#*due to dry air and dust

[copper-skulls]

travel project :3 it waited for bordering for a While, and it fit neatly into my tin, so I brought it with me and worked whenever I had to wait for something. And it is Done!!! I have a finished baker flag patch!!!

[zyoarchive]

like a tangerine - myg

↠ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | yoongi x reader

↠ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 18.5k

↠ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 | roommate au, e2l if you squint, pwp

↠ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | explicit language and sexual content. mentions of alcohol (beer). dry humping, oral sex (m + f receiving), gagging, cum swallowing, throat fuck, fingering, spanking, dirty talk, hair-pulling, unprotected sex, (y/n has an iud, wrap it before u tap it!), rough sex, riding, doggy style, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, creampie. yoongi has blonde hair and a filthy mouth.

↠ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | y/n’s a law student drowning in debt. yoongi's a brooding music major needing a place to crash. forced together in a freezing seoul apartment, will they be able make moving in together work?

--

You’re elbow-deep in the faded cushions of your thrift-store couch, fingers clawing at the seams for any hint of spare change. Dust puffs into the air, catching the dim light of the single bulb flickering overhead, but there’s nothing—no coins, no crumpled bills, not even a stray candy wrapper. Just lint and disappointment. You groan, slumping back onto the floor, the chill of cracked linoleum seeping through your threadbare sweatpants. Your breath fogs in front of you, a cruel reminder that the heater’s been dead for days and your electricity bill is overdue. It’s the brink of winter in Seoul, and the cold is a living thing—sharp, biting, sinking into your bones like a punishment. Outside, the wind howls through the narrow streets around Seoul national University, rattling your single-pane windows, while frost creeps up the glass like spiderwebs. Inside, it’s barely better; you’re wrapped in a hoodie and two pairs of socks, but your fingers are still numb, your nose stinging with every inhale.  

This isn’t how you pictured your senior year. You’re a law major with a 4.0 GPA—top of your class, president of the mock trial team, the girl who aced her constitutional law midterm while half the room floundered. You’ve got a stack of recommendation letters from professors who call you “driven” and “exceptional,” and last spring, you won a university debate competition so decisively the opposing team just stared at you, slack-jawed. But none of that pays the rent. You’re drowning in bills, scraping by on 7,000 won an hour from your cheapskate manager at the convenience store on the south end of campus. The job’s a soul suck: sticky floors, rude drunk students, and the constant beep of the scanner as you ring up instant ramen and soju bottles. You hate it—the stale air, the flickering fluorescent lights, the way your manager hovers over you like you’re about to pocket a candy bar. Between 8-hour shifts and 8 A.M. lectures, you’re a ghost of yourself, barely sleeping, barely eating, barely living. 

You grew up in Busan, the youngest of three, with parents who scraped by running a small seafood stall at Jagalchi Market. They taught you grit—how to haggle, how to smile through exhaustion—but they couldn’t prepare you for this. You moved to Seoul four years ago, starry-eyed and determined to be the first in your family to graduate college, to become a lawyer who’d fight for people like them. Your apartment’s small—two cramped bedrooms, a tiny kitchenette, and a living room just big enough for that small couch—but it was supposed to be your haven. One room’s yours, cluttered with books and laundry, the other a guest room you’ve never had a guest for, its bare mattress gathering dust. You thought living alone would mean focus, independence. Now, you’re not so sure. The weight of it all—school, work, this freezing place—presses down until you can’t breathe. You’ve always been the stubborn one, the kid who’d rather starve than admit defeat, but tonight, with rent due in three days and your bank account at a pathetic, single-digit balance, defeat feels inevitable.  

You sit there, face in your hands, fighting the sting of tears. This wasn’t the college life you dreamed of. Back in high school, you imagined coasting through SNU—late nights at karaoke bars, laughing with a big group of friends, maybe even a cute boyfriend to steal hoodies from. You saw yourself at rooftop parties, sipping cheap bear under string lights, free and invincible. Instead, you’re broke, shivering, and clinging to one solitary lifeline: Namjoon. Your best friend, your rock, the only person who’s stuck by you through this mess. Everyone else faded away—too busy, too far, too caught up in their own lives. But Namjoon? He’s your constant. 

You glance at your phone—11:47 P.M. He’s due any minute to study for your upcoming criminal procedure exam, a brutal 50-question beast that’ll test every ounce of your caffeine-fueled willpower. With a sigh, you haul yourself up, brushing dust off your knees. The apartment’s tight—barely 25 square meters. You shuffle around, tidying what you can: stacking textbooks on the wobbly coffee table that accompanies your depressed, sagging couch, kicking a stray sock towards the hall leading to your bedroom, wiping crumbs off the counter from the half-eaten rice cake you rationed for dinner. The sink’s full of dishes, but you ignore it—too tired, too cold. You’re shoving a pile of case notes into a neater stack when a knock echoes through the room.  

You shuffle to the door, tugging it open against the warped frame. It’s Namjoon. He’s there, towering over you in his puffy jacket, a knit beanie squashing his dark hair, a backpack slung over one shoulder. His dimples flash as he grins, but his eyes narrow when he sees you—pale, hunched, a human popsicle. “Hey,” he says, stepping inside, voice warm as always. “You look like death.” 

“Feel like it too,” you mutter, shutting the door. You’ve known Namjoon since freshman year, when you met in Intro to Legal Studies. You’d been late, sprinting into the lecture hall with a half-drunken coffee and an open backpack, only to trip over his stupidly long legs stretched across the aisle. He’d caught your arm, steadying you, and deadpanned, “You’re a lawsuit waiting to happen.” You’d snapped back, “Sue me then,” and somehow, that was it—friendship sealed. He was a Busan kid too, raised on the coast, all easy smiles and quiet smarts. You bonded over late-night study sessions at the library, swapping stories about salty air and nosy aunties, laughing over burnt ramen when you couldn’t afford takeout. Four years later, he’s still your anchor, the one who drags you out of your spirals.  

He drops his bag on the couch, glancing around. “You okay? You’re... off.” His brows knit, concern creeping in. 

“It’s nothing,” you lie, waving him off. He doesn’t push—Namjoon never does, just watches you with that steady gaze that sees too much. You both settle on the couch, pulling out textbooks and highlighters. The criminal procedure exam is in two days, a gauntlet of search-and-seizure laws, Miranda rights, and case precedents like Terry v. Ohio. You flip to a page on warrantless arrests, reading aloud: “Exigent circumstances allow entry if—” You stop, brain fritzing. Namjoon picks up, voice smooth, explaining probable cause like it’s poetry. You scribble notes, trying to focus, but the cold’s gnawing at you, your fingers stiff around the pen. 

He shivers mid-sentence, rubbing his arms. “Why’s it so damn cold in here?” he asks, breath puffing out in a faint cloud.  

That's when it hits—you crack. The words spill out before you can stop them, voice breaking: “Because I can’t pay the electric bill, Joon. The heater’s busted, my manager’s a stingy ass who won’t give me more hours, and I’m so tired—of school, of work, of counting every damn coin I see just trying to make ends meet.” Tears burn your eyes, hot against the chill. “I’m failing at everything.” 

Namjoon’s face falls, guilt flashing across it. “Shit, Y/N, I didn’t know it was this bad.” He pulls you into a hug, arms tight around your shaking shoulders. You sink into him, his jacket smelling faintly of coffee and pine. “I should’ve noticed,” he mutters, kicking himself. Then softer: “What if you got a roommate? Split the costs?” 

You pull back, sniffling. “I wouldn’t even know where to find one. And honestly? I’m this close to dropping out, moving back with my parents. Just... starting over.”  

He blinks, alarmed. Your parents are saints—kind, warm, always ready with a bow of kimchi jjigae and a spare bed in their Busan flat above the stall. Your mom’s a hugger, your dad’s a storyteller, and you miss them fiercely—their laughter, the sea breeze, and the simplicity. They’d take you back in a heartbeat, no questions, and part of you aches for that safety net. 

“No,” Namjoon says, grabbing your hands in a desperate plea. “You can’t leave. Not now, not senior year. I need you here—we’re supposed to graduate together, pass the bar together. I can’t do this without you.” 

You shake your head, voice small. “There’s no one, Joon. I’m out of options.” 

He pauses, then his face lights up like he’s cracked the code. “Wait... Yoongi. My friend Yoongi. He’s been crashing on my couch for the past two weeks since his lease fell apart. He needs a place, you need a roommate. It’s perfect.” 

You frown picturing Yoongi. You've seen him at Namjoon’s place a few times—quiet, almost cat-like with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue. He’s not unfriendly just... distant. You remember him from your junior year too, a psychology elective you both took. He’s slouch in the back, headphones on, scribbling beats in a notebook while you sat up front, acing every quiz. Your eyes met sometimes—brief, awkward, charges—but you never spoke. He’s a music major, that much you knew, always lugging around a laptop or a keyboard case, and Namjoon swears he’s a genius. Still, he’s a stranger, mostly. 

“I don’t know,” you say, hesitant. “I’ve barely talked to him. He’s... weird. Quiet. And my parents—” 

“Please,” Namjoon cuts in, clasping his hands like he’s praying. “Just meet him first. Come over tomorrow—we'll eat, hang out, see if it clicks. If it doesn’t, I won’t push. But don’t give up yet.” 

You chew your lip, the idea sinking in. A roommate could save you—rent split, bills manageable, maybe even heat again. That guest room could finally see some use. But Yoongi? Your parents’ open arms tug at you, tempting. Namjoon’s pleading eyes tip the scale. “Fine,” you mutter, reluctant. “I’ll meet him.” 

He beams, dimples deep. “You won’t regret it. Yoongi’s chill, I promise.” You nod, half convinced, as the cold creeps back in, a shiver reminding you how badly you need this to work. 

--

You stand in your tiny bathroom, the air thick with damp chill, staring at the showerhead like it’s a loaded gun. The water’s been ice-cold for weeks—your landlord’s a miser who won’t fix the boiler, and you’re too broke to hire someone yourself. You twist the knob, bracing for impact, and the spray hits like a thousand frozen pins, ripping a gasp from your throat. Your teeth chatter as you lather up with a sliver of soap, the last bar you’ve been rationing for a month. The shampoo’s cheap, a floral scent, and you scrub it into your scalp fast, fingers trembling as the frigid stream pelts your back. You’re in and out in four minutes, a personal record, wrapping yourself in a towel so worn it’s more holes than fabric—a hand-me-down from your sister, like most of your life. Your skin prickles with goosebumps as you dart to your bedroom, the smaller of the two in your cramped apartment. The guest room sits placidly across from yours, a barren box with a bare mattress, a single flickering bulb, and a window that rattles in its frame—useless, empty, a silent taunt of your isolation. 

Your closet’s a mess of thrift finds and sibling castoffs. You dig out a black turtleneck, the wool pilling at the elbows but soft enough, and dark jeans with a frayed hem that still hug your legs right. Your sneakers are scuffed, soles thin as paper, but they’ll do. The crown jewel is your sister’s puffer jacket—navy blue, patched with thread at the elbows, a size too big but thick enough to face Seoul’s brutal winter. You tug on two pairs of socks—one with a hole at the toe, the other mismatched—and lace up, the cold floor biting through anyway. Back in the bathroom, you swipe on makeup with shaky hands: tinted lip balm over cracked lips from the wind, a flick of mascara to coax life into your tired eyes, a dab of concealer under them to hide the shadows of sleepless nights. Your hair’s wet, curling into tendrils at your neck, but there’s no time—or heat—to dry it. You glance at your phone on the sink: 6:38 P.M. Namjoon said 6:30. You’re late. 

You snatch your keys from the counter, sling your threadbare bag over your shoulder, and bolt. You weave past the kitchenette, its sink piled with chipped mugs and a single pot, and the living room, where your sad couch sags under a pile of law books. The door sticks as you yank it open, and the stairwell greets you with a gust of icy air whistling through cracked windows. You jog down three flights, sneakers clomping on warped steps, and burst outside. Seoul’s winter slams into you—bitter, unrelenting, a beast with teeth.  The sky’s a slab of slate, heavy with unshed slow, and the wind howls down the narrow streets of the south end of campus, clawing at your face. Your breath fogs in sharp bursts, crystalizing in the air, and the cold seeps through your jeans, stinging your thighs. You hunch into your puffer, hands jammed in pockets, but it’s not enough—the chill find every seam, every gap, freezing your ears until they ache. 

The trek to Namjoon’s is a mile east, and you’re penniless—no bus fare, no taxi dreams. The south end fades behind you—dingy noodle joints, neon-lit PC bangs, students huddled in scarves—giving way to broader streets lined with skeletal trees. Their branches clatter like dry bones, stripped bare by weeks of frost. Snowflakes start to fall, lazy at first, then thicker, dusting your shoulders, catching in your lashes. The sidewalk’s a minefield of ice patches, gloss under streetlights, and you shuffle to keep from slipping, your sneakers skidding once, twice. Your nose numbs, your fingertips tingle, and by the time Namjoon’s complex rises ahead—a sleek tower on the east side of SNU—you’re a shivering wreck. The glass doors part for you, the lobby a warm cocoon of polished marble, soft lighting, and a doorman who nods absently. Namjoon is a trust fund baby from Busan, his parents flush with shipping money, and this place screams it—nothing like your crumbling walk-up with its flickering hallway bulbs and mildew stench. 

You step into the elevator, the hum of it thawing your bones as it climbs. A long minute ticks by—your reflection in the mirrored walls shows a flushed face, damp hair plastered to your neck—before it finally dings on the fifth floor. You step out, stretching your strides down the carpeted hall to 13E, dragging your feet. Your stomach churns, nerves sparking like live wires. Meeting Yoongi—actually talking to him—feels like walking into a storm blind. You’ve always been anxious, a knot of worry since you were a kid. In Busan, grade school was a nightmare—you'd linger by the classroom door, too shy to join the girls giggling as they played jump rope, too scared to ask the boys kicking a ball if you could join them. Your mom had to bribe you with sweets just to get you to a friend’s birthday party once, and even then, you hid under a table, clutching a juice box, until she dragged you out. Friends were rare, fleeting—your tongue tripped over itself until Namjoon stumbled into your orbit. You’re better now, but new people still twist you up inside. What if Yoongi’s a jerk? A slob? What if he thinks you’re some desperate loser? Your pulse races as you reach his door, raising a shaky hand to knock. 

It swings open fast, and Namjoon’s there, all six feet of him, dimples flashing in a wide grin. He’s cozy—cream cable-knit sweater swallowing his broad frame, gray sweatpants loose and soft, socks with little cartoon dogs peeking out. “Took you long enough,” he teases, voice warm as he steps aside. You shuffle in, and the heat hits like a blanket, radiators purring, chasing the cold from your bones. The air’s thick with doenjang jjigae—earthy soybean paste, sharp garlic, a hint of beef simmering low, curling into your nose and waking your empty stomach. Your brows furrow; Namjoon’s a disaster in the kitchen, once nearly burning his apartment down with a botched ramen attempt. Who cooked? 

His apartment’s a world apart from yours. Open-plan, sprawling, with floor-to-ceiling windows framing the snow-dusted campus and Seoul’s glittering skyline. The living room's plush—a gray sectional piled with fleece throws, a glass coffee table stacked with law books and a stray coffee mug, a flat-screen above a sleek fireplace spitting soft flames. The kitchen’s a showpiece—marble counters, stainless steel appliances, a fridge that hums quietly, not rattling like yours. A monstera plant thrives by the island, its leaves glossy and proud, while your own sad succulent back home rots in a cracked pot. “Yoongi’s in the bathroom,” Namjoon says, nodding toward a hall as he waves you to the kitchen island. “He’ll be out in a sec.” You slide onto a padded stool, the cushion a luxury after your hard furniture, and he leans across, chatting—tomorrow's lecture, the criminal procedure exam, easy stuff to steady your nerves. 

The bathroom door creaks open, and Yoongi emerges. He’s tall—5'10, maybe—looming over your 5’1 frame, all lean angles and quiet menace. His hair’s blonde, a soft, bleached chaos brushing his forehead, framing sharp cheekbones and a jaw that could cut glass. He’s in a black hoodie, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, faded jeans hugging his legs, and plain socks. His eyes—dark, hooded, cat-like—lock on you, unblinking, and your throat dries up. He stares, assessing, and you stare back, words dissolving. Namjoon clears his throat. “Yoongi, this is Y/N. Y/N, Yoongi.” A nod, barely perceptible, then Yoongi slinks to the island, sitting opposite. The food’s spread out—doenjang jjigae steaming in a clay pot, fluffy rice, tangy kimchi, grilled mackerel glistening with oil. You scoop rice, hands jittery under his gaze, the spoon clinking too loud against the bowl. 

Namjoon tries to spark something. “Yoongi, how’s that music project?” Yoongi shrugs, spooning stew, lips pursed. Silence stretches, thick and awkward. Namjoon kicks him under the table—you catch the flinch, the faint scowl. “It’s fine,” Yoongi mutters, voice low, gravelly. “Mixing’s a pain.” You nod, unsure, picking at your mackerel. The meal crawls—Namjoon rambles about law precedents, you murmur agreements, Yoongi grunts or tosses out clipped answers. He slurps his stew too loud, wipes his mouth with his sleeve, picks his fish apart with his fingers instead of chopsticks. Petty, maybe, but it irks you—he irks you. He’s not rude, just... distant, like he’s here but not really. 

Dinner eventually ends, and Namjoon excuses himself for a moment, leaving you and Yoongi alone. The silence is deafening, the fireplace's crackle the only sound as you sit at the island, pushing rice around your bowl. He’s across from you, scrolling his phone, blonde hair catching the light. You clear your throat, desperate the fill the void. “So, uh... did you make this?” You nod at the empty jjigae pot, voice smaller than you meant it to be. 

He looks up, eye flickering to yours, and there’s a beat—a heavy, charged pause—before he answers. “Yeah.” His voice is low, rough, brushing your skin like a touch. “Namjoon can’t cook for shit.” He leans forward slightly, elbows on the counter now, close enough that you catch a whiff of his cologne—something clean, like cedarwood and bergamot. His lips twitch, a smirk that’s gone fast but leaves heat in its wake. 

You snort, caught off guard, and it’s too loud in the quiet. “No kidding. He set off the fire alarm with toast once—smoke everywhere.” Your laugh’s shaky, and his eyes linger, dark and unreadable, tracing your face like he’s mapping it. That smirk flickers again, slower this time, and your stomach flips. 

“Sounds about right,” he says, voice dipping lower, almost lazy. He shifts, stretching one arm across the counter, fingers brushing the edge of yours—accidental, maybe, but it sends a jolt up your spine, nonetheless. “You’re not bad, though. At eating it, I mean.” His gaze drops to you lips for a slip second, then back up, and the air thickens, warm and tight. 

You swallow, heat creeping up your neck. “Uh, thanks? It’s good—really good. Where’d you learn?” Your words stumble, and you hate how they sound—too eager, too soft. 

“Mom,” he says, leaning closer, voice a rumble now. “Runs a store in Daegu. Cooks for the regulars. Watched her enough to pick it up.” His eyes don’t leave yours, and there’s something in them—something sharp, hungry—that makes your breath hitch, makes you feel small in comparison to him. His knee brushes against yours under the counter, a graze that feels deliberate, and you shift, suddenly aware of how small the space between you is. 

“Busan for me,” you blurt, clutching at normalcy. “My parents have a seafood stall. I’m useless, though—burned rice once, got banned from the stove.” You laugh, but it’s tight, and he tilts his head, blonde strands falling into his eyes. He doesn’t laugh back, just watches, lips parting slightly, and the silence stretches taut, electric. 

“Bet you’re not useless at everything,” he murmurs, so quiet you almost miss it, and his gaze drops again—lips, neck, back up—slow, deliberate. Your pulse hammers, and you’re not sure if you’re breathing. Then he pulls back, just an inch, breaking whatever spell he put on you, grabbing his phone again. “Namjoon should be back soon,” he says, casual, like nothing happened, but the air’s still buzzing. 

You nod, dazed, as Namjoon’s footsteps echo down the hall. “Couch?” he calls, clapping his hands. You stumble off the stool, following him, Yoongi trailing behind. The sectional's plush, and you sink in, pulling a throw over your lap as Namjoon sits beside you. Yoongi drifts off—to Namjoon’s room, you assume—leaving you two by the fireplace. The crackle fills the silence. “So?” Namjoon asks, eyes bright, hopeful. “What do you think?” 

You twist the blanket’s edge, grimacing, mind still reeling from Yoongi’s voice, his closeness. “He’s weird, Joon. Quiet—too quiet. That talk just now? Barely anything. I don’t know if I can live with that.” You don’t mention the sudden heat between your legs, or the way your skin’s still tingling. 

He sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “I get it, he’s not chatty, but he’s solid. I’ve known him for a while now—met him at a music shop. My parents have money, yeah, but Yoongi’s regular. His dad's a fisherman, mom runs a corner store. He’s here on scholarships and hustle. Music’s his life, and he’s brilliant at it.” He pauses, voice softening. “You’re my rock, Y/N. Since freshman year, you’ve kept me grounded—pushed me when I slacked, laughed when I needed it. You’re my best friend, and I can’t finish this year without you.” 

Your chest aches, warmth mixing with dread—and something else, something new. “You’re mine too. But Yoongi—it's so fast. Two days, and he’s in my space? I’m freaked out.”  

He shifts closer, resting a hand on your knee. “I know it’s a lot. Look, he’s been on my couch too long. This place is nice, but it’s one bedroom. I’m tired of tripping over his shit every morning. He’ll pay his half, keep out of your way. You don’t have to be buddies, just... coexist.” His eyes plead. “Give it one more day to think. Please.” 

You nod, slow, reluctant. “One day, just one day.” Yoongi’s in Namjoon’s room, hunched over a desk, headphones on, tapping at a laptop—either oblivious or ignoring you. You grab your bag, say your goodnights to Namjoon, and head out. The cold swallows you whole. 

The walk back is a nightmare. Fresh snow is piled thick, blanketing the ground, crunching under your sneakers with every step. The wind’s a howling beast, slashing through your puffer, freezing your hair into brittle strands that whip your face. Streetlights flicker, half-dead in the storm, and the campus sprawls dark and desolate, east to south a slog through swirling white. Your breath stings, lungs burning with each icy gulp, and your fingers curl into fists in your pockets, nails digging into palms to feel something other than numb. You fumble your phone out with stuff hands, dialing your mom. It rings three times before her voice breaks through, soft and crackly, a lifeline. 

“Y/N-ah? Are you okay?” Her warmth cuts through the static, the wind. 

You choke on a sob, snow stinging your eyes. “Eomma, I’m falling apart. Rent’s due, I’ve got nothing—literally nothing. The heater’s busted, I’m freezing every night, and Namjoon’s pushing me to get a roommate. I don’t know if I can do it—I'm so tired. I just... I think I should come home.” 

She’s quiet a long moment, the line humming, and you hear her shift. “Y/N,” she starts, voice thick with worry. "You sound exhausted. Tell me what’s going on—everything. How’d it get this bad?” 

You sniff, trudging through a snowbank, the cold biting at your ankles. “It’s been building. Work’s a nightmare—7,000 won an hour at that shitty store, and my manager cuts my shifts whenever he feels like it. Schools killing me—exams, papers, I’m barely sleeping. And the apartment... it’s a freezer. I can’t afford the electric bill, let alone fix the heat.” 

She sighs, long and heavy, and you can picture her rubbing her temple like she does when she’s stressed. “My girl, I hate hearing you like this. You’re working so hard—too hard, maybe. What’s the apartment like now?” 

“Bad,” you mutter kicking snow off your sneakers. “My breath fogs inside. I’m in three layers just to sleep, and it’s still not enough. The windows rattle, the entire place is freezing. I can’t keep doing this.” 

“That sounds miserable,” she says, voice cracking. “You shouldn’t be living like that, not in your last year. But a roommate... that might be good for you. I wouldn’t look past it so quickly, Y/N.” 

You swallow, the wind howling louder. “Namjoon is desperate for me to stay, I think that’s why he’s so adamant about it, telling me it’s the only way, and I kind of agree. He’s got a friend in mind, and I’ve met him, but... I still don’t know. It’s such a leap, and I’m already hanging on by a thread.” 

She’s quiet again, then softens. “You know we’d take you back in a heartbeat. Your dad’s already been plotting—he's got this idea to repaint your room, teal like you always wanted, says it’s cheer you up.” 

“I miss you both,” you whisper, tears welling, hot against the cold. “It’d be so easy to come home.” 

“We miss you too,” she says, voice thick now. “But listen—it’s your senior year. You’re so close. I never got past high school, married your dad at nineteen, worked the stall since. We made it work, raised you and your siblings, but I always wished I’d had a shot at more. That law degree, that life—you're building something I couldn’t. I know it’s hard, but you’re stronger than you think. Namjoon wouldn’t push this on you if he didn’t care, if he didn’t think it would work. Try it—give this roommate thing a shot. Split the bills, get heat back in that place, and if it crashes, you’ve got us—always. Okay?” 

You nod, though she can’t see, the snow growing thicker. “Okay. I’ll try.” 

“Good girl,” she says, pride warming her tone. “Call me tomorrow, yeah? Tell me how everything goes—I need to know you’re okay.” 

“Okay. I love you, Eomma,” you say, voice breaking as you clutch the phone. 

“I love you more. Hang in there.” The call ends, and you’re alone again, the wind howling louder, snow piling at your feet. 

Your building looms ahead, a squat, peeling relic on the south end. A note’s taped to your door, red ink glaring: Rent due in 3 days or eviction proceedings begin. Panic spikes, sharp and sour. You unlock the door, stepping into a wall of cold—dark, silent, arctic. Strike one. You check your bank account on your phone: 8,000 won. Enough for a single ramyeon pack, maybe. Strike two. You trip over that loose floorboard you haven’t been able to fix, crashing to your knees, pain shooting up your leg. Strike three. Furious, you haul yourself up, whipping out your phone again, texting Namjoon. 

[You, 9:17 P.M.] I’ve made up my mind. Get Yoongi over here ASAP. 

You storm to your bedroom, peeling off your clothes, tugging on the same pajamas you’ve worn all week—hand-me-downs from your siblings, a faded long sleeve with a stretched neck and holes at the seams, sweatpants with cuff frayed to threads. You grab your blanket—a relic from your childhood, yet the only thing that seems to have managed to remain the same over time; thick, soft, warm enough to get you through the night. You wrap it tight around you, curling up on your bed. The mattress creaks, the cold seeping through every layer, relentless. You shiver, teeth chattering, staring at the ceiling where a water stain spreads like a bruise. Sleep feels impossible, and distant dream in this frozen purgatory. This night’s endless, and you’re already spent. 

--

The apartment’s a fragile bubble of warmth, pierced by the hum of space heaters and the faint tang of instant coffee lingering in the air. Two weeks with Yoongi as your roommate have stretched the edges of your sanity, but they’ve also kept the landlord’s eviction threats at bay. Rent’s been paid—a hefty price split down the middle, wired just before the deadline—and that alone is a victory. Seoul’s winter rages outside, a gray beast of snow and wind clawing at the single-pane windows, frosting them until they creak. Inside, the cold is a stubborn guest, slinking through the cracks despite the landlord’s refusal to fix the damn boiler—his last excuse, barked over a staticky call, was “building maintenance costs.” You’d bitten back a curse, teeth chattering, and hung up. But the space heaters, bought with a grudging amount, split between you and Yoongi, glow defiantly in your bedroom and his, their coils a faint orange against the dark. Namjoon’s blankets—fleece throws he’d so graciously gifted to you during the move, dotted with adorable designs like Minions or cartoon dogs—drape your couch and bed, a soft excess you’d never admit your hoard, their weight a shield against the nights when the chill bites the deepest. 

Yoongi’s arrival was a blur of panic and necessity. Namjoon had blinked at your sudden text and rallied him like a soldier to the front. He’d shown up a day early, just a day after your snow-soaked phone call to your mother, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. His blonde hair peeked out from a beanie, a large puffer jacket swallowing his lean frame, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a keyboard case gripped tight. “This is it?” he’d rasped, voice rough as gravel, scanning the cramped space—your sagging, depressed couch and bare walls. You’d nodded, nerves raw, and he’d sighed, a low sound of surrender, clearly used to Namjoon’s lavish apartment. He’d hauled his belongings in, carefully tucked away in boxes with muted thuds as they hit the floor of his new bedroom. He’s barely spoken—grunted at the spare key you’d handed him, muttered about the “shitty stairs”—and you’d fled to your room, shutting the door on his quiet unpacking, heart thudding with the weight of a stranger in your haven. By nightfall, the guest room was his, a bunker of blankets and music equipment, and you’d lain awak, staring at the ceiling’s water stain that you’d labeled as being shaped like an elephant, wondering if this was the right decision.  

Two weeks later, it’s not a disaster. Yoongi’s a ghost, slipping in and out with barely a ripple, and you’re too buried in your own grind to mind. Law school is a beast tamed—your criminal procedure exam, the 50-question monster, hit the same day Yoongi moved in, and you’d conquered it. Nights bled into a frenzy of study, hunched over on the couch, highlighters streaking Terry v. Ohio and Miranda v. Arizona as your breath fogged in the unheated dark. The 96% grade, posted last week with your professor’s “outstanding” scrawled in red, felt like a godsend, a lifeline proving you could still climb this perpetual mountain of death. You’d collapsed on your bed that night, one of Namjoon’s many blankets cocooning you, relief so sharp it burned your throat. 

Now, your days are a relentless churn—early morning lectures on constitutional law and judicial ethics, afternoons crafting mock trial arguments as team president, evenings at the convenience store where the floor is tacky with spilled soju and the scanner’s beep drills into your skull. Your manager, a pinch-faced ass, bumped you to 18,000 won an hour after you shoved a tally of your overtime in his face, voice steady despite the tremor in your hands. It’s not much—enough for ramen or a coffee when your eyes droop—but it keeps your account afloat. Sleep is a thief, snatched in five-hour bursts, the space heater’s hum a lullaby against the wind’s howl. Yoongi’s orbit is a mystery, misaligned with yours. He’s gone by dawn—music labs, you guess, or classes—and back late, his door creaking at midnight. You imagine him hunched over that keyboard, headphones clamped on, lost in beats—Namjoon's “genius” label a quiet echo. Sometimes you hear it, a muted thump through the wall, and picture him scribbling lyrics, blonde hair catching the heater’s glow. 

You’ve seen fragments. Once, he sprawled on his mattress, notebook open, pen tapping his knee, eyes half-closed like he was dreaming in rhythm. Another night, he lingered in the kitchenette at 2 A.M., reheating kimchi jjigae, stirring slow, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to reveal forearms taut with quiet strength. He’d glanced at you—bleary from study binge, shuffling for water—and slid a bowl your way, the spicy steam curling between you, wordless. Last weekend, he was on the couch, laptop open, cords snaking across the cushions, muttering “fucking latency” at a glitching track. Music’s his war, fought in solitude, and you don’t ask. He doesn’t tell. It’s your silent code. 

Living with him has been... fine, mostly. He’s clean—bowls rinsed, trash bagged, no mess beyond his room’s controlled chaos. The bathroom’s tidy, his towel hung crooked but dry, and he leaves your rice cakes alone, a respect you note silently. Chores split without fanfare—him on trash, you on dishes—a rhythm that holds. His room is a fortress now, Namjoon’s blankets swallowing the mattress whole, a guitar case propped up in the corner, vinyl records stacked haphazardly—from what you could see: Eminem, Epik High, Ryuichi Sakamoto, and... TWICE? You loved their songs, Fancy had you jamming in your apartment and Rewind had you holding back tears. Never in a million years had you imagined Yoongi being a Once. You often wondered who his bias was. You don’t snoop, and he doesn’t cross your line. It’s peaceful... sometimes. However, Yoongi’s got this infuriating habit—blasting tracks at ungodly hours, loud enough to shred your nerves. It’s not every night, but it’s brutal when it strikes. The third night, 2 A.M., a baseline punched through the wall, rattling your bed, yanking you from sleep. You’d lain there, heart pounding, as synths and warped vocals bled in, relentless. It stopped after twenty minutes, but sleep fled. Two nights ago, 1 A.M., it was slower—moody, heavy—but the volume gnawed at you. Last night, 3 A.M., an hour of jagged snares and distortion, the wall pulsing like a living thing. You’d hovered at your door, anger simmering, but retreated—too awkward to confront him. You’ve hinted—yawning loud, dragging your feet—but he doesn’t bite, and it festers, a quiet thorn. 

Tonight, you’re in the kitchenette, 10 P.M., picking at a bowl of ramyeon, the broth warming your throat. Mock trial prep looms, notes stacked on the couch, but you’re in pajamas—a faded long sleeve and sweatpants. The bathroom door creaks open, and you glance up, chopsticks halfway to your lips. He’s shirtless, fresh from the shower, towel slung low on his hips. Water beads on his skin, dripping from his damp blonde hair down his neck, over collarbones sharp as knives. His chest is lean but cut—muscles taut, abs carved like he’s been lifting more than just dreams, arms flexing as he rubs the towel through his hair, veins threading under pale skin. His V-line dips below the towel’s edge, and your breath catches, utensil clattering against the bowl. He freezes, cat-like eyes locking on yours, and the air thickens—silent, heavy, awkward as hell. You stare, he stares, and neither of you move. His lips part, like he might say something, but he doesn’t. Water drips onto the floor, a soft plink, and you swallow, throat dry, eyes darting to your food. He shifts, grabbing a soda from the fridge, the can’s hiss slicing the quiet. His bare shoulder brushes the counter as he leans there, sipping slow, and you feel his gaze—steady, unreadable—prickling your skin. You scoop broth with your chirirenge, burning your tongue, and he retreats to his room without a word, leaving you flushed and out of sorts. 

You sit, thinking, allowing your food to grow cold when his music starts—loud, inevitable. Bass thumps through the wall, and you groan, dropping your head to the counter. Not tonight. You drag yourself to your room, a blanket wrapped tight around you, and flop on your bed as the track swells—drums, distortion, and a chaotic roar. Sleep’s a distant hope, and you lie there, his shirtless frame flashing behind your eyes, the wall pulsing until it fades an hour later. You drift off, restless, dreaming of damp skin and dark stares. 

The morning is grey and brutal, exhaustion clinging to you like wet clothes. Yoongi’s gone when you wake, his door shut, and you slog through your day—lectures, store shift, and hanging out with Namjoon at a nearby coffee shop—you're basically running on fumes. Back home, you’re on the couch, phone pressed to your ear on speaker. Your friend Hyejin’s voice crackles through, loud and brassy, filling the room as you pick at a rice cake. “... So, I told him, if you’re gonna ghost me, at least have the balls to say it, right? Men are trash, Y/N, I swear.” 

You short, shifting in the blanket enveloping you. “Yeah, well, I’m not exactly swimming in options either. Work’s killing me.” 

The front door creaks open, and Yoongi slips in, arms laden with two grocery bags—nothing heavy, just bulging with a carton of milk, chips, and some greens poking out. His sweatshirt is zipped halfway, hair mussed from the wind, and he glances at you, nodding faintly before heading to the kitchenette. Hyejin’s voice barrels on, oblivious. “You sound wiped, babe. What’s up? You’ve been off for days.” 

You fumble to switch off speaker, thumb jabbing the screen, but it freezes—stupid cracked phone. “Uh, just tired,” you say, voice tight, eyeing Yoongi as he unpacks, silent and methodical. Milk in the fridge, a bag of tangerines on the side you know he’ll be hoarding. 

“Tired?” Hyejin laughs, sharp and echoing. “Girl, you need to get laid. That’s your problem—no good dick in forever. When’s the last time you even hooked up?” 

Your face flames, and you slap the phone harder, but it’s stuck, her voice blaring. Yoongi’s hands pause over a bag of green onion, head tilting slightly, and you want to die. “Hyejin—” you hiss, but she steamrolls. 

“What about that roommate, the blonde one? You said he’s hot, right? Why not just fuck him? Get some stress relief, Y/N, you’re dying out there!” 

Mortification crashes over you, hot and suffocating. Yoongi’s back stiffens, just for a second, then he turns to the fridge, slow, deliberate, a smirk tugging at his lips—small, private, but there. Your hand finally smacks the speaker off, and you choke out, “Gotta go,” ending the call mid-Hyejin's cackle. The silence is deafening, thick as snow, broke only by the rustle of bags as he slides the tangerines into a bowl. Your face burns, red creeping up your neck, and you mumble, “Sorry, she’s—uh—loud,” voice barely audible, cracking with same. He doesn’t look up, just hums—a low, amused sound—and keeps unpacking, smirk lingering like he’s savoring it. You bolt, blanket trailing, slamming the door behind you. You shove your face into your pillow, still blazing, the muffled groan swallowed by cotton as his quiet unpacking echoes through the apartment. 

--

The apartment has turned into a silent battlefield, the air thick with the ghost of Hyejin’s voice echoing in your skull like a relentless taunt. It’s been a week since that call shattered the fragile peace, a week since Yoongi’s smirk burned into your memory as he unpacked groceries with that slow, knowing curl of his lips. You’ve turned avoiding him into a desperate science, a losing fight when you share this cramped, crumbling space—25 square meters of peeling paint and warped floors that creak under every step. You’re hyper-aware of him, attuned to every trace of his presence: the groan of his door hinges at odd hours, the faint thud of his footsteps on the linoleum, the low hum of his heater seeping through the wall like a pulse. It’s suffocating, a constant reminder of the line you’ve crossed in your head, and you don’t know what he thinks—whether he’s laughing at you behind that unreadable stare, pitying your flushed embarrassment, or—worst of all—disgusted by the mess Hyejin’s words dragged into the open. The uncertainty gnaws at you, a splinter lodged under your skin, sharp and persistent, and you’ve convinced yourself he hates you now, that her brash suggestion painted you as a walking humiliation in his eyes. 

Your solution’s been retreat, a coward’s playbook executed with precision. Mornings, you’re up before the sky cracks open, the world still cloaked in pre-dawn purple, tugging on sneakers that scuff against the icy stairwell as you flee to SNU’s lecture halls—constitutional law at 8 A.M., your 4.0 GPA a lifeline you cling to. The cold bites your ankles, the wind whistling through the cracked windows of the south-end building, but it’s better than facing him over coffee. Evenings, you linger at the convenience store, the flickering fluorescents buzzing overhead as you scan soju bottles for bleary-eyed students, the air thick with stale beer and burnt microwave popcorn. You stay late, dragging out the lock-up routine—counting the till twice, wiping the counter until the manager snaps at you to “Go home already”—just to avoid the moment Yoongi’s door creaks open at home. When you finally slink back, you’re a shadow, slipping through the apartment like a thief—door shut tight, pretending the thin wall between your rooms is a canyon wide enough to swallow the tension whole. 

Yoongi’s mirrored your silence—not that it’s anything new—but he’s been retreating deeper into his hermit shell, turning the guest room a fortress you don’t dare breach. He’s more ghost than man now, his presence reduced to traces you can’t ignore. His music’s quieter now, too, a muted pulse seeping through the wall, like he’s tiptoeing around your frayed nerves, testing how much you can take before you snap. You’ve caught glimpses—him peeling a tangerine at the counter, fingers deft as they split the rind, eyes darting away when you shuffle past in your threadbare socks. The citrus scent hangs in the air after, sharp and fleeting, and it twists something in your chest.  

But there’s something new, something odd that’s crept into the routine: Yoongi’s been showering more. A lot more. The bathroom door creaks open at strange hours—midnight, when you’re half-asleep, mid-afternoon when you’re often gone—and you hear the water running for a shorter amount of time than normal, a steady that echoes through the thin walls. You’d want to be mad, to storm in and snap at him for hogging what little hot water your shitty boiler sputters out, but every time you shower, it’s warm, perfectly so, the steam curling around you in soft, teasing wisps. It hits you slow, a realization that sinks in like ice: he’s taking cold showers. Why? The question burrows into you, strange and nagging. You can’t shake it, and it feeds the restless churn in your gut. 

The phone call flipped a switch, and you hate it—hate how it’s twisted your head, turned Yoongi from a quiet, tolerable roommate into something else, something you want. It’s humiliating, the way your mind drifts when you’re alone, a traitor to your pride. Nights, you lie underneath your pile of blankets, your heater humming a low drone, and imagine him—his lean frame pinning you to the mattress, wrists trapped under his hands, his tongue flicking against your clit, sharp and precise, unraveling you with every deliberate stroke. You wonder what he tastes like, how he kisses—rough and demanding, claiming you in a rush, or slow and soft, teasing until you’re begging? The fantasies coil tight, your breath hitching as you press your vibrator harder, chasing release under the blanket’s weight, quiet gasps swallowed by the dark. It’s never enough, the ache lingering, pooling low, and it leaves you frustrated—sexually, emotionally, a tangled mess of want and shame. You wonder if he feels it too, but he’s a wall, unreadable, and you’re too mortified to ask, too afraid of the answer. 

From Yoongi’s side, it’s a different war, one he’s losing in silence. He’s lock himself in his room much more than he did before, the guest-now-his space a scattered mess of his belongings, because facing you feels like stepping on glass—one wrong move and it’ll shatter. That call—Hyejin's loud, brash suggestion—hit him harder than he’ll ever admit. He smirked, yeah, playing it cool as he unpacked those groceries, but inside, it was chaos, a wildfire he couldn’t stamp out. You think he’s attractive? No—hot? The idea sank into him, sharp and heated, a hook he can’t dislodge, and he can’t unhear it, can’t unfeel the way it’s shifted practically everything. He’s been avoiding you too, not out of hate—God, no—but because every time he sees you, his head’s a mess of lewd flashes: you under him, thighs trembling as he drives into you, your lips parted in a moan that’s his name; on your knees, mouth wrapped around him, wet and eager, eyes locked on his. It’s relentless, a reel he can't stop, and he hates how it’s turned him into a horny idiot, his hand wrapped around his cock, fisting himself in the shower more than he has since he was a gangly teenager with no self-control. 

Cold showers, specifically—ice-cold, the water a brutal shock to his system, numbing the heat that flares every time he thinks of you, every time your small figure brushes past him. He stands under the spray, teeth gritted, hair plastered to his forehead, hand working fast, imagining your hands instead—smaller, softer, tracing his skin—your voice, low and breathless, your body pressed against him. It’s you every time—your flushed cheeks from that call, the way your clothes hug your frame, the quiet gasps he’s sure you’d make if he touched you right. He comes quick, shuddering under the icy blast, the cold biting his skin. It’s a fleeting relief, a cycle he’s trapped in, rinsing away the evidence but not the want. He doesn’t hate you—he wants you. Bad. It’s driving him up the wall, a tension he buries under layers of silence and locked doors. 

A week later, four weeks into this strained cohabitation, the tension’s a live wire, sparking at the edges, ready to ignite. Last night, Yoongi had divvied up the laundry—two hampers, one for you, one for him, a silent chore split to keep the fragile peace. You always wash your clothes together, a money-saving trick drilled into you from years of scraping by, cramming everyone into the ancient machine in the basement laundry room with its chipped paint and flickering bulb. You're meticulous about it, cataloging every threadbare piece—two pairs of jeans, faded at the knees; three hoodies, one with a frayed drawstring; 5 pairs of t-shirts and long sleeves, two pairs of sweatpants, and a handful of socks, mismatched and thinning—because losing anything when you own so little stings deep. Hyejin’s words echo as you sort the pile—“You need to get laid!”—and on a reckless impulse, you toss in your one nice thing: a red lace thong, delicate and daring. Maybe Hyejin was right, getting tangled in your sheets might be a good idea, and who knows? It might actually loosen you up a little and get your mind off of you-know-who. 

Yoongi had dropped your hamper off in your room last night, awkward as hell, his frame filling the doorway for a brief, tense moment. He’s barely met your eyes, blonde hair falling into his face, muttering a clipped, “Here,” before retreating like he couldn’t get away fast enough. You’d nodded, throat tight, a flush creeping up your neck, and started your wash routine today, hauling the load downstairs in the dim stairwell, the air damp with mildew. The machine’s groan was a familiar hum as you fed it coins, the clink echoing in the empty basement, and you trudged back up, the cold seeping through your socks. 

Yoongi was assigned to retrieve both yours and his clothes, mindlessly tossing both loads into the same hampers used earlier. He could easily tell your items apart from his, so he didn’t have a single qualm when he dropped everything back off with you.  

You’re folding the warm pile on your bed, the space heater’s glow warming your shins through your sweatpants, when panic hits like a punch. The thong’s not there. You dig through—jeans, hoodies, socks—fingers clawing at the fabric, unraveling the neat stacks, but it’s gone. Your stomach drops, cold and sour, a sick lurch as images flash: the red lace crumpled on the laundry room floor, some grimy tenant picking it up, snickering at your expense; or worse, caught in the machine’s drum, a scarlet flag flapping for the next person to find. Mortification burns, hot and prickly, spreading from your chest to your fingertips, and you rake your hands through your hair, tugging at the roots as your mind races. Did it fall out on the stairs? Land in someone else's laundry basket? The possibilities spiral, each more humiliating than the last, and you’re two seconds from bolting downstairs to check, retracting every step in a frantic hunt, when you freeze, breath catching. Yoongi’s room. What if it’s with him? 

Yoongi’s hunched over his own hamper, elbow-deep in hoodies and sweats, and fabric warm from the dryer, when his fingers brush something soft, foreign, out of place. He pulls it out, slow, deliberate, and freezes—a red lace thong dangles from his hand, the fabric catching the heater’s orange glow like a flame. His breath catches, a sharp hitch, eyes flashing to you in his mind—your face, your body—and a groan rips from his throat, low and wrecked, echoing in the small room. Images flood him, unbidden and vivid. His grip tightens, the fabric bunching in his fist, cock hardening at the thought of you underneath him, the room tilting as desire slams into him, raw and unfiltered. He’s about to shove it back, bury it at the bottom of the hamper, pretend he never saw it, when a quiet knock jolts him upright, snapping him out of the haze. 

“Uh—come in,” Yoongi says, clearing his throat, his voice rougher than he intends, gravelly with the edge of what’s churning inside him—desire, panic, a tangle of heat he can’t unravel. The door creaks open, slow and hesitant, a low groan of hinges that slices through the quiet of his room. There you are—timid, small, framed in the doorway like a deer caught in headlights, your faded pajamas hanging loose on you. The T-shirt's thin, slinging faintly to your chest, and your sweatpants hang low on your hips, cuffs brushing the floor. Your eyes are wide, searching, darting around his cluttered space—blankets in a heap, vinyls teetering by the wall—before they land on the red lace thong handing from his hand. Your face flames, a rush of red blooming across your cheeks, a soft but piercing gasp slipping past your lips, sharp enough to jolt him where he stands. 

He stares, caught, the air thickening into something vicious, heavy with the weight of your locked gazes. His eyes rake over you, slow and deliberate, tracing the lines of your body—down the curve of your shoulder underneath the fabric, the dip of your waist, the way your legs shift nervously, bare skin peeking where the waistband of your sweatpants ends, and the hem of your shirt begins. His gaze lingers on your lips, parted slightly from that gasp, then snaps back to your eyes, wide and mortified but holding his stare. You don’t speak, don’t even breathe for a beat, the silence stretching taut between you, electric and unbearable. Then you step forward, hesitant, the floor cold under your socks, squeaking faintly under your weight as you close the gap. Yoongi’s breath hitches, chest tightening, his grip on the thong faltering as he watches you approach—small, trembling, but determined. Your fingers reach out, shaky and tentative, brushing his as you pluck the lace from his hand, the fleeting touch a spark that sears his skin. He exhales, sharp and unsteady, the air rushing out as you clutch the thong tight. 

You turn to leave, quick and jerky, like you’re fleeing a crime scene, your socks scuffing the floor as you aim for the door. Your shoulders hunch, the T-shirt riding up slightly to reveal a sliver of your lower back, and Yoongi’s eyes snag there, his throat dry, pulse hammering. He opens his mouth—maybe to say something, anything—but before words form, the world plunges into black. The power cuts with a faint pop, the dim glow of his desk lamp snuffed in an instant. Darkness swallows the room, thick and disorienting, the only sound the storm’s distant howl beyond the walls and the ragged edge of your breathing. The cold creeps in fast, a chill the prickles your bare arms, and you freeze mid-step, your silhouette a faint blur against the void. 

Yoongi stands rooted, the sudden black amplifying the thud of his heartbeat in his ears. The air shifts, heavy with the absence of light and heat, and for a moment, neither of you move, the silence a living thing pressing against your skin.  

Then he speaks, voice low, cutting through the dark like a blade. “Stay.” It’s not a request, not quite a command, but there’s and urgency laced in it, rough and unpolished. You hesitate, your outline shifting as you turn slightly, and he can’t see your face, but he feels your uncertainty, the way you’re poised to bolt. “Just—stay there,” he adds, softer, stepping toward the desk where he keeps a flashlight and tealights he grabbed in preparation for exactly this. “I’ll get light.” 

You don’t argue, don’t move, and he hears the faint creak of the mattress as you sink onto it, the sound small but seismic in the quiet. He fumbles in the dark, fingers brushing vinyl sleeves, a tangles cord, until they close around the flashlight’s cold metal grip. The mean flickers to life, weak and unsteady, casting jagged shadows as he sweeps it across the room—the heap of blankets a sleepless mound, you perched on the edge of his bed, knees drawn up to your chest, arms crossed tight over them. Your silhouette sharpens as his eyes adjust, and he can see the goosebumps rising on your arms, the way your breath fogs faintly in the chill. He grabs the tealights a lighter from the desk drawer and moves back, placing them on the window ledge behind his bed. 

The lighter flicks, the tiny flame sparking against the wick of the first tealight. It catches, a fragile glow blooming, then another, until three small flames dance, casting gold over the scuffed ledge. He sits back, cross-legged, the mattress dipping under your weight across from him, the space between you shrinking in the flickering light. The candles throw shadows up Yoongi’s face—sharp cheekbones, blonde hair mussed and falling into his eyes, lips parted as he exhales—and you feel exposed, the thin T-shirt no shield against the cold or his gaze. Your arms tights, a shiver running down your spine, and he notices, eyes flicking to the way your shoulders hunch, the faint tremble in your fingers. 

“You’re cold,” he says, matter-of-fact, and before you can respond, he’s twisting to grab a hoodie from the pile beside his bed—black, worn, the sleeves stretched from use. He holds it out, the fabric dangling between you, and the gesture hangs heavy, an offering laced with something unspoken. “Take it.” 

“I’m fine,” you mutter., stubborn, your teeth chattering faintly as the chill deepens, the room’s temperature dropping fast without the heater’s hum. Your breath fogs more now, a soft cloud in the candlelight, and you hug yourself tighter, pride warring with the cold sinking into your bones. 

“Take it,” he says again, sharper this time, his tone brooking no argument, eyes narrowing as they lock on yours. There’s a demand there, rough-edged, and it pricks at you, but the cold wins out, your resolve crumbling under the weight of his stare and the shiver racking your frame. You reach out, fingers brushing his as you take the hoodie, the contact brief but electric. You tug it on, the fabric swallowing you—smelling of cedarwood, the hem brushing your thighs—and he watches, a flicker of something dark crossing his face as you settle into it, sleeves flopping over your hands. 

The silence stretches, awkward and thick, the small flames creating shadows that act like a fragile barrier. You shift on the bed, the mattress creaking under you, and he leans on his hands, the bedding soft underneath his palms. The storm’s a dull roar outside, snow pelting the windows, but inside, it’s just you and him, the air humming with tension you’ve both danced around for weeks. He clears his throat, the sound rough in the quiet, and you glance up, catching the way his eyes glint in the candlelight, sharp and assessing. 

“It’s been quiet lately,” he says, voice soft, almost casual, but there’s an edge—a thread of intent snaking through it. His fingers flex against the mattress, inching closer, the tips grazing the blanket near your thigh. “You, I mean. Not just the room.” 

You blink, caught off guard, heat creeping up your neck despite the chill. “What?” you say, too quick, your voice wobbling as you tuck the hoodie’s sleeves tighter into your fists, avoiding his gaze. He’s too close, his presence too heavy, pressing against you like a physical thing. 

“I dunno,” he shrugs, but it’s calculated, his shoulders rolling slow, the bed shifting as he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees now, narrowing the space between you. “I just noticed. You’re usually... louder. Moving around, banging shit in the kitchen. Now it’s like you’re not even here.” His tone’s even, but there’s a tease buried in it, a glint in his eyes daring you to bite, to push back. 

“I’m here,” you mutter, defensive, staring at the tealights, the tiny flames blurring as your heart kicks up, thudding against your ribs. “I’ve just been... busy, I guess. School, work, and I’m with Namjoon a lot—you know how it is.” It’s a flimsy excuse, the words brittle, and you can feel him see through it, his silence louder than any rebuttal. 

He tilts his head, blonde strands shifting, and the smirk returns, faint but sharp. “Busy, huh?” He leans closer, his knee pressing firmer against yours now, intentional, the heat of it seeping through your sweatpants. “Is that why you can’t even look at me?” 

You glance up, and he’s closer than you thought—his face a breath away, eyes locked on yours, dark and piercing in the candlelight. “I’m looking at you now,” you say, aiming for defiance, but it comes out shaky, a whisper swallowed by the tension thickening the air between you. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice a rumble. “Took you long enough.” His eyes flick to your lips, lingering, and the room shrinks, the cold forgotten. 

“Okay, so what?” you snap, the word spilling out before you can stop them. “What’s your point?” Your face burns, defiance masking the nerves twisting inside you. 

He doesn’t back off, just watches you, steady and unyielding. “My point,” he says, slow and deliberate, “is that you’ve been avoiding me.” It’s not a question, a statement dropped like a match onto dry grass, and it ignites something in you, a flare of frustration and shame you’ve been choking down for a week. 

Heat surges up your neck, prickling under Yoongi’s hoodie. “No, I haven’t,” you bite back, voice sharp, your denial too quick. “That’s ridiculous.” You shift back slightly, the bed creaking under you, putting an inch of space between your knees. 

“Ridiculous?” he echoes, voice soft but edged, leaning forward more, closing the gap you just made. “You’re out before I’m up, gone ‘til I’m asleep. You’ve barely said ten fucking words to me all week. You call that normal?” 

“I’ve been busy!” you snap, louder now, the words bursting out as you glare at him. “School, work, like I just explained—shit you’d get if you weren’t holed up in here all the time. Don’t act like I’m the only one who’s quiet.” Your voice trembles, anger masking the guilt, and you shove the hoodie’s sleeves up, the fabric bunching at your elbows, too hot under his scrutiny. 

He snorts, a harsh sound, leaning closer, his knee slamming back against yours, a deliberate push. “Don’t pull that. I’m here, yeah, but I don’t fucking vanish. You’re dodging me like I’m contagious—can't even look at me half the time.” His voice rises, rough with irritation. “What’s your deal? You think I’m pissed about something?” 

“My deal?” you fire back, voice climbing, the argument spiraling out of your control. “Maybe I just don’t wanna deal with you staring at me like—like I’m some joke after that stupid phone call! You don’t get to turn this on me when you’ve been a hermit too!” Your chest heaves, and you hate how raw you feel, how exposed. 

He freezes, just for a beat, then leans back slightly, but his voice drops, low and sharp. “A joke? That’s what you think?” His tone’s quieter, but it’s loaded, frustration simmering under the surface. “I’ve been giving you space, not laughing at you. You’re the one running.” 

“Space?” you scoff, incredulous, your voice crackling as you lean forward. “You call locking yourself in here space? I didn’t ask for that—I didn’t ask for any of this!” Your hands shake, and you hate how close he is. “This is all Namjoon’s fault. If I had just move back in with my parents to begin with—” 

“Then why—” he interrupts, voice rising again, his hand slamming down on the mattress, and you flinch. “Why are you acting like I’m the problem when you’re the one who’s been avoiding me?” His eyes bore into yours, dark and furious, and the tension snaps taut, a live wire humming between you. 

“Okay, fine!” you yell, the words ripping out, raw and jagged. “I’ve been avoiding you! Happy now?” You look away, face burning with shame, jaw tight. 

He doesn’t flinch, just holds your gaze when you dare to meet it again, the anger softening into something else—something heavier. “Why?” he asks, voice quieter now, almost gentle, but it’s a blade all the same, cutting straight to the core. 

You swallow, throat dry, the truth clawing its way up, bitter and hot. “Because of the call,” you say, voice small. “What Hyejin said—it's been... weird. I didn’t know what you thought, if you were angry, disgusted, or—” You cut yourself off, biting your lip hard, the humiliation surging like fresh wound, a sour twist in your chest that makes you want to curl into yourself.  

He tilts his head, blonde strands shifting, and his eyes soften, just a fraction, though they never leave yours. “Didn’t think anything bad,” he says, low, deliberate. “Didn’t mind it.” A pause, then softer, a confession slipped into the dark: “I kinda liked it.” It hangs there, raw and unguarded, and your stomach flips. 

“You liked it?” you echo, incredulous, your voice rising slightly. 

“Yeah,” he says, simple, unapologetic. “You think I’m attractive, right? That’s what she said... your friend, I mean.” His voice dips, teasing again, but there’s a hunger underneath, a question he’s daring you to answer, and it’s dizzying, the way he’s peeling you open, like a tangerine. 

“I—” You falter, breath hitching, his proximity scrambling your thoughts, turning them into static. The hoodie’s too warm, his scent too close—a drug you can’t shake—and yet you can’t look away. “She said it, not me.” 

“But you didn’t deny it,” he counters, voice a rumble now. “Still haven’t” His eyes flick to your lips, lingering, slow and deliberate, and the tension shifts, thickens, a palpable thing wrapped around you both. “You’ve been thinking about it, haven’t you?” he murmurs, voice rough. “What she said. Me.” 

Your mouth opens, a denial on your tongue, but it dies there, strangled by the way his eyes darken. “I-I... I don’t—” 

“Don’t what?” he presses, voice a tease, but his gaze is intense, stripping you bare. His knee nudges your legs apart slightly, moving towards where you need him most. “Tell me you don’t want this,” he says, voice dropping to a rough whisper. “Say it, and I’ll back off.” His eyes search yours, dark and intent, flickering with something that mirrors the heat twisting inside you—desire, need, a question he’s laid bare between you. His fingers curl slightly into your thigh, possessive, waiting, and the silence stretches, taut and trembling, your response teetering on the edge. 

Instead of answering him, your lips slam into his with a force that rips the air from the room, a bruising collision born from the weight of all the suppressed desire, every moment you’ve bitten your tongue instead of speaking, every time you’ve turned away instead of reaching out. It’s not soft, not tentative—it can’t be, not after all this time simmering in the space between you. Your hands fist the worn cotton of his hoodie, knuckles whitening as you clutch the fabric like it’s the only think keeping your grounded, pulling him closer until there’s no gap left to close. The kiss is spark flung onto dry tinder, a wildfire roaring to life after too long smoldering in the dark corners of your mind. Your lips press hard against his, insistent and desperate, testing the faint salt of his skin, the bitter edge of the beer he sipped earlier still clinging to his breath—a sharp tang that mixes with something deeper, something raw and uniquely Yoongi that floods your senses and leaves you dizzy. 

He freezes for a heartbeat, his body tensing before you, a sharp inhale hissing through his teeth as if you’ve jolted his from a trance. Then he surges back, a low growl rumbling deep in his throat—a primal sound that vibrates against your lips and sends a shiver racing down your spine, igniting every nerve in its path. His hands clamp onto your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath the oversized hoodie you’re wearing—his hoodie—yanking you against him with a force that makes the mattress groan beneath your combined weight. The bed creaks sharply, a protest that echoes in the small room as your bodies collide, chest to chest, the heat of him seeping through the thin layers of fabric separating you, warming the chill that’s lingered in your bones for days.  

You move on instinct, driven by a need you can’t name, swinging one leg over his lap until you’re straddling him, your knees bracketing his lean thighs. The shift presses your core against the hard ridge of his cock through his clothes, a sudden jolt of friction that drags a soft, involuntary moan from your throat—a sound you barely recognize as yours, raw and needy, spilling out into the quiet. Your nails rake over his shoulders, catching on the fabric of his sweatshirt as you press yourself closer, your chest flattening against his, the rapid thud of his heartbeat pounding against your ribcage until it feels like it’s yours too. You can feel the tension in his muscles, the way they flex and shift under your touch, coiled tight like a spring begging to snap, and it sends a thrill through you, a spark that catches and flares. 

His hands slide under the hoodie, rough calluses scraping against your bare waist as they roam upward, igniting your skin with every inch they claim. His fingers splay wide, possessive, digging into your flesh with just enough pressure to make you gasp into his mouth—a sharp, breathy sound that he swallows greedily, like it’s fuel for the fire he’s stoking. They travel higher, slow and deliberate, until his palms cup your breasts, the heat of his hands searing through you, thumbs brushing over your nipples in teasing, languid circles. They harden instantly under his touch, a delicious ache blooming as he rolls them between his fingers, coaxing another moan from you—a louder one this time, raw and unfiltered, muffled against his lips, vibrating in the tight space where your breaths tangle. The sensation is electric, a current that zips down your spine and pools low, making you shift relentlessly in his lap. 

The kiss deepens, turning messy and wild—as if it wasn’t already—a clash of need that strips away any pretense of control. Your teeth knock together in your haste, a faint click drowned by the wet slide of your tongues wrestling for dominance, a dance of give and take that leaves you breathless. Yoongi’s mouth is hot, demanding, his tongue curling against yours with a skill that makes your head spin, a slow, deliberate sweep that has you chasing after it, hungry for more. He tugs your lower lip between his teeth, a sharp sting that sends a pulse of heat straight to your core, and you whimper—a soft, broken sound that melts into a groan as he sucks it hard, soothing the bite with a slow, deliberate lick. The taste of him floods you—salt a heat and that faint, bitter edge—and you dive back in, your tongue darting into his mouth, desperate to drown it. 

His grip tightens, one hand abandoning your breast to fist in your hair, fingers tangling in the strands. He yanks your head back, a sudden, firm tug that bares your throat to him, the pull stinging your scalp a drawing a ragged gasp from your lips—a sound that hangs in the air, sharp and vulnerable. Your head tips back, exposing the tender line of your neck, and Yoongi doesn’t hesitate—his mouth descends, lips dragging hot and wet along your pulse, leaving a trail of fire that sears your skin. He sucks lightly at the spot where your heartbeat thumps wildly, a teasing nip of his teeth that makes you squirm in his lap, your hips rocking forward on pure instinct, seeking something, anything, to ease the ache building inside you. 

That movement—unplanned, desperate—grinds you against him, the seam of your sweatpants catching just right on the bulge straining against him. A low, guttural moan tears from his throat, the sound rumbling against your skin as he presses his forehead to your collarbone, he breath hot and uneven against the hollow of your throat. “Fuck,” he mutters, voice rough as gravel, the curse slipping out like it’s been punched from him, and it sends a thrill through you, your own breath hitching in response. You roll your hips again, deliberate this time, a slow, purposeful grind that drags your core over him, the friction sparking pleasure that coils tight in your belly, a heat that spreads like wildfire. His hands snap back you your hips, guiding you, encouraging the motion with a firm squeeze, his fingers digging into your ass through the fabric, anchoring you as you rock against him. 

The movement builds a rhythm—slow at first, tentative, like you’re testing the waters, then faster, more urgent, a desperate cadence that matches the pounding of your pulse. Each roll of your hips presses you harder against him, the heat between your legs growing slick and insistent, soaking through your sweatpants until you can feel it dampening the fabric, a secret you can’t hide. You can feel him—thick, hard, pulsing beneath you—and the thought alone makes you moan louder, a needy whine that echoes in the small room, bouncing off the walls and mingling with the creak of the mattress. Yoongi matches you, his own groans spilling out, low and broken, as he thrusts up to meet you, the cotton soft against your thighs, yet scraping in a way that’s almost too much but not enough. 

Your moans climb higher, a string of needy sounds that spill out unbidden—soft whines, sharp gasps, a broken “Yoongi” that slips from your lips before you can stop it. His response is immediate, a groan that’s half-curse, half-prayer, hips bucking up harder, meeting you halfway, the fabric dragging against your skin in a way that’s rough and perfect. 

You break the kiss, gasping for air, your forehead resting against his as you pant, your breath hot against his swollen lips, mingling with his own ragged exhales. Your eyes—wide, wild, glassy with need—meet his, and the intensity there nearly undoes you, a storm of want brewing behind his own pupils, the dark swallowing the brown until there’s nothing left but desire. “You’ve been fucking teasing me for weeks,” he rasps, voice gravelly, thick with want, his grip on your hair tightening until it stings, a delicious edge of pain that makes you move harder against him, your hips stuttering in their rhythm. “Think I didn’t notice you squirming? All those little looks, avoiding me like I wouldn’t fucking see?” 

“I—I didn’t—” you start, but the lie dies in your throat as he smirks, dark and knowing, and drags you back into the kiss, his tongue plunging deep, silencing you with a claim that leaves no room for denial. Your hands slip from his hair, trailing down his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat under your palms as the kiss breaks again, leaving you both panting, lips swollen and slick. The need clawing at you is too much now, and your fingers curl into the hem of his sweatshirt, the oversized gray fabric that’s been brushing against you all night. You tug upward, a silent question in the motion, and Yoongi’s eyes flicker with something dark and eager as his lifts his arms, letting you peel it off him in one fluid desperate pull. 

The sweatshirt hits the floor with a soft thud, and for a moment, you just stare, your breath catching in your throat as you take him in—shirtless, bare, and breathtakingly real beneath the flickering candlelight glow. His chest is exposed now, and your eyes trace downward, drinking in the sight of him—smooth and unmarred, save for the faint flush creeping up his sternum, a soft pink that blooms under the heat of your gaze and the exertion of what’s just passed. His torse narrows into a lean waist, the lines of his body flowing inward like a river cutting through stone. His abs come into view—subtle but undeniable, a not-so-faint six-pack etched into his stomach, each muscle a shallow ripple beneath his skin rather than a deep carve. The muscles flex slightly as he shifts, tightening with every breath, every twitch of his hips still pressed against you, and you can see the faint sheen of sweat coating them, making his skin gleam like polished marble in the low light. A thin trail of dark hair starts just below his navel, barely visible against his pale complexion, leading downward in a sparse, teasing line that disappears into the waistband of his pants, hinting at what’s still hidden. 

You slide off his lap then, your hands dragging down his bare chest one last time, mapping the lean planes of him—the smooth expanse of his pecs, the subtle ridges of his abs, the heat of his skin—before you sink to your knees between his legs, the cold wood biting into your skin a stark contrast  to the fire burning in your veins. Yoongi watches you, breath hitching, hands flexing on the bed as you teg at the waistband of his sweatpants, his hips lifting slightly to help you pull them down along with his boxers, crumpling into a messy pile around his ankles. His cock springs free, hard and leaking, the tip glistening with a fat bead of precum that catches the faint candlelight glow—a slick, iridescent promise of how much he’s been aching for this, how long he’s been holding back. You pause, your breath snagging in your throat at the sight of him—thick, flushed, veins pulsing faintly under the skin, every inch of him straining towards you. Your fingers hover near it, trembling with the weight of anticipation that’s been clawing at you, a hunger that’s sunk its teeth into your core and won’t let go. Then you reach out, wrapping your hand around him—tentative at first, your touch light as you feel the heat radiating off him, the slight give of skin over rigid flesh. His reaction is instant: a sharp, guttural groan rips from his throat, loud and unrestrained, his hips jerking up an inch like he’s already chasing you. 

You tighten your grip, fingers curling around his length, and start to stroke—slowly, deliberately, watching his face twist with every pass. The skin is velvet-hot under your palm, slick where he’s leaking, and you drag your thumb over the tip, smearing the precum in a lazy, teasing circle. Yoongi moans again, a rough, “Fuck,” spilling out as his head tips back, blonde hair spilling into his eyes in a wild, sweaty cascade that glints gold in the dim light before falling into shadow. His chest heaves, a low growl rumbling through it as you lean closer, your breath fanning over him, warm and deliberate. Your lips brush the tip, featherlight, barely a touch, and he shudders hard, thighs tensing under your elbows where they rest, a ragged “shit” groaning out of him as his hands flex on the bed, knuckles whitening against the sheets. 

You part your lips, letting your breath tease him for a bit longer, watching his abs clench, his jaw tighten, the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. The you take him in—slowly at first, your tongue flicking out to lap at the slit, tasting the sharp salt of him, the heat that floods your mouth as you close your lips around the head. You swirl your tongue, tracing the ridge beneath with a slow, deliberate drag, savoring the way he pulses against you, the way his groan turns into a louder, “Fuck—yes,” his voice cracking on the edge of desperation. You suck lightly, lips tightening as you pull him deeper, inch by tantalizing inch, your jaw stretching to accommodate him as you hollow your cheeks, creating a tight, wet vacuum that makes him hiss—a sharp, needy sound that cuts through the quiet. 

The taste of him intensifies, and you start to bob your head, setting a rhythm that’s wet and sloppy. Spit gathers at the corners of your mouth, slick and messy, dripping down your chin as you take him further, the heat of him pressing against your tongue, nudging the back of your throat with every downward stroke. Yoongi’s hand shoots to your hair, fingers threading into the soft strands with a rough grip—not just anchoring now, but guiding, tugging you down harder as he groans again, his voice gravelly and wrecked. His hips twitch up, a shallow thrust that pushes him deeper, and you gag slightly, the burn in your throat sharp but thrilling as you adjust, breathing through your nose to keep in time with him. 

He gets rougher then, his restraint fraying as his hand tightens in your hair, pulling with a firm yank that stings your scalp and sends a jolt of heat straight to your core. “Take it,” he growls, low and commanding, his hips bucking up again—harder this time, fucking into your mouth with a controlled thrust that has you choking around him, spit spilling over your lips and down his shaft. You don’t pull back—can't, wont—your tongue flattening against him as he sets a pace, deep and insistent, each thrust hitting the back of your throat with a wet, obscene sound that fills the room. He moans louder, letting out a string of curses, “Holy shit, Y/N that feels so—fuck,” each one rougher, more broken, he voice cracking as he watches you, eyes half-lidded and dark. 

Your free hand slides up his thigh, nails scraping the taut muscle there before finding his balls, heavy and tight beneath him. You cup them, rolling them gently in your palm, feeling the way they draw up under your touch. Yoongi’s reaction is rewarding—a deep, shuddering groan tears from his chest, louder than before, his hips stuttering as the sensation hits him. You knead them softly, fingers working in time with your mouth, fondling them with a careful pressure that makes his moans climb higher. The added stimulation drives him wild, his thrusts turning sloppier, more desperate, fucking your throat with a rhythm that’s less controlled now, more primal. Your eyes flick up, meeting his, and the sight of him unravels you—head tipped back, blonde hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, burning with a desperation that’s almost palpable—and it sends a shiver through you, your own arousal pooling low, thighs clamping together as the ache between your legs sharpens into something almost unbearable. 

It’s intoxicating, the way he’s falling apart for you, and it drives you to push him further, to take him deeper. You relax your throat, letting him thrust past the point of comfort, the stretch burning as you gag again, spit pooling and dripping onto his thighs as he fucks your mouth with a grunt. His moans turn constant now, a litany of sound—low growls, sharp groans, broken curses—each one louder, rougher, spilling out as his hips snap forward, his grip on your hair tightening until it’s a delicious ache. He’s losing it, control slipping through his fingers, and you can feel it in the way his thrusts falter, the way his abs clench, a ripple of muscles that signals he’s close. “Y/N—shit, I’m gonna cum,” he growls, voice strained and raw, a warning that’s morphed it’s way into a plea, giving you the change to pull back if you want it. But you don’t—you can’t—doubling down instead, sucking harder, your lips a tight seal around him as you take him as deep as you can, throat flexing around his length. 

You hand pumps the base, fast and slick, working what your mouth can’t reach, while your other hand squeezes his balls just a little harder, rolling them in a way that drags another loud, shuddering moan from him. His hips buck one last time, hard and erratic, and then he’s coming undone—a choked, “Shit,” tearing from his throat as he spills into your mouth, hot and pulsing, thick bursts that coat your tongue, your throat, filling you with the taste of him—salt and heat and raw, unfiltered need. 

You keep going, working him through it, your mouth softening but still moving, your hand stroking slower now as you milk every last shudder from him. His groans turn ragged, breathless, his body trembling beneath you, thigh twitching as he rides out the waves. His hand in your hair loosens, fingers slipping free with a faint tremor, and you pull back slowly, letting him slide from your mouth with a wet, messy pop, spit and cum mingling on your lips as you gasp for air. Your chin’s a wreck, slick and dripping, and you swipe it with the back of your hand, panting as you look up at him, your chest heaving, thighs still pressed tight against the ache that’s screaming between your legs. 

You start to shift, intending to rise, but Yoongi moves faster, his hand snapping to your arms with a grip that’s firm, unyielding, almost bruising as he hauls you up from the floor with a strength that steals your breath. Your knees groan as they leave the cold ground, a soft, startled gasp slipping form your lips as he pulls you onto the bed, dragging you up to meet him in a rush of motion that makes your head spin. His mouth crashes onto yours, fierce and unrelenting, a kiss that’s all teeth and heat, claiming you with a bruising intensity that leaves no room for air. His tongue dives in, hot and possessive, tasting himself on you—the salt and musk of his release mingling with the faint sweetness of you—and he groans into it, a deep, primal sound that rumbles against your lips, sending a fresh wave of heat crashing through your core. 

His hands shove at the hoodie still clinging to your frame—his hoodie, oversized and heavy with his scent—fingers rough and impatient as they yank it up and over your head, the fabric catching on your arms for a heartbeat before you shake it free. It falls to the floor with a muffled thud, and the cold air of the room bites into your newly bared skin, prickling goosebumps across your chest, your nipples hardening instantly under the chill and weight of his stare. You shiver, caught between the shock of exposure and the fire in his eyes, but he doesn’t give you time to adjust—his hands are on you again, strong and commanding, flipping you onto your back with a swift, effortless twist that makes the bed creak softly, the springs protesting under the sudden shift. Your back hits the mattress, the tangled blankets cool and soft against your skin, and Yoongi looms over you, his lean, shirtless frame a shadowed silhouette against the glow of the candles—his bare chest slick with sweat, abs tightening as he braces himself above you, a smirk tugging at his lips, sharp and dangerous. 

“Fucking finally,” he mutters, voice low and gravelly, thick with intent as his hands drop to the waistband of your sweatpants. Hi fingers hook onto the fabric, rough and urgent, yanking your sweatpants and panties down in one harsh, impatient tug that scrapes against your thighs, the material bunching briefly before he rips it free. The cold air hits you like a slap, a shock against the slick, burning heat between your legs, and you shudder, half from the chill, half from the raw vulnerability of being spread bare beneath him. He tosses the clothes aside, the faint rustle of them landing somewhere in the dark swallowed by the pounding of your heart, and his hands find your thighs—his grip bruising, possessive, as he forces them apart, spreading you wide with a strength that makes your breath hitch, your body arching instinctively toward him, open and waiting. 

Yoongi’s head dips low, his breath ghosting over your core first—a warm, teasing huff that makes your hips twitch upward, chasing the promise of contact. His hands dig into your thighs, fingers splayed wide and bruising as he holds you open, pinning you to the mattress with a force that leaves no room for resistance. His lips graze your clit, a fleeting, featherlight brush that sends a sharp, electric jolt ripping through you, arching your back off the bed as a gasp tears from your throat, high and desperate. Then he dives in, his mouth latching onto you with a hunger that’s almost feral, sucking hard on your clit with a wet, obscene pull that makes your vision blur at the edges. The sudden pressure is a shockwave, a white-hot burst that has your hips bucking against his face, a chokes whimper spilling from your lips as your hands scrabble against the blankets, searching for something to hold onto. 

His tongue follows, relentless and greedy, lapping at your folds with broad, messy strokes that leave no part of you untouched, electing a loud cry from you. The wet heat of it drags through your slickness, a slow, deliberate sweep that collects every drop of your arousal, and he groans against you—a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through your core, making your thighs tremble in his grasp. He circles your clit with tight, teasing loops, the tip of his tongue flicking against the swollen bud in quick, precise darts that have you whimpering, your breath hitching in sharp, uneven bursts. The he shifts, plunging his tongue inside you, thrusting it deep into your heat with a rhythm that’s slow but unyielding, fucking you with it as you moan, loud and unabashed. “Oh, shit, Yoongi!” You cry, the words spilling out of you before you can stop them. 

His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there, leaving crescent-shaped marks as he pulls you closer, pressing you harder against his mouth like he can’t get enough. His nose brushes your clit as he buries himself deeper, and your breath hitches, your moans growing louder with each pass of his tongue. He pulls back just enough to suck your clit again, lips sealing around it with a fierce, wet suction that makes your back bow off mattress, a sharp cry ripping from your throat—“Y-Yoongi, please,”—your voice breaking on his name. His tongue flicks against you in response, fast and ruthless, and then his fingers join in—two of them sliding into you, curling deep, stretching you open with a deliberate thrust that makes you feel every inch of his digits, every ridge of his knuckles as they sink inside. 

He pumps them fast, rough, the wet squelch of your arousal loud in the quiet room, mingling with the faint howl of the storm outside. His fingers curl just right, hooking against that spot inside you that sends sparks bursting behind your eyes, and he pairs it with another hard suck on your clit, his teeth grazing you lightly—a fleeting sting that makes you jolt, a whimper turning into a moan. His free hand lifts, hovering over your thigh for a moment, then comes down with a sharp crack, spanking you once—the sound echoing, the heat blooming instant and fierce across your skin. “Louder, let me hear you,” he growls, voice muffled against you, his breath hot and ragged as he dives back in, tongue lapping at you like a man starved. You oblige without meaning to, a loud stream of moans spilling out as your hips grind against his face, chasing the pressure building inside you. 

Your hands find his hair, fingers threading into the sweaty blonde strands, tugging hard—hard enough to make him groan again, a deep, rumbling “mmph” that vibrates through you, pushing you closer to the edge. He retaliates by nipping at your clit, a quick, sharp bite that sends a jolt of pleasure racing through you, your grip tightening as you yank his hair again, desperate and wild. “So wet for me,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, lips brushing your clit as he speaks, the words sinking into you like heat, stoking the fire in your belly. “Been dreaming of this pussy—gonna make you scream.” His tongue dives back in, relentless, swirling around your clit before plunging inside again, fucking you with it in deep, wet strokes while his fingers pump faster, curling harder, stretching you open until you’re trembling and whimpering, thighs shaking uncontrollably un his bruising grip. 

The candlelight dances over your body—sweat beading on your stomach, glistening in the hollows of your hips, a red mark blooming bright and hot where he spanked you, the skin tender and pulsing with every brush of his fingers. Yoongi’s focused, utterly consumed—his eyes flick up to yours, dark and piercing, locked on your face as he drinks in every whimper, every squirm, every broken sound you make. His hair’s a mess from your grip, strands sticking to his forehead, falling into his eyes, but he doesn’t care—his tongue keeps moving, his fingers relentless, savoring the way you’re unraveling beneath him. The pleasure’s sharp, overwhelming, a knife-edge that cuts through you. 

He spanks you again, harder this time, the crack louder, the heat searing across your ass as his fingers curl just right, hitting your g-spot with brutal precision while his tongue flicks your clit in quicks, merciless strokes. You break—screaming his name, “Yoongi—fuck!” The sound raw and ragged, tearing from your throat as your body shatters, clenching tight around his fingers, pulsing hot and wet against his mouth. Your back arches high, hips grinding against him as the climax rips through you, a tidal wave of pleasure that leaves you shaking, trembling, a moaning mess, every nerve alight. He doesn’t stop, lapping you through it with slow, greedy strokes, his tongue dragging out every shudder every twitch, his fingers easing their pace but still moving, coaxing you down from the peak until you’re gasping, oversensitive, tugging hard at his hair to pull him up, your chest heaving as you pant beneath him, wrecked and sated. 

Your chest heaves, lungs burning as you pant beneath Yoongi, your body still trembling from the aftershocks of his mouth on you, his fingers inside you, the oversensitive twitches shuddering through your thighs where they press against the mattress. He pulls back from your core, lips glistening with your slick in the faltering candlelight glow, his blonde hair a sweaty, tangled mess from your desperate tugging, strands plastered to his forehead and falling into his eyes—dark, wild, smoldering with a hunger that hasn’t dimmed. His bare chest gleams with sweat, the lean planes of his abs tightening with each shallow, unsteady breath, his pale skin flushed pink from exertion, collarbones sharp and jutting, a faint sheen of perspiration pooling in the hollow of his throat. He climbs over you, his wiry frame moving with a predator's grace, sweat-slick chest brushing your bare skin as he looms above, caging you in with his arms, the heat of him searing into you like a brand. His mouth crashes into yours, sloppy and deep, a messy tangle of tongues and teeth that tastes of you—sweet and sharp—and him, salt and heat from earlier, a primal mix that makes your head spin. You moan, soft and needy, your hands clawing at his bare back, nails raking down the lean muscle, digging into the taut ridges of his spine as you press yourself closer, your chest heaving against his. 

“I need you, Yoongi, need your cock.” The want between you is raw, reckless, primal—no barriers, just skin and heat—he smirks, and you shift, pushing him back onto the mattress with a surge of strength, the bed creaking sharply as you climb over him, straddling his hips, your thighs once again bracketing his lean waist, knees sinking into the tangled blankets. He groans, low and guttural, as you line yourself up, the head of his cock brushing your entrance—bare, hot, pulsing against your slick heat. He shifts beneath you, one hand reaching down toward the bedside table, fingers stretching for a condom packet in the dim light, but you catch his wrist, stopping him mid-motion. He pauses, eyes flicking to yours, a question in their dark depths, and you lean in close, breath hitching as you whisper, “I want to feel all of you.” His gaze darkens further, a flash of something feral passing through it, and he groans, deeper, his hand falling back to your hip, fingers sinking into the soft flesh there as he surrenders to the moment.  

You sink down slow at first, the stretch raw and intense, a searing burn that splits you open. Inch by thick inch, filling you completely with no layer between you, just the unfiltered heat of him inside. You moan, loud and trembling, your head tipping back as he bottoms out, hips flush against his, the fullness overwhelming, your walls clenching around him instinctively, a tight, greedy grip that makes him groan again, “God, you feel so good—shit.” Your nails bite into his chest, scraping over his pecs, leaving red trails across his pale skin as you start to move, lifting yourself up and dropping back down, the wet slap of your thighs against his steady, filthy rhythm. “Look at you,” he grunts in between each pass of you against his member, “avoiding me for weeks and now you’re practically begging for my cock.” 

You moan, high and desperate, as you ride him, hips rolling with every rise and fall, the drag of him against your walls sending jolts of pleasure sparking through you, your ass bouncing against his thighs with each thrust, and he relishes in the movement of your breasts as you ride him. “Oh, God, Yoongi—” He groans, rough and primal, his hands guiding you, lifting you higher, slamming you down higher, the bed creaking wildly under the force, springs protesting as your pace quickens.  

You lean forward, hands braced on his chest, nails digging deeper into the firm muscle, and he spanks you once—hard—the crack sharp and loud, “Yeah, you like that, don’t you?” The sting blooms hot across your ass, making you moan louder, a broken sound that echoes in the room. He spanks you again, “you like it rough, baby?” You nod in response, the heat spreading like wildfire, and you shudder, your rhythm faltering for a moment as the pain twists into pleasure, your moans climbing higher, constant now, spilling form you with every roll of your hips. 

Yoongi’s groans deepen, his thrusts up to meet you turning erratic, his cock twitching inside you, and he moans, a strained, desperate sound, his abs clenching tight under his sweat slick skin, sweat beading on his brow as he fights the edge. “Fucking hell.” He shifts abruptly, hands gripping your waist, flipping you off him with a swift, strong twist that makes you yelp, a sharp moan tearing from your throat as he pulls out, leaving you empty and trembling, your walls clenching around nothing, slick and desperate. He moves fast, pushing you onto your stomach, “Ass up,” he demands, the bed creaking as he pulls your hips up, forcing you to comply, your knees sinking into the mattress. 

He drives back in with a single, deep thrust, bottoming out in one brutal snap of his hips, hitting every spot, and you moan long and loud, “You feel so good, Yoongi, fuck,” your voice shakes as he fills you again, the new angle letting him go deeper, harder, his cock dragging against your walls with a precision that has your toes curling, your hands clawing at the sheets, tearing at the fabric. He groans, rough and primal, hands gripping your hips, pulling you back onto him with every thrust, the force rocking your body forward, your face pressing into the pillow, muffling your constant moans—high, desperate, spilling from you with every snap of his hips, driving you closer to the edge. 

Your climax builds fast, a tight coil snapping in your belly, every thrust, every spank, pushing you higher, “I’m so close, Yoongi! Gonna cum soon—” you moan louder, a desperate, shuddering sound as your walls start to flutter around him, clenching tight. Your orgasm hits hard, a shattering wave that rips through you, and you scream into the pillow, a raw, broken moan muffled against the fabric as your body shakes, trembling uncontrollably, pleasure crashing through you in relentless surges, your ass stinging, red and raw, your nails clawing at the sheets, tearing holes in the cotton as you ride it out, shuddering, lost in the raw heat of him inside you. 

He feels it, groaning loud and rough, his thrusts turning sloppy, hips stuttering as your clenching walls grip him, and he cries out, “Ah shit, Y/N!” It’s a strained sound, breaking form his chest as he chases his own edge, sweat dripping onto your back, hot and slick. His climax snaps, a guttural moan tearing from him as he spills inside you, hot and deep, pulsing thick and unrestrained, filling you with every erratic trust. His hands pull you back onto him as he comes, trembling above you, breath ragged, breaking into rough sound as he rides his orgasm out, his cum leaking out, warm and sticky, dripping down your thighs. He collapses over you, chest pressed to your back, his weight heavy and grounding, both of you shaking, spent, tangled in the damp, sweat-soaked sheets. His arm drapes around your waist, breath hot and uneven against your neck, stirring the damp hair there. 

The cold begins to seep into the room as the last candlelight flickers out with a faint hiss, plunging you into near-darkness, the only light a thin, silvery glow from the window that softly outlines Yoongi’s lean, shirtless form as he slides off your back and next to you. His chest rises and falls in slow, uneven breaths, a faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his flushed skin, catching the dim light across the sharp lines of his collarbones and the subtle ridges of his abs, now relaxed after the tension of before. Silence settles over you, thick and soothing, like a heavy blanket, muffling the world beyond—the storm outside reduced to a faint whisper against the glass, barely audible over the slowing thud of your pulse. You lie there, breathless and spent, your body heavy with exhaustion, tangled in the sweat-soaked fabric that clings to you, sticky and warm, but there’s a sweetness to it, a comfort in the mess you’ve made together. 

Yoongi shifts beside you, rolling onto his side with a soft creak of the mattress, his movement careful, deliberate, as if he’s afraid to jostle you too much. “Hey, you okay?” he asks, his voice low and gentle, a quiet rasp softened by a thread of concern that makes your chest warm, his breath brushing your cheek as he props himself up slightly. You turn your head toward him, cheek sinking into the pillow, damp strands of your hair sticking to your flushed face, and catch his eyes in the dimness—soft, warm, searching yours with a tenderness that feels like a balm after the roughness. 

“Yeah,” you murmur, voice hoarse from exertion, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips as you meet his gaze, your lids heavy with fatigue. “Wrecked, though—like, can’t-move wrecked.” He chuckles, a gentle, rumbling sound that vibrates through his chest, and his hand slides up to your hair, fingers threading through the sweaty, tangled mess, rubbing your scalp with a slow, soothing touch that draws a faint moan form you, a sigh of pure relief. 

“My favorite kind of wrecked,” he says softly, his tone teasing but laced with affection, his thumb brushing along your temple as he smooths your hair back, tracing the curve of your cheek with a gentleness that makes your heart flutter. His fingers linger, rubbing slow circles against your scalp, easing the faint ache form earlier tugging, and you feel your body soften under his touch, the tension melting away as you sink into the comfort of it. “You’re still warm,” he whispers, his voice barely above a breath, a quiet wonder in it as he leans closer, his lips brushing your forehead in a tender kiss, soft and fleeting but heavy with care. You snuggle into him, ignoring the sweat—his skin slick and sticky against yours, your cheek pressing into the curve of his chest, right above his heart, where the beat thumps steady and slow beneath your ear, grounding you. He pulls you tighter, his hand still moving through your hair, fingers sliding through the strands with a kindness that makes your chest ache. 

“You’re sweaty,” you mumble, your breath warm against his chest, your nose brushing the hollow of his collarbone where the faint musk of him mixes with the salt of his skin, earthy and comforting. 

“So are you,” he replies, his voice light, a smile threading through it, “but I don’t mind—keeps you close.” His hand shifts, sliding down from your hair to trace your skin, fingertips gliding over your shoulder, along the curve of your arm, then back up, featherlight and slow, mapping you with a tenderness that sends a shiver of warmth through you. Your body curls into his, legs tangling, the stickiness of your skin fading under the solace of his touch, the way he holds you like you’re something precious. 

The room grows colder, the air brushing against the skin of your back where the sheets have slipped, but his warmth chases it away, his body a shield against the chill, his chest a steady anchor beneath your cheek. “Just rest, I’ve got you,” Yoongi whispers, and you smile against his chest, the sweat and mess a distant thought under his gentle touch, his fingers threading through your hair and tracing your skin, grounding you in his kindness as you drift, tangled together, sated and held in the quiet warmth of the moment. 

--

Two months later, the late afternoon sun spills through the living room window of your shared apartment, casting a warm golden glow over the mismatched furniture—the sagging couch where Namjoon sprawls, the coffee table cluttered with empty takeout containers, and the armchair where you’re curled up, half-draped over Yoongi. The air smells faintly of soy sauce and fried rice, remnants of the lunch you all split, and the TV hums in the background, some random variety show Namjoon picked out but no one’s really watching. Yoongi’s arm rests lazily around your shoulders, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm through the thin sleeve of your hoodie—his hoodie, technically, the faded black one you’ve claimed as your own. His hair’s a little longer now, his grown-out blonde strands brushing his eyes. 

“I missed you today,” you murmur, tilting your head to nuzzle his jaw, your voice soft and sweet, a little pout in it as you press closer, your hand resting on his chest where his heart beats steady under your palm.  

He chuckles, low and warm, tilting his head to meet your gaze, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners with that quiet, gummy smile you adore. “Was only gone a few hours, doll.” he says, his tone teasing but tender, his hand sliding up to rub your hair gently, fingers threading through the strands like they’ve done a hundred times since that night two months ago. 

“I still missed you,” you insist, leaning in to peck his cheek, and he hums, a contented sound, pulling you tighter against him, his lips brushing your temple in return. 

“God, you two are disgusting,” Namjoon groans from the couch, his deep voice cutting through the moment as he flops his head back dramatically, one arm slung over his eyes like he’s shielding himself from the sight. He’s sprawled out in a T-shirt and sweats, lang legs dangling over the armrest, his dimples nowhere in sight as his face twists in mock disgust. “I didn’t sign up for this,” he mutters, peeking out from under his arm to glare at you both, his annoyance palpable. 

You giggle, turning to sick your tongue out at him, and Yoongi smirks, his hand still rubbing your hair as he leans his head against yours. “What, Joon? Jealous?” Yoongi teases, his voice light, and you snuggle closer, your cheek pressing into his shoulder. 

Namjoon sits up, tossing a throw pillow at you both—it misses, landing harmlessly on the floor—and runs a hand through his dark hair, exasperated. “I suggested you crash here, man, because you said you needed a place to stay, not so you could turn my best friend into—into this,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the two of you tangled together, his time a mix of irritation and disbelief. “I swear, if you start jumping each other’s bones right in front of me, I’m moving to Japan. I’ll sleep on the street before I watch that.”  

You laugh, bright and unrestrained, and Yoongi’s chuckle joins yours, his fingers tracing down your arm now, a soft, comforting glide. “Relax, Joon,” you say, grinning, “we’ll save it for when you’re not around.” 

“Yeah, promise,” Yoongi adds, his voice deadpan but his eyes glinting with mischief as he pulls you even closer, his lips brushing your ear just to mess with Namjoon more. He groans again, louder, flopping back onto the couch with an exaggerated huff, muttering, “Should’ve known this would happen—gross, both of you.”  

He grabs the remote, cranking the TV volume up to drown out your giggles, while you and Yoongi stay wrapped up in each other, the warmth of his touch and the softness of his laughter a quiet comfort against Namjoon’s playful grumbling. 

As the day fades into evening, the three of you setting into this new, chaotic normal, a little louder, a little messier, but unmistakably home. 

[phantasm-ae]

Sort of part 2 of my Mrs. Price drabble. I hope u like it🥺

cw: afab reader x captain price, soft fluff, afab reader x soap, afab reader x ghost, afab reader x gaz

HEADCANON: Forced to crash in Price’s place momentarily. The team meets you — Mrs. Price again — much to Price’s annoyance. Treating his house now like a sleepover den

PAIRING: John Price x reader, slight Poly141 x reader

something something, the team forced to reroute their entire mission due to an intel mix-up. Having to lay low for a few weeks somewhere in this woodland retreat of a lodge for the meantime.

But it wasn't entirely that bad. Fuck no.

Not when they rest of the team realized that they could technically crash at Price's own place for the time being. A quaint little countryside cabin with a roaring fireplace, creaky wooden floors, a tiny plant nursery at the front, and the comforting smell of pine that lingered in the air. But most importantly of course -- You. Mrs. John Fucking Price at the center of it all.

Price didn’t seem thrilled at first. Fuck that. He already hated how Soap practically salivated at the thought of his wife ever since they met her in that dingy pub. Cheeky bastard grinning like a schoolboy everytime he mentioned her and her famous lemon drizzle cakes.

But Christ on earth, they didn't exactly have a choice at the moment. So. Reluctant. Waning. Frustrated and annoyed. Muttering about how his place was hardly a “luxury hotel,” but once the team started packing their things with the energy of schoolboys on a field trip, he relented. And, honestly, who could blame them? They were tired, dirty, and living on dry rations; a warm bed and a roof over their heads was like a damn vacation.

So here they were. Standing in front of their little cottage abode. Walls mossy, wood comforting, and air remote. Quaint and tangling ivy around the roof. The marshy nook like something out of a storybook.

And as soon as the door opened, the familiar, warm scent of you greeted them. Wood, fresh herbs, mint, and a lingering hint of something that made the whole place feel more like home. Price's wife, sweet sweet perfect Mrs. Price, was already waiting when they arrived

"Oh my darlings. Its glad to see your faces again", she greeted them. Voice soft and smile warm. Price, absolutely knackered, immediately felt a wave of relief at the sight of her.

Long hair up in her usual hairdo, apron tied around her waist, and despite the chaos outside, she looked perfectly put-together in a way that made him feel all of a sudden like maybe he was the one who didn’t belong in the mess they’d become.

She looked absolutely angelic. Vision of druidic calm. Heaven sent and sacred. Hera in crochet and bunny slippers.

Price stood taller, more rigid at her side -- already bracing for what he knew was coming.

"Come in, come in," she beamed, ushering them all in like they were visiting nephews rather than elite soldiers who could snap necks before breakfast. "Shoes off at the door, please. I just mopped."

They all shuffled inside with relief, shaking off the dust from their clothes as if they’d finally arrived at some kind of sanctuary. Gaz obeying immediately, kicking off his boots like a schoolboy caught tracking mud, while Soap practically tripped over himself trying to get them off any faster.

"I made stew," she called from the kitchen, already halfway down the hall with her apron strings bouncing behind her. "And bread. Oh -- and Johnny, I baked that lemon drizzle you like."

Soap nearly wept.

“Marry me, Mrs. Price,” he shouted after her, only half-joking.

Price whipped around, face like thunder. “Johnny—”

“Jokin'! Jokin'!” Soap raised his hands in surrender, grinning like the devil himself. “Ye already bagged the best lass on earth, I know. Just sayin' -- luck bastard ye are"

Gaz leaned in, whispering to Ghost, “Swear to God, it’s like visiting your nan’s. All we need is a jigsaw puzzle and some knitted socks.”

Ghost didn’t answer. Didn't need to. Massive hulking posture already loosening and starting to mellow. Halfway through removing his gloves and looking -- dare anyone say it -- peaceful.

Later that night. Cozied up in Price's living room. Her crocheted throw blankets and mismatched cushions cradling their weighty and coarse bodies like they weren't seasoned and elite killers but a bunch of children in a sleepover at their gran's. Bellies full. Air serene and leisurely, watching some old movie Mrs. Price put on.

She'd even brought out bloody hot chocolate (with marshmallows, of course), and Ghost -- Ghost with his towering frame, permanent scowl, but now brushed blonde hair that strangely smelt like that eucalyptus oil that you recommended him -- had accepted his mug with two hands like it was holy.

Sitting on the edge of the floral couch. Cupping the mug in both gloved hands like it was a sacred relic. Taking a cautious sip before letting out the softest grunt of approval anyone had ever heard from him.

Soap nearly dropped his own cup laughing. "That good, Ghost?"

Ghost didn’t look up. “Shut up.” But he took another sip.

Gaz, already wrapped in one of the knit blankets she’d handed out like party favors, leaned over with a grin. “I think I just saw you smile, mate. Terrifying.”

“She’s a bleedin' marvel, so she is,” Soap whispered behind his mug. “Bit o' witchcraft in that cocoa.”

"This should be a regular thing," Gaz mumbled, curling up farther into one of her handmade quilts with a contented sigh. "Every end of the quarter. Team regroup with Mrs. Price."

“Quarterly sleepovers, aye?” Soap echoed, raising his mug.

“Aye. With lemon drizzle cake and that stew. Jesus.”

Ghost hummed, shockingly agreeing, “Better than the barracks.”

John Price, sitting stiffly in his armchair like he’d rather be interrogating someone in a bunker, glared at them over his mug.

“No,” he said flatly.

Mrs. Price, from the kitchen, called out without missing a beat, “Oh I don’t mind, dear.”

“No, they’re not,” Price barked from the hallway, already regretting every life choice that led to this moment.

But no one was listening anymore.

masterlist

[writers-potion]

Could you give any advice for "descriptive" writing of any scene or action scenes or mapping out the scenery (Mountains, forests, streets etc) - i believe this is a struggle for Non-English speaking writers due to lack of vast vocabulary.

Common Scenery Description Tips

Vocabulary is clearly an important part of description, but it doesn’t have to be a limit. The most important thing about description in fiction is picking the right details to mention:

How does the details add to the mood of the story? A mountain ridge will be dark, gray and foggy if the overall mood is meant to be mysterious/brooding. In contrast, a mountain can be brilliantly snow-capped, lush green and “smiling down” upon the character if they’re out for a light stroll.

How are the contrasts/complementary aspects being brought out?

Are you using the five senses? You can even combine the senses, ie. blue ringing of the church bells

(If you have the POV character) what 

Some other tips for setting description:

Use similes and metaphors. Creative figures of speech always get my attention as a reader. 

Mention story-specific elements. For example, “The sky was the shade of Zoes’ eyes” or “the mountains looked like a group of trolls sleeping on one another” 

Be concise. Today’s readers don’t want to read paragraphs and paragraphs about one landscape. Outline the larger elements in the scene, their location and general mood. Add some details, then move on. 

If the same location appears multiple times, differentiate the description little by little as you write, instead of trying to lay out one scene in too much detail at once. 

That said, here are some helpful words/phrases:

Forests/Mountains

Color: bone-white, phantom-white, hazy gray

Sound: rumbling, booming grumbling, bellowing clapping, trundling, growling, thundering

Shape: crinkled, crumpled, knotted, grizzled, rumpled, wrinkled, craggy, jagged, gnarled, rugose  

Action: sky-punching/stabbing/piercing/spearing, heaven-touching/kissing, snow-cloaked/hooded/wreathed/festooned

Sloping sides, sharp/rounded ridges, high point/peak/summit

Majestic, gargantuan humbling, vast, massive, titanic, towering, monumental, mighty, vast, humbling

Mountains having faces, etc. 

Seas

Color: blue-green, crystal-clear crystalline, emerald, frothy, hazy, glistening, pristine, turquoise

Size: boundless, abyssal, fathomless, unconquerable, vast, wondrous

Sound: billowing, blustering, bombastic

Action: boisterous, agitated, angry, biting, breaking, brazen. Churning, bubbling, changing, brooding, calm, convulsing, enticing erratic, fierce, tempestuous, turbulent, undulating

Alluring, blissful, betwitching, breezy, captivating, chaotic, chilly, elemental, disorienting

Deserts

Sight: A landscape of sand, flat, harsh sunlight, cacti, tumbleweeds, dust devils, cracked land, crumbing rock, sandstone, canyons, wind-worn rock formations, tracks, dead grasses, vibrant desert blooms (after rainfall), flash flooding, dry creek

Sounds: Wind (whistling, howling, piping, tearing, weaving, winding, gusting), birds cawing, flapping, squawking, the fluttering shift of feasting birds, screeching eagles, the sound of one’s own steps, heavy silence, baying wild dogs

Smell: Arid air, dust, one’s own sweat and body odor, dry baked earth, carrion

Touch: Torrid heat, sweat, cutting wind, cracked lips, freezing cold (night) hard packed ground, rocks, gritty sand, shivering, swiping away dirt and sweat, pain from split lips and dehydration, numbness in legs, heat/pain from sun stroke, clothes…

Taste: Grit, dust, dry mouth & tongue, warm flat canteen water, copper taste in mouth, bitter taste of insects for eating, stringy wild game (hares, rats) the tough saltiness of hardtack, biscuits or jerky, an insatiable thirst or hunger

Streets

Dusty, fume-filled, foul, sumptuous, broad, bucolic, decayed, mournful, seemingly endless, empty, unpaved, lifeless, dreadfully genteel, muddy, nondescript, residential/retail

Bleach, flimsy, silent, narrow, crooked, furrowed, smoggy, commonplace, tumbledown, treeless, shady

The blacktop streets absorb the spring sunshine as if intent upon sending heaven's warmth back through my soles.

The streets absorbed the emotions in the air, the city as the steady and reassuring mother.

The streets were a marriage of sounds, from bicycle wheels to chattering.

In the refreshing light of early daytime, the streets had the hues of artistic dreamtime, soft yet bold pastels.

Cobbled streets flowed as happy rivers in sunlight.

Parties

Some extra tips for locations like parties, where lots of action is going around practically everywhere:

Focus on the important characters - where they are, who they’re with. 

Provide some overall description of the structure of the party scene (a pool, a two-storey house with yard?), then move on to details. 

Don’t try to describe everything. 

whirlwind of laughter and music, a symphony of joyous chaos.

It was a gathering that shimmered with the glow of twinkling lights and echoed with the rhythm of dancing feet.

The air was alive with excitement, buzzing with conversations and the clink of glasses.

Every corner held a story waiting to unfold, a moment waiting to be captured in memory.

It was a tapestry of colors, a mosaic of faces, each adding their own brushstroke to the vibrant canvas of the night.

Laughter cascaded like a waterfall, infectious and unstoppable, filling the room with warmth.

The night was a carnival of senses, with aromas of delicious food mingling with the melodies that filled the air.

Time seemed to slip away in the whirl of the party, moments blending into each other like colors on a palette.

The energy of the crowd was electric, pulsing through the room like a heartbeat, binding everyone in a shared moment of celebration.

It was a celebration of life, where worries faded into the background, and the present moment was all that mattered.

[urhoneycombwitch]

i fumbled and deleted the original request... insert ovulation dry humping anon req here (anon I deeply apologize 😭)

<3 <3 <3

foreword: okay no literally ovulation happens once a month. every month. since I was young. and somehow it’s still a surprise every time??? wtf. relatable tho. you know I’m always down for some slutty over the clothes action w/Eddie+R so here’s more of that love u 5ever thanks for sending <3

cw: pov Eddie, LTR, pet names (babe, sweetheart), soft!dom Eddie, reader is gn, r has breasts + vagina, ovulation, smut, dry humping, scent kink (if you squint), you-know-who cums in his pants king <3 +18 MDNI!!!

wc: 1.4k

____

It’s halfway through Saturday when Eddie realizes the source of your discomfort. 

You’ve been on edge since the morning, grumbly far past the mug of coffee that usually improved your mood.

Unable to settle, you’d been flitting from one task to the next, muttering curses at the underside of the fridge shelves or scoured sinks. When Eddie offered to help, you’d snapped at him- with no real bite to your voice, but sharp enough to send him back a step.

“Sorry.” Your apology came swift as the bark before it, back turned at the sink, shoulders tight and trembling with exertion in the pause. “I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you. I’m just… I didn’t sleep well, or something. Sorry.”

Eddie approached the angry, sparking form of you, uncaring if he got burnt in the process- but his arm seemingly slipped between the defensive shield, taut as a seatbelt across your chest and just as grounding. 

He felt the resistance from the tip of your toes to the top of your spine, wound tight but not enough to keep you from yielding a bit into his hold; Eddie dipped his chin to your shoulder, kissed over the flannel, then one at your bare neck- “S’okay. Want some help?”

Testing the waters of your irritation, Eddie had an inkling this mood might be hormone-related, further proved by the way you were unintentionally pressing back into his body; if he had to guess, you were less a ticking time bomb and more like a hostile cat, touch-starved and willing to be stroked into good behavior. 

“I’m almost done.” In answer, your voice was weary and strung-out, sponge squeezed in your grip like a lifeline. “And then I’ll do the oven, which I don’t particularly want your help with- no offense.”

Eddie wasn’t offended in the slightest, not with you melting like butter in his arms and the incident from last autumn cleaning still scorched in his nasal memory. “None taken. If I burn my eyebrows off again you’ll kick me to the curb, I know the rules.”

That got a half-smile, hard-won, and Eddie kissed it from your lips before making a retreat for the outdoors, with a few last remarks about being the Man of the House and doing some Manscaping (in truth, the outdoor shed is mostly used for dust collection purposes, but you laughed so he’s taking the win). 

Eddie strips down to his black undershirt, spring air fresh and sun mild as he sweeps the front porch and steps. He makes sure to cross in front of the kitchen window’s path a few times, on the off chance you want to ogle at the extra skin and back muscles in secret. 

When he heads indoors to wash up, you’ve beat him to the punch, perched on the couch with a book, in a fresh t-shirt and pair of clean jeans. 

“What a gorgeous sink,” he comments from the kitchen, sloughing the accumulated grime from between his fingers and rings. “Looks too clean and fancy for lil’ old me. Might wanna banish me to the outdoor hose from now on.”

The corner of your mouth lifts to show you’re listening, but the joke isn’t enough to smooth the deep frown lines from your pretty face as you glower at the pages in your lap. 

Eddie flings himself onto the couch beside you, budging up obnoxiously close so he can see the new object of your vexation.

“It’s from the library, due in two days so I’m trying to finish,” you say by way of explanation, eyes fixed on the print as Eddie hooks his chin over your shoulder.

There’s over half the novel left. “Babe, I don’t think humankind was made to read that much Salinger in one weekend. It’ll make you batty.”

“Fair point.” Taking the bid to set the distraction aside, you toss it with a thunk on the coffee table.

Eddie feels your sigh, head lifting at the deep rise and fall. Even if your internal systems are fighting it, there’s a soft longing with which you move, in the tiny ways you open for Eddie, or shift to be closer- it’s a confusing opposition of signals, and Eddie might be hopeless if he hadn’t made it his life’s mission to study you completely. 

“Wanna veg out and watch some crap TV?” 

When you nod, Eddie flicks on a reruns channel, then reaches to drape an arm around you, stopping with a wince partway- “On second thought. The back I inherited directly from my uncle is requiring a horizontal position after all that sweeping. You mind laying down with me, sweetheart?”

He’s laying it on a little thick, and Eddie almost feels bad until he remembers this is for a higher cause; you comply so sweetly and willingly, pulling him down flush between the couch and your back. 

“Should’ve let me do the sweeping.” Your voice is relaxed, barely a mumble as Eddie molds himself to the warmth and shape of you, one arm settling over your waist, the other across your upper chest.

“Shh. You’re incoherent. Rambling nonsense. S’posed to be vegging out.” Eddie gives you a little shake, then a growl that precedes a bite to the softest part of your neck. 

This makes your spine arch, ass pushing back into the cradle of his hips as a bright peal of giggles leaves you breathless. Eddie takes the opportunity to slide his thigh between yours, passing it off as necessary to getting the perfect angle for kissing your neck.

He didn’t bite near hard enough to bruise but kisses over the teeth marks regardless. At your chest, a cool track of his ringed hand trails innocently down- until his whole palm is suddenly over your breast.

On low, crackly volume, there’s an audience laugh track as Eddie tweaks at your nipple, peaked through the layers of shirt and bra. A whiny, high moan from your throat when he pairs this with a solid rocking forward of his thigh against your cunt. 

Eddie’s pretty sure he can feel the beginnings of your dampness seeping through to his own skin; the thought makes him groan, blood rushing in his ears and south quick enough to dizzy.

“Eddie.” This time, your voice is wavering and small, and Eddie’s glad for the automatic mute feature as the TV changes to commercial. “Please don’t tease.”

“Honey, I promise I’m not.” Eddie’s close to hysterics (laughing or crying, unclear at this juncture), settling his nose where your neck and shoulder meet, huffing a laugh. “It’s okay. Just relax. Let me help you feel good.”

The last threads of your resolve are splintering, thighs stuttering and tightening around each thrust of his hips. At the small of your back, Eddie cock throbs. 

“Wanted you-ah-… all day.” Your confession split by a gasp when Eddie finally gets past the restriction of your bra cup, thumbing hard into doughy flesh.

“All you had to do was ask, sweet thing.” The skin under Eddie’s nose is intoxicating- he could swear you smell different on ovulation days: this wild, heady lull of siren song calling out to him. “You’re just how I like you, though. Stubborn. Won’t ask unless I’m giving it. You can take, now.”

Permission grants you new purpose, following the urge of Eddie’s hand at your hip with pleasure-soaked intent. A few more fluid rolls of hips and Eddie feels the telltale signs of your panting pitching upwards, legs and stomach tensing- “That’s it. Good, baby, let go. Yes.”

This last encouragement pushes you over the edge, coming hard with a long, low noise from your dropped jaw, thighs clamping and spasming with the force of it.

Eddie makes sure to wring out the last of your aftershocks on his shaking thigh before he comes, too, cock pulsing into the constrictive fabric of zippered jeans but blessedly rutting against the firm contours of your ass. “Fuck me.”

“I’ll say.” Sounding similarly winded, you clutch at Eddie’s arms, keeping them wrapped around your form as breath returns. “How the hell did you know I needed that?”

By smell is probably a bit too hard to explain (or defend). Eddie shrugs, pulling you ever closer. “Call it lover’s intuition.”

[spear-of-moonlight]

DEADLINES AND CUDDLES | LEE FELIX

genre: fluff warnings: kissing? —w.c: 1.14k masterlist A/N: wrote this for my darling @enimsiyobeht

Your eyes reflected your laptop screen and exhaustion. The low hum of the air conditioner seemed to mirror the static in your head as your fingers flew across the keyboard, barely registering what you're typing. You were drowning - exams, papers, presentations, and an essay you've been procrastinating on because you couldn't string words together after your classes that drained all of your energy. You flipped through the pages of the heavy textbook resting open on your desk, trying to find the page a senior recommended as reference. A variety of other papers were scattered across your desk, held in place by your laptop and a mug with droplets of coffee drying on the inside. Your hair—messy from you running your hand through it as if you could clear your mind with your fingers—fell across your forehead.

You were hit with a random thought of food, like a pop-up message in your brain, making you realise you haven't eaten since lunch. Your stomach was filled with coffee and dread, but you kept typing. The essay was due in two days, and you have a full day of classes tomorrow. You tilted your head back with a groan, head falling backwards off the chair as you rubbed at your face with your ink-marked hands. When you opened your eyes, you were met with the sight of your rumpled bedsheets and those soft, soft pillows. Even upside down, it looked as tempting as sin. But you know if you so much as laid down, your brain would shut off everything else and pull you into sleep. You sat up straight again, an ache in your back lingering from sitting for hours.

Soft footsteps made you turn your head. Felix stood in the doorway, concern etched across his features. He walked in, pointing at your laptop screen when he reached your desk. "Save." You opened your mouth to protest, but he cupped your face with his sweater paws, your sweater sleeves falling below his palms. "Sweetheart, listen to me. You need rest," he chided gently, leaning down to kiss your forehead as your hand reached out to click 'save' on your file and snap your laptop shut. You melted into his touch, leaning in like a flower to sunlight. You felt like one in his presence, like you'd bloom through the hardest concrete solely because of his light. You wrapped your arms around him, resting your head on his stomach. The sweater now had a mix of your scents—his white floral perfume he's been obsessing over lately, and the woodsy fragrance he got you for your birthday. "I'm so tired, Lix," you mumbled into the soft fabric.

"Who would've thought?" he joked, pulling back and cupping your face again, chuckling when he saw your pout. "What? Don't tell me I'm wrong." You wanted to flick that stupidly adorable nose, but his smile and those stars dusted across his cheeks disguised as freckles were enough to make your heart swell, worry seeping out.

"You know I have a lot to get done. And then there's the exams and—" you groaned, pulling him into your lap and burying your face in the crook of his neck. He wrapped his arms around your neck, legs on yours as he carded his fingers through your messy hair, smoothing them out. He was warm, even when the AC made the room frigid enough to hang meat.

"You can do it tomorrow. Or you can ask for an extension," he said firmly, burying his nose in your hair. It was all you needed at the moment. Him. Even when the books and papers lay on your cluttered desk as a reminder of your deadline, your sun shone bright enough to block out words. "When was the last time you ate, hm?" His question made you burrow into his chest as if you could hide from it. Your shoulders were pressed against the back of your chair by his hands as he forced you to meet his gaze. "You look like shit."

"Am I still handsome though, love?" you teased, a weak attempt to change the subject. He tsked affectionately and kissed your forehead again, thumbs kneading your knotted muscles. You sighed, and his lips found your nose next, travelling down and meeting your smiley lips. He kissed your cheeks next, making you giggle and pinch his side. "Yah—"

"Hm? Don't like my kisses?" he questioned with a pout, a fake one but cute as always. You feigned a glare, although your lips failed to cooperate as you leaning in and kissed him—soft, sweet, thankful, and so in love. Your hands slid under his shirt, his warm skin a stark contrast to your cold hands. He gasped at the sudden chill, kicking your calf under the table. You hummed, and he could feel your smirk against his collarbone, pressing a kiss so soft to his skin as if he were sugar that would melt from the warmth of your breath.

"You're bossy," you complained, your face still buried in the crook of his neck.

"I made grilled cheese." You looked up at him, smiling softly. Your arms squeezed his body, earning a giggle from him that made your chest warm and soft. You had each of his little laughs memorised—his sleepy giggles, his loud cackles, his soft little chuckles, the huff he'd let out when he doesn't want to admit your joke was good, and these soft giggles you got when you were affectionate.

You couldn't catch yourself be whipped, of course, so you quirked a brow, teasing, "I didn't smell fire, though?" The bite to your shoulder was worth it, in your very humble and correct opinion. He stood from your lap, grabbing your hands to haul you up with surprising strength. You grumbled, trying to be all annoyed even when the smile on your face was as traitorous as your dancing heart. You let him drag you to the kitchen, you let him sit you down on one of the chairs and you let him feed you the slightly burnt grilled cheese that was gourmet to you who hadn't eaten in hours.

Later, laying in bed with him wrapped around you like an octopus, you were already drifting off. Your eyelids drooped, and you pulled him closer, holding him tight in your arms. "You didn't answer my question, you know?"

He looked up from your chest, face puzzled adorably. "What question?"

"When I asked you if I was still handsome?" He blinked. Once again. A disbelieving chuckle left his lips.

"Really?"

"Mhm." What followed was a kiss, a beautiful smile against your lips, and a tighter hug.

"The most handsome."

"Why thank you, darling." You reached out and turned off the lamp.

"Night, sweetheart. Don't let the bed bugs bite."

"Yeah, you already do enough biting."

divider: @enchanthings

[writerbee-ffs]

“Art Thou Forgiven” A Sinners Fanfic

You’d always admired your Daddy’s love for music. Sometimes you questioned if he actually loved it more than he loved you but you were sure that was your Momma’s doing. Her and Daddy were always bickering about something. Mostly because of music and how it managed to take him places that never had any room for her to be apart of. He’d tell her that the music was his escape. A place that made him happy because living in the souths of Mississippi and working for the white man wasn’t a place you wanted to stay grounded in. Just like Daddy loved his music, you loved someone equally important but just like Momma, you hated the life they chose and how it never included you…

The Mississippi Delta, 1932

The sun beamed on the back of your neck as you made your way towards the market. You silently crused yourself because why the fuck wouldn’t you grab the hat off your kitchen table before walking in the thick Mississippi heat.

You let out a slow breath as you walked inside of the Chow’s market anticipating the cool air. Grabbing basket, you nodded towards Lisa, Grace and Bo Chow’s daughter, who was working the register. She gave a half uninterested smile continuing to check customers out.

You strolled through the aisle slowly just so you could take in the crisp air a little longer. You would often hear the ‘welcome’ bell from the door ring as you walked around.

“Daaaaaaaddy?!” Bo’s daughter yelled just enough for him to come from sliding out of the back.

“What?” He questioned throwing his hand towel out of his hand.

Making your way towards the dry goods in the back section, you heard a familiar voice. “Bo Chow” Your ears perked up as your head ducked towards the lower parts of the seasoning.

“Look at what the damn cat dragged in.”

You dropped the basket making your way to the exit of the market. You didn’t want to look back because if one was in town that meant the other one wasn’t too far off.

“Lil Slim.” You’d always hated the nickname but when folks around town saw you they knew exactly who you belonged to. Thee Delta Slim. You adorned the same features from your cocoa skin, full lips to you brown sleepy eyes. “Don’t make me call you again, woman”

You halted in your tracks before turning slowing, kicking up dust in the process. You met his gazed as you sauntered towards him. “Elijah?” You let out more as a question. “I see you’re back in town”

“Elijah? Damn Lil Slim first name basis?” He looked you up and down taking another pull before flicking the blunt from his lips. You know I saw you runnin’ out that damn store like you seen a ghost or sum shit..” Rolling your eyes slightly, you moved from his eyes to his hands due to the rustling. “I bought up that lil’ basket on my way out. Call it a gift…”

“I’m just fine, Smoke.” You pursed your lips tightly together so he wouldn’t notice the lie that had left your lips. “The devil never gives gifts only favors.” You wanted to hurt his feelings so he could leave you alone like he did 7 years ago.

“Take this bag, woman.” A chord hadn’t even been struck by your words. He was use to the sass flying out your mouth. He’d grabbed your hand swiftly dropping the straps into your palm. “I’ll be seeing you, Lil Slim.”

He jumped in his truck without another word. The engine purring as he made his way down the dirt road.

*

“(Y/N)! I’ll be back girl. Gots to go down to the station and make a lil money before tonight’s show at the club.” He’d kissed your cheek, smelling of corn liquor, before walking out the door.

You were too hot and tired from your walk back to disagree long enough to stop him. Slim might have been making money but you only saw it in the form of a bottle turnt to his lips. You sat on the small sofa gathering yourself before making your way to the kitchen. This had become a routine on your days off from working. Making a market run, cleaning up a little and cooking something heavy for Slim to put on his stomach after a night of drinking and caring on down at the club.

You wanted more for yourself but after your Momma had passed on and the Moore men leaving, you felt the need to try to get closer to Slim because he was all you had left. Ol’ drunk and all.

You let up all the windows trying not to get the smell of catfish frying in your hair. A couple of hours ago, your best girlfriend had invited you out to this new Juke Joint earlier after hearing some dudes talking about how some other dudes got shot over trying to steal liquor from the owner. You were a little worried about going but you needed to let your hair down and have some fun.

*

You could hear the music as you and Pinky pulled into the lot full of cars straight towards the middle to show off her brand new gift. Pinky, also known as Priscilla, was your best friend that loved to show off the gifts that her husband bought her. Since she hated her much older husband she was always down to cut loose. Her husband knew how she got down but apparently he did the same. That was their business and you never asked too many questions but always listened when she needed to talk.

“(Y/N), don’t that sound like your daddy on that harmonica?” She smiled taking your arm to loop around hers. “Ooou it’s hot in here tah’night.”

“Well don’t y’all look like some mighty fine woman?” Another familiar voice. “How you doing, Lil Slim?” He smiled helping you after Pinky into the threshold of the club. “Delta in hea’ got these people feelin’ good.”

You smiled giving him a slight hug taking in the full atmosphere. “Doing good, Cornbread. How’s the wife?” “You in here working the door?” All he could do was nod and tell you that she was doing well before you were whisked away to the bar.

“Now what we drinking, ladies?” The bartender asked going back and forth between you and the gentleman sitting at the end.

“Whateva’ they asking fo’.” Although they were twins, you could always tell them apart. You didn’t even want to look up but you also wanted him to know he didn’t have any effect on you anymore. Neither of them did. The bartender had passed rounds of moonshine with fruits inside.

“SJ” He grinned flashing that fancy smile your way. He knew how much you hated “Lil Slim” back in the day so he’d decided to call “SJ” short for “Slim Jr”.

“Hello Elias” You grumbled “How you doing?” You asked pulling yourself from the bar after taking the drink in one gulp. You shimmied onto the dance floor with a random man. You really didn’t care how or what he was doing these days. Last you heard the SmokeStack twins had went north to cause trouble.

You kept your feet moving no matter the song. You’d even witnessed Sammie and your damn Daddy playing a couple of songs together. You noticed everything in the joint. You’d been taking mental images of the night’s festivities and how everyone seemed to be freed by their burdens. How they came in letting loose and feeling good.

“Why’d you sto-“ you turned to ask the guy you had pretty much held captive to avoid Elias from coming your way.

“Stack, this your woman?” The man was already a foot away from you surrendering you to the devil himself.

“Scary ass nigga” You spat looking up at him. “You love messing up a good thang, don’t yah?” All he did was grin at you showing a glint of gold. That sly smirk had gotten you in so much trouble in the past. “Well?” You questioned releasing the shawl that matched your dressed perfectly onto a near by chair. “You gon ask me to dance or what?”

There it was. You giving into him without him saying a word. That was how it went with you and them. Elijah was a giver while Elias loved to take.

“Damn SJ” he spun you around placing your back against his chest. “You not so lil no mo’” you felt him touching your hips adding pressure to his grip. “Seven years did you some good.”

“Hope this isn’t your attempt to get me in some back room, Stack.” He guided your hips into a slow grind. “Half of these Mississippi Delta women have their eyes on you and Smoke. Won’t you go grind on one of them”

As soon as those words left your lips, she’d approached them attempting to cut in.

“Well well…if it isn’t Little Miss Slim” Her southern drawl was laced with venom. “Not so little anymore are we” She smirked. “Maybe you should go cool down with a drink, honey. You’re looking parched”

You couldn’t understand her issue with you. You knew her and Stack would mess around every now and then but everyone knew that their relationship wasn’t serious. Never would be and never could be.

“That’s (Y/N) to you” You smiled as you slowed your hips down. Elias still behind you. “It’s a beautiful night. It’s been a few years since we’ve seen each other and here you are ready to cause drama” “I thought you white women were supposed to be classy?” You couldn’t help yourself. You didn’t hate Mary but you hated how out of character she could be around Elias or Stack as she loved to call him.

You had already understood that Mary and Stack’s relationship wasn’t serious purely based off of it being forbidden. She was a white passing dainty woman and he was a black man. This world would never accept it but that was the danger was the foundation of it. Elias was the one that had pursued you. He’d always say you were different and too damn independent for your own good. You could read him like a book and he could do the same. Neither of you ever acted on your feelings but you both knew that there was something there.

“S’cuse me?” Her face went pale as you felt Elias’ lips smiling into your neck.

“Stack, you gon let her talk to me like that?” She’d moved on to fighting with him. She knew better than to keep going on because eventually you would get tired and get physical.

“What you want me to say, woman?” He let you go but you stayed in between them. “I told you to stay the fuck away from me at that station.”

“Mmmh…” “Well make me leave then, Stack!” She muttered. They bickered completely ignoring your presence as if you’d somehow managed to become invisible in seconds.

You had had enough of their bickering before it started. You made your exit looking for Pinky so you could leave and make it home so you could make sure Slim didn’t pass out on the floor instead of his room.

“Lil Slim, you seen Stack?” Elijah asked as you were walking around the area.

“I’ll tell yah if you take me home?” You smiled attempting to make a way. “You know you can’t let your hopeless friend be stranded and walking home in these parts at night.”

His hard exterior softened but he never smiled. You could tell he was thinking it over. You knew he wouldn’t let you walk at night but after finding out the Juke Joint belonged to him and Elias, you knew he had to be here for the business.

“I’ll have Stack do it.” “Last I seen Pinky she was making her way to the back with Preacher talking about ice cream.” He shook his head a little confused as he moved towards the crowd.

“He was arguing on the dance floor with Mary last time I saw him!” You called sitting at the bar again. You knew they had probably moved on from the argument into each other pants but who were you to care. He wasn’t yours.

*

After arguing with Elias the whole way, you’d finally made it back to your place. Turns out him and Mary had did more than argue just like you knew they had.

“What’s on your mind?” He spoke cutting the engine looking towards you. “Thinking about us?”

You looked over at him, pulling the shawl closer to your body. “Stack, you and Mary are meant for each other. All you do is lie and cause trouble.” You were hurt and he knew. You were tired of being second to her when it came to him. You couldn’t deal with it anymore.

“Stack?” Was all he mustered up before touching your thigh. “Mary ain’t got shit on you, SJ. You know that, right?” He rubbed circles into your thigh with his finger. “Mary ain’t the one that i want to make it back home to when I’m away.”

“But Mary gives you what you want?” You’d never had sex. You wanted to save yourself for your husband. That was thing yah Momma had drilled into you. ‘Don’t no man want a ran through woman.’ A part of you hoped that would be Elias but he was too caught up in the high life and the web that Mary had spun around him to notice you and cater to your body in that way. “It’s fine, honey.” Your lips curved into a tight lipped smile. “You’ll always belong to Mary and the streets. There’s nothing wrong with it. Just don’t get hurt messing with ha’” You surrendered grabbing up your purse while you touched the handle of the door prepared to get out.

“But Mary ain’t the one who’s got my heart, (Y/N)…” He grab your thigh catching you off guard halting your movement. As you looked up at him you were met with his deep brown eyes staring at you softly before laying a kiss on your lips. “I miss you. I love you.” He mumbled against your lips. “My heart belongs to you, woman.”

You couldn’t get caught up with him. He’d left and never made things official with you. You were holding out for a miracle from the devil . And you were tired of waiting. “Mary and Smoke have your heart equally. There’s no room for me in it.” You looked down, “Take care of yourself, Elias.” You muster up taking your exit.

[ixxivvv]

small in your coat.

zayne, sylus, caleb.

(written by me in 15+hr makeup and contacts crouching on the station floor as i wait for the last train after a shitty night club shift, yearning for a dream to make me feel protected, in their coat.)

-⛄️ zayne ❄️-

made from well tailored houses, all his jackets had structure to them. shoulders wide and thick fabrics.

"Heading home." he sent to you, in mind you are waiting in his home. your night together, sleeping in his place for tonight for no particular reason was going to begin after a while of being busy with each others work: and you couldn't wait.

you explore his apartment in curiosity, a place you are familiar with now. his room still felt like you were entering his world. no dust, everything was in order and tidy. it still felt so wide and neat, in contrast to your casual attire now.

you opened his cabinets and drawers, observing the entire thing. you find bits and pieces of your favorite memories together- the shirt he wore to your first date together, the sweater you gifted him, and all of his coats on the hanger. reaching for one, the classic burberry trench coat and resting it on your shoulders. it just felt like a back hug- he may be cold but only you know how warm and kind he was. it nest heavy on you, nearly dragging the ends to the floor, the sleeves too long too. in his pocket, something crinkles- a piece of bonbon chocolate and a candy. it made you smile, as you look into the mirror.

as you felt him, the entrance door opens. "darling? im home..." you scurry over, "forgetting" to take your new cape on. "welcome home! :)"

he expresses that micro expression he often does- his pupils widening and looking to the side, almost processing his next move. but this time, he couldn't find words. was it too much? you tilt your head, peeping into him. ".. zayne?"

he managed to look at you, then suddenly grips your shoulders tight. he gasps and flushes,

"... did you miss me that much?"

- 🐦‍⬛sylus 🚗-

his biker jacket, thick leather with a thrashing pattern in his signature colors. the one you hold on tight to from his back when you two are on a joyride. in fancy outings with a dress he order made, he subtly pushes you forward: to show his beautiful girl, to lead the way and only when you seem lost he stands by your side.

he rarely showed his back, which is why you enjoyed joyrides. sylus hasn't taken you out for a dinner or party or anything for a while due to discourse and in fighting between groups. arrests, leadership changes, moving positions and disagreements. it was hectic and n109 zone was not safe now- less people in the streets. he kept you inside which is fine, but even without luke and kieran in the home, only mephisto kept you company for now.

eye rolling media coverage that would never have enough air time of what truely happened, social media discourse of what happened...

"mephisto-h... where is sylus?" and the high tech shows a display of his current location. still out there in some meeting with some people you wouldn't want to know. its all so hectic just looking at it. the cons of being a "mafia boss boyfriend's girlfriend" trope is going to your day job and watching people at work come and go, no idea of anything and the kind of people youve come to known and their struggles. its all just outsiders. you loved sylus, you really did, and more than the thrilling adrenaline. a kind of world which youve come to know that he is there in because he can't live anywhere else. the kind of loneliness and disconnect from people that "don't watch the news" or it's "too dark".

your heavy legs dragged you into his closet. opening the doors, it smelled of his cologne and dry cleaners. but you reached out for the only jacket that dosen't particularly smell of anything- his biker jacket. its made with protective plates and leather. it faintly smelled of his cologne and petrol. maybe you did miss the thrill of when you first got together. or the wind.

"kitten?" sylus walks in, surprising you.

"sylus? you were home?" "why, unhappy to see me? well, i can clearly see you wanted to see me." he chuckles and looks into you lovingly, like a kitten caught in a ball of yarn. caught redhanded, so small in his jacket all curled up like a blanket. he lifts you up, bridal style- so adorable, pretending to not miss him with your words but so clearly did.

sylus decided in that moment, that the discourse needs to end- to bring a sense of "peace" back.

- ✈️ caleb 🍎-

(soo theres a canon audio that you steal his jacket aand... well this will be based off that 😭)

caleb called you to eat dinner from downstairs- "y/n! dinners ready~!" he said so happily, he enjoyed cooking but he loves "playing" house with you.

but you weren't coming down, so he placed the pan in the middle of the table and headed upstairs? where were you now? werent you just taking a shower? still in the shower prohaps? however his instincts, senses you were in his room. his big footsteps, open to a sight he didn't expect.

you were already changed with no makeup, but you had your hands behind your back, staring into his closet like an art piece.

"did you, find my clothes interesting?" you took back by surprise, eyes widening. he informs you that dinners ready and guides you downstairs around your shoulder. you seemed to be in thought still, "i wonder whats in her head again." caleb ponders.

as you sit across him from the dinner table, chewing - still in thought. he couldn't leave it.

"pipsqueak, whats on your mind?" ".. nothing. pass the soy sauce?" his eyes lose its spark.

as he showered that night, washing his hair down in his own thoughts. he could feel himself getting anxious, triggering his own core and attempting to coax himself out of it. hes practicing not to doubt you so much.

he sighs as he steps out the shower in a single towel wrapped around his waist, just to see you sitting in the corner of his bed again, dangling your legs. you just stared into him, only with one thing. his colonel jacket hauled on your tiny shoulders. you were sitting on the long tail of the trench, the back stitching that resembles mechanical wings rests on your back. your soft features contrasted with the black color that faintly smelled of iron.

"...", he had no words, whether in disbelief or just how small you were in his build. if you stood up, the coat might drag across the floor. you fury your brows, sensing that he didn't enjoy the gesture. it was childish, but the details on his coat was impressive- no fraying or loose thread, some signs of wear. it sat heavy on you, emotionally and physically.

but caleb also adored it- his brute power and fear in the jacket suddenly seemed softer in your touch. how he'd just let you.

".. you like the colonel that much? or the owner of this uniform?" you touch the gold stitching, teasing him a bit more.

".. then, i must bow down to the colonel." he gets on his knee, softly taking your foot. he was still in his towel, but you knew what was going to happen-

and you loved it. crossing your arms, roleplaying your power. caleb smirks and places a kiss on your ankle.

".. you have the full authority to command me. i shall serve you, my entire body.." as he kisses up your foot and thigh- only you can do this to the actual colonel himself.

[hyper-fixates]

Visions of a Life

Old Man!Logan x AFAB!reader (no pronouns/gendered language).

Explicit content (18+)

Word count: 5.7k

Tags/warnings: age-gap due to logan’s mutation (reader’s age not specified), established relationship, mutant!reader, not canon-compliant, fluff, domesticity, explicit language, dry humping, brief unprotected sex, angst (and i’m not joking), soft!logan, groping, a few uses of “baby”, mentions & allusions to death (no one dies tho), descriptions of blood (kindly let me know if anything was missed!).

Summary: What does an animal do when he’s sick? He goes away to die.

Notes: this was supposed to take a different route, but it just didn’t feel right as i went along…forgive me for being a bit of a LIAR 🙃

The dry Texas heat faded with each kilometre you travelled. The desert slowly turned into rangelands, and the rangelands eventually became the frozen, snow-covered ground of Alberta. 

The trip was only a couple days, and the stark change in weather almost made your bones nearly seize and shatter when you stepped out of the truck and were met with the sharp winter wind. 

The cold definitely made Logan’s bones ache more than they already do. 

Not even his red flannel and jean jacket can offset the negative temperature in the slightest. 

“Hm…wow. Cute,” you say in succession, taking a few slow steps toward the quaint cabin. 

It’s all dark, smooth wood that stands out amongst the bare, white birch trees and blue spruces that are covered in a light dusting of this morning’s snow.

The second thing you notice is the quiet. 

It’s so quiet. No neighbours, no highways—just silence, and the slight rustling of the wind through the tree branches. 

You’re deep in the bush, a spot near the south-west border that gives a partial view of the Rockies.

“Grab your bag,” Logan says as he shuts his door, the sound cutting violently through the still air. 

It’s almost eerily quiet. No chirping birds, no chittering squirrels, no howling wolves in the distance. Just you and Logan. Isolated. 

It’s everything he’s been yearning for since living in Mexico and spending more than enough time working in El Paso. 

It’s what he’s been missing desperately ever since living down south—Alberta—his real home. Yet it’s a place that holds no significance to you.

“Yes, sir,” you remark with a lazy, mocking salute of your hand, smirking at how Logan glares at you harmlessly as he walks by you to the cabin.

Logan decided it’s time. Time to come back. Time to be realistic about your future, or lack of, together.

He decided that he’s done fighting himself, and that there’s nothing left for either of you in Mexico even if it’s all you’ve come to know. 

He refused to let himself die in the desert and leave you with nothing but sand. There was no comfort there. No semblance of a promise.

The light snow crunches under your steps back to the truck, your breath swirling in small clouds around you. You yank your bag out from the backseat and slam the door as Logan did, hearing the sound echo into the wind before dissipating into nothing. 

If you focused hard enough, you could probably hear your heartbeat. That’s how silent it is.

“Creepy,” you mumble to yourself as you follow the imprints of Logan’s footsteps back to the cabin.

You go up the few rickety stairs, stomping your shoes clean on the equally rickety deck, and open the squeaky door. 

It’s definitely not a space that’s meant for more than two people.

It’s one level, open concept, and surely not heated by a furnace. The living room is directly to the left—you’re basically already standing in it—and a small kitchen is off to the right. The single bedroom straight ahead is the only room besides the bathroom that’s hidden behind walls and a door. 

And that’s it. Simple. Efficient. No walls, no doors, save for the bedroom and bathroom. It’s surprisingly intimate. 

“Please tell me there’s heat,” you lament, watching Logan dust off the few surfaces of fixtures and furniture as you toe off your wet shoes. 

Logan gives you a look. “There’s a fireplace.” He gestures to the barren, ash-filled pit that sits at the bottom of the chimney in the corner of the room. 

Above it, a mantle with a little T.V. “Cable?” You wonder aloud. This place is already more luxurious than what you had in Mexico, but at least in Mexico you didn’t have to worry about freezing to death in your sleep.

Logan limps along to the bedroom with his bag. “Satellite.” 

You suck your tongue against your teeth, following Logan to the bedroom. When you step through the doorway, you almost cackle. 

“Oh for fucks sake. We are never gonna fucking fit on that, Logan. Oh my God,” you moan in disbelief at the size of the bed. “You’re probably not even gonna fit on it.” Your voice pitches a little in exasperation. 

The mattress was maybe a twin. Maybe. It’s propped up on a thin metal frame that creaks and groans as you experimentally lean forward on your hands and bear some weight on it. 

“I do.” He tosses both your bags on the outdated armchair in the corner of the room. 

Your entire lives are in those bags. You only brought what you needed and what could fit. There wasn’t much to bring along from Mexico besides clothes and the necessary toiletries anyway. Anything else can be found and replaced back in town if needed.

He steps back to the bed next to you. “Relax. There’s always the couch,” he points out. “We don’t have to sleep together.”

You have never slept apart—he knows that—and that’s definitely not going to start now. This time is precious. 

You briefly recall the worn couch sitting in the middle of the living room in front of the fireplace: it’s a brown and red plaid pattern, probably from the 80s, and four cushions long. 

This cabin was stuck in time just as much as Logan likes to say he is.

“Help me grab some wood to get a fire going,” he says, giving the top of your head a chaste kiss. “It’s supposed to snow again tonight.” He slips past you out the doorway, the warm, lingering touch of his hand on your shoulder sends a shiver through your body. 

You saw a decent stack of pre-cut logs piled in the other corner of the living room when you came in, and you wonder who’s been taking care of things here while Logan’s been down south. 

The wood looked fresh, but the dust on the coffee table and window ledges suggests no one’s been here for months.

You figure that dust is the least of Logan’s worries right now.

━━━━

The fire crackles and pops softly, the bright light from the T.V. illuminating the dark room as you comfortably watch the Flames game horizontally—on Logan—from the outdated couch. 

The warmth from the flickering orange blaze in the chimney blankets you both, almost trying to melt you together like wax.

Logan lies on his back, legs spread to accommodate your body as you lay stomach-to-stomach, using his chest as a pillow while he uses the well-worn armrest as his. 

It’s the middle of the second period and the game is tied 2-2. You can feel yourself drifting in and out of sleep even though the analog bird clock hung next to the T.V. shows it’s barely 11 p.m. 

You know Logan isn’t asleep because he’s tracing a finger slowly up and down your spine. That’s what’s putting you to sleep, but the obnoxious ads pull you back into consciousness when the game cuts to commercial each time. 

Despite the volume of the T.V., you can still hear the rattling in Logan’s lungs with each breath he takes. 

The ear that’s pressed against his chest picks it up easily; it’s otherwise undetectable if you aren’t right up against him. 

You don’t want to forget that this isn’t, in fact, a fun little vacation that you’ll both return to Mexico from. This is where Logan will spend the rest of his days with you. There is no going back to Mexico, no future anywhere but here within these walls. 

Logan will die here. Like he wants to—at home, with you, surrounded by snow.

“Are you tired?” You say quietly. Your eyes aren’t even open as you ask.

A small chuckle makes your head vibrate. “I’m always tired,” he rasps, his voice rumbling deeply in his chest against your ear.

“Want me to put you to sleep?” You offer, thumbing the material of his flannel, eyes still closed.

He shifts, adjusting his neck. “No. I’m fine,” he explains, and you’re curious to see if he will fall asleep as easy as you can make him.

All it takes is a touch of a finger and a whispered command for him to slip into near unbreakable unconsciousness that lasts throughout the night. 

You hum. “If you need it, just wake me if I’m asleep,” you reassure. 

Almost every night in Mexico you’d knock him out cold, only you didn’t have to use a punch to do so. The press of your finger against his temple was enough. If he was in better health maybe it would take a bit more concentration and demanding, but it’s quick, nearly effortless.

Somnous is all you need to say—sleep. And his body can’t resist the surge of the pseudo-sedative that comes from within you.

━━━━

A chill that you’ve never felt before wakes you. It’s one that can only come with negative temperatures seeping back into the cabin.

Your body tenses and you peel your eyes open. The faint glow of red coals pulsing in front of you quickly tells you that no one made it off the couch last night, that no one slept on that sad excuse of a bed in the next room.

You and Logan are right where you left each other.

Logan breathes steadily under you, that rattling in his lungs still present even in sleep. It never wavers. It will never go away.

You try to carefully peel yourself off of him, stifling a groan as your limbs stretch and twist for the first time in hours. The tightness in your shoulders makes you clench your teeth. 

A few pops and cracks release from your joints, and then you’re free from Logan’s warmth. From the looks of it, he seems comfortable, but you know he’s going to complain about his back and neck as soon as he wakes up.

Thankfully, you’ll help him with that, just like his sleep. Just like you do with everything else. 

Remedium, you’ll mutter as your fingers trace along his temple. Relief.  

You can fix the superficial—a sore neck, a headache—but you can’t fix something that’s as embedded and chronic as what’s killing him.

You’re the cure. The cure for everything except whatever is festering inside him. He says it’s the adamantium, that it’s poisoning him, but you can’t say for sure. 

The early morning sun, all pinks and oranges, shines brightly through the large windows around the cabin. Then you see the snow falling.

You tip-toe to the window across from the couch. It’s been snowing since 3 a.m., but you weren’t awake to see it start.

Thick, fluffy snowflakes wisp around in the light wind and you lean closer to the window to get a better look at the scene outside.

You arrived late in the afternoon yesterday, missing the morning snow that blanketed the ground and decorated the trees.

Logan’s seen many winters come and go, and you’ll see just as many after he’s gone. Well, maybe not as many.

A deep groan fills your ears. “Ah—fuck,” Logan growls, pulling himself to sit up from the couch.

You skip excitedly over to him, bending down to cradle his head in your hands and press your thumbs against each temple, your lips meeting the top of his head in a brief kiss.

“Remedium,” you whisper into his hair, and he makes a satisfied sound in response as his body adjusts and fixes itself.

You move down to kiss his forehead, ruffling a hand through his bushy grey hair before pulling away and going back to the window to watch the snow spiral and churn in random shapes and patterns.  

A grumbled “thanks” is heard over your footsteps. He’s probably not even fully awake yet. 

“Look at the snow. Look,” you say in awe when you hear him shuffling along the creaky floor behind you.

It doesn’t look like anything special to Logan. He’s seen every type of snow, every type of storm Alberta has to throw his way; however, this may be the most mundane snowfall he’s seen that he can remember.

“What about it?” He says. He doesn’t know what’s got you so excitable. 

You look at him over your shoulder. “I’ve never seen a snowfall before,” you explain. “The snowflakes are so fat,” you chuckle as he comes to rest a hand on your lower back, peeking through the window over your shoulder at the snow dancing in the wind.

“Mhm, it’s nice.” He still doesn’t get it. “Go get ready. There’s more wood coming in a bit,” he dismisses with a gentle kiss to your cheek, dense beard poking into the plush skin.

He goes to the bedroom. You should follow, but you keep watching the snow.

In the moment, you don’t realize that while this is your first snowfall, it’s probably Logan’s last.

━━━━

The man who brings the firewood is also the one who’s been “looking after” the cabin for Logan.

They’ve known each other for years, decades, and the man has been doing monthly check-in’s despite Logan not even being in the country.

Logan muttered something about cage fighting, explaining how he knows the man and the bar he owns in town.

You make a face, one filled with curiosity and confusion. “Cage fighting?”

“It was a long time ago,” he defends, tossing the last logs onto the now vast pile in the living room. You now understand why the room is as big as it is.

“Still keeping secrets, huh?” You joke, wiping your hands on your sweater.

A new fire burns strong in the chimney, preparing the cabin for the wind storm that’s meant to hit in a few hours.

“It’s not important.” Logan unbuttons his flannel—today it’s a dark red one; truly Canadian—and strips to his white tank-top underneath. 

It’s almost jarring to see him in anything other than a white dress shirt and blazer.

He throws the flannel on the back of the couch, overheated from the fire and throwing logs. A vicious cough catches in his throat for an exhale or two before it finds its way out.

“You okay?” You ask calmly, walking up to him and rubbing a hand up and down his bicep. His skin clammy and damp from sweat.

“I’m fine.” Another aggressive cough. “I’m fine,” he emphasizes, mostly to reassure himself.

You both know he’s not okay. That’s why you’re here, after all. But you can’t stop yourself from asking.

━━━━

The wind storm knocked out the power.

The raging fire will probably be your only source of light for the rest of the night and into the morning.  

So, without power, there’s not much to do. But, you and Logan sit on the floor with him resting against the front of the couch. You sit between his legs, feeling the heat of him on your back while you watch his arms reach over and around you to set various sized coins on the coffee table to entertain—and educate, as he would say—you.

“That one’s so big,” you point out, reaching for the gold coin. 

Logan wants to make a joke so badly, but he settles for a small smile at what little he can see of your perplexed expression from the side, resting his chin on your shoulder every couple minutes and occasionally pressing little kisses to your neck and jaw just to remind himself you’re actually here.

You pick up the gold coin and turn it over in between your fingers, watching it shine in the firelight. 

The bird on the face of the coin is unfamiliar, and it’s dated “2000” on the back below the Queen’s face. 

“It’s a loon,” Logan clarifies. “One dollar.”

“It’s pretty.” 

“We call it a ‘loonie’,” he explains, “and this is a toonie.” He picks up the other large coin, one that’s silver with a gold center. 

You take it from him. “A polar bear?” You observe the face of the coin. “There’s polar bears in Canada?” You turn your attention to him, nose almost grazing his.

“You…didn’t know that?”

“Why would I know that?” 

Logan chuckles, snaking an arm around your waist. “Well. It’s where most of the population lives,” he defends, his hazel eyes almost looking as confused as yours.

“Good to know,” you mutter, placing the coin back on the table.

He shakes his head. “Quarter, nickel, penny, dime.” Logan identifies the rest of the coins for you, pointing to each from biggest to smallest.

“The dimes are cute.” You push the thin, silver coin around on the table.

His tattered wallet sits on the corner by your arm, and something peeks out from the bill slot that you paid no mind to before. 

“You have Canadian bills?” You ask as you pinch the thing between your thumb and forefinger, snatching it before he could answer or stop you.

You unfold the worn thing with ease, holding it with both hands and expecting to see a historic figure or a bold number printed somewhere, but there’s neither.

The paper is a little thicker than a bank note yet it’s almost the same size, but it has Logan with a young girl plastered on it in black and white.

An old photo, folded up and kept in his wallet as a reminder of something, or someone.

“Who’s that?” You question, analyzing the picture with a seizing heart.

Logan doesn’t answer right away, but he doesn’t move to take the picture from your hands. 

It’s him, decades younger, giving the young girl a piggyback. An uncharacteristic smile on his face that you’ve never seen before while the girl peeks her head out beside his for the photo. 

“Marie. She was a kid I, uh, helped, I guess.” The deep timbre of his voice is enough to tell you that he’s suddenly forlorn. “One of Charles’ students.”

“You’re so…young,” you consider quietly, eyes filling with adoration and fondness at the boyish Wolverine in your hand. 

You never knew what Logan looked like in his younger years, and it never occurred to you to be curious about that. You’ve grown so used to your Logan that nothing before all this mattered much to you.

Still, there was someone else who got to experience the younger, more spirited version of Logan that only exists in pictures now, and you long to have been that lucky someone just to be able to have had more time with him. 

But this is your Logan; scarred, aching, dying. This Logan was meant to be yours. 

The Logan that stares at you from the wrinkled picture is barely recognizable against the one behind you, yet he’s still somehow the same. It’s like seeing a ghost after saying you don’t believe in them: you don’t really know how to explain it.

“And your hair is…” You squint at the photo, as if that will help you to find the right word to describe the quaffed points peaking from his head.

“Fucking ridiculous?” He finishes. 

You laugh. “Well, I was maybe gonna say majestic. Or even sublime,” you correct. 

The photo is creased along the edges and down the middle from being continuously opened and refolded, and you wonder how old it is—if it’s older than you.

“Yeah, well, that was a long time ago,” he exhales, stealing the photo from your fingers and folding it back up, making sure to bury it completely back in the wallet this time.

“Where is she now?” You know you shouldn’t ask but the curiosity is clawing at you. What you know of Logan’s past is extremely limited, but there’s a reason for that. You’re hoping he can at least give you this.

Logan’s shoulders grow taut. He debates lying, but he doesn’t. “Dead.”

━━━━

“Logan?”

No answer.

“Logan,” you say more firmly.

No answer.

“James,” you throw at him, watching his head quirk to meet your voice. 

“What?” He barks, quickly averting his attention back to whatever holds his attention in his lap.

You hesitate in the bedroom doorway, afraid of what you might see if you take another step, but you already know what it’s going to be. It was only a matter of time before Logan fell back into himself.

Logan sits on the creaky, old bed with his back to you, a tremble in his shoulders that no one else besides you would notice. He hates that you notice.

You lightly tiptoe around the bed and drop into a squat between his legs, resting a hand on his knee.

Three adamantium claws occupy the space between you, blood slowly dripping from his knuckles and staining the wood floor. His eyes stay on the claws, but you keep your gaze on his face anyway.

His fist shakes, either from the pain of pulling his claws out or the atrophying muscles.

“There’s no reason to keep doing that…that’s not what we came here for,” you gently scold, watching him take a shaky breath while you try to control your own.

You came here to escape the pain, even if you’ll inevitably face something far worse down the road.

He does this when he feels helpless. You don’t know what it achieves, but he seems to believe it does something other than marring his skin even more and making his forearm burn with white-hot pain from metal sliding against his aged tendons and ligaments.

“Put them away. Please,” you encourage, squeezing his knee comfortingly.

Logan closes his eyes. He doesn’t nod or say anything as the claws retract back into his skin, albeit at a snails pace. You worry that one day they’ll just get stuck in or out forever.

You can’t influence his body to physically repair itself or heal faster—you can only provide a barrier to the pain while it subsides on its own.

You stand, hand reaching for his temple to whisper the magic word like always, but Logan’s bloodied fingers wrap around your wrist.

His eyes finally meet yours. “No. Leave it,” he dismisses, sliding his hand up into yours and smearing the warm blood between your joined palms and linked fingers.

It’s futile to argue against him, so you let him have this; the pain he hasn’t been able to shake for years, the pain you can’t entirely stifle and fade, the pain he would never wish upon anyone, the pain he will only escape in death.

━━━━

“I can let you go,” you cry softly. 

He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, letting his lips linger when he feels your hot tears fall against his bare chest one after the other. 

It’s one of those mornings—where everything just hits you out of nowhere. One of those times where reality has set in. 

Logan doesn’t say anything because he knows there’s nothing he can say to comfort you. He will die. And nothing can change that.

You lie on him, your cheek to the middle of his chest, unable to stop the silent, persistent tears.

The rickety bed, in fact, holds both of you, and a soft cotton blanket does little to save you from the frigid morning air that has snuck into the cabin yet again.

“I can’t do it,” you whimper quietly, shaking your head against him. “I can’t.”

He wraps both arms around you tightly, squeezing around your shoulders so snuggly that your lips form one of those sad, downturned smiles you make when you’re overwhelmed—happy or sad. 

“We don’t really have a choice, baby,” he mutters against your head. 

A gentle finger traces along the textured, angry scars over his bicep. There’s one that’s older, almost entirely white from the trauma to the skin. A small, round one sits directly above it—most likely from a bullet—and you know it’s more recent from how raised and pink it is.

It feels wrong to have Logan comforting you over his death when it’s him who will be the one dying, but he hasn’t shown any panic or sadness over it.

He’s ready to die. For some reason, that hurts you more.

Maybe he will make it long enough to see the first flowers of spring; those that are strong enough to brave the Canadian frost. 

Maybe, somehow, he will get better. Heal himself from the inside out. 

Maybe he won’t end up buried underneath the birch trees.

━━━━

You both barely left the bed today.

You let each other mourn, and Logan didn’t protest. He let you take the time to process what you were feeling. It felt good for him, too.

He reluctantly had to get out of bed to stoke the fire a few times, and now he’s gone to do so again before you call it a night. An early night. You’re worn out. From crying, from feeling, from everything.

The wind has picked up again, howling and whipping harshly against the cabin. It’s supposed to snow in a few hours, but you don’t feel excited for it like you did a few days ago.

“That should burn all night,” Logan says as he comes back in the room.

You shuffle over on the bed for him. You don’t really fit, but you make it work by half-lying on each other. Either your upper body lays on his chest or his upper body has you almost tucked underneath him while he spoons you.

“Thank you,” you murmur with your eyes already closed, ready to forget about today.

The bed frame groans as Logan shuffles in beside you, slipping an arm around your midsection to pull you to tight against him. 

Despite the cold, and the fact that you both should definitely be wearing fleece pyjamas or something, you’re both almost entirely bare. It’s just habit. You usually opt to wear one of his tank tops while he just keeps his briefs. It’s familiar. It’s comforting. The skin-to-skin reminds you both that you’re real.

Tonight, however, you chose his white t-shirt. As if that will do you any better. Logan runs fairly hot on his own, so you ultimately trust him to keep you warm either way.

He nestles into you, curling his body around yours. He slots a leg between your own and situates you so that your ass is pressed against his front. You know it doesn’t mean what you think it does, but you can’t help yourself from jokingly wiggling back and forth against him a few times just for fun—just to lighten the solemn mood.

Logan kisses your shoulder, the hand around your midsection squeezing the flesh of your stomach through the shirt affectionately while pushing you tighter against him. 

“Yeah, yeah. Get some sleep,” he dismisses. He knows you’re just fucking with him.

You giggle quietly, interlacing your fingers with the ones he has against your stomach and turning to look over your shoulder at him. “Love you.”

His face softens. “Love you.” 

You pucker your lips dramatically. He gives you an eager kiss, placing small pecks gently down along your cheek and jaw when you break away to smile. 

Logan will never deny you of his attention when you ask for it. 

━━━━

Something pushes you out of a heavy sleep. You figure it was maybe the wind or a dream, but you feel it again. Something literally pushes you.

You blink a few times, trying to wake yourself up. Logan’s arm is still thrown around you, but it’s now fallen down over your hip. The weight of it keeps you in place.

Another push. 

Logan’s hips shove against your ass. You furrow your brows. 

You know he’s sleeping without needing to look or ask, so what the fuck is he doing—

A more delicate thrust rolls against you this time, then you realize. “Oh, Jesus Christ,” you sigh.

“Logan.” You poke his thigh. No response.

“Logan,” you growl, reaching back and pushing a hand against his firm stomach to shake him a bit.

A series of grunts and groans are his response. He pulls back from you a little, hand tightening against your hip.

“Mm. What?” He mumbles, eyes still closed.

“Stop trying to fuck me in your sleep,” you hiss through a breath, repositioning yourself against him.

“I’m not,” he says, nuzzling up to your back and ass again, half-asleep.

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see it. “Yes, you are,” you counter.

It’s probably just some sex dream that got him a little too excited. The thought makes you smile. 

It has, in fact, been longer than usual since you’ve fucked, the last time being in the truck when you pulled over at a rest stop in Montana, and you wonder if he’s starting to feel the effects of that. 

By the time you reached Montana, you were both antsy and restless. The days, and even nights, were naturally spent just sitting in the truck for hours on end with nothing to do—no way to stimulate or tire your bodies.

The final night in the state was the breaking point. You had unburned, pent-up energy and cramping muscles that needed to be worn out if you wanted to survive the last day on the road before you got to the border.

So you pulled over and fucked in the passenger seat. 

Logan let you bounce on his cock until the lactic acid in your thighs made you cry out in pain and you physically couldn’t ride him anymore.

He made you drag it out—for both of your sakes. He wanted your hearts to pump hard and your lungs to sting with each inhale. He wanted your bodies to be fucked into a state of relaxation afterwards.

So, he didn’t help you ride him like he usually does. He didn’t help guide you by your hips up and down his cock. He let you do it all by yourself while he licked and sucked over your collarbones and teased your clit with his fingers.

You both came hard, laughing at the fogged-up windows while cleaning yourselves up with those rough, brown napkins everyone has in their glove compartment for some reason.

Then you continued on, satisfied.

All of this has kind of thrown off your sense of normality. Sex went with that. It’s hard to be horny when you’re sad all the time.

You suppose you don’t need to wonder if he’s feeling the effects of no sex because you’re feeling them for him; his hard cock rests in his briefs against your ass, and you debate doing something you know you’re gonna do anyway.

Just like earlier, you circle your ass over him lightly, hopefully just enough for some payback for waking you up. You assume he’ll tell you to knock it off.

“Baby,” he mutters against the back of your neck tiredly, and you can tell he’s in need of a release.

You smirk. “Hm?” You rub harder over him.

He subtly joins in with your movements, rocking in time with you. His cock feels warm and heavy against your ass.

“Good dream?” You ask, a smile evident in your voice. 

Logan grabs at the meat of your thigh, measuring his thrusts. “It’s…been a while,” he deflects, but you know that just means he’s in need of an orgasm.

“I know. I’m sorry,” you apologize, swallowing a gasp as he ruts harder. 

“Not your fault,” he breathes, too preoccupied with kissing your neck softly. His beard tickles you, grazing against the slope of your neck with each kiss he drags over it.

His broad, warm chest keeps you from drifting off too far. Your cunt pulses and aches from the tease of his cock, undoubtedly soaking your underwear as he rubs along the space that’s just shy of your cunt. This is somehow more erotic than if he was actually fucking himself over your pussy between your thighs.

The bed creaks with his shifting weight, filling the silence in the room as the wind still beats against the cabin.

It’s never mindless, chaotic sex with Logan. Technically, this isn’t even sex. 

He always gave you an appropriate fucking. Not too much, not too little. It was always just exactly what you both needed at the time of doing it. This feels no different.

You can feel your underwear sticking to you—it no longer slides with his desperate movements. You’d be content with finishing whatever way Logan wants. These days, you take what you can get.

“Too tired.” For sex, he means. “Just wanna feel you.” He caresses his hand along your thigh appreciatively. 

You grab his wandering hand. “That’s okay,” you soothe.

His hips have slowed to a gentle rock, intent on taking a bit of the edge off without wanting to fully commit to chasing an orgasm and needing a clean-up. 

Logan isn’t really one to drop everything for sex. Maybe he was like that at some point, but that’s not who he is now. 

He’ll gladly blue-ball himself for some sleep. He knows you’re not going anywhere.

You let him feel you up for a bit, and his movements stop altogether after a few gropes to your chest and thighs—purposefully avoiding anything directly below your bellybutton. 

He rests behind you tightly, pelvis somehow closer than before. You still throb a little, but the warmth from Logan gradually pulls you back to a state of exhaustion.  

━━━━

It’s never been lost on you that you are the only one to have experienced a full, complete relationship with Logan. 

You didn’t die, or get killed. You didn’t leave him or grow old. You are the only one to have this moment. The seemingly immortal Wolverine has someone at the end of his life when he thought he never would. 

He never expected to be the one to go first. It was always the other way around. That’s how it was always supposed to be. 

Yet, there is a spot slowly thawing for him underneath the white birch trees.

here’s the photo reader pulled out of logan’s wallet <3

[noirscript]

Hii, I love your fics. Please may I request yandere demon who’s quite possessive and strict with reader but can also be quite coddling?

Hollow Haven

Description: You tried to escape, but Alastor’s grip is tighter than you think. In his haven, freedom is just an illusion. Warning/s: Yandere | Possession | Captivity | Psychological horror | Emotional Manipulation | Failed Escape | Yandere Demon Note: I will not be able to tag this fic below. Read the warnings before proceeding. I hope you like this anon! Join the 1.5k(+) celebration. Request is open (but will take time to be fulfilled due to irl).

You hadn’t expected the doorknob to turn.

For months, or maybe longer—time had no structure in that place—you had tried it at least once a day, if only to confirm that it remained locked. You had long accepted it was symbolic more than anything. A performance of hope to make the silence bearable.

But this time, it clicked.

The metal handle turned with a dry groan, and the heavy door creaked open by just a sliver. You stared at the small gap with disbelief, heart hammering so violently it almost hurt. For several seconds, you stood frozen, half-convinced it was another of Alastor’s games. An illusion. A hallucination. A taunt.

But there was a hallway on the other side. Dimly lit. Real.

You didn’t allow yourself more thought than that. You pushed it open fully and ran.

The floors were old and uneven, the walls crooked. Every sound echoed far too loudly—your frantic footsteps, your panicked breath. The air was dry, full of dust and decay, but it was different from the perfumed heaviness of his domain. There was no lingering scent of roses or sulfur. It smelled like neglect, like age.

You didn’t care. It was not him. That was enough.

You ran faster.

Corridors twisted in unnatural angles, as if the architecture had been scribbled by a madman. The hall stretched and shrank with no rhythm, yet you kept moving forward, convinced that somewhere in this maze, there would be a way out. It didn’t matter how the walls bent or how they whispered under your fingertips—you refused to stop.

At one point, you passed a mirror, and in the corner of your eye, you thought you saw him standing behind you. You didn’t look. Looking would give it power. Looking would make it real.

The hallway eventually ended at a door completely unlike the rest. Black, frostbitten, silent. There was no reason to trust it, but something told you it led out—truly out. You gripped the iron handle, wincing as it burned your skin, and pushed.

Cold air blasted you in the face.

It hit you so hard it stole your breath, but it was sharp and honest in a way that made your chest ache. Snow stretched out across a forest clearing, grey skies overhead and skeletal trees swaying against the wind. The colorless world was bleak, but freeing.

For the first time in ages, you remembered your name.

You stepped forward and didn’t look back. The door disappeared behind you, but you didn’t panic. That was fine. Doors weren’t meant to last here.

The snow stung your bare feet, but you kept moving. The icy wind bit at your exposed skin, and branches clawed at your arms and face. It all felt real. Tangible. Sharp. Everything the velvet-and-gold world he created had tried to numb out of you.

You didn’t know how long you walked. The trees blurred together, the cold numbing your legs, but you kept going until your knees buckled and you sank to the ground.

You were free.

Or you had been.

The voice came softly, as if drifting through the wind itself. “Pet?”

You froze. The pain in your legs vanished. Your ears rang.

“No,” you said automatically, as if denial alone would reverse time. “No, I made it out. I made it.”

You turned slowly, already feeling the weight of failure crash through you before your eyes even confirmed it.

Alastor stood just beyond the trees, leaning against one with casual grace. His crimson suit looked untouched by the elements. Not a flake of snow touched him. Not a single hair out of place. His long, dark red hair cascaded over his shoulders in elegant waves, brushing the waist of his coat. His smile was calm. Too calm.

“I should be angry,” he said, stepping forward slowly. “But I’m mostly hurt.”

You backed away, slipping slightly on the snow. He didn’t rush you. He didn’t need to.

“I’ve done everything I could to make you comfortable,” he continued, voice smooth and casual. “Shelter. Music. Meals. Company. Me. And yet, you snuck away like a thief.”

“I didn’t—” You tried to speak, your voice breaking. “I didn’t ask for any of that.”

He paused, tilting his head slightly. His eyes glinted with amusement—or something worse.

“No,” he agreed. “You didn’t. But I know what you need, little one. You’re just… confused. Sick, maybe. Tired. I don’t blame you for that.”

You took a step back.

He took two forward.

The snow beneath your feet turned to slush, then to liquid. It pulled. You gasped and stumbled, trying to lift your foot, but it stuck fast. The ground thickened into black tar, swallowing your ankles.

You screamed.

Alastor’s smile softened, and he crossed the distance between you effortlessly, reaching out as if to comfort a child.

“I forgive you,” he said, voice low. “Running away isn’t uncommon. Everyone tries it once.”

You twisted your body, trying to wrench free from the pull, but your limbs were sluggish. Your muscles refused to obey. The air thickened around you like glue.

“You tricked me,” you gasped, tears burning down your cheeks. “You let me think—let me think I got out.”

“Of course I did.” He crouched beside you, brushing your damp hair back from your face. “You need to understand what it feels like. The panic. The failure. That’s how you’ll learn never to do it again.”

Your breathing hitched violently. “Please.”

He leaned in, lips ghosting near your ear.

“There’s nowhere else for you. Nowhere safer. Nowhere that wants you.”

The snow melted entirely now, revealing a familiar velvet floor beneath you. The forest blurred and crumbled around the edges, giving way to the walls of your chamber—his chamber. Red drapes, soft lighting, incense curling in the corners. You sobbed as the illusion collapsed, dragging your broken hope down with it.

By the time the last traces of the outside world vanished, you were curled in his lap. His fingers moved gently through your hair, his other hand stroking your back.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “You’ll rest now. You’ll forget all about it.”

“I won’t,” you choked, shaking. “I’ll never forget.”

He smiled faintly, resting his cheek against yours.

“You will,” he said. “That’s the part you don’t understand yet. You will. And when you wake up tomorrow, you’ll thank me.”

You wanted to scream. But the room was too soft, too warm, too heavy. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t even cry anymore.

He kissed your temple and held you tighter.

“You’re mine,” he said, not asking this time. Just stating.

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t have to.

[mrskokushibo]

Sweetness

Mitsuri x fem!reader x Obanai

Warnings: Sex, Smut, NSFW, MDNI, 18+, Slight girl on girl action, Threesome

Summary: The atmosphere of a warm and sunny day at the start of spring permeates this short and hot smut. You get interrupted in your chores, but honestly, the distraction is exactly what your deprived body needs.

Masterlist

The otherwise so neat garden beds outside the Butterfly Mansion were in need of some pruning. As you were squatting and pulling out the freshly sprouted weeds, your efforts were accompanied by the gentle buzzing of bees collecting nectar from the delicate, first flowers of spring, and by the chirping of industrious little birds. The air was balmy, but not yet hot enough for you to brake in sweat, thus you were very comfortable and worked through the entire length of the garden bed without much effort.

Suddenly, there was a fluttery sound above you and as you looked up, two forest pigeons landed, one by one on a branch in the tree. The male was performing the courting dance routine, spreading his wide fan-like tail in an attempt to attract the female. You smiled to yourself at the ways of nature and proceeded to put away the gardening tools in the shed. As you washed your hands in the outdoor basin, you remembered to check on the laundry drying on the line on the other side of the courtyard.

You took your time strolling across the lawn to the clotheslines, the washing fluttering in the breeze, creating an opaque filter for the bright sunlight. It was already dry, the smell of freshly washed cotton overpowering the spring scents momentarily. You began the meticulous process of folding each and every sheet neatly and putting it down in the laundry hamper. It took a while, but you did not mind as it gave you time to savor the surrounding for a while longer.

Ready at last, you picked up the basket and began to walk toward the front door. As you looked up to the Sakura tree near the doorway, the two pigeons were now mating, the soft rustle of feathers and quiet guttural sounds accompanying the quick and ferocious ravage. You shook your head and smiled again.

The sweet scent of the spring air lingered on the linen now so neatly folded in the laundry basket that you were carrying. You sniffed the bedsheets, enjoying the fresh smell, and walked into the building closing the door behind you using one leg. The place was so quiet and clean, only a few dust particles were hovering in the ray of sunlight coming in through a side window. Other than that, it was spotless. Every time you had the Butterfly Mansion to yourself, you cleaned up and organized everything the way you wanted it to be. You took great pride in your unnoticed work. It did not bother you that you stayed in the shadows servicing the flamboyant, excentric hashiras, and demon slayers. You knew your effort provided them with a safe and cozy environment to recuperate and heal after their dangerous missions.

As you were walking through the long corridor, on your way to the storage room, you could not help but notice an open door at the very end of it. No one was supposed to be here at this time of day and you were told that the Hashira would all be out on missions this week. You slowed your footsteps and made them light and as silent as possible. But as you began nearing the room, quiet, muffled sounds were reaching your ears. At first, you thought that maybe the window was open and it was bird- and animal sounds that were coming in from the outside. And that maybe the opened window was what caused a draft that made an unlocked door fling undone. The closer you got though, the more you realised what these sounds were. You could now make out whispers and an occasional high-pitched giggle, blended with quiet moans and deep, raspy grunts… The sounds of, yes… sex…

Since you were quite unsatiated lately due to your lonely existence, your body began to react in that familiar and dizzying way. You quietened your steps even further and continued your advance toward the source of the lewd noises. It was now entirely obvious what was going on in that room and you began to make out familiar voices. Putting down the basket quietly on the floor, you decided to sneak up to the door and peek in. *Just a little peek* you told yourself. You did not want to be nosy, but at the same time, the urge to see what was going on was too strong, now that you were beginning to get aroused.

As you reached your destination, you could easily hide behind the half-open door and watch unnoticed, and there, on the bed were Mitsuri and Obanai, going at it like two rabbits. She was on her back, flushed cheeks, eyes closed, and moaning in pleasure, with Obanai between her legs humping away and eliciting deep grunts. He was squeezing her large and plump breasts and you could see how he was licking them and sucking on the erect little nipples adorning the two luscious and perfectly round plump mounds.

‘Oh, yes, baby. Suck them…just like that. This feels so good…’

‘You know how much I love these tits, my love. Just touching them makes me hard.’

He then whispered something inaudible in her ear, causing her to blush even more and giggle.

‘Well, make me come and then maybe I will let you put your cock between them. I wouldn’t mind some cum on my face.’

She giggled again and he grunted speeding up his pace.

Your panties were soaked now from this performance and your hand moved almost instinctively to touch yourself. At first, you were rubbing through the fabric, but soon enough, that was not enough and you moved them aside and began rubbing yourself between your folds, making your way to your now very stimulated clit.

Mitsuri was moaning louder now and within minutes, she climaxed, arching her back, causing her magnificent rack to bounce up a little. Obanai was not ready yet and he straddled her torso and positioned himself just beneath her breasts.

‘You promised’

He kissed her pouting mouth and squeezed her breast with his thighs, placing his cock between them, it was as if it got swallowed by them. He then began pumping and groaning loudly.

‘Fuuuuck…they feel good. I will not last long like this. Lick my tip, baby’

She stretched out her delicious little tongue and like a kitten lapping up milk, she was lapping up the precum on the tip of his cock whenever it was emerging from between the large tits.

‘I’m coming…oooh!’ He grunted and thick ropes of cum shot all over her neck and face.

You too were too aroused to hold back and came with a loud moan. And this was when they noticed their spectator.

‘What the fuck, I thought you said we were alone’ Obanai hissed, talking to Mitsuri, but looking annoyed in your direction.

‘No, dear, don’t be mad at her. We are the ones at fault here.’

She giggled and smiled at you.

‘Did you like what you saw?’

She tilted her head sweetly and you could not help, but think what an adorable person she really was.

‘You know, why don’t you join us? I feel like fucking some more.’

She turned to Obanai: ‘What do you say? Would you like some more? And think, fucking two girls instead of one. What a treat, hey?’

He mumbled something, but clearly, the temptation was taking the better of him, as you could see his cock already getting hard again.

‘All right, whatever you wish for, my sunshine.’ They kissed and Mitsuri stretched out a hand to you.

‘Come over, darling. Do not be shy. This will be fun.’ She smiled at you as you began walking over to her.

It was as if you were an insect lured in by the sweetness of honey, everything about Mitsuri oozed femininity and gentleness, it was as if she emanated a rosy aura that made your senses tingle and sing. Your slow, cautious footsteps at last placed you right next to her, touching her small, but surprisingly strong hand, you found yourself placing a kiss on her moist lips. It was as if you were in contact with a freshly bloomed rose, still moist with morning dew.

She began helping you to remove your clothes and very soon you were just as naked as the other two occupants of the room. Your eyes were fixated on her breast and she noticed.

‘Don’t be shy, sweetie. Touch them’

And without any more encouragement, you placed your hand on her roundness and began stroking and squeezing, causing her to moan a little. You continued to kiss, your tongues slowly finding each other and nudging gently between the softness of feminine lips. You could feel her hand slide down your belly, down to your sex, beginning to rub gently, with soft small movements. You did not want to leave her unattended and began to reciprocate the action.

The sweetness of it all was indescribable. A pleasure only comparable to biting into a plump, freshly made Sakura mochi or taking a cool bath after a hot day. There was heat too, a passion of a different kind, a wish for more, and a will to give. The lack of masculine aggression in the softness of both your actions and the pure and unadulterated lust for her touch was making your body almost limp. Your juices were streaming down your legs and you were both drowning in each other and in your arousal. You were getting very close to crossing over the line leading to the peaks of pleasure when you were interrupted by Obanai clearing his throat. He was obviously watching, engulfed in his own neediness, as you turned around, you could see him seated at the end of the futon, stroking his painfully hard cock.

Mitsuri looked at him with a smile, her hands still on your nipple and between your legs:

‘Oh, sorry Obi, we are neglecting you. How about you lie down and let us both take care of you.’

He did not wait and lay down flat lazily, while Mitsuri gave you another lewd kiss and directed you to where his head was.

‘How about we ride him... I take the cock and you take his face.’

You nodded and both of you took your respective positions facing each other. He groaned deeply as Mitsuri sank herself down on his hardness, her sweet high-pitched moaning making you want to touch her even more. She began riding him at a slow and gentle pace, her breasts bouncing only slightly. You were not fully seated on Obanai’s face yet, but that changed quickly when a pair of rough, strong hands grabbed your hips and pulled you down on his lips and stretched out tongue, that in an experienced manner found its way straight into your sopping wet pussy. You moaned now too as he was licking and swirling his tongue in and out of your opening.

‘Move a bit for me. You will have some more friction like that.’

You could hear him speak through the wet licking noises, his voice muffled by your cunt pressing on his mouth.

You began grinding your hips back and forth on his mouth, and sure enough, you started to feel so much more. As you worked out a good rhythm your attention went back to Mitsuri, who leaned into you, pressing her breasts against yours, the impossibly luscious softness against your own multiplied the pleasurable sensations and you began to caress her breasts and play with her nipples.

She reciprocated and soon you added the softest of kisses to the already so lustful actions. You felt on the edge of consciousness. Your core began to clench achingly and a few more bucks of your hips and you were squirting all over Obanai’s face while squealing noisily. As you kept riding out your high by continued grinding your hips on his mouth, you intensified your nipple action on Mitsuri’s breast. She could barely hold back and a moment later climaxed with a loud moan. The two of you were panting heavily, chests heaving and flushed cheeks covered with sweat. In the meantime, Obanai kept pumping into Mitsuri and as she kept kissing you, he threw a strong sloppy thrust into her and came with a quiet growl.

The three of you were now lying down, spent from your activities.

‘Well, that was quaint.’ Mitsuri giggled.

‘We should so do this more often, don’t you think?’

You could not help but agree. You nodded and closed your eyes, listening to the sweet sounds of spring coming through the window.

Banners by @cafekitsune and @adornedwithlight

[thanksbutno98]

You Found Me

John Price x fem!reader OC

Summary: John Price finds himself losing control while his wife who is an archeologist is away on a dig.

Warning: Violence, angst, blood, physical violence, swearing, guns, not edited

Part 2

——————

Dust, sweltering heat, dry cracked skin, bitterly cold nights. From having the sun beat you down to frigid air so cold your teeth chattered.

It always surprised you how cold the desert became at night and how hot it was during the day. The early mornings seemed to be the only time you felt comfortable. It took time for you to adjust back into being on a dig sight after so long. Life had consisted of being the new curator at a museum, an active mother, caring daughter, and loving wife. It was strange to step out of those rolls and back into being a hands on archeologist and back on a dig sight thousands of miles away from your family.

Having a slow start like you were this morning was beautiful. Most mornings you were woken up by the sounds of your colleagues chatter since the thin tarp of your tent didn’t give much sound proofing. But today you had naturally woken up before everyone else, made yourself a cup of coffee, and were now sitting and eating breakfast at the small table in your tent as you went over papers.

Your tent was bigger than your colleagues because you were technically the one heading the dig at the moment. The beige burlap tent was rectangular with taller ceilings so most could stand upright without their heads touching the ceiling. You had an ornate red rug rolled out to make it a little more cozy. Your cot was in the back right corner with your old faded trunk at the foot of it. On the inside lid of the trunk were numerous pictures from past digs you had taped there for sentimental purpose.

There was one picture in particular you loved the most. It was of you and John Price back when he was a Luitenant and you an up and coming archeologist. You two weren’t standing anywhere near each other but you asked to get a picture with all the military that were there to show off to your friends after. Little did you know it would be the first picture you would take with your future husband.

There was a dark brown circular table to the left of the tents opening. It had four old wooden chairs around it. There were a smattering of papers, pencils, maps, sketches, and an old lantern on the table. A few feet away was a wooden partition to give you some privacy while you changed in case someone came in.

You had been away for almost a full two weeks. You were coming to assist on this dig because Dr. Michales would not be able to get there in time due to family constraints. It was only intended for you to be here for the first two weeks of the four month dig so you happily obliged. It was a nice change of pace from your job and you were happy that in only a few more days you’d be on your way home. These finds would be an amazing addition to the museum you had been pouring yourself into. It would feel validating to have your name added to these fascinating finds in a museum you were in charge of.

But as enthralled as you were by your studies, your mind continued to drift to your family back home in the UK. John was home with your three children and you couldn’t help but wonder what they were all up to at the moment. You glanced up to see the small wooden picture frame you had lovingly placed on the table, it was a gift from your son.

It was a goofy picture of the five of you that always left you with a smile. John was standing tall with Evelyn tucked under one arm and Jj in the other. Both their feet were off the ground as John carried them like duffle bags out the backdoor of your home, the laughter evident on their faces. You were standing a few feet away with Lily in your arms the five of you all dressed in football gear to go practice in the yard for the afternoon. The picture was taken by your brother in law who had stopped by to drop off some hand me down clothes.

The photo left a bitter sweet taste in your mouth that you tried to attribute to the shitty coffee. You wished you could peer into your home and know what your family were up to. If you could, you’d see John had built a blanket fort in the living room that they were all cuddled under and eating icecream from the tub; something they knew you’d never allow.

With a deep sigh you went back to sipping on your morning coffee in your tent and going over some documents. It was tedious but you were taking the time to make sure everything you were doing was meticulously documented so when Dr. Michales took over there was little confusion. In the still of the morning you brought your chipped coffee cup to your chapped lips and sighed in pleasure at the silence.

Thats when the sound of repetitive gunshots rang out. Time slowed as every hair on your body stood on end. It was the most startling sound and your soul had practically left your body. You jumped so violently you whacked your knee on the underside of the table and then dropped your coffee onto the ruby red carpet, half of the burning liquid spilling down your left arm.

Instantly you knew it was an assault rifle from how quickly each round fired off and you instinctively dropped to your knees and got under the table. The squish of the soaked rug and smell of burnt coffee seared itself into you memory never allowing you to to forget this moment as long as you smelt burnt coffee. With hands tightly clasped over your ears you felt cold all of a sudden as if an Arctic breeze blew through the sweltering desert.

Before a fully formed thought had even been processed through your head you were up and running toward the corner of your tent taking a cloth and wrapping it around the burn on your arm. Throwing a blanket over your cot to cover the space beneath it, you shoved yourself under it. Fumbling around you squeezed into the small space, laced your fingers behind your head and pressed your forehead into the rug. It burned against your skin as you broke out into a cold sweat. Heavy panicked breathing took over and your hands began to shake violently. Fat tears dropped from your eyes and your nose was running like you had just gotten in from shoveling snow.

The sounds of blood curdling screams and more gunfire rang out and all you could think about was never seeing your family again. The memory of them all giving you hugs and well wishes as they saw you off at the airport flashing in your mind. The way Evelyn demanded to be the last one you hugged and how Jj handed you that picture frame sitting on the table a few feet away. You had promised John you’d be safe and sealed it with a kiss goodbye as Lily giggled at your PDA.

Would that be the last memory they had of you? Was Lily old enough that she would remember you? Jj would never recover and Evelyn would be devastated. Your children’s faces flashed in your mind but John’s booming voice was loud in your head. You let out a shaky breath that had drops of spittle splattering against the carpet.

In these moments it felt like John was right there with you telling you exactly what to do.

Steady, calm your breathing.

Darling, if they take you don’t fight back. Please don’t fight back.

You’ll be okay. Stay smart, stay quiet, and whatever you do, don’t panic.

Safety was your only concern as you hid under the cot in your tent. You imagined John was on his way with an army behind him as a way to trick yourself into staying calm. He’d be here to save you, you told yourself. Your mind was racing and about to derail as you screamed and begged in the safety of your mind.

John. John. John.

help

The air had stilled and faint cries of familiar voices echoed as your friends begged for mercy. You could hear Carol screaming that they had killed someone while Tanner was yelling for them to stay away from whoever he was trying to protect. It made you sick to know the horrors of what was happening on the other side of your tent and that you were next. You tried to listen as you heard orders in a language you couldn’t understand. You recognized it as Arabic but couldn’t make out a single word; wishing John was here because he knew a little of the language. The way the words were barked had you trembling. You may not understand the language but deep down you knew that people were about to start searching tents. The sight was about to be raided and in that moment you knew it was only a matter of time until you were found.

The concept of time had vanished as your heart beat echoed in your ears. You had no idea how long you had been hiding it could have been five minute or hours, your mind was playing tricks on you. Your body was soaked in sweat and you felt like you may just die right on the spot as your tent flap was loudly ripped open.

Closing your eyes tight you heard as whoever was in here began to toss the place upside down. You began to chant your children’s name in your mind as a way to distract yourself.

Jonathan, Evelyn, Lily. Jonathan, Evelyn, Lily. Jonathan, Evelyn, Lily.

They consumed your mind. Each one of their pretty smiles and sparkling blue eyes flashing in your minds eye. You swore you could hear them laughing off in the distance. Squeals of laughter and shouts for you to come play.

Finally your cot was tossed, revealing you underneath. Head bowed to the floor, lying flat on your stomach with your fingers laced behind your head. You stayed still hoping, praying, begging god to make you invisible in that moment.

The blood curdling scream you let out was involuntary as this man, whose face was completely covered grabbed you by your hair. The painful tug was barely noticeable as you thrashed and kicked for dear life. You could barely focus on your surroundings as you were dragged toward the tents opening by your hair. The thought of what John would tell you to do to stay safe flying out the window as instinct kicked in. Through the struggle you could hear glass shattering the scent of your vanilla perfume taking over the small space.

As you thrashed you felt your boots connect with your trunk, air, then the man’s leg and you kicked again with all your strength. He let out what you assumed to be a cruse word and then seconds later his open hand collided with your face. He had slapped you with so much force it snapped your head back and your skin burned, you could feel the welt forming instantly but you still tried to fight him off. All you could see was a flurry of your familiar tent as the hand in your hair tightened and you flailed around like a fish out of water.

Then he struck you again and again until your knees buckled and you stopped fighting back. He continued to strike even after the fight left you then one last time for good measure until becoming limp was your bodies only choice. Panting and spitting out a warm liquid that tasted of iron you stopped kicking and strained for breath. Your face, chest and back felt like they were on fire from the blows sustained. You glanced down to look at your white t-shirt, seeing specks and splotches of red littering the cotton.

The large hand that had you by the roots of your hair pulled you down against the ground as you tried to brace yourself from colliding with the floor. The pain at your scalp was white hot as you felt your body collide with the trunk that sat by the end of your cot and then into the table. He was tossing you into the furniture to further the damage he was inflicting on you. The adrenaline was pumping so violently in your veins you couldn’t realize just how hurt you were.

You couldn’t even hear yourself chocking on blood and spit as you plead for him to let you go, that you had children. The air in your lungs burned and your senses were dulled from the beating you had just sustained. You were dragged out of your tent and tossed into the dirt. The coarse sand stuck to your sweat soaked skin as pebbles pressed into the skin of your palms as you braced yourself. Scrambling away on your hands and knees you turned to face your attacker slipping off the heels of your boots and falling on to your ass.

This was the first good look you were getting of this behemoth of a man as he towered over you. He had his face covered only his hazel eyes visible. There was an assault rifle slung around his monstrous frame and what you expected to see was your life flash before your eyes as he reached for it. For some unknown reason you whispered to the man.

“Ghost?”

It had to be delirium or the blows to the head and face making you think this man was Simon Riley; or the fact he was of the same physique and stature. But you were thankful of that because for a brief moment you felt relief. Relief that someone would save you as you watched the assault rifle come up and be pointed in your face. You closed your eyes tight and cried out for John although he was thousands of miles away.

“JOHN!” His name tore from your throat. Your vocal cords straining to a point you felt like you might pop a blood vessel.

The butt of the assault rifle smacked you hard in the face. An obscene crack echoing in the dry air before you could even register you were struck instead of shot. The impact made the world go black for a moment the only thing snapping you back into consciousness was the back of your head hitting the dirt. Your hand weakly reached to your left eyebrow and temple where you’d been struck as the world spun around you. Trying to focus your eyes as dirty brown boots approached you.

You were dazed and dizzy from the blow and you could barely register what had just happened. Through the double vision you pulled your hand away from your temple and saw blood coating your finger tips. The smell of burnt coffee hanging in the air and the heaviness of your eyes winning as you passed out.

——————

“When’s mummy going to video call?” Evelyn was tugging on John’s belt loop as he stood in the kitchen trying to figure out dinner.

Lily, newly three was fast asleep in his arms having been struggling with a nasty cold. The three year old was struggling not having you at home especially while she was sick. John had also been struggling to get her to sleep through the night and it resulted in Lily sleeping with him the past two nights. She would cry into your pillow and cling to an old dirty sweatshirt of yours she refused to let John wash.

You and John had a scheduled video call a day ago but he hadn’t heard a word from you. It was concerning to say the least and John was becoming more concerned as each hour ticked by. He told himself he wouldn’t freak out and you were just busy but there was this clawing feeling in the back of his mind; something didn’t feel right.

John kept telling himself he couldn’t call someone in he still hadn’t lived down the last time this happened and he sent Soap and Ghost out there to check on you. You called him laughing hysterically that he needed to tone down the protectiveness and that you simply forgot to call. Simon also brought it up from time to time saying he would do the same in John’s position but Soap liked to make snarky comments about the Captain being uptight.

“She’ll call soon, love.” John said confidently not wanting Evelyn to worry. With a kiss to her forehead she smiled sweetly and retreated into the living room.

John couldn’t handle the uncertainty anymore. Pulling out his phone he dialed the first person he knew would pull a few strings for him, no questions asked. The line rang four times before the familiar voice sounded on the other end.

“John, surprised to hear from you.”

“Kate, I need a favor.” John spoke quietly. Peaking his head out of the kitchen he checked that both Evelyn and Jj were out of ear shot before he continued.

“Sounds urgent.” The smile in Kate’s voice vanished.

“Y/N is in Urzikstan on a dig. Haven’t heard from her in a couple days. Think you could ask Farah to have a few of her men check things out. Make sure she’s safe.” John meant to ask but it came out as more of a statement. He could hear Kate’s fingers dart across her keyboard as she typed loudly.

“Yeah, going to need a few more details.”

“Of course.”

——————

“I want the last egg roll!” Jj hissed.

Jj and Evelyn had been at each other’s throats all day and it was driving John up a wall. It was hard for him to handle his children when he had you and your safety on his mind. He kept checking his phone to see if Kate had reached out to no avail.

The past two hours had felt like torture and John had been virtually silent. Although his children didn’t seem to notice, too busy arguing with each other about anything and everything. You would think they’d pick up on how John wasn’t diffusing the arguments or scolding them for fighting.

“Too bad I want it!” Evelyn hollered back at her brother. Taking the white crinkly bag with the egg roll in it only for Jj so snatch it back.

John was looking between his son and daughter and sighing heavily. He took the bag from his son silently and placed it on his empty plate. He was about to cut the egg roll in half when the argument took a turn. Lily was quietly eating her fried rice and glancing back and forth between her siblings deeply enthralled by their display.

“Brats don’t deserve eggs rolls!” Jj spat the insult in his sisters face.

“Neither do cry baby, no good at maths, nose picker, butt sniffer, idiots!” Evelyn shot right back pulling out every insult she could think of.

“I’m not a nose picker or a butt sniffer!” Jj screeched, hands smacking against the table.

“Still makes you a cry baby idiot who sucks at maths.” Evelyn spat back now kneeling on her chair. They looked ridiculous arguing in matching orange t-shirts from last summer fair. John could practically see the lightening bolts shooting across the table as they violently stared at one another.

John snapped, not able to handle his children being this nasty to each other over an egg roll of all things. With a mean look John snatched the egg roll from the white paper bag it sat in and shoved the entire thing in his mouth. It was an enormous amount of food but he chewed aggressively and relished in the greasy goodness. John felt somewhat vindicated to take the last egg roll for himself. He didn’t yell at his children and found a way of solving the issue since there was no egg roll to argue over now.

“AHHH YOU ATE IT!” Evelyn shrieked, hands shooting up to her cheeks as she stared at her round cheeked father, his mutton chops only making his cheeks look puffier. John stared forward eyes locked on the pantry doors with a blank expression and continued to chew as he felt his children’s anger now pointed at him.

“Dad!” Jj hollered his face fixed in shock and anger just like his sister. Jj’s nose flared and eyebrows knit together trying his best to hold back his sass.

“You’re being a piggy!” Evelyn sneered, blue eyes narrowed.

“Don’t call me a pig.” John snapped back and covered his mouth as he scolded Evelyn. The spark of fury igniting in his icy eyes causing the young girl to plop back in her seat, cross her arms over her chest and grunt angrily.

“Fine, how about a thief.” Jj said under his breath. Taking his fork and scooting a piece of broccoli around his plate. John swallowed thickly at his son’s words his blood pressure spiking.

“Thief? I bought the bloody food. And you want to call me a thief!?” John’s voice was thick from the greasy food and beginning to raise. His train of thought was interrupted by the sound of his phones generic ringtone.

Evelyn and Jj were stunned as he got up from his chair so quickly it almost fell backwards. They saw the anger vanish from their father’s face and be replaced with an emotionless expression.

“Behave.” John warned as he abruptly got up from the dinner table and quickly made his way out the back door onto the patio. He could see all three of his children now peering out the window to get a better look at him.

“Kate, hear anything?” John skipped all the pleasentries and got straight to the point.

“The sight was ransacked. The people left claimed five individuals had been taken by a group of men with face coverings. One of them was identified as your wife.” The matter of fact tone Kate used was in hopes John wouldn’t go off the deep end at the news.

“Get Farah on this immediately tell her it’s a favor for me. I’ll owe her my life. But keep it under wraps this is my wife, don’t need word spreading and anyone getting ideas. I’ll be packed and on base to assist within the hour.” John barked down the line as if it was appropriate to give Kate orders.

“Farah is already working on tracking them down. Said you’d probably want to see the dig sight and talk to some of the witnesses yourself.” Kate and Farah had a much more in depth conversation on possibility of hostage survival but Kate felt that would be better for John to hear in person.

“She knows me well. I’ll be there soon.” John’s thumb and forefinger were pinching the bridge of his nose as he desperately tried to keep a hold of himself.

“We’ll get her back, John.” The certainty in Kate’s voice was only to comfort John and he knew that. There was no certainty and no one knew that better than them.

“We will.” John said simply before hanging up, feeling as if he were lying to himself.

There was a calm that washed over John. An eerie almost manic clarity came over him, a feeling that John knew all too well. It was what made him good at his job. What made taking peoples lives and living on with the weight of it manageable. He’d felt this many times but never with you, never like this. This was a feeling he had in war zones, shoot outs, the most gut wrenching and gruesome situations.

But tonight as he stood on the patio of your family home, all he knew was that he was on his way to Urzikstan with hell hot on his heels. The muscles in his face began to twitch and he chuckled out a dry laugh that most would describe as demented or deranged. John felt his sanity slipping as if he were about to go on a murderous rampage if he didn’t keep himself in check; and he just might. The thought of you scared, alone, and in danger had his skin tingling. If a single hair was out of place John wasn’t sure he’d be able to control himself, he’d truly become a monster he’d promised himself he’d never be. But could you blame him? Would anyone blame him?

John was calling the next person before he had even fleshed out a game plan. All the pieces were falling together in his mind and he saw every move he needed to make with clarity. The five rings of the phone was enough time for John to map out which route would be the quickest to base and how exactly he would get someone to fly him out there with little pushback. He’d need to pull every string and bully his way into getting what he wanted. He would be there in the quickest amount of time possible.

At any cost.

“Billy, Y/N in trouble on her dig and I need to get out there. Can y-“

“I’m putting on my shoes now. I’ll be there in a flash. Stay on the line.” Billy, your father, didn’t need another word. Much like John this was instinctual on how to react when the question of your safety was raised.

John could hear him rushing around and faintly overheard Billy’s girlfriend asking where he was going and if everything was okay. Then her screaming, asking why he was leaving and he ‘couldn’t keep doing this to her.’ Billy answered by slamming the door and effectively ending that relationship as he sprinted down the stairs for his car. If only John could tell you about this he knew you’d snort out a laugh and have some smart ass comment about your father’s horrible communication skills. But that wasn’t the case and John’s stomach twisted and rage spiked his veins at the thought he might never be able to tell you.

John stayed on the line only for the reason of making sure Billy was okay because that’s what you would want him to do. John knew you would demand that he looks out for your father in any and all circumstances. Even when you weren’t here to tell him yourself John was staying true to everything you would want and he’d continue to do that until the day he died.

“I’m on my way. Be there in twenty.” Billy huffed out of breath.

“See you soon.” Before John could hang up he heard the deadly serious words of your father as his car door slammed.

“You better bring her home in one piece. I mean it John, or I’ll have your fuckin’ head.” Billy yelled the words down the line and John could picture how angry he looked and how his finger was pointed to emphasize his point.

“I will.” John knew Billy was the only other person on this earth that would walk through the fires of hell for you. There was a mutual respect that both John and Billy would lay their lives down for you and kill for you. That’s why Billy trusted John to be your protecter all those years ago.

By the time Billy arrived he could feel the tension in the air. He tried to walk through the front door calmly but half burst through the door. It only took a few steps into the house to have full view of the living room which was where his grandchildren were.

Jj was sitting on the couch with Lily in his lap and reading her a book. Evelyn was sprawled out on the floor, red in the face, having just finished crying. It broke Billy’s heart watching his oldest grandson console Evelyn from his spot on the couch. Jj was truly John’s son trying to hold everything together no matter how unequipped he was.

“Evie, dad’s gonna be back with mum so fast it’ll make our heads spin. Isn’t it kinda cool he gets to go pick her up all the way in another country?” Jj was clearly trying to hide his own panic. His voice deepening like his fathers would when times were serious.

“Grandpa, dad says mummy’s fine but I don’t believe him.” Evelyn burst into tears again at the sight of Billy. Jj looked up to him like a deer in headlight his bottom lip wobbling as he saw the angry look on his grandpas face. Lily turned in Jj’s arms and hugged him around the neck.

“No crying Jj.” Lily whispered lovingly and nudged the book at him. Her curls tickling her brother’s skin and helping distract him from the tightness in his chest.

Jj willed himself to be strong for his sisters because for the first time in his life John had earnestly asked him to take care of them; and that’s what scared the young boy. There was a rule set by you and his father that Jj was not to take on adult responsibilities or roles under any circumstance. The fact his father asked this of him meant something was very, very wrong. And Jj was ready to do whatever it took to take care of his sisters.

Evelyn was moving pathetically so she was now kneeling on the carpet and starting to breather heavily, clearly panicking. Her small hand came up and clutched her orange t-shirt in the middle of her chest as if she were struggling to breathe. Evelyn was old enough at this point to understand something was horribly wrong but she couldn’t express why. The fact was, she felt deep down in her bones something bad was happening and unlike her brother she couldn’t hold herself together.

“Hey, she’s okay, just got caught up in some red tape at work. Your dad’s gonna bring her home safe and sound.” Billy didn’t bother taking off his shoes as he scooped the eight year old up in his arms. Evelyn wrapped herself around him and cried into his shoulder. Billy nodded to Jj as a way to silently comfort him but he could see how rattled the young boy was. With a deep sigh and quickly wiping away the stray tears, Jj went back to reading the book to Lily who was half asleep.

“Red tape!? That’s the worst kind.” The young girl hiccuped out sobs as Billy swayed with her and rubbed her back like he did when she was Lily’s age.

“Mummy’s my favorite person, she needs to come home. right. now.” Evelyn was sobbing harder and harder as Billy tried his best to console her.

It reminded him of when you were a little girl and cried for hours that you wanted your mother to come home. Only for you, your mother had passed and there was no chance of her ever walking through that door again. And Billy prayed that his granddaughter wouldn’t have to face the same suffering you did as a girl.

John was jogging down the stairs in his military fatigues with his duffle bag slung over his shoulder. His mind was racing but you’d never be able to tell from the emotionless look on his face, the paternal side of himself going dark at the sight of Billy. Knowing your children were now in good hands John was in a mindset that lived outside this home for good reason. His children had never seen this side of him. The cold, calculated, and self assured Captain he was renowned for being.

With sharp eyes John saw Billy had two different shoes on, he missed a belt loop, and had buttoned up his shirt wrong making one end lopsided. Billy was completely disheveled and it was obvious to John in that moment that no time was to be waisted, Billy needed his little girl home now.

“You three be good to your grandpa.” John’s words were more of an order as he went around and placed a kiss to each one of his children’s heads; his duffle bag thrown over his shoulder.

Billy and John shared a knowing nod and John left your father with a few parting words.

“You’ll see her soon. And thank you.” The deepness in John’s voice was a testament to his seriousness.

Billy couldn’t speak on the subject it would make the reality too real and he knew he’d lose himself completely if he lost you. So he nodded sharply and turned away from John, not allowing any emotion to take over although fear had its clutches on his heart.

——————

“Hello, Captain. Long way from home.” Farah’s voice sounded as she approached Captain Price as he stepped out of the truck he rode in. It was a shit show to get here but John managed to do it in record time. Pulling no punches and going as far as threatening those who wouldn’t give him his way.

“You locate the hostages?” Price’s voice had deepened like it usually did when deployed or on missions. A quick handshake was exchanged as a greeting, then Farah waved for Price to follow as she showed him around the campsite. John nervously fixed his hat on his head, blood pulsing painfully though his veins seeing the destruction of a once well manicured campsite. From the photos you sent him it was picture perfect and a textbook outline of a campsite. One central hub, area for showering, the group of tents closely huddled together; all adjacent to the dig sight.

“I have some of my men checking out possible locations but not much has turned up. There was one seriously wounded man but he’s stable now. No casualties. The people left behind said they headed west with five hostages.” With an out stretched gloved hand Farah pointed west to emphasize her point then signaled to the tire marks left behind.

“These treads are wide, wider than normal. Wouldn’t be surprised if they’re armored. What do you say?” Glancing over Farah intently inspected Price’s face trying to determine why this group of individuals called for him pulling out every favor he had. Why did some archeologists he had no business knowing call for him to be out here so quickly.

“You seen treads like these before? They look military.” With a nod John tilted his head down staring at Farah through his eyebrows, his hands coming up and gripping his tactical vest.

“A military convoy was high jacked last week. Think these might be the same people. Tire marks lead west like they said.” Farah confirmed the two of them continuing on, checking out the ransacked campsite.

“Then we’ll go west.” John said simply as he took in his surroundings. The two walked on stopping at the dig sight to see the carved out areas of ancient ruins. It looked to be the start of a decently sized complex covered in a layer of sand and dust. To the left was artifact that had been discovered and were being catalogued. None of it was disturbed only the campsite was torn apart.

“It’s a shame. If only they could keep themselves from digging in dirt that’s not their own. Don’t think this would have happened if it were our people here making this discovery.” Farah stated matter of factly. John hated that he agreed with the sentiment. Hell, he had said something similar to you when you first met and that’s why military presence was important on dig sights.

It was strange seeing something horrible that John had seen before but equating it to you. It was a feeling he hoped he’d never have but here he was. Examining tents that had been cut open, overturned vehicles, burned food supplies and water basins turned over and emptied. The small campsite was completely gone through and all forms of life preserves destroyed. The dig sight somehow remained untouched to John’s surprise but then again it seemed this was more of a job to stop those who don’t belong from taking things that aren’t theirs.

Continuing on John’s sharp eyes looked for any trace of you. That’s when he saw the tent that was bigger than the others, meaning it was the lead archeologists. Your tent. Silently John made his way over eyes carefully scanning the area around it. There were droplets of blood splattered a few yards from the tents entrance that lead to a larger blood stain. Squatting down John gave it a close look and determined it wasn’t nearly enough blood to be fatal and he wasn’t about to assume it was yours. There were clear drag marks leading off to where Farah had said convoy trucks were parked.

Farah silently followed, watching closely how Price’s face barely changed. Dipping into what he assumed to be your tent John was met with glass crunching under his boots and the sight of all furniture flipped over and your belongings rifled through.

The first thing John noticed was the smell of your vanilla perfume. Then he saw your old trunk kicked over with your belongings spilling out. There was that navy sweater you liked to wear on cold nights torn and lying on the red rug along with books and toiletries. Taking another step in John picked up on the smell of the hazelnut coffee you liked and he couldn’t help how that smell reminded him of home and you curled up in the early morning with coffee and a book. Then his boots crunched against something that snapped under his weight. Looking down and seeing what he’d stepped on finally had reality taking hold and a painful throb shooting through his head. This was your tent. His wife’s tent. And the blood splattered across the table and chairs was yours.

With a shallow breath and his lip twitching John bent down and picked up the family photo you had taken with you. It had speckles of dark red dried blood that tainted such a pure memory. John adored that day and thought back to it as one of the few perfect days you all spent as a family. Playing football in the back yard then grilling for dinner and eating around a bonfire. The night ended with you in John’s bulky arms and breathing each other in as you showed the deepest form of love to one another.

John felt himself ready to be sick. There was a rage so intense it made his head ache and muscles tense. With gritted teeth he could hear his teeth creaking from the immense pressure. Never in his life had John felt the urge to kill like this. It was no longer for defense or the safety and sanctity of his comrades and country. This felt blood thirsty like nothing could stop him from cutting down anyone who stood in his way on the path to find you. But for you and only you he would keep his composure because if he snapped there was no way anyone would allow for him to continue on this mission. There was a time and place to strike and he’d have them all in their graves by the time it was too late for anyone to stop him.

“Let’s find them.” John dropped the picture frame to the floor, the dark wood clattering against the broken bits of chair and glass.

The loose shards of glass from the frame scattering and adding to the mess that lay inside the tent. He left the picture frame there on the ground unable to bring his family along with him. He left it where he found it and turned away telling himself it would be here waiting for you when he brought you back to collect your things.

Farah was quick to step out of his way as Price marched out of the tent. There was an eir about him almost as if the darkest of pain radiated from his soul and infected the air. It was something Farah had never seen from Price, it almost felt inhuman, like a gruesome scene yet to unfold. Before he left he had one final thing to say.

“Don’t say a word.” It was a threat. Farah could hear it in his voice as if the devil had spoken yet sounded like the man she trusted with her life.

Curiosity got the better of Farah and she took a brief moment to look at the photo and the realization clicked in her head. Seeing Price’s face with a bright smile staring back at her and three children with matching ones was enough for Farah. The Captain had a wife and children. She had no clue. The woman they were searching for had to be the Captains wife and at least now Farah knew what you looked like. So hopefully it’d be easier to find and identify you if you had become a casualty. And she prayed for Price’s sake that wasn’t the case.

Part 2

~~~~~tag list~~~~~

@exhaustedpotat0 @glitterypirateduck @ivymarquis @crazymela @what-0-life @boredfairy4 @hihhasotherfixations @stephanswhxre @shanjisan @k4es @luvleywrites @kita03-0 @midwesternwitchery @aleynaleia @suckerforbassist @misshoneypaper @theaonlax @blackstar9005 @tooterbutt @havoc973 @maladaptivedaydreamingbum @freshlemontea @cosmoscoffeee @sae1kie @ohworm-writes @ghostslittlegf @fanficwriterlover @arminarlertssword @faceache111 @azu21 @thirstyb-ches @nini-11-08 @sgtgarricks @kiki-is-hyperfixating

[ghettogirly]

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𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨 𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐬 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫.

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-> synopsis: Being held captive by a cartel leader is a law enforcement worker’s worst nightmare, especially when you’ve been sold out by people from your side. Your fate lies in the hands of a ruthless cartel leader, what would be the consequences?

-> format: imagine

-> theme: angst.

-> warnings: mentions of kidnapping, mentions of violent scenes, mentions of childhood trauma, mature language, armando has a lot of trauma to him.

-> authors note: sorry for the lack of updates! i’ve been sooo busy. hope you all enjoy! 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝! 💗

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Dust coated the desolate, concrete floor below as a cast of cold air swept through the room. It being an open space due to the lack of rooms, walls were knocked down as you saw the rubble not too far from you. Your eyes were heavy as a pain then boomed through, clearly the consequence of it being bruised.

The question being how and why?

Looking down, the lack of movement was prominent as your feet and hands were bound to each other. Purple and pink blotches were plotted on your hands as a tension line formed due to the rigid surface of the rope, branded your skin. The uncomfortable feeling of the wooden chair not making the situation any better as grunts escape your mouth as you try wiggle you way out of the ties, to no avail. Huffing in frustration, you give up.

Graffiti was plastered on the walls, a multitude of colours and signatures decorated them as it made it clear that this place was abandoned. A free zone where people come in and practice their artwork. Moving over to the left, two chairs were aligned next to you. One chair had a man sitting in it, bound just like you but with his head now lying back. His eye was swole and coloured with blue and purple marks due to the fluid built up behind it, the result of a pretty clear beat down. His head had blood leaking from it, cascading down his face into the floor as red marks also plastered his body.

He was practically half dead.

The other chair next to him was empty, the rope loose at the bottom of the chair as blood trailed from it. Understanding the gravity of the situation, you then start to panic, wrestling the ropes. Clearly these people were not here to play. “No tiene sentido tratar de escapar de Mami, no lo vas a lograr.”

The voice erupting from somewhere in the building made you stop dead in your tracks as you quickly look around to see where that echo came from. Your brown eyes moved frantically as you desperately search for answers. Suddenly, 3 men walk in front of you, dressed in full black from head to toe.

More footsteps could be heard which causes the men to stand to the side, revealing the man.

A shadow casted over you due to the height of the apparent, hispanic man. His knuckles were rough, slight roots of hair covered his arms yet his skin was relatively smooth. A glint of a neutral tan covered the man’s body, demonstrating his mexican heritage.

Slowly glancing up to his face, a medial size scar was apparent on the right side of his face and a scar in his eyebrow.

He was fairly groomed. His facial hair freshly trimmed as well as his hair being freshly done. Yet, his dark, pink lips formed into a scowl, looking down upon you.

“Armando Aretas..” you thought.

“what do you want with me?” Croaking out, your throat running dry and raspy due to the dusty conditions.

"No puedes hacer las preguntas, nena. You came here on my territory, snooping around my business. I want to know what you’re doing here so far away from your homeland.” Armando calmly suggests, walking circles around your chair as the two other men stared down at you, evoking some psychological strategy.

“How did you-“

“How did I know? ¿Es esa la pregunta principal que te estás haciendo en este momento?” He scoffed, clapping his hands in disbelief.

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“Boss, there’s something you need to look at.”

Peering over at the picture that was slid on his marble desk, Armando lifted up the sheet, slighting creasing the corner due to his carelessness. His eyebrows furrowed as he looked up at worker with hesitation in his eyes. “¿Es cierto?”

The former nodded causing the man to sigh. Casting his eyes over the tablet the man just gave him , a picture was presented to Armando causing the former to squint. Eyebrows furrowed and lips curled, he sat back and looked at his worker in silence.

His tongue slid over his bottom lip as the male sat there, contemplating.

“Armando-“

“¿Me ibas a decir que teníamos a un estadounidense en nuestro equipo?”

The double doors opened revealing a caucasian male who slowly strolled in. The sheer arrogance exuding off of him due to his wealth and status. Dressed in designer branded clothes and accessories from head to toe, the blonde male raised his eyebrow.

“What are you talking about?”

A quick head nod was exchanged and the tablet was exchanged.

“Fuck. I know her.”

“No shit. Don’t fuck around with me Louis.”

A sigh came from the male standing in front of Armando.

“Listen, all I know is that she’s in the legal profession. I don’t know anything else. She’s a rat though.”

A loud sound of glass shattering was heard as pieces of debris flew throughout the office, causing the other two men to duck in attempts of protecting themselves.

“Fuck!!!”

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A scoff reverberated off of the walls. “Querías saberlo. Ahora ya lo sabes.”

“Why are you doing this.. We’ve hardly spoken. Just kill me.”

“I’ve saw you. I’ve saw you talking to the other women in the kitchen. Helping out the little ones in the community. We had a good conversation, remember?”

“It was one conversation-“

"Uno. Significaba todo para mí. La única persona que me escuchó fuiste tú".

“Armando, i do care about you. ¿Esa conversación sobre tu madre? Lo recuerdo.” A slight whisper falls out of your mouth, you clasp onto the wooden bars of the chair in desperation.

“But you was going to do the exact same thing she did to me. Lie.”

“I wasn’t lying!”

“¡Pero tú lo estabas!" Armando shouts, kicking the chair next to you.

“Armando-“

“No. It’s fucking over. No hay ratas en el negocio de los cárteles.”

A bang was heard throughout the room as the woman’s head slumped down due to the trajectory and power of the shot. Blood splattered on the hispanic’s shirt and the concrete floor below.

Heading towards the door, Armando looked at the workers, the sight of a tear daring to show itself by leaving the corner of his eye.

“Get this cleaned up.”

Footsteps faintly turned away.

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[🌱] 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒:

“No tiene sentido tratar de escapar de Mami, no lo vas a lograr.” - there’s no point in trying to escape mami, you not going to make it.

“No puedes hacer las preguntas, nena.” - "You can't ask the questions, baby"

“¿Es esa la pregunta principal que te estás haciendo en este momento?” - is that the main question you’re asking right now?

“¿Me ibas a decir que teníamos a un estadounidense en nuestro equipo?” - Were you going to tell me we had an American in our team?

“Querías saberlo. Ahora ya lo sabes.” - You wanted to know, now you know.

"Uno. Significaba todo para mí. La única persona que me escuchó fuiste tú". - One. It meant everything to me. The only person who listened to me, was you.

“¿Esa conversación sobre tu madre? Lo recuerdo". - That conversation about your mother? I remember it.

“¡Pero tú lo estabas!" - But you was!

“No hay ratas en el negocio de los cárteles” - there’s no rats in cartel business.

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[🎀] 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @5tarlan7 @yeahnohoneybye @dyttomori @dyttomori02 @milliumizoomi @shurisgf @tyneshaaa @omg-mymelaninisbeautiful @wizewhispers @amplifiedmoan @thedarkworldofhananerea @sarcasticbitchsblog @armandosbabymama @believeinthefireflies95 @twinklestarslight

[hazbinshusk]

day twenty-one of salem's unofficial attempt at kinktober: voyuerism/dry humping (huskerdust x reader)

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The club music pounds loudly enough for you to feel it in your bones, in your blood, and the scent of booze and sex and artificial smoke teases at your senses. Husk wraps an arm around your waist, your back cradled against the curve of his wing. His fur is warm and soft against your bare skin, and you shiver as he buries his face in the curve of your neck with a low, even chuckle.

“You gotta work on your poker face, sweetness.” he rumbles in your ear, and you feel the sharp points of his teeth graze the curve of your collarbone. “People are gonna think you’ve got a crush.”

“He’s just so pretty,” you reply with a grin, eyes still fixed on the stage. Angel is in his element, a burlesque dream of feathers and beads, the blissed-out smile on his face for once purely due to the chance to perform like this. Husk had taken no convincing at all to tag along tonight, and a bottle of whiskey deep he was loose and relaxed in a way he rarely is outside of one of your rooms at the hotel. “Look at him.”

“I am,” Husk assures you, bumping his nose against the edge of your jaw. Your shoulder rises automatically as it tickles, your hand finding and squeezing his thigh under the table. Husk tosses back the last of his drink, and on your nod, finishes yours as well. He scowls at the too-sweet taste, tongue sticking out distastefully, and you giggle.

He lets his hand slip lower over the curve of your hip as Angel makes a wide, arching swing around the pole at centre stage, and you feel his lips brush against your jaw, your cheek. You stare in wonder at Angel a moment longer before you turn your face towards Husk, humming happily as he catches your lips with his.

Husk kisses you warmly, his tongue teasing against your bottom lip before sliding into your mouth. Your hand tightens its grip on his thigh and you feel his wing tuck tighter around you, urging you closer to his side. You lean into him, your hand leaving his thigh to skim over his stomach and up to card your fingers through the soft fluff of his chest. He groans into your kiss, barely audible over the music and Angel’s fans, and Husk lets his lips travel over your cheek and back to your jaw, the tiny barbs of his tongue making you shudder as it lingers just below your ear.

His attention there urges you to turn your head and brings your eyes back to Angel on stage, and despite your position at one of the more secluded booths, the spider’s lips turn in a knowing smirk, and he throws you a wink before he moves into the next steps, two hands coming up artfully behind him to unfasten the strings of beads draped over his torso.

“C’mere,” Husk mutters into your neck, kissing you again before urging you to sit on his lap. Your back is cradled against his chest, and you shiver as his claws come up to brush hair away from your ear so he can kiss the column of your throat. “Watch him.”

You train your eyes on Angel Dust obediently, breath catching in your throat as Husk takes hold of your hips and nips lightly at your collarbone just as Angel drops to his knees, whips his hair out of his eyes and bends down, sliding his chest slowly across the stage with his ass high in the air. The move is so sensual, one so reminiscent of the way you’ve seen him grind back against Husk… and Angel meets your eye again.

Husk groans, low and rough, as he thrusts into Angel in a slow, deep rhythm, bottoming out and lingering with each push forward of his hips before withdrawing again. Angel’s back is arched in a way that’s almost poetic, his chest pressed into the sheets. His upper hands reach up to grip at your calves as you sit and watch them, your back against the headboard. Husk is watching you hungrily, eyes drinking in every shift in your expression. There’s a vibrator tucked in your panties, the remote tucked into one of Angel’s fists. The spider meets your eye for a moment before his eyes roll back, a bead of drool staining the fur of his chin as is jaw hangs slack.

You feel yourself flush.

The bartender notices even in the pulsing lights of the club, snickering against your skin as his tongue tickles at the nape of your neck. His paws tighten on your hips and press forward, pull back, guiding you into a slow grind over his lap. He presses his thigh up between your legs, continuing the gentle assault of the side of your throat with his lips and tongue.

“Don’t he look good, baby?” Husk purrs, smoothing his hands down to your thighs. He kneads his grip into the plush muscle, still guiding you to roll your hips over his lap. You can feel hardening beneath you, and you angle your hips to grind your cunt along the length of him. Husk groans, claws tightening on your thighs reflexively. “That’s it, doll…”

You aren’t the only sinners in the room charged up by Angel’s performance, and the low hint of moans and heavy breathing around you adds to the eroticism of the moment. Husk’s wings curve around your shoulders, hiding you from private eyes possessively, in turn making the two of you a private show just for the star on stage. Angel’s eyes keep flickering back to the two of you, and he does nothing to hide the lust burning in his eyes. The smile that plays over his features is one you’ve seen so many times before – at the bar, or during group activities. One that promises so much fun once he gets the two of you alone.

Angel rocks his hips roughly over Husk’s, grinding his ass down over the bartender’s erection. His cock fills him with each push of his hips, and the spider moans in a broken pitch at the feeling of it. Husk groans up into your cunt, his arms wrapped possessively around your thighs to keep in you place over his face. His tongue curls against your clit before dipping into your dripping pussy, and your moan sounds in tandem with Angel’s.

The spider touches your cheek, brushing hair behind your ear and fisting his hand in it. He drags you into a kiss, pushing his tongue into your mouth so you can feel the way he moans when Husk thrusts up into him.

“Can’t wait to get the two o’ you home,” Husk groans, claws skimming up under your skirt as you continue to ride his lap. He lets his forehead fall against your shoulder, bumps his nose against your shoulder blade. “Gonna make you feel so good, baby…”

“Why… why wait?” you ask, turning your head to press a kiss between his ears. Husk tilts his head back, catches your lips with his. “D’you think Angel has a private dressing room back there?”

“Fuck, doll…”

[urhoneycombwitch]

frozen like an angel

Eddie Munson x shy!Reader holiday edition.

foreword: ohhhh I’ve missed them!!! and you all!!!! happy holidays to those who celebrate, and for those who don’t, have a cozy winter fic <3 here is the masterlist for shy!reader, some references may be made to previous fics in the series but no beforehand reading required here. 

cw: Christmas activities, bittersweet fluff, Elizabeth Munson memories, mentions of Reader’s familial backstory (intentionally a bit vague, hoping to expand in future fics!)

wc: 2.8k

___

You’re not even trying to snoop- the paper flutters to the carpet all on its own, freed from the stack of Eddie’s notebooks you’d lifted to dust under. 

Expecting it to be something D&D related, you scoop it from the carpet with the intent to slip it back between the leaves of a random book- when the title catches your eye. In neat, looping black ink across the top: Christmas Apple Cake. 

There’s a pencil-drawn sketch of an apple in the top corner, faded and yellowed with time like the paper it’s on; your thumb runs over it as you scan the ingredients. 

This’ll be perfect, actually- Wayne is coming over tonight for holiday drinks with you and Eddie, a Munson family tradition that’s included you the last six or so years, and you haven’t sorted dessert yet.

The recipe is simple- a hearty, apple-filled spiced cake base, brown sugar glaze to pool on top. After hunting through the kitchen cupboards (sometimes it’s glaringly apparent you live in a former bachelor pad- the baking soda sourced from under the sink and a layer of dust), you get to work baking.

A pound of apples is peeled and diced, meticulously, to the tune of a Bing Crosby record- Eddie bemoans the cheesier aspects of holiday music, so you get your fill while he’s at work (though you’ve caught him humming along to White Christmas on more than one occasion). 

Not that either of you need the money after the generous nest-egg from various government agency pay-offs, but the part-time mechanic schedule has been good for Eddie. Wayne’s pretty much set to take over when the garage owner retires next year, and Eddie is happy to help- keeps his mind and hands busy, sorely needed after so much recovery downtime. 

And you’ve been busy, too- the apples are set to soak in cold water while you prep the batter, thinking of post-winter break classes already. You passed your first end-of-term exams with flying colors, like Eddie knew you would- never mind that they were all 101s, and that your college plans seem a little directionless- at least you’re moving. Able to do something other than waiting to get better.

Eddie’s proud of you, deeply so. That’s really all that matters for now. 

With the batter mixed, you lift handfuls of apple chunks from the water to dry on the rows of flat kitchen towels. There’s a burst of static from the living room speakers; you flick water from your hands and cross swiftly to flip the record to its B-side.

Let It Snow! rings out cheerily while you stir the apples bit by bit into the batter, Deck the Halls by the time you’re pouring the mixture into a greased baking tin. After twisting the counter timer to tick down for an hour, you clean the kitchen in good spirits.

Eddie will be home, soon- Wayne’s closing up shop, which gives his nephew plenty of time to beat him home and cook you all dinner. There’s a tender strip of beef marinating in the fridge with something Eddie referred to yesterday, ominously, as “Grinch Juice”. (The pale green of the sauce is likely due to the rosemary. You think.)

Eddie’s got the meal covered, regardless. (Plus there are always frozen pizzas to fall back on.)

The air swells with warmth from the oven, taking on a sugared, nutmeg and applesauce smell; the little window over the sink fogs over with sweet steam, making the white-snow world outside look even dreamier. Lights twinkle from the front banister, winking at the strip of sister lights across the path at the Mayfield’s door.

Plucking behind your back to loose your apron strings, you realize- for the first time in years, it feels like Christmas. Last year, you were all still learning how to be human, still nursing wounds (both external and in), stepping cautiously onto the thin ice of what it means to survive and be alive.

This year, though? You’re out in the middle of the frozen pond of life making snow angels. Ice skating over the bumps. Twirling around hand-in-hand with Eddie as you both figure it out, together.

Later, the front door creaks open then slams shut, a rhythmic thump of boots shedding snow onto the hall mat. From your vantage point on the couch- sock feet tucked underneath your body to keep warm, dog-eared Tolkien in your lap- you see Eddie before he sees you.

His back is turned as he toes off his work boots, hunched against the cold still in a hand-me-down winter coat of Wayne’s. Stray curls escape the half-up bun of his dark hair, twisting around his face, which lights up with a smile when he sees you.

“Well, well, well,” Eddie says, adopting a faux-serious, low tone as he hangs up his coat and shakes the snow from his hair. “Looks like we got an escapee from Santa’s Workshop.”

You snort, setting the book aside to roll your eyes fondly- if a red flannel shirt and jeans spells elf, you’re willing to play the part. 

Eddie approaches with menacing intent, grin so wide the corner of his lip meets the line of scarring at his cheek. 

He’s still in his work coveralls, pinstriped and oil-stained; Eddie leans his weight into his hands on either side of your head, close enough to bump noses, couch emitting a squeak of protest. 

You flick at the embroidered patch over Eddie’s heart, the one that currently reads JERRY. “Someone’s been naughty today.”

Eddie clicks his tongue, dark brows pulling together in his best approximation of someone who is very sorry. “Yeah. Guess so. You gonna tell the Big Boss on me?”

”Wouldn’t dream of it,” you sigh, tired of playing, ready to loop your arms around Eddie’s neck and kiss him silly (an action he’s more than willing to give in to).

He tastes like sharp mint, and faintly of the cigarette he probably had on break; Eddie mumbles something between kisses and you pull back just enough to hear him say, “You taste sweet.”

“Mmhm. Had to make sure the batter wasn’t poisoned,” you reply, more concerned with dotting kisses along the line of scar that disappears behind his jaw. 

Against your temple, Eddie’s lashes flutter in surprise- “You baked something?”

Pulling away fully now (with one last parting kiss to his forehead), you narrow your eyes as you shift to hold his shoulders at arm’s length- “Does me baking come as a shock to you?”

“No!” Eddie says, quickly, brows lowering from where they’d shot up just a second ago. “No, of course not. You just don’t usually… I mean, I like being the one in the kitchen.”

”I know you do.” Your hands trail to cup his elbows, briefly, before you disentangle yourself to check on the oven. The timer is just about to shriek its warning chorus- with a twist of your hand, it dings pleasantly instead. “I wanted to make something special for our Christmas dessert tonight. Hopefully it’s not actually poisoned.” 

Based on the delicious smell that wafts from the oven, you’ve got nothing to fear- the tines of your testing fork come out from the middle of the cake clean, a pair of mitts snagged to pull it out and set on the stove.

Clouds of steam rise from the fresh pastry, spiced and golden under the overhead lights- it smells like Christmas in a pan. Eddie approaches to watch over your shoulder, his hand steady on your low back as you explain the glaze that needs to be made next- he takes a lungful of fragrant air, and then his hand stills.

Eddie isn’t in the habit of interrupting you, so it’s strange when he does, voice sounding strained as he stumbles through the start of a few different sentences. “How did you- this is- that’s apple cake. My mom’s apple cake. What…”

It must be the smell, transporting him back, and for a moment, your heart sinks. Eddie hasn’t had a flashback in so long; the last one was months ago over the summer when a car backfired and sent his mind spiraling for hours after. 

You turn in his arms, speaking carefully, ready to soothe- “Shit. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you, honestly, the recipe just fell out when I was moving your things, and I-”

Eddie’s eyes are brimming with tears when he interrupts you again- this time, to kiss you; there’s a slip of his tear that tracks down your own cheek as you kiss him back. 

He’s holding you, now, mirroring you from earlier, thumbs squeezing at the inside of your elbows, forehead resting in a slow roll against yours as he shakes his head in disbelief. “Don’t apologize. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. I didn’t know… I didn’t think any recipes of hers survived the move from Tennessee.”

“It was in one of your old journals,” you murmur, reaching to wipe the wet track of tears from his face even as he moves to do the same for you. “Did your mom used to make this for you?”

“Yeah.” Eddie laughs, wetly, kisses the palm of your hand where it rests against his face. “Every Christmas until I was five or so. Got the recipe from her mom, some Appalachian tradition. Wayne would know better than me.”

Eddie’s looking at the cake again, a familiar hazed-over stare that makes your heart hurt in sympathy, memories flooding back in at an overwhelming degree. You’re quiet for a few moments, pressing your face into the side of Eddie’s coveralls, letting him find his footing before asking, quietly- “Wanna help me make the topping?”

In another life, you and Eddie would run a mean kitchen together- years of learning the distinct ways in which the other moves comes in handy when you need to share cooking duties. 

He ducks under your arm effortlessly to grab vanilla while you whisk the sugars and butter, adds splashes and dashes of things to your bowl periodically until the mulled glaze is formed. 

The top of his (Jerry’s) coveralls were shoved down earlier, your help enlisted to tie the long sleeves around his waist in a makeshift apron; good thing your boy runs hot- means he’s comfortable enough to cook in a white cutoff undershirt that’s thin as a napkin. Underneath, Eddie’s all alabaster, lean muscle, black ink tattoos dancing with the corded ripples of scar tissue as he flits around the kitchen.

Between getting the steak ready to sear, and tasking you with prepping the hill of potatoes, Eddie talks about his mother- holidays of years past floating to the forefront on a wave of recollected smell. 

Along with Tennessee apple cake, Elizabeth Munson would wrap chestnuts in tin foil to roast low and slow in the embers of a Christmas fire. One year, she penny-pinched enough to buy part of the neighbor’s turkey for her and then-five-year-old Eddie.

You soak up all these memories, asking questions periodically, immersed in Eddie’s storytelling. It’s rare to hear Elizabeth’s name, and you wonder, suddenly, if that could be changed.

“You know, I really like hearing about her,” you tell Eddie gently, after a gleeful retelling of the time she crashed his sled into the big stump of maple at the edge of their woods. You give the chopped potatoes on your cutting board a push, and they tumble into Eddie’s proffered bowl. “If there’s something I can do, to help… I dunno, make it easier to bring her up- you’d let me know. Right?” 

Eddie considers this as he gathers jars from the narrow spice cupboard, lining them up in a neat row. “Yeah. Thanks, sweetheart. And it’s not… you’re easy to talk to. It’s just hard, sometimes, to learn how to remember her.”

You nod, thoughtful, watching him layer spices and olive oil into the bowl; he uses a wooden spoon to make sure all the potato sides are coated before saying, “And sometimes, it feels downright braggy. I got six whole years with her- most all of ‘em good ones- it’s not something I take for granted. And your mother-”

Eddie cuts himself off, abruptly, knuckles glistening with oil as they tighten into fists. Something inside you wilts, stretches desperately for its light source; you budge up under Eddie’s arm, place a hand to the middle of his chest where his breaths meet you with a shuddery kickstart.

“I know. But you were a kid too, Eddie. Six is just a kid.”

He does his best to hug you back with one arm as your nose seeks the notch behind his ear, a perfect fit, enveloping your senses as you breathe in the spot that smells most like him. “You can share however much or however little you want, of her, with me. Just ‘cuz my parents sucked doesn’t mean I don’t wanna hear about your one good one. Let me live vicariously, okay?”

You give Eddie a teasing little shake, a flash of teeth against his neck that has him chuckling, shaking off the anger before either of you can be derailed. The potatoes are moved to a baking sheet while Eddie preps the meat, and you send a river of brown sugar glaze over top the cake so it has time to cool.

If Wayne notes the missing piece from the corner of the dessert, later, he doesn’t mention it- the whiskey he’d brought over pairs perfectly with the rich, spiced cake. 

One bite in and Wayne’s head turns, slow, to his nephew sat beside him. Without looking up from his spoonful of melting ice cream, Eddie nods. “Yup. Mom’s cake. Don’t look at me, though.”

Wayne blinks down at the bowl in front of him, then to you, like someone’s woken him from the middle of a dream. “Tastes just like how she used to make it.”

Were it possible to bottle and live off someone’s praise, you’d like to find a way; instead, you tuck the compliment away for a rainy day and give him a warm smile. “I’m glad. I’ll make it next year, too, if you want.”

After dinner (totally delicious despite Eddie’s best attempt to scare you both off with increasingly weird holiday-themed adjectives), Eddie pulls out his acoustic guitar to try his new capo, a gift from Uncle Wayne that’s immediately put to good use.

This autumn, on the same week you went to college for the first time, Eddie taught himself how to play guitar again. A year on from the attacks, his left hand was still stiff, a deep scar across the bridge of his abductor that made more dexterous movement near-impossible.

But your boy, smart and strong and determined, found a way. Eddie surprised you over Thanksgiving break with a cover of Fleetwood Mac’s Hypnotized, though with multiple false starts since both of you cried most of the way through it.

Less tears, this time around, but no less emotional- you steal glances under the pretense of wiping down the table as Eddie sits wide on the couch, black guitar propped on his knees while he adjusts the capo. 

In a nearby armchair, Wayne takes a sip from his whiskey glass- at the first few notes of Edelweiss, his eyes slip closed, lost in memory.

“This was one of her favorites,” Eddie says to you, grinning while his fingers pluck the pattern smoothly.

You lean a hip against the table, wiping abandoned, taking in the gentle movement of Eddie’s hair, his arms, while he plays. He gets so lost in the music, sometimes- a soft look that usually only shows when he’s sleeping peacefully. 

You wonder if Elizabeth looked the same, all those years ago- bent over her special Christmas cake, sneaking tastes on the back of a spoon to the set of dimpled hands that reached for her apron. 

In your back pocket, the recipe card in her handwriting is tucked safely away. While Eddie plays, your fingers brush the outline of the pencil-etched apple, sending a prayer or a wish of some sort to the snow angel in your head.

He’s doing great. He’s so loved and cared for, with me. I hope you know I’m taking care of him. Merry Christmas. Thanks for the cake. 

___

for more shy!Reader content: masterlist

[rubra-wav]

Hello! I saw asks were open and I wanted to drop a request! What if Husk, Angeldust, and Alastor (separate) had a s/o who revealed that they could break deals on their (the collared's) end given some time?

Husk, Angel Dust and Alastor with a Dealbreaker S/O

[Part 2]

A/N: Alastor's is written as purely platonic tho per my personal boundaries

My Hazbin OC actually is a powerful Dealbreaker, so I'm going off of the lore I've thought up on this topic for him haha

I will maybe write a part 2 where reader actually manages to break the contracts rather than just saying they could.

CW: Sfw, angsty asf in places, reference to addiction, mention/reference to violence, Angel's touches a bit more on abuse response/trauma response type stuff, body/ horror imagery in Alastor's (Alastor being the creature he is basically)

Husk

- Husk would not believe you at all at first.

- He would be tending the bar and then stop mid-drying a glass as a heartbreaking hint of hope (the first hope he'd felt in centuries) passes over his face for a second before crumpling and turning to extreme bitterness.

- "That's not funny." He'd growl through grit teeth at you, thinking it was some kind of cruel joke.

- When reassured that you are absolutely serious, he gives you more of a look of almost pity, sighing as if deeply tired.

- He tells you that multiple people have told him the same thing over the years, and that they have all failed just the same.

- All skilled people who were known to be able to break even soul ownership deals wide open.

- The leash Alastor had on him was air-tight.

- He basically tells you it would be a giant waste of time and that you should give up and focus your time on something better then a poor old sinner like himself.

- When you don't back down from the discouragement, he sighs again, but feels warmth burning in his chest at the fact you wanted to help him so badly.

- He's not hopeful, but he wants to have faith in you even if he's trying to discourage you and scare you straight as much as possible.

- He wants so badly to be free so he can be with you without any limits of his commitment to you and only you. To not have to think about whether he's going to be summoned to some bullshit getup again whenever Alastor gets bored of the Hazbin Hotel.

- Deep down he's absolutely desperate for you to succeed in your mission.

- He wants the catalyst for his alcohol problem to go away so he can live and finally actually be happy without the heaviness of his deal weighing on him at all times, making him desperately need the escape.

- He absolutely will tell you very very seriously to not to let this slip that you're doing this to anybody though - or talk about this in a place you aren't absolutely confident doesn't have any certain member of the hotel listening in.

- Husk doesn't think that Alastor would harm you physically over this, that asshole would probably just find it amusing. However.

- Husk's worst fear would be you trying to get him his soul back by signing away yours, something very possible Alastor would offer as a trick.

- He'd be skeptical, fearful of you succumbing to a deal with Alastor, and not very hopeful at all as he's tried time and time again to break the contract on his soul. You are so... optimistic that you'll find a way, but again, his collar is air-tight. You'll have your work cut out for you breaking the deal of someone who's notoriously a dealmaker.

Angel Dust

- When you tell him that, he tenses up with a sharp inhale of breath, a complete 180 from how he just was seconds before, winding down from his night in his hotel room with you.

- Angel's deal would be logically way more easier to break. However, what Valentino's deal doesn't directly hold of Angel, the moth's manipulation keeps him stuck imprisoned under him.

- Angel absolutely would have thought of contacting a dealbreaker, however never actually would due to how terrified he is. If it turned out one of those people were a mole for Val trying to catch him out, Angel would be in so much pain from the punishment that that would entail. You cannot trust someone claiming to be a dealbreaker in hell isn't lying to you through their teeth.

- When he realises you are absolutely serious though, and obviously confident in your abilities, a myriad of harsh emotions pass across Angel's face. Fear (for both his and your safety), and hope made themselves the most apparent.

- Fear of what Val would do to him if he ever found out about this conversation. What he'd do to you.

- Valentino was certainly not above hurting people to get his way. Angel knew that better then anybody. But if Val ever caught wind that Angel's secret lover behind the scenes was trying to steal away Val's biggest money maker and favourite toy, he'd kill you. Straight up.

- That fear was there and was deeply terrifying to him. But so was the hope. A flurry of hope that fills him with relief and brings tears pricking at his eyes at the idea that he could actually be free of his captor and go do whatever you two decide and be fully happy without fear of Val.

- Live with you not as Angel Dust, but as Anthony. Completely his real, authentic self.

- "How." He whispers breathlessly.

- You tell him that you need to see the contract itself, analyse all the ins and outs and come up with a counter-contract.

- There would be a few ways you could actually break the deal from there, and although they would be time consuming and possibly (very much probably) dangerous, you were confident you could break him out.

- Angel would be extremely fearful, but also hopeful. You seem confident in your ability as his contract is messy and poorly crafted. He's reassured as you say that what's mostly chaining him down is the psychological control Val has over him.

Alastor

- When you tell Alastor this, I feel he could respond two ways depending on how you've learnt that information.

If he hasn't told you himself:

- If he hasn't told you this or doesn't know how you've found out, he's going to be absolutely pissed. At you and probably Husk (assuming Husk told you)

- He'd turn towards you with jerky, unnatural movements, bones and joints cracking loudly in a cringe worthy way. Overhead, the lights would be flickering as static begins to fill your head.

- Towering over you, he'd be still bent in that weird position as he grips sharpened claws into your shoulders. Your friendship is the only thing keeping him from making you nothing more then a stain on the wall.

- "Who told you about that."

- When you tell how you've found out, he likely let's out a chuckle dripping with anger that makes you want to cover your ears as the sound scrapes into them. "And what makes you think you could do what even I cannot?"

- He has analysed every single last clause, letter, meaning of the words used, every possible loophole in his contract to the point it's driven him to have multiple psychological breakdowns. To him there is no doubt in his mind at all that he's completely fucked by the contract he was tricked into and there's no chance in hell that you would ever be able to even assist.

- When you push and say that you want to do this for him, he's not even a little flattered at all, in fact, it bruises his ego massively that you'd have the audacity to confidently imply you could do what he's worked so hard to for 7 years.

- In instance one, he's incredibly pissed off at you for claiming you could ever undo his contract after learning about it from someone other then him, so angry he almost kills you. Leaves you alone shaking and afraid in the hall telling you not to say anything to anybody else about his deal, and to never so flagrantly exaggerate your own worth so massively again. Your prior confidence stamped down to embers.

If you are close enough of a person to him that he's confided in you about his collar however:

- He'd just chuckle, calling it cute that you thought you could do that while walking away.

- You miss the way his eye twitches.

- He'd still be incredibly angry about it, but due to not being surprised you knew of his biggest secret, he'd hide it much better.

- Continues to laugh when you insist you can do it, and would passive aggressively respond about how you should not overestimate your abilities and mind your own business essentially.

- Again, he's pissed off and his ego is bruised about it. But this time, he's hiding it behind his smile and is passive aggressive as fuck about it rather then outwardly aggressive. He won't let you know how much you've actually gotten to him even though he would have let his walls down to some extent to ever tell you that.

A/N I was actually already planning a fully written x reader fic that's not just the dot points with Angel at some point where reader saves him from his contract, so like... Maybe I'll do full fics for dealbreaking Husk and Alastor's contracts as well because I'm kind of interested in exploring a fic w them after writing this now

(I'm probably gonna say this then eat shit via the universe straight after lmfao 💀)