or have to make do with being VERY patient. He's so shy. If you do intiate it be prepared for him being flustered. It's cute.

Making out is a very big deal to transition to as well. You gotta talk him through it. He's all stiff, clattering teeth and noses and forehead bumping at first. Whoops. Its sweet though.

Once he gets though he REALLY gets it! Really gets into it too like this boy is a quick study after all and he just gets the kissing bug. It'll be you who will be like OKAY BABY WE GOTTA COME UP FOR AIR YOU'RE ALL RED AND ABOUT TO PASS OUT.

But he looks~ well if looks could kill~ he's a hot mess you could devour right then and there. All red, flustered, panting? Lips all slick? Love bites on the neck? Hair disheveled? Hello Goshiki where have you been hiding?

First time is much like the first kiss in terms off nerves. He's all stiff and jumpy.

Again, you'll have to talk him through it but it doesn't mean he won't attempt to take initiative. It's a team effort on both fronts. It won't be drawn out though, he's too worked up and nervous.

A lot of bumping into each other and awkward moments but there's also a lot of sweet moments and feeling good.

Lots of communication and awkward mess talking. Lots of kissing and touching. Grab his hair for good moans hehe.

Things are loud with Goshiki. He's vocal, he can't help it. Don't make fun of him though he's sensitive.

He needs aftercare in form of cuddles and pillowtalk. Very clingy after and he's also VERY warm so if you run cold then good news for you! You've now got your own personal heater.

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tin-wufborf · 4 months ago

Text

Tin's Favorite Sterek Fics (Part 11)

Hello again, and welcome to part 11! I cannot believe I'm up to 11 parts on this thing with more to come (though not too many more, I think). That means I've recommended 200 fics/series so far as I've been doing 20 recs per post. Tbh I'm actually pretty proud of myself over this because it means I've been showing incredible restraint throughout this process in only recommending my favoritiest-favorites as opposed to every single fic I can remember liking even a little bit (don't worry, that will be the next series lol). For reference, I currently have 2,610 Sterek bookmarks in total on AO3 and have so far reviewed 1,749 of them to get to those select 200. That is wild to me lol.

BUT ANYHOOZLE.

As always, thank you all again for the support you've shown this series. I hope you're all having as good a day as you can, if not a great day. Smoochies and squeezies from me to you!

List and links to previous/next part(s) below the cut.

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DISCLAIMER: This is me warning you all that some of the fics I've included in this list may cover explicit, dark, and/or "taboo" subject matters. I cannot express enough how little I care what anyone thinks about any of that; all I want is for you to use caution when reading anything I've listed here and to please review and heed whatever tags the authors have provided in order to keep yourselves safe. Your experience from this point on is your own responsibility, not mine and not the authors'.

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not enough by Jana_C (G | 1/1 | 1,569)

Sometimes love is just not enough.

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A Quiet Night (Not in the Cards) by Delightful_I_Am (T | 1/1 | 4,369)

"Derek fucking Hale!"

The shout rang through the bar and for a long moment nobody moved. It was like something out of a movie. Everything just stopped; the music cut off; one of the servers had frozen mid-pour. Grady would have laughed if he weren't holding his breath. The kid straightened his shirt, a glimpse of stomach showing the curling edges of a tattoo on his hip, and strode toward where Hale was sitting in the dark corner. As one, every supe in the place turned to see Hale's reaction; the last person to try to confront Hale in here had left with a broken hand and a whispered threat that the next time Hale would rip their throat out. With his teeth. Unsurprisingly, Hale's face was set in its usual glower, although it seemed a bit softer around the eyes. It took Grady a second to realise Hale knew the kid.

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Painted Wooden Letters by DiscontentedWinter (T | 5/5 | 10,013)

All he ever wanted to be was Stiles Stilinski.

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Babcia Knows Best by thepsychicclam (T | 1/1 | 11,887)

Stiles takes his grandmother to bingo every Thursday. Now there's a new guy calling out the numbers, and his grandmother has decided to set them up.

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god knows I am dissonance by scepticallyopenminded (E | 1/1 | 24,239)

Stiles has zero regrets – zero, absolutely none – about leaving Beacon Hills after he graduates from Stanford. He knows his dad is good, has friends, has the force, has Melissa, and knows that even if he and Mel weren’t dating, that Scott has the sheriff’s back, will take care of him, keep him safe.

He knows Lydia has no regrets, either, and the two of them hop a plane less than a week after the graduation ceremony, two full weeks before their lease in Menlo Park is even up. They pack up a U-Haul, go back to Beacon Hills for two nights, and then they’re off to LAX, three suitcases and two carry-ons between the both of them.

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There's joy not far from here by Talis89 (M | 9/9 | 28,354)

“I’m coming,” Derek calls, shrugging on a sweater. The first few days of March had been warm, but the weather has turned in the last week - winter's last ‘fuck you’ - and Derek is expecting the icy blast as the warm air rushes out the front door. “What—” His breath freezes in his throat.

“Hey there, Sourwolf.”

Stiles is standing on the front porch— Derek’s front porch— his right hand waved in a half wave.

“Stiles?” Derek almost takes a step back. “What are you— how?”

Two years after Derek runs from Beacon Hills, Stiles turns up at his front door looking for his own escape. What follows is a story of adventure, healing and finding a place to call home.

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The Heart Remains The Same by heartsdesire459 (T | 1/1 | 28,797)

When Stiles left for college, he already knew the truth... Stiles wasn't a 'he' at all. Dropped into a new, exciting, liberating level of freedom that came with going to college somewhere without anyone who knew her, Stiles began to explore her true self and began her quest to become the girl she knew she had always been. Her fears of everyone's reactions back home led to skipping the first holiday... and then a second. And then the next.

Two and a half years after leaving Beacon Hills - two and a half years spent living an entire new life as a trans!woman - a call in the night forces Stiles to go back to Beacon Hills to face the people she had left and the friends she had abandoned.

“Stiles… it’s your dad.”

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The Second Coming (of Werewolf Jesus) by lupinus, uraneia (E | 3/3 | 40,104)

Stiles was enjoying his senior year until his crazy English teacher decided he made the best candidate to gestate Derek's kid. Now Stiles is a seventeen-year-old pregnant dude and he and Derek have to figure their shit out, because in nine months they are going to be tied together for the rest of their lives.

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Burning House by 1jet2unknown, nottoolateforthegame (E | 15/15 | 41,007)

“Why am I here? What was the point of showing me all that? It’s not like it’s going to change anything!”

You can change it.

“How?!”

You can change it if you go back.

“Then take me back!”

Stiles’s stomach lurched as the world tilted and stretched sideways.

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Now as Ever (All That Is and Has Been) by venis_envy (E | 16/16 | 52,270)

Stiles can't remember what happened to rearrange the time-space continuum, or how he ended up being pulled into the past. All he knows is that he's there now, in 2003 Beacon Hills, with a teenage werewolf and a possibly-crazy veterinarian as his only allies.

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Words Cannot Espresso How Much You Bean to Me by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella) (T | 1/1 | 68,368)

“You’re late,” Derek informed him coldly, jaw clenched. He barely even moved his mouth to speak. This guy was seriously scary.

And because Stiles was suicidal, he said, “No, I’m Stiles.”

The look he got could’ve curdled milk. Stiles even noticed that Derek’s muscles were tensing, arms bulging even more and wow this guy was scary and hot but mostly scary holy shit.

“You’re not funny,” Derek informed him coldly.

Stiles shrugged. “I think that’s a matter of opinion.”

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Daybreak by TheObsidianQuill (M | 10/10 | 70,382)

"There . . ." Stiles swallowed and looked down at the bottle in his grasp as he slowly swirled the amber liquid inside. "There's really nothing left. For me. Everyone is . . . gone, and it feels like I haven't thought of tomorrow in years." His words rang in the air like a gunshot, he took another heavy drink. "I would trade every last breath I take to just have another shot—not even a guarantee, just a chance to make things right and bring back even one of them." -----

The pack was gone. He had nothing left. He had no one. With nothing to lose, Stiles puts everything on the line to go back in time to try to prevent the future from becoming his past. Broken, guarded, and haunted by his past, only one overgrown-pup of a wolf seems able to get past his defenses. Changing the future? Easy. Finding a place for himself in the Hale Pack? Impossible.

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What Goes Around by KouriArashi (M | 16/16 | 71,451)

“Well,” Stiles says, “if they’re going to hunt werewolves, I’m going to hunt them.”

It’s a ridiculous statement from a ten-year-old, but he’s obviously one hundred percent sincere. For the first time since the fire, Peter feels life stir inside him, feels purpose. It’s kismet, clearly. He’ll never meet the child he would have had with Olivia. Instead he’s met this boy, this brilliant, determined, cynical child with a world of potential.

Peter kneels down in front of him so they’re at eye level. “How do you feel about doing that together?”

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The Law of the Jungle by Nutellargh (E | 1/1 | 75,854)

After the Kanima fiasco is over, Derek takes his three betas and leaves Beacon Hills. Stiles knows he could contact him if needed, but they barely keep in touch, and only about mundane things. 4 years later, after a steady stream of supernatural issues they somehow manage to deal with, Lydia is the one to contact Derek when Stiles starts looking worse and worse everyday, with no idea as to how or why. The Slavic monster draining Stiles' energy points them to a much bigger issue Beacon Hills has been troubled with for years.

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Windows by dr_girlfriend (E | 28/28 | 83,266)

Derek has a new neighbor who won't stop looking.

Excerpt:

“You’re blind,” Derek said flatly, the anger draining from him so suddenly he felt almost woozy. His vision cleared, his claws sliding back into blunt fingernails.

“Thanks for the memo, genius,” the kid said acidly. “I can still fucking defend myself, so don��t take another damn step.”

“Fuck, I...I’m sorry,” Derek stuttered.

“What?!” The kid’s brow crinkled. “I mean — what?! You’re fucking sorry!?” His lips thinned into a harsh line. “What, is this some kinda Hallmark movie where you’re discovering the error of your ways because you don’t want to rob a blind person?! That’s fucking condescending, man. I’ll have you know that —”

“Just, wait.” Derek interrupted what was apparently the start of a convincing argument as to why he should rob the kid after all, feeling his head start to spin. “This is — it’s a misunderstanding. I’m — I’m not robbing you. You’re — you’re safe, okay? I’m taking three steps back. Just — just let me explain.”

“Explain why you came busting into my apartment? Yeah, go right ahead, man, I can’t wait to hear this epic tale.”

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where thou art, that is home series by ShanaStoryteller (8 works | NR-E | 94,108)

Hi, Tin here. Once again, Tumblr is deciding not to allow me to post any of the individual stories and summaries here, so here's a very brief summary without me waxing poetic about the series:

This is a canon-divergent AU series that acts as a sort of "fix it" for the universe without sacrificing the things we know and love from canon (imo). It begins with Stiles (and Scott as his co-pilot) managing to prevent the Hale fire from taking out the whole of the Hale pack and then moves forward from there. Lots of BAMF!Everyone abound and interesting takes on existing tropes and canon elements. I urge you all to check it out.

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The Taming of the Wolf by Amethystina (T | 15/15 | 105,352)

When Stiles seeks shelter from the rain in a rundown house in the middle of the woods, the last thing he expects is to find that someone is actually living there. Even less that the person in question isn't quite human. Derek is something else entirely.

Before he knows it, Stiles is thrown into a world he knows very little about and while he enjoys the unlikely and complex relationship that sparks between them, it's obvious that something darker is lurking in the shadows. Something from Derek's past that is just waiting to tear them apart.

Chapters 13, 14 and 15 are bonus chapters, featuring the same story but from Derek's POV (a total of 40 700 words). This is basically two fics in one.

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Anthracite by LupusScintilla (inkandblade) (E | 16/16 | 106,673)

It's been a quiet few years, and the McCall Pack has grown and settled. But, when the Hale Pack return to Beacon Hills they find Scott isn't as welcoming as they had hoped.

Soon they, Stiles, and Lydia, find out that not everything about the McCall Pack is as it has always seemed.

♠

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All Bark and No Bite series by MoonlitMemories (3 works | NR-M | 157,246)

1. Protect and Serve (M | 17/17 | 150,789) Stiles discovers the Nemeton starting to grow again in the preserve on Hale land. What does that mean for the pack? More importantly: why does the Nemeton seem so attached to Stiles? 2. Baby makes Three (G | 1/1 | 3,202) Erica finds out she's pregnant. 3. One of Us (NR | 1/1 | 3,255) Malia doesn't know what to do with the Hale pack.

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Get You The Moon by A ClosedFicIsNeverRead (E | 30/30 | 180,785)

Derek looked up in surprise to note that they were taking a private jet. Dread settled into his gut like a stone. “It has a cage, doesn’t it?” he asked quietly, and noted the subtle changes in his family members’ posture. “Is it for me?” Cora gave him a pleading look and nodded. “Is it because of what you’re going to tell me?” he asked, voice like gravel. Another nod confirmed it. Stiles. Oh, GOD. It had to be Stiles. Derek would not lose control over anyone else in Beacon Hills and they damned well knew it.

- OR -

The one where Derek has been gone for 6 months building a new life, finds out that Stiles is being assaulted by Theo, so he comes back to Beacon Hills to kick some serious ass and rescue the loudmouthed human who stole his heart.

(You will need ALL the tissues, but it will have a happy ending by the time all is said and done!)

Title inspired by song: ‘Get You The Moon’ by Kina ft. Snow

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#teen wolf #sterek #derek hale #stiles stilinski #sterek fic rec list #sterek fic rec #fic rec list #rec list #fic rec #tin's rec lists

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